Archive of Our Own

It's half eleven by the time Louis is off work and letting himself out the back door of the restaurant, the one that leads into the alley where the bins are kept, always smelling like wet vegetables and cigarettes. It's cold, especially after the heat of the kitchen, the chilly air like a slap to the face, and he watches his breath fog with a sort of tired annoyance since he's just missed the 11:28 bus and has to wait until two to midnight for the next.

He stuffs his hands in his coat pockets, sucking in a deep breath and immediately regretting it. The tang of stale cigarette smoke that comes through the rotting veg is enough to make him want to light up, but he resists, knowing from experience that going from eight hours in sudsy water to the dry bite of cold air is a big mistake. It'll make the skin on his hands flake and peel and he'll have to ring up his mum and ask for the name of that nipple cream she used when she was breastfeeding, and doing that once was mortifying enough, even if it did work like a charm.

His smokes are in his pocket anyway, so he settles for restlessly running his fingers over the packet as he sets off for the bus stop, tracing his fingertips around and around the top flap.

It's a nice walk down Castlemaine at this time of night - most of the restaurants are closing up, no point staying open too late on a Tuesday. The press of people from earlier in the evening has thinned to just couples and small groups here and there, on their way home from a night out or en route to the next place, most likely The Horse and Head at the far end near Murphy Lane. He nods to someone he vaguely recognises but doesn't linger for a chat and before long he's coming up on Kent and the corner where the bus stop is.

It's not much, just a short red bench and an awning, and while it's never been a problem before, it's cold enough now for him to briefly entertain a fantasy where it's like one of those bus stops he's seen on YouTube, the fancy ones overseas that are all enclosed and heated. They probably have them in other parts of London too, in the posh or touristy areas, but stop 284, corner of Castlemaine and Kent, is apparently not a priority on the upgrade list.

At least it's deserted, Louis thinks, as he eyes the metal bench with mistrust. He's not sure he wants to put his bum on an icy slab of aluminium, no matter how bright and cheery it looks. Maybe if he had woolly pants on under his trousers, but the last thing he thinks about when he's dressing for a split shift in the kitchen is how to keep warm. He didn't even wear his beanie this morning, which was a mistake. Didn't think he'd need it, though, did he.

He's still frowning at the bench when footsteps break the silence, the squelch of damp trainers on the pavement heralding someone approaching much too quickly to mean anything good at this time of night. Louis glances up warily and shifts into his best attempt at a defensive stance just as a guy skids to a halt in front of the bus stop, panting slightly as he takes in the otherwise empty bench. "Did I miss it?"

Louis pushes slightly onto his tiptoes and gives the guy an arch look, a trick that he feels makes him look both taller and more intimidating, even if Harry does fall into paroxysms of laughter whenever Louis tries to look tough. It might be all right for Harry 'The BFG' Styles, always looming over other people, but Louis needs help in the height department, as much as he's loathe to admit it. "Miss what?" he asks, deliberately obtuse. If he's going to get a knife pulled on him he should drag out the exchange, increase the likelihood of someone witnessing it and bringing his murderer to justice after his violent, bloody death.

The guy shifts the rucksack on his shoulder and makes a helpless gesture that encompasses the bus stop and the road. "The bus, do you know if the 57 has come yet? I was meant to be here earlier but my class ran late, I really hope that wasn't the last one." He looks a bit anxious, eyebrows creased with worry, but Louis thinks he might just have one of those faces where every emotion gets a turn. It's quite an attractive face, Louis can't help but notice, nice brown eyes and brown hair, done a bit Beckhamish. The whole package is a bit Beckhamish in a way, but the guy looks much younger, Louis’s age maybe, and is obviously not as successful, judging by the way he's catching a bus and not screaming past the stop in a Lamborghini made of solid gold.

Budget Beckham, Louis thinks, completing his initial once-over and going for a repeat. It's quite easy to like what he finds and he's suddenly quite intrigued by the thought of a Beckham in his price range.

He relaxes back onto his heels since his feet are starting to hurt and Budget Beckham isn't going to mug him, probably. He's still looking at him though, expectant and anxious, and Louis finally remembers he'd been asked a question.

"I just got here, so." Louis shrugs, casually flipping his hair with one hand as he turns the cigarettes in his pocket a few times with the other. "Did you check the timetable?"

The guy’s entire face seems to fall and Louis realises he's made a tactical error. He probably should have started out helpful or something, might have won him a few more points than flippancy. He'd like a redo if at all possible, but apparently that's out of the question because the guy has launched into some heart-rending tale of woe, which Louis misses the beginning of because he's too busy watching his lips move as he talks to actually listen.

"–seen the mail truck, it had a huge dent in the bonnet! But that was on Sunday and they still haven't replaced the timetable." He indicates the pole where the timetable information is usually screwed on, and now that Louis is looking he can see how it might have met a mail truck - the pole is listing, angled crookedly away from the road, and there's a telltale smear of red paint halfway up. "So now I can't check if the 11:34 is the last run of the evening or if there's one more after midnight."

He looks so sad about it that Louis finds himself repressing his initial urge to ask him if he's actually that stupid, barely managing to trap the words behind his teeth before they're out. He's already started off on the wrong foot and doesn't want to entirely make a tit of himself in front of someone who looks like this. "Do you have a smartphone?" he asks instead, very slowly, managing to not bite his own tongue until it bleeds, but only just.

The guy blinks at him. "...Yeah?" he replies, sounding unsure.

Louis lets out a long breath and smiles tightly at him, hoping it comes off a bit rakish to the casual observer. "You know you can view the timetable online, yeah? They're all listed on the transit site."

Try as he might, he can't help a judgmental eyebrow flick up as the info seems to take forever to sink in, but he knows exactly when the guy's processed it because a huge grin spreads across his face, transforming it. It forces Louis to admit that there's rather less of a gap between the guy and his idol than he'd thought. Budget Beckham is beautiful.

"Really? Oh, that's brilliant!" The guy drops onto the bench and tugs his rucksack off, dropping it to the ground between his legs and rooting around for his phone. Louis winces pre-emptively as the guy sits down, anticipating just how cold the bench will be, but the guy is either made of tougher stuff than Louis - entirely possible, he's very sensitive - or is too distracted to feel the bite. "I can't believe I didn't even think of that, I should have looked there first! They probably have the buses online back home too but I usually just got a lift with one of my sisters. This is only my second week in London, actually, and my third time catching the bus, so I'm still getting my head around things, you could say. Have you lived here long?"

Louis caught maybe half of that. "What?" He hadn't been prepared for the way the smile completely altered the guy's face. Before, his features had been nice enough - of course they were, he was similar enough to Beckham for Louis to have made the comparison straight away. But when he'd smiled, when his eyes had scrunched up and his mouth had– Louis's own mouth goes dry. He feels wrong-footed. It's entirely possible this guy is completely out of his league.

Which is fine, honestly, considering he'd only half-entertained the thought anyway. No one actually picks up at the bus stop, or if they did it would definitely be at one of the posh ones. The Kent Road lay-by isn't really up there in seduction locales.

It would just be an easier pill to swallow if he wasn't so fit. Fuck. Louis needs a smoke.

The guy has located his mobile and is laboriously tapping away at it, so it takes him a moment to respond. Louis appreciates the delay and uses it to regroup, as well as to flip his hair again, just in case. He's surreptitiously checking for food stuck in his teeth with the tip of his tongue when the guy speaks again. "Yorkie, yeah?" He finishes typing, and Louis knows this because he hunts for the enter key and jabs at it with a triumphant finger before looking up with that smile again. "Or at least thereabouts?"

Louis is sorely tempted to chance an onset of eczema, fist clenching around his cigarette packet again. It can't be legal to have a smile like that, and it absolutely must be a crime to just go around pointing it at people in public. Louis is a victim here, innocent and unsuspecting. He wants to settle his nerves with a cigarette and it's too cold to do that and frankly everything is just turning to shit before his eyes.

But no, he can do this. Louis's used to devastating smiles. He sees Harry smile every week. He lets out a calming breath and focuses on the way it fogs in front of him, a much-needed veil between him and the guy. "Yeah, Yorkshire. Doncaster, specifically." Specifically, Louis would like to lick the guy's face. That's about where he's at right now.

He manages not to put that sudden and all-consuming desire into action, resisting the urge in a Herculean effort he's surprised he's capable of. It's entirely possible he'd get punched for attempting it and he has reason to believe it would hurt. A lot. He lets himself ogle the guy's arms and shoulders, fantasising very briefly about what they might look like with about five layers less clothing. Louis suspects they'd look very good indeed.

He licks his lips before he can stop himself, then winces. Fuck, they're going to get all chapped. He's going to need the names of his mum's nipple cream and her lip balm. Fucking winter.

"Doncaster," the guy repeats, looking like nothing has ever thrilled him more than finding out where Louis is from. "I'm from Wolverhampton, myself." Louis is completely unsurprised by this information, though he hoards it immediately, just in case. There'd been something of the midlands in the guy's accent, but not enough to scream full brummie. Black Country, he can tell now - might have picked it up faster, if he'd stuck around with his studies. They were going to start on dialects just when he dropped out and Louis violently ignores the familiar pang of regret that hits him when he remembers.

He turns back to the guy just as he finds something on his phone, face lighting up again. "Oh, there is another bus! 12:04 is the last one, that's fantastic. Thanks again for your help." He beams up at Louis and Louis simply cannot handle it a second longer, so he digs into his other pocket and pulls out his mobile before stepping away from the bench.

"Hello?" he says, pressing the blank screen to his ear. It's low, but the old pretend-phone-call is a classic for a reason, and besides, it's for self-preservation. Louis needs this. "Yeah, just waiting for the bus." He nods at the guy - Black Country Beckham, maybe that's better - then pretends to have a fairly involved and entirely one-sided conversation with 'Harry', who went through a Bond phase and would probably be quite chuffed to know he was inadvertently part of a fake-out.

Out of the corner of his eye he watches the guy check a few more things on his phone before exchanging it for an iPod in a bright red that almost matches the bench. He stops responding to 'Harry' beyond the occasional "mmm" and just watches the guy as he hunts around for his earbuds, staring at him until he slips them in. He has lovely ears, Louis thinks. And, fuck, his hands. Louis needs the bus to come right now and take him away from this torture, which is absolutely what this is. What else can you call it when someone this fit is here and friendly and completely unaffected by Louis's not-inconsiderable charm?

He may not have actually used his charm at any point in the encounter, but he still has all his physical attributes, and the guy doesn't look like he's even noticed. There hasn't been a single sideways glance at Louis's thighs, or his bum. Louis is entirely affronted.

