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Harry was used to spending his Saturdays alone in the library. Besides the constant intrusion of Cowell to make sure he wasn’t, like, burning the place down or anything, it wasn’t as bad as the entire world made Saturday detentions sound.
Well, it wasn’t as bad as the entire world made it sound when he was alone. When other people showed up, that was a different story.
“You’re going to have company today, Styles,” Mr. Cowell says with a mocking grin on a Saturday in February. Harry had already trudged in, throwing a firm salute at the principle before sliding into his regular seat, boots kicked up on the table. He waited for Cowell to give him the usual speech—don’t get up, don’t touch anything, write a 500 word essay on Why Harry Styles is a Horrible Pupil—but instead, he gets that sentence from the man, and it’s worse than any amount of abuse these Saturday detentions could bestow on him. Spending an entire Saturday in the library with other kids he probably despises is the worst kind of punishment he could be put through, and Cowell knows it.
Before Harry can barely get a snarl out, the library doors are opening and a boy with a mop of blonde hair and a bright red blush that looked almost painful is stumbling into the room.
“Am I late?” he huffs, and he visibly relaxes when he sees that he’s the first one to arrive. Harry tries to meet the kid’s gaze by staring intensely at him, but the kid expertly dodges eye contact from both Cowell and Harry, and drops into the front row of desks.
Harry lets out a scoff and goes to picking at a loose patch of rubber on his boot. There’s only one kid here so far, but he can already feel himself building up to his reputation. During the school day, he hunches through the halls wrapped in ratty overcoats or torn flannel shirts, knocking freshmen into lockers and sleeping through classes. He makes sure, once a week, to do something that will land him in a Saturday detention—pulling a fire alarm, vandalizing the locker room, locking teachers out of classrooms. It’s just a part of his routine—go to school, do something mildly incriminating, land himself in Saturday detention with Cowell. Usually, there’s nobody else on Saturdays, which leaves Harry a full 8 hours to read or write or sleep. It’s just an excuse to not be home. It’s not that he’s a bad kid, intentionally. But now, he’s got a reputation to uphold, and he’s bristling because this blonde kid is encroaching on his library.
As if one wasn’t bad enough, by the required 8:15 time, three more have stumbled into the library and planted themselves in the seats around Harry. Cowell starts his usual speech about “taking responsibility for your actions” and “necessary punishments”, but Harry’s not listening. He’s eyeing up the newcomers—the blonde kid is sitting resolute and solemn two rows ahead of Harry, clinging to Cowell’s every instruction, and Harry find himself unconsciously rolling up pieces of paper to later use as spitballs.
Next to Harry’s table is a jock-type, shaved head and muscles budging out from under his team hoodie. He’s bored, chewing on a pen, but he’s listening to Cowell, too, and Harry rolls his eyes and turns his attention to the kid next to the jock. He’s still settling into his seat, shrugging off his jacket that looks way too expensive for anyone to be wearing on a freezing Saturday morning in February, and Harry immediately hates the kid for his purposeful “I Spent An Hour On My Hair Just To Make It Look Like I Just Rolled Out Of Bed” look. Giving up on finding anyone here to relate to, Harry drops his boots to the floor with a loud thud that gets him a glare from Cowell, which Harry replies to with a cheeky smile. “Thanks, Cowell! We’ll have a swell time here! Really get to know each other,” Harry spits sweetly, and he can tell that his principle is already done with trying to tolerate Harry’s antics. As soon as Cowell spins on his heel and leaves, Harry is up out of his seat, strolling to the bookshelves.
“Uh, we’re not supposed to get up,” the blonde nerd pipes up uncertainly as Harry runs his finger along the spines of the encyclopedias.
“If you all did what you were told, none of you would be here, would you?” Harry drawls as he wanders along the wall, plucking books.
“Come on, Styles. What’d you do this week? Caught sucking dick in the bathroom?” The preppy one asks, and Harry freezes, spinning to meet the boy’s piercing blue gaze.
“Maybe,” Harry replies softly, and the prep obviously wasn’t expecting that as an answer. The blue-eyed boy pales enough to look like a white flag of surrender, and Harry smiles innocently before sitting back down.
“The History of Monet? Do you study art?” a soft voice intones, and Harry turns to meet eyes with a shaggy-haired boy clad in a black hoodie crouched over a sketchbook.
