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He watches Harry lollop off toward his own car, kicking up snow as he

goes, and he touches his bottom lip with the tips of his fingers. They

don‟t really do casual goodbye kisses like that, or at least they haven‟t

yet. That was kind of a first. Hmm.

He can feel the car filling up with warmth around him, which is odd,

because it usually takes the heater in his shitty car longer to get going.

Today is strange. That‟s what he‟s decided. Today is just strange.

He puts his car in drive and thinks maybe he‟ll put some brandy in his

hot chocolate tonight.

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Thankfully, Louis‟ shift on chaperone duty doesn‟t start until an hour

before the end of the dance, meaning the amount of time he‟ll be

suffering is minimal and he has plenty of time to choose an appropriate

Valentine‟s Day ensemble. These things are important.

When he finally pulls into the carpark, he‟s wearing black pants, a

white shirt, and bright red braces under his coat. Understated, but

thematic nonetheless. Sometimes even he is impressed with how good

he is. His sartorial brilliance isn‟t enough to compensate for what he‟s

going to have to deal with for the next three hours, though. He spends

about two minutes sitting in his car, forehead against the steering

wheel, before he musters up the will to get out and trudge into the

school.

It‟s every bit as bad as he expected, bass audible as soon as he enters

the building and clusters of giggly students lining the halls, their inept

flirtation attempts visible at twenty paces. Louis studiously ignores

them and soldiers on to the assembly hall, taking a deep breath before

pushing through the double doors and entering his humid,

overcrowded, crepe-paper-bedecked nightmare. Niall, who he spots in

the DJ booth, is playing the Cha-Cha Slide. It‟s remixed, but still. Louis

is under no illusions about his own sinfulness, but even he doesn‟t

deserve this.

He spots Zayn lurking by the punch bowl with a fedora perched atop

his still recovering quiff, staring despondently into his cup and

steadfastly ignoring the three year 10 girls who as far as Louis can tell,

are extremely thirsty. Parched, even, by the looks of things. Louis skirts

the edge of the dance floor, kicking as many balloons as possible on the

way over, and sidles up behind Zayn to clap him on the shoulder.

“Cheer up, beautiful, your relief is here!” Louis says, glancing over

Zayn‟s shirt, which even in the dim light of the dance looks a vibrant

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fuschia. “Ah, attempting to keep the youth at bay by blinding them, eh?

Not your worst strategy.”

Zayn grins as he looks up. “Just because it wouldn‟t suit your

complexion doesn‟t mean you have to be bitter about it,” he mutters,

draining his cup. “You couldn‟t pull this off if you tried.”

Louis clutches at his chest and gasps. “You wound me, Frenchy!”

Zayn looks at him blankly.

Louis narrows his eyes. “Frenchy? From Grease? She‟s a Pink Lady?”

A blank stare. “Come on. Frenchy! She even dyes her hair pink!”

Nothing.

Louis throws up his hands. “For the love of God, Zayn! „Beauty School

Dropout‟? Go back to high school? No bells being rung? God, my

references are wasted on the likes of you.”

“It‟s too bad,” says a voice from behind him. Louis twirls gracefully

and absolutely does not swerve his head around fast enough to give him

whiplash to see Harry standing on the other side of the punch table.

“Frenchy‟s the one who pierces her ears and tries to teach Sandy to

smoke, right? Makes questionable hair decisions? Sorry, Zayn, but

you‟re definitely Frenchy,” he smiles.

“First off, I am definitely one of the attractive greaser types. Secondly,

you laugh it up all you want, I‟m still the one who‟s done with

babysitting for the night,” Zayn says, shrugging on his leather jacket.

Three different girls step on their dance partners‟ feet. “Louis, you‟ve

got punch duty. Keep filling up glasses so there are plenty ready. Make

sure no one spikes it and do your best not to die of boredom or

secondhand embarrassment, yeah?”

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Louis nods as seriously as he can. “I shall not fail you, Zayn.” He grabs

at his jacket sleeve as Zayn passes him. “My brother. My captain. My

king.”

Zayn shakes him off as Harry giggles uncontrollably. “You are so, so

weird. Get off me so I can observe this holiday properly and go get

drunk alone in my flat.” Finally free of Louis‟ clutches, he slumps off

toward the door. Whatever. He loves the attention, and Louis will not

hear otherwise.

“Happy Valentine‟s Day to you too, Zayn!” Harry calls after him

saccharinely. Zayn spins around, gives them a salute, and then is gone.

Harry turns back to Louis with a smile. “Truly tragic.”

Louis shrugs. “Are you surprised? This is the worst holiday ever

created. It‟s designed to make people feel bad about themselves. It‟s

silly at best and evil at worst. And God knows Zayn loves any

opportunity to mope. On today of all days he actually has an excuse,”

he says, pouring himself a cup of punch.

Harry smirks. “Says the man in red braces.”

Louis arches a single eyebrow over his cup. “They‟re thematic. And

you‟re one to talk.” Now that he has a chance to truly look Harry over,

Louis is torn between respect and derision. Harry‟s wearing a white

blazer over a pink shirt, topped off with a red bow tie. He‟s clearly

made a few trips to the punch bowl himself, his lips stained dark pink.

Okay. Maybe respect and derision aren‟t all Louis is feeling. He takes a

large gulp of punch and nearly gags on its cloying sweetness.

