Chapter Text
Louis takes a sip of his lukewarm tea. He makes a face at the bitter taste. Twenty years in and Marjorie still doesn’t know her way around a decent cuppa. It’s Tuesday, but Louis had taken a cheeky day off yesterday to dick around and play FIFA on his own. His girlfriend had left him two weeks ago, his friend fucked off to America, of all places, and he just couldn’t be arsed to show up to his lousy nine to five as “chief financial asset manager” at the local bank branch. How he had managed to earn the title of “chief” was beyond him, as there were only three “financial asset managers” and all three were basically glorified tellers. Including Louis.
He clicks his computer on and groans when he sees the first meeting he has scheduled at nine-thirty. Fuck the rightwing nationalists and the unhinged racists, Louis would vote for anyone whose priority was making meetings before ten in the morning illegal.
“Jen?” Louis calls to the receptionist at the front. “You can send in my nine-thirty any time if they’re here early.”
“What’s that?” comes Jen’s voice.
Louis flexes his fingers.
“You can send in my nine-thirty whenever you like, if they’ve arrived already,” Louis repeats as sweet as the barely hot tea he is being forced to sip at arse o’clock in the morning. (That is to say, 9:27 am.)
“But it’s not nine thirty yet, darling!” comes Jen’s grating voice again.
Louis sighs. Deep breaths.
“Right, I know,” Louis says patiently. His voice only shakes a little. “I’m saying, like, if they get here a bit early. I’m ready for them.”
“But they’re only scheduled for nine thirty, innit?” Jen asks. “Have I written that down wrong? You know it’s much easier to put the meetings in on even numbers. Nine fifteen. Nine thirty. You know, that kind of thing, love. 9:28 is an awfully odd time for you to be scheduling meetings.”
Louis eyes the clock. 9:29. He wonders, not for the first time, if he may be in hell. He’d never been a particularly good guy, to be fair. Still, this felt cruel.
“It’s nine-thirty now, Louis, but your client hasn’t arrived!” Jen hollers helpfully from the hall.
Louis stares at his tea. How early is too early for a smoke break?
He takes another deep breath, smoothing down his polyester suit. It only serves to create static electricity that then has him patting down his hair, hoping his quiff hasn’t gone wonky. Not that it really matters.
Louis used to like his job. He used to enjoy approving small business loans and watching people grin, a little disbelieving, when he’d announce their dream was coming true. Sure, Louis himself had always wondered if maybe he should have that same kind of passion, but the proximity was enough. For a while at least. Until the shift in management had brought about a few significant changes. It was probably political, maybe some change in policies higher up or perhaps Stan had always been a little too lenient and head office had finally wisened up to the little branch on 78th approving way too many small loans.
Regardless, for the past year and a half, Louis had found himself metaphorically stamping a “DENIED” on most files. (They’d gone digital two years ago, somehow.) (Jen still couldn’t handle entering the meetings into the shared calendar, however.)
Soon enough, Louis found himself avoiding work at all costs. He depleted his sick leave at twice the rate he used to, found himself tuning clients’ stories out, and spent his days praying no one spoke to him. The amount of “Could I be in burnout?” quizzes he had taken online may have been a slight indication that this career path wasn’t quite what he’d hoped it would be.
He opens his inbox, sighing at the last email from Eleanor calling for another happy hour he’d have to invent an excuse not to attend. He glances at his door which stands ajar, giving onto a relatively empty lobby. He opens the nine-thirty event in his calendar.
“That Bread Dough
Small business loan. Second appeal.”
Oh, god, an appeal? Louis grits his teeth, glancing at the clock. Well, what should he have expected from a business owner who chose to name their workplace after a pun?
The thing is… Appeals are the worst. And second appeals? Somehow even worse. The hoops one had to jump through to even make it to a second appeal meeting with an actual person… This business owner must be desperate. Desperate meant a sob story. A sob story meant dipping into that dry, dry well of empathy Louis has locked tight in his chest.
There is just no point. The more he cares, the more it hurts to say no. He sighs and opens the file anyway, perusing the scan of the application while he waits. They’re late, but it doesn’t make much difference anyway because second appeals almost never get approved. Louis wouldn’t normally even open the file. But he’s bored and procrastinating his response to Eleanor’s email.
