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Harry’s on the couch. In his head.
Really, he’s not even made it that far yet, still wrestling with the old lock on the front gate, a sunburn already spreading on his arm. The key’s a fat, chunky thing, ancient, and he always forgets the trick is lifting the handle while he twists. By the time he drags his body across the stone path, the inside of his shirt is faintly damp with sweat, and his hair’s doing the mad-curl thing it does after a proper day out.
The Florentine villa he uses when he’s writing is small. Italian listings always say “charming” when they mean “old and poky.” But it’s perfect for hiding, anyway. When he steps inside, the world goes muffled. In order to write an acceptable fourth album, he needs muffled.
He kicks his shoes off in the entryway, and his first instinct is to strip, so he peels off his over-worn blue jacket, and the shirt, and drops them somewhere on a chair. He scratches at one of his arm tattoos, yawns, and wanders straight back into the tiny kitchen.
His first order of business is comfort. He swaps out his jeans for loose shorts and a vintage tee; the fabric is years old, thin, probably stolen from a night he doesn’t remember. He snags a hair clip off the counter and shoves his hair up, out of his face.
Second order of business: Something to clean the day out. Ginger and tumeric, likely. He’s become the sod who uses a juicer on holiday, but he likes the zing of ginger when it hits his nose. He always feels better. He slices the root, turmeric staining his fingertips orange. The juicer is one of those awful rental models that stutters and spits, but he coaxes a shot’s worth out and adds a fat wedge of lemon, then a sprinkle of black pepper.
He pours it into a glass and it glows, almost radioactive.
“All right,” he mutters to himself, “let’s have you.”
He knocks it back in one go. The ginger fizzes down his throat and the turmeric stains his tongue. His eyes water. He coughs, then laughs, and sets the glass down for someone else (future Harry, poor thing) to clean up.
He flops onto the sofa with his legs stretched out, one arm slung over his stomach as he grabs his phone. His face unlocks it. The screen is full of messages from today, and he flicks through them lazily. His thumb hovers, then he opens Instagram. Scroll, scroll, ignore DMs. He almost misses the recommended post halfway down, scrolling up to land on it. Louis.
He’s in black shades in the photo, a duffel thrown over his shoulder, striding through the airport surrounded by his band and security. He’s in black joggers, trainers, a cap that doesn’t allow Harry a look at any kind of new haircut that could be under it. The caption comes from an update account: “LOUIS LANDING IN ITALY TODAY!”
Harry bites the side of his thumb. There’s an immediate thud in his chest, fast and a little humiliating. He’s known Louis would be in Italy this week, everyone in the business, and the public, knew. But Harry didn’t know when exactly he’d arrive. There’s a difference between knowing someone’s inbound and seeing them standing in your timezone. Especially when you were helplessly tied down to them for ten years. Broken up for five. Still somehow getting tangled in each others sheets on and off. Harry inhales.
He zooms in on the picture. He can’t help it. Louis looks good. So fucking good. Mad to admit it, but his ex looks better than the last time Harry saw him in person, five months ago.
He shouldn’t text him. He should leave it alone and let the past stay buried, wherever he binned it the last time they said they’d stop sleeping together. They’re good at that. Lying to themselves.
But Harry’s never had self control where Louis is concerned.
He opens their chat, and there’s a pang when he sees the last message, months ago, a thumbs up from Louis. Sums them up, really. He hovers, then types “hey” and deletes it, then starts again.
Harry: Helloooooo x
Stupid. Instead of overthinking it, he hits send.
Louis: Hmmmm stalking me, popstar?
Classic. Very on brand.
He grins, though nobody’s around to see it.
Harry: Saw you on insta. Pap game’s strong!!
Louis: I live for the cameras obviously
Harry: You land all right? Not thrown out of the country yet?
Louis: Give me 12 hours
Louis: Already necked a minibar wine, so I’m acclimatising.
Louis sends a photo of a miniature bottle of red, pinched between two fingers, his mouth twisted in mock disgust. He’s propped on a hotel bed with his back to the headboard. Now Harry can see he’s cut his hair; shaved at the sides, fringed on top. Harry bites his lip. Yeah. He looks so fucking sexy. He wonders if Louis is thinking about him the same way. He wonders if he should cross the line or if this is still banter and nothing else.
Harry: Nice view :)
Louis: You want a better one?
That makes Harry’s stomach jolt. Desperate, he plays right along.
Harry: Depends. Something worth seeing???
Louis: You wound me.
There’s a pause, three dots, then:
Louis: Come find out. Unless you’ve got a marathon to run tonight?
Harry huffs, rolling his eyes, but he can’t kill his giddy little smile. He tugs his knees up, his heart thudding.
Harry: I should probably skip it for a night with Italy’s favourite bad influence
Louis: Stop flirting with me, H, you’re shite at it
There’s no reason to go to Louis’ hotel. No logic in giving in other than the fact that he wants to, that his entire being longs for Louis when he’s in the same country, let alone the same timezone. They’re like magnets that only stick the wrong way.
He remembers the last time they did this. Both tipsy after Glasto, fucking like the world was ending and pretending it was just about the hookup and not the history wrapped around it. That should have turned him off for good, but here he is, thumb hovering again. Predictable as anything.
Harry: Where are you staying?
It’s bait. He knows it, Louis knows it, but neither of them bother pretending otherwise.
Louis: So you woulddd like to know
Harry: You did invite me over :p
Louis: Yeah yeah. come save me from shit telly
Louis: Promise I’ll make it worth your while x
The innuendo is textbook. Completely transparent. Harry flushes, sucking on his lower lip. God, he wants cock tonight. He definitely, definitely needs to go to Louis’ hotel.
He types back quickly.
Harry: Can’t refuse such an offer can I?
Louis: Don’t think so 😝
Louis: Up in 411 at the Regis. Car can come round back, I’ll handle it
Harry takes a deep breath, nearly dizzy. He can’t decide if he’s nervous or just wired from the idea of seeing Louis again, like the last ten “we should stop”’s didn’t matter. They didn’t. He’s seeing his ex tonight.
So: prepping.
The routine he has for when he’s seeing Louis always feels a bit mad, when he thinks about it, but he needs it. The craving to be bare and beautiful for him hasn’t left, Louis likes him soft and well-kept. He’s always called Harry high maintenance, but like a compliment. Harry likes the idea, secretly. Being good like that.
He moves to the bathroom and undresses, the pipes rattling as he runs his shower. He lathers himself with expensive shower gel he loves in a vanilla, shea butter scent. He gets everywhere, kneading the soreness out of his thighs from yesterday’s run.
He finishes the main wash and moves on to what’s next. Grim, douching business. He grabs the plastic bottle tucked under the sink, fills it with warm water, and sighs. It’s always more of a hassle than he wants it to be, but it’s imminent when he’s having sex.
He braces a hand against the tile and does it quickly, focusing on the end result rather than the process. When he’s done, he shuts off the water, shaking moisture from his hair, then blots himself dry with a towel. He toes back into the other half of the bathroom to wash his face, rubbing in toner, then serum, then moisturizer. After, he rubs scented oil into his skin, all over, then sits to re-paint his chipped nails. He holds his hands out, fingers splayed. Good enough. He wiggles his toes, grinning. He’d paint those too, but Louis won’t be seeing much of his feet tonight. Unless things go that way, which, knowing Louis’ fondness for body worship, is always a possibility.
When everything’s dry, he slips his shorts on, then picks a mossy, green jumper from the suitcase. For a second, he hesitates by the mirror in the hall. Not bad. He can see the remnants of a tan line under the edge of the shorts, his legs shaved.
He grabs his phone and checks the time. Car. Right. He could walk, but he’s sore and he doesn’t want to show up sweaty. He books a private car for ten minutes out, then opens up his chat with Louis.
