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For Better, Worse And Mischief (I'm All Yours)

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Louis wakes up with a pounding headache. The room is too bright, and there are birds chirping outside the window, which is clearly the universe having a good laugh at his expense. He pulls a pillow over his head with a groan. There’s movement to his right, and moments later, a very warm and very naked Harry rolls closer to him, one heavy arm draping itself across Louis’s back.

Right. So that happened. Whoops.

“Did we have tequila?” Harry rasps, and, wow, he sounds even more hungover than Louis. “Please tell me we didn’t have tequila.”

“We didn’t have tequila,” Louis replies, because he’s helpful like that. And a liar, because he distinctly (well, blurrily, but good enough) remembers them standing at a bar and Niall lining up a row of shots. “How’s your head?”

“I wish I was dead,” Harry says. He shifts again and lets out a pained moan. “Christ, I’m so sore. How many times did we shag last night?”

“Um,” Louis says, trying to think back through the current mush that is his brain. “Three, I think? I’m a bit fuzzy on the details.”

“Fantastic.”

“Why, thank you, Harry,” Louis says. Can’t help himself, really, not when Harry makes it so easy for him. “It’s important to keep your husband well-shagged and satisfied. Makes for a good, strong marriage, Cosmo says.”

Harry flips him off, but there’s a small tug at the corner of his mouth. “We’re married.”

“We are. Top marks for planning and execution, if you ask me. Really fab wedding. I’ll cherish the memories for years to come.”

This time, there’s a definite smile on Harry’s face. “Good cake too. I didn’t know you could get pricks with veils on as cake toppers.”

“Just goes to show how much you still have to learn.”

Harry chuckles. They lie together in blissful silence for a while, until Louis’s stomach interrupts with a rude, rumbling noise.

“Hungry?”

“Yeah,” Louis replies. “Guess I am. You reckon they have any good room service in this place?”

“Seeing how fancy these sheets are, I’d think so,” Harry says. “Wanna order one of everything and take pictures for Twitter?”

Louis smiles, thinking of the pictures they already posted last night and wondering just how crazy a place the internet is at the moment. He looks over at Harry, who has managed to raise his head from the pillow and is looking back with a definite glint of mischief in his eye.

Oh, they are going to rock this marriage thing.


“I hate to tell you, babe, but those glasses are ridiculous.”

“Shut it, they’re my favourite pair for getting papped,” Harry says. “And the ones you’re wearing are a lot worse.”

“Can’t have me outshine my groom,” Louis quips. “Speaking of. Two girls with camera phones right behind you.”

“Oh no,” Harry says, stepping closer to Louis and leaning in so that his lips are right next to Louis’s ear, “we’ve been discovered trying to super sneakily leave the country together. Whatever shall we do?”

“I might have an idea or two,” Louis says, and the next thing Harry knows, he’s being thoroughly snogged right in the middle of the check-in line at Heathrow. His initial reaction is to freeze up, because public place, but then Louis changes the angle a bit, deepening the kiss while he’s at it, and Harry figures that, hey, in for a penny and all that; he might as well make them look as good as possible.

The low moan escaping Louis’s throat as Harry tangles a hand (left hand, ring perfectly on display) in his hair and takes control of the kiss is highly gratifying. So is the sound of the rapid clicking of cameras next to them.

If Harry’s learnt anything about how the gossip mill runs in the years since X-Factor, it’s that pictures such as the ones that are currently being taken of them go viral at the speed of light. Combined with their own not-so-subtle tweets over the past 24 hours, the news of their marriage should be both out and verified by now. Meaning their management is probably doing everything they can to track them down for damage control.

“Hey,” Harry says, hiding his face in Louis’s hair, just enjoying being close. It feels like old times, before the rumours about the two of them got started and they were told to tone things down. “We should get through security before anyone else notices us.”

“Sounds good,” Louis replies, grinning as he casually slides his right hand into Harry’s back pocket. “Just as soon as you’ve sweet talked the lovely lady behind the counter to upgrade our tickets. We’re on our honeymoon, after all.”

“Fine, but you’re going to help.”

“‘Course, love,” Louis says. “For better, worse and mischief, I’m all yours.”


They get papped again leaving the airport in Cancún, but after that, it’s smooth sailing all the way to their hotel. Harry had called in a favour from Taylor, of all people, who had made a number of half-shocked, half-amused noises at him, before telling him she’d call him back and then doing so an hour later, giving him an address and a fake name for their reservation.

