Chapter Text
Have I found you, flightless bird?
Louis' POV
Louis is going to die surrounded by glitter and mediocrity.
The auditorium smells like sweat and desperation. It’s the third day of auditions and he’s seen every wannabe vocalist in Concordia try to convince him they’re the soul of Flightless Bird. They’re not. They’re just kids who think vibrato equals emotion and that crying on cue makes them deep.
He slumps into the front row, script in hand, chewing the end of his pen like it owes him rent. Miss Nicks’ piece deserves better than this. Flightless Bird isn’t just a musical—it’s her story. Their story. Small-town nobodies clawing their way into the spotlight. She made it. Louis’ trying. And these rich kids? They’re just playing dress-up.
Niall plops down beside him, balancing two coffees and a half-eaten croissant. “You look like you’ve aged ten years.”
“I feel like I’ve aged ten years,” Louis mutters. “And I’ve still got no lead.”
He shrugs. “Maybe you’re being too picky.”
“Maybe everyone’s just crap.”
Before he can argue, Miss Nicks strides down the aisle, her heels clicking like a countdown to doom. She’s radiant, as always—sharp bob, sharper eyes. She stops in front of Louis and smiles like she’s about to ruin his life.
“I have a suggestion,” she says.
Louis braces himself. “Please don’t say Zayn Malik. God knows everyone here’s harassing me about him. He’s already in Cadence and thinks subtlety is a disease.”
She laughs softly. “No. But I think you should consider Harry Styles.”
Silence.
Even worse. “You’re joking.”
“I’m not.”
Louis blinks at her. “He’s a drummer.”
“I promise you he’s more than that.”
“Yeah, he’s more than that. He’s a walking scandal in sequins.”
Miss Nicks’ gaze doesn’t waver. “He’s got the voice. I know it. And he understands the story in a way I think you’ll be surprised by.”
Louis scoffs. “He understands eyeliner and how to get photographed leaving clubs with his shirt half open.”
Niall snorts into his coffee. “I mean…”
Miss Nicks leans in, voice low. “Just give him a chance. One audition. That’s all I ask. I'd do it myself if I could.”
Louis wants to say no. Louis wants to scream. But she’s the reason Louis is here. The reason Louis even has this shot. So he nods, reluctantly. “Fine. One audition. But if he sings like he dresses, I’m walking.”
She smiles, victorious. “You won’t regret it.”
She walks off, leaving Louis with a pit in his stomach and a thousand curses he can’t say out loud.
Niall nudges him. “Maybe he’ll surprise you.” It sounds more like a question than a statement.
“Maybe he’ll combust mid-note and save me the trouble.”
But deep down, Louis knows this is going to be a disaster. And somehow, he also knows it’s going to change everything.
If Concordia had a royal court, Cadence would be its glittering, scandal-ridden monarchy.
They’re omnipresent—plastered across hallway posters, whispered about in bathroom stalls, and dominating half the school’s Spotify playlists. Cadence isn’t just a band; they’re an empire. A polished machine of privilege, stitched together with leather, legacy, and a touch of arrogance.
Zayn Malik, the enigmatic frontman with cheekbones sharp enough to cut glass, is the crown prince of Malik & Co. Management. Taylor Swift, the keyboardist and lyrical savant, shares dominion over the school with Zayn through Swift Enterprises, a label nested under Malik & Co. Then there’s Liam Payne, guitarist and son of Geoff and Karen Payne—the power couple of the music PR world, also tethered to Malik & Co. And finally, Mitch Rowland, the bassist: quiet, easily overlooked, but with parents whose names echo in the liner notes of countless Top 100 hits.
And then there’s Harry Styles—heir to Desmond Styles of Styles Studios, one of the most influential and sought-after music production empires in the business.
The drummer. The disaster. The diamond.
He’s Concordia’s most scandalous export. Long curly hair like he’s auditioning for a shampoo commercial, skirts that swirl like he’s dancing through a fever dream, boots that stomp louder than his snare, and enough glitter to blind a small village. Sequins, silk, sheer tops—he’s a walking mood board for chaos and seduction.
Harry doesn’t walk through the halls. He saunters. Like he knows every eye is on him. Like he’s the climax of every song ever written in this school. And maybe he is.
It’s an open secret that he hooks up with Zayn. Childhood friends turned bandmates turned occasional lovers. But if it’s not Zayn, it’s Luke from Five Seconds of Summer, or Austin Jacobs from Jaws, or Brad Gould from Centennial—his longest fling to date. At least, according to BackBeat, Concordia’s official unofficial gossip vine. The school’s bands have practically turned their heartbreak into a genre. Niall once told Louis that She Looks So Perfect was written by Luke about Harry.
