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Harry wasn’t supposed to be here.
Okay, well, he was, technically, but this wasn’t really his scene. He’d been picked as Niall’s stand-in after his last-minute betrayal (or, as Niall called it, ‘an unfortunate gastrointestinal situation’). Which meant Harry had been left to fly solo into a party full of strangers, armed with nothing but a name—Louis—and a vague assurance that “you’ll fancy him and have a good time, so you’ll be fine.”
Whatever that meant.
He stood outside of this guy Louis’ townhouse in the city for longer than he’d like to admit. Just staring at the door, pretending to check his phone so he didn’t look like a complete loser…hovering nonchalantly. The faint bassline of lo-fi music came through the door and the scent of weed drifting from somewhere inside was very apparent.
He let out a disgruntled sigh and looked down at his outfit. His black flared trousers, high-waisted and fitted in a way that made his ass look phenomenal (not that he was hoping anyone was going to see it). His shirt—a loose cream satin button-down, cropped just enough to show a sliver of his stomach—was a bold choice, but if he was going to suffer through a party of trying to get to know Niall’s friends, he might as well look hot doing it.
Besides, Niall had promised him this Louis guy was ‘super artsy’ and ‘quirky but sophisticated’, which Harry had taken to mean ‘probably wouldn’t flinch at Harry’s entire personality’.
With a sigh, Harry finally pulled himself together and knocked on the door.
The door swung open a moment later, revealing a guy with a joint hanging from his lips and a hoodie that might have been older than Harry himself. He looked Harry up and down then stepped aside.
“You Niall’s mate?” the guy asked, gesturing him inside.
Harry hesitated briefly before he stepped over the threshold.
“That’s me,” he said, offering a small smile. “He couldn’t make it. Some tragic stomach thing.”
“Figures, always something going on with him,” the guy said with a laugh. “I’m Matt. Drinks are in the kitchen, living room’s just through there. Smoke wherever you want, just don’t light anything in the bathroom. Louis nearly killed the last guy who tried.”
The mention of Louis made Harry pause. Niall had been annoyingly cryptic about him—something about him being “disgustingly your type” and “his eyes, Harry. His eyes”. Not exactly helpful, but it had been enough to pique Harry’s interest. So, he’d introduce himself to Louis, no harm in it. Harry just wanted to make a good impression on Niall’s cool, artsy school friends. That’s all.
The townhome looked like it belonged to an eclectic art collector. From the mural along the entire entry wall to the art deco gallery in the living room just off the hallway, it felt high class and relaxed all the same. Plants hung in planters or sat precariously on different shelves and tables, fairy lights strung back and forth through out the high ceilings, all punctuated by cool, casual 70s style furniture.
Yeah, sure, this guy could be Harry’s type.
The house was also loud. Not in an obnoxious, college party way. In a way that felt like everyone was having a good time without needing to know who anyone was. The music was just right, loud enough to sway your hips but low enough to keep conversations going. And the smell, there was a familiar sweetness mixed with weed, something recognizable that he couldn’t quite put his tongue on the scent.
He let the vibe of everything lead him toward the living room, where the sound of laughter and conversation was the loudest.
And then he saw him.
Yeah, this guy is Harry’s type.
Even if Niall hadn’t made this guy sound like a God among men and someone Harry would kneel for, he would have known this man was him.
Louis, the man lounging on the couch like he owned the place (which, to be fair, he did). He wasn’t doing anything loud or boisterous to keep the party alive. He was just sitting there, a joint hanging loosely between his fingers, his head tilted toward his shoulder as he listened to the people next to him tell a story wildly with their hands. But there was something about him that made it impossible to look away.
He was older, obviously—probably mid-thirties, if Harry had to guess—but the kind of older that looked effortless, like time had treated him with extra care just to piss everyone else off.
His hair had silver streaked through it, styled in a way that was messy but somehow still perfect. His shirt, a loose black button-up with the sleeves rolled up, was undone just enough to hint at the hollows of his collarbone and a tattooed chest.
And his hands. Oh, fuck, his hands.
Harry watched with rapt attention; on the way his fingers held the joint, all tatted yet delicate, his thumb brushing the edge of it in a lazy rhythm. The back of his hand had the kind of veins that made Harry’s tongue lick his lips instinctively. He moved with effortless confidence, bringing the joint to his lips like it was second nature.
Harry realized he was gawking and quickly averted his gaze, pretending to be thoroughly captivated by an abstract painting hung on the accent wall to his right. He was being ridiculous. He took a deep breath and shook his head as if it’d shake the thoughts away.
“Harry, yeah?”
The voice startled him, just over the music and slightly raspy. Harry turned to find Louis standing right next to him. How the fuck had he moved so fast without Harry noticing?
“That’s me,” he said through an awkward laugh, recovering quickly. “Harry.”
“Harry,” Louis repeated, like he was testing the name out on his tongue. “Niall’s roommate. I’ve heard a lot about you.”
“All lies, I’m sure,” Harry said with a grin.
Louis chuckled, taking a slow drag from his joint before blowing the smoke out to the side, away from Harry. “We’ll see.”
Harry raised an eyebrow accusingly. “What exactly did Niall tell you?”
Louis’ lips curved into a lazy smile and his eyebrows raised briefly, and Harry decided right then and there that he was in trouble.
Harry wasn’t much of a smoker—well, not to these people’s standards anyway. He’d take a hit or two, usually when Niall shoved a joint in his hand during one of their late-night movie marathons. But this? Silver-fox-sexy-hands Louis, standing there with an air of too casual confidence, a smirk on his lips, holding out toward him the kind of joint that looked like it had been rolled with the precision of a fucking surgeon?
How the hell was he supposed to say no?
Harry hesitated for only a second before taking it, hoping the motion looked smooth and not like he was having a minor existential crisis. If he was going to embarrass himself, he might as well do it with faux grace.
“You just handing these out to strangers?” He lifted the joint to his lips, glancing at Louis out of the corner of his eye.
“You don’t feel like a stranger,” Louis said low and smooth, like he knew exactly how Harry was feeling—it made Harry’s knees go a little weak.
The smoke hit him harder than he expected. He had to fight the urge to cough, his lungs burning in protest. He took a shallow inhale, then passed the joint back to Louis with what he hoped was a convincing nonchalance despite his eyes watering.
“Not bad,” he said, his voice only cracking slightly.
The way Louis looked at him felt too knowing, but he took the joint back from him. Louis brought it to his lips like he was showing him how it was done, his eyes lingering on Harry’s face as he inhaled,
It wasn’t fair, really. The way someone could make something as mundane as smoking a joint look like an art form. The way his fingers moved—long and deft, the kind of hands that looked like they’d know exactly what to do if they ever touched you properly. The way his lips curled around the edge of the joint, soft and full, and okay, Harry needed to stop.
“You don’t do this often, do you?” Louis asked, his voice cutting through Harry’s increasingly inappropriate thoughts. Weed makes him horny.