Harry: On my way. Try not to get kicked out before I get there x
────────
The security bloke who meets Harry out back at the hotel looks like he sleeps standing up. His eyes are glazed, his shoulders squared in his black jacket, and he gives Harry a bored once-over and then hustles him along the back corridor, away from the main lobby. No chance of bumping into fans, or paps, or anyone else who might be looking too close.
Security waves him in the lift unspotted, then shuffles off, and the doors slide shut. The mirrored walls have six Harry’s staring back at him, all a bit too wide-eyed. He tries to arrange his hair, but it’s fighting back, refusing to settle. He tugs his jumper straight and rubs at the back of his neck, already getting fidgety. He puts a thumb to his lips and chews at the cuticle. Fuck’s sake. He’s thirty years old, not sixteen in the XFactor toilets.
The doors weeze open, and the corridor stretches out with thick carpet and muted lamps. He does the walk to Louis’ room slow, one hand jangling the keys in his pocket, the other fiddling with his rings.
He knocks so softly that he almost misses the sound himself. He feels his heart try and climb up his throat. But the door swings back, and—
There he is.
Louis has got the same presence, the same devastating eyes, of course. He’s got on a band shirt and grey sweats clinging low at the hips, which always sends Harry spiraling. His messy fringe on top looks even better in person, and he’s barefoot, which is somehow the worst part, because it makes Harry think of all the nights spent lazing in their London house.
“Hi,” Harry says, his voice so thin it barely makes the trip to Louis’ ears. Christ.
Louis stares at him a beat too long, like he’s caught off guard, but then he tips his chin and smirks. “Hey. Get in before you flee instead, yeah?”
Harry grins, stepping inside. The suite is really nice, accompanied by Louis’ lived in traces. His shoes and half-drained coffee are on the table, his jacket tossed across the arm of the sofa. Harry shrugs his coat off, dropping it by the door, and immediately groans, “Fuck, it’s freezing in this place. Dunno how you put up with it.”
Louis closes the door behind them and flicks the lock for good measure. “Didn’t realize you’d gone soft, popstar. Want a blanket? Some slippers?”
“Yeah, and maybe a bubble bath. Treat me like a princess.”
Louis huffs a laugh. “Alright, you’ve got dibs on my rubber duck.”
“Been saving that one up, have you?”
“Just for you.” Louis cocks his head, eyes raking over him. “Drink?”
Harry shrugs, casual as he can fake. “Hit me.”
Louis jerks his head toward the kitchen. The fridge yields some beers, and there’s something so attractive about the way Louis pops them open against the edge of the counter with his thumb bracing the cap. Beer spits a little, foams up, and Louis licks the drops from his tattooed knuckles. Harry fights not to moan about it.
He leans against the island. “Still got it,” Harry says, holding out for the cold bottle.
Louis sinks his elbow on the counter, the beer clinking against his lips. “I could open bottles with no hands if I had to.”
“Can confirm,” Harry replies, and he’s rewarded with a proper smile.
It’s natural, almost normal, the way they talk as if no time’s passed.
“So,” Harry draws it out, “how’s the album rollout treating you?”
Louis shrugs. “Mad, honestly. Press junket in New York nearly broke me. Kept asking about you, actually. Band and stuff, you know. But the numbers are decent, fans are happy to have something brighter.” He takes another drink. “You’d hate the lead single, by the way. Total power pop. Saccharine shite.”
Harry pretends to wince. “Go on, then, sell it to me.”
Louis leans in, conspiratorial. “It’s got a catchy bridge, would make you crazy, and you’ll notice I nicked your move with the fruit theme.”
“Arsehole,” Harry laughs. “Taking my titles.”
“Thought you’d be flattered. Plagiarism’s the highest compliment.”
Harry drags a finger down the condensation on his bottle and lets his smile go lopsided. “Means you missed me.”
Louis looks at him over the rim of his bottle. “No one writes a song of infatuation better, H. Not even you.”
Heat creeps up Harry’s neck, but he busies himself with taking a long pull from his beer. “Anyway. Seems like you’re killing it. Saw some clips from live lounge—the hair’s a choice, by the way.”
“Fuck off. You’ve had five haircuts in 6 months.”
Harry shrugs, feigning indifference. “Think you fancied all of them.”
Louis narrows his eyes, half smiling. “I do.”
“Thanks, Lou.” He tries for sarcastic but it comes out fond.
They move to the living room with bottles in hand, and sink onto the massive couch. The cushions swallow Harry up, plush and ridiculous.
Louis sighs a little too contently. “You’ve been all over lately. Saw you were in Berlin forever. Couple weeks in Tokyo?”
Harry scratches at his jaw and shrugs, “Needed the break. Just, like, wanted to be inspired.”
“Still can’t sit still, can you?”
Harry huffs a laugh. “Like you can talk. You’ve done a lot of random shite lately.”
“Gotta keep it interesting!”
They lapse into a brief silence, and something about it is weighted. Louis tips his head back to stare at the ceiling.
Then, false casual, he says, “So, the girl. You dating her or just letting her pretend for the comeback?”
Harry nearly chokes, his beer fizzing up his nose. He wipes his mouth, his cheeks burning because Louis has always known how to find the soft spots. “You’re fucking annoying, you know that?”
Louis beams, pleased as if he’s won something. “Bet she’s not as annoying as me, either.”
“No one is.”
“Didn’t think so.”
Harry finishes his drink in three gulps, then sets the empty bottle on the table. “Such a prick.”
Louis shrugs, lazy. “Still works, doesn’t it?”
It does. Fuck, it does, and Harry shifts forward, deeper into the sofa, their knees nearly brushing. The years fall away, leaving just the two of them waiting for someone to break first. The air goes suffocating, and Louis’ gaze drops to Harry’s mouth.
Harry bites his cheek. “Can—”
Louis leans in and fits their lips together, his hand coming up to cup Harry’s jaw like he always does. Harry leans forward into it, bracing his hands on Louis’ thighs and sighing contently as they consume each other. Louis’ tongue pushes in, taking, and Harry forgets himself, opening his mouth for him, sucking on it desperately. For every second Louis is rough, he’s also gentle, softening just enough to coax a gasp out of Harry, then sucking his bottom lip.
Harry’s hands slide from Louis’ thighs up over his stomach, his chest, then land around his neck. “Knew you’d crack first,” Harry manages against his mouth, their noses pressed.
“You knew what you came here for,” Louis pants into Harry’s mouth.
Harry ignores him, kissing him more intently and moving to straddle his lap. He grinds down hard, his arms tight around Louis’ neck, his fingers raking up the back of Louis’ hair. Harry can’t help it when he practically rides his lap, Louis groaning and digging his fingers into Harry’s thighs so tight it might bruise. Harry couldn’t care less, chasing the feeling and grinding hard enough to make the sofa frame protest.
He kisses hotly along Louis’ jaw, the stubble scraping his skin, their noses buried in each other’s hair. “You missed this,” Harry says.
“Don’t be cocky.”
“Too late,” Harry mutters, biting at his earlobe.
Louis hums and pries one of Harry’s hands off his shoulder to bring it up to his mouth in a soft kiss to the knuckles. They’re both half-drunk on each other already.
“Tell me if you want to stop,” he says, voice dipped low.
Harry shakes his head. “Don’t be thick.”
“Thought you liked it when I was a gentleman.”
“Not in the bedroom,” but it comes out as a moan, cause Louis is kissing him again, deeper this time, his hands wandering under Harry’s jumper. Harry lets him drag it off his body, mussing his hair in the process. He drops it to the floor with a thud, then slides his hands down Harry’s naked hips.
“Fuck, your tits,” Louis breathes, pulling Harry closer in his lap to take one of Harry’s nipples in his mouth. Harry chokes a whine immediately, his head tilted back as Louis sucks on it, his tongue circling as it hardens.
“Lou, mmphh,” Harry moans, his dick leaking pre straight through his thin shorts. Louis responds by blinking up at him, and his eyes are so dark and hungry that Harry almost has to look away. He holds Harry by his back, abusing Harry’s tits with his mouth until Harry is so hard it hurts.
