Song(s):

                                   "Do I wanna know?" - Arctic Monkeys

                                               "Acid Rain" - The Growlers

Louis had never thought he would one day rather drown in a puddle of his own vomit than wear a shirt. But he wore it. With as much dignity as he could muster. For about ten minutes.

Then, Niall's quiet cackling behind him as he rehearsed his scene with Nick (pardon, Captain Hook) became too much for his vulnerable dignity to handle, and he ripped the large green shirt covered in giant plastic leaves off his body. A few pearls that had been loosely threaded along some of the leaves clinkered to the floor and rolled off the stage.

"No way," he said, scratching the itchy red skin of his upper body. Those glittery leaves had fucking hurt. "I'm not going to wear that. I'm sorry, Clare. Curly. But you will not get me inside that thing another time. Uh uh. Nope. I would rather-" Seeing Harry and Clare loudly cackle from the audience area, he abruptly stopped speaking. "What?" he said, throwing his arms in the air. "Why are you giggling like that?"

Harry had succumbed to his laughter and fallen off the chair to the ground where he was now lying, holding his stomach. Harry Styles made laughing seem easy. When he laughed, it wasn't only his lips forming the shape, not just a show of teeth and a few noises. No, when Harry Styles laughed, his entire body did, too. There was an explosion on his cheek, leaving behind that dimple-crater and his nose scrunched up like a bunny's and his eyebrows lifted just barely, like he was surprised by his own laughter. And then there was the noise. Over the little (but of course still way too long) time Louis had known him, he had gotten to know a fair share of Harry Styles laughs. It seemed like a bottomless pit.

Every day, a new one seemed to be added to the list. There was the cackling laugh, the subdued laugh, the loud laugh, the guffawing laugh, the quiet laugh, the tucked-away laugh, and the laugh he had reserved especially for Louis and his ironic comments. Those laughs were small ones, ones that he always tried to hide but Louis still caught them out of the corner of his eye every time. Those laughs were almost always accompanied by a roll of the eye and a scrunch of his nose.

Yes, Harry Styles made laughing seem easy. Which it wasn't. At least not anymore.

"What the fuck are you laughing about?" he asked the two people curling on the seats beneath him.

"I think it's a joke, mate," Greg said through the makeshift green cardboard box supposed to resemble a crocodile head.

Louis turned back to Clare and Harry. "I don't actually have to wear this? Thank god. I had already started planning my daring nightly burglarizing and cutting that thing to shreds, pretending it had been a racoon the next day."

"I don't know if there are actually any racoons in the area," Zayn gracefully informed them.

"Yes. Thank you. I don't fucking care," Louis gave back with a faux exaggerated smile.

"It's a bad alibi," Zayn replied absently, pushing the large black top-hat he was wearing from where it had collided with his glasses.

Clare and Harry seemed to have regained a bit of their composure. Clare was wiping tears from the corners of her eyes. "Sorry, but you looked too funny in that shirt," she said.

"Yes, very funny," Louis clipped. "Now, can someone please point me to my actual attire?"

"We don't have that yet," Harry said, scrambling off the floor. "Still working on it."

"Please let the next one be without scratchy sequins and rubber leaves."

Harry gave him a cocky smile. "I'll think about it."

Louis returned the smile, squinting his eyes closed, and flipped him off. "Thanks."

James clapped his hands from his spot next to Harry and Clare. "Alright, let's get Louis a new shirt and then take it from the top!"

Nick who was lying on the floor, dying, raised a plastic saber in the air. "I still need that ketchup. Otherwise it won't seem authentic."

"It doesn't have to be authentic; Peter Pan doesn't have a shirt and Greg is wearing an apple juice carton on his head."

"But I have to rehearse it for when it actually has to be authentic, don't I?"

Niall, spread on the ground next to him, sat up. "I would also like some ketchup, please."

"I still don't know if it's appropriate to let Wendy almost bleed to death," James remarked. "What should we tell the kids that are watching?"

"Hold on," Nick said, offended. His large Hawaiian shirt was so bright it hurt a little to look at him. "So you're saying it's okay for Hook to die but not for Wendy? That is awfully insulting and scathing."

"Wendy doesn't die, though," Sarah corrected from her spot on one of the fake papier-maché palm trees Zayn had artistically constructed and then painted various shades of neon colors. "Peter does."

"At least someone has read the script," Louis japed.

"But I thought you don't know if he dies or not," Harry said. "It's an open ending, isn't it?"

Louis shrugged.

"Don't worry, you will get that fake blood and hopefully even something that is better than ketchup," James chimed in.