“I love Monet,” Harry says with a straight face as he flicks the book open to the middle, where there’s glossy prints of the artist’s work. He rips one of them out and the dark boy actually flinches. “I’m going to hang this on my wall.”
The kid looks like he’s about to jump across his table and strangle Harry, and Harry wants him to. He desperately wants someone to show some sort of emotion other than blind obedience, but his moment of hope is crushed when the boy ducks his head and just mutters, “oh.”
Harry slams his pile of books down on his table, and the four others collectively jump.
“Alright. Jock,” he points to the kid with the shaved head, “Prep, nerd. Freak. Why are you here?”
The prep rolls his eyes and turns back around, going back to fiddling with his phone, but Harry finally makes eye contact with the blonde and he blushes red again, stuttering out, “I, ah, do we have to say?”
“You don’t have to say anything, Niall,” The prep snaps, turning his cold glare back to Harry. “Just because you have a personal conflict with Cowell doesn’t mean we all have to suffer from it,” he spits.
Harry throws his head back and lets out a laugh loud enough that the artist boy flinches again and the prep raises his eyebrows. “I know you,” Harry says, his mouth settling into a lazy grin as he stalks up the aisle. “You’re Louis Tomlinson. You’re the sacred soccer captain, prom king, poster child of this entire school. What did you do to land yourself here?” he asks sweetly, biting his lip in a mocking grin as he leans in closer. “Were you caught sucking someone’s dick in the bathroom?”
This time, Louis’s face flushes a bright red and he lashes a hand out and shoots out of his seat, balling a fist up in the front of Harry’s jacket. “Don’t fuck with me, Styles,” Louis hisses venomously. The jock is half-way out of his seat, obviously eager to intervene if need be, while the two quiet ones are stock-still at their tables. Harry’s face is bright and laughter bubbles hysterically from his throat because it’s only 8:37 and he’s already gotten a reaction out of someone. He shoves Louis off of him and pushes his hair back while he turns to face the whole room. “Oh, I’m going to be fucking with you, love,” he purrs before rolling his eyes at the others. “Sit down, sporty. I won’t bite.”
“Liam,” the jock says calmly. Harry’s brow furrows curiously before he’s grinning again. “Alright, so we have Louis and Liam, who have most definitely peaked in their junior year,” he shoots a smile to Louis, who still looks murderous—“Niall, the prompt and punctual one who apparently refuses to make eye contact…” to prove his point, Harry stands directly over Niall’s desk and the quiet boy shrinks deeper into his seat, “and the moody brooding no-named artist. We’re quite a brigade, no?”
“Can we please,” Liam says flatly, rubbing a finger against his temple and slouching in his seat, “just get through this detention without drama?”
“Drama?” Harry clutches his chest for none other than dramatic effect and jumps onto the receptionist desk. “My boy, what is high school to you if there’s no drama? Surely you don’t consider it a place of learning.”
Niall keeps glancing nervously back towards the door like he’s expecting Cowell to come back. The dark boy is hunched over his sketchbook again, but he’s glaring at the tattered Monet book still on Harry’s desk. Liam is too calm for Harry’s liking, and Louis is still seething, but taking his anger out by belligerently tapping away on his phone. Harry sighs loudly and plops down cross-legged on top of a stack of SAT pamphlets. “And here I was expecting a bunch of punks to share my Saturday with. Instead I get all of you.”
There’s a soft scoff and four pairs of eyes collectively turn to the artist. He has a fist tucked under his chin and his amber eyes are bright with whatever it is he’s about to say. “Spare us, Styles,” he says gently, and it makes Harry bristle because the kid isn’t even being condescending, he’s just being curious. “We all know your bark is worse than your bite.”
Harry sits up straighter, although he can’t find it in himself to strike out against the guy (he never really can, unless they’re pretty, genuine asshole types like Louis. But `he’s not thinking about that now). But now everyone is looking at him and panic tightens his chest. “I threatened to beat a freshman within an inch of his life,” Harry states blankly. The artist only drums his fingers against his sketchbook and his mouth rises into the smallest of smiles. He shrugs and replies, “Like I said. Your bark is worse.”
