Rating:

Teen

Category:

F/M

Fandom:

One Direction

Relationship:

Louis/Eleanor

Series:

Part of the the new fashion series

Tags:

high school, model au, side lirry, side ziall

Stats:

Posted on:

2017-05-18

Words:

10,424

Eleanor wakes up with an unfamiliar feeling of needing to make herself smaller. This makes no sense, as she’s small as it is, and her bed isn’t manor-sized but it certainly isn’t like those tiny ones she’s seen on uni sites for dormitories before she got discovered just a few years ago. She scrunches her eyes; it’s dreadfully early, judging by the dim overcast from her open windows. She turns on her side to go back to sleep.

And immediately crashes into a bare shoulder—another body in her bed.

Eleanor shrieks, jumping out, the waves of nausea immediately hitting her as she stands up. This is why she hates drinking—she doesn’t know immediately in the morning that she’s hungover, unlike most people. She stares at the weird tattooed (and admittedly fit) person lying in her bed, rolling over and groaning, “Come back to bed, babe, it’s early.”

“Who…” Eleanor starts, but as the guy turns over, Eleanor does recognize him. More than she’d admit, anyway; he’s a fan, she supposes, but not like the creepy ones who send you threats disguised as gifts, but more the ones who spam your Instagram notifications with likes and come to every one of your shows and sometimes try to carry a conversation with you between bodyguards. And now he’s lying in her bed, scratching his naked chest and squinting at her beneath the blue of the dawn light.

The not-quite stranger frowns, face falling at the sight of Eleanor’s shock. “Oh, come on, don’t tell me you forgot me after our first night together.”

“Well, forgive me,” Eleanor says, hesitantly climbing back into bed. “But I can’t say that I’m used to waking up with strange boys in the morning.” Neither of them is naked, at least. The guy’s still got his jeans on and Eleanor is in a camisole and pyjama pants, so maybe they didn’t actually sleep together. Eleanor’s not sure if she’s ready for that type of drunken mistake yet.

“I sure hope not, I don’t think I’m a strange boy,” not-quite stranger says. He grins at her, though, something bright. “But since you asked, I will forgive you.”

Eleanor rolls her eyes. “Right,” she says. “Who are you again?”

Not-quite stranger clutches his chest dramatically. “So you did forget.”

“Need I remind you I was hammered the night before,” Eleanor says to him. It’s strange to sit on her bed and carry what she presumes is pseudo pillowtalk at what has to be four in the morning, but even stranger in that it’s comfortable the way the guy just grins.

“Weren’t we all,” he says. “Well, I suppose I shouldn’t expect more from fashion show afterparties. I’m Louis, by the way.”

“There we go,” says Eleanor. “I’m Eleanor. As I’m sure you might know.”

“Can’t forget,” Louis says cheerfully. “Can’t forget a face like yours.”

His hand twitches like he wants to touch her cheek, or brush his hair, but he doesn’t do either of those things. Eleanor doesn’t know why she thinks this.

“Well,” says Eleanor, and glances precariously at her bedroom door. As much as she really doesn’t mind the warmth of Louis being in her bed—he takes up space, but not in a way that makes her feel like she can’t take up her own space—it’s still. Weird. People don’t do this. She doesn’t do this.

Louis sighs like he knows what she’s thinking. “I suppose this is the part where you tell me to run my arse to my house and pretend like this never happened and we’ll never see each other again?”

Eleanor’s stomach turns. Not because of the hangover—well, likely a little bit because of the hangover—but she’s a nice girl, and if she kind of likes the weird, space-sharing feeling of someone else in her bed, then what’s wrong with that? Louis doesn’t send her weird convoluted letters (not that she knows of, anyway), just attends her shows and stares at her too long like a normal person. Like he’s doing now.

Eleanor gives into temptation and says, “Or we can go back to sleep and talk about this at a normal time,” and Louis’s face absolutely lights up despite the dusk in the room.

“Also an excellent idea. I like the way you think,” he says, and shifts to give her room.

For someone who Eleanor knows is obsessed with her, he is weirdly polite with not touching her, and giving her so much of the bed that he honestly looks like he’s going to fall off. “Oh, come closer,” Eleanor says, tugging at his bare elbow so he’s at least occupying half the bed. “We don’t have to spoon but you can still rest.”

“Hush, I can’t think about the hypothetical idea of spooning you right now,” Louis mutters, and his cheeks actually darken at this that Eleanor is fascinated. She kind of wants to find out how she can do it again.

She props her elbow on her pillow and her head on her hand. “And also,” she says to the back of Louis’s head. “We didn’t sleep together last night, did we? Because you don’t seem the type, but I could be wrong.”

Louis peeks over his shoulder. “The type to what?”

“To take advantage of me,” says Eleanor.

Louis rushes to turn around, shaking his head rapidly and blinking. “Oh, no, I would never—I mean, I ought not to assume that you would just believe me, but I—wouldn’t.”

He’s so earnest and Eleanor doesn’t trust guys right away, she really doesn’t, especially when she wakes up with them—but this is the first time it’s happened and Eleanor wants to like him, to give him a chance. “Okay,” she says, watching his face as, in the first rays of the early dawn, some relief comes into his eyes. Not all, but she’s not sure if that’s because she doesn’t sound like she believes him or if he’s not convinced that he’d done a good job of saying so. “Because I’ve never—it’s never happened before, so, you never know.”

“You don’t, that’s right,” Louis says, nodding vehemently. “If it’s any consolation, I sure hope that if I sleep with—anyone,” he coughs slightly, “I would be wearing slightly less the morning after.” He gestures to his much more covered lower half, which Eleanor laughs at.

“Yes, I feel like even if we did then we must’ve been doing it wrong,” she says, looking down at her own clothes.

This time Louis seems more relaxed. “Yes,” he agrees, tilting his head towards her. “Shall we sleep like normal hungover teenagers and deal with the aftermath when we’re supposed to be awake?”

“Gladly,” says Eleanor, turning in.

*

When Eleanor opens her eyes again, she’s expecting it a bit more to see the curve of Louis’s bare shoulder, the half of some strange tattoo on his upper arm. They’re stark in the morning light, and her eyes trace the black marks, wondering what’s on the other half. He’s snoring softly, and she rolls on her back, blinking up at the dust motes swirling, trying to evaluate her situation. So there’s a fit bloke in her bed whom she hadn’t had sex with—which at this point she knows, because she remembers the rest of last night now, Taylor and Selena catcalling when she’d drunkenly introduced him to everyone, Karlie telling them that they were too wasted to properly party, talking and mumbling between them as Louis insisted that he had to go home and Eleanor insisted that he should stay over because it was too late even though she’d just really like how warm he’d been in the car ride over. He’s a fan—still a stranger, really, and Eleanor stares at the glowish tan of his skin and wonders what she’s getting herself into.

