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Harry would’ve gone out, but he knew he’d just be bombarded with questions about being a drag king, as if there weren’t other options. Or maybe it’s just the gay club, where everyone is tall and white and beautiful and cis, even the ones who aren’t really, the ones everyone thinks are just pretending. It’s better here, anyway, sitting under his windowsill with the window propped open by the pot his deathly hydrangea has lived in the past year. He pulled on the cigarette that he rolled himself, the end of it barely staying lit with the awful paper Zayn got him—he probably accidentally got it wet when he was bringing it over. Maybe it was raining or it had rained, a puddle splashed up onto his backpack, soaking through to the wrong thing. Harry kept relighting the end of it.
His phone buzzed—Louis already practically incoherent (it was hardly eleven pm), the text looked like he rubbed his phone across his face and hit Send—but he ignored it and flipped through his apps, tapping open Grindr: an exercise in self-inflicted anguish, but sometimes it was entertaining. His phone vibrated again and the updated number in the top right turned blue with a new message. There was no one interesting here and there never had been; he stopped genuinely looking a long time ago. He scrolled past the typical messages—never-ending, cascading foul language levied against him as if he deserved it—but stopped at a message that caught his attention. The man in the profile was blond and thin with a MySpace-angle selfie set as his profile picture that looked like it was taken at some color run or Holi festival or highlighter party, maybe. It was clearly edited, too; his eyes stood out way too much for how dark the photo was and whatever he was colored with looked practically neon, making it impossible to tell where he was. His message, though, was a quiet spot in the raging stupidity that was Grindr. It simply said “Hello.” Before he could respond, a call took over his screen and the just-too-loud ringtone tensed his nerves just a bit. It was Gemma, who was probably the only person he could tolerate at the moment.
“Heeeyyyyyyyyy,”
“Hey yourself.”
Harry inhaled his cigarette, thinking a scratchy voice might give him an out in case Gemma proved to be intolerable. She was clearly drunk and Harry didn’t feel like fighting tonight.
“Sounds quiet over there.”
“You too,” Harry said after a pause.
“Yeah, I’m outside. Just taking a moment. I’m sitting on a stupid parking thing,” she laughed, “Feels like high school and, yeah…I guess I was just thinking about my little sis—“
She stopped and Harry thought he could feel her embarrassment, imagined he could feel the heat of her cheek turning red through his own phone.
“Sorry,” she sounded a little far off, like she was holding the phone away from her face.
Harry waited, staring at the ash building up at the end of his cigarette. He slowly moved his hand so it was hanging over the ashtray.
“Are you okay?”
“Yeah, I’m fine. Listen, I gotta go -” Gemma hung up fast, clipping off the end of her sentence.
He finished his cigarette and stubbed out the last bit of it on a small ceramic ashtray he had stolen from a cheap diner in some other town, and then he left it all there, hydrangea pot propping open the window and everything. Humming the melody to a slow song he had been practicing, he drew a bath and lit a candle—just one so he could have some easy, soft darkness. It was a short bath, though, because he didn’t bring anything to keep his attention: he pulled the plug on the drain and, barely dry, went immediately to bed. His hair pooled wet around his head and soaked through the pillow, drying and sticking and molding.
In the morning he woke up in a haze, un-helped by the state his hair was in. He knew he would have to wash it immediately.
“Shit.” Hs throat was scratchy with sleep and the word drew out low and raspy.
His apartment was chilly and he found his window propped open, quickly recalling how his night had gone. His phone was dead beside an ashtray with a single cigarette on it, crumpled midway and not nearly as smoked down as he had thought when he fitfully put it out the previous night. He left it all and washed his hair in the bathroom sink.
Harry pulled his barely-dried hair into a bun and put on the first pair of skinny jeans he spotted, then button a shirt standing in front of the door. He put on his pair of beat up Chucks and, barely remembering to grab his phone and a USB cord, hurried out for his shift at work. Just another Friday.
Harry worked at a call center, a nameless one (as Harry usually couldn’t actually remember the name of the company he worked at) that cold called those unlucky people with still-listed numbers. It was awful, sometimes nice: when he could see the area codes, now easily memorized, and got to call the elderly gay couples, aging out their last days in fabulous townhouses in the gayborhood, or when the supervisor was out and he could log minutes calling Zayn. Sometimes Louis, if he actually answered his phone. Most days were monotonous and the camera roll full of selfies on his phone was a testament to that. At least he was cute in a headset.
He plugged his phone into the computer under his desk and stared at the lightning bolt over the empty battery picture while his computer cycled through numbers to call, thankfully not reaching anyone (or anyone willing to pick up). Time was slow and somehow worse that he didn’t have a hangover: maybe just because he didn’t have anything to blame it on. He hadn’t had breakfast; the minute hand on the clock above his cubicle slid to the next minute. The computer was quickly moving from phone number to phone number, calling for a set number of seconds, automatically hanging up, and then moving to the next phone number. Suddenly his phone buzzed twice, restarting. He remembered sitting underneath his window now more vividly, how nice the night air had been—the first night after a long, long winter when it was warm enough to do that. Twirling a loose strand of hair, he remembered the cigarette smoke getting into it and how much he liked that, one of those weird things he didn’t tell anyone and didn’t even indulge; he washed his hair no matter what, no matter how it made him feel filled up with smoke and booze and loose decision, nights that make the days seem easier. And then he remembered that twink that messaged him Hello and thought, slightly offended, how dare he be so polite? He tapped open Grindr and ignored the buzzing from hours old messages, and glared at his profile.
