Chapter Text
The church was already full when Harry sat down by his mother's side.
Every pew was occupied, the air thick with incense and the low murmur of voices settling into reverent quiet. Candles lined the altar, their flames steady, casting soft gold light across stone walls that had heard centuries of prayers. The stained glass windows filtered the morning sun into fractured colors painting the congregation in distorted fragments.
Harry stood in the front pew beside his family as he did every Sunday.
He was fourteen, tall for his age, but still narrow, his shoulders held stiff, his posture was perfect. His hands were folded just so, fingers interlaced, his thumbs crossed. His eyes remained lowered in respect, lashes brushing his cheeks.
Harry Styles was the picture of devotion.
He had learned early how to look faithful even when his thoughts wandered. That, too, was a kind of discipline.
The Styles family always sat in the front.
It was expected of them.
His mother sat to his right, her hands folded in her lap, head bowed, lips moving silently through prayers she had memorized long before Harry was born. She wore the same soft expression she always did in church, something between peaceful and distant. Faith came easily to her… or perhaps obedience did. Harry wasn’t sure of which.
On his other side sat his younger sister, knees swinging slightly until their mother rested a calming hand on her leg. She stilled immediately. Everyone learned quickly in this church.
And in front of them, standing at the pulpit with practiced authority, was Harry’s father.
Deacon Styles.
A man whose voice carried without effort, whose presence commanded stillness. When he spoke, people leaned forward and erupted. When he prayed, they bowed their heads deeper. His sermons were not gentle… they were sharp edged and made to bring guilt. He spoke of order and righteousness, of temptations and discipline, of love… as something earned through obedience only.
Harry knew every cadence of his father’s voice.
He could predict when he would pause, when he would lower his tone, when he would keep silent, how to stretch it just long enough to make the congregation uneasy and fidgety. Harry had grown up inside those rhythms the way other children grew up inside lullabies.
That's why he learned from the beginning how to portrait the perfect picture of a deacon's son.
Because being the deacon’s son meant being watched.
It meant no fidgeting, no whispering, no smiles during service, no mistakes.
It meant knowing when to stand and when to kneel before the bells rang. It meant memorizing scripture before other children learned basic math. It meant that every adult smile came with expectation, every praise with pressure, every action with judgment.
Harry bore it quietly.
He had learned that stillness was a kind of shield.
As his father moved through the rites, Harry followed along automatically.
Stand. Kneel. Bow his head. Pray.
The motions lived in his muscles by now, instinctive as breathing. His lips shaped prayer without him having to think about the words.
So he let his mind drift. As he always did.
He looked up distracted, trying to not bring attention to himself.
At first, he thought it was just another unfamiliar face. Someone new in the neighbourhood, someone maybe passing through. People came and went from the church all the time after all. Faith ebbed and flowed, as his father liked to explain.
But something felt wrong to Harry when he looked at the boy at the back of the church.
He just didn’t… belong to the rhythm of it.
He stood near the last pew, half hidden in shadow, as if he stopped just short of fully entering the space. He wasn't praying. One shoulder leaned against the stone wall, he had a loose posture, almost defiant as he played with an unlit cigarette. His clothes were just… wrong… for Sunday Church… they were too worn. So different from everyone around him. The boy was wearing a jacket that had seen better days, a shirt untucked and with the first two buttons open revealing a tattoo. Wasn’t he too young to have a tattoo? Harry thought curiously.
Harry’s breath caught for a moment when he looked at the boy's face.
There was a bruise around one eye, dark and unmistakable even from a distance. Purple and yellow, blooming against golden skin. The boy’s hair was messy, like he hadn’t bothered to tame it for church, and his hands were shoveled deep into his pocket.
He looked older than Harry. Seventeen at most.
He also looked like trouble.
Harry knew instinctively, the way he knew when a hymn was about sin even before the sermon explained it.
As if sensing Harry’s attention, the boy looked up.
Their eyes met.
It lasted no more than a heartbeat, but something sharp and electric snapped through Harry’s chest. The boy didn’t look away, instead his mouth curved. A crooked smile, curious rather than mocking, blue eyes full of a glint that was not judgmental.
Harry’s fingers tightened where they were folded.