“Do what?” Harry asked, feigning ignorance.
“Smoke.” Louis raised an eyebrow, holding the joint between his fingers like a challenge.
Harry shrugged, popping one hip and crossing his arms over his chest like he wasn’t internally spiraling.
“Not usually. But when someone hands me something…” He let the sentence trail off.
“Dangerous habit,” Louis said. “Trusting strangers.”
Harry tilted his head, letting his curls fall over one shoulder. “You don’t feel like a stranger.”
“You’re quick,” Louis said, his eyes flicking down to Harry’s lips for the briefest second before he passed his joint to someone else passing by, breaking the spell. “I like that.”
“Yeah?” Harry asked, feeling a heat begin to prickle on his skin. “Guess I’ll take that as a compliment.”
“You should,” Louis replied with a short nod. And then, just as easily as he’d appeared, Louis turned back toward the living room, slipping into the crowd.
It wasn’t until someone bumped into him—laughing, apologizing as they jostled their drink—that Harry remembered where he was. The party around him snapped back into focus, the music thrumming, the smell of weed and perfume thick in the air. Harry shook his head, trying to ground himself, but it didn’t help.
“Okay,” Harry muttered under his breath, moving to go get a drink from the kitchen to calm the nervous buzzing in his chest. “It’s just a party. He’s just a guy who is Niall’s friend...”
A really hot guy. With really unfair cheekbones and eyelashes. And hot fucking hands.
He groaned, dragging a hand through his curls. This was fine. Totally fine. He could survive this party without making a complete fool of himself. He just had to avoid Louis for the rest of the night. Easy. Except it wasn’t, because the next time he looked toward the living room as he poured himself a drink, Louis was already watching him from across the room, like he knew exactly what Harry was thinking. And Harry was so screwed.
Harry was still trying to recover—mentally and emotionally—from the slow-motion devastation of Louis handing him that joint when someone sidled up next to him and clapped a hand on his shoulder. “Harry! Holy shit, it is you.”
Harry blinked, startled, and turned to see a guy he vaguely recognized from some party Niall had dragged him to months ago. His hair was bleached within an inch of its life, the roots a little too dark, but his grin was wide and genuine.
“Oh,” Harry said, his brain scrambling for his name. “Yeah. Uh—Jake?”
“James,” he corrected, completely unbothered and already pulling a joint out of his pocket. “Niall mentioned you might show up. Said you needed someone to make sure you didn’t die of awkwardness.”
Harry rolled his eyes. “‘Course he did.”
James laughed, lighting the joint and taking a slow drag before holding it out to Harry. “Here. You look like you could use it.”
“I’m fine, thanks,” Harry said, but James didn’t budge.
“Come on,” James said, nudging him with the joint. “I saw you talking to Louis. If that didn’t make you need to relax a little, nothing will.”
Harry hesitated, glancing over his shoulder to where Louis had disappeared into the crowd again.
Okay, yeah, maybe James had a point.
“Fine,” Harry muttered, taking the joint and inhaling carefully this time. He wasn’t about to embarrass himself twice in one night. The smoke burned, but not as badly as before, and he handed it back quickly.
“Atta boy,” James said, grinning as he exhaled. “Come on. Niall said you’re funny.”
Harry snorted. “Niall says a lot of things.”
“Yeah, well, let’s see if he’s finally right,” James replied, already steering Harry toward the living room like it was his personal mission from Niall to socialize him into oblivion.
The next twenty minutes passed in a slightly intoxicated haze of introductions, half-remembered names, and the kind of small talk Harry hated—the ones that started with “So, what do you do?” and ended with Harry wishing he’d lied and said something more interesting than “I just graduated with an art degree and have no idea how to get a job in my desired field”.
Still, the second drink James handed him helped him get through it. It wasn’t until Harry was on his third drink—something sweet and deceptively strong—that he started to feel himself loosen up. He let himself laugh at James’ dumb jokes, nod along to someone explaining the art installation in the hallway and call it Pop Art when Harry really wanted to correct them and call it Abstract Expressionism. He even joined in a slightly chaotic game of “Would You Rather” with a group of strangers who were all clearly more stoned than he was.
And yet, no matter how much he tried to focus on the conversations around him, his thoughts kept drifting back to Louis. He caught glimpses of him every now and then, moving through the room like he was the sun, everything else revolving around him. Sometimes he was laughing, his head tipped back in a way that made the bits of silver in his hair catch the light. Other times, he was just watching the crowd intensely with a drink or a joint in his hand. Harry hated how much he noticed every little thing he was doing. Hated even more how much he wanted Louis to notice him again.
“Alright,” James said, clapping him on the shoulder and jolting him out of his thoughts for what felt like the hundredth time. “I think you’re officially acclimated. My work here is done.”
Harry rolled his eyes. “Great. Can I go sulk in a corner now like I had planned?”
James laughed, already wandering off to join someone else. “Don’t sulk too hard. Louis’ll think you’re brooding and he loves that shit.”
Brooding never sounded more appealing.
Harry huffed out a laugh, shaking his head as he leaned back against the living room wall, his drink still clutched in his hand. He let himself people-watch for a while. There were couples dancing, their bodies pressed way too close together for an onlooker’s comfort, and others sprawled on the sectional, their heads tipped back as they laughed or passed around a bong. It was the kind of party Harry might have actually enjoyed if he wasn’t so hyperaware of the way Louis kept drifting into his periphery.
At some point, Harry felt the familiar heat of someone watching him, and he glanced up to find Louis leaning in the kitchen doorway, one shoulder against the frame, his arms crossed over his chest. Louis could have just about anyone in this room eating out of the palm of his hand, and yet he was looking at Harry like he was something worth figuring out. It took everything in Harry not to fall to his knees right then and there.
Harry straightened, his heart thudding in his chest as Louis pushed off the doorway and started walking toward him. Harry didn’t do anything except watch as Louis stalked closer.
“Having fun?” Louis asked when he was close enough to speak, his voice low, meant just for Harry.
Harry tilted his head, letting his curls fall prettily to the side as he looked at Louis. The alcohol and weed coursing through his system had dulled his usual hesitations, leaving behind a braver, bolder (hornier), version of himself. And if Louis wanted to come over and talk to him—well, Harry wasn’t about to waste the opportunity.
“Having a blast,” Harry said, lifting his plastic cup in a toast. “And you? You done stalking me from the corners?”
Louis let out a soft laugh, and it was such a warm sound it made Harry relax.
“Stalking?” Louis repeated in mock offense. “I just wanted to give you some space. Looked like you were busy holding court.”
“Court?” Harry echoed, his eyebrow arching. “Is that what we’re calling James dragging me around?”
Louis’ mouth twitched and then he shook his head like he was trying to fight back a grin. “He’s a bit much, isn’t he?”
“That’s one way to put it,” Harry replied, leaning back against the wall and letting his eyes drift over Louis from top to bottom. “But I guess he’s not wrong about everything.”
