Archive of Our Own

“...and thank you for having us, New - York - City!”

Harry bows low, a shit-eating grin plastered on his face as he feels his eardrums vibrate when the crowd roars and Josh crashes down on the drums one last time. He turns to his right and presses a messy kiss to Liam’s cheek, his guitar digging into them both, strings still warm against his damp T-shirt, and then blows a kiss to the people who are still cheering them on, their voices drowned out by the bass the DJ has playing. Gripping each other tight - Liam’s shaking like he always is after a good gig and he’ll keep on shaking until he’s had a drink in him - they slip through the curtains backstage, skin buzzing, mouths clapped shut. It’s only when Niall jumps on them, tank top abandoned and hair a botched bleach job mess, that they all start yelling in unison, the post-show high rendering them incoherent.

“Shots!” Josh yells from somewhere on top of Harry and Niall decides a piggyback ride is the best way to get to the bar. Harry’s laughing at the sight - Josh might be the smallest person he’s ever met - when Liam squeezes his shoulder.

“We did it, Hazza.”

“Yeah, we did! C’mon, I think we deserve a drink, now.” At that, Liam frowns at him, shaking his head very slowly. Harry groans.

“Liam.”

“It’s over-21 and you promised.”

“I - fine, yeah, I did. But d’you really want me to, like, experience our first New York gig sober? They’re not gonna say no to the band.” Harry bats his eyelashes and feels his dimples embed themselves into his cheeks but Liam’s known him so long he’s probably immune by now.

“Not here, Haz.” Liam ruffles his hair and follows Josh and Niall to the bar, yelling ‘shots!’ somewhat more weakly than they did. Harry pouts to absolutely no one; it’s only a month until his twenty-first and no one is going to card him in here and, really, Liam is just determined to spoil his fun. Though, on second thought, it might be just as fun to charm his way through other clubbers’ drinks just to see Liam narrow his eyes at him. He smiles to himself; always look on the bright side, right?

He grabs a towel from their pseudo-dressing room (it’s actually really not; but Niall had claimed the space and dumped all his shit around there and he was the one who sweet-talked the club manager to get them to play, so, it worked out) and makes his way to the backdoor, still dizzy.  His hair is stuck with sweat to his forehead and he thinks belatedly about grabbing a coat as he steps outside. He shivers once, used to the almost permanent eighty degrees of LA; he’s a still a Northern lad at heart though and the brief chill settling over New York is almost comforting.

There’s already a cluster of people around, sharing a smoke and debating the rest of the night. He smiles wide when a couple of girls come up to him and ask for a picture, knocking their heads together and making a funny face at the flash. It’s still incredibly weird to be recognised, even after a gig they just headlined; their EP’s only just starting to get buzz and now they’re playing in the biggest club in fucking Manhattan. He pinches himself every time someone mentions they like a song; it still sounds unreal.

“I’ve already got an autograph, mate, but I wouldn’t say no to a photo.”

It’s mostly the accent that makes him pause and the goosebumps that creep up his spine could probably be blamed on the weather and his choice to go outside in a T-shirt in January. But it still takes him a moment to place the voice, fingers tapping against his palm nervously as he turns around, eyes searching. There are two guys leaning against the wall where he’s standing, both bundled up against the cold, one blowing smoke rings into the dark. But Harry isn’t looking at him (though he does note he’s not half bad to look at); he’s pretty mesmerised by the second figure who’s smiling at him through a crinkly eyed face he’d remember anywhere. He opens his mouth uselessly for a couple of seconds, until his brain catches up with him and he feels a little winded.

“Louis?”

“At your service.” Louis tips an imaginary hat at him and winks, before turning to his friend. “See, man. I told you I’m unforgettable. Even to rockstars.”

“Never said you were forgettable, Lou,” the smoker replies, throwing an easy arm over Louis’ shoulders and chuckling. It’s a stupid reflex and Harry knows it, but his eyebrows knit together at the gesture, his fingers balling into fists before he shakes himself and smiles back at them both. Get a grip, Styles.

“Are you Zayn?” he asks, offering a hand for Zayn to shake, not missing the glint in Louis’ eyes at his words.

Zayn’s eyebrows have shot up under his hair. “I - Yeah, bro, ‘m Zayn. How did you -?”

“Good memory,” Harry shrugs, squeezing maybe a little more than is necessary, though Zayn doesn’t seem to notice. He notes the beginning of a sleeve where his shirt’s rucked up around his wrist and the moment of madness - not jealousy, of course it’s not jealousy - passes; he’s always had an odd affection for anyone who shares his passion for tattoos. Idiot camaraderie, Niall calls it but it’s always fond and Harry never minds.

“I may have mentioned you a couple of times. You know you’re my favourite subject, Malik.” Louis’ still smiling at Harry as he pats Zayn’s cheeks all familiar.

“Fuck off,” Zayn shrugs him off with a laugh, flicking his fag to the ground; it makes a hissing noise as he steps on it. “But that’s, like, impressive. It’s been - what - three years?”

“Two,” Harry and Louis both reply and their eyes meet again and it’s - not uncomfortable - but odd. They both look at their feet and Harry feels his face turn a soft shade of pink. He feels really young all of a sudden; eighteen and awkward and wide eyed as he walks through the terminal at LAX. It’s never been a bad feeling though, that. He dares himself to look up and they’re both smiling, Louis trying to keep his expression in check but failing miserably; it makes the muscles in Harry’s jaw hurt as he makes full use of his dimples.

Zayn whistles. “How fucking weird is this then?”

“Weird,” Harry agrees, half laughing, his eyes never wavering from Louis. There’s something in his chest that’s making him scared Louis will disappear if he blinks a second too long. “What - what are you doing here?”

“New York? We’ve been road tripping around America for about, what, a month?” Zayn turns to Louis who blinks and nods, finally breaking away from Harry’s gaze.

“Yeah, ‘bout a month. Totally fucking skint now, though.” 

Zayn laughs. “Good thing we booked our flight for tomorrow already.” 

Harry feels his breath catch a little in his chest. “I - tomorrow? You’re leaving tomorrow?” 

Zayn’s looking between them, biting his lower lip. Louis just nods, a little blank. “Yeah, you know. Real life calls and. Yeah.” 

There’s a pause then, the only sounds coming from inside, the crowd singing along to some Top 40 remix that sounds like Niall’s hit the decks. Zayn clears his throat. 

“The - uh - the show was sick, mate. Like, really fucking good. Louis mentioned but - yeah.” 

“Cheers, man. I - yeah, we. It’s like our big break, I think? It’s amazing. And, like, here, in New York, right? Doesn’t...it doesn’t get much better than this.” 

Louis smiles at him at that, the corners of his mouth quirking up slightly.  

“Said you’d make it, curly.” 

Harry feels light as a feather. “Yeah. You did. My lucky charm.” 

Louis reaches out and tugs at a stray curl. “Damn straight. Madison Square Garden next.” 

