Archive of Our Own ^beta

If Harry closes his eyes and pretends really hard, it can be almost therapeutic.

Almost.

“Harry, are you there,” Liam half-yells in his ear. He’s not sure if it’s because Liam is panicking himself, or if he’s just trying to appease Harry and the loud noises around him. Liam never seems to be anything but composed though, so it’s probably just Harry’s brain trying to make himself feel better by giving him a scenario other than how pathetic he is. “Did you hear what I just said? They’re gonna be there i—“

“In five, I know. I heard it,” Harry sighs. He tries not to do it too hard in case he sounds like an ungrateful brat. He didn’t move away from his parents’ house at the age of seventeen to insult himself like that. “Thanks, Li.”

Harry can feel Liam brighten up. For a strict and professional manager, the similarity between him and a puppy is alarming. “Anytime, kiddo.”

“We’re literally the same age,” Harry complains. “You’re a year older than me. Not even a whole year.”

Liam’s laugh doesn’t sound insulting, but Harry pouts. “Well, be careful on your way here. There are writers waiting in the studio, and you probably need to meet them in one piece.”

Harry rolls his eyes. “I’ll try my best,” he grumbles, hanging up the phone a little grudgingly. Naturally he feels a bit bad about it, so he sends an apology text before he puts his phone into his pocket. He wants to slump into his chair, holding the cup of coffee close to his chest comfortably, but he’s not quite sure it’s going to be good for his “image”.

God. Harry almost flinches at the sound of yet another camera, catching the flash at the corner of his eye. Some people can be really shameless, and while Harry tries his best to reserve judgement about how people react at celebrities, he really, really hates this kind of mess. The mess being people in the coffee shop gawking at him like he’s an exotic animal in a safari, some with their phones out. A group of girls are giggling right beside his table, for God’s sake. It’s like they think he’s not actually present, just a caricature of the dude they see on TV, or hear on the radio.

Not to mention a gaggle of assholes with their huge cameras, yelling his name rudely even from outside the building. Harry doesn’t use the word hate lightly, but it’s a pretty close fit.

Celebrity. The word tastes even more bitter than the coffee on his tongue. Harry doesn’t know when exactly it happened, but somehow he went from playing however many gigs he could score in a day with free pints as his payment to scheduled concerts in arenas—even stadiums, Liam told him, if everything goes well. From sweaty people offering a blowjob after his performance to show how much they like his music to people screaming at his face the minute he opens his mouth.

From himself and his old guitar, to himself with a group of influential individuals who makes sure people know him.

It’s not that Harry hates it. His mother always tells him that he’s made for superstardom, that he lives for attention and appreciation. A natural popstar, his sister always tells him teasingly, pulling at his curls hard but with a proud glint in her eyes. And if there’s anyone he truly believes, it’s his mother and Gemma. So, in a way, he does enjoy the attention. It feels good to look into the crowds’ eyes and see their faces glowing with happiness, to see the words he strings together being shouted back at him. Harry thrives off the energy he gets from his fans, people who adore him. People who appreciate him when he jams with his guitar and love him just as much when he runs around the stage. He loves that part—gigs are fun and intimate, but he has always wanted more.

But this part—the part that comes on the opposite side of the same coin—Harry is still getting used to it. It’s been two years and still it feels like the Harry Styles people get frenzied about is another person entirely. He has become more natural at his interactions with fans—eye-contact, talk slowly to make them feel appreciated, never let go before they’re ready to so you won’t come off as a douche—but the paparazzi is trickier. Harry doesn’t like them, but he tries to act as polite as possible. At least polite enough that they won’t feel insulted too much.

Stuck in the coffee shop where he was only supposed to get his breakfast, all because they suddenly decided to swarm the small building, it’s hard to remember why exactly he should try not to smack all of them in the face.

“Uh, Sir?”

Harry snaps out of his life crisis meditation and turns to see a young woman in a ponytail, her green apron with the “Morning Glory Café” sign on it. She seems even more flustered than him, her eyes widening when they make eye-contact, and she coughs softly. “I, um—I think your car is here? It’s, I thought you’d like to know.”

Harry turns slightly to look at the entrance of the café, and behind the crowd of paparazzi he can see a black Range Rover, probably his, probably waiting for him. He sighs in relief, and as he’s about to thank her, she coughs even louder and scrambles away, her whole face red. He feels like he should be insulted, but he just sighs for the umpteenth time and downs the rest of his now cold coffee.

The rest of the people in the café turn away from him, trying to pretend like they weren’t just shoving camera phones in his personal space, and Harry lets them. He used to try to talk to people who seemed to recognize him, but after his first album was out and known, it proved rather difficult to do so without those people either crying or yelling or just ignoring him entirely. It’s easier to let people do what they need.

“Okay,” he whispers to himself, his grip tight on the café door handle. “You can do this. Relax, the car is only meters away. You’ll be fine.”

It’s kind of embarrassing to need to  give himself a pep talk before facing the world, like he’s not actually a 22 year old man, but what can he do. The paparazzi are fast and rude. He needs to think of himself here.

Harry pushes the door open, one hand in his coat, and almost immediately the paparazzi start yelling at him, flashes coming from their cameras. He grits his teeth, trying to keep his eyes open as he attempts to greet them (be polite, be nice, don’t bulldoze them to death). “Hey guys,” he mutters, trying to keep walking, “just getting my coffee, what’s up.”

Some people closer to him reply cheerfully, yelling out a, “Hey Harry,” like they’re close friends or something, but he just gives them a slight smile as he keeps moving. He can see the car, and while the crowd is still in his way, he doesn’t feel as trapped. He walks faster, pulling his coat tighter around himself like he can make himself invisible that way. As if. It’s like he hasn’t tried to do it a million times before with no such luck. He does it anyway.

It’s right before he gets through the last barricade of people that everything goes to hell.

Harry is about to take a breath of relief when suddenly there’s a scream. Well, more like a very loud string of curses, but he startles into a stop and instinctively looks to the side, where some people try to step away from something. Where the yell is heard. Shit.

He elbows some people, yelling out, “Excuse me, someone is hurt, can you move?” The paparazzi part and give him some space, probably not wanting to get into trouble. Harry’s heart hammers in his chest. This has happened before, a fan or a civilian getting hurt while people try to catch him, and Harry always feels sick with guilt about it. The last time it happened, it was a girl who turned out to be his fan, crying on the ground as she tried to protect herself. His management dealt with it, called him a Good Guy (with capitalization and all, he can feel it, like it’s a brand or something. It probably is) and turned it into headlines of how much of a good person Harry was. He still refused to go out for weeks.

He reaches the center of the crowd where a guy is sitting there muttering, harshly rubbing his wrist. The left side of his white jumper is dirty, and the elbow part looks scraped. Harry immediately feels bad. He moves to kneel in front of the guy, checking for other injuries. “Hey, are you o—“

Fuck. Harry doesn’t expect to face this when the guy looks up.

The guy is… He’s gorgeous. It’s almost absurd how good-looking he is. His hair looks soft, and he looks so comfortable in his large jumper, wrists dainty and delicate. If not for the frown on his face, Harry would write a sonnet about how long his eyelashes are, how pretty his eyes are, how cute his nose is—but the guy is scowling. Harry’s never seen an actual scowl in real life before.

“No, I’m not O, mate,” the guy says, his scowl still in place. Harry’s heart almost stops from how soft and beautiful his voice is, but he gets himself together pretty quick. The British accent immediately makes him feel familiar, and Harry prays to whatever God up there that the hearts in his eyes don’t show.

“Uh,” Harry says smartly. Good going. “Are you okay?

The guy’s scowl deepens. “What did I just say?”

Harry coughs. “That you’re not. Right. Uh, I’m Harry.”

He immediately wants to bury himself alive when he sees the guy raises an eyebrow before he looks around at the crowd surrounding them. Right, they’re at the sidewalk surrounded by people taking pictures of them. At least the guy is no longer frowning. Harry is the master of positivity. “I don’t see how this is the time to introduce yourself, but okay.”

“Uh, yeah. I mean, it’s—it’s kind of my fault this happened. Probably. Actually,” he corrects himself when the guy squints his eyes at him. “It actually is. My fault, that is. I’m, it’s just. I was getting my coffee and these people are just, you know, around, so. So yeah.” Harry finishes lamely. He can feel the staring. Oh my God. “I’m sorry, I guess. Not—not I guess. I am sorry.”

He doesn’t dare to look at the guy’s reaction, but he doesn’t think he can get away with just walking away in embarrassment, not without it making a weird headline in some trashy gossip website, so he forces himself to look back up.

The guy looks amused. He has a half smile on his face, looking at Harry with weird look on his face. Harry is not sure if he should be relieved or even more embarrassed, but anything is better than angry yelling. He hopes.

“Okay,” the guy shrugs, still rubbing his wrist, softly now. “It’s okay. I guess.”

Harry grins a bit, and it should be weird, having a moment—is it a moment? Harry says it is—right in the middle of a crowd of paparazzi, but Harry feels light and giddy. He offers a hand to the guy—a name, he needs a name—which he thankfully takes. His skin feels soft against Harry’s palm, and he seriously needs to stop creeping on the pretty stranger he literally just met two minutes ago. Get it together, Styles.

The guy turns to pat his thighs and bum (if Harry was less of a gentleman, he probably would whimper, but he likes to think himself a respectful man), cleaning himself up, and Harry, for some reason, stands around. Obviously it’s weird, because the guy looks up at him and immediately frowns again. “It’s really fine. You can go. I won’t blackmail you or anything.”

“You can’t exactly blackmail me,” Harry blurts, and God must really hate him right now, but at least it gets him another half-smile—like the guy himself isn’t sure if he should find him amusing or not. Harry likes that smile.

Wow, hold that thought. Two minutes, Styles. It’s been two minutes.

The crowd had dispersed for a bit while they were on the ground, but now that they’re standing and talking, Harry can feel people getting their cameras ready. The guy looks uncomfortable as he glances around, and he feels bad again. “Are you sure you don’t need anything?”

The guy snaps his attention back at him, and Harry wants to crowd his space just to make sure his attention is always on him instead of their surroundings, but fortunately his brain manages to remind him of how weird it would be if he did that before he actually moved. The guy blinks up at him, eyelashes moving slowly and for some reason making Harry’s throat dry. What the fuck. Before he can think too much about it, the guy shrugs again. “Yeah, I’ll be fine. You better go, Styles. Ride’s here.”

So he knows who Harry is. Now Harry blinks back at him, and the guy grins at him. “Run at my cue.”

Harry’s brain hasn’t even registered what he said, but then they guy turns and starts yelling. At the paparazzi. He’s a little thing, smaller than most of them, and yet there he is, screaming his head off.

What the fuck. Despite himself, he’s reluctantly impressed. All eyes turn to the guy, loud and spiteful and doing rude gestures, and Harry slowly understands his order. He wants to, if not for the hilarity of it, but he’s more afraid to let the guy get into trouble. But clearly Harry is underestimating him, because as they try to use their cameras again, the guy slaps them away.

Fuck.

“What are you gonna do about it, pal! ” His voice is loud. He probably glares even harder, because the paparazzi slowly back away. “What?! It’s your job, it’s your fucking job, you fucking losers!”

The guy turns, probably still sensing Harry standing frozen behind him, and winks. You’re welcome, he mouths.

And well. If this was a fairy tale, Harry would definitely be in love by now.

It is not a fairy tale. Sadly.

Harry runs away laughing, getting into his car and watching the guy gets smaller on his rearview mirror. It feels unreal, a little pixie saving him (kind of) from the hungry wolves, and he still finds the comparison funny. He gets to the studio with high spirit, the other writers waiting for him, and they keep asking Harry what puts him in such a good mood.

A pixie, he always answers with a giggle, and they just shake their head with an amused smile. Thank God he’s so charming.

But real life hits him hard and fast, and suddenly Liam calls him with a little ‘I’m not mad, just disappointed’ speech for letting someone yell at those people while he’s present. Apparently it looks like he’s encouraging it, and it’s bad PR. Or something. Harry is too busy asking Liam about what happened to the guy instead of listening, and in the end Liam just sighs his last ‘I’m still disappointed but I’m going to let you go and feel guilty about it instead' before he hangs up without answering.

At least his management doesn’t try to contact him. Or maybe they do and Harry screens all of their calls. That’s something that could happen too, but who’s keeping count, really.

He tries to find him, but clearly his people are actually doing their job because there’s no mention about it anywhere, except for a few mentions on Twitter. He almost loses his dignity and go digging into the realm of Twitter, but he’s not sure it’d be worth it, so he leaves it. Whatever. It’s just a beautiful boy who yells at paparazzi for Harry (not really, but he can recount the event any way he wants). They didn’t even talk all that much. So what if the guy’s eyelashes deserve a song written about them. So what if the guy is so beautiful Harry unconsciously writes a poem about his eyes and cute nose. So what if Harry can’t stop thinking of his thick thighs that he needs to put an effort not to think about them when he jacks off—

“Fuck,” Harry breathes, looking at his shower wall. He tries not to think about anything but the water against his head. Nope. Nothing. Nada.

