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Zayn makes an incoherent sort of moaning noise in response, which

Louis will take as a yes. The opening chords of the movie‟s score fill

the room, mingled with the sounds of Niall crunching noisily from his

chair.

Louis liked Titanic well enough the first time he saw it, but a passel of

younger sisters and three years as Zayn Malik‟s best friend has beaten

any lingering affection into the ground. At this point, the next three

hours are going to be more of an endurance test than anything else.

Normally he could entertain himself by making scathing commentary

throughout, but if he tries that now Zayn will have his head, or at least

be incredibly whiny about it. He does his best to focus on barely-legal

Leonardo DiCaprio. At least that never gets old.

Harry must have seen this movie even more times than Louis has, but

he wasn‟t kidding when he said it was one of his favorites. Bored,

Louis finds himself watching Harry as much as the movie, marveling at

the way Harry mouths along with half the lines. When they get to the

sex scene, Harry stage-whispers, “Put your hands on me, Jack!” along

with Kate Winslet, lurching sideways and throwing his arms around

Louis‟ neck like he‟s having a swooning fit. Louis has to grab onto his

thigh to keep them from falling over, and Harry breaks off giggling and

falls back into his side of the couch, but one of his arms stays around

Louis‟ shoulders.

Louis looks down at his lap, at Harry‟s leg thrown over it, at his own

hand resting on Harry‟s thigh. They‟ve always been a bit physical with

each other, but it‟s usually just pokes and slaps and elbows, never

anything quite like this. It must just be Harry‟s good mood, Louis

thinks, because that‟s the only option that doesn‟t make his nervous

system go into crisis. Louis wants to lean back into his touch, wants to

knock him backwards and climb on top of him, wants to jump up and

run away as fast as he can, but he can‟t do any of that. He doesn‟t know

what Harry wants from him, and even if he did, he can‟t even decide

which option would be the most terrifying.

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Instead, he settles for leaving his hand where it is and shifting his eyes

back to the movie, and he feels Harry‟s fingers twitch a little on his

shoulder. They sit there like that, watching Jack and Rose have sex,

Harry‟s arm around him and Louis‟ hand on his thigh, and Louis tries

very, very hard not to dig his fingers in when Rose‟s hand slides down

the glass.

When the damned boat finally starts sinking, Louis distracts himself

from Harry by assigning diving scores to the people jumping into the

ocean, giving a silent 10 to the one who hits the propellor. His sadistic

enjoyment, however, is interrupted by Kate Winslet being a self-

sacrificing fool, and he can keep quiet no longer.

"Ugh, come on!” Louis shouts at the screen. “He‟s pretty, babe, but

he‟s not that pretty.”

"Are you kidding?” Harry says, turning to gape at him. “That's, like,

practically the best part of the movie!"

Louis gestures at the couple embracing onscreen. "‟You jump, I jump?‟

That‟s the biggest load of bullshit I‟ve ever heard. She had a chance to

live!"

"She did live!" Harry argues.

"Yeah, barely,” Louis sneers. “She was nice and safe and warm on a

lifeboat, and then she jumped back on the sinking ship and wound up

almost freezing to death on a door. She's an idiot."

"It was for love!" Harry says, hands flapping so hard through the air

that he almost upsets his popcorn.

"Fat lot of good love did her,” Louis says. “He died anyway, didn't he?"

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"That's not the point, though,” Harry says. “All they had was each

other. She couldn‟t just leave him. It didn't matter if they lived or died

as long as they were together."

Louis rolls his eyes. “That‟s rubbish. You always save yourself.”

“Would you two shut up?” Zayn snaps from his corner of the couch

where he‟s still cuddling his bottle of wine. “I can‟t hear.”

Louis chucks a pillow at him but settles back into the cushions,

returning his attention to Leo DiCaprio.

It‟s obviously not an argument that he and Harry are ever going to

agree on, anyway. Harry is the posterboy for flowerchild optimism, and

Louis is Louis, and, well. It‟s stupid, but there‟s this low, restless,

creeping feeling in his gut, and it feels almost like jealousy. He tries to

put it to the back of his mind, but it keeps coming back up, bitter on the

back of his tongue. He keeps hearing it in his head, as long as they were

together, and it‟s like a splinter under his skin that he can‟t quite pull

out. How can Harry think that? Louis can‟t imagine a life that would

allow him to be someone ruled by anything other than survival instinct.

It must be nice, Louis thinks, to have the luxury of thinking like that.

To be able to afford the risk of letting himself believe in the possibility

of a world where things really do work like that and everything turns

out for the best. To have days where you feel like you can do anything

instead of an endless string of days where you feel like you‟ve never

done anything worth that kind of happiness.

Harry doesn‟t get it. He wears his heart on his sleeve because he hasn‟t

any idea what the world is really like. Things don‟t always happen for a

reason. Sometimes life is mean and pointless and people hurt you just

because they can. Sometimes you fall in love with a person or a fantasy

of the person you‟re going to be someday, and all it ever does for you is

make you into something you hate, brittle bones and stone walls.

