Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Louis stretches his arms overhead and yawns, squats down to wrench open the garage door, then jumps up and pushes it to make sure it catches and doesn’t roll back down. It needs replacing; the mechanism gave out months ago, but he’s been so busy that he hasn’t had time to look into getting a new one. Maybe he can convince Niall to help and they can install it themselves. He laughs at himself when he tries to imagine that and decides he’ll just spend the money to have it done professionally. He’s never been much of a handyman.

He slings his leg over the seat, knocks the kickstand with the heel of his boot, and rolls his motorcycle inside the garage.

When he walks inside his house, he heads straight for the couch and drops down next to Niall to take off his boots.

“Good night?” Niall sips his beer and looks up at Louis when he stands again.

Louis utters a noncommittal noise and walks over to the wall to stretch his calves. It was a long shift and it’s still early summer. His body’s not used to the physical strain of waiting tables, but he’ll adjust to it, he always does after a few weeks. At least, that’s what he tells himself. It’s got nothing to do with his age. He pointedly avoids thinking about the previous few summers, the total amount of ibuprofen he took, and how his body ached from early June until the middle of August when school finally started back.

“Can’t believe this storm, man. It’s fucking huge.” Niall reaches for the remote on the coffee table, turns up the volume on the television, and settles back on the couch.

Louis glances over from where he’s stretching his legs. “Are we finally getting some rain?” He hopes so. It’s been dry so far this year and, apparently, he's become one of those people who worries about the state of their lawn.

“Dude. There’s a big ass hurricane out in the Atlantic. Right off shore. Look.” Niall points to the television and turns it up again. “Hurricane Nicole. I’m sure we’ll get some rain a couple of days after the storm moves inland. It’s been all over the weather reports for days. Where’ve you been?”

Louis nudges his glasses up the bridge of his nose with his index finger, tilts his head to the side and peers at the television. Shit. It’s a massive storm, but thankfully it’s just barely a category two and moving slowly. Still, he makes a mental note to call the rental company in the morning. The fleeting thought that he should call Harry is quickly dismissed and forgotten.

Louis apologises to the woman on the other end of the phone for taking his frustration out on her and hangs up before she can say anything else. Fuck. He pours a third cup of coffee, then immediately calls the restaurant and asks them to take him off the schedule indefinitely. He’ll let them know when he’s back in town. Thankfully, there are enough servers willing to cover his shifts.

The saddlebags for his bike are in the back of his closet, so he digs them out and starts shoving clothes in them, rolls his empty backpack up and stuffs that in as well, then steps into the bathroom to pack up his toiletries. He’s ready to go before his coffee turns cold.

“Niall!” Louis knocks on Niall’s bedroom door, waits a few seconds, then cracks it open, keeping his eyes shut tight. “You decent?”

The sheets rustle and a muffled sound follows that may or may not be Niall speaking.

“Ni.” Louis peeks between his eyelashes to find nothing but blankets and pillows visible on the bed. “Hey, man. I have to go. I’ll be gone for at least a few days. Maybe longer.”

“What?” Niall tosses the pillow that was covering his head to the floor. “Where? Is everything okay?”

Louis sucks in a deep breath and blows it out. “Something’s up with the beach house. I have to go down and get it ready for the storm. Then figure out what’s going on.”

Niall squeezes his eyes shut, then blinks quickly a few times and pushes himself up to sit back against the headboard. “What? In the hurricane? Is that safe?”

“Yeah, it’ll be fine. The house is on stilts. And the storm will probably drop to a category one before it hits land.” He tilts his head and smirks. “If it’ll make you feel better, I can tell you that I’ll get a hotel room on the mainland, but I’m probably going to just stay at the house.”

“You’re an ass, Tommo.”

“Yeah, man, I know. I’ll be fine.”

“I don’t know. I don’t like that. Can you call me or something so I know you’re okay?”

“Might not be cell service during the storm, but there’s an old land line. I’ll call you when I get there.” Louis nods and raises his hand in a quick wave before backing out of the room and shutting the door.

The six-hour ride down to the beach is fairly long to do on a motorcycle. He did it once before, ten years ago, and it was… shit. But it’s definitely doable. Just slightly uncomfortable after a few hours.

Lunchtime is about the halfway point, so Louis finds a rest stop, takes a walk around to stretch his legs, and eats at a picnic table in the shade. When he finishes, he pulls out his phone, opens his contacts, and scrolls. He’s not even sure the number is there and he can’t remember the last time he used it. He stares at the screen until it goes dark, then he tucks it into the inside pocket of his leather jacket and stretches his arms up in the air. He’s already sore, but he’ll be there soon enough.

An hour away from the beach, he comes around a curve in the road, slows down, and pulls into the gas station to fill up his tank. It’s not near empty, but it makes sense to get gas before he gets close enough to the beach for the prices to jump. While he pumps gas, he stretches his lower back and his shoulders, and thinks that he’s officially too old for long-distance motorcycle travel. His ass hurts, his entire body is stiff, and he’ll definitely be sore in the morning. He watches the cars pulling in and out of the parking lot and thinks that it might be time to buy one. Maybe forty-five is a good age to make the bike a hobby thing instead of his only form of transportation.

Once he gets to the beach, Louis rolls into the parking lot of the grocery store closest to the beach house. Thankfully it’s still open. He sits on his bike, staring at the door, because he didn’t really think about it, but he only has his small backpack to haul his supplies. He’ll have to narrow down his shopping list.

Inside the almost empty store, there’s one man restocking the candy by the checkout. Louis hurriedly grabs a cart and pushes it toward the canned food aisle. He’s trying to figure out how many cans he can reasonably carry in his backpack when, from the corner of his eye, he sees the man from the checkout coming towards him.

“Anything I can help you with?”

“Not really.” Louis sighs, then laughs a little. “Unless you want to follow me over the drawbridge with my groceries, I’ve got to carry everything I need to ride out the storm on my bike.” He turns to smile at the guy and stops short. “I… Liam?”

“Louis! Man, I haven’t seen you in years.” Liam claps him on the shoulder and pulls him into a hug.

“Yeah, I haven’t seen you in a long time. I think the last time was at Fizzy’s wedding.”

“That was what? Five or six years ago? It was cool of her to invite me. Most fun I’ve ever had at a wedding.”

“She’ll be glad to hear that. And of course she invited you. She invited all of the ‘beach friends.’ Wouldn’t be a party at the beach house without all of you.”

“True.” Liam purses his lips and looks up and down the aisle. “You’re driving a motorcycle? And you’re going to keep it on the island during a hurricane? That’s… well, sounds like a poor choice.”

Louis clears his throat and mutters. “Not much of a choice, really.”

“You know that Harry—”

“No,” Louis snaps. “Shit. Sorry. It’s just… I’d rather not discuss him. Haven’t spoken to him in years.”

“Alright. I get it. Well, listen, um, we’re closing up soon. You could park your bike in the back if you want. Like roll it through the back door and leave it in storage during the storm.”

Louis frowns. “And walk my groceries over the bridge?”

“No, no.” Liam chuckles and reaches up to squeeze Louis’ shoulder. “I can drive you over. You can get whatever you need and we’ll put it in the back of my truck.”

“You’d do that?”

“Yeah, man, ’course. Leave your cart, go get your bike and I’ll meet you at the back door. I’ll lock the front so no one else comes in.”

“Thanks, Liam. I really appreciate it.”

After Louis walks his bike through the back door and parks it by the wall, he grabs his saddle bags and tosses them into the bed of Liam’s truck.

Liam leads Louis through the stockroom and out into the store. “So what are you buying?”

“The usual storm stuff. Bread, peanut butter, bottled water, a bunch of canned and boxed shit that I don’t have to cook. Booze.”

“Most important thing.” Liam grins and nods. “You need candles and stuff?”

“Yeah, I doubt there’s any of that at the house. So candles, flashlights, batteries, a couple of lighters…” Louis sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. He feels a headache coming on. “I hate spending money on this shit.”

“I have a radio in my office that picks up the local news channel. You can take that.”

“How many times can I say thanks, Li?”

“Dunno.” Liam shrugs and smiles.

“Well, thanks.”

“Hey, you go get the food, I’ll go get the other shit. Meet you at the checkout.”

They split off in two directions, and Louis makes his way down the rest of the canned food aisle, throwing Spaghetti-O’s and Cheeseburger Macaroni into his cart. He finds the cans of Easy Cheese and laughs as he tosses two of them in with a big box of saltines. In the produce section he grabs one of those mixed bags of apples, oranges, and bananas.

He saves the best for last and stands in front of the beer and wine for quite a while trying to decide what and how much to get. He finally decides on practicality. A case of cheap canned beer and a couple of bottles of red wine with twist off caps.

When he meets Liam at the front of the store, they argue over the discount that Liam tries to insist on giving him, but Louis refuses since Liam is storing his bike. On the way back through the stockroom, Liam stops and disappears behind a shelf, returning with a large cooler full of ice.

They put the cooler and all of the bags into the bed of Liam’s truck and head over the drawbridge onto the island.

“They’re planning to close the bridge at midnight. You want me to help you get the house ready for the storm? Then you could come back to the mainland and stay in my guest room.”

“Nah. Thanks, though.” Louis watches the ocean get closer as Liam drives down toward the boulevard. The sun is bright, and it glints off the easy swell of the waves. Everything seems so normal, but he knows that soon the sky will darken and the waves will turn rough and dangerous. “I think I need to stay.”

It’s only a minute or two after Liam turns down Ocean View Boulevard that he pulls into the driveway and parks underneath the beach house. It takes them a few trips to get everything up the stairs and inside the house, then Louis is watching from the porch as Liam backs out into the road and drives away.

While the electricity is still on, he figures he’ll take advantage and bumps the air conditioning down low, then sticks the beer in the fridge. Everything else he leaves out on the counter for the time being.

He hauls his bags down the hall and pauses because it hasn’t occurred to him until this very moment that he has his pick of the four bedrooms. He’d only stayed in the master bedroom once before; when they were kids it always belonged to his parents or Harry’s parents, and each time he stayed at the beach house lately, it was with one of his exes and they slept in the back bedroom.

Fuck it. The master bedroom has the best view. Not that he'll be able to enjoy it once he closes the shutters.

He drops his bags inside the door. His clothes land around him in a circle—leather jacket, t-shirt, Doc Martens, jeans, underwear—then he digs through his bags to find his swimsuit, tugs it on, and runs down the stairs, through the dunes, and onto the beach.

The calm before the storm is such a cliche, but it’s also the complete truth. The beach is empty, and he knows he shouldn’t swim alone, but he does it anyway. He swims out to the buoy, touches it and swims back until he’s in waist deep water, just past the breakers, then he floats. Only his face and his toes stick out of the water and, with every inhale, his chest and stomach rise and breach the surface, then sink below as he exhales.

He doesn’t stay out long. He was already sore all over from working late the night before and tired from lack of sleep; the ride down on his motorcycle only magnified it, and that was all before he even walked into the ocean. With the swimming on top of everything else, he’s exhausted, so he trudges through the sand, over the dunes, and back to the house. After a quick rinse in the outdoor shower, he goes upstairs to get started on the house.

In the hour or so since he arrived, the wind has picked up. The storm is still a good way off, but he figures he’ll do what he can now and finish in the morning.

It doesn’t take long to pull the porch furniture inside the house and there’s enough space in the living room for it all to fit. The hurricane shutters can wait until tomorrow. For now, he cracks open a beer, takes it to the bathroom and sets it on the shower ledge.

He waits until the water temperature is bearable, then stands under the spray for a while in the hopes that it will help relax his sore muscles. It’s probably the last hot shower he’ll have for a few days.

He hopes the water doesn’t get shut off, but he makes a mental note to fill one of the bathtubs with cold water in the morning before the storm hits.

Louis dries off and hangs his towel on one hook, his swimsuit on another, and walks out into the kitchen to toss his beer can in the recycling bin. He pauses in front of the pile of groceries he left on the counter, but after a wide yawn takes him by surprise, he decides to put everything away in the morning. Which… Fuck.

He pulls open cabinet after cabinet and even checks the freezer to be sure. There’s a coffee maker, but no coffee. At least he thought to buy a twelve-pack of Dr. Pepper, because he’s going to depend on that for his caffeine intake until he gets back to the mainland. He sticks them in the fridge next to the beer and shivers. The air conditioning cooled the house down to sixty-three degrees, and he’ll freeze his ass off tonight, but hopefully, if he’s lucky, the cool air will hang around for a bit after the power goes out.

He pulls on a pair of boxers and climbs under the blanket. Somehow the linens still smell of coconut and citrus. The scent takes him back to summer days spent on the beach trying to dig a hole deep enough to hit lava and searching for hermit crabs in the rocky pools at low tide, and to summer nights spent snipe hunting in the soft sand with a flashlight, and sleeping on the top bunk in the tiniest bedroom. His weariness carries him under almost as soon as he closes his eyes.

Louis rolls over and looks at the clock on the nightstand. Six o’clock. Even with the light from the early morning sun streaming through the window, he managed to sleep thirty minutes past his usual wake up time, yet he still feels tired. He stretches his legs out and flexes his feet, then reaches his arms overhead. As sore as the rest of his body is, he’s still somehow managed to wake up half-hard. He dreamt of Harry cooking breakfast in the kitchen of the beach house, a surreal blend of memory and imagination, and it lingers on the edges of his consciousness. If he closes his eyes, he can probably still see him standing there at the stove. He can still smell the bacon and coffee…

He throws back the covers, jumps out of bed, and races out into the kitchen to find a freshly brewed pot of coffee and a plate of cooked bacon sitting next to a carton of eggs. What the fuck.

His heart beats wildly as he looks around the kitchen for something… a knife? No. A pan. The one that was apparently used to cook the bacon has been washed and is upside down in the drying rack.

“Hello?” He calls as he slowly makes his way back down the hall, peering into each room, heavy pan at the ready. But there’s no one there.

In the back bedroom, the second master as his parents used to call it, he finds a backpack full of clothes. And yeah, he digs through it, but it’s just clothes. Nothing interesting or unusual. There are some toiletries in the bathroom and there are clothes in the hamper.

When he walks back into the bedroom, frying pan hanging by his side, he sees what he’s looking for. A set of keys and a wallet on the nightstand. Quickly, he peeks out into the hallway, then sits on the edge of the bed and pokes at the wallet with one finger until it flips open. And really, he shouldn’t be surprised at what he sees, and in some ways, he isn’t. He picks it up to examine it closer and realizes he’s left his glasses in his room. If he squints a bit, he can make out the date of issue and it’s a good eight years old. He’s not sure why that’s a relief, but it is. There’s no reason for Harry Styles to look that good or have that much hair at forty-five. It’s comforting to know the picture is old.

Louis closes the wallet, stands up, and carries the frying pan back to the kitchen. At least he’s not worried anymore. His heart rate begins to slow back down to normal, the adrenaline rush fades as his fear and confusion are replaced by a familiar combination of frustration and anger. Out in the kitchen again, he grabs a piece of bacon and takes it with him out onto the porch. Harry’s not there, but when he looks towards the beach, he sees him, standing in the sand at the edge of the ocean.

He stomps back to his bedroom and digs around in his bag until he finds a pair of cutoff sweatpants. At least his panic and anger wilted his semi.

After brushing his teeth and splashing some water on his face, he checks himself in the mirror. His eyes stay focused forward while he turns his head side to side and scratches his jaw. Even his stubble is gray. These days the hair at his temples is almost white, and the rest of it is getting to the point where it’s more salt than pepper. At least the way his hair naturally falls over his forehead covers his receding hairline. Positive thoughts.

He yanks a shirt over his head, snaps open his glasses case, slips them on and sticks his tongue out at himself in the mirror, then stretches his mouth into the face that makes Lottie’s twin boys laugh, and rolls his eyes when the wrinkles by his eyes deepen.

Louis tromps down the stairs and pauses at the old, beat up, white Ford truck that’s parked under the house. It’s loaded with toolboxes and a ladder all strapped down with bungee cords. Harry probably borrowed it from someone because heaven forbid anything happen to his precious Range Rover during the storm. He huffs, already annoyed, and walks through the yard, then the dunes, and onto the beach, but he stops there.

The last time they saw each other was at Fizzy’s wedding, and they managed to mostly avoid interacting the entire time. It wasn’t as bad as some of their inevitably difficult reunions, but that had probably been due to the fact that they were both preoccupied with their wedding dates.

While he stands at the foot of the dunes, the wind blowing the soft sand so hard that it stings his skin, he watches Harry. It’s definitely him, and from this distance he almost looks the same. He's facing the ocean, but maybe he senses someone watching, because he turns to look up towards the dunes, then starts to walk towards Louis.

As he gets closer, Louis can see some of the differences that ten years have made. Harry's still stupidly three inches taller than him, and still stupidly hot, with no evidence of a spare tire around his waist or anything. In fact, he seems broader and more muscular than he did in his thirties, which is entirely unfair, and Louis hopes Harry has to spend a ridiculous amount of time working out.

Of all the changes, short hair is the last thing Louis expected, especially after seeing the mane Harry had in his driver’s license picture. At first he thinks it's up in a bun, the way he sometimes used to wear it when they were younger, but it isn’t. It’s short on the sides and in the back, with longer pieces up top that are whipping around in the wind as he approaches. When he’s about twenty feet away, the wind blows his hair straight back and Louis notices that, although Harry’s hair doesn’t appear to have any gray in it, he does have a receding hairline, and it reassures him to know that he’s not alone in that regard. Time has changed them both. At least physically. He’s pretty sure when Harry opens his mouth he’ll still be the same asshole he’s always been.

He’s not disappointed.

The creases between Harry’s eyebrows seem to be permanent wrinkles now, but they deepen when he scowls. “Why are you here, Louis?”

Not even a hello. “I don’t know, Styles. Maybe because when I called the rental company to make sure the house was going to be set for the storm, they said that you specifically told them not to do it. So here I am.” Louis scowls right back at him, then turns and walks back through the dunes. The sand is clinging to his leg hair, so he goes straight for the outdoor shower to rinse his legs off.

He knows Harry’s behind him, waiting impatiently to do the same, so he slows his movements and rinses his legs three times before shutting the water off and stepping out of the way. “Why are you here?”

Harry rolls his eyes so hard that he actually rolls his head as well, then turns the shower back on to rinse his feet. “Same as you. I’m here to get the house ready. I told Katie I’d take care of it because I was planning to stay here during the storm.”

Louis crosses his arms and takes a step closer to Harry. “I was here first, so you can leave.”

“They closed the drawbridge right after I drove across last night. It won’t be open again until after the storm passes.”

Louis clenches his jaw, takes a deep breath in through his nose, and tries to force himself to relax as he blows the breath out and up, making his hair flutter against his forehead. “Fine.” He turns and jogs up the stairs with Harry right behind him.

As soon as he opens the door, the smell of coffee hits him again and he’s immediately torn between offering a tentative peace in exchange for a cup and getting his caffeine from one of the sodas in the fridge. He’s standing in front of the closed fridge, still undecided, when Harry says, “I made bacon.”

“Is that what this is?” Louis points at the plate on the counter and scratches his chin.

“Fuck off. I was going to offer you some, but not if you’re going to be a dick.”

“Sorry.” Louis grumbles and hops up onto one of the stools in front of the counter. “Force of habit.”

“Yeah, well…” Harry takes the pan from the drying rack and sets it on the stove to heat and it’s as if someone lifts Louis out of the present and drops him down in this same spot, twenty-five years ago.

Just like this morning, Harry was standing in the kitchen, cooking breakfast, and Louis was sitting at the counter watching him work. They were talking quietly so that they didn’t wake up the rest of the house. They were still in college then—Louis was on track to graduate a semester early with honors, and Harry, who changed his major at least every other semester, would eventually graduate with a degree in Business Management and about sixty useless credits in everything from sociology to religion to physics to philosophy.

It was the week of spring break and there was a scheduling mixup. They both thought the beach house was available that week and showed up on a Saturday afternoon with cars full of friends and booze, but it wasn’t as if they’d minded. It made the week much more fun. Plus Harry thought to bring food. Louis brought his boyfriend. The fact that he was more than happy to share his romantic beach vacation with four other guys should have been the flashing neon sign pointing to the imminent failure of that relationship, but he was having too much of a good time to notice.

College was when Louis started the early riser routine that he continues to this day, and it carried through weekends and spring break, hangover or no. And Harry worked in a bakery in the early mornings before his classes started. So they spent a good hour every morning that week talking quietly over coffee.

That week was one of the best times Louis had in all four years of college. It was the only true break he had from the pressure he put on himself since day one of his freshman year. Liam joined them for a few days, and though it was more than half a lifetime ago, the memories are still detailed and sharp. Especially the last day.

He and Harry were in the kitchen, just like they are now, and they talked about everything under the sun while the rest of the house slept. Memories of the sandcastle building contests they’d had every summer until they were teenagers, the “Best Tan” competition that their mothers jokingly held each year, and that they joined in on, and the paralyzing fear of coming out to each other the summer they were both fifteen.

What started as one of the daily conversations that Louis found more enthralling than any he’d had with his current boyfriend, that last morning instead devolved into insults, yelling, their friends intervening, and Louis and his boyfriend leaving a day early. All because Louis made a joke about Harry’s inability to commit to a course of study, that Harry followed up by calling Louis’ education program the easy way out.

“You know what they say: those who can, do. Those who can’t, teach. Enjoy the poverty level wages, asshole.” Louis still remembers Harry’s exact words, his tone, and the expression on his face. Louis threw a raw egg at him and they didn’t speak for years after that. He broke things off with that boyfriend as soon as school started back again.

They were so young.

Louis rubs his eyes behind his glasses and watches Harry pour two cups of coffee, then takes one from him with a nod of thanks. “Do you know when the storm’s supposed to hit? I haven’t checked the news yet.”

“This afternoon, I think. Wind’s supposed to keep picking up and the outer rainbands are supposed to hit us in a few hours. Eye’s forecast to hit a little more than a hundred miles south of us.”

“Well, at least there’s plenty of time to get the shutters down.” Louis shrugs and sips his coffee. He’s probably going to be stuck here for a couple of days with literally the last person he’d ever choose to be stuck with.

Out of the corner of his eye, he watches Harry scramble a pan full of eggs, but when Harry looks up, Louis shifts his gaze and notices the phone mounted on the wall. His cell is right where he left it, beside his keys on the counter where he’d dropped the grocery bags the night before. Niall is always near the top of his recent calls, so he finds the number, lifts the receiver from the wall and dials.

It takes four rings before Niall answers and he’s clearly still half asleep. “Hello?”

“Hey, I’m sorry. I promised I’d call you when I got in last night and I forgot.”

“That’s alright, man. I was giving you until lunchtime, then I was going to call your cell and bitch you out.”

Louis chuckles. “I’m still sorry. Did the number show up on your phone?”

“Yeah, I’ll save it. I’ve been watching the storm. You’ve got a few hours until the rain hits.”

“Mmhmm.” Louis wraps the telephone cord around his finger. “That’s what Harry said.”

“Harry? He’s there?”

“Yep.” He glances over at Harry, but he doesn’t seem to be paying attention. “We’re stuck here until the storm’s over.”

“Ugh. Sorry, man. I know you’re not happy about that.”

“Yeah.” Louis sighs, but then his voice brightens, “Hey, so whenever I get back, I was thinking that we should finally replace the garage door.”

“I hope when you say ‘we’ you mean that we will be paying a professional, Louis.”

“Yes, dear.”

“I know that means ‘fuck you’ when you say it with that tone.”

Louis snorts, then lowers his voice a bit. “Wish you were here.”

“I have no interest in playing referee between you and Harry.”

“Yeah… I know. Listen, I think this old phone will probably work through the storm. I don’t think it needs power, so how often do you want me to check in with you? I know you’re worried.”

“Morning and night, man. Like, just call and say good morning or good night, just let me know you’re not dead.”

“I love you too, Niall,” Louis coos sweetly.

“Yes, dear. See? I can say it too. Be careful. Don’t punch Harry in the mouth.”

Louis huffs a quiet laugh. “Not the mouth. Promise. I’ll call you tonight.”

Louis sets the phone back into the cradle and turns his head to find Harry watching him, spatula in one hand, pan of eggs in the other. He immediately sets them both down and starts rummaging through the cabinet. “Do you want some of these eggs? It’s just that I figured I should cook a bunch ’cause they could go bad depending on how long we’re without power.”

“Yeah, thanks.” Louis clears his throat. If they can manage a meal together, maybe they’ll manage not to kill each other over the next few days. “Um… sorry about that.” Louis nods towards the phone. It was probably rude to carry on a conversation in front of Harry like that when normally he’d have disappeared to another room with his cell.

“That’s alright. It’s important to check in. Sounded like… Niall?” Harry looks up and catches Louis’ eye. “Was probably worried about you. It’s nice that you have someone who cares.”

“Yeah, true.”

They eat in silence and spend the rest of the morning getting the house ready for the approaching storm. It takes the two of them, one can of WD-40, a wrench, four separate arguments, and a screwdriver to close the old hurricane shutters on all of the windows, and by the time they finish in the early afternoon, they’re both grumpy, sweaty and tired and the wind is gusting at about seventy-five miles per hour according to the weather app on Louis’ phone. He figures cell service will go soon enough and after he takes a quick shower, he sets up Liam’s battery-operated radio.

He’s sitting on the stool at the counter that separates the kitchen from the living room, turning the dial, adjusting the antenna, and trying to pick up the news station, when Harry appears in front of him with the comforter from his bed wrapped around his entire body with only his face sticking out. “It’s fucking freezing.”

“Yeah, I know.” Louis pulls the sleeves of his hoodie over his hands. “I turned the AC down low so maybe it’ll stay cool after we lose power.”

“That’s never going to work.” Harry shivers and shakes his head, then curls up on the couch.

“It’s worth trying.” Louis frowns and gives a halfhearted shrug.

“Will you be saying that when you have pneumonia?”

“I see that you're still a condescending asshole.”

“I see that you still haven’t learned how to shut up.”

“Nope.”

Harry turns on the TV and puts it on The Weather Channel. A few minutes later, he asks, “How’s your family?”

Louis sets the radio down and looks back over his shoulder at the radar image of the storm spinning. “They’re all fine. Yours?”

“Fine.”

“Great.”

It’s probably better if they just don’t speak at all. Louis focuses on the radio and turns the knob again.

The power goes out before the rain even starts and Louis stubs his baby toe on the leg of the sofa on his way to the kitchen to find the candles and flashlights. They each take a flashlight and decide to save the candles until they’re necessary. By the time Louis calls Niall to tell him goodnight, the house is stuffy and hot—his efforts to keep it cool had done nothing but drive up the electric bill—and Harry says “I told you so” five different times in five different ways. They open all of the windows so at least there’s some sort of air circulation through the slats in the shutters and Louis sleeps in his boxers on top of the blankets.

He still wakes up the next morning at five-thirty, sticky with sweat, and almost as tired as he was when he went to bed the night before. For the first time in ten years, he almost regrets his decision not to sell the beach house. He definitely regrets every other decision involving Harry that he made that weekend.

Chapter Text

It’s still dark outside, so of course it’s dark in the house, and it’s hot as fuck. Louis assumes it’s probably somewhere between five and six in the morning. He groans and rolls out of bed when he hears the rain begin to batter the side of the house again. In the bathroom, he stands the flashlight up on the counter so he has some light to see while he pees and brushes his teeth. Thankfully they still have running water.

For a few minutes, he digs through his saddlebags, trying to decide how much clothing he’s willing to wear in this muggy heat. If he was alone, Louis would wear nothing but the thin, worn pair of boxers that he slept in, but Harry’s here, so he pulls on a pair of basketball shorts. He thinks about putting on a shirt, but reconsiders. He refuses to give a fuck what Harry thinks he looks like with his shirt off.

The battery on his cell is still almost fully charged since he’s only used it once or twice to check the forecast, so while he still has service, he sends Niall a text to let him know he’s alive. Harry’s bedroom door is open and Louis can hear him snoring. He turns off the flashlight and stops just outside. There’s a dim light coming through the shutters; just enough that Louis can make out Harry sprawled on top of the covers, asleep on his stomach, completely naked. Some things never change. He sighs as he continues down the hallway.

There’ll be no coffee today without power to run the coffee maker, so he grabs a Dr. Pepper from the cooler and steps out onto the porch. The roof extends far enough out that the porch has a few dry spots. Louis leans back against the wall to watch the storm and the ocean. He’s still out there an hour later when Harry joins him, two mugs of hot coffee in his hands.

“How’d you—”

“Gas stove, instant coffee.” Harry hands him a cup and leans against the wall next to him.

“It’s a miracle,” Louis whispers with exaggerated awe. He forces his eyes to remain focused on his coffee cup and observes with his peripheral vision that Harry has at least put on a pair of boxers.

“No, I just planned ahead.”

Louis rolls his eyes, and mutters, “Thanks.”

They sip their coffee in silence for a few minutes. There’s a lull in the storm between one band of rain and the next, so they move to the railing and watch the tide come up. It’s almost to the sea oats and if it comes any higher, it’ll start to wash the sand dunes away.

When the rain starts up again, Louis raps his knuckles on the wood of the porch railing, and disappears inside the house, leaving Harry alone on the porch. He’s back a few minutes later with a joint in one hand and a lighter in the other. If he stands in his dry spot, with his back to the wind, he thinks it’ll light. After a few tries, Harry crowds up next to him, his stupidly large hands cupping around both the joint and the lighter and blocking the wind.

“Aren’t you a teacher? Won’t you get in trouble if they piss test you?” Harry asks while he watches Louis slowly inhale.

Louis passes it over and gestures for Harry to wait a second, then exhales through his nose and says, “They don’t test teachers. Are you kidding me? They’d probably have to fire three-quarters of us.”

“That’s… I don’t know. Kind of sad.”

“It’s a high-stress job.”

“Yeah.” Harry sighs. “I know.”

Louis doesn’t respond. He doesn’t want to get into it with Harry, doesn’t want to fight about their respective careers or salaries or whatever. They don’t say much else, just smoke about half of the joint and drink their instant coffee and watch the tide finally start to move away from the dunes.

“D’you think I should make eggs?” Harry asks, startling Louis out of a daydream.

He stretches his arms and legs as far as they’ll go, pushing his toes against the arm of the couch. “I thought you cooked them all yesterday.”

“No, there are a few left. I should cook them. I'm hungry. Aren’t you hungry?”

Louis’ stomach growls and he pats it like a drum. “I can eat.”

Thirty minutes later, Harry’s cooked the rest of the eggs into a giant omelet filled with the only cheese they have in the house. There are two cans of Easy Cheese—one Sharp Cheddar and the other American—so he uses both, and it’s less disgusting than expected.

They lay around the house doing pretty much nothing until early afternoon. Louis falls asleep on the couch and is out for about an hour; when he wakes up around one o’clock, Harry hands him a beer and a peanut butter sandwich. After he finishes eating they go back out onto the porch and finish the rest of the joint.

As far as hurricanes go, it’s not strong, but it’s big. It’d been downgraded to a category one, so the wind speed isn't as high as it was the day before, though it still shakes the house and blows shingles off the roof of the house next door. The worst part seems to be that the storm is moving so slowly that it’s just swirling over top of them, raining constantly.

Later on, when Louis is sitting in the recliner and Harry is napping on the couch, a drop of water lands on his hand. At first he doesn’t think anything of it, just shakes it off, but when a second drop hits and he sees it fall, he looks up to find a wet spot on the ceiling.

Fuck.

He pushes himself out of the recliner and pulls it out from under the wet spot and closer to the couch, then goes to the kitchen to find something to catch the water. Harry wakes up when the water starts dripping faster and Louis loudly curses.

It turns out that the neighbor’s house isn’t the only one with damage to the roof.

The next thing Louis knows, he’s climbing the rickety pull-down ladder into the attic crawl space because he’s ‘smaller and it’ll be easier’ according to Harry. It’s not really an attic—there's no flooring and not nearly enough space to stand up—so he’s crouched over with a sauce pot in one hand and a flashlight in the other, balancing on the ceiling beams, and trying to not fall through the insulation and drywall.

Briefly, he wonders if he would have even attempted this if he was at all sober.

He shoves the pot under the leak and squats down lower to make sure it’s wedged into the spot and not going to tip over. Then he slowly shines the flashlight all around the attic space. He wants to cry when he finds six more leaks. There’s no way he’s taking care of this shit on his own, so he carefully makes his way back out and down the ladder to where Harry is waiting, standing in the hallway chewing on the knuckle of his right index finger.

“Six more leaks, Styles. I don’t think we have enough pots and pans.”

“Fuck.” Harry turns and heads for the kitchen where he starts opening every cabinet and pulling out anything that looks like it might possibly work.

“I’m going to check the bedrooms.”

There’s a leak directly above the bed in Harry’s room already soaking the pillows and mattress, two in Louis’ room that are closer to the outside wall, one in the tiniest bedroom right over one set of bunk beds, and he thinks the other two are in the living room, but maybe they haven’t soaked through the insulation and that’s why they’re not dripping through the ceiling yet. The other bedroom seems fine, so at least Harry has a bed to sleep in.

Louis eventually manages to get a casserole dish balanced under the leak over Harry’s bed, but it’s the only one that’s not on an outside wall, so there’s more space to maneuver. The rest of the leaks are impossible to contain due to their locations.

Of course, Harry says Louis isn’t trying hard enough and, of course, Louis tells him to fucking do it himself then, which he does, even though he’s had two more beers than Louis and is wobbly on his way up the ladder.

He fails spectacularly.

Louis is standing under the spot where he thinks the next leak will be in the living room when Harry’s foot and most of his leg come right through the ceiling. They both scream like they're in a horror film and Louis is glad for the storm driving everyone else off the island so that no one is around to hear him.

When Harry eventually makes it back down the ladder, Louis opens his mouth to yell at him, to call him stupid, to ask him if the hole in the ceiling is some sort of leak prevention measure, but before he can say anything, Harry apologizes. He says he’s sorry and that he shouldn’t have tried to do it with as much as he’s had to drink and smoke.

Louis’ mouth is still hanging open and he figures he needs to say something, so he says, “It’s fine,” and asks, “Are you alright?” when he sees the scrape on Harry’s leg.

It’s not a bad scrape, but it’s dirty with dust, little bits of insulation, and crumbly pieces of drywall from the ceiling, and there’s a little bit of blood, so it needs to be cleaned properly even if it doesn’t need a bandage. There’s a first aid kit in the truck, so Louis runs down to get it, slipping a little on the last step and cursing himself for not being careful. The last thing either of them need is to get hurt when they can’t even get to a hospital.

After Harry’s leg is clean and dry, they start moving furniture.

Having a common enemy—in this case the leaky roof—goes a long way to stamp out the animosity between them. That and, by the time they’ve pushed the wet set of bunk beds over until they’re butted up against the other set, and moved the heavy and wet queen bed from one side of Harry’s room to the other, they’re exhausted.

From the floor in Harry’s bedroom, where they both sort of just surrendered and laid down, they try to figure out what they can use to catch the leaks. Everything in the kitchen is too small to do much good, they’d have to empty the containers every hour or so. Right now, the leaks are just dripping down onto the towels they’ve used to sop up the water from the wood floors.

Louis is lying on his back on the floor with his hand on his chest, tapping a rhythm with his fingers when Harry sits up and says, “Buckets.”

Louis’ head lolls to the side and he says, “Yeah, buckets would be great.” Harry must still be high.

“No, there are sand buckets downstairs in the storage room with all the other beach toys.” Harry takes off running out of the room and Louis climbs to his feet and stretches.

“Don’t run down the stairs!” he shouts down the hallway and hopes that Harry hears him. He’s already dealing with an idiot, he doesn’t want to deal with an idiot with a concussion or a broken bone.

It’s a rainbow of close to a dozen colorful plastic pails, some with little matching shovels attached to the handles, and a few that are useless because they’re cracked and broken, but there are more than enough to set underneath all of the leaks. They attempt to dry up as much of the water as possible with bath towels and, when they’re finished, they’re both so tired that they don’t even bother eating. They just sit on the couch and drink beer out of the cooler.

It’s fine, peaceful even, with the sound of the rain hitting the side of the house and the wind blowing through the open windows, until Harry says, “This house is a piece of shit. We should’ve sold it ten years ago.”

That sets Louis off. He blames Harry for the state of the house, “Since you’re the one who deals with the rental company.” And soon enough it’s just name calling and frustrated non-words being shouted at the ceiling. Eventually they realize they’re not getting anywhere and Louis’ throat hurts from yelling, so he plops back down onto the recliner, determined to ignore Harry until the storm passes.

Later that night, when it’s completely dark outside, pitch black almost, Louis takes his flashlight over to the kitchen counter, picks up the phone, and hits redial.

Niall doesn’t bother with a greeting. “You’re still alive?”

“Barely.” Louis huffs indignantly.

“What? What happened?”

“No, sorry. I was kidding.”

“That’s messed up, dude.”

“I said sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you. I’m just…” Louis turns and looks behind him. Harry’s laying on the couch with his eyes closed, but he’s not snoring, so Louis whispers, “Harry and I were fighting. He’s being an asshole, as usual.”

“Told you I’m not interested in refereeing. You guys ought to try to get along, at least while you’re stuck together.”

Louis rolls his eyes and sighs, but smiles. “Yes, dear.”

“Aww, fuck you too.”

Louis giggles and says, “Hopefully I’ll be home soon.”

They say goodbye and Louis grabs another beer and returns to his chair where he falls asleep. They both spend the entire night in the living room, Harry snoring on the couch, Louis drooling on the recliner.

There’s an unspoken truce between them in the morning. They move around each other quietly, emptying all of the buckets, and going to their own rooms to do whatever they need to do to wake up.

Louis stares at his face in the mirror, the flashlight catches the gray of his beard stubble, and he sighs and scratches his jaw. Niall tells him all the time that if he’s going to bitch about it, he might as well buy some of that hair dye for men that they sell at the drugstore. Louis always responds that he’s not that desperate to get laid, yet. If they don’t want him as he is, then fuck them.

While Louis tries to get the news station to come in on the radio, Harry boils water on the stove to make their instant coffee. When the station finally comes in, it’s still mostly static and they can only hear maybe two-thirds of what’s being said, but the situation is pretty much exactly what they’d assumed. The storm has been downgraded again, this time to a tropical storm, and it’s moving so slowly that it’s still just sitting on them and dumping rain, but it should be gone by tomorrow. Louis turns off the radio and sips his coffee.

There’s nothing to do and nothing to eat for breakfast, really, other than fruit or peanut butter sandwiches. The rest of Louis’ grocery haul had been mostly cans of precooked pasta, and Harry’s eggs and bacon are long gone. They each eat an apple and after sitting in silence for almost an hour, Louis gives up and goes to find his weed. He rolls it on the coffee table and they smoke out on the porch, finishing most of the joint in one go.

Harry licks the tip of his finger and taps it against the end of the roach until it stops smoking, then he hands it to Louis and walks to the railing, leaning over and resting his weight on his forearms. From where Louis stands, still in his dry spot along the wall, he has an unencumbered view of the back of Harry’s body. So he watches him for a little while.

After falling partway through the ceiling in his underwear, he put on a pair of loose, cut-off jean shorts. He slept in them and he’s wearing them still. They’re hanging halfway down his ass and Louis wants to make a joke about it, but moreso, he doesn’t want to rock the boat.

“Hey, Styles?” Louis pushes himself off the wall and takes a step toward the door.

“Yeah?”

“Beer?”

“It’s not even noon,” Harry notes as he turns his back to the storm.

“I’m aware.”

“Yeah, okay.” Harry nods and follows him back inside.

Louis takes the couch this time and Harry drops down into the recliner after dragging the cooler into the living room between them. They sip their beer in silence, listening to the storm outside.

It’s not until they’re a few drinks in that Harry says, “I can’t believe I’m forty-five years old, hanging out half-dressed, getting drunk on purpose on cheap canned beer on a Sunday morning.”

“Don’t act like you don’t do this every weekend, Styles.”

Harry snorts and chokes on his beer. “Yep, that’s me. You know me so well, Louis.”

Louis can hear the annoyance in Harry’s voice and for once, he’s sorry that he put it there. He’s high and on his third beer on a virtually empty stomach, he’s tired and sore for the third day in a row and he just… doesn’t have the energy to fight.

“Sorry. I was joking.”

Harry sighs. “Yeah, I know. For what it’s worth, mimosas are my Sunday morning booze of choice.”

Louis chuckles quietly, but then Harry giggles, and then they’re both laughing so hard that they’re crying and a muscle in Louis’ back starts cramping. He tries to stop laughing, shushing Harry in between whines of pain and more giggles, until finally he’s able to stretch it just right and the cramp eases into just another sore spot on his body. The recliner is fine for sitting, but not so great for sleeping.

He looks up at the hole that Harry made in the ceiling and starts laughing again at the same time that Harry admits, “I was angry with you for a long time.”

Louis’ laugh peters out. He hums and wonders why Harry’s stating the obvious, but he figures he should respond. “Aren’t you still?”

“Eh, not really. Doesn’t mean I like you, but it’s not like I’m sitting around actively hating you or anything.”

“Yeah, I guess it’s the same for me.” Louis is pretty sure that’s the case. He only thinks about Harry when he thinks about the beach house and that’s probably once a month when he goes over his bank accounts and investments. Even then, it's more like a mild annoyance.

Harry clears his throat and asks, “You’re still teaching? What grade?”

“Eleventh grade History.”

“You like it?”

“Love it. I can retire in five years, but I’m not going to.”

“At fifty?”

“Yeah, with twenty-eight years in the state retirement system, you can retire, but you don’t have to.”

“That’s pretty cool.”

“Yeah, not bad for poverty level wages.” Louis mimics Harry’s voice and immediately feels bad about it. They were having a civil conversation and he probably ruined it.

Harry sucks in a breath and blows it out, almost whistling, and it’s loud in the quiet room. “I’m sorry I said all that stuff.”

“Man, that was like twenty-five years ago.” Louis surprises himself with how much he wants to let that all go. “I said some dumb shit to you too. It’s okay.”

“It’s not though. I… You said what I’d been thinking and I guess I didn’t like hearing it out loud. No one else had called me on it like that. Not even Gemma.” Harry reaches down to add his empty can to the little pyramid they’ve started next to the cooler and opens another beer. “I dropped out after that. Finished that semester and didn’t go back.”

“Seriously?”

“Yep.”

Louis is quiet for a minute, lying there on the couch, kind of drunk, really high, and feeling guilty. “I feel guilty.” He cranes his neck to look at Harry’s face.

Harry rolls his eyes and leans over to pull a beer out of the cooler for Louis, tosses it to him, and says, “Don’t. I was mad at you for like a day after you left, and then on the ride back home, I… got over it. I think I was jealous of you. You were so… together. You knew exactly what you wanted to do with your life. And I was a mess.”

“Did you stay at that restaurant? No, it was a bakery, right?”

“Nah, they didn’t have anything full-time, so I, um, I moved down here to the beach and got a job working for a friend of my step-dad. Rented the room above his garage. I was like… the errand boy for their construction sites. I started helping more on site, and eventually I was building houses. I mean, bottom of the totem pole, hauling two-by-fours to start, but I worked hard and I liked it.”

“I had no idea.” Louis shifts his body until he’s laying on his side. “What’d your mom think?”

“She didn’t like it at first, but then she saw that I was happier, so… I’m not surprised you didn’t know. It’s not like we’ve kept up with each other.” Harry pauses and bites his lower lip. “I assumed you were teaching, but I didn’t know you’d moved to the upstate until, um, you know.”

Ah yes, Louis knows. Even if he wishes he could forget. “I’d just bought my house then. I was probably bragging.”

“Maybe.”

“Are you… Were you working construction then?”

“No, by then I’d gone back to school. I mean, first I went and got my contractor’s license and worked under my step-dad’s friend, running sites for a while, then I started my own company. I was thirty when I went back and finished my business management degree.”

“That’s… That’s a lot. And really cool. Sounds like you have a good thing going.”

Harry hums and plays with the tab on his beer can, flipping it back and forth. “I... My company went under when the real estate bubble burst. That’s why… I… I mean, I think maybe part of me knew it was coming, you know? I wanted to sell the beach house and get some sort of cushion or something. Didn’t matter in the end.”

Shit. That’s… Louis presses his thumb and forefinger against his closed eyes. “If we’d sold the house, would you still have lost your business?”

