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bouncing against his chest when he stands back up.

“You‟re,” Louis swallows, “you‟re a new P.E. teacher, then?”

“Sort of,” Harry says. “Technical title is „assistant instructor.‟ Mostly

my job is showing up in the afternoons to help with the footy. But yeah,

I‟m supposed to keep that lot from kicking balls into the carpark, so

feel free to yell at me.”

Fireworks are going off in Louis‟ head. “Ah, it‟s not a big deal.”

Marching bands in his brain. “My car‟s majority dents at this point

anyway, one more won‟t hurt.” Harry laughs. Louis isn‟t going to

prison.

“I didn‟t ask earlier, what do you teach?” Harry says, tossing the

football in the air and catching it.

“Drama,” Louis says, tracking the ball‟s movements with his eyes.

“The, um, incident you witnessed earlier was part of an attempt to

interest my students in opera. Didn‟t quite work out.”

“So are you in charge of putting on plays and all that?” Harry asks, still

tossing the football.

“Yeah, that‟s me. Some of the other teachers help out though, with the

set and all that. Niall Horan usually ends up being our sound guy for

the musical.”

Harry‟s face lights up. “Niall the orchestra director? Niall‟s brilliant!

I‟m actually going to be helping him out with some AV stuff this term

on the side.” He finally catches the football and puts it under one arm.

“To be honest, I don‟t have much on my plate during the afternoons, so

I‟m pleased to have something to do.”

15

Louis smiles as if his to-do list for the entire year hasn‟t just been

rearranged around his afternoons. “Well I‟m hopeless with electronics,

so I‟m glad to have someone besides Niall to harass for help.”

Harry looks like he‟s about to say something, but a voice comes from

the football pitch. “Styles! Did that football roll to Siberia? Hurry up!”

He turns toward the pitch and shouts back “Coming!” He looks back at

Louis, walking backwards. “Well, feel free to harass me anytime, Louis

Tomlinson,” he says with a cheeky grin before turning around and

jogging back to the pitch.

Louis holds off a minor panic attack long enough to admire the view.

It‟s not until he gets home that he thinks to text Zayn.

he‟s not a student. u r officially still crazier than me.

It seems like there‟s some kind of cosmic force at work here, because

Louis keeps running into Harry over the next few days. When he stops

by the front office to pick up some forms, Harry‟s there, posting a

schedule of football matches on the bulletin board by the desk. When

he drops in on Niall after school to ask about some sheet music,

Harry‟s just hanging out in the percussion storage closet, fucking

around on some tenor drums.

They make friendly conversation every time, never much awkwardness

between them. Louis would chalk it up to the fact that saving someone

from being strangled to death by a box full of wires goes a long way in

breaking the ice, but it feels like more than that. There‟s a natural kind

of ease there. Louis hasn‟t really clicked with a person right away in

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years, but every time he runs into Harry, he can feel pieces falling into

place.

Louis is just on his way to buy a drink from his favorite vending

machine, the one on the third floor, when it happens again. He‟s

minding his own business, really. All he wanted was a nice refreshing

beverage, not to be blindsided with the sight of Harry in a v-neck with

the sleeves rolled up, one arm braced against the vending machine.

Harry is attractive. Harry is very, very attractive. This is not news.

When is he going to stop feeling like he‟s been concussed every time

he sees him? Is this some kind of psychophysical conditioning from the

first time they met? Does he have brain damage?

Harry is so attractive he makes Louis feel like he‟s got brain damage.

This is not a good situation.

Louis has half a mind to turn around and flee back down the stairs to

the safety of his starfishy home, but he finds himself powerless to do

so, propelled mindlessly forward by some force he doesn‟t understand.

Brain damage. Definitely brain damage.

“Hello again,” Louis says as he draws up within earshot, tone

deceptively casual. Harry looks up at the sound of his voice and grins.

“I‟m starting to think you‟re stalking me,” Harry says, mischief in his

eyes.

Louis laughs. “You‟ve caught me. I like to attach myself to people who

remind me of a time when I humiliated myself over AV equipment. It‟s

a hobby of mine.”

“I see,” Harry says, still grinning. “Out of curiosity, would another

hobby of yours happen to be getting crisps unstuck from machines?

Because I‟m sort of out of money and that was supposed to be my

lunch.”

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Louis manages to pull his eyes away from Harry‟s face to assess the

scene and, yes, there‟s a packet of crisps lodged up high in the

machine.

“Ah, yes,” Louis says. “This one is a bit dodgy. Best food selection of

the lot around here, but very moody as well. You‟ve got to have some

finesse with it.”

“Okay,” Harry says. “Show me.”

Louis has done this exact routine dozens of times on his own, but it has

never really occurred to him how ridiculous it actually looks until

Harry‟s standing there, watching him expectantly. Luckily, Louis has a

great deal of experience taking shelter behind ridiculousness. He grabs

the machine with both hands, gives it a few hard shakes, kicks the

bottom left corner, and then slams his hip into the right side.

The packet of crisps falls down with a sound of quiet defeat.