Louis actually snorts and Harry backtracks because now that everyone wants to talk he really just wants them to shut up again. He just can’t win.
“Harry Styles is all talk. Wow, I’m so shocked. Thank you, Zayn,” Louis sneers.
“Do you seriously know everyone in the school?” a new voice pipes up. It comes from Niall, who is twisting in his seat to regard Louis with wide blue eyes. Harry scoffs, but Louis is too busy swelling with pride to notice. He shrugs in that I’m trying to be modest way, and Harry wants to punch him. “I can’t help it that I’m popular.”
Before Harry can jump across the room and throttle Tomlinson, Liam is burying his face in his sleeve and shaking with laughter. Louis narrows his eyes and questions, “is something funny, Liam Payne?”
“You are like the entire Mean Girls movie,” Liam says through his giggling, which makes him look way less threatening than he actually is. It makes it hard for Harry to dislike him like Harry dislikes other jocks. Liam waves a hand in Harry’s direction. “Who wants to bet that by the end of today, you two are going to be walking out of here hand-in-hand like some fucking teen TV movie?” (Okay, maybe Harry does dislike him just as much as other jocks.)
“I second that,” Zayn the artist pipes up. Louis, again, looks like he’s going to pop a blood vessel, but Harry leans back against the bookshelf, smirking. At least some of them have guts. Niall, however, is still marveling at Louis. “I wish I was popular,” the blonde sighs wistfully, and his face reddens again with an expression that clearly says that he didn’t mean to say it out loud.
“Ni, you’re plenty popular,” Louis says in a gentle voice that he probably learned how to perfect sophomore year when he was head of the Peer Counseling Committee. Niall nods like he’s been to that Peer Counseling Committee many times. The exchange is so comical that even Zayn is smirking, but it’s Harry who speaks again. “Don’t lie to the poor kid, Tomlinson,” Harry sighs as he drops off the librarian desk and goes to slide into the table across from Niall and Louis. “Niall, it is Niall, right?-- you don’t want to be popular. Being popular is so very restricting,” Harry says quietly, tipping his head not-so-subtly towards Louis, who looks completely flabbergasted. “If you were popular, you’d have to get straight A’s and suck up to every single adult in your life. You’d have to lie to your parents about how much you actually despise yourself, you’d have to wear pants that are literally restricting and, well, you could never ever be comfortable with your own sexual identity.”
Harry hits the exact nerve he was searching for and Louis is standing again. Harry stands, too, and so does Liam, immediately stepping between them this time while Zayn laughs softly behind them and mutters “bark” under his breath.
“At least I’m going places, Harry,” Louis says over Liam’s shoulder, his voice deadly and calm because he knows how to tear people apart with words. “At least I’ll have a scholarship next year, and I have friends. At least I have both my parents and I don’t try to be something I’m not.” The prom king’s lips curl into a cruel smile and he might as well have just punched Harry in the gut, but Harry refuses to let it get to him. At least not here in front of the others.
“Yeah, well,” Harry just shrugs, dropping his confrontational stance and strolling back down the aisle to where his stack of books is. He falls heavily into his chair and thumps his feet back up on the table, content with twiddling his thumbs while Louis tries to restore the damage done to Niall.
“I didn’t mean it like that,” Louis is mumbling softly, moving up a desk to sit next to Niall, looping a comforting arm around the kid’s shoulders, “I just meant, you know, you’re popular with your own friends. I saw you last year when you were in marching band, they all love you in that club…”
Liam casts a skeptical glance over his shoulder to Harry, who just grins and makes a blowjob-motion with his tongue and hand. Liam’s face drops into an expression of disgust and, once again, Harry doesn’t have anyone to talk to.
“So, Zayn. Zayner. Zaynie Brainy,” Harry starts conversationally, spinning in his seat and planting his elbows on the kid’s desk behind him. Zayn looks up at him like a wounded animal who knows he’s being hunted.
“I tried to kill myself,” Zayn says quietly. It’s so quiet and honest and quick it stops Harry, who wasn’t expecting anyone else to admit their reason for being there. Zayn lifts his eyes to Harry’s defiantly, and Harry feels so small. Harry hates feeling small, but he doesn’t have the courage to put up a fight when this boy he’s never talked to before admits that he didn’t want to live anymore. Harry hates his life, sure, he hates himself and the world and has always struggled with the whole “being optimistic” thing, but he’s never considered offing himself.