Harry hates himself.

 ---

Harry takes a deep breathe. And another. And another. And the baby in the plane is still wailing.

“I’m so sorry,” the mother apologizes profusely, and Harry does feel bad for her. He can see the people sitting around her glaring and muttering rude things, and the mother looks like she’s close to tears. The stewardess smiles as she tries to calm her down, but she eyes the baby in her arms warily. “I think she’s just not used to the cramped space. I’ve tried to make her calm down, but I just need more space? So if I could maybe, just move for a bit to the back or something? So I don’t bother anyone else?”

Harry looks around. The people sitting in the first class with him barely glance at the woman and her baby, some already falling asleep under their blankets even though the plane hasn’t moved and there are still people milling about and finding their seats. He glances at his guitar, on its own seat, courtesy to Liam. His handler sits in the seat in front of his, eyes already covered with an eye mask.

He takes another deep breath.

“Excuse me,” he stands up. People around him stare, like he’s an anomaly or something, and maybe he is. It doesn’t matter, really. “You can maybe exchange seats with me? It’s pretty spacious; you can just put the guitar on the floor so there’s more than enough space.”

The mother looks horrified, for some reason. “Oh no, that’s fine, when I said in the back I mean at the stewardess place or something. I can’t—I can’t afford a first class ticket, Sir, so thank you for offering but—“

“You don’t have to pay,” Harry explains carefully. He steps away from his seat, making sure he has his phone and backpack with him. “It’s fine. You can just sit here, I’ll sit at your place. Where is it?”

“That’s very generous of you, but—“

“I insist,” he grins, nodding his head a bit. The mother looks more relieved now, and he can see the staring from the whole plane now, but he shrugs it off. “It’s alright. May I know your seat?”

The stewardess steps towards him. “I’ll take you, Sir.”

Harry nods, looking down at the little baby who is still sniffling a bit, her face red and wet. She looks angry and tired, and Harry wants to pet her a little. He’s not sure that’s appropriate though, so he just smiles down at her and says, “I hope you enjoy your flight, Little One.”

The mother smiles gratefully at him, thanking him over and over as another steward guides her to Harry’s seat. Harry waves a bit at the frowning baby, chuckling when she just sniffles more. Ah, babies. He turns towards the stewardess beside him, gesturing for her to lead the way. He can see the people gaping at him, and he feels a bit embarrassed by it, but he’s not doing anything special, really. It’s not like he can enjoy the flight with a baby loudly wailing in the background, so technically he’s doing it for himself. He ignores the looks he can feel at his back as he walks, and when he gets to his seat he simply mutters his gratitude and quickly sinks into his seat.

He’s taking out his earphone when someone from his side says, “Well, aren’t you a noble one.”

Harry pauses. No way. No fucking way.

Yes fucking way.

“Oh,” Harry says, and he just knows he looks stupid, all wide-eyed and gaping, but the guy from the sidewalk is actually there, sitting beside him, looking beautiful in his huge hoodie. Harry would pay attention to his affinity for bigger clothing, but for now he’s too focused on the fact that the guy is actually sitting right beside him, grinning at him with an amused look in his eyes. “It’s you.”

Bravo, Styles. You’ve outdone yourself there.

The guy, thankfully, only giggles. “It’s me,” he says cheerily, and Harry feels a bit faint at the smile. It sounds ridiculous, but the guy looks so comfortable and soft, and Harry wants nothing but to touch the crinkle of his eyes. He doesn’t, because there’s a line between fascinated and being fucking creepy, and he’s slowly realizing that he’s crossing said line when he doesn’t move or talk for a few seconds, instead just staring at the guy in silence like he’s plotting a murder.

His own murder, probably. At least the guy just rests his head against his own knuckle, waiting for Harry to do something. Watching back.

Okay. Okay, before anything, Harry probably should stop referring to him as The Guy from the Sidewalk in his brain, so he says, “Wait, what’s your name?”

The guy raises an eyebrow, otherwise unmoving. “Wouldn’t you like to know,” he smirks, eyes coy and teasing. He leans forward a bit, closer to Harry, and Harry tries not to squirm under the amused eyes.

“That’s just unfair,” Harry says, feeling himself pouting. The guy just giggles (God, it’s so cute, and Harry wants to bite at his own fingers), pushing himself away as he fluffs his fringe with delicate fingers.

“Well, not everyone is a famous popstar whose name everyone knows about, Mr. Styles,” he says, eyes twinkling, and Harry feels his stomach squirm at the way his name sounds coming out of the guy’s mouth.

This time, it’s Harry who leans forward, palm spread wide on the armchair separating their seat. “I want to know it though,” Harry says earnestly. He doesn’t mean for them to, but his words come out slowly, careful and—he hates to admit it, but—rough. The guy looks a bit stunned, blinking at his tone. Harry tries so hard not to let his eyes wander down to the guy’s lips, instead holding eye contact. “Your name.”

They stay quiet for a bit, the guy staring at Harry with a careful look, and Harry trying to show how much he wants to know his name. It’s a small conversation, it has no business getting this… soft and close, but the guy leans against his seat, his fingers slightly touching Harry’s when he crosses his arms in front of his chest. He looks at Harry sideways, resting the side of his head against his seat, hair pressed flat on his head. “Fine,” he says with a smile, “I’ll let you have three guesses.”

Harry is about to grin and reply, but then someone calls loudly, “Louis!”

The guy’s eyes widen, and he pushes himself up and looks to the front, where a blonde guy sitting in front of them is turning to face them, head popped on top of the seat, like he’s pushing himself up to look behind. He’s eating some nuts, chewing slowly, eyes moving from the guy—Louis?—to Harry, a grin slowly spreading.

Louis, to his credit, only flushes minimally. “Nialler.”

“Oh, oops,” Nialler said, sounding rather apologetic but looking gleeful instead. Harry leans back against his seat. He thinks he’s doing a good job keeping a straight face, considering. “Did I interrupt something?”

“Nothing much,” Louis scorns. He looks so grumpy, and it’s survival instinct that keeps Harry from cooing. “What is it?”

“Never mind, I’ll let you enjoy yourself,” he laughs, waving his hand. He turns his head towards Harry, pointing at him with a cheesy gun fingers. “Big fan, by the way.”

“Thank you,” Harry answers, still trying to keep his laughter out of his voice. Nialler seems satisfied with that, turning to the front again. Now it’s a bit awkward, and when Harry glances at Louis, he’s pouting with a slight flush high on his cheeks. Harry can’t help it then—he chuckles, laughing louder when Louis scowls at him. “I can still pretend I didn’t know it and take a guess, if you want?”

Louis sniffs. “Shut up, Curly.”

Because God hates him, obviously, Harry doesn’t even get to know Louis more during the ten-hour flight. After their banter and small conversation, Louis asks him if he wants to watch a movie, so of course Harry says yes. They share an earphone, and Harry feels butterflies in his stomach at how close they are. He can almost count Louis’ eyelashes and freckles, and it’s not creepy at all.

Louis picks a new romantic comedy Harry thinks is out in the cinema currently, and when he raises an eyebrow like a challenge for Harry to protest, Harry just shrugs and says, “I’m sure I’ll love it.” Louis looks satisfied with that, so Harry thinks he does pretty well.

That is until he falls asleep halfway through the movie. For the whole goddamn flight.

He wakes up with a jolt as a hand shakes his shoulder. “Wha—“

It’s a stewardess. “We’re arriving, Sir, I’m going to need you to wear your seatbelt.”

Harry blinks. “Arriving? In London?”

She looks at him strangely. “Yes.”

“Oh,” he says. There’s a crick at his neck, and he pushes himself up, massaging at the muscle. “Okay. Uh, thank you. I’ll, I’m wearing it right now. Thanks.” The stewardess still throws him A Look, but she nods and leaves. Louis snickers beside him, rolling up the earphones and putting it on the proper place. He has his seatbelt on already. Harry can’t help but feels a bit betrayed. “Why didn’t you wake me up?”

“You were snoring,” Louis shrugs, his voice amused. Harry doesn’t know what to feel knowing he becomes such a source of entertainment for the guy he’s trying to pull. Kind of. “I didn’t want to bother you, you seem pretty tired.”

Well, when put that way, Louis just sounds kind and considerate. Almost ten hours though. “You let me sleep for more than eight hours,” Harry says, feeling like he should at least say something about it. It’s not even Louis’ fault, honestly. He was tired, attending meeting after meeting about his schedules when he reaches London, looking through rehearsal and concert dates, contacting his old band mates to check on their availability. It’s not actually his job, but Harry likes doing it himself. He tells his manager it’s therapeutic, and it’s not a lie. It also keeps him close with his staff, with the people who are going to be with him on the road.

Now he wishes he had just let Liam handle everything.

“I thought you were going to wake up by yourself, so I watched another movie and read and did some work and… kind of forgot, to be honest.” He looks a bit sheepish as he says it, biting at his lip.

Harry is disappointed. He didn’t even get to wake up against Louis’ shoulder, slumping against him like people do in romantic comedies. No, he had to be so tired that he actually passed out in his own seat, neck curved forward in an awkward position and currently giving him a lot of pain with how stiff it is. His mouth feels dry, so he probably sleeps with it open. Absolutely wonderful. “Oh,” he says again, uselessly.

He doesn’t know what Louis heard in his tone, but he pats at Harry’s cheek. Well. “I didn’t take pictures to blackmail you or anything, don’t worry,” Louis assures him, and Harry gives him a slight smile because even when he feels like shit, Harry can’t not smile around him. Louis seems to brighten at that, patting at Harry’s cheek again. “Okay, maybe just one, but I won’t sell it or anything. I know you have a reputation to uphold and all that, no one wants to see your sleeping face on the cover of The Sun or summat.”

Harry does laugh at that, trying to slap Louis’ hand away. “I don’t have a reputation, shut up.”

Louis raises an eyebrow at that. “We’ll talk about it later,” he says, mouth curling into a slight smile.

He feels silly, but his heart jumps a bit. “There’s a later?” Harry asks, giving Louis a curious smile. Louis’ smile twitches, like he doesn’t want to let it widen. For some reason it makes Harry feel accomplished.

“Lou,” Nialler turns back at them, interrupting yet again before Louis has a chance to reply, and Harry wants to curse at him just a little bit. Louis startles, but at least he looks like he wants the same thing. The blonde guy looks even more gleeful, grinning at them. “Sorry Popstar, I need to steal him for a bit.”

Harry tries not to pout, but it probably still shows, because Louis touches his hand with a smile. “Later,” he says again, and it feels like a promise as his fingers linger for a split second longer. Harry nods before Louis leans forward, talking in hushed voice with his friend, and Harry leans back in his seat, feeling the plane descending. Later. It sounds good in his head.

The plane touches ground, and suddenly Harry is swept by his handler who was sitting in the first class section. She tugs at his arm slightly, the air of importance pushing other passengers into stepping out of her way. “Come on, Liam is already here,” she says, and she walks ahead of him without looking back, expecting him to follow.

Louis looks surprised at the interruption, because she comes at them while they’re giggling at each other as they prepare their backpacks. He stares at Harry with wide-eyes, blinking a bit. Harry bites his lip, looking back at her retreating body before he turns to Louis again, leaning in. “Lou, listen, I—“

Somehow, she’s right beside him again. “Harry,” she says, tone hurried but still polite. It grates at Harry’s mood, just a bit. “Take your guitar and backpack, please. Liam’s already phoning me.”

“You’re not supposed to turn it on until you get into the terminal,” Louis blurts, and he immediately bites his lip as if he doesn’t mean to say it. His handler—Emma, Harry’s pretty sure—just glances at him. The small acknowledgement makes Louis cower a bit, turning back to his backpack. Harry doesn’t know whether to be impressed by this woman or be surprised at Louis, who always seems so big, seemingly intimidated by a stranger. Her eyes snap back at Harry before his brain decides, and Harry startles at that.

“Now, please,” she tells him.

Harry sighs, but he nods. She eyes him a bit before she nods too, turning to move slightly forward and letting other people pass in the small alley. Harry turns back at Louis and, ignoring Emma’s pointed look, sits back down to catch Louis’ busied wrist. Louis pauses, eyes on Harry’s face. He grins, albeit awkwardly. “About that later?”

Louis looks conflicted, throwing glances at Emma and back at him a couple times. The silence stretches for a few seconds, but it feels like years for Harry. His frown slowly turns into a smile though, and he pats at Harry’s cheek softly. It’s soft and dainty, and Harry, again, fights the urge to lean into the touch. “Third time’s a charm, yeah?”

