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skin to skin to bone

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The first time it happens, they’re in Los Angeles. He doesn’t -- it’s an accident, he definitely does not, in any way, mean for it to ever happen. But it does. Harry’s stuck in a shirt three sizes too small because Louis I-Can’t-Pack-My-Own-Fucking-Bags Tomlinson throws his shit in any and all containers lain in front of him.

And, alright, Harry and Louis both have multiple shirts that look identical to one another. Maybe they could tone it down, just a little. But the road trip isn’t exactly going to come to a standstill just because they get their clothes mixed up every now and again. Maybe. God, he hopes not.

He adjusts the white sleeves that are almost cutting off circulation to the rest of his arms. He’s worked long and hard to get his muscles to where they are now, so maybe the shirt is doing him some good; gives him an opportunity to show off, a bit. It’s nice.

He walks into the club, his hand reaching back out of habit to put his hair into a bun until he remembers it’s all gone, now. He’d been growing it out for years to donate, and it had become a part of himself -- a really, really lovely means of expressing himself. He misses it, but he still wanted to donate his hair. He can grow it back. Harry walks around, stumbling a little bit through the people; they had all had something to drink back at the hotel before splitting up earlier, and it’s definitely hitting him now. Not to mention he’s his clunkiest heels tonight; they’re sparkly and pink, okay? He knows how to have a good time.

“Oi! Harry! Fucking finally, mate!” Comes a yell over the din of the bassline, Niall crashing into him with three drinks in hand and somehow managing to careen all over the place and not spill a drop. He’s always been a mystery, that Niall. It’s the Irish blood.

“Yeah, had a bit of a wardrobe fumble, you know.” Harry calls back to him, almost having to shout, and Niall just laughs and hands him one of the drinks. Harry looks at it glowing in the dim light of the club, looking almost flourescent under the moving lights as they hit the cup just right every few seconds. Questionable.

“Noticed! Where the hell did ya even get that one? Too small, man! Look like a right giant!”

Alright, so Niall is sloshed. Not surprising.

Harry takes the shot quickly, not really wanting to know the origin, but as a broke college student using all of his savings on a road trip across California with his four best friends, he’s not going to say no to free alcohol. Which, probably isn’t a very good thought process. Oh well.

“It’s Louis’!” Harry yells out after coughing slightly. Niall’s drinks are always too strong, too heavy. He never expects the sting of them, somehow. He and Louis, and Zayn for the most part, too, have always preferred the sweeter, brighter concoctions of sugar and at least four different kinds of alcohol. Harry will never understand why they’re considered “girly” or “weaker” drinks -- one of Harry’s favorites, a bright pink mix, could potentially knock a grown, 200 pound bodybuilder out.

Gemma’s influencing him too much. Well. Maybe not enough.

“Louis’? Has he seen you in this yet?” Niall’s still smiling, probably laughing at the fact that Harry is coughing slightly and his eyes are watery from the sting of the shot. Niall hands him a second drink, like magic. Niall just fucking apparates drinks from thing air, now, apparently.

“No.” He’s not pouting. Seriously.  

Louis’ not even here tonight, is the thing. He’s across town with Liam and Zayn at some basketball game, like any of them even like basketball. They’re probably all just gawking at the cute boys in tiny shorts. They’ve been gone for hours and hours, and Harry only just recently got bored enough at the hotel to decide to meet up with Niall at this club downtown.

Does Louis have a thing for tight-fitting clothes? Harry wonders about these things.

Maybe he should send a picture of himself to Louis. See how that goes.

“Jesus Christ, what is in these drinks?” Harry says, almost spitting this new one out. Niall laughs at him and just shrugs. “Are you poisoning me?” And, yeah, Harry’s laughing too. It’s a good time.

Harry gets his phone out and cuddles up against Niall, who’s holding up two drinks in his hands somehow. He sends the snap to Louis, using a winky face emoji, with the caption “accidentally used your shirt! Thansk!” and then, upon realizing, another text immediately after with “*thanjs haha.”

And then yet another, but this time with “god fckign damm it.”

Almost directly after he sends that final lament to Louis, Niall gives him another shot, and a familiar arm wraps around his shoulders.