He drags his tongue up from Harry’s tits to his collarbone, then up his neck, stopping at his chin to bite it. Then, he kisses him again, more tongue than lips, making Harry twitch in his shorts. Harry shudders and digs his fingers through the hair at the back of Louis’ head, using it to tilt his chin up.
“Wanna suck on your cock,” Harry breathes, already gagging for it to be in his mouth. “Please.” He can’t stop, because he knows how Louis gets when Harry’s desperate for it.
Louis traces his cheek, his thumb grazing the corner of Harry’s mouth. “Mm, go on then.”
Harry kisses down Louis’ throat, his tongue dragging over the taste of sweat, then he drags Louis’ shirt off, losing it on the floor. He slides off Louis’ lap, making sure to give a proper show of it with his palms trailing down Louis’ chest, over that tan stomach, his nails raking just hard enough to make Louis twitch.
He hits the band of Louis’ sweats, and the bulge underneath is not at all subtle, straining obscenely. Harry’s mouth waters. “God, you always get so hard.”
“Mhm, much like you’re leaking all over your cute, little shorts.”
Harry grins, his eyes up, and drags the waistband down slowly, exposing the line of Louis’ hipbones, the smooth skin dusted with hair, and finally, Louis’ cock; thick and flushed, curved a bit toward his stomach, already wet at the tip. There’s always a pang the first time Harry gets an eyeful after being apart, it makes his heart squeeze and his dick throb. “Fucking missed it,” Harry says, mostly to himself, but he knows Louis hears it.
Harry licks his own palm to slick it with spit, and wraps his hand around the shaft. Fuck, it fits perfect. It’s hot, weighty, twitching already for him. He gives it a few strokes, twisting his wrist at the top, his thumb grazing the slit. He keeps his eyes up, his lashes dropped low, just to see how Louis reacts. Always does something to Louis, that doe-eyed look, Harry’s heard about it enough times. So he bites his lip and widens them, letting his mouth fall open just a bit while he’s jerking him.
Louis inhales deeply. “Don’t fucking look at me like that,” but it comes out breathless, so who’s really winning?
Harry bends down and licks a stripe up the shaft, pausing to suck at the head. He lets his tongue circle it, humming like it’s decadent, and he knows it’ll drive Louis mad, so he does it again, his lips soft and wet.
Louis tangles a hand in Harry’s hair. “God, sweetheart…”
Harry sets into it, sucking him off noisily. He’s never been shy about the sounds; every obscene slurp or choked gasp just makes him harder. He holds the base with one hand and squeezes at the root, using the other to knead at Louis’ thigh or cup his balls. The whole thing gets slick and messy, which is exactly how Louis likes it, his cock almost too thick for Harry to take all the way. Even fifteen years later.
Harry’s spit pools down to the base, Louis’ thighs trembling under his hands. The smell of sex is already so ripe it makes Harry’s whole body clench with even more anticipation. He wants dicked down. Good.
He glances up with his tongue still out, and that’s what makes Louis’ head tip back, one hand fisting harder at Harry’s hair.
“Fuck—Harry, I’m—” Louis gets out, barely more than a grunt.
Harry pops off, letting the cock slap against Louis’ stomach, a thin strand of saliva still connecting them. He wipes his mouth on the back of his hand and straight up pulls off his shorts, letting them crumple to the floor. He climbs right back onto Louis’ lap, straddling him.
Louis immediately grabs at his arse with his hands splayed, squeezing and pulling him down so they’re chest to chest, their dicks rubbing together to the point Harry nearly falls apart. “Still the best mouth I’ve ever had,” Louis mutters, kissing him.
Harry grins, kissing right behind his ear. “Got any condoms?” He pants, pressing himself tighter against Louis for more friction. He can’t be arsed to pretend he’s got patience left.
Louis smirks, his fingers barely teasing over Harry’s waistband. “Bit presumptive that I was going to fuck you innit?”
“Fuck off,” Harry says, but he’s so keyed up it’s practically a whine. He gives Louis a light smack on the arm. “Wanna ride you. C’mon, Lou.”
Louis nuzzles his nose into Harry’s temple, still smug. “So needy for dick. Poor thing.”
“Want it,” Harry pouts, pressing their foreheads together.
He gets a kiss on the nose before Louis shifts him aside and stands, heading for the bedroom. “Give me a sec. Got supplies in my bag.”
Harry slumps on the sofa, his thighs shaking. He doesn’t dare touch his cock, even though it’s throbbing, straining against his underwear, the wet patch spreading wider. Instead he goes for his nipples, pinching and twisting, rolling the sensitive flesh until they’re red and sore and he’s shuddering, his lip caught between his teeth. He closes his eyes, listening to Louis rummage around in the next room.
Louis returns, tossing a condom and a bottle of lube onto the table. He pauses for a second, taking in the state of Harry. “You’re such a beautiful mess.”
Harry grins, a little wild, and leans back into Louis’ hands when Louis yanks at his underwear. The fabric slips over Harry’s hips, down his thighs, and off, leaving him completely bare underneath.
“Not even in your little panties for me? Shame.”
“Didn’t pack any,” Harry says, climbing himself back into Louis’ lap, chasing the weight and heat of Louis’ dick sliding against his arse. Fuck he’s desperate.
Louis’ eyes go dark again, and he hauls Harry in for a kiss, then mouths at Harry’s jaw, the edge of his ear, then says, low, “Let me open you up.”
“Yes. Please, please.”
Louis drizzles lube onto his fingers, then reaches around, his knuckles brushing Harry’s hole, and teases slow circles at first, not pushing in yet. Harry pushes back, desperate for it, whining into Louis’ neck.
“Who did you have last?”
Harry flushes right to the roots of his hair. “You’ve already guessed.”
Louis hums, finally presses in, and the stretch burns. Harry gasps, his head dropping onto Louis’ shoulder, muscles fluttering as Louis slides the finger deeper. “Did you let her fuck you?”
“Course not.” He’s embarrassed at how fast he answers.
Louis starts to slide the finger in and out, rougher now, like he’s enjoying every second of teasing Harry apart. “Didn’t want her to know you’re a freak yet?”
Harry buries his face further into Louis’ neck as he shoves another finger in beside the first. Harry whimpers, grazing Louis’ neck with his teeth and writhing down onto Louis’ fingers, chasing the sting and the heat and the filthy stretch that makes his cock jump. He whimpers before he even realizes, “Daddy…”
Louis’ fingers still for just a second, then continue, harder. “Mm. There it is.”
“Can’t help it,” Harry breathes, fucking himself on Louis’ fingers, and the words turn into moans because it feels so fucking good, better than he remembers, being praised and manhandled like this.
Louis kisses his cheekbone, letting his lips linger. “I know. You just want to be good, is that right?”
“Yeah…yes.” He barely waits for Louis to push the next finger in, and gasps when it slides in easy, his hole twitching around the intrusion. “Ah, ahhfuck—”
Now Louis is ruthless. He widens his fingers, twisting them, then presses in hard against his prostate, and it makes Harry see stars. Maybe he’s crying out, maybe he’s just gasping, every sound ripped out of him. He clings to Louis’ neck, his nails biting into skin, the only thing holding him together.
Louis murmurs, low and intimate. “You’re so fucking wet, God, love how easy you open up for me.”
Harry just grinds harder, blinded by the stretch and the slick push in and out. He wants to come already, but he wants Louis’ cock more. He wants to ride it for hours, get bent over the arm of the sofa and stuffed full. “Want you inside,” he pants. “Want to feel you for weeks, need you to fuck me—please.”
Louis soothes a palm down Harry’s back. “You want it so bad, pretending you just came here to chat. How long you been thinking about this, huh?”
Harry makes no attempt to lie. “Weeks. Couldn’t think about anything else.”