Heat crept up his neck, into his cheeks. He dropped his gaze, heart pounding so loudly he was certain his mother must hear it. Guilt followed close behind, it was a familiar and heavy feeling for Harry.
He was supposed to be praying.
He forced his eyes shut and focused on the sound of his father’s voice, on the words of the prayer being spoken aloud. He mouthed them carefully, each syllable with a precision he hoped might quiet the strange feeling blooming in his ribs.
The strange boy’s image lingered anyway.
***
The service ended the way all services did: with a collective, hypocritical exhale of the people who believed themselves better than everyone else.
Louis lingered near the stone steps outside the church, shoulder pressed to the cool brick, lighter flicking open and shut between his fingers. He waited until the doors creaked open and the sound spilled out, voices overlapping, polite laughters layered over plans for the afternoon. Incense following them like a ghost, clinging to coats and hair and skin.
He lit his cigarette trying to chase the scent away.
The first drag burned, sharp and grounding. He welcomed it. The church always made him restless, like his bones didn’t fit right inside his body when he stood still too long. There were too many rules. Too much quiet pretending to be peace.
People streamed past him in clusters: families with obedient children, elderly couples holding hands, men and women who never doubted their place in the world. None of them looked twice at Louis. He was used to that. Half invisible unless someone decided he was trouble.
Then the pretty boy stepped out.
Louis noticed him immediately.
He had noticed him during the service too, sitting rigid in the front pew beside his family like a statue carved from obedience. Back straight. Hands folded. Eyes lowered while others' eyes watched him.
Out here, in the open air, he looked different.
Smaller, somehow. Not in height, he was taller than Louis actually, but in presence. He was less… certain. Like whatever held him upright inside the church loosened its grip the moment he crossed the threshold.
The boy hesitated just beyond the doorway, glancing back inside the church like he was tethered there by something invisible. His hands were still folded in front of him. Out of habit, Louis guessed, fingers twisting nervously against one another. The collar of his shirt sat a little too neatly against his throat.
He was young. Around Louis’ age, maybe younger. Definitely younger than Louis was supposed to be looking at.
But Louis had never been good at looking away from things that made him feel alive.
The boy took a few tentative steps down the stairs, stopping near the iron railing. He tilted his face up toward the sky, squinting slightly in the daylight.
Louis wondered, not for the first time, if church kids checked whether God could still see them once they stepped outside.
Lous smiled despite himself.
Pushing off the wall, Louis took another drag from his cigarette and let the smoke curl slowly from his mouth, deliberately careless. He just watched in silence.
The boy turned… and startled so badly Louis almost laughed.
He spun around, green eyes wide, color rushing into his cheeks like he had been caught doing something sinful. Which, Louis supposed, some people would say he did. Standing alone outside the church, staring at a stranger he shouldn’t be talking to.
“I… I’m sorry,” the boy blurted, then winced. Louis wondered if the apology escaped without permission. Out of habit as the prayer had been.
Louis raised an eyebrow. “For what?”
“For…” the boy faltered, clearly at loss. His hand lifted halfway, then dropped again. “I don’t… I’m not sure… I just…” he laughed nervously, cheeks flushing. ”I say that a lot.”
Louis watched him for a beat, something amused and curious settling in his expression. “Sorry about being sorry?”
“I supposed so,” the boy said, mortified.
Louis huffed a quiet laugh. “You don’t have to apologize to me, sweetheart. I’m not exactly an authority figure.”
The boy’s ears went red at that. “Oh. Right. I just… you startled me.”
“Yeah,” Louis said lightly. “I get that a lot.”
The boy swallowed. “Smoking is bad for you,” he blurted and got even redder.
“There it is,” Louis said, amused. “Was wondering how long that’d take.”
“I just meant…” the boy flushed deeper, freckles standing out stark against his skin. “It’s not healthy.”
“Neither is most things,” Louis said with a little smile. “Some of us still survive.”
The boy frowned at that, clearly unconvinced, but didn't argue. He shifted his weight instead, hands twisting again like he didn’t know what to do with them.
Up close, he looked even younger. Freckles dusted across his nose, his lashes were stupidly long, shadowing eyes that were bright green and curious and entirely too earnest for the world Louis lived in.
