Chapter Text
“Liam, this is the last September you'll ever be able to go out on a Thursday in your uni career. Come out with us. This isn't up for debate.”
While Liam's been glued to his laptop screen, the words to the paper he's meant to be writing coming with painful slowness, the student union has steadily emptied out. There's only a handful of people left, actually, including an impatient Louis, bouncing on his toes as he stares Liam down over the edge of his laptop.
“C'mon,” he says again, wheedling. “This is boring. I'm bored. The boys are already at the pub. Let's go.”
Liam glances between his laptop screen and Louis. The cursor blinks at him from a half-finished sentence, but Liam's lost his train of thought. It wasn't a particularly good one, he knows that much.
“Next month,” he says, clicking the save icon, “are you going to tell me it's the last October I'll ever have to go to class hungover? The last November I'll ever get to hold Niall's legs up for a kegstand? The last December--”
“Yes, Liam, that's the general idea,” Louis interrupts, shutting Liam's laptop. “Senior year, I want to go out with a bang. This time next year we'll have to be responsible adults, paying bills and shit.” He shudders. “Terrible.”
“You pay bills now,” Liam reminds him, pushing out of his seat and stretching his arms over his head. His spine cracks with a few loud pops and Louis grimaces, nose wrinkling up. Biting his lip against a smile, Liam starts packing up his computer and books, shoving them into his backpack.
“No, Harry pays the bills,” Louis corrects. “I give him my checkbook and he just takes care of it.”
Pausing with the zipper half undone, Liam stares at him. “Louis. Are you serious? Harry just writes checks out for you?”
Louis shrugs, unconcerned. He pulls a bag of Doritos out of nowhere – he's wearing skinny jeans and a tank that hangs off his boney shoulders, seriously, where was he keeping those – and shoves a handful in his mouth. “He makes me sign on the line, but he puts all the numbers and stuff in for me. What? What?”
“I didn't say anything!”
Louis narrows his eyes at him. There are orange crumbs dotting the corner of his mouth, and when he licks his lips, pink tongue darting out, Liam drops his gaze back to his zipper, tugging on it roughly.
“Not with words, maybe,” Louis says, poking Liam in the chest. “You didn't need to. Your face said it all.”
Shaking his head, Liam gives one last pull on the zipper, finally getting his backpack closed. “How did you survive before he transferred here? I distinctly remember you having lights in your flat sophomore year.”
“Those were darker times. Metaphorically, I mean. We did manage to keep the lights on, even without Harry, but my god, Liam, at what cost.”
Swinging his backpack over one shoulder, he follows after Louis towards the doors of the union. Outside, the sinking sun gilds everything a brilliant reddish orange, setting the skyscrapers ablaze. Liam falls into step with Louis, bumping his shoulder accidentally-on-purpose. “The two of you are creepily co-dependent, I hope you know that.”
“Aww, Lee-yum,” Louis says, pushing up on his toes so he can wrap an arm around Liam's neck, trying to pull him into a headlock, maybe. It's hard to say what exactly he's hoping to accomplish, since Liam doesn't fold, and Louis has to hang off him, walking on his tiptoes to keep up when Liam pushes through the door. “Are you jealous?” he adds, panting a little.
“No,” Liam says shortly. This is a stupid topic; he doesn't know why they're even talking about Harry. He ducks his head, shrugging Louis' arm off him. “Can we swing by my place first? I don't want to take my computer with me.”
“Sure thing, Payno. I'll just text the boys and tell them that we'll running late, and it's all your fault.” Pulling his phone from his pocket, he cackles as he ducks the soft punch Liam throws his way. “Gotta be quicker than that!” he crows.
The strap of his backpack digs into his shoulder, and Liam readjusts it, jostling his laptop. “What did I do to deserve a best mate like you?”
Louis' grin is vicious, a blow that finds its mark. “Guess you're just blessed, bro.”
Liam's flat is only a few blocks out of the way, a little studio apartment not far from campus. They dodge congested New York traffic, the jarring honk of car horns as familiar a soundtrack as Louis' bright laugh. When they reach the flat, taking the stairs because the lift is out of service again, Louis crowds him, hanging over Liam's back as Liam tries to slot the key into the lock.
