Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

“I’ve gained weight,” says Louis.

“Stop being a fucking idiot,” Niall replies.

Louis, as the grown man that he most certainly is, does not pout. He ignores Niall’s frown and his insistent hands, and resumes poking at his own stomach.

“Can you—“ Niall starts, but Louis doesn’t let him finish.

“No. I need you to participate in my pity party.”

Niall whacks him. “Bend. Now.”

“But I already bent—“

“Again.”

Louis huffs, lets go of his skin and instead puts his hands flat on the table the way he’s supposed to. He stares at the blank ceiling of the exercise room as he takes a deep breath. Three, two, one, he counts out in his head – mostly out of habit – and tenses his muscles. He lifts his leg, easy, then starts pulling ankle to thigh, like Niall taught him all those months ago.

“Good,” says the Irishman in question, standing by with his hands on his hips in case Louis needs help.

It’s infuriating, is what it is. Louis is a bloody adult. His mother taught him how to walk approximately twenty-three years ago, and he’s—in pain. Ow, motherfucker—

“Too fast,” Niall says. “Again.”

Louis would much appreciate if he sounded a little less smug about it. He’d tell him as much, too, but he’s too busy hissing as he stretches his leg back out, feeling things shift in his knee as it goes from White Hot Searing Agony to Normal Dull Throbbing.

“I want a new leg,” he tells the ceiling.

The ceiling, in Niall’s voice, replies: “Tough bloody chance. Get off.”

Louis obeys, though it makes him feel mildly humiliated. He’s hurting, and miserable, and his vest is drenched with sweat, because Niall is a tyrant.

“Don’t tell me we’re doing wall squats.”

“We’re doing wall squats,” Niall says brightly, brandishing that ugly blue ball of his. “Come on. I’ve got another patient at three.”

“I thought I was special,” Louis mumbles, too tired to rib him in earnest. He feels somewhat defeated as he leans back against the wall and relaxes his shoulders, slowly rolling down and back up. It doesn’t feel like anything is happening, or like he’s getting better – he’s been here for weeks, just stuck in an endless loop of leg lifts and quad sets and step-ups, and the pain is the same, always the same.

“Just do your work, Louis,” Niall says, kind, seemingly out of nowhere, like he’s following Louis’s train of thought. “You’re doing well. The screws are out, scars are all healed, your doctor says everything is working the way it should—“

“Is it,” Louis deadpans, rolling up a little too fast when his knee twinges. “Last I checked, I was still walking with a cane.”

Niall gives him a nasty look. He waits for Louis to finish his set of ten, then takes the ball back, as fed up with Louis’s attitude as Louis is with the concept of physiotherapy.

Louis goes about changing his top, digging in his backpack for a spare shirt while Niall flips through his pretentious patient journal.

“How’s Thursday sound?” he asks.

“Fine, whatever, ” Louis answers, short, already seeing himself stretched out on the sofa with a tub of ice cream. He regrets the tone as soon as the words come out of his mouth, but he’s too proud to take them back.

None of this is Niall’s fault—hell, Niall has been nothing but helpful ever since Louis hobbled into his office on a pair of crutches. He’s just the only one who’s around right now, and he’ll take whatever Louis throws at him in terse silence, used to the outbursts.

There was a time, very, very long ago, when Louis wasn’t angry every second of every day. It feels like a snapshot of a different life now, a different person.

“One o’clock,” Niall says, now standing next to him. “If you’re late, I’m going to make you do step-ups down in the lobby. See how everyone else who comes here to get better deals with you being a child.”

“I’m not—“ Louis starts, but forces himself to bite his tongue. “Nevermind. No tardiness. Got it, Mr Horan, sir.”

Niall takes the bait, and bares his teeth in a grin. He opens his arms, and Louis steps into the hug gratefully, still jittery but content in the knowledge that this routine of theirs will never change.

“See you Thursday,” he says, and pats Niall on the back, “Thanks.”

He makes his way down the stairs one at a time, pointedly ignoring the lift. The sound of his cane hitting the floor follows him like a shadow.

“You’re in a great mood,” is how Liam opens the conversation, waiting for Louis to fold himself into the passenger seat.

“Thanks for noticing,” Louis replies drily. He puts his seatbelt on, and ruffles Liam’s hair in greeting.

It’s warm inside the car, vents on full blast and seats radiating artificial heat, steaming up the windows against the autumn chill. Liam is dripping sweat behind the wheel, fidgeting uncomfortably.

“You cold?” Louis asks, dry, as he takes his shoes off and puts his feet up on the dashboard, stretching out his legs and angling his ankles just right. He already feels better, here with Liam.

“Yep,” Liam replies, grinning, looking at Louis with those annoying happy sparkles in his eyes. He knows, of course, how much Louis hates being cold. Knows that the chill of Louis’s hospital room got under his skin and never quite went away.

They pull away from the curb, into the early afternoon traffic that’s starting to thicken already. It’s wet outside, though not quite raining. Louis watches headlights and lit up shopfronts as they melt in the puddles and spill down the street, yellow and orange and golden.

The radio is turned down, barely audible, spelling a conversation that Louis probably won’t want to have. He stays quiet. Contemplates falling asleep.

“So,” Liam starts.

“So,” Louis repeats, flipping down the visor to check he’s not got anything in his teeth. “Have you had a nice day?”

“I was about to ask the same thing,” Liam says, waving thanks to a bus that lets him through. Louis looks at him out of the corner of his eye to try and figure out what this is about. Liam is an excellent liar, but he doesn’t usually bother around him.

“Let’s see,” he says. “I didn’t have any proper breakfast, because you refused to come over early and cook me some. It was raining in the morning, which means I’ve been in pain since then, and I just voluntarily subjected myself to two hours of torture. I’m fantastic.”

Liam snorts. “It’s not torture, Louis. It’s meant to help.”

“Yeah,” Louis says, poking his cane where it’s leaning against the seat. “Look, just—tell me what you want, bloody hell. We’re not fifteen.”

Liam swerves the car wildly to avoid a pothole. He’s got his lip trapped between his teeth, all but chewing on it. “We should probably talk about it when we get to yours. I can make you dinner? To make up for breakfast, I mean.”

“What the fuck,” Louis says, suddenly afraid. Liam doesn’t cook for him voluntarily. Ever. “Did someone die? Is—is something wrong with your mum? Did you and Soph break up again, because I swear to God—“

“I want to go back to work,” Liam interrupts. The silence that follows is absolute.

Louis looks straight ahead, unblinking. The sky outside has gone an ugly, muddy grey, and he can feel the impending storm in his bones.

“Oh,” he says finally.

Liam reaches out a hand, probably trying to console him, but pulls it right back. “Look, I—it’s not an immediate thing. I don’t have anything lined up, if that’s what you think, I haven’t been talking to people behind your back.”

To Louis’s surprise, that does make him feel better – and selfish, so selfish. “Thanks,” he says, rolling the sound around in his mouth until he figures out what to say next. He knew this was coming, of course. Liam isn’t his bloody mother, he’s not obligated to—

“I want you to know, though,” he interrupts Louis’s messy thoughts, “I won’t do it. If…if you don’t think you can do this on your own yet, I can wait. It’s not—it’s not more important to me than you, you know that.”

Louis’s chest feels tight. It takes him a second to register that they’ve stopped, parked neatly in a row of cars that all look familiar, because they’re in front of Louis’s building, and oh, it’s raining.

“Liam,” he says, a bit of a scratch in his voice. “Liam, for God’s sake.”

“I’m sorry,” Liam says, like he’s the one who should be apologising. Louis takes one look at him, wringing his hands and looking into the floor, and leans over the console to pull him into a hug. It puts pressure on his hip, his leg, just this side of uncomfortable, but he figures he can take it for thirty seconds.

“No,” he says. “You can’t just sit around forever because of me. It’s been long enough, yeah? You deserve to go back. I know how many offers you’ve turned down.”

Liam pulls away, frowning. “You read my emails?”

“I just know you’re good,” Louis grins.

Liam huffs. He look at Louis, then runs a hand through his hair, still unsure.

“Liam,” Louis says, stern. “We’re going upstairs, and you’re calling the last person who made you an offer.”

“The last person who made me an offer was Simon.”

Louis blinks in shock. “Simon? As in Simon Cowell, our former boss, with whom you almost got into a fistfight because of me? That Simon?”

“Stop being dramatic,” Liam says fondly. “Yes, that Simon. Last I heard, Roberts quit on him, so I reckon he’s desperate.”

“Wow,” says Louis.

He hasn’t heard from Simon at all, not since—not since. He’d got his last paycheck when he was barely conscious at the hospital, delivered by someone from the legal department without a single kind word, without so much as a thank you, and that was it. That was all that Simon had to say to him, after so many months; after years.

“You’re not thinking of going back to him, are you?”

Liam looks at him like he’s grown an extra head. “Don’t be daft, of course not. After the way he talked about you? No way in hell.”

“You had it good there, though,” Louis points out. “First class horses, schmoozing with all of his important friends – and he isn’t exactly poor, you know.”

“I’m not going back to Simon,” Liam says, opening his door. “I’d rather be unemployed forever.”

Louis follows suit, carefully getting himself out of the car, backpack on one shoulder and fingers wrapped firmly around his cane. He barely has time to register the rain before Liam is there, holding an umbrella over the two of them. Louis pats him on the stomach in thanks, and they being a slow, shuffling walk towards the entrance.

“It’s not too late to become a fireman, you know, ” Louis says. Liam pinches his nipple.

So it happens, then, that the two of them begin a tireless search for work.

That is to say, Liam comes over twice a week, they order takeout, and half-heartedly browse the Internet. With frequent pauses for fail videos, because Liam is twelve and inexplicably fond of them.

“This probably isn’t the right way to go about it,” Louis says one Friday, stretched out on his living room floor, stomach full of pizza and his whole body aching after a particularly grueling session Niall put him through. “You should call people who are actually in racing.”

Sophia, who’s supervising them for the night, hums in agreement.

“Maybe,” says Liam. “Like I said, though, it’s not that pressing.”

“That was a month ago, babe,” Sophia chimes in. “You have to find something now, nobody will be looking for a trainer when the season is in full swing.”

“You’re supposed to be supportive,” Liam pouts.

“I am being supportive, sweetie.”

Louis giggles. He feels warm and lazy, surprisingly content considering the nature of this meeting. It’s going slow because they haven’t been trying, not really, but Liam is a damn good trainer. He’ll find something soon, and Louis will have to start dealing with everyday life like an adult again.

It’s a horrific, terrifying thought.

“Maybe we should buy a horse,” he says, thinking out loud more than anything else. He’s taken a few painkillers today, and they’ve left him surprisingly clear-headed. “Open a stable, like. You could train, and I’d be the pretty face that everyone wants to interview.”

“Right,” Liam snorts. “Neither of us has the money to buy anything above lower class three, Louis. Even if we trained it up from scratch—“

“No self-respecting jock would race it, yeah, I know. It’s just a suggestion, don’t bite my head off.”

Liam sighs, fingers dancing over the keyboard of his laptop. Louis can just about see the screen, bright in the late afternoon darkness that’s slowly creeping in through the windows.

Which means that he sees, in full Technicolor and real time, when Liam types gumtree.com into the browser bar.

Sophia stops reading her tome of a book – Nietzsche, or some such – and leans over his shoulder, interested.

“What are you doing,” Louis says, crawling closer and propping his head up on Liam’s thigh instead of a pillow. “Get out of there. I feel like we’re all going to get murdered just looking through it.”

Liam rolls his eyes – Louis can’t see, but he knows. “It’s not that bad. And we’ve looked everywhere else, there’s no harm in trying this.”

“It’s Gumtree. You’re not going to find a job—“

“Shush,” says Sophia, and pats him on the head like he’s a toddler.

Louis shuts up, crosses his arms, and waits.

Liam clicks the search bar, thinks for a few seconds, and finally types in two words: horse trainer. 1 ad for horse trainer in All Classifieds, United Kingdom, the site informs him, and Louis sits up in surprise.

There is, indeed, an ad. Trainer wanted for seven-year-old mare, it says, and not much else. Looking to introduce my horse to racing and jumps. Small, energetic, loves to run. Please call for more information. Thank you. H Styles.

There’s a second of silence as they all read over it. Sophia makes an amicable noise, then goes back to her book, but Liam keeps looking at the screen with his brows furrowed, eyes going over the text again and again.

There’s stomping from upstairs, probably the neighbours and their brood of children coming home from yet another trip. Louis looks towards the ceiling, watches his lamp swing from side to side. He almost misses the movement in the corner of his eye.

Liam reaches for his phone. Louis reaches for Liam, and slaps his hand away.

“What was that for?” Liam asks, eyes big and hurt.

Louis is speechless for a second. “You can’t—you’re not thinking of actually calling this person. Tell me you’re not.”

“It’s my potential employer, Louis. Leave me alone.”

“H Styles is not a real name.”

Liam ignores him, like he usually does when Louis gets too obnoxious for his taste.

As Louis watches him tap in the numbers, he unconsciously brings his fingers to his mouth and bites down on one of his nails. Liam can hold his own in any fight, not to mention the fact that he can’t get murdered over the phone – that’s not what this is about, and Louis is self-aware enough to admit it.

It’s been a vague, distant kind of thought, Liam going back to work. Louis thought that maybe, just maybe, they really could figure something out together, that he could keep Liam’s company and the free rides until he was ready to let go himself.

That’s not how things work, though, and he knows that, he knows. He gave Liam his blessing, and he has to live with it.

He just—wishes he didn’t have to.

Nobody ever said that Louis is a mature person.

Liam wraps an arm around him, like he knows exactly what’s going on in Louis’s head, and puts the call on speakerphone. It’s just gone half six, not late enough to be offensive, but a time when some people prefer to ignore the telephone and settle in with a cup of tea. Louis hopes that H Styles is that kind of person.

“Hello?” says a voice on the other end of the line, ruining Louis’s feeble optimism. “Who’s there?”

It’s deep, the voice. A little sleepy, rumbly, though that might be the connection acting up, and—young. Really, really young.

“Hi,” Liam says cheerfully. “My name is Liam, I’m calling about your ad?”

“What ad?” the voice asks.

Liam blinks, scratching the back of his head. “Um—the ad. Maybe I’ve typed the number wrong, I’m so sorry—“

“There’s an ad with your number on Gumtree,” Sophia breaks in, no-nonsense. “Says you’re looking for a horse trainer.”

There’s silence. The line crackles as somebody breathes on the other end.

“Does it say which horse?” H Styles asks, finally, a strange tone to his voice. “Sorry, I—it must have been my cousin, he fancies himself an expert on racing, he’s been telling me to sign Marshmallow up—“

“Marshmallow,” Louis interrupts.

“Yes—how many of you are there? But, uh, yes. She’s a great runner, but I don’t know anything about racing, I’m not sure if it’s the right fit for her, you know?”

Louis—oh God, Louis smiles, entirely against his own will. This H Styles, a disembodied voice on the other end of the line, is concerned with his horse’s wellbeing.

After experiencing the Cowell stable, where Simon runs his animals into the ground until they physically can’t get up anymore, Louis can’t help appreciating a little bit of humanity.

Liam, too, seems to be somewhat fond of H Styles already. “Tell you what, Mr Styles.”

“Harry, please,” the voice says. Liam’s grin stretches.

“Tell you what, Harry. Why don’t we meet for a chat? I’ve got plenty of experience, you can ask me anything you’d like to know about racing. Maybe I could look at this horse of yours? You never know, you might have the next Foinavon on your hands.”

“Isn’t he the one that won after everyone else fell out of the race?” Harry asks, but Louis thinks he hears a hint of laughter in his voice.

Liam, for all his earlier confidence, grows sheepish again. “That’s not—bollocks, I meant that she could win in the big races one day, even though nobody knows who she is.”

“I know what you meant,” says Harry, cheeky. “And I’d love to meet you, actually. I, uh—how would you feel about coming to mine, say, tomorrow at five? I can text you the sat nav coordinates, it’s kind of in the middle of nowhere.”

Liam bounces in place, obviously pleased. Louis can’t bring himself to be anything but happy for him.

“Sounds good,” he says. “Can I bring a friend?”

Me? Louis mouths, fake-blinking through tears. Liam rolls his eyes.

“Of course,” Harry says, the duh plain to hear. “I’ll let you go now, but it was nice talking to you. Sorry, uh—sorry about the confusion.”

“It was no bother,” Liam reassures. “I’ll see you tomorrow then, Harry. Thanks for giving me a chance.”

“My pleasure. Bye,” he says, in that awkward way most people adopt when they’re not sure how to end a call, and his voice – very pleasant to listen to, Louis must admit – is replaced by the beep beep beep of a lost connection.

“I can’t believe this,” Liam says, grinning at his phone in shock. “Soph, did you hear, he said—“

“I heard,” Sophia smiles indulgently and gives him a kiss on the head. “Congratulations, babe.”

“You’re not employed yet,” Louis points out, half joking. It’s worth it for the identical scornful looks they give him. “But congrats. I’m proud of you.”

Liam’s grin softens into a smile. “Thanks,” he says, and looks back to his mobile.

Harry Styles, he types out carefully above the last number he’d called.

Louis stares at the letters until they blur; until the words stop making sense in his head.

Harry Styles.

“You have got to be joking.”

Liam looks like he shares the sentiment, but can’t quite find the words to express it.

It is precisely four fifty-five in the afternoon, a cool, sunny autumn day, and they’ve just parked in front of the Styles residence. Which has its own parking lot, because it’s bloody ginormous.

“This is a summer home for the Queen. This is a trick, Liam, there is no way that kid you talked to yesterday lives here.”

“Maybe he’s the teenage heir of a fortune,” Liam says. “Or a Youtuber.”

Louis shakes his head. Blinks once, twice, three times, but the palace in front of them remains unchanged, tall and imposing and lit orange by the settting sun.

“We’re going to be late,” Liam says, and pulls the key out of the ignition hesitantly, like he’s not entirely sure if they’re being pranked.

Louis opens the door. There’s gravel on the ground, but his cane sinks right through it into the soft soil underneath, wobbly as he leans on it while getting out. It’s going to be muddy by the time they make it to the front door, and he’s going to have to leave it behind lest he get dirt on the carpets inside, undoubtedly Persian. Goodie.

Off the parking lot, the gravel turns into a real stone path, much easier to walk on. Louis doesn’t have to pay as much attention to staying upright, which gives him a chance to look at the house again. He’s probably not going to stop believing it’s an apparition, not even once he’s standing in it.

It’s all tall, cream-coloured walls and ornamented windows, a main house and two wings that look more like the turrets of a castle. It seems to gleam, encased in an translucent layer of gold or silver or diamonds. It reeks of opulence, of money.

They walk through a wide open iron gate, Liam leading with a somewhat unsure step, and stand in the yard. It’s not as manicured as Louis would have expected – a few wild rose bushes, ivy that’s starting to creep up the walls, a murky little pond. There are no rectangular hedges, no clipped lawn, just overgrown grass, dipping in places with what looks like hoof prints.

“This is…I don’t know what this is,” Liam says, looking up at the gleaming windows. “I don’t want to work for another Simon.”

Louis understands where he’s coming from – he, too, feels a prickle of familiarity at the back of his neck. Simon’s main estate is much bigger than this, but still eerily similar, down to the golden knocker on the front door. It makes Louis uneasy, even as lovely as it looks in the sunset.

He’s just about to suggest that they turn around and go, maybe tell Harry Styles that they’ve had a change of heart, but he doesn’t get the chance.

The door opens, slow but steady, and in it stands—a boy.

“Hello,” he grins. Even from this far away, Louis can make out dimples in his cheeks. “I hope one of you is Liam.”

“Yes,” Liam says immediately, barely missing a beat. “That’s me, hi.”

He strides down the path with squared shoulders, professional and confident, the way he’d been when Louis first met him. He’s clearly not as—affected as Louis is.

He moves forward, too, not once looking away from the lone figure of Harry Styles – and what a figure it is, Christ. Even in a mismatched ensemble of wellies, skinny jeans and a sheepskin jacket, he looks just about good enough to eat.

Louis’s gaze lingers on his thighs, thick and gorgeous, and wonders, very briefly, what they would feel like wrapped around his head. His brain screams at him for being outrageously inappropriate, but he can’t help himself. It’s been months since he’s been in any kind of attractive company, any company at all that wasn’t Liam or Niall.

He walks closer, careful, and drinks in every new detail in Harry’s face, the curls and waves and twists in his long, long hair; the way it falls across his shoulders, like he’s a painting instead of a real, live human.

He’s got gorgeous eyes, Harry does, sparkling, as green as the grass underfoot, and lips the colour of cherries. He looks like a bloody prince, both at home and completely out of place in this castle of his.

It’s the imperfections, though, that somehow make him gorgeous enough to be an apparition. It’s the light, patchy stubble over his upper lip, the birthmark on his jaw; the way he pouts like a child when he introduces himself and Louis takes a while to shake his hand.

“Sorry, sorry,” he says, wrapping his fingers around Harry’s palm. “I’m Louis.”

“Liam’s friend?” Harry raises an eyebrow, shifting a piece of gum around the inside of his mouth, and manages to look endearing, rather than like a posh twat.

“That’s right,” Louis replies, trying his best to be polite and charming, and resolutely not thinking about how big Harry’s hand feels. “I don’t trust him to make decisions on his own, see—“

“That’s enough,” Liam steps in, smiling fakely. He wraps an arm around Louis’s shoulders and pulls him back a step.

Louis can pinpoint the second that Harry’s gaze slides off his face and down, to where his hand is firmly wrapped around his cane. Of course.

It had been good while it lasted, thinking about how beautiful Harry was. He’s going to look at Louis differently now, with less cheeky spark and more pity – that’s the way it always goes.

“Um,” Harry says, quickly filling out the silence. “I’m sorry, I didn’t realise—I can have her brought here, if you’d like.”

Louis bats Liam’s hands off him, straightens out his coat and his dignity. “That’s not necessary,” he says, just this side of clipped. “We can walk.”

Harry frowns, but nods. “Sure. Just—you know. It’s not a problem. If you need anything at all, let me know.”

Louis feels a pang of regret. Harry’s sweet, and genuine about it too, but he just—he doesn’t need people going to extra lengths for him, not because of this, at least. His leg is useless, and that’s fine. He’s re-learned how to walk. He doesn’t need this gorgeous boy’s pity, doesn’t need anybody else’s. He just wants to be.

He should look into making his cane invisible, one of these days.

“Anyways,” says Harry, clapping his hands together and pulling the door closed after himself. He’s looking at Louis still, and there doesn’t seem to be anything but happy interest in his eyes.

Louis is probably making it up, though. Just wishing too hard for a person who’d treat him the same they treat everyone.

“Right this way, gentlemen,” he says, and then his back is to them, squeaking down the stone path in his wellies.

“What was that?” Liam whispers, hovering close to him.

“Don’t know what you’re talking about,” Louis dismisses him, pushing forward.

Now that the house – palace – is behind them, Louis has a chance to look around. Harry’s got a good-sized chunk of land here, gorgeous and tranquil for how close to the city it is. The very tip of the Gherkin is still visible above the treetops, but it seems light years away. They’re surrounded by green, green grass, small hills stretching all the way to the horizon like waves in a sea. There’s even a cluster of trees, something that might pass for a forest if Louis were to look hard enough.

Harry turns off the path, and Louis has to slow and wait for Liam, who keeps a steadying hand on his elbow. Clumsily, they walk on, slip-sliding downhill.

There’s a stable to their left, Louis notices, impressively large and new-looking. He thinks that’s probably where Harry is leading them, but they walk right on past, and Louis realises that the doors and windows are all shut.

“That’s strange,” Liam says, following Louis’s gaze. “I hope he hasn’t got anything stalled in there.”

He doesn’t say anything else, but Louis can tell they’re both thinking about Simon. He’s got what he calls a foolproof training tactic: when a horse disobeys, he stalls it separately for the night, in complete darkness and silence. Both Liam and the vet had told him, time and time again, that it was unsafe and traumatizing. For Simon, that was the point.

At the time, Louis had settled for keeping the horses he rode out of trouble. It makes him sick to his stomach now, thinking of all the others who didn’t have someone looking out for them.

“There she is,” Harry says suddenly, leagues ahead, and the softness in his voice tells Louis he isn’t speaking to them.

Sure enough, as the ground evens out under their feet and they leave the stable behind, a large meadow comes into view. And on it – Louis breathes a sigh of relief – a sizeable herd of horses. They look relaxed, heads to the ground as they graze, tails swishing back and forth.

It’s only then that Louis realises he can smell them, and he breathes in a deep lungful of air. It almost makes him cry with how familiar it feels; it’s home.

They follow after Harry, weaving around horses big and small, chestnut brown and inky black and dapple grey. They all vary in height and build, not quite the picture of a perfect thoroughbred stable. Louis even spots a pony or two.

“These all yours?” he calls.

Harry turns around, the chilly breeze in the air whipping his hair around his face.

“Yeah,” he smiles, burying his chin into the lining of his jacket. “Absolute nightmares, the lot of them.”

As if on cue, a young horse sneaks up behind him, poking its nose into his pocket. It’s a yearling at most, too gangly to be any older, but it’s quite tall already, and impressively filled out. Somebody clearly takes good care of it.

“Hey!” Harry squeaks – squeaks – and jumps in surprise. He looks over his shoulder. “Bubble! No treats today, stop it. No.”

He takes the horse’s head and gently pushes it away, eyes big an apologetic. Louis bites his lip to stop a smile.

“Bubble?” he asks, teasing. He’s come closer now, and the filly looks at him as he says her name, clearly intrigued.

“I think it’s a sweet name,” Liam pipes up. What an arsekisser.

“Thank you,” Harry beams at him, then looks at Louis with victory clear in his eyes, like he’s won some enormous fight they’d been having. “See, Liam can appreciate an aptly-named horse. I’d like to see you try to come up with a name when you’ve still got horse placenta on your hands.”

“Gross,” Louis says, but then Harry’s words catch up with him. “Did you deliver her?”

Harry smiles at the ground, cheeks red from the chill. “Not really, no,” he says. “I just helped. She was—“ and he moves to Bubble, who’s still standing around watching their pockets, then covers her ears, “she was an accident. My mother bought a colt, and we didn’t geld him in time, so Bubble just kind of…happened. We weren’t sure how far along her dam was, exactly, and we, uh. We weren’t expecting her to go into labour yet.”

Louis stands, in the middle of a clearing with his hands in his pockets, and stares. This boy—God, this gorgeous, gorgeous boy. He seems so clumsy, confused at the best of times, but there’s a wisdom about him as he speaks, a maturity that belies his age.

Louis is hopelessly, wildly attracted to him.

“How old is she?” Louis asks, and fishes a sugar cube out of his pocket. When he extends it on an open palm, Bubble trots to him immediately, lapping it up before he has a chance to blink. Her whiskers tickle, but her nose is velvety soft, familiar.

“Fourteen months,” Harry says. There’s an adorable pout on his face when Louis looks at him, bottom lip jutting out in discontent. “And I would appreciate if you didn’t feed her without permission.”

Louis pulls his hand back immediately, startling Bubble. Liam is laughing at him, unsubtly trying to hide it in his sleeve.

“Sorry,” he says, sheepish. “I’m probably messing up her diet.”

Harry blinks, head cocked to the side like a curious spaniel. “No, that’s—it’s just that she’s really quick to bond with people. She’ll be sad if you never show up again.”

She is, indeed, already butting her head against Louis’s chest, demanding scratches.

“Well,” he smiles as he pets her cheek, “then I’ll just have to keep coming back.”

Harry doesn’t say anything. Louis thinks he can see the beginnings of a dimple in his cheek, though.

They get back to walking eventually, with Bubble trailing after them. Harry points out a few other horses, throws out names like Francis and Butterfly, and Louis, hilariously enough, finds himself hanging onto every word that comes out of his mouth.

“Mate,” Liam pokes him in the side, just this side of too hard. “Mate, it’s only been half an hour. I can’t believe you’ve got it this bad for him already.”

“Do not,” Louis hisses, poking back. “I’ve just got the decency to pay attention when he’s saying something.”

“Right. Then I’ll just have to keep coming back?”

“Shut up,” Louis says. There’s a burn in his cheeks, but it’s from the cold – nothing else.

The mysterious Marshmallow, as it turns out, is grazing in the very back, keeping an eye on the herd. She’s—underwhelming.

“Ta-dah,” is how Harry presents her, holding out his arms. “Meet Marshmallow. Marshmallow, this is Liam, and that’s Louis.”

Louis watches, out of the corner of his eye, as Liam surveys her with growing horror. Louis feels bad for him, he does – he’d really thought this would be it, his ticket back in the proverbial saddle.

But the fact of the matter is, this is no race horse. She’s pretty enough, dirty white and solid in build, but she’s so—ordinary. Very short, for one, no more than fifteen hands, a little too shallow in the chest and bent low in the back, her mane overgrown and hiding her face.

Harry can tell, from the terseness of the silence, that things aren’t going well.

“I know she doesn’t look like much,” he says, and whispers a sorry to her as he pats her flank. “But she’s—she can do it, I promise you. I’m not sure if she’ll know how to compete, but she can run, Liam. She just needs a little help.”

Liam starts pacing, deep in thought. Louis leans on his cane cautiously, stretching forward to touch Marshmallow’s neck. She lets him, unbothered.

“Louis,” Liam says, clearly distressed. “What do you think?”

Louis’s mouth goes dry. He takes a hold of Liam’s shoulder, looks into Harry’s beautiful, unsure eyes, then the horse grazing next to them.

She looks like a trail horse, or maybe one fit for riding school, calm as she is. Louis can’t imagine her clearing hurdles alongside the top runners, can’t imagine her outrunning Mon Mome, or Coneygree, or anything other than a tractor.

His knee twinges, protesting the weight he’s putting on it as he sways in place, thinking. Harry says she can do it, and Louis—Louis has no reason not to believe him.

“I think,” he says, and actually hears Harry’s breathing stop, “I think she deserves a chance.”

“This isn’t a proper course,” Liam says.

“No shit,” says Louis.

The thing about princely estates in the English countryside is – they’re not meant to be training grounds. Harry’s has a rickety wooden corral and a roofed riding hall that’s seen much better days, but that’s about it.

Which is how they’ve come to be standing behind the stable, looking over an oval of packed dirt.

“Matty made it,” Harry explains, holding Marshmallow’s lead in one hand and a saddle in the other. “My cousin, I mean. Ages ago. He said it was good enough to train on.”

Liam shakes his head. “Once a week, maybe. You’ll need something proper if you’re serious about this.”

Harry doesn’t miss a beat. “Of course,” he nods. “I can, uh—are there people who make race courses to order?”

Louis grins, hoping the falling darkness will hide his face. It’s gotten even colder, and he’s stolen Liam’s scarf, but, as cute as Harry is, he wishes they could get this over with and go inside.

According to Harry, there is no one around who can ride. Liam’s had to step up to the plate in his sagging jeans and Timberlands, and Louis is supposed to be his eyes.

Harry hands the horse over and steps back. He looks cold, too, the tip of his nose tinged red.

Marshmallow stands relaxed and still while they tack her up, her eyes almost closed. Louis gets to give her the bit, and she nuzzles into his hand while she chews on it, trying to get it to settle in her mouth.

“Watch it,” Liam says, adjusting the stirrups. “Make sure she’s not putting it under her tongue.”

“I’ve tacked a horse before, you know,” Louis replies, but still bends down to check. Everything seems to be fine – she’s still just standing, unmoving, like she couldn’t care less about what’s happening around her.

Louis isn’t quite sure if that’s a good thing. He’s ridden plenty of apathetic horses, and most of them couldn’t be bothered to actually race.

Liam takes her from there, reins in one hand and walking firmly in front of her. He’s testing her, Louis knows, but seeing Liam so serious still makes him giggle.

He joins Harry, who’s standing by the edge of the oval. There’s warmth radiating off his lanky frame, tantalising in its intensity. Louis can’t help but imagine opening the buttons of his jacket and pressing right up against him, warming himself down to the bone.

The evening creeps in around them, quiet and inky black here away from the city. Louis thinks he can see the bright lights of London in the distance, hanging in the air like a dark orange cloud. There’s no noise here, though, no honking and shouting and sirens on every street corner. It’s just them – Liam, saying something Louis can’t quite make out, Harry’s little rasp of a breath, and Louis’s own heart beating loud in his ears.

