Archive of Our Own

"Winter boyfriend?" the indignant protests of pop star-turned-rocker Harry Styles ring down the long, mirror-lined hallways of Modest Management's headquarters. There's a muffled shushing sound and whatever Styles says next translates as little more than a disapproving whine to the demurely seated boy and his agent located just outside the door to the main office. When the younger glances over at the suited, middle aged man, blue eyes wide in question, he receives little more than a reassuring pat on the shoulder.

"A business venture," James had asserted before they had left that morning as he had similarly several days prior, when they had gotten word from Styles' team requesting their attendance. "Mutually beneficial. More details to come."

Apparently, "more details' weren't due until after Harry Styles had been briefed, a right which his elevated status on the fame ladder had afforded him. Louis Tomlinson finds that concept a little insulting, considering he too is in possession of the esteem of his modeling career. Surely, someone who has been on plentiful cover spreads, became the face of Burberry, earned the title of America's Sweetheart despite his Englishness (because really, he's just that lovely) and who has walked in London Fashion Week could at the very least be included in the conversation with the renowned player. After all, from the sounds of things, this 'venture' was of a personal matter and would impact his career as well as the singer's.

Instead, Louis is sat out in the hall with little else to look at besides his own reflection repeated in the mirrored wall panels and the potted fern that looks shockingly out of place with its greenery and life in the sterile, futuristic edifice.

"You've all lost your minds!" Harry's voice raises yet again. There's a manic almost-laughter in his tone; Louis gleefully indulges himself in a mental image of steam blowing out of the popstar's ears and his eyes bulging in comedic protest. "I'm not even out yet!"

That statement brings about a new wave of nervousness for Louis, causing him to fidget in his seat. Personally, he's been out since nearly the start of his career -- it's very difficult to explain sexual tension on sets with other half-naked male models without the sexuality talk early on.

He's also dated -- seriously dated, not RP stunt 'dated' -- closet cases and sworn off them on principle. Louis Tomlinson is no one's dirty little secret.

Fingers wring in the model's lap as he listens to a flurry of papers and an authoritative voice warning sternly, "keep your voice down, Harry," as another voice states, "you see, this is all a part of a bigger picture. You want to be out, right?"

Louis isn't allowed to hear the intricacies of this 'picture' as the door to the office closes, muffling all the voices within. He thinks that's a bit unfair, considering he is to be a key player in this grand plan, from what he's gathered.

Why James hasn't stepped in on his behalf to get them in on the discussion is beyond Louis' capacity of understanding.

"You should have told me," snaps the model to his agent, taking advantage of the presumed privacy of the closed door. He crosses his legs in a dramatic flourish and turns up his nose, a tell tale sign James is probably going to be groveling to his petulant client.

However, whereas ordinarily he would be halfway to changing James' mind with merely a look, his agent's tone is curt and unwavering. "You would have said no."

Louis waits for further explanation and exhales in frustration at the answering silence. Unlike Harry, Louis has the decency to keep his protests hissed under his breath.

"Of bloody course I would have said no -- have you heard this kid? He's whinging like a spoilt child!" In retrospect, so is Louis, but the way it's been presented thus far, he's the pawn being used in this scheme -- the openly gay model being dragged into a fake relationship as a means to an end for the closeted former boy bander who's gone solo.

He has every right to complain.

"He's also climbed to 30 million followers on twitter since One Direction's split," counters James seemingly out of left field.

Louis blanches. "So?"

He's damn near tempted to bring up his own following on social media, though the number pales in comparison to Styles' fan count.

"So," James continues with all the patience of one addressing a naughty toddler, "despite no album even dropped yet, he's gaining. The others are stagnating or even losing. Styles is on the up and up. His genre shift is the topic on everyone's lips and near frequent scandals keep his name in the headlines. As your manager, it is my job to push your name into the right spheres of conversation to get it to bigger and better things.

"You and I both know you're capable of so much more than you've gotten but in order to climb, you've got to find the right steps. You have to get a little creative, latch yourself to a few rock stars to launch yourself forward, get your name into the public eye. It's business, Louis."

In response, Louis pulls a face; however, James always has a way of working flattery into his arguments to sway Louis' opinion. He knows the model's own vanity is his Achilles heel and makes for an easy bargaining chip.

"But he's closeted?" Louis tries, though the hears turning in his own head lessen his tone of disagreement.

"So, imagine the talk when he's seen about town with an openly gay model -- the speculation, the conspiracies, the scandal!" James is getting theatrical, eyes alight and hands waving excitedly. Louis is less enthused. He can see about three different ways in which this plan could go horribly wrong and that's not even taking into account Styles' horrible attitude towards the relationship in the first place, evidenced by the continued flurry of activity in the boardroom.

"Sounds a bit like we're forcing him out." Louis frowns. Wretched or not, he doesn't like the idea of exposing someone's sexuality in a manner with which they haven't explicitly agreed, especially not just for the sake of publicity and media attention. His own coming out interview had been mostly on his own terms; he knew it was happening whereas Styles seems to be as in the dark about this whole arrangement as Louis had been just moments ago.

"They've been wanting Harry to come out for a year now -- he's been wanting to come out too. Haven't you seen his teasing in Q&A's? He's been dodging pronouns for ages and there's still that blurry video of him and some bloke in Wellington circulating the web. Harry wants to be free to be himself; if you look at it that way, you're just helping him along. Doing him a favor."

Harry's squawk of disapproval from before doesn't exactly align with James' assurances but Louis nods all the same. He hasn't bothered to take the time to keep up with the career of Harry Styles and doesn't especially care to fact check these alleged interviews and videos and compare them to what he's been told.

Louis' naturally contrarian tendency inspires his mouth to open to spout more reasons why this arrangement wasn't as mutually beneficially as James had intended but the door to the boardroom swings open, startling Louis' protests to catch in his throat.

Harry Styles stands imposingly in the doorway, eyes looking dark and crazed as they scan the hall, hair tumbling down around his face like a rogue lion's mane. Were he not decided annoyed by his very existence, Louis may even have thought the haggard appearance and blown black pupils objectively attractive. Maybe.

Even that hypothetical, though, is shattered by the words that leave ruby reddened lips. "Where the bloody hell is he then?"

A scathing retort bubbles to the tip of Louis' tongue and he finds himself standing so as to match Harry's aggressive pose cutting a figure in the doorway. Instead, though, James instantly diffuses the situation with a polite clearing of his throat; it reads as a clear warning sign to Louis who fixes him with a glare.

Harry whirls on his pretentious heeled hipster boot to face first, James, and then his gaze locks menacingly on Louis who meets it with ire. 

"At least he's pretty," scoffs Harry as he gives Louis' body a shameless onceover. The model can feel his face heat up but not out of flattery, but rather, rage. In his peripheral vision, Louis sees James reaching for him, presumably to tamp down Louis' natural reaction but this time, it's not enough to keep him from snapping.

"Wish I could say the same."

The curl of Harry's lip in immediate distaste is met with Louis' withering glance and an arched brow of challenge. Having said his part, he sinks gracefully back into his chair, burning green hues following him stormily.

He watches proudly as Harry draws in a breath, presumably to form some sort of clever retort but a hand falls on his broad shoulder."Can it be someone else?" he pouts instantly, turning to the figure who draws up beside him.

"What happened to him being pretty?" The man must have the patience of a saint to be dealing with Styles with a smirk on his face.

"Not pretty enough to deal with his mouth," hisses Harry. It's a bit presumptuous to imply Louis is always so sharp tongued from one statement (he's not wrong, but Louis hates people who jump to conclusions on principle) and he can't help but roll his eyes.

"You'd be lucky to get anywhere near my mouth," mutters Louis to himself, though with how all eyes shift to him, he's not all that gifted at subtlety. The man gracefully ignores Louis' snark and gives Harry's shoulder enough of a squeeze to turn him away from his glaring at Louis.

