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harry can’t say no.
and it’s not that he doesn’t try, because he does. when nick asked him to organize the gala as a favor, he’d tried so hard, he’d gotten out the ‘n’, had pushed for the rest of the ‘no’, but it had somehow ended with a ‘yeah, yes, okay’ instead of an ‘o’ like the way most no’s are. and when zayn asked for a few pounds because he was low on funds but needed another cigarette, he’d managed to get the whole ‘no’ out, but it had somehow ended with an ‘okay’ and a lighter wallet in his pocket. and when the bartender called him at two in the morning a few nights ago, saying niall was yelling his name, saying ‘harry will take me home! harry will! he always does, mate! just call harry! he’s the best!’, harry tried to say no, tried to tell zayn to do it instead. but in the end it was harry who drove the full hour it took to get to the pub niall was at and drove niall home, tucked him in bed with water and an aspirin on the nightstand. when he’d gotten home, he only had an hour of sleep before him until class which led to him falling asleep in the middle of his law exam, receiving an obnoxious looking F in return.
and maybe, he’s getting tired of saying yes.
—
it’s a week after nick’s gala, the eighth time in twelve days niall’s needed a ride home from a random pub, the two hundred and eighteenth pound harry’s lent zayn even though he knows it’s two hundred and eighteen pounds he’ll never get back, a week since he’s seen lux, a whole four days since he’d lent his ipod to tom who returned it to him shattered and unable to turn on, and harry’s stumbling into class with bags under his eyes and a set frown on his lips.
as harry settles into his seat, a raspy whisper comes from behind him, warm air flushing against the back of his neck, “you’re later than usual.”
it’s louis.
it’s always louis. louis who laughs when harry trips. louis who throws stupid, tiny pieces of paper into harry’s hair during class. louis who never calls him harry, always harold or curly or whatever it is he feels like that day. louis who kicks the back of his seat and smiles brightly when he turns around to tell him to stop. louis who is rich and athletic and a perfect little prat whose favorite hobbies include pissing harry off whilst simultaneously looking great doing it. it's always louis. and harry's pretty sure he hates him. he's sure. pretty sure.
“harry, mate, you look exhausted.” this time it’s liam, who doesn’t ever ask for anything less than maybe his soul.
harry shrugs, “niall needed a ride home. was piss drunk again.”
and liam frowns, “that’s too bad, mate.”
and it’s like that often. everyone sympathizes with harry, but never lifts a finger to help. not even liam who seems to be made of charitable acts and saving puppies or something. and that’s okay most of the time, but maybe harry’s a little tired of being the only one who drives niall home or the only one who skips a meal because he gave his lunch money to zayn.
as class starts, harry thinks he hears louis whisper, “the hell? s’the eighth time this month.” but shrugs, because really, what would louis know about harry?
—
there’s a box sitting on harry’s doormat wrapped sloppily in bright red wrapping paper with an ugly, not at all complimenting yellow daisy sitting on top.
he wants to kick it aside, because the thing looks completely atrocious and makes him want to pull the curls out of his head. but he also wants to know what’s inside the ugly box, so he uses his last bit of energy and picks up the ugly box and the ugly flower and he struggles with the lock on his door like he does every night after work and slips inside his ugly flat feeling a bit dead and a bit ugly too.
once inside, he throws the less than average flower to the side, because it looks a bit more dead than he does, and sits at his kitchen counter staring at the box, because it’s the earlier half of december, and there’s no reason for somebody to be leaving him wrapped boxes in early december unless it's a mistake and it's not meant for him, or somebody’s truly forgotten his birthday, or perhaps they've gotten their calender all wrong. the thought makes him a little more tired than he already is which is a little more tired than anyone ever should be.
harry takes the box in his hands, looking around it for a hidden card tucked in one of the crevices or scribbles on the sides, but ultimately finds nothing except wilted remains from the ugly daisy. he puts the box back into place, contemplates asking his neighbors if it’s any of their birthdays, and then picks the box back up and begins to peel off the wrapping paper because if it is for someone else, then at least harry can wrap it again and make it look at least decent instead of the mess he received originally.
