Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/530101.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Rape/Non-Con, Underage
  Category:
      M/M, Multi
  Fandom:
      Teen_Wolf_(TV)
  Relationship:
      Derek_Hale/Stiles_Stilinski, Peter_Hale/Stiles_Stilinski, Derek_Hale/
      Peter_Hale/Stiles_Stilinski
  Additional Tags:
      Canon-Typical_Violence, Blood, Knotting, Self-Lubrication, Alternate
      Universe_-_Canon_Divergence, Dubious_Consent, Emotional_Manipulation,
      Mutiny, Rimming, Mild_Language, Slut_Shaming
  Collections:
      Procreation_Celebration
  Stats:
      Published: 2012-10-06 Words: 4290
****** As Long As We're Going Down ******
by night_reveals
Summary
     When Peter touches Derek after popping out of the grave, he steals
     the mantle of Alpha out from under his nephew. Months later the Alpha
     Pack comes to Beacon Hills, and Stiles sacrifices himself to keep the
     people he loves safe -- until he can't anymore.
Notes
     Written for eternalsojourn's pregnancy fest; it has neither children
     nor pregnancy. I think I'm doing it wrong.
     Many thanks to ChristyCorr for beta'ing.
     The dubcon is between Derek and Stiles. The noncon is between Peter
     and Stiles; it does not include sexual violence. If the content notes
     on this story set off warnings in your head, please don't proceed. To
     request more information before reading, or to find out how I label
     stories, see here. Fair warning: this fic is a patch-up job, and I'm
     not completely sure I haven't created a frankenstory.

Stiles can feel himself changing.
It starts small. Sitting in chemistry class with Mr. Harris glaring down at
him, Stiles notices that his vision is blurry. So blurry that the board looks
like someone used watercolors instead of chalk. Stiles blinks, but it only gets
worse. A piece of dirt must be in his contact. He takes it out, and immediately
his vision betters. When he slips the second out, he can see a small thread
sticking out of the shirt of a boy all the way across the room.
Stiles inhales, quiet, sharp.

~

The Alphas are sniffing around the school. They've been running rabid through
Beacon Hills for weeks, only Peter’s tenuous promises and threats stopping them
from going with instinct. Still they lurk, waiting for one of the humans in the
Pack to be vulnerable enough that their instinct finally overrides whatever
weak agreement Peter came to with them.
When Stiles walks out of the building, he feels their eyes on him like fists to
his heart, painful. The panic should be dulled by now, but it's not, it never
is, and Stiles hates that his terror has driven him into the arms of something
he never otherwise would have embraced.
In the parking lot, a black Camaro waits for Stiles, purring over the asphalt.
It follows Stiles' Jeep home, a shadowy smudge in the rear-view mirror.