"His fan base has the largest overlap with yours," explains the man levelly to Harry, "and he's the nearest openly gay celebrity to your age group. If you'd rather be linked to Grimshaw from the morning radio, that's on you, but there's mutual benefit if you opt for Tomlinson instead." Being referred to in such an objectifying manner makes Louis uncomfortable, like he's one of a string of impersonal choices and ignoring his individuality but it's not that much different from the implicit objectification within his career choice.

"It's just business," James pipes in with his repetitive mantra.

"Why don't we all step inside to discuss further," adds the man with a controlled smile rewarded in the direction of Louis' agent. Styles' gaze makes one last sweep around him before he turns on his pretentious booted heel and stalks back into the room.

Freed of his brooding presence, Louis hops to his feet lightly and draws into James' side. As they follow the nameless, suited man in Harry's wake, Louis feels James lean in. "Please don't blow this for us," he urges in a quick whisper. Louis doesn't have time to answer but he nods once in affirmation to ease his agent's nerves.

Unlike the whiny celebrity, Louis knows when to voice his personal complaints and when to let decisions be made for his benefit without protest. Besides, he's determined to be seen as the martyr in this situation – forced to put up with the woeful task of being Harry Styles' fake boyfriend. Louis really likes being the better person.

The layout of the boardroom's interior surprises Louis in its attempts at homey comforts within the contexts of the chic décor. Everything is streamlined and abstract in sharp, crisp, clean white or a solid black in colour. There are couches and coffee tables in place of desks and office chairs. There's even a marble black fireplace, though Louis can't tell if the flames within are wood-generated, gas, or entirely fake.

Harry's gloomy figure folds itself into the corner of a couch, instantly drawing Louis' attention to his negative energies. He makes as though to sit as far away from Styles and his personal raincloud as possible on instinct but a pointed look from James halts him in his track. Pausing, he watches the man's head nod towards the opposite end of the couch Harry has claimed for himself and his own expression sours to match the brooding rocker.

There are plenty of other seating options scattered around the central mirrored (of course) table, and Styles is casting a miserable aura over the seat beside him. No, Louis mouths in a way he hopes is subtle and not picked up by anyone else in the room.

James ignores him in favor of rifling through his briefcase and Louis admits his defeat. With all the dramatic flourish of his self-sacrificing soul, Louis perches next to the abysmal Harry Styles, barely resisting the urge to heave a withering sigh. He senses rather than sees Harry looking at him but doesn't indulge his petulant counterpart in so much as a flicker of his own focus which, instead, locks on his own agent leaning towards one of Harry's people.

"They do make an awfully nice picture, don’t they?" a woman's voice raises, causing both Louis and Harry to face her with mirroring expressions of disagreement. Louis stays respectfully quiet but folds his arms across his chest, closing off his posture; Harry, on the other hand, doesn't bother to stifle a scoffing sound.

His gall impresses Louis to some extent. He may consider himself brash and mouthy but having been plucked from the obscurity of the lower class, in dealings of business and fame, he considers himself out of his league and, therefore, generally keeps his opinions to himself. He'll speak out on a personal level with James – but that's because it's James and his demeanor often resembles a loveable uncle or a treasured teddy bear.

The man has Louis' best interests in mind and, so far, he hasn't disappointed. Never could Louis imagine vocalizing his objections as obstinately as Harry was, in front of not only his agent but his whole team of 'higher ups' and Louis himself, for that matter. He takes pride in his own professionalism in comparison to Harry's childish antics.

"It's only for the winter," the suited man who seems to be in charge speaks. "From now, November, until March-ish. We'll follow the paths Harry's taken with girls these past few years. Easy things – a few sightings. A couple holidays. Nothing horrible, we assure you."

Louis gets the distinct impression Harry disagrees with the sentiment, that he actually finds the concept of holidays with Louis to be the very definition of horrible. His body language certainly communicates as much. Still, he remains surprisingly quiet.

"We'll hire the paps when we need them and only get the shots we need. They'll leave you to your own devices otherwise and so will we – so long as you don't go hooking up with other people and you don't shatter the illusion that you might be dating. You'd be essentially free outside of the agreed upon dates." They both probably understand that freedom is a myth in the celebrity sphere but neither comments, at least not on that directly.

"And if they don't buy it? If fans hate the idea of me being seen with a…" Harry starts; Louis can see his whole body turn away from him as though ignoring their shared space on the sofa entirely, "… C-Lister? B at best."

Now it's Louis' turn to make a noise of disapproval and he finally shoots a glance – more of a glare – Harry's direction.

"Yeah, and what if my fans don't believe I would lower my standards to date a sleazy, self-absorbed, ignorant, halfwit pri--," counters Louis. He's cut off by James sharply calling his name. Louis still reaps the benefits of watching Harry's brow furrow and his eyes flash darkly.

"If the fans react negatively to the stunt – beyond your standard homophobic media commentary – we'll cut it short but not before giving it ample time to grow on them. No one's going to instantly love the idea of you in a relationship, Harry. You've got to make them love it. Play the part of a smitten boyfriend and show them how happy you are; over time, they'll be eating up the idea and the media frenzy and speculation will do the rest."

Louis can already imagine the backlash – fans tend to like the idea of their fave being very straight and available. On a much smaller scale, he's experienced it himself, slurs littered on his instagram pics and, much to his chagrin, those of his friends and family as well. Louis doesn't realize he's scowling until Harry's brooding expression actually lessens.

"You alright?" Harry's tone momentarily differs from the snappy, haughty entitlement and it catches Louis by surprise. He refuses to consider what it means, the shift in attitude that almost mirrors concern, and focuses his efforts instead on reassembling a mask of practiced indifference.

Harry waits, staring at him a beat longer than strictly necessary before readdressing his team. "When does this all start then, Simon? I'm assuming we're not going to come strolling out of this meeting hand-in-hand." Harry drawls, settling back in his seat on the couch with long arms stretching endlessly across its back.

His expression tests Louis' patience and self control not to smack the smugness off his pouty lips.

"We'll set you both up with an itinerary. There's an order to these things, as you already know, Styles." The man, Simon, presumably, answers in a level tone. From the mention of the 'girls' of Harry's past, Louis can only imagine how contrived this itinerary would be and his pristine posture sags.

Part of Louis wishes he'd be asked if he wanted his role in the ruse – asked instead of told. But control over one's own public image is only an illusion and Louis had accepted that truth long ago.

"For now, we just want you to practice communicating with one another – this needs to seem as natural as possible so no one sees through it as the stunt it is." Louis snickers automatically and lifts the back of his hand to cover his mouth at the sight of James' eyes widening in horror.

"I've always wanted to be an actor," he manages to answer the questioning glances without the giggle still threatening to spill from his lips slipping past. Harry groans but just as Louis inhales to call him out for the sound, a large hand clamps down on his shoulder. His body is drawn tightly to Harry's side and he feels, rather than sees Harry's head bending in close.

Whatever reluctance Louis is carrying in his posture fizzles to a halt, causing him to go uncharacteristically pliant at the heat of Harry's breath caressing the shell of his ear. "Bet I'm better than you," Harry purrs as he allows his free hand to fall sinfully onto Louis' thigh. I takes Louis half a breath to remind himself just what the hell Harry is even talking about but when he does, he tilts his head demurely and bites his lower lip.

"No," he replies breathily, covering Harry's hand firmly with his own and intertwining their fingers, "you're really, really not."

The words are uttered under his breath and to anyone else in the room, he's whispering sweet nothings to his 'boyfriend.' The way he squirms deliberately on the couch seems bashful, maybe even aroused, and Harry plays along. He smiles wolfishly, like a predator to his prey.

So when Louis presses perfectly manicured fingernails into the palm of Harry's hand, the yelp in response startles everyone in the room, the rocker himself most of all. Harry pulls back with a forceful glower, shaking out his hand with a string of uttered curses.

