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“Yeah, no, go on,” Louis says. “Go congratulate the troops.”

Walking backwards, Harry salutes them both. “See you tomorrow?” he

asks, looking at Louis.

“Yeah, of course,” Louis says, and Zayn can‟t help but roll his eyes at

the way his cheeks color. “Tomorrow.” He watches Harry turn and

walk off the pitch with the last straggling players.

Louis turns and looks at Zayn with sad, pathetic satisfaction in his eyes.

“See? That was a perfectly platonic, friendly interaction.”

Zayn gapes at him a moment, then turns on his heel and walks toward

the carpark.

“What?” Louis calls after him. They‟re all doomed. “Zayn, you‟re

imagining things!” Doomed.

“Not liking things that are delicious doesn‟t give you class, Lou, it just

makes you a snob,” Harry says, dropping his hand down on the hole

puncher as if to emphasize his point.

They‟re in Louis‟ classroom again, papers spread out on the desks

before them. Harry is always nagging Louis about letting him help with

his work, which would normally be sweet, except that Harry‟s

interpretation of “help” often consists of him doing dramatic readings

the scenes Louis‟ students write for practice, complete with funny

voices. While that certainly eases the pain of marking, it doesn‟t

actually make Louis get his work done faster. Today, since Louis is

swamped with menial tasks, he‟s put Harry to work punching holes in

pages of the script for Much Ado About Nothing while Louis puts them

into binders. That‟ll teach him to try to be nice.

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“It‟s not that I don‟t like things that are delicious,” Louis says. He

straightens a stack of pages and threads them through the rings. “I just

don‟t like things that make me violently ill in the cab on the way

home.”

“So-called „girly drinks‟ are made of sunshine and booze,” Harry tells

him as he punches another set of holes. “If you don‟t like them, that

just proves that you‟ve got an allergy to happiness.”

Louis rolls his eyes. “You mean to tell me that you‟re the one always

parading around the pub with one of those drinks in the giant glasses

with the little umbrella on top?”

“Yeah, in case of a tiny rainstorm,” Harry says logically. He does a

little pantomime like he‟s holding up a tiny umbrella over his head,

and, what? God. It‟s so endearing that Louis can‟t even say anything

mean back. Who is this person? Where did he come from? Is there

some magical tropical island somewhere where Harry Styleses drop

from trees like coconuts?

“Fair enough,” Louis says, hiding his laughter behind Act II. “Still,

there‟s something to be said for good scotch.”

“There‟s something to be said for bingo on cruise ships, too, but since

I‟m not a million years old I think I‟ll pass,” Harry says, wrinkling his

nose.

Louis makes a noise of indignation. “What‟s that supposed to mean?”

“It means that scotch—like all the other brown drinks—” he says,

pulling a face of childish disgust, “Is for people who are old and boring

and have no imagination. So neither of us should drink it.”

“So I should be like you and give myself diabetes?” Louis counters.

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“Right, you don‟t drink them because you‟re so health-conscious,”

Harry teases, poking him in the ribs with the hole puncher. “Sure.”

“All right, fine,” Louis surrenders. “Maybe I do enjoy the occasional

mojito. When I‟m in the mood.”

“A good choice! And they‟re fun to say, too. Mo-ji-to.” Harry rolls the

word around in his mouth, accentuating each syllable. Louis supposes it

is a pretty enjoyable sound.

“Mooo-jiiii-toooo,” he tries. Okay, it‟s a fun word. Harry smiles and

answers back.

“Mooooooooooooo-jito.”

“Mo-jiiiiiiiiiiii-to.”

“Mojito-mojito-mojito.”

“Mo-ji-TOOOOOOOOO—” The last one is almost a shout, one that

Louis cuts off when he sees Niall standing in the doorway, looking

perplexed. There‟s no telling how long he‟s been there.

The three of them look at each other in silence for a moment. Niall

furrows his brow. “Mojito?” he asks.

“Mojito,” Harry answers firmly. Niall looks at Louis for confirmation.

“Mojito, mojito,” he says quickly, nodding his head.

Niall nods back solemnly and leaves, looking satisfied.

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Louis stares after him, then turns to look at Harry. He shrugs, trying to

hide a smile, and goes back to punching holes in scripts. The charade

lasts less than a minute though, and when Harry whispers “mojito” in

the tiniest possible voice, Louis slides off his chair and laughs until he

cries.

It‟s not the first time that Harry “helping” him ends with Louis half-

laughing, half-sobbing underneath his desk, and it isn‟t the last, either.

As the semester progresses, most of their individual projects become

shared somewhere along the line, and while Harry helps out with

whatever Louis asks him to, half the time he winds up being a

distraction. It goes both ways; Louis is still powerless to say no to

almost anything when Harry‟s doing the asking, and going to football

matches is hardly the end of it.

Harry watches some ridiculous American movie and comes up with the

idea of putting on a carwash to raise some money to buy the team some

new uniforms, and the next thing Louis knows, he‟s standing in the

carpark in October with his trousers rolled up to his knees and a small

arsenal of sponges. Louis doesn‟t even like washing his own dishes.

Things may be getting slightly out of hand.

Then again, Niall and Zayn volunteered as well when Harry mentioned

that he‟d need a couple more hands to keep things running, so really,

Louis is just doing this out of the goodness of his heart. To help his

friend. And, you know, school spirit and all that. Plus, the sun gives

him an excuse to wear his new aviators, and that‟s honestly just a

public service.

So it‟s been a Saturday afternoon of filling up buckets and passing

bottles of soap along and generally overseeing, because as much as

Louis may want to do things for Harry, he does not deign to wash other

people‟s cars. Besides, the boys from the team have mostly got that

covered. There‟s a lot of shirtlessness and scrubbing and throwing

sponges at each other despite the chill in the air. Louis privately thinks

the whole thing is a bit homoerotic, honestly, but then again he‟s never

fully understood the thought processes of the heterosexual male, much

less the sporty teenage ones.