Seen 30 minutes ago
He closed Grindr and put his phone face down on the desk. A call finally connected, anyway, and then he was instantly distracted by the script popping up on his screen; he slid too easily into his drone voice, rattling off what he had to say and then taking a deep breath when he was hung up on. The calls kept connecting, like the city finally woke up and started answering their phones. Suddenly, it was four in the afternoon and Harry’s manager tapped him on the shoulder.
“Need your desk.”
He glanced from probably about just above his right eyebrow—he had worked there for years, but once he started transitioning his manager couldn’t bring himself to look him in the eye—to his phone and then the cord leading to the computer. Harry ripped out the cord and stood, all probably too quickly—but god he’s so weird, now, he thought—and stormed out. Just another Friday.
He forgot his camera; usually it was second nature for him to sling it over his neck. His walk home from work was his favorite time to take photos. The middle of rush hour had everyone commuting home, too preoccupied with their routine to notice him. He could photograph on the street, on the L—into a car, even, sometimes, if he recognized that exhaustion and knew they wouldn’t even sense him looking into the window. Today, though, he had crappy, old earbuds and one tired album on his phone. It worked, but his trip felt longer, slowed down by all of the photos he wanted to take but couldn’t. Finally home, he pet the cat that was always on the stoop of his building in the evening, undoubtedly waiting for someone to take pity on it and drop some scraps they had left.
Chucks, button-down, and skinny jeans off, hair pulled out of its bun, Harry haphazardly threw his phone on the kitchen table and then went into the bathroom to put on a new HRT patch. He looked less stressed today, maybe a little less world-weary. It was hard to tell, though, through the dark bags under his eyes; he pinched them, swearing to get more sleep and, as if sealing an oath, he filled the tumbler on his sink with water from the faucet and drank it in one gulp. If he’s sleeping more, he supposed, then he ought to drink more water while he’s at it. His phone buzzed on his cheap IKEA table and he barely heard the sound of it vibrating against the cheap, fake-wood surface.
PLEASE tell me you’re going out tonight! Louis texted.
He read it and left the “Read” notification without responding, knowing it would torture him. Instead he took a shower.
He came back to twelve notifications, all from Louis and all increasingly rude in their verbiage. It was either meet him out or make a sad dinner out of cereal—he needed to go grocery shopping, which was an errand he never wanted to run. Maybe this week he’d just use Instacart. He pulled on his jeans near the door where he had dropped them and then texted Louis back.
The bars Louis went to were always loud and crowded and cheap and dirty. He loved the energy and the noise, which Harry could never really get used to. He didn’t want to, frankly. There were too many bodies here, too many people pushing past him and shoving up close to him—how could they all move around so effortlessly, so mindlessly? Just trying to stand at the bar was hell enough for him: was he being too masculine? Isn’t that the point? He tried not to slip into overt, feminine defaults; he tried to assert himself in any space, instead of pointedly trying not to—as if that made him more of a man. And then he told himself not to think about it. This isn’t the time or place, he chided himself, and leaned against the bar like he used to, like he always has, because it’s comfortable.
After he tipped the bartender and turned to rejoin Louis with his beer, he felt a hand on his forearm and his breathing went shallow.
“You’re so brave,” a sympathetic-looking man said to him, twisting his face into some pained expression of compassion.
He looked at him wildly, as if he couldn’t understand what he was saying. At this point, really, he honestly didn’t: what was the point? He was brave for living? Living what? Was he brave for transitioning? Could he tell? He hated these comments and their obtuse, philanthropic affectations. He pulled his arm away and pressed back into the crowd to find Louis.
“I hate these people.” He said.
“Come on! It’s your people, you know!”
“It’s not, actually. They’re all yours.” He gestured vaguely to the crowd around him.
“What?” Louis yelled, eyes trained on something—or someone.
“Nothing.” He pat Louis on the shoulder, which got his attention, and he smiled back at him.
The small table Louis claimed at the edge of the dance floor was an anchor in the shifting crowd. He leaned against it and took his phone of his pocket, flipping mindlessly through Twitter and Instagram and News, finally opening Grindr. His phone buzzed in his hand and he tapped the Conversations icon. There was a message from the blond twink.
we keep missing each other :(
How was he so cute? He immediately thought, no, not cute. That’s just his second message. Just considerate. A little green circle sat in the bottom right of his icon. He messaged him back.
We’re both here now.
Harry surveyed the crowd; the club had turned up the music, making it impossible to talk to Louis (even though Louis was yelling into somebody’s ear, probably trying to convince them to dance), and the building was absolutely packed with patrons. So many people all trying to meet somebody and completely unbothered about how completely…bodily this all was. Harry’s phone buzzed in his hand.
hi! u out The twink said.
