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Louis wonders if you can be terrified of someone in a good way.
Not scared of them, even. Terrified of the way they make you feel.
Not… soppy shit. Not butterflies. Not that rollercoaster belly swoop shit people always talk about.
It’s that feeling you get at arse o’clock in the morning when you’re so pissed their face looks like it’s glowing a bit, the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen, and you’re hit with that real fear. In that moment you know exactly why some people say forever and mean it, and it nearly makes you ill.
It’s all empty promises, Louis knows. The only person he trusts to love him that long is his mum, but there are moments he looks at Zayn and thinks about epic love stories, and it’s more real than anything he’s ever felt before.
And it’s terrifying.
In a good way.
Like lighting a sparkler and let it fizzle down, down until the heat hits his hand and pops against his skin, but he feels giddy and thrilled as he drops it. It’s a metaphor. Maybe he’ll get burned, maybe he won’t -- but it might be worth it for that feeling of accomplishment he’ll get when it’s all said and done, incapable of taking it any further.
He never thought he’d wind up here -- stoned, curled up on a beanbag chair, completely content watching someone else paint, wishing he could draw so that he could trace the curve of their shoulders, the taper of their waist, the curl of ink over nearly every available piece of skin. So he could attempt to capture even a tiny bit of the easy, sensual beauty of the moment.
But here he is -- stoned, curled up on Zayn’s beanbag chair, doing exactly all of that and contemplating Zayn on top of it. The newly dyed purple of his hair, the unfinished lines of his back tattoo, the bruises on his knuckles from the fight he got into at the club three days ago.
They’ve only known each other for a handful of months and Louis feels infinity between them.
“I’m so fucking stoned,” Louis says out loud, snapping himself out of it. Out of the Zayn-daze he was in. Zayn looks over at him, heavy lidded eyes and a lazy smile, and Louis is very warm all over. “You’re doin’ great, honey.”
Zayn throws a paintbrush at Louis’ head. Louis manages to deflect it with his wrist, but he still gets splattered with purplish paint water. “I was complimenting you.”
“You’re being a shithead,” Zayn says, but he’s ducking his head and grinning that shy way of his.
Yeah, okay, Louis sounded a bit sarcastic, but it’s not like Louis can actually say I know I’m bias, but you’re the most talent person I’ve ever laid eyes on, or I could watch you for hours and never get bored, or I think this is what love feels like so he teases instead. Maybe Zayn will figure out what he means eventually.
“Take a break,” Louis whines, managing to reach his arms out and make grabby hands. He feels lazy and a bit floaty, and he needs Zayn so much closer.
Zayn snorts, but he gets up and stretches, taking his time with it. Louis is okay with that. Definitely okay with watching the way Zayn’s muscles flex and shift, all the ink down his ribs and around his back fluttering in a way that’s probably the light and the weed, but he wants to pretend it’s magic -- if anyone is magical in this very mundane, boring arse world it’s Zayn Malik.
There’s fresh smears of paint on his already paint-smeared jeans. It’s all over his fingers, the back of his wrist, the soft inside of his arms. There’s some on his stomach, a smear on his hip, a cliche brush stroke on his cheek.
He stops, standing over Louis, and Louis sits up properly, thumb pressing to a large drop of blue on the curve of Zayn’s lower stomach. It’s still wet, so it smears down to the waistband of his jeans, a bright blue invitation.
Louis looks up at Zayn from under his lashes, mouth already watering. Zayn knows, eyes soft as he slides his fingers through Louis’ hair with that gentle, firm grip Louis loves. “Don’t get paint in me hair,” he warns, hands on Zayn’s flies.
“Too late,” Zayn mumbles, grinning
He’s lucky Louis nearly has his prick out Louis thinks petulantly, even as he tugs Zayn in by his hips and shoves his pants down. His dick springs free, nearly taking out Louis’ eye. He flinches away, flushing at Zayn’s low chuckle. He shuts up pretty quick when Louis gets a hand around him and wanks him tightly before swallowing him down.
Louis loves sucking Zayn off when he’s stoned. Likes the heavy way Zayn’s cock sits on his tongue, the way Zayn doesn’t stop running his hands through Louis’ hair. The way everything smells like Zayn and paint, and Louis’ spit, and skin.
Likes the noises Zayn makes. The quiet groans and little hitches of breath as Louis takes his time. He goes slow, slow enough that he knows Zayn won’t come. Slow enough to feel dazed when he pulls off, lips buzzing from the stretch and the slide.
