One Direction fic | So Much Of The City Is Our Bodies | AU | Part 2/3
Part One
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Five: Louis
Louis doesn’t know if Liam is actually gone more now than he was before, or if he’s just noticing it in the lead up to Liam being gone gone for good, but Louis tries to fill up his nights when he’s not working. He has the late lunch/early dinner shift on Saturday and is sitting across from Niall at Fran’s by eight.
“Where are we going after this?” Louis asks, finishing the last bite of his burger.
“Mh, Josh and his friends are having dinner at The Drake and then I think there’s dancing at The Ballroom after if we want to meet up with them. Or I think Aiden's having another houseparty. I could text Harry and see what he’s up to now, but he said that he’s with work people tonight, so he might still be busy.”
“Have you and Harry started hanging out?” Louis asks. He thinks that Harry might be the only person in the world that he introduced to Niall, instead of vise versa.
“Sure,” Niall says. “He’s a great guy.” Most of Niall’s face is hidden behind the giant turkey club that he’s stuffing into his mouth, but there’s still something about the way he says it that has Louis leaning in, suddenly alert to even the faintest hint of blood in the water.
“How great of a guy is Harry?” Louis asks. “On a scale from one to ten.”
“Shove it, Tommo,” Niall says, laughing before he’s distracted by a sudden barrage of beeps and buzzes coming from his pocket.
“Sorry,” he says, pulling out his phone. “This is work.”
Louis watches as he checks the screen, his grin slowly sliding off of his face.
“Aw, crap,” Niall says, typing away furiously on his Blackberry. “Crap, crap, crap, shit, balls.”
“It’s going well then?” Louis asks.
Niall looks up, eyes darting around frantically before settling on Louis’s face.
“Got to go in to work,” Niall says. He pushes his pint glass over to Louis and says, “You finish this.”
“Did someone die?” Louis asks, because Niall has never in his life met a beer that he couldn’t finish.
“They spelled someone’s name wrong in the brochure and just figured it out, so I’ve got to go down to stop it on press, and then proof it once they’ve made the change.”
“‘Kay,” Louis says, pulling Niall’s beer towards himself. “Have fun with that.”
Niall’s halfway out the door before he stops, freezing comically and doubling back.
“Forgot,” he says pulling a little sandwich bag with a... piece of paper folded inside? Louis can’t tell what it is, but Niall says, “Can’t bring this with me, can you hold it for a bit?”
“Oh,” Louis says, delighted. “Are you carrying narcotics?” The weed is wrapped up in a piece of white computer paper, hidden in the sandwich bag even though it reeks enough that no one could be close enough to see the bag and still have any question about what’s in there.
“I don’t think pot counts as a narcotic,” Niall says. “Just, hold on to this so I don’t bring half a quarter with me to the printing press.”
“I’m going to charge you a carrying fee,” Louis says.
Niall laughs, already powering his way back out the door. He calls over his shoulder, “Yeah, yeah, just don’t finish it all.”
This night has taken an unexpected upturn, Louis thinks, pocketing the baggie.
As he waits for the bill, he texts Zayn, I hear your having another party, you want me to bring over some party favours?
--
Louis doesn’t even have the address written on his hand this time, and it takes him a while before he finds the right house, again following the throb of the base along the sidewalk and pushing past the crowd gathered by the front door.
He walks right upstairs, but Zayn isn’t in the kitchen, so he loops back downstairs and eventually bumps up against Zayn, who’s having a smoke on the back patio.
“You’re at the party this time,” Louis says, knocking his knuckles against Zayn’s gently in greeting.
“Guess so,” Zayn says.
“Here, enough of that,” Louis says, plucking what is left of his cigarette out of his mouth and throwing it on the ground. He pushes and prods until Zayn walks back into the house, pauses only to grab a bottle of rum off the table on his way back in through the first floor kitchen, and keeps pushing without any real plan up to the second floor until they end up in Zayn’s bedroom. He didn’t realize that Zayn’s room was on this floor, but it makes sense that he would use the kitchen on the same floor as his room. Or. There are a lot of kitchens. Rental houses are weird.
Zayn’s got posters all over his walls, and some printouts that probably aren’t posters and look like artwork.
“Did you do this?” Louis asks, pointing at what he would guess to be a semi-abstract representation of the white Power Ranger. He hands the bottle of rum over to Zayn.
“Oh, yeah,” Zayn says, shrugging a little. He almost looks embarrassed, but he’s clearly not because he’s got his art pinned all over the walls of his bedroom.
“Are you an artist?” Louis asks.
“I do graphic design,” Zayn says. “So I guess jury’s out on that one but... probably not.”
“It counts,” Louis says, grabbing the bottle out of Zayn’s hands because Zayn is holding it but he’s not drinking, and if there is booze at least one of them should be drinking. The burn goes right to his head, and Louis takes another long drag before giving it back to Zayn.
