like a simile, i paint suggestive pictures (of me and you) (hs/lt)
title: like a simile, i paint suggestive pictures (of me and you)
pairing: harry styles/louis tomlinson
word count: ~15,000
disclaimer: hilariously untrue
summary: AU. louis is a TA for an english 101 class and harry is stupid gorgeous which of course leads to a morality crisis.
notes: ugh so i was writing sadfic and then i realised that if i’m going to contribute to breaking this fic-drought i probably shouldn’t contribute with the most depressing shit in the world. so then this came out. and ended up longer than i meant it to. umm. it takes place at an Unnamed American University, but really it’s based on the university of montana, but like. whatever that’s really unimportant. thanks and love to everyone who has to put up with me, because i am motherfucking intolerable when i write.
It's not that Louis specifically hates discussion sections, it's more that everyone on earth hates discussion sections. The problem lies within the way each individual handles and projects their hatred that breaks down what could be a moment of beautiful solidarity. There's the silent majority - the ones who race for the row at the back of the classroom and huddle over their laptops, very clearly biding their time until the hour hits. There's the rare minority - the ones who hide their resentment well and do what they can to further discussion, who ask insightful questions, who pretend to care. Louis, in turn, pretends they aren't sucking up for the grade. And then there's the vocal minority - the group of students who sit very deliberately in the front row, who project their opinions and analyses and very Deep, Subversive, and Unique thoughts and then sink back into their chairs with a look of impressive self-satisfaction, as if the heavens have opened and sprayed the surrounding lesser mortals with a comeshot of Intellect.
His section is the end of the alphabet; a sixth of the full lecture capacity. The S's to the Z's. Twenty five first year students who chose to take Introduction to Literature. Four years later and Louis pities them already.
But whatever. He has a bagel with what could possibly considered too much cream cheese and a massive thermos of tea and no set lesson plans aside from standard name and favourite author bullshit. There's no need to fully alienate twenty five eighteen year olds before strictly necessary. Louis knows he's a dick; they don't need to know that until later.
The classroom is empty when he arrives, ten minutes before class begins. It's one of the shitty classrooms, stuffed in the annexes of the art building, fit for neither man nor beast. There's a quaint spread of black mould surrounding the windows, which do not fully close. The facsimile of hardwood covering the floor is peeling laminate. The chalkboard has a permanent dick drawn on it, pointing towards Louis's desk. The dick is ejaculating exactly over where his head would be, should he choose to sit. So. Auspicious beginning.
There's a scuffling by the door, and Louis snaps out of his standard woe woe woe desolation woe woe brainspace, glancing over. A boy - young, nervous looking, and unfortunately absolutely fucking gorgeous - is standing there. "Is this, um, are you Louis? Discussion section, um?"
And oh, well, bend Louis over and shove cucumbers up his arsehole, because this beautiful thing is British. Louis swallows and flicks his fringe off his forehead, smiling brightly at the boy after a brief pause. "Yes! Glad you found it alright. I'm pretty sure this classroom is not on any official map, actually. Maybe directly underneath the here there be monsters disclaimer, but, yes! Welcome."
The boy blinks, smiles. "Brilliant, cheers. Where are you from? Unless you're mocking me."
Louis laughs. "I'd have become an actor if I could mock you this well, mate. I'm from Yorkshire. You?"
"Cheshire," the boys drawls, shaking his stupid curly fringe into his eyes and then flipping it back out, giving him a ridiculous pompadour until gravity flops it right back where it was. Louis bites back a smile.
"Excellent. Except not, because I'm pretty sure I'm not supposed to have favourites. Especially before I've met anyone else. What's your name?" Louis asks, because he's fairly certain calling this boy Stupid Pretty for the rest of the semester would lead to a breakdown in the TA-student relationship. Or something.
"Harry," he says, biting his stupid red lip and smiling with stupid white teeth and stupid green eyes.
Stupid Pretty Harry, then.
Or maybe just Stupid Predator Louis.
Louis grins back, and like. Well, just, like. Shit. Shit, because Harry's clearly a huge fucking flirt with his stupid self, and Louis does not do well with being flirted with by Stupid Pretty Boys without turning into Stupid Flirty Louis and when Stupid Flirty Louis is combined with Stupid Predator Louis, there is really only one outcome and that is clearly Stupid Unemployed and Disgraced Louis.
"I'm Louis," he says back.
Harry smiles.
Louis sits right under the ejaculating penis because he is teaching a literature discussion section and he is nothing if not well-versed on the art of the metaphor.
*
Niall is sitting at the kitchen table when Louis gets home. Niall has three tacos in front of him and his guitar is propped up on the chair across the table, a separate plate of tacos in front of it. Louis pauses.
There's a slight possibility that the guitar's tacos are meant for Louis. There is a bigger possibility Niall did actually buy his guitar tacos, solely so once he finished his own he could politely ask his guitar to share the tacos and his guitar will be more likely to say yes than Louis.
"I am going to stress-eat those tacos, Niall, and I will not hear a word otherwise."
Niall looks up and blinks at Louis for a moment, before smiling around a mouthful of beef. "Louis!" he yells.
Louis stares at him. He is well-versed in Niall's distraction tactics. Distractics. "I am going to stress-eat those tacos, Niall," he says again.
Niall looks over across the table and a look of deep conflict passes over his face, eventually clearing with a sigh. "Okay, Louis. I love you."
Louis rolls his eyes. "I love you too, man. How was your day?"
Niall's in his last year of a music something something degree. Engineering? Is music engineering a thing? Louis is not sure but he's pretended valiantly for three years, so he's very adept at it by now.
"Good! Good. I decided to take a geology class. It seems cool!" Niall is still talking around tacos. Louis pulls a face and sinks into the chair next to the guitar. He looks at it, hopefully with enough of an apology in his eyes so Niall won't get offended on its behalf, and slides the plate of tacos in front of him.
"Geology? What? Like, you decided in your last year to take, like, Geology 101?" Louis takes a huge bite of the taco and winces at the actual three gallons of hot sauce the guitar apparently prefers.
Niall nods, excited. "Yeah, like, apparently if you take more than twelve credits, it's all the same price? So I had extra room for another three credit class and, like, I dunno. I remembered that I like to drop rocks into the swimming pool because the splash was cool, so. Geology!"
Louis tilts his head. "That is physics. The splash is physics."
"Louis," Niall says pityingly. "Louis, Louis, Louis."
Louis waits.
"Louis, you can't even tell the difference between a stalactite and stalagmite. Forgive me if I do not take you seriously."
Chewing thoughtfully, Louis regards Niall. "I think I want to fuck an eighteen year old," he says, after he swallows.
Niall nods slowly. "I hope you realise that the dean will probably take you more seriously than I do."
Louis leans back in his chair, sighing at the ceiling. Which, inexplicably, has a picture of Zac Efron taped to it. Louis stares at that instead. Zac Efron is over eighteen and also not in his discussion section. Zac Efron is safe.
"It's not like he's twelve," Louis tries.
Niall gags. "Don't," he says, pointing a finger at Louis. The finger has a string of carne asada hanging off it. Louis pulls a face.
"I'm just saying. I could be worse!"
Rolling his eyes, Niall says, "Yes, Louis, if that reassurance gets you through the night, go for it. I assume this kid is in your class?"
"Yeah," Louis says, sighing. He rubs a hand over his face. "He's British and, like, unnaturally pretty. Like... He's got this hair. And these eyes. And this mouth, christ." Louis turns pleading eyes across the table. "Niall."
Niall shrugs. "Good thing you're so well-versed at pining, mate."
Louis flinches. "Wow."
"I mean, living with me must leave you with perpetual blue-balls. I'm not jealous. My manly essence exudes in waves. I am so impressed you haven't cracked by now, I mean, like. I walk around in me pants, don't I? Most of the time I can't keep my own hands off myself." Punctuating this with a loud burp, Niall gets up and pulls out two beers from the fridge. He places the extra one in front of the guitar.
Louis says, "Bend me over this table right now, you stallion, my will has crumbled."
Niall nods. "I saw this day coming years ago."
*
There's this coffee shop in the center of this college town that serves relatively cheap specialty coffees and their espresso machine only pulls double-shots and the interior decor reminds Louis of when his twin baby sisters took every puzzle in the house and dumped them into one box. And then tried to solve it.
Garage-sale chic is possibly the term, but Louis thinks that tacking chic on the end of anything creates a romanticised image of garbage that is rather unnecessary. Niall could order a pizza, unsupervised, and defend it as anchovy-chic. That's not a thing. That will never be a thing.
