Chapter Text
The door gave a tortured groan, hinges squealing in protest as Louis pushed it open—an ugly, rasping note that seemed to announce his arrival with unnecessary drama. He winced at the sound. The corridor behind him was silent; the noise felt like an offense against it.
For a moment, he didn't move. His suitcase handle dug sharply into his palm, the weight of it a grounding anchor. He pressed his lips into a flat line, inhaled once, shallow and steady, then finally stepped inside.
The dorm room was smaller than he'd imagined. He swept his gaze across it with the practiced eye of someone accustomed to appraisal—cataloguing every flaw, every indignity.
A desk pushed up against the narrow window, its wood chipped and water-stained. A wardrobe standing lopsided on warped legs, looking ready to collapse under the weight of expectation. Two twin beds with scuffed frames and mattresses that would probably squeal louder than the door if anyone dared to lie down.
It wasn't the room that snagged his attention, though.
It was the boy in the window.
He sat perched on the ledge like some careless creature of sun and breeze, one long leg dangling, the other folded up beneath him. Bare feet, toes curling against the flaking paint. Loose, timeworn flared jeans threadbare at the hems, fraying like spider silk. His torso swathed in a thin, sleeveless tee so sheer the light all but claimed it, revealing fleeting glimpses of pale skin and the delicate ridges of ribs.
A faded red bandana kept a mane of chestnut curls loosely tamed, though several stubborn waves escaped to brush against his temples and ears. He held a smoldering joint with elegant indifference, pinched between two fingers adorned with mismatched rings. When he brought it to his lips, his inhale was languid, almost tender, as though he was coaxing the smoke rather than commanding it.
His eyes—green or maybe gold depending on the light—were fixed on something far beyond the glass. A daydream, a horizon, a whisper of something bigger.
He didn't turn at the sound of Louis entering. Didn't so much as flinch. Just drew in another slow drag, lashes dipping, exhaling a thin, fragrant ribbon of smoke that curled like lazy script in the sunbeams.
Louis froze. The smell of weed was subtle but insistent—earthy, resinous, winding its way into his nose, clinging. His upper lip curled before he could stop it.
Finally, the boy's head turned, a smile already ghosting across his mouth like he'd known Louis was there the whole time and was simply waiting for the right dramatic beat.
"You must be Louis," he said. His voice was soft, rich, almost musical—an easy, mellow cadence that suggested nothing in the world could truly trouble him.
"Yeah," Louis managed. His voice cracked on the first syllable, then steadied, sharper than he meant. "You're Harry?"
"Mmm." Harry nodded lazily, eyes crinkling as he tucked the joint out of sight behind his thigh. "Didn't expect you this early. But hey, cosmic timing's a weird bitch."
Louis blinked, then offered a brittle, "Right."
Harry slipped off the windowsill in one sinuous movement, landing with a muffled thud on the thin rug. His toes dug in like he was grounding himself. The shirt fluttered around his torso, catching on a shallow breath that made his ribs flare under skin. Up close, Louis could see the shirt bore the faded outline of some seventies band logo, the fabric pockmarked by tiny holes. The jeans were even more tragic, worn through at the knees, threads whispering against his legs.
"Hope the window show's alright," Harry said with a shrug that somehow communicated an entire philosophy of carelessness. "Didn't figure you'd be here for a bit."
"It's fine," Louis lied. His throat felt dry. "Just... not really into the smell."
Harry's lips curved into something lazy, understanding, annoyingly amused. "Noted."
He moved across the room with an effortless glide, plucking a mason jar off the desk—filled halfway with water and a tangle of wildflowers in various states of wilt. With a deliberate care that surprised Louis, Harry dipped the glowing tip of the joint into the water until it hissed out. Then he set it gently on the desk like it might still be alive.
Louis watched, his mind ticking over every little observation. The woven band of mismatched beads around Harry's wrist. The faint humming under his breath, something without melody but undeniably content. The way the smell of sandalwood clung to him, sweet and woody beneath the stronger haze of weed.
"You can pick whichever bed," Harry said, tugging open the battered wardrobe to shove something inside. "I flipped a coin for fun, but honestly, it's just plywood and springs. I'm not married to it."
"This one's fine," Louis muttered, setting his suitcase by the bed farthest from the window—instinct guiding him to keep distance.
⸻
Louis Tomlinson had been raised in a house where the floors gleamed like polished ice, where furniture was curated for show, and even the paintings on the walls seemed chosen more for prestige than personal taste. His mother adored crystal chandeliers and white marble. His father adored the admiration they garnered from other people.
They'd given Louis everything. A brand new phone the moment his old one so much as stuttered. Spontaneous holidays to Tuscany, to Provence, to Dubai. Champagne at seventeen—"because if you're going to drink, at least drink properly." He never worried about bills, or tuition, or whether his shoes cost more than someone's rent.
