By the time Saturday rolls around, and the concert, Harry and Louis text almost constantly. Harry’s one of those really good texters, always replying within minutes and giving advance warning if he has to stop replying in the middle of a conversation to do something else for a while. Louis loves that because he’s the same way; sometimes he forgets that not everyone lives off of their phone and gets confused when he has to wait hours for a text back.
Together, though, they make a good pair. It makes sense when Louis looks at the way Harry is about his phone when they’re together- it buzzes and he snatches it right up to reply. Maybe that would bother someone else, but not Louis. He just smiles and nods when Harry explains that it’s Thomas texting him to come over later or asking him where he is. They’re the important things, if Harry’s face is anything to go off of.
But apparently it isn’t just Thomas, because he’s equally attentive to Louis. They text even more than usual in the hours leading up to the concert, because Harry’s so excited he can hardly breathe and Louis can’t help but be charmed by it.
(Harry, 4:41 PM) What should I wear?
(Louis, 4:42 PM) Dunno, what does one wear to an indie rock concert?
(Harry, 4:43 PM) I was hoping you’d know :( I don’t want to look like an idiot…
(Louis, 4:44 PM) H, I reaaaally don’t think it matters that much what you wear. People are there to see the band, not you, right? :)
(Harry, 4:45 PM) Well. Yeah. But.
(Louis, 4:46 PM) Just don’t wear anything too mainstream and you’ll be alright, yeah?
(Louis, 4:46 PM) And by that, I mean wear whatever you want to wear. Your favorite outfit. You’re going to go see a band that you like, so it makes sense to wear clothes that you like!
(Harry, 4:47 PM) That makes sense :)
(Louis, 4:48 PM) Of course it does, I said it ;)
They agree that Louis will pick Harry up at his flat at 6, so they can make sure to be at the venue early enough to get a spot near the front. The closer it gets to 6, the more exclamation points Harry tacks on to the end of every sentence until finally it’s time and Louis is parking the car and bounding up the stairs.
The smile Harry was wearing when he opened the door could have dazzled a satellite right out of the sky. “Hey, Louis,” he said breathlessly.
But Louis was too busy looking at the other things Harry was wearing. Gone were the baggy, faded jeans and worn out tee shirts that he usually had on. Instead, he wore a black blazer over a sheer button-down shirt that was only half buttoned. A black and grey scarf- the thin kind meant more for fashion than warmth- hung loosely around his neck.
And then there was the matter of his jeans. They were black, dark enough still that they had to be brand new, and they were tight enough that Louis had to make sure it wasn’t body paint that Harry was wearing. It was easy now to see that he had long, thin legs with shapely thighs and toned calves that you never would have noticed when they were swimming in acid-wash denim three sizes too big.
“Just let me grab my keys really quick, sorry,” Harry said, turning to lean across the kitchen table to grab them and his phone.
“Absolutely,” Louis managed to reply when Harry had already been facing him again for a good fifteen seconds, and it was not because he’d been distracted thinking about Harry’s butt in those microscopic jeans. That would be inappropriate, because Harry had a boyfriend. So Louis wasn’t. At all. No way.
Harry looked at him in confusion. “Absolutely what?”
“What?”
“You said ‘absolutely.’”
“Oh. I meant that it absolutely wasn’t a problem.”
“What wasn’t a problem?”
“Nothing. I mean, it’s not that nothing wasn’t a problem, it’s that nothing was. One. A problem,” Louis replied, more flustered than he really ought to be.
“...What?”
“No lollygagging, Harold, you’ll make us late.” And with that, Louis turned on his heel and led an amused Harry back to the car. His blush was most of the way gone by the time he pretended to check his eyeliner in the rearview mirror.
(It takes him all the way to the venue to convince himself that you absolutely could not blame a guy for looking.)
When they’re circling the car park hunting for a space, Louis clears his throat. “You know you don’t look like an idiot, right? You were afraid of that. But you don’t. You look really good, actually,” he says, and it comes out sounding normal and not creepy at all and Louis is very proud of himself for that.
It’s Harry’s turn to blush now. “Oh. Thanks. I just did what you said and picked out, like, my favorite stuff.”
“It’s really different from the stuff you normally wear,” Louis ventures, very carefully.
“Yeah, it’s kind of- it’s like, old. I haven’t worn it in a while, I guess. All of my old stuff’s just like in the back of a drawer somewhere, so.”
Louis mind travels back to earlier in the week when he got to nose around in Harry’s room, to the neatly stacked piles of baggy jeans and tees and the lumps of fabric shoved into the space behind them. Were these the kind of clothes Harry was hiding away? Runway-ready styles that he called his ‘favorites?’
