Work Text:
“I love you x”
Louis blinks at the phone screen, staring down at words he never typed until the little black letters blur into one line and the screen goes dark, and then goes black. He unlocks it, then repeats the process. Then again. And again.
Something in his chest seizes.
He glances at the time. It's barely half-eight in the morning — hardly early enough to even be believable that he’d be up at all, let alone leaving comments on asinine Instagram selfies he hardly remembers taking. He looks at the photo again. It barely even registers as himself, not that it matters. It is him, all up close and personal with her, as per the terms of the contract. He swallows.
It's nothing new. This is how it goes, isn’t it? It's been a decade and a half of this: wash, rinse, repeat, over and over again. He knows the drill.
It’s not even the first time he’s lost control of his own accounts. One thing about Louis Tomlinson, he’s bad for the brand. Too much mouth, not enough restraint. Always been that way. And really, what is there to say about it? Who is he to argue? Isn’t this what he signed up for, however many years ago?
He unlocks the phone again. The fucking comment is still there, black and white and crisp underneath the fucking photo. She replied.
“I love you so much xx”
The thing in his chest has teeth and claws and all at once, Louis is going to be sick. He shoots up from the kitchen table and practically sprints to the toilet, barely making it before he’s emptying the sparse contents of his stomach into the bowl, consisting only of half a cup of Yorkshire and some particularly vitriolic stomach acid. His knees smart from how heavily he landed on them, and he retches into the toilet again and again. There's nothing else in his stomach to throw up, but his body doesn't seem to have gotten that memo.
Unsure how long he kneels there, Louis rests his forehead against the back of the toilet seat. The cool porcelain is almost soothing against the fever-burn of his skin, grounding him the slightest bit. It does nothing to soothe the far deeper ache pervading his conscience, the way his skin crawls at the sheer thought of everything he's participating in. At everything he’s enabling.
The thing is, it's been a decade and a half of this, and Louis still isn’t quite sure how to carry it.
When he finally scrapes himself off the floor of his bathroom, he rinses his mouth out in the sink and catches sight of himself in the mirror and damn near ends up on his knees in front of the toilet once more. He’s just this side of unrecognizable. He looks, quite frankly, exhausted. He looks exactly how he should, what with everything he's done. Everything he’s allowed. He leans on the sink, eyeing the dark bags forming beneath his eyes and the hollows settling beneath his cheekbones, and the silver scattered through his scruff. He looks a damn mess. Even with the new haircut, he looks scraggly, like a dog someone left on the street too long.
He tears his gaze away from the mirror and forces himself back to the kitchen. He drops back into his chair. His house is silent around him, something he usually relishes in after spending time touring and doing festivals — but now, it feels oppressive. It feels suffocating. It feels like the punishment he deserves.
He has faith in his fans, is the thing. Even despite this, even though he shouldn’t, because he's been horrible — he has faith that when this is over, somehow there may still be forgiveness on the other side. There may still be a place for him, despite this latest attempt from his team to squash his every lifeline. He's seen the discussions. He's seen the conversations — the concerns, the questions, the hurts and betrayals — and he hasn’t been able to say shit about them. He wants to. Fuck, does he want to. What he would give to have control over any of this; what he would give to have any say in platforms or politics or people—
But in truth, he gave most of that up ages ago. And he’d give up all protections for himself again in a heartbeat if it meant he could guarantee any amount for those he loved, so. Back to square one.
No say in the platforms. No say in the politics. No say in the people.
Louis squeezes his eyes shut and buries his face in his hands, sucking in a sharp breath to calm the thing in his chest. Each time he signed a contract, he included a very strict protective clause for his family: whatever narrative they wanted for Louis, as long as they leave the rest of them the fuck alone. And never, not once, not a single time in all these years did Louis regret those clauses. Not a single time would he go back and leave them out. He could play the games whenever, wherever, however they wanted him to, especially if meant—
“Lou?”
Louis sucks in a breath. The thing in his chest thrashes, threatening to crawl up his throat. He jolts at the first touch of a hand on his shoulder, so gentle and so familiar it makes him tremble. He doesn’t pull his hands away.
“Oh, Louis.”
From the time Louis Tomlinson was eighteen years old, he knew Harry Styles would be worth all the trouble in the world. He knew he would be worth all the pain, all the heartache. He knew he would be worth any sort of trial and tribulation they could possibly face to spend even a moment together — and even now, at thirty-three, Louis knows that to be true. He’ll play any game the music industry wants him to play if it means he comes home to Harry even once every few months. It's always been worth it. It always will be.
It's just that this is the worst it's ever been. It's just that this time feels unforgivable. The thing in Louis’s chest digs its claws in and howls; it scolds him for even allowing Harry to come so close when he feels so irredeemable. He curls in on himself, keeping his hands over his face and flinching away from Harry’s touch even as he tries to draw him in. He can’t stomach the idea of Harry pulling him close, not when he feels so dirty. Not when he feels so tainted by these latest awful things.