Someone who sleeps like the dead, apparently, since Eleanor gets up to get a cup of tea and stumbles over her comforter and crashes to the floor. “Oops,” she mutters to herself, but when she looks up, Louis is sound asleep. Something’s wrong with him, she decides, as she heads to her apartment kitchen.

Her roommate isn’t in yet, probably from last night’s party, so Eleanor shuffles with all the noise she wants as she waits for the water to boil and pours two cups of tea. It’s ten in the morning, a Saturday, and all Eleanor wants to do is nap and shop. Or shop and then nap.

She goes back into her room with both mugs of tea and stares at Louis’s still unconscious body. Best not to wake a sleeping stranger, so she grabs her laptop from her bedside, puts the mugs down, and browses Pinterest while drinking her own tea and trying to ignore how domestic this feels.

About an hour later is when Louis stirs, and Eleanor gets his mug and holds it in his face with one hand, scrolling with another. “Wha?” Louis mumbles, kind of adorably, sunlight against sunlight.

Eleanor pretends she isn’t looking at him from the corner of her eye, still clicking on her laptop. “Good morning,” she says.

Louis stares, and then blinks at her. “Am I dreaming?”

Eleanor pauses this time. “Did you forget our whole conversation from earlier?” she says, and then bumps his shoulder with her mug. “And also I made you tea.”

“You’re an angel,” Louis says, taking it. “And what conversation?” He sips the tea before making a face. “Ugh. It’s cold. I take that back.”

“The conversation we had last night,” Eleanor says, and then, “I mean, this morning. Where you told me we hadn’t slept together and you’d said that if we did you’d want to be wearing less clothes.”

Louis crawls out of Eleanor’s bed and makes his way down the hallway. “I’m pretty sure I’d remember saying that! Also,” he pokes his head back in. “Where’s your kitchen?”

Eleanor rolls her eyes and closes her laptop, following him out and leading him to the microwave. “Want me to warm it up?” she offers, but Louis makes a face and shakes his head.

“What are you, an animal? We’re boiling another kettle of water.”

“This is my apartment,” Eleanor reminds him.

Louis sends her a cheeky grin. “Please,” he adds.

Eleanor scoffs, but a smile is fighting its way onto her face. “Since you asked so nicely,” she replies, and turns on the stove. “I didn’t realize I’d spent my evening with a tea snob.”

“And I didn’t realize you, Eleanor Calder, fashion model extraordinaire, were so uncultured in the world of tea,” Louis fires back. “I must educate you, clearly.”

Eleanor laughs as the midday sun shines through the kitchen light. “Oh, clearly,” she says.

Louis’s grin has gone dopey for some reason, and his eyes are soft on her, fond. “It seems like it.”

“And don’t tell me you actually forgot the first time we woke up,” Eleanor says. “It was an enlightening conversation. I basically told you I’m a virgin.”

Louis chokes on his tea. “Um,” he says. “Well I was fucking with you for not remembering, but I don’t think you told me that.”

“I might as well have,” Eleanor says, shrugging.

Louis averts his eyes, staring pointedly at his mug as he takes another sip. “I’m not sure how to reply, honestly,” he tells his tea. “Congratulations? I hope when you have your first time, it’s good? Use protection?”

“Well, first of all, you can talk to me instead of your tea,” Eleanor says, and when Louis meets her gaze he blushes. It’s enthralling. “Second of all, it’s not something I particularly care about. It’s just. Y’know.” She shrugs again.

Louis shrugs, as if to mimic her. “I do know,” he says, not sounding sure of himself.

Eleanor cocks her head. “Have you?”

“Well,” Louis says, loudly. “I suppose it’s how you define it. There was the time I snogged one of my best mates, Zayn—”

“Snogging doesn’t count,” says Eleanor, ignoring the twinge of jealousy from somewhere in her middle.

“And also I suppose me and a mate may have fondled each other once in the boys’ locker room after PE,” says Louis. “You know. Lads.”

Despite herself, Eleanor snorts. “I’d say it counts.”

“Cheers.” Louis gestures with his mug.

He begins to drink from it again, but his eyes drift to the clock on Eleanor’s microwave and he swallows so fast it looks painful. “Shit! Is that really the time?”

“No, none of my clocks are aligned and I have the wrong time on all of my devices,” Eleanor says, watching as Louis sets his tea down and runs back to her bedroom. She follows. “Have a date?”

“I was supposed to be babysitting this morning,” Louis grumbles, wrangling his shirt on. “Where are the fucking sleeves on this thing?”

Eleanor puts her mug on the nightstand and helps Louis get his shirt on proper—or tries to, anyway, as Louis looks like he’s having a spasm for a long moment until the shirt is on, somehow. “Mum’s going to kill me,” Louis moans, as Eleanor quickly finds his wallet that had fallen on the ground and hands it to him.

Eleanor pats him on the shoulder. “I’ll be sure to attend your funeral,” she says. “‘Here lies Louis, virginity taken by a locker room handjob.'”

“That would make an excellent eulogy, I approve.”

Louis is making his way out of her apartment—Eleanor would tell him how to get out, but he seems far too rushed to even consider it. “I’m glad to get your blessing,” she calls. “Even though I don’t know your last name!”

Louis turns around from where he’s halfway sprinting down the hall. “Tomlinson!” he calls back. “And I’ll see you at your next show!”

Eleanor watches as he races to the elevator, pushes a button near twenty times, and then runs down the stairwell instead. He’s an interesting one—he’s more than an interesting one, and Eleanor genuinely hopes he comes to her next show.

Well, she doesn’t have many doubts. He always leaves a comment on her Instagram photos when he doesn’t.

*

On Monday Eleanor has a day off, and Danielle crashes into her apartment without much warning. “What’s up girly girl?” she says, slouching on the living room couch.

Eleanor rolls her eyes and looks up from her computer. “Why don’t you knock anymore?” she complains. “I thought we were friends.”

“We are friends, that’s why I don’t knock,” Danielle says cheerfully. She puts her feet in Eleanor’s lap. “Ready for Thursday’s show?”

Eleanor moans and lies across Danielle’s calves. “Please don’t remind me, I think Miguel is trying to torture me,” she says. “It’s not that I don’t like wearing black, but there’s always so much black—”

“You look good in black,” Danielle says, as if that would reassure Eleanor any more. She drags a flyaway strand of Eleanor’s hair and readjusts it so her hair’s not spread on all of Danielle’s bare legs. “Selena told me you brought a bloke home over the weekend, by the way.”

Eleanor lifts up and glares. “You gossiping vixens,” she accuses.

“That’s us,” Danielle says with a smirk. “So? Who’s the lad? Did you snog him good? Oh,” her smirk turns feline, “did you shag him good?”