He's wondering if it's the coat he's wearing, if the cut is somehow obscuring his assets, when the unmistakable sound of Robbie Williams cuts through the air.

"Hang on a sec, will you, Harold," Louis breathes to no one, and glances back at the guy, who’s swaying a bit to the tail end of Millennium, which Louis doesn't think he's heard in public since he was in year five. Possibly even before then. It’s a lot louder than it should be through the earphones, even if the volume's all the way up, and Louis is perplexed for a moment until he sees the shiny jack dangling free at the end of the cord, clearly not plugged in to the iPod at all.

Louis generally gets off on other people’s embarrassment. It’s less a sexual thing and more a complete and utter fulfilment of his soul, but he's torn in this case, mostly because he'd like to climb the guy and get off on him, to the sound of better, newer Robbie songs. It could be a thing. It could be their thing. Louis would definitely be a good thing for him, since the worst part is, the guy hasn't even noticed. He's just humming along as the song winds down, clearly with no idea that he has a captive audience of one, and a potential audience of much more. It's a prime setup for Louis to film and upload to YouTube, if he was actually that awful. He is that awful, in many ways, but probably not in this case. He would definitely share with Niall and Harry for a few laughs, though.

Louis manages to not tap into his camera app, but it's a close thing, and he pushes aside the disappointment to focus on the tingle of excitement he feels all the way to his toes at the possibility of this continuing into the next song. In any other circumstance he'd be dining off this years. Either way, he's suddenly hopeful that the following track kicks off with a big band intro, or some sort of death metal scream verse, and hisses "I’ll call you back!" at his phone before pocketing it and creeping closer.

Millennium fades into silence and Louis holds his breath, ready for the next song. And then–

It starts off quiet, even to Louis, and since the headphones are in his ears it must be even harder for the guy to hear, so he frowns distractedly and increases the volume. He boosts it enough for Louis to pick up the twangs of a familiar intro and while it takes him a moment to place it, he eventually does. Louis has half a cricket team’s worth of younger siblings, not to mention he also watched telly when he was a kid, so there was no chance he'd actually not recognise this particular track.

"What the fuck," he says, amazed.

"What the fuck?!" the guy says, leaping up from the bench and looking down at his iPod like it has personally betrayed him. Louis rather thinks it has, actually, since it’s currently blaring the Postman Pat theme song, louder even than the last track since the sound got turned up and all. The loose headphones cable swings around and catches on the guy's jumper and he finally notices it isn’t plugged in, and then there’s a horrifically awkward moment for him where he reaches for the cable, tries to turn down the volume with the same hand and looks up to check if Louis heard it, all at the same time.

Louis rather suspects it's pretty obvious he heard it, what with the grin he's wearing threatening to split his face, so. Yeah. He waggles his fingers in an obnoxious little wave.

The guy flushes a shade of red Louis wasn’t even aware the human face could go - Burgundy Beckham is all kinds of fetching, actually - and fumbles with the iPod again, managing to turn it off at last. He rips the earbuds from his ears and stuffs them and the iPod back in his rucksack, staring into its depths for so long that Louis wonders if he’s considering offing himself with something inside. That would definitely not be ideal, in any way, so he hastily initiates damage control.

"I was enjoying that," he says, stepping into the guy’s space until Louis’s grotty work Vans are almost touching his trainers. "Top bloke, old Pat. Bit weird how he took his cat everywhere, but at least Jen wore her seatbelt. More safety-conscious than some of my exes, to be honest."

The guy lets out a choked sound that could either be a laugh or sob, and then he finally pulls back from the rucksack, looking up and meeting Louis’s gaze ruefully. "Jess," he says.

"What’s that?" Louis is transfixed a little by the shape of his mouth, the way his lips seemed to smile around the double 's'. "Who's Jess?"

"The cat," the guy says, before hiding his face in his hands, his next words coming out muffled. "The cat’s name is Jess."

Louis wants to tear the guy's hands away from his face and smack them for covering up such a thing of beauty, but instead he just grips his smoke packet like a lifeline, probably mangling the cigs remaining into a squashed lump of paper and leaves. He doesn't even care if he has, fuck. This is terrible. He licks his lips again and tries to find his cool, the cool that had deserted him approximately six seconds into this encounter. "You're the big fan," he manages eventually, doffing an imaginary hat. "Putting on a tribute concert and everything."

"Free of charge," the guy agrees, letting out an embarrassed laugh and - mercifully - dropping his hands. "Actually–"

Whatever he was going to say is interrupted by the hiss of air brakes as a bus pulls up behind them, and when Louis glances over his shoulder to check out the interruption he’s spurred into action because it’s the 65 bus, which he'd completely forgotten about.

"Shit, that’s me," he says, surprised. Where did the time go? He fumbles for his pass, hands not quite working properly, and waits for a couple to step down from the bus. They can’t seem to bear to let go of each other, so it takes longer than it should, and he chances one more look back at the bus stop, reluctant to let the interlude end just like that. He might not have gotten the guy's number, or even his name, but he can probably get one more look at him. Seal him into the old mind palace for...later.

The guy is watching him with a funny expression that disappears so quickly Louis must have imagined it. It's late; he's projecting. Literally no one could blame him for that right now. "Have a good night," the guy offers, smiling at Louis. "Thanks again for the tip with the timetable."

"My pleasure," says Louis, because I'm probably going to wank to your smile isn't really appropriate. The couple finally tumble off the bus together, giggling madly, and he waits until they’re out of the way before he gets on. "Thanks for the concert."

"It was a one-time only deal," the guy shouts after him, waving and grinning, and as Louis finds a seat and falls into it, he can't stop himself from thinking fuck, I hope not.

It's not exactly easy for Louis to put the bizarre bus stop meeting out of his mind over the next few days, what with the guy's face and mysterious playlist and Louis's heretofore untapped reservoir of transit-related fantasies, but he's kept so busy with work he doesn't time for much more than a quick tug before falling into bed and then he's back in the kitchen again. He briefly considers mentioning it to Harry or Niall during the week, but eventually decides against it, since he doesn't know how to pare it down to a few texts. Harry would be far too interested in fit bloke @ the bus stop last nite!! and demand an unreasonable level of detail, and they'll be catching up on Friday after work anyway, if he does want to share.

By the time Friday rolls around, he's decided that he doesn't. Maybe it's mad, but there was something about the guy, something warm and perfect, and Louis needs, uncharacteristically, to keep it that way. It was a strange meeting but a good one, and he tucks it away inside for safekeeping where only the best things go.

He's got Friday night off but still needs to go in for the lunch shift, and it's full on as usual. He never had grand plans of becoming a dishpig - the hours are shit, and the pay even shittier - but it's the only job he's kept longer than a month in the last three years and he's not sure what else to do with himself anyway.

He'd had big dreams back in Doncaster, recurring daydreams about getting spotted in the streets, invited to audition for some book adaptation or a Skins reboot, handed an ongoing role on Doctor Who. Drama studies at uni had been something to pass the time until his big break. When the big break became increasingly unlikely he'd ended up passing the time without studying, and after that he'd just naturally sort of drifted away from uni. Dropping out officially had been disappointing to Louis, his family, probably everyone he'd ever known, but it was also a relief in some way. Since he hadn't given it his all, he hadn't really failed, had he?

Minor crises aside, Louis has been working odd jobs ever since then and he realises abruptly that he's coming up on six months at the restaurant, longer than he's ever held down a relationship, actually. Maybe his next tattoo can be a clean plate, sparkling from his bicep, or W-A-S-H over the knuckles of one hand.

It could be worse, he tells himself whenever he needs to, which is pretty much every day. His tiny flat might have a lot in common with a certain cupboard under the stairs at Privet Drive, but he doesn't have to share with anyone, which is a top result for all since people don't get along with him, most of the time. Or at least that's what his only housemate had said during their brief stay together, that first semester out of the residency halls. Something to do with his personality, eating all their food and, ironically, not doing the washing up. Louis has this thing with criticism in that he hates it, so in the end it had been better for everyone when he'd struck out on his own. He's not lonely. Not in the slightest. It's nice to have his own space after years of sharing things with his siblings and it's actually impossible to feel alone when your best friends are Harry and Niall, who between them know literally everyone in London and possibly the Commonwealth.

"Emma Watson," Louis says skeptically, accepting the pint Niall hands him and shifting over to make room in their booth. Niall squeezes in, both hands still full with the other two pints he carried over from the bar. Considering Harry’s been nursing some sort of radioactive-looking alcopop for the last hour Louis assumes both beers are for Niall, which is pretty much par for the course. "You never did."

"I did," Harry insists. "Met her in that tea place in Harrods. She said my mum’s hat was lovely."

"Anne has exquisite taste," Niall interjects. He fixes Louis with a serious look. "You know that, Tommo."

Louis rolls his eyes. "No one’s ragging on Harry’s mum’s fashion, all right? I’m just expressing my disbelief, shock, bemusement that the meeting took place at all."

"If you ever checked my Instagram," Harry starts, looking wounded.

"Yes, all right." Louis reaches over and tugs at Harry’s earlobe, then pokes him in the dimple, grinning as it deepens under his fingertip. "You and the fittest girl in all of England having a tea date. Just you and her, and your mum."

"Right romantic," Niall agrees, tipping up his glass to catch the dregs of his first pint. "Can I borrow your mum when I go on dates of m’own, Harry?"

Harry reaches over and flicks Niall on the nose. "You should be so lucky."

Niall launches into a recent-ish pop song that Louis barely recognises, changing the lyrics from you and me, girl to you, me and Anne, girl, sending Harry into a fit of laughter that ends with one of his flailing limbs knocking over his alcopop.

"Jesus," Louis hisses, jerking back from where the fluorescent ooze has splashed across the table. Sometimes he wonders how Harry gets around without needing a giant plastic bubble. "Do you reckon it’ll eat through the table surface? It is toxic, right?"

"It’s perfectly safe," Harry says, righting the bottle and licking out the last few drops as proof. "And delicious."

"Right, well, I’ll take your word for it." Louis edges back and casts about for a serviette. "Anything to mop up a chemical spill before it drips off and eats through my clothes, though?" Even if it's not poison, he bets it'll stain, and he'd been counting on these trousers going at least three more times without a wash.

Niall hands him a pair of coasters, and with no better alternative, Louis drops them on top to soak.

They all watch the coasters fatten and turn fluro, Niall and Louis trading identical looks of disgust. "Is that you done, then?" Louis asks Harry. "You’ve reached terminal drinkocity already, knocking bottles over, offering your mum to any and all takers."

"To be fair, Tommo," Niall says, carefully stacking his pint glasses and looking longingly over at the bar, "he didn’t really offer."

"True," says Louis thoughtfully. "Very true."

