“I’m so sorry,” is what a frazzled Julia says when Louis shows up windblown and short of breath to his babysitting gig. “I thought I was booking the sitter and James must have thought he was, and Harry’s already shown up…”
Louis sighs inwardly and plasters a smile onto his face. “I understand; it’s no problem,” he says as calmly and sympathetically as possible given that he’s just been deprived of twenty quid that could have gone towards his rent. As an aspiring singer, he really needs the money.
“Enjoy the opera,” he says to Julia with faked cheer. “Say hi to James and Max for me!” He turns around and walks away from the stonework stoop slowly, normally.
As soon as he rounds the block, he curses. He doesn’t want to go back to the flat out of a job he’s actually good at. There’s nothing else to do on a Saturday night that doesn’t involve spending money though, so he drags his feet back to the station, ignoring the annoyingly picturesque houses and terraces along the way. He spends the long Overground ride aimlessly watching tree silhouettes and brick walls pass by as the sun sets, berating his choices, his luck, and everything else. The sky is completely dark when he reaches Blackhorse Road, leaving the street lamps below to light up the cold February drizzle and glistening puddles.
He slams the flat door closed and flops onto the ratty couch without any greeting. In the back of his mind he knows he’s being an arse of a flatmate, but he really doesn’t care.
“You alright?” Zayn says without turning around from his easel.
Louis groans. “They double-booked. How do you fucking double-book a sitter?”
“Yeah,” Zayn replies, neither agreeing nor disagreeing. Instead of letting Louis continue his litany of complaints, he remarks, “My aunt made some daal; it’s on the table.”
Louis sighs, letting himself sink into the couch for one more second. “Thanks bro,” he says, and drags himself over to dining table because the daal is there and certainly not because Zayn will rat him out when Liam gets back from his shift.
“Can you believe they gave my job to some spotty fifteen-year-old?” Louis gripes as he stuffs lentils into his mouth. “If I ever meet this Harry character I’m not going to be responsible for my actions.”
Zayn keeps painting. “Did you say anything to Corden?”
“I am an actual real life adult, Zed,” Louis says, rolling his eyes. “Cordo wasn’t there; I think him and Jules were going to meet up. ’Sides, if I fall out with Cordo who’s going to give me any gigs?”
James contacts him the next day, apologetic. However, he’s decided that stability for Max in the form of a steady sitter was worth more than any long-lasting friendship, and Louis can’t fault him. He’d do the same for his own siblings in a heartbeat. James tries to be encouraging about Louis’ lack of babysitting or singing gigs, and promises a few referrals of the former. Still, a downgrade from Chinese takeaway and one-pound sarnies to frozen meals is in Louis’ very near future.
His phone buzzes again; it’s a text from his mum reminding him to apply to more auditions. He buries himself in the sofa. “I’m never getting up again,” he mumbles.
Liam gives him a few pats on the shoulder and covers him with a blanket.
A few days later, Louis wakes up to Marimba ringing loudly into his ear. He reaches blindly for his phone, nearly knocking it off the beside table before getting a grasp on it, and squints at the screen. Assured it’s not a telemarketer, he swipes it open. “Hey Cordo, alright?”
“Yeah, alright. Listen, Jules and I are going out today and Harry can’t make it. You free?”
“I’m always free for you, Cordo,” Louis jokes and tries not to let on that he’s just woken up and is still lying in bed. “Sure, when d’you want me by?”
“Half eleven,” James replies. “Could you pick up something for Max to eat? We’ll pay you back, just that we’re running late and Jules doesn’t have time to make lunch. And could you get something healthy?”
“Sure, no problem,” Louis says, with much more confidence than he’s feeling considering it’s twenty past ten and he’s still in his bedroom in Walthamstow. He digs a pair of joggers and a hoodie from the pile of clean clothes in his room as he finishes the call, then runs to the kitchen to scarf down a bowl of Coco Pops, toes on his ratty trainers, and shouts a quick goodbye to Zayn. By the time Louis makes it to Hampstead, it’s twelve past eleven and he hasn’t got time to find a Waitrose, so he dashes into the first open shop on his route that looks like it might sell food.
“Hi, welcome to Baker’s Bunsense! How can I help you?”
“Hi, sorry, give me a mo’.” Louis tries to catch his breath, appalled at how out of shape he is, and realizes from the piles of bread in front of him that he’s in a bakery. He doesn’t know if bakeries have any healthy food and he may be panicking. He says, “I’ve a toddler that needs something healthy for dinner and I’ve no idea where to look and I’m supposed to be there in ten so if you could give me anything or point me somewhere else?”