“Have you heard of personal boundaries?” Liam asks as he finally gets the door unlocked, hinges swinging open with a low whine. Louis just laughs directly in his ear, his stubble tickling Liam's cheek, before sliding down off of Liam. He makes himself comfortable on Liam's saggy old couch while Liam deposits his backpack on the floor, heading to the bathroom to brush his teeth.
“They're waiting on us,” Louis reminds him when Liam emerges, wiping toothpaste off his lip with the back of his wrist. For reasons Liam can't understand, he's shifted so his head is hanging off the cushion upside down, his knees hooked over the top of the couch. “Do you really need to primp so much?”
“It's called basic hygiene, Lou.” He walks over to his closet, flicking through the rack of hanging clothes shoved inside. “Have you seen my plaid shirt?”
He doesn't even have to see Louis' face to know he's rolling his eyes. “Which one? You only own about a hundred. C'mon, just wear that. You look fine.”
“The blue one, with the – found it!” Liam says, digging the shirt from the bottom of his closet. It's a bit wrinkled from being stuffed in a laundry basket, but Liam's fairly certain it's clean. He sniffs it, just to be sure, and Louis snorts.
“Who's lacking basic hygiene now?”
“Shut up,” Liam says, pulling the shirt on over his tee and doing up the buttons. He pats his pockets to make sure he has his phone and his wallet. “Okay, I'm ready.”
Louis rolls over so he's right-side up again. His face is a little flushed from all the blood rushing to his head, but his eyes are a clear, glittering blue. “Finally. Let's go.”
-
The pub is packed when they arrive, the Thursday night crowd bursting at the seams. Louis shoves his way through the melee, elbows flying, and Liam follows in his wake, staying close on his heels before the path is swallowed up again. The boys have claimed their usual booth in the back, and Harry's face lights up when he sees them.
Well, when he sees Louis, anyway. Harry pats the open seat next to him and Louis slots in, beaming. Before Liam can hover awkwardly for more than a second or two, Niall scoots over on the other side of the table, pressing Zayn into the wall so Liam can fit, too. He settles onto the bench, eyeing the two beers Niall's got in front of him rather than the scene across the table. Louis might be whispering in Harry's ear, but it seems to involve a lot more tongue than Liam thinks is strictly necessary.
“Is one of those for me?” he asks hopefully, turning towards Niall. He's not sure he's up for fighting his way back through the crowd to order a drink.
“I could be convinced,” Niall says, but nudges one of the glasses over to Liam without any actual convincing, cheek dimpled.
“Oi. And where's my drink, then?” Louis demands loudly.
“Relax,” Zayn says, not looking terribly put out, despite being folded up in the corner of the booth. “Harry promised to grab the next round. He'll get you something.”
“What do you want?” Harry drawls, tucking his long hair behind one ear. Unlike Liam, he hasn't bothered with most of his buttons, and his shirt gapes as he hunches forward, his inked chest on display. Liam drags his fingers through the condensation on his glass, a swirling pattern blooming from his fingertips.
“Just get me whatever's cheapest.” One arm draped over the back of the seat, Louis doesn't bother sliding out to let Harry up. Anyone else would've shoved at him until he budged, but Harry just crawls over him, making a production of it, hips swaying and knee knocking into the wood when he slips a little. Niall laughs, and even Zayn looks amused, a quirk to his lips despite shaking his head. Liam takes a long pull of beer.
Niall throws a balled up napkin at Harry's head once he's finally managed to climb to his feet, and Harry looks at him expectantly. “Get us some fuckin' chips while you're up, would ya, Haz? Haven't eaten all day, I'm starving.”
With a wink, Harry replies, “You got it, Niall.”
“That's my boy,” Louis says, and Liam hides his snort by taking another drink.
A solid fifteen minutes go by with no sign of Harry's return, and they're debating sending out a search party when he finally wanders back, somehow holding five drinks at once, a plate of chips balanced on his forearms.
“Shit, Harry, you could've asked for help,” Zayn says as Harry tries to set down all five glasses at the same time, brow furrowed and bottom lip caught between his teeth. Niall heroically grabs the plate of chips from him and settles it in the middle of the table, grabbing a handful and shoving them all into his mouth at once.
“Disgusting,” Louis says with approval. Niall's mouth curves into what might charitably be called a smile, cheeks puffed like a hamster's. Once the drinks have been distributed, Louis leans back, making Harry crawl over him again in order to sit back down.
