Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/9641546.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      One_Direction_(Band)
  Relationship:
      Harry_Styles/Louis_Tomlinson
  Additional Tags:
      Sleepwalking, First_Time, The_X_Factor_Era, baby_boyfriends, Pining
      Harry, Mutual_Pining, Slow_Burn, Sleeptalking, Canon_Compliant
  Stats:
      Published: 2017-02-09 Words: 18507
****** You Drive Me Crazy ( I Just Can't Sleep) ******
by objectlesson
Summary
     The first time Louis ends up in Harry’s bed is a total accident.
Notes
     EVERYONE who writes X Factor era fic has probably written a
     sleepwalking/talking fic... It's just such a fun prompt and there are
     all those quotes about Louis sleepwalking and crawling into Harry's
     bed? How could I resist!
     Thank you to EVERYONE who reads my stories and who commented/left
     kudos on Saved Tonight, it means a lot. I'm back to my comfort zone
     with canon complaint fic, but I will tell you I for certain plan on
     writing more in the ST universe and am also about 10k into another
     AU, so expect more diversity in the future! In the meantime, here are
     some cute baby boyfriends being silly and clueless and needlessly
     sad. Enjoy!
     Thank you as always to Hurdy Gurdy, my amazing, encouraging, beta and
     hilarious, supportive friend. I love you so very much.
The first time Louis ends up in Harry’s bed is a total accident.
Harry is a fool, though, and thinks it isn’t. Thinks Louis is climbing in
beside him, cold hands and bare feet, because he wants to, because he, like
Harry, can’t wait any longer for it. Can’t stand the tension and hunger and
ache for another second. Later, Harry will look back on this first time with a
tight, shameful ache in his chest, mortified by his optimistic misreading, by
the way he was so twisted up with longing for Louis that he thought Louis might
want him back, too.
But tonight, the door creaks open, and Harry blinks himself awake, heart
rabbiting in his throat because he doesn’t remember where he is, who he’s with.
The last few weeks have been a sun-soaked blur of unfamiliar beds and new
cities and the smell of airport food, everything blending together so that
Harry forgets the details, loses time. He sits up, thinking, Spain, it’s Spain,
isn’t it? as he peers across his room, eyelids sticky and dry.
He hasn’t known Louis for very long, but he instantly recognizes the
silhouette. It’s what happens when you can’t stop staring at someone, when you
imagine them in the moments before falling asleep, when you think of them as
soon as you wake up. When you’re young and in love and haven’t been hurt badly
enough to stop yourself from giving into the wild current of it.
“Louis?” he murmurs, and Louis doesn’t answer, just shuffles awkwardly and
clumsily across the carpet to Harry’s bed, and…maybe it’s finally happening.
Maybe this thing, whatever it is that’s been pulled tight and electric between
them ever since their eyes first met in line for auditions and Harry felt
something zing up his spine, is happening. Maybe Louis can’t sleep because he
can’t stop thinking about all the things he wants to do to Harry, wants from
him. Harry has certainly lost sleep over the same thing. Maybe, maybe, this is
it. Dreams coming true. After all, they just got put into a band together;
they’re in Spain, the sun is so bright here, everything smells like spice and
salt and sunscreen, and Harry keeps feeling like anything, anything at all can
happen, especially when Louis looks at him, and he can see the glow of the
whole ocean shining back from his eyes.
Louis reaches the bed, and Harry lets him in, eyes wide and startled in the
dark as he holds the duvet up so Louis can sidle under the covers. His pulse
thrums hot and alive in his throat, and he stares as Louis curls up with his
head on his pillow, hands tucked in toward his chest, soft but defensive.
“Louis?” Harry asks again in a hush, nudging a little closer, so their knees
brush together but nothing else. He wants to touch him, but something is off,
strange. He feels alone, even though Louis is right here. “What…is everything
okay?”
Louis gets closer, shifting across the sheets, twining their legs. “Fizzy’s
birthday present is in the closet, so when you get the coat, make sure you lock
it up again. So she doesn’t see,” he says. Then, even more nonsensically, “The
kettle is broken.”
Harry stares. His accent is so thick, thicker than usual, and Harry struggles
to make out each word, his brow furrowed in confusion until it hits him. Louis
is asleep. He’s sleepwalking, sleeptalking.
“Lou,” he says, reaching out and curling his fingers around Louis’s shoulder,
shaking him gently. “Wake up.” Quite suddenly, his heart is aching, but he’s
not sure why. Maybe it's because he’s catching up to himself, realizing that
Louis isn’t here on his own accord; he’s here because he’s fucking sleeping, he
doesn’t know where he is. Harry’s fingers dig into the knit of Louis’s hoodie,
feeling the shift of flesh over bones beneath. He usually thinks of Louis as
being strong, someone who’s fit and athletic with a footballer’s body and lean
biceps, but here, sleeptalking in his bed, raw and vulnerable, he seems…small.
Soft. Like Harry could hold him in his arms. “Louis,” he says gently, to the
night. Just to hear his name in the space between them.
It takes a minute for Louis to come to, and when he does, he doesn’t flinch or
start, his eyes just come into slow focus, crinkling up at the sides all lovely
like crepe paper. “What am I…I’m in your bed,” he croaks quietly, and Harry
nods, fingers still drumming on his shoulder. He should stop touching him, now
that he’s awake…but he doesn’t. Louis is so warm and so confused, licking his
chapped lips only inches away from Harry’s own.
“Yeah, you were sleepwalking. You got in bed with me and started talking about
your sister,” Harry explains.
Louis’s eyebrows fly to his hairline, thin and arched, his mouth falling open,
“Oh, my god,” he says, placing one delicate hand over that open mouth. “I’m so
sorry. I do that sometimes, sleepwalk, but it’s been ages. I can’t believe—”
Harry shakes his head, tightening his grip on Louis’s shoulder, keeping him
here, grounded, between his sheets. “No, it’s okay. Stay, I don’t mind. S’like,
funny. You were really funny, you sounded so Donny, it was hilarious.”
Louis hides his face in his hands, groaning, rolling into Harry so that they
slot together, his forehead pressed into Harry’s chest as he rocks with self-
deprecating giggles. “What did I say?! Hopefully nothing terrible,” he says,
voice a muffled wheeze. Harry rubs his hand down Louis’s back, teeth biting
into his lower lip and breath held because he feels like he’s getting away with
something, like if he exhales, he’ll lose the sleepy, messy heat of Louis
against him.
“Nothing embarrassing, something about a…a broken kettle? And a birthday
present,” Harry explains.
“Oh, god! I’ve spoiled your birthday gift, haven’t I? Sorry, mate,” Louis
sighs, rolling away and onto his back, and everything feels cold without him
there. Harry feels a rush of panic that makes him follow Louis, crowd him over
to the edge of the bed, get in his space. He doesn’t know how to be close to
Louis yet, how not to get drunk on the heady rush of his breath, his sleep-
smell. “I can’t believe I got into your bed, I’m so sorry,” Louis says, shaking
his head. “Next time I try that, shove me off. Right onto the floor.”
“I would never do that,” Harry says, pursing his lips, thinking that it’s
strange Louis just assumes there will be a next time. Like he’ll end up in
Harry’s bed again, asleep and mumbling about kettles, close enough to kiss. The
thought makes Harry’s heart kick up into his throat, chokes him silent so that
he can’t even make a joke about it. He just lies there, frowning as Louis
slides out of his bed.
“G’night, Hazza, see you tomorrow. And, like, sorry again, really sorry, mate.
It’s just something I do, like, when I’m stressed. Or far away from home.”
Harry doesn’t want Louis to be stressed; he doesn’t want him to be far away
from home. He wants to be the thing that changes that, the thing that soothes
Louis into sound sleep. He rubs his face with his palms, suddenly exhausted. It
takes him a long time to fall back asleep.
—-
Louis gets into Niall’s bed the next night, apparently. Harry tries not to feel
jealous, because that’s absurd, but he does anyway.
“You were singing, Louis, singing something from a cartoon?” Niall explains.
They’re all sitting on the beach, heels dug into the fine, white sand, the sun
beating down on them. Harry keeps squinting because he lost his sunglasses, but
he doesn’t want to hide his eyes, he wants to look at Louis. He wants to watch
the droplets of ocean fall from his hair and slide down the golden stretch of
his neck. He sighs; he’s tired, and he slept so awfully last night, plagued
with dreams of Louis sneaking into his bed, murmuring and clumsy with
accidental touch.
“He did it to me the night before,” Harry says reproachfully, hating the way he
sounds, whiney and possessive over something he doesn’t possess.
“Makes sense,” Niall says, poking Louis in the side, “since you hugged me and
called me Harry.”
Louis makes a face, grabbing a fistful of sand and slapping it into the center
of Niall’s sunburnt chest. “I did not!” he protests, and Harry’s heart kind of
stops. “Shut up, Neil, don’t act like you weren’t down for a midnight snuggle,”
Louis snaps, rubbing the sand in, and Niall squawks, kicking at him and
cackling.
“I mean, I am, but not if you’re gonna pretend I’m Harry the whole time!
That’s, like…a whole different level of creepy.”
“I’m always up for a midnight snuggle, Lou,” Harry offers, reaching lazily
across the stretch of sand and wet towel between them, hand hovering somewhere
over the warm, bronze curve of Louis’s shoulder. “Just so you know.”
Louis looks at him fondly, eyes crinkling up in the glare of the sun. “That’s
why you’re my favorite,” he says, patting Harry’s hand.
It’s just the slide of skin, warm and simple and salt-sticky, but it doesn’t
take much to light Harry up where Louis is concerned. He grins, Louis returns
it, and Liam watches them with narrowed eyes. “I’m not gonna lie, if you end up
in my bed and call me Harry, I’m calling the police.”
Louis kicks sand at Liam. “And that is why you are my least favorite.”
Zayn snickers, Niall cracks up, and Harry just keeps smiling, pleased that
Louis is still looking at him, that the sun is still shining. He tries to take
it all in, the burn of the sun and the rhythmic crash of the tide, the way
Louis adjusts his fringe so delicately and carefully, with his index and middle
finger. Maybe tonight, Louis will come find him in the dark again. Maybe
tonight, it will happen. They’re in Spain, after all, and anything seems
possible.
—-
Louis doesn’t sleepwalk again until they move into the X Factor house. Then,
everything changes.
Whether it’s the stress of the show or the chaos of a shared house and tight
quarters, Louis’s sleepwalking becomes almost habitual. The first week, he
wakes Harry up three consecutive nights by climbing into his bunk. And Harry’s
not complaining, really, he’s kind of pathetic about Louis, and he loves the
extra attention no matter how accidental it is, but the sleepwalking itself is
quickly turning into, like, an actual problem.
For one, Louis is sleeping poorly, which in turn makes him drink energy drinks
to stay awake, which in turn makes him into an absolute nightmare. He’s usually
a storm of sorts, but on no sleep and too much caffeine, he’s a fucking
hurricane, leaping over the fine line between playful and destructively manic
with glee. Everyone who was formerly just exasperated with him is officially
irritated now, and that leaves the rest of the lads to do damage control, pick
up the pieces of Louis’s shattered teacups, and apologize for the shaving cream
in Wagner’s bed. It’s exhausting, and Liam is about to explode.
Harry can’t even manage to be mildly annoyed,, though, not really. He’s too
busy being concerned and lovesick and other embarrassing things. Aside from
making Louis insufferable, the sleepwalking is also thoroughly fucking with
Harry, messing up his sleeping patterns and his heart, which is perpetually
swollen with the ache of having a massive, likely unrequited, crush on a guy
who keeps crawling into his bed at night.
And he knows it’s not Louis’s fault, that he’s not deliberately playing with
him or anything, but it’s just confusing is all, confusing and unfair. Louis is
always so warm and sleep-soft and vulnerable in the middle of the night, such a
far cry from his usual self, hard-edged and reflective and brilliant and
humming. He moves slowly and gracelessly when he sleeps, nudging restlessly and
fidgety up against Harry in the night and confessing to him things that Harry
suspects he wouldn’t say by daylight, wouldn’t say when he was awake. Nonsense
about how he’s worried over the maths exam at uni tomorrow, how he left the
burner on and has to go turn it off, how his voice isn’t as good as the rest of
the lads, and how he’s worried he’s not good enough to be in the band, not
really.