“How come you don’t wear it anymore?” was all he asked.
Harry shrugged a little, not seeming to notice how seriously Louis took this conversation as he stared out the window to help search for a space. “Thomas buys me a lot of clothes, I guess. So. I wear those most of the time.”
“But they’re not what you call your favorites.”
“Well, not exactly,” Harry admits. “Sorry.”
“Don’t apologize to me,” Louis said gently. “You’re only telling the truth. But I don’t understand why you wouldn’t wear your old clothes if they make you happy. I mean, you’re glowing. And you look fantastic.”
“Thanks. I do like to look nice. But.” Harry hesitates, then blurts it out all at once. “Ijustwishitwasn’tsogaytolookputtogether.”
“Sorry, what?”
“I just wish it wasn’t so gay to look put together,” Harry repeats with a sigh. “Like, I’m a neat person, and I like to look nice. But trying so hard makes me look really… you know, gay.”
It takes a second for Louis to collect himself enough for words. “But you do consider yourself gay, though, right?”
“I- yeah.”
“But you don’t want to look gay.” He doesn’t even say it like a question, because at this point it isn’t. That’s the second time he’s been worried about looking too much like a stereotypical gay, and that’s plenty evidence for Louis to notice a trend.
“No. Well. I guess it’s Thomas who pointed out that I should maybe dress differently. He thought I would look good if I tried to dress a little more masculine. I guess.”
He says it just as they’re pulling into a space, and Louis almost takes out someone’s convertible due to distraction. Now, at least, he can turn to get a proper look at Harry. “Thomas told you that your clothes make you look too- what, too camp?”
“Yeah. He hates it when I dress like this. Sometimes he throws out my old clothes if he sees them lying around,” he adds after a pause. “But he buys me new stuff from the thrift shop, though.”
“Do you like the new stuff he buys you?”
“Well, I mean- his style is kind of different than mine, I guess…”
He’s hedging and Louis knows it. “Just between you and me. Do you like the clothes he picks out for you?”
“Not really,” Harry slowly admits, ducking his head in embarrassment. “It’s not that I don’t appreciate it, I do. It’s just, he doesn’t like to spend a lot of money, so he goes to the thrift shop. And sometimes the stuff he gets is just really worn and stretched and stuff. And like, older and stuff.”
“And how do you feel, when you wear the clothes?”
“Different, I guess. Not as good. I feel out of place in them, if that makes sense? And I guess I just wish I was able to look nicer, you know?”
“You can dress however you want, Harry, you’re an adult,” Louis replies when he’s swallowed his alarm at how this story is unfolding. “It’s sweet of you to care what Thomas thinks, but- you shouldn’t wear clothes that you’re not comfortable in, you know? You should wear things you like. Just. In my opinion.”
Harry’s frown deepens. “But you’re supposed to like what your boyfriend buys for you.”
“You’re not supposed to like anything. You like what you like, and you dislike what you dislike. That’s just how it works out, and you should never have to be ashamed of what you like.”
“But that’s what boyfriends do, right? They like, buy each other clothes and you wear them. Right?”
“Maybe some boyfriends, but just because Thomas is your boyfriend doesn’t mean you have to wear the clothes he gets for you. Well, just because Thomas is your not-boyfriend,” he amends with only the barest hint of sarcasm.
It’s too slight for Harry to even detect. “Right. Well. I dunno. It makes him happy, and that’s what counts, right?”
Louis would like to point out that what counts is whether Harry is happy, and that the satisfaction of some significant other (except not really) is second to that any day. A not-really significant other who was starting more and more to give Louis a very bad feeling. Who was this Thomas guy? Why was he in a sort-of relationship with a kid that admitted he identifies as gay if Thomas isn’t gay himself? Why is he so concerned with Harry looking camp? And why on earth would he be telling Harry not to wear a pair of jeans that he looks that phenomenal in?
But they’ve been sitting in the car with the engine running for far too long already, and with every sentence that bubbly boy who’d greeted Louis an hour ago was slipping further and further into distress. So Louis just bites his tongue for the hundredth time and shrugs. “It’s your choice, Harry. Whatever you want to do.” And that has to be enough for now.
Leaving things unsaid has always left Louis with a bad taste in his mouth, but at least this time it pays off. Dropping the subject means Happy Harry is back, so excited as they make their way to the building that his long legs start lengthening their stride and all of a sudden Louis has to half-jog to keep up. “Wait for me, Harold,” he says, a little out of breath.