“Don’t worry,” the shopkeeper says, in a deep, lulling voice. “I can help you with that.”
It’s only then, as Louis starts calming down, that he finally sees what’s in front of him and behind the long wooden counter: a cherubic face that could belong in a Renaissance painting, with hair tied up in a springy bun. “Er.” Louis feels a bit lightheaded. He blames the running.
The unfairly beautiful man smiles encouragingly. “How old are they? What do they like?”
Louis mentally runs through his previous experiences with Max. “He’s three and won’t eat anything without five layers of fat, but he’s supposed to stick to healthy foods only.”
“We have a parmesan chicken sandwich,” the man says. “Convincingly fatty but stealthily healthy. I can portion it out for the little one.”
Louis sighs, a sigh of relief and the slightest heartache of infatuation. “That would be brill,” he says, breathing more easily. “You’re a love.”
“Don’t say that now,” the man admonishes with a grin. “If he likes it, come back and tell me then.”
“I’m sure anyone would enjoy anything served here,” Louis replies with a friendly grin.
The man barks in delight. “Compliments will get you everywhere,” he says. He moves along the wooden counter and leans forward, magically lifting a sandwich from the uncountable heap of sandwiches on it. “Are you getting anything for yourself?”
“I probably won’t have time to eat,” he says with a laugh. “If I do I’ll have the leftovers,” he adds with a wave towards back where the man is starting to slice the sandwich up.
“A worthy calling,” the man says sagely. “Tiny eater cleaner-upper.” He slides the sandwich into a paper bag. “Here’s your sandwich,” he says, placing it on the counter. “It’ll be five pounds.”
Louis almost balks at the price before he remembers that he isn’t paying for this, and taps his card reluctantly. “What’s your name, so I know who to thank?”
“I won’t tell you until you tell me how it goes,” the man teases. “What time do you need to be there?”
Louis looks at the clock in the corner. It’s twenty past. “Oh shit,” he exclaims. “Thanks for the help.” He rushes to the door, and turns around as he remembers one last thing. “I’ll be back with results!”
He arrives at James and Julia’s with two minutes to spare. James quickly reminds him where all the snacks, sippy cups, and bibs are and gives him a list of rules, and soon he and Julia are waving goodbye to Max and locking the door behind them.
“So, young man,” Louis says from his seat on the ground by Max’s play area. “What are you doing?”
“I’m making a wery big awopane,” Max says. He describes all the different parts of the aeroplane to Louis and Louis nods thoughtfully at each explanation like a student of a great philosopher might. Louis is content to watch Max work out his strategy and ask questions every now and then.
He doesn’t even realize any time has passed until his phone alarm buzzes to proclaim it’s five to twelve. He moves to the kitchen, keeping an eye on Max as he washes his hands and finds plates. It takes him a few tries to locate the correct cabinet. He chooses a cartoon bear plate for Max and a boring adult plate for himself and slides the sandwich halves out from the bag and onto the plates, then he fills a matching bear sippy cup with water and studies the table to make sure everything looks right. With a nod to himself, he declares, “It’s time for lunch!”
It takes a minute to coax Max’s attention away from his half-finished airport, but when Max gets close enough to see his lunch he runs straight for it. “Harry maked dis!” Max says, excited and giddy. “Where’s Harry?”
Louis almost asks who Harry is, before he remembers Harry is the spotty fifteen-year-old who stole his job. “Harry’s busy today,” Louis responds, and Max’s face starts to fall. Louis recognizes the signs of a three-year-old about to throw a tantrum from helping raise four younger sisters, and quickly decides to plaster his statement over with a lie. “Harry made this for you,” he says as sincerely as possible, mentally sending apologies to Cute Shopkeeper. He hopes James and Julia won’t learn of his big fat white lie, or at least won’t mind it. “He says it’s very important for you to eat healthy.”
“Say dan’ ’ou Harry,” Max tells him. “I haf’a be polite.”
“I will,” Louis says. “We’re very polite, aren’t we?” After all, Cute Shopkeeper does deserve a thank-you that Louis is very willing to give. Max finishes his meal happily without any complaints, and Louis, who’s seen Max on one of his worse days, is definitely grateful.
James and Julia return at two, and Louis gives them and Max quick hugs before leaving. Louis heads straight for the bakery, but from a peek through the window the man’s off-shift already. He dithers outside for a minute, debating whether or not to go in. He doesn’t want to seem desperate. He laughs lightly at his own silliness, and turns back towards the station.