“I, ah….I suppose you’re probably not familiar with…have you ever read anything by Sylvia Plath? Ginsburg? Uh, Rimbaud, maybe?” Zayn asks shyly, scratching his head. Harry shrugs, more focused on keeping his face carefully blank. Zayn blushes. “Alright. Well, I guess…I tend to, like,” he laughs, like he’s sharing an inside joke with himself, “I tend to romanticize things a lot. And I hate when people say they were in a bad place, as if that was an excuse, but…I was in a bad place. I, um, got caught stealing x-acto knives. School system at it’s best, right? Take a kid right from the hospital’s suicide watch and stick him in detention as soon as he comes back to school.” He taps a finger against his own temple. “You read too much poetry and spend too many days in art rooms with sharp things, it might fuck you up a bit.”
“I’ll…I’ll keep that in mind,” Harry manages, his mouth feeling thick and his chest heavy. Zayn just gives him a grin and ducks his head back to his sketchbook, where he’s drawing roses.
“Harry?”
Harry still feels slow with the weight of Zayn’s story, and all he wants is to tuck himself against a bookshelf and hide for the rest of the day, but instead he composes himself and turns to where Niall and Liam are both looking at him from the front of the room.
“Is it true you set off the fire alarms last year at the homecoming dance?” Niall asks timidly. Liam looks pissed off, and Harry distinctly remembers that Liam was one of the nominees for homecoming king.
Harry glances back at Zayn, not wanting to abandon the boy in the hoodie if he still had something to say (since when did Saturday detentions make him so damn empathetic?), but Zayn lifts a shoulder in a shrug and goes back to doodling.
“Maybe,” Harry replies, getting up and moving again to plant himself down next to Louis, who starts aggressively stabbing at his phone screen the moment Harry sits down. He manages to keep his vague, mysterious face on for about five more seconds before he breaks into a grin and chirps, “yeah, that was totally me.”
Liam sighs heavily and Niall’s face lights up. “Really? Did you cut off the security cameras, or was it a technical glitch you worked around, or—“
Harry holds up his hands. “Woah. Niall, it’s called walking up to the alarm and pulling it. If I had known how to shut off cameras, I wouldn’t have earned six weeks detention for it.”
“Is that the only thing you’re going to be remembered for, then?” Louis asks, turning to look at Harry sharply. “Most amounts of detentions in a 4 year span? Are you even going to graduate?”
Harry’s about to shoot back asking why Louis even cares, but the library door is opening and Cowell is walking in. Harry ducks under Louis’s desk before anyone sees him, and Louis tries to knee him in the throat.
“Where’s Styles?” Cowell demands after doing a fast headcount. Harry can tell there’s tension even from under the table, where his only view is that of Louis’s crotch.
“Bathroom?” he hears Liam say uncertainly, and he has to stop himself from scoffing at how unconvincing Liam sounds. Harry can only envision the skepticism on Cowell’s face.
“Tomlinson! Where’s Harry?” barks Cowell, and Louis flinches. Harry hears him stuttering above the desk, and Harry figures it’s now or never if he’s going to get ratted out, so he leans forward and sinks his teeth gently into Louis’s inner thigh.
“Bathroom,” Louis squeaks out, a hand shooting under the table to grab a fistful of Harry’s hair. Harry replaces his mouth with his hand, palming over the seam of Louis’s jeans until Louis’s hand releases Harry’s head and flicks him the middle finger.
There’s a door slam and Louis is shoving away from the table and glaring at Harry, who just grins. “Thank you for not ratting me out,” he says innocently, crawling out from under the table. Louis is flushed and stumbling to move as far away from Harry as possible. By the time Cowell comes storming back into the room, Harry is back at his desk skimming through The Encyclopedia of African Birds.
“You were not in the bathroom,” the man snaps, and Harry gives him his best puppy-dog face.
“I definitely was, sir. I just came in the other entrance.”