Harry giggles and leans his head against Louis’ hand. “Let’s not go that far.” 

“Trust me, Haz. I know these things.” 

Harry’s smile might be close to splitting his face.  

Zayn’s eyes are flicking between them, a slightly smug grin on his face. “I - uh - I’m gonna head back in, I think, I love this one. Lou, are you...?” 

Louis tears his eyes away from Harry. “Um, I don’t -” He looks back at Harry, a bit panicked. 

Harry makes up his mind in a flash. He turns to Zayn. “When you go in, just tell the guys sidestage that you’re with the Fruit Ninja crew. They’ll let you get with the band. Keep you entertained till whenever. Niall’s never boring.” 

Zayn frowns at him, eyebrows knitted together. “Fruit ninja? Are you taking the piss, man?” 

Harry laughs and it catches slightly in his throat, nerves already making it a little difficult to take a deep breath; he feels like he did almost two hours ago, palms sweaty, fingers gripping the microphone tight, waiting for the stage to be lit and for Niall to scratch the opening notes on his guitar. Half fear, half excitement, he’s not sure which is keeping him from completely losing it. “Ha. Yeah. Um. You’d think a band would be cooler but, um, the only thing we do with our free time is play that stupid game. So. It fits.” 

Zayn is looking at him completely perplexed but then his face pulls itself into a small smile, as though he’s not quite sure what to make of him. Still, Harry doesn’t miss the slight nod in Louis’ direction before he crowds into him and whispers something into his ear as they hug. When he’s pushed back by a Louis that’s a bit more pink around the ears than the weather allows, he punches Harry lightly on the shoulder, something like approval lining his face. “Fruit Ninja crew?” 

“Fruit Ninja crew.” Harry nods, shutting his eyes slowly in assent. They watch Zayn disappear into the club, a new cigarette already slipping between his lips like he doesn’t give a shit whether he’s allowed to or not; Harry wonders how the whole world is apparently infinitely cooler than him and yet he’s the frontman of a fucking indie band. Niall says he and Josh are cool enough for the lot of them, Liam and Harry are just there to have pretty little faces; he’s starting to wonder why he’s still best mates with someone who insults him on a regular basis. But then, it’s Niall; him insulting you is basically his way of proclaiming his undying devotion. 

He blinks the rather random train of thought away when he realises they’ve been standing in silence for what is probably a moment too long and he braces himself - physically braces himself, breathing in through his nose and trying desperately hard to slow down his heart rate because this is ridiculous - before turning around to face Louis. 

He lets himself look properly now; take in the differences, note every inch that’s different from the pictures he remembers taking two years ago in a frost-covered Paris. He’s leaner now, holds himself upright like he fits better, the grey knitted jumper stretched at his shoulders and falling over the rest of him. His jeans are even skinnier than Harry’s (which is a feat in and of itself), framing the length of his body and Harry’s not enough of a gentleman to stop himself from trying to take a proper look at him from behind. If there’s one thing he remembers about Louis - and it was never just one thing, if he’s being honest - it’s that he has a spectacular bum. 

But his eyes are still a sparkling blue and his hair is still light and feathery and stuck at odd ends on top of his head and he still looks like he could fit comfortably under Harry’s chin, their arms locked together and staring at the big, cold expanse of the Seine underneath them. He gives his head a little shake and focuses, like a normal person this time, and finds Louis smiling, the corner of lips raised a little crookedly. 

“Like what you see, Styles?” He sounds far too pleased with himself for this to ever be awkward. This is Louis, Louis who he met and could have sworn he’d known for years instead of hours and it might have been awkward for any other person in the entire world, but not them, of course it couldn’t be for them. 

“Haven’t checked everything’s in order yet, to be fair,” Harry quips, a little daring, cocking his head to the side pointedly. Louis seems to catch on pretty quick and his grin turns huge. He makes a show of spinning around in the middle of the street and Harry would probably be taking note of how graceful he is if it weren’t for proving his previous point right now. Exactly as he remembered it. Spectacular. 

“All present and accounted for?” 

“Even better,” Harry laughs and it still amazes him how easy it is. They’re both looking at each other softly and he can’t even imagine what must be going on in anyone’s head who’s watching this weird exchange. “Hi, Louis,” he says finally, taking a tiny step closer, just because he can. 

“Hi, Haz,” Louis mutters back, just as silly and he’s not really sure who takes the final plunge but they’re in each other’s space after that and Harry can’t help the sigh that escapes his lips as he wraps his arms around Louis’ frame. He smells of cold and beer and something that flits at the edge of his tongue but he can’t quite grasp it. It’s nice though, whatever it is, and he forgets about it anyway because Louis is poking at his ribs, making crowing noises happily. 

“Still ticklish, then!” 

“Things don’t change that - ha! - much. Stop." 

“Shan’t.” They’ve pulled apart now but Louis’ hands are still digging into Harry’s hip so maybe he can deal with being ticklish for a little longer. He catches Louis’ offending wrists in each hand and tugs a little; Louis doesn’t seem terribly put off by it. 

“Be nice now, Louis.” 

“Being nice is very overrated, Harry. I don’t recommend it.” They meet each other’s eyes again and, for a second, Harry thinks they might have stepped into territory they’re not quite ready for when Louis suddenly bursts into laughter and Harry can’t help but tag along. Two years ago sounds like an awfully long time but, right now, he could’ve sworn he’d been walking with Louis through Paris just yesterday. Ridiculous. 

“So, rockstar,” - and it sends a thrill through his body even now, even just Louis being smart, to hear those words and think someone’s proud of me - “what do we do now? Now that you’ve got me all alone?” 

“I.” He honest to god has no idea how to answer that, has no idea what went on in his head when he sent Zayn backstage; the only thing he’s certain of is that Louis’ here and he’s only got a few hours (again) and there’s really no excuse in the universe that would make him waste them. So he smiles, squeezes Louis’ wrists just once more to be completely sure he’s there in the flesh, then lets go - reluctantly but still. “Have you eaten? I’m starving. There’s nothing like a gig to make me fancy a cheeseburger or something.” His stomach is helpful enough to agree with him. 

Louis nods easily. “Lead the way, American boy,” he singsongs. 

Harry laughs because god knows that isn’t true but walks ahead anyway, keenly aware of the echoing footsteps by his side. It’s dark as they head down Lafayette, the usual downtown traffic coming to a stop because of the white scenery. 

“Er, Harry? You’re not wearing a coat.” 

“Oh, crap - I,” Harry stops and swerves, almost hitting Louis and then meets his eyes, blue and slightly concerned. He really doesn’t have the time for this; Louis is worth getting a cold over. “You know what - it’s - uh - it’s fine, I’m fine, I can barely, like, feel it.” 

“It’s snowing, Harry. I’m wearing socks.” 

Harry smiles at his tone and cocks his head, confused. “Is that not - uh - normal?” 

