rpf: codename: boogie nights (harry styles/louis tomlinson)
Title: Codename: Boogie Nights
Pairing/Characters: Harry Styles/Louis Tomlinson
Summary: He wants to smile across the line and tell Louis he loves him and that it’s okay if Louis doesn’t want to find a way to meet up, it’s okay if Louis doesn’t miss him the same way, it’s okay if they don’t see each other until they see the other guys. He wants to do that more than anything else if it’ll make Louis happy. But he’s tired and the sun in California is too bright and it burns, makes his skin itchy and his head pound. Date Night fic.
Rating: R
Word Count: 4,900
Disclaimer: This is an entirely fictional interpretation of events that probably never happened. I don't own One Direction because if I did they'd get longer breaks and better songwriters, etc.
Author's Note: I have no current plans to lock this shit down, but please remember that the fourth wall exists for a reason, and that reason is beneficial to everyone ever.
Thanks so much to saycomfychairs for all the encouragement, for yelling at me to write and for looking over the roughest of drafts. This would still be a couple hundred words on my computer with no chance of seeing the light of day without you. And thanks to aragons for being the best beta and for making sure I didn't make any massive mistakes while writing British lads.
Lovely meal at Rosso Manchester! Great meal that!
[LOUIS TOMLINSON]
@rossorestaurant thanks for having me last night...great to see you again old friend.
[HARRY STYLES]
Management sits them down before the break--not all of them, not Liam and Zayn and Niall, no, management doesn’t worry too much about Liam and Zayn and Niall, just Harry and Louis. Mostly they worry about Harry, but Louis is implicated, always. So management sits them down and tells them they are not allowed to be seen together, not walking a foot apart down the street, not visiting each other at their parents’ houses, and certainly not drunk at any bar. There is a reminder tacked onto the end of the lecture--a lecture that seems like a reprimand, like they’re being scolded for something they haven’t even done yet--about not tweeting each other.
Tone it down, they say.
And Harry understands why it’s important. He gets it. He really, really does. But he still thinks, Fuck you.
They’re good. They’re really good. Partly because Harry doesn’t want to get reamed when they get back from the break and partly because Louis takes management seriously.
Louis says Harry’s name exasperatedly over the phone, says, “It’s risky.”
“No it’s not.”
“Yes. It is.” Harry doesn’t even have to be in the same country to know that Louis’ rolling his eyes, face pinched tight.
He’d find Louis’ resistance funny if he wasn’t so exhausted, if he wasn’t getting a plane home in less than a day with no plans to see Louis, if he felt like he had a choice in what he does over break. That’s the worst part of it, really, the fact that he doesn’t have a choice. He scrapes his hand over his face. “Please,” he says, and he doesn’t want to say it but he does because he doesn’t know how not to.
“Harry.” And Louis sounds sad now. Harry can picture him, eyes screwed shut, frowning.
“I’m sorry Lou, I just, I miss you.” And if there’s desperation in his voice he doesn’t mean for it to be there. He wants to smile across the line and tell Louis he loves him and that it’s okay if Louis doesn’t want to find a way to meet up, it’s okay if Louis doesn’t miss him the same way, it’s okay if they don’t see each other until they see the other guys. He wants to do that more than anything else if it’ll make Louis happy. But he’s tired and the sun in California is too bright and it burns, makes his skin itchy and his head pound.
And Harry just really fucking misses Louis.
“I miss you,” Louis says. He takes a breath and Harry knows what that means so he stays quiet, leans back against the headboard and closes his eyes, waits for Louis to finish. “We should do something.”
“You sure?”
Louis’ quiet but his breathing’s even so Harry lets a small smile spread over his face even before Louis whispers, “Yeah. Yeah, Haz, I’m sure.”
“You’re not going to mope the entire time about how management might be angry?” Harry’s teasing, his tone light now because he feels light. The promise of seeing Louis when he gets back enough for now, but he knows there’s a possibility that Louis will worry the entire time about running into fans and pictures and whatever else can go wrong.
“I promise I won’t.”
Harry can picture the accompanying eye roll and he grins even wider. “Besides we have Liam to do that for us.”
“Liam’s not invited,” Louis says.
Harry chuckles, shakes his hair out. “He wouldn’t want to come even if he was.”
They plan and Louis does most of the work. Harry recommends the restaurant because he’s been there before and they’re good at being discreet but Louis is the one to phone and make the reservation. He checks and double checks and goes over everything with Harry until Harry stops listening and scrolls through his twitter feed, making noises of approval every couple minutes. He’s sure Louis’ paranoia is the talk of the staff.
Finally, when he feels like his ear is going to fall off he says, “Louis. It’ll be fine.”
He sighs. “I know.”
“You know what’s funny?” Harry asks, shutting his laptop and setting it on the coffee table in the hotel room.
“Your face?”
“Original,” Harry says, “Even with all this planning you’d still be late for dinner.”
“I will not be late.” The indignation in Louis’ voice makes Harry laugh. “I am always very timely.”
“It doesn’t matter because I have made us pre-dinner plans,” Harry says, stretching out his legs until his feet hit the arm of the sofa.
Harry hasn’t had it in him to worry about this when Louis has been doing that more than enough for both of them, when just the idea of seeing Louis makes him feel warm all over, makes him smile despite himself. But it doesn’t mean he can’t make plans of his own. Harry knows Louis, knows how to make him happy and knows how to push his buttons and knows that surprising him will be the best part of the night-well, maybe second best.
“You did?” His voice is worried but Harry can pick out the traces of excitement.
“I did,” Harry says. “And I am sure they will make you cry and then try to jump me in public and then everything will be ruined.”
“Ha ha ha. I think all the gossip sites have gotten to your head.”
“I already knew I was irresistible.” Harry runs a hand through his hair and stretches his back. “You couldn’t resist me.”
“I think you’re mixing us up,” Louis says.
“No I don’t think so.”
“You’re impossible.”
Harry grins, “I’m romantic.”
“So what are your grand plans for romance, Styles” Louis asks.
“It’s a surprise. Just meet me at the hotel at six.” Harry glances at the clock. “Speaking of which, you should probably start making yourself look presentable.”
“You’re mixing us up again,” Louis says.
He pauses and Harry flexes his toes, hears the hesitation in the breath Louis exhales. “It’ll be fun.”