Louis liked that song. He really liked that song.
And then Niall ruined it.
“Did you know it’s about Harry Styles?” he said, casually, like he wasn’t detonating Louis’ entire musical taste. “They hooked up for a bit. You didn’t know?”
He nearly choked on his sandwich. He did not need to know.
It’s ridiculous. Half the songs Louis loves are apparently about Harry Styles getting railed in a dress. And the other half are about the emotional fallout of loving him. It’s like he’s the muse of every boy with a guitar and a broken heart.
And Niall—sweet, oblivious Niall—doesn’t understand why Louis hates him.
“He’s talented,” he says. “He’s magnetic.”
“He’s a rich, spoiled brat who only cares about his sticks and boys’ dicks,” Louis snaps.
Niall raises an eyebrow. “You sound obsessed.”
“I sound accurate.”
Because Louis knows his type. He’s seen his type. The kind who gets everything handed to them and still acts like they’re the main character. The kind who turns heartbreak into headlines and glitter into gospel.
And now Miss Nicks wants him to be the lead in Flightless Bird?
Over Louis’ dead, scholarship-funded body.
The theater is quiet, save for the hum of the old speakers and the occasional creak of the rafters. Louis sits center stage, script in hand, legs dangling over the edge like he’s waiting for gravity to make a decision.
He’s read Flightless Bird a hundred times. Maybe more. Destiny is everything Louis wanted to create when he was sixteen and stuck in Doncaster with nothing but a busted keyboard and dreams too big for his postcode. He’s gentle. He’s hopeful. He’s broken, but still believes the world can be kind. He’s the kind of boy who sees beauty in rust and poetry in silence.
And Miss Nicks thinks Harry Styles can play him.
Louis stares at the script like it might rewrite itself if he glares hard enough. Sweet, brilliant Miss Nicks. The woman who pulled Louis out of the fog and gave him a scholarship to Concordia. Who believed in him when no one else did. And now she wants him—the school’s glitter-drenched scandal—to play the lead in her most personal work.
It’s absurd.
Destiny is innocence lost. Harry Styles is innocence auctioned off in sequins and eyeliner.
Louis sighs and presses play on the sound system, hoping music will drown out his thoughts. But the universe is cruel, and instead of something neutral, She Looks So Perfect starts blaring through the speakers.
Louis curses.
Luke’s voice fills the room, smooth and aching:
“You look so perfect standing there in my American Apparel underwear…”
He groans. Of course it’s this song.
Louis used to play that song on repeat—he knew every word by heart. It was his anthem for the first three weeks of its release. That’s the kind of energy Concordia students carry: iconic, prolific, and unapologetically loud. At Concordia, releasing music isn’t just encouraged—it’s required. Students drop albums, form bands, shoot music videos, even stage original modern musicals. Their tracks flood the school radio and light up the cafeteria’s towering LED screen like they’re already signed artists.
She Looks So Perfect was Louis’s go-to—a sugary pop love song that once felt like everything. But aimed at Harry Styles? That changes the entire meaning. Now, every lyric feels like a betrayal.
“Your lipstick stain is a work of art. I got your name tattooed in an arrow heart…”
What is it about Harry Styles that makes boys lose their minds and write chart-worthy breakup songs, anyway? What does he offer besides his body and his attitude? He struts around like he’s the school’s Venus flytrap—beautiful, dangerous, and impossible to ignore.
But love? Real love? That takes more than glitter and a good jawline.
Harry’s got issues. Everyone knows it. He’s a walking contradiction—seductive and distant, affectionate and aloof. He’s the kind of boy who’ll kiss you like you’re the only person in the world and then disappear for three days to party with someone else.
And that’s who Miss Nicks wants to play Destiny?
Destiny, who believes in second chances and quiet mornings and the kind of love that doesn’t need to be loud to be real?
Louis tosses the script aside and lie back on the stage, staring up at the ceiling like it might offer answers. The music fades, but the lyrics linger.
“Let’s get out, let’s get out, ’cause this deadbeat town’s only here just to keep us down…”
Louis escaped his deadbeat town. He worked his arse off to be here. And now he’s supposed to hand over the role that means everything to him to someone who’s never had to fight for anything?
He curses again.
Louis walks into the cafeteria like he’s marching to his own execution.
Niall’s beside him, practically bouncing. “This is exciting,” he says, like they’re about to meet Santa Claus and not the glitter-drenched spawn of nepotism.
