Knowledge and rebellion
Title: Knowledge and Rebellion
Author: transgenicveins
Pairing: Louis Tomlinson / Harry Styles
Rating: Uh N-17 I suppose?
Warnings: Real person slash, excessive use of the italics function, shameless repetition and over-exaggeration, and a teeny bit of boy sex.
Summary: 'And he did care, for a while. But it’s pretty fucking difficult to ignore Harry, when all he needs to do is turn to Louis and stare and Louis gets rock hard and flustered.'
A/N: Based on a 1DKINKMEME prompt, which was based on this moment. For the sake of it, let's pretend that Eleanor doesn't exist and that their tour was one big long string.
Louis knows, of course, that this game he and Harry have been playing for the better part of the tour is getting out of hand. He is well aware of the repetitious echo of ‘no-sex-on-tour-boys-you-can-fuck -your-hearts-out-in-the-homeland’ in that logical part of his mind (typically in Liam’s ‘exasperated voice’, the one he uses when Louis and Zayn stay out too late) and that knowing smile the really attentive fans start showing him at signings, but he can’t bring himself to care.
And he did care, for a while. But it’s pretty fucking difficult to ignore Harry, when all he needs to do is turn to Louis and stare and Louis gets rock hard and flustered.
It starts innocently enough. The five of them grow bored of the regularity of the set list and costumes and lighting and it’s not that they don’t like touring, because they do, but there’s only so many nights they can sing ‘What Makes You Beautiful’ in a row without it becoming an autopilot feature. Which isn’t bad, particularly, because they’re all still a bit shaken from their Brit win and performance at the Kid’s Choice Awards, and performing every night without millions of people watching is a bit of a relief. But that anonymity (which, really, it can’t be considered, with ten thousand adoring faces in the crowds, but that’s what it feels like) allows them the breathing space that management and interviews don’t.
It’s not even a huge leap from cautiously separate to all over each other. At some point in Ireland, in the O2 arena, Harry shoots Louis the same look he does every time before he shoves the smaller boy against the nearest wall, and Louis can’t help it, he feels like a magnet has settled low in his stomach and Harry is the opposite just out of reach. They spend the rest of the night dancing around each other- literally- in between songs, barely hiding the bedroom eyes (“Which is what we all do,” Liam persists angrily, later, when the management throws a fit, and Louis needs to cling to his chair so he doesn’t burst with appreciation).
That’s enough, for a while. Enough rebellion for the two of them, and the other three support them like they do with all their life choices (Zayn’s smoking, Niall’s dreadful diet, Liam’s tongue down Danielle’s throat). It brings the five of them closer, in a way, even though that seems impossible- they’re all so fucking cabin sick from being hustled from one hotel to a venue to a studio and having this mask on the entire time, but for at least a few hours, they get to fool around and just be boys again, even if thousands witness it.
/ / /
That lasts them all the way through to Australia. It’s different, somehow, in the southern hemisphere. It’s so much like Britain that they need to remind themselves just how far away they are from home. Maybe it’s Australia that starts the recklessness. It’s just so open there, all this breathing space that they’ve never really experienced, and that convinces Louis that it’s perfectly acceptable to spend four hours watching Harry’s abs constrict in the cold water if he’s wearing his Aviators, because surely no one can tell. It convinces him that it’s okay to sit next to Harry in every third interview and it convinces him that maybe sneaking out of the hotel with Zayn is a completely reasonable idea. Management almost tear their hair out with that last one, but the support in the country is so overwhelming that they do nothing but begrudge from backstage.
That’s probably when Niall, between songs, gets the idea to skip over to the other four to whisper that they should swap clothes for their next costume change. It’s brilliant, really, completely brilliant, because it’s a way of breaking their stereotypes without throwing their image out of the window.
It’s the last minute possessive glint in Harry’s eyes that convinces Louis to wear his clothes. The blazer’s slightly big on his arms and it slips off his shoulders, but the pants are only a little low on his hips and it’s worth it, honestly, because Harry looks ready to devour him.
And he does, in some way. Just before they run onto stage, Harry grabs hold of his wrist and spins Louis around. “Now they’ll all know you’re mine,” he purrs, smoothing his hands over Louis’ chest- and it’s all sweet, for a moment, before Harry’s shirt on Louis’ chest slips a bit and then Harry is switching tactics and pushing Louis against the wall, hips grinding against each other, his lips doing obscene things to Louis’ neck.
Louis moans and thankfully, the noise is lost in the crowd. It’s not lost to Harry, though, and he smirks and sucks and Louis has never been a religious boy, but he thinks that Harry’s lips could change that.
Zayn groans from somewhere behind them and Harry pulls off, pressing his fingertips to the fresh love-bite on Louis’ tanned neck. “And of course, there’s that too,” he laughs, the promise of later in the air, and runs on stage.
It’s only reasonable, afterwards, that he and Harry progress to singing the lyrics to each other. It’s accidental at first. Louis is singing along while trying to get Harry’s attention and Harry’s singing back as he tries to understand, and there’s a delay before they realise that they could do this all the time. It sends Twitter into a frenzy, of course, when Harry stares at Louis and sings “you should open your eyes, take off your clothes”, but it’s worth it, so worth it, when Louis gets to drag Harry into their dressing room and tear off his costume with trembling hands.
/ / /
New Zealand is even worse. Their fans there are respectful, presuming they’re tired, and they’re all so tired they can’t even think straight half the time, but it’s beautiful and they had fans in New Zealand, of all places, so the five of them summon all their energy and throw themselves into the pretty cities.
Louis accidentally initiates it, this time. He wasn’t expecting to bungee jump off a skyscraper in Wellington, only to land with Harry shooting him a look that screams sexual frustration. Louis is still attached to the rope and by the time he’s free, Harry’s too far away to do anything but shoot him a ‘you will be mine later, Styles’ look from several metres away. It’s not anyone’s fault, per say, that a camera catches that look, there’s just something inexplicably hot about disobeying the management and neither of them can help it.
