Cherry Cola - l.s.

Chapter One.

Louis' skills lie in making his voice carry. Enough that he rarely leaves his room to reply to his mother, downstairs, sometimes outside. His voice is petulant, whining, and fringed with the most infuriating amusement; he knows what he sounds like, knows the effect it has on people. He hears a muffled reply, the door slam, and the sound of the engine starting and throws himself at the windowsill to see if Harry is gone too.

His mother pulls away with the passenger seat empty, and Louis grins, lip between his teeth before he pulls the window closed and turns to regard his bedroom properly. It's messy, piles of clothes over the floor, books scattered around records half in and half out of their bent cardboard sleeves. He chews his thumbnail and considers the door.

Harry will be in the kitchen now, finally allowing himself to appreciate the space of the house now that Louis' mother is no longer in it. Louis can relate to that, at least, to that need to enjoy the space without her nagging and pushing and blatant desire for attention no one wants to give her. Louis' too young to feel sorry for his mother; he hates her instead.

He goes to his door and carefully opens it, hinges well-oiled and silent, just the bare whisper of the door against the carpet as he peeks out. There's silence. No telltale sound of coffee being stirred, the television not on, nor the radio... he frowns. Perhaps Harry had gone after all, just followed on his bike, or taken a walk. Louis slumps, disappointed, and then there's the sound of a newspaper being straightened and he grins.

He doesn't make his way downstairs, just leaves his door slightly ajar before returning to fall back into bed. The springs squeak, enough to carry downstairs he knows, and since he closed the window it's getting warmer. He fiddles with the button on the bottom of his shorts and stares at the ceiling, wondering if Harry is reading the news, or cheating, flipping to the sports stories or the little comic strips Louis sometimes cuts out and collects.

The thought makes him smile and he wriggles in bed, adjusting his position until his knees are bent, toes pressed against the cool metal endboard.

He thinks of how Harry will be concentrating on the paper, even if Louis were to come downstairs now. How his eyes would still against it but he would not set it down, would not give Louis a look as he passes, would not respond to his petulant request for something he can't have. Ice cream. Or soda. Or a puppy - that's his favourite to ask for, now. He wouldn't respond to Louis calling him 'dad' and dragging out the vowel.

Louis bites his lip and lifts his hips up a little.

He thinks of how those hands look against the newsprint, large, with blunt nails so carefully looked after, so unlike a professor. Professors are meant to be dusty and old, with thick framed glasses and stupid voices. But not Harry. Harry's words are precise, soft; he has never raised his voice at Louis, even when he'd started sessions, had never told him off, had never struck him. Harry's voice curls over Louis' name as Louis' fingers curl into the fabric of his shorts now, drawing them up against his thigh until he lets go and slides his palm over the waistband instead.

Downstairs, Harry turns the page of his newspaper.

He thinks of how Harry had felt, hard thighs and lean muscle, when Louis had sat on his lap, determined to bring some expression to his features as he'd scanned his appointment book. How his breath had hitched, just enough, when Louis had shifted back against him, and forward again to get comfortable, how the one hand Harry had had against the desk had curled into a fist and rested there as Louis refused to shift.