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Summer in England has never been particularly summer-y. Hot weather is not exactly something the country excells at. Still, when you're in the middle of a giant field surrounded by thousands of people clinging way too close for comfort, heat reaches places it shouldn't under normal circumstances. Even with the help of the occasional British cloud, sweat is not unexpected when it comes and dehydration is part of the fun, really.
Louis has taken the whole hydration problem very seriously actually. Since waking up around midday, after having a strong coffee to get him through of course, he's had his hand around a pleasantly cool and never empty beer bottle.
It's beyond the afternoon now, the sun finally becoming less aggressive. Louis is roaming the Glastonbury area with no aim, sunglasses on and phone on silent. He hates that thing, truly. His vacation days and getaways have been ruined by abrupt manager calls too many fucking times over the last 15 years. He's long learnt that it's better to have fun and deal with the concequences later.
He used to listen, and that never got him far. It lost him more than it helped gain. So, ignorance is bliss as long as he wants it to be.
Anyway. Louis is a little lost, to be completely honest. His leasurily walk became a hunt for familiar landmarks (aka, food stands or grafitti-ed toilets) about ten minutes ago. Nonetheless, he refuses to call Oli, he'd never hear the end of it if the ginger arsehole got a whiff of this. The rest of his team are out of the question for other reasons. Mostly a blonde-haired, too feminine and too burdening reason. He left their tent with intent, he's not about to call her over faster than he needs.
They're meant to watch the main act tonight together in the pit anyway. He'll get there when he has to, wrap his arm around her shoulders and lean too close to her sickeningly flowery-smeling hair. He'll let Johny lead them as close to people as possible and allow Michael to take a group picture while pretending he doesn't want to puke thinking about posing with her. He'll feign he doesn't see everyone around taking pictures even though that's exactly what everyone in his team is aiming for.
Zara's not the worst of what he's had to deal with. Things have been worse, of course. His nightmares would never let him forget the months leading up to One Direction's breakup. Even so, they've also been better. He used to have support at least. A reality to slip back into when he was done pretending to fancy girls for a whole day. Hands to slip into, a man's low voice willing to whisper sweet nothings to Louis' fears.
It's been a long fucking time since he's had to do this shitshow without him.
It's also been too fucking long since Louis' had him at all for such thoughts to still casually be popping into his mind. Alas, what can he do? Fighting it is almost as taxing as thinking it, so he doesn't bother anymore.
Reluctantly, Louis gives in and fishes his phone out of his shorts. The time has trickled all the way to after 7pm, signalling that he should be getting back soon. If only he knew where 'back' was.
Multiple messages greet him when he unlocks the device to the home screen. Typical. He doesn't look at a single one, instead opening his gallery. There he finds the map of the festival that he saved for the inevitable case that he just found himself in: Completely directionless. Ha, ha. Yeah, funny.
He continues walking through the sparse crowd as he looks over the map. It's a little too confusing for him, too many colours and arrows that lead to seemingly even more turns to nowhere. He needs to apologise a couple times for bumping into people on his way, too focused on the screen to be mindful of others' bodies. The sweat on the back of his neck is not helping his increasing frustration. There's a limit of walking time that turns a pleasant stoll into a fight against discomfort. Louis has definitely exceeded that limit by now.
"Shit." He curses under his breath once he figures just how much distance he covered on his brain-off path. He'll have to walk for too long to get back to his tent. Ugh.
With another sigh that makes his cheeks balloon, he discards his phone again. For now, anyway. He's definetely not making it all that way without updating his memory, but whatever. A man can dream and hope to not overheat his mobile, can't he?
He looks straight ahead for the first time after a handful of minutes. When he does, his feet stop dead in their tracks. His sweat and blood and anything else he carries in liquid form run cold. Freezing. In a paradox, his face heats with flames.
Green. Green eyes and furrowed brows and pink lips dropped open around a gasp. He's not close enough for Louis to hear it as he exhales abruptly, but he knows that face.
He knows that face. He knows that face.
What the fuck is Harry doing here?!
Louis is stuck looking at him for some too long moments. Worst part is how Harry is looking back. He's looking too, that's the sole reason Louis realised what he was seeing, who he was seeing.
He's wearing too many clothes for this weather. That's the first thing Louis thinks. A deep blue jacket is covering his top half, bottoned all the way up do his neck, only one notch undone. He must be boiling under that chaffy material. His hair is short, but Louis knew it would be. It doesn't make the sight any less startling to see, Harry's curls now gone and replaced with a much shorter, almost straight, sort of quiff.
And then his eyes travel downwards, something Louis regrets immediately.
There's so much leg on display. So much of Harry's long long legs covered by nothing but the sheen of sweat he built up in the populated air. He's wearing red shorts that cut even shorter on the sides of his thighs, as if that was needed at all. It wasn't. The big tiger tattoo on his thigh is already visible, already too much of him is revealed.
And Louis has seen the pictures of him lately. His twitter (never, ever 'X') timeline was full of that one picture of him in Italy, bright red shorts on and hips popped obscenely as he leaned over a counter. Louis couldn’t stand to look at him, how his ass filled out the fabric and how little fabric there actually was.