Louis's favourite drink involves about sixteen squirts of chocolate sauce, four shots of espresso, some marshmallow flavouring, and possibly the tears of kittens. He'x compare it to an orgasm in his mouth, but that usually collapses around the reality that orgasms in his mouth tend to not involve chocolate, marshmallow, or espresso.
He has maybe had too much caffeine. He has some pseudo-grading to do - really just writing a little welcome message on the bottom of the what is your literature experience thus far cop-out paper he'd assigned - and he has a growing stack of novels to read and he wants to write something.
He has very grand aspirations for this coffee shop, but it's rarely failed him before.
Curling up in his usual chair by the window, he balances his mug on the arm and pulls out the stack of papers. He very deliberately does not flip through them to find Harry Styles'. Except that he totally does and he totally hates himself.
It takes him an hour to get through the essays, and after the sixth variation on his This is great to hear, [insert name]! I'm excited to work with you this semester! Please let me know if you ever need any help with [insert listed weakness]! - Louis theme, he starts recycling them. Stock phrases are great. Louis just hopes no one knows each other well enough to compare. Except, of course, Harry's essay was witty and self-deprecating and eloquent and Louis had to actively resist adding his fucking phone number to the bottom of the page, underneath a series of hearts and xoxo's.
"Louis?" comes a stupid, slow drawl from somewhere above his head. Louis looks up and oh. Yep. Yep, Louis actually must have been Jack the Ripper in his last life because Harry Styles is smiling down at him, all windblown hair and reddened cheeks and... well.
Louis smiles, because he can't not smile at this boy in front of him. "Harry! I just read your paper. You're a good writer!" Inane, inane, inane, death, death, woe, woe.
Harry laughs a little. "Thanks! Are you waiting for someone?" he asks, eyes straying to the chair next to Louis.
Death, death, woe, woe, here be monsters, woe, death, shut it down.
"No," Louis says back, gesturing at the empty chair. "Help yourself. I recommend ordering something very caffeinated and very sugary, though. It's really the specialty here."
Harry winks - he actually fucking winks and goodbye, world, Louis is Sylvia Plath-ing himself as soon as he gets home - and drops his bag on the chair before going up to the counter.
Louis pulls out his phone, sending a text to Niall. red alert red alert SOS SOS SOS jailbait jailbait woe woe do you even realise what would happen to me in jail NIALL!!!!!
Harry comes back with a steaming mug of Louis's dignity and settles himself in. "So, Louis," he starts, and Louis's phone goes IT'S LIKE 151 RUM PINEAPPLE JUICE AND MALIBU CARIBOU GET THEM ALL NUMB MAKE BABYGIRL COME.
Harry jumps and looks entirely too much like a startled baby deer for Louis to handle. "Sorry," Louis says. "I like to express myself."
Harry chokes on a mouthful of whatever he's drinking, coughing and laughing in equal amounts and it's cute and endearing and Louis just smiles at him for a moment before checking his texts.
lou i learnt some valuble advice in geogley today....... uve got a gr8 booty
Louis makes a low noise in his throat and drops his phone on the floor, glaring at it. Everyone betrays him.
"Everything alright?" Harry asks, eyebrows coming together, concerned.
"Harry," Louis says, "listen to grandad's advice, okay?"
Harry nods, rolling his lips into his mouth to hide the smile Louis can clearly see in his eyes.
"Do not trust anyone. Never confide in anyone. Everyone will always like their guitars more than they like you. They will buy their guitars tacos and beer and you will be left, naked and alone, shivering in a gutter like you are caught in the middle of revolutionary France." Louis stares at Harry intently, seriously, and taps the side of his nose.
"Ah," Harry intones, nodding again. "Wisdom does come with age."
"Yes. When you are as old and decrepit as I am, young Harold, you will understand. The world does not love you and we are all going to die anyway."
Harry glances around the coffeeshop, taking in the myriad array of empty seats. "I am overwhelmingly glad I chose to sit with Doctor Death, Louis, thank you."
Scoffing, Louis fixes his fringe and levels Harry with a look. "I'm just trying to protect you."
Harry smiles at him, a small, secret, closed-mouth smile, and his eyes are shining. "Of course you are."
It's all a bit too knowing. Louis is in Trouble.
*
Louis ends up spending two hours in the coffeeshop. He decided about an hour in that he is a vigourous and enthusiastic fan of revisionist history.
He spent two hours in the coffeeshop grading papers, reading very intellectual literature, and writing prose gorgeous enough to bring the country to its knees.
He decidedly Did Not spend two hours in the coffeeshop trying - succeeding - to make Harry laugh, just to see the way he ducks under his fringe. The way he laughs so openly. The way he looks at Louis.
It's all very problematic, revisionist history, but, Louis thinks, it has its time and place.
He's meeting Zayn for dinner now and he's trying to control his face, really, because it's absolutely disgusting that he cannot stop smiling. Disgusting and inappropriate and unprofessional and Louis is none of those things.
He's not.
Zayn's already slumped over a notebook in their usual booth. His hair is flattened in the back and sticking up in the front. It's either sex-hair or thesis-hair, Louis isn't sure.
"Hey," he says, sliding in across from him.
Zayn looks up blearily. There's a lovebite on his neck, but his fingernails are also bitten down to the quick and his face is pale. "Lou," Zayn says. "Hey. How are you? Do you know anything about the European Union?"
"Um," Louis says, reaching for a menu. They're at their regular diner, but the menu is vast and delicious and Louis has a strict rule that he's not allowed to order anything twice until he's tried everything first. Except for the chicken-fried steak. He maybe cannot think of anything that sounds grosser than chicken-fried steak. Chicken should never be used as an adjective. "No, mate, sorry. Why? What are you doing?"
Zayn mumbles something about diplomatic policies and Louis zones out. He was an English major with a writing minor for a reason. And that reason was avoiding the world and higher thought and generally, like, everything. He'll get the Denver omelet.
"I'll get the Denver omelet," he tells Zayn as Zayn pauses to inhale.
"I'm getting the chicken-fried steak," Zayn says. "And I don't want to hear a single word out of you."
Louis is pretty sure his facial expression counts as a response. "Zayn, I need to unload my troubles."
The change is immediate. Zayn sits up and his face immediately clears from any poli-sci worries. His gaze softens and his fingers twitch toward Louis's hand. Louis really does not deserve someone like Zayn in his life. "Of course, Lou. Anything. What's up?"
Louis heaves a sigh and tangles his fingers with Zayn's. "I think I may be, like, scum of the earth. Maybe."
Zayn's brow furrows. "Louis, no. Louis. You're amazing and hilarious and so, so caring. You never let anyone you love think they're less than they are. You-"
Okay, so, like, the problem with having someone as absolutely, purely wonderful as Zayn in his life is that Zayn knows too much. Zayn completely cares about Louis more than anyone in Louis's immediate life, and running parallel to that, Zayn knows all of the little bits of Louis that Louis tries as hard as he can to hide.
It's all very confusing when Louis exaggerates for dramatic and comedic effect, because Zayn has been there when Louis was not exaggerating.
"Zayn," Louis interrupts. "Zayner."
Zayn stops, but the concern in his wide, earnest eyes stays. God.
"Zayn, I have a crush on a boy in my discussion section."
Immediately slumping back into the booth, Zayn closes his eyes and sighs. "Louis."
"Sorry," Louis says, sheepish. "Sorry, sorry, sorry."
"Fuck," Zayn says. He sighs again and rubs his hand over his face. "Okay. Walk me through it."
Louis bites his lip. "Promise not to judge me?"
"Louis," Zayn says. "Considering the possibilities that were just running through my head, I think you're safe."
"Cheers." Louis rolls his eyes. "Okay, so like. There's this boy. His name is Harry Styles, which, I know, right? What kind of stage name is that? But really. And he's like. He's so tall and lanky and built and just. He's got this mess of curly hair and these big eyes and. Okay, like. No. Zayn. You have to see his mouth. It's like... words won't do it justice. It's pornographic, frankly, and then when he smiles with it, like. I don't know what to do. Oh, also he's from the north, right? So like. Zayn."
Zayn's trying and failing to hide a smile. "The north as in, like, Massachusetts or Newcastle?"
"Like, outside of Manchester. Ew, Newcastle, who are you?" Louis wraps his hands around his glass of water, hoping the coolness on his palms will travel up to his cheeks. Fuck.
Zayn laughs. "So you have a crush. I'm failing to see the problem."
"He's eighteen! I'm a step away from being his professor!"
"Louis," Zayn says dryly. "You are many, many, many steps from being a professor. Miles, I'd say. Lightyears. Galaxies."
Louis's mouth drops open. "Excuse me? I would be a fantastic professor. I'm like. Smart. And eloquent. And shit."
