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TOMLINSON GETS STYLED: Your Favorite Best-Dressed Duo Back for More!

Just when you thought fashion couldn’t get any more exciting, our favorite celebrity couple and style icons, Louis Tomlinson and Harry Styles, are back in business together, and boy, we couldn’t be more excited!

Dazzling, runway model, Harry Styles, 30, has had the fashion world swept up in his wake since he was a fresh-faced 19-year-old. In those days, we knew him for the mop on his head, his charming demeanor, and those cheeky dimples—a far cry from the stunning Persephone we know today.

Styles is no stranger to the spotlight, having quickly found fame back in 2013 following an impressive runway debut with Versace and a short print campaign. It wasn’t long after, Styles met and fell head over heels for heartthrob designer Louis Tomlinson, 32, in 2015. While the pair have never shared the nature of how they met, we can only assume it was something of fairy tales.

Given the nature of their careers, it would only seem natural for the couple to combine forces and translate their love to the runway. However, much to our dismay, the pair have not worked on a project together since the debut of Tomlinson’s stunning collection in collaboration with Gucci, LWTxGucci, back in 2017. The couple's sudden lack of work association was quickly followed by masses of public speculation, outrage, and a flood of breakup rumors. We’ve since been soothed by the pair’s sappy social media posts that have presented the couple in what appears to be, a subdued, happy life together.

Alas, after years of waiting and yearning, Styles and Tomlinson are making headlines together once again, dawning the launch of Tomlinson’s solo clothing line, LWT. Tomlinson has been featured on a number of collaborations and worked with countless high fashion brands and icons over the years, from Saint Laurent to Burberry to Gucci. The release of the first LWT collection, In Every Color, will not only be a first for the brand, but for Tomlinson himself. We can only expect it to be unlike anything else.

Styles, on the other hand, has stuck close with Gucci since he walked the runway for LWTxGucci nearly seven years ago. He has since been seen flaunting many of Gucci’s seasonal collections and briefly appeared in print adverts for AdidasxGucci in 2022. However, heading back to his roots, Styles will be among those modeling LWT: In Every Color for the very first time at London Fashion Week on Saturday, February 14th.

I was lucky enough to catch up with the pair for a quick moment backstage during a final dress rehearsal before the show on Saturday.

“Wonderful. It’s been a dream,” Styles swoons when asked about his experience working with Tomlinson once again.

He sits in a styling chair in a satin robe, leaving me subject to his endless legs clad in sheer, black tights, while someone behind him works product into his curls. They fall effortlessly and messily (although the process does not seem to be quite so effortless). His eyes sparkle as he gazes at Tomlinson, the latter perched on the makeup counter, his legs crossed haphazardly and a headset dangling around his neck. For as captivating as his high fashion lines have been, Tomlinson seems to keep his own fashion choices more casual.

“You know, it was always going to be Harry. How do you not take inspiration from someone as beautiful, talented, and creative as him?” Tomlinson comments on his decision to put Styles in his show. “This line is all about having fun with the clothes we wear and not getting so caught up in how they should be worn based on ambiguous factors, whether it be size, gender, et cetera. Fashion should be about how clothes make you feel, and in my experience, the fashion industry has had a hard time letting go of these manufactured specifications for who can wear what. Our goal with LWT is to not only blur the lines, but get rid of them. I’m excited to have such a great team of both familiar faces and up and comers who are passionate about what this collection and line are all about.

“Harry represents the exact message of LWT. He doesn’t just tell the story, he embodies it. The decision to hire him was the easiest one I’ve had to make for this show. These clothes were practically made for him. He knows how to command a runway better than anyone I’ve ever seen, and that’s a professional opinion. I’m sure anyone who has seen him walk in a show would agree. He’s only done right by me thus far, which is all I could’ve asked.”

Styles preens at Tomlinson’s high praise, looking down at his hands shyly, a smile lingering on his lips. His sparkling dimples are out in full force.“He’s flattering me,” he says in response to the comments.

Backstage is bustling with energy and anticipation for what is to come on Saturday. Tomlinson has to leave to find his producers and ensure everything is running smoothly, and Styles is ready to move on to the next stage of preparation. The atmosphere is alive with excitement and freshness as the love birds and their team of professionals get ready for what is sure to be a show we’ll never forget. We can only hope we’ll see more of the pair in the future. Various shows will be broadcast at londonfashionweek.co.uk throughout the week, so be sure to tune in on Saturday, February 14th at 2pm GMT for the debut of LWT: In Every Color by Louis Tomlinson.

∙ ∙ ∙

“Shouldn’t you already be dressed?” Louis asks with an air of contempt after the journalist has left. Harry straightens his legs, having just gotten up from the chair to move to his dresser, Suzanne, to slip into his first look of the show.

“I’m doing it right now,” Harry replies in disbelief, not bothering to hide the annoyance seeping into his tone. “I’m the only one, too. Everyone else is still in hair and makeup.”

“You’re first on. You should be getting dressed before everyone else,” Louis mumbles under his breath, a firm set to his mouth. “Why you choose to make my life so much more difficult is beyond me.” He saunters off, leaving no opportunity for Harry to make a snide remark in return.

Instead, he huffs an exasperated sigh, taking a few deep breaths as he pulls on the blazer with the help of Suzanne. She’s relatively older with soft white hair cascading over her shoulders and thin wiry hands that delicately smooth the lapels on his blazer.

The blazer is an emerald green and he’s sure Louis has him wearing it for his eyes. It has soft yellow and pink floral embroidery spanning over the sides and snaking around the back with a ruffled, dark green trim. The blazer takes on the form of a mini dress, sitting just above mid-thigh and buttoned down the front. It’s open on his chest in a deep V, the first button starting at his sternum and leaving room to display his chest tattoos and the gold jewelry chosen to go with the look. They’ve paired the blazer with sheer black tights and a black mini purse, along with shiny black loafers fit with a slight heel, gold detailing, and a rainbow-like pattern on the tongue.

Harry’s more obsessed with this look than he lets on. It perfectly exemplifies Louis’ ultimate goal with the collection. He could wear it as it’s styled now to a club or a fancy cocktail party, or he could wear it over a crisp, collared shirt paired with trousers for a more formal affair.

All his lingering frustration with Louis seems to dissipate when he thinks of him sitting just on the cusp of accomplishing everything he’s set out to.

“I’m sorry this is taking so long,” Suzanne murmurs, stretching back the loafers’ tongue while he slides his feet in. She straightens up to smooth out his collar for a second time, her hands slightly shaky.

Harry looks up from where he’s fiddling with the buttons. “Oh, don’t be. Louis is just being…” a wanker, completely unreasonable, an arsehole. There are a million ways he could fill in that sentence. He trails off, wanting to refrain from speaking ill of Louis, despite his impending irritation.

“He’s stressed,” he settles on instead. “It’s easier to take it out on me than anyone else. You know how it can be.” He forces a breathy laugh in a final attempt to convince Suzanne, although it doesn’t entirely seem to work if the small wavering smile she supplies in return is anything to go by.

“Alright, well.” Her hands fall from his collar, and she gives him a soft smile. “We’ll be in tip top shape by Saturday, I’ll be sure of it. You’re good to go, Harry.”

“Thank you,” he replies with a hand over his chest, picking up the bag with the other before making his way to Oliver and Caroline for a final checkover.

Caroline, the lead stylist, looks over him begrudgingly before waving him along. The lead tailor, Oliver, kindly checks all of Harry’s seams, the fit, and his sanity.

“You alright, darling?” they ask softly, stood behind Harry, gently brushing off his shoulders.

Harry nods diminutively, swallowing thickly, hardly phased by this thing with Louis. It’s something he’s, disappointingly, entirely used to at this point. He doesn’t have much grounds for fixing it at the moment. The show needs his attention more than Louis’ Earth-sized grudge.

“Alright everyone,” the director calls, attempting to gather everyone’s attention, but the models behind him are still scurrying to get dressed. “First outfits!”

~ a few weeks prior ~

“I don’t see the big deal,” Zayn says as Harry is coming back into the sitting room with new beers for Louis and Niall.

It was Harry’s suggestion to invite the boys over under the guise that Louis needed cheering up. Bit extreme, these measures, when a blowie in the shower from Harry would have sufficed.

Luckily, he and Harry have known Zayn, Niall, and Liam since university, so the three of them have seen enough of Louis’ theatrics to know how he can be. If he plays nice, they might leave before Harry is too tired to decline a real cheering up.

Louis sighs dramatically, running both hands over his face before taking the beer from Harry.

“Thanks, baby,” he murmurs as Harry falls next to him on the sofa. He tucks himself easily into Louis’ side with one leg curled under his bum, the other pulled up to his chest.

Harry has on a cream, long-sleeved, linen shirt, buttoned to just below his sternum and nearly falling off his shoulder. It’s paired with matching shorts sitting just above mid-thigh, hardly visible when he’s standing with how the shirt falls low enough to cover most of the fabric.

Louis pulls Harry closer into his side, his thumb brushing over the warm, fuzzy skin splattered across his thigh. Shifting in his spot, Harry leans heavily into Louis.

“Are we talking about the show?” he asks, stretching an arm to casually rest over Louis’ shoulders. His other hand, with chipped lilac nails from where Louis painted them a week ago, is sitting on his own bent knee.

“Yeah,” Zayn says, “and Lou’s being stubborn, because—”

“No model gets his vision. Yeah, yeah.” Harry waves a hand in the air, having heard Louis rant about it on more than a few occasions. He’s surprised Harry hasn’t shut the conversation down yet with just how often he’s been subject to Louis’ rambling.

Niall snorts, taking a pointed sip of his fresh beer. He’s sitting in the large, green chair adjacent to the sofa, already having made a dent in Harry and Louis’ beer stash.

Louis glares at him, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “There’s a lot on the line here,” he explains for the umpteenth time. They all must get it by now. “If I fail my first solo show, it’ll be the last time, because there won’t be another chance.”

Harry’s fingers thread through the tufts of hair at the nape of his neck. “We know, honey, but don’t you think you’re being a bit too picky? I hardly think you’ll fail if you don’t find the most perfect models ever. Seems you’re overthinking it.” Harry peers around the room, searching for assent.

They all provide hums and nods of approval.

Louis lets out a mildly exasperated sigh, dropping his hand to his thigh. “I think I’m being perfectly reasonable,” he grumbles, leaning forward to snatch his beer from the coffee table, taking a mouthful and swishing it around before swallowing. “The model brings just as much to the clothing as the clothes themselves. Anyone can wear my clothes, but I need someone who sees the vision. Someone who––”

“Feels them, knows them, breathes them,” Harry laments dramatically, resting his head on Louis’ shoulder with a sigh. “I get it.” He doesn’t seem exasperated when he says it, just like he understands.

Louis’ hand slips under the hem of Harry’s shirt, thumbing the strip of skin above the waistband of his shorts.

“Why don’t you have Harry do it?” Niall asks, watching them with raised eyebrows.

Zayn and Liam tilt their heads in contemplation, murmuring agreements. “Why haven’t you asked Harry to do it?” Liam adds.

Louis snorts, and Harry lifts his head from his shoulder as they share an amused look.

“Yeah, right,” Louis quips.

Zayn narrows his eyes. “What’s wrong with it? That’s not a bad idea, Lou. I bet H is the one person who understands what you want as much as you do.”

“You’d think,” Louis snorts into the mouth of his beer bottle.

Harry pinches the skin at the back of his neck, sending him a sharp glare. Louis shrieks, sputtering on his beer before setting it down with a huff.

“What he means to say,” Harry says pointedly, “is every time we’ve worked together, it hasn’t exactly ended well. It’s better for our relationship if we keep our careers separate.”

“Separation of church and state,” Louis explains.

“Exactly.”

Niall watches them bemusedly. “How could you two not work well together? Have you seen yourselves? It’s like you know what the other’s thinking before he has to say.”

“Louis’s mean,” Harry says offhandedly.

Louis rolls his eyes, ignoring him to say, “Let’s just say, the last time Harry walked in my clothes, I slept in the guest room for almost two weeks.”

Harry jumps in at that. “And don’t forget the first time I walked in a show for you, and you—”

“Oh God,” Louis moans, throwing his head back against the sofa and squeezing his eyes shut.

“What happened?” Niall whines.

“Lou cut my hair in his kitchen,” Harry snorts. Louis keeps his eyes pressed shut. “My long hair wasn’t part of his vision, so I let him cut it to his liking.”

“And Harry cried, then I cried, because he was crying, and I was convinced we’d never speak again,” Louis mourns.

“It’s really all about nepotism,” Harry finishes helpfully with a shrug. “Don’t believe in it.”

Louis turns to him with a soft smile, leaning in to peck him on the lips. “Right,” he murmurs.

“Oi!” Niall shrieks, tossing a pillow their way. “None of that.”

Harry sighs heavily, laying his head back on Louis’ shoulder, shivering when Louis’ fingers slip further across his stomach, muscles jumping under his touch.

Much later, after their friends have shown themselves out, Louis all but carries Harry to bed, his limbs loose and heavy, lips stained red from wine. They leave the empty beer bottles and leftover snacks to be dealt with in the morning and Louis heads to their ensuite to get ready for bed.

He’s almost through brushing his teeth when Harry calls from their room, “Maybe it’s not such a bad idea.”

Louis huffs, spitting toothpaste in the sink and rinsing his mouth. He heads back into the bedroom, flicking off the overhead light so all that’s left is the single lamp on the bedside table, illuminating the shadows of Harry’s face.

“What?” Louis asks, pulling off his clothes before crawling under the covers. Laying on his back with his bare chest exposed, he rolls his head to the side to peer at Harry.

“Me,” Harry says, shuffling closer so his face is pressed into Louis’ upper arm, “walking in your show.”

“Harry,” Louis sighs, scrubbing his face. “We agreed—”

“I know, I know,” Harry says, pulling Louis’ hand away from his face and intertwining it with his own, resting them on his chest. “That was so long ago. We’re older now. And wiser.”

Louis is quiet, staring at the shadows on the ceiling as he thinks about Harry coming to him years ago, suggesting they put an end to their work relationship, claiming their work personalities just didn’t mesh well. It was wearing on their actual relationship. There had been a sense of relief then, all the weight Louis had felt trying to keep those lives separate dissipating.

But then he thinks of the soft curves and sharp angles he had imagined when he first drew up the sketches for the collection, the specific green of fabric he had picked with the thought of how they’d saturate green eyes, the glossy silks and soft velvets he had once pictured sitting delicately against milky skin.

“We’re drunk,” Louis decides on a sigh. “We shouldn’t make any drastic decisions now.”

“Then let’s not decide now,” Harry says softly, tracing his fingers along Louis’ chest. “Let me come to the studio on Monday, try some things on so you can get a feel for it. Then, we can decide together. Once there’s a clear picture.”

Louis already has a clear picture, which seems to be entirely the issue. “I don’t know,” he says, his eyes falling shut.

“Please?” Harry reaches out to smooth the crinkle between Louis’ eyebrows, gently running the pads of his fingers around the shell of his ear.

Louis peers at him, grasping Harry’s hand in his own. He kisses his knuckles before turning fully to his side, pecking him on the mouth. Harry’s eyes drift shut.

“Just to try things on,” he says.

Harry blinks his eyes open, clear, green, and hopeful, a slow smile spreading across his closed mouth.

“No promises. I’m making no promises.”

Harry nods, failing to stave off his grin as he pushes Louis onto his back, hovering over him. “That’s all I’m asking,” he murmurs, brushing their noses together.

Louis huffs in mock exasperation. It’s softened with the way he tucks a piece of hair behind Harry’s ear, begrudgingly giving in when Harry purses his lips in a silent ask for a kiss.

⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯

“Harry’s here,” Lyla, Louis’ assistant, says after leading Harry to Louis’ office where he’s finishing up lunch. The lunch Harry had packed for him this morning. He bites the inside of his cheek, feeling giddy at the thought alone like it’s a special secret just for them even though there’s nothing really special or secret about it.

“Thanks, Lyla,” Louis says in an easy dismissal, gathering his scraps to toss in the bin, hardly sparing Harry a glance as he moves to gather some notes and his portfolio.

Harry leans in the doorway, arms crossed over his chest as he waits. Once Louis seems to have collected all that he needs, he makes his way around the desk, finally presenting Harry with a soft smile.

“Hi, baby,” he greets, reaching out a harmless hand to momentarily rest against Harry’s cheek, his thumb brushing over his mouth before it’s gone as quick as it came. “Shall we?”

He hardly waits for a response before moving past Harry and out of the office. Harry follows quickly, keeping a faint hand on Louis’ wrist as they walk, not quite holding it, but letting Louis lead him.

“So, what’s the plan?” he asks as they march through a long, stark hallway. There’s simple pictures framed every few feet, but the walls are white and the ceilings tall, like the pictures were only meant as a distraction from the sterility of it all.

“We only have a few prototypes right now, so I’ll have you start with those,” Louis explains, his free hand moving animatedly as he does. “They won’t be fitted, obviously, but Oliver’s here, my tailor. They and Caroline, she’s the lead stylist, have you met her before? They’ll both assist with pinning to give the illusion of a better fit. You know how it goes.”

Harry nods. There’s enough runway shows under his belt to know exactly how something like this might work.

“It won’t be perfect, but it’ll be good enough. I really just want to get a feel for how you'll look in the clothes, how you’ll move in them. You can do your thing, move around. I’ll be observing, I might have Harvey come in to grab some photos, but don’t be nervous. It’s nothing formal, just—”

“Babe, I know I asked,” Harry cuts him off. “But I get it. I’m not worried.” He grabs Louis’ wrist, pulling him to a stop in the hallway. They’re clearly alone, but he notices Louis checking anyway. “It’s just me. You don’t have to be nervous.”

Louis huffs stubbornly, gently pulling his wrist from Harry’s grasp and breaking eye contact. “I’m not nervous. I’m doing my job.”

“Please,” Harry scoffs. “I can feel the nervous energy vibrating off of you.” He thumbs between Louis’ eyebrows. “Seriously, chill out. It’ll be fine.” He grins, pecking Louis on the mouth.

“You shouldn’t do that here.” Louis frowns.

Harry rolls his eyes, already starting down the hallway. “Starting that already, are we?” he mumbles to himself.

Louis follows after him. “How can you feel nervous energy?”

Harry releases a soft huff of laughter, shaking his head to himself.

They make their way into the studio where racks of clothing—prototypes, loose fabrics, and scraps alike—are layered throughout the room.

“Caroline, darling,” Louis says as they approach her.

Caroline turns to them. She has alabaster skin and is wearing a sleek, black tube top paired with flared, emerald green trousers, hair slicked back in a low bun. Harry can’t say he’s met her before as Louis had suggested.

Louis kisses her cheek when they approach before gesturing Harry forward with an outstretched arm. “Have you met Harry Styles?” he asks, folding his hands in front of himself instead of touching Harry’s waist like Harry would expect.

“In passing, sure,” Caroline says, sticking out a hand to shake. Harry accepts with a gleaming smile. “It’s nice to meet you properly.”

“Same to you. I hear you manage to keep this one in line quite well,” Harry jokes, his head gesturing in Louis’ direction. Caroline gives an artificial smile, leaving Harry with an uncomfortable twist in his gut. Louis doesn’t seem to be amused either. He’s not bitter, just terribly formal.

“Right, so, Harry’s here to try on a few looks, whatever you think’ll be best,” Louis explains. Harry is sure she’s been given the rundown at least once before, but she lets Louis tell her again. “Oliver mentioned they’d be around to help as well? Maybe they can grab Harry’s measurements, so he won’t have to come back should we choose to continue with him for the show.”

Caroline nods her understanding, already moving to pull a few pieces from the rack on the nearest wall.

Louis turns to Harry. “Caroline knows the drill. She’ll help get you dressed. Then, just walk around, get a feel for how the clothes fit, how they move, how you feel in them. Caroline and Oliver will make note of any concerns. I’m going to see about getting Harvey in here.”

He leaves Harry to Caroline, wandering off. Harry heaves a sigh, turning to Caroline who is pulling a light blue blazer off a hanger. She smiles gently at him as she approaches.

“He’s quite intense, isn’t he?” Harry asks with a soft tilt to his mouth.

Whatever remnants of friendliness Caroline had exuded earlier seems to slip away with Louis. “He knows what he wants,” she says in a tone that is rather dismissive. She holds up the blazer, pausing before stepping back. “Pardon, would you mind removing your clothing?”

“Oh, right, sorry,” Harry says. “Didn’t think we’d be starting right away.”

“Well, yes,” Caroline supplies. “Louis is very busy.”

Harry eyes her for a moment before nodding slowly.

“I trust you can put this on on your own?” she asks, handing him the blazer and pointing in the direction of a dressing screen on the far side of the room.

Harry takes the item of clothing to the dressing screen and is quick to shuck off his trousers and shirt, folding them on a stool just behind the screen. Caroline had only given him the blazer, so he hesitantly slips it on over his pants, buttoning the two buttons that sit mid-abdomen. It’s synched around his waist with ribbed detailing and pleated fabric flowing around his hips. His chest is on display underneath, legs completely exposed. The material is silky and quite flimsy, dawning a gorgeous sky-blue. It feels gentle on his skin, swishing when he steps out from behind the dressing screen.

A slender person with deep, caramel skin has appeared next to Caroline in the time that Harry was changing—Oliver, Harry assumes. They’re wearing a dark, silky button-up shirt and cream, flared jeans with a belt full of tailoring tools slung around their waist.

“Ah,” Caroline says as Harry approaches. “Harry, this is Oliver. They run the Atelier.”

“Hello, nice to meet you,” Harry says, offering Oliver a hand. They smile politely in return.

“Harry, nice to make your acquaintance. Have you walked before? You seem very familiar,” Oliver asks, delicately crossing their arms over their chest with a gentle hand set to their chin. Their accent is thick and seemingly French, if the way they drop the ‘H’ on his name is anything to go by.

“Oh, um, yeah, I’ve done quite a bit with Gucci? And, I guess, I worked with Louis a bit when we were both starting out.” Harry scratches the back of his neck, unsure of how much he’s to reveal about the nature of his and Louis’ relationship.

Oliver perks up at that. “You’ve worked with Louis before?”

Harry opens his mouth to respond, but Caroline clears her throat before he can do so, leaning in closer like there’s a scandal on the horizon. “Harry is Louis’ boyfriend,” she supplies before leaning back with raised eyebrows and a firm mouth.

Oliver is not nearly as affronted as Caroline seems to have hoped they’d be, their eyes widening in delight. “Oh!” they exclaim, clapping their hands together. “That’s right. That’s how I’d know of you, then. Of course, your Gucci campaigns have been stunning as well, darling, do not get me wrong. Oh, I’m so excited that you’ll be joining us for this collection. I have a feeling you’ll tell the story quite well.”

Then, they eye Harry up and down. Harry’s never been one to feel embarrassed or exposed in skimpy clothing, but something about Oliver’s gaze—or perhaps their words—have him blushing, his toes turning in.

“Yes, well,” Caroline says with a stiff huff. “This is only meant to be a preliminary audition, and I don’t suppose we have Harry for long today, so shall we hasten the pace?”

Oliver straightens up with a new air of professionalism. “Yes, of course,” they say, quickly glancing at Harry and widening their eyes for a minuscule moment.

Harry bites his lip to hold back a grin.

Both Oliver and Caroline set to work on making adjustments, taking in the waist so it’s more fitted to Harry’s form, pinning white, ruffled fabric underneath the ends of the sleeves and along the bottom hem. Oliver explains that they’re working on a similar blazer with the fabric sewn in, and Louis would like to get an idea of how it’d look.

