He wakes with a pair of soft lips at his forehead, and big familiar arms around him, fingers searching his spine. The rain taps at the window behind their telly-stand and there's rustling going on in the flat upstairs, parents getting ready for work and children running around the floor, making a game of not wanting to put on their shoes. And then there's right here, inside this flat, naked legs intertwined and Harry's slow steady breathing through his nostrils, puffing at Louis' fringe with every exhale.
He isn't sleeping. If he were, his lips would be parted, slack and dry from mouth-breathing through the night, but they aren't, they're soft as anything, pressed to Louis' skin.
Louis takes in the look of their legs like this again, milky-white against tan, Harry's strong thigh atop of his own, caging him in.
He drags a finger along it, just to feel the hairs that are too light to see, and Harry sucks in a surprised little breath though his nose. It's nothing, really, but it's enough to jolt Louis back to reality.
"Fuck. Shit, my alarm's in the other room. Time s'it?"
Harry makes a grunting noise and reaches behind Louis to lift his phone off the coffee-table, his armpit pushing into his face. It smells of sweat, in that slight-bit-too-bad-to-be-sexy way that makes him want to tell Harry to get his stinky pits out of his fucking face while his shameless morning-wood twitches in objection.
"Six am," Harry says, in a voice much too hoarse for either of their own goods.
"Right." Louis sighs in relief. "Don't have to worry 'bout work for a while, then."
"No," Harry agrees, but it still takes him a moment before he closes his arms properly around Louis again, giving him the chance to get out if he wants. When he realises Louis isn't going to get up, he deflates around him with a long sigh and holds him round the waist, the shoulders, pulls him close and presses his mouth into the crook of his neck and mutters, "no, don't have to worry."
The duvet's slipped down around their knees through the night, much too warm, but now Louis wants it around them again, wants to roll them up together, maybe pull it over their heads and pretend to be in a cave like children, their own little world away from the world.
He settles for tugging it up to his own shoulders.
"Cold?" Harry asks, pulling back to look at him.
"Yeah," Louis says, giving a little smile, "better now."
And maybe it's the eye contact, maybe it's on the brink of reminding him, taking him back to everything he'd let himself forget for just a moment. Maybe it's just that obscene mouth. Either way, Louis reaches round his neck then, pulls him close and kisses him.
Harry falls into it easily, but doesn't get too aggressive, just lets Louis guide the pace of things. His hands glide slowly up and down Louis' back, fingertips following the bones in his spine and Louis moves his hands through Harry's hair, breathing it in when a greasy lock falls into his face.
Harry's hard against Louis' thigh and Louis' sure Harry can feel him just as much too, but they don't do anything about it for while.
When Louis shifts around a little, though, arm getting crampy, his hips fall against Harry's and their cocks grind together through the fabric of their boxers. Harry gives a whiny little moan against his lips and snaps his hips forward for more.
Before Louis has a chance to give it to him, he pulls out of the kiss, a filthy string of saliva breaking between their mouths and dropping to his chin, still clinging to it as he speaks; "sorry, I didn't- it doesn't have to be—" he reaches a hand down his pants and rearranges himself, then throws it frantically through his hair, "like, I wasn't trying to force anything. I know you're not ready to be, like—"
"Not when you fuck the mood up like that I'm not."
It's unfair and mean, but why the fuck did Harry have to remind him when he was just starting to be able to put it aside for a bit?
He does feel bad when he see's the confused frown on Harry's face though. "What, I—"
So he kisses him until it goes away.
Aside from a startled little noise against Louis' lips, Harry doesn't object, hands going to Louis' face, his back, his lower back, and then, when Louis climbs up to straddle him, his arse.
"Grab me," Louis says, because he's being so careful, like Louis' going to break, and he means well, Louis knows, but all he does is remind him of what he's trying to escape for a bit. "Grab me properly, grab me how you want."
Harry does, pulling him up on his crotch, and he opens his mouth to say something again, probably hoarse and filthy, so Louis surges down and kisses him again.
"Fuck, Lou," Harry still insists on getting out between kisses, "what do you want, anything, I'll do- what do you want?"
"I don't want to fuck," Louis says, because that's the only thing he's sure of right now. If not because he isn't ready to have Harry inside him again yet, then because he isn't ever ready to go to work with his arse fucked to shambles.
"Okay, well, do you- do you—"
It takes too long, too much eye-contact, too much affection in the way Harry circles his thumbs around Louis' sacrum, so Louis kisses him quiet again.
