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The pub is so far off the main road that Harry can’t hear any cars, can’t hear anything except the low drone of the footy game on the old telly in the next room, and in quiet moments, the cheerful chirping of the birds in the trees outside. The late afternoon sun settles in patches on the surface of the tables and across the worn floorboards, revealing swirls of dust that slowly dance while he waits, alone.
Harry checks his mobile again, re-reads the message from twenty minutes ago, slightly late be there asap sorry, and shifts impatiently, pushing at his tired eyes with his fingertips. The jetlag lingers, hanging on, making time an amorphous, theorized notion, unaided by the fact his mind won’t allow him much rest even when he is sleepy. Returning home has been stranger than he anticipated; the comfort of familiarity quickly wearing thin. He feels more like a tourist than ever.
He’d begun to miss Louis the moment they diverged paths at Heathrow, if he’s honest with himself, or even before then; their goodbye was hushed and hurried, desperate, confined kisses on descent into London, until the flight attendant chucked them out of the toilet to take their seats for landing. Harry bravely swallowed the lump in his throat, smiled for the fans who had come to meet them, and only glanced back once to see Louis, his hand linked with Eleanor’s, walking in the opposite direction.
He traces the curve of the side of his pint glass with a lazy fingertip, his gaze darting up to the window when he finally hears the unmistakable sound of a car door. Louis walks toward the pub, turning up the collar of his coat where it frames his scarf, then fusses at his fringe, his oversized sunglasses hiding his eyes. Harry can’t look away, but then he has to, and bite his lower lip for smiling so big, his heart skittering with the unmistakable thrill that filters through him. The bell above the pub door rings as Louis enters, and Harry forces himself to stay put on the bench, even as his body thrums with insistence to get up, to tackle Louis and smother him with kisses against the dusty old floor. Instead, he wraps his hands around his pint glass and looks down into it, listening as the pub owner shuffles in from the next room to pour Louis his requested cider, then shuffles out again.
Harry counts Louis’ swift footsteps over to their table-- 3, 4, 5 -- and finally looks up as Louis drops down across from him, sunglasses still in place, but beaming widely.
“Hello, Harold.”
Harry wants to laugh at the formality, but there’s a warmth and sincerity in Louis’ tone that practically makes him ache with giddiness.
“Hi, Louis. Alright, then?”
Louis hums, sipping his drink and placing it down carefully. Harry fidgets, his knee jogging, wanting to climb over the table, to knock their drinks over, to settle in Louis’ lap and snog him senseless.
“Much better now, thanks.” He bumps Harry’s foot with his own to still it and Harry blinks, a fraction too long, pressing their ankles together.
“It’s good to see you.”
Louis moves his sunglasses to the top of his head, and Harry meets his gaze without hesitation, still unable to stifle his smile, his heart rate racing off again of its own volition.
“You say that like it’s been ages.”
“Three days is ages,” Harry argues, his smile relaxing a bit.
Louis looks around, like it’s just occurred to him to do so. “This place is --”
“Be nice,” Harry warns, and Louis feigns offense.
“I was going to say ‘charming’.”
Harry shrugs. “Well. It’s quiet.”
“Quiet is good, yeah.” Louis takes another sip of his cider, longer this time. Harry carefully watches his throat as he swallows.
“You alright really?”
Louis nods. “S’weird, though.”
“It is, yeah.”
“Like nothing’s changed, but...”
“But us,” Harry finishes.
Louis nods. “Yeah.”
Harry takes a deep breath. “How’s El?”
Louis’ mouth tenses slightly, and Harry’s heart skips at the hesitation. “She’s alright. Doing a lot of shopping.”
“But... she’s--”
“Yeah, yeah,” Louis interjects quickly. “She’s fine, Harry. Everything’s alright. Promise.”
Harry exhales the breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. “Alright.”
“You know I’d tell you straight away. If something changes.”
“I know. It’s just. With everything... the video, and--”
“Yeah.”
