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Louis is saved from having to try to sort out his pathetic life by the fact

that Much Ado goes into its last two weeks before opening night. With

interminable rehearsals every evening and dozens of errands to run

during his free periods, he only sees Harry for short snippets of time.

He‟s had to give up lunchtime for the sake of putting the finishing

touches on the set and rounding up props, so even that is gone. Most of

his interactions with Harry lately are down to a few unanswered text

messages in his inbox and brushing by Harry on his way out the door

with a strangled apology thrown back over his shoulder.

Thankfully, this means he is spared from having to look Harry in the

eyes for any extended period of time, because he might actually have a

stroke if that happened. He‟s tuned up so tightly right now that he can

hardly even stand the thought of Harry on top of everything else, much

less having to see him right in front of his face. The last damn thing he

needs right now is to be forced to deal with the person who‟s keeping

him up at night, fists in the bedclothes and aching for hands on his skin.

High stress plus excruciating sexual frustration does not a winning

combination make.

It seems like Harry‟s picked up on the fact that his behavior is more

than just a mad dash to get everything ready in time for the first

performance. Even running into him by the vending machines is still

enough for him to figure out that Harry isn‟t quite touching him as

much as he normally does, isn‟t quite smiling at him the same way. He

feels guilty for pushing Harry away, because beyond his endless idiotic

wanting, Harry is one of his closest friends, but he just can‟t cope with

everything at once.

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He‟ll figure it out later when he isn‟t neck-deep in Shakespeare, trying

to drag a couple dozen teenagers through their final few rehearsals.

“Stop, stop,” Louis yells from his seat in the audience. The two actors

onstage turn to look at him, lines halfway out of their mouths, as Louis

stands and walks toward the stage. “It‟s not worth running this scene if

you two aren‟t off-book. And you aren‟t.” Two days before opening

night, and his leads aren‟t off-book. Jesus. “Go run lines outside in the

hallway.” They walk offstage, his female lead looking peevish.

“Marjorie, if you don‟t have that soliloquy memorized tomorrow, I‟ll,

I‟ll—I don‟t know what I‟ll do, but none of us will like it.” Louis

shouts after her. He rubs his hands over his face and tries not to

hyperventilate.

“You look like you could use this,” someone says behind him, and oh

God please no.

Louis turns and is abruptly confronted with the sight of Harry Styles in

his theatre, because the universe is trying to send him into a psychotic

break.

“What are you—” Louis starts, but then looks down to see the

cardboard cup in Harry‟s hands.

“Yorkshire tea, no sugar,” Harry says, pushing it into his hands. Louis

accepts it wordlessly. “Footy practice was cancelled, it‟s raining. What

do you need?”

It‟s too much, Harry standing there asking to be whatever Louis needs

except for the one thing he needs most, and Louis stares into the tea and

tries to pick one emotion to feel. Exasperation seems like the least

terrifying choice, considering his options. “Go keep an eye on the kids

who are setting up the lights, try to make sure they don‟t kill

themselves.” He holds back from thanking Harry, rude as it is, because

if he starts letting himself react to things Harry does he isn‟t going to

make it through the night alive.

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Harry nods once and walks toward the back of the theatre, and Louis

takes a deep breath and turns back to see his cast milling around

aimlessly. “You,” he says, picking out two of the boys. “Run your Act

III scene again. With the blocking.” They groan and Louis is going to

snap. “You‟ll thank me when you don‟t trip in front of hundreds of

people. Run it.”

“What about the rest of us?” says one of the girls playing a bit part.

Louis rubs his temples. “Go and make sure all your costumes are

finished and fit. Practice costume changes. Run your lines. Know that if

I catch you slacking off I will mount your head on my wall as a

trophy.” They scatter, and he turns back to the two boys. “Why aren‟t

you running your scene? Go!”

He watches them critically, stepping in every once in a while to point

out where they‟ve messed up their blocking or dropped a line. It seems

like only a few minutes have passed, but suddenly he feels a light touch

on his shoulder. He turns, and of course it‟s Harry, with a concerned

look on his face that makes Louis want to cry.

“All the lights are ready,” he says. “I‟d run through the cues to make

sure everything‟s hooked up right, but I wanted to check with you first

since you‟re using the stage.”

Louis looks at his watch and fuck, fuck, he‟s going to have to let the

kids go soon.

“Give me a minute,” he says to Harry, who just nods again like he‟s got

the patience of a fucking saint. Louis wants to hit him, wants to say

something cruel just to get a reaction, because he does not have the

emotional resources to deal with Harry being a good person right now.

Instead he turns back to the stage, cups his hands, and yells, “Everyone

out here!” It takes a few seconds, but soon everyone is assembled,

actors and crew alike, looking at him expectantly. “You‟ve all put in

good work tonight,” he says. “We‟re going to need you to put in a lot

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more over the next two days. I know I‟m driving you hard, and I know

you‟ve all got the end of term to deal with, but we‟re all going to have

to push ourselves to get this show off the ground in time. Before you

leave tonight, please, for the love of God, make sure that everything is

cleaned up. If you‟re an actor, make sure you know where your

costumes are. Crew, make sure the props are stored in some way that

makes sense. If I have to clean up after any of you I will not be

pleased.” He pauses, making sure they‟re appropriately terrified. “Then

you can go home.”

