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Harry had kissed Louis more times than he could count.
Every kiss they shared was something different and something familiar. Sometimes he clung to the familiarity, tightened his hold on what he already knew and reencountered memories like visiting old friends. But sometimes he jumped into the unknown and kissed his boy- his /fiancé/- like his body was on fire and his heart was beating too fast and all he wanted was to show Louis how every day together could be an adventure.
Harry had kissed Louis more times than he could count. Some kisses reminded him of forgotten dinner plans and emptiness. They were tainted with memories of regret and longing and hands that didn't feel quite complete without another holding them. Sometimes, Harry kissed with the thought of forgetting the pain and the secrecy and the relationship that was tied to the hands of a fate who didn't think these two boys were ready for the world yet. Sometimes, Harry kissed and all he could think was, "I'm ready, I'm ready, please let me be ready."
Harry had kissed Louis so many times that the cracks on their lips matched. Some kisses tasted like sweet fruit and soft words and glittering laughter. They were simple and effortless, just how falling in love had been for both of them. Some kisses tasted like bad health choices and strong promises and raw desperation. These kissed were difficult to let go of. They were real and reminded Harry of all the ways they would constantly have to work to keep this love alive. They kiss and Harry can taste Louis' voice and how it changes when he curses and how it changes when he giggles and how it changes when he tells Harry that he loves him. That he will always, always love him. Harry kisses Louis and all he can think is, this is /mine/ now and this is /mine/ forever and he is /mine/ for as long as he would have me.
Harry had kissed Louis so many times that he wondered why his mind still spins from it. He wonders how kisses can still taste like warm mornings and pillow talk. How kissing someone can make him feel so indestructible and yet so completely vulnerable. He wonders how kisses can erase the exhaustion of his body and calm the ramblings of his mind and keep him tight within the confines of the safe space within Louis' arms. Sometimes he kisses Louis just to tell him that he would do anything, fight anyone, break any wall he needs to just to make sure his boy can feel safe as well.
He wonders if everyone feels this way.
He hopes that they do.
Harry had kissed Louis more times than he could count and one day he stops counting. Because every kiss was a disguised forever, an always in my heart, a lets grow old together, a I'm never going to let this go. Harry stopped counting because what's the use of counting something that you know you can't live without? When Harry kisses Louis he can breathe out relief and breathe in hope again. Kissing Louis tastes like shared cups of tea and shared blankets near the fire and a shared life together. They taste like a shared future and so Harry stops counting the kisses and starts counting every way he can make Louis happier.
Some days Harry thinks of all the times he had kissed Louis. The whispered kisses in his parent's bungalow- both of them cautious and slow and so incredibly giddy. The hidden kisses in dressing rooms before shows- undeterred yet excited. Harry likes to think about his favorite kisses even though he can never decide which he likes more. He thinks about the kisses that don't need to be concealed, the happiness he can show openly in front of his band mates and family members. He also thinks about the kisses that were just his and Louis', the secrets that he keeps with the one person who makes him believe in trust in a world that constantly challenges the concept. Harry can never decide which kiss is his favorite, so he kisses Louis again and again and decides that maybe the next one will be the best one yet.
Long after Harry stops counting, the kisses never stop. They keep coming until he's drowning in the love he has for this boy, this /man/, who has brought him Christmas in June and sunshine on a winter morning. Sometimes the kisses are bitten into too warm skin between sheets and panted into mouths that have forgotten how to speak. Sometimes the kisses are touches under tables and wrapped around arms that are wound together. Sometimes the kisses aren't even kisses at all, they're words and fond looks and the fact that there are always two bowls of cereal in the dishwasher and two pairs of shoes near the door and two souls intertwined together. Some kisses were just the fact that somewhere down all the roads they had travelled Louis and Harry had become LouisandHarry. Some kisses were just a celebration of that.
Harry had kissed Louis more times than he could count. And every day he never wanted to stop kissing Louis. So he inks his body with symbols of his love and spends hours writing words to describe it. And at the end of every day, he kisses Louis once, twice and then a few times again just to remind himself that tomorrow he can do it all over again.