It is Louis’ fault when he gets dragged out to a party with Liam after his jump, though, and doesn’t make it home until far too late for he and Harry to do anything but cuddle. It is his fault that he oversleeps and that they’re late to an interview, simultaneously removing their ‘good morning it’s just us’ time and ‘in five minutes, you’ll be hugging a fan, but in five seconds, you’ll be screaming my name’ time. And it’s definitely Louis’ fault that at the gig that night, during Harry’s solo, he can’t help but to lean forward and pinch Harry’s arse, just like he does when the boy is being too cocky in bed.
Harry cuts off his ‘overwhelmed’ to shoot Louis a look that practically vibrates arousal. His green eyes are blown out of proportion by black irises and the boy shifts his hand, just for a second, to reveal an erection that makes Louis literally salivate.
They just stare at each other and Louis knows that there are at least three hundred cameras capturing this moment, but it doesn’t matter, because the world is zeroing down to him and Harry. He’s about to step forward (‘this is a dreadful idea’, inner-Liam protests, ‘can’t you just hold out for an hour?’) when Zayn casually knocks his shoulder and Harry turns back to the crowd, but not before smirking like he’s the cat that’s caught the canary, got the cream, and rules ancient Egypt.
Harry practically ignores him for the rest of the show and slips out of backstage before the other four can even finish their Powerade and Louis also knows that this is a very very bad sign, but his heart is just about exploding and he doesn’t care. He follows the wake of Harry through the city- generally indicated by weeping girls and unnaturally bright streetlights competing with his smile- and ends up at a bar somewhere in the dark.
Louis isn’t oblivious. He can see the fans surrounding the wall window and the tell-tale flicker of camera recorders, but that’s not enough to convince him not to settle next to Harry as he orders a drink.
Harry smells wonderful, even without his post-show shower. He smells like sweat and Hugo Boss and just like home, which sounds cheesy, but is so fucking true. He shoots Louis a smirk and walks off to talk to someone before Louis’ beer has even finished frothing.
Louis scowls and spends the rest of the night trying to get Harry’s attention and failing dismally. He would pull Harry onto a nearby table and thrust just out of reach of his cock to get his attention, but Louis isn’t drunk enough and he’s not that stupid.
Instead, Louis waits until Harry has had four too many drinks and temporarily forgets his resolve. Louis plays it off and instead sings along to that The Wanted song as Harry wraps his arms around him, nuzzling into his neck.
“Cocktease doesn’t suit you, sweetheart,” Louis teases, and apparently that was the wrong thing to say, because Harry bites his neck and stops gently grinding and almost storms over to a bunch of hipsters.
/ / /
In hindsight, Louis should have known what New Zealand was escalating to. He’s not quite sure what it is that convinces Harry to walk behind him and lean over the couch at their last show, but he knows that this is very not good and they’re so close to being home, and they’ve made it this far, but all thoughts of the No Larry Stylinson Rule are shoved out of his mind as Harry ducks down.
His breath is hot on Louis’ neck, so hot, like he’s breathing direct want onto it. He squirms slightly on his spot on the couch and the other boys, so helpful, are noticing, and try to distract the crowd as Louis grabs the couch and arches his neck slightly.
“Last night of tour,” Harry comments casually, his pretty words a contradiction to the absolutely obscene way he’s exaggerating his lips to brush over Louis’ ear. The crowd’s cheering and thank fuck for that, because Louis’ breath hitch is too aroused for pre-teens. “Just a few more hours and that arse is mine.”
Louis twitches in what he hopes is an unnoticeable way, but clearly he’s mistaken, because Harry’s fingers start stroking his shoulder blades and he’s fucking smirking, now, even daring a scratch of his teeth.
“I’ve been keeping track, you know,” Harry continues, his voice husky and delicious and all for Louis. “We’ve had sex on forty-eight different mattresses. If you let me fuck you nice and hard into the one in our hotel room, then the big five-oh can be our bed at home.”
Louis really can’t help it. He’s twisting his cheek towards Harry and pushing back into his hand, but it’s useless because Harry’s caught sight of his erection and shifts away with a final scrape of teeth. Louis shamelessly twists to watch him walk and lasts a full three seconds of that smirk before blurting out- “What makes you think I’m bottoming?”
Harry grins. “The way you’re gagging for it,” he teases, and that is all that holds Louis up as they’re rushed backstage and hurried into a van and Harry’s next to him, but not close enough. Harry’s never close enough in the sense that Louis wants him inside his skin and running through his veins and being behind the stretch of his muscles. Maybe then they would be ‘close enough’.
They’re admirably nonchalant, Louis thinks, as they walk separately into the hotel and through to the elevator. Louis’ heart feels like it’s beating out of his chest and honestly, he’s about to pass out with this mad want, but Niall grips his shoulder and holds him down and it is an anchor and a promise all at once.
The elevator is all mirrors and that’s probably what shatters the resolve. Louis would have been perfectly content waiting until they reached their room, but he accidentally glances into the mirror and Harry’s right behind him and he’s smirking, of fucking course, like he always does when he gets his way- and maybe if Louis had only seen that, he would have been able to cope. But there’s also that undeniable lust blowing out his pupils and the undertone of adoration that Harry hides during the day and it’s not fair, it’s painfully unfair, that they can’t look at each other like this in public. But it’s worth it, so worth it, because Louis is the only person who gets to see this variant of Harry. The boy may have millions of adoring fans, but Louis is the only one who gets the stare that turns the world inside out.
Louis squirms a bit under the attention and that gives everything away to Harry- of course it does, they’re all about body language, and watching, and saying ‘I love you’ with a simple thumbs up. Louis runs a hand through his hair and no, that isn’t a secret message, but it’s enough for Harry. Harry lets out this beautiful low moan and Louis wishes he could remember being spun around and shoved against the elevator wall, but he can’t, because kissing Harry is an automatic response that shuts out everything but those gentle lips and strong hands.
Louis grins against his lips and makes Harry persuade him into opening his mouth because they have time tonight, for the first time in weeks, to enjoy and enjoy it and enjoy each other. Harry tugs away to bite at Louis’ lip and bruise it beyond recognition and it’s only then that they notice Niall using his height advantage to block the security camera, and Zayn nudging the two of them out of its range, and Liam smirking from the corner, updating his Twitter to subtly convince the fans to follow him and Zayn through the city.