~

get home alright? reads Scott's text, the same text Stiles has received every
day for too long.
His window is already opening, Derek climbing through and planting his feet
onto Stiles' floor with no invitation.
yeah, im cool man, Stiles sends back as he's being scented and scratched and
licked.
“They want you,” Derek says as he strips Stiles of his jeans. “They want to
take and turn you.”
“Well, they can't.” Stiles’ mouth twists in danger and annoyance. Derek is
going to rip another one of his shirts, he can feel it. "Hold up."
“If you yell,” whispers Derek against Stiles' ear, his breath coming over
Stiles' face hot and wet, “they'll hear you.”
“Think I don’t know that? They’re always there, creepier than you ever were,
which is an accomplishment, let me tell you.”
“They should be leaving you alone by now. Why aren’t they leaving you alone
yet?” Derek pulls Stiles jeans hard and the button rips, zipper straining under
his hand.
“Wait, Derek, calm down,” tries Stiles, but his jeans are already a mangled
mess on the floor, his sheets taut and Derek clutching him tightly.
“They can't take you if you belong to us,” pants Derek, his hands wrapped
around Stiles' front, forcing him face-first into the bed. “Let him. Let him
give you the bite.”
Stiles whole body shivers under Derek. If he -- if he lets Peter do as he’d
wanted last year, he’d be able to fight. He wouldn’t need protection, and this
thing between Derek and him might untwist itself in Stiles’ chest, become
purer, something Stiles could discover himself in.
Then the moon would come, and he’d be forced to acknowledge he was no longer
human.
“No,” replies Stiles shakily, a mere shadow of the refusal it had once been.
“Then – ” says Derek, sentence unfinished.
“It's fine, mark me inside, do it.”
Even though this has been going on for weeks and weeks, Derek is still clumsy
behind him, too quick or too slow by turns, painfully real and earnest. He
slicks Stiles up and it's both a chore and a gift, both something cursory and
something to be savored, his fingers hitting Stiles' sweet spot like they were
meant to live there, and Stiles wants to scream at him, make up your mind.
But Stiles isn't in the position to make demands.
Inside of him, Derek is unforgiving, thick and stretching, a burning presence
that Stiles tries to breath around and through, his voice catching in sobs as
Derek fucks him.
Stiles is jacking himself off when he moans, “Derek,” and comes all over the
sheets.
“You smell,” pants Derek against his neck, his teeth (beta teeth, harmless
teeth) gnawing at Stiles, “You smell different today.”
Stiles has the sense of mind to say “fuck you”, but then he's being pounded
into the bed, screaming into his pillow as he takes Derek's knot, stretching
until it's painful and all-encompassing, until he's pressing his secret tears
into a pillow and ignoring the gentle rasp of stubble over his back.
“Stiles,” comes Derek's voice halfway through the knotting, shattered and deep,
his lips grazing Stiles' ear. “Stiles.”
Thankful. Stiles is thankful, because if it weren't Derek, it would be – him,
Peter, laughing, not-quite-alive Peter who would claim Stiles as Pack.
The moment that Derek pulls back is always painful, Stiles sore and
overwhelmed, his body clenching up over phantom sensations, shivering like
Stiles has a fever that needs to be sweated out.
Today, Derek inhales deeply after he's eased away.
Stiles feels – he feels something, wet, not only Derek's spunk between his
legs, something more –
“No,” whispers Derek. “No, no, no – ”

~

It takes a day for Peter to scent him out.

~

Stiles is leaking, leaking like a girl from there, his boxers unable to contain
it, his jeans soaked after a few hours of wear. When Derek is around it's
actual torture, because all Stiles can think about is Derek's knot, fat,
filling him up, a hurt for Stiles' ache.
Derek hasn't left his side since they noticed the change, but it doesn't
matter. A meeting has been called for a few hours from now, and they have no
choice but to respond to Peter's summons. Before they go, Derek scents at
Stiles' neck, brow creased with worry. If Derek didn't have werewolf super-
healing, he'd have premature wrinkles for sure.
“You smell,” he says, urgent, his hand gripping Stiles' hip.
“Dude, you know I'm only taking showers at home now. This is my eau de
lacrosse.”
“That's not what I mean, and you know it,” replies Derek, snapping, his hand
sliding into Stiles' boxers. He slips a finger down Stiles' crack, which is wet
with something more than sweat. Stiles grits his teeth and leans forward,
resting his forehead on Derek's shoulder, feeling his cock rise.
“What's happening? What's happening to me?” In the room, his voice is broken
and ashy.
“We have to cover up your scent,” is all Derek says as he undresses Stiles,
pulling layers off, somehow not breaking or tearing anything. At Derek's
leather-pine-skin scent, Stiles goes woozy, his head filling with a constant
refrain of want until he's throwing himself on the bed ass up, slutty as he
touches his forehead to the bed and breathes shallowly.
They don't need lube. Stiles is just open, his hole wet and hungry and
accommodating. Halfway through Derek flips Stiles, bending him in half and
hitting it slow, mouthing over Stiles' pulse until Stiles knows there'll be a
hickey there, even though they have a rule for that.
For the first time, Stiles doesn't care. This isn't like yesterday, or the day
before that, or the week before that. It's not the same kind of lust that
Stiles normally feels. It's a drive, an imperative that would freak him out
more if he could think past his ass being pounded just right.
“Good bitch,” mutters Derek thickly into Stiles' hairline before tugging Stiles
up to sit on his lap. It's a new position for them, too personal and intimate
for what they are, but Stiles is only a body of easily broken bones and pale
skin for Derek to move around. His legs spread whorish-wide around Derek's
front, and his breaths stutter against Derek's cheek, till Derek bites at
Stiles' lower lip.
Minutes later, Stiles processes what Derek said.
“'m not,” a bitch he tries to say, but then Derek is fucking up into him
perfectly and all Stiles can get out is a moan.
At the end Derek knots him. It's messy and stings, but it’s a puzzle piece
being slotted into Stiles' incomplete body. They are too close together when it
happens, their noses brushing, their lips separated by the tiniest particles of
nothing.
“Take it, take it,” urges Derek, eyes glazed, littering soft kisses over Stiles
face. The sweet edge is wholly unlike him in every way, and Stiles finally
comes between their stomachs. Derek gentles him through it, rubbing a hand over
Stiles' thigh, rocking their bodies together.
“You're going to be mine.” Awe hides in Derek’s harsh voice, tucked under his
coarse tone.
“You're acting weird,” forces out Stiles. He blinks heavily, head resting on
Derek's shoulder as the last tremors of his orgasm rocket through him.
Derek hushes him, hand at Stiles' scalp, fingers kneading there.
“What's happening to me?” Stiles asks again, his lashes too heavy for his eyes,
his face plastered against Derek's front and Derek's seed leaking out from
between his thighs. “Tell me.”
Derek breathes in-and-out slowly, as if that will disguise his nerves from
Stiles, whose ear is right at Derek's swift heart.
“I'm not sure,” confesses Derek eventually, his hand coming back up to Stiles'
head, holding him close. “But I think – “ he stops.
“What?” asks Stiles, and it's the bravest thing he's ever done, asking what's
happening when his body is changing but he's not becoming one of them, he's
becoming something different. Not a lizard-man, or a wolf, or a normal human.
“You could give me children.”

