One Direction fic | Remember When | Louis/Harry | NC-17 | ~4,000 words
Remember When
Louis/younger!Harry | NC-17 | ~ 4,000 words
Louis already knows how this turns out. Time travel.
They’re on the bus in the middle of the afternoon when Harry asks, “What city are we driving to?”
Louis looks over from the other side of the back lounge and tries to think of something funny to say, but for a moment he’s also not sure where they’re heading. It would have come to him eventually, but Niall answers first.
“Milan,” Niall says, with a lovely Italian accent.
Harry pushes his fringe, long enough to curl around his jawline, back up his forehead.
“Something weird’s going to happen tomorrow. I think.”
There’s a long pause while the rest of them wait for Harry to finish his thought.
“Well,” Liam says when Harry doesn’t. “Good warning, then.”
“What’s going to happen?” Zayn asks.
Harry has been hazy and preoccupied, but he cuts his gaze over to Louis and makes overly intense eye contact. Louis can feel his chest getting tight, even though he knows it’s just Harry being strange. It’s always just Harry being strange these days.
Still, it’s a lot of eye contact. Louis shifts uncomfortably and pretends that he’s looking down at his phone to check a text.
There’s another stretch of silence, but Louis keeps staring resolutely at his phone screen.
“You’ll know when it happens,” Harry says. “I’m pretty sure it’s tomorrow. I don’t want you making fun of me if I’ve remembered wrong.”
“Something bad?” Liam asks.
“Should we try to guess?” asks Niall.
Harry rubs his hand down his forearm, his face all screwed up like it’s taking every ounce of mental energy for him to remember... whatever it is he’s thinking about.
“Leave it,” Louis says, pushing off the couch. “He’s just trying to pull a prank, and we all know how that’ll turn out.”
He walks out of the lounge and into the kitchenette area. There was a time when he would have known exactly what prank Harry was going to pull -- that he would have been the one to come up with this idea. At the very least, he would have been able to read the stormy look on Harry’s face. But now, Harry’s as unreadable as the Italian road signs they’re whizzing past. Louis knows there’s something there, but he can’t make sense of it.
Which is fine. Mostly it’s fine. They’re still friends; Harry has a lot of friends and Louis is one of many. It’s just jarring in the moments when Harry is particularly unknowable, like finding a piece of paper with his own sloppy handwriting, and not being able to parse the scrawl. He could make sense of it once. He used to know Harry better than anyone.
--
Harry sleeps in the hotel that night, and in the morning Louis heads to Harry’s room to find Lou and get his hair done.
Harry answers the door on Louis’sf knock, and Louis almost walks right past him but instead stops abruptly, doing a double take.
“What the fuck?” Louis asks, grabbing Harry by the shoulders so he can inspect his face up close. “You’re like. You’re fucking -- you got young again.”
He looks exactly like Louis remembers him: the sweep of curls across his forehead, high cheekbones, eyes a little too big for his face. He’s wearing a baggy t-shirt and he’s got one-third the tattoos he’s meant to have. He still smiles the same way Louis remembers, beaming up at Louis like he’s the best thing that could have ever walked into the room. Louis cups Harry’s cheek, pressing his palm to Harry’s dimple, and feels an ache that he thought he had numbed out years ago.
“I’m still plenty young,” another voice says, coming up behind Louis. It’s Harry, actual Harry, looking the same as ever.
Louis shoves at whoever he’d been holding on to and throws his hands up.
“What the bloody fuck is going on?” Louis wraps his arms tight across his chest. Of course Harry’s still actual Harry. He doesn’t know how he actually thought, even for a second, that a seventeen year old version of Harry was standing in front of him. How embarrassingly gullible.
“It’s me when I was seventeen,” Harry says. He walks over and throws his arm around the other one’s shoulders. The younger one is still staring at Louis, looking deeply wounded, like Louis had thrust a dagger in his chest instead of just giving him a little shove.
“Mate,” Louis says. “It’s a good trick, but no one’s going to fall for it.” But even as he says it, he knows it’s not a trick. The two of them side by side: no imposter in the world could pull off a resemblance that uncanny. The shape of their faces, the slump of their shoulders. They fall into each other’s space like it’s easier for them to be together than apart.
“Told you something weird was going to happen,” Harry says.
“I didn’t know being a popstar would be so boring,” young Harry says when he finally gets tired of everyone standing in shocked silence and staring at him. Then he attempts to moonwalk over to the hotel door, but trips himself on actual Harry’s suitcase. He ends up draped across the suitcase, shirt lifted to expose most of his belly, his legs sprawled out in a way that draws attention to his thighs. He frowns excessively, lips unfairly pink.
“So you haven’t really changed, mate,” Louis says.
--
They hide young Harry on the back of the bus, smuggling him on with a sweater thrown over his head, which was Zayn’s idea, except he only remembered once they were already in the parking lot, so hopefully no one managed to get a photo first.
Once they’re settled on the bus, actual Harry pulls out his phone. Louis only realizes after about ten minutes of trying to go about his morning like everything is normal that the younger Harry has been following after him the entire time. In fairness, most of his routine has been staring blankly at the kettle waiting for boiling water. He feels dazed, like maybe this entire morning has actually been a dream, but the young Harry leaning against the table is painfully real.