Eleanor hits her leg and laughs. “I’m not that kind of girl, Peazer, you know that,” she says.

“Well I am that kind of girl,” says Danielle, grinning. “At least tell me his name.”

“I won’t so you can’t stalk him on Instagram.”

Danielle laughs. “Oh, fuck off.”

Eleanor whacks her again and then sits back up, going back to her computer. “No, he was… nice. He was nice.”

Danielle raises an eyebrow. “Just nice?”

“He’s fit! What more do you want me to say?” Eleanor rolls her eyes and pretends very hard that her cheeks aren’t warm. Maybe Danielle won’t notice. “It was new, I s’pose. I dunno. I was super trashed.”

“I’d imagine,” says Danielle. “Did you snog him at least? It’s been ages since you’ve been on a date, El.”

“Because I’m not really interested in going on dates, Dani.” Eleanor kicks the bottom of her foot and Danielle squawks indignantly. “And no, I didn’t snog him. Like I said, I’m not that kind of—”

“Not that kind of girl, yeah, yeah,” Danielle says, waving her off and trying to kick Eleanor back, only managing to get air since Eleanor curls up tight on the other side of the couch. “By which you mean you are a boring boring prude.”

“Hey!”

“Such a boring prude.” Danielle snickers, and then reaches over from where she’d plopped her purse on the floor in front of the couch and reaches for her home. “Cheryl out on a gig today?”

“Are you asking so you can wait around to hit on her?” Eleanor says dryly.

“I don’t hit, I pull.” Danielle sits up, gesticulating with her shoulders in an obnoxious motion. Eleanor laughs. “At least one of us knows how to get the ladies, Ellie.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Eleanor says, pretending louist91’s Instagram isn’t open on her computer.

*

Eleanor hadn’t really decided to be a model—her Instagram’s been full of the vainest selfies since she’s had an account, which is almost when Instagram came out, and she knows how to make herself look pretty, not just in her makeup and outfit but in the way she stands, walks, steels her expression in front of a lens or someone else. It’s not easy, she’d say, but then she’s seen some pretty atrocious pics on the internet and has to remind herself that they’re just selfies, even if some people don’t know how to pose proper for shit.

She’d been discovered when she was fifteen and posting something from a changing room in Charlotte Russe. Only a month later and she’d been signed to a management, moved into the city, and plonked into an apartment with a roommate.

And most girls go through America’s Next Top Model. Good thing Eleanor’s not American.

Eleanor’s always been relatively good at handling her finances and herself on her own, even though it can get lonely and strangely like missing a limb when she turns around and her mum and dad aren’t there to help. She likes being seventeen and feeling like she’s twenty-five; on the other hand, she is seventeen.

So the next day when her phone buzzes loudly by her ear, Eleanor is in her graceless seventeen-year old form, hair mussed in front of her face as she groans out, “Hello?” Danielle and Cheryl are splayed on the couch; Eleanor had passed out on the ground.

“Ellie? Where the hell are you?” Miguel screeches into her ear. “You have a shoot today, love, or did you forget like a half-wit?”

“I might be a half-wit,” Eleanor grunts, picking herself up from the ground and yawning. “What time is it?”

“Half past noon, you’re already a whole hour late! Why aren’t you checking your texts? Did you just wake up?”

“No, no, of course not,” Eleanor says in a tone that she is pretty sure obviously suggests otherwise. “I’m coming, I’m out, I’m on my way—”

“Well get here, darling, the golf courts aren’t going to wait forever!”

Miguel promptly hangs up on her, and Eleanor stares at her phone. Then she looks over at Danielle, who seems to have subconsciously draped herself over Cheryl in her sleep. Or maybe not subconsciously.

“Dani,” Eleanor says.

“Hm?” Danielle grunts.

“I hate you.”

“Love you too El,” Danielle says without opening an eye.

Eleanor rushes through her morning routine, brushing her teeth while getting a sock on and spraying her hair so it at least smells shampooed. Her life isn’t easy, but she supposed she asked for it—or she asked her parents, since she’s technically not old enough to make that sort of judgment, and her parents had given her permission. No one sees her an adult, but everyone sees her as an adult anyway—and she’s perfectly fine with being a seventeen-year old country-famous model, because at least she can afford those Jimmy Choo’s that came out last week.

She calls a car and peeks out the window—fog and grey sky hang heavy in the air, and it’s still spring so it’s pretty chilly. She’ll need a jacket, but her favorite bomber is nowhere to be found, and near everything else is in the laundry. She’s pretty sure she has a grey pea coat, but she can’t find it anywhere.

“What the fuck,” she mutters as she throws around the clothes strewn on her floor. It seems like every time she tries to find a particular piece of clothing, she can find everything else except for the exact one she’s looking for. There’s a black hoodie in her piles and it’ll have to do for now, so she grabs it and then back in the hall her purse that she had packed, then heads out of the flat.

“Love you!” she calls over her shoulder, and gets two answering groans in response.

*

Miguel is not happy. Neither are the people from Lacoste, who look like they’re ready to model the clothes themselves instead of waiting for Eleanor.

“I’m here, I’m here,” Eleanor says as she disembarks the golf cart before it’s even fully stopped. She straightens the pink polo shirt she’d been wrangled into, and the white bermuda shorts that she’d shoved on so fast that they’ve kind of wrinkled.

Miguel frowns at her. “You’re lucky it’s been raining all morning, Ellie,” he says, adjusting her collar. “Where in the world have you been?”

“Stuff,” says Eleanor, which they both know is code for ‘I got drunk with my friends last night and forgot I had a photoshoot the next day.’

The director, despite the scowl on his face, begins getting Eleanor into place, giving her caddy bags or golf clubs as props—and Eleanor knows her share of golf, but there’s such an array of caddy bags that it feels kind of ridiculous being stood next to them to determine which set looks the best with her, changing the golf clubs in each for the sake of aesthetic. Eleanor hadn’t been looking forward to this shoot in the first place, because it’s not fun like Nike or Cartier or Marc Jacobs. Not that there’s anything wrong with Lacoste—it’s just fucking golf.

At three thirty they go on break, and Eleanor tugs the hoodie that she’d brought in the golf cart over her head and squats on the grass, going through her phone. Cheryl’s left her some texts:

can y bring cereal when y come back
also some milk
soy!!!

Im on it. tell dani 2 stop spamming my snapchat

Eleanor goes to Twitter, because it’s more interesting; sometimes she does free follows, because her life is boring and a lot of her fans are high schoolers, even though it does make her feel a tad creepy scrolling through her timeline. Whatever, they followed her first.

