Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

⚠️ unhinged content warning & delulu disclaimer ⚠️

This story contains:
• explicit smut (like, feral levels of it)
• emotional damage in lace panties
• molly highs and molly regrets
• unresolved trauma disguised as filthy banter
• an unholy amount of Catholic metaphors
• Harry Styles and Louis Tomlinson being completely fictional and completely obsessed with each other

This story is NOT mpreg!

Now, let's be clear:
Yes, these characters borrow names, tattoos, and cheekbones from real people.
No, this is not based on their real lives.
This is fanfiction — fiction, babes — meaning it's pure imagination, projection, chaos, and interpretation.
None of this is real. None of this is meant to be.
If you're looking for journalistic accuracy or respectful distance...you might wanna close the tab.

Read with unhinged abandon, enjoy the mess, and please don't tag the boys.

Love you, mean it.
Now go ruin your life a little.

xxxx

The sun’s low but already golden, rising slow over the Los Angeles skyline. That syrupy kind of light that makes even bad decisions feel romantic.

Louis is half-sunken into a lounge chair, Coachella bands still mockingly tight around his wrist, feet tossed up on the table like he’s got all the time in the world. There’s a half-finished joint in his fingers, the lighter still warm in the other. Smoke hangs lazily in the air, curling into the stillness like it belongs there. Birds chirp somewhere far off, oblivious to the fact that their neighbor’s mind is soon going to be pretty occupied with very graphic thoughts about bending his secret lover in half.

It’s quiet.

Peaceful.

Because this morning, for whatever fucking reason, Louis woke up early.
Yesterday, Zara flew back to London. A car pulled up outside their fancy rental, press lurking at the edge of the drive like they’d been summoned—well, they actually were, but that’s beside the point. Fucking parasites. Louis kissed Zara by the car nevertheless, all warm eyes and casual touches. The paps caught the whole thing. She looked pretty in her sweatshirt. He grabbed her sleeves like he belonged there.

Which, to a degree, he did.
Against all odds—and all the shit he said before about Love Island, that tragic fucking show she's been on—he really likes her. She’s cool. Laid back. Low maintenance, in a way. Drama-free. Well, not exactly, but Louis doesn’t really give a fuck about her drama, so…  More importantly, Zara never once asked why he tastes like regret. And that ought to count for something.

It was also good press. Neat timing. Zara’s new project, his upcoming album. Like all the stars had aligned just right, so Louis didn’t have to break his back pretending everything was fine.

At least, that’s what he told himself.

He exhales slow, smoke curling from his mouth, eyes narrowed against the stupid beautiful light. Letting the haze melt over him. That lazy, dazy pre-studio float.

Then—

Buzz.

His phone lights up on the table.

He doesn’t glance at it right away. Probably Oli with some annoying studio check-in.
He already warned him: Moving slow today. Still shaking off the festival dust, mate.

Another buzz.

Louis sighs, shifts just enough to reach for it.

And then he sees it.

Harry.

His whole body stiffens.
They haven’t spoken since Liam’s funeral.
Not a word. Not a look. Not even a pathetic thumbs-up reaction to some throwaway story.

And now—
the preview.

"i want you to get me pregnant"

Louis chokes on the exhale.

It’s instant. Violent. His cough tears through the patio air as he jolts upright, nearly burning a hole through his joggers with the dropped joint. His hand slaps against his chest like the text physically knocked the air out of him.

“What the fuck— ”

His phone’s in his hand before he even knows what he's doing. Thumb fumbling over the lockscreen. Heart hammering. Cock already stirring like it’s been trained to respond to that name.

The full thing’s sitting there.

Harry: i want you to get me pregnant. berlin got me in spiral xx
Harry: fuck, autocorrect, inspired

Louis just stares.

Because, typo or not, Berlin clearly got Harry—and spiraling was probably the more accurate word for it.

He knows Harry means it in some stupid, twisted, poetic way—some messy fucking cocktail of need and possessing and holy-damned-destruction —but Louis doesn’t let himself go there.
Doesn’t dare touch the edges of what it might actually mean.

Doesn’t matter.

His body already decided for him.

Mouth dry.

Pulse hammering.

Cock thickening against his joggers like it’s muscle memory .

His thumbs move before his brain even catches up, because when it comes to Harry, Louis is fucking Pavlovian.

Louis: Fucking hell, baby. You’d look so hot with a bump

Buzz.

Harry: imagine hugging it from behind while spilling in me

Louis groans—low and wrecked—letting his head fall back against the chair. His thighs spread without thought. His free hand skates lower, pressing against the thickening heat between his legs.

Another buzz.

Harry: hope you’re alone for this. oooor not, love watching you squirm xx

His grip tightens.

Louis: You’re insane

Buzz.

It’s a photo.

Harry’s lap.

Nothing but boxers.

The fabric already soaked through with precum, dark and obscene. The thick head of his cock pressed shamelessly against the wet patch, outlined in sharp detail like he wanted Louis to suffer.

A beat.

Louis: And you will make me come untouched, apparently !

Buzz. 

Harry: should i wait for you or should i have a go at it? 

Louis stares.

The sun’s suddenly too bright.
His hand is already palming himself, cock hot and leaking against his joggers, mind short-circuiting with a single, disastrous thought:

Fuck the studio.

He types fast.

Louis: You’re getting fucked tonight. I’m not even pulling out once

Send.

Buzz.

Harry: you home?

Louis: Nah, LA

Harry: oooh, chella weekeeend. funny my year was the only you skipped.

Louis rolls his eyes.

Louis: I was on a world tour, wanker

Harry: all this typing and i still don’t see you booking that fucking flight...

Louis’s lip curls.

Then another—

Harry: such a long distance, i don’t think you’ll manage to get here in time

Louis barks out a laugh that sounds half-feral.

Louis: You better answer the door on your hands and knees.

The reply is instant. One emoji. The baby bottle. 

Harry: 🍼

Louis stares at it.

His fingers tighten around the joint, crushed and forgotten in his palm.

He mutters, “Jesus Christ. ”

Opens his calendar. Deletes the studio block without a second thought.

Pulls up his flight app.

One-way: Los Angeles to Berlin. Booked.

Return flight: Berlin to London —quietly added. Safety net. Plausible deniability.

He sparks a fresh joint with shaking fingers.

Texts Oli: Not coming in today. Something came up.

If he’s doing this, he’s doing it the only way he ever knows how.

All in.

Headfirst.

Heart last.

Flying across the world to rail Harry fucking Styles—again.

If Louis’s life is going to burn, it might as well look biblical doing it.

Chapter Text

The car is quiet. Private. The kind of expensive quiet that costs too much and says too little.

Louis sinks into the backseat, cap low, hoodie zipped halfway up under his new green 28 bomber — the one he knows Harry will inevitably steal and never wear in public.
But Harry’s sentimental like that. So, Louis packed it anyway.

His washed-out jeans feel stiff after the flight. His fingers twitch restlessly in his lap.
He exhales slow, lips parting around the cigarette he lights with the cheap lighter he nicked from the lounge.

The tip glows red.
Smoke drifts out the cracked window.

"Good flight, sir?" the driver asks politely, a hint of accent softening the edges.

Louis nods, polite enough to mumble, “Yeah, mate. Cheers.”

The driver smiles at him through the mirror. Louis forces a weak half-smile back.
Thinks about asking how long the drive will be, some normal, human thing to fill the space.
Instead, he digs out his phone.

A new text from Harry is already waiting —
no greeting, no emojis, just a dropped pin and instructions:

Harry: top floor. 3rd door on the left.

No hesitation. No apology.
Just certainty.

Like he knew Louis would show.

He lights another cigarette almost immediately and tells the exact address to the driver.
The smoke trailing after them through the winding Berlin streets, streetlights flickering gold and white across his face.

His legs bounce against the floor. His mouth keeps twitching — half a smirk, half a wince.

"You ever been to Berlin before?" the driver tries, good-natured.

Louis hums noncommittally. "Couple times."

The driver chuckles. "Good city. Good... energy."

Louis blows smoke out the window, dry. "Yeah. Energy."

He’s not thinking about Berlin.

He’s thinking about painstakingly hopeful green eyes and a pair of trembling hands, about what happens when the door opens, about the things he’s going to say and the things he’s going to let happen without saying anything at all.

It’s so stupid.
So fucking stupid.

He knows how this will go.

Harry will be soft and sunny at first — sweet-eyed and floaty, all curled smiles and biting kisses and hands that shake like they’ve been starved for this, for him.

And then, later —
after the reckless and seemingly endless shags —
after the sweat dries down —
after there’s nothing left to skirt around —
Harry will start pulling at threads again.
Finding ways to ruin it.

He always does.

A stupid comment.
A lingering look.
A breathless I miss you , even when Louis warned him not to.

Harry always wants more.

And Louis —
Louis never knows how to say yes.

Not in the daylight.
Not when he remembers how this world chews you up if you get caught loving wrong.

He drags hard on the cigarette. Watches Berlin slip past the window in quick, sharp flashes.

He shouldn't be here.

He should be in LA, gritting his teeth through another studio session, texting Zara back some safe emojis, scheduling interviews about how great he feels heading into this next era.

Instead, he’s barreling toward a fucking mess with a man who owns more of him than he’ll ever admit.

Because Harry isn’t just a weakness.
He’s a religion.

And Louis?
Louis keeps going back to church.

Another cigarette. Another burning exhale.
Another mile closer to the fucking disaster.

When the car finally slows, Louis tugs the hoodie tighter around himself, glancing once more at the directions.
Still blinking. Still waiting.

Harry’s rental looms ahead — sleek and modern, all glass and money and shadows.

The car glides to a smooth stop outside.

The driver glances back at him. "Here you are, sir."

Louis forces another smile. "Thanks, mate."

He shoves a few crumpled bills into the driver’s hand — too much, too fast — and climbs out before he can think better of it.

The doorman glances up as Louis approaches, scanning him briefly.
"Mr...?" the man prompts.

Louis clears his throat. "Rydell."

The doorman smiles, professional and disinterested. "You're expected. Top floor, third door on the left."

Louis nods, mumbling a polite, "Cheers," before heading toward the elevator.

Inside, the space is clean and sterile, humming softly as it rises.
His pulse is the only thing messy enough to leave fingerprints.

Top floor.

The hallway smells like fresh paint and new money.

He catches a glimpse of himself in the glossy elevator doors before they slide open —
cap pulled low, jaw locked tight, bomber zipped halfway, eyes too dark.

He looks like a man about to do something he already regrets.

He moves anyway.

Third door on the left.

He wipes his sweaty palm against his jeans and stops.

Breathing hard.
Head spinning.
Heart racing for all the wrong reasons — and all the right ones too.

The door looms in front of him: slightly ajar, just waiting.

His phone buzzes again.

Harry: come in, lou. door’s unlocked.

Louis squeezes his eyes shut for a second.

When he opens them, it’s still there.
Still waiting.

He flexes his fingers once, twice.
And reaches for the handle.

He steps inside expecting carnage.

Expecting Harry naked and prepped, lube slick between his thighs, panting like a desperate thing on his knees.

Instead—

Harry’s standing there all casually, and he just grins — smug, stunning, fucking infuriating — the picture of untouched innocence in loose jeans and maddening nonchalance, his hair rumpled like he barely owns a brush.

The short hair is still throwing Louis.
The mustache too.

Makes him look too much like a man now — too adult, too dangerous, too real.

Louis stutters for half a second, brain misfiring, hand hovering mid-air like he’s been caught chasing something he can't have.

Harry smiles, slow and devastating, like he knows exactly what Louis expected and is enjoying dragging this out.

Louis’s lips part, hand already sliding halfway up Harry’s hip before he even realizes he’s moving — jacket slipping from his shoulders, eyes gone dark, mind already in the gutter.

And that’s when Harry leans back against the wall, plucks lightly at the edge of Louis’s jacket, and tugs it back up onto his shoulders — casual, like he's straightening a tie.
Then he says, like it’s nothing:

"Nuh-uh, honey. We're going out."

Louis blinks.

His hand freezes mid-slide up Harry’s ridiculous knitted cardigan.

"Are you having a stroke?" he asks, flatly. "Or do you genuinely have preggo brain now?"

"It's Berlin," Harry says breezily, tugging down the hem of his t-shirt — some ugly graphic print that Louis knows he’ll end up stripping off him later anyway. "No one will know. The place is safe. Jeff called ahead."

Louis groans, dropping his hands like this is sacrilege.

"So Jeff knows I'm here. Brilliant. Love to be penciled into your high-risk management briefings."

Harry shrugs, unbothered. "Yes, Louis, my manager knows in advance about the risky situations I’m getting myself into. Gives him a bit of a leeway in case damage control is needed."

Louis lifts a brow, crosses the room to steal a half-smoked cigarette from the ashtray with slow, deliberate fingers.

"He still hates my guts?"

Harry slides into a short navy coat. "He doesn’t hate your guts."

Louis gives him a look.

Harry sighs. "Alright. Fine. He hates your guts with a passion. But only because you’ve been emotionally abusing me for, what, fifteen years now?"

Louis lights the cigarette, the flame catching with a sharp hiss.
Exhales smoke slow and steady, watching Harry through the haze.

"Abuse is such a strong word," he says lazily. "I prefer… keeping you in emotional limbo so you’re available for sex when I feel like it."

Harry snorts, stuffing his hands into his pockets.

"Yeah, so much better."

Louis flicks ash into the tray, smirking. "It is."

He watches Harry tug on his coat, sleeves riding up to reveal the tattoos on his forearms — black ink and tan skin and a thousand years of memories Louis would rather drown than admit he still clings to.

"How's your girlfriend, by the way?" Harry asks, voice light, like they’re discussing fucking football scores. "Did you remember to cancel your date?"

Louis pauses mid-drag.

"She’s fine," he says.
Then, casually: "Thanks for the reminder — I’ll have Oli text her."

Harry doesn't look back. Just shoves his feet into his battered Sambas, white socks peeking sloppily over the backs.

"Charming."

Louis shrugs, smoke curling lazily from his lips.

"Well, I'm here, aren't I?"

Harry turns, finally, leaning against the doorframe.
He’s glowing, infuriatingly beautiful, like he hasn’t been ghosting Louis for half a year while dating some proper, safe man in some tucked-away corner of the world.

Louis stubs the cigarette out with more force than necessary, watching Harry from under the brim of his cap.

He’s not seventeen anymore.
He’s not even twenty-five.

He’s something else now — older, sharper, heavier in the chest, leaner in the hips, mouth meaner, eyes sadder.

Louis aches for him in ways that are so familiar he could sketch them blindfolded.

He pulls the zipper up on his own olive bomber, adjusting it with slow, deliberate hands.

"So," Louis says, voice rough, grabbing Harry’s keys off the counter and tossing them at him, "where are we going then, Romeo?"

Harry snatches them out of the air without even glancing up.
Just shrugs, pulling his sleeves down past his wrists, making himself smaller for the first time all night.

"Somewhere dark and loud," Harry says easily.

Then, after a beat — voice dropping lower, almost careless:

"Somewhere I don't have to pretend I'm not thinking about riding you until you lose your accent."

Louis stills.

Throat tightens.

He sniffs, flicks at his bottom lip with his thumb like it’s a nervous tic he can’t shake.

"Well," he mutters, looking up from under his lashes with maddening slowness, "then I’ll be sure to speak slowly."

They don't say anything else.

Just step into the hallway, shoulders brushing, the heat between them simmering under the thin fabric of old t-shirts and soft jackets.

No one mentions the fact that Louis booked his flight that morning and flew across the world to be here.

Or that Harry’s phone still holds a half-written text that says, i miss you, you idiot.

Or that they’ll keep pretending this is just what they do.
What they’ve always done.

Just a night.
Just some drinks.
Just fifteen years of not knowing how to stop orbiting each other.

–

The private car is already waiting at the curb.

Sleek, black, unmarked — the kind of vehicle that blends in easily into a big city's traffic.

The driver doesn’t ask questions. Just tips his head in greeting and pulls smoothly away once they slide into the backseat.

The windows tint out the world in soft, blurred golds and greens, Berlin flashing past in muted smears of color.

Louis slouches low, legs stretched out, cap pulled down.
Harry sits beside him, maddeningly casual, knees brushing every time the car hits a turn.

Louis taps a cigarette out of the crumpled pack in his pocket, lights it with a practiced flick, smoke curling lazily toward the ceiling.

The silence is easy.
But it’s thick, too — like a stretch of river before the waterfall.

Louis breaks it first, voice dry:

"Didn’t think you’d be in Berlin."

He drums his fingers lazily against his thigh, eyes half-lidded like he’s not hanging onto every tiny shift in Harry’s body.

Harry exhales a soft laugh, tipping his head back against the seat.

"Didn’t plan to be. But, y’know... plans change."

Louis quirks a brow, glancing at him sideways.

"Cryptic, that."

Harry smirks but doesn't elaborate, staring out the window instead, city lights ghosting over his face.

He looks good.
Tanner than Louis remembers.
Healthier, somehow.
The stupid mustache only making him look more like a man Louis can’t seem to stop wanting.

Louis flicks ash absently out the cracked window.

The smoke hangs between them, thin and slow.

The silence stretches.
Not awkward. Never awkward. Just heavy.

"How was Tokyo?" Louis asks, after a beat, voice low, aiming for casual.

Harry hums, fiddling with the one ring on his finger.

"Hot. Crowded. Marathon was good, though."

"You ran the whole thing?"

Harry scoffs, shooting Louis an incredulous look.

"What kind of question is that? 'Course I fucking did."

Louis grins despite himself, tipping his head against the window.

"Alright, show-off. What’s the verdict? Did the running cleanse your soul?"

Harry exhales through his nose, hand rubbing absently at his jaw.

"I mean... yeah. In a way. Helped get some shit out of my system."

Louis nods, chewing his bottom lip.
He takes another long drag, smoke curling from his nose as he watches Berlin slip by.

"You still can’t work on the album, though," he says, not bothering to make it a question.

Harry sighs, slouching deeper into the seat.

"Nope. I try. Nothing comes. Just—" he waves a hand vaguely. "White noise."

Louis hums, dragging a hand down his face, cigarette dangling from his fingers.

"That’s rough," he mutters — not unsympathetic, just not digging for details Harry clearly isn’t offering.

The silence stretches, thick with everything unsaid, before Harry bumps Louis’s knee with his own.

"So what about you?" Harry asks, voice lighter. "Still pretending you’re not a workaholic?"

Louis huffs a quiet laugh, tipping his head back against the seat.

He stubs out the first cigarette against the ashtray built into the door, immediately digging out another.

"Yeah, well. Been pretty productive, actually. Third record’s shaping up to be a fucking mess, but..." He shrugs, grinning sideways. "I’m leaning into it."

Harry huffs a dry laugh.

"Mess is authentic to you."

"Exactly. Should make it my middle name."

Another beat.

Harry picks absently at the skin around his thumb with his ring finger, like he doesn’t even notice he’s doing it.

"Can I hear some of it?"

Louis shrugs like it’s no big deal, but something twists low in his gut anyway.
He lights the new cigarette with a quick, practiced flick.

"Yeah. 'Course you can."

Silence again.

The city slides past them — endless, anonymous, flickering.

Harry shifts, tapping his fingers against his thigh, aiming for easy but landing somewhere closer to tense.

Then he says, voice casual but careful:

"I heard you’ve been talking to Zayn."

Louis’s mouth tightens.

He knows exactly what Harry "heard."
Knows about the grainy fan clips from Zayn’s show — Louis tucked into the balcony, Zayn grinning wide as he shouted him out onstage.
Knows about the shaky video of them slipping into Zayn’s car after, Louis half-hidden under a hoodie.

Knows Harry’s probably watched them all on loop, catalogued every frame.

The next night’s cancelled concert. The fan jokes — about Zayn partying too hard, about bad decisions and good company.

Most people laughed it off.
Louis knows Harry didn’t.

Knows Harry put two and two together — and then some.
Knows Harry invented the rest in that cruel, vivid imagination of his — Louis stumbling high out of the car, laughing into Zayn’s neck, slipping into old, familiar sin.

There were no photos of that.
But there might as well have been.

Louis taps a sharp rhythm against his thigh with the hand holding his cigarette, ash crumbling to the floor.

"Yeah."

Harry waits.
Doesn’t push.
Doesn’t need to.

The weight of it already fills the car — sour and silent and stupid.

When Louis doesn't elaborate, Harry exhales slow and shakes his head, looking away — out the window, into the neon blur.

"I don’t wanna know, do I?"

Louis lets the corner of his mouth lift into a smirk — cruel, maybe, but mostly just tired.

"No. You really don’t."

Harry nods, slow, mouth pressed thin.

"Noted."

The hum of the engine fills the space between them.
A thin, brittle kind of quiet.

Louis stubs out the second cigarette, then lights a third without even thinking about it.

The car rolls on, steady and silent.

"So," Harry starts eventually, still staring out the window.
"You like her?"

Louis doesn’t pretend not to know who he’s talking about.

He leans back, ankles crossing lazily, voice low:

"Yeah. I really do."

And he does.

It’s not a lie.

She’s good for him — warm, easy, safe in all the ways his life usually isn't.

Harry stares at him for a long moment, unreadable.

Because Harry knows that too.
Knows Louis isn’t lying.
Knows Louis likes her, maybe even loves her — the clean, manageable version of love Louis can offer someone who doesn’t know how sharp he gets when he's cornered, how wild when he’s trusted too much.

Harry doesn’t smile.
Doesn’t crack a joke.
Just sits there, still and silent, letting the city smear past the windows.

Because it’s never really been about the girlfriends.

Harry can be jealous, sure.
But more than that, he resents it.

The way Louis slips into those relationships like he could be someone else's problem, someone else's responsibility to love, to keep alive.
The way Louis lets other people hold his hand in public, take him home to mothers, tuck him into soft beds meant for ordinary lives.

Harry doesn’t get to have that.
Never has.

What Harry gets is...

He gets Louis wrecked and wild and half-crazed with wanting.
He gets Louis undone — loose, laughing, sometimes cruel.
Obsessed.
Shameless.
Soft around the edges in a way that no one else even knows exists.

He gets Louis when he’s at his most dangerous — and his most beautiful.
Totally unguarded at all the wrong, and all the very best times.

And Harry —

Harry lives every day with the gnawing fear that one day, Louis will find someone else to give that version to.

Or worse —
Wake up and realize Harry isn't it for him anymore. That he never really was.

Harry’s throat feels tight.
He forces a breath through it, nods slow and deliberate.

"Good."

Great.
Normal.
Exactly how this was always supposed to go.

Louis exhales slow through his nose, smoke trailing upward.

The car still purrs unknowingly around them.

He can feel Harry glance over — quick, sharp — and then away again, like he’s checking for bruises he doesn't have permission to touch.

It grates.

The carefulness.

The way Harry’s trying not to pry but still bleeding curiosity out all over the backseat.

Louis drums his fingers against his thigh, pulse flickering.

"How's your little La Dolce Vita back in Italy?" he asks, voice dry and meaner than he means it to be. "Is Grandpa still attending to all your needs? Waiting patiently for his sugar baby to come home?"

Harry makes a face, full of half-swallowed distaste, but doesn’t rise to the bait.

Just says, matter-of-factly:

"Nah. Got my arse dumped."

Louis blinks, straightening slightly.

"How so?"

Harry shrugs, loose and sharp all at once, eyes still fixed on the passing blur outside the window.

"Well. Alessandro didn’t appreciate me letting you fuck my brains out after Liam’s funeral and then crying to him high off my tits about how you left me stranded again , so…"

Louis hums low in his throat, a sound that's not quite a laugh.

"Is that so."

Harry tips his head back against the seat, mouth tilting into something that might almost be a smile if it weren't so fucking tired.

"Yeah," he says simply.

The car keeps rolling on — heavy and silent, carrying them toward whatever fresh disaster they’re about to make out of the night.

Chapter Text

 “Missed fucking the hell out of you, maybe.” 

The car glides to a stop outside a nondescript building wedged between a dusty bookstore and a café that smells like burnt sugar and cigarettes. No flashing signs. No bouncer in sight. Just a heavy, dark door and the faint throb of bass you could almost mistake for a heartbeat. Louis arches a brow, glancing over at Harry.

"This it?" he mutters, tugging his cap lower.

Harry grins like a cat who's just led a mouse into a trap. "Told you it was discreet."

Discreet was one word for it. Ominous was another.

Louis steps out onto the cracked pavement, the cool air hitting his flushed skin. The smell of the city wraps around them — hot asphalt, weed smoke, sweat, leather. Before he can say anything else, the heavy door swings open with a mechanical click, and they're ushered inside by a woman who looks like she could kill a man with one hand — sharp cheekbones, blunt-cut hair, head-to-toe in gleaming black.

"Phones," she says, extending a gloved hand.

Harry doesn't even hesitate, fishing his out of his coat pocket and slapping it into her palm like a good boy. Louis, on the other hand, hesitates just long enough for her to raise one perfectly arched brow. He sighs and hands his over too, the weight of it leaving his hand a little too easily.

"You're sure this isn't some elaborate mugging setup?" he mutters under his breath, watching as the woman tags and seals their phones in slim velvet pouches.

Harry smirks. "If it is, you’re overdressed for it."

Louis snorts, eyeing Harry’s overpriced cardigan like he’s one to talk. "Right. ‘Cause you scream inconspicuous, you fucking wanker."

"Don’t worry," Harry says, voice syrupy. "I'll protect your virtue."

Louis hums, dry. "Pretty sure that's long gone, mate."

The woman — utterly unfazed by the exchange — slides their tagged pouches into a sleek black drawer behind the desk and hands them two wristbands: thick, matte, and stamped with a minimalist logo Louis doesn't recognize.

"No phones, no cameras, no exceptions," she says, voice clipped but not unkind. "You’re safe inside. Play nice."

She says it like a threat.

Harry just beams. "Always."

Louis flicks a glance at him — all lust and wicked energy — and feels a pulse of unease under his skin. It's not the club. It's not the rules.

It's Harry.

Harry, who's vibrating with the kind of electric, reckless glee that only ever ends in disaster.

He forces a smirk, adjusting his jacket as they step through the second set of doors into the club proper.

The air changes instantly — thick, warm, cloying.
Leather. Sweat. Sweet, sticky alcohol. Sharp tang of rubber and sex.

The bass isn’t music so much as a physical force, vibrating through the floors, the walls, the soles of Louis' shoes.

Somewhere, a woman moans, high and bright, lost in it.

Louis glances around — bodies everywhere, barely clothed, dripping with chains and glitter and oil. Neon lights pulse in time with the music, casting the whole room in blood-red and electric blue.

He whistles low under his breath. "Fuck me sideways."

Harry snickers, pressing in close enough that their shoulders bump.

"Give it twenty minutes," he purrs, voice thick with promise, "and someone probably will."

Louis huffs a laugh despite himself, shoving him lightly in the ribs.

"Jesus Christ," he mutters, heart already hammering too fast.

Harry winks, maddeningly unbothered, and tips his chin toward a set of gleaming lockers along the side wall.

"C'mon," he says, voice smug. "Time to dress for the occasion."

The locker room is stark and clinical — a long, narrow space lined with metallic lockers, a harsh fluorescent light buzzing overhead.

It smells like polish, sweat, and something sweeter — heady and dizzying.

People are already stripped down around them — men, women, every gorgeous iteration between — all leather, lace, vinyl, glitter, boots, stilettos, harnesses.

Louis doesn’t mean to gawk — but, fuck, it’s a lot.

He whistles low under his breath. “Might be slightly underdressed for this shitshow,” he mutters.

Harry snickers beside him, already shimmying out of his cardigan like he’s done this a thousand times.

Louis yanks his bomber off slower, tossing it into their locker. Peels his hoodie off next, down to just his Burberry tee, cap, jeans.

He toes off his trainers, shrugs the t-shirt over his head — until he’s left standing there in just his trousers and socks, feeling the air bite against his flushed skin.

And that’s when he sees it.

Harry — half-naked already — hips wrapped in delicate white lace.

The knickers.
The fucking knickers.

Louis freezes mid-motion, jeans dangling off one ankle.

The same white lace knickers he’d gotten custom-made for Harry’s twentieth birthday.

The same ones that turned Harry into his sweet, filthy Babygirl alterego in the first place.

Louis stares — a little too long, a little too hungry — before his mouth catches up to his brain.

“Fuck me. See you pulled stuff from the archives.”

Harry’s lip twitches.

“You remember?”

Louis huffs, stepping out of his jeans fully, tossing them aside.

“Fucking hell, Haz,” he says, voice low, a little rough. “I got that shit custom made for you. Paul nearly had an aneurysm when he read the fucking NDA about it. How could I forget?”

Harry’s grin wobbles slightly — because of course Louis is trying to deflect, brush it off with a wink and a stupid excuse. Harry could call him out on his bullshit. He won’t.

Instead, he says — a little too soft:
“I just thought it wasn’t that important to you.”

Louis’ mouth curves slow, dangerous.

“I’m keeping score,” he says, stepping closer, crowding into Harry’s space, lazy and deliberate. “And that? That was hands down one of our best shags.”

He lets his thumb drift up, stroking Harry’s sharp cheekbone with featherlight pressure.

“I just thought this thing got ruined by now.”

Harry shakes his head, the movement small, almost shy.

“Nah,” he says. “I save it for special occasions.”

Louis smirks, rolling the words between his teeth.

“So tonight is a special occasion? Just taking notes.”

Harry grins, cocky and boyish and heartbreakingly transparent.

“Yeah,” he says, a wicked glint in his eye. “Because tonight I’m planning on splitting your soul and stealing some parts so you can never leave me again.”

Louis’ breath catches for a second.

For a second, it damn near burns.

He strokes his thumb along Harry’s cheekbone again, gentler this time.

“Who could ever leave you, darling?” he murmurs, and something crumples deep behind Harry’s eyes.

Something Louis wishes he could unsee.

“But who could stay?” Harry asks, soft and broken in the kind of way he tries to hide under all his glitter and grins.

The words lodge like splinters under Louis’ skin.

So Louis, because he’s Louis — because he can never let Harry bleed too long without making a joke of it — grins sharp and says, “Yikes, I don’t believe we’re quoting your ex.”

Harry laughs — loud, a little too bright — tossing his head back.

“Well, I objectively have the most quotable ex of this century,” he says breezily, but Louis can hear the thin crack around the edges.

Louis nudges their hips together, casual, grounding.

“You’d better scream ‘oh Lord, save me’ while I rail you in there,” he says, smirking.

Harry bites his lip, eyes gleaming.

“Don’t threaten me with a good time.”

Louis chuckles, stepping back toward the locker, but before he can reach for anything, Harry pulls something black and shiny from his own bag — smug as ever.

“And speaking of good times…” Harry says, holding it up between two fingers.

Louis squints — and then snorts.

It’s a tiny, studded, bottomless pair of black latex briefs — the kind that leaves absolutely nothing to the imagination from behind.

Harry tosses them at him with a wicked grin.

“Your perfect bum deserves to be on display.”

Louis catches them with a sharp laugh, the latex snapping against his fingers.

“You’re a sick fuck,” he says, but his voice is fond — dangerously fond.

“And you love it,” Harry sing-songs, already turning back to adjust his delicate white lace with ridiculous care.

Louis just shakes his head, peeling out of his briefs with no particular urgency.

And Harry —

Harry watches.

Shameless, hungry, biting his bottom lip as Louis steps into the gifted underwear, tugging them up over his thighs with slow, easy movements that make it look almost obscene.

By the time Louis straightens, smoothing it over his hips, Harry looks downright wrecked.

And they haven’t even made it out of the locker room yet.

Harry hums under his breath, steps to their locker again, fiddling with something in the front pocket of his jacket.

Louis raises a brow, toweling off his hands lazily on his thighs. "What now, Troublemaker?"

Harry flashes a grin — sweet, devastating, a little too knowing — and pulls out a tiny black velvet pouch.

He unties it with delicate fingers, tips the contents into his palm: two pink, skull-shaped pills, catching the cold fluorescent light of the locker room.

“Little pre-game ritual?” Harry offers, cocking his head, eyes wicked.

Louis smirks, slow and dangerous, tapping ash from his forgotten cigarette into the tray beside them.

“When have I ever said no to drugs?”

Harry’s grin stretches wider.

He picks up one of the pills between thumb and forefinger, pops it onto his tongue — pink and obscene — and leans in.

Louis doesn’t even pretend to resist.

He catches Harry by the jaw, tilting his face up, and kisses him slow, lazy, dirty — stealing the pill right off his tongue like it’s second nature.

The molly tastes chemical and fucking sour, fizzing against his teeth, but it’s the slide of Harry’s mouth, the way he sighs into it, that makes Louis groan low and hungry in his throat.

They linger there a second longer than they should — mouths open, breathing the same air — before Harry leans back, pink and flushed, lips kiss-bruised and smug.

“Mmm,” he murmurs, voice soft but loaded, “missed me then?”

Louis laughs under his breath, head tilting, cigarette still smoldering between two fingers.

“Missed fucking the hell out of you, maybe.”

Harry grins wider, all glitter and sin. “Yeah, keep telling yourself that.”

He pops his own molly after, dragging the back of his hand across his swollen mouth like he’s trying to wipe off the need — but the need’s everywhere now. In the air. Under the skin. Pressed up between them, humming loud.

“You’re a menace,” Harry mutters, but there’s no heat in it. Just awe.

Louis just grins, sharp and mean, and says, “Well, takes one to know one,” as he locks Harry’s bag away with a heavy clank.

He grabs his cigarette pack from the top shelf of the locker and tucks it into the waistband of his briefs without fanfare.

The key slips cool into the other side.

Now they're officially untethered.

No phones.

No clothes.

No past.

Just a city buzzing outside the walls and a night thick and electric, waiting to be ruined by the two of them.

Louis leans back against the locker, taking Harry in — really taking him in.

Sambas scuffed and loose, white socks soft against his calves, those fucking white lace knickers stretched tight over the swell of his ass, tattoos winding up his muscled, golden thigh.

Body bulked from relentless training.

Mouth still kiss-damp.

Face still too beautiful to look at for long without feeling like you’re begging for something you don't even have a name for.

Louis has never been more turned on in his life.

And they haven't even made it out of the locker room yet.

—

They finally weave deeper into the club — bass rattling the floor, lights slicing through the smoke-thick air — until they find a bar tucked into the corner.

The bartender barely blinks when Harry leans over and orders two of the most ridiculous cocktails Louis has ever seen.
Bright pink.
Dangerously oversized.
Glitter-rimmed.
Served in fucking plastic flamingos.

Louis barks out a laugh the moment they land on the counter.
"You are a menace to public decency," he says, eyeing Harry over the rim of his stupid, glorious drink.

Harry just beams, swiping Louis' straw with a shameless little lean-in and sucking a mouthful of slushy sweetness with an obnoxious slurp.
"Live a little, old man," he says around the straw, eyes sparkling.

Louis flips him off lazily, takes a sip, and immediately grimaces.
"Bloody hell. That tastes like a unicorn pissed in it."

Harry snorts. "Good. You need some fucking color in your life."

Louis grins despite himself, molly fizzing sweet through his bloodstream, glittering the edges of everything.
He sways into Harry without thinking, bumping shoulders like it’s gravity instead of choice.

"You know," Louis says, voice slurred at the edges, "if you had a brain cell left, you would’ve bought us shots like a normal person."

Harry’s grinning too wide now — the kind of grin that gets him forgiven for things that should be criminal. "You say that," he drawls, "but you’ll be crying into my glitter tits in an hour when you realize this drink has six shots of vodka in it."

Louis blinks.
Takes another sip.
Shrugs. "As long as your tits are involved, I’m good."

Harry chokes out a laugh, leaning into the counter, knuckles brushing Louis’ wrist like it’s nothing — like it’s everything.

They spiral from there.
Banter ricocheting off the neon walls, each beat sharper, faster, drunker.

They talk shit about the industrial techno blaring overhead.
They point out the wildest outfits they can find — a man in leather chaps and a halo, a woman leading a guy around on a leash while sipping her drink through a crazy straw.

Harry leans in, mouth hot at Louis’ ear.
"Bet you five euros I can find someone with actual feathers glued to their cock."

Louis snorts so hard he nearly inhales half his drink.
"Only if you lose, you have to wear the feathers."

"Deal."

The laughter bubbles too easily between them.

Touching isn’t even conscious anymore — Louis’ hand wrapping around Harry’s wrist to make a point, Harry’s thigh bumping Louis’ knee when he doubles over laughing.

The molly’s hitting them both now — softening everything, smearing the colors, cracking the walls between them until there’s just them.
Their chaos.
Their private language.
Fifteen fucking years of history woven into every shove, every smirk, every electric glance.

Louis pulls a pack of cigarettes from the waistband of his briefs, fishes one out with the ease of muscle memory. He lights it with hands that shake just slightly — not from nerves, but from everything else.

He takes a long drag that feels like air, exhales toward the ceiling — then holds it out without comment.

Harry takes it. Inhales deep.

Then, without asking, plucks another from the pack, lights it himself.

Louis watches the smoke curl out of his mouth, flicker through the neon haze — thinks about the overflowing ashtray back at Harry’s rental. He always smoked more when he was down bad.

Louis almost says something.

Almost.

But he doesn’t.
Doesn’t want to give Harry the wrong idea. Doesn’t want to admit he noticed. Doesn’t want to ruin this — whatever this is.

So instead, he just smirks and exhales another drag.

Louis catches Harry watching him through the mess of it — eyes wide and bright and so fucking full of it.

Louis raises his glass in a mock toast, mouth twitching into a grin.

Harry knocks his flamingo cup against it with a soft clink.

No words needed.

Right now — stupid drinks, shitty lighting, bodies pressed too close all around them — it’s the freest they’ve been in a long time.

Unhinged.
Alive.
The world could fall apart around them, and they wouldn’t notice.

Not tonight.

–

The couch is half-swallowed by the floor — low, sprawling, like it was designed to trap people too high to make good decisions. Around them, the lounge pulses with heat — thick and sticky, made of bass, perfume, leather, and questionable life choices. Overhead, a chandelier explodes with light — like a disco ball with a God complex — casting fractured sparkles over slick bodies and velvet cushions.

Harry tugs Louis down beside him, thighs pressing flush. The air tastes like someone spilled expensive champagne on a pile of sex toys. The music isn’t even music anymore — it’s vibration, pressure, sex carved into rhythm and shoved under their skin.

Their drinks — over-iced, melting fast — sit sweating on the table in front of them. Louis takes a sip and immediately winces.

“God’s tits. Still tastes like melted Jelly Babies and regret.”

Harry grins, molly already sliding lazy through his bloodstream — eyes glassy, smile floaty, like he’s watching stars blink behind his eyelids every time he blinks.

Louis can feel it too, curling into the edges of everything. Light flickers over his skin like it’s trying to seduce him. Every touch vibrates. Even the shift of the couch is enough to make him shudder.

And that’s when he sees her.

The blonde.

All wings and white lace, with a halo bobbing above her curls like a bad idea dressed in good intentions and daddy issues. She’s got that cartoon-angel look that always ends in blood or litigation. Her mouth is glossy red, her walk pure threat — like she’s about to get arrested for public indecency and win the case on appeal.

She doesn’t speak. Just struts up to Harry and plants one stiletto heel directly on the bulge in his lace knickers, like she owns it.

Louis blinks. Stares.

Feels his molars grind.

Harry looks up, cool as ever, voice slow and wrecked. “Hi, Angel.”

Louis doesn’t bother hiding the scoff crawling out of his throat.

“Woah, calm your tits, Haz. You gonna start confessing or just suck your sins off later?”

Harry smirks, smug little shit, and lets the girl climb into his lap. Wings twitch every time her hips roll against him.

Louis should look away.
He doesn’t.

He’s still watching — high and wired and way too turned on — when something warm brushes his ear and a voice purrs:

“Daddy, can we help him out?”

He turns, slow.

Two girls — glitter-streaked, leather-strapped, pupils blown — are draped across the cushions beside him. One’s twirling a leash. The other’s licking something red off a lollipop that probably isn’t just candy.

And then the third appears.

Lounging into view like a parody of sin — tall, oiled, muscle-bound, wearing nothing but tiny leather briefs and a cat mask. He’s holding both girls’ leashes and sipping his drink like this is a hotel lobby.

He tips his glass toward Louis, eyes hidden, and waves a single hand.

“You may.”

And they do.

They pounce — one crawling into his lap, the other wrapping around his back. Nails scratch down his chest. Lips graze his throat. It’s smoke and velvet and heat, and Louis lets it happen. Lets them press close. Lets his head fall back and feels the bass pounding behind his ribs like a second heart.

“Oh God,” he mutters.

“Not quite,” says the girl in front of him, dragging one perfect nail along the edge of his briefs — right where they cling tight to his cock.

He huffs a breathless laugh — wrecked and dry.

Across from him, Harry’s mouth is on the angel’s collarbone, whispering something that literally makes her wings flutter. He looks wrecked. He looks holy. He looks like sin with a halo — and he hasn’t looked away from Louis once.

A mouth brushes behind Louis’ ear. A hand drifts low.

One of the girls bites her lollipop, voice syrupy.

“Is that your boy?”

Louis doesn’t blink.

“My boy?” he echoes, voice flat, sharp-edged.

He leans in, mouth twisting.

“Please. He doesn’t belong to anyone.”
A blatant lie Louis tells himself whenever the guilt of leaving Harry again crawls into his nooks and crannies too much.

The girl giggles — delighted — and pushes in closer.

But Louis is already watching Harry again. Harry, who’s high and flushed and letting someone else grind against him, but never breaks eye contact.

Louis grins — private, filthy.

“But he comes like he does.”

One of the girls shivers. Louis doesn’t notice.

Because Harry smiles. Not soft. Not sweet. Just knowing.

Then — without a word — he moves.

Shrugs the blonde off. Reaches back, grabs the wings, straps them on. Messy. Crooked. Enormous.

Now he’s glowing — cock soaked through lace, molly-wrecked, freshly stolen halo wobbling like it knows what’s coming.

And he walks.

Slow. Steady. Winged menace on two feet.

The girls scatter like birds.

Harry stops in front of Louis, eyes dark and dangerous, mouth parted, hand extended.

“Mind if I steal him?”

One of the girls leans in, licking sugar off her finger.

“You’re the only one he looks at, anyway.”

Harry grins — slow and devastating.

Louis takes his hand.

They launch themselves into the crowd — wings, sweat, vinyl — looking like a prophecy unraveling in real time.

“See you met Klaus. He’s sweet,” Harry says, nodding toward the guy with the leash. “Taught me how to use a flogger properly.”

Louis stops walking. “You’ve been here before?”

Harry shrugs, smug. “When in Berlin.”

Louis cackles. “You kinky little slut.”

They keep moving.

And somewhere above them, the chandelier just keeps sparkling — like it’s seen this story before.

Chapter Text

“Pushed from the precipice, clung to the nearest lips.”

Harry’s dragging him through the crush of bodies, wings crooked, halo bouncing like it’s barely hanging on — like Harry, honestly.

The lights strobe. The bass thunders. People part around them — some watching, some writhing — but none of it registers, not really. Louis follows like a man possessed. Like there’s no oxygen left in the club and Harry’s the only thing still breathing.

And then — through a curtain, past a pair of stilettos kicking the air — they stumble into it.

A room.

Small. Dim. Sweltering.

Someone’s passed out on a bench — slumped sideways, mouth open, one shoe off. There’s a dusty altar in the corner and candles lit like someone’s been praying for this exact kind of depravity. A confessional box squats in the corner like it’s daring them.

Louis looks around and just laughs, loud and sharp.

“Of course. A fucking chapel. You’re unbelievable.”

Harry just grins — glassy-eyed, glowing, already wrecked — as he stumbles back against the nearest wall, wings flaring out behind him.

Louis doesn’t wait.

Finally.

He grabs Harry’s waist, spins him, slams him up against the wall like he’s claiming him — like he has to. Their mouths crash together, sloppy and frantic, teeth clashing, tongues tangling. It’s not sweet. It’s fucking warfare.

Harry squeaks into it — gasps so high it borders on a whimper — and Louis groans, deep and guttural, swallowing the sound like it does something to him.

He’s pretty sure it does.

Harry’s trembling under his hands, arching against him like his skin’s too tight. Louis doesn’t just kiss — he devours, mouth dragging from lips to jaw to neck to collarbone, biting his way down.

“Fuck, I missed this,” Louis growls, voice wrecked. “Hi, Baby.”

Harry moans — loud and helpless — and Louis can feel how hard he is, cock leaking through ruined lace, the fabric sticky and soaked against his thigh.

Louis palms it once — slow, indulgent — and Harry bucks, eyes rolling back.

“You look like fucking art,” Louis mutters, nuzzling under Harry’s jaw, breath hot and reverent. “Every version of you. All soft. All sharp. All ruined. Soddin’ hell, Haz.”

He drops to his knees — mouths at Harry’s hipbones, tongue dragging over the waistband of those poor, clinging knickers.

“I wanna rub my cock all over you,” Louis breathes. “All over. Your thighs, your stomach, your pretty little ass. Paint you in it. Every inch. Mark you up so bad you smell like me for days.”

Harry gasps — tries to say something — but it breaks off into a moan so obscene Louis could come just listening.

He ruts up against Harry’s leg — slow and filthy — dragging his cock over the lace, against the slick skin of Harry’s thigh. His hands roam, greedy and sure, stroking every inch of Harry he can reach.

Harry’s trying to talk now — fluttery, bratty, all breath and no coherence.

“Y-you—Louis—fuck, I—”

“Too much for you?” Louis coos. “Already about to cream your knickers, huh?”

Harry lets out a ragged, high-pitched noise — somewhere between a yes and a prayer.

Louis pauses. Pulls back just enough to look up at him.

Harry’s flushed red, sweating, mouth parted, pupils blown wide. His hips are still moving — tiny, desperate thrusts chasing any kind of friction.

Louis smirks.

“Nuh-uh,” he purrs. “You don’t get to come yet.”

Harry whines — actual, wrecked — and grabs at Louis, fingers curling around his ass like he can anchor him, like if he just holds tight enough, Louis won’t pull away.

But Louis grabs his wrists. Peels him off. Steps back.

“I said,” he drawls, sharp now, voice like a slap, “that’s enough fun for you for now, Baby.”

Harry’s breathing hard. His whole body’s trembling.

Louis waits.

Waits until Harry’s lashes flutter, until his focus pulls back in from wherever it had scattered. Until he’s not just a shaking pile of molly and moans.

“There we go,” Louis says, biting back a grin. “Welcome back, Haz.”

Harry lets out a breathless little laugh — hoarse and pink-cheeked — and lets his head fall back against the wall with a thud.

“Fuck,” he says, dazed. “You’re actually gonna kill me.”

Louis steps in close again, mouth brushing Harry’s ear.

“You wish I’d be that merciful.”

And Harry just laughs again, all breath and heat and wrecked. “Sounds like I gotta give the congregation a show first.”

“Preach for me, then.” 

And then — slow, steady, deliberate — he sinks to his knees.

Wings spread behind him like he might lift off if not for the weight of Louis’s gaze. His fingers slide up Louis’s thighs, slow and reverent, like he’s kneeling before something sacred.

He looks up — lips parted, eyes wide and ruined and wicked — and smiles with that particular mix of sweetness and blasphemy only he could pull off.

Voice low and filthy, he murmurs,“Forgive me, Father, for I’m about to sin.”

Louis lets out a sound — something between a growl and a prayer — and fists a hand in Harry’s curls, not guiding, just grounding , like he needs something solid or he might fucking fall over.

And without another word, Harry leans in — slow, sure — like he was made to worship this way. His lips are shiny, spit-slick, and he looks obscene — like sin dressed up as salvation, like Louis' dirtiest dream crawled straight out of his subconscious and knelt in front of him. He’s got both hands wrapped around Louis’ thighs, thumbs digging in, nails faintly biting. His mouth is working over the head of Louis’ cock like he was born to do it — slow at first, teasing little licks, tongue flicking under the crown, then down, pressing into the vein like he knows. 

Louis can’t breathe. 

“Jesus fuck,” he groans, voice breaking. “You love this, don’t you?” 

Harry hums, lips wrapped tight around him, eyes flicking up with something between smug and reverent. He doesn’t break eye contact when he sinks lower, throat opening, nose pressing against Louis’ belly as he takes him all the way in. 

“Fucking hell,” Louis gasps. His knees buckle. “ Fucking hell, Baby. ” 

He grabs Harry’s head without thinking — fingers tangling in the curls behind his halo of white wings — and he starts fucking in, sharp, needy thrusts into Harry’s mouth. 

No control. 

No rhythm. Just desperation. 

Harry lets him. Takes him. Eyes fluttering closed, throat working, wings trembling with every deep, punishing stroke. He gags once, barely, then breathes through it, spit pouring down his chin, dripping onto the lace across his chest. Louis is losing his fucking mind. 

“Look at you,” he pants, thrusting deep again, groaning when Harry chokes around him. “Look at you — on your knees like this, with these fucking wings—” He doesn’t even finish the sentence — just growls low in his chest and fucks faster, harder, deeper, both hands holding Harry steady. The sound is filthy — wet, messy, obscene. 

Harry’s moaning around him now, helpless little noises like he loves it, like this is exactly what he wanted. His cock’s hard under the lace, untouched, leaking, rubbing against his own thigh every time Louis rocks into his mouth. He glances down and nearly loses it — the image seared into his brain: Harry’s lips swollen and red, his cheeks flushed, his wings glowing faintly in the candlelight, lace soaked, drool everywhere, and still begging for more. 

“Fuck—fuck, I’m close,” Louis gasps, voice wrecked. “You’re gonna make me—shit, Haz—” Harry sucks harder. Louis jerks forward, hips stuttering, cock buried deep in Harry’s throat — and then suddenly it’s not .

He rips himself back, gasping, blinking like he’s just surfaced from underwater.

“ Fuck, no—wait—stop— not like this, ” he chokes, voice cracking, hand still buried in Harry’s curls. “ Not yet. Fucking hell— ”

Harry blinks up at him, mouth swollen, spit-slick, confusion flickering behind the wrecked haze of his eyes.

Louis is flushed to the chest, cock twitching, dripping, so close to coming he’s practically vibrating — but he doesn’t.

He won’t .

He sways back a step like it hurts. Like staying buried in Harry's throat would’ve made him belong to him in a way he can’t afford yet.

“I want—” Louis rasps, then breaks off, breathless.

Harry licks his lips, slow, still kneeling, voice soft but sharp-edged: “You want to come inside me instead.”

Louis doesn’t answer. He doesn’t need to.

The silence says everything.

Outside the chapel room, the bass kicks back in hard—bright and sugary and insane. Chappell Roan’s HOT TO GO! is blasting, filtering in through the walls like a divine message from a drunker, sluttier God.

“I could be the one, or your new addiction
It's all in my head but I want non-fiction”

Harry hears it. Of course he does.

His head pops up from where he’d been slumped against the wall, eyes lighting up like a kid on sugar and blasphemy. He sings along with a wicked grin to:

“I don't want the world, but I'll take this city
Who can blame a girl? Call me hot, not pretty”

“Oh my god,” he beams, voice thick and giddy. “It’s my fuckin’ anthem.”

And then Harry starts dancing—not gracefully. Not coordinated. Just slutty.

It’s a full-body wriggle. Wings flapping dangerously. Sambas squeaking across the chapel floor. His white lace knickers are clinging for dear life—damp, stretched obscenely over the thick line of his cock. The waistband barely contains it—the flushed head peeking out like it’s trying to join the party.

Harry spins in place, arms up, wings crooked, singing loud:

“It's like a hundred ninety-nine degrees (na-na, na-na)
When you're doing it with me, doing it with me”

Louis, still panting, flushed and hard, looks up like he’s been summoned. “Fucking hell,” he groans. “It’s like that ridiculous football fanfic you made me read.”

Harry gasps, delighted and breathless. “Oh my god, I came so hard that night.”

“That you did,” Louis shakes his head, exhales roughly, and fishes a crumpled cigarette from the waistband of his briefs. If he did come a bit too hard that night too, it’s staying his secret. He lights the cig with one practiced flick, the flame catching with a sharp hiss. The glow briefly illuminates the sharp cut of his cheekbone before he draws in deep and exhales slow—like it might help him survive whatever Harry’s about to do.

Harry turns back around, grinning like a man possessed, and throws Louis a wink so filthy it should be illegal in a place with candles.

Louis, still trying to stay grounded, takes a long drag from his cigarette, eyes pinned to Harry’s hips. But as Harry struts toward him, undulating like sin made flesh, Louis’s fingers go slack. The cigarette drops from his hand and hits the floor with a soft hiss—forgotten instantly.

Then—casually, as he tugs the waistband lower with two fingers and lets the fat, flushed tip of his cock fully pop out—Harry says, “Oh, by the way.”

Louis is already breathing heavy, eyes locked on Harry’s dick like it personally insulted his family.

“I got my cock pierced.”

Beat.

“Twice.”

Louis chokes.

Harry lifts the waistband again, slow and deliberate.

“One for my pleasure,” he says, mock-elegant, like he’s ordering wine. “And one for yours.”

Louis makes a sound. A feral, obscene noise that doesn’t belong in any sacred space.

Harry tilts his head, all doe eyes and devil’s grin. “You okay, Lou? You look like you saw God.”

“I am looking at God,” Louis mutters.

“You don't have to stare, come here, get with it
No one's touched me there in a damn hot minute”

The music keeps thumping through the walls, and Harry, fully riding the molly-high, struts forward and pushes Louis down onto one of the old chapel benches like it’s his pulpit.

Louis lets him. Rock-hard. Hypnotized.

Harry climbs into his lap one knee at a time, wings flaring behind him like some chaotic deity, then settles — straddling Louis like he’s about to deliver the gospel of sin itself.

“You gonna be good?” he purrs, rolling his hips in a lazy circle that makes Louis groan. “Or do I need to perform an exorcism first?”

Louis smirks, tries to hold the line. “You’d need holy water and a fuckin’ team, angel.”

“Mmhmm,” Harry hums, then leans in like a secret. “Might just ride the demon out of you then.”

He grinds down — slow, deep — and Louis’s head tips back with a sharp exhale.

“What, no sermon?”

“Oh, I’ve got a sermon,” Harry murmurs, voice wicked, “Psalm one: Thou shalt worship this fat fuckin’ cock.”

Louis barks a laugh, dazed and breathless. “You are so fucking full of yourself.”

“Wait till I’m full of you,” Harry sing-songs, then moans — loud and obscene — as he ruts forward, piercings dragging through lace with filthy precision.

Louis can’t tear his eyes away. Harry’s drenched. Glowing. Wrecked and smug and fucking performing.

“Wanna come all over you,” Harry pants, hips rolling in hard, messy circles. “On your chest. Your neck. Your fuckin’ mouth.”

Louis huffs a laugh, rough at the edges. “Go on then. Show me.”

But Harry stills, bratty as ever. “You said I don’t get to come yet.”

And when Louis tries to thrust up, Harry stops him — one sharp grip to his hip, smug little smirk back in place.

“No touching. You’re the altar boy now. I’m preaching.”

Louis raises a brow, smirk flickering.

“Is that so?”

Then Harry moves.

Slow. Decadent. Like he’s grinding scripture into Louis’s hips. Wings stretched. Lace clinging to his soaked cock, the mess leaking from the tip smearing between them. He’s ethereal. He’s filthy. He’s obscene.

Louis watches — wide-eyed, jaw tight — as Harry fucks himself against him like it’s performance art.

He’s not leaking — he’s dripping.

Louis can feel every stuttery rut of his hips, each drag leaving slick trails down his stomach. His thighs are wet. His ribs are slick. Harry’s cock keeps catching just beneath his sternum like it’s trying to leave a mark.

“Raise your hands, now body roll / Dance it out, you’re hot to go—”

Louis lasts another five seconds. Maybe.

Then he’s done pretending.

With a growl, he grabs Harry’s waist, yanks him down hard, and shoves the lace aside, fingers slipping into the drenched mess between his thighs — hot, twitching, so wet it makes Louis gasp.

“Mass is fucking over,” he snarls. “You’re getting fucked.”

Chapter Text

“Call me hot, not pretty.”

Harry lets out a breathy little gasp — like he tries to slow it down for a second — but Louis is already buckling up into him, possessed, like something’s summoned him straight out of hell and gave him one job: fuck Harry until the world ends. And Harry’s too far gone to even pretend to argue, anyway.

“Lou—fuck—”

But Louis is already spitting in his hand, jerking himself once, twice — cock flushed and heavy and furious — and then—

He slams into him.

No warning. No prep. Just one brutal, full-bodied thrust that knocks every breath out of Harry’s lungs and sends his wings flaring wide like a divine fucking hallucination.

Harry screams — high, shattered, trembling. His hands claw at Louis’s shoulders, nails scraping down his back like he’s trying to hold on to something that’s already gone.

Louis doesn’t wait.

He grabs Harry’s hips and fucks up into him like he’s trying to shake loose the parts of them they don’t talk about. Like he’s chasing something he’ll never catch. It’s savage. It’s desperate. It’s relentless.

Every thrust shoves Harry down onto him, cock dragging against Louis’s abs, soaking them in steady, filthy drips. The bench creaks. The candles flicker. Something rattles on the altar behind them like even the saints have to look away.

Harry’s gone.

Whining, gasping, moaning — every sound punched out of him like Louis is drilling them up from the base of his spine.

“You fuck like you’re trying to prove something,” Harry manages, voice cracked but cocky, hips rocking back to meet every brutal thrust. “Is this supposed to impress me, or are you just that desperate?”

Louis is growling now, eyes locked on where they’re joined — the stretch of Harry’s hole wrapped tight around him, the ruined lace framing the obscene curve of his cock, the piercings glinting as it keeps leaking between them.

“Look at you,” Louis pants, dragging his hands down Harry’s spine, then back up to squeeze his shoulders, rough and reverent. “Running your fucking mouth while you’re getting split open. You should see yourself.”

He leans in, teeth sinking into the side of Harry’s neck — biting, sucking, marking him without thinking. Harry cries out, back arching, cock twitching between them.

“Maybe I should fuck that attitude out of you.”

Harry whines, shaking, jaw slack — but Louis grabs it, forces him to look down.

“See how you’re dripping for me?” he hisses. “Taking me so fucking deep like your body knows who it’s for.”

Harry moans — high, helpless — thighs trembling as Louis fucks into him harder, meaner.

“Swallowing me like you were made for this.”

A sharp thrust.

“Made for me.”

Another. Brutal.

He growls it right into Harry’s throat, voice low and guttural. Then Harry — brilliant, infuriating, perfect — lets out a breathless, filthy laugh.

“You’re lucky I love getting railed,” he pants.

Louis freezes for half a beat. Laughs, sharp and twisted.

“That right?” His voice is a snarl now. “Who else rails you these days, then?”

Harry grins — wrecked, bratty — and rolls his hips just right.

“I mean… I can’t complain.”

And that’s it.

Louis snaps.

With a snarl, he grabs Harry by the throat — not cruel, but firm — and slams up into him like he’s trying to bury every fuck Harry’s ever taken that wasn’t his.

The force of it knocks a gasp out of Harry so loud it echoes. Louis keeps going. Keeps driving into him, over and over, until they’re both shaking with it.

“Bet no one else can wreck you like this,” Louis pants, mouth hot and vicious against Harry’s neck. “No one else can fuck you this deep. No one else can make you come this fucking hard.”

He bites him then — sharp, messy, possessive — lips dragging down over sweat-slick skin, hands everywhere, gripping and clawing and claiming.

Harry moans, can’t form words — but his mouth moves anyway, eyes wild, pupils blown.

“Yeah?” he mouths, breath catching. “But does anyone make you lose your fucking mind like this, Lou?”

Louis can’t answer. He’s too far gone. His only response is another brutal snap of his hips and a groan so guttural it scrapes up from his chest like it’s been waiting years to be set loose.

They’re too close, too feral, too wrapped around the promise of what comes next. The air between them is soaked in sweat and sin and something too dangerous to name. And they’re going to burn in it.

Harry’s clenching around him, fluttering. His thighs are trembling, his whole body drawn tight like he’s seconds from combustion.

Louis’s hand slides up, wraps around his again. Just enough to hold him steady. To remind him.

Harry whines — cracked and breathless.

“You’re okay,” Louis murmurs, voice ragged in his ear.

Harry’s hips twitch. “I—fuck—I can’t—I can’t—”

“Yes, you can.” Louis’s other hand moves between them, fingers soaked. He slides two in alongside his cock — deep, curled, pressing precisely to Harry’s prostate.

Harry screams.

His cock jolts violently under the lace, leaking in heavy drops. His wings flutter — literally flutter — trembling like they’re caught in a windstorm. His eyes roll back, lips parted in a stunned, soundless gasp.

Louis leans in, mouth warm at his ear.

“Yes, you can, Baby.”

And then — just to finish him — he rolls Harry’s nipple between his fingers, slow and cruel.

Harry’s body snaps.

He shudders, moaning, fucking down onto Louis in wild, broken rhythm. His cock bobs uselessly, pierced tip glinting, lace gliding slick between their bodies.

Louis holds him firm.

Still at his throat.

Still inside him.

Still watching like Harry’s the only thing that’s ever made sense.

He leans in again, voice syrup-thick and reverent.

“Good girl. Now let’s make a mess in your nice little knickers.”

Harry sobs a sound between a moan and a laugh — but it falls apart the second Louis’s fingers trail down again, slow and sure, tugging the lace waistband back over the flushed head of his cock.

“Wanna feel it on my thighs,” Louis breathes. “Want you to soak it through.”

And Harry breaks.

His body locks up — jaw slack, eyes blown, lungs silent — and then a hot jet of liquid spurts through the lace.

Not come.

Not exactly.

It’s wet — soaking and splashing, clear and fast and relentless — shooting out in pulses that slap against Louis’s skin and drench through the thin fabric.

Harry gasps, but he doesn’t say anything — just shudders, trembling so hard it rattles the wings on his back.

Then another burst — and another.

Hot.

Thin.

Everywhere.

It doesn’t feel like anything they’ve known. It’s not slick like come. It’s soaking, wild, unholy.

Louis stares — stunned, speechless, soaked.

His thighs are drenched. His abs. His cock.

His brain blanks.

It’s overwhelming.

Unbelievable.

Otherworldly.

Harry’s wrecked and writhing, high out of his mind, barely conscious, moaning softly like he doesn’t know he’s doing it — twitching with every pulse of pressure that leaves him, helpless in the pleasure as it rips through him. His skin’s flushed, slick under Louis’s hands, and he doesn’t even seem to know where he is anymore. He just rides it out—riding him—twitching through the aftershocks like his body can’t figure out how to stop.

The lace clings to his cock — drenched, translucent — the piercings gleaming through the mess.

And then, finally — finally — the break.

Harry sobs, loud and raw, as his cock jerks once more beneath the ruined lace and finally spills — thick and milky this time, the unmistakable heat of orgasm soaking into everything else.

His wings flutter violently. His whole body shakes.

Louis can’t take it.

He comes so fucking hard he forgets how to breathe—how to do anything but feel. It’s like being electrocuted by beauty, by sin, by the vision of Harry fucking Styles squirting in his lap in soaked lace and trembling wings.

It’s not even pleasure.

It’s rapture.

He sees God.

And God has Harry’s face.

Louis groans, hoarse and broken, clutching Harry tighter as his orgasm hits—cock jerking deep inside him, hips twitching, head buried in Harry’s throat. He spills endlessly, messily, into the same lace that’s already ruined, soaked, flooded.

Harry collapses forward, breath hitching, slick and trembling in Louis’s arms.

Their chests press together, wet and sticky. Harry’s wings tremble, curl slightly in defeat. He’s wrecked. Floating. Somewhere between reality and something sacred.

Louis cups the back of his neck, still panting, still wide-eyed.

“You—” Louis starts, voice cracking. “You just—what the fuck was that?” He laughs—shaky, reverent, a little terrified. “Fucking hell,” he  breathes. “You didn’t come to play with that holy water. Think I just got baptized.” 

A beat of silence.

Just their breathing. Just the sweat cooling on their skin. Just the soaked lace clinging to Harry’s cock, still twitching in the wreckage.

And then—

“Holy fuckin’ shit,” a voice says from somewhere to the left, low and breathless. “That was the hottest squirt I’ve ever seen in my life.”

Louis doesn’t even lift his head. Just lets out a strangled sound that might be a laugh—or a sob.

Harry stirs in his arms, barely. His voice is hoarse, dazed. “Wasn’t even… trying to do that…”

“I don’t think you can try to do that,” the voice answers, sounding faintly awed now. “That was like watching someone get exorcised by pleasure.”

Louis lets his head fall back against the couch with a soft thud. “This is a private room,” he mutters, voice thick. “What the fuck are you still doing here?”

There’s the sound of someone moving—a soft creak of leather, a drink clinking.

“Man,” the stranger says, “if I walked out before that finished, I’d never forgive myself.”

Harry wheezes. “You watched the whole thing?”

“Start to finish. Holy fuck. You two are insane. Also, I think your wings molested me at one point.”

Harry lets out a laugh that cracks midway through. “Sorry,” he mumbles, still draped across Louis like a soaked ragdoll. “They’re a little… grabby.”

Louis finally peels one eye open. Glances vaguely toward the source of the voice. “You see God too?”

There’s a pause. Then:

“Nah,” the man says. “But I’m pretty sure God saw you.”

Harry giggles against Louis’s neck—soft and a little manic. “I’m so fucking high.”

“You squirted,” Louis mutters, almost accusing, like it personally ruined his worldview. “In my lap. You squirted on my dick.”

“I know!” Harry squeaks, voice rising as he tries to bury his face deeper into Louis’s neck. “What the fuck was that?”

“Otherworldly,” the stranger says again, and someone else nearby hums in agreement.

Louis groans and pulls Harry tighter. “We need a fucking priest.”

Harry just laughs, delirious and shining and smug.

“Already got one,” he says, voice wrecked but wicked. “You’re inside me, remember?”

Louis groans louder. “I’m gonna have to exorcise you with my cock, that’s what I’m gonna do.”

“Think we’re way past that, Lou. The demons already left my body. Poof. All gone.” Harry whispers, lifting his head just enough to grin, pupils still blown wide. “But maybe you can try to baptize me too in round two?”

And somewhere in the shadows, someone says, “Amen.”

They both dissolve into hysterical, exhausted laughter, limbs tangled, panties soaked, and dignity long, long gone.

Chapter Text

The chapel's quiet now, save for the faint, muffled thump of bass bleeding in through the velvet-draped walls and the soft wheeze of their breaths still trying to even out. The altar's still flickering, wax running wild down spent candles. Somewhere in the corner, a stiletto lies facedown like a holy relic. Louis lights a cigarette off the dying flame of one, and exhales like it owes him something.

Harry's draped across his lap like a fever dream come true: wings crooked, knickers clinging, halo twisted sideways. His head's on Louis's shoulder. His eyes are closed. He's glowing. Still ruined.

"Right," Louis murmurs, tone bone-dry, dragging another long puff from his cig. "We're gonna need six packs of gum and an exorcist. Or I'm sucking your dick so far into another dimension they'll name a star after you."

Harry snorts, eyes still closed, lips twitching. "They'd have to call it Haz 69."

"Mm. Bit on the nose."

"You weren't complaining when I was on yours."

Louis grins, lazy and mean, tapping ash into the sacred candle tray. "Please, I've got molly and a mindfuck orgasm in me. I'd let you teabag the Virgin Mary if you asked nice enough."

"Stop." Harry wheezes, half-laughing, burying his face in the crook of Louis's neck. "I'm gonna get struck down in lace."

Louis hums. "You already squirted in it, might as well die wearing it."

He can feel Harry smiling into his skin. But it's soft. Tired. A little... careful.

The silence stretches for a minute. Then two.

Louis smokes. Harry breathes. The air between them cools, then shifts.