Sometimes Harry knows he’s really good at showing Louis just how much he loves him, showing Louis how he’s gotten under his skin until his veins thrum with Louis heartbeat instead of his own. With actions and words and every piece of him he can, he shows Louis exactly what he means to him. Harry knows he’s good at loving Louis, he’s good at being there for him when Louis needs him to be, being what Louis needs him to be.
But he’s not so sure about a lot of things.
He’s not sure he’s good at reassuring Louis that everything is going to be okay just because Harry believes it is. Just because he feels it under his skin and in his bones doesn’t mean he knows. He can’t know. Louis is always thinking about the things he doesn’t know and Harry wants him to stop, because Louis can’t do anything about them and Harry can’t either. Harry likes to think about the things he knows because it’s steadying, because he has control over those things--or at least he can pretend he does. Harry knows how Louis’ face looks pressed into his pillow in the morning, hair sticking up in every direction, sun streaming in through the curtains, he knows Louis likes his eggs benedict with thicker slices of ham instead of thin slices of pancetta, and he knows what Louis’ hands feel like pressed firmly against his hipbones. It’s the little bits of him and Louis that Harry knows better than his own name that keep him warm, that he replays behind his eyelids when he can’t get to sleep at night.
He doesn’t know if Louis does these things--like secret dates that make him worry for days--for him or because Louis wants them too. Even though the thought that Louis is willing to go through so much just to make him happy causes Harry’s smile to overtake his face, Harry doesn’t want Louis to only do it for him, he wants Louis to want it just as much. Sometimes he worries Louis thinks he’s selfish because sometimes he feels selfish, but Harry can’t help that he has this constant need to tug Louis closer, holding him tight and refusing to let go because he doesn’t want to and not wanting to has turned into not knowing how.
Harry has got so used to being able to communicate with Louis through looks and touches, unspoken conversations that leave their thoughts inexplicably entwined. But now with boundaries and restrictions and toned down behavior, Harry is left feeling lost without the constant reassurance. So Harry clings and hopes what he’s feeling is what Louis is feeling too, because if it’s not then he’s lost half of himself.
Harry pushes these thoughts as far out of his mind as possible. If he doesn’t know he doesn’t think about it.
So he shakes his head and stretches his arms above his head, looks at the clock again and pushes himself off the sofa to get ready for codename: Boogie Nights.
“A Train concert?” Louis asks, smile flitting across his lips.
“Yeah.” Harry can’t help but grin, nodding his head towards the backdoor to the venue as Louis finally lets his own smile take over his face, eyes crinkling, skin stretching over his cheekbones.
Harry takes it as a victory that Louis hasn’t asked about keeping people from noticing them, from getting pictures of them together, because the moment Harry looked at Louis Harry saw Louis’ eyes get brighter, his shoulders relax. And that’s all Harry needed, really, to see Louis again, to see that Louis missed him and needed him too.
The concert is fun even if Harry doesn’t really care about Train. Louis is having a great time, hiding in the back of the booth, swaying ridiculously, smile splitting his face, hands in the air while he sings along to all the songs. It’s dark and private but everything is still loud and inclusive, like they’re still part of everyone else here, like they’re just two people at a concert--two very rich people who have their own space to just be, but still.
There’s a balcony they could hang out in, smattered with a few other people who paid for it. “You wanna?” Harry points, letting his hand rest on Louis’ shoulder, feeling the warmth of his skin seep through the thin cotton.
Louis turns to look at Harry, smile faltering just a fraction and Harry immediately knows it was the wrong thing to ask. Because there are people there and if they stand next to the railing anyone below could see them, anyone could take a picture. “You should,” Louis says.
“Me?” Harry shakes his head, tightening his grip on Louis’ shoulder.
Louis smiles but it looks half-forced now, not quite reaching his eyes. “Yeah, you need an alibi right? Just in case.”
“Oh, oh right.” Harry didn’t think about that. He didn’t want to think that, about how he needed a reason to be in Manchester that wasn’t Louis if they did get spotted together, if they do still get spotted together. “Yeah, I guess.”
Harry squeezes Louis’ shoulder before he goes, trying to say that he doesn’t really want to, that he wishes Louis would go instead, wishes he and Louis could stand by the railing together and not have to worry about anything or anyone. Anger bubbles in him briefly, hot in the pit of his stomach, and he thinks about grabbing Louis’ hand, lacing their fingers together and dragging Louis with him, but he knows management doesn’t want that and Louis doesn’t want it either.
Louis smiles at him again, tips his head as if to say Go on, you idiot.
Harry smiles back and he knows it probably doesn’t look real.
The balcony is fun. Harry’s a people person and doesn’t know how not to be even when he’d rather be somewhere else-he knows that’s not how it is for Louis. Louis doesn’t get distracted by the people around him, can’t lose himself in a crowd and in conversation the way Harry can. Harry talks to a few of the fans there and one girl seems to be a fan of his and of One Direction, but she keeps it together and is really nice, asks him how he’s enjoying the show and what his favorite Train song is--he laughs a little, shakes his hair out and admits he doesn’t know if he has one.
He can’t tell if people are taking pictures or not even though he sees a flash or two during the few songs he spends out there before casually making his exit, shoving his hands in his pockets and heading back to Louis.
“How was it out among the common folk?” Louis asks, only glancing at Harry for a second before returning his focus to the stage.
“I don’t know how common they are if they can afford the balcony.” Harry slips his hand around Louis’s neck, presses his palm against warm skin, plays with the hair at the nape before settling his hand where Louis’ neck meets his shoulder, maneuvering a few fingers under Louis’ shirt.
“We’ll we are obviously above the not common folks as well,” Louis says, adopting the poshest accent he can before slipping his arm around Harry’s waist and squeezing, pulling him close.
“Obviously,” Harry murmurs against Louis’ ear before looking at the stage where a couple is being brought up.
It takes Harry a moment to process what’s happening as the man reaches into his pocket and gets down on one knee. And when Harry’s brain catches up with his hands and his ears and the man telling the woman how much loves her and wants to spend the rest of his life with her, Harry brushes his thumb over the pulse in Louis’ neck, feels it thrumming through the pad and through his body and he presses closer.
He wants to say something but he doesn’t know how, doesn’t know what won’t sound lame or cheesy or like he’s making fun of the moment, because it’s not funny at all, there’s nothing funny about the way he feels right now. He thinks maybe Louis feels the same way because he rucks up Harry’s shirt a little to slip is hand underneath, rubs soothing circles into Harry’s side and Harry just leans into it, leans down to kiss Louis’ cheek, letting his lips linger and turn into a smile.
