Work Text:
It’s late June, and they have a show in D.C., third night in a row after three days of interviews and photoshoots, and Harry is tired.
Soundcheck is a mess. They can’t get Niall’s microphone to work, and the platform that’s meant to carry them from the main stage to stage B wobbles so much that Zayn refuses to set foot on it. One of the legs of Josh’s snare drum breaks, just folds up as if it’s made of paper rather than metal, and Harry can’t deal with the crew’s hysterics.
He snags a water bottle, tugs his beanie down lower over his hair, and slips off the stage, creeps down one of the aisles between the rows of floor seats and past the sound booth until he reaches the lower level in the back of the stadium. He climbs a few stairs, then edges down one of the rows, drops into a seat with a huff and kicks his feet up on the chair in front of him. He can still see the stage, can still hear echoes of the band and crew as they yell at each other but it’s muffled, and it’s cool back here, industrial-sized air vents swirling frigid air around to stave off the humid summer heat.
Harry sinks low enough in the seat that he can tip his head against the back of it and slide his eyes shut. It’s uncomfortable – he’s folded nearly in half, the seat cushions are too thin, worn flat by thousands of bodies pressed into this stadium, and there’s a cup holder digging into the back of his thigh. But he can still hear the crew carrying on about something or other, can hear technicians working on the moving platform, and he just needs a break.
He’s nearly dozed off, the noise coming from the stage faded to more of a persistent buzz, when he hears a squeak to his left, feels the row of chairs shift and dip. He turns his head on the back of the seat and squints one eye open, looks up into Louis’ face, watches his lips move as he says, soft, “Hey, babe.”
Harry offers him a weak smile, one side of his mouth quirked up, and Louis reaches out, tugs on a lock of hair that’s escaped his beanie, is curling up around the bottom of it like a corkscrew. Harry can’t help the way he goes a bit boneless – it’s like the nerves in his scalp are hardwired to the region of his brain that signals relaxation, and he makes a soft grumbling noise that makes Louis chuckle.
“’S it still a mess up there?”
Louis sighs. “They’re working on it. They’ve got spare stands for Josh’s drums and they’ve got Niall’s microphone working, but they’re still messing about with the platform. Zayn is in a right strop. I think Niall’s taking him out back for a smoke.”
He mimes smoking a joint and Harry laughs, low and rumbly in his chest. “That’ll be good for the show.”
Louis shrugs and shoves his fingers up under the beanie so that he can scratch at Harry’s scalp. “We’ve still got ages till the show, no worries.”
Harry hums and tips his head forward so that Louis can get a better angle, reaches a hand out blindly and tucks it between Louis’ thigh and the chair, thumbs absently along the outseam of his jeans. When Louis shifts on the seat, fingers withdrawing from under Harry’s beanie, Harry slips his hand out from under Louis’ thigh to grip his knee.
“Don’t go. Let’s just stay here till someone calls us.”
Louis studies him for a moment, and Harry stares back evenly. Watches the way the way Louis’ eyes glow, a washed-out gray blue, in the glaring stadium lights, the way he sucks his top lip into his mouth while he considers it. He relents in the end, of course he does, and Harry beams at him as he shifts closer in the chair, close enough to drape his arm across the back of Harry’s and offer his shoulder as a pillow.
It is supremely uncomfortable. Harry turns his body so he can drape his legs across Louis’ lap rather than the chair in front of him, sandwiches Louis’ free hand between his own and tucks them between his knees; but now, instead of a cup holder, he’s got the armrest digging into his side and the chair is still thin and hard. He doesn’t care, though, mouths happily at the side of Louis’ neck when Louis’ hand works its way under his beanie again to tug at his hair.
They sit like that for a while, curled together across the armrest, until the buzz of power tools fades away and Harry’s phone starts to vibrate insistently in his pocket. He fumbles it out, keys it open to a text from Liam, and heaves a sigh. “We’re being summoned.”
Despite earlier hiccups, the show goes brilliantly. Zayn is loose and worry-free, easy smiles and lazy movements, and he sings effortlessly, like he was born to do it, steps up onto the platform with zero fuss and smiles the whole way over to stage B.
When Harry crowds up into Niall’s space during She’s Not Afraid and drops an aggressive kiss on his cheek, he flicks a glance and half a wink at Louis, taps two fingers against Niall’s back where Louis can see the gesture, smiles wide when Louis mouths later behind his fist as he pretends to cough.
Harry makes sure he ends up next to Louis for their final bow, squeezes his shoulder harder than is strictly necessary, and can’t stop his grin from stretching wide across his face when Louis sucks in a breath and digs his fingers into his side, turns his head to wink at Harry in the protective shadows of their bodies bent in half at the waist.
They’ve got a hotel night, so they bypass the dressing room and shuffle out the door and straight into the waiting vans. Louis slides onto the bench next to Harry, visibly vibrating, and the second they’ve cleared the venue and the hoardes of fans waiting for a chance to catch a glimpse of them through the windows, he swivels on the bench and presses an open-mouthed kiss to Harry’s shoulder, heat seeping through the thin material so that Harry shivers with it.
His hand finds Louis’ thigh, fingers curling into muscle, and Louis lets out a shuddery breath. Harry can feel his eyelashes flutter against the crook of his neck, can feel Louis’ fingers crawl up his nape and bury themselves in the sweaty curls at the base of his skull.