~

When they arrive at the Hale house, Stiles is hoarse from shouting at Derek in
the Camaro and Derek refuses to look up from the ground. Alone in all the ways
that count, Stiles shudders the moment that Peter's gaze locks onto him.
There are a few curt words about the Alphas, orders to not piss anyone off, to
stay inside Hale territory -- as if any of these newly cowed betas would dare
go outside it.
Only twenty minutes later, Stiles is leaking through his boxers, shifting
awkwardly in the living room as Peter sends everyone away except for Derek. And
Stiles.
“Oh,” says Peter in a reverent hush, his clawed hand gripping Stiles' face.
“You must have known, somewhere deep inside you, why you never let us turn
you.”
Across the room Derek is silent, watchful, his bulk useless against Peter's
canny edges and sharp eyes.
When Stiles yanks his face away from Peter's hand, a claw catches his chin,
opening its skin up to the air, blood spurting down Stiles' neck. It hurts,
stinging until suddenly it doesn't, the gush of red stopping. Stiles raises a
hand to his newly healed face, his eyes wide, lashes long in the low light of a
creeping sunset.
“I thought it was a tale,” says Peter, almost to himself. “You should be
impossible...”
From the corner Derek steps forward, shoes heavy on the rotting floor.
“Dear nephew, how long have you tried to hide this from me? Not long, I should
think. He smells sweet, ripe. We're lucky he wasn't sent to school like this,
all ready for the taking.”
“I'm not letting anyone do anything,” spits out Stiles, rubbing at the drying,
itching blood at his neck. “I'm not take-out. You can't just pick me up from
the restaurant and carry me home.”
The lazy backhanded swat that Peter delivers knocks Stiles off his feet,
splaying him over the floorboards. By the time Stiles coughs out the gathering
blood in his mouth, the wound where his teeth slashed the inside of his cheek
is healed.
The constant growl in the background edges up, Derek making the shadows around
him seem bigger, darker.
With a roll of his eyes, Peter turns to walk away and acquiesces, “Go, go to
your damsel. Then bring him upstairs.”
Derek rushes to Stiles' side, helping him up with a possessive hand at Stiles'
hip and back, his eyes blazing blue as he checks Stiles over for injuries.
“Leave me alone,” says Stiles, shrugging his shoulders shakily.
“We have to – “ starts Derek, words a rushing river, threatening to drown
Stiles in need and fear.
“You think I don't know that?” Stiles' breath catches in his lungs, as trapped
as he is. Why does he have to be the strong one, now? Why can't Derek be strong
for them both, for once?
Stiles shakes his head, trying to clear it.
The Alphas have a list. They need betas they can throw away, later, and the
first thing they do in any town they swarm on is turn a few useful humans.
Humans that belong to another pack are even better, a sweeter prize. They're
never going to taste Stilinkski flesh, though, no matter how they prowl outside
his house and the police station. Peter makes sure he and his family are safe.
Stiles won’t be the one to break that bargain.
“Let's just get this over with,” says Stiles as he drags his feet up the
stairs, slick pouring down his thighs when he walks, evidence of his uninvited
hunger.