Harry thoughtfully pats Louis on the dick. "I’m quite in control of all my faculties, thank you very much." Louis grabs his hand and bites the meat of his palm in warning. "But I do need to make it an early one. Gemma’s staying over and I’ve lost my spare key."

"It’s barely past eleven," Niall says disbelievingly. "That’s like, breakfast time for a pub. It’s Friday night sunrise, Haz. If you tried to drive now it would be peak hour. There'd be people jogging along the Thames."

"Fortunately for everyone on the road tonight, I’m not driving." Harry gently extricates his hand from Louis and wipes it on Louis's shirt before pulling out his mobile. "Gems is going to pick me up."

"Fine," Niall says, turning his expression of utmost dismay on Louis. "What about you, Tommo? Gonna pike on me too?"

Truthfully, Louis would like to stick around, drink until he’s bladdered, throw up in a cab and stumble home at dawn, but he barely made the rent this month and he can’t afford a cab fare, let alone the cleaning fee. It's hard to say no to Niall, ever, but Louis has gotten through more difficult spots recently. Saying no here will be nothing compared to the time he didn't leap on Budget Beckham and suck his earlobe. Louis deserves a medal for that demonstration of willpower. "Bad news, Nialler."

Niall throws his hands in the air like he’s disgusted by the lot of them. "Who are these people?" he asks the ceiling, or maybe the Tottenham bunting someone's tacked up there for some reason. "Meant to be my best mates but they're just fucking off without me, leaving me to the mercy of strangers–OY! KEVIN! You bastard, when did you get into town?"

"All right then, Niall?" someone, maybe Kevin, shouts across the pub. Niall salutes them with his middle finger and grins.

"Terribly sorry to leave you all alone here," Harry says dryly. "Are you going to be okay?"

Niall shrugs, sliding out of the booth so Louis can escape. He gets a little headrush when he pushes upright but he doesn't think he's pissed pissed. "I’ll manage, probably." Niall fistbumps Louis and jerks his head at the bar. "All right then, fellas. Same time next Friday? Unless we should go to Harry's tea shop instead, get some scones and lemonade, really live it up."

"It’s very good lemonade," says Harry seriously.

Louis nods. "I do love me a scone."

Niall laughs, loud and exuberant. "Go home, you pair of wankers. I’ll see you next week."

They make their way out of the pub, navigating the mass of sweaty bodies milling around on the sticky parqueted square The Horse and Head seems to be marketing as some kind of dance floor, which is frankly terrible form for a pub, terrible. Eventually they're birthed out into the world again, the air cold and clear after the faintly hazy warmth of inside. Louis shivers and pulls his coat closer, checking his pockets hopefully for a beanie and coming up empty. He makes a sound of disgust that has Harry's head lifting and giving him a curious look.

"Forgot my hat," Louis says, more than a little pissed off at his past self. All willpower and no sense, that one. "Have done all this week, actually."

Harry’s unwinding his scarf before Louis has finished speaking. "No hat, I’m afraid, but you can take this. I’ll be in the car soon enough." He goes to hand it over then stops, thinking of something. Most of Harry's thoughts travel by way of his face, and Louis is reminded uncomfortably of someone else with that trait, because he is apparently unable to ever get over anything. Not going to think about it, he tells himself firmly, before amending it to: not going to think about it here. "Do you want a lift?"

Louis doesn't have much money but what he lacks in funds he makes up for in pride, and Harry lives clean on the other side of London. If Gemma dropped him off first it’d add at least an hour to their drive home, and Louis still has two legs and a heartbeat. London Transit willing, he can still catch a bus. And if he’s lucky, maybe–

"Don’t be stupid," he says, nipping the idea in the bud before it can even form. He takes the scarf off Harry and wraps it around his neck, eyes fluttering shut for a moment because of how good it feels against the skin of his throat. It’s soft like butter, if butter was also a type of wool, and probably worth as much as Louis’s flat. "Remember when Gemma drove into a wheelie bin? A stationary wheelie bin on the pavement? Minding its own business on the pavement where wheelie bins tend to live? I'll not be repeating that experience, thank you very much. Some of us are big on road safety."

Harry laughs, a red spot already forming on the tip of his nose from the cold. Louis's own nose is starting to drip, he can feel it. He's going to need the names of a good nipple cream, lip balm and some sort of cold medication from his mum. "I'm going to tell her you said that."

"Good, make sure you do. Let her know that Louis Tomlinson never forgets a minor traffic incident."

"Except his own," Harry points out. "You neglected to mention that time you reversed into a hedge."

"Hedges," Louis says regally, "are much shorter than bins."

They're still discussing the comparative heights of regular wheelie bins and standard hedge rows when Gemma's yellow Beetle rolls up. She brakes and winds down the passenger window, stretching over the seat and beaming out at them, never more Harry's sister than when wearing that cheeky grin. "Hello drunkards, how was your night?"

"Hey," Harry replies, mock offended. "I've barely had anything."

"It's true," Louis chimes in. He ducks down so he can see Gemma better. "Niall was most disappointed, reckon he's going to cut off all ties with us. We're dead to him."

Gemma tsks and unlocks the door, shoving it open and nearly kneecapping Harry in the process. "How are you ever going to make it up to him?"

"I'll weave him a friendship bracelet, yeah?" Harry grips the top of the door with one hand and pulls Louis into half a hug with the other. "Get home, get warm. I'll see you next week."

Louis rubs his runny nose on Harry's designer coat, cackling and dancing out of reach when Harry notices. "I'm going, I'm going!" He waves at Gemma and waits for Harry to fold himself into the car, which is always a bit of light entertainment. "And remember, say no to wheelie bins!"

"One time," Gemma shouts, but she waves back until Harry rolls up the window and they drive away. Louis salutes their tail lights and waits till they're out of sight before jamming his hands back in his pockets and trudging in the opposite direction, towards the bus stop. There's one at the other end of Murphy Lane, but he finds his feet moving towards Kent almost of their own volition, and he's not in the best state of mind to think too deeply about it, which is grand.

It's the earliest they've called off a night in a long time, so Niall's outrage is actually understandable - if Louis hadn't been there he might not have believed someone telling him that Harry went home before midnight. They'd started pretty early, though, given it a fair crack, and while Louis doesn't think he got to double figures, he'd definitely downed his fair share of pints. He's not off his face, can walk a straight line with military precision, but he's feeling soft around the edges, that stage just before maudlin and well before tears, where everything is raw and a little bit hopeful.

His thoughts are cobwebby, thin and fragile as he makes his way down Castlemaine again. He passes the restaurant where he toils away his life, windows gone dark, and gives it a distracted finger as he puzzles over why he's been feeling this way.

Because...it's weird, is what it is. Louis fixates, definitely; he's a very focused sort of bloke. He likes to sink his teeth into things, people, probably more like a Yorkshire terrier than he'd ever admit, or let anyone else admit without punching them. He just can't remember the last time he's fixated on someone he probably won't even see again, and after only a few minutes in their company at that. Bus Stop Beckham was just...interesting. And surely Louis can be excused for thinking back on it, especially after such a hilarious musical twist to the evening. He's actually mad keen for an explanation - maybe the guy's a composer, doing up a theme for a new show and getting some research in. Maybe he's a reception teacher and has stuff stored and ready to go for the kids. Maybe he just really, really likes getting the mail, who the fuck knows.

Either way, Louis needs to get past this. It's in everyone's best interest if they don't meet again. The memory can stay a memory, weird and shining. That's the best course of action, for sure.

He's warming up to the idea, actually, ready to let go of the bloke, when–

"You're back!"

Louis whips his head up so fast he's surprised he doesn't snap a vertebrae. It's good that he doesn't, because the guy is right there, sat on the bench hugging his rucksack and smiling widely like Christmas has come already, some sort of bizarre alter-Christmas where Louis appearing out of the shadows is the only present he asked for. He's all rugged up this time, scarf and hat and woolly gloves, and he tugs his earphones out before patting the bench beside him in invitation.

He looks warm and beautiful and Louis's thoughts from approximately two seconds ago, the ones of forgetting about him and moving on, abruptly evaporate like smoke in the rain.

"You must be joking," Louis says flatly. His tone prompts a tragic Jenga-tower-collapse of emotions on the guy's face, happy expression crumpling into something so mournful Louis actually hastens to clear up any sort of misunderstanding, where usually he'd just let it fester for a laugh. "I'm not freezing my best asset off on that icy slab of metal."

"Best asset?" The guy repeats, eyes scrunching up as he tries to get Louis's meaning. He peers at Louis's hair, holds eye contact for a moment, before letting his gaze skim impersonally over Louis's body, down to Louis's shoes and back up to his eyes again. Louis is both incredibly aroused and profoundly disappointed by the attention. He's been given many a once over in his life but he's never had someone look confused at the end of it.

It should be refreshing, he supposes, but the complete absence of uncontrollable lust from those perfect brown eyes just makes him irritable.

"My bum," Louis snaps. "I have an excellent bum." This isn't how he imagined their next meeting would go - for one thing, they'd both been wearing less layers - but he can't remember the last time someone failed to appreciate his bum.

The guy's eyebrows climb to his hairline. "Oh. Oh! Yeah, of course. I mean, you wouldn't want it to get cold, right. I mean, you wouldn't want to get cold. Because–yeah." He's pinkening, not full on puce like he was last time, but there's a definite flush to his cheeks. It could be from the cold but Louis chooses to believe it's because of him. It makes Louis feel a bit better - he may not have reacted to Louis's bum but there's a chance he noticed it. Louis stands up taller, has a bit of a preen. "Here, I've been sitting a while, maybe I've taken the edge off." The guy shuffles along the bench in a sideways worm sort of move, then awkwardly pats it again, this time over where he had been sitting. "Give that a go?"

Louis blinks. "Are you...is this chivalry?" He can't even try to keep the disbelief out of his voice.

The guy looks confused again, mouthing chivalry like he can't quite place it, and then his face lights up as he makes the connection. "I'm not going to drape my coat over a puddle for you or anything, if that's what you mean. Honestly, it's barely chilly."

"I don't know how cold it gets in the wilds of Wolverhampton," Look, Louis thinks, I remembered, now reward me with your mouth, "but here in London this is considered quite nippy." He keeps his tone arch even as he crosses to the bench and carefully sits down, spine straight. He waits for the sting of cold but it doesn't come - the metal isn't exactly warm from body heat but it isn't freezing either. He relaxes slightly and the guy laughs beside him, jostling Louis and making him tingle where they touch. Oh. There's the body heat, then.

"All right, then?"

"It will do," Louis manages to concede graciously. He wriggles around to get comfortable, accidentally-on-purpose knocking his shoulder and knee against the guy's, accidentally-on-purpose leaving them there. "So. What's on the setlist tonight?"