She takes a brief selfie and posts it with a caption: Golf shoots are boooooooring, smiling fondly at her own fake pout as it posts to her account. She’s signed and still getting paid, but that doesn’t mean she’s not allowed to whinge. Plus it’s not even slander when she didn’t mention Lacoste or anything. Though she’s not sure if that’s what slander actually is. Taylor is weirdly knowledgeable about law, maybe she can ask her later.

Miguel calls for her again, and Eleanor takes the hoodie off and puts her phone away again. Golf shoots are boring; she’ll treat herself to Indian for dinner tonight.

*

Eleanor’s outfit on Thursday is depressing. She would say it makes her look like she’s going to a funeral, but then Miguel would tut at her and tell her to have better taste than that. Whatever; it does make her look like she’s going to a funeral, a sleeveless dress with an intricate halter and neck scoop, soft against her back like she has wings, ruffled patterns down her sides, billowing at her feet. Oh, and the dress is all black, and she’s to wear black stilettos, making her already tall appearance seem more chicken leggy than usual.

Of course, it’s not the only thing she’s wearing, but it’s the belle of the ball, this dress. At least her one set with the uncomfortable rainbow sequined top (and leotard underneath—Eleanor doesn’t mind her legs, but sometimes she’s convinced that Miguel and everyone else sees something that she doesn’t, aside from how scrawny and bendy they look) is fun and doesn’t look like a she’s going to a fucking funeral.

“I’d rather be caught dead in this than in that,” Eleanor’s saying to Selena as they hang out backstage, Eleanor staring reproachfully at the black dress. She’s wearing the sequined top already. Her mum’s surely going to send her some joke text about how she looks like a circus in it or something.

“I think that would negate the point of you going to a funeral,” Selena says, taking out the pins of her swishy princessy dress. “Oh, wait, no! You’re the one people are going to a funeral for.”

“That sounds about right,” Eleanor says dryly as her hair stylist puts her hair up in a tight bun. Her makeup artist dabs the corner of her mouth where her lipstick as slightly smudged, and Eleanor keeps her mouth shut.

This allows Selena the opportunity to roll her eyes and tell her, “Whatever. You’re the one who’s being dramatic. You weren’t like this when you brought that guy to the party last week.”

“Probably because I had six glasses of gin and tonic.”

Eleanor ignores the disapproving look on her makeup artist’s face as Selena says, “No, it’s because you had a boy with you, girl.”

“Pretty sure it was the drinks,” Eleanor says.

“You girls,” says Eleanor’s makeup artist, who is a sweet but strict-looking woman named Lucinda. “All your partying and gossiping will only lead to bad things.”

“That is until Eleanor goes on a date!” Selena says, before flouncing out of the room.

“Hey!” Eleanor says after her, but Selena’s already disappeared, since she’s sooner to be on the catwalk next.

Eleanor huffs. There are twelve of them mainly under this young ladies’ management: herself, Cheryl, Danielle, Selena, Taylor, a girl named Ariana that Eleanor likes but disappears too much for Eleanor to actually get to know her, and several other girls that are Taylor and Selena’s friends that Eleanor hasn’t really talked to much. Which doesn’t say anything, anyway, since Taylor is friends with pretty much everyone and Selena is her best friend. Or that tall blond girl Eleanor always sees hanging off Taylor’s arm but whom Eleanor hasn’t really talked to much is.

Oh, and there’s Gigi. But everyone knows her because she’s actually the world famous model in the young ladies’ group of their agency.

Eleanor likes being surrounded by so many girls, because if there’s any competition in the room, it’s who occupies the changing room bathroom the longest; and there’s no energy for any of them to really get upset with each other when they’re all young and working their arses off every day. Eleanor struts her stuff in the sequined top, then some skirt reminiscent of a renaissance painting, then a jacket with a very gauche pink zebra print back, then a hugely woolen thick sweater with tights, then the fucking funeral dress. Each of their agents today had them finish off with something black and serious, so by the end of it, Eleanor is stuffed backstage with eleven other girls who also look like they’re going to a funeral.

“I changed my mind, you were right,” Selena’s saying, as Ariana twirls in her dress. She’s the luckiest because she has the shortest dress out of all of them, but she’s also the shortest. “We do look super depressing.”

“See?” Eleanor says, squeezing by Gigi to grab at her purse. “We belong at a morgue.”

“Morgue fashion shows,” Ariana pipes up. “That could be a new thing.”

Danielle snorts. “Don’t get your hopes up, Ari,” she says from where she’s clutching Cheryl’s hand and trying to get them out. “I don’t think morticians would let us do that.”

“They could if we asked,” Ariana says hopefully.

“Who’d ask?” Cheryl says. “I wouldn’t.”

The party today is at Taylor’s blond friend’s house—Karlie, Eleanor picks up as they move around in a swarm of conversation and part eagerness, part tiredness. Danielle has claimed Cheryl into her car, so Eleanor is traveling to Karlie’s house mostly alone, meaning with her bodyguard, still in her funeral-ish dress.

All of them pile out backstage and into the sizeable parking garage, talking amongst themselves—Ariana now trying to figure out the practicality of hosting a fashion show at a morgue, while Cheryl and Danielle try to discourage her from it and Eleanor going, “Well I’m not doing it, I hate wearing this dress as it is.” Then the other girls are telling her how pretty she looks, which Eleanor rolls her eyes at and whacks Taylor on the arm for especially when Taylor makes a comment about her arse. She doesn’t mind, but it’s still Taylor.

As Eleanor and her bodyguard get to her car, they hear someone behind them shout, “Eleanor!” Eleanor looks over her shoulder to see a masculine figure running towards them into the night. Some of the other girls have glanced over to see what’s going on.

“Miss Calder,” her bodyguard says warningly.

But Eleanor says, “No, it’s alright. I know who that is.”

“Are you sure, Miss Calder?”

“Yes,” Eleanor says, especially when Louis gets closer, panting and out of breath, hands on his knees once he reaches them.

“Sor… ry…” he gets out. “Didn’t know where you’d be after the show; I had to figure out after you left.”

“It’s alright,” Eleanor says easily, amused.

Louis straightens up. The parking garage is lit bright; but even if it weren’t Eleanor is sure she’d be able to see his grin. “How many rules did you break to find me?” she asks.

Louis laughs and rubs his hands on his thighs. “I’m not sure if I should answer that,” he says. “In case that gets me thrown out in the future.”

“I promise I won’t tell,” Eleanor teases.

“Well, I’d definitely say that I broke at least one,” Louis says. He’s cracking his thumb knuckles like he’s anxious, and Eleanor wonders what it would be like for his thumbs to stroke over the back of her palm. “Um. Excellent show today, by the way.”

“Are you giving me compliments so I’ll take you home again?”

“I would never do such a thing,” Louis says, though not with enough false-offended conviction that Eleanor isn’t sure how serious or joking he is.

