Archive of Our Own ^beta

There’s sweat dripping into Harry’s eyes, beaded on his forehead and tumbling down in slow streaks, the lights unbearably hot, as they always are, even though he tells Zayn to turn them down every fucking weekend. His rag is damp, and he tucks his pick between his lips to wipe at his slick fingers, hot and thrumming from pressing up against his strings, from going a little too hard, red lines sunken into the hard calluses on his fingertips. The bar is loud, lively and far too overcrowded, bodies squished up together against the barricade, against the bar, against every available surface, limbs hazy and loose and full of liquor. Harry takes in a deep, shuddery breath, adjusts the sticky place where his guitar strap has settled on his shoulder, and grabs the microphone steadily.

“Thanks so much, that was Only Angel,” he has to clear his throat a little, gone hoarse. “We’ve got one more song for you tonight, and then we’ll be out of your hair. Um, drink up. Be merry, ‘n all that.”

He’s met with a round of drunken applause and hooting, muddled and mixed with the overwhelming loudness of chatter and laughing, sound filling up and pushing at every wall in full force. Harry can see the line out the door, can see people squished and gathered in the entry trying to get in for cheap booze. There’s a smile on his slick lips when he steps away from the mic, strumming down hard as Sarah counts them in from the back of the tiny, half-broken stage, and they jump into song full force, lighting the whole place up. 

It’s the first Saturday of July and Harry is on his way to sloppy drunk, fuzzy-brained and relaxed in the best way, comfortable and going wild with the little room he has. He gets right up in the crowd’s face, the ones who are pressed up against the edges of the stage, vodka-sticky fingers stretched out towards his feet, drunkenly slapping their palms against the peeling paint, heads rocking back and forth. Behind him, Sarah is smashing her way through the chorus, and he screams hoarse down the mic, guitar in firm grip, leaning right up close, it’s none of your business, it’s none of your business. Feedback flies out through the cabs when Mitch bends low and close, sends the whole sound sparking up and rattling into an electric crescendo. 

After, he almost stumbles off stage, heavy-footed and thrumming with energy. Jamie, the house engineer, is there immediately to smack Mitch over the back of the head. 

“Gave me a fuckin’ heart attack,” he seethes, but he’s grinning. “You wanna let me know next time you’re gonna blow the place up? Zayn’ll have my head.”

“Sorry,” Mitch says, not sorry. Harry grabs Jamie’s jaw, presses a wet, sloppy kiss there.

“It was good though, yeah?” he says. Jamie rolls his eyes.

“Course,” he says, then gestures with his head towards the bar, knowing and amused at the twitch in Harry’s fingers, playing with the bottom of his shirt. “Already out back, Styles. Go’n, then.” 

Harry pushes his way through the crowd, accepts shots and hugs and cheek kisses. It’s a bit of a mission to pull himself behind the bar, but his body is buzzing and he’s getting heavy-headed, jittery and coming down from the high of performing. When he manages to push his way outside, creaking open the side door, it’s cool out, all glossy hues of orange and black, streetlight cutting through the night and bleeding up the back of the alleyway. Floating through the air like fog, smoke is hazed in amber, cloud drifting fast and quick.

“Hey,” Harry breathes, ducking through the shadows.

“Hey,” Louis says. 

He’s huddled into his jacket, back against the bricks, hair sweaty and swept slightly off his forehead, all shiny cheeks and three-day stubble. The light plays mellow on his face, cuts chasms into his cheekbones, lights his temples in muted gold. Harry steps in front of him, and his shadow eclipses the colours on his face. He smiles at that, giggles slightly and rocks back and forth on his heels, watching the shapes on his skin shift with his movements.

“Good night?” Harry asks, fingers behind his back so he doesn’t slip them under Louis’ shirt. It’s torn at the bottom, loose threads dangling, all too tempting for how buzzed he currently feels.

“Alright,” Louis shrugs, lips quirked. He’s got one arm over his chest, fingers cradled in the crook of his elbow, where his other hand is raised to his face, cigarette smoking and glowing cherry-red, all poised and gorgeous and glossy. 

“Can I have some?” Harry asks, following the movements of Louis’ hand when he brings the bud to his thin lips, exhaling upwards. 

“You sure?” Louis says, teasing. Harry lets out a tiny sigh at the hand that finds it’s way to his neck, Louis’ thumb pressed right up against his adam’s apple, fingers soft and gentle by his ear. “You’ve gone all croaky again.”

“Yeah,” Harry says, wonky and thick because Louis is pressing down harder now, rubbing his thumb up and down, smirking because he always knows just how to tease and fluster and play. Louis drags him closer, so their foreheads are almost touching. It makes Harry lose his balance slightly, and he has to reach his hands out, press them flat up against the rough brick by Louis’ ribs to steady himself. “Lou.”

Part of him, the drunk part, doesn’t want to accept anything that isn’t the smoke straight from Louis lips, chapped and dry and tasting of cherries and whiskey because Harry knows that’s what he drinks when he’s working, knows too well that if their tongues slid together right now it’d be heady and warm. They’re close enough for it, for Harry to duck his head, but Louis just smiles, amusement glowing gentle in his eyes, and lets Harry takes his own drag, holding the cigarette between his lips. 

“You were good tonight,” Louis says as Harry exhales to the side, a physical restraint to breathing the smoke past Louis’ parted mouth. His fingers are still on Harry’s neck, slack now, like he’s forgotten about them.

“Thanks,” Harry says, low, soft, trying to make Louis keep his gaze, bringing his palms closer together, brushing over Louis’ sides. Want is curling in his belly, drunk and woozy and full of fuzz. “Lou, tonight, can we–” 

It’s jarring when the side door opens, the muffled clatter and music from inside spilling out into the quiet, blasting through the brick, between where their bodies are hovering close together. Louis pulls away slowly, unbothered, smiling all teeth and laughter when Zayn sticks his head outside, glaring.

“If you two are done, Liam’s getting his arse handed to him inside,” he says. He’s ruffled, hair sweaty and askew. 

“Sorry, Z,” Harry steps away slowly, stumbling over his own feet, flushed and maybe a little too drunk, now.

“I’m not,” Louis says with a shrug, dropping his cigarette and stamping it out slowly. 

“I figured,” Zayn rolls his eyes. “Get back behind the bar before I dock you. H, go pack up and load your shit out.” 

“I love when you’re bossy with me,” Louis purrs. 

“I genuinely hate you,” Zayn sighs, shoulders slumping. With that, he swings the door shut again, and all is quiet.

Louis turns to him, slides up close to pat his cheek softly. “See you next week, rock star.”

“Yeah,” Harry blinks down at him, trying to keep the kicked puppy look out of his eyes when Louis winks and tucks his thin fingers into the pockets of his jacket, drifting away. “See you, Lou.”

“Take care of yourself!” Louis calls over his shoulder, all drama and flare when he pulls the heavy side door open, leaning out into the night. “Get some manuka honey for your blowjob throat!”

With a cackle, the door clicks shut behind him, and Harry puts his face into his hands, slowly walks himself into the wall and leans against it, fingers splayed out over his warm face. The strained giggle that he lets slip borders on manic. He’s got his bottom lip bitten between his teeth like an idiot, all resolve melted into a gooey, drunken puddle.

Hopeless. Bloody hopeless. 

-

Harry can still remember the first time he met Louis. Sort of. In a fuzzy, distant way, because he’d been drunk and buzzing from post-show shakes. It was a Saturday, and that morning, at five a.m to be exact, he’d gotten a phone call from Mitch about a gig they could fill for that night, a tiny pub tucked just outside the city centre. Apparently, he’d met a guy called Liam during a pizza delivery who worked there, who said they were in need of a band because someone dropped out. 

Mitch was right to call The Motley tiny. Upon arrival for soundcheck, Harry had a moment of temporary panic as they set up their gear, all squished together, cables a mess that he tripped on at least four times that night. The pub itself was all dark-lit ambers and sticky floors, deep red velvety booths pushed along the walls, windows fogged and thick, bar top sheened with sticky varnish, everything melting together in bundles of blushing pendants, a little drab and a lot dirty, just how Harry liked it. 

So they played, and Harry threw himself into it, stumbled around stage and let his throat go hoarse, smiled at the tightly packed bodies crammed against the stage, at the curious onlookers from outside who drifted in until there was no room left to breath. The owner, Zayn, was stood in the corner by the bar, watching and bobbing his head along, and after their set, when Harry was a sweating mess and Sarah was hanging off his neck, shouting in his ear fucking sick, that was fucking sick, Zayn offered them a Saturday slot. Permanently. 

He can remember Zayn clapping his back and leaning over the bar, remembers him shouting oi, get ‘em another drink, and then the boy behind the bar had turned, wiped his hands on his shirt, and Harry had frozen, blinking slow and heavy because–. Because oh. Everything about that moment still feels hazy to him, the look in Louis’ eyes when he noticed Harry staring, when he’d poured them tequila shots and stuck the lemon right into Harry’s parted mouth, grinning with sharp teeth and bright eyes and Harry was already aching to touch him, then.

After, close to four in the morning, they all packed themselves into Zayn’s flat, smoked up and drunk more and Harry felt loose and warm and content, head lolled against the sofa, legs stretched out where he was sitting on the floor. Louis’ head was in his lap, smoke curling up from his lips when he laughed. Later, when Mitch took Sarah and Clare home and Harry was too drunk to walk, Louis sucked him off on the sofa as the sun started to rise, everyone else asleep down the hall while Harry bit his knuckles into his mouth, trying to keep quiet.

-

It’s muddy and raining today, hot air trapped inside, the doors of the pub propped wide open. Zayn is sitting at the bar with a giant stack of folders beside him and an ancient looking calculator in his hands, glasses perched on his nose. Liam is leant over him on the other side, distractedly polishing pint glasses while they talk softly back and forth. Harry and Adam are the only ones here, playing softly, running through random chords and the newer stuff Harry has been writing, all background noise, mixing with the rain. There’s a text on his phone from Clare, a sorry love running late work had me go over, which means Mitch and Sarah won’t be here for a while either.

They’re early anyway, but Harry is always itching to perform, to push through soundcheck because Louis goes out for a smoke before they open every night, because sometimes they’ll seal their lips together and press up close and Louis will bite down with a promise of later, and Harry soars through their set. 

As if on cue, as Harry’s strumming slows as he stares down at a gash in the stage, Louis strolls in with a huff, flipping his hood back from his head, obviously in a foul mood. Upon his entrance, Adam starts to play the Seinfeld theme. Louis just glares and flips him off while he presses a kiss to the side of Zayn’s head. 

Harry’s fingers have gone still over his strings, but when Louis sends him a wink he starts to strum again softly, smirking back and ducking his head, playing a little riff over and over. 

Adam hops down eventually to get a drink from Liam, and he settles at the bar once he’s there. Harry sits on the edge of the stage with his acoustic, watches Louis watch him while they pretend they’re not looking at each other. He can tell Louis isn’t all there tonight, there’s a darkness to his eyes, shoulders slumped, and he looks tired, a little worn out. 

“Lou,” Harry calls, inclines his head when Louis looks up at him with a brow raised, arms crossed over his chest.

“What do you want, rock star?” he says. 

“C’mere,” Harry says. Louis rolls his eyes and slings the dirty dishcloth in his hand over his shoulder, ugly red and checkered. 

He stops in between the triangle of Harry’s legs, looking mildly unimpressed. 

“How was your day?” Harry asks, starting to strum quietly, kicking his feet back and forth slowly. Up this close, he can see all the little details of Louis’ skin, the triangle of freckles on his cheek, the little gold flakes in his eyes, the warm honey of his lashes. 

“Fine,” Louis shrugs, drawing a circle on Harry’s knee, where his jeans are ripped. The tips of his fingers are cold. 

“Just fine?” Harry says, humming softly.

“Just fine,” Louis repeats, a tiny smile curling over his lips, eyes on Harry’s hands. “I love this song.”

“I know,” Harry says, tucks his feet behind Louis’ knees gently while he coos the soft do-do-do’s. Louis stares at him for a moment, paused, before he starts to bob his head along to Harry’s singing. You can drive, all night. 

Finally Louis joins in, and they sing obnoxiously loud, heads thrown back, Harry’s strumming gone out of time because he’s laughing, bent over and giggling into Louis’ shoulder. Louis’ palms are on Harry’s knees, using them for leverage as he swings his shoulders back and forth, grinning wide. There’s light back in his eyes, features relaxed. Harry’s stomach settles warm. 

“Excuse me,” Zayn pipes up, swivelling on his stool, calculator in hand. “I’m trying to run a sophisticated business here.”

“You’re the least sophisticated person I’ve ever met,” Louis says.

“Remind me again why I hired you?” Zayn says. “Go unpack some boxes or something, I don’t know. Harry, stop being distracting.”

“Sorry, Zaynie,” Harry says, he and Louis sharing a look, mouths pressed into odd lines to keep their smiles down.

“You always get me into trouble,” Louis grumbles, quiet, only for Harry to hear. 

“I’ve got no idea what you’re talking about,” Harry says.

Louis pushes him onto his back with a roll of his eyes. Harry knocks a microphone stand over, and the embarrassment is worth the way Louis laughs at him for it. 

-

“Hey,” Harry lets the side door fall shut behind him. 

“Hey,” Louis says. 

“‘S raining,” Harry says, wrinkling his nose when his foot sinks into a puddle, little pitter-patter raindrops dusting his shoulders. He has to clear his throat, voice shot, gone thin and raspy. Louis’ got his back to the wall, pressed right up close to try and stay ducked out of the rain, phone bright in one hand, cigarette dull and damp in the other.

“Brilliant observation,” he drawls, flicking ash lazily. “You coming back to Liam’s?”

“Yeah,” Harry says, and he coughs into his fist, swallowing thickly. 

“You’re an idiot,” Louis laughs.

“Am not,” Harry presses his forehead against the crown of Louis’ head, leant against the bricks, finally close enough to touch, and he hides his face there for a moment, so that Louis can’t see the embarrassed shadow that clings to his cheeks. 

“Sure,” Louis hums. He’s texting, phone making a soft click-click as he types. Harry breathes in slow, the dewy, warm smell that clings to Louis’ hair, smoke and cherries and earthiness. 

He loves performing, loves getting up on stage and slinging his guitar onto his shoulder and turning into somebody else, loves getting up in a crowd’s face and turning his thoughts into a heart thumping bassline and a pounding drum, into licks and riffs and lyrics sung at the top of his lungs so everybody hears. He loves letting the world fall away so it’s just him and the band and the music. 

When he can see Louis at the bar, when he watches other people touch him and flirt with him, watches Louis flirt back, Harry is fueled with a fire to burn as bright and loud as possible. It happens a lot, because Louis is Louis, gorgeous and charismatic and not Harry’s, and he doesn’t have a problem with that, not really. For some reason, though, he just likes having Louis’ attention, likes being able to see the flush on Louis’ cheeks, like some sort of revenge for their pre-show teasing. It’s addictive, and tonight, when Harry had leant forward into the crowd, closer, as close as he could be, sending the cabs flaring when he screamed I wanna kiss you on the mouth, a little bit too hard down the mic, Louis had rolled his eyes and sent Harry’s grin manic. 

He’s paying for it now though. 