“I love you,” Louis says, turning to look at him, eyelashes casting shadows on his cheeks.
“Yeah,” Harry murmurs, “Me too.”
Less than a minute after they sit down--tucked in the back of Rosso’s in a private room, too large for two people and all dimmed lights and pristine white tablecloths and marble columns--Louis pulls out his phone, lips pursed in concentration.
“Am I not entertaining?” Harry asks, looking over the wine menu.
“Just tweeting about the great dinner I had,” Louis says. Harry knits his eyebrows together until Louis adds, “Alibi.”
Oh, Harry thinks, his stomach clenching for a moment before he just lets it go. Because that makes sense, of course it does. He could dwell on it but he doesn’t want to, not when the concert was a success and his stomach feels like it’s going to start eating itself. “If you already ate does this mean I get all the bread?”
“Course not. Don’t be selfish, Harold.” Louis’ smile is soft, almost nonexistent in its tug on his skin, his cheeks, but it still makes Harry’s stomach clench for an entirely different reason than before, warm and comforting. “Besides, we don’t want you getting fat.”
Harry scoffs. “I can do more push-ups than you.”
“Selfish and arrogant,” Louis tuts, shaking his head. “I don’t know what anyone sees in you.”
“My cock.”
Louis laughs loudly, throwing his head back, so Harry does too, grinning around the sound, letting it vibrate through his entire body, letting himself really feel it, his cheeks aching by the time he finishes, taking a gulp of air and exhaling slowly.
It leaves Louis’ cheeks flushed and Harry kicks his shin under the table just to see if the color will deepen--it doesn’t, but Louis raises his eyebrows. “Are you trying to seduce me?”
“I’m trying to romance you,” Harry clarifies, rolling his eyes.
“With your dick?”
Harry grins. “Whatever works.”
“You want pudding?” Louis asks, taking a sip from his water glass.
“No, I’m good.” Harry grabs the last piece of bread, taking a bite and chewing with determination.
Louis looks at him curiously. “Really?”
“Really.” Harry shrugs, resisting the urge to bring one foot up onto his chair and hug his knee to his chest. He figures that kind of thing is probably frowned upon in a place like this, but mostly he can tell Louis would make some comment about it being unattractive or how it doesn’t foster romance or how Harry’s going to rip his trousers one of these days even though he won’t--they’re a fucking expensive pair, well made, no shoddy craftsmanship here.
“Your favorite part about going to a fancy restaurant is getting pudding,” Louis says, studying Harry carefully.
“I’m full.” Harry knows Louis isn’t going to buy that excuse, so he pops the last of the bread into his mouth.
“What did you do, Dr. Strangelove?”
“You realize Dr. Strangelove wasn’t a love doctor right?” Harry asks, biting his lip and tapping his heel against the leg of his chair.
Louis just waves his hand dismissively. “Are there chocolates in the hotel room? Rose petals? That mood music you like so much? You’re such a sap, Haz.”
Harry snorts. “Just because it’s not on the radio doesn’t mean it’s mood music.”
“It’s music you fall asleep to Harry. It makes me sleepy.” Louis yawns exaggeratedly, crosses his arms on the table and puts his head down before pretending to snore.
“We can’t all be Kesha.”
Louis shoots up then, mouth hanging out. He slaps his hand over his heart in mock indignation. “How dare you speak ill of Kesha. She’s a D-I-N-O-S-A-U-R.”
Harry laughs, shaking his head. “I apologize.”
“Good.” Louis nods his head once and then bites his lip. “I’ll pay even though you insulted Kesha.”
“No, I’ve got it.” When Louis opens his mouth to protest Harry cuts him off, “I’m trying to seduce you, remember?”
“That is true.” Louis presses his lips together and looks at Harry, his eyes bright, the glow of the lights reflecting off them. Harry smiles, happy because Louis’ happy, happy because they did it, they got a night to themselves and management isn’t going to yell at them for it because they were good. Happy because this means they can do this again, because they proved it’s possible to get together and be as normal as they ever can be.
When the waiter comes back they ask for the bill and then Louis asks, “Do you want to leave first? I’m sure you’ve got a warm bath to run, rose petals to scatter...”
“Nah, you finished dinner two hours ago, you should probably be heading back.”
Louis chuckles, pushing his chair back and standing up. “I promise not to eat all the chocolates without you.”
When Louis steps forward Harry pulls him in by the front of his shirt and kisses him softly, quickly, the beer he ordered faint on his lips. “It’s okay. You don’t want me getting fat, remember.”
“Shut up,” Louis says, kissing him one more time. “Don’t be long, okay?”
And there’s something about the way he says it, quiet and slurred together as though he’s embarrassed, as though maybe he’s saying something he thinks he isn’t supposed to and Harry wants to tell him he can. But he doesn’t know how because it feels ridiculous to assure Louis of something that Louis didn’t even say, so instead he just nods, watches Louis walk out, passing the waiter and thanking him for his service, and probably, Harry thinks, his discretion.
Harry ends up hanging out at the bar, talking to a few people, taking a few pictures. He knows he probably shouldn’t wait around as long as he does, shouldn’t place himself at the same restaurant Louis tweeted earlier, but he can’t bring himself to care.
Eventually he realizes he’s been there almost an hour and Louis has sent him a text asking where he got to and Harry sneaks out the back and drives to the hotel without answering Louis’ text just so he can see how long it takes Louis to send another one (ten minutes) and how angry it sounds (very, judging by the use of arsehole and fuck you).
When Harry slides the keycard into the door and pushes it open the lights are off and Louis is laying on his back, sprawled out on the sofa, the box of chocolates and the champagne open on the coffee table, a few wrappers littering the floor. Louis looks at Harry briefly before turning his attention back to the television, not saying anything.
Harry flops down on top of him, reaching out and grabbing a chocolate from the box, unwrapping it and popping it into his mouth, letting the wrapper drop to the floor among Louis’. “What’s on?”
“The telly,” Louis says. His hands still limp by his sides.
Harry tangles their legs together, rests his cheek against Louis chest. He says, “Louis?”
“Champagne and chocolate are more romantic if you’re not in a hotel room alone.”