“Are you a trainer as well?” Harry asks, out of nowhere.

He’s already watching when Louis looks up at him, chin resting on the woolen collar of his jacket, eyes sparkling. He’s not smiling this time, his lips a soft, relaxed line, but he still looks almost painfully kind.

And he—he doesn’t know who Louis is.

“You don’t know who I am?”

Harry blinks, surprised. Louis takes a second to reflect on what he’s just said.

“I meant—Jesus, sorry, I sound like a right knob. I don’t get out much,” he says, looking pointedly at his leg.

One corner of Harry’s mouth quirks up, amused. “Should I know you?”

Louis takes a risk. “If you want,” he says, giving him a grin. He waits a second, just long enough for his words to register, then goes on: “Not really, no. You said you don’t know much about racing, right?”

“Right.”

“But you knew who Foinavon was,” Louis points out.

Harry rolls his eyes. It makes him look even younger. “Everyone knows Foinavon. They named an obstacle at Aintree after him.”

Louis hums. “That’s true. Know any other famous horses?”

“Um,” Harry says, biting his lip. A wrinkle appears between his eyebrows, and Louis resists the urge to reach out and rub it away. “Red Rum? Red Rum’s pretty famous, right?”

“I like a man who knows his history,” Louis replies, moving just a breath closer. He could almost thread his arm through the crook of Harry’s elbow, like he wants to. “How many times did he win the National?”

“Three,” says Harry triumphantly. “Seventy-three, seventy-four, and, uh. Um.”

“Seventy-seven.”

“I knew that.”

“Sure you did,” Louis grins. “Let’s see what else you know.”

Harry turns towards him, accepting the challenge.

“Who won this year?” Louis asks. He barely knows himself, if he’s honest, found it too difficult to just sit on his sofa and watch through cameras. He was supposed to be there. It was going to be his big win.

“Oh, I do know that,” Harry smiles. “Watched it on the telly. Many Clouds.”

“Mhm. I’ve got to come up with something more difficult, hold on.”

He puts a hand to his forehead, pretending to be deep in thought. He can’t be sure, but he thinks he hears Harry giggle.

“Okay, I’ve got one. The first mare to ever win the National.”

Louis knows he’s got him as soon as he closes his mouth. Harry, bless him, tries to come up with some sort of answer, but in the end can’t do much more than shrug.

“Too hard,” he says, and pouts again.

God, Louis wants to—hug him. He wants to hug him quite badly, to be honest, even though they’ve barely met.

“It was,” he allows. “Sorry. Her name was Charity, and she won in 1841. You’ll know now, for future reference.”

“Thank you,” Harry says. He seems genuine about it, too. “I don’t know how I ever lived without knowing that.”

“You’re a sore loser,” Louis tells him. Harry sticks out his tongue.

“Wasn’t aware this was a competition,” he smiles, all angelic.

Louis, drawn to him like the opposite pole of a magnet, risks a small punch in the arm. It barely translates through the sheepskin, but Harry still puts an offended hand over his heart.

This is Louis’s first real human contact in approximately six months, outside of Niall, Liam and Sophia. He’s overjoyed to find that he still knows how to talk to people, and what’s more, that he’s going to get along with this particular person like a house on fire.

Maybe. Unless Liam decides to be a pain in the arse and pass on this horse.

“Up for a rematch?” Harry asks, grinning like the Cheshire cat.

Louis rubs his hands together. “Do your worst.”

“Most National wins for a stable.”

It startles a laugh out of Louis, just because—“Cowell. Someday Maybe, Mayfair, Golden Rose and Troubadour, all in the last fifteen years.”

He wonders how Harry knows, self-professed racing layman that he is, but he figures it’s not that much of a surprise. Louis’s former boss is very fond of having his face plastered across all sorts of newspapers.

Harry’s eyebrows climb up. “That was fast.”

“What can I say,” Louis shrugs, throwing out his arms as dramatically as possible. “I’m a fan.”

“Of Cowell, really? He’s not a very nice man.”

The urge to hug Harry comes back, ferocious. Louis only just resists. “You’re right about that,” he mumbles. His knee twinges again, demanding his attention. He’d completely forgotten about it, busy talking to Harry and leaning on his cane just so.

He rolls his ankle a few times, then tenses the muscles in his calf, slowly working his way up like Niall taught him. It’s almost an unconscious reaction at this point.

“Do you know him?” Harry asks. He seems to have cottoned on to Louis’s discomfort, watching him with a little less joy and a little more concern, but he doesn’t bring it up.

“Simon?” Louis asks. “We’ve, uh—we’ve met.”

“Then you are in racing,” Harry says, a curious spark in his eyes.

“Eh, not so much,” says Louis, scratching the back of his neck. “It’s been a while since I’ve been near any of this.”

“Oh,” Harry mumbles, a soft, small sound. “Why?”

Louis makes a decision, just then, underneath the first few of tonight’s stars. They’re only just visible in the dark blue sky when Louis looks up, but they make him feel settled; remind him of home, of sitting in the garden with his mum after his sisters have gone off to bed and drawing constellations with his fingers.

“Do you remember last year’s biggest racing news story?”

Harry blinks. He thinks it’s part of the game, probably. That’s good, Louis tells himself, a few more seconds of that happy, open look on his face before he figures it out.

“The fall at the Trial? That made it into the evening news and everything.”

“Yep,” Louis nods. He shoves his free hand deeper into his pocket, picking at the lining. He’s nervous, almost like he’s sitting on the starting line again, a restless horse underneath him and a wide stretch of turf ahead. “Remember anything else about it?”

“Just that the jockey survived,” he says. “That was the only thing I cared about, really. Um—was it a Cowell horse? Is that why you’re telling me this?”

“It was. His name’s Tic Tac, but you probably wouldn’t have heard of him this year. He hasn’t had a very good season.”

Louis can’t help thinking about him as he looks out at Liam and Marshmallow, still working from the ground, him trotting ahead and her right behind. Tic Tac had been a fresh 120 the year before, still young and just this side of reckless, and Louis had been waiting for his ticket into the big races. They fit from the very first furlong.

Harry, poor thing, seems to be more confused by the minute. Louis isn’t exactly making it easy for him.

“Did you—did you train him, or something? You never said no when I asked if you were a trainer, you know.”

“I didn’t train him,” Louis replies, kind. “Just—um. The jock, the one who fell. Do you remember his name?”

This is, without a doubt, the most dramatic introduction Louis has ever done. It’s just that—people know him, usually, and spare him the pain of having to explain, but not Harry, oh no. Of course not.

He picks at the fabric of his sleeve while Harry thinks, scratching off the pills and dropping them in the grass. Liam’s got Marshmallow on a lunge now. She circles him in a lazy, comfortable canter, and he watches her feet like a hawk. He’s going to get in the saddle soon.

“The jock,” Harry murmurs. When Louis turns to look at him, he’s staring at the ground, his whole face scrunched as he thinks. “I don’t think—I know he was popular, but I—wait.”

He pulls a phone out of his pocket, unlocking it with a thorough slide of his finger. The screen lights up a bright white, piercing through the comfortable haze of dusk and casting deep shadows across Harry’s face.

“That’s cheating,” Louis points out, but he already knows it’s going to fall on deaf ears. He braces himself instead of arguing, both hands clutching his cane.

“Here,” Harry almost shouts, visibly excited. “Horse racing star wounded in horrific accident. “This year’s Grand National Trial was supposed to be a ticket to the hall of fame for L—oh. Oh my God.”

He actually gapes, his mouth hanging open in silent shock. Louis clears his throat, feeling incredibly awkward.

“Uh, it’s. Nice to meet you?”

Harry looks up at him, then back down at his phone, then up again. There’s something in his eyes that looks a suspicious amount like awe.

“This says cracked skull and five broken ribs,” he says finally, dry.

“Those healed already,” Louis replies, careful, careful. “The femur did too, for the most part, and the tib-fib. It’s just the knee that’s giving me trouble.”

“But you—you’re—I don’t even know what I’m trying to say.”

Louis shakes his head. The ground is suddenly much more interesting than the storm going on in Harry’s face. “You don’t have to say anything,” he shrugs. “Sorry for springing this on you. It’s not—I don’t much like talking about it.”

It’s the understatement of the century, that.

“No, I understand,” Harry says, almost stuttering in hurry. “I’m sorry, this is—oh, sod it. I’m Harry Styles,” he says, and offers his right hand. “It’s lovely to meet you.”

Something ignites inside Louis’s chest, so very warm. He doesn’t wait to be asked twice and takes Harry’s hand, for the second time that day. It’s still just as big, just as nice.

Makes Louis feel just as safe.

“The pleasure’s all mine,” he says, smiling, “Really.”

They hold on for a little longer than strangers would, both leaning in, holding each other’s eyes. Harry gives him a timid little grin, so reassuring it actually aches, and Louis gives one in return.

That, of course, is the perfect moment for Liam to swoop in.

“Louis,” he calls, the breeze that’s picked up carrying his words. “I’m going up.”

“I’m watching,” Louis calls back, and lets go of Harry to give the makeshift racecourse his undivided attention. It’s really gotten dark; he can’t see very much of Liam, and only a little bit more of the horse. Once Liam mounts and gets her walking, though, she’s easy enough to watch, her white coat standing out from her surroundings.

“She looks like a ghost,” Louis points out, and Harry giggles somewhere over his shoulder.

It’s business from there on out. Louis tries his best to focus, so as to give Liam his honest (read: only slightly embellished in favour of Marshmallow and her charming enigma of an owner) opinion.

Thankfully, she has a lovely walk, somewhat languid but long and powerful. It looks comfortable; Louis can almost imagine being the one astride her, drawing white circles into the night.

She’s very obviously not a youngster anymore, moving with the calm demeanor of an adult horse, one that’s used to carrying out commands. She’s quite responsive, too, easy on the rein, not yet at that age all horses seem to reach one day, when they clam up and can’t be bothered to do more than the bare minimum under saddle.

“I think she’s alright,” he tells Liam as they walk by. “Nice form. She looked a bit sickle-hocked out on the pasture, but I don’t see it anymore.”

Liam nods – Louis thinks he does, at least – and leans back to stop her.

“She’s very well trained, Harry,” he says. “You did a great job.”

Harry beams. He’s close enough that Louis can make out his features, his gleaming white teeth.

“Thank you,” he says. “I mean—to give credit where credit is due, it was mostly my stepdad who trained her, but I did help.”

Marshmallow stretches out her neck when he speaks, reaching for his pocket. She can’t quite get there, and she doesn’t move from the spot – good, that’s good – but Harry comes towards her easily, handing out something that looks like a wild apple.

“Harry,” Louis reprimands, though it comes out sounding fond more than anything.

Harry has the decency to looks sheepish, and steps back to let Liam get back to it.

“Sorry,” he says, looking at Marshmallow with obvious love in his eyes. She’s chewing the apple around her bit, looking incredibly content. “I can never resist her.”

“It’s alright,” Liam says.

Louis blinks. Liam usually harps about things like this when he goes into trainer mode – Louis has been whacked upside the head many a time, just for sneaking Tic Tac bits of carrot out of his pocket.

It’s probably Harry’s bloody dimples. Irresistible, they are.

“Take notes,” he tells Louis next, and then they’re pulling away and out into the oval again, a brisk walk that turns into a trot.

Louis, as instructed, takes notes, though only in his head. Springy step, he notes, very light. Good confo, low head, doesn’t fall out of pace.

Liam has her speed up slowly, gradually, until they’re cantering by like thunder. They disappear into complete darkness at the far end, then out of the blackness and back in – Louis only has a thirty seconds or so altogether to judge what he sees, three rounds before they slow back down. Liam bounces a bit in the saddle, but it’s his fault, not the horse’s. Louis makes a mental note to rib him about it later.

“My legs are starting to hurt,” he complains, walking her out before they try her for actual speed.

“Boo hoo,” Louis teases, and has to do his hardest to keep scorn out of his voice. Liam hasn’t ridden in months, is just complaining like anyone else would, but—God. Louis would give anything, anything, to be able to get in that saddle.

Harry, probably through some creepy sixth sense, must know something’s wrong. He presses his shoulder against Louis’s, their first actual physical contact outside of shaking hands, and gets Liam’s attention.

“What’s the verdict, then?”

“Not sure yet,” says Liam, or rather his silhouette. Louis thinks he might be shaking his head. “But she feels wonderful under saddle. I’m almost suspicious, to be honest with you.”

“Suspicious?” Harry asks, confused.

“There’s just—there’s got to be something that’s not good.”

“Not necessarily,” says Louis, swooping in before Liam accidentally offends someone, as is his wont. “She’s got great conformation, great paces. She could do hunts, even.”

“A bit too small for that, isn’t she?” asks Liam.

“Doesn’t matter now,” Louis shrugs. “Let’s see her.”

At the end of the day, as lovely as she is, Marshmallow can’t race if she isn’t fast enough.

While Liam reaches down to adjust the stirrups, Louis unconsciously crosses his fingers. He likes it here, already feels a little more alive with the scent of grass in his nose. He wants to come back, and she can give him a reason.

They work to a canter easily, just light enough. When they thunder by, Liam’s already up in the stirrups, holding form and ready to let her go. Louis’s heart beats harder.

“Have you got a stopwatch, by any chance?” he asks Harry, gripping onto his cane with sweaty hands. She can do it, he thinks; she can.

“Um. No,” he says, sounding as nervous as Louis suddenly feels. “I’ve got my phone?”

In the next second, they’re illuminated by white light again. Harry’s face comes into perfect focus, and shocks Louis a little with how gorgeous it is. He’d thought he’d been exaggerating in his mind after the evening descended on them, but no – no, Harry really is that stunning.

“Do you want it?” he asks, and it takes Louis a very long time to figure out what he means.

“No,” he shakes his head. He’s too unsettled to handle anything valuable. “Just—start it when they pass you, and stop when they pass you again. As quickly as you can.”

He’s barely finished speaking when the thunder of hooves rises in the distance, approaching rapidly. It makes the ground shake a little, an earthquake and a storm at the same time, and Marshmallow whizzes by white-grey like a raincloud.

Harry taps the screen of his phone. He’s biting his lip and fidgeting in place, his hair a little messy, like he’d been running his hands through it when Louis wasn’t looking.

“Don’t worry,” he says, though the strange bubble of excitement in his throat makes it quite difficult to speak. “She’s looking really good.”

Harry doesn’t even have time for a reply before they approach again, and that—that can’t be right. The course is six furlongs, or should be according to Harry’s crafty cousin, but they couldn’t have been gone more than a minute. There’s no way—

Harry taps the screen again. The changing numbers still, and right there for both of them to see is the impossible:

01:07:15.

“What,” Louis whispers, looking out into the darkness for their mare, but she’s nowhere to be seen, only a vague echo of thunder in the distance.

“Oh God,” Harry says, pinching his bottom lip between his fingers. “It’s bad, isn’t it? This is so stressful, I—“

“Harry,” Louis stops him, still looking at the numbers in disbelief. “No.”

“No what? No, Liam’s not going to train her?” he’s waving his other hand around, unsettled.

Louis reaches out. Wraps his fingers around Harry’s wrist.

“Liam’s not going to leave you alone, now.”

“Does that mean…?”

“She’s definitely a racehorse, Harry,” Louis smiles, exuberance filling him up like champagne bubbles. “She—he’s not going to say no, I promise.”

Harry’s smile comes suddenly, transforming his face until he’s the very picture of happiness, teeth on display and little pouches of skin gathered under his eyes.

“Yeah?” he whispers, twists his hand around, and grabs a hold of Louis’s wrist in return.

“Yeah,” Louis tells him, fingers still twisted tight in the sleeve of Harry’s jacket. He could scream with how unexpectedly excited he is, for a multitude of reasons, but mostly—they’re holding hands. Almost. Harry’s hand is about halfway up his forearm, but Louis has decided that they’re holding hands, dammit.

“Louis!” comes a shout from somewhere behind them. Louis has, once again, forgotten about Liam.

He emerges from the dark a second later, on the ground and leading a panting Marshmallow behind him.

Harry lets go immediately, like he’s been burned. Louis—well, Louis isn’t going to think about it.

“How’d we do?” Liam asks, but the grin on his face suggests that he already knows.

“One seven,” Louis says, grinning, bizarrely proud.

Liam stops walking. “One seven?”

“I know! It’s not a real stopwatch, but—“

“One seven, Louis!” He looks like several Christmases have all come at once, turning to Marshmallow and patting her on the neck.

“Um,” Harry pipes up, “how good is that, exactly?”

“So good,” Liam tells him before Louis gets the chance. “That’s—God, we can do some really good work here. She could actually get in the big races, Harry.”

One seven, Louis thinks, turns the numbers around in his head until they’re just shapes. One twelve over six furlongs would be a good time for a trained thoroughbred; but here’s Marshmallow, short and somewhat runty, blowing those horses out of the water before she’s even faced them.

And these are shite conditions, too – she didn’t have the kind of grip she would have on real turf, or someone who knows how to handle her. Liam’s tall, and not a jockey, not to mention much too heavy. If they find someone lighter, someone who knows what they’re doing—she could fly.

In a different world, Louis could be that someone. As it is, he’ll have to settle for sticking to Liam like a bad case of the flu and bossing people around from the ground. It’s going to be a good time regardless.

Harry shouts then, something that sounds vaguely like a “yes”, and tackles Liam in a hug.

So, so good.

Louis is ugly.

“I’m ugly,” he tells Niall, who’s standing by the door, probably waiting for Louis to get out so they can both go home.

“What the fuck is wrong with you? Honestly.”

“I just—look at this,” Louis peers into the mirror and pinches his cheek, very generously covered in facial hair. It’s a full-on beard now, really, left alone for God knows how long because he didn’t have the energy nor the will to shave.

“That’s your face,” Niall points out.

“Yes, well. This isn’t what I look like in all those pictures they’ve taken of me for the newspaper.”

“Because the last one was what – a year ago?” Niall asks, then sighs. He drops his poncey briefcase and crosses the room, bodily pulling Louis away from the mirror. “Get it together, for Christ’s sake. You’re twenty-three and bloody fit.”

“Why, Niall,” Louis flutters his eyelashes, and narrowly ducks Niall’s slap.

“You know what I’m trying to say,” he grumbles. “Stop being dense and shave, if it’ll make you feel better.”

“I need a haircut too, though,” says Louis, pulling at the hair that’s curling down the nape of his neck. It doesn’t look bad, but it’s irritating and hard to manage; he wants it gone.

“There’s a barber shop literally two doors down.”

“I don’t know if I trust that place. Somebody was screaming in there the other day.”

Niall leans against the wall and turns off the light.

“I’m not doing this,” he says, barely a silhouette in the windowless room. “You’re welcome to sleep here if you want, otherwise I suggest you get your sorry arse out before I lock the door.”

“Jesus,” Louis moans, suppressing a laugh all the while, “you’re no fun.”

“I’ve had a very long day, Louis. Goodbye.”

And he walks off, taking the stairs down two at a time, a pace that Louis can’t follow.

Lord knows Niall is a miserable twat, but Louis can’t help liking him just a little – and he knows that the feeling is mutual. There isn’t much to be shy about once you’ve literally lain on top of someone.

He makes his slow, slow way down into the street. It’s the first time since he’s started physiotherapy that he doesn’t see a car already idling by the curb, waiting for him. Liam is in a meeting, brainstorming training ideas with some old friend of his. He immediately offered to cancel when he realised he wouldn’t be able to pick Louis up, but Louis had sent him off with a thanks and a pat on the back. It really is time to be an adult again, as much as he hates it.

It’s still light out, just barely. Camden isn’t particularly glorious at this time of day, veiled in that ever-present cloud of smog even as the sun sets in its windows.

Still, Louis decides to walk for a while, cautiously making his way down the street. He passes a Costa and contemplates a cup of something warm, but the throngs of people queuing inside put him off. He’d rather have his tea in the peace and relative emptiness of his own home, thank you very much.

It’s getting really bloody cold now, with November well under way. Louis is shivering, shrouded in a mist of his own breath as he walks on the very edge of the kerb, trying to keep out of people’s path. He’s got his face buried in a scarf and his eyes trained down, which is why—

He doesn’t realise he’s about to crash into someone until it’s too late.

His breath almost gets knocked out of him, his cane clanging to the ground. Louis tries to twist so he falls arms-first and doesn’t take his knee out for good, but—he’s not falling at all. He’s suspended mid-air by a pair of arms.

“Oops,” a voice says – a voice that Louis very much recognises.

He opens his eyes, and sure enough, there’s Harry, looking like the ghost of Christmas present in his green coat. His cheeks are pink, with the cold or embarrassment, Louis isn’t quite sure, and the redness of his lips is more prominent than ever.

This would be a perfect time to pull him into a kiss, if Louis were a creep who kisses virtual strangers.

“Hi,” he breathes instead, somewhat overwhelmed with Harry’s hands splayed on his back.

“Louis,” Harry says, just as quiet, and lets him stand up. “I am so, so sorry. I wasn’t looking—“

“No, no, it’s my fault,” Louis reassures him, patting his pockets to check nothing’s missing. “It’s alright. We’re both alive, love, no harm done.”

Harry smiles, small and unbearably cute. He bends down – which gives Louis mental images he’ll have to scrub off his brain later – and picks up the cane, still in one piece and lying in a puddle.

“It’s dirty,” he says, watching as grey water drips off the end. “I’m so sorry, oh my God.”

Louis shakes his head. “That’s alright, don’t wo—what are you doing?”

What Harry’s doing is taking a loose end of his scarf – his fucking Burberry scarf, it the label tells the truth – and using it to wipe the water off. The rainwater. That was in the street.

Louis reaches out to stop him, but he’s too late. Harry puts the cane, now dry, into his outstretched hands, and smiles like nothing’s wrong.

“Harry,” Louis whines, eyes stuck on the scarf and the dark stain that now adorns it. “Harry, that’s cashmere.”

“Alpaca, actually,” Harry says, sheepish. “It’ll come out.”

“It will not—oh God. You just ruined your scarf.”

“Louis,” Harry says, hands in his pockets. “I own six acres of land. I can buy another scarf if I want to, yeah? It’s alright.”

Louis runs a hand through his hair. This is—too much. Harry is too much.

“Let me repay you, at least. Invite you for coffee or something.”

“No,” Harry shakes his head, and reaches out to grip Louis’s shoulder. It’s clearly unconscious, but Louis’s heart flutters a little anyway. “I’m the one who crashed into you, remember? Let me.”

Louis opens his mouth to protest, but Harry squints, looking at him in a way that he probably thinks is threatening until Louis bursts out laughing.

“Okay,” he sighs. “Fine. What did you have in mind?”

Harry scratches his chin. “Coffee? Or tea. You look like a tea man.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Louis puts his hands on his hips.

“Nothing! Nothing, you’re just—I can’t quite imagine you drinking coffee, is all,” he says with a half-shrug, the line of his mouth just curving up.

Louis leans on his cane. “You’re not wrong,” he says, and watches in satisfaction as Harry’s face lights up. “I don’t mind it from time to time, but I’m definitely a tea man.”

“Can I interest you in a cup of…” he looks around, a strand of hair slipping from behind his ear, “Costa’s finest, then?” He’s already grimacing as he says it, but there aren’t any other coffee shops near where they’re standing, and he looks to be just as cold as Louis is.

Even so, he wouldn’t have pegged Harry as the Costa type – but then, he also wouldn’t have expected him to ruin his five-hundred-pound scarf for no good reason at all.

He takes a deep breath, contemplating. His plans for the evening had consisted of an Antiques Roadshow marathon and a bowl of ramen, so it goes without saying that he’d rather be with Harry, but—but. The lights in the shop have come on, and the amount of people inside is mad. He’d get his cane kicked out from under him in ten seconds flat.

It’s with a heavy heart that he says, “I’m sorry.”

Harry’s expression falls almost comically fast. He tries to school his face into something politely aloof, but his disappointment is still plain to see.

Harry had actually wanted to spend time with him. That’s. That’s fine.

“I understand,” he says, looking like a particularly sad baby cow as he chews his gum. He looks so bloody cosy in his winter clothes, soft and open. “I’m sure you have other plans, it was silly of me to ask.”

Louis shakes his head, quick to reassure him. “It’s not that,” he says, “I’d love to have a cuppa with you, I really would, but that,” he motions to the Costa behind him, “is just—a bit too much. I’m not that great in crowds. Lose my balance easily,” he lifts his cane, a bit of self-deprecation creeping into his tone. It’s hard to keep it away, sometimes.

Harry lifts his eyebrows. “Oh!” he says, “Of course, I didn’t even—I’m sorry. Um.”

He’s biting his lip. The streetlights are slowly flickering to life above them, dark orange, and they paint little highlights in his hair. He looks like a fairytale, just then.

“Is there anything else you need?” he asks, so earnest it almost hurts a little. He looks his age, for once.

“Well,” Louis says, thinking. “I—I mean, I’m not asking you to do it, but I do need a ride home.”

He’s totally asking.

Harry perks up. “I can do that! I can definitely do that. I’m parked just around the corner.”

“You sure?” Louis eyes him. “Weren’t you on your way to—you know, do something?”

“Not at all, actually,” he grins. “I was just leaving town. Come on.”

He doesn’t wait for Louis to respond, just sticks his hands in his pockets and starts walking. Louis scrambles after him.

He really is parked right around the corner, and like a true Londoner, too – he’s managed to fit a massive Range Rover into a space that looks barely big enough for a scooter.

Louis climbs into the passenger seat, sinking into the soft leather. This car is fancier than both Liam’s and his own, and it still smells new.

“Seatbelt, please,” Harry grins, folding behind the wheel. Louis obeys, but keeps an eye on Harry’s hands as they slide the key into the ignition, then languidly search for the right radio station. Harry’s wearing rings, chunky and shiny, gorgeously complementing his long fingers.

Louis is fine. He’s started sweating a bit, but he’s fine.

“Where am I going, then?” Harry asks, once something vaguely indie is coming out of the speakers.

“Right,” Louis says, and takes his eyes off him. “Um, Kensington. Queen’s Gardens.”

Harry whistles. “Fancy.”

Louis squeaks, outraged. “You have no right to call me fancy. You could house the entire royal family in that palace of yours.”

“They did come for a visit once,” Harry says, and manages to pull out into the street. His grip on the wheel is firm enough to pull at the skin of his knuckles, accentuate the bones in the backs of his hands, and—right. No staring.

“The royals,” he says, dry. “The royals just popped in for a scone and a cuppa.”

Harry giggles. “No. It was when my mum and stepdad still lived in the house. There was some sort of fancy dinner, and William and Harry both showed up. I hadn’t realised they were invited, of course, so I kind of…” he trails off.

“You what?”

“I hid,” Harry sighs, but his easy grin stays firmly in place. “I stayed in the back garden all night, in the dark, in my bespoke Gieves & Hawkes.”

Louis bursts into laughter. “You did not,” he gasps. “Why in the world would you do that?”

They whiz through an intersection, barely catching the tail end of an orange light. Harry’s blushing, matching bright red spots in the apples of his cheeks. “I was seventeen,” he says, defensive. “Things are—difficult at that age.”

Louis bites the back of his hand to stop himself from laughing, but it doesn’t accomplish much. “Difficult how?”

Harry scrunches his nose, breathing in. “Just. Difficult. Lots of accidental erections.”

Louis howls. He’ll be embarrassed about it later. “Harry,” he wheezes, “Harry, did you—“

“Have a huge, awkward crush on Prince Harry? Yes,” he sounds nonchalant, but his blush is getting darker, bottom lip caught between his teeth.

Louis is crying. There are actual tears gathering in the corners of his eyes. This isn’t—this is. He doesn’t know what this is.

He tries to stop the sounds that want to make their way out of his throat, muffling them with his sleeve, but he’s caught in a laughing fit and it seems there’s no getting out. He’s giggling wildly when he looks over to Harry – who’s laughing too, a dry little chuckle, but there’s something else on his face, a wobble in the corner of his mouth.

It’s only then that their conversation catches up with Louis, and the laughter dies.

“I’m sorry,” he says testily, his voice a little hoarse. “I, um. Shouldn’t have laughed.”

“No, God, that’s not—it is funny. At least it is now, though I was mortified way back when.”

Louis imagines a gangly, curly seventeen-year-old Harry; imagines him with his huge hands and pretty eyes, sitting in the back garden of his estate, all alone and nursing a boner while some of the most powerful people in the country sit inside. The thought alone makes him feel so very, terribly fond.

“I can’t imagine,” he says, trying his best to be kind. “Also, you do know I’m gay as a maypole, right?”

It’s Harry’s turn to choke on a laugh, bringing one of his hands to his face as he navigates the traffic. He immediately seems more relaxed, though, and that all-too-familiar urge to hug him comes back again. He’d really been worried that Louis would—ha. As if.

“That’s good to know,” Harry says, giggly. “Same here. As gay as the day is long.”

That—is a Friends reference. Harry works Friends references into casual conversation.

Louis must marry him immediately.

“I’m sorry for laughing,” he says again, twisting in his seat until his whole body is turned towards Harry. “I just—I didn’t realise I could come across as straight. To anyone. Ever.”

“I don’t think I thought you were,” Harry shrugs. “But it’s always a bit nerve-wracking, isn’t it?”

“You’re right about that,” Louis smiles. “I wish I had a hilarious story I could tell people. Might make it easier.”

“It’s not hilarious!” Harry protests, but he can’t even keep a straight face as he says it. “I was so embarrassed. Mum tore me a new one for disappearing on her, and I couldn’t even tell her why.”

Louis starts laughing again, warm inside and out, pressing his face into the backrest. “Did you get to meet him, at least?”

“The Prince?”

“Yep.”

“Not really, no. It took me about fifteen seconds to get hard just looking at him when he came in, so I just—bolted.”

Louis’s cheeks are starting to hurt from smiling. God, this feels good.

“I got to meet him a little while ago, though. He wasn’t all that my teenage wet dreams made him out to be.”

“Harry,” Louis hisses. “They can probably hear you right now.”

“Who?” Harry laughs.

“I don’t know, the police. Or Scotland Yard. The MI5. You can’t just say that you wouldn’t shag the prince.”

“I never said I wouldn’t,” Harry grins, a cheeky tilt to his mouth. “Just that he’s not my type anymore.”

Louis puts his head in his hands. “We’re getting arrested.”

“I’m sure the prince has heard worse, Louis. We’ll be fine.”

When Louis raises his head, they’ve stopped at a light, and Harry is looking right at him. There’s something in his eyes – something lovely and soft and earnest.

Gorgeous, Louis thinks for the millionth time that day.

They’re almost home already, though it can’t have been more than twenty minutes. It’s late enough that the traffic has started to dissipate, and it only takes another ten before they’re in Kensington, its many pristine white walls a muddled grey in the dusk. Harry lets Louis program his house number into the sat nav.

“There we are, then,” he says, miraculously finding an empty spot. He parallel parks like it’s nothing, and it’s that of all things that manages to turn Louis on, after suppressing it for over an hour.

Louis likes boys, and he likes cars, and he likes boys in cars. Also, parking is an attractive skill, and he hasn’t had sex in over a year. Sue him.

But, of course, all of that is completely irrelevant. Harry is smiling at him from behind the wheel, easy and friendly, and—they’re going to be co-workers, in a way. Even if Harry showed any sign of being attracted to Louis – which he hasn’t, and he never will, because he’s clearly not – getting it on would probably be a bad idea.

“There we are,” Louis repeats, almost in a whisper. The street is quiet, and so is the car. “Um. Thank you for this. I’d have probably had to get a cab, and those aren’t nearly as comfortable as this thing.” He pats the dashboard, a little too forceful.

Harry frowns. “How do you usually get home?”

He’s turned the car off, and unbuckled his seatbelt so he could face Louis. Louis doesn’t let himself get his hopes up.

He waves a hand to indicate that it doesn’t matter, but answers anyway: “Liam drives me. But he’s meeting someone about Marshmallow tonight, and he’s probably not going to have time from now on anyway, so I should practise getting home on my own.” He looks at Harry. Cocks his head. “Except today I ran into you, so. Maybe next time.”

Harry looks deep in thought. The air around them is cooling slowly, creeping under Louis’s coat until he has to wrap his scarf around his hands to keep them warm. He’d much rather put his hands on Harry, but that’s neither here nor there.