Harry slows at once, looking over at Louis with a sheepish smile. “Sorry, sorry. I’m just so excited. We’re going to see The 1975. In concert. Like a live concert.”
“That’s what Ticketmaster told me, yeah,” Louis laughed. “Come on, then, I think we’re supposed to be in this queue.”
They were really early, enough so that they were able to get a spot standing right behind the barrier down by the stage. “This is ace,” Harry said excitedly, spinning around to examine every inch of the venue. He was so jittery that his hands trembled where he held on tight to the barrier.
Already, the club was filling up. “I’m going to run to the bar really quick before it gets too crowded, yeah?” Louis said loudly, and Harry nodded absentmindedly as he examined the (apparently fascinating) acoustic tiles on the ceiling. He didn’t notice Louis laughing and shaking his head as he slipped through the crowd.
Twenty minutes later, though, he was definitely relieved to see Louis returning, slipping in between bodies as he struggled to the front. “I was starting to get worried,” Harry half-shouted over the chatter of the now-full venue and the music playing through the sound system. “You were gone for a while…”
“You haven’t been to many concerts, have you?” Louis asked with a laugh. “The wait at the bar was already crazy, and people almost never believe you enough to move out of your way when you swear that your friend is up at the front. Beer?” He holds out one of the four bottles clutched in his hands.
Harry has hesitation written all over him. “I don’t- I shouldn’t,” he says meekly. “I told you, I’m embarrassing when I’m drunk.”
“You’re like twelve feet tall, this beer isn’t going to do a thing to you,” Louis said with a roll of his eyes. Harry still looks unsure. “I’m not trying to pressure you,” he tacks on, gentler, “I just thought I’d offer. And I genuinely think that you’ll be fine with one or two beers. Yeah?”
He doesn’t bring up that when he’d been up at the bar he’d been thinking about how Harry was so excited he could barely breathe, or how he was hoping that a little alcohol might calm Harry down enough that he could enjoy the show without getting overstimulated. He’s secretly relieved when Harry smiles, nods, and accepts the beer Louis is offering.
Louis puts the other two on the ground in front of them, right next to the barrier so they won’t be knocked over. It’s only about ten minutes until showtime, and the buzz of the room gets louder as time goes on. When Harry’s beer is up, Louis offers him another. He even manages to sneak a third into his hand when the lights go down and Harry’s too distracted to notice.
It’s obvious, from the way he cheers so loudly and sings along so enthusiastically throughout the concert that he’s not drunk, but he’s certainly far enough along that he’s authentic. There’s none of the usual worries and insecurities that keep him in check, only loose, excitable, happy Harry.
Although, Louis thinks as he watches Harry close his eyes and sing with just as much passion as the band, maybe it’s not so much to do with the alcohol, after all.
He couldn’t even hear Harry’s voice over the music, but he watched his lips form the words like a caress as they blared from the speaker. I’m running low on know-how with this beat I made for two. And I remember that I like you, no matter what I found. The music spins on and Harry’s heart is spinning with it, every line of every song looking perfectly in place in his mouth.
When the lights come back up, Louis wonders quietly when he stopped looking at the stage and just stood satisfied to watch the magical change in the boy he came with.
“That was incredible,” Harry buzzed as soon as they were out of the building and into the night where they could hear each other again. He was wandering in curved lines as they walked, though from euphoria or alcohol, Louis couldn’t tell.
“It was,” Louis agreed. “Did you have fun?”
“That was the most fun thing I’ve ever done in my life,” said Harry seriously. “I’ve never been that close to the stage before. Louis, did you see that? And they sounded so good, I didn’t know bands could even sound that good live.”
“Jesus, if I’d known you were going to have a religious experience in the audience, I would have stopped you from drinking in church,” Louis laughed in response.
“Don’t think I didn’t notice that, by the way. You got four beers and I drank three. That’s not equal.”
Louis grinned mischievously. “Yeah, well, you’re bigger so you get more. Plus, I’m driving home. And for the record, I don’t know what you were talking about alcohol making you act weird. You seemed fine to me.”
“That’s because you didn’t get me properly drunk,” Harry cheerfully informed him. His arm reached out and wrapped around Louis’ waist, tugging him until they were hip to hip as they walked. “Thank you for coming with me, Louis. I had such a good time. You’re such a good friend.”
“Of course I came, I had a fun time, too.”
“What’s your favorite song by them?”
“Who, me? My favorite? Uh…” Louis wracked his brains, trying to remember some titles from last night’s cram session. “Dunno, don’t have one. What about yours?”
