Play the odds

Short story

November

It starts, as things sometimes do, as an alcohol-fueled bet.

"Did..." Louis asks incredulously, leaning heavily across the table, breath swirled with liquor and laughter. "Did you just..."

Harry grins, because that's his automatic response to all things Louis. Nothing else feels quite as natural, if he's being honest, and he always makes it a point to be honest. Louis throws his new red jumper into Harry's laundry and all his socks are now pink? Harry grins. Louis gets bored with pranking Liam ("He cried, Haz. Actual tears. It's embarrassing, honestly." "Well, you did put Nair in his body wash." "And?? If anything, I saved him the pain of waxing his chest." "He's allergic, Louis.") and turns to his tried-and-true prank recipient for the past few years, Harry? He grins. Louis gets himself into some ill-thought-out scheme and finds himself stranded somewhere he shouldn't be, like on top of the clock tower next to the library or stuck in the basement at their favorite pub or the middle of a field near Hempstead? Harry grins, hangs up the phone, and figures out how he's going to rescue Louis this time around.

It's what Harry's always done, after all. It's what he'll always do.

"Niall," Louis is saying. He's sloppy from alcohol, uncoordinated and sweaty, his fringe stuck to his forehead. He's half-laid across the tabletop now, forearms resting between the empty basket that used to hold a mound of chips and their third (or fourth? fifth, maybe) pitcher of beer. He's also patting insistently at Niall's forearm. "Niall. Didja hear this? Didja — Niall, 're you listenin' to me? Horan. Nialler. He said- Harry, he said tha' he could win a bet 'gainst me. Can you believe? Niall. Niall. He said that."

Niall, who has clearly missed all of this, doesn't look away from the little television screen above the bar as he pours himself another round, amber expertly sloshing into his glass. "Uh-huh," he says distractedly. "That's great, Lou."

"It is not," Louis mutters mutinously, but he's given up on Niall and turned back to the source of his affront. "Harry. Lad. Let's — hic — let's be realistic, 'ere."

"Hmm?" Harry says, lifting his glass to his mouth and trying to hide the grin still lurking there.

"You've lots 'f skills, love," Louis continues, eyebrows arched in commiseration. He tries to pat Harry's hand and misses, smacking the table instead. Harry giggles, but Louis pretends that was on purpose and keeps tapping arrhythmically at the table. "Lots of 'em. But I've won ev'ry bet we've ev'r had with each other."

"How d'you know that?" Harry argues. Where Louis slurs, Harry slows, words dripping like honey stuck to molasses, vowels tangled up in sticky liquor. "D'you keep a record?"

"No," Louis says. "But 'f I'd lost, I'd prob'ly never bet 'gainst you again. And I do. So."

"I can win," Harry insists, syllables fuzzy on his tongue. He sips at his drink again, hoping that'll help.

Louis snorts and leans back, flipping his hair out of his eyes. "Tha's, tha's funny. S'funny, Haz. Love a good sense 'f humor, I do."

"I can!" Harry says. "I've just been, like. Unlucky. In the..." he waves his hand, looking for the word. "Past."

Louis scoffs, but his eyes are bright in the dim light of the pub. "Sure, Curly. Unlucky when — hic — it came to ev'ry single bet ov'r the course of..." He stops, brow furrowed. "'ow long've we been mates?"

"Uh." More years than Harry has fingers, he's pretty sure. He counts backwards on his own two hands, runs out of space, and reaches over for Niall's fingers and counts there as well. Niall lets his hand be used, his eyes still glued to the football on the screen as Harry maneuvers him where he wants. "Twelve years."