"One more thing," Adam now said. "Does anyone know what we are going to do about the missing pirate crew yet?"

Suddenly, Harry sat up as if electrocuted, seemingly surprised by his own idea. "I think I do," he exclaimed, a grin spreading on his face.

"Ok, now that that's handled," James sighed. "Let's take it from the top. And Mitch, please don't fall off the tree again. Oh, and Louis: less swearing this time. It's still Peter Pan." Another sigh, followed by a small smile and knowing raise of the eyebrows. "You can take the boy out of Doncaster, but you can never take Doncaster out of the boy, apparently."

-

Harry sat in Mrs. Clarke's overstuffed living room, drinking bitter, smoky tea with his aunt and her embroidery-pattern-obsessed group of friends while her herd of cats mewled and purred and rubbed against his trouser legs.

"It is so lovely of you to join us for tea again, Darling," Mrs. Proctor said over the rim of her cup and padded his hand. "We haven't seen you in so long. You've just been so busy with that play of yours all the time, but don't forget about us old frumps."

"Of course not," Harry replied with a smile. "I could never."

"So," another lady changed the subject. "How is the town treating you? Do you like it? Have you met anyone special?" The last question was said with a suggestive raise of the eyebrows and followed by giggles around the table.

"No, I'm afraid not," Harry said, slightly shaking his head.

"Oh, come on!" his aunt exclaimed from across the table. "You spend so much time doing god-knows-what all around town, I'm sure you must have met a nice boy or girl."

Harry's thoughts raced back to the sweaty night in the dark pub, Louis Tomlinson's roving hands and his own loud moans. Heat crept up his neck and he quickly buried his face in a tea cup. "No, no one," he mumbled into it. He also didn't mention the falseness of her statement, since most his time was spent in her flat, speaking to the cats, watching movies and knitting, only occasionally interrupted by rehearsals or visiting Zayn.

Thinking about it now, the full clarity of how sad and dull his current life actually was crashed over his head like a giant wave. This hadn't been what he had expected from his new and exciting and adventurous and thrilling new life as an actor. Not what he had expected at all.

"Well, you do spend quite a lot of time with that friend of yours, the one from the Malik family. How are things with him?" She poured herself another cup.

"Zayn is great. We've known each other for what feels like forever."

"And what happened to that plan your mother told me about?" she continued the interrogation. "Asking-" she wagged an uncertain hand in the air. "What was his name again? That actor."

"Louis Tomlinson," Harry helped out, staring intently on a biscuit crumb on the flower-patterned table cloth.

"Ah, yes, that one! What happened to your plan of asking him to help you guys out in the theatre?"

"He said yes," Harry replied, lifting his head to meet all the wrinkled, powered faces before him.

Mrs. Clarke and Mrs. Addison happily clapped their hands. "That is splendid news, darling!" Mrs. Addison called.

"Yes, it is," Harry replied tightly and helped himself to a piece of apricot cake.

"Your mother must be so proud of you," Mrs. Thomas said, her eyes sparkling with tears.

"She is," Mrs. Clarke replied to her, seeing her chance at knowing something the others didn't. "I talked to her this morning and she told me all about Harry's early plays at school and how proud she was, looking up at the stage to see her baby there. So this is also very exciting for her."

Harry was mortified by his mother telling anyone about his early works in school play. Most notably, his abasing performance as 'camel number three' in a very meta and defused version of 'A passage to India'.

"And what about your dad?" Mrs. Thomas dug deeper. "What does he make of all this?"

The table suddenly went deadly quiet, nothing to be heard but a few last gulps of tea and forks being awkwardly set down on saucers. Harry cleared his throat. "Robin finds the idea amazing, he's very supportive."

Dear, old Mrs. Thomas whose mind was, politely phrased, long past its peak, visibly shown by the fact that she was wearing a large sheath on her fuzzy grey hair, was blissfully unaware of the tension in the room and turned to her friends, a confused wrinkle between her brows. "Robin? I thought Harold's father is called Desmond. I was so sure of it. Ol' Desmond Styles."

Mrs. Clarke padded her friend's shoulder for a moment, and then said, "No, Helen, you're right. But remember, I told you lot about Robin. He's Anne's new husband. Harry's stepdad."

Harry had of course known that the whole town had been, and still was, talking about his mysterious arrival here, but having the confirmation still made him feel uneasy. If only all the people in the town knew that the mysterious, handsome stranger they were speculating so much about spent a good amount of his time watching 'Bridget Jones' movies in a cloud of old, loud cats, they would probably be quite disappointed. Harry himself was disappointed about the dull reality behind the façade of polite smiles and peculiar choice of clothing. Maybe he should be more like Louis. Smoking and being miserable definitely had that air of mystery about it, but it wasn't the sort of mystery Harry enjoyed.