“You do this every time,” Louis laughs again when Harry muffles a cough into his fist, still tucked up against Louis side, neck getting sore from being slumped over.

To get your attention every time, Harry almost says. “I’m just that dedicated to the performance,” he says instead.

“Musicians,” Louis sighs, shaking his head, knuckles brushing under Harry’s shirt, gentle on his stomach.

“Oi,” Harry nudges him. He sucks a wet kiss behind his ear and Louis shoves him, neck tucked into his shoulder as he squirms away and kicks at Harry’s shin, grin devilish. 

There’s something about this cat-and-mouse game they’ve started to play with each other, something about the flirting and the sharp eyes, something about Harry touching himself and getting on his knees and singing with his head tipped back on stage, something about Louis watching him under the honey-heat of the bar and breathing smoke past his lips afterwards, licking into his mouth and slipping his hands underneath his pants on the odd occasion when they allow themselves to fall together after a night of working themselves into a frenzy. 

Louis loves to tease him, is the thing, loves to make Harry flush and ebb with the need to curl closer, gets him riled up and leaning in close, then leaves him to sweat it out on stage, leaves him to rut down into his sheets at four a.m when he’s back at his flat and desperate for the company of another body, smirking from behind the safety of the bar, mouth pressed up against someone else’s. Harry still remembers that second Saturday, the way Louis had opened the door of the pub for him, the hey, rock star, that had dripped from his lips like gold. Harry’s fingertips had buzzed all night, belly full of want, a need to touch that only worsened as the night wore on, watching Louis across the room flirt shamelessly with other people. 

And then after, when Harry had slunk out back for the first time, Louis was sucking on his cigarette, already facing the door like he’d been knowingly waiting. They’d shared the smoke, both of them smirking through the haze of it, trading little quips and lingering touches until Harry had finally grabbed Louis’ hands, tucked them in the back of the van where they’d gotten each other off silently, desperately, clumsily, with their hands clasped over their parted, smiling mouths. 

By the time they load out and close up, chairs stacked on tables, lights off, van packed to the brim, it’s nearly three in the morning, and Harry is starting to lose his buzz, throat thick and heavy, fingers gone sore as he fiddles them together in the backseat, almost falling asleep while they drive to Liam’s. 

“Sure you don’t want me to drop you home?” Mitch asks. Their eyes meet in the rearview mirror. Harry shakes his head, nuzzles his side deeper into the door and stays determinedly awake.

Liam’s flat is a shoebox of a room, a kitchen and a dining table and a ratty sofa and a telly packed together, lights low, CD’s stacked messily on the coffee table, DVD’s spilling out from the tangled mess beneath the tv cabinet. Harry tells himself he’ll be fine to get home, tells himself again when Mitch goes home, tells himself again when the rest of the band leaves as well. Harry hasn’t moved since they got here, slumped against the side of the sofa with Louis half in his lap, fingers resting lightly on his thighs while Scott Pilgrim vs The World blares bright and gaudy into the darkness.

Louis is full of energy, always is after he works, which Harry finds oddly strange but somehow such a completely Louis attribute, always being the most vibrant person in the room. They share a spliff which makes Harry even drowsier, body completely lax against the side of the sofa. Finally, Liam goes to bed and Zayn follows, leaving Louis and Harry to pull the creaky fold-out bed from the sofa, which Harry can’t say he minds.

With all the lights flicked off, only the glow from the telly brightens the rooms, hues of shiny blue and white, lighting their skin in odd, refracted shadows. Liam doesn’t have air conditioning and Harry is sweating in his jeans, blankets up around his hips while he watches Louis scroll through his phone beside him, stomach twisting with want. He looks so good like this, on his back with his head tilted up, shirt resting near his belly button. Harry has to curl his fingers into the sheets to stop himself from touching where he’s discovered Louis is smoothest, that delicate strip of skin just below his underwear, warm and heady and soft. 

“This is so fucked up,” Louis says, and Harry blinks his eyes open, twisting his head to glance up at the screen. They’re watching Black Mirror, he thinks. He’s not sure. His brain is fuzzy and half-asleep.

“Mm,” he hums, rolling onto his side slowly.

“You’re not even watching,” Louis pokes his stomach, rolling with him so that they’re facing each other. 

“Wanna sleep,” Harry mumbles, and he starts to pull the sheet up against his chest.

“Boring,” Louis pokes him again. 

“Stop it,” Harry whacks his hand away. 

“No,” Louis grins, teeth sharp in the dark, mischief and snark and too cheeky for this time of night and Harry’s current mind state when he pokes at his chest this time, his neck, over his belly again.

“Lou,” he squirms away, shoulders tucked up to his neck, giggles quiet and raspy because his throat is still sore. “‘M tired.”

“You’re so boring,” Louis teases. “Niall’s right, ever since you cut your hair off you’ve become a grouch.”

“Hey,” Harry whines. “I have not. And you didn’t even know me when I had long hair.”

“Which is why I refuse to believe you ever had it. It’s all one big conspiracy theory,” Louis says. Harry laughs despite himself.

“You’re such a loser,” he shifts onto his back so he can wiggle his phone out of his pocket, squinting against the brightness. “I’ll show you a picture.” 

Louis rolls onto his stomach, up on one elbow as he shuffles closer, peering down at the screen. Harry lets out a long, slow breath when Louis’ fingers brush against his hip and stay there, where his shirt has ridden up. They’re warm, gentle, and he tries not to shift into the touch while he scrolls quickly through his camera roll, neck growing hot. He just, like. He just wants to be touched.  

“Here,” he says, pushing his phone into Louis’ face.

“Oh my God,” Louis grins, letting out a soft peel of laughter as he grabs the phone from Harry’s hand, hair hanging over his forehead while he looks down at it. “You look like a merman.”

“Shut up,” Harry flushes. “I look handsome, and rugged.” 

“Your hair is so different short,” Louis says, almost breathless, flicking through the pictures. He comes to a stop, shoves the screen in Harry’s face and leans over him, so the point of his elbow digs into his chest. “Oh, this is a look.”

It’s a picture of Harry from some costume party he went to for New Years. He’d dressed as Mick Jagger. 

“Hey,” Harry murmurs. His hands find Louis’ waist before he can stop them, thumbs tucking under the thin cotton of his shirt. They’re pressed close together now, Louis’ body half on top of his. “I’m quite proud of that.”

“I like the carnation,” Louis says, pointing to the fake flower clipped to Harry’s jacket. “Very gay.” 

“Thanks,” Harry says, going for sarcastically gracious but landing somewhere in the realm of distracted and soft, because Louis is leaning into him, into his hands, the place their hips overlap, and Harry slides his fingers along his skin, to the bottom of his spine, swallowing quietly, tracing light, wide circles.

Louis’ eyes flick down to his lips, backlit by a blue and silver glow, these hot, sticky shadows. Harry’s stomach is flurried and warm with want, little embers flaking down his chest to his toes, catching in the basket of his hips to light a tiny fire there. He feels fuzzy, like he’s wading through a dream, fervent with the need to touch-touch-touch. 

“It looks good like this,” Louis says, breaking the silence. 

“Hm?” Harry hums, pulling his eyes up to Louis’, away from where his shirt is dipping, the spot where the shadows of his collarbones are soft and made for Harry’s tongue. 

“Your hair,” Louis says quietly. He reaches up and pushes his fingers through it slowly. Harry is helpless to the way his hips shift, the way he curls closer, only just managing to trap the tiny sound that gets caught in his throat. Louis scratches his nails in gently, looming over him, so close Harry can feel his breath on his lips, can feel the tickle of his fringe brushing his forehead. “It looks good.” 

“Thanks,” Harry murmurs thickly, pulling Louis closer because he isn’t pulling away. Their noses brush, and Harry tilts his chin up, let’s their lips catch fragile and sweet, sucking in a giant breath as he presses both his palms against the small of Louis’ back. Louis’ breath hitches, and that’s all it takes for their mouths to fold properly, wet and warm and hazy, Louis’ fingers curling tight in Harry’s fringe, tugging his head back so he can lick into his mouth, phone discarded on the pillow. 

Harry pulls their hips together, tugs Louis on top of him properly so he’s straddling his hips, a firm, hot weight. His skin is smooth under Harry’s hands, and he can’t stop touching him, can’t stop trailing his fingers feather-light along his stomach to make him twitch, then along his back to make him pitch his hips forward gently, rocking down, lips smacking obscenely wet and loud. He tastes sour-sweet. Harry can’t breathe. 

The sofa creaks with every tiny movement they make, every little shift. Louis’ body is intoxicating, and Harry squeezes the backs of his thighs, his hips, his jaw, pulls him closer, grinds their hips together. There’s this dewy, treacle-like thickness that’s sluggishly pulsing through his veins, like his brain is wading through butter, melting into the mattress, into Louis’ mouth. Everything is so warm.

“Fuck, Harry,” Louis presses into his chin, obscene and dirty, almost lost under the sofa creaking as they move together, getting more frantic and fervent with every slide of their lips. Harry tucks his fingers beneath Louis’ jeans, wiggles them down so he can dig them into his arse, pull him forward and breathe in the tiny gasp Louis smudges against his mouth when their cocks press together. 

“Wanna fuck you,” Harry says, throaty and thick, moaning soft when Louis scrapes his teeth over his jaw and fucks his hips down. If they weren’t wearing pants they already would be, Louis’ arse nestled right over Harry’s dick, tantalizing and teasing and almost too much. 

It’s been so long since he’s gotten off like this. He hasn’t properly been with someone since he broke things off with Sam months ago, not since they’d had quiet, clumsy sex on the floor of her room, both knowing it was the last time. The next morning had been teary and shitty and too messy, and since he’s just had rushed hookups, nothing but hands trailing, two bodies caught together in tight spaces. In the back of a van. He’s fucking desperate for it. 

“We can’t,” Louis whispers, frantic and wet on Harry’s cheek, lips catching, tongues sliding. Harry’s thumb slips into the cleft of Louis’ arse, where he’s warm and inexplicably soft, rubbing. “Fuck.”

“Please,” he whines, chest shuddering. “Please, Lou.” 

“Hang on – just,” Louis sits up and Harry whines again, hands curled around his hips so they rub together. It’s good like this, so fucking good, Louis grinding back against him, and Harry’s head lolls to the side, mouth parted. The sofa is so obnoxiously loud, makes heat rise in his cheeks at the thought of Liam and Zayn hearing them. Louis must be thinking the same thing, because he reaches for the remote among the tangled sheets, turning the telly up loud, trying to cover the sound of it, to cover up their moans and the wet press of their mouths together, the breathy whimper Louis lets slip when Harry rolls them slowly, sucking at Louis’ neck, pawing at his shirt to slip it up under his armpits. He’s so hard, hot and pulsing and sore between his legs. 

“Tell me,” Louis breathes into Harry’s mouth, catches his bottom lip between his teeth and presses his palms to his belly. “Tell me what you’re gonna do to me.”

“Touch you everywhere,” Harry says, leaning into Louis’ touch. “Gonna suck you off, open you with my fingers. Eat you out. Wanna taste you so badly, get you wet.”

“Christ,” Louis whimpers. “Why the fuck are you still wearing pants?” 

They reach for each other at the same time, frantic, shaking fingers undoing buttons and zippers and cupping the hot, heady place their cocks rub. Harry’s skin goes tight with shuddery goosebumps, with the need to touch and taste and be close. Louis is gorgeous beneath him, sprawled out on his back, cheekbones razor sharp but still so gentle, lashes fluttering, the thin pink of his mouth bitten red by Harry’s teeth. The apples of his cheeks are shadowed, and if the light around them was warm and yellow, he knows they’d be rosy, that the flush would run all the way down his chest. In the navy of nighttime, the shine in Louis’ eyes is blurred with arousal and drowsiness, all dewy skin and darkness. 

“Been thinking about this so much,” Harry whispers, tucking his fingers into Louis’ underwear, feeling the delicate skin there. He wants to suck marks to that spot, wants to kiss his way down to Louis’ cock and split his mouth over him, be surrounded by the heat of his thighs. 

“Do something about it then,” Louis says, shifting his hips up impatiently, bratty and glinting with mischief. Harry presses his lips against his neck, leaves wet-wet kisses there, and smiles at the slow way Louis goes pliant for him, legs spreading, making room for Harry’s hand to trail down, to cup him properly. 

“You want my mouth?” Harry brushes the words against Louis’ ear, a soft, amused hum to cover how desperately he wants to pant and whine and take everything. Louis’ fingers trail distracted and soft against Harry’s skin, making these tiny, throaty keening sounds. 

“Yeah,” he says, so breathy and high that Harry has to close his eyes and take a slow breath as he starts to trail kisses along Louis’ chest, on his stomach, thumbs digging into the fine points of his hips. Louis’ fingers find his hair, both hands cupped around Harry’s nape, and he moans softly, mouths against the fabric of Louis’ underwear wetly, trying to pull his jeans down and out of the way. 

He’s getting a little frantic now, hips rolling against the mattress to try and get himself off, fingers shaky and desperate around Louis’ pants. He’s been thinking about this for weeks, about Louis letting him get close enough to touch this way, letting him press kisses wherever he likes, letting him in. He feels so breathless, like he’s been running and running and running and now he’s finally halted to a stop, sucking in greedy, heady gulps of air, lungs burning with it. He rolls Louis’ underwear back, gets his mouth on the tip of his cock, wet and leaking and tang, so warm and smelling so much of Louis that Harry moans, tucks his fingers deeper into the fabric to pull them down. 

The hallway light flicks on.

Louis tugs Harry up by his hair, both of them stilling, chests heaving as they’re bathed in distant, yellow light. 

“If you two are having sex on my sofa right now, I will literally kill you both,” Liam’s voice drifts down the hall, cautious and edged with sleep. 

Louis, of course, has the audacity to laugh.

“For fucks sake,” Liam whisper-shouts. 

“It’s alright, Li. You arrived just in time,” Louis is still laughing, gone watery eyed as he tries to hold it in his chest. 

Harry lets out a stuttered, pitiful groan, curling his arms around Louis’ waist, face smushed against his belly. He’s so fucking horny and Louis is so fucking pretty and–.  Fuck. 

“I’m going back to sleep,” Liam says. “Please, please, do not fuck on my sofa.”

“Promise,” Louis says, holding his pinky up in the air, wiggling it. His other hand is cupping Harry’s jaw, fingers in his hair. Liam makes a steady retreat, hallway light bathing them in blue again, door slamming shut. 

“I’m so sad,” Harry whines into Louis’ skin, arms wrapped completely behind his back, so that his body is arched slightly off the mattress. 

“Aw, babe,” Louis coos, eyes gone crinkly and soft in the corners, far too amused. He brushes Harry’s hair off his forehead, where it’s gone curled and wild. “You’ll be alright.”

Harry mumbles another complaint, lips smudged against the smooth warmth of Louis’ stomach, pressing tiny kisses there, so aware of his cock straining in his underwear, the rosy head of it still uncovered.

“Harry,” Louis says, warning.

“I’ll be quiet,” he whispers. “I promise.”

“Nope,” Louis’ thumbs tuck gently under Harry’s chin, lifting him away so he can tuck himself back into his pants and zip up his jeans. “I’m a man of my word.”