“Well,” says Eleanor, giving in anyway. “There is another party tonight. And since we had such fun last time…”

The smile spreads across Louis’s face again. “Are you inviting me to your home, Miss Calder?” he says, in an over the top voice.

Eleanor laughs. “The party’s not at my home, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“I suppose it’s good that I know,” says Louis. Then he peers at the watch on his wrist. “I can’t stay too long, I’m afraid. I have classes tomorrow.”

“Ah yes,” Eleanor says, as she begins to get into her limo. “The normal high school life.”

“Which I’m sure you know all about,” Louis says, joining her. “With your Twitter updates about golf and all.”

Eleanor laughs again, feeling giddy around his presence and slightly lightheaded that he’d even seen her Twitter update from a few days ago. “What, you saw that?”

“Of course,” Louis says, then seems to catch himself. “I mean,” he says, loftily. “I was just checking my Twitter feed the other day and happened to see your update.”

“Nice recovery.”

“I didn’t know you were doing a line for golf anyway,” Louis says. “I must get my hands on a copy when it comes out.”

Eleanor raises an eyebrow. “You wouldn’t do that already?”

“Hush, hush,” Louis says without looking at her. Eleanor’s certain he’s blushing, but that may be the lightning in the limousine. It’s started going already, and Eleanor realizes that she’s alone with him in this dark, sort of sexy car. She tries not to think too much about it.

“I meant specifically golf,” Louis is saying. “Golfing with the lads, you know.”

Eleanor laughs. “Is that what you do instead of going to Nando’s?”

“Oh, lord, Niall would hate that,” Louis says to himself. “No. I mean, yes. I mean, I suppose if I had a choice. Nando’s is lovely and all, but golf.” He clenches his fist. “Now there’s a sport.”

“You actually like golf?” Eleanor says, raising her eyebrows. “I’d assumed it was just all men and dads pretending that they were doing something fun while talking about how much money is in their bank.”

“You offend me,” Louis says, only seeming mildly offended. “I don’t have any money at all, and I adore the sport.”

“You must be doing something wrong then.”

Louis puts a hand up to her face, which loses its effect when he’s so clearly laughing even when he’s turned his face away. “Don’t talk to me,” he says. Then, “Actually,” putting his hand down, “next time you go to a golf course, allow me to come along and I’ll show you how it’s done.”

“What,” Eleanor says. “Posing for bermuda shorts?”

“No, enjoying golf,” says Louis. He pauses. “Though I’m sure you look great in bermuda shorts, too,” he adds, earning an elbow from Eleanor.

*

They get their way to Karlie’s place which soon enough is a mess much like last time, though Eleanor doesn’t have half as many drinks and protests rightfully when Danielle calls, “Leave Eleanor and her boy alone! They need some alone time!” which only just makes everyone smirk at her and Louis despite anyone else’s better judgment. Louis doesn’t seem bothered at all, as in that he doesn’t try to take advantage of the opportunity. He and Eleanor play FIFA on Karlie’s big flat screen TV, and throw back three more shots in the kitchen when Cheryl comes over and declares that she wants a sandwich.

Eleanor eyes the lipstick marks on her neck. “You and Dani were snogging, weren’t you,” she says.

Cheryl sticks her nose up in the air as she spreads marmalade on a piece of toast. “A lady doesn’t kiss and tell,” she says, which answers Eleanor’s question anyway.

“If you bring her home, don’t be too loud,” Eleanor tells her.

Cheryl gestures at Louis, who is balancing all six shots in some sort of triangle formation. “I’d say the same for you.”

“He can’t stay over,” says Eleanor. “He has to go before the night’s done.”

Cheryl rolls her eyes and sticks her sandwich in her mouth. “Whatever you say, El,” she says, trouncing out of the room.

Eleanor watches her go until Louis says, “There,” pulling back and gesturing to his pyramid of shot glasses with some pride. “Art,” he says to Eleanor.

Eleanor knocks them over and laughs when Louis shouts indignantly. “Art,” she says, mocking him.

Louis pouts at her. “I’d say I hate you,” he says, “except I don’t. It just makes me like you even more when you’re mean to me.”

Eleanor giggles. “You’re a, what’s it called,” she says, pointing. “A masochist.”

“Maybe I am,” Louis says, nudging her with her shoulder. “Maybe I am a masochist. Why do I like your personality so much?” He genuinely looks sad as he says this, staring right into her eyes. “Why do you have to have a personality that I like, too? Why can’t you be boring?”

“I am boring,” Eleanor says. “I am terribly, terribly boring.”

“You’re terribly, terribly not,” Louis says. He’s still looking deep into her eyes, his own a clear—and with the alcohol, bright—blue that makes Eleanor feel rooted to the spot, forgetting how to breathe for a moment.

Eleanor leans in before he does. She knows it.

His lips are soft against her own, and still and surprised at first. It’s a matter of time before he’s kissing back, one of his hands at the side of her face, clutching her cheek. Thumb pressing and brushing against her cheekbone like she had been thinking of before.

Eleanor tugs back by the smallest amount. “Sorry,” she says, because she feels bad—she likes him so much, and he likes her so much, maybe more, and—it doesn’t feel fair in some way. She doesn’t know why. Maybe it’s because Louis doesn’t know how much she actually likes him, looks forward to seeing his face in the crowd like she had done today, wants to stay in this world of leaning against Karlie’s kitchen island and kissing so softly that Eleanor’s not even sure if it’s real.

But then Louis says, “I’ve been thinking about doing that for ages,” and then Eleanor can’t hold back anymore, because he’s warm and on this edge of rough and she slides her tongue into his mouth, making a little whimpering sound when he sucks on it. He groans back against her, a bit of stubble brushing against her chin, and her hand is on the backside of his waist. She feels so warm all over that she’s cold, pressing more into him, wanting to be wrapped up into his heat and her own—

“Is there any more—oh.”

Taylor’s voice breaks the spell, breaks the tightness in Eleanor’s chest, just for a second. She pulls away from Louis before he reacts, and says, “What’s up,” to Taylor as if her lips don’t feel bruised from all the kissing.

Taylor looks amused. “I was going to ask if there’s any tequila left, but I found it,” she says, wrapping her hands around the bottle and lifting it up. “Carry on.”

She whisks herself away from the room, leaving Louis and Eleanor alone again. Louis looks slightly dazed. Eleanor stares at her hands.

“That was, um,” she says. She brings her gaze up to Louis’s again. “Sorry. I was drunk.”

Something fades on Louis’s expression. “That’s fine,” he says, his tone more easygoing than his eyes. “As long as you don’t regret it, right?”

Eleanor deflates from relief. “Right,” she says, smiling up at him. “I don’t.” She grips his elbow again, pressing into his space. “I really didn’t regret it,” she says, tilting her chin up in what she’s hoping is a welcoming manner.