when the wrapping paper is gone, harry stares at the contents because it’s a yorkshire tea gift set with the ugly yorkshire tea mug and a box of yorkshire tea and a yorkshire tea towel and harry doesn’t even like yorkshire tea. he takes out the box with a frown, looks for a card so he knows who it’s really for, because who in hell would get him yorkshire tea? as he puts the box on his counter, his eyes catch a piece of folded paper at the bottom of the red wrapping paper mess and takes the note out, opening the flap and gapes.
harry, you ought to take care of yourself, mate! -someone who cares
all harry wants to know is why he’s suddenly stocked up on yorkshire tea and who the fuck got it for him.
—
harry drinks the tea in the morning a week later, because despite the fact it’s not his favorite, it’s tea and it’s a gift and he doesn’t throw out gifts -especially not free, consumable gifts. with his investment in zayn smoking his lungs to cancer, he’s almost always eating and drinking the bare minimum. tea, any type of tea, is always nice compared to his constant consumption of water and plain bread.
when he gets to class, liam smiles and greets him (louis does too, but harry pretends he doesn’t hear or see or feel when louis begins to incessantly toss pieces of paper into his hair), asks him how his night was before gushing about his own and complaining about how zayn’s been upset with him ever since he started seeing danielle again, “…i don’t know why he doesn’t like her. she’s lovely. right? she’s lovely? harry? are you even listening to me?”
and harry nods, eyes glued into his laptop as he looks through used ipods to replace his own and murmurs, “yeah. yeah, mate.” because there’s no way he isn’t listening with liam blathering into his ear the way he is.
harry’s obvious disinterest in zayn and liam and danielle’s weird love triangle doesn’t go past liam, and he gives up on the topic and glances at harry’s laptop screen instead, “why are you looking for an ipod? don’t you already have one?”
before harry can answer, louis tugs on one of harry’s curls as he makes his presence known, “aren’t you always listening to your freaky hipster music, harold? you know, if i think about it-“
harry scoffs, “can you really do that? don't want to hurt yourself, mate.”
and louis rolls his eyes because as if harry knew anything about louis at all, “as i was saying, before i was rudely interrupted, you weren’t listening to the bloody thing yesterday either. have you lost your way from the path of hipsterdom, harold?”
“you’re such a prat, tomlinson,” harry murmurs, shutting his laptop.
by the end of class, harry thinks there might be a million tiny balls of paper in his hair and maybe, but probably not, he might have heard louis whisper “your prat, maybe.” but he shrugs that off too, because he probably heard wrong.
—
there’s another box on his doorstep when he comes home. this time wrapped in an ugly green with an even uglier pink flower on top, and harry swears if it’s yorkshire tea, he’ll scream.
it’s not yorkshire tea.
it’s an ipod.
he screams anyway.
—
harry drinks yorkshire tea in the morning the next day, listens to two door cinema club on his way to class, and comes into class with a smile on his face.
“you’re looking chipper today,” louis smiles, tugging on another one of harry’s curls as he settles down.
harry nods at louis with a smile, but turns to liam with bright eyes, “did you buy me an ipod after i told you mine broke?”
but liam shakes his head, says, “i’ve hardly enough money to buy myself one. why? did someone give you one?” and then harry beams, tells liam about the new ipod and the yorkshire tea and when he’s done, liam smiles at him, “i bet it’s nick grimshaw. the guy’s always fancied the pants off you.”
and harry bites his lip, “he asked me to dinner a few days ago. i told him i’d think about it. might have to say yes now.”
and if louis kicks harry’s seat a little bit harder than usual, harry pretends he doesn’t feel it, because louis’ weird and he does weird things all the time. and if liam grins at him and tells him he should say yes to nick, because who else would it be? and harry nods and smiles and ignores the sound of ripped paper from behind him where louis is without a doubt ripping tiny pieces of paper to toss into his hair, then that’s because louis always does that anyway. and if harry agrees with liam, that maybe he should say yes, and he can hear eleanor calder asking louis what’s wrong, that’s because louis’ probably just mad no one’s paying attention to him.
harry leaves the class with five times as many pieces of paper in his hair as usual and maybe he hears louis whisper, “fuck liam. fuck grimshaw.” but he shrugs that off because louis’ never made any sense anyway.