“Do you want tea then?” Louis asked. It’s just the two of them in the kitchenette. Harry’s arms look slim under the capped sleeves of his t-shirt.
“Yes, please,” young Harry says. He tilts his head at Louis meaningfully. “You can grow a beard now.”
Louis hands Harry a cup of tea, but not before he’s had a chance to stroke his fingers over Louis’s cheeks, lingering unnecessarily at the bow of Louis’s lip. He’s only gone three days without shaving, but Harry seems delighted.
Louis takes a step backwards.
“You still remember me, right?” Harry asks, his brow furrowing.
“You’re literally right in the other room,” Louis says. “I don’t even have to remember you; you’re always right there.”
“But you remember me?” young Harry asks plaintively.
Louis sets his own tea on the counter and lets Harry curl into his shoulder, threading his fingers into Harry’s hair like he used to when they were nervous backstage at the X-Factor.
“Are you scared?” Louis asks. He lifts his arm when Harry burrows in until they’re wrapped up in a hug, Harry slumping to rest his head on Louis’s shoulder. He smells like something that Louis hadn’t realized he’d forgotten until now, and if Louis closed his eyes he could almost believe that he was nineteen again.
“Not really,” Harry says. “The old me said it’s just for today.”
“How does he know?”
“He said he remembers from when it happened to him. When him was me. Because of, you know, we’re the same person and I’m going to get old, too.”
“So he knows everything that’s happening?”
“I guess so,” young Harry says. He shows no indication of pulling away.
Louis closes his eyes and tries not to think about the fact that the Harry in the other room knows exactly how Louis has wrapped himself around Harry’s younger self.
--
“It’s a bit mad,” Harry says, watching his younger self try to get the football away from Liam. “How much he fancies you.”
He sounds like he’s talking about a stranger: just an objective observation of something that has puzzled him. It sounds like he doesn’t remember at all how it felt when he was that stranger.
Louis clears his throat. “There’s no accounting for taste.”
“I didn’t realize how obvious it was,” Harry says. “You know, the first time around.”
“You’ve never been known for your stealth.”
Harry shrugs one shoulder. “You’ll see tonight. I was so scared you’d say no,” he says with this quirk of his mouth, like can you believe how ridiculous I was? Like that’s the most ridiculous part of this whole situation: that Louis would ever say no to Harry.
Louis looks down at his knees and asks, “What do you mean tonight?”
Harry looks at Louis unblinkingly and Louis feels himself freeze, his breath caught in his throat. Finally Harry turns his head to watch his younger self again. Louis takes a shaky breath.
“Harry, what do you think is going to happen tonight?” Louis asks. Younger Harry kicks the ball too hard and while Niall’s chasing after it, he turns around to beam at Harry and Louis. Or, Louis realizes after a beat, just at Louis. He finally raises his hand and little Harry waves back at him happily, his grin lighting up his whole face.
“It’s already happened,” Harry says. He’s been irritatingly unflappable about the whole thing. It’s not fair -- just because he’s had years to get used to the idea. Louis doesn’t like not knowing the rules of a game. At least when he knows the rules he can decide when he’s going to break them and it will be on purpose.
“Maybe this time it doesn’t happen,” Louis snaps.
Harry blinks at him. Smug bastard.
Louis tucks his fists into the long sleeves of his shirt. He feels exposed and doesn’t know how to hide from it because he hasn’t even done anything. Yet.
He clears his throat and asks, “Is it -- did you not want--”
“Oh, I wanted to,” Harry says.
“Well you don’t want to now,” Louis grits out. “You didn’t want to any other time.”
“Sometimes what you want changes. That doesn’t make the wanting any less real.”
Why did it change? Louis wants to ask. But even though it feels personal, like on the deepest level that Louis can only think about when the bus is silent and he’s trapped in his bunk trying to sleep, he knows it’s not. That’s what it’s been like with people Harry has actually dated: he wants until he doesn’t anymore. Even when Louis’s lain awake so long that the night has started to slip into morning, he knows there’s no reason why it should be any different with him. They were friends and it seemed like maybe they both wanted more, but it never went past that. Harry’s wanting clicks on with such a perfect focus that it seems like it has always and will always be that way, but it’s not.
“It’s good,” Harry says and then he throws his arm around Louis’s shoulder and pulls him in. Louis feels himself resisting at first, like his body doesn’t know what to do with this Harry, not the way he still has the muscle memory of being close to the young one. Harry waits it out until Louis settles against him. Harry’s not that much taller than he was before, but he seems a lot bigger when he’s not trying to make himself small.
“It was good,” he whispers into the top of Louis’s head. “I liked it.”
“Not enough,” Louis says, quiet enough that they can both pretend he didn’t say it.
--
They pile into Harry’s hotel room after the show. The Harrys’ hotel room, the both of them sharing the same pillow while Liam and Niall fight over the channel changer.