Harry doesn’t know what to do with all of this. On one hand, he loves seeing
the real Louis, his quiet, sleepy manifestations of anxiety and inadequacy, but
on the other hand, he knows these confessions aren’t meant for him. Louis
doesn’t know what he’s saying, and Harry isn’t supposed to know, so during the
day, he has to act like everything is normal, like Louis really is an
unsinkable mess of wild, intentional mischief and not the homesick boy he truly
is. Harry wants…he wants everything. Louis’s mania and Louis’s fears and
Louis’s sleep secrets and Louis’s waking secrets, too. He wants to smooth them
all away with his palms, hold Louis’s face cupped in his hands and tell him,
no, no, don’t worry, you’ll pass that test, I’ll go get the burner for you,
just rest. And then, most of all, that’s not true, you’re brilliant, your voice
breaks my heart it’s so lovely, I have never wanted to touch something
untouchable as much as I want to touch your voice. I love it, and I love you,
and I wish I could tell you, but this whole thing, all of it, is so mad, and
I’m scared, too. His throat stings with it, gets choked with everything it
wants to tell Louis in the dark, clumsy moments between them, when he’s still
half-asleep and Louis’s out cold, finding his hands in the sheets and squeezing
them, saying, m’homesick, but I don't want to go home. Not yet.
It’s awkward because Louis gets so vulnerable when he’s sleepwalking, and Harry
feels like he has to protect him from the other lads, has to wake him up before
he says anything he doesn’t want them to know yet. It’s not like he thinks
they’ll give him a hard time about it, but he knows Louis wouldn’t just tell
them, Louis probably wouldn’t even tell him, if it weren’t for some
subconscious drive pushing him into Harry’s bed every night. “Louis,” he
murmurs gently, shaking him awake, trying desperately to keep all those sweet,
raw words inside Louis, safe from the rest of the world. “Wake up, mate. Shhh.
S’okay.”
And Louis stirs, blinks himself awake, and stares at Harry for a moment of hazy
confusion before he groans, rolling onto his back. “Did it again, didn’t I?
Ugh,” he rasps. “M’just so tired.”
Harry curls up against his side, pets his arm gently, so gentle it could be a
mistake, his idle, sleepy touch lost to the shift of sheets over skin. If Louis
notices it at all, he doesn’t say anything. “I know. You haven’t gotten, like,
any good sleep,” Harry whispers.
Louis rubs his face, inhaling raggedly. Harry thinks it’s going to be like the
last two nights, where he apologizes profusely before dragging himself off to
his bunk, but then Louis says something, voice muffled under the weight of his
arm. “I think…I think I do this when I’m, like, really, really homesick. I’m
maybe…trying to find my bed, my actual bed back at home in Donny? It’s stupid,
how homesick I am, because I’m really happy to be here. I promise.”
Harry’s heart pounds; Louis is confessing again, but this time he’s awake.
Choosing to talk to him, tucked together in his bunk, cloaked in darkness. He
sucks in a short breath, then says, “You can…those things can be true at the
same time. That you miss home but also don’t want to go home yet. Maybe that’s
why you’re sleepwalking, you’re, like…not letting those feelings just...like,
exist together, or something. They’re fighting each other in your head and
messing with your sleep,” Harry offers, taking into account everything Louis
has told him without meaning to tell him, allowing those secrets to inform his
careful approach toward Louis and his guarded interior.
He can’t see Louis smile in the dark, but he feels it. “Oh, so you’re my shrink
now, Harold? Diagnosing me?”
Harry shrugs, trying to keep a reflexive smile off his face. “Just. It’s okay
to be anxious and scared. I am, too, I really, really miss my mum, too, even
though I, like, don’t want to go home, not at all. It's complicated.”
“Yeah,” Louis agrees, rolling over on his side so he’s facing Harry, nothing
but a shadow in the dark. “Thanks, by the way. For, like, not being weird about
me crawling into bed with you.”
Harry can smell his sleep-breath, and he wants to kiss him, lean across those
few inches and brush his lips across the line of his jaw, the flutter of his
pulse. He wants to tell him, you don’t have to wait until you’re asleep to find
me. You can just go to bed with me, wake up with me. You can have me forever
and in every way. Instead, he just nods, reaching out and patting Louis’s hair.
“Of course not,” he says, and his voice sounds choked, reedy. “I really, like,
really don’t mind. I swear.”
“I know,” Louis murmurs. “That’s why it’s so nice.”
Harry watches him in the dark, his soft shifting motions and the curve of his
shoulder ducking closer as he adjusts his position, rolling a little closer to
Harry so that his forearms brush up against Harry’s chest, over his heartbeat.
The world kind of stops for a moment, and Harry gets reckless, gets scared,
feels like he needs to say something. “Louis,” he says quietly, blood pounding
in his ears, making his scalp prickle. “I just wanted to tell you…because I
feel like you don’t hear it enough…or you don’t know, but. Your voice is
really, really good,” he whispers, and it hangs there, stripped and awful and
honest in the black of the night.
Louis is still for a moment, stunned into a rare moment of silence before he
snorts, dissolving into muted laughter behind his hand. “Well, thank you,
Harold, for that—”
Harry pouts because Louis thinks he’s teasing him or not being serious, and
nothing could be further from the truth. “Stop, m’being serious. And it’s not,
like…me trying to make you feel better, s’just that it’s true. And I wanted you
to know that I feel that way.”
Louis sobers up, perhaps sensing that Harry isn’t even close to kidding. “Oh,”
he murmurs, tensing up so the mattress whines under him, like sincerity makes
him prickle, like this bed is too narrow for him to receive compliments from
Harry in. “You…you don't have to say stuff like that,” he says then, reaching
out and touching Harry’s wrist, just for a moment. “But it’s still nice to
hear. Like, thank you.” They’re both quiet for moment, Harry’s pulse racing
under his skin and Louis chewing on his lower lip thoughtfully. Harry imagines
reaching out to touch him there, using his index finger to tug Louis’s mouth
from under the punishing bite of his incisors; he imagines licking the sting
away, kissing the stress straight out of him. He’s never wanted to take care of
someone so badly in his entire life, if Louis would only let him.
“S’just true,” Harry breathes after a moment.
Louis clears his throat and says, “I don’t…don’t know about that. If you’re
right, I mean. Feel kind of out of my league, here, with you and Payno and
everything. But—” he cuts himself off, freezing to listen as Zayn sits up in
his bunk, groaning.
“If you two are going to talk, can you do it somewhere else?” he snaps, voice
hoarse with sleep and bitter with being recently woken up.
Harry and Louis giggle nervously, and Harry is about to whisper that they
should go hang out downstairs, fuck sleep, he doesn’t care anymore, when Louis
squeezes his wrist and rolls out of the bunk. “Should get some rest, Hazza.
G’night, sorry I keep waking you up.”
Then, just like that, he’s gone.
—-
Harry thought that after their late-night discussion Louis might not crawl back
into his bed, at least not right away. Maybe hearing from a sincere,
nonjudgmental source that his voice was lovely and talking abstractly about
homesickness would soothe his anxiety, and he’d just stay put.
Harry was wrong.
Just like clockwork, sometime around 2 am, Louis comes fumbling into his bed,
collapsing nearly on top of him and announcing, “Everything fell, it’s an
absolute mess. Red everywhere,” Louis says, draping his heavy, sleeping body
all over the duvet and Harry’s chest.
Harry’s heart is pounding; he’s been startled awake, and Louis is so warm and
smells so good, and this really, really has to be bad for Harry’s health
because aside from having his sleep interrupted every fucking night, he’s also
having to deal with the subject of his misguided, unrequited love floundering
all over him. He wishes his traitorous dick wouldn't respond in these types of
situations, the ones where Louis isn’t fully conscious, but Harry is sixteen
and human, and Louis is so close, pressing the length of his thigh between
Harry’s legs, and fuck, Harry isn’t equipped to deal with these types of
things.
“Louis,” he grinds out, shoving him off, rolling over so Louis is snuggling up
into his side, rather than his front. “Fuck,” he sighs, trying to think of cold
showers and crawfish and porridge with raisins and any number of other
decidedly unsexy things, breathless and too hot all over. Louis flings an arm
over his side, murmuring, “Mum, m’sorry, it wasn’t my fault.”
Harry sighs, patting Louis’s forearm gently. “M’not your mum,” he whispers.
“That’s kind of…that’s part of why this is so weird,” he explains, since Louis
won’t remember it in the morning, can’t even hear him. “You don’t even know
what you’re doing to me.”
“There’s red everywhere,” Louis repeats, breath soft and damp against the side
of Harry’s neck, making him shiver. Harry breathes an internal sigh of relief,
having at least gotten control over his middle-of-the-night boner, which is
making him feel marginally less weird about Louis’s weight against his side,
Louis’s arm heavy over his chest, moving in time with his inhalations.
“Red?” Harry asks gently, as if this were a real conversation. “Is it blood?”
Shockingly, Louis’s response is very nearly coherent. It makes Harry freeze,
since only seconds ago he had been operating on the assumption that Louis can’t
hear him. “No, paint,” Louis murmurs. “S’everywhere. Dropped a can. But it was
broken, we can’t return it now.”
“Return it, like, to the store?” Harry asks, heart thudding under Louis’s arm.
“Lou, can you hear me?”
“The zoo,” Louis says. “I did that walkthrough, in fifth year. Cried because
the sunburn was so bad.”
So, he can’t really hear him, just half-respond, picking up bits and pieces but
nothing important. Harry is probably safe, and he’s about to further test this
theory when Louis nuzzles into Harry’s cheek, the cold tip of his nose brushing
just behind his ear, and jesus, is this what it would be like? If they were
boyfriends, if they shared a bed and cuddled at night while watching Netflix?
Louis hanging on to Harry’s neck and kissing him so much they get distracted
and have to rewind because they keep missing dialogue? Is this what Harry could
have in some universe where Louis is as hopelessly and pitifully in love as he
is?
Harry sighs deeply, wincing around the deep, self-pitying, terrible ache in his
solar plexus. “Sorry you got sunburned at the zoo, Louis,” he says then,
patting Louis’s forearm, rolling over a little so he’s facing Louis again,
tucking his chin over Louis’s head and breathing from his hair, drawing him
close. Maybe the trick to this thing isn’t waking Louis up every time he
sleepwalks and ends up in his bed, maybe he’s supposed to just ride the wave of
it. Coax Louis back into proper, lying-down sleep with soft, aimless, responses
to his nonsensical mumbling.
“S’okay. I just. It’s that I’m nervous,” Louis explains. “About tomorrow.”
“To perform?” Harry asks, reaching for Louis’s hair and petting it because he’s
always wanting to, it’s so shiny-looking all the time, and right now he can
touch it, he can comb his fingers through Louis’s soft fringe and brush his
knuckles down the curve of his cheek, and nothing terrible will happen, Louis
won’t even know. It’s dark, Louis is asleep, and Harry is exhausted. “Are you
nervous for the live show?”
“MMhm,” Louis mumbles, nodding closer to Harry, huffing softly. “M’the worst
singer in the group. Everyone knows.”
“Oh, Lou,” Harry whispers fiercely, burying his lips in Louis’s hair, which
smells like cigarette smoke and shampoo and sleep-heat, the loveliest thing,
exactly what he wants his pillow to smell like tonight and every other night,
until the end of the world. He inhales raggedly, a little overwhelmed by how
much he’s feeling right now, how much it hurts to know Louis thinks he’s the
worst singer, and that everyone knows. “Louis, you aren’t the worst, no one
thinks that. Your voice is so different and special and lovely, and I just…I
really love it. I love it so much. So much it would probably scare you if you
knew.”
Louis is quiet for a long time, his breath soft and even and untroubled, and
Harry thinks that maybe he’s fallen back into real sleep, not the jittery kind,
not the kind that drives him out of bed and onto his feet, stumbling around
seeking some kind of comfort. Maybe Harry offered that comfort, maybe Louis
found what he’s looking for. Harry is blinking in the quiet darkness, counting
Louis’s inhalations, when Louis murmurs, “Hazza, s’you, isn’t it?”