Louis bites at his earlobe, then kisses up to his temple, holding Harry so close it’s suffocating. “Fuck, of course not, cock princess. Jesus, you’re perfect. ”
Louis adds another pump of lube, then three fingers again, pushing him right to the edge. Harry’s got his face mashed into Louis’ shoulder, mumbling a string of filth, his cock throbbing untouched. He’s fucked already, ruined on just Louis’ fingers, and he loves it, but he wants more. He needs it so bad his head is spinning.
“M’gonna come if you keep doing that. Please, want your cock.”
“Yeah?” Louis murmurs, nosing at Harry’s jaw, still fucking him with those ruthless fingers. “Wanna come on Daddy’s cock, sweetheart?”
Harry nods, frantic now, squirming so much he nearly shakes out of Louis’ lap. He leans in, pressing their mouths together again, licking into Louis’ and smearing spit down his chin. “Need,” he snarls an exhale into Louis’ mouth, “you to fuck me, please put it in.”
Louis grins against his mouth, then draws his fingers out. He watches Harry as he sucks them into his mouth, and the sight makes Harry moan without even touching himself. God, he’s so wet he’s probably dripping on the sofa. No one’s ever gotten him like this. Especially not time and time again. It’s a bit tragic, still fucking your ex after this long, but a win too, though, because this is Harry's ex.
“Want to see you bounce on me, Gorgeous,” Louis says. “Up, c’mon.”
Harry sits back up, watching as Louis tears open the condom with his teeth, rolls it down his cock, then grabs the lube and slicks himself up. For a second, all Harry can do is stare. The veins, the angry flush at the tip, the little twitch every time Harry shifts in his lap.
“Alright, sit on it for me,” Louis says, his voice gone rough. “Take what you need.”
Harry straddles Louis and lines himself up, the lube making everything glide, but the stretch still makes him gasp, black spots fizzing behind his eyes. He’s had the same big cock for half his entire life, and still can’t believe the effort it takes to sit on it. He pushes slowly at first, just to get a handle on it. The burn is perfect, everything he wants, and when he bottoms out he just sits there a second, head tipped back, eyes fluttering. He can feel every ridge and every twitch, heat radiating from the inside out.
“Jesus fucking Christ,” Harry gets out, his voice breaking. He takes a deep breath.
Louis steadies him by the hips, his thumbs rubbing circles. “Can’t take it anymore?” He teases.
“Yeah—can, fuck,” Harry grits out breathily, moving in circles gently, trying to adjust. “Just. Haven’t done anal since…”
“Since our last? That long?” Louis says, genuinely shocked.
Harry doesn’t care. He can only care about the way Louis is splitting him open right now. So he nods, and then he’s moving slowly, fucking himself up and back down, easing the faint pain away. He welcomes the stretch, and lets it fade into relentless pleasure. He wraps his arms around Louis’ neck, forehead pressed to his cheek, and uses his knees to really ride him.
“Oh God, oh fuck,” Harry groans, his nose pressing into Louis’ cheek hard, his arms tight around his neck.
Harry’s making noises nonstop. He can’t help it, he moans helplessly, sucks in pornographic gasps, and sometimes just let’s out a string of fuckfuckfuck when Louis beings to rock up to meet him, slamming in deeper. It’s more than obscene, the way the room fills with the soaked slap of their skin and Harry’s desperate wailing.
Louis squeezes his arse, fingers digging into the flesh as Harry rides him. “So fucking good. You needed this, having your cunt stuffed so full…”
Harry nods quickly as his eyes screw shut, because it’s true and then some. He loses sense of time, fucking himself over and over, Louis’ cock punching against his spot so hard he sobs into Louis’ neck. He’s all the way gone, trembling, his head emptied, and Louis must know, because he soothes a palm over Harry’s arse, then smacks it, stinging.
The slap makes Harry yelp, then clench down even harder. “Daddy, harder, fuck, again, again.”
“Fuck you’re a nasty slut, H,” Louis growls, spanking him again, harder this time. “Just need to be used so fucking bad.”
Harry feels entirely dizzy for a second. He’s leaking pre down his shaft, dripping onto Louis’ stomach. “Yesyesyesyes,” His thighs begin shaking as he pants into Louis’ ear.
Louis flips the script in an instant. He grabs Harry by the sides, hauls him up and back, and shoves him flat onto the couch. Harry lands with a thump, his legs spread wide, and then Louis is kneeling over him, lining up, and pushing all the way back in. The force of it makes Harry arch up off the cushions, grabbing blindly for anything he can. He chokes a strangled sob and grasps desperately at the coffee table. He knocks one of the beer bottles to the floor and it hits with a loud clatter, rolling under the table. They both ignore it.
Louis fucks him flat, pounding at a brutal pace that makes Harry’s head loll, his mouth open in a permanent moan. Louis folds him up, knees to chest, so deep that Harry swears he can feel him in his stomach. Harry’s arms go backward to grip the ledge of the couch, and a candle goes flying in the process, smashing off the tabletop and tumbling to the carpet. Wax splatters, and Harry just wails, getting fucking railed within an inch of his life.
“I know baby, I know,” Louis pants, his voice low.
He angles his body and nails Harry’s prostate just so. Harry’s toes curl, and the whole room swims.
“Oh fuck, fuck, right there—” He gasps, clutching Louis’ back. “Please, gonna come gonna come.”
Louis fucks him even harder at that, gritting out, “Yeah, show me how good it feels.”
Harry whimpers, blissed out, overwhelmed tears sliding down his cheeks. Louis’ hand slips between them and grabs Harry’s cock, stroking it rough and fast, the way he likes it.
Harry comes with a full-body spasm, his head thrown back and his arse clenched tight around Louis’ cock. “Ohhhgoddd, mmpphh fuck, fuck.” The orgasm rips through him so hard he’s on the verge of blacking out. Hot come spurts out, painting both their stomachs. He can’t even make a noise anymore, just shivers open-mouthed, twitching through it.
Louis curses, loses rhythm, and then starts to come, grinding deep, his big cock flexing inside the condom. He buries his face in Harry’s neck, groaning into skin, and Harry can feel him all the way through, every micro-thrust as he fucks the orgasm out.
When it’s done, Louis slumps forward, still buried inside, sweat damping his fringe. Harry drags him in for a rough, open-mouthed kiss, both of them panting too hard to do more than mash their lips together. Harry’s still switching faintly, his whole body high and satiated.
“You used the word,” Harry mutters breathlessly into Louis’ mouth.
“What word?”
“Baby.”
Louis’ nose bumps gently into Harry’s, and it’s enough to shock Harry out of his lightheaded afterglow. “Can’t help it with you, can I?” Louis whispers.
Harry’s stomach swoops. He closes his eyes. “Don’t.”
Baby. Always that word.
They’re not supposed to do that anymore. They can’t play house, or create soft returns to old love. It’s supposed to be just bodies, mutual want, and nothing left behind in the sheets except sweat and spit and the barely-audible slap of skin. He’s almost mad at Louis for it, this sweetness that keeps slipping out, but even more furious at himself for still wanting it so bad.
Louis pulls back to study him with his eyebrows quirked, and for a second Harry thinks he’s about to apologize, but Louis just grins, unrepentant. “Gonna cry on me?”
“Shut up,” Harry groans, rolling over to move away from him.
Louis tsks, reaching for him, and dragging him back. “Stay. Or you got a date tonight?”
"Yeah, I’m headed out. Got a five-star reservation with, uh—what was her name again?” But the act cracks almost instantly, the laugh slipping. “Stay for what? You want another round?”
Louis presses his thumb into the hollow under Harry’s chin. “Greedy. You need to eat. I’m not having you faint on me.”
“Don’t start with the Florence Nightingale shit,” Harry mutters, but he can’t hide the fact that he still likes it, the way Louis always claims a rough responsibility for him.
Louis rolls his eyes, then hauls Harry up and off the couch with a one-armed pull. “Shower first. Can’t say no.” Harry’s legs are wobbly, half from the fuck, half from the emotional whiplash, but he lets himself be led into the suites bathroom.