That startles Harry. No. “But—“

“Harry, please?” It’s Emma again, displaying her phone’s screen at him like he’s supposed to understand something from that, but it just makes Harry feel panicked. Maybe that’s the point.

He stays his ground though. There’s a ‘later’ at stake here. “Just. Two seconds please, Emma?”

Emma looks surprised. She probably doesn’t expect him to address her at all, never mind with her name, and her eyebrows pinch together. She looks down at Harry’s fingers around Louis’ wrist, the way they’re sitting closely. Harry can feel his cheek warms, and Louis probably feels a bit uncomfortable too, because Harry can feel him squirm under his touch. She pauses for a bit, before she huffs. “It’s Emily,” she simply says, waving her hand nonchalantly at his fumbling apologies. “Alright, I’ll wait at the gate.”

“Thanks,” Harry calls at her back, and she turns to look at Louis for a moment before she waves again, leaving. Now Harry turns, his panic turning into slight desperation. “Not even a phone number?”

Louis bites his lip. He does that a lot, Harry notices, and he feels silly that he notices that at all. It’s on Louis now, though, and Louis just looks uncertain. It’s weird for Harry, who at this point is used to Louis acting so sure of himself, wrapping Harry in his palm. He always seems so confident, words and gestures playful like they’re old friends. Now Louis looks… scared, and Harry doesn’t expect the words coming from Louis at all. “How stupid will you think I am if I say let’s make fate decide for us?”

They look at each other for a bit, the people around them moving and busy. The other person on the other side of their seat is gone, and the plane’s slowly emptying. Harry looks into those blue eyes, looking at the doubt but also, right there, determination. He doesn’t understand, but it’s… it feels like Louis. Basically a strong wind, knocking at his sail whenever and however he wants. Louis’ words seem fitting.

He still doesn’t like it, though. “Pretty stupid,” Harry sighs, but he can’t even bring himself to fight Louis weird offer. He’s not sure if he should. Louis smiles, still doubtful, and Harry moves his thumb at the bone of Louis’ wrists. Very stupid. “Can I at least have a full name so I can creepily Google your name?”

Louis looks surprised, but his smile brightens. He chuckles a bit, not giving an answer. Harry feels defeated.

“You can just turn me down, you know,” Harry tells him, letting go of Louis’ wrists.

Louis looks at him. “I,” he says, and shakes his head. “I don’t want to turn you down.”

Well. That’s something, Harry guesses. It lifts at his chest, warm spreading like he’s looking at the sun again, the way he always feels around Louis. God, he’s whipped, and they didn’t even spend the flight together properly. “Third time’s a charm, I guess.”

“Have faith, Popstar,” Louis tells him, eyes bright. Harry doesn’t know how he thinks he can deny him anything, really. Harry smiles back, nodding. “Now,” he says, pushing at his arm, “I think you have someone waiting for you.”

Harry makes a face at that. “You make it sound romantic when it’s just a bunch of old people waiting to order me around again.” Louis’ eyes widen at that, and Harry backtracks. “No, sorry, I don’t know why I said that. It’s not that bad, I swear, it’s mostly just clichés and wrong assumptions, for me anyway, it’s not like—“

A hand, gentle at his elbow, cuts him into a stop. “Harry Styles, A Professional Rambler,” Louis laughs. His hand on Harry’s elbow tightens for a bit before he lets go and stands up. “See you.”

Louis’ smile, at least, looks like a promise. It’s all Harry can get right now, and for some reason he knows better than to push it. He stands up too, shouldering his backpack. “That better be a promise,” Harry finally grins weakly, and Louis nods, smile still in place.

Harry turns at least eight times before he reaches the airplane’s huge door and stepping into the connecting door to the terminal. Harry wants to scold himself for not taking a chance, maybe fight for it a little bit more. Emily and Liam can wait for him—it’s not like he’s going to take hours or anything. But Louis looks pretty firm on it, and Harry doesn’t think it’s fair to force him to do anything. Besides, scary as it is, he can’t really deny Louis anything, even something as stupid sounding as ‘letting fate decide’.

It’s fine. Harry trusts fate. She better not disappoint him, is all he’s saying.

 ---

Honestly, Harry should know better. He’s more disappointed in himself, to be honest.

Three months pass. Three months. Harry wants to cry and sulk, but he does have an album he needs to record, a contract to fulfil, and some friends to meet. It’s almost cruel. Harry, being himself, of course tries to Google Louis almost immediately, but there’s only so much he can do with “Louis”, “London”, and “LA”. He tries to be creative about it, even asks some people for an advice on how to effectively do a Google search (his sister just stares at him weirdly, what a useless university graduate), but to no avail.

He gets a few songs about it, thankfully. Some songs about looking for true love to the end of the world and all that. It’s a tad bit more dramatic, but he’s got something.

Ed, the one who watches him write some of the songs, is the first person to tell him that he’s had enough. Harry’s more surprised that it didn’t happen sooner, considering how much he whines.

“Come on, mate. It’s someone you met for like, two hours in total. You didn’t even have a proper full conversation with him.”

Harry pouts harder, if that’s even possible. “Don’t remind me of my failure, please.”

Ed just rolls his eyes, toeing at his side. He’s sitting on the couch, playing around with his guitar, while Harry starfishes on the floor. “The point is, there’s really no reason for you to sulk like this, is there?”

And the thing is, Ed is right. Louis, as beautiful and funny and amazing as he is, is someone Harry met very briefly. Harry doesn’t even know his last name. For all he knows, Louis didn’t give him something to work with because he thinks Harry is a loser and doesn’t want to have anything else to do with him. Louis knows who he is, or at least his public persona, and he probably has done some general assessment of Harry’s life. Meanwhile, Harry knows almost absolutely nothing about the boy, and this sulking just seems ridiculous and unreasonable.

But then Harry thinks about how Louis yelled at the paps and gave him a chance to slip away even though he was hurt. Harry thinks of the bright smile, the crinkly eyes when Louis laughs, his voice when he teases him. Harry should feel weird about it, but he just misses him more. Misses a boy he met only twice, so much so that there’s a tinge of pain in his ribcage. There’s a reason Harry can write so many words about Louis, the mysterious beautiful boy, and he might have romanticized the simple encounter too much, but that reason is something.

Harry doesn’t tell Ed any of that though. He knows how weird it would sound, so he just lets out a long sigh and whines a bit before he turns to press his face against Ed’s shin. “Eddie, you’re my savior.”

“Everyone is a savior for a little kitten like you,” Ed simply replies, not even glancing at him.

“That’s way too kinky for our relationship, mate,” Harry says somberly.

Ed laughs. “Come on, let’s go out tonight. I’m doing a gig at a pub nearby.”

Harry sits up, faking a gasp. “A gig? For Grammy winning singer-songwriter Ed Sheeran?”

Ed stares at him. “I can knee your face, you know that, right? And yes, it’s a favor for an old friend. It would be cool. Come with me.”

Well. Better than sulking around for yet another day. “Fine, if you insist,” Harry sighs, like it’s a hardship for him. Ed looks like he wants to laugh, but also like he wants to deck Harry. It’s a familiar look on him. “Will you give me a backstage pass too, Eddie? Can we snuggle before and after your show?”

Of course, Ed knees him right in the nose, but at least Harry is laughing too hard to feel the pain.

The pub is a place Harry expects from Ed. It’s crowded but not too packed, the lighting dim with some strobes of colorful lights every now and then. The bar is quite full, so Harry lets Ed make a runner get them drinks while they hang out beside the stage, leaning against the huge amps while eyeing the crowd. It’s cramped, but Harry misses this kind of setting achingly, feeling right at home as he takes a sip of his beer.

“I miss this,” Harry says quietly, eyeing the people standing around right in front of the stage. Most people don’t even look at them twice, used to Ed performing once in a while, but there are some people throwing him a coy smile and waving, to which Harry smiles and waves back.

Ed looks up from where he’s tuning his guitar, giving him a dirty smirk. “Which part exactly do you miss, Popstar?”

Harry flips him off. “Just, everything in general, Popstar . The crowd, the shitty lighting and sound system, the beer. God, this beer is so shit,” Harry mutters, but he takes another sip. Ed laughs at him.

“To shitty beers, then,” he offers the tip of his full bottle, and Harry grins as he clinks their bottles together. Ed gulps down most of it without taking a breath and Harry whistles. Right before he finishes it his phone vibrates beside him, the screen lighting up. Ed throws the bottle to the side, picking up his phone and scrolling a bit, his eyes moving to read a new text. “Huh, my mate’s around here somewhere if you want to meet them.”

“I’m your mate,” Harry says in mock indignation.

“You’re a child,” Ed tells him patiently, laughing loudly when Harry squints his eyes at him. He types something with one hand before he puts it in his pocket. He takes another beer from beside the sound system, hitting the top to open the cap. “He’s at the bar if you wanna join him. He’s bringing a friend with him, too, so if you want to forget about that Louis guy, this is your chance.”

Harry pauses at that, staring at Ed. “Are you implying what I think you’re implying?”

Ed smirks behind the neck of his beer bottler. “Am I?”

Harry laughs, a bit at disbelief. God, he missed it so much, how easy it was. Now, he can’t stop his brain from going to how the stuffy people in his team will react if he goes to pick up a one night stand before at least making them sign an NDA. Or something. He takes a huge gulp of his beer, letting out a loud breath. “I’m a gentleman, Ed. I don’t hook up to forget about someone, where’re your manners?” Ed rolls his eyes at him, so Harry grins. “Also, not without dinner.”

Ed kicks at his hip, ignoring Harry’s squawk. “No one said anything about hooking up, but you do you, Haz.”

Harry pouts. “Why do I let you bring me here, again?”

“Free booze?” Ed shrugs, offering his own half empty beer. He finishes it when Harry doesn’t take it immediately, now putting the empty bottle on the side of the stage.

Harry watches him stretch and lets him walk away before he says, loudly, “Your faith in me is touching, Eddie.”

Ed grins. “Wish me luck, Lover.”

“Good luck, My Sweet,” Harry yells out theatrically, blowing three kisses until Ed sees him and gives him the bird. Honestly, why he’s friends with such a rude person, Harry doesn’t know.

The crowd moves forward when Ed starts tuning his guitar on stage, messing around with his equipment and the mic. Harry hoots loudly, making the crowd laugh and cheer at his cue. Ed laughs along. “Forgive that loser, he’s my biggest fan.”

“Hell yeah I am,” Harry yells, and the crowd laughs again. Harry feels good, slightly tipsy from the two beers and two shots he took. He’s a bit of a lightweight, but at least he feels awesome.

But thinking that just reminds him that he needs another drink, which in turn reminds him of Ed’s mate at the bar area. He cranes his neck to look at the back, seeing it less packed as most of the crowd has moved forward to watch the stage. Harry clears his throat, yells out another cheer for Ed, and then makes his way to the bar. He stumbles for a bit, murmuring quite a few apologies to people he bumps into who are already dancing as Ed starts his show. It feels like a long way, but he cheers to himself when he reaches it.

The bartender is a woman in her thirties, probably, but Harry won’t ask her because he has a feeling she’s not going to appreciate him just asking personal questions like that. “Anything I can get you?” She asks, straightforward.

“Uh. Yeah. Something sweet please.”

The bartender raises an eyebrow, looking amused. She’s probably holding back a laugh, but Harry just shrugs it off. “Do you want alcohol in it, or…?”

“Yes. Booze. It’s good.”

She shrugs. “Alright.”

The bartender gives him a drink with a little umbrella in it, sending him a wink. Harry winks back, or at least tries to, clinking the ice in the glass as he turns around to watch Ed perform. He’s on the second song, an old song from his old EP, and Harry mouths all the words he still remembers. It really feels so good to be out. He can’t believe he spent months sulking, just wandering around and writing sappy songs in his apartment, when he could’ve been out and about having fun. He’s well-known, yes, but in London people don’t care as much. He’s been told repeatedly that in LA he’s going to have to be followed by paparazzi more frequently, something about promo and breaking into a new market. But here, on this familiar road and air, people know him already, so they generally don’t bother him as much.

Harry finishes his drink and is about to ask for another drink when there’s a pause between songs. In the short seconds between, he hears a familiar voice.

He freezes.

“Niall, I swear to God, I’m not hauling your pathetic ass back home. See if I care,” the voice says in exasperation, and Harry doesn’t want to, but he starts hoping. He turns around slowly, feeling comical about his own reaction, and—

He needs a drink. He needs a drink right now.

It’s Louis. It’s not just Louis though. It’s Louis in a denim jacket and white loose t-shirt that shows off his collar bones, a peek of tattoo and chest hair showing. He’s facing the bartender, sideways to where Harry is standing, and Louis’ jeans are probably made to show off everything, because Harry can see every curve of his body. Harry isn’t even that religious, but he starts thanking every higher deity up there for those curves, because Thank you, Lord. He’s as small and dainty as Harry remembers, his expression turning fast as he speaks to Niall and the bartender.