Louis grunts. “It’s humiliating.”
“Miss Nicks asked you to do it.”
“Exactly. That’s the only reason I’m here.”
They scan the room. It doesn’t take long. Cadence is impossible to miss—center table, surrounded by their entourage of nepo posies, all designer jackets and inherited charm. The overhead speakers are playing She's Not Afraid, because of course they are. Concordia’s cafeteria is basically Cadence FM.
“She’s not afraid of all the attention. She’s not afraid of running wild. How come she’s so afraid of falling in love?”
Louis also used to love this song. It was catchy, raw, and kind of vulnerable. Then Niall, ever the bearer of bad news, told him Zayn wrote it for Harry.
Of course he did.
“She likes the way we kiss in the dark…”
Louis glares at the speaker like it personally betrayed him.
They approach the table. Cadence turns to look—Zayn, Taylor, Liam, Mitch. And Harry. Perched on Zayn’s lap like he didn’t just publicly break up with Brad Gould last week. Back to his favorite fallback fuck, apparently.
Harry’s wearing a sheer top, glitter dusted across his collarbones, a skirt that swishes when he shifts, and boots that could kill a man. He smiles at Louis—dimples and all. It’s infuriating.
“I don’t want to be here any more than you want me to be here,” Louis says, skipping pleasantries. “But Miss Nicks asked me to tell you she thinks you’d be good enough to audition for the lead in Flightless Bird.”
Everyone knows Flightless Bird. It’s the kind of production that splits the school down the middle—half speak about it with reverence, the other half act like it doesn’t exist. On the surface, it’s Destiny’s story: a boy stepping beyond his comfort zone, chasing something bigger than himself. But beneath that, it’s a scathing portrait of the music industry’s underbelly—corruption, exploitation, and the abuse of power that festers at its core.
The play doesn’t shy away from calling out the industry’s giants. Miss Nicks nearly lost her position trying to get it published, risking everything to tell the truth. Somehow, she weathered the storm. The play earned accolades, and now it’s finally hitting the stage—unfiltered, unapologetic, and aimed straight at the system. It exposes the machinery. The nepotism. The rot.
So yes, ever since its announcement, the student body’s been split—some buzzing with anticipation, others steering clear like it’s radioactive.
And now that Louis has spoken its name aloud—right in front of the children of the very people the play condemns—the table falls into a heavy, pointed silence.
Then laughter—sharp, amused—from the hangers-on around them. Cadence doesn’t laugh. Taylor looks concerned, eyes flicking to Harry like she’s reading something in him. Zayn’s jaw tightens. Mitch and Liam exchange glances.
Harry laughs, too. But it’s fake. His eyes are empty, like he’s playing a part he’s tired of.
Louis grits his teeth. “I don’t want you to audition either. But Miss Nicks does. So I’m here.”
Harry tilts his head, still smiling. “Lucky for you, then. I don’t want to audition.”
Louis blinks. “You don’t?”
“I’m a drummer,” he says, voice light. “Not a vocalist.”
Louis ought to feel relieved. He should turn and leave. But there’s something in the way Harry says it—like he’s using the label as a shield—that makes Louis hesitate. He’s bracing for arrogance, maybe even a bit of drama. And honestly, he’s more than ready to throw punches if it means defending Miss Nicks and Flightless Bird from these entitled brats.
But there’s none of it. Louis feels slightly disappointed. Harry’s refusal is so candid and plain, it almost feels underwhelming.
The exchange is so quick, that She’s Not Afraid isn’t even over in the background.
She’s not afraid of all the attention. She’s not afraid of running wild. How come she’s so afraid of falling in love?
Miss Nicks clearly sees something Louis doesn’t.
“I talked to him,” Louis says, arms crossed, voice clipped. “He doesn’t want to audition.”
Miss Nicks doesn’t look surprised, like it's not the first time she's heard it. She just sighs, soft and sad, like she’s been holding her breath, hopeful for a more favorable response.
“He’s a drummer,” he adds, like it’s proof. “He doesn’t even take vocal classes.”
She nods slowly, eyes distant. “He used to.”
Louis blinks. “What?”
“Before college,” she says, voice barely above a whisper. “Harry was the best vocalist I ever taught. A musical genius. A poetic lyricist. Sweet. Bright. He used to write songs that made me cry.”
Louis stares at her, uncertain if he's hearing her correctly. “Harry Styles?”
She smiles, but it’s the kind that hurts. “He changed. That summer after high school… something happened. He came here different. Switched to drums. Dropped my classes and never looked back. Formed Cadence. And the boy who used to sing about stars and soulmates became the one who danced in glitter and kissed boys in the dark.”