Louis sits on the armchair by the dresser. The Harrys are ignoring the bickering. Young Harry pulls apart older Harry’s already mostly unbuttoned shirt and peers at his tattoos, awed.
“They look so sick,” young Harry says. “Just, like, massively cool.” He runs his fingers over the sparrows flying across older Harry’s chest.
“We always wanted them, right?” older Harry says.
“Yeah, but like. What does everyone else think?”
Harry’s face freezes for a moment. Louis’s seen that look before: the way Harry closes himself quietly and comes back with a blank smile. Except this time he blinks it away, opens his arms until younger Harry comes in for a cuddle.
“Doesn’t matter, does it?” Harry asks. “It’s our body.” There’s a quiet edge to his voice that makes Louis’s back straighten.
“Yeah,” younger Harry sighs. He curls his fingers into the soft cotton of Harry’s shirt.
Louis thinks he should look away, but doesn’t. He wishes that he could have time travelled when he was this age. He would give anything to be able to have had a moment like this to carry with him through his teenaged years.
“You’re going to be okay,” Harry says, holding his younger self tightly to his chest. The younger Harry nuzzles in until the only thing between them is the wear of the years.
Louis watches them for another minute and then slips quietly out of the room.
It feels like it’s a long walk back to his own hotel room, even though it’s just four doors down. After four tries he gets his door open, walks inside, and just stands. There’s a massive wooden dresser for clothes, another one that opens to a flat screen telly. There’s a desk, and a round table with a couple chairs, two leather armchairs, and a king-sized bed. It’s too much for just him and his suitcase. This is why he likes sleeping on the bus.
He’s still standing motionless some time later when there’s a knock at the door. The peephole shows that it’s little Harry, not a fan, so Louis unlocks the deadbolt.
“You’re not meant to be wandering about,” Louis says.
“I wanted to see you,” young Harry says. “We’ve like hardly talked.” He pushes inside and walks straight over to the bed, hopping up. “Harry said it was alright.”
Louis follows after him, leaning against the edge with just one thigh propped up against the mattress.
“No, come on,” young Harry says, patting the bed beside him. “Don’t you want to have a chat?” Louis looks at his own hands. He knows what Harry means, the way they used to press together on one of their beds until they were so close that they didn’t have to speak louder than a whisper. Like nothing they said counted if it was too quiet for anyone else to hear.
Louis climbs the rest of the way onto the bed.
Harry wants to know about their stadium tour, and what his new flat looks like, and all the different cars he gets to drive and if they're going to be using any of the songs he wrote on their new album. Louis tries to be vague, but half the time Harry’s interrupting himself with another question before giving Louis the chance to answer. He’s unfiltered and excited by everything, and it just makes it painfully obvious how good Harry is now at keeping it all locked up.
“This hotel room is so sick,” young Harry says, kicking his heels against the duvet.
“I guess,” Louis says.
“No, it is,” Harry says. “Look.” He scooches down on the mattress until he’s lying flat, and prods and nudges at Louis so he does the same. Louis isn’t fully aware of what’s happening until they’re both lying flat, Harry’s ankle pressed in between Louis’s shins, face to face and close enough to touch.
“It’s good, right?” Harry says. He looks Louis in the eyes and then drops his gaze to Louis’s mouth. It’s so obvious that Louis feels his cheeks warm. He remembers when Harry used to be like this, so blatant in what he wanted.
“It’s good,” Louis agrees.
He wants to say he’s surprised when Harry leans in for a kiss, but he’d be lying. They used to lie together like this all the time, sharing the same air, letting the tension drag on until Louis couldn’t stand it anymore and he had to roll away. He’s wondered what would have happened if he’d just waited a little longer, and finally -- this. Harry kisses him with an open mouth, slipping his tongue into Louis’s mouth right away. Louis closes his eyes and lets him. Harry exhales harshly, the tip of his nose digging into Louis’s cheek. They’re all smushed together and it’s too much, too eager, but Louis doesn’t care. It’s exactly what he always wanted.
Harry keeps pressing his cock into Louis’s thigh until Louis can’t ignore it anymore. He rolls Harry so he’s flat on his back, but pauses with his fingers at the zip of Harry’s jeans.
“Have you done this before?” Louis asks.
“Yes,” Harry says, laughing. “You already know that.”
“With a lad?”
“Why does it matter? People are people.”
Louis traces his fingers over the flat metal button of Harry’s jeans and says, “It feels like it matters. Why didn’t you ever tell me this happened?”
“The time travel thing? I dunno, ask the other Harry.” He’s squirming now, trying to push into Louis’s hand, but Louis keeps his touch light.
“You are the other Harry,” Louis says. “You’re about to become him.”
“Not yet, though,” Harry says. He sits up so that he can reach Louis’s mouth and pulls him to another deep kiss, pushing Louis’s hand away so he can slide out of his own jeans and pants.
He looks good naked, better than Louis ever did at seventeen. Louis considers feeling guilty, but the very fact that Harry’s here proves that time has no meaning. It’s already happened and it’s going to happen again when this Harry grows up. It happens over and over again, this same night on infinite repeat. Louis is never going to say no.
He wraps his hand around Harry’s cock.
