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his damn phone at the wall, but he can‟t, because he can‟t afford a new

one, so he just texts Harry back, I owe you x, and shoves his phone

back in his jeans. He‟s got an audition to run.

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All in all, it ends up being a bit of a mess like it usually is, but it‟s not

bad and his two-day stress migraine is almost bearable. He‟s got a bit

of really strong talent this year, and even Harry‟s boys aren‟t

completely hopeless. He ends up casting Stuart Standhill as Danny, not

because he favours him but because he‟s honestly the best for the part.

He can sing, he can dance, he can turn his camp tendencies on or off

whenever he needs to, and Louis knows he can trust him to carry a

show this big. And okay, maybe if pressed he‟d admit that part of him

hopes that this role will do for Stuart what it did for him when he was

in high school, but he's still the most qualified.

Sunday night, when it‟s all said and done, he texts Harry to come over.

It‟s been a long weekend, and he could really use a bottle of wine and a

nice, slow fuck right about now.

Harry shows up with a bottle of red in hand and lips bitten bright pink

by the cold. Louis pops the cork, and they spend an hour kissing on

Louis‟ couch and passing the bottle back and forth, getting lazily drunk

off of Tesco's wine and each other. Louis feels the stress and tension

finally easing out of his body, and he gets a little looser with his kisses,

lets his fingers trace over Harry‟s cheekbones when they kiss, a little

sweeter than he usually lets himself be. He figures Harry‟s earned it.

“Thank you,” he says, pushing Harry‟s hair back off his forehead to

plant a kiss there. “For getting the boys to audition. I don‟t know what I

would‟ve done.”

“Anything I can do to help,” Harry says, smiling.

“Yeah,” Louis says, reaching for his belt buckle, “I know.”

“I was really just trying to get into your trousers, though,” Harry says,

getting one of his hands down there to help Louis along.

“How very dare you,” Louis says. He tugs Harry‟s trousers open and

slides his hand inside. “What kind of boy do you think I am?”

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Harry opens his mouth to retort, but then Louis‟ hand is around his

cock and that‟s the end of that.

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“So I was thinking,” Harry says, lying in Louis‟ bed on a Tuesday

night.

“Hmm?” Louis responds, already slipping into a post-coital coma on

his side of the bed.

Harry shifts, turning on his side to look at Louis. In a few minutes, he‟ll

sit up and start pulling his clothes back on, getting ready to drive back

to his flat so that he can make it to class in the morning. For now,

though, he‟s here, and his hair is falling in his eyes. Sleepily, Louis

wants to reach out and touch it.

“Every time we‟ve… you know. Hung out,” Harry says, smirking

slightly. “It‟s been here, at yours.”

“S‟true,” Louis murmurs, his hand sliding across the bed of its own

accord and grazing Harry‟s forearm.

“D‟you think,” Harry says, pausing to yawn. “This weekend, d‟you

want to come over to mine?” His fingers curl around Louis‟ wrist. “I‟ll

make you dinner,” he says with a smile.

“Yeah?” Louis says, his eyes drifting closed. “Okay. That sounds nice.”

“Okay,” he hears Harry whisper softly. “Okay.”

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Harry‟s gone when he wakes up, but there‟s a Post-It left on the pillow

with a message scrawled hastily.

Early class, sorry :( dinner Friday, 8 PM? xx Hazza

Louis spends his morning routine wondering when exactly they started

apologizing for being apart.

When he gets into his car, he pulls the door closed and sits for a

moment, motionless, in the driver‟s seat. Then, moving quickly as if

he‟s on a deadline, he pulls out his phone and sends Harry a text.

ur on for friday :)

He stares at the phone briefly, then tosses it into the passenger seat and

puts the car in drive. It's just dinner. They eat dinner together all the

time, and it doesn't mean anything. A change of venue doesn't change

that. Who decided that eating food at the same time and place as

another human was supposed to be significant, anyway? Surely

mankind has evolved beyond that as a species by now. Right. Just

another casual evening with the friend that he's sleeping with, with the

added bonus of free food. Sounds like fun.

At lunch, Harry breaks into a grin when Louis walks into the lounge,

pulling him off to the side while Zayn and Niall roll their eyes.

“Hi,” he says, thumbing over Louis‟ wrist. They‟ve made a no-kissing-

during-school-hours rule, but that doesn‟t mean they can keep their

hands to themselves. “So I can‟t come over tonight. Or tomorrow night.

I‟ve got a presentation on Friday that I really, really need to ace.”

“That‟s all right,” Louis says. “I‟m massively behind on marking

anyway, I could use the time to catch up."

Harry smiles ruefully at him. “Sorry about that.”

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“Are not,” Louis says primly, poking at Harry‟s hip with his free hand.

“Oi!” Niall says from the table. “Hands above the waist!” Louis sticks

his tongue out at him, but removes his hand all the same.

“I‟m excited for Friday,” Harry says softly. “It‟s—my flat‟s not much,

but I promise I can cook, at least.” He looks nervous. Louis wants to

pinch his cheeks and then sleep with him.