To know that Harry, that same Harry, is standing in front of him in those shorts, so little of him obstructed by them, it fucks with Louis' brain.
So he shakes himself out of it, forces his gaze to unstick from the just-so dark skin on Harry's thighs. But he only manages to do so much, only instead jumping to Harry's eyes once again. Helpless. Always helpless when it comes to him.
Harry's looking back already. Of course he is. He absolutely noticed Louis cataloguing every part of him he can see. He doesn't know if he should be embarrassed or happy about it.
Why would I be happy?
Maybe, maybe because Harry keeps looking. And his mouth is now closed, not as surprised, not as shocked. He looks… well. He looks alright. And as much the love of Louis' life as Louis remembered him.
It's that thought that snaps Louis the fuck out of the trance he's caught in, that rips their gazes away from each other.
They can't be seen together. It's been drilled into his head, shoved down his throat in pictures and papers and signed contracts and yelling, yelling, more yelling. They can't be together, they can't be—
People can't see them.
And so instinct kicks in. That conditioned response to run, flee and separate the two of them from any wandering eyes. Louis never wanted to, not even by the end when they were fighting more than they were talking, but he'd grown accustomed to it.
It didn't hurt any less as the years passed and it doesn't feel comfortable now either. It's never felt right to walk away.
Yet without a word uttered, Louis leaves. He turns just to the left enough to not run into Harry but not to the point of losing his direction and he walks as fast as he can while not seeming like a lunatic.
His heart is racing. Pumps, pumps, pumps too loudly in his ears, too strongly on his ribcage. He feels like he can't breathe. Maybe he walked too fast.
Or maybe he's too fucked in the head and still in love with his ex-boyfriend.
The path to their tents seems miles shorter than it was before, passing by him in a flash. He doesn't register anything other than the sweat dropping from his nape and the unbearably vivid image of Harry looking right at him for the first time in months. Their last encounter wasn't to be remembered anyway considering—
Fuck, he can't think about Liam right now.
"Ay, mate, where you been?" Oli says, the first person to see Louis return to the area.
"Walking."
"Got lost?" He teases with a smirk.
"Yeah-" Louis huffs a painfully fake chuckle, "Yeah, sorry, lad."
If he cared enough for pretences right now, Louis would stay outside with the group for just a few minutes before retreating to his own tent. Something in him is cracking though, splinters flying around his chest and attacking him ruthlessly. He needs to sit down, he needs to be alone, he needs to cry, he needs to scream and let his hurt out, he needs H—
He only just makes it through the white fabric of the open tent before his tears overflow. His feet barely carry him over to the luxury king sized bed and it's stupidly blue covers that look too alike the shade Harry is wearing. Right now, in the very same festival as Louis. He's here. Not on the other side of the world or the country or the city as he has been almost every day the past 2 and a half years.
He's right here.
And yet he's so far away.
"Fuck, fuck, oh, god–" He gasps, willing himself to not sob, but it's too late. The cries rip out of his throat with painful pressure. Doubled over, he breathes to the ground, covering his mouth with the palm of his hand. That's only until he catches his skin in the corner of his eyes, his rope tattoo, the small birds, all the signs of Harry, Harry, Harry, he engraved on his skin. All that pain and time and dedication. Because they were meant to be forever.
"We were–" He tries to say. To the walls, to the floor, to the sky, to anyone who will hear. Like proof that they existed, that they once believed in their love.
And now?
Now they barely speak. Now they've gone over 2 years without properly seeing each other. Just as long without touching. Now they shock the other with their mere presence. Now they stare wordlessly because there's nothing else to do.
There's nothing.
Just Louis, in the middle of a too pretentious cream coloured tent, wailing into his hands so no one outside overhears his anguish.
*
It takes a bit too long for him to compose himself and re-enter the public, but he chats with people long enough to make them forget. His words are hollow, but he doubts anybody cares.
Its a couple hours later that Louis is truly and utterly done. He walked around the place a bit more, he did his part with all his rehearsed smiles. The sun has long gone down and so has Louis' patience and, predictably, his sanity.
He's been crawling out of his skin. Ever since seeing Harry earlier, realising the situation they're in. It shouldn’t fuck with him as much as it does, but he can’t help it.
Its been a little over two years since they called it quits again, "for good this time", whatever that means for them. However little they believed that ambition of staying away though, this is actually the longest they've gone without falling helplessly back into each other's arms.
Louis hates to think about what that means for their meaning of 'forever'. Whether if they let it, if it might now actually be the opposite of what they've always hoped for. If it has the capacity to stick them apart.
He's standing to the side of the main stage, as far back as he can be while still technically in the crowd. His mind is far away, caught in roads he shouldn’t be driving in. Roads full of pretty green and soft baby pink and intricately woven black.
Now, he may have taken his phone off silent mode in the desperate hope of getting a text he craves to reply to. You can't blame him for that. You can, however, blame him for the stupidly shocked leap his heart does when he lights up the screen to find exactly that.