“I never wear socks.” He’s actually pouting, as though he’s never experienced anything more frustrating in his life. It’s stupid how much that revelation is making Harry’s stomach do the flips.  

“You never - ?” 

Louis turns serious immediately. “Harold, if there’s one thing anyone ever needs to know about me, is that I categorically, unfalteringly, absolutely never. wear. socks.” 

“That seems, um,  unhygienic?” 

“Propaganda by sock manufacturers.” 

“Is it.” 

“Sad but true. Foot oppression. Capitalist sock scum. Or something. I’m not up to date with my commie handbook. Anyway, we weren’t talking about me - you’re gonna freeze to death.” 

“I’m fine, really.” And he is; he can barely feel the chill now. Though that might be because his entire upper body has gone numb. 

“I - you’re - oh, for god’s sake,” and Louis’ shrugging out of his jacket with a pained sort of expression on his face that makes Harry want to laugh, “take it.” 

“I didn’t mean -” 

“Just take it, Jesus, I’m used to the cold. You’ve still got a tan. Take it, Harold.” 

“You’re bossy,” Harry says, attempting a scowl but Louis’ jacket is blessedly warm and it smells faintly of aftershave and Harry maybe just wants to wear it forever. 

“Get used to it,” Louis mumbles, pulling his sleeves over his hands. “And, like, I owe you.” 

“For what?” Harry asks incredulously, walking backwards in front of Louis. 

“I wore the fuck out of your coat, you know. Still have it somewhere, I think. Back home. Probably in a spare box or something.” He shrugs, looks at the road, nonchalant and Harry bites his lower lip to stop himself from grinning because he can tell Louis’ lying. 

“You kept it,” he says instead, face carefully arranged. Louis just hums and looks like he sighs with relief when Harry’s phone rings. 

“Better answer that, sounds important.” He fixes his fringe primly, raising his eyebrows as if to make a point. 

Harry nods slowly, biting back both lips to keep the corners of his mouth in check and slips his phone out one-handed, pulling Louis to a halt. He grins at the name lit up across the screen. He’s got an inkling he knows what this might be about. 

“It’s for you,” he says mildly, hitting answer and handing the phone to Louis. He looks surprised but he takes it in his stride, bringing it to his ear and smiling sweetly at no one. 

“Hello? This is Louis sp-” 

He doesn’t manage to get any further than than before a string of what Harry’s pretty sure are swear words interrupt him in a tinny Irish accent. Louis holds the phone at a distance and looks alarmed, turning to Harry as he mouths Niall? Harry nods eagerly, pleased with himself for no reason, and watches as Louis tries to make headway in the conversation, though he knows from experience that it’s near impossible when Niall is drunk and raving. Instead, he just watches him, mouth opening every so often trying to get a word in, and lifts his hand to dust off the snow that’s landed on his hair. Louis looks up, distracted at that, and mouths ‘what are you -’, then shakes his head and reaches up to pull Harry’s hand away. He doesn’t let go. 

“- well, I would have said hello if I’d have - no, I wasn’t too busy gawking at - excuuuuuse me if I didn’t - of course, I - yeah, you don’t forget getting attacked by cuddly Irish strangers in the middle of Par-  ‘m gonna have a word with - uh, hi, Zayn. Sorry. No, you can’t sing, mate, whatever the hell Niall says. Doing karaoke every Tuesday doesn’t make you Drake. Force of will can only do so much. Are you drunk, Malik? Don’t go moaning to - Niall, I was talking -” 

Harry’s having a hard time keeping a straight face, listening in on half a conversation that seems to be spiralling rapidly out of control. Louis sticks out his tongue and uses his hand to pull Harry closer to the phone; he’s not about to complain any time soon. 

“ - oh, ‘ang on, man, Liam wants a word. Payno! You’re my favourite, you know, more than that curly bast-” 

“Horan, I heard that -” 

Louis chuckles and swats Harry’s face. God. 

“Erm, hello? Louis?” 

“Hi, Liam. I don’t believe we’ve met.” 

“We haven’t actually -” 

“He knows that, mate,” Harry decides to interject, because Liam can be terribly formal when he’s nervous. 

“Right. Obviously. Anyway. I just wanted to say thanks, really, that’s all.” 

Louis’ frowning, eyebrows knit close together. “Er - sure? Not that I know why you’re thanking me but far be it from me to ignore praise...” 

‘It’s actually about Ha-” 

“Right, thank you, Liam, gotta go now, no signal, bye!” Harry ends the call a little hysterically, swiping the phone from Louis’ ear as fast as he can and then staring very determinedly at the traffic, pretending to search for something. He can feel Louis’ eyes boring into him. “What.” He’s not looking at him, the blush on his cheeks already making him feel warm. 

“You know exactly what, Harry Styles. And I hope it’s as embarrassing as I imagine it is.” 

“It’s really not. C’mon, this way.” He grips Louis’ hand blindly and crosses the road, zigzagging through parked cars and pissed off drivers. 

“You are so not getting out of this, Styles. I have means and ways, you know.” Louis spins a finger in front of Harry’s face threateningly; Harry pretends to bite it. 

“We’ll see. Now, come on, I’m ‘ungry.” 

They’re both pink with cold when they get to the bar, Louis’ teeth chattering obnoxiously as he hangs from Harry’s neck. They get a wink from the barwoman - Harry’s almost a regular now, Ed’s brought him here enough times - and make their way through the Thursday night crowd until they find a corner table near the jukebox. Louis slides in, keen eyes roaming around the place. “This is...nice. Quaint.” 

“Quaint?” Harry laughs. “I guess it’s quaint.” 

Louis admonishes him with a finger. “You just had to go find the poshest beer joint in New York, didn’t you?” 

“It’s not - I didn’t pick it because it’s posh!” Harry splutters indignantly. 

“So you admit it’s posh? Did you pick it to impress me?” Louis looks entirely too happy with the trap he’s set. Harry bites his cheek. 

“I... Maybe.” 

“Ha! Good, I like when people try to impress me. It never works.” 

“Not even this time?” 

“A+, for effort. But I’ll reserve judgement. So, what are we having?” 

Harry shakes his head, smiling. “You’re, like, impossible, you know.” 

“I know,” Louis matches his grin, leafing through the menu and waving the server to their table. “Beer? Or - wait. Are you still a baby, Styles?” 

Harry blushes. “I am not-” 

“Oh, god, you so are!” Louis claps his hands in what looks like evil delight. “D’you want a coke? Or, they call it a soda here, right? D’you want a diet soda, Hazza?” 

Harry kicks him playfully under the table and Louis locks his ankle between his legs, fond expression on his face.  

“They’ll serve me here, you twat.” 

“Oh, really?” 

Harry tries not to look too proud as he plays with a coaster. “It’s the accent. Does wonders.” 

“What can I get you boys?” They both smile indulgently at the waitress and Harry can’t help but notice the extra englishness Louis adds to his order. 

