Louis is just starting to chub up when Harry waltzes in, bag over his shoulder, two bottles of water in one hand and a spare keycard in the other. Louis wonders what the new security team thinks of Harry needing to get into Louis’ room when the rest of them are out for a night on the town, but they’re never going to ask, so he reckons it doesn’t matter. And besides, Harry probably—definitely—has a non-answer ready for them, having long since perfected the art of talking in circles.
Sometimes Louis isn’t sure even he knows exactly what Harry’s doing here.
“Did you start without me?” Harry demands, because the moans coming from Louis’ laptop aren’t enough of a giveaway. He’s got this little frown on his face as he takes his boots off, like he actually expected Louis to wait, maybe twiddle his thumbs and stare at the wall while Harry took his sweet time palling around with the crew, having a drink or two. He’s flushed and tipsy, sweat darkening the hair at his temples and highlighting the angles of his face.
“Yeah, sorry mate,” Louis says, dragging his eyes back to the screen. “You missed the beginning, so none of the raw assfucking is going to make any sense now.”
Harry huffs, unzips his jeans, and lands on the bed with enough force to send the laptop bouncing. “I wanted to pick.”
He smells like sweat and some new, flirty cologne. If Louis’ cock takes more of an interest in this than the men fucking onscreen, well. No one has to know.
“You always pick,” Harry mutters, like this is an old and familiar injustice instead of something they’ve done a handful of times and awkwardly at best. He’s wriggled out of his jeans and is taking up too much room. The bed’s huge, and there’s enough space left between them that it’s not weird, but Louis can still feel the heat of his skin, somehow. “And you always pick the most boring one. I don’t even know if I can get it up.”
“That’s too bad,” Louis says, “because your whining is doing wonders for my erection,” and it’s only funny because it’s true.
Harry tugs his shirt off and throws it at Louis’ head in response. Louis ducks and ignores all the skin in his periphery. Harry’s not supposed to take off his clothes, but it’s one of those unspoken rules, much like don’t have a wank with your best mate and definitely don’t make that a regular thing, fuck, what the fuck, and so of course Harry throws his little grey briefs at Louis’ head next.
Louis’ still in a t-shirt and tented joggers, staring so hard at the screen that his vision’s gone a bit blurry. He can’t see Harry playing with his cock, except he can, because he’s seen it before—how Harry touches himself, how he likes tugging on his foreskin when he’s just starting to get into it, rolling it down to expose the sensitive head of his cock. His thighs are sensitive too, and he likes to pet them, scratch when he gets close. Louis wishes he didn’t know this.
He wishes a lot of things.
He hasn’t been prepared for anything the last six months have thrown at him. If things started unraveling leading up to Zayn’s departure then he’s just lost the fucking plot entirely now, and what used to be routine—familiar, comfortable—has turned into a sore. There’s so much outside his control that he feels on the verge of a breakdown if he thinks about it too hard, so he doesn’t.
“Predictable,” Harry scoffs. Louis blinks and refocuses in time to see the porn’s transitioned from missionary to doggy style, camera angled in from below, zoomed in just enough to be vaguely uncomfortable.
“Doing the job, innit.”
Harry makes a disgusted sound. “Hope you take a little more pride in your work,” he mutters, abandoning his cock for a moment to tie his hair up in a bun that Louis immediately itches to take down. The look on his face suggests he’s not going to stop with the commentary any time soon and as much as Louis loves to annoy him, he can’t afford to pay Harry any more attention when he’s this naked and this hard.
Louis wants him to shut up so he can go back to pretending he’s not hyperfocused on every little move Harry makes, every squirm and sigh and hitch of breath. So it’s not a concession, really. Louis isn’t giving in to Harry’s whining. He’s just looking after his own interests.
Two minutes later they’re watching str8 hot first time sucked & fucked.
Louis has to roll his eyes. Speaking of predictable. They don’t talk about Harry’s penchant for watching supposedly straight guys get dicked, because then they might have to talk about how long Louis spent insisting he was straight, to himself and anyone who cared to listen.
So you’re not, like, curious? Harry asked once. Not even a little bit?
No, Louis told him. Lucky for you, isn’t it, that you’ve got no competition from me?
But that was years ago. Or—a year and some months, anyway. Harry was the second person Louis came out to, and second only to his mum, who doesn’t even count, really. Louis doesn’t know what he expected. Some hysterical corner of his mind thought Harry would shout I knew it! loud enough for the rest of the world to hear, but all he’d done was look at him, in his Harry way, and ask, You good?
Louis was good. Is good. Better every day. Whatever he expected to change between them—hasn’t. Whatever he wanted to change—well. This isn’t exactly what he had in mind.