The water is scalding when they step in together, and Louis begins to wash Harry’s hair immediately, making Harry’s heart pound aggressively. His hands are so gentle and familiar, and they haven’t done this in so, so long.
Harry remembers, painfully, how it used to be when they were teenage and stupid, way too head over heels. He’d wake up next to Louis in their London flat, kissing all the way to the shower and giggling as they did so. Louis always washed Harry first, even when Harry would pretend to protest. He loved it. He loved him so fucking psychotically. There was a promise in every mindless, everyday touch. He feels the ghost of that now, and it almost maims him alive.
Louis rinses Harry’s hair with a cupped palm, water streaking down Harry’s face. Then he pulls him in for a wet and tender kiss.
“You won’t leave me alone,” Harry mumbles into his lips, water dripping from his lashes.
“Yeah,” Louis agrees, nudging their noses, then kissing him again, and for a while they just kiss, the steam curling where their bodies fit. After, Louis wraps Harry in a fluffy robe, then does the same for himself, leaving the bathroom mirror fogged over and the floor slippery. They raid the minibar for a bottle of white, then make sandwiches with the hotel’s room service delivery, with prosciutto, soft cheese, and fig jam on ciabatta.
They eat perched together on the edge of the bed, and it’s only then that Harry is hit the hardest by the fact that this is not forever. This is not real. They’re just doing what they have for so long; using and discarding each others bodies, an achingly familiar terrain that nobody else could know like they do. The sex is good because they’ve had it for so long. That’s it.
…But it’s not. It’s not just sex, and Harry has always known this. Even when he swore to himself that this was the last time, or that next time he wouldn’t care, he knew it was a lie.
He’s been so good for so long. He’s done everything he can to turn away from romance with Louis Tomlinson. He moved continents, bought new jumpers, let his therapist gaslight him into believing it was okay to want someone else, tried loving people with the gentle, normal affection he wishes he could manufacture for Louis.
But then he’s in a hotel bedroom in Florence, and Louis is next to him with his hair soaking the back of the robe, and the only word Harry can think is permanent. As in, this is the only thing that ever persists. As in, if you gave Harry a thousand lifetimes, every version of him would still crawl into Louis’ lap and beg, because there’s never been anywhere else for him to go.
Louis is talking, going on about the interview he has tomorrow, but Harry’s not really hearing him. He’s watching the way Louis’ hands move when he talks, how the veins stand up even when he’s relaxed. Harry’s aware, in a distant and slightly queasy way, that he’s two seconds from crying into his sandwich. He sets it down and lets Louis run on about the art, the food, the city’s “absolute shite” drivers.
Maybe he could say something. Maybe it would be easy, like in the movies, where one of them just admits it and they both laugh and it’s fine and nothing changes. But there’s too many years of pretending this exact forever wasn’t what Harry wanted so badly it made him fucking sick.
Harry doesn’t realize Louis has stopped talking until he catches his eyes, already watching Harry.
“What is it, H?” The voice is still raspy, nicotine-stained and uncannily gentle when he’s tired.
The words break the surface tension; they hover, low and husky, melting into the cotton batting of the hotel room’s half-light. Harry wishes he could say, nothing, Louis, it’s only the wine, but instead his throat knots, and a humiliating wetness needles at the corners of his eyes.
He squeezes them shut and wills himself to stay still, but then he’s blinking, and the tears fall.
He tries for a smile, anyway. “Just tired. S’been a long day.”
Louis doesn’t fall for it. Of course he doesn’t. He watches Harry with his gaze fixed and unapologetic. Harry can’t look at him. He glances down at the bedspread and traces the stitched hotel logo with a thumbnail.
“Don’t lie,” Louis says softly.
Harry’s face flushes, his eyes still blurring as he stifles a sob. “I miss you.”
Silence. Louis’ fingers curl around the neck of his beer bottle, whitening the knuckles. His throat moves as he swallows, and Harry feels sick for having said it.
“I’m sorry,” Harry says, the sob leaving him this time. He rubs at his cheek with the heel of his palm.
Louis sets the beer down gently, and drags a hand over his mouth. “Harry. You think I don’t miss you too?” His voice is uneven. “Like all these years of still having sex weren’t…” He gestures vaguely, then sighs. “I tried so hard not to ask you to stay after, honest. So fucking hard. But.”
Harry tilts his head back, exhaling wetly and staring at the ceiling.
“It felt too real this time, Louis,” He whispers to the chipped paint. “I’m just so angry that this is where we are. I wanted—”
“I did too,” Louis whispers back, his eyes shining.
Harry looks down at his hands, then says, “Maybe there’s a version of us somewhere that didn’t fuck it all up.”
Louis gives him a long look. His eyes are wet, but they’re kind. “Yeah,” he says. “Somewhere.”
“Lucky them,” Harry says.
Louis can’t stop staring at him, coming forward to cup the back of his neck, dragging their foreheads together. There’s a long, long silence. Then:
“Stay tonight. Pretend with me.”
Harry closes his eyes, shuddering. “Okay. We’ll pretend, tonight.”
____________
For the first time in months, Harry wakes before dawn, the world outside pressed to the windows in a velvet blue. He doesn’t recognize the room at first: the unfamiliar sheets or the raucous white of the ceiling or the faint clatter of a minibar compressor rising and falling. There’s a moment where his body flinches to instinct; new hotel, new bed, check the time, inventory the bruises, the mindless roll to check the phone for evidence of last night. But something is wrong with this reflex, or else more right than it has been for years, because he finds himself not alone, and his phone, for the first time in a decade, isn’t the first thing he needs.
Louis’ arm is around his ribs, his palm pressed flat against Harry’s chest. The rhythm of Louis’ breathing is slow and peaceful, his face half buried in the side of Harry’s neck, and his hair tickles Harry’s jaw whenever Louis exhales. Harry closes his eyes and wonders how long he has, if the morning will last, or if the universe, remembering its own cruelty, will crash through the window and rip the whole scene away.
He’s reminded, with a jolt, of being seventeen and helpless, waking up next to Louis in a sleeping bag on the floor of their first flat, and thinking: I could do this for the rest of my life. He has thought this, in a way, through every year they hated each other, or pretended to. The memory is so clear it hurts. He doesn’t realize he’s holding his breath until Louis shifts and his fingers tighten against Harry’s heart, as if to remind him it still beats.
He can’t stop looking. Even in sleep, Louis’ mouth is stubborn and beautiful, the lips parted just enough to catch a glint of tooth. There’s a smudge of sleep in the corner of one eye, the lashes clumped, the skin creased in delicate lines. His chest rises and falls, the sternum defined even at rest, and Harry loses track of the minutes. He debates for a full five minutes whether to stroke his thumb over Louis’ hand, or bury his nose in the crown of Louis’ hair, but he can’t bring himself to break the fragile peace. He’s too full, and desperate to stretch the moment as thin as it will go.
Eventually, Louis cracks. There’s the subtlest hitch in his breathing and the faintest upward quirk of his eyebrow. Harry grins before he means to, busted by the absolute lack of guile in his own heart. Louis’ eye slits open, blue and unrepentant in the pre-dawn light.
“You know you still snore, right?” Louis’ voice is rough but low.
Harry huffs, barely containing a laugh. “You’re lying.”
Louis grins into Harry’s shoulder. “Thought the neighbors might complain.”
“Leave me alone,” Harry whines like a child. “You snore. Always have.”
“Not as loud as you.”
Harry rolls his eyes, but he’s beaming. “You’re an idiot.”
Louis only presses a lazy, open-mouthed kiss to the hollow beneath Harry’s collarbone. The heat of it shivers straight through to Harry’s core. He expects Louis to roll away, declare the moment over, and demand coffee or nicotine or a piss. But instead, Louis tightens his hold, nuzzling deeper into the crook of Harry’s neck.
“You were staring at me,” Louis murmurs.
“Wasn’t.”
“Were so.” Louis’ hand, splayed across Harry’s sternum, shifts to toy idly with the sparse hair there. “You’re obsessed with me.”