Zayn sits down on the edge of his bed, his elbows resting on his knees, the bottle held loosely in his hand, dangling between his legs. Louis thinks that maybe he should sit on the chair by the desk, but instead he crosses the room, eases himself down beside Zayn, more careful now that his limbs have gone fuzzy with booze. He’s a bit uncoordinated, but also nothing hurts at this point, so it doesn’t really matter.
“What do you do?” Zayn asks.
“I wait tables at the Swan and Firkin on Bloor,” Louis says. “Nothing I can put up on a wall.”
“Hey, that’s hard, too,” Zayn says. “You have to be able to carry those trays with all the glasses. Got to be strong.”
Louis pushes the bottle back into Zayn’s hands and then says, “Totally,” and pushes up his sleeve and flexes his bicep. Except he’s wearing a long sleeved sweater, so pushing up his sleeve really only shows the skin up to his elbow and, while there are probably muscles there, they aren’t really ones that anyone would try to show off. Oh well.
“I was going to be a teacher,” Louis says.
“Yeah?” Zayn finally seems to remember that he’s holding the bottle and lifts it to his lips, taking a number of small, careful sips. He’s gentle about it, but there’s significantly less rum in the bottle when he finally passes it back to Louis, so it seems like he knows what he is doing.
“I don’t know, that’s what I went to university for,” Louis says. “I was trying to find a place to do my practicum, and it was always to schools in like fucking Barrie or whatever, and then looking at the job postings for afterward, there was almost nothing, and if there ever were full-time positions they were in Beaton or Fergus or somewhere else that was too horrible to even contemplate moving to.”
He passes the bottle back and forth with Zayn, slightly regretting that he’s drinking it straight when the punch of alcohol makes his cheeks flush, but oh well.
Louis finishes, “So I started working at the Ferkin down the street, and even part time I was making more than I would have if I was subbing like one day a week, so eventually I just started working there full time and I never actually did the practicum, so I guess I didn’t really want to be a teacher after all.”
“I thought about being a teacher,” Zayn says. “Went to art school and then I was thinking maybe I’d be the fine arts teacher or whatever, except that’s what every single other person in the program was also thinking, so when I graduated I did this yearlong course in graphic design and, yeah. The pay’s shit but at least it’s not a union so I was actually able to convince someone to hire me.”
“Imagine if we’d both ended up being teachers,” Louis says. “Working at the same elementary school in Stouffville or whatever.”
“I don’t even understand how people live in the 905, to be honest,” Zayn says. “I grew up in Oshawa, but like. Fuck that.”
“Fuck that,” Louis agrees. “Are you drunk?”
“The answer isn’t no,” Zayn says. “But it’s almost not yes.”
“I’ve stolen Niall’s pot,” Louis says. “I mean, he gave it to me. I’m holding it, but also we can smoke it.”
“Won’t Niall get mad?”
“Niall doesn’t even know how to be mad,” Louis says. “So do you have rolling papers?”
Zayn doesn’t, but his roommate does, and eventually Louis’s settled on the floor, one of Zayn’s old textbooks in front of him, trying to break up the pot between his fingers.
“It’s kind of sticky,” Louis says, rubbing his first finger against his thumb.
Zayn is sitting across from him, his knee bent and his arms wrapped around his leg. Zayn’s a bit taller than him when they’re standing, but like this Zayn looks small, all tucked in, his skinny leg held tight to his body, the other leg folded beneath him.
Louis’s finger gets caught on the paper, and he sends the little pile of pot he’d crumbled onto the paper all over the flat surface of the textbook, some of it fluttering down onto the ground.
“Whoops,” Louis says. “A little present for later.”
“Tomorrow’s Sunday,” Zayn says. As if that explains anything.
“So?” Louis asks.
“I’ll vacuum.”
“Do you always vacuum on Sundays?” Louis asks, looking up from where he’s been trying to pinch the weed back into a pile on the paper. “Always? On every Sunday?”
“I mean, usually,” Zayn says. “I guess. Why, when do you vacuum?”
“Ah ha,” Louis says. “That’s cute. Here, give me one of your cigarettes, I’m going to cut this.”
He pulls off the filter and puts it on the left side of the paper for good measure, pinches the top of the cigarette and works it between his fingers until the tobacco starts falling out.
“It would probably be better to vacuum once a week. I think the point of being an adult is that you’re supposed to realize it’s better to be kind of unhappy most of the time and then you don’t have to deal with those more slow building disasters that make you just really, wretchedly unhappy,” Louis says.
“Is that how you’re trying to live?” Zayn asks.
“God no,” Louis says. “I still think that maybe I’ll be that one exception who manages to get away with never being unhappy at all.”
“How’s that working for you, Peter Pan?” Zayn asks.
Louis lifts his hand and wiggles it back and forth, like comme ci, comme ça. “Did I tell you I found mold on my dishes the other day?”