~

The room they enter is sparse, oak bed at the wall and simple curtains
shielding the charred husk of the interior from the dying sun.
“What has Derek told you about what you are?” Peter asks from across the room
where he's folding his jacket and shirt. Stubbornly, Stiles doesn't look at
Peter's naked chest, choosing instead to look two inches above Peter’s
shoulder. “Or has my brilliant beta kept you in the dark?”
“Not much,” admits Stiles, his mouth dry. “Something about my becoming Pack
changing me – something about children.” The low-grade urgency he has felt
since he realized what would happen flares to life when Peter drops his slacks
and boxers, revealing his blood-hard cock, yearning out into the open air.
Stiles wants that.
“Children?” Peter shakes his head dismissively. “Almost certainly not. You may
get wet like a woman, but you aren't actually a woman. Surely we don't need an
anatomy lesson today.”
The rush of relief that comes over Stiles is immediate. No children. God.
Stiles licks his dry, cracked lips. “You're right. We don't. So let's skip
this.”
Peter laughs. “And when you go to school tomorrow, or go home today, where your
father will be waiting. How will you explain that slick between your legs? You
could bring changes of clothes to school, perhaps, or down to dinner. But it'd
only last a few hours. I'm not sure my betas would be able to help themselves,
you putting out the stench of sweet, fuckable bitch around. Even Scott might
not be able to hold back.”
At once Derek makes himself known, shifting heavily in the corner and his nails
ripping at the wallpaper. It’s a useless gesture that Stiles wishes he’d stop.
Peter laughs again, not even sparing a glance at his nephew's fit. “Derek
couldn't help himself, after all.” The room seems to get smaller when Peter
takes a step forward, towards where Stiles is still dressed.
“I'll deal,” says Stiles, gritting it out.
“No,” corrects Peter lazily, flicking his claws out and staring down at them.
“You need me. It's said that some humans can change in proximity to our kind,
given the right encouragement. I never expected it to be true, but it explains
why the Alpha Pack won't leave you be. You need an alpha to put your body back
to sleep.” He takes a deep breath. “And frankly, Stiles, you smell good enough
to devour.”
Stiles crosses his arms over his chest when Peter is a foot away, too close,
their eyes locked together.
“Say yes,” says Peter with a coaxing smile. “Say yes to me, and you'll smell
human, like you're supposed to. You won't have the Alphas come to your house
some night. They won't kill your father and anyone else there in a frenzy. They
won't all mount you, one after the other.” Then, gently, when Stiles doesn't
respond, “I'm trying to help you.”
Stiles wants to say no. He wants to stride to the window, break it with his
fist, clutch a shard, and drive it through Peter’s heart. That’s what Stiles
wants, never mind that the changes he’s newly noticing, but that he can’t
control. Whatever Peter is trying to paint this as, Stiles knows the truth. He
knows how few choices he really has.
Stiles grabs his own shirt and tugs it off, glaring at Peter even as his
nipples pebble in the cool air. Peter can take his “yes” and shove it.
Peter's grin spreads over his face like a new wound, flashing red and white.
Under Stiles' hands, the sheets on the bed are soft, better quality than
anything he or Derek have ever rolled around on. Peter is kissing softly down
his back, rubbing hands over Stiles' thighs, parting them as he pushes Stiles'
head into the covers. It leaves Stiles with his legs wide and the side of his
face on the bed, ass up invitingly. The slick edging out of him cools as the
air in the room touches it, Peter holding open Stiles' ass and watching Stiles
twitch.
“Don't just stare at it – ” Stiles' voice turns to a choked groan when Peter
tongues at him, running his greedy face up and down Stiles' cleft, licking at
the slick there. “Oh, oh fuck.” Stiles can't stop the noises bursting out from
him, moans and gasps and low entreaties for Peter to go deeper please please.
Rimming isn’t something Stiles has a lot of experience with; Derek has done him
a few times, but for the first few minutes it’s always awkward, ticklish. This
is neither of those. Stiles’ body is already aching for Peter, hips trembling
with every lick and tiny nibble at the surrounding skin, and Stiles hates Peter
for it, though it’s his own body that’s betrayed him.
“You can come,” says Peter kindly when he pulls away for a second. At the next
pass of his tongue, Stiles complies obediently, a high, pained whine in his