Louis doesn’t know what to say. He can’t reconcile the image she’s painting with the Harry he knows—the one who struts through Concordia like he owns it, who perches on Zayn’s lap like heartbreak is a game.
Miss Nicks watches Louis carefully, reading his expression. It’s not a secret to Miss Nicks how Louis feels about Harry. “If he’s so hollow, Louis…” Louis remembers using that word to describe Harry, yes, “Why do you think so many heartbreak songs are written about him?”
Louis shrugs. That’s an easy question with a simple answer. “They’re just fake heartbreak songs. Words. No heart.”
Louis actually knows Liam Payne from Cadence—they cross paths in a few classes since Liam’s also minoring in Contemporary Songwriting. They chat occasionally, nothing deep, but enough for Liam to once mention his parents’ work in PR. He talked about the mechanics behind the scenes: fabricated relationships, manufactured songs, entire albums built around drama because that’s what sells. It stuck with Louis. Even in a place like Concordia, where music is supposed to be pure, the PR machine hums quietly in the background.
She doesn’t argue. She just walks to her desk, pulls out her laptop, and opens a video file.
“Be that as it may, watch this,” she says, cueing up the video. “It’s one of Cadence’s earliest performances—back in freshman year. The song’s called The Idea of You. Zayn was already one of my students, so I’d heard it before they ever played it as a band. It was powerful then. But something about this performance… it was different. Elevated. Raw. More emotional than I expected.”
Louis sits beside her, reluctantly. The screen flickers to life.
The lights dimmed. The crowd hushed. And Cadence took the stage, a fresh new Concordia band.
Harry Styles was already seated behind his drum kit, legs crossed, skirt shimmering under the spotlight, glitter dusted across his collarbones like stardust. He looked like a painting—beautiful, untouchable, and entirely too aware of it.
Zayn stepped forward, mic in hand, eyes locked on Harry instead of the crowd.
The song began.
“Never even dared to write a song before. Not until you put your faith in me…”
Harry didn’t look up. His fingers twitched over the sticks, but he didn’t play yet. He was trying not to look at Zayn. But Zayn—Zayn was unashamed. Every word was a confession. Every note bled heartbreak.
“I used to believe that love’s gonna fade. But there’s no way to put out this flame…”
The crowd didn’t know. Or maybe they did. Maybe they just didn’t care. But Louis saw it. The way Zayn’s voice cracked on the word flame. The way Harry’s jaw clenched like he was holding back something dangerous.
“So I’ll wait a lifetime or two. With the idea of you…”
Harry finally looked up. Just for a second. And Zayn smiled—soft, sad, and so full of love it made Louis’ chest twinge.
“To get me through…”
When the song ended, the applause was thunderous. The new monarchs of Concordia had just performed for the first time. But Miss Nicks doesn’t clap in the present. She turns to Louis, eyes glistening.
“I've been using this clip to teach Authentic Vulnerability in my vocal classes for years now. You think that performance was just words, no heart?” she asks. “There’s a reason Zayn flourished as Cadence’s lead vocalist, and it's not just because he owns half the school, dear boy.”
Louis doesn’t answer. Louis doesn't know what to say.
So he asks instead, “Then why is he like that?”
She tilts her head, asking to elaborate.
“Why does he play Zayn like that? Fuck other guys, then go back to him like nothing happened? And Zayn… he accepts it. The whole school knows about it—talks about it. Zayn Malik sits on a throne in this school, but he bends the knee for a heartless prick. It’s so fucked up. What’s wrong with Harry Styles?”
Miss Nicks sighs, eyes distant and regretful, “I wish I knew.”
Louis doesn’t know what possesses him to try again. Maybe it’s guilt. Maybe it’s Miss Nicks’ sad smile the day before. Maybe it’s the way she speaks about Flightless Bird like it’s a piece of her soul stitched into sheet music.
He doesn’t understand her faith in Harry Styles. But he understands her. And that’s enough.
So he finds himself walking through the Percussion Suite, dodging bursts of instruments echoing through the halls. Thank God for soundproof walls—this place would’ve been a migraine factory otherwise. Every room is a different rhythm, a different chaos.
At the reception desk, he asks, “Harry Styles?”
The receptionist barely looks up. “Free practice day. He’s probably in one of the big studios.”
Louis nods, mutters a thanks, and starts searching.
It takes him three tries, but he finds him.
Studio 4.
