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bother to remember it.

He lets go of a slow, deflating sigh and starts to underline a sentence,

then turns the line into a circle around the entire paragraph. For lack of

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a better word, NO, he scrawls on the side, and then drops his head

heavily down on the depressingly-high yet-to-be-marked pile.

“Why did past Louis assign an essay he knew present Louis would

have to grade?” he whines into the paper. He lifts his head and blows

his fringe off his forehead. “Past Louis is the worst.” Harry snorts, but

keeps his eyes on the television.

About two minutes and three paragraphs of drivel later, Harry clears his

throat. “Lou,” he says, still looking at the game. “Do you think you‟ll

stay on at the school? I mean, like, permanently?”

Louis looks at him curiously. “What do you mean?” he asks, cocking

his head to the side.

“Just,” Harry seems to grasp for words, his brow furrowed, “you

always seem stressed out. And, I mean, you just said you hate

marking.”

Now it‟s Louis‟ turn to snort. “Nobody likes marking, Haz. And

nobody likes every part of their job.” He picks up the stack of marked

papers and taps them on the counter, straightening them out. “I like

actually, you know, teaching. Talking to the kids. Getting to know

them. Putting on shows. Introducing them to the things I love.” He puts

the marked stack to the side. “If I have to deal with marking a few

papers for that, I don‟t mind. And anyway, if I held out for a job that I

loved 100% of the time I‟d be waiting a long time.”

Harry doesn‟t say anything. “Plus,” Louis adds, “If I was totally happy

you wouldn‟t get to hear me bitch about it, and I know how that thrills

you.”

Harry leans across the coffee table, grabs the remote, and puts the

match on mute. “Louis,” he says, and there‟s that pause again that has

Louis taking his glasses off in preparation, “Are you happy at your job?

Honestly?”

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Louis puts his glasses down gently on the stack of marked papers.

“What?”

Harry‟s looking at him, finally. “I mean, I don‟t know, Lou, you‟re

always overworked. You‟re only friends with three of your coworkers,

if you count me. You‟re exhausted all the time, you don‟t have time for

anything else, you‟re always worrying if you‟ll have enough money to

make ends meet. You‟re not even out at work. I don‟t know, Lou, it just

sometimes seems like it isn‟t what you want to do forever.”

Louis‟ mouth smiles. How interesting that Harry of all people would

complain that Louis gave up too much for his job. “It‟s not a perfect

job, Haz, but spend a few months out of work and you‟d be amazed

how your imagination broadens. I even convinced myself that pot

noodle was actual food.”

“I‟m serious, Lou.” He‟s got that pissed-off toddler face on that Louis

hates so much.

“So‟m I. Ate that shite every day for weeks.”

“Christ, Louis, I‟m trying to have a conversation here.”

“And I‟m trying not to, Haz, since I‟ve got better things to do. Like my

work, which you‟ve decided I hate,” he says, tapping his finger against

the stack in front of him. “Where the hell is this coming from, anyway?

Since when do you care what I do permanently?”

“Does it matter? Why don‟t you want to talk about this?”

Louis grinds his teeth and turns his face away, trying to tamp down the

rapid swell of panic in his chest, because this isn‟t how it‟s supposed to

go. This whole process is only going to keep working if Harry never

catches on or says anything about it. All he wants is for Harry to leave

it alone and just let them fall apart naturally, because it's all a foregone

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conclusion and fighting for or about anything is just making it more

painful than it has to be for no good reason. Nothing‟s going to change.

“Because,” Louis drags a hand down his face, because he has to give

Harry an answer, “because you and I would come at this conversation

from very different places and it ends with us liking each other less.”

Harry has a look on his face like Louis just admitted to stabbing

grannies recreationally. “You don‟t know that.”

“Yes, I do.” Duchess is climbing haughtily into Harry‟s lap, and he lifts

his hands to make room. Louis wonders idly how many more times

he‟ll watch that happen. Then he wonders when he started counting

down instead of up. “Just let it go, Harry.”

“Why are you so sure we‟ll disagree?” Harry says, raising his voice.

“Why are you so sure I‟m wrong when you won‟t even talk about it?”

“Why the fuck are you so hung up on this?” Louis snaps, because he

was honestly finished with this conversation before it started.

“Because I think you‟re too afraid to go after what you really want or to

be happy!” Harry shouts, throwing up his hands, and no.

“Who the fuck do you think you are,” Louis bites out, “To talk to me

about fear?” When there‟s no response, he continues, because Harry is

going to fucking learn today. “Go on, tell me. What the hell do you

know about fear, Harry? What have you ever, ever had to be afraid of

in your life?”

“That‟s not fair—” Harry starts, but fuck that.

“I don‟t give a shit if it‟s fair, Harry. You think it‟s fair to tell me that

because my life isn‟t exciting enough for you that makes me a

coward?”

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“That‟s not what I was saying.” Harry stands and walks towards the

kitchen, staying on the other side of the counter with his shoulders

tense.

“First off, that‟s exactly what you were saying, so go to hell,” Louis

says, voice tight. “Secondly, I don‟t know what exactly you think I

would be doing if I wasn‟t at the school. The only thing I‟m qualified to

do is teach, so if it‟s all the same to you, I‟ll stay at the job where I‟ve

got friends and a flat and tenure track, thanks.”