throat. Peter doesn't stop, nipping at Stiles' ass in between long minutes of
coring and opening Stiles with his tongue and the occasional thumb, seeming
gleeful about the whole thing. At first all Stiles can do is shiver, but he's
seventeen and soon enough he's moaning again, biting his lip ineffectually.
When Peter suddenly stops, sitting up and cocking his head to the side, Stiles
takes the chance to bury his head into the pillow in front of him and breathe.
“They're home,” says Peter, growl underwriting the words.
“I'll get rid of them,” comes a bruised voice from the corner. Derek. Fuck,
Derek.
Peter taps a finger against Stiles' hole. “No. No, we can keep Stiles quiet, I
think. Why don't you come over here? Give him something for his mouth.” There's
no answer, and Stiles can't hear Derek moving towards the bed. “Derek,” says
Peter, a little sharper.
Derek's footfalls are heavy, his jeans hitting the floor before the bed dips as
he climbs on right in front of Stiles.
“There we are.” Peter pats Stiles' back, where Stiles is still bent over.
Instead of waiting for him, Derek puts his hands at Stiles' shoulders and yanks
him up, Stiles flailing, somehow getting his hands underneath him before
Derek's cock almost smacks him in the face, rosy and half-hard.
At Stiles’ back, Peter forces his way in and Stiles’ mouth opens in a small
circle of pleasure, angry moan dragging its way out of his chest.
“Derek,” repeats Peter with less patience, his hand curling around Stiles’ neck
and pulling his head back by it, putting Stiles’ mouth at a better angle to
take a face-fucking. “Take his mouth.”
From his position with his back curved and his mouth gasping, Stiles can look
up to Derek’s face, his furrowed brow and flared nostrils, his lips held in a
little snarl. He sticks a thumb into Stiles’ mouth, working his mouth open
further. Derek's skin is salty, like sweat and dust, but it tastes real. He
wedges his thumb further into the back of Stiles’ mouth, placing it to the side
on a molar, ensuring that Stiles’ jaw holds open.
A low blue flame kindles in Derek’s eyes, violence simmering below the surface,
and Stiles wonders who it’s for. Fuck Derek, anyway, for not being courageous
enough to fight Peter when Stiles first suggested it so many months ago.
Stiles bites, hard.
The skin on Derek’s thumb gives way, but there’s not much flesh to go through
before Stiles is stopped by a joint and his own weakness. Werewolves can snap
steel in half with just the clench of their jaws, but Stiles is a mere human,
and his gnawing must be more puppy-like than anything else.
It still hurts Derek, if his creased forehead and pained grimace are any judge.
Uncaring, Stiles glares up and refuses to let Derek’s thumb go. The tang of
blood eventually hits his taste buds, disgusting for all it is sweet, and
Stiles feels his body try to retch up. He fights it, clamping down on Derek’s
thumb, his own stomach, his trembling, and his hope.
That’s when he feels it, Derek’s skin growing back in the tiny areas where
Stiles’ teeth shredded it, the trickle of blood coming to a stop. It grows
around the ends of Stiles’ teeth, the sensation almost imperceptible until
Stiles runs his tongue over it, feeling the ridges of soft, new skin contrasted
with his enamel.
Shocked, Stiles’ anger empties out onto the sheets, leaving behind only cold.
The whole room comes back into focus suddenly, Stiles painfully aware of Peter
at his back, pounding in and panting over him, obviously having given up on
getting Derek to fuck Stiles’ mouth.
Tentative, Stiles tries to lift his teeth out of Derek’s thumb, the skin
seeming to suck at his enamel as Derek stares down at him with an open, fanged
mouth. Finally Stiles pulls free, flicking over the new skin with his tongue -
- and it’s still there, the imprint of his teeth, the tiny ridges like
mountains.
Derek isn’t healing.
Stiles runs his tongue over the wound -- now a scar, as if years have passed -
- but it doesn’t change.
A vague sense of relief tremors through Stiles when Peter comes inside him,
groaning with his head pressed to Stiles’ shoulder, his arms wrapped around
Stiles’ uneasy body.
Derek doesn’t tug his thumb out until Peter slides away from Stiles’ body,
obviously not wanting to bother with knotting him. It’s a good decision. Stiles
would make it hell for him.
The half-closed curtain lets in enough light for Stiles to see Derek’s wet
thumb, spit-coated and glistening, the scar rendered invisible in the glinting
rays.
They get up from the bed, Derek tucking himself awkwardly into his jeans.
“See you next month,” is all Peter says, a sweet, decaying exhalation of words
against Stiles' forehead, candy in a grave.