Harry whimpers and tries to keep kissing Louis, but he’s distracted almost immediately, pulls away so he can peer down at Louis’s hand working over his cock. Louis rests his cheek on the top of Harry’s head for a moment and then pulls away, drops onto his belly, steadies a hand on the base and feeds Harry’s cock into his mouth.
“Louis,” Harry says, awed. He pets at Louis’s cheeks and seems to give a fair effort toward not fucking his hips forward, even though mostly he fails utterly. His cock keeps bumping up against the back of Louis’s throat, just enough to make Louis’s eyes prickle but not so much that he has to stop. Louis holds himself up with an elbow to the bed. He’s still wearing his clothes and he can feel his own cock smearing wetly in his pants.
Harry must be leaking, because the taste of him gets stronger. His hips jerk. Louis thinks maybe he’ll come soon, and almost as soon as he’s finished thinking it, Harry comes. It feels like it’s flooding Louis’s mouth and he can hardly remember how to swallow anymore. He’s overwhelmed with the taste of Harry, the low sounds he makes as Louis sucks him through the aftershocks, the feel of Harry’s hand resting heavy on the back of Louis’s head.
Finally Harry moves his hand away and Louis lifts off, sitting back on his heels. He touches his fingers to his jaw, pressing at the hinge where it aches.
Harry looks sleepy, sprawled bonelessly on top of the duvet. Louis wonders if he’ll go back to his own room now. Back to the other Harry.
“Come on,” Harry says, holding out his hand. “I can’t reach you.”
Louis stretches out beside him and lets Harry flop around until their legs are tangled. He strokes his hand down Louis’s back. At first he’s sloppy and grabby about it, but as his orgasm fades away, he gets more deliberate, tracing his fingers around the knobs of Louis’s spine, dipping under the waistband of Louis’s jeans to pluck at the hem of Louis’s pants.
He cups Louis’s arse in his palm and Louis has to grit his teeth to keep quiet.
“You should be naked, too,” Harry says. He pulls off his own shirt while Louis strips down and only protests a little when Louis maneuvers them both under the duvet.
Harry’s cock is hard again and this time he’s thrusting against Louis’s bare thigh so Louis can feel the impossibly soft friction of skin on skin. Harry grabs his arse and hauls them even closer together, close enough that Louis feels like he can’t breathe, especially with the way Harry is holding his arse in both hands.
“Do you want to fuck me?” Louis asks, even though it’s painfully obvious that Harry does.
“Oh, can I?” Harry asks, sounding so delighted that Louis can’t help laughing.
He has to leave the bed to get lube and a condom, and when he comes back, Harry has kicked the duvet away. He’s lying on his back, heels braced on the mattress, hand working over his cock. Louis lingers by the side of the bed watching because -- fuck. Harry looks good, and he knows it.
Harry lets go of his own cock to take the lube, tugging Louis back onto the bed. It takes both of their fingers to coax Louis’s arsehole open. Harry tries to go in with two at once and even though Louis tries to breath through it, he can’t convince himself to relax, so he slicks up his own finger instead. Harry watches rapt, tracing over Louis’s rim where he’s stretching himself open.
He’s trying to be patient but Louis can tell Harry is dying to get on with it, so he nods for Harry to roll on the condom before he’s really feeling ready. There’s enough lube for the head of Harry’s cock to push inside, bringing a sharp burn that never really goes away. Louis closes his eyes and tries to relax, but Harry’s fucking him. Louis wants so badly for it to be good that he can’t stop himself from bracing against each thrust. He curls his palm around Harry’s shoulder.
“You okay?” Harry asks. He’s panting against Louis’s neck.
“Just stay with me,” Louis says, holding Harry tighter.
“Yeah,” Harry agrees quickly. “Oh, fuck.”
The pain opens up into a humming drone that only flares sometimes. Harry makes lovely noises, his head tucked into Louis’s collarbone and hands holding tight to Louis’s hips.
Louis wiggles his hand in between their bellies. There’s not enough room to properly wank himself off, but he works his thumb over the head of his cock, holding himself firmly, and lets the uneven rhythm of Harry fucking do the rest. He knows Harry’s going to come from the way his thrusts get shorter and shorter. He doesn’t want it to be over, even though the drag of Harry’s cock feels as raw as a bruise.
When Harry finally seizes against him, Louis bears down and comes as well. It doesn’t feel like it stops the entire time that Harry is still in his arse, gently rocking through his own orgasm. The ache confuses everything, and Louis can do nothing to stop his thighs from trembling. When Harry slips out, Louis finally takes a deep breath.
“That was nice,” Harry says, sighing. “I always wondered what that would be like.” He pulls off the condom and rolls over to grab a piece of tissue from the bedside table, staying on his side once he’s got the condom tucked away.
“And now you know,” Louis says. He watches the long line of Harry’s bare back. If he ignores the lack of tattoos and the length of his hair, he can almost imagine what Harry would look like now.
Louis wraps himself around young Harry’s back, sliding their feet together and flattening his palm to Harry’s belly. He presses his face into Harry’s hair, holds him closer until there’s not an inch of space between them, and tries to convince himself that there will still be something there for him to hold onto in the morning.