And here they are.

“Now this Louis says, indicating their suite with both hands. “This is what I’m talking about. Nice work, hubby dear.”

“Thanks, sugarpop,” Harry says. “Taylor picked it. Still like it now?”

Louis makes an exaggerated face, and moves over to the windows, pulling the curtains aside to reveal an absolutely stunning view of the ocean. “Hmm. I guess I’ll have to accept her genius. Just this once, mind you. I still think the restaurant she made us go to when we were in LA was absolute shite.”

Harry grins. “You might have told me that. Once or twice.”

“And I’ll keep telling you,” Louis says. “Grass on my plate. Honestly. I don’t care that it was some fancy Japanese grass. It was still bloody grass.”

“The hotel’s okay though.”

“We’ll endure,” Louis replies, stepping out on the balcony that spans the whole front of the suite. There’s a jacuzzi in the corner of it, next to a plush love seat. “Now, let’s go down to the beach and see if they have any good waves around here.”


Louis is woken up in the early evening by Harry’s mobile, interrupting the well-deserved nap they’re taking together, sunsoaked and jetlagged. Well, Harry’s second mobile, the one only his closest family and friends have the number to. The official one has been put on silent and dumped in one of their bags, together with Louis’s phone, since it just wouldn’t stop beeping.

“Yeah?” he hears Harry say. “Oh, Liam, hi. No, no, it’s all right. Just taking a nap. U-huh. Really? Wow. That’s—”

“Put me on speaker,” Louis says, shuffling over and grabbing the phone out of Harry’s hand. “What’s up, Li?”

“You guys are still in bed, aren’t you?” Liam says. “Lucky bastards. The rest of us have been in meetings for two days. Management’s livid. They might be sending someone over to kill you. And then torture the dead little bits that are left. Fair warning.”

“They’ll have to find us first,” Louis says dismissively. “Which I’m sure they will, but really, what are they going to do? It’s all out there, isn’t it?”

“Oh yeah,” Liam replies. “It’s out, all right. You are on every bloody cover in the tabloids and there are paps everywhere. We’re keeping score who gets asked the most offensive question about your sex life. So far, Zayn is winning.”

“I’m really sorry you have to deal with that,” Harry says. “When are you and Sophia leaving for France?”

“Day after tomorrow,” Liam says. “Thank God. Zayn and Perrie just booked tickets to Thailand to get away as well. And Niall buggered off back to Ireland this morning.”

“How’s the internet doing?”

“See for yourselves. I think you might have actually killed Tumblr.”

“Is it mostly good or mostly bad?” Louis asks. They’ll have to deal with it either way, but better to be prepared.

“It’s very mixed, to be honest,” Liam says with a sigh. “I’d love to tell you that everyone is just falling all over themselves to show their support—a lot of people are, don’t get me wrong, but, yeah. It’s a mixed batch. You might want to stay away from Twitter for a while.”

“Got it,” Louis says. Next to him, Harry is worrying his lower lip between his teeth. “Thanks for keeping everyone off our backs, Li. It really means the world to us.”

“So much,” Harry agrees. “Tell everyone we love them, okay?”

“Love you too,” Liam says. “I have to go. Enjoy your holiday.” He hangs up, and both Louis and Harry keep staring at the phone for a good long while afterwards.

“Do you think we fucked up?” Harry asks quietly. “Put everyone in a huge unnecessary mess?”

“Yeah, maybe,” Louis says. “I don’t know. I hope not. We should probably make some calls, though. Take some of the heat off our families and some such.”

Harry nods. He looks about as into the idea as Louis is. Urgh.

“Tomorrow, yeah?” Louis decides, which is cowardly, he knows, but he’s had a really good day. Surely being responsible can wait another 24 hours.

“Tomorrow,” Harry agrees. He rolls over on his back and stares up at the ceiling. His hand reaches for Louis’s, lacing their fingers together and holding on tight.

Louis squeezes back and focuses on the sounds of the ocean.


Harry wakes up to the crashing of waves against the shore and the feeling of sun against his lower back. He stretches languidly, letting himself enjoy how smooth the sheets feel against his skin. He turns his head and spots Louis next to him, still sleeping peacefully and drooling a little on the pillow.

They’re married.