He doesn’t have anything to do for the rest of the day, so he stops by the flat to grab the grocery list and walks the half hour to Lidl. As he’s wandering around the supermarket, he sees a promotion for cake mix that reminds him of the bakery and buys some Madeira mix on a whim. It can’t be that hard.
Despite his baking bravery, he puts the mix away when he gets back to the flat. He doesn’t want to chance baking yet. Instead he loads Liam’s copy of The Last of Us into the Playstation and settles himself on the sofa.
A campaign and a couple hours later, he hears the sound of the door rattling, signalling Zayn’s return from class. “I got the groceries,” Louis calls out.
Zayn flips the light on, drops his knapsack onto the floor, and takes a seat beside Louis. “Good day then?”
Louis pauses the game and lets himself fall all over Zayn’s lap. “It was all right.”
Zayn picks up the controller. Louis hears muffled talking from the telly, and turns to watch Zayn play. When Zayn reaches a quiet area in the game, he nonchalantly asks, “Did you meet a cute boy?”
Louis, who won’t admit to anything of the sort, doesn’t answer.
“Where’d you go?” Zayn asks, as his character on-screen rifles through cabinets.
“Cordo’s place, babysat Max,” Louis says. And because he can’t help himself, he adds, “Went to the bakery to get some lunch for him.”
Because Zayn has been Louis’ friend for entirely too long, he guesses, “Cute baker?”
Louis makes a non-verbal sound, and sees the smug triumph creep on to Zayn’s face.
“Found him on Facebook yet?” Zayn asks.
Indignant, Louis elbows Zayn. “I’m not that creepy,” he protests.
“I didn’t say anything,” Zayn says, and knocks down a video game door.
The rest of Louis’ week is a doldrum of auditioning for shit pub gigs he doesn’t want and probably won’t get, and counting down his savings. He’s told he doesn’t have the right “look”: he’s not a pensive, melancholic artist with vintage specs and curly hair writing songs about heartbreak. He goes for long, dreary walks along the banks of the Walthamstow Reservoirs, but even in his most dramatic self-pity he can’t achieve the right sort of ennui. He manages to write three mediocre lines for an untitled song in three days.
Liam and Zayn seem to sense Louis’ bad mood. Liam takes to leaving Louis little cheer-up doodles on his cereal boxes before he leaves for work for Louis to find when he wakes up. Zayn encourages Louis to seek out Cute Shopkeeper, and keeps offering Louis his aunts’ food. Louis suspects that Zayn is in fact asking his aunts to make him meals, but he’s too proud to ask and too skint to decline free food. He even attempts to make Madeira cake with the mix he bought, but it turns out clumpy and lopsided. He and Liam still eat it.
Louis has an evening babysitting gig in Primrose Hill exactly a week from when he babysat Max. He figures there’s a good chance of it being Cute Shopkeeper’s shift again, so he decides to head out six hours early. He’s wearing his nicest pair of child-friendly skinny jeans; he hopes they survive Harry, four, and Belle, two. He also has a new beanie on, which will be safely stowed in his bag before he ever reaches the Baldwin–Willoughby residence.
Liam, who’s at the flat during normal human hours for once, stops him at the door. “Doesn’t your gig start at half five?”
“Decided to go sight-seeing,” Louis says flippantly, and he’s not even really lying.
Liam’s face gains a confused puppy look. He moves closer to Louis. Louis narrows his eyes as Liam makes show of checking Louis’ vitals, staring into Louis’ pupils and checking his heart rate. “I guess you’re not sick,” Liam finally says.
Louis hits Liam lightly on his freshly shaved head. “Of course I’m not, you knob.” He double-checks his pockets for his phone and keys. “I’m going now, t’ra!”
On the train over, Louis works on his untitled song and for once doesn’t overthink how pretentious he must look scratching lyrics in a notebook. He takes the same route to James and Julia’s place and eventually finds the bakery. There’s a couple of wooden white and cornflower blue picnic tables and benches on the outside and a painted window sign that reads “BAKER’S BUNSENSE” in a retro font that escaped his notice last time. On stepping inside, he thanks every deity in the world for the sight in front of his eyes: Cute Shopkeeper, tending to his little garden of baked goods. Louis can’t help but smile.
The man looks up as if sensing a customer, and when he catches Louis’ eyes he beams. “Hi! How was the sandwich?”
Though Louis thought it was impossible, his grin widens at the man recognizing him. “It was perfect; the little one loved it,” he says. “He passes on his compliments.”