Louis/younger!Harry | NC-17 | ~ 4,000 words
Louis already knows how this turns out. Time travel.
They’re on the bus in the middle of the afternoon when Harry asks, “What city are we driving to?”
Louis looks over from the other side of the back lounge and tries to think of something funny to say, but for a moment he’s also not sure where they’re heading. It would have come to him eventually, but Niall answers first.
“Milan,” Niall says, with a lovely Italian accent.
Harry pushes his fringe, long enough to curl around his jawline, back up his forehead.
“Something weird’s going to happen tomorrow. I think.”
There’s a long pause while the rest of them wait for Harry to finish his thought.
“Well,” Liam says when Harry doesn’t. “Good warning, then.”
“What’s going to happen?” Zayn asks.
Harry has been hazy and preoccupied, but he cuts his gaze over to Louis and makes overly intense eye contact. Louis can feel his chest getting tight, even though he knows it’s just Harry being strange. It’s always just Harry being strange these days.
Still, it’s a lot of eye contact. Louis shifts uncomfortably and pretends that he’s looking down at his phone to check a text.
There’s another stretch of silence, but Louis keeps staring resolutely at his phone screen.
“You’ll know when it happens,” Harry says. “I’m pretty sure it’s tomorrow. I don’t want you making fun of me if I’ve remembered wrong.”
“Something bad?” Liam asks.
“Should we try to guess?” asks Niall.
Harry rubs his hand down his forearm, his face all screwed up like it’s taking every ounce of mental energy for him to remember... whatever it is he’s thinking about.
“Leave it,” Louis says, pushing off the couch. “He’s just trying to pull a prank, and we all know how that’ll turn out.”
He walks out of the lounge and into the kitchenette area. There was a time when he would have known exactly what prank Harry was going to pull -- that he would have been the one to come up with this idea. At the very least, he would have been able to read the stormy look on Harry’s face. But now, Harry’s as unreadable as the Italian road signs they’re whizzing past. Louis knows there’s something there, but he can’t make sense of it.
Which is fine. Mostly it’s fine. They’re still friends; Harry has a lot of friends and Louis is one of many. It’s just jarring in the moments when Harry is particularly unknowable, like finding a piece of paper with his own sloppy handwriting, and not being able to parse the scrawl. He could make sense of it once. He used to know Harry better than anyone.
--
Harry sleeps in the hotel that night, and in the morning Louis heads to Harry’s room to find Lou and get his hair done.
Harry answers the door on Louis’sf knock, and Louis almost walks right past him but instead stops abruptly, doing a double take.
“What the fuck?” Louis asks, grabbing Harry by the shoulders so he can inspect his face up close. “You’re like. You’re fucking -- you got young again.”
He looks exactly like Louis remembers him: the sweep of curls across his forehead, high cheekbones, eyes a little too big for his face. He’s wearing a baggy t-shirt and he’s got one-third the tattoos he’s meant to have. He still smiles the same way Louis remembers, beaming up at Louis like he’s the best thing that could have ever walked into the room. Louis cups Harry’s cheek, pressing his palm to Harry’s dimple, and feels an ache that he thought he had numbed out years ago.
“I’m still plenty young,” another voice says, coming up behind Louis. It’s Harry, actual Harry, looking the same as ever.
Louis shoves at whoever he’d been holding on to and throws his hands up.
“What the bloody fuck is going on?” Louis wraps his arms tight across his chest. Of course Harry’s still actual Harry. He doesn’t know how he actually thought, even for a second, that a seventeen year old version of Harry was standing in front of him. How embarrassingly gullible.
“It’s me when I was seventeen,” Harry says. He walks over and throws his arm around the other one’s shoulders. The younger one is still staring at Louis, looking deeply wounded, like Louis had thrust a dagger in his chest instead of just giving him a little shove.
“Mate,” Louis says. “It’s a good trick, but no one’s going to fall for it.” But even as he says it, he knows it’s not a trick. The two of them side by side: no imposter in the world could pull off a resemblance that uncanny. The shape of their faces, the slump of their shoulders. They fall into each other’s space like it’s easier for them to be together than apart.
“Told you something weird was going to happen,” Harry says.
“I didn’t know being a popstar would be so boring,” young Harry says when he finally gets tired of everyone standing in shocked silence and staring at him. Then he attempts to moonwalk over to the hotel door, but trips himself on actual Harry’s suitcase. He ends up draped across the suitcase, shirt lifted to expose most of his belly, his legs sprawled out in a way that draws attention to his thighs. He frowns excessively, lips unfairly pink.
“So you haven’t really changed, mate,” Louis says.
--
They hide young Harry on the back of the bus, smuggling him on with a sweater thrown over his head, which was Zayn’s idea, except he only remembered once they were already in the parking lot, so hopefully no one managed to get a photo first.
Once they’re settled on the bus, actual Harry pulls out his phone. Louis only realizes after about ten minutes of trying to go about his morning like everything is normal that the younger Harry has been following after him the entire time. In fairness, most of his routine has been staring blankly at the kettle waiting for boiling water. He feels dazed, like maybe this entire morning has actually been a dream, but the young Harry leaning against the table is painfully real.