“We might just get a free drink after that display,” Harry mutters, impressed. 

“Would be disappointed if we didn’t. Is that a pool table?” 

“You have the attention span of a five year old.” Harry rests his chin on his intertwined fingers and looks up at Louis; he seems to lose his words for a moment. Score. It’s nice that he’s not the only one repeatedly blushing. 

“And yet,” Louis recovers, flicking a finger against Harry’s forehead, much more softly than he deserves, “I’m not the one scared of being carded in a bar.” 

“I’m not scared. And that’s a shufflepuck table actually.” 

Louis frowns. “You’re saying words that I don’t understand. English, please.” 

Harry giggles. “It’s, like, table hockey, I guess. But not really. I dunno, I’m terrible at it.” 

“I still don’t understand. But I’m going to play. C’mon, cheerleader.” He gets up, pulling up his sleeves and looking like he means business. It’s kind of hot; Harry shakes his head. Absolutely not the time. 

They crowd around the already occupied table and Louis stands in the corner, eyes narrowed, watching the game intently. Harry hooks his chin over his shoulder, heaving out a sigh. Louis raises a hand, rubbing a circle absentmindedly against Harry’s hair. “Bit more enthusiasm, curly. Can’t win without support.” 

“Go, Louis!” Harry mumbles out weakly; the hair-petting is sort of distracting. 

Louis snorts. “Pathetic. Anyway,” he moves forward and Harry is left groaning at the lack of anything comfy to lean on, “how does a bit of competition sound, lads?” 

Harry’s fully prepared to go the consolation route; a beer in his hand, a basket full of homemade chips, a very eager shoulder for Louis to lean on when he loses. Any excuse to get to touch him a bit more, if Harry’s being honest with himself. The thing is, though, Louis seems determined to ruin that course of action. Because he’s actually really fucking good. Harry resists pouting at all costs. It’s after the fifth - fifth! - game that he decides more drastic measures should be taken - because Louis is paying next to no attention to him and that’s just not on. He sneaks up behind him and breathes closer to his mouth than his ear; he can feel Louis shiver against him. 

“Think you’ve humiliated them enough, Lou? Wanna bail?” 

“I - yeah, uh - alright.” He turns around on the spot, looking a bit flustered when he finds Harry almost plastered behind him; Harry’s not that bothered. “Let’s move then.” 

A blast of cold air hits them both when they let the door swing behind them and they both lean closer to each other. “Bit nippy,” Louis comments, breathing out until there’s haze of smoke in front of him. 

“I could -” Harry makes as if to shrug the coat off but Louis shakes his head. 

“Nah. Let’s walk. Get my blood flowing.” 

They start walking aimlessly up 3rd, walking through jammed traffic, cars steamed up and windows down for the occasional frustrated driver to smoke. Harry lets Louis lead the way mostly, half hoping they’ll get lost in the streets. No luck there though; Louis turns a corner and heads for the park gates ahead, kicking snow every so often behind him until Harry gives in and throws a snowball back. 

“I assume that’s not Central Park. It was a lot bigger this morning.” 

“Nah. It’s Gramercy. It’s a private park. We’re not allow- Louis! Lou! Did you hear what I just -” 

“Loud and clear, love, loud and clear,” Louis shouts from where he’s perched on the gates, trying to find his footing enough so he can swing his legs on the other side. Harry has one hand uselessly ruffling his hair, lower lip anxiously being bitten to death. 

“I - did you - it’s private, Lou, they - what if there are cameras?” He sounds a little hysterical, he knows, but he can’t help it. He can’t help very much where Louis is concerned. 

“Cameras? What are you on about, Styles, it’s a park.” 

“It’s America,” Harry hisses. Louis pauses for a moment, considering. 

“Fair point,” he concedes. And then he jumps. “But it’s done now. Your turn!” He smiles, eyes crinkled, through the bars. Harry really wishes he had stronger willpower. 

Bracing himself - he was never any good at climbing, you have to have some sort of limb coordination for that - he grabs the gates as tight as he can, his feet slipping on the icy metal. It takes him awhile - “I’m gonna fall asleep, Harry,” Louis yells from the safety of the ground - but finally he breathes in shakily and curls up in anticipation of falling. It doesn’t hurt as much as he thought it would -  the snow surprisingly softens the blow - and then Louis is threading a hand through his hair, beaming. 

“Not bad, love. You’ve got snowflakes in your hair,” he adds, almost as an afterthought as he pulls Harry up. He reaches up to dust the snow, then draws his hand back, head tilted to the side. “No, suits you. I like it.” 

Harry looks at his feet, letting his hair drop in front of his face, feeling himself go red. Louis’ fingers dance across his cheek. “Chin up, Haz. Let’s explore.” 

“Big fan of Julia Roberts, are you?” Harry says conversationally as they start walking through the park, his blush sufficiently controlled. Louis doesn’t look at him but Harry can see the grin spread out on his face. 

“More of a Meg Ryan kind of guy, to be honest.” 

“Uh huh. How long have you been wanting to break into a park then?” 

“A while,” Louis laughs, sneaking a glance at Harry and winking. “Had to find a mumbling posh knob to break in with me, first.” 

“Whoops-a-daisy,” Harry quips, letting his hand knock against Louis’; it doesn’t take long for their fingers to end up tangled together. 

The park’s not big enough to walk around really. There’s too much snow melting into the ground and the statue in the middle of it is not nearly as interesting as they thought - “I think he might have killed Abraham Lincoln.” “Why would they have a statue of someone who killed a President.” “I don’t know, Harry, why do Americans do anything?” - so they end up sprawled over one of the benches in the park that’s been shielded from the weather. Harry doesn’t even question it when Louis lies down, head on Harry’s lap. They sit in silence for a bit, Harry’s head tipped back watching the blinking lights from nearby buildings. 

“Pretty,” Louis mutters, words slow like he’s falling asleep. 

“New York? Mhmm.” He catches Louis’ eye and smiles at the slight frown on his face. Louis takes a shuddering breath. 

“Yeah. Yeah, New York.” He pauses, then giggles as if a thought strikes him. “Hey, Haz? Name?” 

Harry lets out a guffaw, then claps a hand over his mouth, a little shocked at the noise. “Blast from the past, that.” 

“It was fun the first time. Indulge me?” 

Anything, Harry stops himself from saying. He might a bit on the tipsy side. He clears his throat. “Harry Edward Styles.” 

“Cor, you get posher by the minute.” 

“Sod off. Your turn.” 

“Louis William Tomlinson.” 

“What. That’s way posher.” 

“Not true. Way more King Edwards than King Williams.” 

“That’s how we measure poshness? By royalty?” 

“Yes,” Louis says primly, eyes heavier every time Harry brushes his fingers through his hair. “So. Niall.” 

“That’s not a question.”

“It was implied, Harold.” 