Yeah. I hate it.
ohhhhh no :( thats no good
Harry let it sit. What do you say to that? “Sorry I’m not a party animal.” It was getting hot in the club and Harry could feel his fatigue morphing his panic into exhaustion. Louis was completely distracted with someone else—he should’ve just stayed in tonight and smoked under his windowsill. That cigarette was still there, unfinished. His phone buzzed.
so u r a trans?
Great, Harry thought. He put it in his profile, a small mention of it—trying to live honestly, or something—and usually no one ever read it. Except for the guys who sent awful messages.
do u do speeches or something?!?
Harry stared at the question for a moment. How weird. No I’m just alive, he sent.
hey wow! so cool! He sent in a series of three messages.
Harry pressed the lock button and shoved his phone into his pocket. Whatever. He looked out onto the dance floor, flustered and undoubtedly red-faced, and then noticed Louis wasn’t beside him anymore.
Great. He thought. Abandoned by Louis…this fucking club. Harry scoffed and scanned the crowd dancing once more, trying to spot Louis. To do what, Harry didn’t know: hopefully signal to him, somehow, that he’s leaving? Gesturing with his thumb toward the door? Harry didn’t see him, anyway, so he walked out of the club as quickly as he could.
Harry had forgotten, in his hurry in the morning, to clean up any of the mess he left and his apartment was chilly again despite the spring warmth during the day. He wanted to finish that cigarette, though, so he pulled out a thick, oversized sweater and bundled up with a blanket underneath the window. The air smelled so good—newly blossomed flowers and tomorrow’s batch of bread being started at the bakery around the corner; the last little bit of a barbecue blown into the heart of the city from few streets over—somehow the breeze coming through his window was the most comforting thing he had experienced in a long time. Luckily the cigarette relit and Harry took a slow, long drag off of it. He unlocked his phone, which opened right into Grindr and his conversation with the blond, and after a moment it updated with a few more messages from him. Harry put his phone face down on the ground beside him and leaned his head against the sill. He tried not to smile.
i hope i didn't scare u off :(
you’re really cute
let’s get coffee or something. wait i really like food let’s get food :D
Niall—his name was Niall, Harry had of course learned—came back to the table and touched Harry’s shoulder, just lightly, and pulled out his chair to sit down. The heavy metal scraped against the concrete when he did it, something Harry hated; not that he did it, but that that sound happened, and a little that Niall did it: couldn’t he lift his chair up a bit? He was wearing a baseball cap and large sunglasses with rainbow-mirrored lenses that bounced sunlight off of them, creating little bursts of light that scattered and re-formed. Harry couldn’t tell whether they were a joke or not. He looked effortless, of course, like usual, in a loose tank top and fraying denim shorts, probably a pair he’d had for years.
Harry got used to this sort of lackadaisical attitude Niall carried: he really was carefree and it was a hard thing for Harry to get used to when they started seeing each other more regularly. For the longest time, he wouldn’t invite Niall over to his apartment, afraid of what he might think about a half-smoked cigarette lying in the ashtray on top of the kitchen counter or the pile of clothing just off to the side of his closet or the packet of patches inside his medicine cabinet—the list went on. But Niall never asked, he never seemed to expect anything, really, aside from seeing him and occasionally kissing him on the cheek. He remained too good to be true.
“When’s Zayn coming, again?”
Harry came out of his reverie and shook his head, his chopped hair shaking in front of his eyes and around his ears. Everyone said he looked more boyish with it and he both coveted and despised the compliment.
“Should be any time.”
Spring was in full bloom and the city was beautiful. The weather made them restless, itchy for summer like they awoke from hibernation ravenous for life, as if they had forgotten it all during the darkness of winter. Harry and Niall seemed insatiable for the warmer weather, the seconds, minutes, hours more of daylight that crept in through the months: when they were together, they were never not outside. Zayn was meeting them for brunch and, unsurprisingly, was late; whereas Harry woke earlier and earlier the warmer it got, Zayn seemed to always sleep for as long as possible, never mind the world outside of his own private one. Niall played with his fork, stalling on his half-drunk mimosa.
“You know, it’s going to be our one-month anniversary tomorrow.” Niall stopped picking at the tongs and looked up at Harry. A small smile pulled at the corners of his mouth.
“Yeah, I guess so…I hadn’t thought about it.” Harry said, pensively. It felt like so much time had passed already. He didn’t want to think about it, though: typically it was just a matter of time before things came to a messy end. He shifted in his seat and looked down at his menu, not reading anything in particular. He didn’t want to think about it at all.
Niall scoffed. “Hadn’t thought about it? Good thing I was, then. What do you want to do?” Niall reached over and tapped the top of Harry’s hand after Harry didn’t respond.
“Hm? What? Sorry,” Harry said, looking into those ridiculous sunglasses.
“What do you want to do?”
“For the anniversary?” Niall nodded. “I don’t know…let’s just do something quiet. Come over for dinner or something.” Harry looked back down at his menu, still not actually reading it.
“Perfect!”
Niall leaned back in his chair and put his hands behind his head, grinning. Harry stared: he often marveled at Niall, at his shape and how he carried himself, and got caught up just looking at him. He traced his jawline with his eyes, the Stucco-patterned stubble on his chin, and then the bump of his shoulders leading to his arms, and his small, defined musculature there. He looked at his armpits and his armpit hair and thought about his own; he thought about how many nights he lied in bed so long ago, thinking I’m not shaving this week, and how long it took him actually to not shave. Niall is boyish, Harry thought. He scratched his side absent-mindedly, not even actually scratching anything but feeling the seam of his binder.
