São Paulo, Brazil
1 Year, 4 Months into Presidency
“I’m not moping.”
“Technology’s come a long way, Lou,” Harry says. “I can see you pouting in high definition and everything, babe. You look just like Darcy did ten minutes ago.”
Louis turns his head to the laptop on the balcony table and sighs, deeply and morosely. Darcy always puts up a fight when it’s bedtime, regardless, but it’s a hundred times worse when Louis’ gone and she has to resort to goodnight kisses through a laptop screen. Those nights she goes full-out with her pouting and her puppy eyes, usually getting her way - curled up on Louis’ empty side of the bed and tucked against Harry’s chest. She’s a whole seven years old now, as she says, but she’s always been clingy like her dad when it comes to Louis.
It’s no wonder she’s got his pout.
“São Paulo’s no fun without you and the girls,” Louis confesses quietly, not bothering to hide his frown at this point. So maybe he is pouting, just a little bit. Or a lot.
The sun’s long set by now and the cool breeze from the ocean coast has begun to roll into the city, bringing the temperature down. Louis rubs his hands together for warmth and slides them underneath his thighs. São Paulo is dark, most of the overwhelming city lights dimmed in preparation for the fireworks, but the lights from the hotel room are bright enough for Harry to pick out the curves of his husband’s upper body, the lines of his face, the contours of his muscles. He’s picked up a tan in Brazil, Harry notices, and he hopes silently that it deepens during the rest of Louis’ stay.
Louis swallows past the lump in his throat and turns his head back to the city beneath him. Thousands of people parade the streets and the sidewalks, eagerly awaiting the fireworks celebrating the end of Parada do Orgulho -- São Paulo’s annual gay pride parade and the biggest in the world. Louis had come down three days ago for an agricultural development conference, but had decided to stay for the parade. It’s a landmark event for a US President, one that Harry couldn’t make because of the girls’ schooling.
Louis hadn’t been homesick, not in the least, but he does miss Harry and the girls. They’re always in the back of his mind no matter where he is in the world, so it’s no surprise that he misses them. He’ll be headed back to DC the day after tomorrow and Louis almost doesn’t want to go back. He wants to be with his family, but he also wants to stay in São Paulo, in the sun and on the beach and away from the White House for just a little longer, possibly.
And that makes him feel horribly, unbelievably guilty because he’s the President of the United States. He’s meant to run a nation and lead his people, not ache for a vacation – but in his defense, he hasn’t had a vacation yet. It’s a troubling combination, but Louis’ at least grateful for the days that he has had off. He may not be eager to get back in the flow of Washington life, but that doesn’t mean he’s any less focused or dedicated. Just a little tired, is all.
Harry must notice a change in his demeanor because he clears his throat loudly, until Louis snaps out of his daze and turns to face the webcam.
“You okay, baby?” he asks, tilting his head to the side. His eyes quickly scan Louis’ face for telltale signs of distress - pursed lips, distant gaze, mucking about with his hair.
“They’re not exaggerating when they say this is the most stressful job in the world,” Louis sighs, scrunching up his nose.
Louis doesn’t like complaining about his presidency – doesn’t really feel like he has a right to - but he hasn’t had the easiest first year and everyone’s noticed. The last thing that he needs is to complain to Harry, who left his job and their home in Chicago to stand by his side in Washington.
Louis focuses his attention on the corner of the screen, unable to look his husband in the eye.
“Do you ever…regret leaving Chicago?”
He notices from the corner of his eye how Harry sits up in his seat immediately.
Louis says leaving Chicago, but Harry knows it means letting me run for president.
Louis rolls his eyes. “No, Harold, I want you to lie to me, obviously,” he says, getting a chuckle out of Harry.
“I don’t regret leaving Chicago, Lou, never. Why? Do you?”
Louis fiddles with his thumbnails for a few moments before exhaling a shaky breath and finally speaking up.
“I don’t, no, but… Regret feels like it would be a lot easier to deal with than, like, second-guessing every major decision you’ve ever made. And yourself. Hypothetically, and all.”
The way Louis sees it, if he’d regretted leaving his Senate position, at least he could be miserable. But feeling insecure is so much worse, he thinks. It’s not borne from anger and frustration the way regret is. As President, Louis can’t express insecurity. If the media or the public sniff even a single hint of insecurity, then it’s not just him second-guessing himself. It’s the entire nation. Louis has to suck it up and not show an ounce of weakness. And it sounds cliché and over dramatic, but it’s the simple fact of the political world.
“Lou. There’s a reason why you’ve gotten where you are right now. You know that, right?” says Harry after a moment of silence, voice determined and confident. “I don’t follow you around blindly like the rest of the nation just because you’ve got a cute butt. Granted, I am your husband and I have more to benefit from doing so than most, but that doesn’t mean you’re in any of this on your own.”
Louis barks a laugh, much to his own surprise, and catches Harry’s eyes on the screen, glittered with mirth. “It always comes back to my butt with you, doesn’t it?”
Harry breaks into a wide grin, “Have you seen it lately?” He raises a suggestive eyebrow. “Because I haven’t actually, you know. I think I’m having separation anxiety or something.”
“That sounds awful, pal,” Louis sighs exasperatingly, still aware of his Secret Service men just a few feet away. He leans closer to the laptop and plugs his headphones in, noticing how Harry’s eyes brighten at the action. “If only there was something we could do to settle your horrible separation anxiety…”
Harry’s voice is deeper when Louis hears him through his headphones.
“Have you still got that exhibitionist kink of yours? I thought we settled that with Uruguay.”
‘Uruguay,’ as Harry and Louis refer to it simply, included three things: Harry fucking himself with his favorite vibrator on Skype, Air Force One, and a conference call with the President of Uruguay. In one ear, Louis had the President of Uruguay going at him in rapid Spanish about their upcoming elections and in the other, he had the soft whimpers of Harry, overcome with the best orgasm of his life. The sight of Harry getting himself off hundreds of miles away while Louis watched all the way up in Air Force One, the picture of innocence as he discussed trade agreements with the leaders of Uruguay, still sends shivers through Louis’ body. It was a lovely experience to say the least and probably why Louis’ got a soft spot for the nation of Uruguay now.
The only problem, of course, is that Louis hadn’t told Harry about the conference call going on at the same time.
Louis quirks an eyebrow and leans forward, elbows on the table and a grin on his lips. “But the roles are reversed this time.” He lowers his voice and speaks quieter, “When’s the last time I put on a show for you, H? Do you remember how much you enjoyed it last time?”
Harry’s face visibly heats up, a light red blush warming his cheeks at the memory. “We’re not having another Uruguay, Lou. Period.”
Louis huffs under his breath as if to ask, really? you think you can resist yourself? knowing just as well as Harry what the answer to that question is.
“I’m serious, Louis, stop. Don’t look at me like that.”
Harry squirms uncomfortably on the couch and bites his lip. “Like you’re undressing me in your head.”
“I thought you enjoyed it when I did that?”
“Louis,” Harry groans, dragging out his name. He pouts miserably and sags into the cushions and pillows, crossing his arms. “I don’t like it when you tease me like this, though.”
“When I’m thousands of miles away and can’t get on my—”
“I’m going to hang up on you if you finish that sentence.”
Louis grins widely, but before he can manage to fit in one last proposition, there’s a loud explosion from behind him and he’s reminded quickly of why he’s still on Skype with Harry in the first place. Twisting his neck and pulling his headphones out, Louis takes in the fireworks in the sky, exploding lights in greens and blues and reds that fizzle out slowly and fade into the navy black of the night.
He watches one more firework before turning back and fitting his headphones back in, carefully adjusting his laptop to make sure Harry can see the show behind him. It takes all of three seconds for Harry to go from horny and indignant to wide-eyed and excited.
“Jesus, Lou,” he mumbles in awe before barking a loud laugh and slapping a hand over his mouth. “Oh my God, Lou, that one’s shaped like a penis. Look!”
Louis really does mean to turn around and catch a glimpse of the show. That had been his intention the entire time, obviously, but then Harry breaks out into a wide grin and Louis doesn’t think he could possibly look away, ever. Even with 4,700 miles separating them, the way that Harry’s green eyes sparkle with childlike awe and the way his pink honey lips spread into a devastatingly beautiful smile, Louis feels like there’s barely a foot between them. It feels like he’s back in DC, like Harry’s close enough to kiss and hold and just touch, feel his warm skin and breathe in his scent.
It’s really only been a few days and they’ve had years to become accustomed to the feeling of being without one another, but Louis doesn’t like the way his lips feel when they’re not pressed against Harry’s. Or the way his right hand tingles with an ache when his fingers aren’t laced with Harry’s.
Skyping helps and phone sex is a gift from God, but there’s nothing that makes Louis feel whole like waking up next to his husband or being able to inhale the green apple scent of his shampoo. There are only so many words that can be exchanged before Louis just needs the comfort of silence and soft touches that speak for themselves.
“Still with me there?”
Louis snaps out of his daze. “Sorry, sorry. Just got a little distracted.”
“I can tell, yeah,” Harry giggles, tilting his head to the side knowingly.
Harry raises a suggestive eyebrow and usually Louis would pretend to at least be affronted, but he doesn’t even bother putting up an act this time. Sometimes it’s not so bad when it’s Harry doing the teasing, he thinks.
“Enjoying the view, huh?” asks Harry with grin.
Behind him, Louis suspects that the people of Brazil have put on quite the firework show. He’s sure it’s absolutely beautiful, a rainbow of colors and designs and patterns that he’ll maybe never see again. The sounds of the explosions set a steady thumping pace against his pulse and the light winds of the sea cool his overheated skin.
Louis takes a deep breath and sighs, “I am, yeah.”
“Are you going to at least pretend to glance at the fireworks?”
“Nah,” he shrugs. “Much prefer what I’ve got here, if I’m honest.”
He worries for a second that Harry’s going to groan and roll his eyes, tell him how horribly sappy he is when he’s on his own. But instead Harry’s devious grin turns into a blushing smile and Louis thinks he’s okay for now, even if he is 4,700 miles away from his husband on paper.
The minute that Louis walks into the bedroom on Sunday morning, Harry senses it. He doesn’t typically, because more often than not Louis arrives during the day and sees a thousand different people before he can even get to say hello to his husband.
But Sunday morning is an exception to the norm.
It must be three or four in the morning, Harry’s not sure. It’s not exactly like he’s been sleeping anyways since Darcy had only just fallen asleep about two hours back and all her excitement over Louis’ arrival had transferred onto Harry. His body is always working on overtime when Louis’ on his way home from a trip, but it’s almost as if he physically can’t rest knowing that Louis’ finally close enough to touch, hold, kiss.
So when the bedroom door creaks open, Harry’s barely surprised that his droopy eyes snap open. He’s belly flat on his side of the bed when Louis tries to tip-toe into the room, but Harry’s eyes find his small figure even in the darkness.
Louis moves slowly, toeing off his shoes by the closet and then stripping down to absolutely nothing at all, leaving his clothes in a pile by the vanity. He pulls his sweater over his head and steps out of his khakis. And even though Harry can barely pick out anything but the silhouette of his lithe form, his movements are almost hypnotic, hard to draw his eyes away from. Soft, languid movements until he’s nothing but bare skin and sleepy bones.
Louis crawls onto his side of the bed and he’s not even pulled the duvet over himself – barely been on the bed for ten seconds – before he’s searching for Harry’s body in the dark. He puts his arm out and when it comes in touch with the soft cotton of Harry’s t-shirt, he sighs contently and grabs a fistful of the fabric. He holds onto it, doesn’t move an inch.
Harry smiles in the dark and he knows Louis can see it, feel it all around.
“Yeah,” he sighs, with a wide grin on his face, “Still up.”
Louis squeezes Harry’s shirt once more and holds on for a few extra seconds before he lets go and curls up against Harry.
“Good,” he mumbles into Harry’s neck, “M’too tired to go to sleep now.”
Louis’ breath is warm against his skin, the tip of his nose chilly when he runs it across Harry’s collar, lips chap where he kisses the jut of his bones; his neck; his chest, right over his heart. Harry’s body physically relaxes into the touch and his arm comes around to rest on the dip of his waist, pulling their bodies flush together.
“Flight was okay?” Harry asks nonchalantly, like his fingers aren’t grazing the curve of Louis’ ass and Louis isn’t completely naked, pressed against his body.
Louis hums, “Was fine. Had a bit of trouble though.”
“Yeah? What happened?”
Harry finds himself frowning and subconsciously digging his thumb into the small of Louis’ back, trying to get rid of the tension or something. It’d be a shame if Louis had to endure such a long flight all the way from Brazil with any aches or pains, Harry thinks. The thought of it alone makes him pout even deeper.
He’s so lost in his head about poor flight conditions and turbulence that he’s caught off guard entirely when Louis pushes his groin even closer. Almost like he’s trying to show Harry just how much he really can’t go to sleep, Louis rubs his hard cock against Harry’s hip.
“Louis—” Harry barely manages to choke out before Louis continues rutting against him, warm tufts of air slipping from his lips as he pants against Harry’s skin – already wet from his kisses – where his face is buried in the crook of his neck.
Harry has no clue where this is going, how long Louis’ going to last, if he has any intention of taking it further, but he grabs Louis’ ass in his palm and squeezes roughly, pushes their bodies closer together so that Louis isn’t just rutting against his hipbone, but against his pajama-clad, hardening cock. He feels breathless at the rough friction, feels like he’s in high school all over again and discovering how good it feels to have another boy pressed up against him, coming to the realization that no girl could ever give him what a boy could.
He’s overwhelmed in seconds, it feels like, and Louis’ delicate moans don’t help his case much either. The bruising kisses he litters around Harry’s chest also don’t help, and the way he digs his fingers into the lovehandles still at the ends of Harry’s hips definitely don’t make it easier for him to breathe.
“Wanted—” Louis pants breathlessly, “wanted to fuck you so bad on the plane. Feel you inside me. God, your fingers—” His hips stop stuttering for a moment and Louis gasps. He needs a minute to collect himself, to breathe in deeply and keep himself from coming just from a bit of dry humping.
When he speaks up again, his voice is much cooler, calmer. Straight forward with its intentions.
“Tried to fuck myself on the flight over but I couldn’t get my fingers deep enough, not like you.”
Harry’s breath catches and he feels himself freeze up, “Lou—”
As if to prove a point, Louis arches his back and grinds against Harry’s palm, the one still cupping his ass with fingers splayed wide across the skin.
“S’been a while, hasn’t it?” Louis mouths at his neck, bearing his teeth before lapping his tongue over the skin. “When’s the last time you fucked me, Harry?” Louis asks, his voice almost teasing. “When’s the last time it was your fingers stretching me open?”
Harry makes some undecipherable noise in the back of his throat. God. He can’t remember the last time they’d fucked, much less the last time it was him inside of Louis, his cock wrapped up in tight heat and Louis’ legs thrown over his shoulders.
It’s been a while.
Louis doesn’t bother to let Harry reflect on the matter for much longer, quickly flipping over so that his back is pressed to Harry’s chest, bare ass squeezed up against his hard cock. He’s not quite fond of the way the fabric of Harry’s pajama bottoms feel, covering up the one thing that he’s been gagging for for hours.
Louis twists his arm in between their bodies and slides a hand inside Harry’s sweatpants, wraps his fist around the base of his cock and pulls it out. It takes maybe all of five seconds for Harry to rip off his clothes in response.
Even after all these years, Louis is still taken aback by the sheer size of Harry, how absolutely massive he is when Louis holds him in his hands or fits his mouth around him, sucks him off until his jaw aches and he can barely move his wrist. Louis’ always preferred to top, but occasionally he just desperately needs to be fucked, and he’s awfully thankful during those moments that his husband’s got a massive cock that he knows how to use.
Louis tugs at Harry’s cock until it’s good and hard – just how he needs it – before rubbing his thumb against the vein on the underside and pressing the leaking tip along the curve of his ass. Harry buries his face into Louis’ neck and bites down on his shoulder to keep from screaming, from fucking into Louis' dry hole, right then and there. Just feeling so little when he could feel so much, is actually what drives Harry crazy, because he knows what it’s like to bottom out and feel nothing but Louis’ velvety inside from the tip of his cock all the way to the base.
Of course, when Harry’s hip stutters out of Louis’ control and his cock slips out of his hand and in between his cheeks, Louis freezes. Consequently, Harry does too, afraid he’s gone too far, too fast.
But then Louis lets out a small moan and circles his hips, squeezing around Harry’s cock. He grinds back and picks up his speed, getting the entire length of Harry’s cock to slide against his hole over and over.
It only lasts for a few moments before Louis is pulling away, stopping all action, and Harry is lifting his head up, trying to catch his breathe.
“Fuck, Louis,” he exhales. A shiver runs through his body and his arm reflexively tightens around Louis who chuckles brightly.
“Yes. Precisely that, baby, come on now.”
He flips onto his belly and rests his head on his crossed arms, settling comfortably on the mattress with a smile on his face. When he doesn’t feel Harry shift, he turns to rest his head on his cheek and glances at him.
“Well? Are you going to fuck me or am I going to have to use my fingers again?”
Even with nothing but the dim glow of moonlight, Harry can easily pick out the droopy crinkles by Louis’ eyes, the mischievous curve of his grin. He looks sleepy and warm and very naked, like he’s been waiting for the last nine and a half hours to feel Harry inside him.
Harry can’t help but roll his eyes and laugh, quickly pressing a kiss to Louis’ mouth before leaning over his bare back to grab the lube from the bedside table.