~

They drive home in silence. Peter’s seed leaks out of Stiles, the scent of it
filling the car, stifling them both even though the wide sky opens before the
road that they follow.
“Coward.” Stiles is looking forward as he hisses the word out between his
teeth, finally giving voice to what he’s suspected for months.
On the other side of the Camaro, Derek’s hands tighten on the wheel, his jaw
following, the muscle at his neck spasming. He doesn’t fight the accusation.
They walk together up to Stiles’ room, ignoring the stares of the few members
of the Alpha Pack ringing the territory, red eyes peeking out from behind
bushes and fences. For once Derek doesn’t bother to claim Stiles’ hand or torso
in front of them, letting Stiles walk freely in his own yard.
At the doorway to Stiles’ room, Derek lingers, his eyes on the ground and his
hand at the door frame.
“Come here,” commands Stiles from his bed, his leg tucked into his body and his
eyes hollowed.
Derek does, jerkingly, as if Stiles is reeling him in with a barb inside his
mouth. He sits next to Stiles heavily.
“Children?” asks Stiles, the word a knife in his hands, cutting at Derek as
deeply as Stiles knows how.
“It is -- it is possible, no matter what my uncle said.” Derek turns to fix
Stiles with a look. “And I was first. I was first. If you bear, you will bear
from my line.”
“You’re insane,” replies Stiles, his breath coming in short bursts.
“You’re sitting next to a werewolf."
“A coward, you mean,” corrects Stiles, lips pulled back in his best sneer. It
pales next to the one he gets in return, but Stiles is used to those, expects
them at this point. “You won’t fight, even when you know you should.”
“No,” grits out Derek, fists clenched. “No, I'm not.”
“Prove it.” Stiles throws the challenge between them for what must be the tenth
time. “We can take him. Him and the Alphas. I’m getting stronger. I can feel
it.”
"If we lose, you're dead. I'm dead. Your father is dead. Probably more."
"And you call what we're doing right now 'living'?" Stiles grabs Derek's hand,
flipping it over and placing a nail at the fresh scar on Derek's thumb, rubbing
over it. "How long will this last, if we don't act?"
A lone howl interrupts their conversation, the voice drifting in from outside
the window. It’s an outsider, one of the invading alphas, and it grates on
Stiles’ eardrums in a way it never has before he started changing. Across the
bed, Derek goes still, freezing to listen closely to the cadence and tremor of
whoever is issuing a decree. When the howl ends, he blinks and cants his head
closer to Stiles.
"Fine," he says. "Fine."