It’s only 11AM and they have four more hours of this, and Cowell is already tired of the excuses. He gives them all a final vague threat to behave or else before he leaves again, the library door clicking shut behind him. Harry tosses the book over his shoulder carelessly and slides up to sit next to Niall. By this point, everyone but Zayn has moved seats—Louis is now sitting at the opposite end of the aisle from Harry, and Liam is moving back to peer over Zayn’s shoulder at his sketchbook. Five teenage boys in a library for seven hours on a Saturday is less of a punishment and more of an experiment in human behavior.
“Marching band, I hear?” Harry asks, and Niall’s face brightens. The thing is about this Niall character, Harry realizes, is that he totally could be popular. And not the asshole popular like Louis’s clique, but the kind of popular where he could just be generally loved by everyone. But this is the first time Niall is actually making eye contact with Harry and it’s the first time Harry sees his smile, radiant and stacked with turquoise-bracketed braces, and it’s the first time that Harry is smiling back at someone today. (Seriously, Saturday detentions like this are going to ruin his reputation. There are a lot of firsts for Harry today.) “Yeah, man,” Niall says enthusiastically. “You may not believe it now, but being drum major gets you so much luck with the ladies.”
“Really,” Harry replies skeptically, but he finds himself laughing. Niall nods, eager and squirming in his seat.
“Yes,” he emphasizes, waggling his eyebrows, “especially the colorguard girls. Can’t get enough of me.”
“Huh,” hums Harry, and he throws a glance over to Louis and calls, “Hear that, Tomlinson? Niall here is a total ladies’ man. Would’ve pegged him for a virgin, myself. Would’ve pegged you as straight, too. Today is full of surprises.”
Louis gives him an exhaustive look but doesn’t rise to the bait. Niall, on the other hand, is blushing and stuttering next to Harry. “Well, I…”
Harry widens his eyes and turns back to him. “Don’t tell me you’re still a virgin, Niall. Not after all that bragging.”
If Niall gets any redder he’s going to pass out, probably, but he grins wickedly in a way that makes Harry think that if he knew Niall in a past life, they would be best friends. “No, I was just going to say nobody ever gives me enough credit. Girls dig braces.” He bares his teeth at Harry and runs his tongue over the metal in his mouth.
Harry is officially impressed, and he buries his face in his hoodie sleeve before laughing. “Wow. Wow. All of you are surprising me today. Let’s keep the confessions coming. Are any of you not virgins?” he looks around—Zayn and Liam have stopped talking from where they’ve been bent over one of the books Harry pulled earlier, and Louis is shrinking into his seat. Zayn blushes a deep red but Harry chooses to pretend not to notice, instead turning his sights to Louis (always Louis, today). He licks his lips and Louis gives him a pleading look, a look that clearly says please don’t embarrass me any more than you already have. Harry knows Louis is trying to play nice, but Harry doesn’t want him to play nice. Not when he knows that Louis can fight tooth and claw. Harry wants Louis to pull his hair again. Harry still wants reactions.
“Tomlinson? You?” He asks, feigning surprise. Louis’s mouth lifts into a snarl, but before he can fight back Harry is standing up and bounding across the room to him.
“’M not a virgin,” Louis mumbles, and Harry leans down to be level with Louis’s ear. “Oh, you’re not a virgin. You’ve had plenty of girls suck you off, right? You slept with that bird sophomore year after the winter dance, everyone knows about that.” Harry can feel the other boy’s eyes on them, and Harry feels heat creep up his own neck when he whispers, “but you’ve never been with a guy.”
“No,” Louis snaps, pushing Harry away. His eyes flash threateningly and Harry is so turned on. This is what he was looking for.
“Guys,” Liam sighs from somewhere behind them, and Harry finally steps away even though he can still feel Louis’s eyes burning into his back. Harry relocates to sit back with Zayn and Liam, digging through the brown paper bag he brought for lunch. “Now you, Liam Payne,” Harry begins as he tears open a bag of pretzels, “you’re Mr. Hot Stuff, aren’t you? Baseball catcher, yeah?”
Liam has been looking at Harry this whole morning like Harry is a predator. Which is good. That’s how people should look at Harry. “You’re the only one who hasn’t shared anything about himself with me,” Harry pouts. “Sharing is caring.”
Liam half-turns to shoot a surprised look at Zayn, who looks just as calm as he’s been all day. Harry doesn’t miss the way Liam steps defensively in front of Zayn’s table.
