Archive of Our Own ^beta

The click of the shutter earns him a dirty glare. Harry lowers the camera from his face, frowning at the unamused look his cat is giving him. 

“Don’t be mad. One of us has to pay the bills.” He stares pointedly as his cat continues to regard him in distaste. Penelope’s beautiful even when she’s annoyed, white fluffy fur and crystal clear blue eyes. He’s had her since she was a kitten, playful and hyperactive before she mellowed out into a beauty queen adult. “You looked beautiful, by the way.”

Still no reaction. She’s stone-faced, regal and unmoved. 

If you ask anybody Harry knows, they’d say it's because he spoils her, though he vehemently denies it. It’s not spoiling to have her on a raw diet, he cares about what she eats just as much as he does about himself. Nutrition is incredibly important! If anything he’s just a very good pet owner. Now the pearl collar and frequent grooming sessions that resemble an overly-expensive spa? Or the expensive toys, furniture, and treats? 

Well… anyway…

He runs a hand through his hair, still damp from his morning shower, and sets his camera on the counter. It’s a ritual, his lovely morning routine that keeps him motivated and doubles as his me-time. Waking up, feeding Penelope (raw rabbit this week, sourced from a specialty butcher he has to pretend isn’t overpriced), and then talking to her like she’s a roommate with bills to split. Which… if you think about it, she is.

”Nutrition is important,” he mutters to himself as he preps his own breakfast: soft boiled eggs, a slice of sourdough, and half an avocado. It’s most definitely L.A. of him, but Harry actually does kind of care what goes into his body. Plus, it’s nothing that will leave his hands too greasy to reload film with and he’ll have the energy to be productive.

The light through the window is soft and golden, perfect for shooting. He finishes his coffee listening to EPIC: The Musical, annoying his cat by dramatically sing-yelling her name in her direction whenever it comes up in the shuffled songs. He already packed his camera bag last night, a belovedly-worn green bag graying in places. It also has a few buttons here and there, along with his initials messily stitched into the side with yellow and pink thread. 

He’s had it for so long that he dreads the day he’ll have to get a new one. It’s often filled with three rolls of Kodak Potra 400 and his most prized possession, his Rolleiflex 3.5. Granted, as a photographer all of his cameras are his prized possessions, but this one is the most special to him.

It’s one of the most used cameras of his favorite photographer in history, Vivian Maier. He’d first learned about her in high school, an assignment in an elective he’d thought would be a fun way to pass time forming into an all-out obsession. There’s something about the way she disappeared into her photos, a mere observer or participant rather than a creative trying to assert an ego or authorship of the image. 

She’s his inspiration for all of his photos, his portfolio a mosaic of himself and her. Analyzing her photos taught him so much about photography, so much skill and creativity. A lot of his passion for photography is a result of that, actually. He thanks God he happened into that elective everyday.

Harry takes one last look at Penelope, still politely licking at her food like the royal she is, and strolls out the door with a good feeling about the upcoming day.

📸

The best and worst part of street photography is that nothing is planned because nothing is guaranteed. That’s kind of the whole point. 

He wanders, blending into the life of the city around him. Commuters crammed on cafe terraces, teens sitting on their stoops, kids with ice cream and scraped knees. Harry’s attentive but patient as he observes; never really knowing what action is going to make the moment. The story in the shot. A gesture, a shadow, a cigarette curl… these are the details that he looks for. The simple moments that are glossed over by most people on the day-to-day.

Today, he ends up around a bakery that catches the height of the light between 9am and 10am, bouncing off the sunny yellow tiles and turning people’s faces into soft sketches of themselves. A woman bites into a croissant, powdered sugar falling to little white dots on her scarf. A man about to leave is reading a receipt like it’s a ransom note while a delivery boy balances six boxes of pastries with a furrowed brow.

The best part of his Rolleiflex is the top viewfinder. There’s no revealing lift to the eye that ruins the candid quality of the moments he captures. Just a whisper of the shutter and a slight movement of his shoulders. He times it with traffic, with coughs, with a gust of wind.

Click.

He advances the film with this thumb, smiling to himself even though he can’t be sure that the photo is good. Harry keeps moving after that, stopping at a stand to grab a pamphlet that he may or may not read. On a bus, he sits backward and watches people react to the morning the day gives them.

Three wide shots for context, two mediums for rhythm, then if the universe is on his side, one tight frame that stops time. 

Lunch is usually a sandwich or takeout from somewhere nearby if it catches Harry’s eye - or stomach. He’ll take whatever meal he’s eating outside to sit on a bench with pigeons staring at him like they expect a cut. Most of the time he flips through his notebook between bites if it’s something he can eat one handed, going over his scribbled composition ideas, notes on movement… a quote he overheard this morning from a man yelling into a phone about a divorce. If he can, Harry tries to collect words as much as images, his entire notebook practically nonsensical to anybody but him.

It’s his entire mind as a creative, the birth of every idea sparked along the thinly lined pages. 

By the time he  devours his food, it’s afternoon. The city is still restlessly moving around him. If he’s feeling particularly uninspired, he might pause in his session and hit a gallery or visit the print shop where he sometimes develops. Mostly though he prefers to do things in the comfort of his own space, and following in the footsteps of having his bathroom double as a darkroom. Partly just like Vivan, yet mostly because L.A. is expensive and why not save expenses where you can? 

The days he does stop by the shop, sometimes he meets other photographers. A mix of friends, exes, occasional enemies but mostly it’s just him and the city when he’s out. Absent-mindedly, he stares through the glass of a cafe, watching a young boy press his nose to the window. There’s syrup on his fingers. Behind him, his mother is cutting up the waffles on the plate in front of them for the boy.

Click.

He lowers the camera, breath held. Developing the photo will tell him if the focus caught the boy’s eyes or his reflection in the glass. Either way, he knows he got it. 

By golden hour, he’s chasing the light as the sun starts to dip lower and lower to a soft dusk. Glass glints as it goes, and electric signs start to flicker on like stars giving into the oncoming night. 

The market district is one of his favorite places to shoot although it poses a hell of a lot more challenges. Here, people notice when there’s a camera pointed at them. They bristle, get suspicious, have even yelled at him before. Harry always tries to be respectful, knows that not everyone is comfortable having their picture taken and is always willing to delete it if he’s shooting digitally or leave it out of his portfolio if it’s shot on film. Even the incredible ones that fill him with sadness to be unseen. 

Which is why he’ll never understand the aggressive interactions he’s had, ones where he’s been shoved. Or worse, when a man tried to snatch the Leica from around his neck and Harry had to run three blocks with his heart racing and his lungs working overtime.

Still, even with all of that, he had gotten the shot. It’s better for him though in tense areas to change tactics. Use reflections like storefront windows, rain puddles, or mirrors on vendor carts. He’ll shoot over his shoulder, blind, relying on his instinct and angle for a decent shot.

A butcher jokes with a boy, red apron blooming like violence between them. 

Click.

A woman wipes her mouth with the back of her hand after sipping from a fountain.

Click.

A couple argues in silence, crossed arms and hard stares as they just take each other in.

Click.

Getting lost in the rhythm is so easy, and it’s not long before he’s almost out of rolls to shoot with. There’s a cello player returning from a break, setting into a lilting song as the smell of roasted almonds drifts sparingly in the breeze. Harry grins, advancing the film after having caught the perfect photo of a kid’s back to him balancing on the curb with the sun positioned behind his head like a halo. Excited butterflies fill his stomach, his mind already daydreaming about developing that specific shot.

As he turns to adjust his position, just five steps to the right to catch the sun flare off a car window, that’s when he sees him.

Time doesn’t stop but he does, the heart-tilting reality of beauty walking across the street from him like he isn’t rearranging the entire geometry of it.

Harry’s completely still, mouth parted like his body is so overwhelmed he has to take in more air than his nose will allow. As much as his friends would argue differently and as much as he loves musical theatre, Harry’s not one for dramatics. He likes quiet art, gentle truth, and film because it forces patience and a purposeful sort of decoding but this man looks like a love song personified.

Beautiful in that absurd, impossible way that makes you forget to breathe. Not polished or posed but photogenic. Naturally, devastatingly photogenic. Like every angle had been painted in warm light and soft shadows by some divine hand that knew how to frame desire. 

Brown hair curls only at his ears, and there’s a jawline that could cut Harry’s thoughts in half. Skin golden in the afternoon light as it had been radiating from inside him this whole time and nobody had realized. Cheekbones kissed by the edge of that same light, and he was wearing black slacks and a coat that lingers just a bit behind his movement.

And the way he moves, nonchalantly confident as he weaves through any pedestrians walking his direction. His eyes, when they flick up, are summer-sky blue as he smiles enchantingly at a child passing by waving enthusiastically at him.

Harry doesn’t even think to lift his camera, doesn’t even blink. There’s a hundred better options than staring intently like a murderer in the middle of a public sidewalk; he could step forward, press the shutter, try to find a way to speak but all he can actually manage to do is stare dumbfounded. 

The man keeps walking, and by the time Harry’s brain kicks back into gear enough to spark the want to chase the frame, to snap something even if it’s a blur or the back of his head, he’s already slipped between diner umbrellas and vanished.

Gone.

Despite lingering around with half a roll of film to kill, Harry doesn’t take another photo that day. Just walks around with loose fingers on the grip of his camera, heart too full and too stupid to make room for anything else. Everything else he sees is suddenly less somehow. The light is still good, the colors still appealing, but the moment is over. 

And he hadn’t gotten it, too starstruck to try. When he gets home, Penelope is waiting on top of her throne - also known as the counter. Her food dish is precisely 22 minutes late and he knows by the slow narrow of her eyes that she won’t forgive him soon for it.

Sighing, he murmurs his apologies to her disgruntled huffs as he feeds her. The raw rabbit contrasts a bit with her white and gold-trimmed porcelain dish, Harry staring at her as she sniffs it once then settles in to eat it. She turns to look at him as he steps away, meowing grumpily to further affirm she expects her diner on time.

”Yeah, yeah,” Harry agrees, toeing off his boots at the door. “I’m the worst. But you still got your food, didn’t you?”

She ignores him, but he guesses if he was hangry he would too. That’s fair. 

His apartment is modest but lovingly curated with things that make him happy. The wood floor creaks under his socked feet as he moves to the low shelf where he stores his film. A mismatched cabinet that he found on the side of the road and made Zayn and Liam help transport. Niall had somehow evaded that endeavor even though Harry had dutifully cooked dinner in exchange for the help.

The cabinet holds most of his darkroom supplies; cluttered with canisters, boxes, neatly coiled wires, and a stack of sketchbooks filled to the brim of contact sheet thumbnails and scribbled notes. The scent of fixer lingers faintly under the cedar wood candle that he always forgets to blow out.

Carefully he unloads the camera, sliding the used rolls into a labeled box. Collapsing onto his couch with a heavy sigh, he tries in vain not to mourn the lost shot. Consoling himself with the philosophy that he at least lived inside the moment if he couldn’t have it forever with him on film. 