The guy laughs again and brings a hand up to pull off his beanie and scrub, embarrassed, at his hair. Louis notes that he uses the arm not currently pressed against Louis's side and can't help but feel a bit smug. Is this destiny? He's never been one to think stuff like that, but here they are again. Maybe this is some sort of higher power telling him your life is pretty shit, mate, so this one's for you. And fuck, what if Harry hadn't left early? Bless Harry, canonise Harry. Louis owes Harry everything. "About that."

"Oh, there's a story, is there? Not sure if I want to hear it, actually. Don't want you to ruin the mystery." Louis is talking, his mouth is moving and words are coming out, but his mind is already off and racing. He's always had a vivid imagination and now he lets it fly. The guy on his knees. The guy on his face. The guy lifting Louis effortlessly and holding him, slamming him against the wall. What a time to be alive.

The guy carries on like he has no idea what's going on inside Louis's head, which is good. He also doesn't cater to Louis's massive fib, which is better, because Louis actually hates not knowing things. "Really, though. It's not much of a story, but I don't want you thinking I'm some sort of nutter with a taste for kiddie songs." He turns to face Louis and Louis wasn't really prepared to have that much earnestness that close to his face. It pulls him completely out of his rapidly escalating daydreams, actually; what's a fantasy to the real thing. "It's my sister, you see."

He doesn't look like he's been fantasising about Louis in return, which is a bit of a downer. Curse Harry, for getting his hopes up. Louis reluctantly lets the dream go.

Louis angles back a bit so he can think, and adjust himself, and breathe. "Your sister?" Nothing like bringing up the family to cool a stiffy down. "Your sister is the man singing the Postman Pat song? Not sure how to break it to you, mate, but–"

"No! I mean, of course she's not singing it!" The guy hovers between frustration and amusement. "I mean, she pranked me, yeah? I let her use my computer–"

"Rookie mistake," Louis interjects, tsking and shaking his head. He doesn't even have to pretend to be delighted by this. He can get behind pranking even if the guy doesn't look like he's going to get behind him.

"Well, I know that now, don't I?" The guy shakes his head too, like he can't believe how stupid he was. "But anyway, she added all these children's songs to my library and now they pop up at the worst times, like, when I forgot to plug in my earphones."

"Do you do that a lot?" Louis asks, staring at his lips. How fascinating.

The guy looks at his feet. "It's happened a few times," he replies, evasive. "Anyway, she said she added twelve songs in total but I've only found five. It's killing me."

You're killing me, Louis thinks. "So!" he says loudly. "Tell me more about your evil sister and her frankly magnificent prank. Five songs already?"

"Yeah," the guy replies, looking like he can't decide to be angry or sad. Both work on his face.

"And?" Louis prompts. "I've already been treated to Pat and his black and white cat, what are the others?"

The guy's face scrunches up as he tries to remember, also a winning expression. "Uhhh, Trap Door, I think. Raggy Dolls. SuperTed."

"SuperTed?" Louis is aghast. "That's just some bloke talking. It's not even a song."

"I know." The guy is really having a rough time of it, it seems.

Louis is tempted to take pity on him, because he's beautiful, but it's hard to stop the normal sort of things that just fly out of his mouth on a regular basis. "But seriously," he says, judgmentally. "How have you not found the rest of the songs yet?"

The guy looks down at the iPod in his lap. "I have over twenty thousand songs on here," he says despairingly. "It's like trying to find Wally in that one picture where everyone's wearing red and white stripes."

"So?" Louis says again. Talking is good. Or is it? He can't remember if he gets more or less attractive with continued exposure. He rather suspects it's the latter. "Do a title search for likely matches, or check by song length. Surely nothing's longer than thirty seconds or so."

"No, see, that's the brilliance of it. Not that I'd ever tell her that, calling her brilliant is frankly the last thing Ruth needs." The guy narrows his eyes. It's also a good look for him, fuck. Louis files that knowledge away for later then pounces on the name, feeling like he's unlocked an achievement on the Xbox. He has a name! Not the name he needs, nothing comes that easy, but better than what he had before. "She's gone and changed all the song names and covers, yeah? Hold on, let me show you." He pulls off his gloves and fumbles with the headphones, checking the ear designation before handing Louis the right earbud and twisting the headphone jack to make sure they're plugged in this time. Tucking the left earbud into his own ear, he touches the iPod screen and starts flicking through playlists until he gets to one called ruthhh is thw worstttt >:(((

"What," says Louis. He lets the earbud sit in his palm and stares at it a little. Sharing etiquette dictates that the right earbud is the best earbud. Everyone knows the right earbud is the best earbud. Louis got the best earbud automatically, without even asking. He perks up again.

The guy shrugs apologetically. "I'm trying to keep a record of them as I find them. Maybe if I catch them all she'll give me a prize."

"A new iPod, maybe," Louis suggests, frowning at the guy. Yes or no? He can't get a proper read on him.

"A new sister," the guy agrees. "All right, here's one." He presses play and Louis strains, well, everywhere, but mostly to pick up anything from the earbud.

"I don't–" he starts, when he hears it. Terrifying baby laughter. "She didn't."

The guy meets his eyes. "Oh, she did. And she's covered her tracks, look." He shoves the iPod at Louis. The cover art is for Sail by AWOLNATION but it’s definitely missing that overbearing bass, among other things.

"The replacement is lyrically superior, I suppose," Louis says, as the Teletubbies theme introduces everyone from Tinky-Winky to Po. Out of respect for the prank he listens until the end, and he's about to hand back the earbud when it starts again and he flinches back in horror. "What’s this, does it loop? How many times?"

"Seven," the guy replies darkly.

"Fuck," Louis says, almost reverent. "Ruth is diabolical."

"She even deleted my entire library and re-added it with the prank songs, all at the same time. I can't even search by the date added." The guy scrubs his hand through his hair again. Even his annoyance is beautiful. When Louis is frustrated he just pinches whoever's closest. "She's done a really good job."

"Good job?" Louis echoes incredulously. "Mate, I don't know how to tell you this but young Ruth has pulled off the prank of the century. She's committed what basically amounts to the perfect crime. They could write her into the next season of Sherlock or something." He stops to consider. "Though, we might be waiting a while."

The guy laughs, low and easy, and Louis is definitely not okay with this. He tugs the earbud out and hands it over, their ungloved fingers brushing together for a moment. It's barely a second of skin sliding against skin but the guy snatches his hand back almost immediately and...yeah. All right. Louis can read that loud and clear.

"Are you..." the guy trails off, eyes on his iPod. He twists the headphones cable around and around, before squaring his shoulders and glancing back up at Louis. Come on then, Louis thinks, hackles already up. Just come out and say it. And then the guy's eyes widen, sliding past Louis to something behind him. "Are you the 65?"

"What?" Louis's ears are ringing; sudden onset tinnitus. He can't hear anything, can't feel anything except the rough slide of the guy's fingertips as he flinched and jerked away. He turns away blindly in the direction the guy is facing and spots his bus rumbling up. "Shit! Yes, that's me, fuck, how does this keep happening?" He waves frantically at the driver, who indicates at the last moment, brakes sounding this time like a particularly aggrieved sigh. Louis knows that feeling, thanks. He jumps up and goes to board.

"Wait!" The guy gets up too, throwing his rucksack over his shoulder. "I'm..."

Louis glances back, completely against his will. "You're what?" he snaps. He's miffed. He'd really thought there might have been something there for a second, but then that reaction...fuck it. He's too tired for this. Too drunk for it after all. "Sick of the sight of me? Glad I'm going?" The bus doors creak open.

The guy gapes. "What? Why would you-? No, it's just. I'm Liam. Liam Payne." He grins, then, tentative, a weird mix of embarrassed and reckless. "Just thought you should know."

Louis stares at him for a long second, until the pressure in his chest pops like a balloon bouncing on a tack. He twists away towards the bus, the better to hide the massive grin threatening to take over his face, then jumps on, tapping his pass and almost running to the back where he kneels on a seat and wrenches the window partition aside. Liam has half turned away, shoulders a bit slumped - Louis hopes from sudden, crippling dejection, because for a few seconds there he'd felt fairly awful, and he's a terrible person who needs to pass that kind of thing around - and he jumps when Louis shouts his name out the window. "Liam Payne!"

Liam spins back, his surprise evident even from the bus.

Louis turns his head sideways, sticks as much of it out as he can. "Louis Tomlinson! You better not forget it!"

He pulls back from the window and pushes it shut just as the bus rattles to life again. Liam's beaming at him from the bus stop, eyes crinkled so much they're almost shut. He mouths something as the bus pulls away, and Louis doesn't think it's the remnants of his buzz that makes it look like I won't.

When he first started on at the restaurant, Louis used his vestigial acting skills and talent for manipulation to cut a deal where he got Friday nights off in exchange for working the rest of the weekend. It is, in retrospect, a rubbish deal, causing Louis to yet again be disappointed in his past self, but since he's unwilling to give up his Fridays he doesn't have much choice in the matter.

He wakes up on Saturday morning barely thirty minutes before he's due to start and breaks the land speed record to get there on time, moving faster than he ever has outside a football pitch. Saturdays are split shifts, so he gets a break before the dinner rush, but he uses it to have a quick shower in the staff bathroom and feel like a human again, not daring to think about warm eyes and soft smiles because he doesn't have many rules when it comes to getting himself off but not at work is definitely one of them.

By the time he's finished the second shift it's nearing two in the morning and he's dead on his feet. One of the sous chefs lives in the same area so she gives him a lift back to his place, where he falls into bed and passes out, only to do it all again on Sunday. Rinse and repeat, Harry would probably say, but Harry is singularly delighted by occupational puns and no one else would laugh.

All in all, it's a waste of his weekend, and more importantly, it means he can't Facebook-stalk Liam until his day off on Monday.

Louis feels like an undead extra from a B-movie, staggering out of bed and into the kitchen where he goes through the motions of making a brew. After a second cup and some toast, he dumps his plate in the sink, crumbs and all, then ducks outside for a quick smoke. He's shivering when he comes back in, so he flicks on the kettle again before settling in at the table, cracking his knuckles and booting up his laptop.

There are forty-six Liam Paynes in the Greater London and Southern England region. Louis briskly eliminates the first five by way of profile pics, or in one case, the sheer number of children he has, and on the sixth he strikes pay dirt. It's Liam, grinning out of the little avatar square, a snapback perched on his head. He looks a bit younger but no less gorgeous and Louis possibly maybe clicks on his name with rather more force than he intended to.