The world Louis came from didn’t make room for boys like this.
“Harry!”
The voice boomed from inside the church, sharp and authoritative.
Harry (now Louis knew the pretty boy’s name) jumped, shoulders going tight. His posture snapped back into the place automatically, spine straight, chin lifting. The sound of control lived in that voice.
Louis followed Harry’s gaze and saw the man standing just inside the doorway. Tall, broad shoulders, suit immaculate, face set on a serious expression. The kind of man people listened to without being told to do so. The kind of man who had never once wondered if he would be followed.
“That’s my dad,” Harry said quickly. “He’s… he’s the deacon.”
Louis whistled low. “Is that so?”
Harry nodded. “Yes. He… he leads part of the rites.”
“Figures,” Louis said. “You’ve got the posture for being his son.”
Harry glanced down at himself, embarrassed. “I … I don’t mean to.”
“Didn’t say it was a bad thing.”
Harry looked back up, searching Louis’ face like he was trying to decide whether to believe him.
It was Louis' turn to shift his weight, suddenly aware of the cigarette between his fingers and the faint ache beneath his eye where the bruise still bloomed purple and yellow. He turned his face just slightly, enough to keep it in the shadows.
Harry’s eyes flicked there anyway, just for a split of a second, before snapping back to Louis’ eyes, guilt flashing across his face. “Are you… are you okay?”
Louis shrugged. “Depends who’s asking.”
Harry hesitated, then squared his shoulder in a practice movement. “I’m Harry,’ he said. “Uhm… I’m the deacon’s son.”
Louis smiled crookedly, enchanted despite himself. “Yeah, I gathered.”
“Oh….” Harry flushed again, looking at the door, where his father was seconds ago. “Yes, of course.”
“I’m Louis,” he offered. “Friend of a friend.”
Harry nodded like that made sense, Louis let the lie settle awkwardly between them with a smirk. “Welcome,” Harry said, earnest as anything. “To… to the church.”
Louis, snorted. “Don’t think I’ve ever been welcome here before.”
Harry frowned slightly. “Why not?”
Louis took another drag and exhaled slowly. “Guess I don’t look the type.”
Harry studied him again, more openly now. Louis watched as his eyes traveled to his scuffed boots, his worn jacket.
“You’re here,” Harry said finally. “That counts.”
Louis didn’t have an answer for that.
They stood there for a moment, the space between them quiet and strange. The crowd thinned, their voices fading as people drifted down the streets. Without the hymn echoing through it, the air felt lighter.
“So,” Louis said, breaking the silence. “Do you like it there?”
Harry swallowed, his gaze went back to the church. To the stone walls, the tall windows. Yes,” he said without hesitation. “It’s… it’s important.”
“Is it?” Louis asked gently.
Harry hesitated this time. His fingers twisted in front of him again. “I think so.”
“You think,” Louis echoed.
Harry looked at him then, something uncertain flickering across the face. “Do you not?”
Louis shrugged. “I think there’s worse places to be. Worse things to do.”
Harry huffed a small laugh despite himself. “Like smoking.”
Louis grinned. “Told you. Worse things.”
“Like what?” Harry asked as if he couldn't stop himself. Louis felt his own heart beat a little faster. He never had someone interested in what he wanted to say.
Louis met his eyes, something unreadable passing between them. “You don’t wanna know.”
“Harry!” his father called again, sharper this time.
Harry flinched. “I… I should go.”
“Yeah,” Louis said, already stepping back (When did he get so close to Harry?), retreating instinctively into the shadows where he belonged. “You should.”
Harry lingered a few seconds more, feet planted, eyes fixed on Louis. “It was nice to meet you.”
“Likewise,” Louis said. “Deacon’s son.”
Harry smiled at that, quick, bright, beautiful… dangerous… then turned and hurried back inside.
Louis watched the heavy doors close behind him.
When the street finally emptied, Louis crushed the cigarette beneath his boot and slipped away down the block, bruised, aching, heart doing something unfamiliar and unsettling in his chest.
He didn't look back.
But he knew he would remember the way Harry had looked at him at that moment.
Like Louis was something worth seeing.