“Maybe I just wanted to see if you’re aging well.”
Louis’ lips part against Harry’s skin, the corners turned up in a silent laugh. “And?”
“Still fit. It’s annoying, actually.”
“I could’ve told you that,” Louis says. He traces a lazy circle with his thumb just under Harry’s nipple, and Harry inhales sharply.
“What time is it?” Louis asks.
“Early.”
“Good.” Louis lifts his head, hair falling over one eye, and looks at Harry directly for the first time. He leans in and kisses Harry, soft at first, a morning greeting, but then deepening. Harry opens to it, letting Louis’ tongue push past his teeth, and it’s so instantly overwhelming that he has to clutch at Louis’ arm. The taste of him, sleep-mussed and unbrushed, is perfect.
“I thought we weren’t going to have sex anymore,” Harry whispers against Louis’ mouth.
“Yeah, well.” Louis offers, ghosting his thumb over Harry’s bottom lip.
Harry is the one who pulls him back down, lips crushed to his, and the kiss turns hot, then slow, then hot again. It’s a cycle they never learned to break, the perpetual escalation. Louis’ hand slips down, his thumb teasing along the line of Harry’s abs, then lower, skating the sensitive edge of his hip.
Harry half expects the hand to creep further and curl around his cock and take him to pieces, just to prove that Louis can still short-circuit him with a touch. Instead, Louis’ lips find the hollow beneath Harry’s jaw, kissing deeply at the spot until Harry shivers. The mattress is soft under Harry’s spine, but Louis’ weight pins him in place, bracketing his body with both arms.
Louis’ mouth wanders down, lapping at the sweat pooled in Harry’s clavicle, his teeth dragging just enough to raise goosebumps. Harry knew this would happen here. The fucking body worship. Louis is addicted to his skin, creating a staccato panic of being desired so hungrily.
Louis bites at his chest, leaving little pink crescents above Harry’s heart. He sucks at the skin, like he wants to taste him all the way through, then moves lower. Harry feels the tension pull at his stomach, the involuntary tightening as he waits for Louis to drop his head and take him. But Louis doesn’t give him that. Instead, he presses open-mouthed kisses across Harry’s tits, working his way toward Harry’s left nipple.
His lips close around it, his tongue flicking with gentle cruelty, and Harry’s whole body squirms down into the sheets. The pain is perfect, and the needling pleasure behind it makes Harry gasp. Louis grins against his skin, clearly pleased, and then sucks hard, holding until Harry’s ahhhing pornishly, before letting go. He moves to the other side, giving the right nipple the same attention, nipping at it, then smoothing it over with his tongue.
Harry’s hands rake up Louis’ back, tracing every ridge of spine. He’s warm and solid, a living contradiction in the way of tenderness and ruin, safety and threat, home and exile. Harry doesn’t want to ever lose this particular confusion.
Louis’ mouth travels downward, stopping to taste each tattoo inked into Harry’s torso, kissing over the butterfly on Harry’s stomach, then nipping the edge of the ink, trailing his nose down the line of fine hair leading from the laurels to Harry’s groin. He pauses, just above the waistband of Harry’s boxers that were an afterthought.
“Not shy this morning, are you?” Louis murmurs. He licks a slow stripe just above the elastic, his eyes never leaving Harry’s.
Harry’s cock is hard, straining against the fabric and making a wet spot at the tip, but Louis ignores it, peeling them down an inch at a time, kissing each exposed stretch of thigh as he goes. Harry lifts his hips, but Louis pins them down with a palm.
“Stay,” Louis says.
Harry does.
Louis tugs the underwear off completely, then kneels between Harry’s legs. For a moment, he just looks, taking in the sight of Harry spread out for him with his cock standing heavy against his stomach, balls drawn up tight.
“You’re so pretty,” Louis says, almost to himself. “Always, always been pretty. Don’t know how you do it.”
Harry can’t help the lip bite, blinking down at him as Louis noses at his thigh, breathing him in. Louis licks a stripe up the inside of Harry’s leg, then bites down, hard enough to leave a mark. Harry flinches, but the pain is good.
Louis mouths up and down Harry’s thigh, alternating between bites and wet, open kisses. He teases at the sensitive skin just behind Harry’s knee, then works his way up. Louis seems content to ignore Harry’s cock entirely, instead lapping at the seam where Harry’s leg meets his body, then up to the ridges of hipbone. It’s so fucking hot when he gets like this. Obsessed and devoted to the point of insane, desperate for as much of Harry as he could possibly take without consuming him whole.
He spends an unholy amount of time on Harry’s hips, sucking little bruises into the skin, nuzzling into the hollow above the pelvis. Harry’s cock is aching now, but Louis keeps his hands well away, holding Harry open by the thighs and working his mouth over every inch of skin that isn’t strictly necessary. It’s maddening.
He pushes Harry’s legs apart again, then scoots down the bed, grabbing one ankle and bringing it to his mouth. God, and there he goes. He kisses the bony knob, then sucks on it, his tongue circling the bone. He kisses down the arch of Harry’s foot, mouthing at the instep, then drags his tongue along the length of the sole.
“Jesus Christ Louis,” Harry whines, trying to pull away, embarrassed at how ticklish he is, but Louis won’t let him.
He holds Harry’s foot in a firm grip, licking up and down, then biting at the fleshy part of the heel. He moves to run his hands up Harry’s calves, massaging the muscles, then finally moves in between his legs. He follows the curve of Harry’s balls with his tongue, taking one in his mouth and rolling it with the flat of his tongue, then sucking with a force that makes Harry’s jaw drop. He switches to the other one, making obscene, wet noises, and Harry can’t help but writhe, jerking up into the air with every drag of Louis’ mouth.
Louis moves lower to lick down the seam, then pushes Harry’s knees back, opening him up and licking a slow circle around Harry’s rim. Harry moans, his fingers finding the bedsheet and clenching.
“Oh God,” Harry pants, inhaling shakily.
Louis takes his time fucking Harry open with his tongue, dipping in shallow, then deeper, using spit and pressure to loosen him up. Harry is slick already, but Louis keeps eating him out, holding Harry open and breathing him in like he can’t control himself.
“Fuck, Louis, please—” Harry gasps.
Louis flicks his tongue over Harry’s hole as he pulls off. “Please what?”
“Make me come, I can’t—”
“Should’ve asked your pretty girlfriend to eat your cunt—”
“Mm, Louis.”
Louis grins, crawling up Harry’s body to plant kisses along the inside of his arm, then the hollow of his elbow, all the way up to the underside of his wrist. He sucks on the delicate skin there, his tongue flicking over the veins, then bites down. Harry feels like his heart is going to collapse.
Louis brings Harry’s hand to his own mouth and licks at the knuckles, then sucks each finger in turn, slowly and obscenely. He nips at the pads of Harry’s fingers, then keeps kissing up, until he buries his nose in Harry’s armpit, breathing deep, and then licks at the sweat there, unashamed.
“Lou,” Harry says, his voice hoarse.
“You’re like a drug to me.”
This time Harry’s heart does collapse, and he grabs for Louis, kissing him desperately. It’s a different desperation than last night, the sort Harry can’t walk off or joke away. He’s half-convinced he’ll shake apart if he doesn’t have Louis inside him this instant.
Louis slides his hand behind Harry’s neck and holds him there, thumb stroking the hinge of his jaw. They kiss until both are breathless, then pull apart, panting, their chests heaving and foreheads slicked with sweat. Harry’s nose is pressed into the grain of Louis’ hair, still sweet-smelling from the shower, and he’s so dizzy with want that he nearly sobs.
“Fuck me,” he says, and it barely makes it out. “Fuck me, Lou, please. Bare.”
A bomb drop of silence. Louis’ hand stills.
“You want it bare?” Louis echoes.
“Please,” Harry says, softer, wet-lipped and miserable with how badly he wants it. “Just once. Just one time. I need it.”