Louis lifted his head, intrigued. “Oh? Like what?”
Harry shrugged, taking a slow sip of his drink. He let the silence stretch just long enough to feel intentional before lowering the cup and meeting Louis’ head-on.
“He said you’d think I was funny,” Harry said. “So far, I think he might be right.”
Louis’ smile widened, and for a second, Harry felt like he’d won some kind of game only he was playing in his head.
“Well, he just told me you’d be trouble,” Louis said, and there was something in the way he said it, almost like it was a challenge.
“Well,” Harry said, letting his smile turn a little coy, “he’s probably right about that.”
Louis laughed again, and this time, he didn’t bother holding back the grin. His eyes swept over Harry, lingering just long enough to make Harry feel like he was being carefully appraised. Harry didn’t squirm under the attention—he wanted Louis to look, wanted him to see exactly what was on offer (and at this point, Harry was ready to offer everything).
“Careful,” Louis said. “I might start to believe you.”
“That’s the idea,” Harry shot back, and okay, maybe the weed had gone to his head. But it felt good, stepping into a conversation so bluntly and not entirely embarrasing himself with his attempts at flirting. And Louis seemed to like it, if the look in his eyes was anything to go by.
“You’re bold,” Louis said softly. “I like that.”
Harry’s heart was pounding now, but he refused to back down. “Yeah? What else do you like?”
Louis let out a low hum, cocking his head to the side dramatically as if considering the question.
“A lot of things,” he said finally, his voice smooth, almost lazy. “But I think I like you like this.”
Harry raised an eyebrow. “Like what?”
“Confident.” There was no hesitation in the way he said it, no teasing edge. It was straightforward, simple.
“Well,” Harry said, his voice steady despite the way Louis was looking at him, “you’re not exactly making it hard.”
Louis’ lips quirked up, the kind of smile that felt like a reward.
“Good,” he said, leaning back just slightly, but not far enough to break the moment between them. “I’d hate to think I was intimidating you.”
“Oh, you are.” Harry nodded. “But I’ve decided to rise to the occasion.”
Louis laughed, and it was so warm and unguarded that Harry couldn’t help but smile along with him. “Yeah, I think you might be trouble.”
Before Harry could come up with a clever reply, someone called Louis’ name from across the room, breaking the moment. Louis glanced over his shoulder, his expression flickering with something unreadable before he turned back to Harry.
“Don’t go too far,” Louis said. And then he was gone, slipping back into the crowd.
Harry drained the rest of his drink in one go, his hands trembling just slightly as he set the empty cup down on a nearby table.
This was fine. Totally fine. He was totally fine.
The party had begun to settle; the music was softer now, more white noise than anything else, and the crowd had either left out or formed into smaller groups scattered through the home. Harry hadn’t even noticed when it had happened, his brain blending the night into one big haze, but somehow, the atmosphere had shifted.
And somehow, he’d ended up here.
Louis was sitting loose and relaxed on the large leather sectional right in the corner, one arm draped casually over the backrest. Harry had ended up next to him—he wasn’t sure when, exactly, but he wasn’t about to question it further. He was perched on the edge of the cushion next to him, his drink forgotten on the coffee table in front of them as he tried very hard not to stare at the way Louis moved.
Louis was talking to the room. Well, storytelling was probably a better word for it. He had a small group around him, and they were all completely captivated. Harry included.
It wasn’t just the story—though whatever Louis was saying was funny, judging by the laughter coming from the group—it was the way he told it. His voice was low and smooth, the kind of voice that wrapped around you, and every now and then, it would dip just slightly, like he was letting you in on a secret only to brighten back up to settle a warmth over you. There was the way his mouth moved, the way his lips curved around the words, the way his eyebrows would quirk up when the story would get interesting.
And then there were his hands.
Harry really wasn’t trying to stare but it was impossible not to notice the way Louis gestured as he spoke, his fingers painting shapes in the air, the muscles flexing with each motion. His hands had a roughness to them, with tattooed fingers that curled as he spoke. But there was also an elegance to it, like each twitch and point was purposeful. He had a glass of whiskey in one hand, and every now and then he’d lift it to his lips, the faint clink of ice punctuating his sentences. Harry couldn’t help but watch the way his fingers were wrapped around the glass…
The way Louis thumbed along the rim of the glass as he talked.
It was such a small, insignificant motion, but Harry felt like it had been designed specifically to ruin him. The way Harry’s skin grew even warmer, he wasn’t sure if it was the alcohol or the weed or just Louis, but either way it was way too overwhelming and he had to do something to look less flustered.
Harry forced himself to look away. James was there, sprawled across the armrest of a nearby chair and laughing at something Louis had just said. A girl with a nose ring—Sophie, he thought he remembered—was perched on the floor, her legs crossed as she sipped from a mug filled with some herbal looking drink. There were a couple of others too, but they all seemed to blur into the background. So unimportant compared to where Louis’ hand was now resting; fingers twitching on the couch just a few inches from Harry’s shoulder when he finally relaxed back into the cushions next to him.
“...And then we tried to climb the fence,” Louis was saying. “Which would’ve been fine if it weren’t for the fact that it was covered in—”
“Barbed wire,” Sophie interrupted, groaning like she already knew where the story was going.
“Exactly,” Louis said, pointing at her with his glass. “You’d think he’d have noticed before throwing himself over it, but no. Took a chunk out of his jeans and his pride. Fucked up his ankle too, so he was limping away with his ass nearly out.”
Harry couldn’t help but laugh even though he hadn’t been paying attention to the entire first half of the story. It didn’t matter. The sound of Louis’ laugh was enough.
“You alright there?” Louis’ voice cut through the group returning to small chatter between themselves, and Harry’s stomach flipped as he realized Louis was looking directly at him
Harry blinked. “What?”
“You’ve been awfully quiet,” Louis said. “Thought I lost you.”
“No,” Harry said quickly. He cleared his throat, forcing himself to relax. “I’m here. Just…listening.”
Louis raised an eyebrow, and for a moment, Harry thought he might call him out, might point out the way Harry kept inching closer or couldn’t keep his eyes off of him. But instead, Louis just smiled and turned back to the group.
Harry let out a quiet breath, his shoulders relaxing just slightly. He just needed to stop looking at Louis’ hands, or his mouth, or the way his shirt was unbuttoned just enough, or how warm he was next to him, or how his voice was sending shivers down his spine. No big deal.
But then Louis shifted, stretching his arm farther along the backrest—closer now, close enough that Harry could actually feel the faint brush of his fingers against his shoulder. And then Louis lifted his glass again, his tongue poking out his mouth to lick his lips before taking a long sip.
“Harry,” Louis said suddenly, his expression softly curious, like he was trying to figure something out. “What’s on your mind?”
For a split second, Harry thought about lying. About saying something easy, something witty and funny, to try and charm Louis farther and draw something out of him. But instead, he settled farther into the couch.