If Louis were a little more self-absorbed he’d be convinced that half the things Harry does have to do with him. But he’s not, so he just—wonders.
“You sure about this one?” Louis muses aloud, because if he doesn’t talk he might hear Harry’s breathing pick up. “The lighting’s not up to your usual standard. And it’s in colour.”
“Fuck off,” Harry says comfortably. He’s sat back against the pillows, knees up, biting his lip as he watches the video. Straight boy doesn’t mind kissing other boys, or feeling them up as they tumble him onto a bed. His wrists get pinned to the bed when he gets too handsy and Harry makes a little sound in the back of his throat. He’s pumping himself properly now. Louis isn’t looking.
“You ever had a guy suck you?” Straight boy shakes his head no. “You want one to?”
“Yes,” Harry murmurs.
Straight boy’s got a nice, big cock. Harry’s is nicer. Bigger. God, it looks even bigger than Louis remembers, fully hard now and wet at the tip. Every slow pump of his hand has his foreskin kissing over the head of his prick, making him wetter, making the slide that much sweeter. Louis’ getting a fucking headache trying to look without looking, so he closes his eyes and palms himself through his joggers, rougher than he’s used to, than he really likes.
Harry likes it rough. But Louis isn’t thinking about Harry, is he? He’s not thinking at all. Straight boy getting blown sounds familiar, sloppy and good, so Louis slips a hand into his joggers and wraps it around his cock, keeps his eyes closed while he pulls himself off. The last time he got sucked off wasn’t anything to write home about, but it’s easy enough to imagine how good it could have been, easy to twist his hand over the head of his cock and picture a wide, soft, familiar mouth, hot hot hot inside, swallowing him down. Easy to imagine—
“Fuck,” Harry gasps, and Louis’ heart skips a beat. “Louis. Just pull it out, come on.”
Opening his eyes is a mistake. Looking at Harry is instinct, and an even bigger mistake.
Whatever he sees on Louis’ face makes Harry swallow, mouth red, wet. His eyes drop down to Louis’ lap. “You can. Just.”
He’s still working his cock at the same pace. He’s looking at Louis and talking to Louis and hasn’t even slowed down. The video’s still playing, low grunts spilling from the speakers, amplifying the sound of skin on skin. The flush has spread from Harry’s face all the way down to his chest, and his abs tense every time something feels a little too good, muscles shifting under skin in a way that makes Louis think of what he’d look like fucking something other than his fist, how he’d move.
”Louis.” Harry keeps doing that. Saying Louis’ name. When Louis drags his eyes back up to meet his, they’re feverish, dark enough to make Louis’ stomach clench. “Come on. It's—mine’s getting lonely.”
Louis takes in a breath through his mouth and makes himself turn back to the video, where straight boy’s flat on his back and folded right up, taking cock like a pro. “Harry.” His voice comes out strained, high and shaky. “Shut up and watch the nice man get dicked.”
Harry sucks in a breath through his teeth. “Don’t want to.”
“You picked it,” Louis reminds him, trying not to sound like he’s jerking himself off, but he is, god, faster now, getting close, ”so now you have to—’m not letting you pick another one, you have to watch it.”
“I want to watch you.”
He says it softly, so softly, but Louis can’t pretend he didn’t hear, not with the way his heart’s been kicked up into his throat. He’d hate to know what’s written all over his face right now, because it makes Harry rise to his knees. Come closer.
“I want to watch you,” Harry says again, surer now, so close Louis can feel the heat of his skin, goes a little dizzy from the smell of him. Some things never change.
Harry’s got one hand squeezing the base of his cock and the other moving restlessly over his thigh, scratching at the tattoo. He’s close enough to touch, but doesn’t.
“You’re smashed,” Louis tells him, and tries to laugh, because there’s still time to laugh this off. Isn’t there? His cock throbs and for a crazy second Louis thinks he’s going to come, just from the way Harry’s looking at him.
“‘s not fair. You get to watch me.”
“Are you still whining?” Louis says helplessly, but Harry’s not listening, eyes hooked on Louis’ lap. He starts working his cock again, slow, deliberate, and there’s something challenging about the set of his jaw that makes Louis feel like this is spinning rapidly out of his control. “Bit rich to expect me to look the other way when you’re waving your cock in my face, mate. Nobody made you get naked.”
“No,” Harry says, “I like it.”
“I’m aware,” Louis says, as dry as he can manage while he’s got a hand on his cock and Harry’s giving his own a tug right in front of him. “You’re enough of an exhibitionist for the both of us, yeah?”
“No,” Harry says stubbornly, the kind of drunk where he’ll argue every single thing Louis says just because. This is usually the part where Louis puts him in a headlock for being such a baby, but touching him right now can’t lead to anything good, so Louis just rolls his eyes and pulls his hand out of his pants. He gets on his knees with the intention of crawling past Harry and grabbing his laptop, maybe settling with it at the foot of the bed, but he chances looking up at Harry’s face and then he can’t look away.
