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Harry doesn’t look up from his phone as he turns the corner and comes to a stop. His GPS app announces, “Arrive at destination.” Eyes still locked on his phone where he’s called up his text messages, Harry pushes the glass-fronted door open and steps inside.
“Hello, welcome to Dover Cameras, how can I help you?”
Harry presses send on a text, then tucks his phone into his pocket and looks up. The guy behind the counter is smiling uncertainly at him, blond hair unruly and jumper spotted with ink. Harry holds a canvas bag up as he approaches the counter, the heels of his boots clicking on the tile floor. It’s warm in the shop, despite the lingering April chill outside.
“I have some film I need developed.”
“Oh, yeah? What kind?”
Harry sets the bag on the counter and upends it. Five film tubes spill out, along with a large, rectangular memory card. “Three rolls of 35mm, two of 120, and about five gigabytes.”
The guy whistles and picks the memory card up with ink-stained fingers, flips it between them as he considers Harry. “That’ll cost ya.”
Harry shrugs. “I’ve got someone footing the bill.”
The guy looks at him for a moment, eyes narrowed in interest. Harry stares back evenly.
“Right, okay, let me get you a quote.” He sets the memory card down and moves over to a computer, starts clicking around. “It’ll be £12 per roll of 35mm, £15 per 120, and 30p per photo on the card, if you just want 5 x 7’s.”
“There are two folders on the card, one for 5 x 7’s and one for 8 x 11’s. Price doesn’t matter, it’s covered.” The guy raises an eyebrow, but doesn’t say anything. “When should I pick them up?”
“I’m gonna say five business days, but fill this out and we’ll give you a call.” He slides a form across the counter and digs through a drawer for a pen. “Sorry,” he mumbles, wiggling his inky fingers at Harry. “I bit down a little too hard on the one I had out.”
Harry just smiles and bends over the counter to write out his name and phone number.
Two days after dropping off the film, Harry gets called to Madagascar to photograph Malagasy kingfishers for Bird Watching Magazine, and gets roped into staying an extra week to help one of his contacts out with some nesting research. He spends a week in a canoe, paddling along rivers trying to spot kingfisher nests, and by the time he gets back to London, his hands are so blistered that his mum instructs him to put creme on every night and sleep with gloves on. He feels ridiculous, but his flatmate has the good graces not to comment on them when Harry forgets to take them off his first morning back.
“Hey Cal,” Harry croaks out, turning on speakerphone. He’s still in bed, despite the fact that the sun is already high in the sky - still catching up on sleep two days after getting back to London - and he has a lapful of very happy cat. He listens to Cal ramble on about some project in Honduras while he scratches under Fuzz’s chin. Once Cal has fallen silent, Harry sighs. “How about something closer to home this time? I just spent two weeks in Madagascar, and before that was New Guinea for a month. I just need a little time with my family before I go halfway across the world again.”
“Of course, yeah, I’ll send Ben. I’ll call you when I have something local. I think someone at Brighton is getting ready to start some work with Mediterranean gulls, actually...” He trails off into mumbles, and Harry listens to the sound of rustling papers for a moment before rolling his eyes and hiding his smile in Fuzz’s fur.
“Call me when you have something. I’m hanging up on you now.”
Harry doesn’t wait for a response, just ends the call, then scoops Fuzz up into his arms and carries her out into the hallway. It’s bitterly cold outside of his room, and Harry shivers and hugs Fuzz closer, glad he’d decided to sleep in pants the night before, as they’re his only defense. He discovers the reason for the temperature when he emerges out into the living room. The balcony doors have been thrown wide and Zayn is perched on a spindly chair outside, back to the apartment as he sketches something out on a canvas he’s propped up against the railing.
“Jesus Christ, Malik,” Harry sighs as he pads over to the terrace doors. “Is this necessary? It’s a bloody ice box in the flat.”
Zayn doesn’t respond for a couple of minutes, just stays hunched over the box of pencils in his lap as he shades in what looks like the stonework on the building across the street. Only once he’s finished the curve of a fleur de lis does he straighten up, twisting his body around to work out the kinks in his muscles. There’s an unlit cigarette dangling from between his lips and he’s got graphite smudges on the tips of his fingers and dusting his cheekbone. He looks like he hasn’t properly shaved or washed his hair in the entire two weeks Harry was gone, and he’s still the most beautiful human being Harry has ever seen. He sort of hates Zayn, a little bit.
“Hey, H,” Zayn rasps, voice scratchy from disuse. Between catching up on sleep and Zayn’s random art blackouts, they haven’t really gotten to talk since Harry has been back. “How was Africa?”
Harry shrugs. Fuzz pays no attention to the jostling, just keeps on kneading at his collarbone and drooling on his chest. “It rained a lot, which was unusual. Got some good shots, though.”
“Oh, yeah.” Zayn gestures toward the kitchen. “You’ve got, like, eighteen missed calls from the film place.”
“Film place?” Harry frowns as he tries to think what Zayn could possibly be referring to, then remembers - “Oh! You mean the camera guy. Right, I’ll just going to go pick up the photos now. Got some new ones to print, anyway. And I’m closing these doors before we all catch pneumonia, you twat.”
“Bye Harreh, I love you, miss you already,” Zayn drawls as Harry moves back inside. He’s already turning back to his canvas, pencil in hand. As an afterthought, he calls over his shoulder, “Bring back donuts, alright!”
Harry doesn’t mind his field clothes - they’re comfortable and keep him cool when he’s in the tropics - but he’s always happy to get back to regular clothes when he’s home. Jeans so tight he has to wiggle them up over his thighs and shirts that drape over his collarbones, boots that don’t weigh two kilo each. Fuzz sits on the bed and watches him get dressed, her green eyes wide with suspicion as Harry walks back and forth from the closet to the mirror. He’s come back from Madagascar with a nice tan, so Harry leaves a few of his shirt buttons open, necklaces visible in the vee, then pulls on some skinnies and his favorite pair of boots, tucks his hair up under a beanie, and grabs his phone, wallet, and the memory card from Madagascar.
Fuzz follows him to the door, winding between his legs as he walks so that Harry has to keep one hand on the wall to steady himself. Zayn is still outside, working with little tubes of oil paints now, so he grabs a set of keys off the hook by the door, then crouches down to pat Fuzz on the head and coo, “I’ll be back soon, baby. You stay with Zayn for an hour, okay?”
Fuzz meows plaintively and butts her head up against Harry’s knee, and his heart aches at the thought of leaving her again, even if it’s just for an hour. He always misses her when he’s gone, his little rescue. He makes himself stand back up, though, and keep a foot against her chest so she doesn’t follow him out into the hallway. The camera shop is only a few blocks away, so Harry digs out his earphones and puts on some music while he walks. The streets are busy at this time of day, people on their way to and from lunch or headed to afternoon shifts, so when Harry clucks at a pigeon perched on the awning above the camera shop, he gets a few odd looks from passersby. He just brushes them off. No one ever takes the time to appreciate pigeons.
Despite the bustling street outside, the store is empty. Completely empty, actually. Harry frowns and peers around the little shop. Two of the walls are lined with cameras and camera accessories, and the third is dominated by a long counter, behind which are several clunky looking machines and a computer. The chair behind the computer is unoccupied, and a door that Harry supposes leads to a backroom is slightly ajar. He bites his lip and approaches the counter, footsteps deliberately heavy so the sound of his heels on the tiles echoes through the shop.
“Hello?” He tries to crane his neck so he can see into the back, but it’s too dark to make anything out. “Is someone here?”
A voice rings out from the back, “Just a second!”
Harry clasps his hands behind his back and waits, not really sure what to do with himself. In the end, he turns to browse the different lenses for sale, is about to pull his phone out and text a photo of one to Cal when he hears the back door click shut and a voice say, “Can I help you?”
Harry turns around expecting the blond from the other week, but instead finds a boy with shaggy brown hair watching him curiously from behind the counter. He’s actually rather beautiful, and Harry’s thoughts scatter when the boy gives him a deliberate once-over.
“Did you need something, mate, or are you just browsing?”
Harry shakes himself out of his stupor and walks back over to the counter, doesn’t miss the way the boys’ eyes trail up his legs and linger on his chest, before locking back in on his face. “Yes, I dropped some film off a couple of weeks ago.” It turns out the boys’ eyes are pale blue, framed by thick eyelashes, and Harry finds himself rambling nervously as the boy watches him silently. “There was a different person here, he was blond? Irish? I had to go out of the country, so I couldn’t come pick it up before, but my flatmate said I missed some phone calls, so I -”
Harry cuts himself off, tucks his chin down against his chest and presses his lips together. When he glances up at the boy through his lashes, he’s smiling. His canines end in sharp little points and the corners of his eyes crinkle up with his smile, and Harry’s stomach does a nervous little flip-flop in his belly.
“What’s the last name?” He asks as he moves over to the computer.
“Styles.” Harry clears his throat nervously, not even sure why he’s nervous. Stupid. “Harry Styles.”
The guy hums quietly as he taps something out on the keyboard, then clicks the mouse a few times. “Right, Mr. Styles, let me go get the prints for you to look over.”
He’s only in the back room for a moment, comes back with an enormous envelope and a plastic sheath protecting the film negatives. The boy pulls the photos out of the envelope and fans them out across the counter for Harry to look at.
Harry pulls a few of the digital prints out of the stack so he can inspect them, studies the vivid colors and sharp outlines of the birds, the way the overhead lights reflect dully off the matte finish. The film prints are his favorite of the bunch, purely for their imperfections. He’s got blurry shots of birds taking flight, accidental double exposures that layer tree canopies over brightly colored feathers, light leaks that bleach the corners of the photos, and sun spots that cast a hazy glow over his shots. Satisfied, Harry shuffles them back into a stack and works them gently into the envelope.
“They’re perfect,” he tells the boy behind the counter, and is rewarded with a blinding smile. Harry presses his lips together to try and contain his own smile as he fumbles for his wallet, only remembers the other memory card when he pulls his wallet out and it goes clattering to the floor. Flustered, he bends down to fetch it, straightens up before the boy can drag his eyes away from Harry’s chest where his shirt is gaping open.
He watches the boy’s cheeks color, amused and completely charmed. And he doesn’t even know the guy’s name. Christ. “Er. I have some more photos to print?”
He slides the card across the counter, flushes a bit when their fingers tangle around it. Stupid stupid stupid, Harry thinks. He has more game than this, this is pathetic. He clears his throat, forces himself to relax a little.
“So, how much do I owe you?”
The guy consults his computer. “For this batch, £205.”
Harry tugs a credit card out of his wallet and hands it over, watches quietly as the guy swipes it and keys in a few numbers. “So,” the guy says, while the machine processes the payment. “You like birds?”
Harry barks out a laugh, sharp and loud in the small shop, then slaps a hand over his mouth in embarrassment. “Yes,” he mumbles from between his fingers. “I guess you could say that.”
Harry takes his card back and tucks his wallet away, waits for the guy to say something, maybe ask him about the birds. But instead, he just says, “We’ll call you when your photos are ready. Have a good day, Mr. Styles.”
;;
Figuring he has a handful of days until his photos are ready, Harry gathers up some clothes, forces Fuzz into her carrier, and drives home to his mum for a few of them. It’s perfect, not having to do anything for himself for once. Being in the field is always draining, but at his mum’s house, he gets to spend his days sunbathing in the back garden, riding Robin’s tractor around, and helping his mum cook up a storm. Fuzz is not his mum’s cat’s biggest fan, but Dusty follows her around like a lost puppy and Anne dotes on her like she’s her grandchild. She always sends Harry off with packets of cat treats and catnip toys, a shiny new collar with a bell that will drive Zayn crazy within hours and the occasional cat bed that Fuzz will never use.
By the time Harry gets back to London, he’s feeling loose and happy, with a boot full of home-cooked meals and some fresh vegetables from Robin’s garden. He hears voices once he gets inside the flat, pauses to tug Fuzz out of her carrier, then finds Zayn in the kitchen, drinking tea with Liam.
“Liam!” Harry sets Fuzz down on the floor, then walks over to give Liam a hug. “I didn’t know you were in town.”
“Just got back from Nicaragua on Wednesday. Cal called me two weeks ago from Honduras with a toucanet project, so we collected feathers there and in Peru, Bolivia, and Panama. I’m back in London for the analysis and another round of warbler tagging, so I’ll be here for a few weeks, at least.”
“Perfect. We should go out this weekend.”
Zayn makes a huffing noise, and Harry turns to frown at him, ready to defend himself - though he’s not really sure why. He’s a pretty responsible drinker. Most of the time. When he turns, though Zayn isn’t looking at him, is instead staring grumpily at Liam’s lap, where Fuzz is curled up and napping contentedly.
“She does it on purpose, you know,” Harry says to Zayn. When Zayn raises an eyebrow at him, Harry elaborates. “She knows it pisses you off when she ignores you, so she does it on purpose.”
Zayn blinks at him for a moment, then says, “She’s a cat, H. Her brain is the size of a marble.”
Harry rolls his eyes. “Her brain isn’t the size of a marble, you wanker. Cats are brilliant. They can sense fear and resentment.” He bends over so he can scratch behind Fuzz’s ears and coos, “Isn’t that right, Fuzzy Wuzzy?”
Liam gasps and wraps his arms around Fuzz, pulls her against his chest and out of Harry’s reach. “That is not her name, Harry, we’ve been over this.”
“Yes,” Zayn mumbles into his tea. “Because Fuzzy Wuzzy is so much worse than Fuzz Lightyear. Honestly, you two are ridiculous. I need cooler friends.”
Harry rolls his eyes. As if Zayn doesn’t have a collection of his own paintings hanging in his room - paintings of all of the Marvel superheroes done in oil. No, he has no room to complain.
“I ordered you some prints from New Guinea,” Harry tells Liam, grinning at the way Liam’s eyes light up.
“Bee eaters?”
“And a blue-eyed cockatoo. It would sit outside our cabin every morning, like it was posing for the camera.”
“Damn, I wish I could have gone with you. Bolivia was a nightmare. I think we got like eleven samples in six days.”
“You two are boring,” Zayn announces, pushing back from the table with a scrape of wood on tile. “I’m going to take a nap. See you Thursday night, Liam.”
Zayn slides a hand across the small of Harry’s back as he passes, and Harry just shakes his head at Liam, then goes to fetch the envelope of prints.
;;
On Thursday morning, Harry is woken up by the sound of his phone ringing. He feels around for it blindly, manages to press answer just as the last strains of his ringtone start. “‘Lo.”
“Harry Styles?”
The voice coming through the line is far too chipper for Harry’s liking. He grunts in response and waits for the caller to continue.
“This is Louis from Dover Cameras. Your photos are ready to be picked up.”
Harry scrubs a hand over his face and squints at the clock on his bedside table. It takes him a moment to bring the numbers into focus, but when he does, he groans. 8:48am. There’s a pause, and then -
“Is everything okay?”
Harry buries his face in his pillow, phone sandwiched between the cushion and his ear, and mumbles, “‘S not even 9 o’clock.”
“No,” the guy - Louis - intones. He sounds amused. “Not quite yet.”
“When I’m not in the field, I take advantage of my bed.”
“Is that so.” There’s a definite note of amusement in Louis’ voice now, and Harry finds himself flushing at the implication behind the words. He calls up Louis’ face in his mind - soft brown fringe, light blue eyes, a thin, lovely mouth. He’s about to suggest taking advantage of something else in his bed when he remembers they’ve not even had a proper conversation yet. Right.
“I’ll pick them up after lunch. Will you still be around?”
“The shop will be open, if that’s what you’re asking.”
Harry bites his lip and squeezes his eyes shut, ready to just give in. He’s too tired to flirt properly, anyway. When he opens his mouth, though, what comes out is: “That’s not what I was asking.”
Louis hums, then says, “I guess you’ll just have to come by and see.”
Harry hangs up with a gigantic, goofy smile on his face, heart racing stupidly in his chest. He shoves his phone up underneath his pillow and burrows into the blankets, tugs them up over his head so he can go back to sleep for a couple of hours.
The flat is empty when Harry rolls out of bed just after eleven, the floors icy from where Zayn has left the kitchen window open. Probably had a smoke with his morning tea. Harry sighs as he tugs it closed and chafes his arms, trying to chase away the goosebumps. The tile floor is cold, but the sunlight streaming in through the windows is bright and cheery, reflecting off the white walls and pale countertops, and Harry sings absently under his breath, drawing little doodles on the chalkboard grocery list pinned to one of the cupboard doors as he waits for the kettle to heat up.
The tea settles hot in his belly and radiates warmth down his limbs, so that when he leaves the flat, bundled into an oversized jumper and two pairs of socks inside of his boots, he feels pleasantly toasty, despite the bitter wind on his cheeks. He gets squirmier the closer he gets to the shop, nerves jittering in his fingers so that he has to tug the sleeves of his jumper down over his hands to mask the way they’re shaking in anticipation. The shop door swings open just as Harry walks up, and he lets the man pass through before slipping inside.
It’s nice and toasty inside the shop, and the air smells of tea and scones, and Harry can’t quite suppress his grin when he sees the boy from earlier in the week - Louis - sitting behind the counter, flipping through a magazine. Harry clears his throat and watches, amused, as Louis’ head snaps up. “Oh, sorry, I didn’t hear you come in.”
Harry thumbs over his shoulder at the door. “So you do actually have other customers. I was beginning to worry I was your only one.”
Louis cocks his head, a smile playing around the corners of his mouth as Harry approaches the desk. “Cute.”
Harry shrugs, comes to a stop in front of Louis and splays his hands out on the countertop. Determined to be every bit as smooth as he wasn’t last time, Harry lowers his lashes and murmurs, “I believe you have something for me.”
Louis doesn’t respond, just bends down to fish something out from underneath the desk. It’s an envelope with the shop’s name on it, stuffed full of prints from Harry’s trip to Madagascar. Louis pulls the photos out of the envelope and passes them to Harry. Harry spreads them out across the counter, traces his fingertips lightly over an action shot of a pygmy kingfisher taking flight, brilliant orange beak and the sweep of rusty brown plumage bright against a backdrop of the brown roots and green leaves of mangrove trees.
“That’s a pretty bird,” Louis comments, and Harry looks up at him, cheeks dimpling with a pleased smile.
“Isn’t she? She was nesting along the riverbank.”
Louis tilts his head to the side, watching Harry as he pulls a photo of a Jacana out of the stack. “Do you study birds, then?”
Harry ducks his head as he shuffles through a few of the photos, pulling out another shot of a male Jacana and his chick walking across the tops of some lily pads. “Sometimes. Mostly I photograph them for birding magazines. I assist researchers in the field, though, when I can.”
“Where were these taken?”
“Madagascar. The ones I picked up last week were from New Guinea.”
Louis lets out a low whistle. “World traveler.” He offers Harry a flirty little smile, then says, “You ever do anything local?”
Well then. Harry returns the smile and murmurs, “I’ve been known to.”
“What were you doing in Madagascar, then? Just photographing?”
Harry shakes his head, then sifts through the photos to find a close-up of a nest. “I was taking photos for the first week, but then I got a call from a friend who needed a field assistant. We were counting nests.” He points to the hole in the ground, nestled amongst the mangrove roots. “We spent a week canoeing up and down the river, counting burrows.” He pulls out another photo, one of two women in rain-drenched ponchos, holding up binoculars and making silly faces at the camera. “I almost lost one of my cameras to the rain.”
When he looks up from the photo, Louis is watching him intently, eyes dark in the brightly lit room. “Do you get paid to do this?”
Harry blinks at him for a moment, then says, “What, take photos?”
“No, canoe upriver in the pouring rain.”
“Oh.” Harry smiles at Louis, then glances down at the photo again. He has a selfie on his phone with them, taken hastily during a brief lull in the downpour. “No, I don’t get paid.”
Louis makes a noise of disbelief and Harry looks up again. “You fly halfway across the world and spend a week in the jungle for free?”
“Well, I was already there.” Harry shrugs. “It’s fun. Sometimes they pay for my airfare and accommodations, but I don’t need much. I’m happy sleeping in a tent, if I have to.”
“Are you homeless?” Louis looks deadly serious, and Harry stares at him in confusion, then bursts out laughing.