"Are we quite finished communicating?" Louis asks cheerfully and he flutters his lashes at the gathered businesspeople in hope of an agreement. Their expressions range from stunned to calculating to curiously enamored (that's the woman from earlier and for a flicker of a moment, Louis wonders if this might actually work.)

Harry's returned to brooding and it gives Louis great delight. He sits up perkily and flits his gaze among the people in the room, waiting for a response. Simon appears to be lost in his own world, staring at the space between Harry and Louis like it held the answer to all life's problems. Slowly, the man moves over to James and extends a hand.

"Send me a copy of the details?" James grins, reading the gesture with some wordless intellect to which Louis is not privy, and accepting the grip strongly.

"Of course," Simon drawls with a catlike smirk. "It will be a pleasure doing business with you, I'm sure," he adds, giving their enjoined hands a shake before releasing. Then, he turns to Louis. "And I look forward to seeing more of you."

Louis wants to respond with something witty but Simons gaze pins him into place. His eyes are steely, cold, and even Harry seems to fade into the background. "Likewise, sir," returns Louis rather lamely and he feels his posture deflate beside Harry. It's a minor victory he doesn't stammer.

A hand shifts to Louis' shoulder and unlike the deliberate intent of the touch to his thigh earlier, Harry's purpose in reaching out this time isn't clear. Louis denies his first instinct to shake it off, instead focusing on Simon's departure.

The whole room seems to collapse inward with a weighty sigh of relief – or maybe that's just Louis projecting. Casual chatter breaks out in the room, mostly members of Harry's team approaching James to exchange some kind of information. Harry's hand is still covering Louis' shoulder; it's not moving or doing anything distracting nor inappropriate. Louis' not sure what to make of it so he allows is eyes to drift over to Harry's face in the hopes of reading his intentions there.

Studying him at close range, it's a wonder, to Louis, that he ever fit into a cookie cutter boyband aesthetic. His lips are red, plump, and pouty, reminiscent of the Stones and a young Mick Jagger. Hair cascades in long tendrils over his shoulder and down his back and, despite never having seen or heard him perform, Louis pictures it being tossed back to a shredding guitar as opposed to bopping about to shrill pop tunes.

Louis has to think Styles doesn't believe in the usefulness of buttons, given how much of his (ridiculously) inked chest is on display in the all but sheer black floral top draped loosely on his broad-shouldered figure. In contrast to the billow, delicate shirt, though, his jeans are tighter than sin and cling to his legs like he's pulled an Olivia Newton John and had them swen on.

He's all succulent thighs and Louis doubts it would take much imagination on his part to work out just what Harry' packing but he realizes with a grimace that he's been staring at Harry's groin for an inexcusably long span of time. Harry, evidently, has noticed as well if the wiggle of his hips are indicative of anything. Louis glances up to a shit eating grin that seems to stretch from ear to ear.

Heat pools at Louis' cheeks and he makes as if to scan his surroundings – like he totally hadn't just let himself give rock star Harry Styles a complete and thorough once over. For a half second, he thinks he's gotten away without a scathing retort from the peanut gallery but Harry's hot breath is back at his ear a beat after he's let out his small, premature sigh of relief.

"Maybe if you play along proper, you'll get a peek, princess," he croons in a lusty tone that makes Louis shudder; the nickname doesn't help.

"Ugh, stop. Say anything more and I just might gag."

"That can be arranged," comes Harry's quick response. "I could have guessed you'd be into that though a bit disappointed you have a gag reflex." Not exactly what Louis was aiming for.

He prays for a swift winter, resigning himself to sitting sullenly while Harry smirks like a child for whom Christmas has come early. Fuck him and his dimples.

~***~

The intinerary is sent to Louis' handheld before they're even back at the hotel. James had received it first, to Louis' displeasure, and had been prattling on about his own suggestions for the PR on their part ("You should tweet something covert about love at first sight – wait, no – tweet lyrics from his song… brilliant, absolutely brilliant") as Louis' yes pore over the screen of his phone – which is most definitely not too big for his hand.

"Skiing in the Alps? How fucking pretentious," he whispers, more to himself than to his manager. His sight locks onto a few ridiculously detailed passages spelling out how Harry is to be papped in front of his hotel with an overnight bag or how they should go to the same nightclub and get pictured leaving exactly ten minutes apart.

Apparently, Styles has dating down to a science; Louis almost feels bad for any girl who has come before him, especially if they were naïve enough to buy into the manufactured romance and think they actually had a shot with the arrogant musician.

"Grocery shopping? James, he expects me to grocery shop with him? Can't he go himself? That's unnecessarily domestic, wouldn't you say? Where's our canary yellow home with a white picket fence, little Yorkie in the front?" he grumbles.

He doesn't expect James to answer, "I think the moving in together rumors start around week three of the second months. Grainy pap shots of you together in his flat before being seen checking out a few places for rent; standard."

"Jesus."

Louis hits his head repeatedly against the top of his seat, hopeful that maybe he'll wake up from this nightmare. It could be worse, he reasons with himself as James' voice fades into the background. They could be saddling him with a beard and forcing him back in the closet. Unfortunately for Louis, that's the worst possible scenario he can think up and considering the open status of his sexuality, it's not even remotely possible.

That makes faux dating Styles the next most abysmal option.

"Do you hate me very much?" James' inquiries cut into Louis' thoughts. There's genuine concern in his tone and Louis is reminded that he's known James Corden half his life. He's like a father figure, despite not being old enough to fit the part for Louis' age – filling a role that's been absent for a vast majority.

James has never had anything other than Louis' best interests in mind and, really, he owes him for that level of care. "Course not. I wish you'd found me a less obnoxious and conceited boyfriend but I'm a big boy. I sure as hell can smile pretty for the camera and if I have to have a gloomy former popstar touting me around on his arm, well, that's just business."

As he gauges James' expression, Louis' own features soften into an open smile. "And it's only until spring," adds James, perking back up into his regularly scheduled easygoing disposition. Waterworks averted.

"Speaking of, how are we breaking up?" Louis thumbs through the extensive list, passing froyo dates and yacht outings (the latter of which is objectively appealing despite its superiority complex given Louis' propensity for sunlight and pampering himself with other peoples' money).

Despite every other point on the schedule being detailed to an excessive amount, there was only a tentative breakup – date tbd entry at the conclusion of the document. James' brown furrows and he scrolls through his own copy to confirm.

"Guess I'm not sure either, Lou. I'll bring that up with Simon – maybe that's left open-ended so as not to repeat the same storyline as the last time." It takes willpower to hold back a scoff. Tell that to the rest of the carefully constructed and superficially redundant dating timeline. Louis even swears he spotted the name of Harry's last fling in place of his own where someone clearly missed swapping it out before hitting send. Yikes.

Louis does end up tweeting some corny lyrics to one of Styles' boyband hits. If he's going to do this, he's going to be better at it than his ego-inflated counterpart. Making it a competition eases Louis' reservations somewhat. He very nearly follows Harry on twitter but figures before he presses the button that it can be a move that his companion makes first. The last thing he wants is to seem like an overeager follower of the far overrated artist.

A bigger wave would be made by Harry seeking Louis out anyways – his every breath was documented tenfold by his loyal, online cult following. Surely, the follow of an up and coming model would be big news in the Styles-obsessed corner of the world.

Content with his participation, Louis slips his phone away and waits quietly until they roll into the front drive of their hotel. He's delighted to spot a few curious glances in the direction of his dark-tinted car. That's standard for this area and the high number of celebrities that do their business in the city. If this stunt works, perhaps there will be even more recognition when he next travels. Power couple realness could have its perks.

Two of the girls outside actually know who Louis is and he stops for a little chat, grateful for the relief provided by the small talk. They take a few pictures and he signs their copy of a magazine in which he's been printed before politely dismissing himself for some well deserved alone time. As he walks away, he hears one fan whisper to another "he's even nicer in person," and Louis smiles.