Louis returns sometime between Caroline scoffing at the socks Harry accidentally left on and her waving it off as fine before sliding his feet into chunky, white sneakers.

“Oh, Oliver, lovely, you’ve made it,” Louis says when he steps back into the room. “How’s everything fitting?” He makes his way towards them with his arms twisted across his chest, eyeing Harry up and down.

“Hello, love,” Oliver says. “We’ve taken in the waist as Harry’s is quite small,” they explain, his hands framing Harry’s figure. Harry stands straight and still as they all examine the clothes on him. “And, as you can see, Caroline has taken to adding this fabric that will mimic the other version we’re working on.”

“Good, nice, nice,” Louis nods slowly, his eyes trailing over Harry’s body. Louis taps his lips with the pads of his fingers in thought. “Have we at all discussed a different fabric for this piece?” He reaches out to pinch the lapel of the blazer, rubbing it between his fingers, his knuckles brushing against Harry’s bare chest. Harry shivers, managing to keep his face stoic as Louis’ eyes flick to him.

“We’ve discussed making it similar to the green one. With the velvet?” Oliver explains, also stepping back to get their own eyeful.

Caroline seems to have disappeared in search of more accessories while Louis and Oliver chatter amongst themselves over fabric options.

“Ah, yes. But not the velvet.”

“Yes. We discussed velvet.”

“Oh. I don’t want this to be velvet.”

“What isn’t working with the silk?”

“It’s too flimsy,” Louis says, waving a hand in the air. “I want it to hold its shape up here—” he motions the line of Harry’s shoulder— “all the way over his waist before flaring out slightly around the hips. I don’t like the way this lies.”

“I see, I see,” Oliver hums with a nod. “Shall I pull different fabrics now?”

“No, no, we can discuss more later. I want Harry to move around in this. It’ll be good enough for what I’m hoping for at the moment. Let’s pull the green to put him in next. I’m not sure I want him in green, but the shape will be there.”

“Yes, the blue does suit him quite well.”

Louis’ eyes find Harry’s again, his mouth tilting up in a minuscule show of affection. It’s sparse and gone in a second, but Harry chomps down on his cheek to keep himself from smiling about it anyway.

Louis brings in Harvey, the photographer, who helps instruct Harry as he walks around the room. He mostly goes in circles, moving across the room at a slow pace before turning around to do it again much quicker. Louis stands off to the side with a straight face, occasionally murmuring to Oliver or Caroline who then make notes and adjustments.

He tries on four different outfits, some that are similar in nature and others not so much. Harry knows they’re done when Lyla appears, and Louis departs without a word, leaving Harry alone with Caroline and Oliver.

When Harry is back in his street clothes—black, pin-stripe trousers with a simple, black tucked-in shirt—he’s not sure if he’s to simply leave or if he should try finding Louis’ office. He asks Caroline to point him in the direction, but she simply calls Lyla over to have her show him.

“So?” Harry asks, leaning against the door jam of Louis’ office when he finds his way back.

Louis sits at his desk with his head in his hands. He lifts it when Harry speaks, rubbing a hand over his forehead and leaning back in his chair. Harry raises his eyebrows, but it only makes Louis avert his gaze. He pulls his hand over his jaw, sitting quietly for so long, Harry is convinced it’s not happening, convinced he’s fucked it up somehow.

“Tell Daniel to give me a call,” he says eventually.

Harry scuffs his shoe against the floor at the mention of his agent. Danny has been representing Harry for years, to the point that he and Louis consider him and his wife friends. Harry appreciates his propensity for realness and Louis likes that he doesn’t let Harry get screwed over.

Harry moves to sit down in one of the chairs in front of Louis’ desk. There’s paper and pencils, scraps of fabric, and the like littered across the surface.

“Why do we have to get Danny involved?” he asks, slouching in his chair with a slight pout to his mouth. It’s unintentional, but it’s there. “Just tell me yes and you know I’ll do it. Why do you have to act like I’m just any other model?”

Louis shakes his head, mussing up his hair. “Because, if we’re going to do this, we’re going to keep it as professional as possible. I won’t have anyone accusing me of nepotism. You’ll do your fittings like everyone else, you’ll see the clothes when everyone else does, you’ll get paid the same as everyone else.”

“Jesus, Louis, I know that. I’m not trying to get special treatment, I’m just saying—”

“Consider it a favor that I’m even offering to speak to Daniel on my own,” Louis cuts him off.

Harry huffs in annoyance, leaning back in his seat with his arms crossed.

“I could have Lyla do it, but I won’t.”

“If you don’t want this to be a thing, then why don’t you just tell me no? Find someone else who’s not such a hassle?”

Louis considers him for a long time. It makes him squirm—Louis’ sharp blue eyes, the way they seem to peer right through him.

“Hazza,” he says softly, the nickname delicate on his lips. It’s his Louis in front of him now, Famous Fashion Designer Louis Tomlinson slipping through his fingers. “You’re perfect for the job. Perfect. Exactly what I’ve wanted, but I’m—” he looks away when his voice catches in his throat, clearing it with a cough— “I worry about our relationship. I don’t want to fall into the same hole as last time.” He meets Harry’s eyes again with desperate sincerity. “I need to keep this separate from us. Please tell me you understand?”

His voice verges on a whisper, and it makes Harry’s heart clench in his chest, the corners of his mouth tugging downward. “Alright,” he says with a nod. “I’ll have Danny call tomorrow.”

Louis jerks his head once, a twinge of worry still present on his face. Harry longs to get rid of it. “Thank you,” Louis says, running a hand over his face. “I have some things to finish up this afternoon before I head home.”

Some of the tension in Harry’s chest releases at the mention of something as mundane as home. He stands up. “Alright. Don’t worry yourself too much. Text when you’re on your way, I’ll have dinner ready.”

Louis’ mouth quirks up in a minuscule smirk. “Perfect,” he says. His hand twitches where it rests on the desk before he reaches out, beckoning Harry towards him.

Harry obliges, making his way around the desk, letting Louis take his hand to create their only point of contact. Louis looks down at where his thumb skates over Harry’s knuckles, twisting a few of his rings. They’re boyfriends right now, nothing more, nothing less. Just them.

“Love you,” Louis murmurs, pressing his lips to Harry’s hand.

Harry smiles softly, murmuring the sentiment back.

⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯

Harry’s singing to Paul Simon when Louis gets home later. The flat smells like curry, warm with a bit of heat to back it up. Louis off-handedly thinks it’s quite like Harry. He drops his bag at the door, kicking off his shoes before making his way to the kitchen.

As Louis enters, Harry is shaking his hips at the hob in loose, bright green shorts that hardly cover his arse and a flowy white cropped shirt. Louis revels in the bit of pudge clinging to Harry’s hips exposed just above his waistband. He has the urge to sink his teeth right into them.

“Hi, baby,” Louis says.

Harry startles but quickly recovers with a gentle smile over his shoulder as Louis approaches.

“What’ve you got cooking?” Louis peers over his shoulder at the orange concoction in the pan, sliding his arms around Harry’s stomach.

“Buttered chicken, d’you wanna try?” He doesn’t wait for a response, scooping a bit of curry on his spoon and turning around with a hand hovering under it, bringing it to Louis’ lips where he takes half a spoonful of sauce.

Louis hums as Harry pulls the spoon away, taking a taste for himself before going back to stirring. It’s warm with hints of cinnamon and cardamom, heat from the chili powder lingering on his tongue. “S’delicious.”

He presses a kiss to Harry’s cheek before pulling away so he can change out of his clothes.

“This is almost ready,” Harry calls after him.

“I’ll only be a moment!”

Going to their room, he changes out of his jeans and into trackies, quickly pulling on a hoodie before heading back to the kitchen. Harry is in the middle of dishing up the buttered chicken over rice, so Louis has a seat at the kitchen table as he finishes. They have a small dining room, but they’re more accustomed to eating elsewhere when it’s just the two of them.

“Do you wanna eat in the lounge?” Harry asks, bent down in front of the open fridge. He pulls out a bottle of wine and hands it to Louis along with a corkscrew.

“Did you record Bar Rescue?”

Harry hums and nods, picking up their bowls. “Grab some wine glasses, will you?” he asks before heading to the sitting room.

Louis does as told, then joins him on the sofa where Harry’s already turned on Bar Rescue and is eating his chicken. With his own bowl in his lap, Louis pours them each a glass of wine before settling in next to Harry. “This is so good, darling. Thanks for cooking,” he murmurs around his second bite.

“‘Course,” Harry replies.

They’re both quiet as they eat. The only sounds filling their flat are Jon Taffer yelling at an employee on the telly and scrapping forks against ceramic. Their cat, Basil, curls up by Louis’ side on the sofa. She’s always choosing him when given the option, despite Harry’s discontent on the matter.

“The stress test is so dramatic,” Louis says after he’s finished his dinner, setting the bowl on the coffee table next to where his legs are propped.

“I know,” Harry says with a shake of his head. “As if anyone’ll be getting a drink promptly in even the most well-run pub when they’ve let that many people in at once.”

“Taffer’s a fraud anyway.”

Harry scoffs. “’Course he is. Wouldn’t sell if he wasn’t.”

Louis loves this part of them. The way they record every episode of Bar Rescue and make different versions of the same complaints with every one as if they’d rather be watching something else. Louis looks at Harry, his side profile delicate with the gentle slope of his nose and roundness of his cheeks, save for the sharp cut of his jaw. I’d rather complain about nothing with you than do anything of substance with anyone else, he thinks, not for the first time.

Towards the end of the episode, he takes their bowls to the kitchen. Basil runs after him, probably to scour for food, but she gets preoccupied watching a bird out in the garden. Louis puts their dishes in the dishwasher, quickly packing away the leftovers and grabbing the bottle of wine to bring back with him. Harry has a hand down the front of his shorts when Louis returns.

Freezing in the doorway, Louis asks with narrowed eyes, “Does Jon Taffer do it for you, then?”

Harry’s eyes snap to his, startled. A slow smile spreads across his face, his hand still stuck down his pants. Louis’ gaze is caught on the slow movement beneath them.

“No,” Harry says with a shrug. “Was just bored.”

Louis snorts, although it comes out more breathless than he’d have liked. Swallowing visibly with a nod, he pushes himself forward. His hand is surprisingly steady as he pours them more wine before plopping back down on the sofa.

With his eyes facing forward, Harry reaches over to pull Louis closer to his side, steadying him with a hand pressed to his stomach before sliding it down his torso until he’s palming Louis’ semi over his trackies.

“Seems Taffer does it for you, too,” Harry murmurs while his hand traces the outline of Louis’ cock.

He must be hardly touching himself, Louis thinks. He’s much too composed. Louis wants to grab his ankles and push him down on the sofa until he can pin Harry’s hands above his head and press his knees to his chest, peeling off his tiny, teasing shorts.

The thought is cut off when Harry firmly presses the heel of his hand into Louis’ cock, a groan getting caught in his throat with the pressure.

“Fuck,” he says, bucking his hips with his hands planted on the sofa. Harry moves in small circles with enough pressure to have Louis fattening up in his joggers but not nearly enough to provide relief. “God, Harry, if you’re gonna do something then fucking do it,” Louis swears, his head falling back against the sofa.

Harry pauses his movements, looking at him with a pout before taking his hand away entirely.

Louis balks at him, especially when he throws his own head back against the sofa, releasing a loud, ostentatious moan. His eyes flutter shut, and his teeth sink into his bottom lip to stave off a smile. The craters in his cheeks give him away.

“You’re a little shit,” Louis huffs as Harry peeks one eye open, quickly closing it when he finds Louis staring.

In a few hasty movements, Louis gets up on his knees, maneuvering Harry until he’s lying on his back with a shiteating grin. Harry’s hand is knocked from his shorts, a bulge sitting strong in its place, both hands splayed on either side of his head and his thighs falling open around Louis.

“What are you gonna do about it?” Harry asks, gnawing on his bottom lip. He lets it pop back into place—shining, wet, and wine-stained.

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” Louis asks, hooking his fingers in the waistband of Harry’s shorts, pulling them down along with his pants in one quick motion.

Harry moans garishly, arching his back and shoving his hard cock in Louis’ face. It’s so completely over done, it makes Louis roll his eyes. Harry’s a tease, but Louis can be too. He presses a sparse kiss to the tip of his dick before ignoring it all together in favor of kissing along the soft splay of skin on the inside of his thighs. He’s all over the place—licking over his hole, enveloping one of his balls in his mouth, swirling his tongue around the head of his dick—until Harry has been reduced to nothing more than a whimpering mess below him.

“Fuck,” Harry blurts out breathlessly, sounding more so than before. Like it’s real this time and he’s not just putting on a show. His hands curl into the hair on the sides of Louis’ head as Louis bites at his inner thigh, pressing his tongue flat, lapping over the mark he’s left.

“You’ve no idea how badly I wanted to bend you over my desk today when you were wearing my clothes,” Louis murmurs, kissing up his inner thigh, lingering over the crease. “Does something to me, seeing you in clothes I made just for you.”

“Fuck, Louis,” Harry breathes, his head tipped back. “I want that.” He swallows visibly. “Wanna ride you in clothes you made just for me.”

“Oh yeah, baby?”

Before Louis can tease him more than he already has, Harry is hoisting himself up and pushing Louis down on his back, straddling his waist. His cock leaks against his stomach, crop top hanging just above it.

Louis reaches out to steadily stroke Harry’s cock, but Harry slaps his hand away. Instead, he leans forward with his hands framing Louis’ face, grinding down on Louis’ dick with his own trapped between their stomachs.

“Just like this,” Harry murmurs in his ear, the roll of his hips picking up pace. Nestled perfectly between his cheeks is Louis’ bulge. Louis is breathless, although trying to seem as if he’s not. As he gets more frantic, Harry’s head falls back, hair wild around his face and his mouth sinfully red.

Louis drags a hand up over his chest, tickling along his neck and rubbing his palm over his jaw.

“So beautiful,” he murmurs, involuntarily bucking his hips to meet Harry’s thrusts.

He presses the pad of his thumb against Harry’s bitten bottom lip, tugging it down. A weighted sigh falls out, his tongue curling out to lap over Louis’ finger before sucking it into his mouth. His lips are obscene—wet and plush, wrapped around Louis’ thumb. Louis urges it further into Harry’s mouth, his other fingers curling under his jaw as he presses on the back of his tongue until Harry is moaning around it with heavy-lidded eyes.

Smiling to himself, he gently pops his thumb from Harry’s mouth, trailing his hand to the back of his head and grabbing a handful of hair, leaving a shining path of spit across Harry’s cheek in his wake. Yanking sharply, Harry releases an obscene string of sounds, the length of his neck exposed. Louis’ mouth waters at the sight of clean skin, waiting for him to leave his mark. He guides Harry’s head closer so he can nip the skin right below his jaw.

A glass breaks on the show, momentarily snapping Louis from his Harry-induced stupor. His gaze flicks to the telly, mouth detaching from Harry’s neck and amusement curling over his lips. Harry swears with a harsh roll of his hips, immediately bringing Louis back to what is right in front of him.

“Fuck, Lou,” Harry gasps, taking Louis’ free hand and bringing it up to his mouth, coating three fingers in saliva, only releasing them when his spit is dripping down Louis’ knuckles. Guiding Louis’ hand down between them, Harry rises on his knees so Louis has better access to his hole.

Louis immediately slips two fingers inside him. Falling forward until their foreheads are pressed together, Harry breathes heavily against Louis’ mouth. His fingers curl through the hair at the nape of Louis’ neck, and his hips roll along with his thrusts.

“God,” he pants when Louis brushes over his prostate, unable to keep still.

Louis smirks, opening his mouth, but Harry is quick to slap his palm over it.

“Don’t start,” he murmurs, his voice sparse as he pushes back on Louis’ fingers, easily riding them.

Louis grabs his jaw instead, pulling him down and sucking his bottom lip into his mouth. He can’t quite get enough. Harry tastes like he always does, except for the bit of curry lingering on his tongue, spicy with a twinge of sweetness.

If it were up to Louis, he’d spend the whole night with his fingers inside Harry. He’d open him up with languid drags, rubbing intently against his prostate until Harry was begging to come before returning to minuscule thrusts, waiting for him to cool down then working him up all over again. He’d spend hours doing it.

But Harry is already rummaging around in the coffee table drawer, coming up with a half-used bottle of lube. He sets it on Louis’ stomach and shucks his trackies down with fumbling fingers. They rest just below his arse and over his thighs as Harry slicks him up.

Louis moans, bucking into Harry’s hand, his cock having been neglected thus far. Reaching down with his other hand, Harry pulls Louis’ fingers out of himself before pressing them against Louis’ mouth, prompting Louis to wrap his lips around them. He makes a show of licking them clean, his tongue poking between each crevice. Harry doesn’t pay much attention though, too busy rising onto his knees and grasping Louis’ cock, guiding it to his hole before slowly sinking down.

Mouth falling open as he does, Louis can’t help but reach out and touch him, hands skating over his thighs, up his hips, under his shirt and across his chest before making their way back down again.

Taffer is loud on the telly, yelling, “I’d call you a douchebag, but that’s offensive to every douchebag I’ve ever met!”

Harry moans as Louis twists his nipple. “Who knew Jon Taffer got you so hot? Don’t tell me you have a humiliation kink now.”

Huffing out something bordering on a laugh and an exasperated sigh, Harry scoffs, “God, do you ever shut the fuck up?” He blinks his eyes open with damp eyelashes, his words holding little bite.

Louis smirks around a laugh and bucks his hips up, using the grasp he has on Harry’s waist to pull him down on his cock until they’re flush together. Harry releases a jumble of curses, toppling forward before steadying himself with firm hands on Louis’ chest and rocking back and forth. His eyes fall shut, head tipping back.

“Ohh, Jon Taffer,” he moans, his dimples giving him away immediately as he’s unable to mask his smugness.

Louis releases a breathy snicker, pinching Harry’s thigh until he screeches. He maneuvers Harry’s long legs, planting his feet on the sofa. “Get on with it, you sicko,” he groans, thrusting up in small jolts.

He holds onto Harry’s hips, his fingers digging into his fleshy love handles, helping him rise on his cock before sinking back down, mouth falling open on a gasp.

“Oh god,” Harry moans, swiveling his hips and lifting up once again.

He’s quick to find a steady rhythm, speeding up the roll of his hips. The sounds slipping from his mouth are filthy and in sync with his movements, mingling with Taffer yelling at an employee on the telly. It’s always a bit of a shock to Louis how obscene Harry sounds during sex, every word that falls from his lips absurdly hot. It has heat coiling at the base of Louis’ spine far too quickly for his liking, his skin prickling with goosebumps.

Harry slows the rock of his hips, his eyes sliding open and sweat dusting his brow as he keeps his arse flush with Louis’ thighs. His eyelids flutter while he pleasures himself on Louis’ cock. Louis loves it, loves when Harry uses him to get off, but he needs more. Harder, faster.

“Fuck, baby,” he breathes, his fingertips white where they dig into Harry’s skin. He bucks up once, disrupting Harry’s balance in his lap. “Are you trying to kill me?”

Harry laughs breathlessly, working himself slowly on top of Louis. “Sorry,” he breathes with a grin, his eyes heavy.

Louis pushes himself to a sitting position with Harry still in his lap, wrapping an arm around his waist. Grabbing Louis’ hand, he muffles a surprised moan against Louis’ mouth in a wet kiss as their angle shifts. Louis has better leverage to take control and fucks up into Harry over and over, causing him to cry out as he nails his prostate. Harry throws his head back, fingers tangling in the tufts of hair at the base of Louis’ neck. He uses them to hold Louis’ head against his chest, writhing in his lap.

Louis uses the opportunity to press open mouthed kisses over Harry’s exposed collarbones. The neckline of his crop top dips low and his skin is smooth, silky, and all too enticing.

“Fuck,” Harry groans, swiveling his hips, cock trapped between them, rubbing against Louis’ stomach with each thrust. “Gonna come.”

It’s enough to have Louis’ pace turning frantic. His thighs burn as he quickens each snap of his hips, Harry fucking himself down until they’re meeting thrust for thrust. Their ragged breaths and slapping skin echo over the sound of Bar Rescue. As the sun sets, the light from the telly becomes more prominent, reflecting off Harry’s skin and darkening the shadows in his face. Louis reaches between them to grab Harry’s cock as he feels himself on the verge of coming. He pulls him off in time with his thrusts, and right as he is spilling into Harry, Harry bites down on his shoulder to muffle his moans, coming all over Louis’ fist.

Louis works him through it, milking every last drop as he pushes his own hips up in tiny jerks. As they both come down, his movements slow, Harry is held flush against him. They pant heavily, Harry’s teeth stuck against Louis’ skin.

“Fuck,” Harry says with a heavy sigh. The fuzzy haze around Louis’ head starts to dissipate. “That was good. Good job.” He pats Louis’ cheek in feigned degradation, rising onto his knees so Louis’ softening cock slips out of him.

“Don’t be an arse,” Louis scoffs, pinching his bum.

Harry grins, reaching between his legs while he’s still hovering over Louis to coat his fingers in the come dripping out of him. His gaze is piercing as he brings his fingers to his lips, obscenely sucking them clean with a pleased hum.

“We should watch Bar Rescue more often,” he says, using Louis’ shoulder to steady his shaky legs, maneuvering himself out of Louis’ lap.

Louis takes a sharp hold of his jaw before he can leave. “You filthy boy,” he huffs, pulling Harry’s face to his own and capturing his lips in a messy kiss, his tongue slipping into his mouth, tasting himself. It’s short lived, but Harry’s mouth comes away sloppy and red nonetheless.

He stares at Louis dazed for a few seconds before regaining awareness of his surroundings. Ridding himself off his stupor, he saunters off, hips swaying as he goes. Louis’ eyes trail after him. On the way to their bedroom, he drops his shirt and Louis huffs out a soft laugh, shaking his head to himself.

“I’m so fucking in love with you,” Louis says to him much later, after they’ve both showered and slipped into bed, Harry already drifting off tucked under his arm with wet, tussled hair and heavy eyes.

⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯

“What are your plans for the day?” Louis asks over breakfast. They’re having omelets that Harry whipped up while Louis was in the shower.

It’s been over a week since Harry’s mock fitting, as Louis has taken to calling it. Both him and Danny have kept their lips surprisingly tight on the matter, despite how often Harry has asked. He even tried weaseling it out of Louis after sex one night, hoping to catch him in his logic-deprived, orgasmic state. He hadn’t budged, saying Harry should wait for Danny to call.

“Going to yoga with Lena, then we’ll probably grab lunch.” Harry pierces one of the last bites of omelet.

Louis hums around his fork. “Do you need me to drop you off on my way to the studio?”

“No. Was gonna see if Lena’d come get me. If not, I’ll just take the train.”

Louis nods thoughtfully, nudging his food around his plate. “She doesn’t like me all that much, does she?”

Harry looks at him bemused, standing up with his empty plate in his hand. He stops by Louis’ side, holding out a hand to take his as well. Louis wordlessly hands it to him.

“Lena?” He places their plates in the sink.

“Yes.”

“Why wouldn’t she like you?”

“You tell me.” Louis shrugs, already on his way over to the hob to grab the dirty omelet pan. Harry cooked, so Louis’ll clean.

“I’ve never gotten that impression.”

“Obviously she’s not going to say anything to you.” Louis lightly bumps him out of the way to get to the sink.

Harry hardly moves, leaning his hip against the counter as he watches Louis. He’s mostly confused, trying to understand why Louis would think such a thing. “Has she said something to you?” He furrows his brow.

“Fuck, Harry,” Louis huffs, his temper slipping as he drops the pan in the sink in favor of running his hands over his face. “No, she hasn’t. No. I’m just—” Sighing, he presses both hands against the edge of the counter, decidedly avoiding Harry’s incessant gaze. “Just forget it.”