He lets the thought fill his head, swirling all around and leaving him a bit dizzy. Less than a week ago, he was in a meeting, being told to pick a fiancee out of a pile of headshots, and now he’s here, in Mexico, far away from the pressures of his daily life and married to one of his best friends besides. No more fake dating in his immediate future. Hopefully a lot less girls trying to get into his hotel room and “surprise” him in bed. He and Louis can make up a story, and it’ll be the very best of inside jokes. They’ll field questions in interviews, have a snog or two in front of the fans and then go home and order curry from the little place next to Louis’s house.

Their house now. Harry is stupidly excited about that perk in their arrangement. Living with Nick’s been good, but living with Louis was always better. And they had a toaster oven. Very important fact, that.

He props himself up with one arm and leans closer to Louis, blowing thin currents of air against his face. Louis moves a little in his sleep, and his face contracts in the funniest ways, but he doesn’t wake up. After about five minutes, Harry gives up and picks up the menu for room service.

He might as well eat while he waits.


Louis wakes up to the smell of bacon. It’s not entirely pleasant, seeing as jetlag always makes him a bit nauseous, but in the end, the promise of salt and grease wins out, and he drags himself out of bed, pulls on a robe that’s been conveniently laid out on a chair, and makes his way over to the balcony.

Harry’s already there. Spread out on the loveseat with a truly decadent amount of breakfast foods in front of him, complete with a pot of tea and a cooling stand from which a bottle of champagne peaks out behind a linen towel. Louis’s mouth waters.

“Morning.”

Harry turns, smiling at Louis around a bite of watermelon.

“Morning.”

“Shift over, would you?”

Harry moves obediently to the right, and Louis sinks down next to him with a happy sigh. He starts filling up a plate while Harry pours tea for both of them, then grabs a fork and leans back against the cushy pillows. “You sleep okay?”

“Yeah,” Harry says. “Internal clock’s a bit off as usual, but other than that. You?”

“I’m good,” Louis replies. “What do you want to do today?”

“Build a sand castle,” Harry says. “Possibly on top of myself after we man up and check our messages.”

Louis winces. He’s definitely not looking forward to that part of their day. “I’ll bury you alive if you drown me after?”

“My ghost will do its very best,” Harry promises solemnly. “Now come here. The hotel sent up a bottle of champagne to congratulate us on our marriage, and I really don’t want to be sober when we call the suits back.”

“Good plan,” Louis says. “Very much with you on that.”

Harry grins and reaches for the flutes standing on a fancy tray next to them. He pours them each a glass and hands one to Louis, holding up his own in mock salute. “To not being forced to marry a stranger.”

“I’ll drink to that,” Louis agrees, touching his glass to Harry’s. He’s about to raise it to his lips when Harry stops him.

“Wait. Let’s do it right.”

Louis frowns, then starts laughing as Harry hooks his arm around Louis’s, tilting his glass back while giving Louis a saucy smile.

Louis tilts his head back and downs his own glass in one go.


Harry’s warm. The sun is lovely. It’s making him all crisp and toasty. Like toast, except less burnt. Hopefully. He should probably put on some more sun block soon. He might also be a wee bit tipsy. Just a little, tiny bit.

He takes another sip of the fruity drink standing next to him in the sand. This one has strawberries in it. Harry likes strawberries.

Louis is playing in the water, body boarding close to shore since the surf rental place didn’t have the kind of surfboard he wanted. Harry watches him catch another wave that takes him almost all the way back to the beach. Harry raises his hand and motions for him to come closer.

“You all right?”

He’s dripping water on Harry’s legs. It’s cool and rather wonderful against his overheated skin. Harry sighs happily.

“Forget I asked,” Louis says. “You’re getting a bit burnt, though. Need some help?”

Harry mumbles something agreeable in response and nods his head in the general direction of his bag. Louis makes a show out of rolling his eyes, but leans down and rummages around their things until he finds the bottle he’s looking for. “All right, move over.”

Harry shifts a little to the left, and Louis sits down next to him on the sunbed. He pours some sun block into his hand and starts with Harry’s right foot, then moves upwards over his calf and knee, rubbing little circles into the skin he passes. He slows down as he reaches the midpoint of Harry’s thigh, hesitating briefly before moving back down to start on the left leg. He stops again once he’s done past the knee; Harry raises an eyebrow in quiet challenge and spreads his legs a fraction wider.