“I can do it,” Harry says finally, quiet. “I can drive you.”

He—doesn’t look very enthusiastic about the idea. There are several emotions warring on his face, too complex for Louis to pinpoint.

He prepares himself to turn down the offer graciously, to thank Harry for being so kind. What comes out instead is: “That would be wonderful.”

Harry smiles, somewhat uncertain. “Good. You don’t have to ask me if I’m sure, yes I am, just—here.” He hands out his phone, an expectant look on his face, and it takes Louis a second to realise he’s asking for a number.

He taps in the digits, slow and thorough lest he make a mistake and lose contact with Harry forever, or something equally dramatic. He desperately tries to shut up his brain, which is currently doing the Mexican wave and shouting something about this being the beginning of a romantic comedy; this isn’t that kind of situation. Still, a lone little butterfly finds its way into Louis’s stomach, flitting about in there until the phone is safely out of his hands.

“Thanks,” Harry smiles.

“Thank you,” Louis replies. “Are you—are you sure, though? It’s a long way to come just for. Uh. Me.”

“I told you not to ask,” Harry says, squinting angrily, but obviously joking. He puts his hand on Louis’s shoulder, then squeezes. Oh God. “I’m definitely sure. And I don’t mind coming, honestly. This was really nice. I like spending time with you.”

The butterfly multiplies, until it’s a whole horde of what feels like angry bees, making Louis’s stomach quiver, his breath come in a little short.

His tongue seems to have atrophied, just lying flat in his mouth as Louis desperately searches for something to say, anything. This hasn’t happened to him since he was in school; he prides himself in being quick on his feet, for God’s sake.

“And I have a flat in the city,” Harry continues, presumably taking pity on Louis when he sees him grappling with the concept of speech. “So it’s not—I won’t be going out of my way that much. Don’t worry.”

Louis nods. Finally, some air makes it into his lungs. “Th—thank you. I really appreciate it, you have no idea how much.”

Harry grins, sweet, so sweet. Louis wants to poke one of his dimples, to cup his cheek in his hand and feel the stubble there, feel how soft his skin is.

He bites the bullet. “Would you like to come up for a cuppa?”

Harry—recoils. There is no other word for it, though he does pretty well at hiding it.

It doesn’t hurt, not really, or at least that’s what Louis tries to believe. Harry’s just said that he enjoys spending time with him. Louis is just being too forward – yes, that must be it.

Harry clears his throat, the air suddenly stiff around them. “I’m sorry,” he says, looking down at the steering wheel, “I can’t. I, uh—I’ve got to go home. Horses,” he finishes unconvincingly, waving his hands about.

Louis tries to smile. He thinks he does a pretty good job, too. “That’s alright,” he says, avoiding Harry’s eyes and instead staring in the rearview mirror. “That’s—yeah. Thank you for this. And for the offer,” he adds. He reaches out, just for a fraction of a second, the tips of his fingers barely brushing Hary’s shoulder. “I’ll see you later?”

Harry’s face softens a little, some of the tense lines in his forehead smoothing out. “Later,” he says quietly.

Louis gets out of the car, closes the door behind him, and doesn’t look back.

It takes him longer than usual to get up the stairs, the echo of his cane and his shuffling shoes seeming a bit too loud. He feels itchy all over, a little like he wants to shed his own skin.

He puts the kettle on once he’s home, and stares out of the window. He wants to get his phone out and text Liam, ask him for advice, but soon enough he realises that he can’t, because one, outing people to other people without their consent is a shitty thing to do, and two, Liam is probably still in his meeting. Not to mention absolutely horrid at giving any kind of relationship advice.

He settles for stretching himself out on the sofa and staring into the ceiling, like the answers might be hanging there like some bizarre butterfly pods.

So the situation is this:

Harry is gay. Louis is also gay. Louis is single, and Harry might be, too. Statistically, it isn’t completely impossible that the two of them will touch mouths someday, and Louis wants it.

That’s fine.

“Why are we watching this again?”

Liam shrugs. He doesn’t look entirely awake. “It’s your telly.”

That is true, Louis thinks, but he doesn’t quite have it in him to reach for the remote.

It’s a Monday, and raining. They’ve just come back from Harry’s, where the new track is going along a bit slower than expected, and they’re both exhausted – Liam from being on a horse for the better part of a day, and Louis from standing around and wishing it was him up there instead. And from sliding around in the mud.

“Do we want food?” he asks, poking Liam with his toe. “I got a leaflet in the mail the other day. Curries for four quid.”

“You’re rich,” Liam points out. “And I don’t want a curry. I want pizza.”

“We always have pizza. Paul hates the delivery men, he always glares when I walk past him these days.”

Louis might be projecting a little – his doorman is quite possibly the nicest man that ever lived. Still, a little bit of dramatic exaggeration is necessary if he wants to change Liam’s mind.

“Tell you what,” he says, rolling over to his stomach with no small amount of trouble. “Fish and chips.”

Liam opens one eye. “From the good place?”

“And extra cheese,” Louis nods, only grimacing a little. He’s a salt and vinegar man, himself.

Liam lets out what’s possibly the longest sigh in history. “Fine,” he says. “But you’ll owe me.”

“I won’t owe you shit,” says Louis, getting to his feet. “I’m paying, so you don’t get to complain.”

He makes his way to the kitchen, where the takeout menus are. A few of their favourites are tacked to the fridge, a little sun-bleached, but Louis barely needs them anyway. He’s saved most of the numbers a long time ago.

Which might not be a thing to brag about at twenty-three and several years into a high-paying career.

“Huge tits, though,” Trinny’s voice carries in from the living room while he’s on hold. “Let’s try a different blouse.”

Louis hates What Not to Wear, genuinely and passionately. His mum used to have it on all the time, way back when, and he had always found it incredibly disturbing. He knows now that secretly filming someone who just happens to be in need of a makeover is not a thing that happens, that there were contracts signed beforehand and the people who were on knew what they were getting into, but—no.

“That’s a very frumpy look you’re sporting,” says Susannah. Louis leans into the doorway so he can see the screen, and silently judges her dress.

By the time he’s ordered, they’ve moved on to ransacking the poor woman’s wardrobe. Liam is fast asleep on the sofa, using his hands as a pillow.

“I feel like we’re in Sylvester Stalone’s mother’s wardrobe,” Trinny says, picking a snakeskin blazer off the rack. “Just look at this.”

Louis wants to change the channel. Really, he does.

He doesn’t.

He does get itchier by the second, inexplicably nervous now that he’s more or less alone. Right there, in his own bloody living room, he feels—self-conscious. Trinny says something about physical beauty, and he’s reminded of the mirrors in Niall’s gym, how they never quite show him what he’d like to see.

He’s got an article framed on the wall, a gift from Liam to celebrate his first big win at Cheltenham. It’s hung all the way by the window, because he doesn’t like to look at it, but he knows it word for word. There’s a picture of him, too, grinning into the camera and cradling his trophy, Tic Tac’s big head hooked over his shoulder. He looks young in it, and had felt it too, barely twenty-one with the attention of the racing world suddenly on him.

He’d been so, so happy that day.

It’s a split-second decision, somehow crazier than anything Louis has done in the past year or so. He leaves Liam with Trinny and Susannah and their early 2000’s haircuts, and locks himself in the bathroom. He doesn’t even have razors anymore, but Liam keeps a pack of spares in the cupboard underneath the sink. They’re not that difficult to find, along with a somewhat disgusting tube of shaving gel.

He should probably Google how to do this instead of just hacking at his face. He knows, though, that if he opens the door again, he’s going to chicken out. The beard is itchy and annoying at the best of times, but he’s had it for months, from the moment they put metal rods in his leg and he decided that giving up would be the best course of action.

“Get it together,” he says, staring at himself in the mirror. He’s got a pair of scissors aimed at his own face, and his hand is shaking visibly. “Get it together,” he repeats. He takes a breath, then two, then three; then he cuts.

It’s only the doorbell that lures him out, but Liam’s already at the door, sleepily digging through Louis’s wallet and paying the delivery person.

“Lou?” he calls, clearly confused, arms wrapped around their food.

Louis clears his throat. He considers going back to the bathroom before Liam has time to turn around, just—slamming the door and not coming out until he’s sure he’s alone.

But that would be childish, and Louis, as much as it pains him to admit it, is not a child.

He stands his ground, and can pinpoint the exact moment Liam takes him in, because his mouth falls open.

“You’ll catch a fly,” Louis quips, coming closer and taking the hot containers out of Liam’s arms. The scent of fried batter and chips is already permeating the flat. He knows he’ll be trying his hardest to get rid of it later, but for right now, it’s heaven.

Also, Liam is staring.

“You—“ he starts, but doesn’t finish, just rubs a hand over his own stubble. “Am I dreaming?”

“Oh, don’t be dramatic,” Louis rolls his eyes, and forces a fork into Liam’s hand. “Come eat.”

And they do, in silence that’s only interrupted by Trinny and Susannah judging someone’s life choices. It’s a new episode now, but it makes Louis just as fidgety.

“You know,” Liam starts, swinging his last chip in front of his eyes, which, gross. “I’ve almost forgotten what you look like under there.”

Miraculously, it’s all Louis needs to shed the uncomfortable itching. He chortles an ugly, hearty laugh, and pelts a bit of batter at Liam’s forehead.

“You’re a wanker,” he declares, grinning through it. “Thanks, though.”

He doesn’t have to specify, doesn’t have to say for giving me space, for lifting the mood, for sticking by me through all this. Going by Liam’s smile, he already knows.

“I’m serious,” he says, hands on his stomach, all but melting into Louis’s sofa. “It’s been—how long has it been? Jesus.”

“A while,” Louis nods, running a testy finger down his cheek. The skin there is tender, oversensitive. He’s got a bit of grease in the corner of his mouth that he wipes away, and realises, with sudden joy, that he gets to do that now. No more furiously scrubbing the beard with soap.

“You look good,” Liam tells him, smiling. “Great, actually.”

“Would you shag me?”

Liam sighs. “I’m never giving you another compliment. And no, I wouldn’t shag you.”

This is good. Comfortable. This is a conversation they’ve had a thousand times.

“I’m hurt,” Louis sniffles, laying a hand over his heart. “You wound me, Payno. I’m great in bed, you don’t know what you’re missing.”

“Neither does anyone else,” Liam says, dry.

Louis cackles. He puts the container down, gets out of the armchair and onto the sofa, right under Liam’s outstretched arm. “It hasn’t been that long.”

“Has so. I bet the last time was when I caught you with that jockey from Godolphin.”

Louis shrieks, outraged. “That wasn’t—those were handjobs, Liam. We were working off the adrenaline.”

“There’s an excuse I haven’t heard before,” Liam says, and his body shakes with silent laughter. He pokes Louis in the shoulder, then pulls him in, until they’re half-sitting slumped into each other. “Seriously, though. That’s like—more than a year.”

He says that with all the horror of a man in a steady relationship, and the look on his face makes Louis giggle.

“I’m fine, don’t you worry,” he says, and pats Liam on the chest. “I don’t even miss it.” That’s a lie. That is a huge fucking lie. All Louis has to do is be in Harry’s vicinity, and his body is more than eager to remind him just how long it’s been.

“Mhm,” Liam hums, clearly seeing right through him. “Whatever you say. Maybe we should get you on one of them dating apps.”

“Whoa, who said anything about dating?”

Liam gives him the absolute driest look he’s ever managed to conjure up. “You love dating, Louis. You love being in relationships.”

“I’ve never even—you’ve not seen me in a relationship!”

Liam shakes his head. “No, but that stable lad at Simon’s—what was his name?”

“Alex,” Louis supplies immediately, then realises he’s been caught.

“That’s it,” Liam grins, entirely too satisfied with himself. “Alex. You shagged once, and then you spent weeks pouting at him. You invited him out to dinner. You had a bouquet or roses delivered to his flat, for God’s sake.”

“That doesn’t prove anything,” Louis protests, but he wraps his arms around himself at the memory. He’d been brand new at Simon’s, and Alex was a bloody dream – tan, tall, brown-eyed. Louis had been convinced he found his soulmate just days after leaving Yorkshire for the first time.

Needless to say, Alex didn’t feel the same way.

And Liam—Liam has a point. There’s just something about having a person, someone who doesn’t mind being part of a we. Louis has always looked for that, ever since he was sixteen and tentatively at home in being gay.

“Alex was a prick,” he points out.

“That he was,” Liam nods. “You deserve someone better.”

Louis feels unexpectedly touched. “Thanks,” he mumbles, and puts his head down on Liam’s shoulder.

“Anytime,” says Liam, ruffling his hair.

Louis stares at the telly, mostly looking through it, but the very end of the episode catches his attention. Trinny and Susannah have transformed an elderly lady – Vera, the screen says – into a veritable goddess. Susannah’s words, not his.

“She looks nice,” Liam says, as she twirls in her sparkling fuchsia shawl. “Her clothes look a bit like Harry’s.”

Louis doesn’t have the energy to try and decipher Liam’s thought process there. He settles for whacking him – gently – on the head.

The episode ends, and finally, blessedly, some version of the evening news comes on.

“Liam?” Louis asks.

“Hm?”

“Do I need a makeover?”

Liam looks at him as if he’s grown an extra head. “You—what?”

“A makeover,” Louis repeats, waving his hand impatiently. He’s got to get this out before embarrassment catches up with him. “Since I already shaved and all. New clothes to start a new chapter of my life, or whatever.”

Liam keeps blinking. Louis can almost see the wheels turning in his brain.

“I mean…” Louis points at himself – joggers that haven’t been washed in well over two weeks, and a white t-shirt adorned with several ketchup stains.

“A new chapter of your life,” Liam repeats.

Louis’s cheeks burn, but he doesn’t take it back. This is Liam, for God’s sake, probably the only person on planet Earth Louis would actually talk to about this.

It’s what people always say to do after breakups, isn’t it? Reinvent yourself. Get a new haircut, or whatever. Louis wants to go to the barber’s, and buy clothes that make him look at least vaguely attractive. He wants to break up with this bloody sham of a life he’s been living.

He’s not exactly ready, but—he wants to.

“Exactly,” he nods. “Maybe I should—you know. Get some shirts with real collars. I look good in those.”

“You look good in everything,” Liam says, looking alarmed. “You’re—are you trying to be someone you’re not? Because I’m going to have to stop you, if that’s the case.”

Louis smiles. “I’m trying to reinvent myself. It doesn’t look like I’ll be getting rid of that thing,” he points to his cane, propped up unassumingly in the corner of the room, “anytime soon, so. I guess there’s no point in waiting for it to happen. I should get it together now.”

This all sounds very nice in theory, but inside, Louis’s brain is screaming. There’s months of heartbreak, of pain, that he hasn’t dealt with, and he knows he’ll need to, but—maybe if he moves on to something new, if he keeps running, the darkness will never catch up.

“You already have nice clothes, though,” Liam frowns. “Like, for official things.”

“What about my regular clothes?”

“Well,” Liam bites his lip. “Right now, you do look kind of—frumpy.”

Louis’s mouth falls open. “Frumpy?”

“You asked!” Liam defends himself, scooting to the other end of the sofa. “And it’s just these clothes, I swear. Your other ones are nice, the—the jumpers and stuff.”

Louis squints. Liam throws an arm over his chest, anticipating and attack and protecting his nipples. “I told you you’d look good in anything. Almost anything, I guess. ”

Louis keeps squinting.

“Harry thinks so too,” Liam says cautiously, climbing over to the armchair and out of Louis’s reach.

“What’s Harry got to do with this?” Louis asks.

Liam raises an eyebrow, then turns back to the telly. The wind has tipped over a lorry somewhere near Newcastle, apparently, and he watches the footage like it’s more important than Louis’s crisis.

“Liam,” he snaps his fingers. “Makeover. Yay or nay?”

“Nay,” says Liam, sighing. “Just—maybe you should do laundry. It’s been a while.”

He’s right. Louis hates when Liam is right.

As revenge, he strips right there in the living room, kicking his clothes into a pile then picking them up. Liam wails from behind him, and Louis can hear his despaired “why?” all the way into the kitchen.

Operation Make Louis Presentable Again is a go – as soon as he figures out where his laundry gel has gone.

Liam signs a contract a couple of days later, under the watchful (creepy) eye of Harry’s lawyer. Louis, naturally, requests to tag along. While his best friend is shut away in an office somewhere, he takes the opportunity as a prime learning experience, and decides to explore Harry’s gigantic house.

It’s a bit drabber than Louis had thought it would be – proper posh, of course, but not in the pink-sofa-lining-and-gold-rimmed-plates-painted-with-kittens way he’d expect from Harry. The furniture is generic – vaguely Victorian, maybe – and the walls are adorned with neat rows of paintings. There are probably ones just like them hanging in two dozen other mansions across the country: important-looking people with tall hair, pale and unsmiling, fox hunting complete with barking hounds and the gentry in their red jackets, autumn-toned landscapes and palaces and still lifes of flowers. In one word – boring, even though the man of the house is anything but.

The outside, while plain, is a little more exciting. Louis walks down the front steps just in time to see the herd cantering in, taking shape on the horizon one by one. They kind of look like a trail mix, Louis thinks, each one of them different, but they seem to get along just fine.

He’s never really been around pastured horses. It’s amazing to see them so free, like on the posters he used to have as a boy. They’re not in a hurry, not carrying a rider that’s spurring them on – they’re just running for the hell of it.

More than anything, Louis wants to join them; to throw away his cane and run out into the pasture, arms spread wide open. He feels childish with it, with how much he wants to break every rule that his life has bestowed upon him. It’s an everyday thing, really. It happens when he’s walking down the street and sees a group of kids kicking a football around, and when he’s picking up a new bottle of painkillers at the pharmacy. The want is always there, the desire to just put all of this behind him. He’s always looking for ways to be a little less heartbroken.

It’s gotten quite gloomy inside his head, all of a sudden, and he’s grateful for the distraction when some of the horses make it down the hill to where he’s standing. There’s no fence to separate the pasture from the house – “I like having them close,” Harry had said – and one of the younger ones just trots all the way to the steps, looking up at Louis with its curious eyes.

“Hello,” he smiles, and carefully holds out a hand. “What’s your name, then?”

Surprisingly enough, the filly doesn’t say. She’s really quite gorgeous, though, a shiny, curious little bay, so Louis figures it’s something posh.

She steps closer, and nuzzles into his palm. Louis pets her happily, forgetting about his unofficial mission of exploring every inch of Harry’s gigantic property.

Speak of the devil, though – it’s barely a minute before Harry appears in the doorway, chewing gum with his hands somehow stuffed into the pockets of his skin-tight jeans. He’s dressed up just a little, traded his wellies in for shiny boots and put on a silky-looking shirt that’s barely buttoned. He’s got a hint of a smile on his face as he watches them, and he looks like an absolute arsehole. It’s—strange.

Of course Harry, being Harry, ruins the illusion in under a second. He hops down the steps like a child, curls bouncing, headed straight for the horse.

“I see you’ve met Tashie,” he says, reaching forward and scratching her cheek. Their hands are somewhat dangerously close.

“I have indeed,” Louis replies. “She’s very friendly.”

Harry takes a breath to say something. Louis waits a beat, then two, but nothing happens. When he raises his head, he’s met with wide green eyes. Harry’s mouth is half open, frozen around a word.

“Um,” Louis says. “Harry?”

Harry blinks, slow and very, very thorough. “You,” he starts, then has to clear his throat and try again. “You look different.”

“Oh,” Louis says, and realises that this is, indeed, the first time he’s seen Harry today. He brings a hand up to rub across his cheek, where new hair is already starting to poke through his skin. He’d been red as a tomato that morning, but it’s gone down now. The universe is on his side, just this once. “I shaved.”

Harry mirrors his movement, petting the skin above his upper lip, where his adorable stubble is actually becoming visible. Louis realises, with a start, that this has to be Harry’s first proper facial hair. He’s so, so young. Bloody hell.

There’s a second of silence. Tashie nudges Louis’s hand, then gets bored when he doesn’t do anything and stomps off.

“I can see that,” Harry mumbles finally, taking a step back for no apparent reason. His eyes are still a little too wide, plain to see in the yellow light of the evening. “It’s, um. Nice,” he says. “Suits you.”

Louis’s heart does a tap dance rendition of Smells Like Teen Spirit inside his chest.

“Not—not that the beard didn’t,” Harry rushes to reassure him, arms outstretched a little, like he’s not quite sure what to do with them. “’S just different.”

“Tell me about it,” Louis grins, trying his best to put him at ease. “It’s been ages since I last shaved. My face feels cold all the time.”

Harry cracks a wide, sweet smile, genuine in the way it transforms his face. “You should get a scarf,” he says, and looks critically at Louis’s coat with lapels gaping wide open.

“You’re one to talk,” Louis returns, giving Harry’s bared chest a pointed look – just one. If he lingered any longer, he wouldn’t really trust himself to look away ever again. “You’re going to catch pneumonia like this, you know.”

“It’s not that cold.”

“It’s November.”

Harry shrugs, thumbs in the back pockets of his jeans. It makes his shirt gape wider. Louis coughs. Looks out at the pasture, where the herd has started moving again.

“It’s sunny,” Harry says, and steps closer. “I’m never cold when the sun is out.”

Louis tilts his head back, eyes at the sky, where the toothy sun is running towards the horizon. There’s no hint of it in the air, no warmth whatsoever.

“You’re full of shit,” he says, grinning, and when he looks at Harry, he’s grinning right back.

The corner of his mouth twitches as he says: “I’m bloody freezing.”

Louis sighs happily. He unbuttons his coat; doesn’t really give it much thought when he shrugs out of it and drapes it over Harry’s shoulders, one quick move.

When he steps back, he realises two things at once:

One, they’re standing right in front a big, warm house.

Two, Harry is staring at him, again. He’s completely motionless, eyes stuck to Louis’s face. For a second, Louis thinks he’s going to let the coat slide off and into the muddy grass.

He sticks his hands in the pockets of his hoodie, staring at his trainers.

“Sorry,” he says, for lack of anything better. “It’s just—I’m a big brother. I’m used to doing that.”

Slowly, carefully, Harry’s fingers curl around the wool.

“A big brother?” he asks, wearing something that’s not quite a smile. His cheeks are pink.

“Yep,” Louis replies, feeling warmer at the very thought of his family. “Lots of siblings.”

“How many exactly?” asks Harry, and starts walking towards the sunset, away from the house. Louis follows him without a question, cane squelching in the mud.

“Guess,” he says, watching Harry’s back. Louis’s coat is just a bit too small for him to wear, but he’s wrapped it around himself, empty sleeves billowing.

“That’s not fair,” Harry says, and he might be pouting. Still, he takes the bait. “Um. Three?”

Louis laughs. “More.”

“Four?”

“More,” Louis says when he finally catches up. He doesn’t think Harry’s headed anywhere in particular, just wandering on those lovely legs of his, but he certainly doesn’t mind.

“You can’t—five?” Harry is incredulous, eyebrows climbing towards his hairline.

“Eh,” Louis grimaces, gesturing to say not quite. “Almost there.”

“Six?” Harry almost shouts. “You have six siblings?”

“Yep,” Louis nods, beaming. “Five sisters and a brother. They’re a handful, but—they’re just the best. I love them to death.”

Harry smiles, small, almost private. “I can tell.” He kicks a pebble, staining the toe of his immaculate boot. “That must be so nice. Having that many people around, I mean.”

“No siblings for you, then?”

Harry shakes his head. Giggles a little. “No, no, I’ve got a sister. I had her here, and mum and dad and then my stepdad, but it was just…” he trails off, then shakes his head. “Nevermind.”

“Oh, come on,” Louis nudges him, gentle but also dying of curiosity. He wants to see more of this, right here, the soft air of vulnerability that’s settled around this boy like mist over water.

Harry shrugs. Louis’s coat almost slips off his shoulder, but he catches it in time. “The house is really big,” he says simply. “Felt a bit lonely sometimes.”

There’s seventeen-year-old Harry again, alive in Louis’s imagination, but he’s moved from the garden to one of the uncomfortable sofas that litter the house. He’s alone, poor thing, looking down at his shoes.

Louis realises, all over again, that this Harry, Harry at twenty-something, lives all alone. He has a lady who cleans and cooks but only comes in a couple of times a week, and the horse people Louis has seen around from time to time, but they seem to keep to themselves.

“I’m sorry,” he says, and hopes it comes across as sincere as he wants it to be.

“That’s alright,” says Harry, a shrewd little smile hiding in the corner of his mouth. “I had friends. Not very many, mind you, because it’s difficult to meet nice people in a private boarding school, but I got by.”

“You went to boarding school.”

Harry shoots him a perplexed look. “Louis,” he says, deliberately slow, “my parents are very rich. It’s a status thing.”

It would probably sound like bragging from anybody else, but Harry just—says it. Like he’s talking about the weather.

Louis tries to gasp dramatically, but he doesn’t quite pull it off, dissolving into giggles instead. “Did you—did you go to Eton?”

“No,” Harry answers. Louis can’t be sure, but he thinks he might be blushing. “Charterhouse. And it wasn’t that posh.”

He’s definitely pouting now, bottom lip stuck out dramatically. Louis wants to kiss every inch of his face.

Which. Creepy.

They come to the fence, both sinking into the soft ground, and stand there watching as the sun disappears over the horses’ backs. Harry is squinting into the distance, eyelashes casting shadows on his cheeks, hip popped and hands fisted into the lapels of Louis’s coat. His hair catches the light just so, sitting on top of his head like a halo, tumbling down over his shoulders as shiny as his silky shirt. The very silhouette of him is soft, bathed in warm colours. He’s just—so, so lovely.

Louis can’t believe he went to boarding school. He’s met plenty of rich kids over the course of his career, and none of them were this nice, this kind, this gorgeous. Not a single one.

“You know I don’t believe you that,” he says, barely audible, loathe to interrupt the moment Harry seems to be having. “Even your accent is posh.”

“You’re right,” Harry grins. “It was posh. I had three different types of blazers for different occasions, and they all had to be washed at least once a week.”

Louis blinks. “You’re having me on. They can’t make you wash your clothes when you’re already paying them forty grand a year.”

Harry barks, a wild outburst of a laugh. It wasn’t even that funny, but—Louis will take it.

He thinks he hears Liam somewhere behind them, talking in that mushy tone of voice he reserves exclusively for Sophia. He’s probably all sorted now, just waiting for Louis to reappear so they can go home.

Louis doesn’t want to, though. He wants to hide in the trees somewhere until Liam gives up and leaves without him. Wants to see what the house looks like at night, fancy chandeliers lighting up the windows.

Wants to see what Harry looks like in the morning, but that’s beside the point.

“I think Liam’s done now,” he sighs, defeated. He distinctly remembers himself thinking about how bad an idea this was, following Harry around and hanging onto every word that comes out of his mouth.

The heart – no, not the heart, what the fuck. The—the pleasure centre of Louis’s brain wants what it wants, but he’s an adult man who can make adult decisions.

Besides, it’s not like he’s pining. Harry is objectively very, very fit, and Louis is partial to putting his mouth on him, but he can’t have him, and that’s fine. Harry’s company is delightful either way.

“I think you’re right,” Harry nods, looking over his shoulder. “I hope Herb didn’t give him a hard time.”

“He’s a scary little man.”

Harry snorts. “That he is. He’s a bit—overprotective. Of my family’s money, I mean. Keeps telling me that I spend too much.”

“And he does all that out of the goodness of his heart?” Louis raises an eyebrow, thinking of the lawyer’s suit – ill-fitting, but obviously expensive.

“Yep,” Harry nods. “That, and six hundred quid an hour.”

“Jesus.”

“I know. He seems to forget about his fees whenever he gives me a lecture on irresponsible spending.”

He says that last bit with an accent, some sort of Irish-Scottish garble that makes Louis laugh. It does not, by any means, sound like Herb the lawyer, but it does coax Harry’s dimples out.

“He acts like I don’t have my own job,” he continues, shaking his head. “Oh, if Mrs Cox was here, she would not allow this. Imagine what Mr Twist would say. You’re almost twenty-two, Mr Styles, this has got to stop.”

Louis perks up. “So what is it that you do, exactly?”

It’s a question that’s been worming through his brain for a while, occupying much more of his time than is acceptable. Harry seems to be home a lot, and he’s declared – many times – that the horses are just pets. He needn’t have a job, really, considering how much money his family seems to have, but Louis didn’t peg him for a freeloader.

Harry raises an eyebrow, challenge clear on his face. “Guess.”

Louis tries, but he has no luck. He guesses every single thing that pops into his head, from baker to spy to trapeze artist, but Harry keeps shaking his head and looking progressively more amused.

“This isn’t fair,” Louis complains, once he’s given up and they’re on their way back to the house, the sky dimming above their heads. “You could be anything. There are millions of professions in the world.”

Harry is smiling, clearly happy with himself. “You’ll figure it out,” he says. He looks at Louis, a long, drawn-out thing that seems to last for minutes, and then—winks.

It takes Louis a few seconds to get his bearings, and by the time he’s back on track, Harry’s already jogged ahead to talk to Liam. He’s cheerful as ever, waving his arms, Louis’s coat now folded over his arm and ready to be handed back to its owner. And Louis just…stands. Stands, stares, and wishes desperately that there was some kind of Harry Styles Google he could consult.

He winked at me, he’d type into the search bar. I’m majorly overthinking it, but just in case: what does winking mean? And what’s his job? , and I think he’s my new favourite person, and help.

Help.

“Watch now,” Liam shouts.

“I’m watching,” Louis replies, for the twentieth time that day.

Their voices echo in the riding hall, the walls sending Louis’s own words back to him. It’s starting to give him a headache, which only contributes to his general misery.

He’s bloody freezing, is the thing, yet somehow sweating at the same time, wearing a vest and a t-shirt and two hoodies and a coat, not to mention a scarf, a hat, and two pairs of gloves. It is also eight in the morning. He’d had to get up at five.

Liam is a tyrant, and Louis is very much regretting ever agreeing to be his assistant trainer.

“It’s just until we find an exercise rider,” Liam had promised, well over two weeks ago. “I’ve phoned some contacts already. There’s bound to be someone around who’s looking for work.”

But, as it turns out, there isn’t. Training is in full swing for the season, and it seems that every rider in the country has found a place in somebody's stable. Every rider that Liam would be willing to hire, anyway. He’s grown very protective of Marshmallow, convinced that she’s going to be the next breakout star, and he’d rather ride her himself than hand her over to someone who doesn’t know what they’re doing.

Which brings them here, with Louis watching on the sidelines and making notes on a poncey clipboard, shivering as he does. A good six hours a day, five days a week.

It’s hell.

“Ready?” asks Liam, just off a diagonal and coming closer down the short side.

“Born ready, Payno.”

Liam takes Marshmallow around in a trot, warming her back up, and Louis pauses the self-pity for a moment to watch them. He feels a little bubble of pride in his chest, just watching the way she takes Liam’s cues and responds. She was an excellent horse to begin with, but she’s finally starting to get used to the two of them, and to being taken off the pasture every day to work. She’s filled out a bit, thanks to Harry’s insistence on buying her the fanciest possible feed, and there’s a new poise about her, an elegance, like she knows exactly how important she is.

They flow effortlessly into a canter once they pass Louis’s corner. It’s as fast as they can afford to go in here, but Marshmallow seems to enjoy it anyway.

Louis remembers he’s supposed to be watching, and zeroes in on her legs. They’ve been working on switching leads for over a week now, and it’s boring for all of them; the sooner he can declare her ready, the better.

She’s on a right lead down the long side, as she should be. Liam flicks his wrist, barely noticeable, as they come up on the short. She stutters a bit, just a split second of uncertainty, then leads firmly with the left, leaning into it and making a beautiful curve.

Louis smiles, and draws a big tick on an empty space in his notes, just because he can.

They do three laps, each one better than the next. She’s taken to it exceptionally well, not at all resistant even though she’s seven, and Louis—Louis is happy, he really is. They’ve got something special brewing here.

He’s even gotten used to the constant pain that’s lodged under his ribs, that longing to be where Liam is, to be watching from horseback instead of a plastic chair. Almost.

“That felt right,” Liam says, reins in one hand as he stops her. “Except for whatever happened on the first turn.”

Louis ducks under the rail and onto the floor, hobbling towards them. “She just got a bit confused,” he says when he reaches them, and holds her still while Liam dismounts. “But she figured it out. Didn’t you, beautiful?”