H:
Hi
Louis decidedly does not think about why he's so ready to send a text back, jump into everything Harry without any precautions.
You:
Hey
H:
Where are you?
You:
Main stage
It takes a couple extra seconds to get a response to that.
H:
Where's your tent?
You:
How do you know I'm camping?
H:
Lou
Fuck.
You:
West side
White tent, blue doors
H:
See you there
Departing from his group is too simple of a task. None of his friends put up a fight when he says he's heading back. Neither does his team, or his so-called 'girlfriend'. Not like he'd listen to any of the latter, but. The universe gives him a clear greenlight. No chance for a moment of reflection, no need to reason with anyone or with himself. Just go go go.
He gets to the tent faster than he'd normally walk. There’s no point trying to hide the fact or why it is so.
Louis wants to see him. For reasons he can’t understand, after running away at the glance of him, barricading himself away for hours and crying, that was only the first response. Somehow, the second wave came with less panic, more heartbreak, longing. Still, his heart was palpitating the same, although for different reasons.
Miraculously, no one is around when he finds his own private tent. That includes Harry, but that's to be expected as Louis didnt give him any defining features to find it by himself. He'll follow, Louis knows he will.
The place is pleasently chilly when he steps in, allowing him a real breath, not blocked by weird humidity. Even granted that comfort, he feels unsteady. His feet are tingling with nerves again, inevitably scared out of his mind. His only refuge is the bed and so he sits in the middle of it with shaky precision. The carpet, dark grey and perfectly boring, suddently seems extremely entertaining.
Minutes must pass in the still silence, the only sound coming from within Louis himself. The violent dum, dum of his heart.
Two knocks. Somehow in synch with his torment.
"It's open." Louis chokes out.
Several seconds go by before the doorknob turns. Louis doesn't dare look as the panel opens just a sliver, only hears the heavy footsteps that prove that Harry has let himself in.
Because he always does. He wanders in with no warning, no regard for Louis' state of being. No matter what, Louis can't blame him for it. He caves every time, that's not Harry's fault. Harry might ask and ask and ask, but it's Louis who always gives him everything he wishes. Bending at his will, folding under zero pressure solely in his presence, the prospect of who he is. Who he can be for Louis. Or with him.
Still, there's moments he wishes he were stronger, could withstand more, could be braver than to lose himself every time Harry is on the table.
"Hey."
Oh, Christ. Who the fuck is Louis kidding? Putting up a fight is impossible.
Louis lifts his head painstakingly slowly. Perhaps because he's afraid of having to face Harry again, look into his eyes. Maybe because he knows he'll break to pieces all over again. On the other hand, maybe it's for the exact thing it allows him to do: to take Harry's frame in before he's burdened with the responsibility of actually talking to him or even acknowledging him.
He looks... incredible.
Long legs covered in tattoos, some Louis knows well and some he doesn't. He looks about the same as he did only hours ago under the dimmed sun rays between the chaos of the festival yet he also looks so much different. He looks real. Louis wasn't entirely convinced he hadn't made the vision up until he got that text. But when he looks into Harry's eyes this time, he knows it's not fake. Harry smiles, crooked and tiny, letting Louis know they might be having similar thoughts.
"Hi." Louis whispers back, his voice can't carry much more than that. He hopes Harry can forgive him for it like he has for everything else.
That's what he said while they were still together, at least. Still, he's now standing just a few meters from Louis, while he feels oceans away. Harry got permission to be here, to step into Louis' private space, to be let in, and Louis did, he let him, but he's still not— they're not them.
So maybe he wasn't quite as honest as he wanted Louis to believe. Because they couldn't have ended up like this if he was, could they? They wouldn't have lost each other again, after believing all tragedy was behind them, if he was. Right?
It doesn't matter, he supposes, as he sees Harry contemplating what to say next, watches him measure the situation in that timid way he does when something terrifies him. It doesn't matter, because this is where they are now. This is where they ended up, nonetheless.
Whatever can he do but make use of his time?
Lord save him.
"How have you been?" asks Harry. What a question, truly.
"I've been better." Louis admits, which makes Harry frown minutely.
"Yeah."
"You?"
"Me too." he replies, not much power behind it. Just the awkward understanding that they have no idea what the other's life is like at this moment.
Silence comes with a strange look on Harry's face. Some sort of tense that Louis can't decide if he loves or hates. At least not until Harry speaks and his feelings become glaringly obvious.
"How's Zara?"
Louis' stomach coils around the steel rod of the same emotion.
"How's Zoe?"
"Touché."
Beaking eye contact is like losing a silent battle neither consciously agreed to. With both having 'stubborn' as their middle name, it's no shock that they refuse to.
His eyes are so green. Louis wants to wander through them until he gets lost, never to be found again.
"Heard you've been travelling." he tries. Perhaps it betrays more of his thinking than he'd like, or perhaps he's paranoid. Harry can't read his thoughts, after all, no matter how many times they'd lay awake conjuring up stories about sharing one mind.