Harry puts both hands on the edge of the counter, staring at Louis

across it. “You‟re qualified to act. And sing. And don‟t tell me you

don‟t love it, I‟ve seen you, you live to perform.”

Louis laughs, really laughs, because this is all just hilarious. “Tried

that, didn‟t I?” he says. “I spent a year running from audition to

audition, sitting in rooms with ten other nervous blokes with my same

haircut, and you know what? It didn‟t work out. Because sometimes, in

the real world, things don‟t work out, Harry, though I‟m not surprised

you don‟t know that.”

Harry doesn‟t answer that, just stares back at him with a look Louis

can‟t read, so he keeps going.

“And you know what?” he continues. “I‟m glad it didn‟t, because I

enjoy my life now, as unimpressive as it is. It wasn‟t my first choice,

but teaching is something I like, always has been, and I‟m fucking good

at it. It‟s not glamorous, but it‟s what I do, and I actually make a

difference for some of these kids, difficult as that may be for you to

believe.”

Harry just looks at him, his nostrils flaring. “That‟s not difficult for me

to believe at all, Louis, I‟m just trying—.”

“Then stop implying that it‟s beneath me, or whatever it is that you‟re

trying to say. Yeah, it‟s exhausting, and the pay is shit, but I like it,

Harry, and I wouldn‟t pick anything else over it, ever.” Harry blinks a

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little at his forcefulness, but Louis barrels on. “Maybe it‟s not good

enough for you, or not the way you think life should go, but it‟s not

your life, Harry, it‟s mine. So just. Drop it. And don‟t you dare act like

it‟s the coward‟s way out when you don‟t know a goddamn thing about

it or me.”

“Fine, it‟s not my life and I don‟t know shit, but stop fucking acting

like I‟m some naive child.” Harry says, moving around the counter and

getting in Louis‟ space. He looks angry and tense and fully present and

Louis is fucking glad. “If I don‟t know things then fucking tell me—”

“I‟ll tell you if you can name one thing you know about fear,” Louis

says, standing up in a rush that has him half-tripping off his stool.

“I know you scare the shit out of me,” Harry snaps back, grabbing one

of Louis‟ wrists.

“Good,” Louis says, and reaches out to pull him down into a kiss that

hurts.

Harry‟s hands are on him in a way that he already knows will leave the

kind of bruises he wants, and Louis thinks at least this still works. For

the rest of the night he doesn‟t think anything at all.

The next morning, Louis wakes up to the buzz of his alarm in an empty

bed.

He makes toast and stares at it for a bit before picking it up and

sweeping it into the trash. He isn‟t hungry.

He gets through the workday on autopilot, barely remembering what

happened in every class after it‟s over. Harry doesn‟t come to the

lounge for lunch. Zayn takes one look at Louis‟ face and decides not to

ask, thank God, and cuts Niall off when he starts to. Zayn doesn‟t seem

that interested in talking himself, so it‟s a dreary hour filled mostly with

the sounds of chewing.

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Harry doesn‟t show during his free period, either, but Louis does get a

text from him. Louis can‟t help but wonder where he is, if he‟s sitting

in his car or in the gym or in the lounge now that the rest of them have

cleared out.

sorry. was out of line and picking fights. none of my business. forgive

me? x

The problem is, it‟s not a question of forgiving. That‟s not what

matters. Whether Louis forgives him or not, Harry is still leaving,

which means that nothing he does now really matters one way or

another, and Louis just doesn‟t have the energy to stay angry. His heart

is too heavy with everything else. Harry‟s still leaving, and Louis still

doesn‟t have the strength to stay away from him. So. Here they are.

Harry knows now, he thinks, that things aren‟t okay. He has to. Maybe

Louis‟ moments of weakness were enough to hide it before, but their

fight last night must have given him some kind of sign. Maybe that‟s

for the best. Maybe Harry won‟t push it.

He leaves the text about an hour and then types out come over

tomorrow with something sugary and i‟ll consider it. He wavers over

adding a final x, but then finally does because, well, fuck it. It‟s not like

they won‟t end up sleeping together tomorrow, or like he doesn‟t have

to talk himself out of inviting Harry over tonight. It‟s all a fucking mess

and he can‟t get himself anywhere but farther into it.

Louis always makes fun of Zayn for keeping a spare set of clothing in

his classroom, but Zayn knew it would pay off. It only takes one

mishap—a geography teacher not watching where he was going with

that coffee—to render a shirt unwearable. Thankfully, Zayn‟s got a free

period, and has time to get changed. He grabs the spare white button-up

from the closet of his room and heads to the men‟s room. And Louis

had called him neurotic. What would Louis do if he‟d been

unexpectedly spilled on, hmm? Feel bad, that‟s what.

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Well, actually, he‟d come nag Zayn to let him borrow his spare shirt.

But that‟s beside the point.

Zayn walks into the men‟s room and heads straight for the handicapped

stall, the one with its own mirror. He quickly undoes the buttons of his

ruined shirt, stripping down to the undershirt beneath.

Christ, this is the last thing he needs today. It‟s half his own fault,

really. He‟s incredibly antsy right now and it was a particularly twitchy

gesture of his that put him in the path of that rogue geography teacher

in the first place. It‟s just that—well, he hasn‟t talked to Liam for a few

weeks now, and he thinks he might be going through withdrawal.

It feels stupid and adolescent, but since the direct, vaguely obsessive

approach hasn‟t been working, he might as well try to play it cool,