They give a ragged cheer and disperse. Louis drops into one of the

theatre seats and pinches the bridge of his nose, trying not to think

about how much there is left to do. He looks up and sees Harry helping

one of the members of the crew push the prop stairs off to the side of

the stage, the muscles of his back visible through his t-shirt, and Louis

really can‟t afford to process that.

He stands up and heads back to the sound booth, because someone

really does need to check the lighting cues. As he runs through them, he

can‟t help but watch what‟s happening onstage. Harry walking stage

right, arms laden with props. Harry hugging a cast member who looks

like she‟s about to cry. Harry picking up a table, arms flexing.

Somehow when it‟s happening on the stage it‟s harder to ignore, and

Louis stands in the booth, pressing buttons, wishing Harry were a

worse person.

If he were worse, if he weren‟t so genuinely fucking pleasant to be

around, Louis could just fuck him and get it over with. He could just

get him, it, this, whatever it is, out of his system and never see him

again and go on with his life. Sure, when Louis gets involved with

someone it usually all goes to hell immediately, but if Harry could just

be a shittier person that wouldn‟t matter. Half of the men Louis has

ever slept with probably hate his guts, and Louis couldn‟t give less of a

shit.

Except Harry isn‟t a shittier person: he‟s alone onstage folding

costumes for Louis‟ play. Looking at him there under the spotlight,

Louis can‟t lie to himself. If Harry ever hated him, he would be lost.

And right now, it makes Louis fucking angry.

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He walks out of the sound booth, slamming the door, and stalks down

the aisle of the theatre. Harry and he are the last ones left, it looks like,

which is good, because if Louis has to interact with one more person

he‟s going to tear out his hair. He climbs the stairs without a word.

“Hey, I folded these but I don‟t know where—” Harry starts, but Louis

has already grabbed the costumes from him. “Okay. I guess you know

where they go,” Harry says, a note of worry in his voice. It‟s probably

in his face, too, but Louis will be damned if he looks at him.

He walks stage right with the costumes, pulse roaring in his ears. He

wants Harry gone, needs him out of his space before he loses it. “I

don‟t want you to help,” he says bitingly, and God, he knows already it

was a bad idea. There‟s a moment of silence, and Louis turns to look at

Harry, to see what he‟s done.

“Louis,” Harry says carefully, holding up both hands, “what‟s going

on?”

“I‟m fucking exhausted, that‟s what!” Louis snaps. “I‟m tired, and I‟ve

got a play to put on in two days, and there are forty-five papers on my

desk that still need to be marked, and I‟ve got to give final exams

tomorrow, and there‟s no fucking time for anything, and my lead

missed two weeks of rehearsals because he had pneumonia and he‟s

still missing cues, and I had to change all the blocking for half of the

scenes to hide Rupert Baker‟s bloody broken leg, and my rent‟s

overdue, and I haven‟t had time to do laundry in two weeks, and then

there‟s you walking around with your face and your shoulders and your

football shorts and your being a good fucking person, and it‟s

distracting, and I haven‟t got the fucking, fucking time.”

The words register to his own ears before he‟s even aware of them

leaving his mouth, and Louis freezes, mouth hanging open, arms still

wrapped around the bundle of costumes.

Fuck.

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Harry‟s staring at him from across the stage. Louis can see what he‟s

said settle in behind his eyes and, shit, shit, bleeding buggering shit and

a thousand screaming nuns.

“I... distract you?” Harry says slowly.

“I—what I mean to say—”

“I distract you,” Harry says again, and this time it spreads his mouth

out into a smile.

“Er,” Louis says.

Louis has appreciated Harry‟s athleticism on more than one occasion,

but it‟s still impressive that he manages to vault over a prop table and

close the distance between them in a few swift movements, suddenly in

Louis‟ space, tugging the mounds of fabric out of his arms. He sets

them down on the floor and Louis doesn‟t know what‟s happening,

doesn‟t know anything except that Harry is suddenly so close, close

enough that Louis can smell his shampoo and it smells like one of those

girly kinds, like strawberries and rose petals or something and Harry

would use girls‟ shampoo because who even is he, and Louis is

panicking, Louis is definitely, definitely panicking.

“Did you mean that?” Harry asks him, and the corners of his mouth are

still curled up in a smile but there‟s no trace of a joke in the way that he

says it.

“Um.” Every part of his body is screaming at him to lie, lie, lie, but

what he says is, “I... Yes. I—Yeah, I did.”

And this is where Louis gets confirmation that Harry is not a sane

person, because the way he looks at Louis makes no sense. Louis is the

human equivalent of a bus speeding off of a cliff, into a gorge, on fire,

and Harry is looking at him like he‟s Christmas come early, which

makes Harry either very stupid or very psychopathic.

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Harry‟s hands ghost up Louis‟ arms, not quite touching, and Louis

can‟t help but shiver at the phantom contact. Harry‟s expression turns

soft and marveling, and Louis would probably be more embarrassed if