Harry’s eyes dart over his face, still unsure of where this is coming from. Lena has hardly even properly met Louis. It seems entirely unreasonable to assume she doesn’t like him. Harry can’t think of a reason as to why anyone would dislike Louis.

“Okay,” he says, his voice low as he inches closer, feeling more insecure than he had before. “Alright, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you.”

Louis sighs softly, his head hung low. “You didn’t upset me.”

Harry rubs his forehead. “Okay.” He’s not planning to push it any further, but then he says, “You just seem upset.”

Louis huffs. “I’m not. I asked if we could forget it.”

Harry bobs his head, reaching out to grab a fistful of Louis’ shirt. “Can I at least have a hug before you leave?”

Louis looks at him unimpressed. They both know what he’s up to, the way he’s trying to discreetly comfort Louis who is decidedly not upset. Louis doesn’t deny him though, letting Harry pull him in for a hug. He wraps around Harry easily and Harry tucks his face into his neck, making himself smaller than he is.

“M’sorry if she’s ever made you feel that way,” he murmurs, hoping Louis isn’t set off by the comment.

“S’not your fault,” Louis brushes it off. “She’s never been unkind.”

Harry nods, but tightens his grasp on Louis nonetheless.

Lena picks Harry up an hour later, her sleek blonde hair slicked back in a tight bun and rectangular black sunglasses sitting on the tip of her nose as she looks at Harry from the driver’s seat. Harry has always found her effortlessly beautiful. Not in the same way he finds Louis effortlessly beautiful, but in the way that her features are soft yet angular, her skin tight and pristine. She could wear pounds of makeup or nothing at all and she’d look gorgeous no matter what.

“You look cute,” Lena says when Harry opens the car door. She’s only a few years older than Harry, but started modeling much younger and rose to the top much faster. Initially, she’d been the one Harry looked to for advice in the industry, but these days they talk plant-based recipes, yoga, and gossip more than they talk modeling.

He huffs out a laugh, looking down at his outfit. He’s got on black leggings, a cream hoodie from Louis’ side of the closet, and chunky sneakers with crew socks sticking out the top. His hair is in a loose top knot, some hairs having escaped to curl around the back of his neck.

It’s nothing compared to Lena’s lilac workout set. She always has the cutest yoga outfits and Harry is always jealous.

He sets his tote bag on the floor, his yoga mat sticking out the top, and places his water bottle in the cupholder before crawling into the car.

“Thanks,” he says. “You do, too.”

They chat on their way to yoga, having not seen each other in a few weeks, so there’s quite a bit to catch up on. Lena’s sister is pregnant, she tells Harry, which has led to discussion amongst her family about when Lena is going to settle down.

They’re at yoga and rolling out their mats, when Harry asks, “What does Anthony have to say about it?”

Anthony, Lena’s long term on-again-off-again boyfriend, who she’s been on with for about a year now, doesn’t have many thoughts in his brain. Harry has only met him a handful of times, about as often as Lena has met Louis. Although, it’s safe to say Lena and Anthony are nothing like him and Louis. He and Louis are both too blunt and logical with one another to do the hot and cold thing. And maybe a bit jealous and clingy. And in love. Which helps.

“He thinks we should get married.” Lena shrugs, her tone more casual than Harry thinks it ought to be. Her long legs are in front of her while she stretches her arms forward, folding her body in half.

Harry copies her movements. “Married?” he asks with raised eyebrows. He tries not to appear too shocked in case this is actually something Lena wants.

She shrugs again. “I guess so.”

Harry tries not to sputter in shock. “Do you want that?” Rearranging his legs to a butterfly stretch, he asks, “to get married?”

“I don’t know. Like, how am I meant to know he’s the one? I feel like people don’t generally know.” She looks at Harry then. “I mean, do you know Louis’s the one?”

Harry doesn’t mean to laugh out loud, but he does. It’s far louder and sharper than he expects and he slaps a hand over his mouth. Lena’s mouth drops open, the others in the class turning to look at them. Harry shrinks in on himself, a flush tickling the back of his neck.

He shakes it off quick enough, turning to Lena. “Yes,” he says honestly. “He’s absolutely the one.”

Lena looks mildly shocked, although Harry can’t imagine why. He can safely assume that, had he presented that information to any of his and Louis’ friends, they’d promptly wave him off with an eye roll.

“But, like, how do you know?”

Harry huffs a laugh. “Lena, you can’t be serious.”

She shrugs. “I’m just trying to understand.”

Harry shakes his head. Their yoga instructor comes into the room while everyone shuffles around, getting ready to start class. Harry puts it as simply as he can. “When I’m doing nothing at all, I hope he’ll come do nothing with me.”

He can feel Lena’s eyes on him, but class is starting, so he pays her no mind and she doesn’t say more.

After yoga, they grab lunch at a quaint place in Shoreditch that sells build-your-own salads priced by the ounce. It’s like those frozen yogurt joints that were popular a few years back, but the salad place is much more fancy and aesthetic. Harry enjoys it, but he only ever comes with Lena.

He’s not keen on closely tracking what he eats. His friends in the industry count the calories in everything, from a full pasta meal to a squirt of toothpaste in the morning. He prefers to eat healthy, mostly because he feels better in his body when he does. But, the older he gets the more he needs to in order to maintain his figure, although he’s never stuck to a strict diet. Louis will contest that’s what drew him to Harry, that his suggestion of greasy burgers and fries on the night they first met wasn’t a turn off for Harry.

“So, what’s new with you?” Lena asks once they’re both seated by a window with their food. “Feel like you’ve not spoken much today.”

He chooses not to point out that it’s because she’s done most of the talking. He doesn’t mind anyway. “Nothing really, just waiting to hear back about a gig.”

Lena perks up. “Ooo, what kind of gig?”

Harry huffs, looking down as he stabs at his salad. “Um, it’s for Louis’ show?”

Lena is quiet for a moment, so Harry looks at her to find her eyebrows raised and mouth slightly parted.

“What?” he asks.

Shaking her head, Lena tries to erase the look, although it lingers. “Nothing, nothing.” She takes a bite. “It’s just, haven’t you guys agreed not to do that?”

Harry sighs. “Well, yes. But he was struggling to find people that he thought would fit his vision for the show and—” Harry shrugs, “I don’t know. I understand what he’s looking for.”

Lena snorts. “You don’t think he’s just trying to use you for your name? Get more people to come, because Harry Styles is walking in the show?”

“What?” Harry sputters. “No, not at all.” He shakes his head. “He wouldn’t do that. He doesn’t even need to do that.”

Lena purses her lips, seemingly unconvinced, but she nods anyway. “Sure.”

Harry doesn’t appreciate her tone, but he also doesn’t press it further.

Later that night, he recalls their conversation to Louis while they’re chilling on the sofa after dinner. Basil is tucked next to Louis’ hip, some game Harry couldn’t care less about is playing on telly, and his feet are in Louis’ lap for him to massage while Harry holds a book in his hands. They’d eventually gotten side tracked in conversation.

“See, I knew she doesn’t like me,” Louis contests, digging his thumb into Harry’s arch. He winces, instinctually jerking his foot back. Shooting him an apologetic look, Louis gently soothes the area and tugs Harry’s foot back in its place.

“It shouldn’t matter what she thinks. About you or the show or anything relating to it. Just left a bad taste in my mouth is all,” Harry says. He brushes his fingers over the shell of Louis’ ear, tugging at some of the wispy hair that’s started curling around his neck as it’s gotten longer.

“You don’t actually believe that, do you?” Louis asks, pausing his massage and looking at Harry with a concerned tilt to his brow. “That I’m using you for your name?”

Harry smiles sadly at him, sliding his hand around the back of his neck, pressing his thumb against the bone behind his ear, moving it in small, calming circles. “No, of course not. Like you need that anyway.”

Louis nods and Harry knows he believes him.

“I think if she had a chance to get to know you, like properly hang out, she’d like you,” Harry says after a few moments. His hand tightens around the back of Louis’ neck when he rubs particularly hard on the ball of his foot. “Most people do.”

Louis snorts. “Don’t worry about it, love,” he says. “Who cares what she has to say. As long as you’re not getting ideas from it.”

“Never,” Harry attests.

They’re both quiet for a while after that. Louis switches to massaging Harry’s other foot, attention falling back to the match on the telly. Harry rests the side of his head against the back of his sofa and considers picking up his book again, but for now he’s content watching Louis. Basil crawls over Louis and into Harry’s lap, vying for attention.

Harry pets her with one hand, letting his other skate along the back of Louis’ neck and over the shell of his ear, simply exploring him with his fingers. He’s been to these places before, moreso just paying them a visit right now. Louis’ so beautiful, Harry notes to himself. If he had a quarter for every time he thought that, he could probably quit his job and have a farm in the countryside with chickens and cows. They’d all have names and Louis would hate it, but he’d do it because he loves Harry.

“Do you wanna have sex?” Harry asks, rolling Louis’ earlobe between his fingers.

Louis looks at him with an amused tilt to his mouth, his hands pausing their movements on his feet.

“I could fuck you,” Harry suggests.

Louis purses his lips, tilting his head from side to side.

“Or you could finger me until I come.”

It’s a tempting offer, he can see it on Louis’ face. It’s one of Louis’ favorite things, taking Harry apart with his fingers until he’s writhing below him, but Harry is usually too impatient to let him.

“I’m tired, baby,” Louis says with a sigh, resting his head against the back of the sofa. “Rain check?”

Harry smiles softly. “Sure.”

They don’t stay out on the sofa much longer before they move to the bed. Harry reads some more, and Louis plays a game on his phone.

“Would you ever want to get chickens?” Harry asks, the hand holding his book falling lax in his lap.

“Chickens?” Louis asks, looking up at him.

“Or like, cows or something?”

“Or something,” Louis says around a huff of laughter.

“Well, not now.”

“Baby. What?” Louis takes Harry’s book from him, folding the corner of the page he’s on before setting it on his bedside table.

“Just like, when our careers are done. When we retire and have grandkids or something.”

“Chickens in London,” Louis says, moving to plug his phone in before setting it down as well.

“We’d obviously move to the countryside. I’m thinking Hampshire.”

Louis turns off the only lamp lighting the room, laying down in bed. He reaches out to pull Harry down next to him. “Hampshire, huh?”

“It’s close enough to London that if our kids want to be here, we could still see them easily enough.”

“Sounds like you’ve thought about this quite a bit.”

Harry shrugs, cuddling close to Louis’ chest, brushing the pads of his fingers over bare collarbones. “Not really.”

Louis hums, wrapping an arm around his waist.

“Would you want that?” Harry peers up at him, hardly able to make out his features in the dark. Only the soft shadows under his cheekbones, the dip above his lip, his eyelashes fanned over his cheeks.

He opens his eyes, the corner of his mouth quirking up. “Chickens and cows in the countryside?”

“Yeah.”

Louis huffs, letting his eyes fall shut again. “Sure, darling, whatever you want.” He pecks Harry on the mouth. “Now go to sleep.”

∙ ∙ ∙

Harry gets a call a few days later from Danny saying he and Louis have worked out an agreement for the show. He’ll be one of sixteen models walking in Louis’ show for London Fashion Week in February.

He runs home from coffee with his sister to snog Louis silly up against the kitchen counter.

∙ ∙ ∙

Danny sends him the schedule leading up to Fashion Week and Harry’s eyes nearly fly out of his head when he sees how many fittings are scheduled. It’s more than he’s ever done for a show before, even at two and a half weeks out. Every time he asks Louis about it, he’s promptly dismissed.

The first one is at the end of January, right before Harry’s birthday. It’s scheduled for the afternoon, so Louis is already there with a few other models when Harry arrives.

Of the fifteen other models, Harry only recognizes a few. Allegra Alevena is the first person he spots, standing across the room with two people he only vaguely knows. He can’t move on when his gaze lands on Allegra. Her hair is long and shiny, accentuated by smooth caramel skin and amber eyes that meet Harry’s through the crowd of people.

He’s walked a few Gucci shows with Allegra, having met her at auditions for one of the very first print adverts Harry did. It’s safe to say, following him getting the gig over her, Harry isn’t exactly her favorite. Subsequently, she is less than favorable to him as well. Harry’s sure he’s mentioned his run-ins with Allegra to Louis on more than one occasion. He tries not to feel bitter about it.

Harry is about to continue his scan of the room, looking for people he’d rather have for company, when he notices Allegra excusing herself from her conversation and heading his way. His eyes flick around frantically, looking for a way out of whatever is about to happen. Before he can, she’s right in front of him.

She flashes wide, shiny teeth at him, crossing her arms so her hands rest delicately against her bare biceps. There’s a green, satin dress draped gracefully over her thin frame, held up by spaghetti straps, scooping low on her chest with her collar bones protruding.

“Harry Styles,” she says, coming to a halt in front of him. The way his name curls around her tongue leaves an uneasy feeling in his stomach.

“Hi, Allegra,” he says, giving her a weak smile, appreciating the measly inch he has on her.

“Surprised to see you here.” She tilts her head to the side in a way that reeks of patronization.

Harry raises his eyebrows, his mouth parting, then crosses his arms over his chest. “Why’s that?”

Lifting a single shoulder, one corner of her mouth tugs up before she levels him with the fakest smile.

It has him narrowing his eyes momentarily. “Surprised to see you as well.”

Allegra looks pleased to hear it. “Oh, I’m not. I knew it’d be an easy gig to book.”

“I’m sure Louis would be very pleased to hear that.”

Her smile falters, but he has to commend her for the quick recovery. She raises her chin dismissively, plastering the smile back on her face, mouth holding more tension than before. “I’m sure it’ll be an exciting show.”

Harry huffs, unable to hold back his amusement at her change in demeanor. “Nice to see you,” he says with a nod before he moves away from her and further into the studio.

He immediately spots Penelope Wence and Georgie Fitzgerald and belines to them. Poppy walked in one of the very first shows Harry was ever in. Having been a few years older, she had kept an eye out for him through the entirety of the production, and they’ve managed to keep in touch since.

Although he’s never worked with Georgie, he met them at a show last year and they got on quite well. Not even a week ago, he’d run into Georgie while grabbing a coffee at the shop around the corner from his and Louis’ flat. He’s pleased to see them now.

“Poppy, Georgie,” he says as he approaches, immediately catching their attention. They both turn from their conversation.

“Harry!” Poppy exclaims, throwing her arms around him. “My love, how are you?” she pulls back to cradle his face in her hands.

“Good, thanks,” he says, matching her enthusiasm. He turns to Georgie, putting a hand on their arm. “You didn’t say you’d be walking for this!”

“Didn’t know you’d be walking,” Georgie counters.

Harry opens his mouth to reply, but Poppy beats him to it. She leans in close to both of them, so Harry and Georgie instinctively do the same.

“Louis is Harry’s boyfriend,” she says.

Georgie turns to Harry with a furrow in their brow. “Louis Tomlinson? As in, the designer for this show?”

Harry is sure he’s mentioned it before. He nods sheepishly, his cheeks warming while Poppy straightens with a pleased, “The very one!”

“Oh, shit,” Georgie says with wide eyes and a devious smirk. “Well if I’d known that, I surely would have mentioned it.”

Harry huffs, some of the hair around his face flying with it. “It’s not supposed to be a thing,” he murmurs, hoping no one will overhear. “He’s been very—”

“Hello, everyone,” Louis’ voice cuts him off. The murmur in the room dies down and everyone turns to look at Louis, poised at the front of the room.

Poppy raises her eyebrows at Harry before also shifting her attention.

Louis is holding a folded packet of paper, and he’s looking far more casual than everyone else in the room with his cream, linen trousers and ratty, black band tee. Harry is sure the shirt is his, when he thinks about it.

“I’m Louis Tomlinson,” Louis says. “For those who don’t know me, which should be no one, In Every Color is my blood, sweat, and tears.” A low rumble of snickers makes its way through the small group. “Welcome to the first of many fittings. As I’m sure you’ve all noticed by now, there’s quite a few more than you’d expect for the average show. I want this show to be as much about the people wearing the clothes as it is about the clothes themselves. This show would be nothing without our models and the lovely group helping them get ready and preparing the clothes, so we’ve built in enough time to get us all on the same page with what we’d like to represent while allowing room for experimentation with each look.”

As Louis speaks, Harry can’t help but feel a spark of pride blooming in his chest. It’s been a long time since he’s seen Louis in his element like this. He already seems to carry himself with a different air of humbleness and quiet confidence that Harry hasn’t seen in other designers he’s worked with. While he listens, he finds himself smiling softly, fiddling with his necklaces. Louis catches his eye, and sends a wink Harry’s way that’s so quick he’s not sure if he imagined it.

“We have sixteen models that will be walking in the show,” Louis says. “The way this’ll work is each main item of clothing will be seen twice in the show. We’ll have model pairs walking together, one wearing the item in a traditionally masculine style and the other in a traditionally feminine style. Of course, there will be delicate and soft aspects in the “masculine” styles and brash imagery splicing through the “feminine” looks, but overall, the goal is to show dichotomy and versatility with the items. We’ll discuss this further on, but for now, I’d like to not waste more of your time and get started with some fittings.”

Georgie turns to Harry with a seemingly impressed face, their arms crossed as they send him a single nod. Harry bites his cheek to keep from grinning too wide. He loves Louis. He’d kiss him silly right now if it were allowed.

“You’ll each be split into groups consisting of two models, a stylist, and two dressers. Get comfortable with these people as you’ll be working with them for a few weeks. I’ll read off everyone’s name along with what group you’re in. Please wait to convene until after all names have been read.”

Louis continues on with reading off everyone’s names. A soft murmur floats over the group as he gets further down the list. Harry is, funnily enough, paired with Georgie. They both grin at each other when their names are called.

After Louis has dismissed them, they all disperse to find their groups.

“You two are so lucky,” Poppy scoffs, rising on her tiptoes to try and find her group. She’s paired with Allegra. Harry is not envious. He points Poppy in the direction of where she was when he spoke with her earlier.

“Do you know who Caroline is?”

Harry nods, looking around the room for her. “Surprised Louis put us with her. She’s the lead stylist.”

Georgie just looks at him amusedly.

They eventually locate Caroline who has both dressers in tow. She introduces them as Suzanne and Athena.

“Your stylist for future fittings will be Elliot, but he’s out sick today so I’m filling in,” Caroline says, leading them to their assigned rack.

As they go about the fitting, Caroline isn’t more or less pleasant than she was when Harry first came to try on clothes. He’s pleased to find that she’s just as grouchy with Georgie, and that it might just be a Caroline thing rather than a Harry thing.

The first thing she puts them in is a version of the blazer-dress Harry had worn during his casual tryout. It’s emerald green with velvety fabric and gold flower detailing curling down the sides and around the back. Harry can’t help but run his fingers over the soft fabric where it rests over his hips.

Caroline styles it much like she had the blue one. She puts him in a tube top to peak through where the blazer gapes open at his chest, his legs clad in sheer, black tights. His bun is not acceptable, according to Caroline, so he takes it out, hair cascading over his shoulders. A pair of sleek black sunglasses rest on the tip of his nose.

Georgie is styled in the same blazer with matching trousers and the same detailing around the ankles. They wear a black, scoop neck top underneath. Caroline is in the middle of deciding whether Georgie’s blazer should be open or closed when Louis joins them with the Collection Coordinator, Vicky.

“How’s it going over here?” Louis asks as he approaches. He has his arms crossed over his chest. Vicky trails behind him with a clipboard in hand.

“Are we a yes for the matching trousers with the blazer?” Caroline asks, motioning to Georgie’s outfit.

Louis meets Harry’s eyes for a mere second without so much as a twitch to his features before his gaze drags over him in a more evaluating way than Harry is used to. He’s quick to do the same with Georgie, his mouth set in a firm line.

“Yes, the trousers are meant to go with the blazer.”

Caroline nods, fiddling with the lapels.

Louis turns back to Harry, his eyes squinting as he gives him another once over. “I don’t like this top.” He points at Harry’s chest.

Harry looks down at the yellow top under his blazer.

“It matches the flower detailing,” Harry explains rather stupidly as if Louis doesn’t have eyes.

Louis looks at Caroline instead. “No top, keep him shirtless,” he says before side-eyeing Vicky to be sure she’s writing it down. “This top would be better with the pants we were going to put them in.”

“The Harry trousers?” Caroline asks, both hers and Louis’ eyes darting to Harry for a millisecond before landing back on each other.

He has no idea what they’re talking about, but he widens his eyes when he catches Georgie’s gaze.

“Yes,” Louis replies with something akin to sheepishness in his tone like he’s been caught red-handed. He seems to pull himself together quite well.

“We had a matching top to go with those, though,” Caroline says.

Louis taps his fingers against his chin. “That’s right,” he hums. “We’ll figure something else out then. I hate the top under the blazer.”

Vicky scribbles down the details of their outfits with Louis’ notes, and Louis calls Harvey over to snap some pictures. He doesn’t stick around for that.

Harry learns later on in the fitting what the Harry trousers entail. They’re loose, beige trousers that sit high on his waist with stunning blue flowers littered all over. Caroline hands him a crop top with the same pattern to pair with them. When he gets a look at himself in the mirror, he notices his accentuated waist and protruding collarbones before peering behind himself and catching Louis’ eye.

Louis looks away as soon as he realizes he’s been caught. Harry sighs, smoothing his hands over his trousers before turning back to Caroline.

They don’t get to anymore looks by the time it’s four p.m. and Louis is calling it a day.

∙ ∙ ∙

Harry’s thirtieth birthday comes around on Sunday.

Louis wakes him that morning with slow kisses across his hip bones, taking him in his mouth and making him come before they relocate to the shower where he indulges Harry in shower sex. Harry doesn’t get shower sex often, so he makes Louis take his time.

Afterward, they head to the kitchen where Louis makes homemade waffles. Perching himself on the counter near the hob, Harry admires Louis as he works, cutting up berries and whipping some cream. He feeds Harry pieces of strawberry with red-stained fingers and a goofy grin, kissing away the juice that slips down the corner of his mouth.

Settling in the sitting room to eat, Louis insists Harry relax while he cuts up bites of waffle for him. They don’t eat for long before Harry is crawling into his lap, their saccharine tongues melding together in languid kisses. It’s the kind of kissing Harry never gets sick of, the kind he could do for hours.

Eventually, they separate, getting themselves clean and dressed to head to Harry’s mum’s around lunch. The affair is nice enough for the treacherous occasion of Harry turning thirty.

“Happy thirtieth birthday, my baby!” his mum greets with a smothering hug.

“Hey! Enough with that word!” Harry slaps a hand over her mouth, scandalized.

His siblings and Louis snicker at him, and he sends them all disgruntled glares. Pulling him close by the waist, Louis gives him a soothing kiss on his temple.

Overall, it’s a good day. Harry’s thirty, his family is perfect, his boyfriend is perfect, his job is perfect, and it’s a good day.

⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯

It starts on a Tuesday with the alarm blaring in Louis’ ear. He immediately clenches his eyes. They burn when he tries to peel them open to turn off his alarm, so he ends up with a wandering, blind arm, accidentally whacking Harry as he’s flailing around.

Harry makes a sort of ‘oomph’ sound, bending in on himself with a groan as Louis finally manages to turn the alarm off. Sighing softly to himself, he lies on his back and stares at the ceiling, rubbing at his eyes before turning to see Harry curled up, his back facing him.

On a deep inhale, Louis turns to his side, wrapping his body tight around Harry’s.

Harry hums, grasping Louis’ hand and holding it against his chest. He pushes his hips backwards in an effort to get closer and Louis groans when he comes into contact with his morning wood.

