Chapter Text
Chapter 1
“Good morning, London, and happy Monday!” Harry mumbled something, covering his still-closed eyes with his hand. “Gorgeous day today, wouldn’t you say, Mick?” God, he really needed to change his alarm from the radio to one of those awful phone ringtones. “Today, of course, we’ll be talking about last night’s Grammys…”
With that phrase, Harry’s brain finally switched on, and, unfortunately, his body woke up along with it. “We all know what we want to talk about, don’t we?”
“We’re talking about the same thing, right, Jane?” The DJ laughed.
“Obviously, about Lou—” Harry shut off his alarm. Too early to get wound up; he hadn’t even had his coffee yet. He got out of bed, threw on last night’s T-shirt, and sighed as he headed to the shower, trying to scrub the previous night off his body.
His routine had been the same for almost two years now: shower, breakfast with two biscuits and a long coffee, and then off to work. Finishing his second biscuit, he grabbed his car keys, ready for another day. Harry was well aware of what awaited him at the office. After all, the Grammys needed to be on the magazine’s front page within twenty-four hours, and along with the various wins, it was inevitable they’d discuss some behind-the-scenes details.
On his way to the office, Harry switched on the radio again, needing to listen to the talk about music even if he wasn’t keen—it was his job, after all. The first words he caught were, “…so they can all go fuck themselves.” Harry knew exactly who’d said that and who it was aimed at.
“Intense, right? Those were Louis Tomlinson’s words during his Grammy acceptance speech!”
“Been a long time since we’ve seen anything like that. Apparently, Tomlinson doesn’t take criticism well?”
“Well, the words about the latest album by The Rogue in Roll With It weren’t exactly kind, and yet they’ve bagged both Album of the Year and Artist of the Year… so maybe a bit misguided, those criticisms?”
“We all know Harry Styles can be a bit much sometimes, right?”
And… what? A hit like that wasn’t what Harry had expected first thing in the morning. True, Harry had a reputation as a music critic for not always sugar-coating things, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t good at his job. If he’d called The Rogue’s latest album “a poorly done ’80s revival for depressed teens,” he couldn’t be blamed for it, right? Alright, maybe to be fair, he should admit he’d only listened to the singles, because honestly, listening to almost an hour of Louis Tomlinson and Taylor Swift’s voices together would have given him heartburn. Christ… he probably had it right then.
Once parked, he headed into the office. Some people smiled, others just nodded in greeting, but the first friendly face he saw was Niall’s. “Well? You alright?”
“Not now.” He stopped him immediately, though his friend’s smirk didn’t fade. “Are the articles ready? We need to go to print.”
“Yes, boss, all set, and… hey! There’s news.”
Harry sighed, glancing at the photos from the previous night on his desk. “What?”
“Your dad’s thinking of dedicating an entire issue to the Grammy winners—”
“No, absolutely not.” Harry knew perfectly well what an entire issue on the Grammy winners would mean. First, interview after interview, and no, Harry would never interview The Rogue; second, as they usually did, there’d be an “On The Road” feature, following the artists on tour. He couldn’t deny they’d done that for all previous Album and Artist of the Year winners, but this time was different.
“I can handle it. After Tomlinson’s comments last night, I imagine they won’t be very open to us, or you especially, but maybe I can convince them.”
Harry shook his head. “No, Niall, this time I—”
“What’s the issue? I’ll deal with it, Haz.”
‘What’s the issue?’ Harry wanted to be honest, to tell Niall exactly why he didn’t want to and that he would never want anything more to do with Taylor Swift and Louis Tomlinson.
He took a deep breath, thinking things over. Though he always had a say at the magazine, his dad, David, had the final word. It was David, after reading Harry’s article, who’d said, “Harry, get it published everywhere.” And, well, Harry did, of course.
“Fine. My name’s not to come up once when you talk to their manager, got it?”
Niall nodded with a hint of a smile. “Of course, Styles.”
After two long hours of negotiating with The Rogue’s manager, Zayn Malik, the band had finally agreed to give them the exclusive. Niall confirmed that Harry would obviously be kept out of it, so he’d follow them on tour and handle the feature. The tour was set to start in two weeks, covering both Europe and America, and as Niall explained the details, Harry’s head was already pounding. His headache only got worse when from one of the journalists’ computers, he heard Louis Tomlinson’s speech from the night before.
“First of all, we want to thank all our fans; the support over the last two years has been immense, and if we’ve won both Album of the Year and Artist of the Year tonight, it’s mostly thanks to you.” Then Taylor Swift took the mic, “Your support is what keeps us going. And, of course, thanks to our manager, Zayn Malik, who’s given us the freedom to make our own choices from the start. Got anything to add, Lou?”
Lou, pff.
“Well, to all those who say we make music for depressed kids, if that’s true, then we’re their voice, and they can all go fuck themselves. Cheers, have a good night.”
Big laughs rippled through the office; even Niall cracked a grin.
“It’s not funny.”
“It kind of is, Harry, admit it.”
No, it wasn’t. “No, I think putting on a scene like that at the Grammys was unnecessary and honestly counterproductive for their image.”
Of course, the only response he got from Niall was an eye roll. Over the last five years, he’d received plenty of backlash from both artists and their fans—inevitable, really, and he was fine with it. The problem in this case was who’d taken the jab; he couldn’t care less about most other artists, but with Louis Tomlinson, deep down, he did.
Luckily, he hadn’t crossed paths with either of them the night before, though he knew they’d been there. Harry had been in the “press room” section, so at the back of the hall, far enough from the artists. Even later, at the after-party, he’d tried his best to avoid them, though that had been objectively harder: he’d caught sight of Louis Tomlinson from a distance, utterly pissed, slurring his words over the music.
Harry didn’t want to face how much he’d changed in just a few years. His hair was longer now, cut in a mullet; the few tattoos he’d had on his arms now covered him entirely, and, most importantly, his whole persona had changed. Louis Tomlinson had never been particularly outgoing—or rather, he hadn’t been with strangers; usually quite shy, but the life of the party around friends. He’d mostly worn tracksuits and hoodies, even when going out—a habit he’d abandoned in favour of skinny jeans and black shirts, often see-through. But it was his eyes, especially how they were made up, that showed just how much the old Louis Tomlinson was gone, or maybe not gone, but replaced by a new, famous version: the black eyeshadow framed his eyes, highlighting their blue whenever a spotlight hit his face, with glitter creating fake tears down his now more pronounced cheekbones.
Louis had always sai—no. The past is the past.
“Fancy lunch out today?” Harry found himself nodding at Niall’s suggestion, his headache worse than ever and his stomach in knots.