“I don’t know. Maybe, maybe not. It’s not likely that the house would have sold in time. Houses were already staying on the market longer and longer.”

“That sucks, Styles. You’re making me feel bad for you.”

“Fuck off.”

Louis rolls his eyes and flicks some of the condensation from his beer can at Harry. “Where do you work now? What happened after you lost your company?”

“I, um, sold my house. Luckily I got a little more than I’d paid for it, so I was okay. Um, I got a little camper, one of those old Airstreams, and moved it onto the RV park.” Harry pauses and looks Louis in the eye. “Got a job as a handyman for High Tide Rentals.”

“Oh. Is that what you’re doing now?”

“Nah, I lived in my little camper and saved my pennies and when Mr. Reynolds wanted to retire, I bought the company from him. I just paid it off last year.”

“Do you still live in the Airstream?”

Harry snorts. “Maybe.”

“You do?”

“No.” Harry rolls his eyes. “I still have it, but it’s in storage. I have a little condo on the mainland.”

“That’s good then.”

“Yeah. It’s alright.” He pushes the footrest of the recliner down and leans forward with his elbows on his knees. “Do you have more weed?”

“It’s in the top drawer of my nightstand.”

“Want me to get it?”

“Yeah.”

There’s a sputtering sound from the near empty can of Easy Cheese when Harry tries to squirt it onto his finger and he cracks up laughing, slaps his hand over his mouth, and ends up getting aerosol cheese on his face, in his hair, and on the recliner.

Louis laughs and chokes on his saltine when he sees the mess Harry's made.

“Fuck. I don’t want to take a cold shower in the dark.” He reaches up and pulls his hair down, crossing his eyes to try to see the cheese in it.

“Just use the sink. It’s got a spray thingy.” Louis waves a hand in the direction of the kitchen and pops another saltine in his mouth.

After muttering to himself for a bit, Harry heads for the kitchen. When he tries to spray his hair and instead sprays water all over the room, Louis yells at him to stop, hops up from the couch, climbs onto the stool at the counter, leans over and grabs the spray nozzle out of Harry’s hand. “Bend over.”

Harry’s incredulous expression says it all, really, but it’s Harry, so it’s not like he’s going to be quiet. “No thanks.”

“Jesus, Styles. The last thing I want to do is fuck you.” Louis screws up his face and points the spray nozzle at Harry. “Now bend the fuck over and let me help you so you don’t hose down the entire kitchen trying to do it on your own.”

Harry purses his lips and runs his fingers through his hair, spreading the cheese around more, and letting out a frustrated groan when he realizes what he’s just done. Then he nods and braces his hands on either side of the sink, bends down as far as he can, and waits.

It’s so short. Louis can’t remember the last time Harry’s hair was this neat in the back. It was always completely unruly, curls sticking up in every direction, even when they were kids. In the summers, when they were teenagers, Harry would wake up with half of his hair a tangled mess, sticking up and matted to the side of his head, the other half looking almost exactly like it did before he’d gone to bed the night before. As if only half of his body had been asleep. It was hilarious and Louis used to give him so much shit about it, even though his own hair was like a bird’s nest in the mornings.

He’s more gentle than he wants to be. He should just let the water run over him, but his hand extends before he can think about it, and then he’s combing his fingers through Harry’s hair, making sure that it’s all wet, before squirted some dish soap into Harry’s hand.

It turns out that dish soap is really hard to rinse out with cold water, so it takes them what seems like forever, but is probably closer to a half-hour to wash the cheese out. Louis’ mind comes back to him about halfway through when he realizes he’s gently untangling the longer hair on top of Harry’s head. So he pulls it hard enough that Harry hisses and Louis blames it on a knot that isn’t actually there.

“Whatever, asshole. You did that on purpose.” Harry turns his head a little to the side and Louis takes the opportunity to spray water up his nose. He sputters and shakes his head, sending droplets of water flying all over the counter, then stands up, wiping rivulets of water from his face and looking furious.

Before Harry can start yelling, Louis says, “Sorry, sorry. Was just fucking around. It’s almost done. Just a bit behind your ear.”

Harry scowls at him suspiciously and lowers his head back down. A few minutes later, his hair is as clean as it’s going to get.

“I hate that you don’t have gray hair.” Louis mutters petulantly. “I mean, at least we’re both balding, but for fuck’s sake, your hair’s the same color it was when we were kids.”

Harry towels his hair dry with a dishrag and tosses it on the counter when he’s finished wiping up the water that's on the counters and the floor. He just shrugs and returns to his recliner. “Hey, throw me that rag. There’s cheese on my chair.”

Louis picks up the rag and carries it over to drop it in Harry’s lap, then flops back down on the couch. “Shit. We need to check the buckets. I forgot.”

“I forgot too.” Harry leans over the side of the recliner and looks in the bucket beside him. “This one’s about half-full. We’re probably good for a while.”

“Okay.” Louis rolls over on his side and props his head up on his hand. His head feels heavy and he tries to count how many beers he’s had so far. “So, Styles, are you happy?”

“With work? I mean, I guess so. I like running the rental company. I like doing occasional handyman stuff. It’s kind of… It’s less stress than when I owned the construction company. I’ve got good people working for me. I guess things worked out.”

“That’s nice.” Louis yawns. “It’s good that you’re happy.” He drops his head down and reaches behind himself for one of the throw pillows. “I’m tired. I guess there’s some sort of age limit to drinking all day long.”

“Probably.” Harry laughs quietly and Louis watches him through his eyelashes until he falls asleep.

He jolts awake to a crashing sound coming from the back of the house. They’re both on their feet in a second, wide-eyed and confused, and then they’re grabbing for their flashlights and tripping over each other, running down the dark hallway, and barreling through the door to the back bedroom.

There are pieces of the ceiling, wet insulation, and probably fifty or more years of dust and grime, all over the queen sized bed. They either missed a leak or it started after they'd already climbed down out of the attic.

“Fuck.” Harry’s expression is almost comical with his eyes wide, his mouth hanging open and his hands on his cheeks. “This storm hates me. I’m either on the couch again or on one of those shitty bottom bunks.”

“There’s the recliner too.”

“Shut the fuck up, Louis.”

Louis looks at him out of the corner of his eye and watches while Harry pushes his knuckles into the small of his back. “You still have problems with your back?”

Harry looks at him for a few seconds before answering, “Yeah, it was better for a while, mostly when I was working construction. It bothers me more now though, especially when it rains. Can’t believe you remember my fucked up back.”

“You bitched about it enough. Fucking thirteen years old with a bad back. It’s hard to forget.”

Harry shoves Louis’ shoulder and laughs. “Asshole.”

“You can have my bed. I’ll sleep on the couch.”

“Maybe.”

“Whatever. Let’s clean this up and move the bed.”

They wrap the blanket from the bed around the mess that’s on top of it, and manage to shove it all inside one of the big contractor’s trash bags that Harry has in his truck, but the mattress is soaked. Then they push and pull and drag the bed, until it's in the opposite corner, away from the leak.

When they finish, they empty all of the buckets and light some candles on both the kitchen counter and the coffee table in the living room. Dinner is cold Cheeseburger Macaroni straight out of the can with oranges for dessert and when they finish they roll one and take it out onto the porch.

“I haven’t smoked this much in at least twenty years.” Harry blows the end of the joint to knock the ashes off and they watch them swirl in the wind.

“Me neither. I hadn’t smoked for a while before I got this. My ex didn’t like it, and I didn’t smoke that often, a couple of times a year maybe, so I quit while we were together. When we broke up, I bought a bag, and—” Louis laughs through his nose and then starts coughing and loses his train of thought. “Shit. Where was I?”

“Um… I don’t know. You were talking about your ex, I think.”

“Yeah, yeah. We broke up, I bought some, and I used my—” he starts cracking up again and chokes out the words between giggles, “My FoodSaver and I vacuum sealed it with a pack of papers. I don’t know why, but I did that and then I hid it in the back of my closet and forgot about it.”

Harry scrunches his nose and tries not to laugh. “Glad you remembered to bring it with you.”

“I fucking didn’t. I’d hidden it in the saddlebags for my bike and I didn’t even know it was there until I got here and started digging around looking for my swimsuit and whoops. Surprise weed.”

He can’t hold his laughter in after that. They both giggle about it for a while until Harry whips his head around and asks, “Wait, so you still drive a motorcycle?”

Louis chuckles and nods. “Yeah, I still ride.”

“What? Are you laughing because you’re high or are you laughing at me?”

“Little of both.”

“Fuck off.”

“It’s just… you ride a motorcycle. Only nerds drive them.”

Harry takes the joint and sucks hard, the cherry flares red in the dark, and Louis can see him flipping him the bird in the low light.

They’re out of beer, so they’ve moved on to the cheap red wine with the twist off caps. One each for easy drinking straight from the bottle. Louis is sprawled on his back on the couch, one leg propped up on the back cushion, one foot on the floor, in an effort to get some sort of air circulation around what has become the sweatiest, stickiest part of him.

He kind of wants to take a shower. It’ll be cold and he knows that’ll feel great, but it’ll also wake him up, and he’s sleepy and pretty fucked up at the moment. The prospect of actually moving from the comfortable position he’s found sounds like too much effort. And the thought of a cold shower shocking him sober sounds like no fun at all. No, it’s better to just stew in his own filth until he can take a long, hot shower.

He screws the cap back onto his wine bottle and cranes his neck to look at Harry who’s apparently nodded off in the recliner with an open bottle of wine balanced precariously at a forty-five degree angle between his crotch and his dangling hand.

“Styles.” Louis tries to quietly wake him up, but his soft snores don’t stop. “Styles!”

Without opening his eyes, Harry grumbles, “What?”

“You should go to bed. That chair is shit for sleeping.”

“Not sleeping.”

“You were snoring.”

“Was not.”

“Whatever. Can you at least put the cap on your wine bottle?”

Harry keeps his eyes closed and pats around in the seat of the recliner beside his legs, between his legs, and finally reaches behind his ass and finds the cap. He twists it on and sets the bottle down next to the pyramid of empty beer cans. “Happy?”

“For now.” He opens his wine bottle and takes a sip. Probably more of a gulp.

“Louis?”

“Yeah?”

“Um… You could… If you wanted, you could talk too.”

“What do you want to know?”

“Dunno. Whatever you want to tell me, I guess. Don’t get mad if I fall asleep.”

“If you fall asleep, I’m waking you up. I’m not listening to you bitch all day tomorrow because your back hurts from sleeping in a chair.”

“Okay.”

Louis is quiet for a minute. He’s not sure what to say, really. His life is kind of boring. He works all the time. During the school year he’s completely dedicated to his job and his kids: opening his classroom early for his students who don’t want to hang out in the gym before school starts, staying late for homework help or to sponsor clubs or for committee meetings or to volunteer as one of the timers for the swim team in the fall and the track team in the spring. And then he spends a good portion of his time at home grading papers or working on lesson plans.

In the summer he works as much as he can at the restaurant to save up money. He sighs. No wonder he has no social life other than PlayStation games on his days off with Niall.

“Um… I love my job.” Louis says, but it almost comes out like a question.

“You said that earlier. Like twice, I think.”

“Well, I do. I’m just… I… Did you know I have my PhD in Education?”

“Seriously? Doctor Tomlinson?”

“Yeah. I mean, no.” Louis shakes his head quickly. “No one calls me that. I… well, I went straight into teaching right out of college with my bachelor’s degree. But I struggled a lot to pay bills at first. It was hard. I had student loans to pay off and I lived in a shitty apartment with two roommates. After the first year, I realized that I had two options if I wanted to keep teaching and not eat Ramen every day: get a second job or go back to school.”

“Oh, so you quit teaching and went back to school?”

“Nope.” Louis rolls onto his side and sets his bottle down on the floor, trying to focus on Harry through blurry eyes. “I couldn’t quit teaching because I wanted the state to pay my tuition. So I was teaching during the day, went to my classes at night, did all of my homework and grading and lesson plans on the weekends, and then did summer school and had a summer job in a restaurant. They deferred my loans, which was a huge relief.”

“That’s insane, Louis.”

“It’s actually pretty normal. There were three other teachers at my school in the same program.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. They all stopped after they got their master’s though.” There’s a throw pillow on the other end of the couch and he tries to kick it up in the air and catch it, but it falls on the floor in front of their pyramid of beer cans. He looks at it for a second before continuing. “I just… I don’t know, I wanted to keep going. So I took one summer off and then I went straight into the PhD program. It worked out. I mean, I make good money, I paid off my bike and my student loans, bought a house. I have more downtime now.”

“I guess that’s good. You get to enjoy it now. Doesn’t sound like you had much of a social life when you were in school.”

Louis hums and runs both hands through his hair, scratching his scalp. “You know what’s funny is that I had a boyfriend through all of that. I started my master’s degree when I was twenty-three, met Drew when I was twenty-five, and we were together for ten years.”

Harry lets out a long whistle and leans over to pick up his wine bottle and Louis’ pillow, and tosses it to him. “An entire decade with one person?”

“Yep. We lived together and I thought, you know, we’d buy a house together eventually, maybe one day we’d adopt… I don’t know. But, it turned out that he didn’t really enjoy spending time with me.” Louis pauses and stretches his legs out, tucks the pillow under his head, then takes a sip of wine.

“Really?”

“Yeah.” This isn’t something that he likes to think about, in fact, he hasn't talked about it in years. He's not sure why he’s telling Harry, except that they already dislike each other, and it's not as though Harry is someone he needs to impress. “Once I got my PhD and had the time to go out on dates or go away for the weekend or whatever, I realized he didn’t want to. He was happy living these weird parallel lives where we slept in the same bed and shared an apartment and fucked on Wednesdays and Saturdays, but didn’t really spend time together aside from that. And, like, I guess that was what it’d been like when I was going balls to the wall with school, but I thought things would change after I graduated. He didn’t want that. So he left.”

“That sucks, Lou.” Harry mutters and taps his fingers against his bottle. “I’m sorry. What a waste.”

“Yeah, well, I should’ve known, I guess. We never had a shared bank account, always split the bills fifty-fifty, didn’t really talk about the future. I think we’d both been assuming different things. I’d been saving, you know? I’d paid off my bike and I’d been saving everything that I could because I wanted to buy a house with him. Was thinking that after I graduated, and once I got enough money for a down payment, I’d surprise him with it.” He closes his eyes and pulls his glasses off, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I don’t know. It never got that far. We broke up, he left, and I said fuck it and bought my own damn house.”

“It worked out though, didn’t it? I mean, it’s not like he broke up with you and you’ve been alone ever since.”

“Nah, that’s true. I’ve had boyfriends since then. But it’s not like… I mean… fuck.” Louis slides his glasses back on and scratches his nails along his scalp.

“What?”

“You don’t want to hear this shit.”

“Sure I do.”

“Well, maybe I don’t want to tell it.” Louis sighs and closes his eyes. “What a fucking sad sack of shit I am.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“I’ve had two boyfriends since Drew and guess what?” he continues with a rueful laugh. “They both left me too. Except it was kind of the opposite of things with Drew. When he left, I threw myself into work, no social life, went in early and stayed late every single day. And my exes hated it. And I wasn’t willing to… I guess I was afraid the same thing would happen? Like with Drew. I thought if they actually spent time with me, they wouldn’t want to. I don’t know. I’m fucked up, apparently.”

“But now you have Niall. That’s good, right?”

Louis snorts. “Yeah, I guess. Niall’s a pretty awesome guy.”

Harry yawns and stretches. “I’m tired, Louis. Can you go to bed so I can have the couch?”

“Nah, you take the bed. I’ll sleep out here.”

“No, you slept in the chair last night, you should sleep in a bed. Don’t think I haven’t noticed how much ibuprofen you’ve been taking.”

Louis rolls his eyes and pushes himself to sitting, stretches his arms over his head and leans side to side. “Come on, you can sleep with me. It’s a king size bed.”

“I don’t… That’s not…”

“We can put a pillow between us if you’re worried about your nonexistent virtue, Styles.” Louis stands up and stumbles a bit as he starts to follow the beam of his flashlight down the hallway. “Come on. I promise not to drool on you.”

Harry stands up and slowly follows him down the hall, but stops in the doorway of the bedroom. Louis heads straight for the bathroom to pee and when he comes back out, Harry is still standing there, leaning against the door jamb, fiddling with his flashlight. Louis stares at him until he shuffles off toward the bathroom. There’s plenty of space in the bed and Louis is exhausted and not at all sober, so he kicks his shorts off and just falls onto the mattress, face down in the pillow. He’s almost asleep when he hears Harry clearing his throat.

“Louis?”

“I’m sleeping. Get in bed.” He reaches up and pulls one of the many pillows down and situates it in the middle of the mattress. “There. You’re safe. It’s not like I can get it up anyway. I drank my bodyweight in cheap alcohol. I don’t even know where my dick is, let alone how to use it.”

His body wobbles a bit when Harry finally climbs onto the bed and he’s just starting to drift off when Harry says, “I just think that Niall probably wouldn’t like it if he knew we shared a bed. I mean, we have a history. Not like we dated or anything, but…”

Louis pushes his upper body up with his forearms and looks over to try to focus on Harry’s face, but he can’t really see anything now that the flashlights are off. “I mean, Niall might not like it, but… it’s really none of his business.”

“That’s fucked up. What kind of relationship is that? I mean… unless you guys have an open relationship.”

“What?”

“I’m trying to be open-minded here, Louis.”

“What?”

“I just… whatever you and Niall agree on, like, the parameters of your relationship or, you know, I don’t know. I’m trying not to be judgmental. Just because something isn’t for me, like I couldn’t live with my boyfriend—”

“Boyfriend? You think Niall’s… Oh my god.” Louis buries his head in his pillow and laughs until he thinks he might throw up. When he can finally breathe again, he turns his head toward Harry. “Niall’s not my boyfriend. He’s my roommate, my coworker—he teaches History too, we do our lesson plans together—he’s my best friend. And he’s straight. He’s going to find this entire conversation hilarious.”

“I don’t… I’m…” Harry sounds so confused and his voice is kind of squeaky and faster than normal. “But you’re checking in with him twice a day and he’s worried about you and you say you love him and you miss him and you call him pet names… I…”

“I’ll explain in the morning, Styles.”

“Yeah… Okay.” The bed rocks as Harry turns over onto his stomach. “’Night, Lou.”

Louis falls asleep listening to Harry’s soft snores and the sound of the drops of water as they land in the bucket on the floor.

The next morning, Louis wakes up sticky and sweaty, his mouth tastes disgusting, and he can smell the alcohol seeping from his pores. Oh god, he forgot what it’s like to be hungover. Or maybe hangovers have never been like this before. He’s discovered a new variety of hangover. And he’s definitely going to be sick, but when he tries to sit up, he can’t move.

He cracks one eye open and the light coming in the window is so bright that he’s temporarily blinded, so he uses his left hand, the only one he can feel. There’s something heavy on top of him, holding him down, and he remembers where he is. The beach house. Hurricane Nicole.

For a few seconds he thinks that the ceiling has fallen in on him and that’s what’s crushing his chest, or maybe a tree came through the roof and landed on him and he’s dying, but then his left hand finally makes contact with whatever it is and it’s warm and soft and it has hair.

His eyes finally adjust to the glaring sunlight and his brain catches up and he sees Harry. Rather, he sees Harry’s hair, because his head is resting on Louis’ chest, but somehow his shoulder is on top of Louis’ arm and is cutting off his circulation. Harry’s leg is thrown completely over Louis’ hips and his entire body seems to be touching every inch of Louis’ skin that he can reach. And he keeps moving. Just a little bit. Little twitches and jerks and each one seems to pull him a little bit closer.

Louis doesn’t know what to do because he needs to move, he needs to get to the bathroom before he throws up in the bed, he needs his arm back, and he really needs to get Harry’s dick off of his hip. It’s not soft, and it’s not hard, but it’s somewhere in between, and, well, it’s been a while since Louis’ been in a bed with an attractive man. Harry twitches again and this time when his dick bumps into Louis’ hip, he lets out a quiet, breathy moan, and that’s enough motivation.

With a speed he didn’t know he still possessed, he yanks his arm from under Harry’s shoulder and rolls his entire body to the left, off the bed and onto the floor. He somehow manages to land in a crouch, which he will probably pay for in the very near future—he’ll add it to the list of physical grievances his body has toward him—and sprints for the bathroom door, which is thankfully open, bends over and empties his stomach into the toilet bowl. He kicks the door shut.

When he’s absolutely sure that nothing else is going to come up, he turns on the shower and climbs in without bothering to take his underwear off. Surprisingly, the water isn’t as cold as he’d expected it to be, it’s more like room temperature or a little below, so at least he’s not shivering while he stands there waiting for death. After a few minutes, or maybe an hour—he’s not sure how long because time doesn’t exist inside his hangover—the bathroom door bangs open and he hears Harry following in his footsteps, so to speak.

He finally feels stable enough to wash, so he peels his wet boxers off and kicks them into the corner, then starts with shampoo and figures he’ll work his way down. His right armpit is clean and he’s soaping up his left one when he hears the toilet flush, and Harry pulls the curtain back and steps into the shower.

“What the fuck?” Louis croaks out and realizes that he doesn’t care. He doesn’t want to talk and he doesn’t want Harry to talk either. No noises. So he whispers, “Never mind. Here,” and hands over the shampoo.

They take turns under the spray, washing and rinsing, and Louis pats Harry’s back when he dry heaves. It’s the polar opposite of sexy or romantic and Louis doesn’t realize until later that he didn’t really even notice Harry’s body at all. He steps out, dripping wet, and goes in search of a towel that wasn’t used to clean up the leaks. He finds some in the back of the linen closet and brings them back to the bedroom, hanging one on the hook outside the shower for Harry.

With his towel wrapped around his waist, Louis makes the painful trek out to the kitchen where there is even more cursed light coming through shutters over the windows. His glasses are on the counter, so he puts them on and hopes that there’s enough sunlight for them to transition to sunglasses, but not enough sunlight to vaporize what remains of his earthly vessel. He finds Harry’s instant coffee, boils some water, leaves a cup on the counter for Harry, and goes out onto the porch.

It’s sunny and bright and breezy, and the storm has finally passed, so he pulls two rocking chairs from the corner of the living room and drags them outside. When Harry finally joins him, he brings a bottle of water, a package of saltines, and some ibuprofen. Louis wants to kiss him, but not like that. They sit in silence, not even rocking in their rocking chairs, nibbling crackers, and alternating between sips of water and coffee until Louis feels like he’s possibly, maybe not going to die.

“I’m never drinking again,” Louis whispers as quietly as he can.

Harry snorts and then presses his hands to his eyes and groans. He mutters, “To be fair, I think it was probably a combination of the shitty beer, shitty wine, and weed that did it. I don’t… What did we even eat yesterday?”

“I don’t want to talk about it.” Louis sips his coffee and slowly stands up. “I guess we need to survey the damage. I know we need to replace the roof. Fuck, that’s going to be expensive.”

Harry stands and stretches and Louis watches him out of the corner of his eye. Bullshit. He must have sold his soul to the devil to have a body like that at forty-five. The only way this shit is anywhere close to fair is if Harry goes completely bald within the next five years.

“Insurance will help some. I mean, our deductible is pretty hefty, but… Let’s see what we’re dealing with first.” Harry carries his cup and the saltines back inside, leaves them on the counter, and disappears down the hall.

Louis stands there just inside the door, trying to breathe through the lingering nausea, and finishes his coffee. When Harry comes back, he’s wearing black running shorts and a pair of green running shoes that are so bright they hurt Louis’ eyes and he wonders if they’ll glow in the dark. Harry slides his sunglasses on as he walks past Louis and out onto the porch, then glances back over his shoulder and says, “Put some clothes on, Louis.”

Louis looks down to find that he’s still wearing nothing but a towel and that it’s loosened itself enough from where he’d tightened it around his waist, that it’s barely hanging onto his hips. He blushes because his pubic hair has just been hanging out there for who knows how long. He grabs hold of the towel with both hands and hurries back to the bedroom to find something to wear, and avoids thinking about the fact that no one has seen that much of his body in the daylight in probably two years. And that it’s possible that it’s been that long since he’s trimmed.

He digs some boxers, his black jean shorts, and a pair of beat up, old Vans out of the bottom of his saddle bags, dresses quickly, and goes downstairs to meet Harry.

Harry’s not in the yard, he’s bent over inside the open door of the truck, digging around in the center console. Louis crosses his arms, leans his shoulder against one of the stilts under the house, and watches him for a few seconds. “What’re you doing?”

Harry jumps a little and scowls at Louis over his shoulder. “Charging my phone and getting my camera. Looking for a pen and paper so we can make a list of whatever’s damaged.”

“Oh.” Louis pushes off of the wooden pole and steps closer. “Do you want me to go look upstairs?”

“Nah, I’ve got it.” He steps back and shuts the door, but leaves the truck running. “Louis?”

“Yeah?”

“How’d you get here? Where’s your motorcycle?”

“Oh, um, Liam drove me over. My bike’s parked in the stockroom of his store.”

Harry laughs and grabs his head. “Ugh. My fucking head. I haven’t had a hangover in a long time. I think I’m out of practice, or do you think they get worse as you get older?”

“Both, probably.”

“Here.” Harry hands over the pen and paper. “I’ll take pictures of the damage. If you’ll just write everything down.”

“This is your truck?”

“Yeah.” Harry tilts his head to the side and asks, “Why?”

“Oh, I… I guess I expected you to have the Range Rover still, but…”

“Yeah, I sold it a long time ago. Right after I sold my house.” Harry nods towards his truck. “Serves a purpose. And I don’t mind when it gets banged up, which kind of happens all the time.”

They walk around the yard, picking up debris, and throwing it all into a pile on the concrete under the house. The list in Louis’ hand is not necessarily long, but they’re major things. Before they even get started on anything else they already know they need to replace the roof, the insulation in the attic, and parts of the ceilings. They'll need to replace the mattresses, too, because they’ve been sitting wet and warm for a few days and have already started to smell.

The vinyl siding on the outside of the house is damaged and some of it is missing on two sides. The underlayment is torn in some places and missing in others, the insulation underneath is wet and hanging out, and from the ground they can see a second set of siding boards are underneath that.

“What is…” Louis shades his eyes with his hand, but it doesn’t help much. “Why does this seem weird to me?”

“Because it’s totally fucked up. Jesus.” Harry takes a few pictures of the damaged siding, then puts the lens cap back on his camera. “Insurance isn’t going to fix this shit.”

“What? Why not?”

“Remember when our parents decided to have this vinyl shit put on the house? It was when we were probably… I don’t know sixteen or seventeen. They were so fucking excited that they wouldn’t have to worry about painting the house again.”

Louis rests one hand on his hip, scratches his chest with the other, and looks up again. “Yeah, I remember. I’d forgotten that the house used to be blue.”

“Right. So, whoever put this siding up did a shit job. Like… I doubt this was ever considered up to code. You don’t… They put insulation on top of the existing siding, then wrapped it, then put the vinyl siding on top. It literally all needs to be removed and replaced.”

“Are you serious?”

“Very.”

Louis looks over and catches Harry’s eye. “We should have sold this piece of shit ten years ago.”

Harry laughs so loudly that it hurts Louis’ head, but he smiles anyway, and Harry says, “I told you so.”

Louis groans and brushes his hair off his forehead. “What do we do now, Mr. I Own The Rental Company?”

“Well…”

Something clicks in Louis’ brain that the fog of alcohol and weed prevented him from thinking about before. “Wait a minute. If you own the fucking company, am I paying you to rent the fucking house?” Shit, it’s amazing how fast he can get pissed off at Harry. He can feel his blood pressure rising and his face is getting hot. His hands are clenched into fists at his sides while he waits for Harry to respond.

“Chill out.”

“Fuck you, Styles. I am so tired of you just… ever since our parents decided to sign this fucking house over to us, you’ve been nothing but a pain in my ass. And now… How long have you been… This is so far beyond fucked up. I don’t even know what to call it!”

Louis tosses the pad of paper and pen at Harry, turns around and stomps up the stairs and into the house, then slams the door. He continues through the house to his bedroom and slams that door too, even though Harry’s still downstairs and can’t appreciate the noise.

He drops his glasses onto the nightstand and falls onto the bed. Asshole. It’s like stealing, basically. They’ve been splitting the bills on the beach house for ten years, ever since their parents decided they’d rather sign it over to their kids than keep it or sell it. Every month, Louis pays a fee for maintenance—maintenance!—on the beach house, and every time someone rents it, the rental company takes a huge percentage. Harry’s rental company. Unbelievable. Like, literally, actually unbelievable. As much of an asshole as he knows Harry is, he never thought of him as dishonest. He hears Harry rev the engine of his truck and he’s pretty sure that he can hear him backing out of the driveway and taking off down the road. Fine.

Louis rolls over onto his back and stares at the fucking leaking ceiling. He actually thought that maybe they could be friends again after this stupid hurricane. It was like a bizarre bonding experience. He sighs and kicks his shoes off, then rolls back over, pulls the pillow down under his head, closes his eyes, and within a few minutes is asleep.

Chapter Text

“Wake up, dickhead.” The pillow is jerked out from under Louis’ head and he’s slightly disoriented, but he knows that voice is Harry’s and he knows he’s still fucking pissed off.

“Fuck you, Styles.”

“Get up.”

“Go the fuck away.” He swings his fist and tries to connect with Harry’s balls, but misses and hits him in the thigh.

Harry grunts and steps back. “Listen, you piece of shit. The bridge is open, so I went and got the fucking records from the office. So get up and come out into the kitchen so I can show you. I haven’t been fucking you over or whatever it is you think I’ve been doing.” He hits Louis hard with the pillow. “Asshole.”

This time Harry slams the door and it echoes painfully inside Louis’ head. After a minute, he pushes himself up onto his hands and knees and laughs quietly to himself because he’s not sure when he was last in this position. Slowly he walks his hands back and lowers his ass down until it touches his heels. Ugh. His legs are sore. He needs like a week of sleep and three deep tissue massages. After a few deep breaths, his legs loosen up a little and he climbs off the bed.

Harry’s sitting on a stool at the kitchen counter with a laptop in front of him and a pair of glasses perched on the end of his nose. The lines between his eyebrows are deeper than usual and he straight up scowls when he looks up and sees Louis. “Can’t believe you tried to hit me in the balls.”

Louis rolls his eyes and walks past the kitchen to the cooler and digs around in the melting ice for a Dr. Pepper. He pops the top and hops up onto the stool next to Harry, who turns his laptop until Louis can see the screen. Harry points to it and says, “This is the account for the beach house. This column here lists all of the payments you’ve made to High Tide Rentals, see?”

Louis nods once and gestures impatiently for Harry to continue.

“Right, so this column here is the rental income, the one next to it is the percentage that the company gets, this one is the percentage that goes to the owners. That’s us.”

“Can you just get on with it, Styles?”

“Fuck off, Louis. I’m trying to show you that when I split up the profit from the house, I’m sending you back most of your fucking fee. Do you see it? Here?”

Louis takes his glasses off and pinches the bridge of his nose. It sort of makes sense, but he’s still hungover, so he doesn’t really understand. “I guess? I don’t know.”

“I don’t make any profit off of the house. I’ve basically been refunding your check every month. We split the cost to run the house, the actual cost of upkeep, but everything else goes back to you.” Harry taps the screen with his finger. “Do you see it, Lou? I wouldn’t fuck you over like that.”

Louis stares at the screen of the laptop, letting the information sink in, then turns to look at Harry. “I… I’m really sorry. Do you think I can blame it on the hangover and lack of sleep? Or do you think I’m just a dick?”

Harry meets his eyes and pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose. He looks ridiculous. And handsome. Asshole.

“I think you can split the blame in equal thirds.”

“You look like fucking Atticus Finch in To Kill a Mockingbird.”

Harry grins so wide his dimples show. “Thanks, man. I love Gregory Peck.”

Louis groans and rests his temple on the counter in front of him. “What are we going to do about the house?”

Harry pushes his glasses up into his hair and scratches at the back of his neck. “I think first we have to call the insurance company and file a claim. They’ll send someone out. Um, we should… I’ve got some friends who can probably lend me some equipment. I need to get up on the roof to see the damage. If there are actual holes or missing shingles or problems with the flashing or what. And maybe try to secure some tarps if I can.”

“You can’t climb up on the roof.”

“Why not?”

“You fell through the ceiling. You’re not falling off the goddamn roof. Your mom will fucking kill me.”

“I promise to be one hundred percent sober when I go up on the roof. It’s not like I haven’t done it before. I used to do shit like that every day.”

“I forgot.” Louis hums to himself for a few seconds. “So, what about all of the work after the insurance company comes?”

“I don’t know… I still keep my contractor’s license current for the business. I mean, I could do it. Katie can probably run the office. I might have to give her a bonus or a raise, but she can do it.”

“You think you’re going to fix the house by yourself? What if you fall off the roof?”

“I’m not going to fall off the roof.”

“Still. You can’t. I’m not okay with that.”

Harry rolls his eyes and closes his laptop. “Fine. Then after the insurance agent is done with their shit, we get someone else to do the work. I know people in town who can do it. I was just trying to save us money.”

“You misunderstand, Styles. I mean I’m not okay with you doing it by yourself.” Louis crosses his arms and smirks. “I’m going to help.”

Harry laughs so hard that when Louis shoves him he actually slips off of his stool and stumbles a bit. “That is the worst idea I’ve ever heard. You’re going to push me off the roof, aren’t you?”

“Maybe.”

Louis’ phone is finally fully charged, so he turns off Harry’s truck, grabs one of the big garbage bags from his toolbox, and walks down onto the beach. The sky is cloudless and blue and bright, and the ocean is flat and calm. It’s amazing the difference a single day makes. He presses call, and with the phone between his shoulder and his ear, he starts picking up trash and debris from the sand.

Niall answers part way through the first ring, “Hey, your cell’s working. You’re alive!”

“Yep. And I’m not coming home for a while.”

“Why? What’s going on?”

“The house is pretty damaged and needs some work, so I’m going to stay down here and help Harry fix it.”

Niall laughs, but when Louis doesn’t join in, he stops and says, “Wait. Are you serious?”

“Yeah. I just have to call the restaurant and let them know. And I guess have you ship me some clothes and stuff.”

“You realize that this is like the worst idea you’ve ever had, right?”

“Shut up, Niall,” Louis grumbles. “That’s what Harry said.”

“Well, Harry’s right. You are not… handy. Not at all. You’re like, the opposite of handy.”

“I’m not that bad. I can do stuff.”

“Stuff.”

“Yeah, like hammer stuff.” He shrugs and kicks at a tangle of washed up sea oats.

“Jesus Christ. Just… Do you remember when you bought all that furniture for the third bedroom at IKEA and it took you forever to put that shit together?”

“Us. It took us forever to put it together.”

“That’s not… It doesn’t make it better that it was more than one person struggling with ready to assemble furniture. It makes it worse.”

“Niall, I…” Louis sighs. “I feel like I need to do this. Like this is something I have to do.”

“Is this like a midlife crisis type thing?”

“Maybe? It very well could be. Hadn’t thought of that. Doesn’t matter though. I’m doing it anyway.”

“Alright, fine. What do you want me to ship you? Clothes? Books? Your brain?”

“I’ll text you a list, okay?”

“Yeah, okay. Be careful. Bye.”

“I will.” Louis makes a few kissing noises into the phone and hangs up. It’s probably a bad idea, but he’s feeling pretty determined. Maybe Niall’s right and it’s some sort of midlife crisis, but at least he’s doing something useful and not buying a Ferrari that he can’t afford or dyeing his hair.

The phone call with the restaurant doesn’t take long, and once that’s taken care of, he pockets his phone and gets to work. He walks around the beach in front of the house, picking up stray pieces of siding, sopping wet insulation, shingles, pieces of broken glass, and all sorts of garbage that washed up and was left behind by the storm. When the bag is heavy to the point that he’s mostly dragging it around, he ties it closed, hefts it up over his shoulder, carries it through the dunes, and drops it in the back of Harry’s truck. Louis rubs his temples and breathes deeply, trying to shake his hangover. He feels like shit and there's still so much to clean up, and there’ll be more left behind when the tide goes out again. Harry will have to come help him next time.

Harry’s sitting on the couch staring at his laptop again, with his glasses on the end of his nose and his upper lip caught between his teeth, when Louis comes through the door. After he washes his hands, he plops down on the opposite end of the couch and waits for Harry to acknowledge him. When he doesn’t immediately look over, Louis leans over to look at the computer screen.

“What are you doing?”

“Just finished filling out the insurance stuff. Sent in the pictures.” Harry clicks submit and waits for the page to finish loading, then closes his laptop and sets it on the coffee table. “Are you serious about helping fix the house?”

“Yes. Why wouldn’t I be?”

“Because… I don’t know. If you’re really going to stay, you realize that technically you’ll have to do what I say when we’re working. Like, I’ll kind of be your boss.”

Louis rolls his eyes and pokes Harry’s calf with his toe. “Whatever.”

“I’m serious. You could get hurt otherwise. And I won’t let you—”

“Won’t let me? Fuck you.”

“God, can you just shut the fuck up for like five seconds and let me finish?”

Louis crosses his arms and squints through his glasses, lips pressed together with obvious effort.

“Thanks. If you’re going to work on the house with me, you’re going to have to understand that… It’s not like I’m going to tell you to go get me coffee. I just mean with construction stuff.”

“Yeah, that makes sense. You can boss me around.” Louis winks and clicks his tongue.

“Ugh. I hate you.” Harry takes his glasses off and leans his head against the back of the couch. “You’ll have to come stay at my apartment.”

“Why can’t I just stay here?”

“Insurance thing. You can’t live here while all the work is going on.”

“Fine. You have a spare room?”

“No, not really. I have a second bedroom, but it’s like an office space. No bed. I have a couch. You can have my bed.”

“No way, Styles. Don’t pull this shit with me. I’ll take the couch.”

“Whatever. I was just trying to be nice.”

“Eww, well, don’t. Like, don’t ever do that again. Nice.” Louis snickers. “If you stopped being an asshole, I’d think there was something seriously wrong with you.”

Harry sighs and slowly stands up. “Get your shit together. Power was on at the office, so it’s probably on at my place. And Liam’s store was open when I drove past, so you can get your motorcycle and follow me home.”

“Ooh, electricity. I won’t know what to do with myself.”

“Yeah, it’s pretty fancy. Power, hot water, real coffee…”

“Real coffee.” Louis claps his hands together and stands up. “Let’s get the fuck out of here.”

Louis brushes his teeth and splashes some water on his face, then runs his damp fingers through his hair and tries to get some of the tangles out. His scruff is halfway to a full beard now and he ponders what that would actually look like. With the silver at his temples and the gray throughout the rest of his hair, would he look older with a beard that’s mostly gray as well? He sighs quietly and scratches at his jaw. Looks like he’s going to find out, since he didn’t bother to pack his razor.

His jeans and boots are under the bed and his leather jacket is hanging on the hook on the back of the bedroom door. He finds a clean t-shirt in his saddlebags, and throws his clothes on the bed. It’s too hot to get dressed until the last possible second. Once he’s picked up all of his dirty clothes, he takes off his shorts and shoves them all into his saddlebags along with his shampoo and the rest of his things.

Too bad it’s so fucking hot outside, or Louis would wear these clothes every day. In his favorite pair of jeans—soft and faded in all the right places from years of wear, his Doc Martens boots, white t-shirt, and his vintage black leather jacket, he always feels absolutely bad ass. He throws his saddlebags over one shoulder, pushes his glasses up where they slid down his nose, hooks his finger in the collar of his jacket, slings it over his other shoulder, and goes looking for Harry.

His things are all gone from the bedroom and bathroom, even the cooler is gone from the living room, and the key is hanging from the deadbolt lock, so Louis shuts the door and locks it, then heads down the stairs.

Harry’s at the bottom of the stairs, emptying the melted ice and water from the cooler. When he hears Louis’ boots on the steps, he stands up and turns around.

“Uh…” Harry reaches up and pulls his sunglasses off the top of his head and slides them over his eyes, then he runs his fingers through his hair and scratches at the back of his neck. “Um… I called Liam. He’s at the store waiting for us.”

“Oh, good.” Louis motions toward the cooler. “That’s his.”

“Yeah.” Harry picks it up and shakes the last of the water out of it, then closes the lid.

Louis walks past him and wedges his bags behind one of the toolboxes in the bed of the truck. “Um… Did you lock up?” Harry asks.

“Yep. Ready to go when you are.”

Louis turns back to Harry, who’s apparently just standing there watching him. Harry nods and attempts to lifts the cooler up onto the edge of the truck without looking, but instead of setting it inside the bed, he drops it back down on the ground and, evidently, on his foot.

When Harry finishes cursing himself, Louis says, “I have no idea how you ever managed to work construction and not accidentally nail your hand to a wall or something. You’re like, the clumsiest person I’ve ever known.”

Harry carefully lifts the cooler and sets it inside the bed of the truck. “Um, yeah… I, um…”

Louis is waiting by the passenger door, but he’s not going to climb inside the truck until Harry does. It’s too hot and he’s wearing jeans and boots, for fuck’s sake. So he rests his forearms on the roof of the truck and watches Harry who’s basically just standing there by the driver’s side door doing and saying nothing at all.

Louis clears his throat. “Styles.”

“Hmm?”

Louis can’t tell if Harry’s looking at him or not, his sunglasses are too dark. “Are we leaving?”

The furrow between his eyebrows deepens. “What?”

“Are we leaving now?” Louis tilts his head and speaks loud and clear, carefully enunciating every syllable. “Do you need to run back upstairs for your hearing aid or something?”

“Oh…” Harry looks confused for a second. “Shut the fuck up and get in the truck.” He finally opens the door and slides behind the wheel, so Louis follows suit.

Liam meets them at the back of the store. He’s holding the door open, leaning against it, standing there with his arms crossed and a confused look on his face. When Louis climbs out of the passenger seat of Harry’s truck, Liam raises a hand and nods to Harry, but when Harry doesn’t back up and leave, Liam looks to Louis, who’s putting on his leather jacket.

“What’s going on?”

“I’m getting my bike.” Louis leans into the back of the truck and picks up Liam’s cooler. “Harry said he called you.”

“Harry did call me. I mean what’s going on, as in what are you doing with Harry? As far as I know, you guys like… hate each other.”

“Hate’s a strong word, Li.” Louis hands over the cooler, pushes past him into the stock room and walks over to his bike.

Liam lets the door slam shut and says, “Okay, I thought you guys strongly disliked each other.”

“We do. He’s a Grade-A asshole and I’m sure he’d say the same about me.” Louis swings his leg over his bike and starts walking it around to face the door.

Liam’s still standing in front of the door, so Louis waits patiently for him to move. When he doesn’t, Louis says, “What?”

“I mean, aren’t you going to tell me how the storm was? How'd the house fare? Why are you with Harry? Are you going home now?”

Louis freezes with the helmet just above his head. “Oh.” He brings his helmet down to rest on his knee. “I’m, um, I’m going to stay with Harry?”

Immediately he feels himself begin to blush like a teenager and he’s fucking embarrassed by his embarrassment. He doesn’t even know why. It’s not as if there isn’t a legitimate reason for him to stay there. As quickly as he can, he fills Liam in on getting stuck at the beach house with Harry, the storm damage, and the plan to fix it themselves.

Liam is still laughing when Louis revs the engine and follows Harry’s truck out of the parking lot. Thankfully, Harry’s apartment is a few miles away, so Louis’ cheeks have returned to their normal shade by the time he lowers the kickstand and takes his helmet off.

From the second he unlocks the door and steps inside, Harry is talking nonstop. “Right, so, this is my apartment. There’s the couch. I have extra blankets and pillows. If you want to keep your clothes and stuff out here, you can. Or you can keep it in the spare room. Or I guess you could keep it in my room, if you want. I probably have space in my closet…”

Louis drops his jacket and saddlebags onto the couch. “Styles.”

“Yeah?”

“I don’t have a lot of stuff. Niall’s going to ship me some clothes, but probably not a lot. I figured I won’t need much. You think I can work in these boots or should—”

“Those are perfect.”

“Perfect?”

“Um, I mean, they look like work boots. Steel toe, right? They’ll be fine.”

“Ok, good.” Louis sits down and starts to unhook the laces. “Feels good in here. I’ve missed air conditioning. Not that I really mind laying around in my boxers, but it’s nice that I don’t have to.” He pulls his boots off and sets them on the floor by the door.

