Leila Ruthe

“That's literally what we did before we—you know,” Harry gestures between them, “did this. We're friends. Everyone knows we're friends. You came over, we hung out, and you slept in one of the two other bedrooms here.”

Louis had stared at those texts until he no longer needed to dry off because all the water on his body had formed a puddle on the floor.

He'd remembered a feeling he’d had ages ago, back at the Savoy, on the day he and Harry had finally gotten on the same page about Zarry being PR and declared a ceasefire to their psychological warfare. Harry had preemptively apologized, explained himself, and reassured Louis until the anger drained out of him and left behind a hollow, restless feeling that he didn’t quite know how to cope with.

And now, it's fish and chips.

It's fish and chips that Louis, after mentally circling the crime scene so much he’s practically turned into a police helicopter, is now reasonably certain Harry had arranged.

He was apologizing before you even said anything.

Harry must have arranged them because Harry says please, and thank you, and I’m sorry, not just in words but in actions, with a sort of laser-focused attention to detail that makes Louis feel like Harry pays attention to, well, everything.

Louis’ sofa. The dropbox of photos. Mother's Day on the beach in Miami when Louis had mentioned his mum. The sound bath in Joshua Tree. His pre-shoot spiral at the villa in Italy.

It’s truly unfortunate, then, that when Harry does lovely things, sometimes Louis feels like it’s… too much.

He doesn’t want it to be too much.

He wants to be normal about it, to not feel so in danger of spontaneously combusting that he snaps at innocent bystanders (well, if nothing else, Jesse thinks you’re mental now, so no worries on that front, eh, lad?), and ruins people’s dinners.

Louis remembers standing in the park in Seattle, looking out at the dark water with Harry’s arms around him from behind, Harry’s hand on his stomach like an anchor. It felt like… being contained without being confined, like the sea floor holds the ocean.

As they dance, Harry’s hand slides from hip to his stomach, splaying wide and pressing hard, just like it had in Seattle, pulling him in, and Harry’s mouth drops down to rest on Louis’ collarbone, still not kissing, just breathing.

Louis shuts his eyes, gives up on using his neck, and thinks, nonsensically, that maybe he is the ocean.

Except… you can’t bite the ocean.

And biting is what Harry is doing right now, having bypassed kissing, and just gone straight to clamping his teeth around Louis’ collarbone like it’s a barbecued rib.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. They are in public.

“Bathroom,” Louis says, hauling his head off Harry’s shoulder. He can feel Harry’s teeth unlatch; his breath hits Louis’ skin as hot puffs against the cooling saliva that’s been left behind there.

“Now,” Louis growls.

Harry’s hand moves back to his hip and tightens again. Then, straightening up to move his mouth back to Louis’ ear, he says: “I’ve got a better idea.”

Harry suppresses a sigh of defeat as he abandons his phone and scoots down on the bed until he’s lying face-to-face with Louis. “Lou… I’m not following.”

“E.M. Forster. Fuck, Styles, not you, too; the man’s a legend.” Louis reaches out to give Harry a half-hearted shove, but ends up just holding onto his forearm. “‘She saw him once again at Rome, on the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel, carrying a burden of acorns.’” 

Louis’ eyes drift closed as he speaks; Harry thinks he might be quoting something because of the way his tone shifts. 

“Lima and me, yeah? Went to Florence for the first time that year, right? Dragged him all over to see the places from A Room With a View. I wanted to find Lucy’s ignudi. The one that reminds her of George. I went looking for him that year, like Lucy did,” Louis whispers. “But I found something much worse.”

There’s a very long pause, where Harry grapples with exactly what the fuck that could possibly mean. He has no idea, is the thing, but it’s making him remember what he was thinking about earlier. About what he would do if anyone ever hurt Louis. There’s nothing he can say right now… he shouldn’t ask, not like this, not when Louis is halfway to sleep…

“And then I found you,” Louis mumbles. 

The words are so soft and slurred together that Harry would’ve thought he’d heard wrong if Louis’ eyes didn’t open back up, just awake enough to scan Harry’s face for his reaction. Whatever Louis is looking for, he must find it, because he doesn’t backpedal or pull away. Instead, he untangles his hand from Harry’s and brings it up to Harry's face, tracing the edge of the headband with his thumb—then letting it drift over Harry's eyebrow, down his temple, and across his cheekbone.

“Raphaelite beauty,” Louis murmurs.

They smile at the same time, and Harry is nothing short of amazed that somehow those words have become a private joke.

When Louis’ thumb reaches Harry’s chin, he uses it to nudge Harry’s lower lip out from between his teeth, taking hold of his chin and guiding Harry’s face to his own, and as their lips brush, he whispers into Harry's mouth, “Il mio tesoro barocco.”

Harry lets himself sink into the kiss because… just because. It doesn’t last long; he can feel Louis’ breathing grow deeper, and his movements get slower after only a few minutes of melting into each other.

Louis is the one to pull away first, resting his forehead on Harry’s, then curling into him, burrowing his face in Harry’s neck, then his shoulder, and finally—as Harry rolls onto his back and brings Louis with him—his chest, leaving a trail of kisses everywhere his mouth touches.

“Lima reminded me of that story,” Louis mumbles into Harry’s collarbone. “When I was mad at you. In Joshua Tree, you know? Even he thinks you look like a sculpture. I don’t think he suspects, but I don’t know… S’crazy, though, right? When they were in LA together, I didn’t even like you, Styles, and now I practically love you. S’weird that Liam’s loved Zayn his whole life and now they’re just, what? Friends? I mean, I guess it happens.”

Harry’s hand has found its way into Louis’ hair, and he can’t help the way it tightens when he hears the word ‘love’ as Louis rambles himself to sleep…

“I saw Chad Michael Murray at a party once; I was dancing right beside him for an hour, and that’s all it took for me to know I could never really be in love with him the way I thought I could when I was fourteen, you know what I mean? But I think I’m worried about him. Lima, not Chad Michael Murray; he’s fine. Still fit as fuck, jesus. But Lima’s spending so much time with Zayn, he’s got to like, have a feeling about that, right? But he doesn’t have feelings; he has spreadsheets, and I haven’t seen one of those in ages.

“Anyway, thanks for dinner, baby. Sorry, I didn’t eat it.”