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The cobblestones under Harry’s feet are slippery, the clack clack clack of his footsteps muffled by the rain pounding down.
“Shit shit shit shit shit shit—” he pants, trying to pull his hood low enough over his eyes that he’ll be able to see the ground in front of him. He’s not coordinated on the best of days!
“Shit shit shit shit shi—”
The clatter of bones behind him is almost cartoonish. Skeletons don’t speak or moan or whatever people writing picture books might depict them of doing. Skeletons are bones, they don’t have the chance. The clattering as their many bones knock together honestly makes them a little less scary, but if Harry turns around, he knows that he’s going to scream. Bones straight out of a cemetery are rarely clean; these ones are definitely all muddy and grimy and the heavy rain is only going to make them worse.
And Harry’s wearing white!
He makes a turn down a side road, aiming for the one place that should still be open this time of night. The turn is rough— he skids into a wall a little (the rain coat protected his shirt but he’s sure his poor white jeans are suffering) but the light up ahead signals that he’s right, and he lunges for the door just as he hears the clatter clatter clatter clatter crickcrackcrickcrkcrkcrkcrk— of the skeletons similarly sliding behind him and hitting the wall.
The door opens easily and Harry is buffeted with warm, dry air and the sounds of Post Malone.
He pulls the door closed behind him— which takes longer than it should, it’s got one of those buffers so it doesn’t slam— and holds tight to the knob as he hears the skeletons approaching. They clatter uselessly against the windows and door as they arrive, but none of them seem smart enough to go for the handle, so eventually Harry lets go.
Then, he turns to the coffeeshop at large.
“Rough night?” asks the barista at the register.
Said barista never wears a nametag, but Harry is fairly sure his name is Zane. Zain? Zayne? He doesn’t wear a nametag. Harry cannot be blamed for spelling mistakes.
“You have no idea,” Harry says. The few other customers sitting around the shop are looking with vague interest at the skeletons still clattering against the windows. They look terribly soggy. It’s a little pathetic. He turns back to the barista, stepping toward the counter and shaking out his clothes. “Post Malone? Really?”
Barista Zaine gives him an unimpressed look. “It was Disney for the last hour. You want to go back to that?”
“No thank you, Post Malone is fine.” Studying the hand-scribbled menu, Harry squints. “Cinnamon Apple Muffin Latte?” he asks.
“What size?”
“Small please.”
“I’m giving you a large.”
“...Okay.”
Harry taps his card and pockets it again before pulling out his phone. The skeletons are persistent, still banging against the windows. Most of the customers have gone back to their conversations or computers, though.
He pulls up the contact that he hates dialling. The one labelled Problem Fixer. Leaning against the counter next to the wait here please sign, he sighs and hits the call button.
The Problem Fixer picks up almost instantly.
“Harold!”
“Hello,” Harry sighs. “Are you available tonight, by any chance?”
“For my favourite client? Any time. Name the place.”
Pinching the bridge of his nose, Harry looks for the number facing backwards in the window. “39 Oldshire Gate,” he says. “The coffee shop.”
“Your usual haunt, then.”
Barista Zayne pushes a very large hot drink in his direction that smells like childhood and crisp leaves. Harry grabs it with his free hand. “Yeah,” he says. “I mean. I wouldn’t say I’m here that much.”
“You’re here enough to argue with me about the music,” Barista Zane pipes up. “Most people aren’t that rude.”
“I was not arguing—” Harry jumps as a particularly persistent skeleton slams against the door.
“Bad for business,” tuts Barista Zain, looking out at them.
“Shush, I’m fixing it—”
“I’m fixing it,” the Problem Fixer says. “Give me ten minutes.”
“Thank you,” Harry says, sending a glare at the barista as he collapses into a chair.
“The usual payment.”
Harry puts his lips to his drink, inhaling apple spice. “...Uh-huh,” he says.
“Be there soon!”
The line goes dead.
Harry is very damp.
There are skeletons clattering against the windows.
Harry does not want to get another fine for grave robbing.
—
Ten minutes, it turns out, is actually only four minutes.
The sky outside is dark, the rain pattering against the glass is lit only by the orange streetlights. The people in the coffeeshop are, for the most part, unbothered by the skeletons, although one guy in particular keeps looking up at them and then glancing at his watch. Harry has only gotten about four sips into his drink when a bright pink and purple swirl of light appears above the counter, and a moment later a guy falls from it.