The PDF is taking unusually long to load and Louis wonders if Jen had trouble digitizing a handwritten application again. It wouldn’t be the first time. Not by a long shot.
Oh my god, the boredom. Louis wonders briefly if he has time to get a new (equally terrible) tea from the communal pot before this fucking PDF loads.
Just as he makes to get up from his desk, officially giving up on both the PDF and the appearance of this mysterious (and worryingly dedicated) business owner, the computer finally starts spitting out a scan of the application for “That Bread Dough”. It’s loading line by line like Louis is back in grade school. The computers are pretty shit at work, but not usually this shit…
Once the first full page loads, however, Louis understands why it has taken approximately three eternities for a run-of-the-mill computer to process the image on the screen.
The application has been… decorated. The first thing Louis notices is that this is not the standard form they give out at the bank. Or rather, it is no longer the standard application form. In its place is a scan of what looks like a collage of photos, receipts, pressed (real?) sunflower petals, and various handwritten notes on post-its and in the margins of what was once a legal document.
What the actual fuck?
Louis opens his mouth to call out to Jen. Surely no one had actually accepted this application… Surely no one had painstakingly made sure the petals were intact when they scanned the fourteen - fourteen?? - pages of this… this…
His mounting incredulity is abruptly interrupted by a large clatter outside.
“Sorry, sorry,” Louis can hear someone saying outside his door. “Oh, god, do you think that will stain? Nevermind… Just… Do you like pastries? I can offer you a free one at the bakery I run. Well, I’d like to anyway. Just need to - oh, fuck! No, sorry, I didn’t mean to cuss…”
Louis stares blankly at the half-open door.
Oh, no.
The nonsensical blabbering eventually stops, but only because another clatter sounds right outside his doorway.
“Oops!” comes that same voice from outside the door, this time out of the mouth of a lanky, long-haired person who looks like they belong in a circus. Or on a runway. It’s difficult to tell.
“Hi?” Louis says, jaw dropping a little at the sights and sounds before him. “I mean,” Louis corrects himself quickly, adopting his bored, lifeless customer voice. “Good morning.”
“Hi!” says the person now crouching on the ground. It appears that their stumble into Louis’ office has caused the contents of one of their (many) tote bags to spill onto the floor. Louis looks on uncomfortably as he tries to decide whether it’s worse to do nothing or to help this person with what appears to be a confusing array of marbles, pipe cleaners, and bags of uncooked lentils (among other inexplicable items on Louis’ floor).
“Erm,” Louis clears his throat loudly. “I believe we had an appointment…” Louis checks his computer screen. “Thirteen minutes ago?”
The person looks up, still holding a plastic hula dancer in their left hand, hair falling in long curls in front of their face.
“Oh! Yes, I am so sorry,” the person starts saying, straightening up and looking down at the remnants of their bag still scattered on the floor. They shrug, as if to say, oh well. Louis stares on in disbelief.
The person leaves the half-filled bag there and walks toward Louis’ desk where he is still sitting staring at them. They present a large, tattooed hand. Their fingernails are painted an array of colours - pink, green, blue, gold. They look freshly done. Louis has never noticed someone’s nails before, but to be fair, he’d never seen anyone like this before in his life. Of that he is quite certain.
“M’Harry,” the person says, smiling wide. Harry has dimples, Louis notes. “But you probably already know that from the application! I’m told it made quite the impression here. I’m just happy we are finally meeting. I swear I’ve been talking to different human-sounding chatbots for the past three months.”
Harry isn’t wrong. The bank has started centralizing their calls to an AI-driven chatbot that had the audacity to fake-laugh and fake-hesitate in its answers. Absolutely vile.
“Well, actually, I-” Louis starts, but Harry takes the opportunity to plop down into the chair in front of Louis and start taking off his layers.
“I can’t believe I listened to my mum, you know, she said it was supposed to be chilly today. But of course, it’s completely lovely, so now I look like a total tosser. I wanted to go home to change, but then I figured I’d be even more late to this and I didn’t want to make a bad impression.”
Louis holds in the scoff he feels rise in his throat.
