Chapter Text
See, Louis is a simple man; he likes simple things. A nice cold beer at the end of the day, his footie team, Manchester United winning a game, and a well-deserved spliff before bed.
But most specifically, he likes sex, fuck, he loves sex. His issue is that he has never been able to truly connect with someone. He said he hasn't found his type.
This was, in fact, a lie; he has very much found his type, and that comes in the form of long legs, big green doe eyes, dimples, plump red lips, and a mass of curls.
Curls Louis currently has a fistful of, as he yanks Harry's head back and slams into him so hard, the old IKEA flat pack he is currently fucking him on, groans beneath them.
“Fuck, don't stop, Lou, right there.”
He'd like to say, “How did I get here?”
But that would be a lie; he knows exactly how he ended up here.
“Fuck baby, you feel too good, can never get enough.”
Flashback (insert whimsical flashback music here)
“So yeah, he has just moved back from France, so be nice, Tommo,” Niall points his beer bottle in Louis' direction, and to be honest, he feels somewhat offended.
The club lights are far too bright, and Louis is far too sober, and Heather, Hannah, whoever she is, is leaning all over him in the booth, making him feel suffocated. “I am always nice, Nialler.”
Niall laughs into his beer, “Sure, lad. Where is Liam, by the way?”
“He had gone with Kelly to the bar, about twenty minutes ago,” Zayn says, pulling out his smokes from his back pocket.
Louis gestures to him to chuck him one; he needs to get away from whatever her name is, whose hand is now travelling up his thigh.
She is pretty in the conventional sense. Mousey hair, if not a little dry on the ends, pretty face, button nose, filler in her lips, some botox, and green eyes.
But she isn’t doing it for him; she's too clingy, and she has awful taste in music, from the little he has paid attention to her.
Louis likes a bit of drum and bass as much as the next person. Techno is great, but to sit and say Sonny Federo is your favourite artist is a disgrace to the likes of Bowie and Ariana Grande.
Not that he would tell a soul that he cried the first time he listened to “We can't be friends.”
He catches Zayn's packet of cigarettes and sticks one between his teeth. “Coming?” He says around the butt, standing up.
“You know it's really bad for you, right?” He looks down at Heather/Hannah and tucks the cigarette behind his ear.
“Yeah, I'm aware, but so is that line of coke hanging from your nose, but I ain't judging you.” He downs the rest of his beer and swings out of the booth and down the back corridor towards the smoking shelter.
“They’re like really bad for you..shut up, fucking bimbo.” He mutters under his breath as he makes his way out the back; the music from the club is muffled behind the metal door as he makes his way to the back mental fence to lean against.
“A bit rude, mate. You had a shot with her.” He looks up to see Zayn walking over. “She's fit.”
Yeah, he can see that. “Not my type.” He says bluntly, dragging in the smoke as he sparks up.
“No one ever is. You know? You're twenty-four, single, and can't keep a bird for more than a few weeks, the fuck boy imagine isn't appealing when you're coming up the wrong side of twenty-five.”
Louis' jaw falls open; he isn’t pushing twenty-five; he is in his prime.
It's his prerogative to play the field. He simply hasn’t found the right girl yet is all.
“Don't look at me like that, you moan to anyone who’ll listen that you're single, yet you dumped the last one because she used your moisturiser.”
“It’s expensive; she went and used half the tub!” Money doesn’t grow on trees, and Zayn knows that. “Plus, she wore shoes in the house, that's weird.”
Zayn rolls his eyes, inhaling on his cigarette, “Sure. I'm going back in to find Amy, maybe go and say sorry to Harriet when you go back in, yeah?”
Harriet, that's her name.
Louis stubs his cig out with the toe of his dirty vans; he would absolutely not be going to apologise to her.
He mutters a “see you in there” to Zayn and heads back to the bar.
He's particular about who he dates; he needs someone who aligns with his values, views, and tastes, and not just the first bird to come along.
Someone with curly brown hair, long legs, and a peachy bum. Is it too much to ask?