He can see a small blush start to creep up the back of Louis’s neck, but his face and body language is calm as anything as he starts kneading the muscles in Harry’s left thigh, pushing the fabric of Harry’s shorts higher as he goes. Harry tries to keep his breathing as even as he can, relaxing into Louis’s touch even as his body starts to react to the gentle pressure in a lot more exciting ways.

He can feel himself getting hard in his shorts, blood slowly filling his prick until it’s an insistent, aching pulse trapped between his legs. There’s no way Louis hasn’t noticed, not with the way his touch falters again, right at the top of Harry’s thigh, one thumb sneaking past the netting holding everything in place and pressing gently against the area right behind Harry’s balls.

And then, those lovely hands are gone again, coming down to work on the area around the knee on his other leg. Harry groans in frustration.

“You should drink some water, love,” Louis murmures. “Clear your head a bit.”

“‘M good here.” He tries to tilt his hips into Louis’s touch, wanting his fingers closer. Negative distance would be good. All warm and slick and sliding into him just right. Yes, please.

“You are the horniest drunk I know,” Louis says, withdrawing his hands with a small chuckle.

What? No. That’s not at all what Harry wants.

“Louis, come on.” God, he sounds desperate. Then again, whatever works.

“Have some water, Haz.” Louis sighs. “Interviews in a couple of hours, remember. Making amends and all that.”

Right. That. Five telephone interviews and one live stream to be precise. ‘Re-branding’ or some such. Apparently, now that their public image has shifted from ‘just friends’ to ‘married’, it’s critically important that they be the most revoltingly happy couple ever to grace the cover of a magazine.

“Hey,” Louis says, leaning closer so that he can press their foreheads together. If any paps are watching them right now, they’ll probably be able to retire early from the pictures they’re getting. “We’ll be fine. It’ll be just us, them and the best inside joke ever.”

Harry closes his eyes for a moment, pushing back the happy holiday haze. Fake marriage, inside joke, empty comments to a bunch of faceless reporters. He mentally checks a few topics off a list of things it’s likely they’ll be asked about and then looks back at Louis.

“Ready when you are.”


“It was sobeautiful,” Harry says. “A hundred live doves, cake as tall as myself, fifty thousand red roses. Everything I’ve always dreamed about.”

Louis bites his lip to keep himself from laughing out loud. They’re on their fourth interview, and with each one, Harry’s retelling of their wedding has grown more and more ridiculous. So far, their wedding has been a) parachuting out of a plane, b) barefoot on a beach, c) in a Scottish castle, Harry Potter style, and now, d) a fairytale affair in Tuscany, complete with a string quartet and five-star cuisine.

Louis has to give it to him: when Harry gets fake-married, he really goes all out. Louis is a lucky chap.

“So, Louis,” the reporter says, “tell me a little about the proposal. Who proposed? Did the other one see it coming?” For some reason, she’s the first one to ask. Which is too bad; Louis has some fantastic answers prepared for this one.

“Oh, I definitely saw it coming,” Louis says. “Harry hasn’t exactly been subtle about how eager he’s been for us to get married. I’ve been finding wedding mags sneakily added to my bedside drawer for months. Pics of rings on the mirror in the loo. Wedding cake samples in the fridge, that sort of thing. So when our anniversary was coming up, and he started fretting something terrible and smiling like a loon as soon as he thought I wasn’t looking, I figured he probably had something planned.”

The reporter positively melts at that, gushing about how incredibly sweet they are. Louis smirks. Harry—five year old that he is—pokes out his tongue at him.

“He brought me back to the X-Factor studio and dropped to one knee in the middle of the stage,” Louis continues. “Told me he’d known I was the one for him from the first day there.”

“I did,” Harry adds, pitching his voice into that low, low register that never fails to make people swoon. People in general, that is. Not Louis. He’s far too savvy to fall for obvious tricks like that. “I stood next to him on that stage and felt this surge go through me. Like I’d found a piece of myself I never knew was missing. I just didn’t know what it meant at the time.”

He looks away from Louis as he says it, almost like he’s embarrassed about his story. Louis frowns. There’s really nothing to be embarrassed about—the story’s pure gold, not to mention that, whether Harry meant it to or not, it will likely go a long way of appeasing the egos of their management reps. He can picture future An X-Rated Romance! and A Love That’s Got the X-Factor! headlines very clearly.

