In Too Deep (Dancing With The Shadows)

twenty eight

The low hum of a lawn mower mixes with the soft snores escaping Louis' lips, as well as the light tap of rain against the window.

Whenever the wind blows softly, the windowpanes groan in protest, the radiators—for whatever reason— howl like haunting ghosts until they stop for a breather when the wind dies out.

Louis rolls over, stirring out of sleep.

He cannot believe last night happened. Possibly could have all been a dream and that Harry is still in Australia, writing break-up songs.

He reaches a hand out to ground his thoughts back to the positive. But he's met with an empty right side of the bed, palm meeting the room temperature mattress. He curls his fingers into the fabric, breathing a heavy sigh.

He should've known that it was too good to be true, that Harry would've chased him after Jeff decided to threaten all they were.

It's for the best, though, apparently. Or this is the universe's sick, twisted way of a joke. Just like Owen's death was another sick joke of theirs.

He peels his eyes open and squints against the light. Though the clouds are thick in the sky, the sun still seems to leave an imprint on the world, creating light greys to wash over the once bright coloured canvas of the estate.

He scratches his head whilst debating on going for a piss, which, he decides to do, or else the mess he'd make pissing on the bed would be far more effort to clean up than walk ten steps into the bathroom in the first place.

He steps over the suitcase on the floor tiredly, rubbing at his eye. Once he's finished in the bathroom, placing his now wet toothbrush beside the pink one in the cup holder, he snatches one of Harry's hoodies from the wardrobe that he stole, the sleeves giving him sweater paws and he flaps them around in the air for a moment before he plods out the room to make a cuppa.

The scent of eggs and some sort of meat tickles the nose, and Louis follows his nose to the upstairs kitchen, feeling a little confused as to why Mabel has decided to cook in here. Maybe the argon has stopped working again. He'll have to get Peter to call a special guy out for that.

His eyes widen when he sees the open door, a curly lad dancing along the tiled flooring, swaying his hips to the beat of the music tinkling out of the radio.

His whistles are just as angelic as his damn voice, and it melts Louis into a puddle all over again. He shuffles into the room and wraps his arms around Harry's torso from behind, leaning his cheek against Harry's shoulder blade.

"Morning, sweetheart. Sleep alright? I was going to surprise you with breakfast in bed, but you've ruined the surprise a bit," Harry cheerfully says, a pout forming on his lips about the last part, though.

Louis blows a raspberry to the nape of Harry's neck. "Well, I am sorry, darling. Do you want me to crawl back into bed and pretend you're not in here?"

Harry laces their fingers together, leans his weight into Louis, and shifts so that his nose nestles into Louis' shoulder.

"Stay," he whines, pecking Louis' jaw.

"Alright, only because you asked so nicely," Louis sasses with a wink.

Harry bites his lip to stifle a smile. "What should we do today? It's a bit wet and chilly outside."

Louis purses his lips in thought, bringing his free hand up to trace patterns up and down Harry's sides and arm, riding it up under his tshirt to feel the bumps of his muscles against the pads of his fingers.

"Well, we could light some candles in the living room, watch a few movies, read a book. We could take over the kitchen downstairs, and when Mabel tries to desperately stick her beaky nose into our business, we can throw eggs at her–"