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Louis is so tactile when he’s been drinking, so soft and loose, it’s all Harry can do to remind himself that they really can’t touch. This is the first time they’ve been comfortable out dancing together for ages and they have to be good, and even though the club has a no-photo policy he knows better than to trust anyone. He's all right dancing with Louis if the other boys are there – he can even grind up against the others if he wants to, as long as he doesn’t touch Louis. But Louis is making it so hard, with the way he gets into the music so fast and touches himself, his stomach and his own arms, dancing with boys who are taller than he is and letting himself be sheltered by their big bodies whilst he looks at Harry with hooded eyes. He knows how much it makes Harry want to be very, very bad.
But if any of the guys puts a hand on his hip, or gets too close, he moves onto someone else. Harry knows he’s not interested in them. He just wants Harry’s hands itching to touch him, wants Harry to get so close to the brink of losing his shit and shoving everyone out of the way so he can drag Louis close to him. Harry knows why they want to touch him even though he doubts most of them are into guys; there's something about Louis, the way he's sharp and soft and delicate and solid and small, all at the same time, the way he draws everyone in around him. He makes people want to lean in and kiss his neck to see if he smells as good as he looks and if that spot right above his arse is as perfectly made for a hand as it seems. Harry knows the answer to both those questions (yes and yes) but that knowledge belongs to him alone.
There are people pressing up against them on all sides and it’s nice unless they start touching, which of course they do – if he were allowed to touch, he would. After an hour of winding through the dance floor, sweaty, watching Louis and fending off hands sliding over his stomach or along his arse, he feels like he’s so full of energy it’s coming out his ears. “I need it,” he says to Louis, not even getting close enough to whisper for fear he’s going to have to get his twitchy hands up under Louis’s t-shirt or down the back of his trousers.
“Not yet,” Louis says. “Not done dancing.”
He presses against Niall’s side, not even moving really, just sort of sliding against him to the beat and resting his face against Niall’s arm, and Harry wishes he’d had one more shot to calm him down or maybe a few tranquilisers because to be honest he doesn’t think there’s enough alcohol to settle him right now. Not when he can see the way Louis’s shirt clings to the small of his back, damp with sweat, and he knows exactly how that slick skin feels and tastes and if Zayn grinds against Louis one more time Harry is going to erase his entire iTunes catalog.
“I have to go,” he bellows to Louis, and Louis considers this for a moment and nods.
“Okay mate, let’s go,” he says. They signal one of the security blokes and he shields them until they’re outside and then hustles them into a car. Louis sits in the middle row with Liam and Harry sits in the back with Niall and Zayn, and pushes everyone away when they try to joke and cuddle him. When they’re back at the hotel he gets out fast and drags Louis with him so they hit the lift first, before anyone’s even quite got through the lobby. “Hold up!” Liam calls out, and Harry unregretfully does not hold up, giving him a little wave as the elevator doors close.
“Are you gonna fuck me?” Louis says. They’re standing on opposite sides of the lift, not looking at each other. If Harry looks at him he’s going to just push him flat against the elevator wall, drag his jeans down, and suck his cock without caring whether there’s a camera in the lift or not.
“Yes,” he says tersely, clenching his fists.
“Can’t touch me til we’re in the room,” Louis says. Out of the corner of Harry’s eye he can see Louis in one of the mirrored panels. He’s not smiling or teasing – his face has that sharp look he gets when he’s on his knees looking up at Harry, sharp teeth sharp cheekbones sharp jaw spiky lashes. His cock is hard. Harry can see it pressing long and thick against the fly of his jeans. He adjusts himself and moans, just a small noise he probably doesn’t mean to make, but Harry knows that noise.
Harry’s room is at the end of the hall, and he knows Louis will want to use that one, not his own, which is closer. He gets his key card out fast and opens the door, but Louis lingers outside for a moment, texting. Harry stares at him with the door open, breathing hard.
“Sorry, one second,” Louis says. Harry’s willing to bet he’s not even texting anything. Finally he looks up with a small smile that Harry recognises as the one Louis gets when he’s pushed Harry hard and knows he’s about to be manhandled exactly the way he likes it – not sly or teasing but excited, anticipatory, eager to see how desperate he can make Harry and how hard Harry’s going to fuck him in response.
The second the door clicks shut Harry’s hands are on him. His mobile goes flying and Harry doesn’t care. Jeans first, dragged down fast along with his underwear, shoes coming off with them, then his shirt. Harry doesn’t even bother to take off his own clothes, just backs Louis against the door with a thump and gets his hands under Louis’s arse, hauling him up until Louis’s legs go around his waist. Louis shudders and clings to him tight, gasping.
“Fuck me against the wall, like this,” he moans, “you can hold me in place and just–”
“No,” Harry says, even though he’s going mindless already just rubbing his aching cock against Louis. “On the bed. Under me.”