“I do believe this belongs to me?” Louis’ warm, warm voice is right by his ear. The hair’s on the back of his neck prick up when Louis tugs on the tight shoulders of the shirt, grazing against his arms. Louis has a way of making him feel smaller than he is, which doesn’t make a whole lot of sense, but. Harry’s also been in love with him for years and Louis’ never noticed, which also doesn’t make sense. Life is fucking weird and sad.

Harry shrugs. “It was in my bag, it is now my property.”

Liam laughs behind them, leading them all to a booth eventually. “How many drinks did you have at the hotel, Harry? You seem worse off than poor Niall, here.”

Harry scoffs. “Not that many! Zayn had more than me!”

“Zayn always has more than everyone else, love. That’s nothing new.” Louis says to him, helping him sit down in the booth, and then crawling over him to squeeze into the corner between the wall and Harry’s side. Why didn’t he just sit down first. Not that Harry’s complaining too much, though. Louis’ thighs are pressed firmly up against his own, his body is warming up Harry’s cold arms. Harry’s content. Happy. Fuzzy feelings, etc.

He definitely had too many drinks at the hotel.

But back to the matter at hand -- literally. Louis is toying with Harry’s rings, spinning them around, taking them on and off and trying them on, placing them over his own dainty fingers. Harry watches in fascination as they slide around on his fingers, the rings too large to stay in place. Harry’s watching very closely, in fact, he doesn’t notice Louis coming closer and closer until Louis places a kiss on his cheek.

Louis’ always been an affectionate drunk, so this is nothing new. That doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt, though.

Harry laughs a little, forcing it.

“Come on, give me my rings back.” He begins sliding them off of Louis’ fingers, and when Louis’ left hand is free, Louis immediately goes on to fidgeting with Harry’s sleeve again, trying to pull the shirt off of him.

“Well, we need to balance this out then! If I can’t have your rings, gimme my shirt.”

“I can’t just take my shirt off in the middle of this club, Lou. We’ll get kicked out.”

“You’ll get kicked out, you mean. I’ll be just fine.”

Something occurs to Harry just then.

“Why are you even here? Weren’t you supposed to be watching a basketball game? Like, you bought physical tickets. Why are you here?”

Zayn decides to tune into their conversation, a smirk on his face. “Louis here got lonely. Said he needed to see you as soon as he could or he’d just die .”

Louis glares at him.

“You know, Zayn, you’re welcome to leave at literally any time.”

They all laugh, and the other boys’ conversation moves on to different points. Louis stays draped over Harry, and there’s never a point where they’re not touching one another.

“Did you really miss me?” Harry asks him at one point, Liam and Zayn bickering over whether or not Tony Stark was justified in hitting Sam when Rhodey got knocked out of the sky. Liam thinks Tony was justified, but Zayn says that it’s bullshit, as it wasn’t Sam’s fucking fault. Harry’s always liked Zayn the best. Fuck Tony Stark. Genius, billionaire, playboy, philanthropist, and all around dick.

Louis pauses with fiddling with trying to braid Harry’s short hair, and looks over to him. Harry’s probably making this up, but he’s fairly certain he can see a faint dusting of pink over Louis’ cheeks, peeking up at him through the stubble. Louis always ends up smiling when he’s nervous, and now is just the same as ever as he looks down and smiles shyly, his eyelashes fanning out beautifully.

“Maybe a little. Don’t let it get to your head, yeah?” And Louis sticks his tongue out, refocusing on his braiding attempts. Harry absolutely lets it go to his head.

They end up walking out of the club, stumbling over each other in the dark, laughing and feeling well and truly happy. They’re with their best friends, in fucking California, and it’s -- it’s good.

When they get back to the hotel, they all head towards Liam’s room, because Liam is the only one of them who had the foresight to bring cards along. They play a rousing game of bullshit, in which anyone who gets caught bullshitting the rest of the group takes a shot. Harry can attest to the fact that it is definitely worse than it sounds.

Come the next morning, Harry finds himself completely naked and in Louis’ bed, Louis wearing all (well, presumably all) of Harry’s clothes. Well. Louis is wearing his own shirt, which Harry had been wearing last night.

But Louis looks good. Harry’s pants are swaddling him, and Harry’s socks are falling off of Louis’ left foot -- but, to be honest, Harry can’t tell if that’s just because Louis hardly ever wears socks and was probably kicking it off in his sleep, or if it’s just too big for his cute little feet. And, know what? He doesn’t even care that he’s naked. Not if Louis looks like this -- sweet and small. Not that he isn’t usually, just that he’s even more so right now.

