1. Meet Me in the Hallway
It’s the first song from the album that Louis hears, and the first time he’s heard Harry’s singing since the band called for a hiatus. Harry had looked different when he’d opened the door–he’d cut off his long locks a few months back in favor of something shorter, and Louis had seen all the pictures, but none of them compare to the real thing. It makes Harry look different, makes Harry look more roguish than Louis remembers.
The way he fucks, though–now that. That’s something familiar.
2. Sign of the Times
Harry plays this right after dinner, when Louis’ lying on his annoyingly-comfortable living room carpet and smoking a joint. Louis feels drowsy, his body weighing heavier than it should, but he ignores all that in favour of straddling Harry’s lap when he comes to sit down beside him.
“The first single?” He asks, taking a deep hit from the joint as he does so. He doesn’t give Harry the opportunity to answer, just leans down and seals their lips together, blows the smoke into his mouth and into Harry’s lungs. They stay there, making out on the floor until Harry growls and topples them over, pushing two fingers into Louis’ arse without any warning.
3. Carolina
“Who was she?” Louis asks, gasping as Harry laves his tongue against Louis’ hole, pushing it past his rim. He does his best to grip at armrest of the couch, presses his face against the material of it. “Who–who was she?”
Harry pauses, pulls away with a suckling noise. When he speaks, it comes out low, almost gravelly. “I dunno,” he says, leaning his cheek against Louis’ arse. “Some girl.”
Louis’ about to ask him to elaborate, but then Harry leans forward, does that thing with his tongue that always makes Louis’ knees weak, and well. That’s the end of that.
4. Two Ghosts
Harry has him pressed against the shower wall, driving his cock into Louis’ arse so hard that Louis is whimpering with it, his hands clutching against Harry’s back. Harry’s hair is matted to his forehead from the spray, making it look longer than it should be, and Louis uses a hand to push it away from his eyes.
“Taylor Swift?” He jokes, and Harry’s eyes flash.
“No,” he says, then he fucks Louis hard until he comes, tears in the corners of his eyes and stars in his vision.
5. Sweet Creature
This one is intimate, drawn-out and slow, in the bedroom when they wake up one morning. It’s lazy kisses against Louis’ shoulder, Harry’s hands wandering all over Louis’ torso down to his already-hard cock. This is Harry lifting Louis’ leg over his hip, sliding his cock easily into where Louis is already wet and open from last night. This is hushed gasps and quiet moans, intermingling with the tranquil sounds of the morning.
When Louis comes, it feels like fireworks.
6. Only Angel
Louis rides him, one of Harry’s too-big sweaters slipping off his shoulder. Harry stays reclined on the bed, his arms behind his head as he stares up at Louis, lets him do most of the work. Louis grinds down, Harry’s cock pressing against his prostate, goes as slow and as thorough as he can until he comes, all over Harry’s sweater and Harry’s stomach.
7. Kiwi
They’re drunk, far too drunk to make it to the bedroom, so Louis allows Harry to press him up against the wall, mark him up to his heart’s content. They rut against each other desperately, not even bothering to get their clothes off, their noises animalistic, feral and incomprehensible. Once they’re done, Louis slides down the wall, his knees shaking from the force of his orgasm. Harry uses his shirt to clean them both up, and then they make it to the bedroom, sleep on opposite of the beds, making sure not to touch.
8. Ever Since New York
“New York is always something else,” is what Harry says as he grips at Louis’ hair, and fucks his cock into Louis’ mouth roughly. Louis stays still, lets Harry use him as needed–it feels as if Harry’s not here, feels as if Harry’s using him to work through something Louis can’t access. He’s lost in his own mind, Harry is, his brow furrowed as he drives his cock in over and over and over again. Louis doesn’t mind; there’s nothing more satisfying than the heavy weight of a cock in his mouth, and when Harry comes, he drops to his knees, smiles shakily at Louis, then pulls him into a kiss far too gentle for what they’re supposed to be.
9. Woman
“La la la la,” Louis sings, on his hands and knees as Harry fucks into him. Harry chuckles, angles his thrust so it brushes Louis’ prostate, making him choke on his words.
Still, Louis isn’t deterred. “La la la la,” he sings again, and then that’s the last thing he says because Harry is hoisting him up with an arm around his chest, pressing a palm against his mouth.
10. From the Dining Table
“Is this one about me?” Louis asks shakily, stopping Harry right when he’s about to push his cock inside. He takes a deep breath, feels the weight of Harry’s emotions crash over him, settle on his shoulders like they belong there. It’s sad, almost unbearably so, and Louis’ heart aches for the song.
Harry’s brow furrows and he looks away, almost as if collecting himself. When he speaks, his voice is low. “Oh, baby, haven’t you been listening?” He asks, and his tone is wry, almost fond. “They’re all about you, in some way or another.”
Louis exhales, meets Harry’s eyes with his own. There’s a charged moment, and then Louis nods, spreads his legs wider so Harry can push in. It’s almost desperate, when they fuck–the way they cling to each other, as if not wanting the other to leave. The way Harry kisses him, with far more intent than there usually is, the way Louis closes his eyes and lets go, lets Harry take care of him the way he wats to.
—
When he wakes up the next morning, Harry’s already awake, watching him sleep. They don’t speak as they brush their teeth and take a shower, don’t speak as Harry makes them breakfast. Don’t speak as Louis packs his bag, collecting all the items he’s strewn about in Harry’s home.
They still don’t speak when Harry walks him to the door, but Harry leans down and kisses him, so deep and intense that it sends sparks travelling down Louis’ spine. It only lasts a few seconds before Louis is stepping away, and he watches the play of emotions on Harry’s face until it settles on stoicism.
“I’ll call you,” he says, and even he can hear the lie in his voice. Harry, however, doesn’t call him out on it; just nods and then shuts the door.
He tosses his bag into the passengers seat, adjusts the rearview mirror. He thumbs at his phone, biting his lip, thinks of maybe, just maybe, shooting Harry a text.
Even my phone misses your call by the way, he thinks.
But then he decides against it, and he pockets his phone, starts the car, and drives.
***
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