But he'd learned early that love in the Tomlinson house was transactional. It arrived dressed in bright packages and strings of zeroes on receipts, never in quiet comforts or whispered assurances. If you were quiet, you were being good. If you were crying, you were a problem.
Now, at university, Louis wore popularity like a custom suit—crisp, immaculate, enviable. He knew how to smile at parties, how to lean in so people felt chosen, how to make them laugh and forget that they didn't actually know him. Because none of them did.
Except Niall.
Niall was the only person who stayed when Louis went silent, who barged into his room uninvited because he knew Louis wouldn't ever ask for company but often needed it more than anything. But Niall was three doors down, unpacking his own life, and Louis was here. With Harry.
⸻
Harry filled the silence without words, moving through the space like it belonged to him already. He pulled books from his duffel—dog-eared, spines cracked, titles Louis didn't recognize. A thrifted lamp shaped like a porcelain cottage that glowed a soft, warm yellow. A tiny terracotta pot with a plant that looked more hopeful than healthy, its handwritten label proclaiming: Basil (maybe).
Louis sat on his bed and pretended to scroll his phone, eyes flicking up every few seconds against his will.
"You just get here?" Harry asked eventually, glancing over his shoulder.
"Yeah. Drove up this morning."
"With family?"
A pause, then a practiced shrug. "Just the driver."
Harry nodded like this was a perfectly ordinary answer. "Nice. Travel light."
Louis huffed something like agreement. He didn't add that he'd spent the entire three-hour drive cataloguing reasons to turn around.
⸻
Harry Styles had grown up in a house that would have fit inside Louis's kitchen. Two bedrooms, floors that sloped with age, wallpaper peeling in the corners. But it pulsed with something bright and alive. His mother smelled like cinnamon and vanilla, always humming. His father played dusty records that filled the house with crooning brass and guitar, pulling Harry and Gemma into clumsy kitchen dances, laughter echoing off the battered cabinets.
Money was a stranger that sometimes stopped by to sneer, but Harry never noticed. They made ornaments from salt dough, fixed broken mugs with glue and hope. They spoke. About fears. About dreams. About how sometimes you had to let things break so you could rebuild them better.
Harry had arrived at university with a single duffel and a battered box of books. No car. No laptop. Just a scholarship that felt like magic and a barefoot philosophy that the earth was softer than shoes.
Now he found himself rooming with Louis—sitting there with his expensive suitcase, perfectly pressed clothes, and the kind of posture that suggested the floor might dirty him. Even so, there was something heartbreakingly fragile in Louis's careful angles.
Beautiful, Harry thought without apology. And maybe a little lost.
His gaze lingered. Louis's head snapped up just in time to catch it.
For a charged second, their eyes locked. Louis's breath faltered—then his lashes swept down, mask slipping easily into place. His thumbs danced nervously over his phone screen, though Harry would have bet anything it wasn't even unlocked.
There was a faint flush creeping up the back of Louis's neck. Harry turned away, unbothered, letting his lips twitch into a private smile.
⸻
"You a morning person?" Harry asked later, sprawled on his bed with his hands tucked behind his head, elbows jutting wide.
Louis, curled on his side facing the wall, blinked. "Not particularly."
Harry's grin spread, eyes half-lidded. "Good. Means you won't complain when I miss sunrise yoga on the lawn."
"You actually do that shit?"
Harry gave a philosophical shrug. "Sometimes. Depends on how cosmic I'm feeling."
Louis let out a startled, involuntary snort. "You're... very you, aren't you?"
Harry's smile only widened, pleased. "Best compliment I've had all week, mate."
Louis rolled onto his back, staring at the cracks in the ceiling. The silence that settled between them wasn't quite awkward, more like two unfamiliar bodies trying to figure out how to breathe in the same space. Careful. Curious.
"Why this place?" Louis asked finally. His voice was softer in the dim. Almost honest.
"Scholarship. And the trees. Environmental science here is legit." Harry turned his head, hair spilling across the pillow. "You?"
"Legacy," Louis muttered.
Harry just nodded. "Ah. Less cosmic. Still counts."
Louis huffed. Grateful Harry didn't press.
⸻
That night, Louis lay wrapped in his duvet, eyes fixed on the slender slice of ceiling that belonged equally to both beds. Across from him, Harry breathed slow and easy—like even sleep was something he approached without caution.
Louis tried to tell himself he didn't care about the way Harry had looked at him. Open. Unhidden. Like Louis was someone to see, not something to measure or use. It was a look that made his heart kick against his ribs.
It didn't matter. Louis was practiced at ignoring things that threatened to matter.
He closed his eyes. Told himself a thousand small, cold truths.
Across the room, Harry lay awake in the dark, watching the way Louis's silhouette curled in on itself, and wondered what kind of gentle miracle it would take to make that careful boy unfold.