If there was anything his aunt's friends liked more than tea, it was gossip. "Oh, yes, quite right," Mrs. Thomas said now. "I forgot about that. You must excuse me, I haven't been myself since George has left us three years ago." At his, she folded her hands and looked at the ceiling, heavenward. "May God protect his dear soul and not let him drink too much of that whiskey he loved so much."

Everyone at the table bowed their head dutifully for a moment, before the merry chatter started up again and the clinking of cups and cutlery filled the stuffy air once more. "So, you haven't actually told us yet," Mrs. Proctor said over the rim of her cup. "How is that play coming along, honey?"

Harry sipped on the slightly bitter tea and offered a bright grin. "Thank you for asking, Annie. That's actually what I've come here to talk about with you."

All heads turned to him, painted brows raised in surprise. "Oh, is it? What's on your mind, darling?"

Harry set down his tea cup. "Well, we sort of have a lack of actors. As you know, we have decided to perform our own version of 'Peter Pan', but we are sort of missing a pirate crew. So... I was wondering if maybe, if you don't have anything better to do, you would want to play the parts?" Before he could entirely finish the sentence, his voice was drowned out if an explosion of excited squeals and cries of delight. "I suppose that's a yes?" Harry asked with a grin.

Mrs. Clarke jumped to her feet and hurried over to him, throwing her clinkering arms around his neck. "Oh, Harry! This is amazing." She drew back and pinched his cheeks like he was seven years old again and she was visiting him and his mother for a birthday. "You are such a good boy, giving us a chance like that."

Harry waved it off with a hand gesture. "Oh, it's nothing. Thank you for helping us out."

Mrs. Proctor had spilled her tea in excitement but no one seemed to notice or care. "I have always wanted to be an actress! My late husband did always say I looked like an early Marlene Dietrich."

"This takes me back to my early twenties when I worked as a model in Paris. Well, I almost did. An agent had spotted me on the street and gave me his number but I never actually got around to calling him. That has always been my biggest regret."

"We will be amazing pirates!" Mrs. Thomas said, constructing an eye patch out of her flower-pattered (what else?) napkin. "Ruthless!"

"Oh, this will be such a nice exchange from our usual crocheting evenings."

"Aren't you too old to be pirates?" a voice suddenly asked from the pale pink couch and everyone spun around. The voice had come from Mrs. Clarke's nephew Jack. Harry had almost forgotten he was even there since he was glued to the same spot as always, eyes on the video game he was playing. This was maybe the most Harry had heard him speak ever since he had moved in.

Mrs. Clarke made a disapproving sound with her tongue. "Piracy doesn't have an age, Jackie. Stop confining yourself to those useless frameworks."

"Alright," Jack replied, turning his head of red hair back to the telly. "Can I come and watch the play then at least?"

"I'm actually not sure if you're old enough to see it," Harry replied carefully. "It's not exactly made for children."

Jack shrugged. "I don't care. I don't get scared easily. Besides, it's Peter Pan. And I'm thirteen years old."

"It's not about being scared, exactly, it's... Actually, you're right. It would be great if you came to watch it."

"Ok. I'll think about it."

Wow. What a day of miracles. The first actual conversation with his cousin. Harry was very pleased with himself and how the day had been going so far. But that wouldn't last very long. Today was the day of that stupid house party Zayn had instinctively dragged them into. Well, nothing was perfect.

With a look to the clock on the wall he rose to his feet. "I should get going now, I promised my friend to help him with something."

He gave each lady a kiss to their powdered cheeks and then left the flat to the sounds of the tea party discussing their stage outfits, their performances, and their excitement.

-

It was a cool night, the last shreds of lasting summer now gone, fully replaced by the crisp chill of autumn.

Louis entered the lonely, giant Malik house and was immediately greeted by a large throng of moving bodies, loud music and darkness split by fluorescent lights. He had no idea where all these people had come from, but waded his way through them in search of a familiar face. Liam and Niall had left for the party earlier than Louis who had had to complete his shift at the pub.

Grabbing a cup of beer on his way, he climbed the stairs to the second floor, hoping for luck there. "Tommo!" a voice called behind him and he turned, relieved, to see Niall, raising his drink in Louis' direction.

"Hey!" Louis called back over the loud droning of music. "Where are the others?"