He doesn't tell Harry about all the times they ended up at the same city at the same time, how much it killed Louis to not reach out to him each one of them. He doesn't tell him about how many times he almost called but ultimately decided not to, or how long he spent looking through the latest updates about Harry just for the illusion of knowing him. It didn't get him far, in the end, just to the end of an emotional cliff. Stuck between agonizing pain from not being in Harry's routine anymore and the almost equally uncomfortable feeling of seeing him live a life that doesn't include Louis.
That somehow prompts more out of the man though. It's a real opportunity for conversation and he looks at Louis with so much gratitude for giving it to him.
"Yeah, it's been good. Needed the break, you know? To experience new things."
"I can see." Louis says with a small teasing smile, swiping his finger over his own cupid's bow.
Harry smiles fully at that, bunny teeth on display to blind Louis of sanity like they always do. He runs his two fingers over the healthy amount of facial hair framing his mouth. Louis can't help but get stuck on the movement.
"You like?"
He meant it mostly as a joke. Louis knows, of cource, that Harry isn't actually asking for his opinion, even the way he worded it is proof enough. No matter logic though, none of those stop him from being entirely honest. Eyes transfixed on the top of Harry's lips, there's no hiding the fondness with which he replies, "Yeah." too breathlessly to play it off as a joke.
Delicious pink crawls up to Harry's cheeks at the compliment, his little dimples peek through his stubble. Always a sucker for some praise. Louis doubted that had changed, but he's glad to have the confirmation.
Raw. That's what the silence after Louis' response feels like. Like so far they've been playing on the safe side of what they both know they have lying in front of them. Shyness that feels out of place to exercise with how well they know each other but inappropriate to forgo entirely. Something as soft and vulnerable to directness as their relationship is in times like these—hanging off cut off hinges that they're forcing nails into—can't be handled with anything less than utmost care. Louis and Harry have stumbled over too many words in too little time one too many times. They both know the other is not making that mistake again.
Despite that, however, time stops when they step over the line. Every time. And that's exactly what Louis has just done. About a century passes until Harry looks back at him with a newfound spark in his eye, henceforth letting Louis finally breathe.
He's fucking missed this. More than stupidly soft non-words can express in the dead of night.
But this is all he has, so he'll take it.
Harry smirks arrogantly, saying "Knew you would." and Louis just knows. He knows Harry will give him exactly what he wants without having to ask for it.
Their journey from nervous strangers to couragous lovers— ex–lovers, whatever—is as fast as the snap of a finger.
It's been two years and ten months since Louis has felt like this. This tantalising flavour of knowing, having, being close to Harry Styles. It travels from his head to his toes, swarming his senses until he can't remember anything but how he used to love him.
Louis sits wordlessly with the sudden thought:
I wonder if he tastes the same.
And from there, his heart takes the wheel.
"Haz.."
He watches as Harry's body literally curls in on itself, his expression turning to one that can only be called melted. He melts. Right there, right in front of Louis, just from one word. Louis can't decide if he's in heaven or in hell.
But then Harry is charging towards him and bending his spine low enough to capture Louis' lips in a burning kiss and he can't even consider this feeling to be anything but akin to paradise.
Harry's lips taste like raspberry beer and cold English air. They fit on Louis' like a key in a lock, gingerly caressing his own like magic. He slightly wants to cry, just from feeling him like this.
He's soft, his skin is plump and not broken at all, signs of Louis' favourite cherry chapstick Harry adored to use every day. His mustache rubs against Louis' the way it used to those days in 2022 under the warm sun reaching their garden. When Louis pries his mouth open with his tongue it breaks a soft whine out of Harry, identical to how he'd cry for them to stay in bed longer while touring with One Direction.
He feels like the Harry that Louis once knew. Realisation flows to his brain at a speed that makes him dizzy, but he doesn't stop kissing the lips he's craved for so long.
They don't break apart until their breath is one and it begins running out. Even then, Louis pulls away only enough to detach their lips but stays feeling Harry's exhales, eyes closed as he takes every sensation in. Their hands are grasping each other however they can, hair and necks and cheeks cradled in tight holds. Louis smells the cologne that enhances Harry's skin and has to force down a smile.
God, Harry's still just like home.
"Lou." Louis is not strong enough for the sugary tone.
"Mm."
"It's been too long."
"I know."
Without any warning, no sound or giving Louis anything to hold onto, Harry lowers himself so he's straddling his thighs.
"Fuck-" Louis voices, not even processing it.
He's heavier now, he notices instantly. Through the years, Louis has been subjected to the perfect feeling of Harry resting his whole weight on him. Whether by sitting on his lap or laying on him for a cuddle or all the times he'd drop anything to run towards the sound of Louis arriving home from a trip just to wrap his legs around him. It's always been one of Louis' favourite feelings, even if he tried (and he'd be absolutely mad to), he couldn't forget the exact sensation of Harry on him.
So yeah, he's heavier now. He hit the gym even harder than he ever had while they were together, Louis heard. The updated vision of his muscly thighs framing Louis' makes him feel wild.
Harry's like a siren, and Louis is helpless.
So he jumps into action fast. His tattooed hands find their place (their place, because this is Harry, and Louis used to hold that body every single night. That's his spot.) on his waist, squeezing hard. To that, Harry retaliates by latching onto Louis' neck, leaving him short of breath.