“Hi!” Niall called out, waving to someone behind Harry.
Harry turned and was caught by Zayn, who cupped the back of his head and gave him a quick peck on the cheek.
“Hey, babe.”
He fell into the chair on the other side of them like a pile of disheveled laundry being dumped out. He looked exhausted and his beard had grown past manicured; his hair was a mess sloppily pushed to one side on top of his head.
“You look like you were up all night.” Harry said, peering over his sunglasses at Zayn.
“Nah, I just woke up.” He yawned, “Still waking up, I guess,” and laughed.
“Thank god you are here I am starving!” Niall said quickly, slurring all of the words together into one long word of excitement; he was practically drooling on his menu as if Zayn’s arrival were some Pavlovian trigger.
Niall and Zayn talked animatedly over their french toast and benedicts (Zayn had an Eggs Benedict and so did Niall, who also had french toast) about soccer, how Niall’s team was doing in his pick-up league, and Zayn’s project, an album he was finally recording. Harry listened, but aside from commiserating with Zayn about practicing singing every day, he only listened—a knot of worry at the back of his mind distracted him and he came in and out of the conversation to think about what he was going to do when Niall came over for dinner. It was…so domestic, frankly, something that they hadn’t really done yet. They’d been out to eat and they’d gone on some dates (one night at a club that was disastrous—never repeated), but he’d never actually hosted Niall.
Niall went to the bathroom and another round of mimosas was placed on the table. Zayn looked markedly more awake and finished off the remains of his last mimosa with one gulp.
"How are you?" He asked Harry.
"Everything's fine," Harry said, smiling at Zayn.
"No, I mean like, how's the transitioning? You look good."
"Oh, I don't know....same as always, I guess. I feel good?" Harry shrugged.
Zayn laughed. "All right...I'm glad Niall's still around."
"Yeah, it kind of feels like a small miracle." Harry's smile faltered a little and he looked down at the bits of food left on his plate. "You know it's our one-month anniversary tomorrow?"
"Month? You guys are counting months?"
"Well, he is...honestly I didn't even notice."
Zayn laughed again, more honestly. "Such a boyfriend..."
Harry tore off a piece of his toast and threw it at him, hitting him in the jaw where a crumb stuck to his beard. Niall came back and ruffled Harry’s hair, the knot at back of his mind a little looser.
Harry put all of the candles he had in his apartment onto his small table and then, after having stood back and stared at it for a moment, he took all of the candles off and threw an old, white sheet over the top, finally replacing the candles. A recipe was open on his laptop, a very simple pasta dish with a homemade marinara, and a package of basil and some cans of tomatoes were on his counter. He took a deep breath in: cooking for himself usually meant throwing something in the microwave or dumping a few things in a pan or twisting open a jar. Here he had to put in effort—at least he thought he did. That’s what people do who care, right? They cook for one another? Some months ago (a week ago, really; Harry wasn’t sure how relative time was anymore) he would have said, Absolutely, that is certainly what people do for each other. When you love someone, you sit down to meals together, meals that you made for them or they made for you or, if you were lucky, that you both made together for each other. Now he looked back—he glanced at the counter, at his laptop, at the table—and second-guessed himself: was it really this much effort? All of the time?
Niall arrived before the marinara was done, which is to say on time; Harry answered the door flustered, feeling like he was already fraying at the ends: his apron was skewed, though completely clean, having greatly overestimated the mess he would make with pasta. Harry sighed and Niall pulled his apron on right, holding back a smile.
“I ruined everything,” Harry said, sinking down on himself.
“I don’t know, smells good…”
Harry noticed the small bouquet of spring flowers Niall had in his other hand and his cheeks flushed, unnoticeable, though, with his already alarming level of embarrassment and the heat in his kitchen.
“Let me get a…something.”
Harry opened and closed cabinets in the kitchen looking for a vase he knew he didn’t have until he found a pint glass that just barely fit all of the stems. He carelessly poured a little bit of water into the glass—as much as it would hold, overpacked as it was with flowers—and then pushed the candles on the table over to make room. It was nice, actually. Harry stood back and looked at the bouquet and the votives around it, the soft glow coming up from the table, and liked it. He liked it a lot.
“This sauce is good!” Niall was hanging a spoon over the pan.
“It’s not done!”
Harry wheeled around and pulled the spoon out of Niall’s hand, looking wild and frantic while Niall laughed, full-bodied and nearly doubled over.
“It…isn’t cooked down yet.” Harry said with a defeated and annoyed sigh.
He stood in front of the stovetop vigilant, brandishing the spoon in his fist as if threatening the marinara to get it to finish cooking. Niall touched his side and then pulled himself against Harry, who pointed the spoon in Niall’s face.
“Don’t start.”
“You just—“ Harry raised his eyebrows. “Can I make a suggestion?” Niall asked.
“Make it quick!”
“You should try turning up the heat a bit. It needs to simmer.”