Breath hitching as he freezes his movements, Harry’s bum nestles right against Louis’ crotch before he lets out a soft puff of laughter.

“Well, hello there,” he says, rolling his hips against Louis’.

Louis doesn’t stop him, meeting him with a few of his own lazy grinds. He sighs at the momentary relief before halting his movements and shifting his hips away.

Harry whines, seemingly despite himself.

“I need to get ready for work,” Louis murmurs, yawning and attempting to roll away, but not without a soft kiss pressed behind Harry’s ear.

“Who cares about work,” Harry says, his grasp on Louis’ arm keeping him anchored in his spot.

Harry forcefully shoves his hips back, shifting his leg until it’s hooked over Louis’, dragging it forward so their knees are bent and stuck together. Guiding Louis’ hand, he pulls it down over his bare torso and under the waistband of his pants.

“Baby. We shouldn’t,” Louis sighs, rocking his hips against Harry’s arse, then biting down on his shoulder.

“We can be quick,” Harry says breathlessly as their intertwined hands wrap around his cock, languidly pulling him off with Harry’s guidance.

“I have to get up,” Louis tries again. He makes no move to actually do so. It feels too good, his cock warm and aching between Harry’s cheeks.

Harry’s breath hitches when Louis swipes his thumb over the head of his dick. “C’mon,” he pleads. “I’m already close.”

Louis huffs a laugh. “You are not.” When Harry lets go to grab the lube from the side table, Louis takes control of his hand, still stroking over Harry’s cock.

“I will be,” he says, bumping Louis away so he can shove the lube into his hand.

“Fine, but it’s gotta be quick,” Louis gives in, already slicking up his fingers and tugging Harry’s pants down to sit just below the curve of his arse. “Grab a condom so clean up’s easier,” he says, maneuvering Harry’s leg until his foot is planted on the bed to give him better access.

Harry gasps when Louis teases his fingers over his puckered hole, clenching around nothing. His hips grind back against Louis’ fingers, but he does as told, reaching to grab a condom.

Louis makes it quick as promised, pressing into Harry only a few minutes later. Holding onto his hips to pound into him, Harry cries out and Louis reaches down to pump his cock until he’s spilling all over his fist and slumping back against Louis.

“I really need to get up,” Louis says only a minute after he’s come, pulling a whimper from Harry when he slips out of him. He rolls out of bed with nothing more than a chaste kiss.

Harry doesn’t pull himself out of bed until Louis is showered, dressed, and heading downstairs to make breakfast. He makes a quick batch of eggs for the two of them, leaving Harry’s covered in the microwave. Basil weaves in and out of his legs as he’s cleaning up.

“Hey, pretty girl,” Louis says, scooping her up to cradle her like a baby. She rubs her head under his chin. “Where ya been?” He presses a kiss between her ears before setting her down.

When he runs up the stairs to say goodbye, he finds Harry in the shower.

“M’headed out, Hazza,” Louis yells, peeking his head into the bathroom, steam billowing in his face.

“What? You’re leaving without me?” Harry asks, sticking his head around the curtain. He has shampoo whipped through his hair.

Louis bites his lip at how endearing he looks. He shrugs. “I have to be there before you.”

“I’ll only be fifteen minutes, surely you don’t have to be there that much earlier. You can’t wait?”

“Sorry.” He kisses his fingers, wiggling them in goodbye before he leaves.

He’s already running behind by the time he pulls up at the studio with only a few minutes before it’s time to meet with Vicky, Harvey, and the stylists to go over the plan for each group of models today.

It’s their second round of fittings, essentially an extension of what they had done at the last fitting. They’ll finish putting together outfit sets before moving on to alterations and finalizing show boards.

By the time they’re finishing up with their debrief, the models start trickling in. It’s not a huge group, especially compared to what would normally be found for a show like this, but it’s enough people to have a soft buzz growing throughout the room.

Louis is in the middle of doing his introduction when the back door opens and Harry scurries in. His hair is fluffy and half up in a bun on his head, and he’s dressed in slouchy blue jeans and a tee that’s practically hanging off him with a light teal sweater draped over his shoulder. He has a to-go coffee cup in hand—one from home—and a bag slung over his other shoulder.

“Sorry,” he murmurs, a flush creeping over his cheeks when everyone in the room turns to look at him.

Louis pauses his speech with an open mouth. It’s a horrible look for him to have his boyfriend—whom he’s hired for his show, which is another thing on its own—showing up late.

“Sorry,” Harry says again, making eye contact with Louis as if that apology is just for him.

“Styles, nice of you to join us,” Louis says, clenching his jaw. He should keep his mouth shut, he should move on, but he doesn’t need the rest of his team thinking Harry can do whatever the fuck he wants.

“Sorry, I was, uh…” Harry trails off, waving a hand behind his shoulder as if that explains it. Louis knows why he’s late; he won’t make him say it.

“Right,” Louis says with a curt nod. “Be nice if you could refrain from making a habit of being so headless.”

Harry fidgets in his spot, nodding. Louis doesn’t hear it, but he’s sure he sees him murmur another apology. Mild remorse prickles over him. He’s aware it wasn’t on purpose; Harry is many things, but careless isn’t one of them. Regardless, there’s still a part of him that sits on his shoulder, whispering in his ear that he can’t let the others think Harry is any different from the rest of them.

“Just don’t let it happen again and we won’t have a problem, yeah?”

Harry nods, his eyes pointed down. Louis continues on with his monologue.

At first, Louis keeps away from Harry’s group entirely. The stylist he had assigned them, Elliot, is back today, so Caroline makes the rounds with him and Vicky. He takes to avoiding Harry’s group entirely but quickly learns that’s not a viable solution.

“Shouldn’t we stop by Styles and Fitzgerald?” Vicky asks after they’ve been to each group twice and completely passed them by.

Caroline snorts but otherwise keeps her mouth shut. Vicky clearly isn’t well versed on Louis and Harry.

“We’ll get there,” Louis huffs, harsher than he’d have liked. It’s not Vicky’s fault. If it’s anyone’s fault, it’s his. For hiring Harry, for indulging Harry in general, et cetera, et cetera.

He does lead them over there eventually and it turns out to be the actual worst time because Elliot has them in the Harry pants. Louis had named them that far before he hired Harry—before he had even started pulling ideas for the collection. There wasn’t anything deep underlying why he had called them that. Just that, when he had drawn up the idea, Harry had a propensity for wearing loud, baggy trousers that pooled around his ankles and synched his waist. The sketch had felt like something Harry would wear well. He had added the blue floral detailing as an afterthought. Harry always loved blue.

Seeing him in the trousers now, Louis knows he was right about one thing.

They don’t linger long. He mostly spends time confirming that everything looks good while Vicky jots down styling instructions and Harvey grabs pictures. Then they leave to continue their rounds.

Louis is exhausted by the time he gets home. Harry is already in the kitchen eating a bowl of pasta at the kitchen table. The models had been released mid-afternoon, but Louis stayed to finalize a few things.

“Hey,” he says when he enters the kitchen, immediately putting on the kettle. They’ve gotten into the habit of watching a show after dinner on Tuesdays and there’s no way Louis will stay awake through it without a cuppa.

Harry doesn’t reply, instead continuing to scroll on his phone, shoveling pasta into his mouth.

“What’d you make for dinner?” Louis asks, filling up the kettle.

Harry pauses with his fork halfway to his mouth, peering up at Louis with sharp eyes. “I’m having pasta.”

Louis can see he’s having pasta. He’s more curious as to where his pasta is. “I can see that,” he huffs. “Do you want some tea? I won’t stay awake through Bar Rescue without it.”

“I’m good,” Harry says offhandedly, going back to whatever he’s finding so interesting on his phone.

Louis opens the fridge while the water boils. There’s no pasta. He skims the kitchen quickly. There’s nothing on the hob, yet a pot is clean on the drying rack. He checks the fridge again before looking at Harry. “Did you not save me any? Wasn’t running that late.”

Harry glares at him. “If you want dinner, you can make it yourself.” He huffs, standing up with a loud screech of the chair, sauntering out of the room with his bowl in hand.

“What the fuck?” Louis murmurs under his breath, scrubbing his hands over his face. He’s far too exhausted for this.

After making himself wilted scrambled eggs with leftover ground sausage from something Harry made that weekend, he eats it in the kitchen by himself. Harry’s not on the sofa when he heads to the sitting room after he’s cleaned up and, instead of going to look for him, Louis reads downstairs for a bit before he starts dozing. On his way to bed, he steps outside on the back porch for a quick smoke.

He doesn’t smoke so much anymore. Harry doesn’t like how it tastes, so he had given it up soon after they started dating. Every now and again, it’s a simple comfort.

Harry’s in the bath in the ensuite by the time Louis heads up to bed, just pulling himself out when Louis comes in. Louis doesn’t try to hide the way his gaze drags over Harry’s dripping, naked body before he dries off and covers himself with a striped dressing gown.

Louis brushes his teeth while Harry washes his face. He has a whole routine, first taking off the minuscule strokes of mascara, dabs of lipstick, and concealer under his eyes with a reusable cotton round before making a show of cleansing his face followed by serums and moisturizers.

“It’s not too late if you want to watch the new Bar Rescue episode before bed?” Louis asks hesitantly after he’s rinsed his mouth of toothpaste.

Harry glances at him in the mirror, looking less than impressed before he peers back at his own reflection. The words seem to completely bypass him, instead lingering in a steamy haze throughout the room, waiting for the perfect time to come crashing to the floor.

“Okay, what the fuck is your problem?” Louis bites. It’s far more aggressive than he had told himself he’d be while he cooled off his thoughts with a cigarette outside.

Harry huffs an unamused laugh, washing the skin care products off his hands before exiting the bathroom.

“Are you seriously going to act like—” Louis stops short when he marches into the bedroom to find Harry standing at the side of the bed, slowly slipping off his dressing gown. His skin is airbrushed porcelain, shiny eyes catching Louis’. “What’re you doing?”

Harry rolls his eyes. “Do you wanna have sex or not?”

“Wha—is this a trick question?”

Harry shrugs a single shoulder like it’s Louis’ problem to figure out. Still standing naked, he wraps his hand around his cock resting soft against his thigh. He languidly strokes himself, eyes fluttering, heavy-lidded and boring into Louis.

“Fucking hell,” Louis murmurs, running a hand over his stubbly jaw.

A chill brushes over his burning skin when Harry lets go of his newly hard dick to stick his fingers in his mouth, making a show of wetting them, tongue poking through each crevice. He leans over to brace himself with a hand on the bed, trailing his fingers between his thighs until they disappear inside himself.

He moans gaudily. It’s so obviously theatrical yet still has Louis’ hand twitching by his side, cock fattening in his trousers.

“Better get on with it if you wanna fuck,” Harry slurs, his eyes fully closed as he rocks back on his fingers.

It should be shameful how hot Louis finds it, how easily he’s able to forget the argument they were about to have. Scrambling onto the bed, he makes quick work of shucking off his clothes and laying down on the bed. He tugs at his semi in haste until his cock is standing achingly tall.

Harry throws the lube at his chest, and Louis takes the hint, slicking himself up so he’s ready when Harry crawls onto the bed, hovering over him before sinking down on his cock. He braces himself with a hand on the headboard, his head thrown back as he sets a merciless pace.

“You’re so fucking hot,” Louis murmurs, running a hand up Harry’s chest and tweaking his nipple.

“Shut up,” Harry gasps, slapping his hand away, mouth hanging open.

Louis aches to shove his fingers inside until Harry is gagging.

Harry runs his free hand over his own chest, pinching a nipple between his fingers, rolling it with a moan. It should be illegal the way he moves himself on Louis’ cock, the way he uses Louis to pleasure himself, emitting the softest sounds, whines high in the back of his throat every time he sinks down.

Heat builds frantically in Louis’ stomach, sending him hurtling towards his release. It’s not long before Louis is pushing himself to sit up more, wrapping an arm around Harry’s waist and holding him steady while he fucks up into him relentlessly. Harry moans, his eyelids heavy. Louis leans in to bite his lower lip, but Harry stops him with a strong hand on his jaw.

“Did you smoke?” he asks, turning his head away and slamming his hips down, teeth sinking into his fleshy lip to stave off a whimper. Louis doesn’t even have to answer to get Harry scoffing, tightening his hold on Louis’ jaw and keeping him at a distance. “Smells fucking disgusting.”

He must be close judging by the frantic roll of his hips.

“Brushed my teeth,” Louis rationalizes, holding Harry’s hips while he slams into him harder, nailing his prostate and spurring Harry on in a vigorous display of moans.

“Not well,” Harry groans, rocking back and forth. “Fuck, I’m gonna come.”

And he does not long after Louis wraps a hand around his cock, turning Harry into a writhing mess above him, simultaneously trying to grind his hips down and fuck up into Louis’ hand.

When the haze of his orgasm dissipates, Harry pulls off of him. Louis’ cock still stands hard against his stomach and Harry leaves him to finish himself off while he goes to the loo to clean up.

After quickly pulling himself off with a rough, messy hand, a dark feeling settles deep in Louis’ gut as he gets up to wash himself off. Harry brushes past him back into the room. Sighing heavily, Louis braces himself on the sink and stares long and hard in the mirror before letting his head hang low in a moment of self pity.

He heads back to the bedroom to find the lights off, the room completely dark except for the light from the street streaming into the room. Harry likes to sleep with the curtains open so the sun wakes him up. But now, he’s curled up facing Louis’ side in bed.

Louis joins him, inching closer. “Baby. Can we please talk—” Before he can finish, Harry is huffing, rolling over and away from Louis, taking the blankets with him.

Louis sighs, letting his arm hover in the air as if to pull Harry closer before he thinks better of it, letting it fall to the bed instead.

“Harry,” Louis tries again, keeping his voice soft and gentle.

“Go to sleep,” Harry says, shrugging him off when Louis brushes a light hand over his shoulder.

Louis sighs heavily to himself, pulling what little blanket he has left up to his chin and tracing the freckles on Harry’s back with his eyes until he falls asleep.

⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯

Harry wakes up with a raging headache and his limbs hanging heavy from his body.

Hoping to shake himself from the impending dread of speaking to Louis, he takes a shower before heading downstairs to make himself breakfast. Louis joins him not long after, when Harry is already sat at the kitchen table in a large band t-shirt and tiny black pants.

“Have you had coffee yet?” Louis asks over a yawn, reaching into the cabinet to pull out a mug. It feels more nonchalant than it should for the way they had been last night. There’s still guilt brewing in his stomach for having sex with Louis, for dismissing him so easily when he tried to talk afterwards.

He looks so soft in his pajama pants and t-shirt, hair feathered up like a chicken. A sliver of tanned skin peeks out along his lower back when he reaches up to grab a mug. Harry eyes it cautiously, careful not to let Louis catch him staring when he turns back around.

“Have you?” he repeats when Harry doesn’t reply.

“Don’t want any,” Harry says softly, avoiding Louis’ questioning gaze.

His eyes bore into Harry for a few seconds before he turns back to the task at hand.

“What’re you having for breakfast?” Louis peers at the food in front of Harry.

Harry shrugs, dejectedly stirring his spoon in his bowl of yogurt. “Just yogurt and granola. Bought some of those frozen waffles you like a few days ago. They’re in the freezer.”

“Fuck yeah,” Louis murmurs to himself, pulling open the freezer.

Harry’s not sure how to bring it up—if he wants to bring it up. One part of him favors letting it go as if nothing ever happened. He supposes he can quite easily push down all his feelings from yesterday. The other part of him feels sick at the thought.

He clears his throat, but Louis hardly seems to notice in the midst of sticking his waffles in the toaster.

“Um, Lou?” Harry says, voice small.

Louis turns around. “What’s up?” He leans against the counter, watching Harry intently.

“I just like, um, wondered… wondered if we could talk? About yesterday?”

“Oh,” Louis says, nodding. “Yeah. I was actually wanting to talk about that as well.”

“Oh,” Harry says stupidly. “What, um…what did you want to say?”

Louis crosses his arms. “I don’t like how we did things yesterday.”

Harry nods, biting his cuticles.

“I don’t like when you give me the silent treatment. I don’t like how I feel when I have to pull strings to get you to talk to me. I feel like we should be able to use our words when something is bothering us, and that’s not what happened yesterday.”

Louis’ waffles pop from the toaster. He doesn’t move to get them. Harry briefly worries they’ll burn.

“And I don’t like that we had sex while we were fighting.” Louis shakes his head, staring at his feet. “Sex with you—” he takes a deep breath— “sex with you has never made me feel anything but more in love with you, except for last night. I felt gross the way we did it last night.”

Harry looks at Louis, a lump forming in his esophagus, eyes wide. “Why didn’t you stop me?” His stomach feels tight, his voice scratchy. It tears him up inside picturing Louis laying in bed last night wanting so desperately to scrub off the top layer of his skin.

Louis shrugs. “I enjoyed it while we were doing it. But after.” He shakes his head. “Afterwards, I didn’t feel right about it.”

Tears prick in the corners of Harry’s eyes. He presses the tip of his pointer finger into the corner of his eye, trying to stop them from falling. “I’m sorry,” he rasps.

“Hazza. Don’t be sorry about that. You couldn’t have known.”

Harry nods, taking in a shaky breath, desperately trying to regain control over himself. “I’m sorry for how I handled things yesterday in general. I agree that the silent treatment does nothing to solve anything. I don’t know why it made me so mad. The thing at the fitting.”

“I appreciate you saying that,” Louis says. “I shouldn’t’ve snapped at you like I did. I only did it because it was you. Because I’m so fucking paranoid about people thinking I’m treating you differently, but the truth is, I wouldn’t have done that had it been anyone else. It wasn’t very fair of me.”

Swallowing thickly, Harry nods again. “Thank you,” he whispers. He gazes at Louis. “I had no idea you were so worried about that.”

Louis shrugs, avoiding Harry’s eyes. “I think after what Lena said, about me using you for publicity? It’s just gotten to me a bit more than I’d like. I mean, if that’s what she’s saying to you, imagine what she’s saying when we’re not there.”

“If it makes you feel better, everyone knows Lena talks mad shit. No one takes what she has to say seriously.”

Louis snorts, the corner of his mouth tugging up. “That does make me feel a bit better.”

“You can’t let what other people say get in your head. Only you know what’s best for your show.”

Louis nods, pushing off the counter. He walks towards Harry, pulling him into a hug when he gets there, Harry’s ear pressed to his stomach. It centers him, the rise and fall of Louis’ steady breathing under his cheek.

“I know.” Louis kisses the top of Harry’s head.

“I don’t like fighting with you,” Harry murmurs.

“I don’t like fighting with you either.”

“How do we not?”

Louis tucks a curl behind Harry’s ear. “We do better. We talk to each other. Communicate. Like we’re doing now.”

Harry nods. “Easy enough.”

Louis smiles, pressing a soft kiss to his lips. “The easiest.”

⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯

“Mum called to see if we’re busy this weekend. Apparently Nan’s preparing a roast for dinner on Saturday and she’d like us to come,” Louis says one night while they’re having dinner on the sofa.

On his way home from the studio, Louis had picked up Thai takeaway. He’s been staying later than normal finalizing pieces and looks for each model. It had left Harry hanging a few times on dinner plans, but tonight he had promised he’d be home—not because Harry asked him to be, but for his own personal conscience—and bringing home dinner was easier than asking Harry to have something ready.

Harry’s hair is still wet from the shower, face shiny from skin care products, and feet propped up on the coffee table.

“What’s the occasion?” he asks around a bite full of mango fried rice that he stole from Louis. Though he got pad thai, they often share.

“Apparently Nan’s thrown a fit about not having seen us in awhile and the only way she thinks to get us up there is to have a roast.” Louis shrugs. He hadn’t pressed it.

Harry snorts. “It’s only February. We just saw them for Christmas.” His purple dressing gown slips over the side of his thigh when he shifts, revealing a distracting splay of skin.

“Well, I know that.”

Harry hums in understanding. Louis’ Nan’s memory problems have been a topic of minimal discussion. Louis’ mum worries about it quietly and Louis talks about it with Harry. She’s getting old so it’s bound to happen; she just needs a little nudge now and again.

“Alright, well. I don’t suppose we have much going on. I promised Niall we could grab drinks on Friday,” Harry says.

“I figured we’d just go Saturday around lunch. We could spend the night if it gets too late.”

Harry nods. “That’s fine with me.”

∙ ∙ ∙

They head up to Doncaster that Saturday, stopping for burgers on the way. Louis has only just pushed open the front door when he sees two identical blonde heads waiting on the stairs.

“They’re here!” Flora and Belle squeal, darting over to them. Louis gets an arm full of Flora, while Belle wraps herself around Harry’s legs.

“Hey girls,” Louis laughs, pressing a kiss into Flora’s hair.

She’s far too big to be held, their seventh birthday having passed in November, but she clings to him anyway. The triplets were born from his mum’s second marriage when he was 25, which was a shock to him and his sister, Violet, who is only a few years younger than him.

Harry has both hands pressed to Belle’s cheeks, leaning down to speak to her softly.

“Where’s Ivy?” Louis asks, setting Flora down.

“In the kitchen with Mummy.”

As soon as her feet hit the floor, she moves to say hello to Harry while Louis quickly sneaks upstairs to set their bags in his old room. Both Flora and Belle are clinging to Harry when he returns, one on each side, but Louis manages to convince them to relocate to the kitchen where everyone else must be.

Ivy is sitting on the countertop next to where his mum is working and his nan looks to be in the midst of mashing potatoes.

“Lou and Harry are here!” Ivy starts wiggling in her spot as they enter the kitchen.

His mum looks up. “There’s my boys,” she says around a smile, helping Ivy down so she can greet them. She collides into Louis’ legs and he chuckles, bending down to hug her.

“Oh!” his nan says, clasping her hands together. “You brought Harry!”

It always makes Louis snicker, the way Harry is so very obviously his nan’s favorite. She swoons each time they visit, as if there was a chance Harry may not come, as if they haven’t been together for the better part of eight years.

“Hi, Nan,” Harry chuckles. He starts to wrap his arms around her, but she holds his face in her hands, getting a good look.

“How are you, darling?” They hug, Harry looking insurmountably large over Nan’s frail body.

“Good, love, how’re you?”

Louis doesn’t listen to what they say much more than that because his mum comes to steal her own hello from him.

“Why’re you lot cooking already?” he asks after she’s hugged him.

“Just a bit of prep,” she says, patting his cheek. “Didn’t want to be stuck trying to get dinner done while you boys were here.”

“You know you don’t have to make a fuss over us.” Harry joins them.

Belle and Ivy have left the kitchen and Flora is at Nan’s side bargaining for a lick of mash.

“Hi, Kate,” Harry says, hugging Louis’ mum in a tight hug. He wraps his whole body around her in a gesture that has Louis’ heart clenching in his chest.

“It’s no trouble, honestly,” Kate says, pulling away. “Can I get you anything? There’s beer in the fridge or I’m sure you could find some mixers around for the vodka in the freezer.”

“I’ll grab a beer,” Louis says, already moving towards the fridge.

“What about you, love?” Kate asks Harry, her arm still wrapped around his waist.

“Hazza’s not drinking,” Louis says, peering in the fridge.

Kate furrows her brow. “Not even wine with dinner?”

“I could be convinced,” Harry says with a shy smile.

“Do you have a show coming up, then?” Kate asks. Harry is known to keep sober when he’s on contract, so it’s not an unreasonable question. Except Louis has decidedly neglected to mention Harry’s role in his show to his family.

“Baby, there’s this sparkling water stuff you like,” Louis says before Harry can reply, pulling out a can of lemon raspberry sparkling water.