“Do you like their song ‘America,’ off their last album?”
“Oh, yeah, that’s my favorite, I think.”
Something about Louis’ answer struck Harry funny enough to double him over in a fit of giggles. Louis stopped and waited in confusion as the pedestrian flow on the sidewalk split around them. “Gotcha!” Harry declared when he was apparently done. “You’re a little liar.”
“I am not!”
“They don’t have a song called that, Louis.”
“Oh.” Shit.
“You were lying about liking The 1975, weren’t you?”
“Well, not really,” Louis hedged. “I never actually said I liked them, before. And I do like them. I just… well I hadn’t actually listened to them before last night, no.”
Harry rolls his eyes and keeps walking, leaving Louis to trail along. “And you got on me for pretending to like football.”
“That’s different,” argues Louis, though they both know that it isn’t. “At least I don’t hate The 1975. I wasn’t miserable. I really did have a good time, you know.”
“Does that mean that we’ll go to more concerts and do more fun things together?”
“Depends, are you always so giggly and excited when you get to do things you like?”
“That depends on how much alcohol is involved, I think.”
A smile breaks across Louis’ face. “Yeah, well. Either way the answer is yes. You’re adorable when you’re in your element.”
“Oh, shut up.”
Louis does, but only because he’s already made the only point important enough to make.
………………
“Louis…”
His name sounded so good coming from Harry’s lips, moaned a little brokenly into Louis’ own mouth. He could barely get the sound out, because every second that his mouth wasn’t occupied with that of the boy beneath him, he was panting lowly into the space between them.
Louis’ heart was beating in doubletime, his lips working just as fervently as Harry’s. He could feel the pillows beneath him, cool and soft, cradling him like the bed was a cloud and this moment with Harry was heaven itself. Above him was that green-eyed deity, their bodies pressed together from head to toe. He could feel every line of Harry’s body, every muscle contracting as they moved their lips in sync.
His hands found the bare skin of Harry’s waist, fingertips tracing patterns on the porcelain there. It was so smooth… he traveled down to Harry’s hips, slipped his thumbs beneath the waistband of those agonizing jeans just to feel the way they clung to the boy’s hips so sinfully.
Harry just panted harder when Louis rubbed his hands slowly up and down the backs of his thighs, feeling the curves of Harry’s bum and the way that his body was hot where his thighs met. “So hard for you,” Harry moaned into Louis’ ear, sucking a lovebite into the skin behind his jaw.
Their hips connected and Louis could feel that it was the truth. Harry was rutting against him now, grinding circles into Louis’ thigh, begging for release. Louis’ hands found Harry’s belt, fumbled to get it undone, to peel those jeans down toned thighs so that he could finally touch Harry, finally make him moan for real-
“Ah, fuck!” Louis swore as he jerked awake, groggy and disoriented from sleep, his face too hot and his breathing far too shallow. His hand went straight to his crotch, and he bucked up in search of friction before he could even register that he was painfully hard. He could feel moisture in his boxers where he was already leaking precum. “Fuck,” he swore again, jerking his hands away and tossing his head back onto the pillows.
You are too fucking old for wet dreams, Louis, he thought furiously, except apparently he wasn’t. The clock said 3:47 AM, he’d been dead asleep, and here he was aching for a release because of some stupid dream-
-about Harry. The details flooded back to him, making him feel hot all over and trembly in his stomach. Harry, on top of him, grinding into his hips and moaning for him, naked except for jeans that fit him like a glove. Harry, begging to be touched. Harry, whimpering his name.
It hit Louis like a ton of bricks. He had a raging hard-on because he’d been dreaming about touching Harry.
Something in the back of his mind told him that he ought to be concerned that his subconscious had chosen Harry to act out his sexual frustrations with, but the tightness of his boxers was too much to be ignored. Louis bit his lip and glanced across the room through the darkness to Liam’s bed. He should go to the bathroom, so that he wouldn’t have to worry about waking Liam- except that Louis seriously doubted that he could walk well enough to make it into the other room.
Sorry, Li, he thought briefly before slipping his boxers down past the swell of his bum.
He tried not to make too much noise as he fumbled for the bottle of lube he kept tucked between the bed and the wall, tugging it free and squeezing some into the palm of his hand. He didn’t even bother warming it up- the cold of the gel against the hot of his flesh made him suck in a gasp as he took hold of himself and started stroking.