Louis’s eyes scan over her face; but it’s for another moment before he’s smiling again too. “Okay,” he says, drawing their mouths together again.

*

The night ends much too early for Eleanor’s liking. It’s only one am before Louis says that he should go, and then without him the party feels so much more boring than it was before. Eleanor sits on the living room floor watching Cheryl and Danielle playing FIFA, touching her lips over and over again, not quite feeling back in her body.

*

She gets a message from an unknown number two days later while she’s jogging, and pauses to frown at the text.

;) ;) ;)))

Eleanor’s about to delete the message and block the number, when a few more come in.

This is louis!!! I nabbed your phone # the other night
Wasn’t sure to message you the day right after so I waited a day
Thats the rule right?

Eleanor grins, mildly disappointed in herself that she hadn’t thought to exchange numbers with Louis first. Or even ask for his—it’s not desperate, really, of either of them, if they’re just mates or whatever. Who’ve stuck their tongues down each other’s throat. Louis had snogged his one friend before; who knows.

She ignores the giddiness in her chest and something that sounds like Danielle’s voice going, “doesn’t sound like ‘just mates’ to me, El,” and responds.

Yes u fckin weirdo thats the rule wait 1 day after u steal a girls number to text her

Someone’s sassy ovr text

Eleanor peers down the block, and the distance away from her apartment. She lives right at the edge of the city; and after having seen Louis off the other day, she knows he lives in one of the suburbs right outside of town. She could put the conversation to rest and keep on jogging—but a part of her knows that she doesn’t want to, she won’t, so she begins to make the trek back as she types out a reply.

Perhps u wouldv figured this out if u had txtd me earlier

Aw did u miss me ;)

Lst time i saw u u were tlling me how gigi hadids shoes look pukable

In all fairness I was very drunk

Cheryl’s been spending the past couple of nights with Danielle, which Eleanor is happy for but she figures she should also call sometime to make sure that they haven’t dropped off the face of the earth. On the other hand, if she doesn’t, she has plausible deniability if Cheryl’s agent comes knocking and asks her where she is.

Eleanor toes her shoes off and goes to make some tea, leaning against the counter and trying to figure out what to say to not let the conversation with Louis peter off. She saves his number in her phone, adding a little :) where the last name would be, before she can change her mind.

U dont hav to tell me. Also why am i so cold :(

Cuz ur a cold woman!!!!!!!
Jk jk go put a jumper on dummy

Eleanor rolls her eyes, hating that she’s smiling so much.

The hoodie from the golf fiasco—and, honestly, from the past week that she’s been wearing it almost every evening—is sitting on the couch, so she pulls it over her head and snuggles into it. She doesn’t quite remember where she bought it; but then again, she doesn’t remember half of her closet anyway.

Jumper on. what r u doing?

Is this what the kids call ‘sexting’
jk jk again!!!! JUst babysitting

Louis’s messages come in such quick succession that Eleanor is still blinking at the mention of sexting even after Louis’s second text has come through. She tries not to think about it too much (what she knows Louis looks like half-naked, what he might look like fully naked) and tries to reply like a normal person.

Who do u babysit?

Sisters :) I have 4, wanna see?

The attachment of Louis with four young girls crowding around his phone camera (one pulling on his hair) that Eleanor’s chest feels warm and tries to tell herself that she and Louis are mates, again.

*

Somehow the first instance of texting leads to a daily banter, whether it’s Eleanor at another photoshoot or doing a fashion spread, or Louis in his history class or being teased by his friends at high school lunch. It still feels foreign to Eleanor that Louis is in high school, even though they’re both seventeen and should be at the same stages of their lives. Then again, Eleanor supposes that she’s the odd one out in this situation.

At one point in the next few weeks, Eleanor is texting Louis in the middle of the day when his typing style suddenly changes tack. Eleanor frowns at her phone for a solid five minutes.

My baby carrots are like our babies and make me think of you, says the most recent text.

And they were talking about the atrocities of Louis’s high school lunch food, but this is just on a whole different level. Eleanor doesn’t know what to say—it’s not even the same as when she feels flushed from Louis, now she’s just confused and wondering if Louis’s typical idiotic arse has been replaced by another, more idiotic one.

Then, another text:

My name is Louis and I have a fine arse, want to check it out? ;)

Beginning to suspect what’s going on, Eleanor rolls her eyes and rings him up instead. Clearly this conversation is going nowhere.

She’s answered by the noise of a large crowd and what sounds like chaos. “Is this what high school sounds like?” she asks, to whomever is closest to the phone.

“Louis! Lou! What should I—oh,” says a girl’s voice, sort of deep and slow and close to the phone. “I’ve accidentally picked it up.”

“Good job Harriet,” says what is definitely Louis’s voice, getting closer now. “Give it to me.”

“No, wait, I want to talk to her,” says—Harriet? Then next to her ear, slow girl’s voice says, “Hi Eleanor, it’s me, Louis’s friend Harry. I wanted to say hello because—”

“Give it here!” shouts Louis’s voice on the other end.

“—there’s no fucking way Louis got your number and is texting you all day when you’re a—”

“Really,” chimes in another girl’s voice. “Eleanor Calder is a supermodel, and have you seen our Louis? Not the type of bloke a girl would—”

“Not that any of us would see him, though,” Harry points out to the other girl. “Really.”

“Fair,” says the other girl.

Eleanor waits, but apparently both of these girls are done. She doesn’t know what happened to Louis, though she can still hear his voice somewhere in the background.

“Hi,” Eleanor says, finally. “Um. I am Eleanor Calder? I don’t know how I would prove myself to you, but, um, I appreciate the kind words.”

There’s another silence—or at least, as much silence that can be in what sounds like a high school cafeteria. Eleanor herself is eating a microwave lunch in her kitchen. Cheryl had come in for two nights and then left again yesterday, with Danielle again. Eleanor’s heard all about the honeymoon phase.

“No way,” says Harry’s voice again. “There’s no fucking way—Zayn?”

“Yeah?” says another girl’s voice. Are all of Louis’s friends really girls? Eleanor’s heart lurches at the familiar name—the girl Louis had snogged at least one time, apparently.

“Is this Eleanor Calder’s voice?” says Harry’s friend.

Zayn sounds mildly offended when she says, “How d’you expect me to know?”

“Well you do all that fashion shit—”

“Give it here, this is my phone,” says Louis’s voice again, and then suddenly his voice is much closer like he’s holding his phone again. “And by the way, I know more about Eleanor Calder than any of you,” he says to his friends, before he’s closer to the mouthpiece to say, “Hi.”

“Um,” Eleanor says bewildered. “Why don’t your friends think I’m really me?”

Louis sighs. “Because I may or may not talk about you all the time.”