“I don’t think the power ever went off here.” Harry calls from the kitchen. “The freezer looks fine, nothing melted.”

“Good. Um, can I do some laundry? Maybe have a shower?”

“Shit. Yeah. Sorry.” Harry walks out of the kitchen and gestures for Louis to follow, so he does. “Laundry’s in there, bathroom’s right here. Towels are in the cabinet.” He steps back to let Louis into the bathroom.

“Um, thanks, Styles.” Louis backs into the bathroom and shuts the door.

The shower feels amazing and, after a few minutes, his headache dulls and he starts to feel almost human again. Hot water is like a miracle after three days of basically marinating in sweat with one hungover attempt to wash it off with tepid water. He left his things in the living room, so he uses Harry’s shampoo and soap and then stands with the water running over his shoulders and back, stretching.

His arms, legs, back, every part of his body that he can name is still sore. He hasn’t had a good night’s sleep in a while, probably since before school let out and he started back at the restaurant. He sighs quietly and rinses his face again. Somehow he’s managed to avoid thinking about it, but he’s pretty sure he won’t go back to the restaurant next summer. It’s just not worth the extra money for the wear and tear on his body.

Harry’s towels are thick and soft and dark blue and Louis is thankful for all of that because when he finishes drying off, he realizes he doesn’t have anything to change into. All of his clothes are dirty. He doesn’t even have a clean pair of boxers. He steps out into the hall and at the same time, Harry steps out of his bedroom.

“Hey, shower’s yours. Sorry I kind of jumped in front of you.”

“You’re the guest, Lou.” Harry looks down at the towel around his waist, clears his throat and his eyes dart away. “Louis. I set up the washer for you. Just dump your clothes in and push start.”

“Oh, thanks. Yeah. Can I hang out in your towel until they’re done?”

“Huh?”

“It’s just… um, all of my clothes are dirty.” He holds up the ball of dirty clothes in his hands. “So…”

“Oh!” Harry turns around and goes back into his bedroom. “I have something you can wear.”

Louis isn’t sure what he’s supposed to do. He doesn’t want to follow Harry into his bedroom for some reason. It seems weird. So he goes to grab his stuff off the couch and is dropping his laundry in the washer when Harry appears with a bundle of clothes in his hands.

“I have sweatpants and a t-shirt. I… didn’t know if you’d want to wear my boxers, but there's a pair of those too.” Harry bites his bottom lip and holds the clothes out for Louis to take.

“Would you rather me be free ballin’ in your sweatpants?”

Harry rolls his eyes. “You’re so obnoxious. Here.” He shoves the clothes at Louis, then reaches over his shoulder to press the start button on the washer. “Get dressed and then we can talk about the house after I shower.”

While Harry showers, Louis wanders around his apartment. It’s on the smaller side, but maybe that’s because he’s used to his three bedroom house. It’s nice. Clean. Homey. There are books everywhere, candles on almost every surface, and framed pictures on all of the walls.

Too many pictures, in his opinion, that include his own family: Harry in a tux dancing in a circle with Lottie and Fizzy in their bridesmaid dresses at Gemma’s wedding; Harry making faces with Lottie’s twin boys, in matching seersucker suits and bow ties at Fizzy’s wedding; Harry standing in the middle with his arms around both of their mothers at Lottie’s wedding—all three of them look so young that it makes Louis’ chest ache.

There’s another one that Louis remembers well. It’s from his own mother’s wedding ten years before, both of their families are crowded together on the bright green lawn in front of the church. Lottie’s enormous and looks like she might go into labor any second, even though the twins weren’t born for another month after that. His mom looks so happy standing between her new husband and her best friend. She tried to get Louis into the picture too. He was arguing with his soon-to-be ex about it, wanting him to be in the picture as well, and when Louis saw Harry there, happily giggling with Phoebe and Daisy, he stormed off. And there Harry is in the picture, standing between Louis’ twin sisters, both of them on tiptoe and kissing him on either cheek. He’s never seen these pictures before. Maybe they’re in an album somewhere at his mom’s house. He wonders if his family doesn’t display them in some attempt to spare his feelings.

It’s so weird to see Harry there, like they’ve been living in parallel universes or something, and he tries to imagine what life would be like if they never started fighting with each other in the first place.

Across from the couch, hanging over a long, low bookcase, right where you’d expect the television to be, there’s a framed photograph that’s been blown up as big as a movie poster. It’s mostly blue—the clear, bright blue of the sky at the beach in the summer. There’s a wisp of cloud on the top left and on the bottom right there’s a baby girl. It’s blurry, which is sort of unexpected for a picture of that scale that’s clearly meant to be the focal point of the room. But it works. You can see that the baby is laughing, with her little white sun hat and red and white polka dot bathing suit, arms and legs flailing as she’s being held high in the air by two hands under her arms. It’s familiar somehow.

“Remember that summer when we were thirteen?” Harry startles him out of his thoughts, “You were already planning to be a teacher and I was going to be a—”

“Photographer.”

“Yeah.”

“You took this?” That summer, when they arrived, he climbed out of the back of his parents’ minivan and Harry met him at the bottom of the stairs with a camera in his hand. There had to be hundreds of pictures of him somewhere, though Harry probably threw them out.

Harry nods. “That’s your sister.”

Louis steps closer to the picture and pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “Does Fizzy know she’s the centerpiece in your living room?”

“Um, yeah, actually. I asked her at her wedding if it was alright. I, um, gave her a smaller print in a frame.”

Louis isn’t sure why he asks, because now he knows the answer, but maybe he wonders if Harry remembers. “Who’s holding her? Whose hands are those?”

Harry looks at the photograph, but not at Louis, and rubs his chin thoughtfully. “I… um, I… don’t remember. Your mom, maybe?”

“Yeah, maybe.” Louis drops down onto the couch and pulls his feet up. Harry’s sweatpants are long, so he pulls them over his toes to keep his feet warm. “Let’s get this over with. I can’t live on your couch forever. Do we need the laptop?”

“Oh… Yeah, okay.” Harry grabs his things from the kitchen table and joins Louis on the couch. “I guess we should get started.”

“Goddamn it, Louis.” Harry grumbles while looking around at the mostly empty lumber yard. “I said no.”

Louis doesn’t bother to lower his voice, he knows Harry will probably get embarrassed and then he’s more likely to give in and let Louis have his way. “I don’t know what makes you think you’re the boss of me, Styles.”

Harry stands up straighter and crosses his arms over his chest. “I am the boss. You said you’d do what I told you to do.”

“No, no, no.” Louis steps closer and copies Harry's stance. “You can tell me what to do when we’re actually working on the house, but you do not get to make every single decision on your own.”

Harry combs his fingers back through his hair, then rubs his hands down his face. “The cedar shake is expensive. The insurance only pays to replace what was there and what was there was cheap vinyl siding from the eighties. We have to pay the difference.”

“I don’t care. I like the way it looks. It’s nice.”

Harry drops his hands to his hips and mimics Louis’ voice. “I like the way it looks. It’s nice.”

“Fuck you, Styles. The cedar shingles look good and you know it. I have money saved and… We should think of this as an investment. We put a little more money in and it’s worth more.”

Harry stares at him for a second, then spins around and walks off in a huff, muttering to himself.

“Wait. Don’t walk away from me.” Louis jogs to catch up, but Harry keeps walking. He’s almost to the exit now and Louis is getting more pissed off with every step. He raises his voice. “I said wait, Styles!”

But Harry doesn’t wait. He’s not sure if Harry thinks he’s better off closer to the exit where the employees are gathered—like Louis won’t make a scene—or if he thinks he can make it to the parking lot before Louis loses it, but either way, he’s wrong. Louis reaches out and grabs his arm, yanking it backwards and spinning Harry around.

Harry hisses through clenched teeth, “I don’t want to talk about this here.”

“And I don’t care. We’re talking about this now.”

“Fine.” Harry throws his hands in the air. “Fine. Okay, Louis. You have never thought of this house as an investment. Not once. And there’s no reason for us to take money out of savings to spend on something to make it look nice when it doesn’t matter in the long run.”

“It does matter though. And I’m willing to spend the money. Look, what’s the difference? The monetary difference?”

Harry takes a deep breath and blows it out in a huff. “I don’t know exactly, but it’s probably close to twice as much as the vinyl siding I showed you.”

“Ugh. That’s expensive.” Louis bites his lower lip and looks around. He scratches at his forehead and lowers his voice because all of the employees gathered around the checkout desk are pretending not to listen to their argument. “I really like it though.”

Harry sighs and Louis can feel him looking at him through his sunglasses even though his head is angled slightly to the side. “I know. I mean, I like it too. It does look nice, but that’s not…”

“It’s not important. I know.” He can't help but pout a little.

“Look, maybe… okay, maybe… just… come with me.” Harry turns and heads back through the lumber yard towards the warehouse building and Louis walks fast to catch up.

“Where are we going?”

“Inside.”

“I can fucking see that, Styles. Can you not be an asshole for long enough to tell me what the fuck we’re doing?”

“Nope.” Harry swings open the door and walks inside with Louis trailing right behind him. They pass the vinyl siding that Harry showed him earlier, and go to the next aisle over, where Harry points at the shelf and waits.

“What is this?”

“Vinyl shake. It looks like cedar shake, but it’s vinyl siding. Comes in all sorts of colors. It’s cheaper than cedar, but a little more than regular vinyl.”

“Oh, that’s…” Louis looks from Harry to the shelf and back again. “Are we compromising?”

Harry rolls his eyes and pulls one of the order forms off of the shelf. “I suppose. Just don’t tell anyone.”

Louis tells the first person he sees, who just happens to be the woman at the checkout when they place their order for enough siding to redo the entire house.

“We compromised.” Louis grins at her while she puts their information into the computer. And, really, he’s bragging because the house will look the way he wants.

She nods while he’s talking and then says, “That’s great, honey. It’s important to do that. When we renovated our kitchen, my husband wanted a Sub-Zero fridge and I told him he was crazy. We compromised and got a Whirlpool.” She lowers her voice to a whisper and finishes with a wink. “Spent the extra money on a new king-sized bedroom set.”

For the first time in possibly years, Louis is speechless. When he eventually finds his voice, he tries to explain that they’re not together, but Harry grabs him by the wrist and drags him through the exit, laughing the entire way to the truck. He breaks out into giggles periodically throughout the rest of the morning and Louis hates him a little more every time.

They’re fighting at the building supply store, again. It seems to be the thing to do. Except this time Harry hasn’t even turned off the ignition. They were arguing before he pulled into the parking space.

“I’m going to push you off the fucking roof. I hate you.”

Louis pokes him in the shoulder. “Fuck you and listen to me.”

“Fuck you and no.”

“I saw one yesterday and it looks good. Come on. Admit it.”

“Why are you like this? Why does every single thing have to be like this?” Harry drops his head down onto the steering wheel, completely exasperated.

“What is your deal? I even looked online and it’s worth the extra money.” Louis turns in his seat and holds up his hand to count off his reasons. He has five, so he leaves his middle finger for the last reason. “They’re supposed to help cut energy usage and you can get like, discounts from the power company. Plus, there’s less upkeep, they last longer, and yeah, the materials are a little more, but it’s supposed to be easier to install.”

Harry mumbles so quietly that Louis almost doesn’t hear him, “I wouldn’t know.”

“Is that what this is about? You don’t know how to do it, so you’re refusing to try? Are you fucking kidding me?”

“Fuck you. It’s not like we have a crew. It’s just us. And you have to learn everything as you go.”

Louis rubs at his temples. He’s getting another headache. “Can we… Is there someone we can ask? Just to get an idea?”

Harry lifts his head from the steering wheel and immediately leans it back onto the headrest. “Yes. Fine. I’ll call him later.”

“Why can’t you call him now? I’ll be quiet. Promise.”

“First of all, you’re never quiet. And second…”

“Yes? Second?”

Harry presses the palms of his hands to his temples and growls.

“What the fuck is wrong with you? Do you have a headache?”

“Yes. I’ve had a headache for more than a week. Its name is Louis Tomlinson and it won’t go away no matter what I do.”

“Haha. You’re hilarious.” Louis waits for Harry to continue, after all, they’ve driven all the way here, it makes sense to find out what they need to know now before they go inside to look at the roofing materials. But Harry doesn’t say anything. Instead, he pulls out his phone and scrolls through his contacts, up and down, over and over, without pressing call. “Styles?”

“What?”

“If you really don’t feel well, we can go home, um… back to your place. We can do this tomorrow.”

“No. I’m fine.” Harry sighs and rubs his eyes. “And we need to get the roof done. The tarps aren’t going to hold forever.”

“Right. So… are you going to call your guy?”

Harry clenches his jaw and squints at him. “He’s not… Oh, you mean… Yeah, fuck it. I’ll call him.” He scrolls through his contacts again and holds his finger to his lips, so Louis nods and mimes zipping his mouth shut.

One-sided conversations are weird. Louis always tries to guess what the other person is saying. With Niall, he sometimes makes up the other half of the conversation right then and there until Niall stomps off to his bedroom or goes outside and locks himself in his car.

“Hey, um, I need a favor.”

…

“Yeah, I know I said that. I’m sorry.”

…

“It’s sort of work related.”

…

“I don’t know. You’re the only person I knew to ask.”

…

“I just need a run-through on metal roofing.”

…

“Yeah, the beach house.”

…

“I said… I know what I said. This is business though.”

…

“Yeah, okay. Thanks.”

…

“I really do appreciate it. I wouldn’t ask you if—”

…

“I’m there now.”

…

“Okay. I think they’ll deliver it tomorrow if it’s in stock.”

…

“Thanks. Yeah. I’m good. It’s been okay…” Harry looks over at Louis who’s still sitting quietly. He deserves a medal. “I’m glad you are… Yeah, I really am.”

…

“Okay. I’ll text you the delivery time.”

Harry slides his phone into his shirt pocket and says, “Okay. We can get the metal roof.”

“Yeah?”

“Of course, Louis. You always get what you want, don’t you?” Harry sneers as he climbs out of the truck and slams the door.

Louis hops out to follow him. “I do not.”

Harry keeps walking and every time Louis catches up, he walks a little faster.

“What the fuck is your problem, Styles? Is it that much of a blow to your ego to ask someone for help?”

The automatic doors slide open and Harry walks inside without responding. He leads Louis down the aisle towards the roofing supplies and picks up the order form. “What color do you want?”

“Um, I don’t know. Roof color?”

“That’s not a color.”

“What is your deal today? Jesus. I guess… gray.” Louis steps forward and points to the dark gray sample on the shelf. “That’s normal, right? The siding is blue and we said white for the trim, so… Is that okay?”

“As if my opinion means shit to you.”

“You’re such an asshole. I can’t wait to be done with this shit.”

Harry steps closer to the gray metal roofing sample, pulls his reading glasses from the collar of his t-shirt and slides them on. Carefully, he copies down the item number and fills in the rest of the form with the roof measurements and other things that Louis really doesn’t understand.

Whatever. Harry’s being a dick, as usual, so Louis wanders down the aisle a bit just to get some distance.

The drive back to Harry’s apartment is tense and completely silent and they still don’t speak to each other once they’re back at the condo. Harry disappears into his bedroom and shuts the door, leaving Louis alone in the living room. After an hour or so, Louis changes clothes, grabs his helmet, and goes for a ride.

Being around Harry is such a mind-fuck. Honestly, it’s exhausting. One minute, they’re getting along like they could almost be friends, and the next minute, they’re practically at each other’s throats. In his entire life, he’s never met another person who can piss him off quite like Harry Styles. And that’s really saying something, considering that he’s been a high school teacher for twenty-three years. It’s almost like he was custom-designed to annoy and irritate Louis in every way possible.

About thirty minutes outside of town, Louis turns down a two-lane highway and zones out. There’s no traffic out here, the road is lined with trees and the occasional field of corn or tobacco, and he just lets his mind drift. It’s been awhile since he’s done this, too long. Except now, all he can think about is Harry and it kind of makes him want to drive off the road and into a tree.

Even the good things about Harry are bad, in Louis’ opinion. Harry’s ability to cook interesting meals from scratch just highlights the fact that Louis subsists on baked chicken, boil-in-bag rice, and frozen vegetables. That Harry runs almost every morning and lifts weights three times a week to keep in shape really only serves to draw attention to the fact that Louis doesn’t do any of that and it shows in the extra padding he’s kept around his waist for the last seven or eight years. Harry’s stupidly handsome baby face and dark hair are a stark contrast to Louis’ gray hair and the wrinkles around his eyes.

Being around Harry for just a few days has pushed him to the point of considering Botox and hair dye, for fuck’s sake. The only reasons he won’t do either are that it would be incredibly obvious and he knows Harry would literally never let him live it down. Well, that, and he doesn’t really want to anyway. Before he came down for the hurricane, he was almost proud of his gray hair and wrinkles. He felt like he earned them, like they made him look distinguished, handsome. There’s just something about Harry that makes everything into a competition. Even aging.

Things between he and Harry have always been a bit weird. Harry was his best friend for a few weeks every summer throughout as much of his childhood as he can remember—an easy friendship that they fell into over and over again every year—and a distant memory the rest of the time.

There was one year, Louis thinks they might have been ten or eleven, when they attempted to be pen pals. They wrote each other twice and then ran out of things to say. A few years later, Harry was his first real crush and he’s pretty sure it was mutual, but there’s no way to know for sure. To this day, they’ve never discussed it.

There was the summer of ’87 when they came out to each other, whispering in the dark, both of them fifteen and scared shitless of being gay, of their friends finding out, of telling their families, of sex, of buying condoms, of not buying condoms, of AIDS. They spent two weeks talking about all of it and doing none of it.

On the last night of their vacation, their families left them alone at the house and they laid beside each other on Harry’s bottom bunk and watched each other jerk off, but didn’t do anything else. They didn’t even kiss. It was another five years until they saw each other again.

If he’s honest with himself, he’s always had a bit of a thing for Harry. Looking back at that week in college when they ended up spending spring break together, Louis now recognizes that his fascination with Harry was in no way platonic. And again, thinking back, he can remember the way that Harry looked at him, and the way Harry looked at Louis’ boyfriend at the time.

He blinks and shakes his head, then turns around and heads for the drawbridge, drives to the beach house, and spends the rest of the day picking up trash and debris from the beach. There’s so much of it and it just keeps coming. Every time the tide goes out, the beach is left covered in garbage. It’s disgusting and sad and Louis uses up all of the trash bags he found under the sink in the beach house before the sun goes down.

While he walks and fills the trash bags, he reflects on the drunken night more than twenty years ago after Gemma’s wedding that ended… Well, Louis woke up in his own hotel room, unsure of how he got there. He still can't recall much from that evening, other than an argument with Harry that escalated until both of their mothers kicked them out of the reception.

There was a lot of yelling and then a lot of fairly intense making out in what was either an elevator or a supply closet. Possibly both. And in Harry’s hotel room later that night, Louis laid beside him on his bed while Harry yelled at his penis to “Work, goddamn it!” Even through the heavy cloud of alcohol and arousal, he felt awful for Harry, and his attempts to comfort him fell on deaf ears. Of course, he can't forget that sick feeling in the pit of his stomach that made him feel somehow at fault for it all.

Louis spends the rest of the evening in a rocking chair on the porch of the beach house, watching the ocean as the tide starts to come in. He eats dinner from one of the cans of ravioli he left in the cabinet, and doesn’t head back across the bridge until long after sunset.

On his way back to Harry’s he thinks about how their friendship became enmity, how it backfired the one time they tried to do something other than argue, and how all of that led to the huge, blowout fight ten years ago, after they finally fucked probably twenty years of unresolved sexual tension out of their systems.

Ten years is a long time, though he remembers it all like it had just happened yesterday.

They were sitting across from each other at the little round table that their moms always called the breakfast nook, and they were supposed to be discussing the terms of their co-ownership of the beach house. Louis was already uncomfortable because Harry sat down first and took the good seat by the door—the only one with enough space behind it to scoot the chair back and stretch your legs out. So he was left with no other choice but to sit crammed between the wall and the table.

“I’m not selling it.” Louis crossed his arms and tapped his foot. “Nope.”

“You’re hardly ever here.” Harry slid the stack of papers across the table and pointed to the top number. “The house down the road, the one on the other side that isn’t even ocean front, sold for half a million dollars, Louis.”

“I know that.” He pushed the papers back across the table.

“That’s almost five times what our parents paid for this place.”

“I know that too. It’s worth more than money to me. There’s a lot of sentimental value. And I do use it. I’ve come here the last two summers with—You know what? It doesn’t matter why I don’t want to sell. I don’t have to.”

“You’re so fucking stubborn. Lottie and Fizzy both said they’re fine with you selling it.”

Louis blinked slowly and tapped his fingers against the worn wood of the table top. “You talked to them behind my back?”

“No. I mean, I guess? I didn’t mean to—You know we keep in touch. They’re my friends on MySpace. Your mom calls me on my birthday and Christmas every year. It’s not like it’s unusual for me to talk to them. I just mentioned that I was interested in selling and I wanted them to know that, if they didn’t want us to, I would back off.”

“Then why won’t you back off for me? They don't even own it.”

“Because you’re a stubborn asshole and you’re doing this just to piss me off.”

Louis growled out, “Fuck you.” Then pushed his chair back from the table the few inches that it would go and stood up, snickering to himself.

Harry narrowed his eyes and his voice was measured and cold when he asked, “What’s so funny?”

“Oh, just, you know.” Louis waved his hand dismissively. “I said ‘fuck you’ and then I remembered that the one time we tried that, you couldn’t, so…”

In a split second, Harry was standing. “Asshole. You swore you’d never—I was drunk.”

“So was I.”

Harry leaned forward and rested his hands on the table, his dark curls falling over his shoulders to hang in his face. He combed them back with his fingers. “Did you ever think that maybe it was you and not me? Because it was never a problem before and it’s never been a problem since.”

“Nah, it’s not me. Because it’s never happened with any of the other guys I’ve been with.” So what if he was lying. It happened to everyone now and then, but he wasn’t going to tell Harry that. “Nope. Definitely your problem. Maybe you should see a doctor. They make pills for that now.”

“Fuck you, Louis.” Harry stood up straight again and tried to gather the stack of papers from the table.

“But you can’t.” Louis laughed and mimicked Harry’s slow, deep voice, “Fuck you, Louis.”

Harry slammed the papers back down on the table. “I fucking can. And you know what? It’s bigger than yours.”

“Seriously.” Louis deadpanned. “Penis size? What are you fifteen?” He flushed and sucked in a quick breath. “Prove it.”

“What?” Harry’s eyes went wide when he understood. “You’re joking.”

For a moment, they just stared at each other, neither of them moving a muscle. Louis wasn’t sure what came over him, the thought just slipped out of his mouth, but there was no taking it back now. He’d said those exact words when they were teenagers every single time Harry said, well, almost anything.

I can juggle. Prove it. I can do a handstand. Prove it. I can run faster than you. Prove it. My dick is bigger than yours. Prove it.

“Whip it out, Styles. What’s the matter? Or am I right and you can’t?” His heart started to race because he wasn’t sure if Harry was going to laugh or punch him or throw the papers at him or what.

Instead, Harry took a step away from the table towards the front door. Okay, so he was leaving. Louis took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Oh well. Would’ve probably made things even more uncomfortable between them anyway. Their history is just too fucked up.

Louis took his glasses off, set them on the table, leaned his shoulders and head back against the wall, closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. His eyes flew open at the sound of the lock sliding into place and he took a single step to the side, knocking his shoulder against the wall. “What are you—”

There’s really no other word for it, Harry stalked across the room. It was almost predatory, the look on his face, and Louis froze where he stood, literally cornered, caged in between two walls and a table. Harry reached back and grabbed his t-shirt between his shoulder blades and yanked it off so fast that Louis gasped. And then he was standing right there. Bare chest and fucking visible abs. Asshole.

“Your turn, Louis.” Harry tilted his head to the side and sneered. “Unless you’re worried you won’t measure up.”

Fuck that mess.

Louis had ridden his motorcycle all the way down to the beach and he’d left right after school, which meant he was still wearing the white button down shirt and navy trousers he’d put on at six o’clock that morning. At least he’d already loosened his tie. He pulled the tie off and started on the buttons, keeping his eyes on Harry while Harry watched his fingers move slowly down the placket.

It’d been far too long since Louis had gotten laid. He and Drew had broken up a good six months before and probably hadn’t slept together for at least a month before that. There had been no one since then. Just his right hand and his new plug. Because how do you go from a ten-year committed relationship to being back on the dating scene? Louis had no idea. And Harry did have a big dick. Louis just wouldn’t admit it.

He shrugged his shirt off his shoulders and dropped it to the floor, then pulled his undershirt over his head. “Your move, Styles.”

The next thing Louis knew, he was waking up at five-thirty in the morning, exhausted and sore in places that he wasn't sure had ever been sore before in his life. His toes hurt, but just the big ones.

He carefully rolled himself off of Harry’s chest, where he’d embarrassingly spent the last few hours drooling in his sleep, and onto his back on the other side of the bed. In the still of the room, as Harry snored beside him, the dark pink light of that minute right before the sun peeks over the ocean filtered through the gauzy curtains on the window. He stared at the ceiling and thought about the possibility that he might have pulled something because his left hip was throbbing and in no way was it the good kind of throbbing. Though there was some of that elsewhere.

He really needed that. They really needed that. Twenty years of pent up sexual frustration spent, and Louis was a little bit overwhelmed by the flood of feelings.

A yawn came out of nowhere, stretching his jaw until it popped. He rolled towards the edge of the bed and pushed himself up to sit, then went to the bathroom to pee and brush his teeth. Maybe they could do it again when Harry woke up—hand jobs or something—and maybe they could stay another night. Louis didn’t really have to be back home until Sunday evening and they probably need to talk about things.

Harry was still snoring when he walked back into the bedroom, so he tiptoed across the hall to the room he’d intended to sleep in, pulled on a clean pair of underwear, and headed to the kitchen to make coffee.

Before the coffee finished brewing, Harry appeared, fully dressed with shoes and everything, even though his face looked tired and his long hair was pulled up into a messy bun. He didn’t say anything, just kind of grunted as he walked past Louis where he was perched on a stool, then he picked up the stack of papers from the table and dropped them onto the counter in front of Louis.

Harry didn’t meet his eyes and his voice was gruff when he asked, “Are you on board with selling now?”

“Are you serious?”

Harry nodded at him like he couldn’t believe Louis was even questioning him, and nudged the papers closer. “Yes.”

“I fucking hate you, Styles.”

When they finished screaming at each other, Louis shoved his things in his bag and left, one finger held high in the air over his shoulder the whole way down the boulevard until he used that arm to signal that he was turning left.

After that, any necessary communication about the beach house was done by email, and over the next two particularly stressful years after the bottom dropped out of the real estate market, through their lawyers.

It seems like every time life threw them together, at least one of them had a boyfriend, or one of them was a complete asshole.

Sometimes it was both.

When he finally gets back to the apartment, he finds Harry asleep on the couch under Louis’ blanket, lying on his back with a book on his chest. There’s a plate of food wrapped up and waiting in the refrigerator, right next to Harry's last beer. He pushes the fridge door shut, not bothering to try to be quiet about it, chugs his beer, then goes to wash the day off. He figures that if he makes enough noise, Harry will wake up and go to bed so he can have the couch, but when he gets out of the shower, Harry’s still snoring away, though his book is now on the floor and he’s laying on his side.

“Hey, get up, Styles.” Louis shakes his shoulder, but he just snuffles a little and doesn’t wake up, so he shakes him harder.

“Go away.” Harry covers his face with his arm and buries himself further under the blanket.

“Go to bed.” Louis taps him on the forehead a few times. “I’m tired and I want to lie down.”

“Don’t care.”

“Obviously.” Louis leans over and shakes him again. “I’m just going to keep doing this until you get up.”

“Louis, just… leave me alone.”

“Fine.” Louis rummages through his laundry until he finds a clean pair of boxers, then disappears down the hall. If Harry’s going to insist on sleeping on the couch, then Louis will just sleep in his bed.

When he reaches the bedroom door, Louis realizes that he’s never actually been inside Harry’s room. He’s only seen a sliver of mattress from the hallway once.

The bed is against the far wall, and the stack of books with his glasses on top tell him which side Harry sleeps on. Louis beelines to the bed, pulls on his boxers, and climbs under the sheets on the far side.

Once he’s settled, he sees that Harry has been hiding something from him.

It’s much bigger than the one Louis has at home, so big that his mouth literally drops open at first glance. And he’s shocked that Harry’s just been keeping it right here in his bedroom this whole time while Louis has been right there on the couch. Unbelievable.

Louis puts his own glasses on the book next to Harry’s and makes himself comfortable. It’s how he falls asleep at home when he’s stressed, so hopefully this will work similarly. It does. He turns it on and is asleep within half an hour.

It’s the best night of sleep Louis has had since before school let out. He’s warm. He’s comfortable. He’s happy. As his mind begins to wake, his senses start to come alive, and he smells vanilla. It makes him think of cupcakes, so he inhales deeply, tightens his hold on the pillow he’s clutching to his chest, and lets the tendrils of sleep pull him back under.

When he completely wakes up a little while later, it’s to the first fully-hard morning wood he’s had in awhile. It’s amazing what a good night’s sleep will do for you.

The bedroom door is open and he can hear Harry puttering around in the kitchen, so he figures that he must have come into the bedroom earlier and turned off the television. Too late now, Louis knows it’s there, and it was a welcome sleep aid. Old episodes of Friends are his favorite thing to nod off to.

He rolls over onto his back, waiting for his erection to die down so he can get up and go to the bathroom, then chuckles a bit to himself. He doesn’t have a problem getting hard when he wants to, but he rarely ever wakes up like this anymore, so he’s kind of proud of it and feels sad about wasting it.

His towel is right where he left it, draped over the closet doorknob, so Louis climbs out of bed, stretches, looks down at the tent in his boxers, and smiles. He bunches the towel in front of his crotch, and heads for the bathroom. He’s going to jerk off in Harry’s shower and since he feels like he’s getting away with something, he can’t keep the grin off his face. The bathroom door is almost shut when he hears Harry call his name.

He pokes his head out into the hall. “Yeah?”

“I made coffee. Are you hungry?”

“Kind of. I want to grab a shower though.”

“Okay.”

He’s like a kid with a new toy and he doesn’t want to let go of it, so he quickly drops his boxers and, keeping one hand on his dick, turns on the shower. He’s literally shaking with anticipation and he doesn’t even know why, other than he slept well, his body finally doesn’t feel sore today, and he woke up hard and horny. Maybe those are good enough reasons.

When the water is warm, he climbs in and immediately begins to stroke himself. He settles into a familiar rhythm, his right hand working on autopilot while his left slides across the wet skin of his chest. He thumbs at his nipples and leans forward to rest his forehead against the cool tile wall. A little groan slips out from between his lips and he clamps them shut; he can’t let Harry hear him or that’ll spoil all the fun.

Well, shit. Now that he’s thought about Harry, he can’t stop thinking about Harry. He bites down on his bottom lip to keep himself in check, but his mind has already drifted back to that night ten years ago.

He lets himself remember Harry kicking his shoes off and dropping his pants right there beside the dining table, and he remembers how quickly he’d lost his own. He remembers his hands shaking uncontrollably when Harry stepped closer and how his laugh took him by surprise when Harry smirked and said, “Told you mine was bigger.” Right before he lowered himself to his knees and gave Louis the best blow job he’d ever had in his entire life. He loses himself to the memory while the warm water washes over him.

With a startled gasp and a grunt, he comes into his hand, dripping onto the floor of the shower, his body shaking with his orgasm. Asshole. He can’t believe Harry invaded his fantasy like that. Though to this day, it’s still some of the best sex he’s ever had. He sighs and quickly washes, then he smiles. He’s going to have an awesome day and if Harry wants to try to stop him, well, he can fuck right off.

Chapter Text

“So, since we have the permits. Um, Evan is going to meet us at the beach house in like an hour.” Harry passes over a plate of eggs and toast and hands Louis a cup of coffee.

“Who’s Evan?”

“Oh, um… He’s the roofing guy. He’s going to show me what to do. How to—”

“Us. He’s going to show us.”

Harry nibbles on a corner of his toast. “Yeah, okay. He’s going to show us. Just… I need some basics. Shouldn’t be difficult. It’s supposed to take a lot less time than standard shingles. And I think we can put it on over what’s there.”

“That’s good.” Louis looks up, a piece of egg dangling from his fork. “You said we need to finish the roof before we can do anything else, right?”

“Well, yeah. It makes sense to do it first. But, um, Evan said he has some equipment we can use. Ladders and harnesses and stuff.”

“Fancy.”

Harry rolls his eyes and shoves his last bite of toast into his mouth, then disappears into his bedroom.

Louis finishes his breakfast and sips his coffee. So far, so good. Hopefully this Evan guy can help them out and they’ll be on their way to getting the roof up quickly. He really has no idea what the time frame for this sort of thing is, but he’s hoping to be done in a couple of hours. He stands up and carries his coffee down the hall. He left his glasses on the nightstand in Harry’s room.

The door is slightly open, so he knocks lightly and waits. Harry’s there almost instantly.

“What?”

“I left my glasses.” Louis pushes past him and picks them up off the table. “You know that I’m going to be in here all the time now.”

“What? Why?” Harry looks incredibly nervous. It’s quite funny.

“You had to know you couldn’t hide it from me forever.”

“What?” His eyes dart around the room. “What are you talking about?”

“Your TV? What else would I be talking about?”

“Oh… well, I mean. It’s my TV.”

Louis nods slowly because he just said that. “Right.”

“I’m sorry. Um, about last night. I was really tired and didn’t even see you.”

“It’s fine, Styles. Your bed is nice. I didn’t mind you sleeping on the couch.”

“No, I mean… I… I didn’t though. I slept in here. I didn’t realize you were here. I was half asleep, just got in bed without…”

Louis scrunches up his face and squints. “Are you saying you snuggled with me without my permission?”

“What? No. I mean, if anything, it was the other way around.”

“I really don’t think so.” He shakes his head dismissively. “I didn’t even know you were there.”

Harry mutters so quietly that he almost can’t make out the words. “That’s not what it felt like.”

He needs to double check that Harry didn’t actually say that. “What did you say?”

“Nothing. Just saying that if you didn’t know I was there, you sure thought someone was, with the way you were holding onto me.” Harry walks out of the bedroom towards the kitchen and Louis follows him down the hall.

“I thought you were a pillow. When I went to sleep, I was holding a pillow.”

“Are you trying to say I’m… Are you saying I’m soft and squishy like a pillow?” Harry’s voice gets slightly more shrill as he talks. “That I’m fluffy?”

“What? I don’t… What?”

Harry clears his throat and reins in his voice. “Did you just try to call me fat using some sort of weird metaphor?”

“No, asshole. I seriously thought I was holding a pillow. I didn’t even know you were—What the fuck? You’re not fat, you moron. Jesus. If anything you’re unfairly—never mind.” His eyes narrow as he quickly finishes, “Look, next time you fall asleep on the couch, I’ll just push you onto the floor, okay?”

“Fine.”

Louis is nervous. Like, sick to his stomach, thinks he’s going to puke for a few seconds, slightly shaky, sweaty palms nervous. He’s never been afraid of heights before, but this is different. The scaffolding is sturdy—Harry promised—but it moves when they move, and it sways a little with the wind, and right now they’re only standing on it. They haven’t started actually doing any work yet.

Evan, who is kind of hot in a younger, visibly-muscled, redheaded sort of way, is showing Harry some yellow thing. He hasn’t really spoken to Louis much yet, other than to say hello and shake hands when Louis offered. It’s probably silly to feel left out, but he does because he wants to help, to learn, and do his part.

After taking a deep breath and steeling himself for the inevitable sway of the scaffolding, he steps closer so he can hear whatever explanation Evan is giving Harry about these yellow things. It windy and they’re standing close together, so Louis is only able to hear maybe half of what they’re saying.

Harry’s shaking his head and Louis tries to focus on listening and trying to read his lips. “…it’s not like that.”

“…called things off…because…”

“Yes, sort—” Harry looks up and meets Louis’ gaze. His eyes widen in surprise and he practically shouts, “Special roofing jacks for metal roofs? Great!”

Evan turns his head and grins at Louis, then looks back to Harry who somehow manages to appear completely embarrassed and annoyed at the same time. “We have to remove the old shingles, Louis.”

“Oh, okay. I thought you said—”

“I know what I said. I was wrong.” Harry clenches his jaw. “Don’t you want to do this right?”

“Of course I do.”

“Right. Okay. So Evan and I are going to start removing the shingles.”

“I can do that too.”

“No—”

“Styles…” Louis crosses his arms and cocks his hip to the side.

“Listen for a second. We only have two of these.” Harry holds out the shovel in his hand. “And two harnesses, but—”

“Should I just go read a book or something? Or am I supposed to stand around and look pretty?”

“Shut up.” Harry takes a step closer and the scaffolding wobbles, surprising Louis who grabs onto the rail. “One of these days you’re going to let me finish a fucking sentence. You’re not going to read a book or stand around. You’re going to watch and pay attention to what we’re doing, because Evan has to leave in like an hour and this is going to take us all day.”

“So I get to do it?”

“I’m not doing it by myself.”

Louis nods, then pushes his glasses back up. “Go on, then. Your boyfriend’s waiting.” He winks obnoxiously.

“He's not—” Harry freezes in place, then scowls. “I fucking hate you.”

The pitch of the roof isn’t steep, so they climb up with just the harnesses all the way to the peak. Louis watches them work, the way they use the flat of the shovel to pry the shingles up, then move the piles of shingles to the edge of the roof and drop them into the dumpster below. They work quickly, and Louis is a little nervous about how well he’ll do in comparison.

It’s not long before he finds out.

Evan is nice enough when he climbs down, takes off his harness, and helps Louis step into it. Louis makes sure to use his extra sweet smile and lean in close, like he can’t hear him over the sound of the wind. He climbs up on the roof and wiggles his fingers to wave goodbye to Evan as he backs out of the drive.

“Pay attention, Louis. Stop fucking around.”

“Jealous? I knew he was your boyfriend.”

“Whatever. Get to work.” Harry climbs back to the other side of the roof and they barely speak again until they’re finished.

It takes the entire day. They finally climb down the scaffolding around eight o’clock and Louis wants to lie down and go to sleep right then and there, but Harry won’t let him. His arms hurt, his back hurts, his legs hurt, his everything hurts. And he knows that hurting today means that it’s only going to be worse tomorrow.

At least he remembered to wear sunscreen and he’s had literal gallons of water today. Harry even made him drink some Gatorade. After they clean up and lock the house, Harry takes them to the McDonald’s Drive-Thru and buys enough food for four people, but they eat half of it before they get back to the apartment.

Harry starts talking around a mouthful of fries while trying to unlock his apartment door. “I'm too old for this. I don’t think I’ve ever been this tired or sore in my entire life.”

Louis laughs, then stops and groans, clutching his sides. “Ouch. Laughing hurts. Tomorrow is going to be awful.”

“Yeah, it is.” Harry drops his things on the table. They finish the rest of their food in just a few minutes, both of them yawning in between bites. Louis is full and tired and sore and dirty and kind of sticky. He’s pretty sure he’s never worked so hard and for so long.

Harry stands up and clears their mess from the table. “How fast can you shower?”

“Um… three minutes?”

Harry nods and says, “I’ll give you four starting now.” Then he sets a timer on his phone. “You better hurry because when that timer goes off, I’m getting in the shower whether you’re out or not.”

Louis manages to get the towel around his waist before Harry opens the bathroom door, phone in hand, alarm blaring. Louis laughs and knocks their shoulders together when he passes him in the doorway. His body is so sore and he’s so tired that it’s after he gingerly steps into his boxers and flops down onto the couch that he notices that his blanket and pillow have disappeared. He slowly starts to push himself back up to standing so he can look for them.

“Hey.”

Louis jumps a little. He expected Harry to go straight to bed after his shower. “Where’s my pillow and stuff?”

“You can’t sleep on my couch—”

“What the fuck, Styles?”

“Louis, shut up. Like, seriously, shut up now. Shut up tomorrow before you interrupt me. And like…” He holds up his hand and counts off on his fingers. “Shut up, shut up, shut up, shut up. There. That’s the rest of the fucking week. Now listen. You can’t sleep on my couch because you busted your ass today, you’re already tired and sore, and you need to get some rest. We can share my bed.”

“Oh.” Louis bites the corner of his bottom lip and looks away. “Sorry. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. Here. Take some ibuprofen.” Harry shakes the bottle at him. “Lights out in like two minutes.”

Harry’s already snoring when Louis climbs into the other side of the bed. His lamp is off, but he’s left the other one on, so Louis turns it off and snuggles down into the pillow. He falls asleep so quickly that he doesn’t even have the time to go over the day in his head like he usually does.

When he wakes up the next morning, he hasn’t moved at all. It doesn’t seem like Harry has either.

Louis struggles to sit up. He knows he needs to move around, wake up his muscles, and stretch if he wants any of the stiffness and soreness to go away. It was a good idea to sleep in the bed, he knows he’d feel twice as bad if he slept on the couch, no matter how comfortable it is.

Sometimes Harry’s not so bad, sometimes he’s so caring and kind that Louis would think it’s a genuine part of his personality, but he always balances it out with some asshole behavior, so he’s waiting for that part while he eats a bowl of cereal and sips his coffee and listens to Harry stumbling around in the bedroom.

Amazingly, it doesn’t come.

Harry’s quiet over breakfast and quiet on the drive over to the beach house. He doesn’t say much while they replace the damaged pieces of plywood sheathing on the roof, just says enough to give Louis some basic instructions and to shout a few select words when he hits his thumb with the hammer. He speaks again when they start rolling on the insulation felt, but that’s only to tell Louis what to do and hand him a staple gun.

They manage to get the entire roof covered in felt with plenty of daylight left, but the rest of the roofing materials haven't been delivered yet, so they climb down and start ripping the old siding off the exterior walls of the house. It’s murder on Louis’ arms to use a crowbar after using the staple gun all day and the shovel the day before. Even with work gloves, he has blisters on both hands. And Harry’s silence reaches the point where it’s gone beyond weird and starts to grate on Louis’ nerves. He doesn’t respond to any of Louis’ jokes or comments with anything more than a grunt of acknowledgment.

Louis rips another piece of siding off and lets it drop to the ground. It’s going to be a pain in the ass to pick all of that shit up later and put it in the dumpster.

“What’s your problem today, Styles?”

Harry grunts and shrugs and keeps working, so Louis digs in. “Missing your boyfriend? I’m sure Evan would be willing to drop everything and run over here to help.”

Instead of yelling at him or telling him to shut the fuck up or throwing something at him, Harry hooks his tools to his belt, climbs down the scaffolding, and disappears. Louis must have hit a sore spot. Well, then Harry shouldn’t have made it so obvious he’d been jealous when Louis was flirting with Evan. He makes it too easy sometimes.

Louis finishes ripping off all of the siding he can reach from the scaffolding. It’ll have to be moved, he reckons. He cleans up the little bit of mess they’ve made—water bottles and such—and climbs down. Louis has no clue where Harry is or what he’s doing, though he hasn’t left because the truck is still here. Whatever. He’s probably off pouting about his boyfriend somewhere. Louis cleans up a good bit of the siding off the ground, then climbs the stairs to the house. Harry’s on the porch ripping the last of the siding off the walls.

Louis leans his hip against the porch railing. “Wondered where you disappeared to.”

Harry grunts again. Still not speaking. Okay.

“What’s your deal, man?”

Harry walks the last piece of siding over to the edge of the porch and drops it into the dumpster on the ground below, then starts picking up the stray bits of insulations from the floor.

“What the fuck is your problem, Styles?”

Harry stops and rests his hands on his hips. He’s not even looking in Louis’ direction. He sighs and starts pulling his gloves off his hands. “I’ve been thinking about this all day. We need help with the roof.”

“Oh, you want to call Evan? Hmm?” Louis can’t help it.

“No, actually.” Harry finally turns his head and meets Louis’ eyes. “Though I’m sure you’d love that. Didn’t know you had a thing for redheads.”

Louis laughs. “I knew you were jealous.”