Rolling his eyes, Zayn takes a sip of his coffee. "Okay, so let me recap. Correct me if I've missed anything. You have a crush on a boy who is four years younger than you, yes? And he's in your discussion section. Which is a semester long. And once he is no longer in your discussion section, he is fair game, yes?"
"Yes," Louis says miserably. "But he'll probably think I'm old and creepy and boring. He probably thinks I have erectile dysfunction."
"I..." Zayn blinks. "Um. Why would he think that, Louis?"
"I don't know, Zayn! Why does anyone think anything!"
"Okay," Zayn says, drawing the word out. "Let me paint you a little picture. Eighteen year old Louis Tomlinson. Twinky as fuck. Just got to the big, bad colonies for his university education. Let's say little Louis has a discussion section with a sexy TA who happens to have an excellent bum. Let's say said TA is twenty-two. Is Louis's first thought, hey, I bet he has erectile dysfunction?"
Louis chews on his bottom lip, thinking it over. "Okay," he allows. "Probably not. But eighteen year old Louis Tomlinson was gagging for it. Twenty-two year old Louis Tomlinson is gagging for it. If you saw eighteen year old Harry Styles, you would definitely agree with me that eighteen year old Harry Styles is decidedly not gagging for it."
"Whatever," Zayn says. "You're going to say whatever you can to talk yourself out of this, and I can't stop you, but just know that if I was in your class, Lou, I'd be rubbing one out under the desk."
Louis smiles over at him. "You're wonderful. I'm swooning."
Zayn just shakes his head. "And, Lou? Even if it doesn't work out, you're not creepy. There's nothing wrong with you. You know?"
The waitress comes up to them, then, and Louis gives her a rather manic grin. "Hello, love," he drawls. "I'll take the Denver omelet, and this fine piece of meat over here will have the waffles." He shoves the menus at her, giving her one more winning smile as she walks away. He looks triumphantly back at Zayn. Niall's not the only one with distractics.
Zayn flips him off lazily. "I'm going to get the chicken-fried steak someday and when I do, I am going to tie you down and sit on your stomach, eating it right in front of your face."
"Please," Louis says. "No dirty talk at the dinner table. Have you no manners?"
*
For the next month, Louis dreads Tuesdays. Tuesdays, ten o'clock, in the art annex. He dreads them because he looks forward to them so much. Harry is always there to catch his eye, wink at him. He'll mime gagging whenever someone is particularly obnoxious. He'll mime sleeping when Louis is being particularly boring. It's actually excruciatingly adorable and Louis is Struggling.
One Tuesday, Louis comes home to Niall and a shockingly ginger boy sitting at his kitchen table. They both have a plate of tacos in front of them, and the table is covered in empty bottles of Guinness.
"Guinness from a bottle actually tastes like rank ejaculate," Louis says, setting his bag down on the floor and collapsing into a chair. Niall nods and slides a bottle toward him. Louis takes it and pops the cap, lifting it in a mock salute.
"Ed," Niall says, "this is my roommate, Louis. Louis is in a state of perpetual bitch-mode because he is in love with a child in his class."
Ginger boy - Ed - laughs. "A child? Please tell me you don't teach elementary school."
Louis glares at Niall. "Thank you, Niall. And no, Ginger, I do not teach elementary school. Who are you?"
Niall very clearly mouths bitch-mode to Ed, who smirks. "Ed is a musician, Lou. Pretty good, too. I'm producing his EP. It's really good."
"You produce?" Louis asks. "How did I not know this?"
"Because, Louis," Niall says patiently, "you have never once feigned interest in what I do."
Louis considers this, and then shrugs. He takes a long pull of his beer. "Anyway, I just want to disclaim to you, musician Ed subtitled stranger, that I have a crush on an eighteen year old - completely overage and legal - student. I just happen to be his TA and discussion section leader. It's all very horrifying in the face of my professionalism."
"Interesting," Ed says, drawing the word out.
Louis rolls his eyes. "I'm glad my internal morality crisis and emotional distress is interesting to you. Niall, do you just invite any breed of sociopath into this apartment? Because I need to have some veto power."
"Nah," Ed says. "It's interesting because I live with a kid who has a massive crush on his discussion section leader. And he's eighteen. And I've heard a bit too much about butts than I really ever need to."
Niall chokes on his beer. Louis sits up straight, eyes sharpened on Ed. "What's his name?"
Lunging across the table, Niall shoves his hand over Ed's mouth. "I can't let this happen," he screeches. "Louis is already unbearable. This will not help. Don't say anything, Ed, I am begging you. I will speed your vocals up so much you sound like fuckin' Alvin and the Chipmunks."
Ed's shoulders are shaking with laughter and he nods. Niall removes his hand. "Sorry, man," he says to Louis.
Louis's hands are clenched around his beer, and he stares intently at Ed. "Ed," he says slowly, "if that is your real name, I shan't forget the day you chose Niall over me."
Ed smiles back. "You just let me know when you get your boy, yeah? I've got a song for you, I think."
Louis pulls a face. "Sappy."
Niall laughs into his beer. "Ed's got a show at the end of the semester, Lou. Maybe your boy will be there."
"Maybe he will," Ed says. He waggles his eyebrows mysteriously.
"You both think you are helping me," Louis grumbles, "but when I have a heart attack at age twenty five, my death letter will be addressed to you."
"That's suicide, Lou. You don't have a letter for a heart attack." Niall thinks he's the fucking voice of reason here, apparently. Louis scowls.
"I'll write it right now and secret it about me person, just in case. Twat." Louis downs the rest of his beer and gets up. "If you lads will excuse me, I have papers to grade. Like a proper adult who only has proper relationships."
He walks down the hallway to his room amidst hoots of laughter.
*
Fridays have always been Louis and Zayn nights. Ever since they first became friends, they found themselves going out together Friday nights, or at least finding each other before the night ended. And then they were Friends But Also More, and Fridays were their night to go out and drink and come back to the apartments and fuck. And then they circled back to Friends with the added bonus of You Know Too Much To Ever Leave, and they spend their Friday nights drinking and lamenting their disinterest in life, love, and general happiness.
This Friday is no different.
"Zayn," Louis says. "Zayner, Zayn, Zayn." He's only three beers in and he foresees a long night of hard drinking. It's cool; he had pasta for dinner. "Zayn."
"What," Zayn says back. He's perched on the window seat, and the window is pushed wide open, because Zayn generally decides about two days after signing a lease that outside is too far to go for a smoke.
"Zayn, here's the thing. It has been a month and two weeks since I fell in love and it's not getting better. It always gets better by now. Why isn't it getting better? He's not even that special! He's just, like, pretty. And stuff." Louis stretches out on the couch and props his head up on his fists, gazing at Zayn with big, sad eyes. He assumes. He feels sad and he widens his eyes, so he hopes the sadness is conveyed.
Zayn takes a slow drag of his cigarette. Louis watches him with interest. Smoking is very poetic in a dirty, death-causing, smelly, gross kind of way. If smoking could just only be poetic without the other symptoms, Louis would be an avid smoker. He thinks he would look very Deep and Introspective with a cigarette. Zayn always warns him that this is a dangerous train of thought, because that is how Zayn started smoking. But Zayn has always had more literal delusions of grandeur than Louis. Louis just likes to hypothesis and complain. Zayn likes to smoke and internalise.
"Lou, have you considered that you maybe genuinely like him as a person?" Zayn looks over with an arched eyebrow.
Louis immediately shakes his head. "Impossible. I like very few things genuinely as people. He's pretty and charming and I have fallen under the spell and someone must break it! Come over here and break me of it, big boy."
Zayn rolls his eyes. "You like me genuinely as a person."
"Well, yes," Louis allows. "And I panicked about it for three weeks, so thanks for that, arsehole."
Smirking, Zayn says, "Flattered, thank you. I'm just saying, maybe he's one more name you can add to the list. It's very unhealthy to only like me and Niall. You need some, like, variety or something."
Louis hums. "That sounds unappealing. Another beer sounds more appealing."
"You didn't used to be so fucking misanthropic," Zayn yells after him as Louis goes into the kitchen.
Louis rolls his eyes. It's true, though, he didn't. There wasn't really a specific moment where he gave up on humanity as a general species, it was more the steady progression of time and the unfortunate curse of being alive.
There is also the cliche that he prefers not to dwell on - the steady stream of shithead boyfriends and shittier flings and general disillusionment with love. It's not that he doesn't believe love exists, he just thinks maybe it's not for him.
And, predictably: "Is this about Theo?" Zayn asks him as he walks back into the TV room with two more beers.