“No! I make money off my photos, I sell them to magazines. I even helped my friend Liam write a book about the birds of Central America and we used my photos for it.” Harry sighs and sets the photo down, grins over at Louis and says, “I’m not homeless, Louis. You did hear me mention a bed on the phone this morning, didn’t you?”
Louis’ tongue flashes out, wetting his bottom lip, and Harry looks at his mouth for a moment, until Louis says softly, “Yes, I remember.”
They stare at each other in silence, the store quiet and still around them, until Louis clears his throat and blinks away. He looks back down at the photos, touches the corner of an off-center shot of a black winged stilt, its vivid orange legs the only flash of color against a muddy brown backdrop. Harry watches him trace a finger down the bird’s back, then slide the photo aside, head bent so his fringe falls over his forehead, feathered out against his skin, and Harry’s fingers itch to touch, to find out if it’s as soft as it looks.
“Why did you print this shot?”
Harry shakes himself out of his reverie and looks down at what Louis is pointing to. Behind the shot of the stilt is a photo of what appears to just be foliage, but Harry points to a lighter spot in the center and explains, “Grey-headed lovebirds. See, this one,” he points to one that’s all green. “That’s the female. And this one, with a grey head, that’s the male. They pair bond, lovebirds. This is a mated pair.”
Louis bends over the photo, so the top of his head is brushing Harry’s arm, and murmurs, “I can’t believe you saw that.”
Harry shrugs as he drops his elbows to the counter and props his chin up on one hand, uses the other to push the photos around. “I’ve been doing it for seven years.”
He shows Louis a few more birds he managed to spot while in Madagascar, listens to him whisper about their bright colors, answers questions about them and about some of the research he’s done until Louis sighs and straightens up, stretches out with a fist in the small of his back, and asks, “Do you want some tea?”
“Sure,” Harry agrees. He waits while Louis shuffles into the backroom, walks around the perimeter of the shop and takes a photo of the lens he’d been eyeing. He sends it off to Cal with the prayer hands and kissy face emojis. It’s still too early for Cal to be awake, so Harry tucks his phone back into his pocket and walks back over to the counter, makes it back just as Louis tugs the door open with his foot and steps out into the shop with two mugs of tea in his hands.
“They’re clean, I promise,” he tells Harry as he sets them down, a safe distance from the photos still spread out across the counter. He wipes his hands on his trousers and starts gathering up the photos, looks up at Harry through his fringe and asks, “So, where are you off to next?”
Harry shrugs as he reaches out for the envelope and holds it open so Louis can slip the photos into it. “Nowhere for now. My mate asked me to fly out to Honduras next week, but I wanted some time off.”
Louis tilts his head as he considers him. “And what do you do on your time off? Laze around your flat? Go out and party every night? See your girlfriend?”
Harry bites his lip, amusement bubbling up in his throat at the very obvious fishing. “No girlfriend,” he comments mildly. “I do a bit of partying every now and then, do a bit of lazing around, but I also drive around and take photos of local birds.”
Louis makes a face. “What, like pigeons?”
“There are more than just pigeons in England.” Harry laughs at the skeptical face Louis makes. He sets his hands on the counter again and leans over them, looks Louis in the eye and says, “Louis, would you like to go bird watching with me?”
Louis just blinks at him for a moment, like he’s not sure how to respond, then says, voice slow and unsure, “Is that a euphemism?”
Harry raises an eyebrow at Louis. “Do I look like someone who would name my dick ‘bird’? That’s a bit insulting, you know.”
Louis shrugs, cheeks flushing pink as he lets his eyes sweep down Harry’s torso then back up. “Well, your trousers are rather tight. And they do always say not to judge a book by its cover, you know.”
Harry snorts. “Trust me, Louis. You can judge this book by its cover.” He pauses, then says, voice pitched low, “And if it was a euphemism, it would not involve just watching.”
Louis bites his lip and watches Harry with bright, amused eyes. Finally, he says, “I don’t have to wear branches in my hair, do I?”
Harry bursts out into laughter. “No, no branches in your hair, I promise. We might climb a few trees, though. If you’re up for it. I was thinking about heading out to Bracknell for the day on Sunday. Do you have to work?”
Louis shrugs. “I can get Niall to cover. He owes me anyway, he called in a favor last Tuesday because he was still with a girl from the night before.”
“Is Niall the blond?”
Louis nods. “He’ll work Sunday, don’t worry. Erm. How do you... do you want to meet here?”
Harry glances out the window at the busy street, wrinkles his nose at the thought of finding a place to idle by the curb. “Can I pick you up at yours?”
Louis tugs open a drawer and pulls out a notepad, scribbles something down. “Here’s my address and phone number.” He pauses before handing it over and squints up at Harry. “Is this your thing? Your move?” At Harry’s blank look, he elaborates. “You’re not secretly an axe murderer, are you? Wait, is this how you pull?”
Harry laughs, the reaches out and snatches the paper out of Louis’ hand, offers him a flirty little smile. “Why, is it working?”
Louis just hums noncommittally, then says, “I’ll let you know on Sunday.”
;;
Harry gets lost three times trying to find Louis’ flat, curses London and faulty GPS satellites as he pulls to a stop out front. Luckily, he’d left fifteen minutes early. Bracknell is only an hour’s drive from London, but he wants to get there early enough that the birds will still be near their nests. They’re coming up on the breeding season, and he’s hoping to get photos of mating displays.
Louis is groggy-eyed when he slumps out the front door of the building, a beanie tugged down over his hair and an oversized jumper falling over his wrists. He hides a yawn behind his hand as he shuffles down the steps, and he’s so cute that Harry feels his stomach twist with a mix of giddiness and desire. He barely knows Louis, but he’s excited about this one. Harry leans across the console to push the passenger door open and smiles brightly as Louis slides into the car with a sleepy huff of breath.
“Morning,” Harry says cheerfully, hiding a grin when Louis glares at him. He keeps his eyes on the road as he pulls away from the curb, but feels around by the gear shift and lifts a cup to pass to Louis. “I brought you tea.”
“Bless you,” Louis rasps, taking the cup with two hands and holding it up to his face. Harry already has the heater going in the car, but he can still see the steam rising from the cup and the combined heat from the vents and their bodies is fogging up the car windows.
The drive to Bracknell passes quickly as they fill the car with easy chatter. They talk about interests and hobbies, friends and uni. Harry tells Louis about the time when he was eleven and his cat dragged in an injured bird, how he had done research on the little bird and convinced his mum to help him nurse the sparrow back to health, and how he’s been interested in birds ever since. In turn, Louis tells him about how he’d accidentally gotten a job in the IT department at uni and discovered he was actually quite good at tinkering with electronics, about finding a job at a camera repair shop, then inheriting the shop two years ago when the owner had decided to retire.
Louis is laughing into his tea while Harry tells him a story about a particularly disastrous trip to Borneo for his Masters research when they pull up to a park in Bracknell. Harry puts the car in park, then shifts around in his seat so he can face Louis. “We had two canoes on either side of the river and we were trying to set up a mist net, but the winds were so strong that the canoes kept moving and I got tangled in the net and fell into the water. My field assistant actually had to come rescue me. My advisor caught it all on video, too.” Harry shakes his head, grins at Louis while he laughs into his hands cupped over his mouth, eyes crinkling up at the corners. “Most embarrassing moment of my life.”
“Do you have that footage, by any chance?”
Harry shakes his head slowly. “It will never see the light of day.”
“Shame,” Louis says mildly. “It would probably win first prize on one of those embarrassing home videos programs. At least I know never to get in a canoe with you, now.”
Harry sticks his tongue out at Louis and says defensively, “I’ll have you know, I am an excellent rower. It was all the wind’s fault. Now come on, let’s get settled before the sun gets too high.”
They gather all of Harry’s equipment from the boot, then make their way over to a bench nestled in the center of a thatch of trees. It’s quiet at the park, too early for children and late enough that the birds are awake, singing back and forth as the wind whistles through the leaves. Everything is lovely and quiet and muted, the light filtering through the canopy tinted green and dancing across the grass as the branches sway with the wind.
“We’ll just sit on this bench for now, and if we find anything exciting, we’ll climb an adjacent tree,” Harry explains quietly as he sets his camera bag down, then tips his head back so he can squint up at the canopy. Still looking around, he settles onto the bench beside Louis and feels around blindly for a set of binoculars to hand over.
“So what do I do with these,” Louis asks, eyeing the binoculars distrustfully.
Harry laughs and demonstrates with his own pair, uncapping the lenses and holding them up so Louis can see the focus knob. “Adjust them to fit your vision, then just look through the lenses.” He grins at Louis, wide and slightly mocking. “Very complicated tools, binoculars.”
“Oh, piss off,” Louis mutters, but he’s smiling as he holds his set up to his eyes and fiddles with the focus. “Am I supposed to shout if I spot a bird?”
Harry snorts. “Please don’t. Just nudge me and I’ll get out the camera.”
Louis lowers his binoculars a bit and looks over at Harry, eyes wide and luminous in the dim light of the forest. “Do I get to try out the camera?”
“That depends,” Harry hedges. “Do you know how to use it without breaking it?”
Louis just blinks at him, binocs suspended in midair, and says, voice flat, “I own a camera repair shop, Harold.”
“Okay, okay,” Harry laughs. “Fair point.”
Louis elbows Harry in the side, then raises the binoculars to his face again and swivels his head around. “So, what am I looking for, exactly?”
Harry whistles quietly as he looks through his own set, scanning branches in search of a flash of wing. “Should be sparrows, starlings, doves, possibly woodpeckers, warblers, maybe some finches if we’re lucky -” Harry cuts off, head twitching toward what he thinks is a warbler calling for mates. Damn, he wishes Liam was here, he’d be able to tell them what species it is based off the call, alone. At least Louis won’t ask for specifics. “I think I hear a warbler.”
Louis drops his binoculars in his lap and reaches around Harry for the camera, swinging it in the direction Harry is facing. “I’m ready, tell me where to look.”
They spend over an hour searching out sparrows and warblers in the branches above them, then another hour creeping around the bases of trees trying to find a woodpecker Harry is sure he heard. He doesn’t even realize that Louis isn’t with him anymore until he finally spots the bird and hisses, “I’ve got it! Three o’clock, between those two branches, can you -” He stops mid-sentence and turns around when he doesn’t hear a response or a shutter sound. “Louis?”
Without realizing it, Harry’s managed to wander quite far from the bench, and he has no idea where Louis is. All he can see is trees in every direction, a wall of brown and green. Frowning, he lets his binoculars fall against his chest and picks his way over roots and stones, trying to find either Louis or the bench with his equipment on it without getting hopelessly lost. He gets distracted a few minutes in by the sound of another woodpecker, and curses the fact that he’d let Louis take the camera when he finds it easily, fumbles his phone from his pocket and takes a series of grainy shots before moving on.
He’s been walking through the trees for a few minutes when he decides there’s no point in keeping quiet when he hasn’t even got a camera on him, so he calls out, “Louis?”
“Over here!”
Harry swivels around at the sound of Louis’ voice, follows it for a few more minutes before arriving back at the bench. Louis is sprawled across it, flicking through the photos stored up on the memory card in the camera. He looks up as Harry walks up, offers Harry a lopsided smile and says, “Sorry, I tried to tell you I was turning back, but you were in some weird bird-searching zone.”
“Is everything alright?” Harry sets his binoculars down on the bench and pushes Louis’ feet off so he can sit down, but Louis just lifts them back up and drapes them across Harry’s lap, and Harry curls a hand around his calf automatically.
“Yeah, of course. We just weren’t finding anything...” Louis trails off and bites his lip, looking down at the camera guiltily. Harry’s stomach sinks.
“Er. Are you... bored?”
“No!” Louis protests automatically, then presses his lips together, whispers, “A little.”
Harry groans and covers his face with his hands, embarrassed. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have thought - bird watching isn’t for everyone, I know it’s not exciting -”
Louis cuts him off with a hand on his arm, swings his legs off Harry’s lap so he can sit up and duck into Harry’s line of view. “Hey, stop it. The park is lovely, the birdsong is pretty, and you’re very cute when you get into your zone.” His earnest smile slides into a smirk, and he lifts the camera from where he’d set it down on his lap, turns it around so Harry can see the screen. “And I’m very interested in hearing about the circumstances behind this photo.”
“Oh,” Harry laughs, heat creeping up his cheeks as he peers down at the little screen. It’s a shot Liam had taken earlier that week. The three of them had gone on a pub crawl, like proper uni students, and ended up back at his and Zayn’s flat at three in the morning, pissed out of their minds and giggling like fools as they stumbled up the stairs. Zayn had had the brilliant idea to smoke up, so they’d gotten high and raided the refrigerator, and Liam had managed to snap a decent shot of Harry licking whipped cream off of Zayn’s cheek after missing his mouth with the spray can. He makes a grab for the camera, voice weak as he says, “I thought I changed the memory card in this one.”
Louis holds the camera at arm’s length, though, grinning as Harry bats at him pathetically. He waggles the camera and says, eyebrows raised, “Should I be jealous of the fact that you’re licking cream off a model’s face?”
Harry’s eyes go wide with shock, and then he bursts out into laughter. There’s a rustle in the branches above them as several birds take flight, but Harry can’t even bring himself to care. “Zayn is my flatmate,” he manages to get out between peals of laughter. “Oh, Christ, don’t ever tell him you thought he was a model, it’ll go right to his head.”
Harry presses a hand to his belly, muscles aching from laughing so hard. “Hey,” Louis grouses. “It was a valid mistake. Look at that face.”
He turns the camera around again and stares down at the photo, has Harry frowning and snatching it out of his hands. “Maybe I should be the jealous one.” He flicks the camera off and tucks it back into its bag. “He’s straight, anyway. And he’s got a longterm girlfriend. Don’t even think about it.”
When he looks up from where he’s been zipping the bag shut with an undue amount of focus, Louis is watching him, eyes bright and his bottom lip caught between his teeth. Harry suppresses a sigh, feeling a bit like a teenage girl. It’s just that Louis is so lovely, jaw dusted with stubble, blue eyes gone squinty with amusement, fringe escaping his beanie and catching in his eyelashes, and Harry knows Louis is bored, but he’s not quite ready for their day to be over.
“Hey, let’s head back to London, alright?”
He doesn’t miss the way Louis’ smile dims, but Louis only hesitates for a moment before nodding and saying, “Yeah, alright.”
They gather up the binoculars and cameras and trek back to the car in complete silence. The first few minutes of the drive are awkwardly quiet, but then Harry reaches across the console, pokes Louis in the shoulder, and says, “So, Louis, where in Yorkshire are you from?”
He gets Louis to talk about his family and home most of the ride back, offers up little tidbits about himself when prompted, so that by the time they get back into London, Louis is loose and relaxed. He’s smiling at Harry from where he’s leaning back against the passenger door, one foot stretched across the console and tucked up underneath Harry’s thigh. Harry turns to face Louis while stopped at a traffic light, takes a moment to just look at him, look at the way the afternoon sun is slanting across his face and the way he’s folded himself up into a ball on the seat, one knee drawn up against his chest and the other extended across the car. Louis just stares back evenly, lashes edged in gold and eyes washed out so they’re a pale, wintry gray. Finally Harry says, “So, to make up for boring you this morning, how about I take you to lunch?”
Louis looks at Harry for a moment, both of them oblivious to the fact that the light has turned green, then says quietly, “Yeah, that would be nice.”
“Good,” Harry murmurs with a satisfied little smile. They both start when the car behind them honks, and Harry presses too hard on the accelerator, launching the car into motion with a jerk. “Jesus,” he mutters, then louder, “sorry, sorry. I’m a good driver, I promise.”
They end up at an American-style diner Harry frequents when he’s chest-deep in research at two in the morning. It’s cheap and greasy and loud, but the waiting staff are friendly and the food is delicious, and they manage to snag a booth by a window, the benches covered in cracked red vinyl and the table dressed in a bright checked tablecloth with a little vase stuffed with cheerful yellow daisies in the center of it. Once they’ve settled in opposite each other, Harry leans over the table and smiles at Louis, reaches out and presses the tips of his fingers to Louis’ wrist. “Louis, I’m sorry this morning was so boring for you. Thank you for having lunch with me, anyway.”
Louis rolls his eyes, a smile spreading across his face as he turns his hand over and slides it back so he can wrap cold fingers around Harry’s. “Please stop apologizing Harry, you’re making me feel terrible about it. I wasn’t bored, I promise.” He ducks his head, then looks up at Harry through his lashes. “And it’s not such a hardship, having lunch with you.”
Louis doesn’t let go of Harry’s fingers, so Harry doesn’t move, afraid that maybe Louis has forgotten they’re basically holding hands, and unwilling to bring it to his attention if he has.
“So, have you decided how long you’ll be in town this time?”
Harry props his chin on his free hand and stares out the window for a moment while he calculates dates in his head. “I’m headed to Brighton in two weeks, then Liam has a project he might need help with up in York, so a while yet.”
Louis tilts his head to the side, a coy little smile flirting at the corners of his mouth. “D’you think you’ll need any more photos printed before then?”
Harry presses his lips together in an attempt to mask a grin, heart fluttering like mad at what Louis is implying. “I’m sure I can scrounge something up, yeah. I mean it is my duty as your only customer to support your shop, you know.”
“Oh, piss off,” Louis laughs, shoving Harry’s hand away and leaning back in the booth. Harry is about to make another grab for Louis’ hand, but a waitress walks up before he can do it. They drink beers while they wait for their food and laugh about misadventures Harry has had in the field, about Niall’s interactions with customers and the time a stray cat got into the store and stayed for three days. Halfway through the meal, Harry reaches out without thinking and hooks his foot around the back of Louis’ ankle, has to hide a grin in his basket of fish and chips when Louis’ cheeks color a lovely shade of pink and he rubs the toe of his trainer against Harry’s calf.
By the time they’ve finished their food, Harry feels flushed and happy, drunk off Louis’ attention and the addictive sound of his laugh, the occasional brush of fingers against the inside of his arm, the way Louis has both feet locked around his leg underneath the table. Harry insists on ordering coffee and some tiramisu, still not ready to take Louis home, and they wage a battle over bites of the trifle, spoons clinking as they fight for scoops. They don’t get much of anywhere, giggling too hard to do more than shove at each other weakly, until Louis pins Harry’s wrist to the table and spoons up an enormous bite, then shoves the whole thing in his mouth, eyes twinkling in triumph.
The diner goes dim around them, the world narrowing down to just the two of them, their little bubble of a booth and their playful squabble over tiramisu. Harry gapes for a moment, uncomfortably turned on by the way Louis’ cheeks look hollowed around the spoon, the way he keeps darting his tongue out to lick crumbs off of it, lashes lowered over his eyes like he has no idea what he’s doing. Christ.
Louis glances up through his lashes, and Harry shakes himself out of his trance, heart thumping in his throat as he takes a deep breath, forces himself to scoop up his own bite of tiramisu. It’s his favorite dessert and they make it exceptionally well here, but he has a feeling it would taste better on Louis’ tongue. Harry clears his throat and tries to steer his thoughts in a different direction, tries not to glare too hard when the waitress brings their check unprompted. He can’t very well stall any longer, so he hands her his credit card and focuses on scraping a bit of mascarpone off the plate.
The drive back to Louis’ flat is quiet, but not uncomfortable, and a few minutes into the drive, Louis stretches his arm across the gap between their seats so he can loop his hand through the bars of Harry’s headrest, lets the tips of his fingers rest against the nape of Harry’s neck. It feels warm and familiar even though they’ve only known each other a handful of days, and sends a shiver down Harry’s spine that has nothing to do with the chill pressing in through the windows. The drive is too short. Harry pulls to a stop in front of Louis’ building and shifts the car into park.
He stares out the windscreen for a moment, not really sure what to say or do in this situation. It’s rare that he’s in town for more than a week or two, so he’s always limited himself to hookups at clubs, or blind dates Zayn and Liam have set him up with that never extend past the first date. He’s never really found someone he’s had this instant of a connection with, never found someone he’s wanted to spend more time with, wanted to stick around for. He doesn’t want to scare Louis off, but he also doesn’t want to make him think that he’s not interested.
