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The night was young no longer, and soon enough, the dull luminescence of the dirty street lamps was the only company for the robbers, the homeless, and the lost.
London lived up to its reputation, and the streets were worn down with use, with muddy splashes of cold rainwater gathering in the places where people trespassed the most. The occasional shout of drunken laughter grew louder as Louis trod down Regent Street and towards Chinatown, and maybe the night was young no longer, but it was gayer and livelier the more he made his way to the west.
And gay it was; queer and strange, just like the man himself. Louis had heard his co-worker rant off about people like him, and it made his skin crawl with a need to defend them, defend himself, but he knew nothing good would have come out of his confession, blurted out in an angry defence against the most homophobic man Louis had ever encountered. Looking at the bright sign reading "Silver Tongues" in the most hideous green Louis had ever seen, he couldn’t fathom caring about miserable old men who love to spit on things they do not understand.
The music fizzled in his veins the moment he stepped inside, and he was swept up in the atmosphere within a second. It was a fabricated fairy tale; he imagined himself to be free for the night without a burden or a care.
Louis Tomlinson, twenty-eight. Gay. Queer.
He was born that way.
***
Conversation is currency.
"A White Russian, please."
The bartender didn't approve, and it showed; the judgmental side-eye Louis received said everything about what the raven-haired boy behind the bar couldn't say out loud. Amber eyes and brown skin, a rare sight in the West End. He raised his eyebrows amusingly when the glass was begrudgingly pushed towards Louis. "Not a fan of the drink, I reckon."
A flash of fear hinted at the man’s eyes. "It's not my place to say so, sir."
Louis took a sip from his glass, wincing at the taste and licking his lips afterwards. "Ugh. Fucking disgusting."
The bartender snorted. "Why’d you order that shit then?"
"I order something abominable every week. I’m trying new things, I suppose. Last week I had some hideous pink thing, and God, that was horrendous."
The man smiled. He was very handsome, and Louis noted him absentmindedly. "I’m Zayn," he said, thrusting his hand out.
Louis reached out and grasped it firmly. "Louis." His eyes darted along Zayn’s wrist, grip faltering when he saw a huge red slash, healed, but visibly cutting through a pink triangle tattooed on the inner wrist of the man. He jerked up and took a deep breath, feeling the weight of Zayn’s heavy stare on him. "Tomlinson. Louis Tomlinson."
"Louis Tomlinson." The glout on Zayn’s face was too ugly for someone so beautiful, so Louis silently pulled up his shirtsleeve and rolled it back, then took his drink and poured it over his wrist. The liquid slid along his arm and spilled into his trousers and onto the red carpet, washing away the pale foundation in Louis' wrist just enough to show a tattooed pink triangle identical to Zayn's, unmarred and unmarked.
He shook his wrist to get rid of the remaining alcohol off his hand, taking in the way Zayn instantly relaxed. "I’m new here," Zayn mumbled. "Can’t remember faces much." He started making another drink. "Are you a regular?"
"You can say that, I suppose." It has been about a month or so. He only found it accidentally after drunkenly stumbling in and kissing another gentleman, who just as eagerly reciprocated his sentiments. At first he was perplexed as to why he was not arrested, but then, to his delight, he discovered it was a place full of queers.
"Here." Another glass was pushed towards him, leaving a trail of water along the polished wood. "Vodka and red bull. On me."
Louis smiled and graciously took a gulp of it, revelling in the burning feeling. The music was loud and numbing, but he loved it. Neon lights were harsh on the eyes, but so was the world, and he’d rather face flashing lights than hurtful people any day.
"I think it’s beautiful." Louis drowned the drink and rested the glass down with a clinking "thud."
"What is?"
"Despite the scar on your hand, it’s still there for everyone to see." Louis nodded at the pink triangle on his own hand. "Every day, I use women's make-up to conceal mine."
Zayn froze and eyed him warily. "Makeup doesn’t have a gender."
Chuckling hysterically, Louis slipped off the stool and brushed his soaked shirt. "So why did I have to buy it as if it were a gift for my sister?" He smiled at Zayn, who had his lips curled in a distasteful frown. "Have a nice night, Zayn. That big, burly bouncer had his puppy brown eyes glued to you all night, maybe you should go talk to him."
