Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Josh is done for the second he shuts the door of his hotel room in Louis’ face. It’s not even gone eleven, and he’s tapping out for the night. So he’s made his own bed, both physically and metaphorically, Louis has made the decision before the door has even shut fully, honestly. 

He exhales a quick breath and turns, scowling yet already scheming, and heads back to his own room. It’s hazy with smoke despite the open balcony doors, smells like the familiar combination of weed and alcohol and cigarettes. He shuts the door behind himself quickly, not wanting to let too much escape even though the scent and the music are overwhelming enough that the damage is likely already done. They’ll be fined to the nines, but he doesn’t really care. 

It’s not like he can’t afford it. 

Louis stops at the minibar and mixes himself a vodka RedBull, taking a small sip to determine that the proportions are right. He ends up adding more vodka and another splash of RedBull, taking another test sip and coming away satisfied this time. He crosses the room to the balcony, sidestepping various people who all have various things to chat with him about, making his journey to a cigarette that much more difficult. 

Oli is already out there, and holds his pack out to Louis as soon as he finally makes it outside. Louis pulls one from the pack and thanks him quietly, too quiet to even be heard over the noise surrounding them, he thinks, but Oli nods at him in acknowledgement anyway. 

“No luck?” Oli asks, exhaling a cloud of smoke. Louis watches it fade away, over the rail of the balcony and into the air. Louis shakes his head and brings his own cigarette to his lips. “You still have the master key?” 

“Obviously,” Louis snorts. “We’ll stop by later.” 

“You’re a pain, you know that?” 

Louis shrugs. “He loves me. You all do. Which is why you let me get away with anything.” 

“He’s gonna hate you,” Oli points out needlessly. Louis just laughs. “Whatever. Finish your drink fast, I wanna get going.” 

The truth is that Louis should probably be calling it a night rather early as well, but he’ll never admit that to anyone. They have a big day tomorrow; he has to phone in for an interview with some radio station somewhere halfway across the world at some ungodly hour, then go to a signing at some record store later in the day. He should probably be, like, resting. 

But he doesn’t feel like it. So he’s going to go out and get bombed, then come back and scare the shit out of his good friend slash photographer. Louis chugs his drink, finishes his cigarette, and heads back into the cloudy hotel room on a mission. 

** 

“You fucking suck, give me the key,” Louis mutters, prying it out of Oli’s hand and shoving him out of the way. He settles a hand on the solid white door to steady himself for a moment, blinking a few times to get everything to come back into focus. 

Finally, thankfully, the door beeps and flashes green. Louis cheers softly, victorious, and pushes the door open. He stumbles in after it, giggling to himself until Oli smacks his back and makes him shut up. They move to the minibar first, grabbing three different little shooters from it. Two are for themselves, the third is for Josh as a consolation prize. 

They cheers by the fridge amongst hushed laughter, downing the shots before crossing the room. Louis has his empty shooter in one hand and the full one for Josh in the other as they creep closer to the bed. He stands a foot away from the lump that is Josh, blankets pulled all the way up over his head like he knows Louis’ coming for him and wants some semblance of a defense, and looks at Oli. 

Oli has his phone out, the flash on and recording, and nods encouragingly. Louis suppresses a giggle, takes a deep breath, then launches forward, jabbing what he’s pretty sure is Josh’s arm with both hands and shouting as loud as he can. 

Josh wakes with a start, sitting up so quickly the blankets fall off of him. Oli shouts oh, shit! and his laughter is echoing as he bolts from the hotel room. Louis just stands there, blinking again, convinced he’s just drunk and his eyes are deceiving him. 

“What the fuck?” Not Josh is shouting, scrubbing his hands over his face and staring hard at Louis. “Who the fuck—What are you—Fucking stupid hotel, who are you?” 

His hands (big hands, if Louis’ eyes aren’t deceiving him, which he’s not entirely sure they aren’t) fall to his lap and he squints at Louis through the dark of the room. Then he leans over and smacks the bedside lamp on. 

Definitely not Josh. 

Louis is staring at a grumpy-faced, confused looking, beautiful man who is not Josh. This man has his hair mussed up, pulled back in a bun. Not Josh. He’s staring at Louis, brow furrowed, mouth open in shock. Beautiful, pink lips that Louis is staring at. Not Josh.

He stumbles back and sits on the edge of the other bed. “You’re… You’re not Josh,” he says dumbly. Louis has a tendency to be rendered speechless by pretty boys, particularly when he’s drunk. Especially when they catch him off guard like this. 

Pretty Boy shakes his head slowly. “You’re Louis Tomlinson,” he says, just as slowly as his head shakes, his voice about ten thousand octaves lower than Louis anticipated. He swallows hard and nods. 

Pretty Boy doesn’t say anything. Louis holds the hand that’s still clutching the vodka shooter and looks at Pretty Boy. His eyes are still wide, confused, and green. Very green. “This was, um, for Josh. You can have it, if you want.” 

He leans forward and takes the shooter from Louis’ hand. Louis’ phone is ringing in the back pocket of his jeans. Louis reaches back and silences it, because he knows it’s just Oli. And he doesn’t want to look away from Pretty Boy right now. 

“You’re Louis Tomlinson,” Pretty Boy repeats, and Louis nods again. So they’re basically having the dumbest conversation in the world, Louis decides, and he wouldn’t trade it for anything. 

Now’s the time for him to say something of substance. An explanation. But Pretty Boy untwists the cap on the little bottle and brings it to his lips. He tips his head back and Louis doesn’t know where to look. He should probably look anywhere else, but his eyes get drawn to the line of Pretty Boy’s throat, the cut of his jaw, and he can’t look away. Pretty Boy drains the shot and tosses the empty bottle onto the nightstand. 

“That was gross,” Pretty Boy remarks. 

Louis nods. “Um. I thought you were my photographer— my mate, Josh. I—He went to bed early.” 

Pretty Boy hums. That’s twenty thousand octaves deeper than Louis was prepared to hear right now. “And you’re Louis Tomlinson.” 

“Is that all you know how to say?” Louis snaps. God, he needs another drink. He stands up, just a little wobbly, and heads back over to the minibar. He opens the fridge and looks inside. There’s only one shooter left and a bottle of ginger ale. Louis grabs them both and heads back over to the bed. 

Pretty Boy is now sitting cross legged, wearing nothing but a pair of black joggers, and Louis can’t help but gulp. Pretty Boy is tanned, and toned, and tattooed. Louis drops back down onto the mattress. 

“You don’t have any other alcohol?” 

“I drank most of it at a normal hour,” Pretty Boy says curtly. “Actually, I don’t have to explain that to you.” 

Louis nods quickly. “Right, right.” 

He stares at the ginger ale and the vodka, quickly deciding to drink the vodka straight and wash it down with a sip of the ginger ale. “I thought you were my friend. Sorry for waking you up.” 

“And now you’re drinking my alcohol and sitting on my bed.” 

Louis shakes his head. “Not your bed,” he says, indignant. It’s the spare. “Unless you spread those long arms out and—and sleep between beds.” 

“I switch, actually. Start in one, wake up for a wee, fall back asleep in the other.” 

Louis barks out a laugh, an obnoxious one that has him smacking a hand over his mouth. He groans, flopping back against the mattress. “God, I thought you were Josh!” He exclaims. “Stupid goddamn master key.” 

Pretty Boy mutters something under his breath, but Louis’ already too close to sleep to hear any of it. He really, really wants to keep looking at Pretty Boy, but the mattress is far too comfortable. 

**

Louis wakes with a start, stiff and uncomfortable. He groans and sits up slowly, his hands coming to rub at his eyes. He’s still in his jeans from last night, but the room is suspiciously quiet. 

His brow furrows and he opens his eyes, taking in his surroundings. It’s suspiciously clean, suspiciously devoid of other people, and Louis quickly realizes: this is not his room. 

He fell asleep in someone else’s room. Louis scrambles out of bed and rushes into the bathroom, slamming the door shut and leaning against the sink. He tugs his phone out from his pocket and blinks at the screen. There’s about a million notifications. 

He texts Oli that he’s fine, then tells his manager that he’ll be ready for the phone call in… God, fuck, an hour. Louis groans and drops to his elbows against the counter, turning the tap on and splashing some cold water over his face. 

Then he takes a deep breath, stands up straight, and opens the bathroom door. 

When Louis rounds the corner, the most beautiful man he’s ever seen is standing at the kitchenette. Louis stops dead in his tracks. “Good morning,” Beautiful Stranger greets. 

“Um. I’m really sorry, this isn’t how these things usually go for me, like, at all. There’s paperwork and intimidating people telling us both really scary things, and I don’t wake up in my jeans.” 

How is Louis back in his jeans? He definitely had sex with this beautiful person. Getting dressed again before passing out in the room is more humiliating than just about anything else, Louis thinks. If he woke up still naked that definitely would have been less humiliating. 

He did rather well for himself, though, didn’t he? Louis looks Beautiful Stranger up and down, blatantly obvious about it because there’s not really any room for shame right now; he’s tall, and his hair is a bit curly, all the way down to his shoulders. Shoulders which are bare, because Beautiful Stranger is shirtless, his whole upper body littered with dark ink, laurels bracketing his hips that Louis hopes he spent time acknowledging last night. 

He’s wearing black joggers that are hugging tight to his thighs, legs crossed over each other as he’s leaning his arse on the minifridge. Louis wants to bite the softness of his hips. He smirks, satisfied, but quickly wipes it away when he meets Beautiful Stranger’s eye and sees that he does not look impressed. 

“Well. Um. Like I said, I’m really sorry. There’s usually a way this is supposed to go and I don’t think I went through any of that. And I’m sure you’re really, really great, considering you let me crash here and everything, but I kind of have this thing to get to? So I really should get going. Though I really, really wish I didn’t have to, because you’re kind of gorgeous and I’d really rather stay here.” 

Beautiful Stranger looks amused now, his eyebrows arched, the corner of his (pretty, pink, plush) mouth curled up in a deadly attractive half-smirk. Louis swallows. His mouth is suddenly dry, throat screaming for water or tea or something, anything other than slightly stale, dry hotel room air. 

“We didn’t have sex,” Beautiful Stranger says in that voice. God, that voice. Slow, syrupy, deep. Deeper than Louis was expecting. That information is kind of a double edged sword. On the one hand, it’s a good thing they didn’t have sex, because of contracts and everything. On the other, he didn’t have sex with this Beautiful Stranger. That is a crime. Louis can’t believe he was that drunk. 

Louis tries to adjust. He relaxes his shoulders, nodding coolly. He can do this, he’s just a fucking idiot. He doesn't have to prove that to this Beautiful Stranger anymore than he already has; Louis can be cool. “Oh,” he says simply. “Okay.” 

Beautiful Stranger finishes whatever he was drinking in his mug, setting it down on top of the fridge behind himself. He pushes himself off and Louis’ stomach swoops. Beautiful Stranger is even taller and more leggy than Louis thought. He can do this, it’s just a boy. A man. 

“You’d remember having sex with me, drunk or sober,” Beautiful Stranger continues, cocky and sure. Louis scoffs and rolls his eyes. “What you did do, however, was break into my hotel room at three in the morning to wake me up by screaming in my face. I’m not quite sure what you were saying, but it certainly got the job done. Then you gave me a shot, acted like you were doing me a favor while attempting to explain that I was not the person you were looking for, took a shot of your own, and passed out in the spare bed.” 

Oh. Okay. So it turns out that is far more embarrassing than having sex, getting dressed, and passing out fully clothed. Louis wants to crawl somewhere dark and cold and never come out again.

“So, like, no need for an NDA or whatever you were rambling on about. I won’t tell anyone anyway.” 

Louis nods slowly. “Okay, I am very sorry about all of that. I can, uh, pay for the alcohol?” 

“Already paid for,” Beautiful Stranger replies simply, shrugging. He moves his mug to the small sink, his back turned to Louis now. Beautiful Stranger is kind of ripped. Louis stares at his shoulders as he turns the tap on and off quickly before turning to face Louis again. 

“Okay,” Louis drawls. “Unfortunately I think I am still gonna need you to sign that NDA, mate.” 

Beautiful Stranger shrugs one tanned, toned, beautiful shoulder again. “No biggie.” 

No biggie? Seriously, who the fuck is this kid? Louis exhales sharply. His phone is vibrating in his back pocket. He ignores it. “Okay, cool,” Louis says, because what else is he supposed to say? 

Beautiful Stranger looks over his shoulder. “D’you want coffee or tea or anything? Surprised you’re not just helping yourself, honestly.” 

Louis blinks, unimpressed with the dig. Such a beautiful mouth should not be so snobby. “You’re a bit snobby, you know that?” He asks, and Beautiful Stranger scoffs at him. “What? I’m being serious.” 

“I’m snobby?” Beautiful Stranger asks. His hand moves to the center of his chest in an offended manner. Louis tries not to roll his eyes. “You’re the popstar who broke into my hotel room in the middle of the night, scared me awake, drank my alcohol, and slept in my bed. Then you assumed we had sex, then offered to throw money at the problem. But I’m snobby.” 

That’s fair enough, but Louis won’t agree with that out loud. Even if the man is drop dead gorgeous and Louis kind of wants to do anything he wants, agree with anything he says. He has to save at least some of his dignity. “I don’t need your tea, snob. I have a thing.” 

“Right. A thing,” Beautiful Stranger says slowly, almost like he doesn’t believe Louis. “Well, you know my room now, so you can drop off the paperwork whenever you want. I probably won’t be here this afternoon, but you can just slide it under the door.” 

“Great,” Louis chirps. God, when did he become such a fucking dunce? There is a beautiful man in front of him and he can barely form full sentences. The ones he has formed have been mildly (majorly, maybe?) rude and offensive. “Uh, thanks for the bed then, I guess, mate.” 

“No problem. Mate,” Beautiful Stranger tells him, watching as Louis slowly starts for the door. He woke up still in his shoes, for fuck’s sake, his friends are going to rip him to shreds. Maybe he won’t tell them. Yeah, that seems smarter.

When Louis’ hand is on the door, Beautiful Stranger pipes up again. “No need to break in, by the way. You can just… Slide the stuff under the door.” 

Louis turns back only to scowl at him, then flings the door open. He tries to slam it shut behind himself, but of course everything in this goddamn hotel is soft close; doors, drawers, cabinets, you name it, it’s probably soft close. 

He stands in the hallway, glaring up at the Beautiful Stranger’s room number: 1828. He finally tugs his phone out from his pocket, ignoring the messages and voicemails and missed phone calls to open his notes app instead. 

Beautiful SNOBBY Stranger — rm 1828. 

Louis taps one of Oli’s missed call notifications and brings the phone to his ear, heading for the stairwell. “I’m on my way back,” Louis says in lieu of a greeting. “I just have to shower and get changed, then I’ll be ready for the radio thing. Can you let everyone know?” 

“Louis, mate! We thought you’d gotten kidnapped!” Oli shouts. 

Louis huffs. “You knew what room I was in, arsehole. You’re the one who left me.” 

Oli starts chattering, both to Louis and whoever else he’s in the room with right now, leaving Louis silent as he takes the two flights of stairs up to the twentieth floor. He hangs up on Oli without saying anything as he shoves his keycard in his door. 

There’s only a handful of people in his room; Oli, the band, and Josh. Everyone claps and cheers when Louis walks in, making Louis roll his eyes. He drops his phone and key card onto the coffee table on his way by, stopping to pick up someone’s abandoned pack of smokes before heading out onto the balcony. 

Oli and Josh join him just a second later, just as Louis’ gotten comfortable in one of the chairs and has tugged the lighter out. It’s breezy on the balcony, so he tucks into his tee shirt to escape the breeze while he lights up. Louis pulls back out again, putting the cigarette in his mouth and inhaling as he leans back, tossing the pack and lighter onto the little glass table beside him. 

His friends lean against the railing across from him, staring at Louis with wide eyes and amused grins. Louis grabs his cigarette and pulls it out, exhaling a pointed cloud of smoke at them. “Mate, what the hell happened to you last night?” Oli asks. 

Louis shrugs. “Nothing. Fell asleep.” 

They both narrow their eyes at him. “Look, man, you fucking left me. And I drank his liquor and slept in his spare bed. Nothing fucking crazy happened. He was actually kind of a posh asshole, evidently.” 

“Was he hot? He looked hot. Well, what you can see of him in the video I took, anyway.” 

He was hot, Louis stuck around long enough to confirm; he was hot, among many other things. He was fucking hot and beautiful and sexy and incredibly frustrating and Louis’ throat is still so fucking dry. His head is pounding and his stomach is eating itself and his heart is beating like it’s never properly done so before. “He was an arse. Which is allowed, considering we broke into his hotel room. But he also offered me coffee and a cuppa, so.” 

Josh nods slowly. “Bet you wish you’d found me, huh?” 

Honestly, Louis isn’t sure. But he nods anyway. “Yeah, mate. You would’ve let me off easier than that arsehole.” 

Louis’ manager sticks his head out onto the balcony before anyone gets the chance to say something. “You gonna shower, Louis? You’ve got maybe an hour before the radio interview.” 

Louis groans and inhales deeply on his cigarette before passing it off to Oli and standing up. “Yeah, yeah. I’m going now.” 

And Louis does not tell any of his friends that he jerks off in the shower, especially doesn’t tell them that he found himself thinking about dimples and long legs and tattoos and snarky attitudes. 

**

“So, we slipped the NDA and hopefully we get it back soon. Or he’ll blab to the press about how Louis Tomlinson drunkenly woke him up and stole his alcohol. At least Louis didn’t fuck him, or else there’d be a lot more to blab about.” 

Louis spins his pen in circles on the table. He doesn’t even need a pen for this, but he can’t smoke in the conference room and he doesn’t have anything else to do with his hands.  

“So… We’re done?” He asks, glancing at the faces around him. 

“You’re confined to the hotel tonight, likely to your room, but… Yeah, we’re done. As long as you’re sure you didn’t…” 

“I didn’t.” Louis insists. 

“Then we’re done. But you’re staying here. You have another radio interview, five in the morning our time, and another signing in the early afternoon.” 

“Fine,” Louis agrees easily. 

As soon as they’re all dismissed, Louis slips from the conference room and out the back door of the hotel for a cigarette. He sits down on a bench in the smoking area and tugs his smokes from his back pocket, flicking the carton open to pull out his black lighter and a single cigarette. 

He inhales as deeply for as long as he can, holding it until his lungs burn with the sharp, acute pain before exhaling. He appreciates his team to no end, obviously, but sometimes the things they say sting. Louis knows that he’s done it to himself, he’s given himself this reputation, and he’s the reason his manager has to stand in a conference room and say things like at least Louis didn’t fuck him.

Louis’ had his fair share of tabloid gossip, men and women he’s slept with (and definitely hasn’t slept with) coming forward to share weird stories, some of which may or may not be completely true. He’s done it to himself, has hooked up with questionable people or said questionable things to people while under the influence, before he’d had NDAs and privacy and contracts drilled into his brain so deeply that he knows the ins and outs better than his own name sometimes. Even after that, he’s definitely known to have a shag or two that isn’t entirely above board, but the contracts cover that now, so he doesn’t have to worry as much. 

So he’s kind of done it to himself. He’s given his team a reason to stand there and say it’s a good thing Louis didn’t fuck Beautiful Stranger last night. Last night has also given his team a reason to revoke his master key privileges for the foreseeable future, which kind of sucks. But Louis doesn’t really have any desire to go breaking into hotel rooms anytime soon, those belonging to his friends or otherwise. 

Beautiful Snobby Stranger really pissed him off. 

Louis ashes his cigarette and tugs his phone out of his pocket, sending a text to Oli asking him to get cigarettes for him at some point today. He’s running low and can’t get them for himself, so Oli’s his go to errand boy. 

He hates being called an errand boy. But he… runs errands for Louis. Still, he hates when Louis jokingly refers to him as that. 

Oli’s his go to mate when Louis needs a favor. 

That’s a mouthful, but it’s whatever. As long as it keeps Oli happy, which in turn keeps Louis happy. 

“Yo,” Josh calls suddenly. “Do you wanna go to the gym before the signing?” 

Louis snorts, putting the cig between his lips as he turns to look at the door behind himself. “Do I look like I want to go to the gym right now, mate?” 

Josh laughs. “No, but I thought I’d ask, you could get out some pent up energy or something. Regardless, you should come inside, go up to the room before you get fucking mobbed.” 

Louis just grunts and faces forward again. He hears the door shut and breathes out as evenly as he can manage once he’s fully alone again. The meetings always put him in a bad fucking mood. He doesn’t let it show to the upper management, at least he tries not to let it show, but he’s not shy about letting the guys know he’s in a piss poor mood. 

He hasn’t told any of them any further details about Beautiful (Snobby) Stranger, but that’s just because he doesn’t want to talk about the Beautiful Stranger. He’s just that right now: a Beautiful Stranger. Who was an arsehole in the morning but also let Louis crash in his room without complaining in the moment. It’s a lot better than Louis’ had in the past, but still.

Louis will continue calling him an arsehole until he gets the NDA back. 

He finishes his cigarette and drops the butt onto the ground between his feet, smushing it out with the toe of his trainer before standing upright. He shoves the pack of smokes into his back pocket again and heads inside, stopping by the gym to see what everyone’s up to before he heads back to the room. 

Louis stops before even moving to unlock the door with his card, though, watching through the window as Josh is talking to Beautiful Stranger. He doesn’t know that that is Beautiful Stranger, obviously, but Louis is one hundred and ten percent certain that it is. This time, he’s dressed in shorts that look almost too short, running trainers and a black tank top. Louis stares through the glass at him, looking at the curve of his shoulder, the way his bicep flexes, trying not to let his mouth drop open. 