The sweetheart moniker runs true and anything he can do to maintain it only helps the spread of his name. The response of the other girl – "and hotter too!" – strokes Louis' ego and his mind wanders. Harry's going to have to be the one to break his heart in their ambiguous breakup. There's no way America's Angel could do any wrong in his first relationship in three years, especially when he's paired with a renowned player who the media says can't keep it in his skin tight pants.

James is just as chuffed as Louis had been by the attention and speaks excitedly in the lift about how much better things are going to get for them both. Louis pretends to pay attention while he checks up on social media, noting, already, his fans' curious reactions to the lyrics so far out of his ordinary music genre.

A large majority, surprisingly, are supportive – discussing in length how much they love that song (as though Louis' actually listened to it himself) and are giving him suggestions. There's mentions of "faves" intersecting, a few tweets even tag Harry, and Louis can't help but concede that point to James. Their fanbases do overlap considerably.

He's just found one hyper intuitive fan screaming in all caps I SHIP IT WHEN WILL YOUR OTP EVER when the lift pings for Louis' suite. He allows James to guide him and opens up the replies for his agent to skim through and read.

"Proud of me?" he coos sweetly as he flops back onto the plush bed, phone safely handed off. Gaze proing over the automated feed he's installed to make his twitter manageable, James nods enthusiastically.

"Always," comes the almost too earnest answer; Louis beams.

"Don't go all sappy on me! I'll feel even worse when I make Styles so sick of 'dating' me that he leaves me on a boat like that poor blonde bird that's become a meme." James makes a choked sound of a laugh and Louis preens a little. He accepts his phone as James tosses it back.

"That 'poor blonde bird' went on to write a record breaking album because of her dalliance with Harry Styles and is still milking the benefits," James scolds but his tone is gentle, as always.

"Internet says it only lasted a month," counters Louis, back onto his twitter feed. "She must have one hell of an imagination." He swings his legs up onto the bed and drapes his head and shoulders upside down over the edge. If he were to drop his phone in this position, it would land squarely upon his face.

He hears James draw in a breath to reply but a playful smirk crosses Louis' features and he jumps to interrupt before he can get told off.

"Is that it? Is that your masterplan? 'Louis Tomlinson breaks into the music industry after his muse inspiring heartbreak with hapless heartthrob, Harry Styles!'" James just glares at him but Louis doesn't particularly care; he's too busy cackling at his own genius.

"I'll have to brush up on my piano skills, of course. I had lessons when I was ten you know – but I see where you're going with this. Absolutely brilliant, Corden. I am impressed." James has seemingly had enough of Louis' antics because he's waving his upside down client off dismissively and getting to his feet.

"Just do us both a favour and put as much energy into this relationship as you are into mocking it, please?" James prompts in a last ditch effort of seriousness. Louis makes a noncommittal sound and flips to other mind numbing apps that might help take his attention off of anything related to Harry Styles.

And if he ends up on Harry Styles fan pages and edit blogs, scrolling down into the depths of affair scandals and baby scares, no one has to know. His fans are viciously loyal, shifting alliances at the drop of a hat ( Styles' obnoxious fedora era from 2013 comes to mind). He cringes at their adoration and their willingness to attack all the poor women seen on his arm at one point or another.

He wonders if he's next on the chopping block, if by signing this contract, he's actually signed his own death sentence. Even though Styles would be portrayed as the player in this situation, breaking Louis' poor little heart, the crazed fangirls seem to be defensive even of his flaws. He goes to bed that night with fears of the metaphorical with hunt he's convinced himself is coming his way.

~***~

There's more indirect flirting on twitter, teasing at the 'chance meet up' both parties had agreed to schedule. Louis is pleased by how easy his involvement is at this point – he's convinced James to do the liking and following of fans on social media so he doesn't have even have to do that much. In fact, the most he has to do that first week is allow himself to be seen around the city, visiting some of Styles' frequent haunts.

That includes getting frozen yogurt, shakes, really nice burgers and free coffee so Louis is downright pleased. So pleased, in fact, that he goes off book on that first Friday and allows himself to be papped buying Styles' former boyband's albums with a smile on his face.

It even gets an article written about him with Harry's name falling alongside his own. He's downright chuffed at the headline 'Tomlinson taking an interest in boybanders?' knowing his true interest level will be made public soon enough.

Then again, with how bloated Styles' head is, perhaps it will be the rocker's interest in models that takes the spotlight once the relationship comes to a head – he has a track record of them, after all. While pondering how many of his friends and colleagues might be in Styles' metaphorical Little Black Book, Louis' phone buzzes.

He doesn't recognize the number but that's been a common occurrence lately, with how many different members of Styles' team have contacted him in the past 48 hours alone, the meeting drawing nearer by the day. He nearly answers with 'Louis Tomlinson, boyfriend for hire' but decides blowing all his hard work in the off chance this caller isn't from inside the situation isn't worth it.

"Tommo go," he answers breezily instead, smirking to himself.

"Like my music, do you Tommo?" comes the purr over the connection, silky smooth and utterly recognizable.

"Did they really give you my number, Rockstar?" Louis groans automatically, palm covering his face in annoyance. "I'm going to have to talk to someone about this – who's your head of Human Resources; I'd like to file a complaint."

Harry's chuckle is more of a rumble over the call and it starts to make Louis' skin heat up. Not in a blush because of course not, that would be preposterous; it doesn't mean he knows how to define it.

"I'll be sure to text you their number, princess, but you didn't answer my question."

"Maybe if you called me by my name, I would deign your inquiry worthy of a response," Louis sniffs, turning up his nose for his own benefit.

"I did call you by name," drawls the rocker, infuriatingly level in his tone, controlled.

"Princess?" Louis spits.

"Tommo."

He huffs, frustration mounting easily despite his previous good mood.

"Only my friends can call me Tommo, Styles." Another soft noise of amusement curls around Louis' ear.

"And what about your boyfriends? What do you let your boyfriends call you?" asks Harry playfully, the laughter he's stifling very evident.

"Not princess," Louis counters.

"So you like it vanilla then."

The response elicits a growl of frustration but Louis refuses to defend himself against the bogus claims. Harry, of course, misinterprets, like he needs to be deliberately belligerent.  "Am I giving you ideas, kitten? You sound like you're enjoying the thought; care to share with the class?"

"Why did you call me, Styles?" questions Louis, exasperated and pointedly ignoring Harry's line of inquiry.

"Can a guy not call his boytoy for a bit of banter with no ulterior motive?" It's like Louis can hear the mocking pout on Harry's lips.

"I'm not your boytoy, Harold," hisses Louis but, of course, Harry immediately counters.

"Yet."

Louis waits, as though the silence will draw the answer out where his words fail him. Harry plays the same game, forcing them both to wait with nothing but their own thoughts. He listens to Harry's breathing, wondering if he's ever heard inhaling and exhaling more pretentious and annoying.

There are a few points where Louis nearly cracks, especially as his eyes fall on the wall clock and its seconds ticking by, each seeming longer than the last.

"I saw you buy my music – or, my old music, I guess," Harry's voice interjects, just as Louis' contemplates hanging up.

"Yes and?"

"And that wasn't on our list – so I was wondering if you liked it? One Direction's stuff, I mean." Louis pauses, trying to figure out Harry's angle, so he could be one step ahead of the snarky comment that was sure to come depending on his answer.

"The newer stuff's okay." Louis surprises himself by blurting out an honest reply. "Na na na wasn't exactly a lyrical masterpiece but  could get behind the latest album, anyways." Harry chuckles and this time, Louis can't find malice in the sound.

"What? You mean you don't see the musical genius in 'we're like na na na; then we're like yeah, yeah, yeah?' 'Katy Perry's on replay?' God, any of the lyrics in What Makes You Beautiful? C'mon Tommo; you're killing me here."