Louis nods, head back, eyes shut, biting his lip. He loves that, being pinned under Harry’s body. The second Harry pushes him down he shivers and goes boneless, and if he pushes back and resists Harry’s weight he’ll come so fast. “Just knowing that you’re so big and I can’t move, Haz, I love it,” he told Harry once. Harry likes to remind him in public to see him go red and squirm, and he’ll whisper in Louis’s ear to tell him he can hold both of Louis’s wrists behind his back – with one hand.
Harry staggers to the bed with Louis in his arms, still wrapped around him, and spreads him out on the bed, pressing him down. “Should I just fuck you like this, with all my clothes still on?” he whispers, tugging on Louis’s earlobe with his teeth.
“Oh god, yeah,” Louis says, arching up against him. He needs lube, so he pushes himself up and fetches it from his bag, squirts a bunch of it into his palm and tells Louis to roll over. He keeps him there with a hand between Louis's shoulder blades and pushes one finger inside him and then two, fast, and slides them in and out until Louis’s hands are fisted in the sheets and he’s pulling them and making hoarse little sobbing noises. Sometimes Harry thinks Louis likes his fingers better than his cock. He loves Harry’s hands, and will occasionally climb into Harry’s lap apropos of nothing and demand that Harry use his fingers now, now please, writhing down onto them, so needy and worked-up that when he comes it absolutely wrings him out, and he afterward he sleeps like the dead.
But he’s not demanding fingers tonight, he wants to be fucked, and Harry pushes the blankets and pillows out of the way, undoes his zip and pulls out his cock and doesn’t tease at all, just slides inside him in one long stroke. Louis’s breath hitches all over the place and he pushes back into it, wanting more, and Harry gives it to him. He blankets Louis, holds him in place the way he asked to be held and just fucks, thrusts fast and steady and won’t let up even though he knows it feels almost too good. Louis doesn’t want him to let up; Louis wants to be overwhelmed, fucked so hard he can’t think and can only react to it, face pushed into the bed, biting the sheets, held down and fucked and bruised up a bit.
“I wanted to touch you all night,” he pants. “I wanted to get you in the loo and push you against the wall so you could ride my leg the way you did that one time, do you remember?”
He feels Louis nod, and of course Louis remembers, it was the time they sneaked into the bathroom between interviews and kissed so long, so wrapped up in each other, that even though they had to be out soon and look presentable and not as if they’d just had a bathroom shag, Louis started to rub against him and neither of them could stop, and he held Louis’s hips and just let him ride until Louis stiffened and shuddered against him and buried his face in Harry’s neck, embarrassed and relieved. It took them ages to dry their jeans under the handheld dryer and it still left an obvious mark on both pairs, and they sheepishly tried to cover it up until Zayn told them it would be less noticeable if they didn’t keep trying to hide it.
Harry swivels his hips a little and that's when Louis really gets into it, crying out in that high, breathless gasp that means he's so close, thrusting between the pressure of the bed against his cock and the pressure of Harry's cock in his arse, and Harry holds him down by his forearms and fucks him faster.
"Harry – fuck – " he splutters, winding up tight, and when Harry bites his shoulder hard he breaks, going hot and tight around Harry's cock. He's sobbing, trying to catch his breath and failing, and it's so fucking hot whenever he can make Louis lose it like this that Harry follows him fast, letting the pleasure spill over him from the centre outward until he's tingling from head to toe. He mumbles I love you, I love you, I love you helplessly into Louis's skin like he always does when he comes because he can't help it, there's something about this moment of total connection that makes him blurt out everything he's thinking with no control at all. Louis, gasping under him and trying to recover, chokes out I love – I love you too, love you, barely able to talk, and Harry holds onto him tight.
It takes a few minutes before either of them can move with any coordination. Harry pulls out and away a little and Louis rolls over, wiping his face with shaking hands. "You looked so fucking gorgeous tonight, Haz," he says softly. His movements are slow, satisfied, stroking the side of Harry's face, and he watches Harry with a fondness that's bright and wide open. "I wanted your attention all night."
"You always have my attention," Harry says, kissing his fingers. "I wanted to touch you so much, every second. You were so hot with that one guy, the big one who danced behind you for a while."
"I'm hot with you," Louis says, yawning.
"Someday we'll be hot together in public," Harry says, hauling himself out of bed because this room has a hot tub and he's definitely using it tonight, letting the jets pummel his muscles until he feels like he's made of putty. He means to keep it light, because things are good and he's happier almost than he feels anyone deserves. When Louis joins him in the hot tub, sitting behind him and running his fingers through his hair until Harry's a bit melty and nearly asleep with his face in the hot water, he knows part of it is a silent apology for something neither of them can help. But it's an old and constant wound they've learned to live with, and he's content to sit and be cosy with Louis because it's as close to perfect as it can be.