Louis searches Harry’s face. “When was the last time?”
Harry blinks hard, fighting down the childish sting of not being immediately indulged. “Long time.”
Louis gives him a look. “Harry...”
“I promise,” Harry says, and now he can’t stop. “Louis, I’m clean.” He rubs his thumb over his own wrist, feeling the warm skin and the shame of this ask. “I just want you, Lou. You, not a fucking condom. I want to feel you. You said—pretend with me.”
Louis’ gaze softens immediately. He swallows, and in the milky dawn light he looks so young, so much like the boy Harry first fell for. Harry wonders if Louis is remembering the same first time, a million years ago, both of them terrified and reckless, naked and stupid in a hotel bed like this one, no clue how to fit together but trying anyway.
Louis closes his eyes, like the thought hurts. When he opens them, he’s already caving.
“You’re fucking mad,” he says, but it’s almost tender. “But I’d do anything for you.”
Harry’s lips tremble. He doesn’t mean to start crying, he never does, but his body doesn’t listen to his brain. He wipes the moisture away with a furious palm, and Louis catches Harry’s face in both hands, kissing him again. Harry lets himself be held, winding his arms around Louis’ neck and clinging tight, as if he could press the two of them into a single, indivisible body.
Louis lowers Harry to the bed, crawling between his legs. Harry’s knees fall open automatically, the skin of his thighs shivering at the rush of morning air. Louis slicks himself with lube, and the bare, hot head of his cock presses against Harry’s cunt.
The first push is brutal, even after last night and today’s prep, a burn that makes Harry gasp, but he wants it more than he wants air. He grabs at Louis’ arms, dragging him closer. “Lou,” he says, helplessly.
“Yeah,” Louis breathes. “Gonna give you what you want.”
He sinks in slow, and the feeling of it is so good Harry’s toes curl, his mouth falling open on a voiceless cry. Louis fucks into him with his forehead pressed to Harry’s, and when their eyes meet, there’s something in Louis’ expression that feels deeper than surrender.
Harry can’t stop shaking. He wraps his legs around Louis’ waist, pulling him in as deep as he can, needing the closeness. Every thrust feels like a silent apology for every year apart and every ugly word and all the ways they broke each other. Louis kisses Harry’s eyelids and his jaw and the side of his mouth, anything he can reach, never letting their bodies drift apart for even a second.
“You’re so good baby,” Louis rasps. “My muse…”
A tear drips off Harry’s lashes, and he has to remember not to say I love you.
Louis braces a hand above Harry’s shoulder, the other sliding down to grip Harry’s hip, holding him steady as he pounds in harder. Harry’s entire body rocks with the force of it, the bed thudding gently against the headboard in time with Louis’ thrusts.
It’s everything Harry wanted, and too much, and not enough. He’s so close to coming that he can’t stop making noises now, digging his fingers harshly into Louis’ skin. He needs more contact, more everything, and Louis understands, he always does, and fucks him harder, using the full weight of his body to pin Harry to the mattress.
Harry’s vision swims black and blue and his hands go numb from how tightly he’s holding on.
“Fuck, fuck, I’m gonna come Louis, please, please,” Harry gasps.
“You can come,” Louis grants, reaching down to tug on Harry’s dick. “Don’t have to earn it today.”
Harry circles his pelvis up into Louis’ fist, and when he comes, it’s violent, tearing through him from the inside, a full-body convulsion that leaves him sobbing. He comes all over himself, sticky and white between their stomachs. Louis keeps fucking him, chasing his own end, and Harry loves being used like this.
“Come inside me,” Harry breathes against Louis’ mouth. “Desperate for it. Want you leaking out of me so bad... Daddy…”
“Fuck.”
Harry’s still whimpering when Louis finally comes, burying his cock as deep as it will go and moaning into Harry’s mouth. Harry feels the warmth of his come, streaking down his ass and into the sheets.
The world that returns after climax is always like this, trembling and sodden, the bed drenched in their fluids, the smell of sweat and lube and spent bodies. Harry lies splayed, his vision full of slow-blinking stars, and feels Louis’ cock twitch inside him one more time before it softens, sliding out with a wet sound.
Louis collapses on top with his mouth open and gasping in Harry’s neck. They stay tangled, unmoving, and Harry could die this way, possibly should, but life insists.
When Louis finally stirs, he props himself up on an elbow and stares down, watching Harry’s face for a long moment. He lets out a low, “Fuck me. Look at you.”
Harry smiles shyly, his lashes sticking together from tears. He glances down at the streaks of pearly white across his stomach, the bite-marks polka-dotting his chest, and the red handprint on his thigh. He’s obsessed, he wants it committed to memory.
Louis drags his fingers through the spill across Harry’s abdomen, then grins as he raises his fingers to Harry’s lips. “Open.”
Harry obeys, sticking his tongue out, and Louis pushes two fingers past his lips, which Harry sucks, closing his eyes to savor the taste.
Louis withdraws his hand, then wipes the residue down Harry’s jaw, over his cheek, smearing it like paint. “Filthy. Gorgeous,” he says.
Harry’s heart skips, but his brain is lagging behind the body. The only language he has is touch, so he arches up to kiss Louis, pressing their mouths together as if he can take the words back in and swallow them whole. Louis grunts in surprise, but lets Harry share the taste from his lips and the insides of his cheeks. It turns sloppy quickly, and Harry loves this almost more than the sex itself; the desperation and the need to mark and be marked even in the aftermath.
Louis pushes a thigh between Harry’s legs, splitting them apart again, and Harry grinds down, coming to life with more need. The friction is heaven and hell, the cotton of the sheets rough on his oversensitive skin, but Harry ruts helplessly, chasing after a pleasure he thought he’d already wrung out.
Louis feels it, of course, and immediately reads the hunger and the bottomless need that’s always been Harry’s fatal flaw. He pulls back, his eyes glittering, and murmurs, “Need it again?”
“Mhm,” Harry moans. “Wanna come again…”
Louis huffs against Harry’s cheek. “You'll always be so easy.”
Harry moans helplessly, nodding in agreement, then gasps as Louis flexes his thigh, the muscle pressing right up into Harry’s sore, leaking cock. Harry grinds into him, and it’s exactly what he wants, to be filled and emptied and filled again, to be so fucked-out he can’t remember his own name except in the mouth of the man beneath him.
“Wanna see you come pathetic like this,” Louis whispers, one hand pinching Harry’s nipple.
Harry can’t even speak. The overstimulation is so much he almost asks to stop, but it’s the best kind of suffering, a pain he will ask for again and again. He buries his face in the side of Louis’ neck, keening as the orgasm builds. His hips stutter, grinding down on the hard line of Louis’ leg and the fast, perfect pressure of Louis’ thumb.
He comes with a high, stuttering cry, his teeth sunk into Louis’ shoulder to muffle the shout. His whole body spasms, his thighs clamped so tight around Louis’ that for a second he’s afraid he might draw blood. He shakes, utterly emptied, then goes practically lifeless.
Louis catches him as he collapses, pulling Harry into a full-body hug. He rocks him gently, his lips pressed into Harry’s hairline. The only sound for a while is the wet rasp of Harry’s breath and the city waking beyond the curtains, then, they force themselves up and back into the shower, this one much quicker than the last. Perhaps both of them remembering that the seconds are ticking, and Louis will be off for promo soon.
After, they’re not hungry, but Louis says, “We should eat,” so they towel off and shuffle together back into the suite’s bedroom. There, the city gnaws at the window in pale daylight, making obviousness of their wreckage.
Harry’s first impulse is to crawl under the duvet and make a chrysalis. Instead, he picks yesterday’s shirt off the back of a chair and slithers into it, not bothering with boxers or even shaking out the wrinkles. Louis, true to type, air-dries in front of the window, then goes commando into the only clean t-shirt in his duffel. His legs are bare, and Harry can’t look at them without seeing the way they’d tangled in the night, the way they’d locked Harry in, full-body.