Plus, the more he thinks about it, he’s not sure the camera could’ve handled it anyway. Because that man? He looked like he was made to be missed, forever haunting Harry’s mind as the portrait that got away.

The cushion sags even further underneath him, worn from years of late-night edits and existential monologues. It's an ugly old thing he swore he’d replace two years ago but when it comes down to it, he gets too sentimental thinking of how many memories live in it. 

He leans back against it, his cat swishing  her tail as she considers whether or not to join him on the couch. Then finally, she lets out a soft empathetic mrrrp, and jumps on top of him.

“Do you think I’m lucky enough to see him again? I mean, he could live in the city.” Harry threads his fingers through her fur, her paw coming up to bat at him playfully.

It’s just that…the man was gorgeous, an angel gracing his eyes and alluring him. He wishes he would have gotten a picture. He could have framed it.

God, maybe he is dramatic. Harry can never let the lads know about this melodramatic spiral. He can already hear them roasting him in the groupchat. Liam would send gifs of a collapsing Victorian woman. Niall would say something about how he probably fell in love with a passing coat rack again. Zayn might get it, but he’d still make a face and tell Harry to touch grass.

“Penelope, don’t tell Zayn about this next time he watches you.”

She winks.

Harry sighs, sitting back even further, thinking about the art that walked by him today.

📸

The bar is dimly lit, an orange glow from the overhead lanterns illuminating the room, the only source of light aside from the half-curtained windows. For a Saturday night, it’s oddly empty, just a small ruckus of men at a faraway table and a trio of women sitting up at the stools, flirting with the bartender like it's an olympic sport. There’s a game playing on a TV, the men cheering and booing at it among large glasses of beert. Harry’s eyes find his own crowd immediately by the booths, Niall noticing him first and waving his hand in the air as if he’s summoning a deity.

“There he is! Harry! Get over here before Liam starts trauma dumping about his job again!”

Harry laughs to himself, smiling as he walks by the bartender and sidles down in the booth next to Zayn, Liam diagonally across from him and Niall in front. “Hi guys!”

“Hey, Harry! How you been?” Harry opens his mouth to answer, but Liam suddenly interrupts again. “God, I know we all see each other every week but it feels like a lifetime has passed every time. I could write a memoir between visits,” Liam sighs.

Niall laughs, nudges Liam, “Well that’s probably because you’re still working that shitty office job you said you’d only work for a couple months. How long has it been now?”

Liam rolls his eyes. “Don’t even start.”

Niall does, because starting is his favourite thing to do, and he and Liam start going at it with jokeful nabs at each other. Harry smiles and looks around at the group. Zayn’s also smiling, amused at the small squabble playing out. He’s cupping a bottle of beer in two hands, a tall glass of water with a straw off to the side. Niall’s got a Guinness, no surprise about that, but Harry can’t make out what drink Liam’s got. It looks like something fruity though, and it makes Harry exhale out a small laugh at how unlike Liam that is. He’ll ask about it later.

Liam sees the look though. “Don’t say a word. It’s called a Miami Mist and it’s delicious.”

The conversation pauses for a moment, his eyes widening as he seemingly remembers what he’d asked before his and Niall’s little dispute came about. “Oh, yeah! Harry! How are you? How’s your week been? Sorry, someone wanted to distract me.”

Harry laughs again — he’s almost always laughing whenever he’s with the boys — and leans back in his chair, grabbing Zayn’s straw wrapper and folding it between his fingertips like an accordion. “Pretty alright. I went shooting a bit around the city. I caught a couple of good pictures I might toss in my portfolio. There was one I got of a boy pressing his face up against the glass of that cafe downtown that I’m really hoping will turn out good. I still have to develop it though, to see.”

Zayn gasps, perking up and excitedly turning his body to look at him. “Can you show me that once it’s done?”

Harry smiles, “Of course.” Zayn’s always liked to see Harry’s pictures, even the ones that turn out to be badly-focused or overexposed once they’re developed. He’s mostly into painting, his house an organised mess of canvases and spray paint cans, but he’ll listen to Harry gush about the little details in his pictures. What he’s proud of, what he can’t believe he managed to accomplish or capture, what inspired them. Harry has met plenty of fellow photographers, but it’s a really nice feeling to have his best friend care so much about his interests.

“So, that’s all you’ve got going on with you right now? Just shooting?” Harry goes to open his mouth, offended, but Liam quickly cuts him off. “Yes, and Penelope. Can’t forget your emotional support feline.”

“Some people have partners. I have a 12-pound gremlin who bites me and sleeps on my face.” Harry huffs, poking out his bottom lip. He likes his quiet, simple life. How many people get to do what they love every day and make money with it? How many people get to explore and create art as much as Harry does? How many people can walk into any place and see the beauty in it, want to capture it with the excited stomach-full of butterflies Harry gets? Even in the pub, with its dingy lighting and sticky floors, Harry finds himself wishing he’d brought his camera.

“I did see God walking down the street yesterday. I didn’t get a picture though.”

Niall, mid-sip, promptly spits his beer all over the table and partially on Liam’s hand in an unexpected cackle. He quickly recovers, face and neck flushing a dark red as he catches the irritated look from Liam and reaches for a pile of napkins to clean it up, apologising squeakily.

Harry laughs, arms crossed as he grins at the karma. 

“You saw… God… walking down the street?” Niall asks, his eyes tinted with mostly hilarity and a little concern, like he thinks Harry might be losing it. Which… rude.

Harry shrugs, playing it off. Zayn’s quietly sipping his water now, glancing between Liam, who’s started to dab at his own sticky hand, and Harry. “Well, he was a god, that’s for sure. I swear, I’ve never seen a man more hypnotising than him. It felt like I was stargazing when I saw him.”

“That’s cheesy,” Niall says, amused.

Zayn takes a sip of his water. “How come you didn’t get a picture?”

Liam laughs suddenly, confusing the table for a second with the unexpected change in mood. He points an accusatory finger. “I bet he was too busy gawking to think about snapping one.”

“Well… Uh…” Harry stutters, not knowing what to say. 

“Oh my God,” Liam guffaws in shock. “Oh my God, you were.”

“Did you get lightheaded? Bit dizzy? Want to cry a little?”

Yes, yes, and yes.

Harry’s eyes widen. “No!”

“Harry’s got a crush!” Niall declares, and the table erupts into laughter. Harry sits embarrassed, a bead of sweat and shame running down on his forehead. The bartender is looking over now, eyebrows quirked, and the girls are staring judgmentally like they assume Harry’s crush in question is one of them. Harry really debates sliding off this chair and letting the ground swallow him up.

All protests go ignored by the boys, even when Harry argues that it was more artistic captivation than gawking, more admiration than infatuation.

“That’s kind of really embarrassing for you,” Zayn mocks playfully. Which, fuck him because they’re the ones making it embarrassing. “Simped so hard you couldn’t even take a picture.”

Harry slips a little further down the seat. “He was really pretty, okay? You would have simped too.”

His face heats up with the immediate realisation that he didn’t even deny simping, but the boys don’t make fun of him for it, at least.

“I don’t know, Harry,” Niall cuts in. “You’ve always had an eye for angles but definitely not men.”

“Yeah! Remember Noah!”

“I conveniently erased that face from my memory,” Zayn says.

“He was handsome!” Harry tries. Noah was admittedly not very handsome, and Harry was really only with him for his personality (it was a good one!), but that’s not going to help his case right now. He knows that man from the street deserves to be on a magazine cover or hung in the Louvre. And that’s not even his opinion. It’s just an objective fact.

Niall laughs. “We both know he wasn’t.”

“He looked like someone got bored halfway through drawing a man,” Liam solemnly adds.

Harry scrunches his face and sits up now, slightly annoyed that they don’t believe him. “I’m telling you guys. This man was gorgeous. I was in love with Noah; of course I’m going to think he’s pretty. But I have no connection to this man and when I tell you I was stopped in place like someone just paused the simulation. Even a car stopped!”

“Probably because it was a red light,” Zayn deadpans.

The table goes quiet for a moment, not too jarring since the other men are still making a ruckus with their beers and their hollering over the game, but they stare at him with squinting, calculating eyes. Like they think he’s delusional, like Harry’s not a photographer who knows pretty from the not-so-pretty.

“You know what?” he says, a little more playful now, but still wildly defensive over this. This is much more than just some personal attack; he’s not going to let them slander that man anymore. He was an angel. He was grace and divinity combined and he doesn’t deserve this doubt from Harry’s friends. “I’ll get a picture of him. It’s a big city but I’m out nearly every day. I’m sure I’ll see him again soon.”

Zayn crooks his brow, a smile on his face, “You’re really serious about this.”

Harry nods. 

“Sure,” Niall says, “but I’m not believing you until I see a picture.”

“That’s fine. I’m gonna get it.”

“If you don’t just stop and gawk again, that is,” and Harry nearly slaps Liam for that.

“Can’t wait to see blurry ankles from across the street.” He does slap Zayn for that… on the arm - petulantly - but still.

He will get the picture. He’ll prove it to them.

He’ll see him again.

📸

Absolutely no thought had actually gone through his head when he told the boys that he’d capture photographic proof. None. Not a whisper of logic. Not even a fleeting shadow of common sense. His focus had been to justify that he had a perfectly reasonable reaction to seeing a walking divine presence in the middle of the market district. However… he knows nothing about the man. Not his name, not his routine, not even if he lives in the city or was just passing through on his way to ruin lives in some other unfortunately lucky postcode.

He could have been a tourist. Or worse, an illusion conjured by a deadly combination of street food fumes and Harry’s unchecked capacity for yearning.

Which pretty much throws a huge immovable wrench in his plan. An industrial-sized wrench. The kind that requires scaffolding and two licensed contractors to carry.

The boys have been mercilessly teasing him for days. Niall said he sounded like he’d hallucinated someone hot after too many lonely nights with Penelope. Liam asked if he needed to “talk to someone professionally.” Zayn just looked at him over the rim of his espresso and said, “Did he have wings, or were those just metaphorical?”

Harry, of course, had not dignified that with an answer. Because yes, it was possibly metaphorical. But also maybe not because he knows what he saw. The man had been real, like sculpture and poetry and an indie film scored by Bon Iver all rolled into one coat.

And yet, here he is. At his desk, in his flat, curled over a notebook like he’s mapping out the location of a buried artifact. The lamplight was soft and gold, falling over the ink on the page where he’d scrawled:

Friday, 5:42 PM
Corner of Market Street

Weather: Clear, late sun, breeze westward
Smelled cinnamon roasted almonds from the cart three stalls down
Street musician was playing a cello, song unknown.

He was walking westward. Alone. 

He taps the pen against his lips and adds, almost sheepishly:

Looked like art. In motion.

Harry closes the notebook and holds it against his chest like it might steady his heart. 