Harry sighs happily and slides down further to get more comfortable. “Niall. It’s his doing, you know. Getting us the gig here. Getting us most gigs, to be honest. He’s kind of brilliant.” His hand freezes as he thinks about what he’s going to say now because, well, it still hurts a bit. “He...he kept in touch. After - after Paris.” Louis doesn’t move, doesn’t say anything and Harry doesn’t want to look down at the expression on his face. “And about, like, a year and a half ago? He shows up in LA. No luggage, nothing, just a guitar. And then, all of a sudden, he books us a gig in Troubadour which is, like, insanely huge and we’re opening for Ed fucking Sheeran.” 

“Shit,” Louis whispers but it’s subdued and Harry’s still not brave enough to look at him. 

“Yeah,” he chuckles. “That’s what I said. But we weren’t ready or good enough or whatever and it just clicked when Niall came on stage with us? It just - I dunno - felt right. And, since then...” He makes a gesture with his hand, not quite sure what he means. 

“Lucky we met him in Paris.” 

“Yeah. Yeah, lucky.” It’s not snowing anymore. He steels himself before he opens his mouth again. “How - how did you find m- us?” 

“Luck, again, I s’pose. Friends heard about your gig, so we, you know, thought we’d check it out.” 

“Oh,” Harry says, and it’s hard not to feel disappointed. Stupid. Stupidstupidstupid. 

“I’ve got a good one,” Louis crows, pulling at a curl in Harry’s fringe and Harry moves his head finally, the corners of his mouth upturned. It doesn’t really matter how Louis got here, really. He’s here. “What Liam blabbed about. Spill.” 

“Oh, god,” Harry groans. Louis pokes him in the ribs and he fidgets around, ticklish. “Stop, fine, stop!” 

“Tell me!” 

“It’s...it’s just. Ugh, this is embarassing.” 

“Harold.” 

“Look, why don’t you...check out our EP? That...that explains it, pretty much.” His face might actually be ruby red. 

“Hmm.” Louis sounds unimpressed. “Letting you off the hook purely because you look like you might be having a heart attack.” 

“Does that mean I still get to ask a question?” 

Louis hums. “Just because you’re cute. Only one though, my arse is starting to freeze, I think.” 

Harry pulls his hand away from Louis’ hair, pressing his fingers together nervously. He shouldn’t really, there’s some sort of balance that needs to be kept but still. It’s been eating at him for two years now. 

“Haz?” Louis’ voice is hesitant. 

“Why didn’t you write? Or email, whatever. You never, you never did.” It comes out all rushed, puffs of air with every word. Louis tenses on his lap and then sits up, not looking at Harry. 

“I...” 

“You don’t have to - I just - I’ve been wondering.” Pathetic. 

“There - I - there was no point, Harry. We’re an ocean away. It’d be - it’d be stupid.” 

And that hurts. “Stupid? Really? Stupid?” He’s shouting, all of a sudden, and he realises he’s standing up, towering over Louis. “Talking to me would be stupid? What the - we weren’t doing long-distance, for god’s sake!” 

“There was no point, Harry! We were never gonna see each other again!” 

“Well, that’s not fucking true -” 

“Are you serious? It was fun, we had fun, it was a nice memory but jesus! I wasn’t about to fucking wait for you, was I?” 

“I never asked -” 

“I forgot about it, Harry -” 

“You -” He feels himself deflating suddenly, all the fight drained out of him. “Wow, OK.” 

“Harry -” It’s his tone that makes Harry push back; Louis sounds like he’s talking to a wounded animal. 

“No, you’re right. It was stupid.” 

Louis is standing now and it feels like the Atlantic is back between them, the way they’re holding themselves. For the first time, Harry doesn’t want to look at him anymore; there are too many hard lines in that face and he really, really doesn’t want to see that. “We should - we should go.” 

“Yeah,” Louis mutters and he’s already walking ahead, hands in his pockets. Harry follows at a safe distance. They climb over the gates without talking and keep trudging through the melting snow. Once they get to Park Avenue, it’s suddenly all noise and it feels like a reality check, like they were in a bubble and it’s suddenly burst. 

“I - I think I’m gonna grab a cab. Head back to the hotel.” Louis is talking at the traffic, his words oddly formal to Harry’s ears. 

“Right,” Harry coughs out. He doesn’t sneak a glance, he just stares resolutely at his shoes. “I’ll get the cab.” 

“No, it’s - it’s fine.” 

Harry ignores him, stepping onto the road and flagging down a yellow taxi. The cab driver smiles at him; Harry snorts. Just his luck to find the only polite cab driver in New York right now. 

“Thanks,” Louis mutters, opening the backseat door. He pauses before he goes in but Harry doesn’t get his hopes up; what’s the point. “I - I’ll -” 

“Bye, Louis. Safe flight.” There’s no need for promises that won’t be kept. 

Louis nods, his back still turned. “Good luck, Haz.” He slips in then, cold making the window fog up as Harry lifts his head. Figures he wouldn’t even get a proper goodbye. The cab pulls out and drives through traffic and Harry turns straight away, kicking at the curb. 

He doesn’t want to go home and the subway nearby's closed in any case. Sighing and pushing his fringe from his eyes, he starts to walk. 

haz were r u

harryyyyyyyyyy

answer ur bloody phone h

pls?? xx 

His phone rings for about the millionth time and it’s more out of frustration than anything else that makes him pull it out of his pocket and stare at Niall’s name flashing on the screen. He really doesn’t want to answer. But then, he really doesn’t want to worry Niall, either. 

“Get it together, Styles,” he mumbles to himself, typing a response. 

on broadway. walking.

im fine x 

broadways rl fuckn big harry. WHERE. 

It’s a fair point. He’s sort of been moving ahead, not really paying attention where he’s going - which is stupid, on second thought, but hey. He glances up, recognising a Capitol One bank on his right and hits reply again. Niall’s drunk enough that he might send a taxi Harry’s way; maybe it’s not such a bad idea now. Ending up in Times Square in the early hours of the morning, alone, is just depressing. 

corner of 35th :) xx 

Niall can never resist a smiley face. 

It’s started to snow again, of all things, so he takes shelter under a closed Pret, the scaffolding blocking the wind. There’s a lot of traffic still about for four in the morning on a Friday; cabs, snowed up cars, even a bloody limo has parked at the corner of the street near him. He turns the lapels of his coat up and leans against the glass door, flipping his phone in his hand. Breathing in, he smiles. It hits him then. “What a fucking idiot you are, Styles.” It’s not his coat; it’s very much not his coat. For one stupid, stubborn second, he considers shucking it off and throwing to the ground in an angry fit. But, you know what, fuck that; it’s warm and there’s snow everywhere and excuse him if the fact that it still smells like England and comfort and Louis is tugging a smile onto his face. “Such a fucking idiot,” he mumbles again. 

“Talking to yourself, Styles?” 

He nearly jumps out of his skin for the second time tonight and it takes him a full minute to process the words and the voice that’s speaking. He pushes himself off the glass and looks wildly around until he spots the open sunroof of the limo and sees Louis leaning on the roof, a hesitant smile on his face. 