Louis rifles through the drawers. “Can’t find the room service menu,” He clicks his teeth. “Gonna check out there.”
“I’ll tidy up a bit,” Harry says, reaching for something to do with his hands as Louis bustles about, searching.
Harry collects the remains of the night, trashing water bottles and their condom wrapper, snicking the lube bottle shut and wiping it down good. He tries not to think about how this signals the end, and focuses next on Louis’ mess instead. He bundles up Louis’ jeans, crumpled socks, and the tangle of last night’s hoodie, and as he does, something heavy thunks to the floor.
It’s Louis’ wallet. When it hits the ground, it fans itself open, and a ring, delicate, white-gold, the diamond modest but catching even the meager light, skitters out and spins against the floorboards like a flipped coin. An engagement ring.
Harry stares at it.
He stares, at first, because his brain isn’t ready to translate. His hands are full of Louis’ clothes, his knees are denting the carpet, and in the shock of that little glinting thing, his mind offers a catalogue of the entire night they spent together. But the ring spins, slowing, and falls with a ping, and Harry’s entire body washes ice cold.
He sets the clothes down slowly, then bends to retrieve the ring with trembling fingers, and it’s warm from the wallet, not at all cold, as if it’s been living close to skin for years. His heart is so loud, and he’s afraid he might vomit, a vicious nausea rising inside of him.
By the time Louis returns, Harry is still there, holding the ring, unable to put it back in the wallet, or even to hide it. His heart is slamming itself into his chest, his hands still shaking uncontrollably.
Louis notices instantly, of course. “What’s that?”
Harry looks up. His voice is low and gritted, “You tell me.”
Louis steps forward, frowning, and when his eyes drop to the ring, it’s the same as the drop of a bomb. He stops in his tracks and looks at Harry, and then at the ring, and then back at Harry, the color rushing and then fleeing from his face.
Harry manages to turn to him, though his knees threaten to give up. He holds up the ring between them. “Do you want to explain this, or should I just start guessing who it’s for?” His voice cracks pathetically.
“It’s not what you think—”
Harry laughs, bitter and unhinged. “You don’t even know what I’m thinking. It’s worse.”
Louis tries to speak again, but Harry cuts him off: “No, please, go ahead, Louis, I want to hear it. Did you fuck me as a farewell, or was that just a bonus before you run off and play fiancé with someone who you actually want?”
Louis flinches. “Harry. That’s not—fuck, please just listen—”
“What is there to hear!” Harry’s entire body is shaking now, the tremor starting at his hands and moving up to his voice. “All night you made me feel like it could mean something, and the whole time you’ve been—God, how could you?”
He’s crying, he realizes, and the shame of it makes him vicious. “You are so good at this, Louis. You always have been. Making me believe it could be fine, and then…” He chokes, the sobs now hot and fast, splintering his entire chest.
Louis takes a step forward, but Harry stumbles back, the ring still clutched in his palm. “Don’t. Don’t even. If you tell me it was a joke, or that you’re holding it for a mate—”
“I bought it for you, Harry.” Louis‘ own eyes are shining now.
The words stop Harry mid-stagger. “What?”
Louis moves closer, close enough that Harry can see every faultline of grief in his face. “I bought it for you,” he repeats, his voice breaking gently. “It was always supposed to be for you.”
Harry’s brain cannot compute. He looks down at the ring, then up at Louis. “You…what the fuck are you talking about?”
Louis exhales, a tremulous, hollow sound. He looks at Harry with a desperation so bare it’s almost indecent. “The year we broke up, for real broke up, you know,” he says, and Harry knows exactly what he means. “I was going to ask you to marry me, before we started working on our solo stuff—I mean, I know I proposed all those times already, but, I wanted the time off after the band to plan an actual wedding.”
Harry’s chest heaves in disbelief. “You kept it this whole time.”
Louis shrugs, looking everywhere but Harry’s eyes. “Yeah. Started feeling like a good luck thing, or maybe some part of me thought if I held onto it, I’d keep hold of you.” His voice is so soft now, so unlike the usual bark and laughter. “It’s stupid, but I couldn’t throw it away.”
Harry sniffs quietly, turning the ring in his hand. It’s his. It’s exactly what he would’ve wanted.
“What if someone else had found it? Your eventual partner—”
“Harry,” Louis says, and his voice is shucked of its last layer of bravado. “I haven’t been with anyone else.”
Harry jerks in surprise, staring for a long second, then shaking his head. “What do you mean you—you’re lying. What are you talking about Louis.”
“I mean it,” Louis says, his face pinched and desperate. “You know I’m shit at lying to you. I went on maybe two first dates total, years after. Then never again.”
Harry’s hands go numb. He squeezes the ring so hard the sharp end bites into his skin. “Louis. It’s been years, you didn’t—”
“I haven’t even slept with anyone else. I couldn’t. I got close to it with some bloke while touring, but I couldn’t,” Louis insists. “Nobody could ever write you out of my DNA, H.”
Harry is so utterly gutted by the admission, so dizzy he has to sit down on the edge of the bed or else collapse in place. “God,” he whispers. He wipes the tears from his chin with the back of his hand, and Louis sits beside him. His own confessions bubble up, stinging. “I haven’t dated anyone either,” he whispers. “I just kept having sex, but I never— I mean, not with men,” He laughs, brittle. “I couldn’t, either. So, girls. It wasn’t like I was looking for anything, just wanted to feel something…”
Louis watches him with an intensity that scorches the side of Harry’s face.
“I never let them in,” Harry says, his voice wobbling. “Sometimes I’d leave before the sun came up so I wouldn’t have to pretend I liked them.” He’s crying again, properly, and now his nose is running. “But I’d be counting the seconds until we were in the same city again.”
Louis stares at him for a long, aching moment, then reaches for Harry’s face, cupping his cheeks with both hands and brushing the tears away with clumsy thumbs. “You daft, beautiful fucker,” he says. “I can’t believe it. I honestly can’t.”
Harry sniffles, the tears streaming faster now. “I’m sorry. I ruined everything. I was so afraid—”
“I know,” Louis says. “Me too.”
They’re both crying, now, but Louis is the one who starts to laugh, a bright and wild sound that bounces off the plaster and makes Harry’s heart climb back up from the floor. “We’ve always been idiots.”
Harry shakes his head, dizzied by the magnitude of all the years they spent in orbit, never quite touching. “What does this mean, Lou?”
Louis strokes just under his eye. “Think it means we just needed some time apart.”
“Like. A detour.”
“A fucking detour,” Louis echoes, and then he kisses Harry, and it’s the worst, most gorgeous kiss of Harry’s life. Their mouths are wet with tears, hardly able to breathe, their noses bumping. The ring is still in Harry’s palm, pressed between their bodies, and Harry wonders if this is what it means to be fused to another human, soldered at the soul.
Louis pulls back, brushing Harry’s hair off his forehead, and says, “I have to do promo this week, you know. Then a whole press blitz. But after that, if you wanted…” He trails off, sheepish. “We could disappear for a bit, before the album comes out. Hibernate somewhere and talk about all of this.”
Harry can’t stop the laugh that bursts out, bright and relieved. “You want to run away with me.”
“I always did, didn’t I?” Louis leans in, his nose pressed to Harry’s cheek. “Can’t think of anyone else I’d rather be exiled with.”
Harry wipes his face, then cups the side of Louis’ neck, holding him close. “Let’s go somewhere far, not London,” he says, breathless with the sudden, uncoiling hope in his chest. “Jamaica.”
“Knew it,” Louis grins. “But let’s start with hotel breakfast, okay?”
“Hotel breakfast,” Harry agrees, smiling so hard his face almost splits itself in a line.
They sit there for a moment with their foreheads pressed together, old grief and new possibility drying on their cheeks. Harry looks down at the ring again, turning it in his fingers. He bites his cheek and slips it onto his ring finger, where it fits perfectly, and feels right.
All there’s left to do is let it glitter in the yellow morning light.