“Really, Lou?” Zayn asks, one eyebrow ticking up. It's a neat trick. Liam wishes his eyebrows were half as cooperative.
“What? I don't like sitting on the inside. What if I have to pee?”
“Then you ask them to move like a normal person,” Niall cuts in, swallowing his mouthful of chips. “Here, I'll show ya. Liam, would you please move? I need to take a wee.”
Grabbing his drink, Louis says, “What a lovely demonstration.”
Liam climbs out of the booth to let Niall out, civilized person that he is, and Louis darts his hand out to grab Liam's wrist, stilling him. “Wait! Wait, we need to toast first!”
“Are you serious, Lou? I wasn't joking. I really have to wee.”
“Shut it, Nialler. Everyone grab a drink, get 'em in the air.”
Obediently, the five of them raise their glasses. The light overhead glints off Louis' hair, shinning like a crown. “To senior years, boys,” he says with the bravado of a king, drunk on power. “This one is gonna be the best year yet. I can feel it.”
“To senior year,” they all echo, glasses clinking. Louis, bastard that he is, bumps his glass hard into Niall's, beer sloshing over the rim. Niall swears, sticking his fingers in his mouth.
“You're such an asshole, Lou,” he says, but he's laughing. They all are, riding the high of the last Thursday in September they'll ever go out in their uni careers.
Well, that's not quite true, Liam realizes, as Niall slips past him on his way to the bathroom and he sinks back onto the bench, hand curled around his beer. Harry's slouched in his seat, half his face shadowed. It's not dark enough to hide the flat line of his mouth.
A flying elbow from Louis catches him square in the ribs – probably on purpose, knowing Louis – and Harry hunches forward, grabbing his side like it hurt. When the light hits his face, though, his wide mouth is pulled back in a grin, his eyes happy crescents. Louis smacks a kiss to his temple, and Harry presses into the touch like an affectionate kitten.
Liam chugs the rest of his drink.
-
One round turns into several rounds, and before he knows it, Liam's stumbling home in the dark, muffling a laugh into Zayn's shoulder.
“This one's too drunk to make it home,” Zayn announces when they've reached Harry and Louis' flat. It's the closet to the pub, only a few streets away, but the ground has been stubbornly rolling under Liam's feet ever since he stood up.
“Leave him in the gutter,” Louis decides, but there's a laugh in his voice.
Zayn has a steadying hand on his elbow, but Liam still has to grab onto a streetlamp to keep from tipping over when the pavement rolls again, the whole world spinning beneath him. “Rude.”
“Oh my god, I'm kidding. There you go, with the face again. C'mon, let's go inside.”
Liam only has the faintest memory of climbing the stairs to their second story flat, of flopping onto the couch face first. It smells faintly of animal fur, even though it's been here longer than either Louis or Harry, and they've never had any pets.
“Gross,” Liam mumbles to himself before passing out.
-
Harry's already in the kitchen the next morning when Liam shuffles in, hiding a yawn behind his palm. He almost, almost turns back around, but Harry spots him before he can retreat undetected.
“Tea?” Harry asks, tipping his head towards the electric kettle on the counter. He brought it with him when he transferred from Cambridge right before junior year. It's Liam's favorite thing in the entire flat; it reminds him of summers in the English countryside with his mum's family.
“Please,” Liam says, collapsing onto one of the mismatched, rickety chairs at the table. It's quiet save for the early morning chirp of birds outside and droning hum of the refrigerator, punctuated by the occasional click of metal against porcelain as Harry stirs Liam's tea.
“Sugar?” At Liam's nod, he reaches into one of the cabinets, pulling out a canister. “How many? Two?”
“Three.”
“Gonna rot your teeth out.” Harry dumps in three spoonfuls, though, stirring it in before sliding the steaming mug over to Liam.
“Thanks,” Liam says, blowing on it before taking a sip. It's a bit too hot yet, but it feels good on his parched throat.
Harry doesn't sit like Liam expects him to, just leans back against the counter, holding his own tea cupped in both hands. He doesn't look as bad as Liam feels, but there are dark circles under his eyes that Liam hadn't noticed last night in the dim lighting of the pub.