"Is what about Theo?" Louis asks, innocent. That's the key with Zayn - feign ignorance until Zayn gets to that perfect mixture of annoyed and bored with the conversation to drop it.
Zayn shrugs. "You've not properly been with anyone since him."
"Excuse you, I was with you for like. A lot of months. Six? Seven? Don't sell yourself short, love." Louis will have to ride this one out. Zayn gets into these moods sometimes where he decides he's a fucking psychoanalyst and tries his techniques on Louis. Louis is very against being psychoanalysed because he can't even get any drugs out of it. He just has to sit and listen to Zayn telling him how he feels.
Louis is not a fan of being told how he feels.
"Yeah, but we weren't properly together. We were friends who fucked and stuff." Zayn taps his cigarettes against the heel of his hand. The sun is setting outside and the orange glow lights up his profile. It's pretty gorgeous. Zayn's pretty gorgeous. It's rather unfair.
"You loved me," Louis says dismissively. "It counts."
"I still love you, Lou, but that's like. We weren't in love and we're never going to be in love. Stop deflecting."
Louis sighs sharply. "I'm not fucking deflecting because there's nothing to deflect. What, exactly, do you want to talk about here? Theo? That was three years ago and I genuinely do not care about what happened anymore. He didn't give me any diseases and that's the only thing worth remembering there. Can we fucking move on?" He sounds angrier than he actually is. He is not drunk enough for this.
"No, Louis," Zayn says back, just as sharp. "I wanna talk about this."
"About what, Zayn? Like, no, honestly, I'm so confused here. I have a stupid crush on someone. Nothing is going to come of it and I will move on. This is not the first time this has happened and it will not be the last time. I don't know why you need to label me as fucking emotionally disturbed. There's nothing to discuss." Louis finishes his beer. He stares down at it with surprise. He's pretty sure he just opened it.
"I wanna talk about why you act as if it's the end of the fucking world that you have a crush on some boy. Crushes are fun, Louis, and every fucking time you're attracted to anyone you freak the fuck out and hide in your fucking room and emerge months later with hundreds of pages of emotionally traumatising prose. That's not what is generally known as healthy."
Louis rolls his eyes. "So fucking what, Zayn? It's better than getting coked up and fucking anyone who touches my arse at a party, and you and I both know I already tried that one."
Zayn flicks his ash out the window. He's stayed remarkably calm through this conversation. Louis is agitated. He'd prefer it if Zayn was just as agitated. When Zayn gets agitated, the chances of him letting Louis give him a blowjob go up. Louis could be agreeable to giving a blowjob tonight. It's been awhile.
"Lou," Zayn says, more gentle this time. "I just want you to be happy. You talk a good game, but come on."
Louis scoffs. "I'm fine, and I swear to god, Zayn, if you try to bring this back to my fucking parents or something, I am leaving."
Zayn laughs around a mouthful of smoke. "Yeah, okay. I do have theories there, too, you know."
"I fucking know, you sad excuse for a person. Seriously, get a hobby or a boyfriend or something and leave me alone." Louis pulls his legs under him and leans back into the couch. "And will you get over here? What's the fucking point of making me feel like shit if you're not even going to cuddle me?"
Zayn smiles and stubs out his cigarette, sliding off the window seat. "Yeah," he says, plopping down onto the couch. Louis throws his legs over Zayn's lap and Zayn strokes at his ankle. "Can you tell me what you're worried about, though?"
Louis closes his eyes and tilts his head back. "Zayn."
"Lou." Zayn's voice is soft. "Is it his age?"
Louis shrugs. "He's very charming. Very... he's not cocky, really, just. Assured. He knows the effect he has on people. And that's scary, I guess. To feel manipulated that way, even if he doesn't mean it. He's not, like, forcing me to fall in love with him or whatever, it's just. The way he is. And I don't like falling into that trap."
Zayn nods and his hand comes to circle Louis's ankle, comforting. "You're not exactly the most resistible person on the planet either, though, Lou. You know that, right? You're gorgeous and hilarious and you've definitely got your own brand of charm."
Louis smiles faintly. "I just can't afford to be in love with, or pine after, or whatever the fuck, another boy like Theo."
Zayn's grip tightens. "Theo was just a dick, Louis. Theo wasn't charming because he was a good person; Theo was charming so he could fuck people. And I think you could tell that, and I think you would be able to tell if your boy was doing that."
"Oh well," Louis says, wrinkling his nose. "It doesn't matter anyway. Let's not forget that Harry is untouchable for another two months. And maybe straight. Or taken. Or any number of possibilities that do not involve being interested in me."
"Whatever," Zayn says, rolling his eyes. "He's probably whining to his best friend right now about the hot TA who pretends not to like him."
"It's Friday night, Zayner. He's a freshman in college. I sincerely doubt he's as boring as we are," Louis says back. "I need another fucking beer. Or shots. We should definitely be doing shots."
Zayn laughs. "You just want to get me drunk."
Louis only smirks.
*
Office hours are probably the three most tedious hours of Louis's life. Over the course of the semester, he's probably had three students enter the office. Two of them were looking for the bathroom and the other one was a girl who clearly was more interested in sleeping with Louis for the grade then actually working on her paper.
And it's another Monday afternoon wasted on three hours of nothing but brooding. It's not like Louis can't work on his own stuff, because he can, but he's much more talented at pouting.
He sighs and picks up his pen, leaning over his notebook. He's trying to work on a short story, but it's daunting. Life is daunting. Louis needs strong coffee and possibly a vacation.
There are footsteps outside the office and Louis perks up a little. There are three days until the midterm paper is due and Louis cannot believe he hasn't gotten more concerned students. Not that he ever took advantage of office hours when he was undergrad, but, like, he's sure other people did. The swotty-types.
"Hey," comes a voice from the door and Louis swallows. He knows that voice.
He looks up and, yep, Harry's smiling that stupid, devastating smile at him. "Hey, Harry," Louis says, smiling back. "Paper troubles?"
Harry shrugs and sits down across from Louis. "What're you working on?" he asks.
Louis glances down at his notebook, startled, as if he's never seen it before. Christ. "Oh, um. I'm working on a collection of short stories? Like, I don't know." He laughs nervously.
When did he get to this point? When did he start caring what Harry thinks of him, or his work? How did this happen and how can he reverse it?
But Harry leans forward. "Really? Are they, like, connected? What are you writing about?"
"Um," Louis says. No one really asks about his writing anymore, because he's trained them not to. He doesn't like to talk about it, the same way people generally don't like to talk about therapy. This is his therapy. "Oh, um. I guess, like, they're interconnected thematically? They're about divorce, I guess."
"Oh, wow," Harry says, and fuck, but he does look actually interested. "That's... could I read some? Is that something you do? I just. You know. That's one of those topics that..."
"Yeah," Louis says quickly, cutting him off. Oh no. Abort abort death death woe woe. Harry is vulnerable and Louis. Just. Fuck. "Yeah, um. I don't usually? But, um. I mean. I guess you could? I could, like, email you one or something. I don't know. You don't have to, like, say anything back." Louis lets out another nervous laugh. "I mean, they're probably shit. I just kind of write for myself, I guess."
Harry nods slowly. "No, Louis, I'd be really honoured. I get that it's private, so if you're at all uncomfortable, I mean. Don't worry about it at all. I don't mean to pry."
Louis gives him a wan smile. "No, really. I don't mind. You... it's. Wow." He laughs again, flustered. "Um. So did you have a question about your paper, or...?"
"Oh," Harry says, shaking his head a little. "Yeah, I mean. So I decided to analyse One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest through the lens of Roland Barthes' Mythologies? And I have my thesis and everything, I'm just a little stuck on one of the points, and I was wondering if maybe you could explain this idea to me in a little more depth?" Harry starts digging through his bag, pulling out the books.
Louis blinks. "Harry, that's some pretty intense lit theory, there. You don't have to, like, overachieve. It's a 101 class."
Harry looks at Louis a little blankly. "I... oh."
"I mean," Louis hurries to add, "it's really, really advanced. That's not a bad thing. Just, you know, when he said to use a theoretical piece he meant more like the T.S. Eliot essay we discussed a few weeks ago. But there's nothing wrong with using Mythologies. You just surprised me. I'm impressed."
Harry smiles, cheeks red.
Louis is so absolutely gone. "Um," Louis says. "I'll just. Let me read what you have so far and I'll send you some feedback, okay? Does tonight work for you?"
"That'd be great," Harry says, looking relieved. "Thank you so much."
Louis swallows. "Not a problem."
"And," Harry says, standing up, "I really would love to read your writing. So. Again, only if you're comfortable with it."
"I'll... send you some tonight," Louis says weakly. "Thank you."
Harry gives him another devastating smile and leaves.