“People don’t just show up again because you hope hard enough,” he mutters aloud then groans as he flops onto his bed, the notebook falling to the side. He’s being ridiculous. He knows that. People don’t reappear because you write their coordinates down in a notebook like a lovesick time traveler. 

They don't walk past you again just because you replayed the moment over and over until it lost all sharpness and left only longing. You can’t reverse-engineer fate. That’s not how the world works.

But the thing is he had noticed details. Every single thing about the moment had branded itself in his memory. The man’s silhouette backlit by the amber glow of late afternoon, the way his hair curled slightly at the ends like he didn’t fuss with it, the long, sure stride that made it feel like the crowd parted for him without his asking. And the expression on his face was serene, unreadable. Like he was in a dream Harry didn’t know how to stay inside.

He’d seen his eyes. That was the part that made everything else feel like it could be real. Just a glance, fleeting and cool, but Harry had felt it like sunlight on bare skin. 

Now it has been days, and he’s spiraling.

He’d gone back to the market twice already, aimless, half-hoping, half-hating himself for hoping. And now he’s planning to go again. Same day. Same time. Dressed as he had then — white button-up, old corduroy trousers, and brown leather boots — because what if the man remembers him too?

Delusional, he thinks bitterly as he throws on his coat and grabs his film camera. Full-on unwell.

Still, he’s there by 5:30 PM. Leaning on a lamppost on market street, trying to look casual, like he just happens to be standing there with a camera clutched to his chest. He checks the camera twice, no, three times. He carefully rewinds the film, opens the back, replaces the roll with a fresh one, threads it carefully, and shuts the camera with a satisfied click.

Then he pauses. Opens it again. Checks the alignment.

Right. Good. Closed.

It feels obsessive. It is obsessive. But if by some absurd grace the universe decides to deliver him that man again, he needs to be ready. He needs proof. Not just for the boys who teased him for being dramatic, but for himself.

The late afternoon sun kisses the shop windows gold, the best moment to take warm-lit photos. The cello player is there again with a different tune, but it still gives the place a kind of slow, romantic ache. A family passes him, children shrieking about a store they want to visit. A group of friends laugh quietly near the bench by the florist. He pretends to fiddle with the focus ring on his lens, but his eyes are trained on the stream of people.

5:40 PM. He feels ridiculous as he adjusts the strap on his camera. Checks the settings again. Light meter. Focus. Film advance lever. Everything is ready.

5:41. He tugs his sleeves down and debates leaving. Maybe he should just go home, have a normal day. Eat pasta or knit something that he could force Penelope to model in. Cat photos always do well and he’s predictably certain she’s the prettiest cat in the world.

5:42.

He holds his breath, anxious anticipation ricocheting through his nervous system.

And then.

Here. Again.

He’s here.

Walking. The same slow, composed gait. An olive green jacket that makes his skin look tan and track pants, a simple outfit that’s short circuiting Harry’s perception of reality. Like time had folded neatly into itself and delivered him back.  He looks just as devastating as Harry remembers, just as precise and untouchable.

Harry freezes. A lightning bolt of disbelief struck down his spine.

No fucking way.

The man’s head turns slightly, hair catching the light. For a breathless second, Harry thinks…could he be looking—?

But it passes. The man keeps walking.

Harry’s too stunned to automatically lift his camera, too rattled that by some miracle he has gotten what he’d hoped for. His brain is a chorus of screaming thoughts:

You were right, he’s real, he’s real, he came back, holy shit you didn’t hallucinate him you’re not crazy maybe you are crazy but at least it worked—

He raises it, breath caught, eyes burning with disbelief and something dangerously close to hope. Frames the man in the viewfinder, tracks the movement, clicks the shutter once. Twice. Again. The sound of the shutter barely disturbs anyone as it sounds through the market air, but it's a victory horn for him. Harry lowers the camera with trembling fingers, chest rising and falling like he’d just run a mile.

He did it.

He actually did it.

A laugh falls out of the wild grin on his face, a loud but short amazed sound. “No one’s gonna believe this but I got you, you bastard. I got you.”

Harry basically skips home, camera in hand. The film! The evidence! The boys will have to apologize. They’ll have to eat their words. They’ll owe him free drinks and an apology haiku.

He can’t wait even as he hurriedly unlocks his front door, fingers itching. Set up the darkroom space in his bathroom, hands moving on instinct. Film out, reels ready, developer measured. The ritual soothes him despite his impatience to see the shots.

He drops the roll into his developing tank like a seasoned pro, dances around the kitchen while the chemicals work their magic, humming to the tune the cellist had played. I’m so lucky, I’m so lucky, life is great.

Until he pulls the negatives out.

And sees…

Nothing.

No.

No, no, no, no.

Just. White. Streaky. Hell. One blurry shadow that might’ve been a coat. Or a bench. Or a ghost.

“What—no, no, no—” He leans in, heart dropping into his stomach. “You’ve got to be joking.” The film hadn’t aligned properly. Half the roll hadn’t even caught. And the rest is so badly exposed, it looks like it’s been developed in a microwave. He flips through the ruined strip, holding it up to the light like it might magically transform.

“Behold,” he sputters out as if he’s presenting it to the boys, mock-serious, “my evidence. This... this smudge here? That’s his essence. His aura. This burnt patch? That’s when his beauty overwhelmed the camera and it self-destructed. Naturally.”

Penelope meows and jumps up onto the counter, knocking over a bottle of fixer with a careless paw. Harry lunges to catch it and bangs his hip on the sink.

“Penelope, now is not the time for sabotage. He was right there.” 

He drops to the floor and stares at the negatives, pointing accusingly. “You were right there. You were in the frame. I saw you. And this—this is what I get? A light-drenched smudge and half a cello guy?!”

Penelope purrs unsympathetically and rubs her head against his chin.

Harry sighs dramatically, flopping his head back like a fainting damsel. “I was so close. I was going to frame it, Pen. I was going to gloat. I had a whole group chat meme folder planned. They’re going to bully me. I will never recover.”

He looks at her with wild eyes. “Do you think it’s a sign? Maybe he’s not meant to be photographed. Maybe he’s a mirage. A metaphor. A walking hallucination brought to life by unmet emotional needs.”

Penelope blinks at him, licks her paw and tries to step heavily onto his stomach. 

“…Right. Same time next week, then,” Harry mutters, begrudgingly lifting his hand to lay it on his cat.

Because of course he’ll be going back. He doesn’t have a photo… but he does have a crush.

🐍📸 The Lads (No Penelope Allowed)

Liam:
Just got off the phone with God. He said “tell Harry to give it up.”

Niall:
HE DEVELOPED A WHOLE ROLL OF NOTHING LMAO
That camera said ✨ Absolutely not ✨

Zayn:
You captured his essence though
That little smudge really speaks to me
Like vapor…like mystery…like delusion

Harry:
It was a misalignment
The film didn’t catch right!! It was a technical mishap!!

Niall:
sure bro
technical mishap = the man is a sexy cryptid and cameras can’t hold his form

Liam:
Wait no what if it’s like vampire rules
He can’t be photographed because he’s an immortal dreamboat with unfinished business

Zayn:
Unfinished business = emotionally wrecking Harry in a public market

Harry:
I hate you all
Genuinely 

Niall:
nah you love us
But not as much as you love hot blurry ghost man

Liam:
Also let’s not skip past the part where he wrote his MARKET SIGHTING like a scientific field note

Zayn:
“Subject observed at 17:42”
“weather : ripe for romance and emotional instability”

Harry:
Block me
Go ahead
End this groupchat right now

Niall:
We can’t. We must document this 

Liam:
He’s gonna show up next time and Harry’s gonna faint and blame it on “sun exposure”

Zayn:
If you do get a photo
Can we all get laminated little copies for our wallets

Harry:
If I ever get a picture of him
I’m making it your contact photos 
All of you

Niall:
Do it
I want to be emotionally damaged every time my phone rings

Zayn:
Same 
I want to weep at brunch

Liam:
Iconic.
Can’t wait for next week’s blurry heartbreak update

Harry:
🖕
🖕🖕🖕
🖕

Niall:
“The light was perfect. My soul was ready. Film…kept us apart” - harry, 2025

Zayn:
Put that on your grave

Liam:
no wait put it on a tote bag I’d buy that

Harry:
You’re all demons.
See you next week ❤️

📸

Harry doesn’t give up. This time, he checked before he left the house that the film was properly aligned, and he keeps checking it out of anxiety the entire time as he walks back to the street the man haunts. He’s not sure if it’s a routine walk, like he’s on his way to work or a friend’s place for dinner, or if Harry just has tremendous luck to find him there both times, but either way, it’s his only lead.

“ISO, shutter speed, aperture. ISO, shutter speed, aperture,” Harry whispers to himself under his breath. He must look insane to anyone he’s passing, checking the film over and over and chanting like a mad man, and he’s sure he’s recognised by some at this point. He’s always out here and he did get chased that one time and yelled-at numerous others.

He doesn’t really care. He has to get this photo.

It’s not even so much because he wants to prove it to the boys anymore. He does, but it’s also because he also wants this picture for himself. The man is gorgeous, jaw-droppingly so, and he’d look beautiful in Harry’s portfolio. Harry doesn’t even think there’d be anything to edit if he could just get a good shot, with how the sun radiates off him like a glass sculpture. He almost wishes he could ask the man to model for him so he could get more than just one or two good shots.

Harry’s still aware of his surroundings even as he’s lost in his head and the rhythmic whispering. There’s a couple scenes he passes by — a young woman helping an elderly man across the street, two little boys racing down the crowded streets on skateboards, a couple kissing sweetly across the car’s middle storage compartment as they wait for traffic to move on — and Harry considers snapping a couple quick pictures, but he worries he won’t have enough for the man. If he manages to get the settings right, he’d like to try and take as many as he can in the short timespan of him walking by.

He reaches the street, stopping on the sidewalk to wait. Last time, the man strolled past about five minutes from the time it is right now, so Harry’s hoping he’ll be able to catch him. God, he hopes so. It’s all he thinks about now, some strange obsession with getting a picture of him. He knows he doesn’t have a chance in the world of getting any sort of attention from him, but it’s not bad to dream.

The boys were right, unfortunately. Harry is kind of simping.

He zones out, thoughts clouding his mind as he gazes at the consecutive white lines along the asphalt. He’s just wondering if there’s any cool picture he could do with them while he waits, when a pair of feet interrupts his vision. Harry’s eyes snap up.

It’s him.

The man is more beautiful today than he was the last time Harry had seen him. His hair is styled, neat and slick rather than last time’s brush-through with curling pieces, and his jaw is covered in light stubble. It makes him look softer, less intimidating and a little more gentle, but then Harry sees his eyes and that all flies out the window. 

Bright blue like the sky, a little crinkle in them like he’s smiled too much in this life. They remind Harry of the joys of flying a kite and watching the ribbons wisp among the canvas, of the calm happiness he used to get from cloud-watching. Harry wants to see him smile, wants to see a little star appear and take a picture of it.