“You‟re amazing,” Harry says gratefully, and Louis can do nothing but

smile dumbly and step aside to let Harry retrieve his food.

“Is that really all you‟re having for lunch?” Louis asks him.

Harry shrugs. “I‟ve got to go to a coach‟s meeting in an hour. Didn‟t

really feel like going all the way back to my flat just to turn around and

leave again. Figured I‟d just go eat in my car or something.”

“That‟s rubbish,” Louis says, speaking before he even realises he‟s

come to a decision. “You‟re one of us now. Come sit with me.”

Harry‟s face lights up before Louis has a chance to consider

backpedaling. “Yeah, all right. Have you got a lounge? I‟ve never

actually been in one of those.”

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“Oh, Harry,” Louis says. “We‟ve much to teach you about the ways of

the world.”

“I swear to God, if you come out here in anything leather, I am locking

you in a supply closet,” Louis is shouting.

Zayn pulls a face at the door, knowing Louis is sitting on the other side

with his salad, taking up as much space as possible at the lounge‟s only

table with Niall and that fit footy coach he‟s made friends with. With

whom he‟s made friends. God, the thought of this afternoon has already

got him so flustered he‟s dangling his prepositions.

He meets his own eyes in the mirror of the tiny bathroom and shrugs

his leather jacket on over his undershirt, smoothing out the collar. He‟s

finally got his hair just right, artfully disheveled quiff like it happened

by accident, and he knows how good his arse looks in these trousers.

Right. Okay, boots on, stuff the cardigan in the bag, and then a final

once-over before he‟s ready.

“Should I wear the glasses?” he yells back through the door, frowning

at his reflection. “I want to look, like, smart and adult, but I don‟t

know. Are they too hipster-y?”

“Zayn, darling, that man is so oblivious you could sashay up to him

wearing gold lamé shorts and he‟d just thank you for coming to the

assembly,” Louis tells him. “Now come out before you sprain

something. I know you‟re in there pouting at yourself in the mirror.”

Zayn sighs. Louis isn‟t wrong on either count. In the end, he decides to

leave the glasses on. They sort of balance out the whole rocker look,

like, yes, I am edgy and mysterious, but I also read Byron and enjoy

expensive cheeses.

He scoops up his duffle bag and opens the door, and Louis immediately

throws down his fork.

19

“Christ,” Louis moans. Next to him, Niall lets out a wolf whistle.

“Don‟t start,” Zayn says. “Either of you.”

“Sorry, sorry,” Louis says, kneading his temples with his fingers. “I‟m

just having war flashbacks to the last time I had to spend my afternoon

trying to contain a teenage sex riot because of this shit. Are you trying

to get arrested?”

“It‟s not that bad,” Zayn mumbles, sinking into his chair.

Louis scoffs. “You look like you fell out of a music video.”

“You know what day it is,” Zayn says.

“That‟s no excuse!”

“What day is it?” the football coach—Harry, Zayn thinks—says,

squinting between Louis and Zayn over his bag of crisps.

“Fire Safety Awareness Day,” he, Louis, and Niall say in unison, Louis

with an air of dread and Niall through a mouthful of chips. Harry just

stares at them.

“You see, dear Harry,” Louis says, “when a man loves another man

very, very much—”

“Shut up!” Zayn says. He can feel his ears going hot.

“I was just going to tell the story!” Louis says.

“Don‟t,” Zayn says. “You tell it wrong.

20

“I do not!” Louis says, doing his best to look deeply affronted. He

throws a wink toward Harry, who bites back a grin. He doesn‟t seem to

react otherwise, though, and Zayn is briefly thankful that, even if Louis

is a trivialising arsehole, he doesn‟t make friends with homophobic

dicks. “I tell it with the drama and theatricality it so richly deserves, as

is my gift as a purveyor of the arts.”

“Who's the one with the book deal, here, you or me? Anyway, you

make it sound stupid!” Zayn says. He looks down, fingering the handle

of his mug. He spent too long in the bathroom. His coffee‟s gone cold.

“It‟s not stupid.”

“All right then,” Louis says. “You tell it.”

“Yeah,” Harry agrees. He drops his elbows on the table and props his

chin up on his hands, crisps completely forgotten, blinking at Zayn

expectantly.

Zayn takes care to heave his best long-suffering sigh, lest anyone catch

on to the fact that he basically spends most of his life waiting for

someone to bring up the subject. It‟s his favorite story to tell, and he

knows Louis is going to call him out on it if he doesn‟t start now.

“Well,” Zayn begins, “it started about a year ago. It was—”

“The end of September!” Louis interrupts. “The first crisp chill in the

air seemed to speak of new—”

“I‟m telling the story!”

“Right, sorry,” Louis says, grinning across the table at him, “carry on.”

“Anyway,” Zayn continues. “It was about a year ago. I had borrowed

this ancient Yeats book from the library—you know, the poet? So I

returned it, and a week later I realised I‟d left this photo of my mum

21

stuck in it, so I went to the library to try to get it back out, only the