“Black cherry or pomegranate?” he asks, squinting his eyes to read the labels.
Louis shrugs underneath him, “S’gonna be you eating me out in the end, Haz. You can decide.”
Harry’s dick twitches but his body stills. It feels like too much, too fast and there’s a blood rush to his head, his fingers shaking where they grip the black cherry bottle of lube that’s already halfway gone.
“A little needy tonight, aren’t we?” he finally manages to croak out, voice low and heavy. He grabs the bottle, closes the drawer, and settles back over Louis’ body on one arm. “My fingers,” he presses a kiss to Louis’ shoulder, “My cock,” another on the other side, “My mouth,” a kiss to the back of his neck, right underneath his hairline. Harry leans forward and brushes his lips against Louis’ ear, feels him shiver underneath his chest. “Won’t be able to walk for days, will you? Is that the plan?”
Louis huffs. “Would be, if you picked up the pace,” he mumbles into his elbow.
Harry’s barely coated his finger before he’s slipping it inside Louis’ entrance, down to the knuckle on the first try. Louis arches his back, body taut like a bow and grinds down onto Harry’s finger with a pleased hum.
There’s something oddly relaxing about being fingered, Louis thinks. The feeling of being full, but not quite. Driven to the edge, but not pushed over. Maybe it’s just how Harry does it; how he goes slowly, tucks his fingers inside Louis and fucks him until he’s boneless and whimpering. It gets Louis in this pliant, sleepy state when he’s being stretched open and prepared to take Harry’s cock in its entirety.
By the time Harry’s three fingers in, Louis is stretched open with black cherry flavored lube dripping out of him. He’s moved his arms from underneath his head to rest flat across the bed, rutting languidly against the mattress and clenching around Harry’s long fingers as he begs for more.
Harry wraps his lips around Louis’ earlobe, soft and small on his tongue and between his teeth. “More?” he whispers, though he already knows the answer.
Harry wastes no time slicking his cock up generously, surprising even himself when he doesn’t come right then at the feel of his hand wrapped around himself. Even after all these years, Harry still hasn’t learned quite yet how to stave off his orgasm when fucking Louis, thinks maybe he’ll never learn.
But that, of course, is the beauty of repetition. Practice does make perfect, after all.
Harry gets on his side and wraps a hand around Louis’ hip, pulling him up so that they’re chest-to-back again.
“Can’t remember the last time I fucked you like this,” he hums into Louis’ shoulder, dotting it with kisses.
Louis lift his leg up and pushes back against Harry. “Always good to have a refresher—”
He’s cut off when the tip of Harry’s wet cock nudges against his hole and even then he’s only got a second to breathe before Harry’s thrusting into him all the way in in just one go. Louis is still so tight around him even with all the prep, clenching like a vice in a staccato pattern; squeezing and letting go in quick intervals.
“Forgot how big you were,” he chokes out after a moment of silence as he adjusts to the feel of Harry inside him. “Fuck, Harry.” He moves an arm to grab a fistful of Harry’s hair, forcing Harry’s mouth back on his neck, “Don’t go soft on me now, baby. We’re nowhere near done.”
Even like this, with a cock in his ass and Harry panting against his wet lovebites, Louis still manages to have the upper hand and get his way. A power bottom of the best kind and Harry has no qualms about letting it stay that way.
It does help, though, to shut Louis up when he starts thrusting fast and shallow, snapping his hips and rocking Louis’ body against his. Harry squeezes his hips and digs his fingers into his skin, the bones of Louis’ hips sharp against his palm when he uses it to his advantage and starts fucking deeper, rougher. He keeps up his pace and then quickens it so that he’s pounding into Louis’ now, making sure he’s no longer sleepy and pliant, but taut and breathless.
Harry wants it to last for Louis, the feeling of his cock brushing against his prostate and fucking into him so deeply that it’s just this side of toe-curling beautiful. He wants to fuck Louis until it hurts to sit down, until he’s limping out of bed. And when Louis stands in a room with Congressmen and ambassadors of the like, he wants them to know that it was Harry who was pounding into him at three in the morning.
When Harry feels his orgasm just a breath away, he wraps his fist around the base of Louis’ cock. “Not yet,” he stresses, “Want you to come from just my mouth.”
Harry leans over and presses his mouth against Louis’ and kisses him sloppily. It’s entirely tongue and saliva and Louis squeezes himself all around Harry, whimpering in breathy moans. It’s enough to get him thrusting faster, more relentless as he hits at Louis’ prostate without the intention of a release any time soon.
“Wanna eat you out so bad, Lou,” he whispers into Louis’s mouth, “Wanna fill you up with my come and get my tongue inside you, let you fuck my face until you come.”
Louis yells out a string of foul words before he’s gripping at Harry’s hair, squeezing it right from the scalp until his wet mouth is pressed to his ear. The burn at his scalp, the heat around his cock, and his own words of so much more push Harry over the edge and he comes, eyes shut tight. His orgasm washes over him long and in waves and Harry welcomes it openly, just barely conscious enough to keep his grip around the base of Louis’ cock to make sure he doesn’t come, too.
He doesn’t give himself long to soak it in and enjoy himself before he’s flipping Louis onto his back and shuffling down. Harry’s memorized Louis’ body like the back of his palm, so when he throws Louis’ legs over his shoulders and rests his palms on his thighs, it takes him less than no time to lick a fat strip over Louis’ wet and dripping hole. Harry mouths at the stretched entrance, the pink skin fluttering eagerly against his mouth, happily welcoming Harry’s tongue when he slides it in and languidly starts licking him clean.
It’s an odd combination, the taste of his come mixed with his favorite black cherry lube and Louis, still, underneath it all. His mouth and chin and face get wet with the combination, but Louis is so open and smooth against his tongue, bearing himself down on his face for moremoremore and Harry obliges easily, always has. He licks and he sucks and he pushes himself closer, further, deeper inside Louis until it gets hard to breathe and he can no longer hear Louis’ whimpering and moaning his name because his thighs are pushed so tightly against his ears.
Harry finds himself encompassed by Louis entirely, feeling and tasting him everywhere, deeper in some places than others. And if it weren’t for the way Louis’ body stills when he finally reaches his peak, Harry wouldn’t be reminded that it’s Louis who’s supposed to be getting off, enjoying it more than him.
Eventually Louis’ legs slide off his shoulders and Harry peppers kisses against his shiny, pink hole -- and his cheeks, the insides of his thighs, up his belly where he licks up the white ropes of come -- before crawling back up and collapsing onto his back. Louis curls up against him immediately and opens his mouth up to kiss Harry, taste himself on his husband’s tongue. This time when they kiss, it’s slower, sleepy and finally sated.
“Was that worth the wait?” Harry asks between kisses once they’ve devolved to just small little pecks.
Louis nods, eyes still blissfully closed, and presses a kiss to the corner of Harry’s bruised mouth.
“Mmm,” he hums, “You’re always worth the wait.”
Harry tries to hide the awfully wide grin that spreads across his face, but he must fail in doing so because Louis kisses him again and the two of them break into a fit of giggles.
“You should remind yourself that next time you decide to finger yourself on Air Force One,” Harry points out.
“Do you think I could get away with taking one of our toys up on there?”
Harry rolls his eyes and wraps his arms around Louis, hugging him close to his chest. He knows Louis’ probably seriously planning out his next trip and the logistics of using a dildo 30,000 feet up in the air, but for right now, it just feels good to be able to hold his husband in his arms and keep him close.
“M’glad you’re home, Lou,” Harry whispers against Louis’ mouth and nuzzles close. “Missed you so much.”
Louis sighs and brings his arms up to wrap them around Harry’s neck, gently sliding his fingers into his hair and massaging at his scalp – probably trying to ease the pain he caused earlier.
They never really discuss how awful it is to be apart so often; even when they’re in the same city, in the same house. Their schedules never match up and there’s just never enough time where it’s just them, alone and together.
They don’t talk about it; it’s too much.
“I know, baby,” Louis whispers back, tightening his arms around Harry and pressing himself closer. He swallows past the lump in his throat and exhales a deep breath. “I’ll always come back though, I promise. I’m sorry.”
Harry shakes his head. “Don’t apologize.”
Harry laughs, the sound of it lighting up the tension in the room. He presses kisses to Louis’ bruised lips, his scruffy chin, sharp cheekbones, before finally resting his head on the pillow and pulling Louis over so that they’re sharing one.
“I love you a ridiculous amount, do you know that?”
Probably, Harry’s eyes are open and he’s staring at Louis like the weirdo that he is, but Louis doesn’t know because he keeps his closed and just shuffles closer, nuzzling their noses together. “Kind of guessed, what with that wedding ring and all,” he shrugs.
When Harry kisses him one last time, it’s with a smile on his lips and a love you so much pressed to Louis' mouth.
2 Years, 4 Months into Presidency
Louis lands in Tokyo half past nine in the evening just as it’s gone on seven in the morning back in Washington. By the time he’s settled into his hotel room and taken a shower, it’s nearly midnight and Louis’ already got a terrible case of jetlag. The lights in the city are still bright and if he squints a little, he can see the faint blue glow of the Skytree tower. He’d read somewhere that the tower alternates every day from sky blue to royal purple, the blue a symbol of modern day Japan and the purple a reminder of centuries’ worth of Japanese heritage. Something about todays and tomorrows and yesterdays being connected, all of which give a glimpse into the future of the nation.
It’s comforting, both the idea of the overwhelming structure and the soft pulsating color, making Louis’ eyes droop and muscles loosen, body sagging into the mattress. The ceiling-high glass windows make it easy for Louis to count the illuminated buildings of Tokyo as if they’re sheep and he’s still in elementary school with a fear of the dark. Thankfully he hasn’t got a balcony this time so Secret Service isn’t standing tall in the dark of the room. Louis thinks he’s used to the lack of privacy that comes with the job, but it isn’t until he actually has privacy that he realizes just how much he’s missing out on.
He doesn’t even have his own phone, is the thing. He had to give that away the week after he was inaugurated. “If there’s anything you need, we can get it for you,” is what Perrie and Paul had told him. Whether it be a conference call with the UN Security Council or a video recording of Harper juggling at her school’s talent show, there’s always someone there who’ll provide him with what he needs.
It still makes Louis feel a little uncomfortable after the fact. He grew up on next to nothing in the south side of Chicago where he couldn’t even afford new shoes for school until Jay married Dan and they moved to the suburbs. To a ‘schmoozy, rich people house,’ as Lottie had referred to it. And then all of a sudden, Louis was a sophomore at some private school with a dress code and everything and two years later, he was enrolling at Princeton, a few years later at Harvard. He doesn’t think he ever really fit in with the rich kids of Harvard and suburban Illinois, but at least he’d been able to put on a show for them all those years.
And as ridiculous as it sounds, Louis knows he’s still quite the actor. He’s new money and Harry is old money and Niall is basically no money, hailing all the way from rural Pennsylvania, but somehow they’ve managed to make it to the White House. Either way, no money or new money or old money, Louis doesn’t particularly enjoy having people cater to his every whim, even though he’s well aware that it’s their job and they’re paid to do so. To ‘serve at the pleasure of the President.’
He’ll get used to it, eventually, probably. Maybe by the time he’s out of the White House with permanent security service until his deathbed, it won’t bother him anymore. By then, he’ll probably have his own phone again, he thinks. And that’ll be nice. Private text messages and intimate phone calls.
Just as Louis’ closing his eyes for the first time in hours, drifting off with thoughts about homes by the water and no more press conferences, there’s a knock on the door.
Groaning, Louis buries his face into the soft fabric. He knows he’s going to get out of bed and answer Paul, but for just the next ten seconds he wants to pretend like he doesn’t have to.
“Yes, Paul?” Louis asks when he’s finally gotten up and opened the door.
“You said to inform you if Mr. Tomlinson had called.”
Paul holds out an iPad for him, one with Harry grinning wildly on the screen.
“Thank you, Paul.” Louis grabs the device and rolls his eyes, “And how many times have I told you that you can just call him Harry? It’s not like he’s some fancy leader of a nation, or anything.”
“Hey!” Harry's voice booms from the speakers of the iPad.
Paul bites back a smile. “I would, but Mr. Tomlinson says he’d prefer me not to do so.”
Paul nods once before turning back around and down the hallway. “Have a good night, Mr. President. I’ll see you in the morning.”
Louis says one last thank you before making his way back into the room and locking the door behind him. He’s reluctant to turn the lights on so he settles straight back under the covers and hopes that the bright lights of Tokyo will suffice.
“Heeey, I can barely see you,” Harry pouts almost immediately.
Louis wriggles around until he’s on his side and props the iPad against a pillow, “I’m sure you’ll survive, H. M’not exactly a sight for sore eyes at the moment.”
On the screen Louis can see that Harry’s propped up his iPad against a pillow, too, and has his head rested against his hands. It’s comforting knowing that even when they’re apart, Harry is still on his side of the bed and Louis on his. It feels like they’re inches apart instead of a couple continents and oceans separating them.
“I miss you,” Harry whispers quietly, biting at the corner of his lip.
“It’s not even been 24 hours, Harry, come on now.”
“A couple extra hours won’t make me miss you any less.”
Louis knows that Harry doesn’t say these sort of things to hurt him or worsen his loneliness, but it definitely doesn’t make it easier for Louis to go to bed on his own when Harry holds his heart on his sleeve.
Like he’s reading Louis’ thoughts, Harry quickly says, “I’m sorry.”
Louis has to bite back his usual response of ‘I hate it when you apologize for being yourself,’ knowing how easily the conversation can devolve into one a lot deeper and more serious than strictly necessary for a small chat before bedtime.
Instead, Louis smiles softly, a little pained, and sighs, “Sorry, I miss you, too.”
“S’okay. I know the feeling.”
Harry’s explained on multiple occasions that they’re not clingy or codependent, nothing unhealthy. Louis and Harry can function perfectly fine on their own and have had enough practice to be used to it. But at the end of the day, it’s really something as small as waking up to an empty bed that will have Louis aching for Harry and vice versa. Louis’ favorite thing in the world is seeing Harry first thing in the morning – and the last thing before bed – and if he could just have those two things every day for the rest of his life, he thinks he’ll be just fine.
“I’m gonna let you get some sleep—”
“But,” Harry starts to grin.
It’s early in the morning in DC and it must be a sunny one at that because Louis can clearly see all the little details of Harry’s face. Wrinkles by his eyes, two-day-old stubble, the excitement behind his smile.
“But, I have some exciting news and I couldn’t wait until you got back to tell you.”
Louis bites his cheek. Off the top of his head he can’t think of what on earth Harry could be referring to, but then again he rarely does anyways.
“So exciting that you had to tell me about it the second you woke up? Is it that kind of exciting?” Louis raises an eyebrow, slowly starting to grin himself.
“Well—yes, then. Two types of exciting,” Harry answers with a warm blush on his cheeks.
Louis would like to kiss him very much right now. And other things.
“You know, the sooner you tell me about the first part, the sooner you can tell me what color your panties are, darling.”
Louis doesn’t have to be in bed beside him to know how a certain part of Harry’s body has just twitched with excitement, if the way his eyelashes flutter momentarily is anything to go by.
“Lou,” Harry groans, “You can’t—you’re not allowed to say things like that when I’ve barely just woken up.”
Louis chuckles, “If my memory serves me right, that’s your favorite way to be woken up.”
“Not if you’re not here to—” and he stops abruptly, huffing in faux annoyance. “We’re not going to have this conversation, Lou.”
“Okay, okay, I’m sorry. Tell me what’s got you so… animated this morning.”
Harry rolls his eyes, but continues anyways. “Do you remember that appointment we went to a few weeks ago?”
Louis’ heart stops. He sits up immediately, grabbing the iPad and holding it in his hands, knuckles white. “The appointment?”
“With Emmy, yeah.”
“Shit,” Louis breathes out. The iPad drops from his hands and onto to his lap. Louis buries his face in his hands and in the back of his mind, he notes the way they shake, how his breathing has gotten shallow. “Shit, shit, shit,” he repeats, “How far along is she?”
“Five and a half weeks.”
Louis barely manages to choke out a, “Five and a half weeks!” before Harry is giggling and rambling on excitedly over him.
“Louis—oh my god, Lou, Lou. She’s five weeks along and she should be here around Christmas. Emmy says—”
Harry pauses and sits up, lips pouting just the smallest amount. “Well, I mean, we don’t know yet, but I feel like it’s gonna be a girl. Emmy thinks so, too. She says she’s got a gut feeling about it.”
“Are you sure that’s not just gas?”
They go off a tangent for a few minutes there, something about gas and morning sickness and what Emmy went through when she had Darcy and Harper. When they’d started talking about another child, Louis and Harry had both agreed that they’d wanted a boy this time. But over the last two months Louis can’t imagine having anything but another little girl. And even though Harry feels the same, they haven’t discussed the change in heart. At the end of the day, though, he doesn’t really think it matters, because they’ll love their baby regardless. Their third baby.
“Jesus,” Louis sighs, collapsing onto his back and looking up at the ceiling. His heart is still racing, but it feels so natural at this point that he’s used to it and the butterflies in his tummy that compliment it. “Doesn’t ever get easier to wrap your head around, does it? Feels like just yesterday that Darce and Pez were born -- gosh. Do you remember how tiny they were?”
“I used to be able to hold them both in one arm,” Harry recalls quietly.
The iPad’s a few feet away, somewhere by his knees, but Louis can hear the nostalgia in Harry’s voice easily. Probably because he feels it, too.