Jesus Christ, his head hurts. His head hurts, he’s fucking naked, Louis is stealing all of the blankets so he’s also cold, and he’s pretty sure he can hear Niall laughing at him from the next bed over.

“If you don’t have anything nice to say, Niall, don’t say anything at all.” Harry grouses, taking some of the blankets from Louis and covering himself up, sitting up in the bed and leaning back against the headboard. Louis shuffles over, slinging an arm over Harry’s waist and cuddling up to him. Niall continues to chuckle,

“Okay, okay. But -- you’re fucked.”

As if Harry doesn’t already know. Jesus.

Louis wakes up shortly after, lured by the smell of room service and also (and this one is much more likely) Liam’s blunt being lit up by the window. Louis doesn’t offer why he’s wearing Harry’s clothes, and Harry doesn’t ask. Zayn is the one that ends up taking it upon himself to get to the bottom of the mystery, a few hours later, after the weed has worn off and they’re all dozing in the hotel room.

“Not that you’re not gorgeous, Harry, but why have you been naked all day?” Zayn drawls. Harry can feel Louis tensing up next to him, and that’s a bit weird.

“I don’t know. I figured Louis got cold sometime last night and made me give him my clothes at some point.”

“Always cold, me.” Louis adds, and as if to prove his point, digs his fucking freezing toes into Harry’s calf.

“I don’t actually remember, though, so...Louis?”

All Louis does is shrug.  

“Guess I was cold. I don’t know.”

And that’s that.

The next time it happens, it’s a few months later. They’re back home, it’s winter, and they’re studying for finals.

“I wish we could live in California. I swear to God, I’m dying.”

It’s almost like Louis doesn’t live here most of the time. Michigan is a lot of things, and cold is definitely one of them. Honestly.

“Louis, you’ve been coming to school here for two and a half years. Get over it.”

“No! There is literally no way for me to get over this. It’s impossible. I can’t believe this.” Louis’ smiling as he speaks, and Harry’s just -- he’s so fucking in love, it’s ridiculous. Louis’ always done this; he complains just to have something to say. Louis hates the silence. He teases and yells, but he’s always so good and kind, and Louis’ smiling at Harry with these star-blue eyes and it’s killing him. It’s killing him. “I’m freezing to death right in front of you and you can’t even bother to care? Ridiculous.”

Harry doesn’t think too quickly before he acts. He just takes the sweater off of his back and holds it out in front of him, like some sort of fucking sacrifice. Oh, good Lord above, take this offering and fucking smite him from the earth right now before Louis catches on to what he’s just done.

Louis just raises his eyebrows, looking between Harry, shirtless and bright red, and the sweater, fuzzy and soft white. He reaches his hand out, tentatively taking the article of clothing from Harry’s hands, the fabric sliding out from between Harry’s fingers and into Louis’ lap, practically in slow motion. Louis holds it in both hands, handling the fabric and continuously flickering his gaze up at Harry.

Louis slides it on over his own long-sleeved shirt. The under-shirt is tight on him, so the sweater proves a nice balance, and -- well, it drowns Louis. It slips over his left shoulder and falls up onto the right of his neck. Louis’ hands are mainly covered by the sleeves of Harry’s sweater, little paws as they come up and caress Louis’ cheeks. Fuck. Harry wants to caress Louis’ cheeks. This is honestly so unfair.

“Thanks.” Louis says, smiling, nervous, eyelashes fanning. Every time. He’s blushing, they both are, red and pink and splotches of white thrown in across their complexions. It’s -- wow. Intoxicating. Looking at Louis in his clothes, Jesus. “It’s...warm.”

He’s reminded of that summer, when he woke up with Louis wearing all of his clothes and he was completely naked.

Which was weird, thinking back on it. He hasn’t really -- okay, who the fuck is he kidding, he thinks about it intensively every single day. Multiple times a day.

“Do you remember this summer? In Los Angeles?” Harry’s hands are shaking. This is definitely leading to something, but he doesn’t know what. He only knows that Louis looks pretty fucking great, and his own heart can barely be contained in his chest.

Again, Louis’ nerves play right across his face. He’s an open book.  

“I -- I don’t --,” Louis is nervous, and shy, and oh, so endearing, but Harry needs to know. He needs to know as soon as he can or else this will push him over the brink.