Louis slumps forward onto his desk, head in his hands.
*
continue
pairing: harry styles/louis tomlinson
word count: ~15,000
disclaimer: hilariously untrue
summary: AU. louis is a TA for an english 101 class and harry is stupid gorgeous which of course leads to a morality crisis.
notes: ugh so i was writing sadfic and then i realised that if i’m going to contribute to breaking this fic-drought i probably shouldn’t contribute with the most depressing shit in the world. so then this came out. and ended up longer than i meant it to. umm. it takes place at an Unnamed American University, but really it’s based on the university of montana, but like. whatever that’s really unimportant. thanks and love to everyone who has to put up with me, because i am motherfucking intolerable when i write.
It's not that Louis specifically hates discussion sections, it's more that everyone on earth hates discussion sections. The problem lies within the way each individual handles and projects their hatred that breaks down what could be a moment of beautiful solidarity. There's the silent majority - the ones who race for the row at the back of the classroom and huddle over their laptops, very clearly biding their time until the hour hits. There's the rare minority - the ones who hide their resentment well and do what they can to further discussion, who ask insightful questions, who pretend to care. Louis, in turn, pretends they aren't sucking up for the grade. And then there's the vocal minority - the group of students who sit very deliberately in the front row, who project their opinions and analyses and very Deep, Subversive, and Unique thoughts and then sink back into their chairs with a look of impressive self-satisfaction, as if the heavens have opened and sprayed the surrounding lesser mortals with a comeshot of Intellect.
His section is the end of the alphabet; a sixth of the full lecture capacity. The S's to the Z's. Twenty five first year students who chose to take Introduction to Literature. Four years later and Louis pities them already.
But whatever. He has a bagel with what could possibly considered too much cream cheese and a massive thermos of tea and no set lesson plans aside from standard name and favourite author bullshit. There's no need to fully alienate twenty five eighteen year olds before strictly necessary. Louis knows he's a dick; they don't need to know that until later.
The classroom is empty when he arrives, ten minutes before class begins. It's one of the shitty classrooms, stuffed in the annexes of the art building, fit for neither man nor beast. There's a quaint spread of black mould surrounding the windows, which do not fully close. The facsimile of hardwood covering the floor is peeling laminate. The chalkboard has a permanent dick drawn on it, pointing towards Louis's desk. The dick is ejaculating exactly over where his head would be, should he choose to sit. So. Auspicious beginning.
There's a scuffling by the door, and Louis snaps out of his standard woe woe woe desolation woe woe brainspace, glancing over. A boy - young, nervous looking, and unfortunately absolutely fucking gorgeous - is standing there. "Is this, um, are you Louis? Discussion section, um?"
And oh, well, bend Louis over and shove cucumbers up his arsehole, because this beautiful thing is British. Louis swallows and flicks his fringe off his forehead, smiling brightly at the boy after a brief pause. "Yes! Glad you found it alright. I'm pretty sure this classroom is not on any official map, actually. Maybe directly underneath the here there be monsters disclaimer, but, yes! Welcome."
The boy blinks, smiles. "Brilliant, cheers. Where are you from? Unless you're mocking me."
Louis laughs. "I'd have become an actor if I could mock you this well, mate. I'm from Yorkshire. You?"
"Cheshire," the boys drawls, shaking his stupid curly fringe into his eyes and then flipping it back out, giving him a ridiculous pompadour until gravity flops it right back where it was. Louis bites back a smile.
"Excellent. Except not, because I'm pretty sure I'm not supposed to have favourites. Especially before I've met anyone else. What's your name?" Louis asks, because he's fairly certain calling this boy Stupid Pretty for the rest of the semester would lead to a breakdown in the TA-student relationship. Or something.
"Harry," he says, biting his stupid red lip and smiling with stupid white teeth and stupid green eyes.
Stupid Pretty Harry, then.
Or maybe just Stupid Predator Louis.
Louis grins back, and like. Well, just, like. Shit. Shit, because Harry's clearly a huge fucking flirt with his stupid self, and Louis does not do well with being flirted with by Stupid Pretty Boys without turning into Stupid Flirty Louis and when Stupid Flirty Louis is combined with Stupid Predator Louis, there is really only one outcome and that is clearly Stupid Unemployed and Disgraced Louis.
"I'm Louis," he says back.
Harry smiles.
Louis sits right under the ejaculating penis because he is teaching a literature discussion section and he is nothing if not well-versed on the art of the metaphor.
*
Niall is sitting at the kitchen table when Louis gets home. Niall has three tacos in front of him and his guitar is propped up on the chair across the table, a separate plate of tacos in front of it. Louis pauses.
There's a slight possibility that the guitar's tacos are meant for Louis. There is a bigger possibility Niall did actually buy his guitar tacos, solely so once he finished his own he could politely ask his guitar to share the tacos and his guitar will be more likely to say yes than Louis.
"I am going to stress-eat those tacos, Niall, and I will not hear a word otherwise."
Niall looks up and blinks at Louis for a moment, before smiling around a mouthful of beef. "Louis!" he yells.
Louis stares at him. He is well-versed in Niall's distraction tactics. Distractics. "I am going to stress-eat those tacos, Niall," he says again.
Niall looks over across the table and a look of deep conflict passes over his face, eventually clearing with a sigh. "Okay, Louis. I love you."
Louis rolls his eyes. "I love you too, man. How was your day?"
Niall's in his last year of a music something something degree. Engineering? Is music engineering a thing? Louis is not sure but he's pretended valiantly for three years, so he's very adept at it by now.
"Good! Good. I decided to take a geology class. It seems cool!" Niall is still talking around tacos. Louis pulls a face and sinks into the chair next to the guitar. He looks at it, hopefully with enough of an apology in his eyes so Niall won't get offended on its behalf, and slides the plate of tacos in front of him.
"Geology? What? Like, you decided in your last year to take, like, Geology 101?" Louis takes a huge bite of the taco and winces at the actual three gallons of hot sauce the guitar apparently prefers.
Niall nods, excited. "Yeah, like, apparently if you take more than twelve credits, it's all the same price? So I had extra room for another three credit class and, like, I dunno. I remembered that I like to drop rocks into the swimming pool because the splash was cool, so. Geology!"
Louis tilts his head. "That is physics. The splash is physics."
"Louis," Niall says pityingly. "Louis, Louis, Louis."
Louis waits.
"Louis, you can't even tell the difference between a stalactite and stalagmite. Forgive me if I do not take you seriously."
Chewing thoughtfully, Louis regards Niall. "I think I want to fuck an eighteen year old," he says, after he swallows.
Niall nods slowly. "I hope you realise that the dean will probably take you more seriously than I do."
Louis leans back in his chair, sighing at the ceiling. Which, inexplicably, has a picture of Zac Efron taped to it. Louis stares at that instead. Zac Efron is over eighteen and also not in his discussion section. Zac Efron is safe.
"It's not like he's twelve," Louis tries.
Niall gags. "Don't," he says, pointing a finger at Louis. The finger has a string of carne asada hanging off it. Louis pulls a face.
"I'm just saying. I could be worse!"
Rolling his eyes, Niall says, "Yes, Louis, if that reassurance gets you through the night, go for it. I assume this kid is in your class?"
"Yeah," Louis says, sighing. He rubs a hand over his face. "He's British and, like, unnaturally pretty. Like... He's got this hair. And these eyes. And this mouth, christ." Louis turns pleading eyes across the table. "Niall."
Niall shrugs. "Good thing you're so well-versed at pining, mate."
Louis flinches. "Wow."
"I mean, living with me must leave you with perpetual blue-balls. I'm not jealous. My manly essence exudes in waves. I am so impressed you haven't cracked by now, I mean, like. I walk around in me pants, don't I? Most of the time I can't keep my own hands off myself." Punctuating this with a loud burp, Niall gets up and pulls out two beers from the fridge. He places the extra one in front of the guitar.
Louis says, "Bend me over this table right now, you stallion, my will has crumbled."
Niall nods. "I saw this day coming years ago."
*
There's this coffee shop in the center of this college town that serves relatively cheap specialty coffees and their espresso machine only pulls double-shots and the interior decor reminds Louis of when his twin baby sisters took every puzzle in the house and dumped them into one box. And then tried to solve it.
Garage-sale chic is possibly the term, but Louis thinks that tacking chic on the end of anything creates a romanticised image of garbage that is rather unnecessary. Niall could order a pizza, unsupervised, and defend it as anchovy-chic. That's not a thing. That will never be a thing.
Louis's favourite drink involves about sixteen squirts of chocolate sauce, four shots of espresso, some marshmallow flavouring, and possibly the tears of kittens. He'x compare it to an orgasm in his mouth, but that usually collapses around the reality that orgasms in his mouth tend to not involve chocolate, marshmallow, or espresso.