The man could be a star. Harry wonders absentmindedly if he is. There’s no way a man looking like that isn’t popular online.

He walks at the same unrushed pace as he did before, a phone to his ear and a happy smile on his face, and Harry wonders where he’s going. He wonders where this man works, what he does for a living and if he enjoys his job like Harry does. He wonders if the person he’s talking to is family, a friend, or even a significant other, as jealous as that makes him. He wants to learn things about him, but that’s kind of the quiet reason why Harry likes street photography. 

He’s always felt a sense of sonder since he was a kid, taking the bus to school and wondering what kind of homes or places the other kids were coming from. He tries to evoke that realisation in his photographs, that everyone is somebody real and has their own story, even if Harry will only take one photo of a small, usually insignificant fraction of their life and never see them again, never even speak to them most times.

Sometimes, when it’s a quiet night and he can’t sleep because of his thoughts, he looks through his pictures. He swipes through the thousands of photos he’s taken and he pays attention to every detail of the people in them, every subtle tense of their shoulders or emotion in their eyes, and he wonders how they’re doing now. If they’re where they want to be in their lives. He comes up with backstories and dreams just for the fun of it, and he thinks this is what it’s all about. This is what he hopes people feel and think about when they look at his pictures. He hopes they look inside the image rather than just at it, hopes that they see the beauty in it and let their minds sonder.

He wants his pictures to mean something, even if it has to be looked for.

The man is a little closer now, in the middle of crossing the street, and Harry’s brain finally kicks in that he came here with a mission. He raises his camera, checking one more time that the film is aligned properly before he quickly adjusts his settings. He remembers a time when he wouldn’t have been able to get this shot, his fingers too slow to change the settings accurately and accordingly, but throughout the years Harry’s advanced that skill. He’s thankful for it; more than half of his favourite shots wouldn’t have happened were it not for quick adjustments. 

He’s especially thankful for it now when he puts the camera up to his eye and watches the man, in all his divine beauty, walk toward him, oblivious to the fact that he’s being photographed. His voice floats through the air like music notes. Harry’s finger poses on the shutter button. He makes sure he’s catching the little shine from the setting sun on the man’s hair.

Clic–

“Shit!” Harry jumps, a sudden interruption in his view and the loud curse starling him. He lowers the camera. Blinks twice and his eyebrows knit together.

There’s a giant condom in his face.

Some teenage boy in a mascot costume is staring horrifiedly at Harry, and Harry’s pretty sure he has much the same expression on his face. What the fuck?

“Sorry! Sorry! I didn’t realise you were taking a picture! I didn’t mean to get in the way!”

Harry blinks, remembers what he was doing. Fuck. He looks around the condom’s non-existent shoulder and sighs in partial relief when he sees the man’s still there. He’s looking at something on the opposing street as he steps onto the sidewalk again.

“That’s okay. Can you m—”

“Oh shit! That’s a sick camera! Did you know my mom’s a pretty big-name magazine photographer? Time and Rolling Stone and shit.”

“She must be proud of you,” Harry dismisses. He doesn’t have the patience for this, not when he’s about to miss his shot of the man. “Can you move, please?”

The boy’s face hardens. “What the fuck is that supposed to mean? Hey, being a condom is grueling work but I’m not ashamed because I’m making much more than my coworkers. Oh! Don’t be silly, wrap your willy! Do you want to purchase a 12-pack of extra—”

“No. Move, please.”

The words go over the condom’s head (tip?), his anger dissipating as his face lights up. The man walks by him, and he glances over with a held-in laugh on his face and Harry’s both enamoured and humiliated. “Oh my god! Dude, can you, like, send me that picture you got? I bet it’s funny as fuck and if it’s good maybe the wellness shop could use it as promo.”

“Go away, please.”

“Here, I’ll give you my number! It’s—”

“Can you fuck off?” he says, pushing the condom away, but the man is already gone. He wisps away through umbrellas as he did last time, and Harry doesn’t have the confidence to chase after him.

Fuck. He didn’t get the picture again. Three times in a row he’s missed it. What kind of photographer is he?

The condom swears at him and walks off but it doesn’t render properly in Harry’s mind. He probably looks like an idiot, shoulders slumped, standing in the middle of the sidewalk and staring off into the distance like he’s searching for a long-lost lover who never showed.

He thought he had it. He did have it, until that fucking condom stopped protecting and started harrassing. 

Harry sighs. He clicks his camera off and spins on his heel. He is not giving up and he will get that picture, just not today it seems. Maybe he can at least try for a couple random ones on the walk back home.

That little bit of optimism is pretty much ruined when he walks past the condom again mid-advertisement. “Don’t be silly, wrap your willy! Do you want to purchase a 12-pack of extra large, Pickle-Pop-flavoured condoms for half off the original price!”

He says that.

To an elderly couple.

Harry reserves himself from tripping the boy.

🐍📸 The Lads (No Penelope Allowed)

Niall:
bro u got cockblocked by contraception 😭😭😭

Zayn:
this is so poetic
ur art boy fate is being thwarted by safe sex
harry you’re literally the main character in an A24 comedy now

Liam:
Wait wait wait.
So you were finally about to get the shot of your street photography Greek god
AND A TEEN IN A GIANT RUBBER JUMPSCARE’D YOU????

Niall:
“he wisps away like he did last time”
babe did you write that with a quill??

Zayn:
harry opened his diary and wrote
“day 17: the phantom of the pavement eludes me again.
a condom haunts the frame. i am undone.”

Harry:
i hate you all actually
i’m out here risking my sanity and social dignity
for art
for beauty
for a story

Niall:
you’re out here like
“ISO. Shutter. Aperture.”
like a stressed wizard casting spells
and a lad in a pickle-scented condom popped your dream like a balloon 😩

Liam:
A PICKLE POP FLAVOUR TOO
what in the name of god is wrong with Gen Z marketing

Zayn:
i want to believe this man is starting to notice you
just like
“why is that frantic curly-haired lad always whispering camera incantations when i walk by”

Harry:
he laughed a little this time.
not at me i don’t think
but i definitely died inside regardless

Niall:
you’re gonna get the pic eventually
and it’ll be so hot
and you’ll send it to us all and we’ll cry

Zayn:
we’ll lie and say “yeah that’s cool”
but secretly we’ll know he’s the one
and harry’s gonna elope with a street angel who glows under golden hour

Liam:
still can’t believe you missed it because of a talking condom
god is writing one hell of a rom-com for you

Harry:
i’m gonna frame the photo when i get it
and then frame the condom too
so future generations know my suffering

Niall:
call it
“The One That Got Away (ft. Durex Danny)”

Zayn:
absolutely no notes
10/10
gallery worthy

Liam:
i believe in you bro
the fourth time’s the charm
but maybe next time bring pepper spray for unsolicited mascots

Harry:
if he walks by again and i miss it
just know i’m quitting photography and becoming a monk

Niall:
monks don’t use film bro
you’ll be sketching him from memory with a stick in the dirt 💀

Zayn:
obsessed with the fact that even fate wants this to be a slow burn romance
just like the rest of your tragic lil portfolio

Harry:
…
it is kind of romantic tho

Liam:
harold.
focus.

Zayn:
nah let him simp
the muse has cursed him, and we are but witnesses to the fall

Niall:
next update better be:
“got the shot. he smiled. he’s real. i’m in love.”

Harry:
i’ll try
god knows i’m running out of rolls and dignity

Zayn:
but never out of hope
📸✨👁️‍🗨️💔

Niall changed the group name to:
🎞️ The Street Angel Chronicles

Harry renamed it back to:
🐍📸 The Lads (No Penelope Allowed)

Harry:
Blocked.

📸

It happened entirely by accident, which was, of course, infuriating.

There’s only so much his pride and sanity can take, so he’s temporarily working on a new project outside of the beautiful escape artist he can’t seem to capture. It’s an off day from his market schedule, he’d been wandering around to well known queer spaces on a slow Tuesday, camera slung around his neck, on the prowl for new textures and faces to photograph for a photojournalism-esque project. 

The goal was to capture authentic queer experiences and daily life, “candid queerness” essentially in all its forms (his words, not anyone else’s). He’d gotten two good shots — two girls feeding pigeons with soft eyes and touches as well as a queer-owned art shop — but now his stomach is demanding attention with a volume usually reserved for thunder and boyband concerts.

He turns down a side street, deciding to follow it until he walks too far, gets slightly sun-dazed, and remembers he hasn’t eaten since a single nectarine at breakfast. So, with a camera slung across his chest and hunger turning his thoughts to mush, he ends up drifting through the market like a beautifully dressed zombie in search of carbs.

He stops at a small, semi-hidden place with a chalkboard sign that says “Best Sandwiches in the City. Don’t Fight Us.” Which, frankly, feels like the kind of chaotic confidence Harry respects. 

The place is called Knuckle Sandwiches, which specializes in, well, everything delicious. Pasta. Sandwiches. Fresh juice that costs more than therapy. It’s both warm and crowded, the kind of cozy chaos that makes Harry’s camera hand twitch with aesthetic joy.

Inside, it’s warm and slightly chaotic. Staff yelling good-natured insults, the scent of garlic and oregano in the air, and a very committed woman asking about gluten-free focaccia in the tone of someone demanding justice. Harry’s mid–menu perusal when a familiar voice snaps his attention sideways.

“Mate, if you put pickled onions on it again I swear to god I’ll fake a public fainting episode. You’ll never recover.”

He freezes, the laminated menu halfway to his face. That voice. It has a bite to it, but also the particular kind of musicality that makes his stomach do a little swoop.

He turns his head slowly, eyes scanning and there he is.

That man.

Tattoos peeking from under a rolled-up sleeve. Hair a little messy, like he doesn’t care and still looks excellent. He leans casually against the counter like he owns the place, joking with one of the employees who clearly knows him well.

“Louis, you come in here five times a week,” the worker is saying. “You should just get a loyalty card.”

“And what, ruin the thrill of financially irresponsible sandwich buying? Not a chance.”

The worker laughs and hands over a wrapped sandwich, Louis thanking him with a wink and grabbing a can of something fizzy from the cooler.

Louis.

His name is Louis. It suits him. Of course his name is Louis. It has all the dramatic flair of a romantic anti-hero. Louis is the kind of name of someone that wears sunglasses indoors and stops to look at sunsets. The name you write over and over like a lovesick kid on your maths homework.

Harry makes a strangled noise and ducks behind a rack of artisanal chips like a widow from the 1800s hiding from a scandal. His heart is trying to do parkour along his ribs.

So this is where he goes. This is his haunt.

He peeks again. Louis is perched on a stool by the window now, tearing into the sandwich like it’s his full time job. His eyes crinkle as he laughs at something on his phone. His hand, veiny and expressive, gestures as he says something aloud to the employee again, some story about someone named Tina and a ruined moped.