This time, Harry doesn't go pliant in his arms. He gets the idea, grabbing Louis, tonguing roughly into his mouth, wrestling out when he tries to pin his wrists down and then flipping him over and pinning him down instead. Louis moans and locks his legs around him, grabs and pulls at his bum to feel his cock against his own again, but then Harry pulls out of their kiss once again.
"Let me suck you off," he says, and he looks so much like someone who's already done it, eyes gone dark, cheeks all flushed, slick red mouth hanging open, that Louis couldn't tell him no if he wanted to.
Whatever facial expression Louis makes, it's enough of an answer for Harry, who immediately goes to his wrist to get a hairband.
Louis cocks his head back and swallows thickly, watching him pull his long hair up into a bun.
"Love you," Harry murmurs, just before he shimmies down and disappears under the duvet, and, when his soft lips wrap around Louis' cock, a reciprocating response slips out on a ragged moan.
Harry doesn't waste time or tease, just swallows Louis down as soon as he's got him in his mouth and then starts sucking him good, the velvety insides of his cheeks brushing up against the sides of his cock, tongue sloppily playing with his cock-head whenever he isn't so far down his nose touches Louis' happy trail. Louis throws his head back, eyes falling shut, fingers scratching at the fabric of the couch, desperate for something hold onto.
Normally, he'd keep his eyes open, whack the stupid duvet off and watch Harry's lips stretch around his cock, thumb at Harry's cheek where it hollows, maybe grab him by the back of his hair and steer him, tell him what to do, see how far he could push him. Today he doesn't do that. He lets the feel of Harry's mouth and his tongue, his shameless fucking tongue, venturing everywhere, cock-head, balls, taint, arse, cock-head again, do all the work.
When he does at some point slit one eye open, the only thing he sees is the duvet and the outline of Harry's head, bopping up and down beneath it.
He could so easily push it off, just to see if Harry's eyes are watering, if he's got saliva drooling down the sides of Louis' cock, if he looks as fucking filthy as he always does. He could watch him take his come down his throat, unwarned and still not gagging because he's that fucking good at it, but he doesn't.
He throws his head back again, closes his eyes and rasps; "comin'—", and then he does.
Two big hands get pressed forcefully down on his hips as they try to fuck upwards, shoot his load as deep as possible, but Harry still doesn't gag or choke or gurgle. He takes it, licks it up, sucks at Louis' cock-head until he's so done it starts to hurt, and then he moves off, sweat- and spit-slick face dumping down on Louis' thigh, throat working against it as he swallows.
Louis throws his arms over his eyes, mouth left open, panting embarrassingly hard.
Harry nuzzles into his thigh, presses a sloppy kiss to it and then finally sits up, whacking the duvet off. "I—"
"Don't speak," Louis cuts through, arms still covering his eyes, "your voice'll be too fucking shot and you'll have to suck me all over again."
He chuckles, and it's, just— wrecked.
"Bloody hell, why don't you suck me off more often?"
"Cause you're so in love with my cock you forget your own sometimes," he replies, voice cracking twice through the sentence.
"I said, don't speak."
He chuckles again, but obeys the order. He shifts around some and, when Louis finally finds the strength to lift his arms off of his face, he's on the other end of the couch, slouched back against the armrest, watching Louis as he jerks himself off.
His face looks so fucked Louis almost wants to kiss it better. Or fuck it worse.
He settles for offering his own mouth up. "S'only fair," he mutters, crawling over.
"Thank you," Harry breathes, arms going up behind his head as he rests back and waits for Louis to dip down and get to work.
And, he does mean to. He does want to, always wants to get Harry off, there's nothing hotter than hearing him come, especially when his voice is shot to hell from getting his face fucked. He does get half-way down there, gets a hold of Harry's dick and steers it for his mouth, but then he stops, hesitates. He isn't sure why, but there's just some sort of mental blockage.
He plays it off as tease, smiling slyly up at Harry, but then he actually meets Harry's eye and everything just sort of- comes back to him.
And then he knows why there's a blockage.
"Ehm- sorry, can I just, ehm," he sits up straighter, moves his free hand round Harry's neck and kisses him again, "s'it okay if I just," he starts jerking Harry before he finishes the sentence, knowing that'll get him a yes without hesitation, "just come in my hand, babe."
