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Louis lets out a great lungful of air and falls backwards onto the stage,

closing his eyes against the stage lights. He feels somebody flop down

on top of his stomach, and he can tell by the volume of hair brushing

against him and the faint smell of a two-paycheck bottle of Gucci

cologne that it‟s Zayn.

“Louis,” he says, grabbing a fistful of Louis‟ jumper sleeve.

“Looouuuuuiiiiiiis.”

“Zaaaaayn,” Louis says back.

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“Louis,” Zayn whines again. “Do you have any idea how good you‟ve

got it? I would kill to have somebody who looks at me the way Harry

looks at you.”

Louis feels his face go hot, but he keeps his eyes shut, smiling up into

the rafters.

“I swear to God, Louis,” Zayn goes on, rolling over dramatically so that

his face is smushed into Louis‟ chest and kicking his feet against the

stage, “I‟d give anything. Don‟t let that shit go to waste, all right?

Fucking tell him how you feel, man.”

“Mate, Zayn is being an obnoxious cunt, but I‟ve got to side with him

on this one,” Niall agrees from somewhere amid his nest of pizza

boxes. “This is getting ridiculous.”

“Thanks, man,” Zayn says. “I guess.”

And for once, Louis doesn‟t immediately recoil at the thought. Because

the thing is, things have been so good lately, and it‟s started to seem

like it might not be the absolute end of the world if he just sort of... let

himself. If he let himself fall into this, if he maybe moved things

somewhere more like relationship territory. He‟s been thinking about it

a lot lately, more than he‟d ever admit, and he‟s started to wonder if

maybe he‟s finally, finally ready to try again.

It‟s all just been theoretical up until now, just hypothetical little scenes

in his head when he‟s not being careful, but he lost all control hours

ago and there‟s nothing to stop him now. Eyes shut and sprawled out

on the stage, it all plays out in his head, anniversary dinners and Harry

with Daisy on his lap Christmas morning and himself three years from

now wearing one of Harry‟s jumpers, little snapshots of a life that he

just might be lucky enough to have. And right now, it‟s hard to

remember exactly what part of this is the part that scares him so much.

He doesn‟t know how he feels about Harry, not for sure. He hasn‟t been

anywhere close to where he needs to be to process those things long

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enough. But soon, he thinks. Maybe after the play is over and he has

some time to clear his head and figure some things out, maybe he can

talk to Harry. Maybe it could be okay. Maybe it could be amazing.

“Yeah, yeah,” Louis says. “All right. Maybe I will.”

He bites his lip, and Zayn gives up a weak, “Yaaay.”

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Despite all of Louis‟ prayers, despite his cries to the heavens and

sleepless nights and serious considerations of making an offering to

Satan, it finally arrives: tech week. One week until opening night, and

there‟s so much to do that he can‟t run more than halfway through the

list before getting a sudden urge to drink himself into a stupor. There‟s

not enough time. There is mathematically not enough time to finish

everything before the curtain has to go up. This is the show he‟s wanted

to do since he knew he wanted to put on shows, and nothing is finished,

and he has a week. It‟s a constant presence at the back of his head,

buzzing around his brain when he‟s supposed to be lecturing on

Chekhov and reminding him that he can‟t relax.

He can‟t fall into a blind panic, though, at least not in front of his cast

and crew, because teenagers can smell weakness. The second he cracks,

they‟ll all scatter, and the musical will fall apart—possibly literally in

the case of the set decoration—and he‟ll never be able to set foot in the

school ever again. And then he won‟t have a job and he‟ll have to move

back in with his mother and even Duchess will think he‟s too pathetic

to spend time with and all right maybe he needs to stop shotgunning

Red Bulls.

He has to end the first dress rehearsal on Monday at nine, sending the

kids home, but he stays late organizing costumes and fixing prop

furniture that‟s one misplaced kick away from collapsing into a heap.

Harry stays with him, and to be honest he‟s not much actual help, but

his voice is soothing and keeps Louis from ripping out his own hair, so

he‟s useful even if he occasionally gets in the way.

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Two hours pass, and Louis is seriously considering pulling an all-

nighter when he feels arms wrap around him from behind. “You‟re

done for the night,” Harry rumbles into the back of his neck.

“Am not,” Louis says, squirming a little but finding Harry‟s arms

unyielding. “I‟m fine, Haz, let go.”

“You‟re not fine,” Harry says, squeezing tighter. “You were just

mumbling to yourself about outlawing poodles.”

“Fucking poodle skirts,” Louis growls. “Make no sense. Terrible

animal. Let go of me.”

Unfortunately, Harry doesn‟t seem to follow his logic, as his response

is to lift Louis off the ground and start carrying him out of the

backstage area and into the theatre. “You‟re definitely going home.”

“Put me down, you ruffian!” Louis yells, flailing ineffectively.

