Work Text:
There are eight people with the security code to Louis’s front gate, and he knows at least two of them are out of the country, and his mum never comes by without phoning first. So when he opens the front door, he’s not totally surprised to see Zayn there. Except that he is because he can’t even think of the last time Zayn came round while they were on a break.
He’s even more surprised when Zayn holds out a spliff and says, “Harry’s really sorry, mate.”
Louis’s heartbeat kicks up. He can’t think what on earth Harry could be sorry enough for that he’s persuaded Zayn out here with weed. Louis’s injured, in both body and pride, and he was about to go to bed, barefoot and comfy in his sweats; he can’t handle a crisis of any sort. “What did he do?”
Zayn hands over the bucket of KFC in his other hand and says, “He’s at a party. With Nick. And David Beckham.”
“He isn’t even,” says Louis, clutching the chicken to his chest, coldly horrified, moreso because Harry and Zayn know just how much it matters to him, just how deeply bloody un-fucking-fair it is.
“He didn’t think. He was just going because Nick was going. But it’s David Gardner, and well. Becks is there.”
“Did Harry, did Harry speak to him?”
“Yeah, I reckon. He’s, like, chatty. He wouldn’t be rude.”
“Fuck.” It shouldn’t be embarrassing, because Harry is charming and knows loads about football even if he’s rubbish at it, but that doesn’t help. Harry doesn’t know football like Louis does; he has no bloody right to be casually share space with the best footballer who ever graced the pitch. There are very few men Louis would go to his knees for purely on merit, and Harry is with one of them right now. “Let’s get in the van. I hope you’ve got more than one of those.”
*
An hour and a half later he’s laid out on the foldout sofa in the back of the Mystery Machine, propped against a cushion and smoking down the end of a second joint, Zayn’s fingers tangling with his as Louis passes it back. He’s been grumbling steadily, raging and then subsiding into resigned misery because Harry just walks into places and people fall into his lap, and he’ll probably have David Beckham’s bloody phone number and an invitation to babysit his kids before the night is through. Louis fumbles for his mobile, ready to send an outraged text, but it’s nowhere in arm’s reach. “The fuck is my phone?” he says, watching Zayn lick his lips before taking another hit.
“I put it away,” replies Zayn, handing back the joint. “You don’t need to be saying anything to anyone tonight, Lou.”
The smoke is thick in the air, swirling overhead, filling up the small space, and Louis imagines this is what the inside of his body looks like too, saturated with smoke, all his organs infused with it. “Okay,” he concedes.
Zayn reaches over to stroke his hair, and Louis curls into him, curses as the joint burns down to the tips of his fingers with his next hit. Zayn takes it back, holding it gingerly, sipping in one last hit and holding it as he pinches off the burning end. It’s obvious what he wants, and Louis leans in for the shotgun, their lips grazing as Zayn’s mouth opens.
He’s too high to be sure where the line is between smoking and kissing, but after a while he’s sure they’ve crossed it, as his tongue snakes over Zayn’s and Zayn’s hand crawls up the back of his t-shirt to rest hotly between Louis’s shoulder blades. Zayn’s lips are soft and full as they part, and Louis forgets to be sad and angry while Zayn is kissing him. He chases the press of Zayn’s mouth, moans as Zayn bites at his bottom lip, nuzzles the sensitive space beneath his jaw. Louis hasn’t shaved in nearly two weeks, and their stubble catches and scrapes, leaving Louis’s skin even more sensitive as Zayn kisses his neck. It’s proper making out, what they’re doing now, the soothing ease of the pot settling over them, making Louis want to cling to Zayn and move with him. His back hits the back of the sofa, and Zayn slots their legs together like they were always made to fit that way.
Zayn’s thigh nudges Louis’s balls, and the thrill of contact makes Louis grind down on him, working his dick into the angle of Zayn’s hip. His trackies drag over the head of his hardening dick, soft fabric pulling against it, and he moans out quietly, muffling it against Zayn’s cheek. He feels Zayn grin, though he can’t see it, and then they’re moving together, clutching at each other, Zayn’s hand clawed against the furrow of Louis’s spine. The slick head of Louis’s cock jars against Zayn’s hipbone as they collide before finding the right angle again, working together like a well-oiled machine, knees hooked over each other, bodies straining. Louis feels the taut line of Zayn’s cock in his jeans, tenting them out, and he would try to touch it with his hand, wrap them both up in his sweaty palms if he wasn’t already so painfully close to coming.
Louis’s chest is tight, his heart beating wildly as he bends his head to bite at Zayn’s mouth. Zayn moves like they’re fucking, hips snapping against Louis’s, making his dick smack against the softest part of his belly. He grips at the loose fabric over Louis’s arse, dragging him in even closer, fingers digging into his crack. Louis groans and starts to come, hot and overwhelmed, thick bursts of spunk making a smeary mess of the inside of his trackies. “Fuck,” he whispers, as Zayn thrusts up against him a few more times, shaking and probably leaving bruises with his sharp hipbones. Louis feels Zayn come, sudden warmth, stickiness gathering between them as it dries.
Zayn finds his mouth, kissing him sweetly, with lazy, wet strokes of his tongue. He nuzzles into Louis’s mouth, still fondling his arse a bit, fingers spreading over his cheeks. Louis can’t think of anything better than this.
“Feeling better, yeah?” says Zayn, nestling into Louis and the sofa like he’s there to stay.