He didn’t wait to hear Zayn sputtering and made his way into the restrooms.
Louis often finds himself lost in the middle of the drunken, sweaty crowd on Friday nights to remind himself that there are more people like him. He doesn’t even like dancing; if he’s honest with himself, he only likes the way it makes him feel insignificant, as if he were just another star in a whole damn galaxy. And sex is the last thing on his mind when the prospect of going back home with the fear of getting caught always looms large in the distance. In the broad day light, mingling with his co-workers and strangers on the busy London streets, it was easy to feel alone, like an abomination, a mistake of God’s creation. During nights like these, Louis felt like he had a place in this world; let it be among sinners or saints, he belonged.
Bring a new world to life.
He belonged. Let the world sneer; Louis Tomlinson was part of it, whether they wanted him to be or not.
The noise ceased as Louis closed the bathroom door, and he breathed out heavily, taking in the muffled music. He splashed his face with cold water from the sink and stared at the person in front of him. The mirror stared back and told Louis to take better care of himself more. His ocean eyes were raging storms with every passing day, and his cheekbones were hollow. Droplets clung to his eyelashes and tumbled down his cheeks and past his cracked lips.
Maybe someday he’d stand up and defy all odds, and if he fell in love, he’d be brave enough to love them the way they deserved to be loved.
Louis slapped himself slightly and walked to the door when he noticed something written on the wall with bright red lipstick.
She Is Beauty, We Are World Class.
Starry-eyed, Louis watched it for a second and left to join the dancing crowd.
It was a blur; the lights flashed by, and he was drowning in a pool of red, blue, and green. Invisible. He was stuck among intoxicated strangers in the middle of goddamn Soho, seeking pleasures he could not afford, and he had everything that could be lost in a single minute of interaction. It was a cage, a fever dream high.
And yet. He was free.
Forever,
We'll let the feeling last.
The music faded out, and the lights went out, leaving Louis and a hundred other people in total darkness. He felt his throat constrict as hushed whispers grew louder with a slow-pending panic. Biting his lip to bring himself back to consciousness, he made up his mind to escape and took a step to wriggle away from the crowd when he heard the music come back up.
The piano was alluring, sultry, and shy, with just the right amount of danger. It was calling, saying something that words weren’t. It was meant to make you stop, and it was made to make you look.
Louis stopped. And he looked.
"I put a spell on you…"
Surrounded by lights, it was shining on the most beautiful creature Louis had ever witnessed. The man on the stage was a siren, dressed in a white see-through blouse that revealed an array of tattoos, translucent enough to make the viewer go mad with a desire to take a closer look, see what they look like. A tiny golden skirt swirling half-way to his thigh, it bounced around when the man twirled. His long, brown hair fell in curled ringlets past his broad shoulders, grazing the sides of his sharp cheekbones and strong jawline. Lips were painted crimson red like the rose born from the nightingale’s heart’s blood, and cheeks were dusted with pink blush and a hint of embarrassment at the men watching, but he obviously loved the attention, Louis noted, watching him drag a finger from his throat to his waist in an agonisingly slow graze as those lips purred out words in a deep voice that shackled Louis to his spot, frozen.
"You know I can't stand it,
You're running around..."
But it was his eyes that sealed the deal. They were sea foam and glass found at the edges of the rocky beach and treasured forever, and those eyes swept through the mesmerised crowd and stopped at Louis, glimmering like the ocean on a bright, sunny day.
"You know better, daddy…"
And fuck.
Louis was a goner.
***
He should’ve been home by twelve. He has to work tomorrow.
But no, there he was, nursing a glass and stumped in a corner of a booth, practically following the pretty man with his eyes for the better part of the night.
It was one thing if Louis went on and talked with him. Introduce himself, buy him something, fall into a comfortable conversation, steal a kiss, go on a date, get married, have a kid... the list went on and became far more ridiculous with every glass he downed. He watched the man giggle all night, and he was bordering on crazy with a desire to make him giggle. It was vexing, and it scared him because Louis couldn't control it, so he closed his eyes and sank back in his seat, deciding to call it quits for the time, and mentally preparing to return home rather than making it halfway and ending up in a ditch in West London.