He tugs Zayn down onto the bean bag with him, laughing as Zayn stumbles with his jeans around his ankles. He waits as Zayn kicks them off, tugs him in for a kiss when he’s free of them.
They kiss slick and sloppy, teeth catching on lips and tongues brushing. Louis breathes through his nose and holds on, lets Zayn overwhelm him.
“I told Nialler we’d stop shagging on the chair,” Zayn says, panting against Louis’ mouth. Louis shrugs and kisses him again. Rough this time, a dare.
He groans when Zayn rolls on top of him, knees dropping open automatically so Zayn can make himself comfortable. Louis makes a needy noise, high and whining, as Zayn rocks his hips down, grinding against Louis in a way that makes the ache between his legs so much better and so much worse at the same time.
“Xe doesn’t have to know,” Louis says, voice low and rough. “I think there’s still condoms in the table by the couch.”
“You’re a fuckin’ menace,” Zayn says, but he’s up all the same, cupping his dick as he hurries to get them. He pulls one out and throws it at Louis’ head.
“Twat,” Louis says fondly, rubbing his head where the corner hit.
When Zayn smiles, it’s all stoned and squinty. The yellow light from the kitchen rings around his head like a halo, softening his edges in gold. He looks like an angel. Like a god. Like the most beautiful thing Louis has ever seen.
It puts an ache in Louis’ chest. That terrible, terrifying feeling that stretches between him and Zayn like a red string, like a name scribbled on their wrists, like Zayn’s got half Louis’ heart beating in his chest. Louis doesn’t believe in soulmates, but Zayn makes him want to.
“I can’t tell if you’re thinking too hard or if you’re just really stoned,” Zayn mumbles, dropping on top of Louis again.
“Both, I reckon,” Louis admits, shifting so Zayn fits again, so all their bits slotting together like puzzle pieces. Rough puzzle pieces with pointy edges, but they still manage to fit so well.
Zayn hums an affirmation pressing kisses against Louis’ throat, lips soft and wet and dragging over Louis’ rampant pulse.
“You’re a tease,” Louis accuses, as Zayn sucks a mark into his collar, tongue licking over it is before he kisses Louis’ sternum, before he sucks a mark right over Louis’ pec scar. Louis moans quietly as Zayn slinks down his body, pressing kisses to his trembling stomach, his twitching hips.
“Zayn,” Louis says softly.
Zayn grins up at him and tugs the rest of his kit off, throwing everything off to the side. He runs his hands up Louis’ thighs, looks him over slowly like there could possibly have been any changes since the last time they shagged a few hours ago.
Louis lets him look. Tries not to be self conscious about any of it, knows that Zayn likes every inch of him. He’s learning how to like his body the way Zayn likes his body or at least, learning how to be okay with the way Zayn likes his body. It’s easy like this, getting to see the appreciation on Zayn’s face, the lazy smile on his lips as he touches Louis.
They fuck with Zayn over him, covering him, rocking into him so slowly Louis feels like he might come apart. He gets lost in it. The filthy wet slide of their bodies, sweat slicking all the places they’re pressed together. The sharp points of their hips as they come together, sharp as the teeth Zayn sink into Louis’ bottom lip, sharp as the way Zayn gasps when Louis twists his fingers in Zayn’s hair.
That feeling builds in Louis’ chest, completely consuming. He’s light-headed and dizzy, can barely breathe, feels too big for his body. Zayn’s hands are all over him. In his hair, down his neck and chest and stomach. Touching Louis in a way that he knows will get Louis off, Louis’ slick easing the friction as Zayn works him over quick and rough.
When Louis comes, it’s like after holding your breath so long your lungs ache, air sweet when you finally gasp. And Zayn’s trembling right along with him, moaning into Louis’ neck as he thrusts deep, warm and sweaty and perfect everywhere they touch.
They move just enough to get their pants on and cuddle up again. Louis is shockingly sober after that. Still fuzzy around the edges, but clear headed enough to know he was definitely thinking some shit earlier that would be massively embarrassing when said out loud.
“You good?” Zayn asks, voice light. He’s lying on Louis’ chest, stroking over Louis’ scars with the tips of his fingers, making Louis feel sleepy and boneless the way he always does when Zayn touches him so aimlessly.
This is what love feels like, Louis thinks to himself. It sounds daft even in his head so he doesn’t say it. Doesn’t say anything, just pulls Zayn up for a kiss and hopes maybe Zayn will figure out what he means eventually.