Be it in shock that his friends and team are casually (albeit unknowingly) conversing with this man whose bed Louis passed out in, or because he looks so fucking good, Louis doesn’t stick around long enough to decipher. 

He leaves before anyone sees him, riding up to the hotel room completely alone. Completely alone and not thinking about how sweaty and hot and jacked Beautiful Stranger looked. Completely alone and reminding himself that Beautiful Stranger is also known as Beautiful Snobby Stranger. 

Beautiful Snobby Stranger who works out and chats with random guys in hotel gyms and is weirdly cool, if not a little (mostly justifiably) snobby with famous pop stars who break into his hotel room. 

Louis gets back to his room and immediately takes a cold shower. 

**

“So is this what you do then?” 

Louis’ smoke break gets interrupted by a deep voice he would recognize anywhere, despite the fact he’s only heard it twice before, and one of those times he was so far past drunk he was unrecognizable even to himself. 

He turns to face the voice, watching as Beautiful Stranger comes out the back door of the hotel. This time, he’s in a hoodie and jeans. Which is a blessing and a curse, because the hoodie covers his arms and chest and back, but the black skinny jeans are hugging so tight to his thighs that all Louis can think of is biting them. 

Christ. 

He takes another drag on his cigarette because there’s nothing else to do. Other than watch Beautiful Stranger get closer, sitting down on the bench across from where Louis is pacing while he smokes. 

“Did you sign it?” Louis asks, instead of acknowledging Beautiful Stranger’s question, and instead of saying something horrendously stupid like I want to bite your thighs or what’s with the leafy tattoos above your dick?

Beautiful Stranger scoffs. “I asked you first,” he counters, stubborn as he was in his hotel room. 

Louis stops pacing, turning to look at him. His hair is neatly tucked into a bun this time, as opposed to the other night, when it was messy from sleep. “No, this isn’t all I do,” Louis replies simply. “Did you sign the paperwork?” 

Beautiful Stranger leans forward and pulls a folded stack of papers from the back pocket of his (impossibly tight, wonderfully fitting) jeans. He holds it between two big hands, which Louis does not stare at. 

He pulls on the cigarette, praying for the nicotine to numb something, anything.  

“I signed it. It was a lot to read, you know? Just for you waking up in my bed. I can’t imagine what the other shit you mentioned is like. Like, if we’d slept together, would it be even more than this?” 

Louis blows out a cloud of smoke. “You actually read it?” 

“A popstar breaks into my room, sleeps in my spare bed. Yeah, I read what gets slid under my door.” 

Huh. Louis feels like people don’t usually put a lot of time into the paperwork, they just want to fuck him and get it over with, so they’ll sign whatever they need to. This is different though, because there was no fucking. 

Of course Beautiful Snobby Stranger read the paperwork. 

“Find any typos in it?” Louis taunts, and Beautiful Stranger just holds the still folded papers out into the space between them. 

“Is that another way of calling me snobby?” 

Louis shrugs, looking down at his cigarette. He watches the ash fall to the ground beside his foot, grey and a little red. He steps on it to make the red go away. “I don’t know anything about you,” he says, still staring at the ground. He drags his foot back, spreading the ashes across the asphalt. “You do still seem a bit snobby. I wouldn’t be surprised if you found some kind of mistake in all the reading you did.” 

Beautiful Stranger laughs. It’s the first time Louis’ heard that, he’s pretty sure, but it’s fucking… It’s shocking. Bright. It makes him look up. “I’m a writer. And I use that term loosely. Of course I read it.” 

So there is an increased chance that he did find a typo or something, if he read it as closely as he claims. Louis doesn’t comment on it. He narrows his eyes at Beautiful Stranger’s admission. “Anything I’d know?” 

Beautiful Stranger shakes his head. “No. Are you going to take the papers?” 

Louis steps forward and takes the packet in his free hand, shoving it in the pocket of his own hoodie. “D’you want a drink?” 

His eyes narrow. “Are you allowed to do that?” 

“Allowed to do what? Get a drink?” Louis asks, chuckling. 

Something changes in Beautiful Stranger’s face. He sits back, his whole posture changing, seeming less confident than he was just a second ago. “No, like, get a drink at the bar,” he says, voice not wavering even though his demeanor has changed. 

Louis drops his cigarette and snuffs it, tugging his hood up and nodding towards the door. “Of course,” he replies simply, heading for the door without waiting. 

By the time Louis opens the door, he can hear Beautiful Stranger’s feet hitting the ground behind him. Louis holds the door open for him without looking over his shoulder. At the bar, the hostess takes one look at him and Louis flashes her a smile, and two seconds later she’s leading him to a table in the farthest corner. 

She sets menus down and smiles at them both before saying that someone will be with them momentarily. Louis gestures to the seat across from him as he sits, watching as Beautiful Stranger sits down. 

Louis sets the NDA on the table beside his plate and watches Beautiful Stranger pick up the menu. He looks over it for a moment before lowering it to look at Louis. “Are you watching me?” 

Louis shrugs. “Just wanted to witness the process.” 

Beautiful Stranger closes his menu. “Tequila Sunrise and a quinoa salad. I’d get something more expensive, but I prefer tequila and I’m a vegetarian.” 

Interesting. “There’s other things you could get, even as a vegetarian, if you wanted to run up my tab.” 

“Ate a big lunch, and I happen to like salads. I didn’t think you’d be complaining.” 

“I’m pretty loaded, I don’t need to worry about the cost. Whatever you want.” 

Beautiful Snobby Stranger sits back in his seat. Louis mirrors his position. He needs to relax, because he cannot let Beautiful Snobby Stranger know that he’s getting under Louis’ skin. “True,” he relents, and Louis smirks. “Aren’t you going to ask my name?” 

Louis’ smirk falls. He tries to recover quickly, reaching forward to tap the paperwork on the table in front of him. “I figured it’s in here,” he says. 

Beautiful Stranger leans forward again, like they’re conspiring together on something, even though they’re really not. “Yeah, but don’t you want to know?” 

Louis shrugs. He is calm, cool, and collected right now. Cool as a cucumber. Whatever else people say to show that they’re completely, one hundred percent fine. “Does this mean you’re just going to tell me?” 

“Suppose I shouldn’t be surprised,” Beautiful Stranger drawls. 

Before he can open his mouth again, the waitress appears. She introduces herself and takes their orders, and she’s off again, quicker than she came. Louis takes a sip from his water because his mouth is dry again, so fucking dry, as he watches Beautiful Stranger. He’s not even doing anything, but Louis’ staring at his cheekbones and the cut of his jaw every time his face turns enough to let Louis see it in the right light. 

“Why shouldn’t you be surprised?” Louis prompts as the waitress puts their drinks down (a beer for himself, a Tequila Sunrise for Beautiful Stranger), takes their food orders, and disappears. 

Beautiful Stranger wraps his lips around the black straw in his drink. Louis looks away. Because Beautiful Stranger has beautiful lips and he’s staring at Louis intently. He can’t keep looking. 

Beautiful Snobby Stranger. 

“Because you’re like, you’re Louis Tomlinson. Regardless of the NDAs and whatever, your name is in the headlines. I doubt you have people falling at your feet and the first thing they’re telling you is their name.” 

Louis quirks a brow and takes a sip from his drink. “Falling at my feet, hm?” 

Beautiful Stranger’s gaze doesn’t waver. “Do you want to know my name or not?” 

Louis sets his beer down and picks up the NDA, flipping to the first page marked with a signature. Beautiful Stranger has printed his name in somewhat scratchy handwriting, but it’s not illegible. Harry Styles. Printed right over the line where he signed his name for the first time, a big looping H and Y bracketing the scrawl in the middle. 

Harry Styles. 

Louis flips the packet closed and picks up his beer again, taking a long drink. Beautiful Stranger’s — Harry Styles’ — gaze hasn’t left him for a second. “Harry Styles,” Louis says aloud. He likes the way it sounds coming out of his mouth. “You’re a bit of the pain in the arse, Harry Styles, you know that?” 

Harry laughs and sips his cocktail. Louis doesn’t let himself look away this time, but maintains eye contact instead of watching his tongue dart out to pull the straw between his lips. Okay, maybe he does watch that. But he does not watch Harry as he drinks. He looks away from his throat, swallowing, the way he probably licks his lips after he’s finished drinking, because he seems like the type. 

“Do you have anything nice to say about me?” Harry asks, challenging. Louis shrugs. “I mean, seriously. You break into my hotel room and wake me up in the middle of the night. You drink my alcohol, slide an NDA under my door, and you can’t say anything nice?” 

Louis drains the rest of his beer. The waitress is bringing another one over hardly two minutes after he’s set the empty glass down. “You were weirdly cool about me breaking into your hotel room. I’ll give you that.” 

Harry chuckles, a sound from somewhere deep in his chest, and Louis’ stomach swoops. “Very kind of you, Louis Tomlinson. Was that difficult?” 

“Do you think I’m an arsehole?” He asks forwardly. 

The waitress sets their meals down, preventing Harry from answering for a moment. Louis pulls the tomatoes off his burger and sets them on the side of his plate before grabbing the ketchup, putting a decent amount on top of the remaining cheese and lettuce. He picks up his knife and cuts the burger in half before looking at Harry again. 

Harry’s already staring at him, fork poised over his own salad. “What?” Louis prompts. 

Just like outside, Harry seems to visibly adjust himself. He digs the fork into his salad and opens his mouth, tongue lolling out as he shoves the mouthful in. Who the fuck eats like that? Louis huffs and takes a bite of his burger. “Nothing. I don’t think you’re an arsehole.” 

Louis decides it’s time to relent, at least a little bit. “I’m sure there’s plenty of nice things about you, Styles. I just don’t exactly know you well enough to speak on them, I suppose.” 

That makes Harry Styles smile, thankfully between mouthfuls of quinoa salad. His cheeks concave with those deep dimples. “I like to think there are. Aren’t you going to ask about my writing again?” 

Louis shrugs. “Didn’t seem like you wanted to talk about it,” he says honestly, simply, because it really didn’t. It was something he brought up in passing, to prove a point, maybe, Louis isn’t entirely sure and he’s not sure he ever will be sure. 

Harry’s eyes drop down to look at the tomatoes on the side of Louis’ plate. Louis furrows his brow. “Do you want them?” He asks. 

Harry’s gaze snaps back up to meet his. “What? No.” 

“You’re staring at my tomatoes like they offended you, mate. If you want them, take them.” 

Harry eats another forkful. Sticking his tongue out all the same. Louis kind of wants that tongue in his own mouth, he thinks. Harry’s just frustrating enough that Louis is one hundred percent positive that he’d be a fantastic lay. Louis likes them snippy sometimes, because he knows that he’s rather snippy himself, and he likes someone that can give and take as much as he can. The snippy ones are always good lays. Louis always manages to outlast them, get them the way he wants them. It’s fun.

Louis likes a challenge sometimes, and he wouldn’t mind wearing Harry down until he’s whimpering and begging for Louis to do something to him. 

He takes another bite and tries not to think about Harry’s tongue in his mouth. 

“Why didn’t you just order it without tomatoes?” Harry asks. He sets his fork down and leans across the table, picking the two tomatoes up. He puts one on his plate and pops the other into that stupid big mouth of his, whole, chewing slowly. “I mean, if you were going to take them off anyway, you could’ve ordered it without. Or, like, got them on the side.” 

“Don’t always like to. I never know how swamped they are and I feel like it’s just one more thing for someone to remember to do,” he replies honestly. Harry’s face softens from confusion into something more… gentle, almost fond. “It seems like an inconvenience, almost, to me, I dunno. Whereas I can just take them off myself. Sometimes if I ask for none, they forget, and then it’s, like, disappointing.” 

“Huh,” Harry muses. “Interesting.” 

“What?” Louis asks. “Gonna run to the press with the fact that I don’t eat tomatoes?” 

“Why? Have you not covered food preferences in all that very extensive paperwork?” Harry fires back, and Louis can’t help but laugh. 

He’s beginning to think that Beautiful Snobby Stranger isn’t always quite so snobby. Maybe he really is just snobby when popstars break into his hotel room in the middle of the night. Or just snobby when said popstars are mouthy and automatically assume that beautiful strangers in hotel rooms are going to be rude. 

“I’m not quite sure, really,” Louis admits finally. “I honestly haven’t read over it in a while. But I don’t think my team is concerned about people blabbering about my food preferences to the press.” 

Harry nods slowly. “There’s far more salacious behavior they’re interested in protecting, I bet,” he points out, and Louis just smirks and sips his drink. “I mean, right? You have them for a reason. And the way you started going on that next morning, about proper ways to go about stuff like that when you thought we’d had sex.” 

“Yeah, we have them for a reason,” Louis echoes. He picks up his burger again and focuses on eating, because suddenly this conversation feels like it could get a bit heavy, and he figures if he keeps his mouth full, he can’t talk anymore. 

He supposes he did a good enough job of putting his own foot in his mouth the morning he woke up in Harry’s hotel room, rambling on about proper ways to go about stuff and how gorgeous Harry is and how he’d wished he could stay. The NDA has that covered though, regardless of the lack of sex. There’s not much he could say to the gossip rags because of that, and he’s not sure they’d pay all that much for the scoop that Louis doesn’t like tomatoes and likes using master keys to break into his friends’ hotel rooms but has only got it wrong once. 

Sure, Harry could say that he’s pretty sure Louis Tomlinson has sex with men and gets them to sign NDAs so they can’t say anything about it, but they managed to get Harry to sign before he thought to try to blab. Even if they hadn’t, that’s no different than what the gossip rags are already printing about him without any concrete evidence anyway. 

He’s not sure how much they’d pay for the information, really, but for some reason, something tells him that Harry wouldn’t have said anything even without the paperwork. 

The waitress brings Harry another Tequila Sunrise and, when he asks for it, the dessert menu. Louis polishes off his burger and his second beer, looking across at Harry as he stares down at the dessert menu. His brow is furrowed in focus, bottom lip caught between his teeth as he reads. 

“Thought you’d had a big lunch,” Louis comments finally, and Harry’s head jerks up to look at him, looking confused by his comment. “You said you got the salad because you’d had a big lunch. I’m just surprised you asked for the dessert menu.” 

Harry shrugs. “I never turn down sweets.” 

“Not a fan meself,” Louis replies, and Harry’s mouth drops open in shock. “I mean, get yourself whatever you want, as you already pointed out, it’s on me.” 

“You’re not a fan of sweets?” 

Louis shakes his head and looks down, picking at the cold crisps remaining in his basket. “Not really,” he says, abandoning his search for any viable crisps when they’re all too cold or too crunchy. “That’s not rag worthy news, though. Pretty sure I’ve already been asked about it at some point.” 

“The Variety interview,” Harry says immediately, nodding knowingly. Louis arches his brows. Harry Styles knew who he was, Louis remembers that, but he’s… A fan? Like, enough of one to know what interview Louis was asked about his dessert preferences during? 

Louis can have some fucking fun with this. 

“Yeah, maybe.” Louis smirks, and Harry’s blushing furiously now, before Louis’ even started teasing him. “Kind of surprised you know that, though. I mean, I just assumed you knew who I was because I figured you didn’t live under a rock. But you’re… You’re a fan, aren’t you? Like, a proper, interview watching, gig going fan?” 

“I just—I have a sister. And I have—I have godchildren, too, younger ones,” Harry stammers through the excuse, and Louis’ smirk only deepens. “I just… Don’t live under a rock, okay? I pay attention.” 

“Relax, love,” Louis says calmly. Harry’s hand is shaking slightly as he picks up his Tequila Sunrise and takes a long drink. “I’m just teasing. It’s sweet.” 

Harry Styles flustered like this might be one of the greatest things Louis’ ever seen. It’s doing nothing to curb Louis’ (shockingly vivid) imagination, though. In fact, it’s giving him even more images of what Harry might look like if he were flustered for different reasons. 

“I’ve got a gig for my new album tomorrow night,” Louis tells him, leaning forward. Harry’s eyes go wide and he wraps his mouth around the straw again. “I’ll slide some passes under your door, if that’s something you think you’d be interested in.” 

Harry nods slowly, kind of dumbly. He’s starting to smile again, even though his cheeks are still flushed a pretty shade of pink. “Why would you do that?” 

Louis shrugs. “Consider it a thank you for getting this back to me,” he says, pointing to the NDA. “And for not running to the Daily with my food preferences and drunken practices.” 

And he’s grinning now. Louis wants to lick his dimples. “Yeah, um. That’d be great, actually. I should be done with what I have to do tomorrow, so my evening will definitely be free.” 

Louis’ smiling now too, he can’t help it. “Cool. I’ll see you then. I’m just gonna go settle up. And, uh, I’ll see you around, Styles.” 

“Yeah,” Harry breathes. “I’ll see you around.” 

He leaves the table before Harry’s even ordered dessert. He goes to the register and tells them to charge the whole meal to his room, but not to bring Harry the bill and not to take a tip from him if he can help it. The man says he understands and will do just that, but Louis has a feeling Harry won’t leave the restaurant without leaving a tip anyway. 

Whatever. 

He calls his manager and requests two VIP packages be dropped off to Harry’s room as soon as possible, which he has to answer about a million questions about, of course. Louis just says it’s a favor, payback, whatever he can call it to get people to stop asking so many fucking questions. He absolutely does not tell anyone that he’s giving Harry Styles these tickets because he ended up hopelessly charmed by the Beautiful Snobby Stranger. 

Louis thinks he might need another cold shower, honestly. 

**

The entire time he’s signing CDs and meeting fans and taking photos and chatting with everyone about everything under the sun, Louis can’t stop thinking about the stupid curly haired man whose room he broke into. He wants to unravel Harry in more ways than one; what does he write? Why was he so chill with Louis breaking into his hotel room? How big of a fan is he? What’s his favorite song, does he have a least favorite song, does he watch all of Louis’ interviews, has he ever been to a show before? 

Does he have a boyfriend (or girlfriend, Louis admits that he isn’t quite sure which way Harry may lean), does he think Louis is attractive, too? 

Will he actually show up to the show tonight? Should Louis invite him out after? He thinks he could really work things in his favor if he gets Harry out, gets them both bold and drunk, tries to entice him. 

“Louis,” Josh says, snapping Louis out of his trance finally. Louis snaps his head up to look at Josh across the room from him. He’s standing there, blank expression on his face, camera draped around his neck. 

“Yeah?” Louis asks, because he truly has no idea what Josh had said or asked him. 

“I kind of can’t do my job if you’re just sitting there staring into space, man,” Josh says. “Can you get up and, like, pregame or something?” 

Louis exhales heavily and nods. “Yeah, yeah. Sorry, mate. Got lost in me head for a second.” 

Josh hums, watching Louis closely as he stands up and grabs his solo cup of beer from the counter. “Uh-huh. Anything to do with a certain stranger whose hotel room you crashed in the other night?” 

“Nope,” Louis says quickly. “Where’s everyone else? Have they started the games?” 

“Started already, Tommo. You’re behind. Don’t get too smashed, yeah?” 

“I know, I know. I’ll save it for after, I promise,” Louis says over his shoulder, holding the door open for Josh on the way out of the dressing room. 

He pregames with everyone else, playing whatever silly drinking games the other lads have started, and doesn’t get more than tipsy before he’s called to get ready to go onstage. It’s a small venue, but he’s been able to hear the fans chanting and cheering and singing all evening, and knows it’s going to be a really special gig no matter the size. 

His album just came out, he’s going to play the entire thing, top to bottom tonight for his fans, and he can’t fucking wait to get out there. Louis pops in his in-ears and takes his stage beer with him to the side, waiting for his cue to go on. 

The feeling he gets as soon as he steps onstage and jumps into the first song, he’s not thinking about beautiful men or sex or with beautiful men or whether or not one of them will be there, or what will happen after. He’s thinking about singing, about his album, about his fans, and that’s all that fucking matters in this moment. 

“I’m so fucking grateful for every single one of you, you’ve changed my life and I could not do this without you,” Louis tells them, like he always does, because he can never say it enough. 

Things weren’t supposed to be like this for him — he never expected any of it. He just wanted to make music, regardless of how far it went. Needless to say, Louis never expected this. A wildly successful debut album, a world tour, and a second album and tour just as highly anticipated as the first. Never in his wildest dreams did he think it would all work out like this. 

He never, ever takes it for granted. 

Sure, Louis parties and sometimes drinks too much onstage and hooks up with people in random cities just because he can — shit like that comes with the territory, really — but he never takes the fans and the moments like these for granted. He’d be an absolute fool to, really. 

Tonight, he doesn’t drink too much onstage. He truly meant it when he said he was saving it for after. Because after is when it could get good — Harry’s got VIP tickets, and he’s going to find his way backstage, and Louis will ask him if he wants to come out with them. 

The second he finishes performing, Louis starts plotting. 

He thinks maybe they won’t hook up tonight. He thinks he’ll start pushing Harry’s buttons a little bit more, trying to get him as riled up as possible. Get him riled up, maybe a little jealous, just to put him in his place again. 

Louis accepts a drink from his bandmates once he’s in the dressing room again, taking out his in-ears and changing his clothes before Harry finds his way backstage. He’d had Mark leave specific details with the passes he’d slipped under Harry’s door, since Louis doesn’t have Harry’s number to text him and explain where to go and what to do after the show is over. 

As long as Harry can follow instructions, he should be backstage in a matter of minutes. 

Louis changes into black skinnies and a thinner black sweater that swoops low enough on his neck and chest to not feel stuffy. Someone hands him another beer and Louis is glad he waits to take a sip, because it’s after they’ve walked away that he sees Harry Styles walking into the room. 

He looks so good — dressed in the tightest black jeans Louis’ ever seen on another human being, and a white button down that, from here, looks practically sheer and is hardly buttoned at all, his long hair down and curly as ever — that Louis almost misses the fact that he’s walking in with another guy. 