Harry knows if he stands frozen between the salt and vinegar and the rosemary thyme crisps any longer, he’ll start to get weird looks. His camera is forgotten at his side, nerves hammering against his stomach like a drum roll for something absolutely unhinged.

Adjusting his lens, he checks to make sure the light is perfect. Golden. Soft. Everything framed beautifully, Louis with the sandwich in one hand, sunlight gilding his hair.

He brings the camera up, breathing intentionally in through his nose and out through his mouth to steady his hands.

Loudly, his phone rings, cutting through his concentration. He silences it, quickly then settles back into photographer mode as he lines his eye to the viewfinder.

It vibrates again. 

This time he glances at who he wants throttle for being so annoyingly persistent. His phone buzzes again. Zayn. Then again. Then five more times.

ZAYN (6 missed calls)

ZAYN (7 texts)

Buzzbuzzbuzzbuzz.

With a groan of epic drama, Harry snatches the phone and hisses, “ZAYN. I am about to get the shot of the century. I swear to GOD if this is isn’t a life threatening emergency—”

Zayn, breathlessly interrupts, “Penelope’s in my flat.”

“…What?”

“She. Is. In. My. Flat.”

“You live five buildings away! How—”

“I don’t know! I opened my balcony to air out my incense and she just appeared. She walked in like a possessed duchess. She’s currently sitting in my sink. She hissed at me when I asked her to leave.”

Harry blinks, sweat starting to form on his palms as he processes the horrifying reality of what he’s being told. “Wait. You mean she left the flat?”

“She Houdini’d out of your window, traversed the rooftops like a feline criminal mastermind, and is now treating my home like her personal spa. Now, she’s grooming herself on my stovetop.”

Harry’s stomach drops. Lowering the camera, jittery panic rises in him. “Zayn, she hates stoves.”

“She loves mine. And she just knocked over my lemon tree. Harry, she’s in love with me and I can’t emotionally reciprocate. I think I’m developing a stress allergy. Come get your daughter.”

Harry looks up. Louis is taking a bite of his sandwich. Hair haloed in the light. Profile carved from heartbreak and divine clay. Just when he’s about to just quickly take a picture, there’s a yelp and crash tbrough the speaker. He glares back at his phone. “Goddammit. Okay. I’m coming.”

Zayn pauses. “You missed your photo thing, didn’t you.”

“Yeah,” he mutters, shoulders drooping as he walks out the door.

“Damn.”

“Tell her to stay off the countertops.”

There's an undignified snort then, “She’s already on top of the fridge.”

“Of course she is.”

Twenty minutes later, he’s in Zayn’s flat, crouching in the kitchen while Penelope watches him with full smug contempt. Zayn stands off to the side with a mug of tea like a man held hostage in his own home.

“She broke in,” he said again, as if repeating it might make it more reasonable.

“I was this close. The lighting. The composition. It was going to be a print, Z.” Penelope blinks slowly and licks her paw. “She’s obsessed with you,” Harry frowns. “I’ve been replaced.”

“She likes my vibes,” Zayn gloats, sipping smugly.

“She likes your heater, probably,” Harry grumbles, scooping her up. She complains the entire time, prompting him to hold her like a toddler who just pulled the fire alarm. As they leave, Penelope looks over Harry’s shoulder at Zayn with the longing of Juliet saying goodbye to her forbidden lover.

Harry didn’t get the photo. He missed the moment but as Penelope nestles in Harry’s arms, and licks his chin once, delicately; he’d make the choice to get her over the picture any day. Even if it infuriates him that it had to be over her obsession with Zayn. “You’re lucky you’re cute.”

She blinks slow and purrs in his arms the entire walk home. Once they’re back at his place, he spends about thirty minutes convincing her that he’s better than her unrequited love as he feeds her but he might as well be talking to himself. Which… he kind of already is…

It isn’t until he’s under the covers, petulantly refusing to pet Penelope that he reads through the flurry of texts Zayn had sent seemingly during and before calling repeatedly.

ZAYN:
penelope’s here
you left the window open
i have a white demon in my kitchen
she is staring at me like she knows things
did you teach her to open drawers???
why does she hate me
also why is she obsessed with me

He dismisses the texts with a snort and settles into coming up with a gameplan. Although he was unsuccessful again, he gained pivotal information. He might not even need to capture the photo himself, although he still wants one, if his internet sleuthing skills are intact. Surely someone like Louis with that face, that energy, that body… surely he’s all over the internet. Probably has influencer deals. Probably has thirst trap reels. Probably posts cryptic stories of really obscure lyrics by this super low key band he discovered followed by a black-and-white photo of a guitar. It’s time for what could be the checkmate moment: Instagram recon.

Harry types “Louis market Knuckle Sandwiches tattoos” into the search bar like a lunatic and starts scrolling. After too many rabbit holes and a short detour through a Louis who was a professional toe model (not his Louis), he finally finds the right account. 

@tommofoolery. 

A miracle. 

The profile picture is a hedgehog in a beanie. Absolutely no indication it’s him except for the matching tattoo on the wrist and a photo of his hand holding a sandwich from Knuckle Sandwiches with the caption: Lifesaving.

Harry stares at the profile in horror.

There are zero pictures of his face. None. Not even a reflection in a spoon. Every post is either:

food

cryptic skies

the back of someone’s head (maybe his?)

a record player

and one blurry mirror selfie with his face cropped out but, insultingly, the jawline still manages to be devastating

“Why are men like this?” Harry mutters, aggressively zooming into the grainy elbow of a photo from last August. “Just show your face, Louis. Just once. I won’t even like the photo. I’ll just… absorb it.”

He scrolls further… it only gets worse. The aesthetic is annoyingly good. Minimal captions. Sunset photos. One vague reference to therapy. A video of a sandwich being unwrapped dramatically to opera music.

“This is cruelty,” Harry whispers. But at least now, he has data. Louis goes to the sandwich place regularly. He has a pattern. And Harry has a camera and a plan. 

 A proper, non-delusional, beautifully framed plan.

🐍📸 The Lads (No Penelope Allowed)

Zayn:
BREAKING! White criminal breaks into my home. Demands warmth and declines responsibility.

Niall:
not the ghost of colonizer past again 😭
what did Penelope do now??

Liam:
Wait wait
You’re saying she ESCAPED??
FROM HARRY’S FLAT??
And broke into yours??

Zayn:
She WALKED in.
Just. casually.
Like she owns my heater and heart.
She curled up in my sink like she pays rent. Refused to leave. Hissed when i tried. Knocked over my lemon tree. 
Im not even mad. Im scared

Niall:
The cat is gonna marry zayn and leave harry in the divorce 😭
Poor lad’s gonna lose both the photo and the custody battle

Harry:
I don’t want to talk about it

Zayn:
He missed the shot 💔
Greatest moment of all time until your cat committed romantic treason

Harry:
She HISSED at me when i tried to take her home
Like i was the side character 
She looked back at Zayn like they shared wartime secrets

Zayn:
We do
But I signed an NDA

Liam:
Also all of this happening on his day off is crazy

Niall:
Candid queerness is hiding behind a coat rack 

Zayn:
Invisible via artisanal snack selection
Truly the bi experience

Harry:
Okay but LISTEN
His name is Louis
He has a loyalty sandwich
And a voice like honey mixed with sarcasm
And tattoos that bring me to my KNEES

Liam:
Also I saw that instagram
@tomfoolery ?? Zero face pics?? 

Zayn:
Don’t forget: 1 blurry mirror selfie
No face

Niall:
Also 
“Lifesaving” caption on the sandwich post 
He’s DRAMATIC
He’s your soulmate
Harry you’re doomed

Liam:
New plan… we go to the sandwich place. 
We flirt with him as decoys. Harry gets the shot.
Penelope officiates the wedding

Zayn:
She already lives with me
Might as well give her a job

Harry:
Bad plan!! Also he eats there five times a week??

Liam:
Godspeed.
Don’t forget fresh film
And lock your fkn window this time

Zayn:
Or don’t.
Maybe i could use the company. She purrs when I play mitski

Harry:
Traitor.

Niall:
She just has taste. Like father like cat.

Zayn:
🍻
To romantic sabotage, hunger hallucinations, and hot men with no selfies
We ride again next week

📸

Harry can do this. Three times he’s failed to get the picture of Louis; surely the universe won’t push for a fourth?

Right?

At least he’s made progress in the little investigation this has become, so it hasn’t been completely unsuccessful. He found out what food place Louis inhabits most (five times a week — insane, and makes Harry worry for his wallet, but it works in his favour for finding Louis) and he also found his Instagram. Not that anything was useful or interesting aside from that ridiculously hot mirror selfie.

Sometimes he wonders what he did in his past life to deserve this. Three times has got to beat some world record (he looked it up and it doesn’t, but maybe it’s an unofficial one). He’s a good person and he’ll spend the entire day feeling bad if he steps on a worm during his shooting walks, but maybe throughout many past lives he went through character development for that? Maybe he was, like, a murderer in the 1700s or something. It sends an icky feeling to his stomach, but it’s the only thing he can think of.

Surely it can’t be because this probably counts as a form of stalking or invasion of privacy. Because it doesn’t. It’s just… devotion to the art.

And a little bit of a crush.

Penelope stares at him, her resting face judging him severely as he talks to her. “It’s fine, right? It’s not illegal to take pictures of people in public and it's not like I've been following him. Just accidently... and maybe purposefully— running into him.”

Penelope blinks slowly, raising her hind leg to clean it. 

Harry scoffs. “Thanks for the reassurance, babe.”

It’s fine. It’s fine.

He checks the time. It’s 1:57, which means he has approximately twenty minutes to get to the sandwich place if he wants to be there at the same time Louis was last week. He grabs his bag, a button catching on the hook in his jeans before he pulls it free, and gives Penelope a kiss on the forehead. She swats and just barely misses.

Harry’s out the door. He’s going to get this picture.

📷

Knuckle Sandwich still holds that same chaotic feeling, but everyone is oblivious to Harry’s anxiety as his leg bounces, hitting the underneath of his table and nearly spilling his orange juice if it weren’t for him quickly stablising it. A bag of salt and vinegar chips he’d bought crinkle in his bag with every movement. He had decided that today he’d invest in a space to sit rather than sneaking a shot in between the chip bags, but now he’s contemplating whether that was the right idea.

Harry got there before Louis, but Louis was quick to arrive only minutes later. Which means that Harry’s been sitting here, bouncing his leg and sipping his juice and raising his camera every couple minutes and then chickening out, for half an hour. Harry doesn’t know when Louis will be leaving, if he’s just on a lunch break or if he’s here to stay for a bit. He’s certainly not waiting for anybody if the mayo dripping slowly down his middle finger is anything to go by.

The thing is, with Harry getting a table, Louis would be able to clearly see the camera pointed at him if he looked in the right direction. Maybe if Harry were at least a little bit smart he would have gotten a more concealed table, but no, he wanted the one with a pretty purple vase of matching chrysanthemums on it.

