AU where it's 2028 and the Larry Stylinson Conspiracy is very much alive and kicking. Harry gets interviewed for a new album. The interview breaks the internet because: (1) he finally outright denies larry; but (2) he comes out and announces that he's dating a guy; and (3) the guy is Brad, his personal trainer and long-time friend. Louis watches the interview and gets shit-faced.
~~..~~
..........The interviewer raises an eyebrow. “You sure? Because twelve years post-One Direction, the conspiracy is still alive and well.”
Harry exhales through his nose, then straightens. His smile returns, patient and practiced. “I think it’s time for the conspiracy to end,” he says gently. “Louis has denied it for years. He’s been clear about how it’s affected him. And while I appreciate the passion—the strong faith people have in the kind of relationship they believe Louis and I had—I think it’s time we give Louis peace. Let him breathe.”
He pauses, eyes flicking to the camera, then back. “Louis is in a committed relationship right now. We should all be supportive of that.”
The interviewer nods slowly, absorbing the weight of the answer. “Maybe fans were just waiting for you to say it. Explicitly.”
Harry hums. “Maybe.”
There’s a beat of silence. Then Harry glances to the side, toward the crew. His eyes catch on someone—tall, brunette, standing just off-camera with his arms crossed and a shy smile tugging at his lips.
Harry’s own smile shifts, grows bolder. “Besides,” he says, voice lighter now, “it’d be a little awkward for my boyfriend to go on my Instagram and see all my tagged posts and these edits with my ex-bandmate.”
The interviewer blinks. “Boyfriend? Wha—sorry. Oh my, wow. I wasn’t—we weren't briefed. I’m a little shocked here. Are we, uh, supposed to take out this part—we're on live.”
Laughter erupts from the crew. Harry’s shoulders shake with it. “No, it's fine. And yeah,” he says, pointing. “He’s right there.”
The camera pans, catching the man in question—tall and lean, with soft brown eyes and a bashful wave. He looks like he’s trying not to be seen and failing adorably.
Harry beams. “His name’s Brad. He was my trainer on the last tour, so some fans might recognize him. But he’s also been a long-time friend.”
The interviewer recovers quickly, smiling warmly. “Well, hello Brad.”
Brad nods, still shy, and Harry’s gaze lingers on him for a moment longer before turning back to the interviewer...............
~~..~~
The screen glows dimly in the quiet of the room, casting soft light across Louis’s face. The interview has ended, it went on air ten hours ago, but the image remains frozen—Harry mid-laugh, eyes crinkled, mouth parted in joy. He looks fresh. Lighter. Like he’s shed something heavy and never looked back.
Louis hasn’t moved.
Oli sits beside him, unsure whether to speak, unsure whether silence is safer. His fingers twitch against his jeans, eyes flicking between Louis and the screen.
“Lou?” he says finally, voice low. “Do you… I dunno. I don’t really know but… is there something I can do?”
Louis doesn’t answer. Doesn’t look at him. His gaze stays locked on the frozen frame—Harry’s grin, the soft blur of Brad in the background, the way the crew had laughed like it was nothing. Like it was easy.
“How’re the people taking it?” Louis asks, voice flat, almost mechanical. “I’m sure it’s a social media blast.”
Oli hesitates. “I-it is. Twitter’s on a field day. There are naysayers, of course. But mostly… people are really supportive. His fans have started editing videos.”
Louis hums. It’s not agreement. It’s not disbelief. It’s just sound.
Oli shifts, uncomfortable. “Lou… I don’t think… I don’t think it’s PR.”
“I didn’t think so.”
Silence stretches between them, taut and brittle. The screen dims further, the image softening into shadow. Harry’s smile still lingers, like a ghost.
Louis’s jaw tightens. His fingers curl into his palms. Then, with a bitter smile that doesn’t reach his eyes, he murmurs, “Harry told me not to worry about Brad. Well.”
Oli winces. “Mate, I’m on your side always, you know that. But I… I don’t think anything was happening while you and Harry were—”
Louis stands abruptly. The air shifts. His body is tense, vibrating with something unspoken, something sharp.
“It doesn’t matter now, does it?”
Oli doesn’t answer. Louis doesn’t wait.
He walks out, the ache in his chest too much to carry in silence.