Louis feels it before Harry even speaks — the way his fingers still where they're curled at Louis's ribs. The way his lashes stop fluttering. The way the air thickens with something heavier than heat.

They're still slick and buzzing, molly humming low under their skin like a neon halo that's just starting to flicker.

The bench beneath them is damp, creaking faintly with every breath. The altar still glows behind the haze of smoke, and Louis's thighs are sticky with evidence he's not emotionally equipped to process.

He lights a cigarette with a practiced flick, takes a long drag, and exhales like it's the only thing keeping him grounded.

Harry's sitting up a little now, still in nothing but lace — soaked through, twisted, pierced cock half-exposed and twitching with every pulse of aftershock. His wings are drooping behind him like they, too, are trying to recover. He hasn't said anything for the last few minutes. Just picking at the skin around his nail, leg bouncing like his body's still racing even if his head's starting to spiral.

Then, finally — quiet. Flat. Heavy.

"Do you think it's normal?" Harry asks. "The shit we do?"

Louis exhales, slow and sharp. Smoke curls toward the ceiling.

Ah. Here we fucking go again.

He drags a hand down his face, already bracing for the spiral, already trying to find the nearest exit from it.

Flicks ash to the side.

But when he glances up — really looks at Harry's face — something shifts. This isn't one of Harry's usual melodramatic swan dives into codependency and vague accusations.

No, this time, he's serious.

Louis sees it in the set of his jaw, the tired rage behind his eyes. Knows distraction won't work this time. Knows Harry won't let him off the hook.

So he shrugs. Careful. Dry.

"I don't know, Haz. You tell me."

Harry huffs a bitter laugh and looks at him like he's the dumbest fuck alive.

"Well. You did fly across the world in a heartbeat just to rail me. And simultaneously ditched your girlfriend's launch party."

Louis raises a brow, mouth tugging sideways, and lights another cigarette off the one he just killed.

"Well. If you put it like that—"

"I'm not putting it like anything," Harry cuts in, voice sharp but quiet. "That's literally what happened."

Louis sighs, rubbing the heel of his palm into his eye socket.

"I don't know, Haz, okay? It seems normal to me. Normal for us, anyway. It's all we ever do."

Harry scoffs — not cute, not playful. Ugly. Bitter.

So Louis lights another cigarette.

"So you think moving the goalposts and rewriting the basic rules of a relationship makes it normal?"

Louis's starting to fray now, tone clipped. "Alright, Harry. What's actually going on?"

"Nothing's going on."

There it is. Passive aggression, classic edition. Louis rolls his eyes. Blows a smoke ring.

"Right. So you're just systematically attacking me for no apparent reason."

Harry's voice turns venomous, sharp and shaking.

"No reason? That's fucking rich, Louis. Do you know how fucking miserable you made me feel last time? How ashamed of myself I was? After you fucked me dumb and left me hanging again? The day we fucking buried him?"

Louis snaps back without thinking. "Oh come on, Harry. You were begging for it. Don't put that all on me."

Harry jerks back like he's been slapped.

"That's completely fucking beside the point."

Louis scoffs. "Now who's moving the goalposts, hmm?"

That's the one that breaks it.

Harry stands up like he's been yanked by a string, voice going full volume.

"Why can't you just fucking listen and try to understand what I actually mean for once?"

Louis stays where he is, maddeningly calm.

"Oh, I'm listening, Harry. I'm just saying — all I hear is you talking shit and trying to shove your logically flawed points down my throat."

Harry actually growls — hands in his hair, fists pulling — like he wants to rip the frustration out of his skull.

"Why do you always have to be such a fucking dickhead? Why can't you just—"

Louis cuts him off, exhaling smoke like he's so over with this fucking conversation.

"Why can't I just what, Harry? Rise to your bait? Match your little tantrum?"

Harry's gone. Out of his mind. He shoves Louis hard in the chest.

"Don't act like you're above it all and I'm just the fucking problem—!"

Louis still doesn't flinch. Doesn't shove back. Just speaks, calm and fucking surgical.

"I'm not acting like anything. If you'd stop throwing your fit, you'd see I'm actually calm and trying to solve the problem."

Harry barks a bitter laugh that sounds like it's been clawing at his throat for days.

"The fuck you are, Louis. You're just trying to make me feel insane — acting all zen so you can say, 'I'm not the one being unreasonable here, Harry.'" He mimics Louis' tone, mocking. "'Look at me, I'm emotionally superior because I don't yell.' Fuck off."

Louis just tilts his head, smirking coldly.

"You always did have a vivid imagination, Baby. You should try for a creative job. Oh, wait."

And that — that's when Harry shoves him hard, palms flat to his chest, slamming him against the wall.

His voice drops into a whisper-scream, barely a breath away from a sob.

"You know what? I sometimes really fucking wish you'd die."

Silence.

Louis doesn't flinch. Doesn't raise his voice.

Just lifts a hand, strokes Harry's cheekbone — gentle, almost loving.

Because he knows.

Knows Harry means it.

Knows it's not just a line flung in rage — it's the flash of something buried, something old and festering that's clawed its way out through molly and moonlight and all the jagged, fucked-up history they've never been brave enough to fix.

And really — after fifteen years of dragging Harry through the ugliest parts of himself, Louis can't even blame him.

Of course he wishes it, sometimes.

Who wouldn't?

But he's too tired to go there.

Too raw to crack open his own guilt and offer it up.

So he just swallows it down like smoke and says the only thing he can.

"Is that so?"

Harry's breath catches.

His whole body locks.

And then —

Something in him deflates. Like the anger's drained out all at once, leaving nothing but ache in its place.

But Louis sees it — the flicker that doesn't leave.

The tension that still simmers under Harry's skin, even as he backs up a step and breathes out hard, wiping at his mouth like he's trying to erase the last two minutes.

He's not done.

Not even close.

But he's shelving it — for now.

Louis sees the shift. Recognizes it for what it is: a reprieve, not a resolution.

His voice is wrecked when he finally speaks.

"I didn't mean that."

Louis doesn't move. Just flicks ash from his cigarette and watches him. Quiet. Present.

Lying.

"I know."

Harry glances around, swipes Louis's pack off the altar. Pulls one out with shaking fingers, lights it with Louis's zippo, and takes a long, shaky drag. His wings flutter behind him like they're waking up too.

Louis lights another of his own. He's already lost track of how many it's been. Doesn't matter. His fingers need something. His mouth needs something. Anything that isn't saying what he actually feels.

Harry drags a hand through his curls — wild, half-matted, halo long gone — and then steps forward again, cautiously, like he's trying not to spook the wreckage between them.

He cups Louis's jaw with both hands. Soft. Gentle.

"I'm sorry," he murmurs, leaning in. "I didn't mean that."

Louis lets him come close. Lets him press their foreheads together.

"C'mere, Baby."

Harry kisses him. Light. Fragile. Almost reverent.

Like he's praying Louis will forget every word and remember only this: lace and wings and the second coming between stained-glass shadows.

"I just..." Harry whispers, against his lips. "I didn't wanna ruin it. Not this. It's just... I probably won't see you for fucking months and... I don't want you to remember me like this, throwing a fit."

Louis exhales — long, shaky — and finally kisses him back.

It's not soft.

But it's real.

And underneath it, he's already bracing.

Already dreading the day this night loops back around to haunt them.

Then — with zero grace — he taps the ash off his latest cigarette, eyes still heavy-lidded and flushed.

"Also, Haz," he murmurs, "we're stopping at a kiosk before we go back out there."

Harry pulls back an inch, confused.

"What? Why?"

Louis takes another drag. Grins around it.

"Because if I don't chain-smoke or get a pack of gum soon, I'm gonna chew your cock off before I even get to make you come."

Harry blinks.

Then laughs — breathless and unsteady, smile tugging wide.

"Deal," he says. "But I'm taking one for the road."

He lights another.

They smoke in silence — wings limp, legs tangled, hearts both completely fucked.

And neither of them says what really needs saying.

—–—

They make it out of the chapel eventually — still fucked up, but no longer actively combusting. The hallway's colder than before, or maybe it's just the sweat cooling on their skin. Harry tugs Louis close as they move, wings crooked, halo long gone, and Louis lets him, cigarette dangling from his lips like he's trying to make up for every second he wasn't smoking during the fight.

"Oi," Louis mutters, eyes scanning the crowd. "We need a dealer or a miracle — whichever one sells gum."

Harry hums, eyes glassy but searching. Eventually he spots him — tall, slinky, wearing vinyl pants and a translucent mesh shirt with nipples pierced like constellations.

"Found our guy."

They sidle up. Louis handles it with his usual blend of charm and threat, and within ninety seconds they've got two fresh packs of Marlboros, a fistful of gum, and a second dose of molly nestled between two Tic Tacs in a velvet pouch.

"I'd fuckin' die for capitalism," Louis mutters, thumbing open the gum and stuffing two pieces in at once.

Harry laughs, takes one, chews like it might save his soul. Then, with a smirk, transfers an obscenely large amount of money through whatever app people in Berlin use to pay for drugs, smokes, and temporary salvation.

They disappear into the locker room again — a fluorescent hell, but more forgiving in the dark and only theirs for a minute. Just them and the low hum of broken lights. Tile walls too white. Air thick with old deodorant and the echo of bodies in motion. But in this bubble — sweaty, buzzing, heartbeat-loud — it feels like sanctuary.

The moment the door shuts behind them, Harry doesn't say anything.

He just presses Louis against the lockers with no heat, no edge — just lips. Just warmth. Just a sigh that tastes like sugar and nicotine.

"Waited all night to kiss you like this," Harry mumbles between soft, open-mouthed kisses. "You feel so good, you feel too fucking good—."

Louis exhales against his cheek, breath smelling faintly of mint and exhaustion. His hands cup Harry's waist — reverent now — like he knows this is the part Harry will remember more than anything else.

Harry's straddling Louis's lap now, perched like he belongs there. Wings limp. Skin flushed. He kisses with the kind of soft desperation Louis can't quite look at directly. It's too much. It's everything.

Louis doesn't pull away.

He cups the back of Harry's neck, fingers threading into curls gone wild. His other hand finds Harry's hipbone and just stays there. Not gripping. Just grounding. His thumb draws lazy circles against warm skin like he's checking if Harry's still real.

Harry shifts forward, presses closer. His lips brush against Louis's again — gentle, slow, like he's trying to memorize the shape of safety.

"Missed you so fucking much," he murmurs, words smudged at the edges. "Every second of every bloody day."

Louis hums, low in his throat. Doesn't answer, not really. Just noses at Harry's jaw, then kisses his temple. Then the spot under his ear where he knows Harry shivers.

"You're fucked," Louis says eventually, lips grazing skin. "High as shit."

Harry grins, soft and crooked. "So're you."

"Yeah, but I'm cooler about it."

"You're insufferable," Harry whispers, but his fingers curl tighter in the fabric of Louis's shirt. Like he's scared to let go. Like he might float off if he does.

They go quiet again. Just breathing. Just holding. The molly hums slow and sweet between them — like blood turned to syrup, like everything's underwater and glowing.

Louis kisses him again. Slower this time. Thoughtful.

"You gonna get sappy on me now?" he asks, trying for light.

Harry nods. Honest. Blunt. "Maybe."

Louis smirks, but doesn't say anything.

Harry shifts. His nose brushes Louis's. "You're not gonna say anything real, are you?"

Louis raises a brow. "Don't start, Haz—"

Harry bites back a smile. "I say too much. You say nothing."

"I say plenty."

"Yeah," Harry says softly, eyes locked on his mouth, "but never when it counts."

Louis's chest tightens. He kisses Harry again, just to shut him up. But his hands — one still on Harry's neck, the other now at his waist — betray him. They're too gentle. Too reverent. Like he's sorry. Like he loves him. Like he doesn't know how to say either.

Harry breathes out, shaky. Then: "You're gonna pretend this didn't mean anything tomorrow, aren't you?"

Louis doesn't answer. He kisses the hollow of Harry's throat instead. Leaves his lips there. Still. Quiet.

And Harry lets him. He lets him pretend. Lets him win, if that's what this is. Because maybe love is letting someone lie to you in a language they can survive.

After a long pause, Harry murmurs, "You don't have to say it."

Louis closes his eyes. His grip tightens for just a second.

And then — softer than breath — "I know."

They stay like that. Pressed together in the sharp white light, all bruises and molly and silence. Kissing slow. Holding like maybe they're not going to shatter when the world presses back in.

Just for a minute, they let the lie be enough. They're still high enough to think they can outrun the fallout if they just keep touching.

Harry's perched in Louis's lap, thighs spread, arms draped loose around his neck. His breath hitches in soft little stutters, nose pressed to Louis's cheek like he's trying to burrow into the skin. The wings droop behind him, twitching faintly every time he shifts, still tacky with sweat and who-knows-what else.

Louis kisses the edge of his jaw, then lets his hand trail lower — between them, down Harry's stomach, slipping under the ruined lace with gentle fingers. Harry's hips twitch when he touches him, body still sensitive, still fluttering from before.

He's wet. Open. Glistening.

Louis lets his fingers slide through it — slow, deliberate — then presses two in without warning. Harry gasps, high and soft, head falling forward against Louis's shoulder like the sensation just short-circuited his spine.

His hands shake. Not from pain. Not even from overstimulation.

Louis knows why.

Knows this is the part that ruins Harry — not the chapel, not the squirting, not the shouting. It's this. The way Louis touches him like he's precious. The way he curls his fingers just right and presses his mouth to Harry's temple like a promise he'll never make out loud.

Harry clutches his shoulder tighter, hips stuttering as Louis fucks him slow with his fingers, opening him up all over again. He's whimpering — helpless, wrecked, too high to fake being okay.

And Louis just watches. Watches every tremble, every flutter of lashes, every soft little gasp.

He knows exactly what this is doing to him.

Knows Harry's gonna relive this for months — touch himself with shaking hands, thinking of Louis's fingers deep inside him, the way he looked at him like it meant something. Like it always means something.

And yeah. That's the point.

Louis fucks his fingers in slow, steady strokes, then crooks them just right — watches Harry bite his lip, eyes squeezed shut like he's trying to survive it. His wings twitch again. His thighs spread wider, begging without words.

"You're unreal," Louis murmurs, voice ruined. "Fucking look at you."

Harry doesn't answer. Just chokes on a moan as Louis rubs slow circles into that perfect spot inside him.

"Feel good?" Louis breathes, lips brushing his ear.

Harry nods, frantic, and Louis can feel the shiver ripple down his spine.

"Mmm yeah," he whispers. "Just... don't stop, yeah?"

And Louis, the idiot, says, "Never."

He doesn't mean to. It just slips out, sticky with truth he can't claw back.

But Harry doesn't call him on it. Just whimpers, low and raw, and rocks down harder.

Louis kisses the corner of his mouth. One more thrust of his fingers. Then he pulls out, gently, both of them groaning at the loss.

Louis palms the underside of Harry's thigh, lines up and pushes in. Slow. Careful. Like the world might end if he does it wrong.

And it might.

Harry lets out the quietest sound — not a moan, not a whine. Just breath catching in his throat like he's too soft for this. Like he's melting from the inside out.

Louis could tease him. He could laugh, cock a brow, say something crude and stupid and cutting, just to make himself feel a little more like himself again.

But he doesn't.

He just watches.

Harry riding him — slow, sweet, lost — like it's not sex but gravity. Like he belongs nowhere else but here, in Louis's lap, split open and glowing.

The stretch is obscene — still so fucking tight, still fluttering around him — but he takes it with a soft shiver, with thighs twitching, with a wet gasp against Louis's neck.

Louis can't stop looking at him.

Not just because he's gorgeous, though, Jesus fucking Christ.

It's because he's letting Louis see him like this.

Letting him in.

Letting him love him, quietly, without the mess of saying it.

Harry lifts and drops, achingly slow — riding like it's worship, like he's giving himself over one inch at a time. His hands stay curled at the back of Louis's neck, knuckles brushing soft curls, fingertips barely pressing.

"Yeah," Louis murmurs, voice ruined, "just like that."

His fingers flex at Harry's hips, thumbs tracing faint circles into flushed skin, reverent and dazed.

Harry makes a soft sound — part whimper, part sigh — and tilts his forehead against Louis's.

"Feels good," he breathes. "Feels so fucking good."

Louis swallows. Barely trusts his voice.

"You feel too fucking good."

Louis cups the underside of his thigh and pulls him closer, thrusting up, just once — slow and deep — and Harry shudders like it's too much. Like it's everything.

Their noses brush. Their lips hover. Their bodies don't stop.

Harry moves like a dream. Like molasses. Like something half-spun from sugar and sleep and every version of love Louis has never had the balls to ask for.

And Louis... Louis just lets it happen.

Lets the burn build slow. Lets the pleasure throb low and thick, with every slick slide in and out of Harry's body.

Lets his hands roam — slow over Harry's waist, up his ribs, thumb ghosting over a faint bruise left by some reckless kiss earlier.

He presses his lips to Harry's throat. Feels the pulse fluttering there, frantic and real and so fucking fragile.

"You're unreal," he mutters again, voice catching. "Un-fucking-real."

Harry moans, breath hitching, hands clinging to the fabric of Louis's shirt. He's shaking. Not just his legs now — his fingers too. His whole body.

Because it means something. Because this slow, reverent fucking makes it real in a way that all their chaos never could.

Louis knows it.

And he keeps going anyway.

Because he wants Harry to have this.

Wants to give him something that'll haunt him later. Something he can keep when Louis inevitably fucks it all up again.

Louis thrusts up again. A little deeper. A little rougher. The friction sharp and messy between them.

Harry's moans spill out now, louder, sweeter, high-pitched and helpless.

It's the prettiest sound Louis has ever heard.

It's also going to ruin him.

He grabs Harry by the jaw — not hard, not demanding, just holding. Just anchoring.

"Look at me," he says, voice low. "Wanna see you come."

Harry's eyes flutter open. Bleary. Glazed. Barely holding it together.

But he nods.

Because he'll give Louis anything.

Because he always has.

The rhythm builds, slow but sure. Each thrust a soft declaration Louis won't say out loud. Each whimper a prayer Harry doesn't know he's whispering.

"Fuck," Louis gasps, rutting up hard now, the slick sounds between them so obscene it makes his head spin. "Fuck, I could live here. Right fucking here."

Harry moans. Bites his lip. Drops his head forward — foreheads pressed, bodies trembling.

Louis can feel him tighten, feel his thighs start to shake, feel the slick leak of precome against his own stomach. Louis wraps a hand around his cock — sticky and leaking, pierced tip glinting in the locker room light — and strokes him firm and slow. Harry jerks forward with a strangled moan, thighs trembling violently.

"Go on, then," he breathes. "Come for me."

Harry's body locks up — thighs flexing, mouth falling open, whole frame trembling.

He comes with a soft, shattering moan, right there in Louis's lap, all over his hand.

Hot. Sticky. Everywhere.

It paints his fingers. His knuckles. Splatters across both their stomachs.

Louis holds him through it, still thrusting slow and deep, feeling every twitch, every ripple of aftershock.

He brings his hand to his mouth without thinking. Licks Harry's come off his fingers — slow and obscene, eyes locked on Harry's face.

"Fucking perfect," he mutters.

Harry collapses into him, shivering and silent, breath heaving.

Louis doesn't stop.

He keeps fucking up into him — gentle now, reverent — until he's falling over the edge too.

Groaning. Whimpering. Pouring into Harry with a messy, endless spill that leaves his whole body twitching.

For a second, there's nothing.

No music. No club.

Just them.

Sticky. Shaking. Wrecked.

Louis tucks his face into Harry's neck. Breathes him in.

"Christ," he whispers. "You're fucking heaven."

Harry doesn't reply, he doesn't move for a long time.

Just slumps there — full of Louis, boneless and wrecked, face pressed to his shoulder like he's trying to disappear inside him. His wings twitch every so often, useless and heavy now, the feathers sticking to Louis's chest where sweat's starting to cool.

Louis is still inside him. Still leaking out in slow, lazy drips. Sticky and warm, smearing between them.

And Harry's still trembling. Just a little. Just enough for Louis to notice.

He strokes a hand down his back, lazy, possessive. Palm dragging over flushed skin, tracing the curve of his spine. He doesn't say anything. Doesn't need to. Not when everything's already been said through the way Harry fucked himself into Louis's lap like it was his last rite.

And then —

Soft. Slurred. Quiet, but clear.

"I love you."

Louis's breath stutters.

"I love you so fucking much."

He doesn't answer right away. Just lifts his hand to Harry's hair, strokes once, gently. Like he's taming something wild.

Then he exhales, slow. Bitter at the edges.

"No, you don't."

Harry stiffens — not fully, not enough to pull away, but enough to hear it. To really hear it.

Louis's voice stays low, the words curling like smoke around Harry's neck.

"You just love some idea of me you made up in that pretty little head of yours."

Harry pulls back an inch, blinking. Then — suddenly, brightly — he laughs.

Out loud.

It's wrecked and breathless and a little hysterical, but it's real.

"Fuck off," he wheezes, grinning despite himself. "You know I do. You just don't wanna hear it."

Louis raises an eyebrow, lips quirking. "What, your high-ass declaration of undying love wasn't on my bingo card tonight?"

Harry rolls his eyes and flops back down with a dramatic sigh, cheek smooshed against Louis's collarbone. "You're such a prick."

Louis hums, fingers drifting idly across Harry's thigh. "And yet you're the one dripping with my come."

Harry snorts. "Yeah, well. I make poor choices."

Louis grins. "You are wearing lace in a Berlin sex club. The evidence is damning."

"Shut up," Harry mutters, but it's soft. Warm.

They fall quiet again — not the loaded silence from before, not the fragile kind — just the kind that fills the cracks after they've fallen apart and put themselves back together with spit and sweat and snark.

Louis shifts a little, groaning as his cock finally slips free — the movement messy and wet and so goddamn intimate it makes something squeeze behind his ribs.

Harry makes a noise too — not quite a moan, not quite a sigh. Just overstimulated and boneless and... content, somehow.

Louis fishes a cigarette from the gum-and-molly pouch in his waistband, lights it with one practiced flick of his zippo.

He takes a long drag, exhales toward the flickering locker room light — then holds it out for Harry, fingers steady.

Harry doesn't reach for it. Just leans in and inhales when Louis lifts it to his mouth.

The first drag comes out slow and shaky.

Louis lets the smoke curl over both their heads like it's incense, like they're blessing what's left of them.

"Christ," he mutters, glancing down at the wreckage between them — the slow, warm drip of him sliding down the back of Harry's thigh, the ruined lace clinging, their stomachs still tacky with come. "We're gonna need a fucking mop."

Harry hums. "Just leave me here to die. I've peaked."

"You peaked when you got your dick pierced twice."

Harry grins, lazy. "Don't act like you didn't love it."

Louis snorts, nose brushing his temple. "I nearly choked on my own soul."

"Yeah," Harry murmurs, voice dropping again. "That was kind of the goal."

He tips his head up just slightly, lips brushing Louis's cheekbone.

"Wait 'til you feel them inside you," he whispers. "You're gonna go fucking insane."

Louis barks a laugh, sharp and breathless. "You think you can still get it up?"

Harry snorts. "Please. I'm high as tits. I can't fucking get it down."

Louis raises a brow, flicking ash into the corner tray. "Well then. Lucky me."

Harry grins, eyes still glassy and wrecked. "Well lucky you indeed. 'Cause I'm planning to fuck you into oblivion."

Louis hums, smug. "Yeah, but don't expect love confessions from me."

Harry tilts his head. "Don't act like you're not fucking whipped, Tommo."

Louis grins — slow, feral, a little too fond.

"Yeah, well," he says, dragging from the cigarette again, then offering it back to Harry with two fingers, "you know I'm obsessed with you, so..."

And Harry just smiles, slow and wrecked and triumphant.

Because that's all he ever really wanted to hear.

Chapter Text

The car hums beneath them. A sleek, soundproof cocoon gliding through the hazy Berlin dawn, windows tinted to blur the world into soft streaks of gold and ash. The streetlights are still glowing, faintly, like they haven't decided yet if they're ready to let the day in.

Louis slouches in the corner of the backseat, eyes half-lidded, body slack with exhaustion and molly and whatever the fuck Harry's done to him tonight. His knee knocks against Harry's, bare skin warm where they're still sticking. His throat's raw. His thighs ache. His lips are chapped from kissing like a threat.

And his brain—his brain is playing a reel he didn't ask for.

Harry in those lace knickers, wings drooping, eyes gone glassy.

That blonde angel grinding on him, the stiletto on his bulge.

The flamingo drinks. The molly buzzing under his skin.

Then the chapel.

Harry's stupid dance to that Chappell Roan song. His cock hanging out, pierced, swinging like blasphemy.

Harry's face when he came — the shiver, the flutter, the way his whole fucking body locked around Louis's fingers like it was the only tether to earth.

Then the dungeon.

Harry inside him.

Harry fucking him.

Hard, slow, relentless.

The stretch. The burn. The piercings inside — dragging, catching, ruining him. And that other mouth on his cock, probably one of Klaus' girls in latex, sucking him off while Louis was on all fours, gasping, gripping the floor like it could save him, but all he could feel was Harry.

He barely remembers coming. Just that he was crying like a fucking baby when he did. He hates molly like that.

And that Harry kissed his fucking tears.

Louis jolts a little, blinking. The car's too quiet. The city's soft around the edges now, like the volume's been turned down.

He glances sideways.

Harry's sprawled beside him, head tipped back against the seat, lips parted. There's a faint bruise on his jaw where Louis bit him. A love mark, if you're delusional. A claim, if you know better.

His lace panties are still on. Barely. The waistband's twisted, the fabric translucent with dried sweat and come. His cock is hard again, curving up against the wet fabric, flushed dark and twitching.

Louis blinks once. Twice.

Then says, like it's the most normal observation in the world:

"You're hard."

Harry cracks an eye open. Grins, lazy and fucked.

"I don't think I can come anymore."

Louis hums. Shrugs. "Don't care."

Then he moves — slow and quiet — slides off his seat and onto his knees between Harry's spread thighs.

The car doesn't jolt. Doesn't slow. Just keeps humming through the streets like this is part of the itinerary.

Louis noses at the waistband, licks a stripe over the soaked fabric, breathes in deep like Harry's scent is oxygen. And maybe it is. The lace is ruined. The piercings press against his lips when he mouths at the head. Harry twitches, whimpers.

Louis doesn't rush.

Just mouths over him — lazy, indulgent, reverent. No urgency. No edge.

Just the kind of softness that would make Harry cry if he were sober enough to notice.

Above him, Harry sighs — long and slow, like he's finally letting go. His hand drops to Louis's hair, not guiding, just curling. His thighs spread a little wider, like he's offering. Like he's trusting.

Louis sucks gently at the head, tongue flicking under the ridge, dragging against the ring like it's a secret.

Harry whines. Quiet. Sweet.

"I can't," he whispers, voice all rasp and cotton. "Swear, Lou, I can't—"

Louis hums around him.

Harry shivers. Then sighs again — breath shuddering — and just melts. Lets it happen. Lets Louis worship him with his mouth, slow and low and holy.

No pressure. No need to finish. Just—touch.

It's not about coming.

It's about staying.

Louis cups Harry's thigh, fingers lazy, mouth soft, breath warm. And Harry's whole body reacts like it's being rebuilt cell by cell. And then pulls off slow — one last kiss to the tip through the lace, tongue flicking lazy over the piercing like punctuation. Harry twitches, lets out a soft noise that sounds a little like a laugh and a little like heartbreak.

Louis drags his thumb up the inside of Harry's thigh, slow and thoughtful, and murmurs, voice low:

"Want fingers, Baby?"

Harry's already flushed, eyes glazed, lips parted. He blinks down at Louis with a slow, heavy-lidded smile — then shakes his head, curls wild around his temples.

"Mm... want your tongue."

Louis huffs a sound that's not quite a laugh — more like something darker, something smug and knowing and fond, against his better judgment.

"'Course you do."

And then he moves.

Peels the lace down — wet and clinging — until it's bunched around Harry's thighs, waistband stretched and trembling.

Harry's hole is pink and slick, still ruined from earlier, fluttering with every breath like it's begging.

Louis spreads him open with both hands — thumbs braced at the backs of Harry's thighs — and dives in like it's second nature.

Like it's worship.

Like it's home.

The first pass of his tongue makes Harry jolt — a gasping, high-pitched little noise punched out of his chest.

"Oh—fuck, Lou—oh my God—"

Louis hums low, tongue pressing in slow, wet, insistent. His nose bumps against the curve of Harry's balls. His hands grip harder. His tongue fucks deep.

Harry's legs twitch, hips canting helplessly forward. He's grabbing for the seat, the ceiling, anything, fingers scraping at the leather like he's going to float out of his body otherwise.

"Jesus Christ, I—" Harry gasps, back arching. "Y-you—your fucking tongue, what the fuck—oh my God—"

Louis moans against him — obscene and pleased — and it vibrates through him.

Harry lets out a wail, thighs shaking.

"You're gonna—you're gonna make me—shit, I'm gonna fucking evaporate—"

Louis presses deeper, tongue slick and slow and devastating. He doesn't tease. He doesn't rush. He just devours. Like Harry's not real. Like he's sugar melting on his tongue.

Harry's babbling now — completely gone.

"Fuck, fuck, marry me or kill me, I don't care—fuck, are you—did you go to hell and learn this? Did the devil teach you this shit?—I'm gonna cry—Lou, I'm gonna cry—oh my fucking God, don't stop—"

Louis groans at that — hips rutting unconsciously against the car floor, tongue working deeper — and Harry just breaks.

Breaks into gasping, high, nonsensical noise. Half words. Half curses. All Louis.

"I'm—I'm gonna die in this fucking car—"

And maybe he does.

Because Louis doesn't stop.

Not until Harry's gone pliant, thighs shaking, cock leaking untouched against his stomach.

Not until the sun's rising over Berlin.

Not until he's sure Harry will never, ever forget who he belongs to.

—---

Harry's still spread across the backseat like he's been struck down by God. Lace tangled around one thigh. Cock half-soft, twitching in the come-slick mess on his stomach. Mouth bitten. Cheeks flushed. He's glowing, even in the dull light of the empty streetlamp glow washing through the windows.

Louis crawls up his body — slow, indulgent — and starts kissing him everywhere. His shoulder. His collarbone. The spot beneath his jaw that always makes Harry twitch.

Harry laughs. Still breathless. Still fucked.

"Stop," he wheezes. "Can't breathe."

Louis hums against his throat. "Not trying to resuscitate you, Baby. Just taste-testing my own handiwork."

Harry groans, tipping his head back with a shaky exhale. His fingers curl weakly at the back of Louis's neck.

Then, barely audible, voice frayed and fucked:

"Gonna hate you for months after this."

Louis pulls back just enough to meet his eyes, brows lifting.

"That right?" he says, mock-injured. "Thought you loved my mouth on you."

"I did," Harry mutters. "I do."

Then, sharper — like a truth slipped through before he could catch it:

"It's just—y'know. You still say it's casual. And then you go and make sure I'll have a full-body aversion when anybody else tries to touch me."

Louis grins, sharp. "Sounds like a you problem."

Harry scoffs. "Oh, fuck off. It's a very you problem, actually."

Louis shrugs, brushing his thumb over the sharp edge of Harry's hipbone. "What can I say? I'm thorough. Just doing my civic duty. Public health and safety. Protecting you from inferior orgasms."

Harry lets out a tired laugh, breath still stuttering. "You're not protecting me, Lou. You're ruining me."

Louis pretends to consider that. "Ruining's a strong word. I'd say I'm... recalibrating your standards."

"Oh, congratulations then," Harry says, dry. "My standard is now emotional masochism and getting eaten out so good I cry in a moving vehicle."

Louis snorts. "Well. At least you're self-aware."

Harry glares at him, but it's weak, like he doesn't have the energy to really mean it.

"Seriously. I'm gonna try to have sex with someone normal after this and my whole body's just gonna reject them. Like, allergic reaction. Hives. Anaphylaxis."

Louis grins. "Should I carry your EpiPen or just send a warning text to your next conquest?"

Harry groans and throws an arm over his eyes. "God, you're insufferable."

"And yet you're lying here dripping with my spit," Louis says sweetly. "Could've said no."

"You never give me the chance to," Harry mutters, arm still over his face. "You touch me and my brain just—shorts out."

Louis leans down and presses a kiss to the center of Harry's chest, over his racing heart. "Maybe your brain should stop being such a little slut for me."

Harry lowers his arm just enough to peek at him. "You know what's fucked?"

Louis raises a brow.

Harry exhales, quiet.

"You ruin me like this... and then act like we're just mates who occasionally suck the soul out of each other."

Louis doesn't flinch. Just flicks imaginary lint off Harry's chest.

"And you do the whole wide-eyed 'please rail me in lace' thing and then make it my fault when I fuck the memory of every other person out of your body."

"That's not what I—"

"It's exactly what you mean," Louis says, voice even now. Too even. The kind of even that hides everything.

They stare at each other. The silence itches.

Harry breaks it first, voice wry:

"Just admit you like the idea of making me miserable."

Louis shrugs. "I do like making you whimper."

Harry hums. "Yeah. So does everyone else I've ever fucked."

Louis's jaw ticks.

"But I'm the one you come back for."

Harry swallows. Looks away. Smirks.

"Yeah, well. You've got a mouth on you."

Louis leans down again, voice smug and razor-sharp against his ear.

"And now you've got a memory of it that's gonna make you ache for weeks."

Harry breathes in — slow, controlled.

"Right. And you've got a pair of wings and a ruined underwear forever seared into your fuckin' subconscious."

Louis grins.

"At least now you're not pretending that's not exactly what you wanted."

Harry meets his gaze. Smiles — crooked and ruined and aching beneath.

"There was no pretending here, Lou. Told you I'm planning to steal your soul or whatever the fuck I blurted out."

That hangs in the air for a beat too long.

Then Louis just leans back against the seat, legs sprawled, eyes half-lidded.

"Gum?" he asks, dry.

Harry lets out a laugh that sounds a lot like surrender.

"Yeah," he says. "Fuck it. I'm gonna need something to chew on when I'm lying awake, hating you."

Louis fishes the pack from his waistband and offers a piece without looking.

"You always say that," he says.

Then, smug:

"And then you always come back."

Harry takes it.

Chews.

Doesn't deny it.

Louis leans his head back against the seat, gum tucked behind his molars. His phone buzzes somewhere under his bum — a long, lazy vibration that rattles against the leather.

He ignores it for a second. Then sighs, digs it out, glances at the screen.

Zara: The launch was a smash. Sorry you couldn't make it, babe. Miss youuuu x

He stares at it for a second too long.

Next to him, Harry hums around his gum. "What's that?"

Louis flips the phone screen-down onto the seat between them.

"Nothing," he says. "Just London."

Harry doesn't push. Just grins, eyes lidded, lips red. "London's always nothing when you're with me."

Louis smirks, but doesn't answer.

And for a few more blocks, they ride in silence — hearts still humming, mouths full of mint, consequences tucked just out of sight.

Chapter Text

The car glides to a stop in the dark and empty underground garage of Harry's rental. The driver doesn't say a word, just tips his head in acknowledgment as the boys tumble out, limbs loose, lace still clinging where it shouldn't, a pile of clothes clutched in their arms, and the scent of sweat, smoke, and sins not yet processed trailing after them like a halo.

Inside, the place is quiet. Too quiet.

Louis shrugs off his jacket like it's offended him personally and immediately beelines for the kitchen. Harry flops onto the massive L-shaped couch like he owns it — technically, he doesn't — arms stretched out, wings drooping dramatically over the cushions like a fallen archangel who's just discovered the burden of being beautiful.

"I'm not sleeping," Harry announces to the ceiling. "Just so we're clear. If I shut my eyes, it's because I've entered a medically induced coma."

Louis doesn't respond. He's digging through drawers until he finds the grinder. Then the rolling papers. Then the stash he tucked into the lining of his bag, because unlike some people, he plans ahead.

"You're rolling?" Harry asks, sitting up like a feral meerkat. "Is this my reward for surviving tongue-based annihilation in a moving vehicle?"

Louis doesn't look up. "It's your reward for not crying when I licked your soul out through your arsehole."

Harry throws a throw pillow at him.

Louis catches it. Doesn't flinch. Just lays the first paper flat and starts grinding.

"Jesus Christ," Harry mutters. "You roll joints like you were born in a commune."

Louis shrugs. "Catholic guilt, mate. Had to go somewhere."

He rolls with quiet focus. The kind of care he never gives to his press obligations or his emotional stability. A little weed, a tiny bit of tobacco and something citrusy and vaguely illegal from Mumbai. By the end of it, there are four pristine joints lined up on a slate tray like they're part of a tasting menu.

Harry whistles, impressed. "What's the flight path on this?"

"Two for the comedown, one for the shits and giggles, and one for when we hate ourselves in five hours."

"So... Tuesday."

Louis lights the first. Inhales deep. Hands it over.

Harry takes it with both hands like he's being handed the baby Jesus. "God bless."

They smoke in silence for a minute. Long pulls. Lazy exhales. The kind of stillness that only comes after you've screamed your guts out — literally or emotionally — and there's nothing left to say except pass it back, yeah?

Harry exhales toward the ceiling, lets his head fall back.

"I feel like a very sexy carcass," he mumbles.

"You look like one," Louis agrees.

Harry flips him off without lifting his head. "You're just bitter you're in love with me."

Louis snorts. "Delusion looks good on you."

Harry turns, eyes gleaming. "You should see what it does for my blowjobs."

Louis raises an eyebrow. "Seen. Filed. Engraved on my tombstone."

They pass the joint. Everything feels syrupy now. Loose. The molly comedown dull at the edges thanks to the weed, the laughter, the distance they're keeping from anything resembling reality.

Harry folds himself up on the couch, tucking one leg beneath him like a pretzel, all loose limbs and obnoxiously long lashes.

"You ever think about how weird it is," he says, "that, like, I know what your orgasm face looks like, but not your preferred breakfast order?"

Louis pauses, mid-inhale. "I literally made you eggs last time."

"Yeah, but you burned them. So I didn't count it."

"That's a you problem."

Harry hums, dreamy. "Everything's a me problem. That's why I'm so hot. Suffering builds character."

Louis snorts. "You sound like an influencer with a chronic illness and a skincare line."

Which is rich, coming from him — considering his actual girlfriend is one, minus the illness, plus a discount code for collagen powder that tastes like chalk and capitalism.

Harry gasps, delighted. "Can I be? I'd name my brand 'Second Coming' or 'Holy Drip' and all the product names would be Catholic trauma metaphors. Lip gloss called Original Sin. Highlighter called Ascension. A lube named Baptism."

Louis chokes. "You're going to hell."

"Bitch, I am hell," Harry beams. "Wanna come visit?"

Louis just looks at him. Like really looks. And for a second, it's not funny. It's not banter. It's just Harry — pink-lipped, stoned, and radiating the kind of chaotic joy that's almost fucking unbearable to witness because it makes Louis want.

So Louis does the only thing he knows how to do.

"Can I name the anal beads line 'Rosary'?"

Harry claps, triumphant. "Now you're contributing to the brand!"

They collapse into laughter. And yeah, maybe their mouths taste like gum and regret. And yeah, maybe they're covered in dried come and secrets. But for the first time since sundown, Louis doesn't feel like he's about to implode.

Because Harry's here. Legs bare, cheeks flushed, all hot mess. Making Louis laugh so hard his ribs hurt.

—

Louis's gum's gone stale. His high's starting to fray around the edges. But the view in front of him? Un-fucking-real.

Harry's sprawled on the couch like a cherub who fell from grace and landed in a porn shoot. Wings drooping off one shoulder, hair tousled, cigarette dangling from his fingers like he was born bored. The ruined lace clings to his thighs, waistband twisted, cock lazily half-hard against his stomach like it's still expecting round whatever the fuck they're at.

Louis stares for a second too long.

Then—grins, mean and bright.

"Don't move," he mutters, already fishing his phone out of the waistband of his sweats. "Swear to God, Haz, this is trashy, but it's a fucking vibe."

Harry raises a brow, ashes his cigarette directly into a half-empty glass of water.

"What—like Vogue, but make it trauma?"

Louis laughs. "No, like Vogue, but make it mental illness in angel drag."

He snaps the photo before Harry can flip him off. The screen lights up: Harry Styles, glowing. Wings crooked. Knees spread. Cigarette smoke curling around his grin like a threat.

It shouldn't be hot.

It shouldn't feel like anything.

But Louis stares at it a second longer than necessary.

Then shrugs, tosses the phone on the table, and says, "I'm posting that on Craigslist under 'free to a good home, slightly used, cries during orgasms.'"

Harry cackles.

"Add 'smokes after, too,'" he says. "Premium model."

Louis hums, already reaching for the next joint. "You're lucky I don't make it a fucking album cover."

Harry blows smoke toward the ceiling. "You're lucky I don't charge you royalties for owning my soul."

—

They don't talk about the photo.

Or the part where Louis almost added it to a locked album he doesn't admit exists.

Instead—

"C'mon," Harry says, voice low and sticky with the molly high that refuses to fade. "Let's go see the sunrise. Roof's stupid posh. I think there's a pool. Or a helipad. Or both."

Louis squints at him. "You've been here three days and you don't know?"

Harry shrugs, already shedding the wings, tossing them like a robe he's outgrown. "I haven't left the bed. Or the couch. Or you."

"Gross," Louis mutters, but he's already moving, grabbing the nearest hoodie he can find — something oversized and definitely worn by Harry in the last 72 hours. He sniffs it once. Shrugs. Pulls it on. Doesn't ask. Harry doesn't comment.

Harry, meanwhile, tugs on an old white 1D t-shirt from the armrest — faded, loose, probably a leftover from some tour wardrobe raid — and then, with zero ceremony, pulls Louis's olive green 28 bomber over it.

Louis clocks it. Of course.

Predictable, he thinks, smirking to himself like it's not the most annoyingly endearing thing he's ever seen.

They creep up the stairs barefoot and reckless, giggling like it's a crime. Louis has a joint tucked behind one ear and a half-dead phone in his hoodie pocket. Harry's holding a lighter and absolutely nothing else. His lace panties are still on. Barely.

The rooftop is every kind of stupid: sleek wood deck, glass railing, infinity pool reflecting the apricot sky, matching loungers lined up like a magazine shoot. There's a bar. A sunken firepit. A plant wall that probably costs more than Louis's childhood home.

"This is disgusting," Louis says, eyes narrowed. "Should've told me you already launched that 'Holy Jizz' or whatever line."

Harry flops onto a lounger with a dramatic sigh. "I know. I feel like I should be filming a skincare routine and saying hey besties."

Louis lights the joint, takes a long drag, then hands it over. "Now that I'm thinking you'd be the worst influencer. You'd get canceled for tweeting about cum."

"I'd get canceled for tweeting as cum," Harry corrects, puffing smoke toward the rising sun. "Like—'hey guys it's me, the cum in your bellybutton. Sorry I crusted.'"

Louis chokes. Actually chokes. "You're—Jesus fucking Christ."

"I'm a visionary," Harry says, eyes glassy and delighted. "I transcend form."

"You're high."

Harry nods, solemn. "I'm the cum and the crust, Louis."

Louis drops into the lounger beside him, groaning like the weight of the conversation is unbearable. "This is my second sunrise in, like, twenty-five hours. I was in LA this time yesterday."

Harry turns to look at him, lashes stuck together, skin glowing. "Which one's prettier?"

Louis doesn't answer right away.

The first one was bitter weed and goodbye kisses and that stupid text that punched the air from his lungs.

This one's... ridiculous. Calm. Kind of perfect. Harry's half-naked and warm beside him, joint between his fingers, quoting his own imaginary cum tweets. And Louis is smiling.

Fucking smiling.

He glances at Harry.

"This one," he says, quiet.

Harry nods. Doesn't ruin it.

They pass the joint back and forth, legs tangled on the stupid influencer lounger, sunrise painting gold across their skin. The world stays soft for a while. The high stays warm. And for a second, just a second, it feels like there's nothing chasing them.

Not yet.

—

Harry climbs into Louis's lap like it's nothing.

No warning, no ceremony — just a lazy, fluid shift of limbs as he swings one thigh over and settles. Right there. Right on top of Louis's barely-covered crotch, lace knickers still damp and crooked on him, skin still glowing from sex and sunrise. He's straddling Louis with all the entitlement of someone who's always been too pretty to be told no.

Louis's brows twitch. His hands instinctively land on Harry's waist.

"You know there are, like, four other loungers."

Harry shrugs, joint between his fingers. "Yeah. But only one of them has a built-in dick rest."

Louis lets out a low groan. "Jesus. You're gonna give me a stroke."

Harry grins. "Technically I'm sitting on it."

Louis snorts despite himself and leans back, eyes slitting against the sunlight. "You're off your face. And disgusting."

"I'm vibing," Harry corrects, stealing a drag. "There's a difference."

They sit like that — Harry straddling him, loose-limbed and stoned, lazily passing the joint back and forth. His thighs bracket Louis's hips, his knuckles brushing Louis's collarbone every time he shifts. The heat between them simmers, but it's not urgent. It's just... there.

Present.

Like Harry needs to feel him close even when he's not fucking him.

They stare out at the city, quiet for a beat. Birds chirp like they don't know who they're serenading.

Then—

"Okay," Harry says, serious. "We need to talk about The Bear."

Louis groans. "No. No we don't."

Harry leans forward like he's about to preach. "Yes we do. Because you still haven't admitted that Carmy is just you in an apron."

"Shut the fuck up."

"You've got the jaw clench. The emotional repression. The nicotine dependency. The whole 'I yell at people because I care' thing."

Louis glares. "He's a traumatised perfectionist with unresolved grief and commitment issues."

Harry just raises his brows. "I know what I said."

Louis groans. "I don't yell because I care. I yell because people are stupid."

Harry takes another hit, grinning. "Keep telling yourself that, Chef."

"I swear to God—"

"'Yes, Chef,'" Harry mocks, and his voice drops to a breathy moan: "Corner."

Louis chokes. "You are not roleplaying a kitchen orgasm on my lap."

"Too late," Harry says, eyes fluttering, hips shifting just enough to make Louis twitch. "Behind. Hot pan. Fuck me, Chef—"

"Right. We're done here." Louis tries to shove him off, but Harry just melts forward, giggling, slumping against him like a human blanket.

"Admit you'd rail Carmy."

Louis exhales hard through his nose, hands still on Harry's hips. "Fine. I'd rail him."

Harry pulls back, triumphant. "See? Healing."

"You're an idiot."

"You're hard."

Louis glares. "Correlation does not imply causation."

Harry grins wide. "Yeah, but I'm sitting on it, so..."

Louis kisses his temple to shut him up. Harry melts into it, then shifts in Louis's lap.

Not much. Just a subtle grind of his hips — slow, smooth, like it's nothing at all. But it is. Louis feels every inch of it, every lazy drag of silk and sweat over the thin cotton of his briefs.

His hands tighten on Harry's waist automatically.

Harry's pretending to be focused on the skyline. Eyes dreamy. Fingers tapping ash onto a stray rooftop tile.

Louis narrows his gaze. "Don't start."

"I'm not starting," Harry says, voice all airy innocence. Then—another slow roll of his hips. Deliberate. Dangerous. "I'm... fidgeting."

Louis exhales through his nose. "You're fidgeting with your dick on mine."

"Semantics."

Another roll. This one even slower.

Louis's hands slide lower, grip bruising. "Harry—"

Harry finally looks at him. Lips parted. Eyes low-lidded and dark.

Then he leans in.

Mouth just barely brushing Louis's.

Not kissing. Not quite.

He whispers, "What if I made you come like this? Huh? Right here, under the fucking sunrise? Just let you grind up into me until you ruined your second pair of briefs today?"

Louis's breath stutters. "You're gonna get fucking wrecked if you keep talking like that."

Harry smiles. Sweet. Cruel.

"Or maybe I'll just keep whispering filthy things and not let you come. Could edge you for hours. Leave you dripping, desperate, begging—"

Louis bucks up hard.

Harry gasps. Smirks. "Careful, Lou. Pool's right behind you. Wouldn't want you to slip in."

Louis growls. "You're playing a dangerous game, Baby."

Harry leans in again — lips ghosting over Louis's, not touching. "You said you liked danger."

Then he rolls his hips one more time — slow and deep and perfect — and Louis actually groans, eyes falling shut for a second.

When he opens them, Harry's right there.

Smiling. Breathless.

Taunting.

One more word and Louis might forget the pool. Forget the rooftop. Forget the world.

Might just slam him down and fuck him through the sunrise.

And Harry knows it.

Which is exactly why he purrs, low and obscene:

"Tell me, Lou. What's it like knowing I could make you come just by sitting still?"

Louis is panting by now, jaw clenched, chest flushed, eyes gone nearly black with how close he is to losing it. He grips Harry's thighs tighter, trying to anchor himself — and then he says, voice low and ruined:

"Like that one time I had to sit on your lap for a car ride, you nutted your pants and thought you got away with it without me noticing?"

Harry freezes.

His face goes crimson instantly. "I—I don't—know what you're talking about."

Louis huffs a laugh, breath catching as Harry's hips shift again. "Oh, come the fuck on, Haz. You know exactly what I'm talking about."

Harry makes a strangled noise. "Yeah alright but... wait. You noticed?"

Louis tips his head back, grinning like the devil. "Babe. Your dick is massive. Did you really think I wouldn't notice it twitching and pulsing under my bum?"

Harry groans, head dropping against Louis's shoulder in embarrassment.

"And," Louis adds, dragging the words out, "you're incapable of being quiet. You were panting. Practically whimpering. I thought you were gonna have a fucking medical event."

Harry mumbles into Louis's neck, "But why didn't you say something?"

Louis smirks. "Like what? 'Hey mate, did you just cream your jeans 'cause your bestie was wiggling on your lap on the way to a Capital FM interview?' Yeah, no. Wasn't the vibe."

Harry pulls back, scandalized and grinning, eyes wide. "I was seventeen! And you weren't just sitting on my lap, Louis. You were practically grinding. I thought I was gonna combust. Whole year, you were a fucking cocktease."

Louis raises a brow, cocky. "Was I now?"

Harry nods, mock-solemn. "Yeah. I wanted you to fuck me so bad I thought I was gonna cry into my cereal every morning."

Louis grins, smug and fond. "Well," he purrs, dragging his hands up Harry's thighs, "you did combust there, Baby. In your skinny jeans. On the M25."

Harry whines. "Stop. That was the most humiliating day of my life."

Louis kisses the edge of his jaw, filthy and affectionate all at once. "Could've fooled me. You were glowing. And fucking vibrating."

"I had to interview like that."

"I know," Louis laughs, full-on now. "I was there. Sat next to you the whole time. You were all flushed and shaky. Voice cracked every time someone said the word single."

Harry collapses forward with a groan, arms around Louis's shoulders, hiding his face in his neck. "You're evil."

Louis kisses the side of his head. "And you're still hard."

Harry nods, muffled. "Yeah. But at least this time you'll actually let me fuck you after."

Louis smirks, one hand already sliding down his back. "Depends. You gonna bully me into acknowledging my feelings?"

Harry lifts his head, all flushed cheeks and wicked grin. "If you keep talking, maybe."

Louis opens his mouth, probably to say something cutting — something to make Harry roll his eyes and kiss him again — but before he can, Harry shifts, grins wider, and says with alarming sincerity:

"Right. We should do yoga."

Louis blinks, glassy-eyed. Looks down at the flushed boy in his lap, legs tangled and lips kiss-bitten. Then back at the sky. Then back at Harry.

"You've got half a tab still bouncing around your frontal cortex," he mutters, "and you want to do fucking yoga?"

Harry swipes the joint from Louis's fingers. "Correction," he says, calm as ever. "I want to ascend."

Louis groans, throws his head back dramatically. "At this point you'll never beat those influencer allegations."

Harry beams. "Thank you."

"Wasn't a compliment."

"Still heard it as one."

Louis glares at him. "Next thing I know, you'll be selling crystal water bottles and filming GRWMs in your fucking jockstrap."

Harry exhales smoke straight into Louis's face. "Bet your girlfriend would love this event. Sunrise yoga at a fancy rooftop. Brunch after. Maybe a self-love workshop with some TikTok guru named Aspen."

Louis actually chokes. "Fuck off. You don't know her."

Harry raises an eyebrow. "She posts manifesting affirmations with aesthetic fridge photos."

Louis narrows his eyes. "You follow her?"

Harry shrugs, far too innocent. "I like to keep tabs on your fake domestic life."

Louis snorts. "You like to get off on the delusion that I could ever do a soft launch properly."

"Please," Harry grins. "Your soft launch was her posting a breakfast pic with your tattooed arm in the corner. Very subtle."

"Exactly," Louis mutters. "Very tasteful."

Harry giggles. "Very PR-pilled."

Louis grabs the joint back and takes a furious drag. "You're insufferable."

Harry leans in, all pink lips and smoke and smug. "And yet, here you are. Smoking rooftop weed with your fifteen year old situationship."

"Situationship my arse. You're just throwing these trendy words around to match your new Tiktoker aesthetic."

Harry just kisses his nose. "C'mon. Stretch with me. Open up those rusty hip flexors."

Louis stares at him, horrified. "I swear to God, Harold, if you try to make me do a downward fucking dog—"

"You love my downward dog," Harry grins, already climbing off his lap.

And somehow — God knows how — five minutes later, Louis is barefoot, in briefs, on a bath towel because he refused to use the branded yoga mats ("I'm not saluting the fuckin' sun on anything that says namaslay"), and Harry is standing over him, looking all obscene because Louis still couldn't get over his knickers, demonstrating poses with all the ease of someone born flexible and chaotic.

Louis makes it through child's pose ("Feels like I'm just bowing to my own regrets"), warrior two ("I'm not threatening the sky, Harry"), and something Harry insists is cat-cow but Louis calls "possessed table" before he finally collapses onto his back with a groan.

"This is torture."

Harry's grinning like the sun rose for him personally. "That's the dopamine releasing through your hamstrings."

"I think I pulled my arse."

Harry kneels beside him, hands on his thighs, giggling. "Bet you say that to all the boys."

Louis drags him down into a kiss. "Only the ones who make me suffer."

Harry beams against his mouth. "You're welcome."

Louis exhales, eyes fluttering shut, letting the sky burn above them and Harry press against him like a cure. "Still hate yoga," he mutters.

Harry grins. "Your hips are gonna thank me later."

"Not if I break them first."

"You won't," Harry says, smug. "You're too stubborn to die."

Louis opens one eye, smirking. "Yeah, well. Might be the only reason I'm still here."

Harry doesn't say anything to that — just squeezes his thigh, then flops down beside him, arm thrown across his chest.

They lie there, breathing smoke and morning light. Not talking. Not yet. Just high and aching and still not touching the truth.

Then — Louis turns his head.

The light hits Harry just so. Skin glowing, lips kiss-swollen, his hair a damp halo, chest still heaving slightly from whatever came before.

Louis blinks.

And then he's gone.

"Holy fucking hell," he mutters. "C'mere."

He doesn't wait.

He drags Harry into his lap like gravity demands it, shoves the t-shirt up with frantic hands. His mouth is on him in a heartbeat — no patience, no finesse, just hunger. Sucks at Harry's earlobe, groaning into the shell of it. Bites his jaw. Kisses him like it's punishment, like it's confession, like he's trying to eat the sin off his mouth.

Then he mouths down his throat, messier now, wetter. Bites at his collarbone. Harry's already gasping, head tipping back, thighs twitching in Louis's lap.

Louis moans into his skin, palms skating over every inch of him, kneading at his sides, dragging blunt nails down his ribs.

When he gets to Harry's chest, he latches onto a nipple and sucks hard — Harry bucks. Moans like it's been knocked out of him.

"Fuck," Louis hisses.

It's all he says.

Just — fuck.

Because he's too far gone.

Because Harry is trembling. Full-body shivering, legs open around Louis's hips, lashes fluttering, hands buried in Louis's hair.

Louis bites lower. Kisses each sharp ridge of his abs like they're scripture. Then he's on his knees, mouthing at the waistband of his ruined lace, tongue flicking just under it.

Then down — past it — licking into the crease of Harry's thigh, then the other, breath shaky and voice low.

"Fucking shaking for me."

His hands spread Harry open like a prayer. He leans in and groans, hot and helpless, as he presses his lips to the inside of Harry's thigh — wet, reverent.

He sucks. Bites. Marks.

He doesn't stop.

He doesn't speak.

He just devours.

Harry is now under him, panting, head thrown back, hips stuttering upward like he doesn't know how to hold still anymore. He whines, one hand tugging in Louis's hair, the other scrabbling at the tiles under them, his thighs twitching around Louis's shoulders.

Louis mouths at the base of his cock, breath ragged. Kisses there. Licks into the crease, tongue obscene and slow. Then groans again — deeper this time — and says it like it's being torn out of him:

"Your body's gonna fucking ruin me."

Then he's back at it — open-mouthed kisses, tongue greedy, hands rough. He doesn't know what he's doing anymore. Doesn't care. He'll worship every inch of Harry's skin until the world ends.

Because Harry's there.

And Louis can't stop.

Harry makes a broken sound above him.

"—fucking hell, you're a literal wet dream—fuck, I'm losing my fucking mind out here—"

Louis presses kisses everywhere he can reach, hands greedy, mouth wild.

Until—

"Stop," Harry gasps. "Fucking stop. Get the fuck off me."

Louis startles. Blinks.

Harry shoves him back with trembling hands, eyes blown wide and wet, breath catching hard in his throat.

He wipes at his eyes—furious—and without another word, turns and runs—

Right off the edge.

Straight into the infinity pool, t-shirt and knickers and all.

The splash echoes like a thunderclap.

And Louis—soaked in need, barely breathing—just sits there, blinking, bracing himself for the biggest fucking tantrum Harry's ever thrown.

Chapter Text

Louis flinches. For half a second, all he sees is the splash — white t-shirt blooming like a ghost under the surface, lace twisting around Harry's thighs, a blur of motion where there shouldn't be any.

Then silence.

Just the water rippling, slow and taunting.

"Fuck's sake," Louis mutters under his breath, breath still ragged, mouth still wet with Harry's skin. He runs a hand through his hair like that'll ground him. It doesn't.

The rooftop suddenly feels way too quiet. The city yawns out around them, early light flickering off glass towers and half-slept streets, but Louis can't hear a thing over the pounding in his ears.

He takes a slow step toward the pool's edge, barefoot, heart thudding like a warning.

"Haz?"

Nothing.

Just the lazy churn of chlorine and lace.

"Harry," Louis says again — firmer this time, jaw tight, arms still trembling from the sheer need that had ripped through him just moments ago. "Get the fuck back here."

Still nothing.

Then — a splash.

And suddenly Harry's up — gasping, dripping, lashes glued together, strands soaked flat to his head, shirt dragging wetly down one shoulder and clinging like sin. He blinks water out of his eyes and glares at Louis like he's the devil himself.

Harry looks furious.

His chest heaves. Water trickles down his jaw, catches at his lips, the sharp bow of his throat. He's panting like he swam laps around the fucking resentment he's been holding in. His hands twitch at his sides. One clenches into a fist. The other swipes at his face again — less about the water now, more like trying to scrub away whatever the fuck just happened between them.

Louis braces for it.

For the shout. The insult. The meltdown. The latest chapter of Harry Styles Comes Undone: Rooftop Edition.

But it doesn't come.

Instead — Harry blinks.

Twice.

And something shifts.

The fury doesn't vanish exactly. But it... slinks back. Morphs into something quieter. Meaner, maybe. Or maybe just sad.

Then Harry says — voice flat, shoulders rising with one more breath:

"Think I'm bored with this whole rooftop scene."

Louis blinks. Once. Then twice — mirroring him.

Because what the fuck.

But then — something deeper than instinct clicks into place.

It's a lifeline, he realizes. A pivot. A way out of the fight they were one second away from.

And Louis — who's never been a hero, but always an opportunist — takes it.

"Oh yeah?" he calls, casual as a yawn. "Bit over infinity pools and existential foreplay, are we?"

Harry snorts once — a tired little exhale that might be a laugh if you tilted your head and squinted.

He swims toward the edge and rests his arms on the ledge, cheek pressed to the cool tile. His face is unreadable now — soft, closed off. Safe. Dangerous.

"I dunno. Just thought it'd be more fun," he mutters. "S'posed to be sunrise and joints and dick or whatever. Not... feelings."

Louis's mouth twitches. "Yeah, I hate when emotions cockblock me."

Harry hums. "Story of your life, innit?"

They lock eyes.

Louis forces a grin. "You saying I've got issues, Baby?"

Harry smirks. "I'm saying you've got a PhD in running away from shit. Babe."

And Louis — instead of engaging — just drops to the tiles by the pool, resting his forearms on his knees.

He doesn't say You looked like you were about to cry.

Doesn't say I know that look too well.

Doesn't say Please don't break again, not here, not now.

He just says:

"Bet you're freezing."

Harry shrugs. "Kinda hot, actually."

Louis raises a brow. "You're literally dripping wet."

Harry flicks water at him. "From being too hot to handle. Obvs."

Louis rolls his eyes, but it works — the tension thins. Softens.

They sit there a beat longer — one on tile, one in water, both too naked in ways that have nothing to do with clothes.

Then Louis nudges at his shoulder. "Come on, rockstar. Out you get. Let's go inside before you catch a cold and cry about it on Close Friends."

Harry tips his head against the tile, lashes dripping, voice flat:
"You're not gonna jump in after me?"

Louis raises a brow, arms crossed. "Not sure you wouldn't drown me."

That earns him a splash, weak but pointed. Water hits his calf and he looks down like Harry's personally offended his briefs.

"Only if you don't finish what you started," Harry says, eyes gleaming now — not furious anymore, just smug and soaking wet and every kind of trouble.

Louis squints at him. "What, eating you alive?"

"Mhm," Harry hums. "That. But without the, y'know, kissing part. I can't handle those right now."

Louis blinks. Scoffs. "You're a slut."

"And you'll be in the pool fucking me in ten seconds."

Beat.

Louis sighs. Loud. Dramatic. Already pulling his t-shirt over his head.

"You're so fucking predictable."

"You're so fucking in love with me."

Louis glares at him mid-step.

Harry grins, all teeth and menace and molly-soft eyes. "Eight seconds, Lou."

And just like that — they leave it behind.

Another almost-fight tucked into the long list of shit they'll never unpack.

Because Harry offered the out.

And Louis?

Louis took it.

—

They're barely bodies anymore — just slick heat and wet mouths and gasping curses echoing off the rooftop tiles. Chlorine stings Louis's eyes, but he can't look away from Harry's flushed face, can't stop thrusting into him like the world's about to end and this is the only way to outrun it.

Harry's thighs are wrapped around him tight, soaked lace twisted to nothing, head thrown back against the pool edge like he's offering his whole fucking soul.

"Fuck—fuck, Lou, harder—" Harry whines, voice ragged, echoing sharp across the empty dawn. "Wanna feel you dripping out of me all day—make it fucking leak, come on—"

Louis groans, low and brutal. He kisses him like a warning. "You're unbelievable."

"I'm like... medically horny," Harry gasps, eyes wild. "Seriously, like 'fuck me now or I perish.' Thank fuck you're not one of those losers who can't get it up on drugs. I'd cry. I'd actually cry."

Louis lets out a breathless laugh — fucked and wrecked and utterly gone — and groans into his neck, thrusts deep again. "Mate," he mutters, low and feral, "I've seen your fucking name on my screen and gotten hard. What's a little molly to that instinct?"

"Jesus Christ—marry me. No, seriously. Tattoo your name on my hole and ruin me forever. I'll fake my death and move into your fucking dildo drawer—just—don't stop."

It's nonsense. Utterly ridiculous. But it's so Harry — that specific, fever-dream flavor of him that made Louis come undone the very first time he laid eyes on him.

Louis lets out a half-choked laugh — breathless, involuntary, wrecked. He's dizzy with it, with him, with how goddamn easy it is to lose himself in this boy.

"Are you fucking serious right now?"

The voice slices through the rooftop like a guillotine.
Sharp. Disgusted. Definitely not one of theirs.

Silence drops —
not the sexy kind.
The kind that makes your skin prickle.
The kind that means shit.

They turn —
slow, stiff, too fucking late.

Of course they're caught.
Balls-deep.
Mid-lie.
Mid-whatever-this-is.

And just like that —
the joint dies,
the high dips,
and the rooftop stops being theirs.

Bubble?
Burst.

Chapter Text

It's Jeff.

Of course it's fucking Jeff.

Arms crossed, jaw locked, standing like he's been watching for longer than anyone's comfort level can handle — but it's the eyes that do it. Disappointment, fury, and a touch of I told you so that only someone who's cleaned up this exact mess too many times gets to wear.

Harry groans. Doesn't even look fazed. Just tips his head back against Louis's shoulder — who's still inside him — and mutters, "Couldn't you wait, like, two more minutes?"

Jeff exhales. The kind of exhale that sounds like it's been building for years. "I've been trying to get ahold of you for hours. What the hell were you thinking, H?"

Louis barely reacts. Just drags a hand down Harry's thigh, slow and possessive. "He said, No thoughts. Just dick."

"Please write that on a t-shirt. Better yet, a baseball cap." Harry interjects.

Jeff glares at him and opts for ignoring his little comment. "And you're proud of that, are you?"

Louis shrugs, all fake-innocent. "Just calling it like I see it."

Jeff turns back to Harry, voice going full manager-meltdown. "This is a rooftop. In Berlin. In 2025. You've got drones, fans with telescopic lenses, and paparazzi who can literally rent the flat across the street."

Harry yawns. "That's rich coming from someone who once said no one looks up anymore."

"Yeah, well, they do now," Jeff snaps. "Especially when Harry Styles is riding a fucking Lime bike through the neighborhood in broad daylight. You know full well how quickly they can find out where you stay."

Louis snorts.

Jeff doesn't blink. "I leave you alone for twelve hours and you end up getting dicked down in a public pool like a fucking porn extra."

His voice cuts clean — flat, furious. "Was there a group discount on catastrophic decisions, or are you just trying to set a new career low?"

Louis doesn't even flinch. Just tilts his head, eyes cool, mouth twitching like he might be bored.

"Oh come on, Jeff," he says. "Don't act like you've never been jealous of my casting potential."

Harry huffs. "Yeah. Don't project just 'cause the pool had better chemistry than your failing marriage."

Louis lets out a low whistle. "I fucking love it when you treat people with kindness, Haz."

Jeff's jaw ticks so hard it looks like he might crack a molar, like it's taking everything in him not to swan-dive into the pool and personally baptize Harry back into common fucking sense.

Because Jeff knows — all too well — that there are three versions of Harry Styles.

There's Pre-Louis Harry: sweet, cheeky, painfully polite. The kind of guy who says thank you to waiters with eye contact, sends his team little check-in texts at 2 a.m., and practically radiates "Golden Retriever energy" unless someone insults his favorite rom-com.

Then there's Post-Louis Harry: a human puddle in Gucci, dragging himself through promo cycles and pretending the world isn't grayscale. He eats one meal a day, speaks in lowercase, and replies to texts with "lol" when he means "please shoot me."

And then... there's Harry when he's with Louis.
Unleashed. Deranged. So far removed from brand-friendly that Jeff sometimes wonders if this version isn't just the final boss of their PR nightmares wearing lace and no shame. He gets mouthy. He gets smug. He gets possessive. He throws caution, credibility, and emotional regulation straight into the fire — and grins while watching it burn.

So yeah. Jeff knows not to take it personally when Harry's like this.

But it doesn't mean he's not fucking exhausted by it.

"You told me it was drinks. As mates."

Harry barks a laugh, incredulous. "Well, if you bought that, my friend, that's on you."

Jeff's eyes narrow. "Don't get fucking cute."