“Hey,” Louis murmurs, scratching at the back of Harry’s neck with his nails. Harry turns in his seat, drawing his knee up so he can sit sideways. Louis is watching him with soft eyes and a warm smile. “Thank you for today. It was lovely.”
Harry offers Louis a lopsided smile, hands clasped around his updrawn knee while Louis plays absently with the curls at the nape of his neck. “I promise I won’t make you go bird watching next time.”
The smile that stretches across Louis’ face is blinding. He tilts his head to the side, tugs on a lock of Harry’s hair and says, a flirty little lilt to his voice, “Next time?”
Harry hums. “I’ll bring in one of my cameras. The lenses need to be taken apart and cleaned, you can show me how it’s done.” He grins, leans in and looks Louis in the eye, deadpans, “It’ll be fun.”
Louis snorts. “Bird watching and cleaning cameras. You’ve got an odd definition of fun, Harry Styles.”
“Fine,” Harry grouses, leaning back again and hugging his knee to his chest. “You pick the date, then.”
Louis leans in a bit, so that the edge of the console is digging into his belly, and says, voice pitched low and raspy, “How about just you and me, some takeout, and a bottle of wine.”
Desire rumbles in Harry’s belly and sparks along his nerves, but he keeps his tone light and teasing, flutters his eyelashes and drags a finger along the inseam of his jeans. “Are you trying to take advantage of me, Louis? You should know I don’t put out on the second -”
The last word is lost as Louis yanks on the back of Harry’s neck and tugs him into a kiss. The angle is uncomfortable, the hard plastic of the console digging into Harry’s shin and his knee trapped against his sternum, but Louis’ mouth is warm and tastes like cocoa powder and mascarpone when he licks along Harry’s bottom lip and then into his mouth. Heat ripples down Harry’s spine as he fights to get closer, to deepen the kiss, and he’s just about to slide his hands around the back of Louis’ neck and pull him closer when a car horn sounds nearby and they jerk apart, eyes heavy lidded and chests already heaving.
Harry’s eyes lock on Louis’ mouth, pink lips parted as he fights to catch his breath, and Harry licks his own subconsciously, groans when Louis does the same. His fingers twitch toward Louis, but the car horn sounds again, and Harry swivels in his seat to glare out the back window at the man gesturing for him to move along. He glances back at Louis, brow furrowed and reluctance dragging at his voice when he says, “I should probably...”
“Yeah,” Louis whispers, then clears his throat and says, voice stronger, “yeah. I’ll text you, alright? See what night is good for you.”
Harry just nods as he watches Louis gather himself, tugging his beanie back down over his hair and patting his pockets down. He turns to Harry one last time, expression soft and open, and says, “I had a good time today. I’ll see you in a few days, yeah?”
Harry nods again, waves goodbye as Louis climbs out of the car and swings the passenger door shut. He wants to watch Louis walk up up the front path, but the man behind him honks again, so he throws the car into gear and flips the man the bird as he drives off, eyes locked on the side mirror where he can just see Louis’ slim figure making its way up the front steps to his building.
He’s barely made it two blocks when his phone buzzes in his pocket, and he shifts in his seat, hips straining against the seatbelt so he can fish it out of his pocket and thumb it open.
Louis: how does tuesday night sound, 8 at my place ? xx
Harry fights against a grin threatening to take over his face before realizing there’s no one around to see, to ask what’s got him so excited. He’s smiling so hard his cheeks ache when he taps out: It’s a date. xx
;;
Monday crawls by at the pace of a geriatric snail.
He and Zayn were meant to spend the day together, but he’d been hit with inspiration at three in the morning, and by the time Harry wakes up, he’s still at it. He’s dragged his easel into the kitchen and is painting right in the center of it, dressed in nothing but a low-slung pair of joggers that Harry thinks might be his and a beanie, a paintbrush clamped between his teeth as he scrapes at a splash of blue in the corner of the canvas with a knife. Harry eases around him to get to the electric kettle, trying not to disturb him.
He thinks he’s succeeded, is slumped over the counter while the kettle heats up when Zayn’s voice rumbles through the small room. “Your demon cat got into my paints again.”
Harry lets his forehead fall against the countertop with a thump. “Why do you still leave your door open?”
“I had to take a piss. I was gone for like two minutes, I didn’t think she could move that fast.”
When Harry straightens up and turns around, Zayn is still painting, eyes locked on the canvas as he dips his brush into a pot of yellow paint. There’s a smudge of red on his cheek, drying in his beard, and Harry thinks absently that he has no idea how Zayn functions like a normal human being when he isn’t around to take care of him.
“Two years, H.” Harry raises an eyebrow at Zayn in question. “We’ve lived together for two years and your cat still hates me.”
Harry rolls his eyes. He’s about to respond when his phone buzzes against his thigh. He digs it out of the pocket of his joggers and squints at the screen. He gets so caught up in responding to Louis’ text - a silly little story about opening the shop this morning - that he forgets about Zayn and the boiling kettle completely. He spends the rest of the day sprawled out on the sofa with his laptop, going through his photos from Madagascar and texting with Louis, falls asleep halfway through an episode of Master Chef with his laptop still open next to him and his phone in hand.
The first thing Harry becomes aware of as he wakes up Tuesday morning is that it’s frigid in his room. Second is that his neck is killing him, and as he sits up, hand cupped around the back of his neck so he can massage the crick out of it, he realizes he isn’t even in his room. He frowns at the blank blue screen of the television, then looks around, wincing as he stretches the stiff muscles in his neck and shoulders. The balcony doors are standing open and he can just make out Zayn, leaning over the railing and puffing on a cigarette. His easel has been moved outside and the canvas is covered in paint, thick swirls and arcs of color that make up an angry seascape.
He pushes to his feet and pads out onto the balcony, catches Fuzz right as she’s reaching for one of Zayn’s paint-laden brushes with a fluffy paw. “Fuzz,” he chastises, lifting her into his arms and cradling her against his chest. She starts purring immediately and butts her head up underneath Harry’s chin. Zayn turns around at the sound of Harry’s voice. His hair is limp against his forehead and there are purple smudges under his eyes, like he hasn’t slept in two days - and he probably hasn’t. Harry nods at the painting and asks, “Is it done?”
Zayn jerks a shoulder in an imitation of a shrug and lifts his cigarette to his lips, takes a long drag before answering. His breath comes out in puffs of white smoke as he speaks. “I think so. There’s a cloud I think I need to fix, but yeah.”
Harry tilts his head to the side as he considers Zayn, scratching absently behind Fuzz’s tail. “When’s the last time you got some sleep?”
Zayn turns his head so he can frown at the painting. “Dunno. Sunday? What’s today?”
“Tuesday,” Harry says quietly, fondness bubbling up in his chest. Zayn is worse than a child, sometimes.
“Oh,” Zayn grins, drawing the word out for several long seconds. “Date night.”
Harry rolls his eyes and tries to ignore the nervous flutter in his belly. He and Louis only met a week and a half ago and they’ve already progressed to private dinners at Louis’ flat. He hopes Louis doesn’t have a flatmate, remembers Louis in an oversized sweater and skin-tight jeans, a beanie pulled low over his head, fringe feathering across his forehead. Really, really hopes he doesn’t have a flatmate. It takes him a moment to come back down, and when he does, Zayn is staring at him, a knowing smirk tilting one corner of his mouth.
“Fuck off,” Harry mutters, the pink flush of embarrassment creeping up his cheeks. “Go get some sleep, you wanker.”
Zayn stubs his cigarette out on the railing and flicks the butt into an empty flowerpot Harry keeps meaning to re-appropriate. “Gotcha.” He closes careful hands around the frame of the easel, balancing it so that the canvas is tipped back and framed in by his thumbs. “Have a wank before you go, yeah? Don’t want to peak too soon.”
He waggles his eyebrows at Harry as he skirts past him, and if he wasn’t carrying a freshly painted canvas, Harry would punch him.
;;
Harry runs a nervous hand through his quiffed hair as he walks up to the front door of Louis’ building and presses the call button, fiddles nervously with the hem of his jumper while he waits. He’s got a bottle of wine in the other hand, gripped tight so it won’t slip out of his sweaty grasp. Stupid. Stupid, stupid, stupid. Harry is not a virgin, and he’s certainly not a stranger to dating. True, it’s been a few years since he’s actually dated someone, really dated, but he knows how it works. He can handle a second date, a night alone with Louis, no problem.
The door buzzes and Harry pushes inside, rides the lift up to the sixth floor and scans the numbers on the doors as he heads down the hall. 608, 609, 610, faded red doors with big brass numbers and the occasional name plate or welcome mat. 611, 612. The door to Louis’ flat is propped open, and he can smell curry wafting out into the hall. His stomach grumbles appreciatively as he pushes the door wide and calls out, “Louis?”
“In the kitchen!”
Harry shuts the door behind himself and locks it automatically before following the sound of Louis’ voice, singing along to something that’s playing on the telly in the living room. He finds Louis in a tiny kitchen, shaking take-away containers of Indian food out into pretty ceramic bowls. He turns as Harry walks in, hands still wrapped around a bucket of rice, and beams at him, eyes bright and smile even brighter. Harry takes a moment to study Louis, not bothering to hide the way he’s raking his eyes over Louis’ legs in his skinny jeans, the breadth of his shoulders and dip of his waist underneath a knitted jumper the color of clotted cream.
Louis’ eyes are crinkled up in delight when Harry finally meets them, and he clears his throat awkwardly, holds the wine bottle out to Louis and mumbles, “I brought alcohol.”
“Perfect,” Louis chirps, setting the rice down in the still-empty bowl so he can dig through a couple of drawers in search of a corkscrew. He passes it over to Harry and goes back to the take away containers. “Why don’t you open that up so it can breathe? I’m just setting this out so it looks like I cooked it myself.”
Shaking his head in amusement, Harry sets the bottle on the counter so he can work the screw into the cork. “I would have made something, if you had asked.”
Louis shrugs as he empties the rice into the bowl and stirs it up with a spoon. The rice is still steaming and the whole apartment smells like coconut curry sauce, and Harry hasn’t eaten since breakfast, but all he can think about right now is the way Louis’ bicep keeps flexing as he fluffs the rice. “It’s alright, this is one of my favorite places. I might let you do the dishes, though.” He slides Harry a smirk. “If you ask nicely.”
Harry cocks his head and pretends to consider Louis’ offer as he shuffles across the floor so he’s standing directly in front of him. “Tempting,” he says quietly, leaning in to brace his hands on the counter on either side of Louis. He drops his gaze to Louis’ mouth, smiles when Louis swallows audibly. “Very tempting.”
“Please tell me we aren’t talking about dishes anymore,” Louis whispers. He lifts his hands to Harry’s chest, slides them up over his shoulders and around to clutch at the back of his neck so he can thread his fingers into Harry’s hair.
“No,” Harry murmurs. He dips his head to ghost his lips along the curve of Louis’ jaw, smiles when Louis shudders against him. “I’m most definitely not.”
He grazes his teeth over the stubble-rough skin of Louis’ cheek, hums appreciately when Louis turns his head and captures his mouth in a kiss. He tastes like chicken korma, and Harry mumbles into his mouth, “Been sneaking bits of dinner, have you?”
Louis shakes his head and drags Harry closer, slides one hand down to palm the small of his back.
“Just one,” he groans as Harry moves in closer, close enough that he has to part his legs around Louis’ so he can notch their hips together. Harry ducks his head to nibble along the side of Louis’ neck, and Louis shivers, whispers, “We should - oh. We should eat. Before it gets cold.”
Harry hums against Louis’ skin, nips at his pulse point before drawing back. Louis is staring up at him, eyes dark and glazed over, lips swollen and red. His cheeks are flushed a rosy pink and the collar of his jumper is askew, and Harry would be more than happy to forgo dinner altogether, to be honest. He makes himself take a step back, though, and straighten his own jumper, shove a hand through his hair and ruffle it back into place.
“Right.” His voice comes out low and throaty, deeper than usual, and he watches, delighted, as Louis shivers and blinks the haze out of his eyes. Harry reaches out for the wine bottle, needing something in his hands before he just gives up and grabs at Louis again. “Dinner?”
Louis nods once, then again. “Yes. Dinner.” He looks at Harry for a moment, eyes dark and heavy-lidded, then turns around and picks up a couple of the bowls. “I thought we could watch in the living room. I’ve got a few episodes of Top Model saved up.”
Harry grins and grabs the last bowl off the counter, follows Louis out of the little kitchen and into a similarly tiny living room. The room is dominated by an over-stuffed sofa longer than Harry is tall, along with a coffee table and a small entertainment center sporting an enormous television. He spots a bowl with a goldfish in it and a row of DVDs, a few personal photos lined up alongside the telly, and a generic wall hanging that he figures Louis’ mum probably bought him. It’s a bit sparse, but the couch is inviting, and when Harry sets the wine and chicken on the coffee table then sits on the sofa, he sinks into it with a happy little sigh.
“That sofa is the most expensive thing in this flat,” Louis announces, setting the other bowls on the table, along with spoons and two wine glasses. “My mum tried to talk me out of it, but it feels like sitting on a cloud. I had to have it.”
“Good decision,” Harry confirms, patting the soft corduroy with an appreciative hum.
Louis settles onto the cushion alongside him so they’re pressed together from hip to knee and hands him a spoon. “Dig in.”
Harry scoops up some chicken obediently while Louis snatches a remote control off the table and turns on the previous weeks’ episode of Top Model, then pours them some wine. They share the two dishes and bowl of rice, chatting on and off and making fun of the contestants and judges as they make their way steadily through the bottle of wine.
Harry’s head is feeling pleasantly fuzzy by the time they push the bowls of food away and slump back into the sofa. Louis is still pressed against his side, radiating warmth and smelling a bit like vanilla and coconut, and Harry lifts his arm automatically, waits for Louis to crowd in against him before settling it around Louis’ shoulders. Louis slides a hand across his chest, the tips of his fingers cool even through the fabric of Harry’s jumper, and Harry nuzzles into his hair - the apparent source of the vanilla and coconut - his eyes still on the television as Elle Macpherson delivers the verdict at the judgment panel.
“I like your flat,” he mumbles into Louis’ hair, tuning Elle out in favor of watching Louis tip his head back, eyes slitted like a cat as he looks up at Harry. Harry slides his hand around so he can lay his thumb along the column of Louis’ throat, and Louis shivers.
“It likes you too,” he murmurs, words vibrating against Harry’s hand, and Harry smiles, ducks his head and drags the tip of his nose along the side of Louis’. He can feel Louis’ eyelashes flutter against his cheek, can feel the tremble of his breath as he exhales against Harry’s mouth.
“That doesn’t even make sense,” he whispers, voice swallowed by the sudden thickness of the air around them. It’s warm in the room, the air syrupy with tension as Harry brings his other hand around to clutch Louis’ hip, slips his thumb up underneath the hem of his jumper to stroke along smooth skin. He can feel the tip of Louis’ tongue flick along his bottom lip as Louis licks his own, takes the opportunity to close the gap and slide their mouths together while shoving his hand up underneath Louis’ jumper to press his palm flat against the small of Louis’ back.
That touch is all it takes for Louis to moan and clutch at Harry’s shoulders, pull Harry with him as he lies back on the sofa. Harry crawls over him, sinking in as he settles over Louis and presses him down into the cushions. He huffs out a pleased little groan when Louis parts his legs and bends his knees to frame Harry’s hips, props himself up on his elbows so he can look at Louis' face, soft and open and just a bit desperate, then down at where their hips are nestled together. Louis is looking up at him, eyes nearly black in the dim light of the living room, lights from the telly flickering in his irises. He’s flushed from his cheeks down to his neck, skin rosy and warm, and so, so lovely.
Harry traces his fingers along Louis’ collarbone, watching, fascinated, as Louis shivers and goosebumps surface in the wake of his touch. He whispers, quiet and reverent, “You are very beautiful, Louis.”
Louis’ thighs tighten around Harry’s hips, and Harry’s eyelids flutter as Louis wiggles his hips and slides a hand into his hair, tugging gently before murmuring, “You’re not so bad yourself, Curly.”
Harry leans into Louis’ grip on his hair, shivering into the tugs on his scalp and grinding down unconsciously. Louis lets out a breathless laugh and tugs harder, lifts one foot to hook around the back of Harry’s thigh and arches up against him. Harry can feel the hard line of Louis’ cock against his own, slightly uncomfortable in his restricting jeans, but too turned on to care.
“I thought,” Louis gasps out, words dying on his tongue as Harry ducks his head to mouth at the side of his neck. His skin vibrates against Harry’s lips, and Harry parts them so he can sink his teeth into the juncture of Louis’ shoulder, relishes in the full-body shudder Louis gives. Louis’ voice is high and reedy when he grits out, “I thought you don’t put out on the second date.”
Harry’s mouth curves against Louis’ shoulder where he’s working on sucking a bruise into his skin, and he grinds down in response, hard enough to elicit a gasp and another tug on his hair. When Harry pulls back to admire his work, thumb stroking over the vivid red bruise blooming in the shape of his mouth, he smirks down at Louis. “I think I can make an exception.”
“Glad to hear it,” Louis breathes, then jerks Harry into another kiss, wrapping both legs around Harry’s waist so he can rut up against him, dicks sliding together through two layers of denim. It’s not perfect, the denim too thick and the teeth of the zipper uncomfortable against the underside of his dick, but it’s just enough, and Louis is warm underneath him, warm and soft and unbelievably responsive, letting out breathy little whimpers every time Harry grinds down. Harry slides his hands down Louis’ sides until he can wiggle them up underneath Louis to grip his bum, digs his toes into the couch cushion for leverage and rolls his hips harder and with more intent, pleasure wrapping around the base of his spine and spiralling out through his limbs, tingling in the tips of his fingers and sparking behind his eyes.
He thinks briefly about what Zayn had said earlier, but he can feel Louis going tense underneath him, breaths coming faster and legs tightening around his hips, so he just squeezes Louis’ bum and holds him closer, pushes their foreheads together so that their lips drag on every exhale. It only takes a few moments before Louis lets out a sharp little gasp, fists clenching in Harry’s hair as he shudders and arches underneath him, and the pull on Harry’s scalp, along with the way Louis’ thighs are trembling around him, tips Harry over the edge.
;;
By the time Harry leaves for Brighton the following Friday, he and Louis have spent seven out of ten nights together, holed up in Louis’ flat with take away or things Harry has cooked for them, reruns of Friends, and hours spent stretched out on the sofa together, Louis’ fingers wound into Harry’s hair and Harry’s hands cupped around Louis’ bum as they kiss languidly and sneak hands down each others’ pants, get each other off with deft fingers and soft, gasping breaths. He’s set to spend a week and a half in Brighton assisting one of the professors at the university while she does a toxicology study. It’s not terribly exciting research, but he’s staying with a friend from uni who lives there now, one he hasn’t seen in a couple of years, and he’s never done this sort of study before and is excited to learn new techniques, maybe get some time to photograph the marshes.
Even though they’ve only known each other for three weeks, it’s weird not seeing Louis every day. He barely even has time to text him though, as most of his days are spent traipsing around marshes as far east as Deal, and all the way to Weymouth in the west, collecting eggs from nesting sites. Harry spends a week and a half waking up at the ass-crack of dawn so he can stomp through mud and piles of bird shit and rob the gulls’ nests. Not exactly easy, glamorous work. But despite his exhaustion when he falls into bed every night, he still finds himself facetiming with Louis for hours, until sleep pulls at his eyelids and slurs his words, and Louis has to threaten to ignore his calls for the rest of the trip if he doesn’t go to sleep immediately.
So he spends the entire trip to Brighton in a bit of an exhausted daze, missing Zayn, Fuzz, and Louis (especially Louis) so much it’s a bit ridiculous - especially considering the fact that he frequently takes much longer trips, and one much farther from home. But it’s a learning experience, and Dr. Angleton from the university is wonderful. She explains every step of the research to Harry, and doesn’t laugh too hard when he slips and falls in the mud - something that occurs more frequently than Harry would care to admit - even helps him up and teaches him how to shuffle his feet instead of lifting them up every time he wants to take a step.
