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him feel comparatively better about being a miserable bastard.

w/o u here who‟s gunna b my consolation midnight kiss?? aha :) xx

It only takes a few moments for Louis to text back, reassuring Zayn

that he is not the saddest sack in the greater Manchester area.

give you ten quid if you kiss niall. not kidding.

Zayn throws his head back and laughs, typing out his answer.

make it twenty and ur on :P xoxo

Maybe this night could still be fun after all.

It‟s hard to keep in touch with Harry when he‟s stuck inside a small

house with his mum and four nosy sisters, all of whom are hellbent on

figuring out what—or whom—Louis is hiding from them. He sticks to

texts for the first few days before he‟s forced to admit to himself that

seeing Harry‟s bad jokes in pixel letters just makes him miss the sound

of Harry‟s dumb voice saying them honey-slow in his ear. He can only

call him in the middle of the night or at odd hours of the day when the

girls are busy and his mum is at work, unless he actually gets in his car

and drives somewhere, and Louis refuses to do that. He‟s trying to keep

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this thing in check, and lurking in car parks to talk to Harry on the

phone does not exactly fall under the heading of Rational Behavior.

The snow hasn‟t come to Doncaster for a few weeks, so the grass is dry

enough that Louis can take Harry‟s late night calls in the back garden

without waking anyone up. He bundles up and drags his duvet down

the stairs and lies on his back on the ground, listening to Harry ramble

on and on about football and his family and which Rolling Stones

album is best.

“What‟re you gonna do when you get back?” Louis asks one night, coat

pulled tight around him as he stares up at the stars.

“Wait for you to get back so I can kiss you again,” Harry says on the

other end of the line, and Louis rolls onto his stomach and buries his

face in the grass.

He knows that it‟d be easier to just leave for Manchester early since he

knows that Harry will be getting back a couple of days ahead of school,

but he makes himself stay in Doncaster for the full hols. He doesn‟t get

to see his family or his Doncaster friends as often as he‟d like, and he

can‟t justify leaving all that to see Harry. This is where he needs to be,

sandwiched in between two of his sisters on the sofa in the family

living room. Their mum‟s messing about in the kitchen, fixing herself

another Shirley Temple, and the twins are asleep, thank God. The room

gets a bit crowded when the entire Tomlinson clan tries to watch telly,

even if it is a New Year‟s tradition.

“There‟s still time to make it to the fireworks before midnight if we

leave now,” Lottie says.

“If you want to go, you should go,” Louis says, before taking a long sip

out of the champagne bottle he‟s got cradled in his lap. “I, however, am

going to stay here, on this sofa, where it is comfy and there are no loud

noises. They say you spend the whole year doing what you were doing

at midnight, yes? Well, I plan to spend this year lazy and tipsy.”

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Lottie makes a grab for the bottle, but Louis has cat-like reflexes when

it comes to alcohol and moves it out of her reach. “Hey now, no

champagne for children,” he says.

“I‟m eighteen now, Louis, I‟m not a child,” she says, rolling her eyes.

Fizzy giggles.

“Are you?” Louis asks jokingly. “Hmm, I‟m going to have to write

someone a strongly-worded letter about that, see if something can‟t be

done.” Lottie pokes him in the side, he pokes back, and by the time

their mum comes back in all three of them are engaged in a no-holds-

barred tickle war.

Louis is attempting to explain to her that he is the victim of unchecked

sisterly imperialism when his mobile goes off. When he sees who it is,

he scrambles upright. “I‟m sorry, it‟s—I‟ve got to get this, hold on,” he

says, heading for the back door.

“It‟s five minutes to midnight, Louis!” his mum shouts after him, but

he‟s already on the back patio.

“Hi, Hazza,” he says, sitting down on the patio swing.

“Louis!” Harry shouts down the line, and Louis can tell in just those

two syllables that he‟s pissed off his arse. “Louis, Louis, Louis. Loo-

oo-ouis. It‟s almost midnight!” Louis can hear loud voices and clinking

glasses.

“I know, Haz,” Louis responds, rubbing his hands over his arms. He

definitely should have grabbed a coat on his way outside, but it‟s too

late for that now. “You at a party?” he asks.

“Yeah, but,” and now Harry whispers dramatically, “S‟not as good as

yours was, Lou, so don‟t worry.” He ends the sentence with a giggle.

“Your party was brilliant. You are brilliant!” He heaves a drunken sigh.

“Miss you.”

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Before Louis can respond, or figure out how to, he hears a voice in the

background. Who‟re you talking to, Harry? says a woman. Harry‟s

response is a muffled It‟s Louis, Gemma, piss off.

“Is that your sister?” Louis asks, curious.

“Yeah, d‟you want to talk to her? Gemma!” he shouts, and Louis

winces, holding the phone away from his ear. “Gemma! Louis wants to

talk to you! I don‟t know why, I‟m much more interesting.” The phone

passes between them, and a clear female voice comes down the line.

“Hello, Louis, this is Gemma, Harry‟s sister.”

Louis smiles, pleased to have the chance to sneak a peek at Harry‟s real

life. “Hello, Gemma, very nice to meet you.”

She hitches a laugh, saying, “A pleasure, I‟m sure.” Louis has never

seen a picture of her, but he‟s imagining a woman his age with Harry‟s

mouth and, judging by her tone, his tendency towards mischief. “So,

what have you done exactly to make my brother completely lose his

head over you? Are you that good in—” she starts to ask, but suddenly

the sound is muffled and Louis can barely make out the sound of

shushing.