The reporter goes into a line of questions about how their new marriage is going to affect their music (“All love songs from now on. I need to find more words that rhyme with ‘Harry’, though.”), stageshow (“Much the same, really. I don’t think I’ll flirt with Louis less on stage just because we’re married”/“Good to know, babe. I was a little worried about us already losing the magic there for a second.”) and dynamic within the group (“Not at all. The lads are really very much used to us being disgustingly cute on the bus”). Once it’s finally over, Louis feels as though he’s been put through a grinder. His body is still out of shape from the jetlag, and his brain currently feels like wet mush.

“Time for a break,” he declares, walking over to the wall and pulling the plug on the room phone. “Live stream will just have to wait. I’m too exhausted to smile right now.”

Harry makes an agreeing noise and stretches out on top of the covers. His unnaturally long limbs cover almost the entire thing. Louis does what every sane person would do in that situation and curls up right next to him. Taking a nap feels like a brilliant way to spend whatever’s left of the day.


Harry wakes up first again. This time, however, instead of finding Louis on the other side of the bed, he’s in Harry’s arms, happily letting himself be spooned. They’ve both lost their shirts at some point, and there’s a naked shoulder right below Harry’s lips, one of Louis’s hands tangled with his and resting at the top of Louis’s surfer shorts, as well as one of Harry’s legs wedged between Louis’s, pressing their hips closely together.

Harry’s heart skips a beat, some kind of aroused-confused-more-than-a-little-guilty shock settling in and making him very aware of the fact that he’s more than half-hard and moving his hips in little stuttering grinds against Louis’s arse.

Not good.

He breathes in slowly, holds the air in his lungs for as long as he can and then lets it out carefully. He shifts back one inch, then another, and has already started to congratulate himself on his stealthy escape when Louis mumbles something unintelligible in his sleep and rolls over, effectively pinning Harry beneath him. He buries his face in Harry’s neck, and it’d be so very easy to just dip his head a bit and wake Louis up with a kiss. Harry swallows.

Definitely not a good idea.

Harry’s been here before, is the thing. First time he and Louis ended up in bed together was the same night as they’d been told that they’d been put through to the next round of X-Factor, as a group. The five of them had celebrated until the early hours of the morning, steadily drinking their way through several bottles of vodka. He remembers the first kiss, losing his balance and falling, giggling, into Louis’s lap. The way Louis had tilted his head up and given Harry a look that made a surge of heat go through Harry’s entire body. He’d grabbed Louis’s shirt and crashed their mouths together without thinking, and they’d rubbed off on each other right there on the sofa, too drunk and uncoordinated to do more, not caring where they were or whether any of their new band mates were still around to mind. When they woke up the next morning, Louis hadn’t even remembered.

It did get better after that. There was even a time while they were living together when almost every Thursday night was spent going to the pub, getting properly sloshed and then walking home together, Louis whispering dirty little things into Harry’s ear. It’d be hot and frantic or slow and lazy, but the one thing that never changed was that the next morning, Louis would always brush it off. He wouldn’t be dramatic about it, just joking around like it was any other day, being his usual flirty self and making passing comments along the lines of ‘Last night, eh? We were so bloody pissed. Also, my prick feels chafed. Can’t believe we actually did that.’ Simple enough to interpret, really.

Except every time, right when he woke up, there’d be a moment when Harry looked at Louis and thought maybe this time it’ll be different. It never was, and Harry got very good at pushing the nagging feeling of want to the back of his brain. The smart thing would probably have been to just not go drinking together, but when it comes to choosing between being smart and being with Louis, Harry has resigned himself to the fact that he’ll always make terrible choices.

He just loves Louis too much, is the thing. Not in love-love—he’s managed to keep himself out of that particular mess at least—but he’s gone through pretty much every other flavour, from crushing on him something fierce back when they first met, to feeling Louis’s warm presence with him everywhere he goes, like a permanent imprint, the same way he carries his mum and Gemma, his nan, the other lads.

Louis moves in his sleep, and Harry wants. He allows himself a moment of burying his face in Louis’s hair, breathing him in, before carefully extracting himself. Louis’s unspoken rules allow for drunk kisses and clumsy touches, not lazy mornings in bed discovering the finer details of just what it would take to utterly wreck both of them.