This is what he learns: Liam's profile is public, his spelling is atrocious and Ruth is surprisingly normal-looking for a lieutenant of Satan. There are a lot of photos of Liam's family - there's a second sister, apparently, one who is probably not evil, maybe, and his parents pop up a lot too, doing that thing old couples tend to do where they share a Facebook account. It makes tagging pictures awkward and Louis clicks through more than one family photo where GeoffandKaren Payne are apparently lurking invisibly in the corner. There are albums of his friends tipping drinks at the camera, eyes gleaming red from the flash, the odd blurry photo of Liam mid-drunken shenanigans, but for the most part it's all above board.

Liam's maybe a little too amused by those pictures of dogs with inspirational messages typed on them in 72-point Impact, but all in all, it's okay. Louis has this under control.

Actually, no. He doesn't.

He's loathe to do it, but he actually does need to talk to someone about this. He slaps his laptop closed and reaches for his phone, thumbing past the message from his mum asking if he's looked around for those products she sent him, she can recommend a good online chemist if he'd like.

Louis's thumb hovers over Harry's name in his contact list. Does he want Harry's advice? He can probably guess what it'll be, actually - some variant of Roxette lyrics, listen to your heart or walk like a man hit like a hammer. Louis isn't really that into early 90s europop, so he goes for the wildcard and pulls up Niall's name instead.

can't stop thinking about a relative stranger, he types. what to do, Nialler?

He hits send and waits, not expecting to be left hanging long. Louis suspects Niall can reply to messages in his sleep - it's the only possible explanation for how he can keep in touch with so many people. Also it would go a long way toward explaining some of his texts.

The alert pops up a second later. Haha ! does yer willy get bigger when u thikn about em tommo ? try givin it a tug.

In retrospect, Louis doesn't know why he asked Niall. dunno why I asked you!!

haz doesnt either. think u made him cry. Good Times !

It's not a surprise in the slightest when his screen lights up, Harry's dopey face on the caller ID. Louis sighs and swipes to answer it. "Harold."

"You asked Niall for relationship advice?" Harry doesn't sound teary, just mystified. "I thought I was your favourite."

Louis sighs again and opens his laptop back up, the screen blinking on to a picture of Christmas dinner last year, all the Paynes looking thrilled to be celebrating Jesus's birth, even Ruth. "It's not a relationship, and I can't say that I received anything resembling advice."

In the background he can hear Niall shout, "Give it a tug, Tommo!" and then the heavy timbre of Harry's laugh too close to the receiver. It makes his ear itch. "What do you call that, then?" Harry asks.

Louis clicks out of the Christmas album. It's too early for this. "An Irish greeting."

"Hmm."

Louis leans back in his chair and looks at the water stains on the ceiling. "Fine, how about this: you know when you go to a restaurant and you always get the same thing, because you know it's the best?"

"Yes," Harry says slowly, even though he always makes a point of ordering the least delicious-sounding things on menus because he feels sorry for them.

"But you're like, will I always get this one dish? Maybe I'm missing out. Maybe I should try the korma instead of always getting the vindaloo." Louis clicks back into the Christmas folder and goes through the rest of the pictures. This is officially a medical condition. He needs one of those alert bracelets. "It was a shit idea, Harold. The korma was terrible."

Harry laughs. "Well, then. I feel vindaloocated." He pauses, presumably to give Louis time to appreciate his genius. "That's vindicated and–"

"Yes, thank you. You're amazing." Louis rolls his eyes at the empty room. "Anyway, before you ask, I'm not in a relationship. Obviously."

"I should think not, since you hadn't mentioned anything earlier."

He couldn't, really. He didn't even know what was going on before this. "Yeah, well. I've just, I've run into this bloke at the bus stop a couple of times and I'd very much like to get naked with him, but...I don't know."

Harry hums consideringly. "Don't know what?"

"If he likes me!" Louis hisses. He really hadn't wanted to have to go there, voice his insecurities - he didn't actually want to admit he had any. Life was easier when nothing affected you. Louis's spent years putting his armour together and now he feels naked without it.

Harry bursts out laughing. "How could he not, though?" he says, loyally, like he can't even entertain the possibility. "You're you."

Usually that would be enough for Louis, and he does feel bit tingly at Harry's words. Honestly, he's always liked a good ego stroke, but Liam's got him off balance, has done since the first time he saw him.

"He didn't even notice my bum, Harry." It physically pains Louis to admit this. "Like...I had to bring it up."

Harry is silent for so long Louis has to pull his phone away from his ear to check if the call had dropped out. "Harry?"

"I'm processing," Harry replies distractedly. "This...doesn't compute." He does something, rustles against the mouthpiece, and then his voice comes again, a bit distant. "Niall! Tell me the first thing you think when I say Louis's bum."

"Magnificent!" Niall bellows back from somewhere. "A work of art! Not into boy bums all told but I'd make an exception for his!"

Bless him. "Thanks, Nialler."

"You see?" Harry's voice is clear again, against the receiver. "I don't think there's anything to worry about."

"I'm not worried," Louis snaps, because he's still quite worried. "It's just...confusing."

Harry's silent again for a moment. "Should we go out tonight?" he asks. "You could check that everything's still in working order. Collect some statistical data, get some feedback on the appeal of the Tomlinson rear. Stop you from being all," he pauses, "bummed."

Louis can almost hear the dimples. "Ugh. No. Yes. Fine."

"Meet you at the station at nine?"

Louis agrees and hangs up. He looks at the laptop again, then slams it shut for the last time. He stalks outside for another smoke and then goes straight back to his bed, where he flops face down into his pillow and resolves to nap the rest of the day away.

The overwhelmingly positive feedback Louis gets from clubgoers on Monday night keeps him going through his double on Tuesday and his lunch shift on Wednesday and he's still got a bounce in his step when he gets to the bus stop on Thursday evening to find Liam already sat there.

Trying not to let his face betray just how good it is to see him, Louis casually makes his way over to the stop. "Come here often?" he leers at Liam, who laughs and slides over automatically so Louis can have the already-warm part of the bench again. The move looks natural, just the sort of thing someone with parents who share a Facebook account would do, all unconscious, ingrained manners. Louis wants to suck him off right here.

Instead, he settles onto the bench, because that's their thing, he has a bus stop thing with someone who doesn't even think his bum is amazing and hasn't given any indication of wanting Louis to touch his dick. If his eighteen-year-old-self could only see him now. Fuck, Louis is such a disappointment.

But he's also, secretly, an optimist. Maybe things will still go his way.

"Pretty much every night," Liam says, all honesty and directness, things Louis has only a passing familiarity with, things he read about in a book or two back at school. Liam's got his gloved hand wrapped around his iPod but he's not listening to it, just sitting on the bench looking snuggly in his beanie and jumper and more thrilled than he should about hanging out on a bus stop with Louis pretty much every night.

Louis can't bear to look at him. Instead, he clears his throat, gears up to subtly work in the fruits of his investigation, to mention something about studying or family or dog memes when Liam nudges him. "I looked you up," Liam says, giving him one of those combo grins, half-bashful and half-proud. "On Facebook." He's clearly unaware he's undone half a week of careful plotting as to the best way to mention what Louis's learned from the Payne family Christmas album.

Looked you up is a much better term than stalked, though, Louis thinks, and files it away for future use, should he ever have human interaction that despite his best efforts doesn't involve shagging again. "Oh?" he says, the wind knocked clean out of his metaphorical sails. He manages to keep afloat. "Like what you saw?"

Liam shrugs. "Couldn't find much, actually. Your profile only has pictures that other people have tagged you in? There are quite a lot with someone called Harry. He, er, likes to take his kit off."

Louis perks up, hoping against hope that this is the first indication of the jealous rage that Liam has been keeping locked up inside himself, struggling against all week. "Yeah," he says, not having to try too hard to inject a bit of fondness into his voice. "That's Harold, all right." He angles towards Liam, gauging the distance between them and stopping precisely at the point where he knows his breath will puff against the side of Liam's neck. "Any of me all scantily-clad?"

If he's affected by Louis in any way, Liam doesn't show it. "Nope," he says, far too cheerfully. "Not even a shirtless pic. Apparently you're shy."

"Really?" Louis is actually a bit surprised to hear that his profile is safe for work. "I'll have to do something to fix that. Don't want to get pulled up for false advertising."

"We can't have that," Liam says, agreeably, then wriggles around a bit. "Actually, can I tell you a secret?"

Yes, fuck. Tell me everything. "Nope." Louis kicks the side of his foot against Liam's, tears his eyes away from the bundle of perfection beside him, glances across the street in the hopes of finding some sort of salvation from this torment. At least five times a night he thinks I can't do this and this marks the second time in as many minutes. The bus isn't due for another fifteen, fuck. Protect him from what he wants. "Anything you say can and will be sold to the Sun to fund my vicious drug habit."

Liam giggles, actually giggles, then stops to consider this. "You should be able to get about 10p for this one."

"Excellent!" Louis slides over, closer to Liam. He's not above batting his eyelashes and he'll have a better angle this way. "Now, tell me."

"Hmm." Liam draws back, looking thoughtful. "Maybe not. You didn't say 'please'."

Louis can count the number of times he's said 'please' this year on the fingers of one hand. If they did a retrospective of his life he might need to bust out the other hand, maybe a foot. "No, I didn't." He fingers his cigarette packet - it's turning into a bit of a nervous tic, to be honest - then casually drops his head onto Liam's shoulder. He’s smooth, so smooth. "Be a love and tell me anyway."

Liam leans forward and tries to frown at him but he can only hold it for a few seconds before cracking up. "Oh, fine. But rudeness is a terrible trait, Louis."

Louis hasn't had any complaints so far, but then again no one has resisted his bum before. Liam's always been a game changer. He pulls back and flips his hair. "I'll keep that in mind, thanks. So? What's the big secret? Ruth's been captured by MI6, hasn't she? I knew they'd come through."

Liam throws back his head and laughs so hard his eyes disappear. Louis feels something catch in his chest at the sight, as new and unfamiliar as all the other emotions only Liam seems to bring out in him. "We should be so lucky. No, I actually found another song, if you want to be subjected to the torture–"

"Pain shared is pain halved," Louis says immediately, because he's a masochist in every sense of the word.

"–but that's not the secret." Liam tones down his delight a little, then directs the remainder right at Louis's face. It’s awful. He lowers his voice, like he really is imparting something confidential, something precious. "Actually, I got here an hour ago. I've let four buses go past already." He rubs his chin on his shoulder, bounces in place. "I was waiting for you."

Louis actually doesn't know what to say to that. He has literally no idea how to respond. He doesn't know if that makes things worse or better, that this far too cheery and far too fit guy who casually rebuffs every move in Louis's arsenal, who didn't even notice Louis's bum, this guy spent an hour waiting in the cold on the off chance that Louis would show up. Just so they could talk for a few minutes before the bus came. He doesn't know if it's better or worse that he can have something like this but only part of it, that he gets a serve of happiness but not the full course.