"You mean, like, Harry?" Niall asked with a brazen grin.

Louis gave him a look. "No. I don't care where Harry Styles is, thank you very much. Where is Liam?"

In reply, Niall inclined his head in the direction of the large patio where Zayn and Liam were sitting next to each other, laughing. Louis had never seen Zayn laugh that much since he had met him. It was a full-on laugh, shoulders pulled up, head thrown back. Liam looked very pleased with himself, his cheeks turning red at Zayn's laughter. "I think they are bonding over Batman comics," Niall said.

Turning to the balcony doors again, Louis saw Zayn offering Liam a glass of red wine. Liam accepted the glass of wine Zayn had pressed into his hand, but Louis didn't fail to note that when Zayn turned back to the table next him, his back turned to Liam, he poured a finger of amber-colored liquid into a glass and knocked the contents back before facing him again. Louis nearly had to laugh at the helpless crush unfolding itself in front of him. It was like being back in third grade (with more alcohol and less hair-pulling of course). Although he could imagine Liam tugging at one of Zayn's raven colored strands to get his attention.

"So, what do we do now?" Louis asked, turning back to Niall. "Don't want to disturb the two lovebirds, do we?"

Niall grabbed Louis' hand and pulled him down the stairs. "Now, we dance." He gave Louis a little twirl. Louis smacked his chest in response.

Greg and Eleanor made their way through the crowd towards them, both already staggering a bit. "Helloo," Eleanor greeted them in a lilting voice. She peered into Louis' cup and then led it to Louis' lips with her manicured index finger. "Drink up. We're dancing." Louis obeyed and tried not to choke on the drink Eleanor practically poured down his throat.

Thirty minutes later, his skin was sweaty, his feet were hurting, his cup had been refilled three times, and he almost burst with the need of a toilet. "I have go for a wee!" he yelled in Niall's ear over the music.

"WHAT?" Niall yelled back.

"I said I have to go for a wee!!!" he yelled even louder.

"Mate, you have to speak up!"

"I SAID: I HAVE TO- You know what, forget it."

Niall had stopped listening anyway, fully concentrated on the dancing and making promising eye-contact with some girl at the far end of the room. With a sigh, Louis turned around and pushed his way through the grinding and rotating bodies, trying to ignore the pungent smell of sweat, alcohol and crisps. Now, where was the restroom in this place? Tumbling up the staircase, the music became more distant, quieter, leaving more space for a headache forming at his temples. Great.

The upstairs area was, if possible, even fancier than the downstairs. Old, thick rugs covered the floor, the dark Victorian furniture covered in a layer of dust. That made sense. Louis couldn't imagine Zayn cleaning up in his spare time, neither could he see Zayn letting a cleaning lady in the house, and having to, god forbid, take part in a conversation with her.

Without his, in a sober state already lacking, orientation skills, he stumbled around the house for a bit, trying not to think of things like running water, liquid and waterfalls. But then, abruptly, he stopped and looked at the ground. There was something lying there on a thick oriental rug which Louis had almost tripped over. The something had a glass of fizzy golden champagne in one hand, a head full of dark locks spread around its head and way too long spidery limbs with silvery blue boots on its feet.

"Curly! What the fuck are you doing down there? I almost killed you. Fuck that, you almost killed me. I could have broken my neck and I don't want my gravestone to say 'Louis Tomlinson: lost to darkness, liquid and an unfortunately positioned boy."

Harry cracked open one green eye in the dim lighting and said, "I thought I recognized those lovely swears from somewhere." The words were slurred. Harry raised a hand, drawing the following words with his fingers. "And your gravestone would probably say: Here lies Louis Tomlinson, friend, smoker, arsehole."

Louis tilted his head to the side. "Yeah. Probably."

Harry giggled. Actually fucking giggled. "You're upside down."

"That can happen when one lounges on the ground and looks at people from their most unflattering angles and from the wrong side. If it helps, you're upside-down too." With a look at Harry's unfittingly fancy and elegant champagne glass, he said, "Say, how many of those did you have, Curly?"

Harry closed one eye and looked up at Louis and the expensive chandeliers above him, his lips moving as he counted. "This is four. I think."

Without giving it another thought, Louis lay down next to Harry on the floor, staring at the ceiling. After a few heartbeats, he turned his head and found himself being regarded by a pair of green eyes amid the velvety darkness of the corridor. "You know, most people like me."

Louis heard his own dry laugh echoing off the walls. "I bet they do."

"You don't."

"Well, you also don't like me, so. That's only fair."