“Remember when Darcy got her first cold?”
Louis chuckles. “You mean the one week of her life that Darcy didn’t spend crying her eyes out?”
“That was the only time Pezza ever cried,” Harry giggles.
The girls were barely a year old, then, and while Darcy was always the crier of the family, Harper never once gave her dads a problem – except for that week of Darcy’s first cold. Neither Harry nor Louis can explain it even after all these years, but Harry swears it’s another one of those ‘twin connection thingies’ that the girls are always on about; Harper crying in favor of her older sister because she’d been too sick to do so herself.
“I can’t believe we’re having another baby.” Louis flips onto his side and buries his face into a pillow, holding back a squeal.
Harry’s voice is muffled, the iPad lost somewhere in the sheets now, when he does squeal. A very manly one at that, but a squeal nonetheless.
“Have you told the girls yet?” Louis asks.
“Not yet, no. I just got Emmy’s phone call and I haven’t been able to get out of bed. I feel like my insides are gonna explode.”
Louis feels around for the iPad and brings it back to his face, close and in his hands just like Harry is doing thousands of miles away.
“Wait ‘til I get back so we can tell them together,” Louis says, “I can’t wait to see their reaction.”
“That should be fun,” Harry chuckles. “The girls’ teacher dropped Marcel off again and Pez has been cradling him like a baby since. I think our eight year old’s got baby fever, Lou.”
“Marcel’s back? Again?”
Harry rolls his eyes. “Does Marcel ever leave?”
It’s been a few weeks since Louis’ last seen the bunny, Harper and Darcy’s class pet whom they’ve grown attached to since the first day of school. Louis wonders if the little guy’s grown a bit since his last visit, but he definitely doesn’t doubt that Harper must be up to something. She’s probably using her natural born charm to convince her classmates into giving up their turn with Marcel to her. Her dad is the president after all, and Harper’s more than smart enough to use that as leverage.
The bunny cradling, on the other hand, is a whole other issue.
“I feel like we should be worried about the whole baby fever thing,” Louis starts, “but she is your daughter. I think I’d be more concerned if she wasn’t slightly obsessed with babies.”
Harry pouts, “I’ve never been obsessed. That’s an unfair dramatization of what is entirely a natural part of human behavior.”
“No no no no, no,” Louis quickly corrects him, “You don’t get to bring ‘human nature’ into this. This has nothing to do with human nature, this is all you, H. The first thing that you did when we moved into our house was decorate the nursery. And we weren’t even married then, Haz.”
In Harry’s defense, by the time they’d moved into their first house together, they were engaged and the wedding was only a few months away. It’s not like he’d prematurely jumped the boat, because they’d both always been very clear about their desire to start a family together.
Harry just happened to be more vocal about it. The most vocal about it. Practically wrote a song or two about it.
“You were so awful,” Louis giggles as little bits of their first few years together come to mind.
“Stooop.” Harry pouts yet again, groaning and drawing his plea out, “You already know it’s gonna be ten times worse when the baby comes, you’re not allowed to make fun of me about it. You’re officially banned from all teasing.”
The words light an excited flame in Louis’ belly. He’d momentarily forgotten why Harry had called in the first place, but now that it’s come to his attention again, Louis’ legs start jiggling against the covers and his teeth pull at his bottom lip as he tries to bite back the embarrassingly wide grin on his face.
He really can’t poke fun at Harry’s baby fever when he’s never been much better himself.
“It’s getting late,” Harry finally says after a few moments of silently staring at each other on their screens, “I should probably let you get to bed.”
“Yeah, I should – sleep, yeah. S’late.”
Harry chuckles quietly and the smile on his face is a private, Sunday morning twist of the lips. Louis still wants to kiss him so much.
“I’ll see you in a few days.”
“Just nine days, I think.”
“Try not to get yourself too worked up,” Harry sighs. He scrunches up his nose and yawns, momentarily a spitting image of Dusty, Harry and Gemma’s childhood kitten. He shakes his head and slowly closes his mouth before another yawn come outs. “And don’t forget to bring the girls kimonos, they’re still angry about not getting anything from Brazil.”
Louis raises an eyebrow. He can’t even remember the last time Darcy willingly put on a pair of pants, so he can’t imagine why on earth they’d want kimonos. He doesn’t say anything about it though, knowing Harry is subtly hinting that he wants one, too. Louis wants to tease him about it, but instead decides to just shrug it off and say a final goodnight and goodbye.
He adds kimonos to his list of souvenirs to buy, makes sure to see if they’ve got any in infant size. He’s got a baby on the way.
Louis is halfway through a story about his trip to Okinawa when Harry comes barging into the Oval Office, face red and absolutely fuming.
“Louis,” he says, exasperated.
“Harry, hey,” Louis tries to smile. He quickly gets off the couch and crosses the room to stand in front of his husband. “D’you need something, babe? I’m kind in the middle of something right now.”
He nudges his shoulder to the center of the room where Perrie and Zayn are sat awkwardly, pretending like they can’t hear the conversation.
Harry’s eyes widen in disbelief. “Are you serious right now? How long have you been back?”
“A couple hours, maybe. Paul said you weren’t home when I got in—”
“And you didn’t think to call and tell me that you got home safe?”
Louis bites his lip. Maybe he did fuck up, a little bit, but Paul had told him that Harry was at Gemma's. He just didn't want to have Harry running to his every need the minute he gets back on American soil. Yes, he probably should have called, but the plane ride from Tokyo took fourteen fucking hours and it's a miracle that he can even formulate full sentences. Louis thinks he’s allowed a little slip up.
When he explains this much to Harry, he doesn’t exactly get the response he’d expected.
“I don’t give a fuck if that plane ride took thirty-two fucking hours, Louis Tomlinson,” Harry grits out. He takes a step closer and crowds up against Louis until he’s sure Perrie and Zayn won’t be able to hear him, and whispers harshly, “I’ve been waiting nine days to get my hands on you. Now, get Pez and Zayn out of this room right this minute or it’s going to be nineteen days before I even think about putting my hands on you.”
Louis feels his heart quicken its pace in his chest, a coiling pull growing in his groin as he takes a step back to look Harry properly in the eyes, making sure he’s not just fucking around so he can yell at Louis without any witnesses. Harry’s got his brows furrowed, a serious this-is-a-matter-of-life-and-death-Louis-William-Tomlinson plea in his eyes.
“Pez,” Louis hears himself say, eyes still locked on Harry’s, “Could we pick this up after lunch perhaps? Harry and I…”
“We’ve got a few things to attend to,” Harry finishes for him.
“Yes, sure, no problem,” Perrie says quickly. She mumbles something to Zayn and the two of them grab their things and hurriedly make their way out the exit on the other side of the room.
“It’s good to have you back, Mr. President,” Perrie says with a hand on the door as Zayn slides out.
Harry spares her a glance and smiles, genuinely this time. “I think so, too, Pez. Could you be a life saver and clear my husband’s schedule for the next hour, pretty please?”
“Yeah, sure. He’s just got briefing with Zayn at five, but he should be free for the rest of the day.”
“And if anyone tries to reach him?”
Perrie rolls her eyes and laughs. “‘Unless the world is coming to an end, absolutely no interruptions or visitors,’” she states, the same way she has since the day she joined the Tomlinson-Horan campaign all those years ago.
Harry’s taught her well, he thinks.
“Thank you, Pez.”
“No problem, H.”
Harry waits for her to slip out and close the door behind her before turning his attention to Louis. He must have some sort of predatory look on his face because Louis looks like he’s forgotten how to breathe, flushed and silent. His blue eyes are wide, pupils nearly blown and lips parted slightly. Harry has so many things he’s been planning to do with those lips, but seeing them up close, just centimeters away, he’s starting to doubt he’ll have the resolve to make it even halfway through his list.
“How was Tokyo?” Harry asks nonchalantly, pushing at Louis’ chest until he starts walking backward.
“F-Fine, great. Crowded.”
“Yeah? How was the Summit?”
Louis shrugs, bumping into the desk, “It was okay. Lots of talk about agri—”
He stops when Harry crowds up against him and splays a palm against his chest, pushing and pushing and pushing until he’s pressed against the wall. Momentarily, Louis takes in the fact that Harry’s pushed him against the walls of the Oval Office, right in between two windows where Secret Service are stood diligently. There’s a surveillance camera in the middle of the ceiling and Louis knows for a fact that Harry is aware of its presence, especially that it doesn’t catch much of what goes on at the edges of the room.
Specifically, in between two windows where Harry has Louis pressed against the wall. Where Harry’s fingers are slowly trailing down to the buttons of Louis’ pants and his lips hover over the shell of Louis’ ear as he whispers, “I’ve been waiting so long to fuck you senseless.”
Louis knows he must sputter out some kind of nonsense, shocked noise, but he can’t hear it over the rush of blood to his head when Harry presses a small kiss to his ear. Louis almost feels stupid for thinking that Harry will stop there because obviously Harry’s got more in mind. He runs a light finger over the line of Louis’ zipper and presses another kiss to the curve of Louis’ ear – and then another, and another, and another, until Louis’ head is fogged up and his eyelashes are fluttering and Harry has unzipped his pants without him even noticing.
“Haz—” Louis tries to say, “I don’t think we should—”
He’s cut off when Harry takes his earlobe into his mouth, flicking his tongue and humming as he starts to nibble at the soft flesh. Louis shrinks against the wall and grips at the lapels of Harry’s blazer until his knuckles are white. He knows that he’s started breathing heavier, but he also knows that if Harry continues at this pace, he’s not going to be able to keep himself quiet. And he’s more than positive that Harry has no intention of stopping.
“Youcan’tjustfuckmeinhere, Harry,” Louis barely manages to choke out.
Harry sucks Louis’ earlobe a little harder, until he’s sure there’s a little bit of pain to add to the pleasure of the sensation. “Are you sure about that?” he mumbles quietly.
Louis doesn’t have a chance to reply before Harry is sliding his hand into his pants and pushing them down. They make the softest of thuds as they drop to the floor, barely audible over the sound of Harry breathing into Louis’ ear.
“Aren’t you going to be good for me?”
Louis’ mouth moves on its own accord, before he’s even got a chance to process his thoughts.
“Daddy—” he gasps.
If he had more shame, Louis thinks, he’d probably be red in the face and awfully embarrassed at how easily affected he is by Harry’s touch. But he hasn’t got any, so when Harry wraps a hand around the base of his cock, Louis’ immediate reaction is to circle his arms around Harry's neck and pull him in closer. Chest to chest, Harry's hand struggles to move in the tight space, but Louis is so eager, wants so much, that he gets on the tip of his toes and experimentally thrusts his hips upward in an attempt for some friction. It’s so desperate – borderline pathetic – but it doesn’t stop Louis, not when the feel of Harry’s tight fist around him sends a shiver through his body, making him curl his toes and moan that much louder.
Louis thrusts upward into Harry’s fist until he’s hard and Harry's mouth slips from his wet, bruised ear. Harry brings his face to rest his forehead against Louis’, breath warm as he pants into his mouth.
“Are you gonna do what daddy tells you, angel?” he asks in barely a whisper.
He keeps his grip around Louis tight, but doesn’t dare move his hand. It’s the most focused and in control Louis’ seen him in so long, and the thought of that alone makes him twitch against Harry’s palm as an overwhelming ocean of need washes over him in a rush. Louis’ feet ache from his attempt to gain height and consequently his thighs do, too, but all Louis can think about is how good the light stubble of Harry’s chin feels against his skin, how he just wants daddy to fuck him until his back burns and he can’t walk properly for the next week.
“Yes,” Louis finally replies, “Anything for you daddy, please.”
Harry presses a kiss to the corner of his mouth, too light with no tongue at all to calm Louis for even a moment. “Inside pocket. On the left.”
Like his life depends on it, Louis quickly slips a hand inside Harry’s blazer, patting at the fabric until he feels a small packet and a grin breaks out on his face.
“A little presumptuous, is it not?” Louis giggles as he takes out the small packet of lube. He knows he’s broken the heady tension between them for just a few seconds, but that’s nothing new.
Harry chuckles, rolling his eyes. “Have you not noticed the blazer?”
Confused, Louis folds Harry’s blazer back properly for a better view. He nearly laughs at himself for having been so oblivious when he takes in the dark blue fabric and embroidered letter T on the breast pocket.
“You’re ridiculous,” Louis says, a little too fondly for someone whose still got his cock inside Harry’s fist.
The blazer that Harry is wearing so shamelessly is the same blazer that he always wears the day that Louis comes back from a trip. The fabric fits perfectly across Harry’s broad shoulders and it hugs the muscles of his arms like it was specifically designed for him – and it was.
There’s the T for Tomlinson and a pin of the American flag on the lapel like a good luck charm. Louis’ not sure if it’s good luck in the hopes that he always comes home safe, or if it’s just Harry’s belief that the stupid blazer’s what leads to heady, mind blowing sex every single time that he wears it.
It’s a win-win situation in all cases anyways, so Louis tries not to over-think it.
“S’my good luck charm, man. I’ve been waiting for weeks to wear it.”
“How the hell does this thing still fit you?” Louis asks, raising an eyebrow.
He nearly yelps when Harry squeezes the base of his cock just once, almost like a warning, before letting it go entirely and pulling his hands off of him. Louis is about to make some stupid comment but stops mid-thought when Harry rolls up his sleeves just enough so that Louis can see the soft skin of the inside of Harry’s forearm. His eyes fall to Harry’s arms, the golden skin and the strong veins and the thick muscles, a little embarrassed at how his mouth gets dry and his cock twitches once more.
Harry notices, of course he does, and when he raises his eyes to meet Louis’, head still ducked down and eyelashes fanning his cheeks, there’s a knowing smirk on his face.
“Enjoying the view?”
Louis clears his throat nervously and gulps, finally looking up at Harry. His brain is whirling with thoughts of Harry-arms-Harry-wall-Harry-muscles-Harry-cock-HarryHarryHarryHarryHarry until it hurts.
“Yes,” he finally mumbles, all the bravado from just a few seconds ago gone from his voice.
Louis is aware of how small he is right now, how the roles have reversed so seamlessly and on their own accord. He’s in his Oval Office, naked from the waist down with his cock leaking against his dress shirt and a small packet of lubricant in his hands, pressed against the wall by a fully clothed Harry. He feels small, the way Harry towers over him, breathing his air and bracketing his feet with his own. And he feels defenseless and horny and desperate, so many things at once that he feels like he’s suffocating.
And because Harry is so close, so in charge, he picks up on Louis’ shift in mood immediately.
“Hey,” he whispers quietly, bringing a hand up to cup Louis’ cheek. “You okay babe? Do you need a minute?”
Louis’ face heats up again, partly from embarrassment and partly from how big Harry’s hand is, how tiny and delicate his bones feel in Harry’s hold. He brings his arms up and wraps them around Harry’s neck until they’re chest to chest again and he can bury his nose in the crook of his neck. Louis inhales deeply and tries not to shiver when he takes in Harry’s scent – a little bit of fabric softener, a little bit of cologne, and a lot of just pure Harry, a unique scent he still hasn’t got a specific explanation for.
Louis presses an open mouthed kiss to his bare neck and slowly drops his right hand to meet Harry’s at his waist. “M’good,” he hums, sliding the lube into Harry’s hold, “Just need daddy to take care of me, is all.”
It takes Harry a few seconds to collect himself – Louis gets to three Mississippis in his head – before he’s grabbing Louis by the hips and pulling him up into the air, slamming him against the wall. Louis wraps his naked legs around Harry’s waist with such ease that he almost feels like he should be worried about how good he is at it. That thought completely goes out the window, though, when Harry crowds up against him even more and presses his mouth to Louis’, foregoing any details and going straight for his tongue.
They kiss like that for a while, fast and sloppy and rough, like Harry’s trying to punish Louis for his smart mouth and Louis’ trying to push at Harry’s buttons at all costs just to see how far he can push him before he snaps. Louis wishes he could describe the way Harry tastes, maybe pinpoint the flavor to some sweets he had earlier in the day or the smoothies he consumes twice a day, but really his mind is buzzing, overstimulated, because Harry’s tongue is so soft and wet and good, so good against his own. He nibbles at Harry’s lips and pulls with his sharp little teeth, aiming to bruise but also to get a whimper out of Harry in response – which he does, with no trouble at all.
Louis is so distracted by Harry’s mouth that he doesn't hear the sound of the lube packet being torn open underneath his legs, Harry working with skilled fingers all the while managing to hold him up. It’s more than just a little surprising when Harry pushes a slick finger inside him out of nowhere and Louis’ entire body jumps with the intrusion. He groans into Harry’s mouth and tightens his fists around his hair, screaming for an escape when Harry starts to fuck into him with just his index finger, rocking his entire body against the concrete of the walls with the same rhythm of his hand.
Louis is panting into his mouth, an endless stream of daddy, please, fuck me harder, daddy when Harry slides his middle finger inside him and pulls his index out. Louis whimpers and squeezes around Harry’s sole finger, unable to hide his disappointment. He’s so ready for more, can feel himself opening up already and it would be great if Harry could quicken his pace just a little and give Louis a hand with the process, both figuratively and metaphorically.
“Christ, Harry, can you jus—” Louis tries to huff angrily when he pulls his lips away and opens up his eyes, but Harry cuts him off.
“If you keep this kind of behavior up, I could just leave you like this.”