He could be staring for minutes or hours, so mesmerized at how Louis somehow looks better than the image Harry conjures in his head, but then the bartender notices him not moving and asks, “Do you want another?”

Louis shoves Niall a bit, a half formed smile on his face as he turns towards who the bartender is talking to, which is Harry, and his whole face changes. Harry doesn’t want to hope too much, but he thinks he sees Louis’ expression brightens up, his eyes widening and his eyebrows raising as his lips part, slowly turning into a wide smile. “No way,” he breathes.

“My thoughts exactly,” Harry replies, even though he can’t really feel his mouth moving.

Louis probably notices, because he just starts giggling, his eyes crinkling and his wrist covering his bright smile. Harry feels weak. “This cannot be real.”

“What cannot be real?” Nialler—Niall, Harry tells himself— turns towards them, draping himself behind Louis, and there’s a split second of him looking shocked before he laughs loudly, slapping his own knee and sloshing his beer everywhere. “Fuck, I can’t believe this. Finally, after all the moping and whining I had to endure. This is fate telling you to stop being stupid, Tommo!”

“Thank you, Niall! ” Louis cuts him off loudly, shoving at his shoulder. The bartender slides two pints of beer towards them, and Louis takes both, putting them into one of Niall’s hand. “Here, another drink. Two, even. Now shoo.”

Niall looks satisfied with the beer, but he still sends them a teasing look. “Fine, I see how it is. Now that you’ve found true love, we can no longer be a duo. I understand.” Niall’s still laughing as he dodges Louis’ punch, waving at Harry as he takes the beer with him. “See ya, Tommo, Popstar! I can take a hint, so I won’t be coming home tonight.”

Louis groans, both hands covering his face. “Oh my God.”

“He’s… loud,” Harry comments, a grin pulling at his lips.

“He doesn’t know what he’s talking about, please ignore everything he said.”

Well, now Louis is just making it too easy. “You moped?”

Louis, predictably, flushes, even under the dim light. “Oh, God. Shut up, please.”

Harry giggles, feeling light and heavy all at the same time. They’re not even standing that close, but the room feels ten times hotter. Louis slides a bit closer, turning to face him. He looks up at Harry, all coy smile and fluttering eyelashes, and Harry thinks he can get drunk even without any more drinks. Louis bites slightly at his lower lip, blinking slowly as his dainty fingers circle the top of his glass. Harry can count his freckles in the dim lighting, and it feels like Louis is letting him.

“So,” Harry breaks the silence, throat dry as sandpaper.

Louis laughs softly. “So.”

“Third time.”

“It’s a charm, yeah.”

“I’m not sure I believe this is not a dream,” Harry admits, feeling bare when Louis just tilts his head slightly, his smile intact. “I’ve drunk a lot. It could be me hallucinating.”

“Dream about me a lot, don’t you, Styles,” Louis says, his voice soft in the loud pub. Harry doesn’t know how he’s even hearing it clearly, but he’s not even surprised anymore. Harry has an inclination that he’s going to hang onto every word Louis says. It’s alarming, to have that thought about someone he’s known for a total of hours of interaction, and he doesn’t know if the fact that he’s not worried is because he’s drunk or just that it’s Louis. He thinks it’s the second one.

“Is it even surprising?”

“No,” Louis says, smile easy.

They’re really close. Louis’ eyes move towards the glass in Harry’s hand, now full of cold water from the melted ice and a small umbrella. He takes the umbrella and playfully puts it behind his ear, grinning widely. Harry doesn’t know how Louis manages to do this to him, make him feel like he’s won something with every smile he gives Harry. Make him feel like he wants to kiss him. Badly. Harry shakes his head slightly instead. “Tommo?”

“Tomlinson,” Louis replies easily, but then he blinks and scowls. “Damn it.”

Harry grins. “Louis Tomlinson,” he tries, slightly in awe.

Louis, although looking annoyed at first, just sighs and spreads his arms, gesturing to himself. “Yours truly.”

Yours. Harry’s. It sounds nice. God, he’s so drunk. “I’m Harry Styles.”

Louis chuckles. “I know that, Popstar.”

That sounds—wrong. Harry doesn’t know how drunk he is, actually, but it ticks at something in his chest, and he doesn’t like it. “Don’t—I’m not a popstar,” he says, louder than expected. Louis’ smile drops, and Harry curses. “Not now. Not today, anyway.” Harry doesn’t know why he takes it seriously this time when he’s usually nonchalant about it. It’s not an accusation or something; if anything it should be flattering. But right here, standing in front of Louis, the word makes him feel like less of himself. Like he can’t be more without the nickname, without the title. It’s a weird feeling. “I’m—I don’t know, I’m probably drunk. Sorry.”

Louis looks at Harry, contemplative, before a decision seems to dawn on his face. “Eh, probably tipsy at best,” he replies, tone light. “Alright, let’s get out of here and have some food.”

That throws Harry off. Louis is very good at that. “There’s food here?” Harry offers, unsure.

Louis looks unimpressed. “Do you really want to eat here? Really. Harry,” he says, when Harry turns to look at the menu, and as Harry turns back towards him, he grips at Harry’s elbows, looking serious. “Look me in the eyes and tell me you want to eat here.”

Serious look, in this circumstance, looks funny on Louis. “Okay, maybe not.”

“Good answer. Now let’s go, I know a fish and chips place that’s opened at this hour.”

“Fish and chips,” Harry mocks. “How very British of you.”

“Hey, I don’t take jabs from people who spend two-thirds of the year in LA, okay,” he rolls his eyes, already walking away. He pauses. When Harry catches up to him, he looks like a deer caught in headlights. “Please don’t ask how I know that.”

Harry laughs, and Louis sticks his tongue out as he slips away from Harry. He walks ahead, hips swaying. The umbrella is still at the back of his ear, bright orange between his soft brown hair. He probably can tell that Harry is too awestruck to follow, because he turns towards him, a grin at his face. Harry is reminded of how they first met, this dainty boy standing in front of him, confident that Harry would follow him in a way that he can’t help but be endeared by. “Let’s go, Styles.”

Harry is so smitten, it’s ridiculous.

The fish and chips place turns out to be a food truck, tucked between two huge buildings and a park. There’s not many people around, probably because it’s midnight. There are two couples on the tables around the truck itself, talking to themselves and minding their own business. It’s slightly drizzling, because of course it is. Harry pulls his long coat tighter around himself, and Louis notices. “You look like an old vampire,” Louis tells him, for some reason, and Harry bares his teeth playfully. Louis giggles, dainty wrist up again to cover his smile, the umbrella still behind his ear. He’s so beautiful, and Harry can feel his expression softening with fondness. He lets it.

“I don’t think I’ve heard of this place,” Harry says as Louis sits down with their food. Louis puts everything down on the table, some fries scattering, and Harry makes a face when Louis picks up a fallen fries. He simply sticks out his tongue, pointedly taking a huge bite of another fallen fries. Harry tries not to be endeared. “You come here around midnight often?”

Louis actually pauses to think about it. “I guess? I’m awake a lot because of my job, and my apartment is around here.”

“Huh,” Harry replies, not at all thinking about how Louis is bringing him to a place near his home.

Louis squints his eyes, pointing at him with a piece of the fish. “Don’t stalk me, Styles.”

Harry grins. “Call me Harry, then maybe I’ll think about it.”

Louis looks up from the food, looking at him through his lashes. Harry holds his breath, feeling dizzy from how blue Louis’ eyes are. He’s probably exaggerating how deeply in thought they seem to be, like Louis can read everything in Harry’s face, but Harry tries not to squirm anyway.

“Harry,” Louis says finally, his voice soft, and the butterflies in his stomach erupt. Harry wants to reach out, presses his thumb against Louis’ lip, grease and all, and just. Feel how soft or dry it is. It’s fucking with Harry’s brain, how much he wants to kiss him. Harry wants to feel Louis’ stubble against his own skin, a press of intimacy. He looks so soft, looking at Harry with his eyelashes fluttering like he doesn’t know how to treat Harry, even though he’s been doing all the right things. Harry knows Louis can tell he’s looking at his lips, knows that Louis licks them because of it, but Harry feels helpless anyway. “Harry,” Louis says again, like he’s tasting the word, and his smile is knowing and gentle.

God, Harry wants to kiss him so bad.

“What do you do for a living?” Harry asks instead. He’s not sure why he doesn’t jump at the chance. Louis probably thinks the same way, because he leans back a bit, face slightly surprised before he schools it into a neutral expression. Then his face changes again as he registers Harry’s question.

“Oh no. Do I really have to answer?”

Harry doesn’t expect that reaction. “Uh,” he says, picking at a fish. “No, I guess?”

“It’s just…,” Louis mumbles, looking uncomfortable with the topic, and finally sighs. “I feel like you’re gonna hate me if you know.”

Oh. Is this where the fantasy breaks? Harry can't think of any job that could break it, but anything is possible. An assassin, maybe. A drug dealer. A robber. Although, pathetic as it is, he doesn't see those jobs as something that could make him stay away from Louis. “Oh,” Harry says out loud, his brain always helpful.

Louis seems to realize how his words can be taken, and he shakes his head. “I mean, it’s not that bad. But it’s… something? I’m not sure how you’d react really.”

Okay. It’s probably not that bad. Harry hopes. Besides, as Harry looks at how fidgety Louis becomes, clearly unsettled by how Harry might feel, he knows it’s not that important for him to know. He’ll take what he can get from Louis, and it’s really just a job. “You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to,” Harry tells him.

Louis makes a face. “Now you’re just being too nice again.”

Harry frowns. “Again?”

“Yeah! You always do that. Remember the three months we just endured without each other?”

Harry gapes. “You were the one who suggested that!”

“Exactly! And like, I appreciate it, I do, but you always go with what I say. You’re too considerate, Harry Styles. Sorry, I mean, Harry,” Louis corrects himself, his tone sincere, like he does it because he knows it would bother Harry. It tugs inside Harry’s ribcage, but he doesn’t even bat an eyelash at that. It seems like the usual reaction to anything Louis does. “But honestly, like I said, it’s not that big of a deal. Just…”

“I do mean it though,” Harry cuts him off. “I don’t just do things because you asked me to.” Not everything anyway, Harry’s brain supplies. He bats the thought away. “It doesn’t matter much to me what you do. I just like talking with you, just hanging out like this. You’re an awesome person and I like you a lot. If you don’t want to tell me, then you don’t have to. It’s not a requirement or anything. Besides, it won’t be fair for me to ask you to talk about your job when I, well, I don’t want to talk about my job either. With you. It’s not something that should be important in our rela—friendship. In. This. Whatever. Oh my God,” Harry groans, flustered at the end of his speech that comes out of nowhere, finally noticing Louis laughing into his hands, shoulders shaking. “Stop laughing!”

Louis laughs harder at that, but he lets it die down pretty quickly at Harry’s pout. He smiles, traces of laughter in his face. “Always the noble one, yeah?”

Harry shrugs, embarrassed. Louis leans forward. “I like you too, by the way,” he says, softly, like it’s a secret. Harry can’t help the chuckle that comes out.

“Thank you,” he says, just as soft.

Louis laughs again, gentler. “I really, really do. Honestly, I don’t know what I was thinking when I said the whole third time’s a charm thing. It’s stupid. No, it is ,” Louis assures Harry when he looks like he’s going to complain. “Like I said, I don’t know what it was even about. I think part of it is because I know how famous and… occupied you are? Like, my brain tells me that it’s not going to really go anywhere, because you couldn’t even stay for long in an airplane, how are you gonna spare some time for me? It’s a weird train of thought, but I just thought it would be fruitless for us to have… whatever we could have.”

Harry looks at Louis with wide eyes, not expecting the confession. Louis rolls his eyes at Harry’s expression. “Hey, you started this heartfelt talk thing, mate.”

Harry rolls his eyes despite the smile on his face. He presses the tip of his fingers against the tip of Louis’, a gentle contact. “Well, at least we still get to meet. Fate favors us, probably. Or something.”

“Or something,” Louis mocks, laughing at Harry’s indignant grunt. “Stop doing that. I’m not going to laugh at your pretentious talking. Not that much, anyways. Fine,” he corrects himself at Harry’s look. “Stop looking at me like that, I’ll try to tone it down. But seriously, stop correcting yourself. It’s fine. It’s how you talk, I’m not going to make fun of it or anything.”

Harry’s not sure how this boy can surprise him over and over again. It’s like he expects it, but the extent to which it goes, Louis just keeps pushing at it. Harry’s never met someone who pointed out the way he talks the way Louis did—the crowd he hangs out with either corrects his speech, or laughs at it. No one gently picks at it like Louis, while making sure Harry feels comfortable with him. It’s new, and Harry feels his heart grow. “You’re really great, you know,” Harry tells him, his tone awed despite his effort not to show it.

“I know,” Louis grins. “So are you, I guess.”

“You guess?”