Harry tilts his head, eyes gleaming. "I'm not cute. I'm high, dick-drunk and emotionally unwell, get it right."

Jeff's mouth twitches like he's about to explode. "What happened to 'I never want to fucking see him, Jeff, like ever'?"

He doesn't wait for an answer.

"Oh wait, I know. He texted, 'You up, baby?' and you replied, 'Nope. Down on my knees.'"

Louis, still perched like royalty on the wet tiles, legs spread and jaw sharp, cuts in before Harry can respond.

"Well, to be fair," Louis drawls, voice rich and amused, "he was already halfway there. I just helped him multitask."

Harry throws back his head with a crooked grin. "Hm. This might be my new era: Slut Renaissance. Imagine the cover art. Lou, you never fail to inspire me."

Jeff throws up his hands. "See? He says the worst possible thing at the worst possible time and your first instinct is, 'Hot. Can I suck your dick, please?'"

"They call it the Tommo charm," Harry giggles, like it's a punchline, not a cry for help.

Jeff glares so hard the air sharpens.

"Yeah? Funny how every time he charms you, we're the ones left stitching together the fallout. Wake the fuck up, H, before you set everything on fire just because he said the lights would be pretty."

Harry winces — barely, but it's there. A blink too long. A breath held too tight.

And Louis doesn't move. Doesn't smirk. Doesn't blink.

He just exhales — slow, steady — then finally mutters, "Careful, Jeffrey. If you're too good at metaphors, I might think I inspire you too."

Jeff exhales like he's aging five years per syllable. "Jesus fucking Christ. I hope the Grammy voters are into poolside porn."

"Well," Louis shrugs. "Maybe you should've picked a more manageable popstar."

"I picked someone with potential," Jeff hisses. "But every time I think he's got a grip on himself, you crawl out of whatever PR closet you're living in and shove your tongue down his throat."

Harry finally shifts — a slick glide of skin and sighs as he slips off Louis and turns to face Jeff fully, still waist-deep in the pool. Water drips from his short strands. His chest heaves with the tail-end of too many highs — chemical and otherwise — but his eyes? Sharp. Daring.

He plants his hands on the pool's edge, expression unreadable. "Alright, Jeff. So what's the actual reason for this sunny little rooftop matinee? Or did you really just hike all the way up here to slut-shame me with a side of emotional projection?"

Jeff's nostrils flare. "Do I need more reason than you being incapable of keeping it in your pants the second your—" He cuts himself off, lips twitching like the word "ex" burned his mouth.

Harry arches a brow. "So slut-shaming is the main event. Noted."

Jeff gestures wildly at the mess they're still literally standing in. "Fucking hell, Harry. Look at you, dripping regret in a rooftop pool and acting like it's performance art," he shakes his head, eyes slicing between them. "You're not bulletproof, H. You think this can stay secret forever? Someone saw you."

The air thickens.

Harry's smirk falters. Louis's jaw ticks once.

And suddenly, it's quiet again.

The kind of quiet that means: Oh, shit.

Harry's smirk barely holds. "How bad is it?"

Jeff lets out a dry laugh. "Bad enough. You were photographed going into the club. Blurry, but unmistakable. The internet only needs two pixels and a shadow to light itself on fire."

Louis mutters, "Jesus."

Jeff pivots like a viper, zeroing in on Louis. "And you. Why the fuck would you wear that out?" He gestures wildly to the olive green 28 bomber on the floor— the one that's been feeding fan theories since its drop. "You really thought bringing out your Larry merch to a fucking sex dungeon was the move?"

"I wasn't aware your client was taking me to a fetish club," Louis drawls. "Next time I'll bring a disguise."

Jeff's eyes could slice glass. "Disguise? Try a moral compass."

Harry raises a hand, exasperated. "Alright, we get it. You're mad. You're disappointed. You're clutching your pearls in the name of brand safety. What else?"

"Word is already out on Reddit, H. They say you were buying pills off a guy named Ghost in mesh fucking trousers."

Louis snorts. "That you fucking did, Baby."

Jeff glares. "Several stories match, but thank fuck there are no records to back up that Louis was there. Only some mentions of a Mistery Guy. At least you picked a place with a no-phone rule. But that only buys time."

Harry shrugs. "Well, then lean into the whispers. Tell them I was high as fuck. Tell them I was dancing. Doing God's work. It'll distract them from Louis. Now one can prove it's him."

"Plausible deniability only gets you so far," Jeff bites out. "And last time this blew up, Modest had leverage. A bargaining chip. A narrative to offer in exchange for their silence."

Louis doesn't reply.

He doesn't need to.

Because he knows exactly what Jeff means. Because he remembers exactly what the fuck the "bargaining chip" was.

His fucking life.

A grainy kiss caught on backstage CCTV, hearts in their throats, breathless and stupid and finally letting themselves have it—and the next day, poof. Gone. Buried.

The footage didn't surface because Modest traded it away like a coupon.

A shiny exclusive in exchange for silence. Louis Tomlinson: Expecting Father. The press didn't need to chase the gay scandal when they could salivate over an accidental, high-profile knock-up. Just like that, it all vanished into a puff of pacifiers and pastel press releases. A headline to smother the footage. A onesie to silence the speculation.

Tabloids ate it up. The world moved on.

Except Harry didn't.

Not when he found out like the rest of the world — during a fucking Good Morning America interview. Live. Sitting under those harsh lights and in front of thousands of fans with a question lobbed like a grenade: "Harry? You seem very quiet today."

Harry hadn't even blinked. Had smiled. "No, I'm having a great time, yeah." Had played the role like the consummate professional they'd trained him to be.

And then, backstage, he'd looked at Louis like something vital had been ripped clean out of him.

Louis hadn't said sorry. Still hasn't.

Because how do you apologize for rewriting someone's reality in real time?

His stomach turns now, even thinking about it. But not half as hard as Harry's does, apparently — because across the pool, Harry's face has crumpled. Not dramatically. Not for show. Just a slow, sinking collapse of something brittle. His jaw clenches. His lashes lower.

The smile he wore like armor? Gone.

Louis swallows hard.

Because yeah, Freddie is his everything.

But that whole clusterfuck? That PR sleight of hand dressed up as a miracle? The price of that silence?

Still tastes like blood.

And this time around?

There's no clean diversion. No baby on the front page to crowd out the shadow they've never quite managed to outrun.

If footages will surface, there's only this: rooftop, dawn, chlorine in their hair, and fifteen years of shit they never really talked about.

Louis opens his mouth. Closes it. Something flashes in his eyes — not guilt. Just... restraint.

But Harry's done.

He steps out of the pool slowly, water pouring off him, t-shirt clinging to every inch of his chest, lace knickers on display in their obscene glory.. He looks ridiculous. Glorious.

"You know what, Jeff?" he says, calm now. Cold. "Take the day off."

Jeff scoffs. "You don't get to fire me when you're covered in come and lace, Harry."

"No," Harry says, stepping closer, "but I do get to decide who I let ruin my morning."

Jeff turns on his heel, fists clenched. "This is gonna blow up, H. You'll wish you gave a fuck while you still had time."

He slams the rooftop door behind him.

A long silence stretches between them. Louis is still in the pool, watching Harry like he's a painting that just blinked.

"Bit dramatic," Louis mutters.

Harry exhales. "You have that effect on people."

Louis smirks — tired, a little wired, still wet.

And quietly, without looking at him:
"So... I'm your Mystery Guy?"

Harry grins.

"You've always been a mystery to me, Tommo."

And the sun keeps rising.

Chapter Text

Harry's still dripping wet — hair flat against his forehead, water tracing the dip of his spine. He extends a hand toward the pool, palm up like an offering.

Louis takes it without speaking.

The tile's cold against his feet, but Harry's hands are warm, steady. He tugs Louis up, careful and unhurried, both of them breathing like they left parts of themselves behind in the chlorine. They peel off their soaked underwear wordlessly — lace and briefs dropped like sins at the altar — then wrap themselves in two stupidly fluffy bathrobes someone probably charged €500 for.

They sink onto the sun-warmed lounger, legs touching, steam rising off their skin like ghosts being exorcised.

Louis lights a cigarette. Passes it to Harry, who takes a drag like it's penance.

Then — between a drag and a sigh — Harry giggles.

Louis narrows his eyes. "What."

Harry licks his lips, flushed and glossy, and moans through a breathless grin. "I learnt a new trick. Wanna hear?"

Louis is too fucked-out to answer. Which is apparently permission enough.

"I can fuck myself now," Harry says, soft and smug and utterly deranged. "No fingers. Just my cock and a bit of patience."

Louis's brain shorts out. He turns fully to face him on the lounger, the cigarette trembling between his fingers.

His grip on Harry's thigh tightens instinctively, like he's trying to physically restrain the image from forming in his mind. It fails.

"You—what?"

Harry nods, biting his lip. "Got the angle right. Took me ages. But I did it. Even filmed it for you."

Louis's jaw drops. "You what?"

Harry shrugs. Takes another drag, calm as sunrise.

Louis makes a sound that's not even human. More like something unholy dragged out of the back of his throat.

"You have a video of you—fucking yourself," he says, like repeating it will make it make sense. "And you didn't send it to me?"

"You weren't around," Harry says innocently. "You were basically on probation. No spicy content for Mr. No-show."

Louis groans, deep and feral, stubs the cigarette out on the tray beside them, grabs Harry by the thigh, and half-tackles him across the lounger in a blur of cotton and desperation.

"Fucking hell," Louis pants. "Am I still on probation?"

Harry hums — breath catching like he's torn between smug and wrecked — then tilts his head, all faux-innocence and fire in his eyes. "Jury's still out..."

Louis lets out a strangled laugh — part exhale, part threat — and drags his teeth over the curve of Harry's jaw.

"You're gonna give me a stroke," he mutters, voice hoarse, hand already sliding lower like he's daring him to try.

"Just wait 'til you see the footage," Harry gasps, wicked and wrecked. "I came in myself. Leaked all over when I pulled out."

Louis growls — an actual growl — and yanks the tie of Harry's bathrobe like he plans to fuck the memory out of both of them. "You are never allowed to be unsupervised again."

Harry just moans, body going pliant with pleasure. "Then don't leave me, Lou."

And kisses Louis like a death wish. Like maybe he won't. Because what's a little career sabotage compared to the apocalypse in Louis's eyes when Harry fucks him slow again, right there on the rooftop lounger? What's a little PR disaster next to the way Louis moans his name when he comes — low and soft and devastating — like Harry is both damnation and redemption in one breath?

Harry's still catching his breath when he pulls back slightly, lips swollen, eyes glassy and dangerous.

"We should go downstairs," he murmurs, breath ghosting against Louis's cheek. "Unless you want Jeff to start another bloodbath in the living room."

Louis groans, forehead thunking against Harry's shoulder. "Can't we just, like, pretend he's not here? Pretend none of this happened? My comedown's kicking in and I'm not in the mood for another moral TED Talk."

Harry snorts, fingers absently brushing through Louis's damp hair. "I get it. But let's just get it over with, yeah? Quick damage control, then we smoke the last joint, eat something, and maybe—if the universe's feeling generous—pass out for three hours."

Louis sighs dramatically. "You make it sound so romantic."

Harry smirks. "I'm a man of simple dreams."

Reluctantly, they untangle. Robes half-hitched and damp at the edges, they pull themselves off the lounger like survivors of something soft and stupidly seismic. Harry grabs the ashtray. Louis grabs the joint.

And together, barefoot and hungover on each other, they head for the stairs—down into the wreckage they left behind.

—

The kitchen is aggressively clean. Too white. Too stainless. Too judgmental.

Jeff is already there. He's in his Manager Mode — sunglasses pushed up, sleeves rolled, blender whirring like an industrial threat. There's something thick and green and offensive pulsing inside it, and Louis half-wonders if it's poisoned.

The moment they step in, Jeff turns. Expression neutral. Voice like a guillotine.

"Hope you're proud of yourself."

Harry snorts. "Always."

"Trending in five countries," Jeff snaps, "because Reddit thinks you wore fucking angel wings, drank flamingo cocktails, chain-smoked cloves, and plastered yourself all over some guy with a penguin tattoo on his ass. And who's the dumb fuck who told Zach Sang about his penguin tattoo on his ass?"

Louis, unfazed, grabs a banana off the counter. "Tell them it's a concept piece. Trauma-core."

Jeff rounds on him, blender still going. "Shut. Up."

Harry giggles. Actually giggles. And leans against the counter like he didn't just get railed on a rooftop like a holy sacrament.

Jeff narrows his eyes. Then looks closer. At the slackness of Harry's mouth. The too-wide pupils. The joint tucked behind his ear like it's decorative.

"Oh for fuck's sake."

Louis raises a brow. "What?"

"He's still high."

Harry shrugs. "Little bit."

Jeff slams the blender off. "Do you even know how bad this could get? You cancel yourself before you even announce your upcoming album."

Louis leans in, stage-whispers to Jeff: "He's kind of in his feral rebirth era now. It's very trending. The album will do just fine."

"Do you want to be murdered?" Jeff hisses.

Louis smirks. "Already spiritually dead, mate."

Jeff looks like he's aged ten years. He pours the smoothie violently into a glass and slams it in front of Harry.

"Drink. Now."

Louis reaches for the last joint and lights it. Passes it to Harry. Leans against the counter with the kind of casual smugness only someone recently railed and fully insufferable can pull off.

"So," Jeff says, voice clipped, "here's the situation. There's a window to spin this as low-stakes. You weren't seen leaving the club. You weren't papped with anyone identifiable. We're pushing the 'just watched a DJ set, bought gum, had a drink' angle.You don't have to say anything, The Sun will do the job just fine."

Harry hums, takes a drag, exhales like a saint.

"Mmm," he says, "you think the dealer wants royalties? Ghost, was his name?"

Jeff pinches the bridge of his nose.

Louis, meanwhile, is back on his bullshit. "So wait—" he says, looking at Harry with laser focus, circling back to the rooftop conversation "you came in yourself?"

Harry beams, eyes glassy, hair still sticking up in curls from chlorine and sin. "Mhm."

Jeff looks up from the blender, cautious. "Sorry, what now?"

Harry, delighted, turns to him like he's joining the conversation. "Oh, yeah. I can self-fuck now. Whole new skill set. I filmed it, obviously. Didn't send it though, 'cause Louis was AWOL."

Louis groans, half feral. "You absolute bastard. How flexible were you? Like folded in half? Or—fuck—on your knees with your ass up?"

"On my back," Harry says dreamily, passing the joint. "But next time I'll try doggy. For science."

Jeff drops the banana he's holding.

"Please," he says sharply, "tell me we're speaking hypothetically."

Harry blinks. "What, the self-fucking?"

"The tape," Jeff snaps. "The fucking tape, Harry. If that leaks, you are—"

"Oh, that one?" Harry shrugs. "No, that's on my encrypted cloud. Same place as the other hundred."

Jeff's blender arm falters. "The what."

Louis exhales a long stream of smoke through his nose, barely blinking. "Oh yeah. This one's here got a fucking curated archive. Mr. 'Yes, Louis, I tell my manager about the potentially risky situations I'm getting myself into.'"

Harry smirks, smug and dreamy. "Well, yeah. It's called 'Holy Shit (Vol. 1–19).' Subfolders by act, lighting, and approximate moaning volume."

Louis hums. "Still got the Tokyo one labeled wrong."

Harry grins. "I corrected it. It's under 'anal / hotel balcony / night vision.'"

Jeff is blinking like he's trying to force a factory reset on his own brain. He stares at them like he's watching a car crash in real time.

"You—Jesus fucking Christ, Harry—do you have any idea how dangerous that is? If that cloud gets breached—if anyone even sniffs around those files—"

Harry's already halfway to the living room, waving him off. "Relax. It's triple encrypted."

"Encrypted with what? Good vibes and eucalyptus oil?"

But Harry's not listening anymore. He's digging through his duffel, towel slipping from one shoulder, leaving little chlorine-slick footprints across the floor. A moment later, he returns, cradling a battered, sticker-covered iPad like a cursed relic.

Louis raises a brow. "Wait. Is that your old iPad?"

Harry lights up. "Yeah. Got nostalgic after seeing Ed's old phone account thingy. Thought I'd check if mine still booted."

Jeff groans. "So the thing you store homemade porn on is an iPad you last updated during the fucking Obama administration?"

"Only the classics are on this one," Harry says, utterly serene. "The new stuff's on the cloud."

He powers it on. The screen flickers to life with a cartoon lock screen and then—unfortunately—opens to a grid of folders, each with titles that make Jeff's eye twitch visibly.

Jeff leans in. "Why does one of these say Praise Kink – Studio Quality?"

Louis wheezes.

Harry beams. "Because it's my best angle in soft daylight. Plus the vocals are strong."

"Vocals?" Jeff barks.

"Yeah," Harry shrugs. "Moans, breath control, little praise whimpers. You know. Like Mariah, but sluttier."

Jeff's about to combust.

Louis reaches for the iPad, casually swiping through the archive. "What's this one—'Studio Booth – Lent Edition'?"

Harry smirks. "That one's art."

Jeff snatches it out of his hands like it might physically burn him. "Do you want your cock to trend on Twitter? Is that the brand now? Holy D by Harry Styles?"

Harry cackles. "Honestly? Bit catchy."

Jeff clutches the counter for support. "I swear to god, if one frame of this ends up in the hands of a teenager with a cracked phone and a thirst for chaos, you are over. Not just canceled. Vaporized. Shadow-banned by life."

"Then leak it when the album drops," Louis offers, deadpan. "At least it'll give the fans a climax."

Jeff looks like he's genuinely going to hurl the smoothie.

Harry just blinks at him, lazy and gleaming, joint dangling from his fingers like sin in smoke form. "Jeffrey. My love. You've handled worse."

Jeff exhales through his teeth. "Not since that time you tweeted 'Titty' and half of Arkansas tried to pass an obscenity bill."

Louis grins. "Told you that tweet had legs."

"And tits," Harry adds helpfully.

Jeff makes a guttural noise and walks away.

"I'm not done," he calls over his shoulder. "I'm just going to scream into a protein tub for five minutes and then come back."

Louis watches him go, chewing on the edge of his banana. "You think he's actually mad, or just afraid we'll leak a teaser with the Holy Shit tracklist?"

Harry exhales smoke into the sunbeam. "Honestly? Probably both."

They pass the joint again.

And somewhere in the distance, Jeff screams.

Louis snorts, tips his head back to catch the sun.

Then—
his phone buzzes.

Once.

Twice.

He ignores it. Until Harry nudges his thigh. "Might be Jeff sending memes from the protein tub."

Louis rolls his eyes and picks it up.

Freezes.

Zara: Hey. Can we talk later?

He stares at the screen.
Then at Harry. Then back at the screen.

Harry asks, gentle but curious, "What?"

Louis doesn't look up. It's probably nothing. It's only 6:30, she must have just woke up and preparing for some early-ass project, getting ready for the day. "Mmm. 'm just being paranoid. Comedown's eating my arse."

Harry hums, eyes back on the screen. "Tell her you're busy getting railed by a ghost from your past. Should buy you an hour." His voice is light, but his knuckles go white gripping the counter.

Louis chooses to ignore Harry, locks his phone, sets it down, and makes a mental note to text back later. Maybe. If he remembers. If he doesn't keep pretending none of this is real.

Then — forcing nonchalance, reaching for distraction — Louis tilts the iPad back toward himself. "Let's see what else is on this ancient thing..." He murmures as he taps into Spotify.

"What was your jam last year?"

Harry immediately straightens where he's curled up on the couch, alarmed. "Don't—wait—Lou, seriously—"

But it's too late.

The playlist loads.

'Your Top Songs 2024'

First track: Habit – Louis Tomlinson

The cover art stares up at him. His own face. His own lyrics. His own voice about to play through the speakers, singing about a high he wrote off years ago and never really stopped chasing.

Louis reads the title once, then again.

"Haz," he says softly. "This shit is five years old."

Harry doesn't meet his eyes. Just shrugs like it doesn't matter. Like he's not bracing for something. "Yeah, well. Sometimes I just need to delude myself that I'm still... that. For you." His voice falters. "That you still miss it. Miss—me. It's stupid."

Louis swallows.

His thumb hovers over the screen.

He could say it.

Could say You'll always be it for me, Baby or I'm still so into you I can't even breathe right. Could say the truth — whatever's left of it.

Instead, he lifts his gaze and smiles, all teeth. Controlled. Sharp.

"Does it seem like I'm good at breaking my habits?"

Silence.

Then Harry exhales — shaky, barely a breath — and gives him a crooked smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes.

"Well," he says, tender. "Lucky me."

Louis doesn't answer at first.

Just tilts his head, watching Harry with something unreadable curling in his eyes. Then he steps closer, phone still in hand, the opening notes of Habit curling through the room before he manages to hit pause.

Then smirks — lazy, filthy, unbothered.

"Well, lucky you indeed," he says, stepping in closer. "Because you know what else I suck at?"

He raises an eyebrow. Lets it hang.

Harry blinks once.

And then flushes violently.

Louis grins, slow and obscene. "That's right, Baby. Real fucking bad at it."

Harry chokes on a breath. "You're the worst."

Louis hums. "You're hard again, though."

"Nope," Jeff barks, reappearing in the doorway like a fucking thunderclap. "That's not happening. Not while I'm still in this godforsaken rental."

Louis doesn't even flinch.

Harry just sighs. "You timed that on purpose."

Jeff glares. "Call it self-preservation."

He's already halfway out the kitchen, muttering something about crisis fatigue, when Louis calls after him, all casual as sin:

"Oh, and Jeff? Call Chris, yeah? Just loop him in about the whole 'we've-been-seen-in-a-sex-dungeon' situation. I've got, like... seventeen missed calls I'm gonna keep ignoring."

Jeff pauses at the door. Doesn't turn around.

"I'm not on your payroll, Tommo," he snaps. "You can pick up the fucking phone and call your own manager."

Louis shrugs. "Yeah, but you're much better at discussing strategy and whatnot..."

Jeff doesn't respond. Just flips him off over his shoulder and yanks the door shut behind him with a satisfying click.

The silence that follows is blissful. For about three seconds.

Then Louis turns to Harry. "He'll call him, right?"

Harry smirks, slow and knowing. "I'm sure he already did."

Louis hums. "Knew I liked him for something."

They pass the joint again, like it's a reward. Like they didn't just dodge a PR meltdown with the grace of two stoned circus clowns.

Louis exhales, long and theatrical, then slumps against the counter like he's auditioning for Most Emotionally Drained Lead in a Domestic Meltdown.

A beat.

Then he groans and peels himself off the cushions like a sticker off a streetlamp. Grabs his phone, blinks at it for a solid thirty seconds.

Then mutters, "Right. Junk time."

Harry stirs, eyes barely opening. "What?"

"I'm ordering Burger King."

Harry groans, instantly more alive. "Oh my God, yes."

Louis scrolls, eyes crusty, stomach hollow. "You want one of those weird plant-based Whopper thingies?"

"No fucking way, I crave trash. A lot of it. I want that long spicy thing, the one with too much cheese. A bacon one. Fries. Those little nugget things with the jalapeños? A whole box. And whatever icecream's got Smarties in it. Oh—and churros. Obviously."

Louis stares at him. "You done?"

Harry thinks for a beat. "Surprise me with the sauce."

Louis raises an eyebrow. "Since when do you eat... meat? And, like, actual garbage?"

Harry rolls onto his back, groaning. "Since I'm deprived of serotonin and dopamine and all those happy little bitches the molly took from me."

Louis snorts and starts adding everything to the cart. "I'm giving you so much shit next time you grill me about my food choices."

Harry waves a hand dramatically. "Yeah, but you eat junk all the time. I live on green smoothies and organic bullshit. I'm allowed one mental breakdown meal."

"You just ordered four," Louis mutters.

"Don't food shame me, I've been through a lot."

Louis rolls his eyes like it's a full-body sport. "You're so dramatic. It's not trauma if it ends in churros."

Harry leans against the counter, eyes closed like he's reliving every bite of the imaginary food. "I feel like I've never eaten before. Like, ever. In my life."

Louis finishes tapping in the last item, muttering, "They'll probably think we're a family of six, feasting."

"Let them," Harry says, cracking one eye open. "We've been through a war."

"You were railed on a rooftop, not drafted."

"Semantics," Harry replies, grabbing the remote off the counter. "I'll go queue up something stupid."

Louis pushes off the fridge with a groan. "Cool. I'm gonna hit the loo."

"Enjoy the existential crisis," Harry calls as he wanders off.

Louis flips him off without looking back — already pulling out his phone.

While Harry scrolls through half a dozen streaming apps like he's on a personal mission to find the worst possible movie ever made, Louis lingers in the hallway.

He opens his messages. Types a quick reply to Zara. A lie that rolls off his fingers a bit too easily.

Louis: long night at the studio, gonna crash for a few hours... call you when i'm up x

He stares at it for a second. Then hits send.

Delivered.
Seen.
And then—
Typing...

Louis's stomach twists. He doesn't wait to see what follows. Just pockets the phone like it burned him.

He walks back into the living room and flops onto the couch beside Harry, affecting maximum casual as he mutters, "Fucking hate it when I can't piss after drugs... was a literal torture squeezing it out."

Harry doesn't even blink. Just hums in solidarity, arm already hooking around Louis's shoulders, tugging him close.

Louis lets himself fold into the warmth, lets his body play along.

But the dread?
Yeah. That's already crawling back up his spine like it never left.

Chapter Text

Harry eats burgers like he's sucking cock.

Not in a subtle, cheeky, maybe-you-have-to-squint kind of way. No. He devours it like it owes him rent and he's about to repossess its soul. Moaning. Lip-licking. Sauce dripping down his fingers and chin like the filthiest OnlyFans you didn't mean to click but now can't look away from.

Louis watches from the other side of the couch like he's been personally victimised by Burger King. His bathrobe is half-open, his thigh's sticking to the fancy fabric of the couch, and the only thing worse than how good Harry looks right now is the fact that Louis likes it.

He's so far gone it's embarrassing. He should call someone. A priest, maybe.

Harry groans again around a bite. "Mmm. S'like... juicy and slutty."

"Oh my God," Louis mutters, pinching the bridge of his nose. "You're actually going to come from a cheeseburger."

Harry licks his lips slow — ketchup-smeared, eyes glinting. "Depends. You filming?"

Louis chokes on a sip of Coke. Splutters. "Don't say shit like that when I'm holding liquids," he wheezes.

Harry grins, obnoxious. Licks a thumb. Then sucks it.

Actually sucks it.

The telly's still on in the background, some Jennifer Aniston character screaming about love being real, while Harry moans around his goddamn index finger like he's edging the fries.

"You're a menace," Louis mutters, collapsing back against the arm of the couch, eyes skyward.

"Say it slower," Harry purrs. "Into my neck."

"Slut."

Harry gasps — hand to chest, eyes wide. "You really think so?"

"I know so. You just gave that burger the best head of its short, tragic life."

"Yeah, well, it asked nicely."

Louis glares at him. "You're revolting."

Harry leans in, trailing a greasy finger down Louis's chest, tapping just above his hip. "And yet — you're hard."

Louis smacks the finger away. "I hate you."

"Liar," Harry singsongs, plucking a jalapeño popper from the tray and biting into it with another moan that should be illegal in residential zones.

"Oh for fuck's sake." Louis tosses a pillow at him. "Eat like a person, not a pornstar on work lunch."

Harry dodges it effortlessly, snatching a handful of cheese fries — Louis's cheese fries — and licking the gooey mess off his palm. "What? This is my post-molly serotonin buffet. I earned this."

"You're such a hypocrite," Louis says. "Didn't you once lecture a flight attendant about nitrates in vegan salami?"

"I did," Harry says, licking his wrist. "And I stand by it. But this cheeseburger said I was pretty, so I made an exception."

Louis stares at him. "You're not right in the head."

Harry beams. "Thank you."

"And you're dripping mayo down your chin."

Harry drags his thumb through the mess and — of course — sucks it clean.

Louis groans, head thudding against the back of the couch. "I can't believe I let you top me earlier. You should be on a leash."

Harry bats his lashes. "Then leash me. Just don't take my nuggets."

Louis lunges for the nuggets box. "You don't even deserve nuggets!"

Harry yelps, dives for it, tackles Louis sideways on the couch in a flurry of greasy wrappers and limb entanglement.

They wrestle for a second — Harry half-straddling him, Louis trying not to choke on laughter or the terrifyingly strong scent of fast food and molly sweat — until Harry jams a jalapeño nugget into Louis's mouth.

"Eat," he commands. "Repent."

Louis chews, eyes wide. "That's spicy as fuck."

Harry grins, smug and evil. "Like me."

Louis grabs him by the bathrobe and yanks him down with a growl. "I'm gonna fuck the smirk off your face."

​​Harry's eyes gleam. "What, and interrupt my sacred communion with processed meat?"

Louis tries to ignore him and focus on the TV. Tries to pretend Jennifer Aniston can save him. But all he can see is Harry with his thighs spread, sauce on his chin, and a churro halfway to his mouth like he's about to reenact something from chapter seven of Louis' Wank Bank: The Traumatized Years.

Harry takes a slow, obscene bite. "Mmm. D'you think churros count as aftercare?"

Louis turns to him, deadpan. "If you say the word 'dipping sauce' in a sexual tone, I will actually murder you."

Harry's already licking caramel off his knuckles. "Too late."

Louis's brain short-circuits.

He shifts on the couch. Crosses his legs. Then uncrosses them. Tries very hard to think about spreadsheets and houseplants and literally anything else.

It doesn't work.

Because now Harry's dipping a finger into the fucking Nutella sauce that came with the churros, sliding it into his mouth with a soft, "mmm," like he's auditioning for a role titled Boyfriend You'll Never Deserve.

And Louis — Louis is about one slurp away from forgetting his entire personality and crawling across the couch like some feral Victorian maiden possessed by sin.

"Haz," he warns, voice low, clipped.

Harry's eyes flick up — all doe-eyed and knowing. "Hmm?"

"Put the churro down."

Harry licks a drip of Nutella from the corner of his mouth. "Why? Jealous of my technique?"

Louis twitches.

"I swear to fucking God," he mutters, tossing aside his Coke, "you are one more mouth-noise away from getting railed so hard this couch develops trauma."

Harry lights up. "Promise?"

And that's it.

Louis snaps.

One smooth, lethal movement — he's on him, grabbing Harry by the wrist mid-lick and hauling him forward. Harry gasps, then giggles, then gasps again as Louis pushes him back against the cushions, robe parting like divine intervention.

Louis straddles him, eyes dark, voice wrecked. "You think this is funny?"

Harry's breath hitches, a grin still curling at the corner of his mouth. "I think—" he drags a finger through the Nutella, smears it across his own collarbone, "—you're gonna prove it."

Louis groans, somewhere between arousal and religious crisis. "You're disgusting."

"You're obsessed."

Louis leans down, tongue already moving. "Shut the fuck up."

Harry's still grinning — smug little brat — so Louis yanks him upright by the waist and hauls him off the couch like he weighs nothing but audacity and leftover Nutella.

"Oi—!" Harry laughs, legs swinging, bathrobe flapping open like he's trying to land the cover of Playboy's Least Subtle Angel. "Where the fuck are we going?"

"Wherever your goddamn bedroom is," Louis mutters, storming down the hallway. "Unless you wanna get fucked on the oven."

Harry hums, pleased. "I do love an appliance moment."

Louis kicks open the door he assumes is the bedroom. It is. Unfortunately.

He freezes.

The room looks like a war crime.

The black silk sheets are half-torn from the corners, wrinkled and glistening in places Louis knows too well. One pillow's on the floor. The other looks like it has a bite mark. Two used condoms lie discarded just beside the bed like Harry had a threesome and then threw away the evidence with all the grace of a raccoon.

Louis blinks once. Twice.

And then slams Harry down onto the mattress hard enough to make the headboard rattle.

"Jesus," Harry gasps, breath punched out of him, eyes wide and sparkling. "Buy me dinner first?"

Louis sneers. "You've eaten enough for three people and a priest, shut the fuck up."

Harry flops back dramatically, looking far too pleased for someone on their back in a forensic nightmare.

Louis stands at the edge of the bed, robe half-off, staring at the sheets like they personally insulted him.

"Didn't realise the invite said 'bring your own DNA,'" he mutters.

Harry glances over his shoulder at the obvious come streak across the duvet. "Oh, that. Yeah, meant to toss those."

Louis glares at him. "You left them out like a fucking shrine."

Harry lifts a brow. "You jealous?"

Louis scoffs, rolling his eyes so hard they nearly eject from his skull. "Of what? Your recent cast of extras?"

"That's rich," Harry says, pushing himself up on his elbows, wings of the robe falling open, all smug and reckless. "Considering I vividly remember a time you went down on a hotel receptionist so you could steal a keycard and fuck me in the private pool."

Louis crosses his arms. "Yeah, well. I really wanted to fuck you in that pool. Was fed up with Paul constantly banging on our door to tone it down. It was the only way to go."

Harry laughs — bright and bitter. "You almost made that sound normal."

"It was normal," Louis says coolly. "For us."

Harry tips his head, eyes narrow. "You fucked someone so you could fuck me twenty minutes later."

Louis shrugs. "It's called keeping eyes on the prize, Baby."

Harry stares at him. "You're so fucking toxic."

Louis smirks. "And you're still begging to get railed."

Harry's breath catches. "That's not—"

But Louis is already crawling onto the bed, knee pressing between Harry's thighs, one hand pinning him by the chest, the other dragging through the sheets like he's scraping up the past and grinding it into the present.

"Tell me," Louis whispers, mouth close to Harry's ear, "did he fuck you better?"

Harry freezes.

Louis chuckles — low and dark and mean. "No answer?"

Harry's eyes flicker, something sharp behind them. "You think you want honesty, but you don't."

Louis' jaw clenches. His grip tightens. "Try me."

Harry swallows. Then says, voice flat: "He had your perfume on so at least I could finish."

Louis's lips curl — some feral thing between smug and vindictive and broken.

"Poor bastard."

Harry looks at him for a beat. "You're such a dick."

Louis leans in, mouth brushing his cheek. "Yeah. But I'm your favourite one."

And just like that, it's on — all fury and filth and the kind of desperate tension that smells like sex, jealousy, and the memory of ten different people neither of them will ever admit to.

"Where d'you keep the toys?" Louis asks, voice casual like he's asking for a spoon.

Harry grins. "Bedside drawer. Left side. Under the lavender oil and the trauma."

Louis hums, unimpressed, and moves to the drawer while Harry watches him from the bed — still splayed out, bathrobe slipping off his shoulders like some wingless cherub with a sex addiction.

There's a clink, then a low whistle.

"You've got an entire annex of the Berlin Museum of Filth in here."

Harry smirks. "What can I say? I like options."

Louis pulls out something sleek, black, and shaped like a war crime. Raises a brow. "And what the fuck is this?"

Harry grins wider. "Remote-controlled. Vibration settings. Bluetooth compatible. Bought it during lockdown. Thought I'd never use it."

"Pathetic."

"You love it."

Louis ignores him. Grabs the toy. Grabs the lube. Stalks back to the bed.

"Hands up," he orders.

Harry's smile falters slightly. "What—"

"You wanna act like a filthy little brat?" Louis mutters, already tugging the sash from his bathrobe. "Then you can lie there like one."

Harry obeys. Arms over his head. No protest. His eyes are gleaming.

Louis ties his wrists to the headboard with slow, deliberate movements. Tugs once — tight.

"Comfy?"

Harry smirks. "I mean, if you wanted me helpless and gorgeous, you could've just asked."

Louis hums. "You're not gorgeous. You're a lesson."

Harry's cock twitches violently.

Louis steps back, robe falling to the floor. He uncaps the lube and slicks up his fingers — but he doesn't turn to Harry yet. Oh no. He faces the mirror.

Lets Harry watch.

One foot propped on the edge of the mattress, back arched just enough, he slides two fingers into himself with the kind of slow, sinful precision that says: this could've been you.

Harry groans. Wrists tug against the makeshift restraints.

Louis doesn't even glance at him.

Instead, he mutters to himself, just loud enough: "Takes so little to stretch me when I'm thinking about revenge."

"Fuck," Harry breathes, hips twitching. "You're evil."

Louis adds another finger. Gasps a little, just for show. Opens his legs wider. Works himself open with measured rolls of his hips, like he's performing in a one-man porno for an audience of one tied-up slut who deserves this.

Harry's cock is flushed, rigid, leaking against his stomach. The tip twitches every time Louis moans.

"I swear to God," Harry pants, "you're doing this on purpose."

Louis finally turns. Slick fingers shining. Smirk criminal.

"No shit, Sherlock."

He climbs onto the bed — slow, predatory. Straddles Harry's thighs, the toy in one hand.

Harry gulps. "Which setting you gonna use?"

Louis doesn't answer. He presses the tip of the toy to Harry's perineum — not inside, not yet — and turns it on. Low hum.

Harry twitches violently.

"Jesus—"

"Still think it's cute to fuck someone in my perfume?" Louis asks, all sugar and knives.

Harry whimpers.

Louis drags the toy up, lets it kiss along the underside of Harry's cock — slow, torturous — until it nudges the glint of the frenum bar. Harry bucks like he's been electrocuted, moaning sharp and shattered as the vibration rattles through the metal and into every nerve ending he apparently forgot he had. His wrists strain against the robe ties, hips jerking up helplessly as the tip of the toy grazes the swollen head, where the curved ring of the prince albert twitch-taps against his abs with every shuddering breath.

His legs are trembling now — shaking — thighs drawn tight, leaking steadily, like his cock doesn't know whether to beg or explode.

"Lou—fuck, Lou—"

Louis turns up the setting. Just one notch.

Harry gasps. His whole body arches. His cock jerks, leaking in thick, obscene drips onto his abs.

"Beg," Louis says simply, like he's asking him to breathe.

Harry shakes his head, grinning like the devil in fluffy restraints — curls damp, eyes gleaming, cock leaking against his stomach like it's trying to say please even if he won't.

"Oh, please," he drawls, voice syrupy and venomous. "You're one vibrating moan away from crying on my dick. You should be the one begging."

Louis stills — hand frozen on the toy, chest rising slow.

His mouth curves into something cruel.

Then he leans in, one hand sliding up Harry's thigh, fingers brushing the slick mess just under his bellybutton.

"You wanna talk that much with your wrists tied and your cock twitching like it's about to pass out?"

Harry opens his mouth — probably to say something even more offensive — but Louis slaps the toy back against the base of his cock and cranks the setting up two notches.

Harry screams.

The sound punches out of him raw and wrecked, head snapping back against the pillows, thighs shaking like they're being exorcised.

Louis watches. Calm. Composed.

"Yeah," he mutters, dragging the toy lower, slow and deliberate. "Didn't think so.".

"Alright, alright—please, please—fucking hell, Louis—"

"Please what?" Louis murmurs, dragging the toy away for a second. "I'm not sure I heard you over the sound of your cock losing its goddamn mind."

Harry's panting, sweat glistening, curls damp against his forehead.

"Please," he gasps, voice wrecked. "Fuck me. I need—damn—I need—"

Louis smiles — dark and triumphant.

"You're leaking like a broken faucet, Baby."

Harry whines.

Louis leans in. Mouth at his ear.

"Guess we'll plug you up, then."

Louis slicks the toy up with lube, and presses the tapered tip to Harry's hole without ceremony.

Harry yelps, body jolting.

"Oh, God—" he gasps, already twitching.

"Shh," Louis croons, voice thick with mock concern. "We can't have you making a mess."

He slides it in slow. Deep. Clicks the remote once.

Harry arches — bound wrists clenching, thighs trembling — as the vibrations start to purr inside him, low and cruel.

Louis straddles him like he owns him — knees bracketing Harry's trembling thighs, slick fingers guiding the head of his cock to his own entrance. The plug is still humming inside Harry, a background throb that's been teasing him half-mad for minutes now.

Harry watches Louis, panting, tied up and twitching, chest heaving like he's about to sob.

"Fucking—Lou," he chokes. "You're—are you sure—"

Louis sinks down.

Not slow. Not gentle.

A steady, unrelenting slide until he's seated flush, thighs shaking, mouth falling open around a wrecked little sound that's somewhere between a gasp and a prayer.

Harry screams.

His hips lurch but the restraints hold, and Louis just smiles — teeth bared, spine arched — as he rolls his hips once, obscene and devastating.

"Holy fuck," Harry whimpers, eyes wild. "You're—Jesus—how are you this tight?"

Louis hums, low and cruel. "Maybe if you hadn't been busy fucking half of Berlin, I wouldn't be."

Harry moans again — maybe in shame, maybe in delight — and Louis leans forward, one hand pressed flat against his chest, the other gripping the remote like it's divine judgment.

"Here's the deal, Baby," he purrs. "You don't get to come until I say so."

Harry's eyes widen — wrecked, desperate, already trembling.

Louis clicks the toy. One notch up.

Harry's whole body jerks. "Fuck—"

Louis starts to ride.

Not fast. Just deep. Intentional. Like he's testing the limits of Harry's sanity and his own goddamn patience. Every drop of Harry is trembling. The plug inside him buzzes just slightly higher now, pushing against his prostate as his cock slides into Louis, piercings dragging against everything inside him that makes Louis want to die screaming.

"Feel that?" he pants, dragging his hips forward, grinding down. "That's what you get for being a filthy little slut."

Harry is crying, practically — noises punched out of him like he's being throttled by his own pleasure. His cock is so hard it has to be painful, leaking precum into Louis in heavy, desperate drips.

Louis rolls his hips with cruel, deliberate slowness, cock buried to the hilt, thighs flexing as he starts a rhythm designed to destroy. Every grind drags the piercings against his walls just right — the frenum bar snagging on each downward slide, the curved PA ring stroking places Louis swore he had locked away.

Harry's a fucking mess underneath him — wrists straining, thighs trembling, the plug inside him still humming low. His cock twitches inside Louis, precum slicking every thrust like it's trying to apologize for how fucking wrecked they both are.

"Jesus—Louis—please—" he gasps, chest heaving. "I'm—I'm so close—"

Louis smirks, cruel and satisfied. He slows. Grinds down deep, holding himself there, clenching around him just to hear the sound Harry makes — strangled, wrecked, like someone dying mid-prayer.

"You are close," Louis murmurs, feigning concern. "How tragic."

Harry sobs.

Louis clicks the remote — one notch higher — and starts up again. Faster now. Dirtier. He leans back a little, hands on Harry's hips, bouncing in sharp, obscene rolls, letting the piercings drag, letting the plug vibrate Harry's prostate into oblivion.

"I said don't come," he huffs, not even looking at him. "You do, I'm walking off this cock and leaving you tied up for hours."

Harry whimpers, whole body locked up like he's balancing on the tip of a knife.

And just when Louis feels him twitch — right there, right on the edge—

He stops.

Harry screams.

Louis stills in his lap, thighs tense, hand pressing flat on Harry's stomach to hold him down as he writhes.

"Oh my God," Harry gasps, shaking. "You're fucking evil."

Louis hums. "And you're easy."

Harry glares, breathless and shaking. "You like watching me suffer this much?"

Louis leans in, voice low. "You've no idea."

Then — he starts again.

Smooth. Controlled. Sinister.

Each thrust hits hard. Perfect. He rides like he's taunting gravity — letting himself lift high enough for Harry to feel it, then drop low and slow, cock grinding, plug buzzing inside Harry just a notch beneath catastrophic.

Harry's head is thrown back, neck arched, lips parted. He moans with every move, sweating and shaking and begging.

"Please—Louis—I'm gonna come—I swear—please just let me—"

Louis snarls a breath through his teeth. "Not yet."

Harry's cock twitches once. Twice. On the brink.

Louis stills again.

Stops everything.

Harry whines, full-body tremble.

"Fuck!" he gasps, eyes wide with disbelief. "You're a fucking—psychopath—"

Louis smiles down at him, not even winded, lips parted with cool satisfaction.

"Language, Baby," he says sweetly, pressing the remote just slightly harder into his hip. "This is supposed to be romantic."

Harry actually growls, still trembling beneath him, wrists burning against the makeshift ties, chest heaving like he's run a marathon in reverse. His cock is so flushed it must be bruised, the glint of metal catching each time it jerks against Louis's insides.

​​Louis shifts his weight, rolls his hips down again — a little harder this time, a little sloppier — and watches Harry suffer. It should feel victorious. It should feel like punishment.

Except—

The vibration's still going. Plug pulsing deep in Harry's ass, wrecking him from the inside while Louis rides him from above like a man on a mission. Like someone who knows the cliff is coming and speeds up anyway.

"Please," Harry gasps, voice gone, head tossed back. "Lou, I'm—fuck, I'm gonna—please—"

Louis smirks, lips twitching around the lie that he's still composed.

He slows. Grinds. Stops.

Harry cries out — a broken, gasping wreck of a sound — and Louis leans forward like he's inspecting damage, like he's not frantically clenching his own thighs to stay grounded.

"You want it that bad?" Louis pants, voice shredded silk.

Harry nods, frantic. "Please—please—I'll do anything—you know I'll do anything—"

Louis's hands flex against his ribs. His hips twitch once, hard.

The plug inside Harry keeps buzzing, high and merciless. Louis can feel it when Harry's cock twitches deep inside him — almost enough to tip him over. Almost.

His breath stutters.

He digs his nails into Harry's chest. Keeps his face blank. Keeps his rhythm cruelly slow.

But inside?

Something slips.

Because Harry looks like sin incarnate — flushed, leaking, tied up, cock sheathed deep and twitching inside Louis's too-tight, too-wet, too-much body. Because Louis is full and aching and so fucking close he can't tell whose pulse he's feeling anymore.

Because this — all of this — was supposed to be revenge. And now it feels like prayer.

He grinds down again, sharp and deep. Harry sobs.

"Fuck—fuck, please let me—please—"

Louis swallows. Doesn't answer.

His hand tightens on the remote.

Click. The plug goes up one last notch.

Harry screams. His cock kicks inside Louis, harder now, throbbing so violently Louis has to bite his tongue to keep from shaking.

And then he sees it—Harry sees it.

Sees the twitch in Louis's jaw. The flicker in his eyes. The way his whole body rolls forward like it's surrendering. Not because he planned to — but because he has to.

Louis is barely holding it together. It hits him, hard—a stutter in his rhythm, a jolt in his spine—and before he can think, before he can even register how fucking close he is, he reaches down and grabs himself, fist slicking over his cock in frantic, desperate strokes.

"Fuck—" he chokes. "You can—fuck, come, quick, quick, what the hell—"

And the second the words leave his mouth, it's like the goddamn sky falls.

Harry shouts, hips jerking wildly, cock slamming into him with brutal, staccato thrusts as he comes inside Louis, hot and hard, plug still pulsing with every convulsion. His whole body arches off the mattress, bound wrists digging deep into the pillows, chest flushed crimson, eyes fluttering open just enough for Louis to see them — glassy, shining, looking straight through him like he's staring at God.

His mouth drops open around a sob — not pain, not quite pleasure, just something beyond, something holy. He looks ethereal. Wrecked. Fucked-out and glowing and beautiful in the worst way.

And Louis—

Louis loses it.

And all at once he's back in some shitty hotel in Manila, nineteen and stupid, watching Harry fall apart for the first time with Louis' hand around his cock, jaw slack, ruined, and thinking: don't ever touch that again, you won't survive it.

But he did touch him again.

Still not sure he'll survive.

And now he's got Harry coming inside him, and it's too much, it's perfect, it's fucking—

He grinds down on Harry like he's out of his mind. Like he's trying to fuck himself apart from the inside. His fist works over his cock fast and desperate, strokes as erratic as his breathing, as unhinged as the sounds tearing out of his throat — wrecked moans and shattered gasps, curses that break halfway through.

"Jesus—Harry—bloody hell—"

But Louis doesn't just ride it out — he drives into it, wild and half-deranged, every thrust unhinged and too deep, like he's trying to crawl inside Harry and rip out the part of himself that ever thought he could stay away. His breath's all jagged edges. His moans come raw and unfiltered, breaking open from somewhere so buried even he didn't know it was there. There's nothing pretty about it. He's flushed to the throat, hair glued to his temples, hips pounding down with abandon — not thinking, not calculating, just chasing.

It's obscene.

It's terrifying.

He comes hard — with a shout, with a full-body twitch, with his spine arching and his thighs locking and his orgasm tearing through him like it's payback for everything he ever tried to bottle up.

Come spills over his fingers, onto Harry's chest, onto the already-messy silk sheets. Louis can't stop shaking. He keeps grinding down even after he's spent, chasing after the last echoes, the aftershocks, the fever.

And Harry — silent now, eyes wide and locked on him — watches like he's witnessing the end of the fucking world.

They're both panting like they've run miles. The room stinks of sex and sweat and ruin. The headboard's still rattling faintly. The plug finally goes still.

Harry's chest is heaving, tears at the corners of his eyes. Louis stays where he is, thighs trembling, fingers still curled around his softening cock, utterly, violently wrecked.

No one speaks.

They couldn't if they tried.

Louis collapses forward like the marionette strings got cut. Breath still ragged. Chest slick against Harry's, heartbeat jackhammering through the silence like it's trying to say all the things his mouth won't.

Harry doesn't flinch.

Just lies there. Wide-eyed. Wrists limp against the headboard. Skin flushed and glowing like he's been peeled open and blessed. His curls are damp. His mouth is parted. There's a tremble in his lip that doesn't quite turn into anything.

Louis doesn't look at him.

Not really.

He reaches up, fingers shaking, and unties the sash — slow, careful, reverent. Like maybe it's a bomb. Like maybe this is the moment everything actually goes off. The knot slips loose. Harry's arms fall to the sides with a soft thud, and neither of them moves for a beat.

Then Louis rolls off him.

Not far. Just to the side. Not touching.

His chest is still heaving. His face is buried in the crook of his elbow like he's hiding from the crime scene. His thigh's pressed against Harry's, and even with inches of air and spite between them, it feels like they're still tangled in each other's ribcages — like Harry's tucked inside the folds of Louis' fucking spleen and refusing to leave. No one's technically inside anyone anymore, but somehow their molecules missed the memo. They're still leaking into each other. Still lodged in the soft, rotten places. Still everywhere.

Harry turns his head. Barely.

Says nothing.

Louis breathes. Tries to. Inhales like it might reset something inside him. It doesn't. His lips part like he's going to say something bitchy, something casual, something devastating. But nothing comes out.

The room is dim and ruined and soft.

Harry blinks slowly. Like he's surfacing. Like his soul got knocked loose in the quake and it's only now coming back to look around.

When he finally speaks, his voice is barely a whisper. "So. That was..."

Louis snorts. Bitter. Wet. "Don't."

A beat.

Then Harry laughs. Just a puff of breath through his nose. Sad. Sweet. Totally fucked.

Outside, Berlin lives on — cars passing, a dog barking, some drunk tourist singing ABBA three blocks away.

Louis reaches for the cigarette pack on the nightstand like he's selecting a weapon. It's not his brand. Too shiny. Too eager. Probably the last guy's, the one who thought fucking Harry meant something. Poor bastard.

He pulls one out, sniffs it. Rolls his eyes. "Tastes like desperation and mid-range cologne."

Harry hums from beside him, already nuzzling into his ribs like nothing happened. Like Louis didn't just try to exorcise both their demons through sheer velocity. "You'll still smoke it, though."

Louis lights it, takes a long drag. "Might as well feast on his leftovers while I'm here. Already started with you."

Harry lets out a sharp little laugh, too light to be safe. "You've always had such refined taste."

Louis exhales toward the ceiling. Smoke and spite. "Better than your taste in company."

"Mm." Harry lifts his chin just enough for Louis to pass him the cigarette. Their fingers brush. Static. "You're not exactly a crowd-pleaser either, love."

Louis snorts. "No crowd to please. You fucked 'em all."

Harry takes a drag. Doesn't flinch. "You should be grateful. Makes your turn less crowded."

Louis looks down at him. At the mess of hair against his chest. The flushed cheek resting over his ribs. The soft, drowsy face of a boy who just got wrecked and is somehow still the most dangerous thing in the room.

He ashes the cigarette in a half-shattered saucer, strokes a hand over Harry's arm like it's reflex, not choice.

Harry leans into Louis like gravity's got favourites. His voice is low, lazy, lethal. "You ever think maybe we're both just stray dogs gnawing on the same rotten bone?"

Louis exhales slow, smoke curling between them. "Well, I still came running when you whistled."

Harry smiles — a flicker, not a feeling.

And Louis's hand drifts into his hair, soft and automatic, like he's petting something long dead but still warm. Like the cruelty of it is in how gentle he is.

"Guess I missed the taste."

They go quiet for a beat. Smoke curling between them. Louis passes the cigarette back. Harry takes it with fingers that tremble just slightly. Or maybe Louis is imagining that. He's good at imagining things. Like peace. Like a version of them that doesn't always end in ash and bite marks.

"I liked it better when you hated me out loud," Harry murmurs.

Louis hums, thumb stroking over Harry's cheekbone. "I'm tired."

Harry flicks ash into the saucer. "Of me?"

Louis doesn't answer.

Just leans back. Lets the silence sit heavy between their bodies — all heat and history and everything they can't say unless it's in smoke and venom.

Harry shifts, tucks himself closer, lets Louis's heartbeat echo in his ear.

And Louis — stupid, soft, lost Louis — lets him. Keeps petting. Keeps breathing. Keeps pretending this cigarette isn't the closest they've come to honesty in years.

Harry shifts, cheek smushed into Louis's shoulder, breath warm against his skin. "I'd be such a good boyfriend, you know."

Louis snorts. "How the fuck are you still high?"

"No, I'm serious," Harry says, lifting his head with all the drama of a dying soap-opera heiress. "I'd make you breakfast. Manage your calendar. Make sure you don't double-book therapy and anal. Blowjobs every morning. Like clockwork."

Louis gives him a look that's 80% disbelief and 20% the ache of knowing he wants it anyway. "You're a shit boyfriend, Haz."

"Heyyy," Harry whines, pouting like he's just been accused of tax fraud.

"No, but really," Louis deadpans. "You've literally cheated on every one of your relationships."

Harry shrugs, unapologetic. "Yeah. With you. So that doesn't count."

Louis blinks. "So you're selling me the poster-boyfriend fantasy and just casually normalizing infidelity in the same breath?"

Harry hums. "Multitasking. Another boyfriend skill."

Louis scoffs, but his fingers haven't stopped drawing circles on Harry's arm. "You're a menace."

"You're a masochist."

"You're delusional."

"You love it."

Louis rolls his eyes. "I've had brain damage that was less exhausting than you."

Harry grins. "Hot."

Then he yawns mid-smirk, like even his chaos is getting drowsy. His lashes flutter once, twice. He blinks like he's forgotten where he is, then melts further into Louis's side with the boneless surrender of someone who knows they're losing the fight.

Louis kisses his temple — soft, almost absent. "Go to sleep, Baby."

But Harry's voice comes back, mumbled and stubborn, barely a breath: "Don't wanna..."

Forehead presses to Louis's neck, breath warm. "You won't be here when I wake up."

Louis exhales. Cards a hand through Harry's hair, softer than he means to. "I'll wake you."

Harry hums. Already drifting. "You better."

And then he's out — mouth parted, lashes smudged against his cheeks, still half-wrapped around Louis like he's something to be held onto.

Louis stays awake longer than he means to. Just watching.

Because he knows.

And Harry doesn't.

Chapter Text

The comedown's chewing through Louis with teeth.

Gnawing at the base of his skull, working its way forward. His eyes are dry and sore, his body aching in all the wrong ways. Also, he tastes sleep paralysis and strawberry lip gloss and the memory of Harry's fingers in his mouth. The blackout curtains keep the worst of the Berlin morning out, but the soft, artificial blue glow of his phone screen is enough to illuminate the scene:

Harry, draped across his chest like a fevered prayer, lashes dark against flushed skin, breathing deep and slow like someone who didn't beg to be ruined five times in a row last night. Like someone who didn't say, I'd be a good boyfriend, with cum drying on his thighs and delusion clogging his sinuses.

Louis hasn't slept.

The telly's on mute. A rom-com flickers quietly in the corner like it knows he's being haunted. He lies flat on the bed, ribs buzzing with molly residue, skin too tight, stomach churning.

Louis stares at the ceiling. Then at the phone. Then at the mole on Harry's neck. Then back at the phone.

He shouldn't.

He absolutely should not.

He taps open X anyway.

The trending tab immediately makes his stomach tighten like a fist.

#larryproof2025

Berlin Clubgate

AngelWingTheory

He scrolls. Regrets it immediately.

@LarrysWornoutCloset: 🚬💊🪽✊🏻✨💦 ➡️ 🕳️🧑🏻‍🦯

@tearsandglitter: ok but why was harry styles in berlin wearing ANGEL WINGS and grinding on a guy with a PENGUIN TATTOO on his ass?? don't make me put the tinfoil hat on again i JUST took it off.

@Pluto_Kitten_7: yeah I really get what louis was saying when he said that penguin wasn't sexy

@larryvatican:but imagine that harry had EYE CONTACT with this man like he was begging for penance. that's not a one-night stand, that's biblical.

@harrystwinke: if harry really bought drugs im sure he paid in vibes #berlin

@directioninfection: no but be honest... would YOU say no to harry in angel wings? i'd commit war crimes.

@Bfretme: FINALLY🥳🥳🥳🥳🥳

@deadafterdecember: ok but who's the guy with harry? can't see the face but something about him screams 'mumbles in donny accent and leaves you emotionally destroyed'

He swipes away before he vomits. Opens Reddit like that'll be better.

Spoiler: it's worse.

r/fuckmoi

MIRROR EXCLUSIVE: Former bandmates spotted getting handsy outside elite Berlin sex club. One in angel wings, the other possibly inked with a flightless bird? Eyewitnesses claim "they disappeared inside together." Representatives for both declined to comment.

ClosetNews: Church of Burnt Romances? Former One Direction Stars Harry Styles and Louis Tomlinson Rumoured to Rekindle Lost Flame in Sin-a-matic Affair

Read more...

He reads exactly five words of the article before hurling the phone across the mattress like it burned him. His pulse is high. His hands are cold. Fuck. He's dizzy. He can't tell if it's the drugs or the dread or the fact that for the past hour, he's been doomscrolling on an empty stomach, no serotonin left in the bank, no logic in reach. It's the part after the rollercoaster where the floor falls out and you remember your name and regret every decision you ever made in reverse.

He stares at the ceiling again. The longer he lies there, the louder the internal scream gets — you fucking idiot, what were you thinking, he was wearing wings, you're thirty-fucking-three, you didn't even look for cameras—

Harry snuffles in his sleep, all peaceful and curled like a cat, and it's the final straw.

Louis gently — gently, like Harry's porcelain and Louis is the ghost about to knock him off the shelf — slides out from under him. Pads barefoot into the living room.

The floor's cold. His breath fogs on the window as he fumbles with the box of rolling papers, grinders, filters. The whole setup is muscle memory by now.

The act is nearly religious.

A quiet little sermon in self-delusion and THC.

He does it slow. Like maybe if he nails the proportions — if the paper's tight enough, the line clean enough, the burn smooth enough — it'll hush whatever the fuck's screaming in his brain. Or at least bore it into silence.

His fingers shake. Whatever. They always do after nights like that.

He crushes the weed like he's grinding someone else's problem. Spreads it out with mechanical precision — no joy, no flair, just muscle memory and the faint smell of last night's shame. Rolls it between his thumbs and forefingers like he's been doing this forever. He has.

Seals it. No flourish. No fanfare.

Taps the end with his pinkie — twice — because apparently superstition is the only thing keeping him tethered these days.

He'd once said if he skipped it, the whole day would go to shit.

(As if it wasn't already halfway there.)

Tap. Tap. The table answers back like a bored therapist.

He lights it.

Inhales like it's communion.

Then sits back and waits for his brain to shut the fuck up.

The first drag hits like prayer.

His lungs sting. His shoulders drop. His brain slows just enough to stitch together one reassuring sentence:

There's no evidence.

No phones allowed inside. No faces caught on camera. No concrete receipts.

Just a mess of larries playing connect-the-dots with vibes and grainy club rumours.

But if this picks up traction, it's not just old fandoms and grainy tweets. It's headlines. It's interviews. It's his entire fucking life on display again.

And he just wanted to fuck Harry in a pair of wings in peace.

He exhales. Stares into the streetlight haze outside the rental flat. Tries to believe it'll all smooth over.

He can't deal with the media mayhem of the larry circus right now.

He'd rather torch his entire life—career, credibility, whatever scrap of control he's clawed together—than see his face plastered across tabloids next to Harry fucking Styles, all soft curls and saintly smirk, like they're some tragic gay epic with merch potential.

Rather be the villain. The liar. The one who walked away.

Because if it goes public, if it gets named—

He's dodged cameras, dodged questions, dodged whole continents just to keep this exact moment from happening. He's not about to fumble it all for a pair of wings and a fantasy.

—

The smell of sleep and sex still clings to the room, warm and sour, when Louis walks back in fully dressed. Hair damp from the shower. Hoodie rolled up at the sleeves. Trainers on. He looks like someone who's already halfway out the door, emotionally and otherwise.

Harry's still starfished in the bed, a tangle of limbs and twisted sheets, cheek pressed into the pillow. Louis stands beside the bed for a beat, then leans down, brushing his fingers lightly through Harry's curls.

Harry blinks blearily, lashes fluttering. And then he sees Louis. Dressed. Standing. His eyes go wide.

"Wait—" His voice cracks. "You're going?"

Louis raises an eyebrow. "That's what 'putting clothes on' usually means, yeah."

Harry scrambles upright, sheets pooling at his waist, curls flattened on one side like he's been hit by a small, affectionate truck. "You didn't sleep. I can tell you didn't sleep. Fuck, I—hold on, I'll make you something—do you want coffee? Or toast? I've got juice—do you want juice?"

"I want caffeine and silence," Louis says, already striding toward the kitchen. "You're offering one out of two."

Harry flinches. "I'm just—trying to be nice."

"You're being loud," Louis mutters, flipping the kettle on like he's about to duel it. "And weirdly orange-juice-forward for my sleep deprivation."

Harry pads in after him, barefoot, wild-eyed, the bathrobe doing nothing to hide last night's marks. "You shouldn't leave without eating."

Louis doesn't even look up. He plucks a cigarette from the half-empty pack on the counter, taps it twice against his wrist like a nervous tic, and sticks it between his lips."I'll grab a skittles and cry on the plane. It'll balance out."

Harry huffs. "That's not a meal. That's an emotional threat."

"I'm a very busy man, Harold," Louis says, deadpan, as he yanks two mugs from the cupboard. "Got places to be. Lives to ruin."

"Your own, apparently."

Louis actually cracks a smirk at that, but hides it behind the clatter of mugs. He finally flicks the lighter with a snap and takes a long drag from the cigarette, the tip flaring red in the quiet kitchen light. "See? You can be funny when you're not crying about juice."

"I'm not crying about juice." Harry folds his arms and leans against the counter, trying to channel effortless cool while clearly vibrating out of his skin. "I just don't think it's insane to want someone to have a fucking croissant before they disappear again."

"I'm not disappearing," Louis says, pouring water over the grounds. "I just have to go. Very different energy."

Harry snorts. "Oh, totally. One's tragic and the other's just British."

Louis hands him a mug. "And yet you still want me to stay."

Harry takes it like it's a peace offering, eyes too soft, mouth twitching into something close to hopeful. "Course I do. Doesn't mean I think you will."

Louis looks at him for a beat too long. Then shrugs. "Smart boy."

The silence stretches — only the quiet hum of the kettle cooling, the rustle of fabric, the sound of Harry's heart bruising itself against his ribs.

Louis takes a slow sip, then sets his mug down with a muted clink. Reaches into his battered backpack and pulls out a small, squashed-looking parcel wrapped in aggressively unimpressive brown paper and a single sad strip of tape. Slides it across the counter like he's trying not to make eye contact with it.

Harry looks down at it. "What's that?"

"Your birthday present." Smoke curls from his mouth in a lazy exhale, catching the sunlight like it's trying to leave something behind.

Harry frowns. "My birthday was in February."

"Exactly," Louis says, stretching his back like this conversation is physically exhausting. "And I'm sick of dragging it across continents like a cursed horcrux. You should be grateful. This thing's got more frequent flyer miles than you do."

Harry just blinks at it, then at Louis, then back at the package. His hand moves to peel the tape, slow and careful, thumb worrying at the edge of the paper like he's afraid it might bite.

"Don't fucking open it while I'm here, you twat," Louis snaps, a little too fast, a little too sharp.

Harry freezes mid-unwrap, then sets the gift down like it might detonate. "I didn't get you anything for your birthday."

Louis snorts. "Obviously."

"I didn't even text you."

Louis tips his head, lips twitching. "I noticed."

The air stretches between them. Harry looks like he wants to say something else, but he's chewing the inside of his cheek instead, eyes down.

Louis finishes his fag and crushes the butt into the sink with two fingers and rinses it down the drain like he never lit it in the first place. He nudges the gift with two fingers, just enough to make it slide an inch closer to Harry. "Hit me up when you figure it out, though."

Harry glances up. "Figure what out?"

Louis just shrugs, grabs his coffee, and turns toward the window like he didn't just hand over a bomb wrapped in brown paper. "You'll know when you do."

Louis finishes the last of his coffee in one long sip, wincing slightly at the lukewarm bitterness. He rinses the mug under the tap with more force than necessary, like scrubbing it clean might undo the weight of everything still hanging in the air. The silence between them stretches, full of unasked questions and unsaid things. He dries his hands on the front of his hoodie, tugs it straight like armor, and glances once—just once—at Harry still sitting at the counter, eyes fixed on the small, battered package like it might explode. Then he grabs his bag, slings it over his shoulder, and walks to the door before he can talk himself out of it.

Harry follows, because of course he does.

Louis stops in the doorway, hoodie half-zipped, phone clenched in one hand like it might save him from the weight of whatever the fuck just happened here.

Harry doesn't say anything at first. Just watches him. Barefoot on the cold tiles, arms loose at his sides like he doesn't know what to do with them. Like if he reaches out, Louis might vanish. Like if he doesn't, Louis still will.

Harry swallows hard. "Can't you stay? Like... one more night?"

Louis's mouth twists like it physically hurts to hear it. "I was already on borrowed time," he says. "And the lease expired, didn't it."

Harry steps closer, wide-eyed and aching and too soft for this flat, this morning, this man. "You don't have to go now."

"I do," Louis says, brushing a thumb under Harry's eye like he's smoothing out the trace of a dream. "You just don't want me to."

It's almost tender, the way his hand drags down Harry's jaw, his thumb grazing the corner of his mouth. Almost.

And then he steps back. No kiss. No goodbye.

Louis never says goodbye.

Harry pouts, tries for light, tries for casual, but his chest is caving in.

"But we didn't even get a chance to, like, catch up."

Louis scoffs, soft and crooked. "That's because you decided to take us out to a night of total debauchery."

Harry shrugs, smiling faintly. "You didn't seem to mind."

Louis raises an eyebrow, finally meeting his eyes. "I'll never get over you riding me in those wings, so."

Harry blushes, color blooming over the bruises on his neck.

"And the dick piercings?" Louis adds, stepping closer, voice dropping like a secret. "I'm pretty sure my hole just converted."

Harry laughs, eyes falling shut because he can't with that—because he'll never forget the way Louis looked at him then, like he was too much and just enough, all at once. Like he meant something.

And Harry, God—Harry is hopeless.
Irrevocably.
Irreparably.
In love.

But he can't say that. Not now. Not ever, not really.
So instead he says, too light, too brave:

"Well... if you ever want a re-run..."

Louis doesn't flinch. Just steps forward, lips brushing the corner of Harry's mouth.

"I'll know where to find you."

Then he's pulling back, throwing one last glance over his shoulder like it's going to save him.

"Get some more rest, Baby."