Harry’s heart stops before leaping into his throat. “What?” he asks, realizing
so suddenly that he’s in a compromising position, arms around Louis while he
half-sleeps, lips in his hair.
“Thanks, Haz,” Louis says then, yawning, and nuzzling closer to Harry, settling
into him. “For everything.”
He nods back off then, and if he says anything else in his sleep, it doesn’t
wake Harry, either.
—-
Maybe it’s because they’re performing tonight, and everyone is nervous, but
nobody, not even Liam, gives Harry and Louis a hard time for waking up together
in the same bunk. Harry wakes up first and rolls over blearily, only to find
himself inches from Louis’s lovely sleeping face, the perfect half-moon of his
lashes against the line of his cheekbone, his lips parted over soft, sleeping
exhalations. Harry freezes, hoping that maybe he hasn’t roused Louis yet, and
he can still escape before making it weird, but then Louis blinks himself
awake, pressing his lips together. He looks confused for a moment before his
gaze falls on Harry and his eyes soften, pupils flooding the blue of his eyes a
little bit. “Hi,” he rasps, chewing his lower lip. “I…I did it again, didn’t
I?”
Harry shrugs, stretching, wishing he was even a halfway convincing liar so he
could fabricate something in this moment to make Louis feel less guilty, make
the situation less incriminating. Instead, he just says, “Yeah, but this time
you just kind of…fell asleep. Or, you were asleep, you’re always asleep when it
happens, but you stopped talking and moving around and just kind of…passed out?
Was nice.” Harry yawns then, and Louis looks at him in this way that he can’t
read, brows arched and eyes wide, like he can’t quite believe anything that
Harry is saying.
“You….you’re unreal,” he says then, shaking his head and rolling over onto his
back to look at the ceiling. They’ve awakened the other boys, and they're all
groaning now, stretching and jamming their heads under their pillows, except
for Liam who gets up ungodly early to jog, of all things, because he’s insane
and probably a masochist. Harry is ignoring them, though, he’s just staring at
Louis and wondering what on earth he could mean by such a thing, when Louis
adds, “You’re, like, probably the world's best roommate. I’ve been worrying
about uni and stuff, if I go, thinking about how I can’t share a dorm or a flat
with anyone ever because, like…what if I get stressed about exams or my job and
end up in their fucking bed? And here you are, and you just…don’t care. Said it
was nice, even. I’m not sure you’re a real person, Harry Styles.”
Harry’s mouth has gone quite suddenly dry, his heart rabbiting too loudly
against his chest, hard enough that he wonders if Louis can hear it, if he
knows how nervous he makes him, how much he feels. “You can share a flat with
me,” he says honestly. “I would love, like, honestly love, to be flatmates with
you. Even if we get booted off the show tonight and aren’t in a band
anymore…I’d still…like, if you wanted to. If you wanted to move.”
Louis’s eyes get so soft and crinkly at the edges, and he reaches across the
space between them and squeezes Harry’s wrist. “Yeah? Get a nice flat in
London, one with no stairs so I don’t kill myself falling down them in the
middle of the night? You’d be willing to?”
“I’d love to,” Harry corrects earnestly, swallowing thickly.
Louis beams. “Well, then, it’s settled, mate. Even if this is our last night
here, won’t be our last night shacking up together?”
“Nope,” Harry says, thinking he could get used to seeing Louis from this
distance, a few inches away, sleep-rumpled and warm and grinning.
—-
It isn’t their last night in the X Factor house. Somehow, even with their
seemingly endless rehearsal mistakes and near debilitating anxiety before they
go on, they perform, and the judges love it. No one fucks up too badly, and
perhaps that’s what takes the edge off Louis’s stress because a few nights go
by where he stays put in his own bunk.
Harry would be lying if he said he wasn’t disappointed. It’s nice to get a few
solid nights of sleep in, sure, but it’s also lonely and kind of disappointing
to not be interrupted by Louis and his weird, midnight ramblings. Harry misses
him, misses him broken open and out of his mind, telling him secrets he
wouldn’t otherwise tell.
As the week goes on, Harry starts to wonder if this is the end of Louis’s
problem; if he’s finally gotten comfortable enough with the boys and the house
and the competition or whatever that he’s sleeping through the night, if their
successful first live show smoothed out the wrinkles of insecurity that were
keeping him up at night. And Harry is glad, ultimately, because any selfish
motivations he harbors to keep Louis in his bed are obviously less important
than Louis’s happiness, his comfort.
So it’s kind of bittersweet that as the second live show draws closer and
closer, Louis starts sleepwalking again.
It happens after a particularly grueling day of rehearsals. Louis, who’s
usually a ball of insane, manic energy after dinner, prone to tearing around
the house knocking things over, squirting shampoo in people’s beds, and singing
showtunes at the top of his lungs, is oddly reserved. Everyone is kind of
relieved, honestly, since Louis’s mania tends to induce paranoia, and it’s
comforting to know where he is at all times rather than wondering if he’s
slipped something nasty into your suitcase. A sullen Louis means the rest of
the house is good-natured and relaxed, but Harry…Harry’s stomach is a mess of
knots. Louis doesn’t seem like Louis tonight, and he loves Louis, so it’s
making his chest tight and nervous to watch him be so quiet, curled up on the
floor in front of the couch, scrolling through his mobile, lips flat.
Harry eventually can’t stand it anymore and disentangles himself from Liam and
Cher and their fierce game of FIFA to settle down beside Louis, who doesn’t
even look up at him. “Hello,” Harry says eventually, nudging his elbow into
Louis’s side, voice low and cautious because he doesn’t know what’s going on.
“You’re awfully….undestructive tonight.”
Louis smirks, but it doesn’t meet his eyes. “Am I? Would you prefer it if I got
up and broke a few of your things, would that make you feel better?” There’s
some venom to his voice, and it surprises both of them, Louis shutting off his
mobile and sliding it into his hoodie pocket before he turns to a stunned,
silent Harry, eyes guilty. “Hey, Haz. I’m sorry. That came out meaner than I
meant.”
“Why…what’s up? Like, did something happen?” Harry asks in a hush, cheeks
feeling hot because the room is still full, but he’s talking to Louis like
they’re alone, and something is wrong, he can tell. Louis has never snapped at
him like that, maybe at Liam or even Niall, who he loves because Niall thinks
he’s the greatest, but never at Harry. You can tell me, he begs silently. You
don’t have to wait until you’re asleep, I’ll listen, always.
Louis stares at his lap for awhile, then shakes his fringe out of his eyes,
shrugging. “Just…you know how Savan pulled me aside at rehearsal today? To tell
me to quit acting up?”
“Yeah…,” Harry mumbles, tilting close to Louis, thinking back to the afternoon.
Louis had been his usual riotous self at the time, attempting to pluck Harry’s
gum from his mouth, stealing Niall’s jacket and tying it around his neck and
chest like a bikini, emptying an entire bottle of water on Liam’s head. Savan
dragged him off to one of the wings during a break to tell him off, Harry
presumed, as Louis had come back at least slightly more focused.
“So he was all mad about the water on Liam, obviously. But he also…I don’t
know. Apparently Simon talked to him about me,” Louis whispers the last bit,
eyes skirting along the room and landing on Liam, who is luckily too busy
flirting with Cher to really notice what’s going on, what Louis is talking
about.
“What…what did he say? What do you mean?” Harry asks breathlessly, heart
pounding and blood icing over. He can’t stomach the idea of Louis being in
trouble, real trouble, anyway. What if he got sent home? Kicked out of the
band? Harry feels positively sick, mouth dry and heart aching.
“Can we, like, go up to the room? I’ll kick Niall out if he’s up there, he does
whatever I say, and I don’t want…dunno. S’probably nothing, but I don’t want
anyone to know,” Louis explains.
Nodding rapidly, Harry stands on unsteady legs and hauls Louis to his feet
after him, nearly dragging him to the staircase. “Of course,” he mumbles, mind
already a mess of worst-case scenarios. Maybe Simon heard about the way Louis
stuck a plastic fork in one of the kitchen outlets and incidentally rendered it
useless. Maybe Simon heard about the crack in the sliding glass door to the
garden from Louis tossing a pair of Rebecca’s high heels across the room at an
alarming velocity. Maybe Simon has decided Louis isn’t worth the amount of
damage that he’s caused to the house, and he’s going to send him home if he
breaks one more thing. By the time they make it to the room, Harry is six
seconds away from swallowing down tears.
Niall is nowhere to be found, so Louis just kicks a bunch of shit out of the
way so that he can properly shut and lock the door, collapsing on Zayn’s bunk
because his own is littered with heaps of clothing. “Apparently, Simon asked
Savan to alter my choreography, so it’s, like…different from the rest of you.
He doesn’t want me moving as much?” Louis blurts.
Harry stands in the center of the room, staring. “He doesn’t want you moving?
But, like…why?” He asks, caught off guard because…choreography was not where he
thought this conversation was going. “Why does Simon care about how much you
move?”
“Savan didn’t say, really,” Louis sighs, waving his hand limpwristedly in the
air. “But I think…I think it’s because I’ m, like, too …flashy…onstage,” he
continues, talking very slowly, very carefully, like he’s choosing his words
with prudence. He keeps eyeing Harry in this calculating way, too, and when he
finishes with, “Like…you know,” Harry feels as if he’s missing something very
obvious, something secret.
Harry frowns, and plops down heavily on the bed beside Louis. “I don’t know. I
mean, isn’t being flashy onstage a good thing? Does Simon think you’re
upstaging us or something, because I don’t feel like that.”
Louis shakes his head, face splitting into a fond, exasperated smile. “Harold,”
he says, eyes crinkled up at the corners just how Harry likes, one of those
big, open, genuine grins that make them turn into slits of blue. “You’re very
weird and very lovely, did you know that?” he asks.
Harry’s stomach drops, and he can’t keep himself from beaming, slow and dopey
and fond, he just loves Louis, and there’s nothing to be done about it, no way
to keep it from showing on his face, glowing in his skin. “I’ve been told, a
few times, that I’m both weird and lovely. But not in the same sentence.”
“Well, then,” Louis says, turning back to the ceiling, smile faltering a little
as a sort of darkness slides across his eyes. “At least I’ve given you that.”
Harry feels helpless and lost and confused. He wants to lie down and snuggle up
close to Louis, pillow his head on his shoulder and draw patterns with his
fingers on his chest, tell him, Savan and Simon can piss off, for all I care, I
love the way you perform, and anyone who thinks it’s too flashy or whatever is
just…afraid. Of such bright light, I think, maybe they don’t want to get burnt,
so they’d rather extinguish it. But they’re wrong, and I’m not afraid of
burning. Instead, he inhales raggedly and says, “So, did Savan say anything
specific? Like…don’t do this or that, or just that Simon wants you to move
less? Because that’s just…it’s rubbish.”
Louis snorts. “He told me to ‘tone it down.’ What he means is…well. What they
both mean is that the, like… theater, basically, is showing. My theater
background. It’s too much, so I need to tone it down. And, well…I don’t know. I
don’t want to feel shitty about it, but I do.”
Again, Harry feels like Louis is choosing his words too carefully, not exactly
saying what he means. Flashy and theater instead of, well…gay. Or at least he
thinks so. But Harry doesn’t want to bring that word up if Louis isn’t bringing
it up first, he doesn’t want to imply anything or cross a boundary that Louis
has drawn in the sand, especially if there’s a possibility he’s reaching for
this word, pulling it out of the air between them because he wants it to be
there.
He takes a deep breath and tells Louis, “You shouldn’t have to feel shitty!
You’re the best dancer out of all of us, never miss the cues and have, like,
the best sense of timing and rhythm and stuff, so I don’t know why they think
it’s a problem…honestly, you shouldn’t tone it down. Zayn needs to step it up,
if anything. I bet you only look flashy in comparison to his robot moves.”
Louis cracks up, and that, that’s what Harry wanted. Louis rolling around on
the bed, kicking the air wildly, flailing as he yelps, “Robot moves! The Malik
Machine!” between fits of hysterics. He sighs, curling up beside Louis and
laughing with him, thinking, see, I can take care of you, even when you’re
awake.