If that wasn’t the origin of the vine wrapping itself around Louis’ chest, maybe it’s Liam taking a candid photo of the two of them, curled around each other and a breath away. Louis remembers then, a moment late, whining about how despite all the ‘moments’ caught on camera, he and Harry didn’t have any ‘couple-in-love’ photos.
“Guys,” he says breathlessly, happily, part because of the kisses and part because he’s so overwhelmed with love for the four of them that he can barely function. He considers saying ‘I love you’, but they say that all the time, and he considers brushing it off, but that would be fucking heartless. Instead, he settles on: “I would have hated being a soloist,” followed by “you’re all the best part of me.”
The three boys (the ones without their hand on Louis’ arse) smile- not like they do at signings or a shoot, like they do with each other on a lazy Sunday- and take turns ruffling their hair before walking out of the waiting lift. Louis and Harry grin at each other for a wonderful moment and then they’re hit with another rush of want and it’s ridiculous, really, Louis thinks, as Harry takes care walking him backwards down the hallway while kissing him like a horny teenager, because Louis has never been so overwhelmed with an emotion or so happy with the emotion before in his life.
Arousal doesn’t make the two of them graceful, though. They stumble into the wall at least three times as they trip over each other’s feet in an effort to put more pressure on the other’s lips, and they’re smiling and gasping and laughing into each other’s mouths, and it doesn’t help that their room key is in Harry’s tight back pocket, or that Louis insists on reaching for it and kneading greedily. They’re so caught up in touching and Harry’s hands are slipping under Louis’ shirt and Louis is mauling his neck and really, how important can a bed possibly be?
They’re not more focussed when aroused, either, except on each other. It takes Louis five attempts to unlock the door and another three to actually nudge it open. It’s progress, of course, and if Louis bothers to open his eyes he would be able to see the bed, but Harry makes this gentle noise of approval and rewards him with a stroke against the front of his chinos and Louis just about short circuits in an attempt to remain upright.
Harry takes the lead, and Louis feels that pride twisting inside of him because the boy has grown up so much from the sixteen year old that was nervous about singing in front of a crowded room. He lets Harry manhandle him towards the bed and he knows that he should feel emasculated when Harry lets out a breathy “boo”, but he can’t help but kiss him just a little harder.
Louis just about trips onto the unfamiliar bed and Harry straddles his waist and in the mad rush of limbs, the bedside radio is knocked on. Louis mewls in victory at the mattress under him but his noise is cut off by the song, their song, the song that they’d serenaded to each other only a few hours ago.
They pull away momentarily to share a grin of disbelief and laugh quietly, and this is probably Louis’ favourite thing about being with Harry, that they can go from a thousand kilometres an hour to that slow leisurely pace that characterised their friendship in mere seconds.
Harry shifts and removes a hand from Louis’ hair to reach for the radio, but Louis cuts him off with a gentle kiss on the neck.
“Leave it,” he mumbles.
Harry stretches against the kiss and looks at him with heavy eyes. “It’ll be strange, though,” he protests half-heartedly.
“It was more strange wanting to kiss you the entire time we recorded,” Louis admits, and then Harry’s hand is back in his hair, tugging to bring him closer and squirming against his lap and twining their tongues together.
“That was months before we hooked up,” he manages between kisses as he eases Louis onto his back.
Louis momentarily forgets the conversation because Harry’s cock is right there, against his, moving in agonisingly slow thrusts, and that isn’t something that he can ignore. “Exactly,” he breathes (gasps, really, there’s no denying).
Harry pulls away slightly to give Louis that look (the one that makes it seem like the Big Bang could happen all over and neither of them would notice) before pressing his hips insistently against Louis’ and planting sweet, hot kisses over his jaw and yes, this is what they wanted, burning and all-consuming and close.
Harry’s hands are scratching the bare skin of Louis’ hips in a desperate effort to pull off his shirt and the moment that they need to stop kissing to pull it overhead is the longest of Louis’ life. Harry’s shirt is less of a cockblock, even when Louis’ fingers tremble in effort to unbutton while Harry shamelessly grinds against him. They both make a noise of frantic approval when their hot skin is allowed contact and they’re not so much kissing now as sharing oxygen when their knees bang against each other as they kick off their shoes and struggle out of their trousers.
Harry brushes his fingers over Louis’ bare thighs and they’re pressed together from chest to calves and the world slows down and it’s so wonderful here, in the space between desperation and release.
“Commando?” Louis comments quietly, as Harry trails kisses down his torso. He’s squirming, he’s well aware, but he knows that Harry loves the neediness.
“No point wasting time,” he laughs, and Louis laughs back, but then he’s cut off by Harry breathing hotly along the shaft and daring a brush of the lips and that’s enough to make Louis lose all functionality because Harry’s lips were obscene. He was such a tease, kissing the head sweetly and sucking shallowly and holding down his hips like an anchor so he couldn’t thrust, and Louis couldn’t look down because he didn’t want to come and give Harry the satisfaction of victory.
Harry smirked and started peppering kisses along his thighs as he fumbled in the pockets of his jeans. A few seconds later, the slick fingers (two of them, there was no mercy in the battlefield after a show) ease into Louis’ needy hole and it comes as more of a relief than a pain, and Harry rewards him by ruthlessly slipping his lips over the head and down the shaft and sucking, as though Louis is a fruit and Harry only wants juice.
Louis can’t help it, can’t function, and everything is a blur of Harry around him, from the swallow around the tip to the pillow shoved under his lips to the soft litany of ‘mine’ and ‘fucking gorgeous, Lou’ that fall from Harry’s lips as he thrusts his fingers rhythmically.