—
there isn’t a box on harry’s doorstep when he comes home from work that night, but there are essays and projects and homework, and harry slaves around for hours reading about constructive manslaughter and writing a thorough essay on the elements of constructive manslaughter and memorizing that the elements of manslaughter are D has committed an unlawful act and The act was dangerous.
he finishes at an ungodly hour and collapses on his bed, closing his eyes and drifting to sleep for maybe a minute, two tops before his phone starts to ring and on the other end of the line is a drunken niall slurring, “h’rry mate! h’rry… h’rry… can ya… can ya… come an’… uh… pick m’ up? i do’t really kno’ whe’e i’m at, at the mo’.”
and then harry’s on his feet, slipping back on his shoes and finding his jacket and he’s putting his keys into the ignition and starting up his car and driving around, listening to niall’s description although it’s not too clear and it’s just a bit too slurred.
he drives around for three hours before finding niall lying down two hours out of london laughing because the stars are talking to him.
harry comes home at six and only has just enough time to take a nap, shower and rush to his eight o’ clock class.
—
when harry gets to class, he’s in his seat with his head buried in his arms before louis can say a word and before he even notices that liam’s not present.
he hears class start, but he can’t find it in him to care. he sleeps then, forgets that the professor is speaking, forgets that he’s probably fucking up his degree by missing most likely important notes. but he’s exhausted and he’ll fucking sleep if he wants to.
when he wakes up, it’s to the feeling of fingers carding through is hair and a soft voice slowly pulling him from slumber and when he opens his eyes, it’s louis tomlinson crouching by his desk whispering, “come on, class is over. wake up, harry. wake up, love.”
harry shrugs off louis’ kindness, or doesn’t. either way, he spends the rest of the day thinking about louis’ voice and louis’ fingers running through his hair and louis’ blue, blue eyes.
—
there isn’t a box when harry gets home, just a folder. inside are the notes he missed and a sticky note that reads “get some sleep tonight. i’ve got horan if he needs a ride. -a friend”
harry bundles up in his covers and snuggles into his pillow and falls asleep before he can even begin to wonder who or what or why.
—
it’s been two weeks since harry got the folder and niall hasn’t called once. harry’s well refreshed, and every day he goes to class drinking yorkshire tea with headphones in his ears and his mind is always thinking about cerulean eyes that sparkle, dainty fingers that tread his hair oh so softly, pretty pink lips that quirk into a smirk, and bright jeans enclosing thick, tight thighs, and louis. he can’t get louis out of his mind.
unfortunately, the actual sight of louis isn’t as pleasant as harry imagines as he walks to class. louis sits in his desk with bags under his red rimmed eyes, a small frown on his lips and his hair a mess. when his eyes settle on harry, the corners of his lips quirk up and his eyes a shine a bit brighter, but the louis he sees pulls on harry’s heart strings.
“you alright, tomlinson?” harry murmurs, settling into his seat.
a finger twists around one of harry’s curls and tugs lightly, as louis smiles a bit wider, “i’m alright if you’re alright.”
harry smiles at that, ignores the soft clench in his chest, looking at louis without anything but fondness in his eyes, because maybe louis tomlinson isn’t such a prat. but then louis’ hand jerks and nearly rips harry’s hair out and harry thinks that even if he and louis could be friends, louis tomlinson would always be a prat. a prat with sparkling eyes and soft lips, but a prat nonetheless.
when liam comes in, harry thanks him for the notes and for taking care of niall for so long and he ignores liam’s confused expression and the sound of louis’ scoff and he shrugs off the weird feeling of not having louis’ fingers in his hair and louis tossing scraps into his hair and he pretends he doesn’t miss the way louis’ breath hits the back of his neck.