"You know, for whatever reason, I don't feel more desirable when someone tells me they don't understand my insecurities but my looks still catch attention." Harry hums in amusement and Louis couldn't help but genuinely smile.

"Louis Tomlinson – rising model and America's Sweetheart – has insecurities?" He mocks without an ounce of anything other than a light tease. Obviously, Louis isn't going to go unpacking his past with Harry Styles of all people so he replies in his usual quip.

"You don't?"

Harry meets him with a noise, soft and thoughtful sounding. "Touché, princess." Louis bites back his protest at the nickname, choosing instead to focus on the concession and then progressing their conversation.

"Made In The A.M. is good – is that the kind of stuff you're going to be doing on your own? As a solo artist?" He's surprising himself by how invested he actually is in the answer. Maybe something about Harry is inherently addictive; that would certainly explain his hoards of brainwashed fans.

"Somewhat – think more 'Eagles' and 'Rolling Stones.' Basically, I'm looking for an excuse to strip half-naked and grind up on the microphone stand." Louis really can't help his chuckle that mirrors Harry's own.

"You need an excuse for that? Pretty sure you've found ways to be filthy, even with a majority preteen girl audience," accuses Louis lightly. He realizes before Harry even speaks what his statement implies and winces in advance.

"You've done your homework on me then?" Styles preens; Louis huffs a sigh.

"Might as well know what I'm getting into, right? I'm a good client – earning my hefty paycheck and all that. If that means looking up fan videos of you undulating like a stripper onstage, that's the price I have to pay for my wages." Defiance has crept back into his voice but Harry stays as calm as he's been this entire conversation – a strange pseudo-Styles compared to the moody, easily agitated rockstar from the boardroom.

"t feels like you're implying I'm not a good client," muses Harry, "but I'll have you know, I've done my research too. Watching videos of your shoots has prove quite the entertaining pastime. They've had you near nude more times than I would have thought for your 'sweetheart' label."

"Right! Well if that's all you needed to know!" Louis squeaks, probably too quickly. His cheeks go red with the thought of Harry perusing his career highlights. There's something wildly sexual about some of his photoshoots, he can't deny it, and it feels borderline intimate to discuss those shoots with his buyout boyfriend.

"Oh God, you're not supposed to be cute about it. You're going to shatter my illusions of you as a part time minx. Please, Tommo!" Harry's repeated use of his preferred nickname is ignored in favor of focusing on the amusement in the singer's laughter, low and musical.

"Please what, Styles?" sighs Louis with a rub to his temple.

"Hm. Please look at me like you look at the camera when you're half naked when we first meet."

Louis has a difficult time parsing out if Harry's being utterly serious. He can't keep a blush from darkening his cheeks. "When – er – when's that again?" Louis manages, looking everywhere but at his own reflection in the hotel room mirror.

"Soon, sweetheart," purrs Harry, seemingly pleased to find himself back in control. There's the sound of a door opening in the background of Harry's end of the call and a harsh but indistinguishable voice addresses Harry. "Unfortunately, it won't be soon enough. I've gotta go, kitten."

Louis groans at the pet name but makes a vague noise of dismissal.

"Thanks for the call, I guess?" Louis offers, to which Harry grants a chuckle.

"Thanks for buying my albums."

As the line goes dead, Louis isn't sure what to make of the call nor its semi-abrupt end. All he knows is that he's left with the sinking feeling that somewhere beneath all the bravado and carefully composed rock star appearance, Harry Styles is actually human.

~***~

Their first in person meeting goes surprisingly better than Louis could have hoped. It's amazing how manufactured celebrity dates are from the inside. What's really only a fifteen, maybe twenty minute outing to a sunglass hut gets papped to hell and back and blown up by the media articles into an entire daylong excursion.

Louis focuses on the pictures where he's got a smile on his own lips as he flips through the articles later. He vaguely remembers Harry poking fun at their photographer's outfits or modeling and purchasing especially ridiculous round white framed sunglasses. The moments of fun are sprinkled in between gestures of arrogance and quips that served to annoy Louis rather than endear him but he thinks back to their phone call and allows the few brighter exchanges to keep his mood light.

From the outsider's perspective, it might even look like they were genuinely friends and not just two famous people with agendas forced to exist in the same space at the same time for mutual benefit. Especially with the angles of the shots highlighting things like Harry's smug grin or the way his own looking away could be interpreted as shyness instead of annoyance.

Beyond the media coverage, of course, is the internet's involvement. The bloggers and twittersphere blow up like they had at the album purchasing pics, coining the ship name Larry Stylinson much to Louis' chagrin. He thinks Lourry sounds much nicer and is offended his first name's been shortened to a single letter in the mashup.

It's surprising when Harry sends him a link to a fan post about the red string of Fate tying them together since the day when he tweeted those first lyrics. It's only natural to send him back a selfie with one of Harry's albums held under the end of his pointed nose, pulling a face along with the caption 'Red String of Fate for next album title???'. Harry doesn't message him back but Louis definitely doesn't care. They're just trying to push past their differences and make it on as friends.

'Friends' is the most prevalent depiction of their exchanges the first few weeks of December. Louis isn't sure anyone could hang out as many times as him and Harry are papped and still be considered just friends. Especially not for how he's been draping himself on Styles' taller frame and laughing at all his fake jokes (at least Louis hopes they're fake or else the future chart topper is desperately unfunny). It crosses Louis' mind that if he had been a woman, he'd definitely be considered Harry's girlfriend of the month by now.

For their parts, both boys' teams seem nervous that the public isn't catching on. There's only so much they can feed the press before making them flat out admit to something so they devise a social media stint. Evidently, it's something Harry's done before with some leggy blonde site model around Christmas time a few years back. A staged picture of the two in a compromising position at a holiday party was to be posted on a 'mutual friend's' Instagram account.

For the model, staged means makeup, hair and outfit all on point so as the party gets going downstairs, he's up in the bathroom at Harry's large home, contouring and plucking to perfection. He's surprised there's an actual party, really. It hadn't been on the task list so being here with Harry feels a hair more genuine than the Central Park stroll or accompanying him to the tattoo parlor (the latter was fun, admittedly, since he got to help pick out Styles' new ink and took the opportunity to suggest as obscure images as possible).

He hears a soft clearing of a throat as he's got the brush pressed just under his cheekbone, eyes flickering to the doorway to spot the rocker himself. "I was just thinking about you," Louis points out flatly, resuming the motions of his makeup.

"Aren't you always?" coos Harry. Time spent together has taught Louis to always expect his comments to be misinterpreted. Just because he's learned doesn't mean they don't earn an eye roll nonetheless. "What about, specifically?"

"Your tattoos. I'm thinking we should pull a page from that R&B singer's book and get my face emblazoned on your bicep." Louis' wit is challenged by Harry's oneliners. If he takes the time to think about it, he'd appreciate the verbal banter.

"It wouldn't fit, sweetheart," croons Harry as he pushes himself off of where he's been propped up against the doorjamb, crossing towards Louis. Blue eyes follow him warily in the mirror.

"Saying I have a big head?"

Harry's wearing a silky white top that looks cool to the touch. His nipples aren't even bothering to be discreet through the flimsy fabric, pert and hopelessly distracting. There's numerous buttons undone, continuing Louis' theory of a fully buttoned top being against Harry's religion or something equally bogus.

"Quite the opposite, actually. You've got small, delicate features. In case you haven't noticed," Harry flexes, "my arms are quite broad." The delicate comment makes him huff but he doesn't fight it. Praises of his shoots often highlight his ethereal, fragile look.

Louis takes a step towards Harry, looking between the size of his own head in comparison to Harry's muscle. It actually sends a jolt of electricity through his veins to notice that he could probably fit a true-to-scale tattoo of his face on the expanse of Harry's arm.

"I think it'd work," he sniffs, going back to his highlight, not quite satisfied with its application just yet. Harry watches him for a long moment, the topic of his tattoos dropped.

