A House Built Out of Stone

Part 13

Louis wakes up early the next morning, as usual. The shop greets him with its creak and drips and the rustle the pages give him when he runs his fingers over them. He cleans up in the comfortable silence, sweeping away dust and wiping down the counters.

Harry emerges before the shop opens, his bare feet quiet over the wood floors. He’s in a pair of Louis’ pajama pants, a little too short, and the same jumper he had the night before. He’s somehow balancing two steaming plates in one hand and two mugs in the other, fingers stretching wide to accommodate everything.

“Made breakfast for us,” he says, slow and easy off his tongue. “I used what I could find in the cabinets and the fridge.”

“Oh,” Louis says.

There’s sausage and eggs and hashbrowns, Louis can see. Two slices of toast shoved on the edge of the plate. Harry cooked in Louis’ kitchen, the evidence laid out on the counter.

“Was that not, like.” Harry frowns, shifting on his feet. He’s so big, so broad and tall, but he makes himself small like this, his arms crossed and his shoulders hunched. “Was that not okay?”

Louis picks up his plate. It looks amazing, smells even better. It’s been awhile since Louis’ had a breakfast like this, had someone standing in the kitchen of his flat and cooking.

“No, it’s.” Louis tries for a smile, but it feels shaky on his face, trembling at the edges. “No, it’s absolutely fine. I. Thank you, Harry.”

“Okay,” Harry says, slow and careful but he smiles back at Louis just the same. “I’m actually a really good cook, you know. I can, like, I mean I don’t mind doing it. For you.”

They eat in the quiet of the shop, even the drip giving them some peace. Harry takes his plate and walks around the shop, through the shelves, bending at the waist as he looks for something new to read. Louis watches him, always seems to be watching him, taking in the lines in his back and the curve of his neck and the spindliness of his knees.

Harry is a prologue, Louis thinks. A beginning.

-----

It’s raining as Louis walks through the London streets, his head ducked against the torrential downpour and his shoes squelching on the sidewalk. He’s got a bag in one hand, full of folded up jackets and a few vinyls he found at the back of the hall cupboard.

The bar Zayn texted him isn’t too crowded, the usual lunchtime activity and booths at the back, where Louis heads. He can make out Zayn’s hair easy enough, the inky black height of it, all gelled up.

“’m not apologizing,” is the first thing he says. He slides into the booth, the bag in before him and signals for the first waiter that looks over. “So, there’s that.”

Zayn rolls his eyes. He’s a little laidback today, has only a t-shirt on and what Louis recognizes as his favorite jeans. There are bags under his eyes though, bruises dug from too little sleep.

“And also you look like shit,” Louis adds.

“Hello to you, too, Louis,” Zayn says. He tips his bottle back and drains the last of it. “How’ve you been, haven’t seen you in awhile and all that.”

Louis orders a rum and coke, staring hard at Zayn from across the table. “’m fine,” he says. “Been missing my best mate, is all. He turned into an absolute twat a while back.”

“I did not,” Zayn complains. “I just. It was a surprise, obviously. You could have fucking said something.”

“I could have,” Louis concedes. His drink gets set on the table, and he starts in on it, already feeling the need for the liquor. “Still not apologizing though.”