“What?” Zayn asks, huffing out a laugh. “No. Really?”
“Yeah.”
“What did you do?”
“I hadn’t even left them for that long,” Louis says. “Just since the weekend. But then I went to grab a fork, ‘cause I was out, and when I lifted the plates they were all covered in green.”
“Sanitary,” Zayn says.
“So I just put the stopper in the drain and poured in like half a bottle of that kitchen counter cleaner with bleach.”
“You put bleach on your dishes?”
“Yeah,” Louis says.
“Pretty sure I’d rather eat mold than bleach,” Zayn says.
“I’m going to wash them with dish soap first. Just letting all the mold soak away.”
“You still haven’t washed them?” Zayn asks.
“No, I’m letting them soak, I told you.”
“How long ago was this?”
“Wednesday,” Louis says.
“I don’t think they need to soak for more than two days,” Zayn says.
“Well, anyway. This is rolled,” Louis says, holding up a joint that is significantly lopsided. “Are we doing this?”
“Since you went to all the trouble,” Zayn says with a private grin that Louis catches. Zayn’s kind of … straightforward, in this way that Louis doesn’t really understand. He’s not earnest like Liam or enthusiastic like Niall, but he’s both of those things in his own way.
“Enough of the heart to heart,” Louis says, feeling the first prickles of embarrassment for how much he’s been talking. “Give me your lighter.”
They smoke out Zayn’s window, but the wind is strong enough, blowing the smoke back inside, that it’s hardly even worth the bother, and by the time they’re through the joint, Louis’s fingers are frigid and his jaw is locked trying to keep his teeth from chattering.
“We should have put coats on,” Louis says, rubbing his hands over his arms.
“Yeah,” Zayn says. It looks like there are goosebumps on his arms as well, but he’s not making any move to warm himself, standing lax in the center of the room, his hands dangling down at his sides.
“You need a sweater,” Louis says, ignoring the way he gets a little lispy over sweater. His tongue is stoned and soon his brain will be too.
“I’m alright,” Zayn says. He blinks slowly, and his eyelashes are so long that Louis can hardly even remember that he’s a real person right now. His black eyelashes and the cut of his cheekbones, the shadow of his stubble across the impossibly sharp line of his jaw. He looks like -- Louis would have to touch him to believe that he was real, but the lingering sober part of his brain points out annoyingly that it wouldn’t be the best idea.
Instead, he pulls the blanket off Zayn’s bed and stands beside him, trying to wrap it around both their shoulders. Zayn’s got a double bed, but still the comforter seems like it won’t be big enough to fit around the both of them, until Zayn’s shuffles forward so that they’re standing more face-to-face than side-by-side and helps Louis bundle them up by pulling the edge of the blanket down between them.
At first it doesn’t seem worth the effort. The room is cold from how long they left the window open, and Zayn’s comforter isn’t well insulated for how heavy it feels around Louis’s shoulders. Eventually Zayn pulls the blanket down a little further, wraps it tighter around them, as it starts to warm up.
The comforter smells like Zayn. Zayn smells like Zayn and he’s standing so close. The warm after the cold makes Louis feel suddenly exhausted, unsteady on his feet already from the rum and the pot. He shuffles forward the last half foot until there’s no space between him and Zayn, and lets his head drop forward to rest on Zayn’s shoulder.
Zayn looks like the kind of person who would have a large space bubble, but he’s shockingly easy to curl into, and then he makes it easier yet by opening his arms, somehow managing to keep hold of the blanket even as he flattens his palm to the small of Louis’s back.
It’s really warm after that. Louis slides his hands up the back of Zayn’s t-shirt because his fingers are the only parts of him that are still cold, and Zayn’s skin is hot and soft, really really soft as far up as Louis’s hands can reach before they get caught in Zayn’s shirt. Louis wonders what this would be like if they were lying on the bed, if they were lying on the bed and the blanket was on top of them instead of wrapped around them. If they were lying on the bed and Zayn wasn’t wearing any clothes, and maybe Louis wasn’t either, because then it would be easy to touch Zayn’s skin.
In that moment, all the fog in Louis’s head clears away and the longing kicks in so sharply that Louis’s knees buckle, but it’s not. That’s not what this is, he’s just friends with Zayn, he doesn’t even think about other boys that way.
“Sorry,” Louis mumbles, his voice muffled at first by Zayn’s shoulder and he remembers that he has to lift his head. “Sorry,” he says again, stepping back, first with his body before finally sliding his hands away from Zayn’s skin as well. “‘m going to miss the subway again, I have to go.”
“You can stay over,” Zayn says. He’s still so close, even though they’re not pressed together any longer. His voice is quiet and rough, and Louis notices that before he notices how chapped Zayn’s lips are, and then he has to pull even further away because he’s standing far too close to be looking at Zayn’s mouth.
“It’s okay,” Louis says. “I’m just going to -- I’m going to sleep it off.”