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He's pulled out of his thoughts by the motion out of the corner of his

eye of Harry lifting up his phone. Louis gets a hand in front of his face

just before he hears the fake shutter sound of the camera going off.

"Missed me," he says, peeking out from behind his fingers.

"I don't get why you won't let me take your picture," Harry says,

pouting a bit, and Louis just laughs.

"Well, we can't have you finding out I'm a vampire, can we?" he says,

patting Harry's thigh consolingly. He turns back to the film, and tries

not to worry about what Harry might see in his eyes if he ever managed

to catch him off-guard.

When Louis first moved to Manchester, autumn was the hardest time of

year. Back home in Doncaster when he was younger, he used to spend

every autumn outside, racing Stan through backyards with pensioners

shouting at them from their windows and wrestling with his sisters in

piles of leaves. He remembers the smell of firewood and cinnamon,

getting used to the itchy wool of the jumpers his mum bought him for

the first cold snap, the tree on the corner of the street he used to live on

and how it turned the brightest, deepest red. Summers were fun, but

autumn was home.

Even now, a few years in, sometimes it‟s hard to shake the

homesickness when the temperature drops and the leaves start to

change, but Manchester is home now too. Manchester is Zayn ringing

him from the nail salon to ask about a movie title he can‟t remember

and Niall tripping him in the hallway and a bunch of teenagers who

look at him like he‟s got the answers. Manchester is a flat that smells

like him and Duchess curled up in the gap between the dryer and the

wall. Manchester is boy with curly hair and a camera slung around his

neck.

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So October rolls into November and November keeps moving. Much

Ado rehearsals have taken off in earnest now, three nights a week and

sometimes once on the weekend. His students seem to be taking to the

material well, and he‟s pleased that nobody seems to be completely

clueless about Shakespeare. He‟s never gotten along with the art

teacher since that incident with the kiln two years back, so he always

enlists Zayn to help him with painting the set, and Niall is on call for

when he starts working with lights and microphones. Harry comes by

regularly as well, as always eager to help out however he can. Louis

watches with pride as they all plow on together, and he‟s got high

hopes for when they open right before Christmas holidays.

Most people at the school aren‟t thinking so far in advance, though.

Right now most of the students and faculty are focused on the end of

the month. There‟s a school fair coming up the first weekend of

November, put together by the student council in conjunction with two

other nearby schools to raise money. It's the first time they've ever done

anything like it, and the whole school is buzzing. The fair's going to

take over the car park for half a week, setting up rides and games and

booths, and it‟s all anyone in any of Louis‟ classes is talking about. It‟s

the kind of thing Louis can easily imagine himself loving in his teens

and also the kind of thing that he‟s sure he has long outgrown the

ability to enjoy.

“Are you going?” Harry says one day, sitting on a desk in Louis‟

classroom and thumbing through a folder of his own prints.

Louis looks at him, trying not to be distracted by the way his fingers

move. “Wasn‟t really planning on it.”

Harry pulls a face. “Come on, it‟ll be fun!” he says. “I‟m going.”

“I don‟t know,” Louis says, wondering how he feels outnumbered

when it‟s only Harry. “I‟ve got a lot of marking to do this weekend.”

“You‟ve always got a lot of marking to do,” Harry argues. “You can

blow it off for one night. Please? I want you to come.” He looks so

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serious about it, so earnest, and Louis can‟t say no. Not when Harry

wants him there so much.

“All right, fine,” Louis relents, “I‟ll go.”

Harry pumps his fist in victory, and two days later, Louis is standing in

front of the ticket booth wondering how on earth he let himself get

dragged into this.

He gives the student council member staffing the entrance the requisite

five pounds, and pockets the tape of tickets she hands him. He walks

slowly into the fair, slightly overwhelmed by the sheer variety of

sounds and sights around him. He may be here under duress, but he has

to admit that the school‟s done an impressive job. There are game

booths as far as the eye can see, smells of dozens of fried foods wafting

through the air, and even a few rides. The Ferris wheel looks a bit

rickety in the late afternoon sun, though, so Louis files it firmly under

Do Not Partake.

He pulls out his phone and shoots Harry a text.

i‟m here. where r u?

He pockets the phone and starts wandering vaguely toward the

assortment of food trucks and tents while he waits for a response. He‟s

sure that none of the things they‟ve got to offer could possibly be good

for the state of his hips, or his arteries for that matter, but it can‟t hurt to

look.

He‟s just approaching a toffee apple stand when something collides

heavily with his back, almost knocking him flat on his face. He lets out

an undignified squawk, wrestling out of the alarmingly strong grasp of

a smallish set of arms, and when he manages to turn around, there is

one Niall Horan grinning at him like a lunatic.

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“Louis, mate. This is the best thing this school has ever done,” Niall

says manically, apparently impervious to the rays of pure disdain

shooting from Louis‟ eyes. He reaches up and cups Louis‟ face roughly

in both hands, as if about to impart the great secret of life. “They have

fried butter, man. Fried. Butter.”

He laughs a short, terrifying laugh, and then he‟s gone, rushing off into

the crowd.

Louis lifts a hand to his face in shock. There are smears of grease on

his face where Niall‟s hands were on it. Oh, Horan will pay for this. A