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boundless supply of crap food may have given him some kind of lard-

fueled invincibility, but nobody jeopardizes Louis Tomlinson‟s

complexion and lives to tell the tale.

He‟s pulled out of his vengeful reverie by the buzz of his phone.

ring toss!!!!!! Harry‟s message reads. Christ. How has he managed to

surround himself with so many people that are so genuinely

enthusiastic about these things?

He sighs and weaves his way through the crowds until he finds Harry at

the ring toss, as promised. He‟s got a red scarf tucked into his pea coat

and his camera bag strapped across his chest, looking every inch a

respectable twenty-something artistic-type if it weren‟t for the studied

seriousness of his ring toss stance. Louis holds back a snort of laughter

at the way he‟s chewing on his lower lip, contemplating his next throw.

“Ring toss champion Harold Styles lines up his final toss,” Louis says

in his best announcer voice. Harry looks up, surprised, but then grins

when he sees who it is. He looks back at the game with a furrowed

brow, playing along. “He‟s going for the gold here,” Louis continues.

“It‟s all riding on this, the last toss of a legend…”

Harry throws the ring, which goes clattering off the tops of the bottles.

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“No!” Louis shouts loudly, throwing up his hands and startling several

nearby students. “What a blunder! You can only imagine the shock of

the fans, of the people watching at home! What a colossal mistake! Oh,

the humanity—” but then Harry‟s up in his space, putting a hand over

his mouth even as he laughs.

“All right, all right, you‟ve made your point,” he says, smiling. “Stop

making me feel worse about it.”

He slides his hand off Louis‟ mouth, and Louis ignores the fact that he

can still feel his face flushing a bit from the sudden contact. Not for the

first time in his life (or today, even), he thanks God for his ability to

maintain a tan. He recovers quickly, sticking his tongue out at Harry.

“I am,” Harry says, leaning in conspiratorially, “surprisingly bad at this

game. Been trying to win for a solid ten minutes, wasted half my

tickets.”

Louis raises his eyebrows. “Surely there are better things you could be

doing. Niall seems very adamant about the virtues of the fried butter.”

Harry grins and shrugs. “It‟s fun. And when I win, which I will,” he

says, pointing a finger at Louis‟ doubtful look, “my victory will be all

the sweeter.”

He tears off another ticket and hands it to the female student at the

booth for another round. The girl hands him three more rings with a

studied air of weariness that Louis can‟t help but admire.

“I suppose there is a certain tragic romantic appeal in continuing to

play a game you know is rigged,” Louis says, leaning against the booth.

He winks at the girl, who stares back at him blankly for a second before

returning to her phone.

Snorting, Harry lines up another shot. “You know it‟s possible to enjoy

things non-ironically, right?” He tosses the ring and curses under his

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breath when it goes skittering off the bottles. He looks up at Louis with

a mix of humor and concern in his eyes. “Healthy, even.”

“Ah, yes, non-ironic enjoyment,” Louis says, gazing off into the

distance. “I knew it once, in the halcyon days of my youth.”

Harry points at him, ring in hand. “I will break you of your cynicism

yet. I will win one of these prizes for you, and you will be forced to

admit that good things do happen in this world.”

Louis barks a laugh. “If you actually manage to win me a prize, I swear

on my mother‟s uninhabited grave that I will attempt to sincerely enjoy

this fair.”

“Challenge accepted,” Harry says, striking an athletic pose before

tossing the second ring. Another miss. “God damn it,” he says, and then

nods a quick “sorry” to the booth attendant. “How is this game actually

this difficult? Am I defective?”

“I told you already, young Harold. This game is rigged, and you are

wasting your time. More importantly, you are wasting my time,” Louis

says archly.

“A rigged game can still be won, Tommo,” Harry says. Then he catches

the last ring between his fingers and holds it up to Louis‟ mouth.

“Blow.”

Louis stares at him. “You can‟t be serious.”