She nuzzles into the front of his coat, scratching her nose. He drops his clipboard to the ground, lets go of his cane, and puts bot hands into petting her thoroughly, soaking up some of her warmth.

Liam is stretching and grimacing through it, trying to extend his legs this way and that.

“Careful,” Louis says, trying to keep Marshmallow’s curious nose out of his pocket. “Someone might think you’re getting old.”

“Piss off,” Liam sticks out his tongue. Louis thinks he’s going for stern, but he ends up looking somewhat miserable instead. “I’m not used to this. I haven’t felt my arse in days.”

“I can assure you it’s still there,” comes Harry’s voice from the door. Marshmallow jerks her head away, looking towards him. Louis can very much sympathise.

“Oh, hi,” Liam smiles, straightening up. He starts brushing off his riding trousers, trying to be subtle about it, and Louis has to bite down on a laugh. Harry had told him, several times and in no uncertain terms, that he’s only Liam’s boss on paper, and doesn’t want him to act subservient, but Liam is—well, Liam.

“Hiya,” says Louis, because that’s the polite thing to do.

Harry comes into focus slowly, the light coming in from behind him making him little more than a silhouette. He looks ready to go somewhere, dressed in a fancy peacoat that makes him look broad, his hair loose.

He’s also carrying an armful of Tupperwares.

“Perfect timing,” he says when he stops in front of them, smiling. “I brought biscuits and, uh,” he pulls out a thermos that Louis hadn’t noticed, “tea.”

“Marry me,” Liam blurts, which is, coincidentally, exactly what Louis had been thinking.

Harry giggles, depositing his gifts into Liam’s waiting arms. “I’ll settle for a thank you,” he says, patting Liam’s shoulder. “I’ve got to go, but I wanted to see how the three of you were doing.”

Louis feels bizarrely warm at being included. Which is bloody stupid, because he’s been with Liam every single time he’s come up here.

“Really well, I’d say,” Louis answers, because Liam is already stuffing his face. “She’s got the hang of switching leads now, which is definitely progress.”

Harry coos. He reaches for Marshmallow’s big head, petting her cheeks, and plants a kiss right in the middle of her forehead, where her hair grows in a little swirl.

“Clever girl,” he says, and “well done.” He’s the absolute sweetest thing Louis has ever seen. “I’m not sure what switching leads means, but well done.”

Louis laughs. “It’s just changing the leading leg, really,” he says, petting Marshmallow’s neck. “When she’s going straight she’ll lead with the right, because that’s what’s natural for most horses, but once she’s in a turn she’ll get better balance out of leading with the left, so. We’re just trying to show her that.”

Harry listens to him with wide eyes, clearly not wanting to miss a single word. It makes Louis fidgety; blushy, almost, like he’s in secondary school all over again.

“And she’s doing well, yeah?” he asks. “Overall?”

“Yep,” Louis smiles at him. “No worries. We’ll see how she’s doing on speed when the track is done, but she’s lovely, Harry. You made the right decision by letting her do this.”

Harry scratches his cheek, sheepish. “I was—I didn’t really want to, in the beginning. I’d hung up the phone and wanted to call you right back and cancel, but mum talked me out of it, and then I tossed and turned all night thinking about it, and—I just want her to be happy, you know? To do what she likes.”

As of right now, Marshmallow seems plenty happy, leaning into Harry’s hands with eyes half closed. Her ears are drooping forward, relaxed. Once again, Louis can sympathise.

It’s a familiar feeling now, this sweet, mellow buzz that wakes under his skin every time Harry enters the room, the happy stutter of his heart whenever Harry’s eyes are on him. His presence puts Louis at ease, but Harry the person—that’s a whole different ballgame. Every time Louis thinks he’s gotten used to him, has peeled back all of the layers that make up his personality, he does something like this. Something kind, or brave, or just all-round lovely.

“I think she is,” Louis tells him, feeling a little clumsy in his many, many clothes. “I mean…look at her.”

Harry already is, little sparkles dancing in his eyes as she grunts and shifts on her feet. “Yeah,” he says, quiet, like he thinks she might actually go to sleep and doesn’t want to wake her up.

“Would probably be better if we could find someone to ride her,” Liam points out, oblivious to the softness that has settled over them. “So she could get used to someone who isn’t me.”

“Oh,” Harry mumbles. “Still nothing?”

Liam shakes his head, frowning.

“Maybe you could do it,” Louis says, joking.

He’s not ready for Harry’s face to drop the way it does.

“U-um,” he stammers, one of his hands flying up into his hair. “I’ve got—you know. Other things.”

Louis feels suddenly unsettled, like the floor is tilting under his feet, but he makes a valiant attempt at saving face.

“Like that mysterious job of yours?”

Liam is looking between them like he’s seeing them both for the first time, a piece of biscuit sticking out of his mouth. Louis—hasn’t exactly shared the details of all his conversations with Harry, which just seem to keep happening.

Harry smiles, only a little strained. “Exactly,” he says, “which is why I’ve really got to go. Um, Martha is inside if you need anything, and I’ll be back in a couple of hours, but I’m not sure…?” He trails off, looking right into Louis’s eyes even though he’s addressing both of them.

“We’ll be here,” Louis promises, without so much as checking in with his best friend.

Harry nods, smiles, gives Marshmallow another kiss, and walks away. His silhouette looks important, powerful, with the tails of his coat billowing behind him and his collar turned up. It makes Louis somewhat weak in the knees.

“You two are very friendly,” Liam remarks, pouring out some tea. He takes a sip, then hands it to Louis and grabs Marshmallow’s reins.

“We’re acquaintances,” Louis rolls his eyes, wrapping his hands around the thermos lid. The tea billows steam right up into his face, heat prickling at his frozen skin. “Same as you and him.”

Liam snorts as he picks at the girth buckle. “He didn’t even look at me, Louis. I’m the one he’s paying to do a good job with this horse, but he only had eyes for you.”

“Jealous?” Louis asks, his last line of defense.

With the girth finally undone, Liam slides the saddle of Marshmallow’s back. She’s steaming, too, but she looks completely unbothered by it.

“I’m not jealous,” Liam says finally, starting on a slow walk around the hall. His tone has changed, though, lost the hint of bite it had carried before.

“Are so.”

Liam heaves a sigh. “I just want you to talk to me, you know, like you usually do, because I’m your best mate. I’d like to know what’s going on with your—Harry situation.”

Louis, mid-cautious first sip, spits out his tea. “My Harry situation?”

“I know what it looks like when you’re completely gone for someone, remember?” He sounds happy now, probably because he’s realised he has the upper hand and can tease Louis until he gives in. He strolls around the hall with a spring in his step, Marshmallow right behind, both coming down from their morning workout.

“I’m not gone for him,” Louis says. “I think he’s fit, but he doesn’t think I am, so.”

Liam, just approaching, blinks. He looks like he wants to stop, maybe grab Louis by the shoulders and shake him a little, but he doesn’t.

“Who told you that?”

Louis smiles, though he has the feeling it comes out a little ugly. “Good old Bertha,” he says, lifting his cane and pointing it at him.

“I told you not to name the cane,” Liam mumbles, before the meaning of Louis’s words catches up to him. He does stop, this time. The horse stops with him, and she stands still when he drops the reins and stomps over to Louis, kicking up dust clouds.

He looks—shit, he looks angry. Louis doesn’t know what to do with an angry Liam.

“You’re such a twat,” he says, eyebrows furrowed into a single line. Before Louis has time to decide whether to just run or throw the tea at him first, Liam is in front of him, and—and hugging him.

Hugging him very, very tight.

“Li—“

“Shush,” he says, and Louis decides to give in. He wraps his free arm around Liam’s back, buries his face in the collar of his riding jacket, and tells himself to relax. This is fine. It’s Liam, his best friend, who’s been looking out for him for years – who had to be physically pulled off of Simon Cowell before he managed to punch him in the face on Louis’s behalf.

He brings up his other arm, cane and everything, and pats Liam on the back.

“What is this—“

“I said shush.”

Louis huffs, hiding his grin in Liam’s shoulder. “Fine,” he says. He closes his eyes, and lets himself melt into it.

It’s got to be at least a minute before Liam shows any signs of letting up, arms loosening a little.

“I’m such an idiot,” is the first thing he says when he lets go, keeping Louis close to him with hands in his shoulders. “I didn’t—I should have realised.”

“Realised what, Li? You’re scaring me.” He is. It’s only now that Louis realises how frantic he looks, his eyes wide and stepping from foot to foot. “And why am I a twat?”

“Because you told me—you said it didn’t bother you.”

Just like that, a ball of what feels like solid lead falls into Louis’s stomach.

“You said you understood that you weren’t worth any less because of it, and I knew you were lying, but I thought maybe if I let you—“

“Liam,” Louis says, trying to keep his voice level. “I do understand it. I do, I swear.”

Liam wipes away a few stressed tears. “Then why would you say something like that?”

Louis sighs. He reaches out, pinches Liam’s cheek, just to get him to do something other than clutch Louis’s shoulders. “It’s just—it’s not easy to remember. I have to keep reminding myself, you know? I wake up in the morning, and there’s a voice in my head going you’ve got a gimp leg and you’ll never get to do what you love again. It’s there right now, and I have to shout over it every single day. I just get tired of it sometimes.”

“Louis,” Liam says, uselessly smoothing down the lapel of Louis’s coat.

“It’s alright,” Louis tells him. This should be exhausting, would be if it were anyone other than Liam, but as it is, he just feels—warm. “I’m alright. I’m fine. I’m alive, because you dragged the doctor to me before anyone else realised something was wrong, remember?”

Liam chuckles wetly. “God,” he says, and sounds like wants to add something else, but the line of his mouth ripples and stays shut. He remembers, clearly, even if Louis doesn’t.

He has very few memories of the whole day, partly because of the nerves and partly because of his life-threatening head injury. All he sees is darkness, no matter how deep he tries to delve; he hears the thunder of a dozen horses running straight at him and Liam’s voice, cutting through the commotion, screaming Louis’s name.

There were pictures, later. Of Liam holding a medic by the collar, and vaulting himself over the fence into the dirt wearing his Armani coat, and throwing boards off of Louis like they didn’t weigh a thing.

Louis had laughed, the first time he saw them, and then made Liam crawl into his hospital bed and stay for a week.

“Listen,” he says, fingers wrapped around Liam’s wrist. “Harry just—doesn’t like me that way. It’s his right to find someone with a limp unattractive, you know.”

“Don’t insult him,” Liam scowls. “And you’re not—he likes you. That way. It’s right there for anyone to see, except for you, because you’re a twat.”

Finally, the terseness in the air is broken. Louis can breathe again.

“You’re a bloody catch,” Liam continues, poking an accusatory finger into Louis’s chest. “I need you to tell yourself that in front of a mirror. At least twice a day.”

The corner of Louis’s mouth twitches. The situation still seems a little too fragile, but he can’t quite help himself when he bursts into laughter.

“I’m serious!” Liam shouts, but he’s relaxed a little. “Soph taught me that. It helps a lot.”

Louis hiccups. “Liam,” he gasps, trying to get himself together. “Liam, tell me. What would I do without you?”

Finally, Liam grins. It’s the wide, happy kind, the exact same smile he’s wearing in all the pictures from his winning races.

“Let’s never find out,” he says, and wraps an arm around Louis’s shoulders. “But I really—can you promise you’ll tell me things, next time? We don’t—not talk to each other.”

He does have a point there. Sharing – oversharing – has been one the foundations of their relationship from the very beginning. If Louis hadn’t complained about the rash that his new jodhpurs gave him, way back when, they might have never become anything more than professional acquaintances.

“Sure,” he sighs. “I’ll, uh, keep you updated.”

Liam smiles, and smacks a kiss to Louis’s temple. “Thank you. Now go get Marshmallow a blanket, pretty please.”

And he runs off, back to their horse, who’s still standing in place but fidgeting impatiently. She still looks keyed up, poor thing, and Louis suddenly feels very guilty for taking Liam’s attention away from her.

Still, “Prick!” he shouts after him, and scowls at his answering laugh.

“Love you too, Tommo!”

Louis shakes his head. He picks up his tea, down the rest of it, and walks out of the riding hall with his hands in his pockets.

“A party,” Louis repeats, pretzel stick held halfway up to his mouth.

“Yes!” Harry says on the other end of the line, voice tinny but enthusiastic. “I just want everyone to meet each other, you know? You’ve been here for almost a month and you don’t know anybody.”

“I know Martha,” Louis says, offended. Martha is lovely. She makes Louis's tea exactly the way he likes it.

“I mean the horse people,” says Harry. “The kids especially. They’ve been asking about Marshmallow’s training, and I don’t know what to tell them.”

“The kids?”

“Yeah, I—I’ll explain at the party. Which you’re coming to, yeah?”

Louis sighs. “I’m not sure, Liam might have plans with his girlfriend—“

“Bring her, too,” Harry interrupts. “Bring anyone you’d like. I'll have a buffet, plenty of food for everyone.”

And really, how could Louis say no? Harry sounds so excited, so eager.

“Alright,” he says. “Alright, we’ll be there.”

“Yes! Thank you so much. Saturday at five, see you then.”

“See you,” Louis says, and the line goes dead.

“Who was that?” Niall asks, one eyebrow a perfect condescending arch. He’s on his third beer, stretched on Louis’s sofa like this isn’t the second time he’s ever visited.

“Why do you care?” Louis asks, sipping on his gin and tonic. He’s on a break from painkillers – now seems as good a time as any to get drunk. It’s somewhat sad, because he’s doing it in his own living room with his physiotherapist, but he'll take it.

“Don’t,” Niall shrugs, but there’s a spark in his eye that suggests otherwise. “You’re blushing, though.”

Louis is not. “I’m not. It’s the booze.”

Niall cackles. “Sure it is,” he says. “So, who’s Harry?”

Louis throws a pillow at him.

As per Harry’s insistence, they roll into the parking lot at five sharp that Saturday. Louis has been relegated to the back seat, because Sophia gets shotgun by nature of being Liam’s girlfriend. He all but throws himself out of the car as soon as he can, digging his cane into the gravel and stretching his limbs.

It’s gone dark already, the house a beacon in the distance. Liam charitably lends Louis his elbow as they make their way over there, helping him navigate the uneven path in the blackness.

“This is posher than I expected,” Sophia says, walking alone in her five-inch heels, because that’s the sort of thing Sophia does. “I know you said he’s rich, but—wow.”

“I know,” Liam giggles, letting go of Louis when they make it to the front steps. Louis lets him walk up first and get the knocker, because he’s aware of the child-like enjoyment Liam gets out of it.

The door only takes seconds to open. Bright light and warmth spill out from inside, a din of voices and tinkling piano music, but Louis’s eyes stay glued to the person who opened the door – Harry, of course.

Louis had thought he’d be fine tonight. He really, really had.

“Hello,” Harry dimples, smiling in that absolutely disarming way of his and extending a hand. “I’m Harry.”

“Sophia,” she shakes it, already smiling. “This is a very nice place.”

They chit chat for a while more, probably, but Louis tunes them out in favour of looking down at himself. He’s wearing black jeans, because Harry said it was a casual thing, but he did delve into the depths of his wardrobe and dig out his favourite blazer, the one that makes his waist look bloody amazing. Now that he’s seen Harry, though – well, let’s just say he pales in comparison.

He doesn’t understand it, really, how Harry can look so effortlessly rich yet so approachable all at the same time. He’s got a real silk shirt on, with a neck tie that’s shaped like a flower, and the cut of his jacket is the most delicious thing Louis has ever seen.

And – oh, Louis thinks as he surveys his hands, running over Sophia’s bracelet – he’s wearing nail varnish. It’s dark red, and a little chipped on his middle finger, but so, so pretty.

Louis is fucked again. He’s fucked all the time. Perpetually. Just not in the literal sense, though he’d very much like to be.

He bites his lip a touch too hard, just to get himself to focus, and has a smile on his face in time to say hi.

Harry’s eyes are sparkling, and there’s a gorgeous flush creeping up his neck. Louis suspects he might be a little drunk.

“Hello,” Louis says, smiling, because it’s Harry and he gets to be around him. “We, uh—I’m not sure where Liam’s gone, but he has some wine that we brought. I swear I haven’t come to a posh party empty-handed.”

Harry giggles – yep, definitely had a few drinks – and leans forward.

Before Louis knows what’s happening, they’re hugging – just a short thing, barely anything, really, saying hello like friends do. Louis still goes dizzy with it.

Harry smells so fucking good. He’s wearing cologne, of course, probably something French that neither of them can pronounce, but it’s the scent underneath that hits Louis like a sledgehammer. It’s so irrefutably him, a bit of spice and a bit of sweat. Louis wants to wrap it around him like a blanket.

“Hi,” Harry says into his ear, all breathy, his lips catching on the shell of it. Louis suppresses a fully-body shiver.

They let go, and cool air immediately fills the gap between them. It can’t have been more than five seconds, the hug, but Louis feels like a changed man.

“Come in,” Harry says, bathed in the light of the chandeliers while the party goes on behind him, clinking silverware and glistening jewelry.

They’ve barely stopped touching, but somehow, he feels further than he’s ever been.

It’s eight in the evening, and Louis is trying to shake a teenager.

That makes him sound awful – it isn’t that long since he was one, after all – but he absolutely cannot cope with one more question. He also wants to get some champagne in him, and possibly something stronger, but he can’t very well do that while chatting to a seventeen-year-old.

As it turns out, the kids are a gaggle of teenagers from the suburbs who come and go as they please. They ride and take care of Harry’s horses whenever they can just because they love to do it, and because Harry lets them (of course he bloody does). Theoretically, Louis should have a lot in common with them.

In practice, he wants to rip his eyes out of his skull.

His current admirer is called Olly, and he’s absolutely lovely, really – it’s just that Louis lost all will to tolerate him after approximately two hours.

“Don’t you think it’s fascinating, though?” he’s asking now, eyes sparkling. “She’s six already, but she learned a new command in under a week! I’d like to be a trainer one day, have I told you that?”

Louis sips on his glass of Coke, desperately pretending it’s wine. “She’s a very good horse,” he says. He’s trying his hardest to be kind, he really is. “And my friend is a very good trainer. Match made in heaven.”

Olly nods. He runs a hand through his hair, which is very, very curly, and makes a wild mess of it on top of his head. It’s quite endearing.

“Do you think I could speak to him? Your friend, I mean.”

“Sure,” Louis says, already looking over people’s heads. “I’m not sure where he is, but you’ll know him when you see him. He’s wearing a bowtie.”

“Is he now?” Olly grimaces, tugging on the collar of his incredibly loud polo. “I reckon that won’t be difficult, then. Thank you, Louis,” he says, then turns around and shouts “Neil!” at a deafening volume. Most of the room turns to him, but he doesn’t seem to care, just waits until this Neil person joins him. They walk off, presumably in search of Liam, hand in hand.

Louis smiles.

The crowd swallows them up soon enough, a throng of people overdressed in various amusing ways. It’s then that Louis realises Olly is really gone. He’s free.

He looks up in relief, watching as the light bounces off the crystals on the chandelier. Trust Harry to be hiding an entire banquet hall in his house.

When nobody else shows any intention of trying to talk to him, Louis leaves his glass on the nearest table and makes a beeline for the bar. It’s small, probably doesn’t have much on offer, but he really can’t be bothered to care.

He asks for a glass of red and leans against one of the stools, surveying the room. He’s learned way too many names in the past three hours, and probably can’t remember them all, but it’s nice to finally be able to identify the faces that he sees around every day, mostly hiding in the shadows whenever he and Liam are around.

There’s Martha of course, Harry’s not quite cleaning lady, wearing a glitzy cocktail dress instead of her usual uniform, and Steve and Chris who take care of the fences. Over by the record player is Dave, Louis thinks, who comes around once a week to tend to Harry’s plants, and Alan the occasional stablehand, as he’d introduced himself. A few more people Louis has never seen, and some of the kids who act like they’re right at home, even in an environment like this. The thing is, though, there’s nobody in the room who works here for real, no nine to five employees to take care of the house or the horses or Harry. He does it all on his own, Martha had said, and Louis’s chest had grown tight at the thought.

Either way, there are a lot of people. Harry flits between all of them, ever the social butterfly, champagne flute in hand and a smile on his face. He’s probably the happiest Louis has ever seen him.

“Here you go, sir,” says the bartender, probably Louis’s own age and just being cheeky, as he puts the wine glass down on the bar. Louis grabs it eagerly and takes a sip. It’s—good, probably. All he knows about wine is that it gets him drunk quicker than anything else.

There are a few people by the door who are already on their way out, trying to find their coats under a dozen others. It takes Harry less than five seconds to spot them and wander over, shaking hands and kissing cheeks. He’s flushed, the curls on his temples sticking to his face, and he’s clearly having the time of his life.

Louis, on the other hand, is feeling a little suffocated. He hasn’t been around this many people in months, and even though the room is not full enough to have anyone breaching his personal space, it’s still just a bit too much.

Unable to find Liam and ask him for help, Louis decides to take his wine and get some fresh air. He slips out unnoticed into the freezing night, and regrets it as soon as the chills gets under his cuffs and past his collar, prickling on bare skin. He’s not one to give up, though, and he walks on, cautious step after cautious step, feeling out the ground with his cane and sipping all the while. Some of the windows are open, letting out warmth and laughter, but nobody notices him, hobbling around using the creamy white walls are a reference point in the dark.

He can’t see the horses when he looks around, and hopes they won’t ambush him as he veers away and towards the stable. It’s barely a silhouette against the starless sky, but he’s been in it enough times to find both the door and the light switch.

A couple of small lamps flicker to life high overhead. They illuminate the pile of straw in one corner, the packed dirt floor, the stalls – all blessedly empty.

“Hello?” Louis asks, just in case, but there’s no answer.

It only just occurs to him how ridiculous he must look, standing in the dusty stable with his cane in one hand and an immaculately polished wine glass in the other. He’s already here, though, and he’s earned a few minutes of alone time.

He walks to the very back corner, to the stall they’ve started prepping for when Marshmallow will need to be separated from the herd pre-competition. The stack of straw he’d left earlier in the week is still there. He folds into it gratefully, relaxing with no regard for his clothes.

He closes his eyes. Inhales; holds it in; exhales. The scents of the room stick in his nose, hay and dry dirt and horse. He blinks his eyes ope , takes a look at the wooden walls of the stall. They still look new even though the building is old, shiny with varnish, if a little dusty. Louis reaches out to trace the lines of the closest one, the long years hidden in waves and swirls and dark knobs, and that’s when he notices.

There’s a shallow engraving in the wood, scratchy like someone had done it with a key or a coin. It seems a little aged, barely visible, but the letters are clear enough:

H + W.

Louis is instantly alert, any traces of relaxation gone. He traces the H, over and over again, until the groove of it lingers in his fingers.

It stands for Harry. It has to.

He looks around, trying to spot another engraving, anything, but there’s nothing more. Just the two letters and a plus between them, straight out of a cliché teen romance.

Louis burns, suddenly, with how much he wants to know who this W is. Their initial is old, probably a few years at least, and Harry lives alone. But they were here, once upon a time. Maybe they lay in the same spot Louis is now, the two of them; maybe Harry felt so much love, just then, that he wanted to remember it forever.

Maybe Louis is overthinking. Maybe the W stands for Harry’s sister, the one he misses so much.

As if on cue, the door slides open, a loud screech of metal in the quiet night. Louis sits up, brandishing his empty glass like a weapon.

“Who’s there?” he asks, perhaps unwisely. If a mass murdered just came in, they would’ve never noticed Louis all the way back here if he’d just stayed fucking quiet.

The person is a dark silhouette, the edges of it sketchy as it looks in from the blackness of the night, but Louis thinks he recognises the way its shoulders hunch.

“Louis?” the silhouette speaks. Louis lets out a relieved breath.

“Back here,” he says, quiet.

Harry stumbles into the light, just as pretty as he had been all evening. He looks a little debauched, a little like he’s just stepped out of some fancy painting, red-faced and smiling with his neck tie missing. There’s a slightest hint of hesitation in his step, like he has to think about where he’s putting his feet.

“Sorry,” he says when he’s made it to Louis’s stall, towering over him. “I figured you want to be alone, but I saw you walking off into the dark and I was worried.”

Louis shakes his head, smiling. He doesn’t have the words to explain that Harry is the exception, but he hopes it shows on his face.

“Sit down before you tip over,” he says, extending a worried hand.

Harry sways in place a little, then takes one last step into the stall, and plops into the straw with a soft oof. He’s—very close. Close enough that Louis feels the warmth he’s radiating.

“Thanks,” he mumbles, rubbing his eyes. He seems a little tired in these lights, not as happy as he had been in his banquet hall. “I think I need to sober up a little.”

Louis laughs. “A bit too happy with the drinks, were you?”

“You have no idea,” Harry groans, a small pout on his lips. “Martha bet me I couldn’t drink three appletinis in three minutes.”

“No,” Louis gasps, mock scandalised. “Did you win the bet?”

Harry shakes his head. “Only drank two and a half.”

Louis isn’t sure what it is – the wine, or maybe the heat of Harry’s presence. He reaches out, slow, careful, and pets Harry’s curls.

“Poor thing,” he says, grinning, and Harry giggles in response. He turns his head into Louis’s touch, almost nuzzling, and keeps frowning until Louis buries his fingers deeper, tracing little circles in Harry’s scalp. He doesn’t scream out loud, but it’s a close thing.

“’M sorry,” Harry says again, slurring a little. “I’m not usually this much of a mess.”

Louis is sure he must have stars in his eyes by now, born out of the way he feels when he looks at this boy. “You seem quite alright,” he says. “At least compared to some of the others. I think I saw someone trying to forward roll down the staircase earlier.”

Harry laughs. There’s a little squeaky note to his voice, so unbelievably endearing.

“I did tell everyone to have fun.”

Louis smiles, hand still in Harry’s hair, and lets himself relax a little, leaning back. Any fear he might have been feeling evaporated the second he recognised Harry’s stumbling gait.

There’s silence, only for a bit, just the two of them slumped in a horse stall and breathing into the chilly night air. A slight wind picks up outside every now and then, whispering through the grass and masking the little rasp of Harry’s inhales.

Louis can’t stop thinking about the engraving.

It’s still right there, very much real, inconspicuous in the wood just over Harry’s shoulder. Louis feels bolstered by his presence, by the little bit of alcohol running through his veins, and he doesn’t try to stop himself when he asks:

“Are you H?”

Harry blinks, slow and thorough, once, twice, three times. His curls catch the light just right when he turns to look at Louis.

“Sorry?” he asks, and he’s so open, just then, so vulnerable and lovely. Louis feels bad for asking again, but he can’t stop.

“This,” he says, reaching out to touch the letters. “I just figured I’d ask.”

He can pinpoint the exact moment Harry realises what he’s talking about, and it makes him want to take everything back three times over.

Harry’s gorgeous, sweet expression disappears, and in its place falls a mask. It’s startlingly familiar, and it’s only now Louis realises how many times he’s seen this Harry, so obviously guarded, and thought him to be genuine.

He watches the thin line of Harry’s lips, devoid of colour from how hard he’s pressing them together.

“I—I’m not sure how that got there, to be honest,” he says, eyes on the ground, like he doesn’t even want to look. “Must’ve been the kids.”

“That’s not what I asked,” Louis points out, barely audible.

Harry looks at him – just looks. He looks like a wilted flower compared to the way he’d walked in, his shoulders sagging, hair hanging down to obscure his face.

Louis shakes his head. What is wrong with him?

“I’m sorry,” he says, like he should’ve done several minutes ago. “It’s none of my business.”

Harry nods. He’s all folded up now, barely taking up space, arms wrapped around his knees. Eyes closed, he props his forehead on his knees, and doesn’t say anything else.

Louis’s throat burns. His tongue is heavy and useless in his mouth when he tries to find something to say, words of comfort, or maybe a spell to reverse time. If he could just—go back and not ask. Maybe smack his self from two minutes ago. Fuck, he thinks, and it gets stuck on a loop in his head. Fuck fuck fuck. Fuck. He can’t help feeling like he’s just ruined something, demolished a trust that they’d only just started building.

Or maybe that’s the wine. Louis hasn’t had proper alcohol in a very long time.

When he looks up again, Harry hasn’t changed positions, but the grip he’d had on his knees has loosened. He’s—asleep.

Louis reaches out and taps his arm, the smallest, lightest touch he’s capable of. Harry lets out a huff of breath in response, but doesn’t wake.

“I’m sorry,” Louis whispers. It’s suddenly much easier to say. “I’m sorry, love. I don’t know what happened to you, but I’m sorry.”

There’s no answer, just a whistle of wind somewhere up by the roof. Louis sighs, lets his head thud back, and closes his eyes.

He wakes up at six in the morning to Liam yelling at him.

Harry is gone.

They don’t talk about The Incident, and Louis most certainly doesn’t think about it. Life goes on as normal, absolutely peachy.

Except Liam has been glaring at him for going on two weeks, and Louis is reaching the end of his rope.

“It’s not like he’s my mother,” he complains, pushing his foot against Niall’s hand a bit too hard. “I don’t have to report to him. I’m twenty-three years old, Niall, I can spend my Saturday night wherever I want.”

“He’s just worried,” Niall says. Louis looks at him in surprise – he assumed that Niall has stopped listening like he usually does.

“I can take care of myself, though. He doesn’t need to worry.”

“That why you spent fifteen minutes complaining about him not giving you a ride today?”

“No,” Louis says, even though Niall’s kind of got him there. He’d been pissed at Liam, because him bowing out meant he had to call Harry, and things between them are—well. Harry acts completely normal, smiling and joking and telling more anecdotes from his posh childhood. It’s only Louis’s brain that seems to turn into the world’s largest, most useless collection of cymbal monkeys whenever he’s supposed to act like a person.

The Incident may be weighing on him a little bit.

They move on to wall squats, Louis’s least favourite activity in the whole entire world, but he’s so lost in his head he powers through them without a single complaint.

“Alright,” Niall says, clapping his hands. “We’re done. And we’ve still got…” he looks at his watch, “wow, twenty minutes to spare. Are you sure you’re okay?”

“We don’t run over time that often,” Louis grumbles, even though he knows that’s a lie.

Niall laughs, because he knows it too.

Louis helps him pack everything away, rolling up some spare mats and arranging the balls in a neat row by the wall just like Niall likes it. He wouldn’t be caught dead cleaning, normally, but it’s their last session before Christmas, and they only pick back up in three weeks’ time. Louis is going to miss him, just a bit.

“You’ll be alright then?” Niall asks, as if reading Louis’s mind. “Without me, I mean. If you just go through your home exercises like you normally do, I think—“

“I’ll be fine, Irish,” Louis grins. “I’ll do my stretches and my air biking and my leg lifts. You won’t even recognise me when you get back.”

Niall squints. “Do we need to talk about overexertion, because I’ve got time after this—“

“No!” Louis interrupts, in a hurry to get away before Niall gets going. He’s heard that particular talk no fewer than seven times, and could probably recite it from memory. “No overexertion. I’ll take care of myself. Send you snaps of every exercise I do.”

“Please don’t,” Niall sighs. “I want to have a nice time with my family, not look at your ugly legs.”

“You wish you had these legs, Chicken Little, ” Louis replies.

Niall cackles so loudly it rings around the room.

“Have a good time in Ireland,” Louis tells him when they’re just about done, and opens his arms for a hug. Niall tries to act reluctant, but he steps up eagerly, and they sway from side to side for a good couple of minutes.

“Cheers,” he says as he pats Louis on the back, “you have a nice Christmas. And happy birthday, you arse.”

Louis pulls back. “I never told you—“

“I have your medical records, Louis.”

They let go after that, turning out the light. Louis swings his backpack over his shoulder, waiting for Niall by the door, when he realises he’s missing something.

“Hey, Niall,” he calls into the dark, waiting until he hears a curious grunt, “where’s my cane?”

Silence. Niall joins him in the doorway with his lips pursed, looking conflicted.

Louis blinks. “Niall? My cane?”

He sighs, then rubs his forehead. “You came without it,” he mumbles.

“I did not—“ Louis starts, certain that Niall’s having him on, but the words die a swift death right there in his throat. Because Niall—Niall is right.

Louis has no memory of having his cane with him when he got into Harry’s car, or when he took the lift up to Niall’s office. He’d left it at home.