Harry's voice was quiet, odd and unfamiliar after the droning loudness from downstairs. The silence in the hallway was heavy and seemingly much louder than the music downstairs had been. "I did. At least I tried. But you didn't want me to like you. I don't get you, Louis Tomlinson."

"Most people don't."

"But I want to." This was uttered so quietly, Louis wasn't sure Harry had actually said it or if it had just been a distant ringing in his ear. Something he had wanted to hear maybe. No. "And I think you want that too. You want to be found in the smoke."

Ok, apparently Louis had not been imagining things. He gave a small, humorless laugh. "And I think you're drunk."

Harry's eyes sparkled in the dark. So did his boots. This boy. Harry was one of those people artists would want to draw, whose sparkling eyes could make one spill every secret, who could purr love songs in a deep voice and eat ruby-skinned cherries on sun-warmed balconies in Italy. And maybe because of all that, Louis couldn't bring himself to like him. Because of his money and his good family name, because of his handsome smile and his easy laugh, because he liked people and they liked him back. Because he said things like wanting to find Louis in the smoke and made him feel like an exposed ankle. And yet... And yet nothing. That was it.

"So, is this also something you do regularly? I mean, don't get me wrong, it's a very beautiful ceiling, but doesn't staring at it get boring after a while?"

"Is it?" Harry said, shifting a bit. "I hadn't noticed the ceiling yet."

Louis looked at him again. His pale skin looked like porcelain in the dark. Actually, his entire body did. Like a cracked piece of porcelain that had fallen to the ground. This cracked piece of porcelain next to him seemed so different and foreign from the boy who had happily laughed just this morning when he had seen Louis in that ridiculous outfit. Louis wondered which of the two versions was the real one. Maybe they both were.

"You are right. That is a very nice ceiling."

"Mmh. Nice shoes, by the way."

"Thank you," Harry replied in his slow melodious voice and lifted his feet off the ground so they formed a 90 degree angle with his upper body. Louis' feet also lifted and for a moment, they both stared at their hovering shoes above them. Sparkly, silver-blue boots and worn-out, black trainers. "You are a good Peter Pan," Harry said to their feet.

"Thank you. For what it's worth, you're also a pretty good Tinkerbell. I like that little dance step you do during our duet."

"Do you think people will boo us?"

"No. We're not even half bad."

"Do you think they will throw roses?"

"I'm sure they will shower us with them. We will get entire buckets of them thrown over our heads."

Harry sighed. "That would be lovely."

"Quick question: What are you doing here?"

"Here as in, at Zayn's party lying on the floor with my mortal enemy or as in what am I even doing in this town? The answer to both questions is: I don't know."

Louis couldn't help the quiet giggle escaping his mouth. "'Mortal enemy'? Has a nice ring to it."

"Yeah, I know. That's why I said it. Dramatic affect and all."

"Anything for the drama."

"Yup."

"You are not my mortal enemy, Curly."

"But you still don't like me."

"Not particularly, no. Though I must admit you're growing on me. You and your weird words. But let's go back to mortal enemies. I liked how that sounded."

"What are you doing here?"

"Here as in on the ground with my least favorite fairy or here as in why am I in this town? Like you, I don't have an answer to that second question, but I did go up here because I had to go for a wee but couldn't find the loo. And you seemed like a pleasant aberration from my quest. Like the wolf from little Red Riding Hood, luring me off the path."

"I didn't lure."

"No, but you nearly killed me when I almost tripped over you. You're a danger for the general public." After a brief pause, he added, "I should get going now, I do really need a loo," and scrambled to his feet. "Have fun-" he vaguely waved in Harry's direction "-doing whatever the fuck it is you're doing."

He had nearly rounded the next corner when the bitter chocolate voice behind him quietly said, "Third door to the right."

For a second Louis didn't know what he was talking about. "Oh, ok. Thanks." He threw one last glance at the broken piece of glittery porcelain on the floor, wondering again why someone with a life as perfect as Harry Styles had to resort to wearing a mask when he wasn't alone.

He made his way toward the right door and stumbled inside. When he had finally finished his very pressing, at this point almost painful urge, he leaned against the door for a moment. Then, without knowing why, he climbed into the bathtub and sat there, legs slung over the edge. There was a constant tapping of waterdrops from the sink. Tap. Tap. Tap.

Louis closed his eyes, listening to the distant thrum of music from downstairs and wishing he had thought of bringing cigarettes. Suddenly, the door burst open and Niall's body was silhouetted in the dim lighting from outside. "Tommo! What's the craic?" Whenever Niall was drunk, he seemed to somehow become even more Irish.