He stands at the bar, and yeah, his mom would tell him not to ogle, but the girl standing in front of him is fit.
Her bum is nice and plump, her legs are accentuated by her spray-on skinnies, her blouse is somewhat see-through to a degree, and she is facing away from him.
Normally, he wouldn't be so forward, but she's alone, he’s feeling brave, and the club is loud and dark, so he goes for it.
Leaning across to enter her personal space, he taps her on the shoulder. “Alright, love, want a drink?”
She turns around. Or rather, he does.
He flinches, taking a step back instantly holding his hands up, “Shit mate, sorry I didn't–”
“No, it's ok, I get that a lot, you're ok.”
You know, in cartoons, when the character's jaw hits the floor, and their eyes bug out of their head? Yeah, that is Louis.
Because the man standing in front of him is beautiful, no, stunning, and men are not pretty. And Louis has just confused him for a female.
He has some of the most natural, plump lips he has ever seen, dimples in his cheeks, and the greenest eyes, like they are so fucking green.
And, ok, he knows he’s staring, but he can't help it, because why is the man standing in front of him so beautiful, so feminine?
“You can stop staring now,” the man giggles.
Louis wants to, he does, but the man is definitely wearing lip gloss, and has painted nails, and maybe curled his hair, and his skin is glowing, and shiny.
Is he wearing makeup? Oh god, Louis starts to panic, because he thinks about what those lips would feel like against his for a second.
Ok, so yeah, he can appreciate an attractive human, right? People are pretty, and yeah, he's wanked off to a few footballers before, but like that's normal, plenty of guys finish to the thought of Declan Rice's thighs.
Right.
The pretty boy standing in front of him is still staring, and now it feels like they are in some kind of Mexican standoff, just both standing there staring at each other.
He didn't, per se, want to walk away from those glossy lips and dimples, because he is pretty.
So he thinks fuck it, he's going to make a new friend. “Still want that drink?”
The man whose name he still doesn’t know looks at him like he has grown a second head. “Uhmmm, yeah sure.”
“Sweet,” Louis says, slapping his hand on the bar, which he instantly regrets because it is sticky and now his palms are dirty.
He makes a mental note not to touch his face because he has worked decisively hard to shrink his pores. He would not be dealing with a breakout because he drunkenly touched the manky bar.
“I’m Louis, by the way.” He doesn’t extend his hand because the man's skin looks far too nice to be tainted by spilt vodka redbull.
“Harry,” he says, holding out his hand. Louis raises his palm and points at it.
“Wet bar!” he says, and Harry giggles again. He likes that sound; he wants to hear it some more. “So pick your poison?"
A person's cocktail choice is very important to Louis; it says a lot about them.
Louis can usually suss out a date by their choice of drink; he makes it his prerogative never to call back the espresso martini and prosecco girls.
No one likes people who have a stick up their ass. His sisters sure as shit wouldn't. There is something about the prissy kind of girl he can’t get behind, in any sense.
“I’ll have a Tequila sunrise, please.” Harry says and Louis nods at him and flags down the barman.
“Tequila, hey?” Harry nods and flutters his eyelashes. They're long, and he definitely has mascara on.
“Yeah, with an extra shot of tequila, please.”
Louis nods. “Yeah, sound,” he says. “Tequila sunrise with an extra shot for you, and a double vodka Red Bull for me.”
Harry smiles at that, his lips look so glossy under the lights, and fuck, Louis has to look away because why is he noticing that? It’s lip gloss. Girls wear it. Some lads wear it.
Right, yeah, that Sam Smith does, boys can look pretty too.
The barman makes their drinks while Louis stands there pretending his stomach isn't doing backflips.
Why is he nervous about making conversation? He knows how to converse; he does it all the time.
“Sooooo,” he says, tapping his fingers against the sticky bar.
Grim, the bar is rank.
“Where are you from? I haven't seen you ‘round here before?" Smooth, he thinks, grinning like a Cheshire cat.
“I’m not, technically, I just moved back,” he says. “From Paris.”
Paris.