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Harry and Zayn have been flitting between cars making sure the drivers

know where to go and occasionally grabbing a rag to help, and Niall

has set up some speakers a little way down the carpark, bumping a

mixture of top forty pop and Jay-Z while they work. One of the players

must have tipped off a friend or something, because about an hour after

Zayn showed up, a small crowd of female students started congregating

at the edge of the carpark and have been watching the proceedings like

giggly, hormonal hawks.

The flow of cars is steady, and by mid-afternoon they‟ve raised a

decent amount of money, more than half of their goal. Harry has also

kept his shirt on the entire day, which Louis thinks he should probably

count as another victory. Whoever the patron saint is of avoiding public

arousal, Louis owes them one. He‟s beginning to think that they may

make it through this whole thing without incident.

That bubble is summarily burst as Harry comes over to where Louis is

loitering by the hose and refreshments. Pouring water into buckets is

thirsty work, all right. “Hey, Louis,” Harry says, looking at something

in the distance over Zayn‟s shoulder. “What does that fireman of

Zayn‟s drive?”

“Something really boring and sensible, I think,” Louis tells him. He‟s

so busy refilling a bucket of suds that the implication of the question

doesn‟t actually hit him for a few moments, but then— “Oh God, no.”

Louis follows the line of Harry‟s eyes to the dark gray SUV that‟s

idling a couple of spots back in the line and then zeroes in on the driver

and, yes, of course, there‟s a handsome, good natured face smiling

pleasantly at the world around him. Obviously he could never pass up

an opportunity to be philanthropic. Leave it to Zayn to become

obsessed with the actual most wholesome human being in this

hemisphere.

“Zayn is going to have a fucking meltdown,” Louis says. “He hasn‟t

even got on his tight trousers.”

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“We‟ve got to do something,” Harry says, his eyes going huge. “Can

you text him or something? Just, you know, heads up, love of your life

is here, probably stop making that face when you‟re washing tires?”

“Can‟t, he gave me his mobile so it wouldn‟t get wet,” Louis says,

fishing it out of his back pocket to show Harry.

“Shit,” Harry says, but then his face splits into a look that Louis can

only describe as trouble.

“Oh, no,” he says.

“I‟ve got an idea,” Harry says, whipping out his own phone. “Run get

Niall and a hose. Have him bring the sound system over here.”

Louis knows he should be asking questions, but Harry‟s enthusiasm has

him springing into action without a second thought. Niall seems

skeptical when Louis approaches him, but as soon as he hears that it‟s

in the service of Zayn‟s destiny and also taking the piss out of him, he‟s

wheeling the cart with the stereo system on it over eagerly. The dark

grey SUV has crept forward a spot in line, but Louis thinks they‟ll still

have time for whatever Harry‟s got planned.

“Brilliant, Niall, you‟re the best,” Harry says when he sees them

approaching. “Can we hook my phone up to these speakers?”

Niall shrugs. “Yeah, of course.” He takes the proffered phone and starts

plugging in cables.

Louis turns to Harry. “Want to let us in on what hijinks we‟re up to,

exactly?”

Harry grins evilly. “We‟re throwing Zayn a wet t-shirt contest for one,”

he says, looking over at the line of cars. “Shit, it‟s almost showtime.

Louis, fold the hose in half and turn the water on. Niall, is the phone

53

ready to go?” Louis sees Niall give a double thumb-up and moves to

follow Harry‟s instructions.

Harry picks up his phone, his finger poised over a button. “Louis, on

my say-so, release the water and soak Zayn.”

“Aye-aye, captain,” Louis says, grinning. He has privately thought that

Zayn needed to be hosed down on more than one Liam-related

occasion, but this is even better. Harry is possibly a genius.

All three of them have their eyes trained on Zayn as he finishes up the

car in front of the SUV, blissfully unaware of their plans for him. He

walks to the driver‟s side window and says something that makes the

woman inside laugh, then points to the station ahead where she can

give her donation to one of Harry‟s lads from the team. The car

accelerates, pulls away, and...

“Now,” Harry says.

Louis releases the kink in the hose and points it straight at Zayn‟s back.

The jet of water strikes him square between the shoulder blades,

soaking his white t-shirt through and through immediately. On some

terrible instinct Zayn turns around, trying to shield himself with his

arms, but all that does is drench his chest as well. When he‟s looking

good and soggy, Louis lowers the hose, satisfied with his handiwork.

Zayn just stares at them, murder in his eyes and water in his quiff.

“Sorry, Zayn!” Louis says cheerfully. “Completely lost control of the

hose there!”

“Yeah, Louis, I noticed,” Zayn shouts back, and Louis knows the fact

that they‟re surrounded by students is the only thing keeping Zayn from

adding “you fucking arsehole” to that.

He turns his back on them, reaching to pull off his soaked shirt, and

Harry hits play. For a moment, for one glorious moment, Louis thinks

54

there must actually be something to this whole destiny thing Zayn

believes in so adamantly, because in that moment, everything aligns.

The first chords of “Rock You Like a Hurricane” rip through the

carpark in perfect time with Zayn‟s footsteps as he walks toward

Liam‟s car, peeling his sticking shirt off over his head, and just then a

cloud moves and the late afternoon sun hits him from behind, and okay,

wow. Zayn shakes his hair out just as the guitar really kicks in, and if

Louis didn‟t know better, he‟d swear that Zayn is moving in slow

motion. It is actually the most ridiculous thing Louis has ever seen, but