It’s easy, talking with Louis. They’re easy together, but also electric, and it makes Harry dizzy with want. He leans forward slightly, and he knows Louis does too because they’re so much closer now. It’s cold, and Harry can see the little puff of air from Louis’ parted mouth. He wants to press his lips against Louis’. This time it’s Louis’ eyes that move towards Harry’s lips, quickly moving back up to his eyes. They’re dark, and Harry hopes it’s not just wishful thinking.

“Fine, I really do like you,” Louis says, softer. Harry feels electricity thrums through his veins.

“It’s mutual, Lou.”

“Lou?” Louis asks, a teasing smile on his lips.

Harry moves his hand, pushing soft strands of Louis’ hair behind his ear, fingertips tracing against the small umbrella still perched there, and it feels charged, that simple gesture. Louis’ lashes flutter again, his face slackens, and Harry wants him so much. “Lou,” Harry repeats, tracing his fingers against the side of Louis’ face. His thin stubble is soft, the only sharpness he can feel coming from Louis’ cheekbones. Louis’ eyes close, and it’s all Harry needs to lean forward.

And then, Louis’ phone rings.

They jump apart, and the temperature turns so much colder. Harry’s fingertips still burn, the phantom feel of Louis’ skin against them. Louis looks flustered, his lower lip redder from how much he bites it. Harry knows he doesn’t look much better. He can feel his cheeks burning, his lips itching. Good Lord.

The phone still rings. Harry clears his throat. “You, uh, you should probably get that.”

“I—,“ Louis says, but it still fucking rings, loud and obnoxious. Some people turn to look at them, and Louis huffs as he pulls it out from his jacket pocket. Harry is slightly satisfied when he sees Louis pressing a little bit too hard to pick up the phone, his tone cross. “What.”

Harry leans back as Louis talks (it’s Niall, and Harry tries not to grudge him too much), pulling out his own phone as he picks at the food between them again. There’s a text from Ed, and Harry replies to it as he tries not to eavesdrop too much. It works too well, him picking the appropriate emoji to reply to Ed’s middle finger emoji—he decides on a peach, because Ed’s a butt—because suddenly Louis snaps his fingers right in front of his nose.

“Niall’s not going to come home,” he tells him, like it’s an important information. Harry blinks.

“He did say that earlier,” Harry nods slowly, a bit unsure as to where this is going.

“Yeah, well, he just confirmed that, so. Do you want to go back to my place?”

It takes an embarrassingly long minute before Harry answers. “Wait, what?”

“What do you mean, ‘what’?” Louis frowns back.

“It’s—I mean, you don’t have to. I can just, uh, walk home.”

Louis stares at him. “Are we really doing this, Harry?” At Harry’s silence, Louis rolls his eyes, but it doesn’t seem too mocking. Hopefully. “Fine. Do you want to go home?”

This is so unfair. He’s trying to move slower here, but Louis just looks at him with expectant eyes, and it’s easy for Harry to answer, “Not really, no.”

“Then let’s go. Or do you want me to beg?”

Harry’s throat, almost expectedly, dries. Fuck, that’s one nice mental image.

Of course, Louis notices. He raises an eyebrow, lips turning into a coy smirk. “We’ll see what we can do, Popstar.”

This time it doesn’t feel incriminating, not even for him—if anything, it gets to Harry, for some reason, and it should be embarrassing, but. Louis is Louis, and Harry is no longer surprised at how he reacts to the boy. It’s almost always embarrassing, and short as they might have known each other, Harry thinks can get used to it. Probably already has.

Louis looks at him with an amused expression as he waits for Harry to collect himself, resting his chin against his palm, his fingers curled against his own jawline. It’s insane how everything about Louis perfectly molds into what Harry finds attractive in a person. “Are you done?” Louis asks, his eyebrow perfectly arched. How the fuck it gets to Harry, that miniscule move, Harry doesn’t even want to know.

“Right. Okay.”

“Okay,” Louis says, easy as always.

“There might be a cat here somewhere, please don’t sit on her.”

Harry pauses in the middle of sitting, his bum hanging in the air, two inches from the couch. “Might be? You have a cat?”

Louis pops his head from behind the fridge door, waving his hand carelessly. “Kind of. She just comes here sometimes and takes our food, and Niall adores her so somehow cat food always makes its way onto our grocery list. Beer?” Harry shakes his head at the offer, and Louis shrugs. “We don’t even name her. And no, that’s not an invitation for you to name her,” he says, not even letting Harry open his mouth. Rude. He bumps the fridge door closed with his hip, a cold water bottle in one hand and a can of beer in the other. “Niall calls her Cat, and that’s what you’re gonna call her too.”

“Olivia would be a good cat name,” Harry pouts, even as he catches the water bottle Louis throws at his head.

Louis makes a face. “That’s Taylor Swift’s cat’s name.”

Harry doesn’t mean to, but he snaps his head towards Louis in shock. Louis seems smug, beer fizzing in his grip. “How do you know the name of Taylor Swift’s cat?”

“How do you not know? Didn’t you date her?” Louis asks, tone too innocent to be genuine.

But Harry just stares at him. He’s not sure if he can say that it was just a pathetic attempt of their managements to promo the both of them with a  thinly veiled homophobic intention. Louis seems to feel Harry’s hesitant pause, because he simply scoffs. “Everyone knows it’s a publicity stunt, mate. You two didn’t really make an attempt to sell it.”

Harry flushes at that. He’s seen the many rumors. It’s one of the reasons they cut the whole thing short. It wasn’t working for anyone involved, even though it kind of did a job of getting their names out there. Now they have to suffer from the whole “Haylor” fiasco haunting their whole life, but Harry figures they deserve it, what with the pathetic attempt. It’s still embarrassing, though. “Define ‘everyone’,” he grumbles, fingers playing with the label on the bottle in his hands.

It’s an attempt at a joke, mostly, but Louis stops moving, slightly bent over the coffee table where he’s reaching for the TV remote. He looks thoughtful when he turns to look at Harry, and Harry wonders if he said something wrong. Before he can apologize or backtrack, though, without really knowing what he said, Louis bites his lip and flops beside him on the couch. He curls into himself, toes pressing against the side of Harry’s thighs, looking soft and dainty in his simple white tee. It’s so thin Harry can see the cursive of his tattoo, the huge 78 at the side, but Harry can’t focus too much on either of those things when Louis looks as troubled as he does. “Uh, did I say something wrong?”

“No,” Louis answers quickly. He bites his lip, a sign of nervousness that Harry recognizes. He circles his finger on the rim of his beer, contemplative. “Well, remember what I said about my work, and how you would probably hate me if you knew what I do for a living?”

Harry frowns a bit. “Yes?”

“Well, ‘everyone’ is… basically people in my line of work.”

That makes Harry pause. Hold up. “Your line of work?” He questions. Louis looks wary at his tone, nodding slowly. Oh no. “Wait. Are you, like. Are you someone on her team, or something?”

A disdainful look passes over Louis’ face. “No way,” he says, and Harry’s chest loosens. That’s the worst one crossed out, but. Louis seems to sense his confusion, because he sighs louder as he says, “I’m, uh, a journalist.”

“Oh.” A journalist. That’s—that’s not so bad. Isn’t it? Sure, he hasn’t had many good encounters with journalists, only few who he can talk to easily, and yeah, sometimes they piss him off with the billions false headlines they’ve made over Harry, but mostly they’re… harmless. Harry thinks. His brain hates him though, because now he can’t stop thinking of all the times  that they were not harmless. There’s a million and one ways this can go badly, a popstar and a journalist. Harry doesn’t even want to think about it, but still scenario after scenario pops up in his head. It doesn’t feel good. “I see,” he finally settles with, not wanting to leave it hanging.

Louis probably catches on to the too-long silence, because he fiddles with his lower lip, looking upset. “Now you look troubled. Are you mad?”

“No, I’m not,” he answers. He’s not lying. He’s not mad, just... concerned.

Louis doesn’t seem to believe him though. “Don’t lie,” he accuses, but his voice trembles a bit, and Harry’s brain stops at the tone.

He looks at Louis, and Louis looks small and agitated, like he’s ready for Harry to just walk out. It makes Harry’s chest clench. “I’m really not,” he says earnestly. It’s hard not to be earnest when Harry wonders how much it actually bothers Louis. Looking at him, Harry kind of forgets what disaster could be the result of this. It’s just Louis. If he wanted to give Harry trouble, he would have done it by now. More importantly, he wouldn’t look like this. “It’s fine. You’re not doing anything wrong. It’s just a job.”

“It’s not related to you in any way, I swear. I’m a sports journalist,” Louis rushes. “Not even huge sports event, just local stuff. I do work for a national newspaper, but I’m so insignificant you would barely see my name anywhere on it. I’m just a small journalist, not even that important, and—“

“Louis,” Harry chides him. “Don’t sell yourself short like that.”

Louis blinks at Harry’s interruption. “I mean, it’s not selling myself short if it’s the truth.”

“Yeah, well, you’re doing a marvelous job. I just know."

He smiles at Harry’s tone, so sure and nonchalant, like he knows for sure. And Harry does know for sure. There’s no way Louis is not great in his job, and he’s going to make sure this boy knows that. Harry knows he has a slight frown on his face, probably looking a tad bit too serious and determined, and Louis just shakes his head with his smile widening, fingers reaching to smooth out Harry’s face. “You didn’t even know I was one until two minutes ago,” Louis muses.

“You’re brilliant, though. I’m sure.” Harry blinks, realizing what he said might be a tad bit too sappy a beat too late. “I mean—“

“Don’t apologize,” Louis stops him, fingers still gentle on Harry’s face. “Thank you.”

Harry circles his hands around Louis’ ankle, fragile and beautiful like the rest of him. It's funny that he feels lightheaded like he's drunk, looking at Louis stares at him from across the couch, even though his head has cleared for a while. There’s some space between them, but Harry feels his breath taken away.

“You’re welcome,” Harry breathes. He feels like a whisper is going to be too loud. The air suddenly feels too thick, like something sweet and heavy is hanging around them.

Louis’ eyes are blue, even from the slight distance between them. He tilts his head a bit, and asks, “Are you going to kiss me now?”

Harry, for some reason, is still surprised. He expects it, but his heart stutters in his chest, and he can feel his cheeks getting hotter. He probably looks too star-struck, eyes wide and glassy just from looking at Louis and drinking him in. Louis is gorgeous, smile teasing and curious, and Harry feels just as lost as he is sure. “I—yes. I am. Going to.”

Louis’ laugh is light. He spreads his legs slightly, inviting Harry closer, and this time Harry’s mouth waters. “Come here, Popstar.”

Harry crawls slowly towards him, placing his palm lightly on the dip of Louis’ waist. Louis leans back, eyes bright, his smile blinding. It doesn’t feel like they’ve only known each other for the short time that they have, their bodies fitting together like they’ve known each other for years. “I’m going to kiss you now,” Harry whispers, and he sees only the beginning of Louis’ eye-roll before he fits his lips against Louis’.

It feels right. They move together, lips slipping against each other’s. Louis’ lips are wet, and Harry wonders how long he’s been waiting for this, wetting them every now and then, waiting for Harry to finally cave. And does Harry cave. He wants to keep his eyes open, just to see Louis’ face slacken, filled with satisfaction and content. Louis slips his arms around Harry’s neck, pulling him that tad bit closer, his thighs tightening around Harry’s hips. He feels tiny in Harry’s arms, moving easily wherever Harry puts him, his body giving into each and every touch of Harry’s hands.

Harry grips Louis’ jaw, moves his face slightly, and the bite on his lip is expected. He giggles a bit, leaning in further, kissing Harry deeper. The touch of tongue sends a zap down his spine, waking the butterflies in his stomach, and he lets Louis explore, his own touch moving freely all over Louis’ skin. He’s so soft, and Harry can’t wait to have a taste all over, but right now he pushes deeper, closer.

When they part Louis looks flushed, eyes only slightly open as his lashes flutter. The red on his skin is high on his cheeks, low to his neck. Their breaths mingle, and it feels ten thousand times hotter. Harry doesn’t know how and why he deprived himself of this, a taste of the most beautiful boy he’s ever met, but he’s glad he finally lets himself fall. “Hey,” Harry says, stomach tightening with want as Louis opens his eyes slowly. He looks like he would let Harry do anything, and Harry doesn’t know what to do with that kind of trust. “You’re really gorgeous.”

“I think I can tell from the inside of your pants, Sir,” Louis tells him, squirming slightly when Harry’s hand moves to grip his thigh. They’re thick under his touch, softness giving in with a press of his fingertips. Harry pauses for a bit at the word Louis tacks on at the end, gulping thickly, and Louis laughs. “Aren’t you full of surprises, you kinky dork.”

“Can you blame me,” Harry mutters. He’s not whining, he swears. “With you right here, under me and all?”

Louis quirks an eyebrow. “What if I want to be on top then?”