“Harry,” he whines desperately, and he belatedly realises that the music has switched to Ed Sheeran, and while it’s weird listening to a friend as you get off, his music is still so fucking beautiful. “Harry please-”
Harry wriggles up Louis’ body and kisses him needily. He has that air of practised ease about him as he gently lubes up his cock and the incoherent noises that Harry makes as he presses into Louis are even more brilliant than the ones he makes when he sings. He’s going slowly, stroking a hand through Louis’ hair in an effort to relax him, and it’s so sweet but Louis can’t help the twist of his hips to impale himself on Harry’s cock.
“Christ, Lou,” Harry groans, and Louis always forgets that the sensation is just as overwhelming for the other boy. They stay perfectly still while the two of them acclimate to this feeling of full and close and they’re staring at each other and Louis can’t even hear the music anymore, just the beat of Harry and his heart and his breaths.
They grin at each other and Harry starts thrusting shallowly and it’s still not enough for Louis- not enough friction, not enough Harry. He stretches a leg to rest over Harry’s shoulder and yes, that’s better, and Harry’s kissing him in reward and driving in deeper and hitting his prostate with startling accuracy. Louis won’t last long if he continues this maddening, ruthless movement, but that doesn’t mean that he wants Harry to stop.
It’s overwhelming and beautiful, Louis thinks, trying to ignore the part of him crying out in masculine shame, but everything’s so damn beautiful- from Harry himself to the intimacy of the darkness to the fucking melodic noises they are making.
Harry’s close, but that doesn’t matter because Louis is holding off and trying to focus on the noises that Harry’s making, these soft moans and sighs and breathy half-laughs as though he can’t even believe that they’re doing this, even though they’ve been fooling around (for a lack of better terminology) for months now.
It’s an exceptionally hard thrust and Harry’s whispered “wow”, so much like their first time, which mercilessly shoves Louis over the edge. He swears and comes hotly between them, more on Harry than on himself, clinging to his strong biceps and stroking the tattoo there as Harry kisses him messily. He’s erratic, now, and Louis clenches around him and strokes his hair and he’s not sure what sends Harry over the edge after him, but he can’t wait to spend the rest of his life finding out.
Harry pulls out gently and they’re curling sleepily around each other and they should clean up because they’re leaving early tomorrow, but Look After You by the Fray is playing in the background and Louis is so happy and hiding this with Harry isn’t that terrible if this is what it’s like in private.
“Hey,” Harry whispers sleepily, when their breathing has slowed.
“Haz,” he mumbles back. Harry’s arms are around him like an armour and it’s moments like these where Louis doesn’t need to worry about the press or being the spare or anything, almost, because it’s just the two of them and this all encompassing something that makes the world spin madly on.
Harry’s curls tickle at the back of his neck. “Can you wear the boyfriend jumper tomorrow?”
Louis grins and nods against the pillow. He is halfway-asleep when Harry’s hand flexes around his wrist.
“Lou?”
He glances over his shoulder, but the other boy is curled so tightly against him that all he can see is a mop of curls and the blanket tucked up to his chin. “Harry?”
Harry waits for the Death Cab for Cutie song to finish. “Is this just a tour thing for you?”
Louis’ heart constricts and he knows that Harry is strangely sensitive about this, and takes extra care choosing the right words. “No, it’s an ‘us’ thing,” he says, and Harry’s hand is like a handcuff around his. “And I can’t wait to drive to Holmes Chapel with you in a few days.”
Harry grins against Louis’ neck and he tries to remember the feeling forever. “I can’t wait to eat greasy Chinese take-out on our couch.”
“I can’t wait to take you on a proper date.”
Harry bites his neck teasingly. “I can’t wait to try to smuggle lube through the aisle at Tescos.”
Louis laughs and sleep is so close, but Harry is closer. “I can’t wait to convince Liam to do it for us.”
They don’t sleep, per say. They dose between conversations and late night television and Oreos and wake each other up with kisses. They’re going to look dreadful for the flight, but that doesn’t matter as much to Louis as making Harry come from his tongue alone.
/ / /
When the boys come in to collect Louis and Harry, they’ve showered (together, making use of the endless hot water and complimentary lube that surely isn’t in every room), but the room still reeks of sex. Liam shoots a dubious look at the sheets and pries open a window because it’s that hour between the night and the day and no fan is insane enough to miss the precious silence of it all.
Liam pauses, there, by the window. “New Zealand,” he says, with that same appreciation and disbelief that has surrounded the boys for the past two years. “Who would have thought?”
“No one,” Niall laughs from his position on the couch. “Especially with that god-awful jumper that Harry was wearing at boot camp.”
Harry makes a noise of protest and Louis leaps on Niall to defend his honour. “I happen to adore that jumper,” he says petulantly, messing up Niall’s bleached hair. “In fact, Harry was wearing it when we first-”
Zayn scowls and then the five of them are laughing and hugging and maybe they should never leave here, because here there isn’t the pressure of the future hanging like a weight on their shoulders.
They do leave, though, because they’re all so fucking excited to see where this takes them. They joke around in the car, even though it looks like the other three have gotten as little sleep as Louis and Harry, and stop to thank the fans in the airport, and spend the twenty-four hour flight sleeping in one big snuggle of boy.
They land late and the crisp London air engulfs them like a hug, and Louis needs to bury his face in Liam’s neck or everyone will see him crying. Harry twines his fingers with his, though, and that’s enough to convince Louis to leave the plane and more than enough to convince Louis that everything will be alright.
He shoots a smile at the other four boys and he’s the oldest but not the ‘daddy’ but that’s okay, because he gets to hide how proud he is of the four of them. He fixes a smile that’s not at all fake and, after accepting a mug of tea from the flight attendant, leading the other boys out of the plane, taking extra care to hold Harry’s hand as they leave the airport.
Louis feels nostalgic, which is strange for him, but it makes sense because this is the first (second, really, if you count the competition) time it’s been the five of them for weeks at a time, and he isn’t sure how to convert back to normal. He’s worried that he won’t be able to sleep without the post-show adrenalin or that he’ll feel separated from the city he calls home because he’s practically a foreigner now or that everything will change for the worst and that yesterday was the closest they ever got to perfect-
But then Harry squeezes his hand, and then Louis knows that even if everything goes dreadfully wrong, he and Harry will continue to feel so very right.