Of course, it’s Paris. He looks like Paris. Soft, pretty and expensive. Probably smells like clean laundry and fancy candles. If he can bet, his flat would have plants that are still alive.
“That’s mad,” Louis says. “Bet it’s nice.”
“It is,” he shrugs. “But I miss home.”
The drinks land in front of him then. He grabs Harry's, passing it along, and then he takes a big gulp of his own, the vodka burning his throat.
Harry watches him over the rim of his glass.
“What?” he asks.
Harry smiles back at him with a big, toothy grin, his little bunny teeth poking out.
“Nothing. Do you always drink like a fish?” he giggles.
“Long week,” he says, nodding to himself, because that sounds convincing. Better than saying, "You make me nervous."
“Same,” Harry sighs. “I forgot how loud the Manchester clubs are.”
“Satan's is especially tragic.”
Harry gasps dramatically, placing his hand over his heart. “Rude. I like it.”
“Of course you do.”
He laughs again, and Louis swears to god it goes right through him, straight to the chest. He wants to hear him do it again.
Which is stupid, really. Right?
Actually, no, because he likes it when he makes Zayn laugh, so this is the same.
Because that is actually a perfectly normal thought to have about another bloke you’ve known for about six minutes.
Louis shifts his weight, knocking his knee against the bar. He winces as he whacks it against the wood. Smooth Louis, real fucking smooth.
“So,” he says again, rubbing his knee, because apparently that’s his go-to word tonight. “What made you come back then? Paris not good enough for you?”
Harry smiles into his drink. “Mum wants me to be closer to home. And I was getting a bit… homesick.”
Louis nods; he understands that. He’s never left Manchester longer than a fortnight without losing his mind; two weeks in Benidorm is already too long, in his opinion.
“Yeah, fair. I can’t even go to London without missing the local chippy for tea.”
“I miss the rain,” Harry says almost wistfully. Louis hates the rain.
“You miss the rain?”
“Yeah,” he shrugs. “Paris is lovely, but it’s not… grey enough.”
So this guy is weird. Okay, he is cute, in an artsy kind of way; guys can be cute, like male puppies. “You’re weird.”
“I’ve been told.”
They stand there awkwardly sipping on their drinks. Well, it might not be too awkward, that's all in Louis' head because he refuses to make eye contact with Harry; instead, he's honed in on his nails.
He's painted them baby blue, almost lilac colour, very French if he does say so himself.
Harry’s nails catch the light when he lifts his glass, and when he looks up, Harry is staring right back at him. Great, at least his gawking isn’t too obvious. “Can I ask you something?” Harry says.
Louis immediately panics. That sounds serious. “Depends.” Yeah, his staring was obvious. Maybe he could make a break for it, abandon his drink, and leave.
How not to make friends, an ode by Louis Tomlinson.
Harry leans in a bit closer so Louis can hear him better over the music. “Are you Manchester born and bred? I've never seen you before.”
“Unfortunately,” Louis shrugs. “I’ve tried to escape. But I'm a homebody, can’t seem to let the shit hole go.” He really does hate leaving. Manchester has all he needs right here. Why would he leave?
“Maybe, or you have good taste.”
Louis freezes for half a second.
He smirks at Harry then. “Careful. You keep talking like that, and I’ll think you’re flirting with me,” which is fine by the way, because Louis is an attractive guy if he does say so himself, so if anything, Harry should flirt with him because if Louis were Harry, he would.
Harry raises his brows, sticking his tongue out as he wraps those plump lips around his straw and slurps. Louis can't take his eyes off him, well, more specifically, his lips, they’re so pink and glittery, and plump. Did he mention they're plump?
They probably suck cock like a porn star being paid to, he thinks just for a second. “Maybe I am,” Harry says around his straw.
Louis’ brain fully blue-screens for a second. Because he's standing here, thinking about Harry's lips sucking on a cock while Harry admits he's flirting with Louis, and Louis doesn't want to run away. He kinda, maybe, just a little, even wants to flirt back.