Harry narrowed his eyes and looked at Niall for a moment, wondering how best to recover from this very clear slight against his capabilities as a chef. Why did he pick a homemade sauce? Why did he cook anything? He could’ve baked Niall anything he wanted—a pie, a cobbler, sourdough, banana bread, cookies, brownies; the list goes on—but no! He chose a proper, adult meal! Niall gingerly reached past Harry and twisted the knob for the burner and almost instantly the pan started to bubble more. Niall stole a quick, chaste kiss from Harry and then sat at the table, beaming up at him while he fished his phone out of his pocket.
“Well. It will be ready momentarily.” Harry said primly.
They ate, almost standing in the kitchen because Niall was so hungry by the time it was done that he couldn’t wait; Harry corralled him to the table, where they scooted the flowers and the candles closer to the opposite corner and they sat at a right angle from one another. The lighting was too low for dinner proper, but Harry finally relaxed when he spooned the sauce over the pasta in two bowls and he couldn’t be bothered to do anything about the lighting; Niall was happy to have food and to share the meal with Harry. They ate mostly in silence, enjoying the closeness and the intimacy (This is what people do, Harry thought after all. This is what makes it worth it). Niall retrieved two glasses (already, even though he had spent so little time in Harry’s apartment, he knew where everything was) and poured water from the faucet into them. He watched Harry drink nearly half of it in one gulp.
“What?” Harry asked, wiping his mouth.
Niall only smiled and shook his head and then returned his attention to his bowl of pasta, eating hungrily.
They washed the dishes together after eating, Harry washing and Niall drying. He was humming a melody, something new he had been working on that he wanted to try at the club later, and then Niall kissed him, right there in the kitchen, at the sink; Harry hanging his wet hands over the top of it; Niall still clutching the dish towel, Niall looped a finger on his other hand through one of Harry’s belt loops. It was another stop in a series of intimacies that he didn’t know to expect: each moment its own, solitary aha, as if Niall were a roadmap or a tour guide and knew just every, little spot to stop and take in the view. He imagined this scene playing out in a theater, a darkened audience just out of his peripheral vision, everyone’s breath bated—Harry laughed, thinking suddenly that he should pop his leg up like in a romantic comedy when the two leads finally, finally recognize their feelings for one another and kiss for the first time. Niall smiled dopily at him and, for a second, looked like he was going to ask him “what?”, but instead he leaned forward and kissed him again; more.
They were on the couch in front of his bare wall, a low console pushed against it with nothing on top. Niall straddled Harry and then, whether out of bravery or something else, Harry on top of Niall—the apartment was quiet except for the small sounds the made only for each other. Niall stood and pulled Harry to his feet by his hand and then pulled him toward his bedroom—suddenly, sobriety hit him as if Niall pulled him into a wall: Harry couldn’t.
“I —“ Harry stammered.
“Oh, hey…” Niall’s countenance changed, concern filled his face and softened his features.
He pulled away from Niall, just a little, but Niall felt it like a punch to his sternum. Harry could see it on his face.
“No! It’s not…I’m not ready.” He stared at the corner of the living room and hallway walls where the moulding was chipped.
There was a moment when they were standing across from each other, a little past an arm’s length away, in silence. And then Niall reached out slowly, touching his fingertip to Harry’s shoulder and then gripped his arm lovingly. He took Harry’s face in his palm and Harry fell into it, both craving this physical intimacy and fearing it.
“I’m sorry,” Harry said, almost under his breath; almost so Niall couldn’t hear him.
Niall pulled him into a tight hug, wrapping his arms around Harry’s and perching his chin over his shoulder: Harry was stuck, not even able to hug back, and he was nearly embarrassed that Niall would think he would need this—even though he wanted it, he wanted all of it.
“No.” Harry could feel Niall’s voice vibrating through his collar bone. “You don’t have anything to apologize for.”
They stood like that, Niall embracing him and Harry silent; Niall started rubbing his back, like he was being soothed for something, some great, upsetting event, and Harry felt like he should be doing that for Niall instead—wasn’t he the one who cheated Niall? How is he so fucking nice? Harry thought; he hadn’t stopped thing that. Niall slowly let go after what felt like hours. He looked around sheepishly, like he was looking for something he was embarrassed that he had lost.
“I’m gonna go, okay?”
“No…” Harry was almost to tears then. “No, I’m sorry, you don’t have to.”
“I…know. I know I don’t have to,” Niall grinned slowly, “but I think I will. I had a really great time. Okay?”
Harry sighed. “Okay. Are you going to text me?”
“What? Of course. Of course I will.” Niall looked at him quizzically and then his face dropped, quickly changing into a reassuring look—or as reassuring as a furrowed brow could look. “I will text you tomorrow. I’ll do it when I get home, okay? We’re good.”
“Right. Yeah.” Harry smiled. Not really, though. “We’re good.”
After Niall left, he stuck the hydrangea pot under his window and rolled a cigarette, sitting underneath the window and smoking. The paper was shit, again, like Zayn ran it under water before letting him have it. He always lets him have his own rolling paper, though, so it was strange that he could hardly get it to light. He sat there trying not to think, inhaling the bitter smoke deeply breathing out with heavy sighs, watching the candles on the table burn down, and the flickering, mad silhouette of the flowers in the pint glass. His phone buzzed from the kitchen counter, a tinny, clacking sound he thought was because of how many times he had dropped it and misshapen the corners. By the time he reached it, the second, reminder vibration had gone off. When he hit the Home button, expecting to see Louis’s name, he saw a text from Niall, just like he said he would do.
i’m home and we’re good
Just then, Niall sent another text with a row of heart emojis and the see no evil monkey. Harry smiled in spite of himself.
