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the floor, there‟s shit everywhere.”

“Have you got shoes on?”

“No.” Does he need a mop for this? Does he even own a mop?

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“Are you at least wearing socks?” Harry‟s voice cuts into his thoughts

again.

Louis makes a face, half at the sticky morass on his floor and half at the

question. “When have you ever known me to wear socks?”

Harry sighs on the other end of the line. “See, this is why you should

wear socks!”

“Really? This is why?” He pauses with his head in the cabinet under his

sink, looking for a sponge. “Does this sort of thing happen to you

often?”

“Just be careful,” Harry says, laughing a little.

He pulls a sponge and some rubber gloves out from under the sink.

“Hazza, if I manage to be seriously injured by a broken jar tonight, I

will deserve what I get.” He slides on the rubber gloves and starts

picking up the biggest pieces of glass, dropping them in the rubbish

bin. “But I might actually cut myself if I get distracted, so I‟m going to

go now.”

“G‟bye,” Harry says cheerfully, and Louis takes the phone from his

shoulder and hangs up.

As he finishes with the glass and starts sopping up the syrup, he glances

up to the counter to see Duchess watching him, her ears lying back and

her tail still thrashing.

"What?” he says, narrowing his eyes. “What's that look supposed to

mean?"

Duchess just lifts her chin haughtily and squints at him.

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"Oh, don‟t you start,” Louis says. “Look, just because I like him as a

person, and just because he's extremely fit, and just because he makes

me laugh and also sometimes makes me want to drown myself in a

ditch, does not mean I fancy him.”

She tilts her head slightly to one side, a mixture of condescension and

pity that Louis frankly finds insulting coming from someone who shits

in a box.

Louis points accusingly at her with one rubber gloved hand. “Stop

looking at me like that!”

Duchess lifts a paw and grooms it daintily. I have resigned myself to

the fact that my owner is a pathetic idiot, her face seems to say.

“What do you know, hmm?” Louis says, glaring. “What do you know

about human emotions? You‟re a fucking cat, you don‟t even have

feelings.”

She lowers her paw slowly, looking wounded, and Louis feels guilty

immediately.

“Okay, I shouldn‟t have said that, I‟m sorry,” Louis says, hopping over

the mess and reaching out a hand to pet her. She recoils from his hand

with a glare. “I‟m sorry! Don‟t give me the eyes, oh God. Here.” He

plucks up a cat toy from nearby and shakes it in front of her impassive

face. “You want the little jingly feather ball on a stick? Look, it‟s your

favorite!”

Duchess just keeps staring at him as if he is something she threw up on

the carpet.

“Oh for God‟s sake, don‟t pout,” Louis says, dropping the toy. “Okay,

fine. Maybe I fancy him. Just a little.”

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The look on her smushed cat face remains deeply unimpressed, and

Louis moans in exasperation. His cat is an arsehole, but she‟s not

wrong.

The thing is, he knows how he feels about Harry. He‟s known for

weeks, really, maybe even longer. He‟s not an idiot, as much as his cat

seems to think otherwise. He knows that giddy, restless feeling in his

fingers and that electric warmth in his chest and what it means when his

head fills up with noise every time Harry says his name. But it‟s one

thing to know something about yourself and another thing to really

accept it and deal with the consequences, and Louis doesn‟t have any

interest in the latter at all. He‟s twenty-five years old, and he told

himself long ago he can‟t afford to have feelings like this anymore. It

always ends the same.

As long as he doesn‟t deal with it, doesn‟t put a name on it or make it

real, it doesn‟t matter. It can just stay in the places between his bones,

this unspoken thing that doesn‟t change anything or make him forget

the reasons he shored up all these defenses in the first place. And if

sometimes when he thinks about Harry he catches himself smiling for

no reason, that‟s nobody‟s damn business but his own.

But Duchess is still looking at him like that and, God, he‟s never

forgiving himself for the one time he let his mum keep her while he

was out of town, because he‟s sure Duchess picked this up this from

her.

“Okay, I fancy him a lot!” he half-shouts. “I have a big dumb crush on

Harry. Are you happy now? Is this what you want from me?”

He slumps over the counter, head in his rubber gloves and feet sticking

to the floor and guilted into emotional honesty by his cat. Duchess

makes a satisfied sound and leaps down onto the floor, leaving a trail of

sticky pink paw prints out of the kitchen.

65

They all ribbed Zayn for days after the car wash, teasing him about his

performance and Liam‟s sizable donation and suggesting he pursue a

career as an exotic dancer since he seems to have such a high profit

margin. In the weeks since, though, Liam hasn‟t so much as popped by

for a visit, and they‟ve given up, chalking the contribution up to Liam‟s

ridiculously good nature. Zayn has once again returned to looking

consumptive and tragic all the time. Business as usual, really.

As is traditional when Zayn sinks into a particularly deep funk, Louis

takes it upon himself to stage Sad Movie Night. Maybe it's something

about Zayn's penchant for high drama and tragic romance, but it seems

that lying on the couch with a bottle of wine and crying his eyes out

over a couple of star-crossed morons always makes him feel better

immediately. Whatever. Louis hates watching this kind of shit on a

normal day, but he'll take one for the team. Besides, if it gets Zayn to

stop haunting the halls like he's in a damn Bronte novel and tweeting

things like loving you is painful x all i want is you :( it'll be worth it.