“Sorry,” Harry mumbles, maneuvering his hands under Louis neck and playing with the hair at the nape. “The people love me.”
Louis scoffs and Harry lifts his head, wriggling up Louis body, putting his weight on his arms. Louis’ looking at him, mouth set straight. “An hour and a half.”
“I know.” Harry presses his lips to Louis’ forehead and lingers there.
“Did you take pictures?”
Harry screws his eyes shut. He doesn’t want to have this conversation. “Yeah.”
Louis shifts under him and Harry feels his hands, one dancing up his spine, the other resting between his shoulder blades. He feels better from the contact. Louis says, “You shouldn’t have done that.”
“I know.” A beat as he presses his mouth to Louis’ temple, “Are you gonna yell at me?”
“No.” Louis presses his fingers into Harrys back and Harry lets his body press into Louis, aligns them as best he can before dropping a kiss to Louis’ cheek, his jaw, the corner of his mouth.
Louis tilts his head and kisses back, lazy and soft, his mouth opening under Harry’s. He tastes like chocolate and alcohol so Harry presses harder, wants to kiss Louis until he tastes like Harry, until there’s nothing between them. He wants to kiss him until he forgets how difficult it is to get one night to themselves, how it always feels like there’s something hovering over them, ready to crush them if they take one wrong step, until all he can think about is Louis’ mouth curving over his jaw and his hands curving over his hips.
Harry breathes, “I love you,” against Louis’ mouth because he can’t hold it in any longer, it feels like it’s splitting his chest, tearing him wide open, like he’s telling Louis more than I love you. It’s like he’s saying, I love that you drank the champagne even though you don’t like it and I love how you mumbled along to “Drops of Jupiter” under your breath and I love how your brow furrows when you’re trying to be angry with me but you’re not really and I love you for loving me so much you left the dark chocolates with caramel that you know are my favorite.
Louis digs his fingertips into Harry’s hips, hard and sharp, before sliding his hand up Harry’s shirt, digging and digging like he’s trying to excavate something out of Harry and Harry wants to let him, making soft noises and running his fingernail over the sensitive skin below Louis’ earlobe. Harry hopes there will be little crescent marks up his back tomorrow.
When Harry repeats, “I love you,” Louis kisses Harry again, pushing his tongue inside Harry’s mouth, sloppy and needy, teeth and noses bumping.
When Louis flips them Harry doesn’t protest. “I really needed this,” Louis murmurs against Harry’s neck, kissing down it and sweeping his tongue over Harry’s collarbone, sucking gently. “I missed you I missed you so much I was going crazy.” His breath ghosts warm and then his lips are brushing against Harry’s pulse point, painting the words into Harry’s skin, letting them flow from his lungs and seep into Harry’s veins instead of just saying them and letting Harry hear them: I needed this I really fucking needed this I missed you so much.
When he grinds down Harry’s hips arch up and he lets out a low groan. Harry says, “Me too, Lou, me too.”
Everything blurs after that and Harry won’t be able to remember whether Louis rucked up his shirt and kissed up his stomach first or sucked a lovebite onto his hipbone where his jeans rode low first or if he whispered I want you all the fucking time against the hair curling on his forehead before brushing it out of the way first.
And then it’s skin against skin and Harry forgets about everything but the way Louis’ eyelids flutter shut when Harry breathes a hot trail up his thigh and sucks his cock into his mouth, the way Louis tries to be quiet, soft needy noises vibrating against their bodies as Harry groans loudly, his grunts filling the spaces Louis’ leave, overlapping and forming something more than whole.
“We should move to the bed,” Louis says, nosing at the curls of Harry’s hair.
Harry feels sticky and boneless and content so he just snuggles closer. “Too sleepy.”
“I’m moving.” Louis says even though doesn’t go anywhere, just rests his forehead against the curve of Harry’s shoulder. “The sofa isn’t that comfortable.”
“It’s cozy.”
“It’s small.”
“Cozy,” Harry repeats, moving to grab the remote, turning off the television before placing it back on the coffee table and cuddling closer to Louis.
“You’re a child.”
“I’ll massage out your aches and pains tomorrow, old man.” Harry smiles against Louis’s hair and kisses the top of his head.
“Is that a promise?” Louis asks, looking up, face serious and eyes dark.
Harry grins, leans down and kisses him. “I win.”
Louis says, “Shut up,” but he settles further into the sofa, arm thrown lazily over Harry’s side.
Harry wakes up with a blanket draped over him and sees Louis putting the lid over the box of chocolates. “What’re you doing?”
“Taking my chocolate and doing a walk of shame,” Louis says, smiling softly.
“Do you have to go?” Harry asks, rubbing at his eyes and sitting up. He cricks his neck and realizes that it’s going to bother him for the rest of the day. Louis was right about sleeping on the sofa, but there’s no way in hell Harry’s going to tell him that.
Louis’ smile doesn’t falter as he sits down on the edge of the sofa but Harry thinks his eyes dim before he leans in, kissing Harry. Louis grimaces when he pulls away. “You have morning breath.”
“That’s because it’s morning.” Harry rolls his eyes and runs a hand through his hair. “I guess I’ll see you at the Rays of Sunshine thing?”
“Even if I had a choice not to go I’d still be there.” Louis smirks and pushes some of Harry’s hair to the side. “Much better.”
“So operation Boogie Nights was a success?”
“Smashing.” Louis laughs, and Harry does, too, letting the sound fade into an exhale. Louis says, “I have to go.”
“Love you.” Harry grabs Louis’ wrist when he stands up, running his thumb over the veins, watching him carefully, the way he blinks at the words, his face softening a moment like he still can’t believe Harry gets to tell him that all the time, that Harry wants to tell him that all the time. Harry thinks he understands. Harry feels the same way.
Louis says, “I Love you, too.”
Harry moves his hand down Louis’ wrist and squeezes his fingers, swinging their arms back and forth before letting go. “Now get out, I have to prepare for my next date.”
Louis shakes his head. “Good luck with that, Casanova.”
When the door clicks shut behind Louis Harry sits on the sofa for a few minutes, looking around the room, the champagne bottle open and half-full, the chocolate wrappers still on the floor, the bathroom door open, the light on. Harry doesn’t want to move, doesn’t want to pick anything up, wants to leave it as evidence that last night happened. He pulls out his phone and takes a picture, feels stupid and then hovers over the delete key before deciding, fuck it, he can be stupid if he wants to be.