“We’re good.” He said aloud to the phone.
“You still haven’t fucked him?!” Louis practically yelled it.
“Fuck, Louis! You’re so vulgar…” Harry covered his ears in protest.
“Whatever. You know I don’t get it.”
“Yeah, I know. Not like you could, I don’t know, just try empathy? For once?”
“Never heard of it.” Louis said, distracted by the GPS on his phone.
“Oh my god, well it doesn’t matter because you’re going to drive us right into a car and I’ll be dead, so!”
Louis pulled on the wheel quickly, roughly readjusting the car to stay in the lane. “We’re fine!”
Harry stared out of the window, watching Lake Michigan off of Lakeshore Drive pass by in start-and-stop, like someone fast forwarding and then pausing to look for a specific moment in an old VHS movie. Harry was annoyed that Louis tried to have that conversation with him, goading him into talking about sex as if it’s something easy and casual, and he remembered that that’s how Louis is: effortless and free, careless and lacking in his inhibitions. He wanted to yell at him about privilege, but he knew that would get an eye roll at best. And why were they on Lakeshore Drive, of all godforsaken places? Louis wanted him to meet Liam, a new guy, a new boyfriend, who had lasted surprisingly longer than any of Louis’s other one night stands—but there were other routes to take than Lakeshore Drive, especially up to Lakeview where this cafe was. But they crawled through the traffic anyway, Louis muttering at his phone and yelling at other drivers, Harry watching the lake.
Liam (who worked at Le Café de Chat Noir, lovingly called “La Cafe Shat” by the predominantly actor workforce employed there) was tall, brown-haired, and had full-bodied lips; his puppy dog eyes were killer. No wonder Louis couldn’t shake him off as easily as the others. He was almost embarrassingly kind to Harry, clearly trying to make a good impression, and Harry nearly felt bad for him for how showboat-y and nearly rude Louis was being. The three of them sat and had a coffee outside; the beginning of summer still held back most of the heat, but it was especially nice in the morning while they chatted. Harry mostly agreed to accompany Louis (who raved about being led to some abandoned warehouse, a sex dungeon or something where Liam led all of his victims only to string them up—him acting out his horror as if he were walking into a barn filled with bodies hanging from hooks—honestly, Louis should’ve been the actor working at Le Café de Chat Noir) because Liam’s cafe was close to the venue Harry would be performing at: a seedy bar-turned-lounge in the basement of a renovated townhouse, housing a Greek restaurant on the floor above it and the private residence of the owner of the lounge and the restaurant above that. There was hardly any stage at all, most of the floorspace given up to seating, but it was by far Harry’s favorite venue. He was meeting the lounge’s pianist just before noon to rehearse.
He and the pianist leaned against the back wall of the lounge on a smoke break, hours after working through Harry’s song. The sun was bright, uninhibited by the cloudless sky. Summer came through in the afternoon; Harry wondered what Louis and Liam were doing.
“What did you say that song is called?”
“Hmmm…” Harry breathed out a long stream of smoke. “Haven’t really decided yet.”
The manager yelled something indistinct and the pianist stuck his head in the doorframe propped open by a brick. He went back inside to clean up some mess that was probably not his responsibility. Harry pulled his phone out of his pocket and smoked on the cigarette dangling from his mouth while he tapped around to call Zayn. He answered, sleepily.
“Hey, you’re coming out tonight, right?” Harry asked, taking the cigarette out of his mouth.
He pushed back his hair, cigarette in hand, as if he were smoothing fly-aways: he’d cut his hair even shorter since the weather had gotten warmer, just a shock of hair on the top that sprung back into shape as though he hadn’t even touched it. It hadn’t ever been so short and Harry didn’t know whether he liked it or felt like it was something he was suppose to have like some mandatory uniform item.
“You have to. Please? Like, this is important to me.” Harry walked a few steps out and then walked back to the wall. “Seriously? You ass. Okay, whatever.” He threw his cigarette on the ground and stamped it out. “Good. Okay, I’ll see you here. Zayn?” He paused. “Thanks.”
The din in the room betrayed the size of the venue; He was nervous, suddenly, by how packed-in the space was. He concentrated on the song with one earphone in, playing the poor recording he made of himself and the pianist practicing that afternoon on his phone, and tried to catch Louis or Zayn’s voice with his free ear. He ran through his setlist, small and painstakingly picked-out: three songs to take up 30 minutes—he’d have to draw this out. But putting on a show was where Harry really felt at home: it was something he knew he could do without a second of a doubt and the nerves he felt right before performing were more from having to wait to start than nervousness for the actual doing.
“Hey!”
Harry didn’t register someone yelling onto the stage at first, but he caught it moments later and dreamily turned toward the crowd expecting to see the manager or bartender waiting impatiently to ask him something. It was Niall.
“You’re here!” Harry clumsily ripped the headphone out of his ear.