“You know exactly what I’m about to ask, Louis, come on.”

Louis sighs.

“We -- now, I was really drunk, too, okay, so I don’t remember all of it. But -- and, okay, before you, like, get angry with me, you didn’t remember, and it was just -- weird and awkward. For me. Really weird and awkward.”

“Like now?” Harry smiles, teasing. Louis’ shoulders lose a bit of their tension, and he lets out a small laugh.

“Yeah, I -- yeah. Like now.” Louis clears his throat and fidgets with his hands, playing with his sweater paws. He looks cosy and lovely. Harry’s definitely sure he’s used those words before, but, fuck. Louis really is all of those things and more.

“Anyway. We, well, you remember we had been drinking so much that night. And, uh, you ended up dragging me off and into the pool. Well. You pushed me into the pool, fully clothed, and then you took off all of your clothes and jumped in with me.” Louis’ face is even more red at this point, flushing fantastically. He also can’t seem to keep his gaze focused on any one thing, and Harry just instinctively takes Louis’ shaking hands into his own. “You also, um. You kissed me, too.”

He almost whispers that last part, and Harry is well shocked.

“A-and we, um. Kept kissing. In the pool.” Louis looks directly up at Harry, now. “We kissed quite a bit, that night. And then, you kind of -- you like, pulled back and said it was a big, big secret, that you shouldn’t be kissing me because it was a secret and kissing would ruin the secret. And, of course, I was embarrassed, and so I got out and took your clothes with me. I went to sleep in Liam’s room because we were not going to be sharing a room, but you ended up following me anyway. I wore your clothes because mine were sopping wet and you didn’t deserve them, anyways.”

Harry feels awful, right now.

“Louis,” Harry squeezes Louis’ hands, still shaking from nerves, “I have absolutely no fucking clue what I could have meant that night. The only guess is that I was so smashed and -- well, I’m going to be honest, I’ve been in -- I’ve liked you for years. Years, Louis. And maybe I was so drunk I somehow thought ‘Oh, shit, he knows I like him now, that has to be a secret, he’s going to hate me.’ Which doesn’t make any sense, but.”

Louis laughs, small. Beautiful.

“I’m so sorry for making you think for one second I don’t like you. That I don’t want to be kissing you all the time. I’m especially sorry I don’t remember that night. You don’t deserve that. You deserve someone who’s going to, fuck, I don’t know, take time for you, make you feel -- not like some drunken hookup. I -- I like you too much for you to feel that way, and I am so fucking sorry.” And Harry means it, too, from the absolute bottom of his heart. Louis’ eyes are shining, with happiness, and hope, and maybe a few tears, too, but.

“Make it up to me,” Louis suggests, “prove to me you’re sorry.”


“Kiss me again.”

And boy, does he kiss him.

It’s Harry’s first time kissing Louis cognizantly, and he can testify it is earth-shattering, lightning-inducing, hair-raising. It’s everything he’d imagined it to be and ten times more. Louis’ sweater paws come up and wrap around his neck, Louis’ body stretching and straining towards Harry’s own. Harry’s own hands cup Louis’ jaw, holding him in place, and Louis lets out such a soft, soft moan; needless to say, Harry is almost instantly hard.

His body is warming up and up and up and he pushes forward, the cushions of the couch below them shifting. Louis gets the hint and leans back, adjusting the pillows so his back doesn’t hurt against the hard arm of the couch. Harry hovers over him a few moments as they continue to shift against each other, trying their to get comfortable. Louis huffs and it sends the hair across his forehead aflutter.

They stare at each other a moment, shy smiles, before laughing.

“This couch kinda sucks.” Louis says, looking up at Harry, his blue, blue eyes saying everything Harry wants to hear.

“A bit. Can I -- can I kiss you again? Like, pressed up against you like this?” Harry’s slightly breathless, just from a small amount of kissing and being surrounded by Louis.

“Yeah.” Louis is just as breathless as he is.



Harry kisses him again, deeper, this time, and Louis welcomes him with another of his soft moans, clinging to Harry’s shoulders and pressing them together along the entire lengths of their bodies.

The friction between them is so good. Louis is practically mewling with every twitch of their hips, and at this point, Harry’s not entirely sure what they’re doing wouldn’t be classified as dry humping. Harry can feel Louis thick and hard against his own length, and it’s so nice, hot and intoxifying.

Harry needs Louis’ clothes off, like, yesterday.