He hits the counter with his face.
Harry, once again, pinches the bridge of his nose.
“No landing on the counter,” Barista Zain says.
The guy has veritably bounced off the counter and landed on the floor. He gives a thumbs up. “Sorry!” he says. “Aim was off!”
“Clearly.”
Standing up, it takes only a moment before he spots Harry. “Harold!”
“Hey,” Harry says. “Thanks for, uh, helping.”
“No problem! Happy to do so!”
He grins. He grins like he is happy to do so. Like every week when Harry inevitably calls him to one part of York or the other, this man really is perfectly fine with dropping everything just to come over and fix Harry’s mistakes.
It’s sickening. If Harry were in his position, he would not be happy about it.
But fucking. Louis Tomlinson, Problem Fixer, always is.
“Oh, just the skeletons again? Not even frogs or a plague?”
“Just skeletons,” Harry confirms, sinking lower in his seat. He’s still rather wet.
Louis glances at the barista. “Can I have what he’s having?” he asks, pointing at Harry.
“I suppose,” says Barista Zhane.
Louis walks over to the front of the shop, getting inches away from the window and looking at the skeletons up close. “Oh, you got some fresher ones this time,” he remarks. “Bones have barely corroded at all.”
Harry hides his face behind his cup, letting out a strangled “Uh-huh.”
Louis turns and grins at him. “That’s fun! The really old ones were a lot harder put together again.”
Then he turns back to the window. “Sorry guys,” he says to the room at large. “This’ll just be a second, but your internet is going to cut out so hopefully no one is on an interview call or anything.”
It’s 11:26 at night. Harry thinks that’s probably not an issue.
Louis cups his hands in front of his chest like he’s holding an invisible ball, and then breathes in, slow and deep. The lights above them begin to flicker, and between his palms an iridescent bubble of light begins to grow.
The lights in the coffeeshop flicker out for about two seconds and suddenly the only illuminated things is Louis himself— his warm hands, bright eyes, small round nose, hair flying every which way, staticked up.
Harry can’t help but stare. No matter how many times it happens.
Then the lights are back on and Louis is there tossing his little ball of light between his hands, grinning at Harry like he’s done something amazing. Harry scoffs. His smile doesn’t dim.
Instead he turns, pushes open the door of the shop, and throws the ball of light out.
It bursts into a shower of sparks, raining down on the skeletons who fall to the ground, nothing but piles of disconnected bones.
Coming back in, Louis salutes Harry and then looks over at the barista.
“I was using the espresso maker when you took the electricity,” Barista Zain says. “Your latte’s going to be fucked.”
Louis shrugs. “That’s on me,” he says. “My bad.”
He walks back over to where Harry is sitting and takes the armchair next to him, expectant smirk on his face not fading.
“You can’t have mine,” Harry says, cradling his drink, although he knows that’s not what Louis’ after.
Louis laughs. “My payment, please,” he says. “Unless you’re finally ready for the next step.”
“No!” yelps Harry. “Not ready!”
Louis’ smile softens. “Okay,” he says, soft in a way that hurts Harry’s heart a little. “Just the payment, then.”
Harry breathes out a sigh, and leans over toward him, closing his eyes and ghosting a kiss over Louis’ cheek.
It’s not a lot. It’s what he has to give right now.
Louis’ smile becomes blinding, though.
“That should do it for a month at least,” he says. “Call me when you need me!”
With that he stands, walks over to the counter and grabs the drink that Barista Zhain hands to him, and walks out into the rain, leaning down to pick up the bones.
Harry hides his face in his hands, cheeks and ears hot.
It sucks, to be cursed with extreme magical bad luck.
It sucks more, somehow, to know that the way to break the curse is share true love’s kiss with the love of his life.
He watches Louis gather the bones into the satchel that he’s brought with him, apparently undeterred by the rain as it grows heavier.
It sucks the most that Harry knows Louis will be the love of his life, but he’s not— he’s just not quite there yet.
So the kisses don’t work quite right.
Yet.
And the fact that Louis is so unerringly patient and kind and ridiculous and cute makes it harder. Because Harry is sure that, in time, the feelings will be there.
But until then.
Kisses to ward off the bad luck is what he has.
And Louis, for some reason, keeps coming back anyway.
Harry sighs into his drink. Never fall in future love with a witch. It’s too much stress.
Barista Zayn starts up the espresso machine again.