Harry fights the urge to frown, because he was sure Louis had been enjoying himself in their position right then, but he simply shrugs. “Then you’ll be on top.”

Louis eyes him carefully, hands spread on his chest, petting slightly. Harry wants to purr; Louis’ touch feels so good, and he wants him everywhere. He wants to be everywhere on him, too. He wants them together. Louis finally moves his hand to Harry’s hair, fingers twirling at a curl at the side of Harry’s neck, tugging slightly. “I like it down here,” Louis decides, pushing himself up to nip at the underside of Harry’s jaw.

Harry’s breath is heavy. God, this boy is too much. “I’ll like you anywhere, probably,” he says truthfully, leaning down and to the side to both bite at Louis’ ear and give Louis more access to his skin.

“Of course you will,” Louis scoffs. It turns into a moan as Harry slips his hands down, taking a firm hold of his bum. “Warn a man before you grope his bum, will you?”

Harry’s blood immediately moves south, like an alarm just rings and calls to them. The alarm is Louis’ moan. He doesn’t have the brain capacity to think of good metaphors, damn it. “Sorry,” Harry says, not sorry at all. He does pull back, looking at Louis seriously as he ignores Louis’ slight whine. “May I have a squeeze, Mr. Tomlinson?”

Louis huffs. “Oh God, that’s terrible. I’m not as kinky as you, don’t call me that please.” He slaps at his cheek playfully. “But yes you may.”

Harry doesn’t let his chance slip; he pulls Louis closer to him with a firm grip on his bum, all in its soft and thick glory. The atmosphere changes in a split second; it seemed easy, before, but now it turns heavier. He wants so much, and it tingles under his skin.

Louis bites at his lip, not breaking eye contact. He cranes his neck to press light kisses along Harry’s jawline, smiling at Harry’s groan. It doesn’t take long before Harry’s hips lose control, pushing back against Louis’ hip, cock hard and pressing against his tight jeans as he bucks.

Louis’ loud whimper at that makes his heart soar.

“How do you want it,” Harry rushes, because he’s so hard he’s dizzy. “Louis, Lou. Do you want to? What do you want, babe?”

That’s new, the added babe, but Louis whimpers softly at it, opening his eyes. He pulls at Harry’s neck, pushing himself up to kiss Harry again, mouth falling open at the slightest touch of Harry’s tongue. It’s almost unexpected, how giving Louis seems to be in bed (well, they’re on a couch, but technicality), but Harry isn’t even surprised. It should be alarming how easily Harry falls in tune with Louis’ needs, and vice versa, but Harry just feels the need to touch Louis flood him all over, overwhelming him.

“Take me to bed,” Louis finally whispers, right against his lip. Harry doesn’t budge, just moves slightly to nip at his ear, reveling in the moan Louis lets out. “Please, Harry.”

Harry feels weak, like he’s stripped bare and naked. He wants to be bare and naked. But for now he just pulls back, ignoring Louis’ whine to wrap his legs around his own waist. “Hold tight.”

Louis seems to realize what’s happening, blinking faster. “Wait, are you gonna carry me?”

“How else am I supposed to take you to bed?”

“By walking?”

Harry rolls his eyes at Louis’ incredulous expression. He makes sure Louis is secure in his hold and stands up easily. Louis shrieks and accidentally hits his shoulder as he throws his arms around Harry, holding tight. “I am walking. Just while carrying you.”

Louis loosens his grip and pulls back, glaring at Harry. “Is this another weird kink of yours? Carrying people around?”

“You said you want me to take you to bed!” Harry exclaims.

“I know what I said, Popstar,” Louis pinches at his side, ignoring Harry’s yelp. That was a hard pinch. Harry’s skin is so pale and annoyingly sensitive, it’s going to bruise for sure. “Fine, carry me around like I’m a sack of potatoes then. Do it.”

Harry groans. “Are you always this annoying before getting laid?”

Louis pouts at that, bottom lip jutting slightly. “I thought I was, quote unquote, really gorgeous,” he says. It looks biteable, but Harry thinks he should stand his ground a bit longer.

“You are,” Harry agrees easily, “but you’re also annoying.”

Louis narrows his eyes at Harry, nails dangerous against his neck. “I should kick you out, honestly.”

Harry simply hums, somehow pressing one of his hands against Louis’ bum, feeling him up. “But who would fuck you if you did that?”

Louis gulps, looking down at Harry. His expression doesn’t really change, but the way his thighs tighten around Harry’s waist is not fooling anyone. “I could get anyone. Another popstar, even.”

Harry knows it’s a joke, but it bothers him anyway. “But you don’t want another popstar,” he says, gripping him tighter. His cock feels heavy in his pants, pressing between Louis’ legs. “You want me.”

Harry stops in the middle of the room, and they look at each other intensely. It’s like a switch just goes on and off—one second it’s easy, and the next the air is heavy with want and need. Harry can feel rather than see Louis gulp, his Adam’s apple moving slowly, and Louis moves his hands to dig his nails into Harry’s back. He parts his mouth at the sharpness, breathing heavily, and Louis leans forward to breathe him in, shuddering. “Fair enough,” Louis finally says, grip slackening. Harry wants to press into him closer, but Louis pushes him away slightly and turns his upper body around a little. “Also, do you even know where my room is? You seem pretty confident carrying me around like this.”

Harry pauses. He follows Louis’ gaze, eyeing the three doors in the alleyway they’re in. “Uh.”

“Unless you want to fuck on Niall’s bed,” Louis offers cheerfully.

That’s—that’s horrifying. Harry hopes his expression shows the horror he feels . “Let’s not fuck on Niall’s bed.”

“You’re no fun,” Louis pouts, but he points at one door and lets Harry carry him into the room with minimal fuss.

Harry doesn’t have a chance to look around, but he knows he doesn’t expect the room to be as tidy as it is. He gets to glance at a few football posters and a neat row of books on one shelf, right beside a desk with a laptop on it. He wants to stop to actually pay attention to things, but Louis starts moving and kicking Harry on the back. It fucking hurts.

“Come on, you can look around later, aren’t you concerned about the very hard package you have poking at my bum?”

Well, when Louis puts it that way. “Package,” he mocks, because who the hell calls it that? It’s 2016. Harry might need to look into Louis’ age later. He drops him on the bed, quickly pulling back to pull at his own belt as he ignores Louis’ loud complaints. “It’s a bed, why are you complaining so much,” Harry complains back, working on the button of his jeans.

He stops when he looks up though. He can’t afford not to. Somehow, Louis managed to discard his shirt, his tattooed body and golden skin on display right there, all for Harry’s eyes. Harry’s eyes zero in on his nipples, tiny and sweet-looking. Soft hair scatters across his chest, and there’s a sparse amount of hair going down the V of his hips too, dipping into his crotch, and fuck. Fuck. He still has his jeans on and buttoned, tight and leaving nothing for Harry’s imagination, but Louis has his palm pressing at it, cock probably twitching at his own harsh touch. His other hand grips at the sheet, and Harry can’t take his eyes away from the sight of  Louis touching himself. He arches his back, body curving perfectly, his stomach tightening with every buck of his hips. And his soft uh, uh, uh,’s, God, Harry doesn’t know how he’s going to survive the night.

“I don’t know how I’m going to survive this,” Harry says out loud, and Louis laughs breathlessly.

“I’m sure we can find a way,” he says, body still moving swiftly. He’s so beautiful, sweat already forming thinly on his skin, and Harry doesn’t know where he wants to press his lips first.

Harry falls onto him, deciding on Louis’ lips. He lets his hands roam, touching lightly at Louis’ tummy, gripping the slight pudge. Louis whines, bucking his hips again, needing Harry to touch him where he’s hot and heavy, pulse throbbing.

“Go lower,” Louis demands, and Harry laughs into his mouth.

“What’s the magic word?” Harry teases, despite already unbuttoning Louis’ jeans.

Louis arches an eyebrow. “Or you won’t get to fuck me?”

Harry sighs. Of course. “That works too.”

Harry pulls Louis’ jeans down forcefully, moving his underwear down with them, and the head of Louis’ cock comes into view. There’s precum beading at the tip, wet and just as beautiful as the rest of him that Harry’s mouth waters almost immediately.

“Enjoying yourself down there?” Louis’ breathless voice snaps him out of his reverie. He’s peeking over the arm thrown over his eyes, and Harry doesn’t know whether to be endeared or turned on.

He grins, petting at Louis’ cock, feeling punch drunk when it twitches. “Very. I think I’m gonna have a taste, too.”

Louis gulps, breath getting heavier. “Well, I won’t object to that,” he starts, and Harry’s about to dip lower to lick the tip of Louis’ cock, but he continues, “I want you to fuck my mouth, though.”

And - Harry’s brain stops working for a second as he blinks stupidly at Louis, who’s pushing himself up on his elbows. Louis licks his lips, and like clockwork Harry’s brain starts to imagine how they would look around his cock, his mouth deep and hot and spit slick, his jaw slack as Harry works his cock in and out, Louis’ eyelashes wet as he tries not to gag.  Harry doesn’t know how he’s survived this long without the thought of Louis choking on his cock, but now he can’t stop. He can feel his pants getting tighter as seconds pass. Honestly, he would be embarrassed at his eagerness if Louis wasn’t, well, Louis. Pretty and soft, everything Harry didn't know he wanted before, all rolled into one tiny person.

Harry’s hand moves without command, huge against the side of Louis’ jaw. Louis startles at the touch, and Harry keeps eye-contact as he presses his thumb against Louis’ mouth. Louis’ opens up on instinct, tongue darting out to give Harry’s thumb a kitten lick. Fuck. “Yeah?” His voice is rough, heavy with arousal, and Louis visibly shudders.

“Yeah,” he replies, voice barely a whisper, and Harry can’t help but to move forward to kiss him hard. Louis lets him, tongue gentle against Harry’s, pliant under Harry’s control. It’s intoxicating, Louis’ trust, and Harry promises himself to treat it carefully.

They end up naked on the bed, Harry kneeling as Louis lies on his front, elbows propping him up as he looks up at Harry. Louis gapes a bit when he sees Harry’s cock, and while it does something to Harry’s ego, he’s mostly awed at how beautiful Louis looks, waiting to react to anything Harry might do, leaving the control in Harry’s hands. It’s something he wouldn’t mind seeing every day of his life, probably. The thought is too overwhelming though, so Harry simply pushes Louis’ fringe out of his face, heart thundering at the slow blink of Louis’ eyelashes, and asks with a low voice, “Ready?”

Louis, despite being soft and pliant, snorts loudly. “Are we going to war or something?”

Harry hates him. Just a little. Well, not even at all, because right as Harry opens his mouth to reply, Louis bats at his hands and lowers himself down, mouthing at the skin of Harry’s cockhead, and that’s. “Jesus,” Harry grits, hand immediately gripping Louis’ hair, and he can feel Louis’ smirk even as he has his mouth around Harry’s cock. He’s sucking Harry’s dick, and he’s smirking, and Harry doesn’t know if he should be offended or just let himself be aroused.

Considering how hard his cock is, arousal wins by a mile.

It’s almost fascinating, watching Louis suck his cock. He puts himself into it, his eyes closed tight with his hand curled on top of Harry’s thigh, the other gripping on the sheet. He does it slowly, almost carefully, tongue running up and down the side of Harry’s cock. It’s like he’s trying to figure out what Harry likes best, which spot to press, how to curl his tongue, when to suck and when to lick long strokes, and it fucks with Harry’s brain. Harry’s not a loud person in bed, usually grunting and groaning, but Louis’ mouth is doing magic that he lets out a long moan when Louis’ teeth grazes the sensitive tip.

He’s not even halfway down Harry’s cock and already Harry feels too close to coming.

Harry gets even embarrassingly close to release when Louis pulls away slightly, eyes dark and fringe sticking against his sweaty forehead, and says, “Fuck my mouth, come on.”

“Fuck,” Harry says with feeling, and Louis laughs brightly, gleeful at Harry’s every reaction. He doesn’t even let Harry be properly insulted because he puts his hand on the one Harry has in his hair, making Harry gripping it tighter, and pulls.

Harry can feel his blood rushing down in that single motion.

Louis tilts his head as he looks at him, a small smile on his face. Harry wants to kiss him so bad, but Louis is already bending down, mouth much closer to Harry’s cock again. “Ready?” Louis asks, tone slightly mocking.

Too bad Harry’s too turned on to care about that. He simply gulps as he brings up his other hand into Louis’ hair too, now two hands gripping at them, controlling Louis’ move. Louis lets his hand drop, both of them gripping at the sheet now. He opens his mouth wider, tongue slightly out, and Harry does need to ready himself. That small chance of surviving the night is probably gone, but Harry thinks it’s definitely worth it. “Yeah, babe,” he says, pushing a pliant Louis down. And down, and down, and.