Usually that wouldn’t matter, wouldn’t make Louis think twice because there’s people around, coming in and out, all the time. But this guy is wearing the second VIP badge around his neck and he’s, well, attractive. Possibly something even more than attractive that he can’t put his finger on, if Louis is being realistic with himself (which he does try to be, believe it or not).  

Harry spots him across the crowded room and holds his hand up in a wave. He tries to smile but his eyes are darting around the room, clearly overwhelmed by the amount of people and chaos unfolding. Maybe Louis should have thought this whole VIP backstage pass thing through a little more than he did. 

Louis grabs two bottles of beer in one hand and takes them across the room to where Harry and this man are still hovering near the doorway. “You made it,” Louis says as a form of greeting, and this time Harry really does smile. 

“With such specific instructions I think I would have actually had to try not to make it,” Harry replies. “This is my mate, Zayn. He’s a fan, too, even though he refuses to admit it aloud. But it’s true.” 

Mate. Mate. Mate. 

Louis tries to keep his cool. “Sweet. Glad you could make it, man. Beer?” 

Zayn shakes his hand at Harry’s fan comment and accepts his beer, then looks over Louis’ shoulder into the room. Harry’s gaze goes there as well. Louis turns to stand beside him, watching his mates fuck around. Josh is still taking pictures of them, thankfully distracted from hunting Louis down for photos at the moment. 

“It’s a bit chaotic backstage, I should’ve mentioned that. They might mellow out at the club,” Louis says apologetically, though that last part is definitely a lie. They’ll only get more rowdy, but Harry doesn’t have to know that yet. He studies Harry’s side profile, still dimpled in a smile, as he shakes his head. 

“Don’t even worry about it. You guys just played a great gig, and the album is already doing really well, from what I’ve heard. Definitely deserve a celebration.” 

“I wouldn’t know,” Louis says honestly, sipping his beer. Harry turns to look at him, brows drawn together in confusion. “I try not to look, in the first couple of days after the album comes out. At, like, reviews and stuff. If it’s shit I don’t wanna know until after I’ve enjoyed the initial release.” 

“Well, it’s not shit. And the things people are saying about it also are not shit.” 

“Careful, Styles,” Louis says warningly. “That almost sounds like a compliment.” 

Harry giggles. Honest to God giggles. Louis would swoon if he had no dignity left to preserve. Zayn turns, standing a bit closer to Harry so he can look over at Louis. “So, where’s this after party then? Can’t imagine this is it.” 

“You can drop the bad boy act, Zayn,” Harry drones. “It’s really alright.” 

Zayn just hums, looking at Louis. If they’re mates, as Harry introduced, Zayn is definitely either in love with Harry or just overly protective. Either way, Louis can’t really fault him for it, honestly, he understands.

He’ll play ball. 

“It’s just this club we go to when we’re in London a lot. All the info should have been in the paperwork we left at Harry’s room. We get a private room and bottle service and can hang out in the DJ booth sometimes, it’s sick.” 

Zayn nods slowly. He takes a long pull of his beer and, Christ, he really is rather good looking. Yeah, Louis really wouldn’t blame either of them if there was a little-more-than-mates thing going on. 

“Tommo!” Oli shouts from across the room, capturing Louis’ attention. “Are they riding separately or with us?” 

Louis looks to Harry for an answer. “Oh, I just thought we’d meet you there. But, uh, if you have room? Might as well?” Harry asks, looking at Zayn, who shrugs. 

Louis’ gonna have to wear him down a bit, he suspects. Luckily, clubbing and shots and buying drinks are all perfect for that. 

“We’ll make it work. Ol!” He hollers. “We’ll meet you at the car, yeah?” 

Oli flashes him a thumbs up and Louis throws back the rest of his beer, patiently waiting for Harry and Zayn to finish theirs before leading them out of the room. “I dunno how late we’ll be tonight, it honestly could go either way and depends almost entirely on how fast everyone gets drunk. Whenever you wanna go, I’ll have a car waiting to take you home,” Louis explains as they walk down the long hallway to the emergency exit door Louis knows their car is waiting currently. 

“We could always just Uber,” Zayn points out. 

“Ah, but that’s not the VIP experience,” Louis muses, leaning against the door to open it, exposing them to the cool air. 

It’s not terribly cold out yet, which means Louis absolutely does not notice Harry’s nipples harden through his ridiculously sheer shirt. Seriously, it’s not that cold, why are they doing that? Louis shakes himself and leads the pair over to the limo waiting for them. 

Louis doesn’t usually spring for limos, but he figured they’d have a big crowd tonight so he let Oli and the guys convince him to go for it this time around. The ride to the club will only take around a half hour, but the limo is stocked with alcohol and whatever else the lads saw fit, Louis isn’t quite sure. He mostly said yes to get them all off his back about it. 

“You don’t strike me as a limo guy,” Harry remarks as Louis opens the door, letting Zayn climb in first. 

“I’m not. This is everyone else’s fault. They have to bully me into doing nice things for myself sometimes,” Louis admits. 

Harry bends over to crawl in after Zayn, Louis following directly after him. Getting into the car like this provides Louis with a perfect opportunity to ogle, unashamed and without getting caught, which he does. Harry’s arse looks fantastic in his jeans. They ride low, so low Louis suspects they might be women’s jeans, which shouldn’t be hot, but it somehow is. 

Louis shuts the door behind himself, watching as Harry slides over next to Zayn. Louis leans forward and grabs three glasses and a bottle of champagne, handing the glasses to Harry to hold (which he takes in those stupidly big hands seamlessly) while he opens the champagne up. Harry obediently holds each glass out for Louis to fill, holding onto Louis’ until he’s set the bottle back down again and has leaned back against the seat. 

Harry and Zayn are both still a little rigid, which Louis doesn’t like. Louis’ not sure what will cause them to open up more, so he resolves to figure that out. When it comes to striking up conversation, he decides to stay away from how himself and Harry met. 

“How do you two know each other, then?” 

Harry perks up immediately. “We went to uni together. We had a few of the same literature classes, but Zayn was going down the actual art path rather than the writing, literature one.” 

“Still art, Haz,” Zayn remarks into his champagne flute, and Harry blushes. Louis likes that nickname that Zayn just used. It suits Harry, especially when he goes all flushed and embarrassed. He doesn’t comment on any of that. 

Harry rolls his eyes like he’s trying to cover up the fact that he’s blushing and takes a sip of his own champagne. “Whatever. But, yeah, that’s how we met. Been mates ever since.” 

“Is this all covered in the NDA?” Zayn asks suddenly. Harry turns his head, presumably to glare. Louis can’t imagine it’s a very threatening look.  

Louis clears his throat and takes a sip of his champagne, holding it in his mouth for a second (he’s not very fond of champagne) before finally swallowing. He leans forward, resting an elbow on his knee to look over Harry and at Zayn. Harry’s wide eyed now, looking between the two of them wildly. 

“Well, you didn’t sign one, and even if you did, not everything is covered anyway. I trust that Harry here won’t say anything about anything that happens tonight. Can I assume that the company he keeps is good as well?”

He doesn’t want to be a dick, really, he doesn’t. But Zayn’s sitting there and challenging him, and Louis doesn’t know what else to do other than be a little dickish about it. “Zayn,” Harry hisses, almost like he thinks Louis won’t hear him. Louis hears anyway. 

“Seriously, I’m just asking,” Louis says honestly. “Because we can take you back home, or to the hotel, or literally anywhere, if you want. Or if you want to stay out and party, I can get you the paperwork if it’s that important to you. Personally, I’d let you run to the rags with it because whatever you could say is no different than anything they’re printing now. But my manager isn’t fond of cleaning up my messes. So, whatever’s easier.” 

“Zayn,” Harry repeats. “Are you serious?” 

Zayn looks up at Harry, and that is a glare, Louis determines. Intimidating and handsome. Louis is attracted to women, on occasion, but when there’s a man this gorgeous in front of him, Louis can’t help but wonder how he’s not just… Straight up gay. “Forgive me for being a little wary of the popstar that breaks into your hotel room when you’re supposed to be working,” he snaps. Well, so much for avoiding that topic. 

Then Zayn looks at Louis, the same glare now directed at him. “I don’t need paperwork.” He says firmly. “I’m not gonna fuck this up. Mostly because I love Harry, partially because I don’t feel like getting sued for every penny I have. Which I’m sure would happen regardless of if I signed my name on a few dotted lines. So you don’t have to worry about me.” 

Louis sits back, tossing the rest of his champagne into his mouth and swallowing. “Fine. Good, then.” 

They don’t get the chance to say anything else, because the door is getting flung open suddenly and Louis has to slide over the rest of the way, pressed up against Harry as everyone else files in. They all smell like beer and vodka and smoke, still clutching open cups and bottles to their chests. 

Harry, of course, has those stupidly long legs. His (gorgeous, Louis can assume it’s as gorgeous bare as it is clothed (maybe a little more gorgeous bare)) thigh ends up basically on top of Louis’, and Louis can do nothing but take the champagne when it comes around and fill up their glasses. 

“This is a little bit out of my wheelhouse,” Harry remarks, his voice startlingly close to Louis’ ear. Louis doesn’t turn his head, because he knows he’ll be basically touching noses with Harry and that is something he cannot handle right now. 

Louis brings his glass to his lips, humming. “It gets better once you get drunk. I know we’re a lot.” 

He sees Harry move out of the corner of his eye, tossing back the entirety of his champagne and swallowing audibly. Louis is so, so glad he’s not looking. He steals the champagne back from Oli and waits for Harry to hold his glass up to be refilled. Louis fills it, tops off his own, and sits back. 

Zayn snags the champagne from Louis, which just makes him laugh but hides it in his glass. Harry slouches, following Louis down to keep speaking into his ear. There’s music playing and loud talking and they’re moving now, but Louis still doesn’t turn his head. 

“He’s not always like this, I promise.” Harry tells him, and Louis snorts. “I swear! It’s like he said, he’s wary of the popstar who broke into my hotel room. But he’s harmless.” 

“Hey,” Zayn snaps, warning. Louis would giggle about it if he weren’t trying to maintain his ultimate Cool Guy Looks and Reputation. Which is really difficult, especially around Zayn, who seemingly just exudes Cool Guy Looks and Reputation all the fucking time, even when someone like Louis (he knows, he’s a bit frustrating and a bit more than a handful at times) is pushing his buttons. 

Harry hits Zayn’s thigh and he shuts up. Then he’s the one giggling. And it just makes Louis think about how he hates that the second he knew Beautiful Stranger’s name, he became something attainable. Someone attractive, someone he definitely wants to end up fucking (and, honestly, maybe more than that, and Louis never, ever thinks past the fucking these days). Now that Beautiful Stranger is Harry Styles, and he’s slowly becoming less of a stranger, Louis’ a little bit endeared by the giggling. 

He’s going to need to get absolutely bombed. 

At the club, they’re shown to one of the private rooms, Louis making himself at home in a booth just as a tall, leggy, brunette woman dressed in all black comes around with their bottle service options. Louis just tells her they’ll take two bottles of whatever their best vodka and tequila options are for the evening and sends her on her way with a few notes. 

Harry sits down across from him, tugging Zayn down with him. “So, like, do you guys just sit here and drink?” Zayn asks, raising his voice over the music. 

Louis shrugs. “We’ll get a few drinks in now, then head out to the dance floor. I think Oli’s mates with tonight’s DJ, we can probably get up in the booth and whisper in his ear.” 

“Oh, the luxury,” Harry croons. There he is again, being a little bit snarky and making Louis want to smack him. “I can’t wait to see where the night takes us, then.” 

“You literary folk get up to a lot of crazy partying, then?” Louis asks, leaning forward so he’s just that much closer to them. Harry giggles, Louis can’t hear it but he can tell, the way his nose scrunches up and he only gets a dimple on one of his cheeks, the less prominent one. 

“You still haven’t asked what exactly I do,” Harry points out. 

Louis shrugs. “I’ll find out eventually,” he replies. Truth is, it doesn’t really matter all that much. Louis is curious, of course, he’s curious by nature. But he kind of wants to keep going without knowing exactly what Harry does, for now he knows that he writes, and that’s enough. 

Oli comes back to the booth with three different bottle girls, two of them holding trays of shots, the other holding the bottles they’d ordered. 

It’s going to be a long night. 

There’s so much smoke surrounding the DJ booth Louis is half convinced he’s going blind. He doesn’t know if it’s from the machines or from the various joints and cigarettes, but it’s incredibly hazy. He takes another drag on his own cigarette and leans against the railing, squinting through the fog down at the dance floor. 

Harry is down there, a few feet in front of the booth, a man who might be taller than Harry himself is plastered to his back. The man’s hands are on his hips, Harry’s head tipped to the side as he grinds his hips back. His plastic cup is clutched tight in one hand, the other placed over one of the stranger’s hands. Louis can’t see very well, but Harry’s grasp on the man’s hand seems firm, pointed, almost like he’s preventing that hand from going anywhere it isn’t supposed to. 

Louis brings his drink to his lips and finishes the last of it. He drops his cigarette into the ice, watching as it creates a little more smoke as it gets put out. He pats the DJ and Oli on their shoulders before heading down the small steps. 

Back at the booth, Louis gets another drink for himself, vodka and ice in a new plastic cup, then heads down onto the dance floor. He stands on the top step for a moment, looking around until he spots Harry, still with the stranger, surrounded by Zayn and a bunch of people from Louis’ crew. 

Louis sips his drink and then makes his way onto the dance floor. Josh grabs his arm and shouts something in Louis’ ear about how great everything is, but Louis hardly hears him, and not just because of the music. His eyes are locked on Harry’s, just a few feet away now, and he feels his ego getting a little bit inflated by the fact that Harry is also looking at him. Despite the fact he has a very tall, attractive man plastered to his back, Harry’s eyes are still locked on Louis. 

Harry pats the stranger's hand and turns in his arms, shouting something in his ear that finally makes him back off. Louis kind of wants to know what it was, because he walked away so easily. It’s kind of hot, honestly, and Louis doesn’t even know what was said. 

Harry wraps those stupid pretty lips around his straw as he takes one, two, three big steps across the floor until he’s standing a foot away from Louis. His cheeks are flushed, hair a mess as it falls down his shoulders, pupils blown. 

Every time Louis sees him, he thinks Harry looks the most beautiful he ever has, even before Louis knew his name. 

“This is fun!” Harry shouts, and Louis nods slowly. “Thanks for inviting us!” 

“It is fun,” Louis points out, nodding over Harry’s shoulder as he watches the impossibly tall man disappear back into the crowd. “Clearly.” 

Harry glances over his own shoulder and looks back at Louis, shrugging. “That’s whatever.” 

Whatever. Right. “Need a drink?” 

Harry shakes his head, sipping through his straw again. Louis drinks from his own cup, holding Harry’s eye contact as he swallows. Harry lowers his cup. “Are you gonna ask me to dance, then?” 

“Is that something I should be doing?” 

Harry huffs, clearly frustrated. “Yes.” 

“And why won’t you ask?” 

“Why should I?” Harry fires back. Louis wants to devour him. 

Louis throws back the rest of his drink, sliding it onto the nearest table, and then nods for Harry to do the same. Harry bypasses the straw this time, and he watches Harry’s throat work as he swallows it. His shirt has opened a few more buttons, and Louis is getting a glorious look at that skin he’s been thinking about since he woke up in Harry’s hotel room just yesterday morning. Before Harry was Harry, when he was just a Beautiful Snobby Stranger. 

Harry reaches over Louis to put his own cup on the table. Louis fights the urge to bite his bicep. Harry stands back, looking at Louis expectantly. 

“Harry Styles, will you dance with me?” He asks dramatically. And Harry grins. 

He grabs Louis by the hand and tugs him into the middle of the throngs of people. Louis settles his hands on Harry’s hips, relishing in the fact that it’s the first time he’s ever felt them beneath his hands. Harry drapes his arms around Louis’ neck and then they’re flush together. Louis eyes the exposed skin of Harry’s neck and collarbones, wants to sink his teeth in so badly but doesn’t, because he told himself that he was going to play the long game. 

Even though this doesn’t feel like he’s playing the long game right now. Not with Harry pressed against him, Harry’s hips beneath his palms, their faces so close Louis can make out every mark and dimple and line on Harry’s face. 

“You know how to dance,” Harry marvels, looking down at where their hips are flush together. “Why don’t you dance?” 

Louis snorts. “I don’t have to. Or want to. And this isn’t dancing, Styles.” 

“Will you, um, turn ‘round?” Harry asks, his fingertips playing with the hair at the nape of Louis’ neck. 

Louis quirks an eyebrow at him. “Seriously?” 

Harry nods quickly. Then he’s leaning in, his cheek brushing Louis’ as he brings his mouth to Louis’ ear. His breath is hot, nearly panting already and they haven’t even done anything. “Please,” he says into Louis’ ear. Louis’ knees go weak. He nods dumbly, not saying anything, just turning around and backing up to Harry’s crotch. 

Harry’s hands slide to his front, thumbs hooked in Louis’ belt loops as he tugs Louis impossibly closer. Plastered to Harry’s front, Louis can’t feel a single thing other than the places where Harry’s touching him. He feels hot in every single spot, like Harry’s hands could start a fire if they moved in just the right way. Like, if he moved his hips the right way, he could set them both aflame. 

He can’t remember the last time he’d felt like this with another person. He doesn’t know that he ever felt like this with someone else. Sure, it’s been hot, dirty, passionate, even. But never with something as simple as this — just dancing. 

Louis lifts an arm, gripping the back of Harry’s neck over his shoulder. Harry’s lips come down near his ear, close enough that Louis can hear his breath as it comes out heavy, thick. “Is this covered in the paperwork?” He rasps. God, that fucking voice. 

Louis feels like he’s quickly losing the upper hand and he hardly even cares. 

He tightens his grip on Harry’s neck, then opens his hand to bury it in that stupidly gorgeous hair instead. Harry’s teeth graze below his ear and Louis wants to shout at him, tell him to bite or kiss or something or not to do it at all, but then Harry does. It’s not hard, not enough to leave a mark, but it sends a jolt down Louis’ spine just the same. 

He has to get the upper hand back. 

Louis spins around in Harry’s arms even though it can’t have been more than two minutes of their dancing, gripping Harry’s shirt with his other hand so roughly he swears he might have broken a button but doesn’t care. He knots his fingers in Harry’s hair tightly, pulling him down so their lips crash together. It’s rough, Harry’s mouth parted at first in a gasp so his teeth cut against Louis’ lip, but he manages to get it together rather quickly. 

Suddenly it’s not teeth, at least not so aggressively. Louis releases his shirt and cups Harry’s jaw as he tongues between his lips, wanting nothing more than to taste. He feels raw and desperate, Harry’s plush, soft lips against his own. 

Louis breaks away, partially for air, mostly because he’s been thinking about getting his mouth on Harry’s skin for days now. Somewhere in the back of his own drunk mind, a snobby and nagging voice is already complaining about marks and obligations and whatnot, so he goes lower. He zones in on Harry’s collarbones, hardly thinking before he ducks his head and suctions his mouth to the junction of Harry’s throat and his collarbone. 

He tastes like sweat and possibly some spilled tequila but Louis thinks that he hasn’t tasted anything better. They’re close enough that Louis can hear and feel Harry moan, somewhere deep in his throat, as soon as Louis bites down. He sucks hard enough to leave a mark, because he’s a possessive son of a bitch at heart. 

Harry’s hands squeeze his hips, and Louis isn’t sure if it’s a mindless reflex or a prompt to get Louis off his neck, so Louis stands upright anyway just in case. Harry’s mouth is open, pink lips bitten red, kissed almost raw even from so little. He’s flushed from his cheeks down to his chest and Louis, selfish and possessive as he is, wants more, and he doesn’t want it in a crowded club. 

He can’t believe this hopelessly attractive man annoyed Louis to no end the morning he woke up in his hotel room. 

He can’t believe that, only a couple of days later, Louis wants to fuck him into oblivion. Or be fucked into oblivion. Whatever Beautiful Stranger-turned-Harry Styles wants, really. 

“Are you okay?” He asks, instead of saying any of the million things he’s currently thinking, and Harry nods quickly. “I’m—” Louis starts to say something else, but he quickly realizes he doesn’t even know what to say, and he doesn’t want to say whatever he happens to come up with here. 

He grabs Harry by the wrist and drags him off the dance floor, all the way back up to their booth. It’s sparsely populated, thankfully, and just a little bit quieter. Louis gets another drink and then one for Harry as well, pressing the cold cup into Harry’s waiting hand. Louis exhales heavily, then knocks back a good portion of his own drink. It tastes too much like vodka to be properly enjoyable, but he drinks it anyway. 

Harry’s hand is shaking as he brings his cup to his mouth. 

“We can’t talk in here,” Louis says, raising his voice so Harry can hear him over the distance they’ve seemingly subconsciously put between their bodies. Louis tugs his smokes from where they’re crammed in his front pocket and holds them up. “Join me outside?” 

Harry nods. Louis leads them expertly through the club, out the shady back door without telling any of his team or his friends where he’s going. They’re hardly even on his radar. He props the door open with a traffic cone that’s sitting next to the doorway outside so they don’t get locked out (which would be either the best or worst thing to happen to Louis), then walks a few paces away from Harry to light up. 

Once he’s got his own cig lit, he holds the pack out to Harry in a silent question. Harry shakes his head, long curls bouncing a little against his shoulders. Louis is trying, very hard, not to think about how mere minutes ago his own hands were buried deep in that hair. “I don’t—Uh, I don’t smoke.” 

Louis nods once, closing the box and slipping it back into his pocket. “Smart. Nasty habit. Just can’t seem to kick it, though.” 