Maybe Harry should just learn how to draw people. Maybe that would be easier.

Louis bites into his sandwich again, a tomato falling out and plopping onto the wrapper. Harry can’t decide if Louis is a messy eater or if the sandwich is just messy to be eaten, but either way, the juxtaposition with Louis’ perfectly styled hair and clean-shaven jaw is beautiful. Photograph-worthy.

You know what? Fuck it. There’s not going to be a right time to take this picture and he can’t just sit here forever. He just hopes that the odds are in his favour this time.

Please, universe, don’t let there be a fifth try.

He raises the camera, his hand slightly shaky out of anxiety before he puts his elbow on the table. Then he checks the film alignment because he’ll be damned if he only captures Louis’ essence again and adjusts the settings.

Louis is in frame perfectly and Harry’s heart is beating in his chest like a prisoner on a locked door. Louis hasn’t noticed the camera, taking another bite of the sandwich, and the mayo drips further down his finger. Harry’s never gotten this close before, not without something happening at the last second. 

Louis’ hair glistens in the sunlight and his eyes glimmer in that beautiful sky-blue shade. He looks like a model and all he is is apparently just some guy.

Not to Harry. He’s never had a muse like this before.

He puts his finger on the shutter button. He prays that nothing will happen when he clicks it. In the span of a second, he double checks the focus and aperture and makes sure Louis’ aligned perfectly in the frame.

Louis sets the sandwich down an inch, just enough to see his face, and Harry clicks the bu—

Buzz. Buzz. Buzzbuzzbuzz. Buzz.

“No,” Harry says out loud because there is absolutely no way. If he looks over and it’s Zayn texting him again about Penelope, Harry’s not answering. They can get married.

Harry sees Louis look down in the frame of his camera, checking his own phone, before his eyes widen and suddenly the camera is capturing his torso instead.

Harry lowers it, setting it on the table in alarm at Louis’ sudden rush. Louis pockets his phone, not before swearing under his breath at it, and begins wrapping his sandwich to put into his bag.

It all happens so fast that Harry doesn’t even have the chance to register what is happening, or why he’s suddenly grabbing his camera and scooting out of the chair with an obnoxious screech against the floor. He doesn’t know what he’s doing, why he’s following Louis because surely if not everything else, this is stalking or something equally concerning, but in ten seconds he’s leaving his orange juice behind with a ding of the door’s bell.

Louis’ already far away, running, and “How is he so fucking fast?!”. Harry takes off, nearly running into a woman in his rush, and he grips his camera like his life depends on it. He should have hooked it to the strap before he left but clearly his brain only runs on adrenaline, Louis picture get it, and nothing else.

He has no idea where he’s going. He can’t fathom why he’s chasing Louis because even though Louis probably doesn’t notice with the distance between them, this has to look like some kind of emergency situation from an outsider’s perspective. Harry’s out of breath and sprinting nearly full-force after a man who looks shaken and in a rush.

Louis turns a corner and Harry’s heart spikes for a moment, thinking he’s lost him when he disappears out of his vision, but thankfully he hasn’t. Louis’ still sprinting full-force when Harry rounds the corner too. Harry wonders if Louis did track or any type of sport involving running. He considers slowing down and trying to get a long-distance freeze shot of Louis, but if he were trying to get a picture of his back that would have been accomplishable from the get-go.

No, he’s not settling. Louis is a majesty and his back, while attractive, doesn’t even begin to capture it in full like the angles of his face and the shine on it. Plus, the boys still don’t fully believe he’s chasing a real-life person and not a figment of his imagination manifested by loneliness.

But God, Harry’s never run this fast in his entire fucking life. His knees feel like they’re going to buckle and his lungs very possibly might collapse, his calves are cramping and there’s a bead of sweat rolling down his neck, and the best part is that it’s been maybe four minutes of this chase. With how often he walks around the whole city, you’d think he’d be a little more in shape than this.

Maybe he should start hitting up the gym. Louis would probably like that anyway.

What the fuck.

Ignoring that thought, Harry keeps following Louis, and Louis doesn’t stop. Harry worries for a minute that Louis might’ve caught on to him following and is now actually running for his life from Harry, but he doesn’t look back or follow a crazed pattern of turns.

What is Louis even rushing for? It looked like he checked the time after seeing the notification on his phone but maybe it was something else. Fuck, what if someone’s dying and Harry’s just following him trying to get a picture.

He nearly trips in a puddle, even with the wet floor sign placed, and he wonders how the hell Louis’ running so easily through these streets. There’s people everywhere and there’s so many dogs barking loudly as he runs past. Louis’ also evilly managed to avoid every single crosswalk that could have meant a moment of relief for Harry. He’s hot and he didn’t get to finish his orange juice and he can swear to God that he hears that familiar silly willy slogan but that very well might be a hallucination.

Maybe he should just stop. Maybe the fifth try is the charm.

Louis takes a right and Harry, like an eager puppy, follows and oh. Louis’ heading towards the city park. Big and bright-green trees and a vast beach and komorebi. 

Please tell me he’s stopping here.

It would be a gorgeous shot. Louis amongst nature would be a sight that cannot go unseen by anybody, Harry’s sure. Maybe, if he’s slick enough and Louis isn’t too busy with whatever he’s rushing to make, he could act like he’s never seen Louis before in a day of his life and offer to do a shooting with him. He’d die if Louis said no, but his knees would shake and his heart would implode if Louis said yes and that’s what matters. He’d get secure chances (plural!) of catching the glint in his eyes and the dazzling sparkle of his smile. 

Looking at the park on the side of them, there are so many opportunities for photos. He could do something with the beautifully painted benches, lean Louis up against a tree trunk and have him stare wistfully at the lake. Harry could have Louis pose in front of the fountain, two architectural visions complimenting the other. They could do so many cool things with the sand. God, photographing Louis in the park would be a dream, something to marvel at, something worthy of—

Pain.

It hits him right in the face.

Harry gasps, a sharp, pained sound as he falls back onto the sidewalk. He blinks — once, twice — trying to clear his vision. His fingers touch his nose. There’s blood.

He did not just run into a pole.

Lo and behold, there it is in all its sadistic glory. Grey both literally and morally, tall and stretching off into the sky. What’s its purpose? Who knows. Probably to ruin Harry's life and his face.

Harry groans, staring at the red coating his hand. He doesn’t think his nose is broken, thinks it would hurt way more than it does right now if it was, but his vision is still slightly blurry and the bleeding isn’t slowing much.

Shit. Louis.

Harry looks up, the sun blaring in his eyes for a moment and he’s seriously going to give up on the universe if it turns out he has a concussion, but Louis’ nowhere to be seen. Gone. A ghost who found another place to haunt. Harry sighs, nearing tears in his frustration.

There’s a group of kids at the park, party hats atop their heads as they point and laugh at Harry, shouting insults he can’t hear. This is fucking humiliating.

His camera, thank God, is still intact without a scratch. Harry guesses it was a good thing he was holding it in his hand rather than letting it dangle from his neck strap, or it would have been shattered for sure. His heart would have along with it. He would have died if his favourite camera got broken.

“Hey, kid! You okay?!” Harry jumps, turning his head at the noise. A woman’s approaching him. 

Harry puts up a smile, tries not to wince at the way the movement hurts his nose. “Yes, I’m okay. Just not a very good pole dancer, I guess.”

He blinks in immediate embarrassment, but the woman laughs anyway, green eyes crinkling when she does. “Oh, that’s too bad. Would’ve watched the show. Did you have glasses on you? I can’t find them anywhere.”

…Glasses?

“Uh, no,” Harry smiles. “No, I don’t wear glasses.”

The woman flounders for a second. “Oh, okay. Well do you want me to go find a stick or something you can use to get around? Or if where you’re going’s not too far, I could help you get there?”

Harry’s so confused. He wracks his brain for any meaning behind the words. Why would he need a stick? Why would he need help? He’s pretty sure, now that his vision is starting to clear up, that he doesn’t have a concussion. It’s just his nose that hurts.

“I don’t understand.”

“Oh.” The woman’s soft smile drops, a subtle look of horror coming onto her face. “Are you not… blind?”

My God.

Harry’s face fills with heat, his own smile dropping. “Uh, no. I’m not blind.”

“Oh. So you just…”

Harry’s going to kill himself. “Yeah.”

The woman stands still for a moment, even the breeze that was in the air calming to force her blonde hair into a stand-still. “...Do you need any help?

Harry shakes his head, icky humiliation piling up in his stomach. He wants to cry, but he just smiles. “No. I’m okay, thank you.”

“...Okay. I’m gonna go then. Have a… Have a good day.” She takes a couple steps back.

“You too.”

She finally turns, walking the other direction, and Harry throws his head back. He can’t fucking believe this anymore. Zayn was right, his life is an A24 comedy.

Harry stands up, cradling his precious camera in his hands, because there’s no way he’s saving room for any more people to come up and check on him. He’ll stop at a cafe or something on the way home to grab a few paper towels, just so he’s not leaving a blood-dot trail back to his home. 

He turns, moving to grab his bag of salt and vinegar chips that flew out of his bag in the fall.

A pigeon a couple feet away has torn them open and is sharing them with a squirrel like this is a once-in-a-lifetime delicacy.

“Fuck my life.”

🐍📸 The Lads (No Penelope Allowed)

Zayn:
bro are you alive
harry?
did you die mid-run? blink twice if yes

Harry:
i ran into a pole
there’s blood
don’t talk to me

Niall:
LMAOOOOOOOOOO
I KNEW IT
I FUCKING KNEW SOMETHING STUPID WAS GONNA HAPPEN AGAIN

Liam:
You WHAT 💀
Tell me you got the photo at least??

Harry:
…no
HE GOT A TEXT OR SOMETHING AND RAN OKAY
I panicked
I followed him
it was NOT stalking it was... investigative journalism
and then
then
the pole

Niall:
💀💀💀 investigative journalism
you’re not even being paid
you’re funding this man’s sandwich addiction

Liam:
also. did i read that right. you left your orange juice?

Zayn:
WAIT
YOU CHASED HIM WITHOUT DRINKING YOUR JUICE??
WHAT HAPPENED TO ELECTROLYTES BRO

Harry:
i was IN THE ZONE
and now i’m bleeding.
also some woman thought i was blind.

Niall:
WHAT

Liam:
pardon?

Zayn:
wait
what.

Harry:
she thought i walked into the pole bc i was blind
offered me a STICK
asked if i lost my GLASSES
I HAD TO TELL HER I’M JUST STUPID

Zayn:
nah i’m done
you can’t make this shit up
this has to be narrated by Penelope and shot in black and white

Niall:
🎬 harry: i was just a boy with a camera and a dream
🎻 penelope: judgemental meow in minor key

Liam:
okay but like
how did louis not notice a camera aimed at his face in broad daylight???
is he also into the bit at this point??