“Bullshit, you are,” Harry murmurs, which makes Louis laugh again, bright and bubbling, his fingers dragging through Harry’s hair.

“Let’s just sleep,” Louis says, tugging him up. “C’mon.”

“Fine,” Harry sighs. He settles against Louis’ chest, feeling too warm. The sheets are tangled around their legs and he’s too wired to sleep, shot full of adrenaline, heart still thumping wildly in his chest from the thought of almost having Louis completely undone. 

“Probably a good thing we got interrupted, you know,” Louis says, into the almost-awkward silence that’s begun to descend on them. 

“Oh,” Harry says, keeping his face neutral, eyes flicked down. “Yeah, probably.”

Louis hand curls around the side of Harry’s neck, fingers dragging softly over the centre of his throat. “You’d have been miming for days.” 

It’s then that it clicks, and Harry sits up and shoves at Louis’ shoulder, muffling his cackle with his palm. “You’re such a fucking wanker.” 

“Shove off!” Louis wrestles with him, the words jumbling together under Harry’s hand. 

“I actually hate you,” Harry says. “Like, it’s genuine.” 

“The feeling is mutual,” Louis pats his cheek softly. “For real, though, I’m exhausted. Be quiet.”

“Whatever,” Harry mumbles, flushing when Louis drags the sheet up over them and slides down the mattress, so that Harry’s face can rest against his neck properly, curled into his side. 

They fall asleep like that, tucked together and sweating, fingers still tracing and shifting almost unconsciously against skin. When Harry wakes up at noon on Sunday, groggy and slightly disorientated, Liam and Zayn are cooking eggs in the kitchen, and Louis is nowhere to be seen. 

-

On Wednesdays and Fridays, Chasm gathers at Sarah’s place, all of them tucked away in the garage out back, blasting the neighbours to high heavens while her dad, Mick, takes the noise complaints like a champion from the moment they arrive to the moment they leave.

It warms Harry’s bones, stepping out of the car and hearing Sarah smashing the neighbourhood to bits, Adam carrying the kick drum with his bass while they jam, Mitch unloading their guitars eagerly, already thrumming with it. Clare shows up with dinner, some form of disgusting, greasy take out, and the cheapest wine on the shelf, and they spend those sunset hours fine tuning and writing and sharing new things.

Tonight is a Friday which means they’re running through tomorrow night’s set, practicing the new songs they’re throwing in, then collapsing in a sweaty mess and jamming quietly until they pass out and drive home in the dark. They’re nearly there now, Harry reclined back on the sofa and singing hoarse from his chest, eyes closed, surrounded by the echoey slide of Mitch’s guitar and Clare and Sarah’s haunting harmony, Adam tying them together. Soon, the wine bottle is cradled in the crook of his elbow and his guitar is resting awkwardly on his knees and he’s singing nonsense, strumming slow through chords he’s been dreaming up. 

“Oi,” Clare sits on his shins, humming along. “That sounds mint.” 

Harry peeks one eye open, pausing. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Clare rolls her eyes. “Duh.” 

“Shut it,” Harry grins, slick and giggly as she pokes a finger into his stomach. 

“You gonna share?”

“He’ll be all secretive with it,” Adam says. “You know he will.”

“Will not,” Harry says, but he’s just met with more eye rolls, and, well. They’re not exactly wrong.

“He’s not sharing because it’s about Louis,” Sarah croons, hanging off Mitch’s shoulder, whose smile is devilish and mirthful.

“Hey,” Harry says. He refuses to flush. Refuses to. “I haven’t writting any songs about Louis, thank you. No reason I would.”

“Right,” Sarah drawls. 

“Only a matter of time,” Adam says.

“I hate you all,” Harry sighs. “Genuinely. ‘Sides, there’s nothing even going on with Louis and I.”

“Christ,” Clare shakes her head and stretches. “Clueless, you are. You’re like a lovesick pup and you don’t even know it.” 

Harry sits up slowly. “Again, not true. We’ve, like–. We’ve hooked up, yeah, but that’s not, like. It’s not anything. He sees other guys all the time.” 

He’s not surprised when he’s met with four brow raises, but he just sighs and stands.

“Run through one last time?” Mitch says, and Harry smiles at him, a little thankful for drawing the conversation away.

“Let’s,” Harry slings his guitar back over his shoulder, and they all get back into their places, turn up their amps and shout an incoherent warning to Mick, who’s sitting out on the porch smoking and reading the paper, ready to yell to the neighbours over the fence.

It always feels electric when they play together, but Harry can’t stop their words looping around his head like a sticky matra, can’t stop Louis going around his head the same way when he’s got his eyes closed and his head thrown back and the words baby, don’t fight it, come on get excited, projecting from his chest, a heady warm in his hips when he thinks of Louis in the van beneath him, when he thinks of those teasing looks from behind the bar, of Louis dangling him from a piece of string, swinging him back and forth so Harry can only get close enough to brush his fingers against him, never close enough to really touch.

The thought lingers, stays with him, settles idle on his shoulders when he drops Clare and Mitch home, when he gets back to his flat, when he’s getting himself off against the sheets and imagining Louis’ fingers dipping into his spine, playing him like a fiddle, always bloody playing with him. After, when he’s showered and summer sweaty and lying on his back with the fan swinging, lip bitten between his bottom teeth, the thought stays. 

-

Harry is severely, terribly intoxicated. 

Niall is behind him, head between Harry’s shoulder blades as he attempts to navigate them between the heavy press of bodies, holding Harry’s limp arms out like the wings of an aeroplane. They’re at Liam’s and there’s music spilling from speakers somewhere, floorboards stained blue with the dangerous mixture of whatever was in the punch bowl, and Harry feels foggy and too hot and loose-limbed, the smile on his face all dazed.

“Pop star,” a voice says, and Harry grins when Nick squeezes his cheeks, knocks his stomach with his knuckles lightly as they brush past because Nick’s always lingered there for him, works the Sunday shift at Motley and knows how to make Harry’s body curl and twist. They haven’t hooked up in forever, but Niall keeps them moving and Harry pouts, waving a drunken goodbye as they’re pushed out onto the balcony and suddenly things are windy and even more crowded, smoke clogging the tiny little slither of concrete space. 

“Oi,” Zayn says, leather-clad and broody, curling his fingers into Niall’s hair and tugging him close. “You’re sloshed.”

“Fuck off,” Niall grins, making grabby hands for Zayn’s cig.

“Nuh-uh,” Zayn tutts. “You’re opening up tomorrow, you shit. So’s Harry. Fucking idiots.”

Their banter falls away into the distance, because Harry’s spotted Louis in the shadowed corner, hidden by Zayn, and the fairy lights are dirty orange and pink and dusting his hair. Harry shoulders his way over clumsily, grinning dopey and wide when Louis finally meets his eye, rolling his eyes behind a haze of smoke.

“Louis,” Harry puts his hands on Louis’ thighs, leans into his neck. “Hey.”

“Hey, rock star,” Louis murmurs, and that’s–. Yeah. That’s better. 

“Gimme,” Harry says, and then Louis is ducking his head and breathing the smoke past Harry’s lips. 

“You’re the worst drunk,” Louis laughs as their mouths part, but he’s drunk, too. Harry can see it, can feel it in the loose, fumbling way Louis’ fingers play with the hem of his shirt, the bright, gooey glaze of his eyes as he sweeps his gaze up Harry’s body. 

“Am not,” Harry whispers. He doesn’t know why he’s whispering, but they’re close enough for it. Louis exhales into his neck, and Harry has to close his eyes. His mind can’t keep up. “D’you wanna–. We’re going back to mine, soon. Niall ‘n Mitch. Gonna sleep before work.”

Louis’ smile is a slow thing, knowing, almost beguiling, and Harry knows they’re both thinking that same, hazy thing. We wouldn’t be sleeping.

“How d’you know I’ve not already got another pretty boy lined up, huh, rock star?” Louis raises an eyebrow, rubs his foot along Harry’s calf. “Plenty of grungy, artsy types, here.” 

The sudden plummet of jealousy that rolls into Harry’s stomach catches him off guard, and he flushes before he can stop himself, drunken body going pink-cheeked. He wants to hide his face into Louis’ neck, but then he’d be able to feel the heat of his want, and–. God, he shouldn’t be jealous. Stupid. Stupid. Not jealous. 

“I resent being called grungy,” Harry says, instead of i don’t know why but i don’t want you to have anyone else. The thought is sudden zap, and he isn’t quite sure what to do with it. Louis isn’t his, never has been, probably won’t ever be. It’s just him being riled up again, just Louis getting into his head and playing the cracks of his ribs like piano keys, tugging him closer. 

“That’s a lie,” Louis’s grin is easy as anything when he slings his arms around Harry’s neck, pointy elbows digging into his shoulders. “You’re a little narcissist.”

“Shithead,” Harry puffs a laugh into Louis’ neck, and they fall that way together, these breathless little giggles that skate over skin, Louis’ cheekbone slotted with his, cigarette curling smoke up around them. Things are warm. “Don’t go home with someone else.”

The words are out before Harry can stop them. Louis pauses, pulls back, blinks at him.

“What?” he laughs, nose scrunched. Because. Because it’s a joke. Right, it was a joke. That’s what Harry was just doing.

So he laughs too, zaps his fingers into Louis’ side to make him curl up. “‘M gonna go, ‘kay? See you on Thursday?” 

“‘Kay,” Louis says easily, letting his arm slip from Harry’s shoulders. 

They linger that way for a moment, something passing between them. Harry is too drunk to pinpoint it, but there’s a flicker in Louis’ eyes when Harry lifts his hands from his thighs, almost like he might be about to reach out and draw him back in. Harry stays between the triangle of his legs for too long; then, with a clumsy flurry, he sucks a wet kiss under Louis jaw and backs away, grabs Niall by the back of his jacket, finds Mitch slumped around a pot plant in deep conversation with Liam, and they stumble out on the curb to wait for their taxi, knees knocking as they sit on the dirty gutter.

The whole time, headlights flashing distortedly, all Harry can think about is Louis still up at the party, Louis catching the eye of a stranger, Louis kissing someone else. Someone that isn’t Harry. It’s never bothered him before. He doesn’t know why it’s bothering him now. Dejectedly, he scuffs the side of his left boot on the the gutter, staring at the grainy tar. 

He’s just getting caught up in things again. That’s all it is.

-

Monday morning brings a mess.

It’s a quiet day, nothing but stocktake and mind numbing labelling, but he and Niall are silent as they sit behind the counter, just the rustle of plastic and the odd beep of the label machine when it runs out of paper. Camp Cope is playing because Niall has been obsessed with the Australian underground recently, and Georgia Maq’s voice floats around them in splintering melancholy, the echo of i’ve been desensitized to the human body humming through the dull speakers they’ve got set up, lost among the semi-organized shelves. 

Poison City Records is a dingy little hole in the wall, tucked between an overpriced antique store and a wanky French restaurant that’s constantly empty. It’s also his home five days a week, three of those being mornings, he and Niall splitting greasy food on the birdshit-stained front steps before heading in together. They alternate music choice each day, spend too much time really doing not a lot of anything, talking shit and sorting through recycled CD’s and vinyls while they listen to the community radio, to underground punk bands with yelping voices and obscure records they find in the donation box that look too hilarious to put down. But it’s down time and Harry’s made great connections and friends from customers here, the loyal ones that always pop in for the new, unique shit they sometimes get shipped in, that sometimes finds its way into their recycled records box. 

Some Thursdays, as has become a kind of tradition, Louis will stop in to eat lunch with Harry and Niall once he gets off work because he claims he has nothing better to do with his time. He works a few blocks over at a overpriced hardware store that he bitches endlessly about. Harry’s not saying his arrival is the highlight of his day, but. It kind of is. Especially when Louis brings him a tofu panini from the deli down the street, nose drawn up in disgust as he tosses the bag across the counter into Harry’s fumbling hands. 

This has been happening since the moment Louis find out Harry worked here, delighted because he and Niall apparently have a history of unspeakable drunken escapades together, and now the three of them talk shit together for an hour or so before Louis takes off. When Louis comes in, he always sorts through the box of CD’s on the counter, calling dibs on the ones he likes and making Harry buy him one in exchange for lunch, which Harry does without even blinking. If Louis’ come straight from work, he’ll still be in his uniform, this startlingly bright blue polo shirt that he shouldn’t make him look good, lanyard around his neck. Harry always teases him for it while Louis scowls and threatens to steal his jumper to cover it. Harry always lets him.

But Louis’ not here this morning, this hour, and all Harry has right now is his labeller, the dull click of Niall’s mouse as he ticks off their inventory, and the new mantra of maybe i don’t get it, maybe i’ll never get it, maybe i don’t get it. It’s only ten-thirty. He sighs.

“Can we switch the music?” he tries. “I love this song, but it’s making me sad. I’m in my feelings, Niall.”

“I’m going to pretend you didn’t just say ‘in my feelings,’” Niall says without looking away from the screen. “And, no. We haven’t gotten to Jet Fuel Can’t Melt Steel Beams yet.” 

Harry slumps in his chair and groans. “Niall.” 

“Shut up,” Niall kicks his leg out at him. “Finish your labelling.”

Harry pouts and dejectedly labels another album cover with a fuzzy yellow sticker. 

They split a panini for lunch and Niall puts on The Woodstock Experience, draws the blinds down so things exist in a dusky alcove for their break. Everything is yellow toned and like looking through a grainy film lense, filtered light sneaking through the windows, carpet bally and in desperate need of a vacuum, dark posters and explosively bright posters tucked and pinned to the walls. Harry closes his eyes and listens to the flare of trumpets, the soft scratch of Janis Joplin telling him one of these mornings, you’re going to rise, and he closes his eyes, leans back in his chair and floats back to childhood for a moment, hangover forgotten.

“So,” Niall says into the silence, muffled around a mouthful of sweet potato. “You and Louis.”

Harry flicks his eyes open. “What about us?”

Niall just takes a purposeful bite of his sandwich.

“Ni, seriously,” Harry kicks his shin. 

“Nothing, nothing,” Niall says lightly. “You’re just awful cozy with each other.” 

“I literally told you that we’ve had sex,” Harry deadpans. “Obviously we’re cozy with each other, mate.”

“Yeah, but,” Niall wipes at his mouth with the back of his hand. “He always gets proper moony-eyed over you.” 

“He does not,” Harry says, slightly incredulous with amusement. “We’re just friends. And, like. Yeah, I find him ridiculously attractive, but he’s got other boys. He’s always dating.” 

“Doesn’t mean he wouldn’t settle for just one,” Niall says. “That one being you, if you’re a bit slow on the uptake with that.”

“I don’t care who he dates, Ni,” Harry says. He isn’t sure why those words feel funny in his mouth. Things from the night before a hazy. “It’s not up to me. We’re fine just how we are.”

“Right,” Niall says. “Right.”

“Oh my God,” Harry sighs out. “First Clare and Sarah, now you. Chill, yeah? You’re getting me all worried over nothing.”

“Whatever you say, mate,” Niall leans back and brushes the curtains back, lets the light flood in again. 