“I’m not jealous. Just… It’s weird.” He looks down and picks at a blister on the palm of his hand. “I want to ask Liam. He used to help me now and then and I think he’d be willing. Otherwise, I’ll have to see if I can find someone else and I don’t want to have to do that because then I have to deal with more paperwork and insurance and bullshit.”

“Yeah, okay. Why though? Like…” Louis chews on the inside of his cheek. Ugh. “Am I too slow or something?”

“Aw, you’re insecure about your roofing skills. That’s cute, Louis.”

Louis scowls. “Fuck you.”

“Nah.” Harry scrunches up his nose. “Been there, done that.”

“I hate you.” Louis can feel his entire body tensing, ready to fight. “Jesus, you’re an asshole.”

Harry rolls his eyes. “Relax. You’re doing fine. I’d have thought you’d have given up halfway through yesterday.” Harry walks past him and starts down the stairs toward the truck. “It’s just that some of the pieces are really long and heavy and it’ll be easier with three of us.”

They stop by Liam’s store to ask him that night and Liam jumps at the chance, but not just because he wants to help. No. He says he wants to be there to watch Louis and Harry bicker.

When Louis wakes up the next morning, Harry is practically smothering him, lying face down, half covering his back, and on top of Louis’ entire right arm and shoulder. He can't move at all, so he does what any sensible person would do in this situation. He turns his head and yells as loud as he can, right into Harry’s ear.

They bitch about it nonstop over coffee and breakfast. They’re still sniping at each other when they get in the truck, when they climb out of the truck, when Liam arrives, and while they set up the roofing ladder. They start bickering louder when Louis climbs the scaffolding and Harry climbs the ladder and they’re too far apart to do it quietly. They only stop when they start to lift the first piece of eave flashing into place and they have to concentrate to do it properly. As soon as it’s nailed down, and they’re on the ground to move the scaffolding, they’re back at it.

Louis shakes out his right arm and circles his shoulder in an effort to loosen the muscles. “My fucking arm feels completely useless, like dead weight.”

“You’re completely useless, dead weight.” Harry mutters, but definitely, purposefully, loud enough for Louis to hear. He wouldn't say it otherwise.

“You know what? Fine. Fuck this. Do it without me then.” Louis drops his corner of the scaffolding, pulls his work gloves off and throws them at Harry. He walks away, over the dunes and onto the crowded beach and off to the right towards the pier.

He’s so tired and his arm really does hurt and all day Harry has been acting like it’s somehow his own fault, even though Harry is the one who fucking slept on top of it. He knows he's acting like a child storming off like this, but Harry has always known exactly what buttons to push.

He's had his fill of Harry's bullshit today. Ordinarily, he’d brush it off or make a suitably cutting retort, and they’d either bicker or banter depending on their collective mood. Louis knows he’s overreacting—it's been a constant stream of nasty comments from both of them today—but something about this feels different. Maybe the balance of power is skewed too far in Harry’s direction or maybe Louis isn’t accustomed to feeling so insecure around him. So out of his element. He doesn’t know.

The only thing he’s sure of is that this was a horrible idea. The whole thing. All of it. God, he should have agreed to sell the house ten years ago. They should just sell it now. As is. Put it on the market with no roof and no siding and see if there are any takers.

He’ll have to call Liam later and apologize. He slows down and then stops walking.

Shit.

His phone is on the kitchen counter at the beach house and his wallet is locked in Harry’s truck. His keys are in Harry’s apartment. There is literally nowhere for him to go except right back where he came from. Instead of going back, he turns and walks down to the edge of the water and watches the surfers waiting for waves by the pier while he tries to massage his own arm and shoulder. It’s useless.

“Hey, Lou, don’t…” Harry appears next to him, slightly out of breath because apparently he ran the whole way down the beach. “Don’t leave.”

“Fuck you.” Louis snaps. “And don’t make some smart ass comment about how you’ve already done that either. I’ll punch you in the fucking mouth.”

From the corner of his eye, he can see Harry watching him, the middle of his upper lip caught between his teeth. “I’m sorry.”

Louis turns and squints into the sun, looking at him and waiting, because at this point, a simple apology isn’t enough. It's gone beyond their usual back and forth, their normal antagonistic way of dealing with each other. His feelings are hurt. Not that he's going to say that out loud.

Harry rolls his eyes, but he continues, “I’m sorry and… I’m sorry about what I said. I didn’t mean it and you know it’s not true. I just told you that yesterday.”

“Whatever.” Louis turns back to face the water. It really doesn’t matter. There’s no point in Harry apologizing, just so they can fight again later.

“Hey, I’m serious.” Harry tugs on his arm and Louis hisses and spins to face him. “Shit. I’m sorry about your arm. I… I know it’s my fault. I was…”

Louis waits for Harry to finish his thought, but when he doesn’t after a few seconds, Louis drops his head to the side and says, “You were…”

“I was embarrassed, okay?” Harry crosses his arms over his chest and looks away. “That’s like the third time I’ve like… practically slept on top of you.”

“Huh?”

“I slept on your arm, yeah, but I was like… on your back. I was all over you. And during the storm, when we were drunk, I know I was sleeping on you because I woke up when you yanked your arm out from under my head. And the other day too.”

“You said I was holding onto you.”

“I mean… You were, but I was crowding you. On your side of the bed. I woke up and my face was pressed into your chest and it was like I was some sort of sleeping octopus with the way I’d wrapped my arms and legs around you.”

“Really.” Louis smirks. This is going in a completely different direction than he expected and he’s definitely going to use it to his advantage. He thought they were going to end up screaming at each other, but instead Harry’s apologizing. And not just for his shitty attitude today, or for sleeping on his arm, but for cuddling him. Amazing. He’s already over it. The only question is how long he can hold this over Harry’s head.

“Yeah, I’m sorry. I must’ve moved your pillow or something in my sleep and just…”

“It’s fine, Styles.” He bites his bottom lip, tips his chin up, and raises one eyebrow. “I know I’m sexy.”

“What? That’s not—”

“No, it’s fine. I’m hot.” Louis winks and turns to walk back towards the house. “Everyone wants a piece of this.” He smacks himself on the ass and keeps walking.

“I didn’t say…” Harry jogs to catch up. “It was an accident. I didn’t mean to do it.”

“Three times? I don’t think so.” Louis looks over, lowers his glasses a little, and winks again. “You want me. It’s fine. I should be used to it by now. It’s the hair.”

“The hair?” Harry chews on the inside of his cheek. “You think so?”

“Yep. I’ve been told that I’m a silver fox.” He runs his fingers through his hair, careful to brush it to the side. “Which apparently means that not only am I hot, but I’m hotter with gray hair.”

“Whatever.”

“I’m irresistible.” Louis grins and walks back over the dunes. He raises a hand to Liam, who’s up on the scaffolding, then bends over to pick up his gloves. When he stands up, Harry is still watching him with a scowl on his face and his sunglasses up in his hair. “Oh, is that why you were mad about Evan? Did he tell you he thinks I’m hot? Normally I like my men a little taller and a little older, but I’m not opposed.”

Harry slides his sunglasses onto his nose and walks towards the ladder, calling back over his shoulder, “Shut the fuck up and get back to work.”

Louis laughs and follows him. “Yes, sir.”

He spends the rest of the day loudly telling Liam about how much Harry wants him, how he thinks he’s going to have to come stay in Liam’s guest room because Harry is having problems with self-control, how jealous Harry had been when Louis had flirted with Evan, and how Louis would never swoop in and break up a happy couple like that, but that maybe Harry should figure out exactly who he’s jealous of.

Liam laughs and rolls his eyes and tells Louis he ought to consider investing in one of those magnifying mirrors if he’s having trouble seeing himself in these situations. This makes absolutely no sense at all, and Louis tells him exactly that.

They work until dark, with Liam helping pass them the pieces from the scaffolding while Louis and Harry are up on the roof, but they don’t finish, and the forecast for the following day includes afternoon thunderstorms, so they decide to get started right at seven in the hopes that they’ll finish before the rain starts.

They’re laying in bed, both of them on their backs, watching Friends, when Harry says, “I can probably set you up with Evan if you’d like me to.”

“What?” Louis sits up in surprise. “Why?”

“Well, I mean…” Harry focuses on picking at a loose thread on the blanket. “He was flirting with you the other day and you said you didn’t mind…”

Louis huffs, “I’m not going to steal your boyfriend, Styles,” and relaxes back into his pillow.

“I keep telling you he’s not my boyfriend.”

“Ex-boyfriend, then.”

“He’s not…” He turns his head slightly, catching Louis’ eye, then quickly looks up at the television. “Are you interested or not?”

“Nah, he’s not my type. Plus, that’s weird since you guys dated.”

Harry sighs heavily. “We didn’t date. It was like a, um, friends with benefits type thing. Sort of.”

“Sort of?”

“I don’t know.”

“How can you not know?” Louis lifts left arm and slides his hand behind his head. “Were there benefits or weren’t there?”

“I guess there were benefits.”

“Clearly they weren’t any good. Now I’m definitely not interested.”

Harry sort of growls in frustration, but then he’s quiet for a minute. “It’s not that. It’s just that, I suppose that’s not really my thing.”

“What? Sex isn’t your thing? I thought that was something that only happened one time twenty years ago.”

Harry elbows him in the ribs.

“Ouch, dickhead.”

“Suffer in pain, asshole. And no. I’m just not really into casual sex. I used to be, like, in between relationships, but… I’m not anymore. Honestly, it was kind of depressing.”

“Oh. Well, that sucks.”

“Yeah, but like I said, I’m sure he’d be into you, if you wanted.” The episode ends and Harry turns off the television, plunging the room into darkness.

“Nah, I’m too old for that shit, and with all the work we’re doing I’m too tired to even jerk off most days." He yawns and stretches his arms overhead. "Last thing I want is to feel like I have to perform for someone else’s benefit. Not worth it for casual sex.”

“Yeah, me too. It’s enough that I have to deal with you every day.”

“Exactly.”

They’re quiet for a few minutes and Louis thinks that Harry’s fallen asleep, but then he whispers, “I’ll try not to cuddle you. I’m really sorry. I can go sleep on the couch.”

“Jesus, Styles, it’s fine. Just… here.” He pats his chest.

“What?”

“Come on.” He pats his chest again. “You might as well do it properly. At least let me be comfortable.”

“Seriously?”

“Yes. Why not? Just don’t tell Liam.”

“I… Okay.” Harry scoots closer and rolls onto his side, resting his head on Louis’ chest. “This is weird.”

“You’ve been weirder. I’ve witnessed it. Remember the Scooby-Doo costume? Just go to sleep.”

Harry mumbles and his breath warms Louis’ skin. “Still weird. I don’t know what to do with my arm.”

Louis hums and pats Harry’s head like a toddler might do the first time they pet a dog and Harry pinches his nipple. Hard. Louis yelps and pulls Harry’s hair. “Fucker. Get off me.” He shoves at Harry’s shoulder until he’s flat on his back again. “Roll over. Face that way.”

Surprisingly, Harry does as he’s told.

Louis lays behind him, a few inches between his chest and Harry’s back, and drapes his right arm over Harry’s side. “Is this okay?”

Harry murmurs, “Yeah, just… please don’t tell Liam that you’ve made me the little spoon.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

Louis sleeps well that night and wakes up comfortable and warm. No tingling limbs, no crushing weight on top of him, though they have snuggled closer together in their sleep. He’s back to his usual according to Harry’s alarm clock, which he can see when he lifts his head to peer over Harry’s shoulder. Five-thirty in the morning and he feels pretty good. No embarrassing erection, at least. The last thing he needs is to wake up grinding on Harry’s ass.

Careful not to disturb his sleep, Louis rolls away from Harry and climbs out of bed. While he makes coffee and eats a bowl of cereal, he tries to avoid thinking about how strange it is to not only sleep with Harry, but to willingly spoon him through the entire night.

They don’t talk about it, which is just as well, because Louis isn’t sure what he would say.

The rest of the roof goes on fairly easily in Louis’ opinion. There are only a few more panels to install and once that’s on, the flashing along the peak is the last piece. It’s one long piece that they had to special order bent to the correct angle before it was delivered. Louis had no idea there was so much math involved in construction, though he supposes he never really thought about it before.

Harry double checks the measurements and calculations before they get started, then he climbs up first to secure the roofing jacks while Liam and Louis clean up most of the mess they’ve dropped on the ground. But Louis just about loses his mind when the three of them lay the first board down on the jacks and Harry goes to climb up without a harness.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing, Styles?”

“Huh?” Harry looks back over his shoulder in confusion at Louis standing there with his hands on his hips.

“You can’t climb up there without a harness.”

“We only have two and you guys are wearing them.” He shakes his head and climbs all the way onto the first board. “It’s fine.”

“It’s not fine.” Until this point it hadn’t been an issue, one of them had always remained on the scaffolding while the other two were up on the roof. “We’ll have to wait until we get another one.”

Liam snickers quietly behind him and Louis whips his head around to glare at him. “What’s funny?”

“Just, um, careful, Louis, or someone might think you give a shit.”

“His fucking mom will kill me if he falls off the roof.”

“Right.”

“You've met her. She can be scary.”

Harry stands there on the roof, slightly above them, eyes going back and forth while they discuss him like he’s not even there. “Um…”

“Shut up, Styles.”

Liam laughs again, but at least this time he tries to pretend he’s coughing. “Louis, it’s fine.”

“How is it fine, Liam?”

“Harry’s done this a million times. He’s not going to fall with the jacks.”

Louis takes a deep breath and blows his hair off his forehead. “If he falls, I’m telling his mom she can blame you, Liam.”

They lay the rest of the boards on the jacks, building their own set of temporary stairs up to the peak of the roof. It takes them a little while to maneuver the long piece of flashing onto the scaffold, but once they get it up there, they’re able to climb the roofing jacks and put it in place on the peak of the roof. They’re still screwing in the edges when the rain comes, but thankfully they’re able to finish it up before the thunder and lightning start.

They leave the jacks and boards, climb down, and decide to call it a day. Liam laughs his ass off when Harry slips just a little in the rain—he easily steadies himself and was in no way close to falling—and Louis grabs him by the hair. He refuses to let go and makes Harry hold on to his harness the rest of the way down and he doesn’t care that Liam thinks it's funny or that Harry's looking at him like he's lost it completely. It’s not safe otherwise. Ridiculous man, climbing up there without a safety harness. He thinks maybe he should push Harry off the roof just to show him exactly how dangerous it is.

The rain is still pouring down when they wake up the next morning. Harry decided that it was his turn to be the big spoon, and Louis woke up at five-thirty on the dot with Harry snoring and grunting and twitching and poking him in the ass with his dick.

It’s lunchtime and the thunder and lightning haven’t let up all day. Neither has Louis. He manages to work the word erect into regular conversation seven times.

The first three times, Harry blushes and stammers and mutters about biology and a full bladder.

The fourth time, he shoots up off the couch, slams his book down on the coffee table, disappears into his bedroom, and locks the door.

The fifth time, well, Louis supposes it doesn’t count as regular conversation. He’s really just banging on Harry’s bedroom door begging for forgiveness and asking to be allowed in because he’s bored and wants to watch television.

After about ten minutes straight of Louis knocking and begging, Harry finally relents, opens the door, and says, “Fine. What do you want to watch?”

Louis can hardly contain his glee. “I was thinking we could watch Parks and Erect-reation.”

Harry snorts and rolls his eyes. “You’re an idiot.”

With a wide grin, Louis slips into the room and flops down onto the bed. “I know.”

The next two times he says it, Harry completely ignores him, which takes all the fun out of it, so he decides to back off and wait for the perfect moment to say it again.

When by early evening the rain still doesn’t stop, they go down to the store to pick up some groceries and say hello to Liam. Harry looks suspicious, and rightly so, when Louis offers to pay for everything instead of splitting it. Harry abandons him at the checkout and stalks out to the truck after Louis loudly proclaims to Liam and the entire line of customers behind them that he’d rather not put it on his credit card, and instead would like to use his d-erect debit card.

The feelings of triumph and pure amusement are completely worth getting soaked in the rain while making two trips to carry all of the groceries up the stairs to Harry’s apartment by himself.

That night, Louis has to eat PB&J for dinner because Harry refuses to cook the meal he was planning to make, even though they literally just bought groceries. He showers and watches Netflix until he falls asleep, but when he wakes up the next morning, he’s alone, so he wanders out into the living room and finds Harry asleep on the couch. Apparently he was annoyed enough to give up his bed. Louis apologizes, but he also has to promise not to make any more erection jokes at Harry’s expense before Harry will tell him where the coffee is hidden.

It’s still storming outside, so they spend the day working inside the beach house. In theory, it sounds like it’ll be less work. Louis expects it to be easy compared to what they’ve been doing, and it is. But it’s still hard work. It’s just different. They haul the wet, mildewed mattresses outside onto the porch and drop them over the side into the dumpster. After they disassemble the bunk beds, the rest of the furniture in the house has to be covered with plastic sheeting and that takes forever and is a giant pain in the ass. Thankfully, they moved most of it away from the ceiling leaks when they happened.

The next step is messy and kind of fun. With masks on their faces and goggles over their eyes, they start ripping down the ruined parts of the ceiling with crowbars. It comes down easily enough, the drywall pieces are damp and crumbly, but then the wet insulation starts coming down too, and they have to start working as a team.

“Hold the fucking bag still.” Harry’s voice is muffled by his mask, but still loud and clearly annoyed. “I can’t get this shit in the bag if you keep moving it.”

“I was just getting the bag ready. Be patient, dickhead.” Louis holds the large trash bag steady while Harry stuffs the wet insulation and soggy pieces of drywall inside. “I thought we had a trash can so I wouldn’t have to do this.”

“Yeah, it was downstairs and it’s gone. Either it blew away in this storm or someone took it.”

“Why don’t we go get another one?”

“’Cause they cost like forty dollars and I have you, and you’re almost as a good as a trash can.”

Louis shakes the bag so that the contents settle a bit, then ties the top, drags it outside and drops it into the dumpster. When he comes back inside, he holds out a new bag and when Harry gets close enough to put something in it, he moves it. It only takes a minute or two of that before Harry drops what he has in his hands, peels off his gloves, and leaves those, his mask, and his goggles on the kitchen counter.

“I’ll be back in fifteen with your fucking trash can.” He slams the door behind him and Louis smiles, then fills the bag in his hands and tosses it into the dumpster. He fills another one before Harry returns, and after that they’re both pulling down wet ceiling pieces and insulation and filling the trash can twice as fast.

“Thanks for annoying me until I got the trash can.” Harry says after he takes off his mask, and he sounds sincere, which shocks the shit out of Louis. He expected Harry to bitch about it for a couple of days. “Made things go quicker.”

“Sure thing, Styles. Whatever I can do to annoy the fuck out of you, I will gladly do.”

Harry snorts and shakes his head, and little pieces of fluffy pink insulation fall to the ground. “Maybe whenever we’re done with this shit, and you’re back home, you can come down and annoy me once in awhile.”

“You’re out of your fucking mind.”

“I was just…” Harry pushes his goggles up into his hair and sighs. “I just meant that I thought we were getting along alright. Never mind.” He picks up the last full garbage bag and starts towards the door.

“Hey, no, that’s not what I meant.” Louis snatches the bag from his hand, hauls it outside and tosses it into the dumpster, and Harry follows. Louis turns around and leans his ass against the porch railing. “I meant that I’m not going to come down here just so I can annoy you. It’ll have to be like a side trip or something.”

The corners of Harry’s mouth turn up at that. “What like, on your way to Disney World, you’ll stop off and annoy me?”

“Maybe. Or if I come down to stay at the beach house, I can annoy you a little bit while I’m here.”

“Yeah, okay.” Harry locks the door and starts down the stairs. “Still think we should sell this fucking house though.”

“I’m going to be eighty years old and you’re still going to be saying that because I’m never going to want to sell it.”

“I know.”

It rains for the rest of the week. Cleaning up the inside of the beach house doesn’t take long and then they’re almost instantly bored.

But, it’s nice, for lack of a better word. They’ve managed to find some sort of balance between them. They fight every single day, but most of the time they work it out or get it out of their systems fairly quickly, and if they don’t, well they spend the entire day being rude to each other, trying to one-up each other with insults, yelling a little, and occasionally they resort to throwing things like pillows or toast or wet laundry at each other in frustration. Though that doesn’t happen nearly as often as it used to.

They haven't purchased the new drywall for the ceiling or the new insulation for the attic yet, which are really the only things they can even work on in this weather, but even if they bought them, because of the weather, there’s no good way to transport them from one place to the other without everything getting wet. They spend half a day complaining about it, then Harry remembers Louis’ weed, so they spend the rest of the day high and watching Netflix in bed.

“There are no hot guys on any of the shows that you watch.” Louis reaches over and turns off his lamp. Harry’s is still on, the light hurts his eyes and he kind of wishes he had some eye drops.

“It’s not porn, Louis. I usually watch it before I go to sleep.”

“I know it’s not porn, jackass. I watch it to go to sleep sometimes too, usually Friends or Parks and Rec, but it’s too early to go to sleep.”

“You just want eye candy.”

Louis nods. “Exactly.”

“What the hell for? You better not be jerking off in my bed.”

“I’m not. I wouldn’t.”

“Eww.” Harry grimaces. “That means you’re doing it in my shower.”

“Yep.”

“Great, now I have to bleach my shower.” He crosses his arms and pouts and Louis can’t believe it.

“That’s ridiculous. It’s just come. You’ve literally had my come in your mouth. You’ve swallowed it. Jesus, it’s not like I took a shit in your shower, Styles. Relax.” Louis chuckles quietly and leans back against the headboard, then lolls his head to the side so he can stick his tongue out at Harry. Harry, whose face is bright red, even in the lamplight, and whose eyes are shut so tight, that Louis bursts out laughing.

“Shut up. It’s not funny.”

“Are you seriously mad because I masturbated in your shower?”

“No, I’m not… It’s not that. I’d… I guess I’d kind of forgotten about, um, you know.” Harry closes his eyes and turns away. “The other stuff.”

Louis’ good mood evaporates instantly. He clenches his teeth and closes his eyes and takes in a deep breath through his nose. “Good to know. Right. Okay.” He swings his legs out of bed and stands up. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

“What? Where are you going? It’s like seven o’clock. I thought we were going to watch a movie and get pizza.”

“Yeah, well, I don’t want to be around you right now.” He fumbles for his glasses on the nightstand.

“What did I do? What the fuck happened?”

Louis turns to look at him and shrugs. “Apparently nothing worth remembering, so…” He starts towards the bedroom door.

“Wait. Come back, please.” Harry pats the pillows next to him. “We just smoked and I’m high and I can’t remember what I said two minutes ago. Please don’t be mad.”

He sounds so confused that it’s hard to stay angry, but Louis is stubborn enough to do it. “It’s not two minutes ago that I’m talking about. It’s ten years ago, asshole.”

“What?”

Louis stops with his hand on the doorknob, heaves a put upon sigh, and looks up at the ceiling for a few seconds before turning back around. “You realize that it really ruins the whole ‘me leaving in a huff thing’ if I have to explain why I’m doing it.”

Harry flops his upper body over to the side and lays on his back across all of the pillows, hands dangling over the edge of the bed. “I don’t understand though. Ten years ago. We were thirty-five. Oh are you talking about…” Harry’s face starts to turn pink again and he closes his eyes and whispers, “when we had sex?”

“Yes,” Louis stage whispers back. “You just said that you’d forgotten it even happened. So thanks. Glad to know I’m so memorable.”

Harry picks up one of the pillows and throws it across the room, missing Louis by a mile. “You’re an idiot. I didn’t forget about it. I just sort of forgot for a second that I’d…” He lowers his voice to a whisper again, “swallowed.”

“Why are you whispering?”

“I don’t know. I’m high? I was just embarrassed that I was making a big deal about you… you know in the shower when I’d… you know.”

“Is there something about weed that turns you into a prude? Because I have seen firsthand that you are capable of some rather filthy things and you’re being very weird right now.”

Harry rolls onto his side, turns his face, presses it into a pillow and mumbles, “Those were different circumstances.”

Okay, so, embarrassing Harry is almost as much fun as, or maybe even more fun than, making him angry. “Why? ’Cause we were naked?”

“Well, that and we were… you know.” He keeps his face hidden and gestures with his hand, waving it in a circle.

“Do I know?” Louis hums in mock confusion. “I’m not sure I do.”

Embarrassed and angry, though, that’s an interesting combination. Harry sits back up and scowls, nostrils flaring. “Yes, you do. You know exactly what we—”

“Fucking. We were fucking. To be precise, you dropped to your knees and sucked me off while my pants were still around my ankles.” Harry’s mouth falls open and he shuts it so fast that Louis hears his teeth clack together. “Of course, I did return the favor. Though, I tried not to choke on yours, even if it seemed like that was your intention with mine.”

“Jesus Christ, Louis.” Harry bends his legs and hugs them to his chest, dropping his forehead onto his knees. Even with his face hidden, Louis can still see his ears and they’re turning pinker by the second.

He clicks his tongue like he’s thinking, but he’s really just dragging this out a bit. “The dirty stuff, that came later. I mean, at the time, I thought it was pretty filthy when you were fucking me from behind on the couch, pulling my hair, smacking my ass, and talking about how much you liked seeing your cock in me.”

“Oh, my god.” Harry pulls the comforter up and over his head, completely covering himself. That’s okay though, because he can still hear.

“But then a couple hours later when you were riding me in the middle of that big-ass king-sized bed? Begging me to pinch your nipples and fuck you harder? Saying how you loved having me so deep… Really, the noises you made…”

Harry falls over to the side, pulls the blanket closer, and whines, “I hate you so much.”

“After you came into my hand though, that was like… the pinnacle. Or at least, that’s how I remember it. Because while I was coming…” Honestly, the dramatic pauses are fun. “Filling the condom…” He bites his lip to keep from laughing. “Inside you…”

“You’re an asshole.” Harry’s arm shoots out from the blanket and grabs a pillow that he holds tightly over his head.

“You were licking your own come off of my fingers.” Louis grins wickedly, picks up the pillow that Harry had thrown across the room earlier, walks over and hits Harry with it. “Anyway, I just think it’s funny that you’re being so weird about me jerking off in your shower. That’s all.” He drops down onto the bed next to Harry and pats his back through the blanket. “So. Pizza?”

Slowly, Harry pulls the pillow and blanket off of his head, unfolds his body, and sits up against the headboard. But he won’t look at Louis and his face is still pink. “Yeah, pizza. I hope you choke on it.”

Louis snorts, stands up, and moves out of Harry’s reach. “You mean like you choked on my cock?”

“Fuck you.”

“There ya go. That’s what we were just talking about. See how easy it is to say the words?”

Harry seems to be getting his footing back. “Yeah, fuck you, you’re an asshole, and apparently you either have a photographic memory or you’ve been reminiscing about that day regularly and getting off to it for the last ten years.”

Louis laughs and winks and says, “Maybe.”

Then he goes to the kitchen to find a glass of water and leaves Harry to order their pizza. Yeah, that was an incredible night, even if the morning after was shitty. Harry’s crazy if he thinks Louis hasn’t been using that as fantasy material, because of course he has. And if Harry hasn’t, well, that’s his loss.

Chapter Text

“Hey, Styles.” Louis is scraping the ceiling because when he realized it was an option—flat ceilings instead of popcorn ceilings—he wanted them. He only had to argue with Harry about it for twelve minutes before he gave in. A new record.

Harry’s on the other side of the room, taping the seams around the new ceiling drywall. “Are you going to ask me to do even more work?” He reaches up and smooths the tape down, then hops down off the ladder. “What?”

Louis looks at his hands, at the new blisters that have formed, and the ones that have healed, and the callouses that have appeared. “I’ve been thinking that we should sell the beach house.”

“Funny.” Harry picks up the ladder and carries it down the hall towards the tiniest bedroom.

Louis props his scraper against the wall and follows Harry. “I’m serious. I think, if we’re going to put all of this money and work into it, we should try to sell it and get something back. I mean, we’re missing a whole summer’s worth of rental income.”

Harry walks back out of the room, squeezing past Louis where he stands in the doorway. “Let’s get these wet parts scraped, then you can help me get that piece of drywall up in that bedroom.”

“What do you think?”

“About what?”

“About selling the house. Are you even listening to me?”

“Not really.”

He should’ve expected this. After Harry mentioned it the other day, he started to actually consider it, and the thought hung around in the back of his mind, popping up when he was lying in bed at night or when he was showering. But every time he thought about it, he knew for sure that Harry would be pissed off if he brought it up.

“We don’t have to talk about it now. Just… think about it, okay?”

“Whatever, Louis.” He puts his goggles on and starts scraping the ceiling, maybe a little more vigorously than necessary.

Louis doesn’t bring it up again until the next day when they’ve finished putting up the new drywall and they’re both scraping the last bits off the ceiling from the master bedroom.

“So, have you thought about it?”

“Thought about what?”

“Selling.”

Harry stops to knocks his scraper clean and says, “I’ve thought about it fairly regularly over the last ten years.”

“Okay, so have you thought about it since I brought it up yesterday?”

“Yeah.”

Louis is almost legitimately confused. This conversation is much more difficult to have than he anticipated. “And?”

“There’s no point in doing anything about it now. We have to finish doing all the fucking work first.”

“Right. I mean, I know that. I was just wondering if you’d want to put it on the market when we’re done.”

“Of course I want to sell it.” Harry sounds exasperated, which is stupid, because he’s the one who’s been avoiding answering the question.

“Okay, I wasn’t sure—”

“Get rid of the house and I finally get rid of you.” Harry sneers. “Bonus.”

“Yeah, I was thinking the exact same thing.” Except he wasn’t thinking that at all. He thought that if he ever wanted to come down to the beach, maybe he could stay with Harry. Which… He doesn’t know what he was thinking. Once they finish with the house, he’s never coming back.

This whole sleeping together thing—as in actually sleeping in the same bed together—is working out pretty well. At least, once they started intentionally snuggling instead of Harry trapping Louis’ body and causing what could have been permanent damage to his arm. It could have been, he Googled. Usually they spoon. No matter what Harry says, no matter how many times he insists on doing it the other way, they both seem to sleep better when Harry’s the little spoon.

Sometimes when Harry tries to be the big spoon, he ends up sprawled on Louis’ chest, which isn’t so bad, but it’s harder to get out of in the morning without waking him. He isn’t entirely sure why he does that—carefully untangles himself from Harry every morning to let him sleep for a little while longer. At first, he told himself that he just wanted a few minutes alone to wake up, that he wanted to be the one to brew the coffee because Harry does it wrong, or that he just needed to avoid Harry’s grumpy morning face.

And maybe those reasons applied before, but there’s a definite line between before and after and that line is called “The Day Louis Tomlinson Opened His Big Mouth In An Attempt To Embarrass Harry Styles And Inadvertently Caused Himself To Have A String Of Sex Dreams Featuring Him Instead.”

It’s making Louis’ mornings extremely uncomfortable.

The first time it happens, he doesn’t remember his dream. His eyes shoot open at five thirty-three in the morning and Harry is twitching and snoring and doing his thing and Louis doesn’t even notice that his dick is hard until he stretches his legs out straight and accidentally nudges his boner against Harry’s ass. He rolls backwards so fast that he almost falls out of bed, and the only reason he doesn’t is because the blanket and sheets are somehow wrapped around and underneath him, so he ends up stuck like a fucking burrito until he manages to free himself and run to the bathroom.

It’s a panic unlike anything he’s ever felt and he doesn’t even know why. Though maybe somewhere in the back of his mind, he remembers how much shit he gave Harry about his awkward erection, and he doesn’t want the same treatment. The shock and the scramble help the situation in his pants a lot, and soon he’s able to pee and brush his teeth and it’s just another morning.

It’s not until it happens the very next day, in the very same way, that he realizes what’s going on. This time he sleeps a little longer, his sleep cycle is a little different, and when he wakes up, he remembers his dream because he’s right in the middle of it and it’s like some sort of reverse of what he remembers happening so long ago on the couch at the beach house, and it’s really hot and he wakes up really hard.

He’s more careful when he scoots back and rolls out of bed, so he doesn’t end up caught in the sheets and blankets, but when he gets to the bathroom, no matter what he does, his dick won’t behave and he ends up locking the door and jerking off into the fucking toilet like a teenager.

It keeps happening, but then it stops. He thinks he’s safe when it doesn’t happen for two days in a row and he lets his guard down.

They’re back outside on the scaffolding, working on prying the rest of the siding off of the house. It’s tedious, and yes at first Louis was excited about pretty much everything they were doing because it was new which translated to fun, but now it’s boring and all he can think about is that his hands are sore and his arms are sore and his neck is sore and his lower back is sore and his legs are sore.

Sunset is so late that they could keep working until nine if they want, as long as they aren’t disturbing the neighbors, but when they finish pulling the last of the siding off around seven-thirty, they call it a day, and after they pick up all of the bits and pieces that didn’t land inside the dumpster, they lock up and get ready to leave.

“You alright? You look a little flushed.” Harry pushes his sunglasses into his hair and squints at Louis. “Did you not put on sunscreen today?”

Somehow, even though he’s done it every single other day that they’ve worked outside, he managed to completely forget to do it today. He stood there and watched Harry rub it all over himself and when Harry tossed him the bottle, he just put it down on the edge of the truck bed. It’s still there.

“Shit. Fuck. Motherfucking cocksucker. Goddamn it!”

Harry snorts as he unlocks the truck. “Eloquent.”

“Fuck you.”

“Shut up, Louis. I’ll stop and get some aloe on the way home. I’ll even run in and get it and you can stay in the truck with the air conditioning, you big baby.”

It’s a bad sunburn, so Harry gives him ibuprofen and a big glass of ice water and after Harry takes a quick shower, he makes Louis soak in a bath of cool water with some milk and one of those oatmeal bath packets, which makes him feel like he’s breakfast food or something, but at least it soothes his skin.

When he gets tired of sitting in the soupy concoction, he rinses off in the shower, climbs out of the tub, carefully pats himself dry, and steps into a pair of loose, worn, soft, cut-off sweatpants. He actually doesn’t feel well; his stomach is upset and he doesn’t want to eat dinner. He just wants to go to bed and feel sorry for himself.

Harry makes him some toast with butter and honey and sprinkles it with cinnamon, refills his ice water, and when he finishes eating, tells him to lie down on his stomach on the bed. Louis is tired and sore and not thinking clearly, so he does what Harry tells him to do without question, but he winces at the feeling of the blanket against his skin.

“I got this aloe gel with menthol in it and I put it in the freezer when we got home, so it’ll feel really good on your skin.” Harry sets the bottle down on the nightstand and Louis starts to roll over or push himself up, but Harry gently lays his hand in between Louis’ shoulder blades and guides him back down. “I’ll do it. Just be still.”

He sits on the edge of the bed and Louis can feel the heat of Harry’s body on the bare skin of his side. The first touch of the aloe to his sunburn makes him shiver and he sucks in a breath through his teeth. “It’s cold.”

“What part of ‘I put it in the freezer’ did you not understand?”

“Shut up.” Louis shivers again and tries in vain to control it.

“You probably have a fever. It happens. This isn’t as bad as it could’ve been if it’d happened when we first started working.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah, your skin is tanned from being outside so much. Could’ve been a lot worse.” Harry’s fingertips are gentle as he spreads the gel over Louis’ shoulders, the back of his neck, the shell of his ear, his arms. Soon Louis is sort of drifting, awake, but not all there, not paying attention to whatever Harry’s saying and doing, just letting the menthol in the gel cool his skin and shivering now and then with goosebumps when Harry touches him someplace new.

His body jerks uncontrollably when he feels Harry’s warm fingers spreading the cold gel on the skin of his lower back, just above the waist of his shorts, which he suddenly realizes are pulled quite low.

Now he’s hyperaware of the fact that the fabric edging runs right along the top of his ass. Literally, he’d be surprised if there’s not a little bit of his crack peeking out. So he tries to shift his entire body downward while still lying flat on the blanket in the hopes that somehow friction will hold his pants still and he’ll sort of scoot further into them.

“Stop wiggling. I’m almost done.” Harry’s palm flat on the center of his back stops him and he gives up.

Louis sighs quietly and lets his body sink into the mattress while the tips of Harry’s fingers trace along the sliver of skin that must have been peeking out between his shirt and shorts all day. It feels so good, and completely without his permission, he starts to get hard. He assumes that what is basically a first degree burn over a large portion of his body would put a damper on any sort of sexual impulses, but it appears that he is very, very wrong.

He’s almost to the point of wiggling again, for different reasons this time, when Harry stands up and the bed wobbles and he’s able to move his hips a tiny bit. It doesn’t help at all, makes it worse actually, but for just a few seconds it feels too good for him to care.

In the weird haze of this bizarre sort of non-massage, he forgot that his legs are also sunburned, but Harry remembers and he starts gently applying the aloe gel to Louis’ calves. It feels funny in his leg hair, but also ridiculously good, especially on the backs of his knees, which he silently adds to the list of his erogenous zones.

He’s too caught up in actively not humping the bed to realize that the shorts he wore to work today were long enough to cover every bit of his thighs, and yet, Harry is gently rubbing them with aloe vera gel. It feels amazing and he’s just about to say as much when Harry pinches the arch of his foot and he yelps instead.

“Roll over.”

“Um… No.”

“Louis, let me get your front.”

“No.”

“What the hell is wrong with you? Roll the fuck over.” And before Louis even knows what’s happening, Harry grabs his hips and physically rolls him over onto his back.

Louis’ hands fly up of their own volition, not to cover his crotch, which would make much more sense considering the situation down there, but to cover his face which flushes hot with embarrassment, and they land with a light smack that wouldn’t normally phase him at all, but with his sunburn stings like hell and makes his eyes water.

“Ouch, fuck.”

“Shit, Lou. You okay?”

“Obviously not, asshole.”

“Shut up.” Harry tugs gently at Louis’ wrists until he relaxes his arms and brings them down to rest on his belly. “Let me put some of this on your face.”

“Sorry.”

Harry smirks. “About what?”

“Shut up.” He’s still hard and it won’t go away, but Harry isn’t saying anything. At least his blush probably isn’t visible through his sunburn.

“Mmhmm… hold still.” Using his middle finger, Harry meticulously applies the gel to the skin of Louis’ face. His forehead, around his eyelids, his cheeks, nose. Apparently even the skin under his beard had burned, because Harry’s stroking the short hairs on his chin and jaw. He continues slowly down Louis’ neck, across the front of his shoulders, and his arms. Then he stands up again.

He disappears into the bathroom and Louis can hear the water running. He sighs and closes his eyes, assuming that Harry's leaving him alone so he can take care of the little problem in his shorts.

“I’ll finish your legs, but, um…”

Harry startles him and Louis opens his eyes. When he sees where Harry is looking, he scowls. “Go ahead. Make your jokes about tents or whatever. Turnabout is fair play and all that shit.” But Harry’s still quietly looking at Louis’ erection. “Just say it, Styles.”

“Alright. Fine.” Harry pauses and takes a deep breath, meets Louis’ eyes, then sort of all at once the rest of his words tumble out. “I want to suck you off first.”

Louis doesn’t know what to say or how to react because he is almost one hundred percent certain that Harry is serious. So he just wordlessly stares at him and waits for him to say something else.

“Right.” Harry's eyes travel down Louis’ body and back up. “So, is that okay?”

Louis nods and before his head stops moving, Harry is carefully peeling his shorts down, gently sliding them over his sunburned skin, and off. He sighs and leans in, nuzzling and licking Louis’ balls and holy shit.

An irrepressible whimper leaves his throat and he’s abruptly aware of every little thing about himself that he doesn’t like. All of the reasons that, the older he gets, the more he’d rather leave the light off: the little belly that he’s been carrying around for longer than he likes to admit, the scar from his emergency appendectomy, gray hair in a certain place, an overgrown forest because he stopped trimming. He shivers and gasps and when he looks down at Harry’s stupid brown hair, his body tenses.

Harry squeezes his thigh and murmurs into his skin, “Stop overthinking.”

“How did you…”

“Relax. Just let me…”

And all of Louis’ thoughts flicker out when Harry licks from just behind his balls all the way to the tip of his dick and sucks him down.

It’s so much like that first time at the beach house. He’s just as overwhelmed, elated, and impressed as he was then, and there’s still that little hint of jealousy underneath it all. The competitive part of him that needs to be better than Harry at everything, wants so badly to push him down and show him what he can do with his mouth.

Harry takes his time, teasing him with his tongue until Louis can’t take it anymore. He combs his fingers through Harry’s hair, grips it tight, pushes him down, and is rewarded with a moan. After that, Harry doesn’t let up, sucking and licking so perfectly that Louis thinks for a second that he could probably die right now and be happy about it. When he comes, his hips buck up, and his dick nudges Harry’s throat, making him sputter. But he doesn’t back off, swallowing it all, and licking him clean.

Louis’ body is still trembling when Harry climbs on top of him, knees on either side of his hips, naked because apparently he can still lose his pants in half a second, and brings himself off, coming into his fist and onto Louis’ stomach with a stuttering moan. He drops down onto the bed beside Louis, both of them staring at the ceiling and trying to catch their breath.

“Is this some new sunburn treatment that I haven’t heard of?”

Harry snickers, then reaches over and smears the rest of his come on Louis’ stomach. “No, but we can try that next time.”

Louis is halfway through a yawn when he processes what Harry said, so the noise he makes is definitely not a word. He tries again. “Next time?”

There’s no response at first. Harry just climbs off the bed and disappears into the bathroom, but he comes back with a washcloth and cleans away the mess from Louis’ stomach, so he waits to see if he’ll answer.

“Um, well, I figured why not. I keep waking up with your dick poking me. Might as well put it to good use.”

Louis’ mouth drops open. He thought he’d been getting away with it. “I didn’t… Yeah, okay.”

There’s absolutely no way that this will end well, but it’s not like it matters anyway. When the house is fixed, he’ll go home, they’ll put the beach house on the market, and hopefully sell it sooner rather than later, and… Well, like Harry said, they’ll finally be rid of each other.

Why not go out with a bang. Fuck it up from all angles.

As if they didn’t just agree to start regularly getting off together, Harry nods and says, “Cool. Now, let me finish your legs.”

He picks up the aloe vera gel from the floor, squeezes some into his hand, and starts to rub it onto the sunburned skin of Louis’ shins. When he finishes, he helps Louis under the covers, then leaves the room.

Louis sighs. It’s weird being naked in Harry’s bed, but he doesn’t have long to think about it because Harry returns to bedroom, still naked, with a glass of water that he sets down on Louis’ nightstand. He turns off all of the lights, and crawls into bed from the other side. Louis just lays there on his back, unsure of what to do now.

“Spoon me, asshole.”

“Oh. Um, sorry.” He rolls over and drapes his arm across Harry’s side, making sure to leave some space between them like he does every night. Harry huffs and wiggles, slowly scooting backwards until his back is flush against Louis’ chest, and within minutes he’s asleep. Louis lays awake, hot and sweaty from his sunburn. His arm and upper body aren’t covered, but he still kicks the blanket off of his legs. He listens to Harry snore, wondering what the hell just happened, and trying to estimate how fucked up things are going to be in the morning.

As it turns out, there was no need to worry about things being different. He wakes up to Harry yelling at him for using the last of the coffee and not putting it on the grocery list and for not telling him to buy more when he ran inside the store to get the aloe the night before.

He’s grumpy and angry until Louis buys him a coffee at the little shop near Liam’s store and promises to never let them run out of coffee again. After that, he’s no longer angry, but he continues to be grumpy for the rest of the day, yelling at Louis when he does ‘too much’ one minute and yelling at him to move his ‘lazy ass’ the next. So it’s back to normal and Louis is relieved.

They get a lot of work done inside the house, scraping the ceilings and hauling the new attic insulation upstairs from the bed of the truck. The only real difference that Louis notices is that when they start bickering about which one of them should be responsible for cleaning up the mess they’d made while working on the ceiling and which one of them should climb into the attic and start rolling out the new insulation, and Harry starts in with his ‘I’m the boss’ voice as if that’s going to make Louis listen and obey, and Louis starts mimicking him, well…

At the point where one of them would normally storm off or throw something, instead Louis pushes Harry against the wall in the hallway, kisses him until they’re both panting and hard, then pulls their shorts down. After mutual hand jobs, they sort of forget what they were fighting about, clean up everything together, then climb up into the attic to work on the insulation.