He kind of hates it, he thinks, getting only a taste when he's starving for more.

He doesn't know what his face is doing but it must have shown at least some of this thoughts, because eventually Liam starts to retreat into himself a bit. "Sorry, was that weird? It's just, I wasn't–"

"Have you got a pen?" Louis asks abruptly, voice a little unsteady, though he doubts anyone except Harry would be able to tell.

Liam blinks. "Like, a biro?"

"That's generally what I mean when I say pen, yes," Louis bites out before he can stop himself, but Liam doesn't seem to notice, digging around in his ubiquitous rucksack until he pulls out an old ballpoint, brandishing it like it's Excalibur. Louis reaches for it before he remembers they're not in the dark ages. "Wait, better plan. Give me your mobile."

Liam locates that more readily, handing it over without a fuss. He doesn't have a number lock - Louis doesn't know what he was expecting from the guy with a public Facebook profile - and Louis swipes right in, bringing up Liam's contact list and adding himself, putting a bus emoji before and after his name.

"There," he says, handing the phone back when he's done. "Now you don't have to get pneumonia whenever you unearth more evidence of Ruth's duplicity and need to share."

Liam's gazing down at phone in his hand like Louis has helped him tick something remarkable off his bucket list. "Thanks." He grins up at Louis, sudden and blinding. "For–yeah. And, I, er, I feel I should warn you, I listen to music at all hours and you may get texts at strange times now."

Louis cracks his knuckles and reaches over to snatch the phone away. "That's it, I'm deleting it."

Liam pushes him back, giggling again, and Louis freezes as he realises with a sort of roiling nausea that he wants to see Liam giggling all the time. He wants to make Liam laugh, make Liam smile, he wants to make Liam happy. He wants it so bad he's sick with it, and isn't that just the story of his life.

"Louis?" Liam has stopped, hands big and warm around Louis's wrists, concern writ large on his stupidly expressive face. Louis wants him to keep his hands there forever, push him back onto the bench, unzip his jacket and scrape his teeth over his chest. He doesn't even care how cold the bench is, any more, and that's how he knows he needs to change the subject, fast.

He says the first thing that comes to mind. "Are you one of those people who gets up at sparrow's fart?" Liam doesn't say anything, but his eyes turn shifty. Good, yes, Louis can work with this. Talking shit is his gift, his legacy. "Oh, you are! I knew it! Early risers are the worst kind of person, Liam. I bet you're ridiculously chipper about being up and about before the sun's even rolled out of bed. Oh, fuck, I bet you're a jogger."

"I just like to get a head start on the day," Liam says, obviously trying to tamp down a grin. "And there's nothing wrong with keeping fit."

I'll say, Louis thinks, with a touch of despair, but what he says is, "There's everything wrong with it, loads and loads of wrongness, and I'll explain why in great detail until one of our buses comes."

The search for the remaining prank songs continues, both on Liam's end via text and through their now regular bus stop catch-ups. They uncover Nellie the Elephant hiding in plain sight as The Corrs’ Runaway and find the Thomas the Tank Engine theme masquerading as a track from the Snowpiercer score. Louis is continually surprised by Liam's eclectic taste in music, and thinks that maybe Ruth wouldn't have succeeded so well if she'd had less to work with in the first place. In other news, Louis isn't sure how to slip in an invitation when it's not to his pants and Liam seems content with his self-appointed seat warming duties.

So, basically: they talk, and Louis chafes.

Louis talks about how he had a rust bucket of a car back in Donny, one that ran like a dream even if you had to maneuver yourself horizontally out the nearside door sometimes. He'd sold it just before he'd started uni - no need for a car in London, and every need for an extra quid or two. The buses have been good to him but he misses the car's reliable rattle and wheeze, the way he'd have to double-tap the clutch sometimes before the engine would turn.

Liam talks about how he'd picked all night classes so he could volunteer at a radio station during the day, how he wasn't sure he'd get along with anyone in London but now he has Louis (Louis doesn't blush, he doesn't) and has connected with his roommate at last over a shared love of superhero films. He's happy, well, he's always happy, but Louis can tell he's happier now that he's spending more and more time with Zayn, who is apparently not only an artist, but, according to Liam, the best artist in the world.

"No, but if you saw it," Liam is telling him for the fifth time, trying to explain just how much humanity or whatever Zayn can capture in a few flicks of an aerosol can. "He's brilliant, so brilliant. I wish I was half as good at anything as Zayn is at art."

Louis has had several less than charitable thoughts about Zayn. "Is he," he says flatly, before the rest of the sentence computes. "And what are you even saying? What about music? You can't be shit at that, not if you got into that posh music school here."

Liam shrugs, clutching his rucksack closer. "I'm not bad–"

"I should think not! Best school in all of London, innit," Louis presses, half because he doesn't want to talk about Zayn any more and half because he looked up Liam's school after he dropped the name one time and it really is fancy, with some sort of competitive programme that only takes a fraction of applicants each year.

It works, after a fashion, Liam's face momentarily betraying how pleased he is by the praise. It makes Louis want to shower him in it, tell him what a good boy he is before sinking down between his knees and rewarding him. But the pleasure is gone from Liam's face in an instant, replaced by something stubborn that Louis immediately knows will bode no good.

"What about you?" Liam counters. "Got into acting studies, didn't you? I bet you had to audition for that and everything." He turns to Louis, all brown eyes and earnestness. "Do you...do you ever think about going back?"

Every day, Louis thinks, but doesn't say. He meets Liam's gaze, gives him the most serious look he can muster. "Liam."

"Yes?" Liam slides closer, encouraging.

Louis lifts his hand and reaches for Liam. "That's..."

Liam's lips curve up as he nods. "Yeah?"

Louis grabs his nipple and twists, getting in a good wrench even through his layers. "That's over and done with," he says, voice reasonable, as Liam yelps in pain and jerks away. "Too late to go back. Spilt milk, mate, you know how it is."

"Jesus, Lou!" Liam fairly rips Louis's hand off him, trapping it in his larger one so Louis can't go for him again. He looks down at his jumper. "Am I bleeding? Is there blood soaking through my shirt? I thought you'd pulled it right off, Lou, Jesus."

Louis bites his lip to distract himself from the mental image of Liam's poor bruised nipple, puffy and sore after Louis got done with it. He has to stay like that for a long moment, and only lifts his teeth when he's absolutely certain he's not going to latch onto Liam's pec and just start tonguing it better. "Really, Liam," he manages to chide. "You should know I'd never actually tear your nipple from your chest."

Liam laughs, still holding Louis's hand in one of his and rubbing at his chest with the other, because he hates Louis and wants him to die a shrivelled husk of unfulfilled desires. "Suppose if you were going to tear off one part of my body it should be that one," he muses. "Not like I need it for anything, yeah?"

When Louis's bus comes he's not going to signal it. He's just going to run out in front of it instead.

"Let's listen to music," he says tightly. "We'll never get through Ruth Payne's Playlist From Hell if we don't put in more man hours."

Liam agrees immediately, passing him the right earbud as usual even though, as usual, Louis's left ear is facing him.

He takes it with a sort of soul-weary exhaustion, and though they end up discovering the Gumby theme cunningly disguised as Kanye's All Of The Lights he can't even bring himself to celebrate properly with Liam.

Later, alone on the bus, he texts Harry. my chest hurts.

Harry replies immediately. Of course it does. That's where your heart is.

Somehow Louis gets through another week, and then another, and then he winds up at Harry's flat one Monday. It's mostly because he doesn't want to sit around staring at his bedroom walls a second longer, but also because Harry has a home theatre with a big screen and Fifa looks better there, even if Harry is complete rubbish as a player. Louis calls it quits after only four matches because it's surprisingly boring being that much better than someone else, and he knows Harry gets shirty from the constant losing even if he doesn't always show it.

They order in Chinese for lunch and eat it on the floor, and Louis's almost feeling good about his life again when Harry puts down his container and fixes Louis with all of his attention. It's always a bit startling when Harry does that - he's usually distracted, at least a bit, by his mobile or his own thoughts, and so his complete, undivided attention knocks Louis for six. "How is Liam?"

Louis shovels some sweet and sour pork into his mouth and chews obnoxiously. Harry's attention doesn't waver and eventually even Louis has to swallow. "Fine, I suppose. Just dandy. How's your mum?"

"She's really good, thank you for asking," Harry says politely, then frowns. "Don't change the subject. Are you still doing your bus stop thing?"

"It's not a thing," Louis protests, even though it's definitely a thing. "Yes, we run into each other at the bus stop most evenings. It's a small world."

"At midnight," Harry says pointedly. "You just always run into each other at midnight. And then you listen to music, and he gives you the right earbud."

Louis is frankly amazed Harry has retained all of this information. Sometimes he forgets to put on trousers before going to the shops. "Nothing gets past you, does it."

"You know they have these little converter things, yeah?" Harry always feels the need to move his hands while explaining something and this time is no exception, Louis watching as he winds the ends of an invisible moustache before launching into juicing an invisible orange. "You put them into the earphone jack and then you can attach two sets of earbuds."

"Yes, thank you, Harold." Louis reaches over and snatches one of his hands out of the air before he can start working an invisible loom, or something equally distracting. "And if I wanted to take the only thing of beauty out of my life I would certainly invest in one of those remarkable contraptions and carry it around with me at all times, just in case."

Harry blinks at him. "Oh?"

Louis considers plaiting Harry's fingers to keep them still. They might just be long enough. "Don't 'oh' at me."

"I'll 'oh' at you as much as I want." Harry's concern is slowly oozing its way down his face, eyes going soft, dimple fading, mouth turning down at the edges. Louis is frankly quite sick of encountering people with time-lapse emotions. First Liam, now Harry, he honestly can't wait for Niall to get back from Ireland.

"When's Niall coming back?" he asks abruptly, both because he wants to know now that he's thought of it and because he'd rather like to change the subject, thank you very much. He twists Harry's pointer finger over his middle finger and gauges the length of his ring finger. It wouldn't be a very long plait but he might get them all over each other once.

Harry is undeterred. "You really do like him." It's clearly the most troubling news he's heard all day, possibly all year.

"Everyone likes Niall," Louis replies, snippish. "Birds suddenly appear when he's near and just like me, they long to be–"

"Louis," Harry says, disappointed. The concern has slid off his face and now he just looks mournful, the same way a puppy would look if you'd taken its leash off the wall and waved it around and said "Who wants to go for a walk? Walkies? Who wants to go for a nice walk!" and then put the leash back and gone to watch the telly instead. Not that Louis has ever done that.