“You’re distracting,” Harry said simply, letting his mouth move faster than his mind.
Louis’ eyebrows shot up. “Am I?”
“Mm-hmm,” Harry said, leaning his head back against the couch where Louis’ arm was and letting his eyes drift—just for a second—over Louis’ hands, his mouth, the line of his jaw. “But I’m sure you get that all the time.”
“Maybe,” Louis said softly, his voice dipping intimately. “But I didn’t think you’d admit it.”
Harry shrugged, feeling bold. “I had a feeling you’d figure it out anyway.”
“Smart,” he said. “I like that.”
The living room grew quieter as the minutes ticked by. James had disappeared somewhere with a few people Harry didn’t recognize, and Sophie was dozing off in the armchair, her mug abandoned on the floor beside her. Others had gone home or passed out somewhere else in the house, and Harry wasn’t sure how (and wouldn’t argue), but it felt like the party had perfectly rearranged itself so that it was reduced to a little bubble of two on the couch.
Louis had leaned into Harry some more, his legs stretched out and crossed at the ankles. Harry could feel his attention. Every time Louis shifted while they talked in hushed tones, his hand would brush against Harry’s shoulder. Harry told himself to stay cool, to act like he wasn’t being completely unraveled by him, but it was a quick, losing battle.
Louis swirled the last of the whiskey in his glass, watching it for a beat before tipping his head toward the sliding door that led out onto the front balcony.
“Smoke?” he asked, his voice too casual.
Harry hesitated, not because he was about to say no—there wasn’t a chance in hell he was going to pass up an opportunity to be alone with Louis—but because the last time he’d smoked in front of him tonight, he’d barely managed to hold it together.
“Sure,” he said finally, leaning into nonchalance he didn’t quite feel.
“Come on,” Louis said, standing and holding out a hand to Harry. “Let’s get some air.”
He took it gladly and followed Louis out onto the balcony just off the living room, the night air a refreshing change from his alcohol, weed, and Louis induced sweat. The city stretched out around them, a sprawl of lights and sounds of cars. The balcony itself was cozy, with a small table and a few mismatched chairs tucked into the corner.
Louis slid the door shut behind them, muting the sounds of the softer party music even further, and pulled a joint from his shirt pocket. He lit it with the ease of someone who’d done it a thousand times, the tiny flame catching the paper before he inhaled deeply. The tip glowed red in the dim light, and when Louis exhaled, the smoke curled lazily around him.
He held the joint out to Harry without a word, his fingers steady, his expression unreadable. Harry hesitated for only a second before taking it.
“Not too much,” Louis murmured, stepping closer, close enough that Harry could see the faint stubble along his jaw, the way the subtle light caught on the curve of his cheekbone. “Don’t want you coughing up a lung.”
Harry narrowed his eyes, more at Louis’ proximity than his comment, but he obeyed, inhaling just enough to feel the warmth spread through his chest. He exhaled slowly, the smoke dissipating into the night air, and when he handed the joint back to Louis, he tried to ignore the way his hands were trembling.
“You’re learning,” Louis said softly, his voice carrying a hint of approval that made Harry’s heart stutter.
Harry rolled his eyes, leaning back against the railing. “I’m not a total amateur, you know.”
“No?” Louis replied, raising an eyebrow as he took another drag. He didn’t hand the joint back immediately, instead letting it rest between his fingers as he tilted his head toward Harry. “Could’ve fooled me earlier.”
Before Harry could come up with a reply, Louis held the joint out again, but this time, when Harry reached for it, Louis shook his head.
“Let me,” he said, his voice soft as he twisted the joint around between his fingers.
Harry blinked, confused, until Louis stepped closer, lifting the joint to Harry’s lips himself. His fingers were steady, his knuckles brushing the edge of Harry’s jaw as he held it in place.
“Inhale,” Louis murmured, and Harry obeyed without thinking, his pulse pounding in his ears as he breathed in.
Louis pulled the joint away, his fingers lingering just a second too long before he exhaled. Harry’s chest felt tight, not from the smoke but from the weight of Louis’ attention, the way his eyes seemed to strip him bare.
“Good?” Louis asked, his voice quieter now, like the space between them couldn’t hold much more than a whisper.
Harry nodded, his throat painfully dry. “Yeah.”
Louis smiled, soft and almost fond, and Harry felt his breath catch in his chest. The moment stretched, the air between them heavy with something unspoken, and Harry wondered if Louis could hear his heart hammering in the silence.
“Harry,” Louis said, his gaze flicking briefly to Harry’s lips before meeting his eyes again. “I think you’re thinking too much.”
Harry let out a breathless laugh, his hands gripping the railing behind him as he tried to ground himself. “You’re making it hard not to.”
“Am I?” Louis murmured, stepping closer still, the space between them now practically nonexistent.
Harry licked his lips, his voice quieter than he intended as he replied, “You already know the answer to that.”
Louis didn’t answer right away. He just tilted his head, his lips curling into the kind of smile that felt like a dare. Harry could feel the weight of his gaze, the way it lingered on him like he was memorizing every detail. It was intoxicating, the quiet between them thick enough to drown in.
And then, just as Harry’s heart felt like it might burst from his chest, the moment broke. A loud snore rattled through the glass door behind them, startling Harry enough to snap him back to reality. He glanced over Louis' shoulder to see James now sprawled across the sectional inside, one leg hanging off the edge and an empty glass balanced precariously on his stomach. The other two stragglers who had been hanging around earlier were now passed out in equally unflattering positions, one half-hidden under a throw blanket that had been stolen from the back of the couch.
The party was well and truly over.
“Well,” Louis said, his voice cutting through the stillness, “looks like you’ve officially outlasted everyone.”
"Guess so," Harry murmured, turning back toward him.
Louis eyes lingered on Harry, the joint burned to nearly nothing between his fingers. It looked as if he was weighing a decision by the way his brows furrowed just so and his lips twisted. Then, he gestured toward the sliding door.
“Come on.” His voice was certain. “We can go upstairs. I’ve got more to smoke if you’d like.”
The word "upstairs" buzzed in Harry’s mind, its implication floating in the back of his mind. Louis didn’t wait up, though. He opened the door and stepped inside, his movements easy and unhurried.
Harry waited barely a second before following him through the living room past sleeping partygoers, keeping his steps light to keep from waking anyone up.
The upstairs was even quieter. The hallway was dimly lit, the walls covered in more art. They passed a bathroom and a guest bedroom before Louis pushed open a door to his room.
The room was cozy and bathed in warm light from the bedside table lamp. The furniture was mismatched but still worked together, vintage pieces and warm wood tone throughout. Harry took it all in as Louis pulled out his lighter and lit a candle on his dresser.
“Feel free to make yourself comfortable,” Louis said as he moved to his desk in the corner of the room. Harry stayed frozen a few steps past the doorframe as he watched Louis pull open a drawer and take out a tin. Again, Harry couldn’t keep his eyes off Louis’ hands work, even the most mundane of movements stirred something inside him.