“I‟m sure I‟ll love everything,” he says. He opens his mouth to say

more, but is interrupted by his friends being twats.

“Oh, Zayn, whisper sweet nothings to me, please!” Niall says, laying

his head on Zayn‟s shoulder.

“Only if we can be as disgusting about it as possible, preferably with

other people in the room, my dear,” Zayn says, stroking at Niall‟s face.

“Especially if it‟s while people are trying to eat.”

Harry and Louis both laugh, and they go to sit down to eat. Louis bites

into an apple and tries not to think about whether eating dinner at

Harry‟s counts as anything particularly romantic or date-like. Because

it doesn't. Right?

He hadn‟t been kidding about being behind on marking, and the rest of

the week passes in a blur of thesis statements and topic sentences. Soon

enough it‟s Friday night, and he finds himself on the way to Harry‟s

house, hair coiffed and trousers recently ironed. Not that anything

unusual is happening. They‟re just going to hang out, like normal, but

in another place. Definitely not a big deal.

Louis times it perfectly, pulling his car to a stop in front of Harry‟s at

exactly 8 o'clock. He‟ll reach the door a few minutes late, but not so

late as to be rude. He‟s got this down to an art. He grabs the bottle of

wine that‟s in the backseat and slides out of the car, making sure it‟s

locked before he sets off across the dimly lit car park. Harry‟s

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neighborhood looks a bit dodgy after dark, and Louis is reminded of

what it‟s like to live on a student budget

.

The lift is a bit creaky, but he makes it to Harry‟s floor in one piece.

When he knocks on the door, he hears a muffled “Come in!”

He turns the doorknob, finds it unlocked, and is all set to lecture Harry

about safety when he walks in, but then. Well.

The flat is full of soft music, emanating from an iPod deck on the

kitchen counter. Harry‟s at the stove with at least three different pots

and pans on the burners, steam making his curls even more unruly than

usual as he leans over to stir them. The kitchen is surprisingly clean,

though Louis supposes there isn‟t really room for mess—Harry wasn‟t

kidding about the place being the size of a postage stamp.

Pulling off an oven mitt, Harry turns around with a smile, and Jesus

Christ in heaven, he‟s wearing an apron. He‟s also wearing a snug

black button-up with the sleeves rolled back, though, so Louis gets

distracted from the apron pretty quickly. “Hi,” Harry says, crossing the

kitchen in two strides. He takes the wine from Louis with one hand and

pulls him into a kiss with the other.

“Hi,” Louis says, breaking the kiss. “Didn‟t realise this was going to be

such a production,” he says, nodding at the apron.

Harry quirks one eyebrow upwards. “I don‟t do anything by halves,” he

says mock-seriously.

“Fair enough,” Louis says, pulling back to take a peek at the food.

“That smells delicious, what is it?”

“Tilapia on risotto with a lemon caper sauce," Harry says, as if that's a

normal sentence. "But it's not ready yet, so get away. He shoos Louis

out of the kitchen, though Louis isn‟t quite sure what does or doesn‟t

qualify as “in the kitchen” when the whole flat is basically just one big

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room. “Actually,” Harry says, handing him back the wine along with a

corkscrew. “You open that up while I finish up in here.”

Louis starts uncorking the wine and takes his chance to wander around

the flat. There‟s not much to wander around, but Louis is fascinated.

One corner of the studio is partitioned off by a wooden screen, and he

assumes Harry‟s bed is behind it, but it‟s the rest of the flat he‟s more

interested in. The space itself is fairly sparsely decorated, with one

armchair, one rug, and one set of table and chairs as the only furniture.

All three are fairly good quality, the table solid wood, but Louis can tell

they‟re second- or third-hand, can imagine Harry finding them on the

pavement and lugging them home excitedly.

He‟s been listening idly to the music as he moseys about, and thinks he

recognizes it. “Is this the same bloke we were listening to at

Christmas?” he asks.

Harry breaks into a broad grin. “Yeah, same guy, I‟m surprised you

remember.” Louis just nods and goes back to his explorations.

The furnishings may be Spartan, but the flat feels anything but bare on

account of the walls. Almost every available inch is covered, giving the

room the air of a combination between a magpie‟s nest and a serial

killer‟s den. Louis is into it. Wall hangings, newspaper clippings, and

prints of paintings all have their place, but the most real estate is taken

up by photographs, photos of buildings, of landscapes, of animals, of

landmarks, but mostly photos of people, photos of faces. Louis doesn‟t

know if these are all friends of Harry‟s, or if some are just candids

snapped of strangers, but either way he‟s overwhelmed by the idea that

Harry has seen this many people and wanted to keep them.

He backs up to the center of the room and turns in a slow circle, taking

all of it in. Even the windows are covered, with what look like

collections of scarves and beaded shawls and one medium-sized Union

Jack in the place of normal curtains. Louis feels like he‟s in a fishbowl

of Harry‟s entire life, and keeps waiting for a feeling of suffocation that

never comes.

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“Where did you get all this stuff?” Louis asks, his eyes running over