He has maybe had too much caffeine. He has some pseudo-grading to do - really just writing a little welcome message on the bottom of the what is your literature experience thus far cop-out paper he'd assigned - and he has a growing stack of novels to read and he wants to write something.
He has very grand aspirations for this coffee shop, but it's rarely failed him before.
Curling up in his usual chair by the window, he balances his mug on the arm and pulls out the stack of papers. He very deliberately does not flip through them to find Harry Styles'. Except that he totally does and he totally hates himself.
It takes him an hour to get through the essays, and after the sixth variation on his This is great to hear, [insert name]! I'm excited to work with you this semester! Please let me know if you ever need any help with [insert listed weakness]! - Louis theme, he starts recycling them. Stock phrases are great. Louis just hopes no one knows each other well enough to compare. Except, of course, Harry's essay was witty and self-deprecating and eloquent and Louis had to actively resist adding his fucking phone number to the bottom of the page, underneath a series of hearts and xoxo's.
"Louis?" comes a stupid, slow drawl from somewhere above his head. Louis looks up and oh. Yep. Yep, Louis actually must have been Jack the Ripper in his last life because Harry Styles is smiling down at him, all windblown hair and reddened cheeks and... well.
Louis smiles, because he can't not smile at this boy in front of him. "Harry! I just read your paper. You're a good writer!" Inane, inane, inane, death, death, woe, woe.
Harry laughs a little. "Thanks! Are you waiting for someone?" he asks, eyes straying to the chair next to Louis.
Death, death, woe, woe, here be monsters, woe, death, shut it down.
"No," Louis says back, gesturing at the empty chair. "Help yourself. I recommend ordering something very caffeinated and very sugary, though. It's really the specialty here."
Harry winks - he actually fucking winks and goodbye, world, Louis is Sylvia Plath-ing himself as soon as he gets home - and drops his bag on the chair before going up to the counter.
Louis pulls out his phone, sending a text to Niall. red alert red alert SOS SOS SOS jailbait jailbait woe woe do you even realise what would happen to me in jail NIALL!!!!!
Harry comes back with a steaming mug of Louis's dignity and settles himself in. "So, Louis," he starts, and Louis's phone goes IT'S LIKE 151 RUM PINEAPPLE JUICE AND MALIBU CARIBOU GET THEM ALL NUMB MAKE BABYGIRL COME.
Harry jumps and looks entirely too much like a startled baby deer for Louis to handle. "Sorry," Louis says. "I like to express myself."
Harry chokes on a mouthful of whatever he's drinking, coughing and laughing in equal amounts and it's cute and endearing and Louis just smiles at him for a moment before checking his texts.
lou i learnt some valuble advice in geogley today....... uve got a gr8 booty
Louis makes a low noise in his throat and drops his phone on the floor, glaring at it. Everyone betrays him.
"Everything alright?" Harry asks, eyebrows coming together, concerned.
"Harry," Louis says, "listen to grandad's advice, okay?"
Harry nods, rolling his lips into his mouth to hide the smile Louis can clearly see in his eyes.
"Do not trust anyone. Never confide in anyone. Everyone will always like their guitars more than they like you. They will buy their guitars tacos and beer and you will be left, naked and alone, shivering in a gutter like you are caught in the middle of revolutionary France." Louis stares at Harry intently, seriously, and taps the side of his nose.
"Ah," Harry intones, nodding again. "Wisdom does come with age."
"Yes. When you are as old and decrepit as I am, young Harold, you will understand. The world does not love you and we are all going to die anyway."
Harry glances around the coffeeshop, taking in the myriad array of empty seats. "I am overwhelmingly glad I chose to sit with Doctor Death, Louis, thank you."
Scoffing, Louis fixes his fringe and levels Harry with a look. "I'm just trying to protect you."
Harry smiles at him, a small, secret, closed-mouth smile, and his eyes are shining. "Of course you are."
It's all a bit too knowing. Louis is in Trouble.
*
Louis ends up spending two hours in the coffeeshop. He decided about an hour in that he is a vigourous and enthusiastic fan of revisionist history.
He spent two hours in the coffeeshop grading papers, reading very intellectual literature, and writing prose gorgeous enough to bring the country to its knees.
He decidedly Did Not spend two hours in the coffeeshop trying - succeeding - to make Harry laugh, just to see the way he ducks under his fringe. The way he laughs so openly. The way he looks at Louis.
It's all very problematic, revisionist history, but, Louis thinks, it has its time and place.
He's meeting Zayn for dinner now and he's trying to control his face, really, because it's absolutely disgusting that he cannot stop smiling. Disgusting and inappropriate and unprofessional and Louis is none of those things.
He's not.
Zayn's already slumped over a notebook in their usual booth. His hair is flattened in the back and sticking up in the front. It's either sex-hair or thesis-hair, Louis isn't sure.
"Hey," he says, sliding in across from him.
Zayn looks up blearily. There's a lovebite on his neck, but his fingernails are also bitten down to the quick and his face is pale. "Lou," Zayn says. "Hey. How are you? Do you know anything about the European Union?"
"Um," Louis says, reaching for a menu. They're at their regular diner, but the menu is vast and delicious and Louis has a strict rule that he's not allowed to order anything twice until he's tried everything first. Except for the chicken-fried steak. He maybe cannot think of anything that sounds grosser than chicken-fried steak. Chicken should never be used as an adjective. "No, mate, sorry. Why? What are you doing?"
Zayn mumbles something about diplomatic policies and Louis zones out. He was an English major with a writing minor for a reason. And that reason was avoiding the world and higher thought and generally, like, everything. He'll get the Denver omelet.
"I'll get the Denver omelet," he tells Zayn as Zayn pauses to inhale.
"I'm getting the chicken-fried steak," Zayn says. "And I don't want to hear a single word out of you."
Louis is pretty sure his facial expression counts as a response. "Zayn, I need to unload my troubles."
The change is immediate. Zayn sits up and his face immediately clears from any poli-sci worries. His gaze softens and his fingers twitch toward Louis's hand. Louis really does not deserve someone like Zayn in his life. "Of course, Lou. Anything. What's up?"
Louis heaves a sigh and tangles his fingers with Zayn's. "I think I may be, like, scum of the earth. Maybe."
Zayn's brow furrows. "Louis, no. Louis. You're amazing and hilarious and so, so caring. You never let anyone you love think they're less than they are. You-"
Okay, so, like, the problem with having someone as absolutely, purely wonderful as Zayn in his life is that Zayn knows too much. Zayn completely cares about Louis more than anyone in Louis's immediate life, and running parallel to that, Zayn knows all of the little bits of Louis that Louis tries as hard as he can to hide.
It's all very confusing when Louis exaggerates for dramatic and comedic effect, because Zayn has been there when Louis was not exaggerating.
"Zayn," Louis interrupts. "Zayner."
Zayn stops, but the concern in his wide, earnest eyes stays. God.
"Zayn, I have a crush on a boy in my discussion section."
Immediately slumping back into the booth, Zayn closes his eyes and sighs. "Louis."
"Sorry," Louis says, sheepish. "Sorry, sorry, sorry."
"Fuck," Zayn says. He sighs again and rubs his hand over his face. "Okay. Walk me through it."
Louis bites his lip. "Promise not to judge me?"
"Louis," Zayn says. "Considering the possibilities that were just running through my head, I think you're safe."
"Cheers." Louis rolls his eyes. "Okay, so like. There's this boy. His name is Harry Styles, which, I know, right? What kind of stage name is that? But really. And he's like. He's so tall and lanky and built and just. He's got this mess of curly hair and these big eyes and. Okay, like. No. Zayn. You have to see his mouth. It's like... words won't do it justice. It's pornographic, frankly, and then when he smiles with it, like. I don't know what to do. Oh, also he's from the north, right? So like. Zayn."
Zayn's trying and failing to hide a smile. "The north as in, like, Massachusetts or Newcastle?"
"Like, outside of Manchester. Ew, Newcastle, who are you?" Louis wraps his hands around his glass of water, hoping the coolness on his palms will travel up to his cheeks. Fuck.
Zayn laughs. "So you have a crush. I'm failing to see the problem."
"He's eighteen! I'm a step away from being his professor!"
"Louis," Zayn says dryly. "You are many, many, many steps from being a professor. Miles, I'd say. Lightyears. Galaxies."
Louis's mouth drops open. "Excuse me? I would be a fantastic professor. I'm like. Smart. And eloquent. And shit."