“What. The hell.” 

“Missed you, curly,” Louis says. “Realised I was being a twat about halfway there and I ran out of the cab. Which was a stupid decision, on second thought,” he frowns at himself, then shakes his head. “Anyway, I got lucky enough to meet these lovely ladies and they offered me a ride. You’re right about the accent, by the way,” he stage whispers. 

Harry’s about to open his mouth and say something - though god knows what - when a blonde head draped in a white veil appears by Louis’ side and Harry is sort of struck dumb. “So, it’s you? Huh, I can see why we’re doing this, Lewis! Hiya!” 

“Hi,” Harry replies, voice totally gone at this point. 

“Harry, this is Taylor. She’s getting married tomorrow.” 

“I am!” Taylor flashes a ring and then turns to squeeze Louis; he looks like has trouble breathing. ‘Well, what are you waiting for? Get in!” She drops back inside with a high-pitched giggle. 

“She’s fun,” Louis laughs, a little awkward. “She’s also a bossy drunk.” 

“So I should just get into a limo with a bunch of strangers?” Harry asks, frowning. 

Louis swallows, one hand buried in his hair. “Well, I can’t say I didn’t deserve that,” he nods, scratching at the paint of the car. “But, yeah, you should.” 

“Why?” 

“Because a bride-to-be asked you to?” 

Harry snorts. 

“Because you need to return my jacket?” 

“I can give it to you now.” 

“Because I want you to?” 

Harry tries to remember why he thought Louis was all hard lines before; now all he can is soft and breakable. His breath catches in his chest. “Not good enough.” 

“Because I heard your EP and I’m the biggest fucking prick on the planet and - and - I - just - please get in, Harry? Please.” 

Harry bows his head and fixes his fringe, feeling his fucking heart in his throat. “Oh, fuck it.”  

The backdoor of the limo opens and he’s greeted by confetti and what he can only describe as ecstatic shrieks. Taylor presses a kiss to his cheek and pulls him in by grabbing the hem of his T-shirt with surprising strength; he ends up thrown a little violently on the stretched out seat opposite what he can only assume is the hen party. A small hand squeezes his shoulder and he turns to the side to find himself pressed up against Louis.  

“Oops?” he offers apologetically. Harry shakes his head, resigned to the fact that he really can’t stay mad at anyone for any significant length of time; as if Louis would be the exception to that. 

“Hi again,” he murmurs, tapping a beat against Louis’ knee. Louis exhales, like he’d been holding his breath for too long. 

“We’re good?” 

“We’re getting there,” Harry sighs. Louis bites his lip, covering Harry’s hand with his own. 

“All I ask, curly. Champagne?” 

“Why not. Congrats, Taylor.” He smiles in the bride’s direction and she bats her eyelids appreciatively. 

“Bless your heart, Henry.” She tips her champagne flute back and Harry decides it’s probably best not to correct her. He leans down to Louis instead, clinking their glasses and earning himself a shy smile. 

“What are we doing here, Lou?” 

“Beggars can’t be choosers, Harold, and I had no idea where I was going.” 

Harry knocks his head against Louis’. “Are you why Niall was bugging me about where I was?” 

“‘Course. Phoned Zayn after I downloaded your EP. Didn’t consider exchange rates though. Credit card will have something to say about that.” 

Harry giggles over the sound of ‘One Way or Another’ playing around them, Taylor yelling the lyrics from the sunroof on top of them. “What did you think?” 

“Same as I did two years ago.” Louis blushes, a finger trailing Harry’s jaw line. “‘The aftertaste of a goodbye is the worst to get rid of. It’s a warm brown sugar that melts softly into brine.’ Didn’t know you were a poet, Harry Styles.” 

“Knew you were my muse, Louis Tomlinson.”  

Louis frowns and looks at him oddly, as though not quite sure how to figure him out. Instead of asking, he kneels on the seat, a little taller, and presses a kiss on Harry’s nose to the hoots of the bridesmaids. They both laugh, cheeks pink. 

“One more thing,” Louis mutters, holding onto Harry like he’s afraid he might run away. “I didn’t mean - when I said I forgot -” 

“Lou, it’s OK.” 

“No, it’s not. It’s not true. I never - I never forgot, yeah?” 

“Yeah? Good. Me neither.” 

“I’m never mean, OK? Even when I’m pissed, I’m never - not with people I - I was just sc-” 

Harry locks his fingers around Louis’ wrist and presses his mouth lightly on his pulse point; Louis’ heart is racing almost as much as his own. “Louis? I get it.” 

Louis blinks. “OK. Good. Great, actually.” He giggles, hand escaping to ruffle Harry’s curls. “Wanna get drunk on pink champagne?” 

“I really, really do.” 

Harry could hazard a guess that they feature in a good number of photos taken by sleep-deprived tourists in Times Square. Especially after Taylor pulls them both up on the sunroof to belt out Backstreet Boys with her, clipping her veil on Harry’s head because, ‘I’m not sure whose curls are prettier, yours or mine’. At one point, he’s fairly sure someone steals a guitar from an innocent passerby because Taylor’s entertaining them (and an assortment of NYPD officers Harry can’t remember joining them) with an Ellie Goulding song. It’s when Louis’ giggling on the hood of the limo with Paul the driver (who’s decidedly not amused with any of this) that Harry pulls him by the sleeve until he slides down to frame his legs around Harry. He wraps his arms around Harry’s neck, smiling something small. 

“We’re the same height like this,” he murmurs slowly. “I like it.” 

“Mhmm,” Harry bumps his nose against Louis’. The little amount of alcohol he’s had makes him brave enough to talk. “D’you wanna get out of here?” 

“And where would we be going, Harold?” 

His tongue feels heavy in his mouth so he opens it uselessly for a moment until he meets Louis’ eyes and sees him smiling wider. “Yeah?” he asks instead. Louis nods. “Yeah.” 

He reaches up to squeeze Louis’ hand and pull him down and spares a glance at the cluster of people behind them, yelling in unison. He bites his lower lip. “Should we -?” 

“Nah, doubt they’ll miss us. Twatted out of their minds.” 

“Right. C’mon. Subway’s this way.” 

They sit next to each other, legs entangled and Harry passes a headphone to Louis, hitting shuffle. He can’t help the way his mouth lifts up as he watches Louis leaning against the window, eyes half-lidded, tapping a beat against his knee. He looks small, knees tucked under his chin, hair damp from the cold and Harry has the urge to scoop him up in his arms. The thing is, he can, and it’s just, it’s a little overwhelming to know that. 