"Nothing," Louis replied, looking at Niall from beneath heavy eyelids. "Just hanging out in me tub."

"As you do," Niall said and stalked to the toilet, opening his flies. "I've been looking everywhere for the toilet. Rich people have strange houses. Luckily I stumbled over a very helpful carpet who pointed me to the right direction."

"Did the carpet wear glittery boots and drink champagne?"

"You know it," Niall answered, zipping up his trousers, then lowered climbed into the bathtub, next to Louis.

The door burst open again, Liam standing in the frame. "Finally!" he called out. "I've been looking everywhere for you two. Couldn't find you, though."

"Let me guess, Harold told you?"

Liam nodded, then seemed to register that Niall and Louis were sitting in a bathtub and stared at them for a few seconds with a strange expression. Then, with a shrug, he squeezed himself into the tub as well. "Look what I've brought," he exclaimed, holding up a few empty glasses and a bottle filled with some honey-colored liquid.

"So, how come you aren't with Zayn anymore?" Niall asked, watching Liam pour them all a glass.

"There was an emergency with his cat. Apparently she started to attack his comic books or something like that. Isn't it amazing that he collects comic books?" Niall and Louis glanced at each other knowingly and took their drinks from Liam's hand. "You're very quiet this evening," Liam said, putting his face up to Louis'. "Why are you being sad and quiet in a bathtub during a party?"

Louis gave him a rueful smile. "It's because I am an artiste. And that's what artistes do. Be quiet and solemn in bathtubs."

"So, about you and-" Niall said, turning to Liam when the door burst open again, revealing a rumpled looking Harry Styles, the light from the bathroom giving his body a golden glow. His black-and-white pine needle stiped blouse had slipped to the side a bit, revealing most part of his chest and the cross necklace hanging around his neck.

"Why, hello. Look who has decided to peel himself off the floor and stop being a hazard to everyone around him," Louis cheered, raising his glass in Harry's direction. He put a hand over on his chest. "I am very proud of you, Curly. Spot the issue and then take action."

"I was wondering what the three of you were doing in here for so long. I should have guessed."

Niall softly patted the spot in the bathtub next to him. "Why don't you join us, Harold?"

A bit of raven-black hair peeked over Harry's left shoulder, followed by a pair of eyes surrounded by long, dark lashes. "Zayn!" Liam exclaimed and sat up, face lighting up. "Is everything okay with your cat?"

"Yes, she's fine," Zayn replied with a dreamy smile and then pulled Harry by the arm into the tub which was now absolutely smack-full. Louis knocked back more of his drink and the bathroom started to blur a bit, giving the tiles a soft glow. Louis liked it blurry.

"How did it go with your great-aunt, Harry?" Liam asked.

"Oh, very well. They are really excited about it."

"Then why did you have to get drunk?" Niall asked bluntly, bringing it to the point as always.

Harry's eyes widened over the rim of his glass filled with the contents he was chugging back at the moment and quickly lowered the drink, cheeks tinted pink. He stuttered around for a bit, until Zayn finally interrupted and calmly stated, "They talked about your dad, didn't they?" The other three were all too polite to ask about it but gave each other furtive looks, being transported back to that bubble of hushed scandals and cheap gossip when Liam had first moved in.

"It's good that I didn't listen to him, right?" Harry asked Zayn for reassurance. The other three all nipped on their glasses, pretending not to listen (which was of course ridiculous since they were all squished in quite close quarters in a bathtub side by side).

"Of course it is. Look how great it's going for you," Zayn provided the reassurance Harry had apparently needed.

Harry started nodding, first tentatively, then stronger. "Why, if I'd listened to him, I wouldn't have any of this," he said, throwing his arms wide and nearly knocking the drink from Zayn's hand.

Louis leaned forward to get a better look at him. "This, as in this party or as in this bathroom?"

"Or as in your weekly crochet gatherings with your aunt and her friends?" Zayn chimed in, sincerely interested.

When he saw Louis trying to hold back his laughter, Harry shot him and then Zayn a dirty look and held up a finger in Louis' face. "Don't you say a word, and don't you dare laugh."

"I'm not! See?" Louis frowned, emphasizing his non-laughter. He leaned back and for a few minutes, they sat in silence, listening to the distant music and watching the glowing bathroom tiles.

Eventually, Louis tried climbing out of the tub, slipping a bit on his way out of the knot of limbs and nearly spilled his drink. He turned around to the others with as much dignity as was possible after that drunken display of grace and elegance. "Well, I'm now going to go down there again and look for someone to go home with. Have fun," he said, wagging a finger in their direction. "Sulking in that tub."