“I left it at home,” he breathes, and the world stutters a little on its axis. “I left my bloody cane.”

He hadn’t even realised until now, he’d been so distracted thinking about how to act with Harry. He hadn’t missed it—hadn’t needed it.

“I didn’t wanna tell you,” Niall says. “I wasn’t sure if you knew you didn’t have it.”

Louis shakes his head. “I didn’t.”

He’d walked – just walked, without leaning on anything, from the parking lot to the building, and now he’s walking back. No cane to wrap his fingers around, just his own body, actually holding him up the way it’s supposed to, his achy bones working without a single hitch.

“Well then,” Niall grins, and keeps grinning as he locks the door behind them and calls the lift. “It’s going to be a very merry Christmas.”

Louis isn’t sure about merry, but it certainly is white. A few days before Christmas Eve, London wakes up to a pristine white blanket of snow. It’s wet, the kind that can’t quite decide what it wants to be and melts by lunchtime, but it’s exciting regardless.

The track at Harry’s finally gets finished, a state-of-the art single mile of locally sourced turf, with the white railing like they’ve got in the movies and everything. They start training in earnest, and Marshmallow, lovely hard-working thing that she is, improves lightning fast.

But unfortunately for her, all of Liam’s nets have come up empty.

“How is this possible?” he wonders aloud, jogging around the corral with Marshmallow on his heels. “I’ve put her training times in every ad. They should be queuing to ride her.”

“Maybe it’s because nobody knows who Harry is,” Louis shrugs, leaning against the fence and chewing on an apple. “And she hasn’t won anything yet. Probably don’t expect to get paid much.”

Liam changes direction, turns sharply towards the centre of the circle and back in. Marshmallow follows, completely unfazed.

“Plus she’s seven, and this is the first time she’s being trained for racing. It’s really not that surprising, Li.”

“We might as well start looking for a jockey, at this rate,” Liam frowns. “She needs someone lighter, and she needs them right now.”

Louis scratches his head. “One of the kids, maybe?”

“I’ve already tried,” Liam says. “None of them are eighteen yet, and I don’t particularly want to try and convince someone’s parents it’s safe to ride at forty miles per hour.”

As if she understood, Marshmallow sidesteps to the inside of the circle and jogs up to Liam until they’re shoulder to shoulder.

“Hey,” Liam says when he notices her, barely pretending to be stern, “easy, babe. This one’s not a race.”

He manages to outrun her and get her back in check, doing what she’s supposed to do – following him. Louis isn’t sure what the goal is here, but it’s always been part of Liam’s training plan.

“Maybe you should put an ad on Gumtree,” he muses. It’s a testament to how stressed Liam is that he barely even laughs.

It goes on that way through most of December, the temperature dropping surprisingly low as Liam and Marshmallow work their way up to mile-long gallops. Harry’s vet pays them a visit to check on the mare's bones, and officially declares her fit to race.

And Louis—well, Louis watches, and writes notes, and keeps records. He becomes the designated snack-sneaker, and Marshmallow jogs up to him whenever she sees him to inspect his pockets. He keeps Harry up to date, and Harry returns the favour by getting more beautiful every day, the winter chill permanently staining his cheeks pink.

The season is going to be in full swing soon, but Louis isn’t worried about that. Right now, he has everything he could possibly need.

“Darling,” is the first thing mum says when he opens the door. He can barely see her face, bundled up as she is, but he can tell that she’s smiling.

“Hello,” he grins, taking all her bags off her hands even as she protests. He hugs her after, and plants a kiss on her cold cheek, and she wraps her arms around him like he’s just come home from war.

“Oh, I’ve missed you so much,” she says, “let me look at you.” She pulls back to squint at his face and pinch his cheek, so mum-like it makes Louis’s chest ache for a childhood he left behind a long time ago. “Gorgeous as always,” is her verdict. “You look like you’ve been eating.”

“I have,” Louis says, peering out into the corridor. “Harry—Liam’s boss—he’s a great cook. Always makes too much, so we usually stay for dinner.”

Mum hums, pulling off her gloves. Louis watches her until he can hear voices drifting up from the ground floor. Somebody’s running up the stairs, a loud stomp-stomp-stomp echoing through the whole building. Louis can only hope that after the last three Christmases, his neighbours are used to this.

Daisy is the first one at the top, and Phoebe right behind her, somehow much taller than when Louis had seen them last.

He bends down and opens his arms, smiling so wide his cheeks hurt with it.

“Louis!” they shout in unison, and literally tackle him to the ground. He laughs as he tries to sit up, two sets of limbs wrapped all over him like octopi. He’d been a bit worried, though he’ll only admit that to himself – the twins are twelve now, and massively popular at school if what he’s been hearing from mum is true. They could have thought themselves too cool to hug their older brother.

Louis is the best brother in the world, though. And nobody’s ever too cool for hugging in the Tomlinson-Deakin household.

“Hiya, monsters,” he grins, tickling where he can reach. They groan in unison, but don’t complain about their old nickname.

Fizzy’s there next, then Lottie with Doris in her arms, and Louis pulls both himself and the twins to their feet just to open his arms again. They surround him, and he ends up slightly squished in the middle, but he most definitely doesn’t mind.

“Lou!” Doris babbles when they let go, reaching out for him, and he almost trips over himself in his haste to get to her. Dan’s come up the stairs behind them in the meantime, holding Ernest, who’s fast asleep and drooling on his shoulder.

Louis distributes more hugs and kisses more cheeks, all while Doris pulls on his earlobe, and gives Dan a hug hello. There’s an overwhelming feeling of rightness settled into every cell of his being, a quiet, steady happiness as he watches them hang up their jackets and get out of their wet shoes.

This is home, and he’s missed it so, so much.

“What’s new, then?” asks Lottie as she leads the way into the living room, like they didn't spend two hours on Facetime earlier that week.

“You tell me,” Louis challenges, pulling some of his hair out of Doris’ mouth. “I’ve seen your Instagram, you know—“

“Oi!”

“It’s public, Lotts. Anyone can go on it.“

“Lick,” Doris interrupts, repeating some of Louis’s words. “Lou lick.”

Louis has to physically stop himself from peppering kisses all over her little face.

“I’d like to know what Lou licks,” Lottie mutters, and Louis’s eye widen. He looks around in scandal, ready to play it off, but he realises there’s no need. It’s just Fizzy, smirking while she pretends to look at her phone, and the older twins already sitting around Louis’s laptop, whispering something.

“That was rude, young lady,” he says, a little bit serious, feeling depressingly old.

“I just want you to be happy,” she blinks, the very picture of innocence. “And also, you don’t ever tell me anything. I’m curious.”

Doris wiggles, pinching the skin of Louis’s arm. He crouches and gently sets her on the floor, where he’s already set out blankets and toys he bought specially for this occasion, after mum informed him that the ones from six months ago simply wouldn’t do.

“If you must know,” he says importantly, watching his youngest sister toddle towards the TV, “the last thing I’ve licked was an ice lolly.”

Fizzy laughs. Lottie huffs and throws a pillow at her. “I forgot how much I hate you,” she says.

Louis climbs up on the sofa, right next to her, pressing an annoying, wet kiss to her forehead. “Missed you too.”

He has to get up eventually and help mum and Dan put away the food they’ve brought, but he gets a sleepy little Ernest out of it. He wanders away with him, far from the commotion in the living room as he scrunches his face and blinks sleep out of his eyes.

“Hey, little bro,” Louis whispers, then grimaces. “That’s an ugly word, that, isn’t it. Liam’s my bro. You’re my Ernest.”

“Ehnest,” he nods solemnly, pacifier tumbling out of his mouth and down his shirt, where it stays, because mum had put it on one of them safety string things.

It’s been twenty minutes, and Louis is already covered in baby saliva. He’s loving every single second of it.

“That’s right,” he tells Ernest, rocking him a little as he walks up to his bedroom window. There are strings of fairy lights twinkling between street lamps, some overachieving neighbour’s pet project, and in the forefront is snow, falling in soft, fluffy tufts. It’s quiet in a way that only Christmas Eve can be.

“Look at that,” he says, his breath fogging up the window. He takes Ernest’s hand and draws a smiley face in the condensation. His little brother squeaks when his finger touches the glass, mouth open wide in a surprised O. Louis laughs at him.

“It’s gorgeous, isn’t it?” he asks, watching as a car rolls by, soundless in the fresh snow. “Like the whole street is a Christmas tree.”

“Twee,” Ernest agrees, leaning forward to put his entire palm on the window. This is where mum would tut and pull him away, worried about handprints, but Louis can’t bring himself. “Twee. Quish-mesh.”

Louis gasps. “Christmas? Is that what you’re saying?”

“Quish-mesh,” Ernie confirms.

Louis kisses him on the head. “Clever boy,” he says through his smile.

He lets Ernest stand on the windowsill, button nose pressed against the glass and watching as the fairy lights flicker. His eyes are wide, utterly fascinated, and he barely notices Louis mumbling nonsense, trying to get him to repeat more words.

It’s been months since he’s seen his babies in person. Mum keeps him updated with a new picture at least every other day, and an extensive commentary of every milestone they reach, but it’s not the same. The last time Louis had held them, they still had that baby smell about them, were just about starting to crawl. And now – now they’re walking all on their own. They call him Lou instead of that happy babbling noise they used to make whenever they saw him.

He’s not going to be sad about it, though. Not today, not while he has them here. Christmas is for presents, and food, and celebrating Louis’s birthday, and he’s going to do all that surrounded by his family.

“Should we go find mum?” he asks, poking Ernie’s belly. “Should we see what our sisters are up to?”

“Mum!” Ernest repeats immediately, latching onto the word and jumping on the windowsill. “Mum!”

“Alright,” Louis grins, and reaches out for him. “Let’s go.”

Ernest shrieks, a joyful little sound, and stretches his arms towards Louis.

The lights go out.

Louis just manages to catch his brother, stumbling a little. He thinks he must’ve closed his eyes, at first, but he can’t see anything even as he blinks until his eyes water.

Ernest meeps. Louis holds him tighter, hugging him to his own chest while he tries to get his bearings.

The street outside is dark, darker than Louis has ever seen it. The fairy lights are out, and so are the street lamps.

“Shit,” he whispers and turns away, trying to find his way out of the bedroom. He’s got his phone in his back pocket, but he doesn’t want to let go of Ernie to get it.

“Mum?” he calls, and several voices rise all at once.

“In here,” she calls back, carrying over them all, from what Louis thinks is the living room.

He manages to make his way there, as disoriented as he is, and is greeted by six drab faces lit up by smartphone screens.

“Um,” he says, shifting Ernest in his arms. “I don’t suppose one of you just turned the power off?”

“It’s the whole street,” Fizzy says, looking out of the window. “Probably the whole block, actually. I can see the stars.”

That’s bad. That’s really, really bad. Louis panics a little, then tries to pretend he’s got it under control.

“Okay,” he says, breathing out to calm himself. “I’m, um—I’m going to go call EDF.”

“Love, it’s Christmas Eve,” mum says.

“Still,” Louis shrugs, then goes to her and hands over Ernest. “I’m going to go call EDF.”

“I’m cold,” Daisy says just before Louis exits the room. It’s enough to make something twist in his chest, making breathing difficult as he taps in the number for his supplier. He’s still got a very, very small hope when he puts it up to his ear and goes through all the steps necessary to call in a power outage, is keeping his fingers crossed right up until the tinny voice on the other end tells him to please stay on the line, and that his expected wait time is seventy-two hours.

“Fuck,” he says, only just manages to keep himself from shouting. “Fucking shit, what the fuck.”

Think, he tells himself, bloody think. There has to be a hotel in town that’d let them check in. They’ll be warm, at least, even though it won’t be ideal, what without a Christmas tree—or the food, which is in the fridge, which needs electricity to function, fuck—

Calm. Louis is calm. He’s an adult, and he’s rich. He can handle this.

He can’t handle this.

“Love,” mum says, rubbing his shoulder where he’s slumped on the ground by the sofa, holding his face in his hands. Liam and Soph are up in Wolverhampton with Karen and Geoff and Liam’s sisters, and their house probably has power, but Louis had lost his spare key several months ago. He’s called three dozen hotels, and none of them, not a single one, can accommodate nine people on Christmas Eve. “Love, maybe it would be better if we went. You should come with us.”

“Yeah,” Lottie smiles, shivering in her parka. “Back to Donny. Sounds like a great idea, let’s go.”

Louis can’t do that, he can’t. If he went home right now, he’d probably forget himself and never leave again, and he can’t—he’s got physiotherapy and training and—oh. Oh.

“Wait,” he mumbles, to no one in particular, scrambling for his phone. This is an awfully rude thing to do, and he shouldn’t, he wouldn’t, but he’s truly reached the end of his rope.

“Pick up,” he whispers as the phone rings, one monotonous beep after another. “Pick up, pick up, pick up—“

“Hello?” Harry’s voice rumbles through the line, and Louis nearly bursts into relieved tears.

“Harry,” he tries to say, but his voice comes out choked. He clears his throat, then tries again: “Harry. Hi.”

“Is everything alright?” Harry asks, immediately picking up on Louis’s distress – which isn’t hard, really, considering how close to crying he is. “Is—are you okay? Did something happen?”

“Yeah,” Louis replies, then realises what he’s saying. “I mean, no, I’m okay, Liam’s fine, everyone’s alive.”

“Thank God. Why are you calling on Christmas Eve, then?”

“I, uh, I was wondering—I wanted to know if you’d happen to know a rich hotel owner, or something. The, uh, the power in my flat went out, and it doesn’t look like it’s going to be back on anytime soon.”

“Oh no,” Harry breathes. He sounds so genuine, so concerned that Louis has to swallow another lump that forms in his throat. “That’s awful, I’m so sorry.”

“Yeah,” says Louis. “Do you—do you think there’s anyone who could help? I’ll pay anything.”

Mum tuts and slaps his arm, but Louis doesn’t give in. He’s hosting this bloody Christmas, come hell or high water.

“Don’t be silly,” says Harry, and something rustles on his end of the line. Louis thinks he hears echoing footsteps, like Harry’s just walking around. It’s then that he realises that there aren't any voices or music in the background – just Harry’s snuffly little breaths. “You can come here.”

It takes a few seconds to register with Louis. “What?”

“Come here,” Harry chuckles. “I’ve got power and gas and several spare bedrooms. Not much food though, I’m afraid.”

“Wait, you’re—are you alone?”

“Yep,” says Harry, and almost manages to make it sound cheerful. “The family’s in Thailand and Martha’s at home, it’s just me and the horses.”

Louis’s heart hurts. “Are you sure you won’t mind, though?”

“Yes, Louis. I’d, um. I’d really love some company, actually.”

Louis is seconds away from jumping out of the window and sprinting to the Styles estate in just his socks. He needs to hug Harry, right now, immediately.

“Fair warning, I’ve got my entire family with me,” Louis says, and manages to dodge the kick that Fizzy aims at his shoulder.

Harry laughs. “You’ve been to my house. There’s plenty of space for everyone, even your six siblings.”

“I can’t believe you remember that,” Louis says. His voice has gone soft against his will, and both Lottie and mum are watching him with calculating looks in their eyes.

“I’m offended,” Harry huffs. “Of course I remember. I remember everything.”

Louis bites down on a grin. “The first mare to ever win the National?”

“Charity, 1841,” Harry replies, immediately taking the bait. “Now get off the phone and get in the car. I’ll be waiting.”

“We’ll bring food,” mum shouts, even though there’s no way she can actually hear their conversation. It makes Harry giggle.

“Mum,” Louis hisses, but his own lips are twitching.

“I’ll see you soon,” Harry laughs into the phone. “Drive safe.”

And that’s that.

Louis gets to ride in car number one with mum and Lottie and the babies, squinting at the road signs through the falling snow. The road leading directly to Harry’s house has all but disappeared, and he has to rely on strangely shaped trees to help him find the way.

“There,” he tells mum, pointing toward a cluster of lights in the distance that look vaguely like windows.

Mum steers to the left, bumpily rolling through the snow. As soon as they get past the trees, Harry’s house emerges out of the darkness. The universe must have decided to take Louis’s side, after all.

“I can’t believe you haven’t told me about this,” mum says when they get out of the car, looking around.

“I told you I have a job now,” Louis replies. Technically that’s not true – he doesn’t get paid, and has to turn down Harry’s offers of a wage at least once a week – but she doesn’t need to know that.

He busies himself with unbuckling the straps of Doris’ car seat and lifting her out. She’d had a little kip on the way, but she seems awake now, pacifier held firmly between her teeth and blinking at Louis withbig blue eyes. He desperately wants to hold on to her and carry her all the way to the front door, but he hasn’t got his cane with him; it’s too risky. He passes her to Lottie.

“You didn’t tell me you worked at a place like this,” says mum, holding Ernest with one arm and using the other to navigate Dan into a parking space. “This—Harry, he sounded so young on the phone, do you work for his parents?”

Louis laughs. “No, Mum. He’s the only one who lives here.”

“All alone?”

“Yep,” he says, stepping over to the other car to open the door for his sisters. Daisy and Phoebe give him a curtsy each, giggling, then wrap their arms around his waist all ready to go. Louis feels so very warm under his coat.

“That’s quite sad,” mum says, first in line while the rest of them follow like ducklings. “What happened to his family?”

“They live in Cheshire.”

“And they didn’t come down for Christmas?” She sounds appalled. Louis reminds himself to give her a cuddle later.

“They’re on holiday,” he says, only mildly uncomfortable. Harry’s life isn’t his to share, even if mum is genuinely concerned. “I’m sure they’ll celebrate later, don’t you worry.”

She stays quiet after that, but her lips are pursed – a sure sign of thoughts that she’s keeping to herself, for now.

Louis walks carefully, with Phoebe and Daisy on each side of him, hands on their shoulders. The silence that’s fallen with the snow is almost ethereal; he thinks he can hear the horses somewhere close by.

Fizzy makes it to the knocker first, and she bangs on the door loudly. Louis has to fight a persistent sense of déja vu. The last time he came here like this, in a procession and after dark, he’d ended up sleeping in the stable.

Harry takes about two seconds to pull the door open, clearly waiting in the hall already, and Louis’s heart jumps at the sight of him.

“Hello,” he says, smiling. His eyes land on Fizzy first, then Dan and Ernest and mum, passing by all of them until he lands on Louis. “Hi,” he repeats, much quieter. Louis knows it’s just for him.

“Hiya,” he grins. “We’re here. I hope you like babies.”

Harry’s smiling already, but his lips stretch even wider. There’s a twinkle in his eye, and he looks so alive, so gorgeous, when he leans forward and says: “I love babies. Come in, please.”

They do, shuffling into the hallway one by one. Louis is used to the house now, barely registers the opulent décor and the expensive rugs, but his family are all looking around in wonder.

“Let me help you with that,” Harry tells mum, getting her tote bag of food and the diaper bag off her shoulder before she can say anything. Jay smiles at him, clearly impressed – very impressed, actually. Louis knows every single one of his mum’s faces.

“You work here?” Daisy whispers, elbowing him as she unbuttons her coat.

“Sure do,” he grins, kicking off his shoes. “It’s not as posh as it looks, don’t worry.”

“Heey,” Harry crows, mock-offended, as he closes the door.

“Joking, love,” Louis throws over his shoulder, nudging his sisters until they all start moving into the living room.

He’s the last one left, waiting until Harry has made sure that everyone’s coats are hung up safely.

“Should we take these to the kitchen?” he asks then, motioning at the many bags that are now cluttering up the foyer. “Cause—food. Like your mum said.”

“Later,” Louis smiles, going for reassuring. Harry looks a little frazzled, obviously excited, but also—nervous? “Come meet my family, please.”

Harry nods. He swallows audibly, looking at the ground, and runs his palms down the front of his jeans. He’s painfully gorgeous. Louis would very much like to kiss his face.

“You’re nervous, aren’t you,” he says, grinning. “Please don’t be. I promise they’re harmless.”

“’M not nervous,” Harry mumbles, but his body language suggests otherwise.

It might be because it’s Christmas, or because of the brandy he’d had earlier – Louis decides to throw caution into the wind. He’s been making this, them, weird for the past few weeks for no good reason, and it’s time to put it behind him and move forward.

He steps up to Harry, not as much taller now that he’s not wearing his boots, and wraps him up in a hug.

Harry makes a surprised little noise, but there’s no hesitation in the way he winds his arms around Louis. His head lands on Louis’s shoulder, nose pressed again his ear, and the wispy bits of his hair tickle Louis on the cheek.

The last time they’d hugged had felt strange, had made Louis feel like they were worlds apart, like Harry was a star and he was uselessly trying to pluck it from the sky. This time, it’s the exact opposite.

Harry’s made himself smaller, hunching so as to fit into Louis’s arms, and there’s a little tremor going through him, wound tight as he is. Standing in the foyer in his striped socks and Christmas-themed bowling shirt, breathing into Louis’s neck like he never wants to let go, he’s never felt more real. More human.

“You’ll be alright, yeah?” Louis says into his shoulder, feeling like it’s something that Harry needs to hear. “They’ll all love you.”

“If you say so,” Harry mumbles.

“I know so,” Louis says. You’re my favourite person, he wants to tell Harry, and he probably will, sometime later on when he’s too tipsy to care.

They pull away. Louis is feeling a little sheepish, smoothing down a wrinkle he’d made in Harry’s shirt instead of looking him in the eye.

“You haven’t got your cane,” is the first thing that Harry says.

Louis looks up. Harry’s eyes are brilliantly green in the light, wide and curious, and he’s biting his lip.

“Yeah,” he shrugs, like it’s not a big deal, even though it most certainly is. “I, uh—I’ve been trying to get by without it.”

Harry beams. “How’s that going?”

His boyish enthusiasm is infectuous, and Louis beams right back. “Really well, actually,” he says, his fingers curling in out of habit. “Though I’ve probably jinxed that now.”

“No you haven’t,” Harry smiles, the kindest, softest little thing. “You’re just—you’re brilliant. You’ll forget you ever needed it soon, you’ll see.”

Louis blinks some grateful tears out of his eyes, and reaches out to squeeze Harry’s shoulder.

“Cheers,” he says, though he wants to say so much more.

“You’re welcome, Louis."

Louis takes a deep breath. “Thank you for taking us in,” he tells Harry. Then he leans forward, goes on his tiptoes, and kisses his cheek.

Harry stares.

“Come on,” Louis wraps a hand around his wrist before he has a chance to overthink, and pulls him into the living room.

Everyone seems to have settled in okay, sitting on one of the many soft surfaces, only a little stiff. There’s a fire burning in the fireplace that Harry must have started before they came, and in the corner, reaching almost all the way to the ceiling, is an enormous pine tree.

“Harry,” Louis says, and turns around to look him in the face. “This wasn’t here yesterday.”

Harry scratches his head, stepping from foot to foot. “I had it delivered this morning. Just—wasn’t sure if I wanted to decorate it, but now that you all are here, I was hoping you’d help.”

“Yes we will,” Lottie pipes up immediately, her smile excited. “Oh, this is so much better than Louis’s ugly plastic tree.”

“Hey!”

“She’s right, darling,” mum weighs in. “I didn’t want to say anything.”

Louis turns to her, then back to Harry, his mouth hanging open. Harry’s sucked in his bottom lip, dimples prominent in his cheeks, clearly trying not to laugh.

“Traitors, the lot of you,” Louis throws his arms up. Unsurprisingly, nobody sides with him.

It feels exactly like being in his childhood home again.

They do, indeed, help with decorating, right after Harry shakes everyone’s hands, charming the pants off them in the process. Louis is familiar with that magnetic pull of his, the way his eyes just catch you and never let you go again. Watching it aimed at his family is equal parts amusing and terrifying. Harry really could have anyone wrapped around his finger if he wanted to.

He starts feeling his mum’s eyes on the back of his neck as soon as he and Fizzy dive into Harry’s enormous box of ornaments, but he decides to ignore her until they can talk about whatever this is in peace, ideally over a cuppa.

“Can I go on the ladder?” Daisy asks, from where she’s hanging on to Harry’s back and stretching up to throw some tinsel on.

“You cannot go on the ladder,” Louis says before mum has a chance to open her mouth. “Too dangerous.”

“I’m twelve,” she says, deadpan, but Louis stands his ground and glares at her until she huffs and gives up.

Harry is smiling at him, Louis notices, a soft little spark in his eye. Louis doesn’t know what it means, if it means anything at all, but he smiles back all the same, then goes back to untangling an enormous ball of fairy lights.

He ends up being the one to go on the ladder, even as mum fusses and Harry shoots him worried looks.

“Which one are we putting on top, then?” he asks though a mouthful of pine needles, trying to get the lights to stay. They’re shaped like snowmen, completely out of place in Harry’s posh living room, and it’s precisely why Louis is going to so much trouble hanging them up.

“I don’t think they’ve decided yet,” says Dan, looking down at Doris and Ernest. They were the first ones to discover and open the box with the tree toppers, and then explore every one thoroughly (that is to say, with their teeth). Lottie had asked them to pick one, but Louis isn’t entirely sure they understood.

Harry, now free from Daisy – who’s climbed off and wandered over to where Phoebe and Fizzy are picking baubles – comes over to the babies. He’d been a little sheepish for the last half hour, looking at them like one might look at animals in the zoo, and Louis unconsciously holds his breath as he watches him crouch and smile.

He’s seen Harry smile before, of course, just—not like this.

“Hi there,” Harry says, and it seems like everyone in the room has quieted, looking at him. “Would you like some help?”

Doris opens her mouth, and the angel ornament she’d been chewing on falls out. “Hep?”

The grin that Harry gives her damn near makes Louis cry. “That’s right, help. There’s lots of pretty things in here,” he says as he plucks a star off the top of the pile, “but Louis can only fit one on top of the tree.”

“Lou!” Ernest shouts, banging his fists against his chubby thighs. He doesn’t seem to know where Louis is, but the mention of his name is enough to get him excited.

“Up here, Ernie,” he says, wrapping his hands around the rungs of the ladder, trying not to fall.

Ernie throws his head back, looking up at the tree a little too fast. Before he has can begin to topple over, Harry is there, putting a big palm on his back and propping him up.

“Lou!” Ernest says again, laughing. “Lou up!”

“Lou’s up,” Louis says. “Very far up. I can almost see home from here!” he puts one hand up to shield his eyes, pretending to squint out of the window.

Harry giggles, and Ernest gives a delighted clap. It feels just as good as thousands of people cheering him on from the stands.

“Tink!” Doris screeches suddenly, pulling veryone’s eyes to her. She’s holding a big white star, and on top of it sits a little Tinkerbell figurine. “Tink!”

“Oh,” Harry grins. “That is Tink. She used to be my favourite.”

“Tink,” Doris smiles, kissing her small plastic head. Just about everyone in the room coos out loud.

“You like Tink?”

“Lov,” Doris says importantly, hugging the ornament to her. “Lov Tink.”

Louis might be crying a little.

“Do you think we should put her up there, then?” Harry asks, pointing over his shoulder. “So that she can watch out for all of us?”

“Up?” Doris asks, just making sure.

Harry nods. “Up,” he repeats. “Up where Louis is.”

Ernest crawls over to his sister, plopping down next to her and poking at her new discovery. Doris frowns at him a little, but lets him, training her big eyes on Harry as she contemplates something.

“Tink up,” she decides finally, holding out the topper. Harry takes it carefully, with both hands, as if it were made of glass.

“Ernest?” he turns to him, a smile on his face. “Can Tink go up? Are you okay with that?”

“Up,” Ernie nods. “Ewnie up! “ and he extends his arms towards Harry, expectant. He loves being carried, unlike Doris, who gets fussy after a few minutes, and he usually gets to be whenever he asks. Louis’s entire family is just really, really bad at denying the babies anything.

“You can’t go up there,” Harry giggles, extending a single finger to poke Ernest on the nose. “You’re a boy, not a tree topper.”

“Up!”

“You’d have to just sit there all alone,” Harry warns him. “Just sit and look. No presents.”

“Up,” Ernie demands.

Harry’s face softens – he’s clearly as weak as the rest of them. “Tell you what,” he says, “let’s go see Louis and give him Tink, okay?”

Ernest bounces in place. “Up! Lou up!”

Harry puts the ornament on the ground. He wipes his hands on his jeans and looks up, to Louis’s mum and Dan, who have been watching the scene unfold with smiles on their faces.

“May I?” he asks and motions to Ernie, by far the most timid Louis has ever heard him.

Mum puts a hand on her chest, blinking rapidly. “Oh, darling. Of course you may.”

“Thank you,” Harry beams, polite as always. “Hear that, Ernie? We’re going up.”

Ernest gets a little too excited when Harry picks him up, waving his arms wildly and bouncing, but Harry handles him impressively well. He waits until the boy’s settled, then puts an arm securely around his back, using the other to pick up the topper.

Louis takes in the whole thing and sways on the ladder. Harry’s curled his whole body around Ernest, keeping him safe as he grins at him and pokes his tummy. His dimples seem to be permanently embedded in his cheeks, hair falling around his face in gorgeous ringlets, and he’s just—lit up. He looks so right and at home and comfortable with Louis’s baby brother in his arms, and this, this is too much.

Louis feels like he’s about to fall in more ways than one.

It’s only a few steps across the living room, and Harry crosses the distance in a few long striders, Ernest hanging on to his neck.

They both look up when they reach the ladder. There’s nobody else in the room at that moment – just Harry and Ernest and Louis, whose heart is growing bigger by the second.

“Hey,” he grins at them, trying to pretend like the world isn’t tilting on its axis.

“Hey,” Harry smiles, at the same time as Ernest lets out a delighted shout of “Lou!”

“D’you want to pass him Tink?” Harry asks, bouncing Ernest in his arms to get his attention. He’s holding the topper already, and Ernie snatches it up, tiny hands wrapping around the blunt points of the star.

“Ready when you are,” Louis says, descending a couple of steps and holding his hand out.

Ernest’s tongue pokes out of his mouth as he stretches up, but he’s too far. Before Louis can come lower, Harry’s shifting his hold, wrapping his hands firmly around Ernie’s waist and then lifting him up, not unlike Simba.

The thought makes Louis laugh, and he has to concentrate on staying still as Ernest hands over the tree topper. Once Harry’s sure that Louis got it, he pretends to drop Ernest and then catches him, making him shriek in delight.

“Thank you,” says Louis, and then sets out on his mission to decorate the top of the tree. He has to stand all the way up on the platform, and even then go on his tiptoes, but he manages to slide the star on and make sure that Tinkerbell is facing the room.

His knee is throbbing a little when he climbs down, but it’s very much worth it for the delighted look on the babies’ faces.

He finishes up the lights, with Harry’s generous help, and Fizzy and Lottie cooperate on covering the entire tree in silver tinsel. Finally, everyone grabs a few baubles and hangs them up according to Phoebe and Daisy’s instructions. They’d picked different shades of blue and green, and Louis tries his very best to be careful when he slides them onto the branches. They’re absolutely gorgeous, definitely hand-made, and exactly the kind of thing he’d expect Harry to have in the house.

Finally, after more than an hour of very hard work and some extensive arse-staring on Louis’s part (he’s only human, and Harry is just there all the time), they plug in the fairy lights.

Louis holds his breath as Harry fusses with the socket – thinks of all the disasters that could happen, like a shorting out or one of the little bulbs being faulty and exploding the whole thing, ruining this Christmas for good. He’s biting down on his pointer finger, antsy, but of course, of course, he needn’t have worried.

The tree lights up gorgeously, spots of light shining through the needles and the tinsel, glinting off all the gold and silver in the room, spinning and stretching and blinking through the glass baubles. It’s absolutely stunning, and Louis has to blink a few times to realise that they did this, all of them, together. His plastic sham of a tree could never compare.

“Oh, it’s so lovely,” mum says, coming up to Louis from behind and pressing a kiss to his temple. “Well done, darlings.”

“Mum,” Louis grumbles, but he steps back into her embrace anyway, feeling like a little boy again.

After that, it’s finally time for food, and Louis realises he’s been hungry for hours. Harry tries to usher them all into the dining hall, insisting that he’s the host and will take care of it himself, but both Louis and his mum force their way into the kitchen and refuse to leave.

“You’re not going to win,” Louis whispers to him as they watch Jay flitting about, putting away ingredients for tomorrow as if she’s lived here all her life. “She’s very stubborn, and I’ve inherited it, so.”