"Need you." Harry whispers hotly.
"You have me."
Teeth bite down on his skin. Louis can only move his hands further back to force Harry down the same downward spiral of fucked up needy desperation. His answering startled moan is exactly what Louis was aiming for.
Desperation is the only proper description for what takes over them from that point on.
Harry's adamant, unrelentingly littering Louis' skin with heated kisses, licks that make him shudder all over. At the same time, his hands clutch onto Louis' black t-shirt, tugging from the bottom of his back to the base of his neck. The fabric bunches in his palms and follows them away from Louis' body, the only reason he stops kissing him being to pass his head through the opening.
Louis can't complain. Not when Harry's sweaty, big palms come to lay on his chest, caressing his skin all the way to his navel. He can't do more than enjoy the touch he's spent too much time trying to replace. No other hand feels like Harry's calloused one does, no other knows to dig into the dip of Louis' waist as it goes, no other could ever be enough. It lead nowhere, except maybe it lead him here.
He'd do it all again if it meant having Harry shallowly thrusting his hips on top of him.
Realising Harry has zero patience and has already got him half naked, Louis works to return the favour. The zipper of the jacket comes away easily and soon enough he's helping Harry peel away the black tank top he had on underneath.
Fucking hell, he just looks better and better.
So much skin is suddenly exposed just for Louis' eyes. His pecs, his torso, the lines of his arms. All those fucking tattoos that frame every perfect corner of his perfectly sculpted body. Harry's stomach is moving along with his breaths, drawing Louis' attention to his beautiful butterfly.
He might faint.
It's all too much and there isn't enough air to breathe comfortably. Harry is taking up all of it with his unreal beauty and those fucking eyes that devastate Louis to his core.
Harry goes willingly when Louis pushes him to the side, just as pliant when the older takes his hips in two hands to flip him over to his stomach.
Louis just– He needs a break.
Thankfully, he's got the ideal distraction in front of him.
"Those slutty, little shorts. God, H." He fits a hand under the gap in the fabric, letting his palm settle on the curve of Harry's ass. "You'll be the death of me."
"What a good way to die."
Louis heart beats twice as fast.
"Tell me about it." He chuckles. "Are you–"
"Clean, yeah."
Oh. That's not exactly what Louis had in mind. In the fury of the moment, he almost dared to forget the tragedy of the two of them not being committed to each other. It's not the first time, they've been in this situation before. Louis knows… He knows and he should've known better.
Why the fuck does his chest ache so much then?
Harry is not his. That is not what this is about. Actually, he doesn't even know what this is about but he knows it's not that. And he just doesn't have the time to figure that out right now, not with Harry in his sheets.
"Yeah, okay."
He'll get through it. Even if has to remind himself over and over again that it won't lead anywhere. It's only for now.
For now, Harry is mostly naked, the length of his back and arse and legs all for Louis' taking. He's looking back at him with wide eyes and a content little smile on his lips. Louis can make the right now be the only thing that matters.
He removes Harry's red shorts and underwear all in one go and can't help but gasp at the sight. He might have seen the man like this so so many times, but it never gets old. In fact, that may just be why it fucks with his head like this.
Harry was right, it's been too long.
Something happens to Louis' restraint whenever Harry is involved, and that's what he feels right now. Completely helpless to the orbital pull of the man who's held his heart in his hands for 15 years now, he's sick with it. On the one hand, he wants to drag this out and stop the night from slipping away from them, to savour it all he can. On the other, fucking Christ, he doesn't think he'll survive much longer without Harry wrapped around him.
He needs to be prepped though, which basically makes the decision for Louis as he would never force Harry's body to stretch before it's ready. Well, except he has done that in the past, but that was under the safety blanket of their relationship, of having razor-sharp knowledge of each other's needs and tells. Trust, above all else. All things that can't be replicated in the blink of an eye and the rush of a single reckless night of need. He wishes he could make it hurt, could give Harry every last shred of what he has, to grant him what he craves, but Louis doesn't know him like that anymore, can't handle him that way.
His head spins around the thought of wanting to learn Harry inside and out again, just knowing that there's parts of him Louis is unaware of. Regardless, he works to quench the thirst he has some power over right now.
His hands rest back where they belong, lifting Harry's hips gently. He pushes back, closer to Louis, enough of an affirmation.
The first swipe of his tongue causes Harry to positively mewl, in turn making Louis groan into his skin. Instinct takes over quickly, Louis just lets himself relish in the smell, the taste, the softness and all else that is Harry. He laps at him without any thought, just a starved man that's finally had a little taste. He can't stop, though judging by the sounds Harry is making, he doesn't have to even think about stopping.
They get lost in it. There's no telling how much time passes until Louis feels like he's had his fill. He hasn't, truly, he's not sure he ever will managed to be satiated. But Harry's body has opened up around his tongue, it's let him slip one, then two fingers into him along with it. Every so often, Harry pushes his ass back as if chasing the feeling of getting fucked properly, deeper than Louis can reach with just two digits.