Harry's finger stills inside him, bruised lips in a firm line. Louis widens his eyes and takes in the sight of Harry before him, tall and stern and punishing. It riles him up while simultaneously sending a sharp fear straight to his chest that Harry might actually stop everything right here and now. He’s got nothing to lose, after all. He’s still got his clothes on and it’ll take a bit of readjusting to hide his boner, but it’s a lot easier to wipe some lube off your hand and walk away than it is to be left half naked and horny and wet in your own office.
Louis clenches around Harry’s finger tightly, almost like he’s daring Harry to let go, to leave now.
“Punish me, then,” he says quietly, so softly he’s not sure Harry’s even heard him, “Teach me a lesson, daddy.”
It must have been that simple all along because Harry starts to move inside him again, this time fucking into him with faster, deeper drags. Louis can feel the cold metal of one of Harry’s rings against his rim as his finger stretches him open that much more. Harry’s middle finger is longer than the rest of his fingers and while they’re all equally thick and lengthy, Louis feels a stupid sort of preference for the one that always crooks up into him and finds his bundle of nerves with a practiced ease.
Louis' eyes flutter shut and he buries his face into Harry’s neck. He has no idea how Harry’s still holding him up, but he tightens his legs a little more and the two of them rock together, Louis grinding down and Harry fucking up.
“You want me to punish you?"
Louis nods his head just barely and clenches around him.
“I don’t know, Lou,” Harry shrugs, stilling his finger once more, “I’m not sure if you deserve it.”
He returns to his movements, but it’s not enough to calm Louis down. He grips the hair at the back of Harry’s neck and digs his teeth into the already bruised spot at his neck. As his mouth works at reclaiming Harry, he drops his right hand to his side, slowly sliding down to meet Harry’s arm where his middle finger is pushed past the knuckle inside of him.
“I can help you with that,” Louis mumbles against Harry’s wet skin. His finger is dry when he finds his entrance, nearly covered by Harry’s large hand digging into his cheeks. Louis feels him stop when he slides his finger next to Harry’s and slowly starts to push in. It burns, just barely this side of wonderfully blissfully painfully beautiful, but Louis doesn’t stop until his index finger is all the way inside beside Harry’s much longer ones. He feels lightheaded as he clenches around himself, slowly welcoming the burning stretch.
“I’ll be good for you, daddy,” he finally breathes, overwhelmed.
Louis lifts his head up and reluctantly opens his eyes. Harry’s green eyes are blown black and his face is stern, brows furrowed and chest heaving. Without saying another word, Harry manages to tuck his index finger back into Louis. At least it’s wet and slicked up, Louis reasons, when Harry starts to scissor him open, but the truth of the matter is that Louis feels full and not quite full enough at the same time. His back aches and his thighs burn and his hole feels bruised and burned and crowded, but all he wants is to be torn right down the middle.
At least, that’s how he reasons, trying to fit another one of his fingers inside himself before Harry stops him.
“Woah, there. Slow your roll, darling. Don’t want you to punish yourself quite like that,” he chuckles, bringing his left hand over and dribbling a bit of lube onto Louis’ overeager – and dry – finger. It’s sloppy and neither of them can see much of what’s going on down there, but Harry some manages to slick his finger up anyway.
“There,” he finally huffs, “You’re good to go.”
Louis' second finger – and the fourth finger inside him in total – feels like the closest he’s going to get to Harry’s massive cock until Harry finally decides to fuck him properly. It’s a painful stretch, but Harry keeps one of his fingers still against his prostate while the other scissors him wider and both of Louis’ fingers fuck up into him. He moves his fingers faster than Harry usually does, a lot less patient when it comes to fucking himself. Harry’s got a knack for that kind of stuff, being fucked slow and languidly for hours on end, whether it be by Louis or himself, but Louis likes to be fucked fast and mercilessly, prefers it best when Harry bends him over and folds him into an impossibly smaller version of himself and pounds into him without a break.
There’s no question that Harry still enjoys being fucked quick and dirty, rough and with his hands tied behind his back. But Louis only likes it slow and lazy when Harry’s eating him out just for the sake of eating him out, or fingering him just for the sake of fingering him. It’s just a whole different ballgame when Harry’s cock is involved; Louis just hasn’t got the time nor the patience to pussyfoot around then.
So that’s why he thrusts into himself mercilessly, teasing and burning until Harry gets the message and pulls both their hands out of him. Louis clenches around the air, feeling so open and wet and loose, like his hole is still holding onto the feel of being full.
Louis honestly hasn’t got a clue how Harry does it, how he manages to somehow undo his zipper, pull his cock out, and slick his cock up all the while making Louis’ still pressed against the wall. Louis’ in awe of his husband to say the least, and for a moment his heart stutters in something like uncontrollable pride because Harry is his husband. This tall man with all his muscles and musky scent and unruly curls is his, solely his, and has been for so many years now. Louis knows it’s not the best time or place to get emotional about something as simple as being fucked against the wall, but he can’t help it when he leans over and presses a kiss to the corner of Harry’s mouth – and then ten successive ones all over his face.
Harry finally looks up at him when he’s lined his wet and leaking cock against Louis’ entrance, cheeks dimpled and smile knowing.
“I love you so much,” Louis exhales contentedly while he soothingly massages at Harry’s scalp with his left hand.
Harry scrunches up his nose and grins, lightly pecking Louis square in the lips, “Thanks, pal. Feeling’s mutual, by the way.”
“I figured, yeah, all things considered.”
Louis motions down to where their bodies are joined, pressed against one another with Harry’s cock about to enter Louis, where they’re flat against the walls of the Oval Office, where the only thing that separates them from the Secret Service is the sandstone walls of the White House. From the corner of his eye, he notices the camera in the ceiling of the room and he can barely help himself when his face goes a little red.
Surely this office has seen worse.
“It’s kind of cool, isn’t it? That you’re the first president to ever be fucked in here?”
Louis head shoots up, eyes wide in shock, “Harry – Jesus Christ.”
“Seems kind of cool to me,” he shrugs nonchalantly, “You’re paving the way for all sorts of stuff, Lou. You should be proud of yourself.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah, just fuck me already. If I have to deal with an extremely awkward intervention tomorrow morning, I want this to have at least been worth it.”
Harry rolls his eyes and shifts a bit, getting Louis higher up in the air before he gets himself comfortable, “I appreciate the vote of confidence, by the way. Means a lot.”
“Any time, pal,” Louis grins sweetly. He presses a kiss to Harry’s forehead and then flattens his back againt the wall, “Now, about that massive cock of yours you’ve got poking at my ass right now. You should do something about it, I think.”
“You think so?”
Louis nods, “Yeah, m’pretty sure. It’s kind of a win-win situation, actually.”
“That’s good thinking,” Harry giggles, somehow managing to look effortlessly young and beautiful, the same excited way he did all those years ago when Louis had first met him. “S’no wonder they’ve got a smarty pants like you in here, running the country and all that.”
Louis’ about to groan and bury his face into Harry’s neck, maybe whine a bit about how unfortunately easy it is for them to devolve to dumb jokes and silly behavior even in the middle of sex, but then Harry is nudging the head of his cock past his ring of muscle and Louis’ mouth falls open and his eyes flutter shut. He tries his best to relax, to make the slide in easier, but it’s so hard when Harry’s so fucking wide and big and all Louis can think about is that even four fingers weren’t enough prep for this.
He’s long since lost track of the time, wouldn’t be surprised if Perrie came popping in any minute now with a Congressman from down South. It feels like years before he’s finally settled onto Harry’s cock and taken him in entirely, bottomed out and happily stretched beyond his full capacity. Louis thinks he should probably be used to the feel of Harry filling him up to the brim, but maybe he never will be. Maybe each time he gets fucked will feel just as good as the first and the last and the current. He hopes so, at least, because he’d really like to continue fucking Harry for as long as humanly possible.
“Ready?” Harry huffs into his neck.
Louis hums in response, nodding his head.
When Harry starts fucking into him, he’s not gentle or languid by a long shot. He goes straight into pounding into Louis, forcing him against the word until their bodies rock in unison and Louis is digging his fingers helplessly in Harry’s back, toes curled white where his legs squeeze around Harry’s waist. Harry rocks his body upward and the angle of it is just enough to hit Louis’ prostate and make it easier for Harry to fuck him with no trouble at all.
“God, you’re still so fucking tight,” he says in a quick breath.
For a second, Louis’ brain wants for him to mutter a clever like you’re welcome, but that quickly turns to dust when Harry grabs both of his cheeks into his large palms and squeezes them. He kneads at the muscle, digging his fingers in and humming praises into Louis’ wet mouth before he pushes them apart and fucks into him a little harder, a little faster.
Louis can feel Harry all around him, where their mouths are pressed together and they’re connected in the middle; where his fingers are tangled into Harry’s hair and Harry is squeezing at his ass; where his hard, leaking cock is trapped between their chests and all Louis can smell is Harry and sex and the stupid fabric softener they’ve used on their clothes for almost ten years now.
Louis digs his blunt nails into Harry’s shoulders a little deeper, grips at his hair a little tighter, and starts fucking down on his cock a lot more forcefully. He’s chasing his orgasm with intent now, but that doesn’t stop him from circling his hips and hungrily taking in the feel of Harry’s hard cock against his walls, the friction between them pushing him closer and closer to release. He doesn’t hear himself towards the end but his quiet whimpers of Harry, daddy, please continue in a soft stream, slipping from his lips on their own accord.
There must be more going on in world. Harry must be saying things on his own – God knows he’s a talker when he fucks – but the closer Louis gets to his orgasm, the more he fails to notice the world around him. All he can feel is Harry, inside him, and all he can think about is how much he wants daddy to make him come, how much he wants to feel Harry’s stubble burn his cheeks and his neck and his chest. Without realizing he’s doing so, Louis rubs his face against the sharp hairs at the edge of Harry’s jaw and nuzzles into him, roughly enough to know his skin is going to be red whenever he chooses to stop.
Louis’ hands slips down to Harry’s arms on either side of him and he grips the hard muscle of Harry’s biceps. He knows what his hands look against the large curves of Harry’s arms – delicate and miniscule, much too small to even dream about circling his biceps with his hands – but when Louis open his eyes, the sight still makes his breath catch anyways. He squeezes the muscle and it’s rock fucking hard, just like Harry’s cock inside him. And the thought of that makes Louis dizzy and overwhelmed.
Louis hears Harry mumble something about so close and gonna fill you up so good, baby before he clenches his pink hole around Harry’s cock and comes untouched in between their clothed chests. Louis’ body shakes with his orgasm, but Harry fucks him through it and continues rocking him against the wall as he chases his own release. Louis’ still not caught his breath or settled from the overwhelming ocean of ecstasy running through his veins when he feels Harry’s come inside him, hot and wet and lasting forever.
“Fuck,” Harry gasps when he’s finally caught his breath. He buries his face into Louis’ neck, panting heavily through his mouth.
He’s still got his cock inside Louis, is the thing, and Louis’ not quite sure what to say or do. He’s not even one hundred percent positive his limbs can function anymore, but he knows that he wants to stay full and wet and loose. He clenches and Harry hisses in pain, but he doesn’t pull out just yet.
“Can we just stay like this forever?” Louis asks. He knows the answer, so he sighs and lets his hands fall to his sides, no longer gripping Harry’s muscles. He’s so tired, all of sudden, the jetlag and sexual exertion finally hitting him like a tsunami.
Harry picks his head up and coughs, grinning lopsidedly, “I would really love to, babe,” he says, “but I’m pretty sure my naked ass is being watch by more than just a few members of the US government. And I’d really prefer to have at least some modicum of shame left in me before we’re kicked out of this place.”
“If they’ve been watching your butt, babe, I can guarantee you that the last thing they’re thinking about is kicking you outta here,” says Louis with a sleepy giggle. He presses a few kisses to Harry’s face, high up on his cheeks and then a final on his bruised lips, “Can you take me to bed please? I’m sleepy.”
“You do realize we’ve a little, uh,” Harry looks down at their chests where Louis’ come has streaked both their shirts, “You’re lucky we’ve got years of practice,” he says with a roll of his eyes.
Slowly and carefully, he pulls himself out and moves his left arm underneath Louis so that he’s settled higher up now on Harry’s foreman.
“You’ve already gotten into my pants, Harry, there’s no need to show off all your macho manliness,” Louis mumbles sleepily.
Harry pinches him light on his bare thigh, “I’m not showing off. You’re just leaking onto the carpet and that’s not a story I’m willing to explain to Perrie.”
Louis wriggles in Harry’s arms a bit, giggling lightly when he feels his wet hole slicken Harry’s forearm and the sleeve of his blazer. Harry groans at the feel of it, even though he knows he has no right to.
“It’s your come,” Louis reminds him. “You’d think after all these years you’d at least have the decency to stick a condom or two in that blazer of yours.”
Harry raises an eyebrow, “Really? You’d prefer me to use a condom? Are you hearing yourself or did I actually fuck the sense out of you this time?”
“The latter, probably,” Louis collapses forward into his arms, properly this time and nuzzling into the crook of his neck, “Please just get me dressed and get me in a bath. I can’t think straight anymore and I’ve lost all feeling in my legs, thanks to you.”
“So lucky to have you, man,” Louis yawns drowsily.
Eventually, Harry does manage to settle Louis down on his feet and into his pants, wiping him up as much as he can with some Kleenexes. He does the same for himself and buttons both their jackets over the spoiled come stain on their shirts with a stupid grin on his face, reminding himself that this is actually his life and Louis is actually his husband, the President of the United States.
3 Years, 1 Month into Presidency
“Call me when you get on the plane, okay?”
“Yes, mom,” Louis sighs into the phone, “I’ll call you the second I step foot onto the plane.”
“Lou,” Harry groans on the other end of the line.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”
He hears Harry make something like a displeased huffing noise, and it makes him smile even wider. The last few days in Jordan have been headache inducing and nerve wrecking to say the least, but Louis finds at least some solace in the fact that he doesn’t have to explain it all to Harry, at least not yet. He just knows, is the thing.
While everyone from Al-Jazeera to The Buenos Aires Herald to L’Express has been covering President Tomlinson’s landmark visit to the Kingdom of Jordan – his first to both a Muslim and an Arab nation – Harry’s been keeping him updated with life back home in Washington, telling him about the girls and Greg, the new class pet they’ve called dibs on. Louis knows that he can discuss the politics of his homosexuality and presidency with Harry at any time that he needs to, but most of the time he just wants to have just one part of his life that is his, solely, that doesn’t revolve around politics.
And that’s what Harry and the girls – and Greg – are for him. They’re an escape and a release, just one of the many reasons to put up with the demeaning slurs and religious zealots.
All Louis can about is that it sucks, plain and simple, but contrary to everyone’s expectations, the country of Jordan has treated him with nothing but respect and hospitality since his arrival. One of the more liberal of the Arab nations, the king and queen had personally invited Louis down a few weeks ago in the hopes of strengthening the United States’ relationship with the Middle East. It’s a stepping stone, to say the least, and the last five days that Louis’ spent in Amman have made him realize more than just a few things about religion and government, about humanity and the basic, most invaluable aspects of life – like unconditional love, respect, and a family to carry your burdens with you.
“Just get home safe, okay?” Harry’s voice is soft, a little quieter and more private, “And don’t forget to put your compression socks on or your feet are gonna swell again.”
Louis takes a sip of his coffee and sighs. The beans are grown locally and the owner of the shop has been brewing his coffee the same way for almost three decades now. It’s rich and thick on Louis’ tongue, and he loves it.
“I won’t forget the socks, I promise.”
“Good. I’ll let you go finish your coffee date with Paul, then. I’ll see you soon?”
It’s an old shop, this place. The chairs and the tables are mismatched, the walls a bright golden yellow. There are tiled mosaics all along the floors, most of them greens and reds and blacks and white, clearly a nationalistic homage. The only other people in the shop are the owners and Secret Service, but it’s a tiny little café amongst a cluster of brand-name competitors. Louis can understand why it would get lost in the crowd.
He draws a circle with his finger into the spilled pile of sugar on the table and holds the phone a little closer, “I’ll seen you soon, yeah,” he repeats back, “Give the girls a kiss for me.”
“Alright. I love you, have a safe trip home, baby.”
Harry blows a kiss into the phone and Louis grins even wider, because his husband is the absolute most ridiculous person on the planet.
“Love you, too.”
It takes him a few seconds more before he finally hangs up, listening to the barely audible sound of Harry’s soft breathing. It’s like nipping his urges in the bud when it comes to Harry. Louis knows that the sooner he stops, the better, because he knows from experience that quitting Harry is next to impossible, the longer he’s had him.
And he knows what it’s like to stay on the phone with his husband for hours, just listening to him breathe.
So he ends the call, locks the phone, and slides it over to Paul, who’s sat opposite him at the table.
“He’s not crying just yet, is he?” Paul asks with a chuckle. He knows what Harry’s like – everyone knows what Harry’s like – when Louis has to go abroad.
Louis takes another sip of his coffee, savoring the rich flavor, “He’s sated for now, I think. Remind me to call him before we take off, though.”
Paul mumbles some sort of affirmation that Louis barely hears anyways. He turns his head to face the windows of the shop, looking out into the busy streets of Amman. The sun has just gotten ready to set and the sky is colored golden. It reminds Louis of the artifacts the king had showed him a few days ago, golden pieces that had been in his family for centuries. And even though he’s inside the shop with the air conditioning on, he can still feet the warm heat of Jordanian sun, heating up his bare calves as he continues to watch the city.
Serene, is what it feels like. Peaceful, quiet. Louis feels warm and tranquil in the coffee shop in Amman.