"It doesn't matter," Louis says brusquely. "He doesn't want to meet up with me anywhere else and he's completely gone on his flatmate, can't get enough of the brilliant Zayn."

"Zayn?" Harry repeats, a line appearing between his eyebrows. "Zayn Malik?"

"Don't know, don't care." It actually wouldn't surprise him to learn that Harry and the infamous Zayn were acquainted. He really does know everyone. Harry goes to say something but Louis holds up a hand, holds him off at the pass. "No, shut it, Harold," Louis snaps, supremely done with all this. "He's not interested, all right? Made that perfectly clear. I'm just his little bus stop bro, and bus stop bros is all we'll ever be."

Surprisingly enough Harry does, in fact, shut it, closing his mouth, zipping it and turning an invisible key before reaching for his food again. He doesn't take his eyes off Louis, though, just watches him for a long moment, and Louis wishes that he wouldn't because Harry's always been able to see too much, too clearly, usually when he least wants him to.

"Are you sure, then?" Harry says eventually. "That's really it?"

Louis inspects his fingernails. "It's a good thing, honest. Mum's always telling me I need to make more friends." He shudders theatrically, expecting Harry to join in, but Harry just keeps watching him. Silence drops in like a rock to a pond, leaving the air heavy and rippling. Louis's shoulders itch. He wants to go home.

"Can I meet him, at least?" Harry's picked a theme and is clearly sticking to it, wielding the puppy eyes like a weapon. Louis can and will resist them. He must.

"Absolutely not," he says firmly.

"And this is Harry," Louis says the following Thursday, indicating Harry with an irritable thumb over his shoulder. He's not quite sure how this happened and it's making him snappish. "You may remember him from Facebook."

Liam jumps up and extends his hand. "Harry, of course! Nice to meet you. Almost didn't recognise you with, you know. All your clothes on."

Harry lets out a bark of laughter, swallowing Liam's hand up in both of his and refusing to let go. "Hello, Liam," he says politely, because Harry is nothing if not polite. "I understand you're Louis's friend." He leans in very close and scrutinises Liam, probably bewitching him with his undivided attention. Louis's seen taxi drivers veer off the road after Harry has gotten out and thanked them sincerely for a safe trip. "That makes us both Louis's...friends."

Liam blinks rapidly and tries to extricate himself from Harry's grasp. Louis could probably tell him that it's pointless, there's no escaping from Harry, but he's feeling petty for a number of reasons and doesn't step in. "Er, yes, I suppose it does. You must, er, you must know Louis very well."

"Yes, I do. Do you?" Harry counters, not moving out of Liam's space.

"Er," says Liam.

As much as Louis enjoys being the centre of attention, he can't help but feel this exchange is counter-intuitive to every agenda he's ever had. "All right lads, break it up. There's enough of me to go around, you don't have to get territorial." He waves his hand, indicates the bus stop with a grandiose gesture. "Harry, welcome to stop 284. This is where Liam and I like to spend our evenings, as you can see it's what the kids would call 'happening'."

Harry drops his hands from around Liam's and casually steps back before turning in a slow circle and taking in the bus stop and all its surrounds. He gives an appreciative nod as Liam glances between them, looking a bit fraught. "Nice place you have here," Harry says, then consideringly, "pity it's not one of those heated ones, though."

"That's what I thought!" says Louis. "Wouldn't that be grand?"

"I heard there are some in Germany where the seat has a warmer underneath." Harry does a sort of window wiping gesture, presumably to illustrate how German seat warmers work. "Makes your bum all toasty."

"Louis would love that," Liam says, just as Louis lets out a sigh of longing.

Harry's eyebrows put in a good effort to climb to his hairline. "Would he?"

Liam stiffens. "Er, he's just, he's a bit funny about the cold bench. I keep telling him it's not that bad–"

"Brass monkey," Louis snaps. "Balls off."

Liam just sighs and sends him a fond smile. "You're just too delicate, mate."

Harry is staring between them like he's courtside at Wimbledon, one to the other and back again. He catches Louis's eye and shrugs minutely before turning around and sizing up Kent Road, peering off into the distance where Louis thinks there's a chip shop and a little park, just beyond the rise. "Where did you say you live, Liam?"

"What?" Liam seems taken aback by Harry's question. "Oh, I. Er. I catch a different bus from Louis, I get the 57."

Harry doesn't turn around, just keeps staring up and through Kent Road. "Yes," he says patiently, "but where do you live?"

Liam starts fiddling with the strings of his hoodie. Louis doesn't know what Harry's getting at, but he's curious after seeing Liam looking so flustered. "Oh," says Liam again. "Well, it's off Fulton Road. Small block of flats, they're a funny olive colour."

Harry turns finally but just nods, expression shifting until he resembles nothing more than a satisfied cat. "I see."

"What's this then?" Louis says, a little sharply. He feels very left out. He wants to know what Harry thinks he knows, but he also wants Liam to stop looking so hunted. "Going to send the team from 60 Minute Makeover around, Harold?"

Harry lifts one shoulder in a shrug. "Just wondered." He smiles reassuringly at Liam, who doesn't look reassured at all. "It's a bit like fate, don't you think? With you two. You met, and hit it off, same schedules and everything." Harry glances up at the night sky. "It's a cosmic coincidence that you'd find each other the first time, let alone the rest."

The blood drains from Liam's face so quickly Louis is immediately convinced he's somehow nicked an artery just standing around. Before he can administer mouth to mouth, though, a familiar hiss shatters the night air and a bus rolls around the corner. He's really getting sick of air brakes, to be honest, but Liam looks like his birthday cake just showed up.

"This is me," Liam says brightly, usually so reluctant to go but tonight fairly vibrating with the need to escape. From Harry? Louis wonders, glancing across at his friend, who's now leaning against the pole with the repaired timetable on it, like he's doing an impromptu photoshoot for Vogue. "I'll just go then," Liam continues. "Home. Have a great night, lads." He nods at Harry and grins quickly at Louis as he steps onto the bus, like nothing has happened, and he waves cheerfully enough from his seat when the bus drives away...but. Something is off. Louis can smell it.

He rounds on Harry. "What was that?"

Harry pushes off the pole and drifts closer, winds an arm through Louis's. "Do you know where Fulton Road is, Lou?"

"Do I look like a road atlas?" Louis snaps reflexively, then reconsiders. "No, I'm not sure. Next suburb over though, yeah?"

Harry nods. "Two blocks north," he waves desultorily in the general direction of where the bus had disappeared to, over the hill, "and at the very most, ten minutes’ walk. Probably less if you're as fit as Liam is."

Louis is nodding along without really listening. Liam is very fit. And then his heart pauses to consider this, throwing itself against his ribcage a moment later. "What are you trying to say?"

Harry pinches his cheek. "I'm saying that Noddy and Big Ears met in the middle. Maybe you should too."

Louis laughs, loud even to his own ears, and punches Harry in the shoulder. He's gone a bit dizzy with hope. "You bastard, don't ruin Noddy for me."

"They were in love," Harry replies seriously. "And so are–"

"Oh look, it's our bus!" says Louis loudly. "Let's get on and never mention this again."

Harry shrugs and lets Louis step in front of him, before stretching out one long leg and kicking him square up the arse. "Suit yourself."

Louis is too busy pulling up the maps app on his phone to even be offended.

Harry's right, of course - Fulton Road isn't that long, and even the furthest stretch wouldn't be more than ten minutes from the bus stop at mid pace. Despite being armed with the knowledge, though, Louis isn't sure what to do with it. Liam's always talking about walking, jogging and running, which to Louis have always been the same awful thing, just with increasing levels of awfulness, so why wouldn't he just go home on foot?

Is it too much to hope he's been sticking around for Louis? But surely if that were the case he would have said something, done something, given Louis some indication that he wanted him back. Unless...he doesn't know how Louis feels?

"Am I being too subtle?" Louis wonders aloud the next evening, asking the big questions to the pub ceiling, the Tottenham bunting looking a bit worse for the wear. "Are my intentions not shining through at every moment?"

Niall turns and settles into the corner of the booth, back against the wall, lifting his legs and draping them over Louis's lap. "Let it all out, Tommo," he says encouragingly. "Tell Uncle Niall what's wrong."

"I don't think subtlety's the problem," Harry muses. "More like you've never been subtle a day in your life."

Niall nods, looking like he's really mulling it over. "True. Could be down to how you're doing it."

Louis pushes his glass away irritably. "Keep up, Nialler. The problem is that I'm not actually doing anything."

"Yeah, nothing involving nudity," Niall says equably. "But like, what are your moves, Tommo? How are you treating this lad? As I see it, you've just sort of pranced around a bus stop with him and told him his music is shit. Not sure I'd be chubbing up over that either."

"That's disgusting," Louis says, and smacks Niall's shin, careful to keep away from his bad knee. "Bite your tongue."

"I'm just saying." Niall shrugs, unconcerned. "Probably wouldn't hurt to put yourself out there for once, instead of just waiting him to just read your mind, yeah?"

Harry reaches across the table and pats Louis comfortingly on the shoulder. "You're not subtle, but you're not always...straightforward, either."

"Excuse me?" Louis is, quite frankly, affronted. "I'm positively affronted."

"Louis," Harry says gently. "How many years have we known each other?"

"Too many, it seems," Louis replies darkly. "Now, if everyone will excuse me, I'm going to the little boys' room." He pushes Niall's legs off and slides out of the booth, quite relieved to escape Harry and Niall's concern for a bit. He knows they mean well, but the worst part is they're probably right.

Louis could be trying harder, but it's like uni and acting all over again. He wants the reward without having to put himself out there, wants to win - the role, the life, the heart of a beautiful boy - without opening himself to the possibility of failure. It's easier to think that Liam hasn't noticed, isn't interested, because that way nothing can reflect back on Louis.

It's a safer existence, Louis thinks, shouldering into the loo and parking himself at a urinal. Safer, but lonely.

He stares at the tiles above the urinal for a long time, long enough for some random bloke who came in after him to clear his throat meaningfully and point out, "You're finished, mate."

"Probably, yeah," Louis says, blinking back to himself. "Before I even started. Fuck, I'm such a wanker."

The guy looks confused as Louis zips up and races out of the bathroom, elbowing through the crowd back to their booth. Harry's alone - Niall must have gone to the bar, his jacket's still on the seat - and he looks up curiously from his mobile when Louis reaches over to grab his wallet, phone and smokes. "Going somewhere?"

Louis bashes out a quick text to Liam before glancing back at Harry. He can feel the beginnings of a cheeky grin tugging at his lips. "Got a bus to catch, don't I?"