"Lou, baby." Comes Harry's rasp to confirm all of Louis' beliefs. The sound of his voice wrapped around the petname goes straight to his cock, but not before it makes his heart palpitate. It's so easy, so perfectly simple to fit back into who they used to be together, to call out names that meant the world to them, that they both know still do.
"I know, sweetheart. One second, okay?" Louis forces himself to verbally acknowledge. God, this is such a struggle, he feels like he might die.
"Please?" Harry whines again. White-knuckled and gorgeous as he writhes on Louis' fingers; He's a fucking masterpiece.
He can't stop himself from outright moaning at that. "Fuck, yeah, darling." He caves. He's doing them both a favour, really, undoing both their desires by slowly letting his fingers leave Harry's hole. Still, giving him a few more kisses where he's so sensitive is an irresistible temptation.
"Darling, please– Louis."
"Okay, okay." he says, finally rising from Harry's body. Fresh air has never felt like such a punishment, at once making him wish to be buried in the man's musk again.
"Fuck me."
That's when Louis suddenly realises how unprepared he was for this to happen.
His momentary silence brings Harry back to his sense just slightly and he turns to look at Louis properly. Something on his face must betray how perplexed he is on the inside, because Harry frowns back at him.
"You don't have lube." He voices.
"I do not."
Angelic giggles fall from Harry's mouth then. It catches Louis off guard, although he's wholly at ease watching it happen. Seeing his eyes turn to slits and his nose scrunch up a little, his dimples shinning adorably.
"I'm guessing that means you don't either."
"Nope." Harry replies, popping the 'P'.
Louis can't take it anymore, he's too far away from his- the man, his overheated body slowly turning cold. So he stretches and lets his body fully be draped over Harry's back, allows most of his weight to push him into the mattress. The result is a breathy moan of satisfaction. Loving the effect, Louis just makes it worse, louder, by laying kisses at the nape of Harry's neck and moving his hands along his torso, his chest and back.
"You're still so responsive." Louis hums. "So gorgeous…"
Their hips move to their own accord, unconciously seeking each other out.
"I need you in me."
"Me too, baby. But–"
"Let me suck you off."
"Jesus, Harry," Louis can only groan. He gives an involuntary thrust just thinking about it. Harry moans under him and he's a goner. "Yeah, please, okay."
Switching positions is easy. In their needy state, there's no separating them for long, and so when Louis detaches from Harry's back to kneel on the bed, the latter follows as if magnetised. He drops onto his elbows to be level with Louis' crotch, bending his back obscenely with his ass in the air. Before Louis can even comment, the younger is pulling his pants down low enough to free his cock.
One thing that Harry has always been unbelievable at is using that sinful mouth of his. Louis hasn't had a moment of peace since first feeling those lips around him all the way back in 2010. Lucky for him, he wasn't the only one thoroughly enjoying the activity, both quickly realising that Harry could get off just from putting in the work like that.
Nothing's changed. He still feels like heaven and he still whimpers helplessly as he sucks the life out of Louis. Knowing this isn't the main event, he makes sure to drool all he can, lathering Louis in spit to get him ready for him after. All through it, Louis doesn't stop praising him, giving Harry all the best words he knows he loves hearing. All the 'so hot like that's and 'doing so good for me's and moans he couldn't swallow if he tried.
Sweat has gathered on both their foreheads when Harry deems Louis wet enough for the slide. Or maybe just himself impatient enough to not wait any longer. Either way, he lets Louis' cock slip out of his mouth with a wet, filthy 'pop' sound, trailing his lips over his crotch and waist and up to his torso until he's kneeling straight as well.
Their spit mixes with the flavours of both their bodies and arousal when they kiss again. Weak moans tear out of them unrestricted.
Harry's the one who breaks away this time, whispering "Come on, Lou." before dropping one last kiss to Louis' lips.
His heart leaps when Harry pulls away and turns onto his stomach again. Louis momentarily panics, just a bit, because no– no, he can't have that. He needs– he needs him.
"No, no. Baby." He gasps, "On your back, please, honey. Please."
He can't be arsed to care about how pathetic he sounds, just begging for Harry to allow him to see his face. Nothing inside of him is ashamed, not when he's so occupied with longing to have Harry close, around him. There, fully.
Fortunately, Harry indulges him with a smile, immediately flopping onto his back. If the look on his face spells relief, Louis wills himself to not notice. He loses that fight, of course he does, pulling his soul apart once again.
Hands grab onto his shoulders abruptly, pulling him to Harry. Louis' mouth finds his again without even thinking, just wanting so badly.
Slowly, they line themselves perfectly until Louis can safely, easily slide into Harry's body.
Home.
Whatever happens, however much time passes, however hard he tries to think of it otherwise, there's no better word to describe what it's like to feel Harry wrap around him. It's like coming home. Like Louis has been lost out in the wild for time he could't even count and he finally made it back to safety and familiarity.
No matter what, Harry will always be the answer, the one true refuge.