“Louis?” Harry‟s voice comes through. “You there? Loui-i-is?”

Louis can‟t help but laugh at how eager he sounds. What a friendly

drunk. “Yeah, Haz, I‟m here,” he says, pushing his feet against the

porch so the swing starts to sway. “It‟s almost midnight, you sure you

want to be on the phone?”

“Yes,” Harry says, with slurred resolution. “I‟m sure.”

“Nobody to kiss at midnight?” Louis asks, feeling reckless.

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Harry giggles again. “No one here is anywhere near as fit as you, so,”

he says, sighing.

Louis grins against the phone. “A common tragedy. Sorry if I‟ve set the

bar too high.”

“You should be, you wanker,” Harry says with what can only be

affection, and Louis is too buzzed to be even want to contain the

warmth he feels curling out of his chest. He doesn‟t answer for a

moment, just sits gliding back and forth on the swing, knowing that

Harry‟s on the other end of the line.

“Hazza—” he starts finally, but is interrupted by a series of loud bangs

and whistles. He stands and walks to the edge of the patio, and if he

leans out, he can just see the edge of some of the fireworks over the

treeline. On the other end of the phone he can hear shouting and

singing. Someone‟s started up “Auld Lang Syne.”

“Happy New Year, Hazza,” he says, watching the sky light up. “I miss

you, too.”

Harry lets out a whooping laugh. “Happy New Year, Lou,” he says, and

hangs up.

When Louis walks back into the living room, his mum and sisters all

fix him with the same look, their eyebrows rising. Even Duchess is

staring at him accusingly from her basket in the corner. Families are

creepy.

“Well, you missed midnight, so you're terrible,” Fizzy says, her arms

crossed. She looks pleased about being able to tell him off, though, so

she probably isn‟t really upset.

“Sorry,” Louis says, dragging the word out, unable to keep a smile off

his face.

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His mum narrows her eyes, examining him, but then they fly open in

shock. “Who was that on the phone?” she says in a knowing voice, and

nope, this conversation is not happening.

“You know, I think I‟m just going to turn in,” Louis says, heading for

the stairs. If he doesn‟t make eye contact, maybe she‟ll let it go.

“Are you blushing?” she says.

“It‟s cold out!” Louis says, taking the steps at double time.

“You‟re not getting out of this that easily!” she shouts at his retreating

back.

“Night mum, night girls,” he sing-songs back, so close to freedom.

“I‟ll get it out of you eventually,” she calls after him, defeated, and the

sad thing is she‟s probably right.

As he closes the door to the bathroom, he feels his phone vibrate and

pulls it out to see a picture message from Zayn. He has to zoom in and

turn the phone upside down, but eventually he realises that he‟s looking

at a self-taken image of Zayn planting a kiss on a very surprised Niall.

When he closes the picture, he sees he has two texts. He opens the one

from Zayn first.

u owe me 20 quidddddd hapyyp new years lou i loev u :DDD xxxx

Snickering, he closes it and opens the next text, which is from Niall.

why

185

It‟s the beginning of a new term, and Louis‟ got a lot on his plate

already. He put off working on lesson plans the whole holiday, still so

drained from the last week of the term that he couldn‟t even be arsed to

look at his calendar, and now he‟s got to catch up. He‟ll be able to bluff

his way through the first day of classes, but he really needs to sit down

and figure out what the hell he‟s doing, because things are going to get

busy for him again soon.

He‟s holding auditions for the spring musical in a week, having settled

on Grease this year. It‟s the one he‟s been saving ever since he started

directing, since it‟s his very favorite and he doesn‟t want to waste his

one chance to do it right, but for some reason he feels like this is the

year. He posted flyers and handed out audition packets before the

Christmas holidays to give the kids enough time to rehearse on their

own, but he‟s still got several loose ends to tie up before tryouts.

Posting audition sign-up sheets, making copies of scripts, reserving the

theatre—all of it needs to be done by the end of the week.

So really, between all of that, there‟s no reason for him to feel so

disappointed when he gets a text from Harry on Monday morning

saying that he won‟t be coming around today because he‟s meeting

with a professor and maybe he‟ll catch him after practice. Louis‟ got

enough happening that he should be grateful to have his free period to

himself. But the fact of the matter is, he hasn‟t seen Harry in over a

week, and somewhere between prop furniture and snow and

champagne and 2 a.m. phone calls under a blanket in the back garden,

that became unacceptable. It‟s all he can think about all day, the fact

that they‟re in the same city again and the space between them is

getting smaller by the minute.

Finally five o‟clock rolls around and he‟s done with all his work for the

day, sign-up sheets posted and lesson plans tucked inside his desk

drawer. He knows he could take the front exit to the carpark and never

pass the football pitch. He‟d get to his car faster, even. He could go

home and put on the telly and spend the evening with his cat and a

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glass of wine, safe in his flat where nobody is making anybody feel

anything. It would be so easy.

So easy, but also impossible. As he locks up his classroom, he knows

it‟s a foregone conclusion. His feet are already carrying him toward the

back exit without him ever telling them to. Rude.

The team‟s in their last few minutes of practice by the time Louis gets

out there. Mondays, Louis‟ learned by now, are just for drills, so the