Like the calm before the storm, is what it is.
Harry knows something’s wrong the minute that Gemma walks into the family room.
“You okay?” Harry asks, eyebrow raised in curiosity. Gemma’s usually never late to Saturday brunch, much less half an hour late looking frazzled and out of it. “Traffic couldn’t possibly have been that bad. It’s like a five minute drive over here, pal.”
“Sorry?” she asks distractedly, throwing her coat on the arm of the couch and finally looking up to meet Harry’s eyes, “Sorry, it’s just - Niall had to rush out of the house for some reason and I just. I don’t know,” she pinches the bridge of her nose and closes her eyes, exhales a shaky breath, “Still not used to it, I guess.”
From the corner of his eyes, Harry makes sure to keep an eye on the kids, the girls eagerly munching away on their pancakes with their cousin, pestering him about his new kitten - whom he not-so-cleverly named Cat. He keeps most of his attention on Gemma, though, who takes a seat next to him on the couch and sighs again, shoulders sagging.
“What do you mean he had to ‘rush out’?”
Gemma covers her face with her shaky hands, hanging her head, “I don’t know. We were getting Teddy ready and all of sudden Secret Service came in, whispered something in his ear, and he just - left. Like, without an explanation or anything.”
Harry frowns. That is odd, actually, because there are very few things that actually warrant Niall rushing out of rooms with Secret Service.
“I’m sure it’s nothing serious,” Harry shrugs.
He’s not sure he believes it himself, but he’s learned a long time ago that the more you repeat something, the more likely you are to believe it yourself. And even if you don’t believe it, you’ll continue repeating it, vocalizing it, defending those beliefs like your life depends on it because at least it offers some comfort of permanency.
That’s how it works in Washington, Harry’s learned.
He pours Gemma a cup of tea and hands it over to her, “I was just on the phone with Lou a few minutes ago and he didn’t mention anything about the world coming to an end or anything, so we should be fine, I think.”
He tries to keep his voice light and airy, calm and nonchalant. It works, somehow, because Gemma meets his eyes over the edge of her cup and grins.
She takes a sip of her tea and turns her attention to Teddy. She watches him quietly for a few moments, but it’s obvious that she’s distracted. It’s hard to miss the contemplative look on her face, even harder to miss the worry lining her delicate features.
“Do ever get that, like, feeling in your gut that something’s not right?” Gemma asks suddenly.
She keeps her attention on the kids on the other side of the room, but continues speaking quietly.
“And you just can’t shake it off. Like your body knows before you do that something’s…” Gemma pauses for a second, maybe to figure out her thoughts or maybe to just catch breath.
“Not okay?” Harry fills in for her, “Like mother’s intuition?”
Gemma tilts her head in Harry’s direction, a coy smile on her face, “Is that what you’ve got, then?” she jokes, “Mother’s intuition?”
Harry pouts, “Why is that so funny to you? I’m telling you, I’ve got a mother’s intuition.”
“No, no. I believe you, Haz, trust me.”
“Good. You should,” he huffs.
Just as Gemma’s about to snap back with a smart comment, the baby monitory goes off and the sound of Charlie bawling fills the room up quickly. A weird, out of body shiver runs through Harry’s body and he has to remind himself that this is his life and that’s his baby – his third baby.
“I’ll be right back,” says Harry as he gets up to excuse himself, “Probably just needs his diaper changed or something.”
Gemma looks up at him, smirking, and says, “Or maybe he just misses his mommy.”
It feels like they’re children again, the way Gemma’s never really stopped teasing him. And if they were children, Harry would just cross his arms and pout miserably – mostly because he could never think of any smart comebacks – but he’s too old and surrounded by too many children to do that now. He would just give Gemma the finger, too, and get it over with, but he’s pretty sure that’s probably not much better than throwing a hissy fit in front of his children.
So Harry settles for a kiss to her forehead, a loud smack that leaves Gemma giggling with a roll of her eyes.
Charlie’s nursery is upstairs and right across from Harry and Louis’ bedroom. In this wing of the White House, it’s quieter than the rest, peaceful and as homey as Harry could make it for his family, though it’s still a struggle with all the maids and staffers and politicians running about. Right now, though, as he walks with a giddy bounce in his step, this area of the house is eerily quiet and empty. Another one of the things that Harry’s learned while in Washington is that silence isn’t the norm, that chaos and commotion are actually welcomed because at least that means things are being handled.
Silence, on the other hand, is sometimes a sign of defeat.
He tries not to think too much about it, ignoring the discomforting feeling growing in the pit of his stomach and makes his way into Charlie’s nursery.
They – Harry mostly, but Louis and the girls will swear to the moon and back that they’d put in just as much, if not more, work than him – had painted Charlie’s room a light rose color right around Thanksgiving, about a month before Charlie was due. And while there’s no real theme in sight, Harry still loves the room so much. There are little paintings of cartoon animals and flowers, fishies in the sea and birds up high, flying across the walls of the room. There are anchor patterns lining the bottom of the walls and family pictures framed so Charlie never really feels like he’s alone in here.
A picture of Harper and Darcy when they were four and dressed like surgeons. A picture of Louis in high school, captain of the soccer team and holding up the state championship trophy. A picture of Niall and Gemma in a hospital room, cradling baby Teddy – that one still gives Harry the most goosebumps of them all.
And there are pictures of all of Charlie’s grandparents and all of his family members at different stages in their life, always together and always growing. The poor kid probably hasn’t got a clue who all these odd looking people are, but when Harry walks into the room and picks him up, Charlie curls into him instinctively because at least he knows who his dad is.
“Hello, Charlie,” Harry coos softly as he cradles him in his arms, “Hi, baby.”
Charlie is a little bigger than Darcy and Harper were when they were a little over two months old. He’s got thin, soft tufts of golden brown hair and although he spends most of his time sleeping, he’s still got Louis’ same bright blue eyes. He’s a chubby little boy and the sweetest baby in the world, Harry thinks. And when Harry brings him closer, presses a light kiss to the top of his head, Charlie eases out of his crying.
Harry doesn’t really understand it, but it makes his heart feel like it’s about to collapse when Charlie does that – just settles peacefully at his touch. He’s Louis’ baby, maybe that’s why, but no one can deny the fact that Charlie had attached himself to Harry the minute he was first held.
Harry walks over to the rocking chair in the corner of the room and settles down with Charlie close to his heart.
When he thinks about it, Harry feels like he was always meant to be a father. Darcy and Harper just reaffirmed that gut instinct, really, but Charlie has just… Harry can’t put it into words. They were expecting another girl, but then Charlie came along and Harry feels like his entire world got flipped upside down. Whenever he holds Charlie or kisses him or even so much as watches him sleep, Harry thinks his heart might stop because there’s no way someone can possibly function with this much love spoiling their system.
He could never choose a favorite among his babies, though. Louis says it’s just because Charlie’s their first boy and Harry’s still on his new-baby high, that he should give it a few more weeks of sleepless nights and endless diaper changes before the feeling goes away.
But that’s kind of bullshit, actually, because Louis and Harry both know that that feeling never goes away, no matter how many diapers they change or how often Charlie spits up on their favorite shirts.
Harry rocks back and forth on the chair, unable to move his eyes from Charlie’s baby blue ones. He’s just woken up from his nap, but he’s happily content with being soothed in Harry’s arms, watching him with curious eyes as Harry hums a few songs for him. He doesn’t remember the words to the songs or where he even first heard them, but they’re little pieces that Louis’ always humming under his breath.
He’s not sure how long he ends up staying in there – he has a habit of picking up Charlie and then immediately getting lost in that nursery for hours on end – but at some point he runs out of songs to hum and Charlie’s fallen back asleep with his impossibly small little fist barely wrapped around Harry’s pinky finger. He can’t put him back in his crib and let him go, Harry reasons, so he stays where he is and continues creaking lightly, back and forth on that old rocking chair in the corner of the nursery, surrounded by birdies and anchors and his family all around.
He’s completely forgotten about Gemma and the kids and brunch until hours later when there’s a knock on the door and Gemma, herself, walks into the room. She looks a little shaken up, to say the least, but Harry doesn’t think to say anything about it.
“Hey,” she whispers, closing the door behind her. Her hair is in a sloppy, loose French braid now, probably done by Darcy with her eyes closed, but she still looks so sharp and beautiful.
“Hey,” Harry whispers back, “Sorry for disappearing.”
Harry tries to bite back his blushing smile, ducking his head down to watch Charlie soundly asleep in his arms.
Gemma walks across the room slowly, “Don’t worry about it, H. I had a feeling you’d come in here and forget that the rest of the world exists.”
“Sorry,” Harry tries to apologize.
Gemma shakes her head, “Don’t be. You don’t have to apologize for anything.” She leans down and presses a lingering kiss to Charlie’s forehead, closing her eyes and pressing a quicker kiss right afterward, “He’s a great baby,” she sighs, “I can understand why you never put him down.”
“He is, isn’t he?”
“’The best baby in the world,’” Gemma quotes Louis with a roll of her eyes.
She straightens back up and in her heels, she towers over Harry a little bit. It feels so easy to forget that Gemma’s older than him – his older sister, his only sister, his best friend – but when she runs her fingers through his hair, lightly pushing his fringe away, Harry feels like he’s eleven again and confessing to his big, tough, older sister that he secretly like boys and he’s terrified. Her touch is comforting, familiar, and Harry feels smaller and younger instantly, safer when she’s around to take care of him.
“I’ve got the kids down in the family room with some popcorn and hot cocoa. They wanna watch the Little Mermaid and cuddle,” Gemma says with a sigh. Her fingers are cold, but she doesn’t stop playing with Harry’s hair, “Come down whenever your arms start to ache.”
“Mhm,” Harry hums with a nod, nuzzling into her touch, “They already do, actually.”
Gemma leans down and presses a kiss to his forehead, exhaling a shaky breath and slowly untangling her thin fingers from his hair. Her lips are soft and she smells like hot cocoa and gingersnaps, and when she pulls away, Harry aches a little for her comfort, still.
She gives one final pat to his head and sighs, “Come down whenever you want. I’ll be right here when you need me.”
Harry meets her eyes and something tells him that there’s more to her words than she’s letting on. They feel heavy, like they’re carrying the weight of worlds Harry doesn’t know about quite yet.
“I’ll be down in a few,” he finally says, “You can start the movie without me.”
“No need to rush, Haz. Take your time with Charlie, it’s okay. They only stay that small for so long, right?”
She gives him one last smile, a weak and forced one that Harry sees right through, before stepping out of the room and closing the door to the nursery. The air in the room feels so different, all of the sudden, and when Harry checks the time on his watch it’s already half past five in the afternoon. He doesn’t understand Gemma’s odd behavior and he definitely can’t explain the odd twist in his stomach, but something feels off, easily.
Harry spends a few more minutes cradling Charlie and at least that calms him down just a little bit. When he finally gets up to put Charlie back in his crib, his legs ache and his arms are sore. With a final kiss to his head, Harry turns the baby monitor back on and leaves the room, chest a little heavier than when he’d first entered.
When Harry enters the family room, the lights are turned off and Scuttle is explaining to Flounder and Ariel what a dinglehopper is used for. Darcy and Harper and Teddy are sprawled out on the floor, side by side with their mugs in front of them and a large blanket throw over their little bodies. Someone’s started the fire, too, and on the couch, Gemma is sat with her legs tucked underneath her. Her eyes are on the television, but Harry can tell her mind is elsewhere. God, she’s being so cryptic and odd today.
“Are you sure you’re okay?” Harry asks when he settles on the couch beside her.
Gemma looks up at him and says nothing for a second. Her bottom lip quivers a bit and even in the dark of the room, Harry can see her eyes start to water.
He wraps his arms around her and brings her close to his chest, his heart all of a sudden racing with fear. He’s never seen Gemma look so terrified and small, but she shrinks right up in his arms and buries her face into his chest. She doesn’t cry or sniffle, the two of them both trying to keep quiet for the kids, but the way she grips onto his sweater with a tight, desperate fist is enough for Harry to know that something is definitely not okay.
“Do you wanna go upstairs and talk about it?” Harry offers quietly.
Gemma shakes her head, “No, no. Let’s just stay here.” She exhales deeply and then takes a minute to pick her head up and settle it against his shoulder, scooting even closer to him, “Let’s just stay with the kids, please,” she croaks out, “Everything’s going to be okay, H.”
Harry scans her face for some kind of explanation, but Gemma keeps her eyes fixed on the kids and the television. He wishes she would stop being so ambiguous because now he feels loose with nerves and worry. Instinctively, he tightens his arms around his sister and rests his cheek on top of her head, keeping her close for comfort and safety.
He hasn’t got a clue what’s going on with Gemma or the world right now, but in his head he says a prayer for her and Teddy and Niall, says one for Louis and his babies, says one for all their parents, and then he says a final prayer for everyone he’s forgotten.
Gemma doesn’t know how long it’s been, but the minutes have been ticking by slower than ever. It’s been the longest day of her life and every second feels like an hour, every hour, another day to get through. She’d explained the situation to Harry a few hours ago, but he hasn’t said a single word since. Hasn’t spoken a word, hasn’t moved a single inch, nothing. He’s been sitting on the bed, frozen still and silent for hours now and Gemma doesn’t know what to do anymore.
There had been an explosion in Jordan.
There had been an explosion in Amman.
There had been an explosion by the coffee shop that Louis was in.
That’s all that Gemma knows right now, all that she could offer Harry, which isn’t much at all. She’d waited until after dinner to tell Harry that she and Teddy would be sleeping over, and she’d waited until the kids were put to bed to tell Harry the worst news she’s ever had to tell her baby brother.
Niall had called their parents and Louis’ and gotten them all on the first flights out to DC, but he couldn’t bear to break it to Harry, he’d said. Didn’t have the heart for it. Gemma doesn’t either, but Louis is her brother, too. He’s family and he’s the godfather of her baby and he’s Harry’s, is the thing. She’d cried in Niall’s arms when he’d told her the news during brunch, back when Harry was with Charlie. Shock had overtaken her first, but it quickly followed by heartbreak and she can’t remember the last time she’d cried that hard, doesn’t think she ever has.
But seeing Harry right now, in the state that he’s in, that feeling pales in comparison. She’s never, ever, seen Harry like this. Pale and silent, not a single hint that he’s still with her. She’s had to check his heartbeat a few times just to make sure that he’s still breathing and alive, but other than that, they’ve been sitting against the headboard for hours now, Harry’s hand sweaty and cold in her own.
Gemma doesn’t know what to do anymore.
It’s past midnight and the entire White House is at a standstill, on the precipice of what is essentially the most tragic event of their lifetime. Gemma doesn’t know what the news is saying, but she sure as hell doesn’t want to know. She doubts the White House has said much, but then again, she doesn’t know much herself. She’s not sure she wants to know the details of anything, at least not yet. Just wants to know that Louis is okay, safe and alive and on his way back home.
Gemma decides then to get out of the bed and do something because unlike Harry, she needs to move around before she loses her mind completely. Just as she's about to let go of Harry’s hand, he squeezes it tightly with a desperate hold.
“Don’t go,” is all that Harry begs when Gemma turns to face him.
Her heart aches that much more when she hears his voice, so soft and quiet and completely destroyed. His eyes are wide and pleading and everything. Everything about him right now hits Gemma suddenly. Her baby brother’s entire life has just been shattered to pieces and no one’s there to put him back together.
“Oh, sweetie,” Gemma brings her hands up to cup his face, hold him close, “I’m not going anywhere, H, I promise. I’ll just go bring Charlie in here real quick. Is that okay? Do you wanna see Charlie?”
Harry nods his head just once and Gemma exhales a sigh of relief. She kisses him high on both cheeks and then smiles just the smallest bit.
“I’ll be right back, okay?”
She waits for Harry to nod once more before she leaves the bedroom and crosses the hall to Charlie’s nursery. The air in the house is thick and heavy, so tense that Gemma can barely breathe. She almost wishes she were Charlie or Teddy or Darcy or Harper – anyone who is blissfully unaware at the moment. She refuses to consider the worst possible scenario. Mostly because her heart can’t take it, but also because she’s adamant that Louis’ going to come back home to his family. He has to.
To Gemma’s surprise, Charlie is awake when she picks him up. She holds him in her arms for a few moments and for some reason, she feels lighter when does. She doesn’t know how to explain it, but as she changes his diaper and gets him back into his one piece, she feels… Better. Relaxed. Like being in Charlie’s presence is the cure for heartbreak, or something.
And when she walks back to the bedroom and hands Charlie over to Harry, she knows the same thing has just happened to her brother. The minute that Charlie is in his arms, Harry’s shoulders sag and he exhales a heavy breath. It sounds like relief, maybe, but also like a silent prayer of thank you, Gem.
It takes Harry another hour or two to breathe a little easier, but eventually Gemma manages to get him under the covers with his legs stretched out and his back propped against the pillows. Charlie rests on his chest, head over Harry’s heart and his entire little body held close and secure with just one of his dad’s arms. Gemma rests to the right of Harry and tries to ignore the fact that he’s on Louis’ side and Harry must be aware of it, too, but neither of them say anything. They sit in silence, brother and sister with their palms pressed together, and they wait.
The first time that Harry wakes up, Charlie is asleep on his chest and Gemma is curled up against his right side, holding his hand. It’s still pitch black outside and his vision’s too blurry to try and figure out what time it is.
He goes back to sleep.