“You got any crushes, Liam?” Harry asks just to see Liam blush. He does, but shakes his head and pulls his bottom lip into his mouth. “No time for relationships,” the baseball player replies quietly.
“I get it. You athletes and your schedules,” Harry sighs dramatically. Liam finally relaxes and sits down, and soon the library is quiet with the rustling of plastic and paper and crinkling of wrappers and food. It’s only when there’s speaking a few rows ahead of them that Harry knows that something’s wrong.
“Are you sure you don’t want it?” Niall is offering, holding out half of his smushed peanut butter and jelly sandwich. Louis is shaking his head, softly saying “no, thank you though, I’m really not hungry” and Harry debates talking about it. He debates getting up and once again calling Louis out on why he’s not eating, because he wants to see Louis blush that delicious pink again. But then Louis turns in his seat, risks a glance at Harry and meets his eyes before whipping back around and dropping his head into his arms. Niall shrugs and goes back to devouring both halves of his sandwiches, and Liam and Zayn didn’t even notice the exchange at all.
“Alright,” Harry declares, standing up on his seat. He crumples his lunch sack into a ball and chucks it in the general direction of the trashcan (missing it spectacularly) and jumps down, strolling to the back of the library where there are open lounge chairs. On his way past, he claps Zayn on the back and extracts two joints from his jacket pocket. “Zayn. Buddy. Pal. Please, if you’re going to pull the whole brooding starving artist thing, at least tell me that you’re not opposed to smoking with me.”
Zayn breaks into a full grin and he gets up, following Harry back. Both of them ignore the incredulous “you’re going to smoke?” from Liam, but within minutes the remaining three are sulking back and setting themselves on the couch across from where Harry is fumbling with a lighter. After three failed attempts at lighting the joint, Zayn snatches the zippo and lights the first joint with ease, leaning over to light Harrys before he lets the smoke melt out of the corner of his mouth.
“We shouldn’t be doing this,” Louis says quietly as Niall passes him one of the rolls. He takes a hit anyway, making pointed eye contact with Harry. Harry doesnt miss the way Louis's mouth puckers around the joint, and he doesn't miss the way Louis licks his lips after taking a hit and handing it off to Niall, who is already dissolving into a mess of giggles (though it's probably more out of the rush of possibly getting caught than it is from the actual weed).
By the time the second joint is already burning to the end, Zayn has slouched over sleepily to rest his head on Liam's shoulder, and Niall is half-heartedly trying to explain the dynamics of half-time shows to Harry. Harry is doing his best to listen, but he's finding it ridiculously hard to focus on Niall's explanation when Louis is sitting across from him playing with Zayn's lighter and sucking up the last breath of smoke. "Sorry, Niall, hang on..."
Before Niall or Louis can ask, Harry is shifting across the couch to Louis and hovering his mouth just over Louis's, humming low and waiting for the exhale. Louis's eyes are hazy and vaguely confused, but he obliges, leaning forward. He touches his lips to Harry's for half a second before pulling away and exhaling the last puff of smoke into Harry's mouth. The rest of the room has stilled and is watching them with a curious fascination, but Harry only has eyes for Louis's mouth and the way his eyelids fall half-closed. He hums again when he finally blows out the remains of smoke, kissing Louis on the cheek because he's high and can't help himself. "Thanks, babe," he chirps before moving back next to Niall, leaving Louis red-faced and stammering. The silence is almost unbearable, now, especially with how Liam is smirking at the two of them, so Harry finally speaks, cutting Niall off and his voice rousing Zayn from his half-nap.
"Okay. Why are you all here?"
"We don't have to tell you," Liam sighs, tipping his head back to blow his last lungful of smoke up to the ceiling.
"I shared my weed with you. you have a moral obligation to share something with me," Harry pouts. When Harry is high, he's much less intimidating.
"I already told you," Zayn mumbles, shifting to tuck himself deeper in Liam's side. There's an awkward silence before Zayn realizes he hasn't told everyone, and he heaves a sigh and sits up. Again, with the ease he had when he told Harry, he rucks up the sleeves of his hoodie and scruffs his charcoal-stained fingers through his hair. Though he doesn't obviously show off the black threads of stitches running down his wrists, nobody misses it, and the heaviness of the scars hangs heavily in the smokey air.