Louis gave his best attempt at having a neutral wank. He worked hard to focus only on the feel of his hand on his dick, to not think of anything else at all. When that failed, he tried to think only of porn stars or models or the fittest men in Hollywood- they were usually what was on his mind at times like these. They were usually the images that were lit up behind Louis’ eyelids when he was spilling into a tissue or his hand or down the shower drain. They should be enough to put him out of his misery now.
But try as he might, it was Harry who he kept seeing. It was Harry’s thighs, the curve of his waist, the angle of his jawline. His mind kept replaying that imaginary audio of Harry’s mouth right next to his ear, moaning for him, begging for him, whimpering and panting and grinding into Louis and fuck.
The grunt Louis makes when he finally comes is impressively quiet, considering the way that he can’t seem to catch his breath for ages afterwards. His whole body is still shaky in the aftermath when he forces himself out of bed to shuffle to the bathroom to find something to clean the mess off of his hand and body. Somewhere in the back of his mind he notes how much he misses having someone else to clean him up when his knees are still too wobbly to walk properly. He brushes the thought aside and grabs a washcloth to gently wipe the stickiness from his skin.
He never quite gets to the point where he feels clean though. Eventually he tosses the cloth in his laundry pile, realizing even as sleepy and spent as he is that it has nothing to do with the mess on his body. It’s more about the way that he can’t avoid thinking about how he just wanked to the idea of his platonic, indifferent, and utterly taken friend.
Burying his face in his pillow when he returns to bed doesn’t help either. It’s okay, it happens, he tells himself over and over again. Harry’s a good looking lad. You like good looking lads. It’s completely normal for you to be thinking about him like that. It’s not like you did anything with him. It’s not like this has to be a weird thing. It was just a wank, nothing more.
Right?
It’s the mantra that he turns over and over in his mind until he falls back asleep. Just a dream. Just a wank. It’s okay. Just a dream. Just a wank. It’s okay. Just a dream. Just a wank.
Just Harry.
He continues to promises himself that nothing is different when Harry texts the next day and wants to know if he can come over while the landlord is at his and Zayn’s place fixing a leaky faucet. Friends go over to friends’ places all the time. Harry’s his friend. It’s just Harry. It was just a dream. It was just a wank.
“Hey, H!” he calls cheerfully when Harry lets himself in.
Harry’s face splits into a grin at the enthusiasm in Louis’ greeting. “Hi,” he replies, drawing out the syllable for lengthy seconds. “You alright?” He plops down on the other end of the couch, pulling his legs up to cross in front of him.
“Yeah, yeah, I’m ace.” As long as I don’t think about those fucking jeans of yours.
Which of course just makes him think about those fucking jeans of Harry’s, and it’s all downhill from there. Shut the fuck up, he tells his brain furiously. Do not do this right now. Do not make this weird!
It doesn’t take long for Harry to notice that Louis is fidgeting and darting his glance around the room with a distracted expression, and he frowns. “Um, Lou, you sure you’re okay?”
“What? Yeah, yeah, I’m fine.”
Except that he isn’t, and Harry may not be as brilliant at this sort of thing as Louis is but even he can tell that. “This was a bad idea,” he said, body crumpling in on itself in discomfort. “I shouldn’t have texted you so last minute, you’ve obviously got other things you need to be doing…”
It’s the worry on Harry’s face that solidifies it for Louis. He isn’t going to let some stupid dream- or some stupid overreaction to it- upset Harry. “Don’t be silly,” he said fondly, exhaling the last of the stress he’ll allow himself to feel. Take care of Harry. He’s the priority. Don’t think about you, just take care of Harry.
He can tell that what Harry needs is reassurance, so Louis gives it to him. “I’m just on a caffeine buzz, that’s all,” he lies with a grin. “Nice and jumpy and jittery and insufferable. Don’t mind me, yeah?”
It earns him a tiny smile. “Do you get hyper easily?” Harry asked.
Louis is ever so casual when he stretches out his legs and tucks them underneath Harry’s thighs. It hasn’t escaped his notice that every time Harry’s in contact with someone, it’s like a giant exhale of stress for him. He just likes to be touched. And yes, there’s the worry draining right out of him. “If you think I’m a bundle of energy now, just wait ‘til you see me on like a Red Bull and vodka.”
They calm down together, like they’re sharing a brain, like they’re feeding off each other’s emotions so acutely that they’re completely in sync. The morning goes on. The tension leaks from them, and soon they’re shoulder to shoulder, leaning against each other just the tiniest bit as they watch some romantic comedy Harry put on.
Louis has always kind of hated romantic comedies. Harry barely stops grinning for the entire two hours. Louis doesn’t mind this movie all that much.