“Okay,” Zayn says. His head is tilted to the side, and he must be slouching forward because he seems like the same height as Louis right now. His face seems... the same height, it seems close.
“Sorry,” Louis says, taking another step backward, then another, and then it’s just Zayn standing in his bedroom, his comforter half wrapped around his shoulders, the rest of it trailing down to the floor, and Louis is in the hallway, Louis is down the stairs.
Louis is halfway down the street before he remembers that he still needs to zip up his coat, the cold hitting him hard enough that it takes the rest of the walk to the subway station before he can catch his breath again.
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Six: Harry
“I can’t believe you pulled that off,” Brock shouts, in front of everyone, when Harry walks into the office at five past seven on Monday morning.
Some of the guys start clapping, and Harry scrubs his fingers through his hair. He drops his hand and tugs at the bottom of his suit jacket. He doesn’t remember how many of them were actually at the bar on Friday, but clearly the story’s already make its way around the office.
“Well,” Harry says, fiddling with his hair uncomfortably. “Anyway. Good morning.”
“So what’s your secret?” Simon says.
“Nothing much,” Harry says. “Just talked a bit.”
“Pussy magnet,” Brock starts chanting, and for a minute Harry’s frozen, wishing desperately that he could think of something to say, but nothing comes to mind. Everyone’s staring at him, and he doesn’t usually blush but he thinks he might be now, just from how angry he is. He clenches his jaw, curls his mouth into something that is more a grimace than a smile, and then walks the rest of the way to his office.
He pulls his phone out of his brown leather messenger bag and sets it in front of him on the desk. He wants to text someone, but he doesn’t know what to say. The guys at work think I’m good at picking up women, Christ. Especially because it’s so early in the morning. None of his friends will even be awake yet.
He logs onto his email instead -- his real one, not his company address that opens in Outlook. Types out, Hey Nick, text me when you get this, we should hang out tonight. Come to mine? and then closes the browser window.
--
Nick knows what he means and shows up after nine in a plaid peacoat with his scarf wrapped around his face three times. He pulls off his jacket and his scarf, lets Harry slide his t-shirt off, kicks his jeans away as they make their way to Harry’s bed.
Nick’s got the loveliest legs and he looks so good in the center of Harry’s bed, his legs splayed out in front of him, that Harry pauses for a moment to appreciate the view.
“Didn’t come here to be gawked at,” Nick says, but Harry can see the hard line of his cock in his briefs.
Harry hums in the back of his throat, gives Nick a dirty grin. He climbs onto the foot of the bed, walking forward on his knees as he drags his palms up the length of Nick’s legs, slowly.
“I know what you came here for,” Harry says after he’s pulled off Nick’s underwear and has settled between his thighs.
Nick’s fussy about prep for someone who’s so eager to get fucked, and he makes Harry use so much lube that the sheets are sticky with it by the time Harry finally pushes inside, and then he moans sweetly and lets Harry take over.
Harry holds Nick’s legs open, one of them folding down toward the mattress and the other up over Harry’s shoulder. Nick’s flexible for someone who has such long legs and it makes it easy for Harry to fuck him deeply. Nick reaches above his head and braces himself with his palms on Harry’s headboard, and it’s the kind of long, hard fuck that Harry only ever has with someone he’s fucked before. It’s easy with Nick because Harry knows what he likes. There’s a limited number of times that they can buddyfuck like this, and Harry knows the count is almost up, but, fuck, it’s worth it tonight. Even if this is the last time, Harry’s so grateful to have this now.
“What was that about then?” Nick asks once they’re properly sorted, the condom disposed of and the bed stripped of the sex sheets and remade with clean ones. Nick likes staying the night and Harry likes having him stay, but once they’ve stopped having sex, it always goes right back to feeling like friends between them.
“The people I work with are assholes,” Harry says.
“Wow, you’re joking,” Nick says. “What a completely shocking concept. I never could have guessed.”
“Shut it,” Harry says, because Nick ragging on lawyers cuts a little too close to home to ever feel like empathy.
“Thought it might be something about this,” Nick says, tapping on the light bruise that Lindsay sucked onto the line leading down to his groin. She was into it, like she was actually having sex because she wanted the orgasm, and they ended up going for round two. She fell asleep for a little while afterwards, while Harry sat at the foot of the bed and check emails on his Playbook.
“Nah, she was good,” Harry says.
“Ew,” Nick says, kind of soft and playful, but he’s said it enough that Harry knows he’s not really joking.
Harry huffs. “I’m not actually gay; I’m not going to stop sleeping with women.”
“In my day we didn’t even have bisexuals,” Nick says.
“In every day they had bisexuals,” Harry says, rolling his eyes and then slapping at Nick’s belly when that doesn’t feel like enough retribution.
“I just don’t want them to change you,” Nick says, uncharacteristically serious. “Now that you’re a fancy pants man in a suit.”