Author: transgenicveins
Pairing: Louis Tomlinson / Harry Styles
Rating: Uh N-17 I suppose?
Warnings: Real person slash, excessive use of the italics function, shameless repetition and over-exaggeration, and a teeny bit of boy sex.
Summary: 'And he did care, for a while. But it’s pretty fucking difficult to ignore Harry, when all he needs to do is turn to Louis and stare and Louis gets rock hard and flustered.'
A/N: Based on a 1DKINKMEME prompt, which was based on this moment. For the sake of it, let's pretend that Eleanor doesn't exist and that their tour was one big long string.
Louis knows, of course, that this game he and Harry have been playing for the better part of the tour is getting out of hand. He is well aware of the repetitious echo of ‘no-sex-on-tour-boys-you-can-fuck -your-hearts-out-in-the-homeland’ in that logical part of his mind (typically in Liam’s ‘exasperated voice’, the one he uses when Louis and Zayn stay out too late) and that knowing smile the really attentive fans start showing him at signings, but he can’t bring himself to care.
And he did care, for a while. But it’s pretty fucking difficult to ignore Harry, when all he needs to do is turn to Louis and stare and Louis gets rock hard and flustered.
It starts innocently enough. The five of them grow bored of the regularity of the set list and costumes and lighting and it’s not that they don’t like touring, because they do, but there’s only so many nights they can sing ‘What Makes You Beautiful’ in a row without it becoming an autopilot feature. Which isn’t bad, particularly, because they’re all still a bit shaken from their Brit win and performance at the Kid’s Choice Awards, and performing every night without millions of people watching is a bit of a relief. But that anonymity (which, really, it can’t be considered, with ten thousand adoring faces in the crowds, but that’s what it feels like) allows them the breathing space that management and interviews don’t.
It’s not even a huge leap from cautiously separate to all over each other. At some point in Ireland, in the O2 arena, Harry shoots Louis the same look he does every time before he shoves the smaller boy against the nearest wall, and Louis can’t help it, he feels like a magnet has settled low in his stomach and Harry is the opposite just out of reach. They spend the rest of the night dancing around each other- literally- in between songs, barely hiding the bedroom eyes (“Which is what we all do,” Liam persists angrily, later, when the management throws a fit, and Louis needs to cling to his chair so he doesn’t burst with appreciation).
That’s enough, for a while. Enough rebellion for the two of them, and the other three support them like they do with all their life choices (Zayn’s smoking, Niall’s dreadful diet, Liam’s tongue down Danielle’s throat). It brings the five of them closer, in a way, even though that seems impossible- they’re all so fucking cabin sick from being hustled from one hotel to a venue to a studio and having this mask on the entire time, but for at least a few hours, they get to fool around and just be boys again, even if thousands witness it.
/ / /
That lasts them all the way through to Australia. It’s different, somehow, in the southern hemisphere. It’s so much like Britain that they need to remind themselves just how far away they are from home. Maybe it’s Australia that starts the recklessness. It’s just so open there, all this breathing space that they’ve never really experienced, and that convinces Louis that it’s perfectly acceptable to spend four hours watching Harry’s abs constrict in the cold water if he’s wearing his Aviators, because surely no one can tell. It convinces him that it’s okay to sit next to Harry in every third interview and it convinces him that maybe sneaking out of the hotel with Zayn is a completely reasonable idea. Management almost tear their hair out with that last one, but the support in the country is so overwhelming that they do nothing but begrudge from backstage.
That’s probably when Niall, between songs, gets the idea to skip over to the other four to whisper that they should swap clothes for their next costume change. It’s brilliant, really, completely brilliant, because it’s a way of breaking their stereotypes without throwing their image out of the window.
It’s the last minute possessive glint in Harry’s eyes that convinces Louis to wear his clothes. The blazer’s slightly big on his arms and it slips off his shoulders, but the pants are only a little low on his hips and it’s worth it, honestly, because Harry looks ready to devour him.
And he does, in some way. Just before they run onto stage, Harry grabs hold of his wrist and spins Louis around. “Now they’ll all know you’re mine,” he purrs, smoothing his hands over Louis’ chest- and it’s all sweet, for a moment, before Harry’s shirt on Louis’ chest slips a bit and then Harry is switching tactics and pushing Louis against the wall, hips grinding against each other, his lips doing obscene things to Louis’ neck.
Louis moans and thankfully, the noise is lost in the crowd. It’s not lost to Harry, though, and he smirks and sucks and Louis has never been a religious boy, but he thinks that Harry’s lips could change that.
Zayn groans from somewhere behind them and Harry pulls off, pressing his fingertips to the fresh love-bite on Louis’ tanned neck. “And of course, there’s that too,” he laughs, the promise of later in the air, and runs on stage.
It’s only reasonable, afterwards, that he and Harry progress to singing the lyrics to each other. It’s accidental at first. Louis is singing along while trying to get Harry’s attention and Harry’s singing back as he tries to understand, and there’s a delay before they realise that they could do this all the time. It sends Twitter into a frenzy, of course, when Harry stares at Louis and sings “you should open your eyes, take off your clothes”, but it’s worth it, so worth it, when Louis gets to drag Harry into their dressing room and tear off his costume with trembling hands.
/ / /
New Zealand is even worse. Their fans there are respectful, presuming they’re tired, and they’re all so tired they can’t even think straight half the time, but it’s beautiful and they had fans in New Zealand, of all places, so the five of them summon all their energy and throw themselves into the pretty cities.
Louis accidentally initiates it, this time. He wasn’t expecting to bungee jump off a skyscraper in Wellington, only to land with Harry shooting him a look that screams sexual frustration. Louis is still attached to the rope and by the time he’s free, Harry’s too far away to do anything but shoot him a ‘you will be mine later, Styles’ look from several metres away. It’s not anyone’s fault, per say, that a camera catches that look, there’s just something inexplicably hot about disobeying the management and neither of them can help it.