"Your face isn't going to be in the shot," Harry offers, gesturing towards the piles of product Louis' brought over from his hotel room. For how long he's been staying in various places around New York, it's a blessing he's not paying for accommodations. Styles' people are covering his lodging and its treating him well.

Louis frowns. "It's not? Then how will they know it's me?" His lower lip falls into an indignant pout. Model or not, he's got his insecurities about his body but his face is, more or less, objectively attractive. At least niche attractive, with an ethereal appearance of sharp jawline and cheekbones countered by feminine lashes and a docile look.

Harry's drawl is low and he slips his hands into the back pockets of his own black jeans. "Your arse, actually. It's quite memorable." Louis examines his own outfit in the mirror. He's selected something that does make the curves of his body look especially voluptuous – worn for his own vanity and nothing to do with the way he's noticed Styles ogling it despite his agitation sometimes present at their meetups.

"And how will they know it's you? Do you get your mug in our shining Instagram moment? That's really not fair. I'm the model here." Louis is jumping to conclusions, getting defensive over Harry knowing the layout of this 'shoot' before he's been made aware.

"You're going to have to wait and see, princess," Harry muses and scuffs the toe of a boot along the bathroom floor. "Now c'mon, you look gorgeous. Let's get this thing over with so we can both enjoy the party. Knowing this crowd, things will get too rowdy if we put this off any longer and they're all waiting on us."

The compliment gets buried in the details but Louis takes note of it anyways. Though they're a far cry from the livid spitting interactions back under the high tension atmosphere of their first meeting, brief glimpses of something like respect are few and far between with Harry. They've managed a convincing outwards appearance but it's the little comments like calling him gorgeous that convince Louis that Harry's more like the laid back 'phone call' Harry he's had the chance to meet only once.

Louis ignores Harry's requests so that he can finish his makeup instead. No point in stepping out to an A-lister party looking like the C-list celebrity of which Harry accused him, Day One. None of the other attending guests were in on the gag save for their mutual friend – everyone else thought they were simply bearing witness to the budding friendship of Solo Artist Harry Styles and his newest ride or die friendship with America's Sweetheart, Louis Tomlinson.

When he finally deems himself appropriately done up, he neatly packs away his things and sets them in the cabinet inside Harry's bathroom. His 'boyfriend' is waiting for him on the bed, apparently having invited a guest back with them into the room with him.

"Louis, Alexa. Alexa, Louis." Harry introduces them with a gesture. "She's going to be taking our scandalous picture and uploading it. Be sure to capture my best angles, Lex. No need to worry about this one." A thumb jabs in Louis' direction. Sounds like another compliment to him.

"Nice to meet you, Alexa," Louis trills politely, flitting across the room for a firm, amiable handshake. Alexa seems positively charmed and greets him with a mirrored smile on her purple painted lips.

"Always a pleasure to meet someone Harry talks about so often." Armed with the knowledge that Alexa's the pawn they're using to stir up speculation, Louis feels comfortable scoffing at her suggestion.

"Yes, well, he's paid well enough to do it, I'm sure," he laughs sweetly, crossing towards Harry whose arm is outreached for him.

"Mmm, I'm talking about outside of the dates though, love. Harry raves about you on his off days, isn't that right, Hazza?" Curiously, Louis tips his gaze onto Harry who appears to be attempting to skin Alexa with his glare alone.

"What position would you like us in, exactly? We're supposed to be stirring the plot along but not giving them a proper porno. Are you sure taking this in the bedroom is the best idea?" Harry's ignoring her jabs which, in some twisted way, confirms them more than any verbal affirmation may have done.

"Do you want to go into the closet like you did with Paige? I thought that might be too symbolically melodramatic. You're supposed to be coming out not being forced back in." Alexa's tone is teasing and she gives a nod to Louis. "And this one's so out, Grimmy's been begging to have him on the show because he thinks he has a chance. I took closets out of the question."

Louis is surprised he knows Harry well enough to sense plenty of alternate suggestions bubbling to his lips but a swift glance at his surroundings and he swallows them down. "Fine, fine. Bedroom it is. But that still doesn't answer how you'd like us to be. All we need from this shot is enough evidence to get the damned media moguls to stop No Homo-ing us and start considering that maybe model boy here is showing me the ways of the gays."

"Oi!" protests Louis with a swat to Harry's silken shirt covered chest. "I'm not converting you to homosexuality. I'm helping you come out because you're already dabbling in the ways of the gays. Get your facts… straight." The accidental pun makes him snicker but the sound cuts off as Harry's hand closes around his wrist before he can go in for another tiny hit.

"Don't want to get them straight," Harry's voice goes low and to Louis' surprise, he's falling backwards onto the bed and tugging Louis down along with him. He has to straddle Harry's narrow hips in order to keep from accidentally kneeing him in the crotch. That leaves him on his hands and knees, breathless and with Harry Styles pinned down below him.

"You're a prick," hisses Louis accusingly. It's not like it isn't true. He's distracted from further insults by Harry's hands on his torso. As they slide down his sides, resting on the curves of his hips, all Louis' protests die in his mouth. Harry's hands are a little too large to focus on much of anything else although Louis' eyes stay locked on his stupid, smirking face.

"You were saying?" It's clear Harry knows damn well what he's doing to Louis' poor thought processes and he tries his hardest to glare. The most he manages is a weak squint, gaze narrowed but only to shoot wide once again when Harry's palms are gripping his ass unabashedly.

"Can I help you?" squeaks Louis, unable to keep Harry's strong grip from tugging him in closer, their noses brushing and chests flush together. Harry doesn't answer, instead opting for grazing his lips along the underside of Louis' chin. The curls of Harry's hot breath against in skin makes Louis' whole body tense and his hands which were gripped into fists on either side of Harry's head move to grasp the front of his shirt.

If he can't get a proper reply from Harry, he's going to at least take control of the situation, physically, and keep him at bay. His thoughts are probably idealistic. Harry seems hellbent on making this compromising position as sensual as possible, hips clashing up against Louis' and a low rumble leaving his parted lips where they're still at Louis' Adam's apple. But just as Harry pulls back as though to connect their mouths together in their first kiss as a fake couple, he hears the beautiful sound of an interruption.

"Got it!"

It takes Louis an embarrassingly long amount of time to place the voice and an even longer time to assign meaning to the words. Oh.

Harry unceremoniously dumps Louis onto the bed, his entire demeanor shifting out of lusty sex god and into the smarmy charm with which he carries himself on the daily. Louis' not sure how to seem affronted without revealing that he'd been slightly aroused.

"Nice, Lex," grins Harry, even offering their photographer a high five. If ever it was unclear that Harry does this kind of stunting annually, the casual manner he's displaying as they flick through pictures on Alexa's phone that will be posted to reveal to the world the possibility of a non-straight Styles would have been enlightening.

He folds himself cross-legged on the bed, hands gripping his ankles. A brief, rogue part of him almost feels bad for Harry. Every relationship Harry's been in has been revealed, to Louis, to be PR. With formulaic precision, he's fallen in love, gotten serious, and broken hearts. None of it is real and as someone whose livelihood is about superficial images and posed shoots, Louis can relate.

"Lou, come look at these. I want you to pick out your favourite – I'm too distracted by your ass to properly judge," Harry chuckles, waving a hand Louis' direction. Though it's obviously laden with fake flirtation, Louis obliges him anyways.

They pick the shot where Louis' face is almost visible, Harry's hands slid into his back pockets and their legs bracketing one another with no breathing room in between. Even having been an active part of its manufactured eroticism, Louis would believe they were a couple. Or at least in lust. And as Harry sashays out of the room to attend the party going on downstairs, Louis' eyes stay locked on the instagram feed, watching it blow up from the minute Alexa presses post.

Getting frisky? @harrystyles

He's not tagged deliberately – knowing the speculation and mystery is the goal.