It’s almost five in the morning when they get to Brooklyn. Louis’ nodding off on Harry’s shoulder as they walk up the subway stairs, lights flickering on and off on the sidewalk, the occasional car hooting as it drives past; it looks like most of the city has finally fallen asleep. They walk the five minutes it takes to get to Ed’s building in silence, only broken when Louis hums along to the song playing from Harry’s iPhone. Harry slips the keys noiselessly into the lock, kicking it at just the right angle to get it to open and then leads Louis to the lift, both of them leaning on the door when it closes. The mirror opposite them is blurry with fingerprints and dust but it’s still easy to see that they’re both smiling stupidly at their reflections. 

The lift creaks to a stop and Harry pushes the doors open to reveal the loft, Louis following, looking more alert now as he takes in the apartment. It’s still pitch black outside but the slanted windows let in enough light from the surrounding buildings, so Harry just shrugs off his (Louis’) jacket and throws it over the kitchen counter, eyes locked on Louis as he takes a look around.  

“Impressive for a starving musician,” he says, finger delicately turning the record on the record player. Harry laughs. 

“Never said we were starving. But it’s not ours anyway. Ed lets us stay here when we’re on the east coast.” 

“You’re telling me this isn’t your doing?” Louis indicates the carefully folded throwover on the couch with a frown and a barely controlled smirk. 

“I - how did you -?” 

“It just feels like something you’d do, curly.” He’s talking like it’s nothing, completely nonchalant, but Harry feels his heart swell to twice its normal size in his chest. 

“I like making a place feel lived in. You should see my room. I mean,” he splutters, cheeks burning, “I didn’t mean -” 

“It’s fine, Harry,” Louis walks over to the counter, sliding his hands across until they're bracketing Harry’s, smirking properly now. “I completely understand how tempting it is to throw me into your bedroom the minute we get in the house -” 

“I did not mean -” 

“It’s alright, really, I’m surprised you haven’t jumped me yet, usually I have to control the boys around me, I know I’m irresist-” 

Harry shuts him up the only way he knows how, swinging himself around the counter and pressing himself flush against Louis, biting down on his lips. It does the trick. Louis’ hands clamp down around Harry’s neck, threading themselves into his hair and pulling him closer; Harry steadies himself against the wall, palm pressed on the small of Louis’ back. There’s not much technique to it - their teeth click against each other and he squeezes Louis’ hip when he hears a giggle - but his whole body feels warm molding against Louis’ and he loses his breath more at the shock of this actually happening than anything else. They pull away too fast for Harry’s liking but Louis’ hands slip down to cradle his face until their foreheads are touching and, OK, he doesn’t mind that much. 

“Irresistible,” Louis pants outs and Harry would tackle him to the ground if he was anything less than completely and utterly fucking gone on him right now. 

“You are such a prick.” 

“Well...” 

Harry laughs and breathes out, “Oh god.” 

“Foot, meet mouth. Think I’ve got you all flustered, Harry Styles.” 

“Bit, yeah.” Why lie now? 

“The invitation to your bedroom still stands? Quite like to see that.” Louis is looking up at him through heavy eyes, blinking slowly. 

Harry nods, biting his swollen lips. “Yeah. Yeah. This - this way.” He tugs at Louis’ hand and stumbles in the dark until he pushes his bedroom door. He flicks a switch and sits on the bed, the fairy lights over him lighting up, giving Louis an odd sort of glow as he comes in and shuts the door. He smiles, red-yellow-pink. 

“You’re cute.” 

“I try.” 

“I bet you really, really don’t,” Louis huffs, letting go of Harry and pausing at the only wall free of furniture, hand trailing over the posters he’s stuck there. Florence, Blondie, The Libertines, and then - “I think I recognise this dorky smile.” 

“I don’t have a dorky smile,” Harry says, knowing full well his face is contradicting him as he speaks. “Even if I do...it has sentimental value. It’s from our last gig in LA.” 

“Yeah,” Louis murmurs, still staring up at it, back turned. “Yeah, I know.” 

“You - you do?” Harry frowns now, confused.  

“Saw a couple in LA. When we were there. When I was -” Louis pauses and his shoulders hunch over, like he’s a little scared of what’s to come,”- when I was looking for you.” 

“When you were -? What are you talking about, Lou?” He stands up, tugging at Louis’ sleeve to get him to turn around. He looks even smaller than before when he does, almost vulnerable, and it’s a little terrifying. 

“When we came to America, I was always planning - I wanted to look you up - see how everything had turned out, right, not like - that’d be silly - and I did - in LA - we found out about your gig here - and I just -” Louis takes a breath, shaking himself a little. Finally, he glances up, forehead lined like he’s made up his mind about something. “I found you. It wasn’t - it wasn’t just luck. I found you.” 

It’s like the words tip him over the edge, like he’d been standing there all along just waiting for a push and this is it, he’s falling and fuck if he gives a damn about it. He nods once, because it feels like he should, and then he leans down, hesitant, careful, slower this time, to meet Louis’ lips. He lets himself breathe him in, lets his fingers trail every jut of bone on Louis’ face and, there it is, what he couldn’t put a name to before, that smell or feeling or something so attached to Louis it knocks the breath out of him for a moment. Warm and soft and home. “I’ve missed you,” he kisses the words on Louis’ neck and it should sound ridiculous, it really fucking should. 

“Me too,” Louis mutters, pushing the hem of Harry’s shirt up and guiding them to the bed. “Me too.” 

Harry barely gets an hour of sleep before his phone buzzes persistently from somewhere on the floor and he groans as he slides from under the warm limbs that are snaked around him. He presses a kiss to the top of Louis’ damp head and stretches uncomfortably, feeling his joints crack as he searches blindly under the pile of clothes that’s scattered around him. He feels like he’s just run a marathon, all dopey and slow; it’s a small price to pay though, he thinks, as he makes his way back to bed, curling around Louis’ sleeping form and relishing the heat. He ghosts his lips on the back of Louis’ neck and smiles when he starts murmuring gibberish, moving closer to Harry. 

He has fifteen texts from Niall and Liam and a couple from a UK number he doesn’t recognise but assumes is Zayn. Most of them are an incoherent mess - thinjj we stoleehh copcarre :::))))) xxxxxx and LOSTT JOHSSSSS and dustbin HOFFF man kisssd me xxxxxxxxxxxxxx - which he’s in no state to decipher but it’s mostly the photos attached that have him burst out laughing. He claps a hand over his mouth to keep from waking Louis up and saves them all for future blackmail material; Niall would appreciate the gesture. 

It’s the last text that makes him go still, the one that woke him up from a decidedly more sober Zayn. 

hey, harry. our flight’s at 11. jfk. tell lou ive got his luggage. meet me there. was nice putting a face to the name. see u mate :) x  

He looks at the time and chews on his lip for want of anything else to do; it’s already half seven. Sighing, he throws the phone to the floor again and nuzzles into Louis’ neck until he gets a reaction. It comes slowly, Louis inching closer to Harry, mumbling out words, his breathing not so steady anymore. He starts blinking when Harry starts playing with his hair and buries himself deeper under the sheets when the light streaming in hits his eyes. 