Louis whines as Harry’s cock meets the resistance from his gag reflex, but he looks up with watery eyes and breathes through his nose, expression determined. Do it, he’s probably trying to say, and Harry’s not going to stop him. So he continues to pushes his cock into the wet, tight heat of Louis’ mouth, eyelids fluttering at the warmth.

Harry isn’t religious, mostly, but he feels it appropriate to thank all the deities up there when Louis finally, finally, has Harry’s whole length in his mouth. Harry’s not small in any way, but Louis only chokes twice, and it’s probably his ego that makes him feel impressed, but he is. Louis keeps his mouth tight, tongue pressing at the right spots, and it doesn’t take long for Harry to move his head faster, grip firmer at the back of Louis’ head. His toes curl when he feels Louis’ saliva dripping down his chin, but Louis doesn’t even faze, the only part of him that’s moving is his head and his tongue. God, he’s got such a good tongue. Louis keeps his hands on the sheet, knuckles almost white with how hard he’s gripping the fabric between his fingers. It doesn’t take long at all for Harry to close his eyes and drops his head back, fucking up into the tight heat of Louis’ mouth, bed creaking with how hard he’s moving them both.

He’s so, so close. His balls are tight, and the way the tip of his cock is fucking Louis’ tight throat, the sensation of Louis’ lashes, wet with tears and fluttering against his skin with every thrusts—Harry doesn’t expect himself to last long at all. It’s only because he feels Louis’ moving that he opens his eyes.

He can see Louis’ back dipping before it curves into his arse, his hips shaking as he thrusts against the bed. God, what a view. He’s probably rubbing his cock all over the sheet, making a mess. He still has his hands twisting in the sheet tight beside Harry’s thighs, so he isn’t touching himself, and Harry can imagine how it looks, Louis’ cock, all hard and red and dripping all over, struggling for release. Harry feels his own hips stutter, gagging Louis a little, but Louis just moans and keeps his mouth sealed tight, letting Harry’s grip on his hair control his movements.

Harry could let Louis keep deepthroating him, could let Louis keep thrusting against the sheet as Harry comes down his throat, but it feels… Harry wants more. Harry wants all of Louis, wants to please Louis too, makes him come with his own touch and not just the rubbing of the fabric. Harry wants to press his hands all over, feel how hot Louis’ skin is, how soft and burning and beautiful under Harry’s hands. He wants to have Louis sensitive and pleased, all because of Harry.

So he tightens his grip on Louis’ hair, pulling Louis up and away from his cock. Louis makes a confused sound, hand moving from its position on the bed to grip slightly at Harry’s thigh, sounding wanting and needy. He stops his thrusting as he tries to move forward again, mouth searching for Harry’s cock. It takes a lot of Harry’s willpower to shifts away, and Louis blinks up at him with a slight frown. “Harry— Haz— “

“Shh, hey,” Harry calms him, pressing his hands against Louis’ cheeks to move his head so he can meet his face. He kisses Louis’ mouth softly, trying to soothe his confusion. Louis kisses back, fingers tight around Harry’s wrist. They kiss for a few minutes, and Harry slowly moves to lie Louis down as he holds himself on top of him, one arm resting beside Louis’ head as the other stays against Louis’ face, thumb rubbing softly at his cheek. Harry pulls away when their breath slows, but Louis’ eyebrows are still slightly pinched. “Hey, babe.”

Louis is actually pouting, and Harry feels his heart tug. Ridiculous, he thinks, as he lowers himself down to kiss him again. “I was enjoying it,” Louis mutters the moment they part, and Harry chuckles.

“Me too,” he agrees. Louis looks like he wants to protest then, but Harry presses a soft kiss against his nose. “Just, wanted to touch you.”

Louis pauses, considering. “You could touch me as you fuck my mouth,” he says, but he looks contemplative, like he could be persuaded. It feels funny to Harry, them talking about sex like it’s a bargain, so he laughs. “What?” Louis asks, sounding offended as his cheeks turn pink. “It’s true!”

“I’m aware of the many sex positions we can do as I fuck your mouth, Lou,” Harry chuckles, dropping small kisses against Louis’ pout. “What I mean is, I want to do more for you. As much as I enjoy it, and yes, Lou, I know you like it too,” he adds, cutting off the argument he knows Louis has as he opens his mouth, making him close it immediately. He’s still pouting, though. “But I want to do more. I want to kiss you all over, touch your body, feel how soft you are, taste your skin.” He knows Louis is paying more attention now, and Harry nudges at the side of his neck, sucking and biting at the skin. “Mark you here,” he says, trailing his fingers against Louis’ collarbone. Louis’ breath hitches, and warmth spreads in Harry’s chest. He moves his fingers down, tips barely grazing Louis’ skin. He can feel Louis squirm. “And here,” he continues, circling Louis’ nipple. Louis’ whimper encourages him further, and he presses harder against the inside of Louis’ thigh. “Here, too.”

“Please,” Louis finally breathes, hips moving up. His cock rubs against Harry’s abs, and Harry bites harder at Louis’ neck, his own hips helplessly grinding down. Louis moans, the loudest he’s been all night. “Harry, please.”

Harry forces himself to stop moving, his hands gripping at Louis’ body to stop him too. He breathes heavily as he presses his cheek against Louis’, voice soft as he whispers the word against Louis’ skin. “What do you want, Lou? Tell me what you want.”

Louis looks right at him, gaze heavy. “Fuck me,” he says, voice soft but clear. Harry pulls back at that, breath stopping, and Louis whines, hips jerking despite Harry’s hold on his hips. He didn’t expect Louis to say that, for some reason, would probably settle to some grinding or mutual handjobs, anything that put his hands all over Louis, but God, it’s not like he’s going to say no. Definitely never saying no to his boy. The slight pause probably feels like hesitation for Louis, because he raises his hand to push at Harry’s hair, gripping it behind Harry’s ear, and he whimpers, “Please, Harry, fuck me.”

The words go straight to Harry’s dick, blood heavy and pulsing with heat. He shudders, pressing a kiss to the inside of Louis’ wrist. “Okay, babe. Hey, I will, yeah? I will. Where’s your lube and condoms?”

Louis takes a bit to calm his breathing, Harry’s fingers tracing a pattern on his side. It’s calming, the moving of Louis’ chest as he inhales and exhales slowly under Harry’s fingertips. Harry wants to press closer, match their heartbeats, but there are priorities. After a few minutes of quiet Harry moves his fingers down, past Louis’ balls, down against Louis’ rim—it makes him jerk, a whine high in his throat. “Oh,” he says softly, like he’s not flushed down his chest, and Harry presses his smile against Louis’ hip.

“Oh,” Harry agrees, amused. He circles his fingers around Louis’ hole, pressing slightly just to Louis mewl again. He doesn’t disappoint. Harry pants against Louis, suddenly parched. “Where is it, babe?”

“Bedside drawer,” Louis replies, lying back down with a huff. Harry stares at the way his body stretches, the flush down his chest, the drop of sweat caught on his sparse hair. A soft kick to his stomach pulls his sight away, and Louis is looking at him pointedly. “The second one,” he says.

Harry pouts, rubbing at his stomach even though it doesn’t hurt. “Alright, calm down,” he mumbles, and Louis just grins at him, apparently seeing his pout as an invitation to kick at his side more. Harry bats at his feet, trying not to be attracted to the little tattoos scattering his legs. He has a mission, and that mission is to find lube and condom. He’s not going to let a certain pretty boy distract him with how pretty his feet are. But a thorough search of the second bedside drawer later, all Harry comes up with are a half-full bottle of lube and some interesting objects (dildos, they’re dildos). Just... “Uh, Lou?” Harry says, catching Louis’ foot mid-kicking. “There’s no condom.”

He can feel Louis freeze, so he turns to look at him. Louis is wide-eyed. “Oh, fuck.”

Harry chews at his lower lip. “That doesn’t sound good.”

“I,” Louis fish-mouths, and he looks unsure. Harry pushes the drawer close, going back to the bed with the bottle of lube in his hand. He strokes up Louis’ leg, rubbing softly at his thick thighs, smooth under his fingers. Louis bites at his bottom lip, expression still hesitant, although he looks calmer. “I haven’t been with anyone in… a while.”

For some reason, that makes Harry pause. “A while,” he repeats. Louis’ cheeks turn redder, shrugging. “So you don’t store your condoms? How long is this while, exactly? I mean,” he adds hurriedly, realizing what his words can imply when he feels Louis shifts uncomfortably. “It’s not a bad thing. I’m just surprised, I guess.”

“Surprised? So you think I’m a slag?” Louis is sitting up now, glaring. He’s still blushing, cheeks probably hot under touch, but he looks annoyed.

“I think you have a healthy amount of sex, really,” Harry immediately backtracks.

Louis still looks unimpressed. “No sex is a healthy amount of sex, Harry.”

Harry immediately deflates, feeling guilty. He doesn’t really mean anything by what he says, but he knows it’s wrong for him to expect people to just have a stock of condoms lying around in the house. Well, not that weird, but that’s his opinion, and he has no right to judge anyone who doesn’t do what he does. It’s sex, not air or food. He feels like a douche, now. “Yeah, no, you’re right,” he sighs, sitting back further away from Louis. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to assume or offend.”

Louis stares at him. His face smoothens, but he doesn’t try to pull Harry closer. At least he’s not kicking him out either, so. Small victories. “Well, what about you, Popstar?” Louis folds his arms in front of his chest, looking at him expectantly. “Do you have condoms between the fold of your wallet or something?”

Now Harry winces. “Uh, it’s been awhile for me, too.”

Harry doesn’t expect it, so he yelps when Louis hits him with a pillow, right at his face. “And you teased me about it?” Louis asks loudly, plopping himself on Harry’s lap, waving the pillow in his hands in Harry’s direction. “You’re famous!”

“That doesn’t even make any sense!” Harry cries, trying to protect himself from Louis’ merciless hit. “It has no correlation whatsoever! And I wasn’t teasing you, I was just—Lou!” Harry wrings the pillow out of Louis’ grip with one hand, his other hand circling tight around Louis’ waist so he would be pulled onto Harry’s chest as he falls back on the bed. Louis shrieks as they fall, and Harry throws the pillow away as he uses Louis’ surprise to roll them over, back on top of him. Louis’ makes a face, like he wants to protest again, so Harry buries his face against Louis’ neck. “I just thought everyone has condoms stored in their houses. Or something. Which, I shouldn’t have assumed. I’m sorry.”

Harry hopes his apology suffices, even muffled against Louis’ skin. The short pause makes him nervous. Thankfully it doesn’t take long before Louis moves his hand towards Harry’s hair, petting at him. “I guess it’s alright, since I’m mostly just embarrassed,” he says lightly, and Harry breathes easier, chuckling a little. He pulls back, and the small smile on Louis’ face loosens the pressure in his chest further. “So… what do we do?”

Harry bites his lip. Right, naked on bed. He can see the bottle of lube from the corner of his eyes, abandoned on the bed. He looks down at Louis. “Do you still want it?”

“Uh,” Louis gives him a look, eyebrow arched. He looks pointedly at his hard cock before he turns back to Harry. “What do you think?”

Harry snorts at that, but he can’t pretend he’s not charmed. Louis is blunt and honest and painfully beautiful and it’s apparent to Harry now that it’s a deadly combination for him. He’s already accepting it. “You’re something else,” he tells Louis, not even trying to hide the awe he feels.

Louis, for the most part, looks pleased. His face brightens with delight, and it makes Harry grin to see him glow like this. “That better be a good something else,” Louis teases, pulling at his curls.

Harry lets him, pressing against Louis’ touch with a smile. “Definitely, yeah,” he says, before he falls back onto Louis’ lips, enthralled.

Their kiss is slower, much like their first one. It doesn’t feel as heavy or as rushed now, their lips fitting against each other languidly, Harry with his hand wide against Louis’ waist while the other rubs circles on the side of Louis’ neck and Louis playing with the baby hair at the back of Harry’s. Definitely a good something else, he thinks, kissing the tip of Louis’ nose. Louis licks at the underside of his jaw, making Harry snort, and they end up giggling at each other’s mouth, giddy and warm, like they’re not both naked and hard.

“I’m still not letting you fuck me bare on our first date, by the way,” Louis suddenly says when they break away.

Harry gasps exaggeratedly. “So the fish and chips was a date?” He asks, faking a surprise.

In a way that Harry somehow already recognizes as typical of Louis, he narrows his eyes, nails pinching at his neck. “Now you’re just asking for a fight.”

Harry grins, pinching at Louis’ hips. Louis is so soft, skin giving to every press of touch Harry does, and it’s just as cute as the rest of him. “What about five dates?” He asks, face contemplative. This is a serious question, see.

Louis raises an eyebrow with a rather impressive arch, chewing at his bottom lip to hold a laugh. “Four dinners, at least,” he decides.