"Yeah," Harry throws his head back again, moaning and fucking up into Louis' hand as he jerks him like he'd jerk himself in the shower; fast, with one intent only, "fuck yes, Lou, babe, ah, you're so good, you're so good, arh— "
He squeezes his eyes shut as he comes, lips falling slack around his raspy noises.
Louis watches as he tugs him dry, dips in and licks at his wet bottom lip, bites it, maybe a little too hard, but only because he knows he'll get away with it in the rush of Harry's orgasm.
"Thank you," Harry says, when he finally opens his eyes again. He surges forward, landing a sloppy wet kiss right on Louis' mouth, then one on the side of it, his nose and then a last one on his cheek when Louis turns his face away.
"Thank you," Louis says, shimmying back to melt into the armrest across from Harry and finding some tissues under the coffee-table to wipe his hand off with, "jesus, I'd forgotten how great you were at giving head."
"Yeah," Harry says, cocky grin coming over his face. It goes as fast as it comes, though, something a bit unsettled taking it's place instead. He looks down, tucking his dick back in his boxers and then fiddling with the waistband of them. Louis waits, patient with the aftermath of a brilliant blowjob. "Uhm, like—" it finally comes, "does my dick smell bad or something?"
Louis barks a laugh. "What?"
He lifts his head, eyes stupidly wide. "No, but- just cause, you like- you went down and then, then you- went up again and I... I don't know, I'm just sorry if it does, I'll wash better or—"
"Harry. Stop."
Harry's mouth snaps shut.
"It's not- that's not, ehm," Louis fumbles, "that's not why I didn't- you smell just fine."
"Then what?"
Louis sighs. He really can't do this right now. He should jump in the shower, if he's even got time for that now, he should get himself something to eat on top of getting sucked empty like that. He shouldn't start up a whole conversation like this. He's just given Harry a bit of hope back, a bit of twinkle back in his eyes, he can't take that away from him just before leaving for an entire day of work. He can't ruin this for them.
But, then Harry does it for him; "s'it because I cheated? Is it, like- to do with that?"
The sudden directness hits Louis a bit like a punch in the gut. He coughs, then clears his throat and mutters; "why do you think that?"
And he can tell by the way Harry drops his gaze and nods to himself that he wasn't sure when he asked, but he is now. "Because, maybe- d'you feel, like- that it's degrading to give me head when I've cheated or—"
And of course, he hits the nail on the head on the first try.
But Louis can't stand the look in his eyes. They were doing so well.
He pushes off the couch. "I'm gonna be late for work, I've gotta hop in the shower now."
"Wait, fuck, sorry—"
"No, seriously," he spins around when he feels Harry start to follow him, lifting a hand in warning, "don't ruin everything, we- this was good. This was good, this was nice, why are you ruining it, let me have this without reminding me, for fuck's sake—" and just like that, his voice cracks and he's fucking crying again. "Fuck you, we were having a nice morning. And don't fucking follow me."
Harry doesn't, but he's got eggs on toast and a little shoulder-rub and apologetic smiles ready for Louis when he comes out of the shower.
And just like that, they're back to scorned little fool and guilt-ridden cheater again.
*
They get better through the week, though. Affection begins to feel just a little less horrible, even if he does have to close his eyes or kiss Harry every time they look at each other for a bit longer than what's comfortable.
Harry doesn't ask about the blowjob-thing again and Louis doesn't bring it up, at least not to him. When he meets up with Eleanor for lunch at the pub on Wednesday and tells her what happened, she jabs at it, hinting that he's taking advantage of his 'superior power' in the relationship at the moment, getting blowjobs without having to return the favour. He makes her pick up the tab and apologise ten times before he forgives her.
It isn't about abusing the shift of power in their relationship. Sure, Harry caters to him a little more than he did before, makes his favourite dishes, even the ones he doesn't like himself, rubs his feet, sucks his dick in the shower, but if Louis were to choose, he'd give anything to go back to being equals. Every time Harry does something he'd never have done before without at least making a teasing little remark about Louis being a lazy bastard, Louis is reminded what he's done. Why he's being so overly sweet.
No, it's not about being superior and taking advantage, that's not why he won't get on his knees for Harry.
It's about feeling so fucking inferior.
What kind of a man is he if he gets cheated on and lied to for two years and then in turn gets on his fucking knees and sucks the guys dick?
He's not stupid. He knows it doesn't work like that, logically, that blowjobs aren't degrading, that it makes no difference, really, whether he gives Harry a quick handjob or gets down and does the job with his mouth instead. He knows that, logically. Doesn't make any fucking difference in practice, though.