“We’ve all got our vices, haven’t we?” Harry asks, and somehow he sounds drunk yet very whimsical. “If it’s not really hurting anyone else, I find it difficult to judge anyone else for their habits.” 

Louis narrows his eyes and ashes his cigarette. “Have you been pretending to drink the last several hours?” 

Harry pouts. Louis, again, is trying very hard not to think about his mouth on that mouth. Tries not to think about how Harry’s lips are red and a little swollen because of him. “No. What?” 

“That was just very… Philosophical, that’s all.” 

“You just used philosophical in a sentence. Have you been pretending to drink?” 

“Do I not strike you as someone who would use that term?” 

Harry laughs softly, looking down at his feet. He scuffs the toe of his boot against the pavement, keeping his gaze downward when he speaks next. “Not really, no. I’m a writer, you know.” 

Louis inhales, savoring the feel of the smoke in his mouth and his lungs. “I do know,” he replies. 

“I use a pseudonym. Poems. Prose.” 

"Poems Prose is your pseudonym,” Louis deadpans. He’s teasing, but Harry’s head still jerks up to meet his eye, lightning fast. “I’m kidding,” he points out, because apparently that didn’t translate. 

“I know,” Harry says immediately, clearly trying so hard to remain cool and calm. “No, poems prose is not the name I write under. I was saying I write poems. Poetry.” 

“Are you any good?” Louis asks, genuinely curious. Harry flushes and looks back down at the ground. “Don’t act all humble. Seriously, Styles, are you any good?” 

“I guess,” Harry says. “I’m a little biased sometimes. Mostly wildly insecure.” 

Louis nods slowly. That sounds about right; Harry does strike him as more shy about it than anything else. “Alright,” he says. “You don’t have to tell me about it if you don’t want to, then.” 

“It’s been bothering me that you haven’t asked. I know you probably have… Resources. Could’ve found out on your own. But I couldn’t tell if you knew or not. It’s different, when you know that someone has read what you’ve written.” 

“I get what you mean, Harry. You really don’t have to explain yourself to me,” Louis tells him. “And I didn’t. You know, look you up or whatever. I happen to be a big fan of privacy.” 

Harry coughs and swallows it with a mouthful of his drink. “Right. Sorry, that was stupid of me to assume.” 

“It’s alright, love," Louis says gently, his tone surprising himself. 

“When you dragged me out here, I didn’t think it would be for a heart to heart,” Harry admits. 

Louis gets that. He didn’t think so either, but he knew that he needed to think, somewhere there weren't a million different people drunk and grinding and making out. Somewhere he wasn’t making out with Harry. Somewhere with distance between them, because apparently Louis can’t think clearly with this drop dead gorgeous, virtual stranger anywhere near him. 

He’s thirty fucking years old. There is no reason why he should be getting dizzy and giddy over boys (well, men, Harry is a man, he really shouldn’t call him a boy) but still he’s standing here, trying to smoke through this cigarette like it’s the last one he’ll ever smoke. Like it’s the thing that is going to stop him from going dizzy and giddy and weak in the knees over a man he met… How many hours ago? Too little, probably. 

Louis needs to get a fucking grip. But there is only one thing — one person — he wants to get a grip of. Get a grip on? Of? Louis doesn’t know. It’s all fucked in his head right now, and if he was really that hung up on the grammar he could very well ask the self-proclaimed poet standing five feet away from him, but he’s not that hung up on it. 

He drops his cigarette and steps on it to put it out. Then steps closer. Three feet between them now. “Do you want to talk about it?” He asks, and he’s momentarily scared by how low and foreign his voice sounds even to his own ears. 

Harry just looks up at him, his drink clutched in his left hand as it drops down to his side. “Now’s a time when an answer would be helpful, Styles,” Louis drones. “You can’t just use your doe eyes and get out of it.” 

“I do not do that. Even if I did, I’ve never done it with you,” Harry snaps, though there’s no bite behind it. 

Louis doesn’t comment, instead he just waits for Harry to speak again. It takes longer than Louis anticipated. Moments of heavy silence stretch between them, somehow not even breaking eye contact. Louis tries to pinpoint what it is he wants Harry to say; whether he wants a one night stand or love and babies and picket fences or nothing at all. He comes up empty. 

“How long are you here for?” Harry asks finally, bringing his drink to his mouth once again. That stupid pretty mouth and that stupid straw. He’s going to remove any straws from Harry’s drinks in the near future. Because Louis is dying, more than he was before, since now he knows what that stupid pretty mouth feels like. And he wants it to do a lot more than wrap around a straw. 

“About a week, I think. I don’t know exactly. It’s easier to stay at a hotel than go back and forth from my place every day and night.” 

“I’m here for that, too.” Harry replies, his voice hardly above a whisper. His upper body is swaying a bit, like he wants to move closer to Louis but hasn’t given himself permission to. 

“About a week,” Louis echoes, and Harry nods. He can work with that. It’s not like he needs anything right now — and he’s certainly not looking for anything — but he can do a few days.

“If that’s… In regards to the kissing, if that was something you wanted to keep doing, possibly do more than that. I think it could happen. Casual. For a little while.” 

Somehow Harry sounds like both a bumbling idiot and the poet he claims to be, flitting between the two every other sentence, both when he’s sober and when he’s drunk. Maybe that’s just Louis, though, finding the beauty in the bumbling words. He is a songwriter, after all, he has to take his words at their worst and show them to people and work and find the beauty in them. He takes shit into the studio with him and has to point to the different parts, even the ones that suck, and say here, look, this part could make sense, this part could be beautiful if we just restructure, think a little more. So he kind of gets it. 

“I think that would be nice, Harry Styles.” 

Because he’s a man, and the person standing before him is beautiful and complex and smart and annoying, and there’s already an NDA before there could be anything else, and right now he’s a little past drunk and he wants. He’d have to be a fucking idiot to say no. 

Louis finishes his drink and tosses the cup behind him carelessly, grabbing Harry’s hastily and holding it up in front of his face. Harry snatches it back and takes down the rest of his tequila with an admirable lack of grimace. Louis hates tequila. He’s a seasoned drinker, but he hates tequila, so he’d still make a face. Harry doesn’t even flinch. It’s hotter than it should be. 

As soon as Harry drops his cup, Louis closes the distance between them and cups Harry’s face, kissing him deeply. He isn’t shy or hesitant about it, and doesn’t give Harry the opportunity to so much as think he has the upper hand this time. He slides his left hand into the back of Harry’s hair, grabbing gently but with enough intention that Harry knows he’s in total control here. 

Louis pulls back, keeping Harry’s bottom lip pinched between his teeth until the last possible second. He lets it go and Harry whimpers, like he didn’t want it to end. Louis gets it. “Take me home,” Harry rasps, his lips brushing Louis’. 

It’s not home, but it’s home for the time being, but Louis figures it’s close enough. He nods quickly, taking two big steps away from Harry. Which makes Harry pout. Louis laughs softly, tugging his phone out and unlocking it. He quickly texts his driver (not the limo one, thank you very much) and then sends the group message with his mates a message to tell them that he’s leaving. Once that’s done, he looks up at Harry expectantly. 

“Should you tell Zayn that you’re leaving?” Louis prompts. 

Harry stutters out some incomplete sentences, pulling out his own cell phone. He bites down on his bottom lip while he stares down at the bright screen, and Louis just watches. He lights another cigarette and keeps watching, because he feels like he simply can’t look away. He doesn’t want to look away, so not being able to at all isn’t really that much of an inconvenience. 

“Okay,” Harry breathes out finally. “He’s quite attached to Oli, says he’ll hitch a ride with him when the time comes.” 

“I knew free drinks would loosen that lad right up,” Louis says, sighing happily. Harry eyes his hand as it brings his cigarette up to his mouth again. Louis notices this time, how intently Harry’s watching him smoke.

“I’ll put it out,” Louis offers, and Harry hums questioningly. “The smoke. I’ll put it out if you don’t like it. Or, like, brush my teeth before I kiss you again, or something.” 

Harry’s mouth turns up in a sort of half smile, the dimple on his cheek popping out just the slightest bit. “No, it’s okay. I don’t mind it. As long as you wash your hands, obviously, before…” He gestures vaguely with his right hand, in the general area of his crotch, and Louis snorts. “Don’t laugh. I dunno what your drunk hook up practices are like.” 

“I happen to have proper hygiene,” Louis scoffs. He should probably be, like, properly offended, but he isn’t, because Harry’s giggling and it’s fucking amazing. 

Louis checks his phone and sees that his driver has sent him a location, around the back of the building near where they are, and he nods his head to prompt Harry to start walking. Harry gets caught up quickly, on account of his stupidly long (beautiful) legs, falling into step with Louis easily. 

“If you think I’m such a sleaze bag, why are you so keen on falling into bed with me, anyway?” Louis asks, staring at his feet and absently rolling his burning cigarette around between his thumb and forefinger, just to give his hand something to do. He doesn’t want to grab Harry again, in any capacity, because he fears they might never make it out of this alley. That would really make him a sleaze bag. 

“I don’t think you’re a sleaze bag,” Harry says quietly. “I am a fan, I think I recall telling you that. I wouldn’t be a fan if I thought you were sleazy. And I certainly wouldn’t be falling into bed with you if I thought that.” 

Louis doesn’t say anything, because he thinks Harry has more to say, and he kind of likes the lulls of silence that they share sometimes. They’re weighted occasionally, sure, but most of the time, despite everything they’re still rather comfortable. He likes waiting for Harry to complete his thought, slow and incoherent as it may be, because he likes hearing Harry talk. 

“I don’t think you’re a sleaze bag, and I’m not just… I haven’t been kissed like that in a long time. I mean, it hasn’t felt that good in a long time. And I’m absolutely interested in seeing how the rest of it goes.” 

Louis nods slowly, tossing the rest of his cigarette aside as he spots the black four door they’re meant to be getting into. This driver doesn’t let him smoke in the car. It’s frustrating sometimes, but Louis always respects his wishes. 

“How long?” Louis asks as they get to the side of the car. He puts his hand on the door handle and looks at Harry, expectantly waiting for Harry to answer his question. 

Harry runs a hand through his hair, tossing it around a little bit more so it falls differently over his scalp. Louis thinks, based on the limited experience he has with Harry’s hair thus far, that Harry wouldn’t mind if Louis got a good grip on it tonight. He swallows hard and tries to get his brain to focus on the question he asked. 

“Long enough,” Harry says finally, slow and syrupy. His eyes are hooded, his mouth a deep smirk. “Are we going to get in the car?” 

Louis finally opens the door, gesturing for Harry to get in. Harry does so, but not before kissing Louis square on the mouth (quick, chaste, nothing like their previous two kisses; this one seems too natural, too easy) and tapping his bum. 

After he shuts the door, Louis steps around the back of the car and takes a few deep, level breaths. The kiss was a risk, and he let it happen, but that’s probably fine, even though Louis wanted to do a lot more than take just a quick peck on his mouth. He’s not going to be able to touch Harry in the car, either, because he doesn’t want to give his driver (and friend, really) an eyeful. Or an earful. Or any glimpses into any of the things he wants to do both to and with Harry Styles. 

When he gets into the car himself, Harry’s squinting at his still (very) bright screen with a soft smile on his face. Louis gets through the pleasantries as they start moving, steadily toward the hotel and all the things that can possibly happen once they get there. 

“You know,” Louis says, once the pleasantries have been exchanged and he’s settled back against the seat, a safe distance between them. The radio is playing some random Top 40 station at a reasonable volume, increased enough to drown out their voices if they speak quietly enough. “You can adjust the brightness on those things. You’ll wreck your eyes.” 

“Does that actually happen?” 

Louis shrugs. He doesn’t actually know, was mostly saying something just to be a pest and to draw more words out of Harry’s beautiful mouth, but it sounds like it could be a thing. “Probably. Dry them out or something, maybe.” 

Harry’s quiet for a moment. Louis notices Harry’s screen getting noticeably more dim out of the corner of his eye. “Is talking about eyeballs drying out usually included in your pre-sex conversation lineup?” 

Again, Louis can’t even find it in himself to be embarrassed, even though he definitely should be. He will not be recalling any of these embarrassing moments to any of his friends, because he’ll never hear the end of it from them. 

“No. But I tend to lay off the game when I’m in close quarters with people I know and respect, that I would prefer to respect me as well.” 

Harry snorts. “Lay off the game?” He repeats, sounding incredulous. Louis thinks they should be a little bit more drunk than they are. Because now this is getting undeniably embarrassing. “I’m seriously regretting admitting that I’m a fan of yours at the moment, and I’m deeply regretting signing all that paperwork that said I can’t talk about stuff.” 

Louis turns to look at him, trying to keep his expression falsely confused and mildly offended, but failing because his stupid mouth is betraying him and smiling without his brain giving it explicit permission to. 

“You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do,” Louis reminds him. “You’re the one who asked me to ask you to dance earlier.” 

Harry narrows his eyes at him, an amused grin plastered on his face. “I want this. You’re just really, really easy to rile up. Has anyone ever told you that before?” 

Louis’ face falls. Because, yes, many people have told him that. He faces forward again, unable to hold Harry’s gaze when he’s pushing his buttons so insanely accurately and persistently. “Yes, actually. Has anyone ever told you that you can be quite annoying?” 

“Snobby, I think, is the one I hear most,” Harry answers, not missing a beat. Louis laughs quietly, but keeps his gaze set forward, because he can imagine the look on Harry’s face without needing to see it right now. Smug, cocky, dimpled. Pinkish red lips, made worse by the way he so often bites them. Louis doesn’t have to look to know that. 

There’s a lull of silence. Again, not uncomfortable. Louis hopes his minibar has been restocked, because he’s going to need it, either before or after. Oh, or maybe during. That would be hot, too, body shots of something nice and expensive off of Harry’s torso. Louis plans on putting his tongue there anyway, but there’s always something a little more exciting about it when there’s liquor involved. He wonders if Harry would be into that. 

He wonders a lot about what Harry would be into, and Louis thinks he’d do just about anything, as long as it was with Harry. 

“I won’t sleep with you if you think I’m a snob, you know.” Harry says finally. Louis kind of wishes they were still in comfortable silence. 

“I don’t actually think you’re a snob the same way you don’t think I’m a douche.” 

“Sleazebag,” Harry corrects, making Louis snort. Those types of corrections are exactly why Louis would accuse him of being a snob, but Harry starts speaking again quickly enough that Louis can’t get a word in. From what Louis can tell, Harry doesn’t often speak so fast. He suspects the alcohol is easy  

“I’m a writer. Making corrections is part of what I do,” Harry says, by way of explanation, like he knew Louis thought about the correction. Louis has to look over at him, because he doesn’t have a clue what Harry’s expression looks like now. He could predict it before, when it was surely teasing and smug, but he can’t predict it now. He’s not sure how much of this is pre-sex banter and chatting and how much is real conversation. 

Harry looks… He looks a little worried. His brow is furrowed, and he’s pulled his bottom lip between his teeth, nervously rubbing his teeth back and forth over it, not just biting it in a sexy way. It’s in a nervous way. 

Louis, against his previous better judgment, reaches across the backseat and puts a hand on Harry’s jean-clad thigh, just above his knee. He didn’t want to break the barrier, the invisible line that draws the car in half, right down the center console and between the seats, but he does it anyway. 

Harry looks down at where Louis is now touching him, and Louis squeezes firmly, as if to show he doesn’t have some random tic where he reaches out and touches people like this; he wants to show that it’s pointed, purposeful. 

“I’m not—I didn’t mean it, when I called you a snob. I was hungover and tired and pissed off because…” He trails off, not knowing where to go next, because he doesn’t know why. He was hungover, and tired, and pissed. “It’s just what I do. And I can try to unpack it with you, if you’d like, and we could try to unpack why your writing seeps into everything you do.” 

Harry stares at Louis’ hand. “But then we’d end up talking, and possibly crying, and not having sex.” 

“Exactly,” Louis says quietly. “I’m wildly attracted to you, Harry, and those two times we kissed tonight… It hasn’t felt like that for me, too, in a long time. But if the popstar, NDA, I’m-Kind-Of-An-Asshole aspects make you hesitate in any way, then we don’t have to do anything.” 

Harry puts his hand over Louis’ and squeezes firmly. He tips his head back against the headrest, exhaling a heavy breath. Louis makes it a point not to think of those lips as pretty or sexy or anything other than lips. 

It takes him longer to speak this time. “I was mostly kidding,” he says finally, voice lower than usual. Louis does his best not to think about that low voice in a sexual way. “I would hope you don’t actually think that about me. And, like I said, I’m a fan, so I kind of… I mean, I’ve been around long enough to know you’re not actually a douche.” 

That’s a loaded statement, because Louis Tomlinson is very different from Just Louis. He chooses not to break that down now. He has to trust that Harry knows what he’s doing. 

“I promise I am not a douche. Or a sleazebag. Not really, anyway. Not in bed. And certainly not always.” 

Harry nods, his head still tipped back against the seat. “I’m not a know it all. Well, I guess I am, but I’m not always,” he’s speaking even faster now, like actually rushing to get words out. Louis clenches his hand tighter on Harry’s thigh. 

Harry speaks again before Louis gets the chance to. “I’m also not freaking out. Well, I am, a little bit, because you’re kind of one of my celebrity crushes and I’m about to either fuck you or be fucked by you, so.” 

That makes Louis smirk. “Celebrity crush, eh?” He muses, but before he gets the chance to say anything else, the car rolls to a stop. Louis glances out the window, just making sure they’re in the right place. From what he can see, they’re pulled up near the back of the hotel, where there’s no screaming, overwhelming crowds of fans. 

He gets out, nodding at Harry to do the same, calling a thank you over his shoulder before shutting the door. Harry’s standing on the other side of the car when he gets there, his hands shoved in the front pockets of his jeans. His hair is still rather messy, his shirt unbuttoned almost too far to be acceptable. 

Not that Louis is complaining. 

“D’you need another smoke?” Harry asks, as they start walking, again falling easily into step with each other. They head around the corner, to the back entrance where they’d bumped into each other before they ate lunch. Even that feels like a lifetime ago, let alone Louis bursting into his hotel room. 

“No, I’m good. Drinks in the room, balcony to smoke on.” Louis says, swiping his key card and pulling the door open. He holds it for Harry, who thanks him quietly, almost bashfully, walking ahead of him. 

Louis glances around quickly, seeing the hallway is empty, and rushes to catch up to Harry. He grabs him by the belt loop at the back of his jeans and pulls him to a stop, surging up and kissing him soundly. He can’t do it for long, on account of Harry starting to break out into a grin, totally messing up the rhythm. 

“Your room or mine?” Harry asks, putting a hand on Louis’ chin and tipping his head back so he can mouth across his jaw briefly. 

Louis grabs his hand and tugs him toward the elevator. “Mine, unless your writing conventions or whatever lead to a lot of sex for you and you happen to be stocked up on condoms,” he says over his shoulder, low enough not to be overheard by anyone in the lobby but loud enough to be heard by Harry. It’s a delicate dance. Louis is pretty good at it. 

The elevator comes quickly, thankfully, and it’s empty. Thank God. Louis presses his floor and steps back, using his grip on Harry’s wrist to pull him closer. Louis leans against the wall and catches Harry as he comes close, Harry’s feet bracketing the outsides of Louis’ own, his hips falling against Louis’. 

Louis reaches up and cups Harry’s cheek, smiling softly. Harry’s got a little crease between his eyebrows, like he’s thinking hard about something, his eyes searching Louis’ for something Louis doesn’t know him nearly well enough to try to predict. “Okay?” 

Harry nods, that line disappearing the second Louis asks him a question. He looks more resolved almost right away. “Yeah, but. Exactly how often are you having sex that you need to be stocked with condoms?” he asks, and Louis purses his lips. Harry shakes his head. “I’m not judging, I just… I feel like I can ask. If I can’t, or shouldn’t, just tell me, because it doesn’t really matter that much anyway, so you can just tell me to fuck off.” 

Louis brushes his thumb over Harry’s cheekbone fondly. Christ, fond. Gentle. He’s way too stupid over this boy way too fast. “I don’t want you to fuck off,” he says softly. “And it happens, somewhat. Mostly with men these days. It’s better to be prepared than not. It hasn’t happened here yet. You’re the first. And only, hm?” 

He watches Harry swallow hard, watches his throat work. Tries not to think about wanting to get his mouth on that throat (the whole neck, really, basically every expanse of bare skin Harry has to offer) because now is not the time. 

“Yeah. Okay,” Harry yields, just as the doors finally open on Louis’ floor. He shoves Harry off rather unceremoniously, just in case, but of course there was no need. It’s gone two, and there’s no one else around. 

Louis drags him off the elevator and down the hall. He knows he’s dragging Harry, because he has those stupid big feet and those stupid (beautiful) long legs and he seems clumsy, so he just tugs and waits for Harry’s lower half to catch up. 

Of course, Harry’s body catches up the second Louis stops in front of his door, crashing into his side with a giggle and an oops that melts Louis’ stupidly cold heart. He swipes his key, slides his hand in Harry’s back pocket and kisses his chin, murmuring hi, and then shoving the door open. 

They stumble in together, Harry pressing himself to Louis’ back as he bolts the door. As soon as it’s shut, Louis turns around and shoves Harry toward the bed. Harry stands at the edge, kicking his boots off before crawling on top of the duvet, leaning back against the pillows. He splays his legs out before him, endless expanses of hidden skin just a few feet away from Louis, covered only by a pair of impossibly tight, potentially women’s jeans, Louis hasn’t forgotten that possibility. 

“Do you wear ladies’ jeans?” Louis blurts. He promptly smacks a hand over his mouth, because what? 

“Your dirty talk continues to impress me,” Harry says, grinning. “Are you going to join me or not?”