Normally he only has lovely things to say about Harry‟s arms, but this

is not one of those times. The futility of his situation becomes clear,

and he finally gives up, going limp and pliant. “Okay, Styles, you win.

If I promise to leave in fifteen minutes, will you let go of me and let me

close up before you drag me out of here like a caveman?”

Harry sets him down on his feet. “I‟m starting a timer now. Fifteen

minutes exactly, or next time I‟m knocking you out first.”

So that‟s how Louis finds himself leaving school with not nearly

enough done on Monday night, feeling like he should panic but not

quite being able to fight through the fog of his exhaustion long enough

to feel much of anything at all. He and Harry walk through the carpark

together, but when he starts to head towards his own car Harry grabs

him by the wrist.

“Not a chance,” he says, pulling him away. “There‟s no way I‟m letting

you drive when you‟re like this. You can crash at mine.”

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“But—” Louis says, trying to remember how to use words in order to

articulate all of the things that are wrong with this. “What about—”

“We‟ll get up early tomorrow,” Harry says, pulling Louis towards his

car. “I‟ll drive you to yours, you can change and feed Duchess, it‟ll be

fine.” He lets go of Louis long enough to open his passenger side door.

“Get in the car.”

And Louis doesn‟t know if it‟s because he likes the attention or because

he‟s too bone-tired to fight back or because Harry might actually have a

point, but he gets in the car and lets Harry take him home.

Harry makes him an omelette and prods him into the shower and

doesn‟t complain when Louis shamelessly steals all the blankets in the

middle of the night, and Louis honestly doesn‟t have the energy to

worry about what it means that he‟s falling asleep in Harry‟s bed

wearing a pair of Harry‟s boxers with Harry‟s head on his chest. He‟s

working himself to death, and if leaning on Harry means that he doesn‟t

actually die, well, that‟s better than the alternative, right? Plus, he likes

it, and it‟s nice, so fuck everything else, honestly.

So this becomes part of tech week routine, too. Louis works as long as

he can get away with before Harry takes him home to his flat. Harry‟s

place is so small that Louis should get bored within five minutes,

especially since he barely has the energy for goodnight kisses let alone

for sex, but somehow it works. Harry cooks something simple and they

eat together quietly, maybe kicking each other under the table, and then

they curl up in Harry‟s bed—well, on his mattress—and pull up

something on his laptop to watch until they fall asleep.

And then it‟s the morning and coffee and frantic driving and Louis

running into his flat for ten minutes to put on clean clothes and pacify

his cat while Harry sits with the car idling outside. Harry lives closer to

the school anyway, and he drops him off early enough that nobody‟s

around to notice their arrangement, and it works.

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If Louis is honest, it‟s nice to have a routine even just for a couple of

days, to not have to think about what he‟s doing for a few hours out of

the day, even if he‟s hideously behind on his marking and his car has

been sitting in the school carpark for days. Rehearsal is still a

nightmare even with a cast that mostly knows what they‟re doing, a

constant barrage of questions he either doesn‟t know how to answer or

shouldn‟t have to, and he deserves not to be losing his mind every

single waking moment of the day.

And truth be told, it‟s kind of nice to hang out with Harry again and

just be mates. Sure, sometimes Louis thanks him for dinner with a kiss,

or maybe Harry will give him a smack on the arse when he gets out of

bed, but it‟s mostly the two of them just… being together. They shoot

the shit and watch funny videos of cats and argue about whose radio

station to listen to in the car, and it‟s good. It‟s nice, that the sex hasn‟t

ruined the friendship. Thing. Whatever it is. Louis‟ kind of surprised,

when he thinks about it, but he‟s glad. That doesn‟t mean he isn‟t

planning on fucking Harry‟s brains out the second the show is done, of

course, but it‟s still cool that sex isn‟t all they know how to do. Their

relationship, whatever it is between them—it‟s not just a sex thing.

Given the sappy, speculative thoughts that have been running through

his brain lately, that‟s a very good thing.

It‟s like Harry‟s flat is insulated from all the static of worry that buzzes

in his head, like it‟s a safe place, just for them. Louis doesn‟t realise

how accustomed he‟d gotten to it—after only three days, Jesus Christ—

until Wednesday night, when Harry gets a call on his mobile while

Louis is doing the dishes.

Harry‟s face lights up when he looks at the screen, and he leaves off

from drying a bowl to answer it, mouthing an apology at Louis.

“Claire!” he says down the line, sounding thrilled. “What time of night

do you call this, then?”

Louis keeps working on the dishes, trying and failing not to eavesdrop.

From what he can tell, Claire is a friend from uni, another photography

student if Harry‟s complaints about their module today are anything to

go by. “Like, I know critique is supposed to be brutal, right, but today

was ridiculous. I felt so bad for Gary, he looked like he was going to

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cry,” Harry says, walking in slow circles around the flat. That‟s the last

thing he says that Louis really understands for a while, as Harry falls

into a string of photography jargon that he can‟t make heads or tails of.