By the time Harry packs up his stuff to head back to London, the only clean clothes he has left are a pair of joggers that he thinks might be Louis’ - judging by the way they don’t quite cover his ankles - and a ratty, over-sized Joy Division shirt that definitely belongs to Louis and still smells of his bodywash. He’s only got a two hour drive, allowing for traffic, so he just rolls the joggers up to his knees and tugs a beanie down over his hair before hugging his friend goodbye. He wants to get home and fall into bed and sleep for two days straight.
He thinks about texting Louis and trying to arrange a pub night so that he can see Zayn, Louis, and Liam all at once, but the moment the idea comes to him, all he can think is LouisLouisLouis. So instead of turning right toward his flat and Fuzz and bed, he turns left toward the camera shop. He’s not even sure if Louis is working today, now that he thinks about it, but he’s nearly there anyway.
The only parking spot he can find is nearly at the end of the block, and Harry doesn’t remember what he’s wearing until he’s stopping in front of the shop so he can pull the door open. He pauses and frowns down at the joggers, is trying to decide if they would look better unrolled or as they are, when someone calls out, “Well, are you coming in, or do you just plan on letting all the warm air out?”
When Harry looks up, Niall is smiling at him from behind the counter, a slightly askew snapback covering his hair and what Harry thinks might be empty glasses frames perched on the bridge of his nose. Harry steps into the store with a contrite smile and lets the door swing shut behind him. It is, indeed, pleasantly warm in the shop, and it smells a bit like scones. Niall snorts and leans over the counter, pushes the thick black frames back up his nose when they slide off.
“Mate, you look ridiculous.”
Harry raises a pointed eyebrow at Niall’s lilac jumper and wannabe hipster glasses and says, “Can you really talk?”
Conceding the point, Niall just shrugs and sits back down. Harry tries not to look too disappointed as he looks around the decidedly empty shop. He’s working on coming up with something to say to make the silence a bit less awkward when Niall beats him to it. “Lou’s in the back, if you were wondering. Doing inventory and some prints for another client.” Harry blinks at him for a moment, and Niall raises his eyebrows, smacks his gum obnoxiously. “Well? D’you wanna go back there and say hello?”
“Oh!” Harry nods his head vigorously. He would have waited out here, hadn’t been sure he’d be allowed in the back, but this is a better option. “Yeah, if he wouldn’t mind, that would be nice.”
Niall snorts. “Are you kidding me? He hasn’t stopped talking about you since the two of you met. It was even worse while you were gone, I’ve had to banish him to the back room this week.”
Harry bites his lip around a pleased grin, tries to infuse his voice with genuine remorse when he says, “Sorry about that, Niall.”
He’s pretty sure he completely fails, but Niall just rolls his eyes and waves Harry through. He’s made it around the edge of the counter and halfway through the back door before Niall calls out, “If you have sex anywhere near my lunch, I’ll piss in your shoes.”
It’s dark in the back room, narrow and windowless, so that the weak light from the naked halogen bulbs gets swallowed up by the polished concrete floor and spackled gray walls. There isn’t much back here, just a small table and two chairs, a low bookcase that’s been turned into cubbies stuffed with odd bits of clothing, spare sets of trainers, several boxes of tea, and a lifetime’s supply of microwavable macaroni and cheese. There’s a microwave and an electric kettle resting on top of the bookcase, a couple of skateboards propped up against the wall, and no Louis to be found.
Harry is just about to turn back out into the store when he hears humming coming from the far end of the small room, and he discovers a trio of doors he hadn’t noticed before. The humming is coming from the door on the right, but it’s shut, and if it’s a toilet, he doesn’t want to just walk in on Louis. Cocking a hip against the frame, Harry taps a finger against the door and says, “Louis?”
The humming stops immediately, and he hears a thudding noise, followed by Louis cursing, then saying, “Just a second!” He thinks he hears a few bottles rattling around, and then the door is cracking open just enough for Louis to stick a hand out, fist it in Harry’s shirt, and drag him through the small gap. “Sorry, sorry, I can’t let any light in, just. Stay here for a moment.”
Harry watches, silent and a bit shell-shocked, as Louis uses tongs to pluck a sheet of paper out of a bucket and hangs it from some laundry wire with a pair of fat plastic clips. The only source of light in the room is a long red bulb hanging from the ceiling, and Harry can make out a clunky looking machine, a deep, free-standing sink, and several jugs lined up along the wall. The table Louis is standing at is covered in buckets full of glimmering liquids, and there are three photos hanging from the line above them, drip dripping steadily into a narrow gutter.
With one last adjustment to the pins holding up the photo, Louis turns around and wipes his hands on his trousers. He’s wearing jogging bottoms and a jumper that Harry had been looking for when packing for Brighton, his hair loose and wind-swept. And even though the lighting is quite creepy, turns Louis’ eyes black and his teeth a bright, bloody red, he looks so warm and soft and he’s positively beaming at Harry, and Harry just wants to touch him. He reaches out at the same time that Louis takes a step forward, and they crash together, Harry’s arms locked around Louis’ waist and Louis’ twined around his neck.
Harry hauls Louis up onto his toes and into a kiss, breathless and a little bit wild as he clutches at Louis’ back, the tips of his fingers digging into his sides as he fights to get Louis closer, closer. Dislodging his beanie, Louis’ hands slide up into Harry’s hair, fingers winding through the curls so he can tug and scratch at his scalp, and Harry falls back against the door, slides his legs out so Louis can shuffle between them and crowd in against him. It’s warm and cramped in the darkroom and smells overwhelmingly of strange chemicals, but Harry’s whole world narrows down to every point of contact between him and Louis - thighs and hips and bellies, chests and arms and mouths mouths mouths.
He sucks Louis’ bottom lip into his mouth, scrapes his teeth over it and relishes in Louis’ gasping moan, in the way Louis’ grip on his hair tightens and his feet shift restlessly against the concrete floor. He hadn’t really meant for this to escalate, had just wanted to say hi and see how Louis was doing, but all thoughts of stopping flee his mind as he slides his hands down to cup Louis’ bum, thumbs tucked into the waistband of his joggers. Louis presses back into his hands automatically, and Harry grins and pulls him back in, lets his head fall back against the door when Louis grinds forward, cock already half-hard against Harry’s hip.
“Lou, we shouldn’t -”
But Louis just shakes his head, mumbles, “Ten days,” as he nips his way down the side of Harry’s neck while rubbing up against him, the curve of his hip firm against Harry’s dick, and Harry gives in. He slips a leg between Louis’ and lifts up onto his toes, thigh pressed firm against the underside of Louis’ dick, and he feels Louis’ breath hitch, turns his head to mouth at the skin underneath Louis’ ear while he ruts down against his thigh. He can hear the door rattling against its frame with every thrust of Louis’ hips, hopes absently that Niall can’t hear it out in the shop. But then Louis twists impossibly closer, riding Harry’s thigh so that his hip is snug against Harry’s own cock, and all thoughts but Louis and more and harder slip away.
Louis tugs Harry down into a kiss with fingers still wrapped in his curls, and Harry shudders into his grip, every tug on his scalp firing a pulse of heat that skitters down his spine to pool behind his navel. It’s only been a week and a half since he’s seen Louis outside of an iPhone screen, but it’s been a week and a half since he’s touched Louis, and he can already feel his orgasm creeping up on him, can hear the way Louis’ breathing has gone ragged, his movements erratic. So he slumps down a bit until their cocks line up and uses his grip on Louis’ bum to get him closer, heat and pleasure building between them until his teeth ache with it, and he comes with a gasp, his entire body trembling with the force of it.
Through the fog blanketing his brain, Harry can feel Louis grinding down against his thigh, fingers tight in his hair as Louis chases his own orgasm, so he slides one hand around and slips it down the front of Louis’ joggers. He barely manages to get a grip on Louis’ cock through his pants before Louis whines and goes completely still, face buried in his neck as he comes against the palm of Harry’s hand. They stay like that, pressed together with Harry’s hand down Louis’ trousers, as they both come down, heart rates settling and heads clearing, and Harry becomes aware of the sharp scent of the developing chemicals, underlaid with the smell of sex and the faint, lingering traces of Louis’ shampoo where his face is buried in Louis’ hair. His pants are a bit uncomfortable when he moves, and it’s mildly embarrassing, how easily Louis makes him feel like a teenager again.
“Louis,” he whispers. “We have to stop doing this.”
“What,” Louis mumbles, lips dragging against Harry’s collarbone. His voice is thick and blurry, and Harry shivers at the fucked out quality of it, thinks, I did that.
“Coming in our pants like teenagers. ‘S embarrassing. What’s Niall going to think?” Louis laughs into Harry’s skin, little gusts of air that seep through the fabric of Harry’s shirt and warm him right down to his toes. Harry drags his fingers up Louis’ spine, scratches lightly at the back of his neck. “Hey, since Niall is here, you want to come home with me?” He ducks his head so he can nuzzle into the crook of Louis’ neck. “I’ll wash your clothes. We can have a shower and take a nap together. You can meet Zayn.”
He can feel a rumble go through Louis’ chest, and then he’s drawing back so he can look up at Harry, eyes wide and dark in the strange red lighting. “It’ll be a good first impression,” he jokes, waving a hand around to indicate their trousers.
Harry shrugs and leans forward to drop a kiss to the tip of Louis’ nose. “He’s already heard enough about you, it’ll be like you’ve already met. No first impression needed. Anyway, he keeps odd hours, he’ll probably be sleeping when we get there.”
Louis chews on his bottom lip for a moment, watching Harry quietly as he considers. Finally, he nods once and says, “Alright, yeah. Let me just tell Niall.” He takes a step back from Harry, arms falling away. “He’ll be glad to be rid of me, anyway. Says I’ve been a whiny baby ever since you left.”
Harry grins, reaches out to tug on a lock of Louis’ hair and coos, “Awww, did you miss me, Lou?”
“Shut it,” Louis laughs, slapping Harry’s hand away. He pushes Harry out of the way so he can open the door a crack, then waves him out into the back room.
Even though the lighting in the back room is weak, Harry squints against the glow of the pale bulbs after the dim redness of the darkroom, pauses just outside the door to let his eyes adjust before following Louis toward the door to the shop. Louis stops, one hand on the door handle, and holds a finger up to his lips. They can hear two voices out front, and they’re not exactly in the right state to be greeting customers. They listen to Niall talk to the customer, giggling quietly at the sight they must make with their sweaty fringe and pink cheeks, the back of Louis’ jumper stretched out from Harry’s hands and Harry’s ridiculous, rolled-up joggers.
They only slip out into the shop once they hear the front door shut, and Niall swivels around to look at them, shakes his head and sighs. “You couldn’t wait, could you?”
Harry ducks his head, cheeks flushing with embarrassment, but Louis just grabs his hand and threads their fingers together. “Jealousy is an ugly trait, Niall. Anyway, we’re going to leave. I need to put my baby to bed,” Louis coos, stroking a hand up Harry’s arm. Harry can’t quite help the smile that stretches across his face, the way his heart flutters at the ridiculous term of endearment. “He’s had a long week, you know. You’re alright by yourself, yeah?”
Harry catches Niall’s nod out of the corner of his eye. “Yeah, Danny is coming by with a Nikon that needs a new LCD screen and Marvin said he’s got an old film camera that’s got light leaks he wants fixed, but I can handle them.”
“Perfect. I’ll see you tomorrow, then.”
Harry looks up as Louis tugs him toward the end of the counter, grins at Niall and says, “Your lunch is safe, by the way.”
It takes Niall a moment of just staring at Harry blankly before he realizes what he’s implying. He snorts and says, “Small miracles. Hey, take care of this one, yeah? I don’t need any more of him snapping my head off every time I fuckin’ breathe wrong.”
“I did no such -” Harry cuts off Louis’ defensive retort with a hand over his mouth and nods at Niall over his shoulder, ignoring the way Louis is nipping at his palm with his sharp little teeth.
“Will do, Niall, thank you! See you soon!”
The fresh air feels like heaven on Harry’s flushed cheeks, goosebumps rising along the bare skin of his arms as he leads Louis to his car.
“I did not snap at him for breathing,” Louis mutters. Harry just grins and squeezes his hand, lifts it so he can drag his lips across his knuckles.
The drive back to Harry and Zayn’s building is short, but by the time they get there, Harry’s pants are drying uncomfortably, and he winces with every step as they climb the stairs to his flat. As predicted, the flat is silent when they slip inside, and the balcony doors are shut tight, for once. The door to Zayn’s room is shut, as well, but Harry’s is standing askew so that Fuzz can get in and out. She’s sprawled out in the center of Harry’s bed when they push the door open, and she mewls happily when she spots Harry, then rolls over and pads toward the edge of it.
Harry scoops her up into his arms and peppers her face with kisses, then buries a smile in her fur when she puts both paws on his cheeks and starts purring like a tractor. “Louis,” he mumbles into her belly, “this is Fuzz.”
He can hear Louis’ bare feet dragging across the carpet as he approaches, feels the tentative brush of skin-on-skin when Louis reaches out to pet her side, his forearm rubbing up against Harry’s where he’s holding the cat.
“Fuzz?” He questions, and when Harry lifts his head, Louis is looking back and forth between him and the cat, eyes sparkling with amusement.
“Lightyear,” Harry explains, then bites his lip, not sure whether admitting that makes him a geek. Although, to be fair, he bird watches for a living, so he might already qualify for the title. “I got her while I was writing my dissertation, and my flatmate at the time was - is - obsessed with Toy Story.”
He shrugs, eliciting another round of intense purring from Fuzz. Louis strokes his hand up to scratch between her ears, smiling at the way she closes her eyes, a blissed out expression on her whiskery face. “Fuzz Lightyear,” Louis murmurs, resting his cheek against Harry’s shoulder as he pets her. “She definitely fits the name.”
Harry tugs on a lock of her charcoal fur, long enough that his hands sink into it when he touches her, like a plush, gray cloud. They stand there for a few minutes, pressed together as they pet Fuzz quietly, then Harry shifts away so he can set the cat down on the bed and stretch his arms up into the air, his t-shirt riding up over his belly. He drops his arms with a huff, then says, “You want a shower?”
Louis follows Harry into the bathroom, the tiles cold against their bare feet, and leans back against the sink while Harry fiddles with the knobs and pulls out towels. Harry shoots Louis a little smile before hooking his fingers in the waistband of his joggers and tugging them down. He’s just about to pull his shirt off when Louis’ hand closes around the hem and he says, “Hey, is that mine?”
Harry looks down at the t-shirt, black and white with the words ‘love will tear us apart’ stenciled across the top, then nods. “Yeah, I found it in my bag this morning.” He looks up at Louis, amused, then pokes him in the belly. “And that’s my jumper. I was looking for it last week.”
Louis just shrugs and smirks, smooths a hand down the front of it and says, “Yeah, I know. I stole it when you stayed over the night before you left.” His expression is completely unrepentant when he says, “It smelled like you.”
Oh.
Harry feels those words like a punch to the gut, can’t stop himself from shuffling forward and tugging Louis into a hug. Louis’ hands slip up underneath the back of his shirt, chilled fingertips tracing up and down his spine while they stand there just breathing each other in, the tiny bathroom slowly filling up with steam around them. The mirror is fogged up and the air is damp with humidity by the time they pull apart and finish undressing. Harry steps into the shower first, crowding back against the cold tiles to make room for Louis in the small space.
It’s a tight squeeze, just barely enough room for them to wash their hair and scrub their bodies down, and once Harry has rinsed all of the suds off his body, he can feel exhaustion pulling at his limbs, ten days’ worth of shoddy sleep and a heady orgasm finally catching up to him. Louis is just watching him quietly, leant back against the wall with his hair slicked back out of his face, eyes heavy-lidded and skin flushed pink from the heat of the water. He looks so soft and lovely, all rosy skin and sharp cheekbones and pale blue eyes, and Harry feels a little tug in his gut, has to walk forward and bury his face in Louis’ neck, cup his hips and mouth at his damp skin.
“I missed you,” he whispers. He feels Louis nose at his temple, sighs into it when Louis loops his arms around his shoulders. He smiles when he hears Louis murmur, voice blurred where his mouth is pressed against Harry’s wet hair, “I missed you, too.”
The sun is high in the sky when Harry wakes up, and it takes him a minute to realize that the left side of the bed is empty and he has a cat draped across his neck. Grumbling discontentedly, Harry shifts Fuzz off him and rolls out of bed, pulls on a pair of pants before wandering out into the flat. The air gets colder the closer he gets to the living room, and Harry curses, chafing his arms as he steps out into the room and sees the balcony doors propped open. He’s about to call Zayn out when he spots a telltale head of shaggy brown hair leaning over the balcony rail.
“Yeah, bro, I did this whole series of superheroes for Liam’s birthday last year, if you want, I can -”
“Well hi there,” Harry interrupts, stepping out onto the cold concrete. He could go back inside and put on proper clothing, but before he can even contemplate doing so, Louis turns around and beams at him. He’s wearing another one of Harry’s jumpers and a pair of his trackies, sitting low on his hips and tucked up underneath the bottoms of his feet, and Harry’s heart stumbles in his chest.
“Hello, love,” Louis says quietly, eyes warm, and Harry ignores the shrewd look Zayn is giving him in favor of burrowing into Louis’ warmth. He turns his head and settles his cheek on Louis’ shoulder so he can look over at Zayn.
He’s watching the two of them quietly, a lit cigarette dangling from his mouth and expression impassive. The cigarette bobs when he asks, “So, H, how was Brighton?”
Harry shrugs carefully, not wanting to dislodge Louis’ grip on him, and says, “It was an experience. Lots of mud and bird poo and angry bird mummies. Not much sleep.” His statement is punctuated by an unexpected yawn, and he sighs out, “Was fun, though. I like Brighton.”
Zayn rolls his eyes, but there’s affection in his voice when he says, “You could get run over by a lorry and set on fire and you wouldn’t complain, you loser.”
“Hey,” Harry drawls, arms tightening around Louis. Louis is petting his hands through his hair, winding curls around his fingers and lulling Harry into a sleepy, contented haze. He manages to dredge up a bit of defensiveness, though, and protests, “I’m having adventures. Living life to the fullest.”
Zayn just snorts and takes a drag on his cigarette, then makes a face at Louis as if to say, ‘he’s all yours, mate.’ Harry is alright with that.
“Oh.” Harry pulls out of Louis’ embrace and leans back so he can look at him. “Speaking of adventures.”
“Oh no,” Zayn mutters, and Harry just flips him off.
“Liam is going up to York in two weeks for some research and I told him I would be his field assistant. We’ll be up there a week, did you want to come? You won’t have to do any work, just, you know. Be with us. With me. It’ll be fun.” He offers Louis a winning smile. “We’re camping.”
Louis’ mouth drops open and Zayn hides a snicker behind a cupped palm. Harry resolutely ignores him, just watches Louis as he considers Harry’s offer. His voice is uneasy when he says, “I’ve never been camping before...”
“Oh, that’s okay,” Harry says dismissively. “Liam was a boy scout, he’s brilliant. He sets up the tents and builds fires, and I cook.”
“A week,” Louis states, and Harry nods. “A week of camping. Without showers?”
“Oh, there’s a ranger station a few miles away, we shower there after we finish working each day.” Louis is worrying his bottom lip with his teeth, eyes uncertain, and Harry’s confidence wavers. He rushes to reassure him, “You don’t have to, if you don’t want to. I just thought it would be nice, and we wouldn’t have to be apart for a whole week again, but it’s totally fine -”
Louis rolls his eyes and pokes Harry in the belly. “Shut up, Harold. Of course I want to spend time with you. I’ve just never been camping before, and I don’t know, like, what if I don’t like it?”
Harry shrugs, the answer easy enough. “I’ll take you home and go back myself.”
Louis blinks at him for a moment, then says, “You’ll drive four hours each way, just because I can’t handle sleeping in a tent?”
Not quite sure what Louis’ angle is, Harry says, slow and uncertain, “Yes...?”
“Christ,” Zayn mutters, but Harry watches, confused, as Louis just smiles at him, bright and happy and squinty-eyed, then says, “Right, okay, sure. On one condition, though.” At Harry’s raised eyebrow, he elaborates, “Liam gets his own tent.”
Without a second thought, Harry says, “Deal.”