It is Louis’ fault when he gets dragged out to a party with Liam after his jump, though, and doesn’t make it home until far too late for he and Harry to do anything but cuddle. It is his fault that he oversleeps and that they’re late to an interview, simultaneously removing their ‘good morning it’s just us’ time and ‘in five minutes, you’ll be hugging a fan, but in five seconds, you’ll be screaming my name’ time. And it’s definitely Louis’ fault that at the gig that night, during Harry’s solo, he can’t help but to lean forward and pinch Harry’s arse, just like he does when the boy is being too cocky in bed.
Harry cuts off his ‘overwhelmed’ to shoot Louis a look that practically vibrates arousal. His green eyes are blown out of proportion by black irises and the boy shifts his hand, just for a second, to reveal an erection that makes Louis literally salivate.
They just stare at each other and Louis knows that there are at least three hundred cameras capturing this moment, but it doesn’t matter, because the world is zeroing down to him and Harry. He’s about to step forward (‘this is a dreadful idea’, inner-Liam protests, ‘can’t you just hold out for an hour?’) when Zayn casually knocks his shoulder and Harry turns back to the crowd, but not before smirking like he’s the cat that’s caught the canary, got the cream, and rules ancient Egypt.
Harry practically ignores him for the rest of the show and slips out of backstage before the other four can even finish their Powerade and Louis also knows that this is a very very bad sign, but his heart is just about exploding and he doesn’t care. He follows the wake of Harry through the city- generally indicated by weeping girls and unnaturally bright streetlights competing with his smile- and ends up at a bar somewhere in the dark.
Louis isn’t oblivious. He can see the fans surrounding the wall window and the tell-tale flicker of camera recorders, but that’s not enough to convince him not to settle next to Harry as he orders a drink.
Harry smells wonderful, even without his post-show shower. He smells like sweat and Hugo Boss and just like home, which sounds cheesy, but is so fucking true. He shoots Louis a smirk and walks off to talk to someone before Louis’ beer has even finished frothing.
Louis scowls and spends the rest of the night trying to get Harry’s attention and failing dismally. He would pull Harry onto a nearby table and thrust just out of reach of his cock to get his attention, but Louis isn’t drunk enough and he’s not that stupid.
Instead, Louis waits until Harry has had four too many drinks and temporarily forgets his resolve. Louis plays it off and instead sings along to that The Wanted song as Harry wraps his arms around him, nuzzling into his neck.
“Cocktease doesn’t suit you, sweetheart,” Louis teases, and apparently that was the wrong thing to say, because Harry bites his neck and stops gently grinding and almost storms over to a bunch of hipsters.
/ / /
In hindsight, Louis should have known what New Zealand was escalating to. He’s not quite sure what it is that convinces Harry to walk behind him and lean over the couch at their last show, but he knows that this is very not good and they’re so close to being home, and they’ve made it this far, but all thoughts of the No Larry Stylinson Rule are shoved out of his mind as Harry ducks down.
His breath is hot on Louis’ neck, so hot, like he’s breathing direct want onto it. He squirms slightly on his spot on the couch and the other boys, so helpful, are noticing, and try to distract the crowd as Louis grabs the couch and arches his neck slightly.
“Last night of tour,” Harry comments casually, his pretty words a contradiction to the absolutely obscene way he’s exaggerating his lips to brush over Louis’ ear. The crowd’s cheering and thank fuck for that, because Louis’ breath hitch is too aroused for pre-teens. “Just a few more hours and that arse is mine.”
Louis twitches in what he hopes is an unnoticeable way, but clearly he’s mistaken, because Harry’s fingers start stroking his shoulder blades and he’s fucking smirking, now, even daring a scratch of his teeth.
“I’ve been keeping track, you know,” Harry continues, his voice husky and delicious and all for Louis. “We’ve had sex on forty-eight different mattresses. If you let me fuck you nice and hard into the one in our hotel room, then the big five-oh can be our bed at home.”
Louis really can’t help it. He’s twisting his cheek towards Harry and pushing back into his hand, but it’s useless because Harry’s caught sight of his erection and shifts away with a final scrape of teeth. Louis shamelessly twists to watch him walk and lasts a full three seconds of that smirk before blurting out- “What makes you think I’m bottoming?”
Harry grins. “The way you’re gagging for it,” he teases, and that is all that holds Louis up as they’re rushed backstage and hurried into a van and Harry’s next to him, but not close enough. Harry’s never close enough in the sense that Louis wants him inside his skin and running through his veins and being behind the stretch of his muscles. Maybe then they would be ‘close enough’.
They’re admirably nonchalant, Louis thinks, as they walk separately into the hotel and through to the elevator. Louis’ heart feels like it’s beating out of his chest and honestly, he’s about to pass out with this mad want, but Niall grips his shoulder and holds him down and it is an anchor and a promise all at once.
The elevator is all mirrors and that’s probably what shatters the resolve. Louis would have been perfectly content waiting until they reached their room, but he accidentally glances into the mirror and Harry’s right behind him and he’s smirking, of fucking course, like he always does when he gets his way- and maybe if Louis had only seen that, he would have been able to cope. But there’s also that undeniable lust blowing out his pupils and the undertone of adoration that Harry hides during the day and it’s not fair, it’s painfully unfair, that they can’t look at each other like this in public. But it’s worth it, so worth it, because Louis is the only person who gets to see this variant of Harry. The boy may have millions of adoring fans, but Louis is the only one who gets the stare that turns the world inside out.
Louis squirms a bit under the attention and that gives everything away to Harry- of course it does, they’re all about body language, and watching, and saying ‘I love you’ with a simple thumbs up. Louis runs a hand through his hair and no, that isn’t a secret message, but it’s enough for Harry. Harry lets out this beautiful low moan and Louis wishes he could remember being spun around and shoved against the elevator wall, but he can’t, because kissing Harry is an automatic response that shuts out everything but those gentle lips and strong hands.
Louis grins against his lips and makes Harry persuade him into opening his mouth because they have time tonight, for the first time in weeks, to enjoy and enjoy it and enjoy each other. Harry tugs away to bite at Louis’ lip and bruise it beyond recognition and it’s only then that they notice Niall using his height advantage to block the security camera, and Zayn nudging the two of them out of its range, and Liam smirking from the corner, updating his Twitter to subtly convince the fans to follow him and Zayn through the city.