Louis hopped onto the edge of the bed and opened the tin and began rolling himself another joint. Harry’s eyes nearly glazed over as he watched Louis’ fingers curl over the paper, the muscles on the back of his hands twitching with every movement.
When Louis finished and lit the joint, the glow from the flame made Harry’s chest feel too tight. Louis inhaled deeply before his eyes flicked over to Harry still standing in hazy awe.
“You can stand there all night but I promise it’s not as comfortable,” Louis said through the joint between his smirking lips.
Harry huffed a quiet laugh, finally stepping toward the bed. The mattress dipped slightly as he sat next to Louis who held the joint out toward him. Harry took it, his movement intentional to brush against Louis’ fingers.
As he took a long, slow drag, the two held eye contact the entire time. They sat in easy silence, passing the joint back and forth. Harry fully let himself relax in Louis' presence, his thoughts hazy from the weed and the dizziness of Louis’ proximity.
At some point, Louis scoot back against the headboard, one arm draped lazily across it. The invitation wasn’t spoken, but it was there, and Harry found himself inching closer, his body moving before his brain could catch up, settling right next to Louis.
“You’re staring again,” Louis murmured as he ran his hand over his chin.
Harry blinked a few times. “Am I?”
Louis nodded, taking another drag. His gaze dropped to Harry’s mouth for half a beat before meeting his eyes again. “Not that I mind. Just wondering what’s got your attention.”
Harry’s throat tightened. He should’ve looked away, brushed it off, but something in the haze of every hit he took and every sip of alcohol he drank that night made him bolder.
“Your hands,” he admitted quietly. “Something about the way they move is so distracting.”
Louis’ smiled like he’d been waiting for that answer. He held the joint between his fingers, twisting his wrist slowly to admire his own hand from all angles.
“Distracting?” Louis asked. “Is that a good thing?”
Harry swallowed the lump in his throat, unable to look away. “Yeah. Definitely good.”
Louis hummed low in his chest, his hand moving deliberately slow as he brought the joint to his lips again. The way his fingers held steady and his cheeks hallowed slightly with his inhale made Harry’s stomach jump.
“You’re ridiculous,” Harry said without thinking, his voice breathy as a nervous laugh slipped out. Louis finally sat back, the joint still balanced between his fingers.
Louis tilted his head innocently. “Ridiculous how?”
Harry huffed, trying to find his footing in the conversation but feeling like Louis had already stolen it out from under him. “Your hands. The way you move. You’re so—” He stopped himself, the rest of the sentence trapped in his throat.
“Go on,” Louis urged, his voice suddenly coaxing and smooth. “What am I?”
Harry hesitated for half a second before the weed—or maybe just Louis' persuasion—made him reckless. “You’re… annoying,” he said finally. “Completely distracting. Impossible to ignore.”
Louis laughed then, a low, warm sound that made Harry’s head hum with warmth. He leaned back against the headboard, the joint rolling lazily between his fingers, his gaze heavy-lidded. “Sounds like a you problem, babe.”
Harry felt like he couldn’t breathe. Studying the profile of Louis’ face, the slope of his nose, the curve of his lips. When Louis finally turned to face him again, his expression was soft and made a shiver run through Harry’s spine.
“You’re staring again,” Louis murmured, and this time, the words carried a different weight.
“You make it hard not to,” he said quietly, the honesty slipping out before he could stop it.
Louis’ lips curved into a slow, devastating smile, the kind that made Harry feel like his limbs were like jello and the air was pulled from the room.
“Come here,” Louis said, his voice holding such easy command and his hand reaching out to brush lightly against Harry’s knee.
Harry didn’t think—couldn’t think. He shifted closer instinctively, his breath coming out in a shudder as their thighs pressed together. Louis’ hand didn’t move, but his fingers curled just slightly, a gentle squeeze on his leg.
“I’m curious,” Louis said as his thumb began rubbing circles over his knee. “What is it about my hands?”
“Everything,” Harry admitted breathlessly. “The way you hold things. The way you—” He stopped himself, his face flushing harder under the way Louis was looking at him. It was like he was trying to unravel him piece by piece, and it made it impossible to stop himself from speaking further. “The way you...touch things.”
“You’ve been thinking about that all night?” he asked like he already knew the answer.
Harry felt his cheeks burn, but he didn’t look away. “Yeah. Maybe.”
Louis’ lips twitched, his thumb brushing lightly up Harry’s knee, a motion so subtle it made Harry’s stomach twist. “And?” Louis prompted, leaning just a little closer, his voice dipping lower. “Do I live up to the fantasy?”
Harry’s breath hitched, his pulse hammering in his ears. The space between them felt paper-thin, and every nerve in his body buzzed with the weight of Louis’ question. “You’re worse,” he said finally. “So much worse.”
Louis’ leaned in closer, enough that Harry could feel the warmth of his breath ghost over his skin. And then he smiled and it was over.
“Good,” Louis murmured. “I’d hate to disappoint.”
Before Harry could respond—if he even could get a word out if he tried—Louis moved his hand, sliding so gradually from Harry’s knee up his thigh it was almost maddening. Harry’s breath stuttered, his whole body tensing as Louis’ fingers curled lightly against his inner thigh.
Louis’ hand stayed on his thigh, grounding, while his other had abandoned the joint on the bedside table to slide up devistatingly slow to cradle the side of Harry’s face, his thumb brushing lightly against his cheekbone.
The first press of Louis’ lips were long and drawn out, the next was rougher, all-consuming, as if neither of them could breathe without the other’s lips. It was messy and languid and felt like the culmination they both wanted after an evening of subtle glances, words, and touches.
When they finally broke apart, Harry’s chest was heaving, his skin burning under Louis’ gaze. Louis’ hand didn’t move from his face, his thumb trailing down to brush against Harry’s lips that were swollen and red, a sheen of shared spit glistening across them.
“Go on, then,” Louis’ voice was rough, dipping quieter. “Take what you want.”
Harry didn’t need to be told twice. He leaned forward, his heart hammering in his chest as he lifted his hand, his fingers curling lightly around Louis’ wrist. He hesitated for just a second, but the heat in Louis’ eyes was all the encouragement he needed.
He parted his lips, letting Louis’ thumb slide into his mouth, his tongue brushing against the pad in a motion that was instinctive, all desperation. He didn’t know what he was doing—didn’t know if he was doing whatever it was right—but the way Louis’ breath hitched, the way his eyes darkened as he watched, told Harry all he needed to know.
“Fuck,” Louis murmured, his voice almost a growl. The sound sent a fresh wave of heat coursing through the pit of Harry’s stomach. “You’re—God, Harry.”
Harry couldn’t help but react to Louis, pressing his body further into him as his lips tightened around his finger. He could feel Louis’ other fingers twitch against his cheek as his tongue traced along the edge of his thumb, and the quiet ragged breath Louis let out only encouraged Harry further.