“I’m not going to change,” Harry says. “And you’re the most judgemental person I know. So, pot meet kettle or whatever.”
“Maybe that’s true,” Nick says, “but I’ll tell you the only thing that matters -- I know you sleep with women, but I bet none of them know you sleep with men.”
Harry makes a noncommittal noise and reaches across Nick to turn out the light.
“Alarm’s set for six,” Harry says.
“I don’t even think the subways are running at six.” Nick moans. “You’re a monster.”
“I can set it for five and you can come to the gym with me,” Harry offers.
Nick makes a low whimpering noise, and Harry runs a soothing hand down his back, uses the gesture as an excuse to roll in for a cuddle, the two of them under Harry’s heavy duvet, where it’s warm and soft and quiet. It doesn’t even smell like sex anymore, just like clean sheets and Nick’s aftershave.
Nick falls asleep quickly, his breathing getting louder and deeper and then eventually quieting again. Harry’s arm falls asleep before the rest of him does, and eventually he rolls away, leaving Nick on the other side of the bed as he lies on his back, his arms crossed across his chest. He clenches his hand into a fist, opens his fingers, over and over until the numb heaviness goes away and pins and needles take its place, a buzzing that starts in his fingers before spreading all the way up his arm.
He keeps opening and closing his hand, slow and steady like a gently beating heart.
--
The next day he sneaks out at lunch, heads for Yonge street and finds a tattoo parlour almost immediately, where he gets things i can and things i can’t tattooed high up on the insides of his elbows where it’s easy to hide under shirt sleeves, even if he rolls up the cuffs in the summer.
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Seven: Louis
The sun comes out and melts away most of the snow until all that’s left are the thick scars along the side of the road, crusted black from being plowed off the streets. It looks like it’s going to be warm outside, but Louis wishes he’d brought mitts as he makes his way out of the Bathurst Station.
Harry’s standing in front of Insomnia, texting, and he doesn’t look up until Louis’s right in front of him.
“Hey,” Harry says. “They wouldn’t seat me until you got here. There’s a line but I gave them my name.”
It’s packed inside but they get seated fairly easily because it’s just the two of them and most people are in larger groups.
They’re all the way in the back, sitting on the arm chairs with a low table between them. Harry’s the only one that Louis goes to brunch with, because brunch is ridiculous and what’s the point of going out if you’re not going to drink? But Harry likes brunch and the potatoes here are better than anything else Louis has ever put in his mouth, so he makes an exception for Harry.
“So how’s it going?” Louis asks once they’re both settled.
“Good,” Harry says. “Been busy, but, you know. Good.”
“Do you get to go to court?” Louis asks. “Are you going to be a judge one day?”
“Um, I don’t really -- probably not.”
“If you’re on the supreme court you have to wear a wig,” Louis says. “I heard that somewhere.”
“Yeah,” Harry says, sucking foam off of his lip because he ordered a cappuccino.
That basically exhausts the bulk of Louis’s legal knowledge. “So, anyway.”
“You’re good?” Harry asks.
“Yeah,” Louis says. “Liam’s moving in with Dani - you heard?”
“I did,” Harry says. “Are you throwing them a party?”
“Should I?” Louis asks. “Hadn’t really thought of it.”
“I think Niall’s going to if you don’t,” Harry says.
“He can, then.” Louis has thought about it, but nothing could possibly be more depressing than throwing a party for someone who is leaving him, so Louis decided against it.
“Okay,” Harry says. He’s got his phone in hand but hasn’t actively checked for new messages yet, even though he clearly wants to.
It’s strange being friends with Harry, because they met when Louis was in his last year at York and Harry was starting law at U of T, and were basically inseparable for that whole last year and into Louis’s slow descent to hell, otherwise known as acclimatization to the real world. He didn’t really like being a student either, but at least then the government was giving him money instead of asking him to pay it back.
He spent more time at Harry’s than he did at his own place, because Harry was silly and driven and liked to wear stupid hats and pretend they were Australian tourists when they went to clubs. It was easy being friends with Harry, and then Harry introduced him to Eleanor, and it was still easy being friends with Harry and also easy to date Eleanor, but somehow in there Louis broke up with Eleanor and lost whatever spark made it so seamless between him and Harry. And Liam’s moving out and Louis hasn’t got an acting gig since he was still in university, and he’s not even teaching other people how to act. Those who can’t, teach, and those who really, really, really can’t wait tables.
“How’s Nick?” Louis asks, because their food is nowhere in sight and it’s going to be a disaster if they’ve already run out of things to talk about.
“Good,” Harry says. “He tried to make a quiche the other day but he didn’t poke holes in the pastry so the shell exploded in the oven.”
“Why was he trying to make a quiche?” Louis asks.
“Isn’t that always the question.”