“Yeah, the match was cancelled, so…”
Niall was wearing a button-down shirt—the only one he had, a nice white shirt that he usually only wore with his suit—with the collar open and his sleeves pushed up to his elbows. He looked handsome; Harry blushed.
“Hi,” Harry said, looking flustered and realizing that he was late to the conversation. “I hope you like it.” He said, gesturing behind him.
“I will. Of course, I will. You’re amazing. Don’t be nervous!”
Harry laughed. “I’m not! I’m excited! Hey, have you seen Louis and Zayn?”
“I just got here. I’ll look for them, though.”
Harry was beaming. Niall kissed his palm and then playfully slapped Harry with the hand he kissed, a joke he had started some months ago to make fun of Harry’s sudden outbursts of affection—“It’s like a slap with a kiss sometimes, Harry!” He had said.
Although Harry had only rehearsed with the pianist, a drummer and a simple drum kit were on stage with them. Harry specifically loved this lounge for how old world he thought it was: didn’t it seem horribly unprofessional to have some drummer—someone Harry didn’t even know, they had just met when the drummer showed up to the venue—suddenly onstage and unpracticed? Maybe it was, but it worked every time Harry was here; it worked better than anywhere else he had performed, where it was over practiced and ostentatious, boring and rote. It was magical here.
Harry opened with a cover of “I Heard Love Is Blind” and he noticed Zayn halfway through his performance in between Louis and Niall at the bar near the back; Zayn waved and mouthed “sorry.” The lounge erupted in catcalls and applause after he finished—he knew opening with that could be a little rough, a little too extra, but he loved that song and it worked: the crowd was engaged. Harry felt larger than life, like this was a stadium full of people instead of a dingy basement. The rest of his setlist were original songs, the second more of a sketch he threw together with the pianist in the afternoon. It was well-received, despite Harry feeling obligated to apologize for what he thought was an inconsistent vocal performance, and he was encouraged to develop it further. He had worked on his final song the longest and it was the most prepared, but there was a small swell of nerves at the bottom of his stomach right before he started performing it: he didn’t expect Niall to be there and that was one of the reasons he chose to debut the song that night. But he was there. The song was very simply arranged with just Harry’s vocals and a basic piano melody. He found Niall through the crowd and sang it entirely to him.
“What’s it called?” Niall asked him quietly afterward.
He pressed up against Harry’s side at the bar afterward—the lounge was mostly empty once the drum kit was taken off of the stage and the sound system disconnected. A half-drunk beer hung out of his hand at his side; he was syrupy, both sweet and languid, taking up Harry’s space.
“I think I want to call it ‘If I Could Fly’.”
Niall smirked. “Not ‘For Your Eyes Only’?”
“No…too obvious, don’t you think?” Harry poked Niall’s side, making him jump.
In the fall, Chicago lost its summer haze quickly. The chill set in and everyone joked about “Lake Effect,” but no one really knew what that meant. The leaves turned even more quickly and the entire city shifted their wardrobes as if one cue. Harry had a new job: a receptionist position at the LGBT center that worked with him to get his hormone therapy. The center was close to the mosque Zayn went to and, on Fridays, Harry would meet him on his breaks in the afternoon after the call to prayer. There was a small coffee shop around the corner from the mosque they sat at and smoked.
“Five months, I can’t fucking believe it.” Zayn said.
“I know…Louis doesn’t really half-ass things, though.”
“But engaged? I haven’t even met this guy yet.”
“How have you not met Liam?” Harry asked, surprised. “I mean, he’s fine. He’s great, like, if Louis is going to do this with anyone…”
“I guess. I hope so.”
“You’re going to the engagement party, right?”
Zayn intoned a response, practically a grunt, and put his cigarette out on the sidewalk.
“You and Niall going?”
“Yeah, we’re both free. And knowing Louis, I’m sure it will be plenty entertaining.”
Harry’s break finished and they walked together around the corner of the block, waving goodbye and walking in opposite directions at the next intersection. Harry hummed on his way back to the center, contented and thinking about Louis’s engagement: he was genuinely excited and, even though he thought logically he should be worried about how quickly they got engaged, he was happy for both of them. He liked Liam a lot and he liked the small ways he made Louis more attentive and careful; whenever he talked to Louis, he seemed to be a better listener. Maybe he was just less distracted by boys and by apps, by chasing guys, but he seemed to genuinely care more about the people around him. Harry couldn’t see how this engagement could be bad for him.
He thought about his relationship with Niall more; his boyfriend Niall. Boyfriend. He said that title more, calling him that to his coworkers and distant friends, old friends who moved far away and he didn’t talk to as much anymore. He sometimes called himself a boyfriend in the morning, looking at himself in the mirror and Niall still asleep in his bed. They hadn’t moved in together, but Niall’s job was close to Harry’s apartment so, more often than not, Niall was there. His toothbrush was in Harry’s bathroom. He loved it: he loved having Niall so close all of the time. At first he was scared, but day by day he found himself closer to Niall, less afraid of being hurt because—well, who would hurt him? Even the thought of Niall changing suddenly seemed more and more ridiculous, like the awful experiences he had in his past are somehow more fictitious now that there is someone he can trust, really trust, with everything. He was afraid of being possessive, though, of clinging on to him too hard—there was nothing he could do to protect him, and nothing to protect him from, which was the hardest part: if he wanted Niall, he had to let Niall just be there. He was trying to learn that there are some good things in life that cannot be kept, cannot be hidden away, and how much more fulfilling those things can be when he stops trying to control them.