Louis makes fun of Harry for falling through the ceiling during Hurricane Nicole, and Harry calls him a fucking dickhead, and it’s totally and completely normal. Weirdly normal.

The old vinyl siding, the unnecessary layer of insulation, and most of the original siding are completely gone now. A few pieces of the old wooden siding are left, but it takes them less than an hour to rip it all down. After that, they spend the rest of the afternoon taking down the few outdoor light fixtures that are still up, scraping caulk from around the windows and doors, and hammering loose nails into the wood that goes underneath it all. They’re lucky that they only have to replace two pieces of plywood and are able to do that quickly and keep working.

The house wrap takes a lot longer than Louis would have thought, and Harry says it’s because there are only two of them, so everything takes longer. When Louis suggests that maybe he has another ex-boyfriend who’s an expert in this particular area, Harry threatens to hit him with a hammer, but he also seems to work a little faster after that, so Louis feels like he said the right thing. It’s good to keep Harry on his toes. They don’t want to get complacent.

“These hurricane shutters suck.” Louis whacks the one closest to him with his hammer. “We should get new ones.”

“No.” Harry staples the last of the house wrap and slips the staple gun into his tool belt.

“Look at it. The hinges and screws are all rusted. Even the windows… We should get new windows too.”

Harry just shakes his head, kicks the debris and the rest of the mess they’ve made today off of the scaffold and starts to climb down.

“Don’t ignore me, Styles.” Louis starts climbing down right behind him.

Harry continues to ignore him, hopping down the last few feet, picking up whatever had landed on the ground and tossing it into the dumpster.

Louis helps him clean up without saying anything, biding his time until he can corner Harry somewhere where he can’t run off when Louis is in the middle of a sentence.

There’s still plenty of daylight left, it’s nearing six o’clock, but the siding isn’t being delivered until the next morning, so they’d planned to spend any extra time today working on finishing the ceilings in the bedrooms. The floor is covered in drop cloths and the furniture is still covered in plastic.

“I didn’t realize this would be such a pain in the ass.” Louis squats down to pry open a can of paint and pour some into the paint tray.

“I Didn’t Realize This Would Be Such a Pain In the Ass, A Memoir by Harry Styles. Subtitle: How Renovating a House With Louis Tomlinson Drove Me To an Early Grave.” Harry chuckles at his own joke while he twists the handle of his paint roller together. “Except I totally knew this would be a pain in the ass. It’s you, after all.”

“Fuck you.” Louis shakes his head, tries to be pissed off, but there’s the beginning of smile on his face.

“Hmm… Okay. Maybe we can do that later after we’ve showered. We’ve got—”

There’s the sound of a throat clearing and a knock on the open door. Both men whip their heads around so fast that it’s comical how completely startled they are. Louis’ own mouth is hanging open and his eyes are wide behind his glasses. There’s a woman standing in the doorway, with a small, knowing smile on her face. Harry’s expression mirrors Louis’ and then he starts to blush.

“Katie. I—I’m sorry,” He stutters out. “Excuse, um, excuse us. This is Louis, um… Tomlinson.”

“It’s alright, Mr. Styles. I figured that’s who he was.” She extends her hand to Louis, who holds his up to show her the paint that’s already on his palms, even though they’ve barely started.

“Nice to put a face with the voice.” Louis grins and tries to wipe the sweat from his forehead onto his shoulder. “Sorry again if I was rude to you on the phone. Shouldn’t take my anger towards this one,” he nods in Harry’s direction, “out on you.”

“You’re forgiven,” Katie says with a smile, “I know he can be a handful.”

Harry takes a step towards her. “Sorry. We… We were just…”

“It’s fine. I joke around with my wife like that too.” Harry sputters and Louis laughs while she continues. “You weren’t answering your phone and the front door was open. I forgot… I should’ve called the land line here. There’s an issue with a customer and you said—”

“No, it’s okay. You were right to come by.” Harry pulls his phone out of his pocket and it doesn’t come on when he taps the button. “Dead battery. Sorry. What’s the problem?”

“Well, he’s actually at the office. We were about to lock the doors and close up for the evening when he showed up. I left Julia in charge while I ran down here. It’s Mr. Brooks, you know, he stays in this house every summer for the fourth of July and he’s… annoyed that he can’t this year.”

Harry rolls his eyes, but he’s already laying his paint roller down and heading for the door. He looks back over his shoulder. “I’ll be right back. This shouldn’t take long.”

Katie smiles at Louis as she waves goodbye. On the spur of the moment, Louis calls out, “Alright, baby. Miss you while you’re gone!” and blows Harry a kiss. He can hear Harry’s faltering attempt at an explanation as he walks down the hall and smiles proudly at the imaginary points he just scored.

Harry’s back in no time, grumbling about annoying customers and unnecessary discounts and flicking Louis’ forehead as he walks past. “She thinks we’re together now, you dick. She pretended to believe me when I explained that you’re just a jackass who likes to piss me off and embarrass me, but I could tell she was just humoring me.”

Louis laughs and winks and says, “You know you love me, Styles. I’m your favorite.”

Harry makes a disgusted face, but his cheeks start to turn pink, and he heads for the other side of the room to start painting.

It doesn’t take long for them to roll the ceiling, it’s cutting in the edges and corners with brushes that takes forever. They both spend the rest of the evening balancing on ladders and complaining.

Louis complains about painting and Harry complains about Louis.

“What do you want to eat?” Harry stands up from where he’d been squatting down to close the paint can.

Louis shrugs and steps closer, squinting his eyes and tilting his head. He reaches out toward Harry’s face and Harry literally jumps backwards.

“What the fuck, Styles?”

“What are you doing?”

“I think you’ve got paint… right here.” Louis gestures at the side of his own forehead.

“Oh. I thought you were going to do something.”

“What was I going to do?”

“I don’t know. Hit me? Flick my forehead like I did to you earlier? Smear paint on me? Your hands are covered.”

Louis rolls his eyes and looks down, then lifts his hands and shows Harry both sides. “It’s all dry. I just haven’t scrubbed them yet. Can’t believe you don’t trust me.”

“Right. Because you’ve earned any level of trust.”

Louis gasps, loudly and dramatically, with his hands on his hips. “I am the most trustworthy. I mean, if you can’t trust the man who just yesterday had your dick in his mouth, then who can you trust?”

Harry hums and looks at Louis for a few seconds, then he holds his hair back off his forehead and steps closer so Louis can inspect him. It’s paint, right at the edge of his receding hairline, which Louis makes sure to point out, and it’s not completely dry, so Louis wets a paper towel in the sink and gently wipes it off. “See?” He shows Harry the paint on the paper towel, then tosses it into the trash can.

“Yeah. Sorry. Um, thanks.”

“It’s alright.” Louis turns on the water and starts scrubbing the paint from his hands. “I have a list of ways you can make it up to me.”

Harry laughs and moves to stand behind Louis. He leans in close against his back, and places his hands on the counter on either side of the sink. “I bet I can name every item on your list.”

“Ooh, a bet. Nice. Well, don’t start naming things yet. I’ll need to write them down first.”

Harry breathes out against the skin on the side of Louis’ neck and kisses him gently right behind his ear. “You don’t need to write them down.”

While Louis washes the paint off his hands, Harry kisses and nibbles on the side of his neck. The warmth of his breath raises goosebumps on Louis’ skin, and he tips his head to the side so Harry can kiss him more. Harry's hands slip under Louis’ shirt and he drags one slowly up his chest, grazing his nipple with his thumb. Harry pulls him tight against his body, while his other hand other dips down and presses against the zipper of his shorts, drawing a quiet moan from Louis’ throat.

Louis forces words, but they come out in a strained whisper. “The door’s open.” He tries to nod at the front door that’s standing wide open to the night air right on the other side of the counter, but Harry bites down gently on his neck and sucks at the skin, making him moan again, louder this time.

“Should be quiet then.”

“Fuck you.”

“Nah. Not tonight.” He unbuttons and unzips Louis’ shorts with one hand, pushes them down, taking his boxers down on the way. He can feel Harry through the material of his shorts when he pulls Louis back against him and wraps his hand around Louis’ dick. “You should finish washing your hands.”

While Harry strokes him slowly, Louis tries to scrub the rest of the paint from his hands. Soon he's fully hard, his legs are shaking and he’s basically being held up by Harry’s hand on his dick and his other arm tight across his chest, and he can’t do much more than stand there with water running over his hands, so Harry stops kissing his neck long enough to tell him to turn the water off.

Louis braces his wet hands against the counter and pushes his ass back against Harry where he’s trapped in his shorts. It’s remarkable how Harry already knows just how to touch him to get him off in the best way. A tight grip with a slow stroke that gradually gets faster, squeezing a little at the tip, and slightly twisting on the way down. Louis stands there bent partway over the sink, biting his lip, and trying not to cry out every time Harry decides to rub his thumb over the tip of his dick. His efforts to remain quiet are pretty much a lost cause when Harry slides his other hand back down, flicking both of his nipples on the way, hurriedly drops his own pants, and starts grinding his dick against Louis’ ass.

Harry reaches down and starts rolling Louis’ balls in the palm of his left hand, while his right hand works him over in the perfect rhythm, his dick nestled firmly in the crack of Louis’ ass, pressing tight against his rim, and it’s at the edge of too much.

Just that little bit of pressure feels incredible, and when Harry’s dick slides a little in their sweat, it’s just enough of a change to make him gasp. When it slips further down and the head nudges against his rim for a split second, he freezes, overwhelmed and suddenly more nervous and more turned on than he's ever been with Harry.

But then Harry gently kisses him behind his ear, rests his face against Louis' neck, and hums blissfully into his skin, kissing him once more, and soothing Louis’ mind.

His body goes lax and when Harry tugs on his balls, he groans shamelessly. He grips Louis' hip tightly and starts doing it on purpose, sliding his dick up and down, somehow managing to catch Louis’ rim and thumb the head of his cock at the same time, over and over, and Louis just… comes.

Completely out of nowhere, with no build up, there’s just a sudden explosion of pleasure that leaves him struggling to catch his breath while Harry strokes him through it. Then he pushes down on Louis’ back, bends him until his stomach is pressed into the edge of the counter and he knocks his forehead on the faucet. After a minute of stroking himself, Harry comes all over Louis’ ass.

“Fuck.” Harry sucks in a breath and lets it out slowly, then does it again. “Fuck.” Louis is still bent over, unsteady on his trembling legs, and Harry starts to chuckle.

“What?”

“You still have paint on your hands. Hold still.” He smacks Louis’ ass and smears his come around, then grabs some paper towels, wets them, and cleans him up. “Right. Check that off your list.”

Louis takes a deep, calming breath, reeling himself back in. “Wow, Styles, you were way off the mark with that.” He pushes himself off the counter and bends over to pull up his pants, making sure to wiggle his ass while he’s down there.

“What? Fuck off. What’d you want, a blow job?” Harry sounds genuinely offended, as if his hand job hadn’t been up to par when Louis can barely stand.

Louis shakes his head and turns on the water to scrub the last of the paint from his hands. “No, I want you to agree to new windows and shutters and I want you to take me out to that place… What’s it called? Captain Cooke’s? The seafood place where the servers get pissed off when you call them ‘matey’ even though it’s on their name tags. I want fried shrimp and oysters.”

“I hate you.” Harry fixes his own pants and pushes Louis out of the way so he can wash his hands. “Fine. I’ll take you to dinner and—hush! Your fucking gloating makes me wants to drown you in the ocean.”

“Whatever.” Louis flicks water in Harry’s face and wipes his hands dry on the back of his t-shirt. “And what?”

“And we can discuss the window thing, but you have to try to guess what’s on my list first.”

“Just so we’re clear.” Harry grunts loudly and pushes hard. “Like one hundred percent, crystal clear.” He heaves and it suddenly slides in easily. “I hate you, I wish I’d never met you, and you’re the worst person I’ve ever known.”

Louis exhales, the air leaving his lungs almost all at once, rests his head against his forearm and groans. “Mutual.”

A muffled voice says, “I hate you both, but you don’t really care, do you?”

Louis is breathless, but he has enough oxygen to say, “Shut up, Liam. You love us.”

Liam just shakes his head fondly and knocks his knuckles against the window.

“You’re honestly lucky this is the only window that needs a new frame and everything,” Harry says as he pulls a shim out of his shirt pocket and whacks Louis on the forehead with it. “Otherwise, I’d tell you to fuck off.”

“You tell me to fuck off every day.”

“Kiss my ass.”

“Oh, now, that’s something we haven’t done—” Harry and Liam both jerk their heads around to look at him, though their expressions are completely different. Liam’s is surprised and amused, but Harry looks embarrassed, shocked, and a little angry all at the same time. “I mean, um, you don’t tell me to do that every day.”

“Very funny.” Harry tries to school his expression, though clearly he can’t control his blush. “Sorry, Li, he’s kind of an idiot.”

“Mmhmm.” Liam nods and looks suspiciously smug. “Anyway, am I going to stand out here on the scaffolding all day or what?”

Harry shakes his head and turns to Louis. “Got it?”

“Yes.” He rolls his eyes, annoyed. “I’m not going to drop the fucking window on you.”

Harry taps in the shims around the edges, making sure everything is level and even, while Louis and Liam hold the window and frame in place. He measures and adjusts and measures and adjusts until Louis is ready to kick him, but then he finally starts drilling holes and screwing the window frame into place.

“After all that, this window had better be perfect.” Louis puffs his cheeks out and exhales dramatically.

“Shut the fuck up.” Harry growls as he screws the last corner of the window frame down.

Louis sticks his tongue out at him. “Make me.”

“Later.” Harry winks and squats down to check one last time that the new window sill is straight.

“You guys are weird.”

Louis’ laugh is sharp and loud in the silence that follows Liam’s comment. He forgot Liam was there. Again. Honestly, he’s glad they’ve had their hands busy all day or he might’ve grabbed Harry’s ass without thinking. He literally was just staring at it when Harry was bent over with the drill.

“You said that you would only help us if we kept the bickering to a minimum.” Harry stands up again and stretches, reaching his arms high above his head, and drawing Louis’ eye with the little trail of hair below his belly button.

Louis rips his gaze away and looks down to innocently inspect his fingernails. “I don’t know what else you want from us, Liam.”

“I… Honestly, I don’t know… This weird sort of angry flirting thing that you’ve got going on is making me a little afraid to leave you alone, but slightly more afraid to stick around any longer than absolutely necessary.”

“Whatever.” It’s really the only response Louis has because Liam is right on the money. They finish caulking around the window on the inside and Liam fills the cracks on the outside with a can of expanding foam insulation.

Harry taps on the glass to get Liam’s attention. “Are you sticking around? Because the rest of the windows are easier to replace.”

“Actually, if you don’t need me, I probably should go into the store. I’ve been leaving Lu in charge so often lately that she’s started bossing me around.” Liam climbs down the scaffolding and Louis watches him until he disappears.

“So, how are you planning to make me shut up, Styles?” Louis leans his shoulder against the wall and drops his hand to his hip.

Harry peeks out the window, turns to look back over his shoulder at the front door, hooks both of his index fingers in Louis’ belt loops, then pulls him closer until their hips bump together, and Louis rests his hands on Harry’s chest. He bends down so his lips brush against Louis’ neck and slides his hands around to grab Louis’ ass and squeeze. “There’s really only one guaranteed way to shut you up, and that’s with you on your knees with my dick in your mouth.”

Louis grips the front of Harry’s t-shirt, sucks in a breath and his eyes start to flutter closed when he feels Harry's thumbs tracing along the skin above the waistband of his shorts, but then they shoot open, he pushes Harry away and stumbles backwards.

“I knew it!”

Harry spins around as Liam shouts and cackles and throws his work gloves on the counter. “I just wanted to leave this.” He waves the can of foam insulation, sets it down on the counter beside his gloves, and backs out of the door with a wave. “Have fun, boys.”

Louis finally finds his voice and yells after him, “It’s not what it looks like, Liam!” He turns around, hoping that Harry will, well, he’s not sure. Join him in yelling at Liam, maybe? But he’s standing with his back to the room, palms of his hands resting on the wall, head down, and eyes closed.

“Styles?”

Harry doesn’t move except to shift forward a bit and knock his forehead against the wall.

Louis runs his fingers through his hair and looks around the room, like he’s going to find a sign or something on one of the other walls to help him figure out why Harry is literally banging his head against that one. “You okay?”

“No, I’m not okay. Fuck.” He turns around leans his shoulders against the wall, tipping his head backwards.

“Liam’s not going to tell anyone, if that’s what you’re worried about.” Louis pulls his phone out of his pocket and unlocks it. “Here, I’ll text him to be sure.”

Harry opens his eyes and watches Louis quietly, then pushes off the wall, goes and finds the broom and dustpan, and starts sweeping up the mess they made.

Louis’ phone dings with a message, he checks it, and slips it back into his pocket. “Li says it’s no problem. He’ll keep it a secret.”

“Fine.” He picks up the dustpan and whacks it against the edge of the trashcan. “Thanks.”

He doesn’t sound fine, so Louis tilts his head to try to catch Harry’s eye. “You don’t sound fine.”

“Jesus. Do you ever shut up? I said I’m fine. It’s fine.” He slams the dust pan against the trash can again, even though it’s empty. “Just like, one of the only good friends I have now knows that I’ve been…that we’ve been…” He sort of waves both hands at Louis as if that’s supposed to make sense.

“Do we really have to do this again? F-U-C-K-I-N-G. It’s not a hard word to spell or say. Though I guess technically it’s been blow jobs and hand jobs.”

“Fucking. Fucking. Fucking. It’s not the word I have a problem with, it’s you, you asshole.” He drops the broom and dustpan in the middle of the floor and storms out, stomping down the stairs and walking out onto the beach. Louis watches him from their new window.

He didn’t realize he was such an embarrassing person to have sex with. He drops down into one of the rocking chairs on the porch and scratches at the dried paint the inside of his knee. It sucks to be stuck again. Maybe he should start riding his motorcycle over the bridge to work on the house every day, just in case he needs to leave.

He sits and waits for a bit, but instead of feeling sorry for himself—which was, bizarrely, his immediate response to Harry yelling at him—he gets pissed off, which is a much more typical reaction to dealing with Harry.

He can see Harry down on the crowded beach, he’s not far off because high tide was only about an hour ago, and he’s standing at the edge of the ocean, throwing rocks or shells and trying to skip them across the surface of the water. He looks frustrated, which means he’s probably not succeeding at skipping them; at least that makes Louis happy.

Louis unhooks the laces of his boots and pulls them off, lays his sweaty socks across the tops, and jogs down to the beach with bare feet. The soft sand always feels good between his toes, so he stops to wiggle them for a second before he walks down to kick Harry’s ass.

“Hey!” He starts off shouting, but then he lowers his voice because there are a lot of tourists and kids around. “What the fuck is your deal?”

Harry ignores him and tries again to skip a shell across the calm waves.

Fine. Louis looks around and starts picking up shells and rocks, filling his left hand. He chooses the best one, steps a little closer to the water than Harry is, so he’s in his eyeline and Harry's pretty much forced to watch him, then Louis angles his body toward the water, bends at the waist a bit, and throws out and down. Perfect. It bounces three times before sinking below the surface.

He looks over his shoulder and grins at Harry who does not look at all impressed and instead looks furious. He flings his entire handful of shells and stones as hard and as far as he can into the water, then turns and starts walking down the beach towards the pier.

Louis jogs after him and when he’s right beside him says, “You’re such a dickhead. If it’s so disgusting or whatever to have someone know we were sleeping together, then why do it in the first place?”

Harry slows his stride and looks over at Louis. “What?”

“Fuck you. You heard me. It’s not like I started this.”

“I didn’t say that—”

“Whatever. Can you just… Can you drive me to your place and I’ll get my stuff.”

“What?” He sounds confused and Louis wants to reach up and rub the creases between his eyebrows, but he also wants to kick him in the shin.

“I’m not going to leave you to do all the work. But I can get a hotel or I think Liam said he has a spare room.”

“What? You don’t have to do that.”

“Fuck you. I’m not staying at your place. Not now.” He drops the shells and rocks he’s been gripping and brushes the sand off on his shorts. “Do you seriously expect me to stay with you now? You know, I mostly joke around about your ego, but this is just… Did you think I’d wait at the beach house for you to get over your… embarrassment or whatever this is and just… drop to my knees and suck your cock as soon as you pulled the stick out of your ass and came back?”

“What?”

“Can you stop fucking saying what?” Louis shouts, then looks around at the crowded beach and lowers his voice. “I should’ve known. When you said you couldn’t wait to be rid of the house and me—”

“You said that.”

“I did not.”

“You fucking did.”

“Whatever, Styles. I’ll just go wait for you to finish throwing your tantrum.” He turns and heads back for the house.

A month down here and he really started to think that he and Harry could be friends. And there’s always that teeny tiny pinprick spark of light in the back of his mind that thinks that maybe they could be more than that. How ridiculously, incredibly wrong he was. Every time.

Louis needs to talk to Niall.

He reaches into his pocket for his phone, but the battery is practically dead; he’ll call from the beach house landline.

He doesn’t bother to rinse his feet in the outdoor shower, just brushes the bottoms of them on the doormat, shuts the door behind him, hops up onto the stool, picks up the phone from the wall, and presses redial.

It rings four times before a woman answers, completely taking Louis by surprise. Niall hadn’t told him he was dating anyone.

“Hello?”

“Hello? Um, is Niall there?”

“I think you have the wrong number. Sorry.”

“But… I hit redial.”

“Well, there’s no Niall here.” The woman chuckles quietly. “Tell you what, if someone named Niall stops by later, I can tell him you called. Give him a message?”

Louis smiles. She sounds nice, even though she’s clearly making fun of him, so he plays along. “Yeah, sure. Tell him Louis called to complain about Harry.”

“Louis?”

“That’s me. Um, thanks. You kind of cheered me up.”

“Wait! Don’t hang up. What’d Harry do?”

He barks a laugh into the phone that echoes in his own ear. “Is gossip about strangers that interesting?”

“Nah, but gossip about my brother is.”

“… Gemma?”

“Hi, Louis. What’d Harry do this time?”

“Yeah, I’m definitely not telling you.”

She hums thoughtfully and whispers, “Is this about you two… you know.”

“What?”

“You know… you guys have been… you know.”

“Is this some sort of Styles family code?”

“What? Hold on. Let me step outside.”

He listens to her muttering to someone in the background, her husband he assumes. Then he hears a door shut.

“So, is this about you two fucking?”

“Jesus. He told you?”

“Yeah, but he won’t give details. Says it’s too weird. So how is it?”

“Eww. I’m not telling you that.”

“Whatever. You both suck.” If she only knew. “So what’d he do to piss you off today?”

“I… I…” Louis sighs and taps his fingers on the counter. “He’s just an asshole. And I already knew that, so I’m not sure what I was expecting. Doesn’t matter. I’m going to see if I can stay somewhere else until the house is done. Then he can be rid of me like he wants.”

“No, no, no. You have to tell me what happened because this is… What did he do? He seemed so happy when I talked to him.”

“Gemma Styles? Sister to Harry? The Styles family member I wish had agreed to take over ownership of this house with me?”

She snorts at that last question. “Yes, why?”

“Thought maybe you were talking about someone else. Liam saw us just now and Harry was definitely not happy about it. He caught us… not like… we weren’t really even doing anything. But it was obvious, um… where it was going.”

“Ooh, did he get embarrassed? Turn pink?” Her voice gets kind of shrill when she asks, “Did he stutter?”

“I… don’t know about the stuttering. He said that it wasn’t what he was doing, it was who he was doing it with. Made it pretty clear that he didn’t want anyone knowing about me specifically. Like…” He starts pulling on the phone cord and wrapping it around his hand. Shit, he can feel his eyes start to sting. He needs to get it together. “Like…”

“Oh, no. No, Louis. God, I’m going to murder him.”

“Huh?”

“He’s always been such an idiot when it comes to you. Please… just, um… give him a chance to explain.”

“Right. I just did that before this.”

“Mmhmm.”

“Gemma?”

“Mmhmm.”

“What are you—”

“Just sending a text. I’ve missed you. I’m going to call your sisters and see if we can’t arrange a girls’ weekend or something.”

“Did you—”

“Give him a chance to explain.”

“What—” But he doesn’t get to finish his sentence because she hangs up.

Louis places the phone back in the cradle, crosses his arms on the counter and drops his head down. Fuck. After he takes a deep breath and stands up, he picks up the broom and dustpan and puts them away, walks through the house to turn off the lights, then locks up, puts his socks and boots back on, and heads downstairs to wait by the truck.

He climbs up on the hood and lays down on his back since the truck’s locked. He’s trying to decide whether or not to listen to whatever explanation Harry might give him when he hears his footsteps on the concrete.

Of course he doesn’t say anything else, just asks, “Did you call Gemma?”

Louis lays there on the truck hood with his eyes closed and mutters, “Fuck you.”

“Why’d she just text me?”

Louis pushes himself up to rest on his elbows. “I hit redial on the land line. Was trying to call Niall.” He lays back down.

“Did you talk to her?”

“Sort of.” He drapes his arm over his eyes and peeks out to look at Harry. “She kind of talked at me.”

“She, um… she does that.”

Louis hums quietly and when Harry doesn’t say anything else, he sits up and slides off the hood of the truck. “Right. Can we just go so I can get my stuff from your place?”

“Um… Gemma said I should talk to you.”

“Yeah?” Playing dumb is a thing and sometimes it’s easier. “’Bout what?”

“I…” Harry looks around, though there’s no telling what he’s looking for. There’s just the truck, the wooden beams that the house sits on, and the dumpster full of garbage. “I’m not embarrassed about you.”

“Right.”

“I’m not. I… I wasn't embarrassed when Katie thought we were together. Or the woman at the building supply place.” He pinches the bridge of his nose and closes his eyes. “It’s more like I’m embarrassed by, um… Remember what I said about Evan?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, it’s like I said before. I just didn’t want Liam to know because he knew about Evan and he knew how I felt about that whole… thing.”

“Yeah, you said it was depressing.”

“Exactly.”

“So, sleeping with me is depressing?” Louis scoffs and crosses his arms. “That’s actually worse than it being embarrassing, I think.”

“No.” Harry sighs and pinches his lower lip. “You know, if I didn’t actually know for a fact that you’re really smart, I’d think you were one of the stupidest people I’ve ever known.”

“Thanks.”

“Whatever. I’m trying to explain.”

“You’re doing a shit job.”

“Well, yeah, I suppose I am. Can we just… Can you just… I’m not embarrassed of you at all. It’s like… the opposite. You’re… um…” He wrinkles his nose and looks away. “Quite the catch.”

“Did you just call me a catch? Are you an eighty-five year old grandmother?”

Harry rolls his eyes. “No, I’m forty-five. Which, to be honest, is old enough. Um, you’re…” He throws his arms up in exasperation. “What do you want me to say, Lou?”

“I really don’t know.” Louis scratches his chin, then points at Harry. “I’d like you to finish at least one sentence and we can go from there.”

“Fuck you.”

He shakes his head and purses his lips. “No thanks.”

“Shut up. You’re handsome. Gorgeous. What did you call yourself the other day? Silver fox? You’re that.”

“Right, thanks. Well, you’re a dick and I still don’t know what we’re talking about.”

“Shit. Okay.” Harry points to himself. “I…” Then he points to Louis. “Think you are super hot and, while you are a fucking dickhead and I hate you, I still kind of like being around you sometimes.”

“Sweet words, Styles.”

“I’m sorry, okay?”

“Mmhmm.”

“I am though. I… I overreacted. I didn’t want Liam to get on my case and like… I didn’t mean to take it out on you ’cause I… I do think we’re sort of friends. Right?”

That’s unexpected. They haven’t been friends in thirty years. As hard as he tries to tamp it down, there goes that stupid light, flaring brightly again. Louis scratches his bicep and tugs on his sleeve, hesitant to look at Harry. “I guess so. Mortal enemies with benefits doesn’t have a great ring to it.”

“True. And, um, you did say you’d come annoy me on your way to Disney World, so…” Harry kicks at the toe of Louis’ boot and Louis gives in and looks at him. He’s chewing on the corner of his lower lip and watching Louis like he’s waiting for something.

“I don’t know why you think I’m going to Disney World, Styles.”

Harry rolls his eyes and says, “Well, wherever then. I was just saying… Um, once upon a time we were friends, so it shouldn’t be, like, an impossibility.”

Louis can feel himself getting sucked in. The promise of friendship is so much more than he ever expected, and nowhere near what he once hoped for, but it’s something. “Yeah, I suppose.”

“I’d, um… I’d like that.” Harry smiles and continues, his tone so earnest that Louis almost can’t stand it. “To be friends. And I’m sorry. Again. I was really shitty to—”

“Styles.”

“What?”

“Shut up.”

Harry sucks his bottom lip into his mouth and bites down on it like it’s the only way to keep from apologizing again, but he doesn’t drop his gaze. After a minute, he says, “Anyway, I already called Liam to apologize, but… You don’t have to go stay with him. If you don’t want to. I mean, if you’d like to keep… to stay with me.”

Louis raises his eyebrows. “What’s in it for me?”

“I don’t know… I…” Harry’s eyes dart around like he’s looking for answers, but he’s not finding them. “We, um, we’re working together on the house and, like, we ride together in the mornings. It’s convenient.”

“True.” Louis nods slowly. “But I do have my bike.”

Harry takes a deep breath and blows his hair off his forehead. “I want… I’d like it… I’ve gotten used to… Shit. I mean, all your stuff is already there and we’ve been getting along okay… Sort of…”

Harry really seems to be struggling to make it through a sentence. So much so that Louis shakes his head and says, “Yeah, um, I guess I don’t have to go to Liam’s. I’m not sleeping on your couch though.”

“No, no, no,” Harry rushes out. “If you want, you can have the bed and I’ll sleep on the couch. Or, um… We could… I'd like to continue our… benefits?”

Louis looks at him for a few seconds. Long enough to make him squirm a little. “I don't know. I mean, how do you think that’s supposed to work? What are you going to tell Liam? I'm not your dirty little secret, Styles.”

Harry shakes his head quickly and says, “No, no, you're not. I...I figured I’d tell him that we’re sort of dating? Like… He already thinks we are because of, well, I kind of told him we were after...” Harry looks up at the beams under the beach house and points in the direction of the living room window. “I know he means well, but I didn't want to have to explain the whole benefits thing, especially after last—” He bites his lip and turns away.

“Last?”

“It's... He’s kind of like a brother, you know? Just as overly invested in my personal life as my sister has always been. This way he won’t be all concerned.” He rolls his eyes and makes air quotes. “And then, after you leave town, I’ll just… I don’t know. I’ll pretend to be sad or something for like a week or so whenever I see him.”

“I still… What about… Wait. Are you serious? So when he’s around, you want us to act like we’re dating?” This sounds like the absolute last thing Louis needs to do, but he’s never really done what he should when it comes to Harry.

“Yeah, basically.” Harry shrugs and rubs his thumb across his lower lip.

And that’s it. Louis jumps in with both feet. “Does this mean you’re going to take me out on dates? Can we go to the Seafood Hut for all you can eat popcorn shrimp and hush puppies? Can we go see that new war movie? What about mini-golf?”

“That’s fine, I guess… You’re sure you’re okay with this?”

“Get ready for the full fake boyfriend experience.” Louis nods and walks over the passenger door. “Take me home and suck my dick; unless you want to do it right here and now.”

“Jesus, Lou.” Harry’s face starts turning pink while he tries to unlock the truck. “Is this what I can expect out of you?”

“I mean, I’m not going to try to bend you over the table at the Seafood Hut, but this is pretty much it.” He grins and spreads his arms out wide. “This is me.”

Chapter Text

It’s a horrible idea, but so far it’s a lot of fun. Louis tries not to dwell on what’ll happen after.

Liam shows up at the beach house early the next morning to help with the windows before he’s due at the store because he feels bad that he caused a fight between the “two love birds,” as he keeps referring to Louis and Harry.

They haven’t stopped trying to outdo each other with insults and arguments, but they’ve added sappy declarations of their feelings to their repertoire and Liam watches them like a tennis match.

It’s much more challenging, is the thing, because they actually set some ground rules, so they’re both operating within limits. For example, they decided that it’s too early in their ‘relationship’ for the L word, so they can’t say that. And they figure that they should make the effort to be nice to each other, which takes some getting used to and for the most part means that when they’re overly dickish to each other, they sort of catch it happening, freeze, and swing the pendulum the other way.

Poor Liam says something along the lines of how difficult it must be for them to get used to no longer hiding their true feelings behind false animosity.

Harry snorts and chokes on his Gatorade when he says that and Louis, excellent fake boyfriend that he is, cracks up laughing and starts jumping and pointing and shouting, “Through the nose! Through the nose!” because that’s appropriate. Even if they were really dating, he’d want to see red Gatorade come out of Harry’s nose.

Still, they end up overselling it and Liam makes them split up the work or he says he’ll get cavities. The rest of the windows have frames that are in good shape and can be installed from the inside, so they work separately. Liam and Louis remove an old window and all of the parts, clean the frame, and get it ready for the new window. All three of them work to get the new window up and centered, then Harry finishes up by leveling it, attaching it to the jambs, caulking it, and then making sure it opens properly, while Liam and Louis move on to the next window.

It’s kind of a relief to not have to be “on,” so to speak, until Liam starts asking questions.

“So how did this happen?” Liam asks while they loosen the inside window sash.

“We literally just removed the other window. Do I need to explain how we did it?”

“No,” Liam scoffs and rolls his eyes. “I mean you and Harry. How did you guys go from practically hating each other for more than half your lives to dating?”

Louis is quiet, using the excuse that the window is heavy and pretending to catch his breath, then pretending he’s forgotten that Liam asked him anything, but Liam presses on until he answers.

“Liam, if you really want to know… It was just being together all the time. Forced proximity, I guess. We’d been around each other for a few hours now and then over the last twenty-five years, but this is the first time we’ve spent this much time together one-on-one.”

“So you’re saying that if you’d been, say… stranded in a hurricane together twenty years ago, this would’ve happened then?”

“Hell no,” Louis answers with a loud laugh. “Twenty years ago one of us wouldn’t have made it out alive.”

Liam chuckles and says, “Then it’s not all forced proximity. You think maybe you’ve mellowed out as you’ve gotten older?”

“I don’t know. I think he’s just as much of an asshole as he’s always been.” Louis looks up and finds Liam watching him with a thoughtful expression on his face, so he adds, “But you could be right.”

“I think I am. You guys have a lot in common and it seems like you're finally able to see past your own egos. I think you’re good for each other.”

“Um… Thanks.” Louis has been trying not to think about it too much, so he changes the subject. “Plus, there's all the sexual tension. If we get all worked up fighting, we can fuck it out of our systems.”

Liam chokes out a laugh and shakes his head. “Sometimes it’s hard to remember that you’re not some twenty year old frat guy wearing a backwards snapback drinking beer out of a can and saying the word ‘bro’ every other sentence.”

“Bro, my fraternity’s Kappa Delta Pi, the International Education Honors Society, and it’s co-ed, bro.”

“Whatever, bro. Have you talked about what’ll happen when you go back home?”

“Not really. I’m sure we’ll, you know, cross that bridge or whatever.”

“Okay, well, not trying to get overly involved in your personal life, but…”

“You sure about that?”

“Seriously. I just think you guys should be open and honest with each other. You’re adults. It’s what, a six hour drive? You guys could do long distance or, I don’t know… If things get serious. Just talk about it.”

“Yeah, okay. We will.”

Louis has the feeling Liam is going to be the brokenhearted one when he goes home.

“Good, because I don’t want to deal with Harry moping around town. He’s a disaster after a breakup—really awful and depressing to be around. I’d rather him be happy.”

“Yeah, me too.” Louis agrees, and he finds he kind of means it.

Harry climbs out of the truck and slams the door. “I just think it’s more realistic and you’re being a pain in the ass on purpose.”

“Whatever.” Louis slams his door too, just because he can, and follows Harry through the parking lot of the building supply warehouse. “I don’t see why we have to come down here. Why can’t you just go online or call and order them?”

Harry ignores him and walks through the automatic doors.

“Answer me.”

“No.”

Louis heaves a sigh and says, “Please answer me, Harry.”

“No.”

“But I just… I did like you asked.”

“You can’t just call me Harry when you want something. You should call me Harry because if you were my—” He looks around the aisle they’re walking down and whispers, “real boyfriend, I’d want that.”

“Yeah, but if I was your real boyfriend, I’d tell you that I’m not going to change what’s basically a lifelong habit overnight, and saying it like that—just because I want something from you—is totally something I’d do. Also I’d probably tell you to fuck off. So fuck off.”

“Fine.” Harry turns at the end of the aisle and keeps walking towards the window section at the back of the store and Louis follows quietly behind him until he stops.

“Okay, so let’s try again.” Louis clears his throat, steps closer, and smiles. “Please, Harold, tell me why we have to come down here instead of ordering the shutters online or over the phone.”

“Goddamn it, Louis.” Harry scowls and crosses his arms over his chest. “It’s Harry. Can you just—”

Louis reaches up and pinches Harry’s lips closed and he quiets immediately, closing his eyes, and dropping his hands to his sides. Louis watches the elderly couple at the end of aisle until they turn the corner and disappear, then drops his hand to Harry’s shoulder, stands up on his tiptoes and practically purrs, “Harry,” right in his ear, lips brushing against his skin.

Harry shivers and whines quietly, then reaches out to slip his hands around Louis’ waist when Louis catches his earlobe with his teeth and steps in closer. “Yeah?”

Louis nibbles on his ear for a second, presses a single kiss to the salty skin beneath Harry’s ear and steps back out of his embrace. “Answer me.”

Harry stares, wide-eyed, then scowls. “You’re an asshole.”

“Yeah.” Louis smirks. “But apparently that turns you on.”

“Whatever.” Harry turns around to adjust himself in his shorts, and grabs the form he needs from the shelf. “We’re here because I knew you’d want to see the materials in person. I know we said white, but there’s wood and metal and composite, and they all look a little different.”

“Oh.” Louis steps up beside him and bumps their hips together. “Thanks, Styles.”

“Harry.”

“Harold.”

“Harry.”

“Listen.” Louis turns and pokes him in the stomach and Harry slaps his hand away. “Maybe we can work something out. Like… I’ll call you Harry once a day or something.”

“That’s stupid.”

“You’re stupid.”

“Just pick out your shutters and let’s get out of here.”

“Fine.” Louis adjusts his glasses, crosses his arms and leans forward a little bit to inspect the different materials and read the descriptions. “I like the way the wood looks, but I think the composite is probably a better choice.”

“Yeah. Okay. Not that you care, but I agree.” Harry fills out the order form and Louis trails behind him on the way up to the checkout.

He’s wearing Louis’ cut-off sweatpants today, which is kind of weird, but he figures maybe it’s all part of the deal, wearing each other’s clothes. Plus his ass looks good in them, so while Harry’s talking to that same lady at the checkout and she’s entering their information into her computer, Louis moves up close beside him, leans over his shoulder like he cares about whatever they’re saying, and rests his hand on Harry’s lower back. Harry’s body tenses a bit, it’s not like they’ve had the chance to touch each other in public often, so Louis leaves his hand there until the tension in his back dissipates.

Once he relaxes into the touch, Louis looks around to make sure no one’s joined the line behind them, and they’re still alone, so he slides his hand down extra slowly until his entire palm is spread out over one cheek, then he twists his wrist a little and lightly traces his fingers along the crease where Harry’s ass meets his leg.

A bright blush works its way up Harry’s neck and Louis grins and rests his temple on Harry’s shoulder when he pushes back against Louis’ hand. It’s a nice ass, so Louis squeezes it right when Harry is in the middle of saying thank you and his voice cracks.

Louis laughs and follows behind Harry as he hurries through the parking lot, and makes fun of Harry’s flushed face the entire ride in the truck on the way to the beach house.

Yep. It’s all fun and games until they climb out of the truck and Harry practically slams him up against one of the wooden support posts of the house, kissing him hard and unceremoniously popping the button of Louis’ shorts, shoving one hand down the front and the other down the back. In no time, he’s hard in Harry’s hand and moaning in his mouth and Harry’s squeezing his ass and his fingertips are almost where they need to be. Louis pulls him close, both hands gripping tightly to his hips, trying to mentally force his fingers to move just that little bit. He loses himself to it—the heat of Harry's hands on his skin, the wet slide of their messy kisses—and is ready to do anything and everything, right then and there. He slides his hands up, pushing the fabric of Harry's shirt out of the way, and slips the tips of his fingers under the edge of Harry's pants.

A second later, Harry’s hands are gone, he’s standing a good four feet away with a conspicuous erection tenting the fabric of his shorts, and Louis is left leaning against the post, sweating and panting, confused and unsatisfied.

Harry wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, presses his palm to his crotch for a few seconds, then turns and heads for the stairs, calling back over his shoulder, “We have siding to put up.”

“Unbelievable. You’re such an ass.” When Louis zips up his shorts, the pressure on his dick causes his breath to hitch and he thinks maybe he’ll go upstairs and jerk off in the bathroom.

“I know I am.” Harry jogs up the stairs and turns around at the top to grin down at Louis, though it’s hard to focus on his face when he’s stretching the front of Louis’ cut-off sweatpants like that. “But if you leave that alone I’ll make it up to you later.”

They have to lower the scaffolding to start on the siding and after Harry stares pointedly at him while he applies his sunscreen, they get started. Liam shows up around noon with lunch and after they eat, he helps them for about an hour before he has to go back to work.

“Hey, babe, pass me that box of nails.”

Louis doesn’t acknowledge him, because at first he doesn’t realize that Harry’s talking to him, but when he repeats himself, Louis gives him an ‘eat shit and die’ look and slides the box of nails across the scaffolding.

“What?” Harry uses his sweet and innocent voice which means he’s totally being annoying on purpose.

“Nothing, baby. Just surprised because you said you didn’t want to use pet names in front of other people.”

Liam stands up and stretches, then climbs down the scaffolding until just his head is visible. “I know I was giving you guys a hard time the other day, but it’s sweet. I’m sorry you felt like you needed to hide it from me.”

Louis looks from Liam to Harry and says, “See, baby, I told you it’d be fine. Now I can call you that all the time.”

Liam rolls his eyes and smiles fondly, then climbs the rest of the way down and leaves them alone. They don’t let up and call each other babe and baby for the rest of the day, even when they’re fighting.

One entire outer wall, the one facing the beach, is done. It takes most of the day, but it’s completely covered in blue siding. So they climb down, move the scaffolding, and climb up to start the next side.

They’re sitting on the platform, looking at the chalk line in the low light before sunset, and bickering. As usual. “It’s not level, baby.”

“Can you shut up with that shit?”

Louis gives him his sweetest smile. “What shit, baby?”

“Fuck you, Louis.” Harry growls and pulls at his hair, then drops his head onto his knees. “It’s level. I checked it.”

“It’s not, baby. Here.” Louis slides the level down to the other side where Harry’s sitting. “Check it again.”

He holds the level up to the chalk line on the wall and squints, then scowls at it. “I hate you.” He tucks the level into his tool belt. “Babe.”

“Aw, baby, I hate you too. Now tell me I was right.”

“Fuck you. How did you… Never mind. I’m just glad we caught it before we nailed on anymore pieces.”

“I caught it. Not we.”

“Whatever.” Harry stands up and stretches his arms overhead, then walks to the edge of the scaffolding. The ocean reflects the deep orange of the sky and Louis leans on the railing next to Harry, then pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose to watch as the colors shift through dark pinks, purples and indigo. “We should call it a day. We can do one wall a day for the rest of the week, finish up extra pieces or whatever’s left on Saturday. Then fixing and painting trim next week.”

“We’re almost done.”

“Yep. Now, let’s get the fuck out of here.”

They climb down and clean up and then Harry’s wondering out loud what they should do tonight while he slides behind the steering wheel.

“Netflix and chill?” Louis shrugs and hops into the truck.

“I hate when you say shit like that.”

“Jealous that I’m up on all the memes?”

“Oh my god, you sound like my mom. Who is almost seventy.”

Louis is actually offended, gasps and puts a hand to his chest. “Did you just imply that I’m old? I’ll have you know that I’ve heard some of my students say that as recently as last semester.”

“Do you even know what Netflix and chill means? Babe?”