Harry turns away from Kate’s expectant gaze with an inadvertent shrug, facing Louis. “Sure, that’ll be fine. Thanks.”

They both head to the sitting room where the girls are to avoid more questioning. Harry falls into the large chair in the corner and Ivy is quick to crawl into his lap. Belle follows suit, which leaves Flora standing in front of him, whining and pulling at her sisters because she wants to sit with Harry. Harry flinches when Belle screams at Flora, her mouth right by his ear, and Ivy whimpers, curling into Harry’s form.

“Girls, girls!” Louis admonishes, standing up from where he had taken up shop on the sofa. He scoops Flora up, putting a hand out for Belle to stop.

Flora huffs with her arms crossed, her lower lip protruding while Belle watches her and Louis deviously.

“That’s enough.” Louis looks between them sternly. “Harry’s a person, not a toy for you to fight over.”

“There’s room for all of you,” Harry says, maneuvering Ivy and Belle to the edge of both thighs, making room for Flora to squeeze between them.

“What do you say to Harry?” Louis says as he places Flora in the space Harry’s made for her.

Both Belle and Flora are bashful as they murmur their apologies. Even Ivy utters a sorry.

“That’s better.” Louis nods once, sitting back down on the sofa. “If anyone starts squawking again, you’ll have to come sit with me.” He releases a faux evil laugh that has the girls squealing and giggling, curling into Harry.

Louis has never been jealous over Harry’s standing as the favorite amongst his family, particularly his nan and sisters. Mostly because he gets it. Harry is his favorite, too. The two of them had only been freshly dating when his mum got pregnant with the triplets, so Harry’s been in their lives as much as Louis. He supposes they don’t differentiate much between the two of them.

Besides, there’s a little spark in Louis’ belly anytime he gets an eyeful of Harry with the girls. It’s a given that they’ll have kids one day. Not so much a matter of if, but when. Louis has thus far been able to stave off Harry’s persistent baby fever. He supposes if it weren’t for their dedication to their busy careers, they’d be about two children deep by now.

Louis can’t help but picture Harry as a dad in moments like this, speaking softly to his sisters and listening intently as they recall some story that is probably not nearly as interesting as he’s making it seem.

He imagines Harry pulling their kids into bed with them in the morning or late at night, holding them against his chest, rocking away their nightmares, promising to protect them always. He imagines Harry in the kitchen with a baby on his hip, singing songs softly into their ear, dancing across the tile floor, showing them music from their childhoods. He imagines Harry dozing on the sofa with a newborn asleep on his chest, wasting away the afternoon for a world no bigger than them. It does things to him. Things he won’t readily admit aloud outside the comfort of him and Harry in their bubble of dreams.

The girls settle down by the time Kate and Nan join them in the sitting room.

“Where’s Tom?” Louis asks, realizing his step-dad, the girl’s father, hadn’t said hello yet.

Louis was a full-grown adult by the time Tom started coming around, his own dad having left when he and Violet were young. He likes Tom well enough.

Meanwhile, his own father likes to pop back into their lives every now and again, pretending that he cares, but it’s never a good experience. He’s either asking for money or a place to stay, without any kind of plans to return the favor or really try to build a relationship. Louis learned long ago that, as much as he’d like to know his dad, help him out when he needs it, it’s better to just keep his distance.

“He got called into work, but he’s going to try to be here for dinner.”

“Mummy, can we have a snack?” Belle asks from where she’s made herself comfortable sprawled out as much as she’s allowed in Harry’s lap.

“There’s cheese and crackers set out in the kitchen you can have.”

Belle hops down from the chair, skipping into the kitchen. Both Ivy and Flora get up to follow her.

“Harry, you can make them sit somewhere else if they get to be too much,” Kate says, an apologetic look on her face.

Harry waves her off, then gets up to sit next to Louis on the sofa, resting an innocent hand on his thigh. Louis tucks an easy arm around his waist. “They’re not a bother,” he says.

Kate looks between the two of them, her curiosity poorly hidden. “So, is there a reason we’re avoiding discussing what new job Harry has taken on?” she asks, looking pointedly at Louis.

Louis sighs heavily, pulling his arm from behind Harry and slinging it across the back of the sofa. He can feel Harry’s eyes on him along with his mother’s.

“My show, for the new line,” Louis begins, already bracing himself. “Harry’s one of the models. He’ll be walking in it for fashion week.”

Kate’s face lights up, and she clasps her hands together. “Oh my god!” she exclaims. “That’s so exciting.”

Louis forces a smile that he’s sure appears more like a grimace. Harry is eerily quiet next to him.

“Why don’t you two seem excited?” Kate asks.

“I’m very excited,” Harry says before Louis can get a word out. “It’s going to be great. The line is brilliant.” Harry rubs Louis’ thigh, perhaps subconsciously.

“That’s wonderful,” Kate swoons before her eyes drag over to Louis. “Why do you seem so pained, my dear son?” There’s a twinge of sarcasm lingering in her tone.

“I’m not,” Louis bites, more forceful than he’d have liked to be. “I’m not pained. It’s gonna be good. Harry’s perfect for the job.” He presses his lips together in a tight smile.

Kate hums. She watches him for a moment longer than Louis thinks necessary with narrowed eyes and a look that makes him think there’ll be more questions at a different time. Perhaps when they’re back in London and he makes his weekly call. But for now, she drops it.

They sit around chatting until Tom gets home and the girls’ energy levels start dissipating. Harry gets up to help Kate and Nan with dinner and Tom turns on a rugby match that Louis couldn’t give less of a shit about. He sits and watches anyway, sipping his beer and letting Ivy cuddle under his arm.

“Louis,” Nan says once they’ve settled down for dinner in the dining room. She’s the only one who still pronounces the ’S’ in his name. “When are you going to finally settle down?”

Louis exchanges a look with Harry and then his mother, both of whom are biting back smirks.

“Mum,” Kate says, setting a hand on Nan’s arm. “Louis has been with Harry for eight, almost nine years now.” She sends Harry a wink.

Nan bats her away. “Catherine, of course I know that,” she says. “But you ought to marry the poor boy soon, or he won’t stick around much longer. Wouldn’t you like to be married, Harry?”

Harry stifles a snicker. “We’re very happy how we are now, Nan.”

Nan scoffs. “It’s no way to live,” she says, although her tone lacks judgment. “What’s the hold up?”

“What’s the rush?” Louis counters. “Like H said, we’re happy. We’ve been focused on our careers for now and we’ll worry about the rest later.”

Nan sighs, shaking her head and aggressively cutting her piece of roast, turning to Kate as she takes a bite. “He’s going to send me to an early grave, that boy,” she says with a trail of fondness. Harry may be her favorite, but Louis reckons he’s close in the running.

After dinner, Louis and Kate clean up. Harry and Tom both try to help, but Kate shoos them away and Louis figures she wants a moment alone.

“I don’t want this to be a thing,” she says while Louis is washing dishes, handing them over for her to dry. “But your father’s called asking about the show.”

Louis pauses his movements before recovering quickly. He doesn’t look at his mum, instead, just clears his throat to ask, “What did he have to say?”

“He was asking about coming along.”

Louis snorts. “He wants to come to the show.” It’s not voiced as a question.

Kate sighs. “I got that impression, yes. I told him I didn’t have many details and he’d have to speak to you about it. He seemed hesitant.”

“I reckon he should be.”

“Lou…” Kate trails off.

Louis turns to her with sharp eyes, but she’s not phased.

“He’s your father.”

“So?” Louis snaps. “He’s certainly never thought to act like it.”

“You’d have an extra ticket,” she reasons. “If Harry is in the show. You’d have an unused ticket for him.”

“Why should he get it?” Louis fights back.

Kate sets down her towel, rubbing her forehead. She’s starting to visibly age, wrinkles by her eyes and lightly scattered along her forehead. His mother has always been beautiful, and her graceful aging only accentuates it. “I’m not saying he should. I’m just saying you ought to, at the very least, consider it.”

Louis blows out an irritated huff.

“I know he’s never been good to you, but maybe this is his way of trying,” Kate reasons.

“And how would this be different from the other times I’ve thought he was trying and it turns out he was just sponging off me?”

Kate presses her lips in a firm line like she actually may be considering his point of view. He feels guilty being harsh with her, she’s only ever wanted what’s best for him, but this time he’s not certain she’s right. “I suppose you won’t know unless you speak with him.”

Later that night, after everyone has headed to bed and Harry has gone for a shower, Louis lights a cigarette on his mum’s back porch, slouching down onto the concrete step.

Harry joins him after his shower, but Louis doesn’t bother hiding the prominent orange glow of the cigarette as Harry sits next to him. Smoke curls around his fingers, circling through the air. Harry doesn’t say a word, but his bare toes curl on the cement, so Louis traps them between his socked ones. He’s wearing loose sweatpants and a large jumper, damp hair curling around his ears. His jumper-covered hands wrap around Louis’ bicep as he leans his head on his shoulder.

Louis takes a drag. “Mum says my dad called,” he says, staring out into the night.

Harry lifts his head, his eyes burning into Louis’ skull. “What did he want?”

Louis shakes his head, looking down at his feet. He has his elbows resting on his knees and when he taps the cig, ash is sent to the ground. “He wants to come to the show.” Louis musses up his hair, turning his face into his palm to look at Harry.

Harry takes a deep breath, reaching out to take the cigarette from Louis. He takes a drag, holding the smoke in his lungs and coughing as he releases it. The corners of Louis’ mouth quirk up in endearment before Harry hands it back.

“Do you want him to come to the show?” Harry asks, clearing his throat when his voice comes out raspy.

Louis looks at him like he’s uttered something completely ridiculous.

Harry snorts. “Dumb question?”

“Mum thinks I should call him.”

Harry hums, nodding to himself. Gently, he sets his chin on Louis’ shoulder and Louis finds himself easily comforted by the gesture.

“You know you don’t have to,” Harry says.

Louis looks into the garden again. He nods, dropping the cigarette and stamping it with his socked foot. “I know,” he says.

“You owe him nothing,” Harry reiterates. He’s always been rather protective when it comes to Louis’ dad. Louis appreciates it more than Harry probably knows.

“I know,” he repeats.

“You have the biggest heart,” Harry murmurs, setting a palm over Louis’ chest as if to prove his point. “And I know you just want everyone to be happy. But this is a huge moment in your career and I don’t want you trying to sacrifice that for him when he wouldn’t ever do the same for you.”

Harry leans forward to press the softest kiss to Louis’ pulse point and, when he pulls away, Louis turns to face him. He stifles the inch of space between them, brushing the tip of his nose against Harry’s.

Harry’s eyes flutter shut and he hums softly, lips pursing the slightest amount.

Louis huffs a breath of laugher that sends the dried wisps of hair around Harry’s face flying. He leans in to press a gentle kiss to his lips, letting it linger on the surface. When they pull away, he wraps his arm around Harry, pulling him further into his side. The two of them stay outside for a while longer until Harry’s teeth are chattering. Then, they slip back inside and up the stairs, tucking themselves into Louis’ childhood twin bed without another word shared.

⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯

There was a blouse Louis had drawn up some years back.

It’s a gorgeous, cream blouse, completely sheer with puffed sleeves, black ribbon cinched around the elbow, and a voluptuous pussybow hanging from the collar. Both front panels are embroidered with baby yellow, blue, and pink flowers, curling over the abdomen and up the chest.

Louis had designed it back when he made regular use of their home office. Inside were two desks, meant to be a place for both of them to work, but it had swelled with Louis—his things, his smell, his presence—more than it had Harry.

On one of the many late nights that Louis had been worrying his head over portfolios and sketches, Harry had come in to bring him a cup of tea. He’d set it on the desk, peering over his shoulder with his hands sliding across the smooth peak of his shoulders.

“Don’t look,” Louis had laughed lightly, flipping the sketch and presenting Harry with its blank side.

“Why?” Harry asked, wrapping himself around Louis’ back. “Wanna see how brilliant you are.”

Louis huffed, resting his temple against Harry’s. “It’s just a rough sketch,” he said, but turned it over anyway.

Harry remembers the way he’d run his fingers over the delicate outline of flower petals, the way the blouse felt so feminine yet not quite. “It’s gorgeous,” he had murmured, leaving a gentle kiss against Louis’ jaw.

Louis hummed. “You think so?”

“Yeah,” he said. “It’s lovely.”

Louis had paused, as if he was pondering it. “It’s for you,” he said when he spoke again.

Harry pulled back, looking at Louis’ side profile. “What?”

Peering at him, Louis leaned forward to nudge his nose against Harry’s briefly, Harry’s eyes fluttering shut as their skin met right before Louis was pulling away. “I can’t stop picturing you wearing it,” he muttered. “Or you not wearing it.”

And Harry had grinned, wide and blaring, kissing Louis in a display of mostly teeth, clacking together until they were nothing more than giggles in each others’ mouths.

It’s jarring to Harry when, at their final fitting, he watches Louis, across the room with Allegra’s group as he pulls an outfit from the rack that looks an awful lot like his blouse and hands it to Allegra’s dresser.

Harry had intentionally refrained from bringing up her presence to Louis. He knew it would start something. Louis would say he’s overreacting—which wouldn’t be entirely wrong—and Harry would get defensive, and they’d argue until one of them realized they were being unreasonable.

But Allegra has never liked Harry. If not for the print ad debacle, then because of the (suspected) crush she’s been harboring for Louis for many years. Harry couldn’t say for sure. What he does know for sure is she doesn’t like him and that blouse is his.

Now, as they’re getting home from the fitting, Harry says, “Just like that, you’re going to let her wear my blouse?”

“What do you mean?” Louis asks, peering at him confused.

“That cream blouse. With the floral embroidery?” Harry nearly runs into him when he stops in the entryway to their flat.

“Oh,” Louis says. He slips off his coat, hanging it on the hooks nailed to the wall. “You like that one?”

Harry huffs an affronted laugh. “Do I like it?” he asks incredulously. “Louis, you said it was for me.”

Louis just furrows his brows with a bemused smile, heading to the kitchen. Harry follows. “When did I say that?”

Harry pauses in the door of the kitchen while Louis busies himself putting the kettle on for tea. Once he’s got the water heating up and their mugs set out with tea bags ready, he turns to Harry.

“You’re just gonna stand there?” he asks amusedly.

Harry huffs, stuttering into action, moving to sit at the tiny table they have stationed in the kitchen. He picks at a thread near the rip in his jeans. “Do you seriously not remember?” he asks softly, unable to bring himself to meet Louis’ eyes.

This feels all too familiar to how they were positioned during their disagreement the other morning and it has something uncomfortable stirring in Harry’s stomach.

“What are you talking about?” Louis turns to lean back against the counter, watching him closely.

“When you drew that blouse.” Harry meets his eyes, swallowing hard. “You said you made it for me.”

Louis’ eyebrows furrow. “I’m sorry, I don’t remember that.”

Harry sighs heavily with a nod, flipping over his palm on top of his thigh and tracing the lines with his eyes.

“It complements her nicely,” Louis says around a shrug, then walks to the fridge to grab the milk. “Did you want tea?” He already has a mug out for Harry, so Harry’s not sure why he asks.

Harry nods anyway. He won’t drink it, but his hands are cold and he likes that Louis will make it for him.

“Alright,” Harry says dejectedly in response to Louis’ first comment. He presses his lips in a tight line.

“Are you seriously mad about this?” Louis asks. His tone isn’t harsh, but Harry still catches on to the annoyance lingering below the surface.

The tea kettle starts whistling, so he’s not forced to reply right away. He’s not mad, more disappointed that, even if Louis doesn’t remember their conversation, he hadn’t thought to give Harry the blouse. It’s not even about the blouse specifically. More about what the blouse means. He’s confused himself on the matter, so he’s not sure how he’s meant to explain it to Louis.

“I’m not mad, I’m just…” he sighs, unsure of where to go from there.

Louis slides a mug in front of him, sitting down across from Harry with a mug of his own. Harry murmurs a thanks, slipping his hands around the side and leaning down to inhale the smell of the tea. Louis watches him closely.

“I’m not mad,” Harry says with a sense of finality, although he doesn’t quite feel convinced himself.

“Alright.”

“It’s just, you know she doesn’t like me.” He meets Louis’ eyes then.

Louis narrows his, something akin to scrutiny lacing his gaze. “She doesn’t like you,” he repeats slowly like he’s not following what Harry is saying.

Harry heaves a sigh, dropping his head down on his arms crossed over the tabletop.

Louis huffs. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?” Harry murmurs into his arm.

“Shut down. Just explain it to me.”

“I feel like you’re not listening.”

“I’m listening.” Louis reaches out to grab Harry’s arm, tugging gently. “Look at me. I’m listening.”

Harry huffs, peering at him. “Can you just be on my side for a second?”

A line appears between Louis’ eyebrows. “Baby, I’m always on your side.”

Harry scrubs his hands over his face. “I’m just—” he shakes his head— “You know how I feel about her. I’ve told you before. She’s always treated me like shit, yet you’ve hired her anyway. And gave her my blouse. And you don’t even remember that it was supposed to be mine.”

Louis ponders this for a moment, his lips pursed and a slight tilt to his mouth. “Sometimes you have to get over the person for the sake of art.”

Harry sniffs, averting his eyes. He’s not crying, but there’s a tight ball of rubber in his throat and he’s not sure when it got there. “You seemed really keen on doing that when it came to hiring me.”

He’s not going to be petty. He promised himself he wouldn’t be petty.

Louis nods slowly. “That’s a bit different, don’t you think?”

“How’s it different?” Harry asks. He can feel himself edging close to snapping, to saying something he’ll surely regret later. He presses his lips together to keep the words from slipping off his tongue.

Louis is quiet. It goes on so long that Harry’s convinced the conversation is over and he’s somehow managed to lose what was never a game in the first place.

“It’s not your blouse, to be fair,” Louis says when he eventually opens his mouth.

Harry’s lips part, a soft, disbelieving exhale falling out. “Right,” he says, snapping his mouth shut and nodding to himself. He stands up, the chair scraping pathetically against the kitchen floor.

“Harry,” Louis sighs.

Harry shakes his head. Tears press pitifully behind his eyes. His nose burns. He doesn’t know why he’s crying. It’s dramatic. He’s being stupid.

“Just—” He shakes his head, avoiding Louis’ gaze. “I just need to be alone. Please. Can you just leave me alone for the night?” It’s embarrassing how heartbroken he sounds over something as silly and inconsequential as this.

After Harry has a bath and once he’s burrowed under the covers with a film playing on the telly, Louis cracks the door, peering in.

“Just bringing up some dinner for you,” Louis murmurs.

Harry nods, sticking an arm out from his cocoon, trying not to startle Basil asleep next to him as he pauses his film and pushes himself into a seated position.

Louis steps fully into the room, hesitantly shuffling to the bed and setting the styrofoam box and silverware down on the duvet. He wordlessly hands Harry a glass of water.

“Thanks,” Harry murmurs, staring at the box of food. Because Louis loves Harry, it’s Thai takeaway.

Louis nods. He rocks back and forth on his heels, looking like he wants to say something before thinking better of it. “Sure,” he says.

Harry swallows hard as Louis shows himself out, softly shutting the door behind him.

He cries into his chicken pad thai when he finds a scoop of fried rice in the box along with it.

⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯

The days feel like treading sludgy waters with Harry and Louis tiptoeing around each other. Louis hesitates to call it a fight, but he’s not sure what other term there is when you make your boyfriend cry and you’re not even quite sure why.

Maybe he’s too daft to understand what has Harry so upset, but in a way, that’s the worst part. He’s always prided them on their ability to understand each other and he’s not sure how to exist in a space where the most steadfast thing to him feels so far away.

Their mornings are filled with: Awkwardly waiting for one to finish showering so the other can use the bathroom, bumping elbows while they brush their teeth with remorse-filled glances while they tuck their arms closer to their own bodies, and quiet car rides into the studio where Louis drives with white knuckles wrapped around the steering wheel and Harry stares out the window with a downturned mouth and hands tangled delicately in his lap.

Their nights are filled with: Scraping forks as the soundtrack to dinner, Louis holing up in the office bent over show boards while Harry puts himself to bed with a book and falls asleep long before Louis joins him, and Louis’ lips pressed softly against the back of Harry’s neck before he turns over and falls asleep feeling as if their bed is miles wide.

∙ ∙ ∙

Louis’ dad calls on a Wednesday.

He has an afternoon meeting with Oliver and their team, but his morning is free, so while Harry is at the gym, he tucks himself in his office. He’s only just gotten up to make tea when his phone rings. It’s unexpected, Louis having mostly forgotten about the conversation with his mum.

The situation with his dad is strange.

He took off when Louis was ten and Violet was six. She remembers things less than him, unable to fully comprehend his convoluted feelings on the matter and leaving him to stew in them alone.

At the time, it had seemed like a good thing when Alan approached his mum to say he was leaving because a family was never something he had wanted. Even though he had spent over ten years trial-running it.

It was a relief to finally be rid of the constant scrutiny. The offhanded suggestions of “wouldn’t you rather go outside than sit in here and draw?” and “stop comforting Violet when she cries or she’ll never learn to toughen up.” Louis had simply been too much for him. Too loud, too gay, too obnoxious, too feminine, yet he still never was quite enough for Alan.

Then it had been radio silence until Louis and Violet got older and started having more to offer than they could as children. He would’ve scoffed at Louis as a fashion design student in uni, but now, any chance to flaunt all his self-proclaimed son has accomplished is quickly seized. He would’ve laughed at Violet deciding to move to New York to pursue a law degree on the pretense that women can’t do stuff like that, but Louis is sure he doesn’t miss an opportunity to tell a friend about his brilliant solicitor daughter.

Harry had met him once. It had been a coincidence when, on a weekend away in Manchester almost a year into dating, they had run across him in a cafe. He hadn’t been unpleasant, but he hadn’t been entirely pleasant either. Alan’s nose had wrinkled ever so slightly when Louis introduced Harry as his boyfriend and Louis wasn’t stupid. He knew Harry had noticed. There had been a woman hanging off Alan’s arm, and later, when Harry asked who she was, Louis had felt ashamed to say he didn’t know. Ever since, Louis had made a point to keep Alan away from Harry.

“Hello?” he asks, instinctually stealing his face.

“Louis? It’s Dad.” The way he says it has Louis’ blood freezing in his veins. As if he’s ever had any claim over that title.

“Yeah,” Louis replies. He has caller ID. “I know.”

“I hear you have a big show coming up.” His voice is husky and deep. Not in the same silky way that Harry’s voice is husky and deep. Harry’s voice wraps around him like a blanket of honey, warming every inch beneath his skin. Right now, Louis just feels uncomfortably cold.

“Yeah.”

Alan is quiet. “I’ve heard your… boyfriend is walking in the show.”

“Harry,” Louis supplies. Even giving his dad Harry’s name feels like a betrayal. All of Louis’ favorite parts of Harry are parts his dad would surely despise. His dichotomous nature of being both soft and angular with a fierce bleeding heart and features that aren’t entirely masculine or feminine.

“When are you gonna find a nice girl to settle down with? It’s unacceptable to still be fucking around at your age,” Alan’ll say on the rare occasion that they speak. Even though he and Harry have been together for close to a decade.

“Sure,” Alan says now as if Harry’s name is simply a suggestion. Louis doesn’t press it, seeing as he’s managed to refer to Harry as his boyfriend. Picking your battles and all that bullshit.

“What about him?” Louis asks, his voice clenched tight around bitterness.

“You’ll have an extra ticket,” Alan says.

“And?” Louis asks. “You think you should get it?”

“If you’re offering.”

“I’m not,” Louis snaps. He takes a deep breath in and out through his mouth.

“Son—”

“Please,” Louis cuts him off. “Don’t call me that.”