Louis knows Harry knows. They created their burner accounts together, over a decade prior. They keep tabs on the same update accounts — not only for one another, but for all the boys. He knows Harry’s seen it all. He knows Harry’s seen the mess his team has created — the mess he’s allowed for. The mess he’s signed into existence via contract. In what world can Louis Tomlinson face Harry Styles in the wake of all of this, and even have a leg to stand on, let alone two? Louis Tomlinson, who, for all intents and purposes, publicly shared a love confession for a publicly known Conservative racist reality television star. The antithesis of everything Louis himself has ever stood for.
Louis lets out a dry sob, trying to muffle the sound in his hands. This time, he’s unsuccessful at deterring Harry from wrapping him up in his arms. Harry bundles him in with force, tucking Louis’s head beneath his chin like a child. He murmurs gentle things Louis won’t let himself listen to, too preoccupied biting back more ugly sobs he has no business setting free. Not for this.
If anything, Louis has no business being the one upset when he’s so blatantly and publicly let down so many of his fans. He knows how it looks. He knows what they must think — he knows what they do think, he’s seen it, and he doesn’t blame them for a moment. What kind of person he’s become, the mirror image of what he and the boys used to be disgusted by. His skin itches.
“Louis,” Harry says, his tone almost-frantic. Harry should never sound frantic, it doesn’t suit him. Louis pulls away. He can’t make himself look at Harry. “Look at me. Please.”
“No.” Louis’s voice sounds wrong. It sounds like someone else’s voice, far away and disused. He wishes it were someone else’s — if only so he wouldn't have to be himself. “Go away, Harry.”
“What?” Harry sounds hurt. Good. If he can make Harry see what everyone else can see—
“Go home,” Louis says, suddenly exhausted. Everything catches up to him all at once. He’s tired. He’s tired of living like this. “I just wanna be alone.”
He shoulders out from Harry’s embrace, still pointedly refusing to look at him. Maybe it's taken fifteen years for Harry to see it, but it was always going to boil down to him realizing sometime that somewhere deep down, Louis is no good. Good people don’t let shit like this happen. They find better ways to protect the people they love. He should have found a better way to keep Harry from getting wrapped up in all this stunt shit — and even so, he still hasn’t been able to come out properly. Not the way they talked about back when they were kids.
Fuck, the dreams they had when they were kids. They certainly never featured any of this shit. They had been so full of hope, so full of plans for a future together, where none of this existed. Back then, Louis still thought he had some capacity for goodness. Some capacity to be good for Harry, at the very least. He doesn’t quite know when that disappeared.
Harry catches him with a firm hand around his wrist. “What the fuck is your problem?”
Louis scoffs, but doesn’t turn. He won’t give himself the satisfaction. “Let me go.”
“No,” Harry argues. “Not until you talk to me, because whatever this is— whatever you're on is scaring me.”
“M’not doing anything,” Louis huffs. He tugs his arm in a half-hearted attempt to free himself but Harry’s grip only tightens and he sighs. “Jesus, Harry, let me go. I told you I want to be alone.”
“I don’t care. You get to be alone with me.” Louis finally turns, crossing his arms and finding Harry frowning resolutely at him, brow furrowed. “You don’t get to shut me out.”
“It's nothing—”
“If you say it's nothing to do with me, Louis, I swear to god…” Harry threatens, stepping toward Louis and poking him firmly in the chest. “We’ve been doing this long enough; don’t you think I know it always involves me?” He says it softly — there's no accusation, no frustration, no blame, and it's another blatant, screaming reminder that Harry Styles is and has always been ten times the person Louis is.
Louis inhales shakily. “This is just— it's just— I’ll figure it out.”
Harry’s frown deepens. “Dammit, Louis.”
Louis does this. He knows he does this. It's been a point of contention between them for as long as he can remember — hell, it's been a point of contention between them since probably the moment they met. Louis wants to figure things out on his own. He’s an oldest child. He’s a Capricorn (whatever the fuck that means). He’s strong-willed and determined and argumentative and headstrong and everything that turns Harry on on a good day and pisses him off on a bad one, and Louis knows what kind of day this is. What kind of month, really. What kind of life, maybe.
The thing is, he doesn’t want to burden Harry any more than he already has. He’s spent fifteen years doing that. He can spare him a couple months.
The thing in his chest is throwing punches. It's leaving bruises on the soft underside of Louis’ ribs and probably puncturing his esophagus. Maybe if he’s lucky, he'll end up hospitalized, and he won’t have to spend an inordinate amount of time with that fucking woman. Except, in reality, they’d probably just send her there too.
“Louis,” Harry says, voice soft. He sounds fragile, and Louis hates when he sounds fragile. He hates when he sounds fragile because of him. “Please.”
“I can’t do this anymore.”
Harry reels back like he hit him. His face goes slack, and that wasn’t at all what Louis meant, not even a little bit, but—
“Excuse me?” Harry asks. His voice wavers the barest bit, his face carefully blank. “Say that again, please, Louis.”