Harry:
he was too busy fighting for his life against mayo
also the lighting was too pretty to miss

Zayn:
this is how you end up in someone’s memoir as “the guy who wouldn’t stop appearing at lunch”
like 10 years from now louis is gonna be like
“and then i ran. and he followed me. he just… wouldn’t stop following me.”

Niall:
he’s gonna tell the story like a survival horror
you’re the cryptid of the farmers’ market

Liam:
you need to take a break before you get arrested for being accidentally romantic

Harry:
it’s ART
and i’m FINE
i just have a small nose injury
some public shame
a new mortal enemy in the form of a pigeon
and zero photos

Zayn:
but a big, beautiful crush 🥰
on a man you only know via sandwich-related sightings and a shadowythirst trap on instagram

Niall:
that you chased across the city like he was carrying the last golden ticket to willy wonka’s factory

Liam:
serious question though
if this ends in you two falling in love
will we be invited to the wedding or are we just going to be witnesses on your restraining order?

Harry:
nobody loves me 😭
except maybe penelope.

Zayn:
penelope’s the only one with taste in this group
you’re lucky she hasn’t reported you herself

Niall:
new groupchat name suggestion:
“sandwich stakeout squad”

Harry:
stop
don’t encourage this

Zayn changed the group name to:
🧃 pole-dancer & co.

Harry:
i’m logging off

Liam:
please send a pic of your bloody face first for our records

Niall:
also
did you at least save the chips?? 😭

Harry:
no.
a squirrel and a pigeon were sharing them like the end of a pixar short
i hate this city

Zayn:
you lost to a bird and a rodent

Liam:
Harry.
Are you okay.
Like genuinely.

Harry
btw it was one of those skinny evil poles!!! It blended in with the sky!!!!

Zayn
So did Louis.
Blended in with your imagination.
Still not convinced he’s real btw.

Niall
I’m buying you a nose guard and a taser
So you can defend yourself next time the universe throws a lamppost at your romantic intentions

Liam
And maybe one of those cool spy van setups with the hidden cameras and donuts
At least then if you fail again, you’ll be failing in comfort

Harry
You guys are the worst!!
I love you
But I’m not answering the door if any of you show up with a pole costume

Niall
...
No one say anything
No one mention the idea I just had

Zayn
Too late
Halloween is sorted

Liam
I’m bringing a juice box and a metal rod
Zayn you be the sandwich
Niall you’re the pigeon

Niall
WHY AM I THE PIGEON

Zayn
Okay but next time maybe just ask him if he wants a photo instead of going full National Geographic predator mode

Harry
...
He had mayo on his hand, Zayn.
You try being normal after that.

Liam
That's fair actually.

Niall
you’re all unwell
i love it here so much 🤩

📸

Harry stands across from the sandwich shop like it’s personally wronged him. He narrows his eyes at the green awning, the perfectly symmetrical chalkboard sign that reads “Try Our Famous Salami Melt!”, and the friendly little bell above the door that jingles whenever someone enters.

It looks innocent. Quaint, even, but Harry knows better. Now every time he looks at that sandwich shop, he gets a phantom taste of copper tang and humiliation.

“Cursed,” he mutters, clutching his camera tighter. “The shop is cursed.” He refuses to be caught off guard again, so instead of loitering by the cursed deli’s outdoor seating like a sad kid waiting for his parents to pick him up after practice, he crosses to the other side of the street just far enough away to avoid any rogue mascots, but still within stalking distance of the door.

He’s learned Louis’ general timing now, a creature of habit. Harry could respect that. Today, the market is especially busy with families with loud toddlers, couples with matching sunglasses, and at least one group of mime students and he’s personally doing his best not to be visibly vibrating with anxiety.

“Don’t jinx it,” he warns himself. “Manifest the shot. Don’t summon chaos.” Bouncing on the balls of his feet trying to track motion, faces, angles. He’s been rehearsing the settings in his head the whole way here. ISO 400, f/2.8, shutter 1/250. Golden-hour proven. Practiced. Sacred.

He keeps his eyes glued to the deli door and it rewards him by swinging open and revealing the man of his dreams. Louis’ hair’s slightly damp today like he’s just showered, and he’s wearing a navy coat this time, collar popped lazily, white tee peeking out underneath. There’s a bag in his hand and his mouth, Jesus, his mouth is pink and pinched against the cold.

Harry’s knees buckle a little, still unable to get used to the feelings he gets but there’s no time for full paralysis this round. Springing into action as his eyes scan the crowd, looking for the cleanest angle.

People are everywhere. Milling, laughing, waving baguettes in the air. Useless. So Harry does what any sane, totally normal, completely not-at-all suspicious photographer would do.

He squats.

In the middle of the walkway.

Knee to pavement, camera up, wrist angled just right to catch Louis in a dramatic upward composition with the market’s fluttering flags and a beam of sunlight cascading like divine approval.

The perfect frame. Right up until a man with tight shorts, a loud tank top, and a truly aggressive amount of man-thigh steps directly into it.

“Oi! What the fuck? Are you taking a picture of my junk?!”

Harry flinches. “What? No!”

“Don’t lie to me, mate, I saw that lens aiming straight up at my personal cathedral!”

“Your—what—absolutely not, I was trying to photograph that man!” Harry gestures wildly in Louis’ direction, nearly dropping his camera. “Look, I’m a photographer like, a proper one. With an Instagram and a darkroom and anxiety and everything.”

The man doesn’t budge.

From somewhere to Harry’s left, a woman gasps. “I think I saw the flash go off.”

“It’s a film camera!” Harry cries, panicking now. “There is no flash! You can literally see the lens! Who even uses flash in daylight—?”

“Perverts,” the man says.

“Perverts with film?!”

“You were crouching!”

“I was composing an angle!”

“You were eyeline with my sausage roll!”

“Oh my god,” Harry whimpers, straightening up and holding his hands up like he’s trying to appease a wild animal. “It’s not like that. I swear.”

A mime stops miming and starts miming an arrest. A toddler points and screams, “Crotch man!” Harry is sweating, his camera feels like a lead weight.

“Look, I was trying to photograph that man!” He turns, gesturing again to where Louis had been. “He was right there. Blue coat. Angel face. He looked like he’s never paid rent a day in his life—”

“Right, so now you’re stalking someone?”

“I’m not stalking—I’m—I’m documenting urban light and movement!”

“Is that what the kids are calling it these days?” someone else mutters.

“Yeah, sure,” the offended man huffs, already pulling out his phone. “You’re about to get reported. This is not a public crotch.”

“It’s not about you! I’m literally a photographer! I have credentials!”

“Photographer? Taking stealth pics from the crotch-level angle?” the man shouts. “That’s pervy journalism!”

Someone else gasps. A woman in an apron shouts, “He’s pointing that camera at people’s bits!”

“I WAS TAKING A PHOTO OF A MAN—wait no, that sounds worse—OF A VERY TASTEFUL ANGLE—”

And that’s when the vendor two stalls down calmly calls the police. 

He’s still trying to explain to the rapidly growing crowd when the police officer arrives. He looks like the exact kind of man who would rather be anywhere else: clipboard under one arm, eyebrows already halfway up his forehead like the universe personally inconveniences him daily. He’s not rushing, which somehow makes it worse. Just doing the walk of a man who expects to be annoyed.

Harry straightens like a child caught red-handed. His camera dangles from his neck like shame.

“Sir,” the officer says, coming to a halt beside him. “Can I ask what you’re doing?”

“Photography,” Harry blurts. “Artistic street photography. I swear I wasn’t photographing anyone’s, um, bits.”

He immediately regrets saying bits.

The officer blinks. “So you weren’t taking a picture of that man’s crotch?”

“No!” Harry shakes his head quick. “Well, technically yes, but not intentionally! I was aiming for someone behind him! I was crouching to…to create a more dynamic upward composition! You have to understand, there was a moment of divine lighting—”

“Uh huh,” the officer says flatly, already jotting something down. “And who was the subject you were aiming for?”

Harry flounders. “A man. A very, very handsome man. Blue coat. Left just now. He might be in another zip code already, he walks like a poem. Not important. What’s important is the context.”

A small crowd has gathered. He hears whispers and there’s someone filming him with their phone. A mime is doing an exaggerated impersonation of Harry’s crouch like it’s some interpretive “pervert pose.” Someone hands the mime a dollar.

The officer sighs. “Okay. What’s your name?”

“Harry Styles.”

The officer pauses. “That Harry Styles?”

“Do I look like I can sell out Wembley?” Harry deadpans. 

“…Fair.”

“Also, do you really think a global pop star would be squatting in a crowded marketplace pointing a 35mm Rolleiflex at someone’s crotch?”

“I don’t know what celebrities get up to these days,” the officer mutters, rubbing his temple.

“Look,” Harry says, desperate now. “This is a film camera. Not digital. There’s no screen. I can’t even see what I’m getting. You think a digital creep would choose a medium where you have to wait three days and develop the negatives by hand to even find out if you got the shot?”

“…that is pretty inefficient.”

“Exactly! Pervs are lazy. I’m dedicated!”

That doesn’t sound great either. A woman in the crowd coughs pointedly as a mime pretends to vomit into a baguette.

“Okay. Sir, do you have identification?”

Harry stiffens. “Oh my God. Am I actually being detained right now for… accidental thigh proximity?”

“Do you have ID?” the officer repeats, sterner.

Sighing he pulls out his wallet, handing over his driver’s license and an old business card with shaky hands. Mind already racing with Can you go to jail for photographing in public? Is there a market ban list? Is Penelope going to starve because her father tried to capture a muse in motion?

The officer peers at it. “Occupation says... photographer.”

Harry nods proudly. “Exactly. I do this professionally. I’m not some rogue sidewalk snapper. I’m curated.”

“Do you have any credentials? Press pass? Permit?”

“I have an Instagram with four thousand followers and one very enthusiastic grandma who leaves emojis on every post.”

The officer does not look impressed.

He hastily adds, “I also shoot for small local zines sometimes. Indie stuff. I don’t shoot crotches. Except this one time. But that was an accident.”

From behind them, the man in neon shorts yells, “It was pointed RIGHT AT IT!”

Harry whirls. “It’s not my fault you have an extremely aggressive presence!”

The officer sighs. “Alright. Sir, I’m not going to write you up for anything today, but I am going to give you a verbal warning.”

“Yes, of course. Thank you.” Harry nods, relief flooding through him.

“You need to be mindful of how your actions appear to the public. Crouching in the middle of a busy walkway and aiming a camera upwards, film or not, can easily be misinterpreted.”

“I understand. I do. I’ve already experienced enough personal shame for one week.”

“Also, maybe next time, avoid yelling things like ‘I was aiming for a very handsome man’ when explaining yourself to law enforcement.” The officer levels him with a look as he hands him back his ID.

Harry winces. “Fair.”

“You’re free to go. Just…try to be less suspicious.”