Eleanor can’t help it—this whole conversation has kind of been an out of body experience that she bursts into laughter.

Louis, appropriately, says, “Don’t laugh,” but Eleanor says, “How can I not? You lot’ve been talking about me like I’m not even on the other end of the line.”

“Put her on speaker!” says fourth girl’s voice this time, bright and tinny. “We need to compare!”

“And also ’cause I want to say hi!” says Harry’s voice.

“You already said hi,” says her friend.

“Ugh,” Louis says, but does accordingly that the sound of the high school cafeteria explodes into her ear. “El, say hi to my friends, Harry, Liam, Zayn, and Niall.”

“You know I don’t know who you’re talking about if I can’t see them, right?” Eleanor says.

“I’m Harry,” says Harry.

Eleanor chuckles. “I’ve got that—you, already, thank you.”

“I’m Niall!”

“I’m Liam.”

“Zayn.”

“So there,” Louis says, sounding put upon but amused. “Happy? All of you?”

“With you?” says Zayn’s voice. “Never.” But then there’s a loud smacking noise, and what Eleanor thinks might be the one called Niall giggling, and Zayn going, “Hey.”

“All my friends are lesbians,” Louis says quickly, into the phone. “In case you need the. Ahem. Assurance of anything.”

“Very smooth,” says what might be Liam’s voice.

Eleanor’s blushing and wishes she wasn’t, even if it’s not evident over the phone. “Thanks,” she tries to say as wryly as she can. “I feel very assured.”

“I still can’t tell if it’s really her,” Niall is complaining again. Somewhere in the background Eleanor can hear something that sounds like her own voice—not an echo, but like someone’s listening to a recording of her on the other end.

“Which one are you—oh, that one,” Louis says, and then his voice is angled off from the phone. Eleanor smiles even though this isn’t a real conversation, really. “The Vogue one is good, watch that one—”

“Are your friends comparing videos of me to our phone call?” Eleanor says.

“You know what,” says Liam. “I’m convinced. Hi, Eleanor. I hope you don’t hate us too much.”

“I wouldn’t hate Louis’s friends,” Eleanor says honestly, and Liam says, “Ooh, does this mean you like—”

“Don’t finish that sentence Payno or I’ll pour juice into your pasta,” Louis warns.

Harry says, “Well I’m still not convinced!” and Louis tells her, “I absolutely loathe you. Loathe you.”

“I don’t loathe you,” comes Liam’s voice.

The sound of high school gets cut off and drowned out, suddenly Louis’s voice big and close to Eleanor’s ear again. “So those are my friends,” he says. “Sorry if it was kind of—”

“No, it was fine,” Eleanor says earnestly. “Really, I’m—glad to meet your friends.”

“Are you sure about that,” Louis says, and Eleanor laughs.

*

Eleanor’s next show is on Saturday. This show’s theme is focused on color, which Eleanor is grateful for after the morbidity from last week not to mention the mild existential crisis Ariana had inflicted upon all of them. Eleanor’s favorite has to be a massive, ornate peacock-inspired dress with an obnoxious collar and a feathery belt that hangs off her nonexistent hips. The first time Eleanor tries it on she laughs so hard that there are tears; Miguel would have berated her if he hadn’t been laughing too.

She mentions it in one of her texts to Louis during the week—Nxt show is gonna b inSAne, i luv this dress x

;) Care 2 show pics?

Its a srprise!!

Louis doesn’t tell her if he’s going or not, but Eleanor knows he’s going to because that’s what Louis does—before all this, even, when someone goes to your show enough, even if it’s just a face in a crowd, you begin to notice. That, and a few times Louis has tried to break into backstage to talk to her and Eleanor has been there at least twice when he gets dragged away.

She’s waiting for the bathroom while at rehearsal for the show, scrolling through her phone as Selena takes god-knows-how-long on the toilet. By instinct, she opens up Louis’s Instagram again—it would feel creepy if she didn’t know that he did the same to her, so it’s only fair, she rationalizes. His Instagram is very typical high school boring, in that there’s some pictures of coffee or trips to the mall or pictures with his friends. And since the phone call, she’s been able to deduce his friends by the captions and comments that are left—Zayn is the incredibly pretty one, tall and dark-haired with eyebrows that would make Gigi jealous; Liam is the cute jocky one who’s always wearing flannels or jeans, usually both; Harry is the one with the curls and a wardrobe that fluctuates from big men’s sweaters to floral skirts; and Niall is the blond one (dyed, it looks) who’s probably wearing the tightest shirt or shortest shorts at any given time.

There is that jealousy that comes with—well, Eleanor would say crush at the very least—with seeing Louis with all his girl friends, or boys from the footie team. But there’s also that it’s so obvious that their worlds are so different, and even though Eleanor is staying here for the near future, it’s not… She doesn’t want to hope for something that she can’t afford to hope for. Like the way Louis grins in a photo from earlier this year, or posing with Liam and Zayn near the earliest bit of his Instagram history. Eleanor opens up the photo to look at the caption.

Her thumb twitches and then she’s accidentally tapped on the photo while it’s open—accidentally liked it. The heart blooms over the photo, and, in horror, Eleanor keeps tapping the photo to unlike it.

“Fuck,” she mutters, as nothing happens. “Fuck,” she says again, when she remembers that you have to physically click on the heart in the corner to unlike it. She moans and goes to unlike it, hoping that the Instagram gods, or at least the power that comes with being coworkers with Selena (who is still on the goddamn toilet) can make it so that Louis hadn’t seen her slip up.

Selena comes out of the bathroom then, noticing Eleanor wringing her hands over her phone. “What’s up?”

“Nothing,” Eleanor says despairingly. Then, “Instagram woes.”

Selena pats her on the shoulder. “I feel you,” she says sympathetically, before leaving.

*

So, Saturday.

Eleanor’s not sure if she’s dreading it or not. Hopefully Louis didn’t notice her tiny little Instagram slip-up for when she liked a photo from twenty-fucking-eleven and they can laugh about her peacock dress and move on. It’s a great dress and public humiliation is not.

And, if all else fails, she can get him kicked out again.

Not that she wants to, or even would. Louis is a nice guy and really only teases her for the trite things, like Don’t know if anyone told you but you’re hair is in a ponytail when she sends a selfie and asks how her bedraggled hair looks, or when they go back and forth about his sisters, or Cheryl and Danielle when they’re over and feel like Eleanor’s sisters.

So, Saturday Eleanor is in some violet shawl as her first outfit, sneaking glances to her phone at her dresser every once in a while. On her first run down the catwalk, she might be thinking too hard that she mentally checks out, and doesn’t really look into the audience; or that it feels so fast that she’s walked down and back up before she even realizes it. Either way, she has eight more outfits to go.