And then Louis zones out while Harry goes off on a tangent about some trip to rescue Nick from the grocery store because he couldn’t find nutmeg and was having a meltdown in front of the eggs. Nutmeg is the stuff they put on top of Pumpkin Spice frappuccinos, which are an insult to human dignity, so Louis can’t imagine why someone would need to buy that for their own personal use.
“And then we had dinner with Henry and Aimee, and, um, Cara, and --”
“Is Cara the one you’re sleeping with?” Louis asks, because that at least would be a little more interesting than a recap of everyone who’s ever had dinner with Nick Grimshaw.
“Oh, um, no,” Harry says. “I mean, we did a bit, but.”
“You had a bit of sex?” Louis asks. “What’s a bit of sex?”
Harry’s sort of shy about talking about sex for someone who spends so much time having it, and long ago Louis made it his mission to embarrass Harry about it as often as possible.
“Not a bit of sex,” Harry says. “We just had sex a bit.”
“Is there anyone you know who you haven’t had sex with?” Louis asks, sitting back in his chair and crossing his hands on top of his stomach.
Harry takes a long sip of his cappuccino, licks his lips clean and says, “Well, there’s you,” before setting the cup back on the table.
“Oh, ha,” Louis says. “There’s the great tragedy of your life.”
Harry shrugs, grinning a little. He pauses for a moment before saying, “I had a bit of a crush on you when we first met.”
“You didn’t,” Louis says.
“I did,” Harry says, pushing his bangs away from his face and into this lopsided quiff that juts out of the top of his head. “Before I figured out how much of an asshole you are.”
“I am not.” Louis gasps.
“You told Caroline that I had a wet dream about her.”
“For all I know that was true,” Louis says. “You spent enough time panting after her.”
“I didn’t,” Harry says, darkly.
“Not like it hurt your game any,” Louis says. “You still hooked up with her.”
“It’s the intent that counts,” Harry says. “You have bad intent. And, anyway, it’s pretty easy to get over crushes on straight boys.”
Louis cocks his fingers into a gun and makes a clicking sound with his tongue, pointing his finger at Harry and ignoring the little swoop of tightness that settles in his gut.
“It’s pretty easy for you to get over anyone,” Louis says.
“Hey,” Harry says, slowly.
“How old were you the first time you had sex?” Louis asks.
“Fourteen,” Harry says, then he looks at the ceiling. “Fifteen? The summer before grade nine. Fourteen.”
“Jesus,” Louis says. “Seriously?” He raises his hand, like, See?
“Yeah,” Harry says, shrugging a little. “We were at the cottage most of the time and there was nothing to do. But I got on with the daughter of one of the men my dad is friends with or works with or whatever. She was sixteen.”
“Were you dating?”
“Nah,” Harry says, “but we fooled around a bit. I think she actually got married last summer, I saw the pictures on Facebook.”
“How old were you when you first had sex with a guy then?” Louis asks.
“Depends on what you count as sex, I guess,” Harry says. “Sixteen or seventeen.”
“Was he your boyfriend?”
Harry makes this low little snorting sound. “Definitely not. I didn’t even think about it as being bixsexual then, I was just trying to see how many people I could sleep with before grade twelve. I think I had sex with like twenty people that year.” He tilts his head to the side for a moment. “I think I also had sex with like twenty people this year. I don’t know, it seemed like a bigger deal when I was in high school.”
“No kidding,” Louis says. “Who was the lucky guy then?”
“Marc,” Harry says. “No, Brian. No, I can’t remember, he did have a name. I spent a lot of time getting very very drunk and giving very very terrible blowjobs. It wasn’t like, a bubble bath with floating rose petals and Barry Manilow playing in the background.”
“Right, ‘cause that’s the dream.” If Harry had said anything about the two of them at the time, Louis would have shut it down in a heartbeat, he knows he would have. But now, knowing that it was there and not offered to him, Louis feels strangely off kilter, and prickly because of it.
“Could have been worse,” Harry says. “I think I was in someone’s backyard... we were definitely outside. I don’t even think I managed to get him off. I just wanted to cross something else off the list, don’t think I even knew I liked having sex with guys until I was in first year.”
“At which time you’d already slept with half of your water polo team.”
“I didn’t play water polo,” Harry protests.
“You did,” Louis says. “I’ve see The O.C., I know what you rich boys get up to.”
“I played hockey just like everyone else,” Harry says.
“Half your hockey team then,” Louis says. “It’s the same difference.”
“I was just on the house league,” Harry says. “My parents didn’t want me getting concussed.”
“As if you’d make a rep team even if you tried. You’re like a Weeping Willow that took human form and then tried to skate.”
“Hey,” Harry protests. “You’re even smaller than I am.”
“But I’m solid,” Louis says. “I know how to take a hit.”