Louis clears his throat. “I can’t— I can’t do this anymore.”
Harry’s expression doesn’t change. “What do you mean, exactly, by ‘this?’”
Maybe this is it. Maybe this is where it all goes really and truly to shit. Maybe this time, Louis destroys it all for good and makes a catastrophic, irreparable mess of everything beautiful left in his life. Maybe this time he has the courage to turn Harry loose and send him out the door, into the world, free of Louis Tomlinson and all his goddamn baggage. All good things come to an end, and maybe fifteen years is theirs.
If he lets him go now, Harry misses the fallout of all this Zara bullshit. He misses the fallout of being tied to the man making love confessions to known racists; he misses the fallout of climbing into bed with the man losing his fanbase by the hundreds for that same betrayal. He walks away unscathed by the queerness of Louis’s third album that the label couldn’t quite bury — half the reason the woman is still around. He walks away before the posts get worse. If Louis lets Harry go now, he doesn’t suffer through another ongoing cycle of pap walks and photo shoots and strategically placed love confessions in social media comments. He survived the first five months; he can escape before the rest of them.
But Louis is a flawed fucking man, and he is fucking selfish, and he can’t tell Harry Styles to walk out of his life. Not like this. Not ever.
“They commented on her photo,” Louis rasps, staring at Harry. “From my account.”
“I saw,” Harry nods, face still blank.
“There's an article in The Sun—”
“I saw,” Harry repeats. He steps toward Louis.
“It says we share the same values—”
“I saw,” Harry says a third time. He stops short directly in front of Louis, close enough for Louis to count his eye lashes if he really concentrates. “And a wicked sense of humor.”
Louis swallows. “I can’t do this anymore.”
Harry nods slowly. “I know.”
Louis shakes his head, the thing in his chest lodging in his throat. “I don’t want them to think— I don't want to be— I hate her,” he whispers, voice strangled. “I don’t recognize myself in the fucking mirror. I feel fucking crazy.”
Tentatively, as if afraid Louis might dissolve before his eyes, Harry rests his hands on Louis’s biceps, squeezing gently. “Louis,” he says softly. “Sweetheart, you're panicking.”
The thing in his chest grows. “I don't know what the fuck to do.”
The world goes dark, but only for a moment. One second, Louis is standing upright, nose to nose with Harry, and the next they're both on the floor. Harry has him held gently in an almost-mirror position of their first position at the kitchen table, Louis's face tucked into Harry’s throat, his chin on top of Louis’s head. Harry is making some sort of strangled noise he must think is soothing and Louis shoves away, sending Harry hitting the wall with a soft oof.
They blink at each other for a few moments. Louis’s chest is tight, his breathing shallow, and he rubs a hand roughly over his sternum like that might help. Harry just watches him, a bit disappointed, a bit sad, a bit something Louis can’t put a name to. He tears his gaze away, dropping his eyes to his lap. His skin burns where Harry had been touching him, crawling where he hadn’t been, and Louis doesn’t know which is worse. He sucks a shaky breath in.
Days like this, when things get bad, he misses his mum with the kind of vengeance he didn't know it was possible for an adult to still feel, almost nine years on. He pulls his knees up to his chest. He aches to have his mum around; he would give anything to ask for her advice and have her smack him upside the head for getting himself into this mess. Missing her is a constant companion in the best of times — it's only exacerbated by the sheer state of things.
Louis buries his face in his knees and he lets himself cry.
He's so damn frustrated with the state of things. He cries for the loss of his mother, for his sister, for the mess he’s gotten himself into. He cries for the man he can still feel radiating warmth at his side, ever-present, even after being shoved away over and over again. He cries for the loss of his best friend, and for the four of them left behind still learning how to navigate the world without him. He cries for situation at hand and the hurt he's seen that he himself is at the center of, contractually obligated to sit back and watch it unfold. He cries for the cruel irony of a world that gave him Harry Styles and the explicit conditions he could only ever have him under. He cries for the fact that he is a selfish bastard and would do it all again.
At some point, Harry’s arms end up around him again.
If you picked apart Louis’ memories to find the exact day he realized Harry had surpassed him physically, there would likely be some entirely unnoteworthy day he doesn't otherwise remember, but as he falls into Harry’s embrace, he almost wishes he could remember the exact moment he realized what the rest of his life was going to feel like. He turns in Harry’s arms, fisting his hands in Harry’s shirt and pressing his face to his shoulder and he lets himself be drawn in. In a lot of ways, it feels like giving up. Guilt dances over his skin for allowing himself to seek out any comfort at all, but that loud, selfish part of him can’t seem to convince himself to let go.
Harry draws him in with the same easy familiarity you can only get from over a decade of knowing someone so closely. He pulls him so close Louis is practically in his lap, then further still, drawing him fully to sit sideways over his thighs. He spares half a thought to how absolutely idiotic they must look like this — two fully grown men in their thirties curled in one another's laps on the hall floor while one sobs like a child — but it's gone before it can even be fully realized, Harry wrapping his arms right back around him so tightly it's as if he thinks he's the only thing holding Louis together. And truthfully, maybe he is.