Harry nods, but everything in him is screaming. He watches Louis move toward the door, each step louder than the last. He's halfway down the hall when Harry calls out, voice still sleepy but laced with a smile that almost hides the crack beneath it:

"Hey Lou," he says, just before Louis reaches the elevator. "I think you managed to get me pregnant after all."

Louis barks out a surprised laugh — sharp and breathless and too loud for the ache in his chest. Of fucking course Harry would say that. Of course he'd twist the knife with a grin.

He turns his head just enough to be heard.

"See you when I see you, Haz."

And then he's gone.

Just like always.

THE END

Chapter Text

Louis had always been good at slipping back into old rhythms. It was a talent, really—a survival skill. A way of pretending the cracks weren't there, that the years hadn't carved distance and silence and wounds too deep to name. So when he slid into the back of the car after Zayn's LA concert, drumming his fingers against his knee, he did what he'd always done best.

Teasing. Pushing. Saying things just filthy enough to make people choke on their drinks but charming enough to get away with it. And if anyone could keep up with him, it was Zayn.

They had a rhythm—always had. And fuck if it didn't feel good to fall right back into it. The car rumbled to life, pulling away from the venue, and Louis wasted zero time before settling into his most comfortable role—absolute menace.

He let his eyes drag over Zayn's face, slow and appreciative, like he was admiring a damn masterpiece. The concert energy still lingered, vibrating under Louis' skin like an aftershock. His ears rang faintly, the distant murmur of the crowd still echoing somewhere deep in his bones. He stretched his legs out, rolling his shoulders, before digging into his jacket pocket and pulling out his cigarettes.

"Alright, then," he said, voice smooth, teasing, as he tapped one out and held it between his teeth. "First things first—what the fuck was that?"

Zayn, still glowing faintly with post-show adrenaline, shot him a look.

"What was what?"

Louis scoffed, shaking his head as he lit his cigarette, exhaling a slow curl of smoke.

"Oh, don't play dumb, mate," he said, tipping his head to the side, grinning. "That was the sexiest gig I've ever witnessed in my life. And I've been to a lot of gigs. Even the ones where you were still figuring out how to dance like a human being."

Zayn huffed out a small laugh, shaking his head.

"Fuck off."

"No, no, I'm serious!" Louis leaned in, eyes bright with mischief. "The voice? Still perfect. The stage presence? Getting there. And you, mate—" he gestured vaguely at Zayn's obnoxiously symmetrical face, "are still the prettiest thing I've ever seen. It's infuriating, really."

Zayn rolled his eyes, but there was a small smirk tugging at his lips.

"You're stroking my ego."

Louis grinned, plucking another cigarette from the pack.

"Oh, I'll stroke much more than that, if you know what I mean," he shot back, eyes glinting as he leaned forward, slipping the cigarette between Zayn's lips.

Zayn stilled, just for a second, before rolling his eyes again, but he let Louis do it.

Louis flicked the lighter open, steady hands bringing the flame close. The tip of the cigarette glowed bright as Zayn inhaled, his lips around the filter, his eyes flickering up to Louis' through the smoke.

Louis felt that moment in his fucking chest.

"There we go," he murmured, voice just a touch lower, just a fraction too smooth. He snapped the lighter shut with a sharp click and sat back.

Zayn took a slow drag, exhaling out the window before glancing back at Louis, unimpressed. His expression was relaxed, easy, but his eyes were knowing.

"You flirting with me, Tomlinson?"

Louis smirked, didn't even hesitate.

"What if I am?"

Zayn arched a brow, unreadable.

"I'd say you're out of practice."

Louis gasped, hand to his chest.

"The AUDACITY."

Zayn just smirked.

"Bit rusty, mate."

"Oh, that's rich," Louis scoffed, mock-affronted. "I'm excellent at this. My flirting skills are world-class. You should be on your knees by now."

Zayn let out a short, surprised laugh, shaking his head.

"You're an idiot."

"And yet, here you are, sharing a car with me," Louis said, smirking.

Zayn exhaled a long stream of smoke, watching Louis through the haze.

"You're a menace."

"Yeah, but I'm a hot menace."

"Debatable."

Louis staggered back, pressing a palm flat against his sternum.

"Alright, now that's just hurtful."

Zayn smirked, taking another slow drag, exhaling through his nose. Louis huffed, throwing his free hand up.

"Right, well, lucky for you, I am nothing if not determined."

Zayn tilted his head, watching him carefully now.

"That so?"

"Mmm," Louis hummed, eyeing him up and down. "Tell you what—since I'm feeling generous and all that, I'll let you tell me how you'd like me to flirt with you. Seduction's a two-player game, yeah?"

Zayn snorted, shaking his head.

"Jesus. I forgot what it's like talking to you."

"I'm a gift," Louis declared, grinning wide. "You're welcome."

Zayn just exhaled another drag, watching him. For a few seconds, the car was quiet. Then—

"So why are you really here, Louis?"

And just like that—Louis' grin wavered. The air in the car shifted. Not dramatically. Not all at once. But enough.

It was the kind of question that didn't leave room for bullshit. And yet, Louis tried anyway.

"You know why."

Zayn took a slow drag of his cigarette, exhaling through his nose. His expression didn't change, didn't twitch, didn't buy into it.

"Do I?"

Louis tapped his cigarette against the ashtray, watching the embers fall. Felt the weight of it—how his usual escape route wasn't gonna work here. And, for once, he didn't try to run.

"I—" he stopped, swallowing around the tightness in his throat. "I lost too many people, Z."

Zayn didn't say anything. Didn't rush him. Just watched. Louis licked his lips, exhaled a slow breath, and let himself be honest.

"My mum. Then Fizzy. Then Liam." His voice wavered slightly, but he pushed through. "And somewhere in the middle of all that, I realized—" he stopped again, shaking his head, exhaling smoke. Zayn stayed quiet. Louis sighed, running a hand through his hair.

"I'm fucking terrified." He let out a humorless laugh, shaking his head. "Terrified that one day I'll wake up and hear that you're gone too. That I'll never get to see you again."

Zayn's lips parted slightly, something in his eyes shifting. Louis rubbed his thumb over the filter of his cigarette, fidgeting.

"Because the truth is, I missed you, mate." He swallowed. "Every fucking day since you left."

Zayn's jaw tightened slightly, but he still didn't speak. Louis let out a breath, shaking his head. "I was just too fucking stubborn to do anything about it." He scoffed, tilting his head back. "Didn't help that you kept changing your fucking number every five minutes."

That got a small, fleeting smirk out of Zayn, but it faded just as fast. Louis nudged his knee against Zayn's, needing the contact, needing the grounding.

"And I sure as hell wasn't about to slide into your DMs like some desperate ex-girlfriend," he muttered, voice low, like the thought alone was offensive.

Zayn let out a quiet breath of laughter, soft and warm, curling into the space between them like smoke.

"Would've been funny, though."

Louis turned his head, fixing him with a glare that had no real bite.

"Oh, piss off."

Zayn smirked, cigarette balanced between his fingers, his thumb idly rubbing against the filter, like he was thinking, like he was somewhere else for a second.

Louis had expected the silence.

Knew it was coming, could feel it thickening between them like fog rolling in off the Thames—slow, inevitable, creeping into the cracks of everything they weren't saying.

Zayn didn't speak. Didn't move.

Just took another slow drag of his cigarette, exhaling through his nose, his gaze heavy through the haze of smoke curling between them.

Louis knew that look.

Had seen it before.

A quiet calculation, a weighing of words, of things best left buried.

So Louis did what Louis always did.

He beat Zayn to it.

"See, now, I can see you thinking," he muttered, voice just a touch too light, flicking his cigarette against the edge of the tray. The embers flared and died, just like that. "And that's already dangerous territory."

Zayn exhaled slowly, flicking ash from his cigarette, still watching him.

Louis huffed, feigning impatience.

"C'mon then, go on," he prompted, tilting his head. "Tell me how fucking stupid I am for not reaching out sooner. For being a stubborn little prick. For letting pride and guilt and every self-destructive impulse under the sun keep me from—"

He cut himself off.

The words threatened to unravel into something real, something messy, and fuck that.

Instead, he smirked, light and sharp, slinging an arm over the back of the seat, stretching his legs out like they weren't shaking. "Wait, actually. Let me guess. You've got some wise, broody shit lined up, don't you? Something cryptic. Like—'you can't outrun yourself, mate.'"

Zayn arched a brow.

Louis grinned.

"Or, no—hold on—'You're always searching for a home in the wrong places, Tommo.'"

Zayn exhaled sharply, shaking his head, a small, reluctant smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

"You done?"

Louis shrugged, tapping ash into the tray.

Zayn hummed, rolling his cigarette between his fingers. "Not bad," he admitted, gaze flickering over Louis, sharp and assessing. "Bit cliché, though."

Louis scoffed.

"Oh, fuck off, Malik. You live for the existential shit."

Zayn chuckled under his breath, but his fingers twitched slightly against the cigarette.

Louis caught it.

He always caught it.

That tiny tell—the one Zayn never noticed about himself, but Louis had memorized years ago.

It meant he had something to say. Something he wasn't sure he should.

And Louis—because he never fucking learned—leaned into it.

"Go on, then," he murmured, voice quieter now. "Say it."

Zayn took another slow inhale, held it for a beat, then exhaled, watching the smoke curl between them.

And then—

"I hated you for it."

The words weren't cruel. They weren't sharp or cutting or meant to wound.

They were just honest.

Louis stilled.

Zayn didn't look away.

"For a long time," he admitted, voice low, even. "I hated you for it, Lou."

Louis wet his lips, thumb rubbing absently over the cigarette filter. "For what?"

Zayn exhaled.

"For making me miss you."

Louis' breath caught in his throat.

Zayn flicked ash into the tray, jaw flexing slightly. "That I had to leave," he said, voice measured, like he was picking his way carefully through the wreckage of things unsaid. "For making me think I didn't care anymore, and then realizing—fuck, I did. I do."

Louis' chest went tight.

Too tight.

A sharp inhale, a too-loud exhale, a burn behind his ribs he refused to name.

"You're a right little poet, you know that?" he muttered, forcing his smirk back into place. "Proper tortured artist shit. Might as well put it in a song—'Malik's Lament for the One That Got Away.'"

Zayn snorted, shaking his head, but there was something knowing in his gaze.

Something Louis wasn't ready to look at.

Something dangerous.

So he turned his head, blew smoke toward the window, let his eyelids flutter half-closed like he was unfazed. "Besides," he added, voice smooth, casual, "I was never the one that got away, mate."

Zayn tilted his head.

"No?"

Louis turned back, meeting his gaze.

His smirk sharpened.

"No," he murmured, voice low, deliberate. "I was the one you let go."

And fuck if that didn't land.

Zayn's grip on his cigarette tightened, his lips parting slightly like he had something to say—something he shouldn't.

Louis watched him, waiting, almost daring him.

But Zayn—fucking Zayn—just exhaled slow and steady, tapping ash into the tray, his expression unreadable.

And just like that, the moment passed.

Louis let it.

"Well," Zayn said, glancing at Louis with something like amusement, something like curiosity. "I thought you didn't do honesty."

Louis smirked, taking a slow drag.

"Hmm," he exhaled, voice light, teasing, unreadable. "Maybe I've grown. Or maybe I'm just baiting you."

Zayn chuckled, shaking his head as he stubbed his cigarette out in the tray.

"You're full of shit, Tommo."

Louis tilted his head, grinning.

"Why?" he asked, voice low, smooth, deliberate. "Would that work?"

Zayn's smirk widened slightly, his eyes glinting through the smoke.

"Guess we'll find out."

Louis stretched his legs out, rolled his shoulders, took another lazy drag from his cigarette. "Anyway," he exhaled, feigning nonchalance. "What the fuck is this I hear about you being a farmer now?"

Zayn huffed, shaking his head, the corner of his mouth twitching just slightly.

"Not a farmer."

Louis grinned, sharp and knowing.

"Oh, come on, mate. I'm picturing you in wellies, tryna chase a rogue goat through a field. Maybe yelling 'bloody hell, lad' when it doesn't listen."

Zayn gave him a flat look.

Louis only grinned wider.

"That is what you do, right?"

"No."

"Lies."

"Shut up."

Louis cackled, tipping his head back against the seat. "Jesus Christ. I missed this," he admitted, laughter still lingering in his voice. "Missed winding you up. Fuck, mate. Feels like I just slipped back into an old pair of boots."

Zayn smirked, flicking his cigarette out the cracked window.

"Yeah," he murmured. "I missed you too."

And fuck.

Louis felt that one everywhere.

He didn't let it show.

Just stretched, hummed under his breath, and pretended his hands weren't shaking when he reached for another cigarette.

Zayn brought the burning tip to his lips and breathed in slow, watching Louis through the thin curl of smoke between them. The conversation had been light at first, all teasing and old rhythms, but he could feel it now—the weight pressing in. And Louis, always quick to deflect, wasn't running this time.

"So," Zayn started, flicking ash into the tray, "how is he?"

Louis blinked, as if startled by the shift in topic.

"Heard he spends a lot of time in Italy," Zayn added casually.

Louis exhaled a long breath through his nose, dragging a hand through his hair before taking another pull from his cigarette.

"Well, I wouldn't know that."

Zayn arched a brow.

"You wouldn't?"

"Nope," Louis said, popping the 'p' as he stared out the window. "We haven't even spoken in months, Z." He shrugged like it was nothing, but Zayn saw the way his fingers twitched. "Well... except his little stunt at Payno's funeral that left me reeling for weeks, but other than that? Nothing."

Zayn frowned slightly, studying him.

"So, he finally realized that he can't fix you and bolted?"

Louis let out a breath of laughter, but it was bitter, hollow. And then—just for a flicker of a second— something raw passed across his face.

"No," Louis said, voice quieter now. "I finally realized I ruined him for life and I'm not brave enough to deal with the wreckage."

Zayn wasn't expecting that. It hit like a gut punch.

"Well, someone's gotten self-reflective," he muttered, rubbing his thumb over the filter of his cigarette. He hesitated, then asked, "And... how bad did he take it?"

Louis' throat bobbed as he swallowed. And then, so quiet Zayn almost missed it—

"Bad enough that he tried to take his life."

Zayn stilled. The words settled in the air like an open wound. Louis took a shaky inhale, then exhaled just as shakily, like saying it out loud made it more real.

"Heard he took some pills. I think it was just to..." he trailed off, wetting his lips, searching for the right words. "You know. He wanted to see if I'd run back. He's Harry. Dramatic like that."

Zayn's chest tightened.

"Right. Dramatic. And did you?"

Louis' jaw tensed.

"No." He tapped ash from his cigarette, voice almost eerily flat. "I didn't even visit him. Didn't even call." He exhaled smoke through his nose, shaking his head. "Didn't even send a fucking text."

Zayn watched him. Didn't judge. Didn't speak. Just watched. Louis huffed a humorless laugh, rubbing at his jaw, his cigarette burning low between his fingers.

"I should have, though," he admitted. "And I fucking wanted to. Because fuck, Zayn—" he let out a shaky breath, eyes flicking up to meet Zayn's, voice breaking at the edges. "He deserves to know that he means everything. He deserves to feel it."

Zayn's voice was softer now.

"So what stopped you?"

Louis hesitated. Then—honestly, painfully—

"That I still can't give it to him."

Zayn exhaled slowly. Louis licked his lips, his knee bouncing slightly. "And it'd be such a dickhead move to give him false hope. So I just—" he dragged a hand through his hair, sighing. "Let him think that he doesn't mean anything anymore."

Zayn shook his head.

"Fuck, Tommo," he muttered, flicking his cigarette out the window. "You're such a goddamn idiot sometimes."

Louis let out a small, tired chuckle.

"Yeah, well."

A beat of silence. Then, Zayn, voice cautious—"And did it work?"

Louis' eyes clouded over.

"Turns out," he said quietly, "I once again underestimated his delusions."

Zayn frowned. Louis took another slow inhale, then let it out.

"He cornered me at the funeral," he murmured, voice detached, like he was watching the memory play out in his head. "Asked if I figured it out yet. Then he said it's okay, because we still got time."

Zayn studied him.

"And?"

Louis swallowed, voice breaking slightly as he conveniently forgets to mention how he fucked his brains out afterwards... some things are better left unsaid. Especially when they'd sound like a confession, and he's still pretending he's innocent.

"And that he still has hope."

Zayn didn't look away. And Louis—for the first time in a long time—didn't try to hide.

For a second—just a second—Louis caught something in Zayn's eyes. Something quiet, knowing, something that burned just beneath the surface. It made his stomach pull tight, something dangerously close to emotion clawing at his throat. He couldn't have that. So he did what he always did. Deflected.

"Well, don't get all sentimental on me, Malik," Louis said, grinning just enough to sell it.

Zayn huffed, shaking his head, but the corner of his lips twitched upward, just barely.

"Wouldn't dream of it."

Louis stretched his legs out, rolling his shoulders as if shaking off the weight of the conversation. Then, casually, "And also, I'm staying at yours tonight."

Zayn didn't even blink.

"Of course you are."

Louis grinned, nudging his knee against Zayn's again. "Glad we're on the same page."

Zayn just shook his head, exhaling another slow drag of his cigarette.

"You're unbelievable."

"And yet, here I am, in your car, on my way to invade your personal space," Louis quipped. "It's almost like you like having me around."

"Debatable," Zayn muttered, but there was no heat behind it.

Louis let out a short laugh, then tipped his head back, studying Zayn out of the corner of his eye.

"So, go on then," he said, flicking ash out the window. "Tell me about your little quiet life in Pennsylvania. Proper wholesome of you, mate. Do you churn butter and raise cows in your spare time?"

Zayn rolled his eyes, exhaling smoke.

"Yeah, mate, I'm out there making artisanal cheese every morning," he deadpanned.

Louis snorted.

"Could be worse," he mused. "Could be raising pigeons."

Zayn arched a brow.

"Why pigeons?"

Louis shrugged.

"Dunno. Just seems like the kind of weird shit you'd be into."

"You're a dick."

"Yeah, yeah, tell me something I don't know," Louis teased, then sat up slightly, tapping Zayn's arm. "No, but seriously, tell me about your kid. She's, what, three now?"

Something in Zayn's face softened immediately, just the slightest bit.

"Four," he corrected, and Louis swore he actually heard a little bit of pride in his voice.

"Fuck off, really?" Louis blinked. "Where the hell does time go?"

"Beats me," Zayn murmured, taking another drag.

Louis hummed, then smirked.

"Dunno why, mate, but thinking of you as a dad turns me on a little bit."

Zayn choked on his inhale, coughing as he turned to glare at Louis.

"Jesus Christ."

Louis laughed, full and bright.

"Nah, but seriously," he went on, grinning cheekily. "Proper zaddy vibes, yeah?"

Zayn sighed, shaking his head, but Louis didn't miss the way he was fighting a smirk.

"As if you're not a father," Zayn shot back.

Louis blinked, then grinned.

"Yeah, but mine's nine. That's not hot anymore. You've still got that freshly-minted-DILF thing going on for you."

Zayn closed his eyes briefly, clearly regretting his entire life up to this moment.

"I hate you."

"Yeah, yeah, whatever," Louis dismissed, grinning. "So what's she like then? Do I get to meet her, or do you keep me locked away like some dirty little secret?"

Zayn huffed out a small laugh, shaking his head.

"I dunno, mate," he said, glancing at Louis with a smirk. "Can't have her picking up your bad habits."

Louis placed a hand on his chest, gasping.

"How dare you. I am a responsible father and an upstanding citizen."

Zayn gave him a look.

"Your son once called you a 'gremlin of a man' in a segment."

Louis burst out laughing.

"Okay, well, that was taken out of context."

Zayn snorted, shaking his head.

"You're impossible."

Louis just grinned, tapping his cigarette against the ashtray.

"And yet, here you are, stuck with me for the night."

Zayn exhaled smoke, smirking.

"God help me."

Louis winked.

"Nah, mate. God abandoned us years ago."

And for the first time in a long, long time, Louis felt light.

****

Zayn's fancy house was too clean, too curated, too much like a grown-up actually lived there. Louis hated it. So, naturally, he did what he did best—made himself comfortable like he fucking owned the place.

He kicked his shoes off in the hallway, dumped his jacket over the back of the couch, and stretched out on the floor like he'd lived there his entire life. Bended the fucking walls to his will.

Zayn just watched, amused, fascinated, slightly fucking doomed, as Louis rifled through his bag, already pulling out his stash, fingers quick, deft, practiced.

Like muscle memory.

Zayn had seen him do this a hundred times before. The way he rolled with precision, the easy flick of his wrist, the way his tongue darted out at the last second to seal the paper shut. It was almost rhythmic, almost hypnotic.

Zayn just leaned back, one arm stretched along the back of the couch, the other lazily holding his cigarette between two fingers.

"Taught you well," he muttered, smirking as Louis settled in beside him, legs tucked up, casual as anything.

Louis barely glanced up, just shot him a knowing grin, rolling the joint between his fingers. "That's why I have a fucking altar set up around your Saint picture," he muttered, licking the paper and sealing it with muscle memory. "You changed my life, mate."

Zayn snorted, shaking his head.

"Dickhead."

"I'm serious," Louis said, glancing up. "You think I'd have made it through the dark years without Saint Malik's guidance?"

Zayn rolled his eyes, grinning.

"You're so full of shit."

Louis just smirked, but didn't correct him. Because Zayn would never actually believe him if he told him the truth. That he really did still have that stupid Saint Malik photo displayed in his drug cabinet. That Harry had hated it. That Louis had kept it anyway. Zayn tilted his head, watching Louis expertly twist the joint between his fingers.

"So..." he started, tone easy, unreadable. "How hard you wanna go tonight?"

Louis hesitated for half a second—just a flicker—before shrugging.

"Oh, I'll go so hard on you," Louis continued before he could answer, waving a lazy hand. "But laid off the hard stuff, to be honest. Too many lost brain cells. Too many shitty decisions."

Zayn raised an eyebrow, his smirk softening just slightly.

Zayn nodded, quietly relieved, but all he said was, "Good to know I won't have to scrape your own shit off of you again."

Louis grinned, the corner of his lip curling up, flicking his lighter open and shut in his palm. "Oh, come on, that was only a handful of times."

Zayn raised a brow, unimpressed.

"Yeah, and traumatized me for life," he muttered, taking another hit.

Louis laughed, reaching for the joint again. "Thanks for that, though. Y'know... being there for me. When I was a real scum of the Earth."

Zayn let out a low chuckle, shaking his head.

"You were a fucking nightmare."

Louis finally glanced up, grinning again, something more mischievous in his eyes.

"You loved me, though." He tilted his head. "What does that say about you, Malik?"

Zayn sighed, reaching over and plucking the joint from Louis' fingers before he could protest.

"Says I need fucking therapy," he muttered, lighting it up and taking a slow, deep inhale.

Louis laughed, bright and reckless.

"Well, yeah, mate. But we knew that already."

Zayn just rolled his eyes and handed the joint back.

"Does that mean we can't get off our faces?" he said, watching Louis take a hit. "I still do love my vodka."

Louis grinned through the exhale.

"And that's why you'll always be my favorite."

And just like that—the years between them didn't matter anymore.

Chapter Text

ACT 2 – THINK WE'RE DOOMED

The car door slams shut like a threat.

Louis sinks into the backseat, head thunking against the rest like the leather can absorb sins. His phone screen lights up in his lap — unread messages, missed calls, a cursed Reddit tab still open in the background. His body's still humming from weed and withdrawal, from molly residues and Harry and the ruin of all coherent thought.

He sparks a cigarette with fingers that are too steady to be innocent. The first drag hits like habit. By the second, it's a shield.

Then he taps Zara's name and now he's calling. Because he's a responsible adult in a committed relationship. Or something.

The phone rings twice. He half-prays it goes to voicemail. And then—

"Hey, baby," he says, voice all sugar and sunlight. The words fall from his mouth like he didn't spend the night unraveling on another man's chest, like he didn't just ghost him with molly still in his blood and bruises on his thighs.

There's a pause on the other end. For a heartbeat, he thinks she won't answer. That the absence of a heart in her last message meant she knows. But then—

"Hi, you," she chirps, bright and easy. "God, it's so loud here. Are you still in Vienna?"

Vienna. Right. That's the lie he landed on this week.

He reclines deeper, dragging a knuckle across his brow. Ash flicks off the tip of his cigarette and disappears out the cracked window. "Yeah, still here. Just wrapped a couple things this morning. Got a flight soon, but wanted to hear your voice before I go off the grid."

(Off the grid. Jesus Christ. What is this, Survivor?)

But she hums, sweet and oblivious. "You're sweet. I'm glad you called."

And for the first time in what feels like days, Louis hears a voice that doesn't make his chest cave in with want. Doesn't make him stupid. Doesn't make him dangerous. Just—easy. Familiar. Palatable.

"You okay?" he asks, softening like he's supposed to. He lights a second cigarette off the first. "Your text earlier sounded... I dunno. A bit off."

"Oh! No, no," she laughs, breezy as ever. "Nothing bad. Just wanted to tell you in person, but—well, this works. I managed to rearrange some things with work, and I can join you in Costa Rica for a week after all!"

For a half-second, Louis forgets how to blink.

Right. Costa Rica. That thing he said weeks ago, while pretending his life wasn't collapsing in slow motion. Fucking hell.

"Seriously?" he says, recovering fast, slipping into boyfriend mode like muscle memory. "That's brilliant, baby. I'll have Oli sort your flights. Or you could just fly with me, yeah?"

"Ah, I wish," she says. "Still have to finish shooting the documentary, remember? But I'll come straight after. Are you flying commercial or...?"

"Private," he replies, before she's even finished. "Avoids the fuss."

"Of course," she giggles. "Alright. I'll see you soon, babe."

"Yeah. See you soon."

The call ends.

Louis lets out the breath he didn't know he was holding. Lets it scrape the back of his throat like glass. He stares out the window, Berlin retreating like a crime scene. Flicks the cigarette butt into the wind like it personally offended him. Lights another. Lets out a long, slow breath — not relief, exactly. Just release. Like if he exhales hard enough, maybe the last twelve hours will evacuate his bloodstream.

Or at least make him stop picturing wings, and curls, and sleepy voices begging him to stay.

–––––––––

The dungeon glows red.

Or maybe it's just his brain.

Everything pulses—heat, sound, sweat. A low thrum vibrates through the walls like a heartbeat or a warning. It smells like lube and latex and lightning. Louis doesn't know where the floor ends or where his body begins, only that Harry's mouth is on his neck and he's hard enough to die.

They've barely stepped inside and it's already carnage. Strobe lights split the dark. Chains clink. Moans echo. A man strapped to a Saint Andrew's cross screams something filthy in German as someone whips his thighs with a belt.

Louis's pulse says: same.

Harry grins at him like a devil freshly baptized in sweat. "Yeah," he breathes, eyes glittering. "Exactly."

Louis never stood a fucking chance.

They're dragged into it instantly—hands, mouths, voices. But Harry never lets go. He finds a bench, drags Louis down, straddles him like he was born to ride. Lace clings to his thighs like a whisper. His cock's hard, pierced, twitching against Louis's stomach. His mouth is wrecked from kissing. His pupils are blown wide with molly and need.

"Wanna feel it," Louis pants, clawing at Harry's thighs. "Both piercings. Inside me. Now."

Harry stills. Then grins like sin. "You begging?"

"Write it on my fucking tombstone."

Harry's grin cracks wider, all lip and menace. His teeth glint under the red lights. "Turn around then, Tommo. Let's ruin you."

Louis doesn't need telling twice. He's already on his knees, palms braced against the velvet bench, spine bowed like a fucking offering. His arse is up, latex briefs yanked halfway down and already damp. He hears someone whistle low behind him. He doesn't care. Let them watch. Let them film. Let them fucking pray.

Because Harry is behind him now, panting, palms heavy on his hips. His breath ghosts over Louis's lower back, then—without warning—he spits. Wet, obscene. Lets it drip between Louis's cheeks before spreading it with his fingers, slow and possessive. Louis shivers, head dropping.

And then—

The drag of a piercing. Just one at first, teasing, pressing at his rim like a question.

Louis answers with a moan.

Harry doesn't waste time. He's high, horny, glowing with sweat and chaos. He pushes in slow—inch by inch, the piercings catching, stretching, burning. Louis's mouth drops open, breath knocked out of him in a soundless gasp. The stretch is maddening. Holy. Sinful. Sharp in the way good things are when they're too much.

"Jesus fuck," he hisses, clutching the edge of the bench. "You're gonna split me in half."

Behind him, Harry laughs—wrecked and wild. "You'd like that, wouldn't you? God, you got no shame. Is this your rock bottom or are we still descending? "

Louis groans, somewhere between humiliated and turned on. Probably both. "I'm literally on all fours in a dungeon with your dick inside me. Bit late for shame."

Harry thrusts deeper in response—sharp and deliberate. The piercings scrape just right. Louis chokes on a moan.

"Fuck, you're loud," Harry says, smug and breathless. "Gonna make the whole club come just listening to you."

"Then go harder, rockstar. Let's give 'em a fucking show."

And Harry does.

His rhythm turns relentless. Pierced cock dragging over every spot like a weapon, making Louis twitch, gasp, whimper. One hand clamps on Louis's hip, the other digs into the back of his thigh. Cruel. Mean. Perfect.

Something shifts beneath Louis. Cold hands sliding up his calves, gripping his thighs, prying them wider. Then—a mouth.

Hot. Wet. Hungry.

A stranger in full latex suit slithers under Louis like a creature summoned by name. Takes his cock in one brutal gulp—no teasing, no pretense. Just a perfect, anonymous throat and a tongue that deserves a fucking Grammy.

Louis shouts, high and startled, then moans into the bench like it's prayer.

"Jesus fucking Christ—"

The tongue is everywhere—slippery, confident, swirling around his tip and dragging slow under the head. Their fingers roll his balls like they're precious. Their other hand presses against his belly, holding him still.

Behind him, Harry just laughs. "What'd I tell you?" he pants, sweat dripping from his brow. "Everyone wants a taste."

Louis can't even answer. He's shaking. Drowning. Trying to collapse. Harry doesn't let him.

"Stay up for me," he pants, thrusting in again. "Wanna feel you clench."

Then—pressure.

Louis feels it before he registers it—someone else behind Harry—Klaus.

Fucking Klaus.

Seven feet tall. Greased like a rotisserie chicken. Wordless and committed.

He spreads Harry open and dives in—tongue on his rim, his balls, his taint. Sucking and slurping like it's his side hustle. Harry arches, moaning, driving harder.

Louis's whole body shakes with every lick behind him, every thrust inside him, every swallow below him. He's being tag-teamed by ghosts and demons and he loves it.

Louis moans, involuntary. "Oh, my God. Klaus is back?"

"Mhm." Harry's voice is shivery now. "Tongue like a fucking miracle."

And that's when it all dissolves. Into heat. Into sound. Into need.

Harry fucks into him harder, thighs slapping. Klaus moans around Harry's hole. Louis keens as the latex mouth sucks him deeper, tighter, wetter.

Four men. One rhythm.

It's obscene.

"Fucking hell," Louis cries out, clawing the velvet. "I'm gonna—fuck, Haz—"

His breath catches. His spine arches. His whole body—

Jerks awake.

Hard. Sweating. On a goddamn private plane.

His chest heaves. His joggers are tented and wet, dick twitching violently against the fabric. He's one second from coming untouched, and he hasn't even moved.

"Fucking hell," he hisses, shoving a hand into his pants like he's owed backpay.

It takes seconds.

His orgasm hits sharp and silent, shuddering through him as he bites down on his hoodie to muffle the groan. Heat floods his briefs in thick, hot pulses, slicking his fingers as they twitch around his cock. The mess spreads quick—slick and humiliating, sticky against his skin, seeping through the cotton like evidence. Shame follows fast. He stares at the ceiling of the jet like it just ended his career.

Breathing hard. Heart fucked. Brain fried.

"Harry fucking Styles," he mutters to himself, wiping his hand off like a criminal. "I hope your dick gets haunted."

He slumps back.

Dazed. Bitter. Absolutely, unequivocally, doomed.

Fucked.

Eternally damned.

And it's only Monday.

–––––––––

The tarmac at Heathrow glints grey and anonymous under the morning haze. Louis slips through the side exit like smoke, hoodie up, sunglasses on, a baseball cap pulled low. No paps. No screaming fans. Just one grim-faced driver, the luxury of pre-arranged stealth and the pounding of the headache behind his eyes.

He slides into the back of the waiting black Range Rover without a word. Chris is already there. Waiting. Fuming. Arms crossed and jaw tight, like he's been chewing nails and patience in equal measure.

"You look like you crawled out of sin's asshole," says Chris from the driver's seat, eyes locked on the road.

"Jesus fuck," Louis mutters, tossing his bag onto the floor. "No hello?"

There's a silence. Not the good kind.

Then: "Were you gonna tell me, or was I always supposed to find out from fucking Jeff Azoff at 6AM that you were getting shitfaced in a Berlin fetish club with your ex bandmate? While you told me you're going to Vienna to find your muse."

Louis exhales like he's bored, not busted. Lights a cigarette with steady hands and a smirk that shouldn't exist. "Oh, sorry. I was gonna send a postcard but I couldn't find one that said 'Wish you were here, watching me get railed in a dungeon.' Kinda did find my muse tho."

He takes a drag like the conversation's over. Like he's not the epicenter of a PR meltdown. Like he didn't just casually confirm everything.

Chris doesn't even look at him when he says it. Just stares out the windshield, jaw locked.

"I'm gonna ask this once, Lewis. Just once. Then I'll never fucking mention it again."

Louis stills. Mid-breath. Mid-thought. The pause before a car crash.

Chris turns, eyes sharp. "Are you fucking Styles behind everyone's back?"

Louis hums, like he's been waiting for this. Smokes the cigarette slow, lips twitching. "Define 'behind.'"

Chris's hands twitch. "Jesus Christ."

"Alright, alright." Louis exhales smoke, shrugs like he's handing over a parking ticket. "Guilty as charged."

Chris drags a hand down his face. "Bloddy hell, mate."

They sit in the kind of silence that grows teeth.

Then Chris, lower now. "Since when?"

Louis blows a lazy stream of smoke toward the ceiling. "2011, give or take. Back when we thought fingerless gloves were a good idea."

Chris reels. "That's— Louis. That's over a fucking decade."

"Time flies when you're railing your ex-boybandmate, huh?"

Chris opens his mouth. Closes it. Then just slaps the dash, incredulous. "You could've told me."

"I did. Just telepathically."

"Louis."

"Plausible deniability," Louis deadpans, tapping ash out the window. "I was doing you a favour."

Chris looks like he might combust. "Are you two... what, in a relationship?"

Louis snorts. "Please. We just fuck. Frequently. With enthusiasm."

Chris's voice pitches higher. "Is Zara your beard, then?"

"No! God, no. I like her. She's cool. She just... doesn't need to know I dicked Harry down in Berlin, you know?"

Chris lets out something between a scoff and a scream. "And the rest of us? Your team? The actual public? Do you wanna be out?"

"If I wanted the world to know I fuck Harry Styles," Louis says, slow and syrupy, "I'd have told you. Hell, I'd drop a press release. Make it my album title. Styles Uncut. Limited vinyl."

Chris thunks his head against the headrest. "You are going to be the reason I get institutionalised."

Louis grins. Flicks ash like punctuation. "Better pack a bag, mate. I'm just getting started."

"And the fucking tapes, Louis?"

Louis lifts a brow. "What about them?"

"Jeff said there are like—what—a hundred of them?" Chris is practically vibrating. "Holy Shit, he called it."

"Yeah," Louis says, utterly unbothered. "Don't worry. Those are Harry's most prized possessions. Keeps them like horcruxes. Would rather die than let them leak."

"That's... somehow less comforting."

"Welcome to my life."

Chris sighs into his palms. "Right. Well. We're picking Zara up in an hour. Pap stroll at Sainsbury's. I brought the green 28 bomber. You're putting it on her."

Louis groans. "You're evil."

"I manage evil."

A pause.

Louis flicks his ash again. "You're not gonna yell at me?"

"Oh, I will," Chris mutters. "Later. When I'm not legally responsible for covering up your bisexual Berlin bloodbath."

Louis smirks. "Wasn't blood."

"Don't—"

"Okay, okay." He raises both hands, grinning. "Let's go get the missus."

Chris exhales like he's aged a year in ten minutes. The engine hums to life. London awaits, all flashing cameras and forced smiles and strategic shopping carts.

And somewhere under his hoodie, Louis is still sticky with shame and sweat and Harry Styles.

Showtime.

Chapter Text

Louis's house is enormous. Not in a tacky, Versace-tiled way, but sprawling and quietly expensive, like old money had a baby with Tumblr-era indie sleaze. Whitewashed walls, exposed beams, records scattered across surfaces that haven't seen a cloth in weeks. It smells faintly of weed, leather, and something that might've once been Thai but is now mostly a science experiment. Art leans against the floorboards in every hallway — some actual prints, some probably painted by someone he shagged once in Paris.

The kitchen is somehow worse and better. Vast, sunlit, chaotic. There's a Le Creuset pot he's never used. A Smeg toaster he doesn't know how to operate. Crumbs everywhere. A sad, untouched fruit bowl. And Zara, barefoot, slicing steak with terrifying confidence.

She hums to herself, hips swaying slightly with the movement. Her hair's tied up in a bun that actually stays up, unlike Louis's disaster attempts. She's wearing one of his sweatshirts, and she looks... at home. Like she belongs here.

"Don't even think about touching the pan," she warns without looking up. "You nearly lost an eyebrow last time."

Louis rolls his eyes, dragging himself to lean against the counter like he's recovering from surgery. "That was one time. You overreacted."

"You screamed like a toddler with a stubbed toe."

"I sing for a living, babe. The vocal cords are insured."

She snorts, flipping the steak expertly, not a splash in sight. "You gonna contribute anything or just sit there looking fit and useless?"

Louis grins. "Bit rude. Looking fit is a full-time job."

"Mm. Lucky for you, I've got simple taste."

He moves closer, snags a slice of tomato from the chopping board and pops it into his mouth. "Could've said 'classic' or 'timeless,' but no. Simple."

Zara looks up at him, mock stern. "If you keep stealing my mise en place, I'll demote you to table-setting."

"Already set it," he lies, gesturing vaguely toward the dining nook. Which is empty. There's probably still an unopened Amazon box sitting on one of the chairs.

She narrows her eyes. "Liar."

Louis shrugs. "Hopeless romantic, not hopeless dishwasher."

She snorts again, amused, then turns back to the sandwich-in-progress. There's ciabatta crisping in the oven, some sort of garlic aioli in a bowl that she's whisking like she means it.

"I'm genuinely impressed you're still pretending I cook," Louis says, peeking over her shoulder.

"I don't pretend. I compensate." She elbows him gently. "Now grab two plates. And real ones, not those chipped ones from your emo phase."

Louis gasps. "That was art."

"That was IKEA."

He kisses her cheek, soft and lingering, and she smiles without looking up. The whole thing feels... gentle. Simple. Functional. Healthy.

And wrong.

Because Louis is smiling like it's real. Teasing like it's easy. Playing the part like he's not still wearing Harry's teeth in his thoughts and a lie in his lungs. And maybe Zara doesn't notice the way his fingers twitch when she leans against him. Or how he cuts his glances too sharp. Or that his heart beats louder when it's not supposed to.

They eat at the island, perched on mismatched stools that wobble slightly if you lean too far to the left. The steak sandwich is, against all odds, divine—crispy bread, juicy meat, tangy aioli. A fucking revelation in the shape of carbs and cow.

Louis groans dramatically after the first bite, dragging a hand down his face like it's pornographic. "Jesus Christ, Gordon Ramsey. Marry me."

Zara laughs, mouth full. "Too late. Already promised myself to the culinary arts."

He leans in, mock-sulking. "So this is all I am to you? A kitchen groupie?"

She grins. "A groupie who can't boil an egg, yeah."

Louis flips her off, still chewing. Then pauses mid-bite, lips parted, eyes flickering—not at her, but somewhere behind her. Somewhere years ago.

Tiny kitchenette. Tour bus rattling down a back road in Utah. He's barefoot, perched on the counter like a gremlin, legs swinging. Harry's at the stove, boxers and a beanie, brow furrowed as he flips a pan of fajita mix like it's a Michelin gig. The whole place smells like cumin and lime. Louis remembers thinking—this is it. This is everything.

He swallows hard, too late to blame the spice.

"Where'd you go?" Zara's voice cuts through gently.

He clears his throat, forcing a smile. "Just basking in the sandwich glory."

She nudges his leg under the counter. "You're such a food snob."

"Gourmet romantic, thank you." He takes another bite, refocuses. "Costa Rica. Still up for that quad ride? I'll take you up to that insane cliff view. Promise not to kill us."

Zara perks up. "God, yes. But I'm driving one day. You're the worst backseat passenger I've ever met."

"That's slander. I give helpful commentary."

"You screamed 'we're gonna die' over a speed bump."

He shrugs. "It was a large bump."

She laughs again, soft and effortless. "We should book one of those zipline tours too. And maybe that hot springs thing you mentioned. Ooh! What about surfing lessons?"

"I can think of better uses for a board," he smirks, and she smacks his arm with a folded napkin.

As they finish eating, Zara glances at her phone, brow quirking. "Well, the Sainsbury's photos are making the rounds. We're still faking it, apparently."

Louis hums, only half-listening. His phone's buzzed twice in the last minute.

He flips it open, thumb dragging through notifications until—there it is.

A selfie from Harry.

He's in Louis's olive green 28 bomber—the same piece as Zara wore this morning, the one meant to scream straight and seasonal and entirely unbothered. Harry's got it zipped halfway down, smirking like the devil, curls wild, lips bitten. The caption reads:

bet hers smells like damage control x

Louis snorts into his drink.

"Everything alright?" Zara asks, sipping water.

"Mm," he replies, already typing.

Still better than your desperation, Baby xx

He hits send, then locks his phone again, tossing it face down on the counter like it never happened.

Zara stretches beside him, humming contentedly. The sun shifts through the windows, catching the dust motes in soft halos.

And Louis smiles again. Polished. Sweet.

But inside, he's still tasting fajitas.

And wearing a ghost like a second skin.

She finishes the last bite and stands, brushing breadcrumbs off her thighs. "You gonna help me clean up?"

Louis hums, eyes dragging lazily over her frame. "Nah. Thinking I'll show you my appreciation instead."

Zara cocks a brow, grinning. "In this kitchen?"

Louis stands, crowding her back toward the counter. "You know what'd go great with steak?" he says, voice low, smoky. "Me. Between your thighs."

Zara rolls her eyes but she's already standing, already peeling off her sweatshirt as she walks. "And they say romance is dead."

Their mouths meet in the same rhythm they always fall into—easy, sweet, familiar. She tastes like garlic aioli and red wine. He kisses her neck, sucks at the spot just below her jaw like she likes. She giggles, fingers already sliding beneath the hem of his shirt.

"Upstairs?" she asks.

"Mm-mm," Louis murmurs, lips against her collarbone. "Here's fine."

They fumble their way to the couch instead, shedding layers as they go. Zara laughs when he drops his joggers and nearly trips on them. Louis rolls his eyes, kisses the sound right out of her mouth. He's already hardening in his briefs, not full yet, but getting there. He moves her onto his lap, hands on her hips, kisses down her neck with practiced ease.

Zara wriggles out of her sweats and hooks a leg around his waist. "Still got the moves, I see."

"Course I do." He grins against her skin. "Might be a shit cook, but I'm a five-star shag."

"Confidence is sexy," she teases, grinding down slowly.

Louis chuckles, but his mind's fuzzy. His dick is stubborn—interested, but not excited. He palms her arse, buries his face in her neck, tries to stay present. But something's not clicking. Something's... missing. But he deepens the kiss like he's really starving, his teeth finding her shoulder.

He's trying—God, he's trying.

She gasps when he palms her tits through the bra. "What's gotten into you?"

"Midlife crisis," he mutters. "Wanted to go out with a bang."

Zara laughs—low and breathy—as he pushes her legs apart and grinds his half-hard cock against her. "You planning to impress me with the full Tommo experience?"

He smirks. "Thought I'd remind you I'm not just a pretty face."

"You're not even the prettiest in your band."

That gets a sharp nip to her inner thigh. She squeals and swats him, and Louis chuckles against her skin. It should feel good. It does. Sort of.

But his cock's not really cooperating. Still sluggish. Still... ambivalent.

And then, like a curse or a lifeline—

Harry's voice in his head: "Want you to wreck me, split me open and fucking ruin me."

Breathless. Possessive. Inevitable.

Louis exhales through his nose, and there—there it is. His cock stiffens like a traitor. He presses Zara back against the cushions, slips his fingers between her thighs. She gasps, arches up, praises him on cue. But Louis is gone.

Gone to red lights and lace and feathers. To Harry straddling him, biting his neck. To the weight of wings and wicked eyes and Harry's purr in his ear saying, "Come on then, make me forget my zodiac sing."

He fumbles one-handed into the drawer by the couch. Zara giggles, breath hitching when he tears the wrapper with his teeth.

"Responsible king," she murmurs, kissing under his jaw.

"Learnt the hard way," he mutters, rolling the condom on in record time.

And then he's back on top of her, sliding in with a hiss, trying to stay present. It's slow at first, steady and practiced, trying to be the good boyfriend. She's warm and open, breathy praise in his ear. She whispers, "God, yes, just like that, I love when you're like this," and Louis nods like he's there. Like he's listening. Like he's in his body.

But he's not.

Because suddenly it's not her under him anymore—it's sweat-slick skin and soaked-through lace, an outline of a hard, glistening cock, wings tangled against chandelier-lit walls. It's Harry biting his lip bloody and gasping, "God, bet you'd come just from watching me, like I'm your holy fucking mess."

It detonates something.

Louis's rhythm falters, then breaks. His hips snap forward sharper. Again. And again.

He doesn't mean to, not really. But in his head, Harry arches for it—demanding, filthy, so goddamn slutty. He hears the moans, high and cracked. "C'mon Lou, fuck me like you paid for it." He sees the flushed chest, the slick thighs, the way Harry begged with his whole body, dragging him deeper with every bruise blooming on his hips, hole fluttering around his dick.

Louis groans, chokes on it, slams in again. The couch creaks. Zara gasps beneath him, pleasure morphing into something tighter, confused.

But Louis doesn't stop. He can't.

He's fully gone now—chasing the ghost of Berlin. Chasing the moment Harry came apart under him, lace ripped at the seams, moaning "fuck yes, right there, right fucking there" like it was scripture. Louis claws at the cushions like they're wings, ruts into her like he's marking territory.

"Jesus," he mutters, voice broken and wild, "like that, just like that—"

"Babe," Zara says, breath catching. Her voice slices through, strained and small. "Wait—wait, that's too much."

She presses her palm to his chest, halting him.

And only then does he blink.

Only then does he realize his hips are jerking, his hand's fisted in the couch cushion, and he's not even looking at her. He hasn't been.

He was fucking a memory. A hallucination. A ghost in wings.

And Zara looks up at him—flushed, startled, confused. Still catching her breath.

Louis pulls back an inch, blinking like he just came to underwater.

"Oh," he says. Voice hoarse. "Shit."

Louis stares at her like she just yanked him out of a dream he didn't know he was having. His chest is heaving. Sweat beads at his brow. And his dick—once full, once frenzied—goes soft immediately, like it got caught cheating on a test and decided to drop out of school entirely.

Zara's hand is still on his chest, warm and steady. She's not angry. Just concerned. Caught off guard.

Louis doesn't wait for her to register the shift. He kisses down her sternum, soft and reverent, like he can apologize with his mouth. Classic misdirection: go down, don't go dark.

"I've got you," he murmurs, low and hoarse, already sliding down her body.

"Lou—"

But he's already there. Fully committed to the bit.

Tongue parting her thighs, breath ghosting over her pussy. He licks once, slow and deep, like he's got all the time in the world and none of the sins. Her whole body shudders like she's never known better.

"Oh, God," she gasps, her back arching just a little, her voice pitched somewhere between forgiveness and delight.

He keeps going. Flicks his tongue just where she likes it. Draws lazy patterns, sucks her clit into his mouth and hums like she's the only thing that's ever mattered. His fingers dig into her thighs. One hand strokes her hip like he means it.

And maybe, for a second, he does. Maybe he could trick himself into meaning it.

Because here, at least, he can focus. Zara sighs and whines, threads her fingers into his hair, rocks against his mouth like he's the main course and dessert. She's into it—completely. And Louis? Louis is just grateful he doesn't have to look her in the eye.

He pulls another moan from her, then another. Her thighs tighten around his head. Her praise starts to sound dreamy.

"God, baby, you're unreal."

He tongues her through it like he's starving. But his mind's already drifting. Jet-lagged, maybe. Disassociated, definitely.

She tugs at him gently. "Come back up?"

Louis exhales against her skin, wipes his mouth, and climbs back up, body heavy. Her hands guide him, legs wrapping around his waist, ready and eager again. She looks at him like this is some kind of homecoming. But it's not.

He's not.

Not really.

So he closes his eyes, digs through the rubble of his memory, searching for something warmer. Softer. Something that'll make his dick behave again. (He should really start a loyalty program with his own denial.)

And there it is—South Africa, 2015. A borrowed balcony strung with fairy lights that probably violated five safety codes. Warm breeze, ocean somewhere in the background doing its best Spotify chill playlist impression. Harry spread out beneath him, all tan limbs and cocky grins, laughing like forever was a thing he could promise and actually mean. They kissed like they were filming a music video no one asked for. Fucked like the world was paused just for them. Slow. Gorgeous. Stupid. Perfect.

Louis swallows, presses his forehead to Zara's, slides in with a quiet groan—and his body catches up.

Not because of her.

Because of that.

The rhythm is slow now. Deep. Measured. Romantic, even. Oscar-worthy.

Zara moans, curling into him, her heels digging into his back. Probably thinks this is some soul-connection shit. Bless her.

Louis focuses on the sounds she makes. On the way her fingers scratch his neck. On how her hips chase his like this is real.

And when she comes, it's soft. A breathy little sigh, one hand clutching his shoulder, eyes fluttering shut.

Louis fucks her through it, lets it carry him over the edge. He comes with a groan into her neck—but it's muted, automatic, devoid of heat. More of a performance than a climax.

There's no crash. No afterglow. No halo of intimacy.

Just the silence of a man who knows exactly where his body is.

And no clue where his heart went. Probably still buried somewhere under a chapel floor in Berlin.

They lie there for a while, tangled in the kind of post-sex sprawl that looks romantic in movies and feels slightly too sticky in real life. Zara's head rests on his chest, her fingers trailing absent-minded patterns across his stomach. Louis's hand plays with the end of her hair, slow and lazy, his body sinking deeper into the cushions with every passing minute.

"See?" she murmurs, pressing a soft kiss just under his collarbone. "Told you you still had the moves."

Louis hums, noncommittal, and reaches over to the coffee table without looking. His fingers find the pre-rolled joint, a relic from earlier, nestled between a lighter and a half-finished pack of chewing gum.

He lights it with muscle memory, takes a long, slow drag, lets the smoke swirl out in a practiced sigh. His brain starts to dissolve at the edges, everything fuzzing just enough to feel like floating.

Zara shifts beside him, nuzzles closer, talking softly — something about Costa Rica again, or the sandwich, or maybe her friend's dog. He's not really following, but her voice is light, happy, filling the space like it doesn't need anything back.

"Mm," he mumbles now and then, puff of smoke drifting upward like punctuation.

She giggles once. "You're so blissed out. You're not even listening to me, are you?"

Louis turns his head, slow and stoned, and kisses her hair. "Course I am, babe. Your voice's just... ambient now. Like a podcast with tits."

Zara smacks his chest, laughing, and he smirks around the joint, eyes half-lidded. The high rolls over him in warm waves. His limbs are jelly, his guilt a ghost he doesn't quite feel yet.

Zara talks. Louis drifts. The joint burns down between his fingers.

And somewhere far off, not here, not now, someone with angel wings still lingers behind his eyelids.

Chapter Text

Morning comes like a bad decision—bright, smug, and way too fucking chipper.

Zara's already dressed, hair slicked back, wearing something linen and effortless that probably costs more than Louis's first rent. She's rummaging through the kitchen like a rom-com protagonist, humming, pouring oat milk into her coffee, licking marmalade off her thumb.

Louis is at the table, shirtless, hair a disaster, staring at her over a joint like she's a particularly energetic screensaver.

"L'Oréal's doing a brunch thing," she chirps, not even looking up. "Just a product launch, influencer-forward, very natural glow from within vibes. Oh, and Lottie said the tote bags are actually embroidered this time, so I have to go early and snag one before they run out."

Louis nods slowly, exhales smoke. "Embroidered tote bags. Fucking hell. History in the making."

She either doesn't clock the sarcasm or chooses to ignore it. Probably the latter. She's been with him long enough to know that Louis is 60% charm, 30% mood swings, and 10% feral goblin energy.

She kisses the top of his head on the way past. "You'll be okay on your own for a few hours?"

"Dunno," Louis murmurs. "Might start crying over vintage moisturisers or try to fuck the postman. Life's wild."

Zara laughs, swats his shoulder lightly. "Behave."

Louis watches her leave like someone watching a trailer for a movie they have no intention of seeing. She blows him a kiss before the door clicks shut behind her, and he gives her a lazy salute with the joint.

The second the door shuts, the silence hits like a freight train. Louis stares at the space where Zara just stood, hair perfect, cheeks flushed with purpose. Kind. Fit. She smells like watermelon toner and ambition. But something about the way she said "natural glow from within vibes" made Louis want to scream into the fruit bowl.

He takes another drag from the joint, blows the smoke at the ceiling, and tries not to spiral. Fails instantly.

Harry's name isn't said, but he's here anyway. Lurking like black mold under the wallpaper of Louis's mind. Always there, always damp, always rotting something.

This used to be easier.

He used to be able to compartmentalize. Like Solomon Grundy. That was his superpower. He could rail Harry on a Friday, wince through brunch with Eleanor on Saturday, and smile for press on Sunday. The Holy Trinity of Denial. And it worked. Mostly.

Sure, the box rattled like a possessed filing cabinet every time someone mentioned "organic honey," or "Fleetwood Mac," or "God, who even wears floral suits to brunch?"—but still. Manageable.

Until it wasn't.

Until Harry started haunting him mid-fuck, moaning into his skull like a living pop-up ad. Until his cock stopped responding to praise that wasn't gasped out by a lace-soaked, dick-obsessed man he swore he'll never touch again. Until his own girlfriend started to feel like a plotline from a different story.

Louis taps ash into an empty candle holder and sighs, long and suffering. Then he opens his phone. Scrolls past unread group chats, ignored texts from Niall, two missed calls from Chris. Lands on the one app he's been actively avoiding for long months.

MindWise.

The cheery pastel interface glares up at him like an emotional intervention.

He hasn't logged in since December. Back when he felt semi-stable and smug about it. Back when he decided he was cured because he did three whole sessions in a row and hadn't had a mental breakdown on a plane in over a week.

He logs in anyway. The icon bounces. His own name stares back at him, along with his therapist's.

Dr. Wilmer.

Blonde, calm, face like a church candle. Never reacts too much. Never flinches when he says something awful. Once told him he was "not broken, just chronically overwhelmed." Which, for some reason, made Louis cry in a Tesco parking lot. But bonus points for quick wit.

And—fuck. She has a slot open. In thirty minutes.

He stares at it.

Debates.

Thinks about Zara's voice. Harry's voice. His own voice last night, wrecked and gasping into the wrong neck.

Then, without fully thinking, he books it.

It confirms instantly. He puts his phone down like it bit him. Drags one last hit from the joint. Holds it. Exhales.

Thirty minutes.

Plenty of time to mentally prepare.

Or to catastrophize every life choice that brought him here.

He chooses both. Naturally.

When the screen flickers to life, her face appears—sharp bob, dark eyes, a cardigan that says she's ready to dismantle him gently.

Louis offers a crooked smile, the joint now off-screen but very much still in his system. "Hey, Doc. Still rocking the calming neutrals, I see."

Dr. Wilmer chuckles softly. "Still using sarcasm as a defense mechanism, I see."

"Some things never change," Louis mutters, scratching at his jaw. "How've you been? Any other former clients calling you in crisis this morning, or am I special?"

"You're always special, Louis," she says dryly. "Though I admit, I was starting to think you'd outgrown me. It's been a while."

He shrugs, eyes flicking away. "Just thought I'd check in. You know, make sure you haven't joined a cult or started quoting Joe Dispenza or some shit."

Dr. Wilmer tilts her head. "I did, actually. Joined a cult of emotional accountability. Very niche."

"Sounds awful."

"And yet, here you are."

Louis sighs. "Fuck's sake."

A beat passes. Then she says casually, "Saw a few photos floating around. You with a girl. Grocery store chic."

Louis barks a laugh. "Oh, that. Yeah. I'm a Proper Boyfriend now. Capital P. Capital B."

Dr. Wilmer hums. "Tell me about her."

He leans back in the chair, fingers steepled like a parody of introspection. "She's all sunshine and serotonin smoothies. Very glowy. Very wholesome. The kind of girl who makes Pinterest boards and believes in morning routines."

"And?"

"And she's everything I should want," Louis says, grinning without humour. "But apparently, not the kind of thing that makes my legs shake or my brain shut up."

Dr. Wilmer raises a brow. "That's very specific."

"Welcome back to my inner hellscape, Doc. Happy to see me?"

She lifts a brow. "Always. Though the impromptu booking makes me think you're about to overshare dramatically."

Louis grins. "You know me so well."

"Is there something specific you want to talk about?" she asks, tapping at her tablet. "Or is this a vibes-only emergency?"

He exhales. Scratches the back of his neck. "Yeah, well—I've obviously seen him."

Dr. Wilmer doesn't miss a beat. "Obviously."

Louis snorts, tips his head back, then reaches for the half-crushed pack of cigarettes on the table beside him. He lights one with the same gravitas someone might light a molotov cocktail. Inhales deep. Exhales toward the ceiling like the drama queen he fundamentally is.

"God, where do I even start?"

"Wherever you stopped pretending it wasn't about him."

He cackles. "Oof. Straight to the jugular, yeah?"

Dr. Wilmer just waits, pen resting delicately between her fingers like a weapon she doesn't need to use. Yet.

Louis sucks in another drag, lets the smoke pool between his teeth before he speaks again. "I got a text," he says, voice casual. "Said, 'I want you to get me pregnant.'"

There's a pause—microseconds, really—but he clocks the slight flick of her eyebrows. Like she wasn't expecting that particular horror at 9:37 a.m.

He grins. "Exactly. So I flew to Berlin."

"Of course you did."

"There was a sex club," Louis says, waving his cigarette like he's narrating a fairytale for deranged adults. "Not, like, your average basement-with-a-strobe-light kind. We're talking full-blown cathedral of sin. Arched ceilings. Stained glass. Smelled like poppers and Chanel."

Dr. Wilmer raises an eyebrow. Patient. Unmoved. Probably rethinking her life choices.

"Harry wore lace knickers," Louis continues, grinning like the memory is a felony. "But not just any lace knickers. Nah. These were from the archives. Custom-made for his twentieth birthday. I had them done by this insane little atelier in Shoreditch that used to make lingerie for drag queens and royalty. White, hand-stitched, whisper-thin. Left absolutely nothing to the imagination."

He leans in slightly. "And let me tell you, Doc. He soaked them through before I even touched him. Just stood there, fucking ridiculous angel wings strapped to his back, looking like some blasphemous cherub from a wet dream. Whole room went quiet when he walked in. Like someone hit the pause button on hell."

Dr. Wilmer doesn't flinch. Just writes something down. Probably: client needs exorcism.

"There was a girl on a leash by the bar," Louis adds, conversationally. "And a man in a leather mask. Klaus. Lovely bloke. At one point offered us something that looked like a gummy bear and felt like spiritual enlightenment. I think I told him I loved him. Twice."

"And did you?" Dr. Wilmer asks.

"Hard to say. I was high and being throat-fucked by an angel at the time."

A pause.

"Consensually."

"Of course," she says, utterly unfazed. "Anything else notable about the evening?"

"Oh, yeah." Louis ashes his cigarette. "He begged. Loudly. Like—full porn star fantasy. Said things like 'wreck me,' and 'please, I want it all, I want it rough,' and my personal favourite: 'you owe me a fucking apocalypse.'"

Dr. Wilmer blinks once. "And did you deliver?"

Louis grins, sharp and savage. "Doc, I ruined religion for at least three bystanders that night."

Louis exhales smoke through his nose, like he's trying to exorcise the memory before it eats him alive. No such luck.

"Oh—and I made him squirt," he adds casually, like he's recapping brunch, not reliving a spiritual sex séance. "Fully. Like, ground-shaking, bench-ruining, holy water levels of ejaculation. I thought I was gonna need CPR."

Dr. Wilmer doesn't even blink. Just lifts her pen again.

"And then," Louis says, a little too breezy, "he told me he wished I was dead."

That one hangs there a beat too long. Louis lights another cigarette like it's armor.

Dr. Wilmer finally speaks. "And how did that make you feel?"

Louis shrugs, lips twitching around the filter. "I mean... can't really blame him."

A pause.

He taps ash into a chipped saucer. Avoids eye contact. "You know how it's been between us. We love like arson and apologize like lawyers. That's just the rhythm. We burn the whole house down and then argue over who bought the lighter."

Dr. Wilmer hums. "But doesn't that get exhausting?"

Louis laughs—short, sharp, bitter. "Doc, it is the exhaustion."

Louis stubs the cigarette out and immediately lights another. Self-care.

"So after Klaus and the squirt heard 'round the world," he says, smoke curling lazily from his mouth, "we ended up home in the infinity pool. Like some deranged honeymooners. Just us, the sunrise, and enough weed to knock out a minor horse."

Dr. Wilmer doesn't react. She's too seasoned for that. Louis kind of respects her for it. Also kind of wants to say something worse.

"There was yoga," he says, tone flat like he's listing war crimes. "On the rooftop. In our underwear. Harry insisted. Said it would 'open the heart chakra' or some shit. He was still wearing the knickers, by the way. And nothing else. Man looked like a fallen Victoria's Secret model having a breakdown."

A beat.

Louis flicks ash toward the saucer. "And then Jeff showed up."

That gets a reaction. Dr. Wilmer's brow twitches.

"Yeah. Apparently someone spotted us. Not in the sex dungeon, thank Christ, only at the entrance. Only Harry is recognizable, but obviously club-goers jumped in with sightings, so. Rumours started flying immediately—articles, blind items, dramatic Reddit threads. Whole internet went full conspiracy mode. And Jeff dragged his ass across the city to yell at us."

"And how did that go?" she asks, already knowing the answer.

Louis raises both brows. "Doc, we were high as balls. I was still seeing stars. Harry was crying about a baby flamingo plushie he saw in a spa gift shop. Jeff might as well have been speaking Parseltongue."

Dr. Wilmer smiles, barely. "These kinds of rumours used to make you nervous."

Louis groans, drags a hand down his face. "Bro. I'm in an existential crisis. Fucking hell."

"Is that your clinical diagnosis?"

"'Chronic Hot Mess with a Messiah Complex'? Probably."

She hums again, writing something down. Louis leans back, blowing smoke toward the ceiling like he's trying to escape through it.

Louis drags deep on the cigarette, eyes narrowing. "Anyway. That wasn't even the worst part."

Dr. Wilmer looks up from her notes. "It wasn't?"

"Oh, no. Buckle up, Doc. This shit was a 20-hour Greek tragedy with dicks and glitter."

She waits.

Louis exhales smoke. "We're back at Harry's rental, right? Says it's his sanctuary or whatever."

He makes air quotes around "sanctuary" with two fingers and a dramatic eye roll.

"And?" she prompts.

"Turns out I wasn't the only one summoned to Berlin that week," Louis says, leaning forward like he's delivering state secrets, "his bed was still fucking wrecked from the guy he fucked the previous night. He probably left just before I arrived. Harry didn't even change the bloody sheets. Like—full-on cum streaks. Stains, Doc. There were used condoms on the floor. One of them was half unrolled like it died mid-mission."

Dr. Wilmer blinks, just once. "Why do you think he left it like that?"

Louis scoffs. "Oh, come on. He's not stupid. He's fucking strategic. Everything he does is a choice. He wanted me to see it. Like—like some kind of unhinged power play. Or maybe some sick invitation."

"In what sense?"

Louis tilts his head, voice dropping. "Like he wanted me to top the mess. Like—'here's the battlefield, baby, go to war.'"

A pause.

Dr. Wilmer shifts in her seat, pen steady in her hand. "And how did that make you feel?"

Louis lets out a short laugh, half-hollow. "Horny. Angry. Hornily angry. Violently flattered. Like he left a breadcrumb trail of filth for me to follow. And I did, obviously. I ate it up. And then I railed him in someone else's fucking cum-soaked sheets like I'd been possessed."

He shrugs. "Romantic, yeah?"

Dr. Wilmer simply says, "Sounds like he knows how to get a reaction out of you."

Louis glares at the wall like it personally offended him. "Yeah. So do bees. Doesn't mean I should let them fuck me."

Dr. Wilmer folds one leg over the other, pen hovering. "And what happened then?"

Louis flicks ash into a chipped mug on the table. A beat. Then, with a smirk: "I mean, I did punish him a bit. Made him wait. Tied him up, talked some shit. Told him he looked desperate. Which he was. Practically dripping onto the fucking mattress."

Dr. Wilmer doesn't react—of course she doesn't, the woman's built like an emotional bunker—but her pen moves.

Louis takes a drag, exhales through his nose. "Then I rode him. Really made sure he wouldn't be able to get it up for anyone else for a good... what, two weeks minimum? Maybe three, if the contestants are tragic."

"And after that?"

Louis grins wickedly. "Told him it was fun playing with someone else's leftovers."

That earns the tiniest lift of her brow. "And how did he react to that?"

Louis waves a hand, cigarette nearly flying. "Ah, he can take it. He's a slut. He knows his place. If anything, he liked it. I mean, he moaned like I was an exorcism."

"I see," she says calmly, like he's reporting a weather update. "And how did that make you feel?"

"Unbelievably hard," Louis says without hesitation. "But also like maybe I need to be sedated."

"And then," he says, stubbing out his cigarette like it personally betrayed him, "he told me I got him pregnant."

Dr. Wilmer's pen stills.

A long, weighted pause.

Finally: "Okay."

Louis raises his brows. "That's all you've got?"

"I'm pacing myself."

"Right."

A beat.

Louis shifts. Picks at a hangnail.

"Then I tried to have sex with Zara last night but my dick immediately gave up. Like, refused. It knew it wasn't him. I had to go down on her just to buy time."

"I assume that didn't help."

"Not really. My brain was on the other side of Europe."

Dr. Wilmer writes something down. He wants to ask what.

Instead, he sighs. "It's like my body doesn't know how to perform anymore unless it thinks I'm about to ruin Harry or be ruined by him. Everything else just... doesn't register."

Dr. Wilmer taps her pen against the pad. Then calmly:

"And is that a sustainable dynamic for you?"

Louis laughs, loud and a little unhinged.

Then: "Absolutely not."

Dr. Wilmer leans back slightly, tilts her head. "Remind me again," she says, calm as ever, "why you refuse to give it a proper go with Harry?"

Louis groans immediately. "Jesus, Doc. Can't you just prescribe me a lobotomy or something?"

She smiles like she's used to this. "Humor is noted. Answer the question."

Louis rolls his eyes, slumps deeper into the couch, and exhales like she's asked him to relive a trauma—which, in his defense, she kind of has.

"Okay. For starters? He's dramatic."

Dr. Wilmer waits. Just a blink. No reaction.

"Like, performatively, spiritually dramatic. He's either floating through life like a flower child on a mushroom trip or sobbing because I didn't say goodnight with enough enthusiasm."