“But you’re already stressed out,” Harry whines, arms folded across his chest. He looks absolutely ridiculous in the best way, muscles bulging under his patterned shirt and a pout on his lips. Louis might wants to kiss it away, just a little. “I just want to help.”

“You’ve already helped, Harry,” Louis tells him, and reaches out to squeeze his biceps. “We’d probably be freezing our arses off at my flat if it weren’t for you.”

“It’s my pleasure,” Harry’s pout stretches into a smile, soft but there. “I—it really is. I would’ve just fed the horses and gone to bed, but this is so much better.”

Louis wants to go in for another hug, if he’s honest with himself. Harry looks much perkier than he’d sounded on the phone earlier, has been so genuine with wanting to help and trying to answer every single question that Louis’s sisters posed him. It’s painfully obvious how much he enjoys being around people, but still he’s all alone, even on Christmas, and Louis—Louis just doesn’t think that’s fair.

He grimaces instead of voicing his thoughts, and pats the wet patch that Ernie has drooled into Harry’s collar.

“Sorry about the babies,” he says, even though he doesn’t mean it. “I forgot to mention them. On the phone, I mean.”

“Louis,” Harry looks him in the eye, stern. “I love the babies. Been thinking of stealing them before you go home, actually.”

“It’s very difficult to not love them,” Louis agrees. “They’re just about the most wonderful thing that’s ever happened to me.”

Harry goes soft, the same way he was when he was crouching to talk to Ernest. “You like kids, then?”

Louis blinks. “Of course. I can’t not, growing up with all this around.”

“Yeah,” Harry nods, looking thoughtful. “I—that’s really nice. That you like them.”

There’s still a softness about him, but it’s bleeding into vulnerability. He looks so, so small.

“You okay?” Louis asks, quietly so mum doesn’t hear.

Harry blinks. It takes him a second to realise what Louis said, and the strange openness disappears from his face. “I’m good,” he says, with a barely convincing smile. “Just—got caught up daydreaming, sorry. It’s just that I love kids. Can’t wait to have my own someday.”

Something is off about him, Louis is sure. There’s a trembly little note to his voice, and he’s made himself small against the wall, but he clearly doesn’t want to give anything up.

Looking at him, Louis can’t help imagining what that would be like – Harry and children, his own children, and a place for Louis in their lives—

Louis coughs, then smiles, chasing the thoughts away. There’s time for that (no there isn’t), and time for him to hug Harry, later. Now there’s mum, trying to finish up a dinner for ten and needing all the help she can get.

“Catch you later,” he says, touching Harry’s hip. He moves to the cupboards, vaguely familiar with their contents, and starts pulling out the china that looks sturdiest, then the silverware.

There are happy voices carrying in from the dining room, and a heavy, comfortable warmth has settled in Louis’s bones. Amongst the glistening crystal glasses and shiny marble countertops, Harry’s quiet later sounds like a promise.

He disappears after, and reappears with several dusty bottles of wine, not taking no for an answer as he uncorks them and carries them to the dining hall. Louis doesn’t see him again until it’s time to eat.

They sit down, all ten of them around Harry’s enormous table. They haven’t even filled their plates when mum bangs her fork against her glass, asking for silence. Harry looks at her confused, and so does Louis, just for a split second, until it clicks.

“Mum, no.”

“Shush,” she grins. She’s never been one to pass up a chance to goodnaturedly embarrass her children. “First of all, I’d like to say thank you to our lovely host,” he tips her glass in Harry’s direction. He looks into his plate, adorably sheepish.

“It’s my pleasure,” he says. “Anytime.”

Jay smiles at him, then continues. “Secondly, as we all know, today is a very special day.”

Louis has a hand over his face, trying to become one with his chair. Maybe if he slid under the table he could crawl—

“Happy birthday to my lovely firstborn. Please look at your mother when she’s trying to toast you.”

He looks around the table through his fingers. The babies are not paying him any mind, but everyone else is holding on to the stems of their glasses, waiting for him to stop being a child.

Everyone except Harry, that is. He’s dropped the knife he’d been playing with, and he’s staring openly, his mouth ajar and eyes bugging out of his head. Right. Louis—hadn’t exactly told him that he’s turning twenty-four this Christmas Eve.

He takes a deep breath, willing himself through this, and drops his hands.

“Thank you,” mum smiles. “Now, as I was saying, happy birthday. You’ve been making me proud for many, many years, and here’s to many more to come.”

Louis blinks back what definitely aren’t tears. His last birthday was spent drowning in self-pity, even as everyone around him tried to make him feel better, but this year—this year is different. He’s still here, and that alone is an accomplishment.

He raises his own glass in mum’s direction, not trusting himself to speak. Harry’s eyes are boring into him, he can tell, but he decides to put off that conversation until after dinner.

“Now,” says mum after they all drink to Louis’s health and happiness and everything else, “we’re going to sing Happy Birthday, and I want to hear everyone.”

Louis’s sisters all look tortured, mumbling the words, but mum and Dan and—Harry? carry the song, singing at an obnoxious volume. The babies even stop their clumsy game of patty patty and look around with wide eyes.

“Happy birthday to you!” the last line fades out, and Louis doesn’t really know what to do with his face other than smile.

“You’ll get your present tomorrow,” mum tells him, an apologetic look already on her face, “I haven’t had time to wrap it yet.”

“It’s from all of us,” Daisy pipes up, glaring a little.

“It’s from all of us,” mum repeats, patting her hand. “Now, I don’t know about everyone else, but I’m starving.”

They all mumble in agreement, and various bowls and platters start making their way around the table. Louis leans back, relaxed and warm and happy in the presence of his family, and lets himself smile without a worry. His eyes keep wandering to Harry over and over, to his rosy face and comfortable grin, his big hands as he passes the salmon, the expensive glint of his rings. He catches Louis a few times, too, but he doesn’t seem to mind, just silently looks back.

All in all, it’s the kind of Christmas Louis could get used to.

Mum catches him just before midnight, when the rest of the house is already asleep and the presents are stashed under the tree. Louis walks down from the room he’d picked – right next to Harry’s, which is definitely a coincidence – to get a cup of tea before he goes to bed, but she’s already there, leaning back in her chair with two steaming cups in front of her.

Louis can’t tell whether he’s scared or relieved.

“I’ve been expecting you,” she says, adopting her best movie villain voice, which isn’t very good. It does put Louis at ease, though, reminds him that it’s just mum, one of his best friends in the entire world, the person he’s shared everything with since before he can remember.

“Hi,” he sighs, and slumps into the chair next to her. He’s tired. “What do you want to know?”

She laughs, pushing one of the cups towards him. The colour is just right, exactly the way he likes it, but that shouldn’t be surprising.

“Save that tone, young man,” she says. “I’m your mum, I’m entitled to know.”

“Just tell me,” he replies, sipping. It mellows him right out, smooths away the pinpricks of chill in his fingers. “There’s—been a lot of things.”

“Your cane is gone,” she says, turning her whole body to him. “And I haven’t seen you limp.”

Louis snorts. “I definitely limp. Just very good at hiding it.”

She stays silent, just watching. Louis knows she’s waiting for him to give her an actual answer.

“The cane’s at home,” he says. “I’ve been doing okay without it, I think.”

“Have you talked to Niall?”

He shakes his head. “He always says I can do whatever I want, as long as my leg feels right.”

“Does it?”

“I think so,” he says, moving it around. His foot bumps into a table leg, jolting his ankle, and the impact reverberates through his shin, but it’s—normal. It’s the sharp, quick, easily gone kind of pain, not the agony he used to be in. “I—I don’t really know. I don’t like thinking about it.”

He sets his eyes on the tabletop, sliding over the shiny surface. There are a few spots where the varnish has worn off, a circle left by a too-hot plate, a stain of something that’s probably there from earlier today.

“Sweetheart,” mum says, running a soothing hand through his hair. “Why not?”

He shrugs. He likes to pretend he hasn’t admitted this to himself, on one of his many sleepless nights, staring at the ceiling and counting the shadows.

“Because it’d make me want to race again.”

Silence. He’s not surprised, not in the slightest.

“I’m sorry,” he says, just for good measure, looking out of the window and giving her time. The horses are there, spread out on the backdrop of the forest like uneven little stars. Louis is sure he could pick out Marshmallow, if he tried really hard.

“None of that,” mum says, finally. “Don’t apologise.”

“You said you’d lose your mind if you ever saw me on a horse again.”

She sighs. It’s probably not fair of Louis, bringing this up, not when it’s something that wasn’t even meant for him, overheard while he was supposed to be unconscious in his hospital bed.

Still, it’s been weighing on him, all these months. Mum had always supported him in everything he did, went out of her way to make sure all his dreams came true, and hearing her say that – it had stung. Had made Louis want to fall back into his coma and not wake up for another week.

“I shouldn’t have,” she says. He dares to look at her, feeling unsettled and shaky, and the expression on her face instantly adds guilt to the mix. “I shouldn’t have said that, Louis. I’m your mum, and I worry about you, but that wasn’t—you were never supposed to hear. I was hoping I could just…quietly regret it.”

Louis shakes his head and reaches for her hand, needing to reassure her. “You were right,” he says, and hopes he doesn’t sound as weak as he feels. “You were right to say it. I almost died, and for what?”

“You love racing, Lou” she interrupts before he can go any further. “You’ve been heartbroken since it happened, don’t you think I can see that?”

Louis, to his horror, feels tears pushing their way into his eyes. His heart thuds heavily, painfully in his chest.

“Are you sure there’s no chance…?”

“No,” he says, much harsher than he’d intended. His voice has gone thick, throat clogging. “You heard the doctor as well as I did. The damage is too extensive, and I’ll be lucky if I ever walk again.”

“But you are, love,” she says. “You are walking. You’ve been walking for months.”

Louis shuts his eyes, the single lamp above the table suddenly much too bright. It’s been swirling in his head for months, this whole mess, a storm with no beginning and no end in sight.

Mum’s right – he is heartbroken. He has been, and it doesn’t seem to want to go away. Make peace with it, Niall had suggested during their first ever session, when Louis’s bones had felt foreign inside his own body. It’s like somebody dying. You’ve got to accept the loss and move on.

Louis doesn’t want to, though. He never did.

“I guess you’re right,” he says, staring at the floor, his own socked feet. “I guess—yeah.”

She pets his hair again, tucking the longest strand of his fringe behind his ear. “You should give it a try. Just get on a horse.”

“That’s dangerous,” he points out, the corner of his lips quirking. The heaviness in his chest begins to subside. “I could get bucked. It could hurt so bad I’ll get a cramp, and I won’t be able to get off.”

“I didn’t mean alone, you numpty. Take Liam with you.”

“He won’t let me,” Louis says immediately, knowing he’s right like he knows the sky is blue. “He’d never—he’d have a coronary.”

“He’s a good boy,” mum says, so fond Louis feels a little offended. “But he’s got to let you make your own decisions, and for that matter, so do I. You’re the only one who knows what you want, and how much you want it.”

Louis looks at her. “You won’t—you won’t be scared?”

“Sweetheart, of course I’ll be scared,” she says, cupping his cheek in her palm. It’s warm, familiar, worn with time but still, always, the same. “I’ve been scared since you told me you were moving to the city. But you’re only my little bird until you learn how to fly on your own, and you’ve done a wonderful job of that.”

Louis sniffles. “Thank you,” he says. He doesn’t feel like he’s done particularly well, as evidenced by the current state of his life, but it’s still nice to hear, and warms his up better than any tea could. “I love you.”

She pulls him into a hug, leaning over the empty space between their chairs. “I love you too, Lou.”

“You really think I should try?”

She nods, her hair tickling against his neck. “I think you should do what makes you happy.”

“Alright,” Louis says, trying to settle into this. He’s going to—he might—God. “Okay.”

“Good,” she says, and pulls away with a kiss to his forehead. “The next thing I want to know about is Harry.”

That startles a laugh out of Louis, and he puts a quick hand over his mouth lest he wake someone up. “You can’t just say that,” he whispers, fighting off giggles. “This is his house.”

“That’s exactly why I want to know,” she grins, sipping her tea primly. “A boy that young with a house this big is quite a catch.”

Louis’s earlier groom seems to evaporate from one second to the next, his eyes drying, leaving him staring at his mum like she’s grown an extra head. Absurd laughter is bubbling in his throat, just waiting until he gives it voice.

“What on Earth are you insinuating?” he asks, slipping into his favourite character.

Mum laughs. “You know very well,” she says. “I’ve got a working pair of eyes, you know. I saw you squirming on that ladder.”

“I was not squirming,” Louis says, deadpan, but he can’t lie to his mum and they both know it. He’d been bloody embarrassing, reduced to a blushing teenager at the sight of Harry with babies.

“I thought we had the what to do when I like someone talk when you were in sixth form.”

Louis’s face heats up at the memory. “Mum, oh my God. I’ve been trying to forget that.”

It had been one hell of a talk – extremely thorough in ways that gave Louis nightmares for weeks after. He never, ever wants to know how his mum learned some of those things.

“Seems like you have,” she raises an eyebrow. “You’re proper moony over him, love, and he seems to be the same.”

“Mum. Please.”

“I’m just saying, love,” she smiles her mum smile, the one that always makes her look like she knows something that Louis doesn’t. “I wouldn’t mind having a handsome, rich, kind son-in-law.”

“I can’t marry myself,” Louis replies, already ducking the swat to his head that he knows is coming. He leans back in his chair, relaxed now, and watches as the stars outside flicker.

It takes them ages to go to bed, talking about anything and everything, Lottie’s new boyfriend and the older twins’ grades and Ernest’s stubbornly crooked tooth. Louis thinks there might be light on the horizon when they finally say goodbye on top of the stairs, and his sisters will probably wake them up in about an hour to come look at the presents, but he can’t say he cares very much.

He feels lighter than he has in months.

December 25th, seven thirty in the morning. Louis wakes up feeling very much not rested to a quiet knock on the door.

“Come in,” he says, just loud enough to be heard as he tries to get his voice to work.

He doesn’t really give any thought to who might be waiting behind the door – it’s Christmas Day, for Pete’s sake, and he has six younger siblings, four of whom are very excited for presents, even if they try to act aloof. He just wraps himself in the duvet, trying to fight off the morning chill, and watches expectantly as the door handle lowers.

And in comes—Harry.

Louis squeaks out of sheer surprise, scrambling to pull the duvet tighter around himself.

Harry’s—oh, for the love of God, he’s absolutely stunning, even in this early morning half-light and wearing what have to be pyjamas. His hair looks like a nest, the loose ends of it knotted, the rest piled haphazardly on top of his head, but it still works, makes his face look a little less angular, a little softer. He’s hunched into himself, blinking slowly, eyes bleary and breathtakingly green. All Louis wants is to lift the duvet, invite him into bed, and curl around him.

He had wished, a few weeks ago, to see what Harry looks like in the morning. He’d very much like to punch past him in the face now.

“Hi,” Harry says, rumbly and deep. He steps inside, closes the door behind him, clearly doing his best to be quiet.

“Hi,” Louis whispers, because his normal voice seems a bit too loud. Then, because he can’t help himself: “Are you Santa?”

Harry giggles, the skin around his eyes gathering into sleepy little pouches. He runs a hand through his hair, and his shit rides up, unveiling a little sliver of skin down by his waistband.

Louis doesn’t look.

“A little bit,” he says, and pads over to Louis’s bed. He lingers there, looking down at Louis.

“Sit down,” Louis pats the mattress, shuffling to the side to give Harry more space. He’s very much tangled in the duvet by now, trapped, but it’s probably a good thing – at least he can’t just reach out and touch Harry all over before his brain comes fully online.

Harry smiles and climbs into the bed. They’re suddenly so, so close, the king size feeling like it’s shrunk in half. Harry’s body heat radiates even through the blankets, wraps around Louis all soothing and lovely.

Also, Harry’s barefoot. It’s unfairly adorable.

“What’s up, then?” Louis asks, leaning forward. It’s only now that he notices Harry’s got something tucked under his arm.

“Sorry for waking you up,” Harry says, green eyes pronounced. There’s a softness about him, and it seems to be more than just the fact that he’s barely awake. “I didn’t—I wasn’t sure when to give you this, but I figured since it was your birthday yesterday. Thanks for telling me about that, by the way,” he says, but he’s grinning.

Louis rubs a hand over his forehead. Present, an excited, childish little voice in his head says. Present. Harry got you a present.

“I’m sorry,” he says, and he is, really. Harry’s face from yesterday is still fresh in his memory. “It just—it never really came up, did it?”

“You could’ve told me you were born on bloody Christmas Eve!”

He looks so indignant, and Louis cracks up against his will. He tries to stifle it in his arm, but it seems that the early hour has removed his usual restrictions, and he keeps laughing even when Harry cocks his head at him, a mixture of curious and confused.

“Sorry,” he apolgises as soon as he catches his breath. “Sorry, that was. Um. You were talking about giving me something?”

Harry sees right through him, judging by his unimpressed raised eyebrow, but he plays along.

The thing under his arm turns out to be a soft, shapeless lump. It’s expertly wrapped though, neatly folded edges sealed with tape, and when Harry hands it over, Louis feels unexpectedly touched.

“It’s not—I don’t think it’s enough to cover both Christmas and your birthday, but I didn’t know, so…maybe next time.”

Next time, his heart echoes, sending the words ricocheting around his chest with every beat. Next time next time next time.

“Harry,” Louis says, “thank you. I—you didn’t have to get me anything at all.”

Harry frowns, like such a thought hadn’t even crossed his mind. “Of course I did. You’ve been doing such a good job with Marshmallow.”

Louis deflates a little, though he hadn’t noticed inflating in the first place. “Did you get Liam a present, too?”

Harry makes a face. “Uh, no. Not really. I gave him a Christmas bonus, does that count?”

A Christmas bonus. Of course, of course Harry would.

“I’m sure he’s not complaining,” Louis smiles, reassuring. Liam hadn’t mentioned this, and he makes a mental note to grill him about it at the earliest opportunity.

He tears into the paper then, a little too eager. He has no idea what to expect.

“Just, um,” Harry starts, and Louis looks up at him, “you don’t have to, like, pretend. If you don’t like them.”

He looks crestfallen at the very possibility, even though he’s trying to hide it, and Louis can’t help himself when he reaches out and wraps a hand around Harry’s wrist.

“I’m going to like them. Whatever ‘them’ means. I promise.”

Harry’s mouth quirks, left dimple digging into his cheek. “You can’t know that without opening it.”

“Can so,” Louis smiles back. He can feel Harry’s pulse against his own palm, a slow, steady thud-thud-thud. “It’s from you.”

The air in the room changes, suddenly heavy in Louis’s lungs. He pays it no mind, breathes through it as he lets go of Harry and starts undoing the tape. The paper gives easily, like it knows how eager he is even though he’s trying not to show it.

Louis touches—a plastic bag. He blinks in surprise.

“Sorry about that,” says Harry. “I was hoping they’d send them over in a nice box or something, but I guess I was expecting too—Louis?”

He reaches out in concern, because Louis is sitting stock still, clutching the parcel in his hands. He knows what this is.

He tears at the plastic, ripping it without concern, to get his hands on the material underneath. It’s two-toned, both gorgeous dark blues. Touching it takes Louis back to his bug boy days, when he’d spend the day mucking out the stalls and get to ride in the evenings before the horses were fed dinner. It’s—so soft, and God, Louis is about to cry.

“These are breeches,” he says, barely getting the words out. He doesn’t look up. “You got me breeches.”

There are too many emotions, too many things squeezing at his heart. He’d barely accepted the thought of getting back on a horse yesterday, but Harry must have gotten these a while ago. He must have known, somehow, that Louis would end up here.

Harry clears his throat. He sounds shaky when he speaks, but Louis doesn’t trust himself to look up. “I, uh—I asked Liam for your measurements. I know that’s really creepy, but he said he still had them on file, and. Yeah. I hope the material’s okay?”

Louis chokes on a laugh, and a few tears shake loose, rolling down his nose. The material.

He grabs the waistband and unfolds the breeches, stretches them out until they’re lying next to him on the duvet. They’re full seat, so gorgeously cut in the back, so well-made, and the seat is—

“Deerskin,” he says, just barely touching. He’s a little afraid that all this might be an apparition, or a strange dream brought on by all the food he’d eaten yesterday. “This is deerskin.”

He looks at Harry out of the corner of his eye, and just catches him nodding. “And French terry. They’re supposed to be the stretchiest? ‘Cause the people on all the forums, they said these grip better than the knee patch kind, but the suede can be really stiff—“

“Forums,” Louis repeats, stroking the fabric over and over. “You went on forums?”

There’s a lump in his throat so big he can barely swallow. Harry’s too much, so wholly, entirely too much.

Louis looks him in the eye, unashamed of his wet cheeks. It feels like they’re both cracking themselves open in different ways, here on this bed, and Louis is not afraid to show how vulnerable he feels. He could probably fall right apart if a breeze came through the window, but it doesn’t matter; this is worth it.

Harry, sitting criss cross applesauce with his hands in his lap, shrugs. “That’s what the Internet is for. I don’t know much about these things.”

Louis shakes his head. What is there to say? How could he possibly let Harry know that this, he, feels like everything?

“You should, um,” Harry starts, scratching his nose, “you should look inside.”

He hasn’t even properly looked over the outside yet, but he listens immediately, only a little confused.

“What’s inside?” he asks, running his fingers over the waistband, the inner seam. “Are there more presents?”

Harry giggles, putting a hand on Louis’s forearm. Louis, in an admirable show of strength, doesn’t do anything embarrassing.

“There’s—here,” he says, slow, and then equally slowly takes Louis’s arm and moves it further into the left leg of the breeches, down into the knee. It’s kind of absurd, the two of them reaching into a pair of trousers, but Louis’s got Harry’s warmth pressed to his side, and his big, big hand sliding towards his wrist. He’s good. “Here, got it.”

Louis gets his hand on whatever Harry’s touching, and it takes him less that two seconds to burst into tears again.

It’s the usual tough fabric, yes, reinforced right where the leg is supposed to bend, but there’s something else, silkier.

“Is that what I think it is?”

Harry’s pulled away, but Louis thinks he can feel his amused puff of breath on the back of his neck. “Depends,” he says. “What do you think it is?”

Louis splays his fingers, touching over and over. He takes a breath, then another one. “A knee brace?”

He can’t quite breathe when he thinks about it, about the enormity of—of everything.

“That’s right,” Harry grins, and shuffles away when Louis straightens up (Louis wishes he would stay). “There’s a zipper,” he says, and points to a small flap on the side of the leg. Louis hadn’t even noticed. “You couldn’t put it on otherwise. But it’s not really—I talked to my orthopedist, and he said that nothing can really support your knee while riding, and you couldn’t move the way you need to with a real brace, so. It’s just some knit and padding, I found this firm online that has them patented and they made me a custom one. Said it’s just enough to hold everything together, it won’t make your knee weaker when you—if you ever decide to ride again.”

His features become blurrier as he speaks. It takes Louis a long while to realise it’s because he’s got tears welling up in his eyes that haven’t had time to fall.

Harry had really just—done all that. Had a custom brace made, and had it sewn into a custom pair of breeches, all for Louis, who can barely walk on a good day; and he has the audacity to be shy about it, like he hasn’t just made the world tilt on its axis, like he hasn’t changed absolutely everything.

Louis’s heart thuds heavily, painfully, against his ribs. This is it, he thinks, his time is up. This is where he admits he’d be all Harry’s in a second, if he only asked.

He’s got this wonderful boy in his bed, with his stunning eyes and his gorgeous heart, looking at Louis like’s he’s something, someone, special. He wants this to be every single morning of his life, from now on until bloody forever.

“Thank you,” he remembers to say. The air burns in his nose, his lungs, thick like smoke. “Harry, thank you. I…I don’t know what to say.”

Harry looks thoughtful now, and so young, hair sticking up every which way. Without a word, he reaches out – Louis thinks he might be going for his wrist again, maybe to show him yet another wonderful thing he’s thought up, but no. No.

His fingers land, soft, on Louis’s face, right where the tears are pooling on his cheek.

“Please don’t cry,” he says, slow, quiet, and wipes them away.

Louis blinks. His lashes brush Harry’s hand, but he doesn’t pull away.

“Can’t help it,” he says, biting his lip, a little bubble of laughter making its way through all the tightness in his chest. This is all kinds of wonderful, and all kinds of absurd. “You’re just—you’re too lovely.”

A bright flush appears on Harry’s neck, stealing into his cheeks and pinking them up. He looks a right cherub, just then.

“Stop it,” he chuckles, and pulls his hand back. The morning air hits cold against Louis’s cheek, very much like a slap, like Liam trying to get him to stay awake in the cab after a long night out. This is spinning out of control. Louis is hurtling headlong into something he hasn’t felt in years.

“You are,” he insists, still, reluctant to think real life thoughts. Maybe they could stay here forever, just the two of them, a reality separate from the world outside, where Louis gets to kiss that beautiful blush. “You’ve really—wait. Wait, I almost forgot.”

He has. He’d almost left it behind in yesterday’s whirlwind move from his place to Harry’s, and only remembered to grab it at the last second, but he has it.

He reaches under the bed, where he’d stashed it yesterday, going back and forth deciding whether to put it under the tree. He’d decided to go with no, because this, him and Harry – it feels a little bit too close to his heart. If he gave him something in front of his family, there would be questions from all sides, and he’s not ready for those.

“Here,” he says, patting the little tube. He’s tried to cover the logo with a big ugly bow, but it’s easy enough to tell what it is. He feels a little embarrassed now, after Harry gifted him with more than he could ever know. There is no going back, though. “I’m really shit at wrapping, sorry.”

He holds the tube out, waiting for Harry to take it.

Harry’s face is surprised, maybe even shocked. “For me?” he asks, in awe as he reaches out.

“Of course,” Louis grins. “It’s the least I could do.”

He watches the light play across Harry’s knuckles, so soft and lovely. The air has thinned, finally finding its way back into Louis’s body, and he dares relax a little while Harry opens the tube and pulls out a scarf.

Because that’s what Louis got him for Christmas. Christ, he’s become a grandpa.

“Oh my,” Harry says, eyes wide as the roll of fabric falls, spilling across his lap and the bed.

Louis loved it the second he saw it. It’s more blue than green, teetering between the two depending on the light, but he’d picked it because it reminded him of Harry’s eyes, and he can already tell that it’ll complement them perfectly. The floral pattern is just the cherry on top of the cake, intricate but lovely, just like its new owner.

“It’s not as fancy as yours was,” Louis apologises, eyes fixed on Harry’s hands as they stroke the folds of the scarf. “They were fresh out of alpaca on Regent Street.”

Harry laughs, but it lacks the usual amused bite. “I can’t believe—I told you it was okay.”

“I know,” Louis replies. “I know, but I wanted…well. I’m not sure what I wanted.”

“It’s gorgeous,” Harry says, shaking his head a little. “It’s—I love it, so much. Thank you.”

He looks it, too, his eyes wide and round and absolutely disarming. Louis feels that look all the way in his heart.

“You’re welcome, love,” he smiles, reaches out to pat Harry’s knee. “Merry Christmas.”

“Merry Christmas, Lou,” Harry smiles right back, and wastes no time in wrapping the scarf around his neck. It looks ridiculous with his silky pyjama shirt, but he’s so adorable Louis wants to go for his phone and take a picture. Maybe upload it to Instagram later, and caption it with something proper cheesy.

He goes for a hug instead.

It should be somewhat familiar by now, holding Harry and being held in return, but Louis is always fascinated all anew. There are places where Harry is soft, and places where he isn’t; places that Louis has touched before, and ones that are out of his reach; there’s Harry’s breathing, different each time, now sleepy-deep and even. Louis hooks his chin over his shoulder and closes his eyes.

There’s so much to think about, once he gets a moment alone, but now—now Harry’s here, and nothing else matters.

“No, Liam.”

“Yes, Louis. Get your arse downstairs, I’ll be there in ten minutes.”

“I told you I’m not going! It’s New Year’s Eve.”

“And you had plans?” Liam scoffs. Louis burrows deeper under the duvet, offended. “It’s not the eve yet, it’s nine in the morning. I wanna try jumps today, come on.”

That, despite Louis’s best efforts, gets his attention. “Jumps?”

He sits up, duvet pooling around his waist, and feels more awake than he should be at this day and hour. His heart kicks up a notch. This is bloody exciting.

“I reckon she’s ready,” Liam shrugs – Louis can tell, even over the phone. “Plus, you know. It’s the last day of the year, feels like a good time to start something new.”

Louis tilts his head, slowly standing up and shivering in the frigid morning air. “It does?”

Liam huffs. “Just—get dressed.”

Louis does. He whines a bit more though, mostly about not getting to eat, which makes Liam feel so guilty he stops by Mickey D’s on the way. Two egg McMuffins do not a balanced breakfast make, but they’re still warm when Louis slides into the car, and that’s better than anything he could’ve cooked up himself.

The small bit of guilt he feels when he bites into the bun is entirely misplaced. He’s on an indefinite leave from riding, and from his bloody diet.

Except—there’s that thing. That one thing he’s been thinking about, and the reason he’d grabbed his brand new breeches before he left. He wants this; now that the fire’s been woken up again, now that he’s let himself think about it, imagine it – nothing else exists.

They arrive at Harry’s just after ten, to an empty pasture and a quiet house. There’s nothing unusual about that, but today, the eerie silence pulls at Louis’s ears. It makes him fidgety as they walk up from the parking lot and straight into the tack room, makes him glare at Liam a little sharper than he normally would when he gets an armful of saddle without warning.

He could really do it. He could do it today, and nobody would see.

The horses have hidden away at the very edge of the pasture, difficult to find, and Louis decides to wait downhill while Liam goes up to fetch their horse.

Bubble and Tashie find him just as he sits down in the cold grass, his knee creaking a bit too much. They’re playing, kicking out their feet and jogging by on their way to someplace else, but they both stop in their tracks when they notice Louis.

“Hello,” he waves at them, already expecting it when they shoot out of their place like rockets and immediately go for his pockets.

“No,” he tries to resist, already laughing as he pushes Bubble’s clumsy head away. “I don’t have anything!”

He’s lying, and they know that. He’s always got sugar cubes lying about in his pockets, even when he’s not planning on being around horses.

Tashie manages to bite down on his collar and pull, just a little tug, and Bubble forces her head under his armpit, her mane right in his nose.

“Come on,” he shrieks, laughing as Tashie’s warm breath tickles his ear. “Bullies, the two of you. No manners to speak of. If you want a treat, at least ask for it.”

They’re not listening, of course, too busy having fun. Louis sighs, and reaches into his pocket with the hand that isn’t currently being licked.

“I can’t keep doing this, you know,” he says conversationally, rolling a couple of cubes into his palm. “Harry will have my bloody head.”

Bubble neighs, a young, excited sound that makes Louis’s heart melt. “Here,” he says before he changes his mind, holding out first one cube then the other, one for each of them. They gobble them up happily, rubbing against Louis like extremely overgrown cats.

“Tell you what,” he says, leaning back on his arms. “Now that I fed you, I need some advice.”

Tashie is poking at he ground, digging up dirt with her hoof, clearly not understanding or caring about what he has to say. Maybe that’s exactly what Louis needs.

“I’ve been thinking about riding again,” he says. “I really want to, but I—I think I’m scared.”

As soon as the words come out, he feels as if a weight has been lifted right off his chest. The fillies continue to ignore him, but he doesn’t care, because he’s just realised—he’s scared. Good God, he’s absolutely scared shitless. It’s not excitement that makes his hand shake when he thinks about riding, it’s not just apprehension that makes his knees weak at the thought; it’s fear.

The last time he was in the saddle, it gave out on him. He’d felt safe and sound one second, secure even on the back of a horse because he knew how to keep himself there, but what he did wasn’t enough. He’d lost everything he knew because of a bloody strap – who’s to say it couldn’t happen again?

“Hey, Bubble,” he reaches out and pats her on the neck. “Should I try?”

She gives him a look. If she experienced human emotion and had a human thought process, Louis is sure she would be implying that he ought to first talk about it to his physiotherapist.

“I know,” he mumbles, thinking of Niall who’s probably already drunk and celebrating with his friends. His mobile has been itching in his pocket for days, begging him to get it out and call to ask how bad of an idea this is, but he’s scared of that, too. Niall could give him a flat-out no, and Louis is not ready to go against that.