The second time that Harry wakes up, he’s in the middle of the bed. It’s raining outside and the curtains are closed. His bones ache and his entire body feels hollow, but his mother is on his left and his mother-in-law on his right, and they both hold him like he’s going to fall apart.
He goes back to sleep anyways.
Some time before the sun has risen and after the entire family’s flown in and settled down, there comes a phone call from Jordan.
Gemma is in the living room on her own, head resting on the back of the couch, listening to the fire crackle a few feet away. The rest of the family is spread all over. Some are sleeping, some are consoling Harry, some are in the kitchen trying to distract themselves. Gemma, personally, hasn’t slept in more than 24 hours now and she doesn’t think she’ll be able to any time soon.
She’s trying to remember the last conversation she had with Louis when the phone rings from beside her. For a minute, she contemplates just not answering it, like she has with the last 75 phone calls and text messages and emails that she’s gotten, but when she picks up her phone and sees that it’s a call from the White House, oddly enough, she picks up,
“Gem, hey,” says Niall on the other end of the line.
“Niall – why are you calling me? What’s going on?”
Gemma tries to keep her voice even, but she knows she’s not doing a good job.
“I’m down in the Situation Room. Everything’s okay though, you can take a breath, babe.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Gemma raises her voice.
“Louis wants to speak to you.”
Her entire body freezes up.
“Louis,” Niall repeats, “He’s on the other line. We just finished speaking with him, but he said he wants to talks to you.”
“Is he okay?” Gemma croaks. Her heart is racing ten times its normal speed and the few seconds that Niall takes to respond are the longest of her life.
“He’s fine, he’s perfectly okay,” answers Niall with a sigh of relief. He must be surrounded by cabinet members and military leaders of the like, but he speaks to Gemma softly, voice and tone private, personal, “Nothing’s happened to him, Gems, he’s okay.”
Gemma’s whole body sags against the couch. She’s barely wrapped her head around what Niall’s said when her eyes start to water up and a lump builds in her throat.
“Yeah – yes. Yes, Ni, of course I want to speak to him. Just connect me to him, please,” she begs.
It takes a minute for the connection to go through and Gemma doesn’t breathe the entire time. Her knuckles are white as she grips onto the phone tightly. She’s remotely aware of the tears slipping from the corner of her eyes and onto the fabric of her pants, but doesn’t do anything about it, doesn’t even try to care.
She tells herself not to cry, not to spend the entire phone call bawling, but it’s so much harder than she thought. She knows the call is probably being recorded and listened to right now, so she can’t imagine what that’ll sound like if she does burst into inconsolable tears.
“Lou – hi,” Gemma finally says, voice taut and the lump in her throat impossible to swallow down, “How are you?”
“I’m good, I’m fine. Are you and Teddy okay? He’s not up yet, is he? It’s still quite early back in Washington, I think.”
Gemma squeezes her eyes tight and begs herself to fight back against her tears. Because even when there’s just been an attack on his life, Louis will brush it off, ask if you’re okay. She’s never understood how Louis is capable of being so… Selfless, but sometimes that word doesn’t feel genuine enough to explain Louis Tomlinson.
“No, he’s not up yet, but he’s fine. Had a sleepover with the girls, actually.”
“Yeah? How’d that go?”
Gemma wants to yell ‘terrible, because we almost lost you,’ but instead she settles for, “Great, yeah. Watched the Little Mermaid, baked some cookies, made smores in the fireplace.”
“Haz let them have cookies and smores?” Louis raises his voice. “Well shit, the world has frozen over.”
At the mention of Harry’s name, Gemma’s stomach twists uncomfortably and she opens up her eyes. She takes a deep breath and watches the wood burn in the fireplace.
“Lou, you don’t have to—” Try to distract me. Put up an act. Make it seems like nothing’s happened. “You can talk to me, Lou. Please.”
She hears Louis take a deep breath and when he speaks again his voice is more formal, serious. Informative and straight to the point. Sometimes it’s too easy to forget that her brother-in-law isn’t just Louis Tomlinson, but Louis Tomlinson, President of the United States.
“There was an explosion by the coffee shop. Some religious zealot hid a homemade bomb underneath a car by the road and it blew up – no one got hurt, though, shit. I should have started with that.”
“I’m fine, seriously,” he sighs, “They’ve already found him and arrested him, anyways, but it doesn’t look like he has an affiliation with any groups. Just some angry zealot who wasn’t too fond of the gay American president stepping foot into his country, is all.”
There’s no humor in his voice, but there isn’t any anger either. They’ve faced years of this sort of discriminatory behavior, but never on this level, not even close. Gemma wishes she could be as calm as Louis is somehow managing to be right now, but she can feel her blood starting to boil.
She grits her teeth and – “That fucking—”
“Woah, woah, woah, Gems,” Louis quickly interrupts with a laugh, “Government line, don’t forget.”
Gemma huffs, rolling her eyes, “I’m sure everyone and their mother that is listening to the call right now would agree that that disgusting human being – if he could even be called that – deserves the worst punishment that comes his way. What’s the government over there doing with him anyways?”
“It’s looking like life behind bars, but I haven’t – there is an entire international dialogue that has to come about now and that should be a real joy.”
“Have the king and queen made any decisions?”
“Mother Mary,” says Louis dramatically, properly laughing now of all things, “The Queen – Raina, right, she went on the morning news program and just – oh my God, Gem, she absolutely lost it. Completely shut up the ‘ignorant, religious zealots’ and denounced their actions. I think she slipped in a couple of curse words in Arabic, but I’m not sure, she was speaking too fast for me to keep up.”
“You’re with them right now?”
“No, I’m in the hospital meeting with some of the civilians that got wounded before I fly back in a few hours.”
For the first time in hours, Gemma feels like she can finally breathe, like the weight of the world’s been lifted off her shoulders.
“I can’t wait for you to get home, Lou, I’m so grateful that you’re alive and safe. I don’t—” Don’t cry. Don’t cry. Don’t cry. “I know we’re not blood, Louis, but I love you so much and you’re just as much my brother as Harry is and – I don’t know what we’d be without you.”
Louis doesn’t say anything for a few moments, but the way he clears his throat is enough to tell Gemma that this hasn’t been easy for anyone.
“I’ll be home soon, Gemma.”
And this is where the hard part comes in, Gemma thinks. Addressing the elephant in the room.
“How is Harry, by the way?” Louis finally asks, a little awkward and distant.
Gemma doesn’t know how to tell Louis the truth without breaking his heart ten times over.
“Inconsolable,” she settles for, “I’ve never… He hasn’t said a word or gotten out of bed since we told him the news. It’s like he’s convinced that if he sleeps long enough, he’ll never have to wake up and face reality.”
And God, that sounds so harsh even to her own ears.
“He does that a bit, doesn’t he,” Louis tries to joke, but it comes out dry, “Never could handle bad news, that boy.”
“Not on this scale, no,” Gemma agrees, “Not when you’re involved.”
Neither of them say anything for minute, letting the weight of their words sink in. Eventually Louis exhales a shaky breath and Gemma realizes that she hasn’t slept in more than 24 hours and exhaustion hits her like an ocean.
“I should probably get going, actually. Send my love to the girls and Charlie, will you?”
“Of course, Lou, yeah.”
“And just, um,” He swallows past the lump in his throat and Gemma gives him a moment to collect himself, “Take care of Harry until I come home, please.”
“I will, I promise.”
“Good, good...” Louis exhales, “I have to go now, but it was good to hear your voice, Gemma. I’ll see you soon.”
“Be safe, Louis. Love you.”
He says one last, “Love you, too, Gem,” before he has to hang up. Gemma turns the phone off and places it down on the couch beside her. The fire crackles by her feet as the sun starts poking through the curtains, and for the first time in what feels like forever, Gemma closes her eyes and falls asleep.
Louis doesn’t know what he had expected when he got home, but the flight from Amman to DC had left him an absolute nervous wreck, so he thinks he should have at least expected the chaos that ensues the minute he steps foot in the White House.
There are staffers and litigators and aides to meet with. Press secretaries and the chiefs of staffs and generals and everyone and their mother who works in Washington, apparently. By the time they’ve had the full Situation Room run-through, Louis’ been in the country for six hours and he still hasn’t seen his family – bar Vice President Niall, of course. He could have met his parents and the girls and Harry first, but he knows that the conversations and greetings he’ll have with his family will be heavy, longer, so he decides to struggle through the politics of his assassination attempt before he can sneak away and just be Louis Tomlinson and nothing else. Uninterrupted. Reassuring one group of people at a time, he reasons.
Everyone is in the living room when he finally gets to the east wing of the house, packed in there with their husbands and wives and children, nervously mumbling about to one another and pretending like they aren’t shaking with anxiety.
His mothers are the worst, but he’s expected that after all. Anne weeps uncontrollably in Louis’ arms for so long that Robin has to take her away and help her catch her breath. Jay, on the other hand, gives Louis a proper telling off in front of everyone for giving the scare of her life. Louis promises to pay for the medical bills, Jay smacks him across the head, and the tension in the room has been broken, just like that.
He’s not sure what his family’s told Harper and Darcy, but when he finally gets to them, they both squeeze their arms around his neck and presses kisses to his face. And even when he pulls away to go hold Charlie, the girls stick to him, one on either side of him, too old to wrap their once pudgy arms around his legs, but not old enough to unwrap their arms from around his waist.
The last person that he greets is Gemma, and by then, everyone has dispersed across the room, setting up the fire again and getting ready for dinner. Teddy and Lottie are playing a game of Scrabble against Anne and Doris, Robin is cradling Charlie in his arms while Harper feeds him his bottle, and Dan and Greg are teaching Fizzy about the science of home brewing your own beer.
It’s only been a few days since Louis’ last seen Gemma, but it feels like it’s been decades. She looks smaller and older now, with her dark brown hair pulled back in a high ponytail and her cheekbones sharp, distracting from the bags underneath her eyes.
When Louis goes to embrace her, she immediately wraps her arms around his middle and buries her face into his chest, squeezing at him like she can’t believe he’s here, alive and real. He tries not to choke up, but it’s obvious that neither of them can quite maintain themselves that well, apparently. He holds onto her, anyways, for as long as she needs him to. No part of the last two or three days has felt real in any sense, but with Gemma shaking quietly in his arms, the weight of all that’s occurred comes crashing down and he realizes how much he could have lost, exactly.
“He’s still in bed, by the way,” says Gemma when they pull apart.
They’ve still got their arms around each other, but they’re stood side by side now with Gemma’s head on Louis’ shoulder as they watch their families. Her hair smells like apples and brown sugar, like she’s spent the day in the kitchen baking her stress away. A habit that runs in the Styles family, apparently.
“Couldn’t get him to leave,” Gemma shrugs. “I told you what he’s like, remember?” She looks up at him, reminding him of the phone call they shared with just one look, “We told him you’re okay, but it didn’t change much. He just needs to hold you, I think. Personally affirm you’re still alive and stuff.”
“I should go see him, then. You guys start dinner without us, okay?”
“Of course, Lou,” Gemma gets on her tippy toes and presses a kiss to his cheek, “S”good to have you back.”
Louis squeezes one last hug out of her before slipping out of the room and making his way to Harry. The walk to their bedroom feels like the longest in his life and the second that he opens the door and steps foot inside, his stomach drops painfully, his body quickly consumed with dread.
It’s not a horrible sight, or anything. No dead body or crime scene to unfold, nothing of that sort. But the lights are turned off and the shades pulled shut. It takes a minute for Louis’ eyes to adjust to the darkness and when they do they find Harry with his back in Louis’ direction. He’s on Louis’ side of the bed, and while Louis’ can’t tell if he’s asleep or awake and still, his heart still hurts just watching him.
Slowly and quietly, Louis slips his shoes off and pads across the room on light feet. He pulls his sweater off and throws it on the floor, followed by his shirt and his pants, until he’s down to just his boxers and his socks and stood in front of Harry’s side of the bed. Now that he’s up close, Louis can see that his husband is in fact still asleep, on his side and breathing softly. Louis pulls the duvet up and crawls in.
The second that his body meets the mattress, a shiver runs through his body and Louis has to close his eyes and catch his breath. It feels like an out of body experience when he inches closer to Harry, until they’re face to face and he brings a hand up to touch his cheek, feel his skin for the first time in so long. There are worry lines in his forehead, even while he sleeps, and Louis leans over to press his mouth against them in the hopes that they’ll maybe go away, that maybe even in his sleep Harry will feels Louis next to him and breathe a little easier.
He’s not surprised when Harry doesn’t wake up right now, but he uses it to his advantage and continue to pepper lingering kisses all over his face. Against his warm eyelids and in between his furrowed brows, even kisses the shell of his ears and the edge of his jaw. And when he pulls away for a second, just to watch his husband and hold his face steady in his palm, Louis is hit with just how much he adores Harry. He could never leave this man, he thinks. Refuses to ever be without him.
He kisses Harry in the corner of his mouth, more than once and not nearly enough. He kisses Harry square in the mouth, lips closed and dry. He kisses Harry on the bow of his lips, and it’ll never be enough.
“I love you I love you I love you,” Louis whispers against Harry’s mouth, “I love you so much. I’m so sorry, I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry—”
And that’s when Harry starts to move about, pressing his body closer to Louis and squirming against the sheets before he finally opens his eyes up.
“Lou?” he says in hushed confusion. There’s a pout on his lips and his eyes are puffy with sleep, but Louis’ so close and yet not nearly close enough.
“Hi—” He’s not sure what to say to his husband now that he’s finally with him. Hello, I love you endlessly? Hello, I’m sorry someone tried to take me away from you? Hello, can I kiss you, please?
“Hi,” he settles for.
Harry's expression turns blank. He scans Louis’ face from the bottom of his chin to the top of his head where little tufts of soft baby hair still frame his face. In the dark, Louis can’t tell if Harry is scanning his face for scars or trying to make sure all his parts are still there, but then Harry brings a hand up to cup his cheek and Louis knows that he’s making sure he’s real. Alive, breathing, next to him.
“Hi,” Harry finally croaks out. He doesn’t stop scanning his face, but his left hand finds Louis’ underneath the covers and he laces their fingers together, “Hi.”
“Hi,” says Louis one last time.
Harry finally looks up and meets Louis’ eyes. His own green ones are dark and wide with bags underneath them. Louis hates himself so much for putting them there, for ever being responsible for even the smallest modicum of pain that Harry feels. They stare into each other for a long time. Silent conversations about I love you, I’m sorry and I’m glad you’re home, please don’t go anywhere because they’ve never really needed words to communicate. Years of lingering stares have brought them this far, anyways.
And that’s all that Harry needs, really. Louis’ head on his pillow, Louis’ lips brushing against his own. He slips a leg between Louis’ and brings his arms around his waist, pulling his as close as possible. Harry’s sosososo glad that Louis’ shirtless because when he presses lingering kisses to his husband’s chest, he can feel his warm skin against his lips and that feels a bit like home.
By the time Harry finally gets into the limo, they’re running ten minutes late. Which, according to Perrie’s schedule, means that they’ll only be an hour early to a fundraiser way out of the city.
“Jesus, Harry, how long does it take to put on a suit and some shoes?” Louis huffs when Harry finally opens the door and slides inside.
For some odd reason, Harry closes the door and squeezes himself right against the metal of the door immediately. Louis quickly becomes aware of all the space between them and when his eyes land on Harry he notices how stiff he is; the tense line of his squared shoulders, the balled fists by his thighs, the furrow of his eyebrows where his eyes are squeezed shut. It’s as if he’s forced himself to the corner of the car, as far away from Louis as physically possible and the thought of it alone is enough to send ice through Louis’ veins.
Louis feels himself stiffen, “H? You okay?” he asks quietly, a little hesitant. He’s only been back in DC for a week and still, he feels like he’s walking on eggshells around everyone, but Harry especially.
“I’m good, yeah,” Harry answers back, monotonous and stiff.
Louis wants to believe him and go back to rehearsing his speech because that would be the easy thing to do, the smart thing to do. It’s his first appearance since the assassination and it’s not too big an event, but Niall and Gemma and more than enough Washington folk will be there. And even if they weren’t, even if it was just a party for a five years, Louis knows that he still has to be at his best when the time comes.
That would be easier, of course, if Louis could just focus on the task at hand. Maybe if he could push all his thoughts about Harry to the back of his mind, he would. Maybe if his husband could keep eye contact with him for more than three seconds, Louis could pretend like things were okay, at least for tonight, and go on with speech.
Frustrated enough as it is, Louis slides over a few inches toward Harry, but stops abruptly when his husband pulls back and shrinks even further into himself.
“H—” Louis frowns. He doesn’t even know what to say to that. Harry’s never reacted to him that way. Not in anger or despair. Not when he’s exhausted and running on ten minutes of sleep. Not when he’s fussing with the girls or changing a diaper. He’s never pushed Louis away like his touch burns.
In the front of the car, Paul starts driving and soon enough the awkward silence between them is joined with the sound of the limo’s tires against the road. It’s not much, but it is something.
“What is this?” Louis asks as they drive out of the White House garage. He waves his hands between the two of them; the foot of space separating them and the thick air of tension hovering above, “You’ve barely said two words to me since I’ve come back and it’s… Jesus, Harry, I need you, please. Say something to me.”
Louis swallows past the lump in his throat and the sound of it is loud enough even to his own ears that it makes him feel like he’s suffocating. He hadn’t meant to come off quite as blunt and straight-to-the-point, but Harry’s behavior has been eating away at him for far too long now for Louis to just let it slide.