"You don’t look very comfortable, sleeping like that."
Louis opened his eyes groggily, then sat up straight in haste. The pretty man was plopped on the seat across from him, legs crossed and covered by that damn glittery skirt, picking his nails with a subtle smirk.
He stared, dumbstruck, long enough for the man to sigh and scoot closer to him. "Hi, I’m Harry."
Harry.
Beautiful man was called Harry.
"And this is the part where you tell me your name," Harry pressed on questioningly.
"Oh, um…" Louis blinked and subtly pinched his thigh to sober up. "Uh- Tomlinson. I mean, Louis—no, William, I mean—" He mentally slapped himself hard. Pretty or not, was it wise to expose his real identity to someone he had just barely met?
Harry seemed amused. "Hi, Tomlinson-Louis-William. I’m Harry Styles."
Too late to take it back, Louis mused. "It’s Louis William Tomlinson."
"I figured." Harry flicked his nails and pushed back a curl that fell over his face. Louis stared at it longingly.
Are we one, or are we two?
Are we me, or are we you?
"I must admit, philosophy is not one of my strongest suits," Harry said.
Louis blushed. "Forgive me, I’m a little bit out of my head, methinks."
"Had too much to drink?"
"Not at all," Louis said, although his words slurred a little. "Just a little, can barely feel it."
"The lady doth protest too much, methinks," Harry grinned.
"Oh, can it, Shakespeare." Louis grinned too. "You a reader?" he asked inquisitively.
"A little." Harry uncrossed his legs and leaned forward. "You?"
"I work in publications and have a degree in English literature. Books come with the territory."
"Ooh, I’ve got a smartass in my grasp," Harry teased. "Cambridge?"
"Oxford."
Harry sighed wistfully. "That sounds wonderful. I love a man who knows his books."
"Do you want me to quote Wilde at you?" Louis asked mischievously.
***
They talked for hours, and Louis found himself pleasantly flushed and happy. Somehow, they never ran out of words. So what if Harry sometimes caught him getting lost in those eyes? He couldn’t possibly blame Louis, not when Harry always blushed the prettiest pink whenever Louis called him darling or love.
"I was waiting all night for you to come over and buy me a drink or something," Harry said sometime later. "But you were content to sit here moping, and I had to take matters into my own hands."
Louis spluttered. "What?"
"Imagine being me." Harry was pouting now, and it was very distracting, as if Louis wasn’t already distracted enough. "Just doing my job, singing, and seeing this loveliest pair of eyes amidst the crowd. I almost tripped down the stage." He scooted closer, and Louis held his breath. "Your eyes glitter; did you know that? Quite beautiful."
"Are they?" Louis croaked, his throat suddenly dry and raspy.
Harry nodded. "Very. And then I felt you looking at me after my song was over. It was maddening, seeing you watch me as if you’d like to devour me, but never making a move. Drove me crazy; I had to do something." He scooted closer to Louis, who caught his breath. "You are quite the tease, aren’t you?"
Louis couldn’t help himself. "Only when you want me to be, darling." He had to physically restrain his hand from clamping his mouth shut, which would’ve made him look even dumber.
The man whined. "Lou-ee."
"Sorry," Louis apologised.
"Don’t be, please." Harry slid closer, so that they were almost touching. Louis tightened his fist around the glass in his hand to stop it from curling around Harry’s waist. Harry noticed the gesture, and bit his lip, frowning.
"How much did you have to drink again?" he asked.
"Not enough, I reckon."
The frown softened, and was replaced by a sultry smirk. Before Louis could comprehend, Harry stretched his arms and knocked the glass from Louis’ hand. It went tumbling to the floor with a ‘clink," the liquid spilling on the carpet, but the glass was unharmed. "Oops," Harry said, peering at the mess for a second before looking back at Louis intently.
"Hello," Louis said, dazedly.
"Can I kiss you?"
Louis’ brain short-circuited, but he managed to get some words out. "I’d be disappointed if you didn’t."
Harry flashed him a brilliant smile and cupped his cheeks with both hands. "I would hate to disappoint you."
And their lips met.
Soft, as are all first kisses.