And there he goes again. Sometimes, Harry really hates his complete lack of control over his brain when it comes to Louis. He gets out of bed and narrowly manages to cross the suite without looking back.

Cold shower it is.


Louis has a love/hate relationship with live interviews. Especially live interviews with fans, since you never, ever know what kind of questions they will come up with. Granted, there is usually some kind of moderation going on, but things sneak through, and before you know it, you’re in a discussion about things you later realise you did not want posted on the internet forever. So Louis is a little wary, is all. Then again, Harry seems to love interacting with the fans in almost any setting, so Louis should be able to leave most of the weirder questions to him.

It all goes well until about ten minutes in. They field wedding questions, make silly faces at each other, show off their rings, and Louis starts to relax. He’d even go as far as to say he’s having fun. Which is, of course, when everything comes crashing down.

Did you cheat on Eleanor?

Louis does his best not to let his reaction show on his face. They’d been told that questions about El would be filtered out, same as with the telephone interviews they’d done. Obviously, someone has not got the memo. Or sent it off, Louis thinks bitterly.

The question is displayed at the top of the main chat window that everyone logged into the stream can see, so they can’t just ignore it. Before Louis can figure out how to play this particular minefield, a whole line of similar questions appear on the screen.

You did! Didn’t you?!

Just how long have you and Harry been together????!!!!

Why did you lie to us?

The last one is the worst, because what is Louis supposed to say? “I wasn’t lying to you then. I am now, though. Thanks for asking!” Next to him, Harry is reading the same questions with a worried frown on his face. Louis reaches for his hand under the table and gives it a warning squeeze when it looks like Harry is going to speak up. These questions are definitely ones that Louis needs to take care of himself.

“Okay, so I guess I should answer this,” he starts. “Because if I don’t, I know that someone—if not you people, then someone else—will think it’s a good idea to go bother El with this kind of bollocks. Which is what it is—utter bollocks. I never cheated on El. She was one of my best friends when we were dating, and she still is. My relationship with Harry has nothing to do with her.”

He looks at Harry, who gives him an encouraging smile. Louis rubs the top of his hand with his thumb in quiet thanks underneath the table.

“Now, the only thing I’ll say is that dating someone who’s never home, who travels all the time, who you’ll be photographed with almost every time you go out? That’s not an easy relationship. She had to take a whole lot of shit for my sake, and we both hated that. We did date for a while, and, as I said, she’s still a great friend, but we didn’t last nearly as long as the papers claimed we did.”

So far, it’s all perfectly true, so Louis shouldn’t have any difficulty making people believe this part. He wishes he hadn’t been quite so complacent about all the ways PR kept boosting the public relationship between El and him, however. Things would probably be easier for him and Harry now, if he’d put a stop to that earlier.

“I’d say we were pretty much over after the first year, definitely a couple of months after,” he finishes with a sigh. “You guys all know what the media is like, though. And I didn’t particularly want to be linked to every girl I ever talked to, just as El didn’t want to deal with being part of a high-profile breakup in the middle of her exams. So we figured we’d just not say anything. It was no one else’s business anyway, so we didn’t really see the harm in keeping the status quo. And then time just passed by really quickly.”

He takes a break and drinks some water. First part done. Fuck, he hates live interviews.

“Maybe I can shed some light on the rest,” Harry says, which, no. Harry does not have to deal with this particular problem.

“It’s okay, I have this.”

“I don’t mind,” Harry says, completely ignoring Louis giving his hand the warning squeeze again. “Now, you remember back when I said Louis was my first real crush? Well he was. It took me a stupidly long time to get over it too, but I did. Or thought I did, maybe.” He ducks his head, as though trying to hide a blush. It’s a very nice touch. Bonus points, Louis thinks.

“It’s hard to tell sometimes when you’re so close as the five of us are,” Harry says then. “You’re away from everyone else for so long, and you’re rather isolated during that time, so your band becomes your family in a very real sense. You’re always there for each other. When you’re happy, or sad, or need relationship advice, or just someone who will listen when everything falls apart. So I’ve loved Louis for a long time, same as I’ve loved Zayn, Niall and Liam, except with Louis, it was always—more. I don’t know how to explain it, really.”

He’s talking to Louis now, not the camera, and Louis will have to re-evaluate Harry’s acting skills, because everything he just said sounded completely sincere.