Louis toes his own shoes off, leaving them carelessly in the middle of the room. They won’t be leaving the bed any time soon if things go the way Louis so desperately hopes they’re about to go anyway, he can move the shoes later. He moves fast, climbing onto the bed and crawling up between Harry’s legs. He kneels between them and leans forward, gripping Harry by the back of the neck to crush their mouths together. 

Harry’s lips part for him immediately, letting Louis slide his tongue in right away, snogging him long and well enough that Harry’s jaw eventually goes slack and pliant. Louis leaves him panting with a final bite to his bottom lip, which Harry counters by nipping Louis’ top lip just before he moves out of reach. 

“You’re so soft,” he marvels, sucking his bottom lip again. “Pliant,” he adds, and Harry whimpers. 

Louis ducks his head and kisses the hinge of Harry’s jaw, working frantically down his neck, teeth coming out to bite every so often. Every time he lets his teeth meet Harry’s skin, Harry gasps. Louis attaches to the base of his throat and sucks, hard, making Harry whine. His hand flies to the back of Louis’ head, tangling in his hair and pressing down, keeping Louis there for longer. 

He laves his tongue over the spot before he pushes back against Harry’s hand, lifting his head to meet his eye. “You like that?” Louis murmurs, lifting a hand to press against the mark, just a bit. Harry’s eyes slip shut and he licks his lips, nodding quickly. 

Louis trails his hand all the way down Harry’s chest, stopping when his fingers meet one of the few buttons still done up on his white shirt. Louis slips the first one through its hole, holding Harry’s gaze steadily. He looks even more disheveled than before, and they’ve barely even done anything yet. 

He unbuttons Harry’s shirt all the way, helping Harry slide it down his arms before he pops the button on his jeans. He’s wearing black Calvins under them, Harry lifting his hips up so Louis can tug those impossibly tight jeans down his impossibly gorgeous thighs. 

Louis pulls the jeans off Harry’s ankles and tosses them aside blindly, staying down by Harry’s feet and gripping an ankle. “Socks?” He asks simply. 

Harry hums, rolling the ankle that Louis has a firm grip on as he considers. “Off, please.” 

Louis doesn’t hesitate before pulling both socks off his feet, tossing those in the general direction of Harry’s other clothes. He lowers Harry’s right foot to the bed, planting it down on the mattress so his leg is bent at the knee. “You, too, please,” Harry says softly. 

He gets off the bed to strip down to his own pants, at the last minute taking his socks off as well. He also remembers, at the last minute, to turn to his bag and grab the lube and a couple of condoms. Louis drops the items on the bed next to Harry, who looks at him incredulously. 

“Long night planned?” He asks, and Louis just smirks. “Hm. I’m game.” 

“Thought we didn’t like phrases like that. Game.” 

“I understand their use now. I could be persuaded to not find it cringey.” 

Louis scoffs. “Cringey,” he repeats. “Alright, Styles.” 

Then Harry surges forward to kiss him again, and there’s not a lot more banter after that. 

**

“You know, just because he signed an NDA doesn’t mean you had to fuck him,” Oli remarks as he walks into the room after noon the next day. Louis snorts and shucks the remaining sheet off the bed he and Harry slept in and then makes his way to the bathroom. 

He immediately locks the door to take another shower, because he’s ninety percent certain he smells like sex and Harry. Again. He doesn’t mind smelling like Harry so much (though he’ll never admit that to another living soul) but the sex he could — and has to — do without. 

This morning, he woke up to a long-haired, wonderfully legged, hickey-ridden boy (man) in his arms. And an impossibly hard cock, spurred on by the aforementioned boy. He’d groaned quietly, accidentally shifting his hips against Harry’s arse, and to his surprise Harry had responded with a whimper of his own, pushing back against Louis. 

Harry told him that he’d been waiting for Louis to wake up, then was up in a flash, sliding down Louis’ body and taking his rock-hard cock into his mouth. 

They showered after that, where Louis determined he had enough time to suck Harry off as well, before he had to phone in for another radio interview with another station into another country. Harry had convinced Louis to let him stay, to take the interview in from the bed (with Harry in it) while they waited for room service to bring breakfast and coffee and tea and mimosas, because apparently he had the day off today. 

After a successful interview — well, as successful as Louis could have made it with Harry wandering around the hotel room wearing only a tiny pair of borrowed boxers, sticking his tongue out obscenely eating pieces of breakfast foods and taking long pulls of his mimosa — they’d fucked again. 

Louis’ cock would hurt if he thought he could even feel any pain or discomfort over all the damn self-satisfaction. 

He stays in the shower for a long time, carefully washing all of the sweat and whatever else (come, probably) off of every inch of his skin, Harry’s lingering scent going with it. Louis doesn’t even have Harry’s number, knows he could get his information very easily if he really wanted to, but he’s kind of liked the way things have been going so far. 

They haven’t even been going for that long. Louis is probably in danger. He probably shouldn’t seek Harry out again, probably shouldn’t fuck him again, should stop this before it gets too far. 

Louis finally shuts the water off an unknown amount of time later. He pats his body dry and wraps the towel around his waist, using another to staunch the dripping from his hair before stepping out of the bathroom. Oli is waiting patiently on the spare bed, sprawled out on his stomach as he scrolls through his phone. 

As soon as the door opens, Oli tosses his phone aside and sits up quickly, crossing his legs under himself as he turns to face Louis. “Getting the most out of that NDA, huh?” He asks, staring at Louis expectantly. 

Louis rolls his eyes and flips his suitcase open with one of his bare feet. He quickly flicks through his mental catalog of what he has to do today; interview at a radio station this afternoon, second show of his “one night only” tonight. Louis crouches down and roots through his bag for a pair of pants and jeans. 

“Are you going to watch me change?” Louis asks as he stands back up, ignoring Oli’s question. Oli smacks his hand over his eyes and tips his head back as if to show Louis he really won’t catch a glimpse. Louis rolls his eyes again, but then he drops the towel and quickly pulls the pants on. 

“You can look forward. Pretty sure you’ve seen me in my pants before,” Louis mutters. “Who says I had sex with him?” 

“Uh, you left the party early, with him, and you sent us a jumbled text message not to come in the room without an okay from you, and he sent some pretty incriminating texts to his mate. Who’s actually really cool, by the way. I made him not hate you anymore. So you’re welcome.” 

“Maybe he was super drunk and I took him home. Maybe I was just being a really good Stranger-turned-acquaintance. And host, since I invited him to the show.” Louis points out. 

“He didn’t seem that super drunk and we all saw you make out with him on the dance floor. Rather raunchy, Tommo.” 

Fucking stupid make out session. Louis buttons his jeans and then crouches down again to find a shirt. “Doesn’t matter what you wear,” Oli tells him, anticipating Louis asking.  

Louis tugs out a random sweater and pulls it on over his head before standing upright again. “I didn’t do it to get the most out of the NDA, or whatever. I’m not an arsehole. Well, not like that, anyway,” he says firmly, turning to face Oli. 

“Okay,” he says slowly. 

“It was spontaneous, and fun, and something we both wanted. And talked about, rather extensively given the… heat of the moment. Sure, already having the paperwork made it easier. But I also… I don’t think he’s the kind of lad that would run to the rags, anyway. He seems like a good guy, I dunno. Just wants to write and do what he loves and also get fucked by someone he’s liked for a really long time.” 

Oli arches his eyebrows. “I thought you weren’t getting seriously involved with anyone.” 

Louis steps into the bathroom to brush his teeth (again), shooting Oli a look before grabbing his toothbrush. “I’m not. It was one night. And one morning.” 

He sticks the toothbrush in his mouth and doesn’t look at Oli. His defenses are down right now, given the fact he can’t properly speak, so he thinks it better to just not look at his friend for the time being. Of course, that doesn’t stop Oli from talking. 

“Yeah, but you just said things about him that are, like, more than you ever come back from a one night stand talking about. Like, his personality, him being a good guy or whatever the fuck you were trying to say. And you were smiling.” 

Louis spits and ducks his head to swirl some water around, spitting again. He resumes brushing, not commenting. “Usually you’re all, like, smug, and you only talk about how good in bed the guy was or whatever. This time I walked in, and you were smiling, all lazy like, like you just got good dick. And then just now, talking about him, you were still smiling. Talking about him like… Like you like him.” 

He spits a final time and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, putting his toothbrush away and venturing back into the bedroom. “I was not smiling. Or talking about him like that. I barely know him.” 

“But you know him well enough to know he’s not selling the juicy story of your sexual encounter to the Daily Mail as we speak?” 

Louis pauses. Takes a breath. “He’s not. He signed the paperwork. And I wasn’t smiling.” 

“You were smiling, Tommo. You’re a lot easier to read than you think you are. Seriously, I thought you weren’t getting involved with anyone after…” He trails off, his gaze flicking up to Louis’. He tries his best not to let his own expression change, since apparently now he’s easy to read. “Look, I’m just saying that you seem happier today than you usually do, even after you’ve been dicked.” 

“Stop talking about me getting dicked. You don’t even know what happened or how it went.” Louis snaps, defensive. Oli laughs and shakes his head. “Seriously, you don’t know what you’re talking about. I know him enough to know that he signed the papers, and he’s not going to blab to anyone, okay? That’s all. It was, like, a few hours of my time, and it was good, but it’s not whatever you’re trying to say it is.” 

“Alright, mate.” 

Louis sighs, sitting down on the completely stripped bed. He mulls over what Oli said to him, and knows he’s wrong. But… “You said he texted his friend?” 

Oli smirks. “Yeah. I kind of remember it. You want to know what he said?” 

Louis’ thinking no, at the same time his mouth says, “Yes,” without him even registering it at first. 

“Harry said something about how he was going back to the hotel with you, but that Zayn shouldn’t worry. Then Zayn said some things, and Harry said some things. Like how you’re his incredibly fit celebrity crush and he’d be an idiot not to do something, and how he probably shouldn’t be telling Zayn that.” 

Louis arches a brow. “That’s it?” He asks, hoping Oli can’t see or hear his disappointment. 

“Tommo, I was busy getting hammered. I do know, though, that Zayn had some texts from Harry in, like, the middle of the night. When we finally made it back to the hotel and were parting ways. I remember those, though, because I wanted the material to tease you with.” 

“Need I remind you that you cannot go running to the tabloids, either?” Louis deadpans. He manages not to blurt out how badly he wants to know what Harry had texted Zayn in the middle of the night. 

Thankfully, Oli elaborates on his own, without Louis needing to beg for the information. “It was, like, four, maybe? His texts were jumbled, so I don’t know if you had him dick drunk or actually drunk. But he said something like holy shit, and mega cock, and i just fucked louis tomlinson, and don’t tell the daily. So, I'm leaning more toward dick drunk than anything else.” 

Louis flops onto his back and covers his face with his hands so Oli doesn’t see the smile on his face. He’s not getting involved, but he does recall what was happening around the time Harry had sent those texts. 

They’d just finished fucking maybe ten minutes before, he’s not quite sure, but they’d both done two tequila shooters from his minibar (which was thankfully restocked in his earlier absence) and were gearing up to do a third. Louis was trying to convince Harry to let him do a body shot, and Harry was finally getting closer to agreeing, but he’d said he had to go to the loo before anything else happened. 

“He really said mega cock?” Louis asks into his hands, making Oli laugh gleefully and start cheering, Tommo has a crush, Tommo has a crush. 

It’s not a crush, and Louis is not getting involved. “I don’t even have his number!” Louis shouts over Oli’s stupid, incessant cheering. Childish, really. “Do you hear me? I don’t even have his number!” 

Oli finally seems to hear him, stopping his shouting mid-sentence. There’s a few seconds of silence, all Louis can hear is him shuffling about the room. The bed dips on his left side, Oli making himself comfortable at the head of the bed. 

“You don’t even have his number?” He repeats finally. Louis splays his fingers over his eyes so he can peek at Oli through the gaps. “You know that you could probably get that, right? Or like, some semblance of contact information, at the very least. Mark always keeps copies of the paperwork to hold over your head.” 

Louis lowers his hands. “I don’t want to. See? Definitely not a thing, not a crush. Just a one night stand.” 

Oli still looks doubtful. Louis doesn’t know what else to say to convince him, but he’s not even doing a great job of convincing himself right now. Maybe it’s just too soon, though, because he’s still thinking of the way Harry’s lips felt on his own, and it’s a little hard to be objective when the taste of him is still so fresh. He brushed his teeth, washed his body, the tastes and feelings washed away with surprising ease; but he can’t wash away the feeling quite so easily.

“Alright. If you say so,” Oli concedes finally. “C’mon, get up. I don’t like keeping you on schedule, you’re a pain.” 

“You don’t really have to, you know, you could always say no. But Mark knows I tend to listen to you. So you share the headaches.” 

“Whatever. Lets go.” 

**

It’s always nice when he does interviews with Radio One, because everyone there feels like family at this point. He and Nick have a couple of mutual friends, so they run into each other at both official industry things as well as personal events which just happened to be littered with industry professionals. 

Louis’ found that it’s always better when the person interviewing him is a friend, or at the very least an acquaintance. It doesn’t feel as uptight and professional when it’s someone he already has a rapport with. Though, it doesn’t take Louis a lot to warm up to most of the people who interview him, but he still prefers it with someone he knows. 

“We’ve got another caller now,” Nick says now, “With a very good question lined up! Are you ready for it?” 

“Lay it on me, mate,” Louis says into the mic, smiling. This is on camera, too. Some of the radio interviews will be blended into a silly and light-hearted montage posted to YouTube at a later date. It’s easier to smile around people that he knows. 

“Alright. Caller number twenty, you’re on.” 

Louis waits for the line to connect, listening closely. “Hi, I’m a big fan,” the caller says, and Louis would recognize that voice anywhere. That deep tone, the drawl that’s almost teasing, like he’s smiling before he can even get the sentence out all the way. 

Harry fucking Styles is calling and somehow he got through. Louis does try to remain humble, but even he has to admit that there’s kind of an inordinate amount of people calling in to speak to him right now. And Harry fucking Styles got through. 

The callers have to ask their questions to someone behind the scenes before getting put through, so Louis knows his question can’t be anything bad. Nothing that exposes him or violates the NDA. 

That doesn’t mean Louis isn’t still scared. He doesn’t always know how to act like a normal person around Harry, if their few past interactions are anything to go on, so he hopes he can keep it together for the sake of radio (and the future YouTube montage).  

“Thank you, love,” he says finally, letting the endearment slip because he talks like this to all his fans and right now, he has to save face and pretend he doesn’t know who’s calling. And pretend like he hasn’t had his mouth all over his body within the past several hours. “What’s your question?” 

“I just wanted to know what your song No Control is about. I know it’s not exactly a well-known one generally, but it’s a personal favorite of mine, so I was wondering if you could speak on it a little bit.” 

Louis coughs and poorly disguises it with a cough. “Uh, it’s about losing control, I think. Liking someone so much that you can’t hide it. Wanting to be with them so badly that you just… Can’t control anything, you know?” 

Harry’s quiet for a moment. “Yeah, I get that. Thank you so much for your time.” 

“Thank you for your question,” Louis replies, hoping it sounds smoother and easier than it was to force out of his mouth. 

Harry’s call disconnects and Louis has to answer more questions after, but only a few. He’s silently cursing Harry fucking Styles — who, right now, he desperately wishes was still just a Beautiful Stranger — as well as Mark, his manager, and Oli, who he knows is sitting in the booth listening to the calls that are coming in. 

He’s never really said anything about that song before. Just sang it a handful of times on his last tour, has talked his team out of taking down uploaded versions of it that pop up on Spotify or Apple Music or what have you because he hasn’t recorded it yet, but he loves that they love it. He should be surprised that Mark let the call come through, but he’s not, because they all know about Harry, whether Louis wants them to or not. 

Apparently he’s easy to read. 

Nick finally goes off-air, taking his headset off and leaning back in his seat. He stares at Louis. “Who was that?” 

Louis takes his own headset off as well, dropping it onto the desk in front of himself. “Who?” 

“The call about No Control. You’ve never talked about that song before. And, honestly, Tomlinson, if I didn’t know you any better, I’d think you were blushing.” 

“Christ, not you too.” 

Nick gasps. “Too? So that was someone?” 

“Just a guy. Can’t believe Mark let that call come through. Look, you know I love talking to you, man, but are we done here? I have… Something I need to do.” 

Nick squints at him. “Yeah, you’ve gotta go act out your song, by the looks and sounds of it.” 

Louis wishes he had something to throw at him right now, but unfortunately he has nothing. He stands up and heads for the door, stopping before opening it to look at Nick over his shoulder. “You don’t know what you’re talking about, Grimshaw.” 

That makes him laugh loudly, so hard that he can’t even get in a proper response before Louis’ leaving the booth. It takes him a long time to get out of the studio, having to make the rounds and say hello and goodbye to everyone he bumps into, and take a few photos with the daughters of workers who brought them in to score points with their kids. 

He’d insisted on taking a car alone to the studio, and that’s the way he leaves it. Louis checks his phone once the car gets moving, not at all surprised to see that his groupchat with his sisters is flooded. He doesn’t read any of them, not now, he’ll see them all later anyway, even Lottie, pregnant and all, and he’ll fill at least her in then. At least a little bit.

He has two hours before his family arrives. He’ll get to the hotel before his team-slash-bandmates-slash-friends do, and he doesn’t have Harry’s phone number, but he has to find him and tell him that it’s not really okay to phone into radio stations. It’s borderline obsessive and stalkerish if Louis thinks about it too much, especially considering they agreed that this was going to be casual. Like, it was harmless, but this is something casual, and he shouldn’t be calling in while Louis is doing an interview.

Louis thanks his driver when the car pulls to a stop and heads into the hotel, having not a single clue where Harry is most likely to be. He starts in the restaurant, figuring the best place to start is the ground floor, then he’ll check Harry’s room and finally his own. He scans the restaurant for Harry and even asks a young waiter if someone fitting Harry’s description had wandered in at any time recently. The answer, of course, is no. 

He checks the pool and the sauna, having to stop for a picture with a little fan on the way out and making her mother promise not to post it until after the weekend is done. She seems reliable enough, and if she happens to go back on her word Louis will just switch hotels if it gets too bad; there’s fans outside already anyway, they know where he is. Maybe if he switched, he’d be able to take Harry with him. 

That is borderline obsessive. Louis shakes his head and keeps moving forward in his search.

He’s not in the gym or the little conference room. Louis huffs, searching the hall desperately for some kind of sign or clue or some full thought to pop into his head. 

And then it jumps out at him. A literal sign. 

London Writers’ Conference: Ballroom 1. 

Bingo. 

He ducks his head and walks quickly there, glancing up only to read door signs so he knows he’s going to be opening the right door. When he does, the room is packed. The room is packed and Harry’s standing onstage, in front of a podium, speaking. Louis lets the door shut quietly behind himself (even the big doors are soft-close. This time, though, he’s grateful). He leans against the wall, hoping he’s not too noticeable. 

Harry’s not just speaking. He’s reading.

“I always seem to forget that time is the most cruel lover one can take, and I always seem to find myself dancing with him until the opportunity disappears. I watch the person I want, the person I could very well love, walk away, fading into a mere blur, the same way your favorite town disappears in the rearview mirror as you leave it behind for good. So yet again, I am left standing on the precipice of something that could have been great, but I could not drop time’s hand long enough to make the jump.” 

Louis swallows hard, rubbing his hand over the back of his neck and ducking his head for a moment. He probably shouldn’t be listening to this. Louis can’t seem to make his feet move, though, as he looks back up at where Harry stands behind the podium. Harry’s eyes leave his page for a moment, glancing around the room. 

It’s impossible for Louis to miss the moment that he and Harry lock eyes. Harry looks back down at his page, not giving anything away when he opens his mouth again. 

“When I turn around again, time is still standing there, waiting, whispering sweet nothings. Telling me that waiting was the right thing to do, that next time he will be more kind, I will get what I want, need, deserve. He will make sure of it. Like a fool, I always believe him. I make my way back to the beginning, just to start over again, getting closer and closer to that edge, but never falling over it. 

Yet again, I am left standing at the edge of a cliff, holding my heart, shattered like glass in one hand, and a broken clock in the other. Only the strangest thing happens, every time the clock seems to get a second life the moment time wraps itself around it on our long journey back. Every single time, I find that I take too long. I hand the person the keys to the getaway car and tell them to get out while they can, without saying much of anything at all.” 

Louis doesn’t know if Harry has more to say. He slips out before Harry continues, before he does more than briefly meet Louis’ eye where he’s stood in the back of the room. He thinks things are wrapping up now, so he ventures back to the bar and gets a drink, something in a to-go cup even though he doesn’t think that’s technically a thing they do here. Drink in hand, he wanders back to wait outside Ballroom 1. 

He moves off to the side, leaning against the wall and hiding his face in his phone and behind his drink, waiting for Harry to emerge. He hopes that he comes out this door, not some secret inner-hotel door that Louis doesn’t feel like searching for right now. 

Thankfully, he doesn’t have to wait long. Harry bursts out the door not long after what seems like the last big wave of listeners, bag on his shoulder and books in his arms. He looks almost wild, glancing around the hall frantically before his eyes land on Louis. 

He rushes up to him, stopping two feet short of directly running into Louis. He opens his mouth to speak, but Louis cuts him off with a hand. He sips his vodka Redbull through its straw as he slides his phone into the back pocket of his jeans, patting his front one to make sure his cigarettes are there. 

“Walk with me?” He asks, and Harry nods right away. 

Louis starts walking. He doesn’t need to check that Harry’s following him. He knows that he is. “Want me to carry your books for you, Styles?” Louis asks over his shoulder anyway. 

“No,” Harry huffs. “Just walk.” 