“Not a morning person, then?” Harry mutters, pulling the duvet over his head and sliding down until he’s parallel to Louis; he looks more awake in the dark. 

“Never been one. I don’t think you really let me sleep though.” 

Harry tries to control his face. “Are you saying it’s my fault?” 

“Entirely. Ugh, my back aches.” 

“You’re quite bendy,” Harry points out, grinning. “That’s probably it.” 

“Twat,” Louis shoots, poking a finger at Harry’s belly. 

“It was a compliment!” 

“It was a gloat,” Louis says, trying  to sound unimpressed but it doesn’t quite work when he shimmies closer to kiss Harry. Harry closes his eyes and feels a cold finger tracing lines on his face. 

“Trying to memorise me?” he presses the words into Louis’ mouth. 

“Something like that.” He pauses on Harry’s cupid’s bow, the pads of his finger soft. “I need to go soon.” 

It’s hard to swallow all of a sudden. He opens his eyes and meets blue. “Yeah.” He sounds a little strangled and tries not to let himself think too much. “Think I have time to make you breakfast though.” 

Louis pulls his hand back and rubs his face, smiling. “You want to make me breakfast?” The words come out a little muffled. 

“Yeah. I, um, do.” 

“God,” Louis laughs.  

“I’ll go make it then?” Harry stands, pleased. Louis moves as if to nod, then catches sight of Harry. His eyes narrow and Harry would probably feel scared in any other situation. “Er, Lou...?” 

“You know what? I’ll eat on the plane. I love eating on the plane.” He grabs Harry’s wrist and pulls him down, making Harry land on top of him, with the sheets the only thing separating them. Harry bites his lip, hand already sneaking underneath. 

“Thought you were all achy?”  

“Oh, shut up.” 

“Name?” 

“I’m Harry! And this is Louis. With an S.” Louis narrows his eyes and leans over the till to watch the barista spell it out on the styrofoam cup. “He’s sensitive about his name,” he stage-whispers, pointing at Harry and rolling his eyes exaggeratedly. 

“I am,” Harry sighs, nodding slowly. “I don’t shut up about it.” That earns him a slap on the arm. 

“Rightly so. It’s a good name.” 

“Never said it wasn’t.” 

“Better than bloody Harry.” 

“Nah.” 

“It is though.” 

“Your coffees are ready,” the barista says, sounding bored, and hands them over two steaming cups, a giant cookie perched on top of them. 

“Cheers, man,” Louis flashes him a smile, taking the cookie and leaving the rest for Harry to carry, which he does, resigned to the fact that he really has no choice. He pushes the door open with his foot and shivers a little as the cold hits him. At least he’s prepared for it this time; peacoat done up to his chin, one of Liam’s gigantic scarves wrapped twice around him and his Sonic Youth beanie snug over his head. He takes a sneaky sip from his cappuccino and stands a moment to appreciate the view; they’re outside the Botanic Gardens and most of the ground around is covered in a thin layer of snow, giving everything a white sort of glow. Though, if he’s being honest, his eyes are drawn mostly to the figure standing by the gates, smiling at Harry, all blue eyes and toothy smile. 

“Cor, I miss tea. Like, I really, really, really miss tea,” Louis winces as he takes the cup from Harry’s hands and gulps milky coffee down. 

“How d’you think I feel? I live here.” Louis grins and stands on tiptoe to press a chaste kiss on the pout Harry has fixed on his face. 

“I’ll send you one of those huge boxes from Tesco’s.” 

“That sounds like heaven.” He means it too. 

“Anything else you miss from dear old England? Marmite? The Queen? The lovely stench of a packed night bus?” 

“All of those.” 

“Hope the post service is good enough then,” Louis quips. He turns then, looking back at the Gardens, holding Harry’s hand tight. “It’s pretty here.” 

“It’s my favourite place in the city. You should see it in spring, it’s, like, beautiful. Cherry blossoms and everything. It’s - kind of perfect.” 

“Bit of a romantic, aren’t you, Styles? Cherry trees, writing songs about me...” 

“You’re one to talk. I wasn’t the one who decided to reenact a scene from Notting Hill.” 

“Touche.” They stand in silence and Harry’s perfectly aware that there’s a clock somewhere ticking away and he really wishes he could ignore it. He glances at Louis who’s got a frown on his face like he’s thinking about something too hard. “Got a pen, Styles?” 

He does, somewhere. He pats down his jacket and his jeans until he pulls out a black marker; always good to have something on hand in case inspiration hits. “Here.” 

Louis uncaps it with his teeth and takes Harry’s coffee cup, the pen squeaking as he writes around it. When he gives it back - looking a bit shy - Harry reads a string of numbers and an email address. “Thanks,” he chokes out, horrified to find a lump stuck in his throat. 

“Yeah, well.” Louis shuffles his feet, looking as though maybe it cost him something to do that. Harry pulls him closer to reassure him. 

“Hey,” he tips Louis’ chin to meet his eyes. “I’ll call, yeah? Skype, email, whatever.” 

“We’re only a continent away!” Louis pulls a funny face and Harry has to laugh.

“Hey, it’s not that far.” 

“Liar.” He pulls at an errant curl, blinking fast. “Look, I...I don’t want us to say anything stupid, that we might mean now but, like...not mean later. It’s not - it’s not as though we’re gonna wait for each other or anything, right?” 

“Right,” Harry echoes, feeling his skin go tight. It’s the truth, and he knows it is, but still. Louis takes a deep breath, nodding. 

“Right. But that’s not to say - I mean - I’d like it, if, if I saw you when you came back home. I’d like that.” 

“I’d like that too,” Harry feels his face hurt from the smile there. 

“Good. Good. You should probably flag a cab now before I stop pretending I never cry.” 

Harry giggles because he’s in the same boat and tears himself away from Louis’ face, waving at the street. For the second time in less than a day, a cabbie smiles at him as he parks the car in front of them much too fast. Louis’ fault probably. Harry should probably keep him. 

“Better go, then, or Zayn will murder me and that’ll be a bloody mess for everyone involved,” Louis claps his hands together and opens the back door. He hesitates a little before he spins around, one corner of his mouth turned up stubbornly. “Think I might miss you, Harry Styles.” 

“You better, you wanker,” Harry mutters, leaning down and planting an open-mouthed kiss on him for the hell of it. He should be used to it by now but it still sort of takes his breath away. “Now go,” he says, even though he really doesn’t want Louis to listen to him. 

He does though, shutting the door behind him carefully and leaning over to the driver to tell him where to go. It’s not as dramatic a goodbye as last time, Harry thinks, but it’s not easier either. He stands back on the pavement to watch the taxi reverse and pull out and he should probably say something, shout something just to get Louis to turn around. He doesn’t though and the car’s gone quickly, lost in the white scenery. It’s started snowing again. 

Harry grins at himself as he starts walking back to the house, feeling it getting colder. 

He wonders briefly if flights might be cancelled.