—-
Louis ends up in his bed that night, anyway. It’s an earlier venture than
usual, with the other boys having only just flicked off the lights a few hours
after Louis prematurely crashed, and Harry feeling like his head has only just
hit the pillow when Louis very nearly collapses on top of him. “M’in trouble,”
he complains, fast asleep and way too heavy, Harry can’t breathe. He rolls
Louis off, and then once he’s on his back, hears him say, “M’not gonna make the
team because coach, he knows. That Connor prat told him.”
“Louis,” Harry sighs, “You’re asleep, s’okay, you’re asleep. There’s no team to
make, just go back to bed,” as he pets his hair, trying to soothe the restless
flicker of his body.
“Harry, is that Louis? Is he sleepwalking again, got in your bed?” Zayn asks,
groaning from his bunk. Of all the lads, Zayn takes his sleep the most
seriously. “M’not gonna sleep with him going on and on. Can you, like…get him
out of here?”
“Get him out?! Where would I take him, you want me to just, like…dump him on
the couch? Get a sleeping person down the stairs?” Harry asks, appalled by
Zayn’s insensitivity. “M’not gonna do that, mate, I’m not an idiot.”
“Stan likes Connor, thinks he’s cool, but I know better. He’s a snitch,” Louis
murmurs, accent so thick it comes out as an unintelligible jumble.
“No, just wake him up, Harry,” Zayn snaps.
“Yeah, waking him up usually does the trick, he just goes off to his own bed
and falls back asleep eventually,” Liam suggests, as if he’s suddenly an expert
on Louis’s sleepwalking habits, and really, Harry thinks this entire exchange
is offensive, to say the least.
“No, he doesn’t, he sleeps awful if you wake him up, and he feels bad. The best
thing to do is talk to him a little until he gets calm again,” Harry explains,
Harry who is an actual expert on Louis’s sleepwalking habits, thank you very
much. Niall guffaws from his bunk, voice muffled from underneath his pillow.
“Harry is like Louis’s mum, knows how to tuck him in and stuff,” he observes,
snickering. “Or like his wife. You guys are like a married couple.”
“Shut up,” Harry hisses at Niall, wishing he had a dirty sock or something to
throw at him. “Just lemme talk him to sleep you guys, it will only take a
minute.”
“No,” Zayn says firmly. “Harry, I’m serious. I’m tired, and I wanna go to bed,
and if you’re not gonna wake Louis up, I will.”
“M’gonna get kicked off,” Louis says mournfully, oblivious to what’s going on
around him, maybe. Harry’s heart kind of breaks for him in that moment, though,
and he makes what is perhaps a rash and self-sacrificing decision. One of many
to come, in the face of this great love, maybe.
“No, you’re not, Lou, come on,” he sighs, clambering over Louis and pulling him
up with his arm around his waist. Louis goes easily, clumsy and heavy but still
pliant. “I’ll go take him to the ensuite,” Harry snaps, grabbing sheets and
blankets and pillows so he can create a makeshift sleeping arrangement
elsewhere, since everyone else sucks. He guides Louis with a hand spread across
his lower back and makes sure to slam the door a little on his way out.
“Goodnight, hope you all get your beauty sleep,” he grumbles, dumping his
bedding onto the floor, kicking it out so there’s enough room for them to lie
together. Then, he pulls a very dazed, sleeping Louis down with him. “Here,” he
sighs, snuggling up into the heat of his body, heart pounding because this
might be a weird, line-crossing thing he’s doing, he’s not sure. He’s tired,
and everything is confusing. “Just relax, Lou.”
“They don’t want me for the football team,” he says, rubbing his cheek against
Harry’s pillow, brow furrowed. Harry tries to smooth the line out with his
thumb as Louis adds, “M’gonna get cut.”
“I want you for my football team,” Harry whispers gently. “You won’t get cut.”
“I will. Connor told. Coach, he knows,” Louis murmurs, sounding very young,
agonizingly young, like the first bloom of spring. Harry wants to cup him
between his palms, protect him from the frost.
“Knows what?” Harry presses, thinking that Louis looks so lovely in the low
light of the ensuite, his lashes dark against the cut of his cheekbones.
“That m’gay,” Louis answers.
Harry’s heart stops. His hands, which have been idly combing through Louis’s
fringe, stutter to a stop before falling in the dead space between them,
trembling. Did he…did he hear that right? Is this just sleep-Louis mumbling
nonsense, or did…is he…Harry swallows, throat clicking nervously before he
ventures, “S’okay. S’okay, if you are, Louis. There’s nothing wrong with that.”
“M’in trouble,” Louis says. “People see, and I get in trouble for it. S’not
fair.”
Harry inhales raggedly, heard thudding itself to bloody ruin against the inside
of his ribcage, even as he wills it to still. He thinks of Savan, or Simon who
apparently spoke to Savan, and then he wonders about Louis’s history. About
Connor and this football coach, if they really exist and if these are memories,
or if everything he’s getting is a messy, fragmented dream. He doesn’t know how
much of Louis he gets in these moments versus how much of it is just…sleeptalk.
He raises a tremulous hand and brushes Louis’s hair from his brow. “No, it’s
not fair. But, like…Louis. You’re so, so wonderful,” he whispers, private, soft
words against Louis’s temple. “You could tell me when you’re awake, you know.
If that’s true. You could tell me, and I’d…I’d be really happy about it. I’m
happy now. Promise. You don’t deserve to be in trouble.”
“Are there leftovers?” Louis asks hopefully.
“Sure,” Harry says, shocked by the sudden rush of hot, unexpected tears
springing to his eyes. He feels overwhelmed, overwhelmed and scared, but for
the first time since meeting Louis and realizing he was falling in hard, fast,
life-ruining love, he feels hopeful. He blinks, dripping into Louis’s hair a
little. “Or, if you don’t want leftovers, I’ll cook you something. Something
nice,” he promises.
Louis, whose voice has taken on that heavy, syrupy quality it gets when he’s
drifting from his sleepwalking state back into true sleep, murmurs, “Okay.”
There’s a note of finality to it, and Harry feels him loosen up against him.
Harry lies awake, eyes stinging, heart pounding, all the way until dawn.
—-
Harry’s a bundle of sleep-deprived nerves the next day. He can’t stop thinking
about Louis and his quiet, rasping voice, soft and frayed around the words
m’gay, his confession hanging in the dark. Harry wants so badly to ask him
about it, get him alone and grab his wrists so he can’t get away, can’t laugh
it off. But at the same time, what if he’s wrong? What if it isn’t an
admission, but meaningless words connected by the fiber of sleep, Harry hearing
things he wants to hear? Plus, how do you even bring something like that up?
Like, you came out to me in your sleep, can we talk about it? Harry doesn’t
want to reveal to Louis that he talks so much in his sleep because it might
make Louis shut down about it, might silence whatever latent drive exists
inside him, the one that makes him find Harry’s bunk at night, and Harry
doesn’t want that to change. He doesn’t want to push Louis away, but he can’t
think of a single way to ask him about last night that won’t risk anything.
After dinner, it’s Harry and Louis’s turn to do dishes, so Harry’s standing in
his boxers, elbow deep in soapy water, when he thinks of a previously
unconsidered option. Louis is to his left drying mugs (and he hasn’t broken any
so far, which might be a miracle), singing every single word to the soundtrack
to High School Musical 2, turning occasionally to Harry to serenade him during
the especially dramatic bits. Harry has never seen High School Musical 2 (Louis
called this a tragedy to his face five minutes ago), and he’s at least
partially gay, so he knows that it doesn't actually prove anything, but still.
Louis looks very flashy, very theater. And he just has to know, know if this is
as hopeless as he’s been thinking, or if he has chance.
“Louis, can I tell you something?” he asks then, shooting a look at Louis
across the sink, eyes lowered and cautious.
“‘Course, Harold, what?” Louis responds, brandishing his drying rag with such a
spectacular flourish that it makes Harry feel a little better, a little more
confident.
“Okay, so,” Harry starts, inhaling deeply. “I just feel like you should know…in
case you wanted to know. Erm. That I don’t just like girls, I also like boys.
And, like, anyone else. Not donkeys or anything, but, like…people who aren’t
boys or girls…just, I just like, like people. So, I thought you should know.”
He can’t look at Louis as he says it. He doesn’t think Louis is going to freak
out or embarrass him or anything, it’s just that he doesn’t trust himself from
blurting, I like you, I like you so much, are you really gay, could you maybe
possibly like me back? Is that why you look for me in your sleep? if he sees
Louis right now, his eyes as blue and wide as he imagines them, flashing
beneath the elegant arch of his brow. He swallows thickly, and the silence
stretches between them.
“Oh,” Louis says then, coughing. “Well. Harry…that’s wonderful. Thank you for
telling me, I’m really…do the other lads know?” he asks, a little breathless,
like he’s scared. It makes Harry’s heart speed up; he’s not sure what it means,
if Louis is uncomfortable, or if he’s about to say me too, me too, he just
doesn’t know.
Swallowing thickly, Harry says, “No. I mean I haven’t lied to them, it, like,
hasn’t come up, I just…wanted to tell you,” he finishes, a sudden heat flooding
his cheeks, making him dizzy.
Louis drops his dish dramatically in the drying rack, then tosses his rag
across the room with a flick of his wrist. “What am I doing,” he mumbles,
flicking his hair out of his eyes before opening his arms to Harry. “Come here.
Lemme give you a proper hug, I didn’t realize…god. What a sod.”
Harry moves stiffly and automatically, dazed as he fits himself into Louis’s
arms, against the solidity of his chest, hands cupping his waist to steady
himself. Louis drags him closer into a bone-crushing hug, squeezing him so
tightly it hurts. He feels his ribs poking his insides, basically, and he can’t
breathe, but it’s fine because Louis smells so good, cigarettes and dish soap
and spice. “Thank you for telling me; I know that can be hard to do, and I just
really…hm. You’re so brave, Harry, really brave and really lovely.”
“And weird?” Harry grumbles, voice coming out kind of hard and strangled
because Louis is still compacting his lungs so tightly he can’t really fill
them up.
“Yes, weird and lovely and…bisexual? Pansexual? What do you call it when you
like everyone equally except donkeys, apparently?” Louis asks, finally letting
Harry go somewhat reluctantly. Harry holds onto the warmth, wondering if that’s
reluctance he’s sensing or something else, overcompensation, the performance of
comfort. He doesn’t know, it’s so hard to know when his feelings about this are
so muddled and there are so many things he wants desperately to be true.
“I dunno…I don’t really like to call it anything. I just like who I like…and
it’s not everyone equally, there are some really awful people out in the world,
and I don’t like them,” Harry explains.
Louis shoves him gently, “Oh, come on, I know that. I just meant…you know what
I meant. Anyway, I won’t tell anyone if you don’t want me to. Just know I think
you’re…I think you’re really great, Harry. No matter who you like.”
“I think you’re really great, too, Louis,” Harry answers, rubbing his face
against his shoulder in a poor attempt to hide the fierceness of his blush. And
it’s you. I like you, more than I’ve liked anyone else ever, more than I
thought was even possible. He inhales slowly around a pang of strange, nameless
hurt in his chest. It’s just…he wants Louis to tell him something, he doesn’t
just want his support or sympathy.
“You know what’s really great?” Louis asks, scampering across the kitchen to
retrieve the rag he threw earlier. He doesn’t wait for Harry to respond before
announcing, “High School Musical 2.”
They watch it that night, curled up in Harry’s bunk, sharing a pair of earbuds
so no one else has to suffer through it, and Harry keeps waiting, hoping. Maybe
Louis will tell him after all, once everyone else falls asleep. Maybe he’ll
lean in, lips against the shell of Harry’s ear, and murmur, I didn’t want to
say anything until we were alone, really alone, but I like boys, too.
Harry keeps waiting, hoping.
—-
Louis never says anything. Days go by, days of Louis smiling fake and flat-
lipped whenever Savan positions him on the edge of the line or behind the other
boys during choreography, somewhere easily lost by the camera. Days of Louis
scolding Liam and demanding he apologize whenever he says something even
remotely homophobic, shooting sympathetic I got your back looks over his
shoulder at Harry in solidarity. Days of Louis singing showtunes, kissing
Aiden’s cheek very dramatically over breakfast, and demonstrating in front of
the entire house exactly how the Bad Romance dance goes but never, ever pulling
Harry aside or coming over to him. Harry is starting to think that Louis’s just
a very, very enthusiastically flamboyant straight boy, so very comfortable with
his sexuality that he doesn’t feel the need to perform an ounce of masculinity,
at all, ever. A straight boy who says he’s gay in his sleep, or something.