He texts Louis in the afternoon after debating whether or not to all day, when he and Niall are packing down and the sun is starting to set.

how badly did i embarrass myself last night out of ten??? honest opinions only please

Louis texts back almost immediately.

horribly
solid 12/10

shut up, you’re a dirty liar

and ur just dirty

Harry breathes in through his nose quietly. 

you would know

Louis takes a few minutes to reply this time.

cheeky , styles

see u thurs x

-

He’s feeling particularly on edge tonight. Buzzed and full of a nervous kind of energy, fingers drumming a butterfly beat against the smooth neck of his guitar. They’re about to go on stage and it’s absolutely packed, happy hour coming to its close, drunken night only just beginning for the bar patrons that are squeezing their way to the stage with drinks clasped awkwardly in their hands for their mates, all the lights dimmed wine-red and heady. 

Mitch knocks their hips together and Harry’s skin prickles, looking over to the bar, where Louis is lingering and refusing to look at him. 

They hadn’t met up after soundcheck tonight. Louis said he was too busy, but the minute Harry turned away he was scrolling through his phone and talking to Liam, and each time he caught Harry’s eye, he flicked it away. He hasn’t met his eye since, and Harry wants to sneak behind the bar and hide his face in Louis’ neck, ask him what he’s done wrong. For some reason, the thought of Louis being upset with him makes his insides turn. 

He has no idea what he’s done, but as he stumbles up onto stage, he tries to screw his head back on and not blow their entire set.

This is what he knows, letting everything out while he’s up here, so he does just that, goes a little wilder than he usually would, gets right up into the crowd and down on his knees and directs too much attention over to the bar, smirking when he catches Louis looking, smirking more when he hurriedly flicks his gaze away to hide that he was looking at Harry in the first place. 

Harry doesn’t know if Louis is pissed off or upset or just generally off, but he hates it. Hates it.

“We’re gonna do a quick cover for you now,” he says down the mic, strums the chords a little for the rest of the band to catch on. “If you know the words, please scream along.” 

When they start to play properly, Louis doesn’t hide that he’s watching. 

The pub is singing drunkenly, a warbling, out of tune mantra, but Harry just watches Louis, smiles a little at the defiant line his mouth pulls into when Harry sings you can drive, all night, swaying his hips in a silly shimmy. Louis just slaps a palm over his eyes exaggeratedly, and then he’s smiling, shaking his head and smiling down at the bar and that’s better. That’s much, much better. 

After, he’s sweaty and still a little shaky, and Liam is waiting there for them with a tray of drinks, kissing them all wetly on the cheek with a vibrant brilliant as always, mate. Harry sculls his down, revelling in the fuzz of it. When he sets the empty glass on the tray, he only manages to catch the tail end of Louis sneaking out back, the little slither of the alley light that cuts through the dark of the bar. Before he can blink he’s following without hesitation, drifting slowly through the offers of drinks and friendly smiles, eyes stuck on the door. 

When he finally pushes outside, it’s warm and the drainpipe is dripping beside him, and Louis is waiting with his arms crossed, legs crossed, leant against the bricks and staring at an inky puddle.

“Hey,” Harry says, more an exhale of breath because his cheeks are still pink and his chest is faltering. 

“Hey,” Louis repeats lowly.

“Alright?” Harry approaches hesitantly, until he’s blocking out the orange light with his body and Louis is standing in his shadow, eyes a little cold, mouth in a line.

“Alright,” he shrugs, then, almost like a flinch, he reaches out for Harry’s shirt. “Where’ve you been?”

“What?” Harry huffs a tiny laugh.

“Last week,” Louis says, looking up from his hands, blinking slowly. He’s drunk, groggy and slurring his words a little.

“Went to visit my mum,” Harry says slowly, heat spreading up into his cheeks and his neck, breathing deeply. “Why? D’you miss me or something?”

It’s meant to be teasing but Louis’ gaze flickers, fingers tightening in Harry’s shirt.

“Not at all,” he says. 

“That was convincing,” Harry grins, and Louis shoves him lightly.

“Shut up,” he mutters. 

Harry had only been gone for last weekend, drove down to his mums because Gemma was driving up, and they had dinner and caught up and spent the three days they were there relaxed and curled together. He always misses them both, texts his mum and calls her all the time, but it’s nothing compared to seeing her. Chasm hadn’t played at Motley that Saturday, and it slowly clicks now, the random text he’d received from Louis in the early hours of Sunday morning, the jumble of letters that he couldn’t make words from. Louis was thinking of him, and Harry bites his bottom lip between his teeth.

“Did you, though?” he presses, finding Louis’ fingers, cold and smooth against his own.

“Did I what?” Louis says, short and stubborn. 

“Miss me,” Harry says softly.

Louis pauses, blinks up at him in the orange-dark. They’re still for a moment, just watching each other. Then, Louis’ hands come up to clasp Harry’s neck, and he’s pulling their lips together wetly, noses brushing, falling together against the wall. Harry doesn’t have any time to steady himself, just lets their bodies press, lets their teeth clack for an awkward beat before their tongues slide and things go warm and heady and yes, he thinks as Louis curls his fingers into the hair at the back of Harry’s head, yes-yes-yes. 

The breath Harry exhales past Louis’ lips is shaky, the same shakiness that rests in his fingers when they find Louis’ hips, curling into the small of his back, rucking up his shirt, pressing closer. Louis is holding on so tightly to him, and he tastes like the darkness of cherries and amber liquor, smells like the subtleness of cologne under sweat and pub food and smoke. It’s familiar, and that familiarity makes Harry’s knees go weak when he pulls Louis away from the wall, when they stumble down the alley with their hands clasped and their gazes blown, because it seems that he knows Louis better than he thought he did, better than he’s been letting himself think. 

When they tumble into the van, there’s no room for words or thought.

It’s just skin and touches and mouths moving too fast, just the red light spilling through the fogged windows and the wet sound of their lips, the rustle and click of belts and zippers. Louis is warm and soft under him, giving to Harry’s hands, arching up into him when Harry runs his fingers along his ribs, back down again to his waistband, tugging at them.

“God,” he breathes, slurs the word against Louis’ jaw. There are still fingers in his hair, carding through and pulling at the knots, and Harry feels slick with sweat and want, cradled in his collarbones and the basket of his hips and behind his ears, a wet flare that Louis licks into with his tongue, bites down with his teeth and pushes his body up into Harry’s like he’ll die if they don’t keep touching. 

“C’mon,” Louis is frantic, drunken fingers squeezing at Harry’s thighs, at his hips, trying to wiggle out of his own pants while they’re still half undone. 

Harry pushes Louis’ shirt up with his fingers, rucks it up under his armpits and kisses his stomach wetly, works his way up to his nipples and his collarbones, fabric bunched up around his nose and making it hard to breath, cock twitching at the sound Louis makes, the way his legs curl up around Harry’s body to hold him in, their hips pressed up close. It’s so intoxicating, so much, and Harry has to pause against Louis’ chest, has to suck in a gulp of wet, hazy air, lips dragging on warm skin.

It’s as he shifts, the dewy light from outside spilling over his shoulder, that he sees the smudge of a mark under Louis’ collarbone. One he didn’t put there.

He pauses, and Louis is still moving beneath him, leaning up to kiss at Harry’s jaw, fingers tugging on his belt loops, but Harry can’t look away from that spot, stomach curling when he see’s the others, tucked around his ribs, hidden away. Louis slows eventually, jabbing Harry’s stomach with his finger questioningly.

“Y’alright?” he murmurs. Their hips are still working against each other, these gentle rolls, and Harry has to close his eyes for a moment against it.

When he presses his thumb into the mark by Louis’ collarbone, Louis freezes.

“H,” he says quietly, wraps his fingers loosely around Harry’s wrist. “Hey.”

“Who was it?” Harry says, just as quiet, rubbing at the lovebite slowly, calculatingly, trying to get his thoughts to slot together.

“None of your business,” Louis says. Something flares in Harry’s abdomen.

“Did he make you feel good, then?” he whispers the words against Louis’ throat, scrapes his teeth against his skin and revels at the way Louis goes rigid and wound up against him, a tiny sound escaping the back of his throat. “Make you feel as good as I can?”

“Harry,” Louis whispers on a stuttered breath, because their hips are rolling together, firmer now, and Harry’s got their foreheads pressed close, lips brushing, thumb still pushing into that spot. 

“Tell me,” Harry says, wrecked and rasping.

“No,” Louis juts his chin out.

Harry ducks his head and replaces his thumb with his mouth. Louis arches up into him, fingers scrambling over his back, leaving crescents in Harry’s skin. He bites, licks and sucks and makes Louis’ skin shiny with it, and he can’t place the fire in his belly, the swell of fuzzy, frantic heat that’s burning between his hips. He feels grossly possessive over this, over something that isn’t even his, but he can’t stop, can’t make himself come up for air. Louis is addictive. 

“Tell me,” Harry says again, muffled against Louis’ ribs where he’s moved down to cover another mark.

He knows Louis won’t say anything, he’s too stubborn for that, and he doesn’t owe Harry the words, but there’s something akin to jealousy swirling in the pit of Harry’s stomach, unfamiliar and scaring him shitless and he doesn’t need Louis’ assurance, but God, he wants it, wants it so fucking badly. It’s terrifying. 

The air around them is practically electric, burning and buzzing with things unsaid and neediness, and Harry crawls back up Louis’ body to kiss his neck, heart sinking and shaking in his chest because there’s a lingering thought in his mind that won’t leave him alone now, this mantra of mine-mine-mine that he tries to will away, tries not to breathe in Louis’ skin and think this is for me to kiss.

But then Louis’ palms are pressing against Harry’s shoulders under his shirt, arching up into him. “Nobody touches me like you,” is what he says, a shaky, whispered rasp that falls out from his lips like an accident, jarring, and the roaring heat that surges up Harry’s body feels like fire. 

After that, things blur.

Vaguely, he registers the moment the bare skin of their legs slide, the sweat of them, the soft, golden hair that dusts Louis’ thighs, the wet of their cocks rubbing. They’re quiet with it, moaning into each other’s necks, and Harry feels completely flushed at the thought of the doors opening, of the band coming to load their gear and finding he and Louis like this, tangled up together and panting and coming undone. It pools this giddiness in his belly, something dirty, and when he sucks on Louis’ tongue it just continues to intensify until he can scarcely breathe. 

Their hands don’t stop moving. Louis keeps touching him, keeps stroking him slow and syrupy, digs his knuckles into the knots of Harry’s lower back to make him keen, tugs his hair sharply to make him moan, and in turn Harry stretches Louis’ thighs around his waist, mouths over his neck until Louis’ skin is dewy with it and they’re both red-cheeked and breathless, panting, lips and tongues sliding together. 

It’s when he presses Louis’ legs up, when his cock slips between his cheeks and snubs over his hole, that they both inhale, jaws lazy and knocking when their faces press together, Harry’s hips automatically rolling forward, rubbing off against the place where Louis is softest and warmest, so intimate and heady and he feels drunk off of this, off of Louis whimpering in his ear, so close.

“H, babe,” Louis whines, the sound caught in his throat when Harry’s cock catches against his rim again, rocking up against his balls. It’s too fucking much. “Condoms.”

Babe. Harry’s fingers feel tingly, and he’s reaching for his discarded jeans before his brain can catch up, fumbling for his wallet. It takes him so long to open it and sort through, distracted by the thought of getting to be close to Louis like that, distracted by Louis’ hand on him, tracing up and down his back, squeezing his arse and smiling devilish and hazy when Harry glares at him, knocking their temples together. 

After a fruitful search, he comes up with a few notes and some sad, wrinkled receipts.

“Fucks sake,” Harry tosses his wallet onto the crumpled pile of their clothes and tries to quell the disappointment that’s washing over him.

“‘S’alright,” Louis laughs breathlessly, gets his hands back on Harry’s arse and pulls him in again, sucking his bottom lip into his mouth. It’s wet and Harry lets himself melt into it.

“Sorry,” he whispers, curls his tongue against Louis’ and runs his hand up his thigh, pulls him closer.

“Just said it’s alright,” Louis says, smile soft and giving and Harry–. Something terrifying thumps in his chest.  

“‘Kay,” Harry kisses him again, wet and warm, leans back a little so he can slip his hands up behind Louis’ knees, bend his legs and lean down over him when their mouths press again, Louis sighing into it, shifting under the stretch, under the weight of Harry’s hips.

“Tell me,” Louis whispers, fingers trailing along Harry’s back, scratching gently. “If we were fucking, tell me what we’d do.” 

“It’d be like this, all pressed together,” Harry whispers back, heat flooding his cheeks. Louis’ mouth is parted, cheeks dewy, and he looks so untouchable like this, like wading through a summery dream. He presses his mouth up against the shell of Louis’ ear, mouths at the skin there. “I’d finger you open first, take ages. Lick you out, if you let me.”

“I’d let you,” Louis says, chest arching up into Harry’s, lashes fluttering, eyes closed. Harry can’t resist leaning forward, licking into Louis’ parted mouth. It feels obscene. 

“Get you so wet, tease you,” Harry says. “Make you pay for the way you always tease me.”

Louis’ laugh is quiet and lost on a whimper, but Harry can feel the curve of his smile against his jaw, the giddiness of it when he bites down. “You love it.”

“Yeah,” Harry breathes. Their cocks are wet, rubbing together, and in the dark things feel so close, like all the walls are pressing in and it’s just them and nobody else. “I’d fuck you slow, at first, just like this. Keep you trapped in so I can see your face. Wanna look at you.”

“Fuck,” Louis’ head tips back when Harry rubs against him properly, thighs stretching. Slowly, Harry loops his fingers around Louis’ wrists, gently moves them above his head so their arms are both extended, laid out on the dirty bed of the van, bodies lined up completely. “H.”

“Just like this,” Harry repeats, but it’s quiet and stuttered, his eyes slipping closed when his cock catches on Louis’ rim again over and over, moaning low and in his chest when Louis clenches around him, slick and sweating and so warm. 

That’s how they stay, Louis’ ankles locked behind Harry’s back, rubbing off against each other, Harry looming over him, nose touching Louis’, their mouths slippery and wet with spit, kisses all deep and woozy and distracted. When they finally come, it feels like the lazy spread of a wave meeting the shore, the fizzle of seafoam touching toes, and Louis is gradual with it, lips parting, holding on tight as he spills between them, little sounds rolling off his tongue. Harry catches them all, slumps into Louis’ neck when he starts to come too. 

Harry doesn’t know how long they lie there for, how long it takes for his breathing to settle and the heat crowding his neck to fade. Louis presses a kiss to the underside of his jaw, pats his side lightly, and they stayed sprawled there together, catching their breaths, skin shaded in dark reds and maroons. 

Something flickers in Harry’s chest when he looks over at the rosy outline of Louis’ face. He isn’t sure what it is, but it’s warm and weighty, and it’s getting harder to ignore.

-

It is unbearably, ridiculously hot. 

Harry’s hair is actually wet at this point, beads of sweat dripping into his eyes, his towel damp from wiping at his neck and his eyes and his fingers. Sarah is drenched, too, and Mitch’s hair is frizzy and sticking along his temples, all their skin dewy with it. The bodies in the crown are the same, slick and slippery and stuck together. Harry tips his head back and takes in a slow breath, chugs down the rest of his water and signals for Liam at the bar. They’re only halfway through their set and he’s exhausted, running on pure adrenaline and the urge to impress and play with his entire heart. 