“That’s the best sort of compliment,” the man replies, clearly delighted. “Anything else that brings you to this fine establishment today?”
“I’m looking to feed myself,” Louis says. “Any recommendations?”
“Well, I’m obliged to tell you that tastes absolutely everything is amazing,” Cute Shopkeeper says with a wink. Louis considers it substantial character development that he doesn’t ask the man if he is included as part of “everything” or if he does, indeed, taste amazing.
“I’m sure,” Louis replies with his best attempt at a straight face. “Alas, my mortal body can only consume so much.”
Cute Shopkeeper makes a pleased sound, his shoulders shaking with stifled laughter. “What do you like, then?”
Louis looks up and down the counter, taking in the baked goods. “I don’t know about cakes,” he says, lying terribly, “but I never say no to a good pasty.”
“Of course,” the man says, nodding with deadpan severity. “We at Baker’s Bunsense take a no-nonsense approach to our pasties.”
“Good,” Louis replies with equal solemness. “What sort of pasties do you have?”
The man walks him through the small selection of pasties, explaining their unique points as well as their existence—“as a Northerner I couldn’t stand for not having pasties in our selection”. Louis decides on a safe mushroom and steak pasty, and the man asks one of the other staff to heat it while he rings Louis up.
Louis decides to take a chance, and very smoothly and not at all awkwardly inquires, “So, I still haven’t gotten your name.”
The man’s mouth skews into a teasing smile. “Take a guess,” he lilts.
Louis takes a moment to study him. “You look like a George,” he declares.
The man laughs. “Is that so?”
“Definitely,” Louis says. “George Byron, George Ezra, Prince George…”
“Hey,” the man protests, still laughing.
Ostentatiously, Louis demands, “Was I wrong?”
Cute Shopkeeper shakes his head in what seems to be amused tolerance. “It’s Harry, actually,” he says.
“Well then, Harold, would you happen to be free for coffee at any time?”
Louis can hear a disbelieving snort from the young woman heating up his pasty. He’s not sure, but he thinks she also might be glaring at him out of the corner of her eye.
Cute Shopkeeper—Harry—plucks a card and a pen from the side of the till and writes something on the back. “Here’s my name and my number,” he says. With a teasing look, he adds, “So you won’t forget it so quickly this time.”
“How very dare you,” Louis says with a put-upon sniff.
The woman hands Louis his pasty, so Louis thanks Harry and moves to sit in the back corner. He eats his pasty while occasionally making silly faces at Harry and pretending to read his notebook. When he’s done, he takes the unnecessary step of dropping his plate off at the counter as an excuse to talk to Harry.
“Enjoy it?” Harry asks.
Louis hums in agreement. “Best pasty I’ve had south of Leicester,” he says.
“That’s very high praise from a Yorkshireman,” Harry replies, and quickly adds, “Sorry, did I guess wrong?”
“Nah,” Louis says. “Donny, that’s me.”
“Cheshire m’self,” Harry says. He glances at the woman, who is probably silently demanding Harry hurry up. “I’ll let you be going now if you promise to call?”
“Yep, will do,” Louis says with an embarrassing chirrup. Before he does anything worse, he waves and says, “Ta, see you!”
As Louis walks away, Harry adds, “You’ll have to try a cake next time and let me change your mind.”
“We’ll see,” Louis calls out. He probably should tell Harry at some point he actually likes cakes. He turns around and smiles to himself, and manages to only look back once or twice or a few times as he’s leaving the bakery.
Louis convinces himself to text Harry after his babysitting gig so he wouldn’t seem too eager. In keeping with his attempts at becoming a broody artistic soul, he sets out to take a walk around Highgate Cemetery. He’s still not sure what the appeal of a cemetery is, but if he stays in the fog and gravestones long enough he hopes he’ll absorb the ambience. He’s still much too giddy about Harry though, so it doesn’t quite work.
Louis makes it to the Baldwin–Willoughby’s with plenty of time to spare. Belle fusses up a racket when her parents leave but even so Louis has a brilliant time with her and toddler Harry. He’s tucked them into bed by the time Dan and Holly return, so he gives them an upbeat account of what Belle and toddler Harry have done and leaves in a cheery mood.
He texts Harry as he waits for the pedestrian light to change: “hi this is louis from the bakery today !”
The response comes a mere few minutes later, leaving Louis to conclude that desperate probably would have worked. “Hiii Louis. How are you .x”
Louis stops walking and types out, “good ! r u still on for coffee ? tho i only drink tea lol” He hits send before he can second-guess himself.