“Erm, okay, Harry, but what I am trying to tell you is that-”
Louis is cut off again as Harry drops something else onto the floor.
“Fuck!” Harry nearly shouts, then immediately claps a hand over his mouth. “Oh my god, I am so sorry! I hope the swearing doesn’t ruin my chances at the appeal. I promise I am very reliable, I just tend to fuck up this kind of interaction because I get weirdly nervous… But I shouldn’t, you know? Niall tells me all the time I am much better than I give myself credit for.”
Louis tries to get a word in, he does, but it’s simply impossible at this point. He’s not even sure Harry has taken a breath. A little annoyed and a lot good at his job, Louis takes a deep breath before adopting what he likes to think of as his “put’em in their place” voice.
“Harry,” he says firmly, holding up a hand to stop Harry’s unending monologue. “How about we begin again. My name is Louis Tomlinson and I am an asset manager here. We had a meeting at nine-thirty and it is now nine-forty-nine. Would you like me to proceed with our decision on your most recent appeal?”
Harry’s mouth finally closes, eyes a little wide with shock.
“Your decision is already made, then?” Harry asks, voice small and squeaking a little.
“No, I am the person who will decide whether or not your appeal gets approved,” Louis says. He can’t help the little zing of satisfaction when Harry’s gaze flits back to where he abandoned half his belongings.
“I see,” Harry says. And suddenly, he is almost ridiculously docile. Gone is the larger than life, colourful man who barged into this office. In his place, with a resigned little sigh, sits a person less enthusiastic and more borderline depressed.
“Right, so let’s review your application, shall we?” Louis says, shoulders settling as he finds a familiar rhythm.
Odd start, but nothing that can’t be fixed by a strong sense of protocol and such.
“So I see here that you have chosen a… creative avenue in filling our application form. Though it’s really quite, erm,” Louis searches for the right word. “L-lovely…” Louis swallows. Oh, god, that wasn’t the right word at all. “Unfortunately I believe you may need to fill in a proper version of-”
“Lovely?” Harry asks, expression brightening. “Thank you. I know it’s not standard, of course. It’s just that I get the feeling this appeal is a bit of a Hail Mary, in a way.”
Louis stares blankly at Harry. He hasn’t stopped talking, even though Louis’ mouth is hanging open as he tries to comprehend why this meeting is going so, so poorly.
“And I really don't mean to complain, but this year has been utter shit, if I'm being quite honest…” He seems to catch himself. “Not the business though, that's been doing great, truly. You saw the sunflowers, right? Because we made quite the splash with our recent partnership with a beautiful little floral shop down the way, you know, Horan’s? Ever been?”
“Erm, sir, mister… Uh, mister-” Louis tries again.
Harry’s mouth turns down at his interruption, then he frowns. His outfit is so colourful, his knitted patchwork sweater still draped over the back of the bland office chair, and his curls forming a messy halo around his head… It makes him look like a disgruntled tropical bird. Like a small, unhappy lovebird without its mate.
Louis shakes himself. What the fuck?
“Oh,” comes Harry’s voice. It's small now, and a little angry. “You haven't read the file at all, have you? You don't even know my name.”
Louis doesn't even have time to put his customer service mask back on before Harry is staring him in right in the eye, suddenly furious.
“It's Styles, by the way. Harry Styles. Can you even remember what the name of my bakery is?” Harry doesn't wait for an answer, getting up from his seat and continuing his rant. “Do you even understand how many fucking bots I've had to talk to over the past six weeks - SIX WEEKS - mister… Mister…” Harry zeroes onto Louis’ lapel, where he's still obligated to wear a small name tag. “Tomlinson?!”
Louis isn't sure he's ever heard his own name said with such venom. And he has six younger siblings.
“And you can be sure of one thing,” Harry continues, ignoring the way Louis’ hands have instinctively been raised, palms up in a distinctly placating gesture. “Even those soulless fucking robots had more decency than you!”
Louis feels like a female bird or something, the way this colourful fucking lunatic is posturing and fluffed up in anger in front of him. He should be intimidated, maybe, but instead it's sort of… Well, anyway, he takes a second to recover while this Harry person paces in front of him, still ranting a little.