“Can I just say,” Harry says into the mic, unbottling the fresh bottle of water Liam’s just tossed over from side-stage, “thank you all so much for being packed in here tonight. I don’t want to see anyone without a drink in their hands.”

“Always so thoughtful,” Clare quips from behind him, under the encouraging hoots from the crowd

“I try,” Harry says, and passes his bottle to a girl cramped at the very front of the stage who looks close to passing out, red-faced with hearts in her eyes. “Has anyone got some jokes?” 

“Don’t encourage him,” Mitch says. Harry flips him off and leans down into the crowd, giving the band time to cool off for a bit while he works his way through some truly terrible puns. 

There’s muddled laughter spread across the bar, glasses clinking and chairs scraping, a flurrying wave of noise that almost swallows everything Harry is saying. He gets another bottle of water from Liam, downs it, and looks towards the bar, searching for Louis like he always does when they have these pauses, searching for his smile and his wink, the put-on bop of his shoulders when they start playing again. 

But Louis has his back turned, leant up against the end of the bar, talking to a tall, slim man with bright, interested eyes and a lewd, sticky smirk on his mouth. Harry swallows slowly, loses himself for a moment, forgets that he’s on stage in front of nearly a hundred people when he grabs the mic stand a little unsteadily. Louis throws his head back and laughs, leans closer. Harry clenches his jaw just for a second, overwhelmed with the hot flush of what he refuses to recognize as jealously that creeps up on him.

“This is Hey Angel,” he says, slowly pulling his eyes away from the bar, back out to the crowd where he’s supposed to be. “It’s an old one, so bare with us.” 

Mitch gives him a look, because they haven’t played this song in forever, written about an ex from forever ago, but Harry is spiked with the sudden urge to play loud and throw his head back and sing with everything he’s got, to belt out the words so that they echo inside his own head. He does just that, grips the mic and pushes everything into it, trying to focus his attention onto the faces up front. His gaze keeps drifting though, to Louis’ back, to the man’s hand on his arm, until his eyes are stuck there.

He sings the bridge over and over, keeps it going until the band catches on and repeats it and the crowd is singing along too, swaying back and forth. He just wants Louis to turn around. I see you at the bar, at the edge of my bed, backseat of my car, in the back of my head. It becomes almost a mantra, drinks in the air as they play, Harry’s body rocking with it, carried by the bassline and the rest of the band’s harmonies melting in with his own voice. Finally, Louis turns, blinking slow and wide at the crowd, then up to Harry. It’s electric, when their eyes meet, and Harry feels like he can breathe again, but also like he’s about to crumble. He has no idea what he’s doing. He just knows that this is probably a terrible, terrible idea. 

When the song finally comes to an end, a deafening crescendo of their voices and Sarah’s drums, the crowd is hyped and buzzing, bodies moving in waves, and Harry’s chest is heaving, throat gone sore. Louis is still looking at him, mouth pressed into a line like he’s trying not to smile. Harry coughs into his fist and brushes his wet hair away from his eyes.

“Um,” he croaks. “That was fucking sick, thank you. This next one is called Anything.”

The night goes on.

-

Louis does this thing where he, like, dates these guys. A string of men that are tall and dark-eyed and hold him close, and Harry. He doesn’t really know what to make of it. At the very start he never used to notice it – those guys at the bar that steal Louis attention away from the stage, that linger too close and wait outside, shadowy figures hidden behind the glass. He notices everything now.

Harry will meet Louis out back as he always does, and they’ll have a smoke and Louis will say see you at Zayn’s, they’ll part, and then it’ll be five in the morning and Harry is wide awake, blinking heavily up at the ceiling with his text to Louis unanswered, a simple hey, where are you? to check that he’s okay. Louis will answer him in the morning with something along the lines of sorry i was busy, which only means one things because he wouldn’t be busy unless he’s with someone else. Someone else. That’s the part that makes Harry’s fingers curl, that makes his heart sit a little oddly in his ribs.

When they first met, and Harry had fooled himself into thinking he didn’t even have a tiny crush, not even a little infatuation, he didn’t let himself think much of it. It’s different now though, different when Harry is up on stage and desperate for the attention, throwing himself around and being too loud, all for the thrill of seeing Louis look at him over his shoulder and smile at his antics. It’s jealousy, he’s accepted now, plain and simple and a little ugly, a vicious swell that Harry needs to dampen because Louis isn’t his. 

What Harry hates the most is that he knows the boys that Louis ‘dates’ treat him like shit, leave him hollow and wrung out and acting like things are fine. They don’t see each other all that often outside of Saturday nights, and Harry’s brain is always clunking and working in the background, over the thought of Louis spending a day with some prick who doesn’t appreciate him the way they should, who uses him just because Louis lets them. Harry hates that he lets them. 

He thinks of their lips pressed together, thinks of his hands on Louis’ hips, of all the intimate ways they’ve been, and tries to ignore the brilliant flare of heat that burns in his stomach at the thought of anyone else touching him like that, getting to see Louis in the dark, eclipsed by light and shadow, and not wanting him to be completely theirs, to make sure the brightness in his eyes is always there. 

The worst thing, maybe, is that Harry can’t do anything about it. Louis’ witty and strong and takes no shit, and he’d tear Harry to pieces if he even hinted at anything to do with the boys he brings to the bar. Which is fair, because it isn’t Harry’s place to say anything. He just wishes it was, that Louis could be solely his to wish after.

Because as he’s coming to realize, painfully, slowly, he wants him to be his, only his, so very, very desperately. 

-

Poison City is dead today and Harry’s got Depression Cherry spinning, drawing lazily in his notebook to distract himself from writing words he’s terrified of putting down, lines already scratched out. Niall is almost asleep beside him, slumped back in his chair with his eyes half closed, attempting to read some Dickens book with yellowed pages that they found wedged and bent in the bottom of a donation box, all the pages almost folded completely in half. 

Harry finishes shading the tiny spiral in the corner of his page, sighing quietly. The problem is that he feels completely inspired right now, feels a bit angsty and full and his fingers are itching and he knows that if he wrote something down now, he might actually use it. The problem is that, yeah, maybe he could just write about something objective, something he doesn’t have to put a face and name to, write about sex or the trip he had on the train a few weeks ago, about a feeling or a space, anything. The problem is that lately, every objective thing he’s attempted to write for the sake of not writing about Louis has become subjective anyway. 

Even the stupid, tiny details, something as cliche and fucking ridiculous as i want to touch you turns into this jumble of spiraling words, and before he knows it, he’s written a terrible, dribbling poem about Louis without realizing. If he let himself go, he knows he could come up with something better, but the last few weeks have been full of sleepless night, of getting a text from Louis that says something like is a bow tie too camp for an italian restaurant ??? and Harry will hold his breath in his chest and reply with something just as ridiculous to mask the fact that he wants to say yes, don’t go out with him or i’ve got leftover bolognese, come over because they just–. They don’t really do that.

And the problem, the real problem, is that Harry wants them to. He wants Louis to come over and eat leftovers with him. He doesn’t know when that started becoming a thing he wanted. 

“Niall,” he says, drawing a furious scribble into the corner of his page.

Niall grunts in response.

“If, like, hypothetically,” Harry starts, and Niall slowly swivels to face him, “you had a friend, and they were with someone who was really shit for them, just makes them feel terrible all the time and stuff, would you, like. I don’t know. Would you say something?”

Niall blinks at him. “What?”

“Hypothetically,” Harry stresses, panicking a little. “Like if you had a friend who was always dating people that don’t really care about them? And you, like–. You know you’d be better for them. Would you tell them?”

He has no idea what he’s saying really, or where this is coming from. Niall seems to realize this, too, because he has the audacity to start laughing, covering his face with the bent Dickens book. It’s Hard Times. Harry scowls at it. 

“What the fuck,” Niall shakes his head, still laughing. “You do talk some shit.” 

“I ask you for advice and you mock me,” Harry kicks him in the knee. “You’re so disrespectful.” 

“That was not you asking for advice,” Niall rubs at his eyes, still shaking his head. “That was you trying to get some kind of weird permission to ask Louis out. Which he would definitely say yes to, by the way.”

“It was not,” Harry splutters. “That was all hypothetical.”

“Christ,” Niall drops his head, then, he places what seems to be a consoling hand on Harry’s knee. “Listen to me, you idiot. If I were you, I would hint to your hypothetical friend that you’re into them, that you want to be with them, whatever, but you can’t pick and choose who they’re with. It’s not really up to you to decide who they wanna spend time with. And, like, yeah, if they’re with some abusive, disgusting prick and they need to get out of there, then that’s where you’d help them without taking advantage.”

“It’s not really like that,” Harry says, scratching at his arm.

“Hypothetically,” Niall quirks an eyebrow.

“Right,” Harry says quickly. “What if you were just, like, for instance, slowly realizing how jealous you get when people take that friend out. And that, you know. You might want to take them out and be with them?”

“Oh, dear,” Niall sighs. “My poor little rock star.”

“Shut up,” Harry hisses, willing his cheeks not to flush. “Just–. Don’t.”

“When did this start, then?” 

“About a month ago, according to you,” Harry snips, grumpy and pouty, tossing his notebook onto the counter with a sigh. “I don’t know, Ni. Lately I’m just, like. It doesn’t just feel like sex anymore, to me.”

“And what about him?” Niall asks gently. “What does your hypothetical friend think?”

“Wouldn’t have a clue,” Harry scratches at his chin, deflating. He thinks about the unanswered text sitting in his inbox from an hour ago –  how wanky would i look if i showed up to this place in a button down and braces ??? this is crucial – and he sighs again, leaning back in his chair and looking at the pen dotted ceiling, streaks of blue and red from the last owners of the building. 

“You’ll figure it out, mate,” Niall says, bumping Harry’s shoulder with his knuckles. “Give him time.”

-

Harry’s weeks begin to look like this:

1. Spend Monday to Friday at Poison City, sorting through CD’s and vinyls and writing, keeping the shitty old guitar Niall had dug up in some garage sale behind the counter so he can pluck through melody’s and ignore everything else around him until Niall whips him over the head with a vinyl slip and tells him to get back to work.
2. Go to band practice on Wednesday and Friday nights and hesitantly show his new stuff to the band, working through them until they’re jamming and the stress of it becomes hazy and fun and he feels okay about the words he’s written down.
3. Spend stupid amounts of time trying to catch up on sleep, reading, writing some more, and sleeping again.
4. Play The Motley on Saturday nights and come home Sunday afternoon together.

Of course, though, it never really is as simple as that, because there are always these little intermittent pockets of time woven into his day, these moments where he’ll pop a scratched up CD on at work and think Louis would like this, or he’ll be sweating his arse off in Sarah’s garage and think Louis would like this, or he’ll be working on a new song, guitar dinting his thighs, fresh ink smudged in his notebook, words about touching and intamacy, tasting and blatant sex and warmth, and he thinks, shit.

All of these moments add together, and then on the Saturday, when he finally gets to see him, Harry lives for the little pockets of time they exist together, just the two of them. Tucked together outside after soundcheck, talking and smoking and being close, Harry stumbling over his words when Louis looks at him like that, up through his lashes innocently, like he’s got no idea what he’s doing but also knows exactly how he’s making Harry’s fingers twitch. And after Harry has played, when Louis smells like vodka and Harry’s skin is sticky with sweat, and Louis will say, good job, rock star and press his thumb into Harry’s hip, he has to stop himself from just slotting their lips together. 

Sometimes he can’t stop himself, and then they’ll be kissing, staggering, falling together.

It’s terrible because apparently everybody knew he was slowly becoming completely arse-over-tit gone for this boy except him, to the point he fears that even Louis knows it. They’re tactile with each other, especially when they’re drunk, and it is so, so difficult for Harry not to cup Louis’ jaw when they’re talking, when they’re on Zayn’s sofa, when they’re sharing a bed because Liam doesn’t stay the night and they can fit in the guest room. Those nights are the worst, when they all go out afterwards and Harry has to deal with Louis being so bright and gorgeous and lovely, when he has to deal with him crawling over his lap and tucking his face against Harry’s ribs, sloppy-cuddly drunk and hidden under the blankets despite the heat, when he has to deal with the kisses they share and the weight of Louis in his mouth, the wet of Louis’ mouth around him. It’s too much.

He’s never clicked with someone the way he’s clicked with Louis. That second Saturday, Harry had been flushed and nervous and had screwed up so many times because Louis was watching him from the bar, with this quirk to his mouth that made Harry squirm with the need to know the ins and outs of his thoughts. It turned out he needn’t worry about awkwardness and stilted conversation, because they got along instantly, had the same humour and drew together like moths to flame. What he needs to worry about now is far more terrifying and huge and difficult to handle then the prospect of awkwardness.

So for the most part, Harry’s weeks are easy going and steady. He has routine. If his notebooks are steadily filling with sappy poetry and lyrics about blue eyes and fingers and being devastatingly close to another person, he doesn’t dwell too much on it. Ignore feelings for Louis becomes number five on his list and life goes on, waiting for the next Saturday to roll around. 

-

Today, Louis enters Poison City Records with a solid shove at the front door, making the tiny bell above it ring shrilly, and he huffs as he drops Harry’s panini onto his lap, hopping up onto the counter with his shoulders hunched in. 

“Hello, sunshine,” Niall says wearily, reaching forward to untie Louis’ shoelaces. Louis kicks him. 

“Fuck off, Horan,” he says. Harry starts to unwrap his panini.

“Alright?” he asks, mirroring Niall’s weariness. 

“Yeah, I guess,” Louis replies, obviously not alright. He’s picking at the fuzzy strip of tape that lines the counter, coloured in with markers and pencils. “People are just shit.”

“True,” Niall snorts. He steals half of Harry’s panini and takes a huge bite. Harry lets out a muffled protest behind his hand, chewing grumpily. 

“Case and point,” he says, stealing it back, almost slopping eggplant onto the floor. It makes Louis smile though, a tiny, amused quirk of his lips.

“Now, now,” he says, hooks his foot behind Harry’s knee. “Share, you two.”

Harry’s fingers wrap around his ankle and he taps the bone there three times, light and fleeting. Louis smiles, private, just for him, and reaches into the box on the counter to start his sorting. It’s a quiet afternoon. It’s Niall’s turn to pick the music and he’s got Loaded on today, and together Harry and Louis work their way through labelling freshly wrapped CD’s and cracked, broken covers. Louis steals two albums for himself, Louder Than Bombs and Crocodiles, both his feet tucked around Harry’s legs while he flips through faded album booklets, humming softly along to the music around them even though he doesn’t know the words. 

Louis hangs around, and Harry ends up with his feet on the counter, notebook open in his lap, writing. Niall’s out back on inventory today, and they close in an hour. Louis’ still here, though, which is a little unusual. Most times, he’ll come in, steal Harry’s things and be a nuisance, and be gone within the hour. He doesn’t seem to be going anywhere though, and Harry takes the time he has to watch him carefully, pen stilling when he gets lost in it, closing his eyes when Louis’ fingers brush his skin. He’s put Louder Than Bombs on, taps rhythms into Harry’s shins with one hand, scrolls through his phone in the other while Morrissey sings you won’t change the way I feel, cause I love you, and Harry crosses out the lines in his notebook thoroughly, a brilliant flush threatening to crawl up his neck. Christ.