Harry’s alone, seated behind a sleek black drum kit, sheet music in hand. His usual glitter is absent. No sequins, no sheer tops. Just a loose sweater, black jeans, and boots. Still annoyingly pretty. That’s Harry’s whole MO—pretty with an attitude.
Louis steps inside.
Harry looks up, startled, clearly not expecting to be interacting with anyone during his Free Day. His eyes flick to Louis, then back to the sheet, then back again. A flicker of annoyance crosses his face, quickly masked by that lifeless grin he wears like armor.
“Well,” Harry says, voice light, “how can I help?”
Louis hesitates. Then steps forward.
“I’m here because I respect Miss Nicks,” he says, voice steady. “She worked hard on Flightless Bird. Fought for it. Nearly lost her job trying to get it published. And now it’s finally getting the recognition it deserves.”
Harry blinks, silent.
“I’ve been assigned to direct its first theater production,” Louis continues. “And I don’t want to fail. It means a lot to me. It pulled me out of the small town I came from. It gave me a future.”
Harry’s expression shifts—something flickers in his eyes. Sadness. Maybe guilt. Maybe something else. Louis can’t quite read him. He’s trying hard to put on a facade.
“So even if I don’t get why she picked you,” Louis says, “Miss Nicks is kind. Generous. And she believes in you. That’s why I’m here, giving this another shot.”
He clears his throat, steadying himself. “She told me you’d understand Destiny—that you could step into the role like it was written for you. I’ve never heard you sing, not once in all my years at this school. But when Miss Nicks called you the greatest vocalist she’s ever taught, it sounded like she was mourning something she lost.”
He meets Harry’s eyes, his voice gentler now. “I doubt this is the first time she’s asked. But if you ever respected her as a mentor, then do this for her. You don’t have to accept the role. Just don’t be a stranger and give her no answer.”
A long silence stretches between them.
Then Harry nods. He takes a deep breath, eyes dropping to the sheet music, then back to Louis. “Okay,” he says softly. Hesitantly. Like the word costs him something.
Louis blinks. “Okay?”
Harry looks vulnerable for a moment. Just a moment. Then the mask slides back into place and he grins.
“Okay,” he repeats. “I’ll come. Just so she’ll stop bothering you about me.”
Louis has no words, so he simply nods. Somehow, these moments always end faster than he anticipates. But talking to the real Harry—this quiet, grounded version—is strangely easier than the one he’s built up in his head. Less dramatic. More human.
He leaves the room feeling strangely off-kilter.
Louis is late.
Traffic’s brutal, and his flat is a solid forty-minute haul from Concordia—on a lucky day. LA gridlock is its own kind of punishment. He lives way out to cut costs, far enough that the skyline feels like it belongs to someone else’s life. Most of his scholarship goes straight to tuition and whatever he can stash away. There’s a beat-up truck he’s been eyeing at the impound lot, slowly saving for it—his plan is to have it ready by the time his year-long internship kicks off next year. But today’s low-stakes, anyway. No rehearsals. No urgent theater deadlines. Just prep. It should be manageable.
He jogs through the college gates, breath fogging in the morning air, and heads toward the Production Hall. He’s expecting quiet. Maybe Niall setting up props, maybe a few tech kids fiddling with lights.
Instead, he finds Niall rushing past him, eyes wide, practically vibrating with excitement.
“Hey, what’s the fuss?” Louis asks, catching up.
Niall scans the hallway, then leans in close. “Keep it quiet, yeah? Don’t go shouting it across the school, but Harry Styles showed up to audition.”
Louis halts mid-step, still surprised that Harry actually stayed true to his word. Louis has prepared himself meantally in case he's a no-show. “You’re kidding.”
“Nope. Miss Nicks is inside. It’s happening right now. She only let a handful of people in—strictly her call.”
They break into a quick stride. Louis isn’t sure what he’s walking into. He’s mentally preparing for sequins, theatrics, maybe a cocky grin and a performance that’s more flash than feeling.
They slip into the back of the auditorium just in time.
Harry’s already on stage.
He’s dressed to dazzle—sequined jacket catching the light, sheer shirt clinging like smoke, boots polished to perfection. But his face tells a different story. He’s trying to wear confidence, but Louis sees through it. There’s hesitation. Unease. His gaze flicks to Miss Nicks, and something in him stumbles.
Then Harry opens his mouth to speak.
“I’m here because your production director told me you still believed in me. Like you once did.”
He pauses. The room goes still, breath caught in collective suspense. Seeing Harry Styles—Concordia’s glittering rockstar darling or its most chaotic force, depending on who’s telling the story—standing center stage in the Theater Wing is strange enough to pull every attention in the department.