If that wasn’t the origin of the vine wrapping itself around Louis’ chest, maybe it’s Liam taking a candid photo of the two of them, curled around each other and a breath away. Louis remembers then, a moment late, whining about how despite all the ‘moments’ caught on camera, he and Harry didn’t have any ‘couple-in-love’ photos.
“Guys,” he says breathlessly, happily, part because of the kisses and part because he’s so overwhelmed with love for the four of them that he can barely function. He considers saying ‘I love you’, but they say that all the time, and he considers brushing it off, but that would be fucking heartless. Instead, he settles on: “I would have hated being a soloist,” followed by “you’re all the best part of me.”
The three boys (the ones without their hand on Louis’ arse) smile- not like they do at signings or a shoot, like they do with each other on a lazy Sunday- and take turns ruffling their hair before walking out of the waiting lift. Louis and Harry grin at each other for a wonderful moment and then they’re hit with another rush of want and it’s ridiculous, really, Louis thinks, as Harry takes care walking him backwards down the hallway while kissing him like a horny teenager, because Louis has never been so overwhelmed with an emotion or so happy with the emotion before in his life.
Arousal doesn’t make the two of them graceful, though. They stumble into the wall at least three times as they trip over each other’s feet in an effort to put more pressure on the other’s lips, and they’re smiling and gasping and laughing into each other’s mouths, and it doesn’t help that their room key is in Harry’s tight back pocket, or that Louis insists on reaching for it and kneading greedily. They’re so caught up in touching and Harry’s hands are slipping under Louis’ shirt and Louis is mauling his neck and really, how important can a bed possibly be?
They’re not more focussed when aroused, either, except on each other. It takes Louis five attempts to unlock the door and another three to actually nudge it open. It’s progress, of course, and if Louis bothers to open his eyes he would be able to see the bed, but Harry makes this gentle noise of approval and rewards him with a stroke against the front of his chinos and Louis just about short circuits in an attempt to remain upright.
Harry takes the lead, and Louis feels that pride twisting inside of him because the boy has grown up so much from the sixteen year old that was nervous about singing in front of a crowded room. He lets Harry manhandle him towards the bed and he knows that he should feel emasculated when Harry lets out a breathy “boo”, but he can’t help but kiss him just a little harder.
Louis just about trips onto the unfamiliar bed and Harry straddles his waist and in the mad rush of limbs, the bedside radio is knocked on. Louis mewls in victory at the mattress under him but his noise is cut off by the song, their song, the song that they’d serenaded to each other only a few hours ago.
They pull away momentarily to share a grin of disbelief and laugh quietly, and this is probably Louis’ favourite thing about being with Harry, that they can go from a thousand kilometres an hour to that slow leisurely pace that characterised their friendship in mere seconds.
Harry shifts and removes a hand from Louis’ hair to reach for the radio, but Louis cuts him off with a gentle kiss on the neck.
“Leave it,” he mumbles.
Harry stretches against the kiss and looks at him with heavy eyes. “It’ll be strange, though,” he protests half-heartedly.
“It was more strange wanting to kiss you the entire time we recorded,” Louis admits, and then Harry’s hand is back in his hair, tugging to bring him closer and squirming against his lap and twining their tongues together.
“That was months before we hooked up,” he manages between kisses as he eases Louis onto his back.
Louis momentarily forgets the conversation because Harry’s cock is right there, against his, moving in agonisingly slow thrusts, and that isn’t something that he can ignore. “Exactly,” he breathes (gasps, really, there’s no denying).
Harry pulls away slightly to give Louis that look (the one that makes it seem like the Big Bang could happen all over and neither of them would notice) before pressing his hips insistently against Louis’ and planting sweet, hot kisses over his jaw and yes, this is what they wanted, burning and all-consuming and close.
Harry’s hands are scratching the bare skin of Louis’ hips in a desperate effort to pull off his shirt and the moment that they need to stop kissing to pull it overhead is the longest of Louis’ life. Harry’s shirt is less of a cockblock, even when Louis’ fingers tremble in effort to unbutton while Harry shamelessly grinds against him. They both make a noise of frantic approval when their hot skin is allowed contact and they’re not so much kissing now as sharing oxygen when their knees bang against each other as they kick off their shoes and struggle out of their trousers.
Harry brushes his fingers over Louis’ bare thighs and they’re pressed together from chest to calves and the world slows down and it’s so wonderful here, in the space between desperation and release.
“Commando?” Louis comments quietly, as Harry trails kisses down his torso. He’s squirming, he’s well aware, but he knows that Harry loves the neediness.
“No point wasting time,” he laughs, and Louis laughs back, but then he’s cut off by Harry breathing hotly along the shaft and daring a brush of the lips and that’s enough to make Louis lose all functionality because Harry’s lips were obscene. He was such a tease, kissing the head sweetly and sucking shallowly and holding down his hips like an anchor so he couldn’t thrust, and Louis couldn’t look down because he didn’t want to come and give Harry the satisfaction of victory.
Harry smirked and started peppering kisses along his thighs as he fumbled in the pockets of his jeans. A few seconds later, the slick fingers (two of them, there was no mercy in the battlefield after a show) ease into Louis’ needy hole and it comes as more of a relief than a pain, and Harry rewards him by ruthlessly slipping his lips over the head and down the shaft and sucking, as though Louis is a fruit and Harry only wants juice.
Louis can’t help it, can’t function, and everything is a blur of Harry around him, from the swallow around the tip to the pillow shoved under his lips to the soft litany of ‘mine’ and ‘fucking gorgeous, Lou’ that fall from Harry’s lips as he thrusts his fingers rhythmically.
