Where We Belong

Chapter 23

"You haven't?"

Harry doesn't blink. "Not once."

A shaky breath falls from Louis' lips, but it doesn't feel like relief. It feels worse, like that night he couldn't stop askingdidyoufuckherdidyoufuckherdidyoufuckher, like no matter how many times he asks, how many no's he gets, it won't be enough. Part of him looks up at Harry, at his parted panting lips and the deep line etched between his brows and the desperate look in those green eyes that Louis knows so well, and believes him. Part of him fears he's lying to himself more than anything, when he looks at Harry and tells himself that the man he shared his bed with for eight years isn't capable of lying to his open face without so much as a twitch.

"I don't believe you," is what he ends up saying.

Harry's eyes shoot up a little, like he hadn't expected it. It looks like he's fighting not to raise his voice when he replies; "I'm telling the truth. I'm telling the fucking truth, Louis, you have to—"

"Okay, I believe you," Louis says, even though he isn't sure whether he means it, "okay. Okay, but— I've, I... I don't know what you want from me."

"Anything," he says, "anything, I want— anything you'll give me, if- if you'll give me any amount of time just to talk or, anything, Lou, I— I know I don't deserve it."

He stops there, sucks his bottom lip in and just looks at Louis, waits. He's still tipped into Louis, leaning him backwards over the counter a bit, and his hair's come undone from the loose bun he had it in, falling down the side of his neck. It smells, even without burying his nose in it, of the kiwii-shampoo he buys in bulk and spooning him on a summer morning, face in the nape of his sweaty neck. Louis wants to rake his fingers through it, fists it and yank him close. Yank him till he hurts.

He settles for grabbing onto his blue cotton-shirt and tugging him in.

Harry whines, falling into him, sloppily kissing his way up from Louis' chin till he finds his mouth and tongues in. Louis lets him, hands going where they want, fisting up in the heat of his hair, pulling so hard he's sure he'd hear Harry wincing if he weren't too busy kissing. His mouth feels bruised, frayed, lips taste metallic when Louis licks at them, but his movements are familiar, the way his cold nose-tip flops over Louis' when he tilts his head, the way he keeps kissing, and kissing, until Louis' fingertips are throbbing from lack of oxygen.

Harry's gasping too when he pulls back, but doesn't spare himself a second to catch his breath, just goes to Louis' jaw, nips and bites on the underside of it, licks down his neck and sucks at his collarbones. Louis' panting, gasping, Harry's hair in a crampish grip still, and he feels like he's about to lose his balance, but he can't bring himself to care.

"Baby," Harry says against Louis' throat, voice rough.

"Yeah," Louis breathes, pulling him up by the hair and kissing him again.

He begins to undo Harry's shirt-buttons, hastily, just yanking at them till they give, and Harry pushes his hands up the back of Louis' t-shirt, cold enough that he hisses, and then down the back of his trackies, grabbing hard enough that the moans.

When Louis finally gets the last button on Harry's shirt and is grunting impatiently, trying rip it down his arms, Harry pulls out of the kiss. "Fuck, Lou, I—"

"Yeah. Yeah, okay, come on," Louis says, before he grabs him by the arm and pulls him out of the kitchen.

They make it to the bedroom without waking Charlie, - Harry checks on her swiftly, while Louis kicks the half-full suitcase off the bed - and tumble in-between the sheets together. They lose their clothes, wrestling around, biting and kissing and digging her nails in. At some point, Louis catches Harry between his thighs and locks him down and Harry whines into his neck and begins to rut on him. It's not long before someone's pulled out the bottle and Harry's slicked himself up and hitched up Louis' legs and is pushing into him with a grunt.