“Do you want tea then?” Louis asked. It’s just the two of them in the kitchenette. Harry’s arms look slim under the capped sleeves of his t-shirt.
“Yes, please,” young Harry says. He tilts his head at Louis meaningfully. “You can grow a beard now.”
Louis hands Harry a cup of tea, but not before he’s had a chance to stroke his fingers over Louis’s cheeks, lingering unnecessarily at the bow of Louis’s lip. He’s only gone three days without shaving, but Harry seems delighted.
Louis takes a step backwards.
“You still remember me, right?” Harry asks, his brow furrowing.
“You’re literally right in the other room,” Louis says. “I don’t even have to remember you; you’re always right there.”
“But you remember me?” young Harry asks plaintively.
Louis sets his own tea on the counter and lets Harry curl into his shoulder, threading his fingers into Harry’s hair like he used to when they were nervous backstage at the X-Factor.
“Are you scared?” Louis asks. He lifts his arm when Harry burrows in until they’re wrapped up in a hug, Harry slumping to rest his head on Louis’s shoulder. He smells like something that Louis hadn’t realized he’d forgotten until now, and if Louis closed his eyes he could almost believe that he was nineteen again.
“Not really,” Harry says. “The old me said it’s just for today.”
“How does he know?”
“He said he remembers from when it happened to him. When him was me. Because of, you know, we’re the same person and I’m going to get old, too.”
“So he knows everything that’s happening?”
“I guess so,” young Harry says. He shows no indication of pulling away.
Louis closes his eyes and tries not to think about the fact that the Harry in the other room knows exactly how Louis has wrapped himself around Harry’s younger self.
--
“It’s a bit mad,” Harry says, watching his younger self try to get the football away from Liam. “How much he fancies you.”
He sounds like he’s talking about a stranger: just an objective observation of something that has puzzled him. It sounds like he doesn’t remember at all how it felt when he was that stranger.
Louis clears his throat. “There’s no accounting for taste.”
“I didn’t realize how obvious it was,” Harry says. “You know, the first time around.”
“You’ve never been known for your stealth.”
Harry shrugs one shoulder. “You’ll see tonight. I was so scared you’d say no,” he says with this quirk of his mouth, like can you believe how ridiculous I was? Like that’s the most ridiculous part of this whole situation: that Louis would ever say no to Harry.
Louis looks down at his knees and asks, “What do you mean tonight?”
Harry looks at Louis unblinkingly and Louis feels himself freeze, his breath caught in his throat. Finally Harry turns his head to watch his younger self again. Louis takes a shaky breath.
“Harry, what do you think is going to happen tonight?” Louis asks. Younger Harry kicks the ball too hard and while Niall’s chasing after it, he turns around to beam at Harry and Louis. Or, Louis realizes after a beat, just at Louis. He finally raises his hand and little Harry waves back at him happily, his grin lighting up his whole face.
“It’s already happened,” Harry says. He’s been irritatingly unflappable about the whole thing. It’s not fair -- just because he’s had years to get used to the idea. Louis doesn’t like not knowing the rules of a game. At least when he knows the rules he can decide when he’s going to break them and it will be on purpose.
“Maybe this time it doesn’t happen,” Louis snaps.
Harry blinks at him. Smug bastard.
Louis tucks his fists into the long sleeves of his shirt. He feels exposed and doesn’t know how to hide from it because he hasn’t even done anything. Yet.
He clears his throat and asks, “Is it -- did you not want--”
“Oh, I wanted to,” Harry says.
“Well you don’t want to now,” Louis grits out. “You didn’t want to any other time.”
“Sometimes what you want changes. That doesn’t make the wanting any less real.”
Why did it change? Louis wants to ask. But even though it feels personal, like on the deepest level that Louis can only think about when the bus is silent and he’s trapped in his bunk trying to sleep, he knows it’s not. That’s what it’s been like with people Harry has actually dated: he wants until he doesn’t anymore. Even when Louis’s lain awake so long that the night has started to slip into morning, he knows there’s no reason why it should be any different with him. They were friends and it seemed like maybe they both wanted more, but it never went past that. Harry’s wanting clicks on with such a perfect focus that it seems like it has always and will always be that way, but it’s not.
“It’s good,” Harry says and then he throws his arm around Louis’s shoulder and pulls him in. Louis feels himself resisting at first, like his body doesn’t know what to do with this Harry, not the way he still has the muscle memory of being close to the young one. Harry waits it out until Louis settles against him. Harry’s not that much taller than he was before, but he seems a lot bigger when he’s not trying to make himself small.
“It was good,” he whispers into the top of Louis’s head. “I liked it.”
“Not enough,” Louis says, quiet enough that they can both pretend he didn’t say it.
--
They pile into Harry’s hotel room after the show. The Harrys’ hotel room, the both of them sharing the same pillow while Liam and Niall fight over the channel changer.
Louis sits on the armchair by the dresser. The Harrys are ignoring the bickering. Young Harry pulls apart older Harry’s already mostly unbuttoned shirt and peers at his tattoos, awed.