“You’re definitely trouble,” Louis said finally, his voice low and uneven, as if Harry had surprised him.
Harry pulled back slightly, letting Louis’ finger slide from his mouth with a wet pop, but he didn’t let go of his wrist. “You like trouble?”
Louis let out a quiet laugh, shaking his head, but his eyes never left Harry’s.
“Yeah,” he said after a beat.
Harry’s tongue moved without thinking, brushing back against the pad of Louis’ thumb, tasting the faint bitterness of smoke and the salt of his skin, humming contently as he let himself sink into it.
“Good,” Louis murmured. His thumb moved slightly, brushing against Harry’s tongue in a way that felt almost testing, and Harry’s whole body shivered he let out a soft, breathless moan.
Louis pulled his thumb back slowly, his hand brushing against Harry’s lips as it slipped away, and Harry’s breath came out in a shaky rush, his whole body trembling with the effort of holding himself together. He felt wrecked, undone, and Louis hadn’t even kissed him again. It was just his hands, his fucking hands, and Harry felt like he might actually lose his mind if Louis touched him again.
“Harry,” Louis said softly. “You’re so fucking easy to read.”
Harry didn’t have time to process Louis’ words before the joint was back in front of him, held delicately between his pointer and that same thumb that had just been in his mouth. His chest rose and fell in shallow breaths, and for a moment, he could only stare at Louis’ hand—the slight curl of his fingers, the smooth stretch of his knuckles, the way the joint looked so natural cradled there, as if it belonged to him.
“Go on,” Louis whispered. The way Louis’ thumb rested on the edge of the joint made Harry’s stomach twist. He swallowed thickly, trying to ground himself as he leaned forward to take it.
Louis didn’t let go. His fingers stayed there as Harry took a drag, his lips brushing the edge of Louis’ thumb as he inhaled. The smoke burned, sweet and heady, curling in his chest and blurring the edges of his thoughts, but it wasn’t enough to distract him from the warmth of Louis’ hand or the way his Louis’ fingers shifted slightly.
Louis pulled the joint away slowly. Harry exhaled, the smoke curled lazily between them, disappearing into the dim light. Louis didn’t move his hands, though—not entirely. His one snuffed the joint on the ashtray as his other fingers lingered near Harry’s mouth, his pointer brushing lightly against his bottom lip as if testing the boundaries of what Harry would let him do.
Harry didn’t pull back. He couldn’t. Instead, he leaned forward instinctively, his lips parting slightly as his tongue flicked out, brushing against the tip of Louis’ finger. The taste of smoke and skin hit him all at once, his whole body reacting to the action.
Louis let out a soft hum, as his finger pressed forward, sliding past Harry’s lips in a slow, gentle movement, and Harry didn’t fight it. He let his mouth hang open slightly, his tongue moving instinctively to meet the pressure, swirling lightly against the length of Louis’ finger as his lips closed around it.
“Fuck,” Louis muttered, meeting Harry’s movements and slipping his middle in beside his other.
Harry felt heat pooling low in his stomach as he sucked gently, his hands gripping the duvet so tightly his knuckles ached. Louis’ fingers pressed down lightly on his tongue, testing again, and when Harry moaned softly around it, his eyes fluttering shut, Louis reacted audibly, a breathy sound that made Harry shiver.
Louis’ other hand moved, fingers skimming over the curve of Harry’s jaw. Harry let Louis guide him, and his lips tightened around Louis’ fingers as he sucked harder, his tongue tracing along the different dips.
“Good boy,” Louis murmured, his voice so quiet that it seemed he wasn’t even aware he’d said it. The words hit Harry, leaving him trembling, his thighs pressing together as he whimpered softly around Louis’ fingers. His cheeks burned but he didn’t stop. He couldn’t. Not when Louis was looking at him like that, speaking to him like that.
Louis’ hand free hand moved, his fingers sliding to brush against Harry’s throat, and Harry let out another soft sound, his head tilting back slightly as Louis’ fingers finally slipped from his mouth. He gasped for air, his lips wet, his chest heaving, and when he opened his eyes, Louis was still watching him, his expression unreadable but devastating all the same.
“Look at you,” Louis said softly. “You’re already wrecked, and I’ve barely touched you.”
Harry let out a breathless laugh, his head spinning, and he shook his head slightly, his curls falling into his eyes as he looked at Louis.
“Your fucking hands,” he muttered, his voice shaky but full of something raw, something honest. “They’re—Jesus, Louis, they’re-”
“Again,” Louis interrupted as he held his hand steady in front of Harry’s lips. “Show me.”
This time, he didn’t hold back. He leaned forward without thinking, his lips parting as he took Louis’ index and middle into his mouth again. His tongue moved with slow strokes, tracing the pads of Louis’ fingers, the dips in each joint, tasting the faint bitterness of weed and sweat. His lips closed tightly around them, sucking lightly, and he felt a quiet, shaky noise slip from his throat before he could stop it.
Louis’ other hand moved to tighten on his thigh, his fingers digging in just slightly, and Harry felt his whole body shudder in response—it was overwhelming, intoxicating, and Harry couldn’t get enough. He pressed in closer, but when Louis’ fingers slipped from his mouth again, Harry let out a quiet, whiny sound that he couldn’t quite stifle.
“You’re—” Louis started, but he broke off again, his lips twitching into a faint, breathless smile. “You’re going to ruin me, you know that?”
Harry didn’t know how to respond—didn’t know if he even could—but he didn’t need to.
And when Louis leaned in again, his mouth brushing against Harry’s in a kiss that was deeper, hotter, more desperate than before, Harry let himself surrender completely.
Harry clung to him like his life depended on it, his fingers fisting into the fabric of Louis’ shirt. Every brush of Louis’ lips, every shift of his hands, sent sparks coursing through Harry’s veins, and he truly felt he couldn’t breathe without Louis touching him.
Louis’ hand moved from Harry’s thigh to his waist, his fingers slipping beneath the hem of Harry’s shirt, the warmth of his palm pressing into the dip in his waist. Harry shuddered as Louis’ thumb brushed over the sharp edge of his hipbone. It was maddening, the way Louis moved like he had all the time in the world and Harry felt like he might combust if he didn’t get more.
“Off,” Louis murmured against his lips, his voice rough as his fingers tugged lightly at the hem of Harry’s shirt. “Let me see you.”
Harry didn’t hesitate for a second. He sat back just enough to tug the shirt over his head, tossing it aside without a care. Before he could feel an ounce of self-consciousness, Louis’ hands were on him again, steady and unhurried as they traced over the lines of his shoulders, the dip of his collarbone. His touch was firm, like he was mapping every inch of Harry.
“You’re fucking gorgeous,” Louis groaned as his fingers skimmed over Harry’s ribs, the curve of his waist. “You know that, right?”
Harry let out a shaky laugh, his hands trembling as they reached to grip Louis’ shoulders. “If you keep saying things like that, I might actually believe you.”