Louis likes the post an hour later.

~***~

It wasn't always going to be easy.

The Instagram post goes viral and the media seems to finally catch onto the scandal. No Control? Harry Styles seen groping Mystery Boy. Sources say, it's Tomlinson! and other horribly punny headlines grace the front pages of all the gossip rags. Harry's been texting him his favourite comments on the picture; Louis notices he deliberately chooses screenshots that don't contain slurs nor the fretting of fangirls who believe Harry's sexuality inflexible.

Louis still has a hard time shaking off the accusations. He's used to ignorant thinking but the media speculation of him tainting Styles' preferences doesn't sit well. He's being reduced to a stereotype – all the images they use of him are from shoots where he's looking especially delicate, soft, feminine. As though it's easier to picture Harry with a femme boy than it is to just accept that he's not into girls. 

Eliminating heteronormative stereotypes probably has a little something to do with how he dresses on their next few dates – which are finally being called dates by the media, exactly a month and a half after they're meant to have started dating. He's pulling out the stops for his skater boy, football loving aesthetic. He knows next to Styles' tall, broad frame he can't help but look small but in place of soft sweaters he's got jerseys and hoodies.

It only leads to speculation that they're definitely fucking if Harry's dressing Louis in his clothes. Damn it.

"I hate your fans," Louis says suddenly, curled up on Harry's bed in the safety of his flat. Harry turns and his expression is stormy, like he's about to singlehandedly defend his entire fandom so Louis is quick to amend. "The homophobic ones, Styles. Calm your tits. They're the ones giving media the fuel to write me off as some delicate twink being manhandled by you on the daily."

"Are you not a delicate twink being manhandled by me?" Harry counters, his features already easy back into smug nonchalance. Louis tosses the teen magazine that's sparked his conversation starter at Harry's chest.

"You know what I mean. People are so desperate to peg gay couples into 'guy' and 'girl' roles. It's sickening. If you had wanted a female involved in this relationship, you sure as hell wouldn't be dating a man!" His huffs displace his fringe which he works to rearrange in the mirror that's set behind the bed. Harry Styles' LA penthouse is full of mirrors.

Harry's brow furrows from where Louis sees it in the reflection and he nears the bed. They're going to be photographed together through the wide open balcony windows. Hired paparazzi have cameras fixed on the spot, deliberately making their photos blurry to seem like spontaneous fans took them and not professionals.

"Coming out is a slow process," Harry tries delicately. "At least for me, anyways. Rockstars are known to be womanizers, fucking groupies on every stop of the road. The whole reason this thing has to even be orchestrated is because the public isn't ready for a super famous, super flaming celebrity. They need to be … coaxed into the idea. We're doing that, you and I."

Louis listens. He's caught by surprise at the genuine sound to Harry's voice. He even manages not to flinch when there's a hand falling onto his shoulder, drawing him away from the mirror and tucking him into Harry's side. Physical 'affection' between them has happened during their pap walks, always staged. It's taken Louis and Harry both a solid week to grow accustomed to holding each other's hands.

Despite both knowing this, too, was a show, it feels somewhat more earnest given his tone. Maybe that's just Louis thinking optimistically. "I'm sorry they're hyper feminizing you in the articles and stuff. It kinda pisses me off too – they clearly haven't heard America's Sweetheart swear like a fucking sailor. You're not some manic pixie dream girl and they'll catch onto that, eventually. I hope. That's on them, not on you."

Harry's posture deflates and that, consequently, curls him more around Louis' form. Louis indulges in the warmth, despite the weather in California not exactly conforming to the winter chill in other parts of the country. Louis boldly takes one of Harry's hands in both of his, giving it a squeeze.

"I didn’t know you'd even noticed," observes Louis, keeping his focus down on Harry's hand so that his heart didn't beat right out of his chest. It's completely excusable, he reasons. Even forged intimacy has an effect on the body and along with something like genuine care and concern in their conversation, it's entirely plausible that he'd be reacting to Harry right now like someone with a crush.

"You're my boyfriend," shrugs Harry with his free shoulder not currently supporting the weight of Louis' head. "Contrary to the plugged narrative, I'd like to think that I'd actually make a half decent partner if given the chance for real. That includes watching out for the publicity of those other than myself and right now, they're doing you dirty, Tommo." There's an edge to his voice that Louis can't quite read.

"Let's fight them," Louis laughs. "Or maybe we can leak a photo of me topping you. Manic pixie Tomlinson the dom in the bedroom." The words are out before he's had the chance to censor them and the look Harry gives him shows that they weren't expected.

He, thankfully, chuckles at the thought. "I think the scandal of me being gay is enough for one stunt, Lou. No need to prime them for my first sex tape."

"C'mon," prods Louis, sensing a return of the Harry from that first phone call – one with intentions of his own that aren't dictated by any itinerary. "It's not like they haven't seen your willy before. Or mine for that matter. I know you had that nude scandal back on the x factor. It's just that times a few more million followers!"

He digs his elbow into Harry's side but instead of driving him away, Harry's arms clasp tighter around him. Louis hopes the photographers have the right angle. He has to remind himself they're there so he doesn't get lost in the threat of something akin to fondness.

"No, no – wait, did you say that the public has seen your cock?  Where is this photoshoot and why haven't I found it in all my Google searches of you? Most I've gotten is a side view of your ass which, while impressive, also involved massive censoring and artistically posed plants or horses or I don't remember."

Louis takes the moment to bask in the fact that Harry Styles has looked him up enough times for searches to be plural. Then he mimes zipping his lips. "Can't reveal all the secrets of America's Sweetheart, can I? You might go and blab them to some gossip forum after we breakup."

Harry tugs him closer with the comment, forcing their legs to tangle. Louis is almost sure that the photographer does not have a proper shot of them anymore, not with how Harry's back is facing the sunny balcony.

"Oh ye of little faith," tuts Harry, shifting Louis to tuck into his chest, their faces close. Louis wants to remind him that this snuggle is supposed to be captured on film. He doesn't. "I've never said a bad word about any of my past relationships. Why would I start now?"

"I dunno – maybe for the fact that you were spitting insults at me when we first met? How you couldn't bear the thought of me being your fake boyfriend? You hated me," teases Louis. Or at least he means for it to be teasing. Harry's features grow cloudy.

"You really think I hate you?" he asks. One of Harry's hands moves to cup Louis' chin, tilting their faces towards one another so they are forced to lock eyes. Louis is overwhelmed by the clarity of usually murky greens.

"Yes?" answers Louis, softer. "I mean, maybe not anymore. It's hard to stage a phony kiss with someone on New Years and not bond a little but I'm pretty sure you hated me. Practically said as much too, if I remember correctly. Don't worry, the feeling was mutual."

For all their outings, they've never really talked about their beginnings. Maybe that was deliberate on Harry's part.

"Was… And now? What do you think of me now?"

It's a loaded question that Louis isn't sure how to answer. So much of what they've experienced together has been artificial. It's for the benefit of the cameras that they're seen together almost constantly. While Harry hasn't ever once been as vile as that first day, there have been times when Louis' felt like hitting his head against the wall for how attached Harry seemed to be to that brooding rocker aesthetic.

However, none of their outings are remembered with any malice. He remembers the charm with which Harry handles everyone in the room, greeting fans with hugs and photographs. Waiters all recall the couple as generous and lovely thanks to Harry; the hired paparazzi are nicer than any Louis' ever encountered on his own and he has no doubt that's due to the fact Harry knows them all by name, asks after their kids, slips them twenties when he thinks Louis' not looking.

No, Louis doesn't hate Harry now. He can't pinpoint the exact moment he stopped but what he can definitely feel is this moment, Harry looming over him with the most open and vulnerable look permeating all his features. If Louis had to guess, he'd think Harry almost cares about what Louis thinks of him. Maybe he does.