“They look so sick,” young Harry says. “Just, like, massively cool.” He runs his fingers over the sparrows flying across older Harry’s chest.
“We always wanted them, right?” older Harry says.
“Yeah, but like. What does everyone else think?”
Harry’s face freezes for a moment. Louis’s seen that look before: the way Harry closes himself quietly and comes back with a blank smile. Except this time he blinks it away, opens his arms until younger Harry comes in for a cuddle.
“Doesn’t matter, does it?” Harry asks. “It’s our body.” There’s a quiet edge to his voice that makes Louis’s back straighten.
“Yeah,” younger Harry sighs. He curls his fingers into the soft cotton of Harry’s shirt.
Louis thinks he should look away, but doesn’t. He wishes that he could have time travelled when he was this age. He would give anything to be able to have had a moment like this to carry with him through his teenaged years.
“You’re going to be okay,” Harry says, holding his younger self tightly to his chest. The younger Harry nuzzles in until the only thing between them is the wear of the years.
Louis watches them for another minute and then slips quietly out of the room.
It feels like it’s a long walk back to his own hotel room, even though it’s just four doors down. After four tries he gets his door open, walks inside, and just stands. There’s a massive wooden dresser for clothes, another one that opens to a flat screen telly. There’s a desk, and a round table with a couple chairs, two leather armchairs, and a king-sized bed. It’s too much for just him and his suitcase. This is why he likes sleeping on the bus.
He’s still standing motionless some time later when there’s a knock at the door. The peephole shows that it’s little Harry, not a fan, so Louis unlocks the deadbolt.
“You’re not meant to be wandering about,” Louis says.
“I wanted to see you,” young Harry says. “We’ve like hardly talked.” He pushes inside and walks straight over to the bed, hopping up. “Harry said it was alright.”
Louis follows after him, leaning against the edge with just one thigh propped up against the mattress.
“No, come on,” young Harry says, patting the bed beside him. “Don’t you want to have a chat?” Louis looks at his own hands. He knows what Harry means, the way they used to press together on one of their beds until they were so close that they didn’t have to speak louder than a whisper. Like nothing they said counted if it was too quiet for anyone else to hear.
Louis climbs the rest of the way onto the bed.
Harry wants to know about their stadium tour, and what his new flat looks like, and all the different cars he gets to drive and if they're going to be using any of the songs he wrote on their new album. Louis tries to be vague, but half the time Harry’s interrupting himself with another question before giving Louis the chance to answer. He’s unfiltered and excited by everything, and it just makes it painfully obvious how good Harry is now at keeping it all locked up.
“This hotel room is so sick,” young Harry says, kicking his heels against the duvet.
“I guess,” Louis says.
“No, it is,” Harry says. “Look.” He scooches down on the mattress until he’s lying flat, and prods and nudges at Louis so he does the same. Louis isn’t fully aware of what’s happening until they’re both lying flat, Harry’s ankle pressed in between Louis’s shins, face to face and close enough to touch.
“It’s good, right?” Harry says. He looks Louis in the eyes and then drops his gaze to Louis’s mouth. It’s so obvious that Louis feels his cheeks warm. He remembers when Harry used to be like this, so blatant in what he wanted.
“It’s good,” Louis agrees.
He wants to say he’s surprised when Harry leans in for a kiss, but he’d be lying. They used to lie together like this all the time, sharing the same air, letting the tension drag on until Louis couldn’t stand it anymore and he had to roll away. He’s wondered what would have happened if he’d just waited a little longer, and finally -- this. Harry kisses him with an open mouth, slipping his tongue into Louis’s mouth right away. Louis closes his eyes and lets him. Harry exhales harshly, the tip of his nose digging into Louis’s cheek. They’re all smushed together and it’s too much, too eager, but Louis doesn’t care. It’s exactly what he always wanted.
Harry keeps pressing his cock into Louis’s thigh until Louis can’t ignore it anymore. He rolls Harry so he’s flat on his back, but pauses with his fingers at the zip of Harry’s jeans.
“Have you done this before?” Louis asks.
“Yes,” Harry says, laughing. “You already know that.”
“With a lad?”
“Why does it matter? People are people.”
Louis traces his fingers over the flat metal button of Harry’s jeans and says, “It feels like it matters. Why didn’t you ever tell me this happened?”
“The time travel thing? I dunno, ask the other Harry.” He’s squirming now, trying to push into Louis’s hand, but Louis keeps his touch light.
“You are the other Harry,” Louis says. “You’re about to become him.”
“Not yet, though,” Harry says. He sits up so that he can reach Louis’s mouth and pulls him to another deep kiss, pushing Louis’s hand away so he can slide out of his own jeans and pants.
He looks good naked, better than Louis ever did at seventeen. Louis considers feeling guilty, but the very fact that Harry’s here proves that time has no meaning. It’s already happened and it’s going to happen again when this Harry grows up. It happens over and over again, this same night on infinite repeat. Louis is never going to say no.
He wraps his hand around Harry’s cock.