“Of course, baby. It means we’ll go watch Netflix and hang out and eat take-out or something.” Louis reaches for the dashboard and adjusts the air vent so it blows right on his face.

Harry cackles as he backs the truck out of the driveway. “Netflix and chill is like… code for sex.”

“No, it’s not.” Louis laughs quietly and rolls his eyes at Harry’s complete misunderstanding of three simple words.

“Yes, it is. It’s like… You invite someone over to watch Netflix and hangout, but you’re expecting it to lead to sex. Google it.”

Immediately after he realizes that Harry’s not kidding, Louis starts to blush, drops his head into his hands, and groans pitifully.

“What is it?”

His voice is muffled by his hands, but he’s not admitting anything to Harry. “Nothing.”

“It’s not nothing. Bet I can get you to tell me.”

Louis shakes his head. “Nope. No way.”

“Yep.”

A few hours later, Louis is on his back in the middle of Harry’s bed, knees bent, feet pressing into the mattress, eyes squeezed shut, one hand twisted in the sheets beside him, the other one balled into a fist, the knuckle of his index finger between his teeth. He shakes his head no for the third time and Harry laughs, low and rough.

“Whatever, babe.”

The tips of Harry’s two fingers brush against his prostate again and he thrusts his hips into the air uncontrollably. Harry’s tongue flicks out against his balls, one and then the other, back and forth, and then up his shaft. His legs are trembling, he's sweaty, and he wants to cry, he needs to come so badly. It’s the worst sort of torture, which makes sense considering who’s doing this to him. But it’s okay, because if there’s one thing he knows for sure, it’s that he can out-stubborn Harry fucking Styles.

Harry's fingers are unforgiving, circling and pressing and retreating as soon as it reaches the edge of too much, and his mouth is driving Louis crazy. One minute he’s moving so slowly that Louis thinks he’ll die before Harry finishes trailing his tongue from the base to the tip, then without warning his tongue and lips are quickly and mercilessly licking, nipping and kissing up and down his cock.

He’s almost positive he’d come instantly if Harry would just suck on the head of his dick once, or if he would simply wrap his fingers around him and let Louis fuck his hand for two seconds. But he won’t, and Louis refuses to give in, won’t touch himself, and won’t say the words that Harry wants to hear.

“Lou?”

He grunts in acknowledgment, but that’s all he can manage as he fights to stop a muffled wail from escaping past his fist.

Harry nips at the skin on his inner thigh. “Do you want my hand or my mouth?”

Louis’ eyes fly open wide at the prospect of actually getting off and he drops his fist away from his mouth, gripping tight to the sheets when Harry’s fingers firmly pass over his prostate again and he chokes out a moan.

“Don’t care… fuck.”

“Nah. Decide. Hand or mouth?”

“Oh, fuck… your mouth…”

“Say it.” He licks up the underside of Louis’ dick, pressing hard, then circles his tongue around the head, and pulls away.

“Fuck you… Styles.”

“Harry.” And he can hear the smirk in his voice.

“Hate you…” He whines when Harry starts to pull his fingers free and clenches down. “Harry. Fuck.”

He pushes his fingers back in and nuzzles Louis’ balls and the base of his cock, then breathes out, “Say it.”

“No.”

Harry thrusts his fingers in and up hitting his prostate head on with each word. “Say. It. Babe.”

Louis can't speak, so he shakes his head from side to side.

“Say it or get yourself off.” He doesn’t even sound bothered. It’s completely unfair. “You’ve got to the count of ten.”

Harry counts slowly, his voice syrupy and slow, dripping into Louis’ ears, and with each number he touches him somewhere new. It’s overwhelming, and it’s not enough. Louis wants to scream, but he’s so frustrated that he growls instead.

He finally gives in when Harry gets to eight, wraps his lips around the very tip of Louis’ cock, sucks hard as he lowers his head, taking him all the way down, and Louis thinks this is it, he’s finally going to get to come, just as Harry’s fingers encircle the base of his cock and he squeezes.

“Fuck. Fuck. Fi—Fine.” He can barely breathe out the words, he’s not even sure if he said them out loud until he opens his eyes, looks down and sees Harry smiling up at him. He’s evil. An actual evil being, sent to earth from whatever planet he was hatched on to make Louis’ life a living hell.

“Say it.”

“Oh god. Fuck.” He sucks in a deep breath and it catches, then he pants out the words, “Netflix and chill… is code for sex. You were right… I was wrong. You are awesome… I suck. I… I’ll never… doubt… you again.”

“Harry.” His smirk is evident in the way he says it. Like he knows Louis is going to give in, even though he’s still fighting him every step of the way.

“Harry. Oh fuck…”

“And?”

He shakes his head, but he knows he’s going to tell him, just needs a second to arrange the words inside his brain.

“Lou...”

“Fuck. I… I said… I told… Before I left school… on the last day… everyone always asks…” He sucks in a breath through his teeth and lets it out slowly. “What you’re doing… over summer break… and I… I told almost everyone… my principal… that when I wasn’t… working at the restaurant…” He trails off and for a second he thinks he can’t do it. He can’t let Harry win. But then Harry gently curls his fingers. “Oh… Fuck. I said… Netflix and chill… with Niall… Oh god…”

Harry snickers and rests his forehead on Louis’ leg and drops a quick kiss there, but Louis is so turned on that the embarrassment doesn’t even register, though somewhere in his mind he knows it’ll be there in the morning.

He’s about to beg—he did it, he gave in, said what Harry wanted to hear—but before a word can leave his mouth, Harry is finally sucking him and he’s so desperate to come that it’s like every part of his body can only focus on that. The wet, hot sensation of Harry’s mouth tight around him is magnified by the pressure inside as Harry relentlessly fucks him with his fingers, sliding over his spot every time he pushes them deep.

He pulls his fingers almost all the way free and Louis cries out at the unexpected emptiness, but within a second they’re back and joined by a third. He hasn’t had more than his slender plug inside him in years and that’s barely an inch in diameter. He didn’t realize how much he missed this. Harry’s fingers stretch him wide, fill him up, and graze over all the right places, making him cry out.

Harry’s other hand strokes him in rhythm with his fingers as they thrust inside, at the same time his mouth sucks and tongues at the head of his cock. And he's mumbling nonsense, too far gone to recognize most of what he's saying, though his own ears identify Harry's name on repeat.

The build up to his orgasm seems like it lasts for days and when he finally comes, it’s almost a peaceful release, as if he’s reached some mystical apex of ecstasy previously unknown to the human race. Like a high, or a pleasure so intense that he doesn’t come down from it, even after Harry swallows every drop, slips his fingers free, and comes all over Louis’ stomach and chest. He’s virtually unaware of his surroundings, doesn’t even notice how long Harry spends in the bathroom, isn't aware of him cleaning him up.

It’s not until Harry settles on top of him, body hot and heavy between his legs, and kisses him slow and deep, sucking Louis’ lower lip into his mouth, tongue slipping inside, that Louis starts to come back to himself. He meets Harry’s kisses, tangling his fingers in his hair and running his other hand lightly up and down his back until he feels goosebumps spring up.

They kiss languidly until they’re both so tired that they can’t anymore, then Harry pulls the blankets over both of them and they fall asleep with Netflix still on in the background.

Louis thinks it’s like chocolate. Or maybe like caffeine. Or cigarettes. The more you have it, the more you want it, but if you go without for a few months—long enough to get it out of your system—you almost forget what it tastes like, what the craving itself feels like. Then as soon as you have it again, you want it all the time.

It’s been almost two years since he’s had a regular sex life. When Nate, his last boyfriend, broke up with him and moved out, Louis made the conscious decision to stop falling into bed with people before he really got to know them. Conveniently, this was just about the same time that Niall moved into his spare bedroom.

He dated, sure, but it never went anywhere. Without the high from after-sex endorphins clouding his brain, he just hadn’t felt a connection with anyone. And after a while, it just became easier to get off alone, and he sort of stopped trying. He started to think it was part of getting older, like he could blame it all on aging, and he’d been sad about it at first, but had actually gotten used to it.

Now, he can’t get enough. He feels like a teenager, except sex is much more exhausting and most of the time he doesn’t even want to expend the energy to get up to get a glass of water once he’s come, and he definitely doesn’t have it in him to fuck again afterward. His refractory period is more like a refractory day or so, but he’s okay with that.

He wonders how long it’ll take him to adjust to not getting laid regularly once he’s back home. Maybe he can like… wean himself off of sex with Harry. Maybe Harry will be willing to drive up a few times a month until Louis feels like he can go without. He’ll have to ask.

They’re halfway through nailing the siding to the second wall, and it’s incredibly hot and so humid that it’s like you can feel the moisture in the air clinging to your skin when you walk through it. Before they got started today, they filled a cooler with ice and bottles of water and carried it up onto the scaffolding.

Harry leans over to dig through the cooler, opens a bottle of water, and drains half of it at once. He stretches his arms up high, tips his head back, and pours the rest of the water over his face and hair, then wipes his face with his t-shirt and says, “Okay, so I made reservations for eight.”

Louis is a having a Flashdance moment and doesn’t quite hear him. “Huh?”

“Reservations.” He shakes his head and drops of cool water fly everywhere, splattering Louis’ glasses. “You said I had to take you out to dinner.”

“Oh, yeah. I forgot.” There’s still a patch of clean, dry fabric on the bottom hem of his t-shirt, so he uses that to wipe his lenses.

“Wish I hadn’t said anything then.” Harry grins and combs his fingers back through his hair.

“I would’ve remembered eventually.” Louis grabs his own water and contemplates dumping it over his head, but instead he briefly presses the bottle against his cheek and the back of his neck, and just drinks it. He’s thirsty.

They knock off early so there’s plenty of time for them both to shower and change, but when Louis steps into his boxers, he realizes that, other than the shorts that he wears to work on the beach house, he only has his old, faded jeans, and he doesn’t know if he’s supposed to dress up or what. He’s still standing there thinking about it, holding his jeans in one hand, scratching his stomach with the other, when Harry walks in completely naked with a towel wrapped around his hair.

“Just because we’re fucking doesn’t mean I want to see your dick all day every day.”

“Jealous.” Harry smirks and exaggeratedly wiggles his hips so his penis swings from side to side.

Louis ignores him and tosses his jeans onto the bed. “Are those okay to wear? And all I have are t-shirts, so…”

Harry’s standing in front of his dresser with his back to Louis, bending over to pull up his boxers, and Louis forgets for second what he was saying because those aren’t boxers.

“What the hell are those?”

“What?”

Louis points to Harry’s crotch and says, “Those.”

It’s impressive how fast a man can move when he thinks there’s something unusual on his dick. Harry looks down and kind of hops his feet apart at the same time, then rubs his hands over his underwear. “What?”

“Those are some tiny, tiny briefs.”

“Fuck off. I thought there was a bug on me or something.”

“If there was a bug on you, I’d probably just let it bite you.”

“Yeah, whatever.” Harry turns back to rummage through his dresser. “I wear loose boxers most of the time because when I’m working outside, I get hot and sweaty and it’s more comfortable, but when I wear jeans, I wear these.” He shakes out a pair of black jeans and sits down on the bed to put them on. “If you want to borrow a pair of my jeans, you’ll have to borrow a pair of my briefs too.”

“Skinny jeans, Styles? Really?”

“Yep. You can wear your jeans or you can wear these.” He digs around in his dresser again, pulls a second pair of jeans out and another pair of briefs and throws them at Louis’ face. “You should be fine in a t-shirt.”

Louis watches him leave the room and he’s sort of amazed that he can breathe in those jeans, and he wonders if he’ll be able to eat as much fried seafood as he planned to if he wears the pair Harry threw at him.

He knows he's sort of gotten lazy over the last few years—too much fast food and not enough physical activity have made him uncomfortable in his own skin. Being busy with work is really just a convenient excuse, but it hasn't mattered to him lately. No one was seeing him naked anyway. He first noticed it a few years back when summer ended and he pulled out his regular school trousers and had trouble getting them zipped and buttoned. He suffered until the fabric gave and stretched out, not that that’s really a good thing, but at least he didn't have to immediately buy more pants. Of course, he eventually caved and sized up.

He drops his boxers to the floor and pulls on Harry’s briefs, taking a second to adjust himself and wondering how Harry’s dick survives inside those jeans. He should’ve been paying attention to where he put it.

He has to sit down to get the jeans on, they’re like leggings almost, and when he stands up he has to jump a little to get them over his ass, but they zip up easily, which is unexpected. The jeans are much tighter on his legs than he’s used to, but they’re not uncomfortable. They’re a little long, so he rolls them up the way they used to do in high school, slips on his checkerboard Vans, and takes a look at himself in Harry’s full-length mirror.

He steps closer, confused, and pushes his glasses up, leaning forward and squinting at his reflection. Well, damn. The layer of chub that he’s grown accustomed to sucking in so he could zip up his pants, is gone. He stands up straight and turns to the side, pushes his belly out on purpose, slouches over, straightens up again and smacks his hand against his stomach. Plenty of room for fried seafood. He grins, spins around to look at his ass, winks at himself in the mirror, and laughs on his way out of the room.

Harry’s sitting on the couch, pulling on a pair of black boots that Louis has never seen before, wearing a pink shirt with white polka dots that apparently only has three working buttons.

“You look nice, Styles.”

“Harry.” He looks down and does up another button.

Louis shakes his head fondly. “Depends on what sort of date you are.”

“Whatever. They fit okay?” Harry nods at the jeans and Louis shrugs.

“You tell me.” He spins around and tugs the belt loops up a bit, then bends over to dig through his clothes. “I know I’ve got a clean black t-shirt here somewhere.”

He does, but it’s not the one he thought Niall packed. It’s one that he ordered online and that he’s actually never worn because, though it didn’t appear that way on his laptop screen, it’s practically see through in certain lights. He bites his lower lip, uncertain if he can get away with it, but then again, he’s pretty sure he can see Harry’s nipples if he just leans over a tiny bit, so he tugs his shirt on and goes to the bathroom to dry his hair.

He’s weirdly nervous when they pull up to the restaurant. Either there are butterflies in his stomach or he’s coming down with something, he’s not sure which. But he takes a deep breath and decides he needs a distraction, and it’s always a good distraction to fuck with Harry.

Before Harry can pull the key out of the ignition, Louis jumps out, and runs around to the driver’s side to open the door and offer his hand to help Harry out of the car.

Harry refuses his hand and climbs out of the truck, immediately suspicious. “What are you doing?”

“Nothing. We’re on a date, so I’m pulling out all the stops.”

“Please don’t.” He takes off, almost speed walking toward the restaurant.

Louis hurries to catch up and whines, “Aw, baby, don’t be that way.”

“Shut up.”

“Sure thing, baby.” Louis steps closer and rests his hand on the small of Harry’s back and quickly reaches past him to open the restaurant door.

Before Harry can say anything, Louis steps forward to the hostess and says, “Reservations for Styles.” Then he lowers his voice, winks, and says, “A romantic booth, if you have one.”

He waits for Harry to sit before he slides into the booth across from him, then when they’re left alone, he purses his lips and gives Harry a little nod. “Do you know what you want to eat?”

“I mean, doesn’t everyone eat seafood here?”

“Yeah, I suppose.” Louis opens the wine list to take a look.

“Right, so I said I’d buy you dinner, but don’t go ordering some ridiculous bottle of champagne or whatever.”

“Aw, baby, I’m not going to make you pay. Don’t worry about it.”

“Stop talking to me like that, it’s nauseating.”

“You love it.”

Harry doesn’t look up from his menu while he shakes his head. “I really don’t.”

Louis pesters him until Harry finally tells him what he plans to eat, and when the server appears, he talks over Harry and orders for both of them. In addition to their entrees, he orders both oyster appetizers on the menu and makes an obnoxious joke about aphrodisiacs, then orders a bottle of wine by asking for the most expensive white wine on the menu.

He smiles up at their server and passes over the menus, then looks over at Harry and winks. He’s turning pink, but not in the way Louis likes. Instead it’s more like the way that Bruce Banner turns green, except it’s still flattering, even though he’s clearly angry. When the server makes her escape with the promise to return with their wine as soon as possible, Harry closes his eyes, takes a deep breath through his nose, and lets it out slowly.

“That wine is fifteen dollars at the grocery store and sixty dollars here.”

“So?”

“So, you’re an ass and you’re definitely paying for that.”

Louis opens his mouth, obnoxiously winks, and drawls, “Paying for that.”

“Gross.” Harry grimaces and examines his silverware. He hasn’t looked at Louis since he started telling the server their order. “Why are you being like this?”

“Like what, baby?”

When the server brings the wine, Louis swirls it in his glass and sniffs it like he knows anything about what wine is supposed to smell like, then nods knowingly at their poor server who clearly thinks that Harry is out on a date with a complete douchebag. Even after she pours their wine and leaves them alone, he doesn’t drop the act. Harry brings up the beach house and Louis reaches across the table, pats his hand like a child, and says, “Let’s not talk about work right now, baby.”

By the time their appetizers reach the table, and Louis makes another crude joke about oysters as aphrodisiacs, Harry just stops talking altogether. He doesn’t seem as angry though, and Louis is confused, but only for a second because it soon becomes apparent what Harry is planning to do.

He drains his wine, picks up the bottle and fills his glass to the very top, then he starts on the appetizers. There are a dozen oysters on the half-shell and a dozen oysters Rockefeller and Harry manages to eat at least twice as many as Louis, all while practically gulping his wine in between bites.

When the server clears their appetizers and brings out their salads, Harry empties his wine again and manages to get the rest of the bottle inside his glass. Louis is speechless. He’s still working on his first glass of wine.

Before the server can ask if they need anything else, Harry hands her the empty bottle and asks for another.

“Baby.” Louis grits his teeth and smiles. “Did you forget that you drove us here tonight?”

Harry shakes his head and sips his wine, then fishes in his pocket for a second, and tosses his keys across the table, catching Louis by surprise and almost hitting him in the face.

“Babe, you know how much I love this wine. And you can drive us home.” Harry leans forward with his elbows on the table, rests his chin in his hands, and smiles. “Unless… You can’t handle a stick?”

Louis raises his eyebrows and smirks. “I can handle your stick just fine, as long as it’s all in working order.”

Harry sputters and almost spits his wine. “Fuck you.”

“Maybe. We’ll see.”

What Louis intended to do was push Harry’s buttons a little, act like a bit of an idiot, piss him off enough to make him want to argue about something ridiculous and unimportant, like the price of the wine. Or maybe he’d want to argue over whether oysters in fact have any aphrodisiac effects. He just wanted a distraction.

Things have grown increasingly strange lately, what with Liam (and apparently everyone else in town because “Liam knows everyone, so we have to make it believable!”) thinking they’re in a relationship. Their efforts to get along in public led to efforts to get along in private “to practice” and basically all of that combined was really fucking with Louis’ head.

Plus the sex.

Yeah.

It’s hard for Louis to maintain any kind of emotional distance because, when you spend twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week with someone, and most of that time is spent actively trying to get along, and maybe a third of that time is spent naked together (sleeping or not), and you’re having absolutely extraordinary, mind-blowing sex with each other at least every other day, it’s easy to start to feel things.

This is why he instituted the no falling into bed right away rule, and why he loves having Niall as a roommate and a buffer, and why he decided to fuck around and annoy Harry tonight. Except maybe he crossed a line, because now it seems like Harry is pushing back, but not the way that Louis expected.

Instead of bickering, he’s not talking at all; instead of rolling his eyes, he’s staring out the window; instead of arguing about the wine, he’s on his second bottle and Louis is carefully sipping his single glass and sucking down water because, though he would never admit it to Harry, he hasn’t driven a stick shift in so long that he’s likely to stall out in the parking lot.

So what was supposed to be a nice dinner out with some banter and a few insults—like they usually do—turns into a completely silent and tension-filled meal. By the time their plates are cleared, Louis is ready to pay and leave and forget the entire evening.

The server offers them dessert, and Harry immediately accepts. He has her repeat the entire list twice, asks her for detailed comparisons and descriptions of anything with chocolate “because that's also an aphrodisiac” and ends up ordering all three chocolate desserts because he “just can’t make a decision” and, apparently, Louis is paying.

As soon as she walks away, Harry goes back to giving him the silent treatment, finishes his second bottle of wine, and excuses himself to the restroom. While he’s gone, Louis asks for the check and for their desserts to be packed up to take home. He pays quickly, apologizes profusely to their server, tips twice as much as he normally would, and goes looking for Harry.

When he pulls open the door to the men’s restroom, Harry stumbles out, freezes in the hallway and glares at Louis, then lifts his chin and walks towards the exit in what looks like an attempt at a dignified manner. He ruins that by tripping on the leg of a barstool, and when Louis tries to steady him with a hand on his arm, Harry shrugs him off by throwing his elbow out. He catches Louis in the nose.

Harry doesn’t even notice that he connects with anything, and pushes through the doors leaving Louis standing by the bar, in shock, blood gushing from both nostrils. The bartender rushes over with a handful of napkins and hurries back behind the bar to turn a carryout bag into a makeshift icepack.

It only takes him a minute to mostly stifle the flow of blood, and then he’s practically running out of the restaurant and through the parking lot, hoping that Harry at least has sense enough not to try to walk home. Louis finds him by the truck, kicking the driver’s side door. As soon as he sees Louis approaching, he starts yelling about keys, but the words die on his lips when Louis steps closer.

Harry's eyes go ridiculously wide, his eyebrows shoot up his forehead, and he screams, “What the fuck happened to your face?”

“You happened.”

“Did not.”

“You fucking threw an elbow and hit me in the goddamn nose, Styles.” Louis sets the bag of desserts on the ground next to his feet, leans against the truck door, tips his head back, and gingerly places the bag of ice on his nose.

“I did?” He sounds genuinely shocked. “I… I’m—”

“Don’t fucking apologize.” Louis attempts to watch him through mostly closed eyes. He’s blurry, but he’s there, and he’s pacing beside the truck, running his hands through his hair over and over again.

He stops pacing, crosses his arms and pouts. “Fuck you. I’ll apologize if I want.”

“Whatever.” Louis closes his eyes and adjusts his icepack. “I was an asshole and it was an accident.” Honestly, it feels like Karma in action, and maybe the next time he decides to intentionally be a dick to someone, he’ll remember this. Probably not.

“You’re always an asshole.”

“Yeah, well…that’s me. Take it or leave it.”

It’s quiet for a minute, but he can hear Harry moving around, the shuffling sound of his boots on the asphalt, and the low rumble of his voice while we mutters to himself. Finally, he speaks up, “I can’t find my keys.”

“I have them. You threw them at me before you chugged two bottles of wine.”

“Oh, yeah… Well, I’m not sorry for that.”

“I didn’t think you would be.” Louis lowers his head, pulls the bag of ice away, and dabs at his nose with the hem of his shirt. “Is it still bleeding?”

Harry leans in, tilts his head and stumbles a bit. “I don’t think so.”

“Right, well, get in the truck. Let’s go home.”

Louis gets them home safely, though he does stall backing out of the parking space and at two stop signs. The stairs are a bit challenging because Harry doesn’t want help, but he needs it. It takes them about twice as long as it usually does to climb them, but they get there eventually.

He tries to help Harry get undressed for bed, but Harry’s being a pain in the ass, so he leaves him to sleep in his jeans, takes his pillow out to the couch and sleeps there. It’s uncomfortable and he’s cold, but he’d rather that than end up snuggled up to Harry’s back. He sleeps fitfully and wakes up in pain a couple of times because he accidentally bumps his nose against the cushion on the back of the couch.

Just after four-thirty, he wakes up again and decides to give up the fight. It’s storming outside, thunder and lightning, strong winds and heavy rain, and there’s no way they’ll work on the beach house today. He swallows some ibuprofen, starts the coffee pot, and takes a quiet shower, carefully washing his face which hurts like hell and, when he checked the mirror, is badly bruised with dried blood caked in his mustache and beard. He was so tired after finally getting Harry to bed last night, that he peed in the dark and actually forgot about his bloody nose until the first time he bumped it in his sleep.

Harry wakes up around seven, or at least that’s when Louis hears him cursing in the bathroom. When he finally comes out to the kitchen, he’s clearly hungover and barely dressed in just a pair of loose sweatpants that hang so low, it’s glaringly evident he’s got nothing on under them. His hair is dripping wet and his face is drawn and gray, and from his reaction, it seems like Louis isn’t the only one who forgot about his nose.

“Fuck.” It’s not loud, but it must seem that way to Harry because he shudders and presses his hands to his eyes as soon as the word leaves his mouth.

“Not really in the mood, to be honest.” Louis sips his coffee and waits to see Harry’s reaction.

He whispers this time, but he still cringes. “I’m so sorry. I would never do that on purpose.”

“Mmhmm.” Louis knows he wouldn’t. Harry might be an asshole, but he’s never been a violent person. He knows it was an accident, knows that Harry truly is sorry and probably embarrassed as well, but that’s not going to stop him from milking this a little.

“Louis, I…” Harry sits down at the kitchen table, drops his head onto his folded arms, and mutters, “You’re supposed to be my boyfriend and I… Is it broken?” He lifts his head, too quickly probably, but his eyes don’t leave Louis’ face.

“No. It’s not broken, but it hurts. Especially hurts to touch it.” Stupidly, he demonstrates this and hisses in pain. “I kept bumping it on the couch cushion while I was sleeping.”

The lines between his eyebrows deepen in confusion. “You slept on the couch?”

“Yeah.”

“But… Why?”

“I mean… It just seemed like the right thing to do.” Louis shrugs like he didn’t toss and turn through the worst night of sleep he’s had in a while. “I’d been an ass at dinner and I didn’t think you’d want me in there with you.”

Slowly, Harry stands up from the table and makes his way over to where Louis is leaning back against the counter next to the coffee maker. When he’s right in front of him, his bare feet between Louis’, he reaches up with both hands and lightly trails the sides of his thumbs underneath Louis’ eyes, across his cheekbones, and cradles his face. It’s so quiet, just the sounds of their breathing and the storm outside, and Louis wonders if Harry can feel his heartbeat.

Harry’s gaze lingers on the discolored skin of his nose and cheeks, but he doesn’t meet Louis’ eyes. He looks so sad and ashamed and Louis wants to comfort him, but he doesn’t know if he should, so he just lets him look.

After a moment spent studying Louis’ face, he leans in close and, as Louis closes his eyes, Harry softly kisses his cheek. His lips are dry and chapped and they catch on Louis’ beard when he whispers, “I’m sorry, Lou. Please tell me you believe me. I would never…”

Louis nods, but the words get caught in his throat when Harry starts leaving gentle, feathery kisses on every inch of bruised skin. His breath ghosts over Louis’ face and it smells like cinnamon toothpaste which mingles with the vanilla scent of his wet hair.

None of this is helping him maintain any sort of emotional distance, but he’s too tired to fight it. Harry draws back slightly, but Louis can still feel his warmth on his cheek. Slowly, he slides his hands down the sides of Louis’ neck to his shoulders, nudges his nose against his temple and exhales, “Forgive me, please.”

Louis turns his head slightly and presses a kiss to that spot on Harry’s jaw that he loves so much and whispers, “Yes.”

Even with his hangover, Harry insists on cooking breakfast as part of his apology, but the mood in the apartment is slightly uneasy, and the rest of the morning is spent sprawled on opposite ends of the couch, quietly flipping through magazines and reading books. It’s a relief to Louis, who expected to spend the day working on the beach house and was trying to figure out how to wipe sweat off of his face without touching his nose.

After lunch, Harry seems closer to normal, at least a little, because he starts talking again, but every half hour or so, he says he’s sorry, and by mid-afternoon it’s grating on Louis’ nerves. Yes, he’s bruised. Yes, it hurts. Yes, it looks awful. But, to be honest, it hurt a lot more and looked much worse last year when one of his students accidentally slammed opened his classroom door and smashed it right into his cheek. He was bruised and bleeding then as well, but he also had a gash on his cheekbone that left a little scar.

When it’s late afternoon and they move to the bedroom to watch television and Harry apologizes for what seems like the millionth time, Louis snaps. “Stop apologizing or I’ll take my forgiveness back.”

He does actually stop mid-apology to argue, “You can’t do that.”

“Sure I can.” Louis nods and crosses his ankles while he flips through Netflix trying to decide what he wants to watch. “I gave it to you, I can take it back.”

“No, you—”

“Just stop saying you’re sorry. Please.”

“Fine.” He leans back against the headboard with a pout. “But I am—”

Louis smacks him on the stomach.

“Ouch, you dick!”

“If I wasn’t so incredibly weakened by my injury, that would’ve hurt a lot more.”

“Fuck off. That did hurt.”

Slowly, Louis turns his head and looks at Harry. “I meant for it to. Now, what do you want to watch?”

“I don’t know… don’t really care, to be honest. I might take a nap.” He scoots down until he’s laying flat with his head on his pillow.

“Okay, I’ll leave you alone then.” He starts to get up, but Harry grabs his arm before he can.

“Stay?”

“Why?”

“Just… You don’t have to stay while I’m sleeping, but can you…”

Louis watches him for a second and waits for him to say it, but he doesn’t, so he fills in the blank. “You want me to spoon you.”

“Yeah. Don’t tell Liam.”

Louis chuckles, but turns off the television and the lamp, and cuddles up behind Harry. With Harry’s body snug to his front, he’s warm and comfortable, and can feel himself start to doze off straightaway. Harry twitches and Louis smiles. He’s used to it now, so he just pulls him tighter against his chest, carefully moves closer to the back of Harry’s head and inhales.

Chapter Text

There is one positive thing that comes from Harry whacking him in the face with his elbow, and that is that Harry gives him a blow job every night until the bruises fade away. He won’t even let Louis try to reciprocate, which pisses him off a little bit because his competitive nature makes it almost impossible for him to behave so passively, especially with Harry. But Harry does let him fuck his mouth a few times, so it’s really hard to find it in himself to complain out loud.

The rain lasts for the rest of the week and pushes things back with the beach house. It doesn’t feel like an inconvenience to Louis, even though he knows it should because he needs to go back to his house, hasn’t been there for going on two months, but it just doesn’t bother him. He knows exactly why, and he hates himself for it a little more every day.

The more time he spends with Harry, the more he thinks about that morning ten years ago and his own reaction to one single night with him. He so easily dismissed fifteen years of hostility and resentment because of three orgasms and what he imagined was a deep emotional connection.

Harry made it perfectly clear that morning, as they shouted at each other over the mess of papers that Louis knocked to the floor, that the previous night meant nothing to him. If the disdain wasn't apparent in his tone and the expression on his face, then his scornful laugh after Louis dared to admit what he thought that night meant, made his point perfectly clear. Louis couldn’t believe he read it all so wrong. He was humiliated, and outraged, and so angry at Harry—even more so at himself—and left as soon as he could get dressed and gather his things.

There’s no logical reason for him to so willingly overlook the past, but he’s always had a bit of a blindspot when it comes to Harry. This time is different. This time, Louis hasn't bothered counting orgasms, and this time he went into this… arrangement conscious of the fact that none of it means anything to Harry, no matter what it might mean to him.

At least he's become a pro at building walls to protect himself, and if they don't do the job, well, the last ten years have given him more experience with heartbreak and his familiarity with that ought to be good for something.

Self-sabotage is a thing that Louis is quite familiar with, given his last two long-term relationships, but with Harry he flips back and forth between extremes. Attempting to distance himself by starting senseless arguments one day and the next, well, the next day while Harry’s in the shower, Liam drops off a package that Louis secretly had shipped to him.

Harry narrows his eyes suspiciously when he enters the room to find a box on the table with his name written on it in large letters. “What is this?”

“I thought it seemed like a boyfriend thing.” Louis peeks out from behind the refrigerator door, then closes it with his hip. “And… I kind of wanted to make up for the worst date in history.”

“Lou…” Harry watches him as he crosses the room and sits down, staring at the fading bruises on his face and quietly disagreeing, “I’m the one who should be making up for that.”

Louis slides the box across the table and smirks. “You’ve more than made up for it with your mouth.”

“Shut up.” Harry hides his face behind his hands, but he’s smiling and after a few seconds he drops his hands and starts spinning the box around, looking at it from all sides before he finally opens it.

“I didn’t have a second one here, and it does seem like a boyfriend thing, right?” Louis tries to read Harry’s expression, but he ducks down to peer inside the box and all Louis can see is the top of his head. When he finally looks up, his cheeks are a little pink and he's scrunching his nose.

Harry nods and lifts the glittery, gold motorcycle helmet out of the box. “It’s… I love it. How much do I owe you?”

“It’s a gift, Styles. I can find you a dictionary.”

“Thank you,” Harry shakes his head and whispers, quietly examining the helmet while Louis watches. “So what’s the date?”

“Um, I thought I’d take you for a ride tonight.”

“Oh. Okay. I’ll just… I should wear jeans, right?”

“Yeah and a jacket or something.”

When Harry disappears behind the bedroom door, Louis opens the fridge and pulls out the bags of food that Liam packed for him, runs downstairs, and puts them in his saddlebags. He makes it back upstairs in plenty of time to get his boots on and slip into his jacket.

He’s standing by the door, cleaning his glasses, when Harry returns from his bedroom wearing the same boots and jeans from their dinner out, the old white t-shirt he’s had on since he got out of the shower earlier, and a black leather jacket. A black leather motorcycle jacket to be precise.

“You have a leather jacket?” Of course he does. And of course he looks incredible in it.

Harry nods and Louis shakes his head and has to turn away for a few seconds so Harry can’t see his uncontrollable smile.

Harry clears his throat and asks, “So, do I just…” and he mimes putting on the helmet.

Louis nods and picks up his own. “Wait until we get downstairs.”

Something that Louis didn't really consider when he decided to take Harry out on his bike was the reality of actually having Harry behind him on his bike. He’s ridden with other people before—his siblings, his ex-boyfriends, Niall, even his mom—but this is different. Just like everything is different with Harry.

It's distracting.

Harry’s nervous. He’s a little shaky and Louis has to help him with his helmet, but Harry smiles at him from behind the face shield. The glittery gold was the perfect choice. Louis chuckles quietly to himself when, as soon as Harry swings his leg over, he flattens himself to Louis’ back and wraps his arms completely around his torso.

“Stop laughing.” Harry loosens his grip long enough to pinch Louis’ stomach. “Oh, my voice sounds funny.” And Louis laughs some more before giving him some basic instructions on how to lean into turns and where to put his feet.

As soon as he revs the engine, Harry’s grip tightens and he somehow manages to pull himself closer to Louis’ back, and when he takes off down the road, he thinks Harry might rip a hole in his shirt with how he’s digging his fingers in. He relaxes after a little while and once Louis turns down the empty two lane highway, he can feel Harry’s entire body loosen up.

None of his exes ever enjoyed riding with him. They all had their own cars and whenever they went out on dates or went anywhere, really, Louis just rode with them. They were never interested in riding for the pleasure of it, even though there were some amazing things to see within a half-hour of his house. He isn’t sure why he’s even bothering to take Harry out on the bike, he doesn’t anticipate it ending well.

He turns off the highway onto another road, and a few minutes later he slows down and pulls into a small dirt parking lot. They can’t see much from where he stops the bike because there are massive cypress trees all around, but just a few feet away the view changes. Louis pats Harry’s thigh and takes off his helmet, waiting for Harry to do the same.

“You get off first, Styles.” He steadies the bike while Harry climbs off and once he’s out of the way, he swings his leg over and grabs the saddlebags, lifts them onto his shoulder, and straightens his glasses. When he gestures toward the wooden stairs, Harry reaches out and grabs hold of his hand.

Louis leads him down the stairs to an old wooden dock. It’s one of those places that would be overrun with tourists if more people were actually aware that it existed.

At the far end of the island, right at the edge, there’s a marsh that eventually connects to the ocean, and from where they are they have an unobstructed view of that marsh, the end of the island, and a sliver of the ocean.

Harry sets his helmet down on one of the benches, shrugs his jacket off, and walks to the end of the dock. “I’ve never been here before. Can’t believe this exists and isn’t crawling with tourists.”

“Don’t tell them about it and they won’t know about it.”

While Harry’s busy looking for frogs over the edge of the dock, Louis unpacks his saddlebags.

When he explained to Liam why he needed to have the helmet delivered to him instead of Harry's apartment, Liam suggested the picnic and the location. He even offered to get the food together, since Louis couldn’t very well put together a surprise picnic in Harry’s apartment. Liam packed fried chicken and pasta salad from the deli section of his store, a slice of chocolate cake from the bakery, a bottle of sparkling grape juice along with two plastic wine glasses, and a red checked tablecloth.

Louis groans quietly, already embarrassed about what Harry might think of the ridiculous set-up. There’s nothing he can do about it now, so he joins Harry at the edge of the dock.

“Hey.”

“Hey.” Harry turns, a smile already on his face, and the green of his eyes almost glows in the light of the evening sun. “This place is amazing. Thanks for bringing me.”

“Welcome. When Liam told me about it, I thought you’d like it.”

“I do. I bet the sunset is beautiful from here. Are we staying long enough to see it?”

“Yeah, um, I’ve got…” Louis points back over his shoulder and Harry follows his gesture.

“A picnic? Is that wine?” He presses a hand to his belly. “I don’t think—”

“No, um, it’s sparkling grape juice.”

“Really?” Harry chuckles and brushes his hair back off his forehead. “I haven’t had that in… Probably… I think since the first New Year’s Eve that I was allowed to stay up until midnight.”

“Special occasion stuff, then.”

“Yeah.”

They sit straddling the bench and facing each other while they eat, and by the time they get to the slice of cake, the sun is starting to set and the moon is bright and high above them in the cloudless sky. Louis lets Harry eat the rest of the cake while he packs everything back into his saddlebags and cleans up the mess they’ve made. He’s still licking the frosting from his fingers when Louis finishes and, really, that’s too much to watch and not offer some assistance, so Louis walks back to the edge of the dock.

Bright orange, purple, and pink bands of color hang above the sun. It amazes him that every sunset is unique, but always stunning, and Louis moves a little closer to the corner of the dock to lean against the railing and watch the sky change.

The air is heavy, humid and hot, the way it usually is in late July, but there’s a breeze that makes it bearable. The temperature doesn’t stop him from shivering when Harry steps up behind him, rests his chin on Louis’ shoulder, and circles his arms around his waist.

“Thank you again. I’ve had fun tonight.”

“Still have to ride back on the bike though.”

“That’s okay. I mean, I was nervous at first, but I trust you, and once I got used to it, I liked it.”

“I’m glad.” Louis closes his eyes and listens to Harry breathe for a few seconds. “Would be silly to have a helmet like that and only wear it once.”

“I don’t know what you mean. I can wear that all the time. Around the house while I’m vacuuming, down to the store to pick up groceries, at the office…” While he talks his voice gets closer and closer and by the time he finishes, his lips are brushing the shell of Louis’ ear.

“Don’t be ridiculous. That helmet is totally inappropriate for vacuuming.”

Harry giggles in his ear. “You might be right.”

They stand there until the last light of the sun disappears and in the twilight they quietly climb the stairs. Harry stays wrapped around him tightly the whole way home and when they’re back inside Harry’s bedroom, after they get undressed and ready for bed, they switch places. Louis presses against his back, skin on skin, and they breath in sync as they fall asleep.

“What the fuck are you wearing?” It’s not even a question, really. More like an insult phrased as one. Because Harry’s wearing overalls. And not just overalls, but white, paint splattered, Dickies painter’s overalls, that are cut off at the knee and have one broken buckle. With his work boots. “You look like an actual cry for help in clothing form.”

“Fuck you.”

Louis’ mouth twists into a sneer and he shakes his head. “Not if you’re dressed like that.”

“Whatever. They’re work clothes. And I don’t know why you think your opinion means shit to me. Go get in the truck.”

Since their picnic on the dock, Louis has been trying harder to untangle himself from Harry. And by untangle he means that about seventy-five percent of the time he’s being a dick for no reason, even though after the restaurant, he promised himself he wouldn’t do that anymore. If he just stays away from Harry’s elbows when he’s been drinking, he’ll be fine. The rest of the time he falls back into the habit of being nice to him. It’s a hard habit to break and when Liam’s around, he feels like he has to keep up pretenses. It's like he's a lopsided yoyo, except he's not the only one being jerked back and forth. His unpredictable mood swings feed Harry's temper, and they're both out of sorts.

It’s August somehow. The entire summer has almost passed and Louis has to leave soon. School starts in about three weeks for students, but teachers go back in about a week and a half, and he has to get his classroom ready, work on lesson plans, get back into the routine of his actual real life. Fix his garage door. Probably cut his grass and trim his hedges because who knows if Niall has done any yard work at all this summer. He should call him and check.

They’re almost done with the beach house. It looks completely different than any memory Louis has of it. And while they’re standing out there on the scaffolding, painting the trim around the windows, he thinks he’s glad he decided to sell it. Because there’s not one single part of it that won’t remind him of Harry and of this summer. It’s the smart thing to do. He doesn’t want to come back here anyway, but he definitely doesn’t want to come back here and be forced to think of Harry the entire time. It's better to sell it and let it all go.

Liam might be bothered by the idea of Louis leaving town for good, but he’d probably understand if he knew. And if at some time in the future Louis decides he wants to vacation at the beach, well, there are beaches all over the world, and he lives within a day’s drive of hundreds of miles of them. Plenty to choose from and only one of them is home to Harry Styles. It won’t be a problem.

Louis holds the handle of his paintbrush between his teeth so he can stretch out his fingers and try to relax his hand. He grumbles around it, “This is so tedious.”

“I told you it would be.” Harry doesn’t look over from where he’s painting the trim around one of the other windows. “Quit complaining.”

“Fuck off. I’ll complain all I want.”

“Yeah, I know.”

It takes them two days to paint the exterior trim. It’s so hot that they can’t paint in the middle of the day and have to work early in the morning and in the evening so the paint goes on properly. It’s almost dark on the second day before they finish.

Harry lays his paintbrush down to dry on the rag next to the sink and washes the last of the paint from his hands. “You okay?”

The truthful answer is no, but it’s not as though he’s going to tell Harry what’s actually bothering him. He’s spent a good portion of the summer hiding parts of himself. He’s only got to keep it up for a little more than a week, then it’ll be over, and he can go home.

“Just tired, I guess. Painting is boring.”

“So, tired or bored?”

“Maybe both. Not sure. I’m hungry though.” He moves in front of the sink and starts scrubbing his hands. Somehow he manages to get paint all over them, even when he’s being extra careful.

Harry stays close, leaning on the counter right beside the sink, watching him. Louis can see him out of the corner of his eye. Maybe he understands that Louis is pulling back, maybe he’s doing it too and Louis is just too busy and caught up in his own head to notice. Part of him wants to know and to pay closer attention, but another part is happier thinking he’s the only one who’s already checked out. He turns off the water and Harry hands him a towel.

“You want to eat the leftovers or you want to order something?”

“I don’t know. Whatever you want is fine.” Louis drops the towel onto the counter and looks up. Harry has paint on his face again. How he manages to do that, Louis has no clue. “You have paint again.” Louis points to his temple and waits to see if Harry wants him to take care of it.

“Oh. Can you?” Harry pushes his hair off his face and Louis turns to grab a paper towel.

“It’s in your hair.” He reaches up to rub at the paint and literally gasps in shock. “Styles. You're such a liar.”

“What?” He’s instantly defensive, scowling and looking at Louis like he expects him to take it back.

“How long have you been coloring your gray? It’s not paint, by the way. It’s your roots.”

Harry steps back and flattens his hair to his forehead. “Shut up.”

Louis can’t help it, he cackles and it echoes in the empty kitchen.

“I said shut up.”

“If you think I’m not going to give you hell about this, you are so fucking wrong.”

“Shut the fuck up.”

“Sure. Right after I tell Liam.” He pulls his phone from his pocket to send him a text and Harry snatches it out of his hand. “Give me my phone, Styles.”

“Fuck you.”

“Verbose this evening, aren’t you? Shut up, fuck you. You know, I’ve heard that hair dye can actually have that sort of effect. Something about the fumes, I think?”

Now it’s Harry’s turn to say something. They haven’t had a good argument in a while and Louis can almost taste it. He actually starts bouncing on his toes a bit with anticipation. But then Harry just leaves.

He puts Louis’ phone down on the counter, doesn’t drop it or slam it, just lays it down. Then he turns around and walks out of the kitchen, opens the door, goes out onto the porch, then down the stairs, and he’s gone.