His phone buzzes again as he’s reaching the station. “Sounds good. Are you free tomorrow afternoon?”
He nearly starts texting in front of the turnstiles but manages to get to the platform before texting back. “deffo ! when and where !?”
“Where will you be around 3?”
“about sheperds bush , u ?”
“We can meet there or near the bakery?”, he receives. A few seconds later, he gets another message. “Have you been to Kenwood House?”
“no ? we can go ?”
“It’s a date .x”
Louis most definitely does not trip getting onto the Overground. He does not.
He manages to write an entire chorus to a new song that night. Zayn makes fun of him for how sappy it is, but when he’s done teasing hugs Louis and tells him it’s sick. For once, Louis thinks he might actually finish writing a song.
Louis arrives at Hampstead Heath station a full fifteen minutes early, only to find Harry already standing in front of the tiny station waiting. Harry spots Louis approaching the exit and waves excitedly.
“Hi Louis,” Harry greets with a smile. “How are you?” Today his hair is loose: waves of voluminous, glossy curls that frame his face and trickle down to the lapels of his trenchcoat, shining with the bright sunlight that seeps through the overcast sky.
“Yeah alright,” Louis says, taking Harry in. “Y’alright?”
“Alright,” Harry replies automatically, then adds with a wink, “Pretty brilliant, actually.”
Louis gives Harry a secretive smile, and asks instead, “Good day at work?”
“Jess says her arm’s healed so I won’t have to take her shifts any more,” Harry says. He playfully pokes Louis in the arm. “We only met because I took her shift.”
Louis nudges him back. “Fate, in’t it?”
They walk to Kenwood House, exchanging little tidbits (Louis’) and stories (Harry’s) as they stroll through the Heath. The trees are so dense that he can barely see the sky at times. Louis can’t see where any of the paths go either, but Harry navigates forks easily and he wonders how often Harry comes here. Their lively conversation is peppered with soft birdcalls echoing from anywhere in the woods.
At some point, Harry asks, “Your toddler is three?”
Immediately Louis shakes his head. “Not mine,” he says with a laugh. “I was babysitting for a friend.”
“Oh, sorry,” Harry says, sounding fretful. “I didn’t meant to assume.”
Louis squeezes his arm and gives him a reassuring smile. “’S alright,” he says. “I’d love kids of my own.”
“Me too,” Harry agrees easily. “I’d like to be further on in my career, though.”
“What do you do?” Louis asks.
Harry looks at him strangely. “I’m a baker.”
Louis blinks. “Oh. Oh! Sorry,” he says with utter mortification, “I thought you were only working the till.”
Harry shakes his head, his curls dancing about his face. “I was filling in for Jess while she was sick. I don’t usually work in the front.”
“Oh,” Louis says. “I’m so sorry. So you made the sarnie Max had?”
“Yep,” Harry responds. “That’s funny, I babysit a three-year-old named Max too.” He stops walking. He turns to Louis, looks at him with a thoughtful frown. “Are you James and Jules’ friend Louis?”
Louis realizes, with a bit of a sinking dread, that Max’s sandwich-making spotty fifteen-year-old babysitter Harry must be his sandwich-making Harry. Except Harry is neither not spotty or fifteen.
“Cordo didn’t mention you were fit!” Louis exclaims, then slaps a hand over his mouth. “Fuck, I didn’t mean to say that.”
Harry chortles, but then his expression settles into a softer smile. “You’re pretty fit too, I’ll have you know.”
“Thanks,” Louis says, trying not to blush in embarrassment. “So, where is this house I was promised?”
“Soon,” Harry replies.
Harry’s “soon” is about fifteen minutes, when the gleaming white mansion that is Kenwood House materializes from between the masses of trees. Louis feels out of place, but Harry ignores his protests and drags him along the path to the front door where he greets the volunteer in the foyer by name. He takes Louis on a narrated grand tour. Louis thinks he sees a few mums following at a distance, listening to Harry’s embellished stories of the paintings and the former residents.
By the time they reach the upper floor they’ve descended into giggling chaos and the mums have abandoned them. A staff member approaches them, telling them to be quieter. Louis and Harry look at each other guiltily. “Sorry Mary,” Harry says, with a charming, guileless smile. Mary just shakes her head.
Louis nods when Harry nods towards the doors. They giggle their goodbyes to Mary, and stumble down the stairs knocking shoulders the whole way, and wave to Alistair in the foyer as they exit. Once they’re outside on the gravel, they collapse on each other in laughter.