;;
They don’t get to York until mid-afternoon, and by then, it’s too late to set up mist nets for the day. Instead, they take their time driving through the forest on the way to Liam’s GPS location - a large clearing toward the north end of the forest, right in the center of a Willow Warbler breeding ground.
“Liam has been doing a yearly population study here for the last four years,” Harry explains as he holds one of the tents up. Liam is assembling the poles and doing most of the actual tent-pitching, while Louis stands off to the side and looks around at the clearing and the surrounding trees. “He’s already tagged a couple hundred birds, but they migrate to Africa in the winter. This is the best way to track population trends from year to year.”
“So you capture them and put a band on their legs and let them go?”
Harry nods. He takes one of the poles from Liam and starts threading it through the loops at the top of the tent. “We’ll set the mist net up in the morning, before they leave their nests to forage for food, then again in the evening, right before sunset.”
“And what do you do if you catch birds that are already tagged?”
“That’s part of it,” Liam says from where he’s sat on the ground, working on the second tent. “It’s a mark-recapture study. You deal with the ratio of tagged to untagged birds, there’s a bunch of statistics involved. It’s all very boring; we have computers that do the work for us.”
“So what you’re saying is pretty much anyone could be a researcher these days,” Louis smirks.
“Hey, now,” Liam says defensively, ripping up a handful of grass and tossing it in Louis’ direction. The wind carries it a measly half foot before it falls to the ground in a shower of green. “You need the knowledge about the birds themselves -”
“He’s kidding, Liam, relax.” Harry shakes his head and shoots Louis a grin, then goes back to fussing with the tent. He thinks he’s nearly got it, just needs to get the end of the pole through the end of the loop, and that should do it. Brow furrowed in concentration, Harry pushes on the far end of the pole, but it gets caught on the edge of the loop. With a frown, he pulls it back and pushes harder, curses when the entire pole goes sliding out the other end and falls to the ground.
“Harry,” Liam sighs, and Harry lets go of the tent as soon as Liam stands up and starts toward him, more than willing to let him take the lead in setting them up. “Why don’t you and Louis go get some firewood?”
Nodding happily, Harry grabs Louis’ wrist and tugs him toward the line of trees. When Louis stops dead right at the edge of the forest, Harry turns to him, confused. “Louis?”
“There aren’t, like, bears in there, are there?”
“No,” Harry laughs. “Unless you’re scared of badgers and deer, there’s nothing to worry about, I promise. Come on.”
He tilts his head toward the trees and waits for Louis to take a step forward. They make their way into the forest, skirting around trunks and stumbling over roots. The soft huffs of their exhales, the crisp crunch of dying leaves underfoot, and the trill of birdsong are the only noises as they search for fallen branches. Harry’s got nearly an armful of branches when he hears the telltale sounds of a woodpecker. He freezes, looking around for the source of the sound, then sets his firewood down quietly and motions for Louis to do the same. It’s coming from somewhere to their left.
He crooks a finger at Louis, who’s watching him curiously, and they tiptoe over grass and fallen leaves before coming to a stop in front of a gnarled old tree with wide, branching limbs and a thick canopy. Harry squints up at the lower branches, cursing himself mentally for not bringing a pair of binoculars from the campsite. Louis pokes him in the side and gives him a wide-eyed look when he turns his head. Holding one finger to his lips, Harry grasps Louis’ hand in his and lifts it toward one of the lower branches, shuffles in close so that their line of vision matches up and uses both of their fingers to point at the red and white smudge of a Great Spotted Woodpecker.
They watch it in silence for a bit, but after a few minutes, Harry becomes aware of the weight of Louis’ gaze on him, rather than on the bird. When he turns to look at Louis quizzically, Louis is just watching him, expression soft and so incredibly fond that Harry forgets about the woodpecker completely and says, “Lou?”
Louis shrugs and laces their fingers together where their hands are still clasped. “You’re really cute when you’re bird watching.”
Harry ducks his head, cheeks flushing with pleasure at the compliment. He squeezes Louis’ hand and peeks at him out of the corner of his eye. “You still don’t like bird watching.”
Louis presses his lips together briefly, then says, “I like you.”
It’s a cheesy line, but Harry has always been a sucker for lines. He laughs and yanks on Louis’ hand so that he stumbles forward, turns so that they’re chest to chest and ducks into a kiss. He gasps when Louis walks him back against a tree, the bark rough even through the fabric of his shirt, but Louis is up on his toes and draped across his chest to get at his mouth, and Harry can’t even bring himself to care about the bark. He just winds his arms around Louis’ waist and parts his lips, lets Louis take control of the kiss until they’re grinding against each other half-heartedly.
Harry is just about to part his legs and let Louis get closer when he hears Liam’s voice call out, “Harry? Louis? Did you get eaten by badgers?”
With a sigh, Harry lets his arms fall to his sides so that Louis can take a step back. Good thing they hadn’t gotten too into it yet. They walk back over to where they’d left their sticks, straightening their shirts and trousers as they go, then meet Liam at the edge of the trees.
“We found a woodpecker,” Harry says brightly, trying to draw attention away from their flushed cheeks, mussed hair, and his half-hard dick pressing against the zip of his jeans. It works, and Liam rattles off questions as they walk back over to the tents, their slightly disheveled state forgotten.
That night, Harry zips himself into his sleeping bag and rolls over to face Louis in the dark tent. He can just make out the curve of his cheek and the outline of his own bag, spider-walks his fingers across the floor until he finds Louis’ hand and can link their pinkies. He falls asleep to the sound of owls hooting and Louis’ soft, steady breathing, the warm press of his body only a few inches away and the solid link of their fingers on the hard ground.
Harry’s alarm goes off just before dawn, when the forest is quiet and still, and the only noises to be heard are that of his own sleeping bag rustling as he sits up and Louis snuffling into his pillow. He turns toward Louis’ prone form, curled into a loose ball inside his sleeping bag, and studies the way his lashes fan out over his cheekbones and his lips part around every exhale. His fist is curled tight around the corner of his pillow, but his face is soft in sleep, and he’s so beautiful that he makes Harry’s chest ache.
Regretfully, he slides a hand across Louis’ back, heat pouring through the thin material of his shirt and pooling against his palm, and bends over him to whisper, “Louis. Lou, it’s time to get up and set up the net.”
He watches Louis come awake by inches, grip on the pillow tightening, legs straightening out, back arching into a stretch as his eyes flutter open. His voice is thick with sleep when he slurs, “Harry?”
“Yeah, love,” Harry whispers, stroking his hand down Louis’ back, then up again. Louis arches into it, hums quietly when Harry scratches between his shoulder blades. “We need to set up the mist net, did you want to watch?”
Louis presses his face into his pillow for a moment, then blinks up at Harry and croaks, “Sure, yeah.”
Liam is already up and poking through their food supply, stored in the boot of the car so that the badgers couldn’t get to it, while a small fire licks at the fallen branches they had collected yesterday. Harry and Louis brush their teeth with bottled water, then join Liam by the little campfire, where he’s boiling some water for tea. Harry pulls two camping chairs over for himself and Louis, but once he sits down in his own, Louis just crawls into his lap and buries his face in his shoulder.
Harry wraps his arms around Louis automatically and rests his cheek on top of his head. “Are you still tired?”
Louis nods, his nose cold against Harry’s collarbone. It’s still chilly out, the sun just barely peeking over the horizon, and the wind is creeping steadily through the fabric of their jumpers. “Didn’t sleep much.”
Harry nuzzles against his temple, spreads his hand across Louis’ back to try and trap some of his body heat when he shivers against a sudden gust of wind. “We can take a nap after setting up the net.”
“But we need to -”
Harry cuts Liam off with a glare, and Liam’s mouth snaps shut. They drink their tea in silence as the world wakes up around them, the gentle hoots of owls giving way to the twittering chirps of warblers and sparrows, the chittering of magpies and the drumming of woodpeckers. Liam uses the dregs of their tea to put out the fire, then they gather up the mist net and follow Liam to the spot he’s picked out. Setting up the net is tedious, but Louis offers to hold the poles while Liam and Harry tie the ends of the net, so it goes quicker than usual.
“There,” Liam sighs, patting one of the poles. “We’ll just need to check back every half hour.”
Back at the campsite, Louis refuses to take a nap, so they build the fire back up and make some more tea before they have to go back and check the net.
“What do you normally do when you’re out here?” Louis looks back and forth between Harry and Liam as they trek back over to the net site. “D’you just sit around and drink tea?”
“We spend most of the time at the net, actually.” Liam smirks at Harry before adding, “I used to bring a football, but Harry here can’t play for shit.”
Harry tries to ignore the way Louis is eyeing him consideringly, just hitches the bag of ankle tags higher on his shoulder and keeps walking.
“He does have those Bambi legs,” Louis muses.
“And not much control over them,” Liam agrees. Harry flips them both off.
The mist net is peppered with birds when they arrive, and Liam rubs his hands together excitedly before dropping his bag so that he can grab a few pairs of gardening gloves out of it. He looks over at Louis, a pair of gloves in hand. “Louis, did you want to help, or just watch?”
Louis looks at Harry uneasily, then says, “I think watch, for now.” He wiggles his fingers at the net. “They’ve got beaks.”
“They’re usually too stunned to care,” Liam shrugs, leaving the gloves on the ground and making his way over to the net. “Harry, I’ll get the birds, you mark, then we’ll switch, alright?”
Harry grabs the clipboard from Liam’s back and drags the tags over to the edge of the net, where Liam is already untangling a bird. He can see Louis approaching out of the corner of his eye, turns to smile at him as Louis watches on curiously. “We’re noting down untagged Willow Warblers, and writing down the numbers on the tagged ones,” he explains. “Then we’re going to tag Wood Warblers for a separate project.”
He and Liam work quickly and efficiently, borne of years of practice working together. They mark down all of the Willow Warblers and wrap tags around the legs of any Wood Warblers that have tangled in the net, then set them all on the ground so they can wander off. Harry peeks over at Louis while Liam untangles the birds, charmed and amused by Louis’ fascination as he watches the little birds ruffle their feathers and chirp angrily before taking off for the trees.
He and Liam switch halfway down the net, and Harry looks over his shoulder at Louis while he works a chiffchaff out of the net. “More entertaining than bird watching, Lou?”
Louis is staring at a tiny little sparrow hanging from the bottom of the net, chirping plaintively. Harry sets the chiffchaff down on the ground and walks over to the little bird, crouches down so they’re on eye level, then turns to look back at Louis. “D’you want to get him out?”
Louis looks from Harry to the bird, then sighs and nods. “Yeah, alright. I’ll give it a go.” He presses his palms to his chest, then asks, “It won’t bite me, will it?”
“Probably not. Here, come on.” He waves Louis forward, waits for him to crouch down alongside him, then tugs him closer, so they’re pressed together from shoulder to hip. “Just use your right hand and come up from the belly. Be careful not to squeeze it.”
Harry demonstrates on a Willow Warbler that’s tangled up by his shoulder, shows Louis how he presses his palm to the bird’s chest and wraps his fingers around its back, then tugs it slowly out of the net. He has to untwist a cord from around one of its feet, and the bird chitters excitedly, twists its head to nip at Harry’s thumb, a sharp little sting that Harry’s become immune to over the years. He twists his head around to call to Liam, “Willow, untagged.”
Then he sets the bird on the ground and watches it hop away before turning back to Louis. He watches quietly as Louis stretches a tentative hand out toward the bird. The bird is looking at them through one of its beady black eyes, but it doesn’t move when Louis grasps it in his palm, and he lets out a disbelieving laugh before gently tugging it out of the net. “It’s so soft.”
“That’s a Tree Sparrow,” Harry explains, smiling when Louis pets at the little bird’s head with his left hand. The bird closes its eyes, the feathers around its neck fluffed up around the edges of Louis’ fingers.
Louis slides him a look before setting the bird gently on the ground. “Is this the bird your cat dragged in?”
“Close,” Harry nods, warmth blooming in his chest at the fact that Louis remembers the story about how he became interested in birds. “That was a House Sparrow. They prefer urban areas. D’you want to do a few more?”
“Sure,” Louis agrees easily, standing up and dusting his hands on his trousers.
The work goes more efficiently with Louis’ help, and the day passes quickly, the time between rescuing the birds spent adding up the stats and sprawling out in the grass a few meters away, chatting aimlessly and snacking on bags of crisps. They bundle up the net once the sun starts to set and make their way back to camp. They make dinner on a squat little grill, some hotdogs they’ve had in a cooler in the boot of the car, then Liam reveals that he’d brought a football this time.
“Come on, H,” Liam insists. “You can be on Louis’ team. It’ll be two against one, it won’t even matter.”
Harry tries to resist, settles himself firmly into his camping chair and crosses his arms over his chest, but Louis ducks down to mouth at his ear and whispers, “I’ll make it worth your while.”
He’s out of his chair and across the campsite before Louis can even turn around.
Harry makes an absolute fool of himself, chasing Liam and the ball back and forth between the makeshift goals they’ve set out, consisting of two pairs of Harry’s neon sneakers. He ends up flat on his back in the grass more often than not, panting and sweating, the muscles in his thighs aching. Louis carries the match, though. He zips back and forth across their little pitch like a professional footie player, stealing the ball from Liam and dribbling it toward the goal faster than Liam can keep up. They’re only playing to ten points, and by the time he and Louis have eight (no thanks to Harry) and Liam only has three, when Harry trips over the ball and winds up spread-eagled on his back, he just stays down.
He’s got his eyes closed as he tracks the calls of a pair of owls when Louis shouts out, “Goooooooal!” Harry turns his head to look over at Liam and Louis. Liam is hunched over, hands on his knees as he catches his breath, and Louis is parading around the pitch with his arms in the air, making noises like a roaring crowd. He watches Louis make his way around the perimeter of the field, then come to a stop beside him, hands on his hips as he stares down at Harry and nudges him with the toe of his trainer. “Y’alright down there?”
Harry nods and wraps a loose hand around Louis’ ankle, strokes his thumb over the jut of bone. “You’re really good. Sorry I’m rubbish.”
“No,” Louis laughs, flopping down onto the ground beside Harry so that he can crawl over him and stretch out across his chest. He stacks his fists and props his chin up on them, looks down at Harry and smiles. “You’re brilliant. Just, you know. Footie isn’t your sport.”
Harry rolls his eyes, but he can’t help the smile working its way across his face. He sneaks a hand up underneath the back of Louis’ shirt and traces absent shapes against his skin. “I like tennis.”
“Tennis is sexy,” Louis comments.
“And golf.”
Louis snorts. “Golf? Golf is a pensioner’s sport, Harry.” He pauses and wrinkles his nose, amends, “Can one even call golf a sport?”
“Hey,” Harry protests, but Louis just pats his chest and then pushes himself up off of Harry.
“Come on, babe. If I remember correctly, I owe you for your time on the pitch.”
He holds a hand out to Harry and helps him to his feet so they can start back to the tents. The last thing Harry hears as they walk away is Liam muttering, “Christ, it’s going to be a long night.”
When Harry wakes up the next morning, Louis is lying on his back in his sleeping bag, flipping through one of Harry’s bird watching books. With a frown, Harry checks the time. 5:48am.
“Louis?” Louis turns to look at Harry, book still suspended in midair. There are dark purple smudges underneath his eyes. “Did you sleep at all?”
Louis presses his lips together and shakes his head. “Couldn’t.”
“Why not?” Harry inches across the floor of the tent, still cocooned in his own bag, until he’s right up against Louis’ side. They have to be up in ten minutes, but that’s ten minutes they could spend cuddling.
Louis sets the book down on the ground and shrugs, turning onto his side so he’s facing Harry. “Dunno. Ground too hard, maybe.”
Harry frowns, pulls one of his hands out of the bag so he can trace the tips of his fingers across the hollow underneath Louis’ eye. “D’you want me to drive you home?”
“No,” Louis says quickly, reaching up to circle Harry’s wrist with his fingers and hold his hand to his chest. “No, I’m fine. I’m sure I’ll sleep tonight.”
“Hmm.” Harry studies Louis’ drawn face for a moment. “Do you want to stay at the camp while Liam and I count birds? We’ll come back between counts to keep you company.”
“No, I want to help again. I’m fine, really. Promise.” A mischievous grin spreads across Louis’ face and he leans in so the tips of their noses are brushing and says, “Hey, let’s go wake Liam up. I saw some lizards in the forest the other day, I bet he wouldn’t take too kindly to one in his sleeping bag.”
After Liam’s shrieks and shouts, Harry is quite certain they won’t catch as many birds as they had the day before. They manage a good haul in the morning, though, before taking a break for lunch. To Harry’s surprise, Louis pokes him as Liam cleans up and says, “Can we go bird watching?”
Harry blinks at him in shock. “What?”
Louis shrugs. “I was reading your book last night, you know. Reckon I might be able to recognize a few of them on my own now.”
“Okay,” Harry says slowly, then looks over at Liam for confirmation.
Liam just shrugs and says, “We’ve got time before we need to set the net up again.”
So they gather binoculars and a camera and head for the forest, Liam leading the way and Louis’ fingers threaded through Harry’s, hands swinging between them as they go. It’s lovely and dim inside of the trees, everything muted green and speckles of sunlight filtering down through the canopy, the musical trill of birdsong and snapping of twigs and leaves underfoot.
“Hey,” Louis whispers, leaning in close to Harry. “Can we climb a tree?”
Harry grins and nods, hisses out, “Liam! We’re going up.”
“Oh, wicked,” Liam says, then starts looking around for a good tree to climb. They find a pair of sturdy oaks with low-bearing branches a couple of feet from each other and let Liam take one while Harry and Louis climb the second. Louis is a pro, swinging up into the branches like a little monkey and settling down on a wide limb, feet dangling over the side of it while he waits for Harry. Even though Harry has been climbing trees since he was a child, he’s not the most graceful climber, and he determinedly ignores Louis’ snickers as he clings to branches and scuffs his toes against the trunk, trying to find footholds. He nearly pitches himself over the other side once he gets to the branch, and Louis has to grab onto the back of his shirt to steady him.
“Right,” Harry pants out, finally settled on the branch alongside Louis. He passes Louis the binoculars and readies his camera. It takes a few minutes for the forest to settle around them, but the birds start calling again, and they spend twenty minutes taking turns pointing out and photographing birds, until Louis hands over the camera and rests his head on Harry’s shoulder, barely suppressing a yawn.
“Do you want to stop?” Harry asks, turning to press a kiss to the top of Louis’ head.
“No,” Louis whispers, patting Harry’s thigh. “Keep going, babe. You worked so hard to climb this tree, you should get your money’s worth.”
Harry briefly considers pushing Louis, but if he falls, it’s a long way down. So he settles for craning his neck and biting the tip of Louis’ nose, then quickly lifting the binoculars to his eyes.
“Hey, Lou, want to take a picture of that woodpecker over there?”
Louis lifts the camera and aims it in the direction Harry is pointing, brings the flash of black, white, and red into focus. “And the great woodpecker readies himself,” Louis drones, voice pitched low and resonant. “Watch as he draws his head back, graceful and elegant, then plows his beak into the tree with the force of a speeding bullet!”
Harry stares at Louis on confusion. “Erm, Louis?”
Louis turns his head a bit, camera still held aloft, and winks at him, then focuses back in on the woodpecker. “Uh oh,” he narrates. “The bird has been spotted by its predator, the...great horny owl.” Harry snorts, but doesn’t interrupt. “Watch as it takes flight in an effort to save itself. Look at that wingspan! Well, it looks like Woody lives to peck another day.”
He lowers the camera to his lap and turns to grin at Harry. Harry shakes his head, amused and charmed, despite himself. “You know there’s no such thing as -”
“Don’t care,” Louis interrupts, but he leans over to brush a kiss across Harry’s lips. “Show me another bird I can play David Attenborough with.”
By the time Liam signals them to climb down so they can go set up the mist net, there are no birds in the vicinity anymore, scared off by Louis’ voice-overs and Harry’s squawking laughter, but Harry’s stomach muscles ache from laughing and Louis is beaming at him, pleased that Harry finds him so funny.
Harry waits for Liam to reach the ground so he can drop the binoculars into his hands, then starts to get down.
“Observe the Harrybird in his natural habitat,” Louis calls out from the branch above him. “Not much is known about the Harrybird, but studies are being carried out right as we speak, to determine his foraging habits. My money is on him storing it in his hair, personally.”