~~..~~
Oli’s fingers curl around the edge of the velvet booth, knuckles white. The bass thuds through the club, relentless and numbing, but it’s not enough to drown out the worry in his chest—or the sight of Louis at the bar, downing another drink like it’s a dare.
He’s tried. God, he’s tried. Three times now he’s reached for Louis’s wrist, murmured something about pacing himself, about breathing, about not doing this tonight. But Louis came in with a purpose. And that purpose is to get smashed to his face.
Oli slumps back into the VIP booth, defeated. Lottie’s beside him, arms crossed, jaw tight. Her eyes follow Louis too, but there’s no anger in them. Just that quiet, familiar cocktail of frustration and pity.
“Zara’s been calling his phone,” Oli mutters, rubbing his temple. “Since he won’t answer, she’s resorted to mine. She’s worried. Doesn’t know what’s going on.”
Lottie exhales sharply. “I want to be angry at Harry,” she says. “For just… throwing that news in our faces. No warning. Just—‘Here’s my boyfriend.’” Her voice cracks. “But I can’t.”
Oli glances at her, surprised. She’s blinking fast, trying not to cry.
“Because he told Louis,” she continues. “Actually had the decency to reach out. Said he wasn’t keeping it a secret this time. That they might be seen outside. That he’s not going to deny it anymore.”
Oli sighs, leaning his head back against the booth. “We can’t demand anything from him. He’s been decent. Still reaches out. Still asks about Freddie. Still sends messages, even if Louis never replies.”
Lottie nods, wiping under her eye. “Louis cut him off. From all of us. Like the past seventeen years didn’t happen. Like they can just be let go.”
Oli doesn’t answer. There’s nothing to say.
Lottie’s voice drops to a whisper. “I miss him.”
Oli turns to her.
“He still sends care packages,” she says, smiling sadly. “For Lucky and Freddie. For everyone. But he asked me to pretend they’re from me. So Louis doesn’t send them back.”
They sit in silence, watching Louis lean against the bar, laughing at something the bartender says, but it’s hollow. His smile doesn’t reach his eyes. His shoulders are slumped like he’s carrying something too heavy.
“He’s moved on,” Lottie says softly. “And Brad’s a good man. Always admired Harry, even when they were just friends. He never crossed a line. Never acted untoward because he respected what Harry had with Louis.”
Oli nods, doesn't know what to say. He knows this.
Lottie wipes her cheek again. “I just wish it could’ve been better. After everything they went through.”
Oli watches Louis raise another glass, eyes glassy, posture defiant. The worry in his chest deepens.
“Me too,” he says.
~~..~~
The morning after is cruel.
Louis wakes with a dry mouth and a pounding head, the kind that feels like punishment. The curtains are drawn, but light still seeps through the edges, slicing across the floor like judgment. His shirt is half-buttoned, his jeans twisted around his ankles. He doesn’t remember getting home.
He remembers the drinks. The club. The way the bass thudded like a heartbeat he couldn’t feel anymore. He remembers Lottie’s eyes—wet and tired—and Oli’s voice, low and pleading. He remembers ignoring them both. He remembers ignoring everyone.
He sits up slowly, elbows on knees, palms pressed to his face. The ache in his chest is worse than the hangover. It’s familiar now. A companion.
Harry has gone public.
With a man.
The world has been waiting for it. Seventeen years of speculation, of grainy photos and coded lyrics and fans who swore they saw something in the way Harry looked at Louis. Twelve years since the band broke up. Twelve years since they stopped getting papped together. And still, the conspiracy lived on—fueled by hope, by longing, by the kind of faith that borders on religion.
They were waiting for Louis.
But Harry didn’t wait.
Louis exhales, slow and bitter. He remembers the ring—simple, silver, worn soft at the edges. Harry had held onto it for seven years. It was a promise. Louis promised it would be replaced with a wedding ring. Promised they’d marry in the eyes of God and everyone when the time was right.
But it never was and Louis’ timer ran out.
He had once whispered, “In 2025, my sunflower.” It was 2018, the year he got Harry back—after five long years of a hidden, fragile situationship that had unraveled the moment Harry suggested the hiatus. A break, he’d said. But Louis knew it was an escape. A quiet exit from a love that couldn’t breathe in the dark.