“Four dinners,” Harry nods as seriously as he can, ignoring Louis’ clearly amused expression. “Okay, got it.”

Louis giggles, stroking at Harry’s cheek softly despite his teasing tone. “Why, you’re looking forward to it?”

It was a joke at most, but Harry is struck with the thought of coming inside Louis anyway, the slick wet heat it would be. His hips flex, fucking against the mattress, arms shaking. Louis looks at him with dark eyes, a knowing smirk on his face. He doesn’t look creeped out by Harry’s intense stare, so he takes it as a good sign. “Anyway,” he shakes his head. Not the time. There’s naked Louis right there, legs spread and hole inviting, pink and small. Harry’s cock twitches. “There’s a lot of other things to do beside fucking you. Tonight.”

Louis lets the pause slide, although he smiles wider at Harry’s words. He raises one of his legs, pressing it against Harry’s waist, slightly pulling him closer. “Gonna show me?”

It’s easy after that. Harry props himself between Louis’ legs, softly kissing his inner thigh as he pours some lube on his fingers, pressing in one, then two, and finally he’s fucking into Louis’ tight warm hole with three fingers, thrusting hard. He curls them as he tries to press them against Louis’ prostate, trying not to smirk too hard at Louis’ loud whimper the moment he finds it.

“I still want to taste you,” Harry whispers suddenly, watching Louis startles into opening his eyes for a bit before he closes them again, moaning at Harry’s particularly hard thrust. He breathes hard, moving his body along with Harry’s.

A beat, and Louis asks, breathily, “Do you now?”

Harry gulps down the rush of saliva in his mouth. “Yeah,” he says. He can hear how low his voice is, thick with arousal. “First I’m going to tease you here.” He moves his other hand onto Louis’ chest, tugging at his nipple, and Louis moans. Harry’s head swims. “Make them hard, play with these sweet and lovely nipples. They’re gonna be so beautiful, yeah? You’re gonna be so gorgeous for me, maybe making you come from this alone.” Louis whines at that, hissing a soft yes, and Harry doesn’t know how he gets so lucky. “You think you can do it for me, babe? Sensitive, aren’t they?”

“Yes, yes, Harry,” Louis whimpers softly, fists pulling at the sheet. “Please.”

“I know, babe, I know.” God, Harry doesn’t know how his tongue is even moving around words when he’s so mesmerized by Louis’ hole around his fingers. His movement barely changes, and Harry would be impressed with himself if he has the brain capacity to be. “Then I’ll have your beautiful cock in my mouth,” he continues, moving his fingers to graze at Louis’ hard on. It bounces with his every move, and Harry wants to, so bad. Later, he thinks. “Have a little taste, see if you’re as sweet as you look. Make you wetter, play with your balls, let you come again and again. You want that?”

“Harry,” Louis whines, droplets of tears caught on his lashes, and Harry just rubs harder against his prostate. He wants to make this boy feels so good, feels so overwhelmed with pleasure Harry can give him that it envelopes his every nerves. Harry wants Louis to feel everything he could give him, every touch and taste and satisfaction.

“And…” He moves his fingers lower, right against the fingers that are thrusting hard into Louis’ hole, circling around the rim, and Louis cries out. “Here, too. Have a taste here, want to make you feel good, fill you up with my tongue, have you ride it for me, do you want it, love? Ride my face for me?”

Louis is moving with abandon, now, under Harry’s touch and gaze, riding back against Harry’s fingers, and Harry.

God, Harry wants him to come so bad.

“Come on, love,” he whispers, nipping at Louis’ jaw, thrusting his fingers harder right into his spot. He knows Louis is close, can see it from how taut the line of his body is, how he grinds back to basically ride Harry’s fingers, hole rhythmically tightens around them. Harry lets him, moving his other hand up again to rub harder around one of Louis’ nipples, tugging at it. The way Louis moves is hypnotizing, and Harry finds it too easy to nip at Louis’ earlobe and says, roughly, “Come for me.”

Louis’ body tenses into a curve, face slackening as his hips jerk for one last move, and then he slumps on the bed like the strings all over his body have been cut. Harry watches as the tip of Louis’ cock spurts his come, up and all over his stomach and chest, some even caught onto his collarbones. He looks gorgeous, somehow even more beautiful as he’s caught recklessly in pleasure, and Harry lets out a long breath he didn’t know he was holding. Harry pulls his fingers out, and Louis whimpers. He shushes him, kissing softly at his stomach, stroking his other hand up the side of Louis’ body.

As Louis’ breath slows down, Harry pushes himself up and moves so he can face Louis. His face glows with sweat, relaxed and content. “Hi,” he says, draping himself on top of him, kissing him deeply without paying attention to the come getting onto his own skin. Louis smiles into the kiss, touch soft as he puts his arms around Harry’s neck. “You’re good?”

Louis grins brightly, making Harry smile in return. “Yeah, Haz,” he answers, pulling Harry closer. “Really good.”

Kissing Louis is becoming one of his favorite activities ever, their movement easy and slick, fitting perfectly against each other. Louis nips at Harry’s bottom lip before he parts his mouth, letting Harry’s tongue dives in and explores, pliant and giving. Their breathing doesn’t change, but the air gets slightly hotter, and Harry feels like he can drown in this feeling sensation forever.

Then Harry feels Louis shift, and he jerks as he feels a touch on his cock. “You’re still hard,” Louis says quietly against his mouth.

And it’s not like Harry forgot about how hard he is, exactly, his cock hung awkwardly between them, but somehow in the middle of getting air knocked out of his body from how gorgeous Louis looks when he comes, he just kind of… ignores the rest. It’s clear that Louis is not ignoring it though, looking down at Harry’s cock with a little contemplative frown. Helpless, Harry rocks his hips forward and drags his wet cock against the inside of Louis’ thighs. Louis looks up, eyes curious, and Harry doesn’t know what he sees in Harry’s face, but suddenly Louis looks determined—the next second, Harry is pushed against the bed, Louis kneeling over him.

“Should I be offended that you have this much strength after I made you come?” Harry asks, raising his eyebrows.

Louis rolls his eyes. “Don’t worry, that was one awesome orgasm. Ten out of ten, would try again, would recommend to my friends but I don’t fancy sharing,” Louis answers easily. He kisses Harry’s splutter of embarrassment with a gleeful chuckle. “Now let me help you.” He palms at Harry’s cock, smooth against Harry’s sensitive nerves. Harry fucks his hips up, and Louis pulls back to give Harry a teasing smile. And then he moves down.

Oh, fuck. “I’m going to come in, like, ten seconds,” Harry warns.

Louis glances up, eyes wicked, and then he gives a little shrug before he presses his open mouth against Harry’s dick.

It’s a tight heat Harry already misses, despite only having it around him just earlier that night, and he fucks up almost immediately into it. Louis hums, eyes closing, one of his hand circling around the root as he lets Harry thrust up hard. Honestly, Harry doesn’t know how he gets so lucky, watching as Louis sucks him off without restrain, moving up and down easily. Louis pulls up then, tongueing at his slit, the tip of his thumb digging against that spot at the side of his cock—

Harry comes.

He comes all over Louis’ face, catching at his lips and his nose and—fuck—his lashes. Harry can see it startles Louis, but he keeps his eyes closed as he moves his tight fist up and down Harry’s shaft, milking it all up. Harry is pretty sure he had a small heart attack when he sees that Louis is actually aiming his come towards his own face, letting it smear all over his skin. It’s filthy and beautiful and messy and as he jerks his hips up for the last bit, Harry just wants to kiss him all over. Alas, all Harry can do is flop back on the bed, feeling like all of his energy has been drained with that orgasm. “Holy shit,” he says, because holy shit.

“That was easy,” Louis muses, sounding far too amused and not at all looking like Harry just came on his face.

There’s come dripping off the tip of his nose, some smeared on his cheeks, but he simply wipes his fingers on his face, tongue darting out to catch everything. Harry doesn’t really know what it says about him that instead of being grossed out his cock just twitches helplessly, watching every single move with an intensity he didn’t know he had in him. Louis looks up at him through his eyelashes, movement slow and languid, one hand still curled against Harry’s thigh. His eyes look clouded and Harry wants nothing but to take him again, make him come all night long.

He’s not sure it’s on the table though. As much as they fit together, Louis’ slow blinking tells him it feels too much for the night. So he simply pushes Louis’ sweaty fringe away from his dirty face, touch gentle. “I am easy for you,” Harry admits. He laughs when Louis snorts, but it immediately turns into a groan as he drops back down to press his lips against his cock again, tongue out to clean Harry’s come thoroughly. “Louis,” he tries to complain, because he does feel too sensitive, and his cock feels like it’s trying to get hard again despite just coming hard his toes goes a bit numb. That’s not happening, obviously, but looking at Louis’ easy lick against the side of his still slightly hard cock, eyes closed and face messy with white, it seems possible.

Good God.

Thankfully, Louis stops licking right before Harry’s about to fuck into his mouth (again), pushing himself up with his hand against Harry’s thigh. He looks satisfied. “Good,” he says. Louis’ movement is slow, like his limbs feel heavy, and as he sits on his bum he starts frowning a bit as it catches up with him how messy he is. His stomach is covered in his still wet come, and part of his face still has Harry’s. “Ugh.”

Just because, Harry’s cock stirs at the sight. He needs to calm down, seriously. “You’re still pretty,” he offers.

Louis raises an eyebrow. “I’m not surprised you find this pretty, really. What other kinks of yours am I going to discover tonight?” He smirks a bit, rolling his eyes as Harry splutters. “Clearly, I like it too, so. Now go fetch me some towels.”

“This is your house, you know,” Harry tells him, but he pushes himself off from the bed anyway, standing naked in the middle of the bedroom. He looks around, wondering where he can find something to clean them up. “Why don’t you have things to clean up with near your bed? What if you spill something and need a wet wipe or something?”

Harry turns to ask for direction, but what he finds is Louis with his mouth slightly parted, eyes zeroing on Harry’s finally flaccid cock. He doesn’t look turned on, per se, but Harry can see his pupil widening. Louis’ fingers twitch on his lap.

He smirks. “Enjoying the view?”

Louis blinks for a bit before he looks up and grins back, shameless. “Good job, Styles.”

“It’s a natural gift,” Harry tells him, giggling as he jumps to avoid the bottle of lube Louis throws at his direction.

After Harry has wiped Louis down and attempted to tuck the sheet somewhat, he comes back from putting the towel in the hamper in the bathroom to Louis starfishing on the bed in all his naked glory. He still looks slightly sweaty, skin glowing and soft, and Harry folds his arms as he stares at him. Harry knows his face probably has a strangely fond look, but he can’t make himself stop. Louis, finally turning his face at him, smiles. “Well, hello there.”

Harry laughs. It doesn’t feel awkward—it feels comfortable, like being with someone he’s known for years. Which probably should be a little alarming, really. He just pushes at Louis side though, fitting himself beside him. Somehow, he has a feeling Louis won’t kick him out just yet. Right after the thought, Louis tugs at his hair, pulling him closer as he kisses at the slight stubble on Harry’s jaw. Harry curls a hand on Louis hip, letting him. “Is it weird that I don’t immediately feel like I should leave like I usually do with strangers I sleep with?”

Louis makes a protesting noise, pulling back and settling on the bed. “Technically we’ve known each other for almost four months, so we’re not really strangers,” he says, fingers lazily prodding at Harry’s side, eyelids slowly closing from exhaustion. He has a smile on his face. “There are people who get married after they know each other for four months.”

Harry catches his hand, tangling them together. “Is that a proposal, Lou?”

It should feel too intimate, too close, but Louis simply opens his eyes to narrow it at Harry before he closes them again, scoffing loudly. “Please, I think we both know if someone’s doing the proposing it’s going to be you,” he opens one eye, grinning, “Mr. You’re All I Want So Much It’s Hurting.”

“Heeey,” Harry weakly protests, but he just ends up sounding fond. Jokes on Louis anyway, because now Harry knows he listens to his songs. He’s sure he can use it over him later.

Later. Harry’s stomach stirs at that, the possibility of doing this again, lying down together and being comfortable with each other for another time. Fuck. Alright, this is getting out of hand. Harry knows it, but he just pulls at Louis hand anyway, circling his other arm around Louis’ waist. Louis lets him, snuggling against his side. “This really shouldn’t be the conversation after our first time,” Harry mumbles against Louis’ hair.

“Maybe,” Louis muses, cut with a yawn. He does it with his whole body, stretching, and Harry can’t help but ogles a bit at the golden of Louis skin, sweaty and glowing. Louis catches him staring and grins wider. “Kiss me again before I fall asleep,” he demands.

Harry is hopelessly endeared. “What’s the magic word?”

Louis rolls his eyes. “I can still kick you out?”

“Ha ha,” Harry deadpans, but he cups Louis’ jaw gently and presses a kiss to his lips. He can feel Louis’ smile against his own, and he feels like he’s on top of the world.