*
Thursday evening, Harry gives up on trying to keep Friday's date mysterious and secretive and admits he got reservations at the nice place with the cheese-things Louis liked. It finally gets through his skull that Louis' incessant nagging and probing at it isn't just tease or excitement, but a legitimate need to know what's going to happen. He's nervous as all hell, is the thing. They're going to talk, candle-lights and face-to-face conversation, but Louis can't imagine how they'll possibly talk about anything without feeling like they're just tip-toeing around all the shit they don't want to address.
Harry hasn't mentioned Marie and Charlie since they got back. Well, one time, Tuesday evening, he barged into the bedroom to show Louis a text from Marie, saying something vague about visiting her sister in London soon and maybe letting him see Charlie again then, and Louis just gave him a thumbs-up and told him to tell her yes if he wanted to and no if he didn't. Harry told him the following morning that he'd told her yes and that she'd said she'd text him when she knew more, and Louis told Harry congratulations mate, now stop staring at me like you're afraid I'm gonna jump out of the fucking window.
Friday morning, Louis' nerves start to kick in. Not out of excitement, not like a teenager going on their first date, but rather like having your entire stomach slowly turn around on itself. Like actual fear. How the fuck is he going to share a romantic dinner with Harry when he can't even look him in the eye for more than two seconds at a time?
Friday noon, during his lunch-hour, Louis gets a call from Harry.
He apologises to the colleagues he's gone down the pub with, heading into the toilets. "Yeah? What's going on, did something happen, are you all right?"
"No, yeah, I'm good. I'm good." The first word in his sentence turns out to be a Freudian slip, because the next thing he says is; "Marie wants to meet up tonight."
Louis sees his own brows shoot together in the mirror. "What do you mean, she wants you to drive all the way up—"
"No, she's- she's already in town. She's at her sister's place, apparently. She never told me it was today, I don't know, but, like- she's at this thing all day and then they're driving back up to Sheffield in the morning cause they've got a kid's birthday party or something and—"
"Harry. Point. Get to it, please."
"Yes, yes, I- uhm... well, so, like... She only has tonight after, like... seven pm to hang out. I mean- I mean, not, like, me hanging out with her, but- so I can spend some time with Charlie. Like, a couple hours." Louis feels a long sigh fall from his lips. He can't figure out whether it's out of relief or disappointment or something else, doesn't have a chance to try before Harry add's on; "obviously, I won't do it, but... I just wanted you to know that, like- we'd been in contact. Just, so there's nothing I'm keeping from you or, I don't know."
Oh. Oh, fuck no. "Bullshit," Louis says sharply, "you would not be calling me about this in my lunch-hour if it were just to keep me in the loop about you and her, how fucking stupid do you think I am? You've told me all this and then added that, of course, you aren't going to cancel on me, so that you can feel like the good guy when I then tell you that it's all right, you should go be with your kid. That's how it is, at least have the fucking balls to admit it."
The silence that follows on the other end confirms Louis' suspicions.
"Okay," Harry finally says, "okay, I'm sorry, you're right."
"Yeah."
"But I do want to go out with you, babe, I've been looking forward all week, I just- I'm afraid if I don't, like- at least in the beginning, you know, with Charlie... and I—" he cuts himself off.
"'And you' what?"
"Nothing."
Louis groans. "Harry, spit it the fuck out so I don't have to worry all through the rest of my workday."
"I just miss her." Oh. "I just, I- I really, really, I- I can't stop thinking about her. And her, her little face and her hands and- she's got my mum's smile, I don't know if you saw and, and, I just can't—"
"Yeah, okay, fine, I get it," Louis cuts through, because that's just too much to dump on his chest in the middle of a work-day, "it's fine, we'll reschedule. It's fine, I don't care."
"No, but, Lou, I don't want you to be—"
"It's fine, Harry, I don't care. You've got me every night of the week, you only get to see her when her mum lets you. It's all right. I've got to go know."
He hangs up before he hears Harry's voice another time. Then he splashes cold water in his face, dabs it off and goes on with his day, knots in his stomach slowly dissolving and leaving him, well, sort of empty. Maybe he was a tiny bit excited for tonight after all. Oh, well.
*
He battles the internal dilemma of should I come with even though I never want to put myself in that situation again in my life? or should I let him go alone even though I don't trust him alone with her? through the rest of his workday and hardly gets any work done and gets told off by his boss before he leaves. By the time he gets in the car, drives home during London's rush hour, throws off his shoes and his coat and dumps himself in the couch, he's absolutely done for.