Rolling his eyes, Zayn takes a sip of his coffee. "Okay, so let me recap. Correct me if I've missed anything. You have a crush on a boy who is four years younger than you, yes? And he's in your discussion section. Which is a semester long. And once he is no longer in your discussion section, he is fair game, yes?"
"Yes," Louis says miserably. "But he'll probably think I'm old and creepy and boring. He probably thinks I have erectile dysfunction."
"I..." Zayn blinks. "Um. Why would he think that, Louis?"
"I don't know, Zayn! Why does anyone think anything!"
"Okay," Zayn says, drawing the word out. "Let me paint you a little picture. Eighteen year old Louis Tomlinson. Twinky as fuck. Just got to the big, bad colonies for his university education. Let's say little Louis has a discussion section with a sexy TA who happens to have an excellent bum. Let's say said TA is twenty-two. Is Louis's first thought, hey, I bet he has erectile dysfunction?"
Louis chews on his bottom lip, thinking it over. "Okay," he allows. "Probably not. But eighteen year old Louis Tomlinson was gagging for it. Twenty-two year old Louis Tomlinson is gagging for it. If you saw eighteen year old Harry Styles, you would definitely agree with me that eighteen year old Harry Styles is decidedly not gagging for it."
"Whatever," Zayn says. "You're going to say whatever you can to talk yourself out of this, and I can't stop you, but just know that if I was in your class, Lou, I'd be rubbing one out under the desk."
Louis smiles over at him. "You're wonderful. I'm swooning."
Zayn just shakes his head. "And, Lou? Even if it doesn't work out, you're not creepy. There's nothing wrong with you. You know?"
The waitress comes up to them, then, and Louis gives her a rather manic grin. "Hello, love," he drawls. "I'll take the Denver omelet, and this fine piece of meat over here will have the waffles." He shoves the menus at her, giving her one more winning smile as she walks away. He looks triumphantly back at Zayn. Niall's not the only one with distractics.
Zayn flips him off lazily. "I'm going to get the chicken-fried steak someday and when I do, I am going to tie you down and sit on your stomach, eating it right in front of your face."
"Please," Louis says. "No dirty talk at the dinner table. Have you no manners?"
*
For the next month, Louis dreads Tuesdays. Tuesdays, ten o'clock, in the art annex. He dreads them because he looks forward to them so much. Harry is always there to catch his eye, wink at him. He'll mime gagging whenever someone is particularly obnoxious. He'll mime sleeping when Louis is being particularly boring. It's actually excruciatingly adorable and Louis is Struggling.
One Tuesday, Louis comes home to Niall and a shockingly ginger boy sitting at his kitchen table. They both have a plate of tacos in front of them, and the table is covered in empty bottles of Guinness.
"Guinness from a bottle actually tastes like rank ejaculate," Louis says, setting his bag down on the floor and collapsing into a chair. Niall nods and slides a bottle toward him. Louis takes it and pops the cap, lifting it in a mock salute.
"Ed," Niall says, "this is my roommate, Louis. Louis is in a state of perpetual bitch-mode because he is in love with a child in his class."
Ginger boy - Ed - laughs. "A child? Please tell me you don't teach elementary school."
Louis glares at Niall. "Thank you, Niall. And no, Ginger, I do not teach elementary school. Who are you?"
Niall very clearly mouths bitch-mode to Ed, who smirks. "Ed is a musician, Lou. Pretty good, too. I'm producing his EP. It's really good."
"You produce?" Louis asks. "How did I not know this?"
"Because, Louis," Niall says patiently, "you have never once feigned interest in what I do."
Louis considers this, and then shrugs. He takes a long pull of his beer. "Anyway, I just want to disclaim to you, musician Ed subtitled stranger, that I have a crush on an eighteen year old - completely overage and legal - student. I just happen to be his TA and discussion section leader. It's all very horrifying in the face of my professionalism."
"Interesting," Ed says, drawing the word out.
Louis rolls his eyes. "I'm glad my internal morality crisis and emotional distress is interesting to you. Niall, do you just invite any breed of sociopath into this apartment? Because I need to have some veto power."
"Nah," Ed says. "It's interesting because I live with a kid who has a massive crush on his discussion section leader. And he's eighteen. And I've heard a bit too much about butts than I really ever need to."
Niall chokes on his beer. Louis sits up straight, eyes sharpened on Ed. "What's his name?"
Lunging across the table, Niall shoves his hand over Ed's mouth. "I can't let this happen," he screeches. "Louis is already unbearable. This will not help. Don't say anything, Ed, I am begging you. I will speed your vocals up so much you sound like fuckin' Alvin and the Chipmunks."
Ed's shoulders are shaking with laughter and he nods. Niall removes his hand. "Sorry, man," he says to Louis.
Louis's hands are clenched around his beer, and he stares intently at Ed. "Ed," he says slowly, "if that is your real name, I shan't forget the day you chose Niall over me."
Ed smiles back. "You just let me know when you get your boy, yeah? I've got a song for you, I think."
Louis pulls a face. "Sappy."
Niall laughs into his beer. "Ed's got a show at the end of the semester, Lou. Maybe your boy will be there."
"Maybe he will," Ed says. He waggles his eyebrows mysteriously.
"You both think you are helping me," Louis grumbles, "but when I have a heart attack at age twenty five, my death letter will be addressed to you."
"That's suicide, Lou. You don't have a letter for a heart attack." Niall thinks he's the fucking voice of reason here, apparently. Louis scowls.
"I'll write it right now and secret it about me person, just in case. Twat." Louis downs the rest of his beer and gets up. "If you lads will excuse me, I have papers to grade. Like a proper adult who only has proper relationships."
He walks down the hallway to his room amidst hoots of laughter.
*
Fridays have always been Louis and Zayn nights. Ever since they first became friends, they found themselves going out together Friday nights, or at least finding each other before the night ended. And then they were Friends But Also More, and Fridays were their night to go out and drink and come back to the apartments and fuck. And then they circled back to Friends with the added bonus of You Know Too Much To Ever Leave, and they spend their Friday nights drinking and lamenting their disinterest in life, love, and general happiness.
This Friday is no different.
"Zayn," Louis says. "Zayner, Zayn, Zayn." He's only three beers in and he foresees a long night of hard drinking. It's cool; he had pasta for dinner. "Zayn."
"What," Zayn says back. He's perched on the window seat, and the window is pushed wide open, because Zayn generally decides about two days after signing a lease that outside is too far to go for a smoke.
"Zayn, here's the thing. It has been a month and two weeks since I fell in love and it's not getting better. It always gets better by now. Why isn't it getting better? He's not even that special! He's just, like, pretty. And stuff." Louis stretches out on the couch and props his head up on his fists, gazing at Zayn with big, sad eyes. He assumes. He feels sad and he widens his eyes, so he hopes the sadness is conveyed.
Zayn takes a slow drag of his cigarette. Louis watches him with interest. Smoking is very poetic in a dirty, death-causing, smelly, gross kind of way. If smoking could just only be poetic without the other symptoms, Louis would be an avid smoker. He thinks he would look very Deep and Introspective with a cigarette. Zayn always warns him that this is a dangerous train of thought, because that is how Zayn started smoking. But Zayn has always had more literal delusions of grandeur than Louis. Louis just likes to hypothesis and complain. Zayn likes to smoke and internalise.
"Lou, have you considered that you maybe genuinely like him as a person?" Zayn looks over with an arched eyebrow.
Louis immediately shakes his head. "Impossible. I like very few things genuinely as people. He's pretty and charming and I have fallen under the spell and someone must break it! Come over here and break me of it, big boy."
Zayn rolls his eyes. "You like me genuinely as a person."
"Well, yes," Louis allows. "And I panicked about it for three weeks, so thanks for that, arsehole."
Smirking, Zayn says, "Flattered, thank you. I'm just saying, maybe he's one more name you can add to the list. It's very unhealthy to only like me and Niall. You need some, like, variety or something."
Louis hums. "That sounds unappealing. Another beer sounds more appealing."
"You didn't used to be so fucking misanthropic," Zayn yells after him as Louis goes into the kitchen.
Louis rolls his eyes. It's true, though, he didn't. There wasn't really a specific moment where he gave up on humanity as a general species, it was more the steady progression of time and the unfortunate curse of being alive.
There is also the cliche that he prefers not to dwell on - the steady stream of shithead boyfriends and shittier flings and general disillusionment with love. It's not that he doesn't believe love exists, he just thinks maybe it's not for him.
And, predictably: "Is this about Theo?" Zayn asks him as he walks back into the TV room with two more beers.
"Is what about Theo?" Louis asks, innocent. That's the key with Zayn - feign ignorance until Zayn gets to that perfect mixture of annoyed and bored with the conversation to drop it.