Harry picks up his mug off the table again, cleaning space while the waitress drops off their food. Louis goes straight for his potatoes, lifting one into his mouth with his fingers when it takes too long to unwrap his folk from his napkin. It’s like eating a chicken wing that’s soft on the inside and crispy on the outside and has no bones and also is a potato. Louis signs happily, and gives his fork another try while he swallows.
After a long moment of silent chewing, Harry wipes his mouth with a napkin and says, “I do, though.”
“What?” Louis asks, sucking barbeque sauce off his fingers.
“I know how to take a hit,” Harry says. “Your metaphor doesn’t -- you’re supposed to stay soft. Bend without breaking or whatever. That’s why they build skyscrapers to move with the wind.”
“I’ve already forgotten what we were talking about,” Louis says, stuffing another piece of potato in his mouth. Oh lord, this one is like an edge piece, even crispier on the side. Heaven.
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Eight: Harry
“I have to go make sure they’re putting the a-frames out, and then I can meet you wherever,” Niall says.
Harry moves his cell to his other ear and says, “I didn’t understand what any of that meant.”
“I just have to walk around for a bit,” Niall says.
“You want company?” Harry asks. It’s past eleven and he’s gone for drinks with some of his friends from Western, been home, had a shower, and is ready to head out again.
“Sure,” Niall says. “Meet me at the corner of Richmond and Spadina.”
Niall’s leaning against a TTC pole when the cab drops Harry off, and he doesn’t move away when Harry walks over.
“What are we doing?” Harry asks. “This suddenly has a very Lost Boys feel.”
“So, you’re only allowed to put a-frames out on the weekend,” Niall says, “which technically starts at midnight on Friday. The client’s paying these guys to put out the a-frames, and they said they’d do it at midnight and not, like, first thing Saturday morning. I need to wait until midnight and then go to some of the intersections where they’re supposed to be out and just make sure they’re actually there.”
“Like spies,” Harry says.
“Almost entirely like spies, except that I’m working on a Friday night.”
“I think spies would work on Friday nights,” Harry says. “They’d probably work on all of the different nights.”
“Exactly like spies then,” Niall says, laughing.
For a long time it doesn’t seem like any of the signs have gone out until finally Niall spots one, and then it looks like they’re going to be done at last. All that walking is exhausting.
“My hands are so cold,” Harry says. He tries to tuck them under his armpits, but his jacket is cold and that doesn’t help. He rubs his palms across his thighs, reaches behind to tuck them in his back pockets, and finally just goes for it and sticks his fingers down the back of his pants. “My butt is warm, though.”
Niall laughs, his cheeks flushed red in the cold.
“I bet your butt is warm too,” Harry says, grinning, pulling his hands free and advancing towards Niall threateningly.
Niall doesn’t stop laughing. He doesn’t back away, even when Harry gets close, right in front of him, even when Harry starts reaching around.
Niall keeps laughing, a little quieter now, his face lifted so Harry can look him in the eye as he gropes around, thwarted by the heavy bulk of Niall’s coat as he tries to find the waist of Niall’s jeans.
When Harry finally makes contact, Niall’s skin is shockingly warm. His jeans are loose and it’s easy for Harry to slide his fingers down, bumping up against the elastic waist of Niall’s boxers. Niall gasps, jerking a little at the contact of Harry’s frozen fingers, but he still doesn’t move away. He’s stopped laughing now.
Their jackets are all crushed together at the front. Harry gives a final push and settles his fingers just below the top of Niall’s boxers, fingers spread against warm skin.
Niall’s face is tilted up and he’s not laughing and Harry can’t remember why he thought this would be funny, and then Niall reaches up to slide his cold fingers around the back of Harry’s neck, pulling him down so that Harry hunches forward until the difference in their heights is negligible. Niall stretches up the rest of the way -- Harry can feel it because he’s got his hands flatted to Niall’s lower back, his fingertips even lower than that. He can feel when Niall moves and that’s all the warning before they’re crushing their mouths together, no lead in just the frantic slide of Niall’s tongue against his own, and the roughness of their cheeks rubbing together. Niall’s fingers are firm against Harry’s neck, holding him steady, and they can’t get any closer than they are with the bulk of their coats between them, but Harry still tries, using his hands to pull Niall in, sucking on Niall’s tongue greedily until Niall makes a high noise in the back of his throat.
“Can we do this?” Harry asks when they finally break away, both breathless.
“Yes,” Niall says, and then he kisses Harry again, like that’s really all it took.
It takes a long time to stop kissing, but eventually Niall seems to decide that’s enough and grabs Harry’s hand to pull him down the street, moving fast enough that Harry has to jog to keep up with him. Niall leads them up Yonge, weaving around everyone who’s walking slower than he is, his hand firm around Harry’s as he tugs him along, and then just like that they’re cutting across Elm and up Bay and then they’re in the lobby to Harry’s condo, Niall waiting impatiently while Harry fumbles for his fob.