He almost blacks out when Harry's legs come around his waist, twisting tightly. God, what a pleasure it's always been that Harry is so tall, can so comfortably engulf Louis in his grasp. That all-too familiar sensation of his strong thighs clamping onto Louis' hips, his heels digging into the bottom of his spine.
"Fuck."
Harry's hand lays on his back, the other in Louis' hair. Soft pressure pushes Louis to bury his face in his neck, and he goes without protest. Kisses rain on the plush flesh as Harry draws rough shapes on his shoulder blades.
He feels it too, he must. That all-consuming mindfuck they've just caused by coming to be one. The block that's not letting Louis think of or even feel anything apart from the up and down motion of Harry's lungs, the sweat on his skin and the slow circles his hips are doing on Louis' cock.
"You're so– deep." Harry gasps, throwing his head back.
"So tight, darling."
"Fuck me. Louis," He thrusts his hips up to emphasize his point. "Lou, please, baby, please."
Louis can't pretend like he wouldn't do anything for him, even after all this time.
So he gives what he's asked to. The first thrust is rough, a sensation that catches both of them off guard. They shudder and moan as one, lost in each other fully. Soon enough, they find their footing. Harry stays moving with him as Louis drives himself in and out, spiraling all the while.
His mind flies to all the places he hasn't dared venture to as Harry lays on his back and takes all that Louis gives him. His moans ring lower than Louis remembered them, his legs are twice as muscular where they cage him in around the waist. And yet, through all the changes he's still his Harry. He's pliant like he's always been under him, he's responsive and he's sensitive in all the places he used to be.
But he breathes Louis' name like a prayer, a plead. He whimpers like he's pained even when he keeps lifting his hips to meet Louis'. His eyes are glassy in a way Louis has never enjoyed.
Each time Louis bottoms out, it pushes Harry on the bed. Up and down, up and down to the rhythm they set. He's going at him hard, unproportionally to how slow the pace of his hips is. It makes each movement that much more violent.
Louis can't take his eyes off of him. As they move together, he gets stuck. On the dip of his shoulders, on his button nose, on his eyes and how they're half-lidded with pleasure. He observes the facial hair Harry's finally managed to grow, free from the stage's obligations for long enough. He counts the wrinkles next to Harry's eyes, gets lost as the numbers pile up higher than they ever were. He sees the crevices of his dimples, deeper into his cheeks. His buzzed-short hair, his new tattoos, his toned muscles.
And then it all flickers. Like a light bulb at its last thread of life, the image in front of Louis dims. Illuminated instead is one he knows all too well.
Harry's hair is long, down to his shoulders in perfectly sweaty little coils. Louis can see the small curls around his neck sticking to his skin where he's overheating. His eyes are green, so green it reminds Louis of the peace of a forest. His eyelashes are clamped together with tears he's been crying all night, dark and prettily framing his gorgeous irises. His mouth is dropped open, little puffs of pleasure falling out and reaching Louis' ears to be his demise.
The light bulb doesn't regain its full light. It just keeps showing him the same view over and over and taking it away again and again. One moment Harry's eyes are looking into his, filled with tears that uncontrollably come to an overflow. The next he can't find the green he adores so much, covered by Harry's clenched eyelids. His hair is short, and then it's not. It's long and then it isn't. His voice is a cry until it sounds more like a scream and then again a whimper of 'please, louis, I love you, please.'
Harry would never say that right now, though. He'd never dare tell Louis he loves him. The Harry he feels tightly pulling him in, the Harry whose skin he's touching, he doesn't have it in him.
He's not the Harry he was that night in 2015. And Louis isn't who he was then either.
That thought roams around his head uncomfortably long. It sticks to him like the sweat Harry is leaving on his skin everywhere they touch, shouts its presence with every moan of pleasure from either man. As they begin moving faster and faster, it follows menacingly.
Minutes, hours, years might have passed by the time Louis feels himself getting close. Although pent up and frenzied, he couldn't bear taking this any faster after all. Harry didn't rush him either, giving him all the signs to expose being on the same wavelength.
Neither wanted this to end.
Sanctuary found in an old lover's embrace is torturous to escape. Damn them both for managing to end up in that cage time and time again.
It doesn't get easier. It wasn't easy the first time their sex became goodbye, it wasn't easy a year later when like the inevitability of waves crashing on a shore, they crashed into each other and into bed as exes for the first time. Their last break up was less abrupt, more of a final resignment, but letting go hadn't been any more comfortable.
And now…
Now Harry is clawing at his back with the goal of drawing blood, of leaving his mark in the form of pain. Now Louis is making blood vessels burst at his neck and clavicle and anywhere he can to do the very same. Claiming, however they can.
Release finds them slowly, crawling from their toes, pulling tension up, up, up all over their bodies. Somehow, like most things between them, the moment is shared, comes to them at the same time. Louis can tell from the way Harry turns frantic and his legs lock even tighter, the shiver spreading all through him.
Louis shouts as many praises as he can, as many as he feels and thinks and can catch up voicing until Harry is yelling his name back in that incredible tone of his. Until they're barreling over the edge with nothing but each other's body to hold onto in a vice grip.
It fucking hurts. And half of it is the pleasurable pressure, the other half is from knowing now all of it is over.