Alan is quiet for a moment like Louis has finally stumped him. “I’d love to be able to come and see in person what you’ve managed to achieve.”

He’s somehow still able to make it sound insulting, even through the layers of feigned sincerity. “If this is just some ploy to use me to impress your flavor of the month, I’m not interested.”

“It’s not,” Alan says immediately. “I know I—” he cuts himself off. “There’s no need to get into it. I’d just like to see what you’ve done.”

Louis releases a heavy sigh through his nose, his mouth pressed in a firm line. “Fine. You can have it. But there’s only one ticket.”

Alan heaves a sigh of relief. “Oh wow, I’d not thought you’d be so generous.”

Louis curls his lips inward to keep himself from letting out a disbelieving laugh.

“One ticket is all I need.”

“This is—” Louis pauses, second guessing how vulnerable he’ll allow himself to be. “This is really important for me and my career. I’m trusting you not to fuck it up.”

“I would never,” he says, which is completely and utterly untrue.

They exchange curt goodbyes before hanging up. Louis immediately takes the kettle off the hob and goes up to the bedroom. He gets into bed, burrowing under the covers and opening his phone, scrolling through his contacts before pressing call. Putting the phone to his ear, it rings as pathetic tears press behind his eyes.

He’s not sure why he’s crying.

“Pick up, pick up,” he murmurs softly until finally—finally—the line clicks.

“Lou? I’m at work,” Violet says.

“I know, I know, I’m sorry,” he says. “Dad called.” Best to get it out in the open.

Violet is quiet for a moment. “What?”

Louis takes in a shuttered breath before exhaling slowly through rounded lips in an attempt to keep it smooth. “I just got off the phone with him.”

“Well what did he want?” Violet asks. “Are you okay? Did he ask for money?”

“He wants the extra ticket to my show.” Louis inhales deeply. “He—he somehow found out that Harry is walking in it and wanted to nick the extra ticket.”

Violet releases an audible sigh. “You told him no, right?”

Louis is quiet, which turns out to be enough of an answer for Violet.

“Lou—”

“I know, I know.” Louis scrubs a hand over his face. “I told him I only had one extra, so he wouldn’t be able to bring someone.”

The breath Violet lets out this time is more exasperated with Louis. She doesn’t say anything and Louis isn’t sure if that’s better or worse than if she had scolded him.

“Mum asked me to try to do better with him,” he admits softly.

“We’re not really the ones who need to do better I reckon.”

And she’s right. It sucks that she’s right.

“I know,” he murmurs.

The only sound that follows is Violet’s breath through the receiver and Louis’ heartbeat loud in his ears.

“I’m sorry you have to deal with this,” Violet says eventually.

Louis nods, swallowing hard. “I’m sorry either of us do.”

“Yeah,” Violet whispers.

Louis suddenly longs for Harry to be there and tell him everything will be fine. For Harry to hold him and let some of his natural optimism permeate through Louis’ skin. For whatever is going on between them to fall to the ground in pieces until they can hardly remember what had shoved itself between them in the first place.

“You’ll be there, right?” Louis asks softly.

“Of course, I wouldn’t miss it.”

And somehow, that’s enough for now.

∙ ∙ ∙

When Harry comes home not long later, he finds Louis in bed still. Peeking his head in the room, his eyebrows raise in surprise so quickly that Louis almost misses it. Basil dashes through the crack in the door and hops up on the bed, curling into Louis’ side.

“Have you been in bed this whole time?”

Louis’ not sure if there’s underlying judgment in his voice or if he’s imagined it. He’s not sure of most things at the moment.

“No,” he says, simply glancing at him. He pets over Basil’s fur and she croons softly.

Harry nods, gnawing on his lip. Louis wants to pinch it between his fingers and tug it out of his mouth, telling him to stop worrying himself. He’s not close enough to do that, even if he dared. Harry leans against the doorway with his arms crossed.

“There’s lunch in the fridge if you’re hungry,” he says.

Louis searches his face. His slouched posture is tense, his shoulders folded inward. It has something entirely uncomfortable creeping up Louis’ spine.

He nods anyway. “Alright, thanks.”

Harry nods slowly in return, then uncrosses his arms, straightening his spine. His hands twitch where they hang by his sides and he’s back to worrying his lip. He stands there as if he’s on the verge of saying something. Louis watches him, waiting for whatever it’ll be.

Instead, he simply nods once, seemingly deciding better of it and turning to leave until the only thing left is Louis in their bed, alone.

⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯

Harry’s head is a mess in the following days.

The show is next week, so it’s been all hands on deck to make sure everything is ready. Louis has them in the studio more than what’s probably needed, but Harry doesn’t dare utter a word about it.

They’re still in limbo, the two of them, and it’s agonizing. Harry’s not sure how to make it better.

On one hand, he knows it’s his fault things are fucked up. If he could just manage to get over it, everything would be fine.

But then he’ll catch a glimpse of Louis at Allegra’s station as she reaches out to run her hand over his arm with her head thrown back in a laugh. He’ll see Louis watching her model the blouse for him and tell her to run it again. He’ll see the animated way he moves his hands around when he’s talking to her and, all of a sudden, he’s not sure what he needs to be getting over in the first place.

Then, Oliver asks him to take a lap in a stunning, baby blue suit so they can make sure it’s not fitting too tightly. As he’s walking, he notices Louis speaking with Allegra and manages to catch her eye over his shoulder. Next thing he knows, he’s losing his balance and his legs are flailing out from under him until he lands in a heap on the studio floor with an embarrassingly loud thump.

A handful of people turn towards the noise, including Louis whose mouth is set in a firm line when he lays eyes on Harry. Harry doesn’t even notice Oliver rushing over to check that he’s okay, instead looking from Louis to Allegra from his place on the ground. Allegra’s eyebrows flick up paired with a smug smirk, her arms crossed lightly over her chest. Harry flushes with embarrassment.

“Are you alright?” Oliver asks, helping him up with a hand grasping Harry’s elbow.

Harry brushes himself off. The only thing that hurts is the knot invading his throat. He locks eyes with Louis again who is still watching him with an air of disappointment that Harry has never found directed at himself before.

“Caroline,” Louis calls, and Caroline rushes to his side. He points his finger in Harry’s direction. “We’ll need to check that suit for imperfections.”

Caroline follows his gesture and frowns when she sees the source of all the attention.

Harry wants to dig himself a hole right below his feet until he’s touching Earth’s core and all the dirt from above buries him alive.

∙ ∙ ∙

“I’m glad I’m only on to do three this year, because I thought I was going to have my arse handed to me last year with how many shows I was on,” Zayn is saying that night at the pub.

Louis and him have met up with Niall, Zayn, and Liam for drinks. It’s the first Harry has seen of Louis since the models had been dismissed for the day. Louis texted saying he was driving over straight from the studio, so Harry walked to the pub. It’s not all that far from their flat.

Liam hums. “Probably is for the best.”

“One of ‘em is Lou’s show, right?”

Zayn nods. “Yeah, and Lou is always easier to work with than the other designers. We’ve already got the makeup looks sorted. Can’t say the same for the Burberry show. I’ve got no clue what we’re doing there.”

“Speaking of your show,” Niall starts, turning to Harry and Louis. “How’s it coming along?”

“Good,” Louis replies with a shrug.

Harry tries not to fidget in his seat. He reaches for a chip from the basket in the center of their table, slowly chewing on it before gulping down some water.

Zayn looks between the two of them. “What’s going on with you two?”

Harry looks up at Zayn with wide eyes, his mouth falling open.

“Everything’s fine,” Louis says before Harry can think to form words.

He snaps his mouth shut, looking at Louis who only briefly meets his glance before turning away.

Niall scoffs. “Please.” He nudges Harry with his elbow. “Out with it.”

Harry swallows, inhaling deeply, then shakes his head. “We’re fine.”

Their friends inspect them with easy suspicion before letting it go. Harry is grateful for it.

They make light conversation for the rest of the night, steering clear of topics relating to Harry and Louis or the show. They’re let off easy, but Harry is sure he’ll hear from them later.

He’s wishing he was tipsy when they eventually stumble out of the pub. It’s quite cold and Harry accidentally left his jacket at home, the weather having been nice for February earlier in the day. Harry is still hugging Niall goodbye when he notices Louis already walking away down the pavement.

“Oh, I guess we’re going,” he says when he realizes, pulling away from Niall with a kiss to his cheek.

“Bye, Hazza, call me!” Niall yells after him.

He waves an acknowledging hand in the air, already chasing after Louis.

“Lou,” he calls, his steps mildly uncoordinated.

Louis has his hands shoved deep in his pockets, shoulders hunched inward.

“Louis,” Harry tries again, walking faster, trying to catch up with him.

“I don’t want to do this now, Harry,” Louis says when Harry is right on his tail.

Harry scoffs. “You don’t want to talk to me?”

Louis huffs. “If I’m being completely honest, not particularly.”

Harry’s steps falter. “What?” he asks, a thickness growing at the base of his throat. His nostrils burn.

Louis stops in his place, but he only turns halfway, giving Harry a view of his side profile. “Harry. Please.” His voice is much quieter than before, his voice coming out like a soft plea for Harry to understand something that he very much doesn’t.

“We’re going to have to talk at some point,” Harry says, feeling tears prickling at the corners of his eyes. He wills himself not to cry. It’ll only be embarrassing if he does.

Louis inhales deeply, slowly letting out a shaky exhale. “I know, just. Not tonight. I can’t. It has nothing to do with you.”

Harry takes a step forward. “Then just tell me what’s wrong, and we can figure it out together—”

“We can’t,” Louis says, cutting him off firmly. He shakes his head. “We can’t figure it out together. This isn’t about you, please, just stop making it about you.”

Harry’s heart pounds in his ears and he feels stuck to his spot in the pavement, even as Louis keeps walking. By the time Louis arrives at their car, parked a block up on the side of the street, he still hasn’t moved. Louis pulls open the driver side door, turning back to look at Harry.

“Are you coming?” he asks, his voice carrying through the street.

Harry shakes his head, stumbling into a walk. “No, I—I’ll just walk. It’s not, um, it’s not that far. I, um…” He heaves a deep breath, starting his trek home.

“Harry,” Louis sighs, his shoulders drooping in defeat. “Don’t do this, just get in the car.”

“No, really,” he says, shaking his head again. “It’s fine. It’s not far.”

“Would you stop being so stubborn and get in the fucking car?” Louis asks, his voice only above a whisper, yet still somehow firm. It’s like someone has doused him in water, his petals wilting with the weight while he tries to fight against it.

Harry stops, looking at Louis with sad eyes. He has the sudden urge to pull him into a hug, to wrap himself around Louis and tuck his face into his neck, inhale the smell of him, let it surround him. He realizes he can’t remember the last time Louis held him and it brings on a fresh wave of tears.

He doesn’t let them fall until after he’s gotten in the car and, by that point, he’s useless to stop them. Still, he tries, discreetly wiping his face with his jumper sleeve while he gazes out the window. He’s sure Louis notices anyway with the way he continues to sneak glances at him the whole way home.

“I think I’m going to sleep in the guest room tonight,” Louis says quietly once they’re inside, standing in the doorway to their bathroom while Harry brushes his teeth.

Harry looks at him, startled. A bit of toothpaste dribbles out when he opens his mouth to reply. He has to awkwardly slurp it back up, leaning over to spit in the sink before he returns to their conversation. He’s flushed red and Louis is still standing there, looking less amused than he normally would be.

“What?” Harry asks when his mouth is clean.

Louis drags his hand over his jaw. “I just want to be by myself,” he says. “And I think it might be best for us to have a night to ourselves.”

Harry looks down, shaking his head frantically. “I don’t—that’s not going to solve anything.”

“I’m not asking,” Louis says. “I’m telling you that I want to be by myself, and I need a night alone.”

Harry’s not sure why it feels as if he’s being scolded or why it feels like Louis’ turned everything to be his fault or why he feels a fresh wave of tears building for the third time that night, but they don’t speak more about it, because Louis leaves, Basil running after him, and that’s that.

∙ ∙ ∙

Violet, Louis’ sister, gets in from New York the weekend before the show. Harry only finds out because Louis asks him that morning to pick her up from the airport.

“I have to be at the studio at half nine, so I can’t grab her,” he says while he’s pulling on a pair of trousers. Harry is sitting on the edge of the bed, just having woken up.

“You didn’t think this was something you should’ve mentioned earlier?” Harry asks. He knows he’s saying it to pick a fight and he’s not proud of it, but he finds himself unable to stop.

Their little game of hide and seek, tiptoeing around one another so as not to let the other hear hasn’t dwindled, and Harry is sick of it. He’ll do anything to get Louis to pay attention to him, even if they’re arguing.

“Didn’t think it’d be a problem until now.” Louis shrugs.

Harry considers pressing it further just to see how far he can push Louis, but he doesn’t. Instead, he showers, gets dressed, and heads to the airport to pick up Violet.

Harry loves Violet, don’t get him wrong. They’re close in age and have similar interests, so he’s always found it easy to get lost in her company.

By the time Harry gets to the airport, she’s already at baggage claim dressed in sage green leggings and a cropped cream sweater. Her chestnut hair, the same color as Louis’, is tied off in a bun. She’s easily stunning—all the Tomlinsons are.

“Harry!” she exclaims when she sees him, falling effortlessly into his arms for a hug.

“Hey, Vi,” he murmurs, hugging her. “Have you eaten? Feel like stopping for lunch?”

They go to a local place with sandwiches, soups, and salads. Harry finds himself spilling countless details of the show to Violet, skillfully leaving information out.

“Has Louis been doing alright?” she asks, taking a bite of her salad.

Harry swallows the bit of sandwich in his mouth, nodding. “He’s, uh, yeah, he’s fine.”

Violet watches him with narrowed eyes. “And what does fine really mean?”

Harry shrugs. He picks at the bread, purposefully avoiding her eyes. “We’re not exactly speaking all that much at the moment,” he admits quietly.

“What?” Violet’s mouth falls open.

“I mean, like, we speak… when we have to, but… I don’t know. He can be intense about work and there’s this girl… I don’t know.” Harry waves a hand around, trying to explain in a way that makes sense, but realizing how stupid it sounds when he says it aloud. “It’s complicated. Kind of. And it’s just been a lot.” He releases a heavy sigh, stopping himself before he confuses both himself and Violet any further.

“You’re still, like, together though…right?” Violet looks as if she’s not sure she even wants to ask.

“Yeah, we’re still together. We’ll work it out, it’s just been… not great at the moment.” It feels more real once he’s admitted it, creating an entirely new feeling in his gut. Something akin to dread, the beginnings of worry that maybe they are on thin ice. He shakes himself of it as best he can.

“Okay,” Violet says slowly. “I’m not going to ask anymore, because I really don’t want to get in the middle of whatever it is.”

Harry nods, pushing his crisps around on the plate. He gets it.

“I more wanted to know how he’s been with the thing with our dad.”

Harry looks up at that. “What thing with your dad?” He hasn’t heard a thing about Louis’ dad since they had dinner with his mum. Harry had assumed nothing came from it.

Violet looks like she’s been caught. “Oh, has he—he hasn’t said?” She swallows visibly.

Harry shakes his head, a growing lump in his throat. “No,” he rasps.

“He’s coming,” Violet says, seemingly deciding it’s best to just say it now that it’s mostly out. “To the show. Lou’s giving him his extra ticket.”

Harry’s miserable. Miserable that Louis didn’t share this with him, miserable that Louis felt he needed to hide it in the first place, that he’s been dealing with it internally for who knows how long, that it’s something he even needs to deal with at all. Miserable because of how many times Louis has seemed more closed off than normal, even beyond the awkward haze they’ve been floating in.

“Okay,” Harry says, because what else is there to say? “That’s…” he shakes his head.

“Lou’s not taken it well, but I don’t want to, like, betray his trust or anything. If he hasn’t told you himself.” Violet speaks cautiously, like she’s not sure how much she’s allowed to say or if she’s somehow fucked something up.

“Yeah.” Harry nods. “I get it. Let’s talk about something else.”

And they do, but even so, Harry’s mind is running rampant the rest of the afternoon. Even as they get home and Louis is a flurry of love and attentiveness with Violet. Even as he asks her a million questions at dinner and sends her up to bed with a tight hug and a kiss on the cheek. Even as he falls asleep by Harry’s side and Harry brushes his fingers over his sleeping boy’s temple, wishing he felt as close as he physically is.

⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯

Louis is a mess in the week leading up to the show. Him and Harry are hardly talking, but he’s started catching Harry giving him these long, sad looks in the midst of mundane things. They’ll be watching a film on the sofa with Violet, and he notices it out of the corner of his eye. He’ll be putting away groceries and looks up from the fridge to find Harry standing there with a deep frown. It’s unsettling, and it also pisses Louis off more than it should.

The thing with his dad is messing with his head. He knows Harry wants to talk and he’s been less than accommodating. It’s just one more thing to face in the midst of everything else and it’s like he can’t even be bothered, which only makes him pissed at himself, too. When did he become such an arsehole?

The worst part is, Louis couldn’t give less of a fuck if his dad comes or not. It has more to do with the fact that any interest he’s ever shown in Louis has been for his own benefit.

He’s not sure what’s worse: His dad coming to the show with a girl, simply using Louis to impress someone, or not showing at all. Either way, Louis can’t fathom the humiliation he’ll feel for letting himself trust his dad after so many past burns stacked upon one another.

∙ ∙ ∙

It’s a stupid move, Louis knows that. Caroline gives him a look that says as much. She looks as if she’s ready to voice it, too, but Louis stops her.

“He’ll look better in the blouse, anyway,” Louis reasons. The models are in for a final fitting on Thursday before rehearsal on Friday for Saturday’s show. “I should’ve had him in it from the start, I don’t know why I didn’t.”

“Louis,” Caroline sighs.

“Just—” he sighs heavily— “put Allegra in the red ensemble that Harry was originally in, and give Harry the blouse.”

“I know you want everything to be perfect, but—”

“This is how we make it perfect,” he snaps, turning to her with cold eyes, his arms crossed over his chest

She stares at him for a long moment before shaking her head with a disapproving sigh. She doesn’t fight it further, which is good enough for Louis. Turning back to the room at large, his eyes land across the way on Harry who is laughing about something with Georgie.

He’s beautiful. He always has been. Louis remembers thinking so when he first saw him on the other side of a pub, dressed in a sheer black top, the fabric crossed over his stomach, tattoos on display. He’d paired it with simple cream flares that clung to his thighs, leaving nothing to the imagination. His hair had been long at the time, like it is now, raining over his shoulders in coils, and the flower fields in his eyes—green, green, green—had been the only thing bringing any color to the look.

God, he’s gorgeous, Louis had thought at the time. He would later learn that the most gorgeous part about Harry was his heart—his kindness, his loyalty, his joy.

“Oliver’s team will have to work overtime to re-tailor the blouse,” Caroline says, snapping Louis from the memory.

“Tell them I’ll do it. I’ll stay late if I have to. No one will be working overtime. Please, just switch the outfits. I won’t ask again.” Louis leaves Caroline with her pinched face, making to find Oliver to figure out something that’ll work.

Right as he’s found them, he watches Caroline heading to Harry’s station with the blouse. The buzz in the room prohibits him from hearing, but he stares on as they speak, as Harry’s mouth falls open, his eyes locked on the blouse while Caroline hangs it on the clothing rack. He says something to her before she nods and walks away.

Harry turns back to the rack of clothes, reaching out to brush a phantom trace over the fabric. He knows he’s not to touch. Lifting his head, he turns slowly before catching Louis’ gaze across the room.

Then he closes his parted mouth, visibly swallowing. But his face remains agape, exposing his every thought, feeling, and emotion. It softens as he looks upon Louis. Louis knows then that he’s recognized it for what it is. A peace offering. Louis can’t find it in him to talk about what’s happening with them, but he can give him this.

∙ ∙ ∙

A few months into when Harry and Louis started dating, back when it was fresh and only felt acceptable to spend nights together after sex. When they had been dancing around admitting, “I want this more than I want anything else,” there had been a night when Harry had decided to stay the night just to sleep next to Louis.

He had brought over a pajama set that had him looking like Minnie Mouse. It was one of those silky sets with a collared top that buttoned up the front, bright pink and scattered with white polka dots.

Harry had curled up under Louis’ arm, tracing patterns on his chest. There was something hesitant floating around them, like that night was some sort of turn around the corner, like the tip at the top of a roller coaster, right before the fall.

“I wish I could paint, so I could paint you,” Louis had said. It had sort of slipped out. It was far too intimate a thing to be saying to his boyfriend of a few months when the sun had only just started dripping raspberry syrup.

Harry had craned his neck, meeting his gaze with furrowed brows. “Kind of random,” he’d quipped with a tilted grin.

“I just mean—” Louis cut himself off with a sigh, a flush inching over his cheeks. “I wanna know you in every light. In every color.”

Harry had kissed him then, like there was nothing he could say to return the sentiment, but Louis had understood what was left unspoken.

⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯

Harry’s head is in a flurry when he goes home after the fitting.

Louis gave him the blouse.

Louis—who he was sure hadn’t listened when he went on his tirade about it, who has been more indifferent to Harry than Harry’s witnessed before in the past few weeks—gave him the blouse.

Harry says as much when he arrives home to find Violet in their sitting room.

She tilts her head from her place on the sofa. “What blouse?”

Harry inhales, shaking his head. He’s still stood in the doorway, hasn’t even taken off his shoes or coat. He waves a hand in the air. “This…blouse. That he made for—or at least said he made for me a while back. He… gave it to me. To wear in the show.”

He’s overwhelmed with the urge to cry. His eyes and nose burn unexpectedly.

“Harry,” Violet chuckles. She sits up, setting her feet on the floor. “Aren’t they all for you?”

A few tears slip down his cheeks, rolling over his jaw and down his neck. He wipes them away with the back of his hand. “Fuck, I think he loves me.”

Violet laughs sadly at that. She stands up, walking over to him and grabbing him by the arms. “Was there ever a time when he didn’t?”

Harry huffs stupidly. He shakes his head, avoiding Violet’s gaze even as she tries to catch his eyes. “I’ve just been so dumb. We promised each other we wouldn’t let this stupid show get in the way of us and look what’s happened.”

Violet hums in understanding. “It’s nothing you can’t fix, I’m sure.”

He takes in a ragged breath. “I don’t know how,” he admits softly.

“You be honest,” Violet says. “And trust that he’ll be honest back.”

∙ ∙ ∙

Harry ends up taking a long, hot shower, letting himself mull everything over. While he’s in there, he has a good, pitiful cry, biting down on his lower lip to keep from sobbing too loudly with Violet just downstairs.

He knows his only move from here is to talk to Louis, to really talk, to be patient and honest. It’s nothing they haven’t done before. He’s not sure why it feels more weighted this time.

When he’s clean, feeling like he’s shed a layer of skin, he heads back downstairs in his fluffy dressing gown. Him and Violet settle in on the sofa with a film, forgoing dinner for ice cream. That’s where Louis finds them when he eventually gets home.

It’s almost dark out by the time the lock turns in the door. He steps inside looking disheveled. Even with all that’s happened recently, Harry’s stomach still swoops when he comes face to face with his mussed up hair and wrinkled athletic wear.

“Hey,” he says to the room at large, pulling off his trainers.

When he peers up, he catches Harry’s eye in a sorrowful, weighted stare. At least that’s how Harry takes it.

Neither say anything. They won’t. Not with Violet here. Whenever they plan to have whatever conversation they’ll have, it’ll have to be after Fashion Week. That’s when Violet will leave, when the show’ll have hopefully gone well enough that Louis won’t be under so much stress, when his dad will no longer be around to fuck with his mind. Harry’ll just have to keep it together until then.