Louis takes him out through the pool to the smoking area there. It’s fenced and there’s decent bushes and whatnot, so he knows that he can be out here in peace. He sits down in one of the chairs and kicks another out for Harry, hooking his ankle behind it and tugging it a little bit closer. Then he drags the small side table between them for Harry to put all his shit on, setting his own drink on the ground. He sits back and tugs his smokes out, lighting one. 

Harry sits slowly, laying down his books and papers on the small table and dropping his bag to the other side of his chair. Louis’ ankle is still hooked behind the leg of Harry’s chair. He feels their knees brush when Harry sits rigidly upright — so rigid Louis worries for his spine and wonders if he gets back pain — his shin resting against Louis’. 

“Do you have back pain?” Louis blurts. He keeps saying stupid things in front of this stupidly pretty boy. Louis is fairly certain he's never been quite this dumb before. 

“Sometimes. But that’s not what you dragged me out here to talk about,” Harry replies. His voice is tight. He sounds like he’s trying to remain calm, but he’s straining his voice and his back and his whole body and Louis’ own aches just thinking about it. 

“Relax, Styles,” he says, trying to hold onto some semblance of calm himself, because he just heard a lot. He’s never read any of Harry’s books, but now he wishes he had, because hearing it spoken by him has knocked the wind out of him.

Louis came into this ready to lecture first, then to tease Harry relentlessly for calling into Radio One this afternoon. Now he isn’t sure about any of it. 

“You really are a fan, aren’t you?” Louis asks, watching the ash fall from his cigarette instead of watching Harry’s face. “Asking about that song. They only put you through because my friends like to meddle, you know.” 

Harry doesn’t say anything for a moment. “I am a fan. And I know, I figured. I didn’t think I’d get through at all, but then I got through. I couldn’t think of anything else to ask, and then they… They put me through.” 

“You didn’t call trying to get on national radio with me?” 

“Definitely not.” Harry says quickly. “I was just… I dunno. I thought it’d be funny just to try. Didn’t think farther than that.” 

“Okay, that’s that, then.” Louis tells him. Because, really, his whole plan has gone out the window now that he accidentally heard Harry do his reading. “You’re a lot more… Eloquent than you make it seem most times, you know that?” 

“I hate speaking at these things,” Harry admits. “I know I talk slowly and it takes me a while to get to the point more times than not. It’s why I like writing. I can just… Put it on paper rather than speak it.” 

He’s speaking more like himself now, sounding just a little less stressed. Before Louis can get the chance to say anything, Harry speaks again. “How much did you hear?” 

“Enough,” Louis replies honestly. “I left. Around something about a getaway car. I kind of… I shouldn’t have stayed as long as I did. Probably shouldn’t have gone in at all, because either way you were involved in… Something. I definitely didn’t think you’d be speaking.”

Harry’s silent. Louis swallows hard. “It sounded like something I shouldn’t have been listening to. We’ve talked about the fact you write, and I haven’t gone looking, because I know that’s something private and sacred and not something you want shared all the time, not with someone you’re… Doing something casual.” 

“It’s okay,” Harry says quietly. “You actually snuck out right before the end.” 

“How does it end? If you don’t mind me asking?” 

He can’t help himself. He has to know. If Harry doesn’t want to tell him, then that’s fine. He’ll make his peace. He heard enough, intruded enough, albeit accidentally. Well, mostly accidentally, anyway. 

Harry clears his throat, surprising Louis by speaking his next words to his folded hands in his lap. His voice is steady and sure, if a little quiet. “They always leave. And I’m always standing on the edge of something that could have been beautiful and now I’ll never know, with nothing but words on paper, a broken heart in my hands, and a clock that has just stopped working.” 

Louis mulls the words over in his head. If his brain wasn’t nearly as overwhelmed by all of this, Louis would be thinking about how that would work in a song. The concept as a whole, as well as some of the words in general. 

“Wow… That’s, uh,” is all he manages to say at first. Eloquent, Tomlinson. Real fucking smooth. Again with the stupid things in front of the pretty boy. He’s going to die. “Have you ever tried songwriting?” Because, of course, once he started with the stupid questions, why the fuck should he stop now?

Harry snorts. “No, I haven’t. Why? Am I giving you ideas? I should let you know that everything I read this evening is copyrighted, even though it’s not technically published yet. I could look into getting you an NDA.” 

Louis laughs and ashes his cigarette over the arm of his chair, then leans down and picks up his drink. He takes a few long pulls, then sets the cup on the table next to all of Harry’s papers and turns back to the cigarette. 

“If you’re that hard pressed for ideas, I could help you out, that’s all,” Harry says. He’s trying his hardest to remain casual, Louis can tell. He studies Harry closely, and Harry finally looks away from him, down at the table between them. He’s nervous, pulling his bottom lip between his teeth as he just lets Louis stare at him, trying to get somewhat of a read even though they hardly know each other. 

Louis got a handle on how to pull things — reactions, noises, words — out of Harry in bed, just last night and this morning. But pulling things out of him outside of the bedroom — words, confessions, explanations — he’s not sure how to do that. He’s not sure if he should do that. He certainly knows he should not be wanting to.

“I really liked it, Harry,” he tells him finally. “It’s… It kind of spoke to me, actually.” 

He can tell Harry’s blushing, smiling bashfully, even though he can only see the side of his face. And Harry doesn’t look to his other side fast enough to hide it, either. “You’re just saying that,” he says to the air on his left side. Louis hides a smile by wrapping his lips around the end of his cigarette again. 

“I’m not just saying that. It makes sense. I struggle a lot, with time in what I write. Trying to put a face to something that exists, that plagues us all, in a three minute song. You did it in, like, five minutes of standing on a podium and speaking from your heart. Time as this… This thing that we all feel, looming all the time but never really seeing. Until you put an object to it. A broken clock in one hand and a broken heart in the other.” 

Harry looks over at him again, still biting his bottom lip nervously. If Louis knew him better, he’d think it looks like Harry’s holding back tears right now. “It’s good, Harry, really good,” he assures. “I’m sorry that I heard it, if that’s something you didn’t want to happen. Honestly, I came looking for you for a completely different reason than accidentally hearing you speak your words to all those people. Which, by the way, you did remarkably well.” 

“Like I said, I talk too slow sometimes. When I stand up there… I don’t. It all just comes out as if I’m writing it again for the first time.” 

Louis nods slowly. “I get that.” 

“And if you do want to ream me for calling into Radio 1 today, please do. Because that was definitely an overstepping of boundaries. So, like, if anything, you walking into that seminar was leveling the playing field.” 

Louis shrugs. “It’s not, like, that big of a deal. I was mostly surprised. First that you called, and then that they put your question through. Like I said, though, it’s done now. That’s innocent fun. Me walking into that conference room, though, it’s… A little different. That’s your job, you know?” 

Harry leans forward, his elbow resting on the arm of his chair. “It’s your job, too,” he says quietly, and Louis gets the hint from the tone of his voice, the seriousness of it. That’s all they need to say about any of it right now. 

Louis drops his cigarette, puts the remnants out, and picks up his drink again. Harry’s leg brushes his again, pointedly this time. Louis looks up at him, catches his eye, waits. He doesn’t have to wait long. “You have another show tonight, don’t you?” Harry asks, and Louis nods. “Are there VIP tickets waiting under my door for this one, too?” 

Louis hums. He weighs the conversation they’ve had just now against how much time he has before he has to get to the venue, and weighs that against whether or not it would be appropriate to take Harry to his room right now. He thinks, as Harry’s leg falls open again, resting fully on Louis’ shin now, that he can definitely take Harry to his room. 

“I do. I thought I’d give the tickets to you myself this time around.” Louis replies, and Harry grins. He’s blushing, too, which is something Louis is starting to love a little bit too much. Making Harry blush. He likes doing that a lot. 

“Cool,” Harry says simply. “I’ll let you carry my books this time.” 

“You know damn well I don’t have the tickets on me. I have to text someone to drop them off.” 

Harry pouts. “So they will be under the door, then?” 

“I promise, I will hand them to you. You will not have to pick these ones up off the floor.” 

They gather their stuff, Louis taking the books and papers Harry was carrying as well as his own drink, Harry taking only his bag. Louis tries to get Harry to hand the bag over too, but Harry refuses. They get on the elevator and ride up in silence, surrounded by other people while Louis hides his face while trying to avoid looking at the exposed words on the papers Harry’s shoved into his arms. 

He’s done enough prying for the time being. Forever. He will not be doing anymore prying. 

The doors finally open on his floor, Louis leading Harry to his room and nodding over his shoulder, to his back pocket, where his wallet is. Harry smirks but doesn’t say anything, pulling Louis’ wallet out and flipping it open. He stares for a moment, rubbing his thumb over Louis’ stupid ID photo and humming. 

“Almost thirty-one,” he remarks, finally tugging out the keycard. “Any birthday plans?” 

“Nope,” Louis answers simply, because it’s the truth. He’s waiting for Lottie to tell him what’s going on. He’s not big on planning, rather prefers going along with whatever the girls decide on. It’s easier that way, and it’s something the girls rather like doing, especially Lottie. Though, this year it all kind of hinges on the baby. 

Harry swipes the card and pushes the door open for Louis, locking it after they’re both inside. Louis turns to him, holding everything in his arms expectantly. Harry takes the drink from his hands and nods at the side table. Louis is so, so glad there’s nobody waiting around in his room, and so, so glad that Harry flipped the bolt and the latch. 

Louis puts everything down and then pulls out his phone, quickly starting to text Mark that he needs two tickets brought to his own room this time. Harry’s hand grabs his wrist suddenly, though, making Louis look up at him quickly. 

“It’s just one ticket. Zayn has a writing thing later and then he’s going out with some writing people.” 

Louis arches an eyebrow at him, ignoring the way it feels like his wrist is on fire from Harry’s grasp. “You don’t want to go?” 

Harry shakes his head. “I did my writing thing today. And the writing people… Kind of bore me sometimes, honestly. They’re more Zayn’s friends than mine. I’d quite rather hang out with you, if you’ll have me. Especially if it’s free…” He trails off, smirking again. 

Louis breaks free of Harry’s hold, which didn’t really have a lot behind it anyway, and changes his message to Mark to request only one ticket — the “VIP” kind (he doesn’t typically have VIP packages, not like they’ve been referring to as such). He asks Mark to double check that Harry’s name is on the list again for tonight. There’s tickets and then there’s… backstage, limos with Louis, DJ booth VIP. He wants to be sure that Harry is that VIP. 

He fires the text off and then tosses his phone onto the couch behind him carelessly. He puts a hand on Harry’s shoulder, shoving the strap so his bag falls to the ground with a thud. He takes Harry’s own phone, throwing it near his own, placing his lips on Harry’s jaw. 

“You like that song, then? The one you called in asking about?” Louis asks, nipping the hinge of Harry’s jaw purely to get a little sound out of him. 

“I do. Thought your answer was a little half-assed, though.” Harry replies, gasping when Louis bites him again. 

Louis puts both hands on Harry’s hips and turns them, kissing down his throat as he backs Harry closer to the bed. Harry gasps again when the backs of his knees hit the bed, then falls backward easily, gazing up at Louis as he follows quickly. Harry scoots up the bed just before Louis settles over his thighs. 

He pulls his own trainers off and throws them away before leaning back to take Harry’s off, fancy dress shoes to go with the fancy dress pants and jacket Louis hasn’t gotten the chance to appreciate until just now. 

“You look fit,” Louis remarks, dropping Harry’s other shoe to the floor. “In a suit, or whatever this getup is. Is it just trousers and a sport coat?” He doesn’t know, and doesn’t really care, because it doesn’t even matter; the point is that Harry looks really fucking fit. And he’ll look even more fit naked, Louis is well aware. 

“What’s the song really about?” Harry asks, watching Louis’ face even though his fingers are undoing the buttons on Harry’s dress shirt. He leans up so Louis can unceremoniously shove the jacket and shirt off at once, then flops back against the mattress. 

Louis leans down over him, sucking a bruise into Harry’s shoulder while he blatantly avoids answering Harry’s question. 

“Losing control. Liking someone so much you can’t hide it,” Harry echoes Louis’ words from the radio show, his voice dangerously low and dangerously close to Louis’ ear. He shivers despite being fully clothed. “What’s the non-radio answer?” 

Louis sits up and begins tugging his own clothes off, which Harry takes as the cue to start unbuttoning Louis’ jeans. “Why do you like the song so much?” He retorts, mostly to buy time while he leans off Harry to get his black jeans off his legs. 

“It’s hot. And I think I know what it’s about, but I wanna hear you tell me what it’s about.” 

Louis hums, kisses a line across Harry’s collarbones. He bites his collarbone and he gasps, just like he did when Louis bit his jaw. “It’s about sex,” he says between Harry’s pecs, his hand coming up Harry’s left side to pinch at the skin there. He pushes in, giving a little bit of pressure to it so his pec swells that much more, giving him even more to sink his teeth into. 

“It’s about sex. Wanting someone so much you wake up thinking about it. You wake up hard, and aching, wanting nothing more than to have them all over again,” Louis continues, kissing down Harry’s stomach, past the butterfly. “It’s about losing everything about yourself because all you want is to know who you are with them, with their body, who you are when you’re fucking them.” 

Harry moans when Louis sucks a bright red hickey on his hip bone. His cock is nearly impossible to ignore, straining against his black briefs, but somehow (admirably) Louis manages to ignore it. His hips rut up, cock hitting Louis’ own collarbone in a desperate search for friction. 

“Can’t say that on radio, can you?” Harry grits out, his hips grinding up again. Louis grips his hip with his other hand and pins him down. Harry whimpers. “It’s hot, right?” 

“Oh, baby,” Louis’ surprised by the way his voice sounds, practically purring — Christ, he didn’t even know he could sound like this, really, most of his fucks of late are a lot less talking and a lot more… Fucking. He loses his train of thought when he brushes his lips over Harry’s cock in his pants and the way Harry tries to cant up again, but Louis’ hand doesn’t let it happen. 

“Baby,” he starts again, “I wrote the song. I know it’s hot.” 

Harry throws his head back against the pillows and whines loudly, his hand flying to Louis’ hair and gripping tightly, tugging him back up. Louis goes easily, laying himself across Harry’s body and meeting his lips in a filthy kiss. 

Because it’s just… Filthy. Harry’s been panting and his mouth has been open for so long it’s dirty from the jump, slick and wet and spit and tongue, and Louis just adds to it with his own mouth. Sometimes, the way Harry speaks and presents himself the majority of the time is translated in the way that he kisses. Not this time, though, he’s kissing heavy, and hard, and hot, and Harry doesn’t always come across that way. Louis keeps pace with him, gives back as good as he’s getting before he finally has to take proper control again.

“Gonna show me what it’s about, then?” Harry asks when they part, his tongue swiping quickly over his bottom lip. His lips are parted again, and wet, and red, and Louis would quite like to spend hours kissing them one day, he thinks. Just kissing him, nothing more and nothing less, pulling delicate, gentle sighs from his throat with nothing but his lips. 

“You saw what it was about just this morning,” Louis replies. He can’t believe he’s here again, with Harry, about to get off for the third? Fourth? time in not even twenty-four hours. With the same gorgeous man, the same virtual stranger. . 

Louis didn’t think he had stamina like this anymore, but then again, he supposes that the people he’s been fucking have not been nearly on Harry’s level. Not in terms of beauty, not in terms of intelligence, not in terms of stamina. Certainly not in terms of any of the things they’ve done during it. 

He always thought himself good in bed. Better than good, really, though he always has a sneaking suspicion that people embellish just because of who he is; because he’s a popstar, rockstar, famous musician, whatever you want to call it, he suspects that people tell him he’s amazing when really he was kind of far from it; a little too pissed, a little too selfish, a little too hasty. 

Harry might be a sex God. At the very least, Harry is making Louis feel like a sex God, and he knows that the praise that comes from Harry is true. He knows because Harry doesn’t seem like one to hold back, and he hasn’t. He’s told Louis when he wants something different, something more, or flat out doesn’t like something that Louis is doing. 

Louis thought he was going to have a meltdown when Harry frowned at him (in a disappointed way, not a cute way) while he was three fingers deep last night; but when Louis started fumbling apologies and started to pull his fingers out, Harry quickly shook his head, reached down to clasp a hand around Louis’ wrist and twisted it a little bit, then nodded assuringly. 

He hadn’t even said a word, but Louis got the message right away. The angle. Louis was embarrassed, because that’s something he should’ve gotten himself, something he now knows to look for when it comes to Harry and his body, but Harry just grabbed him by the back of the head and pulled him in for a messy kiss. 

It’s terrifying, how easily everything with Harry comes to him. He should not be feeling things like this for something — someone — casual, someone whose phone number he doesn’t even have, someone who he may never see again once they step out of this hotel when this is all said and done. 

Right now, Louis’ drawn back to the moment by Harry gently touching his face. “Hey,” he says softly. “Where’d you go? We don’t have to talk about the song.” 

Louis shakes his head quickly, kissing Harry gently. He probably shouldn’t be smacking casual kisses to the plush lips of the person he’s casually fucking, despite the fact the two acts have a word in common. Casual. There’s just… Louis has always thought there’s some line between the two; you don’t casually kiss the person you’re casually fucking. Kissing implies… Intimacy that extends past the bedroom, a place where this isn’t supposed to go. 

“We can talk about the song, if you want.” Louis says slowly, trying to get himself back into the swing of things. “And you did see it this morning. I’ll gladly show you again. Right now, and tomorrow morning, if you think we can take it.” 

Harry looks a lot less worried now. He kind of looks like he’s biting back a joke about taking it, so Louis kisses him again just to shut him up. Harder this time, not casual and quick. Louis is perfectly capable of doing this, he can push the terrifying parts out of his mind. 

An hour later, Louis comes out of his bathroom for the second time today, a towel around his waist. This time, though, there is something much better and much more beautiful than Oli sprawled out on his bed. 

This time it’s Harry, freshly showered himself and wearing nothing but a pair of Louis’ borrowed pants (again), laying on his stomach in the middle of the unused bed with his laptop in front of him. Louis should probably start requesting rooms without two double beds, but he happens to like having the spare. It’s convenient, especially when gorgeous writers use them to look at their computers after showering and helping themselves to Louis’ black briefs while he showers himself. 

Louis drops his towel to the ground, shameless despite the fact he knows Harry isn’t looking right now, too wrapped up in whatever’s on his screen. His legs are bent at the knee, bare feet rubbing absently over each other in the air. Louis pulls on one of the only remaining clean pants that Harry didn’t take, tugging them over his hips before making his way over to the bed. 

He touches the back of Harry’s thigh, just letting him know that he’s there just in case he’s that wrapped up in whatever he’s doing. Harry doesn’t react, so Louis climbs onto the mattress, straddling Harry’s backside. Harry grunts and quickly smacks his laptop shut, pushing it away from himself and up underneath the untouched pillows. He folds his arms and rests his turned cheek on them, giving Louis a glimpse of the dimple that deepens with his smile. 

“Good shower?” He asks, and Louis hums. He drapes himself over Harry’s back for the small tube of lotion that’s sitting on the bedside table, popping the cap and squeezing some out onto his hands. He rubs it in for the most part, then starts to work the excess into Harry’s upper back. 

“What were you working on?” Louis asks him, kneading the back of Harry’s shoulder. He’s relaxed but Louis can still feel the tension everywhere; Harry’s a writer and his back feels like a mess. He’d hate to know the state of his own. 

“Nothing,” Harry replies simply. “That feels good.” 

Louis digs his thumb in a little harder, watching the side of Harry’s face as his lips part in a silent gasp. It’s incredibly scary, how badly Louis wants to learn every single way to make Harry’s lips part like that. 

“You really won’t tell me what you were doing?” Louis tries again, hoping the pleasure-pain of his hands massaging Harry’s back and shoulders will help to coax something out of him. He’s nosy, but he’ll back off if Harry really wants him to. 

“It’s nothing,” he says again. “Just checking emails, jotting some things down.” 

Louis bends down and kisses the back of Harry’s neck, exposed due to the messy, damp twist he has his hair clipped back in. “Writing the next No Control, I hope,” he says lowly, making Harry giggle and shake his head. 

“How come you don’t talk about that song? It’s not on a record, but you like playing it, so why not?” Harry asks, and Louis supposes it’s only fair that he can also ask prying questions. 

Louis decides to answer him, because he could only give a half-assed answer on the radio and he gave Harry another dirty, though honest, answer that resulted in sex. He decides to tell him the truth. 

“It’s about sex, like I said. But I’m not supposed to talk about things like that, not in interviews. I can say whatever the fuck I want onstage, but in interviews, on fucking Radio 1, I can’t talk about it like that.” 

His hands go mostly still on Harry’s back, fingertips dancing across his shoulder blades absently. Harry breathes in deeply and nods. “Can I ask you something?” 

Louis should say something like, yeah, only if I get to ask you something, too, but he’s already asked his prying question and has silently vowed to stop doing that. Instead he nods even though Harry can’t see him. “Yeah. I can’t promise I’ll answer, though.” 

Some things are too honest. Louis isn’t sure where the line is — or should be — when it comes to being honest with Harry about things like this. Part of him thinks he’d answer anything, honestly, if Harry asked him. He thinks not being able to fully see Harry’s face, not having to look him in the eye, makes it easier. 

That’s what he’ll tell himself anyway, instead of any of the other scary, downright petrifying options. He refuses to let himself entertain those options.  

“What’d you write No Control about? I mean, aside from sex.” 

Louis’ fingertips stop moving now, too. He understands what Harry is asking. He’s not asking what the song is about, he’s asking who the song is about, because he’s been a fan of Louis for long enough that he knows there’s almost always a subject. 

He inhales deeply, then starts lightly scratching Harry’s back instead. He needs something to do with his hands. Harry sighs contentedly, the one eye that Louis can kind of see slipping shut. 

