Louis shudders, the air feeling a little bit colder than it did the moment before Harry’s intrusion. Louis shakes his head because maybe it’s not really an intrusion; he just doesn’t like people knowing things. Honesty makes him cold, chills him to the bone because of the harsh realities and memories that come from telling the truth. He’s always been wary of sharing too much. He knows that people leave and the less they know as they walk out, the more protected he is.
There’s still something about him that wants to share something with Harry, so he starts small, simple. Harry asked about him, but he didn’t ask his life story, so he can just share the asinine facts he stores away for moments like this. When people want to “know” him. He thinks for a moment and when he’s sure he has enough bullshit to last the walk across the bridge he returns the smile to his face.
“Well, I’m 21. I’m from England as I’m sure you’ve figured out already and I work at the post office as you saw and a few other places.”
“Birthday?”
Louis sighs and replies, “Christmas eve.”
Harry laughs at Louis’ exasperation, but continues. “Where’s home in England?”
“Doncaster.”
Louis laughs this time as Harry’s eyes furrow as he attempts to remember the geographic location of his small hometown. Harry offers a dimpled smirk in return and gets back to what feels like an interrogation. Louis instinctively turns around to look down the wlkway because despite the fact that hipsters have taken over Brooklyn is still kind of scary. Harry turns around quickly, but still asks his questions.
“Where else do you work other than the bar?”
“My papers are good,” Louis jokes, starting to get uncomfortable. “You know, just in case you’re an immigration agent.”
Harry chuckles again, but something about it is knowing and it’s unsettling because Louis just met him last Sunday and he can’t possibly know anything about the older lad. Louis likens himself to a puzzle, a big one, like a 5,000 piece puzzle of one of those Pollock swirly paintings.
Harry bumps his shoulder with a shy smile and the warmth shocks Louis out of his reverie. The heat seems to travel through every part of his body. Louis thinks that Harry must be on top of him, but when he raises his gaze Harry is back over on the other side, giving Louis his space.
“That was an apology by the way,” Harry mutters, eyes never leaving the pavement. “I don’t mean to interview you or whatever; I’m just curious. There’s no hidden intent here.”
Louis can’t help the grimace that settles on his face, “you’d be the first,”
“You sound paranoid. One of those judge one judge all types,” Harry whispers, as if saying it softly takes the bite out of the words.
“You know, you’re probably not the first person who has wanted to say that to me, but you’re most certainly the first person to say it. But no, not paranoid, just speaking from experience. I appreciate the honesty though.”
“I’m the tell it as I see it type. There’s too much bullshit in the world already for me to even attempt to add to it. I expect the same treatment — want the same treatment.”
“Well you’re nosey,” Louis chides, half jokingly, and is impressed when he sees the smirk drop off Harry’s face for what feels like the first time that night. “However, you’re cute and seem sincere, so I don’t mind as much.”
“Great! In that case, why’d you come to New York?”
Louis shoots Harry a glare, irritated by how quickly the smirk finds its way back to his face.