Louis tucks his head into the side of Harry’s neck and he just keeps crying. It's as if five months of stress and anxiety and fears have all been realized at once, given permission to manifest fully in the form of a tidal wave of tears. Harry keeps a cheek pressed firmly to the top of Louis’s head, murmuring softly.
Time seems to pass imperceptibly in the hallway. After some amount of time, Louis’ sobs dwindle to hiccups, though he leaves his face buried in Harry’s shirt. Harry, for his part, doesn’t budge. He stays right where he is, holding Louis right through whatever this little breakdown is, and by the time Louis has nothing really left in him, he feels entirely wrung dry. He shifts slightly, inhaling deeply, breathing in Harry’s cologne and the soap-sweat smell of his skin. He smells very vaguely like the vanilla shampoo he buys in Italy, and the realization that Louis is familiar enough with his shampoo that he recognizes it by smell alone is almost enough to set him off again.
“You want to talk about it?” Harry finally asks, breaking the careful silence that had long since settled around them. His thumb strokes carefully over the skin of Louis’s bicep where he’s wiggled it beneath the fabric of his sleeve. “You’re scaring me, Louis.”
“Dunno what to say,” Louis admits tonelessly, turning his face and pressing his forehead to the side of Harry’s throat, exposing his mouth to be better heard. “Just overwhelmed, I guess.”
“Could’ve guessed that much,” Harry informs him drily.
“Yeah, well.” Louis smooths a hand down Harry’s chest, picking at a loose thread in the collar of his t-shirt. “Been online lately?”
“Not really. Looked for some of the responses to the Pleasing stuff, but—” He shrugs a shoulder, and Louis’s stomach twists. The thing in his chest has teeth again. All the exciting things in Harry’s life, and he comes home to this shitshow.
“Right. Well.” Louis clears his throat, closing his fist in the already wrinkled fabric adorning Harry’s chest. “I’m a shit person.”
Harry startles, pulling away, frowning deep enough for Louis to see it clearly in his peripheral. “Excuse me?”
Louis sighs. “Don’t get all protective husband on me.”
“Depending on the next thing out of your mouth, I’m going to be going really concerned husband calling your therapist for you,” Harry snaps, tone razor sharp with concern. “What’s going on, Louis? And please don’t make me go search it out myself or we’re going to be having more than one long conversation.”
“S’this fucking stunt, innit?” Louis sighs, dragging a hand down his face. Now that he’s had the chance to cry it all out, he finds he just feels mostly empty. Even the general sense of hopelessness is less sharp, sitting dull in his stomach. “I mean, she’s fucking— fuck, H, she’s the embodiment of everything I’ve always stood against, you know?”
“I thought you said she was nice?”
“She’s friendly enough.” Louis goes to reposition himself out of Harry’s lap, but a wave of nausea crashes over him at the thought of putting any amount of distance between them, and he settles. “But she’s a Tory.” He shoots Harry a look. “And she’s got these awful videos of her saying things she shouldn’t — racism, y’know — and she voted for fucking Brexit, and she’s made all these comments against fucking people on welfare, and she’s well-documented for cheating on her partners and—”
“Woah, Lou, slow down,” Harry interrupts, squeezing his hip. “Did you know about all of that?”
He levels Harry with a look. “You know I didn’t fucking pick her.”
Harry rolls his eyes. “Yeah, I know. Obviously, I know. But you know the fans have done this before, right? They’ve been through this before. Your team is many things but they aren’t creative — they’re following the playbook.”
Louis frowns. “It feels different,” he admits. “The other times… the other times, the girls weren’t like this, H. The responses…”
“You know better than to be online looking at responses when new stunt stuff drops, Louis,” Harry sighs. “You aren’t new at this either.”
“It just feels different, Harry,” Louis whispers. “I don’t— it doesn’t feel like this is something you come back from. It looks like I’ve walked away from everything I’ve ever stood for.”
“Except for that to be the case, they’d have to believe in the relationship, yeah? Lou, look at me.” Louis reluctantly catches Harry’s gaze. “You know how this goes. They know you’re under contract — or at the very least, they suspect. And you know when they hear the album, they’re going to get why it’s being pushed so aggressively.”
Louis hums. He breaks eye contact, leaning back against Harry. “I still feel dirty,” he admits quietly. “I’ve never felt this separated from them.”
Harry leans his head against Louis’s. “From the fans?” Louis hums in agreement. “I get that. And I know it’s taking a toll on you. You’re exhausted, sweet.”
“Catch myself wondering if it’s worth it, sometimes.”
“The job?”
“Any of it.” Louis lifts a shoulder in a half-shrug. “You know I love our life and everything we’ve accomplished — everything we’ve gotten to do. I’d go through all the pain and all the loss again a thousand times over just to meet you again,” he says quietly. “But at this point…”
“You considering retiring?”