Harry's eyes widen and he lets his mobile drop onto the padded seat, to fully demonstrate his shock. "This is the proudest moment of my life." His hands clutch at the air before he clasps them together, grinning up at Louis as wide as he ever has. "Go get him, Lou."

"Don't mind if I do," Louis replies, and sets off for the bus stop at a run.

It can't take him much longer than ten minutes to get there, and Liam's already waiting for him, which – yeah. Harry’s always right. He's not on the bench for once, just standing around next to the pole, and Louis is struck by the urge to take a picture of the way he looks under the one street lamp, all beautiful and golden and maybe his.

He doesn't though, time enough for that later, he hopes, and just races down the road until he slides to a halt near the pole, clutching at it to slow him down. Liam notices like he notices everything and jumps in front of Louis, catching him in his big warm hands, settling him back on his feet. "Louis!" His face is doing that thing where it's not sure what to feel, and currently he's somewhere between scared and pleased.

Louis rather knows that cocktail of emotions himself. He holds up a hand, indicates he needs a moment to catch his breath - it's been a long time since he's run that far, the things he does for Liam Payne - and eventually forces his heart rate back to something more suitable for someone not in the middle of an Olympic event. He really needs to stop with the cigarettes, fuck. That nearly killed him. "Liam. Catch a bus with me."

Liam's face makes up its mind and puts all its money on confusion. "What?"

"Catch a bus with me," Louis repeats. "We're having a moment, so I expect one will appear any second. You know how it is."

"What?" Liam asks again, looking like Louis is a wonderful but exotic zoo animal that keeps putting shoes on its head. "I–what? A moment?"

Air brakes interrupt right on schedule and Louis waves as the 57 pulls up, as proud of its appearance as if he'd conjured it himself. "Come on then." He herds Liam to the bus and helps him tap on, then pushes him into one of the front seats. "There you go."

Liam's confusion is so pronounced his eyebrows have drawn all the way together and formed one magnificent eyebrow entity. "Louis, I have no idea what you're doing. This isn't even your bus!"

Louis winds an arm around a seat pole, aiming for casual but probably falling short, what with the way his hand skids over the painted metal because it's suddenly all slippery with sweat. "No," he says, shoving his other hand into his pocket to hide how it's trembling. "It's yours."

He widens his stance a little and balances himself better in case the bus takes a corner too fast and ruins his declaration, or whatever this is, before he gets a chance to say it, before he's able to put into words what Liam means to him. "I have to tell you something."

Liam's still staring up at him. "Okay?" He shakes himself. "Yeah, I mean, of course! But, you should sit down or something–"

"No!" Louis snaps. "Sitting down will not make this easier, Liam. I'm going to say it clinging to this pole or not at all."

Liam nods seriously, like what Louis said actually made sense, and fuck, if that isn't half the issue right there. "All right, then," he says, drawing back and evidently finding some reserves of composure. Louis wishes he'd share. Liam nods encouragingly. "Go on."

Predictably Louis's courage deserts him now that Liam's right in front of him and ready to listen. He clears his throat, changes the position of his hands on the pole. The nipple cream has really worked wonders, they're so soft and smooth that they can't seem to get a good grip. "Well."

Liam doesn't move, just keeps gazing at him steadily. "Yeah?"

Fuck it. "You have the best face," Louis says, because he's shit at this, at lots of things. Liam's mouth drops open in a silent little 'oh'. "Your eyes, your nose, your smile. I like it so much, Liam." Louis needs to push his hair out of his eyes or maybe bite his own fist so he doesn't have to do this any more, but both of those things involve his hands and he's still clinging to the pole because he's an idiot. "I like you so much."

The bus goes around a corner and Louis nearly goes flying. He rights himself at the last second but not before Liam has half-risen out of his seat, hands up and out, ready to steady him if need be. Louis laughs, high and sharp. "See?" He can't really indicate Liam's general state of perfection but he jerks his chin at him and hopes for the best. "You're just so good. You listen to me and you make me laugh and you warm the fucking bench for me, god."

Liam's still staring at him, expression unreadable for the first time in their entire acquaintance, but he lets out a little laugh at that, like it’s funny that Louis noticed, or brought it up, or fuck, he doesn't even know. "You give me the right earbud," Louis says, a little desperately. He'd been hoping for some sort of response by now. "Like, every time. The right earbud is the best earbud. And you give it to me."

"Well, yeah," Liam says, like he can't believe he has to say this. "Because I've fancied you since the first moment I saw you."

Louis nearly does topple over at that. "Are you shitting me?!"

"Louis," Liam says, with a hint of exasperation, but mostly with a smile threatening to take over his face, "I'm always at the bus stop because that's where you'll be. Honestly? I can walk home from school. We've actually, we’ve already missed my stop."

"Oh, right," Louis says, a little bit out of it, truth be told, still kind of stuck on because that's where you'll be. "Harry figured that out last night."

"Bless Harry," says Liam seriously, lips twitching. He tries to tamp down his expression but his face won't cooperate, and after a moment he's grinning fit to burst. He looks stoked, so fucking happy, and Louis's eyes are hot all of a sudden. Maybe he's burning up from the inside, and how could he not be, anyway, when Liam looks like he's won the lotto just because Louis followed him here and confessed really fucking awkwardly, like Louis is the lotto prize himself and it's better than five million quid, or whatever the jackpot is this week.

Louis has never had anyone look like that at him before, and it makes him feel both ten feet tall and fragile like glass, so he does what he always does in emotional situations and pretends that nothing has happened, even as he tucks away this moment to pull out later when he's alone and not so vulnerable, when he can bottle how it made him feel. "Yes, well," he says. The bus rounds a corner and he has to brace his hip against the pole again so he doesn't go arse up and ruin everything. He sucks in a breath, puts his game face on. Might as well get Liam used to how contrary he can be. "Shove over, Liam. I'm beginning to think you just want me to stand here like a pillock until we reach the end of the line."

Immediately Liam grabs his rucksack and tries to meld with the side of the bus, squeezing himself into the corner and leaving more than half the seat free. Louis has to bite the inside of his cheek to stop his face from doing its best impression of Liam's crinkly-eyed grin. He plonks down and spreads himself across the seat, arm on Liam's shoulder, knee against his thigh. He picks up Liam's hand and threads their fingers together because he can, he's allowed. "You left me a lot of room, are you trying to say something about my bum?"

Liam's lips twitch and he tentatively shuffles back over until he’s taking up a reasonable portion of the seat. "I hear it's your best asset."

"You bastard," Louis breathes. "I thought you hadn't even noticed."

"Reckon Zayn's sick of hearing me go on about it, to be honest," Liam says. "He threatened to move out if I described it one more time."

"Zayn," Louis growls. "I thought you were mad for him."

"He's gorgeous," Liam says agreeably. "But almost too gorgeous, yeah? Like he's not even real."

"Zayn," Louis growls again. "That’s quite enough about him." Letting go of Liam's hand, he reaches over and unzips Liam's rucksack, rooting through until he finds his iPod, tugging it out to find the headphones cable wrapped around it neatly and secured with a sparkly hair elastic, because of course it is. He unwinds it with more care than he's ever shown any of his own belongings, before popping an earbud in and offering the other one to Liam. Liam takes it like it's precious and smiles down at his lap.

Louis flicks rapidly through the artists, A to B to C. His hands have almost stopped trembling. Getting to D, he pauses, then taps into Daft Punk. "I reckon you'll be hard pressed to get rid of me."

"Yeah?" Liam glances over, eyes still crinkled with happiness. "And why's that, then?"

Louis's finger hovers over the screen. "I gave you the right earbud, didn't I? You know what that means."

Liam's gaze drops to the earbud still in his hand, tilting it until he can see the little R on the side.

"Yeah?" Liam's thumb rubs gently over it. "Suppose we should do something about it."

"That's an excellent plan," Louis says, and hits play on Get Lucky. "How do you feel about places that aren't bus stops?"

Liam's hand finds his as the song starts and he locks their fingers together, dropping his head onto Louis's shoulder and hiding his smile in Louis's neck. "Not sure, to be honest," he mumbles, lips brushing over Louis's collarbone. "I might feel uncomfortable with four walls, heating, stuff like that."

"Those are some of my favourite things," Louis says, repressing a shiver at the touch. "Do you like beds? Kitchen tables? Talk to me about showers."

Liam laughs. "I'm on to you, mate."

"Good." He presses a quick kiss into Liam's hair, then turns his attention to the iPod. "Wait, should we be listening to this before going back to your place and hopefully, finally, getting naked? I just don't want any of Ruth's playlist to get stuck in my head while we're, you know." He shrugs. "Doing stuff."

Liam draws back, smile turned wicked at the edges. Louis's tummy does a double backflip with pike. "You don't want–"

"Liam," Louis warns, ignoring the warmth in his belly.

"–to get–"

"Do I look like I'm joking here?"

"–a song in–"

"I swear to god I will press the bell and get off at the next stop," Louis snarls.

Liam's face falls and Louis has to close his eyes so he's not tempted to relent.

"If you're dead set against it," Liam says softly, laying his head back onto Louis's shoulder.

Louis lets out a breath. "Thank you," he says regally. Look at him, training up his bloke already. When he was in sixth form Sonia Warton told him he was the worst boyfriend ever. If she could see him now.

"Then of course I'll do it," Liam continues, before launching into The Wombles theme.

"I hate you," Louis snaps, snatching the right earbud back. "You've gone from the right earbud to no earbud. I'm stealing your entire iPod."

Liam shrugs, still beaming. "What's mine is yours, I suppose."

"Good," Louis snaps. "I'm taking your rucksack and hiding it. I'm taking your clothes and burning them. You will have no belongings and nothing to wear. All nudity, all the time."

"That's a bit controlling," Liam points out. "That's not how these things are supposed to go."

Louis deflates because Liam has a point. It's possible that Sonia Warton was right. "I'm rubbish at relationships," he confesses, turning his head away and watching the night flash past outside the bus. "I'm giving you fair warning because, like. I'm actually, truly terrible."

"What a coincidence," Liam says. "I'm brilliant at them. Best boyfriend ever. Would you care for a testimonial? I could get someone on the line if you need it."

"Fuck, no," Louis seethes, a spear of jealousy stabbing through him at the thought of other people getting Liam's warmth, his hands, his smile. "That's the worst idea I've ever heard. What happened to good, old-fashioned evidence? Show, don't tell? That sort of thing."

"I can do that," Liam promises. "But first we should really get off the bus." He peers out the window at a streetpost as it whizzes by. "Trafford Street? Louis, I have no idea where we are, to be honest."

Louis sighs loudly and hits the bell, already digging in his pocket for his mobile. "It's a good thing you're beautiful."