"I see."

"And our schedules never line up. He's always off filming a music video in a wheat field or posing for Vogue in a fucking corset, and I've got press and sessions and a team who still wants to pretend I'm the straightest man alive."

"Ah, yes. The heterosexual illusion."

Louis smirks. "Yeah, well. Bit past its expiration date now, isn't it?"

Dr. Wilmer lifts her pen. "Go on."

"And he's messy." Louis continues, warming up now. "He's emotionally chaotic. He cries during nature documentaries. He gets jealous of fictional characters. He once gave me the silent treatment because I called a dog cute in front of him."

"Sounds exhausting."

"Exactly," Louis snaps, then points at her. "Thank you. That's what I'm saying. He's brilliant and beautiful and impossible and too much. I can't handle him every day. I can't live like that."

Dr. Wilmer just hums. "And yet, you flew across Europe the second he said he wanted to 'get pregnant.'"

Louis glares at her. "Okay, that's not fair."

"Isn't it?"

He doesn't answer.

She taps her pen again, slow and even. "So. He's too dramatic. Your schedules clash. You've got a label to consider. And yet..."

Louis slumps again, arms crossed, jaw tight.

Dr. Wilmer waits. Always patient. Always just long enough.

Louis sighs. "It's easier like this."

"Easier?"

He shrugs. "I know how to have him this way. I don't know what the fuck we'd be if we tried."

Dr. Wilmer jots something down, then meets his eyes.

"Maybe that's the real problem."

Louis doesn't respond.

He just lights another cigarette.

Louis takes a long drag, eyes half-lidded, voice dropping like he's forgetting he's still being recorded for therapy purposes.

Dr. Wilmer glances at the screen.

"I notice you're smoking more again."

Louis snorts, flicking ash into the nearest mug.

"Yeah. Fuck, I'm already at what—my fifth emotional support cigarette?" He exhales through his nose, dry as hell. "At this point, I should be sponsored by Marlboro and unresolved trauma."

"In all fairness," he mutters, circling back to the theme, smoke curling from the corner of his mouth, "He's only emotionally unstable because I trained him to be."

Dr. Wilmer doesn't flinch. Doesn't write.

"But you already know that."

Louis laughs under his breath. It's not really funny.

He pauses.

His eyes flick to the screen again, the weight of her attention suddenly remembered.

"His body though—fuck, Doc. Sometimes I want to just rub my dick all over him and come just from that." His laugh is sharp, too loud, too real. "Then I get hard again, just from how wrecked he looks. Didn't even touch himself."

He grins. A little mad. A little sad.

"But you don't wanna hear that again, yeah?"

Dr. Wilmer, deadpan: "And yet I will."

Louis barks out another laugh. Covers his face with one hand.

"Jesus Christ," he mutters.

"Go on," she says, voice as dry as ever.

And Louis thinks, for the briefest second, maybe I will.

There's a silence after he says it—sharp, thick, laced with smoke and shame and something that feels almost like longing.

Louis exhales. Leans back in his chair. Looks dead into the camera.

"Fuck, I'm hard."

Dr. Wilmer doesn't blink. Doesn't react. She just adjusts her glasses.

"I see."

Louis groans, tipping his head back. "Sorry. I'm not trying to—this isn't a sex thing."

"Mm."

"I mean, it is, but not like—for you."

"That's a relief," she says dryly.

He laughs, teeth bared. "God, you're such a buzzkill."

"And yet you booked me."

"Tragic."

She crosses one leg over the other. Calm. Focused. Still taking notes like this is a perfectly normal session and not Louis Tomlinson jerking off emotionally while hard for his situationship.

"I think it's helpful," she says, "that you're acknowledging the physical symptoms of your repression."

"Oh my God, don't say 'symptoms.' That makes it sound like a rash."

"You're a walking rash," she replies, unbothered. "You're inflamed."

He wheezes. "Can I put that on a t-shirt?"

"You may. If you also get help."

Louis groans again, dragging a hand over his face. "You are the help."

"I'm trying."

He looks at her. Truly looks.

And for a second, he almost says it.

I think I'm in love with him.

It's like Dr. Wilmer reads his fucking mind, because her voice softens just a fraction. "That's a heavy way to love someone."

Louis doesn't answer right away. Just sits there, eyes fixed on a burn mark on the table like it might blink first. The silence stretches—uncomfortable, unfiltered, undeniable.

Then finally, voice low: "It's not—that. Love. It's just we've never done anything light."

He takes another hit from his fag and mutters, "I need to get laid by someone who isn't him."

Dr. Wilmer raises a brow. "What about your girlfriend?"

His face twists—like he bit into something sour. "Yeah, well. You know I already tried that, but my dick ghosted like I'd said the wrong safe word."

A beat.

"Honestly? I think it's traumatised. Might need couples therapy of its own."

She nods. "I wouldn't be shocked."

Louis suddenly jolts upright, eyes wide like he's just remembered a war crime.

"But fucking hell," he blurts, hands flying up. "Doc, he got his dick pierced."

Dr. Wilmer blinks. Once.

He barrels on. "Twice."

There's a beat of silence, and then he holds up two fingers like it's breaking news. "One for his pleasure. One for mine. Or—others'. I mean." He waves a hand. "Anyone lucky enough to get within ten feet of that cock, honestly."

Dr. Wilmer folds her hands neatly. "Go on."

Louis slaps his own thigh. "I'm going! I haven't recovered! My hole converted."

Dr. Wilmer's brows lift. "Converted?"

"I'm telling you," Louis says, eyes wild. "I was straight-adjacent when I got to Berlin. I left a born-again bottom."

A pause.

"A religious experience," she deadpans.

"Exactly," Louis snaps, pointing at her. "You get it."

She nods. Slowly. Patiently. "And how does that revelation feel now?"

Louis drags both hands down his face. "Like I need to call a priest or fuck him again immediately. There is no in-between."

Dr. Wilmer glances down at her notes. "You said one was for your pleasure. Can you elaborate?"

"No," Louis says, but then immediately adds, "It hits right against my spot. Like a cheat code. He barely moves and I see God."

"Fascinating," she says.

"Have you ever had someone fuck you so good your sexuality rebranded?" Louis asks, genuinely desperate for connection.

Dr. Wilmer stares at him.

Then says, perfectly calmly, "Louis, you are not well."

"I know!" he shouts, flopping back on the couch like he's just delivered the final sermon of his gay awakening. "It's not fair."

Dr. Wilmer clicks her pen. "Let's come back to the emotional implications—"

"My hole, Doc."

She sighs. "Yes, your hole has found its path. Congratulations. Let's explore what your heart thinks about that."

Louis groans again, covers his face with a pillow, and mumbles, "My heart's jealous of my hole."

Dr. Wilmer writes that down. Quietly.

She'll circle back.

Dr. Wilmer glances at her notes, then up at him. "You told me earlier he said you managed to get him pregnant. I think we should circle back to that."

Then she adds, "Do you want to unpack the metaphor, or shall I?"

Louis groans, dragging a hand over his face like the memory physically weighs him down. "Yes, he did. Who the fuck says that?"

He sits up straighter, gesturing wildly. "Like, how twisted do you have to be? I mean, I know fucking well he meant it like some weird biblical metaphor—because he's not delusional. I mean, he is delusional, but it's not like he thinks he can actually get pregnant..."

Dr. Wilmer's voice is calm, smooth as glass. "What do you think he meant by it, then?"

Louis blinks.

Then squints at her like she's just asked him to solve an advanced physics equation.

"Oh, no. No, no. We're not doing this."

Dr. Wilmer says nothing. Just waits.

Louis flails slightly. "Well. Saints get blessed, sluts get pregnant."

She nods. "You're deflecting."

He throws his arms up. "Fuck, you're not gonna let me off the hook, are you?"

She smiles, polite but merciless. "You've paid for the hour."

Louis sighs, long and dramatic.

Then, quieter: "Alright. Fine. He probably meant that I..." He trails off, eyes flicking to the ceiling like the answer might be carved there.

Then, exhale.

"That I left a mark. Again. That I—yet again—fucked him in a way that's gonna sit with him. For weeks. Months. Forever, maybe."

His voice softens at the end, curls in on itself.

He shrugs, but it's defensive. Hollow. "I don't know. That's the vibe, right? Like I've infected him or something."

Dr. Wilmer tilts her head. "And does that make you feel powerful?"

Louis thinks about that.

Then, slowly: "It makes me feel like shit."

And that lands in the space between them—heavy, sharp, true.

Dr. Wilmer doesn't rush to fill the silence.

Louis swallows. Rubs a thumb along the seam of his joggers.

And finally mutters, "But I think it's the only way I know how to be with him."

Dr. Wilmer glances at the time. "We'll have to wrap up here."

Louis groans. "Come on. I was just about to spiral into a monologue about abandonment issues and cock worship."

"You've been spiraling since minute three," she says dryly. "Now, before you light a sixth cigarette and start performing spoken word porn, I want to give you something."

"If it's herpes, I already got that in Berlin."

She ignores him. "A task."

"Oh, brilliant. Homework. Are you gonna grade it? Should I bring glitter pens?"

"I want you to write."

Louis squints. "Doc, I already do that. It's called trauma set to synth."

"Not for an album," she clarifies. "And not for anyone else to hear. I want you to write for yourself. Songs, letters, rants—whatever feels right. Just... be honest. No image control, no dodging, no clever lines to distract from the ache. Just you, and the truth."

He opens his mouth to protest, but she holds up a hand.

"Start from the beginning," she says, gentler now. "The first time you met him. What you thought. What you felt. And then follow the thread. Don't worry about structure or rhyme. Just tell yourself the story you've been avoiding."

Louis stares at her.

Then: "This is some Eat Pray Love shit."

"And yet you're going to do it."

He snorts. "Only because I'd rather write a tragic gay ballad than admit I've caught feelings like a teenage girl with a Lisa Frank diary."

"Whatever gets the ink flowing," she says with a smile.

A pause.

Then Louis mutters, "I'm not saying it's a good idea. But I'm also not not saying it's a good idea."

"Progress," she says, pleased. "We'll unpack it next time."

"Can't wait to read you my poetic breakdown of our first glance across a grimy rehearsal studio. Spoiler: I think I was wearing a chain belt."

"I'll brace myself."

They exchange a final nod—hers composed, his begrudgingly respectful—before the screen fades to black.

Louis stares at the reflection for a second, then shakes his head like he's trying to physically scatter the feelings crawling up his spine.

He unlocks his phone. Texts Oli.

LOUIS: book me a studio for tonight.

LOUIS: like. proper one. no distractions.

LOUIS: and tell zara i won't make it to dinner. tell her i'm... emotionally constipated and trying to unclog. idk. make it sound better.

A few seconds later:

OLI: got it.

OLI: and ew.

OLI: but proud of u x

Louis stares at the screen, then tosses the phone onto the sofa cushion beside him. He runs a hand through his hair, sighs, and mutters to himself:

"First time I saw him... fucking hell. This is gonna be humiliating."

And yet—he doesn't light another cigarette.

Not yet.

Because for the first time in a long time, he's got something to say.

Chapter Text

The studio is... sterile.

Too clean. Too bright. Too professional, in that dead-eyed way that makes Louis itch. Every surface is matte black or chrome, like a fucking spaceship designed by Apple. Even the coffee machine looks judgmental.

He's only here because he knows himself too well: if he'd stayed home, he'd have spent the whole evening alternately jerking off and reorganizing his sock drawer while "emotionally preparing" to write. Which really means doing absolutely nothing except spiraling with ambiance.

So now he's here. In this overpriced IKEA showroom of a studio, trying to make emotional revelations happen under LED strip lights and acoustic panels that look like someone's therapy-themed Pinterest board.

He tosses his backpack down on the stupidly ergonomic couch and lights a joint before even touching the console. The studio policy clearly states that it's a non-smoking environment, but Louis stopped giving a fuck about that somewhere between their second headlining tour and his third existential breakdown.

Besides, if he's gonna emotionally disembowel himself, he might as well do it with a bit of THC in his bloodstream.

The smoke curls around the fancy-ass gear, hovering like a ghost of bad decisions, and he exhales straight at a "NO SMOKING" sign that someone clearly thought would scare him. Cute.

He walks around a bit, pacing like a man on trial, inspecting things with the air of someone judging them. The mic stand's too tall. The swivel chair is too smooth. There's a little succulent on the windowsill, probably named something stupid like "Herbert," and Louis has the sudden, feral urge to knock it over.

He resists. Barely.

The keyboard blinks to life under his fingers when he taps it. The screen glows with his blank-ass session. So empty it could double as his relationship skillset.

He mutters under his breath. "Alright, Romeo. Let's ruin your life acoustically."

He sits down, cracking his knuckles like a boxer stepping into the ring, then immediately stands up again. Paces. Stretches. Looks for snacks. Finds nothing.

It's just him now. Him and the ghosts of decisions made and dicks ridden.

He considers texting Fred. Or Jay. Get the old gang in. Might be nice to bounce ideas around, have someone distract him with a chord progression and a bit of banter. But he knows how that ends: three hours later they're polishing verses about heartbreak for a chart-friendly synthpop ballad, and Louis leaves with another track for the album and none for his soul.

Nah. This one's not for Spotify. This one's for him.

He mutters, "Fucking therapy homework," then pulls a beatpad closer and opens a new voice note.

The cursor blinks.

Blank.

Waiting.

He drags in a loop. Something soft, simple. A gentle thrum underneath, like the start of a thought.

Then, almost to himself:

"Alright, you little bitch. Let's start from the beginning."

A beat. Then he presses record.

The track loops back to the beginning for the third time, same two chords pulsing underneath, soft and steady like a heartbeat that hasn't quite decided whether to race or flatline. Louis stares at the waveform on the screen, joint burning low between his fingers, mind a million miles from where he's supposed to be.

He exhales—long, slow, theatrical—and mutters to no one, "Fuckin' hell, Tommo. All this emotional excavation and you couldn't even bring snacks."

He swivels the chair, leans back, eyes the ceiling like it might hold answers. It doesn't. Just one flickering fluorescent bulb and the echo of a thousand unfinished demos.

But Dr. Wilmer's voice still rings in his ears:

Start at the beginning. The very beginning. The moment you first knew.

Louis groans like he's being punished for crimes he hasn't committed yet, but he drags the mic closer anyway, thumb hovering over the record button.

He doesn't even press it yet. Just closes his eyes. Takes another hit. And lets his brain do the thing it always does—rip open old wounds with cinematic clarity.

The studio fades. The smell of weed and coffee pods evaporates. Suddenly it's sweat and deodorant and nerves that haven't been named yet.

2010. summer

The room buzzed with chaos—scattered suitcases, people pacing, the scrape of chairs against the floor. Someone was warming up in the corner, hitting notes they had no business aiming for. It smelled faintly of nerves and stale coffee, the kind of energy that settled under your skin and refused to leave.

It was chaos, pure and simple. But Louis thrived in chaos.

He wasn't nervous, though. Not really. Louis Tomlinson didn't do nerves. He did charm, banter, and whatever it took to get by. That was his thing: breezing through life, laughing too loudly, and refusing to take anything too seriously.

Leaning casually against the wall, Louis let his eyes wander lazily over the room, half-looking for something—someone—to entertain him. And that's when he saw him.

Curly hair. Flushed cheeks. Dressed in an oversized jumper so ugly it bordered on iconic.

The boy stood awkwardly near the center of the room, fiddling with the cap of a water bottle. He wasn't talking, not really, just nodding along to whatever someone else was saying. But there was something about him—something Louis couldn't quite put his finger on.

He looked shy, sure, but not small. Like he wasn't trying to take up space, but the room still bent toward him anyway.

And then he smiled—dimples deep, eyes bright—and Louis thought, Ah, fuck me.

For a moment, he debated letting it go. But where was the fun in that?

A few minutes later, he strolled into the toilets, finding the curly-haired boy exactly where he thought he'd be: standing at the sink, staring at his reflection like it might have the answers to life's greatest mysteries.

"Practicing your smolder?" Louis called out, letting the door swing shut behind him.

The boy jumped, spinning around so fast he nearly dropped his water bottle. His eyes went wide when he saw Louis, his cheeks already pink.

"I—what?" the boy stammered.

"Your smolder," Louis repeated, casually leaning against the sink next to him. "Y'know, the whole brooding, soulful stare thing. Very Disney prince. You've got it down, by the way."

The boy blinked at him, clearly startled, but then his lips twitched. "Oh. Thanks? I think?"

Louis smirked, tipping his head toward the jumper. "Love the look, by the way. Bold choice. What is that, knitwear chic?"

The boy glanced down at himself, tugging nervously at the hem. "It's my lucky jumper."

"Lucky, huh?" Louis arched a brow, giving him an exaggerated once-over. "Let me guess: you wear it, and the judges are too dazzled to notice if you hit a bum note?"

That earned him a small laugh—soft, warm, and entirely unexpected. "No," the boy said, his eyes darting back up to Louis. "But it does have a perfect record of keeping me from throwing up before I sing, so..."

Louis barked out a laugh, genuinely caught off guard. "Alright, fair play." He grinned, crossing his arms as he watched the boy. "What's your name, then?"

"Harry," the boy said. "Harry Styles."

Louis let the name settle in his head. Harry Styles. It suited him somehow—soft around the edges, but just sharp enough to leave a mark.

"Right," Louis said. "So, what's the verdict, then?"

Harry frowned, clearly confused. "The verdict on what?"

"On me," Louis said, flashing him a grin. "You've been staring for a solid thirty seconds. Am I living up to your expectations, or am I gonna have to try harder?"

Harry's mouth opened, then closed again, his cheeks flushing pink. For a second, he looked completely flustered, and Louis was sure he'd won. But instead of backing down, Harry gave Louis a once-over that was so obvious it made Louis blink. Then he looked up at him, dimples popping as he grinned.

"Well," Harry said, voice still soft but laced with mischief, "you've got the hair, and the attitude's alright... but the jeans are doing most of the heavy lifting."

For a second, Louis just stared at him, completely thrown. Then he burst out laughing, loud and sudden, the sound bouncing off the tiled walls. "Oh, fuck off," he said, grinning as he shook his head.

Harry shrugged, still smiling, though he ducked his head a little, like he wasn't used to winning. "Guess you'll just have to up your game."

Louis laughed again, louder this time, shaking his head in disbelief. "Careful, love," he said, his grin sharp and teasing. "If I up my game any more, you'll be writing me love songs by next week."

Harry's eyebrows shot up, and for a split second, Louis thought he had him—flustered, out of his depth. But then Harry looked up at him through his lashes, his dimples deepening as he grinned.

"Might need more than your jeans to inspire me," Harry said, his voice light but deliberate, like he was testing just how far he could push.

Louis froze, his grin faltering for a beat, before he burst out laughing so loudly it startled someone outside the door. He tipped his head back, clutching the edge of the sink for support. "Alright, alright!" he said, still grinning. "You've got me there, Styles. Didn't know you had it in you."

Harry ducked his head again, but he was smiling wider now, a little smug beneath the pink in his cheeks. "Guess you'll have to keep up, then."

Louis barked out another laugh, shaking his head. "Huh, don't threaten me with a good time."

Harry rolled his eyes, but the pink in his cheeks only deepened, and his smile lingered as he looked down at his water bottle again.

"You nervous?" Louis asked, tilting his head, still watching him.

Harry shrugged, fidgeting slightly. "A bit."

Louis leaned against the counter beside him, his eyes narrowing playfully. "Nah, you don't seem the type. You seem..." He tilted his head, pretending to think. "Composed. Sophisticated. Maybe a little dangerous."

That startled a laugh out of Harry—soft, warm, and entirely unexpected.

"Yeah, sure," Harry said, his voice still quiet but with a spark of cheekiness underneath. "Dangerous in a jumper. That's me."

Louis grinned, his eyebrows shooting up. "Oh, and you do have a sense of humor too. Good to know."

Harry shrugged again, his smile turning slightly self-deprecating. "Sometimes. Mostly when I'm not about to throw up in front of a national audience."

Louis barked out a laugh, loud and genuine. "Fair point. But hey, lucky for you, I'm an expert in this sort of thing."

"This sort of thing?" Harry asked, tilting his head.

"Yeah, you know." Louis waved a hand vaguely. "Being ridiculously charming under pressure. It's a gift."

Harry smiled again, the corners of his eyes crinkling. "Does it ever turn off?"

"What, the charm?" Louis smirked, tilting his head. "Not a chance."

Harry huffed out a small laugh, ducking his head. His curls fell into his face, and he pushed them back absentmindedly, still looking at Louis like he wasn't entirely sure what to make of him.

"What about you?" Harry asked, his voice quieter now but still playful. "What's your name?"

Louis grinned wider. "You'll find out when I'm famous."

Harry blinked, clearly thrown, but then he surprised Louis by saying, "So... next week, then?"

Louis froze for a half-second before laughing again, his head tipping back. "Bloody hell. You're something else, Harry Styles."

Harry flushed deeper, but he was grinning now, a little shy and a little smug.

"Well," Louis said, straightening up and heading for the door, "good luck out there. Not that you'll need it."

"Thanks," Harry said softly. Then, just as Louis was halfway out the door, Harry added, "You too."

Louis paused, glancing back over his shoulder. For a second, he thought about saying something else—something cheeky, something clever—but instead, he just smiled.

"See you around, Harry Styles," he said, and then he was gone, stepping back into the chaos of the holding room.

As he weaved through the crowd, Louis realized he was still smiling. He didn't know much about Harry Styles yet, but one thing was for certain: that kid was going to be trouble. The kind.

Fourteen years later, Louis still wasn't sure if he'd survived it.

——————

Louis opens the therapy app like it's a cursed relic. The screen flashes with a gentle "Hi Louis :)" from Dr. Wilmer, which immediately makes his eye twitch. There's a checklist. There's a voice note reminder. There's even a stupid little encouraging heart emoji in the corner.

"I swear this thing is gaslighting me," he mutters, taking a long drag from his joint as if bracing himself to dive headfirst into the emotional abyss.

He scrolls to the part titled:

POST-MEMORY REFLECTION — PROMPTS TO DEEPEN INSIGHT

And underneath, the questions:

1. What did you feel in your body?

Louis stares. "Horny," he types first. Then deletes it. Starts again.

"Alright, real answer: I felt... tight, I guess? Not like, sexy tight—more like coiled. Like I'd just walked into a room where the air was thicker. Shoulders high, chest buzzing, hands twitchy. I lean when I'm trying not to run, and I remember leaning a lot. Like a cocky bastard with a death wish."

2. What did you think in that moment?

Louis scoffs. "Other than 'fuck me,' you mean?"

"Fine. I thought... he was going to fuck everything up. Not in a bad way, just—like a hurricane with dimples. I thought: that one. That one's gonna ruin me. And I also thought: let's fucking go."

He pauses. Types something else beneath it:

"I didn't think he'd stay in my head for fourteen years, though. That bit was not on the vision board."

3. What emotions describe the memory most? (Use the feeling wheel if helpful.)

He opens the feeling wheel.

Immediately recoils. "Jesus fuck," he mutters. "Who needs this many feelings? There are, like, five that matter. The rest are just rebrands."

Still, he squints at the rainbow-colored monstrosity.

"Intrigued, aroused, smug, nervous, nostalgic, lowkey panicked. That last one didn't show up till later, but I know it was there. Hiding under the smug."

He adds:

"Also whatever the hell 'anticipatory longing' is. Pretty sure I invented that emotion on the spot."

4. Did the memory reveal something new about how you connect to others?

Louis lights a fresh fag like he's prepping for war.

"It confirmed something I already knew but never wanted to admit: I clock people fast. Too fast. One look and I'm all in. I saw a curly-haired problem in a shit jumper and decided, yeah, I'll orbit this one till I combust. Which is unusual, because I hate letting people get in my head. Hate letting them get too close. Even worse, let myself get too close."

"I think I treat this specific connection like a dare. And I never walk away from a dare."

5. What do you think or feel now about that memory?

He stares at the question long enough that his screen dims. Taps it back awake with a sigh, like the app itself is asking too much of him.

"If I'd known then what I know now—that we'd meet again, that we'd be thrown into this mad circus together, that I'd end up writing breakup songs in his boxers ten-something years later—I probably would've kept my mouth shut in that fucking bathroom."

He pauses. Adds slowly:

"Actually, no. I wouldn't have. That's the problem."

"He was so... fuckin' pure, y'know? Not in a boring way. Just untouched. Unruined. The kind of boy that made you want to brush your teeth before speaking to him. And I—I just had to go and touch him."

"And ruin him."

"I think about that a lot. Like, a lot a lot. How he smiled so big and meant it. How soft he was. How soft he let me be. And how I just—couldn't stop myself. Couldn't make myself not want him. Couldn't make myself not break him. Like I was already destined to fuck it up."

The cursor blinks. His thumb hovers.

He finishes, quietly:

"I wish I'd never gone in that fucking bathroom."

Then, like a reflex—one last bit of deflection to keep himself afloat:

"...But also, the jeans were really good that day. So maybe it was fate."

6. Is there anything you're still carrying from this memory?

He blinks at that one. Takes a long drag, watches the smoke curl toward the ceiling like a ghost of his past fucking decisions.

"Yeah. I'm carrying him."

He stares at that line for a bit. Doesn't delete it.

Then, for no reason at all, he adds:

"P.S. Please remind me to never do this sober. Emotional self-reflection should come with hazard pay."

He taps 'send' before he can overthink it, and immediately lights another cigarette. Number... three? Four?

Then slumps back in the chair, exhales like he just ran a marathon, and mutters, "God, I hate being a person."

He doesn't even bother closing the therapy app.

Just flips his phone face down, stares at the blank session on his big screen, and lets the silence stretch. The beat he started an hour ago loops faintly in the background—still soft, still steady, like a heartbeat refusing to give up.

Louis takes one last drag from the cigarette, now basically a roach, then stubs it out on the bottom of the coffee mug he's been using as an ashtray. Classy.

He swivels in the chair again. Slowly. Absently. Like if he spins long enough, maybe the shame'll fly off him.

The cursor on the screen still blinks as he's trying to turn the memory into some kind of art when his phone buzzes.

A message.

From Harry.

One line.

No emojis.

No punctuation.

No warning.

"Did you mean to send me that?"

Louis stares.

Everything stops.

The beat loop falters.

His stomach drops.

Because Louis never sent Harry anything.

Not on purpose.

And his fingers are trembling now as he picks up his phone, unlocks it—

—and sees it.

Chapter Text

The place smells like a breakup and cheddar sauce. Weed smoke clings to the curtains like trauma. There's a half-eaten burger on the windowsill. Someone's sock on the lamp. Some leftover churros sauce fuses slowly into the floorboards like it's trying to escape. Like every bad decision Harry ever made in pursuit of one good night. Well, not one, but scraps are better than nothing, so.

He's sprawled across the couch like roadkill in couture. Wearing a $4,000 jumper, one sock, and a frown that hasn't moved in twelve hours. Louis' green bomber is bunched up under his head like a pathetic souvenir. His phone rests on his chest.

He hasn't changed clothes. Or positions. Or emotional states. Time is fake, hunger is optional, and feelings are currently muted like a Zoom mic.

He should shower. Or eat. Or call someone. But all he wants to do is melt into the upholstery and get absorbed by the cushions.

The knock on the door might as well be a gunshot.

He ignores it.

The door creaks open anyway.

"H?" Jeff's voice. Careful. Testing the emotional air like it's radioactive.

Harry hums noncommittally. Which is generous, considering the circumstances.

"Hello? Earth to Gary?" Tom calls as he stumbles in behind Jeff, kicking a crumpled paper bag out of the way. "Jesus Christ, it smells like a festival in here."

Harry doesn't look up. "It's vintage Berlin," he mutters.

Tom snorts, but it's soft. Too soft. Like he's worried being too loud might shatter the guy on the couch. "How's our pop princess today?"

Harry shrugs.

"Cool. Great. Loving this feedback loop."

Jeff doesn't say anything. He just starts picking up garbage. Quietly. One takeout box at a time. Stacks them, ties off the trash bag. Repositions a chair that was knocked over. Gathers three half-empty glasses and a Red Bull that Louis forgot to drink after all.

Tom watches him for a second, then slumps onto the armrest beside Harry's feet.

"You look like grief in a Saint Laurent ad," he says teasingly, trying and failing to cheer him up with nonsense.

Harry finally looks at him. Barely. "I'm cultivating aesthetic despair."

"You wanna write something?"

"No."

"Wanna tell us what happened?"

Harry blinks. The phone in his hand glows with a picture of Louis from 2016, one Harry never posted, just kept in an album labeled "ugh."

"Not particularly."

Tom sighs. "You're being a bit of a knob, you know that?"

Harry doesn't respond.

Tom leans in anyway, voice softer now. "Heard he was here."

Harry nods once.

"Said goodbye?"

Harry's lips twitch. "Said 'see you when I see you.'"

"Oof," Tom says. "Rough."

Harry lets out a laugh. It's sharp and dry and mean, like he's been drinking sarcasm on the rocks.

Tom doesn't press. Just shifts, reaches for a guitar that's leaning against the couch. "Let's just play something, Gary. Fuck around a bit."

Harry closes his eyes. "Leave me the fuck alone, Tom."

"But it makes you smile."

"I'm not smiling."

"You're trying not to."

Jeff's still cleaning. Quiet, methodical, like a ritual. He pauses only once to glance over at Harry. Not judgmental. Just... sad.

He knows this version. Knows him too well.

The boy who sees the world in ultra-4K when Louis is near, and grayscale static when he's gone. Like someone yanked the meaning out of life and took all his serotonin with them. It usually takes a few days for his nervous system to reboot, so in the meantime he's either a sleep-deprived toddler or a petulant teenager — whichever's more allergic to logic.

Harry finally speaks, voice low and dull like the end of a cigarette:

"Told myself I wouldn't let him touch me again."

Tom shifts on the couch, careful. "Mm. How'd that go?"

Harry snorts. "Yeah, well. I sexted him."

Tom winces softly. "Jesus, H."

"No, it's fine," Harry says with a bitter little grin, dragging a hand through his hair. "Really. Very healthy behavior. Big win for personal growth."

Tom glances toward Jeff, who doesn't even flinch, just keeps folding a greasy napkin like it's a meditation.

"What happened?" Tom tries.

Harry exhales through his nose, like he's bored with himself. "Hooked up with some guy. Bland as fuck. Smelled like him, though."

He laughs—sharp, hollow. "That's what got me going. Not the guy. Not the sex. Just that stupid scent. Tobacco Honey or some shit."

Tom raises a brow. "So you sent Louis a—?"

"Full frontal, yeah." He leans his head back against the wall, eyes shut. "Just hit send like a fucking idiot. I was so gone I didn't even crop out the guy's shoe in the corner."

Tom lets out a low whistle. "Bold."

Harry cracks an eye open, smirking. "Yeah. Or just fucking tragic. You can choose which sounds less like a cry for help."

Tom softens, carefully asking, "And he came over?"

"Of course he did," Harry says, like it's obvious. "Wouldn't miss a chance to twist the knife."

There's a beat.

Tom's quiet for a second. Then:

"How was he? Charming as always?"

Harry huffs a humorless laugh. "Y'know. The same. Smug. Hot. A fucking dickhead. Said something like—"

Harry's voice drops into a mocking drawl, mimicking Louis' voice"'Had fun playing with someone else's leftovers.'"

Tom's whole face twists. "Motherfucker."

"Mm. Dreamy, right?" Harry exhales, blinking up at the ceiling.

"He fucked me like he was—"

A pause. He swallows.

"—looked at me like—"

Another pause, longer this time.

"—and then left. Surprise."

He turns to Tom, bitter smile curling again. "So yeah. That's the update. Emotional stability's through the roof."

Tom shakes his head, quiet. "You okay?"

Harry doesn't answer right away. He just stares at the overflowing ashtray on the table like it's personally betrayed him.

Finally, flatly:

"Whatever. He's gone now. Apparently I'll see him when I see him, like that's not my version of a death sentence."

Tom swallows. "Right."

Jeff dumps a can into the bin without a word. The silence grows teeth.

Then Harry mumbles, mostly to himself, "I need to get fucking electrocuted."

Jeff finishes tying the trash bag. He doesn't say I'm sorry. Doesn't say it'll be okay. Just pats Harry's shoulder gently as he walks past. "You're already cute. Don't need the electro-shit. I'll take this down."

Harry nods. Watches him go. Listens to the door click behind him.

Tom plucks a lazy chord. Lets it hang in the air.

Harry's voice is barely a whisper. "I think he's still in my bloodstream."

Harry groans and slumps back into the cushions, pulling Louis' green bomber tighter around him like it might have answers sewn into the lining.

He says, almost to himself,

"I mean. I fucking knew better."

Harry picks up his phone and his thumb moves on autopilot.

He scrolls. Instagram. Twitter. The group chat muted for the sake of his last remaining brain cell. Someone tagged him in a story of a club sighting from three or four nights ago—he's cross-eyed in the background, sipping something pink and radioactive out of a fishbowl in some random club in Berlin. Lovely.

He keeps scrolling. Past fan edits, past a blurry photo of Tom's dog, past his own face on a playlist cover he never approved.

And then—of course. Of fucking course.

There they are.

Louis and Zara.

Sainsbury's. Romantic morning. Holding hands over a basket of organic vegetables like they're starring in a Waitrose fever dream. Louis in sunglasses and joggers, Zara smiling like she's never cried into a tequila bottle.

Harry's not sure what stings more—the domesticity or the jacket.

Because there it is. That fucking jacket.

Zara's wearing it now—his green bomber. Well, a green bomber. The same model, Louis' own fucking brand, same washed-out military smugness. Louis always had a thing for matching aesthetics and mixed signals. And Harry, the idiot, is still lying on the actual one Louis wore in Berlin. The one that still smells like weed and sin and whatever laundry detergent Louis' assistant uses.

His jaw tightens. His thumb freezes. Then scrolls back up. Zooms in.

Of course Louis draped it over her shoulders. Of course the fan account's caption says "dinner run ❤️" Of course the top comment is "look at daddy 🥹."

Harry stares. For a long time. Long enough for his blood pressure to audition for a heart attack.

And then—without thinking, without breathing—he switches to the front camera, puts the jacket on and snaps a selfie.

Eyes bloodshot. Hair a mess. Wearing the same bomber now wrapped around Zara's shoulders. Coincidence? Delusion? Who fucking knows anymore.

He types:

Harry: bet hers smells like damage control x

Sends it.

Regret creeps in immediately. But before it can bloom fully into shame, the little typing dots appear. And then:

Louis: Still better than your desperation, Baby xx

Harry makes a noise. It's not a groan. Not quite a growl. More like the sound a wild animal makes when it steps into a trap it knew was there.

"Fuck this," he snaps, flinging the phone across the room.

It bounces off a cushion and hits the floor with a tragic little clatter. A Red Bull can (that managed to live through Jeff's cleaning spree) wobbles and topples in its wake.

Tom blinks. "Was that the phone or your last shred of dignity?"

"Both," Harry mutters, rubbing his eyes like he could wipe Louis out of his retinas. "Fucking both."

Tom shifts on the couch. Doesn't say anything for a second. Then, gently: "You want me to unplug the Wi-Fi?"

Harry laughs bitterly. "Why, so I don't drunk-email my therapist again?"

"Again?"

Harry flips him off without looking. Then groans into the bomber, muffling his voice:

"He's playing house in Camden and I'm out here mainlining memories like a moron."

Tom plucks another chord. Still soft, still watching him with something almost like pity.

"Harry," he says slowly, "you know he's not—"

Harry cuts him off. "Don't. Please. Don't do the 'he's not worth it' speech. I've heard it. And it's fucking bullshit."

Silence.

He adds, quieter:

"You just don't know him."

Tom doesn't argue. He just nods. Muted. Tired.

Harry closes his eyes. The room spins slightly—equal parts weed and unresolved trauma.

"I think I need to die a little," he says.

Tom hums. "Then we write a ballad and monetize it. Business, baby."

Harry snorts. "You're the devil."

"I'm your friend."

"Same thing."

They sit in silence. The bomber already tucked back under Harry's head. His phone face-down on the floor. Zara still haunting his mind like a designer ghost.

Somewhere outside, Berlin keeps spinning.

Inside, Harry doesn't move.

He just stares at the ceiling, and whispers—

"I should just burn this fucking jacket."

The door creaks open again.

Jeff steps back in, kicks off his trainers with a sigh, then scans the room.

Same mess. Same silence. Same Harry, sinking deeper into the couch like he's trying to fuse with it on a molecular level.

"You eat today?" Jeff asks, too casual to be casual.

Harry shrugs, eyes still fixed on the ceiling. "Don't wanna."

Jeff doesn't argue. Just walks to the fridge, opens it, grimaces at the depressing selection of condiments and club soda. He grabs a bottle of juice and tosses it lightly toward the couch.

It hits Harry's thigh with a dull thud. He doesn't catch it. Just lets it roll down onto the cushions.

"Rude," he mutters.

Jeff ignores that. Leans against the counter, arms crossed. "We need a plan. Sarah and the others are on their way to Berlin. Studio time's blocked for tomorrow. So either you and Tom figure your shit out, or we're all gonna sit around pretending we're not panicking."

Harry finally looks over. "You scheduled a session for tomorrow?"

Jeff's brow twitches. "No, you did. Two weeks ago. Said you'd be 'post-marathon zen and ready to write a Grammy-winning serotonin anthem.'"

Harry snorts. "Must've been high."

"Undoubtedly," Jeff says dryly. "Still happening, though. And I'm not letting you spiral in front of Sarah. She already thinks you're about two months from faking your own death."

"Dramatic."

"She's not wrong."

Harry goes quiet again. The juice bottle sits untouched beside him, condensation beading like sweat.

Jeff softens a little, voice low. "Look, H. I'm not asking for magic. Just... show up. Fake it if you have to. Play a chord. Say a word. Breathe."

Harry closes his eyes.

Tom strums something mindless in the background again—three lazy chords, looping like a heartbeat on autopilot.

Then Harry says, "Fine. I'll pretend to be functional."

Jeff gives a tiny, dry smile. "Great. Your best skill."

He picks up Harry's phone from the floor and plops down to the far end of the couch. "Ten minutes, sad girl. Brush your hair or don't. But be upright."

Harry glances at the juice. Picks it up. Doesn't drink it—just stares at it like it might have answers.

Tom plucks another chord. Then:

"You gonna shower?"

Harry shrugs. "Too slippery. Dangerous for the mentally unwell."

Tom laughs. "Well, shit. At least you've still got your humor."

Harry takes a sip of the juice. Grimaces.

"Tastes like depression."

"Pass it over," Tom says, holding out a hand. "I'm thirsty and emotionally unstable too."

The couch groans when Harry finally hauls himself up like a cursed Victorian widow dragging her grief to the parlor. The juice bottle rolls to the floor with a soft thunk—he doesn't notice.

He shuffles barefoot to the piano like it personally owes him an apology. It's not even his, he was too lazy to organize transporting his own here. This one is too polished, too fucking in-tune, like it's never seen a breakdown or a breakup or a blowjob in its presence. But it's here. And it's not talking back. So he sits.

Lets his fingers rest on the keys. Cold. Pretentious. Judgemental.

He presses one. Then another. Just feeling it. Feeling something.

Then, without thinking, without planning, he starts playing the opening notes to the song he's been obsessing over the past few weeks.

His voice is thin, a ghost of itself. But the words fall out anyway.

"Baby really hurt me, crying in the taxi

He don't wanna know me

Says he made the big mistake of dancing in my storm

Says it was poison..."

The chords ring out in the living room. Tom doesn't say a word, just listens from the couch, eyebrows drawn.

Harry keeps playing, but his voice drops off. He exhales and leans over the keys like the instrument might collapse with him.

"No because," he mutters, half-laughing, "I don't know what the fuck I do wrong. I do everything in the Louis fucking Tomlinson handbook. I'm fun. I suck cock like a dream. I have his dick down to a fucking science."

He jabs at a discordant chord like it insulted his mother.

"And I still can't make him stay."

There's a beat of silence. Tom doesn't move.

Harry presses back into the song.

"They say, 'You're a little much for me

You're a liability

You're a little much for me'

So they pull back, make other plans..."

His voice breaks a little on "I understand..." but he pushes through.

"I'm a liability

Get you wild, make you leave

I'm a little much for e-a-na-na-na, everyone..."

He trails off again. Shakes his head like he's trying to fling the feelings out of his hair.

"I can be anything he bloody wants me to be," he snaps, laughing under his breath. "He should just say the fucking word. Hell, I'd bark for him if that's his current kink. I'd be so fucking good for him, he just—"

He cuts himself off with another bitter laugh. One that sounds like it's rotting from the inside.

"The truth is I am a toy that people enjoy

'Til all of the tricks don't work anymore

And then they are bored of me..."

He lets the chord linger. Lets it echo in the bones of the room.

Then silence.

And then—Jeff's voice, gentle, from where he's crouched on the couch:

"Your boy texted."

Harry freezes. Doesn't look. Doesn't breathe. Just stares at the piano keys like one of them might stab him.

He reaches for the phone and Jeff hands it over slowly.

Harry reads the screen.

There's a voice memo.

Not a text. Not a meme. Not a throwaway dickhead line or an "xx" wrapped in razor blades. Just a grey bubble with a timestamp. 22:17. Sent five minutes ago.

His thumb trembles as he presses play.

He doesn't even wait for headphones. Just rises from the piano bench like a man pulled by a string in his spine, and stumbles into the kitchen as if privacy might make this less unbearable. He leans over the counter, presses the phone flat against the granite like it's something sacred or cursed. Maybe both.

Louis' voice crackles to life. Casual. Sleepy. Soft.

"Hey, lad. So, uh... sorry I had to leave so abruptly."

A pause. Harry's pulse jerks. The sound of traffic hums faintly in the background. Louis must've recorded it sitting on the windowsill, smoking.

"I'll, um... I'll make it up to you next time, I promise. I'll grant you three wishes or something."

The memo ends with a soft laugh. A real one. Gentle and stupid and alive.

Harry doesn't move. Doesn't breathe. His heart is pounding against his ribs like it's trying to escape.

Next time?

Three wishes?

What the fuck does that even mean? Is this a joke? A lie? A dare?

His brain tries to rationalize—maybe it's Louis being flippant. Maybe he means it. Maybe he doesn't. Maybe he's just on autopilot, saying whatever he thinks Harry wants to hear before ghosting him again. Maybe he isn't ghosting. Maybe he's—

No. No, no, no. Stop.

He hits play again.

"Hey, lad. So, uh..."

Harry slams his thumb down and stops it.

He grips the counter. His reflection in the kettle is a fever dream—pale, cracked out, jaw clenched like he's biting down on every memory that tries to come up for air.

He wants to scream. Or cry. Or throw his phone in the sink and run it under cold water until the voice drowns.

Instead, he closes his eyes. Thinks about Louis whispering "next time" while standing with Zara possibly in the other room. About Louis leaving him a fucking bedtime story on the way to buy wine and aubergines with someone else.

Three wishes.

Harry swallows down a laugh. It tastes like smoke and heartbreak.

His voice is hollow when he mutters to himself:

"Wish one: don't fucking talk to me like that."

He stares at the phone again. Like it might explode. Or worse—buzz.

Tom peeks his head into the kitchen. "You okay?"

Harry turns to him, eyes wide with something manic and too bright. "Yeah. Great. Louis just offered me three wishes like he's some fucked-up ex-boyfriend genie."

Tom blinks. "Was it voice or text?"

"Voice."

Tom raises a brow. "Oof. That's either good or devastating."

Harry nods slowly. "Mm. Or both."

They stand there for a moment, frozen in the fluorescent kitchen light, the voice memo still pulsing silently on Harry's phone like a ghost with good intentions.

Then Harry exhales.

"Wish two: grow a fucking spine."

Tom doesn't say anything. Just watches him with the kind of expression you wear for people who've already been hit by a car and are now lying there asking if the car is still available for a second round.

Harry picks up the phone. Hits play again.

"Hey, lad. So, uh..."

Tom winces. "Mate."

Harry turns it off.

"Wish three," Harry says quietly, pressing the phone to his chest like it might sink into his skin and kill him. "Wish three: please, let this be for me and not the wrong number."

Tom exhales like he's been holding his breath for ten minutes.

Then, gently: "You wanna write that down?"

Harry blinks. "Fuck no. I wanna inject it into a sad synth line and sell it for Grammy bait."

Tom grins and retreats back to the living room. "Atta boy."

Harry plays the voice note one more time.

"I'll make it up to you next time, I promise. I'll grant you three wishes or something."

He stares at the phone like it's cursed. Like maybe if he rewinds it again, it'll suddenly come with context. A tone. A facial expression. A hand brushing his thigh or tugging his curls or anchoring him to the fucking earth.

Instead, it's just Louis' voice, tinny and vague and hanging in the air like a charm spell someone forgot to finish.

Three wishes.

Next time.

Like that's a real thing. Like that kind of softness still exists between them. Like Louis even knows what this kind of message does to Harry now, after everything.

But Harry's mind, cruel and loyal, starts chasing it anyway.

Starts trying to remember a time when Louis' voice was just... safe.

When a half-joke like that wasn't a breadcrumb or a weapon, but just a stupid, flirty thing said in a stupid, flirty kitchen. Back when they were still soft and stupid and nothing was defined except how they made each other laugh.

His brain does what it always does when it's on the edge of crumbling—it flips backward. Digs through static until it finds something that feels like truth.

And suddenly, it's nearly fifteen years ago, everything's messy, and nothing hurts yet.

2010 summer, Holmes Chapel

The kitchen was a disaster, but it was the kind of mess that felt lived-in—warm, comfortable, and undeniably theirs. Crumbs littered the countertops, and half-eaten sandwiches sat haphazardly on the table alongside an open jar of Nutella and a plate of half-sliced fruit. The faint scent of toast hung in the air, mingling with the soft hum of the fridge and the muffled laughter coming from the living room.

Harry stood at the fridge in his socks, the fabric of his joggers pooling slightly around his ankles, bathed in the soft glow of the open door, as he rooted around for something better than the slightly stale bread Louis had declared "inedible." He was muttering to himself about yogurt flavors, his curls sticking up at odd angles like he'd been running his hands through them all day. Louis slid onto the counter next to him, grinning mischievously, his socked feet brushing against the cabinet below. The place felt safe, like a refuge from the chaos outside, a little world of their own made up of mismatched mugs, sticky counters, and the kind of clutter that only comes from people being fully, messily themselves.

After they got through the Judge's House and secured their spot in the live shows, Simon Cowell brought in some team-building specialist to help them "bond" as a group. At first, it was awkward as hell—sitting in a circle, sharing their "goals" and "fears," while some guy with a clipboard kept nodding like he was unlocking the mysteries of the universe. But somewhere between the trust exercises that ended in them collapsing into fits of laughter and the ridiculous relay races where Louis cheated blatantly to wind Harry up, it started to feel like something clicked. It wasn't just five boys thrown together anymore; it was the start of something real. They weren't just surviving the competition—they were becoming a team. By the end of the day, they left with aching sides from laughing and an unspoken sense that maybe, just maybe, they could pull this off together.

"Hazza," Louis said, kicking his feet lightly against the cabinet. "You're taking longer to find a snack than it took us to become a boyband."

Harry straightened, holding up a block of cheese triumphantly. "Found it! And I'm sorry you don't appreciate my thorough cheese selection process. I'll let you starve next time."

Louis leaned forward, grabbing the cheese right out of Harry's hand. "Starve? I'd survive just fine. You're the one who'd cry into your yogurt if you didn't have me around to make your boring life more exciting."

"Boring?" Harry's eyebrows shot up, his dimples cutting deep as he grinned. "I'll have you know I was very exciting before I met you. My mom says I'm a delight."

"Oh, I'm sure Anne's completely unbiased," Louis shot back, rolling his eyes but unable to hide his smile.

Zayn stuck his head into the kitchen, his hair a mess and his eyes bleary. "Are you two flirting or fighting? I can't tell."

"Neither," Harry said quickly, his cheeks turning pink.

Louis, however, smirked. "Flirting, obviously. Hazza here's got a hopeless crush on me."

"Do not!" Harry yelped, voice going up an octave, but Zayn was already laughing and disappearing back to the living room.

Harry huffed, grabbing the cheese back from Louis and retreating to the counter. He tore into the block dramatically, shoving a piece into his mouth. Louis hopped off the counter and wandered over, leaning an elbow on Harry's shoulder.

"You're awfully quiet, Styles," Louis said softly, his voice teasing but just a little too close.

Harry looked at him, his green eyes wide and shining under the dim kitchen light. "You're annoying," he mumbled, but there was no bite to it.

"And yet, here I am," Louis said, grinning. He ruffled Harry's curls affectionately, a gesture that felt a little too tender for two boys who were supposed to just be mates.

There was a moment—a pause where Louis didn't move his hand and Harry didn't step away—and then Liam's voice echoed from the other room. "Styles, if you don't bring me a drink in thirty seconds, I'm replacing you with a hologram!"

Harry laughed, breaking the moment as he grabbed a can of Coke and threw it toward the doorway. "That good enough, Payne?"

A soft laugh slipped out of Louis as he shoved Harry lightly. "Get a move on, you delight."

As Harry walked back into the living room, Louis stayed behind for just a second too long, his heart doing a strange little flutter. It wasn't flirting. It wasn't fighting. It was just... Harry.

2025, Berlin

The kitchen disappears.

Harry blinks and it's gone. The warmth, the laughter, the Nutella. Replaced by takeout grease, weed haze, and the overwhelming stench of abandonment in the shape of a hoodie. The air feels colder now. The lighting harsher. His spine aches from slouching like a spited Oil heiress.

His eyes drift across the room—and land on it.

The gift.

That stupid, battered brown package Louis had left behind. A birthday present, apparently. No card. No explanation. Just tossed onto the counter like an afterthought or a landmine.

Harry stares at it. Then exhales slowly, reaching for it with the caution of a man defusing a bomb.

The wrapping crumples under his fingers—deliberate, half-hearted, careless. Like Louis had wrapped it himself with one hand while texting someone else with the other.

Inside is a small wooden box. Plain. Dark-stained. Heavy in a way that feels smug.

Harry squints at it. Turns it over once. Twice. Something's audibly in it.

It's a mechanical puzzle.

Of fucking course.

He lets out a bitter laugh. "Wanker," he mutters, dragging a hand down his face.

He tries a few lazy twists. A press here. A slide there. The box doesn't budge. Just sits there like it knows he's not in the right headspace. Like it's mocking him for being too emotionally dysregulated to solve a toy.

Harry huffs and sets it aside.

"Fine. You win. I'll play your little trauma box game later."

He leans back, lets his eyes flutter shut for a moment. The room spins gently. Or maybe that's just the emotional vertigo.

His phone buzzes again—still on the counter where he left it. Still glowing with Louis' voice.

He doesn't move to grab it.

He doesn't press play again.

He doesn't text back.

Because deep down, beneath all the delusion and desperation, Harry knows. He knows Louis probably didn't mean to send it to him. Knows it could've been a misfire. A recycled line. A deflection from guilt. A placeholder affection meant for someone else entirely.

But for tonight—

Just tonight—

Harry lets himself believe it was meant for him.

Only him.

Lets himself curl around that lie like it's a blanket. Like it's something sacred. Like it's proof that maybe, just maybe, Louis hadn't forgotten what it used to feel like in that stupid kitchen with the cheese and the toast and the flirting-that-wasn't.

He doesn't text back.

He doesn't cry.

He just lets the lie hold him.

Until he can sleep. Or self-combust. Whichever comes first.

Chapter Text

2025, London

Louis stares at the notification like it's personally threatening him.

Harry: Did you mean to send me that?

His stomach sinks. And not the sexy kind of sinking, like when a boy touches your lower back and suddenly you remember you're made of skin and sin and sexual tension. No. This is the kind of sinking where your soul packs its little suitcase and goes on sabbatical.

He clicks the message. Opens the thread.

And there it is.

A voice note.

From him.

Sent at 22:17.

Duration: 0:07

Seven seconds. Which is somehow worse than if it were, like, a whole sad voicemail saga. Seven seconds is intimate. Personal. It reeks of low impulse control and THC-laced sincerity.

He sighs, then reaches for the grinder. Rolls a joint with the focus of a man preparing for emotional battle. Lights it. Inhales. Holds.

Only then does he press play.

And instantly winces at his own voice.

"Hey, lad. So, uh... sorry I had to leave so abruptly. I'll, um... I'll make it up to you next time, I promise. I'll grant you three wishes or something."

Louis stares at the screen. He's not breathing.

"Oh, fuck me sideways," he mutters, dragging a hand down his face like it might erase the past 24 hours.

That message was clearly meant for Freddie. Obviously. His child. Whom he left in LA early because he got a text from a certain six-foot chaos demon in lace panties and wings and made the executive decision to blow up his life. Again.

Not that Freddie was mad. Freddie's never mad. Freddie's chill. Freddie's cool. Freddie's nine and better adjusted than Louis will ever be.

Still, Louis had wanted to send the kid a quick voice note. Y'know, to make up for the mildly traumatic speed-run of a goodbye. Sweet. Casual. Comforting. Fatherly, even.

What he did not intend to do was send that voice note to his delusional ex's number, while presumably still high off half a joint, one (1) leftover sex dream, and the backwash of Zara's lip gloss.

He can already hear Dr. Wilmer's voice: And what have we learned from this, Louis?

That I should be banned from all telecommunications during emotional spirals, that's what.

He falls backwards onto the studio couch and groans loud enough to scare the succulent. Sorry Herbert.

Because here's the worst part.

The real kicker.

Harry didn't reply for almost twenty fucking hours.

Which means Harry—sweet, dimpled, batshit crazy Harry—probably listened to that voice note over and over again on a fucking loop and let himself believe it was for him. Curled up in some post-molly haze, telling himself fairytales like maybe Louis meant it. Maybe Louis didn't mean to leave. Maybe Louis still—

Ugh.

"No. Nope. No thank you," Louis mutters to the ceiling. "We are not manifesting a romcom subplot today, universe. Get fucked."

He exhales smoke. Watches it curl toward the ceiling like the last of his willpower.

But he can't ignore it. Can't just ghost him, not when Harry already cracked a little open and sent the text. And also because Louis is incapable of not dealing with things in the most dramatic, emotionally-stunted way possible.

So he thumbs out a message. Backspaces it. Tries again. Lands on something that feels truthful, but light enough to pretend it doesn't hurt.

Louis: Shit, meant to send it to Freddie

Tho i can grant you three wishes too

Let me guess, dick, dick and dick?

He stares at it for a second. Debates deleting it.

Sends it anyway.

Immediately regrets everything.

His phone buzzes within the minute.

Harry: woah you know me too well

Louis rolls his eyes so hard it's a miracle they don't get stuck.

Louis: even got the sequence right

He drops the phone beside him and scrubs both hands over his face like a man who's seen too much.

Because now it's done. The damage is permanent. Harry knows the message wasn't for him, but now Louis knows Harry let himself pretend it was. That he still wants it to be.

And that hurts in a quiet, back-of-the-throat way Louis doesn't have a good name for.

He exhales, long and shaky, smoke leaking from his lips like a confession.

"I hate men," he mutters into the echo of the studio.

The beatpad blinks at him.

The mic stands there, judgmental and erect.

He throws an arm over his eyes, slumps further into the couch, and says to no one, "Fucking therapy homework was easier than this."

But even as he says it, a sick little thought worms its way into his head:

What would Harry even wish for, if it really were for him?

He closes his eyes.

Doesn't let himself answer.

Instead, he mutters, "Wanker."

And opens a new session. Because if he's gonna spiral, he might as well do it with reverb.

The cursor blinks at him, taunting. Empty project. Empty brain. Full fucking chest.

He's not even sure what he's trying to write. A bridge? A verse? A sonnet to the boy who ruined his life and still gets bonus points for doing it in couture?

He hits a few keys. Rewinds. Hits them again. Nothing sticks.

Because here's the thing—Louis is shit at talking to people about his feelings. That much is obvious. He avoids that stuff like it owes him money. But lately, he's realized something worse: He's not just shit at talking to other people about his feelings.

He's also fucking terrible at talking to himself.

Like, Olympic-level avoidance. World-class repression. If emotional denial were a sport, he'd have a gold medal, a Wheaties box, and a three-part Netflix docuseries titled "He's Fine, He Swears."

It's not just that he keeps things to himself.

It's that he keeps things from himself.

Full-on Cold War levels of emotional suppression. Classified files, redacted sentences, burning the evidence and scattering the ashes over six continents.

Because if he admits it—really says it out loud or even just thinks it in full fucking sentences—then he has to do something about it, right?

And he is so not ready for that.

No, thank you. He'll take "delusional coping strategies" for 500, Karen.

He bangs a single, miserable chord on the MIDI keyboard, then leans back in the chair like he just composed Bohemian Rhapsody from scratch.

"Deep stuff," he mutters. "That'll win me Brits for sure. In the category of Most Pathetic Refrain by a Man Who Thinks Emotional Maturity Is a Hate Crime."

The smoke from the joint curls around him like a toxic friend: comforting, bad for his lungs, and always encouraging his worst ideas.

Like texting Harry again. Or not texting him again.

Either way, it ends with him horizontal, annoyed, and horny.

He exhales sharply and kicks the desk. The laptop wobbles like it's judging him. Herbert, the succulent, looks like he wants to file a restraining order.

"God," Louis groans, dragging his hands down his face. "If I feel one more feeling, I'm gonna sue."

He swirls the rolling chair in a slow circle, looking up at the ceiling like it's gonna offer him a fucking solution.

Nothing.

He's spent the last seventy-two hours pretending that getting railed in Berlin was just a little detour in his Very Healthy Healing Journey, but the truth is this: he misses him. And not in a tragic, violin-soundtrack way. In a stupid, visceral, "why-does-my-Spotify-think-I-want-to-hear-Sign-of-the-Times-right-now" kind of way.

It's infuriating.

He doesn't want to miss Harry.

He wants to unmiss him.

He really wants that goddamn lobotomy and like, 50 grams of coke. (How many deaths would 50 grams of coke equal anyway?)

Instead, he gets a blank screen and a seven-second voice note boomeranging around his head like a cursed ringtone.

He groans again. "Jesus Christ, I'm like a gay Hogwarts ghost with Wi-Fi."

Then, because the spiral must go deeper, he mutters, "Next therapy session, I'm bringing diagrams. A full-ass PowerPoint. Slide one: Reasons I Am Emotionally Constipated. Slide two: Harry Styles, but Make It Worse."

He takes another hit. Stares at the mic. Says out loud, "Cool. Gonna die alone and haunted by my own taste in men."

And with that, he presses record. Because if he can't say it in words, maybe he can at least make it rhyme.

It's stupid, really. The way Louis tries to chase lightness like it's something he can summon on command—like if he hits the exact right chord progression or smokes just the right amount of weed, he might suddenly feel... okay. Less like a rotting peach in an overpriced tracksuit and more like a functioning adult with a stable emotional landscape and a basic grasp on reality.

But the truth is, when he tries to think of a time he felt lighter—really lighter, like his ribs weren't made of lead and his skin wasn't something he had to earn—he comes up blank.

He's spent most of his life trapped in a vicious little carousel ride: hate yourself, deny yourself, let yourself have one nice thing, ruin it immediately, then hate yourself harder for ruining it. It's like emotional Monopoly, but every square says "Go to Jail" and the only piece he ever gets is the top hat with depression.

Still... still. There were moments.

Moments where he didn't feel like he was constantly bracing for impact. Where he didn't hate his own laugh. Where he didn't feel like the air itself was judging him.

And fuck, if he's being honest—not therapist-honest, but brutally, bitchily, annoyingly honest—most of those moments have one thing in common.

Harry.

Not always in the obvious ways. Not just the sex or the flirtation or the chaotic late-night texts that read like drunk dares from a horny poet. But in quieter things. The in-between things. Times when Louis would look at Harry doing something utterly mundane—pouring tea, singing under his breath, brushing glitter off his collarbone—and feel something loosen in his chest. Like maybe, just maybe, he wasn't doomed to be this version of himself forever.

Sometimes, it lasted a day. Sometimes, a week. Once, terrifyingly, it lasted almost a whole fucking summer.

But the first time?

The very first time he remembers feeling it—that odd, buoyant lightness, like his heart was doing the cha-cha instead of its usual death march—it was 2010.

Autumn. London. A rehearsal room that smelled like feet and stress. And him, still eighteen, mouthy and terrified and pretending to be twice as confident as he was, grinning at a green-eyed boy across the room like he didn't already know they'd ruin each other.

2010. Autumn, London

The music cut out abruptly, leaving the room filled with labored breaths and the faint echo of a final note ringing out, leaving only the rhythmic creak of the floor as they shifted positions. The stale, warm air clung to their skin, thick with the tang of sweat and the lingering scent of industrial cleaner.

"Reckon my legs have detached from my body," Niall groaned dramatically, flopping down onto the floor like a broken puppet. He spread his arms wide and closed his eyes, his chest heaving, the cool linoleum pressed against his back, a welcome relief from the heat radiating through his hoodie. "Why does this place always smell like gym socks and disappointment?" he muttered, squinting up at the ceiling as his chest rose and fell in exaggerated gasps.

"You're such a diva," Liam said, dragging his towel over his face. His shirt clung to his back, damp with sweat, and his hair was sticking up in chaotic spikes. He pointed the towel at Niall like a disapproving PE teacher. "We're supposed to be rehearsing for the finals, not auditioning for Casualty."

"Oh, leave the lad alone, Payno," Louis cut in, perched on the armrest of a nearby couch like a king surveying his domain. His legs swung back and forth, the soles of his sneakers thumping lightly against the leather. The fluorescent lights above cast a sheen on the worn leather, throwing harsh shadows against the pale walls of the rehearsal room. "Not all of us are fueled by protein shakes and the tears of X Factor losers."

The room erupted into snickers, Zayn covering his mouth with the back of his hand while Harry let out an unrestrained laugh. Liam, ever the good sport, rolled his eyes but grinned.

"Is that a compliment or an insult?" Liam asked, though he couldn't stop the grin tugging at his lips.

Louis tilted his head, his smirk as sharp as ever. "Bit of both. Keeps you on your toes."

Harry chuckled softly from where he was crouched by the stereo, his hands fiddling with the aux cord as he reset the playlist. The sound of Louis' voice always drew him in—like a gravitational pull he couldn't quite escape. But as he glanced over his shoulder at him, something flickered in his chest.

Louis was grinning, sure, his trademark cocky confidence in full display, but there was a hollowness to it, a slight falter at the edges. Harry noticed it immediately—the way Louis' smile didn't quite reach his eyes, the way he tapped his fingers against his knee in a rhythm too quick to match the music.

"Would it kill you lot to say I'm inspirational every once in a while?" Niall piped up, still sprawled out on the floor. "Or brave? I'd even settle for charismatic."

"Charismatic?" Louis shot back, sliding off the couch and landing with a soft thud. He crouched down beside Niall, his grin widening. "You're about as charismatic as a damp sock, mate."

The boys laughed, Zayn covering his mouth with the back of his hand while Harry let out a full, dimpled laugh.

"And you're as funny as a damp fart," Niall fired back, swatting half-heartedly at Louis' knee.

"Oh, brilliant comeback." Louis threw his head back in mock laughter before shaking his head with exaggerated pity. "Truly, Nialler, your wit astounds me."

Louis stood, brushing invisible dust off his knees, but Harry didn't miss the way his fingers lingered at the hem of his t-shirt for just a second too long, twisting the fabric like he needed to ground himself.

"Alright, that's enough lounging about," Louis declared, clapping his hands together like he was their drill sergeant. "Back on your feet, lads. We're pop stars now, apparently. Can't let the world down."

"Pop stars, yeah," Zayn muttered from where he leaned against the wall, his arms crossed over his chest. His hair stuck up in perfect, deliberate spikes, and the light caught the gold chain peeking out from under his shirt. "More like Simon Cowell's puppets."

Louis' grin faltered for a split second, the barest flicker of something unguarded flashing across his face. He covered it quickly, though, turning toward Zayn with a smirk sharp enough to slice through the room. "Oh, don't be so mysterious and tortured, Malik. It's sexy, sure, but it's a bit much for a Thursday afternoon, don't you think?"

Zayn rolled his eyes, but his lips twitched upward, the smallest hint of a smile breaking through. "Reckon you'd know a thing or two about being too much."

Louis barked out a laugh, the sound sharp and bright, bouncing off the walls like static electricity. "Careful, Zayn," he teased, wagging a finger at him. "That pretty face of yours might get me into trouble."

Out of the corner of his eye, Louis caught the smallest movement—Harry's hand flexing against the edge of the stereo, his knuckles brushing the plastic casing. He looked stiff, almost like he was bracing himself for something. Louis shifted his attention, pretending not to notice the way Harry's fingers curled tighter, or how he seemed to keep looking between Louis and Zayn when he thought no one was paying attention.

Harry's jaw worked, a faint tightening visible just below his ear. His shoulders tensed briefly, but when Louis glanced his way, his face was carefully blank—save for the lingering glances that gave him away. Louis knew that look. Knew what it meant. It wasn't the first time he'd caught Harry acting like this when Louis had been joking with Zayn, and it didn't take a genius to piece it together.

Jealous, Louis thought, a flicker of smug satisfaction creeping in despite the gnawing unease twisting in his stomach. He had half a mind to test the theory—to poke and prod, to see just how far he could push before Harry cracked. It was practically a sport for him on most days, winding Harry up just enough to catch the flush creeping up his neck or the way his voice would dip into that stubborn, defensive tone. Usually, Louis would've pounced on the opportunity.

But not today. Today, Louis didn't have the energy to needle him. His mood was too fragile, teetering on the edge of something he didn't want to name. So, instead, he filed the observation away, tucking it into the back of his mind for a day when his confidence wasn't so rattled.

"Don't blame me for your trouble-making," Zayn replied smoothly, his voice low and amused. "You're a lost cause all on your own."

Louis winked at him, but this time it felt more automatic than deliberate. The usual spark of enjoyment wasn't quite there, dulled by the weight pressing on his chest. He forced his grin to stretch wider as he spun on his heel and bounded toward Harry, putting the scene with Zayn behind him. "What's taking you so long, Haz? Can't figure out how to play a bloody playlist?"

Harry glanced up, his expression softening slightly as he met Louis' gaze. His lips twitched into a faint smile, and Louis swore he caught a hint of relief in Harry's eyes—though it was gone before he could be sure.

"Just making sure it's good enough for you, Lou," Harry replied, his voice light but a touch quieter than usual. "You've got high standards, after all."

Louis leaned in closer, his grin widening as he ignored the faint hum of discomfort still buzzing in his chest. "Oh, Hazza, I've got the highest standards. But don't worry—I'm sure you'll keep up."

For a moment, Harry hesitated. His fingers lingered on the stereo, flexing once more before he adjusted the aux cord. His gaze flicked toward Louis, then back down, almost like he was searching for something he couldn't quite name. Louis caught it, of course, but he ignored the strange pang it sent through him. He didn't want to think about whatever was simmering beneath Harry's expression—didn't want to peel back the layers to see what lay underneath.

Not today.

Before Harry could say anything, the door to the rehearsal room swung open, and Paul, their assigned security guard stuck his head inside. "Alright, boys. Wrap it up. We've got fans waiting outside."

"Finally!" Niall sprang to his feet, his exhaustion forgotten as he darted toward the door. "I love them more than life itself."

"You love anyone who strokes your ego," Liam called after him, shaking his head fondly.

"Yeah, well," Niall shot back, "can you blame me?"

The air outside was electric, buzzing with the energy of fans and flashing cameras. The moment the boys stepped out, the crowd erupted into cheers and shouts, a chaotic symphony of adoration. Louis leaned into it, his doubts slipping away under the spotlight of few flashing cameras.

"Louis! Over here!"
"Harry, we love you!"
"Niall, marry me!"