Pairing/Characters: Harry Styles/Louis Tomlinson
Summary: He wants to smile across the line and tell Louis he loves him and that it’s okay if Louis doesn’t want to find a way to meet up, it’s okay if Louis doesn’t miss him the same way, it’s okay if they don’t see each other until they see the other guys. He wants to do that more than anything else if it’ll make Louis happy. But he’s tired and the sun in California is too bright and it burns, makes his skin itchy and his head pound. Date Night fic.
Rating: R
Word Count: 4,900
Disclaimer: This is an entirely fictional interpretation of events that probably never happened. I don't own One Direction because if I did they'd get longer breaks and better songwriters, etc.
Author's Note: I have no current plans to lock this shit down, but please remember that the fourth wall exists for a reason, and that reason is beneficial to everyone ever.
Thanks so much to saycomfychairs for all the encouragement, for yelling at me to write and for looking over the roughest of drafts. This would still be a couple hundred words on my computer with no chance of seeing the light of day without you. And thanks to aragons for being the best beta and for making sure I didn't make any massive mistakes while writing British lads.
Lovely meal at Rosso Manchester! Great meal that!
[LOUIS TOMLINSON]
@rossorestaurant thanks for having me last night...great to see you again old friend.
[HARRY STYLES]
Management sits them down before the break--not all of them, not Liam and Zayn and Niall, no, management doesn’t worry too much about Liam and Zayn and Niall, just Harry and Louis. Mostly they worry about Harry, but Louis is implicated, always. So management sits them down and tells them they are not allowed to be seen together, not walking a foot apart down the street, not visiting each other at their parents’ houses, and certainly not drunk at any bar. There is a reminder tacked onto the end of the lecture--a lecture that seems like a reprimand, like they’re being scolded for something they haven’t even done yet--about not tweeting each other.
Tone it down, they say.
And Harry understands why it’s important. He gets it. He really, really does. But he still thinks, Fuck you.
They’re good. They’re really good. Partly because Harry doesn’t want to get reamed when they get back from the break and partly because Louis takes management seriously.
Louis says Harry’s name exasperatedly over the phone, says, “It’s risky.”
“No it’s not.”
“Yes. It is.” Harry doesn’t even have to be in the same country to know that Louis’ rolling his eyes, face pinched tight.
He’d find Louis’ resistance funny if he wasn’t so exhausted, if he wasn’t getting a plane home in less than a day with no plans to see Louis, if he felt like he had a choice in what he does over break. That’s the worst part of it, really, the fact that he doesn’t have a choice. He scrapes his hand over his face. “Please,” he says, and he doesn’t want to say it but he does because he doesn’t know how not to.
“Harry.” And Louis sounds sad now. Harry can picture him, eyes screwed shut, frowning.
“I’m sorry Lou, I just, I miss you.” And if there’s desperation in his voice he doesn’t mean for it to be there. He wants to smile across the line and tell Louis he loves him and that it’s okay if Louis doesn’t want to find a way to meet up, it’s okay if Louis doesn’t miss him the same way, it’s okay if they don’t see each other until they see the other guys. He wants to do that more than anything else if it’ll make Louis happy. But he’s tired and the sun in California is too bright and it burns, makes his skin itchy and his head pound.
And Harry just really fucking misses Louis.
“I miss you,” Louis says. He takes a breath and Harry knows what that means so he stays quiet, leans back against the headboard and closes his eyes, waits for Louis to finish. “We should do something.”
“You sure?”
Louis’ quiet but his breathing’s even so Harry lets a small smile spread over his face even before Louis whispers, “Yeah. Yeah, Haz, I’m sure.”
“You’re not going to mope the entire time about how management might be angry?” Harry’s teasing, his tone light now because he feels light. The promise of seeing Louis when he gets back enough for now, but he knows there’s a possibility that Louis will worry the entire time about running into fans and pictures and whatever else can go wrong.
“I promise I won’t.”
Harry can picture the accompanying eye roll and he grins even wider. “Besides we have Liam to do that for us.”
“Liam’s not invited,” Louis says.
Harry chuckles, shakes his hair out. “He wouldn’t want to come even if he was.”
They plan and Louis does most of the work. Harry recommends the restaurant because he’s been there before and they’re good at being discreet but Louis is the one to phone and make the reservation. He checks and double checks and goes over everything with Harry until Harry stops listening and scrolls through his twitter feed, making noises of approval every couple minutes. He’s sure Louis’ paranoia is the talk of the staff.
Finally, when he feels like his ear is going to fall off he says, “Louis. It’ll be fine.”
He sighs. “I know.”
“You know what’s funny?” Harry asks, shutting his laptop and setting it on the coffee table in the hotel room.
“Your face?”
“Original,” Harry says, “Even with all this planning you’d still be late for dinner.”
“I will not be late.” The indignation in Louis’ voice makes Harry laugh. “I am always very timely.”
“It doesn’t matter because I have made us pre-dinner plans,” Harry says, stretching out his legs until his feet hit the arm of the sofa.
Harry hasn’t had it in him to worry about this when Louis has been doing that more than enough for both of them, when just the idea of seeing Louis makes him feel warm all over, makes him smile despite himself. But it doesn’t mean he can’t make plans of his own. Harry knows Louis, knows how to make him happy and knows how to push his buttons and knows that surprising him will be the best part of the night-well, maybe second best.
“You did?” His voice is worried but Harry can pick out the traces of excitement.
“I did,” Harry says. “And I am sure they will make you cry and then try to jump me in public and then everything will be ruined.”
“Ha ha ha. I think all the gossip sites have gotten to your head.”
“I already knew I was irresistible.” Harry runs a hand through his hair and stretches his back. “You couldn’t resist me.”
“I think you’re mixing us up,” Louis says.
“No I don’t think so.”
“You’re impossible.”
Harry grins, “I’m romantic.”
“So what are your grand plans for romance, Styles” Louis asks.
“It’s a surprise. Just meet me at the hotel at six.” Harry glances at the clock. “Speaking of which, you should probably start making yourself look presentable.”
“You’re mixing us up again,” Louis says.
He pauses and Harry flexes his toes, hears the hesitation in the breath Louis exhales. “It’ll be fun.”