“Sir, please,” Louis puts on his scary voice again, the one that usually gets even his wildest siblings in line.
Harry is not near finished yet, apparently.
“I can’t believe you would just sit there knowing how difficult this whole process is, knowing that I am a small business owner, just doing his best out here, trying to make the world a little less terrible with pastries, of all things,” Harry barely takes a breath. “And you wouldn’t even read the damn file?!”
Harry places both hands on Louis’ desk, towering over him, a little out of breath.
“Isn’t that your fucking job, mate?” Harry asks, gesturing at the little nameplate on his desk that reads “L. Tomlinson, Financial Loans and Asset Manager”. (He tried to lose it at least once a week, but Jen always found it and returned it to its rightful place, unfortunately.)
“Asset manager,” Harry huffs. “More like ass-hat manager, if you ask me!”
Harry folds his arms, breathing loudly through his nose.
“I’m sor-” Louis begins.
“And you know what?” Harry nearly shouts, interrupting him once again. “It is so goddamn hot in here, what the fuck is wrong with you people!?”
Before Louis can say anything else, Harry lifts up his long sleeve t-shirt angrily, fighting with it for a moment.
And then.
Oh, shit.
The thing is, Louis knows he can only really react with placid kindness or subtle annoyance to this kind of rant. The problem is, he has no desire to do either. In fact, it had been surprisingly difficult to even follow what was coming out of this random client’s mouth when it was attached to such a ridiculously attractive face and body.
Harry is tall, even more noticeably since he had been standing directly in front of Louis, who had stayed seated throughout his tirade. His hair is brown, curly, and messy in a way that mostly made Louis want to run his fingers through it and tug. Worst of all, once Harry had removed his ridiculously colourful sweater (which incidentally looked like it had come from a flea market or dead grandparent), another offensively cutesy longsleeved shirt was underneath it. This one was striped blue, green, and orange, with various cartoon cats half hidden behind the different stripes.
He was, in short, absurdly hot. With a strong, strong emphasis on the absurd part of that sentence.
And now, Harry had attempted to remove this preposterous long-sleeved shirt in order to allow himself to quite literally cool down after such an impassioned speech… Unfortunately, the static cling between Harry’s ugly jumper and what was clearly an equally obnoxiously loud magenta sleeveless shirt underneath turned out to be just slightly too strong.
It would have been one thing, Louis reasons with himself, if the client had simply gotten half-naked in his office. Like, that would really have been okay. Well, perhaps not okay, but acceptable at the very least.
As it stands, Harry freezes for a moment, clearly feeling the cool air on the skin of his stomach and realizing just how much he just revealed.
Louis, for his part, is glad Harry is too tangled in his shirt to be able to see his face because he is certain it is slack with shock.
Because Louis is not staring at a perfectly fit young man’s naked chest, littered with tattoos and soft enough to sink his teeth into. No. Louis is now staring at a (beautiful) man’s nearly naked chest, encased in delicate, sheer lingerie.
“Fuck!” comes Harry’s voice, a tad on the squeaky side.
“Fuck,” comes Louis’ response, whispered not quite low enough not to hear.
“Hey! You better-” Harry struggles harder, finally succeeding in separating the two materials and tugging off his upper layer. “Not be…” Harry throws the jumper over his head, tugging too far on the sleeveless shirt so a swath of lace makes another appearance through his neckline. “Looking! You pervert!”
Louis snaps his eyes to the ceiling, cheeks burning.
“Oh my god, I’m sorry,” Louis says quickly. He brings a hand up to his face, covering his eyes. Then, deciding that might be too dramatic, he moves his hand, looking into Harry’s eyes deliberately. Harry is blushing too, arms around his middle and expression halfway between horrified and outraged. Louis looks back at the ceiling again, pressing his lips together and trying to school his expression into something relatively… normal.
“I didn’t, erm,” Louis starts, coughing. He looks back to Harry, making eye contact.
Pale, lavender lace.
Oh, god. Oh god, oh fuck.
Louis ignores the burning in his throat and maintains steady eye contact.
“Right, um,” Harry says, trailing off.
The silence stretches on for a beat. Two.