It would be kind of admirable, if Harry bought it, but he just…doesn’t. And
it’s not because he wants to be Louis’s boyfriend, at least not entirely. It’s
because when Savan tells Louis to keep his arms at his sides, just move less,
Harry can see hurt in Louis’s eyes, not just exasperation, not just annoyance.
It’s because when Liam assumes the boys from Diva Fever won’t want to play FIFA
because you guys probably aren’t into that sort of thing, Harry doesn’t see
pity in the look Louis shares with him, he sees…commiseration. Or something.
Louis doesn’t act like Harry’s straight friends back home who try to protect
him whenever some asshole bloke gives him a hard time. He acts like he’s felt
the same thing, been in the same place.
And then there’s the equally confusing matter of the nights they spend twined
up, the mornings they wake up together. Louis has been sleepwalking to Harry’s
bed for another two consistent nights, showing up after 1 am, and throwing his
arm around Harry’s body, snuggling up against his back while he murmurs about
eggs and gardening and his favorite Robbie Williams songs before nodding off
into real sleep again. Harry waits up for him now so he doesn’t get startled
out of his dreams, and it becomes an exciting little ritual, scrolling through
his mobile or texting his Holmes Chapel friends with sleepy thumbs until he
hears the distinct sound of Louis starting to murmur in his sleep before
sliding out of his bunk to get into Harry’s. It feels right, to wait up for
him. It feels like it’s his responsibility, destiny, even, to hold his blanket
up so Louis can crawl in beside him, needing to be coaxed back into silence,
into stillness.
Harry doesn’t think much of the implication, when he asks Louis to sleep with
him. It’s early in the morning as Louis rolls over to the realization that
Harry is beside him once more, and he grumbles to himself, “Fuck, again?”
before flopping back down, sighing heavily.
“G’morning to you, too,” Harry says, blinking hazily, still not fully awake
yet. He pats Louis’s arm. “You…you know, I don’t mind.
“It doesn’t matter if you don’t mind, it’s the fact that I keep doing it….
like, god, I really am the worst flatmate of all time and space, do you ever
get a decent night’s sleep, Hazza?” Louis asks, voice high and tinny and self-
deprecating, and no, Harry doesn’t want him to feel bad about this, doesn’t
want him to suffer through a moment of guilt because he should> not feel
guilty, not when Harry wants him here.
“I sleep fine,” Harry says urgently. “Like…it’s really not a problem at all. In
fact, you could even…,” and he’s fabricating this without even thinking about
it or worrying about how it sounds. He’s half-asleep; Louis is warm beside him,
and he doesn’t want him to go, ever, he wants to share beds with Louis
Tomlinson until the world ends, so he blurts, “…you could even, like, go to
bed, here, if you wanted. If you’re upset about waking me up, we could see if
anything changes if you, like…start here.”
Louis stares, an incredulous, confused look on his face. “Harold…are you asking
me to sleep with you?” he asks then, splaying a scandalized hand over his
chest, eyes wide.
Harry falls apart a little, flushing spectacularly as he realizes what he just
said, what he just did. He buries his face in his pillow, voice coming out
unintelligible and muffled as he says, “No, no…I didn’t….”
Louis reaches over, and ruffles his hair. “Awwww, Curly, if I didn’t know
better, I’d think you liked me. But I happen to know you don’t like donkeys,
so.” Then he catapults out of bed, rubbing his face with both hands before
Harry can get a good look at him, see how serious he’s being, gauge how much of
a joke this is for him.
But Louis is already shouldering his way out the door and into the ensuite
before Harry gets the words wait, please out of his mouth.
—-
Weeks go by, and somehow they’re still there. The judges keep telling them you
really might be the world’s next big boyband, the next huge pop act, and Harry
is almost starting to believe it. He watches people older and more experienced
and better, even, get sent home, and all the while, One Direction remains. It’s
like a dream, a Cinderella story, and he keeps pinching himself to make sure
it’s real.
It’s one of very many surreal things in his life right now, the most
troublesome being that more nights than not these days, Harry and Louis share a
bed. When Harry met Louis and was instantly infatuated, he didn’t anticipate
this turn of events, one in which they weren’t boyfriends or even hooking up,
but they fucking slept together all the time.
It’ s been happening long enough at this point that Harry has Louis’s
sleepwalking patterns down to a science. He gets particularly restless leading
up to a performance, but after a successful live show, he’ll have a few nights
of restful, nonambulatory sleep before the pressure builds up and he starts
visiting Harry again. It’s a thing, now; Harry can count on it. He can count on
sharing a bed with Louis, which is a very strange and painful thing to count on
from someone you’re in love with but not dating. Not even hooking up with.
Niall makes a comment about it at dinner one night, and that’s when everything
changes.
They’re drawing straws to decide who gets the newly vacated rooms left by cut
contestants when Niall brilliantly suggests, “Harry’nLouis should get one so we
don’t have to hear them at night. Gets annoying.”
Everyone, Harry included, freezes. There’s a moment of loaded silence stretched
tight across the room, nobody even chews, and Harry is glad his gaze is locked
on his plate so that he doesn’t have to see what Louis looks like right now,
what expression of shocked horror is plastered across his face, his eyes wide
and blue beneath the elegant arches of his brows. Another second passes, and
then Niall bursts into hysterical, hiccuping laughter. “Oh, god, oh, no,” he
gasps, writhing around in his chair with his hands spread over his gut. “I
didn’t mean…that sounded so bad,” he gets out, and Matt, who’s sitting to
Harry’s left, nudges him in the ribs, good-natured but still teasing.
“I wouldn’t have been surprised, actually, if that had been going on,” he
jokes. “But now I’m really curious.”
“Thanks, Neil,” Louis snaps when he finally recovers, poking a still rolling
Niall with his fork none too gently. “For suggesting to the entire house that
Harry and I are shagging. I really appreciate it. Stellar friend, you are.”
Harry feels horrible. He doesn’t like Louis’s reaction, and he doesn’t like
Matt giving him a hard time. He doesn’t want it to be a joke, the idea of him
and Louis shagging, he doesn’t want it to be something Niall breaks down
laughing over, he wants it to be real, and it’s not. He smiles weakly and chews
the inside of his mouth as Niall manages to get enough breath in his lungs to
explain, “Louis, Louis, is a terrible sleepwalker. He gets up and knocks about
the room and talks nonsense, and Harry is, like, the patient one who chats him
down from it. But we have to listen. So, they should get their own room so the
rest of us can get some sleep,” he chokes out. “That’s all I meant, I swear.”
“How about I get the room all to meself?” Louis suggests, dragging the derailed
conversation back to the empty rooms. “So then Harry can sleep, too. S’not fair
that he’s always stuck taking care of me because you lot are useless,” Louis
suggests, clapping his hand down on Harry’s knee.
“But I don’t mind, I sleep fine,” Harry reminds him, suddenly able to speak
again. His eyes skate over to Louis rapidly before flicking back to his lap. It
hurts to see Louis’s flush, his shame and embarrassment at getting called out
for his bad habit. Harry aches for him, wants to reach for his hand and squeeze
it, let him know it’s okay that he sleepwalks, that Harry doesn’t mind being
cast in the role of caretaker, that Louis could have that and whatever else he
wanted from him one hundred times over, if only he wanted it.
“You do not,” Louis says, voice thin and sharp, needling under Harry’s skin.
“It’s not fair. Sucks for you and the boys that I don’t shut up, the room by
the staircase locks, so I could stay in there…what do you say? S’everyone okay
with that?”
There are some shrugs and don’t cares, and just like that, it’s settled. Harry
is sleeping alone.
He helps Louis move his stuff into the new room, even though he totally doesn’t
want to. He even watches Louis set up an obstacle course of sorts on the floor,
supposedly to interfere with his inevitable travels to Harry’s bed. “I’ll trip
over something and fall and hopefully wake myself up,” he explains, pushing a
chair from the living room in and arranging it beside an open suitcase he
borrowed from Zayn.
“Sounds dangerous,” Harry grumbles from where he’s sitting and pouting on the
bed (not his bed, a different bed, a bed Louis will be be sleeping in without
him, and it’s not fair, he knows that Louis isn’t his boyfriend and he has no
right to be upset about this turn of events, but he just is).
“I laugh in the face of danger,” Louis says in his best Simba voice. “Plus, if
it works and I don’t end up waking you and the others up, it’s worth it, right?
I’m so fucking sick of this whole thing,” he sighs, hands on his hips as he
surveys the strategic mess of things on the floor.
“ I guess,” Harry mutters, putting his headphones in so he doesn’t have to
listen to this rubbish. He doesn’t get why Louis doesn’t seem to hear him
whenever he tells him that he really doesn’t mind being the one he finds in the
dark, that he’s not losing sleep, that he wants him there. It’s like Louis is
determined to convince Harry he truly is an inconvenience, no matter how many
times Harry assures him he’s not.
Unless, of course, he knows how much Harry doesn’t care. Knows, in fact, that
Harry likes it too much. Maybe he’s locking himself up in this room because he
doesn’t want to keep crawling into Harry’s bed because he knows Harry’s in love
with him, but he’s just too awkward to call him out on it.
Harry sighs deeply and turns up his music, worrying his lower lip between his
teeth as he watches Louis make adjustments, arranging and rearranging. “If you
hurt yourself,” he says, crossing his arms. “I’m gonna say I told you so,” he
announces.
“If I hurt myself, I’ll fucking deserve it,” Louis says, and Harry’s heart
clenches at the venom in his voice.
He leaves, then, because it stings to be around Louis when he’s so hard on
himself, when he won’t listen.
—-
That night, Harry can’t sleep. He’s gotten foolishly dependent on Louis’s
proximity, his soft sleep-breath as he nods off, the knowledge that he’ll be
sliding between Harry’s sheets soon. That’s not happening tonight, he can’t
even whisper hey, Lou into the darkness and get a response, and that makes him
feel so terrible, so empty and lonely, that he just lies awake, arms wrapped
around himself pitifully. You’re in love with someone who doesn’t even want to
share a bed with you anymore, he thinks, rubbing his cheek into his pillowcase,
itchy and uncomfortable in his wrong-feeling bed. You probably made him
uncomfortable, coming out to him and then telling him he could fall asleep with
you. You came on too strong. You scared him away. You need to be okay with
having him a room away, at an arm’s distance. You want too much.
Harry is committing hard to the the mantra you want too much in favor of
counting sheep when he hears a horrible crash from down the hall. He sits bolt
upright in bed, heart pounding tight and anxious in his windpipe. Louis, he
thinks, gripping his sheets with a nervous fist as he listens to the now-silent
night. The other boys stir, but no one wakes up, so it must have only been so
loud because he was awake and listening, but still. Louis fucking fell, and
he’s probably on the floor with a stubbed toe and a bruised knee feeling really
stupid and disoriented from deliberately injuring himself. He would probably
hate it if Harry went to see if he was okay, since the reason he did this
absurd thing in the first place was to keep Harry from losing sleep, but Harry
just…can’t. He can’t sit in his bed pretending that the idea of a bruised, sad,
confused, self-hating Louis doesn’t make him positively want to die, so he
throws off his covers and pads out of the room and into the hallway in nothing
but his pants. He shivers; it’s cold and so bright that it’s making him squint
as he locates Louis’s new room, the one just off the ensuite and beside the
staircase.
He knocks on the door, sick with anxiety. You want too much, he tells himself,
pressing his ear to the door to listen for anything suspicious, like cries of
pain. He hears a vague rustling, like someone dragging socked feet over carpet,
and then it falls eerily quiet. “Louis?” he asks, knocking gently again. “Are
you okay?”