Sometimes Harry knows he’s really good at showing Louis just how much he loves him, showing Louis how he’s gotten under his skin until his veins thrum with Louis heartbeat instead of his own. With actions and words and every piece of him he can, he shows Louis exactly what he means to him. Harry knows he’s good at loving Louis, he’s good at being there for him when Louis needs him to be, being what Louis needs him to be.
But he’s not so sure about a lot of things.
He’s not sure he’s good at reassuring Louis that everything is going to be okay just because Harry believes it is. Just because he feels it under his skin and in his bones doesn’t mean he knows. He can’t know. Louis is always thinking about the things he doesn’t know and Harry wants him to stop, because Louis can’t do anything about them and Harry can’t either. Harry likes to think about the things he knows because it’s steadying, because he has control over those things--or at least he can pretend he does. Harry knows how Louis’ face looks pressed into his pillow in the morning, hair sticking up in every direction, sun streaming in through the curtains, he knows Louis likes his eggs benedict with thicker slices of ham instead of thin slices of pancetta, and he knows what Louis’ hands feel like pressed firmly against his hipbones. It’s the little bits of him and Louis that Harry knows better than his own name that keep him warm, that he replays behind his eyelids when he can’t get to sleep at night.
He doesn’t know if Louis does these things--like secret dates that make him worry for days--for him or because Louis wants them too. Even though the thought that Louis is willing to go through so much just to make him happy causes Harry’s smile to overtake his face, Harry doesn’t want Louis to only do it for him, he wants Louis to want it just as much. Sometimes he worries Louis thinks he’s selfish because sometimes he feels selfish, but Harry can’t help that he has this constant need to tug Louis closer, holding him tight and refusing to let go because he doesn’t want to and not wanting to has turned into not knowing how.
Harry has got so used to being able to communicate with Louis through looks and touches, unspoken conversations that leave their thoughts inexplicably entwined. But now with boundaries and restrictions and toned down behavior, Harry is left feeling lost without the constant reassurance. So Harry clings and hopes what he’s feeling is what Louis is feeling too, because if it’s not then he’s lost half of himself.
Harry pushes these thoughts as far out of his mind as possible. If he doesn’t know he doesn’t think about it.
So he shakes his head and stretches his arms above his head, looks at the clock again and pushes himself off the sofa to get ready for codename: Boogie Nights.
“A Train concert?” Louis asks, smile flitting across his lips.
“Yeah.” Harry can’t help but grin, nodding his head towards the backdoor to the venue as Louis finally lets his own smile take over his face, eyes crinkling, skin stretching over his cheekbones.
Harry takes it as a victory that Louis hasn’t asked about keeping people from noticing them, from getting pictures of them together, because the moment Harry looked at Louis Harry saw Louis’ eyes get brighter, his shoulders relax. And that’s all Harry needed, really, to see Louis again, to see that Louis missed him and needed him too.
The concert is fun even if Harry doesn’t really care about Train. Louis is having a great time, hiding in the back of the booth, swaying ridiculously, smile splitting his face, hands in the air while he sings along to all the songs. It’s dark and private but everything is still loud and inclusive, like they’re still part of everyone else here, like they’re just two people at a concert--two very rich people who have their own space to just be, but still.
There’s a balcony they could hang out in, smattered with a few other people who paid for it. “You wanna?” Harry points, letting his hand rest on Louis’ shoulder, feeling the warmth of his skin seep through the thin cotton.
Louis turns to look at Harry, smile faltering just a fraction and Harry immediately knows it was the wrong thing to ask. Because there are people there and if they stand next to the railing anyone below could see them, anyone could take a picture. “You should,” Louis says.
“Me?” Harry shakes his head, tightening his grip on Louis’ shoulder.
Louis smiles but it looks half-forced now, not quite reaching his eyes. “Yeah, you need an alibi right? Just in case.”
“Oh, oh right.” Harry didn’t think about that. He didn’t want to think that, about how he needed a reason to be in Manchester that wasn’t Louis if they did get spotted together, if they do still get spotted together. “Yeah, I guess.”
Harry squeezes Louis’ shoulder before he goes, trying to say that he doesn’t really want to, that he wishes Louis would go instead, wishes he and Louis could stand by the railing together and not have to worry about anything or anyone. Anger bubbles in him briefly, hot in the pit of his stomach, and he thinks about grabbing Louis’ hand, lacing their fingers together and dragging Louis with him, but he knows management doesn’t want that and Louis doesn’t want it either.
Louis smiles at him again, tips his head as if to say Go on, you idiot.
Harry smiles back and he knows it probably doesn’t look real.
The balcony is fun. Harry’s a people person and doesn’t know how not to be even when he’d rather be somewhere else-he knows that’s not how it is for Louis. Louis doesn’t get distracted by the people around him, can’t lose himself in a crowd and in conversation the way Harry can. Harry talks to a few of the fans there and one girl seems to be a fan of his and of One Direction, but she keeps it together and is really nice, asks him how he’s enjoying the show and what his favorite Train song is--he laughs a little, shakes his hair out and admits he doesn’t know if he has one.
He can’t tell if people are taking pictures or not even though he sees a flash or two during the few songs he spends out there before casually making his exit, shoving his hands in his pockets and heading back to Louis.
“How was it out among the common folk?” Louis asks, only glancing at Harry for a second before returning his focus to the stage.
“I don’t know how common they are if they can afford the balcony.” Harry slips his hand around Louis’s neck, presses his palm against warm skin, plays with the hair at the nape before settling his hand where Louis’ neck meets his shoulder, maneuvering a few fingers under Louis’ shirt.
“We’ll we are obviously above the not common folks as well,” Louis says, adopting the poshest accent he can before slipping his arm around Harry’s waist and squeezing, pulling him close.
“Obviously,” Harry murmurs against Louis’ ear before looking at the stage where a couple is being brought up.
It takes Harry a moment to process what’s happening as the man reaches into his pocket and gets down on one knee. And when Harry’s brain catches up with his hands and his ears and the man telling the woman how much loves her and wants to spend the rest of his life with her, Harry brushes his thumb over the pulse in Louis’ neck, feels it thrumming through the pad and through his body and he presses closer.
He wants to say something but he doesn’t know how, doesn’t know what won’t sound lame or cheesy or like he’s making fun of the moment, because it’s not funny at all, there’s nothing funny about the way he feels right now. He thinks maybe Louis feels the same way because he rucks up Harry’s shirt a little to slip is hand underneath, rubs soothing circles into Harry’s side and Harry just leans into it, leans down to kiss Louis’ cheek, letting his lips linger and turn into a smile.
