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Summary
It drove Harry crazy, the way his hand could make contact with Louis’ clothing and then travel and travel inwards through empty space, before meeting the warmth of his body. Harry lived in those moments of suspension, anticipation, and died every time his hand made contact through clothes with the dip of his waist, the curve of his back, the softness of his tummy. He made a fist in the material under his palm. Then he let it go before running his hand up Louis’ side, over his chest, pressing down hard.
Or: Harry comes home at two in the morning.