“So,” Liam says after the silence has dragged on, nothing to fill it but the soft sounds of morning. He has to look up to meet Harry's eye, and he wonders if Harry did that on purpose. “How's, uh, how's the semester going, then?” Being best mates with Harry's best mate should make them friends by extension, but somehow it never has.
“Fine,” Harry says, taking a sip of tea.
Liam waits a beat, but Harry doesn't elaborate. “Oh. Um, that's great.”
“Yeah.” Setting his mug down on the counter, Harry says, “I'm going to take a quick shower. Help yourself to whatever, if you're hungry.” His face folds into something polite but vaguely frog-like, and then he's out the door.
“Great chat,” Liam says to the empty room. He pulls his phone from his pocket, but it's dead, and the clock on the stove says that Louis won't be up for hours yet. Liam should head home, where some leftover Chinese and his bed are both waiting for him, but his head is pounding and his stomach is rolling with nausea, so he sits instead, lingering over his tea.
The kitchen table's a mess, cluttered with mail and textbooks and an assortment of pens and things, including an uncapped highlighter. Liam grabs the highlighter and draws a line down his arm to test if it's dried out it. It is. Bored, he tosses it towards the bin, but it hits the edge and topples to the floor. If Louis didn't share this flat with Harry, Liam would leave it, but guilt pushes him to his feet.
Nausea pushes him right back into the chair. He can pick up the highlighter later. Propping an elbow on the table so he can rest his temple against his palm, Liam busies himself sorting the mail into stacks – one for Louis, one for Harry, and one for the previous tenet, Craig, who must've never given a forwarding address, if he's still getting mail here two years later.
Most of Louis' mail is still sealed in envelopes, but Harry's at least gone through the trouble of opening his. Liam shifts a stack of newspaper to make a fourth pile, and that's when he spots it, half buried under a Target ad.
The shower's still running, water gurgling through the old pipes, so Liam picks the letter up, careful not to wrinkle it. It's from the U.S. Department of State, a very official looking seal emblazoning one corner. Liam skims it, then reads it again, slower.
“What are you doing?”
With a guilty jump, Liam drops the letter back onto the table. Harry's standing in the kitchen doorway, a towel wrapped around his hips. His hair is darker wet, nearly black, and hangs in wet tendrils past his shoulders. Liam hadn't even heard the shower shut off.
“Nothing,” he lies.
Harry hitches the towel more securely around his waist, padding on bare feet towards the table. The letter is sitting right there, smack in the middle, and Harry sucks in a sharp breath through his teeth when he sees it.
“I'm sorry. I was just – I was sorting the mail, and it was just sitting out, and I – I shouldn't have read it. I'm sorry,” Liam repeats.
Harry doesn't say a word as he sinks down into the chair across from Liam, the wood groaning under his weight. “You read it,” he says, but he's not looking at Liam. His eyes are unfocused, his lashes clumped with water as he stares at nothing.
“Yeah,” Liam confirms. He swallows, and it sticks in his throat a moment. “Is it – I'm sorry. It's not my business.”
“No, it's really not.” Bare shoulders slumped, Harry rubs a hand over his face, pulling at his bottom lip. “Look, just – don't tell the others, okay?”
“They don't know?”
Harry finally looks at him, eyes sharp. “No.”
“Not even--”
“No.” He lets out a ragged breath, eyes slipping shut. “No one knows, okay? I didn't want to ruin anyone's good time.”
“Ruin anyone's good time – Harry, this is serious! I thought – didn't you, Zayn, and Louis all reapply at the same time? Zayn and Louis got their student visas ages ago.”
“I know, Liam.” Resting his elbows on the table, Harry cradles his head in his hands. His cross necklace dangles from his neck, glinting dully in the early morning light, and his voice is muffled when he says, “I thought – you can request an appeal. I thought it would be fine.”
Liam's gaze drops to the letter. “It said final judgment, though. That doesn't sound like--”
“That's because I already requested the appeal. Obviously, it was denied.”
The refrigerator kicks into another gear, the sudden hum making the silence between them even louder. Voice barely more than a whisper, Liam asks, “So what are you going to do?”
Harry makes a wet sound halfway between a sob and a laugh. “I've got a month before I need to be out of the country. I don't know.”