Louis figures he’s not the only one caught off guard—he doubts anyone else knew Harry could sing either. And now, standing there, waiting for whatever’s about to happen, he realizes he has no idea what to expect. Not from Harry. Not from this moment.
“I don’t sing anymore, Stev–Miss Nicks,” Harry starts saying. “It’s been ages since I’ve even held a mic—honestly, I wouldn’t be shocked if nothing came out when I try today. I walked away from singing. It just… stopped feeling like mine. But I owe you this. I finished the song a while back, though I didn’t think you’d want it because…we lost touch.”
He settles into the chair, cradling a plain acoustic guitar—no sequins, no spectacle. Just stripped-down sincerity. Louis hadn’t even known Harry could play anything besides drums.
“This is called Flightless Bird, American Mouth,” Harry murmurs, voice low and uncertain. “I wrote it five years ago. For your play.”
Louis goes still. Wrote? Harry Styles wrote a song? The realization crashes into him—sharp, disorienting. Of all the things he thought he understood about Harry, songwriting wasn’t on the list. And somehow, that revelation feels even more jarring than hearing he sings.
Harry begins. His voice falters, cracks. He mutters a curse under his breath at the failed start, heaves a deep breath, closes his eyes for a moment, clears his throat, and tries again. His fingers hover over the strings, trembling slightly, like the music might slip away if he moves too fast. He's never looked less like Harry than this moment.
This time, his voice carries.
“I was a quick-wit boy, diving too deep for coins…”
Louis hadn’t braced for this. He’s frozen, unable to move.
Harry’s voice is… something else. Stripped down, raw, accompanied only by a single guitar. Not dazzling, not showy—aching. It’s the kind of sound that sinks into you. He sings like the lyrics are etched into his bones, like each note is a truth he’s finally letting go of. It’s not a performance. It’s a confession.
Miss Nicks doesn’t move either. But her eyes glisten, already filling with tears.
“Have I found you, flightless bird? Jealous, weeping. Or lost you, American mouth? Big pill looming.”
Harry’s eyes stay shut, lashes brushing his cheeks as his fingers quiver gently over the strings. The song pours out of him, soulful and haunting. It’s not just music; it’s memory. A story only he knows how to tell.
Louis can’t look away.
Up there, Harry doesn’t shine like someone chasing attention. He doesn’t burn like a tabloid headline. He glows like a star that never asked to be seen, but can’t help being luminous. Something far-off. Something real.
“Have I found you, flightless bird? Grounded, bleeding. Or lost you, American mouth? Big pill stuck going down.”
By the time the final note slips into silence, Miss Nicks is quietly crying, her gaze fixed on Harry like she’s seeing someone she thought she’d lost forever.
Harry blinks, his eyes wet, visibly rattled by what just came out of him—just as stunned as the rest of the room. He stands slowly, returns the guitar to its stand with care.
“I’m not auditioning,” he says, voice barely above a whisper. “I just came to give you what I owed.”
Then he turns and walks off stage.
“Have I found you, flightless bird?”
In that moment, everything Louis thought he knew about Harry Styles shifts.
Louis doesn’t think. He just moves.
The moment Harry steps off the stage, glitter catching the last of the spotlight, Louis is already pushing through the crowd. Miss Nicks is still wiping tears, stunned in her seat, the auditorium buzzing with whispers, but Louis only sees Harry—walking fast, head down, like he’s trying to outrun something.
“Harry!” Louis calls out, catching up in the hallway.
Harry turns slowly, his expression already shifting—guarded, unreadable. The mask slides on effortlessly, like muscle memory. He flashes a smile, all dimples and practiced charm, but his eyes are vacant.
“What?” he says, voice feather-light, too polished to be real.
Louis studies him. “You actually wrote that?”
Harry lets out a laugh, dry and brittle. “Yeah. Back when I still believed the world was kind. Not exactly on-brand for me now, huh?”
Louis doesn’t plan the next question. It just tumbles out. “Miss Nicks said your songs used to make her cry. Like today. What happened to that version of you?”
Harry shrugs. “He figured out the world’s just one big stage. You either perform or fade into the background.” He pauses, then adds with a smirk that never touches his eyes, “So I turned it into my runway.”
He turns to leave.
Louis watches him go, heart thudding. Harry looks like the boy he’s always disliked—glitter, swagger, attitude. But something’s off. Something cracked.
He looks like the Harry he always knew. But somehow… not.
Louis slumps into the theater’s back row later, arms crossed, eyes still stuck on the memory of Harry Styles on stage. The glitter, the guitar, the voice—that voice. It’s been hours, but it’s still echoing in his head like a haunting.
