7 Up

Harry looks back at the camera and shrugs. “That’s my husband, Louis Tomlinson. I think you’re
all a bit familiar with him. And see? I told you. He loves me so much.”
After the screaming match in Louis’ bedroom the night before his 22nd birthday, Harry drives
around aimlessly, afraid to go home, afraid to do anything out of fear of just completely breaking
down. He passes an endless string of houses with twinkling Christmas lights, and he wants to rip
them all down.
He calls Ellis, who was only as helpful as one can be through the phone 103 miles away, and
eventually, he finds himself standing in Niall’s driveway, blinking snowflakes out of his eyes, teeth
chattering from the cold. He tiptoes across the walkway and searches for the spare key under the
doormat, not wanting to knock and wake up Niall’s parents, seeing as it’s nearly four in the
morning. He breathes out a sigh of relief when he feels it under the corner of the mat, nearly
completely covered by snow.
Harry lets himself in, creeping in the familiar entry of Niall’s childhood home, feeling his way
through the dark, knowing exactly where every frame, table, and creak in the floor is. He makes
his way up the stairs and stops at the first door on the left, twisting the knob slowly, blinking in the
harsh light of the telly left on.
He takes off his boots quietly and shimmies out of his jacket, letting it rustle to the floor. When he
sits on the end of the bed and gently wraps his hand around Niall’s ankle through the blankets,
Niall stirs slightly, and then stills again.
“Niall,” Harry says, just above a whisper. His head is pounding. No movement from Niall.
“Niall,” he tries again, squeezing his ankle a bit harder this time. Niall blinks once, twice, and
when his eyes focus on Harry, he screams.
Harry jumps back. “Sorry! I’m sorry!”
Niall sits up in bed. “Jesus fucking Christ, Harry! What the fuck are you doing?!” He looks
genuinely terrified, his eyes wild, and his hair even wilder. Suddenly, this entire thing is hysterical.
Harry bursts out laughing, holding his stomach, doubled over in laughter, tears streaming down his
face.
“Have you gone fucking mad?!” Niall shrieks.
“No, no…” Harry rubs his eyes, trying to catch his breath. “I’m sorry, I just needed someone--”
“To give a heart attack to?! Very good, I’m just about there,” Niall says, breathing heavily.
“‘m really sorry, Niall. But oh God, that was rich.”
“Fuck you. What time is it?”
“Uh, about half four.”
Niall’s face is positively comical. “You better be dying, Styles. How did you even get in here?”
“Spare key under the doormat.”
Niall scoffs. “I will be relocating that first thing in the morning.”