“I dunno.” Louis trails his fingers down Harry’s arm over tattoos he knows by heart, tattoos he could draw from memory. “All feels a bit hopeless, sometimes.”
Silence falls on them again, wrapping them up in something almost gentle. Louis remembers a time when he ran from silence, scared of what she brought with her. These days, more and more, he relishes it. He runs toward silence, especially when he has the chance to share that silence with Harry.
“Maybe after this album,” Harry says slowly, after a long few moments. “Maybe after this album, you take a few years off. It’s healing, a bit, to not have any obligations or anywhere to be — just time and the ability to do things you never got the chance to do before.”
“You only got this time because we were supposed to doing a reunion,” Louis accuses, but he knows there’s no heat behind his words. Just old bitterness. Lingering hurt. Ice water yearning.
“I know,” Harry says, voice soft. “And it’s been more healing than I even imagined it could be. Maybe you need that. A few years off. No albums, no tours, no stunts. No appearances.”
“I can’t shake the feeling I’m letting them all down,” Louis admits. “Now, with all this bullshit, and in the future, already.”
“I think you’re doing the best you can with what you have, Lou,” Harry murmurs. “Nobody knows what you’re expected to do or what you’re contractually obligated to fulfill. They can speculate, but—” He shrugs, jostling them both. “Nobody knows for sure. And I think they knew after Glasto that you’d be making up for that for a while,” he reminds him, exceptionally gentle. “Have some grace for yourself. Especially if you don’t think anyone else will.”
Louis lets the words wash over him. He did know that his behavior at Glastonbury would inevitably result in them both facing backlash from their teams — him moreso than Harry. That was, after all, why he did what he did. He’s just so tired of existing like this. He imagines it can’t be good psychologically to be constantly planning out lighting and outfits and social media interactions to communicate the perfectly coded communication, hoping and praying somebody hears him and understands him correctly. He imagines it can’t be doing wonders for his psyche, to be so hyperaware at all times that each and every action is so scrutinized and picked apart that he has to be able to plan in advance for every possible construal. He’s exhausted, mentally, physically, and psychologically.
His skin still itches. He feels unsettled.
“You look like you’re about to freak out again,” Harry says quietly.
“I just feel wrong,” Louis admits. “I just feel— I feel dirty. And used.”
“What can I do?”
And what a question that is. What can he do? Harry can’t change the past. He can’t go back to their teenage selves and beg them not to sign that first contract — he can’t try to fix things before they sign up for a lifetime of closeting and stunting and lecture after lecture. He can’t even change their current contracts. He can’t get rid of Zara, nor can he make her a better person than she is — not that she could ever hold a candle to Harry, even her nastiest flaws aside.
The best thing Harry has ever done is love Louis unconditionally through every phase of their lives together. In most ways, it’s more than Louis deserves. It’s all he could ever ask for, even when he doesn’t know how to ask.
“Will you fuck me?”
To his credit, Harry doesn’t even blink.
“Yeah, sweet. Anything you want.”
Harry stands, holding out a hand and helping Louis to his feet. He pauses before he lets them move toward the bedroom, cradling Louis’s face in his hands and searching his face. He strokes his thumbs back and forth over Louis’ cheekbones and it’s almost too much, almost too gentle for how raw Louis already feels. He forces himself to hold Harry’s gaze even as his skin crawls and he wants to shrink away, feeling too exposed, even in front of this man who has seen every part of him more times than he can even count.
Thankfully, Harry doesn’t say anything. He just dips his head down and catches Louis’ lips with his own. The kiss itself is so gentle it settles the thing in Louis’s chest, rendering it small enough he can finally properly breathe, and he sucks a breath in through his nose — all Harry, Harry, Harry. He slides his own hands up Harry’s neck and into the hair at the base of his skull, grown out just enough to begin curling at the ends again, and whines softly in the back of his throat. Harry kisses him with slightly more force, dropping his hands from Louis’s face to his hips and dragging him against him. Louis relishes in it, letting himself bask in the feeling of being so thoroughly held and so achingly desired — even in the state he’s in. He knows Harry can taste the remnants of his tears on his lips but he says nothing, and for that, he’s grateful. He presses closer to him, feeling almost like a teenager again, the way he loses himself in the feel of Harry pressed against him.
“C’mon, bedroom,” Harry murmurs, pulling back. His voice has dropped, low rasp tugging at something in the pit of Louis’s stomach. Harry links their fingers, dropping another easy kiss to Louis’s mouth before he leads the way to the bedroom — to their bedroom, because it’s not too often they spend nights apart in either of their houses, not if they’re both in the same city.
Everything that belongs to Louis belongs to Harry. It had been that way even before Louis himself had belonged to Harry, though there was an argument to be made that Louis had been Harry’s from the moment he first met him.