Louis smiled and leaned in to press a kiss to the hollow of Harry’s throat. “Good. You should.”
His hands moved again, sliding down to rest on Harry’s hips, and when his thumb dipped just beneath the waistband of Harry’s pants, Harry let out a quiet, breathless moan. Louis’ gaze flicked up to meet his, and the heat in his eyes made Harry’s stomach twist.
“Up,” Louis commanded softly, his hands tightening on Harry’s hips as he guided him up off the bed to stand between his legs as he stayed sat on the edge of the bed.
Harry obeyed without question, his legs trembling slightly as he rose to his feet. Louis followed, his hands never leaving Harry’s hips. Slowly, Louis reached for the button of Harry’s pants, his fingers brushing against the skin of his stomach as he worked them open. The sound of the zipper felt deafening in the quiet of the bedroom, and when Louis slid Harry’s pants down his hips, his knuckles grazing his thighs, Harry swore he stopped breathing.
Louis leaned back slightly, his eyes sweeping over Harry with a lust that made his cheeks burn. His hands moved with the same desire, sliding down Harry’s legs to help him step out of his trousers. When he straightened back up, Louis’ fingers curled around the back of Harry’s thighs, pulling him forward until Harry’s was sat, naked and legs straddled over his so their bodies were flush again.
Harry felt bold, fearless. He reached out, his hands curling around Louis’ wrists, and guided them back up to his waist.
Louis smiled faintly, his thumb brushing over his skin in gentle circles, and then, without warning, he raised a hand to Harry’s mouth, his fingers brushing against his lips in a silent command. Harry’s breath hitched and he parted his lips instinctively, his tongue darting out to taste the salt of Louis’ skin.
Harry couldn’t hold back. His lips closed tighter, sucking lightly, letting his spit drip out the corners of his mouth, forgoing any tidiness he might have normally held. He felt the faint tremor in Louis’ hand, heard the quiet, shaky breath he let out as he watched.
“You’re fucking incredible,” Louis said, almost to himself, his hand squeezing Harry’s waist once. His thumb brushed against Harry’s bottom lip as he pulled his fingers back out, his eyes darkening. “Come here.”
Harry let Louis guide him back onto the bed, his legs already trembling as he sank back onto the mattress. Louis didn’t waste any time—he leaned over him, his hands steady and sure as they traced along Harry’s thighs, his lips brushing against Harry’s jaw in a kiss that was sure to leave a mark. Harry melted into it, his fingers tangling up into Louis’ hair as he let himself get lost in the weight of Louis’ body pressing him into the mattress.
When Louis pulled back his hand moved again, his fingers brushing against the inside of Harry’s thigh. He didn’t speak, didn’t have to—his touch said everything, and Harry felt his whole body shudder as Louis leaned in again, mouthing over Harry’s throat messily.
But Harry wasn’t content. He reached up, his hands fumbling slightly as they gripped the edges of Louis’ shirt, pulling him closer.
“Off,” Harry echoed, his voice breathless. He tugged at the fabric insistently, his fingers slipping to the buttons and working them open one by one. The shirt fell open under his hands, and Harry’s breath quickened as he pushed it off Louis’ shoulders, his palms sliding over warm, smooth skin.
Louis let him, his eyes heavy-lidded as he watched Harry take him in, but his hands never stopped moving. One stayed on Harry’s thigh, his fingers curling just enough to press against the sensitive skin, while the other brushed lightly over Harry’s jaw, his thumb tracing along his bottom lip in a way that made Harry’s chest tighten.
“You’re impatient,” Louis murmured. There was a faint curve to his lips that suggested he didn’t mind at all.
Harry huffed out a shaky laugh, his hands trailing over Louis’ chest, the hard lines of muscle under soft, warm skin. “Can you blame me?”
“No,” he said, his voice lowering as he leaned in again, his lips brushing against Harry’s. “I really can’t.”
The kiss was consuming, all heat and teeth and tongue, and Harry felt himself sinking into it, his hands moving restlessly over Louis’ body; every part of him felt impossibly warm, solid, and Harry wanted to explore every inch.
But then Louis’ hand moved lower, slipping between Harry’s thighs and spreading his legs, and Harry’s eyes flew open, his body going taut as Louis’ fingers pressed against his rim. The touch was light at first, teasing, and Harry let out a soft, shaky moan, his hips shifting instinctively as he immediately sought more.
“Easy,” Louis murmured, voice steady.
Harry nodded as he tried to relax, to let Louis take him how he wanted to. He felt the press of Louis’ finger again, still wet from Harry’s spit. It was more insistent this time, and his whole body shuddered as Louis slipped one inside, the stretch sudden, almost sharp, but not unwelcome.
“Good,” Louis said softly, his free hand sliding up to cradle the back of Harry’s neck. “That feel good?”
Harry let out a soft, broken sound, his hands gripping Louis’ shoulders as he tried to ground himself. The sensation was overwhelming—the heat of Louis’ body, the steady motion of his hand, the rough edge of his voice murmuring quiet against his skin. It was too much and not enough, all at once.
“More,” Harry breathed, his voice shaky but sure, and Louis didn’t make him wait. He steadily added a second finger, the stretch sharper this time, but Harry didn’t care. He let out a soft, breathy moan, his body trembling as he leaned into Louis’ touch, his lips brushing against the curve of Louis’ shoulder.
“Beautiful,” Louis murmured, his voice rough as his hand moved, his fingers curling slightly to search for the spot that would make Harry gasp. “So fucking beautiful.”
Harry didn’t know if he could respond, didn’t know if he could do anything except surrender to Louis’ fingers filling him up, but then Louis’ other hand was at his lips again, his thumb brushing against the corner of his mouth in a motion to swipe the glistening spit over his lips messily.
“Suck,” Louis commanded, and Harry obeyed without hesitation, his lips parting as he took Louis’ thumb into his mouth. The sound Louis let out—a quiet, ragged groan—sent a shiver down Harry’s spine.
The rhythm of Louis’ hand never faltered, his fingers moving inside Harry with a precision that made his body tremble. The intoxicating mix of Louis’ fingers in his mouth and pressing deep inside him was what undid him. Harry tongued messily over Louis’ fingers as he felt a quiet, desperate noise slip from his throat before he could stop it.
“Fuck,” Louis nearly growled, his fingers curling again, pressing against his prostate. “Harry.”
Harry let out a soft, mewling sound from the back of his throat. The heat, the pressure, Louis’ hands—it was all too much and Harry felt like he might fall apart any second.
“Look at you,” Louis said, his voice heavy with something Harry couldn’t name. His fingers brushed against Harry’s jaw, his touch both tender and firm as his thumb slid from Harry’s mouth. “Both hands, all yours.”
Louis didn’t stop. Each curl and press inside him drew soft, broken sounds from Harry’s lips that he couldn’t contain. Harry’s whole body was shaking, the tension in his body coiling tighter in his stomach with every passing second.