"I think you play the part of boyfriend very well," tries Louis slowly. He can tell that's the wrong answer as Harry's face falls. It nearly closes off completely before Louis goes on, "and if you hadn't, I'd have bailed on this plan ages ago. But beyond being a surprisingly capable fake boyfriend, I think you're putting on a different front – this whole moody rocker thing is an act, isn't it?"

He's calling him out based on half formed speculation and the few glimmers of something else he's seen while out on their dates. Harry's interest is piqued and the way his thumb brushes across Louis cheekbone seems absentminded. He doesn't answer and Louis doesn't expect him to before he continues.

"When you called me a few days before our first 'outing' and asked about my interest in your music – that's the Harry Styles I think is the most genuine. One that's attentive to how others view him and definitely one that puts a lot of himself into his music. The Harry onstage, that's real too. You're passionate and you care about people more than you let on."

Louis quiets himself from his ramblings, embarrassed. Harry's processing but doesn't pull away from their position curled around each other on his bed. "That doesn't answer how you feel about me," he states. Louis can tell he doesn't know what to say either.

"I like that Harry. The one who doesn't turn up his nose at dating an up and comer and the one who sends me cute screenshots of fangirls shipping 'Larry'. I like the Harry that lets me pick the angle of our compromising picture or that lets me pick the flavor of froyo we're seen buying together. I like this Harry, who lets me talk about what I'm feeling without interrupting."

Slowly, Louis' coming to a realization as his heart catches in his throat when Harry leans closer.

Fuck. "I like you, Harry. Not Rockstar Harry. Not Famous Harry. Just Harry."

Harry lets the confession settle in the air. Louis wants desperately to take it back. It's as much news to him as it is to Harry and he's not sure he's had enough time to process it himself before blurting it out into the open.

"I like you too, Louis."

And that's – unexpected. They spend what feels like an eternity sizing each other up, both frozen in the moment. Harry's phone buzzes, then Louis' does. Louis can imagine it's the paps, telling them to choose a different angle so they can actually see the loved up couple. Harry doesn't pull off of Louis so neither of them answers the calls.

"Even my mouth?" Louis quips, raising his eyebrows when the silence between them becomes too smothering. Harry cracks a dimpled smile.

"Especially your mouth."

And just like that, Louis' world turns on its head again. Harry's lips capture his in their first kiss. The best part about it, besides the sheer mastery Harry's obviously got in the art of lip locking, it's not on camera. No one can see anything more than the ripples in Harry's back as he chases the kiss, deepening it and dotting his tongue against the line of Louis' mouth.

Louis' fingers work their way up into Harry's hair, looping curls around them like rings and giving it a tug that releases all of the frustrations he's had about the arrangement and allowing him to properly enjoy the switch that's just occurred. Harry likes him. And yes, Harry really likes his mouth.

By the time they part, surprised giggles sound from Louis' throat, his face tucking into the column of Harry's neck. "This is so ridiculous," he accuses in amusement as he strokes fingertips gently along Harry's scalp. "We're fake dating and have been for three almost four months now and our breakup is scheduled for March. What the hell are we doing?"

Harry seems to find amusement in it too and smudges a kiss to Louis' forehead. "If I knew, I'd tell you – but I've actually only been in staged relationships. This whole 'actually finding my partner attractive and wanting to kiss him and be with him and then some' phase is all new territory for me. Be gentle with me, princess." Harry's eyelash bat at him and Louis wants to dive into his dimple.

His eyes roll. Even in a tender moment, Harry's being deliberately coy and it's gone from being infuriating to being infuriatingly endearing. What the hell is Louis getting himself into?

"I'll show you gentle," Louis growls but before he gets the chance to nip a lovebite into Harry's deliciously unmarked neck, their phones are both ringing again. With a sigh, Harry untangles himself from Louis and goes to answer. They're clients first and people second, sometimes.

"Styles," greets Harry, perching on the edge of the bed to take his call. He's facing the window now and since Louis' sure he knows what the call's about, he decides to cut out the middleman and go straight in for remedying the situation.

Kneeling behind Harry, Louis' arms wind around his neck as he talks to the person on the other end. He presses his body up against Harry's back, allowing his weight to lean against his seated form. Ducking his head down, Louis is able to get an excellent angle on Harry's neck and starts searing kisses up and down the blank skin.

He fastens lips to his collarbone, whole body draped around Harry while he leaves his mark. He can hear the effect it's having in the breaks in Harry's voice.

"Right… yeah… er, I'll let him know. Thank you," the call ends shortly after Louis' started and he smiles against reddening skin.

"They said to keep doing what you're doing." All carefully crafted composure is melted away in Harry's voice, much to Louis' delight. He only hums in response, teeth grazing the spot. Being so close, he can hear the way Harry has to swallow against a dry mouth, hands coming to fold in his lap. Louis only pulls back to tease.

"Aren't you going to give them a show with me? At least pretend like you like it."

Harry's chuckle is low but he does lift an arm to wind around to the back of Louis' neck, keeping lips at the hickey blossoming on his collarbone. "I move my other hand and the paps will get a shot of just how much I like it. No pretending needed. Pretty sure we just got done talking about how the world isn't ready for a Stylinson sex tape." Louis' nose wrinkles. He likes that part of their ship name better than Larry he supposes.

The world might not be ready but Louis lets his hand fall onto Harry's in his lap nonetheless. He's shameless in working the heel of his hand to add pressure; he absently hopes whatever blurry filter the paps are adding don't allow the obscenity to be captured.

Harry counts to thirty slowly out loud, his voice deep, throaty and clearly aroused. Once he's reached the end, he's shoots to his feet, dashing to shut the balcony windows and turns back to Louis with a fixed glare. There's a flush high on his cheeks and Louis doesn't bother for subtle as he trails his gaze down between Harry's legs at the reaction he's gotten out of him.

It's only after he's assessed the tightness of his pants and the outline of his bulge that Louis' eyes flick back up to the red and blue patch of skin he's sucked into Harry's neck. "Yes?" he prompts with a mock expression of innocence, sensing a few choice words from Harry.

Instead of answering, he breaks into a wicked grin and crosses the room in a few easy strides. His lips crash into Louis', the second kiss even more private and definitely more passionate than the first. It ends sooner but Louis thinks he's going to get more where that came from. He thinks Harry's going to do the kissing and touching and then some he was referencing earlier. He's wrong.

"You and I have a few apartment showings to go to now, kitten. I'm sure our team's going to love the fan reaction to this one, though." His fingers stroke the side of his neck, down to the bruise Louis' left for him and, consequently, for the eyes of their adoring public.

Louis groans but gets to his feet all the same, feeling lighter than air, armed with the knowledge that whatever weird stirrings of feelings that had been infiltrating his system on account of this stunt were returned. Before he can exit the room, Harry's arms snatch him from around the waist and pull him in for a tight hug.

He notices not for the first time how well their bodies fit together and how secure he feels locked in Harry's arms. Amazing how now that the floodgates of whatever Louis' been holding back are broken, he's able to give himself over to this situation without reservation.

"Can we try this for real?" Harry asks, voice little more than a soft whisper where its murmured into the skin below Louis' ear. "Dating. Seeing each other. Whatever you'd like to call it – can we try it?"

Not like they'd been going out on dates for the past few months or anything but Louis understands what he means. The kiss has changed something; it's different now. He nods.

"We'll have to talk to our teams eventually. Let them know we've both caught feelings and that the dates don't have to be ten minutes long. We can still milk the publicity of it all for our careers; PR and all that. But yeah. I'm willing to give it a go for real if we do it properly." Louis bites his lip, tipping his head. "And March?"

Harry blinks in confusion before the significance dawns on him. Instead of mirroring Louis' nervous expression, his smile goes cocky.

"Our breakup date is To Be Determined for a reason, sweetheart."

Louis doesn't protest the nickname anymore than he does the kiss that comes along with it.