Harry’s on him the moment they cross the threshold, pulling his shirt over his head and tossing it in the vague direction of the laundry without so much as a glance in that general direction. He casts a pointed glance at Louis’s joggers before busying himself with getting his own kit off, and Louis bites down on his first real smile of the day, shoving the sweats down and off with ease.
“No pants? Of course you didn’t,” Harry huffs, adding his own clothes to the pile Louis had created. Louis shrugs.
“Had no plans today except to wallow in me own self-pity. Don’t exactly need pants for that,” he reasons, stepping back into Harry’s space.
“Guess not,” Harry acquiesces, sliding his hands down Louis’s back and over his bum, gently massaging the muscle there. “How d’you want it?”
“However you do,” Louis says, fully honest. He only wants to be wanted, in whatever way Harry wants him. Harry looks at him for a long moment as if to sus out whether or not Louis is lying.
“We’re gonna do it the boring way,” Harry tells him, corner of his mouth quirking up. “Wanna see you.”
Louis’ cheeks get hot. He swallows, glancing away from Harry. Harry squeezes his hips in retaliation, drawing him close for another kiss, lips gentle and firm against Louis’ own. Louis smooths his hands over Harry’s chest and up into his hair again, knotting his fingers in the strands and tugging gently, eliciting a soft moan from Harry that he immediately swallows down. Harry backs them both toward the bed until the backs of Louis’ thighs bump the mattress and he’s being lifted onto the surface, pressed into the mess of sheets he hadn’t bothered to make back up when he’d disentangled himself that morning.
Sliding himself back on the mattress, Louis spreads his thighs to let Harry settle easily in the cradle of his hips, lining up their semi-hard cocks as he drops his weight onto Louis. Louis melts into the mattress, Harry enveloping him like a weighted blanket, not separating their mouths for even a moment. Louis braces his feet against the mattress, giving himself some leverage to carefully grind up against Harry before he finds his hips pinned by Harry’s hands.
Harry breaks the kiss. “Let me do the work, sweet.”
Louis nearly whines aloud. “But—”
“This is about you, hm? Let me take care of you.” He drops another kiss to Louis’s mouth, flicking his tongue against Louis’s and nipping at his bottom lip before pressing quick kisses to his jaw and throat. He presses biting kisses down the expanse of Louis’s throat and collarbones, sending sparks erupting over his skin in place of the crawling sensation that had been pervading his existence since he first saw the comment.
Harry sinks his teeth into the delicate skin where Louis has words inked into his collarbones, sucking what Louis knows will be a harsh mark come morning, and he shudders. Harry takes his time, leaving marks across the full expanse of Louis’s chest before making his way down his sternum, dipping his tongue into his bellybutton and making him flinch. He buries his hands in Harry’s hair with a shiver, oversensitive skin picking up the way Harry presses a grin into his hipbone like a secret.
Between the two of them, Louis doesn’t often bottom. He lacks the patience to open himself up properly, let alone to have Harry do it, and he forgets sometimes how good it can be to let Harry take his time exploring his body. He forces himself to relax, Harry’s hands forcing his hips to the bed, preventing him from chasing after his mouth even as his breath ghosts over his cock. Louis feels half-crazed, glancing down at Harry only to find him looking right back up at him, watching him through half-lidded eyes, practically panting as he lets his tongue loll out and lazily drag up the length of Louis’s cock.
“F-uck,” Louis bites out, releasing Harry’s hair and fisting his hands in the sheets at his sides. Harry just huffs a breath and wraps his lips around the head of Louis’s cock. Lightning shoots up his spine.
Louis squeezes his eyes shut, willing his hips to stay still even as they twitch in Harry’s grip. Harry’s thumbs rub tight circles in the skin over his hipbone but it does nothing to distract from the wet-hot suction around his cock, Louis’s entire world narrowed down to those two points of contact.
He’s so focused on the sensation, in fact, that he somehow misses Harry locating, opening, and applying lube to his fingers, and jerks in shock at the sudden pressure of one slick finger at his entrance. His hips thrust forward of their own accord, Harry gagging sharply, pulling back and shooting him a glare, coughing slightly.
“Sorry,” Louis rasps. “Jesus, I didn’t know you even had the lube out.”
“We’re good but we’re not good enough for anal without lube,” Harry says drily, shifting slightly. He presses one of Louis’ thighs further out, spreading him open. He shoots him a warning look. “Stay still, sweet.”
“Doing my best,” Louis promises weakly. He forces himself to relax, exhaling a long breath as Harry takes him back in his mouth, swallowing him down with practiced ease.
Harry doesn’t wait this time, immediately pressing his finger to Louis’s entrance with a gentle insistence. Louis’s body opens to him easily. He’s always been easy for Harry Styles. He sighs softly at the intrusion, Harry pulling off his cock and murmuring something gently against the fragile skin of his upper thigh before he nips at the same spot, startling a ragged moan out of Louis’s throat.
“There you go, let me hear you,” Harry murmurs, moving back up Louis’s body. He brushes their noses together. “Always want to hear you.”