"Wait," Niall called and followed him. "I'll come with ya. Promised that girl that I'd come back."

"You already forgot her name? Geez, Niall. It's been like twenty minutes," Liam said. "But I'll come with you. There's this really good-looking guy down there and I would love to start a conversation with him."

Zayn looked at his drink at those words. Liam twisted around to look at him, completely oblivious to all the ways he had just broken the raven's heart. "Are you coming, too?"

"Yeah, maybe," Zayn mumbled. "Later."

A hurt look appeared on Liam's face then, and Louis wanted to smack him for his stupidity. "Alright, I'll see you," Liam said and then left the bathroom with Niall and Louis, tumbling down the stairs back to the party.

-

"I can't believe he actually had the audacity to say something like that, when he knows exactly that I- that we. Unbelievable. Un-believable," Harry ranted after the door had closed behind Louis. "I mean, not that I care of course, he can fuck whatever bloke he wants to, but just saying it like- like."

"I thought you didn't want anyone to ever mention that night again and for him to just treat you like everyone else. Like a friend," Zayn quietly said, still staring at the liquid in his glass.

"He is not my friend. I could never be friends with anyone that pretentious and sulky and obnoxious and- And he is so overbearing, I can't stand it. It's like he can't bring himself to care about anything, as if he's too good for all of it." He raised a finger in the air. "Which he is not." It was clear that all the thawing out that had happened between them was at an end. "God, how could I have been so stupid?" Harry said, burying his face in his hands.

"Liquid stupidity? The power of your loins?"

"Zayn!"

Zayn stood up and looked down at Harry. "I'm pretty tired. I'm just gonna go to bed."

Harry reached out his hand. "Zayn... I'm sorry. I should stop complaining. And about Liam-"

"What about him?"

"I'm sure he didn't mean to-"

"He can do whatever he wants. If him being my friend means he's happy, then that's alright with me."

"No, but what about your wooing plan?"

"I think I'll put that on hold for a little bit. It earned me a new friend and that's enough for me. Actually, it earned me three new friends. And you maybe as well."

"Two," Harry corrected bitterly. "Two for me."

Without replying, Zayn slowly made his way to the door in that slumping way he had and then he was gone, probably burying himself in a pile of comic books, weed and spray-paint, contemplating life and fate. Harry heaved a heavy sigh and stared at the blurring bathroom around him. What was he doing? He had come here to make sure his life meant something beyond champagne parties, white collars and bright smiles, to explore what else the world had to offer. And what he had found was Louis Tomlinson, the human manifestation of everything he had hoped to find but now wished he never had. He was arrogant, obnoxious, uncouth and worst of all, actually pretty goddamn nice.

And there was something about him... He was real.

He said what he thought without a filter and smoked on fire escapes in big orange hoodies and he didn't laugh often, but when he did it was sincere. He didn't laugh just for the sake of it. And Harry hated him. Because Louis Tomlinson was real in that way Harry couldn't ever seem to be. And because Louis was downstairs right now, looking for someone to go home with, just to then hurt them just like he had hurt Harry.

And the thing he hated most about him was the fact that he didn't hate him at all.

Harry knocked his head back on the tiled wall behind him, blowing a wayward curl off his forehead that immediately fell into his eyes again. After a while he climbed out of the tub, a little woozy, and made his way down the hallway and the stairs back to the slowly dying party.

The people were dissolving and the music had been turned down to a quiet background sound, a few lights switched on to light the tired and exhausted faces of the lingering guests. Harry's eyes fell on Niall's shock of blond hair in the middle of the room, looking like the flame of a burning candle. "Hey, Harold!" Niall called and waved at him with one hand, a girl latching onto the other one. Louis appeared next to Niall, some guy Harry had never seen before next to him.

"Where's Liam?" Harry asked.

"Oh, he already left," Niall replied.

"So will I now," Louis chimed in, a drunk lilt to his voice. Harry looked at the guy next to him who didn't seem to notice anything beyond Louis' shoulder which he was caressing like a slobbering dog. Harry couldn't deny that he was attractive, though.

"He's too tall for you," Harry hissed under his breath, before he could stop his booze-loosened tongue.

"I bet he can bend," Louis shot back with a grin. "And he's not that much taller than you, and that worked just fine if I can recall correctly." He now slowly started steering the guy in the direction of the door, giving Niall and Harry one last salute. "Have a good night, lads! Curly, have fun with those embroidery designs of yours!"