Louis can’t even think why he would have been sad. The air around them is still a little grey with wisps of smoke, and the comics on the ceiling are a psychedelic swirl of color, both near and very far away. He lifts a hand towards them, watching his fingers curve upward. “Never feel bad again,” he promises. But then it starts to nag at him; he was upset and now he’s not, and he should at least know why. He flexes his knee, feels how it doesn’t hurt, how nothing hurts at all for the moment, although he can tell where he twisted it at football.
Football.
“Fuck Harry,” he says aloud, anger spurting up inside him again. “Why does he get to do fucking everything?”
Zayn nudges their noses together. “He doesn’t, mate. Not even allowed in here, is he? Like, we’d tell him to fuck right off if he came to the door, yeah? No weed, no KFC, no…” He trails off, wiggling a hand down the crack of Louis’s arse, rubbing at the hot, sensitive skin there, one fingertip nudging distractingly at Louis’s arsehole.
Louis moans a little as his spent dick twitches. He’s lulled by the slow stroking of Zayn’s finger, and he buries his face in the crook of Zayn’s neck, smelling smoke and aftershave and sweat. He’s being manipulated, and in the back of his mind he knows that, but it doesn’t matter. Zayn digs a knuckle into the soft flesh behind Louis’s balls, and Louis gasps, wriggling against him. “Be here with me, yeah?” Zayn says, kissing Louis’s temple. “Just right here.”
Zayn tucks a fingertip into the tight clutch of Louis’s arsehole, coaxes it open just slightly, and Louis goes easy for him, thighs spreading. He’s starting to get hard again, so soon it nearly hurts, and when Zayn pulls away, he gasps and digs his fingers into Zayn’s hip. But Zayn isn’t going far, just rolling Louis onto his belly and dragging his trackies down to get a better grip on his arse. Anyone else and Louis would squirm and protest, but Zayn makes him want to keep quiet and still, makes him want to wait and see what Zayn will do next.
He couldn’t have expected the hot press of Zayn’s tongue against his arsehole, the slick pressure of it where he already feels roughed up. Louis smacks a hand over his mouth, gasping into his cupped palm as Zayn licks every thought out of his head. Zayn’s tongue digs in a little, and Louis opens to him, slick from his mouth already, eased apart with spit. “Let me hear you, babe,” says Zayn. “You’re all right.”
Louis bites his lip, wipes his palm against the thick fabric of the sofa cushion, and then holds on as Zayn’s tongue fucks into him properly, and he can’t keep from moaning in pleasure. He’s wet, tender where Zayn’s mouth has been, and the stroking of his tongue is endless, going from the top of Louis's crack to the back of his balls, rubbing slick circles over his hole. There are sounds spilling out of him, the start of words but not. He’s never felt anything this good in his life. When the tip of Zayn’s tongue wriggles more strongly into him, spreads him wider, Louis lifts his hips for Zayn’s mouth, shoving his arse back to get more thorough, deeper contact. He dips his head forward, and black spots dance in the corners of his vision before he has to close his eyes again.
Zayn slides a finger into him eventually, and Louis didn’t know he needed that, but he does. God, he needs it so much, the slow rub of it inside his loosened arsehole. He squeezes his thighs together, his dick nearly touching the sofa as he arches for Zayn’s next thrust. His knuckles brush into Louis’s crack.
“Think you could come again, Lou?” Zayn asks, kissing the jut of Louis’s shoulder blade. “If I touch you, do you think you could?”
Louis has no doubt of that. He gasps a yes, or maybe some other kind of sound, and Zayn’s hand is suddenly wrapping his cock, stroking smoothly upward, teasing the edge of his foreskin, the damp of his sensitive slit. The pleasure of it is nearly unbearable, making Louis’s head swim as Zayn goes back to work with his tongue, making a sloppy mess of Louis’s hole.
When he comes this time, he thinks he might be crying, his eyes welling and spilling over as Zayn licks him through it, tonguing over his arsehole as it clenches tight around Zayn’s finger. “Enough,” pants Louis hoarsely. “Fuck, enough.”
Zayn crawls up over him, cuddles him forcibly from behind and buries his face in Louis’s neck. His chin is slick, and Louis shivers as he thinks about why. “No more sad now, all right?” Zayn says. “No more strop about Harry and whatever footballers he’s rubbing elbows with tonight. He’s not rubbing more than that, and think what you get instead.”
Louis sighs. Zayn is no Becks, and he won’t ever cure Louis’s sense of thwarted fate, but he’s quite right; this is an awfully fucking good evening. “Thank you for the chicken,” he says, rubbing his cheek against Zayn’s as they settle together, stubble catching.
“Just the chicken, eh?”
“Was good chicken,” Louis insists.
“Can’t argue with that,” Zayn agrees. “We gonna stay out here?”
Louis tucks Zayn’s arm around his waist, pulling their bodies into tighter alignment. “Have to test out how comfortable it is, yeah? See if it was worth what we paid.”
“Reckon it’s already given us well more than we paid. And I don’t think we could return it smelling like this anyway.”
Louis takes a deep whiff of the air, weed and sweat and sex and grease and Zayn, all the things he loves the very best. “I want to bottle this smell and sell it for five hundred quid a bottle.”
Zayn grins. “If Our Moment sells, that can be the follow-up. No more of that white musk shit.”
Louis feels like his brain is floating off, leaving his body farther and farther away. “Thanks for everything else, too,” he manages to say before he’s sucked into a dead sleep. Zayn’s lips on his cheek are the last thing he feels until morning.