Harry aims a half-hearted glare up at Louis, then keeps climbing down.
“Look at how graceful the Harrybird is as he descends to the ground.” One foot from the bottom, Harry’s foot slips and he falls on his bum with an oof. He can hear Louis giggling in the tree, followed by, “Oops, maybe not so graceful. But what is he doing down there? Is he searching for a mate?”
Harry rolls his eyes at Liam, who’s just shaking his head. Liam hands him back the binoculars, and they watch as Louis swings himself onto a lower branch, talking as he goes. “Little does he know, but his mate is right here in this tree, heading toward him as we speak.” Louis hops off of the last branch and lands perfectly on his feet, dusts his hands off and starts toward Harry. “Tune in next time to find out: did the Harrybird find his mate? Was it a good fit? Is it a story for the ages? Only time will tell.”
Louis stops once they’re toe-to-toe and holds a hand out for the binoculars, but Harry just rolls his eyes, fondness welling up in his chest and threatening to choke him as he yanks Louis into a kiss. Louis hums happily and loops his arms around Harry’s neck, but Liam clears his throat pointedly before they can really get into it, and Harry pulls back a centimeter, whispers, “You’re an idiot.”
“You love it,” Louis states simply, and Harry sighs. Yeah, he kind of does.
Mist netting in the afternoon goes even better than the morning had. They manage to tag nearly a hundred Wood Warblers, and even end up with one sparrow who doesn’t want to leave and spends two hours hopping around the bit of grass between the net and Liam’s chair, pecking at the ground in search of seeds. Louis names him Herbert. Herbert flies off once they start taking the net down, though, and they walk back to camp bird-less. To cheer Louis up, Harry breaks out a bag of marshmallows that he’d snuck into his bag, and the three of them roast marshmallows for dessert and sing along to Liam’s camping mix that’s playing quietly through a set of iPod speakers.
The fire is dwindling by the time Liam stands up and announces, “Right, I’m off to bed. You’ll put out the fire, H?”
Harry nods from where he’s busy licking a bit of melted marshmallow off Louis’ thumb and waves goodnight. When he looks back over at Louis, Louis is watching him with dark, hooded eyes, locked on the place where Harry’s mouth is wrapped around his finger. Oh.
There are still dark smudges underneath his eyes, though, and Harry pulls off of Louis’ thumb, licks a bit of marshmallow off his lips, and says, “We should go to sleep, too.”
Louis just shakes his head and reaches out for Harry, tries to pull him in with a hand fisted in his shirt.
“Louis,” Harry protests, holding himself back with hands on the arm of his chair. “You’re tired, you didn’t sleep last night.”
Louis shrugs and says, firelight reflecting in his eyes and dancing across his skin, “I still have enough energy for you.”
“Is that so,” Harry murmurs, letting Louis draw him in slowly, until their noses are brushing and he can’t bring Louis’ face into focus anymore.
“Who knows, maybe it will even exhaust me enough that I’ll be able to sleep tonight.”
The corners of Harry’s mouth curl up into a wicked grin and he says, lips brushing Louis’, “Oh, I can make sure of that.”
He can hear Louis breath catch in his throat, and then Louis is shoving him away so he can stand up. “Well, come on then.”
“Wait,” Harry laughs. “We need to put out the fire and get the chairs -”
He watches, wide-eyed, as Louis grabs a water bottle and upends it over the fire, then grabs Harry’s hand and pulls. “Fire is out, chairs can wait. Come on.”
Harry stumbles a little as they duck into their tent, falls to his knees with a thud and has to catch himself on his hands. He can feel hands circling his hips and a mouth press against the dip between his shoulder blades, feels heat slither down his spine as Louis murmurs into his shirt, “This works for me.”
Harry forces himself to shake his head, determined. This is about Louis. He pushes Louis’ hands off and straightens up so he can turn around. The tent has already been zipped closed, and Louis is staring at him, hands fidgeting with the hem of his shirt.
“Not this time, Louis.” Louis opens his mouth to protest, but Harry shakes his head again, then grasps Louis’ shirt and tugs it up over his head. “I’m returning last night’s favor.”
“It wasn’t -”
“Louis,” Harry sighs. He rests his fingers against the button of Louis’ jeans. “Let me take care of you, alright?”
Louis hesitates for a moment, shoulders and mouth tense, but then he sighs and nods. “Yeah, okay.”
They undress in silence, and Harry takes his time folding their clothes into a neat little pile before turning to dig through his bag for lube and condoms. By the time he turns to Louis, he’s already stretched out on top of their stacked sleeping bags, pumping his dick lazily as he watches Harry. He could get used to this, Harry thinks, taking a minute to just look at Louis, lean muscle shifting under acres of golden skin, the thick lines of his thighs and the narrow dip of his waist, his free hand resting on his belly, elegant fingers spread wide as he stares steadily back at Harry.
With a quick shake of his head, Harry pushes Louis’ hands to the floor and moves over him, dips his head and draws Louis into a kiss. Louis tastes like chocolate and marshmallows, sweet and sticky, and Harry chases the taste, uses his thumbs tucked up underneath Louis’ jaw to tilt his head back and deepen the kiss. When Louis slides hands up his back and tries to tug him down, though, Harry pulls away and sits back on his heels.
“No,” he murmurs, watches Louis’ hands fall as he shuffles back and pushes Louis’ legs apart so he can settle between them. He slips his hands up underneath Louis’ legs so he can flatten them against his stomach, then turns to nose at the inside of Louis’ thigh, smiling when Louis gasps, hands clenching and unclenching against the slick polyester of the sleeping bag.
He works Louis up slowly by sucking and nipping at the insides of his thighs, leaving behind little bruises that bloom purple in the darkness of the tent. Waits until Louis’ thighs are trembling and he’s moving restlessly on the sleeping bag before lifting his head and shifting his weight onto one elbow so he can fist Louis’ cock with the other and swirl his tongue around the head. Louis gasps and arches back, hands settling immediately in Harry’s hair, and Harry nods his approval before closing his lips around the head of Louis’ dick and sinking down slowly.
Louis’ grip on his hair tightens when he hollows his cheeks around him as he slides off, pumping the base of his cock with his hand so that Louis doesn’t have a chance to calm down, doesn’t have a chance to take the edge off. He can feel the muscles of Louis’ stomach jumping against his palm as he takes him down again, tongue curling around the underside of his cock as he goes, and he hums encouragement when Louis whispers, “Harry, I -”
He can feel Louis’ nails digging into his scalp as he arches into Harry’s mouth, and Harry just relaxes his jaw and lets Louis go, lets him fuck slowly into his mouth until the head of his cock is hitting the back of Harry’s throat and his legs are shaking as he tries to hold himself up, until his gasps and cries fill the tent. Harry uses the hand on Louis’ stomach to hold him down as he slides his free hand back to ghost the tip of a finger over his rim and swallows around him, moans happily when Louis lets out a whimper and comes down the back of his throat.
Harry sucks him through it, until Louis’ hands slide down to his shoulders so he can push him away, and then he pulls off and sits up, looks down at Louis so he can admire the pretty flush that’s spread from his cheeks all the way down his chest, at the way his fringe is sticking to his forehead with sweat, at the bright purple bruises dotting the insides of his thighs. He traces a finger over the marks, fascinated at the way Louis’ muscles twitch and he shifts away from the touch.
“God,” Louis mutters, tossing an arm across his eyes while he fights to catch his breath.
Harry smirks and leans over him, so he can press a kiss to Louis’ heaving chest. He murmurs into Louis’ damp skin, voice raspy and fucked out, “Just Harry is fine.”
“Ugh,” Louis laughs, shoving at his shoulder, and he lets his arm slide to the floor, then props himself up on his elbows so he can look down at Harry. He leans on one elbow so he can lift a hand and slide his thumb across Harry’s bottom lip. “You know, I’m pretty sure you were born to suck cock.”
Laughter rumbles up in Harry’s chest and he nips at the pad of Louis’ thumb, swirls his tongue over it, then says, “I’m going to take that as a compliment.”
“It was meant as one,” Louis says easily, breathing already slowing back to normal, and Harry nods before reaching for the lube. Definitely not sleepy enough yet. When Louis catches sight of the bottle, he raises an eyebrow and says, “Harry, are you. I don’t think I can -”
Harry just raises an eyebrow, then sits back so he can unbutton his jeans and wiggle out of them. It’s not easy in the small tent, but he manages it without kicking Louis or bringing the tent down around their heads, so he considers it a job well done. Jeans and pants shed, Harry takes a moment to consider the best way to do this. He wants to put on a bit of a show for Louis, but he also wants to be comfortable. In the end, he lays back on the floor of the tent and spreads his legs, then feels around for the bottle of lube so he can squirt some out onto his fingers.
“Yeah?” He asks Louis, who’s sitting there watching, eyes wide and breath held. He waits for Louis to nod before spreading his legs a bit wider and slipping his hand between them, sliding the tip of his finger against his rim, then pushing inside. Louis’ eyelids flutter when Harry lets out a sharp little gasp and tips his head back, shifts a little against the floor as he tries to find the perfect angle. He doesn’t wait for himself to adjust, likes the stretch. He works himself open slowly, though, waits until Louis has edged closer so that he can see better before added a second, and then a third. He can’t quite get his prostate at this angle, but the pressure is exquisite and he can’t help squirming a bit, cock hard and flushed against his stomach.
“Harry,” Louis grits out. “Please, I need -”
He puts a hand on Harry’s ankle, his touch like fire, and slides it slowly up his leg, until his fingertips are brushing the juncture of his thigh. Harry stops moving, waits to see what Louis wants. He can see Louis’ cock, already hard, can see that he has his other hand wrapped around the base of it, like he’s trying to hold himself off.
“Louis,” Harry breathes, spreading his legs even wider and flicking a glance at the condom sticking out of the pocket of his bag.
“Yeah,” Louis nods. “Yeah.”
He reaches for the condom, hand still high on Harry’s thigh, entirely too close to his dick. Harry whines when he pulls his fingers out, watches hungrily as Louis tears the condom open with his teeth. He has to let go of his leg to roll it on and slick himself up, but it gives Harry time to turn over and scramble up onto his hands and knees, crawl onto the sleeping bag so he at least has a bit of a cushion beneath him. He arches his back to stretch out some of the kinks from laying on the floor, then twists his head around to look at Louis.
Louis is watching him, eyes dark and heavy-lidded, and he shakes his head when their eyes meet, whispers, “You are something else.”
He has to turn back around when Louis crawls closer and lines himself up. The angle is too much for his neck. He drops his head between his shoulders when he feels the head of Louis’ cock nudge against his hole, lets out a long, low whine when Louis pushes in slowly, so achingly slowly. He stops when he bottoms out, gives Harry a moment to adjust, but Harry doesn’t want it.
“Go,” he groans, wiggling his hips. “Don’t need to wait, please.”
Louis curses underneath his breath, but he listens. Louis’ hands fit themselves around Harry’s hips, gripping tight as Louis pulls almost all the way out, then thrusts back in. Harry’s back bows with the feeling of it and his head drops even lower, hair brushing the tent floor. The sleeping bag shifts and slips against his knees and his sweaty palms as Louis fucks him, slowly picking up pace until he’s pounding into him relentlessly, driving him higher and higher. Everything is coiling inside of him, sparking behind his eyes, but he needs –
Harry drops onto his elbow so he can reach for his cock, tugs himself off in time with Louis’ thrusts until his toes are curling and he can’t stop the soft noises he’s making. Suddenly, Louis drapes himself over his back, so he can nip at the nape of his neck and whisper, “Come on, Hazza.” He slips a hand around Harry’s side so that he can wrap his hand down over Harry’s and squeeze, swipe his thumb over the head of Harry’s cock. “Come for me, sweetheart.”
Harry shivers at the term of endearment, at the pressure of Louis’ hand over his, the short, sharp thrusts of Louis inside of him, and when Louis turns his head, bites down on his shoulder, he comes with a shuddering gasp, elbows giving out. Louis catches him before he falls to the floor, laughing quietly as he pulls out, then rolls Harry over gently. Harry looks up at him, dazed. It takes him a moment to register that Louis hasn’t come yet, that he’s just watching Harry and jacking himself slowly.
With a frown, Harry lifts his hands and wiggles his fingers at Louis’ cock. Louis strips the condom off and tosses it carelessly into a corner of the tent, then shuffles closer. Harry struggles to sit up, limbs like noodles, and wraps a hand around the back of Louis’ thigh, the other around his cock. He tips his head back so he can look up at Louis, whispers, “I want you to come on me.”
Louis groans loudly at that, cock twitching in Harry’s hand.
“Christ,” he mutters, looking down at Harry with wonder. He works a hand into Harry’s hair, strokes a thumb across his temple.
Suddenly fiercely determined to make Louis come, Harry quickens his pace, twisting his hand and thumbing under the head until Louis’ belly is trembling and he has to hold himself up with hands on Harry’s shoulders.
“Good?” Harry whispers, eyes on Louis’ and Louis nods jerkily, drops his gaze to Harry’s mouth. Grinning, Harry opens his mouth and sticks his tongue out so that he can lick at the head of Louis’ cock. Satisfaction curls in his belly when Louis curses frantically, fingers tightening in his hair, and comes not a moment later.
Harry just closes his eyes in bliss while Louis shudders above him and comes all over his face, painting his cheeks and mouth.
“Oh, fuck,” Louis curses. “Oh, fucking fuck. Look at you.”
Louis thumbs at the corner of Harry’s mouth, smearing come across his lips. Harry opens his eyes and looks up at Louis while he sucks Louis’ thumb into his mouth and licks it clean, pleased and deliriously content. Louis shakes his head slowly, then turns to root through their bags for something to clean Harry up with, gently wipes his face clean with a trembling hand. He tosses the tissues after the discarded condom, then collapses onto the sleeping bag beside Harry with a groan and Harry laughs, rolls onto his side so that he can see Louis’ face. His eyes are closed, his entire body sheened in sweat, but he looks soft and blissed out, lips curled up into a dazed smile.
“I think we might need to air the tent and sleeping bags out tomorrow,” he whispers, laying a hand on Louis’ stomach, but there’s no response, not even a snort. When he shifts up onto his elbow, he can make out the relaxed lines of Louis’ body, the way his chest is rising and falling steadily, can hear the soft puffs of air on every exhale.
Moving very slowly and deliberately, Harry tugs the bottom sleeping bag out from under Louis, then unzips the top one, lifts him gently so that he can ease him into it and zip it partway. It wouldn’t do either of them any good if he froze to death overnight. Scooting as close to Louis as possible, Harry zips himself into the other sleeping bag and drapes an arm over Louis, heart thumping painfully in his chest when Louis turns to him instinctively, even in sleep, and curls around him.
It’s too warm in the tent and smells overwhelmingly of sex, but Harry can feel exhaustion weighing his limbs down, the brush of Louis’ eyelashes against his collarbone, and he falls asleep quickly and easily, hand curled loosely in Louis’ hair as the chill sneaks back in and a steady beat of LouisLouisLouis thrums underneath his skin.
;;
The first thing Harry does when they get back to London is go shopping for a consolation gift for Liam. Well, no. The first thing Harry does is go home, shower off a half-week’s worth of grime, then fall into bed with Louis tucked up against his side and sleep for twelve hours. The second thing he does is go shopping. He buys Liam the newest version of FIFA and a handle of his favorite tequila, then swings by Boots and throws in a packet of earplugs, just to be cheeky.
Liam laughs when Harry gives him the package, but makes sure to let him know that next time they go camping, he’s pitching his tent on the other side of the field. “Sleeping on the ground is bad enough, I don’t need your sex noises as a soundtrack. Could’ve lived without knowing what Louis sounds like when he jizzes.”
Pub night on Thursday is awkward for the first ten minutes, until Louis announces to half the room, “Yes, Liam, we all know you heard me and Harry have sex. If it would make you feel better, I will come to your flat and listen in on you and your girlfriend, and then we’ll be even.”
Harry watches, entertained, as Liam splutters for a full minute before Louis drags him into a headlock. Liam fights his way free easily enough, but the tension is broken, and Harry pulls Louis against his side while Liam and Zayn start debating the quality of various beers. Louis curls into him automatically, slots against his side like they’ve been doing this for years, rather than a couple of months. Harry turns to bury his face in Louis’ hair and comments, “You know, you should invite Niall next time. I bet he and Liam would get on.”
“Sure,” Louis agrees. “Niall is a laugh.”
“Actually, I just bought Liam the new FIFA, we were gonna have a tournament next week, once he finishes his analysis. You and Niall should come.”
Louis tips his head back so he can smirk at Harry. “Are you any better at computerized football than you are actual footie?”
“I will have you know,” Harry says, punctuating his defense with a pinch to Louis’ hip that has him squirming away, “that I am reigning champion in this house.”
“Is that so,” Louis muses. He raises an eyebrow at Harry and says, “Looks like the odds are in my favor, then.”
“Is that a challenge?”
Louis shrugs, casual and easy. “Do you want it to be?”
Harry leans in, close enough that their noses are just brushing, and says, “Challenge accepted. You won’t be victor this time, Katniss.”
Louis just blinks at him for a moment, then groans and shoves Harry away. “You are literally the worst.” He sighs and shakes his head, but there’s an amused tilt to his mouth when he says, “And you would cast yourself as Peeta, you sap.”
Harry just shrugs and tucks a finger through one of Louis’ belt loops, uses it to reel him back in. He ignores the gagging noises Zayn and Liam are making, ducks his head so he can brush a kiss across Louis’ mouth and murmur, “You love it.”
He can feel Louis’ lips curve up into a smile, can hear the affection in his voice when he says, “You can’t prove anything.”
;;
Harry spends all of the following Friday cleaning the flat while Zayn paints on the balcony. It’s actually quite warm out, so Harry doesn’t mind the open doors, lets Fuzz wander back and forth while he bustles around, dusting and sweeping and picking up cat toys and discarded paintbrushes. He finds a series of tiny green paw prints leading from Zayn’s bedroom door out into the hall while mopping, and Harry decides to leave those for him, cleans around them carefully as he makes his way through the flat. They’re cute, and Zayn gets hilariously grumpy whenever the subject of Fuzz hating him comes up. Harry supposes he should feel bad about it, but Fuzz is probably the only creature in the entire world who can resist that face, and he figures it doesn’t hurt Zayn’s ego too much.
He’s got fajitas marinating in the refrigerator, along with enormous bowls of tomato salsa, pineapple salsa, and guacamole, and enough beer to supply the local pub. Liam and Zayn are smoking out on the balcony when Louis and Niall arrive, and Niall makes a point to let Harry know, “I drove him here, so you can keep him, for all I care.”
Louis rolls his eyes, but Harry just pats Niall on the back and drops a kiss to the top of Louis’ head, says simply, “I intend to.”
Liam and Zayn take to Niall immediately when he offers to fire up the grill for the fajitas, and he and Liam take control of cooking the meat while Zayn prattles on about light composition and how he’s thinking about trying his hand at dappling. Harry rolls his eyes toward Louis. Everyone makes fun of him for being a hipster, but Zayn is the real hipster of the group.
“Come on,” Harry says, wrapping his hand around the back of Louis’ neck and guiding him over to an old bistro table he’d found at a resale shop a couple of years ago and two deck chairs his mum had given him and Zayn when they’d moved. He jerks his chin at the selection of seats and asks, “Where do you want to sit?”
Louis shrugs and leans into Harry’s side, says easily, “Next to you.”
Once the meat is ready, the five of them eat fajitas and drink beer out on the balcony, plates balanced on their knees and easy conversation while the sun sets over London. Harry is biting into a fajita, pineapple salsa spilling everywhere, when Louis nudges him in the side with his elbow and asks, “What are you smiling about?”
Harry hadn’t even realized he’d been smiling, but now that he thinks about it, he can feel the ache in his cheeks. He just shakes his head, hooks a foot behind the leg of Louis’ chair so he can draw him in closer, and says, “I’m just happy, that’s all.”