“I wrote it about a guy,” he says slowly, carefully. He doesn’t want to let it all slip out by accident. “Someone I was seeing. The parts that are more stereotypically girly, the lipstick, the perfume, really, those are the major parts, I think. But they were thrown in so it didn’t seem like I was singing about a guy, just enough blatant girl references to make it seem like that’s what I was writing about. I was writing, and singing about a guy I was seeing, about waking up in the morning, wanting him all over again.” 

Harry hums softly. “You wake up in bed, and he’s gone, but you still feel him next to you, on you. Maybe in you, or vice versa. You roll over and they’re not there, but you can still feel them as if they were. In the heat where you laid, I could stay right here and burn in it all day.” 

Hearing Harry quote his own lyrics back at him makes Louis’ stomach flip. “Yeah, pretty much,” he whispers. “It is about losing control, I wasn’t lying when I said that earlier. Wanting someone so badly it feels like everything else slips away from you and all you can think about is the next time you fall into bed together. Laying there while they’re gone and smelling them, feeling the heat they’d left behind, thinking of the heat you’ll make together when you’re finally back with them.” 

“Lying here I count the hours,” Harry murmurs. His eyes are still shut, giving no indication that this conversation is anything other than that: a conversation. Louis could use this to fuck again; could keep talking about the song he wrote about a person he hasn’t spoken to in a year, use it to get Harry out of his borrowed briefs and take him apart and put him back together for a second time this afternoon, a third time today, all before he even gets onstage and his real life fully kicks into gear. 

But he doesn’t. 

“Can I ask a question, too?” He asks, even though he told himself that he wouldn’t. 

Harry’s eye opens again and he tips his head more to look at Louis, cheeky grin on his face and a mischievous glint in his eye. “You just did,” he says, exactly as corny as Louis was anticipating just based on the look upon Harry’s face. 

Louis laughs and flicks between Harry’s shoulder blades, not too hard, just disapprovingly. Harry laughs and rests his face against his arms again. “Yeah, you can. Can’t promise I’ll answer it, though.” 

He kisses a line across Harry’s shoulders, stopping to suck a bruise in a random spot that he knows no one will ever see, not even Harry himself. “Why is it one of your favorite songs?” He asks, and Harry huffs a laugh. “I’m serious. That’s what you said on the phone this morning, isn’t it? What was it you said… A personal favorite?” 

Harry licks his lips, his eyes slipping shut again. “Like I said, it’s hot. And very well written.” 

“High praise coming from a writer,” Louis muses, tugging a curl loose from Harry’s hair clip. Harry whines and lifts a hand, grasping at the strand but not doing anything to try to fix it. He settles his arm under his head again and Louis laughs softly. “Does it make you think of someone?” 

Harry looks at him again as best he can. “That’s another question. A third, I think, not including when you asked me about what I was working on.” 

Louis grips the back of his neck, digging his fingertips in the side of it. Harry drops his head again, nodding for Louis to keep going. He picks his hand up, using the leverage to massage the junction between Harry’s neck and shoulder, which just makes him moan, which makes Louis want to stop, but he doesn’t. 

“Sorry,” he says, fingertips still digging into Harry’s skin. That soft, tender flesh he knows how to mark up with his teeth, turning into putty in his hands. Literally. Putty in his hands. So soft that it seems like it could be malleable, like he could craft whatever he wanted out of the flesh here. Louis doesn’t even know what he’d make, because he’s not sure what could be better than this. 

“Someone knocked, while you were in the shower,” Harry tells him. “I didn’t answer the door. I figured it was something you promised to hand deliver to me yourself.” 

Someone probably texted or tried calling him, but Louis doesn’t even know where his phone is. He tugs at the loose curl again and Harry yelps, trying to bury his face further in his arms as if it would help. Louis climbs off of him quickly, heading to the entryway where, sure enough, there’s a packet slid under the door. 

One ticket, one pass, just like he requested. Just slid right under his door instead of Harry’s. He clutches the pass to his chest and makes his way back to the beds. 

Harry’s on his back now, propped up on the pillows, his laptop long gone but he’s still wearing Louis’ pants. “Well?” Harry asks, and Louis can only smile. 

He drapes the lanyard around his own neck and crawls up from the end of the bed until he’s over Harry’s hips. He’s still, miraculously, not hard, and part of Louis is glad while the other part is disappointed.

Harry smiles up at him, that stupid lazy grin, and Louis has to bend down and kiss it away. Harry can hardly kiss him back, he’s smiling so big. He sits upright, looking down at Harry’s hand as he toys with the VIP pass attached to the thin black lanyard. 

“Harry Styles,” Louis starts, “Fancy a concert this evening?” 

Harry nods eagerly, his eyes tracking Louis’ every move as he takes the lanyard off of his neck. He drapes it around Harry’s neck and kisses him quickly. “Will you go out again tonight? After?” 

Louis hums. He knows he could, doesn’t even feel tired in the least despite the rigorous schedule and the drinking and all the sex. He didn’t get nearly as drunk as he could have last night, but he kind of doesn’t even want to go out with the lads and get shitfaced tonight. 

“I dunno,” he says honestly. “Would you want to come?” 

“I probably shouldn’t,” Harry replies, voice gone softer. “I have a seminar tomorrow morning and I want to wake up and go to the gym.” 

Louis hums. “The gym, hm? And a seminar?” 

“Mhm. Gym first, then the seminar. I could just sweat out liquor at the gym, but you and your friends are so rowdy I’m afraid a gym session and a shower won’t be enough to get everything out. This is your last show, right? Like, for now. Of the special ones.” 

Louis tends to forget that Harry’s a fan. He knows his fanbase stretches across countless types of people, ages and looks and sexualities, but by just looking at Harry, he’d never have picked him as a fan. 

Knowing a little bit about Harry as a person, he never would’ve said that he listened to Louis’ music even casually, let alone was a fan. He’d have thought that Harry was a little too snobby, a little too smart, a little too proud, to actually be a fan of Louis’. 

“Yeah, last one,” Louis answers eventually, always either saying stupid things or getting lost in his own stupid head when Harry’s around. “We’d go pretty hard, probably. Not the best thing to sweat out in the gym or at a seminar. A seminar for… What, exactly, by the way?” 

“Thought you didn’t care all that much about what I did,” Harry points out, toying with the lanyard around his neck. It keeps brushing his bare chest, and Louis wiggles his hips a little, suddenly reminded again about the fact that they’re basically naked, Harry dressed in a pair of Louis’ pants that he felt he could help himself to. 

Casual. 

Louis swallows and hopes Harry doesn’t catch it before he brings himself to answer. “I don’t, but I did hear your reading today. And, like, you know what I do. You’ve seen me do it.” 

“Not very casual of you to pry like this, Tomlinson,” Harry says teasingly, and Louis tries to take it as such, but it kind of feels like Harry can read his mind sometimes and it terrifies him. 

He wishes he could take the tension in his hands, squeeze it out as if he were deflating a balloon. Take the sexual tension and the urge to spill his entire history out to Harry into his fists and squeeze it all out slowly, effectively removing it entirely. There’s no reason he should be walking around with a knot in his stomach, thinking about some guy whose hotel room he accidentally broke into just a couple days ago. 

If only he could take it all in his hands and get rid of it. Squeeze it, crumple it, burn it, free them from this tension and weight that blankets them. He would do it in a heartbeat if he could. 

But he can’t. Louis gets off of Harry quickly, hoping some distance does enough to sever the tension since he can’t squeeze or crumple or burn it. He pulls on a pair of sweats before turning to face Harry. 

“So, seminar?” He asks, rolling the waistband on his sweats down before sitting down on the ground in front of his luggage to dig around for a sweatshirt. 

Harry rolls onto his side, onto an elbow as he props his hand against the side of his face. Louis looks for a moment, at the way Harry’s waist dips briefly before it rises again, and his hip bones protruding in the front, and then looks quickly back at his luggage. He should probably stop living out of suitcases, he thinks absently, this is a fucking mess. 

“It’s kind of like a lecture. I don’t think you went to uni or anything, but that’s kind of what it’s like. Some other writer, who’s more experienced than I am, stands there and talks and tells us how to write better.” 

Louis laughs a little, but doesn’t let Harry see it happen on his face. He keeps his head down, digging for something to wear. “I do know what classes are like, Harold,” he says to his luggage, “even though I never went to uni meself.” 

“Right, I know,” Harry says quickly, clearly feeling he’s made a misstep. Louis doesn’t correct him, just waits for him to talk again. “Sorry. Anyway, during this one I just have to listen. Take notes, hear some excerpts, hopefully learn something. It might be dreadfully dull, but I’d still like to go anyway.” 

“And you can’t smell like liquor sitting in your smart-person lecture.” 

“Exactly.” Harry replies. Louis tugs out a white tee shirt and a black hoodie, one of his own merch launches that he’s quite fond of. He tugs them both on while still seated on the floor, again waiting for Harry to speak. 

“So. Are you going out then?” Harry prompts. Louis pushes himself to his feet and glances at Harry, still propped on his side. He doesn’t let himself look long, because he knows if he stares too long Louis will take notice of the marks he left on Harry’s skin last night and the ones he left just this afternoon, still blooming red and harsh and beautiful all over Harry’s skin. 

Louis sets on looking for his phone, checking the other bed to make sure it didn’t somehow end up buried in the sheets. “I dunno. Even if I do, you probably shouldn’t.” He says on his way to the bathroom. 

His phone is on the counter there, of course it is, with a million individual and group messages from a million different people, right beside his toothbrush and toothpaste. He does that, too, while he’s preventing himself from looking at Harry and his stupid smooth skin, tattoos and love bites and bruises. 

“I should probably head back to my room after the show, then,” Harry calls. Louis stares hard at his own reflection, not thinking about Harry Styles virtually naked on the bed and wearing his briefs. Not thinking about that. 

Louis spits and rinses his mouth. “Yeah, maybe,” he yields, then shoves his toothbrush in his mouth again. “Class, right?” He asks, muffled around the toothbrush. 

Harry laughs, the sound ringing loud and fucking clear through the other room. “Yeah, class. You could come, if you wanted to. Since I’ve seen you work and all. As long as we don’t smell like vodka or tequila or whatever… It wouldn’t matter.” 

He freezes momentarily. Spits again like it doesn’t make him want to throw up, rinses, puts everything away. Harry’s painfully silent. He’s just as silent, and it hurts just as badly as Harry being quiet does. Louis comes out of the bathroom and looks at Harry’s face. He’s biting his lip, nervous. 

“Or is that not casual?” Harry asks. 

Louis doesn’t know where the line is anymore. “I’d go, if you wanted. I don’t really want to go out anyway.” 

“Won’t someone be mad?” 

He shrugs. “I dunno. I’ll talk to the guys, talk to Oli. Let my managers know what I’m doing. Is Zayn going to this?” 

“No, he’s speaking at something else. We have different writing styles, it’s mostly different events for us. And he’s more… Behind the scenes these days anyway, editing and such. He likes you now, though, so you don’t have to worry about it.” 

“I heard.” 

Harry sits upright, cross legged and leaning forward with wide eyes. “What did you hear? I didn’t tell you that, did I?” 

Louis shrugs. “Nothing. People talk.” 

He doesn’t have the time to tease Harry about the things he’d texted Zayn. The things that Louis is not supposed to know, technically, only knows because Oli has a loud mouth and a tendency to gossip especially when it comes to Louis’ love life (or lack thereof. Definitely lack thereof in this case). So he just shrugs it off, doubles back to the bathroom for his phone, finding Oli’s messages.

He ignores all of them but texts him to tell him that he can come to the room soon. “The lads might be showing up here soon. Do you want to put some clothes on before they do?” 

Harry’s reply is immediate. “I wanted to ask about that, actually, because I have a lot of laundry. Do you have people that do that for you? I just don’t have the time, and with you I’m getting a lot of stuff dirty in a really short amount of time, and I’m not getting any of it clean. I could find the time, but—” 

“I’ll get your laundry done, Styles,” Louis says with a laugh. “Don’t worry about it.” 

“Really?” 

Louis nods. “Just throw what you have here in with mine,” he nods to the pile on the floor to the left of his suitcases, “and I have your room number. So if it’s all, like, together, which I’m sure it is, I can have somebody grab it, if you’re alright with that. I’m due for mine anyway.” 

Harry breathes a sigh of relief. “Please. That’d be great.” 

Louis smiles and nods, then texts the groupchat with Mark and Oli to make sure one of them does something about the laundry. 

It’s probably not casual. Louis is definitely not thinking about it. 

**

Harry’s lecture — class, seminar, whatever — is actually very interesting. It’s some author Louis’ never heard of before, but he talks a lot about the intricacies of writing and Louis can see a lot of what he does with his own songwriting in what the guy is talking about. He’s some short guy, balding and kind of drones when he speaks but Louis listens anyway, sneaking glances at Harry where he’s listening attentively and jotting things down in a leather-bound notebook. 

He didn’t drink more than a few beers the night before, still going through his show as usual. Harry didn’t drink anything, just water the whole night. He’s wearing jeans and a nice top — blouse, would probably be the word for it — and tamed his hair to the best of his (and its) ability. Louis had asked that they sit at the back of the room, but assured Harry that he totally understood if Harry wanted to separate and go up to the front. 

Celebrity or not, Louis has always been a back-of-the-room person. 

Of course, Harry understood. Took one look at Louis in his jeans and hoodie, hood up, and knew, so they sat in the back. Harry still listened and participated when the author called for it, sounding every bit as intelligent as Louis knows he is. 

Oli was blowing Louis’ phone up so badly (quite shocking, given the early hour) he’d had to shut it off before they went into the seminar, only turning it on as he left the room ahead of Harry — who, of course, wanted to stay behind to talk to the author one-on-one — and headed outside for a smoke. 

He texts Harry first, letting him know where he is, then addresses Oli. 

It’s a slew of where are you and it’s our day off and we’re all getting bombed in your room and come by whenever you’re done shagging. Louis rolls his eyes. He’d get bombed right now, he just wants to know if Harry will be joining him. 

If Harry isn’t, then he’ll get well and truly bombed. If he’s coming but not drinking, he’ll go but he won’t get that bombed. If Harry isn’t coming because he has some important, smart thing to do, Louis might very well tag along with him.

It’s a delicate dance. 

Harry comes out while Louis is smoking, hood up, pacing back and forth as he puffs away and tries to think of something to say to Oli. Harry drops down on the bench, putting his notebook beside himself. 

“Too much?” He asks, and Louis shakes his head. It truly wasn’t, it was very smart and very interesting despite how boring the author’s voice sounded, and that’s saying a lot for him, because he’s not good at paying attention. 

Maybe he tried harder to pay attention because he knew Harry was also paying attention and he didn’t want to seem like a fucking idiot. It’s more effort than he’s put in with other casual hookups, but somehow this feels different. He doesn’t fucking know. 

“It was very smart. I’d never heard of him. It was definitely interesting,” Louis says honestly. 

“I was surprised you listened to it all, honestly,” Harry admits, and Louis stops pacing, turns to look at him. “I promise, I don’t mean that in a bad way at all, but I just… I dunno.” 

Louis, always quick to cover, acts like Harry hasn’t said something potentially wrong. It wasn’t even wrong, and the best way to get past it is to soothe Harry, reassure him. “I know what you mean, Styles. It’s usually not my thing, but… I don't know. It was interesting. We’re both writers, you know.” 

“Yeah,” Harry says softly. Louis smiles reassuringly at him. “You’re just very… Hard to pin down sometimes. Very scattered. And don’t get me wrong, it’s charming most of the time. I just never would have pictured you liking sitting there and getting talked at by some old white guy author.” 

“I got past the boring old white guy voice. Once I did, it was interesting. The way he talked about how he weaved his stories, connecting the past and the present in a place where everything is safe even though maybe it’s not always okay in the end. It’s songwriting, just with more words and without, you know, music.” 

Harry nods slowly. Louis takes a drag on his cigarette and ashes it. Now or never, c’est la vie, carpe diem, whatever the fuck people say. “Are you done for the day, Mister Author?” 

“I went to the gym and I listened to the one seminar I wanted to hear, and I don’t have to speak. So… Yeah, I am. Why?” 

Louis finishes his cig and tosses it away. “Everyone’s getting trashed in my room. We can go and laugh at them or we can get trashed too, doesn’t matter which. Or we can go to your room and do something… Totally different. Or we can part ways.” 

Harry rubs a hand over his mouth, pinching his bottom lip between his fingers. He’s biting back a smile, Louis can tell. “You talk too much, anyone tell you that?” He asks, and Louis just shrugs. “I could be persuaded for a drink, Tomlinson.” 

Louis can’t help himself. He grins. “Sick,” he says, then kind of wants to smack himself across the face for it. 

Harry laughs, amused. “You try to seem smart around me, don’t you?” 

Louis tuts, attempting to save face. “Let’s get the drinks in before we start talking about the things I do around you when sober, hm?” 

He watches Harry grab his notebook and turn, confident as all hell, toward the door. He swipes his own card and pulls the door open for Louis, leaning against it and watching him expectantly. Harry doesn’t say anything until they’re on the elevator, just one other woman joining them. Louis leans in the corner, keeping his hood up and his head down. Harry slides up right next to him anyway, lowering his voice to speak. 

“Do they know? Your friends, I mean. Do they know you’re casually… with someone in this hotel? Do they know you were at some writing seminar today?” 

“They know about you, you’ve met them. They don’t know where I was today, but… They know about you.” Louis says, directed at the ground, focusing on the nearly nonexistent feel of the elevator moving upward. He looks at the wall, trying not to let this woman catch a glimpse of his face and be able to attach it to this conversation. 

“Okay,” Harry says softly, and then leaves it at that. The elevator finally dings at their floor, Harry trailing behind Louis as they head down the hallway. Outside of his door, Louis can hear music thumping and people talking loudly, which means their celebrations are already well underway. 

He stops, turning to face Harry, who looks at him expectantly. “They know about you, but that means that they’re probably going to say a lot of things. They don’t mean any of it, they’re just pains in my arse every waking second. Just… Don’t take whatever they say personally, okay? They’re loud ass drunks and stoners who don’t know how to keep their thoughts to themselves. And most of it is a lie.”

Harry nods slowly, a somewhat amused grin making its way onto his face. Louis rolls his eyes and tugs his key out. “Makes sense they’re friends with you, then, huh?” Harry drawls. Louis should roll his eyes again, but he just huffs a laugh instead. 

Harry catches his wrist before he can use his key to open the door, turning Louis’ body back to face him again. He then uses that same hand to cup Louis’ cheek and pull him in for a slow kiss. Louis hums against him, gripping at Harry’s waist with his free hand, trying to tug him closer, in for more, in for longer. Harry pulls away just a moment later — several moments too soon in Louis’ opinion — with a soft smack of their lips and a soft laugh. 

“Have I ever told you,” Harry starts slowly with a lazy smile on his face, “that you are a very good kisser?” 

Louis hums, considering. “Don’t recall. Good to know, though.” 

He finally turns and unlocks the door, shoving it open to fully expose them to the noise and rowdiness inside. He probably should have thought this through a little bit more, but there’s no time to think about it now. His friends are annoying; he loves them, but they drive him up a fucking wall more times than not, especially about his sexual conquests. 

Not that Harry’s a conquest. Or was it that Harry is just a conquest? Louis’ forgetting the details. The lines got blurred, between casual kisses and questions about song meanings and lectures where Louis actually doesn’t want to fall asleep. 

Everyone cheers when Louis and Harry walk in, Oli coming to whisk Harry away and toward the bar while Louis takes his books to the bedroom, putting most of Harry’s stuff in one of the bedside table drawers so it’s safe from prying hands and spilled drinks.

When Louis heads back out into the main room, shutting the door that connects the two, Harry and Oli are still standing at the bar, Harry with two beers in his hands as he listens to whatever Oli’s saying. It’s surely bullshit, but Harry’s still listening intently anyway. Louis crosses the room and coaxes one of the drinks from his hand, Harry passing it off to him without breaking eye contact with Oli. 

“Talking shit about me?” He asks, leveling Oli with a look. Oli rolls his eyes and forges on. 

“Must seriously be some mega cock on both parts, that’s all I’m saying, if you managed to convince him not to come out with us last night.” 

Harry laughs, and doesn't openly give anything away with his expression. He hardly even blushes, which Louis thinks is saying a lot. “He made that decision, not me,” Harry says with a smile, and Louis nods in agreement. “No comment on the… Other stuff, though.” 

Oli nods slowly. “We’ll get a few drinks in you. See if you’re a little more inclined to comment later on.” 

He practically floats away after that, but not before shooting a wink at Louis, knowing he has Harry right here to tease Louis over endlessly. Louis snorts and downs half his beer in big gulps. He’s going to need a lot of drinks. 

“What’d he say?” He asks, tapping Harry’s forearm until Harry looks at him. Harry shrugs and brings his bottle to his mouth, drinking in slow, deep pulls. Louis keeps tapping his arm, distracting himself from the line of Harry’s jaw and each rise and fall of his throat. 

“Would you quit it?” Harry snaps finally, wiping the corner of his mouth with his pointer finger. That motion Louis can’t help but watch. “He didn’t say anything. Was just teasing me, honestly, more than he was teasing you honestly.” 

“Yeah, it sounded like it. What was that about mega cocks?” Louis asks, mostly to tease considering the fact that he kind of already knows, even though he’s not supposed to. He’d quite like to hear Harry admit to it, though. 

Harry hums. He drains the rest of his beer and walks to the recycling bin, dropping it in. Louis grabs him another without having to be asked. He flicks the cap onto the nearest surface and hands the beer over. “I’m definitely gonna need more than a few drinks before I comment on that,” Harry tells him finally, and Louis snickers. 

He loops his arm through Harry’s, sighing. “Let’s get everyone to play some stupid drinking game, then.” 