Since his return from Amman, Harry has just stood on the sidelines and let Louis deal with all the chaos in the White House and Congress and from the general public. Louis’ best guess is that maybe Harry’s still in shock or maybe he’s regretting their move to DC, but he doesn’t know anything because Harry hasn’t said a word about the matter. It’s been an entire week of small talk about the weather and the girls muttered over dinner, choppy sentences before bed about the next day’s schedule, mornings where Louis will wake up to an empty bed.
And the only reason Louis hasn’t said anything to Harry about his behavior – or mentioned the assassination attempt – is because he hasn’t yet had a moment’s rest to track down his husband and confront him. Harry’s never held back from Louis like this, so he doesn’t know the exact protocol to follow. And with a matter this serious, he’s just assumed that the best option was to let Harry absorb the shock before he berated him with attacks. Clearly, though, that method of action hasn’t been working and Louis’ spent the majority of the week feeling spectacularly guilty.
“Have I done something wrong?” Louis finally asks, afraid to even hear the answer.
This time when he speaks he’s softer, less defensive, and Harry picks up on it immediately. When he opens his eyes, Louis is just barely inches away, his baby blues wide and pleading, begging for Harry to let him in. His thin lips are in a straight line, shoulders hunched, fingers nervously pitting at the fabric of his suit at the knees. He’s not…offended by Harry’s distant behavior as much as he is hurt by it. It feels like a personal attack that Louis never saw coming, never could have expected in his wildest nightmares.
Louis is barely audible when he speaks one last time, “Are we not okay?”
Harry feels particularly awful then, the worst he has in the last three weeks. None of this was his intention, none of – this isn’t what he’d.
He’s fucked up, is the thing.
“I fucked up,” he eventually says.
His voice sounds hoarse even to his own ears, but that’s probably because he knows things that Louis doesn’t, not just yet. He’s overwhelmed in seconds because there’s – there’s so much, he doesn’t even know where to start.
“I’m not avoiding you, Lou, I swear.”
Harry coughs into his fist nervously and gives himself a second to think.
“I just didn’t want to distract you, Louis. You had – you have so much on your plate and I couldn’t let myself be at the top of your worries. I’m so sorry if I made you think otherwise. God, I feel so awful, Lou, I’m so sorry.”
Louis stares back at him with a blank expression. Harry can’t tell if it’s shock or confusion, if Louis’ just trying to piece together the word vomit spilling out of him right now. Harry’s not really sure where he’s going with any of this, but some poorly worded attempt at an apology definitely wasn’t part of his plan for the night.
He takes a deep breath and sits up.
“Lou…” Harry whispers. God, he’s fucked up, “Lou, I did something I shouldn’t have.”
Louis feels like his heart has stopped.
In the last week, he’s faced an assassination attempt and a Congress ready to declare war, but hearing those words come out of Harry’s lips, Louis thinks this is the end. He doesn’t know what he expects – Harry would never cheat on him or kill someone, at least that much he’s sure of – but they’ve been so distant recently that Louis’ not sure what to cancel out and what to worry about. His brain kind of shuts down, goes blank.
Harry slides over on the leather, finally moving away from his little corner in the limo and closes the distance between himself and Louis, both metaphorically and physically.
“Lou…” he whispers.
Louis barely has a second to pick up on the moan that laces his husband’s words before Harry is pressing his warm mouth against his. He hums in pleasure and opens up his mouth on instinct.
“Lou,” Harry whispers again, this time into Louis’ mouth, “Lou, God. You have no idea how badly I’ve fucked up. ”
Harry brings a hand up to cup Louis’ cheek, the other to pull him closer by the back of the neck and deepen the kiss. He tastes like his black cherry lip balm and Louis snaps out of his frigid state when his mouth tastes the familiar sweetness. He pulls Harry closer by the collar of his blouse and kisses him back. They’ve kissed a handful of times since Louis’ been back, but not yet with this much need or this much tongue. It’s been almost three weeks since he’s kissed Harry – really kissed Harry – and Louis doesn’t know how he’s lasted this long without the taste of Harry on his lips.
Louis runs his tongue across the roof of Harry’s mouth, lets Harry bite on his bottom lip and pull it into his mouth, suck on it until it aches. It feels so good to have that bruising ache on his lips, that for a moment, Louis forgets that they’re in the car, that they’re on their way to a fundraiser, that Paul is just barely a meter away and that Harry has ‘fucked up’.
When they separate, Harry’s breath is heavy on Louis’ saliva slickened lips and they pant into each other’s mouths, both trying to catch their breath. Louis can’t remember the last time he’d kissed Harry like that and it terrifies him deeply, so he peppers Harry’s lips with more kisses. Three, four, five pecks to taste him some more.
As if he’s reading Louis’ mind, Harry mumbles, “Missed kissing you,” against his mouth, their lips brushing with every word. He presses another small kiss to Louis’ mouth and nuzzles closer, eyes still blissfully closed, “Should kiss me more,” he hums, a little giddy and a lot eager for more.
Harry presses another kiss to Louis’ lips before slipping his hands down to rest against Louis’ chest. It’s the lightest, the happiest he’s felt in so long, and he knows it’s only about to get so much better.
His voice is more collected when he decides, “Should always kiss me, Lou.”
So Louis does. He slips his tongue between Harry’s lips once more and pulls him impossibly closer, kisses him that much harder. Harry whimpers against his mouth and lets Louis take control, hands still pressed flat against his chest. Harry’s always been a big fan of kissing and he’s had more than a few of his fair shares of them, but he’s been kissing Louis’ lips for so many years that he can’t remember if he’s ever felt someone else’s mouth on his. He knows Louis’ mouth like the back of his hand – better than, probably – and kissing his thin lips, feeling his wide tongue against his own, it’s all Harry knows anymore.
It’s so easy to forget that for the first 22 years of his life, he was without Louis, that the person he’s married to right now – the President of the United fucking States – isn’t the person who gave him his first kiss, his first blowjob, his first orgasm, even though it’s always felt that way. He doesn’t think of himself as some horribly clichéd incomplete puzzle before Louis came into his life and he’s not quite sure what he was before they came together, but he knows that no one’s ever loved him the way Louis has, and that’s what sticks to him most.
When they separate the second time, they’re even more out of breath. Harry keeps his mouth close to Louis’ and his body even closer. He doesn’t want to leave their bubble quite yet, but he’s been half-hard in his pants for the last 45 minutes and he can feel himself leaking again. Clearly, he needs to pick up his pace and it would help if he couldn’t see Paul driving the limo from the corner of his eye.
Harry brushes his lips across Louis’ jaw until he reaches his ear.
“Roll up the partition, please.”
In the dark of the car, Harry lets his hand find Louis’ heavy cock and he squeezes just once. It’s been so long, he’s forgotten just how big his husband is, how it actually is for Louis to bend him over and destroy him.
Louis doesn’t make a word, but he slides his hand over and presses a button. Slowly, the partition slides up, but Harry doesn’t bother waiting for it to close fully before he gets to knees on the floor of the limo. By the time the back of Paul’s head has disappeared and they’re offered only a modicum of privacy, Harry’s already unzipped Louis’ with his teeth and pulled his pants down to his ankles.
It’s been a while, but that doesn’t mean Harry’s lost his speed or enthusiasm. Not by a long shot.
It’s a tight fit in the car and the position is far from comfortable, but Harry’s dealt with worse. At least when he leans over to press his tongue to the head of Louis’ clothed, leaking cock, he’s got enough of height advantage that it doesn’t hurt the slightest when he buries his face into Louis’ lap.
“Fu—” Louis goes to grunt, but stops himself when he remembers that they’re not exactly alone.
“I’ve played this scene out in my head a thousand times,” Harry confesses, mouthing against Louis’ cock, “Practiced on some of my toys whenever you were gone,” Harry hums, eyes fluttering closed, “Didn’t wanna lose my touch.”
“Fuck,” Louis whimpers, finally giving him and throwing his head back.
It’s impossible to resist Harry when he’s like this, so damn eager and persistent like the feeling of a heavy cock on his tongue is all he needs to make it through the day, a lifeline he’s impossibly hungry for, always needs. Harry’s always been great at giving head – a natural born skill, as he refers to it – but it’s the fact that he loves it so fucking much that gets to Louis, shakes him up and sends shivers through his body. The fact that he practices for Louis, deep throats at the toys that Louis’ used inside him until he’s gagging and in tears, that has Louis’ eyes rolling to the back of his head.
Harry runs his thumb against the underside of Louis’ aching cock, blunt nails light where they trail the material covering the vein there. He’s made a mess of Louis’ briefs already, both the black fabric and Harry’s mouth and chin wet with saliva. Harry hums throatily and continues mouthing and sucking through the fabric as he moves his hands to grip Louis’ hips tightly.
“Would you fuck my mouth just like this, Lou?” Harry asks quietly, curiously, “Would you do it if I asked nicely?”
Louis is so desperate for more, having gone more than two whole weeks without the feel of Harry’s tongue on him. Some sort of primitive instinct gathers in his belly and he just wants to shove his thickening cock down Harry’s throat and make him gag on it, go red in the face just a little bit.
“Only if you ask nicely.”
Harry brings his head up and rests his hands on either side of Louis’ legs. He leans close, stretching out his body, and lets their lips brush against each other lightly. Louis tries to delay the goosebumps that rise on his arms, but then Harry licks his bottom lip and Louis is reminded that, in a few moments, that tongue will be on his cock, those lips wrapped around his length.
“Fuck my mouth, if you could, please,” Harry asks in his nicest voice, breath warm and voice low.
He doesn’t bother waiting for Louis to reply before he’s settling back on his legs, pulling Louis’ legs wide apart. Harry slips his fingers into the black briefs and slowly slides the fabric down. He’s seen Louis’ cock hundreds of times, maybe thousands, but it’s not a sight that Harry will ever get used to, he thinks. He can’t remember the last time he saw Louis’ cock and his mouth didn’t water at the sight. It’s so…fucking big, is the thing. The perfect cock, if there ever was one. Thick and pink and smooth. So fucking thick and so fucking pink, big enough that Harry knows he’ll be voiceless and unable to sit down tomorrow.
When he finally gets his lips around the head of his cock, Louis is wet and sharp on his tongue. Harry licks the precome up easily and runs his tongue across the slit, wrapping his fist around the base and tugging it to full hardness. It’s a life-changing experience feeling Louis go from a little soft to completely and entirely rock hard against his palm, knowing that it’s because of his hand and his mouth.
Harry wants to make it last longer, probably more than Louis does, but eventually his mouth aches for more than just the cockhead and Harry is pushing Louis past his lips and into his mouth. He hallows out his cheeks and slides down inch by inch until the head of Louis’ cock hits the back of his throat and his mouth brushes against his fist. Harry lets his tongue and his jaw adjust to the weight before he pops off, leaving Louis’ cock wet with saliva.
Once he’s taken a deep breath and moved his hands behind his back, Harry takes Louis back in his mouth. This time he doesn’t bother with precautions and takes him all the way down, completely buries his face into Louis’ thighs and let him hit the back of his throat with ease. He welcomes wholeheartedly the way his jaw begins to ache as he slides up and down, slicking Louis up with his saliva and generous with his tongue.
And he has practiced, is the thing. Of course silicon and crystal don’t quite compare to Louis Tomlinson, but Harry is used to deep-throating like a champ at this point in his life. And when Louis slides his fingers into his hair, Harry obediently takes him all the way down before he stills and waits for Louis to fuck his throat.
The second that Harry stops moving his mouth, Louis tightens his fists around Harry’s hair and starts thrusting his hips upward. As much as Louis would like to be fast and get straight to the point, he settles for rolling his hips and slowly feeding his cock into Harry’s mouth over and over again. Pushes in, pulls out, lets Harry dribble messily all over him. He’s remotely aware of how uncomfortable it must be for him down there, but the feel of Harry’s warm mouth is so overwhelmingly good and toe-curling that doesn’t stop until it starts to feel too good, too fast.
“Fuck, Harry. Get up here, now,” he grits out, throwing his head back, “Shit. Take your pants off, too.”
That’s all Harry needs to hear before he’s stumbling to sit up. It’s a struggle getting out of his pants and by the time he’s sat on Louis’ lap, straddling him, Louis' pupils are blown wide. He looks absolutely predatory and it doesn’t help Harry’s case that his husband hasn’t shaved in weeks, looking scruffy and sharp and older.
Like he could fuck Harry into calling him daddy again.
Harry’s stomach does an excited flip, nerves tingling deep in his core. Louis brings his palms around to grab at his cheeks and then his stomach really does flip, this time for another reason entirely.
“Did you already—”
Harry’s face heats up. He’s glad it’s dark out and the windows are tinted because the blush on his cheeks has painted him mortifyingly red.
“I wanted to be ready for you,” Harry confesses quietly.
Louis tilts his head to the side and raises an eyebrow in disbelief. Curiously, he slides his right hand over and runs his fingers in between Harry’s cheeks and over his entrance where the end of a plug sits comfortably.
“How long have you—” Jesus, Louis can’t even finish the thought.
Harry squirms around on his lap, a light moan slipping from his lips when he grinds down against Louis’ fingers and the plug pushes in just the smallest bit deeper.
“Before we left the house. S’why I was running late,” Now that he’s got Louis’ fingers on him, it’s easier to be honest, to tease at his husband just a little bit, “Couldn’t stop fucking myself, Lou.”
“Doesn’t feel as good as your fingers, though,” Harry hums hazily, “Nowhere near as good as your cock. You can fuck me now, by the way.”
When Louis doesn’t move his fingers, Harry stops rolling his hips and opens his eyes. He catches Louis’ gaze and it only takes one glance for Harry to know where he’s gone wrong.
“Could you pretty please fuck me now, Lou?”
And that’s all that Louis needs before he’s pulling the plug out of him and replacing it with two of his own fingers easily. It’s not so much that it’s a tight fit – because Harry had fingered himself beforehand, too – that has Harry curling his toes and gripping onto Louis’ shoulders, but after almost an hour of wearing something as impersonal and still as a silicon plug, Louis' fingers feel like release, almost. Tucked deep inside him, Louis’ fingers are warmer and longer and when Harry squeezes around them, Louis curls his fingers and brushes them against his walls in a search.
“You’re so wet already,” Louis points out with a grin, “Probably ruined those lovely pants of yours, huh? Filthy,” he tsks, “Absolutely filthy, aren’t you?”
He must have timed himself perfectly, because just as Harry’s about to argue that Louis’ the one who dirtied him up in the first place, he feels a shock run through his entire body, making him arch his back and whimper loudly. Louis keeps the tips of his fingers pressed against his prostate and grabs his jaw in his left hand, forcing Harry to open his eyes and look at him.
Harry thinks that Louis’ going to ask him if he thinks he’s filthy, too, but then Louis’ mouth is on his, shutting him up. He feels Louis’ tongue before he does his lips and when Louis rubs at his prostate like he has no intention of stopping any time soon, Harry whimpers into his mouth and rolls his hips in circles. He pushes down onto Louis’ fingers and grinds against his hands, clenching around them tightly. His senses are on overdrive and he doesn’t know what to focus on first, Louis’ mouth or Louis’ fingers, and being stimulated from both ends makes him feel so overwhelmed, like he’s going to fall to pieces.
It’s like standing at the edge of cliff, when Louis touches him. Harry enjoys the view that leaves him breathless at every moment of the day, but when Louis kisses him roughly or pounds into him with his cock – or even the smaller things, like when he brushes his hair out of his face or kisses the tip of his nose when he says goodbye – Harry feels like there’s just…so much inside him, like he’s going to explode with every kiss. It scares him a little because he knows how good Louis makes him feel, will always make him feel, but it’s those few moments before the jump that get to him. When there are little butterflies in his belly all nervous and excited, flapping their wings and telling Harry to jump! jump! jump! and let Louis take care of him. That moment before he decides to take a leap and give himself over to Louis, step off the edge and lose himself. Weightlessly.
He always jumps, is the thing. For Louis, he jumps without a second thought. Even though the view is breathtaking and the wait is nerve wracking, Harry knows he will always be taken care of.
And even though it’s been the other way around the last few years – Louis giving himself over, Harry fucking him until he shakes – the shift between them came naturally, instinctively. Louis, under the stress that his presidency has put him under, let go of the reigns and handed them over to Harry. They’ve always been generous with each other, but there’s been a change in the pattern recently. Harry likes taking care of his baby. He’d continue like this forever if Louis needed him.
But when Louis pulls his lips away and adds a third finger inside him, Harry isn’t ashamed or even remotely surprised that his lips part and he breathes a desperate, “Daddy.”
Louis stills and pulls away to put a few inches between them. His eyes are wide and imploring, like they’re asking Harry if this is it, this is what he wants.
Harry doesn’t say anything, just leans over and presses his bruised lips to Louis’, “Daddy,” he repeats again, lips brushing together with every breathy repeat of the word, “Please, daddy, I need—”
He doesn’t know how to phrase how badly he wants Louis to wreck him. Harry can’t muster up the courage to say the words aloud, the thought of it overwhelming enough to shut him up and pray silently that Louis can still read him just as well.
He thinks he’s doing okay, but then Louis pulls his fingers out and lets go of his tight grip on Harry’s jaw. Before Harry can even welcome the emptiness, Louis is popping the buttons of his dress shirt off and ripping it right down the middle. Somewhere in the back of his mind, Harry frowns because he’s quite fond of this blouse, actually, but clearly unbuttoning it one at a time is too long a task for Louis, who tears it up straight to the bottom. He pushes the shirt off his shoulders, taking his suit coat off with it. They land with a light thud onto the floor of the limo, probably on top of Harry’s pants and the plug.