“What, you don‟t like the look?” Harry asks, all outstretched arms and

mock hurt. He gives a quick spin, holding his jacket open. Louis

considers throwing the rest of his drink on him, but decides that getting

anyone wet is only going to make things worse.

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He just snorts instead. “You look like a human love heart,” he says,

putting down his own cup and picking up empty ones to fill.

Harry smiles. “Maybe that‟s what I was going for.” He plants both

hands on the table and leans across, close in to Louis. “Be mine?”

By the time Louis has picked up the half-dozen cups he‟d dropped on

the floor, Harry is halfway across the dance floor, smirking as he

separates couples dancing a bit too closely.

Louis doesn‟t envy him his particular chaperone detail, but Harry

seems to be having fun with it. Every time Louis looks up from pouring

punch or handing cups to sweaty teenagers, Harry is up to something

else, apparently completely immune to shame. A man after Louis‟ own

heart.

He‟s distracted from his rather pathetic mooning by a group of students

coming up for drinks. As he hands them out, he sees one girl gesture

towards Niall onstage and say, “I can‟t believe they managed to get him

to DJ,” in a loud voice to her friend.

Louis looks up at the stage and then back to them. “It‟s just Niall,” he

says, confused. The girls look at him like he‟s grown two heads. Has

Niall become the fit one while Louis wasn‟t looking? What does that

make Zayn, then, the other fit one?

He hears one of them sarcastically stage whisper “just Niall” as they

walk away, and is spending a minute ruing the day he became the third

most attractive member of his friend group when Harry regains his

attention. Louis has to bury his head in his hands when he spots him

splitting up an overly amorous couple by aggressively doing the robot

immediately between them. Harry laughs when he sees him, then

waggles his eyebrows in the direction of another grinding couple to his

left. Louis makes a face at the pair, and then mouths Moonwalk at

Harry. Harry grins, and immediately moonwalks directly at, and then

through, the shocked duo. The couple separated, he turns and gives

Louis an exaggerated thumbs-up. Louis points at another set of

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enthusiastic dancers on the other side of the hall and mouths Chicken

dance, miming it a bit to make sure he understands. Harry throws up a

crisp salute and sets off across the dance floor.

Louis is spending his Friday night at work, in a hall that smells of

sweat and Lynx, surrounded by pink crepe paper, and he can‟t stop

smiling.

After an hour or so, the last song plays, and the lights come up. Niall

takes off his headphones and leans into the microphone. “All right kids,

you don‟t have to go home, but you can‟t stay here.” He pauses, and

then leans back in. “And you should probably just go home.”

Harry walks across the dance floor, weaving in between the last

students straggling out. “Did you successfully prevent punch spikage?”

he asks, pouring himself another cup.

“I did my best,” Louis smiles.

“Damn,” Harry says, taking a sip. “I could use a drink after that, to be

honest.”

“Ah, yes, your quest to preserve the dignity of our fair students. It

seemed successful from here.”

“Oh, no doubt. I think several might have more dignity leaving than

when they entered.”

“It wouldn‟t surprise me.”

Harry just smiles at him slightly stupidly over the table, and Louis

shudders to think what his own face must look like.

“So,” Harry says suddenly. “Are you all done here?”

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Louis sighs. “Tragically, no. Niall and I are both on clean-up duty,

because we‟ve done terrible things in past lives and this is our

punishment.”

Harry‟s lips quirk upwards. “Well, I‟m sure you deserve it, but Niall

seems pretty innocent to me.” He stops for a moment. “Unless you‟re

looking at it from the perspective of a kebab, I suppose.” He turns to

look at Niall on the stage, packing up his turntable. “Hey, Horan!” he

shouts.

Niall looks up. “What do you want, Styles?” he yells back.

“Get out of here, I‟ll take care of your equipment,” Harry shouts. “I‟ve

got nothing better to do, and I‟m sure you‟ve got a hot date with a pint

or five.”

Niall throws up a V, laughing. “Fuck you, Harry. Thanks, mate. This is

mine, but everything else goes in the AV closet.” He finishes closing

up the turntable case, hops off the stage with it, and heads out the door.

“You two have fun,” he croons as the door swings shut behind him.

They‟re alone.

Harry turns to look at Louis, and Louis thinks about butterflies and jars

and museums and why someone might enjoy the pin that holds them to

a page.

He swallows that thought and smiles, looking around the hall at the

wilting balloons and fluorescent lights. “I bet this is where you bring all

the girls,” he says, looking back up at Harry.

Harry gestures expansively to the room. “How could I not? So

atmospheric,” he says. He drops his arms. “And yet you‟ve had a table

between me and you all night.” He raises his eyebrows. “I‟m starting to

feel rebuffed.”

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Louis huffs a laugh and moves to circle the table, but Harry holds out

an arm. “Wait, wait,” he says, backing up. “Let me earn it.” He turns

and lopes toward the stage, vaulting up to the DJ booth and taking out

his iPod. Apparently he has a plan. Louis isn‟t sure why he bothers

being surprised anymore.

Louis crosses his arms and smiles at the ground. “You‟re ridiculous,”

he says, as soft piano chords begin to fill the room. Harry hops off the

stage and runs back over, coming around the side of the table.

He holds out his hand to Louis. “May I?” he asks. He dips his head in

mock politeness, but the question in his eyes is real. Louis feels the

warmth of his palm before he registers moving his hand, sees the

happiness on Harry‟s face before he knows what he‟s saying yes to.