“Can't you reapply for a new visa? Or—”
When Harry lifts his head, his face is pale and bloodless, making the bags under his eyes a bruised, angry purple in contrast. “No, it doesn't work like that.” Pushing his wet hair out of his eyes, he bursts out, “It's so – it's so fucking stupid. I had to drop one of my summer courses because it interfered with my internship. It was just an elective, I didn't think I needed to check with anyone cos I was just going to retake it this fall, but it made me out of compliance, apparently.” Water drips from his hair, running in a rivulet down his bare chest.
Liam pulls at a loose thread on his sleeve. “So there's nothing you can do? You just have to… go back to the UK? What about your senior thesis? What about – you've already paid tuition here, haven't you? They can just do that?”
Sagging like the fight's been drained out of him, Harry shrugs. “I guess. No way to get another student visa, so. I'm afraid I'm fucked on that one.” His gaze has gone unfocused again, but when he catches Liam's eye, he seems to remember who he's talking to. He sits up a little straighter, a wry smile twisting his mouth. Liam hadn't realized he'd just seen behind the mask until Harry slipped it back on.
“Maybe I'll get myself a Green Card instead. I'd make a good trophy husband, right?”
Liam frowns. “Would that really work?”
“Liam. I'm joking.”
“I know, but – that would work, right? If you got a Green Card? You could stay here and finish up the school year then, couldn't you?”
A wrinkle creases the skin between Harry's eyebrows. “That's not – there are so many reasons that wouldn't work. I'd need someone willing to marry me, first of all.”
“You could marry me.” The words are out of Liam's mouth before he can second guess himself.
At first, Harry laughs. It's a surprised sort of sound, like Liam's caught him off guard with an unexpected joke. Then he says, when Liam just looks at him, “You're not serious.”
Under the table, Liam's leg starts to jiggle. He can't make it stop. “You'd just need the Green Card, right? We could go down to the courthouse, get a marriage certificate, you could apply for whatever you need to stay here – boom, done.”
Harry's staring at him as if he's grown a second head. “Are you… are you seriously suggesting fraud?”
Liam hunches in on himself, rubbing a hand up and down his thigh. “Forget it. It's a stupid idea.”
“No, no – I didn't say that.” Harry twists one of his rings around and around his finger, chewing on his bottom lip. “It's just. That'd be asking a lot of you. Sounds more like one of Louis' schemes, actually.”
Something in Liam's chest clenches. “Yeah, but he's not a U.S. citizen either, is he? None of the boys are.” Niall's the closest; he's lived here for more of his life than he's lived in Ireland, but he says it's too much work, applying for citizenship when he's got perfectly adequate Permanent Resident status. Liam suspects he just likes to call himself a real Irishman when he's on the pull, but Niall will only laugh if you try to call him on it.
“Except you,” Harry says.
“Except me,” Liam repeats.
There's something shaky in Harry's laugh. “Should've made more American friends. Don't know why I came all this way just to hang around a bunch of Brits.” He's finally stopped fiddling with his ring, but his lip is going to be shredded if he doesn't quit biting at it. “I don't know, Liam.”
Liam traces the inside seam on his jeans with his fingertip. “It's not like we'd have to tell anyone. I seriously doubt the government is going to go after some kids at uni, you know? And it – christ, it would kill Louis, all the boys, if you had to go back to the UK mid-semester.” He realizes, too late, that he didn't include himself on the list.
If Harry notices, he doesn't say. One corner of his mouth twitches, a smile trying to take root, maybe. “It wouldn't actually be the end of the world, you know.”
“But you'd be a year behind, and lose out on all the tuition you already paid here, and your – it'd impact your senior thesis, wouldn't it?”
Cocking his head to one side, Harry asks, “Why are you trying so hard to convince me?”
“I don't know!” Beneath the table, Liam's leg bounces hard enough to make his chair rattle. Harry's never known a Louis who wasn't infatuated with him, but Liam remembers a time before they met, a time before the instantaneous click, when Liam was the one who got to monopolize all of Louis' time. Harry has no idea, doesn't even realize the gravitational pull he has on Louis, the way they orbit each other like twin planets, even before Louis broke up with his last girlfriend.
Louis has never looked at Liam the way he looks at Harry. Liam' finally stills his leg. “I just – it's stupid, that they could kick you out, just like that.”