"I got caught cheating on my chem exam?" Liam offers lamely, though it's obvious he's just scrambling to say something in order to fill the silence left by Zayns movement. Zayn gives him a raised brow and falls back against the couch, curling in on himself. Liam pouts at the distance Zayn puts between them, but he keeps talking. "Um, yeah. I was supposed to have a scholarship, like for baseball? and uh, I wasn't...I'm not smart. Book smart. And I really needed this grade, you know, like I've got so much pressure on me. So." he shrugs again and stuffs his hands in the pocket of his hoodie.
Had Harry still been sober and mean, he'd ask if Liam's pressure also had anything to do with his taste for quiet poetic boys or how he probably never wanted to be a baseball player in the first place, but instead he stays quiet.
"I can help you out with chem, Liam," Niall offers softly as he pushes the butt of the joint around on the table between them. Nobody wants to talk about the fact that prior to today, none of them would ever have acknowledged the others existence.
"I tried hacking the computers for test grades," Niall says moments later. "Senior paid me to do it, just to change his History grade. Thought it would...I dunno. Get me in with him and his friends."
Harry feels his mouth unconsciously lift into a scowl and he directs the expression to Louis, because those are the kind of people who Louis hangs out with--the cool kids who take advantage of everyone around them and don't think about the consequences. Louis glares right back and says "I'm here because I was cut class and was caught making out with the captain of the basketball team in the courtyard." he says it steadily and watches Harry, obviously bracing himself for the teasing or I told you so. But it doesn't come, and Louis's hands shake the tiniest bit. "What about you, Harry fucking Styles? Why are you here?"
Harry blinks. "I told you. I threatened to kill a freshman."
Louis shakes his head and leans forward. He seems steadily sober, except for the redness that rims his eyes. He points a finger at Harry. "No. I mean why are you here? All the time?"
Harry feels himself tense up, the effect of the pot faltering when his chest tightens. If it was anyone but Louis asking him, he'd be able to talk his way out of answering. But Louis's face is steely and determined and Harry owes him this, he thinks, he owes him this answer because Harry has been an absolute dick all day. "I don't like being home," he says as calmly as he can. When Louis's face doesn't soften at all, Harry knows he's still not off the hook. He buries his hands in his hair for a moment, closing his eyes. "My mom isn't, um. Well. She's sick, a lot, and she drinks a lot, and she reads a lot of the same things you do," he says softly, flicking his eyes to Zayn. "And I'm a shit son and I'm too scared to go home because I'm not strong enough to help her. So I stay out of the house." he offers up a smile, but it's hollow. "pretty sure I've got some sort of complex, like Freud or whatever, right?"
Niall laughs, but the group falls silent.
"Can we talk?" Louis finally says after five minutes of nobody moving. He's looking carefully at Harry, who just shrugs and gets up, following the shorter boy back into the aisles of books. Niall launches back into his explanation of matching bands, and he's animated enough that it makes Liam laugh and pulls a genuine smile to Zayns face.
“We can’t let Liam see us if you want to hold my hand,” Harry jokes, but his voice doesn’t carry it’s usual teasing. Louis puffs a breath of air up and pushes his hair out of his face. “I’m sorry about what I said earlier,” he finally says quietly, crossing his arms and leaning up against the bookshelf. Harry nudges the other’s boy’s shoe and looks up at him through his mess of curls. “What part?”
“All of it,” Louis replies after a moment, chewing his lip. “The comments about parents and friends and stuff.”
No. No, it’s not going to be this simple. Harry starts shaking his head, and before Louis can reply, Harry is laughing. Fist clutched against this stomach, he laughs so hard he has to half-lean against the opposite bookshelf for support. “Noooo, Tomlinson. No. It doesn’t work like this. I know you have to go around and fix everything you say even if it’s to people you hate. No. I don’t need that shit, okay?” He composes himself fast, stepping forward to jab a finger in Louis’s face, anger rising to a boil under his skin. “I don’t care about your need to be loved by everyone. Don’t apologize to me. Just because you come out with your gloriously rebellious story about kissing the basketball captain and apologize to me now doesn’t change anything. You’re a prick.”