The five of them spread out instinctively, each moving toward different pockets of the crowd. Louis grinned, the weight in his chest momentarily forgotten as he tossed out cheeky comments like confetti. "Marry you?" he called to one girl holding a sign. "Only if you've got a good prenup, love."

The crowd laughed, and Louis turned to Harry with a wink. "See that? Still got it."

Harry rolled his eyes but couldn't help smiling. "You're insufferable."

"And yet, here you are, following me like a lost puppy."

Before Harry could reply, Louis turned his attention back to the fans, posing for selfies and signing anything thrust in his direction. Louis leaned in close to a girl holding out a notebook, his grin mischievous as he signed his name with an exaggerated flourish. "What's this, a contract? Should I have my lawyer look it over?"

Harry lingered nearby, his smile softer but just as genuine as he bent down to talk to a little girl holding a stuffed penguin. His smile warm and unhurried. "Is that your favorite?" he asked, gently tapping the penguin's tiny beak. The girl nodded, and Harry's dimples deepened. "Good choice. Looks like it's got the best seat in the house." His voice was low, soft, and somehow cut through the chaos like a lull in a storm.

Zayn was more reserved, sticking to the edges of the crowd, but he still charmed everyone he spoke to. His mysterious vibe seemed to draw people in, and every now and then, Louis would glance over and throw in a cheeky, "Keep that up, Malik and you'll break hearts at this rate."

"Yours first," Zayn replied once, quick as a whip, and Harry felt that pang again, sharp and sudden.

But Louis didn't linger. He turned back to Harry, his grin wide and mischievous as he nudged his shoulder. "Reckon you could pull that off, Styles? A little mystery, a little brooding charm?"

Harry raised an eyebrow. "You calling me boring?"

"Never," Louis said, though his eyes danced with mischief. "Just saying you might be a bit too... soft."

"Soft?" Harry repeated, his lips twitching. "I'll show you soft."

"Don't make promises you can't keep, Haz," Louis shot back, his grin widening.

The mood had shifted by the time they were back in the X-factor house. The laughter and adrenaline from earlier had faded, replaced by a quieter energy as they peeled off their sweat-soaked shirts and collapsed onto couches.

Louis was quieter now, too, though he tried to hide it. He laughed at Niall's jokes and teased Liam about his neat stacks of clothes, but Harry noticed the way his smile faltered when no one was looking, the way his fingers fiddled with the hem of his t-shirt, twisting the fabric into knots.

When the others wandered off one by one—Liam to call his girlfriend, Niall to FaceTime his mum, and Zayn for a secret smoke—Harry lingered, perched on the piano bench across the living room, humming under his breath as his fingers played with a melody they all knew wasn't going anywhere. He was watching Louis out of the corner of his eye.

Louis sat on the edge of the couch, absently twisting the silver ring on his finger. The piano's sound grated against Louis, not because it was bad, but because it was good. Harry was always good. The kind of good that made everything else—the rest of them—look less than.

It wasn't Harry's fault, not really. Louis knew that. He'd known it since the beginning, dreams like theirs didn't come without consequences. Someone always had to be the star, and someone always had to be the shadow.

He stared down at the floor, the scuffed surface blurring beneath his gaze. If he didn't fight for his place—fight tooth and nail for every line, every scrap of recognition—then what? Did he just disappear? Did he become the one they forgot?

The thought twisted in his chest, sharp and suffocating. Louis swallowed hard, shoving it down as he looked up at Harry again. There was no room for hesitation. Not here. Not ever.

"Alright there, Lou?" Harry asked finally, breaking Louis' train of thoughts.

Louis looked up, his grin immediate but stretched just a bit too tight, like elastic about to snap. "Never better, Hazza. Why? You worried about me?"

"A bit, yeah," Harry admitted, stepping closer. He sat down beside Louis, their knees almost brushing. His voice softened, low and insistent. "You've been... I dunno. Off today."

"Off?" Louis repeated, the grin sharpening into something almost mocking, his tone light but biting. "Haz, you'll hurt my delicate ego."

Harry didn't laugh. "I mean it, Lou. You can talk to me. Not just about the good things, but, y'know, the weird stuff too. I can handle it."

Louis hesitated, his fingers pausing mid-fidget as he met Harry's gaze. For a second, the grin faltered. There was something there—raw, unguarded, like the barest crack in Louis' armor. He opened his mouth, almost like he might say something real, but then the walls slammed back into place. The grin returned, a little too wide, a little too practiced, like he'd wrapped himself in it for protection.

"It's nothing, really," Louis said, his voice breezy but betraying the faintest tremor. "Just... feeling a bit replaceable, I guess. Like if I wasn't here, it wouldn't make much of a difference."

Harry frowned, the lines between his brows deepening. "Replaceable?"

Louis shrugged, the motion careless, but his grip on the hem of his shirt tightened, his knuckles white against the fabric. "Yeah, you know. No solos, no big moments. Not exactly hard to swap me out for someone else, is it?"

Harry's gaze bore into him, his brows knitting tighter. "That's not—"

Louis felt the words building in his throat, ready to spill out, but the weight of Harry's gaze made his chest tighten. It was too much—too close. He let the grin take over, even though it didn't feel quite real.

"Oi, don't go making it weird now, Haz. Not everyone's ready for your heartfelt speeches." Louis cut him off quickly, his grin spreading wider, forced and deliberate. He nudged Harry's knee with his own, light and playful. "I'm cool, really. All's fine and dandy. Just having a bit of a dramatic day, you know how it is."

Harry didn't miss the slight tremor in Louis' voice, or the way his fingers twisted at the hem of his shirt like he was trying to hold himself together. He didn't push, but the urge to say something—anything—burned at the back of his throat. "Lou—"

"Seriously, Haz. It's nothing," Louis interrupted again, his voice turning brighter, almost exaggeratedly so. "Just wait till we're in the finals. I'll be fine once I've got a stupidly large confetti cannon in my hands."

Harry exhaled, shaking his head. "That's absolute bollocks, Lou, and you know it. No one could replace you, not even close. You're... you're the heart of this, yeah?"

Louis blinked, his grin faltering slightly before he forced it back. "What's bollocks?"

"Whatever it is you're trying to brush off." Harry tilted his head, his voice softening. "It's not nothing, Lou. But if you're not ready to talk about it yet... that's alright. Just don't do the 'all's fine and dandy' act with me, yeah? I know you too well for that."

Louis shifted on the couch, his grin still in place but feeling too tight, too thin. He leaned back, crossing one leg over the other as if that could somehow make him look more at ease. "You're making a big deal out of nothing, Haz."

Harry tilted his head, his brow furrowing slightly. "Doesn't feel like nothing."

Louis swallowed hard, his throat working against a sudden lump. He could feel Harry's gaze on him, unwavering, warm but steady, and it made him ache in a way he didn't like. He let out a breath, scratching lightly at the hem of his shirt. Harry was too close, too insistent, and it made his skin itch.

"Alright, alright, Dr. Phil," he said lightly, his voice carefully casual. "I'll put you down for a confetti cannon then, yeah? You'll be my first victim."

Harry let out a small laugh, his dimples flashing. "I'll hold you to that."

For a moment, they sat there, quiet except for the muffled sounds of the rest of the boys laughing in the other room. "You don't have to fix everything, you know," Louis said, his voice sharper now than he meant it to be.

Harry blinked, his expression flickering briefly before softening again. "I'm not trying to fix you, Lou."

Louis laughed, the sound hollow. "Good. Because that would be a waste of time."

Harry didn't respond right away, his gaze steady but searching. The silence stretched between them, taut and uncomfortable, before Louis stood abruptly. "Right, I'm getting a drink. Want one?"

Without waiting for Harry's answer, Louis slipped out of the room, leaving behind the weight of Harry's eyes on his back—eyes that didn't just look at him, but saw him, really saw him, in a way that felt dangerous. Because Harry—Harry fucking Styles, the most maddeningly earnest, stupidly beautiful, unfairly kind person Louis had ever met—actually made him feel better. Not temporarily, not performatively, but in that deep, terrifying, soul-settling kind of way. And having someone like that—someone golden and ridiculous and built like a fucking daydream—look at you like you hang the moon? It was so powerful, Louis nearly felt drunk on it. And he'd ruined himself on far less.

2025, London

His heart lurches back into the present like it's been yanked on a chain.

He blinks. The rehearsal room is gone. So is the lightness, that fleeting, fucked-up miracle of a time when he could open up to someone—even if it was just a crack, even if it was just Harry.

And fuck, he'd forgotten. He forgot there was a time when his mouth could form words that weren't laced with sarcasm and exit strategies. That once, a long time ago, he'd actually let himself feel safe. With someone who didn't flinch when he got prickly. Who didn't shrink when he exploded. Who didn't treat his damage like it was contagious.

Because Harry hadn't been scared.

That was the worst fucking part.

Harry—his stupid curls and his stupid voice and his stupid fucking dimples—was fearless. Wide-eyed and absurd and brave in all the softest ways. He didn't armor up or lash out. He just existed the way he was, like it had never even occurred to him not to. Like he didn't wake up every morning and mentally rehearse how to survive people.

And what had Louis given him in return?

Fifteen years of generalized anxiety and walking on eggshells. A never-ending emotional scavenger hunt where the prize was probably trauma. Congratulations, Styles, you unlocked another repression level! Here's a bottle of vodka and a panic disorder.

"Fuck," Louis whispers, barely more than a breath.

His lighter's already in his hand, thumb flicking it open again and again and again. That old, hungry feeling bubbles up—like lava under his skin—dark and familiar. The urge to burn, just a little. Just a tiny kiss of pain. Enough to drag the chaos from the inside out. Make it real. Make it visible. Make it anything but what it is.

He stares at his wrist. The skin there's pale, soft, thinner than he remembers. Too easy.

But he's not wearing his fucking rubber band. Hasn't in months. So instead, he lurches forward, grabs a half-dead pen from the mess of studio clutter, and starts to draw.

It's ugly. Sharp lines. Crosses. Circles. Random stars. Anything to stop the flickering in his brain. Anything to distract his hands from becoming weapons. He presses too hard, the tip carving angry, blue grooves into his skin.

"Fucking hell," he mutters, shaking the pen. "One night. One night with that overgrown Care Bear and I'm back to square-fucking-one."

He draws a frowny face. Then horns. Then a speech bubble that says "you up?" coming from a poorly rendered penis. His laugh is wet and bitter and pathetic.

He hates this.

Hates that Harry still has this power. Hates that his own brain is a fucking haunted house, and Harry's name is written on all the mirrors in lipstick.

"I swear to God," Louis mutters, dragging the pen down the side of his thumb. "I should be awarded for how deeply I sabotage myself. Like, give me a BAFTA. Give me a Nobel Prize in Self-Destruction. I'll thank no one and cry in the press room."

His chest is heaving. His hand is shaking. His wrist is blue with ink.

And still, the echo of Harry's voice rings in his head.

I've got your back.

It's too much.

He tosses the pen across the room like it personally offended him, then slumps down onto the studio couch, clutching his wrist like it's a bomb about to detonate.

"Fucking hell," he repeats, voice barely there.

And somewhere deep in the rubble of himself, something curls up and whispers: You don't deserve him. You never did.

Louis closes his eyes. Doesn't disagree.

Chapter Text

2025, London

The studio door slams shut behind him with all the drama of a soap opera character exiting stage left, and Louis doesn't even flinch. Just marches to his car like he's got a vendetta against concrete. Cigarette already between his lips, lighter sparking mid-stride like a cursed cowboy who's done with the world and about to duel the night itself. The Range Rover unlocks with a smug little beep, like even the car knows he's spiraling.

The second he's in, the engine roars to life—no gentle purring, no eco-mode bullshit, just pure internal combustion fury—and he peels out of the lot like it personally insulted his mother.

He takes the corner on two wheels and lights his cigarette one-handed, dragging deep and blowing the smoke directly at his own reflection in the rearview mirror.

"Nice one, mate," he mutters to himself. "Really out here winning Best Original Meltdown. Again."

The roads are mostly empty, which is a shame, because Louis is absolutely in the mood to ruin someone's commute.

He zips through a yellow light that is very much turning red, leans out the window and yells, "It's a suggestion, not a rule, sweetheart!" to a pedestrian who clearly had the audacity to cross when the light said walk.

Someone in a Prius cuts him off. He lays on the horn like it's a moral statement. "Pick a lane and die in it!"

He cranks the stereo up just to drown out the sound of his own thoughts. Ends up blasting some obscure punk band from 2006 that's all screaming and eyeliner and, apparently, the perfect soundtrack to emotional collapse on the A406 at 1 a.m.

He's going thirty over the limit on a residential street, flicking ash out the window with the kind of reckless finesse that says I am the danger. And maybe he is. Not in a sexy, mysterious way. In a "don't tailgate me or I'll cry and hit the gas at the same time" kind of way.

The cigarette's burning down faster than his will to live. He sparks another without even thinking about it. Nicotine and adrenaline are currently the only two things keeping him tethered to the planet.

His phone buzzes on the passenger seat.

He glares at it. "Unless that's God texting to revoke my anxiety, I don't wanna fucking know."

It buzzes again.

He flips it off. With both hands. While still steering with his knee. "Iconic," he mutters. "I'm the blueprint."

At a stoplight (okay fine, one stoplight, but only because there was a cop car nearby), he catches sight of himself in the window reflection of a kebab shop. Messy hair, hoodie on inside out like a sad raccoon who's seen war. Fucking tragic.

The light turns green.

He doesn't wait half a second before flooring it again, tires screeching. Someone honks at him.

He flips them off without looking. "Eat my entire arse," he growls, dragging hard on the cigarette. "Respectfully."

By the time he pulls into his street, he's vibrating from nicotine and unresolved issues. He parks in his garagelike the car did something wrong, kills the engine with a finality that could punch holes in time, and slumps forward, forehead on the steering wheel.

His cigarette's just ash now, forgotten between his fingers.

"I'm so fucked," he says, and it's not even dramatic. It's just facts.

He stomps into the house like it owes him money, door slamming shut behind him with all the subtlety of a nervous breakdown on a Tuesday. The hallway's dark, the silence loud. No music, no distraction, just the sound of his own breath and the echo of all the things he didn't say.

And that's the problem, isn't it?

Because now there's nothing left to fight. No traffic, no Prius drivers, no flashing red lights to barrel through like a metaphor. Just four walls and his own brain, and fuck—he's never been good at being alone with either.

His palms itch. His chest's too tight. And something low and dirty is already winding its way through his gut like smoke curling under a locked door.

So, yeah. Shower? No. Dinner? Absolutely not.

His body's buzzing in that awful, familiar way—wired, frayed, needy—and there's only one thing he knows will take the edge off.

Louis heads straight for the bedroom like a sinner returning to chapel and yanks open the bottom drawer of his dresser — the one that looks like it holds socks but absolutely does not — and digs through the chaos with practiced efficiency. A bottle of lube, a few unopened condoms (optimism), a silk tie (no idea whose), and—

There it is.

The Clone-a-Willy. Molded in a moment of some long-forgotten joke and kept like a relic.

Encased in velvet like it's the fucking Holy Grail. Louis holds it up to the light with the reverence of someone inspecting something sacred and not a silicone replica of Harry Styles' dick.

It's... accurate. Obnoxiously so. The curve, the girth, the ridiculous fucking vein detail. Louis once made a joke that if Harry's dick were a font, it'd be Impact Bold. This thing? It's the full limited-edition box set.

His fingers wrap around it and he exhales. A long, unfiltered, soul-leaving-his-body exhale.

Because of he only uses it when he's in this state — raw, unspooled, vibrating with leftover tension and half-sentences that never made it out of his throat. He sets it gently on the duvet, like it might explode. Then grabs the lube and sinks onto the mattress with a groan, half-exhausted, half-feral, all chaos.

His mouth quirks into a grin. "Cheers, Haz. Still doing God's work, even in latex."

And as he leans back against the pillows, letting his hand wander and his eyes flutter shut, the ache in his chest only grows sharper. Not the kind he can jerk off, or laugh away, or bury in sarcasm.

But he's trying anyway.

His thighs are tense, too tight, too wired. He shoves the lube aside for a second, reaches down and palms himself through the sweatpants he never changed out of. The friction is blunt, not enough, fucking maddening. He's hard — has been for hours, if he's honest — but now it's that kind of hardness that hurts. Heavy and hot and full of ghosts.

His cock twitches in his palm like it's trying to point him back to Berlin.

"Yeah, yeah," he mutters, dragging the waistband down. "You miss him too. Don't be a baby about it."

His hand wraps around himself — tight, dry at first, just to feel the sting. He hisses, head tipping back, eyes slipping shut.

And there he is.

Of course he is.

Harry, in his mind like muscle memory. Harry, with his stupid mouth and his ruined moans and the way his curls clung to his temples when he was sweating through the lace. Harry, eyes too dark, too insane every time he sank into Louis like he was made for it — like he'd die without it.

"Jesus," Louis chokes, grabbing for the lube with shaking fingers. He slicks up his palm, the vibrator next, watching the wet silicone shine in the low lamplight like it's something alive.

It is, in a way. It feels like Harry. Too real. Too much.

He lifts his hips and reaches back. Just one finger, then two, shoving them in fast and mean, because patience is for people who aren't already fucked in the head.

His breath hitches. He moans, ragged and desperate, curling his fingers inside, pressing right where it makes his vision blur.

And then—he switches.

He lubes the toy again for no apparent reason, sets the angle like a fucking ritual, and lines it up.

"Oh, fuck," he whispers, and then he sinks. Slowly, then all at once. His back arches, thighs trembling as he works it in deep, the stretch dizzying, obscene.

His hands scramble at the sheets like they might anchor him.

Because it's too much. Not the size. The memory.

Harry's breath on his neck. His nails in Louis' back, dragging, clutching, claiming. The way he growled, low and broken, every time Louis let him in. Like he couldn't believe it was allowed.

Like Louis was doing him a favour by letting him fuck him raw.

Louis rocks his hips. Moans again, louder. His cock is leaking, untouched, but everything's already tightening inside him.

He pumps the toy in deeper. Harder. Groaning through gritted teeth. "You fuck like you're possessed," he mutters to no one, to Harry, to himself. "Like I'm gonna disappear if you stop."

He turns the vibrator on.

And Jesus fuck.

He jolts, gasping, thighs clenching as the rumble tears through him. Every nerve ending screams. Every breath becomes a stuttered, filthy prayer.

He fists his cock at the same time — slippery now, lube and precome and grief all blending into something furious.

He lets his mind go dark. Lets it spiral.

Harry pushing him open with shaking hands. Harry calling him pretty when he's wrecked. Harry whispering mine, mine, mine into the shell of his ear like a sin.

Louis speeds up. The toy slams into his prostate, again, again, again. His fist is a blur, thighs trembling, stomach clenching, heart going fucking feral.

He's biting his lip so hard it might bleed. Doesn't care.

All he sees is him.

All he feels is the ghost of lace and leather and sweat-slick skin.

And when he comes — with a sound that's half a sob and half a growl — it's not relief.

It's possession.

It's punishment.

It's Harry, inside him, around him, still.

The orgasm rips through him like it's trying to carve the name out of his chest.

There's no buildup. No grace. Just a violent, white-hot detonation that makes his spine arch clean off the mattress and his throat tear open around a groan that sounds more like a plea than release.

His cock jerks once—twice—then spills, thick and hot and everywhere.

It paints his fist, slicks over his knuckles, spurts onto his stomach in obscene little pulses that make him whimper through clenched teeth. His abs twitch with every shot, nerves flaring too bright, too raw, too fucking much. His body doesn't know whether to keep chasing it or shut down entirely.

"Fucking hell," he gasps, voice shredded, hand still loosely around his softening cock like he doesn't quite believe it's over.

The vibrator's still buzzing inside him, buried deep and humming against nerves that are already too shot to register anything but aftershock. He twitches around it—hips jerking, toes curling—until he finally reaches down with a shaky hand and switches it off.

The silence that follows is devastating.

He breathes like he just ran a marathon and lost. Skin flushed, thighs trembling, mind momentarily numb. His hand falls limply to the side, fingers coated in it—sticky and ridiculous, like some depraved battle wound.

The air feels thick. Heavier now. Charged with everything he just gave up, and everything he's still holding onto.

His eyes flutter shut.

The name's still there. Carved somewhere beneath his ribs. Throbbing just like the rest of him.

Harry.

Always, always, fucking Harry.

"Fuck," he breathes.

Then again, quieter, like a confession:

"Fuck, I—"

He cuts himself off. Breath catches. Jaw clenches.

He swallows the rest like it might kill him to say it.

Because he can't.

Not even now.

Not even alone.

Not that.

His body's still twitching when he finally pulls the vibrator out, slow and careful, trying not to whimper at the overstimulation. He tosses it to the side like it's betrayed him, like it's responsible for the ringing in his ears and the shake in his thighs and the hollow, echoing ache beneath his ribs.

There's come cooling on his stomach, lube on his sheets, the taste of Harry still ghosting on his tongue like smoke. The clone-of-a-dick lies beside him like a punchline to a joke no one ever really laughed at.

But this version of Harry—this one molded from silicone and imagination and desperation—doesn't get hurt. Doesn't look at him like he's shattered glass on the kitchen floor. Doesn't cry or get sick in a bathroom stall because Louis couldn't stop playing games with people he swore he wouldn't break.

This Harry is safe.

And fuck, that's the most pathetic thing of all.

Because when Louis closes his eyes, it's not tonight's fantasy that lingers. It's not the heat or the slick stretch or even the stupidly detailed curve of that replica dick.

It's a bathroom in London. A bottle of stolen vodka. And the exact moment he saw Harry Styles fall apart in real time.

Because Louis remembers the first time he really broke him.

2010 December, X-Factor Finals Afterparty

The music was offensively loud and tragically generic, vibrating through Louis' ribcage like his own personal humiliation soundtrack. Glasses clinked, laughter rose a little too shrill, and everyone was pretending third place wasn't a polite way of saying, "You're irrelevant, sweetie."

Louis leaned against the bar like it owed him emotional support. His drink—a mystery mix of something whiskey-adjacent and pain-numbing—sat half-forgotten in his hand. Every sip burned, which was the only reason he kept drinking it (he's starting to think he's not the whiskey-type after all). That, and the fact that crying wasn't on brand tonight.

This wasn't how it was supposed to end. They were meant to win. He was supposed to strut out of this show crowned and smug, not third place and existentially spiralling. He swirled the drink like it might reveal the meaning of life.

Across the room, he caught sight of Harry, dimples flashing in a laugh that seemed too effortless for the moment. He was standing by the far side of the bar, a secretly spiked glass of Coke in hand, his curls unruly like they always were, shaking his head at something Niall had said. It was ridiculous how Harry had this way of looking like he belonged wherever he was—like the party, the spotlight, the whole damn room had been invented just to frame him.

Christ, he was pretty.

And Louis? Louis looked like a rejected backup dancer for a Take That tribute band. Perfect.

He felt the pang in his chest like a bruise pressed too hard. He knew he should stay the fuck away. Harry didn't deserve his mess, didn't need someone like him dragging him down. He wasn't even sure how he'd let himself get so close to Harry in the first place—so close that it felt like this invisible thread tied them together, tugging painfully every time he tried to pull away.

His stomach did the thing—the swoopy, traitorous thing—and he downed the rest of his drink in one go. The alcohol scorched his throat, but not nearly enough to distract him from the fact that Harry looked at him like he's expecting something.

Louis hated that he knew the exact shape of Harry's laugh. Hated that he knew how it felt to make him laugh. Hated that even now, the back of his brain whispered, You could just go over. Just say something.

Because Louis wasn't stupid. He knew full well that Harry had a big, fat, glitter-splattered crush on him. Like, capital-C Crush. The kind that made Harry go all soft-eyed and giggly when Louis so much as looked in his direction. The kind that made him hover like a hopeful puppy, waiting for scraps of attention Louis never admitted he was tossing on purpose.

And sure, Louis liked it. Who wouldn't? It was flattering, being adored by someone like Harry Styles—who looked like he'd been handcrafted by a bunch of gay cherubs with a Pinterest board and a dream. Louis got a kick out of it, riling him up with a wink here, a too-long glance there, watching Harry practically short-circuit over a stupid inside joke.

But he never took it too far.

Because if he ran too close to the sun—if he let himself believe, even for a second, that maybe he wanted it too—he might get fucking burnt.

And Louis was already carrying enough scars, thanks.

But he didn't go over. Because if Harry was made of light, Louis was the socket with faulty wiring.

So when Aiden Grimshaw sashayed over like a budget James Dean with a drink and a smirk, Louis did what he did best—used someone else as a distraction. Preferably one with nice arms and no emotional stakes.

"Well, well," Louis said, plastering on a grin. "If it isn't the nation's sweetheart. What's next for you? Working the karaoke circuit?"

Aiden smirked. "Better than getting stuck singing nursery rhymes on YouTube."

Louis cackled. Genuinely. The insult was crap, but the audacity? He respected it. "Wow. That one come to you in a dream? Or do you just rehearse insults in the mirror with finger guns?"

Aiden shrugged. "Just calling it like I see it."

"Oh, we're doing honesty now?" Louis teased, leaning in slightly, his voice dropping just enough to be heard over the music. "Let's get something straight, then. You've been staring at me all night."

Aiden blinked, caught off guard for half a second before recovering. "Maybe I have. So what?"

Louis tilted his head, his lips curling into a slow, lazy smile. "So, what are you going to do about it?"

Aiden laughed, the sound a bit too forced, a bit too rehearsed. "Depends. You ready to let me?"

It was so bland, Louis thought suddenly. So fucking... mid. Aiden's confidence didn't have the edge, the subtle wit, or the unintentional brilliance Harry carried without trying. And that realization gave him the faintest flicker of ick, a creeping sensation that whispered, This isn't it.

But Louis didn't let it show. Instead, he threw his head back with a laugh, one hand playfully pushing Aiden's chest. "Cheeky bastard," he said, his grin wide and wicked. "I like it."

He didn't. Not really. But he'd already made up his mind. He needed a distraction, and Aiden was the perfect candidate.

It was fun. Or at least it looked like fun if you squinted hard and ignored the hollow pit in his stomach.

Aiden flirted. Louis parried. It was a game they both knew how to play. The kiss, when it came, was practiced. Painless. Tongue like a to-do list. Aiden pressed against him like he'd memorized some Cosmo-approved step-by-step. And Louis let him. Let himself be wanted by someone who didn't make his chest ache.

"Come on," Louis whispered, his lips brushing Aiden's ear as he pulled him toward the bathrooms.

The place was dimly lit, the faint smell of alcohol and cheap cologne hanging in the air. Louis barely had Aiden through the door before he pressed him against the wall, his hands roaming with practiced ease.

Aiden's head tipped back, his lips parting in a gasp as Louis sucked a mark into the side of his neck. "Christ," Aiden muttered, his voice breathless.

Louis smirked, dragging his hands down Aiden's sides, teasing at the waistband of his jeans. "You're easy to please, aren't you?" he teased, his tone light but cutting.

Aiden's laugh was shaky, his fingers gripping Louis' shirt like a lifeline. "Shut up."

"Make me," Louis quipped, his lips crashing back against Aiden's.

He kissed him hard, deliberate, his body pressing Aiden against the cold tile as he rolled his hips. Aiden moaned softly, and Louis couldn't help the flare of satisfaction that shot through him.

This was easy. This was safe. Aiden didn't make his heart race or his stomach flip. Aiden wasn't Harry.

The bathroom door slammed open with all the subtlety of a soap opera plot twist, and in tumbled Zayn with Harry—giggling like absolute menaces, cheeks flushed and eyes glassy with mischief. They were halfway through some inside joke Louis would bet his last brain cell was about nothing, already fumbling under their jackets like cartoon criminals.

Zayn yanked a half-empty bottle of vodka out from beneath his hoodie like it was the crown jewels, while Harry—giddy and radiant and clearly high on the thrill of being sixteen and sneaky—clutched his ribs from laughing too hard. "Told you I wouldn't drop it!" he crowed, triumphant, like successfully smuggling liquor into a party made him king of England.

Louis blinked, the chaos of his own situation colliding with their joyful delinquency in the worst possible crossover episode.

Because then Harry's eyes landed on them.

On Louis, pressed up against the tile with Aiden's hands all over him, their mouths visibly mid-makeout like the world's saddest student porn.

And just like that, Harry froze.

Like a film reel glitching. Like the joke had been vacuumed out of the air and replaced with static. His face dropped so fast Louis thought he might be sick right there—and then, of course, he was.

The fluorescent lights buzzed faintly, too bright against the dingy tile. Louis' fingers twitch against Aiden's arm before he forces them to still, clinging to control like it's a lifeline.

Harry was still at the doorway, his face pale and stricken, his wide green eyes fixed on Louis with an intensity that made something in Louis' stomach twist.

Harry looked... broken.

His cheeks were flushed, his lips parted, and Louis could see the shallow rise and fall of his chest as he stared at him, unmoving. But it wasn't just shock or embarrassment written across Harry's face—it was something darker, something raw.

And fuck if it didn't punch Louis in the gut. He knew full well what this must look like. He didn't need Zayn's seething glare to spell it out for him.

Louis felt a flicker of panic, his throat tight as he tried to piece together what the fuck he was supposed to do next. He couldn't tear his eyes away from Harry's, even as something bitter and ugly twisted low in his stomach.

The silence stretched for a beat too long, the air heavy and oppressive.

Harry's expression shifted, his features tightening, and then suddenly, he turned and shoved his way into one of the toilet cubicles. A loud, retching sound followed almost immediately, and Louis flinched, his body jerking like he'd been struck, as he feels a tight knot at the base of his throat.

"Christ," Zayn muttered, his voice low and sharp, but he stayed planted by the sink, his arms crossed tightly over his chest.

Aiden let out a soft, awkward laugh behind Louis, and Louis stiffened at the sound, his lip curling in distaste.

"Should I, uh...?" Aiden's voice trailed off, and Louis didn't bother to look at him as he untangled himself from his arms, movements quick and clumsy.

"Yeah, guess we're done here," Louis muttered, already stepping toward the cubicle.

Aiden hesitated, looking vaguely annoyed, but Louis ignored him completely, crouching down by the stall. He didn't even hear the door click shut behind Aiden—his focus was locked entirely on Harry, who was slumped over the toilet, his forehead pressed to his arm.

Louis hesitated, his hand hovering in the air before he reached out to rub Harry's back. His touch was tentative at first, the curve of Harry's shoulder stiff beneath his palm, but he forced himself to keep going.

"Breathe, Hazza," he murmured, his voice soft and low. force his usual teasing lightness back into place, a flimsy mask against the weight pressing on his chest. "You're okay. Just breathe, yeah?"

Harry let out a shaky exhale, his breath rasping in his throat, but he didn't lift his head.

Louis' mind was a fucking mess, spinning too fast to catch a single coherent thought. He felt a strange tug of guilt low in his stomach, but it tangled with something else—something sharp and restless that he didn't want to look at too closely.

He focused on Harry instead, his fingers curling gently against the damp fabric of Harry's shirt. "What the fuck did you give him? Vodka? You know the kid can't hold his liquor." Louis snapped suddenly, throwing a glare over his shoulder at Zayn.

Zayn didn't move from where he was leaning against the sink, his jaw tight and his dark eyes fixed on Louis. "Don't act dumb," Zayn said, his voice cutting, laced with restrained anger. "This isn't about the drinks, and you know that."

Louis shifts on his feet, opens his mouth to deny it, but his tongue feels heavy, the words lodged somewhere in the back of his throat. He covers it with a snort, his smirk razor-sharp as he leans back against the wall. "I don't know what you're talking about," he muttered, his voice tight.

Zayn's scoff was low, sharp. "Oh, but you do," he said, his words heavy with meaning. His gaze flicked briefly toward the bathroom door before returning to Louis, dark and unrelenting. "You fucking know."

For a moment, Louis saw something flicker in Zayn's expression—something on the edge of bursting free, as if he was weighing whether to speak the unspoken. Zayn's jaw tightened, and his gaze shifted to Harry—still raw, still trembling with barely-contained emotion—and whatever Zayn had been about to say died on his lips. Louis recognized the calculation in his silence, the deliberate restraint, and it hit him like a punch to the gut. Zayn wouldn't risk embarrassing Harry, not even now. Because Zayn was always like that: perceptive, tender, and picking his battles with an unnerving precision.

The air feels static-charged, every second stretching like it might snap. Louis' jaw clenches as he watches Harry, willing him to say something, anything, but the silence gnaws at his nerves. Harry's lips part like he's about to say something else, his eyes glassy and distant. But then he blinks, his shoulders squaring like he's putting on armor. "No, Zayn. It's fine. I just drank too much."

Lie. Louis knew it. Zayn knew it. The whole damn tiled room knew it.

But he let him have it. Relief floods his veins, although it's bitter, sharp-edged. He should feel grateful, but all he feels is the weight of Harry's lie pressing against his ribs like a stone.

He should've said something, done something. But all Louis could manage was to curl his hand a little more firmly around the back of Harry's neck, his thumb brushing the damp skin there in a quiet gesture of comfort.

"You're alright, sweet cheeks," Louis said, his voice soft but forced. He let out a shaky breath, pressing a kiss to the top of Harry's head. "Happens to the best of us. Come on, let's get you out of this hellhole, yeah?"

Zayn didn't say another word, but his silence felt loud, pressing against the walls of the small bathroom. When Louis glanced at him, Zayn's eyes were cold, his expression unreadable, but the tension in his jaw said more than words ever could.

Louis forced a smirk onto his face, determined to lighten the suffocating weight in the air. He turned to Harry, brushing his curls back with a teasing flick of his fingers.

"Well," Louis said, his voice lilting and too light, "one of you pretty fuckers owes me a good time after this. I was halfway to the promised land, and now I'm stranded, wet patch and all." His grin widened, sharp and unapologetic. "And don't you dare suggest Grimshaw— his dirty talk is just... silence and soft grunts. Made me question the point of humanity's evolutionary progress. Absolute tragedy."

The joke landed with that pointed edge only Louis could manage—too casual, too cruel, designed to cut through the room's silence like a whip.

Harry's head snapped up, his wide eyes meeting Louis'. There was a flicker of something in them—relief, maybe? Hope? Louis couldn't be sure, but it was enough to ease the knot in his chest just a little.

Zayn rolled his eyes, muttering something Louis didn't bother to catch.

"Let's go, Hazza," Louis said, pulling Harry to his feet with a gentle hand on his elbow. "Don't worry—you're still my favorite disaster."

And as they stepped out of the bathroom, the tension still heavy between them, Louis couldn't shake the feeling that they'd only made the mess worse.

2025, London

Louis wipes his hands on the sheets—already a lost cause—and grimaces at the stickiness. There's a smear of come on his thigh, the scent of sex clinging to his skin like guilt, and he's too raw to deal with any of it properly. So instead, he reaches under the nightstand, finds the tin box that looks like it holds spare batteries but actually holds rolling papers, a half-ground mix of Strawberry Diesel, and enough emotional damage to power a mid-sized soap opera.

He rolls it on instinct, fingers moving with that familiar twitchy grace, like muscle memory built from years of self-preservation. There's a stash in every room at this point—kitchen cupboard behind the vitamins, laundry room dryer sheet box, even one taped behind the mirror in the guest loo. Not because he smokes that much anymore, but because the version of Louis who used to doesn't quite trust the current one to always hold it together.

He only locks them up when Freddie's home. That rule's sacred. He keeps his hands clean around his kid—both literally and metaphorically. But tonight? Tonight he's alone. Filthy. Frayed. And very much in need of a buffer between his thoughts and whatever's trying to crawl out of his chest cavity.

The joint lights with a soft crackle, and he sucks in a slow drag, eyes fluttering shut. The first hit is always like a salve, warm and creeping, like someone turned down the volume on the world by half a notch. He exhales toward the ceiling, watches the smoke curl into soft, impossible shapes, and lets his brain do the thing it always does after he comes too hard and feels too much: spiral.

He really, really contemplates calling his old dealer. Not even to buy anything, just to prove she still exists. That era of his life feels like a blur of glitter and rot—chemical cocktails and blackout nights and waking up in unfamiliar clothes with unfamiliar bruises and sometimes unfamiliar names. She was sharp-tongued and terrifying and possibly psychic. The last time he saw her, she had a switchblade in her bra and a business card that said "therapist" in Comic Sans. That was years ago. She's probably dead or running a yoga cult in Croatia by now. He doesn't want to go back there. Doesn't even want to remember that version of himself.

Now it's just weed. And the occasional party favor if he knows the source, trusts the vibe, and the playlist doesn't suck.

His current guy's a barefoot philosophy major named River (not even kidding) who smells like patchouli and only sells two things: weed and the kind of shrooms that make you cry over trees. River once refused to sell to Louis because he was "in a gnarly emotional frequency" and made him journal about it first. Which—fine. Whatever. He gets the appeal now.

He takes another drag and flops backward, smoke seeping from the corners of his mouth like a sigh he forgot to release.

The thing is, weed doesn't make the thoughts go away. It just slows them down enough for him to chase them around a bit. Sometimes he catches one and turns it into a lyric. Sometimes he catches one and wishes he hadn't.

This one? It's Harry. Of course it's Harry. Always is.

He presses the heel of his hand to his eyes, hard enough to see stars. "Get a grip," he hisses, like he's not actively unraveling in his too-big bedroom, covered in come, Bic ink and self-loathing.

Harry had looked at him like he hung the fucking moon. Like Louis invented the stars and personally curated every sunrise just for him. And that—that—was the scariest goddamn thing in the world.

And what the fuck is he supposed to do with that?

It's not fair. Not when he's spent his entire adult life perfecting the art of being fine adjacent. Not when his entire personality is duct-taped together with sarcasm and low-level trauma responses.

He exhales through his teeth, grabs a pillow, and shouts into it. Real mature. Real productive.

Then again, what's he supposed to do? Text Harry?

Hey, remember that time in 2010 when you looked at me like I was someone worth loving and I responded by tongue-fucking the human equivalent of plain toast? Miss you lol.

Yeah, no. Hard pass.

The truth is: Louis is allergic to hope. He gets hives from emotional honesty.

And Harry—sweet, absurd, unbearably earnest Harry—was never afraid of any of that.

He existed like someone who didn't know heartbreak was an option. And Louis? Louis existed like someone who bought heartbreak in bulk, stored it in the attic, and gave it out as party favors.

"Fucking hell," he mutters again, rubbing his wrist like he can smudge the whole thing away. "If I die alone, it's because I deserve it."

He's halfway through his joint and horizontal on the bed, one leg hanging off the side like he forgot how gravity works, when it hits him.

That idea.

That stupid, split-second, serotonin-starved idea.

Impulse lights up in his brain like a slot machine jackpot. Ding ding ding, let's ruin your night and your dignity.

His phone's already in his hand, thumbs moving with the grace of a man who shouldn't be operating machinery in his current state. His high has rounded every edge of logic, turned shame into a soft suggestion. The Clone-a-Willy—still shiny, still used—is lying on the bed like a relic of a much more satisfying religion. He doesn't even think about it. Just angles his phone with one lazy hand, captures the shot. It's not artsy. It's not tasteful. It's incriminating.

The lighting's terrible. There's lube on the duvet. A suspicious smudge across the base. It's pornographic in that way only chaos can be—just real enough to haunt someone's dreams.

He types the caption without pausing:

Louis: need a new one with the piercings xx

and hits send before his brain catches up.

There's a single beat of silence. The weed has him feeling like a genius and a disaster simultaneously.

Louis blinks at the screen. Realizes what he's just done.

"Fuck," he mutters, but he's grinning. Horrified. Delighted. His heart is pounding and he's not sure if it's from the weed or the pure, uncut insanity of the moment.

Too late to unsend. Too late to backtrack.

And honestly?

He doesn't want to.

Let Harry deal with it.

Let him see what Louis does when left alone too long with memory and silicone and a joint named bad decisions.

The screen stays dark.

And Louis—still stoned, still shirtless, still a little bit ruined—chucks his phone to the foot of the bed, throws an arm over his face, and laughs.

It's the kind of laugh that's two degrees shy of crying. The kind that says: this is going to end in flames, but fuck it, I already lit the match.

Chapter Text

2025, London

He wakes up to cold, wet violence.

One second he's blissfully unconscious, joint crusted to his chest, mouth hanging open, vibrator still loyally stationed somewhere near his left ear—

—and the next, he's sputtering like a drowned cat, blinking through a faceful of freezing tap water.

"FUCKING HELL—"

He jerks upright, soaked, confused, absolutely livid. "Jesus Christ, Lotts, what the actual fuck?!"

Lottie stands at the foot of his bed like a vengeful, blonde angel of judgment, clutching an empty glass like she's debating whether to launch round two.

Her mascara is flawless. Her eyes, not so much.

"I thought you overdosed and died, you fucking idiot!" she shrieks, voice hitting frequencies previously unknown to humankind.

Louis wipes his face with the back of his hand, blinking like a feral raccoon. "You can't overdose on weed, for fuck's sake."

"Oh, really?" she snaps. "Well, maybe let me know that before I find you dead asleep at noon, fully clothed, looking like a fucking crime scene! I called you all night! Texted! Voice notes! Nothing. And then I walk in to this?"

She gestures wildly at the scene: ash on the duvet, vibrator at his temple like a tiara, and Louis looking like the poster child for Bad Decisions & Unwashed Sheets Vol. 3.

Louis yawns. "Yeah, alright. What's the actual emergency, then?"

Lottie throws her hands up. "The emergency is you forgot to tell me you're even back in London! Zara told me. Zara. I looked like a bloody moron."

"Oh," Louis says, scratching at his chest. "Yeah. Sorry. Forgot to check in. Got a bit busy."

"Busy fucking Harry in Berlin?!" Lottie shrieks, pacing now like she's about to livestream a breakdown. "Yeah, I've seen Reddit. It's all over Fuckmoi! You're trending, by the way. Congrats. Do you want a balloon or just your common sense back?"

Louis shrugs. "Chill. It's not that big of a deal."

Lottie stops dead. "Not that—not that big of a deal?" Her voice goes up again. Dogs in Belgium perk their ears. "You told me you were done with him. Done, Louis. You have a girlfriend. Who, by the way, I now physically cannot make eye contact with."

"Yeah, well," Louis says coolly, plucking the joint off his chest like it personally betrayed him. "Shit happens."

Lottie gapes. "Shit happens? Shit happens?! Louis, that guy's a fucking lunatic!"

"You're being dramatic," Louis says, because of course he does. "You used to like him."

"Yeah, until he started pulling his mindfuckery and dragging you back into the emotional black hole you barely clawed your way out of."

Louis rolls his eyes so hard it's a miracle he doesn't sprain a cornea. "It's all under control. Don't worry."

Lottie points wordlessly at the silicone dick still lounging beside his pillow like an incriminating side character. "Yeah. Clearly. Looks very under control, Lou. Let me tell you, it will end up in fucking disaster."

Louis just snorts. "So there's nothing new under the sun."

Lottie stares at him. A beat passes. Two.

And then she mutters, half to herself, "You're so fucking stupid when you're in love."

Louis closes his eyes.

Doesn't even deny it.

She's not wrong.

Louis has a history of making god-awful decisions where Harry Styles is concerned.

It's practically a seasonal tradition at this point. Like hay fever. Or cheating on his emotional stability with chaos in gemstone eyeliner.

He's always been this way—helpless against the gravitational pull of Harry's big, stupid eyes and addictive heart. Always the same cycle: one moment of weakness, one soft laugh, one accidental brush of fingers, and suddenly Louis is flinging logic out the window like it personally offended him.

And it's not like it started last week.

No.

It started long before he pulled up to that little house in Holmes Chapel, nineteen years old and so far up his own arse he didn't even realize he was already falling in love.

2010 December, Holmes Chapel

The Renault Clio wheezed up the long gravel drive like it needed an inhaler. Louis patted the dashboard as it juddered to a stop, muttering a "don't die yet, babe" before yanking the handbrake with all the subtlety of a toddler in a go-kart. His knees cracked when he unfolded from the driver's seat, the winter air sharp and wet, laced with chimney smoke and something suspiciously like cow.

Before he could even slam the car door shut, a blur of curls and limbs came barrelling toward him down the path.

Harry.

Half in a coat, half not, joggers tucked into socks, curls flying like he'd been electrocuted with joy. He looked radiant and ridiculous and starting to grow way too tall. Louis barely had time to register the dopey grin on his face before he was tackled in the middle of the driveway, arms full of sixteen-year-old limbs and a voice chirping, "You made it! I thought you'd crash into a sheep or something."

Louis staggered under the weight, laughing. "Charming welcome, that. You lot always greet guests by rugby tackling them at the driveway or just the special ones?"

Harry squeezed tighter. "Just you."

His breath fogged against Louis' neck. It shouldn't have meant anything. It shouldn't have felt like that.

Louis coughed, pulled back. "Alright, alright. Let the talent breathe."

Harry beamed at him like Louis had just descended from the heavens instead of arriving in a dodgy Clio with a broken cassette player and half a Mars bar under the seat.

The house loomed behind them, brick and ivy, warm windows glowing against the grey sky. It wasn't fancy—no giant marble foyer, no sweeping staircase—but it was home. Cosy. Clean but lived in. The kind of place that smelled like laundry softener and gravy and some candle Anne probably bought on sale at M&S.

"You didn't crash," Harry noted, still buzzing as he grabbed Louis' duffle bag. "Proud of you."

"Barely," Louis said. "Your county's got more sheep than road signs. One tried to make eye contact. I panicked."

Harry snorted. "You absolute idiot."

"I've missed you too, baby cakes," Louis quipped, following him toward the door.

Anne opened it before they reached it, beaming like a mum in a feel-good Christmas advert. "There's our Louis!"

Louis straightened his posture and turned the charm up to eleven. "Anne! You've never looked more radiant. Is it the central heating or the thrill of seeing me again?"

Anne laughed, pulling him into a warm hug that smelled like cinnamon and patience. "Don't push it, young man. Come in before you freeze."

Gemma popped her head out from the hallway, eyeing them with a raised brow. "You bring the chaos with you, or are you just naturally loud?"

Louis blew her a kiss. "Bit of both. Merry Christmas to you too, Grinch."

Harry dragged him upstairs by the wrist before he could start a mock insult war. "Come on. Mum's made like six lasagnas and you're not allowed to eat any of them until you've unpacked and stopped flirting with my entire family."

Louis kicked off his boots by the stairs, grinning. "You're just jealous I've got game."

Harry's room hadn't changed much. Posters on the wall, clothes everywhere, an oddly precise row of moisturizers by the mirror. His bed was half-made, like he tried and then gave up halfway through fluffing the duvet. The whole space screamed teenage boy with the emotional range of a romantic novel.

Louis threw himself onto the bed. "Smells like you in here."

Harry froze by the dresser. "Is that... a complaint?"

"No," Louis said, and meant it. "You smell like fabric softener and ego. It's weirdly nice."

Harry blushed. "Shut up."

Louis propped himself on one elbow, eyes glinting. "You're gonna be famous, y'know."

Harry looked away, bashful. "You always say that."

"'Cause it's true." Louis picked a bit of fluff off the duvet. "You're already kind of a star. Even if you still sleep in cartoon pyjamas."

Harry tossed a pillow at him. Louis caught it. Didn't stop grinning.

–-----

The snow crunched under their trainers as they walked through Holmes Chapel like they were starring in some BBC Christmas special with a much gayer undertone and worse costuming.

Louis stuffed his hands in his coat pockets, nose red, breath fogging. "You weren't joking about this place being small, huh?"

Harry grinned beside him, curls bouncing under his beanie. "Shut up. It's cute."

"Cute," Louis repeated, deadpan. "That's one word for it. 'Claustrophobically quaint' is another."

Harry bumped their shoulders together. "We've got a Costa now."

"Christ. Don't get too metropolitan on me."

They turned the corner, passing the post office and some secondhand shop with three terrifying porcelain dolls in the window. Louis raised a brow. "So this is where stars are born?"

Harry rolled his eyes and gestured dramatically. "Behold. W. Mandeville's Bakery. The peak of my pre-fame existence."

Louis stared at the tiny shopfront. "This is where you worked?"

"Just your regular baguette boy extraordinaire."

Louis barked a laugh. "Did they make you wear a little hat?"

Harry looked betrayed. "Yes."

"Show me photos or I won't believe you."

Harry grumbled something about privacy violations and kept walking. Louis followed, smug. The air was sharp, the sky pale, the entire town dipped in soft, powdered white like someone had dumped icing sugar over everything. And it was... kind of lovely. Annoyingly so.

"Alright," Louis said, crouching suddenly. "You've shown me the bakery. Now I'll show you a real Northern tradition."

Harry turned just in time to catch a snowball full in the chest.

"Oi!" he gasped, laughing as he bent down and launched one back. It hit Louis square in the arse.

"You little shit!" Louis shrieked, ducking behind a lamp post that offered no cover whatsoever.

It was chaos after that—half-assed dodging, dramatic flailing, Harry slipping and taking Louis down with him into a snowbank. They were breathless, laughing, limbs tangled in the slush, snow melting into the seams of their jeans.

"Truce?" Harry panted, face inches from Louis'.

Louis blinked up at him, grin frozen.

Harry was so close. Lips pink from the cold, a few freckles dusted across his cheeks like someone painted them on for aesthetic. His curls had snow caught in them, glinting. He looked like a fever dream version of a Christmas angel. Or maybe just a boy Louis shouldn't want as badly as he did.

Their laughter tapered into silence. The space between them buzzed. Harry's gaze dropped to Louis' mouth. His breath hitched.

Louis didn't move.

Neither did Harry.

And then—then Louis saw it. That flicker. That split-second of hope in Harry's eyes.

Fuck.

Louis leaned in. Just a little. Just enough to feel the pull.

And then, just before it could become something real, something dangerous, Louis jerked back and smirked. "You've got snot on your lip, babe."

Harry blinked, startled, as Louis shoved a gloveful of snow against his cheek.

Deflection. Classic move. Oscar-worthy.

Harry rolled off him, chuckling awkwardly. "Dickhead."

"Born and raised," Louis chirped, brushing snow off his coat.

His phone buzzed. He tugged it out of his back pocket, screen lighting up with Hannah.

He stared at it for a moment, thumb hovering over the green button. Then let it ring out, slipping it back into his pocket like it burned.

Harry's voice came quiet. "Are you still together with her?"

Louis arched a brow. "Yeah. Why?"

Harry looked at the snow. "I just thought... you and Aiden, at the X factor party. Looked like you broke up."

Louis shrugged. "Eh. I like to switch it up from time to time. Keeps life spicy."

Harry's mouth twitched. "Does she know you're switching it up?"

Louis looked deadpan. "She doesn't have to know."

That silence stretched again. Harry's jaw flexed, eyes narrowed like he was trying to do the mental gymnastics of understanding and morally reconciling that sentence.

Louis saw it. Felt the judgment radiating off him like a low-budget space heater.

He rolled his eyes. "Go on then. Judge my ethics. Say something philosophical and pure and devastating with those big ol' cow eyes."

Harry blinked. "I wasn't—"

"You were," Louis said, biting but not cruel. "It's alright. Not everyone's got the stomach for moral ambiguity and a bit of snogging in dirty bathrooms."

Harry glanced away, visibly retreating into himself, shoulders drawing in.

Louis kicked at a clump of snow. "Don't go all quiet on me, Haz. You'll make me feel guilty."

"Wouldn't want that," Harry said, voice soft and unreadable.

"Exactly," Louis said brightly, masking. "You don't invite me to the countryside just to trigger my conscience. That's what Catholic school's for."

Harry didn't laugh.

And Louis didn't press.

They kept walking, shoes crunching the snow in tandem. But the air felt different now—charged, uncertain, cold in a new way.

They spent the rest of the afternoon lazily half-watching telly, shouting over Monopoly with Gemma, and stealing spoonfuls of trifle from the fridge when Anne wasn't looking. Harry gave him a birthday gift—small, thoughtful, handed over with that stupidly sincere smile of his—and Louis would never say it out loud, but it warmed something ridiculous in his chest. Especially because Harry had wrapped it himself, corners crisp, bow neatly glued, the kind of wrapping that said I cared enough to try.

Somewhere along the way, Louis ended up on the couch, half on top of Harry, both of them wrapped in the same blanket, the TV still on in the background but fading into ambient hum.

The living room was dim, lit only by the soft glow of the Christmas tree. The scent of pine needles hung in the air, mingling with the faint crackle of the fireplace. Everything had that cozy, post-Christmas haze—quiet, warm, just a little too still. Louis blinked slowly, his cheek squished against a warm chest, the rise and fall beneath him steady and slow.

He was practically draped over Harry on the couch, limbs tangled, a shared throw-over now only covering their ankles. One of his arms was slung across Harry's waist, more out of sleep-drunken laziness than anything else. He hadn't meant to fall asleep like that. Hadn't meant to be so close. But Harry was warm. Solid. Breathing against his hair.

And Louis—he could admit it now, in the hush between heartbeats—had never felt safer than right there. It was soothing.

At first.

But then—something shifted.

Harry twitched beneath him. Subtle at first. A breath that hitched. A finger that flexed against Louis' back. Then again. A small jerk of the hips. A quiet, helpless sound barely breathed against Louis' temple.

Louis' brow creased.

He kept his eyes closed, trying not to spook it—the moment. But he could feel the tension blooming under his palm, the rising heat, the way Harry's body was not as relaxed as it had been moments ago.

It clicked. Slowly, terrifyingly, hilariously.

Harry was having a dream. No, not just a dream. That kind of dream.

Louis tried very hard not to grin. He schooled his features into neutral curiosity, even as the realization bloomed bright and giddy in his chest.

Harry's hips jerked again, sharper now. A soft noise escaped his lips—part sigh, part whimper—and then it stopped. Everything went still.

Louis opened one eye a sliver, just enough to see Harry blinking rapidly, eyes wide and horrified. His cheeks were already red, breath shallow, hands hovering awkwardly at his lap like he wasn't sure where to put them.

Oh my god.

Louis almost choked on his own glee.

"Haz?" he mumbled groggily, injecting just the right amount of sleepy confusion into his voice as he blinked up at him. "You alright?"

Harry looked like a deer caught in twelve headlights. His mouth opened and closed, his whole face going crimson.

Then Louis saw it. The stain.

Right there. On his boxers. Big. Damp. Absolutely unmistakable.

Oh, he was going to be a menace.

"Did you just...?" Louis asked, voice low and sharp with barely concealed amusement, fully awake now.

Harry stammered, panicked. "It wasn't like... intentional."

Louis bit down on his lip, trying not to laugh. His mouth twitched, mischief dancing across every nerve ending. "Oh. You had a wet dream?"

Harry groaned, tossing his head back dramatically like he wanted to disappear into the upholstery. "Don't."

But Louis wasn't going to let him off that easy. No fucking way. Not when he'd been jerked awake by the literal evidence of Harry coming in his sleep underneath him. He shifted up onto his elbow, blue eyes sparkling.

"Was it about me?" he asked, dragging his tongue across his bottom lip before biting it—just enough to be evil.

Harry went redder. "I—"

Louis tilted his head, smirk widening. "Oh, it was about me, wasn't it?"

Harry practically squeaked, "I didn't say that."

"Didn't have to." Louis let his gaze flick down Harry's body like a slow, indulgent drag. He crawled forward, deliberately letting his knee brush against Harry's thigh. "Such a shame you already finished," he murmured, dragging his fingers lightly down Harry's chest, heart thudding under his palm. "Would've been fun to help you out."

Harry made a sound that could only be described as a whimper. His dick twitched again, and Louis' eyes snapped down to catch it.

Jesus.

Louis inhaled sharply, pupils dilating. His own cock stirred, traitorous and eager, pressed against the inside of his joggers. The way Harry's boxers clung, the shine of new wetness, the raw, wrecked look on his face—it was almost too much.

Louis dragged his fingers along the curve of Harry's hip, breath catching. "Didn't even touch you," he said, taunting now. "And you made a whole mess of yourself. That's..." He smirked again, lifting his gaze slowly. "Flattering."

Harry trembled under his hands, pink to the tips of his ears. His fingers twitched uselessly at his sides, unsure where to go, what to do.

And then—

Creak.

The door.

Louis' head snapped toward it just in time to see Anne standing in the doorway.

"You boys are up?"

Every inch of Louis froze. Fuck. Fuck, fuck.

Anne's eyes swept over them, assessing the distance (none), the blanket (compromised), Harry's face (mortified), and the very obvious state of his boxers.

"Oh," she said, managing a Herculean level of neutrality.

"MUM!" Harry shrieked, scrambling like he'd just been shot. He grabbed the blanket, yanking it up over his lap, but there was no salvaging the situation.

Anne cleared her throat, valiantly not laughing. "I'll, um... give you some privacy."

The door clicked shut again.

Silence.

Louis waited a beat, then flopped back onto his elbows with a wicked grin. "Well, that's one way to wake up the house."

Harry groaned, hiding his face in his hands. "This is the worst day of my life."

Louis leaned close, voice honey-sweet. "Don't worry, sweet cheeks. Your secret's safe with me."

Harry peeked between his fingers, face still flaming—but not quite devastated anymore.

Louis smirked. "That said... I'm going to give you so much shit for this."

Harry groaned again, but this time, Louis caught the curve of a smile beneath it. And he knew—he'd never let him live this down.

Ever.

2025, London

"By the way," Lottie says as she plops herself dramatically onto the edge of his unmade bed, flipping her hair like she's about to announce the results of a blood test. "Your precious boyfriend texted."

Louis, still half-shirtless and vaguely crusty from last night's sins, cocks an eyebrow. "You checked my phone?"

"What?" she shrugs, all smug innocence. "I ordered myself breakfast on your Deliveroo tab. Emotional compensation for waking up to a possible overdose-slash-sex-toy crime scene."

"Not my boyfriend," Louis mutters, reaching for the vibrator and flicking it off the bed like it personally betrayed him. He opens a drawer—already half-full of things that should never be anywhere near each other—and shoves it in, making a mental note to sanitize and relocate later. Or forget about it entirely and let future-him discover it in six months next to a broken vape and a pair of novelty handcuffs.

Lottie doesn't even flinch. "Yeah, yeah. Put the dildo away before your actual girlfriend shows up and finds out you've been getting railed by the memory of your not-boyfriend-but-not-ex-but-not-situationship."

They head downstairs like normal people, which is generous, because Louis is still in trackies from two days ago and Lottie is dressed like she's about to review five concealers and emotionally damage a man in the comments section.

Her breakfast arrives. Something overpriced and vegan and aggressively Instagrammable. Louis pours himself a bowl of cereal that can only be described as sugar in three textures—Coco Pops and Frosties, because apparently his pancreas is no longer on speaking terms with reality.

Lottie makes a face like he just snorted powdered gravy.

"Jesus, Lou. You really should start taking care of yourself," she says between bites of smashed avocado self-righteousness. "Especially with Soccer Aid coming up."

Louis groans. "Oh, don't start."

"I will start," she snaps, pointing at his cereal like it personally offended her. "Your insides are 90% nicotine and repressed feelings. Speaking of, did you hear Sam Thompson's joined?"

Louis squints, spoon halfway to his mouth. "Who?"

Lottie rolls her eyes so hard it's audible. "Your girlfriend's ex, you fuckhead."

"Oh. Right." He chews, shrugs. "Good for him. Does he hate me or something?"

Lottie raises a single, perfect brow. "I don't know. Ask Zara."

But Louis is only half-listening now. Because that stupid tickle of curiosity is flaring in his chest like a rash.

Harry texted.

It's just sitting there on his phone, vibrating somewhere between temptation and dread. And he wants to look. God, he wants to look.

But not while Lottie's here.

Not while she's sipping her oat milk latte like a judge at a war crimes tribunal and waiting to pounce the second he shows any sign of emotional vulnerability.

So, instead, he stares into his mutant cereal, nods like he cares, and waits.

Waits for her to leave.

Waits to lose control again.

Chapter Text

2025, London

As soon as Lottie leaves, Louis snatches his phone like it's the last line of coke at a fashion week afterparty.

One unread message from Harry.

He opens it, heart doing that stupid fluttery thing it does right before he ruins his own peace.

Harry: touching. really.

so glad my legacy lives on in your discount drawer of despair.

next time try sending flowers instead of used rubber cock xx

Louis grins. Oh, he's in a mood.

He stretches out on the couch like the little slut he is, thumbs flying.

Louis: Thought you'd appreciate the sentiment. Very me, isn't it? x

Read. No reply. Then—typing.

Harry: so "very you" it gave me an ulcer.

can't wait for your next love letter. maybe a photo of the STIs you almost caught this week?

Louis lets out a wheeze of laughter, flicking a crumb off his hoodie.

Louis: You mad at me, Baby?

Read. Dot dot dot.

Harry: oh no.

i'm THRILLED. elated.

nothing brings me more joy than getting surprise porn from a man who emotionally breadcrumbed me for more than a decade like it was character development, then ghosted me.

Louis snorts. God, he missed this brand of poetic rage.

Louis: I didn't ghost you. I got busy :)

Harry: with what? being a morally bankrupt slut in different time zones?

Louis: Yes. And eating coco pops with frosties. Multitasking x

There's a longer pause this time. Louis can almost see it: Harry, dramatic and bare-chested, probably pacing his overpriced kitchen with a boner and a grudge, chewing his thumbnail like a femme fatale in a French noir, mood-lighting on, probably walking in passive-aggressive circles around a velvet ottoman.

Harry: you are lucky you're hot.

and that i'm stupid.

and that my dick literally doesn't understand self-respect.

Louis' smirk sharpens like a knife.

Louis: Sounds like your dick misses me xx

The screen stays still for a beat. Then—

Those three little dots appear.

Disappear.

Appear again.

Then vanish once more, like they're caught in a loop of hesitation and ego and far too much feeling.

Louis stares, smirking at the dance of indecision, because yeah—Harry's flustered. Still trying to decide if he wants to flirt, fight, or fold.

Finally, the reply lands:

Harry: wouldn't you like to know.

Louis throws his head back and laughs, because, fuck, he would like to know. He already does know.

But he also knows Harry won't give it up that easy.

Not the satisfaction. Not the truth. Not the softness beneath all that bite.

Harry's message reads like a flick of the wrist, all sass and bravado, but Louis can hear the static underneath.

The silence between the words.

That familiar tension, coiled and careful, like Harry's waiting—hoping—he'll push back harder.

Like he always used to.

Because they never just flirt.

They circle each other like predators in silk.

Like history in heat.

Like two people who've tasted worship and can't stop pretending it meant nothing.

So Louis smirks, thumbs already dancing across the screen.

If Harry wants a game, he'll play it.

If he wants a war, he'll win it.

And if he wants to pretend this doesn't still hurt—well.

Louis has always loved a slow burn.

2011 March, X Factor tour – The O2 Arena

The shared lounge looked like a teenage boyband had exploded inside it—which, to be fair, it had. Half-empty Red Bulls, crusty socks, a suspicious pair of boxers no one had claimed, and one sad artificial ficus, named Gilbert, in the corner that had definitely seen things.

Harry sat cross-legged on the floor, papers scattered in his lap like he thought he was a tortured artist instead of an underage heartthrob. His curls were a mess. His socks didn't match. His soul was probably crying in lowercase.

"Feels weird, doesn't it?" he said into the room, like he was narrating a sad indie film. "Like... when we're done with this tour, it's actually over."

"Not over," Niall declared with the confidence of someone mid-chip binge. "Just... on pause."

Louis rolled his eyes from where he was draped over the sofa like a French courtesan. "A pause usually implies we're coming back, Nialler. We didn't win. We got bronze. It's not exactly giving longevity."

"Doom and gloom with a side of dramatics," Zayn muttered, sprawled in the armchair like a chain-smoking Greek god. Cigarette dangling from his fingers, he looked like he'd read The Bell Jar once and decided to make it his whole brand.

"I'm not being dramatic," Louis said, flipping a crumpled copy of Heat magazine. "I'm being realistic. What's next for a third-place boyband? Cruise ships? Covering 'Mysterious Girl' at regional shopping centres?"

"Well, Simon did say he wanted to talk," Liam chimed in, perched on Zayn's chair like a motivational poster brought to life. "Maybe there's a plan."

"Or maybe he just wants to tell us not to quit our day jobs. Y'know, break the news gently that we peaked in week five," Louis deadpanned.

"You didn't even have a job before this," Niall pointed out with his mouth full of crisps.

Louis hurled the magazine at him, missed by two feet. "Neither did you, Mr. 'I Used to Busk Next to a Burrito Place.'"

"True," Niall giggled. "But I'm the ray of fucking sunshine in this band, remember?"

Harry looked up, soft smile playing on his lips. "But what if this is just the beginning? Our shot? What if we're actually, like... good?"

Louis arched an eyebrow. "Our shot at what? Playing Butlin's in ten years while middle-aged mums throw bras at us and yell, 'Do Viva la Vida!'"

"Hey, could be fun," Niall said with a wink.

"No, seriously," Harry said, and somehow managed to sound like he was auditioning for a coming-of-age movie. "What if we're meant to do something with this?"

"Kid's got a point," Zayn muttered, smoke curling out of his mouth like punctuation.

Louis narrowed his eyes. "Since when are you Team Hope?"

Zayn shrugged. "Just saying. Girls scream when we breathe. That's got to mean something."

Silence.

The weight of maybe hung in the air.

Louis sighed. "Well, if it all goes to shit, at least we've got some good stories. And one extremely cursed group tattoo idea we'll all regret."

"Few stories?" Niall cackled. "I've got a whole memoir in my Notes app."

"Chapter One: Harry Styles—human banana peel," Louis smirked.

"I do not fall that much," Harry huffed, tossing a crumpled lyric sheet at him.

"You've concussed yourself on stage three times," Liam said. "I'm starting to think it's a cry for help."

"Chapter Two," Louis continued, grinning now, "Zayn broods in the corner like he's doing method acting for Twilight, but really he's just sneaking off for a fag and texting his barber."

"Not sneaking," Zayn said coolly. "I'm just aesthetically elusive."

"Chapter Three: Niall inhales Nando's like he's in a hostage negotiation, then whines about his stomach right before we go on stage."

"Oi!" Niall protested, chucking a pillow. "You eat more than I do, you lanky fraud."

"Yeah, but I do it with grace and emotional repression," Louis shot back.

"And Chapter Four," Harry offered with a smirk, "Louis flirts with every female crew member, but they all think he's joking."

"They don't think I'm joking," Louis said, scandalised. "I'm just... European."

"Like Zayn?" Liam teased.

"Exactly like Zayn. Mysterious. Desirable. Slightly morally questionable."

"Chapter Five," Zayn muttered, blowing smoke toward the ceiling, "Liam tries to unionize the band and files mental HR complaints every time Louis says 'cock.'"

"I'm just trying to keep us alive," Liam snapped, not looking up from his spreadsheet. "You know Simon said no dairy before vocals—Niall, put the cheese down!"

Louis snorted. "Chapter Five, updated: Liam Payne vs. The Entire Concept of Fun."

"You're all idiots," Zayn muttered—but he was smiling.

"Idiots with potential," Harry said softly, more to himself than the room.

Louis glanced at him. He looked like hope and heartbreak wrapped in a cardigan. Too earnest. Too sweet. Too much.

Louis' smirk wobbled, just for a second. Then he grinned.

"Well," he said, "guess we'll just have to see who ends up famous and who ends up doing panto in Milton Keynes."

Harry's dimples deepened. "Guess so."

A few hours later, the backstage area of the O2 Arena was a chaotic fever dream of cables, clipboard-wielding crew members, and the distant thump of a soundcheck that rattled the floor. The dressing room smelled like hairspray, nerves, and Liam's forgotten protein shake. Louis was spread across the sofa like a Roman emperor with a death wish, legs up, Toms off, fingers idly flipping through a wrinkled lyric sheet he had no intention of using.