Still, Louis licks his way up to Harry's mouth to capture his sweetness some more. He stays buried in the heat of him and lays his tongue in all the places Harry allows him to. Harry, in turn, strokes his hands wherever he can, soothing the overworked muscles of Louis' body back to calm. And right there they remain until their connection grows intolerable, every slight movement making them both hiss. Even then, they let it go on for longer, clinging to what they have all they can.
Harry's eyes are overwhelming when Louis looks at him fully again. Bright and wide and covered by a sure wave of tears just behind his waterline. He smiles sadly, and Louis is hopeless, because he smiles right back. His eyes sting the same way.
Their next kiss is violent; It's like clawing at each other for any piece they can tear away to keep for later, like breaking each other and themselves for the other to hold on as a reminder. It tastes of the saltwater falling from both their eyes and burns like apocalyptic fire.
"I missed you."
Silence is such a bitch. Harry doesn't let them sit in it for long before responding, but it's still enough to make Louis nauseous.
"Me too."
They don't talk as Louis finally, reluctantly, pulls out and lays on Harry's left. Sated as they both are, he didn't expect it to be otherwise anyway.
Silently, Harry turns to his side, his back to Louis. The invitation is obvious, washing relief over Louis again because he'll get to hold his boy for a bit longer. Properly, like they always used to lay when things were good, when they had nothing as sure as the other.
Terrifyingly, he realises how similar he feels, how real, unchanged his emotions towards Harry are. Maybe they've always lied in their songs, maybe they're not exactly who they used to be, but nothing actually ever changes.
The love never changes, never goes away.
Hours later, sleep has taken them both away to dreams that will never become reality when Louis stirs awake from Harry's movement. He must think Louis is still asleep, because he doesn't speak or touch him, only carefully untangles himself from the older's grasp. Louis doesn't break the illusion, just lets him act as he wants. He's too curious to see what Harry will do.
Eyes closed, he can only use his hearing to understand that Harry fully stands up from the bed and quietly puts on his clothes. Despite it being expected, it still sends knives through Louis' chest, knowing he's witness to Harry leaving him once again. Leaving without letting Louis know, at that.
But then he hears the footsteps coming closer, Harry rounding the bed to the left side where Louis is curled up.
Softness reaches his cheekbone, unmistakably Harry's lips making contact with his skin in a gentle kiss. It's more than a peck, it lasts longer, brings heat to the spot before Harry has detached himself yet. When he does, Louis misses the sensation straight away, just like he does the weight of Harry's neck lying on his forearm, his back glued to his chest.
Louis risks opening his eyes once he figures Harry has turned his back on him, far enough to not notice Louis as he goes for the door. The sight is heartbreaking, but like a trainwreck, he can't tear his gaze away.
As he watches Harry slip out of the room quietly, he knows. None of what brought them here matters, not when this has come to be their end over and over. He knows, regrettably, that maybe they've always been destined to catch and lose each other unexpectedly.
So Louis will stay here, and he'll wait, and he'll understand. He'll reminisce on all he has to go over until the next time he and Harry cross paths, and learn to make peace with the fact that it won't be for long anymore.
Weakness is Louis' biggest virtue, tragically. He caves so fucking easily, he collapses into madness and doesn't fight it. That's how he ends up scrolling on his phone under a topic he hasn't touched in ages. That's how he gets to crying into pillows that smell of Harry's shampoo until he falls back asleep, spent and shattered.
Rest has not settled into him enough by the time Louis wakes up. Seeing as the sun is well up in the sky, though, it can't be any earlier than 10am, so it's his fault for taking so long to fall asleep, really.
A couple seconds of delirium pass before he realises what woke him up was the insistent ringing and stream of notifications coming from his phone.
"What–" He mumbles as he reaches to check it. Did the apocalypse start while he was asleep or something?!
One look at his twitter notification panel lets him know that the apocalypse would probably be less catastrophic than what has actually started. What he started.
When the fuck did he like a Larry reel?!?!
"Shit, fuck, what the fuck, shit, shit, shit–"
He fucked up, oh my God, he fucked up so bad. All he did was scroll through the hashtag last night, no one was supposed to know! He was just feeling nostalgic or whatever, you know, just wanted to look back at a time when Harry was within his reach. God, he—
Harry. He has to talk to him, this isn't gonna go down very easy with either of their teams, he dreads to know what they'll have them do to diverge attention from this shitshow. Harry will be pissed, they were supposed to avoid the drama of being together, that was the whole reason they even broke up and now Louis' just gone and fucked it because he's too goddamn in love and—
And when he opens his messages to type out a too-long, not effective apology to the other man, he finds a text waiting for him there.
The surprise shocks Louis' system just enough to momentarily halt the panic spreading rapidly through him. Because what the hell is Harry Styles doing texting him at this time?!
With shaky fingers, he opens the chat. He's not one bit prepared for what he sees. But then again, anything that was waiting for him would've caught him off guard, there was no way or predicting what Harry had said. Nonetheless, he feels like any other response was somehow more within his expectations than this.
H:
I miss the way you looked at me too