Harry just taps the ring lightly against Louis‟ lips, his stare expectant

and unwavering. “Blow.”

Louis needs to pretend that the insistent way Harry‟s looking at him

isn‟t making his brain chemistry run riot, so he makes a show of rolling

his eyes and huffs out a breath through pursed lips.

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Grinning like he‟s already won, Harry turns back to the game, takes a

deep breath, and tosses the ring. Louis watches as it bounces, bounces,

and lands with a tinny clink around the neck of one of the bottles.

“Yes!” Harry yells, throwing up his arms in pure joy. “Victory is

mine!”

“What,” Louis says.

“I believe I have earned a prize, have I not?” Harry says to the booth

girl.

She nods and snaps her gum. “What d‟you want?” she asks, jerking her

head towards the shelf behind her.

“I think I shall take that magnificent stuffed bear, thank you,” Harry

says. When she hands it to him, he immediately turns to Louis, who

still hasn‟t quite been able to stop staring at the ring around the bottle.

It worked. Harry won. There is a God, and he is a dick.

Harry pushes the rather sizeable bear into Louis‟ arms. “Sorry, Lou,”

he says with a smirk that says he is definitely not sorry at all. “Looks

like you‟re going to have to be happy tonight, whether you want to or

not.”

Louis gapes at him, helpless and clutching a comically large bear to his

chest, and tries to pull himself together. Harry wants happy, sincere

Louis? Fine. Fine. “I suppose a deal‟s a deal,” he says. “What wonders

shall we enjoy next, oh fearless leader?”

“Oh, no you don‟t,” Harry says, shaking a finger at Louis. “That‟s still

making fun of it, and that wasn‟t the deal. I don‟t want you to be

ridiculous, or to fake anything.” He smiles softly. “Just relax and enjoy

yourself. You think you can manage that?” he asks, poking Louis in the

side. “You think that‟s in the realm of possibility?”

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Louis sighs and hugs the bear closer. At least the bear doesn‟t try to

make him do things. Or feel things. “Yes,” he mutters into the soft fur

petulantly.

Harry smiles like all his birthdays have come at once. “Brilliant.” He

grabs Louis by the upper arm and starts walking toward the food area.

“Now what were you saying about fried butter?”

They wander between the various booths offering refreshment,

admiring what‟s on offer, and Harry ends up trading two tickets for a

bag of deep-fried Oreos. He doesn‟t make Louis try that particular

horrific concoction, but he smiles when Louis bites into a sausage with

relish.

“I know I shouldn‟t,” Louis says, wiping grease off his bottom lip with

his thumb, “And I know they're full of, like, pig anuses and whatnot,

but they‟re just too good to turn down.”

“I know precisely what you mean,” Harry says, grinning at him. Louis

feels a white-hot bolt of wishful thinking run through him, imagining

what exactly Harry could be talking about. He has just enough time to

think, wait, would he be implying I was full of pig anuses before that

train of thought is derailed by the sight of Niall sprawled across a

bench.

“Whatcha doin‟, Nialler?” he calls out in a sing-song tone. Niall opens

his eyes and fixes Louis with a gaze. His face is the face of a man at

peace.

“Digesting,” he says. He squints. “Where‟d the bear come from?”

“I won it for Louis at ring toss,” Harry says proudly, and hearing it in

the presence of someone else makes Louis hyperaware of how it

sounds, of what it could mean to objective ears. He freezes, hanging on

Niall‟s reaction.

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“Cute,” Niall says, closing his eyes. And maybe he doesn‟t read

anything into it, or is too sated to care, but Louis knows someone else

would ask questions, would look at Louis for answers and read the

truth that‟s written even in the way he walks, swaying closer to Harry

with every step. He‟s a pathetic bastard, even his cat knows it, and the

only thing that‟s keeping it under wraps is Niall‟s codependent

relationship with food.

“I try,” Harry says, turning to smile at Louis, and it‟s almost too much.