He wants Louis to fight back. That’s all he’s wanted today—for someone to act like they feel something, just to make Harry feel better because he feels so damn much all the time. But Louis just flushes red and looks at the ground. And it’s enough for Harry. He’s had enough. There’s two more hours until he has to go home and today will have been a waste and he’s had enough of today. He tries to shoulder his way past Louis but before he can make it to the end of the aisle, the smaller boy is grabbing his arm.
“This feels a lot like a teen fucking TV movie,” Harry hisses, eyes sparking angrily when Louis forces Harry to turn around. And Louis is more intimidating than he looks. If Harry wasn’t so pissed off, he’d be impressed.
“You try so fucking hard to be this mean asshole,” Louis says, but there’s no emotion to his voice. It’s all in his eyes, and the way he’s digging his fingers into Harry’s arm. “I saw you talking to Zayn. I saw the smiles Niall gave you. I know you know more than you let on and it’s really fucking infuriating seeing you in the hall when you’re trying to put on a show. Because you don’t fool anyone, Harry, and it pisses me off that you try so hard. So, you might think you know everything about everyone, but you don’t. And I know you. You’re not this.” Louis shoves Harry hard, and the taller boy is soon cornered against the shelf and wall. Louis is standing chest-to-chest with him, and Harry’s eyes have dropped to Louis’s mouth, but that doesn’t stop the older one from speaking. “I hate seeing you everyday because I see how you are in the halls and I see how you are when you walk home alone and you act like such a punk but you’re a poser.”
There’s a few moments of tense silence before the inevitable happens—Louis is crushing his lips to Harry’s, all anger and lust and a whine falls out of Harry’s throat when Louis’s fingers dig into the dips of Harry’s hips, pinning him to the bookshelf. The kiss is hot and open-mouthed and Louis can’t curse Harry off because his tongue is in his mouth, so he just bits down on Harry’s lip until the other boy lets out a moan that goes straight to Louis’s crotch.
“I see you every day,” Louis pants out against Harry’s neck, leaving biting kisses on the clean column of his throat between words, “and I’ve never talked to you.” His rant is interrupted when Harry starts rutting against Louis’s hip, and Louis only keeps himself focused by knotting his hands in Harry’s hair, pulling, and biting hard on Harry’s collarbone until the boy slows his grinding and looks up at him. “I want to talk to you.”
“Later. We can talk later,” Harry mumbles against Louis’s mouth, sliding a hand down Louis’s torso and slipping his fingers under the waistband of Louis’s sweats.
“Later,” Louis breathes, and he doesn’t miss Harry’s wicked grin when he finally thumbs under the waistband of Louis’s boxers.
“They’re going to hear you,” Harry giggles, biting Louis’s earlobe while Louis arches his back into Harry’s touch, biting his shoulder to muffle his soft whimpers. It doesn't take long, because Louis is still high and Harry is mouthing at his neck and Louis wants to strip Harry naked right here if he could. When Harry pulls away he's grinning, but Louis doesn't have the brain capacity to make a remark. But now Harry is looking at Louis a little gentler—the prep is a mess, leaning against the bookshelf, hair splayed across his forehead and his mouth and neck red from contact. Harry’s pretty sure he looks equally fucked, not to mention the strain in the front of his own jeans, but it’s only a matter of time before Cowell or the other boys come looking for them, so he struts back out to the longue area, mess of curls, boner and all.
“Have fun?” Niall asked with a raised brow. Zayn is curled back up against Liam’s side drawing, and Liam is watching him with total awe, and Harry knows that he and Louis weren’t the only ones who talked in the timespan they were gone. Harry shrugs and plops down next to the drum major, snatching up one of the school newspapers and hiding behind it, only peeking up over the edge when he hears Louis stumbling back to the couches.
Nobody says anything, but something is different now. Liam is asking Niall about the chemistry exam, and Louis is tucking himself next to Zayn and gently asking if he can see his sketches. Again, Harry’s the outcast, but he doesn’t mind. He definitely doesn’t mind the way Niall throws him a wild grin when Liam jokes about what chemicals are in marijuana, and he doesn’t mind how Zayn gives him a grateful smile from behind his sketches. And, even though he would never say it out loud, he doesn’t mind the way Louis presses himself a little closer to Harry when he moves back across the couch and asks to see the newspaper.
No, Harry supposes that he doesn’t mind spending his Saturdays like this at all.