“Yeah,” Harry says, looking out the window. A muscle clenches in his jaw. Liam thinks his lip might be bleeding. “Yeah.”
-
It's drizzling when they meet on the courthouse steps, and Liam zips his jacket to his chin.
“You're sure about this?” Harry asks. His hands are shoved in his pockets, and either his terrible posture or the cold has him hunched, shoulders up around his ears.
Liam's eyes follow the imposing lines of the courthouse, stone pillars reaching towards the overcast sky. Rain drops splatter against his face, and he blinks it out of his yes. “Yeah,” he says. “We'll file for a divorce at the end of the year. No one'll ever know. It's fine, Harry.”
Harry frowns. “Isn't that stuff all public record?”
“You only have a month to get things sorted out,” Liam reminds him. It's drafty out here, the wind finding every inch of Liam's bare skin, reaching under his collar with cold fingers. He fights off a shiver. “Do you want to do this or not?”
Nodding sharply, Harry says, “Yes. Let's do this.”
Neither of them have dressed up, exactly, but Harry sheds his coat once they're inside and he's wearing a toned down version of one of his usual loud shirts, the buttons done up to nearly his collar bones. He's already got their marriage license, carefully tucked away inside a plain manilla envelope pinned between his elbow and ribs.
It feels surreal when they sit side by side on an uncomfortable wooden bench, waiting for their turn in front of the judge. Liam can't help rubbing his hands up and down his legs, trying to keep them still, to wipe the dampness from his palms.
He's startled when Harry grabs one of his hands, threading their fingers together.
“Try to look a little less like you're about to be sentenced for 25 to life, and a little more like you're excited to be here,” he advises, shifting closer so he can mumble directly into Liam's ear, his hot breath tickling. Liam tries not to flinch.
“I'm – I didn't know it would be so official,” he whispers back. He can feel Harry's eyes on him, but doesn't turn to see the expression on Harry's face.
“Don't tell me you're getting cold feet now,” Harry says. His hand is clammy in Liam's.
Liam shakes his head. “No, of course not. I'm just. We're really doing this. We're really going through with it.”
“Yeah.” Harry clears his throat. “I'm, uh. Not sure I said this yet, but – thank you. Seriously, Liam.”
Liam just squeezes his hand.
-
The ceremony is short, and no immigration officers bust through the door to arrest them, which is a positive. After the judge declares them legally wed, Harry pulls a pair of silver rings from his pocket, pressing one to the center of Liam's palm and curling his fingers closed around it. The metal is cool against his skin, but warms quickly.
“Harry?” he asks, unsure.
“You don't have to wear it, obviously,” Harry says in undertone. “It's just – a reminder.”
When Liam signs the marriage certificate, his hand doesn't shake. The two witnesses they pulled from an office down the hall sign off too, and then it's done.
They're married.
-
Harry suggests they go to lunch afterward, but Liam has class. They linger on the steps, awkward, before Liam offers Harry his hand. Harry shakes it, grip firm, then rolls his eyes and pulls Liam in for a hug.
“Thank you,” he says again, holding Liam tight. Liam feels a little breathless when Harry lets him go.
“I should… class,” he mumbles, jerking his thumb in the general direction of campus.
“Yeah, you should get going. I'm just going to – I'm gonna go get this stuff mailed off. I'll see you around?”
“Sure,” Liam agrees. He pulls the collar of his jacket up to fight off the early October chill. On his way to class, Liam takes a detour, popping into the little jewelery store that squats between a barbershop and a convenience store. He buys the cheapest metal chain he can find, and threads it through the wedding band, tucking it beneath his shirt.
A reminder, Harry said.
-
The secret Liam wears on a chain around his neck doesn't feel that big, as the weeks pass. He falls into the routine of the semester, the constant struggle of balancing school, work, and a social life. Louis gets drunk and tries to swim in the fountain, which has thankfully already been drained for the coming winter months. Niall buys a scratch off ticket and wins $500, and they blow it all on a single night out that Liam barely remembers. At least none of the pictures show up on Facebook.
Harry makes an effort to talk to Liam more, asking after his classes with apparent interest. Feeling out of his depth, Liam tries to reciprocate, but Harry's pre-med and most of it is over his head. They settle into the somewhat uncomfortable relationship of two people whose common denominator is a secret they can't talk about, an elephant no one else in the room can see.