“Please tell me you brought some lube with you.”
Harry’s sitting on Louis bare lap, naked and shameless, “Inside pocket of my coat. On the right.”
It’s funny, Louis thinks to himself as he picks Harry’s clothes back up and searches the pockets, that his husband keeps his on-the-go lube on the right, inside pocket of his coat, where it would sit securely pressed against his heart. Symbolic, that, and very typical of Harry Tomlinson.
Louis looks up at Harry, but he’s got his eyes locked on Louis’ cock. Without saying a word, Louis hands over the small packet of lube and rests his palms flat on Harry’s creamy thighs.
“Go on, then,” he says, digging the pads of this thumbs into his muscles.
Harry coats him generously, but makes sure to work slowly. He wraps a tight fist around the base of Louis’ cock and spreads the cherry scented lubricant with extra care, never once moving his attention. He stares at Louis’ thick, red cock dazedly with something like starved awe in his eyes, like he’s counting down the seconds until he can take it in while simultaneously dreading the thought of not seeing it anymore.
It isn’t until there’s a sharp brake and Harry falls forward and onto his chest that Louis remembers they’re still in a moving vehicle. That they’re on their way to a fundraiser. That he’s the President of the United States and he’s about to fuck his husband in the back of limousine with Secret Service just a few feet away. He’s not sure how much is left in the drive, but whether or not they arrive in five minutes or fifty minutes, Louis doesn’t think he’ll last another second with just Harry’s hands.
When Paul starts driving again, Harry sits back up and immediately stretches an arm out and grabs one of the handles over the door.
“Ha—” is all that Louis can manage as he watches Harry get to his knees and line himself up. He towers over Louis easily, naked chest damp with sweat and the muscles in his arms prominent as he keeps himself steady with the handle.
It’s supposed to be the other way around, Louis asking Harry, but Louis is so unbelievably dumbstruck at the moment. He nods his head and slowly, Harry starts to inch his way down.
Harry is all hot, tight heat around from the get-go, the plug and the lube and the years of endless sex not having done much to make it easier for Louis to breathe as the head of his leaking cock slides past Harry’s tight rim. When he finally bottoms out and is seated on Louis’ lap, Harry moves his right hand to grab the other handle and throws his head back, overwhelmed.
“Fuck, Lou, you’re so fucking big,” he croaks out quietly.
The car is dark, the windows have fogged up, and the streetlamps they drive by don’t help at all. Harry’s body is taut in front of him and against and on top of him, and it only takes one final look at Harry’s impossibly long arm span for Louis to grab his hips and start thrusting upward.
Harry responds to it immediately. He begins to roll his hips and push down, like he’s trying to take Louis in deeper, though, it’s physically impossible. Louis digs his blunt nails into the soft skin of his hips and together, they build a languid rhythm as Harry adjusts to the overwhelming size of Louis inside him, stretching so wide it almost hurts.
“You don’t have to go easy on me, you know?” Harry pants into his mouth, “M’a big boy, I can handle it.”
“You sure about that?”
Harry brings his head closer and brushes his lips against the hair littered across Louis’ jaw and upper lip.
Louis takes that as a sign to start fucking up into Harry and snapping his hips in a staccato beat. With Harry’s desperate whimpering in his ear, Louis takes back the reigns and gives it to his husband just as he’d asked, pounding into him and using his tight grip on his hips to pull him off and slam him back down. He’s doing all the work at this rate, but Harry’s clenched so tightly around him that it doesn’t even matter anymore.
All that matters is the slap of skin when Harry’s ass hits his thighs and the way his knuckles are white where they squeeze onto the roof handles. Harry knows what he is and isn’t allowed to do when Louis gets like this, but right now it’s almost like he’s trying to push himself past his normal limits. It’s worth it for the way Louis' cock brushes against his prostate and the way Louis leans over to kiss the underside of his arms, mouth warm and lips wet against his muscles all the way down to his elbows. If he can’t touch, at least he can be touched, is how Harry tries to reason it.
As Louis litters his arms with kisses before bringing his mouth up to bite into his neck and suck purpling bruises, Harry manages to get himself under enough control to start fucking down on Louis’ cock more thoroughly. He squeezes and he pulls, twists his hips and does as he pleases to get himself closer to release. The tips of his fingers are buzzing and his toes ache from being curled so tightly, but there’s a coiling pull in his belly that just gets stronger and stronger with every thrust.
“M’gonna come now,” Louis says out nowhere, mouth pressed to Harry’s ear, “You won’t be, though.”
It’s not so much a warning as it is a statement of fact, it seems like, and before Harry can even open his eyes, Louis is quickly wrapping a fist around the base of his cock. He lets himself go, then, and he comes hard and fast, warm and wet and fucking Harry through all of it, still.
The grip around his cock is tight enough that Harry couldn’t come even if he wanted to, and apparently that’s what Louis has in mind for him, too. For a second Harry worries that Louis’ not going to let him come at all tonight, that he’s going to force him to put his filthy clothes back on and walk into that fundraiser half-fucked with a hard cock prominent against his hip and come stains on his pants.
But then Louis is squeezing his hips again and pulling him off his cock, forcing him to drop his arms.
“On your back,” is all he says.
Harry isn’t sure what he’s supposed to make of that, but he listens anyway, because when does he not? It’s a tight fit with their limbs all over the place, but eventually Harry finds himself spread across the leather, handprints and footprints on the glass. The position is uncomfortable and his back aches like a bitch, but there’s a swooping in his belly because he knows it’s going to be worth it.
Harry likes the pain.
And for someone who’s just had his first orgasm in over two weeks, Louis is surprisingly agile with his movements. He moves quickly and folds himself up carefully, somehow managing to just barely fit himself between Harry’s longlonglong legs. He keeps one knee on the floor of car, the other on the seat, and twists Harry around until his pink hole is facing Louis’ mouth.
Louis presses his tongue flat against Harry’s hole and keeps it there. He uses his hands to fit Harry’s legs over his shoulder and then he starts to lick without warning and hesitance.
In his defense, Louis does try to go slow at first, pressing kisses up and down and in between Harry’s cheeks as he keeps them spread apart with his hands. He just gets tired of the slow pace so quickly. All he wants is to eat Harry out and lick him clean, taste his come in his mouth and feel Harry squeeze around his tongue.
So he does just that.
Slides his tongue inside Harry’s wet and stretched out hole and fucks into him, squeezing at his thighs in reassurance. You can fuck my face, princess it means, and Harry understands it immediately. He starts to grind down onto Louis’ wet tongue and against his face, feeling his hot breath on his ass.
And the only thing that feels better than Louis’ tongue lapping over his aching rim and licking him out is the burn of Louis’ scruffy beard as he buries his face between Harry’s soft, pink cheeks. The short, sharp hairs brush against his smooth skin and it goes from pink to red easily, leaving Harry a whimpering mess as he welcomes the burn, begs for Louis to continue.
He knows he’s not going to last much longer, though. With the way Louis slides his deft tongue in and out, circling and sucking until his chin is wet with saliva and come and lube, Harry knows he’s sososososo close. He feels like he’s suffocating in this tiny limousine, too big for it. And with his feet and hands pressed against the glass, Harry worries that when he comes, the sheer force of his arms will make him break through the glass and his insides explode like supernovas.
He doesn’t break any glass when does come, though, luckily.
Instead, Louis brings his head up from between Harry’s legs and wraps a loose fist around his length and starts to quickly jerk him off. All that Harry really needs to hear is a soft, “Come on daddy’s face, princess,” before he’s arching his back and shooting thick white ropes high onto Louis’ cheekbones and into his beard.
Harry collapses against the leather seat as his orgasm hits him with full force. It washes over him like a tsunami, absolutely overcoming him and pulling him deep under. He can feel it from the tip of his toes to the back of his eyes, shivering as it runs through his bones and takes control over him.
When Harry finally opens his eyes, Louis is trying to move his limbs around. Harry feels boneless and entirely uncooperative, but he lets Louis pick him up and make him sit up so that they can both fit together.
“Still with me?”
Harry’s head feels like it weighs eighty pounds when he tilts it to look at his husband. He’s still got white ropes of come all over his face, so instead of answering him, Harry leans over and kisses him on the mouth first. It’s so sloppy and wet, but Harry isn’t embarrassed to admit that he moves from Louis’ mouth to his upper lip, then all the way across the edge of his jaw where he leaves open-mouthed kisses and licks his come out of Louis’ beard. He continues all over Louis’ face, surprised a little that his husband lets him, but it feels almost therapeutic as he kisses his come off and leaves Louis as close to spotless as he can get in his post-sex haze.
“Thank you,” Harry eventually mumbles against Louis’ neck with droopy eyes and loose bones, “I l’v’you so much,” he slurs, “Sooo much, Lou.”
“You realize everyone’s going to know we fucked when we walk into the building, right?”
Harry shrugs his shoulder and throw one of his legs over Louis’, “Everyone knows we fuck like rabbits anyways, Lou. Whassit matter if you show up with some come on your face and I walk with a limp the entire time?”
Louis barks a loud laugh and it’s really as simple as that, isn’t it? They love each other and fuck like rabbits.
And everybody knows.
Somewhere in between Darcy’s fascinating tale about worms she freed on her way to school and the final official call that the Tomlinson-Horan campaign has passed the mark for 270 electoral votes, it dawns on Louis how much his life is about to change.
They’re in a hotel in the center of Chicago about half an hour away from home and a few minutes from Grant Park where hundreds of thousands of people are waiting for the new president. It’s an awfully bitter night in Chicago, the winds merciless and skies beginning to snow. There’s a blizzard warning set for later in the week and still, for some reason, close to a million people are waiting.
Louis knows the exact second he’s passed the golden number. About seven minutes after eleven o’ clock the entire floor of the hotel explodes with cheers. From both the room to his left and his right, Louis can hear the sound of champagne bottles being popped and the loudest shouts of fuck, yes! he’s ever heard in his life.
He knows in a few seconds someone will come knocking on the door and yelling in his face, shaking his shoulders and asking him can you believe it? we’re going to the fucking White House, Louis!, but he tries not to think about it. He hadn’t prepared an acceptance speech, the same way he hadn’t prepared a concession speech. In a tornado of polls and statistics, debates and swing state visits, Louis had forgotten what he’s actually gotten himself into. So much preparation and money and endless nights – more than enough tears and never enough alcohol – had gone into the campaign. It’s like the entire time they were so focused on the journey, the battle for the White House, that the reality of it all had just slipped by them.
Maybe it just never felt tangible, Louis thinks. Maybe this entire time every speech and every debate simply felt like a (sometimes not so) fun, friendly competition that would just end, come the first Tuesday of November. He’d considered every outcome on election night, but maybe he just never wrapped his head around any of them.
The clock is ticking away and Louis knows he’ll only have a few seconds more to himself. Someone is bound to find him and drag him away to hurriedly jot down an acceptance speech. Louis can improvise like hell, but he’s never been tested on a stage this big.
He is the 47th President of the United States now, after all. He’s got big shoes to fill.
Louis turns his head to the direction of the large bed in the center of the room where Harper and Darcy are tucked under the covers, still in their little leg warmers and snow boots.
Harper pokes her head out from under the covers and meets her father’s eyes. Darcy’s still snoozing lightly against the pillows – that are nearly the entire size of her body – but Harper is wide awake and sitting up.
“Do I have to start a new school now?” she asks curiously, the slightest bit of despair evident in her voice.
“Do you not want to start a new school?”
Harper fiddles with the fabric of the duvet for a few moments, ducking her head down and really thinking about the question. She looks just like Harry when does that, furrowing her dark eyebrows and biting into her bottom lip in concentration. She’s just like Harry in the sense that everything, no matter how large or small in significance, she devotes herself to entirely.
It’s no wonder she never gets to pick the games for family night.
“I…” she starts and then quickly trails off, getting lost with her thoughts, “I’m… I dunno. Do we have to leave Chicago, too?”
Louis’ heart aches increase tenfold when she picks her head back up and her green eyes are wide in confusion. She looks like she’s going through an existential crisis, at just her five years of age.
“We can stay wherever you want, babe. Do you wanna stay in Chicago?”
“I wanna stay close to Grammy,” she confesses, “And also Grammy Anne promised to take me ice skating next week.”
It’s such a ridiculously small thing, but Louis knows how much all those little things mean to Harper and Darcy. They’re at an age where every new experience is the best, biggest thing in their life. Everything is brand new and all the smallest things mean the world to them, and all Pezzie wants is to ice skate for the first time with Grammy Anne.
Louis crosses his leg over the other, “Then we’ll stay right here.”
“Will you come ice skating also?”
“If you want me to.”
Harper watches him with pout on her lips and her little nose scrunched up. She’s been running around with Darcy all day and the pretty little French braids that Harry had so carefully done for them both earlier that night are haphazard and out of control now. She looks like a wild little lion with her hair sticking out in all different direction, some of her baby curls falling over her eyes.
Out of nowhere, she starts to struggle with the sheets and for a second, it looks almost like she’s trying to fight the duvet before Louis realizes that she’s just trying to get off the bed. Unfortunately, she breaks free before Louis has a chance to grab his phone and take a video of her.
Harper makes her way across the room on her chubby little legs and climbs onto the couch where Louis is sat. She crawls over to him and plops down right on his lap, throwing her legs over Louis. She’s only five, so her little legs are about the entire length of Louis’ thigh. It’s almost painfully endearing the way she looks down at their legs and notices the difference too. Harper squirms on his lap, stretching her legs out like somehow they’ll get longer and she won’t look so tiny on her dad’s lap.
“Is something wrong, Pez?”
“Papa,” she exhales heavily, like she’s forty years older than she actually is, “Do you wanna go ice skating with me and Grammy?”
Louis knows his daughter well enough to know there’s something else on her mind. He wraps her up in his arms and brings her close to his chest.
“What’s wrong, little bird?” he mumbles into her wild lioness hair.
Harper is silent for a second as she contemplates her words, “Are we gonna live in the White House, papa?” she finally asks.
And it hasn’t really sunk in, any of it, but hearing it from Harper’s mouth sends reality crashing on his face.
“Yeah, I—Yeah. In a few months, at least. Is that okay with you?”
“Are you gonna be happy?”
Harper is picking at her dress and Louis’ got his cheek rested on the top of her hair. Darcy’s long crashed from her sugar high and Harry is nowhere to be found. They’re kind of all over the place, the Tomlinsons.
“I think I will be,” says Louis, “As long as you, and Darce, and your dad are happy, I’ll be okay.”
“I want you to be happy, too,” Harper mumbles under her breath earnestly, “I’m excited for the White House also.”
Louis slowly breaks into a small smile, “Yeah?”
“Yes, a lot. Grammy Anne promised to show me the dinosaurs when we go there.”
“Dinosaurs?” Louis gasps dramatically, playing along, “What hasn’t Grammy Anne promised you, then?”
Harper perks up in his lap and she’s ready to tell another one of her stories about her escapades with Anne when the door to the hotel room creaks open. Louis is half expecting Niall or Perrie or even Zayn, but when Harry’s head pops in, Louis feels a rush of relief.
“Are we having girls’ night without me?” Harry asks in mock offense when his eyes land on Louis and Harper huddled up on the couch, “You even started the cuddling without me? And here I thought we were a family,” he tsks, grabbing at his heart dramatically.
Harper twists around on Louis’ lap until she’s facing Harry. She makes grabby hands at him, the same way she did when she was just born and when she first learned how to walk and when she burped out da-da as her first words. It only takes Harry a few strides to make his way over to her and lift her up in his arms. He throws her into the air and Louis watches them interact, notes the way Harry breaks out into a wide grin that’s reflected perfectly on Harper’s face. She’s got his dimples and she’s got his wild hair and when she giggles with her entire chest, she’s got Harry’s laughter, too.
Eventually, Harry collapses onto the couch beside Louis, and Harper curls up in his arms, her own pudgy ones tight around his neck. The two of them are out of breath and giddy next to him, mumbling close to one another’s ears about God knows what. It’s doesn’t bother Louis in the slightest and it never has, the way Harper and Harry have always had their own little way of communicating in hushed whispers and childish giggles. He’s the same way with Darcy, although they sort of specialize in pillow fights and mud wars.
There’s also lots of cuddling.
Somewhere out of his focus, Louis is pretty sure he hears Harry tell Harper to go wake her sister up but it isn’t until Pez is jumping on the bed and Harry slips his palm onto his lap that Louis snaps out of his daze and comes back to the present moment.
Louis looks at Harry’s hand on his thigh and he feels… Odd, sort of. Light and airy in a way he can’t really explain, even though in the back of his mind he knows he should be terrified and overwhelmed and stressed as hell.
“I’m good, yeah. I’m okay.”
Harry leans over and presses a small kiss to the corner of his mouth before nuzzling his head in the crook of Louis’ neck. Harry doesn’t mention the fact that Louis has to go give an acceptance speech for his presidency. He doesn’t mention the thousands of people waiting in the cold, and he doesn’t mention that every part of their lives is going to be flipped upside down in the coming weeks.
Instead, Harry keeps his warm palm steady on Louis’ thigh and the two of them watch Harper and Darcy jump on the bed excitedly. And when Harry turns his hand over, Louis presses a kiss to the top and his head and laces their fingers together until their palms are squeezed together.
In the middle of Chicago, on a cold Tuesday night in November, is when it all begins.