“You could return the favor, you know,” he points out.

“What, win you something?” Louis asks, incredulous.

“Unless you don‟t think you‟ve got the skills.” Harry looks at Louis, all

wide-eyed innocence, and Louis is going to interpret the heat that pools

in his stomach as healthy competitiveness and nothing else.

“Please, Styles, as if you‟re any match for me. Let‟s head back to the

games, I‟ll win so many plush toys you‟ll choke on them.”

“Is that a promise?” Harry asks, quirking an eyebrow, and honestly,

fuck him.

“It‟s a threat,” Louis intones, trying to look as scary as one can while

holding a giant teddy bear.

Harry bursts out laughing at that. “Fair enough. You head over and pick

a game, I‟ll meet you there,” he says. “I‟ve got to use the toilet, and I

figure you‟ll need plenty of time to get in the zone.”

“I live in the zone, Styles!” Louis shouts at Harry‟s retreating back. He

sighs as soon as he‟s out of sight.

“You two make me want to vomit,” Niall says sleepily from the bench,

his eyes still closed.

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“That‟s probably just all the kebabs you‟ve just shoved into your gob,”

Louis says. He throws the remains of his sausage at him.

Five minutes later he finds himself in front of the balloons and darts

booth, struggling to pop a single one.

"Suddenly I feel much better about my ring toss skills," says a voice

behind him, and by now Louis knows that voice well enough that he

doesn't even have to turn around.

"Not now, Styles, I'm concentrating," Louis tells him. He holds the tip

of his tongue between his teeth and tries very hard to keep his eyes on

the balloons in front of him and not Harry sauntering up beside him,

smiling as he props one hip up against the edge of the booth. He's got a

cloud of cotton candy in each hand. One for himself and one for Louis.

Damn it all.

"One dart left," Harry observes. "Pressure's on."

"You mock my ambitions," Louis says. "Some people take the sport of

balloon popping very seriously."

"I am being serious," Harry says. "How else am I going to get my

hands on one of those bears?"

"By winning your own, you lazy arse," Louis says. He lines up his shot,

adjusts his glasses, aims—

And misses completely, dart landing wide left, because Harry chooses

that moment to casually lick the crystallized sugar off of one long,

slender finger.

"Guess I'll have to, then," Harry says. He's smirking when Louis turns

to look at him properly, and Louis could almost swear the whole thing

was on purpose.

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"Nobody likes a smartarse," Louis says. He snatches his cotton candy

out of Harry's hand.

"Cheers," Harry says, taking an enormous bite of his own. When he

speaks again, little bits of pink fluff fly everywhere. "Well, we found

Niall. Where's Zayn?"

"Over there, hidden behind the horny masses," Louis says, pointing

across the carpark to the crowd that's queued up.

“Ah, he‟s still on his shift?” Harry asks, picking bits of cotton candy

from his fringe.

“So it would seem, the poor lad,” Louis says with a theatrical sigh.

“You know, I think he only suggested the kissing booth as a joke, like

in that movie he likes so much? The one that's the Shakespeare

retelling? But people were remarkably enthusiastic about the idea.”

Harry snorts. “Wonder why.” The line is immense, full of female

students, teachers, and what appear to be a few of the students‟

mothers. “Do you think we still have a chance? Line‟s moving

quickly.”

“Have a chance? I‟ll throw elbows if I have to,” Louis says, and strides

across the carpark, Harry close behind.

In line, Louis looks around, observing. Harry‟s right, the line is moving

quickly, aided in part by the strictly-enforced cheek-kiss-only rule.

Louis sees about half of his actresses in line, giggling to each other

over their own nerve, and he makes a mental note to remind Zayn to

come looking as frumpy as possible next time he comes to help paint

the set during rehearsal.

Harry nods his head over to a cluster of boys off to the side. “Some of

my lads over there, watching the show. Think they‟re jealous?”