He wishes, more than anything, that he could talk to Liam about this; just remove the suffering that his fall had caused them both, remove Liam’s incessant worry, and ask him, as Louis’s best friend, if Louis should do what his heart wants.

As if summoned by Louis’s thoughts, Liam stomps back down the hill, breaking twigs and kicking rocks and making a commotion. Tashie and Bubble pick themselves up when they hear him, and jog off without so much as a glance.

“Thanks,” Louis mumbles bitterly, but he finds himself smiling.

“What are you sitting on the ground for?” Liam stops right above him, looking down with his brows furrowed. He’s holding Marshmallow’s halter and lead in his hand – she’s following him on her own. “You’re going to get a cold.”

“You’re such a mother,” Louis replies, grinning. “I’m twenty-four. I can nurse myself out of a cold.”

“You can not,” Liam says, extending a hand to help Louis up. “You lie in bed and while all day. And call me every ten minutes to ask when I’m bringing over soup.”

“That’s a compliment, Liam. Your chicken noodle is the only thing that makes me feel better when I’m ill. You should be honoured.”

“You made me come over at four in the morning.”

“That was one time,” Louis defends himself, patting Marshmallow’s flank as they make their way to the riding hall. “And I didn’t make you do anything.”

He’s not lying, either – it had been a very bad flu, that time, brought on by his first time at the big races, sharing small spaces with a lot of people. His fever had been so bad he couldn’t sleep, so he’d decided to complain to Liam, who was there within twenty minutes with soup and a thermometer and seven different kinds of pills.

“Sure you didn’t,” Liam mumbles, stopping as they reach the fence. Marshmallow stops right along with him, relaxed as he slips her halter on, and Louis automatically moves forward to open the gate for them.

Liam’s grand jumping plan, apparently, consists of four sets of cavaletti and a questionable-looking oxer.

“It’s all Harry had,” Liam defends himself as he drags the rails around, Louis and Marshmallow both watching from the side. “We ordered some ages ago, but with Christmas and all, they haven’t really had time to get here.”

Louis hadn’t known about this. He doesn’t really need to, of course, Liam’s the one in charge of training, but the thought is—strange. Liam and Harry spend time together when Louis isn’t there. Liam and Harry spend time together when Louis isn’t there. Liam and Harry—

“Shit,” Liam shouts, holding something that probably used to be a standard, but is now two separate pieces of wood. “Shit.”

“What happened?”

“Fell apart,” Liam throws over his shoulder, crossing the planks like that’ll magically glue them back together. “I’ve got to go find another one. Or a hammer and nails, or something.”

“I can go,” Louis offers. “You warm her up.”

“No,” Liam shakes his head, zipping up his jacket. “You stay. If you’d please tack her up for me, and walk her around for a bit, yeah? I’ll be right back.”

He jogs right out the door – Louis has no time to protest.

“Well,” he shrugs. “I guess it’s just you and me then, babe.”

She butts her forehead into his back, sending him stumbling. He only just manages to keep his balance, and turns around to glare at her, but he can’t bring himself to be even a little bit mad. She’s too lovely.

“Let’s get you dressed then,” he says, pulling her to the rail. She holds perfectly still for him as always, and he makes quick work of the pad, then the saddle, then the bridle.

Liam had grabbed boots, too, though Louis isn’t sure why – even if Marshmallow turns out to be a disastrous jumper, the single oxer they have would barely be challenging for a pony. There is no way she’s going to hit the rails.

“He’s the trainer though, isn’t he,” Louis tells her, mostly mumbling to himself, and bends down to faster the straps. It’s been ages since he’s done this last, with Tic Tac way back when. The stablehand in charge always strapped his boots on too tight, and Simon had done nothing even after Louis’s numerous complaints, so he’d taken it into his own hands.

He finishes up, then straightens. His knee creaks a little, and his back cracks, but he’s not in pain. Thank God for small victories.

“Come on then,” he says, grabbing the reins. “Payno ordered some walking.”

And he turns, starts going and expects her to follow the way she always does, the way they trained her to over the past few months, but she—doesn’t. She stands rooted in place, and Louis only finds out when the rein goes taut in his hand.

He turns around, surprised. “Marshmallow?” he asks, immediately checking on her ears, but they’re drooping forward and relaxed as usual. “What happened?”

She stands, still, not giving any indication that she’s agitated or in pain. Louis checks her mouth, concerned he may have pinched something with the bit, then makes sure the skin under her girth hasn’t caught somewhere, but he finds nothing.

“What is it?” he asks, petting her nose. “What?”

She huffs. Louis tries pulling her forward again, ahead of her then shoulder to shoulder, even pushes on her flank with one hand, but she resists. Keeps standing, completely at ease, yet leaving Louis increasingly puzzled.

She’s never done this before, never shown so much as an indication of disobeying if she received a clear command.

“Come on, love. We’ve got to get you warmed up,” he says, quiet and friendly, trying to coax her into moving. “Is it—is this weird? Is that why you won’t move? You want someone on your back?”

Marshmallow doesn’t understand him, of course, and doesn’t react in any way, but Louis thinks he’s found it. She’s not used to warming up with Louis, and not used to warming up from the ground – that must be it, it must be.

“A couple steps, at least?” he tries pleading, hopping in place, even offering her a sugar cube, but nothing moves her. She stays, still and stubborn.

Louis’s skin feels like it’s itching from the inside. He knows what the obvious solution is here, and the very thought has sweat beading on his temples. Maybe—maybe now’s the time.

Maybe it’s not.

“You want me to get up there?” he asks her, and his voice shakes.

She leans her forehead against his chest, like she does so very often. Her warmth helps Louis settle, helps ground him in the moment – right here in the riding hall, just him and the horse, no one to worry about him and no one to tell him what to do.

He leans down kiss the spot where her bridle sits behind her ears. It’s then that he makes a decision.

“Will you stand still?” he asks, like that’s not what she’s been doing for the past five minutes. “Will you look out for me, babe?”

She keeps breathing, a magically calming rhythm of in and out and in again. Louis knows she’ll have his back, no matter what happens.

He ducks away for a moment, getting to his bag and tugging the breeches out. Changing into them right there on the range is clumsy, not to mention freezing, and he’s probably going to be up there for about ten seconds.

It feels important that he wears them, though.

They fit like a second skin, moving with him when he hesitantly walks back to Marshmallow’s side, the brace hugging his knee just this side of tight.

“Ready?” he asks her. He could swear her answering look is amused. Louis pats her on the neck and pulls in the stool they keep around for when Liam pulls his stirrups up.

Okay, he thinks, okay. He knows how to do this. Reins in one hand, front of the saddle, the other hand on the back. Both legs on the stool, then one foot in the stirrup, inhale, exhale.

“Here we go,” he whispers, still just standing in the stirrup. His first riding teacher used to swat him with a crop whenever he did that, said that he was weighing on the horse for no good reason, but Louis thinks he’s justified this time. “Here we go,” he repeats.

One foot in the stirrup, still. Test the bounce on the other one. Take a breath, hold on tight. One, two, three.

He does’t quite get it that time; ends up not doing much other than twisting the saddle on her back, and any minuscule spark of confidence he might have been feeling is extinguished just like that.

“I’m sorry,” he apologises as he fixes it, hands shaking something awful. “Sorry, gorgeous girl.”

She doesn’t seem bothered in the slightest, and for that, Louis is grateful. It gives him enough of a boost to try again, one last time.

“Alright,” he says, and doesn’t clutch the saddle quite as tight this time. It’s the strength of his arms that will pull him up, and the momentum, not a death grip. “Ready?”

She’s ready. He’s probably asking himself more than anyone.

Here he goes again. One. Two.

He pushes off the stool before he gets to finish counting, pushing himself to do it through the fear that’s squeezing his chest. It’s a split second, barely a blink of an eye, and then he’s in the air, and then falling into the saddle a little bit harder than he would like. He settles right in the dip, as always, and his other foot automatically finds the other stirrup.

Once the rush of getting up there subsides, the first thing that Louis registers is the pain. It’s not even his knee, but his thighs, the muscles there stretching in a way they haven’t in a very long while. The pull is so incredibly, achingly familiar, and something inside Louis’s chest breaks open.

He’s shaking when he takes the reins, every muscle in his body wired and trembling, not taking in enough air.

He’s off the ground again, off his feet, trusting a horse to carry him where he needs to go, looking at the path in front of him through the vee of a pair of ears. It’s everything he has even wanted, ever since he was a boy.

He thinks he might be having a panic attack, or a coronary, judging by the way everything feels, but he forces himself to sit still. He might not get this chance again. This might be the fist time—the only time—

“Let’s go,” he says, with whatever air is left in his lungs, and squeezes his calves around Marshmallow’s body. She starts walking immediately, slow and fluid, and Louis’s head spins when the ground moves under them.

No looking down, he remembers. Back straight, forearms fixed, legs under, toes turned in. It’s like assembling a familiar jigsaw, one that he’s done a million times before, shifting his body like puzzle pieces until it forms a familiar image.

The reins feel clumsy in his hands, too heavy. He doesn’t need them anyway – it’s just a rectangle, and Marshmallow knows as well as any horse to follow the wall.

Louis is still shaking by the time they’re finished with the first round, still a little too heavy in the stirrups, afraid to grip properly with his thighs. The femur is the strongest bone in the human body, he knows, has been told by doctor after doctor, but his has already broken once – he’s not sure if he trusts it to hold up the weight of his body.

He breathes out shakily, then closes his eyes. It’s the kind of thing Liam would shout at him for, but Liam isn’t here.

He puts his hands on his thighs, palms down, and goes through every single muscle in his body, head to toe, doing his best to get them to relax. It’s something Niall had taught him, way back in their first days together, and he’d never found it useful until this very moment. As he relaxes, his body gets used to the natural rocking rhythm of the horse, swaying along with her, settling in all over again, because this is familiar, bloody hell, this is something Louis has done a thousand times. This is home.

He focuses, then, on feeling Marshmallow’s movements instead of his own. “Right,” he says whenever she steps forward with her right foot, an exercise that he used to do when he was starting out. Liam would have him do it until he’d wanted to cry of boredom, claiming it would align Louis with the horse, whatever that means. It becomes a soothing little rhythm now, a steady chant of right, right, right that helps get Louis’s heart back into beat.

When he opens his eyes, finally, he gets a bit of a shock. He’d almost forgotten he’s all the way up here now, forcing himself to get as comfortable as he would be on his sofa. It’s endlessly strange, seeing everything from this perspective, but it’s unbelievably, finally, exciting.

There’s still an absolute storm going on inside him when he shortens the reins and takes them properly, and fear firing off in his nerve endings, but it’s all overtaken by the strong, steady rhythm that his heart has settled into.

He can do this.

Louis clicks his tongue, settling in, and waits until Marshmallow transitions into that easy, slow trot of hers. He tries to sit it out at first, but he knows he won’t be able to keep up as the speed increases.

It kind of feels like Louis’s one ill-advised attempt at bungee jumping – his heart had been in his throat when he leaned forward and jumped, and no harness could have convinced him that he wasn’t falling to his death.

Just like back then, he takes a deep breath, then two. Marshmallow trots off the short side and he squeezes her a little before he can change his mind. Her gait gets sharper, throwing him off balance, and without thinking, he does what’s natural to him – posts.

He’s moving the stirrups on the first rise, and the second, his knees feeling like they’re made of gelatin, but muscle memory takes over soon enough. He grips the saddle with his thighs, holding on for dear life, and keeps his back straight as he goes up and back down, a never-ending rhythm.

Shit. He’s riding.

He has to slow down just at the thought, pulling Marshmallow back into a walk. He stops her after a couple more laps, muscles aching from the effort of holding himself in the correct position after so long.

“Good girl,” he says, and pats Marshmallow on the neck. He’d already known she was a comfortable horse, heavy and precise in her gaits rather than bouncing all over the place, but being on top of her is entirely different to watching from the ground. “We did it. Bloody hell, we did it.”

He feels somewhat pathetic as he struggles to get back down, his leg refusing to lift as far as it should, but it’s all background noise compared to the absolute joy that’s burning bright in his chest. This was a crazy thing to do, after everything, getting on a horse he’s never ridden with no helmet, no jacket, nobody there to watch him, fucking hell—

“Found it,” Liam’s voice carries in from outside. Louis hastily brushes himself off, suspecting that Liam will be able to tell what he’s done just by looking at him.

“Found what?” he calls back, grabbing Marshmallow’s reins and trying to act normal. His legs are trembling, even after barely five minutes on the horse, and he’s never felt better.

Liam walks in. He’s looking down, absorbed in the standard that he’s holding, flipping it over and presumably checking for damage. “This,” he says, waves it around, then moves to fix it in place of the broken one. “Everything alright?” he asks, and Louis—Louis laughs.

“Alright,” is what he replies, though he rather feels like singing with happiness. “Yeah, everything’s great.”

Liam looks at him oddly after that, but Louis pays him no mind. It’s New Year’s Eve, Marshmallow turns out to be one hell of a jumper, and Louis just did his first few rounds on horseback in more than a year.

It’s a good time.

Once January is underway, it’s time for Harry and Marshmallow’s official introduction to the racing world. Harry had looked very excited at the prospect earlier – Louis almost wants to laugh at the expression he’s wearing right now.

“You can’t be serious,” he keeps repeating every five minutes as his printer churns out another stack of papers. “There’s no way we need all this.”

“They’re not all for you,” says Liam, sitting behind the computer, officially in charge. “I’ve got some for me as well, and they all need to be filed before we sign the new contract. I’ve renewed my license, but I’ve got to let them know I’m moving stables, I need to fill out a dozen papers they’ll need if they decide to come for an inspection—so will you, actually, so I guess those are for both of us. Um. There’s your owner’s application, uniform application, five different forms for the vet to sign, handicap system entry request, name application…”

“Name application?” Harry interrupts. “What’s that?”

Louis – who’s curled up in an armchair with a cup of tea and only there for moral support – laughs. “She’ll need a brand new posh name for the races. One that the BHA will use to keep track of her. She can’t just be Marshmallow.”

Harry frowns, crossing his legs and leaning back in his own chair. “Why not?”

“She probably could,” Liam says, scratching his chin. “The point is that it has to be unique, otherwise you’d have a dozen Governors and two dozen Black Beauties in the same registry.”

“You might want to have a think about it,” Louis picks up. “Pretty sure they’ll allow anything these days. Bloody Ralph Smith had a horse called Two In The Pink.”

Harry’s eyes widen. It takes him a few seconds, but once he’s got it, he lets out that delightful bark of a laugh. It’s loud enough to startle a couple of pigeons into flying off the windowsill outside. Louis watches in delight as Harry’s eyes close, then as he puts his head in his hands, shoulders shaking.

“There was, uh…what was it, Lou? G spot?” Liam pipes up, a wicked grin on his face.

Louis giggles. “Geespot, G-E-E. By Pursuit of Love and out of My Discovery, you’ve got to give the owner credit for that one.”

Harry is still laughing, curled into himself. His forehead has gone a bit red, and the rest of his face probably has, too. Louis is delighted.

“Big Tits,” he says next. “There was one in New Zealand called Maythehorsebewithu.”

“Passing Wind?” Liam suggests.

“I like Hoof Hearted, personally. A pretty name and a fart joke.”

Harry stops laughing momentarily, pulling his head up to mouth the words.

“Hoof…oh. Oh, that’s clever!”

He’s grinning so bloody wide. Louis feels dazzled, a little winded just from looking at him.

He’s been feeling a little soft ever since they walked up here in the morning, if he’s honest with himself. This is his first time in Harry’s office, and it’s easily the homiest room he’s seen in the house. He feels like he’s just uncovered a new side to Harry, the one that makes it so he looks right at home amongst framed family pictures and mismatched plush armchairs and the big piano in the corner. The big windows here look out over the pasture, too, and Louis’s mind has been preoccupied with thoughts of Harry holed up here all alone, just watching his horses; with thoughts of being there with him, wrapped around him from behind with an arm across his chest.

“I think that’s it,” Liam says, all business but still smiling. “Do you want to fill some of these out right now?”

Harry looks like he’d much rather keep talking about ridiculous horse names. “Do we have to?” he pouts. Louis barely suppresses an urge to look over his shoulder and glare Liam down, letting him know that no, they absolutely don’t have to, because Harry clearly doesn’t feel up to it.

But Liam, as always, continues to be Liam. “Would probably be good,” he says, and Harry’s face falls a little more. “Just so we can tick off something on the to-do list.”

“Okay,” Harry sighs. “Before we start, can I have a question?”

“Of course.”

“Is it really obligatory to carry crops in every race?”

He might as well reach right into Louis’s chest and squeeze his heart. He looks so serious, so concerned, so—Harry.

“It is,” Liam nods. “Have you been reading the rules?”

“Yeah,” Harry replies darkly. He’s steepled his hands in front of his face, elbows on his knees. Very little remains of the young boy who was breathless with laughter not five minutes ago. “It’s just—I don’t want her to race if she has to be beaten. That’s not what we do here, and I won’t allow it.”

Liam looks at Louis and, following his gaze, so does Harry. It’s a little too hot in the room, suddenly.

“They shouldn't be beaten,” he says first, weighing his words. “I mean—a lot of them are, for sure, but if the crop is used correctly, it doesn’t do anything other than make a noise to spur the horse forward. Liam’s been training without one, because he’s not a jock and he doesn’t know how to do it,” he pauses to grin at Liam, who gives him a lovely glare in return. “But if you really don’t want it to happen, you tell Liam, and he’ll tell whoever rides her in the races. They have to carry the crop, but there’s no regulation saying they have to use it.”

Harry bites his lip. His eyes have gone dark and intense, making Louis squirm in his seat.

“I don’t want it to happen,” he says, clearly addressing Liam, but his eyes never leave Louis’s face. “Can you do that?”

“Course I can,” says Liam. “You’ve got it, boss.”

That finally gets Harry to turn around, an adorable little frown on his face. “You know I don’t—“

“I know,” Liam interrupts, smiling. “I know, sorry. Harry.”

“Thank you,” Harry smiles. “I, uh—thanks for doing that for me, but I have another favour to ask.”

Louis fidgets.

“Ask away,” Liam replies, turning to face Harry, both hands on the table.

“Okay, so. I’ve got a few bitless bridles that I ordered months ago.”

Louis thinks he knows where this is going, and he knows it probably won’t be as easy as getting Liam to forego the crop. He fidgets some more, and unconsciously crosses his fingers for Harry.

“And I’ve been wondering—I mean, I’ve watched plenty of races on the telly, and I’ve been to a few, and the horses—they just always look like they’re in pain. Like, even if we get someone who knows not to pull at the reins too much, a race is a high-stress situation and I’m worried that they’ll forget.”

Liam’s tilted his head. Louis can almost see the cogs turning, ready to jump in at any time and support Harry, because, aside from being absolutely lovely, this is a good idea.

“I’ve been riding on the bit all this time,” Liam says finally, careful. Louis can’t quite tell what he’s thinking. “I don’t know if—she might not take to it well, and I can’t afford to pause training just to get her used to it.”

Harry nods. “I understand. It’s just that I’ve wanted to transition to bitless for a long time, but the kids aren’t experienced enough to handle the switch and I can’t—I just mean that this seems like the best possible time, and I trust you to do it well. If it doesn’t work, I trust you to make sure my horse isn’t in pain when she races. I trust you, Liam, I really do. I’d just love it if you could try.”

Liam’s eyes soften significantly. Louis, still curled in his armchair, is seconds away from melting into a puddle of goo at Harry’s feet. So lovely.

A few seconds of silence, then Liam sighs. “We’ll try,” he decides, nervously shuffling his papers. “We’ll give it a shot, yeah? If it’s no good, I can try working on it with your other horses off-season.”

Harry’s serious businessman mask lifts just like that, and he beams excitedly. “Thank you!” he almost shouts, like he hadn’t been expecting a positive answer. “Thank you so much, oh, it’s going to be great.”

Louis would rather like to get up and wrap himself around Harry like an octopus, and maybe kiss the tip of his nose while he’s there. He can imagine it so well, too, just them melting together in the big, soft chair, tangling until Louis can’t tell where he begins and ends anymore. Kissing Harry’s temple, and his forehead, and his cheek, and—

“Louis?” Liam is saying, eyebrows raised and clearly expecting an answer to a question Louis hadn’t heard.

“Say again?”

“I asked if you wanted to take a break. I could go for some tea.”

Louis blinks. He’s feeling a little suffocated, suddenly, with three people in the room.

“You go,” he waves a hand. “I’ll come down in a sec, just need to stretch my leg.”

He’s got his cane with him today, because the weather is absolute shite and his bones are protesting it, but he’s not in any pain just then. Lying about it to have an excuse is a horrible thing to do – Louis feels bad, he does, but he’s not above it, not when Harry is right there and looking at him with concern plain in his eyes.

Liam shrugs. “Alright,” he says, gathering up some papers and a pen. “Harry, we can go over these if you want?”

“I thought you said it was a break,” Harry grumbles through a smile, then stands up and follows Liam out of the door. He doesn’t look back at Louis, even though he must feel his eyes burning proverbial holes into his back.

Once he’s alone, Louis groans out loud and puts his face in his hands.

This is fine.

On January 19th, Liam finds a rider.

Her name is Ellie, she’s smart and blonde and pretty, and Louis hates her.

Liam introduces them without so much as telling Louis first – they pull up at Harry’s and she’s already there, all fancy riding trousers and shiny new helmet, pacing up and down the driveway while she waits. Louis is mature enough to shake her hand and smile, perfectly pleasant on the surface, but it feels like something breaks in him in that very moment, and he doesn’t know how to fix it.

Which is how he’s ended up on the practice track at five in the afternoon, making a complete embarrassment out of himself.

“You’re not holding your legs properly,” he’s saying, as Ellie blinks at him with sad eyes and Liam gapes. “You’re pulling on the reins and your knees are too far forward, you’ll knock your teeth out if you keep going like this.”

“It’s my first time on this horse,” she points out, giving as good as she gets.

Louis wishes that he could stop being a fucking idiot, just for one second, and appreciate how good a rider she is, how well she fits Marshmallow. Liam has been singing her praises all day, and if Louis weren’t a petty, bitter little man, he’d be doing the same.

“That’s not an excuse,” he says, except yes, yes it fucking is. “You can’t put her off balance if you’re going to be training for a National Hunt.”

“She’s not even rated yet. We have plenty of time to get used to each other,” she smiles. Louis wishes she would bite; wishes she was as openly nasty to him as he is being to her. Maybe that would be the slap he needs to wake up from whatever this is.

“That you do,” Liam steps in, his voice threatening, though he hides it well. “Why don’t you take an easy half, just focus on the reins and make sure she listens when you switch leads.”

“Sure thing,” she says. She transitions from walk to trot to canter like a bloody champion, straight-backed and completely unruffled.

As soon as she’s out of earshot, Liam turns to Louis. His face is terrifyingly dark.

“What is wrong with you?” he asks, arms crossed over his chest. Louis has trouble recognising him.

“Nothing,” he mumbles in response, though he knows full well. This is about those five beautiful minutes he had weeks ago, when he let himself believe that everything would magically fix itself and he’d be back on the track in time for Cheltenham. It’s about the license renewal application he’d printed off the other day while no one was looking.

It’s about realising that nobody had been waiting for him to get better – not Liam, not Harry, and not Marshmallow. It’s about realising that he’d wanted them to.

“Knock it off,” Liam warns him, oblivious to the turmoil in Louis’s head. “You’re being a twat, and she doesn’t deserve it.”

“Maybe I should leave,” says Louis, attempting to do the right thing. “I can just—wait inside until you’re done.”

“You’re here for a reason. I need you.”

Louis bites his lip, gnawing on it until he tastes blood. “Maybe I don’t want to be here.”

It’s the wrong thing to say, and he wishes he could take it back, just snatch it out of the air before it reaches Liam’s ears.

But, because the laws of physics still exist and Louis is having the worst day of his life, Liam hears him. He hears what Louis says and the implication behind it, even though Louis hadn’t meant a word.

He opens his mouth, then closes it. He raises his eyebrows, furrows them, drops them back down.

Finally, terrifyingly, he takes a breath.

“Grow up,” is all he says.

This is bad. This is so bad, and Louis just wants to delay the trainwreck for as long as he possibly can. “Li, I just—“

“No, Louis. You don’t get to do this. You’ve completely ruined Ellie’s first day on the job, and you just keep going on! You haven’t told me anything’s wrong, so I have to assume you’re fine and just being a first class prick because you feel like it.”

Louis squeezes his eyes shut. “I’m just going to go,” he repeats. “I’m going to go in and wait for you, let me know when you’re leaving.”

It’s the easiest way – probably the only way – to get out of this before it gets ugly. At least that’s what Louis thinks, until he looks at Liam and realises that it’s way too late.

“You’re not even going to explain yourself,” he says. “Are you joking?”

Louis contemplates turning on his heel and making a run for it. Ellie and Marshmallow have run their half mile, walking the rest of the way to them at a sedate pace. She can probably hear Liam’s raised voice – probably doesn’t want to intrude, because she’s nice like that.

“I can’t—I will. Later, I will.”

There’s too much tangled in here, way too much to even begin explaining or apologising. Not to mention that Louis riding again plays a significant role in the story, and that’s something that Liam doesn’t, and probably shouldn’t, know.

This will be okay, he tells himself. Liam has understood him since the very day they met, has always known the difference between things Louis will talk about and things that will have to be pried out of him later.

Except.

“That’s not good enough,” he says, level and dark. “If you’re not going to tell me what’s going on, or at least apologise, don’t bother waiting for me, because I am not taking you home.”

Louis’s heart gives one heavy, painful thud before it stops beating – or at least that’s how it feels. He’s never seen Liam like this, this angry and cold and completely unsympathetic.

Before he can even begin to collect himself, before he can think of anything to say, Ellie stops stalling and stops Marshmallow at the spot where they started.

“All done,” she says, quiet like she knows she shouldn’t. “Nice and soft on the turns, she’s doing a great job.”

Liam gives Louis one last cool look, either oblivious or just willfully ignorant of the way Louis’s chest feels like it’s caving in. Then he’s turning around, and putting on a mask of a smile, and pulling Ellie into a lively conversation about stirrups. He leaves Louis standing alone, ankle-deep in mud, watching and hurting.

“I’m sorry,” he calls to both of them or neither one, just because it’s the least he can do. He doesn’t wait for them to turn to him, and instead starts on his walk back to the house, face buried in his scarf to battle the wind.

It’s the weather that makes his eyes sting with tears.

It’s after dark when Liam leaves, the lights of his car getting smaller in the blackness and eventually fading behind the horizon. Louis watches him from the window of Harry’s banquet hall, feeling like the absolute worst person in the world.

He could have gone out there, he knows, and Liam would have sighed and told him to get in. It just—wouldn’t have been fair.

The door creaks open.

“Did I just see Liam leave?” asks Harry, coming into the room accompanied by the sharp tap-tap of his boots on the floor.

“How did you know I’m here?” Louis turns to him, surprised.

“I know everything,” Harry smiles. His cheeks are pink, like he’s just come in from the cold, and he’s wearing a gorgeous sheer shirt, first few buttons undone. He’d clearly been off somewhere. Louis is a little ashamed to realise he’s burning with curiousity. “Did something happen?”

Right. Back to Earth.

Louis turns away, back to staring out the window, and shrugs. “I guess so. It’s just—I don’t really want to talk about it.”

Everything outside is pitch black, and Louis sees more of the room reflected in the glass than he does of the front garden. There’s his own face, the chandelier, the shiny floors, and behind him Harry, hands in his back pockets and looking hesitant.

“That’s okay,” he says, and Louis sees him nod. “Would you like a hug?”

One day, Louis is going to keel over with the sheer amount of feelings that Harry wakes up in him. Everything inside him feels warm, just looking at the fuzzy reflection of him, and the ghost of Liam’s headlights fades from where it was stuck to Louis’s eyelids.

“I’d love a hug,” he replies honestly. Harry smiles, and doesn’t give him a chance to turn around – just crosses the distance between them in a few long strides, presses right up against Louis’s back, and wraps his arms around him.

Oh, Louis thinks, and shit, and I love you.

I love you.

“I’m sorry,” Harry mumbles into his hair, as Louis’s heart does frightened somersaults in his chest. “For whatever happened. You’ll be okay.”

Trying to put off the inevitable crisis, Louis brings his hands up to wrap around Harry’s forearms.

“Thank you,” he says, and “I do hope I will.”

He thinks Harry might be smiling, the lines of his face shifting in their reflection. Their reflection, because they truly do look like one, all wrapped up in each other. Harry’s chin is resting on Louis’s shoulder, his face buried in his hair, arms around Louis’s chest and legs bracketing his. Louis has gone a little slack without him noticing, relaxing into Harry’s chest, his embrace. He’s tilted his head up, just a little, inches away from Harry’s.

They could kiss, right here and now.

“Which bedroom do you want?” asks Harry, murmurs it somewhere above Louis’s s ear.

Yours, Louis thinks immediately, before the implications of the question catch up with him.

“Don’t be silly,” he says once he realises. “I’m not going to stay, I don’t want to put you out. I’ll just—call a cab, I guess.”

“That’ll cost you a fortune, Louis. And you know you’re not putting me out, I love having you here.”

Louis latches onto the word love. It sounds gorgeous in Harry’s rumble of a voice, and he wants to hear it all the time.

Every day, for as long as he lives, because he’s bloody in love with Harry Styles.

Bugger.

In love or not, he’s powerless to resist when Harry looks at him in the reflection, eyes big and a pout firmly in place.

“Fine,” Louis sighs, like he’s doing Harry a favour. “I’ll stay.”

“Good,” Harry says back, but Louis doesn’t quite hear him, too busy looking at his own face in the windowpane. He doesn’t look any different, though he feels like he should. There are monumental things shifting inside of him, crumbling walls and building them back up until he feels like a whole different person.

This—this was never supposed to happen. Louis is going to take it in stride, and he’s going to move on, but it was never supposed to happen. Harry is gorgeous, and that’s all Louis was meant to think about him. He’s also disarmingly lovely, and kind and funny and a bloody beautiful person, but those parts of him, those are not Louis’s to want. They shouldn’t be.

He knows, on some level, that he was always going to end up here. He’d started on this road the very first moment he laid eyes on Harry’s miracle of a face, and he’s finally arrived at the destination. It’s an unpleasant realisation, because it can’t ever be, but at the same time—

They look so right, he realises as he looks at the two of them. They look like they’ve done this a million times before, and in various states of undress. Louis feels, just then, like he was made to fit Harry’s body, like Harry was made to fit his.

“D’you want a drink?” Harry asks, piercing Louis’s screaming thoughts, rolling in like calm water at low tide and carrying away everything that isn’t here and now.

He really doesn’t know. Nothing is going to change between them, it’ll all be the same, even though Louis has just carved himself a brand new boulder to put on his own shoulders.

“Please,” he says, slightly winded, and exhales deeply when Harry peels himself away from him and heads to the bar. This is fine. Everything is fine. He’s cocked things up with his best friend, and he’s in love with someone he can’t have, but all of that can be dealt with later – namely, when there isn’t booze.

“What would you like?” Harry asks him once he makes his way over on unsteady feet. “I’ve got—well, I reckon I’ve got everything. I re-stock every week, and Robin left a lot of things behind.”

Louis settles on one of the stools, elbows planted firmly on the bar and watching as Harry magics up a shaker.

“What’s your specialty, barkeep?” he grins, easy, easy. This feels as natural as breathing.

“Well,” Harry tilts his head. “I like drinks that distinguished gentlemen such as yourself might consider girly.”

Louis cackles. He’s actually this close to fluttering his lashes and telling Harry how funny he is, but he restrains himself. “Give me your worst,” he says, making himself comfortable.

“As you wish, sir,” Harry grins, bending to get some ice and cranberry juice out of the fridge. “Want a Cosmo?”

“Fuck yeah I do.”

Harry smiles as he throws things into the shaker, then closes it and tries to bust some moves – in his own words. He manages a couple of flips, but it’s catching the shaker that proves to be too much, and it lands on the counter with a clang.

His Cosmos, however, are incredible. A little on the strong side – Louis feels them burn as he sips his first, then second, then third – but just the right balance of sweet and sour and bitter.