There’s no reply, and Harry is a wreck of nerves, blood thrumming deafeningly
in his ears, and he can’t handle another second of this so he tries the door,
surprised to find it unlocked as it cracks open, flooding the dim room with
light from the hall. Maybe Louis unlocked it in his sleep? Is Louis even in
here? “Lou, are you okay?” he asks again, rubbing his goose-pimpled arms and
stepping into the room, peering around, scanning the perimeter and…oh. Louis is
in the corner, sitting and leaning on the wall like he just…went back to sleep
against it after tripping. Or at least Harry hopes he’s asleep and not, like,
knocked out and in a coma, since he easily could have hit his head, easily
could have actually fucking hurt himself, and Harry knew this was a terrible
idea.
“Louis!” he whispers fiercely, suddenly enraged that Louis put him in this
position, that Louis wouldn’t listen to his perfectly reasonable suggestion to
try literally anything other than locking himself in a deathtrap room. “Are you
okay?” he asks, sinking to his knees and gently palming over Louis’s shoulders,
jostling him carefully. “Please wake up,” he says, and Louis sighs grumpily,
like it’s too early, but at least he’s responsive. Harry breathes a sigh of
relief.
“M’supposed to stay in here, s’the whole point,” he mumbles, batting Harry away
and settling back against the wall. “I’ve gotta quit sleeping with Harry.”
“I’m Harry, you idiot,” Harry tells him, voice heavy and thick with a mess of
exasperated affection. “It’s me. You woke me up anyway, which is why you should
just—”
Louis cuts him off, pulling away and slumping against the wall. “I’m in love
with my best friend,” he says, very clearly.
Harry’s heart stops. It’s like his blood has been replaced with ice water,
freezing inside him, so sudden and cold and painful he stops moving and
thinking and breathing altogether. He just sits there on the floor, mouth
hanging open. When his heart starts up again, it’s with such terrible force
that his whole chest aches with it. “What?” he breathes, scooting closer,
crowding Louis into the corner. “With who? With Stan?”
“That’s the whole point. Why’m here. Supposed to stay away,” he says, rubbing
his face with his hands. Then, “I’m so tired.”
Harry’s hands are trembling so much as he alights them on Louis’s shoulders,
shaking him in earnest now. He needs him awake, really awake, he needs Louis to
tell him what the fuck is going on, why he’s supposed to stay away. How much
truth leaks through when he’s sleeping. “Louis,” he says, voice just above a
whisper but sounding so fucking loud all the same. “Louis, now. You’ve got to
get up.”
Louis blinks, then startles, then wrenches away, thudding against the wall
behind him. He’s so fucking confused, scrunching up his eyes in the sliver of
light leaking in through the ajar door, blinking rapidly as he tries to figure
out where he is. “Didn’t work, did it?” he croaks, sounding positively
miserable as he scrubs his palms through his hair. “Christ, Harry m’so, so
sorry, I—”
“Stop,” Harry chokes out, scooting ever closer, laying his hand on Louis’s leg
gently and trying not to get too deterred when Louis flinches under his touch.
“Are you…are you in love with me? Is that why you get in my bed?” he asks
harshly, tightening his grip on Louis’s leg to anchor himself.
Louis stiffens, face still a mess of lines and confusion as he blinks slowly
back at Harry. “What…fuck. Did I…did I say something? In me sleep?”
“Fuck, Louis I don’t want you to blame it on your sleeptalking, I want the
truth, I just want you to tell me the truth,” he begs. “Just tell me.”
And if Louis wasn’t in love with him, he would just…tell him right? He’d furrow
his brow and make an incredulous face and say jesus, no, m’sorry if I said
that, but I didn’t mean it, did you know I once proposed to me sister while I
was sleeptalking? It’s just a bunch of rubbish, Harry, okay? but he doesn’t. He
stares back at Harry, lower lip pulled between his teeth, something defensive
flickering in his jaw. He doesn’t say anything at all, frozen and scared and
backed into a corner, and the silence is deafening, confessing secrets in the
absence of denial, so maybe that’s why Harry suddenly feels brave enough to
shatter. He swallows thickly and leans forward on his knees to kiss Louis’s
slack, stunned mouth.
A moment of shocked stillness locks up Louis’s body, and then he shudders,
softens. He kisses back dumbly, hands still braced at his sides, breath
catching in his chest as he nods forward into Harry’s space, opening his mouth
for him. It’s hot and quick and clumsy, and Harry can’t stop; he feels drunk
with exhilaration and exhaustion as he cups Louis’s face between his hands and
kisses him over and over again, each time a little deeper, a little wetter.
Finally, after the third desperate, fever-slick drag of their lips, Louis pulls
back, gasping. “I’m dreaming,” he says. He sounds so sure, and Harry is almost
too dizzy to hear him.
“No, you’re not,” he says, pulling Louis back with a hand fisted in his soft
cotton shirt-front, lips ghosting over the corner of his mouth, tasting the
soft, warm huff of his breath. “I’m right here. You’re awake, and so am I, and
you can kiss me, if you want to, you can,” he says in a breathless rush.
Very slowly, Louis reaches for Harry, thumbs over the curve of his cheek,
inches fingers into his hair. “Of course, I want to,” he says, voice so soft
it’s almost nothing at all. “But I don’t want to if m’asleep.”
“Fuck, Louis, you’re not asleep, you’re—”
Louis is the one who kisses him this time, dips down and catches Harry’s mouth,
fist tightening in his hair as he tugs him closer, like he can’t wait to find
out if he’s really awake or not. “Fuck,” he groans before nipping at Harry’s
lower lip, making him gasp and melt and lose himself a little. Louis deepens
the kiss with the slick heat of his tongue, and then everything breaks.
They grapple clumsily for a moment, hands palming over skin, into hair, under
clothes, and before Harry can get his bearings and make sense of what’s
happening, Louis puts him on his back, pushes him flat on the carpet and
clambers over him on his knees, their kiss turning so filthy so quickly.
Harry can’t breathe; he doesn’t want to. Louis bites him, flicks their tongues
together and then over the roof of Harry’s mouth, fumbling over Harry’s ribs
greedily, feeling him everywhere, like he’s been thinking of getting his hands
on his skin, like he’s been wanting this. I’m in love with my best friend is
what he said, and he’s kissing Harry like he’s in love with him, hungry and
desperate and graceless. Harry feels like he’s falling apart.
“This is really happening,” Louis mumbles, thumbing over Harry’s swollen lips
as he gently bites down his neck, sucking the sting away as he goes. Harry
gasps, writhing on the carpet, beyond control because this is too fucking good,
Louis’s mouth is so sharp, so wet, so deliberate.
Harry’s painfully hard, his cock straining against his pants, tenting them
obscenely, and he doesn’t even care that he looks desperate, he just wants
Louis to touch him, just wants pressure, heat, anything. He hooks a leg over
Louis’s thigh and grinds up against it shamelessly, letting him feel how hard
he is, how badly he wants him, what he’s doing to him. “Fuck,” Louis swears,
skating his open mouth up the side of Harry’s face before he kisses messily
across his brow, his temple, his hairline. Anywhere he can reach. “I’m not
fucking sleepwalking or imagining it, this is happening,” he murmurs, voice
nothing but an awed wreck, and it makes Harry’s stomach flip over in longing.
Harry makes an involuntary keening sound, his cock twitching so hard he can
feel the inside of his pants getting slick and sticky with precum. “I’m here”
he mumbles, amazed by how low and wrecked his voice already is, just from this,
rolling around on the carpet snogging. He slides greedy palms down the dip in
Louis’s back to cup the perfect swell of his ass, squeezing as he adds, “You
have me. You’ve had me this whole time,” he tells him, rolling his hips against
the solidity of Louis’s thigh, stunned by the way Louis is looking down at him,
wide eyes and a parted mouth, like he can’t fucking believe his luck. It’s
dizzying, surreal.
Louis laughs brokenly, palming down Harry’s chest, stopping just above the
waistband of his pants, where his fingers tremble with wavering restraint. “Can
I touch you?” he asks, hand twitching where it rests, and Harry almost comes
right fucking there.
“Yes, yes, yes, please,” he whimpers, mouth flooded with a sudden rush of
saliva as Louis pushes his hand under his waistband, biting his shoulder so
fiercely that Harry cries out. He wraps his fingers around Harry’s cock, grip
firm but gentle as he feels him out.
“Fuck, Harry, oh, my god,” he whispers, teeth grit against his skin. Then,
“You’re so fucking big. And so wet, god,” as he slides his fingers over the
leaking tip, spreading his precum around, making everything slippery, and Harry
arches his back up off the carpet, legs spasming. “So hot.”
“God,” Harry breathes, wincing at the sudden chill as Louis tugs his pants down
over his cock, exposing him. He can’t do anything about it, though, because he
forgets his surroundings entirely the instant Louis takes him fully in hand,
wrapping his fingers around his length experimentally. He jacks him off slowly,
lazily, self-indulgently, like he doesn’t care if Harry comes or not because
all he wants is the slide of his foreskin under his palm, Harry’s skin hot and
sticky. It doesn’t even matter, though, because Harry is going to come so fast
anyway, he already feels so fucking close even with Louis’s loose, aimless
grip. “Fuck, Louis,” he murmurs, thrusting up messily into his hand. “S’good,
so good.”
“Yeah?” Louis asks in a breathy voice, hardly more than a scrape. “I want you
to feel good. Want to make you feel good. Think about it all the time,” he
admits, and Harry curses in response, hips stuttering to an awkward stop in the
air to keep himself from finishing too soon, mind a haze of overheated static.
He touches Louis to distract himself, smooths a hand down his arm so he can
feel the flex and flicker of muscle in his forearm as he pulls on his cock.
“You’ve thought about touching my prick?” he breathes, swallowing thickly.
Louis’s laugh sounds more like a bark, just a sharp huff of air against Harry’s
neck. “Fuck. Yes, so much, s’that okay?”
“Yes,” Harry groans, reaching for Louis’s thigh, palming mindlessly over the
hard line of muscle. He wants to bite it, wants every inch of Louis under his
hands, between his teeth. Now that he knows he can have all of that, he only
feels hungrier for it, like there isn’t enough time in the world to dismantle
Louis in all the ways he craves. He whines, rubbing his face into Louis’s
shoulder and inhaling him. “Anything is okay, anything you want.”
Louis is tugging his cock properly now, long, deliberate strokes with perfect,
searing pressure, twisting his hand at the crown and squeezing at the base.
It’s almost too much, and Harry feels like he’s coming apart, his stomach
tightening up and his calves spasming as he gets closer. “I want to see you
come,” Louis says brokenly, through his teeth. “All over your stomach, wanna
touch it, want, fuck,” he breathes, voice syncopated with his own frantic jerks
of his hips against Harry’s body.
Harry can feel the thick, hot line of Louis’s cock against his thigh,, but it’s
not enough; he wants to be skin to skin, he wants to touch, taste. “Lemme see
you,” he begs, snapping the waistband of Louis’s joggers against his hip. “Your
prick, I want to see, just—” His voice stops as Louis lets go of him, cursing
and and clumsily wiggling out of his joggers, cock bobbing heavy against his
stomach. Harry can’t see much in the half-dark, but he can tell Louis is
gorgeous, smaller than him but thick and uncut, curved prettily toward one
side, and Harry’s mouth waters, filling up as he stares. “Oh, my god,” he
breathes, whiting out as Louis grips him again, jacking him once, twice, three
devastating times before he comes so hard he bites his own lip, shooting off
between their bodies.
“Harry, fuck,” Louis murmurs, voice sounding very far away, soft and hazy
through the blood pounding in Harry’s ears. He comes down slowly, hips still
jerking, cock twitching while Louis touches him lightly, eyes wide and
fascinated as he stares at the mess of come on Harry’s belly, as he pushes his
fingers through it and smears it all over his shrinking length. “You’re so
fit,” he murmurs, gathering come on his fingers and dabbing it onto the wet tip
of his own cock experimentally, gasping like it feels good to have Harry on
him. “Absolutely unbelievable.”
Harry uses what little strength he has left in his body to shimmy across the
carpet on his side, not even thinking, mind a white haze of want until Louis’s
cock is level with his face, until he can’t smell anything but musk and sweat
and sleep and Louis. Louis is holding his cock loosely, offering it to Harry,
and he can’t wait any fucking longer. He wraps his fingers around Louis, their
hands sticky and twined around his length as Harry hungrily takes Louis in his
mouth, moaning around the burning heat of him, drooling at the salty-bitter
taste, and fuck, it’s the best thing that’s ever happened to him, the most
wonderful, consummate ache as his jaw stretches to accommodate the thickness.
