"Come on, it'll be fun!"
"If you idea of fun is having a male stripper rubbing against you, I'm going to start doubting your heterosexuality," Louis says.
Which, now that he thinks of it, Zayn never said he was straight. And he and Liam are too close for it to be normal, heterosexual, fist-bumping manly bros. All these whispers, and there was the Shower Incident this one time… oh god.
"God," he grunts. "I need alcohol."
Zayn grins. He looks a bit evil, Louis thinks. "Go grab us something to drink, I'll get us a table," he says.
So Louis does, even charming the (female, thank god) bartender a little. He orders two whiskeys, feeling pretty badass about it. He's starting to feel a little better about the whole situation (frankly, he doesn't even know why he followed Zayn here, the 'Take me to a gay bar' was purely metaphorical). After all, if he's pissed enough, he might even not be too embarassed about the whole thing.
Except that Zayn's smiling when he comes back, and there's no way this is a good sign.
Zayn smiles again. Oh no. Oh no.
He smirks. Evil. "Damn right I did, Tommo." He pats the seat next to him. "C'm'on, sit down. You'll love it."
Louis is trying to think up a way to escape (because no, shockingly, a lapdance by a male stripper isn't what he was hoping to take out of this night) when a guy comes over. And wow, okay, this might not be as terrible as it seemed two seconds ago, because the boy is – well, he's – he must be the prettiest thing that Louis's ever seen, and god, his lips.
Zayn seems pleased with himself, which is not rare but remains extremely unpleasant, when Louis sits down wordlessly. The boy cocks his head and smirks at him. Louis wants to swallow him whole (he's not gay. He's just – he strays sometimes?).
"What's your name?" Zayn asks. Louis is revising his opinion – Zayn is clearly awesome.
"Harry," the boy says. Even his voice is perfect, slow and husky, the syllables elongated in his mouth as though they were gum.
"Is that your real name?" Louis can't help but ask. He could probably get thrown out for asking that, but he doesn't really care at his point.
"May be," Harry says, and he sounds oddly genuine, so Louis is just going to pray that it's true. As any other time he prays, it probably won't do much of anything, but he doesn't really care about that either right now, so it's okay.
The boy – Harry – winks at him. His eyes are green, green, green with speckles of gray and blue, maybe a bit of pirate gold.
He's rather heavily dressed for an exotic dancer, but the light gray suit vest hangs on his naked shoulders so sinfully that Louis may have forgotten to breathe for a moment. The skin – white, unstained – flashes at Louis when he moves, the languid light painting colored rays on his slim hips. Louis swallows, loudly. He can feel Zayn smiling next to him.
He'd forgotten about his and Zayn's drinks (okay, so he had forgotten about pretty much anything that isn't these lips and i want to bend him over a table and fuck him until he screams, but that isn't the point), but they come back to his mind when the boy curls a long-fingered hand around one of the glasses, brings it to his lips and takes a gulp. Louis watches his throat work as he throws his head back, white and gleaming. He wants to lick it and suck love bites on the immaculate skin. The boy – Harry, fuck, Harry – licks a drop that has wandered on his lips, a seductive swipe of tongue that makes Louis's pants just that little bit tighter. God, and he hasn't even started.
Louis just has the time to think that Zayn is being strangely silent before Harry is all up in his space, one leg hooked between his, looking down at him, one hand on his shoulder, heat seeping through the fabric of Louis's T-shirt.
Okay, so he may be a little bit gay.
Harry starts – dancing isn't even the word, sliding maybe, his hips rotating slowly, tantalizing. His smirk doesn't leave his face but his eyelids fall shut and his mouth half-open, red and bitable. Louis thinks of it swollen with kisses, wrapped around his cock, hot on his neck, sucking a you're mine or a i'm yours.
The feeling of his fingers (Louis wants to suck them in his mouth and make Harry moan, moan his name and beg him to fuck him) framing his face when he removes Louis's glasses is entirely too much. They trace a light pattern over his cheekbones, and Louis can't hold back a whimper, which would really be fucking embarassing if he cared.
(Louis thinks of glyphs and symbols – a spell being cast, right here in the half-darkness, the magic sinking into his skin and branding him.)
Harry slides a hand in Louis's hair. He doesn't dance very well, too slow for a stripteaser, more languid than frantic as these things usually are (not that Louis's already gotten a gay lapdance, because it is not the case), but god, Louis can see why someone would hire him, because he can't fucking take his eyes off him, his jean-clad leg that's millimiters away from his crotch, the feeling of his fingers rubbing his scalp and tugging at his hair, the slivers of bare chest that appear from time to time… And his face, god, his face must be criminal somewhere, because Louis would fucking kill for that face (bloodcherryred lips – honey curls – smirk, lips, lips again, a hint of gleaming enamel, teeth).
Louis is too far gone to be embarrassed about the full-blown bulge tenting his pants by now, but he suspects that he would be embarassed to come from a jailbait-looking stripper not even touching him. He's not a teenager anymore, for god's sake. (Is Harry? He looks like it, but he doesn't, as though he hasn't decided which one he likes best.)
He hears Zayn take in a ragged breath next to him. "Um, I think that'll be all," he says as Harry lowers himself down and rubs against Louis, sending spikes of electricity to pierce his skin. Louis's blood is Pompei at its glorious hour, red and boiling, ready to blow up.
He takes a rushed breath, and his eyes fall closed on their own accord. This can't –
But suddenly there's nothing left pressing against him, and Harry's smirking down at him when he opens his eyes, a blush high on his cheeks (his eyes are heavy-lidden but oh so intent, as though they were trying to bore holes through his skin – Louis thinks of lava spilling on his throat). Louis purposefully doesn't look at Zayn (he can't wait to hear what Zayn'll tell Liam, though, seriously).
Zayn hands Harry a few bills. Harry checks the amount, his eyes lazy and uninterested, and tucks them in his back pocket with a cheeky "Thanks, sir."
Louis is sarting to relax again (this is over, he tries to tell his dick, who apparently isn't getting the message), and so he nearly jumps when he feels a hot breath brush his ear. Harry's laugh tumbles in his ear, banging against his eardrum, and if even that feels this good, Louis is in serious trouble.
"I'm off in ten," he says, calm and low. "Wait for me outside."
Louis would say something but his ability to say words appears to have left him, so he just nods wordlessly, gulping loudly.
Harry laughs and mock-salutes them. "Gentlemen," he drawls, and wanders away.
Zayn and Louis stare wordlessly at his ass. They're only human, after all.
The silence that follows is a bit overwhelming. It lasts for a few moments, and then there's Zayn strangled voice, tinted with a hint of laughter, "Don't mention it."
(And if Zayn's car keys misteriously end up in Louis's back pocket, they don't mention it. These things happen.)
Harry steps out with a white T-shirt and a cigarette dangling from his red, red lips, smirk firmly in place, and Louis revises his opinion about prayers – they obviously work.