They play several rounds of Kings for what feels like forever, but is really only about two hours. They stick to beers the entire way through, nursing them to the best of their ability. It’s not even five in the evening and the room is hazy with smoke flowing in from the balcony, it smells like beer and liquor, stale and still somewhat faint but present nonetheless. 

Louis steps out onto the balcony for a smoke after they wrap up the last game. Luke comes out a second later, joining him in pulling out a cigarette after he’s closed the door almost all the way. There’s no saving the hotel room from the smoke, but at least they’re still pretending to try. 

“He’s cute,” Luke remarks after a moment, making Louis look over at him with a brow raised. “Harry. Surprised you brought him around all of us again, though. You know they’re having a field day with it.” 

Louis looks back over his shoulder, through the glass door where Harry and Josh are standing together, looking at the screen of Josh’ camera. Harry’s nodding and pointing at the screen, saying something Louis obviously can’t hear. “Just wanted to get drunk, that’s all,” he says absently. Harry’s shirt has lost another button. It’s gaping open as he leans forward to look at the screen, Louis can see it even from outside.  

Luke hums and punches Louis’ arm, jolting Louis out from his Staring At Harry Styles Trance. “Honestly, man, I don’t know what’s going on with you. But you’ve been bringing him around for, like, three days, and you never do that with anyone you’re seeing, no matter what you’re doing with them. I just haven’t seen you like this in a long time. And I know you know how long.”

Louis knows. He doesn’t like hearing it. He doesn’t like all of these people close to him, all his friends, think they know him better than he knows himself; he doesn’t like people prying and making assumptions and accusations and making him think about something that is casual. Something that is ending in a matter of days. They don’t know anything about Louis, about Harry, about any of it, past or present. 

He snubs his cigarette out on the railing and tosses it over the side, shooting Luke a glare before yanking the door open. “Don’t talk about shit you don’t know about,” he says, and the part of him that’s still hanging onto clearheadedness and sobriety feels guilty about it, but the drunk, annoyed part of himself is too bothered to turn around and make it right. He’ll apologize later or tomorrow, but he knows Luke probably hasn’t taken it to heart anyway. 

Louis gets another vodka, tossing a splash of seltzer in over the rim and swirling it around for a moment before turning around. Harry’s still talking to Josh, listening closely as the latter speaks avidly. Louis can’t gauge how full his beer is from here, but he grabs another from the fridge anyway before making his way to where they’ve been standing. 

“Hey,” he says, just loud enough to catch Harry’s attention. Josh nods at him in greeting, then glances down at the camera and goes to the next photo. He gasps and quickly flicks the camera off, making Louis narrow his eyes. 

“What was that?” 

“Nothing, just… You, in a not-so-decent state. I don’t think I should be showing it to guests.” 

Louis smirks, sipping his drink before shrugging. “Appreciate the modesty, mate. He’s seen it, but I thought I told you to stop taking pictures of me in not-so-decent states.” 

“Yeah, it was an old picture. I listen to the rules now.”  

“Why is that a rule?” Harry asks curiously. He swallows the last of his beer and sets the bottle aside, not in the bin this time, and takes the unopened one from Louis’ hand. Just standing close to Harry, distracted now by silly questions, he feels a little bit calmer than he had just three minutes ago. 

Which is bad and totally not casual, he knows. He takes a big sip of his vodka soda and washes the feeling away as much as he can. 

“Josh liked to take a bunch of pictures of me in various states of undress. He’s with me all the time, basically, but that’s kind of like holding a grenade with the pin pulled already. All it takes is one misstep, and that memory card is in the wrong person’s hands and my cock’s on the internet for the world to see.” 

Harry snorts. “You get fully nude in front of your photographer?” He’s asking, at the same time Josh is protesting, “There’s no dick pics!” 

Louis looks up at Harry’s face, the way he’s a little flushed from the temperature in the room and the drinking and, maybe, the conversation; the thought of Louis completely naked in front of other people. Harry doesn’t really strike him as the jealous type, but now… Now he’s thinking about it. 

Because Louis himself is the jealous kind, always when the situation calls for it and sometimes even when it doesn’t. So now he’s thinking about it. Wondering if Harry gets jealous like that, glaring across the room or inserting himself where he might not be involved. Which, Louis realizes now, he might have been cutting into this conversation not in fear of what they were saying about him, but because he was jealous that Harry’s attention wasn’t on him fully. 

Not thinking about it. He clears his throat and scrapes together a response to Harry’s question, a minute too late.

“No, I try not to make it a habit to go naked in front of my friends and my tour crew, Harold, thank you very much,” Louis says, ignoring Josh, who seems to take the cue that Louis isn’t going to be turning his attention off of Harry for the time being. 

Which is still bad. He can’t fucking win. Louis finishes his drink and relishes in the subtle burn of his throat. “It wouldn’t have been a full cock shot, I’ll have you know,” he continues. 

Harry nods slowly. “Right. But you’re you, and you’re packing enough that the outline of your cock would be enough. To, what, send the world into chaos?” 

Louis tips an ice cube into his mouth and sucks on it for a moment, pondering his answer. He crunches the remnants in his back teeth and smirks at Harry. “Dunno. You would know, though. Mega cock talk and all.” 

Now Harry is definitely blushing because of the conversation. “Still not drunk enough to disclose the details, Tomlinson. C’mon, I think Oli’s brainstorming another game.” 

The hours pass by slowly, between heavy drinks and smoke breaks and silly drinking games. When he comes back from a piss break, which was followed directly by a smoke break, Matt is sitting on the floor in front of the telly and fiddling with the xBox, everyone else chattering about behind him.

He freshens his drink and takes the open seat next to Harry, who shifts a little bit to make more room for him. “Doing okay?” Louis asks, gently tapping his knuckle against Harry’s thigh. 

“Yeah, fine. Your friends are funny. They think they can play FIFA right now.” 

“Oh, Styles, you have no idea what we’re capable of when drunk and playing FIFA,” Louis says confidently. He doesn’t notice he’s still touching Harry’s thigh until Matt tosses him a controller and he doesn’t have a hand to catch it with. 

Louis glances quickly at Harry while recovering the control from his lap, and thinks he catches the beginning of a pout on his lips when Louis’ hand moves. Louis, of course, wants to remedy that as soon as possible, so he sits cross legged, his right leg resting on top of Harry’s thigh. 

“I’m just gonna play a game, then I’m all yours. Hold my drink?” He asks, holding Harry’s gaze. He looks a little drunk, eyes a little cloudy, but he’s smiling, which Louis considers a win. 

Their fingers brush when Harry takes Louis’ cup from him. Louis feels kind of like a school girl. Though, a school girl might have more guts than him, because he doesn’t want to admit to himself that he thinks he feels sparks when their fingers touch. The school girl would admit it, and she’d be excited about it, telling all her friends and writing about it in her journal or whatever. 

Louis will not admit it to himself, let alone tell anyone else. And he will not write about it in a journal, and he’s not excited about it. It makes him feel afraid. 

He throws himself into the game and is good at it, because he wasn’t lying when he said that Harry has no idea what they’re capable of when it comes to drunk FIFA. Somehow, they all get a little bit better, even Mark, who detests drunk FIFA and everything it stands for but always ends up playing anyway. 

Harry’s asking him questions that only he can hear while he plays, which somehow doesn’t distract Louis nearly as much as he would have thought it would. 

Finally, near the end of the game, the reason Harry’s asking so many questions finally dawns on Louis. It’s not because he just wants to talk. Well, not entirely, Louis thinks. “You don’t know how to play?” 

“Footie? Yes, I do,” Harry answers immediately. “FIFA? Not so much.” 

Louis hums. Doesn’t say anything until he’s scored a goal and the game is officially over, his team winning 2-1 over Matt’s. He hands his controller off to someone else, not even looking at who he’s passing it to. He unfolds his legs, stretching them out to the coffee table in front of him and holding a hand out for his drink, which he sucks down gratefully in the wake of his victory. 

The victory might feel a little bit better because Harry witnessed it, but that’s yet another thing he won’t let himself think about too much or talk about or write about. 

He angles his body toward Harry on the couch, propping an elbow on the back of it to rest his cheek on his hand. “I’m not too convinced about your footie skills, Styles,” he says, making Harry laugh. “I’m serious! You answered a little bit too quickly.” 

“I know footie, Louis. I am English, believe it or not.” 

“Oh, I believe that you’re English, you couldn’t fake a posh accent like that. What I don’t believe in is your footie skills.” 

“You’re gathering that from… What, the fact I don’t play FIFA? I was just never a big footie player, that’s all. I understand how the game itself works, just not the… The electronic game.” 

Louis snorts. He glances down at his cup, reduced to nothing but a slush of ice by now. “Need a refill. Want something?” 

Harry hums, rolls his neck and looks down at his own bottle. Louis picks it up by the neck, feeling how much is left. Halfway gone. He hums disapprovingly and shakes his head, dropping his hand to squeeze the back of Harry’s neck. 

“C’mon, Bukowski, let’s go find you something stronger.” 

He grabs Harry by the hand and hauls him to his feet, dragging him across the hotel room while Harry laughs and says something about how Louis can’t call him Bukowski. Louis putters around the minibar, finding a half-empty bottle of tequila and holding it up for Harry to see. He’s still clutching Louis’ hand, coming up behind him to look over his shoulder at everything on the bartop. 

“This one,” Harry says in his ear, pointing to a different bottle, one that isn’t open. 

Louis sighs exaggeratedly. “That one’s not even open yet, Harold. And it’s expensive.” 

“It’s already been paid for. By you. So the damage to your wallet is already done, we might as well have fun with it.” Harry points out. He lets go of Louis’ hand and hooks a thumb in the belt loop of his black jeans, pressing flush against him. 

“Stop coming onto me,” Louis scolds. He grabs another plastic cup and drops a few ice cubes in before cracking the seal on the new bottle of tequila. He pours until Harry tells him to stop then reaches for the club soda, but Harry unhooks his finger from Louis’ jeans and plucks the cup from his hands. 

“Oh, no. C’mon, Styles. It’s hardly gone five, you’re gonna drink straight tequila?” Louis moans, rolling his eyes so hard his whole head goes with the motion. 

Harry laughs, delighted, presses a wet kiss to the side of Louis’ neck, and leaves so quickly it’s like he was never there in the first place. Louis exhales slowly, staring down at the bar until the smile leaves his face. He manages to make his next drink (with club soda, because he’s not a monster) without pressing ice cubes all over his face or down his pants to cool off. 

He sits down in the arm chair, watching Harry where he stands, behind Luke who’s sat on the couch, involved in the FIFA match on the telly. Luke doesn’t entertain Harry’s questions as much as Louis had, which makes him pout. Louis hides his smile against his cup and waits for Harry’s eyes to find his across the room. 

When it finally does happen, it gives Louis another feeling that he will not be thinking, writing, or speaking about. Their eyes meet and Louis swears the noise in the room fades to just a faint buzzing in his ear. Harry smiles at him, full and bright and dimpled, and Louis’ brain whites out for a second. His condensing plastic cup nearly slides out of his grasp and that’s what jolts him out of the moment, forcing him to break Harry’s eye contact and look down at his hand to recover without making a mess of himself. 

The chatter and music and FIFA match all slowly fill his hearing again, loud and jarring compared to the near-silence he’d just been wrapped up in. It couldn’t have lasted more than a couple of seconds, but it felt like infinitely more. Louis switches his drink to his right hand and wipes his left on his jeans, shaking his head at himself scoldingly. 

When Louis looks up again, he’s greeted by Harry standing in front of him, still smiling a little bit. “Can I sit?” He asks, pointing to the arm of Louis’ chair. Louis nods, moving his elbow so Harry can sit down. He scoots back, pulling one leg up, resting his hand on his ankle, the other foot staying firmly planted on the floor. He leans against the back of the chair, bending to speak without having to shout. 

“Luke’s hot,” he says, words sending a shiver down Louis’ spine. His body jerks despite himself, and he looks up at Harry with narrowed eyes. “What? Am I not allowed to say that?” 

Jealousy. Not a good look on him, he knows. Louis grits his teeth and forces a smile. “Why wouldn’t you be able to say that? It’s just an observation.” 

“Dunno. You were staring. Now you’re… glaring.” Harry points out. Louis promptly stops smiling and looks away. And Harry giggles, leaning impossibly closer, so he can whisper directly in Louis’ ear, breath hot over the shell of it. “I think you’re hotter, if you needed reassurance.” 

Louis turns his head so quickly to look at him again he fears whiplash for a moment. Surprised by how close they are, he gasps and can feel it on his own lips when Harry huffs out another laugh. “Didn’t, thanks, though,” Louis tells him, his voice shockingly steady. 

“Hm,” Harry hums. “If you say so.” 

Then, lightning fast, he leans forward and kisses Louis quickly on the lips. Louis is shocked; torn between wanting more and immediately feeling terrified. Of course, the fear wins. He quickly looks around the room, but it doesn’t seem like anybody noticed it happen. Harry hooks a finger under Louis’ chin and makes him look at him again. 

“Not big on PDA?” He asks quietly, and Louis shakes his head slowly. Harry drops his hand, draping his arm over the back of the couch behind Louis’ head. His fingertips brush Louis’ shoulder and he faces forward, seemingly unbothered. Louis wonders if he’s actually unbothered, or if he’s just pretending that he’s not hurt by Louis’ distaste for PDA. 

He knows they snogged in front of the whole club the other night, but that’s… Different. Maybe he’ll explain that much, at least, to Harry at some point later. Just not right now. He swallows a mouthful of his drink and reaches a hand up to briefly squeeze Harry’s thigh before it falls back into his own lap. 

Louis glances up at Harry’s face, just in time to catch the smile forming on his mouth. Much, much better. 

Around eight, some of his friends decide to call it a night, while some decide they’re going to keep the party going and grab a bite to eat and hit a club or a pub. Louis would consider either of these options, but end up declining both for a number of reasons. 

He’s been drinking for ages and he’s tired, he doesn’t quite feel like having a bite to eat, and the third, perhaps the biggest reason: Harry Styles is currently pressed against his side, his head on Louis’ shoulder, eyes closed but decidedly not asleep. 

Louis, and several other people, have said something about Harry being asleep on multiple occasions and each time, Harry held his drink up and said I’m not sleeping. Everybody thinks he’s a riot. Drunk, and definitely about to fall asleep, but definitely a riot. 

Louis can’t help himself when he swaps his cup to his right hand and plunges his left into Harry’s hair. Harry sighs contentedly, cuddling impossibly closer, his nose nudging the crook of Louis’ neck. He chuckles and scratches lightly at Harry’s scalp, watching as Oli gathers the last of his shit. 

“Not joining us again, Tommo?” He asks from across the room, voice just barely loud enough for Louis to hear. Louis shakes his head but doesn’t say anything. “Yeah. Your boy’s out pretty hard. I’d say it’s a shame, but you seem pretty gone for him, man. It’s kind of… Cute. If I were the type of guy who found things like that cute. Mega cock indeed, I guess.” 

Oli leaves before Louis can even think of a reply; not his boy, not gone for him, not cute, yet somehow still not a shame. Oli lets the door slam behind him, startling Harry out of his I’m-Not-Sleeping slumber. 

He sits up slowly, rubbing his face, adjusting his grip on his cup in his other hand. “Did I ruin the party?” He asks, sheepish. Harry runs a hand through his hair and tosses it a little bit, making it fall more evenly over his part and tumbling down over both shoulders. 

“Nope,” Louis says honestly. “The lads all want dinner or more drinks or shags, it was time for them to go their separate ways.” 

Harry drops his hand. He downs the rest of his drink and slides the empty cup onto the coffee table among a jumble of other empty bottles and cups and cans. Then he looks at Louis, critical. “You didn’t want to join them?” He asks. Louis doesn’t trust himself to speak, so he just shakes his head. “Again? What if I hadn’t woken up? Would you have just… Sat here, with me snoring and drooling all over you all night?” 

“Probably. But you don’t really snore, that I’ve noticed.” 

“I snore,” Harry challenges, like Louis’ wounded his pride by suggesting otherwise. Louis smirks. “I know I should probably be grateful that you haven’t noticed, but whatever. Whatever. I’m being serious, Lou.” 

Lou, Lou, Lou. Louis’ brain echoes the nickname, which is new, Harry’s never called him that before, Louis’ friends hardly even call him that; his mum did, his sisters do occasionally, but Harry never has. He likes the way it sounds when Harry says it in that deep, syrupy tone of his, sounding even slower and deeper and thicker because they’ve been drinking like the world’s ending tomorrow. 

Louis wants to tell him, wants to tell him even though he swore he wasn’t going to think about this or talk about this or — possibly worst of all — write about this, his voice sounds like a melody sometimes, especially the way he’s just said Lou. 

Harry’s still staring at him, waiting for an answer. Louis sighs, getting up and making his way back to the bar. He refills his cup, leaning against the counter while taking a sip. Harry’s still staring even though he’s moved across the room. 

“Yeah, I would’ve stayed, probably. I mean, I would have woken you up eventually, because you can’t sleep in your jeans and we both would have woken up feeling awful after sleeping like that.” Louis says, dancing around what he actually wants to say. 

If Harry sees right through him, he gives no indication. “You don’t want to go out?” 

Louis shakes his head. “Not if you’re here, in my hotel room,” he says, and even to himself it sounds dangerously close to non-casual honesty, but again, Harry doesn’t give anything away. 

He needs to change topics and he has to change them fast. He swings around and grabs the bottle of tequila Harry made him open earlier, which he’s been using to make his drinks, as have a few other people. There’s a sizable dent in it now, but not too bad, given how much everyone’s been drinking. 

Louis sits back down on the couch, about a foot away from Harry. He uncaps the tequila and hands it to Harry, nodding to coax him into taking a sip. Harry does so, and he doesn’t even make a face as it slides down his throat in smooth, large pulls. It’s hot. Harry lowers the bottle to his lap and squints at Louis. 

“What’s this for?” He asks, rough. Louis smirks. 

“You’re gonna tell me about this mega cock business. You’ll drink your tequila, I’ll drink my vodka, until you tell me.” 

Harry snorts. “We’ll see about that.” 

It takes about an hour of sipped drinks and prying questions, but Harry’s finally ready to tell him, Louis knows. He’s got Harry pinned underneath him, tequila and vodka long forgotten on the coffee table. He’s spread out on the couch, Harry’s pretty top shed just a few minutes ago. Louis’ own hips are pinning Harry’s down, his right hand holding both of Harry’s wrists against the armrest above Harry’s head. 

Harry’s pupils are blown, mouth gone slack as Louis sucks a deep hickey into the skin just above his nipple. “I will start tickling you,” Louis threatens when he pops off finally, making Harry laugh breathily. “I’m serious, Harold.” 

“I’ll tell you… If you tell me how you knew about it in the first place.” 

“I didn’t,” Louis lies, biting Harry’s nipple, mostly to be a pain. But also to hear Harry gasp. 

“Fine,” Harry relents. “Stop doing that, though, Jesus,” he begs, straining a bit against Louis’ hold. Louis sits fully upright, letting go of Harry’s wrists. He looks down at him with a shit-eating grin on his face, making Harry roll his eyes. 

Harry’s not too bothered, though, because he places both his hands on Louis’ thighs, his thumbs playing with the inseam of his jeans. He clears his throat and licks his lips. “I can’t believe I’m admitting this,” he murmurs, making Louis laugh delightedly. He grabs the tequila off the table and manages to take a swig even while mostly laying down, not even wincing as it goes down. Louis doesn’t know if he’s just drunk or excited or numb to all things except Harry, but it sends a zip of electricity through his entire body. 

“After we… Left together, after the first concert, I texted Zayn some things. And then after we… Finished, and I got a second to look at my phone, I just wanted to text him and let him know I wasn’t dead. Evidently I was a little drunk or delusional or something and I included some details.” 

Louis runs his fingers gently over Harry’s chest, waiting for him to continue. Harry huffs, making his abs flutter even more than they already are beneath Louis’ fingers. He realizes Louis’ waiting for him to elaborate, and his eyes go wide. “Seriously? As if this isn’t embarrassing enough, Louis, God.” 

“What’d you say?” 

“I said… Something along the lines of, that was mind blowing, seriously, I can’t believe I just fucked my celeb crush. And, he’s kind of an asshole but it was still really hot. And Zayn asked if you were an asshole in bed, and I said yes, you were, but in a good way, and Zayn said that was gross. And then I said…” Harry trails off, looking at Louis pleadingly, like maybe he won’t make him go on. Louis takes another swig of tequila and arches his eyebrow expectantly. 

“Then I said that you had a really, really good cock. Might have called it a mega cock. But like I said, I was drunk or delusional, and this is so embarrassing and—” 

Louis bends down quickly, careful not to spill the bottle everywhere, and captures his lips in a heavy kiss. Harry moans right away, going pliant beneath Louis’ mouth. Louis pulls back not ten seconds later, but Harry’s breathing even heavier even after just those ten seconds. Louis might be getting hard. 

“It’s not embarrassing,” Louis rasps. “It’s hot.” 

Harry looks at him like he’s crazy. “It… It is?” 

Louis nods, because he’s not lying. “Oli saw some of the texts you sent Zayn. He gave me key phrases. Mega cock, in particular, I vividly recall him saying.” 

“Of course you do,” Harry scoffs, rolling his eyes indignantly. “Are we going to fuck now? Or are we wasting all of this liquor and chatting for nothing?” 

He laughs loudly, and Harry whimpers, grinding his hips against Louis’ arse so Louis can feel it — he’s already hard. Louis abandons the vodka and the tequila and everything else he could have possibly done tonight in favor of dragging Harry off to the bedroom, doing nothing but send a silent prayer to the Gods that his friends don’t make a surprise appearance.