Looked like a bralette, Louis thinks absently, hating himself for knowing that little tidbit.
Fourteen pages of collage and pressed flowers, those stupid fucking curls, and this man has the audacity to wear intricately designed fucking lingerie. Louis had never wanted to refuse a loan so badly, if only for the fact that he would never have to speak to this terrible person ever again.
“I assure you, Mr. Styles, I didn’t see, erm, anything,” Louis chokes out, trying his best not to look anywhere but directly into Harry’s eyes. “I know there were some rumours circulating around town, but that matter was settled directly with the implicated parties.” Louis’ heart beats faster at his practiced words, but he manages to keep his voice steady. He feels like he is on some kind of prank show at this point and can’t help but wonder if this is a set-up. “I’ll have you know we have a strict policy about this kind of thing now.”
Louis grits his teeth a little, still trying not to look at the way the sleeveless shirt now sits crooked at Harry’s neckline. Mr. Styles. Whatever.
“I’m sorry, what?” Harry asks and his expression turns incredulous. “I’m sorry, is this a common occurrence at this branch or something?”
Louis stares at him, squinting suspiciously.
“Are you accusing me of trying to… to entrap you or something by deliberately taking off my shirt?!” Harry exclaims.
Louis’ eyes dart to the closed door, then back to Harry. Back to his face, that is.
“You think I planned this?!” Harry says, volume rising again.
God, Louis really can’t be embroiled in some sort of scandal right now. He’d heard certain… things, after one of the branch’s general managers, Mr. Cowell, had left. Soon afterwards, a memo had circulated concerning suggested talking points for customers enquiring about sexual harassment (or “any other potentially litigious matters ”). He hadn’t been brave enough to ask about it and now he wishes he had.
He really needed to quit his fucking job.
“Not, erm, no,” Louis says uncertainly. He squares his shoulders. “I am just obligated to inform you that if there is to be any actions that could be interpreted as…” He swallows. “Untoward… Such as, erm, bribery, coercion, or,” Louis’ throat constricts. “Sexual h-harassment, I am to inform my superiors and this may result in a generalized ban from our banking establishment forth...with.”
His voice, which had started out quite strong, felt like it was involuntarily shrinking with every angered inhale Harry took through his nose.
“Forthwith,” Harry repeats, expression dangerously blank.
“Erm, like,” Louis says, mouth dry. “In the future.”
“I know what forthwith means, thank you very much,” Harry responds drily. Even in his bright pink top on which, incidentally, is written “TOP”, he looks slightly intimidating in his evident anger.
“What exactly am I being accused of, Mr. Tomlinson?” Harry finally asks coolly, when Louis just stares.
“N-nothing, erm, sir,” Louis answers quickly. At the edge of his periphery, as he continues to keep his eyes glued to Harry’s face, a flash of soft lavender haunts him. “I just thought…”
“You just thought, God, you know what? Today, I am going to show up to work, unprepared for the cases I am meant to see, act like a complete arse to whoever dares ask a bank for some money, and then, as a little treat, I’ll accuse someone of entrapment in an attempt to get a small business loan,” Harry rattles off.
Louis’ mouth falls open again.
“Well, I,” he says, at a loss.
“You know what? I have heard some rumours about this place,” Harry says, narrowing his eyes. “But I was willing to give it a chance. This experience, however, has utterly dissuaded me from ever using this bank again!”
Harry turns on himself, wide-legged trousers swishing a little behind him, and bends to sweep the mess on the floor into his large (also patterned) tote bag.
And Louis… Louis can’t just let him leave in such a state. His top is still askew and the lace from his… His…
“Wait!” Louis blurts out. Harry pauses at the door, turning back, cheeks red and eyes a little wet. “Just, erm.” Louis makes a motion of adjusting his shirt and points to where Harry is still a little… exposed.
Harry glances down at his shirt and startles, lifting it back up and straightening his shoulders. He frowns deeper and looks back up at Louis.
“It’s common courtesy to at least read the fucking application, you know,” he says.
Louis watches him leave his office, feeling a mix of guilt and shame he hasn’t felt about his job in years.
***
Louis doesn’t get another cup of tea. Instead, he opens Harry’s digital file.