Harry, meanwhile, looked like an open wound. He was pacing like a man being hunted, chewing the edge of his thumb and mumbling his setlist like it was a prayer. His curls were all over the place—frizzed to hell by the damp and curling like they had dreams of forming a sentient halo.

"Relax, Haz," Louis drawled, not bothering to look up. "You're vibrating like Anne put an espresso in your veins again."

Harry spun toward him, eyes wide and frantic. "What if I forget the words? Or trip on my mic wire? Or—"

"Or you collapse in a sparkly heap and get carried out by a roadie," Louis interrupted, sitting up and stretching like a cat. "Honestly? Iconic."

Harry groaned. "I'm serious."

"So am I. Have you met yourself?" Louis stood, slinging an arm around Harry's shoulders and dragging him away from the mirror like he was diffusing a bomb. "You could walk on stage in a bin bag and half the crowd would still scream like you'd cured fucking cancer."

That earned a half-smile. Louis grinned. He was on a roll now.

"Now come sit down before you crack a hip from stress," Louis said, steering him toward the sofa again. "Jesus, you're seventeen, not seventy."

Harry let himself be plopped down, cheeks still flushed. Louis flopped beside him, dramatically sighing like he was the one burdened by global fame and teenage hormones.

"Want me to hold your hand during Grenade?" Louis teased, wiggling his fingers. "I hear it helps with sudden-onset melodrama."

"Shut up," Harry muttered, but he was smiling now—soft, pink-lipped, and exasperated.

"Oh, come on," Louis said, bumping his shoulder. "You know you'd love it. Could make it our thing. Like a friendship bracelet, but gayer."

Before Harry could decide whether to roll his eyes or lean in, the door flung open and a crew member yelled, "Five minutes!"

Tension snapped back into the room like a rubber band. Everyone scattered—Zayn checking his hair, Niall grabbing his mic, Liam muttering something about formation like he was auditioning for the army—but Louis stayed put, his arm still slung lazily behind Harry.

"You good now?" Louis asked, quieter this time. Sincere, somehow.

Harry nodded, but didn't look away. There was something in his eyes—something wide and raw and reverent.

"Thanks," he said, voice low.

Louis blinked. And then—because his brain was on autopilot and his heart was a reckless idiot—he leaned in and kissed him.

It was soft. Quick. Barely more than a press of lips in the middle of a shared breath. And then it was over, just like that.

Harry's mouth dropped open. His eyes were blown wide. "Lou—"

"Don't make it weird," Louis said, breezy as ever, like he hadn't just short-circuited the boy. "It's a good luck thing. Like slapping someone's arse in rugby."

"Is that a thing?" Harry asked, blinking like a Disney deer.

"It is now," Louis said, standing and ruffling his curls like nothing had happened. "Let's go, Styles. Time to make 'em scream."

But as they headed toward the stage, shoulder to shoulder in the electric hallway hum, Harry's fingers brushed Louis's.

And Louis didn't pull away.

Not this time.

2025, London

The screen had gone dark hours ago, FIFA abandoned mid-match, controller still nestled somewhere beneath his thigh. Louis had meant to write—he really had. Had even opened his notes app, typed two lines about bridges and bruises and boys with messy curls. But then Harry texted back with that snipey little "Wouldn't you like to know," and something unhinged curled up behind Louis' ribs and whispered, smoke until you can't remember what year it is, mate.

So he did.

Now it's noon, maybe. Or afternoon. Or fucking next Thursday. There's sunlight bleeding through the curtains, his mouth tastes like ash and regret, and his brain is sludge. He's vaguely aware of warmth between his legs—of lips, soft and lazy, working his cock like this is just how Saturdays begin.

He moans, deep and ruined, head tipping back against the cushions. His limbs are molasses. His chest is sticky. His dick is soaked in spit and he's not even sure if he's dreaming anymore. All he knows is instinct.

Two fingers slide into his mouth—his own, trembling and graceless. He sucks, messy and wet, then reaches down between his legs without even opening his eyes.

It's slow. Drugged. Too much and not enough.

His hand works in tandem, stroking where it counts while his fingers stretch him open, shaky and clumsy and so desperate it borders on feral. There's no filter left in him. No shame, no second thoughts.

Just heat and pressure and—

"Fuck—"

He spills with a stuttered gasp, hips twitching, thighs shaking, everything sparking in static. For a second, he's floating. For a second, it's perfect.

And then he hears it.

A cough. Delicate. Soft. Absolutely not part of the blowjob.

Louis blinks his eyes open, lashes gummy with sleep, heart seizing like it's trying to evacuate his chest.

Zara's kneeling at the foot of the couch, arms crossed, one perfectly sculpted brow raised. She's wearing his hoodie—his hoodie—and her mouth is twitching in what might be amusement. Or disdain. Or murder.

"Well," she says, in that deceptively calm tone that means run for your life, "could've used some warning."

Louis blinks at her. Still half-blissed out, half-stoned, and now very much aware of the crime he's just committed.

"Oh. Shit. Sorry—fuck. I didn't mean to—"

He scrambles to yank the blanket over his crotch, cheeks burning. His fingers are still inside himself, so he has to—very awkwardly—extract them mid-eye contact. Which doesn't help.

She wipes the corner of her mouth with the back of her hand, giving him a look that could curdle milk. "Didn't mean to? What, you thought I was clairvoyant? Gonna read it in your aura?"

"I thought I said something!" he protests weakly, sitting up, cheeks pink. "Or moaned it. Or something breathy and poetic."

Zara rolls her eyes, plopping down beside him. "You muttered something like nnnnghgh hrrrry, so not exactly helpful."

Louis groans, dragging a hand over his face. Doesn't really understand why is it such a big deal, like? He never once heard Harry (or anyone for that matter) complaining about coming down his throat without a warning. "Jesus Christ."

"Close," she deadpans. "But not quite who you were picturing."

He glances sideways at her. "You're not mad?"

She shrugs, faux-casual. "No, babe. I love surprise protein smoothies."

Louis chokes on air. "Okay. Rude."

"Just saying," she mutters, curling into the crook of his shoulder. "Next time, maybe give me a heads up before you launch the fireworks."

"I will," he promises, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. "Scout's honour."

"You were never a scout."

"And yet, so trustworthy."

Zara snorts. "Debatable."

"Sorry again. Got... caught up."

Zara tilts her head, utterly unbothered. "Yeah. Clearly."

Zara settles beside him like nothing just happened. Like she didn't blow her boyfriend mid-finger-fuck, possibly dreaming about someone else. She's careful not to meet his eyes, though, just tucks her knees under her and fiddles with the hem of the hoodie.

Louis watches her out of the corner of his eye. She's doing that thing where she pretends to be totally fine by over-performing casualness. He knows it because he invented it.

"You good?" he asks lightly, running a hand through his wreck of hair.

"Mm-hmm."

A beat.

He squints. "Zar."

She shrugs, still staring straight ahead. "It's nothing. It's probably just stupid."

Louis grabs his cigarettes from the coffee table, shakes one out with muscle memory, and lights it. The first drag makes his shoulders drop half an inch. He exhales slow, like the nicotine might filter out whatever's coming next.

He turns toward her, one hand reaching up to brush his thumb along her cheekbone. It's gentle. Distracting. Maybe manipulative. He's not sure anymore.

"Nothing's stupid, love."

Zara hesitates. Her voice is barely above a whisper. "Are you, like... um... do you have sex with boys too?"

Louis blinks, then snorts. "I mean, yeah. I don't really—I think it's whatever, innit."

She turns to face him fully now, biting her lip. "No, it's not like—I don't mean it in a bad way. I just... want to know you better. That's all."

He hums, thoughtful, flicking ash into an empty mug. "I've never really done the whole label Olympics. But yeah. I like having sex with men. With women. With the occasional bad decision in a club bathroom."

Zara tries to laugh, but it comes out strangled.

Louis clocks it immediately, takes another drag. "Okay. Out with it."

She bites the inside of her cheek. "Do you... think it's cheating? When you do it with... boys?"

Louis's brows shoot up. "What kind of fucking question is that?"

"I don't know!" she blurts. "Some people say it's not cheating if it's with the same sex. Like it doesn't count. So I just... I don't know! I wanted to know your stance. I guess?"

Louis stares at her like she's grown a second head. Then shakes his own.

"Babe," he says, voice soft but laced with that trademark exasperation, smoke curling out of his mouth. "If I put my dick or fingers or frankly even my tongue in someone who isn't my partner, and I don't have a very specific hall pass, then yes. That's cheating. Gender's got fuck all to do with it."

Zara lets out a breath. "Okay. Yeah. I just—wanted to be clear."

Louis arches a brow, stubbing out the cigarette in a coaster like he's done it a thousand times. "That a general curiosity or a specific accusation? Because if it's about what just happened—one: you started it, two: I'm still high as fuck, and three: I'd literally never do that to you."

Except—well.

Unless it's Harry.

Because in the completely fucked Rubik's Cube of Louis' moral compass, Harry exists in a different quadrant. A separate tax bracket of sin.

Harry doesn't count. He never did.

He's the exception and the rule. The origin story.

He's not a betrayal—he's a habit. The blackout and the hangover. A relapse Louis keeps scheduling like it's a dentist appointment.

He's the reason Louis can't fully commit to anyone, because part of him is still twenty and stupid and in a stairwell with shaking hands and Harry's mouth on his.

He's the storm and the shelter and the entire fucking evacuation order and Louis has never figured out how to separate one from the other.

It doesn't make sense. It doesn't justify anything. But it's there, lodged behind his ribs like a secret he's not ready to name.

So he swallows it. The hypocrisy. The heat. The holy-shit-I'm-so-fucked realization.

And instead, he just shoots Zara a cheeky little grin. "Besides, if I were gonna do something reckless, I wouldn't be dumb enough to do it mid-FIFA coma. Give me some credit."

She smiles faintly. "I know. I just... panicked. A little."

He leans back against the cushions, throws an arm around her. "You're allowed to panic. I'm a walking red flag with a joint addiction and a questionable relationship with my own reflection. But if I cheat, it won't be because someone's got a dick."

Zara laughs, properly this time. "God, you're such an asshole."

"Bit of a handful, maybe," he corrects. "But thanks, I try."

Zara leans her head on his shoulder, exhaling like the worst of it's passed. Like they're okay again. And maybe they are.

But Louis feels it, buzzing under his skin like a wire about to snap. That guilt-flavored static that never quite goes away. Not when he's involved.

Chapter Text

2025, London

The cursor blinked on Louis' laptop like it was judging him.

He leaned back in the kitchen chair, hoodie half-zipped, hair still wet from a shower that took him way too long to convince himself to have. The ashtray was already full, and it was only 1 PM. Outside, the light was soft, hazy, the kind of mid spring grey that made everything look like a music video if you squinted hard enough.

Dr. Wilmer's face appeared on-screen promptly at 1:03. Because of course it did.

"You're three minutes late," the doc said, deadpan, one eyebrow arched like she'd been preparing the accusation since sunrise.

"I was emotionally preparing," Louis replied, dragging his hand through his hair like he was the tortured lead in a very low-budget French film.

Dr. Wilmer tilted her head. "By staring at a wall and arguing with a spoon?"

"Don't kinkshame my coping mechanisms."

The doc gave a long, slow blink that Louis had once described (to his sisters, not to Dr. Wilmer's actual face, he wasn't that reckless) as the "I survived clinical training, I will survive you" blink.

Still, Louis had to admit—he didn't feel completely wrecked. For once.

"I feel..." he said, then paused, frowning slightly at his own audacity. "Okay. I feel okay. Well. In the Tommo way, which is still a clinical warning sign but better than, y'know, screaming into the void."

Dr. Wilmer didn't smile, not really, but something softened around the edges of her face. "Alright. What's been working?"

Louis ticked off fingers. "Wrote some lyrics I don't hate. Went to Soccer Aid meetings, refrained from punching anyone in the jaw. Had a long, deeply pointless chat with Zara about his ex being involved in Soccer Aid too, which I mostly nodded through, because frankly I couldn't give less of a shit, but she seemed to need it."

"And?" Dr. Wilmer prompted.

He hesitated. "Saw the girls. All of them. Held Flossie for an hour 'til she threw up on me like a tiny, drunk pope. Took the twins and Olive for snacks, even won a keyring at a claw machine like a proper domestic twat. And I took Ernie and Doris to the funfair and didn't cry once. So yeah. Bit of a family tour. Emotional detox with extra sugar."

"That's good."

"Yeah," Louis said, quieter. "Yeah, it was."

He tapped the side of his coffee mug, mostly out of habit now.

Dr. Wilmer cleared her throat lightly. "And your homework?"

"Jesus Christ," Louis muttered, rolling his eyes. "Can't even let me bask for ten minutes in my pseudo-stability."

"No basking until we face the molly-laced apocalypse that is your emotional memory bank."

"Fine." Louis sighed dramatically, dragging his laptop a bit closer like it weighed fifty kilos. "I did the bloody homework. Didn't even lie. You should be proud. I practically peeled off my own skin for this."

"I am proud," Dr. Wilmer said in that smooth, nonchalant tone that always made him feel like he was either acing therapy or walking into an ambush.

Louis squinted. "You say that like someone who's about to emotionally waterboard me."

She smiled—barely. "Well, you did offer up half your emotional spleen on a Google Form. Would be rude not to dig around a little."

"Great," he muttered. "Let me just light a cigarette and prepare to hate myself."

Dr. Wilmer leaned forward slightly on-screen, her expression the exact blend of clinical curiosity and someone who could roast him for filth if necessary. "You were more honest than usual," she said. "Even when you were being flippant."

Louis shrugged. "Yeah, well. Flippant's just honesty in a funny hat."

"But some of what you said—especially about that bathroom moment—reads like someone who still can't tell the difference between guilt and grief."

That shut him up.

He took a long drag of his cigarette, eyes darting toward the ashtray. "What's the difference, then?"

"Guilt says, 'I broke something.' Grief says, 'Something broke, and I couldn't stop it.' You're treating yourself like you're the hammer in a glass shop, Louis. But sometimes... the shelves were already cracked."

Louis swallowed hard. "You know I don't do well with metaphors that make sense."

"Then let's try this: You didn't ruin him. You reached for him. And maybe neither of you were ready. But that doesn't make you the villain in the origin story."

He snorted. "No, but it does make me the idiot with boundary issues and a god complex."

Dr. Wilmer tilted her head. "You said you treat connections like dares. Why do you think that is?"

Louis paused. Then: "Because if it's a dare, it's not vulnerability. It's performance. If I make it a joke, I'm still in control. Sort of."

"And what if you're not in control?"

"Then I fall in love with a curly-haired hurricane and spend fourteen years writing songs about him, apparently."

There was a beat.

"I liked what you said about 'anticipatory longing,'" Dr. Wilmer added after a moment, as if not letting him spiral just yet. "That's not actually a clinical term, but maybe it should be."

Louis smirked faintly. "Feel free to credit me in your next TED Talk."

"But underneath the sarcasm," she continued, "you described something very... tender. You knew it was going to hurt. You walked in anyway."

"I always walk in," Louis muttered. "I'm like a moth in leather pants."

Dr. Wilmer laughed, unexpectedly. "I'm stealing that."

Then her tone softened, her gaze narrowing just slightly. "You said you're still carrying him. What does that mean for you now, in this present moment?"

Louis didn't answer right away. The silence was heavier now. Not awkward—just full.

"I don't know," he said eventually. "It means I don't trust myself to move on. Because what if I drop him? And what if—what if I can't?"

"You don't have to drop him," Dr. Wilmer said gently. "You just have to make space for yourself, too."

Louis stared at the screen like it had personally betrayed him.

"I fucking hate it when you're kind."

"I know," she said. "That's why I do it."

He flicked ash into the tray, exhaling slowly.

"I'm scared," he said, almost too quiet to hear. "That if I let go, there'll be nothing left. Just... gaps."

Dr. Wilmer didn't flinch. "And if you don't let go?"

Louis gave a dry, bitter smile. "Then I keep writing songs in his boxers and calling it art."

"Progress," she said, not sarcastically.

He rolled his eyes. "Don't make me feel things. It's rude."

"Anything else you want to add to your reflection?" she asked.

He thought for a beat. Then added, almost absentmindedly, "You know, for someone who didn't even get to suck his dick in that bathroom, I really came away with the emotional damage package."

Dr. Wilmer snorted. Actually snorted. "I'll be sure to add that to your case notes. Right under: 'Emotionally constipated with impeccable hair.'"

"Thanks. But I'd prefer 'insufferable little shit with excellent bone structure.'"

There was a lull after that—one of those silences that weren't heavy, just... present. The kind that let things breathe without smothering them. Louis leaned back in his chair again, letting the wood creak beneath him, smoke coiling lazily upward as if even his cigarettes knew better than to interrupt.

Then, without warning, he said, "In all fairness, he'd be such a good boyfriend."

Dr. Wilmer didn't blink. Just tilted her head a fraction, brows inching upward in a silent cue to continue.

And of course Louis did.

"He's caring. Attentive. Sensible as fuck, actually. Smart. Listens better than anyone I know." He flicked ash into the chipped mug beside him, not even glancing. His voice had dropped an octave—quieter, but also more sincere. "Does his yoga shit in the morning. Then goes on a run. Meal preps. Folds his fucking towels properly."

His mouth quirked at the edges. Not quite a smile. Not quite a grimace.

"Holds you after. Always—always holds me like he's scared I'll disappear if he doesn't."

There it was. That crack in the middle of the sarcasm, where everything soft and unspeakable leaked through.

"He's only emotionally unstable because I trained him to be."

Dr. Wilmer didn't write. Didn't flinch. She just looked at him in that Dr. Wilmer way—steady, unnerving, infuriatingly patient.

"But you already know that," Louis added, laughter bubbling up from somewhere dry and bitter. The kind of laugh that echoed a little too loud in an empty kitchen.

"And he's not too much," he said, thumb worrying the edge of the laptop trackpad. "Not drama. Not messy. Not with others, anyway. With them, he's golden. He's easy. He's fucking perfect."

A pause. Then his eyes found the screen again, as if surprised to find her still there, still watching.

"I'm the storm, doc. He's the eye."

Dr. Wilmer let that sit. Let it echo. Then she leaned forward, just slightly—not invasive, not clinical. Just present.

"That's a beautiful metaphor," she said softly. "And also complete bullshit."

Louis blinked. "Rude."

She didn't let up. "You're not a storm. You're a person. A person who learned early that chaos got you attention and silence got you nothing. So you make yourself loud. You make yourself unforgettable. You burn bright enough to leave afterimages."

Louis exhaled through his nose. "Sounds exhausting when you put it like that."

"I imagine it is," she said. "Especially when you fall for someone quiet. Someone who doesn't need the fire, just the warmth."

He looked down at his lap, fingers twisting the hem of his hoodie.

Dr. Wilmer gave him a moment, then said, "You're not bad, Louis. You're scared. Of being too much. Of not being enough. Of being... impossible to love unless someone already knows where the bruises are."

He laughed under his breath. "He learned the bruises by heart."

"I know," she said. "That's why it's hard to let go."

Louis looked back up at the screen, eyes darker now, smoke forgotten. "You think I should let go?"

"I think you should let yourself want more than just survival," she said. "You don't have to let go of him. But you can stop carrying the idea that loving him ruined anything."

He didn't speak. Just stared at her like she'd said something obscene. Or holy.

Then, finally, in a voice that cracked despite his best efforts:

"I think I might... I don't know, like... I mean, it's maybe more than just casual sex."

Dr. Wilmer didn't react like it was a revelation. Didn't gasp or blink or jot it down like a plot twist.

She just nodded. Like she'd been waiting for him to say it out loud.

"Alright," she said. "Next time, we're going to start to figure out what you're going to do with that."

Louis scrubbed a hand down his face, then looked dead at the screen, eyes glinting with that specific brand of exhausted, irreverent menace. "Doc," he said slowly, voice coated in dry smoke and sarcasm, "the literal day I railed him in a chapel-themed sex club, the Pope dropped dead."

Dr. Wilmer blinked. Slowly.

"I mean, c'mon. That's not a metaphor. That's a cosmic red flag. A divine cease and desist. I defiled a Styles and the Holy See went into cardiac arrest. Bit of a cursed dick situation, don't you think?"

Dr. Wilmer didn't move. Didn't smile. Just said, "Are you implying you caused the death of Pope Francis through penetrative sex?"

Louis lifted his cigarette with a shrug. "I'm not saying I did. But I'm also not not saying that."

Dr. Wilmer exhaled through her nose. "Well. At least it wasn't the Dalai Lama."

Louis grinned. "God, I love it when you play in the blasphemy sandbox with me."

Dr. Wilmer chuckled. "My pleasure. And Louis?"

Louis met her gaze again.

"You did good work today. Really."

Something hot and stupid bubbled in Louis' chest. He looked away immediately. "Yeah, well. I aim to emotionally devastate and then make it weird."

Dr. Wilmer smiled again. "And you do it so well."

Louis stubbed his last cigarette out with a snap, already regretting every sentence and also weirdly lighter than he'd felt in weeks, but his hands were jittery again. Not the dangerous kind. Just the kind that meant something was creeping up his throat he didn't want to name.

He cleared it instead.

"Well, anyway," he muttered, sitting back in his chair like he hadn't just confessed to being spiritually tethered to a man he couldn't text without risking emotional collapse. "That's your weekly trauma ration. Hope it pairs well with your mid-afternoon herbal tea. You're exhausting, you know that?"

"I've been told," Dr. Wilmer said, eyes twinkling. "See you next week, Louis."

And with that, the screen went dark. Louis sat there a moment longer, breathing in the aftershock of honesty.

Then he stood, stretched his arms overhead, and wandered to the window.

Outside, the sky had shifted. The same grey—but looser now. Softer at the edges.

He leaned his forehead to the glass, eyes unfocused, and let his mind slip backward. Past the noise. Past the years. Past all the mess they'd made of each other.

Back to a morning in Stockholm.

Before the fallout. Before the ache had a name.

Just a city. A boy. And a stupid little studio they hadn't known would wreck them.

2010 spring, Stockholm – Recording of up all night

The Stockholm studio looked less like a polished hit factory and more like a garage sale hosted by over-caffeinated indie musicians. The air smelled like ambition, BO, and whatever Swedish people put in their coffee. Cables snaked across the floor like tripwires, lyric sheets were strewn about like lost dreams, and someone (Niall) had already dropped three meatball wrappers under the mixing desk. It's their second week here, and the chaos has peaked.

"Alright, guys, let's try that chorus again," the producer, Carl Falk called from the booth, voice syrupy with patience and barely repressed despair.

"One more time," Niall mimicked under his breath, eyes rolling so hard they nearly fell out.

"Maybe this time don't sound like you're being strangled by a muppet," Zayn shot back, cracking open a Red Bull and his last shred of tolerance.

"Least I don't sound like I'm deep-throating every note," Niall retorted, shoving him with the gentleness of a rugby tackle.

"Boys," Liam said, eyes wild, hands flapping like a deranged choir conductor. "Can we not be absolute menaces for one recording session? Please?"

Louis, lounging against the wall like a particularly pretty gargoyle, smirked at the chaos. He looked like he hadn't slept in 72 hours and was powered solely by sarcasm and Haribo. His gaze slid lazily across the room—until it landed on Harry.

Harry, curls damp from the studio heat, was scribbling notes he'd never use on a legal pad he'd stolen from reception. There was a pencil tucked behind his ear like he thought he was a tortured poet instead of a horny teenager with dimples and a God complex.

Louis clicked his tongue. "You good over there, Styles? Or do you need me to come whisper encouragements into your mic again?"

Harry blinked, caught. "What encouragements?"

Louis pushed off the wall with a wicked grin. "Y'know. Breathe deep. Use your diaphragm. Sing like I'm under the table. Or under you."

The room exploded.

Niall spat his drink. Zayn choked on a gummy bear. Liam audibly prayed.

Harry flushed bright red, caught between laughing and combusting. "Jesus Christ."

"Wrong boyband," Louis said with a wink. "But keep guessing."

Harry covered his face with one hand. "You're actually insane."

"Bold of you to assume I ever claimed sanity." Louis fake-curtsied. "Now come on, golden boy. Show me those skills. Make the mic moan."

Louis smirked, stepping closer. His voice dropped an octave, laced with mock seriousness. "I mean, if you can't hit that high note, I could give the mic a little nibble, loosen it up for you. Bit of foreplay never hurt anyone."

The room erupted into laughter again, as Zayn shook his head, muttering something about "don't come whining to me when the kid's got too attached."

Harry, however, flushed a deep shade of pink, his lips parting as he fumbled for a response. "Shut up, Lou," he mumbled, but his voice cracked slightly, giving him away.

Louis leaned in, his smirk widening as he whispered just loud enough for Harry to hear, "What's the matter, Haz? Don't tell me you're blushing."

Harry glared at him, though the effect was ruined by the small, nervous laugh that escaped his lips.

"Alright, alright, enough flirting," Liam said, clapping his hands together. "We're recording a single, not a porno! Let's just get this done."

"Speak for yourself," Zayn muttered, lighting a cigarette inside the booth.

Eventually, they huddled around the mic again—messy, giggling, half-pressed into each other like puppies on speed. Their voices rose in a chaotic, sweet, just-slightly-off-key harmony that somehow still worked. They weren't polished. But they were something.

When the take ended, the producer's voice crackled over the intercom. "That was... not bad. One more for safety."

Louis raised a brow. "Not bad? Mate, we just reinvented pop."

"You reinvented something," Carl replied drily.

While the others collapsed into laughter and half-hearted bickering, Louis's grin faltered. He glanced down at the lyric sheet in his hand. His own scribbles in the margins, none of the solo lines marking his name.

Not even in the chorus. Not one take.

He laughed anyway. Louder than necessary. Bigger than he felt.

"You alright?" Harry murmured, bumping his elbow.

"Peachy," Louis replied, voice too bright. "You lot are just hogging all the sexy lines. Selfish."

Harry looked at him like he knew—like he saw every mask and didn't mind the theatre. Before he could say anything, Zayn shouted something about Liam's "dad voice" and the moment dissolved into chaos again.

Hours later, after the others had scattered like cockroaches when the studio lights dimmed—Niall raiding the minibar like a man possessed, Zayn whispering sweet nothings to someone he absolutely wasn't dating, Liam decanting his serums like it was the fucking Met Gala, and Harry probably in a linen robe journaling under moonlight—Louis crept back downstairs barefoot.

The silence was unnerving. The hallway looked like a crime scene from a very chaotic boyband documentary. Half-eaten room service, abandoned scribbles, a hoodie slumped over a chair like it had fainted from exhaustion. (Definitely Harry's. The boy had more clothes than emotional boundaries.)

Louis padded into the control room, jumper hanging off one shoulder, hair like a rejected rooster, heart thudding way too loud for someone who'd spent the last four hours pretending he didn't give a fuck.

Carl glanced up from the mixing desk, eyes narrowed. "You lost?"

Louis shrugged. "Just... thought I'd try something."

Carl gave him the look. The middle-aged man dealing with a teen boy whose entire personality was sarcasm and unresolved trauma look.

"At midnight?"

Louis lifted his chin. "I read somewhere Adele recorded Someone Like You in her slippers after a breakup. Thought I'd try channeling that vibe—minus the heartbreak. Or the slippers."

Carl tilted his head. "You're not Adele."

"Yet," Louis deadpanned, smirk wobbling like a Tesco shelf label in a heatwave.

Carl didn't take the bait. "Alright. You here to record something, or just bless us with another one-man stand-up show?"

Louis faltered, his bravado crumbling at the edges. "It's nothing. Just been thinking... Maybe there's a throwaway I can try?"

What he didn't say:

I'm not trying to be the best.

I just want proof I was here.

Carl blinked, then gestured to the booth. "Go on, then. Impress me, Cowell's Favorite Headache."

Louis exhaled, slipping into the booth like it might bite him. The mic looked taller than usual. The headphones felt like they were clamping down on his self-worth.

First take? Garbage.

Second? Somehow worse.

Third? He hit a note so wrong, it could've been considered a hate crime.

He yanked the headphones off, slumping against the wall with a groan. "Jesus Christ, I sound like a dying kettle."

Carl clicked the intercom. "Better than sounding like a smug kettle. Keep going."

Louis made a face. "Why? So you can cut me again in the morning?"

Carl leaned in, voice calm but firm. "You're not here because you suck. You're here because you matter. So stop fucking around and sing it like it's the last thing you'll ever say."

And that? That went down like vodka on an empty stomach—burned, but he needed it.

Because he did matter. Maybe not to the judges. Or the vocal coach. Or the chart projections.

But to Carl? Right now? He mattered.

So he put the headphones back on. Closed his eyes. And let it out—not the polished, hyper-edited version he wished he could be, but the raw, raspy, real voice that lived under all the bullshit.

When he was done, he couldn't even look up. Already bracing himself for the shrug. The polite "we'll see."

Instead, Carl clicked the button and said, "That's it. Don't touch a thing."

Louis blinked. "You're having a stroke."

Carl smirked. "You finally stopped pretending you didn't care. That's the version that works."

And Louis—arms limp, soul shaken—just nodded.

And Louis—numb, blinking, heart jackhammering in his chest—just nodded.

Because he had. He'd meant it. Every bloody note.

Later, dragging himself upstairs with sore legs and damp hair sticking to his neck, he felt it—something he hadn't let himself feel since they shoved a mic in his hand and told him to harmonise.

It wasn't just hope. It was purpose. It was the giddy, terrifying feeling that maybe—maybe—he was about to matter.

For the first time in a long time, he wanted to hear the song back.

He wanted to show someone. Anyone.

He let himself believe this might actually go somewhere.

And for now, that was enough.

Even if he didn't know yet just how temporary it would be.

Louis eased the door open like it might snitch on him, stepping into the soft darkness of the shared hotel room. The air smelled faintly of lavender body spray, over-washed sheets, and Harry's expensive shampoo.

"Where were you?" came a sleepy mumble from the bed by the window.

Louis froze. "Jesus, Haz. You sound like my mum."

Harry pushed up on one elbow, curls squashed to one side, his face pillow-creased and suspicious. "You weren't here all night."

"Had to piss. Got lost. Stockholm's massive."

Harry blinked at him. "You went for a four-hour piss and accidentally circumnavigated Sweden?"

Louis flung his hoodie onto a chair and flopped into his bed with the grace of a dying Victorian widow. "Couldn't sleep. Figured I'd go annoy someone with a mixing desk."

"You didn't wake me," Harry said, soft. That kind of soft that made Louis' ribs feel like papier-mâché.

"Didn't think you'd wanna come."

Harry blinked at him, wide-eyed and wounded in that stupid baby deer way of his. "I always wanna come."

Louis groaned. "You know what I mean."

Harry didn't answer right away. Just stared at the ceiling like it personally betrayed him. "I can't sleep either," he whispered, like it was a secret, like it mattered more than it should.

Louis sat up, ruffling his hair into an even worse disaster. "Alright, Florence Nightingale. Wanna do something fun now?"

Harry turned toward him immediately, expression shifting into something brighter, hungrier, desperate to be invited. "Yeah?"

Louis snorted, grabbing a pair of jeans off the chair and tossing them at Harry's face. "Then put on some actual trousers, Curly. It's adventure o'clock."

Harry peeled the denim off his head, nose scrunched. "Where are we going?"

"Can't tell you. It'll ruin the mystique. Just trust me. And maybe bring bail money."

Harry laughed, too quick, like the sound had been waiting all night to come out. "You're ridiculous."

"And you're emotionally attached to a scarf. Let's go."

Harry padded across the room barefoot, still pulling on his hoodie. "Why didn't you ask me earlier?"

The question hung heavy between them.

Louis deflected, because it's what he did best. "Didn't want you to see me fail spectacularly in front of Carl. Had to protect your fragile little crush on me."

Harry snorted. "Oh, please."

But he smiled, and Louis filed that away like evidence.

Outside, the streets of Stockholm were hushed, painted in sleepy streetlights and the kind of quiet that begged for chaos. Louis shoved his hands in his pockets, bumping Harry's shoulder as they walked.

"Next time," Harry said softly, "wake me up."

Louis glanced over, smirk twitching into place. "Haz, if I start waking you up every time I get a dramatic idea at 2 a.m., you'll never sleep again."

Harry bumped him back. "Maybe I don't want to."

Louis didn't answer. He just walked faster.

They didn't talk about it.

They never did.

But Harry followed.

And Louis let him.

The streets of Stockholm were still asleep, bathed in a lavender-blue hue that only existed for twenty minutes a day—right before sunrise and right after your last brain cell clocked out. Louis, naturally, was thriving.

Harry, on the other hand, was trailing behind like a sleepy baby deer, hoodie half-zipped, curls still flattened on one side from sleep. "Okay, seriously," he muttered, blinking blearily. "Where are we going? You said 'adventure' and then we just... walked?"

Louis glanced over his shoulder with a smirk. "You'll see. Try to keep up, Curly. You're walking like you've just been born."

They turned onto a quiet cobblestone alley lined with shuttered cafés and antique stores. The buildings leaned like drunk friends against each other, and somewhere nearby, a bird who clearly didn't know how to shut the fuck up announced the morning.

Finally, Louis stopped in front of a crooked little storefront with peeling gold letters and a flickering neon sign above the window that read 4045. The front window glowed faintly with warm light. Fairy lights curled around the window panes, casting shadows over the mismatched vintage furniture inside—velvet chairs, lopsided tables, teacups stacked in precarious towers like it was always on the brink of hosting an accidental Alice in Wonderland cosplay.

Harry squinted. "Wait. Isn't it... closed?"

Louis's grin sharpened. "Technically."

Harry narrowed his eyes. "And isn't this... you know... breaking and entering?"

Louis rolled his eyes like that was the most offensive suggestion he'd ever heard. "Please. Watch and learn, Harold."

He pushed the door open like he owned the place. A little bell overhead gave a sleepy jingle as they slipped inside. The air smelled like cinnamon and old books. And maybe a hint of illegal activity.

Harry hovered by the door, eyes wide. "Louis. I swear to God—"

A voice with a thick accent barked from the back. "Unless you're here to make coffee or confess your sins, turn around, Louis Tomlinson or I will throw a pan at your head."

"Good morning to you too, Majken," Louis called back cheerfully.

From the kitchen emerged a woman who looked like she'd been pulled from an Ikea catalog, slapped with a Rolling Stones vinyl, and set on fire. She had short silvery hair, tortoiseshell glasses perched on her nose, and an apron that read "Bite Me (After Coffee)" in cracked black letters. She also wielded a whisk like a weapon.

"Christ," Majken muttered, emerging from the back with a whisk in one hand and a total lack of boundaries in the other. Her eyes narrowed as she clocked the two of them. "You brought a boy. Is this a walk-of-shame situation? Because you've brought prettier."

Harry made a strangled, half-choked sound somewhere between a laugh and a gasp.

Louis didn't flinch. Just beamed like he'd won something. "This is Harry. He's not bad for a backup singer."

Majken crossed her arms, giving Harry a once-over like she was about to bid on him at auction. "You look like you cry during sunsets."

"I don't—" Harry blinked. "Okay, sometimes."

"Mm." She turned back to her prep table. "Sensitive. Good cheekbones. Better hair than the last one."

Louis rolled his eyes. "There was no last one."

She shrugged. "True. You've never brought anyone here. I just like messing with you. Keeps you humble."

Harry, still catching up, tilted his head. "So... you made up a fake hookup just to drag him?"

"Of course," Majken said, already cracking eggs like they owed her money. "I've earned the right. I saw him try to flip a pancake last week and nearly set his hoodie on fire."

"Alright," Louis muttered. "We agreed never to speak of that again."

Majken ignored him, pointing her whisk at Harry. "I like you better already. That other imaginary one looked like he ironed his jeans."

Louis leaned in and stage-whispered, "That would've been Liam."

Harry nodded gravely. "Yeah. That tracks."

Majken smirked to herself, muttering in Swedish as she reached for the cinnamon. "God save me from boybands and their drama."

Louis grinned. "Don't worry. We'll only mildly ruin your morning."

Majken shot him a look. "Just don't bleed on the batter and we'll be fine."

Within minutes, they were dragging chairs, restocking mugs, and pretending they knew where things belonged while Majken muttered Swedish insults under her breath that somehow still sounded like lullabies. Louis moved with the ease of someone who'd done this before—grabbing flour, flipping the sign on the window, cueing up a jazz playlist from a speaker older than both of them combined.

"You've been here before?" Harry asked, wiping down a table with a damp rag that may or may not have been last washed in 2006.

Louis shrugged. "Been coming in the mornings. Couldn't sleep. City's nice when it's empty. Less noise. Fewer people watching."

Harry blinked. "You've been wandering Stockholm at dawn and... pancake-assisting?"

"It's called community service, Harold. Look it up."

Majken let out a snort from the stovetop. "Don't let him fool you. He came in looking like a sad little raccoon the first time. Couldn't sleep, had too many thoughts, wanted a place that didn't smell like teenage ego. He stayed 'cause I let him insult my wallpaper."

"It's hideous," Louis confirmed. "You've got a whole wall that looks like Elton John's migraine."

"It's art," Majken said. "And I'm old enough to hit you with a rolling pin and blame it on my joints."

Harry glanced around the cozy chaos of the café, then looked at her curiously. "Why's it called 4045?"

Majken flipped a pancake with flair, then paused. "Ah. That."

She didn't look at them. Just kept flipping. The kitchen went quiet except for the crackle of the pan and the gentle clink of cutlery.

"I had a father," she said finally. "Big man. Bigger temper. Made me feel like shit on his shoe for most of my life. Told me I couldn't cook. Couldn't run a business. Couldn't do anything right except maybe shut up."

Harry froze, unsure of what to say. Louis didn't interrupt.

Majken continued, voice steady but razor-sharp. "When he finally kicked the bucket—cheers, bastard—I found out he'd left me a decent bit of money. Must've been guilt. Or maybe a clerical error. Either way, I took it and decided I'd open a place. Nothing fancy. Just something that felt like mine."

She flipped the next pancake a little too hard. It hit the edge of the pan and folded in half like a crumpled apology.

"I didn't know what to call it. Sat in that stupid bank waiting to get the cash, holding this ugly-ass number slip. 4045. I figured, screw it. Let's name it after the moment I stopped letting someone else decide who I am."

Harry blinked, stunned. "Wow."

Majken shot him a look. "Wow? That's your response?"

Harry flushed. "I just— That's actually kind of badass."

Majken grinned. "Good recovery, Sunshine."

Louis grinned, biting his lip. "Told you she was the best."

Majken poured another circle of batter and shook her head fondly. "You're both little disasters. But you clean up alright."

Harry caught Louis's gaze and smiled, soft and lopsided.

Louis, of course, smirked back. "Told you I'd take you somewhere fun."

Harry's voice was quiet. "Yeah. You did."

They sat down together at the tiny corner table, pancakes piling high between them, fairy lights glinting off chipped plates. The sky outside was warming to pink, the day just beginning.

And for a moment—sticky-fingered and syrup-lipped, tucked into a mismatched booth in a café born of spite and butter—everything felt exactly right.

2025, London

Back in his kitchen, Louis blinked out of the memory with the kind of dazed fondness that caught him off guard. He didn't usually let himself linger in the soft bits, didn't trust them not to rot in his hands. But that morning in Stockholm was untouched. Still golden. Still warm.

He made a mental note to check in on Majken. Maybe take Freddie up there this summer, let him taste a proper pancake and hear a swear-laced monologue about hipsters from a seventy-five-year-old woman with the mouth of a sailor and the soul of a saint.

His phone buzzed on the table.

Harry: you should burn in hell for this mechanical puzzle tho.

Louis snorted, thumb already flying with his repurposed joke from the session.

Louis: The pope died the day we had our little fun in Berlin, Baby. I think the burning in hell part is already covered

It only took ten seconds for the reply to come through.

Harry: well then, i'll make sure to find the new pope and ask him to exorcise your demon.

Louis grinned. Couldn't help it.

Louis: Yeah yeah then you can finally join Niall in the church

This time, the response wasn't instant.

Then—

Harry: what time is it where you are?

Louis blinked. Looked at the clock.

Louis: 2:15, why?

A pause.

Harry: i'm in london too.

Louis stared at the screen.

One word unfurled in his head like a flare, sharp and hot and entirely unhelpful.

Fuck.

Chapter Text

2025, London, Harry's POV

The Pleasing boardroom smelled like expensive hand sanitizer and lavender oil, and Harry was going to lose his fucking mind.

The glass table reflected the overhead lights in a way that made everyone's under-eye bags look worse, and Shaun was halfway through a pitch about "next quarter's experiential retail synergies" when Harry decided he'd rather die than hear the word synergies again.

He sat slouched, legs crossed too casually for a founder-slash-face-of-the-brand, and stared down at the small wooden cube in his lap like it held the secrets of the universe. Or, at the very least, a way out of this meeting. Louis had wrapped it in plain brown paper and scrawled "happy fucking birthday, twat" on the tag. The cube didn't open. Of course it didn't. It clicked and twisted and made small, satisfying noises when handled right, which Harry had definitely not been doing for the last twenty minutes.

He flicked a corner with his thumb, teeth worrying at his bottom lip, and twisted again—wrongly, apparently—because the piece jammed and stayed jammed. Fuck's sake.

Shaun glanced over briefly, mid-sentence. "Harry?"

"Mm?" Harry looked up like he'd just been woken from a coma. "Sorry, what was the question?"

"We were just talking about how to position the summer capsule," Sophie said gently, with that patient PR tone she always used when he was being particularly useless. "We need to lock in the campaign theme."

Right. The theme. Bold joy, or soft rebellion, or whatever other nonsense they'd scribbled on mood boards back in January. He could barely remember. Everything since Berlin felt like someone else's calendar.

"I think... whatever feels more tactile," Harry said, vague and squinty like he was trying to sound thoughtful instead of desperately trying to twist the puzzle's corner open. "Y'know? Intimate textures. That sort of thing."

Shaun actually nodded, like it made sense. Molly just rolled her eyes. She knows bullshit when she hears one.

Harry grunted quietly and tugged at the puzzle again. A tiny piece clicked loose, and he swore he could hear Louis' smug little voice in his head: "You'll never get past level one without a functioning frontal lobe, Baby."

He smiled despite himself, but it was the kind that didn't quite reach his eyes.

Outside, the London drizzle misted softly against the windows. Inside, Sophie passed around samples of a new iridescent nail oil, and Harry barely glanced up. He was too busy trying to pry another piece loose with his thumbnail, like a feral crow with a grudge.

He thought about lighting a cigarette. Not that he ever would—he had an image to maintain, after all. Gentle. Grounded. Goop-adjacent. The kind of person who meditated daily and cared about eco-friendly cuticle oils.

He thought about Louis, who'd light one right in the middle of the boardroom and dare anyone to complain.

He thought about Louis, period.

His phone buzzed in his pocket. He pulled it out casually, thumb swiping the screen under the table. It was just a fucking health app motivating notification reminding him how he half-assed his morning gym routine but still has the time to pull it together. Yeah. As if.

Of course Louis didn't text back to his "I'm in London too" message, not even a snarky "go away" or "die in a fire," just radio silence, Harry put the cube down and whispered—barely audible, just for himself—

"Fuck."

The boardroom was still talking, still buzzing with phrases like "consumer-driven sensorial experience" and "narrative fragrance arcs," and Harry was still trying to open the stupid wooden box.

His thumb slipped on the edge again. Nothing. Still jammed. He sighed.

He'd already tried twisting the bottom piece counterclockwise and pressing the center tile like a button. He'd tried shaking it. He'd even tried whispering "please" at it like the box might respond to good manners. Louis would've loved that. Would've said something like "Have you tried calling it Daddy?" just to ruin his day.

It was infuriating. Because one thing about Louis: he had absolutely no mid-setting. The gift could hold a dick joke carved in ivory, or it could be a handwritten letter that undoes Harry's entire soul. There was never an in-between. No middle shelf. Just top or bottom, loud or devastating. Keeps things spicy, Louis always said. Like he was a Michelin-starred emotional terrorist.

Harry twisted a segment carefully. Heard a faint click. Something shifted. Oh shit.

Then he thought—right as Shaun launched into a spreadsheet walk-through—when did I start losing my colors again?

Because he used to love this. The strategy, the meetings, the scent samples and packaging talks and ridiculous product names. He used to wake up and feel joy just picking between oat milk or almond milk for his fucking matcha. Used to breathe deeper. Laugh more.

Then of course Berlin happened. And suddenly, all his joy had a name again.

Louis.

It was pathetic, really, how he'd narrowed down his dopamine supply chain to a single person. One text, one blink, one "Haz, you're such a twat," and he'd feel high for hours. Then crash. Wait for the next hit.

His phone buzzed again.

He glanced down. Finally, took your fucking time.

Louis: My plane takes off in like two hours

Harry didn't even breathe. His thumb froze mid-fidget. The wooden box gave another soft click.

Something dropped.

A flash drive, tiny and silver, bounced off his knee and landed squarely on the table.

The room fell quiet.

Seven faces turned to him, eyes blinking like they'd just noticed he was there.

Harry blinked back, cleared his throat. "Ignore me. Just—puzzle drama."

They hesitated. Shaun furrowed his brow. But eventually, the room recalibrated. Sophie resumed her pitch. The sample tray kept moving.

Harry picked up the flash drive with fingers that weren't quite steady. Turned it over in his palm like he might absorb its contents through osmosis. What the fuck is on this? A song? A threat? A recording of Louis calling him a dickhead in sixty-four languages?

He texted back.

Harry: where to?

It only took a second.

Louis: Costa Rica

Harry: alone?

Another pause.

Then:

Louis: Yep

And that was it. That was all it took.

Harry stood.

Grabbed his coat from the back of the chair.

Sophie blinked up at him, half a sentence deep into launch KPIs. "Harry? Where are you going?"

He shoved the flash drive in his pocket. "Um. Costa Rica?"

A beat of stunned silence. Then Molly, flat as ever: "The meeting's not over for like... two hours. You need to make decisions."

Harry offered an apologetic sort of grimace. "Well, I trust you all with making competent and informed decisions... you guys are better at this than me anyway, so..."

And just like that, he left. The box still sitting open on the table. The scent of lavender oil trailing him to the lift.

2011 August, Leeds, Harry's POV

The train from London to Leeds had barely pulled out of the station when Harry started buzzing like a Labrador on Red Bull. He bounced his knee, peeled the label off a water bottle, re-checked the text Louis sent him the day before, when they spent like half an hour apart—Stan says we've got a spot, and a tent with our name on it. Told him not to lose it to some wanker on ketamine.—and then stared out the window like he was expecting to see joy physically manifest on the horizon.

Louis was across from him, legs kicked up, sunglasses on despite the fact they were inside a moving tin can and the sky outside looked like it might weep on command. He was scrolling through his phone, probably not even reading anything, just looking effortlessly cool in that way that made Harry's chest feel like a balloon someone kept forgetting to tie.

They'd signed the Princess Park flat lease that morning. Their flat. Harry's and Louis'. Together. Not just roommates. Bandmates. Best mates. Something-else-mates that Harry hadn't dared name yet, not even in the privacy of his own slightly cracked mind.

He couldn't stop smiling. Not in the normal way, either. This was the dangerous kind of smiling, the sort that made your cheeks ache and your eyes crinkle and made Louis glance up from his phone and say, "Alright, Styles, did someone spike your Ribena or are you just having a stroke?"

Harry shrugged, playing it off. "Just excited."

Louis smirked. "God help us all."

By the time they got to the actual festival grounds, it was chaos. Loud, muddy, vibrating with bass and beer breath. Louis' mates—Stan, Oli, and Johnny—had already staked out a spot in the far corner of the field, complete with duct-taped tarps and a crate of warm cider. Their tent was a tragic shade of orange, flapping mournfully in the wind like it had regrets.

"Look what the cat dragged in," Stan shouted, lifting a hand in greeting while holding a can of Stella like it was holy relic.

Louis threw his arms out dramatically. "Boys! Hide your sisters, Styles is here."

"I don't even have a sister," Johnny said.

"Then hide your mums," Louis shot back.

Oli snorted and grabbed Louis into a headlock, ruffling his hair like they were still twelve. Louis squealed and elbowed him in the ribs, grinning so wide Harry nearly short-circuited.

"Jesus Christ," Harry muttered under his breath, dragging the duffel bag after him. "You're like a pack of feral raccoons."

Stan looked him up and down with a theatrical squint. "You always this posh, mate, or is this just your festival persona?"

Harry grinned. "Wait 'til you see my glitter. I came prepared."

Louis leaned in, sunglasses sliding down his nose just enough for Harry to see the glint in his eyes. "Bet you've got matching biodegradable sequins and organic dry shampoo, don't you?"

"Absolutely," Harry said, flipping his curls. "I contain multitudes."

They set up camp—or rather, stood around while Johnny re-secured the tent pegs and muttered about "city boys being useless." Louis flopped back onto the grass and dragged Harry down with him, head tipped toward the sky.

"You smell like train snacks and naivety," Louis told him fondly.

Harry, without thinking, replied, "You smell like beer, arrogance, and heartbreak."

Louis blinked. Then smiled. "You're getting good at this."

Harry grinned, cheeks flushing. He didn't say: "You taught me" or "You're my favorite thing I've ever learned."

He just lay back, shoulder pressed against Louis', heart hammering like it was trying to write a new song.

The late afternoon sun was dipping low, the sky a hazy gold that made everything feel slightly more cinematic than it probably deserved to. Someone two tents over was playing Arctic Monkeys through a tinny Bluetooth speaker, and Harry was midway through burning his tongue on a questionable festival hotdog when Louis' phone buzzed.

"Shit," Louis muttered, yanking it from his pocket. He glanced at the screen, then stood and wandered a few steps away from the others, thumb already swiping to answer.

Harry tried not to eavesdrop. He really did. But the moment he heard the high-pitched, mile-a-minute voice on the other end—that Donny lilt, stressed and rushing and unmistakably mum-shaped—his ears pricked up like a nosy golden retriever.

Louis' voice, by contrast, was calm. Soothing. Practiced.

"Have you tried the bottom drawer in the twins' room?" he said, already pulling at a loose thread on his jumper like he'd done this dance before. "Or just take Lottie's and Fizzy's. They won't need them this week. They keep it in the bathroom, in the white box thingy on the windowsill."

There was a pause. Some rummaging. Harry could hear it—distant thuds and rustling from the phone speaker—and then a softer sound, like relief.

Louis let out a small huff of a laugh. "See? You got this. Don't worry, Mum."

Something else was said. Harry couldn't make it out, but Louis' face shifted. Just a flicker—tension behind the eyes, jaw tightening ever so slightly.

"Yeah, I know, Mum. After Leeds I can spend a few days home, before..." He trailed off, fingers twitching around the phone. He glanced up briefly and saw Harry watching. Quickly looked away.

More talking on the other end. Sharper now. Emotional.

Louis' reply was clipped. Gentle, but clipped. "Yeah, alright. I'll try. I have to go, Mum. Call you later. Miss you too."

He hung up, thumb hovering over the screen a beat too long before sliding the phone back into his pocket. His shoulders rolled like he was trying to shake something off.

Harry tilted his head. "Everything alright?"

Louis turned toward him, smile already sliding into place like a costume change. "Yep," he said, too brightly. He reached over and ruffled Harry's curls, the way he always did when he didn't want to talk about something properly. "Don't look so worried, Curly. Save it for the mosh pit."

Harry narrowed his eyes a bit. Louis' mask was good—brilliant, actually—but he'd been studying it for over a year now. He could see the slight strain in the edges, the way Louis' knuckles still looked a little tight.

But Louis just flopped back onto the grass, threw one arm behind his head, and said, "Alright, what band are we pretending we actually know the lyrics to next? I vote The Vaccines."

Harry let it go. For now. But something inside him buzzed—a tiny, stubborn thread pulling tighter.

He lay back beside him, let their arms brush, and said, "Only if you stop singing the wrong words to every chorus."

Louis grinned, devilish. "Bold of you to assume I know any words."

And just like that, they were back to normal.

Almost.

By the time the sun properly dipped and the fairy lights flickered on across the trees, Harry was absolutely off his tits.

He'd lost count after the third cider Louis had handed him, and then there'd been that luminous blue vodka-slushie thing that tasted like mouthwash and freedom, and maybe a few sips from someone else's hip flask at some point. It didn't matter. The air was buzzing, the music was vibrating through his bones, and Louis was laughing so hard he kept doubling over and grabbing Harry's arm like he might fall.

"Mate," Louis wheezed, breath warm against Harry's cheek. "You just called that girl's bucket hat a 'fashion revolution.'"

Harry blinked, serious as he could muster. "Well it is. She's like... the Gandhi of sequins."

That set Louis off again, loud and gleeful, until they both nearly collapsed onto the damp grass outside the silent disco tent. Harry clung to his arm like he was on a sinking ship, giggling uncontrollably.

A cluster of girls in flower crowns approached, breathless and buzzing with alcohol and adrenaline. One of them gasped when she got close enough. "Oh my God. It's really you!"

Louis grinned lazily. "Nah, we're holograms. This is the Tesco Value version of One Direction."

"Nooo, I knew you'd be here," another girl squealed, waving a disposable camera in their direction. "Someone saw you near the burger van earlier and we ran."

"Chased down like we're rare Pokémon," Louis muttered to Harry, who was swaying dangerously and grinning like he'd just been knighted.

"You're Harry," one of the girls said, squinting. "Right? You're, like... the one with the curls."

Harry blinked at her. "No, I'm Liam."

The group went silent for half a second—long enough for Louis to snort-laugh so violently he nearly pulled a muscle. "He's taking the piss," he wheezed, wiping tears from his eyes. "Jesus Christ, Styles."

They posed for photos—blurry, uncoordinated, someone's eyeliner smudging Harry's cheek. Louis threw his arm around Harry's shoulder and pulled him close, their heads knocking together like drunk bookends.

"You guys are so much hotter in person," one girl declared.

Harry beamed. "That's 'cause we don't have management breathing down our necks right now. We're in our badboy personas."

Louis choked. "Jesus, don't tell my mum that."

"Too late," another fan grinned. "She's probably in a Facebook group about it."

Someone offered them a swig from a bottle of rosé that tasted like regrets, and Louis took it without flinching. He passed it to Harry, who sipped like he was sipping the nectar of the gods, eyes wide and glowing.

A girl leaned in and asked, loud over the music, "Wait—are you two, like... together-together?"

Harry froze.

Louis didn't.

"Nah," he said, easy, that signature grin sliding into place. "He just follows me around like a lost puppy 'cause I once bought him chips."

"Liar," Harry grinned, punching his arm. "It was onion rings."

"Oh shit, yeah. Romance is dead."

They stayed a while longer—posing, laughing, signing the back of a denim jacket someone swore they'd never wash again—before the fans drifted off, pulled by the thrum of music and the lure of more booze.

The air felt quieter after. Softer. Louis dropped into the grass beside Harry, legs stretched out, their knees barely touching.

"You good, Curly?" he asked, voice lower now.

Harry nodded. "This is the best night of my life."

Louis smiled at that. Not his usual cocky smirk. Something gentler. Almost fond.

"Yeah," he said. "Mine too."

The silent disco tent was a pulsating kaleidoscope of bodies and lights, like someone had bottled up euphoria and sprayed it across a hundred half-drunk teenagers. The beat thumped through Harry's borrowed headphones, something bassy and wordless, the kind of music you felt in your teeth.

Louis dragged him in with a wicked grin, their hands still laced like they had been outside. "Let's see if your skinny hips can handle a proper rave, Baby Spice."

Harry just laughed, cheeks flushed from the booze and the night and the fact that Louis was still holding his hand. "You've never seen me dance."

"Oh, I've seen you," Louis shot back, already weaving them through the crowd. "You do that little noodle-wiggle thing. Like a sexy inflatable tube man."

"Rude," Harry protested, but he was smiling so hard it hurt.

Then the lights swirled purple, and the drop hit, and Louis turned around—back to Harry—and started grinding against him with absolutely no warning.

Harry's brain short-circuited.

His hands flew to Louis' hips like muscle memory, like instinct, like sin.

Louis threw his head back onto Harry's shoulder with a laugh that was wild and bright and full of something ancient and dangerous. His whole body moved like it was built for this—for rhythm, for teasing, for Harry.

And Harry—

Harry felt it. Every twist of Louis' hips, every flash of heat where they connected. Goosebumps exploded up his arms. His pulse stuttered and then slammed. Blood shot south so fast it made his knees buckle.

He was getting hard.

In the middle of a fucking crowd.

Because Louis Tomlinson was grinding on him like he was the only thing in the universe that mattered.

Just as panic and desire were about to short-fuse his entire system, a girl bumped into them hard, reeking of cheap cider and shimmer spray. "Sorry—oh my God, sorry!"

They stumbled apart, Harry tugging his shirt down like it would help hide anything, heart thudding so loud he couldn't even hear the music anymore.

Louis just turned his head and smirked at him.

Smirked.

The kind of smirk that said I know.

The kind of smirk that said I did that on purpose.

The kind of smirk that said You're fucked, Styles.

And Harry—still half hard, half feral, and fully seventeen—realised with the most terrifying clarity that he absolutely, utterly was. Or at least wanted so bad to be.

Later, back at the tent, Harry couldn't breathe right.

The air felt thick and weird, like it'd been scooped from someone else's lungs. Louis unzipped the flap with a rusted whine and ducked in first, still laughing at something one of his mates had yelled across the field, but it didn't reach his eyes anymore. Not really.

Harry followed, eyes trained on the way Louis' shoulders looked under that ancient hoodie—the one with the frayed strings and ketchup stain that probably had its own birth certificate by now.

They kicked their shoes off, wriggled out of layers of muddy clothes, and Harry tried—really fucking tried—not to stare when Louis tugged his t-shirt over his head and his stomach showed, pale and sharp and barely lit by the torch clipped to the tent pole.

They were both in just boxers now. Not on purpose. It just happened. And Harry didn't know how to exist inside his own skin.He sat cross-legged on his sleeping bag, biting at a hangnail, trying to pretend he wasn't half hard and losing his mind.

"What are we doing tomorrow?" Harry asked, his voice lighter now, like he was trying to steer the conversation somewhere safer.

"Dunno," Louis said, his eyes darting to Harry's lips for a fraction of a second before he looked away. "Getting drunk again, probably."

Harry smiled, and it was soft and teasing and entirely too much. "Sounds about right."

Louis lay back like he didn't have a single thought in his head, arms behind his head, eyes on the nylon ceiling.

"You alright?" Harry asked, voice lower than he meant it to be.

Louis blinked, too casual. "Peachy."

Harry snorted. "You sound like a Victorian orphan who's about to die of cholera."

"Cheers, mate. That's the confidence boost I needed."

They both laughed, too loud, too fast. Then it stopped. The silence after wasn't exactly awkward—it was worse. It was loaded. Like a gun half-cocked and placed between them.

Harry's eyes adjusted slowly. He could just make out Louis' profile in the dark, nose and jaw cast in shadows. He was looking straight at him. Brazen, like always.

"You're staring," Harry whispered.

"Am not."

"You are," he whispered again, this time teasing, biting the inside of his cheek to stop the grin that wanted to crawl out.

"Get over yourself, Haz," Louis mumbled, but he didn't stop looking.

Harry's stomach did that annoying twisty thing again. He wanted to say something smart. Or brave. Or at the very least coherent.

Instead, he shifted closer.

Their legs brushed under the blankets. Bare skin to bare skin. Electricity. Static. The fucking Big Bang.

Harry's breath caught. Louis didn't move away.

Harry's heart was in his throat, thudding stupid and loud, like it wanted out. He could feel how warm Louis was, how close, how their thighs were pressed together and—Jesus fuck—Louis was hard too. He had to be. Unless that was—

Nope. Definitely not his knee.

The thought made him dizzy.

Louis turned his head slowly. His eyes found Harry's in the dark. "What are we doing?"

Harry barely breathed. "I don't know."

But he didn't move away.

Louis' hand came up, tentative at first, then bolder—fingertips brushing Harry's curls, then sliding down the curve of his jaw like a fucking poem. Harry leaned in before he could talk himself out of it. Their foreheads touched. Then noses. Then lips—almost.

A shriek of laughter outside the tent burst their bubble. A group stumbling past, knocking over something metal. The clatter snapped them apart like a whip.

Louis flinched back. Harry's hand fell away like it'd been caught stealing.

They didn't speak for a beat. Two. Ten.

Then Louis let out a low curse and dragged a hand down his face. "Jesus."

Harry didn't know if he wanted to scream or cry or kiss him anyway.

"That was..." he started.

"Nothing," Louis cut in, too fast. "It was nothing."

Harry blinked, heart still trying to escape. "Right," he said quietly. "Nothing."

They lay back, backs turned, blanket pulled up like a wall between them. Neither moved. Neither slept.

Harry stared at the ceiling and tried to unfeel every fucking second of what just didn't happen.

He failed.

2025, London, Harry's POV

He made it by the skin of his fucking teeth.

Of course he did. He was Harry Fucking Styles, patron saint of last-minute decisions and emotional self-sabotage with a skincare routine. The SUV had barely screeched to a stop outside the private terminal when he was already halfway out the door, hoodie half-on, passport clenched between his teeth like he was escaping a warzone instead of gatecrashing a very unnecessary flight.

Security waved him through in under thirty seconds. Perks of priority access, global fame, and the kind of fucked-in-the-head charm that made people go, "He seems nice, but like... damaged?"

His trainers slapped against the tarmac as he bolted across the runway, wind whipping through his hair almost blowing his baseball cap off, breath catching in his throat—not because he was out of shape (please, he ran ten fucking kilometers every morning like a sad boy Forrest Gump), but because this was insane. Certifiably.

He hadn't told Louis. Not a text. Not a call. Not even a cheeky "save me a window seat" message. Nothing.

He just... needed to come. For reasons that were definitely not rational or mature or planned. He didn't even pack a bag. He had on the same fucking outfit he wore to the Pleasing board meeting—long-sleeved t-shirt that, ironically, read DUMP HIM in cracked, sarcastic lettering. His trousers were loose, comfortable, entirely inappropriate for spontaneous romantic sabotage, hands still smelling like that overpriced eucalyptus spray Sophie kept misting over the conference table "for clarity." And underneath all that? Louis' fucking cologne from Berlin. Because apparently that bastard had the staying power of a trauma bond and a scent profile curated by Satan.

The flight crew barely blinked when they saw him sprinting up the steps. One of them offered him a bottle of water. He declined. His mouth was too dry for water. Too full of idiotic excuses he might have to vomit out at 30,000 feet.

The cabin door swung shut behind him with a hiss, and then—like a scene from some melodramatic fever dream—he looked up.

And Louis was there.

Already reclined, legs kicked out like he owned the fucking jet (which, to be fair, he kind of did), a can of Red Bull in hand, one brow cocked halfway to the ceiling.

His eyes landed on Harry like a slap. Or a kiss. Or both.

Harry, still panting like a winded Pomeranian, blinked. Gave a twitchy little wave. Tried to look cool, which went about as well as you'd expect from a man with a flushed face, wild curls, and a flash drive in his pocket that may or may not contain emotional blackmail.

Louis didn't say anything.

Just stared.

Slowly set his drink down.

And tilted his head.

Harry cleared his throat. "Hey."

Beat.

Louis blinked once. Twice. Then, with all the lazy venom in the world: "Did you get lost on the way to Berlin or just develop a thing for tropical humidity and making my life weird?"

Harry dropped into the seat across from him, exhaled hard, and said the only thing he could think of that didn't sound like a declaration of unhinged love.

"I didn't pack sunscreen."

Louis just kept staring.

And Harry, flustered, feral, freshly re-broken, looked right back—no plan, no apology, no idea how the fuck to survive the next eleven hours.

But god, he'd missed this face.

And maybe, for now, that was reason enough.

Chapter Text

2025, London

The silence dragged, thick and stretched like gum on hot pavement. Louis watched Harry with the kind of expression usually reserved for customs officers and particularly annoying baristas. Like he was trying to figure out if this was going to ruin his day or just mildly inconvenience it.

Then—deadpan, perfectly timed—Louis nodded toward the bold white letters smeared across Harry's chest.

"Love the shirt," he said, voice smooth like butter left out too long. "What's that then, foreshadowing? You rushed across London in the peak to dump me? If that's the case, I'll tell the pilot to idle until we're done so we don't have to endure eleven hours of awkward silence and mediocre pity sex."

Harry rolled his eyes so hard Louis half-expected to hear an audible click. "You know what, maybe I fucking should."

"Go on then," Louis drawled, tipping his head against the seatback. "Make it good. I skipped lunch for this."

Harry huffed, muttering something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like "so did I" before reaching for the buckle of the seatbelt, fingers twitchy.

Louis watched him fumble like a man trying to keep his dignity while getting pantsed by fate. His heart was thudding, hard and hot, but you'd never know it to look at him. He'd spent a decade training his face into a fucking vault. But inside? A storm. A migraine made of hope.

Because Harry was here.

Again.

Still.

"So what now?" Louis said finally, voice dipped in nonchalance, eyes fixed on Harry like he was something to be dissected or detonated. "You gonna confess your undying love, tell me you've joined a cult, or just ask to borrow my swim trunks and pretend this is normal?"

"I don't know," Harry muttered, sinking further into his seat. "Didn't really think past get on the plane."

"Classic." Louis reached for his Red Bull again, took a long sip. "You've got that look, y'know. Like a man about to dramatically ruin someone's weekend."

Harry tilted his head. "Says the man who moaned my name so loud in Berlin it could've triggered a noise complaint in Vatican City."

Louis choked on his drink.

"Jesus fucking Christ."

Harry smiled, sharp and crooked. "Didn't think I forgot, did you?"

"Wish you would," Louis wheezed. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, eyes watering, but the corner of his lips betrayed him with a twitch. "God, I hate you."

"No you don't."

Louis stared at him.

Then looked out the window.

Then back again.

"No," he admitted, voice barely above a whisper. "I really fucking don't."

They sat like that for a moment, turbulence between them despite the stillness of the cabin. Harry's knee bounced. Louis' thumb traced the seam of his can. The jet engines hummed. A muted ding announced their climb.

Finally, Louis exhaled a sigh that sounded like fine, fuck it.

"We've got like endless hours," he said. "Don't make it weird."

Harry met his eyes, that stupid twitch of a smile already betraying him. "Too late."

And Louis—grinning like he hadn't just been gut-punched by déjà vu—muttered, "Welcome aboard, wanker."

Then he looked away. Out the window. Into the clouds.

But it was already crawling back up his spine.

The memory.

The one with sharp edges and blurred lines, buried under years of silence and sarcasm.

The night he made everything weird—

Irreversibly.

***

2011 September, London – Red or Black performance

The dressing room smelled like hair wax, nerves, and cheap celebratory cola—half-flat already, just like Liam's moral support pep talk from ten minutes ago. The others had fucked off somewhere—probably to find food, or a bathroom, or a god to pray to—but Louis stayed behind. Legs stretched across the too-small sofa, fingers picking at the frayed edge of the armrest, he tried to pretend his pulse wasn't hammering in his neck like a badly timed drum solo.

The place was a mess. Plastic cups, a scattering of safety pins, someone's hoodie crumpled in the corner like a dead body. Their mic packs were lined up neatly on the table, next to a half-eaten protein bar and Niall's chewing gum graveyard. The overhead lights buzzed faintly, too bright, too sterile, and his reflection in the mirror looked like someone halfway through a breakdown and still waiting for wardrobe.

Through the thin dressing room walls, Louis could hear the muffled thump of stage techs moving equipment. A mic check. A shriek of feedback. And somewhere above all that—just barely—he could hear the pre-show audience starting to scream.

Christ. An hour 'till showtime.