“That was brilliant,” Louis says, wheezing.
Harry covers his face and shakes his head. “Mary is going to make me do the cleaning next time!” he exclaims, still shaking with mirth.
Louis tries to calm down, but he catches Harry’s eye and sets off a fresh fit of giggles. It takes the two of them a while to regain their composure.
When he’s finally able to talk, Louis asks, “So you volunteer here?”
“When I have time,” Harry says. “I’d really like to do it more often, but in between the bakery and the sitting it’s hard to find time.”
“Why d’you sit?”
“Well, I love kids,” Harry says. “And I want to open my own bakery some day, so I’m trying to save up some money.”
Louis, who doesn’t have any career plan of any sort, is touched. “That’s really impressive, Harry.”
Harry ducks his head. “Thanks,” he says. “How about you?” Louis tilts his head in question, so Harry clarifies, “Why do you babysit?”
“I need the money, I guess,” Louis says with a shrug. “And I’ve six younger siblings—well, two are newborn—so I’ve lots of experience with kids.”
Harry’s eyes widen. “Six!” he exclaims. “Wow. I’ve always wanted younger siblings,” he gushes with dazzling enthusiasm. “I only have an older sister.”
Louis laughs. “I’ll swap you Fizz; she’s going through the difficult phase now.” Harry’s joyful face gains a slight furrow, so Louis elaborates. “Kidding; I love her to bits, really. I was probably much worse for me mum,” he confides with an abashed shrug.
Harry smirks. “I can tell.” Louis responds with an affectionate punch to Harry’s arm. Harry swats at Louis’s hands, which somehow results in their hands being clasped together. They look at each other, laugh sheepishly, and let go.
“So,” Harry says, “what do you do when you’re not running after toddlers?”
Louis makes a face. “I, ugh.” Harry’s still smiling, still interested in him, and he really doesn’t want to say he is basically unemployed. “I’m trying to be a singer, I guess.”
Harry beams earnestly. “That’s great! Do you write songs?”
“I don’t know,” Louis says. “I guess.”
“That’s amazing,” Harry says with infectious excitement. “You’ll have to sing one for me sometime,” he adds with a poke to Louis’s arm.
Louis thinks he would perform in any awful venue if it has Harry in it. “When I get a gig, you’ll be the first to know,” he says.
Harry grins and bumps into Louis’ side. “I’ll bake you something you like,” he says. “Non-sweet, right?”
Louis doesn’t bother to correct him. It’s still their first date, after all.
Although Louis insists a week is much too soon for him to meet Harry’s friends, Harry drags him along to a student pub night. They’re the first to arrive and take the corner of the table, but soon Liam, Zayn, and Harry’s best friend Niall arrive. It turns out Niall is both an engineering student and in a band, and promises to introduce Louis to some of his pub owner mates. Louis thanks him gratefully. He turns to Harry, who is pretending to be the picture of innocence, so Louis just sticks his tongue out at him and squeezes a bit closer on the bench. Zayn pretends to gag and Louis kicks him under the table while drawing circles on Harry’s thigh.
That night, cuddled together in Louis’ bed, Louis whispers to Harry, “I’m going to let you in on a secret.”
“Hm?” Harry mumbles, nosing into Louis’ neck.
“I have a bit of a sweet tooth,” Louis confesses.
Harry hums, then startles in realization. “You liar!” he says, fingers going straight for Louis’ ribs. Louis squirms at the tickling, trying to get a hold of Harry’s wrists. “I won’t let you escape my cakes now,” Harry says, getting a good jab in at his stomach.
“I’m sorry,” Louis says as sweetly and contritely as possible, then goes for Harry’s dick.
Louis writes a few songs about Harry. He doesn’t tell Harry they’re about him, but Harry has this tiny pleased smile every time Louis sings them for him, when they’re sat together on the sofa doing nothing at all.
Harry shows up to the flat often with cakes and other baked goods. Louis will complain that Harry is more than sweet enough, but he still eats everything with unabashed enthusiasm and glares at Liam and Zayn whenever they try to consume any cake before Louis’ had at last half of it. Zayn’s aunts mysteriously stop making daal for Louis.
In March, Niall’s mate Eoghan calls Louis up. “Th’ dosser we booked fer tomorrow dropped out,” he explains. “Can yeh make it?”
“Yeah, definitely,” Louis replies. Eoghan gives him a few instructions and ends the call, and Louis jumps for joy.
“Hazza!” he yells into his phone. “I got a gig!”