Please drop_by_the_archive_and_comment to let the author know if you enjoyed
their work!
ettled the
flowers into their new home, just a little pleased with the fact that Zayn had
even bought them. They must’ve been expensive.
Zayn’s arms wrapped around him then, just as he pressed a small kiss just under
Louis’ ear, his nose nuzzling into the locks of Louis’ unwashed hair.
“You smell nice,” he whispered, his voice low and warm.
“Really?” Louis attempted to laugh, his skin heating up and his cheeks, no
doubt, flushing embarrassingly. “Because I haven’t showered yet, so I probably
smell terrible.”
“You smell like you,” Zayn returned, and Louis could feel his fingers brushing
against the skin just above his sweatpants, where the edge of his shirt was
resting. He couldn’t help but lean into Zayn’s hold as he closed his eyes,
letting the warmth of Zayn practically envelope him. How Louis wished he would
do just that, how he wished Zayn would just –
“I wanna make you feel good tonight,” Zayn muttered suddenly, his lips
caressing the space of Louis’ neck that remained visible. “Can I do that? Can I
make you feel good, Lou?”
A soft sigh left Louis’ lips, something he couldn’t have controlled, and he
blinked his eyes open, feeling his heartbeat speed up anxiously.
“I…” He began, but Zayn gently bit down on the skin of Louis’ ear, rendering
him speechless.
“What?” Zayn murmured so low that Louis could feel the tone of his voice in his
fingertips, goosebumps forming along his arms. “What is it?” He asked, sounding
more worried than turned on.
Louis swiveled around in Zayn’s arms, his hand coming up to run through his
boyfriend’s hair. For some reason, it soothed him. He tried to remain strong,
tried to keep up his usual façade of being able to handle anything, but with
Zayn this close, and with him wanting him so openly, Louis was pretty sure he
couldn’t hide this side of him.
“I’m just,” he said quietly, “embarrassed.”
“Embarrassed?” Zayn furrowed his eyebrows, tilting Louis’ chin upwards to meet
his eyes. “What do you have to be embarrassed about?”
Louis shrugged, shaking his head. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to have sex
with Zayn, that was definitely not it, it was just that he was sure Zayn would
finally get a good look at him, and he wouldn’t want him anymore.
Getting Zayn off without going through all of the motions was one thing, it was
safe and Louis didn’t feel exposed. He felt relatively in control when they
were alone in the backseat of his car, or on either of their beds in their
rooms. But when Zayn was implying this, to actually go all the way, Louis could
feel the nervousness beneath his skin.
“Lou,” Zayn gently traced his fingers along Louis’ cheekbone, then his jawline,
and Zayn leaned forward, resting their foreheads together. “Whatever you’re
ashamed of, I’m sure it’s nothing,” he smiled reassuringly, pecking Louis’
lips. “But if you don’t want to, you know, do this, then that’s fine. We don’t
have to.”
“No,” Louis leaned away, shaking his head again, his eyes finally meeting
Zayn’s. “No, I – I want to. That’s not the problem,” he sighed, “I just – I’m
afraid you won’t want… me.”
For a second, Louis could feel Zayn’s burning gaze on his face, and even though
he couldn’t tell what he was thinking, he knew Zayn was about to say something.
Was about to try to reassure him that he’d want him no matter what. And Louis
tried to not snap at him, because he knew that that’s just what good boyfriends
do, they kiss you and they leave you breathless and they make you feel wanted,
but Zayn didn’t seem to understand that it wasn’t something he could fix.
Zayn’s fingers trailed down to twine with Louis’, both of their hands warm
against each other, and Louis knew he was falling for it, he was getting sucked
into this welcoming, comfortable envelope that Zayn was pulling him in.
“Louis, I will always want you,” he whispered, tone low and meaningful,
“Alright?” He said hopefully and Louis couldn’t help but mumble a soft, wistful
‘alright’.
“C’mere,” Louis returned in a stronger tone, pulling his and Zayn’s intertwined
hands behind his back where he settled Zayn’s hand around his waist, then
placed his own around Zayn’s neck, pulling him in for a kiss.
The noises between them reverberated around the kitchen as they kissed, the
small, appreciative moans and the light gasps as they pulled back for air when
they were desperate for it. Louis could feel the wetness of Zayn’s tongue
against his own as they molded their mouths together, his hips lifting up to
match Zayn’s. He wanted more. Fuck, he needed more of him.
Before he could even think of stopping himself, he was leaning back against the
counter of his kitchen, pulling Zayn on him and kissing him harshly.
“Lou,” Zayn growled under his breath, and then managed to grip his hands under
Louis’ thighs, lifting him onto the marble counter. Louis let out a small
squeal, but then Zayn was kissing him again, and Louis couldn’t think of much
else.
“Y’alright?” Zayn asked shyly, slipping his fingers underneath the waistband of