Niall plops down beside him, practically glowing.
“That was insane,” he says, eyes wide. “I mean, Harry? That song? I didn’t even know he could play guitar like that.”
Louis groans. “You sound like a fanboy.”
“I am a fanboy,” Niall says proudly. “You saw him. He was perfect. That song was perfect. He’s Destiny.”
Louis scoffs. “He’s a drummer. And a seduction machine. He’s not Destiny.”
Niall shrugs, unfazed. “He’s exactly Destiny. Sweet, broken, hopeful. Just buried under all that glitter and attitude.”
Louis doesn’t respond. He’s still trying to wrap his head around it. That song—Flightless Bird, American Mouth—was beautiful. Honest. It sounded like it was written by someone who’d lived every word. And apparently, that someone was Harry Styles.
He shakes his head. “I still can’t believe he wrote that.”
Niall leans back, thoughtful. “It’s too bad he doesn’t want to be Destiny. He’d be brilliant.”
Louis stays quiet. He’s thinking, about Harry’s voice, about the way he looked on stage—less like a performer, more like a confessor. About the way he said I owe you this and walked away. He left his demo on the song, and that was it.
Then Niall nudges him. “Don’t forget, party tonight. Ezra’s place.”
Louis groans. “Ugh. Another Nepo party.”
Niall flashes a grin. “Come on, it’ll be a blast—free drinks, rooftop view, maybe even a hot tub.”
“You say that every time.”
“And I’m right every time.”
Louis rolls his eyes. Niall’s technically a Nepo baby too—his uncle runs one of the biggest music venues in Manhattan, which means Niall’s on every guest list, every VIP lounge, every ridiculous party with champagne fountains and overpriced hors d’oeuvres. And he drags Louis to all of them.
“Also, drop the whole ‘I hate rich kids’ act. You’re literally surrounded by them. Hell, you hang out with them. Just accept it, Louis. You’re part of the system now.”
Louis sighs. “Fine. But if Harry Styles shows up in glitter and starts singing again, I’m leaving.”
Niall smirks. “You won’t.”
Louis doesn’t answer. Because he’s not so sure anymore.
The mansion is pulsing.
Music thumps through the marble floors, bass vibrating in Louis’ ribs. The air smells like champagne, weed, and too much cologne. Someone’s making out against a statue –a 137cm statue of Orpheus– in the foyer. Someone else is dancing on a table in nothing but glitter and bravado.
It’s the usual Nepo baby chaos.
Louis hates these parties. He always has. He comes because Niall drags him—Niall, who’s one of them, with his backstage passes and family-owned venues, but surprisingly never dresses or cares. Louis tags along, drinks the free booze, and tries not to gag at the excess.
Normally, he avoids Harry Styles like the plague.
If he catches a glimpse of sequins or hears a familiar laugh, he turns the other way. He’s seen Harry snogged against walls, tangled in limbs, glitter smeared across someone else’s neck. It’s always loud. Always messy.
But tonight, something’s different.
Louis spots him instantly—Harry, wrapped in Zayn’s arms, swaying gently to the music. Honestly, it’s harder not to notice Harry in a crowd. He’s a walking spotlight, glitter catching the chandelier’s glow, eyes half-lidded, lips curled in a lazy, intoxicated smile. He looks high. Or drunk. Or maybe just lost in the moment.
But Louis’ gaze shifts—to Zayn.
He watches. Observes. Focuses.
Zayn’s hand rests possessively on Harry’s waist, steadying him like he’s something fragile. Harry leans in, weightless, like gravity’s just a suggestion tonight. He laughs—bright, unburdened, spinning like he was born to orbit. And Zayn watches him with a quiet intensity, like he’s terrified Harry might vanish mid-spin.
A theater kid bumps into Louis, rambling about the lighting cues for Flightless Bird. Louis nods without really hearing, his mind elsewhere.
When he glances back, Harry’s already tugging Zayn toward the stairs. Zayn doesn’t fight it. He trails behind willingly, a soft smile playing on his lips, eyes warm and unguarded.
Louis hesitates. Something in him pulls forward, something else holds back. But his recklessness wins, and then he moves. Follows. Gets sidetracked on his way.
A classmate from his Musical Theatre Direction & Production class corners him near the stairwell, rambling about prop placements. Louis nods, distracted, eyes flicking toward the hallway upstairs. He’s not sure why he’s still thinking of following, really. He tells himself it’s curiosity. Or concern. Or something else he doesn’t want to name.