It’s a moot point as he immediately closes the distance between their mouths and effectively silences Louis’s answering moan. He slides a second finger in alongside the first, gently twisting his wrist as he draws his hand in and out, and Louis grasps at his hips. Harry’s fingers are long and delicate, calloused from his years of guitar playing, and he plays Louis’s body far better than any instrument he’s ever touched. He crooks his fingers, grazing Louis’s prostate with practiced ease, and Louis lets out a dry sob. He fucks back automatically into the feeling, relishing in the stretch as Harry spreads his fingers on the next outstroke.
Louis breaks the kiss with a gasp. “C’mon, want your cock, fuck me, c’mon.”
Harry frowns, pulling away and looking down at him. “Two fingers isn’t enough, sweet.”
If they were standing, Louis would stomp his foot in frustration. “Wanna feel it, sun, wanna be stretched on your cock.” He slides his hands up Harry’s sides, cradling his jaw the same time he clenches around his fingers. “Please, H, want you in me — want to feel you for days. I— I need this.”
They both know Louis can take Harry with less prep than two fingers; they’ve done it before. So he has a thing for it, sue him. He can tell Harry is trying to gauge whether or not he’s chasing it for the potential pain or for some other reason, and Louis battles down the evil little thing in his chest.
“H, please,” he whispers, voice breaking. “I’ll stop you if it’s too much. Promise.”
“Yeah, alright,” Harry breathes. “Okay, sweet. Okay.”
He presses another lingering kiss to Louis’ lips before stretching away, procuring the bottle of lube and coating his cock generously. Louis almost laughs at the amount he pours in his hand, but he bites it back. He reaches between them and wraps his hand around Harry’s cock, stroking him firmly base to tip, thumbing over the head and biting his lip at the way Harry’s lashes flutter at the motion. Harry leans forward, licking into Louis’s mouth, hips shifting minutely in Louis’s grasp as he strokes him, weight pressing him into the mattress.
Harry pulls away, looking between their bodies, hiking one of Louis’ legs up over one arm to further spread him open and Louis flushes at the exposure. Harry witnessed a full anxiety-ridden breakdown in the kitchen, but sure, this is going to embarrass him. Harry glances back up at Louis’s face as he guides his cock carefully to press at Louis’s entrance, firm and slick and feeling absolutely massive.
“You’ll tell me if it’s too much?”
“Told you I would, didn’t I?” Louis huffs. “Waste of a marriage if you can’t trust me with—oh, fuck—”
The sharp pressure of Harry’s cock splitting him open cuts Louis’s snarky comment off halfway through, completely erasing the end of it from his mind. Harry presses in steadily, cock unforgiving as he forces himself forward, the air pushing out of Louis’ lungs. His body stretches to accommodate him, as if Harry were always meant to be there, and he squeezes his eyes shut. Harry continues pressing ininin until he’s fully buried to the hilt inside of him, cock pressed flush against Louis’s prostate, lighting up Louis’s every nerve ending with fireworks. Louis struggles to suck in a breath, overwhelmed by the sheer level of sensations. His hole stings slightly from the stretch and he knows already he will be sore tomorrow, but the satisfaction already singing through his blood is worth it. Something in him feels settled.
“Christ, Louis, look at you,” Harry murmurs. Louis opens his eyes, blinking away overwhelmed tears to focus on Harry’s face and finding him trembling with the effort to keep still. “Fucking beautiful, like you were made for this.”
“If I was made for this we wouldn’t need lube,” Louis snarks weakly, no bite in his tone. Harry raises an eyebrow, hips twitching slightly, drawing a gasp from Louis. “Oh, shit.”
“Do you ever shut up?”
“You should know that I don’t.” Louis inhales slowly through his nose. “You can move.”
“You sure?” Harry drops his head, kissing Louis gently. “No rush.”
“Please move, Jesus Christ,” Louis whines. This is why Harry doesn’t get to top.
“Be nice to me,” Harry scolds, drawing his hips back at an excruciating pace. “This is all about me getting to make you feel better, remember?”
Louis rolls his eyes even as he flushes, his chest aching. “Yeah, whatever,” he mutters. “Just fuck me like you mean it.”
Harry leans close, letting his lips brush the shell of Louis’s ear. “Oh, darling. I always mean it.”
He shoves his hips forward again with such force that Louis cries out, nails scrabbling over Harry’s back for purchase. He sets a brutal pace, hiking Louis’s leg up as high as he can without straining Louis’s hip, keeping his gaze fixed to Louis’s face. Louis, for his part, falls apart.
The thing about having sex with someone you’ve been having sex with for almost fifteen years is that they know everything about you. When you’ve loved them that whole time, it only makes it all the more intense. Harry knows every angle that drives Louis crazy. He knows exactly when to speed up and when to slow down, and can read every noise and microexpression like an open book. He reduces Louis to a whining, tearful mess in a matter of minutes.