He reaches below himself, fingering the waistband of Louis’ sweatpants, about to ask, when Louis just pants out, “God, yes, please, take them off,” amongst a litany of other requests with that filthy mouth of his.

“Anything you want, baby.” Harry murmurs, pulling both Louis’ sweatpants and underwear down. Harry maneuvers them slightly, so Louis is half on his side and Harry’s half off the couch, just so Harry can get a perfect, delicious handful of Louis’ perfect, delicious ass. It’s only a little bit unfair the way Louis sounds when he gasps.

“Anything?” Louis asks, so soft, blinking slowly at Harry. Harry’s definitely near-falling off the couch right now. It’s worth it.

“Anything.” Harry affirms and Louis’ blushing even worse now, and, God, Harry wants to give him whatever he’s thinking about, but. “Do you want to move to the bed, first, maybe?”

Louis chuckles. “Please,” He says, and Harry fumbles off the edge of the couch, and then helps Louis off of it. Louis only stumbles a little when his sweatpants and underwear pool around his ankles, but he just kicks them off, standing there in only Harry’s sweater and Louis’ undershirt. Harry reaches out, helping Louis out of the both of them, leaving Louis bare in front of him.

Louis smiles, folding one of his arms behind himself and holding onto his other arm, acting bashful. Louis has never been shy about his body, that’s for sure. Louis takes the sweater back from him, pulling it on, and, Jesus, it reaches mid-thigh on him. Harry knows it’s long on himself, even, but seeing Louis like this is -- it’s killing him. Well and truly.

“Let’s go,” Louis tilts his head towards Harry’s room, and they go, hand in hand. Harry’s shaking with excitement. He’s loved Louis for years and years, and this feels like a fucking dream, like he shouldn’t be awake right now. Like he’s about to wake up.

Louis lays down on the bed, belly down, face pillowed onto his arms and arms pillowed on Harry’s sheets.

He looks decadent.

Harry places kisses down Louis’ neck, moving the sweater up and up and up until he can kiss right down Louis’ spine. Louis’ breath is hitching, pitching, swelling higher and higher until it breaks.

“What do you want me to do, darling?” Harry whispers, moving down to suck a bruise into Louis’ gorgeous thighs.

“Can -- can you, ah , eat me out?” Louis is breathless, again and still, and everything feels so new. Louis’ request turns Harry’s insides out.

“Fuck, baby,” Harry bites Louis’ ass, groaning into the skin, “of fucking course I can. God, I’d love to.”

Rimming is one of Harry’s all-time favorite activities, and to be blessed enough to have the joy of putting his tongue inside of Louis Tomlinson is a real privilege. People would kill for this, he’s sure.

Louis moans in response.

Harry places one hand on each cheek, pulling them apart to reveal Louis’ cherry-red, fluttering hole. Harry places a gentle, soft kiss right on top of it, flickering his eyes up just in time to see Louis’ jaw drop and his sweater paws grasp at the pillows strewn about the bed.

“God, Harry, please,” and on and on and on, Louis never stops talking the entire time. Harry kisses him, bites him, tongueing around his hole and fucking his tongue inside of it. Louis shouts out, over and over again, Harry humming and moving, loving the effect he has on Louis who’s near crying at this point.

Harry himself is close to the edge, just from Louis’ soft skin and soft sighs, and they’re both rutting against the bed. Louis, Harry can tell, is torn from seeking friction on his probably aching cock, and fucking right back onto Harry’s tongue. Louis’ hole is warm and tight around Harry’s tongue, clenching just right to give himself pleasure, and with a cry, he falls completely limp below Harry.

He came. Just like that.

What a fucking gift.

Harry is still hard, so he starts pulling himself off, and, God, Louis is so quiet after that it’s a miracle Harry hears him at all, but when Louis asks, “Come on me?” it’s just impossible to refuse.  

Harry comes all over Louis’ backside, painting him, marking him. He’s territorial. Sue him.

Harry lies down next to Louis, catching his breath, and when they catch eyes a few moments later, they both burst out laughing. What is one even supposed to do after sex like that? Such mind-blowingly hot sex?

“I’m glad we sorted that out,” Louis smiles at him, reaching his hand out and entwining his fingers with Harry’s.

“Me, too.”

And, this time, in the morning, when Harry wakes up with Louis’ boxers on, he remembers everything.