Louis was standing in front of the vanity, tapping the heel of his trainer against the linoleum floor in some frantic Morse code only his own anxiety could read. In ten minutes, they were supposed to perform What Makes You Beautiful on Red or Black, live telly, actual cameras, actual people watching—not just their mums this time. And it wasn't a cover. It was their song. Their first. Their names on it. Their voices. Their dreams, if you wanted to get vomit-level sentimental.

And still, Louis couldn't stop thinking about Harry.

Harry was still in the room.

Silently sitting slouched on the couch, his long legs stretched out in front of him like some floppy-haired meditation app with stage fright. His head tilted back against the cushions, his eyes half-lidded, like he was stuck somewhere between exhaustion and whatever thoughts were pulling him away.

And Louis, being Louis, couldn't resist.

"Oi, Styles," he called, swaggering over like a cocky little menace. "What's with the tragic orphan look? You lost your Build-a-Bear or something?"

Harry didn't even flinch. Just cracked the tiniest, tiniest smile and mumbled, "Just tired, Lou."

Louis narrowed his eyes. Tired, his arse.

"Bored, more like," he scoffed, flopping down beside him. But sitting wasn't enough. Not with Harry doing his best dying-swan routine. If Harry was going to act like a fainting damsel, then Louis would play the part of chaos god with zero impulse control.

Before Harry could blink, Louis was straddling him.

Like. Full-on. One leg over, plopped right down onto his lap, no warning, no shame.

Harry's eyes flew open, panic and confusion mixing like a cocktail Louis would absolutely drink if it meant avoiding feelings.

"What are you—"

"Relax, Hazza." Louis grinned, settling in like this was the most normal shit in the world. "You looked like you needed a little entertainment."

Harry made a noise like his soul was trying to escape through his throat.

"Entertainment," he repeated, his voice cracking slightly. His hands sort of... hovered, not touching but not not touching either.

Louis smirked. "What's wrong, popstar? You forget what fun feels like? Or has Simon sucked it out of you with your last shred of dignity?"

Harry's cheeks flushed—adorable—and Louis, the absolute twat that he was, couldn't help himself. He shifted slightly, his bum pressing down against Harry's lap—and that's when he felt it. The faint twitch, the unmistakable hardness beneath him. Louis froze for half a second, his mind racing. Then his smirk widened, and he rolled his hips deliberately, testing the waters. Harry's eyes fluttered shut, his lips parting as a shaky breath escaped him.

Oh.

Oh.

Louis paused. Then, slow and evil as ever, rolled his hips again.

Harry made a noise that might've been a whimper if it hadn't sounded so... filthy.

"Well, well," Louis purred. "What's this, then?"

"Shut up," Harry hissed, face burning, hands now gripping Louis' hips like his life depended on it.

"Oh, no! No, no, no," Louis said sweetly, rolling again. "You don't get to tell me to shut up while pitching a tent under me."

"Louis..."

"Yeah, that's my name," Louis teased, leaning in until their noses nearly brushed. "Say it again when you're coming, will you?"

That was it—Harry cracked, head tilting back with a breathy moan, and Louis... Louis felt it. The control. The power. The something he shouldn't name. He pressed down harder, and Harry bucked up against him like he couldn't help it.

"That's it," Louis whispered, voice syrupy and smug. "Just let go, Haz. Don't think about it."

And Harry did. Just like that. With a sharp inhale, a clench of his fingers, and a wrecked sound that honestly would haunt Louis' dreams if he ever let himself sleep properly. He kept grinding slow and filthy into Harry's lap, his own breath catching as he dipped closer, lips brushing the shell of Harry's ear.

"Fuck, you're easy," he whispered, voice a low hum meant to tease, meant to hide the way his pulse was fucking pounding.

Harry bucked up into him, wild now, desperate little gasps breaking loose from his mouth like he didn't even care anymore. His hands dug into Louis' hips hard enough to bruise, chasing it, losing himself in it, until his thighs twitched beneath Louis and his whole body stuttered.

And then—Harry lost it.

Right there, hips jerking, breath caught in his throat, coming hard in his pants loud and shaking and utterly shameless, with a moan so obscene Louis felt it like static down his spine.

It was obscene.

Harry looked undone—like Louis had just rewritten his genetic code.

Louis just breathed through it, lips against his cheek, jaw, anywhere he could get close without fucking kissing him.

And yeah—he'd definitely be wanking to that sound later.

Probably more than once.

His jeans were too tight now. Everything in him was wound up and aching and vibrating with that particular brand of panic you only get when you realize you've crossed a line you can never uncross.

Which—yeah.

He fucking had.

So, being the idiot he is, he just smiled. "Well," he said breezily. "That was fun."

And with that, he climbed off Harry, already half-thinking about locking himself in a toilet cubicle to deal with his little problem in peace, like he wasn't seconds away from melting into a puddle of regret and sexual frustration. Like his heart wasn't clawing its way up his throat screaming what the fuck did you just do.

Of course he made it weird.

Of course it was irreversible.

Because if Louis Tomlinson had one talent in life—aside from harmonies and causing headaches—it was fucking everything up just as it started to feel good.

***

The car door slammed like a threat, swallowing the chaos outside — flashes, shouts, the feral circus of press trying to crawl into their skin. Louis threw himself into the back seat with all the grace of someone who hadn't slept properly in three days and whose tolerance for drama had officially expired.

Harry slid in beside him a beat later, all elbows and jaw tension, smelling like nerves and regret. The door shut behind him, and for one hot second, Louis let himself pretend they were sealed off from the world — like the inside of a luxury hearse instead of a PR disaster on wheels.

And maybe it wasn't even a real disaster. Not technically. The vocals had been fine. Tight, even. The choreography was mostly on beat. Niall had remembered to smile. Zayn looked like he hadn't considered setting himself on fire mid-performance, which was progress.

But Harry.

Harry had been off.

Only a little. Only the kind of off that Louis could spot in half a blink — the way Harry's hand trembled on the mic, the way his breath caught too early and never quite came back. He was shaking through the whole fucking solo, voice thinner than usual, cracked around the edges like porcelain held together by willpower and stage lights. And when he hit "hard to tell," it barely came out at all. Just a soft, broken echo of what it should've been.

Just for a second.

Just enough to make Louis feel like he'd swallowed glass.

Because he knew Harry. Knew every version of him — the one who talked in weird metaphors about feelings, the one who forgot to charge his phone for three days straight, the one who picked up every wounded bird and tried to love it back to life.

And the one who'd punish himself for this.

That solo? It would haunt him. Not the audience. Not the producers. Just Harry, lying in bed at night replaying it on loop until his brain bled self-loathing.

Louis glanced sideways. Harry's hand was fisted in the fabric of his own trousers like he needed something to anchor him. His knee bounced. His lips were pinched. He was so deep in his head it was a wonder he hadn't drowned.

Louis swallowed hard. Tried to say something. Couldn't.

Because what the fuck could he say?

Sorry I dry-humped you before your live TV debut and turned your brain into soup?

Sorry I acted like a complete twat because I didn't know how to handle the fact that touching you feels like setting myself on fire?

Sorry I ruined the only thing you've ever actually cared about by being myself?

Yeah. That'd go over well.

The guilt crawled under his skin like ants. Feral. Itched all the way down to his ribs.

He'd thought it was funny at the time. Harmless, even. Just a bit of banter. A bit of teasing to get Harry out of his head, to make him laugh. But now all Louis could see was the fallout—how Harry's hands had trembled when they'd come off stage, how he'd barely looked anyone in the eye. How he hadn't looked at Louis at all.

Louis dug his nails into the leather seat. The silence was thick, pressing down on his chest, and the longer it stretched, the more he hated himself.

For getting in the car.

For not knowing what to say.

For ever thinking he could touch Harry and walk away without leaving bruises.

He turned his head just enough to catch Harry's profile, lit faintly by the dash glow. His lashes were lowered, mouth drawn tight, like he was bracing for impact that hadn't even come yet.

Louis bit down on the urge to say you were still fucking brilliant, you know.

He didn't deserve to say it.

Not when he was the reason Harry didn't believe it.

So instead, he sat there.

Fists clenched.

Guilt gnawing at his throat.

And a headache blooming behind his eyes, shaped suspiciously like too much feelings.

The silence? Not comfortable. Not hostile either. Just hovering in the air like a fart no one wanted to claim.

Louis had his fingers wrapped around the edge of his jacket sleeve, pulling at a loose thread like it owed him money. His leg was bouncing. Of course it was. He turned to the window, because God forbid he make eye contact when things were too quiet and too close.

Harry exhaled — a sigh that sounded like he'd just been kicked in the feelings. "So, I can't not talk about it."

Louis didn't even turn. Just smirked at his own reflection like he was trying to win a staring contest with the devil.

"Of course you can't, Harry. You can never leave it well enough alone, can you?"

He kept his voice light, almost amused. But he didn't look at Harry. Couldn't. If he looked, he'd feel it. And feeling was an absolute last resort.

Harry leaned forward, elbows on his knees, fidgeting with his fingers like they were worry beads. His entire body screamed barely-contained monologue. He was going to say something reckless. Louis could smell it.

"I just..." Harry's voice cracked a bit, then regrouped. "I've known you've been teasing me, Lou. Fuck, for months now. And it does—"

A laugh. Bitter. Like he was mad at himself for saying it out loud.

"It does things to my head."

Louis finally glanced over, mouth twitching in that way that always looked meaner than it felt. "Good," he said, casual as sin. "It does things to your dick too, apparently."

That earned him a weak laugh, but it didn't reach Harry's eyes. Not even close. His fingers clenched tighter around his knee.

"Yeah, well, that too. Obviously." His voice dropped a bit. Softer now, unguarded. "But I don't think I can handle this anymore if you're just gonna leave me hanging after."

And boom — there it was.

Louis blinked, the words hitting like they'd been dipped in acid and sugar. The kind of thing that made you wince and ache at the same time. He opened his mouth, but the words caught in his throat like gum on a shoe.

He turned back to the window. His own reflection stared back at him like a smug little shit who knew exactly what he was doing. He hated it.

"I don't know what to say to that," he muttered eventually, and Jesus, even he could hear how pathetic it sounded.

Harry didn't even flinch. Like he'd expected it. Like he was used to Louis dodging every real thing with a smirk and a shrug.

"Yeah," Harry said, eyes fixed on the ceiling like maybe God would show up with a lifeline. "Figures."

The silence between them thickened, coagulated, turned into something Louis could practically choke on. He tapped his knuckles against his knee like he was auditioning for a drum solo. Still didn't help.

"You make everything so fucking complicated, you know that?" Louis muttered, a bitter smile curling at his mouth like a bad joke.

Harry snorted, deadpan. "Yeah. Takes one to know one."

Louis glanced over, tempted to lob a snarky comeback, something sharp and cruel and safe. But nothing came. Just the silence. Just the way Harry was looking at his hands, twisting the same knuckle over and over like he could conjure a time machine.

The car slowed at a red light, bathing them in that sticky, brake-light red. Made Harry's face look soft, delicate even — if Louis squinted hard enough to forget all the sharp parts.

They rolled to a stop outside their place, and for a split second, neither of them moved. Harry's hand brushed his knee, barely-there, but enough.

"Lou..."

Louis sighed. "Look, Haz, I know I've overstepped a boundary today..."

Harry cut him off — sharper now, the bite coming back. "It was only overstepping if you've done it for shits and giggles. To see how fucking far I've actually gone for you. So the question is... did you?"

That one sliced. No warning, no mercy.

Louis blinked. Opened his mouth. Closed it. Tried again.

"Is 'I don't know' a good answer?"

Harry's jaw flexed. His face crumpled, just a little. He nodded once.

"Well," he said, and fuck, it was quiet. "It's an answer."

Then he was gone. Out of the car. Up the steps. Through the same fucking door they both used every night—like that didn't make it worse.

Louis didn't move. Didn't follow. Just sat there like a coward, watching the building swallow Harry whole, the front door clicking shut behind him like a trap.

No slamming. No dramatic exit. Just silence. Which, somehow, always hit harder.

The car pulled away a second later, smooth and indifferent.

Louis exhaled like it hurt. Jammed his hands into his pockets, but there was nothing there except lint and guilt. He leaned his forehead against the cool glass, eyes tracking the city like it might offer him a sign. A clue. A reason.

It didn't.

All he caught was his own reflection, faint and flickering.

And for once, it looked like someone else's.

Like someone who'd finally run out of ways to fuck things up quietly.

***

2025, a few thousand feet above London

As soon as the beep chimed through the cabin, signaling that they'd hit cruising altitude, Harry didn't waste a second. Seatbelt off. Brain off. Dignity, also off. He was up and over the aisle in a flash, straddling Louis like it was instinct, like eleven hours of unresolved chaos had lit a fuse right under his fucking spine.

Louis barely had time to blink before Harry's hands were in his hair and his mouth was on his, hot and desperate and furious. Their teeth clacked. Their noses bumped. It was obscene, a little stupid, and very, very them.

"You're unhinged," Louis muttered between kisses, voice breathless and low, fingers already slipping under Harry's ridiculous "dump him" shirt.

"Bold talk from someone who's seconds away from making the Mile High Club a lawsuit," Harry shot back, rolling his hips down just to be a menace. He felt Louis twitch underneath him. Good.

"Yeah, well," Louis gasped, head thunking back against the seat as Harry mouthed along his jaw, "at least I didn't run away from a fucking board meeting to dry hump my ex on a private jet."

"I didn't hear a no," Harry said, teeth grazing Louis' earlobe. "That's suspicious."

"What's suspicious is that you came wearing your feelings and not a single ounce of self-preservation," Louis hissed, though his nails were digging crescent moons into Harry's hips.

"Didn't pack any. Thought I'd borrow yours."

"Oh, you will. But I'm charging extra for emotional damage."

Harry laughed, loud and shameless, and sucked a mark into Louis' throat just to shut him up. "You're such a bitch."

"And you're such a little bottom," Louis bit out, hips jerking up hard.

Harry choked on a moan, caught himself, then growled, "Yeah? You gonna do something about it, Tommo, or just talk shit and edge me for the next ten hours?"

Louis grinned, all teeth and challenge. "You're in my lap, sweetheart. Looks like you're doing all the work."

"Oh, please," Harry scoffed, rutting forward again, filthy and shameless. "You're lucky I don't put on the seatbelt sign myself and ride you through the turbulence."

Louis let out a breathless laugh, the kind that ended in a groan. "Fuck, I forgot how much I hate you."

Harry licked into his mouth like it was a dare. "Liar."

And then they were kissing again—hot, messy, open-mouthed filth that had nothing to do with forgiveness and everything to do with losing themselves in a small cabin, above the fucking clouds.

Louis felt it before he saw it. Something shifted—just slightly, just enough to make his fingers pause where they'd been ghosting under Harry's shirt. Like a dropped beat in a song you know too well.

Harry had gone erratic.

Not in the fun way, not in the "I'm going to rail you into this leather seat while whispering filth like it's poetry"kind of way.

No, this was twitchy, scattered, breathless in the wrong places.

His hands were everywhere and nowhere—gripping Louis' hips too tight, then flinching away like he'd touched something hot. He laughed, once, sharp and too loud, like a cracked plate hitting tile. His chest was rising too fast, his eyes darting like he was watching a house of cards come down in slow motion.

Louis stilled. Every cell in his body went on alert.

This wasn't lust.

This was freefall.

And Harry—Harry was spiraling.

Louis pulled back—just an inch—to look at him properly.

Shit.

Chapter Text

2025, 40.000 feet above reality

Harry's pupils were blown, but not with lust. His chest was rising too fast, too shallow. His hands, which seconds ago had been clutching Louis' waist like he was trying to fuse their bodies together, were now trembling where they rested on Louis' thighs. His lips were parted, dry. His jaw clenched and unclenched like he was trying to remember how to breathe.

Shit. Shit shit shit.

Louis' brain whirred with that bitter, familiar voice.

Ok, it finally dawned on Harry.

Ambushing your ex or situationship (or whatever the hell we are) mid-flight in a pressurized tin can with no escape plan? Maybe not a genius move after all.

Maybe not the moment to pick for spontaneous humping and life-altering conversations.

Ten hours left in the air, Styles. Bold.

But that voice was shoved aside in an instant, gutted and discarded, because Harry was panicking and this was not the fucking time.

"Okay, alright. Hey—Haz. Breathe, Baby," Louis murmured, thumb swiping over Harry's cheek, damp with sweat. "Just breathe with me. You're not dying, yeah? You're just shit at breathing right now."

Harry made a choked, animal sound. His knees drew up toward his chest like he was trying to fold in on himself, chest heaving too fast, too shallow. Louis could feel the panic bleeding off him in waves. Sharp and hot and terrifying.

"Haz. Eyes on me."

He tapped Harry's cheek with the softest flick of his fingers. Green eyes, wild and rimmed red, finally met his. Barely.

"There you go." Louis' heart was hammering so loud he thought he'd throw up from the noise alone. His brain kept flickering away—back to Berlin, to how Harry had looked then, wrecked in a completely different way, and to the stupid clone dildo in his fucking suitcase, and to his sister's voice on the phone this morning telling him to take care of himself for once.

Harry let out a broken sound that wasn't quite a word—somewhere between a gasp and a sob, torn straight from his chest like it didn't ask permission first.

His mouth hung open, jaw slack, like he was trying to catch air that refused to come.

He was choking on it now—ragged, shallow inhales that hitched halfway down, stuttering in his throat like he couldn't quite remember how to breathe. His whole body buzzed like a plucked string held too tight, vibrating with panic and the unbearable need to do something—run, scream, combust.

But he couldn't do any of it.

Not above the fucking clouds.

Focus, Tommo. Stay the fuck here.

Louis inhaled sharply, trying to reset his head. "We're gonna say something together, yeah?" he whispered, forehead brushing Harry's. "You know the words. Just go with it."

No plan, no prep, just the one thing he was sure Harry knew better than any therapy script.

Louis started low, a soft hum turning into syllables. "In west Philadelphia born and raised..."

Harry didn't move. Just blinked, one-two. His lips parted. Air caught.

Louis tried again, firmer this time. "On the playground was where I spent most of my days..."

There it was. A hitch. A twitch of Harry's mouth. His breath still came short, but it came.

Louis went on. "Chillin' out, maxin', relaxin' all cool..."

A whisper. Barely. But it came from Harry's throat.

Louis nodded, relief burning in his chest. "And all shootin' some b-ball outside of the school..."

Harry's hands gripped his, hard. Like they were anchors.

"When a couple of guys who were up to no good—"

"Started makin' trouble in my neighborhood..." Harry croaked, voice shaking like glass in a bass speaker.

Louis smiled—small, tight. "I got in one lil' fight and my mom got scared..."

"She said..." Harry's voice cracked, but he pushed through, "...'you're movin' with your auntie and uncle in Bel-Air.'"

His breathing slowed—not steady, not normal, but not spiraling either. Louis exhaled like he'd been holding it in since takeoff.

"There he is," he said, voice thick but still wrapped in that playful drawl. "My Fresh Prince. You back with me now?"

Harry nodded, barely, like his neck couldn't take the weight of it. His fingers reached out clumsily for Louis' hoodie.

"That's it, Baby, c'mere," Louis murmured, pulling Harry into him like it was the most natural thing in the world. Like it hadn't been months of avoidance and miscommunication and lust masked as loathing. "S'okay now. You're alright, yeah? You're okay."

Harry nodded against him, eyes closing as he slumped into Louis' shoulder, clinging with both arms now. Small. Shaky. Louis kissed his hair—once, soft and slow—and didn't let go.

"You're okay," he whispered again, letting the words settle between them like a blanket. "You're safe. I'm here. I'm right fucking here."

His hands traced slow circles against Harry's back, grounding without needing to be asked.

Instead, he just held Harry tighter and bit the inside of his cheek until it bled.

Minutes passed, maybe even half an hour, when Harry blinked up at him from under his lashes, eyes still glassy but tugged at the corners with something stupidly soft, like mischief trying to crawl its way back in.

"Kiss me?" he whispered, voice hoarse with the remnants of panic but curling at the edges with something cheeky—like he knew he was pushing his luck and doing it anyway.

Louis huffed a laugh through his nose—soft, short, a little cracked around the edges. The kind that didn't reach anywhere useful.

"Haz," he murmured, brushing his thumb along Harry's flushed cheek, "you just freaked out from doing exactly that."

Harry's mouth tugged into that pout — the one Louis knew like a bad habit and hated how much he still adored.

"Yeah but..." he mumbled, flicking his eyes to Louis' lips, all pitiful and hopeful like he didn't know exactly what he was doing.

Louis chuckled again, breathier this time, and leaned in to press the tiniest kiss to Harry's nose. Then one to his cheek. His temple. The corner of his mouth.

Silly, fluttery little things—like punctuation marks in all the wrong places.

Harry let out a snort, then a giggle that cracked halfway into a shiver. Goosebumps broke out on his arms. He pulled back just enough to grin, biting his lower lip like it might stop the smile from spilling out and embarrassing him further.

Then he launched himself at Louis like he'd decided thinking was overrated.

Their mouths crashed together—not frantic, not desperate, just full of it. Full of them. Tongues brushing, lips wet and open, noses bumping like idiots who still hadn't figured out where each other's face was.

No finesse. No agenda. Just full-on snogging like they'd earned it by surviving their own bullshit.

Kissing like teenagers behind a Tesco. Kissing like timing wasn't always a knife to the ribs. Kissing like this plane was some godforsaken liminal space where nothing counted, and maybe—just maybe—they weren't a complete fucking tragedy. Like this weird little bubble of a moment didn't belong to the real world.

Harry sighed into it—soft, needy—like the kiss was scratching some deep, stupid itch in his soul.

Louis kissed him harder for that. Just because he could. Because if Harry was going to sound like that over a snog, then Louis was bloody well going to take the credit.

It started with Harry's fingers curled around the waistband of Louis' joggers like a question, and then suddenly he was answering it for himself — slipping his hand past cotton, past logic, past the very clear memory of nearly blacking out thirty minutes ago. His palm pressed against Louis through his briefs, warm and familiar and just this side of cocky.

Louis didn't stop him straight away. Of course he didn't. He leaned into it like the little slut he was for Harry's hands — for the shape of him, the heat of him, the way Harry knew his body like it owed him rent. His breath stuttered once, caught behind his teeth, hips twitching just slightly into the pressure.

But it didn't last long.

"Chill, Baby," Louis murmured, catching Harry's wrist with a loose grip, voice all low and unimpressed. "You'll pass the fuck out again and I'll be stuck explaining to a flight attendant why my ex-boyband situationship is unconscious with his hand down my pants."

Harry blinked at him, dazed and flushed and not even trying to pretend he wasn't hard. "You don't want me?"

Louis scoffed, biting back a laugh. "Jesus, Haz. I always want you. That's not the issue. The issue is that your nervous system just did a full reset like a dodgy iPhone and maybe — just maybe — we should let your body reboot before we break the bed again."

Harry pouted again, lip jutting out like a weapon of mass manipulation. "I'm fine now."

"Oh, clearly," Louis deadpanned. "Your hand's on my dick and your pupils are still dialed into the astral plane."

Harry had the audacity to smirk. "So that's a no?"

"That's a not yet," Louis said, leaning in to kiss the smirk right off his face. "Let your serotonin catch up. I'm not about to have sex with a ghost. Not even a hot one."

Harry sighed like Louis was the one being unreasonable — which was rich, considering the circumstances — and flopped back against the seat, still touching, still close, still vibrating with want.

Louis let his fingers graze Harry's cheek. "We have time, alright?"

Harry nodded once, begrudging and pink in the cheeks. "Fine. But if I die of unrelieved horniness, I'm haunting your stupid house."

"You already haunt it, love," Louis muttered, and kissed him again — soft, slow, like a promise sealed in snark.

Because Harry was still here. Still kissing him back, like Louis hadn't ruined him six ways to Sunday.

And maybe that was enough. For now. Not forever—Louis wasn't delusional—but for now.

2011 September, London, G-A-Y performance

Louis stood hunched over the sink, trying to scrub whipped cream out of his armpit with a paper towel that was already soaked and useless. His reflection in the vanity mirror looked like a hen party casualty halfway through a sugar crash. His hair was stiff with frosting, his jeans had a big pink handprint on the crotch (Niall, probably), and there was still literal sprinkles stuck in his ear.

His skin buzzed warm and loose with the kind of drunk that came from too many beers and a few sneaky vodka shots that definitely hadn't been cleared by management.

He looked hot. In a deeply deranged sort of way.

He let out a snort. What a fucking night.

They'd absolutely obliterated the stage.

One second Niall was grinning like a goblin next to him, the next he'd smashed a whole birthday cake into Louis' face like it was a goddamn sport. Pink frosting up his nose, in his lashes, dripping down his chest—and that was just the beginning.

Louis retaliated with frosting-coated vengeance, launching fistfuls into the crowd like Oprah handing out cars. You get a cake! You get a cake! Everyone gets a face full of diabetes! And Harry—Harry wasn't trying to stop it, no matter what he'd claim later. He was elated. Eyes wild, curls stuck to his forehead, giggling like he was high on energy drinks and attention. He joined in with zero hesitation, pelting Liam with a rogue cupcake and tackling Louis around the waist like a clingy golden retriever.

At some point, they tried to sing What Makes You Beautiful—sliding around in frosting like Bambi on ice. Louis couldn't even stand straight, slipping on cake crumbs and glitter. Harry full-on ate shit during the second chorus, landed flat on his arse, and still didn't stop singing, legs flailing in the air like he'd just discovered joy and gravity at the same time.

It was chaos. Delicious, sticky, fucking iconic chaos. And Louis had never felt more alive.

And still, for some reason, his brain was being a little bitch.

He'd gone on a date with Eleanor a few nights ago. She was sweet. Funny. Laughed at his jokes in a way that didn't feel fake. He'd even brought her to Niall's birthday party at Movida two days ago—a proper rager, loud and boozy and full of bad decisions waiting to happen. It had gone fine. Great, even. If you didn't count Harry acting like a toddler denied his favourite toy, pouting in the corner and glaring at Eleanor like she'd personally drop-kicked his puppy. Every time she so much as touched Louis' arm, Harry looked one sulk away from throwing himself on the floor and wailing.

Louis had tried not to notice. Tried even harder not to care.

But now, standing alone backstage, he was scrubbing cake off his ribs and wondering why Eleanor's laugh had already faded from his head while Harry's little jealous pout was still clinging to his brain like the chorus of a song you hate but still hum.

He didn't want to think about what that meant.

The door creaked open behind him.

"There you are," Harry said, voice way too chipper for someone with frosting in his eyelashes. "Running away from the crime scene?"

Louis glanced at him through the mirror, one brow cocked, heart doing a stupid little skip. Well, at least he was talking to him again. Progress. Considering Harry had practically given him the silent treatment all week after the Red or Black dressing room incident—textbook emotional frostbite—Louis would take whatever thaw he could get. He'd tried to play it cool, like nothing was weird, like they weren't actively ignoring the fact that Louis had basically crossed every unspoken boundary imaginable. But Harry cracking a joke? Harry smiling at him like Louis hadn't short-circuited his trust for funsies? Felt like breathing again. Felt like maybe he wasn't on emotional probation anymore.

Louis met his eyes in the mirror, letting a smug grin curl at his lips. "If anyone asks, it was all your fault."

Harry wandered further in, letting the door fall shut behind him. His curls were a sugar-glued disaster and his neck looked like someone had licked it clean in patches. His t-shirt was riding up one side, exposing the tiniest sliver of soft belly. Louis hated how his fingers twitched at the sight.

"You're a terrible liar," Harry said, grinning as he moved closer. "You looked completely unhinged out there. Like the Joker. But with cake."

"Jealous you didn't think of it first?" Louis quipped, turning around and crossing his arms, which made a bit of cake slide down his bicep. Charming.

Harry rolled his eyes. "Maybe."

Louis grabbed a towel and swiped at his arm with zero success. "You've still got some on you," he said, gesturing at Harry's neck.

Harry tilted his head dramatically, baring his throat. "Where?"

Louis stepped forward without hesitating—because Louis never hesitated, that was the whole point of him—and peered at the mess on Harry's neck. He lifted the towel halfway, then dropped it with a sigh.

"Useless," he muttered. And before he could second-guess it, he leaned in and licked a stripe right up Harry's skin. Just to be a prick. Just to see what would happen.

The second his tongue touched him, Harry's breath hitched—loud and sharp—and his whole body stilled.

Louis pulled back, licking a bit of frosting from the corner of his own mouth with exaggerated flair. "There. Clean."

Harry stared at him. Blinked once. Then again. His eyes were wide and stupid and starry, his mouth open like he was buffering.

And then he lunged.

Their mouths crashed together in a mess of frosting and teeth and too much feeling. It was clumsy, way too eager—Harry kissed like he was trying to climb inside Louis' mouth and live there. His hands grabbed at Louis' shoulders, greedy and uncoordinated, while Louis stumbled back into the vanity, hissing out a laugh against Harry's lips as the corner dug into his spine.

"Fuck—steady on," Louis mumbled into the kiss, but he didn't stop it. Didn't even try. Just kissed back harder, because why the hell not?

It wasn't perfect, wasn't sweet. It was messy and wild and years too early. But it was real. Honest in a way Louis rarely let himself be.

And it tasted like cake. And Harry. And something Louis wasn't ready to name.

So he didn't. Just let Harry kiss him breathless and wondered, distantly, how the fuck he'd ever be able to kiss anyone else again after this.

Harry tugged at Louis' t-shirt like it was personally offending him. "Take this off."

Louis laughed into his mouth, the sound smug and breathless. "Bit bossy for someone who just faceplanted mid-chorus."

"Shut up," Harry whined, rocking his hips forward like punctuation—like that would prove his point better than any comeback could.

It did.

Louis gasped, hands flying to Harry's waist, digging in hard enough to bruise. "Oh, you're fucking shameless."

"Says the boy who just licked my neck like it was the last shot of tequila on Earth," Harry panted, lips dragging across Louis' jaw like he was trying to imprint himself there.

Louis didn't answer—just grabbed him by the hips and hoisted him onto the vanity like he weighed nothing. Harry let out a startled yelp that dissolved into a giggle, thighs immediately spreading to make room for Louis between them like muscle memory, like instinct.

They slotted together too well. Like always.

Louis pressed in, slow and grinding, the line of his cock rubbing perfectly against Harry's through two layers of denim and fuck-all self-control. Harry let out a noise that would've embarrassed him if he wasn't already too far gone.

"Christ," Louis hissed, hands sliding under Harry's shirt to splay over warm, sticky skin. His thumbs found Harry's ribs, tracing the shaky rise and fall of breath like he was mapping out a fault line. "You're shaking."

"You're grinding on me in a backstage dressing room," Harry said, eyes glazed and mouth shiny. "What do you expect me to do? Recite Shakespeare?"

Louis bit down on a laugh and then bit Harry's collarbone instead, just to shut him up. Just to hear the sound he made when he did. "Don't tempt me. You know I've got a monologue kink."

Harry full-body shivered, hands sliding up under Louis' shirt in retaliation, fingers splayed across his back like he was trying to memorize the shape of it. "You're a menace."

Louis leaned in, lips brushing his ear. "Yeah, and you're hard as fuck for it."

Harry whimpered. Actually whimpered. Louis rolled his hips again, filthy and slow, and watched with sick delight as Harry's head tipped back, curls brushing the mirror, lips parted and wet.

They were making a fucking mess of the vanity. Lip gloss tubes rolling, compacts hitting the floor, that god-awful rose-scented hairspray crashing over like it was fainting from the sheer homoeroticism of it all.

"Someone could walk in," Harry mumbled, but he wasn't stopping. His thighs were wrapped around Louis like a vice and his hips kept twitching up like he couldn't help himself.

"So?" Louis said, cocky and breathless, kissing down the side of his neck. "Let 'em."

Because right now, Louis didn't care. Not about Eleanor, not about the band, not about whatever unspoken rules they were busy detonating.

All he cared about was this—Harry, panting under his hands, flushed and trembling and stupidly beautiful. Like some ruined little prince on a sugar high.

And Louis? Louis was going to ruin him properly. Just not here. Not yet.

But fuck if he wasn't tempted.

"Boys—oh, for fuck's sake!"

Louis stilled, his hand still wrapped firmly around Harry's torso, keeping him from moving any further. Harry's face, however, drained of all color as his eyes snapped to the doorway, where Paul stood looking like he was deciding whether to yell or physically remove them both from existence. Paul's mouth was agape, one hand gripping the doorframe while the other clenched his phone tightly. His expression was an almost comical mix of shock, irritation, and a looming sense of authority.

"What the bloody hell are you two doing?" Paul hissed, stepping inside and slamming the door shut behind him as if to shield the rest of the world from what he'd just walked in on.

Harry scrambled to sit up straighter, yanking his hand out of Louis' hair so fast he nearly toppled backward. His mouth flapped uselessly as his cheeks burned crimson.

Louis, on the other hand, adjusted his jeans with the kind of calm defiance that could only come from years of perfecting the art of audacity. He pushed himself further from Harry, but not before his thigh accidentally pressed into Harry's overstimulated crotch, making Harry groan softly—a sound that absolutely did not help the situation.

"Oh, hey, Paul," Louis said breezily, leaning back on the couch like nothing was out of the ordinary. "Didn't realize we had an audience. Enjoy the show?"

Harry choked, looking mortified, but Paul was having none of it.

"Enjoy the show?" Paul repeated incredulously. "You think this is funny, Louis? You're twenty minutes away from cameras and fans, and this—this is how you're preparing?"

Louis shrugged, unbothered. "Well, if we're being honest, Hazza here was just prepping for his next performance. Multi-tasking, you know? Man of many talents."

"Louis," Harry hissed, his voice barely audible, his face somehow redder than before.

Paul's nostrils flared, his sharp gaze pinning Louis in place. "Cut the crap. Do you have any idea how bad this could've gone if someone else walked in? A staff member? A journalist? Hell, even one of the handlers?"

"Relax," Louis said smoothly, waving a hand like he was brushing off a fly. "No one's gonna write a headline about us having a little... team-building exercise."

Paul blinked, his jaw tightening as if he couldn't believe the words leaving Louis' mouth. "Team-building exercise?" he echoed, his voice low and dangerous. "Is that what you're calling it?"

Louis leaned forward slightly, his smirk sharpening. "What would you call it, Paul? Something a little more... hands-on?" His voice dipped into something teasingly explicit, just enough to make the older man pause. "Or do you need me to draw you a picture?"

Paul stared at him, clearly fighting the urge to either laugh or throttle him. "You've got some nerve, Tommo."

"Gotta keep you on your toes," Louis replied cheekily, flashing a grin that bordered on infuriatingly smug.

Harry, for his part, looked like he wanted to sink into the table under him and disappear entirely.

Paul dragged a hand down his face, muttering a string of curses under his breath before leveling them both with a hard glare. "You're lucky it was me who walked in," he said finally, his voice cold. "Because if this gets out, you won't be joking about 'team-building.' You'll be buried under a mountain of PR disasters, and I'll be the one cleaning it up."

Louis tipped his head to the side, his grin unwavering. "Good thing you're so good at your job, then."

Paul's patience snapped. "Ten minutes," he growled, jabbing a finger in Louis' direction. "You've got ten minutes to sort yourselves out, and if I hear so much as a whisper about this, you'll be answering to me."

"Oh, I love it when you get all bossy," Louis quipped, leaning back again as though Paul's warning didn't faze him in the slightest.

Paul shook his head, muttering under his breath as he turned and yanked the door open. "Ten minutes, Tomlinson. And don't push your luck."

The door slammed behind him, leaving a tense silence in his wake.

Harry let out a shaky breath, his face buried in his hands. "I'm going to die. He's going to kill me."

Louis chuckled, reaching out to pat Harry's knee. "Relax, Haz. Paul's bark is worse than his bite."

Harry peeked out from between his fingers, looking like he wasn't sure whether to believe him. "You really don't think he'll—"

"Mate," Louis interrupted, his voice dripping with playful arrogance, "Paul doesn't want to fuck us over, and the last thing he wants is Modest breathing down his neck, so he'll let it slide. And besides..."

He leaned in, grinning wickedly. "You're too pretty to stay mad at."

Harry groaned, his face buried in his hands again, but Louis just laughed, kicking his feet up onto the coffee table.

"Now, let's get ourselves together before he comes back and drags us both out by the ear."

Louis was already at the door, arms crossed, eyebrows arched, one hip popped with the poise of a boy who knew he was going to hell but planned to flirt with Satan on the way down.

He glanced back at Harry, who was still sitting on the couch like a dazed cherub at the end of a frat party. His curls were a mess, lips kiss-bitten, pupils dilated, and he looked like he wasn't entirely sure what dimension he was in anymore.

Louis rolled his eyes. "Well?" he asked, voice sharp and lazy at the same time. "You gonna keep sulking like a rejected Disney princess, or are we making our dramatic reentry?"

Harry blinked. "Was it—um..." He scratched the back of his neck, gaze darting to the floor. "What happened, are we—are we like...?"

Louis snorted. Actually snorted. "Oh, Haz," he drawled, already turning to push open the door. "Charm the fans. Enjoy the party. Mingle a little. We can snog more at home in peace, yeah?"

Harry practically lit up like the fucking Olympic torch. Eyes wide, dimples blinding, cheeks pink in that way Louis was never going to get over. He stood up so fast he nearly tripped on a rogue cupcake wrapper, beaming like he'd just been given front-row tickets to his own wet dream.

And honestly, Louis was fucked.

"Jesus," Louis muttered, grabbing Harry by the collar and tugging him in for one more kiss—quick, messy, stupidly fond. "Try not to look so pleased with yourself. You're making me look soft."

Harry just grinned against his mouth. "You are soft."

Louis smirked. "Tell anyone and I'll murder you with a sprinkle."

Then he shoved the door open and strutted out like he hadn't just dry-humped his bandmate in full view of upper management.

Harry followed, smiling so wide it should've been illegal.

2025, 40.000 feet above reality

Louis yanked open his backpack like it had personally offended him, rifling through it with growing desperation. Zip. Rip. Rustle. His jaw was clenched, breath getting faster with each useless pocket. The muscles in his neck were tight, twitching under the collar of his hoodie, and his fingers were shaking by the time he shoved his iPad aside and came up empty again.

"Fuck—fuck—fucking fuck," he snapped, voice low but venomous, right before he hurled his phone to the floor with a crack that made a flight attendant three rows back flinch.

Harry blinked, turning toward him slowly. "Jesus, what—what happened?"

Louis let out a sharp, bitter laugh. "What happened? I forgot to pack my fucking stash, Harry, that's what happened. Brilliant fucking job, Tommo, let's just rawdog the next ten-something hours of mental collapse with absolutely nothing in your system. Fucking hell."

He scrubbed a hand over his face, then through his hair, then across his lap like he didn't know where to put it. "God, I'm such a fucking idiot. I had it. It was in my hand. And then Zara started crying about her stylist being late and I just—fucking—left it on the damn counter like a dumbass."

His voice cracked at the end, barely. But he masked it with a scoff and a muttered "Cool. Amazing. Can't wait to shake through customs like a wet dog."

It's not like he's addicted to weed. It's just he fucking hates when he has to function without it.

Harry tosses his yellow Pleasing tote across the aisle like he's in a romcom and not, in fact, deeply stressed at 40,000 feet. It lands in Louis' lap with a soft thump, one of the straps dangling off the edge of the armrest like it's trying to escape.

"Check in there," Harry mutters, motioning lazily with his head, eyes half-lidded as he sinks deeper into his reclined seat.

Louis shoots him a look, equal parts suspicious and unamused, but unzips the bag anyway. His fingers rummage through a chaotic mix of skincare samples, two lighters, half a granola bar, and—of course—He pulls out a sleek cosmetic bag—expensive, monogrammed, and stuffed to the brim with what can only be described as a curated collection of contraband. Rolling papers, edibles, a half-smashed vape, something that looks suspiciously like molly in a gum tin. It's the kind of stash that would make airport security spontaneously combust.

The plane hums around them, low and steady, cutting through a sky so blindingly blue it doesn't feel real. They're somewhere above the clouds, private and padded and floating through a liminal space where consequences haven't caught up yet.

Louis sniffs as he pulls out a baggie and twists the top of it tight. "Impressive supply you got here, Baby," he mutters. "Should I be worried?"

His tone is light, bitchy, business-as-usual—but under it, there's something brittle. Something that tastes faintly of 2015 and self-destruction.

Harry cracks one eye open from where he's slouched beside him, hoodie pulled up, knees knocking into Louis's.

"Nah," Harry murmurs, voice lazy. "Might've gone on a bit of a bender recently. But that's mostly for company. I'll be back in London soon—meal-prepping like a wanker and doing yoga at dawn while you take the piss."

Louis huffs out a laugh, tongue poking out as he licks the edge of the paper. He leans in, presses a kiss to Harry's cheek—quick, but it lingers longer than necessary.

"You'd tell me?" he asks quietly, sealing the joint. "If things got out of hand?"

Harry's eyes flick open properly this time. He turns his head, slow and deliberate, to look at Louis—really look at him. His face is soft in the dim overhead lighting, all flushed skin and exhaustion.

"Lou," he says. "I see you, like, four times a year. I wouldn't waste it by whining."

Louis's smile is faint. Crooked. Doesn't reach his eyes.

He grabs the lighter, flicks it, watches the flame catch. The cabin is dim. Quiet. Just the hum of the air system, the occasional clink of glassware from the galley, and the soft shuffle of a flight attendant moving through the aisle. The joint glows briefly orange as he inhales, exhales slow. The smoke curls up toward the little screen above their heads.

They pass it back and forth, knees touching.

Harry speaks first.

"I always thought I'd have it figured out by now."

Louis tilts his head. Says nothing.

Harry stares at the ceiling like it holds answers. "By thirty. A wife. Or husband. A kid, maybe. Some sort of... peace. But everything just keeps..." He waves a hand vaguely, fingers trailing smoke. "Slipping."

Louis takes the joint. Long drag. Eyes on the back of the seat in front of them. "Well, maybe it'd help if you didn't keep fucking me behind all their backs."

Harry lets out a low laugh, somewhere between amused and guilty. He doesn't deny it. Just lets his head roll sideways, cheek squished against the seat, curls a mess.

"I'll probably fuck you in the confessional at my own wedding."

Louis exhales smoke. "You probably would."

"You'd let me."

"I would, yeah."

His voice is cool. Even. But there's tension in his throat when he swallows. Like he's trying not to feel anything at all.

"I'm pathetic like that."

Harry shifts closer, nudging their arms together. Then he leans in and kisses Louis's temple—slow, lingering, unasked-for. When he exhales, smoke drifts into Louis's hair.

"We both are," he whispers. "It's tragic, really."

Louis shrugs. "Tragedy's sexy. Ask Shakespeare."

Harry smiles. "So's emotional instability."

Louis hums. "You're dripping in it."

"Only for you."

"Lucky me."

The silence between them now isn't empty. It's heavy. Full of things they'll never say in daylight.

Then Harry says, so soft it almost disappears in the air between them: "You know, if you ever asked me to—"

Louis cuts in, quiet and sharp. "Don't."

Harry nods, slow. "Didn't think so."

The joint smolders down to nothing between their fingers.

Outside the window, the clouds stretch endlessly, bathed in bruised dawn light.

Inside, they stay where they are.

Still circling. Still burning.

Still theirs.

Chapter Text

2011 September, Los Angeles

The plane touches down with a smooth, arrogant sort of grace, the kind only a private jet can pull off—like it knows it's too expensive to ever shake turbulence. Louis barely registers it.

He's slouched in a ridiculous cream leather seat that probably costs more than his mum's whole living room set, fingers curled loose in his lap, head tipped against the wall like maybe the clouds'll offer some perspective. They don't. All he gets is more sunlight, more silence, and more Harry-fucking-Styles on loop in his head.

Not the stage version. Not the polished, sparkly-eyed boy with the dimples and the "yes, Simon." No. The other one. The one from last night. The one in Louis' bed, blinking up at him with kiss-bruised lips and hair in a state, wearing nothing but tiny white briefs and a confused little smile like he wasn't sure what he was allowed to want.

Louis had known exactly what he wanted.

He wanted to wreck him.

And he almost had.

He shuts his eyes, jaw clenched tight as the memory coils low in his gut.

Harry's legs had fallen open without hesitation, eager and pink and trusting in the soft lamplight. His skin still smelled faintly of his hotel shampoo, like oranges and teenage hope. Louis had hovered over him, barely holding himself back, and whispered, "You're allowed to touch, you know."

He'd guided Harry's shaky hand down, helped him grab at Louis' own arse like it was some sort of permission slip.

Harry had moaned.

Properly. Louder than expected. Eyes fluttering, mouth parted, like Louis had turned on some secret switch he didn't even know existed.

They hadn't even made it to anything truly filthy—just mouths and hands and the desperate rut of hips between thin layers of cotton—but it hadn't mattered. Not when Louis had sucked on his tongue like a promise, and Harry had made a right fucking mess in his briefs with nothing more than friction and attention and Louis' hand gripping his thigh.

Jesus fucking Christ.

Louis shifts in his seat, thighs clenching. There's no point adjusting himself—he's been semi since Frankfurt, and now he's just straight-up miserable. Blue balls and heartbreak, brought to you by Syco Records.

They'd kissed after. Slower. Softer. Like the air between them had gone melted and gold.

Louis still feels the fucking heat of it, sticky and humid where their skin meets, clinging to Louis' skin like proof of something he's not supposed to want this badly.

But he does. Of course he does.

Because Harry's come undone just from Louis grinding down and whispering filth into his mouth, and there's nothing in the world Louis finds more addictive than this—than him.

But then he had to say something stupid like "go shower, babe" because he didn't know what else to do. Because he knew if he stayed a minute longer, he'd do something irreversible. Like say too much. Or start crying. Or beg Harry to stay the night in his arms like they weren't two boys with stadiums ahead of them and an unspoken ban on this.

He'd barely pulled his own cock out when the door had burst open.

"You have one minute to be decent and dressed," Paul had said, his face halfway between apologetic and efficient. "Car's downstairs."

"What? Wait— what car?" Louis had tried to protest, hand half-raised, mouth still swollen. "Can I just—"

"C'mon, mate," Paul had sighed, already tossing him clean jeans and a wrinkled tee. "You won't need a bag, I have your passport. Let's go."

"But Harry—" he'd tried again, voice quieter this time, like it might matter.

But Paul had just ducked back out, tugging Louis gently by the wrist like he was a toddler late for school. No goodbye. No look back. Not even a second to whisper something—thank you, that was everything, I'll text you—before the door was shut and the hallway swallowed him whole.

Now here he is, twelve thousand feet later, balls still aching, chest worse, wondering if Harry's still in the shower, wondering if he felt it too.

Not just the orgasm. The rest.

The fact that Louis already knows the curve of his hips better than his own. That he can still taste him on his tongue. That he already misses him like he's not flying back to the same city possibly in a few hours.

He opens his eyes.

"Fuck," he mutters to no one, scrubbing his face with both hands like that'll shake it off.

It won't.

Harry Styles made a mess of him. And for the first time in his whole cocky, clever, well-practiced life—

Louis has no idea what to do next.

They step off the plane straight into some air-conditioned hangar that smells like jet fuel and rich people. Louis blinks into the harsh California sun bleeding in through the open bay doors, but he doesn't ask where they're going. He just follows Paul like a dog on autopilot.

As they walk toward a sleek black SUV, Louis tugs at Paul's sleeve.

"Can you buy me a pack of cigs?"

Paul glances over his shoulder. "Since when do you smoke?"

"Since never," Louis says, deadpan. "But maybe it's high time to start."

Paul narrows his eyes but says nothing. When they reach the car, he disappears for a few minutes, then tosses a half-crushed soft pack of Marlboro Reds into Louis' lap as he climbs into the passenger seat.

"You can light one in the car," Paul mutters. "But only in the car. The second you're out, that shit vanishes. US press is already sniffing around, starting to pick up on you guys, naming you the next big thing."

Louis rolls his eyes but nods. He takes one out, holds it like he knows what he's doing, and flicks the lighter.

The first drag hits his lungs like fire and punishment. He chokes instantly—lurches forward coughing so hard he nearly dry-heaves, eyes streaming, the whole thing absolutely vile and miserable.

Paul just stares at him. "Jesus, kid."

Louis gasps around a wheeze, clutching the seatbelt like it'll anchor him. "Fuck me."

But it's weirdly satisfying. The burn. The sharpness of it. The way it makes his chest scream louder than the panic spreading in it. Pain, at least, is something he can name.

He takes another hit, smaller this time, wincing through the burn.

A few seconds pass. Then: "So what the fuck does Simon want?"

Paul doesn't answer. Just stares ahead at the road, jaw ticking.

"Did you—" Louis swallows. "Did you tell him about the... y'know?"

"For fuck's sake," Paul snaps, but not with anger. More like disappointment. "What do you take me for?"

Louis doesn't say anything.

"I will never rat you out," Paul continues. "As long as your life's not in danger, I'm with you. Not against you. Even when I think you're being fucking stupid."

There's a long silence. Just the hum of the wheels on tarmac, the AC blasting, and the faint static of Louis' head about to implode.

He flicks ash out the cracked window. "You think I'm being stupid now?"

Paul sighs, eyes still on the road. "If you're stringing Styles along in your games without actually meaning it, then yes. Absolutely."

That hits harder than the cigarette. Louis looks down at his lap, jaw tight, smoke curling from the end of the fag like a fuse about to burn him whole.

"...What if I do mean it?" he mumbles. Quiet. Almost too quiet.

Paul doesn't answer this time. Just glances at him once in the mirror, brow drawn, and says, "Then you better be really fucking careful. With him. With yourself. With everything."

And Louis—well. He doesn't have a smartass line for that.

He just stares out the window, cigarette between his fingers, and wonders what the hell he's about to walk into.

Because if Simon knows...

If anyone knows...

Then last night might've been the first and the last time he'll ever get to feel like that.

Like they were real. Like they were safe. Like he could love someone like Harry Styles and not have it cost him the world.

Louis exhales sharply, digging a hand into his pocket out of instinct. Still empty. Other side— still bloody empty too.

"Fuck," he mutters, slumping back in the seat like it's personally betrayed him. "I don't even have my fucking phone to at least text him."

Paul doesn't flinch. Just keeps his eyes on the road, voice calm but clipped. "Let's just get this over with, yeah? Then you can deal with that as well."

Like heartbreak's just another item on the fucking agenda.

***

The second Louis steps into the house—if you can call this marble-and-glass Bond villain lair a house—his cockiness shrivels up and dies somewhere near the threshold.

It's too bright. Too clean. The kind of sterile posh that makes your soul feel grubby just for existing. It smells like filtered air and expensive silence. Like no one's ever yelled in here. Like no one's ever cried. It's all chrome and cream and wide-open nothing.

Louis suddenly feels small.

His TOMS squeak against the polished floor as Paul leads him in, and his stomach lurches like it knows something he doesn't.

Simon greets him in the foyer like they're old mates at a wedding, arms open and grinning like the Cheshire Cat had a credit line at Harrods. "Louis! There he is! Look at you, lad—what a whirlwind, eh?"

Louis doesn't get a chance to answer before Simon pulls him into a hug. A proper one. With back pats and everything. Louis just about manages not to flinch.

"You boys are everywhere," Simon beams as he steps back, gesturing vaguely toward some unseen TV or glowing PR spreadsheet in his mind. "Number one with your debut, Twitter's gone mental, Tumblr—don't even get me started. You've got America buzzing already and we've barely begun."

Louis blinks, trying to nod, trying to match the energy. "Yeah. It's... mad."

Simon's still smiling. Too wide. Too polished. "And the fans already adore the band. What's not to like? Funny, cheeky boys with charming looks. You've all got something the world apparently needs right now."

Louis tries to smile back, to match the energy, but his mouth feels tight around the edges. He folds his arms across his chest, more for stability than attitude.

Simon walks further into the room like he owns it—which, to be fair, he probably does—and gestures for Louis to follow. They settle into two designer chairs near a glass coffee table that's empty except for a single crystal bowl of untouched fruit. The kind that's probably decorative and waxy. The kind that might shatter if you looked at it wrong.

Louis still nods at all the right bits. Laughs when he's supposed to. But his head is ringing. His palms are sweating. And he keeps waiting—because something's coming. He can feel it in his gut.

This isn't just a chat. This isn't just a well done, kid.

There's a shift in the air, quiet and heavy like the moment before a mic drops or a fight breaks out. Something cold curls at the edge of Louis' spine.

Because Simon gets serious.

"You need to understand something," he says, clasping his hands together. "What we're building here—it's massive. It's fast. It's historic. And that doesn't happen by accident."

Louis blinks, nods faintly.

Simon continues, voice low but firm, like a teacher prepping you for finals and a funeral at once. "My team and I—we're working around the clock for you boys. Pulling every string, greasing every wheel. Because we believe in this. In you. And because we know how rare this is."

Louis shifts in his seat. He can feel the plush leather beneath him, but his spine's still stiff.

Simon smiles again, but it's a different one now—less sparkle, more weight. "But to make this work, you lot have to give it everything. I mean everything. Harder than anyone else. Kinder than anyone else. No drama, no attitude. No fucking around."

Louis swallows, quietly.

"You'll be the most charming, polite, hard-working boys in the industry," Simon says, like it's already written in stone. "You'll play by the rules. You'll say please and thank you. You'll work when you're sick. You'll sing when you're tired. You'll smile when someone's screaming in your face."

His voice is soft, but it lands like a punch.

"There'll be weeks with no sleep. Months where you miss everything. You'll lose birthdays, holidays, family time, maybe even your sanity now and then." He chuckles, like it's endearing. "But it'll be worth it. If you keep going. If you don't complain."

Louis tries to breathe. The air in the room feels thinner now. Like the walls are slowly leaning in.

"People will be rude to you," Simon adds, almost gently. "People will treat you like you're disposable. Especially in America. They'll shout, belittle, push you around. It's just how the industry works. But your job—the only job—is to take it. With a smile."

Louis stares at him. Not quite blinking. Something in his chest buzzes like a broken amp. He tries to say something, but nothing makes it to his mouth. Because what can you say to that? To someone telling you you'll be chewed up and spit out and that you better fucking be happy and grateful while it happens?

Simon claps him lightly on the knee, reassuring. "If you can do that—if you all can—you'll be the biggest band in the world."

Louis nods, slow. His tongue's dry in his mouth.

He feels... weirdly young. Small. Like a kid who thought he was clever for sneaking into the adult section of a video shop and suddenly doesn't want to be there.

He used to be good at this, the whole fake-it-'til-you-make-it thing. The smirks, the jokes, the not giving a shit. But right now he feels like a frightened kid who wants to go back to the hotel and tell Harry all about this. Ask him if it feels off. Ask him if he felt it too.

Instead, he clears his throat and says nothing.

And Simon just keeps smiling as he shifts slightly in his seat, the smile dimming—just a fraction, but enough to change the temperature in the room.

"I saw your latest performance," he says, voice cool and measured. "The G-A-Y Club."

Louis blinks, a flicker of confusion chasing the panic that starts bubbling again in his gut. "Yeah?"

Simon leans in a bit. "Louis. Were you drunk?"

Louis doesn't bother lying. What would be the point?

"Yeah," he mutters. "A bit. Not wasted or anything, just... nerves."

Simon exhales through his nose, not quite disappointed—more like a headmaster who'd expected it. "See, this lifestyle, this speed—it can get into your head. I get it. You're young. This is a whirlwind. But that's why you have to be twice as focused."

He folds his hands again, as if preparing for a sermon. "The thing is... all the other boys already have something."

Louis feels himself shrinking, instinctively bracing.

"Liam," Simon says, ticking names off on his fingers, "is professional. Driven. The kind of lad who shows up on time and knows his harmonies inside out. Zayn's got that voice. That face. That mystery. Girls will write poetry about him. Niall—he's all warmth, joy, a pint and a laugh. He's marketable in ten languages. And Harry..."

He pauses.

Louis feels his throat close up.

Simon's smile returns, this one with sharp edges. "Harry's a born rock star. Give him a year, and the whole world will be on its knees for him. You watch."

Louis doesn't move. Can't.

Simon looks at him levelly. "And you? You're still figuring it out. You've got charm, sure, a bit of fire. But on your own? The world won't wait for you, Louis. Not like it will for them."

Something drops low in Louis' stomach. A dull, familiar thud. It doesn't surprise him. It never does. But hearing it out loud—so clean, so clinical—burns in a way nothing else has.

"But that's not a bad thing," Simon says quickly, like a parent smoothing a child's hair after a scolding. "It just means your job is different."

Louis blinks. "Different how?"

"You hold it together," Simon says simply. "You're the glue. The older one. The funny one. The one who makes sure the band doesn't fall apart. Be proactive. Be responsible. Keep morale up. Be their big brother. That's how you stay in it."

He sits back, satisfied. "But getting drunk on stage? That's not part of the job. That's a liability."

Louis nods slowly. He can't argue. Doesn't even want to. Because it makes sense, doesn't it?

He always knew he wasn't the standout. Wasn't the voice. Wasn't the curls or the mystery or the cheeky sunshine. But he could be the scaffolding. The structure. The reason the whole thing didn't topple.

Simon had just said what he'd always suspected—but wrapped it in a mission. A purpose. A way in.

Louis breathes in, chest tight, and forces a smile.

"Got it," he says.

And maybe, just maybe, he does.

Simon taps a finger lightly against the armrest of his absurdly expensive chair, gaze settling on Louis with something almost... paternal. But not warm. Never quite warm.

"Oh," he says, almost as an afterthought. "And one more thing."

Louis stiffens, instinct flicking up like a switchblade.

Simon's tone softens, the way people lower their voice before dropping a bomb. "I couldn't help but notice... Harry seems rather fond of you."

Louis swallows. "He's a kid. They all are. We're just—"

"I know," Simon cuts in, smile still there, but now it looks surgically installed. "It's all fun and games. Bromance. Tour jokes. Hand-holding. Whispers on stage. That sort of thing. It's sweet, really. The fans eat it up—as long as it stays a fantasy."

Louis doesn't move, doesn't breathe. Just watches Simon like he's trying to decipher an entirely new language spoken through teeth.

"Harry's got stars in his eyes," Simon continues. "He's seventeen, green, and a bit... dazzled. Can't blame him. You're funny. You've got presence. And I know you like him too."

Louis opens his mouth, but there's nothing inside it. No words, no excuses.

Simon waves a hand, as if brushing past it all. "It's not my business. Really. I don't tell people how to live. But I do know this industry. And I know you can't sell a boyband to teenage girls if they think one of the boys would rather be kissing each other."

The words hit Louis like a cold slap. Not because they're shocking—because they're not. They're just cruel in how true they might be.

Simon leans forward slightly, elbows on knees. "Harry wants this, Louis. Badly. He wants to be a superstar. And he can be. But he won't get there if the press catches wind of anything... complicated."

Louis stares at the floor.

"And if he loses that chance," Simon says gently, "he won't blame me. Or the press. Or the fans. He'll blame the thing that made it messy. He'll blame you."

Silence stretches between them. Sharp. Shiny. Loaded.

Then Simon leans back, all pleasant again. "But of course, I'm not telling you what to do. You're a smart lad. I trust you'll make the right decision."

Louis nods slowly, even as his stomach churns like he's been spun in a washing machine. He feels the blood drain from his face. He's not sure if it's fear or heartbreak—or both.

Because maybe Simon's right.

Maybe Harry only wants him because it's new. Because it's easy. Because Louis is a distraction from the pressure and the noise and the spotlight that's just starting to burn hot. Maybe if they tangle into each other now, they'll drag the whole band down with them.

Maybe he will.

And Louis can't be the reason One Direction fails.

He swallows the bile rising in his throat, steels his jaw, and says nothing.

There's nothing left to say.

Simon pauses just long enough to make Louis believe—hope—that the conversation is over. That the air can thin out. That maybe, just maybe, he'll be allowed to leave with the tattered remains of his pride still intact.

But then Simon's smile returns.

Colder now. Coated in honey, but rotten underneath.

"And Louis..." he says lightly, standing to smooth out the cuffs of his shirt, "just remember—we all come from somewhere, don't we?"

Louis looks up, blinking.

Simon's eyes are steel behind the smile. "And no matter how far we climb, how many names we take, how carefully we craft a narrative... the past has a funny way of catching up. Especially when there's public interest."

Silence.

Louis doesn't breathe.

Simon tilts his head slightly, too casual. "I'd hate for anything to distract the fans from your new last name. It suits you so much better than Austin, don't you think?"

The air in Louis' lungs turns to concrete.

Simon claps a hand lightly on Louis' shoulder—friendly, paternal, damning. "Clean slate is a wonderful thing, Louis. So long as it stays clean. And don't worry—I'd never let the press dig up anything about your father... as long as you give them nothing else to sniff around for."

And with that, Simon is all smiles again—like none of that just happened.

"Silly me, almost forgot," he says, reaching into his pocket and tossing something onto the table with a soft clatter.

A brand new iPhone 4S. Still in the box. Sleek. Shiny. Untouched.

"Heard you left yours at home in the rush," Simon says with a wink. "I know you teenagers are glued to these gadgets... now you can tell Twitter about your spontaneous LA day trip."

Louis stares at the phone like it might bite him. His hands stay in his lap.

And then Simon is gone, walking out of the room like he hadn't just set off a nuclear bomb in Louis' bloodstream.

Louis stays frozen in the too-white chair, heart pounding, ears ringing, throat closing in around nothing.

He wants to scream. Or puke. Or run.

Instead, he just sits there.

And finally understands what it means to be owned.

***
End note:

Before you scroll any further—yes, there is a bonus scene waiting for you. The first time fetus!Larry messes around in bed, right after the infamous cakegate performance. It didn't quite fit into the main chapter without ruining the pacing, but I'm not completely heartless—so you're getting some soft, chaotic, horny baby gays anyway.

But before you dive in, let's have a little post-chapter debrief, yeah?

What did you feel reading this? (Be honest. Be unhinged. Be emoji-heavy, if needed.)

Did I manage to capture Simon's whole "corporate serpent with a Rolex" vibe? Is he villainous enough? Or does he need a bit more fangs and less handshake?

How do we feel about Louis being... a person for once? Like, not just a walking disaster with cheekbones and unresolved trauma?

Actually—real talk—how do we feel about Louis in this chapter? Because I love him. And I also want to shake him. But mostly I want to protect him.

Also: next chapter is 2025 chaos again. Real timeline, real smut, real mess. So hydrate, stretch, maybe make peace with your god or whatever.

Now—go. Read the bonus scene. Fall in love with them all over again. Or cry. Or both.

*BONUS SCENE because I'm not cruel enough to leave you without the first real fetus Larry makeout session aka what happened right before Paul dragged Louis out*

It starts stupidly, like most of their things do. A shared laugh on Louis' bed that rolls into a shoulder bump that rolls into Louis hovering above Harry, smirking like he's already won something neither of them were brave enough to name.

"Stop looking at me like that," Harry mumbles, all wide eyes and pink cheeks and fists clenched tight in the duvet.

"Like what?" Louis whispers, nose brushing Harry's. His voice is all smoke and grin. "Like I've got you pinned and you're too shy to do anything about it?"

"I'm not shy," Harry insists, but his voice cracks, and Louis raises a brow like case in point.

They're kissing before either of them consciously decide to—hungry and heady, all lips and breath and too much teeth. Louis tastes like Pepsi and nerves, and Harry's brain promptly stops working. His hands hover awkwardly by his sides, like he's not sure what the rules are.

Louis pulls back just slightly, lips shiny and pupils blown. "You're allowed to touch, y'know," he says, breathless but teasing.

Harry's breath stutters. "Am I?"

"Swear to God," Louis grins, leaning back just enough to guide Harry's hand. "If you don't at least grab my arse right now, I'm filing for emotional damages."

So Harry does. Tentatively at first—just a handful of thin fabric over soft muscle. Then tighter. And again, like he can't believe it's real.

The groan that punches out of Louis makes Harry's stomach flip and his dick throb like he's still in fucking high school. Well, he practically would be, so. "Jesus Christ."

Louis leans back in, eyes dark. "You like that?"

Harry nods, frantic. "Too much, I think."

And then Louis is kissing him again, dirtier this time. Slick and filthy, sucking at his bottom lip, then his tongue like he wants to swallow him whole.

It happens so fast Louis doesn't even have time to savor it.

One second, Harry's writhing beneath him — flushed, gasping, hips canting up in frantic little stutters — and the next, Louis feels it.

The twitch.

The hard, telltale jerk of Harry's cock beneath him, right where it's trapped against his stomach under those thin fucking briefs. And then the heat of it—sudden, wet, overwhelming—spilling out in thick, white pulses that soak straight through the fabric.

"Oh—fuck—Louis—" Harry moans, voice cracking apart mid-syllable like he's losing his mind over it.

He sounds ruined. Absolutely wrecked. And it's not quiet. No, of course not. He whines — high and broken, like the pleasure's too much to hold inside. His thighs tremble violently, knees falling open even wider, heels digging into the sheets for leverage he doesn't need. His body bucks once, then again, and then he just shakes, messy and unfiltered, every breath punched out of him in wrecked, desperate gasps.

Louis watches it all. Feels it all.

The hot slick spreading under him. The way Harry's briefs grow heavy and soaked between them. The fucking heat of it, sticky and humid where their skin meets, clinging to Louis' skin like proof of something he's not supposed to want this badly.

But he does. Of course he does.

Because Harry's coming undone just from Louis grinding down and whispering filth into his mouth, and there's nothing in the world Louis finds more addictive than this—than him.

"Jesus Christ," Louis mutters, dazed, pressing harder just to feel how soaked the fabric's become. It squelches faintly under his touch. Sticky. Soaked. Everywhere.

Harry's still twitching beneath him, lips parted, eyes glassy and wet like he's been hit by lightning. His curls are plastered to his temples, neck flushed deep pink, body humming with the aftershocks like his nerves are still firing in every direction.

And Louis just stays there. Breathing. Watching.

Then he shifts, hips pressing slow and deliberate into the mess, cock throbbing painfully in his own briefs.

Harry shudders again.

"Didn't even touch your cock," Louis whispers, awe bleeding into his voice.

Harry doesn't respond.

Just moans again—low, shamefully satisfied—and nods like that's the point, like of course Louis didn't need to. Like Louis breathing on him is enough to rewire his entire fucking existence.

Louis huffs a breathless laugh. "Jesus, Styles. Gonna have to start carrying spare pants for you, yeah?"

Harry groans, hiding his face in his arm. "Stop."

"Why?" Louis grins, soft and cocky as he leans down to kiss the corner of Harry's jaw. "You came so pretty for me."

"Louis—" Harry half-laughs, half-whines, still shaking a little, still pink all over.

Louis kisses his cheek again, then the tip of his nose. "Shut up," he whispers, more tender than teasing now. "You're gorgeous."

Harry's eyes flutter open, wide and startled and impossibly full of something that makes Louis' chest go tight. "Yeah?"

"Yeah," Louis says, softer still. "Like, blindingly. Fucking unbearable."

Harry blinks up at him, biting back a smile, curls wild across the pillow, lips red and used. "So what now?"

Louis exhales like he's been holding it in for hours. "Now you go clean up before I hump your leg like a cartoon dog."

Harry laughs, loud and unrestrained, and Louis kisses that laugh right off his mouth—slow and syrupy and fond, like they've got all the time in the world.

They don't. Not really.

But in that moment, on that hotel bed in the middle of a whirlwind life, they let themselves pretend they do. Hearts racing. Hopes stupidly high. Kisses growing slower and sillier, until they're just a tangle of giggles and whispered promises.

"I'll shower," Harry says eventually, wriggling out from under him. "Don't fall asleep."

"I won't," Louis says, already blinking slow and warm. "I'll be right here."

He is.

And even when Harry's gone, the mattress still smelling like sex and sugar and shampoo, Louis stays curled on the covers—smiling like a fucking idiot.