“I love you,” Louis says, turning to look at him, eyelashes casting shadows on his cheeks.
“Yeah,” Harry murmurs, “Me too.”
Less than a minute after they sit down--tucked in the back of Rosso’s in a private room, too large for two people and all dimmed lights and pristine white tablecloths and marble columns--Louis pulls out his phone, lips pursed in concentration.
“Am I not entertaining?” Harry asks, looking over the wine menu.
“Just tweeting about the great dinner I had,” Louis says. Harry knits his eyebrows together until Louis adds, “Alibi.”
Oh, Harry thinks, his stomach clenching for a moment before he just lets it go. Because that makes sense, of course it does. He could dwell on it but he doesn’t want to, not when the concert was a success and his stomach feels like it’s going to start eating itself. “If you already ate does this mean I get all the bread?”
“Course not. Don’t be selfish, Harold.” Louis’ smile is soft, almost nonexistent in its tug on his skin, his cheeks, but it still makes Harry’s stomach clench for an entirely different reason than before, warm and comforting. “Besides, we don’t want you getting fat.”
Harry scoffs. “I can do more push-ups than you.”
“Selfish and arrogant,” Louis tuts, shaking his head. “I don’t know what anyone sees in you.”
“My cock.”
Louis laughs loudly, throwing his head back, so Harry does too, grinning around the sound, letting it vibrate through his entire body, letting himself really feel it, his cheeks aching by the time he finishes, taking a gulp of air and exhaling slowly.
It leaves Louis’ cheeks flushed and Harry kicks his shin under the table just to see if the color will deepen--it doesn’t, but Louis raises his eyebrows. “Are you trying to seduce me?”
“I’m trying to romance you,” Harry clarifies, rolling his eyes.
“With your dick?”
Harry grins. “Whatever works.”
“You want pudding?” Louis asks, taking a sip from his water glass.
“No, I’m good.” Harry grabs the last piece of bread, taking a bite and chewing with determination.
Louis looks at him curiously. “Really?”
“Really.” Harry shrugs, resisting the urge to bring one foot up onto his chair and hug his knee to his chest. He figures that kind of thing is probably frowned upon in a place like this, but mostly he can tell Louis would make some comment about it being unattractive or how it doesn’t foster romance or how Harry’s going to rip his trousers one of these days even though he won’t--they’re a fucking expensive pair, well made, no shoddy craftsmanship here.
“Your favorite part about going to a fancy restaurant is getting pudding,” Louis says, studying Harry carefully.
“I’m full.” Harry knows Louis isn’t going to buy that excuse, so he pops the last of the bread into his mouth.
“What did you do, Dr. Strangelove?”
“You realize Dr. Strangelove wasn’t a love doctor right?” Harry asks, biting his lip and tapping his heel against the leg of his chair.
Louis just waves his hand dismissively. “Are there chocolates in the hotel room? Rose petals? That mood music you like so much? You’re such a sap, Haz.”
Harry snorts. “Just because it’s not on the radio doesn’t mean it’s mood music.”
“It’s music you fall asleep to Harry. It makes me sleepy.” Louis yawns exaggeratedly, crosses his arms on the table and puts his head down before pretending to snore.
“We can’t all be Kesha.”
Louis shoots up then, mouth hanging out. He slaps his hand over his heart in mock indignation. “How dare you speak ill of Kesha. She’s a D-I-N-O-S-A-U-R.”
Harry laughs, shaking his head. “I apologize.”
“Good.” Louis nods his head once and then bites his lip. “I’ll pay even though you insulted Kesha.”
“No, I’ve got it.” When Louis opens his mouth to protest Harry cuts him off, “I’m trying to seduce you, remember?”
“That is true.” Louis presses his lips together and looks at Harry, his eyes bright, the glow of the lights reflecting off them. Harry smiles, happy because Louis’ happy, happy because they did it, they got a night to themselves and management isn’t going to yell at them for it because they were good. Happy because this means they can do this again, because they proved it’s possible to get together and be as normal as they ever can be.
When the waiter comes back they ask for the bill and then Louis asks, “Do you want to leave first? I’m sure you’ve got a warm bath to run, rose petals to scatter...”
“Nah, you finished dinner two hours ago, you should probably be heading back.”
Louis chuckles, pushing his chair back and standing up. “I promise not to eat all the chocolates without you.”
When Louis steps forward Harry pulls him in by the front of his shirt and kisses him softly, quickly, the beer he ordered faint on his lips. “It’s okay. You don’t want me getting fat, remember.”
“Shut up,” Louis says, kissing him one more time. “Don’t be long, okay?”
And there’s something about the way he says it, quiet and slurred together as though he’s embarrassed, as though maybe he’s saying something he thinks he isn’t supposed to and Harry wants to tell him he can. But he doesn’t know how because it feels ridiculous to assure Louis of something that Louis didn’t even say, so instead he just nods, watches Louis walk out, passing the waiter and thanking him for his service, and probably, Harry thinks, his discretion.
Harry ends up hanging out at the bar, talking to a few people, taking a few pictures. He knows he probably shouldn’t wait around as long as he does, shouldn’t place himself at the same restaurant Louis tweeted earlier, but he can’t bring himself to care.
Eventually he realizes he’s been there almost an hour and Louis has sent him a text asking where he got to and Harry sneaks out the back and drives to the hotel without answering Louis’ text just so he can see how long it takes Louis to send another one (ten minutes) and how angry it sounds (very, judging by the use of arsehole and fuck you).
When Harry slides the keycard into the door and pushes it open the lights are off and Louis is laying on his back, sprawled out on the sofa, the box of chocolates and the champagne open on the coffee table, a few wrappers littering the floor. Louis looks at Harry briefly before turning his attention back to the television, not saying anything.
Harry flops down on top of him, reaching out and grabbing a chocolate from the box, unwrapping it and popping it into his mouth, letting the wrapper drop to the floor among Louis’. “What’s on?”
“The telly,” Louis says. His hands still limp by his sides.
Harry tangles their legs together, rests his cheek against Louis chest. He says, “Louis?”
“Champagne and chocolate are more romantic if you’re not in a hotel room alone.”
“Sorry,” Harry mumbles, maneuvering his hands under Louis neck and playing with the hair at the nape. “The people love me.”