Harry whimpers and tries to keep kissing Louis, but he’s distracted almost immediately, pulls away so he can peer down at Louis’s hand working over his cock. Louis rests his cheek on the top of Harry’s head for a moment and then pulls away, drops onto his belly, steadies a hand on the base and feeds Harry’s cock into his mouth.
“Louis,” Harry says, awed. He pets at Louis’s cheeks and seems to give a fair effort toward not fucking his hips forward, even though mostly he fails utterly. His cock keeps bumping up against the back of Louis’s throat, just enough to make Louis’s eyes prickle but not so much that he has to stop. Louis holds himself up with an elbow to the bed. He’s still wearing his clothes and he can feel his own cock smearing wetly in his pants.
Harry must be leaking, because the taste of him gets stronger. His hips jerk. Louis thinks maybe he’ll come soon, and almost as soon as he’s finished thinking it, Harry comes. It feels like it’s flooding Louis’s mouth and he can hardly remember how to swallow anymore. He’s overwhelmed with the taste of Harry, the low sounds he makes as Louis sucks him through the aftershocks, the feel of Harry’s hand resting heavy on the back of Louis’s head.
Finally Harry moves his hand away and Louis lifts off, sitting back on his heels. He touches his fingers to his jaw, pressing at the hinge where it aches.
Harry looks sleepy, sprawled bonelessly on top of the duvet. Louis wonders if he’ll go back to his own room now. Back to the other Harry.
“Come on,” Harry says, holding out his hand. “I can’t reach you.”
Louis stretches out beside him and lets Harry flop around until their legs are tangled. He strokes his hand down Louis’s back. At first he’s sloppy and grabby about it, but as his orgasm fades away, he gets more deliberate, tracing his fingers around the knobs of Louis’s spine, dipping under the waistband of Louis’s jeans to pluck at the hem of Louis’s pants.
He cups Louis’s arse in his palm and Louis has to grit his teeth to keep quiet.
“You should be naked, too,” Harry says. He pulls off his own shirt while Louis strips down and only protests a little when Louis maneuvers them both under the duvet.
Harry’s cock is hard again and this time he’s thrusting against Louis’s bare thigh so Louis can feel the impossibly soft friction of skin on skin. Harry grabs his arse and hauls them even closer together, close enough that Louis feels like he can’t breathe, especially with the way Harry is holding his arse in both hands.
“Do you want to fuck me?” Louis asks, even though it’s painfully obvious that Harry does.
“Oh, can I?” Harry asks, sounding so delighted that Louis can’t help laughing.
He has to leave the bed to get lube and a condom, and when he comes back, Harry has kicked the duvet away. He’s lying on his back, heels braced on the mattress, hand working over his cock. Louis lingers by the side of the bed watching because -- fuck. Harry looks good, and he knows it.
Harry lets go of his own cock to take the lube, tugging Louis back onto the bed. It takes both of their fingers to coax Louis’s arsehole open. Harry tries to go in with two at once and even though Louis tries to breath through it, he can’t convince himself to relax, so he slicks up his own finger instead. Harry watches rapt, tracing over Louis’s rim where he’s stretching himself open.
He’s trying to be patient but Louis can tell Harry is dying to get on with it, so he nods for Harry to roll on the condom before he’s really feeling ready. There’s enough lube for the head of Harry’s cock to push inside, bringing a sharp burn that never really goes away. Louis closes his eyes and tries to relax, but Harry’s fucking him. Louis wants so badly for it to be good that he can’t stop himself from bracing against each thrust. He curls his palm around Harry’s shoulder.
“You okay?” Harry asks. He’s panting against Louis’s neck.
“Just stay with me,” Louis says, holding Harry tighter.
“Yeah,” Harry agrees quickly. “Oh, fuck.”
The pain opens up into a humming drone that only flares sometimes. Harry makes lovely noises, his head tucked into Louis’s collarbone and hands holding tight to Louis’s hips.
Louis wiggles his hand in between their bellies. There’s not enough room to properly wank himself off, but he works his thumb over the head of his cock, holding himself firmly, and lets the uneven rhythm of Harry fucking do the rest. He knows Harry’s going to come from the way his thrusts get shorter and shorter. He doesn’t want it to be over, even though the drag of Harry’s cock feels as raw as a bruise.
When Harry finally seizes against him, Louis bears down and comes as well. It doesn’t feel like it stops the entire time that Harry is still in his arse, gently rocking through his own orgasm. The ache confuses everything, and Louis can do nothing to stop his thighs from trembling. When Harry slips out, Louis finally takes a deep breath.
“That was nice,” Harry says, sighing. “I always wondered what that would be like.” He pulls off the condom and rolls over to grab a piece of tissue from the bedside table, staying on his side once he’s got the condom tucked away.
“And now you know,” Louis says. He watches the long line of Harry’s bare back. If he ignores the lack of tattoos and the length of his hair, he can almost imagine what Harry would look like now.
Louis wraps himself around young Harry’s back, sliding their feet together and flattening his palm to Harry’s belly. He presses his face into Harry’s hair, holds him closer until there’s not an inch of space between them, and tries to convince himself that there will still be something there for him to hold onto in the morning.