The smile Louis gives him is warm and sweet, and Harry’s stomach twists pleasantly. He is happy, probably happier than he’s ever been, sitting out on the balcony while the dying sun paints the sky varying shades of pink and purple, his boys sprawled out in chairs and on the floor around him, chattering happily about absolutely nothing of consequence. And most important of all, he’s got his best boy right beside him, sharing a beer and tapping his toes against the top of Harry’s foot to the beat of some song playing in his head.
“Okay,” Liam starts, setting his plate aside so he can stand up and point toward the living room. “It’s time for me to kick all of your sorry arses at FIFA.”
Louis snorts and pushes up out of his own chair, but before he can come back at Liam, Zayn says, “Wait, there are five of us.”
“We’ll play teams and someone will rotate out,” Liam reasons.
“Wait, but who -”
Harry is cut off by Louis reaching out for Zayn and shouting, “Bagsy!”
Harry pouts into what’s left of his fajita, and Louis laughs, runs a hand over his hair and says, “Don’t worry, babe, it’ll rotate around.”
Harry arches into Louis’ hand, practically purring as he scratches at his scalp. His voice is a little fuzzy around the edges when he says, “I’ll sit out this round and start cleaning up.”
“Aww,” Louis coos, bending down to kiss him briefly. He tastes like jalapenos and hops, and Harry leans into it, chases Louis’s mouth as he pulls away. “My responsible boy. Don’t do too much, you cooked everything.”
Harry shrugs, pleased with the attention and the affection in Louis’ voice. “I don’t mind.”
Harry washes dishes and tidies up the kitchen while the rest of them play FIFA, shouting insults at each other and booing and laughing obnoxiously every time one of the teams scores. Harry is just wiping down the counters when Niall shouts out, “Harry, you’re up! Get your skinny arse in here!”
Harry shuffles out into the living room with a fresh beer in hand and an unopened bottle for Louis, just in time to catch Louis pinching Niall’s nipple and muttering, “Don’t talk about my boyfriend’s arse.”
Harry’s stomach flip-flops in his belly at the word boyfriend. Not that he doesn’t consider Louis his boyfriend at this point, but they’ve never actually used the term before and he’s not quite sure he was meant to hear him use it now. But Zayn is looking back and forth between him and Louis, eyebrows raised, and Liam is picking nervously at the label on his beer bottle, the air in the room suddenly strangely tense.
“Sorry,” Harry starts, then cuts himself off, presses his lips together and knocks the two bottles in his hands against each other absently. “I didn’t mean to eavesdrop.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Louis says easily. The he hesitates, uncertainty flashing across his face before he wipes it carefully blank. “Unless you don’t want me to call you my boyfriend.”
“No,” Harry says emphatically, shaking his head. “I definitely want you to call me your boyfriend.”
“Oh.” A smile spreads slowly across Louis’ face, and Harry kind of wants to kiss him, but he’s still standing in the doorway to the kitchen and the stretch of floor between them feels a bit like a gulf.
He’s contemplating how ridiculous it would look if he strode across the room and dipped Louis over the back of the sofa and into a kiss when Liam clears his throat and says, “Well, congratulations, you’re officially boyfriends. Can we get back to the game now? Harry’s actually quite good at FIFA, and I’d like to get on with creaming Zayn and Louis.”
Harry moves over to take Niall’s place, is squeezing past Zayn to get to the other end of the sofa when Louis snags him by the wrist and drags him over. Harry stumbles against the edge of the couch, too surprised to try and balance himself, and crashes into Louis’ chest. He only has a moment to grin and say, “Hi,” before Louis is kissing him.
Niall lets out a long, low whistle that has Harry laughing into Louis’ mouth, and he’s just getting into it, is slipping his hands around Louis’ back when Zayn says, “Alright, keep it PG.”
Harry just flips him off and parts his lips so that Louis can lick inside, grunts when a foot connects with the back of his thigh. He tears himself away from Louis so he can glare at Zayn. Zayn is holding a controller out to him wordlessly, one eyebrow raised in defiance. Harry just holds on to Louis, and Zayn kicks him again, waves the controller at him.
“Hey,” Louis frowns. “Don’t abuse my boyfriend.”
“Yeah,” Harry parrots, pressing a grin into the side of Louis’ neck. “Don’t abuse his boyfriend.”
“Ugh,” Niall groans. “You two are disgusting, just get on with it.”
Rolling his eyes, Harry lets go of Louis so he can grab the controller and moves over to sit by Liam. By the time Louis has rotated onto Harry’s team, Real Madrid is beating Man U three matches to two and Zayn is out on the balcony, smoking to calm himself down.
“He gets a bit competitive,” Harry explains as he and Louis select their players. Niall and Liam bicker over their team for ten full minutes before Harry rolls his eyes and chucks a pillow at them. “Come on, you’re not going to beat us anyway, just choose already.”
Halfway through the match, Harry and Louis are up six to one, even with Zayn hanging over the back of the sofa giving Liam and Niall pointers, and when Louis scores goal number ten in the last five seconds of the game, Liam collapses back into the cushions and pouts at the television. Giddy with excitement, Harry scrambles over Louis so he can crawl into Liam’s lap and wrap his arms around him. He rests his head on Liam’s shoulder and looks over at Louis, who’s watching them, amused. He winks at Louis and pets the back of Liam’s head consolingly.
“It’s okay, Liam. No one can beat me and Louis, it’s not you.”
“Yeah,” Louis chimes in. “There’s just no beating the dream team.”
“Dream team,” Harry agrees, nodding.
“I demand a rematch,” Liam declares, pushing Harry off of him. Harry collapses onto the bit of sofa between Liam and Louis and curls into Louis’ side automatically. “I’m leaving for Reykjavik to tag skuas on Wednesday, but I’ll be back in three weeks. Mark your calendars.”
Harry bites his lip, happiness replaced by a sudden rush of nerves that leaves his heart pounding in his ears. He sits up straight and pushes his hair off his forehead, eyes darting from Louis to Zayn to Liam. “Um. I might not be here in three weeks?”
Zayn squints at him from where he’s sat on the arm of Niall’s chair. “Where are you going? You haven’t told me about this.”
Harry glances at Louis, who’s frowning down at the floor, then away. “Cal called me yesterday. He, uh. Wants me to go to Indonesia for a kingfisher study.”
“Wait, isn’t that Ben’s study?” Liam asks, and Harry sighs, stomach sinking. He’d been hoping to get around that detail for now.
“Ben,” Zayn states blandly.
Harry can see Louis looking back and forth between Harry and Zayn, winces and squeezes his eyes shut when Louis asks, “Who’s Ben?”
“Harry’s ex,” Liam supplies helpfully, and Harry jabs an elbow into his side, ignoring Liam’s squawk of complaint.
He turns to Louis and says quickly, “We dated ages ago, like -”
“Ben was getting his PhD while Harry was at uni, but they split up when Harry graduated,” Zayn fills in. Harry glares at Zayn very pointedly, then turns to Louis.
“Ben and I broke up four years ago. We’re just friends now. More colleagues, really. He got a grant for kingfisher research, but his specialty is frigatebirds, so I’m going to assist him. It’s just professional, I get co-authorship on the paper. It’s -” He pauses, puts a hand on Louis’ knee and insists, “It’s just work. Strictly professional.”
Harry watches the bob of Louis’ Adams apple as he swallows. His voice is barely audible when he says, “How long will you be gone?”
“A month,” Harry whispers. He rushes to add, “But I haven’t told him yes yet, I haven’t decided -”
“You should go,” Louis interrupts, looking up at Harry for the first time since the conversation began. His expression is blank, eyes curiously empty. “I mean, it’s a good opportunity, right?”
Harry only hesitates a moment before nodding. He opens his mouth to respond, but Louis interrupts by tapping on the back of Harry’s hand.
“Hey, I’m knackered. Let’s go to bed.”
Harry watches silently as Louis braces a hand on his knee to lever himself off the sofa, palm warm through the denim of his trousers, and calls a quiet goodnight to the lads before heading down the hall to Harry’s room. Harry slides a hand over his knee, where he can still feel the press of Louis’ fingers, and looks around at the guys, eyes wide and confused. “How...”
Zayn shakes his head, expression contrite. “I’m sorry, mate, I didn’t think -”
“No,” Liam interrupts. “It’s definitely my fault.”
Harry just sighs and pushes up off of the sofa, runs a hand through his hair in agitation. “I’m gonna...” He points toward the hall with his thumb, offers them a weak smile at the chorus of goodnights. “I’ll see you, Niall. Night, guys.”
Louis is already in bed when Harry slips into his room and shuts the door. He undresses quickly and quietly, dropping his clothes that smell vaguely of grill smoke into a hamper before sliding between the sheets. He rolls onto his side and lays a hand on the mattress between them, careful not to touch Louis until he’s indicated that it’s alright. Staring resolutely at the space between his hand and Louis’ arm, Harry whispers, “I’ll call Cal in the morning and tell him I’m not going. Ben can find someone else who’s studied kingfishers, it’s not that important to me. You’re more important to me.”
He watches the slow sweep of Louis’ lashes as he blinks up at the ceiling, holds his breath when Louis turns to face him, picking absently at a loose thread at the corner of the pillowcase. “I don’t want you to give up research opportunities for me, Harry.”
Harry swallows thickly as Louis lets go of the pillowcase and slides his palm across the sheets so he can tangle their fingers together. He scoots a bit closer, bends his knees so they brush up against Louis’ under the blankets. “There will always be other opportunities, Lou.”
But Louis shakes his head and lets go of Harry’s hand. Harry’s throat goes tight, nausea welling up in the pit of his stomach, but then Louis rolls on top of him, rests a fist on Harry’s chest so he can set his chin on it and look down at him. Louis uses his free hand to trace the tips of his fingers across Harry’s collar bones and down over the top of his chest, so that Harry’s skin tingles and his limbs go loose. “Are kingfishers your favorite bird?”
Confused by the shift in conversation, Harry shakes his head no. “Sparrows.”
Louis drags his nails across Harry’s chest, raising goosebumps in their wake. “Why? They’re so common. Like pigeons, but cuter.”
Harry shrugs, skims his palm up Louis’ back, then down to settle on his hip. “A sparrow was the first bird I ever really paid attention to and learned about.” He lifts his gaze to meet Louis’ eyes and, heart thumping in his chest at the thought of Louis understanding what he’s implying or, even worse, not understanding, he says, voice slow and deliberate, “Did you know sparrows mate for life? The male builds a nest and the female comes to him, and they live in that nest together for the rest of their lives.”
Harry’s heart sinks when Louis just hums and presses a kiss to Harry’s chest, whispers into his skin, “That’s sweet.” Then he rolls off of him and thrashes around in the blankets while Harry looks on in confusion, bunches them up around himself and turns to Harry. He flutters his eyelashes and murmurs, “Come to me.”
Rolling his eyes, Harry inches closer, until he’s curled into Louis’ chest. There’s a little thread of hope winding itself around his chest as he says, “Is this your nest? Are you saying you’re a sparrow?”
Louis wraps the blankets around them and burrows into his pillow, peeks up at Harry out of one eye. “Are you a sparrow?”
Not quite the answer he’d been hoping for. Harry shrugs, drags a hand through Louis’ mussed hair. “I’d like to think so.”
They lay there in silence for a few minutes while Louis traces shapes against Harry’s chest, the brush of fingers lulling Harry into a doze. Before he drifts off completely, Harry slides a hand up Louis’ side and whispers, “Are we okay?”
He doesn’t miss the way Louis hesitates, the way his hand stops moving for the span of a heartbeat, but then Louis nods and says, “Yeah, we’re good. Go to sleep, babe.”
“You too,” Harry slurs sleepily, burying his face in the hollow of Louis’ throat. He can feel Louis’ chest rumble with an answer, but he’s asleep before he can comprehend what was said.
;;
Harry frowns down at his phone. He’d texted Louis three hours ago, asking if he wanted to come over for dinner, and he’s only just responded.
Louis: sorry can’t, heading home to donny for a few days while sisters are on break xx
Harry groans and drops his head to the table. It’s been four days since their game night, and he hasn’t seen or properly spoken to Louis once. At first, he’d chalked it up to Louis being busy - though looking back, that might have been a bit foolish, since he’s only ever seen a handful of their other customers in all the time he’s spent at the shop. No, he’s fairly certain Louis is avoiding him, and his stomach has been knotted with dread for two days now.
They’ve spent the better part of two and a half months together, and he’d thought. Well, he’d thought they were in it for the long haul, if he’s honest with himself. The thought makes his stomach knot up even more, but he doesn’t even want to consider the alternative. He’s had relationships before, but never one like this - never someone who’s made him want to stay in one place indefinitely, and certainly not this quickly. And the thought of settling down, of switching exclusively to local jobs, doesn’t scare Harry as much as he’d thought it would. Not as long as he’s got Louis there with him. He just needs Louis to be on the same page.
Harry is moping into a mug of cold tea when Zayn trudges into the kitchen. His hair is rumpled from sleep, cheek lined with pillow creases, and one of his eyes is still closed, but he uses the open eye to size Harry up. “‘S wrong with you.”
Harry lets out a short, self-indulgent whine, then sits up and shoves a hand through his hair. He’s complained enough over the past few days, Zayn doesn’t need to hear it all again. “Nothing. I’m good.” He waits until Zayn has pressed the brew button on the coffee maker to ask, “Have you, um. Worked on that design I asked about, by any chance?”
Zayn glances at the coffee maker to make sure it’s still heating up, then nods. “Yeah. Yeah, I’ll go get it.”
He shuffles out of the room, feet slip-sliding across the tiles where he refuses to pick them up, then returns a few moments later with a sketch pad. He doesn’t let Harry have it, though, tucks it up underneath his arm while he adds a dollop of cream to his coffee, then takes his seat at the table and flips through a few pages.
“Here.” He slides the pad across the table and turns it to face Harry. Sketched out on the page are two sparrows, facing each other mid-flight. Harry traces a careful finger over the curve of a wing, the fan of a tail, the arch of a brow. They’re beautiful.
“They’re beautiful,” he murmurs. “I think. When we transfer them to paper, can we make this one a little bit smaller?”
He taps a finger against the bird on the left and looks up. Zayn has his eyebrows raised as he blows the steam off the top of his coffee. “Are you sure you want to do this, bro? Why don’t you just make them identical?”
Harry frowns and glances down at the birds, at the difference in the width of their tails, how one has an arching brow, the other’s straighter. He smooths a finger over his own eyebrow without thinking. “But then it doesn’t mean anything. It’s just... a pair of birds.”
“You haven’t even known him three months, Harry.”
Harry shrugs and pushes the sketch pad back over to Zayn. “Doesn’t matter. When you have a connection with someone, I think you just know. It’s not like I was looking, like I’m projecting these feelings onto him because I want someone and anyone will do. I just found him. It just kind of... happened.”
Zayn sighs. “Alright, I’ll shrink that one down when I transfer them to paper. When do you want them?”
“My appointment is on Friday.” He bites his lip and looks down at the table, drags his nail along the wood grain and asks quietly, “You’ll come with me, right?”
He hears Zayn scoff, can’t quite help the smile that curves his lips when Zayn hooks his foot behind Harry’s ankle and says, “Of course, you idiot. What if they mess up my art?”
Harry smiles up at Zayn through his fringe and whispers, “Thank you.”
Zayn rolls his eyes. “Don’t be stupid, Hazza.” When Harry launches himself across the table so he can wrap his arms around Zayn’s shoulders, he laughs and shoves at him, protests, “It’s for the art, that’s it! Get off me, you arsehole! Don’t spill my fucking coffee or I’ll tear the drawing up.”
Harry drops back into his chair with a huff, but he’s smiling so hard his cheeks ache. He slides their feet together under the table and says, voice firm, “You love me.”
“Nope,” Zayn mumbles into his mug. “I’m only going for the art.”
“You want to be there to hold my hand.”
“Gross. I know you get off on that shit, don’t make me a part of this.”
Harry just shrugs cheerfully and pushes his chair back from the table, feeling lighter than he has in days. He moves to wash his mug, humming softly as he rinses it and hangs it to dry. He has a few phone calls to make and some errands to run, so he turns toward the living room, pauses in the doorway so he can trill, “You love me, Zayn Malik.”
He can hear Zayn mutter twat as he steps out into the living room and, laughing, calls over his shoulder, “I love you, too, Zaynie!”
;;
Friday dawns cold and gray, and Harry tries to stay in bed as long as possible. He can already feel nerves bundling up in his belly and knotting his muscles, but he’s left his day wide open in anticipation of his tattoo appointment, and he’d rather not spend his morning working himself up into a frenzy. With a groan, he rolls over onto his belly and turns his head to the side so he can glare at his phone, sitting silent on his bedside table. He hasn’t heard from Louis since he left for Doncaster on Tuesday - not even a text message - and he’s been in a terrible mood.
He considers texting Niall, just to see if Louis has, indeed, left town, but immediately feels like a massive twat for even thinking Louis might have lied. God, he can’t even think badly of Louis when he’s mad at him. Pathetic. Harry is just about to get out of bed, find something to do to take his mind off of Louis and tattoos, when a pair of paws dig into his side as Fuzz climbs onto him and curls up in the small of his back. The heat of her small body and the soft, rumbling vibrations of her purrs lulls him back into an uneasy doze.
The tattoo shop is quiet when Harry and Zayn get there, Zayn’s drawing pressed carefully into a plastic sheath to protect it from the rain. “Hi, Tom,” Harry greets, waving Zayn forward. “This is my friend Zayn I told you about. He has the drawings.”
Tom’s girlfriend shows Harry to the back while he and Zayn go over the drawings, and chatters cheerfully while she preps him for the tattoo and readies the needles and ink. “Have you ever gotten one this big?”
Harry shakes his head. He’s got tattoos, but they’re all relatively small. Lou pats his shoulder, then goes back to loading up ink.
“They’re quite big and there’s a lot of shading, so they’ll take a while.”
Harry shrugs. “I’ve got time. And I’m pretty good with pain.”
“He gets off on it,” Zayn puts in as he and Tom round the corner, and Harry rolls his eyes, fights against the blush staining his cheeks.
He’s about to deny it when Tom pats his ankle and says, “Don’t worry about it, happens to the best of us.”
The tattoo doesn’t hurt too much - not like the ones on the inside of his arm had, anyway, and the sting of it is addicting, feels like an itch just underneath his skin. Zayn tries to keep him distracted from the buzzing pleasure-pain, talks to him the whole time and relays his texts with Niall and Liam as he sends them both progress updates and photos of smeared ink and blood that have him giggling over their responses. It’s almost enough of a distraction - enough, at least, to keep him from pressing the heel of his hand to his dick, throbbing in time with the beat of his heart and the buzz of the tattoo gun. Hands clasped firmly across his stomach, Harry presses his lips together and tries to empty his mind of everything but the grounding sound of Zayn’s voice.
The sun is setting by the time Tom finishes taping gauze to his chest, and Harry turns toward the wall as he stands up so he can adjust himself discreetly, ready to get home so he can take care of this heady arousal that’s thrumming underneath his skin. Tom sends him home with aftercare instructions and a tub of cream to apply to it, and Harry sinks back into the passenger seat of Zayn’s car and lets his eyes fall shut, drops a hand to palm the front of his trousers, just to stave off a bit of the discomfort.
Zayn huffs out a laugh. “Really, bro?”
Harry frowns, eyes still closed, and slides both of his hands up underneath his thighs so he won’t touch himself anymore. “Sorry, I just.” He makes a frustrated noise and shifts against the seat, scratches at the seams of his jeans. “I’ve never gotten a tattoo this big. One that took this long.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Zayn mutters. “I know. Just keep it in your pants till we get back, alright? You’re not whipping your knob out in my car.”
He’s pretty much got himself under control as Zayn parks the car in front of their building. The cleanup and aftercare instructions had taken a solid half hour, and the drive, including a stop to grab some takeout from a Thai place along the way, had eaten up another hour in traffic, so that it’s been nearly two hours once they finally get home and up to the flat. He follows Zayn into the kitchen with the food, and when Zayn asks him if he wants to excuse himself, he just shakes his head glumly, the buzz of arousal gone, leaving behind a dull, aching throb in his chest. It’s almost time to take off the bandages and wash the tattoo, anyway, might as well eat something first.