***
At eleven thirty, Louis cancels his one o’clock with Olivia concerning appropriate email subject lines. He’s too busy, sitting crossed legged on the floor of the physical archive room, Harry’s file open all around him. He had gotten tired of the slow loading images on file and had finally decided to just find the damn thing itself.
It was… informative.
***
At three, Louis has built a strong enough case to approve Harry’s loan. He isn’t sure if it’s out of guilt or because of the “scratch n’ sniff” annexe attached to the application. It featured carrot muffins and honey lemon sweets. Louis had been tempted to take it home, despite all regulations concerning client files.
***
Things… don’t change. Not really. Though with one click of a button, Louis finds himself in twice as many meetings at work, a suspicious amount of them pertaining to the “discerning decisions in loan and asset management” and “denial, dismissal, and other dreaded discussions”. Louis grits his teeth through it all, thinking of the way Harry had looked before their misunderstanding, thinking of the way he himself must have looked, when he felt he had some kind of control over his work.
The approval also comes with a meeting with Nat, the district manager. She asks a few questions about why he did it.
Was it a sustainable investment?
(No, Harry’s business plan was not quite in the realm of possible.)
Did the loan benefit the branch in some way?
(Not particularly, unless you counted the possibility of buying tea from the bakery instead of hell’s arsehole. (Where Louis assumes it is bought currently.))
Did the business owner have previous successful businesses?
(Besides the pictures of him as a child selling lemonade in what looked to be his own driveway, no..)
And the most important question, the one that kept coming up, but that no one had any idea of how to ask.
Why on earth had Louis approved this small business loan?
(He accused said small business owner of attempting to blackmail him and/or sexual harassment after being both callous and inconsiderate. All this before knowing his name. And his applications smells good.)
(Also… Dimples.)
Louis isn’t insane. He says all the right things to get them off his back. Buzzwords like, “return on investment”, “grassroot movement” or “organic fiduciary growth” flow out of his mouth like a modern day witch’s spell. Spewing bullshit is apparently easy if you’ve spent years watching others do it. With his experience and knowledge, and a healthy dose of unfounded confidence, eventually, the bureaucratic wheel continues its infinite trudge forward, Louis’ stamp of approval intact.
Louis hadn’t approved a project he actually cared about in a long time. No one ever checks the archives, and the approval of this silly bakery has been mentioned in nearly every meeting since it went through, so Louis doesn’t feel too guilty about keeping it in his office drawer.
It’s ridiculous. It was one single act of rebellion, one guilt and shame (and possible unethical interest in dimples) driven decision and things don’t… change. But they do.
On the Monday after the approval, Louis notices a ladybug on an early blooming sunflower. He surreptitiously looks around, to see if anyone is watching him, and impulsively decides to pluck it from the public planter. He leaves it at Jen’s desk on his way in. She’s surprised, to say the least, but she doesn't say anything. Louis sees her asking Brent to help her enter a meeting into the shared calendar later. She usually complains until Louis does it for her, cursing under his breath.
On Tuesday, Louis finds himself having to refuse a loan to a mom and pop hardware operation. At the look on their faces, however, he gets an idea. They leave armed with a reworked business plan to integrate classes and rent out equipment to stabilize their income and try for an appeal in three months.
On Wednesday, Louis actually brings in his own tea. He makes a batch for the team, but doesn't mention it. Still, he finds himself hiding a slight smile whenever he overhears someone asking who made the “simply delicious” tea.
On and on it goes. Nothing really changes, but Louis finds himself opening the drawer ever so often just to touch at the velvet dried daffodil leaves, or to catch a stale whiff of vanilla and honey. He can't help but wonder how Harry is doing, thumbs at the contact information section from time to time.
Maybe approving that loan was slightly unethical, but Louis still has his limits.
So he stops at the bakery down the street from the bank on Friday to grab some pastries for the team. He tries not to think about how the vanilla and honey scent wafting from the boxes doesn't quite hit the same as he drops them off in the break room.
He doesn't take one for himself, nor does he say anything when Jen mentions how nice the “vibe” has been around the office these days.
Still, he finds himself doodling a tiny cup of tea and pastry in the margins of his notes in his last meeting of the day.
***