They pulled apart, eyes shimmering in wonder.
Then they kissed again.
Louis soon felt glad that the glass no longer occupied his hand when he wrapped his hands around Harry’s waist and pulled him onto his lap, eliciting a small squeak from the man that was quickly shut down by smashing their lips together. Harry put one arm around Louis, and the other cupped his cheek. They kissed fervently and desperately as the air around them changed to something much more charged.
Louis gasped when they broke the kiss to breathe. "Fuck, love."
"That is my intention."
"Oh god." And Louis couldn’t really stop himself—not when this gorgeous boy was kissing him like his life depended on it. He slid his hand beneath Harry's blouse, flicking his nipple. Harry moaned but didn’t break their kiss, instead fumbling to find the buttons on Louis’ shirt and failing.
Which brought Louis to his better senses. "Wait, babe—" he drew back to speak, but couldn't because Harry wouldn't let him go. Louis ran his hand through Harry’s hair and pulled him back, which seemed to turn him on even more. "Harry, everyone can see us here."
"Don’t care," Harry whimpered, trying to kiss him again. "Want them to see. Want them to know what you’re doing to me." He leaned forward and kissed Louis again.
Louis let him, but pulled back again after some time. "I need to go home."
Harry blinked at him, bewildered. "But… I thought you wanted to..." He frowned. "Did you not want me to kiss you?"
"I do; I swear I do. I want it." Smiling, Louis pressed a quick kiss on Harry. "But not like this, no. I think you’re a lovely person." He hesitated, then asked shyly, "Are you free tomorrow evening?"
He didn’t know why he asked that or how he found the courage to ask for such a thing. But it was done, and Louis stared while Harry’s eyes popped open in shock, wondering if it was a mistake to say that.
"I- uh…" Harry fumbled with his blouse. "Is this a date thing?"
Louis shrugged, trying to act nonchalant. "If you want it to be."
They stayed like that in silence, still wrapped up in each other, Louis’ heart sinking with every second spent without talking. Harry was breathing rapidly, as was Louis. He was growing desperate and embarrassed and wished he had never opened his mouth.
They both spoke at the same time. "If you don’t-"
"Okay."
Louis felt physically lighter with relief. "Okay?"
Harry grinned widely. "Okay," he said, giggling. "Take me out to somewhere nice then, Mr. Tomlinson. I’m free tomorrow."
"I will, I promise." Louis couldn’t help reflecting Harry’s grin. "Meet me near the Royal Opera House, at four thirty?"
Harry hesitated. "What if someone sees?"
"Someone is bound to see." Louis’ smile dimmed a little, the fear that pulsed through him earlier in the evening coming back. "But society is blind to things they do not want to see, love. Let’s take advantage of it."
"As the historians say, they were friends."
"I’d even go so far as to say they were roommates."
Giggling, Harry got off Louis’ lap. "Roommates who were friends." Standing, he crinkled his nose fondly. "Well then, I look forward to seeing you tomorrow, Tomlinson-William-Louis."
Louis rolled his eyes half-heartedly. "And I you, Harry Styles."
Harry bit his lip, pondering, then quickly bent to press a chaste kiss on Louis and dashed off, calling out a high-pitched "Bye!" as he disappeared into the diminishing crowd.
And then it was just him again, but Louis wasn’t lonely anymore. "Bye," he replied, fingers touching his lips in marvel, wondering if it was all a dream.
***
Across the room, a blonde man watched the interaction, amused.
"Bit of a sad bunch, that man," Zayn commented as he slid a drink across the bar. He looked at Louis in the distance, who was still seated, looking lost. "Came here and said some sad shit about my tattoo. Nothing offensive, think he’s in denial or something."
"Nah." The blonde man took a vigorous sip and turned to the bartender. "He was just scared. Reckon he just found a reason to be brave."
Zayn looked incredulous. "From a single interaction?"
"Sometimes, that’s all you need." Smirking, he looked towards the exit, where a man stood stiff, eyes darting around but always landing in the direction of the bar. "You should learn from him. Be brave."
Zayn flicked a cloth at him. "Shut up, Niall."
Has it been all this before?
Do you see what I see?
***
The End (not quite.)