Washing the tattoo stings, and not in a good way, but Harry makes himself follow all of Tom’s instructions and locks Fuzz out of his room for the night so she can’t sit on his chest or try and eat the cream. Cleaned up and stripped down to his pants, Harry sits down on his bed and sets his phone on the blankets while he contemplates texting Louis. Louis doesn’t know about the tattoos. Harry had come up with the idea for them the morning after their game night, thinking about their sparrow conversation and the phantom brush of Louis’ fingers across his chest, and he hasn’t spoken to Louis since.
He’s just about to give in and do it, already has his hand halfway to the phone, when it buzzes to life. With a confused frown, Harry picks up the phone. “Niall?”
“Harry, please do something about Louis.”
“What are you talking about?”
“He got back from Donny this morning and he’s being insufferable. He’s been horrible this whole week, worse than when you were in Wales.”
“Brighton,” Harry corrects, but Niall just makes a dismissive noise. Suddenly incredibly sad, Harry picks at the blankets by his feet. “He doesn’t want to talk to me, anyway.”
“Yes, he does. He’s just being a shit.”
“Well, he’s got no reason to be. He knows how I feel about him, I’ve been pretty obvious about it.”
“Yeah, well Louis’ an idiot. He’s arse over teakettle for you, but he thinks you’re going to decide you want someone who has the same interests, and he’s worried you’ll get back together with your ex in Indonesia.”
Harry laughs in surprise, says, “Niall, Ben is married now. To a woman. And I don’t care that he doesn’t like bird watching, when have I ever minded?” He clears his throat, suddenly a bit nervous to admit, “Anyway, I’m not going to Indonesia, so.”
“Jesus,” Niall mutters into the phone. There’s a pause, and then, “Look, I’m going to bring him by tomorrow, alright? I’ll just... tell him you’re not home and Zayn wants to get high and play Mario Kart or something. Fix this please, I can’t take anymore. I might strangle him.”
Harry snorts and lays back against the pillows, wincing at the way his skin pulls when he relaxes his shoulders. “I can try.”
“You’d better. And if you tell him I told you any of this, I’ll strangle you.”
Harry rolls his eyes, but he’s already feeling a bit better. “Can’t have that, can we?”
“You joke, but I’m being serious. He’s going to die soon, and no one will be able to blame me. I’ll bring him ‘round after lunch. ‘Night, H.”
Harry tosses his phone onto his bedside table and tucks his hands behind his head, relaxes into the sheets. Okay. So Louis is scared, but he doesn’t actually want to break up. Harry can work with that. With a little sigh, Harry pulls the blankets up to his waist and turns off the lamp. For the first time in a week, he falls asleep with a smile on his face.
;;
Determined not to sit around and wait for Louis and Niall all day, Harry wakes up early on Saturday and cleans his tattoo, then throws all of the windows to the flat open and starts baking. He’s got no real reason to bake, but it calms him down, and the smell of fresh cupcakes draws Zayn out of his bedroom at half eleven. The two of them sit at the kitchen table, eating cupcakes for lunch while Zayn smokes out the window. Harry stares intently at his fingers as he peels back a cupcake wrapper and says, “Niall is bringing Louis by in a half hour.”
There’s a pause, and then, “Does Louis know this is happening?”
Harry shakes his head. “He thinks they’re coming to smoke and play Mario Kart with you. He doesn’t know I’m here.”
“Harry, are you sure -”
“Yes,” Harry interrupts firmly.
Zayn raises an eyebrow, takes a moment to ash his cigarette before saying, “Okay. Shit, H. Just promise me you’ll actually tell him.”
Harry frowns as he breaks a piece of cupcake off and lifts it to his mouth. “Tell him what?”
“That you’re proper in love with him,” Zayn says, rolling his eyes.
Harry’s heart claws its way up into his throat and he shakes his head quickly, starts, “I’m not -” But Zayn just stares at him, and Harry sighs, mumbles, “Yeah, alright.”
It’s not like he doesn’t know. For God’s sake, he got a tattoo designed after them. The thought of telling Louis is just mildly terrifying, especially since Louis has been ignoring him for the past week and has only agreed to come to the flat under false pretenses. He’s just about to text Niall and call it off, tell him he’ll figure out another way to get Louis to talk to him, when a knock sounds on the door.
“Oh, God.” Harry’s throat seizes up with terror and he stares at Zayn, wide-eyed and panicky. Zayn puts his cigarette out on the window ledge, then skirts the table to put his hands on Harry’s shoulders.
“Hey. It’ll be fine. He wants to be with you, anyone with eyes can see that. Niall told you that, and Louis told him. Just relax.”
Harry sighs and wraps his arms around Zayn’s waist, rests his cheek against his stomach and mumbles, “Thanks, Zayn.”
“Of course.” He feels Zayn’s hand brush through his hair, then tug gently as he says, “Now don’t mess this up. I like Louis.”
Harry snorts and pulls back, pushes Zayn away from him when Niall knocks on the door again. “Yeah. Yeah, me too.”
He listens to the sound of Zayn’s footsteps as he walks toward the door, listens to him pull it open and greet Niall and Louis enthusiastically. Harry hides a smile behind his hand when he hears Niall say, “Do I smell cupcakes?”
Harry realizes his mistake a moment too late when Zayn says, “Yeah, yeah, come get one.”
He has ten seconds to school his features into a politely neutral expression, and then Zayn, Niall, and Louis are walking into the kitchen.
“Oh, hey Harry,” Niall greets casually, but Louis freezes.
Harry tries to ignore the hurt that blooms in his chest at Louis’ betrayed gasp of, “Niall.”
“Sorry bro,” Niall says quickly, holding his hands up. “I had to.”
“I had no part in this,” Zayn announces, and Harry rolls his eyes. He takes a minute to study Louis while he and Niall bicker. He’s dressed in a pair of oversized joggers that most definitely belong to Harry and a hoodie that he’s pretty sure was also his at some point, and he’s got a week’s worth of stubble dusting his jaw. He’d look warm and cozy, if it weren’t for the purple bruises underneath his eyes and the tired, downward tilt of his mouth.
“Lou,” Harry interrupts, waiting for Louis to turn and look at him. Louis’ expression is guarded, eyes dark and lips pressed into a firm line that makes Harry’s heart ache. “Can we talk?”
Louis hesitates, but Niall pinches him in the side and hisses, “If you say no, I’ll beat you over the head with this cupcake pan.”
He lifts the dirty pan out of the sink to demonstrate, and Louis rolls his eyes, but nods once and says quietly, “Yeah, alright.”
The walk to Harry’s room is silent and awkward. It’s hard, having Louis so close and not knowing whether it’s okay to touch him. Fuzz is asleep on Harry’s bed when they step inside, and he sits down on the edge and cradles her against his chest, clings to her like a lifeline while Louis leans back against the door, as far away from Harry as he can get in the small room. Needing to break the silence somehow, Harry says, “How was Doncaster?”
Louis starts at the unexpected question, then says, “Good. It was - good.”
Harry hides his frown in Fuzz’s fur, disappointed at Louis’ stilted answer.
“Look, Harry, I -”
“I’m not going to Indonesia,” Harry blurts out, looks up just as Louis’ mouth falls open. “I told Cal no last Saturday, after you left.”
Louis opens his mouth to respond, but Harry surges on, setting Fuzz down so he can approach Louis slowly. “I don’t want to go to Indonesia. Not with Ben - who’s married, by the way - or anyone else who isn’t you. And I know you don’t like birds, and I don’t care. We’re not supposed to have all the same interests, where would be the fun in that?” Harry comes to a stop a few inches from Louis, clasps his hands behind his back so he won’t be tempted to touch. “Anyway, I. I just thought you should know. I only want to be with you, Louis.”
Louis shakes his head slowly, eyes wide and uncertain in the bright sunlight that’s filling room. He flinches suddenly, and they both look down to see Fuzz winding herself around Louis’ ankles. Harry watches Louis stoop down to pick her up and hold her against his chest, like Harry had done. The sound of her purring fills the space between them, even while Louis whispers, “You don’t know that. You think that now, but you don’t know -”
Harry rolls his eyes and interrupts. “Yes, I do.”
“How,” Louis demands, clutching at Fuzz like she can protect him from unwanted answers.
Harry swallows around the bundle of nerves in his throat and figures, might as well. “Because,” he says slowly. “I reckon I’m in love with you.”
Louis stares at him in stunned silence for a moment, then sets Fuzz down hurriedly and flings himself at Harry. Harry’s arms come around him automatically, and he ducks into the kiss, thrilling at the way Louis whispers me too me too me too into his mouth. Groaning, Harry hauls Louis closer, then gasps out in pain and stumbles back.
“What?” Louis’ eyes are wide and panicked, lips stained red and hair a bit wild. “What’s wrong?”
Harry winces as he shifts his shoulders, the fabric of his shirt dragging against his sore skin. Gritting his teeth, Harry reaches back and drags his shirt over his head. The fresh tattoos are stark against his pale skin, and they throb where Louis’ chest has pressed against them.
“Oh my God,” Louis whispers, reaching a hand out, but stopping a hairsbreadth from Harry’s skin. “When?”
“Yesterday.”
“Are they...” Louis licks his lips, hand still hovering in midair. “Do they hurt?”
“Yes,” Harry laughs. “Actually, I think it’s time to clean them. Can you, um. Do you want to help me?”
Louis nods quickly, eyes still locked on the ink spanning Harry’s chest. He follows Harry into the bathroom, the lights reflecting off the white tile floors and the porcelain lining the back of the sink and the shower so that the room is overbright and everything appears bleached of color. He bends over the sink and turns on the water, waits quietly until it runs warm.
“I just need to wash them with soap, then put cream on them.”
“Here, let me.” Harry bows his head and watches quietly as Louis brushes soap across his smarting skin, then rinses it carefully, the brush of his fingers feather-light. Harry bites his lip as the sharpness of the pain fades with the lukewarm water and settles into a dull throb that he feels at the base of his throat, the insides of his wrists, the pit of his stomach.
“Right,” Louis says softly, patting him dry with a towel. He points to the counter and says, “Up.”
Harry hoists himself up alongside the sink obediently and spreads his legs so Louis can step between them. They’re quiet as Louis rubs ointment onto the tattoos, and Harry takes the opportunity to watch Louis, to study the way his brow is furrowed in concentration, the way his lips are pursed and the tip of his tongue is poking out the corner of his mouth, the way the harsh light of the fluorescent bulbs wash out his pale skin and turn his eyes a stormy gray.
Every pass of Louis’ fingers over his sensitive skin sends achey little bolts down Harry’s spine that pool in his gut and have his dick hardening in his trackies. He bites his lip around a wince when Louis presses too hard, the shock of it pulsing through his veins and leaving him shifting against the cold countertop.
“Sorry, sorry,” Louis says quickly, softening his touch immediately.
When Harry responds, he can’t mask the way his voice has gone gritty with arousal. “‘S okay, I’m fine.”
Louis’ eyes lift to meet his, wide with surprise. “Are you...” He drops his gaze to Harry’s lap, then laughs. “Seriously? Doesn’t it hurt?”
Harry shrugs, cheeks flushing. “Not really. It’s like.” He can feel his cheeks flame even more, drops his head and mumbles, “I can’t really explain it.”
Louis laughs again and shakes his head in amazement. “You’re very odd, Harry Styles.”
Harry groans and rolls his eyes, settles a hand on Louis’ hip and digs his thumb in. “Can you just get on with it, please?”
Louis is finishing up rubbing cream into the tail of the last bird when he pauses. “Erm, Harry. I know it’s a little late, but.” He bites his lip, eyes darting back and forth between the birds. “You know the birds are different, right?”
“Yes,” Harry nods, amused by the hesitance in Louis’ voice.
“God, I’m sorry. That’s a really big tattoo to mess up on, did you tell them?”
Even more amused now, Harry shakes his head, sets his hands behind him on counter and leans back, putting the birds on full display. “They’re supposed to be different, Louis.”
“Oh. But... why?”
Harry leans forward again, so that he can look down at the birds and point to each of the their faces in turn. “Look at the brows,” he tells Louis, waiting for him to nod. Then he twists his head around so he can look in the mirror, pulls Louis over a few inches so that their faces are beside each other. “They’re us.”
He traces the arching curve of Louis’ eyebrow, then the flat line of his own, points back at the birds’ heads. “Harry...” Louis whispers as he studies the birds carefully. Harry watches the bob of his throat as he swallows thickly, then reaches out to touch the tip of his finger to the tail of his bird. “They’re sparrows, aren’t they? Your favorite bird.”
Harry shakes his head, turns back around and draws Louis in with hands on his hips. Louis settles his own hands carefully against Harry’s shoulders, thumbs just brushing the edges of the tattoos. “We’re both sparrows, remember?” He ducks his head, ghosts his lips over the curve of Louis’ jaw and whispers, “You’re my favorite bird.”
“Oh, Christ,” Louis laughs, but his fingers clutch desperately at Harry’s shoulders as he drags him into a kiss. Harry barely gets a chance to kiss him back before Louis is backing up, hands circling Harry’s wrists so that he can tug on them. “Come on. Come on, come on, come on.”
Arousal curls heavy in his gut as he hops off the counter and lets Louis pull him out into the bedroom, drag him over to the bed. Harry goes willingly when Louis pushes him down and crawls into his lap, leans up into the kiss eagerly while Louis grinds down against him. It feels like he’s been hard for days, feels like he’s been waiting ever since the needle pierced his skin, and he pulls away so he can bury his face in Louis’ neck and whimper, “Don’t mess around, Lou, I need -”
“Shh,” Louis soothes, sliding off of him so that he can skirt the edge of the bed and rifle through the drawer of Harry’s bedside table. He crawls back onto the bed, a condom and a bottle of lube in his hand, instructs, “Hands and knees.”
“But I want to see you.”
Louis shakes his head, reaches out to tug on one of Harry’s curls and says softly, “I don’t want to hurt you by touching the tattoos accidentally.”
“Then I want to ride you,” Harry argues.
Louis lets out a groan at that and squeezes at his cock through his trousers. Taking that for a yes, Harry rushes to get his shorts off and shuffle up the bed, waits while Louis strips off and settles on the bed beside him. He watches hungrily as Louis fishes around in the bedside table for some lube, shivers when the click of the bottle cap reverberates in the quiet room. Pushing up onto his knees, he wiggles his bum impatiently and mutters, “C’mon, Louis. ‘S been a week.”
“I’ve got you,” Louis murmurs, tugging Harry over so that he’s straddling his hips, then brushes the tip of his finger over Harry’s rim. Harry shivers and slides his knees further apart, presses back against Louis’ finger eagerly.
Louis takes his time pressing one finger in, and Harry shifts back against him, trying to take him deeper, faster, and growls, “Faster, Lou, please.”
After his plea, Harry’s head falls forward, back curving and arching as Louis works him open relentlessly, toes curling when Louis twists his fingers and brushes over his prostate. Harry dick twitches against his belly, entire body shivering with the feel of it, and he swats at Louis’ arm where it’s tucked between his legs, says, “Enough, come on. I’m ready.”
“Yeah,” Louis mutters, and he sounds breathless. Harry lifts his head so he can see him, watches Louis tear the condom packet open with his teeth, then twists around so he can watch him roll it down over his cock, give himself a few tugs, then focus back in on Harry. Louis pauses, eyes reverent as they rove over the stretch of Harry’s torso, the spread of his legs, the hard length of his cock as it curves up toward his belly, and Harry bites his lip, heart thudding painfully in his chest at the awed expression on Louis’ face. He’s about to say something, urge Louis on, when Louis snaps out of his daze and grips the base of his cock, lines himself up. Their eyes lock, and Louis asks, “Good?”
“Good,” Harry says quickly. “Perfect.” He has to drop his head again as Louis pushes inside, so slowly that it feels like hours have passed before he bottoms out.
“Jesus,” Louis hisses, planting his hips against the mattress. He uses the leverage to pump his hips a few times experimentally, then closes around Harry’s hips, gripping him tight to hold him in place as he drives up into him. Harry hisses out a breath on every thrust, pleasure building at the base of his spine, behind his eyes, tingling in the tips of his fingers and toes until he’s got his palms planted on Louis’ chest and is gritting his teeth in an effort to not touch himself.
“Louis,” he babbles, shoulders shifting restlessly as he rocks back to meet his thrusts. “Louis, I need.”
“I got you,” Louis whispers, and he lets go of one of Harry’s hips so he can fist his cock, pulling in counterpoint with his thrusts. Harry squeezes his eyes shut, stomach tightening with each tug until he’s coming so hard he sees stars. He can feel his thighs trembling with the effort of holding himself up for Louis’ thrusts as Louis strokes him through his orgasm, has to bat his hand away weakly when it gets to be too much.
Before he knows what’s happening, Louis is pulling out and rolling Harry over onto his back on the mattress as he strips the condom off. His eyes are wide and dark, the black of his pupils eclipsing the blue, and his hair is matted to his forehead, lips red and swollen from where he’s been biting them, and hunger and affection bubble up in Harry’s throat, threatening to choke him. He reaches out for Louis eagerly, slides his hands up Louis’ thighs as he shuffles closer, a hand wrapped around his dick and eyes darting back and forth between Harry’s face and the birds on his chest.
“Lou,” he says warningly, “you can’t.”
Louis nods as he thrusts into his fist, grip tightening when Harry scoots up the pillows a bit, putting the tattoos out of range. Harry squeezes Louis’ thighs, then slides one hand around so he can wrap it down over Louis’ and help jerk him off and says, eyes glittering in the light streaming in through the window, “Come on, then.”
Louis curls down over their hands with a gasp and spills over their fingers and onto Harry’s belly, has to throw an arm out to catch himself so he doesn’t collapse against Harry’s chest. Harry pushes a hand through his sweaty fringe and waits for Louis to look up at him, smirks, “D’you like them, then?”
“Shut up,” Louis laughs breathlessly, collapsing onto the mattress beside Harry. He rolls onto his side immediately, so he can look down at the dips and swirls of ink, the curve of a wing and the point of a beak, the shading between feathers and the expressive lines of their brows. “You know,” Louis says thoughtfully, “I didn’t think birds had eyebrows. And you’re supposed to be the bird expert.”
Harry groans and pushes weakly at Louis’ shoulder, but he can’t help the smile spreading across his face. So much for Louis not knowing anything about birds. “Have a little imagination, Louis.”
His breath hitches when Louis’ fingers settle over the tail of Harry’s bird, the slight burn of it humming under his skin. “And the story of the Harrybird continues,” he starts in his horrible David Attenborough impression. “Did he find a mate, after all? Was it a story for the ages?”
Harry grins, wide and unabashedly fond, as he rolls over to face Louis. “I found a Louis, does that count?”
“I think so,” Louis muses, splaying his hand just underneath the bellies of the birds.
“Does it matter that he’s not another Harrybird?” Harry noses at the curve of Louis’ cheekbone, drags his mouth across the soft scruff lining his jaw.
“Well,” Louis says quietly, sliding his hand around so he can trace his fingers up Harry’s spine and tangle them in his hair, pull his head back so their eyes meet. “If you’re a bird, I’m a bird.”
Harry’s heart stumbles in his chest at the line, and once it’s settled again, he bursts into laughter and groans, “Louis.”
“What,” Louis says defensively. “It’s a good line!”
“You don’t need to use lines on me, Louis. You’ve already got me.”
“Stay here,” Louis says, pointing down at the bed before getting up and padding into the bathroom. Harry watches him disappear around the corner, then reappear with a damp cloth in his hand, rolls over onto his back and stares up at Louis as he wipes him down, careful not to touch the tattoos.
Once he’s returned from dropping the cloth into the bathroom sink, Louis crawls back into bed and starts rustling the blankets, bunching them up around himself. Harry already knows where this is going and just watches on in amusement until Louis finally stops and crooks a finger at him, whispers, “Come to me.”
“What a lovely nest you’ve built, Louisbird,” Harry says around an ear-splitting grin as he scoots in, then turns onto his other side so Louis can crowd up behind him and hook his chin over Harry’s shoulder and splay a hand across his stomach.
“This just in,” Louis murmurs, voice vibrating against the top of Harry’s shoulder, the side of his neck, all along his back. “Scientists have discovered that the Harrybird has, indeed, found his mate in the Louisbird. And just like their relatives, the sparrows, apparently, they mate for life.”
- fin -