“I just--”
“Harry,” Louis says, measured, leaning forward.
Harry bites his lip, his fingers folded tightly around his pint, his gaze locked with Louis’.
“I needed to know,” Harry says quietly, almost a whisper. “That we’re still okay.”
Louis moves one hand slowly, edging toward Harry’s, fingertips lifting from the surface of the table to brush against the bumps of Harry’s tense knuckles.
“We are.”
Harry nods a little, the silence settling between them again, and Louis keeps stroking his fingers, slow and carefully.
“Good,” Harry says, his gaze traveling slowly over Louis’ face, settling on his mouth. “Cause I can’t, like. Do this. Without you.”
Louis smiles, all fondness and charm, his eyes bright. “You love me.”
Relief washes over Harry in a flooding rush, bringing back his beaming grin. “Shut it.”
“You do, you can’t live without me.” Louis pulls a face, and Harry’s chest swells with affection.
“Apparently not,” he concedes, unlacing his fingers just enough to reciprocate the touch, wanting too much to take Louis’ hand in his own and kiss it.
“So,” Louis says, watching their hands. “When you’re finished...”
“Hm?” Harry looks up, recognizing the look on Louis’ face immediately, the intensity of it eliciting the sharp pang of need that he’s missed so much.
“With your pint. We should go for a drive.”
“Haven’t you driven quite a lot today already?” Harry teases.
Louis only doubles his efforts to stare Harry down seductively, and Harry almost laughs at the exaggeration, but keeps his composure.
“I hired a very spacious car, you know,” Louis says, winking comically.
“Yeah? For what?” Harry asks, continuing his charade, breaking into a chuckle as Louis kicks him playfully.
“I swear to god, Harry--” Louis says, kicking him again, smiling as he leans back on the bench.
“Okay,” Harry giggles. “Alright. I’m done, let’s go.”
That they manage to make it to the car at all without so much as linking arms or holding hands is something of a miracle, but Harry chalks it up to countless practice. There are no crowds here, no screams and no cameras, but it’s default mode to move quickly and separately until they’re tucked away safely.
By the time he’s settled in the passenger seat he’s hard, pulling his corduroy coat from his arms as he angles toward Louis, reaching over right away. Harry runs a hand against his side, toward his thigh before Louis captures his wandering fingers, squeezing them tight in his own. Louis grins and ducks his head and kisses Harry’s wrist, lingering.
They don’t actually drive very far from the pub, since they’re already in the middle of the countryside, it just seems to take forever to find a place to pull off the road and stop. Harry knows it doesn’t help that he can’t stop touching Louis, tugging at his snug button-down shirt to untuck it, leaning over into his space, smiling as he drags a hand through his hair to make him shiver and whimper. Louis protests only half-heartedly as he attempts to navigate the gravel road, rolling to a stop.
“You’re going to kill us,” he exclaims quickly as the engine goes silent and then finally, finally they’re kissing, scrambling to grab hold of shirts and hair as their mouths crash. It’s rough and consuming and too much and not enough all at once, Louis’ hands all over him, and Harry can’t breathe, just keeps holding on to Louis and kissing him harder and trying to get closer.
They’re both wearing scarves, the unwinding of which provides an awkward and brief reprieve, a chance to catch their breath as their arms tangle in the process. Louis makes a frustrated sound that Harry kisses back into his mouth, laughing lightly. Louis makes quick work of the buttons on Harry’s shirt, practiced fingers starting at his chest and sliding down fast.
“Missed your skin,” he mumbles as Harry’s teeth close on his lower lip.
“Can I blow you,” Harry replies, asking but not asking, already shifting in his seat and pulling at Louis’ belt.
Louis grins, breathless, palming at Harry’s chest, nodding quickly. “Yeah-- but.” He glances past his shoulder with a little nod. “Let’s move back there.”