Louis scoffs and Harry lifts his head, wriggling up Louis body, putting his weight on his arms. Louis’ looking at him, mouth set straight. “An hour and a half.”
“I know.” Harry presses his lips to Louis’ forehead and lingers there.
“Did you take pictures?”
Harry screws his eyes shut. He doesn’t want to have this conversation. “Yeah.”
Louis shifts under him and Harry feels his hands, one dancing up his spine, the other resting between his shoulder blades. He feels better from the contact. Louis says, “You shouldn’t have done that.”
“I know.” A beat as he presses his mouth to Louis’ temple, “Are you gonna yell at me?”
“No.” Louis presses his fingers into Harrys back and Harry lets his body press into Louis, aligns them as best he can before dropping a kiss to Louis’ cheek, his jaw, the corner of his mouth.
Louis tilts his head and kisses back, lazy and soft, his mouth opening under Harry’s. He tastes like chocolate and alcohol so Harry presses harder, wants to kiss Louis until he tastes like Harry, until there’s nothing between them. He wants to kiss him until he forgets how difficult it is to get one night to themselves, how it always feels like there’s something hovering over them, ready to crush them if they take one wrong step, until all he can think about is Louis’ mouth curving over his jaw and his hands curving over his hips.
Harry breathes, “I love you,” against Louis’ mouth because he can’t hold it in any longer, it feels like it’s splitting his chest, tearing him wide open, like he’s telling Louis more than I love you. It’s like he’s saying, I love that you drank the champagne even though you don’t like it and I love how you mumbled along to “Drops of Jupiter” under your breath and I love how your brow furrows when you’re trying to be angry with me but you’re not really and I love you for loving me so much you left the dark chocolates with caramel that you know are my favorite.
Louis digs his fingertips into Harry’s hips, hard and sharp, before sliding his hand up Harry’s shirt, digging and digging like he’s trying to excavate something out of Harry and Harry wants to let him, making soft noises and running his fingernail over the sensitive skin below Louis’ earlobe. Harry hopes there will be little crescent marks up his back tomorrow.
When Harry repeats, “I love you,” Louis kisses Harry again, pushing his tongue inside Harry’s mouth, sloppy and needy, teeth and noses bumping.
When Louis flips them Harry doesn’t protest. “I really needed this,” Louis murmurs against Harry’s neck, kissing down it and sweeping his tongue over Harry’s collarbone, sucking gently. “I missed you I missed you so much I was going crazy.” His breath ghosts warm and then his lips are brushing against Harry’s pulse point, painting the words into Harry’s skin, letting them flow from his lungs and seep into Harry’s veins instead of just saying them and letting Harry hear them: I needed this I really fucking needed this I missed you so much.
When he grinds down Harry’s hips arch up and he lets out a low groan. Harry says, “Me too, Lou, me too.”
Everything blurs after that and Harry won’t be able to remember whether Louis rucked up his shirt and kissed up his stomach first or sucked a lovebite onto his hipbone where his jeans rode low first or if he whispered I want you all the fucking time against the hair curling on his forehead before brushing it out of the way first.
And then it’s skin against skin and Harry forgets about everything but the way Louis’ eyelids flutter shut when Harry breathes a hot trail up his thigh and sucks his cock into his mouth, the way Louis tries to be quiet, soft needy noises vibrating against their bodies as Harry groans loudly, his grunts filling the spaces Louis’ leave, overlapping and forming something more than whole.
“We should move to the bed,” Louis says, nosing at the curls of Harry’s hair.
Harry feels sticky and boneless and content so he just snuggles closer. “Too sleepy.”
“I’m moving.” Louis says even though doesn’t go anywhere, just rests his forehead against the curve of Harry’s shoulder. “The sofa isn’t that comfortable.”
“It’s cozy.”
“It’s small.”
“Cozy,” Harry repeats, moving to grab the remote, turning off the television before placing it back on the coffee table and cuddling closer to Louis.
“You’re a child.”
“I’ll massage out your aches and pains tomorrow, old man.” Harry smiles against Louis’s hair and kisses the top of his head.
“Is that a promise?” Louis asks, looking up, face serious and eyes dark.
Harry grins, leans down and kisses him. “I win.”
Louis says, “Shut up,” but he settles further into the sofa, arm thrown lazily over Harry’s side.
Harry wakes up with a blanket draped over him and sees Louis putting the lid over the box of chocolates. “What’re you doing?”
“Taking my chocolate and doing a walk of shame,” Louis says, smiling softly.
“Do you have to go?” Harry asks, rubbing at his eyes and sitting up. He cricks his neck and realizes that it’s going to bother him for the rest of the day. Louis was right about sleeping on the sofa, but there’s no way in hell Harry’s going to tell him that.
Louis’ smile doesn’t falter as he sits down on the edge of the sofa but Harry thinks his eyes dim before he leans in, kissing Harry. Louis grimaces when he pulls away. “You have morning breath.”
“That’s because it’s morning.” Harry rolls his eyes and runs a hand through his hair. “I guess I’ll see you at the Rays of Sunshine thing?”
“Even if I had a choice not to go I’d still be there.” Louis smirks and pushes some of Harry’s hair to the side. “Much better.”
“So operation Boogie Nights was a success?”
“Smashing.” Louis laughs, and Harry does, too, letting the sound fade into an exhale. Louis says, “I have to go.”
“Love you.” Harry grabs Louis’ wrist when he stands up, running his thumb over the veins, watching him carefully, the way he blinks at the words, his face softening a moment like he still can’t believe Harry gets to tell him that all the time, that Harry wants to tell him that all the time. Harry thinks he understands. Harry feels the same way.
Louis says, “I Love you, too.”
Harry moves his hand down Louis’ wrist and squeezes his fingers, swinging their arms back and forth before letting go. “Now get out, I have to prepare for my next date.”
Louis shakes his head. “Good luck with that, Casanova.”
When the door clicks shut behind Louis Harry sits on the sofa for a few minutes, looking around the room, the champagne bottle open and half-full, the chocolate wrappers still on the floor, the bathroom door open, the light on. Harry doesn’t want to move, doesn’t want to pick anything up, wants to leave it as evidence that last night happened. He pulls out his phone and takes a picture, feels stupid and then hovers over the delete key before deciding, fuck it, he can be stupid if he wants to be.