—
but he does. he really does.
when he gets home, there’s no box, only a lingering frown on his lips and hands running through his hair looking for scraps out of habit. and it comes to mind that maybe louis tomlinson and he are friends, and maybe that’s okay and if harry kind of misses louis’ obnoxious laugh and his teasing then that’s okay too.
he does his homework using his newly acquired notes and checks his phone every half hour for a call that never comes and cooks himself dinner and sips yorkshire tea and listens to music and he thinks about louis tomlinson and his blue, blue eyes and louis tomlinson and the scraps he normally throws into harry’s hair and louis tomlinson and the way he tugs harry’s hair and he thinks of louis and just louis.
that night, he wonders if maybe louis’ more than a friend. but he shrugs that off, because there’s no way. absolutely not.
—
louis isn’t in class the next day and his absence nags at harry throughout the entire lesson.
he’s never missed having garbage in his hair and loud, annoying laughter in his ears and humid breathing on the back of his neck and his curls being tugged at so much before. he taps and fidgets the entire class and constantly turns around to see if louis will magically appear, but he never does, and harry’s disappointment never ceases.
“is something wrong?” liam whispers. there’s a wrinkle between his brows that emit concern and harry frowns, sparing one last glance at the usually louis-occupied seat.
“yeah, m’fine,” harry murmurs. nothing’s right -doesn’t feel right, anyhow.
liam keeps shooting him strange looks throughout the lesson, but by the end of the lesson harry’s shrugging off any possibility that he may actuallycare about louis tomlinson, because that’s just not possible.
—
harry comes into class shivering the next week, curls drenched from rain and skin pinched with the cold, raising goosebumps on his arms. louis’ eyes widen as he takes harry in and his jaw drops just enough to part his lips and if harry’s chest tightens and if his stomach starts to feel funny then only he knows.
“shit, why didn’t you bring a coat?” louis mutters, shrugging off his sweater and draping it over harry’s shoulders.
“it fell apart last week. can’t afford a new one right now,” harry answers, adjusting the smaller sweater around his broad shoulders, shooting louis a thankful smile.
louis fusses over him, using the sleeves of his jumper to dry harry’s face and eyeing his wet curls warily, scolding him for not asking for a ride from somebody or using an umbrella or at least covering his head with his books, because god dammit, you could get really sick, you idiot. those books are replaceable, you aren’t.
and while louis’ patting harry’s cheeks, swooping his cloth covered thumbs over harry’s cheekbones and over his soft eye lids, harry stares up at louis -a different louis than the one he thought he knew. he takes in louis’ cheekbones and his eyelashes and the way his eyebrows knit together, wrinkling in the middle as he worries over harry. harry looks at louis fondly, and thinks maybe i do like him. just a little bit.
“you know, you’ve got really blue eyes,” harry murmurs, and louis’ hands stop moving.
when louis’ eyes meet harry’s, when louis catches his stare, louis jumps a little, eyes wide and face flushed. and with that, he hurries back to his seat, muttering something about harry getting a new coat before he catches his death and harry keeping his sweater, and harry wonders if louis would ever return his feelings.
—
there’s another box at harry’s doorstep when he gets home from work. it’s bigger than all the former boxes and it’s wrapped in blue wrapping paper, the color of louis’ eyes, with a pink flower on top and normally harry would rip the box open as quickly as he can, but that night he can barely bend over to pick it up. his body is achy and his head hurts and he’s quite sure he’s sick. so he tosses the box to the side, crawls into his bed and curls up, thinks of louis and falls asleep dreaming of bright blue eyes and soft brown hair and what louis’ lips would feel like against his own.