“Are you a bartender, then?” he asks, a little loose-tongued as the booze settles in his bloodstream.

“Huh?” Harry tilts his head. He’s flushed and messy-haired, and another button of his shirt has somehow come undone.

“Your secret job,” Louis clarifies. “I haven’t had a cocktail this good in ages. Do you sneak off to country clubs to serve whiskey to old men?”

Harry puts his forehead down on the bar and sets of giggling like it’s the most absurd thing he’s ever heard. He’s squirming on his stool, so alive and gorgeous, and Louis’s hands ache with how much he wants to reach out and pull him on his lap.

“I’m not a bartender,” Harry says finally, reaching for the shaker to pour himself another. He’d done the whole orange peel thing in the beginning, made it look fancy and professional, but now he has trouble getting the liquid in the glass, laughing and squinting at it. Louis suspects it’s only part alcohol, and part that warm, loose feeling you give in to when you’re comfortable and about to get drunker. “’M not that good. I just know how to make these because they’re my favourite,” he says, and pointedly sips on his cosmo. He’s holding his pinkie straight out, like he’s at a fancy tea party.

“You should consider it,” Louis says, and clinks his glass against Harry’s. “If this whole racing thing doesn’t work out.”

Harry hears him, but he doesn’t reply, instead squinting into his drink. He looks very, very young, and is also dipping his hair in his cosmo.

“Careful,” Louis giggles – perhaps he’s a little drunker than he’d originally thought – and reaches over to pull it out.

Harry grimaces. “I’m not very coordinated when I’m drunk,” he says, enunciating every word. “D’you know what we should do?”

“What’s that?”

“Dance.”

Louis raises his eyebrows. “Are you sure you’re up for that?”

Harry sticks out his tongue, and slams his glass down with a little more force than necessary. He stands up, impressively balanced, and ambles over to the fancy stereo in the corner. The sound of his shoes against the floor echoes in the massive room, bouncing off the walls and back to Louis until he’s dizzy with it.

Harry plugs his phone in (it takes him three tries) and scrolls for a bit, lip held between his fingers. Louis wants to think about how much he wants to kiss the little contemplative wrinkle on his forehead, but he’s got to concentrate on standing up and walking.

Finally, a song starts playing. It takes Louis about half a second to recognise.

“Seriously?”

Harry shrugs, already shimmying like nobody’s business. The grin on his face has a bit of bite to it, a challenge as he approaches Louis. He doesn’t seem nearly as tipsy as he did less than five minutes ago.

“Go Johnny go, go,” he sings, jumping about in his ridiculous boots, arms above his head and hair flying, and Louis is absolutely powerless to resist. He feels safe with Harry, and nobody can see them here anyway.

He closes the distance between them, wraps an arm around Harry’s waist as he spins, and gets pulled along for the ride. Harry laughs somewhere above him, his hands on Louis’s shoulders, twisting his legs in a poor imitation of an Irish jig.

They must look a right pair of fools, stumbling around to Chuck Berry in Harry’s posh ballroom, but Louis’s cheeks are burning with pleasure, and he feels light-headed in the best way. His knee is hurting a little, he thinks, but he’s too high to care, his mind too hazy.

“We should do a lift,” Harry says into the space between them, then moves one arm to Louis’s waist and pulls him closer. The song has changed to something that might be Elvis, but it’s all white noise to Louis’s ears when he looks up and notices how close they are.

“A lift?” he questions, staring at the bow of Harry’s lips. They’re the softest thing he’s ever seen.

“Like in Dirty Dancing,” Harry replies. He puts his other arm on Louis’s waist too, pulling them flush against each other. They’re swaying now, way too slow to the lively beat of the music, but neither of them seems to care. “I could just—“ and he pushes Louis away, only to put his hands firmly on his hips. They’re—quite big. Christ.

He actually attempts to lift Louis, too, getting him a few inches of the ground before Louis realises what’s happening. He squirms, kicking his feet to find some kind of purchase, but all he ends up doing is taking out Harry’s legs.

They land on the floor with a thud, Harry on the bottom and Louis on top of him. There are a few seconds of astonished silence, both of them looking at the other wide-eyed, and then they simultaneously burst into giggles.

“You’re no Patrick Swayze, I’m afraid,” says Louis, rolling off of him but staying as close as he possibly can. He’s looking up at the ceiling now, squinting into the dozens of little bulbs of the chandelier, and Harry’s breathing beside him, just this side of too fast.

“Hey,” he says, and there’s laughter in his voice. “I happen to be an excellent dancer. You, on the other hand…”

“Careful,” Louis rolls on his side, facing him.

They’re both grinning, he realises, all but laying on top of each other and speaking in hushed voices. There’s impersonal, open space all around them, and the floor is cold, but Louis feels as warm and cozy and comfortable as he would in his own bed.

“Sorry,” he apologises when Harry says nothing. His brain tells him it’s a good idea to touch Harry right now, pretty please, and he does just that; cups a hand over Harry’s jaw and cheek, his thumb resting dangerously close to the corner of his lips. If he were sober, he’d be screaming right now. “I shouldn’t have kicked you.”

“I’ll live,” says Harry, but he’s pouting a little. His lips are pursed and dark pink, right there. Louis could just move his hand and touch them, get them open, have Harry moaning. “Hurts, though. You’re worse than a horse.”

Louis’s mouth falls open in faux-shock, and instead of fishing for a clever reply, he decides to go the kindergarten way – namely, tickling.

Harry shrieks when he feels Louis’s fingers under his ribs, immediately squirming, kicking his legs.

“Not fair!” he gasps, mouth open around a breathless laugh. “Not fair! I don’t deserve this!”

He doesn’t tell Louis to stop, and Louis doesn’t.

“You sure?” he asks, getting up on his knees to get both his hands in on the action, running feather-light over Harry’s torso, lingering a bit too long on his gorgeous hips. “Because I thought I heard you say—“

“Mercy!” Harry shrieks as Louis hits a particularly sensitive spot. There are tears gathering in the corners of his eyes, face gone rosy with alcohol and laughter and trying to get away from Louis. “I’m sorry I said you’re a horse!”

“Are you?”

“Yes,” Harry hiccups, some of the fight going out of him. “Please stop.”

Louis takes his hands off him hastily, still leaning over his body but ready to pull away.

“Sorry,” he says, with a grin that feels shaky.

Harry blows out an exaggerated breath, sending messy hair flying off his face.

Louis’s chest aches with want. It’s not the wild kind, not the fire that he feels waking up in his belly whenever he looks at Harry’s chest for too long; it’s the longing he’s felt for years, the desire to have someone to be soft with, someone to kiss when he wants nothing more than that. Someone to adore. Someone who would adore him right back.

His heart is set, now, on Harry being that person. Louis wishes he could explain, rationally, why it can’t happen.

But then—then Harry looks up at him, lashes dark and his eyes shining like galaxies, a gorgeous flush staining his skin pink, his hair a perfect halo around his head. Then Harry looks up, and Louis’s heart jumps, and he realises that no explanation could ever be enough.

“Hi,” Harry whispers, almost inaudible through the music that’s still playing. He’s got one of his hands resting on his stomach, and Louis, enchanted, wraps his fingers around that wrist.

Thump-thump-thump.

“Hi,” he replies, staring at him, but Harry isn’t looking back. His eyes have glazed over, set on Louis’s lips.

Louis blinks, and licks them out of pure instinct. This isn’t—this can’t.

Harry twists his hand in Louis’s grip, palm up, and wraps his own fingers around Louis’s wrist. It’s just like the first time they met, except so much more. There are weeks, months full of laughter, of warmth, of companionship. Of falling in love.

For Louis, that is.

“Hey,” Harry says again. There’s something in his eyes, a question, but Louis has no answers to give him. “Hey.”

Louis smiles at him, remembering how much they’ve drunk. “Hi, Harry.”

And Harry doesn’t reply this time – instead, he pulls. His fingers dig into the bones of Louis’s wrist, pulling his arm up, and the rest of Louis’s body follows; follows until he’s leaning over Harry, face right above his.

Their hands are resting, joined, on Harry’s collarbone. Louis watches as if from afar as Harry twists his wrist out of his grip, slow, gentle, and lets Louis’s hand fall there.

“Harry,” he says, a warning, a plea. He’s not certain what’s happening, but at the same time, he knows. It’s plain to see in the way his own fingers trace the hollow of Harry’s collarbone, in the way Harry tilts his head back to give Louis access.

“Lou,” says Harry, voice high, stuck in his throat. It’s become Louis’s favourite nickname now, and hearing it that way, from Harry’s pink, pink mouth, makes Louis’s skin prickle with heat.

And then, then:

“Kiss me, please.”

So Louis does.

There’s no time to think, and he doesn’t want to, not until they’ve both sobered up and Harry tells him this was a mistake. He wants this so badly it makes him shake, wants to lean down and taste Harry’s smile, to find home in his lips.

He cups Harry’s cheek again, holding him in place with a touch that’s barely there. Harry’s pulse is racing against his fingers, skin hot, and he’s nervous too, he’s got to be, because this feels monumental.

He kisses Harry softly, as gently as he can, just a press of lips on lips. It’s still electric, somehow, spreads through his entire body like a shock. Harry inhales sharply, hands pulling at Louis’s clothes until he gets the message and straddles him. Once he’s satisfied, he wraps his arms around Louis’s neck, pulling him closer.

Louis is trembling when he pulls away and goes back in for another kiss, barely taking in enough air because he has to have this, have Harry, while he can. Harry whines when their lips touch again, a gorgeous little sound that tickles Louis’s mouth.

Louis takes his face in both hands, probably a little too firm, just scared, so scared that this is going to disappear if he so much as breathes wrong.

He pours everything he’s got into the next kiss, getting Harry’s mouth open just right, sucking on his bottom lip. He tastes sweet, just sweet like the cranberry juice he’d mixed into their drinks earlier, absolutely intoxicating. Louis could drown in him right now; would be perfectly content not coming up for air ever again.

“Lou,” Harry says again, much rougher this time, with a warm hand on Louis’s chest.

Louis pulls away with a smack, not at all embarrassed. His lips are bloody tingling, and he wants to touch them, make sure that Harry’s impression is there to stay.

“What is it?” he says, and barely recognises his own voice. “You okay?”

Harry just—looks. Time passes in the slow blinks of his lashes, one, two, three in absolute silence. He’s all tousled, blush running down his neck and chasing the wide open hems of his shirt. He’s an absolute miracle.

He shakes his head a little, then opens his mouth like he’s going to say something, but changes his mind at the last minute.

“Nothing,” he whispers, licking his lips. “Just—“

And his hands are on Louis’s neck, one running into his hair and the other pulling him in. It’s Harry who takes initiative this time, and he makes Louis’s toes curl.

He kisses like he can’t get enough, like he wants to drink Louis in. He sucks on Louis’s lip, then pulls away, comes back with a peck or two or three and finally kisses Louis deep, in a way that would surely make his knees give out if he were standing.

Louis readily opens for his tongue, gentle and thorough and gorgeously slick against Louis’s own when they meet. There are teeth in the way, and Louis thinks his leg might be cramping, but that’s not important; nothing is when Harry is all but moaning into his mouth, his body moving out of its own volition, rippling against Louis.

Louis takes control of the kiss, feeling an intense need to anchor himself before he floats off. He gets a hand in Harry’s hair, finally in the way that he’s really wanted to, and tugs. Harry listens immediately, tilts his head back so Louis can kiss him more thoroughly, can explore every corner of his beautiful mouth, can mouth at his jaw and suck a mark into his neck.

“So gorgeous,” slips out of his mouth without him noticing, too preoccupied with miles and miles of Harry’s warm, sweaty skin. “Harry, Jesus, you’re so—so beautiful.”

Harry whines, and his entire body goes taut when Louis bites a spot just above his collarbone. Louis himself is half-heard already, so heavy between his legs, so hungry for it that it scares him a little.

He knows, in the corner of his mind that’s still capable of thinking, that time is running out, that this won’t last forever. He wants to make every last second count.

“Lou,” Harry whispers, grabbing at Louis’s hair, his shoulders, his hips. “Louis.”

They’re too far away, far too much cold distance between their bodies. Louis is still on his knees, though he could probably cover Harry like a blanket, and Harry would let him.

He moves, intending to shift them into something more comfortable, but Harry is ahead of him. He grabs Louis’s hand, crushing his fingers, and pulls them both—up?

Louis stumbles, feet tangling with Harry’s and almost sending them both right back to the ground. It punches a laugh out of him, and Harry giggles too, a welcome break from the all-consuming intensity of the past few minutes.

He’s barely through thinking that when Harry is right back on him, hands on his hips and shuffling them backwards, towards the bar. Louis only realises what his intentions are when he’s pressed against it, Harry’s body touching his in too many places to count.

“Shit,” he hisses when their cocks make contact, because Harry is hard too, is rocking into him quick and desperate. Louis wraps his arms around his waist, presses in until their chests are touching, until he can reach Harry’s lips again.

They’re positively filthy this time, both of them moaning into it, kissing open-mouthed and full of tongue. It’s so good Louis feels like he might shake apart any second, like wherever he touches Harry, whatever he does, will never be enough.

He manages to get Harry’s shirt open, one slippery button at a time, and get his hands on his chest, his pecs, his beautiful, beautiful nipples. Harry’s mouth is too good to be true, but Louis can’t resists breaking away and leaning down, hand on Harry’s back and getting him right where Louis wants him.

He kisses Harry’s chest first, right over where his heart is beating rapid and strong, then moves down to his nipples. He waits there for a second, breathing open-mouthed, just to see—

“Louis,” Harry says, so eager it’s little more than an exhale, “Louis, Louis, please.”

His hand finds its way back into Louis’s hair and squeezes – that’s all Louis needs to dart his tongue out, tasting Harry’s skin. His nipples are lovely, dark and puffy and fascinatingly responsive. He kisses one, then sucks on it, and Harry almost bends in half just to get his chest closer to him, to tell Louis not to stop.

It makes Louis feels so good, so wanted, has him dripping into his underwear. Now that he’s had a taste, it’s impossible to stop, impossible to let go of Harry for longer than necessary.

Harry is hunched over him, almost, one arm around Louis’s shoulder and making the most amazing little sounds, twitching every time Louis gets something right. It’s like pushing all the buttons at once just to see what happens, and what happens is that Harry gets wound up and sweaty and gorgeous, cock hard and straining against Louis’s stomach through his jeans.

Louis’s skin is burning; he feels like he’s seconds from coming, even though he’s still wearing his clothes, even though Harry has barely touched him. It’s just too good, all of this.

“Can I—“ he starts, intending to ask if he could pretty please suck Harry’s cock, but trails off into a moan when Harry yanks at his waistband. His hands are shaking so hard he’s become clumsy.

Louis wraps his own hands around them, so unbelievably turned on, but worried too.

“Hey,” he says, with a kiss to Harry’s neck, his jaw, the corner of his lips. “Hey, you okay?”

He nods quickly, but doesn’t look up. His hair is falling around his face, gone wild with the heat between them, but Louis isn’t tempted to tug on it, this time. He just wants to see Harry’s face.

“Harry,” he says, low and firm though he feels anything but. It would be so easy to just let him carry on – scarily so. “Harry, look at me.”

It takes him a second, but he does. He’s taken his hands off Louis’s trousers, letting them hang limp in Louis’s grip, but his body is still plastered to him, still moving, cock still riding Louis’s thigh.

He stops when their eyes meet. It’s in that moment that something in him changes, Louis can tell.

“What is it?” he asks, because he can feel the change - in the way Harry’s body slackens, in the way he clenches his fist, in the air around them.

His eyes are a little glazed over, but he blinks, again and again until Louis almost reaches out to touch his face. And then, little by little, and plain to see, they widen in horror.

It takes Harry less than a second to break out of Louis’s loose grip, to turn away and pull the tails of his shirt to himself. He runs—literally runs across the room until he stumbles and falls in a heap in one of the corners. The last thing Louis sees before he’s too far to touch are the tears brimming in his eyes.

He feels suddenly sober, any trace of arousal gone. He still feels Harry’s skin under his fingertips, hears the moans pressed against the shell of his ears, but the really Harry is over there, crumpled in the corner like someone had thrown him away.

Louis almost tears up with worry, with panic. He has no idea what just happened, and no idea how to help, if he can, if he might be the cause.

Harry doesn’t let him think for long. His shoulders start shaking, even as tightly curled around himself as he is, and the soft sound of his sobs carries in the big room. He’s crying, really crying, and Louis has to do something.

He’s loud on purpose as he walks toward him, breathing deep and letting his shoes squeak against the floor. It’s the same way he would approached a spooked horse, but it’s the only thing he knows.

“Harry?” he tries, soft, and slides down along the opposite wall. They’re so far apart it’s almost a physical ache, but it doesn’t matter now. All that matters is that Harry feel safe, and if he doesn’t feel that way around Louis, Louis will stay away. “Hey.”

Harry sniffles, breathing hard enough that Louis can hear. It takes him a few tries to get out the words: “I’m sorry.”

Louis bites down on a sad laugh. Of course that’s the first thing out of Harry’s mouth.

“Nothing to be sorry for, love,” Louis says, realising too late that he’d let a term of endearment slip in, but Harry doesn’t seem to mind. “I’m just—are you okay? Is there anything I can do?”

“I’m fine,” Harry nods. Louis can’t see his face, but he knows he’s lying. “I’m okay, I’m—God, I’m so sorry, this is embarrassing.”

“Not at all, “ Louis reassures. He’s not sure what to say next – he doesn’t want to push, but he doesn’t want to leave it. Harry had panicked, had run away from him and curled into the fetal position on his expensive carpet. He’s not okay, and Louis cannot bring himself to just sweep it under the rug.

Surprisingly, it’s Harry who breaks the silence: “Why are you so far away?”

Maybe he feels it too, then – this burning, pulsating emptiness where another body had been.

Louis bites his lip, unsteadily rising to his knees. “Can I come closer?”

Instead of a response, Harry reaches out for him. Louis can’t quite see his face for all the hair, can’t tell what he’s feeling, but the slight tremor in Harry’s fingertips spurs him into action.

He slides across the floor, his knee creaking in protest, and wraps his hand around Harry’s as soon as he’s within reach. He curls up right next to him, leaning against the wall, wanting desperately to help in any way he can.

Harry looks so small like this, so unimaginably vulnerable. Louis’s heart is breaking.

“What’s wrong?” he whispers, fingers trailing over the soft skin of Harry’s wrist, over the pulse that still beats there, erratic but strong. “What is it, love?”

Harry sniffles again, and uncurls a little. His hand twitches in Louis’s.

“It’s…” he starts, in a voice that’s thick with tears. “I just can’t do this.”

Louis knew this was coming. He knew, but that doesn’t make it hurt any less.

“I understand,” he says, desperate to reassure Harry, to stop his tears. His chest feels broken open, but it doesn’t matter, he doesn’t matter, not when Harry’s shoulders are still shaking. “I understand, Harry, it’s okay. I’m, uh. I’m sorry it got this far.”

Finally, Harry looks up at him. His gaze is sharp, not at all the way Louis expected it to be, and though his eyes are brimming with tears, there is a fire burning inside them.

He’s got a strand of hair on his cheek, stuck there with the wetness of his tears. Louis stifles the urge to tuck it behind his ear.

“That’s not what I meant,” he says. “That’s not—it’s me.” He seems to realise what he’s said, then, and a minuscule smile appears in the corner of his mouth. “This feels right. Doesn’t it?”

Louis’s breath stutters. “It does,” he replies, before he can stop and think about it.

“It does,” Harry repeats. He looks down, down at their linked hands. “It feels—it feels like it could be so much.”

Louis wonders, silently, if Harry has any idea of the wounds he’s putting in his heart with every word he speaks.

“It feels,” he continues, and looks up at the ceiling this time, his face shiny with tears in the light. “It feels like I could love you, one day. Like you could love me.”

I already do, darling, Louis thinks, falling apart breath by breath. I already do.

He doesn’t stop himself this time, doesn’t hold himself back as he reaches out and wipes Harry’s tears away, combs through his hair, does his best to let him know that he’s here, and here to stay. His heart feels like it’s gone and shattered on the shiny ballroom floor, but he’ll be damned if he lets it show now.

More than anything, he’s confused. When Harry first kissed him he’d thought, somewhere deep down, that all these things he’s been dreaming about could come true. That Harry could be his, and he could be Harry’s, and it wouldn’t have to be complicated.

Clearly, he was wrong.

Harry looks like he wants to speak, is making that face he makes when he’s just looking for the right words. He nuzzles into Louis’s hand wherever he touches him.

“I’m sorry,” he says eventually. “I’m sorry, I—this could’ve been really good meaningless sex,” he grins, but it’s twisted. Sad.

Louis frowns. Nothing, absolutely nothing with Harry could ever be meaningless.

“But I can’t do it,” he continues. “The lines are just—they’re too blurred. I could fall for you so easily, and I don’t—can’t do that. I won’t.”

“Why not?” Louis asks, with the last dregs of air in his lungs. I could fall for you so easily. I could fall for you. I could.

“Love’s just not for me,” Harry says, and smiles what has to be the saddest smile Louis has ever seen. “I don’t want it.” He’s silent for a second, and then, in between one miserable thud of Louis’s heart and the next: “I’m scared of it.”

“Why?” Louis asks before he can stop himself, and immediately bites his lip. None of his business, it’s none of his bloody—

“Remember the carving?” Harry asks, his lashes dark and trembling as he looks down, away. Louis reels a little at the sudden change of topic.

“The carving?”

“In the stable,” Harry huffs. “H + W? You asked me about it.”

He’s picking at his cuticles, attacking loose bits of skin with a single-minded focus, and it takes all Louis has not to reach out and stop him.

He focuses, instead, on the blurry memory that haunted him for weeks.

“Oh,” he says finally. Something cold like dread spills through his veins. “I—yeah. I remember.”

Harry nods. “I lied.”

Louis pets at the skin of his wrist; draws meaningless shapes there, over and over. “I figured,” he says, feeling rather like he’s walking a tightrope, about to fall to his death any second.

“I’m not a very good liar,” Harry smiles – Louis thinks he does, anyway. “But, uh. Yeah. I was H. Am. Was. I don’t really know, to be honest.”

He’s squeezing Louis’s hand, like he needs help, like he can’t talk about this on his own.

Louis squeezes back and, as gently as he can, asks: “Who was W, then?”

Harry looks up. “My boyfriend,” he says. “Fiancé, I guess, but that didn’t last very long.”

His eyes are shining, wet with an emotion Louis can’t identify. He wants to tell Harry to stop talking, to keep his secrets, to hold it inside if giving it voice hurts him this much.

Harry’s decided, though. It’s plain to see in that determined crinkle in his forehead, the one he gets when he’s dead set on things going his way.

“He wasn’t a very good person,” he says, ignoring the tremble that’s found its way into Louis’s hands. “Oh, what am I saying, he was a twat.”

It startles a laugh out of Louis, raspy like it knows it doesn’t have a place in this conversation. It lifts the mood, though, and brings a ghost of a smile to Harry’s face, too.

“He didn’t—he didn’t treat me very well,” Harry says, small, so damn small. Louis immediately wants to hurt whoever made him sound like that. “I met him at one of mum’s parties, he was a Duke,” he sneers. “I was seventeen, and gay, and so was he, and that was—it was enough for me.”

“Oh, Harry.”

“I know,” he says drily, “believe me, I know. But he was older, and he said he could show me a good time,” he grimaces. “I make myself sound like a slag, but I just—I was so lonely, Louis. It was awful.”

Louis’s heart gives a painful thud for the Harry of years ago, for how much Louis feels for him, how much he sympathises. He’d managed to make few friends as a teenager, too focused on riding, and none of them had been the kind of people he’d want to talk to about serious things, even as confused as he had been at that age.

“I understand,” he says, wrapping a hand around Harry’s wrist, because he needs him to know. “There’s nothing—none of it was your fault.”

“You don’t know the story yet,” Harry gives a wan smile, his knuckles digging into Louis’s skin as he curls his hand into a fist.

Louis shakes his head. “Still,” he says, “I know that much.”

Silence falls over them like a blanket, thick and too-hot under Louis’s collar. The music has stopped.

Harry is looking at him with big eyes, younger than he’s ever been, his lashes still clumped together by tears. I love you, Louis thinks again, slowly settling into the thought.

“Thank you,” Harry says finally. “I—thank you, really.”

“Anytime,” Louis smiles. “D’you want to finish the story?”

Harry looks down, watching the light that glints off his polished floor. He takes a deep breath, then another, his chest expanding in the vee of his shirt. He looks better now. Calmer.

“We had sex that same night,” he starts, and Louis resolutely stomps on his jealousy. “In the second floor lounge, oh God.” There’s a hint of a blush in his cheeks, a pretty, pretty pink. “We had a lot of sex, because we were teenagers, and then we—we started dating, I guess. He was the reason I came out to my family, actually. I wish I could just—take that back.”

An entirely different kind of dread shakes Louis’s stomach. “Did they not take it well?”

Harry blinks, surprised. It takes him a second to get it, and then he laughs, bright and genuine, if short. “No,” he says. “No, that’s not it. They were lovely about it, as I knew they were going to be, but I was…I was Harry, William’s boyfriend from then on, instead of just Harry, really gay and kind of confused about it. I realised once I started dating him that I was fine with my sexuality, but I didn’t really get a chance to find out who I am, you know? It made it so much harder to walk away later.”

Louis rubs the back of his hand, his knuckles, the soft pads of his fingers. There’s a leftover flake of pink nail varnish shining on his pinkie.

“Why did you?” he asks, barely loud enough to be heard.

Harry shrugs. He’s leaning back against the wall now, long legs stretched in front of him, shirt sitting lopsided on his shoulders. “As I said,” he says. “He didn’t treat me very well.”

And he closes right back up, then, knees to his chest, hair hiding his face. “We were together for three years, then we got engaged, and by the end of it I realised—“ he takes a breath, loud and shaky. “I realised I was scared of him.”

Louis’s heart breaks clean in two.

“I was always on his arm at parties,” he quirks his lips. “I was always the boyfriend. He’d pick out my clothes and bring them over and sit on my bed while I changed. He’d tell me I should tuck my shirt into my trousers, and wear a different belt with that. And cut my hair. Exercise more. My thighs were too big, apparently.” He accompanies his words with a snort, making it obvious just what he thinks of his ex-boyfriend’s opinion, but it’s not quite enough to stop Louis from seeing red.

The thought of anyone, anyone treating Harry like that is enough to make his stomach turn. He carries himself with so much confidence, such a gorgeous, irresistible grace, and he deserves someone who lifts him up and supports him and stands by him in every decision he makes. He deserves the whole universe on a silver platter, and he’d get it for breakfast every single day if Louis had his way.

Louis bites his tongue, lest he say something he’d probably regret later. He wants to tell Harry a million things at once; how much Louis admires him, how gorgeous he is, how absolutely irresistible his thighs are. That this William isn’t worth the sad crease between his eyebrows.

“I didn’t think I was good enough for him,” Harry continues, his voice a mumble now. “I cared so much about what he thought of me, and my whole family loved him so much, I just—I didn’t want to screw anything up. I wanted to be exactly who he wanted me to be, just so he’d stay.”

“I’m sorry,” Louis says, has to say, before he blows up and kicks the shit out of some very expensive furniture. There’s rage bubbling underneath his skin, but sadness too, an intense, burning ache for everything that this beautiful boy has had to go through. He wants to take all of it away, let it soak through Harry’s skin and right into his. He’s used to pain; he can take it. Harry shouldn’t have to.

“I was so in love with him. So in love, Lou, I thought—I thought for sure that I’d found the right person for me, that we were going to get married and fill this empty house with children and just—have a life, you know?” he knocks the heel of his shoe against the floor, a loud tap in the quiet room. He looks a little like he wants to run; Louis doesn’t blame him.

“He wanted us to move away, though. To France, because his father did, uh—something to do with politics there, and wanted him to take over. I asked him what I was supposed to do there, and he said he didn’t care.” He looks up this time, staring at the shimmering ceiling. “He didn’t want kids, either,” he says. “Said gay men weren’t meant to raise children.”

Louis remembers, immediately, Harry leaning small against the wall of his kitchen, his soft, soft voice. I love kids. Can’t wait to have my own someday.

“That’s fucked up,” he says, much harsher than he’d intended. To his relief, Harry shoots him a grateful look. “And not true, obviously. You’re wonderful with kids, you should get to have as many as you want.”

With me, he doesn’t add. It’s not the right time, the right place. The right life.

More than anything, Harry deserves happiness, and he deserves to choose where he finds it.

“Thank you,” Harry says, and it takes Louis a second to realise he’s looking at him again.

“Of course.”

Louis lets go of Harry’s hand, suddenly feeling like he shouldn’t be touching him, and leans back against the wall, folding his legs. There are mere millimeters between them, Harry’s body heat crawling up Louis’s body, drawing him closer.

“Anyways, then—then he put a ring on my finger, and I didn’t tell him no, but…it’s supposed to be a happy thing, isn’t it? When you get engaged?”

Louis swallows around the lump in his throat. “Yeah,” he croaks. “Yeah, it is.”

“It wasn’t for me,” says Harry, picking at the cuff of his shirt. “We had a big party, dozens of people just—shaking my hand and telling me how lucky I was, how jealous they were, and the entire time I just…” he trails off. Shakes his head. “I couldn’t breathe. I wanted to run from the man I was supposed to spend the rest of my life with.”

A smile finds its way onto his face, small, but genuine enough. Louis smiles in response.

“I made a scene,” Harry says, hand covering his eyes in embarrassment. “I was drunk, and I made such a scene, but it seemed like the only way at the time, you know?”

Louis makes an affirmative noise. He can’t quite form words, too busy keeping his anger in check.

“He was the one who ended up running. He asked for the ring back first, though.”

He says that with an air of finality, like it’s the end of the story, his chin tipped up and shoulders relaxed. He’s closed his eyes, and even now, still, the beautiful slope of his nose and the delicate fan of his lashes make Louis want to kiss him.

“I’m sorry,” he says again, for what feels like the tenth time tonight, because the alternative would be calling Harry’s ex an ugly twat. Louis feels like that might be crossing some kind of line.

“Not your fault,” Harry shrugs. “But that’s—that’s why I can’t.”

Louis, miraculously, has almost forgotten what started this conversation. The feeling of Harry’s lips on his seems so far away, like it happened weeks ago instead of minutes. Like he didn’t know Harry half as well as he does now.

“Can’t fall in love?” he asks, through the tightness that’s taken hold of his throat again.

Harry nods wordlessly, and reaches out a hand to rest on Louis’s knee. It’s big and warm and familiar; it makes Louis want to cry.

“I just—I was lying to myself all that time, even when I felt things change. When he started treating me differently I told myself I could get used to it, because I was in love and people who are in love compromise. I was so bloody devoted to him, and he treated me like a plaything, and I just—I can’t. I lost three years of my life for nothing, and I’m too scared it could happen again.”

Louis curls into himself. He wants to kick and shout and cry, to ask Harry if he really couldn’t feel it, how perfectly their lips, their hands fit into each other. This feels right, he’d said, and Louis wants to drag those words back up, selfishly throw them back in Harry’s face.

It’s the only thing that matters, he wants to tell him. I’m right for you, and you’re right for me. The rest will figure itself out.

But instead of all that, instead of giving in to the bitter taste on his tongue, he reaches out to touch Harry’s shoulder, and says: “I understand.”

He wants this – wants Harry – so much it’s a physical ache, but he can’t have him. He just can’t.

Deep down, he already knew this. He’s shocked to find it still hurts like hell.

“Thank you,” Harry looks at him, and holds his gaze this time. There’s a million things swimming there that Louis can’t decode. “I’m sorry too, for what it’s worth. I think—I think it’s better for both of us, yeah? It’s better if we stop whatever this is now, before either of us gets hurt.”

Louis bites his lip, then nods. Harry doesn’t know; can’t know. There’s no sense in telling him now – it’d probably just make him feel bad.

They pick themselves up, then, hands off each other and a respectable distance between their bodies. Harry goes back behind the bar and mixes up a couple of terrifyingly strong gin and tonics. Louis wishes the alcohol was enough to distract him from the bright red mark right under Harry’s jaw, the one that he put there.

So Harry doesn’t want them to fall in love.

It’s too fucking bad, then, that he’s said so a good few months too late.