Louis swallows. “I think I always knew,” he says, which, where the hell did that come from? Next to him, Harry looks equally surprised, even though he’s hiding it well for the camera. Louis gives himself a mental shake and figures he might as well just charge ahead. Attack being the best defense and so on.

“Harry was just so easy to be around,” he continues, cringing a little. Sounding like a proper tit. Wonderful. “I just loved being with him.” Even worse, that. He takes another sip of water and tries to refocus. Timeline, right. They have one of those. Harry drew it up in sharpie on a napkin, even. “We got together about a year and a half ago. And kept it quiet for obvious reasons. And that’s all we’re willing to share. Next question, please.”

Next to him, Harry shuffles closer, then leans in and presses a soft kiss right below Louis’s ear. It makes Louis smile—Harry really knows what their fans tend to like—and he answers a couple of less intrusive questions easily.

They wrap up the session, and while Harry turns off the laptop, Louis heads straight for the minibar. He takes out two beers and tosses one to Harry, then nods his head towards the balcony and sets about getting himself royally pissed.


Harry’s head is spinning something terrible, and he knows he’s being far too loud for where they are, but right now, he can’t bring himself to care. He’s got both legs hooked over Louis’s shoulders and Louis’s mouth around his cock. It’s sloppy and rather uncoordinated, but still more than enough to bring Harry to the edge embarrassingly quickly.

“More,” he, well, begs is probably the most accurate word, not that Harry really cares about whatever pride he ought to have at the moment. “Louis, please. I need—please.”

He’s rewarded with two fingers, sliding into him oh so easily, working him open a little more roughly than Harry normally likes, but right now, it’s perfect. He moves his hips to get them deeper, tries to find the angle he needs and makes a needy whine in the back of his throat when he doesn’t. He pulls at Louis’s hair ineffectively, trying to get him to move. As much as he loves Louis’s mouth, it’s not enough. Not tonight.

Louis gets the hint and attempts some kind of sexy shimmy up Harry’s body that utterly fails and nearly lands both of them on the concrete. Not that Harry would even care at the moment; his only focus is grabbing Louis’s arm with one hand, helping him up to where he needs to be, while fumbling for the lube with the other. He needs this, needs it so, so fucking much.

When Louis finally pushes inside, Harry has to bite down hard on his lower lip to keep himself from crying out. He’s still loud enough that Louis actually puts a hand over his mouth, which really only makes matters a lot worse. Because now, all Harry can feel is how perfectly Louis’s body is pinning him to the sunbed and how tight the grip on his shoulder is, where Louis is holding on to keep himself balanced.

He comes in less than a minute, dizzy to the point of almost passing out from the combination of orgasm and all the beer in the minibar having already pickled his brain. Louis fucks him through it, and Harry wraps his legs around his lower back, holding on even when it starts to get too much. Louis is close now, his hips stuttering with every stroke, and Harry pulls him in even more, relishing the slight pain that’s starting to build in his lower body. He wants to feel this tomorrow, wants to have at least the slow ache whenever he moves to remind him that this actually happened.

“Jesus, Haz, so fucking good. Love you so fucking much. Never want to stop doing this, nev—oh fuck, I can’t—Haz, I—”

Harry grabs both sides of Louis’s face, pulls him down and shuts him up with a deep kiss. Louis moans into his mouth, shuddering above him as he comes, hips twitching helplessly as he rides it out and then collapses heavily on top of Harry. They keep kissing for a long time, staying connected until it isn’t physically possible anymore. Louis is beyond beautiful like this—all spent and boneless, looking perfectly content with the world. He falls asleep on Harry’s chest, snoring lightly, and Harry feels a familiar pang in his chest, followed by an even more familiar surge of anger at himself, because he just never learns, does he?

Or maybe it isn’t as bad as all that. Maybe he’s overreacting. At least he’s learnt not to listen to all the things Louis says during sex—things he doesn’t mean outside of the moment, that used to freak Harry out to no end. He knows Louis loves him, just not in the way it may sound like when he’s in the process of coming his brains out. Harry’s okay with that.

Really.


They get a very polite call from the front desk the next day, a deeply apologetic woman telling them in broken English that she in no way wishes to interfere in their personal affairs, but there have been some complaints, and would they please try to be a little more quiet from now on?

Louis laughs for almost an hour after he puts down the phone, and then continues to make jokes for the rest of the day.

Harry suggests they go downstairs and ask for directions to the nearest sex shop.