Harry‟s been missing in action for a few days, too busy working on a

big project for school to come around in the afternoons, but he‟s up for

it as soon as Louis texts him about it. He claims that Titanic is his

second favorite movie and offers to bring his own DVD, which, really,

Louis should have seen that one coming. As usual, Niall only agrees to

sit through it when promised that free beer and nachos will be provided

for him, and the four of them set a time on a Friday night to meet at

Zayn‟s flat.

Louis is halfway down Zayn‟s hall when he hears footsteps coming up

fast behind him, and he has just enough time to think oh shit I am about

to be mugged before he drops his bag and turns around and finds

himself with his arms full of Harry Styles.

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The collision knocks him back a few steps and his arms come up

around Harry‟s waist on reflex, grabbing fistfuls of his shirt. Oh, God.

Perhaps a mugging would have been kinder.

“Hi!” Harry says. Louis is pretty sure some of Harry‟s hair is in his

mouth. He is focusing on this because if he thinks too hard about the

feeling of Harry‟s arms around him and Harry‟s body pressed up

against his he might not make it out of this hallway.

“Hello,” he manages.

Harry lets him go, moving back a step or two as Louis regains his

balance. “Sorry,” he says, grinning. “Haven‟t seen you in a while.”

Louis ignores the flush threatening to spread across his face. “How‟d

your project go?”

“Brilliant!” Harry says. “Got my critiques today, my professor loved

it.”

“A man of taste, then,” Louis says, and the way Harry smiles at that

makes Louis stupidly proud of himself. They fall into step with each

other, Harry with a couple of shopping bags hanging off his arms and

Louis shouldering his own bag. It‟s nice just to have Harry next to him

again chattering on about his project, and all the positive energy

radiating off of him has Louis starting to feel a bit giddy himself.

When Zayn opens the door, he‟s wearing his oldest hoodie over his

slouchiest tank top, looking like the droopiest, most pitiful version of

himself.

“Awww,” Louis says, “look at my favorite sad laundry pile.”

“Did you bring the wine?” Zayn says in lieu of greeting.

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Louis leads the way inside, Harry following close behind. “Yes. Three

bottles. Tell me you love me.”

“I hate you less than I hate everything else right now,” Zayn says. He

takes one of the bottles and makes his way into the kitchen where Niall

is already at the counter, sprinkling a mountain of cheese over his

nachos.

“Thank God you‟re here,” Niall says. “Another five minutes alone with

this one and I may have killed myself.”

“I‟m in an emotional state,” Zayn says hotly. Louis reaches over and

gently takes the corkscrew out of his hand, deciding that Zayn should

perhaps not be allowed to touch any potential murder weapons tonight.

“I brought the movie, and also popcorn,” Harry says as he starts

dumping his bags out on the counter. “And chocolates, which we can

mix in the popcorn.”

“I love you,” Niall says, abandoning his cheese momentarily to snatch

up a bag of chocolates. Harry beams at him.

“How come you never talk to me like that?” Louis says, pouting at

Zayn.

“Because you‟re a twat,” Zayn says. Louis winks at him as he takes the

bottle back and starts uncorking it himself, and Zayn turns to glower

across the kitchen at Harry. “You‟re in an offensively good mood.”

“Sorry,” Harry says, still smiling. “Just one of those days where you

feel like you can do anything, you know?”

“No,” Zayn says.

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Louis gets the bottle open while Harry and Niall fight over who gets to

use the microwave first, and Zayn snatches it out of his hands,

foregoing the glasses on the counter to drink directly from the bottle.

He slumps over to the sofa with it, and Louis sighs. Rule number one of

Sad Movie Night: make sure to bring Zayn his own bottle.

He pops into the bathroom for a minute and returns to discover that

everyone‟s shifted to the living room and the DVD menu is open on the

television, playing a loop of “My Heart Will Go On.” Louis loves

Celine Dion as much as the next theatre-worshipping gay man, but the

sound is already making him grit his teeth. The things he does for his

friends, Jesus.

Niall‟s already staked out the only armchair and made himself at home

with a beer between his knees and a plate of nachos balanced on one of

the armrests, and Louis wonders how greasy his phone will be by the

end of the night after playing Bejeweled with nacho-fingers all the way

through the movie. On one end of the sofa, Zayn has curled up into the

fetal position around his personal merlot, and on the other, Harry‟s

sprawled out with his feet up on the coffee table. The only seat left is a

narrow strip of space between Harry and Zayn, and Louis feels his

stomach go funny when he realises he‟s going to spend the next three

hours in the dark crammed up against Harry.

“Saved your spot,” Harry says, patting the empty half a cushion next to

him.

Louis steps over Harry‟s legs, eyeing the so-called spot skeptically.

“You two are seriously underestimating the amount of bum space I

require.”

“No one‟s underestimating your bum,” Harry says. He slings one leg

over Louis as soon as Louis sits down next to him, and, wow, Louis‟

life would probably be a lot easier without the knowledge of what it

feels like to have the muscles of Harry‟s thigh stretched across his lap.

69

Louis swallows, keeping his eyes on the television, and prods Zayn‟s

arse with the remote control. “Ready?”