The sun is low, clouds streaking orange across the horizon. A fire in the sky to match the fire that’s spreading through Louis’ limbs. He’s not hot. He’s restless. He wants to run through the park screaming and waving his arms, wants to throw shit, rocks, small animals, Harry, into the river beside them.
Louis’ mood doesn’t match the quietness of the evening. The air is still. The water is moving as slow as he’s ever seen it. And Harry. Harry’s breathing is shallow and even as he sleeps, his brown curls a glossy halo against the green grass beneath him.
Louis will have to leave for work in a few minutes, the large cup of coffee Harry’d brought him home from the bakery jittering through his legs, itching at his fingertips and toes. He’s on for a late shift at the pub tonight. Feels like that’s all he’s been working these last few weeks and he hates it.
He hates it because before his boss had so callously switched him over from the midday shift he and Harry had been almost there.
Best friends, roommates, on the edge of something bigger. Something better.
Something the best.
Two weeks and two days, sixteen sunsets ago, Harry’d made them dinner, a glass pan of Louis’ favorite enchiladas cooling on the stove, waiting for Louis at exactly seven forty-five when he walked through the front door. That in and of itself hadn’t been unusual. Harry often cooks for them, often times their evening meal perfectly for Louis’ arrival home from work, often tweaks recipes just for Louis, adding a little heat, tempering the amount of cheese and cream, switching out red beans for black.
Louis’d washed his hands, wandered back into the kitchen, cracked a beer, and asked Harry how he could help.
Harry’d been leaning over the table, hand cupped around the wick of tall, white candle he was attempting to light with one of Louis’ old lighters, a lovely silver thing that had always given him trouble.
“Let me,” he’d offered.
Over his shoulder, Harry’d glared at him. “I’m proving a point,” he’d said, turning back to the task.
“What’s that?” Louis’d asked, moving closer, meaning to pry to the lighter from his long, stubborn fingers.
“Fuck,” Harry’d hissed, a spark flickering from the lighter without turning into flame. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”
“What point are you trying to prove? That you’re not a smoker? That you’ve got weak thumbs? That the only swear word you know is ‘fuck’?”
“Would you shut up- I’m trying-” Harry’d trailed off, the lighter flickering on. Finally. The candle had taken a few long seconds to light, though, and Harry’d pulled his hand away, shaking it. “Fuck.”
“What was that again? The point you’re trying to prove?” Louis’d poked him in the side.
“That I love you. That I’m in love with you,” Harry’d said, blowing on the tips of his fingers, avoiding Louis’ eyes.
Louis’d straightened, his body turning to stone in surprise.
Harry’d glanced at him under his lashes, hand dropping to his side, teeth appearing to chew on the side of his lip.
“I love you, too. I’m in love with you, too.” Louis’d heard the words leave his mouth, seen Harry’s face relax, noticed suddenly the flush on Harry’s cheeks. How had he missed it before?
“Good,” Harry’d said, dimples popping, as he’d turned to walk over to stove, testing the heat of the pan with his bare fingers before reaching for a hot pad to move it to the table.
And that’d been the end of it. No more romantic words. No kissing. No sex. Just a confession of love and back to the same routine they’d found themselves in six months ago when Louis’d begged his giggly, gangly squash partner to take him in after a swift and painful break-up ended an equally swift and painful relationship.
Louis’ shift change three days later had meant the end of their shared meals. And their actual, in-person conversations. Though they’d passed each other four times stepping in and out of the shower and texted constantly on Louis’ breaks until Harry went to bed at ten, they hadn’t spoken a word aloud to one another.
But it was out there between them.
They loved each other. They were in love with each other.
And binding up that knowledge, wrapping it tight inside himself, saying nothing,doing nothing, it was a lot. Too much.
When Harry’d knocked on his bedroom door, waking him an hour earlier than usual to suggest they go out an adventure, an early evening picnic in the park near the river, Louis’d exploded, rising to grasp his shoulders.
“Yes, Harry. We have to. Right now. No excuses,” Louis’d shouted, as though he’d been the one to suggest it and Harry were expressing reluctance,
Harry’d laughed and leaned in to peck him on the cheek.
Their first kiss.
The first of many. Of a lifetime, maybe. Louis wants to lose count. Right now by the river, preferably.
A biker whizzes past them, tires ripping along the gravel path sending stones and sand in their direction. Harry whines, a soft murmur of discomfort, and wiggles, his shirt riding up to reveal the dark ink of his laurels.
Louis lets his eyes linger on them, something he’s wanted to do for ages, since long before they moved in together, since before he’d broken up with his ex, since he’d first seen them on the squash court when Harry’d pulled off his shirt, claiming with a serious, scrunched brow, that he couldn’t focus properly with cotton clinging to his chest. He had sensitive nipples.
Louis reaches out to trace one of the tattoos with his finger.
Harry twitches and says, voice rough, “Tickles.” His eyes stay closed.
Louis decides that it’s unfair that Harry should be so relaxed when Louis himself feels like he’s dangling on the edge of a cliff, clinging to loose rocks and brush for dear life.
He twists his body so that he can lean over and press his lips to the very middle of the tattoo nearest him.
“Mmm,” Harry moans. Without lifting his head, Louis checks to see if his eyes have opened. They haven’t.
Louis lets his tongue trace the length of the stem. Harry stays remarkably still. His dick is thickening, though; Louis can see it beginning to tent his sweats out in the corner of his vision. Not so unaffected after all.
Louis presses a line of closed-mouth kisses across the soft middle of his belly, Harry’s cotton shirt bunching against his forehead, until he finds the other laurel. He licks the outline of it. When he reaches the base, he feels Harry’s fingers grabbing at his shoulder and tightening.
The blunt edges of Harry’s nails bite through the fabric of Louis’ shirt. He’s as hard as Harry he realizes. He tests his teeth, gently, on the hollow of Harry’s hip.
“Fuck,” Harry hisses.
The only swear word he knows, for sure, Louis thinks. He smiles to himself and traces f - u - c - k in the soft hair beneath Harry’s belly button with his tongue.
Harry’s phone begins to sing and buzz, vibrating against Louis’ chest where it’s pressed to Harry’s thigh.
“That’s the alarm,” Harry groans, hoisting himself up onto his elbows and shaking out his hair. “Time for you to head to work.”
Louis nips at his belly button.
“We have rent to pay,” Harry tells him and then, when Louis pouts, adds, “And all the time in the world for this.” He lifts a hand to Louis’ cheek. “Forever, as far as I’m concerned.”
Louis scoots up his body and kisses him, softly. Harry’s the one to deepen the kiss, his tongue searching out the corners of Louis’ lips. Harry’s also the one to pull away.
“Fuck,” he laughs.
“Fuck,” Louis agrees. And then, “I really have to go.”
The sun has set behind the trees now and something in Louis has settled with it, the promise of tomorrow lingering in the air.