"Crocheting," Harry muttered under his breath and gave Louis a small kick in the behind as farewell.

"Do you want to get out of here?" the girl still clinging to Niall's hand like it was a life-vest asked him with a dreamy expression on her make-up smudged face.

Niall gripped her shoulders and gave her an apologetic smile. "I know this sucks, but I have a flatmate and I don't want to disturb him. Beauty rest, you know? Trust me, he really needs it."

The girl waved her hand. "Oh, that's no problem! We can go to my place. My roommate isn't there tonight, some funeral. Or was it a wedding? Can't remember. Anyway. We'll have the whole place to ourselves," she shrieked, going in for a hug.

Niall shot Harry a panicked look, and mouthed, "Help me."

"What?" Harry mouthed back and shrugged helplessly.

Niall carefully freed himself from her embrace and slowly said, "Actually, Katie-"

"Kate."

"Right, Kate. I'm really sorry to break it to you now, I don't know how to say it, so I'll just spit it out: I'm gay."

"What?!" Kate yelled, letting go of Niall's neck. "We were making out like five minutes ago!"

Niall nervously laughed. "Crazy what can happen in five minutes, right? Phew. Human psyche has always been fascinating to me," he said, slowly backing away, and turned around. "Oh, Harry Sweetie, I didn't see you there! Let's go." He gave Kate one last wave and smile and then pulled a very confused Harry out of the house and to the lawn in front of it.

"What the hell just happened?" Harry asked, blinking.

"That, my friend, was an escape."

"But why? She seemed nice. And she was pretty. Wait- Are you actually gay?"

"No, you idiot. That was my excuse. Well, actually, hold on. I take that back. I mean, you never know, do you?"

Harry swayed his head from side to side. "Meh."

"All I'm gonna say to that is that I enjoy Colin Firth walking out of a lake in a dripping white shirt as much as the next guy does. And I was just too tired to go home with her today."

"I didn't think you were a 'Pride and Prejudice' kind of guy," Harry replied, impressed.

"Want to crash at our place tonight?" Niall asked, changing the subject. "Don't worry, we don't actually have to have sex like with Louis."

"Are you sure? That would be great, actually. Not the sex part, I mean. The crashing part. Not that I wouldn't want to have sex with you- but. God, whatever. Point is: I would love to crash at yours tonight. I don't want to wake up my aunt or break my neck while trying to sneak to my room in the dark while having to avoid piles of cats on the floor."

"Yeah, 'course I'm sure." They walked and talked for a while, the bright streetlamps around them like glowing eyes in the dark, the soft thuds of their soles on the asphalt accommodating their chatter and small laughs, as if not to disturb the night. It was a riddle to Harry how someone as bright and friendly as Niall could be friends with someone like Louis. Probably because Louis was also nice, he thought bitterly. To everyone but to Harry.

When they reached the door to Niall's apartment, Niall fumbling around for his key, Harry eyed the linoleum floor of the staircase, the sleazy wood of the flat door, and suddenly felt a soft twang of something akin to jealousy. This was real. This wasn't the elegant ebony wood he had grown up on, not the soft golden railings and floors clean enough to mirror oneself in. This reminded him of home. His true home, that was, not the one he spent most of his childhood at.

"Home sweet home," Niall chirped, pushing open the door to the flat Harry was already embarrassingly familiar with, and toed off his shoes. Harry took off his boots as well and then followed Niall into the living room where he was sitting on the couch next to a sleeping Liam, the telly dunking them both in a soft blue artificial light.

"Apparently Liam was watching some quiz show when he fell asleep," Niall deduced and grabbed an abandoned unfinished bowl of cereal from the couch table. Harry sat down next to him and for a while, they sat in comradery silence, watching but also not really watching the program.

Then Niall said quietly, eyes still fixed on the TV, "You know, he's actually really nice."

Harry looked at him, surprised. "Who is?" He knew exactly who Niall was referring to.

"Tommo. He's one of the best people I know, and a true friend. One can say a lot about him, but he's true in everything he does. And you are also one of the friendliest people I know." He gave Harry's hand an affectionate pad. "I'm glad to have met you, Harry." Harry didn't know what to reply, so he just gave a quiet smile and then they both turned back to the TV.

Normally, he would ponder Niall's statement for a while but he could feel exhaustion and the alcohol in his veins start dragging him down, his limbs growing heavy, eyelids falling close until the gentle blue light in the room was gone, replaced by darkness and dreams about bathtubs; champagne; fierce, soft blue eyes amid the velvety atmosphere of a dim room and names whispered in the dark. One name, over and over again.