“What are you writing?” Louis asks. Harry halts his pen.

“A song,” he says. Louis pinches him. “Ow.” 

“Don’t be annoying,” he says. 

“I’m not,” Harry scrunches his nose at him. “This is top secret.”

“Oh, come on,” Louis pouts, bats his eyelashes. “Just give me one line.”

“No,” Harry says flatly, bringing his pen back to paper. He does nothing but draw an aimless spiral in the corner of his page. 

“Please,” Louis asks, quiet, soft. Breathy. Harry glances up at him, at the coy sharpness of his eyes.

Mostly, he doesn’t want to share because this song is–. It’s about Louis, kind of. Definitely. He’s always nervous first sharing his music as it is, works himself to pieces during those band practices when he picks up his guitar with shaky fingers and sings like he’s got glass stuck in his throat, afraid for those lengthy minutes that he’s not good enough. It always passes with practice, but crafting something new and personal is daunting. Sharing it is harder. 

Especially with the person it’s about.

“Um,” Harry says, fiddling with his page. He tears the corner off accidentally, rolls it into a tiny ball. “Okay.”

He holds the book towards Louis because the thought of saying it makes him feel like he’s turning inside out. Louis takes it with gentle fingers, elbows on his knees, and Harry pictures him sitting on a balcony like that, afternoon light wrapped around the delicate bones of his wrist, a smouldering cigarette pinched between thin fingers. His eyes flicker over the words again and again, over the messy loops of Harry’s writing.

touch me in the dark

where someone else has touched

put your thumb against my lip, press in

you feel like the only one 

He prays the other lines aren’t legible, that he did well enough to cover them over, the shaky slant of i want you to be the only one, you’ll be the only one. 

“Nice,” Louis says softly, meets Harry’s eyes over the cracked cover. “I like it.”

“Thanks,” Harry says, just as soft, because if he talks any louder his voice is going to do something stupid.

Louis hands the notebook over slowly. “You should write a song about me,” he says, grinning.

“You think so?” Harry says, smiling through the painful irony of his life, through the tidal wave of heat and panic that’s roaring through his ears, heart doing something strange and violent in his chest. If Louis turns the pages back, he’ll find hundreds of words there, all for him. 

“Absolutely,” Louis nods, then lays himself back on the counter dramatically, a hand over his forehead. “Wax poetic about my cheekbones and my cerulean eyes.”  

Harry bursts into laughter, legs folding down as he shakes his head, the two of them giggling together. Harry buries his face into Louis’ kneecaps as he sits up, smudges his smile there and curls his fingers around his calves. “Sounds like a hit.”

“Obviously,” Louis says, and tucks his thumbs under Harry’s chin. Harry has to quiet his brain at the familiarity of that touch, silence it further when Louis settles him on his thigh. “And you’ve got to fit my bum in there at some point.”

“Obviously,” Harry echoes. He’s all hunched over in his chair, back aching, but he’s not going to move, not when he gets to be this close, the warmth of Louis’ body seeping into his hands. “And your dazzling wit.”

“Don’t forget my eyelashes,” Louis flutters them rapidly, going cross eyed. 

“You’re full of yourself,” Harry laughs. 

“You can write a song about that, too,” Louis says, smiling down at him.

Niall comes back in, then, whistling along to Heaven Knows I’m Miserable Now, and Harry pulls away slowly, clears his throat and slips his notebook closed. 

“You’re still here?” Niall sighs, but he hooks his arms around the back of Louis’ neck and tugs him into his chest, Louis’ legs kicking out awkwardly.

“Harry’s writing me a song,” he says. The look Niall shoots Harry’s way makes him want to bury himself in a hole.

“Cute,” Niall chirps. “Go home, we’re closing up.” 

“Whatever,” Louis elbows Niall gently in the ribs and hops off the counter, popping Louder Than Bombs back into it’s case, scooping up his CD’s. “See you Saturday, H. You should come have a pint, Nialler.”

“Might do,” Niall says. “It’s been too long since I’ve seen that lot.”

“We’ll make a night of it, then,” Louis says with finality. “Bye, kids.”

“Bye,” Harry says uselessly, notebooked pressed up against his stomach. 

The bell rings out once Louis’ gone, and the silence it leaves behind is heavy. Niall is looking at him, a mixture of pity and amusement because he’s an arsehole. With a sigh, he rounds the counter and places a supposedly consoling hand on Harry’s shoulder.

“On a scale of one to ten, how fucked is your hypothetical situation?” he says.

Harry puts his head into his hands. He might actually be losing his mind.

-

Harry’s not too sure how he’s got himself into this position again. It’s late, closer to sunrise than it is to sunset, the beginnings of a red sky lining the horizon. Inside, though, it’s all cool blues and blacks, tinges of baby pink from the title screen of Grease looping over and over again. The remote fell onto the floor when they folded the sofa out, and Harry’s bones feel too heavy to reach down for it now, almost asleep and bleary eyed lying on his stomach, arms tucked around his pillow.

Louis is beside him and actually asleep, letting out these soft, even breaths, tiny whistles of sound, facing away from Harry. His nose is tucked into the side of the sofa, one arm splayed along his side, the other curled into a loose fist by his head, sprawled on his belly. He’s changed into grey trackies and a worn through white shirt, and Harry can feel his warmth from here, can imagine how soft and giving he’d feel under his fingertips, all thin cotton and sleep. 

The dips in Louis’ back are shadowed and gentle, the sweep of his shoulderblades and the tiny curve of his spine, the way his shirt settles around his hips. He looks so delicate like this, all guards down, peaceful. Harry sighs and sits up slowly so he doesn’t wake him, padding into the kitchen for water. He drinks straight from the tap, presses his warm cheek to the silver faucet and breathes slowly, blinking through the way his eyes go fuzzy, tired and hazy and too close to sleep to be standing. 

When he goes to climb back into bed, he accidentally kicks the remote under the sofa, catching it with the edge of his toe, and he lets out a tiny, hurt sound and half stumbles onto the mattress, wincing at the resounding, obnoxious creak, and at the way Louis’ body shudders with a stretch, feet flexing back and forth.

“H,” he grumbles, thick with sleep.

“Sorry,” Harry whispers, settling beside him gingerly, bottom lip tucked into his mouth.

“‘S fine,” Louis says, but the words are slurred and distant. His body is already settling back into sleep.

Harry shifts again, trying to get comfortable among the springs in his back, the lumps that press uncomfortably against his hips. He feels boneless and on the edge of sleep, but each time he closes his eyes he’s wide awake, fingers tugging uselessly at the loose threads in the sheets, huffing quietly while he moves around.

“What’re you doing?” Louis whispers, raspy, tucking his chin over his shoulder to glance back, eyes half-closed and bleary. 

“Can’t sleep,” Harry says. “I can move if-”

“Sh,” Louis turns over, puts his hands on Harry’s shoulder and rolls him onto his back, crowding his body up into his space. “‘S alright.”

Harry closes his eyes while Louis gets comfortable, lips on his neck, breath warm, arm slung over his waist, fingers curled delicately against his hip. It takes Harry a moment to sink into the mattress, to let his hands settle across Louis’ back, unsure whether it’s okay for him to touch like this, if it’s too much to pull him straight into his lap and wrap his arms around him. Blinking up at the ceiling, heart thudding loud and dangerous in his ears, he wonders if the universe is trying to play cruel tricks on him, if it’s watching him and laughing. Louis nuzzles into chest. 

“How was your day?” he murmurs. “Feel like I didn’t get to talk to you tonight.” 

They hadn’t talked, not really. Harry had been late, and then they’d had issues during soundcheck, something about a faulty cable and a circuit and all these electrical things he had no idea about, stuck strumming anxiously in the centre of the stage while Jamie worked to fix it. By the time they’d finished up Louis had taken his break and they’d opened the doors up. After, they’d gone straight to Zayn’s without going out back, exhausted and sleepy, pulling out the sofa almost as soon as they walked through the door. 

“Alright,” Harry says. “Soundcheck was fucked, though. How was yours?”

“Alright,” Louis says, words smudged against Harry’s throat. “Went out for lunch, had a nap. Uneventful.”

“Where’d you go for lunch?” Harry asks. He traces his fingers along Louis’ arm, smiles at the tiny goosebumps that swell up under his touch. 

“Dunno, some sandwich bar,” Louis snorts quietly. “It was kinda shit.”

“Why?” Harry frowns.

“I went with this guy, Sam, comes into work all the time,” Louis starts. Harry’s stomach is already sinking, fingers curling against Louis skin while he tries to breath evenly. “Turns out he’s an arsehole, but. I expected that, honestly.”

“Then why’d you go?” Harry murmurs. Ask me. Ask me to go. 

Louis just shrugs, drawing shapes on Harry’s chest slowly, aimlessly. “Company, I guess.”

“You don’t have to go out with pricks like that for company,” Harry says, before he can stop himself, a little too sharp for the quiet.

Louis lifts his head and peers down at him in the dark. “No?”

“No,” Harry shakes his head, earnest. “You can always, like, text me, you know? I never work weekends.” 

Louis watches him carefully, and when he smiles it’s dejected and soft, lips tucked in. He lifts his hand, sinks his fingers into the soft hair by Harry’s ear, pushing it back from his face. With his thumb, he leaves a soft, warm trace along Harry’s jaw. Everything about this is familiar, the two of them curled together in the dark, in a little pocket of quiet. 

“You’re too sweet on me,” Louis says, thumb catching Harry’s bottom lip. 

 “‘M not,” Harry whispers, kisses the pad of Louis’ thumb before he can stop himself, fingers rubbing firm circles on his hips, pressing close. “I just try and treat you the way you should be treated.” 

That last part slips out too fast for him to catch, a thorn of a thought poking out from a rose, catching along his skin and splitting him open, exposing thoughts that are supposed to stay locked inside. Louis blinks down at him, halfway between amused and guarded, the breath he lets out shaky against Harry’s body, slowly sinking into his touch.

“And how’s that, hm?” he muses. He folds Harry’s bottom lip down with his thumb again, lets it go. Harry’s mouth stays parted. “How should I be treated?” 

Harry kisses him. 

It’s somehow innocent and dirty all at once. Their tongues slide slow and languid almost immediately, jaws open wide for each other, Louis’ thumbs pressed up firmly against the hinges of Harry’s jaw. They both inhale sharply at the first touch, at the dewy wet of their lips, and Harry’s fingers bunch in the fabric of his shirt, slips a hand down to cup his thigh and tug it over his hips, hoisting him impossibly close, sprawled half on top of him. His trackies are as soft as Harry imagined they’d be, and he kneads his fingers into the thick muscle of Louis’ thigh, into his arse, spreading his palm there to settle and keep him from moving away. 

Their kisses are so drawn out that Harry can breathe between each velvet swipe, a shuddery inhale that burns his chest, a shaking exhale that he pushes into the wet of Louis’ lips, that Louis curls his tongue around and swallows down and returns. Breathing each other’s air like this dips Harry’s head into a thick, warm pool of intimacy, where all things are damp and hot and sweet.

Louis keeps carding his fingers through Harry’s hair, almost rhythmically, in time with the tilt of their heads, the fold of their lips, and Harry’s hands are shaking just from that touch alone, toes curling and uncurling over and over again when Louis’ fingers catch in a knot and he tugs, when his nails scratch electric and gentle through the baby hair’s by Harry’s ears. 

It doesn’t move past that, though. They kiss-and-kiss-and-kiss, until Harry’s lips go fuzzy and numb in a way he didn’t think was possible. He wonders if he’ll feel it tomorrow, if he’ll wake up and press his fingers down and feel Louis’ mouth, if his lips will linger red and raw and swollen. Despite the palm he’s got spread over Louis’ cheek, it’s for warmth and comfort more than anything else, to keep their bodies lined up, safe and melting. It doesn’t feel sexual. It feels like the breathlessness of being vulnerable together. 

And that there, the unfurling of the cage around Harry’s heart, the gentle touch of Louis’ hands in his hair, that’s what makes his cheeks go pink, what makes a giddy warmth settle low in his stomach. It hasn’t felt like this before, not with the string of girlfriends and boyfriends he’s had in the past, not with one night stands and hookups with friends; and, God, they’ve only known each other a few months, but Harry has never been so eager to make another person feel okay, to cradle the fragility of please don’t hurt me because i would never hurt you in his palms. 

“Haz,” Louis breathes, smudged by the lingering drag of their mouths. “Harry.”

Like this, Harry wants to say, like this, like this, like this. You should be treated like this. 

“What,” he murmurs, dazed, Louis’ bottom lip between his teeth, fingers curling into the soft crease where his thigh and arse meet. 

“Should sleep,” Louis says, but it falls from his lips in a tumbling sigh, almost regretful, fingers looped in Harry’s fringe. 

And they do sleep, eventually. They fall asleep curled together, lips brushing because they keep kissing, even when Harry turns them onto their sides and pulls the thin sheet up, encasing them in a cocoon of blushing, homey warmth. Louis’ fingers are gentle, scratching against Harry’s stomach, through the thin trail of hair above his pants, and Harry keeps his arms looped around Louis’ waist, palms pressed flat against his back, so that they’re lined up together, legs slotted. 

He doesn’t become aware of the moment he loses consciousness, just feels himself slip away somewhere heady and quiet, until all that’s left is Louis’ breathing and the fuzz of yellow in the corners of his dreams as the sun comes up. 

-

did you steal my jumper on thursday?

Harry’s sorting through his drawers, drowsy noon light caressing his back, muscles achy and tired from the night before. Louis answers him a few minutes later. 

the velvet underground one ???

the velvet underground one

i totally did

why ?

because i want to wear it, obviously 

too bad its mine now , ive claimed it

fuck off you have. i’m coming over 

bring me food pls

Louis lives on the other side of the city, in a tiny block of flats set in a grey, grimy building, fire escapes rusting and looping around it’s outside. The sun is just beginning to set when Harry pulls up, bags packed in the boot. In all honestly, getting the jumper off Louis isn’t an absolute necessity. It’s just another excuse to see him outside of Motley. Last night, they’d kissed right before Harry had to be on stage, and he’d been lost in the heat of it, lost in the way Louis’ thumbs were rubbing tiny circles into his hips until Zayn had burst out through the side door looking halfway to a meltdown, telling Harry he had to be on stage right fucking now.

He takes a few minutes in his car to breathe and prematurely talk himself out of doing anything stupid. 

Louis buzzes him up straight away, and when he opens the door, his eyes go to the plastic bag in Harry’s hand instantly. “You brought me food,” he chirps, like he’s pleasantly surprised by it.

“You asked me to,” Harry says, stepping inside. 

“Thanks,” Louis closes the door behind him and nudges the hips together, taking the bag from Harry, peeking inside. “Thai?” 

“Mhm.”

“You’re a blessing,” Louis sets the food on the counter, then disappears around the corner, down the hall. Harry follows.

He’s only been to Louis’ place a handful of times, always on a Saturday night, when things are hazy and his brain is asleep. It’s strange to be here in the daytime, bundles of amber light splayed out in the hallway, trailing into the open door of Louis’ room. It’s warm, but the heat settles kind and buzzing around Harry’s body, lets him move free and breathe easy when he ducks through the doorway, enveloped in Louis’ smell, his messy bed and the books strewn across his desk, glasses and gum and The Plague on the nightstand. The window is propped open, balmy wind ruffling the ends of Louis’ hair as he crosses the room and tugs the jumper from the back of his desk chair.