“Harry,” he whines desperately, and he belatedly realises that the music has switched to Ed Sheeran, and while it’s weird listening to a friend as you get off, his music is still so fucking beautiful. “Harry please-”
Harry wriggles up Louis’ body and kisses him needily. He has that air of practised ease about him as he gently lubes up his cock and the incoherent noises that Harry makes as he presses into Louis are even more brilliant than the ones he makes when he sings. He’s going slowly, stroking a hand through Louis’ hair in an effort to relax him, and it’s so sweet but Louis can’t help the twist of his hips to impale himself on Harry’s cock.
“Christ, Lou,” Harry groans, and Louis always forgets that the sensation is just as overwhelming for the other boy. They stay perfectly still while the two of them acclimate to this feeling of full and close and they’re staring at each other and Louis can’t even hear the music anymore, just the beat of Harry and his heart and his breaths.
They grin at each other and Harry starts thrusting shallowly and it’s still not enough for Louis- not enough friction, not enough Harry. He stretches a leg to rest over Harry’s shoulder and yes, that’s better, and Harry’s kissing him in reward and driving in deeper and hitting his prostate with startling accuracy. Louis won’t last long if he continues this maddening, ruthless movement, but that doesn’t mean that he wants Harry to stop.
It’s overwhelming and beautiful, Louis thinks, trying to ignore the part of him crying out in masculine shame, but everything’s so damn beautiful- from Harry himself to the intimacy of the darkness to the fucking melodic noises they are making.
Harry’s close, but that doesn’t matter because Louis is holding off and trying to focus on the noises that Harry’s making, these soft moans and sighs and breathy half-laughs as though he can’t even believe that they’re doing this, even though they’ve been fooling around (for a lack of better terminology) for months now.
It’s an exceptionally hard thrust and Harry’s whispered “wow”, so much like their first time, which mercilessly shoves Louis over the edge. He swears and comes hotly between them, more on Harry than on himself, clinging to his strong biceps and stroking the tattoo there as Harry kisses him messily. He’s erratic, now, and Louis clenches around him and strokes his hair and he’s not sure what sends Harry over the edge after him, but he can’t wait to spend the rest of his life finding out.
Harry pulls out gently and they’re curling sleepily around each other and they should clean up because they’re leaving early tomorrow, but Look After You by the Fray is playing in the background and Louis is so happy and hiding this with Harry isn’t that terrible if this is what it’s like in private.
“Hey,” Harry whispers sleepily, when their breathing has slowed.
“Haz,” he mumbles back. Harry’s arms are around him like an armour and it’s moments like these where Louis doesn’t need to worry about the press or being the spare or anything, almost, because it’s just the two of them and this all encompassing something that makes the world spin madly on.
Harry’s curls tickle at the back of his neck. “Can you wear the boyfriend jumper tomorrow?”
Louis grins and nods against the pillow. He is halfway-asleep when Harry’s hand flexes around his wrist.
“Lou?”
He glances over his shoulder, but the other boy is curled so tightly against him that all he can see is a mop of curls and the blanket tucked up to his chin. “Harry?”
Harry waits for the Death Cab for Cutie song to finish. “Is this just a tour thing for you?”
Louis’ heart constricts and he knows that Harry is strangely sensitive about this, and takes extra care choosing the right words. “No, it’s an ‘us’ thing,” he says, and Harry’s hand is like a handcuff around his. “And I can’t wait to drive to Holmes Chapel with you in a few days.”
Harry grins against Louis’ neck and he tries to remember the feeling forever. “I can’t wait to eat greasy Chinese take-out on our couch.”
“I can’t wait to take you on a proper date.”
Harry bites his neck teasingly. “I can’t wait to try to smuggle lube through the aisle at Tescos.”
Louis laughs and sleep is so close, but Harry is closer. “I can’t wait to convince Liam to do it for us.”
They don’t sleep, per say. They dose between conversations and late night television and Oreos and wake each other up with kisses. They’re going to look dreadful for the flight, but that doesn’t matter as much to Louis as making Harry come from his tongue alone.
/ / /
When the boys come in to collect Louis and Harry, they’ve showered (together, making use of the endless hot water and complimentary lube that surely isn’t in every room), but the room still reeks of sex. Liam shoots a dubious look at the sheets and pries open a window because it’s that hour between the night and the day and no fan is insane enough to miss the precious silence of it all.
Liam pauses, there, by the window. “New Zealand,” he says, with that same appreciation and disbelief that has surrounded the boys for the past two years. “Who would have thought?”
“No one,” Niall laughs from his position on the couch. “Especially with that god-awful jumper that Harry was wearing at boot camp.”
Harry makes a noise of protest and Louis leaps on Niall to defend his honour. “I happen to adore that jumper,” he says petulantly, messing up Niall’s bleached hair. “In fact, Harry was wearing it when we first-”
Zayn scowls and then the five of them are laughing and hugging and maybe they should never leave here, because here there isn’t the pressure of the future hanging like a weight on their shoulders.
They do leave, though, because they’re all so fucking excited to see where this takes them. They joke around in the car, even though it looks like the other three have gotten as little sleep as Louis and Harry, and stop to thank the fans in the airport, and spend the twenty-four hour flight sleeping in one big snuggle of boy.
They land late and the crisp London air engulfs them like a hug, and Louis needs to bury his face in Liam’s neck or everyone will see him crying. Harry twines his fingers with his, though, and that’s enough to convince Louis to leave the plane and more than enough to convince Louis that everything will be alright.
He shoots a smile at the other four boys and he’s the oldest but not the ‘daddy’ but that’s okay, because he gets to hide how proud he is of the four of them. He fixes a smile that’s not at all fake and, after accepting a mug of tea from the flight attendant, leading the other boys out of the plane, taking extra care to hold Harry’s hand as they leave the airport.
Louis feels nostalgic, which is strange for him, but it makes sense because this is the first (second, really, if you count the competition) time it’s been the five of them for weeks at a time, and he isn’t sure how to convert back to normal. He’s worried that he won’t be able to sleep without the post-show adrenalin or that he’ll feel separated from the city he calls home because he’s practically a foreigner now or that everything will change for the worst and that yesterday was the closest they ever got to perfect-
But then Harry squeezes his hand, and then Louis knows that even if everything goes dreadfully wrong, he and Harry will continue to feel so very right.