No yelling, no bickering, no stomping or rushing off in a huff. It literally leaves Louis speechless. But only for a moment. Louis rushes towards the door, yanks it open, and runs downstairs. It’s almost dark; they stayed as late as they could to finish painting. Luckily, it’s a full moon and Louis can see a little better once he gets down on the beach and away from the porch light. He’s not quite sure what he’s going to do. Console him? Make sure he doesn’t throw himself into the ocean? This is new territory and Louis doesn’t know how to deal with a Harry who doesn’t fight back.

It looks like Harry’s maintained his casual pace because he isn’t far from the house. You could almost imagine that he’s just down here to look at the ocean by the light of the moon. Maybe he is.

Louis is quiet as he approaches. He’s pretty sure that Harry knows he’s coming closer, because he stops walking and turns towards to water, so there’s no need to shout or make his presence known.

He stuffs his hands in his pockets and stands next to Harry at the edge of the water, but doesn’t say anything. He’s not sure what’s going on really, seeing as Harry makes little comments about Louis’ gray hair or his wrinkles or his creaky knees all the time. A joke or two at his expense is something that he should be able to brush off.

“Aren’t you going to say something?” Harry doesn’t take his eyes off the water, so Louis tries to focus on the horizon in the dark.

“About what?”

“Fuck off. You know what I mean.”

Louis squats down to poke at a jellyfish that washed up on the shore. “Wasn’t planning to. Not if it really bothers you.”

Harry huffs and crosses his arms. “Since when has that stopped you?”

“I don’t know.” He stands back up and watches Harry's face in the moonlight. “Since when do you just walk away when I’m picking on you? Since when do you not call me an asshole and stand up for yourself? It’s unsettling.”

“Oh.” Harry kicks at the sand, sending a little bit of it splashing into the water.

“Yeah, well… I think it’s stupid, obviously, but it’s your hair.”

“Of course you think it’s stupid.” He turns his head quickly then looks back at the ocean. “Look at you.”

“Look at…” Louis combs his fingers through his hair and pulls some of it down in front of his eyes. “I literally have more gray hair than not.”

“Yeah, but it looks good on you.”

“Jealous of my gray? That’s a first.”

“Not everyone looks handsome and distinguished with gray hair, Louis. Some of us just look old.”

Louis kicks at a shell and mumbles, “You’re an idiot.” Because he is. He’s gorgeous—always has been. Sure, he looks older, but he doesn’t look old. Just for a second, he allows himself to feel that pang of jealousy. Someone will be there to watch Harry grow old, but it won’t be him.

“Fuck you, Louis.”

“No, I didn’t…” He shakes his head and continues, “If every hair on your head was gray, you’d probably still look younger than me with your fucking face.”

“Doubt it.”

“Guess we’ll never know, hmm? How much of it’s gray?”

“I don’t know. I’ve been coloring it for like twelve or thirteen years.”

“Shut up. Really? Then how do you know? You might give me a run for my money in the silver fox department. Though together we’d probably be too good looking.”

It’s obvious that he’s trying not to smile when he mutters, “Maybe.”

“I won’t tell anyone. I’ll take your secret with me when I leave town next week.”

“Thanks, Lou.”

“No problem, Styles. You want to stay down here or are we leaving?”

“Hmm? Oh, yeah, we can go.”

They walk side by side up the beach, shoulders bumping together now and then, but they don’t speak. It’s an easy silence though, which is becoming more and more normal for the two of them. Louis doesn’t like to think about it.

“Lou?” Harry’s in the shower and Louis is standing at the sink brushing his teeth. He mumbles around his toothbrush and Harry says, “I want to ask you something, but, um, I’ll understand if you say no.”

“Okay. Shoot.”

Harry turns off the water and pulls open the shower curtain. “Will you… um… will you fuck me?”

Louis stares at him silently while he grabs a towel and starts to dry off, but when Harry looks up and meets his gaze, he nods.

“Okay. I just didn’t know… um… we just haven’t, you know, in like a week and we haven’t, you know… um, at all.”

“Back to that, are we? We’re not doing it if you can’t say it.”

“Shut up. Fine. We haven’t had sex in like a week and I didn’t know if you’d want to do anything at all.” Harry slips past him into the bedroom.

“I’ve been really tired…”

Harry hums and looks back over his shoulder. “If you’re tired, we don’t have to. I just thought… We haven’t and I’d like to, but it’s up to you.”

“I’m not tired. I want to. I, um… I haven’t done that in a long time.”

“Done what?” Harry smirks and lights a candle on his dresser. He lays down on the bed and pulls the blanket over him, but Louis doesn’t say anything while he drops his boxers and climbs under the covers beside him.

Harry rolls onto his side like he does when they go to sleep at night, so Louis lays behind him and kisses him at the base of his neck. “I’m serious. It’s been like two years.”

“Really? Would you rather bottom?”

“No, it’s not that. I mean, I haven’t done either. It’s just… I haven’t since my last boyfriend. It’s not like I’ve been celibate. It’s, um, easier, I suppose to stick to blow jobs and hand jobs. A lot easier, actually, when you’re not… um… Not that there are a lot of guys, but I don’t bring people back to my house.”

“Oh… We don’t have to…”

“No, no. I want to. I just wanted you to know…” He wants Harry to understand that this isn’t something he takes lightly, that it means more to him, but he doesn’t want to have to say it. And at the same time he wishes he never mentioned it at all.

“Ah, making excuses for your poor performance already?”

“Yeah, that.”

Harry nods and his hair brushes against Louis face, so he presses his nose against the back of Harry’s hair, turns his head and nudges his shoulder. He smiles and breathes in the scent of Harry’s clean skin.

Louis kisses Harry’s shoulder and mutters, “Why are we spooning like we’re going to sleep?”

“It’s comfortable and I like it and… I guess we won’t be doing it anymore in like a week, so… Do you think we can do it like this?”

“I think so, yeah.”

Harry reaches over to the top drawer of his nightstand. It feels like he’s trying to find what he needs without moving out of Louis’ embrace and it makes that spark of light in the back of Louis’ mind flare brightly. After a minute though, he has to sit up a bit and lean over, but once he puts a condom on top of the nightstand, he’s immediately wiggling himself back into the same position and passing the lube back over his shoulder.

Louis stares at the bottle in his hand for a second. It seems almost monumental, but it’s really not. They’ve done it before, they’re not virgins, they’ve fucked each other, sucked each other. It shouldn’t be anything. It’s something though. It means something, at least to Louis.

Might as well go all in. “Can you turn over? So I can kiss you?”

Harry turns in his arms and they’re face to face, lying on the same pillow, noses almost touching. He doesn’t have to ask again because Harry’s moving in to kiss him before he can say anything.

His eyes don’t stop moving over Louis’ face as he comes closer, gently brushing their lips together. They’ve both had chapped lips on and off all summer from being out in the sun every day, and it seems silly, but Louis is fairly certain he’ll always know the particular feel of Harry’s chapped lips. He opens his mouth and sucks on Harry’s bottom lip until he presses forward and slips his tongue inside with a muffled moan.

This is probably a mistake. He shouldn’t have asked to kiss him because Harry’s kisses are so incredibly focused, like he’s doing exactly what he wants to do, like it’s not leading anywhere at all, until it does. A few weeks back they spent a good hour on the couch doing nothing but kissing while the storm thundered outside, and then they took a nap.

Louis skates his hand down Harry’s back and pulls him closer so their hips meet and he can press his knee in between Harry’s thighs. It isn’t long before they’re both fully hard and he’s kissing Harry one last time before telling him to turn around.

Once Harry settles back against his chest, Louis kisses his neck and shoulder and slides his hand between the front of Harry’s thighs, pulling them apart and trailing his fingers along the skin there and up his shaft. A few more slow strokes of his hand and Louis releases him, finds Harry’s hand, and with their fingers laced together, circles his cock again, guiding Harry’s hand up and down, then letting go.

Louis pushes the blankets down and sits up a little to slick his fingers. Watching Harry touching himself like that, slow and steady, just getting started, sends his mind reeling thirty years into the past and it hits him how irrevocably tangled their lives are.

Whether they like it or not, no matter what they might want, there are pieces of him that belong to Harry and pieces of Harry that belong to him. So much of his youth is connected to him. So many defining moments of his life involve him. And this summer is so full of them that Louis thinks he won't ever be able to forget, even if he tries.

Ten years ago, Harry didn’t let Louis do this. He said he was too impatient and that he knew Louis would take too long and be too gentle, so he did it himself. As a general rule, Louis prefers to prove Harry wrong as often as he can, but with this he wants so desperately to prove him right.

While he’s kissing and sucking at the back of Harry’s shoulder and the side of his neck, he rubs his wet fingers over Harry’s rim, pressing firmly for a second, then moving on. Up and down, over and over, pushing the tip of his finger in a little more on each pass until it slips inside easily and Harry groans.

Louis sits up a little more and he wonders why this isn’t one of the more popular sex positions. From where he is, he can watch his finger sliding in and out of Harry’s body and Harry’s hand moving over his dick. He can see Harry’s eyelids as they flutter closed and his mouth where his lower lip is held between his teeth.

He pulls his finger out and adds a little more lube, then goes back to tracing the outside of his rim, dipping his fingertips inside just a little, then back out. When Harry pushes back the next time his fingers press forward, he gives him what he wants and slides them all the way inside. Harry’s mouth drops open, he moans, then breathes out a contented sigh, and he looks beautiful.

There are suddenly so many things that Louis wants to say and it’s an exercise in restraint to keep his mouth shut tight.

He wants to tell Harry how some days when they’re working on the house, he pushes himself past exhaustion because if he doesn’t, he’ll spend the entire day staring at Harry’s arms or his jawline or his face or his back.

He wants to say how hard it is to keep from gently rubbing his thumb over the wrinkles between his eyebrows whenever he's stressed or confused or thinking too hard about something.

He wants him to know how incredible he looks from this angle; wants to call him stunning, amazing, gorgeous, breathtaking.

He wants to tell him how unbelievably lucky he feels to be allowed to do this, to be asked to do this.

But, as if all of that isn't significant enough, he’s afraid that if he tells him any of those things, a multitude of other words will spill out before he can stop them, and he can’t trust himself. There’s no telling what he might say.

A third finger has Harry shivering and letting go of himself to reach back, pulling Louis closer so he can turn his head and kiss him again. The angle is bad, but he’s so obviously trying to get close enough to kiss him harder, even while he’s fucking himself back onto Louis’ fingers. It’s an odd combination of incredibly hot and endearing and Louis adds that to the list of things he won’t say.

Blindly, Harry extends his other arm, feeling around on the top of the nightstand until he locates the condom, and hands it to Louis with a breathless, “Please.”

Slowly, he withdraws his fingers and takes the condom from Harry’s shaking hand. Again, he has to force his mind to stop and focus on what’s in front of him. This is not the time for his feelings to interfere and it’s not the time to start thinking about things he normally overlooks.

With the condom on, he lays back down on his side, adds a little more lube to his dick, and starts to slide it up and down like he did with his fingers. Pressing in a little and pulling back until Harry’s hand flies back and lands with a smack on Louis’ outer thigh. “I will elbow you in the nose again if you don’t stop that shit right now.”

Louis chuckles and rests his forehead against the back of Harry's head, pushing forward, stopping when Harry’s fingers dig into the muscle of his thigh, and waiting until he relaxes them again. When his hips are flush with Harry’s ass, he splays his hand over his lower belly and pulls him closer, rocking their bodies together.

It’s slow and it’s perfect and it’s everything it shouldn’t be. It’s too sweet and too intimate.

Sex between them should be quick or dirty or rough or distant. Or any combination of those things. Not this. Not leisurely and familiar and so unhurried that Louis can feel every shift of Harry’s body, every breath he takes. Not the shared pleasure of two people who know exactly what to give each other. Moving together like this, with such awareness and understanding…

It’s wrong how right it feels.

Louis speeds up the movement of his hips, thrusting harder and deeper. Attempting to turn this tenderness into something else.

He pushes against Harry's shoulder, rolling him onto his stomach, pressing him into the mattress and trapping him there with his own body.

With more force than necessary, he fucks into Harry's body over and over again, harder and faster until he can’t think of anything other than the physical sensation. The tight, wet, fiery heat pulls him in.

Harry cries out, choking out a sob whenever Louis drives into him and hits him precisely where he needs. There’s no room for him to maneuver, no space for Harry to fit his hand. He’s left with no option other than helplessly grinding his dick against the bed every time Louis propels himself forward, pushing their bodies together, inching them up the bed, and trying to meet each thrust with whatever he can.

Louis groans and shifts slightly, circling his hips, and Harry brings his hands down from where they’d been pressed against the headboard and locks their fingers together, somehow bringing him closer than before. He starts to tremble under the weight of Louis’ body, no longer fucking back onto his cock, not riding the bed beneath him.

Holding tightly to Louis’ hands, squeezing and relaxing his grip in the same rhythm as Louis’ thrusts, Harry surrenders his body completely.

When Louis feels himself getting close, he pulls back enough to allow himself the room to guide Harry’s hand around his cock. Once there, Harry lets go of Louis’ fingers and begins to stroke himself mercilessly, coming almost immediately after he touches himself, body shaking, hoarse voice practically screaming while his muscles tighten and release.

Louis falls over the edge right after Harry, pushing deep, and not letting up, fucking him until he physically cannot go on another second. The broken edges of Harry's name tumble out, and with a grunt, he slumps over, dropping back down on top of Harry and panting against the sweaty skin of his shoulder blade.

They lay there for a minute, breathless and spent, until Harry whines quietly and Louis moves off of him, crawls back off the bed and staggers to the bathroom. Briefly, he meets his own eyes in the mirror, but he quickly looks away. He doesn’t want to know what he’ll see there. After cleaning himself up, he returns to the bedroom with a warm, damp cloth and sits down beside Harry where he’s still sprawled on his belly.

That night they sleep on Louis’ side of the bed, Harry’s head on his chest, his leg thrown across Louis’ hips, and his hand resting on Louis’ heart.

“One last fight at the building supply store after breakfast?” Harry nudges Louis’ foot with his own and smiles over his coffee mug.

“Sure.” Louis pulls his foot away and tucks it back underneath his chair. “What are we fighting about today?”

“Exterior light fixtures.”

“Fun.”

“Yeah, I thought you’d like that. We need four and we should be able to get them up today.”

“Almost finished.” It’s hard to believe that those few days in June had seemed to drag on forever, but the rest of the summer flew by.

“Yep. Then you can get back to your life.”

Louis nods. His real life is going to seem so boring and lifeless compared to this summer. He wonders if it’ll always be that way. If every day from then on will seem dull in contrast.

They don’t end up fighting over light fixtures. When they walk down to that section of the store, they both go straight for the same ones and they laugh. Louis offers to change his mind just so that they can disagree, but Harry shakes his head and says, “If we can do this quickly, it’ll leave more time for other things later.”

Harry’s been hinting, though he won’t flat out say it and Louis won’t make him, that he wants to fuck Louis. Louis isn’t sure if it’s some sort of way to try to make things even between them or what, since he won’t come out and ask, but it doesn’t matter. He doesn’t want it, not after the other night.

Blow jobs and hand jobs he was able to compartmentalize, maybe because in the past he did them with other men after he only knew them for a few dates, but he crossed a line that night with Harry, and getting back to himself afterward has been… difficult to say the least.

He knows it’s not the case for everyone, but bottoming has always seemed to make him feel more vulnerable—less in control of himself—and he can’t do that with Harry. Won’t let go like that with Harry. He’s not sure why he ever did. It certainly didn't lead to anything but heartache and bitterness back then.

He knows that if he were to let Harry fuck him, every word, every thought, every feeling, that he’s so far managed to keep inside wouldn’t stand a chance of being contained. It’s only a few more days, and if he has to preemptively suck Harry’s dick every day until he leaves, he’ll do it just to avoid the conversation.

After they finish installing the outdoor light fixtures, Louis does just that. Right there in the living room of the beach house. It’s quick and a little rough, just the way he thinks it should be, and then it’s done. He comes into his own hand and ticks off another day in his head. This time he managed to get them both off with Harry hardly even touching him. As soon as he stands up, he goes straight for the kitchen sink to wash his hands without making eye contact with Harry, thereby skipping any kissing altogether. It’s working. He’ll be fine.

They’re coming to pick up the dumpster in the morning, so they spend the last bit of daylight cleaning up the yard and the porch. They make a quick pass through the house, making sure it’s clean and double checking the list of furniture that they need to replace. It’s not so bad. Had they not been there during the hurricane, there would have been a lot more damage, but since they were able to move most things out of the way of the leaks, and they did the work themselves, they saved themselves a good bit of money. Even with all of Louis’ extras.

All the new furniture that they purchase will be delivered to the beach house a few days after Louis leaves. But it’s fine. Harry will take care of it, just like he’s going to take care of listing the house, hiring painters (the one thing he wants for the house and doesn't get—blue walls in the living room—because the realtor insists beige sells fastest), faxing Louis any necessary paperwork, and everything else.

Life will go on once he leaves town. It’ll be almost like he was never there. He’ll have to come back though. He promised Liam that whenever the house sells, he’ll come down for the closing with the lawyers, just for a short visit, since the only time they spent together all summer was while working on the beach house.

“I want to leave before the tourists, so I don’t get stuck in traffic.” Louis stretches out his legs beneath the table and leans back in his chair.

“Yeah. What time?” Harry hands him a cup of coffee and sits across from him at the table.

“Nine.” That’ll put him in his driveway a little after three o’clock and hopefully he’ll miss all the heavy traffic. All of his things are packed—he just barely managed to fit everything into his saddlebags, he’s dressed except for his jacket, which is draped over the chair next to him. His helmet’s by the door. Not a single thing is stopping him from leaving right this second, except that he’d rather spend one last hour with Harry.

“When do you think you’ll be back?”

“Depends on when the house sells. Don’t worry, you’ll be rid of me soon, Styles.”

“Didn’t mean it like that.” Harry reaches across the table and flicks his finger against Louis’ knuckle. “Hey, maybe you can come visit. You know, like… come stay with me for the weekend.”

He can’t help the suspicious tone in his voice. His guard has been up for weeks. “Why would I want to do that?”

“Well, I mean…” Harry smirks and scrunches his nose. “Would definitely be easier than going out looking to get laid.”

With more venom than he thought he had in him, he hisses, “Fuck you.”

“What the hell is your problem?”

Louis can’t respond. There are too many things to say and not enough words to say them and it’s just not worth it. He thought he learned this lesson ten years ago. Don’t catch feelings for Harry Styles.

He hops up out of the chair, grabs his jacket, and starts for the door. His keys are in his pocket. Time to go. He kind of has to piss, but he’ll stop somewhere on his way out of town. Right now, he just needs to get the fuck out of here.

“Lou, what the fuck? Are you leaving now?”

“Fuck you.” He turns around as he says it, to make sure that Harry can see exactly how much he means it, and takes a step backwards towards the door.

“You said that already. What’s your deal?” Harry stands up and leans his body forward, resting his hands flat on the table.

Louis stops with his back against the door. “Ten years ago, I hated you. After that morning, I could’ve lived my life happily if I’d never seen you again. It’s unfortunate that our families’ lives are so intertwined, but there’s nothing I can do about that.” Louis busies himself by slipping his arms into his jacket. “With the hurricane and the beach house… I actually thought you meant it… I thought maybe we could be friends.” He shakes his head and looks down, his helmet held tight in his other hand. “You and your stupid fucking ideas… ‘Benefits’ and letting Liam believe we were dating. You said it was depressing when you were with Evan? Imagine how it feels to be me. To know for a fact that you don’t give a shit. That we can’t even be friends because I’m nothing more than a way for you to get off.”

“That’s not…” Harry steps around the table until he’s right in front of Louis. “You’re being stupid. I never said any of that.”

“Yeah, you did, though maybe all that drugstore hair dye messes with your memory. My fault though. I went into this knowing… I knew this was a bad idea.” He fumbles behind his back for the doorknob, pulls open the door and flees.

Chapter Text

When Louis pulls into his driveway, it’s just a little more than six hours since he left the beach.

He parks his bike in his garage, walks inside his house, says hello to Niall, and goes straight for the shower. The entire ride home, other than exhaust and hot asphalt, all he was able to smell was the vanilla of Harry’s stupid shampoo. With all of the trips they made to Liam’s store, he never bothered to buy his own. He just used Harry’s because it was there. Because it was convenient. And, if he’s honest with himself, because he liked smelling like Harry.

He didn’t even notice how Harry seeped into every little crack in his life until his head was stuck inside his fucking helmet for six hours, his mind playing memories like movie scenes on repeat. Waking up at the crack of dawn every morning with his face buried in the hair on the back of Harry’s head; all the times he kissed his way up Harry’s neck to nibble on his ear, nudging his nose against the short curls there; the morning after their horrible date at the restaurant, standing in the kitchen, wanting so badly to just… say it; and that night when he fought the losing battle to convince himself that it was just a fuck. Which, he supposes, in a way, it was.

He walks through his bedroom to his bathroom, stripping his clothes off so fast that he sends his glasses flying across the room with his t-shirt and they shatter against the wall. It doesn’t matter. He needs to wash it off.

That evening and the following day are spent with Niall, planning for school. He doesn’t sleep well that first night, or the one after that, but after a few more days he starts to get used to restless nights.

He’s only been back a week and is already itching for… something.

“What are you doing?” Niall asks when he walks into the room and hands Louis a beer. “You’ve got that wrinkly forehead concentrating look.”

Louis makes the effort to relax his face and rubs his index fingers over his eyebrows. “Reading about installing a new garage door.”

“Why?”

“Because the garage door needs to be replaced.” He leans a little closer to the laptop screen and straightens his new glasses. Maybe he needs a stronger prescription.

“Yeah, but…” Niall leans over his shoulder and points at the screen. “You don’t have any of those tools. What even is a socket bit?”

“Not sure.”

“You spent the entire summer working on that house and didn’t learn a thing, huh? Must’ve been focused on something else.”

Louis hates Niall. “I think it attaches to a drill.”

“You don’t have a drill.”

“I know.” Louis takes his glasses off, sets them on the table, and sits back in his chair. Then he rubs his hands down his face and clasps them behind his head. “I thought we could do it, but… I’ll call around and get someone.”

“Well, let me know how much it is. I’m the one parking my car in there. I want to split the cost.”

“Yeah, man. Thanks.” He closes his laptop and turns slightly in his chair. “I think I’m going to get a car.”

“Selling your bike?”

“Nah, just… time for a change. I’ll still ride it, but not as often.”

In early September Louis rides his bike down to the nearest car dealership and, after test driving a few different vehicles, he settles on a slightly used Toyota truck. It’s shiny and black and the opposite of everything Harry’s truck was, and if he buys a ramp, it’s perfect for hauling his bike if he needs to.

Niall wolf-whistles when he brings it home.

Louis turns off the lawn mower, brushes his sweaty hair off his forehead, and shouts over the noise of the hedge trimmers, “Hey, Ni?” He waits for him to turn them off before he continues. “What do you think about painting the house?”

“What like the outside?”

“No way, I’m not painting brick. I meant like the living room, maybe the kitchen and dining room too.”

“Sure, man. We could knock that out in a weekend, probably.”

“Yeah, okay.”

It takes them two weekends. Louis goes to the paint store and back three times and buys three different blue paints before he finds one that he likes. It’s not exactly the same shade as the one he wanted for the beach house, but it’s close, so he says fuck it.

He and Niall work well together, they always do, it’s one of the reasons they plan their lessons together for school. They split up, Louis in the living room and Niall takes the dining room, then they both do the kitchen because it’s fussier with all of the appliances and cabinets. It looks good when they finish. And it’s just enough of a change to distract him a little.

For fall sports season, he signs up to help with his school’s cross country and swim teams. He’s not a coach, but he does what he can, and that usually means helping mark trail courses, or timing heats and races. He comes in early and stays late, and by the middle of September it’s dark when he arrives and dark when he leaves, and before long he forgets what it’s like to be outside all day.

His caramel-colored skin fades and when he looks in the mirror he looks… the same. Why he expected there to be some massive difference, he’s not sure, but he wants it. So he shaves the beard he let grow over the summer. It’s the only thing he can think of to do that doesn’t involve drastically cutting his hair or coloring it. He shakes his head at himself in the mirror and leans in close to wipe the specks of shaving cream away from his face.

Niall says it’s part of his mid-life crisis. He says that Louis is having the opposite of a run-of-the-mill mid-life crisis because it’s as if he’s gotten more domestic and less wild. All because he bought a truck, painted his house, and he only goes out riding on weekends.

In an attempt to prove Niall wrong, he goes shopping and brings home an assortment of different colored skinny jeans, a pile of soft sweaters, and three different pairs of shoes—none of them heavy, steel-toe boots. Niall just laughs and says he’s proving him right.

It’s okay. He’s doing okay.

If he keeps himself busy enough, which he’s fairly successful with, he doesn’t have time to think about Harry and how once again he practically laid himself bare for absolutely no reason. It’ll fade, he knows that, but at the same time he doesn’t want it to. It’s how he finds himself going out of his way to some specialty store to find Harry’s organic cinnamon toothpaste. It’s why he bought some fancy vanilla candle for his bedroom. He’s fighting with himself over trying to forget and wanting to remember, because he knows that eventually it’ll be gone no matter what he wants. The toothpaste will be empty and the candle will burn down, and it’ll all become a distant memory.

Those thoughts are reinforced when he checks his phone one afternoon while he’s waiting for a swim meet to start and there’s a text from Harry. There’s an offer on the house, and he’ll email the details, but it’s close to their asking price. Louis knows they’ll take it. And that’ll be the end of it.

A few messages back and forth, copied to the real estate agent and Harry, a single fax, and the closing is set for the third weekend in October, a little more than a month away.

“Niall, have you seen my—” Louis bends over and pulls his missing shoe out from under the couch. “Never mind.”

“Where are you going?”

“Some new restaurant downtown.” Louis ties the laces of his new leather shoes. His date shoes. “Not sure. He said he knows the chef or something.”

“What’s his name again? Joe?”

“Joel.” His hands shake a little and he has to retie one shoe. His glasses slip down his nose and his hair falls in his eyes and he sighs. He’d really rather go to bed early and try to catch up on sleep, but he agreed to this date, and he promised himself that he’d at least make an effort.

“Right. Well, I won’t wait up.” Niall winks and settles back down into his regular dent in the couch.

Louis pushes up the sleeves of his sweater and brushes his hair off his face. “I won’t be out late.”

“Not sounding too positive about your date there, Tommo.”

“No, I’m… I’m looking forward to it. He seems nice enough.”

Niall hums and looks Louis up and down. “Can’t believe you’re wearing those jeans.”

“My ass looks fantastic in them.”

“That it does.”

“Niall,” Louis gasps. “Don’t ever talk about my ass like that again.”

It’s ironic that riding the bike home from the beach made him want to buy a truck and now, driving the truck down to the beach is making him miss his bike. Not that he wants to spend six hours on the seat of his motorcycle, just that driving his truck takes slightly less brainpower. He doesn’t have to focus and concentrate quite as hard as he does on his bike, and that leaves that extra brain space for something else. In this case, of course, it’s Harry.

In an effort to think about absolutely anything else, he focuses on the essays he brought with him, and tries to mentally calculate how long it’ll take to grade them. At home, he and Niall make a game out of it—racing to see who finishes first. He considers Skyping Niall to grade their essays together, then remembers that Niall is probably spending the weekend with his new girlfriend. He’s happy for Niall, really, but it just makes the contrast so glaring.

Two dates. It only took two dates for him to stop bothering. The first one went alright—dinner at some swanky, new restaurant, followed by a peck on the cheek, and before he could stop himself, he asked the guy to go riding with him. Surprisingly, he was up for it.

Louis dug through his closet to find the spare motorcycle helmet that hadn’t been used in years, picked him up the next weekend, and knew as soon as they pulled onto the road that it wasn’t going to work out. It just didn't feel right. He finished the date, but that was the last he saw of Joel.

It wasn’t what he wanted.

That night, after he dropped Joel off at his apartment, he rode around for hours feeling sorry for himself. When he came home, he walked inside, knocked on Niall’s bedroom door, and offered to sell him his house. A three bedroom in the suburbs is too much house for a single man with no family of his own.

Niall was interested, but made Louis promise to give himself six months to really think about it and possibly change his mind.

He won’t.

All he needs is a little two bedroom apartment, just big enough for him, with space for his nieces and nephews to spend the weekend now and then.

Louis sighs and rubs his eyes behind his glasses. He’s almost there. It’s been two months since he stormed out of Harry’s apartment and left town, and now he’s driving down to the beach because of some stupid promise he made to Liam in July. Liam, who seems to think that Louis plans to stay with Harry over the weekend. No thanks.

There’s a room waiting for him at the little brick motel on the opposite end of the beach from their house. Not theirs for long. In less than twenty-four hours, it’ll belong to some developer. All the work they did—the entire summer—was for nothing. They’ll recoup the money they put in, plus some, but within a few days of signing the paperwork, it’ll be torn down.

He packed his things on Wednesday night so that he could leave straight after school on Thursday. The closing is set for eleven o’clock Friday morning, so they’re meeting with the real estate agent at the beach house at ten. Apparently there are a few knick-knacks, pictures, and such that they need to pick up if they want to keep them. They listed the house as furnished, so the buyer will sell or keep everything else that’s inside the house.

Friday night he has plans to hang out with Liam—drinks and dinner—then he’ll check out Saturday morning and go home for good.

It’s about ten o’clock at night when Louis crosses the drawbridge and turns left instead of right at the boulevard. Check-in takes a few minutes and then he’s carrying his bag up the stairs to his little efficiency motel room. He showers and puts on a clean pair of boxers and texts Harry to let him know he’s in town. Then he pulls down the multiple blankets on the bed and crawls underneath to watch television until he falls asleep.

Not two minutes later his phone buzzes on the nightstand. A text from Harry wondering if he wants to come and stay at his apartment. He only responds with a quick message about the motel because he gets the feeling that if he ignores it, Harry won’t let up, eventually he’ll call, and Louis really doesn’t want to talk to him before he absolutely has to.

When he wakes up at five-thirty the following morning, there’s a text from Harry saying that Louis is always welcome to stay with him and it makes him so angry that he wants to throw his phone, but instead he texts back the middle finger emoji and turns his phone off. He drives up to the little coffee shop near Liam’s store for a quick breakfast which he takes with him to the beach house.

He’s hours early for their meeting. He stands outside on the porch, trying to decide if he wants to face the torrent of memories that he knows will inundate him as soon as he opens the door, or if it’s better to wait for the distraction of the real estate agent. The answer seems obvious, so he eats his breakfast sitting in one of the rocking chairs and walks down onto the beach with his coffee.

The beach in October is so unlike the beach in the summertime. It’s empty, for one thing. The sky's a different shade of blue—less bright, but still beautiful—and because of that, the ocean looks almost gray. It’s not cold, but there’s a chill in the air and the October wind cuts through his hoodie easily, so he walks faster to warm up. Around nine-thirty, he heads back to the beach house and stands on the dunes, looking at it for a while.

It’s disheartening, seeing all the work they spent months on and knowing that it will all be destroyed. The house looks amazing. He forgot; after all, he only saw it a few times once it was completed. He can see from where he stands that Harry’s truck is parked next to his own underneath the beach house. He shakes his head, looks down at his feet, takes a deep breath, and steels himself to face him.

In some ways, Louis has always thought of Harry as the one that got away, even though he was never Louis’ to begin with and he's never really gone anywhere. He's always been there, in the background, or in his peripheral vision, just out of reach. Maybe in another life or in some parallel universe, they manage to get it right. But in this life and this universe, it's a lifelong non-relationship that's done nothing but cause him trouble and pain, and yet...

Louis sighs as he climbs the stairs. Maybe after today, once they sign the papers and the beach house is sold, when the last tether is gone, he can sever ties completely and move on.

The front door is closed, but light spills through the panes of glass and onto the floor of the porch. When he tries the doorknob, it turns and he lets himself inside. Harry’s obviously there—his truck’s downstairs and his keys are on the counter—but he’s not in the front of the house, so Louis hops up onto a stool to wait. The real estate agent should be there any minute.

His hands are cold from walking on the beach, so he rubs them together over and over, finally pulling them inside the sleeves of his sweatshirt and crossing his arms over his chest. There’s a noise from one of the bedrooms, probably Harry knocking something over; Louis’ head comes up at the sound, and he slides down off the stool, frowning.

There are pictures on the walls. There were always a few, but nothing really big and nothing necessarily arranged to be aesthetically pleasing. Their parents left up the rather tacky prints of seashells and beach umbrellas because they thought it was kitschy, and in the last ten years, he and Harry never bothered changing anything because neither of them cared enough, and the house rented out every summer anyway. But now those are all missing.

In their place are neatly framed and hung photographs that he easily recognizes from Harry’s apartment. It seems like every single picture from his home is now in the beach house. On the far side of the room, over the back of the couch, where there used to be an obnoxious print of a crab and a sandcastle, is the big picture of his hands holding baby Fizzy in the air. And the photographs aren’t all that confuses him.

The walls aren’t the boring beige recommended by the real estate agent. They’re blue. The perfect blue that Louis wanted and tried to replicate in his own home. It’s so perplexing that he stands there, staring, eyebrows drawn together, chewing on his lip, and doesn’t hear Harry when he walks into the room.

“Hey, Lou.”

Louis spins around wide-eyed. “What the hell is going on?”

“You shaved your beard.” It's not an answer to his question, but Louis understands his surprise because he's actually shocked by Harry's appearance.

“What the fuck is with your hair?” It’s so short. Shorter than Louis has ever seen it, except that one summer when they were little and they both ended up with crew cuts because they decided to decorate each other’s hair with chewing gum. And it’s… “You stopped dying your hair.”

“Yeah.” Harry meets Louis’ eyes, then looks down and raises a hand to ruffle the top of his hair like he’s always done, only it doesn’t really do anything other than make it stand up at a million different angles. “Seemed like the thing to do.”

His hair looks like George Clooney’s. Unbelievable. At least the rest of him looks the same in jeans and an old flannel.

“Worried I was going to spill your secret?”

“No, not really.”

“Right.” Louis turns away and points to the wall over the couch. “Why are the walls blue? Why are these pictures here instead of your place?”

“Um, the real estate agent said—”

“She said beige, Styles.” He looks back over his shoulder and scowls.

“Shut up and listen.” Harry clenches his jaw and closes his eyes. “She said the pictures that were here were awful, so I used mine.”

“Why didn’t you just buy more crappy pictures?”

Harry moves to lean his hip against the side of the counter. “It was easier to do this. I didn’t want to bother you about buying anything for the house and I made sure that the listing said the pictures aren’t included with the sale.”

Louis uncrosses his arms and shoves his hands in the pocket of his hoodie. “I know you’re not color blind. The walls are not beige.”

Harry sighs quietly and crosses his arms, hugging himself. “Why does it matter? The house sold.”

Louis watches him for a little while. He’s quiet and withdrawn and he won’t look up. The exact opposite of every aspect of his personality. Maybe he’s sick or something. There’s a moment of panic at the thought and then he blurts out, “Are you dying?”

Harry looks up quickly and frowns. “What?”

“You’re being weird. Are you dying or like…” He takes a breath. He has to know, so he barrels on, “Do you have some sort of incurable disease?”

“What the fuck, Louis?” Harry snaps and straightens up, lifting his chin. “You don’t just… No, I’m fine. Not that I expect you to actually give a shit.”

“Whatever.”

“Just…” He shakes his head and looks away again. “Please, don’t ever ask anyone else a question like that.”

“I wouldn’t. It’s rude.”

“Right. Exactly.” Harry’s posture slumps again and he goes back to studying his feet.

“Where’s the real estate agent?”

“I don’t know. Give her some time.”

“She’s already like twenty minutes late. We have to get to the lawyer’s office soon.”

“Yeah…” Harry trails off and pushes away from the counter, walking closer to the wall that holds most of the framed photographs. “It was strange, moving these over here. Hanging them all up at once. You’re not in any of them.”

“Why would I be? We’ve pretty much hated each other for twenty-five years.”

“I don’t hate you.” Harry mutters and runs his fingers through his hair. “Never really did.”

“Right. I’m supposed to believe you wouldn’t lower yourself to fuck someone you despised.”

“Jesus, Louis.” He spins around and demands, “Why do you say that shit?”

“Because it’s true.”

“Fuck you. I’ve never said anything like that.”

“Mhmm. Whatever.”

“When then?” Harry steps closer, eyes flashing. “When have I ever said that?”

“This very room, ten years ago.”

“What?” He stops a few feet away and waits.

“Listen. I’m not going over the details. You know what happened. And the next morning, you fucking laughed in my face when I said that I thought things could be different with us.” Louis jabs his finger at him and scowls. “I told you how I felt and you called me a manipulative liar. So… yeah. Fuck you.”

Harry’s speechless for a while. Long enough that Louis considers going downstairs to wait for the real estate agent in his truck, but then he whispers, “I… I thought… I’m sorry.” He closes his eyes and pinches the bridge of his nose. “Fuck. I did think you were lying to me.”

Louis huffs. “Obviously.” It doesn’t seem like there’s much of a point to this conversation, he’s just confirming everything he already knew.

“Lou, I was struggling so badly with my business. I wasn’t… I was overwhelmed. Under so much pressure. I…” Harry sits down on the couch and rests his head in his hands, speaking slowly, like he’s remembering everything as he says it. “I was so focused on the house. Getting you to sell. And I thought… I thought you hated me. That you were only sleeping with me because you thought… I don’t know. Like it was a game or because maybe it would… trick me or something.”

“That’s fucking disgusting,” Louis practically spits out. “I can’t believe that’s what you think of me.”

Harry stands up, shouting, “How is that any different than you assuming that I did it for the same reason?”

They’re yelling now, and at least that feels sort of normal. “Why else would you do it?”

Harry glares at him, frowning, then looks back down at his feet. “Um…”

“That desperate to get laid, then?” Louis sneers. “That’s lovely.”

“Goddamn it, Louis!” Harry roars and turns, walking a few steps away, then turning back, still yelling, “Why do you think I’m such a horrible person? That I would do anything like that to you? Or anyone for that matter?”

“You thought the same thing about me, you dick!” And fuck, it feels good to shout at him.

Harry’s mouth opens like he’s about to scream right back at him, but he closes it instead and stares at Louis for a few seconds before quietly insisting, “Well, then we were both wrong.”

“Whatever. Doesn’t matter. It was ten years ago.” Louis walks over to the door and looks outside. “Where is the fucking real estate agent?”

“She’s not coming.”

“What? Why? How do you know?”

“Because,” Harry sighs. “I rescheduled the closing for Monday.”

“What? What the hell for? I drove all the way down here for this shit, Styles. I’m planning to leave tomorrow.”

“I was kind of hoping you’d want to stay the weekend.”

Louis throws his hands in the air, infuriated, his voice getting louder with every word. “How can you say shit like that and then get pissed off when I say that you used me for sex? Like… Are you fucking kidding me?”

“Yeah, it was stupid.” Harry moves back to the couch and sits down. “Stupid idea. Sorry. I’ll, um, I’ll pay for your room for the extra nights. You won’t have to see me again after Monday.”

“I cannot believe that you did this for sex. Which, in case I wasn't clear, you're not getting.”

Harry leans his head against the back of the couch and closes his eyes. “It wasn’t for sex. It was… I thought… I wanted you to see the house… the paint… the pictures… I thought that you might change your mind…”

“Change my mind about what?”

“Everything. The house.”

“What about the house? Just fucking say what you mean, Styles. This talking in circles is making me want to murder you.”

“I thought that if you saw the house, if you stayed for a few days, if you’d listen to me… just…” His voice drops to a whisper, “I thought I could convince you not to sell it.”

Louis’ eyebrows shoot up, and for a few seconds he just gapes at Harry, astounded by what he just said. Then he spins on his heel and leaves, slamming the door so hard that it rattles in it’s frame.

He’d really rather go for a walk or a ride on his motorcycle to clear his head, but he has to get out of there, as far from Harry as he can, so he just climbs into his truck and drives away. Over the drawbridge, down that same two lane highway that somehow seems more deserted now than it had over the summer, even though it looks pretty much the same.

The barren corn and tobacco fields blur as he speeds past them, trying to clear his head by letting his mind wander. Harry's exasperating and this inconsistency about selling the house is confusing as hell. Louis can't figure him out. He should have given up trying a long time ago.

When he was a teenager, there was a time when he thought that he and Harry were soulmates. Meant to be. It's absurd to remember it now. He outgrew that fairytale a few years later. Since then, the concept of soulmates has been something that Louis scoffs at. He considers it ridiculous, superstitious nonsense. Something invented by lonely people trying to make themselves feel better by believing that there’s someone out there who’s perfect for them. A load of bullshit, to put it bluntly.

While he drives, long past the farms, tall pines a hazy green on either side of the highway, he wonders what the antonym for soulmate is. Maybe he’ll Google it later. He entertains the idea that this is actually a more realistic concept because, if there exists a person put on this earth solely to cause him pain or emotional anguish, that person is Harry Styles.

He spends most of the rest of the day in his motel room, on his laptop, working on his lesson plans and grading midterm papers, then goes for the longest beach walk he’s taken since the summer that he and Harry decided to walk from the beach house to the near end of the island, then down to the far end, and back to the beach house. Walking doesn’t help him shake the shitty mood he’s been carrying around all day, but he figures after a few drinks with Liam, he’ll be alright.

Three hours later, after a shower and a couple of beers, he and Liam move from the bar to a table in the dining room. The dining room of the same restaurant where he and Harry’s date from hell took place. So far he’s managed to steer the conversation towards their respective careers, families, vehicles… He’s running out of topics though and he knows that Liam can tell what he’s avoiding.

Liam tips his beer and stares down into the glass, swirling the last swallow around. “How was the closing?”

His beer is almost as empty as Liam’s, so instead of responding, he waves the server over and asks for another round. For some reason, he doesn’t want to explain what happened that morning. Whether because he doesn’t quite understand it himself or for some other reason, he’s not sure.

“Harry really took it hard when you left. I thought you said you guys were going to figure out a way to do the long distance thing.”

“No, Liam. It…” He shakes his head and looks down at his beer, trailing his thumb through the condensation around the bottom of the glass. “It didn’t end well. Let’s just put it that way.”

“I figured as much from the way he's been moping.” Liam empties his beer and watches Louis across the rim of his empty glass. It’s clear that he thinks it’s Louis’ fault, and that’s unfair. He didn't really think about things turning out this way, didn't consider that Liam might think he actually broke Harry’s heart. Not when that’s so far from the truth.

He has to tell him. “It was fake.”

“What?”

“It was fake. The moping.”

Liam shakes his head and hands his empty glass to the server, who replaces it with a new beer. “Nah, man. He was in a funk forever. Still is, if you ask me.”

“No, Li. It was fake. Like… The whole thing. We were never actually together.”

“Right. Um… How many drinks do you think I’ve had?”

“We’re both on our third beer.”

“So what makes you think I’d believe that?”

“Shit. Okay. I don’t know how to explain…” but he ends up spending most of the rest of the evening trying. He’s not sure if he’s getting his point across, and from Liam’s reaction, he’s almost positive he’s just convincing him that he’s losing his mind.

For the rest of the night, he doesn’t drink anything but water, doesn’t even finish his third beer, and asks for a coffee halfway through his meal, because while he’s trying to explain things to Liam, he manages to confuse himself, and he figures he needs to be mostly sober to make any sense at all.

Liam squints his eyes, sticks out his lower lip and hums. “So, what you’re saying is that you guys pretended to be in a relationship to make me feel better. But that, because you were worried you’d mess up around me—”

“Harry was worried.”

“Right.” He doesn’t sound like he believes any of it. “Harry was worried, so you practiced being nice to each other and acted like you were dating, even when you were alone?”

“Yes.”

“And you went on dates?”

“Yes, for practice.”

“Do you hear what you’re saying?”

“Of course I do. I mean, I know it sounds stupid. It was Harry's idea.”

Liam leans forward a bit, rests his elbow on the table and hooks his fingers around his chin. “Harry told you that I’d be upset if you guys were just hooking up?”

“Yep. Said you’d be worried about him. He’s an adult, you know.”