“Good boy,” Louis whispered, his breath warm against Harry’s cheek. “So good.”
The words sent a shiver down Harry’s spine, his thighs pressing together as Louis’ fingers pressed deeper, curling in a way that made his whole body arch. Harry gasped, his chest heaving, and when Louis’ thumb slipped into his mouth again, his lips closed around it without hesitation.
“You like this?” Louis murmured, his voice heavy as his fingers slid deeper. “You like how I touch you?”
Harry couldn’t answer—not with Louis’ finger pressing against his tongue, not with the heat pooling low in his stomach threatening to send him over the edge—but he nodded, his whole body trembling as he let out a whimper.
The rhythm of Louis’ fingers grew faster, more calculated, and Harry felt the tension in his body coil tighter until he was trembling in Louis’ arms. He let out a soft, broken sound against Louis’ thumb, his hips shifting instinctively as he chased the pressure of Louis’ touch inside him.
“Let go,” Louis murmured fingers slipping out of his mouth, his hand then moving to cradle the back of Harry’s neck. “Let go, baby.”
The words were Harry’s undoing. He gasped, his body arching as the arousal snapped, a wave of heat and pleasure crashing over him so intense it left him shaking. His fingernails dug into Louis’ shoulders as he buried his face in Louis’ neck as he spilled hot between them.
Louis didn’t stop, his fingers moving in a slower rhythm as he guided Harry through it. His breath was warm against Harry’s temple, his voice soft and reassuring as he murmured quiet praises that Harry could barely hear over the pounding of his own heart.
When Harry finally stilled, his breath evening out, Louis pulled back slightly, his fingers slipping from him carefully. Harry whined at the loss, his chest heaving as he tried to catch his breath, but Louis’ hands didn’t leave him. They moved instead to cradle his face, his thumbs brushing against Harry’s cheeks as he tilted his head up to meet him.
Louis didn’t move right away, his hands still cradling Harry’s face, his breath warm and steady against Harry’s skin. Harry felt wrecked, completely undone. Every nerve in his body hummed with the aftershocks, he didn’t want the moment to end.
But Louis didn’t let him go. Instead, he shifted slightly, one hand sliding down to Harry’s waist while the other stayed at his cheek, his thumb brushing lightly over the flushed skin. His eyes were dark, and focused entirely on Harry, and when his lips curved into a slow, devastating smile, Harry felt his stomach twist with heat all over again.
“Messy,” Louis murmured. His fingers brushed against Harry’s stomach, tracing the faint trail of come there, and Harry’s breath quickened again as Louis brought his hand up between them, his fingers glistening with it in the low light.
Harry’s cheeks burned as Louis’ smirk deepened. He simply lifted his fingers closer to Harry’s mouth.
Harry’s heart was pounding, his pulse loud in his ears, but he didn’t hesitate. His tongue darted out, tasting Louis’ skin and his own come, sending heat low in his stomach all over again. He let his lips close around Louis’ fingers, his tongue moving slow as he cleaned the mess from them, being sure not to miss anything.
“Fuck, Harry,” Louis muttered, his voice raw. His fingers twitched slightly against Harry’s tongue, and the sound he made—the soft, shaky groan that slipped from his throat—was enough to make Harry hum proudly.
Harry sucked lightly, his eyes fluttering shut as he let himself sink into the sensation, into the warmth of Louis’ hand. His hands moved restlessly, gripping the duvet beneath him as his whole body hummed.
“Look at me,” Louis said, and Harry’s eyes snapped open immediately. The heat in Louis’ eyes was overwhelming, magnetic, and Harry couldn’t look away, couldn’t do anything except follow.
“You’re so good,” Louis whispered. “So fucking good for me.”
Harry let out a soft, muffled sound around Louis’ fingers, his cheeks burning as the words settled deep in his chest.
When Louis finally pulled his fingers back, Harry let out a shaky breath. His chest was heaving, his skin flushed, but the warmth in Louis’ expression made him slowly come back to reality.
“You’re unbelievable,” Louis said, his lips brushing against Harry’s in a kiss that was slow and tender, a quiet contrast to the intensity that had come before. “You know that, don’t you?”
“Maybe,” he murmured, shrugging innocently, “but I like hearing it.”
The room was quiet then, save for the faint hum of the city outside and the sound of their breaths slowly evening out. The air still felt heavy, thick with smoke and heat. Harry lay on his back, sprawled against the rumpled duvet, his chest still rising and falling quickly. Beside him, Louis was leaning on one elbow, his gaze lazily fixed on Harry.
Harry felt the shift of the mattress as Louis sat up slightly as he retrieved their unfinished joint. He lit it with the same casual ease, his thumb brushing tantalizingly over the lighter’s wheel, and the faint flare of the flame illuminated his face in a way that made Harry want to groan. Louis brought the joint to his lips, taking a deep drag before turning his head to exhale a slow stream of smoke.
“Want some?” Louis asked, his voice low and lazy as he held the joint out to Harry.
Harry turned his head to look at him, his curls splayed across the bed, and let out a soft laugh as he reached for it. “I don’t know. I’m not sure I can survive another round of anything from your hands tonight.”
“Don’t blame the hands,” he murmured as he began lying back beside him, his shoulder brushing against Harry’s. “They only do what they’re told.”
Harry rolled his eyes as he stared back up at the ceiling, taking a slow drag from the joint before handing it back, the burn in his lungs grounding him against the mattress.
“Niall’s going to be pissed he missed the party,” he said, his voice light. “You know he gets such bad FOMO.”
Louis huffed out a laugh, his thumb brushing against the joint as he turned it in his fingers.
“Yeah, but let’s be honest—he wouldn’t have let you stay.” He glanced at Harry out of the corner of his eye, his lips curling into a faint smirk. “Probably would’ve dragged you out the door before you even made it to the couch.”
Harry let out a sharp laugh, tipping his head back against the mattress as he smiled. “True, he loves to be in bed by ten. Guess I should be grateful for his questionable stomach, huh?”
“I am,” Louis hummed. His tone was so casual, so offhanded, that it took Harry by surprise.
Harry turned his head to look at him again. The smirk that had been on Louis’ lips all day had softened, his expression quiet but more vulnerable than he’d seen all day. Harry didn’t say anything—didn’t know if he could—but the little nod he managed was enough to let Louis know he felt the same.
They lay there for a while, the silence between them comfortable, passing back and forth the last of the joint in a lazy rhythm. Harry’s body felt light and warm, sated by the faint hum of the weed and the lingering sensation from Louis’ touch.
“You should stay,” Louis said suddenly, breaking the silence.
Harry blinked. “What?”
“Stay the night,” Louis said, his gaze steady, his lips twitching into a faint smile. “Unless you’ve got somewhere better to be.”
Harry laughed softly as he shook his head. “Nowhere better."
Louis smiled as he nestled back against the bed, his hand brushing lightly against Harry’s. “Good. I like having you here.”