Louis cries out, hands tightening in Harry’s hair as he thrusts shallowly,
stomach muscles shuddering under Harry’s spread palm. “Hazza, Haz, oh, my god,”
he whimpers, hooking his leg around Harry’s body and digging his heel into his
lower back. Harry’s never done this before, but he knows from porn that he’s
supposed to bob his head. He can’t really move with Louis trapping him like
this, though, and he loves the restriction of it too much to change anything,
so he just uses his tongue, lapping at the underside, flicking desperately as
he tries to breathe, the air coming out in harsh exhalations from his nose. His
vision is sparking with static, and if he goes any deeper, he’s gonna choke; he
kind of wants to, actually, but in that moment, Louis pulls him up by his hair,
his cock popping messily out of Harry’s mouth in a mess of thick, frothy spit
as he comes.
Harry jacks him off through it, letting the first pulse of come land hot on his
cheek before bending his head to catch the rest of it, lips loose and suckling
around the smooth tip of Louis’s cock as he finishes. He swallows without
thinking, and even though it sort of stings on the way down and makes his
tongue feel fizzy and numb as he pulls off, he’s so thrilled to have Louis
inside him, burning in his stomach. He rolls onto his back, panting, and Louis
rolls on top of him, burying his face in his neck, inhaling raggedly, before
asking, “If I’m still asleep, don’t wake me up. Just. Gimme this.”
“You’re not asleep,” Harry murmurs, stunned by the hoarse, fucked-out sound
that’s his voice. “I woke you up. After you said you were in love with your
best friend. And, like…I really hope you meant me. And not Stan.”
Louis cackles breathlessly against Harry’s neck, and it tickles so badly that
Harry has to squirm away, yelping. “I’m serious!” he says, giggling. “Did you
just cheat on Stan with me?”
“Oh, my god, no, it’s you, it’s always been you,” Louis says fondly, flopping
onto his back, but keeping his leg thrown over Harry’s side, the weight of it
solid and persistent, and Harry…Harry feels like his heart is going to explode
straight out of his ribcage, take off like an entire flock of birds. He’s so
elated, chest pounding under the weight of Louis’s hand. “I crawl into your
fucking bed every night, Harry. I’m surprised I didn’t confess in me sleep
earlier, frankly. Was so worried I was going to,” he admits, thumbing over
Harry’s sternum, digging his nails in a little, like he wants to keep him here.
Harry shakes his head, stunned as he stares at Louis, his sparkling eyes, his
wide, easy smile flashing in the night. “I didn’t know. I thought…I came out to
you, and you congratulated me. I thought you didn’t want me like that.”
“Hazza,” Louis says gently, settling even closer to Harry and rubbing his torso
and stomach, all the way down to his thighs with soft, awed strokes, breath
shuddering out of him like just touching Harry, idly and aimlessly like this,
is enough to make his breath catch. “I’ve wanted you like that since the moment
I first saw you wearing that dumb scarf during auditions. There hasn’t been a
single second we’ve been friends where I haven’t wanted you like that. Just so
you know,” he says in a hush, face hidden in Harry’s neck so he can’t see his
expression, though Harry can feel the blush that heats up his cheeks.
It’s such a deluge of information, such stark, bleeding candor, and Harry’s
stomach clenches violently around the thrill of it, aching with how incredible,
how overwhelming it feels to hear everything he’s ever wanted in Louis’s voice.
Involuntary tears prickle in the corners of his eyes as he processes it. “Oh,”
Harry eventually admits in a shaky voice, turning his head to bury his face in
Louis’s silky hair and inhaling, his stomach still knotted up in astonishment.
Louis props himself up on his elbow and bends over Harry, kissing his cheek,
his bitten shoulder, the hollows under his clavicles. “Is that…does that scare
you?” He asks then, lips soft and hesitant for a moment as he hovers against
Harry’s skin.
“No,” Harry whispers quickly, tucking his arm around Louis’s side and squeezing
him reassuringly. “Not at all, not even a little bit. It makes me so, so happy.
It’s just…I thought I was so obvious. ‘Bout what I wanted, and you didn’t say
anything, you moved rooms, you let me wonder if you were straight.”
Louis laughs, the vibration of it reverberating against Harry’s ribcage. “First
off, did you really wonder if I was straight? Of course, I’m not straight,
Harold. Come on.”
“You didn’t say anything!” Harry reminds him, squirming when Louis razes his
teeth over his Adam’s apple, skin still so oversensitive and electric. As the
orgasm adrenaline dissipates, the rest of the world materializes around them
again, and Harry remembers that he’s lying on a dirty carpet with come drying
all over his belly, that the door is partially open. He doesn’t even care,
though, just shivers and cuddles closer to Louis, wanting his heat, his skin.
Everything. “What was I supposed to think, when I told you, and you weren’t,
like, ‘yeah, me, too’?”
“I didn’t know what to say!” Louis explains, lips brushing up to the corner of
Harry’s mouth, his eyelashes soft and ticklish on his cheek. Everything feels
magical, every small seemingly insignificant place they’re touching. “Like…I
wanted to tell you, but I was literally getting in your bed every night, and I
thought you might freak out. I thought if you knew for sure I was gay, you’d
know for sure why it was always you, figure out why I couldn’t stay away. And
then when you came out to me…it seemed even worse, like, if you knew we both
were into boys, it would be a thing. Everything felt, like…I dunno, fragile. I
just didn’t want to make things weird,” Louis admits, interrupting himself by
shaking his head and kissing Harry bruisingly before mouthing down to the
flicker of his pulse, sucking over a sore spot he already made. Harry's vision
whites out, and he shivers, just holding on to Louis, along for the ride,
willing to take whatever he has to give. “Sorry,” Louis whispers sheepishly as
he pulls away, dragging his palms up Harry’s chest in rough, mauling strokes.
“I don’t know how to stop touching you now that I can, like, I actually can’t
stop.”
Harry luxuriates in it, flexing his toes against the carpet and sighing. “Don’t
ever stop,” he mumbles, stroking Louis’s cheek, watching it hollow out
beautifully as Louis ducks down and affixes his mouth to Harry’s left nipple,
sucking hard enough that it aches. It hurts so fucking good, and Harry loves
it; he wants to be covered in Louis, marked indelibly for him. “I love you,” he
confesses, writhing and arching up into the sharp, insistent heat of Louis’s
mouth. Louis groans as he says it, face crumpling in overwhelm. “Loved you
getting in bed with me every night, loved babying you while you fell back
asleep, loved every second of it. Just. Want it every night. Love you.”
Louis kisses up his chest fiercely, wet and rough before he cups Harry’s face
between his palms and licks his lips apart, fucks his mouth open with his
tongue, whining high and reflexive in his throat like he can’t get enough of
the way he tastes. Harry makes fists in his hair, falling apart a little as
Louis pulls back enough to hiss, “It drives me absolutely mad to hear you say
that, I’ve been…I’ve dreamt of it, Harry. So many times.”
“Love you,” Harry murmurs to him, because he means it, but also because he
wants to drive Louis absolutely mad, wants to see his eyes go black and hot as
he says it.
“I love you, too,” Louis says, thumbing over Harry’s lips, which are still
tingly and half-numb from his come, from so many bites and kisses. Harry chases
Louis’s fingers, wants them in his mouth, wants to suck on whatever part of
Louis he can get down his throat. His cock is thickening up again, his skin hot
and so overstimulated it’s stinging against the carpet as Louis grinds him down
into it.
“Can you…can we get into bed?” he asks, rolling his head back and nodding
toward the door. “And lock that?”
It takes Louis a few seconds to look away from Harry’s lips, but he manages,
flicking his gaze to the door, eyes wide. “Did we shag with the door open?” he
gasps, horrified like he just realized it. Harry barks a laugh; Louis is so
absurd and so animated and so gorgeous with his hair all mussed up, and Harry
loves him, loves him so fiercely he feels like he’s going to split, the force
too huge to contain in his body.
“Yes,” Harry giggles, rubbing his hands up Louis’s sides, feeling drunk on the
perfect heat of his skin, the dewy sweat gathering along his spine. “In your
defense, you were half-asleep when we started.”
They fall into the trap of kissing again, rolling around on the floor with
their legs twined messily and their hands everywhere, desperate huffing breath,
and Harry is about to forget all about the cracked door again until they hear
the floorboards creaking somewhere in the house, and they freeze, eyes locked.
Louis finally disentangles from Harry’s mess of limbs and creeps over to latch
the door properly before helping Harry to his feet. Then they’re both
stumbling, off balance with euphoria. “God, you’re so fit, I can hardly…,”
Louis mumbles, eyes raking over Harry so unabashedly, and Harry’s stomach
plummets. He should feel ridiculous; there’s come crusted below his navel, and
he’s hard again, dizzy with the hungry way Louis is looking at him, but even in
spite of all that, he feels sexy, coveted, possessed.
“You are,” he mumbles, letting Louis steer him to the bed and put him down in
it on his back, spread him out to stare at. “Do you know what it was like for
me, when you’d come into my bed and fucking cuddle me? And not know what you
were doing? It was terrible. I almost did illegal things, probably,” Harry
mumbles, reaching for Louis and spreading his hands on either side of his neck,
tugging at the collar of his shirt, annoyed with it. “Off, please,” he says.
Louis grins cheekily and sits back on his heels to tug his shirt over his head,
body so cut and lovely in the night as he exposes it, toned biceps and the
softest, most delectable padding at his belly. Harry wants to bite it, wants to
wank over it, wants to paint Louis in ribbons of white. He feels frantic again
with how much he wants, how desperately he needs every little thing from Louis,
how he could spend the rest of his life doing this, and it still wouldn’t be
enough. “Would you get hard? When I got in your bed, would you have to hide it
from me?” Louis asks, razing his nails lightly down Harry’s ribs, gasping when
he squirms, nodding. “How naughty and improper, Harold.”
“Yes, of course, you’re fit as fuck, and you’d crawl all over me, and I’m
fucking in love with you,” Harry grinds out, arching his back and pushing his
hips up into Louis’s, letting him feel how hard he is again, already.
“Fuck, you’re so big,” Louis whines, making a pained face and shifting down
Harry’s thighs so he can palm over his cock, lip dimpling bloodlessly beneath
the sharp pressure of his teeth. Harry whimpers, craning his neck up off the
pillow to watch Louis touch him, his elegant, narrow hand cupping the weight of
his cock. “So gorgeous,” Louis breathes, almost to himself, the most
devastating thing, and Harry loses his mind a little.
“You can suck it, if you want,” he says, thrusting up into the heat of Louis’s
hand. “If you want,” he repeats, suddenly nervous because Louis is just so
silent, staring at his hand on Harry’s cock like it’s something holy.
Then his gaze flicks up to catch Harry’s, eyes burning, face absolutely wrecked
with the unmistakable lines of hunger. It makes Harry’s blood ignite, stomach
dropping so fiercely he makes a sharp, sudden noise.
Louis is kissing him then, wet and graceless and grateful, words snagging out
between desperate drags of his mouth. “Of course, I want to, I want to so bad,
v’wanted that forever. I know I wanted you to get proper rest, but fuck, Harry,
m’not gonna let you sleep. Not all night,” he tells him, getting his hand on
his cock again, their breaths catching simultaneously at the searing, electric
burn of skin against skin. “You’ll let me suck you off?”
“I’ll let you do whatever you want,” Harry tells him, voice a low, burnt-sugar
scrape in his throat, sweet and rough and fucked-out. It doesn’t even sound
like him, and as he dissolves into labored panting, Louis kissing his way down
his sternum, he feels foolish for ever thinking this was one-sided.
Harry melts away in the molten slick of Louis’s mouth, head thrown back, and he
doesn’t care if either of them ever sleep again.