“I do know.” Liam scratches at his cheek and nods slowly. “I told him, long before he called things off with Evan, that I thought what he was doing was… counterproductive. For someone who has been telling me for… oh, I don’t know… years now, that he’s looking for something solid, something long term…” He clears his throat and presses his fingers to his temples, then squeezes his eyes shut tight and says, his words so rushed that it takes Louis a few seconds to figure out what they are, “He ended things with Evan the day after the storm. Right before you picked up your motorcycle from the store. When he called me to tell me he was on the way, he told me he’d just talked to Evan and called it off.”

“No, no, no.” Louis waves a hand dismissively and shakes his head. “He told me it had been over for a while.”

Liam raises one eyebrow and tips his chin down. “He lied.”

“What? Why?”

“I don’t know. Um… Did you see the pictures at the beach house?”

“Yeah. You knew about that?”

“Did you see the two that I gave him?”

Louis shakes his head and purses his lips. “I don’t think so. They were all frames he had up in his apartment.”

“Alright. Okay. Um… Louis, how do you feel about Harry?”

“He’s a dick and I hate him. Why?”

“That’s, um… That’s just really a strong way to feel about someone. I mean, if you guys were just fucking around until you went back home… Seems to me that you’d still be sort of friendly. Especially considering how closely you guys worked together all summer.”

“Yeah, well, he was an asshole the day I left.”

“Right. You said it didn't end well. But… What did he do?”

Shit. He’s trapped. Fucking backed himself into the corner. He slides his plate to the edge of the table and clears up his silverware and napkin, just to buy some time. But he can either lie or tell the truth. And there’s no reason for him to lie to Liam.

“He… Okay.” Louis looks across the table, eyebrows raised, and points at Liam. “You can’t say anything to Harry.”

“Alright, but why?”

“You just can’t. He’ll… He’ll hold it over my head until the day I die and I can’t… Just please.”

“Yeah, alright. I promise, okay?”

Louis nods once and takes a quick breath. The faster he says it, the sooner it’s over and done with. “It was never just sex for me. Harry has never been just anything to me. The day I left town, he made some flippant comment about me coming down to visit just to fuck and I… Well, there was yelling and then I left.”

Of all the ways Louis might have imagined Liam responding to a confession of his feelings for Harry, a nod as if he knew all along was pretty far down the list.

“Listen, you need to talk to Harry. Can't believe he changed the closing…” Liam shakes his head. “Ask him to see my pictures. Just… um, call him tomorrow. Or maybe just swing by his office. He’ll probably be there. I think you two need to clear the air, you know? Trust me.” He stands up to pull out his wallet and tosses some cash onto the table, telling Louis to shut up when he tries to protest and split the bill. They go their separate ways in the parking lot and Louis falls asleep that night still confused.

Five-thirty is such a shit time to wake up on a Saturday morning when you’re alone and there isn’t anything to do. At home, he gets up, makes coffee, showers, and does whatever chores he can do quietly before Niall wakes up. Sometimes he goes for a walk around his neighborhood, and occasionally he’ll catch the sunrise.

But this time of year, the sun doesn’t come up until after seven, so around six-thirty he pulls a heavy blue sweater on over his t-shirt, wiggles into his black skinny jeans that apparently even Niall appreciates, tugs an old gray beanie over his still damp hair, steps into his shoes, walks down to the beach in the dark, sits on the steps at the beach access, and waits.

When he woke up that morning, he laid in bed for a while going over his conversation with Liam. While he showered, he thought about his most recent argument with Harry. And while he watches the sun come up, he decides that he might as well trust Liam and do as he suggested and stop by Harry’s office. Maybe with a day to cool off, they can have a civil conversation.

There’s just enough time for him to drive over to the coffee shop for breakfast—this time sitting and eating at a little table by the window—before walking the short distance from there to the small block of shops that includes High Tide Rentals.

It’s not quite nine o’clock when he gets to Harry’s office, so he sits up on the little brick wall that runs along the edge of the sidewalk to wait until they open. He’s not there a full minute before the door opens and Harry steps outside, letting the office door swing shut behind him.

“Um… What are… What can I do for you, Louis?” Harry presses his lips together and looks him over quickly, then locks eyes with him.

Louis hops up and takes an unintentional step towards him, notices what he's doing, then walks backwards until his heels hit the wall. He looks so different, and maybe this is what business professional Harry looks like, but it’s not as though Louis has any experience with this.

He’s wearing fitted gray trousers and a green and blue patterned shirt unbuttoned at the collar, under a navy blue v-neck sweater. He looks ridiculously handsome and Louis kind of wants to punch him in the face.

“Liam sent me.”

“Why?” Harry asks quietly, still steadily holding Louis’ gaze.

“He said that I’m supposed to come here and talk to you or listen to you—I’m not really clear on that part—but I know he told me to ask you about some pictures of his. That’s… That’s all.” Louis quickly finishes and looks away. It's unnerving when Harry watches him like that.

“Shit. Um… Okay.” Harry pinches his bottom lip like he does when he’s thinking, and Louis tries not to stare. “I… They’re still at the beach house. I was planning to take some boxes up there later and… um… pack up my things.”

“Oh, okay. Never mind.” Louis shoves his hands into the pockets of his jeans and turns to go. “I guess I’ll see you Monday.”

“We can go now if you want to see them.”

“No, that’s alright. You’re working and… It’s no big deal.”

“It’s fine, Lou.” Harry quickly clears his throat. “Um, Katie’s here. She doesn't need me. Probably happier to have me gone, actually. I think I just get in her way.” He grins sheepishly and gestures for Louis to wait, turns to open the office door, and disappears inside. He’s back in less than a minute, keys dangling from his fingers. “Do you want to ride with me?”

Louis hesitates, but he doesn’t want to walk back to his truck. “Yeah, alright. If you take off and leave me there, I can walk back to my motel room. It’s not too far.”

“I wouldn’t… I was about to say I wouldn’t do that, but I’m not making any promises.”

“Dick.”

“Yep.” Harry meets Louis’ eyes over the top of his truck. “Wouldn’t be me otherwise.”

They’re barely out of the parking space when Louis clears his throat and asks, “Why’d you do it? Change the closing… I don’t get it.”

Without looking over, Harry pulls his truck onto the road, and says, “I don’t want to sell it.”

“Why though? You’ve been trying to get me to sell it for ten years.”

“Is it not obvious? We put so much work into it. So much time and effort. Every time I see our house, I remember something different.”

“We fought all the time. Why would you want to remember any of that? I don’t.” It’s so fucked up that Harry wants to remember everything that he wants to forget.

“Because I had fun working on it. I… I haven’t had fun like that in a long time. And the fighting wasn’t too bad. That was fun sometimes too. At least the making up part was. And I just… I don’t want them to tear it down. I don't want to sell it.”

“You’re saying you don’t want to sell it because it reminds you of us having make up sex?”

“No, Louis. I swear… I don’t get this obsession of yours with us having sex. I already, um…” Harry trails off and taps his fingers on the steering wheel.

“You already what?”

“I already miss you, okay? With our house, at least I… I don’t know. I have that connection.”

“You don’t miss me. You miss the sex.”

“Goddamn it.” Harry parks underneath the house and pulls the parking brake. “No, you fucking asshole. I mean, yeah, I miss the sex, but I also miss other things. The, um…” His voice drops to a whisper, “The cuddling. Don’t tell Liam.”

“Whatever, man.” Louis opens the door and climbs out of the truck. He heads straight up the stairs, not waiting for Harry. Which is worse, he wonders, being used for sex or for cuddling. The second option honestly sounds worse at the moment, like he’s good for anything and everything physical, but nothing more.

Harry follows him into the house, drops his keys on the counter, and walks over to sit down on the couch, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands. “The pictures are in the master bedroom.”

Louis disappears down the hall into the master bedroom. On the nightstand on the far side of the bed are two small frames, the pictures inside are just regular snapshots, and they’re both of him and Harry. He picks them up one at a time to examine them; maybe he’ll figure out what the hell Liam wanted him to see.

The first frame holds a picture from one of the days when Liam came over to help install the light fixtures after they finished the ceilings. He doesn’t remember which day it was, doesn’t seem like he’s aware that Liam is even there, because from the way he looks, his focus was one hundred percent on Harry.

In the picture, they’re turned almost toward the camera, but you can’t see much of Harry because he’s behind Louis, leaning over, and his face is tucked against Louis’ neck. His hands are tight on Louis’ waist and he’s whispering about that first stupid blow job and saying that if Liam wasn’t there with them, he’d be on his knees doing it again.

It’s unexpectedly intimate. Louis didn’t realize… He tried so hard not to let his guard down.

His expression is just ridiculously happy—it's obvious, even with the goggles on his face—and he’s mortified that it was caught on camera.

The second one is from the day that they were all three working on the roof to install the last piece of flashing on the peak, and Harry slipped in the rain. It’s just after that; they’re standing on the porch and Louis remembers the exact moment.

Liam was sitting in one of the rocking chairs, laughing at them while they argued. He was so angry at Harry for not being careful and almost falling that he started yelling before they got on the ground and continued yelling on the way up the stairs and onto the porch. In his memory, he’s livid and Harry’s shouting back, but in the picture he’s poking at Harry’s chest and there’s such fondness in his expression that he immediately starts to blush. If he really looked at Harry like that, and before they even…

Fuck. Harry knows. He has to. He’s seen the pictures. He framed them, for fuck’s sake.

Louis is off the bed and down the hall in seconds. It’s probably a little more than two miles to his motel, he’ll be there in no time, fueled as he is by anger and embarrassment. He rushes through the room and Harry says something, but Louis doesn’t hear anything more than a muted noise over the blood pounding in his ears.

When he reaches for the doorknob, Harry grabs his arm and pulls him back.

Louis whips his head around, words spilling from his mouth before he can stop them. “Happy now? Totally humiliated me, haven’t you? Can that be it? Can we be done?” He jerks his arm free from Harry’s grasp, yanks open the door and flies down the stairs, over the dunes and onto the beach.

It’s low tide, so he runs at an angle, away from the house and towards the water until the sand turns wet and his feet start to sink a little. It’s not far, but it’s enough to get his blood pumping and get him breathing hard. He stops for a second, then he starts to walk in the direction of his motel. He’ll take a taxi or something to get his truck later tonight, once the offices and stores are all closed. Then he’ll just spend the rest of the weekend in his motel room, show up a few minutes late for the closing Monday morning, and leave immediately after. There’ll be no need to even look at Harry again. Or Liam. Because what the fuck kind of betrayal…

Harry’s always been a complete and utter dickhead, but Liam…

Louis sighs and pulls the beanie off his head, scratches his fingers over his scalp, and tugs it back on, pulling it over his ears. He takes his glasses off and hooks them in the neck of his sweater. If he keeps blinking, there’s a good chance that the burning in his eyes will go away, and he can pretend it’s just the October wind. It is a bit cold out, not too bad, but it’s cloudy and he’s only wearing a sweater, so every time there’s a gust, it cuts through the knit and makes him shiver, so he tucks his hands inside his sleeves and wraps his arms around himself.

The wind is blowing in both directions coming off the water and he almost doesn’t hear it at first, in fact he mistakes the sound for a seagull, but then he hears it again and turns around. Harry. Yelling his name and running right for him, and there’s no running away, not from a man who runs regularly because he likes it.

For a split second he considers walking straight into the ocean, but if the choice is between hypothermia and humiliation, he supposes he’ll take the latter.

Though he’s not going to face him curled in on himself and shivering. He widens his stance and stands up straight, keeping his arms crossed over his chest and hoping that the increase in his heart rate from whatever kind of confrontation they’re about to have will keep him warm and stop him from shaking.

“What do you want, Styles?” He shouts over the wind, his voice tense. “Can’t leave it alone, can you?”

Harry doesn’t say anything until he’s much closer, maybe ten feet away. His face is flushed and his clothes are disheveled and there’s wet sand all over his nice shoes. Good. Maybe they’ll be ruined. “Lou, please—”

Louis uncrosses his arms and holds them out wide, yelling, “Was it not enough for you to do it ten years ago, and again when I left in August, you… you bring me here for some sort of elaborate ploy to humiliate me or something? What is your fucking problem?”

Harry stops short a few feet away. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

“Fuck you, Styles.” Then he sees them and his eyes go wide. Harry’s clutching the picture frames in his hands. “You brought them with you?”

Harry looks down at his hands and up again at Louis. “I don’t understand. If you saw them… Why did you—”

“Because, you narcissistic prick, it’s fucking embarrassing seeing my face in those. Seeing the way I’m looking at you. I know you see it. I just don’t get it. Were you just rubbing it in? And Liam?”

“I don’t… Do you… Did you…” He gives up on words and shoves the pictures at Louis, holding them out, less than a foot from his face. “Look at me, asshole. Look at me in this picture.” He turns them around and glances at them, then holds the one from the day on the porch out for Louis to see. “Look at my fucking face. Do you not see it?”

Louis presses his hands against his eyes and blinks a few times, then tries to focus on the picture, but his eyes are tired and it’s windy, and all he can see in the photo is the expression on his own face.

“I thought it was so obvious and seeing this picture, it was. Look at it, Lou.”

“What are you—”

“I know you’re not stupid. How can you not see? How could you not know?”

Louis shakes his head and stutters out, “I… I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You want to hate me, fine. You want to live the rest of your life and never see me again, then that’s your decision to make. You tell me right now that you want to sell our house and wash your hands of me and I’ll do it. I’ll go along with it. But you need to know that it’s not what I want.”

At once he’s yelling again, voice strained and cracking, but he doesn’t care. “What the hell do you want then? Because you don’t make any fucking sense. I spent almost two months going along with your bullshit ‘faking it for Liam so we can keep fucking’ thing, trying to keep you at arm's length, locking away parts of me, knowing that it would end. Except that for once I was the one to walk out the door. But here I fucking am! Back for more, I guess. I don’t even… I don’t understand any of this.” He shivers when a big gust of wind blows and wraps his arms back around himself.

“Can you… Will you just come back to the house? Let me try to explain? It’s cold. If you still want to leave, I’ll take you to your truck. I promise.”

Louis glowers at him for a moment and takes a few deep breaths. He wants to scream at Harry that he doesn’t need his help, doesn’t need him for anything, and doesn’t want to hear his attempts at an explanation. But then he remembers the last time they stood like this on the beach, how he was so ready to give up and leave town, and how stunned he was when, instead of fighting with him, Harry apologized.

It’s so hard not to respond to Harry the way he always has, but he’s tired of feeling like a child, stomping off and throwing a fit whenever something doesn’t go his way. He takes another breath, pulls his glasses out of the collar of his sweater and puts them on, then stalks off back towards the house. He walks as fast as he can without running, trying to burn off some of his anger and clear his head, hoping that Harry will get the hint and not try to catch up. He does, and Louis is able to climb the stairs and get inside the house before Harry crosses over the dunes.

When he finally comes inside, he sits down on the opposite end of the couch, holding the pictures in his lap. “Are you going to let me talk?”

“Fine. Talk.”

Harry moves closer until Louis can feel his body heat, lays the pictures on the couch between them so they can both see, and quietly says, “Liam saw the pictures on the walls and noticed that there weren’t any of you. He doesn't know that's you.” He looks up at Fizzy’s picture above the couch, turns his head and catches Louis’ eye, then looks back at the picture again. “So he said he had a couple on his phone and he showed them to me. Shit, I blushed as soon as I saw this one.” He taps the glass of the one where he’s whispering against Louis’ neck, then pushes it closer to Louis.

Louis closes his eyes because, even confused and angry, he can feel the heat rising in his cheeks when he thinks about that moment being caught by a camera.

“But this one…” He lays the other frame in Louis’ lap and Louis grabs it instinctively. “I saw my face and thought how blatant my feelings were. And I said that to Liam. So he asked me if I didn’t see the same thing in the way you were looking at me. And I hadn’t. I hadn’t even looked at you, which was stupid, but then I did and I thought… maybe I’d been wrong. Maybe there was a chance that you felt the same. And I had to know. So I changed the closing to Monday. I just wanted time to find out for sure that there really wasn’t a chance for us. I’m sorry…”

Louis glances down at the picture in his lap and forces his eyes away from his own sappy expression. He wants so badly to see what Harry sees, for there to be something obvious in Harry’s gaze, but he can’t be sure. And he doesn’t trust Harry. He can barely trust himself.

Carefully, Louis sets both frames on the coffee table, then leans back a little, crosses his arms, purses his lips and squints. “You have got to be fucking with me.” He feels like he’s on some bad reality television show. Like someone is going to jump out and yell at him any second. A little lightheaded and a bit nauseated.

“What?”

“Don’t start this ‘what’ shit with me, Styles. Just… Either take me back to my truck or let me leave.”

“No—”

“Fuck you. You don’t get to tell me no.”

“Shut up. Fuck.” Harry shakes his head and reaches up to comb his fingers through his hair like he always does when he’s nervous. “No, I’m not fucking with you. Why would you think that?”

“I don’t know what your motivations are. You rarely make sense to me.”

“All summer I did everything I could to show you… Have you seen this fucking house? I hated myself every single time that I gave in and let you have your way, gave you what you wanted, because it was stupid. Why the hell did we spend the extra money on the roof? The siding? The ceilings? The windows and shutters? Because you wanted them. There was no reason to put in all that extra time and money, but I went along with every little thing you wanted. Why, Lou? Because I’m fucking smitten with you. Jesus.”

This is possibly the most Harry has ever said to him at one time without yelling or calling him names. That alone would have Louis flustered, but the actual words Harry is saying have him trying to repeat them all inside his head to be sure he’s hearing properly. And then Louis is attempting to talk at the same time, and he can barely think. “I… um… I…”

“You can hate me all you want, Lou, but I… I… I love you. I’m sorry it’s been so shitty. I’m sorry things have—”

“What?” he practically shrieks when he processes Harry's words.

Harry jumps a little and echoes Louis, “What?”

“What did you just say?”

“I said I’m sorry—”

“No, no, no.” Louis shakes his head. His heart is in his throat and his entire body is trembling. “Before that.”

“Oh.” Harry’s gaze drops to his lap, but then he looks up and the corners of his mouth start to lift a little. “This summer I… I fell in love with you. Again. And I thought… I wasn’t going to tell you, but I wanted you to know. I do. I love you. I’m sorry—”

Louis hops up from the couch, talking over Harry, getting louder with every word. “I don’t believe you. You’re lying. There’s no way—”

“No way?” Harry stands up and they’re facing each other, both of them standing with clenched fists, so ready to fight. “I wanted you so much that I convinced you to be my fake boyfriend, Louis. Who does that?”

“I don’t fucking know. Someone stupid who’s overly concerned about their friend’s opinion on their personal life?” Louis points at Harry’s chest and says, “If you wanted me—wanted to be with me—why didn’t you just say so, hmm? Because—”

“Because you wouldn’t have believed me! You don’t believe me now!” Harry runs his fingers through his hair and squeezes his eyes shut tight. “I wanted you that spring break twenty-five years ago, but you had a boyfriend, and I had a temper, and instead we ended up screaming at each other. I wanted you that night after Gemma’s wedding when we’d been fighting over fuck knows what, and shit if that wasn’t the most embarrassing night of my fucking life.”

Harry opens his eyes and Louis can’t turn away while he talks, words coming faster and faster, like it’s his last chance to say them, “I was so desperate to impress you that I drank too much and fucked it all up. And then ten years ago you fucking used that as ammunition. You threw it in my face and I wanted to punch you, but then you opened your smartass mouth and practically dared me…” His eyes are wild as he rushes out, “And I thought you hated me, but I wanted you so bad that I didn’t care. I thought it was my only chance to… And the stupid hurricane came and now they want to tear down our house and they can’t…”

It all seems unreal. It almost hurts to hope. He wants to pinch himself, but he knows he’s not dreaming because he would have woken up by now, sweaty and shivering in his bed, the same overwhelming sadness weighing him down. No. This is really happening.

“Are you lying to me?”

The lines between Harry’s eyebrows deepen and he frowns. “No, why would I?”

“I don’t know why you do anything, Styles.” Louis takes a deep breath and puffs his cheeks out as he exhales, then sits back down. “You’re a fucking enigma.”

Harry drops onto the couch beside him. “Well, you’re a pain in my ass.”

“Fuck you.”

Harry shakes his head and scoots closer until they’re almost touching. “I’m not lying. I wouldn’t. I do love you. Feel like I've been in love with you on and off my whole life. Loved you more than I’ve hated you, probably. So tell me I’m wrong. Tell me that what I think I see in that picture isn’t what I see.”

“You’re an asshole.”

“I know. So are you. And I love you anyway. Or maybe I love you because. I’m not sure.”

“Fuck you.” But it comes out soft and fond and though he’s scared shitless, he can’t stop himself from adding, “You’re not wrong.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” he admits quietly, “but it doesn’t matter, does it?”

“What do you mean? Of course it matters.”

“I mean, what do you think happens now?” Louis focuses on the seam of his jeans and runs his fingertip over it. “My entire life is on the other side of the state. My house, my career, everything. It’s not like… We can’t go on dates or anything.”

Harry reaches over, grabs Louis’ finger and pulls his hand into his lap. “Why not?”

“How do you think that works?”

“I don’t know.” He rubs Louis’ hand between his own, warming it. “I’ll drive up there, you drive down here, we’ll work it out. You're almost as stubborn as I am. We'll make it work. It’ll work.”

“But what if it doesn’t?” Louis mutters and watches Harry’s hands holding his. It should be weird for Harry to touch him like that, gentle and soft, but it’s not. It feels natural. “What if it doesn’t work?”

Harry’s hands still and he watches Louis’ face until their eyes meet. “You’d rather not try than take the chance?”

“I don’t know, Styles. It’s not like we have an excellent track record between us. And it’s us. Together. It’s like a disaster waiting to happen.”

“So what.”

“So what?”

“Yeah. So what. I don’t care. What’s the worst that can happen?” Harry grabs for Louis’ other hand and holds them both, rubbing his thumbs over Louis’ knuckles. “We end up screaming at each other? You’re already the most annoying person I know. You already drive me up the fucking wall. I can’t imagine it being any worse than working with you on this fucking house.”

Louis’ eyes dart side to side until they land on Harry's. He looks so sincere. Louis heaves an exaggerated sigh. “Fine.”

“Fine?”

“Yeah, fine.”

“What does that mean? You’ll try?”

“Yeah, I, um… Well… I love you.” Louis holds a finger up to Harry’s lips to shush him; he smiles behind it. “But I still think you're a dick, so don’t get too excited.”

Harry starts to talk while Louis’ finger is still touching his lips and his smile grows until both of his dimples show. “That’s okay. I can work with that.” He catches Louis’ hand again and squeezes them both. “I can’t believe… Can I kiss you?”

“Of course you can. Don’t pretend to be stupid, Styles.”

“Harry.” He corrects him quietly and leans in close, his gaze flickering from Louis’ eyes to his lips and back again, until they’re almost touching.

Louis whispers, “I’ll work on it,” and closes the distance.

They spent a lot of time over the summer kissing, spent hours and hours doing nothing else, in fact, but this time, there’s an unexpected hesitation. This time, Harry’s mouth brushes against Louis’ so gently. He catches Louis’ lower lip between his own, then pulls back. Harry’s eyes search Louis’ face, and then he lets go of his hands, pushes Louis into the back of the couch, and clambers into his lap with his knees on either side of Louis’ hips. In his haste to kiss Louis again, Harry leans down too fast, knocking their heads together.

“Oops.”

Louis reaches up to rub his fingers over his forehead and pouts. “Hi.”

Chapter Text

Eight Months Later

Holding his phone between his shoulder and his ear, Louis climbs the stairs to the beach house carrying a large, heavy box. He’s slightly out of breath, but he tries to answer without panting in Niall’s ear. “Yeah, Ni. It’s fine. It’s just stuff. You can ship it if you want. Or just bring it next time you come down.” He balances the box on the porch railing, pulls the door open, hurries inside, pushes the box onto the counter, and kicks the door shut. “Right. Thanks, man. Bye.”

“Niall?” Harry asks from behind the cabinet door before he closes it. “Hey, I told you I’d help with the heavy ones. You’re going to hurt yourself.” He nudges the box, then reaches over and brushes Louis’ hair off his forehead.

“I’m fine.” He sits on the stool, pulls the neck of his t-shirt up and wipes his face with it. “That’s it for now. Niall packed up a few things that I forgot.”

Harry rounds the corner of the counter, leans his hip against it, and tugs on the sleeve of Louis’ t-shirt. “Are you nervous?”

“About what?”

Harry tilts his head and rolls his eyes. “I don’t know. Living together?”

“Oh, you know what? I hadn’t thought about it, but yeah. I think… Hmm… This is a really awful idea. So… I’ll just go.” Louis jerks his thumb over his shoulder and slides down off the stool, but he doesn’t get far. Harry reels him in by the hem of his shirt and Louis tilts his head and kisses him on the chin. “No, I’m not nervous. Are you?”

Slowly, Harry smiles and shakes his head. “Are you disappointed?”

“Can you stop asking me these weird open-ended questions?” Louis reaches up with both hands, wraps one around the back of Harry’s neck, and combs his hair back with the other. It's long enough that it's starting to curl around his ears. “Am I disappointed that your stupid hair looks even more stupidly gorgeous now that it's all gray? Yes. I hate you. Am I disappointed that the pizza we ordered for lunch did not come with extra pepperoni like I requested? Yes. Next time we order from Dominos.”

“Shut the fuck up.” Harry closes his eyes and pushes his head against Louis’ hand like a cat, and of course he’s rewarded when Louis twirls his hair around his fingers and scratches his scalp. “You know what I mean.”

“I’m not disappointed. Not at all.” He drops his hand onto Harry’s shoulder and rubs his arm, massaging all the way down to his fingers. “Are you?”

“No. I like the way we did it.” He looks down at his hand where Louis is slowly spinning his ring around his finger. “I like when you do that.”

“Yeah? Who knew commitment was such a turn on for you? Hmm?”

Harry shrugs, walking backwards and pulling Louis’ arm until he starts to follow him down the hall. Hanging on the hallway wall, among some of the pictures from Harry’s old apartment, is the slightly crooked and blurry picture that the clerk took after they signed their marriage license. They’re standing side by side with their arms around each other, goofy grins on both of their faces. Louis’ smile is so wide that you almost can’t see his eyes and Harry’s dimples have dimples.

A little further down the hall, Louis stops. There are new frames lining the wall on the other side and every single one of the photographs is from the summer they were thirteen. One holds what he supposes would be considered a selfie of the two of them—too close to the camera, arms slung around each other’s shoulders, faces tan and eyes squinting because of the bright sunshine. He had such a massive crush on Harry that summer that it’s almost embarrassing to remember.

There are a few others of the two of them—always next to each other—that must have been taken by Gemma or one of their mothers. Sitting on top of a picnic table eating ice cream, posing with their putters at the minigolf course, laying in the old rope hammock that used to hang on the porch.

But what catches Louis’ eye are the pictures of him alone. There’s one of him laying on the couch reading a comic book, another of him leaning on the porch railing during an afternoon thunderstorm, a picture where he’s sitting on one of the stools at the kitchen counter, gesturing wildly, probably talking to someone standing at the sink. Frame after frame of photographs that he quite clearly didn't realize were being taken.

“You had a crush on me that summer,” Louis says and turns to look at Harry, who’s leaning against the wall, chewing on his bottom lip.

“Maybe.”

Louis snorts. “Maybe my ass. This is photographic evidence.” He points to yet another snapshot. In this one, he's sitting on his beach towel, arms extended behind him, propping him up. Only part of his face is visible in profile and there's a pair of neon green sunglasses covering his eyes, but he looks relaxed and content. He doesn't recall that particular moment, but he remembers the feeling. So happy just to be there next to Harry. “It was mutual.”

“Yeah?” Harry’s eyes light up and he bites his lip again when Louis steps closer.

“Yeah.” Louis reaches out and rubs his thumb over Harry’s bottom lip until he stops biting it. “Wonder what would’ve happened if we’d discussed it back then.”

“Probably wouldn’t have worked out. Besides, I like our story.”

“Our story?”

“If you think about it,” Harry murmurs and hooks his index fingers inside the waistband of Louis’ shorts and tugs. “It’s like a weird combination of old fashioned and modern romance.”

Louis follows him easily, smirk on his face. “What the fuck does that mean? Are we living in a trashy novel?”

“No, I just mean that like… I guess it’s kind of modern the way we started—”

“What the whole ‘I've hated you for half my life, but let’s fuck and pretend we’re dating’ thing?”

“No, asshole. Well, sort of. Let’s call it the ‘no strings attached sex’ thing.”

“Whatever, Styles. What’s the old-fashioned part, then?”

Harry pushes the bedroom door open with his foot and backs into the room, pulling Louis along with him. “This is.”

“What? Living together?”

“No, dumbass. Not living together until after we got married.”

“I guess. I thought of it as a convenience thing. Your health insurance, the tax break, I had to finish the school year...”

“Shut up.” Harry smacks his arm. “Well, sort of. But it just made sense to go ahead and put me on your stuff when you signed your transfer contract in April.”

“I love when you’re so practical. It’s hot.”

“Shut the fuck up.” Harry shoves him and he lands on his back on the bed.

“What?” Louis laughs when Harry picks up his feet and props them against his chest, then pulls his shoes and socks off. “See? You’re all business now. It’s turning me on.”

“I’m pretty sure I just told you to shut up.” He waves both hands at Louis’ t-shirt. “Take it off.”

“You’re just proving my point.” He takes off his glasses and sets them on the nightstand, tugs his shirt over his head and tosses it at Harry’s face, then unbuttons his pants and pulls the zipper down so Harry can take them off. “Get naked.”

“Get the lube.”

“No-nonsense, straight to the point.” He wiggles so Harry can more easily pull his pants off. “I’m hard just from that.”

Harry snorts and yanks Louis’ boxers down, staring pointedly. “Liar.”

Louis laughs as he rolls over to reach for the lube in the nightstand drawer and yelps when Harry smacks his ass.

Harry makes an obvious effort to sound serious. “Was that practical, no-nonsense, and straight to the point?”

“I mean…” Louis pushes up onto his hands and knees and looks back over his shoulder. “Yeah. I liked it. Like it better when I do it to you.” He turns around, crawls to the edge of the bed, and sits back on his heels in front of Harry. “Depends what your goal was, I guess.”

While Harry unbuttons his shirt, Louis follows the opening with his index finger and Harry grumbles, “One of these days I’m going to gag you so I don’t have to listen to your mouth.”

“Promises, promises.” He shoves Harry’s pants down while Harry pulls his own shirt off. “You say that all the time. But I think you like my mouth.”

“Maybe.” Harry kicks his pants and boxers off and bends down to kiss Louis’ shoulder. “What do you want?”

“Don’t care. Anything. What do you want?” It’s a silly question because he knows the answer since it’s been Harry’s go-to for their phone sex over the last few weeks. But he likes to make him ask.

“You know what I want.” He kisses across Louis’ shoulder and up his neck, then stands up straight. His face starts to turn pink and he chews on his bottom lip for a few seconds while he watches Louis’ face. “You want me to ask.”

Louis smirks and nods, then falls back onto the pillows, slowly stroking himself until he’s hard, while Harry stands there watching.

Keeping his focus on the movement of Louis’ hand, Harry climbs onto the bed and crawls between his legs, rubbing Louis’ thighs and massaging them. He tickles the skin on the inside of Louis’ knees and smiles. “Love you, husband.”

Louis giggles and jerks his legs away from Harry’s fingers. “Love you too, jackass.”

Harry folds his hands together and sits up, then he clears his throat and politely says, “I’d really love it if you’d let me fuck you, Lou. Please.”

“Nope.”

“What? Why?”

“Ask better.”

Slowly, Harry squints his eyes and juts his chin out, but he must decide something, because his face relaxes into a small smile and he leans forward and sinks his hands into the pillow on either side of Louis’ head. He lowers his body down until he’s resting on his forearms and Louis spreads his legs apart to let him settle between them. He hasn’t asked anything though, so Louis just watches him and waits.

Harry darts forward and kisses him on the nose and Louis lets out a sort of half-laugh and twists his lips to the side. “What’re you doing?”

“Asking better.” He nudges their noses together, pushes Louis’ face to the side, and starts kissing him along his cheekbone over to his ear, where he whispers, “Please.” Then, without waiting for an answer, he trails kisses down along Louis’ jaw, tickling his beard, stopping at his chin to drop a quick one on his lips, and moving back up his jaw on the other side. He doesn’t say anything when he gets to Louis’ ear this time, just nips at it and hums before kissing across his cheekbone and back to his nose.

“What—”

“Shh. I’m asking.” This time he starts right beneath Louis’ ear and kisses down the side of his neck, over his shoulder and then back across his collarbones, stopping in the middle to kiss up his neck and nip at his Adam’s apple.

Louis starts to get impatient and he thinks that maybe that’s what Harry is going for, so he takes a deep breath and tries to relax. They don’t have anywhere to be and they have all the time in the world. If Harry wants to kiss every inch of him, he’ll lay here and let it happen, but that doesn’t mean he’s going to be passive about it.

While Harry places little kisses across his other shoulder, Louis lightly drags his nails up his back making him shudder, then down again, resting them on Harry’s ass, drawing shapes with the tips of his fingers until Harry starts giggling.

“Tickles.”

Louis stills his hands, then starts massaging and squeezing, rutting up against Harry until he stops with his thousands of kisses, circles his hips and moans.

“Ask.”

Harry’s hard now and he shifts, holding himself up so that he’s barely touching Louis’ cock with his own, dragging the head of his dick along the shaft of Louis’ every time he moves. “I am.” And he lays back down, pressing their bodies together.

Every so often, usually when they haven’t seen each other in a while, they’ll have a battle of wills of sorts. It always ends in orgasms and the winner gets bragging rights until the next time.

The last time was over Louis’ week of spring break when he drove down to meet Harry in the mountains northwest of Atlanta, Georgia. It had been more than three weeks since they saw each other last and they were both on edge from the separation. They rented a cabin on a lake with a breathtaking view, and on Monday morning they drove into town and got married before they even had breakfast. Louis won that time, he teased Harry until he was begging for it, and then fucked him from behind on the private porch while the sun set.

While he’s trying to decide how hard he wants to fight, Harry takes advantage. He sits up and back, crawls to the side, flips Louis over onto his stomach, and sits on the back of his thighs.

“You’re too old to move that fast, Styles.”

“Are you ever going to stop calling me that?”

“No, why would I?”

“Well, for one thing, I’ve been asking you for almost a year to call me Harry—”

“I do call you Harry.”

“Only when you want something or I’m sucking you off. But also that’s not my name anymore.”

“It’s half of it. Nobody calls us by the whole thing anyway. None of my students do. It’s too long to fit on the nameplate beside my classroom door.”

Harry pinches his ass and he squeals. “You’re going to call me Harry and you’re going to let me fuck you.”

“You haven’t asked.”

“I did.”

“Not good enough.”

“We’ll see.”

Louis’ back is always a little tight after he drives down to the beach, but this morning he packed the last of his boxes in his truck, drove the six hours down, then unpacked it, and carried all those boxes upstairs, so it's a little worse than normal. Harry leans over and rummages through the nightstand, then sits back up and Louis feels oil drip onto his back. Harry starts to massage the muscles along his spine between his shoulder blades, and he’s too good at it, really. He does it every time after Louis arrives, usually at night before they go to sleep, finishing him off with a hand job using the massage oil as lube.

All the little knots and spasms loosen under Harry’s touch, and as his body relaxes, his erection does too. Harry’s does as well, because he can feel his dick resting on the back of his thigh. For a brief moment, he ponders the intimacy of this sort of act and how they went from about to get off to this without even really noticing the change.

His shoulders and arms are done, muscles loose against the mattress, his back is done too, except for the spot on his hip that bothers him. But he kind of doesn’t want Harry to work on his hip because it always hurts before it feels better and he’s enjoying himself too much.

Harry sits up and scoots down situating himself between Louis’ legs and begins to massage the backs of his thighs. At this point Louis is fairly certain that he’s going to give in and let him have what he wants, it’s just a matter of how soon, so he makes himself comfortable. Since he knows what Harry likes, when he adjusts his arms and folds them underneath his head, he makes sure to wiggle his ass.

Exactly as he predicted, Harry’s hands stop moving and start up again a little bit higher, his thumbs drag the massage oil along the crease underneath Louis’ ass, from the center to the outside, over and over. The more he does it, the more awake Louis becomes, the more his cock starts to harden again.

Harry pushes the heels of his hands up and circles them around the cheeks of Louis’ ass, pressing them together and pulling them apart. When Louis tries to rub himself against the bed by casually shifting his hips, Harry starts sliding his thumbs up and down closer and closer to the crack of Louis’ ass.

If he wanted to, Harry could hold him still and prevent him from rutting against the mattress, but he’s not. He’s letting him do it and he’s encouraging it by slipping his thumbs closer to his rim every time Louis raises his hips.

Harry’s hands disappear and Louis pushes his ass back unintentionally, searching for his touch. A deep groan leaves Harry’s throat, so Louis does it again, but this time a trickle of oil drips down his crack and Harry catches it with his thumbs, spreading it up and down, over his rim, pulling him apart and slowly circling around the outside and pushing in slightly with the pad of his thumb.

Every time Louis ruts against the bed, Harry presses with his thumb, and before long, Louis is feeling around the mattress for the lube and tossing it behind him in Harry’s general direction.

His voice is muffled by the mattress, but he’s ready to agree to almost anything. “Okay.”

Harry presses both thumbs together in the center and slides them apart, pulling at Louis’ rim and humming. “What?”

He picks his head up to speak clearly. “Okay, you can fuck me.”

“Nah. I’m busy.” There's the unmistakable snick of the lube cap being opened.

“Fuck you.”

“I said,” the tip of Harry’s slick finger pushes inside, “I’m busy.”

“I hate you.”

“You don't.” He slips it in a little more, then pulls it back out. The next time it returns wetter and deeper until Louis pushes back against his hand and groans.

So slowly that Louis thinks he might lose it completely, Harry slides his finger in and out, humming to himself every time Louis makes even the smallest noise. He’s beyond ready for a second finger, and it takes him a remarkably long time to realize that Harry wants him to ask for it.

The mental battle with himself begins again and he starts moaning louder, lifting his ass back a little higher, and riding the mattress harder, in the hopes that he will entice Harry into giving in first. He doesn’t.

“Please.” He doesn't even try to keep the whine out of his voice.

Harry snickers and clears his throat. “Please what?”

Louis moves against the finger that Harry has now stopped, forcing him to fuck himself on it if he wants anything at all. He props himself up onto his elbows for leverage and rocks back and forth. He can hear Harry breathing harder though, so at least they’re both struggling. “Please. Another finger.”

He must have been waiting with it slicked and ready, because it enters him immediately alongside the first one and Louis throws his head back and unabashedly growls, instantly recognizing his mistake, because as soon as his two fingers are buried deep, Harry’s hand stills.

Louis drops his head down, defeated, and slowly starts fucking himself on Harry’s fingers again. “I hate you, Styles.”

Harry hums again and drizzles more lube in Louis’ crack where it drips down and is forced inside every time Louis rocks his hips back. Stupid, long fingers. Louis has to angle his body to get Harry’s fingers to hit him just right and he’s sweating and panting from the effort and desperately wants to touch himself. Or rather, he wants Harry to touch him. Because he can’t hold himself up with one arm, jerk himself off, and fuck himself on Harry’s fingers at the same time. He’d fall over.

“Another.” He’s always too demanding at first, of course he's aware of this, it's purposeful. He doesn’t want to seem too compliant and Harry loves when he’s difficult. It doesn't mean that he likes being told no.

“Hmm?”

“Another finger,” he commands, knowing full well that he's about half a second from begging.

Harry tsks at him and starts to pull his hand away completely.

“Please,” he whimpers, “More.”

“Hmm?”

“Goddamn it.” Louis moves his hips back, chasing his fingers, and begs, “Please, Harry.”

“Sure thing, babe.” Harry takes mercy on him and pushes inside with three, holding them there, pressing his other hand on Louis’ lower back until he lowers himself all the way down to the mattress. Then he slowly moves his hand, sliding his fingers in and out, twisting and spreading them, while Louis grinds against the bed.

At this point, he’s completely given up, knows he isn’t winning today, doesn't even care about that anymore. He really just wants to get on with things, because while they may not do it that often, he does love having Harry inside him. And now that he's decided what he wants, he wants it immediately.

Once he and Harry got their shit together, the sex got so much better. And it was unbelievably good before. Love will do that. Now that he no longer feels like he has to hold himself in check and can completely let go, it’s phenomenal. Though it's even more exhausting. But that's okay. He’s already planning on doing absolutely nothing tomorrow other than laying on his beach chair and maybe floating in the ocean.

“Please… Harry, baby… fuck me…”

Harry's fingers twist inside and turn, then finally he pulls them out, and pinches Louis’ ass. “Up.”

Louis is on his hands and knees so fast that a giggle bursts out of Harry as he kneels behind him. With his left hand resting on Louis’ lower back, he guides the head of his cock inside, pushing past the initial resistance, then stopping. Louis knows that Harry can tell when he’s ready, and when he doesn’t press inside, Louis drops his shoulders down and rests the side of his face on the mattress. “No, please… don’t make me do—” but then Harry slips in easily, slowly sliding the rest of the way, until Louis’ ass is flush against him.

Harry shushes him when he starts to whine and starts to fuck him the way he likes, slow and deep, gripping him tight with his hands squeezing Louis’ ass hard, thumbs prying his cheeks apart. Louis knows that Harry gets off on watching his cock slide in and out, knows that’s the reason he prefers to do it like this, and it turns him on even more to know how much Harry loves it. And Harry always makes sure to let him know every time. Because while he’s not at all quiet when Louis fucks him, he absolutely can’t shut up when it’s the other way around.

Not that he's very coherent either way.

“Fuck, Lou, I wish you could see… I should film it. Love seeing my cock splitting you open. Looks so good. Feels so good. So fucking tight.” He pushes in deep and grinds his hips, circling slowly, then pulls back and Louis feels more lube dripping down his crack, and he knows that Harry is staring, mouth hanging open, somehow in awe that they’re even doing this.

Harry slows down and almost pulls completely out before slowly pressing inside again, inch by inch. When he finally speeds up and gets into a rhythm, he starts rubbing his thumbs around Louis’ rim where it’s stretched around his cock and Louis moans, long and low.

“Love you, baby. Fuck…” It's so good like this. Letting Harry take over, and passively accepting his pleasure. He's not always in the mood for it, but when he is, it's amazing. Because when they do it this way, Harry is particular about certain things. He loves for Louis to be still, to let him watch and touch, to spread him apart and hold him open. If he had his way, he'd use half a bottle of lube every time and he'd probably slip a finger or two in alongside his dick. Louis would let him. If he asked nicely.

He's likely to allow him anything, as long as they fight a little about it first.

“Love you. Love you on my cock. Love your ass. God, yeah… Loved watching you fuck yourself on my fingers. That was so fucking hot, I swear.” Harry grabs his hips and hauls him back, thrusting deep and pulling Louis hard against him, fucking him faster, until Louis is babbling out Harry's name and saying “love you” over and over, the words slurring together.

Harry always waits until he’s just about to come before he’ll even touch Louis’ dick, and by now it’s like a Pavlovian response. Louis hears that certain hitch in his breath and starts to moan before Harry even reaches for his cock, coming not long after and clenching down uncontrollably.

Harry groans and fucks hard and fast until the rhythm of his hips falters, and he comes inside Louis, slowing down, staying deep, then pulling out and holding him open to watch his come start to drip out, and shoving his cock back in again. He’ll keep doing it until he’s soft, Louis has learned, so he lets him do it a few times, then drops down to the mattress with a whimper.

“I have come all over me.” He mutters into the pillow.

“I know.” Harry says, and he can hear how pleased he is when he spreads Louis’ cheeks apart again and Louis can feel it trickle out. “I love it.”

“I’m not changing the sheets, Harry. I don’t care if you won.”

Harry leans forward and slowly lays down on top of him, squashing him, nestling his softening cock between the cheeks of Louis’ ass, and kisses his ear. “I’ll do it after we shower.” He kisses Louis’ temple and pushes himself up and off the bed, waiting for him. When Louis finally rolls out of the wet spot, Harry grabs his hand, tugs him to standing, and drags him to the bathroom, offering to clean him up and asking what he wants to do for dinner.