∙ ∙ ∙

The day of the show, the city is bustling with people more than usual as Fashion Week takes full force in London. Louis is gone by the time Harry wakes up. They haven’t seen much of each other in the past few days, Louis staying late at the studio and going in early, coming home after Harry is in bed and leaving before he’s awake.

Harry tries not to spend too much time dwelling on it.

After getting out of bed, he takes his time getting ready. He has to be at the venue by eleven to get ready and have a final run through before the actual show.

Violet has breakfast ready when he comes downstairs, freshly showered with a face mask on.

“There’s scrambled eggs,” she says.

They’re terrible, but Harry eats them because he feels bad and Violet honks out a laugh at every grimace he can’t hide. It takes him back to before he trained Louis to be a decent cook.

Violet joins him on his trip to the venue, both of them dressed in near matching sweats. Louis has promised to set something aside for Violet to wear. Harry finds it fun getting to involve Violet, to have someone to hang out with all day.

Backstage is already a mess of other models trying to get where they need to be for their own shows, dressers and stylists keeping outfits in order, and the behind-the-scenes crew desperately hoping everything runs smoothly.

Harry spots Louis right away speaking with one of the producers, but he tugs his eyes away, scanning the room for others instead. He drags Violet over to where Poppy and Georgie are mingling.

“Harry, looking stunning as always,” Poppy greets.

“Careful, Pop, or his head won’t fit in the room anymore,” Georgie replies lightly.

Harry scoffs, shoving their shoulders in mock offense. “So lovely to see you guys again,” Harry says, his tone dripping with sarcasm.

They both laugh. Harry pulls Violet forward by the arm.

“This is Violet, Louis’ sister,” he tells them. “Vi, this is Georgie and Poppy. Georgie’s my partner for the show, and Poppy’s just here.” He grins at Poppy who huffs, exasperatedly crossing her arms.

“Nice to meet you, very excited to see all your hard work pay off,” Violet says.

Georgie raises their eyebrows in Harry’s direction and Harry shakes his head lightly, already catching their drift. Violet is certainly more pleasant than Louis has been. He returns a look that more or less says don’t even get me started.

∙ ∙ ∙

The day is going smoothly.

Until Harry falls.

Almost

It’s more of a stumble, but either way, it’s embarrassing and humiliating for a model of his caliber. He can see as much on Louis’ face when he crosses an arm over his chest and drags his hand over his mouth and along his jaw.

It’s only during their final run through. One minute, Harry is completely focused, making his way down the runway with Georgie by his side. The next, he’s catching Louis’ eye in the back of the room, his shoe catching awkwardly on nothing before he stumbles forward. After instinctively reaching out to grab Georgie’s arm, trying to stop himself from falling and plummeting to the ground.

Harry swallows as he regains his balance, watching as Louis turns to whisper to the producer. They keep walking.

“Are you alright?” Georgie murmurs.

Harry nods diminutively, doing his best to maintain focus

Once they’re backstage, Georgie takes his arm. “Jesus, Harry, where’s your head at?”

“I don’t know.” He shakes his head, pressing the heels of his shaking hands into his eyes. “I don’t know. Fuck, Georgie, this is a disaster.”

Georgie gazes at him with a somber look, comfortingly brushing a hand up and down his arm. “Hey, it’s not a disaster. It’s going to be fine. More than, actually.”

Harry takes a steadying breath, nodding. The show, Georgie means, but Harry chooses to believe they’re talking about something else.

∙ ∙ ∙

“Hey, I’ll be right back,” Harry murmurs to Georgie, slipping off before they can stop him.

They have ten minutes until first outfits, and Harry is already made up in his green blazer-dress when he hears one of the producers murmuring about how they’re not sure where Louis has gone.

Harry weaves through the thrum of people, eventually finding his way to a back hallway where he spots Louis pacing back and forth. His headset is on, an ear muff pushed back to sit behind his ear with one arm crossed over his chest and the other pressed against his mouth.

“Lou,” Harry calls, stopping a few meters away from him.

Louis’ gaze snaps to his, and he huffs when he sees it’s Harry, shaking his head and continuing his pace. “Not now, Harry.”

Harry takes a step forward. “Lou, I just—”

“I said not now,” Louis says, far louder than Harry is expecting. It’s not quite a yell, just firm enough to echo off the walls. He stops in his place, turning his body towards Harry.

“I just—there’s some people looking for you, and the show starts soon—”

“Fuck, Harry, how is it that you manage to be everywhere all the time?” Louis drags his hands over his face in exasperation. “Go back inside, you’re meant to be getting ready.”

“I am ready,” Harry says, his arms hanging awkwardly by his sides. “I’m sorry, I—Louis. God, I’m not trying to make your life difficult.” Harry swallows, looking down at his feet. They’re clad in nothing but tights. The loafers are still at his station, as they hurt his feet so much that he’s waiting until the last minute.

“You’re not doing a great job of it,” Louis snaps, decidedly avoiding Harry’s gaze.

“I’m sorry,” Harry says again, his voice wavering.

Louis looks up at him. “Don’t cry, you’ll ruin your makeup,” he murmurs.

“I’m sorry.”

“Stop apologizing.”

“I—Okay.”

“Fuck,” Louis says again. “I can’t do this right now. Please go back inside.”

Harry takes another step forward. “Is this because I tripped earlier? Because it won’t happen again. Not during the show. I was distracted, but I promise I’ll have my head screwed on right for the show.”

“It’s not always about you,” Louis says softly.

Harry takes it in stride and takes another step forward, glad when Louis doesn’t move back. “Then what—”

“My dad’s here,” Louis says over a long exhale, his chest deflating with the words.

“Oh,” Harry says, dumbfounded. He had momentarily forgotten about Louis’ dad.

“He’s—I don’t know.” Louis presses the heels of his hands into his eyes. “I invited him a few weeks ago. Or, I guess he invited himself. And I told him he couldn’t bring someone. I won’t be someone he uses to make himself look better, but he—” he’s cut off on a ragged intake of air.

Harry’s heart clenches in his chest, bottom lip quivering. He closes most of the space between them until they’re only a foot apart.

“He brought someone with him. A girl, I don’t know. I have no idea how he got her in, I just can’t believe I’ve been so stupid.”

“Lou,” Harry says gently, reaching out to touch his chest.

Louis pulls his eyes away from his face, flinching backwards when Harry touches him. Harry’s sure a flash of rejection passes over his face.

“You’ll ruin your clothes,” Louis murmurs so quietly it’s nearly a whisper.

Harry doesn’t care. He grabs Louis’ hand in his, pressing a kiss to his palm before sliding it under his jacket and over his heart. It pounds heavily in his chest and he wonders if Louis can feel it. He must, because he inhales deeply, his hesitant touch filling with pressure after a few seconds before he releases the air in his lungs.

Louis’ eyes flutter shut, his tear-coated eyelashes sitting delicately on top of his cheeks. “I’m so sorry, Harry,” he whispers.

Harry shakes his head, shushing him. “No, I’m sorry, I—” He squeezes his eyes shut.

“I’ve been such an arsehole.” Louis’ voice cracks as he says it, but he opens his eyes, the red rims saturating his irises. “I was so worried about nepotism and people thinking I was using you to make this launch successful, and—I don’t know, I’ve been so caught up in it, and I took it out on you. And then the thing with my dad has been fucking with my head and—”

“Lou—”

“No, I—It wasn’t fair. I do it because I know you’re safe. And I know you’ll love me no matter what. And that’s not fair. It’s not right and I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” His face is so open, his eyes so earnest, far from what they’ve been recently.

When Harry takes his first deep breath in weeks, the air feels clearer than it did an hour ago. “No, I’m sorry,” he says, letting out a shuttered exhale. “You were right when you said I was selfish. And jealous. I think subconsciously I wanted the show to be about me. I wanted the clothes to be for me and for you to only care about me, and that—it’s not how I want to be. I hate myself like that. I don’t ever want to be that person.”

“You’re perfect,” Louis murmurs, reaching out to set a hand on his cheek.

He pulls Harry forward until their foreheads rest together. Harry’ll have to ask Zayn to check over his face before the show as a few tears slip free. He doesn’t mind much anyway.

“I love you,” Louis says in the air between them.

“I love you,” Harry says back. “I’m sorry.”

“I’m sorry,” Louis repeats. He pulls back, kissing Harry’s cheek, then his lips before pulling him into a hug.

“I feel like there’s more we should talk about,” Harry murmurs into Louis’ neck. He presses a tender kiss there.

“There is, but there’s not time right now. We need to get going. We’re already running late and you need your makeup checked over.”

“Zayn’s gonna be pissed,” Harry giggles, pulling back as Louis grasps his hand.

He tugs them down the hall. “He’ll be fine.”

∙ ∙ ∙

The show goes well.

In the grand scheme of things, it doesn’t matter all that much to Harry.

Zayn is pissed about his makeup but fixes it in time, Harry doesn’t trip, Louis gets a standing ovation when it’s all over, and the show goes well.

In the midst of all the bustle backstage, Louis hugs Harry when they run into each other. They’re both sweaty and Harry is standing in a skimpy dressing gown with nothing underneath, but it’s more comfort than he’s felt in a long time. It’s relieving, the way Louis wraps around him completely, their faces tucked in each other’s necks.

“So proud of you,” Harry murmurs, holding his face in his hands and pressing a soft, chaste kiss to his lips.

Louis brushes his nose against Harry’s, but then he has to go. Man of the hour, he has places to be.

After Harry has cleaned himself up and gone out to find Violet, he sees Louis speaking with an older man, a lady not much older than Violet clinging to his arm. Harry has only met Louis’ dad once, but he’s unmistakably his father.

Violet follows his gaze when Harry finds her. “He’s an dick,” she says, shaking her head. She pulls them over to the rest of Louis’ family—his mum, his sister’s, his nan.

Harry can’t help but keep his gaze on Louis. They’re standing in silence until Louis’ dad clenches his jaw so hard it’s visible across the way, leaving with the woman while Louis makes his way over to the lot of them. He greets his family with hugs, and they exchange congratulatory words before Louis places his hand on Harry’s lower back.

“What’d you say to him?” Harry murmurs as his family is preoccupied with each other.

Louis shrugs nonchalantly. “Just to never call me again and, if he does, he shouldn’t expect an answer.”

Violet and Harry exchange a look, but don’t say anymore.

They have an afterparty planned, but Louis has to stay to help get all the clothes sorted away. So Harry helps hair and makeup clean up their stations, then he and Violet sneak into the Balenciaga show until Louis is ready to head to the party.

“Hey.” Violet nudges him with her elbow once they’re seated in the very back row.

Harry turns to her, humming.

“You guys made up? You’re good?” she asks gently.

Harry gives her a soft smile and a nod. “We’re good.”

⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯

“Hey! Hey! Can I have your attention?” Louis calls, clinking a plastic fork he found on the ground against his beer bottle.

It’s nearing midnight, half the people in the club aren’t there to celebrate with them, and Louis is more than on his way to being smashed, but he’s young, in love, and successful, so god forbid he give a speech. He should be allowed a simple speech.

He heaves himself up onto the table.

After dropping Violet at home, he and Harry arrived around seven to mingle with all the important people in suits. Before going inside, they had spent far too long parked on the curb, snogging in the car. Hours later, the suits left, leaving the models, other designers, and everyone else tipsy, if not drunk, and ready to lose themselves in the feeling.

Niall cackles as Louis gets on the table in the least graceful way possible. Harry reaches out to steady him, wrapping a hand around his ankle. Louis makes eye contact with one of the bartenders and he points at him with a wink.

“I have a very important thing to say,” Louis slurs.

People are either listening, waiting for him to continue, or they’re whispering about the crazed man on the table in the back of the club.

“I can’t believe we pulled off this fucking show,” he says. “You all were absolute legends. Thank you to my killer team, I couldn't have done it without you. Literally. To Ollie, my mastermind,” Louis searches the crowd for Oliver. He finds them in the back with their boyfriend and points, “you saw my vision. You made it come to life. To Caroline, she’s not here is she?” He scans the crowd again, a hand shielding his eyes as if that will help in the dim lighting. “You did well, queen. Time for a drink though.”

Niall snorts.

“To everyone else who played a part, you made this show what it is. And last but certainly not least, to my beautiful love, Harry.” He gazes down at Harry, setting a hand atop his head. Harry is still gripping his ankle. “This collection is for you, the show was for you. You make me better every day and I’d be nothing without you. I love you.”

Harry beams up at him, mouthing back an I love you. Louis’ not sure he actually lets any sound out, but he swears Harry’s voice echoes in his brain anyway.

“Thank you everyone, you all are something out of storybooks. Goodnight!” he stumbles over his words.

Half the crowd chuckles and claps while the rest watch him with an odd expression before returning to whatever they were doing before. Harry and Niall help him down from the table and he clings to Harry with an arm around his waist.

Louis presses his nose to Harry’s temple and Harry stumbles under his weight before giggling and sliding a strong arm around him.

“Let’s dance,” Louis murmurs into his ear.

Harry nods, grabbing Louis’ beer and leaving it on a random table before pulling him towards the dance floor.

Louis loses himself in the beat, in Harry. They’re plastered to each other, Louis’ hands resting on Harry’s lower back, fingertips brushing the top of his bum, and Harry’s arms wound around his neck. Their foreheads are pressed together, hips rolling in tandem.

“You’re so fucking hot,” Louis murmurs with his lips pressed to Harry’s jaw. It’s such a cheesy thing to say, but Louis is completely swallowed up in Harry, unable to conjure up anything else. He lets his hands slide further down until they’re resting on Harry’s bum so he can pull them flush together, guiding their hips in a slow grind.

It doesn’t do much to start anything, the angle not quite right, but Harry’s breathing is hot in his ear while Louis works his mouth over Harry’s jaw. Warmth builds in Louis’ gut. The lights in the club paint Harry’s skin green, red, and blue, the music guiding their heartbeats. They’re the only one’s here, the rest of the world slipping out from under them.

Louis slots his thigh between Harry’s and Harry takes the opportunity to rut against him. He’s thickening in his trousers and Louis is close behind. Harry isn’t nearly as subtle as Louis, tilting his head back, exposing his long, milky neck, letting out a soft moan, his hips rolling against Louis’ thigh.

Huffing a soft laugh, Louis spins Harry around, pressing up against his bum. He grinds against him, lips caught on Harry’s neck when he drops his head back against Louis’ shoulder, moving his hips to the beat of Louis’. When his lips part, they look obscene, red and silky as if he’s already been fucked.

His blouse comes untucked from his white, high-waisted trousers with the way Louis’ hand moves along Harry’s stomach. It’s a piece from Louis’ early collaboration with Gucci back in 2017, colorful and floral with lace framing the neckline. Louis slips his hand underneath it, tracing over the hard muscles on his abdomen, smirking when they jump under his fingertips.

“Louis,” Harry gasps when Louis tweaks a nipple teasingly before pulling his hand back down. “Take me home, let’s go home.”

Louis huffs a laugh, pressing hot, open-mouthed kisses along Harry’s shoulder. “It’s not even midnight.”

“It will be,” Harry breathes. “By the time we get home.”

Louis hums. He moves his hand to the outside of Harry’s blouse, trailing it up to his jaw. He grasps it in his hand, tilting Harry’s head back until his ear is right by Louis’ mouth. “Don’t you like that all these people can see how wrecked you are for me when I’ve not even touched you?”

“Louis,” Harry whines, rutting back in a harsh grind against Louis’ cock.

“You’d like that wouldn’t you?” Louis murmurs. “If I touched you in front of all of these people. If they saw how I can make you come.”

Harry moans and Louis slides a hand over his mouth.

“You filthy boy,” he chuckles, releasing Harry’s jaw, his head rolling to the side. “Go get us a car, I need to make my rounds before we leave.”

They part ways, Harry slipping out of the club discreetly while Louis says goodbye to a few people. The dim lighting and his dark pants do wonders for hiding his semi.

When they’re finally on their way home, Louis keeps Harry at arms length in the car for fear of what they’ll do if he’s too close. As soon as they’re in the front door, they hastily start shedding their clothes, their mouths connected as if the other is their only source of air.

Their kiss is messy and wet, a fast connection of mouths with no real rhythm. Louis is on his way to unbuttoning his trousers, Harry standing in only his pants, when Louis spots the extra pair of shoes by the door. Violet is still here. Right, Louis knew that.

“Fuck,” he murmurs, reaching out to press his palm over Harry’s mouth. He’s not sure why, but it feels necessary.

Harry looks at him with confused, wide eyes before following Louis’ gaze. He murmurs something behind Louis’ hand, but Louis sends him a sharp look.

“Go, go, go,” Louis whispers, springing into action.

Harry takes a second to get moving, but he eventually scurries towards the stairs. Louis gathers their clothes from the ground, following close behind Harry as they stumble up the stairs with loud feet and soft giggles.

When they’re safely behind a closed bedroom door, they both breathe sighs of relief. Their hearts pound heavily, their breathing falling in short huffs as they catch their breath.

Harry grins at Louis and Louis grins back and then they’re both laughing.

“Forgot she was here,” Louis whispers, reaching out to grab Harry’s hand, kissing his palm before pulling him flush against his chest.

Harry falls into Louis easily, hands resting on his shoulders as he kisses him softly. Louis feels decidedly less drunk than he was earlier, sobered up in the lights and the quiet.

“Now you’re gonna have to be quiet,” Louis murmurs against Harry’s mouth, sliding his hand down the front of Harry’s pants and getting a hand around him. He’s still fairly hard, only needing a few tugs. When Louis swipes a teasing thumb over the head of his cock, he gasps against Louis’ mouth, breaking the kiss. “You think you’ll be able to manage?” Louis asks, nipping at his neck. He fucking loves Harry’s neck.

“Promise,” Harry gasps, bucking into the tightness of Louis’ grasp.

“Promise?” Louis asks with a quirked brow. “Big words. It’d be a shame if you broke it.”

“Never.” Harry swallows thickly, the slightest whine escaping at the end.

“Forgot how good you can be,” Louis murmurs, guiding Harry backwards until the back of his knees hit the bed and he’s flopping down, completely sprawled out. “You gonna help remind me?” He reattaches himself to Harry’s neck.

“Um, Lou?” Harry prods his shoulders.

Louis bites the hinge of his jaw with a hum.

“Louis,” Harry huffs, sounding more exasperated than turned on.

After uttering a confused, “What?” and lifting his head, Louis finds Basil standing above Harry’s head, peering down at him. He snickers, returning to the spot on Harry’s jaw. “Just push her out of the way. She’ll be fine.”

“Louis,” Harry whines, nudging his face away.

Louis sighs, detaching himself and grabbing Basil under the stomach. Crossing the room while she excitedly sniffs under his neck, Louis opens the door and sets her on the other side. She gives a few loud cries as he closes the door, making his way back over to Harry.

“Where were we?” Louis’ hands land on his thighs, inching up until he can grab hold of his pants, sliding them down his legs. Louis could wax poetry about Harry’s legs, about how long and muscular they are while being inherently feminine. He’d spend hours brushing his lips over the skin on the inside of his thighs if Harry would let him, slowly coaxing him open until he’s entirely spread out before him.

Basil meows loudly, but Louis is quick to suck the tip of Harry’s cock into his mouth before he can say anything about it. Mewling, Harry bucks his hips from the bed and thrusts into Louis’ mouth. Louis pops off with a sputtered groan, meeting Harry’s eyes draped in a haze.

“Sorry,” Harry says, visibly swallowing.

“Thought you promised to be good?” Louis inquires with a tilt of his head.

Harry nods, reaching out for Louis. “Sorry,” he says again, pulling Louis up to kiss him before letting him snake his way back down Harry’s body.

He kisses over Harry’s chest and across his hips until he can get his mouth around his cock again, taking as much as he can inside. With his hand, he strokes what he can’t quite get, bobbing up and down, swirling his tongue around the tip every time he comes up. He flattens his tongue along the underside, suctioning his cheeks with a purposeful slurping sound, just for the way it makes Harry squirm.

“Fuck, Louis,” Harry groans above him, sliding his fingers into his hair, gently tugging.

Lowering his mouth on Harry’s cock until it hits the back of his throat, Louis reaches down to brush a dry finger over Harry’s hole. Harry squeezes his thighs together, sandwiching Louis’ head in the process, his hips lifting off the ground until Louis’ eyes are watering with how much of Harry’s cock is in his mouth.

Louis’ own dick is hard where it’s trapped in his trousers and it’s slowly verging on unbearable. He pulls back, sucking on the head, breathing heavily through his nose while he catches his breath, reaching down to palm himself. Before he can go back in, Harry pulls him up by the shoulders.

“C’mere,” he says, catching Louis’ lips with his own in a long, slow pull. He slides his tongue into Louis’ mouth, licking over the roof.

Louis loves when Harry’s like this. He’s always been a bit of an enthusiastic kisser when they’re able to take their time, with long strokes of the tongue and smacking lips; he goes all in. When it’s over, he adores how red his lips get, the skin on his jaw rubbed raw from Louis’ scruff, his mouth wide and slicked in spit.

While they kiss, Harry works on getting Louis out of his trousers, pulling his cock out and pulling him off. It’s a little dry, so he stops to spit in his hand. Before he can move back down, Louis is laughing and crawling away.

“No need for that,” he chuckles, finding the lube in the bedside table and bringing it back to them.

Harry makes quick work of getting his hand on Louis’ dick again, twisting his wrist as he jerks him off. It feels too good to focus on anything else, his thumb swirling over the tip on the up strokes. Louis bucks his hips into the tight grasp of Harry’s hand.

Nipping at Harry’s jaw, Louis works his mouth over one particular spot. He sucks at and laps over the skin until it grows darker, and Harry is mewling. Arching his back and grinding his hips against Louis’ thigh, Harry desperately searches for release. It’s not nearly enough. Louis’ stomach drowns in a pool of heat.

“God, I want you so bad,” he murmurs, sucking Harry’s earlobe into his mouth.

Harry nods, panting hotly into Louis’ ear. Louis fumbles for the lube, slicking up his fingers before reaching down to circle Harry’s rim, pushing two fingers in.

Harry lets out a soft, ‘uh’ sound, arching his back and pressing down on Louis’ fingers.

“Easy, baby,” Louis murmurs, kissing his cheek.

He doesn’t bother with a slow rhythm, instead relentlessly thrusting his fingers in and out. Kissing Harry to keep him quiet, Louis swallows up his moans while he takes him apart.

“That’s it,” he whispers against his cheek. “You’re being so good. Keeping your promise.”

Harry hums, meeting Louis thrust for thrust, riding his fingers even as Louis adds a third. “Come on, Lou,” Harry gasps when Louis brushes over his prostate, nails scraping down Louis’ back, the other faltering around his cock.

“Right there?” Louis asks, messaging over the spot when he finds it again.

Harry nearly growls.

He grabs the lube, coating Louis’ dick, still rolling his hips down to meet Louis’ fingers. In a few quick movements, he pulls Louis’ fingers out of him, ushering his cock inside in their place. Throwing his head back against the mattress, he hikes his legs up to his chest and places his hands on Louis’ bum to urge him on.

“Fuck,” Louis groans as he inches in, bracing himself on either side of Harry’s head. He presses his forehead against Harry’s, both of them peering down between them until he’s nestled all the way inside.

Harry pants, letting his head fall back again so he can look Louis in the eye. He smiles over his open mouth when their eyes meet, letting out soft puffs of air, clenching around Louis.

“You’re so impatient,” Louis murmurs, brushing away a rogue curl from Harry’s eyes. “Wasn’t gonna do it this way,”

He pulls out in one long thrust before quickly pushing back in, punching a gasp out of Harry and nudging him an inch up the bed. “Oh yeah, how were you—uh—how were you gonna do it?”

