Harry’s life changes one cold Thursday afternoon in October.
It happens like this: He’s in line at one of the campus coffee shops, waiting patiently for his turn to order. The queue’s long—a line of students from the counter all the way out the door, all of them itching to get a warm drink and warm up before their next class. Winter seems to be coming early this year, the fall air already with An icy bite to it, and Harry shivers, burrows himself deeper into his fall coat.
He’s on the phone with Niall, who’s talking his ear off about paint—apparently, the art store had gone on sale and he’d bought a bunch of new colours—and now was in a bit of a dilemma, unsure of which part of his project he should start painting first, or if he should scrap his entire idea completely. Harry listens patiently as he shuffles closer and closer to the counter, making sure to interject thoughtful and sympathetic noises every time Niall pauses to take a breath.
It’s only when he’s already at the front of the line, his wallet already in hand that he looks up, meets the barista’s eyes, and feels the earth stop in its orbit.
Because, blue.
A deep blue, the colour of the sea during the summer, pristine and calming, the sun beating down on its surface as if made of sapphires. A warm blue, the colour Harry feels he’s filled with when he’s sat on his windowsill back home in Holmes’ Chapel, a mug of tea in his hand as he watches the rain fall in sheets, relishing in the quiet sleepiness of the town. A special kind of blue, the colour Harry has never seen before, one that makes his fingers itch for a pen and a piece of paper, so he could write haikus and villanelles about the bleak, unhappy sky, about how darling, your eyes have sucked all its blue away.
And it’s here that Harry’s entire world changes, seems to stop and spin and reorient itself around these blue eyes.
“Niall,” Harry says, not tearing his eyes away from the barista’s eyes. “Niall, I have to go.”
He doesn’t wait for a reply, just ends the call; in front of him, the barista looks back at him patiently, the small curl of a smile on his lips like they’re sharing a secret.
“Hi,” the barista says, his voice raspy, reminding Harry of smoke and sand, of the tendrils at the end of a cigarette, curling into the sky. “What can I get you?”
“I—” Harry starts, unable to continue, because this boy smiles like autumn—like dozens of leaves raining down on Harry, enveloping him in a shower of reds, oranges and golds. Smiles warmly, smiles tenderly, warming Harry up to the tips of his fingers.
“Where’s Zayn?” He blurts out, his tongue stiff and clumsy in his mouth. He doesn’t mean to ask that, not when there’s a hundred different questions whirring in his mind, a hundred different things he’d like to know about this boy—like his name and his age and his number and what he does when it drizzles and if he does the same when it pours—but, well. He’s never been charming when overwhelmed.
The barista—Louis, according to his name tag—raises an eyebrow, the quirk of his lips imperceptible, almost invisible.
“Asked me to cover his shift,” he answers, then shrugs. “Something about a painting and not wanting to lose inspiration.” He cocks his head almost self-importantly. “So, here I am. What can I get you?”
There’s a collarbone tattoo peeking out from under his shirt, a hint of cursive. Harry wonders what it says, wonders if it’s from a poem’s Harry’s read, or from a song Harry’s heard. Wonders if, perhaps, they’ve already been connected, through words and poetry and song.
“Um,” he says. “A hot chocolate, please.”
“Coming right up.” Louis enters something onto the till, the price coming up on the little screen, and Harry pays without much thought, his attention fixed on the shift of Louis’ shoulders beneath his shirt, in the movement of his hands. Harry still hasn’t stopped watching him when Louis hands him his change and his receipt with a happy ‘thank you!’ and then, it’s over; Louis’ turning away, his autumn-washed smile directed at someone else, and Harry has no choice but to leave his spot and make his way to the receiving area, where a bubbly blonde—Perrie, he remembers—hands him his drink and sends him off.
He doesn’t even think about the hot chocolate as he drinks it, doesn’t really notice when it burns his tongue. What does, however, is Louis—remembering the tiny curl of his smile, the warm blue of his eyes, and the thought keeps the little flame in his chest burning, fending off the October chill.
And that’s how Harry’s life changes.