But on her fourth walk down about an hour later, she’s pretty sure she’s scanned the crowd in full with her eyes and hasn’t seen Louis’s stupid familiar smirk. Or the sixth time when she’s in bright green sequin pants and recalling the practice she had done during rehearsal so that the sequins don’t clatter loudly against each other.

Even when she’s in the dumb peacock dress, there’s nothing familiar about the crowd. She hates when people say that you can feel if someone is looking at you—Eleanor never bought into it, and now even more she wishes that there was at least an ounce of truth so that she knew that Louis was in the crowd even if she couldn’t see him. She stands maybe half a second longer than usual, gaze searching—but there’s nothing, and she walks back without looking too visibly dejected.

There’s an afterparty, as usual, at Taylor’s house. Louis hasn’t texted or even called, and Eleanor’s mind goes from the worst, to that Louis is just busy, or maybe he doesn’t want to talk to her for some reason. Eleanor works on autopilot as she heads to the party, but she doesn’t drink, staring at the bottom of her cup of water.

Cheryl piles down next to her where she’s sat in the living room, as Taylor and Karlie yell at each other over Mario Kart. “Hey girl,” Cheryl says, bumping shoulders with her.

Eleanor tries to smile. “Hey.”

“I won’t be coming home tonight,” Cheryl says, and Eleanor’s face breaks out into a real grin this time.

“You and Dani are really having a good time, aren’t you?” she says.

Cheryl snickers. “I s’pose you can say that,” she says. “Just—really. Are you okay? Will you be fine alone?”

Eleanor sighs, and then looks at the bottom of her cup again. “Yeah, I’ll be fine,” she says, then shakes her head, trying to absolve it of her thoughts. “Just being dumb,” she admits. “Over a boy.”

“Over a boy,” Cheryl says, and pats her knee. “There’s no way to interact with a boy other than to get on his level of dumbness.”

Eleanor hums in agreement.

“But you’re a catch, Eleanor,” Cheryl says reassuringly. “Any boy who can’t see that is far too dumb for you.”

She leaves to go cuddle Danielle on the couch, and Eleanor smiles after her roommate.

*

Eleanor’s among the first to leave, which really means that she leaves half past midnight, saying bye to Selena and not bothering with Taylor, who is in the middle of snogging Karlie on the couch anyway.

Her driver drops her off, and Eleanor makes her way upstairs, sort of disappointed that she hadn’t bothered to get drunk tonight. That would make things better. Or, worse. She’s honestly not that torn up about Louis not showing, she figures, just disappointed. Even with when she liked his photo on Instagram and might have to face that. She’d been looking forward to it—thinking about seeing Louis at one of her shows again, grinning and cheering like some crazed fanboy (which, appropriately, he is), rolling her eyes and teasing him for being her fan.

She changes into pyjamas and her hoodie (which disconcertingly might not be hers after all, but if she stole it from her dad or an uncle or something, well, whatever) and is ready to tuck in when she hears a knock at her door. She’s half asleep already, having already had her bedtime tea, that she yawns when she opens up the front door.

Louis is standing there, looking wild and distressed.

Eleanor feels suddenly much more awake than a second ago.

“I’m sorry,” Louis spills out. “I mean, for waking you up, or whatever—didn’t you have a show?”

“Yeah,” Eleanor says, yawning again despite herself. “Just got home.”

“Well, I’m—”

Louis looks like he’s at a loss for words, looking from Eleanor’s face to her hoodie then back up again.

“You’ve been,” he says, “so kind to me, for the past, um, I dunno, it feels weird because I’ve really, um, liked you for so long, and before it was very kind of delusional and not real but now it’s very real and you’ve talked to my friends and I have your number and we snogged, once, and I like being your friend but it’s also driving me mad?”

Eleanor opens up her mouth to respond, but Louis continues.

“And not even in a bad way, really, I like that you drive me mad, you, you—” He takes a second, then, “And I haven’t, I didn’t want to tell you because you look so good in it, but that’s my hoodie—”

“Wait,” Eleanor interrupts, going to take it off. “This is yours—”

“I accidentally left it the first time, I’m.” Louis is speaking even faster. “And when you liked my photo on Instagram and you posted that picture of yourself in this and I’ve been—I’ve been head over heels for you since day one, since I woke up in your bed and everything became real and then I couldn’t come to your show today because I was babysitting but I was also terrified of this—this, being real, I’m not making any sense am I—”

“You’re making a lot of sense,” Eleanor says softly, reaching for his hand and effectively cutting him off. He’s not—He’s not something to hope for because he’s here, now.

Eleanor tells him, “You’ve said a lot of the stuff I’ve been thinking, and put it into words. And it’s okay that you didn’t come to my show tonight, even if I did want you to see my ridiculous dress.” She ducks her head down, smiling shyly. “And, um, sorry for stealing your sweater.”

“It’s fine,” Louis says distractedly. He’s pretty focused on their intertwined hands. “I’m—I would’ve wanted to see your dress too, but, are you—Really? Because—”

“You have a lot of stuff on your Instagram, and you and your friends comment on them all the time,” Eleanor continues, because he did this to her. “I was just looking—”

Louis throws his head back, suddenly the one laughing this time, and the hallway light is so dim but it doesn’t feel like it, right now. “‘Just looking,'” he says. “I’ve heard that before.”

Eleanor raises an eyebrow. “Really? Who else is stalking your Instagram? Because I might have to fight them.”

“Oh, shut up,” Louis says, and to her surprise he darts in quick for a kiss on the mouth.

He looks wary right after, and says, “That was alright, right? Was it?”

“It was—” Eleanor says, and then touches her lips. “You might have to do it again.”

Louis grins, then tugs her in by where they’re still holding hands, drawing her into his body and kisses her deep. Eleanor feels lost in his taste and the shape of his hands on her cheeks, moving so slow and languid like they are at a fixed point in the world while it rushes beneath them.

He releases her and she breaks away, breathless. Her eyes feel bright but she doesn’t care.

“We should buy condoms,” she says. “If you want.”

Louis’s eyes go so big it would almost be funny. “If I—” he says, then coughs. “Do you want—”

Eleanor nods emphatically.

“Then, um.” Louis takes her by the hand and begins to lead them out. “Yes, we should.”

“Wait, wait,” Eleanor says, running back into her flat. “I need my keys.”

“Right,” Louis says, and waits as Eleanor, in a rush, grab her keys and then joins him back in the hallway, closing the door behind her.

“Okay,” Eleanor says, grinning up at him.

Louis blinks at her. She’s grabbed his hand again, and has no intention of letting go. “Is this really happening?” he asks.

Eleanor’s chest is bubbling, and she feels stupidly, stupidly giddy. This is still the fixed point of the world; they will make do with how it works, no matter how new or old they are. Eleanor does hope for that.

“Yes,” she says, leaning into him. “It is.”