Harry stands on the other side of the elevator, watching Niall as the numbers slowly click up to his floor. He unlocks the door and his hands are shaking enough that it takes three tries to get the keys in the lock, and then he spins around and catches Niall’s arms, pulls him into the condo, backs up until he’s leaning against the wall, Niall close in front of him. Niall’s mouth is hard and insistent and everything Harry wants right now. They kiss in the entranceway until Harry’s hands are warm again, until there’s not a single part of him that feels cold -- that feels anything other than the heat of Niall’s skin and the slick slide of his tongue.
They make it to Harry’s bed eventually, and Harry pulls the covers away, drops his clothes as quickly as he can and pulls Niall on top of him. Niall’s got his shirt off. He’s still in his jeans and Harry wants those gone too, but Niall’s already crawling down the bed, opening his mouth around Harry’s cock, pulling off only to lick the skin as wet as he can get it before he sucks him down again.
Niall sucks cock like he likes it, doesn’t seem to be worried about how wet everything is getting. The firm slide of his hand working over the base makes these slick, dirty noises, but that’s still got nothing on the sloppy sounds of his mouth as he works over the head.
It’s fast and loud and kind of nasty, and Harry can’t even stand how good it feels. He makes this hoarse noise, like someone punched him in the stomach, his leg jerking up, knee colliding with Niall’s elbow as Niall keeps working over him, his tongue and his hand, and Harry has to cover his mouth with his wrist, biting down on the skin like that’s going to help keep him tethered.
He stops breathing when he comes, his back arching off the bed with how strong it is, and once he finally breathes in again, he can’t stop -- gasping wetly and moaning low in the back of his throat as Niall works him through his orgasm, pulling off just as the pleasure goes sharp enough to make Harry’s toes curl.
“Oh god,” Harry moans, shakily, as Niall climbs back up the bed and settles beside him. “I can’t feel my toes.”
Niall laughs. Niall is always laughing, but this is a laugh that Harry’s never heard before, like his voice is raw. Like his throat is raw from how he was just sucking Harry’s cock, and, “Oh god,” Harry says again as he rolls over, crushing his mouth to Niall’s. He’s still too stupid from orgasm to have any coordination, but Niall tastes like Harry’s come and Harry just really wants to suck on his tongue for a little while longer.
Eventually the rushing in his head fades and he feels like his limbs are once again attached to his body.
“Jesus,” he whispers, biting softly at Niall’s jaw in thanks before he slides down Niall’s body. Niall’s pants are loose and it’s easy to tug them down, easy to get Niall’s hard cock out of his boxers. He’s got a pretty dick and it feels good in Harry’s mouth. Harry’s given enough blowjobs that he manages okay even though he’s still clumsy and shaky from how hard he came, but there’s no way he’s as good as Niall was. Next time, Harry thinks before he catches himself, and then he just concentrates on doing as well as he can in the moment.
Niall reaches down at cards his fingers through Harry’s hair, catching a little on where Harry’s curls have gotten tangled in the wind. It hurts enough that Harry wishes Niall would pull his hair properly, so he sucks a little harder and hopes that Niall gets the hint.
Niall curses under his breath the whole time, “Fuck, fuck, oh shit, fuck, fuck, Harry, fuck,” and then he’s coming, flooding Harry’s mouth, his fingers tightening in Harry’s hair, holding him down, and Harry realizes distantly that he’s starting to get hard again.
He swallows, keeps sucking gently on Niall’s cock until Niall moves his hand away, and then he pushes himself to the edge of the bed, dangling over the side until he manages to stand, the duvet off the floor. He pulls it up with him, crawls up beside Niall and covers them both with the blanket.
He doesn’t realize that he’s fallen asleep until he startles awake, flailing a little in confusion when he finds his face pressed into bare skin.
He lifts his head and Niall’s hand comes down. He runs a soothing palm down the side of Harry’s head and says, “I just have to finish this email and then I’ll put the phone away,” like maybe it was the soft sound of Niall typing on his Blackberry that woke Harry up.
Harry doesn’t understand how he fell asleep like this, pressed as close to Niall as he can get while Niall reclines half-upright against Harry’s headboard, holding his phone above Harry’s head.
“Are you saying about the signs?” Harry asks, his voice coming out slurred.
“Yeah,” Niall says. “Go back to sleep.”
He’s not going to, Harry thinks, there’s no way he’s going to fall back to sleep, not with the soft glow coming off Niall’s Blackberry and the weird angle his neck is twisted at, but the next thing he knows it’s morning, and Niall is lying flat on his back, snoring quietly, Harry’s cheek pressed to his breastbone. Harry can hear his heart beating like this. They’re naked and sticky from sleeping so close together through the night, and Harry didn’t get a chance to change the sheets before they fell asleep, but it’s still so comfortable that Harry doesn’t move, just lies quietly, careful not to wake Niall up, and tries to time his breathing to the movement of Niall’s chest.
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Part Three