“God, look at you,” Harry murmurs. And oh, does Harry like to talk. “You’re so beautiful like this. And only I get to see you like this, isn’t that right? No one else has ever had you like this — no one else has ever even seen you like this, all soft and easy for me.”
Harry could probably talk Louis to orgasm without laying a finger on him.
“That’s all that matters, isn’t it,” Harry says, slowing his thrusts down. “I know you better than anyone else. I get to see you like this. Who gives a fuck what anyone else thinks — they don’t know anything.” Louis makes a strangled noise and Harry brings a hand up, thumbing away a tear. Louis isn’t sure when he started crying properly. He keeps his eyes fixed on Harry. “I love you.”
“Love you too,” Louis gasps, Harry picking his thrusts back up.
Harry fits a hand between them, wrapping it around Louis’s cock and jerking him quickly in time with his thrusts. He angles his hips just right, nailing Louis’s prostate with each movement, and it’s hardly another few thrusts before Louis’s stomach tightens and he is spilling over his fist, painting their stomachs white. Harry fucks him through it, then slows. Louis grasps his bicep.
“Come in me,” he murmurs. “Please.”
Harry smooths his fringe off of his forehead. “Don’t want to overstimulate you.”
Louis shakes his head. “Please, H. Want it.”
Harry holds his gaze and Louis tries to channel everything he can’t say out loud. He tries to make him understand how he needs to feel claimed, how he needs to feel wanted. How he needs to feel that level of intimacy before all of the ugly parts kick back in. How he needs to have this part of Harry, at least for a little while. As long as he can.
After a moment, Harry nods. He kisses Louis again, forcefully, feverishly. His hips pick their pace back up unrelentingly, burying his cock inside of Louis over and over again, and it is overstimulating but in the best way. It’s a claim, a real-world love confession that has nothing on any bullshit social media comment left by some faceless member of Louis’s team. When Harry finally comes, hips pressed flush against Louis’, the sudden spill of warmth inside of him triggers another round of tears. He wraps his arms around Harry’s neck and holds him close, as close as he can get without crawling inside his skin.
Harry shifts, as if about to pull out and pull away.
“Don’t pull out yet.” Louis’s voice sounds small. Unrecognizable. “Please.”
“You’re not uncomfortable?” Harry checks, but settles back almost immediately. He blankets Louis’s body with his own, Louis’s come still wet between their stomachs, probably only minutes from growing tacky and gross.
“No,” Louis promises. “Not uncomfortable. Promised I’d tell you if I was, didn’t I?”
Harry hums, burrowing his arms beneath Louis’s body and wrapping him up in a hug, holding him close. “I wish you’d talk to me, you know. Before things get so bad.”
Louis squeezes his eyes shut, stinging again. He really can’t handle another round of tears today. “Just don’t always know what to say, to be fair. A lot of feelings and nowhere to put them.”
“You can put them on me,” Harry says softly. “That’s what I’m here for. I’m the only person in the world who gets it. You’re never going through this alone, you know. I’m right here. You can’t carry that weight all by yourself all the time. Let me carry some of it for a while.”
Louis stays quiet for a minute. “What do I do, afterwards? When this stunt is over? So many people are hurt, H. She’s— she’s really awful.”
Harry squeezes him. “I think eventually you’ll get to tell your side. When that time comes… you apologize to the people who got hurt in the process. You take accountability for what you can. You’re hurt too.”
Louis exhales softly. “Yeah. Yeah, alright.”
“You’re a good person, Lou,” Harry says, lifting his head up and catching Louis’s eye. “You’re in a shitty situation and you’re bound by a lot of legal shit with repercussions that can hurt a lot of people other than yourself. I think, for most people, that’s understandable. I don’t think that makes you less of a good person.”
“You have to say that,” Louis says, voice soft. “You’re married to me.”
“Yeah. But I wouldn’t marry a shitty person.” Harry drops a kiss to Louis’s forehead. “You of all people should know that.”
Louis doesn’t answer. He hides a smile in Harry’s shoulder, breathing him in. After a few moments of peaceful quiet, he finally lets Harry pull out, watching him cross to the en suite and retrieve a flannel, returning to wipe them both perfunctorily down and tossing the flannel in the general direction of their discarded clothing. Harry climbs back onto the bed, curling up next to Louis and drawing the wrinkled duvet up over them both, rolling over and pressing his back to Louis’s chest.
Louis splays his palm flat over Harry’s chest, right over top of his heart. He lets his husband’s pulse beat steadily against his hand as he matches his breathing to Harry’s. Harry’s skin is warm against his own, and Harry brings his own hand up, linking his fingers with Louis’ where they rest on his chest. For the first time all day, the thing in his chest is quiet — or at least, as quiet as hearts ever are. He closes his eyes and imagines it mirroring the rhythm of Harry’s, the way he’s always imagined soulmates’ heartbeats must do.
He has to believe Harry is right. There has to be light at the other end of this tunnel as long as they make it through to see it. He only hopes he can make it through.