Harry wonders if that means he’s been wearing it, and when Louis passes it over he has to refrain from pressing the fabric up to his nose, just to see. 

“Didn’t realize I was wearing it when I left,” Louis says, which, if the look in his eyes is anything to go by, is a total lie. Harry doesn’t call him out on it, warmth curling in his stomach.

“That’s alright,” he shrugs. “I’d have let you keep it anyway.”

“I’ll remember that,” Louis says. “Why’d you need it?”

“Just going to stay with mum for a few days,” Harry says. “I wanted comfort clothes.” 

“Sounds lovely,” Louis hums. 

“Should be,” Harry says. “I haven’t seen her for a while.”

Louis hums again, and then they’re just standing there staring at each other, sunlight glowing against the sides of their faces. Harry’s fingers curl into the fabric of his jumper slowly, a steady pressure to his chest he can’t place.

“C’mon,” Louis inclines his head to the open window. “Sun’s nice.” 

They settle out on the fire escape, watching the sky go orange and pink between the dark metallic slats of the stairs. It tints Louis’ skin soft, peachy, makes his eyes go translucent and clear like glass, the glow of a church mural. He’s got his back against the railing, arms crossed lightly over his chest, facing the spread of the city before them, gold-tipped roofs and honey shadows, the same way gold sticks to Louis’ lashes, his nose, the same way honey clings to the line of his jaw, to his brows. 

Harry settles his hands either side of Louis’ waist slowly, because he can’t look out at the buildings and the sunset when Louis is the closest thing to him. He’s always got Harry’s attention. Louis meets his eye slowly, eyes squinted against the sunlight, lips gleaming wet, apricot dusted, the same colour that’s settled along his collarbones from the summer weather.

Harry wishes so desperately to kiss him in the softest, most simple way, like they’ve done it a thousand times before, and a tiny peck is just a hello, i think you’re lovely, just something to ease the butterfly flurry trapped in the cage of his ribs. He wonders what would happen if he kissed Louis now, neither of them intoxicated or hazy or red-eyed, in bright light, wide awake, slowly melting together with the sun breathing gently on their necks, totally aware of each other. 

He wonders if Louis would push him away or pull him closer. He wonders if Louis would let him stay. 

“My roti bread is going to be cold.”

It takes Harry a moment to register the words, still staring at Louis’ mouth, but once he does, blinking slowly, brow furrowing, he looks up. Louis is smiling softly down at him, this quiet amusement in his eyes, and Harry deflates, tension sufficiently broken.

With a stuttered mixture of a laugh and a groan, Harry lets his head droop, pushes his forehead against Louis’ chest and leans into him, fingers curled around the railing. “You’re driving me crazy,” he breathes.

Louis lets out a puff of laughter, and when Harry lifts his eyes, the look in Louis’ gaze is one he knows too well, so distinctively coy and mischievous and gently charming, his lips quirked up with a smirk. Harry’s heart falls into the palms of his playful hands. “You’re into it.”

They’re just centimetres apart now. 

His neck feels unbearably warm, but not from the sun kissing it. It’s from the almost knowing yet beguiling way Louis is watching him, head tilted a little to the side, arms still crossed. It’s from the way Louis is practically calling him out right now, the way that their lips are close to brushing, the way that the embarrassment of his eagerness pools a giddy, shuddering heat between his hips. 

“I should, um,” Harry starts to pull away. “I should-”

Louis’ hands clasp his neck, and he brings their mouths together gently, their lips frozen for a moment before Harry remembers how to breathe and control his body, opening up under the soft press of Louis’ fingertips on his jaw. It only lasts a few seconds before Louis pulls away entirely, bottom lip bitten back into his mouth, almost like he’s hiding it away from Harry’s teeth. 

“See you?” he says. Harry stares at him, mind racing. They’ve never kissed like that before, and he frantically tries to figure out what this means, if it means anything at all or if he’s just being too hopeful. 

“Yeah,” he breathes, slides his fingers off the railing. “I’ll see you.” 

In the safety of his car, he brings his jumper to his face, burrows into the soft sleep-smell, warm and earthy and sweet, cherries and smoke, mixed with Louis’ cologne. A pleased smile curls over his mouth, and he pulls away from the curb with a balloon of warmth expanding inside his ribcage. 

-

“This is fucking bullshit!”

Harry flinches away from Niall, narrowly avoiding an elbow to his temple and almost spilling his beer all over himself.

“Calm down, mate,” Harry says, watching with caution as Niall button smashes the controller in his hands, tongue poking out of his mouth. He looks like he’s actually broken into a sweat.

“Are you seeing this?” Niall gestures to the telly, livid. “Bullshit.”

“This is why I hate playing video games with you,” Zayn says cooly from the armchair, legs crossed, calm and poised as he watches the screen. “You’re a sore loser.”

“I’m not,” Niall huffs. “This is rigged.”

“It’s NBA, Ni,” Liam blinks. “It’s alright.” 

“I don’t even understand the real game,” Niall says. Harry gently takes the controller out of his hands and passes it on to Liam. 

It’s Friday night and Harry’s just come from practice, sleepy and a little sweaty. They’re at Louis’ place for an apparently well needed catch up, as Louis’ text had put it, and now they’re all gathered around the lounge, sprawled on the sofa with packets of food surrounding them while they wait for Louis to get home from his shift. 

Harry’s almost fallen asleep by the time the front door creaks open, head lolled against the back of the sofa, neck aching with it. When the handle turns, he lets his face turn lazily, and Louis’ eyes meet his almost immediately, paused with his hands full of plastic bags, fringe sweaty over his forehead, tank top stuck to his ribs. Harry smiles, and Louis smiles back, closing the door behind him softly.

“Did you bring more food?” Liam asks, head popping up from where he’s seated on the floor.

“Obviously,” Louis says, and his fingers find the lights, dimming them. He’s still looking at Harry, just staring at him with this face and Harry can’t even begin to read his expression or understand it, and as the bright yellow of the lights fade and go dark, the blue glow of the telly burning into his eyes, Harry reaches for his phone and opens up his notes, thumbs moving rapidly as he types out the words that have sprung to life almost by themselves. 

They budge up on the sofa together, Louis squished between Harry and Niall, Harry squished right into the side, but Louis is warm and close and has his head on Harry’s shoulder, so he can’t say he minds all that much. It’s a quiet night, just them talking shit and drinking slowly, blinking blearily against the films they put on that nobody is really paying attention to in the end, instead throwing food into each others mouths like they’re kids, and things feel warm and homey and Harry is content, happy in this little bubble they’ve created.

Zayn heads off with Liam close to one in the morning. They pull out the sofabed, the three of them squished up again, Louis still in the middle, and Harry curls towards him because he’s tired and a little drunk and in the blue-dark, it’s impossible not to be closer to him. Louis doesn’t say anything when Harry presses his face against his ribs, tucks curled fists against his hips. It’s quiet again, just their whispers, then the snick of a lighter and the burning, sticky smell of weed.

They pass it back in forth, sprawled on their backs, taking turns to inhale long and slow. Niall’s got a leg thrown over Louis’, and Louis’ head is propped up under Harry’s arm, and it’s just–. It’s nice. 

“I was, like…” Louis starts, trailing off and waving the bud between his fingers with a vague motion. “I was thinking of going back to uni.” 

“Really?” Niall says. He sounds far away. Harry has his eyes closed, nose pressed against Louis’ shoulder.

“Yeah,” Louis says quietly, inhaling. He nudges Harry, and he takes the spliff with careful fingers. “I dunno, I’m just, like. I feel restless or something, y’know?”

“Mm,” Niall hums. “I get you. What do you wanna do?”

“No fucking clue,” Louis huffs a laugh, and Harry does open his eyes then, because it’s dejected and quiet and the warmth in his chest is suddenly weighty. “Just feel like I’m wasting time. I want to like, get a proper career, stretch towards something. Sounds kinda stupid, but–”

“‘S not,” Harry says, muffled by Louis’ shirt. He can feel the pause, hears the shift of Louis looking down at him. “Not stupid at all, Lou. You’d be good at it.”

“I don’t even know what it is, yet, rock star,” Louis says, hands in Harry’s hair now.

“Still,” Harry says. “Uni isn’t everything, anyway. I never went.”

Louis goes quiet, fingers stroking feather light through Harry’s hair. It’s so calming and he can feel himself sinking, feels Niall reach over and pluck the dying bud from between his languid fingers, body going numb and woozy, tucked against Louis’ side. Niall starts to snore soon after, quiet snuffles, and Harry’s eyes feel heavy and watery, sleep tucked in the corners, his legs tucked under Louis, seeping into his warmth.

“Night, babe,” Louis whispers to him, and Harry’s stomach ties itself into knots as he drifts. 

Then Louis gets off the bed carefully, springs creaking under his weight, and Harry suddenly feels so cold, feels a chasm of empty space in the spot where Louis had just been, almost like he can fall through the wrinkled spot in the blankets between him and Niall. Louis’ feet pad softly over the floorboards, distant, and then the door to his bedroom snicks closed and Harry is left with the silence, just the city in the distance and the little red glow of the telly on standby, Niall still snoring with his mouth parted beside him. 

It takes less than ten minutes for him to get up.

Louis is still awake when Harry slips through the doorway, facing him like he was waiting, and he sits up immediately, starts to tug off his shirt when Harry stumbles to close the space between them, hands finding Louis’ waist immediately, lips making the most obnoxious, wet sound when they meet, when Louis gets his shirt off from over his head and Harry can push him down into the sheets. 

It’s desperate and sleepy and they kiss like they’re dying for it, Louis hands shoving into the front of Harry’s jeans, not even bothering to try unzipping them as he tugs them off awkwardly. Louis is just in his boxers and his body is soft in the moonlight, the curtain pulled back and letting all the silvers and navys in, and Harry wishes that he could capture this moment forever, a grainy snapshot of desperation and something deeper when he finally kicks his jeans and his pants off and then they’re both naked and reaching for each other, gasping wetly. 

“Can I–,” Harry cuts himself off with a moan, Louis biting at his throat, getting a hand around him, and it’s so heady and fast and he can barely breathe, just spreads Louis’ legs and brushes his thumb over his hole in question. Louis answers by pushing at his shoulders, whispering these desperate yeah-yeah-yeahs and then Harry is opening him with his tongue, tasting the sour-sweetness of him there, all summer and warmth, kiwi fruit and whiskey, something smoking and dark and it’s too much, it’s too fucking much.

“God,” Louis arches into him, grabs at Harry’s fringe with both hands and pulls him in until Harry is so close he can’t breathe, fingers digging shadows into Louis’ thighs. There’s a desperation to it that’s unlike anything Harry has ever felt before, this need to please him and be pleased and before he can register what’s happening Louis is tugging him up and and rolling them over in a tangle of limbs, turning and reaching for Harry’s thighs, arse in front of Harry’s face, mouth licking at his cock and oh. Oh, God.

“Lou,” Harry chokes out, lips skidding along the soft skin of his cheek, and then he’s thumbing them apart, pressing closer than he was before, and he can feel Louis leaking onto his chest and this is so dirty and raw and he hasn’t done this for so long. It feels teenage and vibrant and so good and his eyes are almost dewy with it, how fucking good this is. 

Everything sounds wet and breathy and their whimpers and moans are stuck in their throats. It’s all happening too fast, Harry’s thumbs rubbing and sliding up along Louis’ cheeks to his back, making him rock forward, making him swallow, and Harry is gone, absolutely gone, lost in the heat of everything and the overwhelming sensation of being close to someone like this, being close to Louis. 

He has to pull away to breathe, sucking in huge lungfuls of air that get broken apart by moans, hips twitching. “I’m gonna come,” he whispers. “Lou, I’m gonna come.” 

Louis pulls off slowly, rests his head against Harry’s hip and just breathes, and they sprawl like that for a moment, their eyes glassy, fingers shaking and buzzed because their bodies are touching everywhere. Louis sits up slowly, looks at Harry over his shoulder, hair an absolute mess, flushed bright red from his cheeks down to his chest, a gooey shadow in the dark. 

“Fuck me,” he says, and Harry closes his eyes, reaches for him, sighs into the wet kiss that Louis greets him with, and it feels entirely obscene considering where their mouths have just been, but it’s intimate and Harry curls around him, pushes Louis onto his back and reaches for his bedside drawer, scrambles through the mess there until he finds what he’s looking for. He can’t stop kissing him, can’t stop touching his skin, and Louis is begging him now, quiet little hiccups of please, babe. 

Louis bites at the back of his hand when Harry fingers him open, and Harry just stares, gapes with a wet mouth at the sight of him trying to muffle the sounds he’s making because Niall is sleeping just down the hallway, and Harry’s mind is running away on it’s own, imaging all the ways he could make Louis get loud, so loud that even trying to hide what they’re doing right now wouldn’t be enough. Kissing him helps, though, because that way Louis is breathing the soft sounds he makes into Harry’s mouth, and Harry curls around them and feels them thrum in his chest when he stretches his fingers out, when Louis goes boneless and nudges Harry’s hip with his knee sharply, bossy as ever, arching into his touch desperately. 

Things go still when they’re finally pressed together, and Harry has to pause for a moment at the tightness of him, the warmth, the intimacy of it. Louis has to nudge his hip again, rolling his hips up as Harry starts to gradually rock down, mouths parted and brushing as they move together and find a rhythm. He thinks of that night in the van, of Louis’ voice raspy and wrecked, of his own, tell me-tell me-tell me, and now all is silent, their words sucked away because nothing seems to fit in this moment. Nothing seems enough.

They breathe together and Harry is fucking into him sharply before he can stop himself, face buried in the sweaty warmth of Louis' neck, their hands grappling everything, writhing on the bed as they move with it, and they’re being loud, now, pants and moans and these drawn out, devastating whimpers, and then Harry gets a hand on Louis’ cock and he’s coming, crying out and holding on tight, letting Harry stay inside while he finishes off, coming soon after because Louis shaking and spilling between them is obscene and he can’t hold off any longer. 

They lie still for so long after, panting and staring with hazy eyes, Harry pulling out of him gently, disposing of the condom, and he lays a soft hand over Louis’ hip and thumbs at the thin skin there, forehead pressed into his neck. He swallows wetly when one of Louis’ hands smooths up Harry’s back, the other threading into his hair, and that, the intimacy that lingers, the kiss that Louis smudges against Harry’s temple, that’s what makes his heart flutter fast than it has before, makes that weight in his chest feel like a tonne, stomach burning with it. 

“Y’alright?” Harry whispers into Louis’ neck, still stroking his hip gently. 

“Yeah,” Louis rasps. He’s got his head tipped back, eyes closed. “Y’alright?”

“Yeah,” Harry echoes. 

He knows they should probably have some kind of conversation, but exhaustion curls around his bones and tugs him under, bubbled in warmth and the smoothness of Louis’ skin, the gentle glide of palms down his back lulling him to sleep.