“I’ll do my best,” Harry says solemnly. “No more squatting. Unless it's emotional.” The officer stares at him until he walks away, embarrassed and silent.

🐍📸 The Lads (No Penelope Allowed)

Harry
you guys wanna hear something horrifying or should i just walk into the ocean now

Niall
OH MY GOD
CROTCHGATE IS REAL
zayn just told us
YOU GOT ACCUSED OF CROTCH PHOTOGRAPHY IN PUBLIC
recap it for the archives 😌

Zayn
i gave them a teaser
but i left out the police interview
please. enlighten us, Officer Styles.

Harry
first of all
fuck all of you in advance

Zayn
to be fair
u were squatting
with a lens
directly under a man in shorts

Harry
I WAS FRAMING AN ARTISTIC SHOT
HE WAS IN THE WAY
HIS CROTCH BLOCKED MY COMPOSITION

Niall
bro said
“the junk ruined the funk”

Liam
continue.

Harry
so.
after the dude accuses me of crotch photography
(which for the record I WAS NOT DOING)
this entire crowd turns on me like I’m the pervert of piccadilly
a mime starts miming the Miranda rights
and then
THE POLICE ARRIVE

Liam
you got questioned for intent to artfully photograph a man’s soul
someone else still thinks you tried to film their junk
and now there’s probably a note in some city watch database
that says “Caution: Enthusiastic Squatter”

Niall
#NeverSquatAgain
#LetHarrySquat
#Justice4TheTastefulAngle

Zayn
did u at least get the photo

Harry
...
no.

Niall
he’s gonna be in the paper tomorrow
“Local artist defends honor after angle confusion: ‘It was the light, not the loins’”

Harry
guys.
he smiled again today
before all the… penis panic
he looked at me and smiled

Zayn
at least you didn’t get cuffed
though that would’ve made for some excellent character development

Liam
…is this becoming romantic
are you actually falling in love with a man you’ve never spoken to
but have nearly been arrested for repeatedly trying to photograph

Zayn
sounds like art to me

Niall
i swear to god if you fall in love and your origin story is
“i met him while falsely accused of crotch photography”
i’m officiating the wedding
in a condom costume
it’s what he would’ve wanted

Harry
i hate this groupchat

Zayn renamed the group chat to:
🎥 The Crotch Allegations

Harry renamed it back to:
🐍📸 The Lads (No Penelope Allowed)

Liam
for real though
next time bring someone as a spotter
or like… a sign that says “not photographing genitals”

Harry
i’m going to bed
if anyone needs me i’ll be crying into my light meter

Niall
sleep tight
don’t let the public indecency charges bite 😘

Zayn
dream of him
but at a respectful distance
lens capped
shutter quiet
no squatting

Harry reacted to Zayn’s message with 😭

📸

Harry has officially given up.

Not on photography, never on that, but on chasing Louis like a chaotic rom-com protagonist with no sense of self-preservation.

After sprinting through half the city, face-planting into a metal pole, and having a close call with getting arrested, Harry goes home and decides that perhaps fate has made its point. Louis is uncatchable. A trick of the light. A myth in cropped trousers. Harry doesn’t have the energy to keep running like a character with a God complex. His camera deserves better. So do his legs. And his dignity.

No more stalking the sandwich place. No more wandering the city with his camera half-raised like some deranged wildlife documentarian. No more asking Penelope, if she thinks Louis likes men with a tendency to trip over flat pavement. So he pivots.

He focuses on his portfolio, really focuses. The kind of thoughtful, atmospheric photography that doesn’t involve sprinting after mysterious men or getting publicly mistaken for a blind pole-dancer.

Long hours in his flat, camera slung over one shoulder, Penelope perched on the windowsill still pining for Zayn. He wanders the city not for Louis, but for light, for silence, for people who don’t immediately flee when he points a lens their way. He shoots stillness. Shadows. Stories half-told in the angle of a hand or the tilt of a stranger’s head. His photos grow deeper, sadder, sharper. He pours himself into editing. Into refining. Into building the portfolio he’s been avoiding in favor of his muse-hunting madness. He organizes his best shots: cracked sidewalks slicked with rain, lovers’ shadows tangled on brick walls, a pair of dancers twirling in a lamplit alley.

Almosts in shadows. Almosts in glances. Almosts in timing. He doesn’t even mention Louis, because—well, there’s nothing to show. No photograph. No proof. Just five blurry attempts, none of which survive the film development process (thanks, ironically, to the blood he gets on one roll from the pole collision). But there’s feeling, and that’s what the portfolio captures best. Every frame throbs with yearning, tension, and restraint.

The absence of Louis becomes its own presence. And then Harry titles the series Almost and submits it to a gallery call on a whim, sure he won’t get in.

He gets in.

And then the gallery sends him a date and a wine sponsor and a typo-ridden draft of the press release, and suddenly, it’s happening.

—

Harry is standing in the corner of the gallery space on opening night, wearing a blazer that doesn’t quite sit right on his shoulders, nursing a glass of white wine he hates but keeps sipping anyway for lack of better coping strategies. His name is on the wall. His photos are lit by track lights and admired by strangers who say things like “moody realism” and “emotional linework” while holding tiny paper cups of goat cheese. He is, by all appearances, thriving.

Liam, Zayn, and Niall loiter by the cheese plate in a tight huddle like emotionally supportive bouncers. Zayn and Liam have already taken two selfies with the wall plaque while Niall is stealing grapes.

“I still don’t believe he’s real,” Zayn mutters.

“He had a name,” Harry mumbles.

“Sure he did,” Liam says in the gentle, patronizing tone of someone addressing a child’s imaginary friend.

“So… no Louis photo?” Liam asks.

“No Louis photo,” Harry confirms, staring at the wall.

Niall makes a pitying noise. “This is either the greatest long-con delusion of your career, or we’re going to owe you so many apologies.”

Harry doesn’t reply. They won’t ever owe him any apologies because Harry will never be able to show them a picture. They’ll never truly believe Louis is real, and Louis will slip between the realm of fiction and reality in Harry’s mind because really, only ghosts evade cameras like that.

He looks at the wall, at his pictures plastered on it. The main display is simple, just five frames side by side, each black and white but carrying so much underlying story behind them. 

Two strangers on a bench, one reading her book in silence and the other who kept glancing at her before eventually departing – almost something. One Harry had taken of a cocoon hanging on a branch – almost ready to fly. Another picture of a couple, kissing away the pain of an argument – almost lost. A broken bird in the cradling hands of someone who found it – almost asleep. A blurry picture, a mix of grays and confusion, a beautiful mess-up from one of his shootings – almost immortalised.

It’s not one of the ones he’d taken in his attempts with Louis, but Harry would be lying if he said its inclusion in the display wasn’t somehow inspired by him. He almost had it so many times, but that’s the dark beauty of almosts. They aren’t fated.

But then the door opens.

And Louis walks in. He’s wearing charcoal trousers, a shirt buttoned low enough to show cursive script on his chest, slightly wrinkled like he’s just rolled out of a very expensive bed. He’s here. Alive. Real. Not a hallucination conjured by sleep deprivation and unrequited obsession.

Harry’s wine sloshes dangerously close to the rim.

Louis walks through the gallery slowly, pausing to look at a few of the photos. He doesn’t know. He can’t know. There are no pictures of him on the walls, Harry never managed to get one that isn’t a blur of denim or the back of a fleeing head. Still, the show is about him. Not directly, but in tone, in every frame that pulses with what Harry has been hesitant to name aloud.

Their eyes meet. Louis stares for a moment, head tilted, like he’s trying to place him. And then… oh no. His face lights up with slow, amused recognition.

“Oh my God,” Louis says, walking over. “You’re the guy.”

Harry blinks. “Me?”

“Yes. You.” Louis grins. “From the market. The park. The sandwich shop. The… was it a pole you hit, or a parked van?”

Harry makes a strangled sound in the back of his throat. “A pole. It was a pole.”

“I remember thinking, ‘Damn, I must be amazing if I’m causing men to collide with city infrastructure.’”

“You’re not wrong.”

Louis laughs. “I almost didn’t come tonight, you know. But then Cam, you know Cam from that sandwich shop that only accepts payment in cash and compliments, they texted me and said, ‘Your stalker has a gallery now.’ So naturally, I had to see what that was about.”

Harry covers his face. “Oh my God.”

“I’m kidding,” Louis says, gently. “She said you were good. That your stuff was honest. Raw. I didn’t expect to see myself in it.”

“You’re not in any of the photos,” Harry says, a little too quickly.

“I know,” Louis replies. “But I am. Aren’t I?”

“Yeah. You are.”

Louis turns, walking further into the gallery. Harry follows, dumbfounded. They stand before a photo of two boys silhouetted on a rooftop, one reaching for the other.

“You’ve got good timing,” Louis says. “Even if you didn’t have it with me.”

Harry chuckles, nervous. “Yeah, well. I give up.”

Louis looks at him, lips twitching. “Good,” he says. “Now you can finally get a shot where I don’t look like I’m sprinting away from a crime scene.”

“Wait. Are you saying—”

Louis holds his hands up. “You get one chance. Don’t fuck it up.”

Harry raises his camera, of course he brought it just in case, and adjusts the focus. Louis stands still, backlit by gallery light, his mouth curled in a half-smile, eyes sparkling like he knows exactly what he’s doing.

Harry presses the shutter.

Click. 

As much as he prefers film, he opted for digital tonight, not wanting to risk his camera around pretentious drunk people. Briefly, his eyes drift to the picture on the screen just as it disappears into his saved photos.

It’s perfect. Truly and utterly perfect.

Louis walks over to Harry again and leans in conspiratorially. “You know,” he says, “you could’ve just asked me.”

“I was going to,” Harry says honestly. “But then I ran into a pigeon. And a pole. And some social anxiety.”

“Well, I’m here now. Fully visible. Not running. What else you got?”

Harry tries to play it cool, but his camera is still shaking in his hands. “How do you feel about… a shoot in the park? With actual permission this time?”

Behind them, a commotion: Liam drops his wine as Niall lets out an audible gasp. “HE’S REAL,” Niall stage-whispers.

Liam, standing stiff as a statue but with wide eyes, whispers, “I still can’t believe this is real. Like, he’s not just making it all up? The pole collision? The frantic running? The… mayo obsession?”

Zayn claps once. “Jesus Christ. I owe him five quid.”

“That’s the spirit. I’m just waiting for him to accidentally photograph himself instead of Louis. That’d be a masterpiece.” Niall laughs.

Their banter is loud enough to draw a few curious glances from nearby art critics and pretentious influencers, but they don’t care. Harry turns back to Louis, who’s watching all of this with visible amusement.

“Can I buy you a drink?”

Louis raises an eyebrow. “Depends. Do you plan on taking more photos?”

“Only if you let me.”

Louis looks thoughtful, and Harry doesn’t even mind if he never gets a photo of Louis again. He finally has his picture and the person in it is smiling just for him.

“I think that can be arranged, love.”

📸