Niall didn’t stay at Harry’s the night before the party. Louis and Liam’s engagement party was closer to Harry’s apartment, but Niall had to get his suit. He brought it hours before, though, and dressed at Harry’s: a simple, black, two-piece suit with an open-collar white shirt underneath the jacket. He was handsome, completely comfortable. Harry had a similar suit, but navy and with a mesmerizing paisley pattern. He wore a plan white shirt, too, the compromised piece to make their suits match—Niall insisted—but he wore a matching navy, paisley tie. Right before Niall came back with his suit, Harry had the sudden realization that he didn’t know how to tie a tie. He looked at YouTube videos, he read how-tos, but he couldn’t seem to get it right, no matter how slowly he did it. When he heard the door close, Harry sighed out of relief and frustration and came out of the bathroom whining. Niall was patient and didn’t laugh—he hardly even smirked—and showed Harry how to tie the tie on his own neck. Harry still couldn’t manage it, though, so then Niall tied it on Harry himself, pressed against his back and resting his forearms on Harry’s shoulders—if this is how Niall would tie his tie, he didn’t ever want to learn.
“Okay, so…” Niall loosened the tie and pulled it over Harry’s head. “Just don’t, like, undo this. You can put it on and then pull it tight like I showed you.”
“Are you sure you don’t want to just tie it on when I put my shirt on?” Harry asked coyly.
Niall laughed. “You got this. I’ll supervise.”
He went back to his bedroom, tie in hand, and then set it beside his suit near the foot of his bed. Normally, when Harry dressed, he very consciously took all his clothing into the bathroom, almost reasonably excusing himself by doing everything at once: shaving, deodorant, cologne, etc. Other times Niall would conveniently go to the bathroom himself just before Harry started dressing—he suspected Niall knew how uncomfortable he was; how uncomfortable he still was. He didn’t think about it—how could he expect Niall to be comfortable with his body when even Harry wasn’t? It was an unnecessary complication, one that neither of them even had to confront usually…except for these sporadic moments when something so normal, so conventionally intimate, suddenly became overbearing.
Harry wasn’t thinking about any of that. He dressed where his clothes were and left the door open, not even considering Niall standing around the kitchen or living room, pulling on the suit’s pants first and then leaving them unbutton: he remembered that he needs to tuck his shirt in. He pulled off the boxy t-shirt he lounged around his apartment in and then, when the bottom hem went up over his head, he caught Niall’s shape standing in the doorway. Acting as if he hand’t, he shrugged on his button-down and slowly buttoned it closed.
“Are you watching me change?” He asked, facing the back wall of his bedroom.
“I’m excited to see you in your suit.”
Harry smiled, but tried not too and smirked instead. “Hold your horses, speedy…”
He shrugged on his jacket and felt the suit settle over his body, sitting on top of his binder. He was nervous for a moment that it fit terribly, even though he had tried it on countless times before the party.
He brought the tie to Niall. “Would you do the honors..?”
Niall smiled and buttoned Harry’s collar, flipped it up, and dropped the tie over Harry’s head. His hair had grown back out some—Harry in fact didn’t like how short and unruly it was—and Niall fixed the little bit of styling he had done to it after the tie mussed it. Harry watched Niall tightening the tie slowly and carefully, making sure he didn’t ruin the knot, and wasn’t able to make eye contact with him until he pushed the knot all the way up. Niall looked surprised that Harry was looking at him, but he smiled broadly and warmly. Harry kissed him quickly on the cheek; Niall kissed him at length on the mouth. They almost left late.
The engagement party was surprisingly tame. There were so many guests, more people than Harry or Zayn could have ever guessed would be invited: family, friends; friends of family, family of friends; and friends of friends of friends, ad infinitum. Everyone was in suit and dress, everything perfectly placed—the truly surprising part about it was that it was Louis who was so tame: maybe because he was indisputably the belle of the ball, perfectly primped and adored as he and Liam were, in fact, the reason for the party. Louis loved the attention and everything went as planned. Midway through, when Harry had a moment to get Louis alone—on a balcony where they found a quiet spot to smoke—they talked about their futures; Louis insisted drunkenly that Harry would be godfather to their child.
“You can’t possibly say no! Freddie would be devastated!”
“Louis, he’s not even real yet…and what if it’s not a boy?”
“Well…we’ve only picked out the one name so far.”
“We?”
“I’m sure Liam will agree when we talk about it.” Louis said quickly.
Harry laughed. They smoked in a silence for a moment, looking out on the city below them.
“How are you doing?” Louis asked, turning toward Harry. His cigarette hung loosely over the side of the balcony, precariously like it could fall through his fingertips at any moment.
“What do you mean?” Harry dropped his cigarette and stamped it out, and then leaned forward over the balcony.
“What do you mean what do I mean—how are you?”
He looked at Louis, “I’m good,” and started to smile. “I’m happy.”