When Louis finally makes it to the second floor, the atmosphere shifts. The hallway is hushed, bathed in low, amber light that casts long shadows across the polished floor. The thrum of music from downstairs is barely audible now—just a faint pulse beneath the quiet. In its place, there’s the soft murmur of distant voices and the occasional echo of footsteps against marble, like the building itself is holding its breath.
They’re gone. But Louis feels it—like a thread tugging him forward.
He passes a few closed doors, each one grander than the last, until he stops outside one. A bathroom, probably absurdly luxurious, the kind of place that could host a dinner party and still have room for a string quartet. From inside, a sound reaches him.
A voice. Soft. Breathless. Undeniably Harry.
Louis doesn’t need confirmation. He already knows. But still, he lifts his hand and knocks. Once. Then again, when silence answers back. His heart is loud in his chest. Everything else is quiet.
Louis hears the thud, feels it in his chest more than the door. Zayn’s voice—gruff, clipped—calls out, “Occupied, mate.”
But Louis doesn’t wait. Doesn’t think. His hand moves before his mind catches up, and the knob turns.
The door swings open, and the scene hits him like a punch to the ribs.
Harry’s perched on the marble counter, skirt bunched around his thighs, blouse undone and slipping from his shoulders. The soft glow of the bathroom lights dances across his tattoos, casting shadows that feel too intimate. His head is tilted back, lips parted, eyes glazed with something Louis doesn’t want to name.
Zayn stands inches away, hands planted firmly, his body tense, his face frozen in surprise.
Louis doesn’t breathe. Doesn’t blink. The moment stretches.
“I said occupied,” Zayn repeats, voice sharper now.
Louis lifts a shoulder, casual and dismissive. “Relax. Just need to take a quick piss. Won’t bother anyone.”
As if barging in mid-thrust was nothing. As if this wasn’t a deliberate intrusion. But he’s committed now, too deep into the act to back out. So he steps inside, shuts the door behind him, and heads for the toilet like it’s the most normal thing in the world.
Zayn hesitates, caught in the collision of impulse and intrusion. His body is tense, eyes flicking to Louis with something unreadable—anger, confusion, maybe shame.
But Harry doesn’t flinch. He exhales a soft, needy sound, the kind that cuts through hesitation like a blade. “Zayn, don’t stop,” he murmurs, voice low and distant, like he’s somewhere else entirely.
And Zayn listens.
He moves again, slow at first, then with purpose. Louis stands at the toilet, back turned, but the air behind him is thick with motion and breath and everything he’s trying not to feel. He keeps his eyes locked on the cold geometry of the tiles, trying to anchor himself in something solid. He pretends he’s deaf to the sounds behind him. Pretends his pulse isn’t racing. Pretends his thoughts aren’t unraveling faster than he can catch them.
He doesn’t know what’s gotten into him. Maybe it’s the liquor—whatever overpriced, gilded poison they serve in places like this. Maybe it’s the music. Or the glitter. Or it’s Harry’s face that won’t leave him. That unguarded expression. That rawness. That trust in Zayn. It clings to Louis like smoke.
So, he stays in the bathroom longer than he should. The door is closed, but the room is far from silent. He hears them.
Soft moans, breathy and broken. Harry’s voice, unmistakable—high, trembling, threaded with pleasure. Zayn’s deeper, steadier, a low hum of control and closeness. The sounds between them are rhythmic, wet, and intimate. The kind of sounds that don’t need visuals to be understood.
Louis keeps his eyes at the tiled wall, heart pounding.
He knows he shouldn’t be here, shouldn’t be listening. But he doesn’t move.
Then Harry’s voice rises, words slurred and sweet, “So deep… so good…”
Zayn chuckles, low and rough, and the rhythm shifts—faster, harder. Harry gasps, louder now, like he’s unraveling.
Louis grips the edge of the cistern, knuckles white.
He’s horrified to feel it—his body reacting, uninvited. A slow, unwelcome heat crawling up his spine. It’s not desire. Not really. It’s confusion. Curiosity. Something he doesn’t want to name. He squeezes his eyes shut.
This is Harry Styles. Glitter and chaos. The boy he’s disliked since day one. And yet…
There’s something about the way Harry sounds. Like he’s not just being touched, but seen. Like Zayn’s hands are the only thing keeping him tethered to the earth.
Louis breathes through his nose, steady, slow. He tells himself it’s just noise, just a moment. Just a mistake.
But when Harry whimpers again, soft and aching, Louis knows it’s something else. Something he doesn’t understand. Not yet. Not entirely unwilling to learn about either.
Or lost you?