Zayn huffs out a sigh from the row behind them. “Christ, can’t you wait till we get to the hotel? You’re like cats in heat, both of you.”
Niall laughs and Harry can hear the smack of a hand on denim, the beginnings of a slap fight, and he rolls his eyes, tightens his grip on Louis’ thigh and drags Louis’ leg across his lap, turns his head so he can rub the tip of his nose against Louis’ temple.
They have to separate for the walk through the hotel lobby and the ride up the glass elevators, and Harry concentrates on not staring at Louis’ bum, concentrates on anything but what he plans on doing to Louis as soon as they get up to their room. A rack of pamphlets catches his eye as they stroll past the concierge, and Harry says suddenly, “I want to go to the Smithsonian tomorrow.”
Liam looks at him in surprise, and Zayn says, “Ooooh.”
Paul starts to shake his head no, but Harry turns pleading eyes on him, widens them and pouts out his bottom lip deliberately, and he can already see Paul wavering, eyes calculating as he tries to work out the logistics. Harry reaches out thoughtlessly and grabs the back of Louis’ neck, and Louis leans into it, says, “I want to go, too.”
Paul heaves a defeated sigh. “What about you lot,” he directs at Liam and Niall, who wrinkle their noses and shake their heads. Paul veers off with a grumble to speak to one of their security guards and Harry squeezes the back of Louis’ neck before letting go.
As soon as they’ve squeezed into the elevator, Zayn says, “I know you two are counting the museum as some weird ‘hiding-in-plain-sight’ date, but if you two get all gross and coupley while we’re out tomorrow, I’m ditching you. I’m taking Preston and leaving you lot to fend for yourselves.”
“Don’t be jealous, Zaney, I’ll hold your hand too if you ask me to,” Louis laughs, and he lays his hand on the railing of the elevator a centimeter from Harry’s body. Harry reaches back with his arm, presses it down subtly over the jut of Louis’ knuckles, tips his head sideways toward Louis’.
Harry affects a thoughtful look, says, “You know, Zayn, if you wanted, we could –“
Niall makes a retching noise and Liam barks out a laugh.
“Unbelievable!” Zayn exclaims, face flushing pink, then mutters, “You two are un-fucking-believable. Can’t anything go untainted anymore?”
Louis presses a giggle into Harry’s shoulder and Harry says, smile coloring his voice, “Well, the door’s always open if you change your mind.”
Their floor of the hotel is quiet, hallways blissfully empty, and Louis crowds up behind Harry as he keys open the door to their room. The lights have all been turned on in anticipation of their arrival, blankets turned down on the bed, and there’s a welcome basket on the desk by the window.
Harry pays no attention to the latter, despite the hunger gnawing at his stomach. He’s got a different kind of hunger in mind at the moment, drops his bag on the floor next to the bathroom and swivels around, backs Louis up against the door and flips the deadbolt.
“Just so we’re clear,” Louis says, voice already gone soft and trembly. “The door’s not actually open, right?”
Harry smirks, presses small, nipping kisses along Louis’ neck. “Not even if he begged.”
Louis hums, a pleased little sound low in his throat, skin vibrating against Harry’s lips. “To be fair, that would be a sight.”
Harry laughs, a small, frustrated sound laced with amusement and impatience as he lifts his head to stare down at Louis. “Shut up, Lou,” he murmurs, then grinds their hips together, covers Louis’ mouth with his own so he can swallow Louis’ breathless moan.
Louis shuts up.
Later, they’re draped sideways across the bed, hair matted to their foreheads and bodies glistening with sweat. The duvet is lying in a heap on the carpet, pillows scattered across the floor, and Harry can barely breathe. His skin is still tingling and he still sees stars when he shuts his eyes, nerves alight with fading arousal, muscles sore, limbs heavy and sated. He feels the bed shift, hears the click of a shutter going off, and when his eyes fly open, he sees Louis tapping something out on his phone.
“What’s that,” he asks, suspicion clouding his voice, and Louis grins at him, wicked and mischievous, canines glinting in the lamplight.
Louis’ phone buzzes a moment later, and he opens the text message. Harry can see the original text, a photo of his and Louis’ heads and naked chests from only a moment ago and the words ‘see what you’re missing babe.’ His eyes scroll down to read Zayn’s response.
I hate u !! I’m blocking ur phone numbr u twat
Louis tosses his phone to the end of the bed, then rolls over onto Harry’s chest, rests his chin on stacked fists. Harry traces his fingers lazily up and down Louis’ spine, skin still slick with sweat, and he mumbles, “Shower?”
Louis nods but doesn’t move, eyelids already drooping.
With a sigh and a jaw-cracking yawn, Harry wraps his arms around Louis’ back, smiles sleepily when Louis drops his hands to the mattress, curls them into Harry’s hair and tucks his head up under Harry’s chin. They’re disgusting, sex sweat mingling with stage sweat, but Louis is warm and the bed is soft and they have a date tomorrow, even if it is with Zayn and a couple of bodyguards.
And when he feels Louis’ eyelids flutter shut against his throat, he shrugs mentally, tangles their legs together and presses a kiss to the top of Louis’ head, lets his own eyes slip closed. The shower can wait.