Back then, the closet felt suffocating. But the contracts were ironclad—signed in blood and silence, threatening to steal years and millions if they dared step out. So they stayed quiet. Stayed hidden.
And then 2025 arrived. The contracts expired. The world opened.
But Louis didn’t.
By then, the closet had become familiar. Stockholm Syndrome wrapped around him like a second skin. The irony. The silence wasn’t a cage anymore—it was comfort. And the promise he made, the one he’d clung to for years, wilted in the shadow of his own fear.
Harry had apologized. Quietly. Kindly. Like he always did. He’d placed the ring on the kitchen counter, next to Louis’ half-drunk tea, and said he couldn’t wait anymore. But he took the peace ring with him—the first one Louis had ever given, back when they were just friends teetering on the edge of something unspoken. That ring didn't promise Harry anything. But it gave him peace.
Louis had watched him leave. Hadn’t stopped him.
Two months later, he was dating Zara. Launching new designs for 28. Downloading TikTok. Releasing his album. Doing interviews. Going to festivals. Smiling like nothing was amiss.
He told Freddie that Harry had gone away for work. That he’d be back someday. That he was busy.
He let the lawyers handle the rest. The properties. The paperwork. It wasn’t complicated. They weren’t married.
“Thank God we didn’t get to that point,” he’d joked once, and Lottie had glared at him like he’d said something unforgivable. Oli hadn’t laughed. The others had looked away.
He led his life like he hadn’t been in a secret situationship and then relationship with his bandmate for over a decade. Like he hadn’t kissed Harry in dressing rooms and held him in hotel beds and whispered promises he never kept.
For a time, he thought he was fine.
And then, two months ago, Harry called.
Said he was seeing someone. Said he wasn’t hiding it. Said people might notice, and he wouldn’t deny it. Thought Louis should know.
Louis had snorted. Said he didn’t care.
Then drank himself into a stupor for a week.
How could Harry move on so quickly? How could he find a replacement in just two years?
But then Louis remembered: he’d dated Zara barely two months after Harry emptied his side of the drawer.
Now the world is celebrating. Harry Styles, finally out. Finally proud. Finally in love.
But it’s not Louis.
It could have been.
It should have been.
If only Louis hadn’t been a coward.
He stands, slowly, the room spinning. His eyes catch on the drawer—still half-empty. Still waiting.
He walks past it.
~~..~~
The kitchen smells like toast and tension.
Freddie sits quietly at the counter, legs swinging, spoon clinking against his cereal bowl. Lottie hovers nearby, fussing with the kettle, her movements sharp and clipped. She's going home to her own family later. Oli is at the table, flipping through Louis’ tour itinerary, trying to sound cheerful.
“Next stop’s Madrid,” Oli says, voice too bright. “Then Berlin. We can—”
Louis slumps into his seat, hoodie is pulled tight around his face, like armor. He doesn’t look up. Doesn’t care.
“Is Harry still all over the headlines?” he asks, voice flat, like he’s asking about the weather.
Lottie freezes. The kettle clicks off.
Oli glances between them, mouth parting to intervene, but Lottie’s already turning, eyes sharp. “Seriously?”
Louis shrugs. “What? I don’t have the right to gossip now?”
Lottie’s jaw tightens. “You don’t get to sit there and act like it isn’t killing you.”
Oli lifts a hand, trying to calm her. “Lotts—”
“No,” she snaps. “He doesn’t get to make light of it. Like Harry’s launching some fling. Like it’s a phase. Like he'll come back to you after.”
Louis’s fingers curl around his mug. “I didn’t say that.”
“You didn’t have to,” she says. “If Harry’s gathered the courage to tell the world about this man, then you best believe he’s committed. He’s not playing hide-and-leave-little-clues-that-the-unbelievers-wouldn't-notice, not this time.”
Louis’s eyes flash. “I’ve moved on too.”
Lottie scoffs, grabbing Freddie’s hand. “Right. Maybe you’ll finally have the balls to ask this one to marry. Or make her wait seven years too?”
Freddie looks up at his dad, eyes wide and quiet. Louis doesn’t meet them.
Lottie walks out, her footsteps sharp against the tile. Freddie follows, silent.
Louis is left at the table, fists clenched, heart pounding. The toast burns in the toaster. Oli sighs.