“You and Harry are acting, like, super weird around each other,” Zayn says, flopping down on the couch next to Liam. It's the best one in the student union; comfortable and tucked away in one of the back corridors, perfect for taking a nap or pretending to study.
Liam clears his throat. “What are you talking about?”
“I dunno, just. You guys have been walking on eggshells around each other all semester.” He fishes something from his backpack, and it's not until he starts peeling it that Liam realizes it's a hard boiled egg. He chooses not to ask. Something careful in his voice that Liam hates, Zayn continues, “It doesn't have anything to do with Louis, does it?”
“First of all, me and Harry aren't being weird,” Liam tells him firmly. “Second of all, even if we were, what would Louis have to do with it?”
Zayn gives him a look. There's bits of eggshell on his black jeans, and he sweeps them away with the back of his hand. “Don't bullshit me, I'm one of your best mates. I know it bothers you when Harry hangs all over Louis.”
“It doesn't,” Liam argues, and Zayn snorts. Breaking off a piece of egg, he pops it in his mouth.
“It does, and it's worse this semester. Is it cos Louis' single for once in his life? Because he's straight, Liam. His relationship status doesn't matter, when--”
“I know that,” Liam interrupts. And he does. He knows it. “But it – you'd have to blind, not to see the way he looks at Harry sometimes.”
Zayn's eyes go all soft. Liam hates it. “Don't do this to yourself, bro.”
“It's not – it wouldn't matter to me, okay. If they were – if they did get together. I'd be happy for them, Z. I would.”
“Okay,” Zayn says, “if you say so.” He doesn't sound convinced, but at least he stops arguing. He nibbles at his egg, slouching down on the couch so he can rest his head on Liam's thigh.
“Wake me up before my history lecture, yeah?”
Liam flips the page of his book, pretending to study. “You got it.”
-
Frantic banging against the door has Liam bolting upright in bed, heart hammering against his ribcage.
“Liam! Liam, open up. I know you're home. Liam!” It's Harry, shouting loud enough that Liam is going to get some passive aggressive notes from his neighbors if he doesn't stop it soon.
Rolling out of bed, Liam rubs the sleep from his eyes, padding to the door. When he swings it open, Harry's got his fist raised, ready to knock again.
“Oh, thank god,” he says, pushing past Liam.
“Come on in, then,” Liam says dryly, shutting the door behind him. He turns around, jaw stretching with a yawn, to find Harry standing in the middle of the one room flat, looking around at all of Liam's worldly belongings with wide eyes.
“So. Is there a reason you're here at,” he squints at his watch. “Jesus Christ, it's 2am. What's going on?”
Blinking at Liam like the world's just slid back into focus, Harry hands him a wrinkled envelope, the seal torn open raggedly. “I was up working on a paper, and I saw it on the kitchen table when I went to find some crisps. I – I wanted to tell you in person, let you see for yourself.”
“See what?”
Dipping his head towards the envelope, Harry says, “Just – fuck, Liam. Just read it.”
Slowly, Liam pulls the letter free. It's a single page, a very official, very familiar looking seal on one corner. “This is from the U.S. Department of State. Harry, what--”
He skims the page, reading out loud, “'Title 8, United States Code, Section 1325, states that any individual who knowingly enters into a marriage contract for the purpose of evading any provision of the immigration laws shall be imprisoned for not more than five years, or fined not more than $250,000, or both.' Harry, what is this saying?”
Harry's eyes are so wide, there's twin rings of white all the way around the green of his irises, and absolutely no color at all in his face. “They suspect our marriage is fraudulent.”
Something seizes in Liam's chest. It's suddenly hard to breathe.“It is fraudulent, oh my god, what – Harry, what do we do?”
Harry's pacing, sliding one of his rings up and down his finger. His pointer finger, not his ring finger. Liam feels sick. “We have to meet with an officer from the fraud unit for an interview. That's what the letter says.” He takes a deep breath. “We've got two choices. We can either come clean – best case I get deported, worst case we both go to jail --”
Liam closes his eyes. “I don't – those aren't good options. What's our other choice?”
Breathing raggedly, Harry says, “We lie and say our marriage is real.”