—
harry drags himself to the store the next day to buy soup and medicine because he feels like he’s about to die.
his phone buzzes with a new text message every few minutes, always liam or tom or zayn asking him where he is, and then sending a follow up about why they need him -you said you would lend me your notes, i need your car, can you lend me fifty pounds? each text message goes unanswered and eventually he forgoes the entire thing and tosses his phone to the side, battery pulled out and left somewhere on his floor.
at the store he bags the cheapest box of medicine and a can of soup and then he’s paying the old lady at the cash register who sneers, “shouldn’t you be in class, kid?” and harry doesn’t even have the energy to explain that he’s in uni and he can skip if he wants to and he’s nineteen not sixteen he swears and can’t she tell he’s ill?
the drive home is long and half the time harry feels like running the car into a fucking pole because he’s tired and he’s cold and his chest hurts and so does his throat and it’s not really fair that whenever his friends are sick he’s always the first one to stop by with medicine and soup, but when he’s under the weather, he’s on his own.
by the time his complex is in sight, he’s ready to throw up. it takes five minutes for harry to gather the energy to get out of the car, another five minutes for him to catch his breath and another five minutes to convince himself collapsing in his bed will be much more comfortable than collapsing in the flower bed. the short walk to his flat takes ten times longer than usual, but as he heaves himself up the last few stairs, his eyes catch onto a surprise at his doorstep.
it’s not a box.
it’s a blue eyed boy with dainty fingers and soft lips and a knack for throwing tiny balls of paper in his hair.
harry nearly falls down the stairs, but catches himself on the railing before he tumbles. the rubble catches louis’ attention and suddenly those blue, blue eyes are on him and louis jumps, wide eyed and that’s when harry’s eyes notice there’s a box. a horrendously wrapped box, just like the rest only this time a bright purple. there’s an ugly light yellow flower sitting on top and from the way louis’ eyes are flickering between harry and that box and the way louis’ pretty cheekbones are flushed pink, harry thinks maybe louis’ the one who got him the yorkshire tea and that maybe if he wasn’t such a stubborn fuck, he’d have realized this sooner, and that maybe louis wasn’t such a prat after all.
“louis,” harry breathes and louis licks his lips, taking a nervous step backwards.
louis blinks, continuing to take small, shaky steps away from harry as his eyes shoot everywhere but harry himself, “right. harry… i’m so sorry. i’ve got to go!”
when harry takes a step forward, a hand reaching outward, louis’ eyes widen a little further and then he’s gone, stumbling over his feet the other way and disappearing down the flight of stairs on the other side of the building.
—
the next morning, louis wakes up with a chest full of anxiety and hands that don’t stop clenching and unclenching -the same way his heart doesn’t seem to stop skipping beats inside his rib cage. he dresses slow, doesn’t want to go to class, but knows if he doesn’t show up, harry will think he’s a coward and that won’t do.
he won’t be a coward in harry’s eyes -can’t really stand being anything in harry’s eyes anymore. he’s been dancing around harry’s perfect curls and his glistening green eyes for years, ever since he walked into that fucking law class, because he knows harry hates him but he can’t help the way his chest tightens when harry looks at him.
he’s tried becoming friends with the cherub faced boy, writes friendly notes to harry with a shaking hand instead of notes for class, but he never has the courage to pass the notes to harry. instead he rips the note up and flicks it into harry’s hair because he likes it when harry turns around and looks at him -even if it’s a menacing glare. and he knows harry likes getting his curls touched because harry’s like a cat, loves to be petted. but sometimes when louis’ twirling his fingers into harry’s hair the way harry likes, the green eyed boy will look at louis with a type of fondness that scares him and he’ll jump and his finger, tangled in harry’s curls will unintentionally pull and all fondness will be gone from harry’s eyes. he still tries to make an effort with harry, but it’s only to get those green eyes on him, even for a spare second. fond or not.
it’s with great reluctance that louis stumbles from his dorm dressed in lazy black jeans and the joy division shirt he slept in, and rushes to class, knowing he’s stalled much too long fidgeting with his hair in the mirror and he’s more than likely going to be late. his legs feel like lead as he drags himself through the corridors and past faces that smile at him, faces that belong to people who recognize him -something he can’t return.
when he reaches the doors into law, he takes a deep breath, fixes his hair in the reflection of the windows and hopes that harry won’t look at him with rejection, because after so many years of pining, he’s not sure how he’ll be able to handle looking at those green eyes when they’re full of resentment and pity.
“please, please, please,” louis whispers and he pushes through the doors, and at his entrance, his eyes flicker to meet green eyes and they’re not full of pity or resentment or rejection.
just fond.