—-
It’s sometime around dawn when Harry finally nods off, head nestled against
Louis’s chest, just above the thud of his heart. His whole body aches, legs
tight and cramped from coming so hard so many times (he’s wasted lazy summer
afternoons in marathon wanking session like any other teenager, but it’s
different with Louis, Louis who’s so scorchingly hot it’s impossible not to get
hard for him, even when he’s certain there’s nothing left in his body to come,
even when he’s delirious), and his lips are swollen and stinging they’re so
chapped and worked over, but he’s honestly never felt so perfectly content in
his entire life. Louis is warm and comfortable, and he keeps drifting off to
sleep and then starting awake again, checking to see if Harry’s still there,
pushing his hands affectionately through his curls when he realizes he is,
smiling so hard his eyes crinkle up, pressing soft, lingering kisses to Harry’s
face, telling him love you so much, love sleeping with you, love waking up with
you.
They’re snoring side by side for less than an hour when Niall barrels in the
room to wake them up for rehearsal, cannonballing into the bed between their
bodies.
Harry feels like he’s having a heart attack, confused and sore all over and
cold, suddenly, because the covers are gone, and so is Louis, and Niall’s toes
are like fucking ice cubes against his very naked thigh. “Where the fuck are
your clothes, Harry?” Niall asks, looking around the room as if seeing the
clothes in question will explain why Harry is sleeping nude in Louis’s bed.
“Oi,” Louis groans, shoving Niall none too gently before collapsing back onto
Harry, rubbing his face all over his shoulder, and Harry supposes that’s how
they’re going to go, no excuses or hiding or pretending this is anything other
than it is. Louis kisses his cheek right in front of Niall, like it’s nothing,
and Harry is so fucking happy he forgets for a minute that he’s naked and
marked up, and Niall just stares at them both.
“Oh, so you guys are…oh, wow, okay. Yeah. Can’t say I’m surprised,” Niall says,
shrugging and nodding for a moment.
Harry shrugs sheepishly, and Niall shrugs back before his eyes fall on
something incriminating, and he’s suddenly cackling, dissolving into guffaws,
holding his stomach while he sways around the bed, still wedged between Harry
and Louis, like he doesn’t even care the room still smells like sex and sweat.
“What on earth is so funny, Niall, it’s too early for this,” Louis murmurs,
collapsing against Harry and grimacing, hand limp in the air as he gestures
weakly.
“Just that… Harry has a huge love bite on his chest! That’s some kinky shit,
man, aren’t those supposed to go on the neck? Louis, you’re a shitty vampire,”
he wheezes, tumbling off the bed.
“Heyyy,” Harry murmurs, rubbing absently at the love bite in question, loving
the nervy ache of it. “He’s a perfect vampire.”
“Thank you, Harold,” Louis says, smiling up at Harry so softly, so radiantly,
hair everywhere.
Niall snorts from the floor. “I’ll let you two get your clothes back on. Meet
downstairs for breakfast, we head out in a half-hour,” he announces, crawling
out of the room on all fours, still giggling. “And, like…congratulations, I
wanna hear all the sappy details, don’t forget. I’ll let you tell the other
lads, won’t spoil the surprise.”
He shuts the door behind him, and Louis lets out a dramatic sigh once he’s
gone, the hiss of air against Harry’s side tickling in the sweetest way.
“Well, good morning, I guess,” he mumbles. “I’ve had better wakeup calls, to be
honest. No offense to Niall.”
“So, Niall knows,” Harry says, still kind of stunned and giddy that Louis
didn’t do anything to hide it. They hadn’t talked about what they were going to
do in the house, how they were going to tell the other lads, if they were going
to tell the other lads. “That’s cool.”
“Everyone’s gonna know,” Louis says before yawning, stretching his arms above
his head and smiling at Harry. “I can’t…I mean, I actually physically don’t
think I can keep my hands off you. I was so good for so long, exerted such
incredible, impressive, outstanding self-control. I deserve an award,” he says,
grinning cheekily, and Harry really, truly feels like he’s going to explode,
he’s so in love. “If that’s okay with you,” Louis adds, nudging his knee
against Harry’s thigh, peering up at him from beneath his mussed fringe.
“It’s more than okay, I love that. I want everyone to know, too. That you’re
mine,” Harry murmurs, carding his fingers through Louis’s hair, thinking that
he might not ever get out of his bed again. It feels too perfect, Louis is too
warm and smells too good, and all Harry wants is to spend the entire day
telling Louis about every moment of denial or withheld affection or confusion
or longing he felt since they met. He wants to spend a whole day confessing
between long, heated snogging sessions.
“I’m yours,” Louis tells him quietly. “So yours. You can quit getting weird and
jealous when I sit in Aiden’s lap.”
Harry gasps. “I thought you couldn’t tell! I thought I was being so stealthy,”
he groans, rolling into Louis and burrowing into his shoulder.
“Your smile just melts off when you’re jealous, you pout like a cartoon
character, it’s adorable,” Louis teases him, hands all over his back, pulling
him close by the jut of his shoulder blades. “You’re so embarrassing.”
“I couldn’t have been that embarrassing because you didn’t even know I liked
you,” Harry mumbles, pressing messy kisses into the lovely hollow beneath
Louis’s collarbone, marveling at the golden stretch of his skin, so smooth and
peppered in the lightest freckles, which he can only see when he’s up this
close. “Can’t believe you couldn’t tell. I told you to sleep with me. I told
you to move in with me.”
Louis crushes Harry in a fierce hug, compressing his lungs so he’s struggling
to breathe right. “I know, I know…god, I wanted to think that was why, but…I
dunno. You’re so sweet to everyone, so genuine and so fucking cheeky and
flirty, I couldn’t tell. Thought maybe you were just being, like, an amazing
mate.”
“A weird and lovely mate?” Harry grinds out, wheezing so Louis lets up the
pressure of his hug, just a little.
He looks down at Harry, face softening. “The weirdest and loveliest.”
Niall bangs in the room again, grinning enormously, making Harry and Louis
spring apart, hearts thundering. “God, I was waiting outside for you two to
finish being cute and disgusting so I could remind you that we need to leave,
but it just…kept going on and on, I’m actually impressed,” he says, munching on
a bowl of muesli. “Really, though, you can’t go to rehearsal naked, so, you
should probably forcibly separate yourselves long enough to get some jeans on.
Just a suggestion. From a friend.”
“Thank you, Niall,” Louis sighs, flopping onto the bed dramatically, arms
draped over Harry’s chest. “Wish we could ditch. I’m absolutely exhausted. No
sleep.” He and Harry share a private glance, twinkling and electric, and there
are bags under Louis’s eyes, but he’s still glowing. It’s a different type of
exhaustion etched into his features, a far cry from the beaten down, worn-out
lines he gets from sleepwalking.
Harry pitches forward and kisses the dark circles under Louis’s eyes, one by
one. He’s gonna erase them. He’s gonna smooth all his darkness into
nonexistence, he knows it
—-
Zayn says he’s jealous, and Liam might have a minor emotional breakdown
worrying about the future of the band, but aside from those initial and
dramatic responses, they take it pretty well. By the end of the day, they’re
all joking about it again, and Liam is at least pretending to not be anxious
about what it might mean that two members of One Direction are not only gay but
gay together. Or, it’s possible Harry is just so high on sleep deprivation and
the thrill of all his dreams coming true that he just can’t care, can’t worry
about any of that. Not when he has Louis wrapping his arms around him from
behind every few seconds, smelling his hair, kissing down his neck, calling him
love and babe like it’s the easiest fucking thing in the world to transition
from being best mates to boyfriends. He’s absolutely beside himself, and the
sky could fall right now, and he probably wouldn’t even notice.
That night, they properly retire together, which is somehow entirely different
than just sharing a bed.
Louis gets in first, curled up in the sheets wearing Harry’s hoodie and plaid
PJs because he insists they’re his size (they aren’t; they’re too tight over
his bum, but Harry’s not at all complaining about the cling, plus he’s going to
get them off in a few minutes anyway, so it’s not like it matters). He holds
his arms out for Harry, grinning devilishly at him, lashes a perfect half-moon
sweep against the lovely cut of his cheekbone. Harry catapults in next to him,
making him yelp a little at the force of his attack. Then he kisses those
lashes, that cheekbone, and Louis gets quiet and flushed under the pressure of
his lips.
“Can’t believe I make you do that,” Harry whispers, smiling so hard his cheeks
ache.
Louis pets him, winds a finger in one of his curls and tugs gently. “Do what?”
“Get all pink,” Harry explains, brushing his knuckles across the heat of
Louis’s blush.
Louis’s eyes get wide, and he swats Harry away playfully. “I am not pink. Your
eyes are broken,” he tells him before rolling over and kissing him deeply, lips
soft and sweet even as he shoves Harry into the mattress, pins him with his
hips.
Harry shudders, dissolving into a mess of sighs and greedy palms under Louis.
Even though he spent all night doing this, even though he’s nearly delirious
with exhaustion, he still feels like he hasn’t had enough. Like he could do
this forever, every day until he’s dead, just snog Louis Tomlinson until he
forgets his own name, until the whole world turns to dust and ash around them.
Louis pulls back just enough to fit words between their lips. “If I don’t stop
soon, m’never gonna sleep. And we should really sleep,” he whispers, before
flicking his tongue out and tracing the seam of Harry’s lips, which is
certainly not what Harry would call stopping soon.
“Do we really need to sleep, though?” Harry mumbles, even though he knows
they’re both running on nothing but fumes and adrenaline at this point. His
chest is aching in exhaustion, and their next performance is drawing ever
nearer, but in spite of all that, he really does want to sleep with Louis, he
wants to wake up and snuggle closer and kiss the back of his neck instead of
just wistfully fantasizing about it. He threads his hands into the back of
Louis’s hair, stomach flipping over at how ridiculously silky it is. Everything
about Louis is unreal, breathtaking, and somehow he’s Harry’s. Wants him back,
looks down at him with disbelief and wonder and awe flooding his pupils, the
same disbelief and wonder and awe that’s making Harry feel so infinite.
“We do because Liam’s gonna be absolutely insufferable tomorrow if he thinks
we’re being irresponsible together,” Louis reminds him in an exaggerated Liam
voice before ducking down to kiss the corner of Harry's mouth. He flicks his
fringe out of his eyes before rolling onto his side, yawning. “Do you think
I’ll sleepwalk tonight anyway? Just get up and take a trip around the room
before I realize you’re right there?”
“No,” Harry answers with certainty, curling his arm around Louis’s side and
pulling him close, nuzzling into his bicep. “You’re going to stay here and hold
me all night. You’re not gonna go anywhere at all.”
“I don’t know,” Louis muses, even though he’s smiling complacently. “There’s
not really any pattern to it; I’m not smart in me sleep or anything. I mean, I
do all sorts of weird shit, so who knows, maybe I’ll go get in bed with Liam,
get confused, and play with his far inferior, stupidly flat-ironed curls
instead,” he teases, getting a fistful of Harry’s hair and smoothing it over
his brow lovingly as if to prove a point.
“Heeeey,” Harry says, pouting. “There is so a pattern, you said so yourself,
that you do it when stressed. Or, like, nervous. Homesick,” he explains,
pushing a hand under Louis’s hoodie and spreading it over his smooth chest,
pleased to feel how much of him he covers, how easy it is to splay over the
thud of his heartbeat and keep it there, like he’s holding the most important
part of him in, safe. “Do you feel homesick when I’m here?” he asks then,
digging his fingers gently into Louis’s pectoral, touching the thunder of his
pulse.
Louis swallows. “No,” he says after a moment, voice reedy and stuck in his
throat. He reaches for Harry’s hand, covering it with his own. “You feel like
home.”
“See?” Harry says, smiling a pleased smile before kissing Louis’s cheek. And
once he kisses his cheek, he has to kiss his mouth; he can’t help it, he wants
his breath, his taste. Their lips brush together, and Harry doesn’t want just
that, either, he wants to drown. He licks his way into Louis’s mouth, and they
both groan, teetering on a precipice, wavering like a flame, and soon they’ll
incinerate, so before Harry catches fire, he finds the breath to say, “You’re
gonna sleep. You won’t want to leave, I promise.”
And even after they’ve kissed for so long that their mouths are hot and slick
and swollen, even after Harry’s tugged his too-tight PJ pants over Louis’s hips
and licked down the cut of his obliques, even after they’ve both come, even
after Harry’s fallen asleep under the weight of Louis’s arm, Louis stays. And
Harry won’t know until the morning, but he’s right.
—-
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