Louis smirks, rolling his hips in a short grind, building his way up. Harry always feels so goddamn good, he can hardly think with the heat inching over his spine. He wants to take his time, wants to do this for hours. He wants to pound into Harry until he’s screaming out in pleasure, his toes curling against the sheets, but he also wants to nestle inside of him and lay against his chest, reveling in being as close to him as possible.

“Was gonna get you on your hands and knees,” Louis pants, dropping his forehead to Harry’s chest, speeding up the pace of his thrusts.

Harry’s knees squeeze his sides, fingers twisting through the hair on the sides of Louis’ head. He rolls his hips, meeting Louis’ thrusts. It echoes through the room—the wet sound of their bodies meeting over and over, their heavy breathing, Harry’s soft moans—as they soak each other in.

“Like this better,” Harry says, lifting Louis’ head with the grasp on his hair.

Reaching to hold Louis’ jaw, his head is heavy in Harry’s hands. He pulls him forward for a kiss, slow and deep. Their tongues twist together as he angles Louis’ head to his liking until they have to stop, Harry gasping into his mouth on a particularly hard thrust.

“Can’t kiss you on my hand and knees.”

“Bet you can,” Louis says, pecking him on the mouth.

He pulls out, huffing a laugh when Harry whimpers. They both work to flip him over and Louis immediately slides back in. He holds Harry by the waist, punching a few moans out of him before he reaches a hand around his chest, pulling him up onto his knees so his back is flush against Louis’ chest.

“Kiss me,” Louis murmurs in his ear, pulling out and thrusting back in. Harry braces himself with a hand on the headboard to keep from falling forward on the impact. Louis’ hand curls on top of his.

Harry cries out, turning his head to the side, reaching around to hold Louis’ head. His lips slide messily across Louis’ cheek until their mouths meet. The angle is so much better like this, allowing Louis to slip deeper and deeper, their bodies connected from head to toe.

Louis trails a hand down Harry’s abdomen as his thrusts speed up, placing a hand over his lower belly.

“Can feel my cock in you,” he murmurs, pressing down on his muscles. He can’t, really, but he likes to pretend he can. Grabbing Harry’s hand, he replaces it with his own, laying his hand overtop. “Right there,” he says as his hips snap forward, Harry moaning obscenely against his mouth.

He lets out a sharp ‘ah,’ and it’s so beautiful that Louis doesn’t even remind him of his promise. The pace turns erratic, his stomach molten. He can feel his release approaching on the horizon, building quickly.

“M’close,” Harry murmurs against his mouth.

Louis hums, taking Harry’s cock in his hand, he pulls him off to the speed of his thrusts. Harry reaches a hand back, holding onto Louis’ arse, pressing back to meet Louis’ hip before jerking forward into his hand. He slips a dry finger between Louis’ cheeks, ghosting over his hole while Louis swipes his thumb over the tip of Harry’s cock, and it’s enough to have Louis coming hard inside Harry, while Harry paints his stomach white.

They both fall forward, Louis splayed across Harry’s back as they ride out their high in tiny pulses, overwhelming pleasure coursing through him. Louis revels in the way Harry clenches around him. The room wraps in a fog, his head fuzzy. He flops them onto their sides, still buried inside Harry, wrapping an arm around his chest to keep him close.

“Y’alright?” he asks, still breathing heavily, and presses a soft kiss to his shoulder.

Harry rolls his head to the side, trying to get a look at him. “Perfect,” he murmurs, reaching back to grab Louis’ thigh, pulling his leg overtop of his own. He winces as Louis shifts, still half hard inside of him, but settles easily enough, tackling their hands together and pressing a kiss to the back of Louis’ knuckles.

“Can we just stay like this forever?” Louis asks, and Harry’s hummed response feels like the only answer he needs.

⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯

They don’t stay cuddled up for long before Louis slips out of Harry and they both crawl out of bed to shower. Harry complains as Louis tugs him out of bed, collapsing into Louis’ chest and slumping against him. It’s nearing two in the morning, but Louis jokingly says he smells bad and promises to wash his hair.

They curl up under the covers afterwards. Harry’s hair will probably have dried weird in the morning, but he doesn’t care much. It’s dark in their room, the only thing he’s able to make out being the shadows on Louis’ face, occasionally illuminating when a car drives by, headlights shining in the window.

He’s tucked against Louis with his head on his shoulder, leg thrown over his hips. Louis put pants on after their shower, but Harry couldn’t be bothered. Instead just falling face first into bed and only moving when Louis maneuvered him under the covers, urging him up into his side. Louis lets Basil back in the room, and she curls up at his feet on the bed.

“Why didn’t you tell me about your dad?” Harry asks softly. It feels like he’s lived so many lifetimes in the past 24 hours.

“I thought about it,” Louis says, gazing up at the ceiling. His hand is gently playing with the damp curls around Harry’s face, skating over his temple and down across his freckled shoulder before repeating the path. “I wanted to. But we were already tiptoeing around each other and I felt so stupid.”

“You’re not stupid.” Harry kisses the side of his ribs. “Never stupid.”

“Maybe stupid isn’t the right word.” Louis shakes his head. “Just like… I know how he can be. That he uses people for his own gain. And I knew it wasn’t wise to trust him, that’d I’d probably end up getting hurt, but I wanted to trust him.” He blinks down at Harry with a sigh. “I should’ve talked to you about it. You’d’ve told me not to give him the ticket.”

Harry hums, tracing his fingers over Louis’ ribs and down his sternum. “Maybe, but I wouldn’t’ve judged you for making a different choice if it felt right to you at the time.”

“I’m not sure any choices felt right.”

“I get that, too.” Craning his neck up to meet Louis’ eyes, he adds, “Point is, I’ll always support you, even if I don’t agree.”

“S’that right?” Louis smirks, fingers steepling on top of Harry’s head. “Shall we discuss Blouse Gate, then?”

Harry huffs, his eyes darting away. “I would’ve gotten there eventually. After I got over the jealousy.”

Louis nods, but he doesn’t seem entirely convinced. “Right.”

Burrowing further into Louis’ side, nosing near his armpit, Harry lets out a soft sigh. “I’m sorry. Again. For all of it.”

He can’t see Louis, but he feels him nod. “I know. Me too. I didn’t like how we were. We’ve never been that couple, and I don’t want us to ever be.”

Peeking up at him, Harry says, “I don’t want that either.”

“How do we do better?” Louis asks, his eyes full of sincerity.

“Talk to each other. Take breaks when we feel ourselves getting heated.”

Louis nods.

“I feel like—” Harry cuts himself off, watching his own fingers dance over Louis’ skin, not sure how to look Louis in the eye.

“You can say it,” Louis murmurs. “Whatever it is, just be honest.”

Harry nods, but he doesn’t look. “I feel like…when I tried to talk to you, I didn’t feel heard.”

It’s quiet for so long that Harry tilts his head up to look at him. He doesn’t look mad, just like he’s deep in thought.

“That’s fair,” he says slowly. “If it means anything, I did try that one time. When we were talking about Allegra. I think I just didn’t do a good job at seeing where you were coming from. The rest of the times—I’m not trying to make excuses, but I was so in my head about my dad. I shouldn’t’ve let that stop me from hearing you out though. That wasn’t fair.”

Harry nods. “I’m sorry, too, you know. I hate being jealous. It makes me crazy and usually I know I’m being unreasonable, and I can curb it, but—I don’t know what happened.” He presses the heels of his hands against his eyes.

“Hey,” Louis murmurs, reaching out to grab his wrist, gently tugging until his hands fall away. “It’s alright. You’re forgiven.”

Harry smiles softly and Louis brushes a hand through his hair. He flips onto his side so they’re facing each other before brushing their lips together.

“I don’t ever want you to feel like you’re not being heard or like I don’t understand you. I don’t like that I made you feel that way.”

Harry hums, pressing a kiss to Louis’ chest. “I don’t ever want you to feel that way either.”

He gives Louis one, two, then three pecks before burrowing into his chest, Louis’ arm strongly wrapping around him.

“We should probably reinstate the rule. About not working together. This is more important to me than that,” Harry says, setting a hand on Louis’ chest.

Louis kisses him softly with a hum of agreement.

After many moments of silence and staring at each other with sheepish grins, allowing themselves time to remind themselves of this, Louis says out of nowhere, “Allegra’s kind of bitch, isn’t she?”

A sharp cackle escapes Harry’s lips. Louis grins at him as he slaps a hand over his mouth with wide eyes.

“Are you even allowed to say that?” Harry giggles. “She’s your employee.”

Louis snorts, brushing his nose against Harry’s. “So are you, but I just had my dick up your arse. Is that against the rules too?”

Harry covers Louis’ mouth with his palm, but he can’t stifle the giggles spilling past his own lips. “You’re so vulgar.”

“Alert the authorities, call the press,” Louis murmurs, his lips wet against Harry’s hand before Harry pulls back. “He’s vulgar and likes to fuck his boyfriend.”

Harry grins, sucking on his bottom lip to stave it off. “Scandalous,” he whispers.

“Lock me up,” Louis murmurs against his lips before slotting them with his own. He gropes Harry’s bum, pulling him closer.

Harry hums against Louis’ mouth, their noses bumping when he pulls away. “I’m too tired to go again,” he says when Louis slips a hand to his thigh to guide his leg over his hip.

“S’what happens when you turn thirty.”

Harry squawks against Louis’ mouth in protest, but Louis simply giggles, kissing him until he’s placated.

“Go to sleep, then,” Louis says, kissing him once more before giving him a bit of space to flip over.

They don’t often fall asleep spooning. It tends to get hot, they both move around too much in the night to ever stay that way, and Harry’s hair has a propensity for getting caught in Louis’ mouth on nights he wears it down. But tonight, they slot together just right and, Harry thinks, if he were able to be every color in the rainbow, this is what it’d feel like.

∙ ∙ ∙

TOMLINSON AND STYLES: In Every Color

With London Fashion Week coming to an end, the city is slowly settling back into day to day life as the hustle and bustle moves on to the next big show.

While there were many exciting new up-and-coming designers as well as our fan-favorite, tried and true creators, this week brought particular excitement with the launch of Louis Tomlinson’s solo high-fashion line, LWT. Tomlinson, 32, debuted the first collection, In Every Color, on Saturday. Like the name suggests, In Every Color contained, not only a variety of colors and patterns, but a plethora of ways to style the pieces. There were sleek blazers in blues and greens, styled as dresses and with trousers; sheer blouses decorated with silk; and a floral motif that carried through multiple looks.

The clothes weren’t the only thing feeding us looks. Among many new faces gracing the runway was the one and only, Harry Styles. You may know Styles, 30, from his previous work with Tomlinson nearly a decade ago, his long stint with Gucci, his stunning print adverts, or you may know him for the heart throbbing romance he shares with Tomlinson.

The pair met back in 2015 but haven’t worked on a project together since 2017. Their work on LWT: In Every Color has been much anticipated. To say they didn’t disappoint would be an understatement. Styles set foot the runway in four different outfits: A stunning emerald blazer dress, a baby blue three piece suit, gorgeous tanned trousers with a beautiful print, and a crowd favorite, a sheer, white blouse with floral embroidery.

Styles’ performance is sure to have made Tomlinson proud amongst the flowering success of the entire line. He was not short on fond words regarding Styles’ involvement in the project when our Fashion Week correspondent caught up with them last week for an exclusive interview. Inside sources have said Tomlinson expressed he was “more than pleased” at the unofficial after party.

LWT: In Every Color debuted at London Fashion Week on February 14th but will not be available for retail until the conclusion of fashion month. We surely hope this isn’t the last we see of the couple on a project together and that they’ll continue to bless us with their beauty both on and off the runway. They certainly are stunning in every color.

~ epilogue ~

“I can’t believe you’re going to meet with another designer about your wedding outfit,” Louis huffs from his place in bed. He takes a sip of the tea Harry made him this morning in an attempt to pacify himself.

With a wiggle of his hips, Harry pulls his trousers over his bum, leveling Louis with an unimpressed stare.

“This feels like a form of cheating or something.”

Harry lets out a sharp laugh. “Please, you’re being dramatic.” He walks into the closet in search of a top.

“It’s our wedding. You wouldn’t invite a third into our marriage, so why invite a third to make your outfit?” Louis hollers after him, slumping against the headboard.

“That’s a horrible analogy,” Harry yells back, walking out of the closet in the midst of tucking a plain white shirt into gray trousers. “And besides, Raphael isn’t making the outfit, he’s pulled a few from the racks for me to try on. He’s the one who contacted me about it.”

“Pulled from the racks!?” Louis screeches. “Are you mad?”

Harry rolls his eyes, grabbing the blue bandana from the bedside table to tie loosely around his neck. His hair is tousled from getting dressed. It’s quite a bit shorter than it used to be. He’d chopped it all off a few months ago, sick of maintaining it. Since then, it’s grown quite a bit, curling around his ears, at the base of his neck, and flopping over his forehead.

“Baby, you should have an outfit that was made from scratch especially for you.” Louis pouts.

“You’re already doing the wedding outfits for our families,” Harry says, leaning over Louis with a hand on his chest, before pressing a chaste kiss to his lips. “That’s plenty of work for you.”

Harry moves to leave, but Louis pulls him in by the arm for another kiss before letting him go with a pat on the bum.

After he’s heard Harry leave downstairs but before he pulls himself out of bed for a shower, Louis sends a quick check-in text to Oliver.

∙ ∙ ∙

It had been quiet, the proposal. The ring was in Louis’ sock drawer for so long, it was a miracle Harry hadn’t found it. It was a bigger miracle Harry hadn’t gotten fed up and proposed himself.

“On a gondola on the Grand Canal when the couple was seen in Italy last summer,” Pop Crave had speculated. “Tomlinson quoted Shakespeare in his speech and Styles cried tears of gold.”

“It couldn’t’ve been any less than on the beach at sunset,” Twitter user @stylinsonlovers123 had attested. “Have you seen the way Louis looks at Harry? He’d do anything for him.”

In reality, it had been at two in the morning on a late night stroll for gelato at the 24-hour place a few blocks away. It’d been one of those nights where they’d gone to bed on time but neither could sleep, far too delirious and giggly, pointing out shapes on the ceiling made by shadows from passing cars.

“Lou,” Harry said when Louis was finally on the verge of falling asleep. “I want gelato.”

Louis peeled his eyes open, less than impressed. Anything for Harry, though. Twitter user @stylinsonlovers123 had gotten one thing right.

Grabbing the ring on instinct, he’d shoved it in his plaid pajama pants. He habitually carried it around at that point. Zayn had said he should plan something, but Louis protested that the only time it’d be right is if it was a spontaneous moment of them.

They’d walked to the shop and gotten one cup to share with a scoop of cookie dough and a scoop of mint chip. Harry had hung off of Louis’ arm, still giggling and tripping over his steps as they walked to the park, sitting on a bench to eat.

“There’s the big dipper,” Harry said, leaning into Louis’ side with a hand pointed up at the sky. It was difficult to see with all the lights, but Louis nodded anyway, watching Harry’s side profile instead of the stars. He was far more beautiful than the stars would ever be.

“Do you wanna get married?” he asked, licking his lips.

Harry turned to him with wide eyes and a breathless sort of daze. “What?”

Louis dug in his pajama pocket. They must’ve looked completely ridiculous. But he held out the ring, a gold band pinched between his fingers with a line of emeralds in the center.

“You’re my world, Harry. Be mine forever?” Or something like that. In the end, the words hadn’t mattered. He could’ve quoted Shakespeare and neither would have remembered. What mattered was Harry kissing him and murmuring yes into his mouth over and over, Harry sliding the ring onto his finger and clinging to him the whole way home with an outstretched hand.

“I wonder what it looks like in front of the stars,” he’d say with a hand held to the sky. “What does it look like in front of our flat?” or “Look, I’m brushing my teeth while engaged!”

It was so incredibly stupid, but it was also so Harry. Louis couldn’t help but shake his head and kiss him silly.

He thought of Harry saying something of the sort at every stage in their lives. “Look, I’m cooking dinner as a husband!” and “Our first time watching Bar Rescue as dads!” and “We’re granddads tending to our chickens!”

And yeah. Louis would like that quite a lot.

∙ ∙ ∙

“A bust?” Louis asks when Harry appears in the doorway to the kitchen with stooping shoulders and a frown.

He’s midway through making sandwiches for lunch, Basil crooning at his feet just waiting for something to be dropped. A cool breeze blows through the open window, the sun streaming across the counter.

“It was fine. The outfits were fine.” Slinking over, Harry sets his chin on Louis’ shoulder. “Is there food for me, too?”

“‘Course. Go sit down.”

Harry does as told, having a seat at the kitchen table.

When Louis brings the sandwiches over a minute later, Harry shoves his phone in Louis’ face. “Look at this one. Do you like it?”

Louis grasps his wrist to pull the phone back and get a better look. “Isn’t it bad luck for me to see your outfit before the wedding?”

The first outfit is a corset with lace over the bodice paired with wide leg pants, giving the illusion of a skirt. Harry looks stunning, but it’s quite simpler than he’d imagine Harry wants.

“Doesn’t matter. I’m not getting any of these,” Harry says. “Now, what do you think?”

“It’s nice. It’s a little simple though. You could buy that at David’s Bridal or summat.”

Harry scoffs. “Not even for a reception outfit?”

“Baby, it’s nice if you like it. But you clearly don’t.”

“I like it.”

“Just not for our wedding?”

Looking over the picture himself, Harry nods forlornly. “Not for our wedding.” He swipes through a few more photos. “What about this one?”

The outfit is huge, more cream-colored than white with an overly full skirt complete with a sheer top and ballooning sleeves. It’s loud, extravagant, and ruffly.

“Bit over the top, that,” Louis says.

Harry sighs. “See, I knew you’d agree with me.”

Louis snorts. “You act like that’s a bad thing. Who liked this one?”

“Your nan,” Harry huffs.

Louis laughs out loud at that. “My nan liked this voluptuous, overpriced, and frankly, hideous ball gown?”

“She did. Even asked Flora how the kids these days would describe it.”

“Oh god.” Louis puts his head in his hands. “Dare I ask…”

“Looking very slay, Harry, dear,” Harry mimics in his best impression of Louis’ nan.

Groaning, Louis drops his forehead to the table with a thud. “Fucking hell.”

Harry snickers. “Anyways.”

Lifting his head, Louis asks, “You didn’t try on more?”

“I did, but I hated them and you would too.” Harry slides his fingers through the hair at the nape of Louis’ neck.

Louis leans into the touch with a hum.

“Do you wanna watch a show?”

Louis’ phone rings, Oliver’s name flashing on the screen when he takes a glimpse. “Um, I’ve actually got some work to finish up yet this afternoon,” he lies.

“Oh.” Harry frowns, his hand dropping to his side. “Alright. I thought you didn’t have to work today.”

Louis stands up from his seat. “I really should take this, baby, I’m sorry.” He leans down to give Harry a chaste kiss, leaving before he can ask any more. “Oliver, hey,” Louis answers on his way out of the kitchen.

“Louis, you must tell me what he would think of sparkles,” Oliver says as Louis is shutting the door to his office.

“Sparkles would be nice, but nothing too overwhelming. He likes subtle extravagance.”

Oliver chuckles, mumbling under their breath, “Subtle extravagance.”

Sitting down at his desk, Louis shuffles around a few folders and documents before finding the proper sketches. “I’m thinking around the neck of the cover dress.”

“And some down the bodice, perhaps?”

“Yeah, that’d be lovely,” Louis murmurs.

“Lucky that we have his measurements from the show,” Oliver says.

Louis hums softly, stroking a delicate finger over the pencil drawing.

∙ ∙ ∙

“I want you to have everything beautiful in this world,” Louis says that night in bed, swiping his thumb along Harry’s bottom lip, fingers curled under his jaw. He leans in to kiss Harry softly.

Harry smiles sheepishly, setting his palm against Louis’ cheek. “I already have it.”

Huffing quietly, Louis turns his head to kiss Harry’s palm. “Cheesy. That was really cheesy.”

“And what you said wasn’t?” Taking Harry’s hand from his face, Louis twists the engagement ring around on Harry’s finger before pressing it to his lips. “I just want this wedding to be everything you’ve ever dreamed of. I want you to feel beautiful and happy and loved.”

“Louis,” Harry chuckles, scooting closer to him until his nose bumps into Louis’. “You make me feel that way every day. As long as you’re waiting for me at the end of the aisle, I don’t care what happens at our wedding. I just wanna be married.”

Snorting, Louis buries his face in Harry’s neck. “You’ll be constipated with all the cheese you’re spewing tonight.”

“Disgusting,” Harry huffs, pinching Louis’ bum. “You’re vile.”

∙ ∙ ∙

In the end, Louis knew Harry would come around eventually, his plans having been drawn up far before they got engaged. It’s been so clear in his mind for longer than he can stand to count, the image of Harry at their wedding with sheer, ivory fabric draped across his shoulders and fanning over the ground, his torso clad in a lightly jeweled corset paired with white trousers—the amalgamation of all things beautiful.

“Lou?” Harry calls out when he arrives at the studio.

Louis hears him before he sees him. “In here, love,” he replies. He’s standing with Oliver, both having been waiting for Harry to arrive.

Harry appears in the doorway, crossing the floor to Louis and giving him a greeting kiss. He turns to Oliver. “Oliver, nice to see you again.”

“Likewise, darling,” Oliver replies.

“What are you up to? Why’d you want me to stop by?” Harry leans into the hand Louis fits to his waist.

“Oliver is gonna show you something,” Louis says, nodding towards them.

Louis follows as Oliver leads Harry down the hall to the atelier. Harry is stepping behind them into the room but stops short when Louis leans against the wall outside.

“What are you doing?” Harry asks.

“Oliver will show you. I’ll wait for you out here.” Louis presents a small smile to him.

Sending him an odd look, Harry walks into the room anyway.

The minutes Louis spends in the hall tick on forever. The door to the atelier is closed and it’s hard to hear what’s going on inside.

But then Harry steps out into the hall with tear-stained cheeks.

“Baby,” Louis laughs, stepping forward to stroke his face.

“What is that?” Harry asks, sniffing and rubbing his nose.

Setting a hand on his waist and pulling him closer, Louis asks, “Will you wear it?” He brushes their noses together. “For our wedding? Will you walk down the aisle in it?”

“Louis,” Harry chokes on a sob, fully collapsing into him and tucking his face in his neck.

Louis strokes the back of his neck, shushing him softly.

“This is the nicest thing anyone has ever done for me,” Harry murmurs against his skin.

Louis chuckles. “So you’ll wear it then?”

“Lou, you’ve seen it.” Harry pulls back with a frown. “S’bad luck.”

“I haven’t,” Louis swears. “I designed it, but I haven’t seen it put together. Oliver’s been making sure of it.”

Harry ponders that for a moment. “You haven’t seen it?”

Louis shakes his head no.

A wide smile finds its way to Harry’s face and he sways forward into Louis’ space more than he already is. “My love, there’s nothing I’d rather wear.”

∙ ∙ ∙

Their wedding unfolds on the Italian coast, sweeping them up in a sea breeze that speckles goose pimples along their skin. The smell of fresh basil and buttered pastries wafts down streets of cobblestone. They make promises sculpted from endless years of hopeful, whispered dreams as a bird’s song drifts in the wind, sweet peas and daffodils open in the summer sun, and two lovers with saccharine grins share a tender, lingering kiss. Tears slip down the faces of their families made of unabashed, bittersweet joy.

And where one man stands waiting, there’s another draped in sheets of ivory at the end of an aisle appearing an awful lot like forever.

~fin