Harry’s eyeing the way Louis’ cock tents his joggers, embarrassingly eager. His cheeks are flushed, jaw tense, ticking every time he works his hand over the head of his cock. For a second Louis is struck dumb by the way his arm flexes, how roughly he’s jerking himself. It has to hurt a little. Maybe more than a little. Effective, but crude. Louis could make it hurt better. He could—god, he could—
It’s dangerous to think about what Harry might let him do.
Louis wonders how drunk Harry really is. How much he’ll remember tomorrow. How much they can get away with. He can feel a wet patch forming on his joggers because he’s so worked up he’s been leaking precome even without a hand on him. He doesn’t know if it’s visible, isn’t going to look down to check, but the way Harry sucks his bottom lip into his mouth gives him a clue.
“I think about your cock a lot,” Harry says, like that’s something you can just say.
“Jesus.” Louis ignores the way his voice cracks. “We really need to find you a hobby.”
“Not just, um.” Harry takes in a shaky breath and slows his hand down, thumbs just under his cockhead and shudders. “Not just when I’m. Like this. But sometimes when I’m—when I can’t sleep. I think about sucking on it. Or just. Having it in my mouth, um.” His eyes are wet, mouth trembling. He’s going to come. This is what he looks like when he comes, Louis knows that because— “Oh, fuck. Lou, please.”
“What,” Louis manages to say. “What do you—”
Harry reaches out to tug on the hem of his shirt, sharp. “Let me see, please, I wanna see you.”
When Louis pulls out his cock Harry makes a sound like he’s touched him, like Louis reached out and just tipped him over the edge. The cold air on his wet, exposed cockhead is enough to make him twitch, so Louis can’t help working a hand over his cock as Harry watches. It’s surreal; he can’t see himself, has no way of knowing what he looks like, but he does, just from the way Harry gasps and shakes and comes all over his fist.
He keeps his eyes open and fixed on Louis even as he trembles with it, wrings out the last drops of come with a soft gasp. Louis doesn’t want it to end. “Fuck. Fuck. You look so good. Louis, you—can I—”
Louis doesn’t know what he’s asking but he can’t imagine denying him anything right now. He hears himself saying yeah, yes, and then Harry’s got a hand on his cock, a wet hand, wet with his come—
Then Harry’s mouth is on his. Louis registers the feeling in increments: soft, so soft; the smell of his skin; his hair winding through Louis’ fingers because Louis gripped the back of his neck and pulled him in, kissed him, Louis kissed him. Is kissing him. And it’s somehow even better than the hand on his cock, better than he thought anything could feel, so good Louis is going to come from it.
“Yes,” Harry murmurs against his mouth, “come on, do it, just,” sounding as desperate as Louis feels, “do it on me, yeah? Come on me, all over me,” and Louis does, shoots all over Harry’s stomach and cock and fist in long, wrenching pulses that knock the breath out of him, leave him weak and so satisfied he gets dizzy, has to fall back and pull Harry with him.
The pillows are bunched up under Louis’ back and the video’s still playing, somewhere by their feet, but Louis can barely hear it over the thump of his heart finally winding down. The skin of Harry’s back is hot and smooth under his palms and it only takes one twist to have his hair come spilling down.
Louis can’t stop kissing him. They snog like teenagers, overeager and sloppy with it, like they’re in the backseat of some beat up car and this is going somewhere, like they’re not covered in come and still trembling from the aftershocks. Louis can’t put his thoughts in order; Harry’s mouth gives too easily under his and he keeps making these sounds, little hitching moans that light Louis up. One kiss bleeds into the next. Harry kisses him like he has no intention of stopping.
The skin under his eyes is so thin. Harry nuzzles into his palm and sighs when Louis kisses it, whatever tension that was left in him draining out just like that. The dead weight of him makes it hard to breathe. Or maybe it’s the look in his eyes.
Louis can’t stay quiet when Harry’s looking at him like that.
“So,” he says, and knows with the certainty of someone who never learned to bite their tongue that whatever comes out of his mouth next is going to be stupid. “So you think about sucking me when you can’t sleep?”
Harry dimples sweetly, half asleep and looking so deeply satisfied that it’d get Louis hard if he hadn’t just come. “I think about sucking you all the time.”
Scratch that, he’s halfway there. “Do you need to get laid that badly, or.”
He should just say it. He can’t say it.
“Or,” Harry confirms.
He looks far too sober and Louis feels a little drunk. “Oh.”
Harry’s smile widens into a laugh and then they’re kissing again. Because this is something they do now. Kiss.