In the morning, Louis is up and cooking breakfast when Harry stumbles into the kitchen. Across the counter, Niall is holding a newspaper up to cover the pink, giddy flush of his cheeks, and when Harry sits beside him, Niall kicks him so thoroughly in the shin that he has to bite his bottom lip into his mouth to keep the sound trapped inside.

Louis just slides a scrambled egg onto Harry’s plate and smiles, soft as ever, sunrise blushing him gold. 

-

The night comes and Harry is still holding a hopeful warmth in his chest. Motley is disgustingly hot tonight, and Harry complains about the lights to Zayn with a whack to his hip before they go onstage, eying the lumps of people squished up against the stage. There’s another reason he feels so giddy and full of heat, nerves making his fingers shake when he checks his tuning, Sarah grinning like the sun at him when she brushes his shoulder, winking. And. He just tries to breathe, for now. 

They take the stage and run their set and Harry’s lips are still fuzzy from when Louis had kissed him earlier, still fuzzy from when they’d gotten pancakes for lunch and Louis had kept his gaze ducked and his cheeks were pink, still fuzzy from the way they’d pressed together in the dark, all the ways they’d touched each other. He sings his heart out and feels glassy eyed and in a dream, and when Louis watches him from the bar, feigning nonchalance and winking whenever Harry looks over, his ribs feel close to cracking with how much air he has to let into his lungs. 

“This is our last song tonight,” Harry says, gripping the mic because he feels like he’s about to fall over, legs gone jelly like and weak in a way they haven’t gone in a long time when he’s been up on stage, but Louis is watching him and this feels very much like something Harry can’t come back from. “It’s something new we’ve been writing together over the last few weeks. This is Soundcheck.”

Louis’ reaction is immediate, a seriousness settling across his expression, eyes flickering, and Harry looks away because if he looks at him, he might just leave the stage all together. It starts all at once, Sarah counting them in and then Harry is spilling his guts right there, under the ridiculously hot spotlights with over a hundred eyes on him, letting all caution go to the wind as he sings because I don’t feel the same about you, in fact, that’s a lie, I want you. 

It picks up in the next verse and Harry is almost shouting down the mic, sweating with it, pouring everything into it, and Louis is flushed in the low light of the bar, looking down at the barmat with his lips quirked when Harry sings I raced through soundcheck just to meet you on your fag break because it’s so fucking obvious, and he can see Liam and Zayn laughing behind the bar, can spot Niall lingering in the crowd with a shit-eating grin on his face.

They smash their way through the rest of the song, and Harry feels himself getting lighter, feels all this weight shedding off him, and when Louis finally meets his eye neither of them look away until the song reaches it’s crescendo, he and Mitch lighting it up, Sarah destroying the place with how hard she’s going, and it’s all a desperate, frantic rush, the same way Harry feels every night when he gets off stage and meets Louis, always desperate for him and only him. 

It’s a bit of a blur when they stumble off stage, but Louis is there to greet him, and he whacks Harry in the stomach, then lightly upside the head.

“You’re an idiot,” he says, but he’s smiling and Harry grins at him, laughs when Louis rolls his eyes and shakes his head and makes a fuss. “Come get a drink, rock star.”

-

For a while, things are good. 

Harry kind of exists in this haze, works towards Thursday afternoons and Saturday nights, the times he gets to be solely in Louis’ company. Sometimes they kiss and sometimes they don’t but it feels okay because Louis is gentle with him when he teases, wishes him good luck and raises a glass to him from the bar when Harry is up singing songs that Louis doesn’t know are about him. Maybe.

When he comes in on Thursday’s now and it’s quiet, Harry’s feet on the counter, notebook on his lap, Louis tying his laces together into double knots, he’ll lean forward and ask Harry with this fire in his eyes, a quiet, curious prod of what are you writing? It’s always weighty now, and Louis will smirk when Harry flushes because nine times out of ten, it’s something about Louis. He’s almost finished the song he started writing at Louis’ flat, little stars drawn in the corners of the pages around his writing, blue shaded tornadoes, the soft cursive of like you’re used to being told that you’re trouble, and Louis steals the crust from his panini and Niall watches them with a book or a vinyl covering his face because he’s an absolute shit and can’t keep a straight face around them.

They share drinks and the occasional kiss, share the sofabed at Zayn’s and Liam’s and hold on to each other until Liam flicks on the light and yells at them from down the hall, share the space in Louis’ bed, where everything is warm. It’s calm and the ridiculous storm that’s been brewing in Harry’s abdomen for so long has finally calmed to a subtle swell. He still hasn’t had the courage to properly ask Louis out yet, as much as Niall keeps pestering him about it, but it still feels too early, still feels too much. He’s waiting for something on Louis’ end, some sort of sign, anything, because the last thing he wants to do is rush straight into this and have his heart smashed to pieces.

This is precisely the thought he’s having when he opens the side door after their gig tonight, sweaty and already grinning because Louis had been dancing behind the bar like an idiot all night. 

Louis isn’t alone. Harry freezes.

“Oh,” he says, and Louis shoves the other man away, expression flickering, and it’s. Oh. “Right, then.”

“Hey!” the guy says, clearly not reading the painful awkwardness of the situation, the anger that Harry is radiating, because he walks right over and holds out his hand to shake. “Mate, you are insane on stage, seriously. Such a good show.”

“Thanks,” Harry says dully, not returning the shake, still staring Louis down. He doesn’t know if he’s angry or upset or a mixture of both, but he feels close to exploding, to curling into a ball and hiding himself away because he’s embarrassed, too. 

The guy lingers for a moment, clearly confused at his lack of enthusiasm. 

“Eric,” Louis says tightly. “You should go.”

“But–,” the guy, Eric, stops. Looks between them. “Oh. Okay.” 

His footsteps seem to echo as he makes a hurried exit, and Harry stands there with his heart ripped out of his chest. He wants to throw it at Louis’ feet.

“You’re a fucking asshole,” he says. Louis closes his eyes.

“H, listen–”

“I don’t want to,” Harry says, and, fuck. He refuses to cry over this. “You’re an asshole, Louis.” 

“I know,” Louis says, scratching at his arm, and he looks ashen, staring at his toes. 

“How long has he been around, then?” Harry presses, slightly hysterical. “Because you had your dick in my mouth a few days ago, so it must be fresh.”  

“It’s not–”

“Like that?” Harry finishes, and Louis’ mouth clicks shut. “Right. Goodnight, Louis.”

“Harry, wait,” Louis makes to follow, but the moment Harry rounds on him he stops in his tracks. 

“Don’t,” he says, tremulous. “Just–. Don’t.” 

He turns, slinks through the side fence down the end of the alley to where the van is parked in front of the rusted loading bay, and he shuts himself in the back, hugs his knees to the chest and lets the dark curl around him, red light shining through. He feels like he’s about to be sick. 

-

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“No.”

“You have to talk about it.”

“No, I don’t.”

“You’re miserable.”

“Evidently.” 

It’s Monday morning. Harry has Camp Cope on because Niall is a terrible influence and he feels like wallowing. He’s allowed to wallow.

“Haz,” the look Niall gives him is pitying.

“It doesn’t even matter,” Harry says, labelling a CD aggressively. “We weren’t even properly together. It doesn’t matter.”

“You love him, though,” Niall says, and Harry pauses, puts the labeller calmly onto the counter, and crumples. “Oh, Jesus. C’mon, mate. You’re alright.” 

“He’s such a prick,” Harry sniffs, “but I just want to go talk to him. Why is that?”

“Because you don’t want to let it go,” Niall says. “You shouldn’t let it go. I’m not going to let you let it go, even if I do want to punch his teeth in.” 

“Thanks,” Harry laughs wetly and wipes at his eyes, breathing in and out, once, twice, three times. Calm. Collected. He’s fine. “I don’t think he’ll want to talk to me, either. I was so pissed at him.”

“Rightly so,” Niall says firmly. “Don’t you dare apologize first. I know you. Don’t do that.”

“I won’t,” Harry sighs.

“Good,” Niall says. “You’re way too nice. You gotta be an asshole too sometimes, y’know?”

“Right,” Harry says, rolling his eyes. He settles back into his chair and draws aggressive spirals into the back of his notebook, surrounding the rest of his stupid doodles, a pair of high heels, a cigarette, a coat hanger and random bits and pieces. A thought sparks, and he reaches for his phone.

emergency band meeting tonight? got some ideas

His phone pings four affirmatives back at him, and something curls in his stomach. He isn’t sure if he’ll regret this or not.

“What are you up to?” Niall peers at him over the broken cover of Hard Times.

“Nothing,” Harry says, locking his phone. “Nothing at all.” 

-

Harry’s never felt bad energy walking into Motley before, but things are so obviously tense during their soundcheck that he almost vomits backstage, huddled in the tiny staff toilet with a palm spread over his abdomen, the ghost of stage fright lingering like an old, dusty friend. Zayn and Liam are quiet so Louis must have told them something, but Zayn offers him nothing more than a clap on the back and a shot before he takes the stage, and Harry is resolutely ignoring Louis’ presence at the bar like a black spot in his vision, refusing to look over. 

As expected, he didn’t show up at Poison City on Thursday, and Harry feels like he has a hole in his chest.

They play their set and Harry tries his hardest to push past how heavy his heart feels, how it hurts to sing sometimes because they’ve changed everything so much, taken out a lot of new material because it’s all about Louis and Harry just can’t deal with that right now, and he doesn’t want to give Louis the satisfaction of it. It’s started to rain outside by the time they’re coming to a close, patrons ducking in for shelter, the heady smell of storm-water and dirty drains mixing with alcohol and sweat.

When they launch into the last song, Harry doesn’t introduce it, just listens to Clare’s smooth glissando and finally looks towards the bar. To Louis.

I’m selfish, I know. But I don’t ever want to see you with him.

It’s a gradual, slow, thing when Louis looks up, like the world turning on it’s axis, aligning. Harry sways to the beat, keeps stony faced and lets the words fall out like liquid gold, the stage lights dipping in these ambers and darks, turning things heady, and Louis’ face looks like a beacon from the warm glow of the bar. He looks caught out.

I hope you can see, the shape that I’m in, while he’s touching your skin.

Louis is frozen, watching, rapt, and Harry lets the smirk curl over his mouth, plays it up, parts his lips and slides up to the microphone stand, sensual and soft, before they roll into the chorus.

“Woman,” he sings, the band backing him up with a hum of la-la-la-la-la-la-la-la, and the shift in Louis’ expression is immediate, fingers tightening around the dishcloth in his hand. Harry’s smirk widens. 

He wrote this song at the beginning of the year, after the first time he and Sam broke up and she started seeing her ex again. Things were always rocky between them, but Harry can remember the first night he saw them together, remembers being disastrously drunk and calling Mitch and they’d written it together over the phone, the crackle of Mitch’s amp down the line distorting everything. It feels good to sing it now, feels like a release of breath, and Harry doesn’t look from Louis once, not when his gaze turns furious and flushed and Harry thinks yeah, now you know what it feels like. 

It’s unkind, childish, and not the way he would go about something like this, but he and Louis have been playing games with each other since the moment they met, and now it’s Harry’s turn to click the final piece of the puzzle in place. Check mate, he thinks, when Louis shoves his way outside before the song has even finished. 

He’s going to pay for this, he knows it. But if it sparks Louis to open up, if it works, then it’ll be worth it. He hopes it’s worth it. 

-

Louis is a silhouette when Harry closes the side door behind him quietly. 

He’s smoking fervently, crouched against the wall and out of the rain, fringe hanging in his eyes. When he hears the snick of the door his gaze darts up like a spooked animal, and when he spots Harry, he stands immediately, flicks his cigarette to the ground and stares.

“You fucking terrify me,” is what he blurts, and that–. Harry hadn’t expected him to say that. Louis runs his hands through his hair, jaw twitching as he looks at the ground. “You scare the shit out of me, Harry. Every time I look at you I want to fucking run away because I never, ever want to hurt you, and that’s all I seem to keep doing. I keep messing this up and I never meant to play and mess with your feelings the way I did, and I’m sorry.” 

Harry stares. “Why, then? Why did you act like you didn’t want me? Do you want me? Because if you don’t, you need to stop dicking me around and making me follow after you when we’re not even going anywhere.”

“I want you,” Louis says, coming closer. “I want you so much, okay? I didn’t–. I didn’t want to scare you off.”

“Scare me–,” Harry coughs out an incredulous sound. “You’re ridiculous. I’ve written so many songs about you, Louis. I’ve literally spent months hanging off every word you say to me. It’s embarrassing. And I’m still–. I’m absolutely furious with you. I’m pissed. And I don’t know if I love you or not but I know that I could, I know that I could love you but you just won’t let me. You won’t let me get close enough and you say you’re terrified of me, but I’m literally a week away from a nervous breakdown if we don’t sort this shit out.”

Louis’ mouth parts, and Harry flushes because he’s just–. Love. Jesus.

“Harry,” Louis says, and he’s close enough to touch now. “I’m sorry, from the bottom of my heart, I’m so sorry.”

“It’s okay,” Harry whispers, but Louis shakes his head.

“It’s not,” he says, grabs Harry’s hand and links their fingers. “It’s not okay and I need you to let me be sorry. I don’t want to fuck this up. You’re–. You’re the most kind, lovely person I’ve ever met. Please let me be sorry.”

“Yeah,” Harry nods, and his eyes are going misty and hot and he hates that he’s about to cry but then Louis is pulling him in, and he’s warm and safe and this might just be okay. 

“How long?” Louis rasps. Harry tucks his face into his hair.

“Nearly the whole time, I think,” he says, flushing. “Just ignored it at first, but, um. I think I knew.”

“Me, too,” Louis admits shyly, and Harry’s flush deepens.

“We’re so stupid,” he whispers, and Louis laughs, bright and echoing up the empty alley, buried in Harry’s shoulder.

“Fucking hell,” he breathes, pulling back a little, letting their noses brush. “I’m serious, though. I’m gonna make it up to you. I was such a dickhead.” 

“Okay,” Harry breathes, sniffling.

“Please don’t cry,” Louis says, cupping his cheeks and wiping the tears before they can make silver tracks. “Please, I can’t watch you cry.”

“It’s alright,” Harry laughs wetly, presses into the pretty, soft skin of Louis’ neck, hides there, sighs slowly when Louis fingers bunch in the back of his shirt. “Gonna hang this on you forever.”

“Don’t you dare,” Louis zaps Harry’s sides, and they scuffle for a moment, grinning. “We’re honestly the worst. Christ. I’m so into you, Harry. It’s ridiculous.”

“Stop it,” Harry whispers, because he feels giddy and so flushed and Louis is kissing his temple over and over.

“No,” he breathes. “I think about you all the time, and I want you to know that. Only you.” 

Harry has to kiss him then, because he feels breathless and there’s still so much to say but he can’t hold off any longer, has to press closer and feel the familiarity of Louis’ lips, feel close to him in this way again. When they break apart they linger for a moment, noses brushing, and when Harry opens his eyes Louis is smiling at him in that soft, fond way.

“You still drive me crazy,” Harry says, and Louis shoves him playfully, starts to drag him further into the shadows, eyes glinting with mischief and light and this, this feels right.

“And you’re still into it,” Louis says.

They fall together, music swelling from the bar inside, and finally, the weight in Harry’s chest stops feeling so heavy.