It’s laughable to Harry what’s considered “spacious” in the spectrum of vehicles for hire, though he supposes it could be worse; could be even smaller yet, or, they could not be here together at all. He’ll take what he can get, when he can, like always.
Within moments of sequestering themselves in the rear seat they’re easily reclined, Harry draping himself over Louis and resuming his eager efforts to remove Louis’ pants while they kiss. Louis smells like the cologne he wears, like late sleepless nights in Harry’s bunk, like secrets left tangled in foreign hotel sheets, like home with no address.
It’s the next part that’s trickier, working his way down the length of Louis’ body, trailing wet presses of his mouth and tongue where fabric is pushed away. Harry folds himself and half-slides off the seat as he tugs Louis’ trousers and boxers back, down the long length of his legs. He looks up and Louis runs a hand through his hair, causing his eyes to drift shut for a moment. Harry pulls his own shirt off his arms so that when he presses close and slides his hands up Louis’ thighs to take Louis into his mouth, they’re skin to skin.
“Jesus, Harry...” Louis says, hushed with awe, keeping one hand in Harry’s curls, right below the crown of his head, guiding as he moves.
The angle is awkward but Harry is persistent, ignoring the protests of the ankle he’s sat on, and the way he’s wedged snugly in the floor space. Louis’ moans and sighs more than make up for it though, make it worth it, the confinement and the restriction. He holds tight to one hip and curls his other hand around the base of Louis’ cock, to keep from touching his own.
He learned long ago that Louis likes to watch, likes for Harry to watch him watching, and Harry lifts his gaze to peer through his hair as he keeps his mouth and hand moving. He keeps the pace deliberate, holding back a little, drawing it out to work Louis over with his tongue, pulling off briefly with a soft sigh before taking him in again.
Louis makes familiar little sounds, his thighs quivering where Harry’s pressed against them, and when he whispers that he’s close, Harry knows it already. He watches Louis’ face until Louis tips his head back, his skin flushed, coming hard into Harry’s mouth, fisting his hair, moaning Harry’s name.
He waits to swallow, pulling off carefully, making sure he has Louis’ full attention, holding his gaze and watching Louis shudder all over again when he finally does. Harry then leans in and bites Louis’ hip, just hard enough to convey his own urgency, groaning as Louis gasps.
“Fuck-- c’mere,” Louis says, grabbing at Harry’s arms, hauling him up.
Harry scrambles into Louis’ lap, letting Louis lick into his mouth, pleading with a whimper as Louis finally touches him, through his jeans first, then quickly working them open to pull Harry free. He tips his forehead to Louis’, dropping his gaze to watch, breathing hard after only a few strokes. Harry folds one hand against Louis’ shoulder, the other curling at the back of his neck, shifting his hips eagerly. Louis strokes him quick and sharp and unwavering, and Harry tightens his grasp, tilting his head slightly as Louis ducks, pressing an open-mouthed kiss to Harry’s neck.
Louis stays like that, with his mouth warm and wet and wide on Harry’s skin, breathing against him. At first it’s distracting, something for Harry to fixate on that isn’t the fast, firm grasp of Louis’ hand around him, but gradually the disparate sensations all converge, skin and touch and breath and sound, until Harry cries out, coming long and hard into Louis’ hand.
They manage to find a way to fit together afterward that isn’t completely uncomfortable, Harry’s head pressed to Louis’ chest, tangled and half-curled and mostly vertical. The sun is all but disappeared, and so is the chorus of songbirds, but Harry is far more interested now in counting the ardent thump of Louis’ heartbeat, and measuring it against the hushed, steady way the air fills his lungs, then vacates slowly.
“We could live like this,” he muses, thinking out loud.
“Hrm?” Louis murmurs, his hand twitching slightly in Harry’s hair.
“A home in the countryside,” Harry continues. “In a cottage. With a nice garden. And a cat.”
“Mhm,” Louis agrees, and Harry doesn’t even care that he’s placating.
“Someday.”
“Someday,” Louis echoes, and Harry hugs him tighter.