If he takes Harry home and fucks him from behind, he could pretend he is a girl.
Okay, wow, that's a wild thought. And one he isn't entirely opposed to.
He opens his mouth to respond, with absolutely no idea what he’s about to say, because he thinks he wants to flirt back, when a familiar voice cuts off his train of thought.
“Lou! There you are!”
Louis stiffens.
Of course, Niall appears now and finds him. He is a little pissed off now, actually, because he wants to keep Harry all to himself for the night.
“Been looking everywhere for you,” Niall says, slapping him hard on the back, "Zayn said you stropped off.”
Louis rolled his eyes. He didn't strop, he wasn't four, he doesn’t strop. “You found me,” he says sarcastically, but Niall's eyes flick past Louis and land on Harry.
Goodbye, new friend, who he will now have to share with his other friends. Ok, he might strop a little.
“Harry?”
“Niall!” Harry says, like he can’t quite believe it, wrapping his arms around Niall in a tight hug. “What are you doing here?”
Niall lets out a laugh as he grips Harry around the waist. Slowly, every so slowly, Louis' brain starts to piece the puzzle together.
“No way,” Niall says, pulling back and looking him up and down. “What are you doing here? Didn't think Satans would be your cup of tea?”
“Yeah,” Harry laughs. “Was bored at home, thought I’d get out of the house, check out the nightlife these days.”
Louis clears his throat loudly because suddenly he feels like he’s standing in the middle of someone else’s moment. And this was very much his moment two minutes ago.
Niall turns to Louis, smiling. If he still had his braces, you would see where they finished. “Oh, shit. Sorry mate. Remember, I was telling you about my mate moving back from France? Well, this is him. Harry, Tommo, Tommo, Harry,” he says, gesturing between the two of them.
Ohhhhh, the penny finally drops.
He feels stupid, so stupid. Paris, to Manchester, just moved back. The evidence is there, and he has been too busy thinking about plump, glossy lips and painted nails to put two and two together.
Harry glances back at him, smiling softly. “We’ve already met.”
Niall’s eyebrows shoot up. “You have?”
“Yeah,” Harry says, sucking on his straw and looking directly at Louis. “He bought me this.”
Niall looks between them. He looks to Harry, then to Louis, then Harry again and back to Louis. “You bought Harry a drink?”
Louis bristles. “What’s that supposed to mean?” he says, affronted. He can buy people a drink, but it doesn't mean shit.
“Nothing, nothing. Just—” he slings an arm around Harry’s shoulders, squeezing him briefly. “You won't buy your date a drink but will a stranger."
Harry levels him with a stare, and suddenly, he looks almost hurt. “Date?”
Niall snorts. “Well, loose term, she’s Liam's sister's friend, remember Liam.”
Harry doesn't take his eyes off Louis. “Yeah, I remember Liam.”
Niall watches their exchange very closely. Louis doesn't like that. “Well, her friend set her sights on Louis, but Mr. particular here didn't “vibe” with her,” he says while making quotation marks with his hands. “Instead, he sulks off to the bar and finds you.”
“Oh,” he says slowly, like he’s just figured out some big secret. “I see.”
Louis shoots Harry a look, because whatever he’s just discovered he wants to know to. It'sabout him after all.
“You see what?” But before Harry can answer, Niall cuts in.
“So is Tommo being nice to you?”
Harry hesitates for half a second. Just enough for Louis to notice he does. “Yeah,” he says quietly, more into his drink than Niall. “Very.”
Louis feels heat crawl up his neck and hates that Niall is here to witness it. He hopes he isn't obvious, but then again Niall's more interested in the bottom of his Guinness.
“Well,” Niall says, clearly delighted at there new bromance, “that’s a first.”
“Oi,” Louis mutters, he’s nice, a catch even.
Harry laughs again, softer this time, he's cute, well as cute a another dude can be.
he takes another sip of his drink, standing just that little bit closer to Louis as he does, like Niall hasn’t completely derailed things.
But he has, so Louis orders two more drinks because suddenly he wants to party.