"You go on your own," he tells Harry, "I'll kick back and watch some telly, I'm knackered."
Of course, Harry can't leave it at that. Has to waver at the side of the couch, has to talk things out, ask about fucking feelings. "But, like—"
"I'm knackered, for fuck's sake, don't you trust yourself not to fuck her if I'm not there, is that it?"
Harry's jaw drops slack. "What—"
"Sorry, I- I really don't want to come with. You can just- throw me a picture-message of you and the kid, maybe? So I know you are where you say you are."
It takes more than that to convince Harry he isn't being lured into a trap, about a million are you sure, Lou, I can cancel with her if you want's, but in the end, after a final screamed shut the fuck up and get out, Harry!, he takes the car-keys and leaves.
Soon as he's out, Louis regrets letting him go.
He tries pushing it away, turning the telly up a little too high and fetching one too many beers for himself.
Fifteen minutes later, he receives a picture-message from Harry, sitting on a yellow rug beside Charlie. It would've been cute if he couldn't see Marie's long pins in the background. Every half hour from then on, he receives a new text from Harry, telling him exactly what he's doing, like we're playing with dolls now and my doll just got kicked off the runway for walking too slowly and my other doll just got kicked in the stomach for no apparent reason what so ever and other cutesy little anecdotes.
Louis knows the thought process behind it; Harry's trying to ensure that Louis doesn't sit at home for one single minute wondering what he's doing with Marie.
And, he supposes it's does help, a little bit.
Around nine pm, Harry calls him from the car. "Just got out, I'm about to drive home now," he says, and he sounds distracted, but not in any bad way. He sounds softened, like he might be smiling to himself, might be feeling all warm and fuzzy inside. He's falling in love with that kid at a rapid speed and Louis hates himself for how much it terrifies him. "D'you need me to get you anything on the way?"
"Ciggies. And beer, more beer, I drank all the beer."
Harry chuckles softly. "Okay, babe. I love you."
"Oh, and ciggies too."
"Yeah, I heard you the first time."
*
"Ciggies and beeeeer," Harry calls out.
"And ciggies?" Louis yells back.
"Yeah, and beer."
"And ciggies?"
"Catch." Harry throws the pack at him and it hits his open palm and ricochets onto the coffee-table beside him. "Oh, and there's also beer."
Louis grins at him and grabs the cigarette-pack, heading out onto the balcony.
Five minutes later, when he's sufficiently suffocated his lungs, he comes back in to find Harry on the couch, in boxers and sweatshirt, beer in hand, hair up in a loose bun, feet up on the coffee-table. Stupid little smile on his lips.
"Was it nice?" Louis asks, carefully covering whatever he's feeling inside, "your play-date?"
"Yeah," Harry breathes. Then he smiles up at Louis and beckons for him to come sit. "Let's not talk about it anymore tonight."
Not half as good at cover-ups as he thought, then.
He grabs the beer Harry put out for him off the coffee-table and uncaps, smacks his feet up and then realises the remote is lying on the tv-stand. "Fuck, why didn't you warn me the remote was over there, you absolute brainbleed."
Harry cackles. "S'five steps away, you lazy bastard."
"I've got my arse melted into the couch now, that remote might as well be on fucking Mars, don't make no bloody difference."
Harry laughs. "I love you," he says, before he gets up and gets the remote.
They stumble across an Australian movie that looks alright, mate and sink into comfortable silence. Harry stretches an arm out behind Louis, hand folding round the back of his neck, rubbing idly. When Louis looks over at him, he's got his eyes on the telly, but the pull on the crook of his mouth tells Louis he knows he's being watched. When Louis turns back to the telly, he can feel Harry turn his head to look at him and he knows that he's obvious too.
Especially when Harry says; "I've rescheduled our reservation. We'll go out tomorrow night instead, yeah? Just you and me, date-night. If you still want to."
Then, Louis turns again, cheek brushing up against the palm of Harry's hand. "Yeah, all right," he says, "but you better bring your best game, mate. I expect to be wooed."
"Oh, I've already printed dirty jokes and pick-up lines onto flash-cards, don't think I'm not prepared."
Louis chuckles. "Pick up lines?"
"Mhm. Just you wait," he says, "you'll be spreading those legs before we even reach the main course, baby."
Louis rolls his eyes. They land back on the telly and that's where they stay. His bum moves, though, little by little, just close enough to cuddle.