Zayn shrugs. "You've not properly been with anyone since him."
"Excuse you, I was with you for like. A lot of months. Six? Seven? Don't sell yourself short, love." Louis will have to ride this one out. Zayn gets into these moods sometimes where he decides he's a fucking psychoanalyst and tries his techniques on Louis. Louis is very against being psychoanalysed because he can't even get any drugs out of it. He just has to sit and listen to Zayn telling him how he feels.
Louis is not a fan of being told how he feels.
"Yeah, but we weren't properly together. We were friends who fucked and stuff." Zayn taps his cigarettes against the heel of his hand. The sun is setting outside and the orange glow lights up his profile. It's pretty gorgeous. Zayn's pretty gorgeous. It's rather unfair.
"You loved me," Louis says dismissively. "It counts."
"I still love you, Lou, but that's like. We weren't in love and we're never going to be in love. Stop deflecting."
Louis sighs sharply. "I'm not fucking deflecting because there's nothing to deflect. What, exactly, do you want to talk about here? Theo? That was three years ago and I genuinely do not care about what happened anymore. He didn't give me any diseases and that's the only thing worth remembering there. Can we fucking move on?" He sounds angrier than he actually is. He is not drunk enough for this.
"No, Louis," Zayn says back, just as sharp. "I wanna talk about this."
"About what, Zayn? Like, no, honestly, I'm so confused here. I have a stupid crush on someone. Nothing is going to come of it and I will move on. This is not the first time this has happened and it will not be the last time. I don't know why you need to label me as fucking emotionally disturbed. There's nothing to discuss." Louis finishes his beer. He stares down at it with surprise. He's pretty sure he just opened it.
"I wanna talk about why you act as if it's the end of the fucking world that you have a crush on some boy. Crushes are fun, Louis, and every fucking time you're attracted to anyone you freak the fuck out and hide in your fucking room and emerge months later with hundreds of pages of emotionally traumatising prose. That's not what is generally known as healthy."
Louis rolls his eyes. "So fucking what, Zayn? It's better than getting coked up and fucking anyone who touches my arse at a party, and you and I both know I already tried that one."
Zayn flicks his ash out the window. He's stayed remarkably calm through this conversation. Louis is agitated. He'd prefer it if Zayn was just as agitated. When Zayn gets agitated, the chances of him letting Louis give him a blowjob go up. Louis could be agreeable to giving a blowjob tonight. It's been awhile.
"Lou," Zayn says, more gentle this time. "I just want you to be happy. You talk a good game, but come on."
Louis scoffs. "I'm fine, and I swear to god, Zayn, if you try to bring this back to my fucking parents or something, I am leaving."
Zayn laughs around a mouthful of smoke. "Yeah, okay. I do have theories there, too, you know."
"I fucking know, you sad excuse for a person. Seriously, get a hobby or a boyfriend or something and leave me alone." Louis pulls his legs under him and leans back into the couch. "And will you get over here? What's the fucking point of making me feel like shit if you're not even going to cuddle me?"
Zayn smiles and stubs out his cigarette, sliding off the window seat. "Yeah," he says, plopping down onto the couch. Louis throws his legs over Zayn's lap and Zayn strokes at his ankle. "Can you tell me what you're worried about, though?"
Louis closes his eyes and tilts his head back. "Zayn."
"Lou." Zayn's voice is soft. "Is it his age?"
Louis shrugs. "He's very charming. Very... he's not cocky, really, just. Assured. He knows the effect he has on people. And that's scary, I guess. To feel manipulated that way, even if he doesn't mean it. He's not, like, forcing me to fall in love with him or whatever, it's just. The way he is. And I don't like falling into that trap."
Zayn nods and his hand comes to circle Louis's ankle, comforting. "You're not exactly the most resistible person on the planet either, though, Lou. You know that, right? You're gorgeous and hilarious and you've definitely got your own brand of charm."
Louis smiles faintly. "I just can't afford to be in love with, or pine after, or whatever the fuck, another boy like Theo."
Zayn's grip tightens. "Theo was just a dick, Louis. Theo wasn't charming because he was a good person; Theo was charming so he could fuck people. And I think you could tell that, and I think you would be able to tell if your boy was doing that."
"Oh well," Louis says, wrinkling his nose. "It doesn't matter anyway. Let's not forget that Harry is untouchable for another two months. And maybe straight. Or taken. Or any number of possibilities that do not involve being interested in me."
"Whatever," Zayn says, rolling his eyes. "He's probably whining to his best friend right now about the hot TA who pretends not to like him."
"It's Friday night, Zayner. He's a freshman in college. I sincerely doubt he's as boring as we are," Louis says back. "I need another fucking beer. Or shots. We should definitely be doing shots."
Zayn laughs. "You just want to get me drunk."
Louis only smirks.
*
Office hours are probably the three most tedious hours of Louis's life. Over the course of the semester, he's probably had three students enter the office. Two of them were looking for the bathroom and the other one was a girl who clearly was more interested in sleeping with Louis for the grade then actually working on her paper.
And it's another Monday afternoon wasted on three hours of nothing but brooding. It's not like Louis can't work on his own stuff, because he can, but he's much more talented at pouting.
He sighs and picks up his pen, leaning over his notebook. He's trying to work on a short story, but it's daunting. Life is daunting. Louis needs strong coffee and possibly a vacation.
There are footsteps outside the office and Louis perks up a little. There are three days until the midterm paper is due and Louis cannot believe he hasn't gotten more concerned students. Not that he ever took advantage of office hours when he was undergrad, but, like, he's sure other people did. The swotty-types.
"Hey," comes a voice from the door and Louis swallows. He knows that voice.
He looks up and, yep, Harry's smiling that stupid, devastating smile at him. "Hey, Harry," Louis says, smiling back. "Paper troubles?"
Harry shrugs and sits down across from Louis. "What're you working on?" he asks.
Louis glances down at his notebook, startled, as if he's never seen it before. Christ. "Oh, um. I'm working on a collection of short stories? Like, I don't know." He laughs nervously.
When did he get to this point? When did he start caring what Harry thinks of him, or his work? How did this happen and how can he reverse it?
But Harry leans forward. "Really? Are they, like, connected? What are you writing about?"
"Um," Louis says. No one really asks about his writing anymore, because he's trained them not to. He doesn't like to talk about it, the same way people generally don't like to talk about therapy. This is his therapy. "Oh, um. I guess, like, they're interconnected thematically? They're about divorce, I guess."
"Oh, wow," Harry says, and fuck, but he does look actually interested. "That's... could I read some? Is that something you do? I just. You know. That's one of those topics that..."
"Yeah," Louis says quickly, cutting him off. Oh no. Abort abort death death woe woe. Harry is vulnerable and Louis. Just. Fuck. "Yeah, um. I don't usually? But, um. I mean. I guess you could? I could, like, email you one or something. I don't know. You don't have to, like, say anything back." Louis lets out another nervous laugh. "I mean, they're probably shit. I just kind of write for myself, I guess."
Harry nods slowly. "No, Louis, I'd be really honoured. I get that it's private, so if you're at all uncomfortable, I mean. Don't worry about it at all. I don't mean to pry."
Louis gives him a wan smile. "No, really. I don't mind. You... it's. Wow." He laughs again, flustered. "Um. So did you have a question about your paper, or...?"
"Oh," Harry says, shaking his head a little. "Yeah, I mean. So I decided to analyse One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest through the lens of Roland Barthes' Mythologies? And I have my thesis and everything, I'm just a little stuck on one of the points, and I was wondering if maybe you could explain this idea to me in a little more depth?" Harry starts digging through his bag, pulling out the books.
Louis blinks. "Harry, that's some pretty intense lit theory, there. You don't have to, like, overachieve. It's a 101 class."
Harry looks at Louis a little blankly. "I... oh."
"I mean," Louis hurries to add, "it's really, really advanced. That's not a bad thing. Just, you know, when he said to use a theoretical piece he meant more like the T.S. Eliot essay we discussed a few weeks ago. But there's nothing wrong with using Mythologies. You just surprised me. I'm impressed."
Harry smiles, cheeks red.
Louis is so absolutely gone. "Um," Louis says. "I'll just. Let me read what you have so far and I'll send you some feedback, okay? Does tonight work for you?"
"That'd be great," Harry says, looking relieved. "Thank you so much."
Louis swallows. "Not a problem."
"And," Harry says, standing up, "I really would love to read your writing. So. Again, only if you're comfortable with it."
"I'll... send you some tonight," Louis says weakly. "Thank you."
Harry gives him another devastating smile and leaves.
Louis slumps forward onto his desk, head in his hands.
*
continue