Louis’ jeans, his lips making a trail of stinging warmth along Louis’ neck.
Louis nodded with a sigh, becoming more sure of himself as the time passed. He
wanted Zayn, he wanted him inside of him, he wanted to make him whine and moan
and make every sound he could imagine; he wanted to hear it all flow from
Zayn’s lips.
Zayn slipped in between Louis’ legs somehow — no idea how that happened — and
Louis could feel how hard he was, just from this, and he wanted to touch him,
wanted Zayn to touch him back, he wanted this so bad.
With a strength that Louis didn’t even know Zayn had, Zayn lifted Louis from
the counter and tightened his hands on his thighs, holding him up. Louis gasped
into Zayn’s lips, which made Zayn laugh just before he began kissing him again,
and then Zayn was carrying him toward Louis’ bedroom. Ungracefully, they fell
onto each other on top of the mattress, small giggles and breaths leaving their
lips before being trapped between their mouths once more.
Louis found his hand, entangled in Zayn’s hair, and dragged it down to the fly
of Zayn’s trousers, his fingers nimbly palming against him and making Zayn let
out quick, shallow breaths on his neck.
Before long, Louis could feel Zayn’s hips slightly rocking into his hand, their
lips moving on each other’s skin and meeting briefly together at their mouths.
He couldn’t comprehend what was happening beyond Zayn’s hands, beyond the
heated feeling of Zayn all over him, wanting him and kissing him and moaning
softly into his ear. Within seconds, both of their clothes are in piles on his
bedroom floor, his thighs loosely gripped around Zayn’s hips, and their mouths
moving together in a way that Louis could only describe as ‘hungry’.
Without Louis noticing, Zayn had dropped a packet of lube and a condom beside
the two of them, presumably from his jeans, and when Zayn pulled away to tear
open the packet, Louis felt nervousness bubble up inside of him again. His
stomach dropped and he could feel the blood blooming in his cheeks as he
watched Zayn’s deft fingers.
“Okay?” He heard Zayn whisper before he nodded, surely, and then his fingers
were inside of him, spreading him open.
The movements of Zayn’s hands and body were so gentle that Louis could only do
so much to hold back from taking over. At first, the feeling of Zayn’s fingers
made Louis squirm and feel so full that he had to figure out a breathing
pattern to keep still. As Zayn fingered him, though, their movements synced and
he began to writhe onto the sheets, one hand moving to grip his cock.
Swiftly, Zayn patted away Louis’ hand and got a tight hold on him, his tongue
licking up the underside of him to the head. Louis moaned, tossing his head
back, and clawed at the sheets beneath him.
Zayn pressed in a third finger and stretched Louis until he could hardly stand
it, his hand and mouth still working Louis’ cock, and Louis whimpered out
meagerly, “God, just fuck me already.”
With the assent to do so, Zayn removed his lips from Louis’ dick and chuckled
breathily, his nose pushed against the inside of Louis’ thigh.
“So pushy,” Zayn grinned up at him, pressing a soft kiss to Louis’ skin.
Louis took in a deep breath, about to heave a large, exasperated sigh, when
Zayn took away his fingers and left Louis feeling awkwardly empty. Instead,
with a strangled whine, he glared down at Zayn as he readjusted his position,
aligning himself with Louis. With a cautious pressure of Zayn’s hips, his cock
pushed into Louis and Zayn’s arms nearly buckled as he bracketed Louis’ head.
“Shit,” he mumbled, staring down at Louis with blown pupils. “A’right?”
Louis bit down on his lip, his hands clutching onto Zayn. It hurt, but it was
good. It was the kind of hurt that made Louis want more of it; he didn’t want
Zayn to stop just yet.
“You can move, I’m good,” Louis laughed, breathy and tight, and Zayn
reciprocated the chuckle.
“Maybe you are, but I think I need a minute,” he smiled nervously, his cheeks
reddening from embarrassment. After a moment, as he steadily took a deep
breath, Zayn easily pecked him on the lips before gingerly guiding his hips in
and out of Louis.
It lasted longer than Louis thought it would – longer than he thought Zayn
would be able to last (he always comes so easily when Louis’ got his mouth
around him) – but when Zayn stuttered out a low moan as his hips moved of their
own accord, Louis was still left without release. The carefulness of Zayn’s
movements hadn’t done a lot for him, though it’d felt good once he’d finally
set up a rhythm, and he was leaking a bit of pre-come from his swollen cock,
still trapped between their bodies.
Zayn wrapped a hand around Louis’ cock as he pulled out of him, pressing open-
mouthed kisses along his jaw and neck, and whispered his name like it was some
sort of prayer. Louis came with a small gasp, grabbing at Zayn’s matted, dark
hair with his hand, his come spilling over Zayn’s fingers and his stomach.
While Zayn threw the condom into the trash bin and stepped into Louis’
bathroom, Louis laid there in a haze, eyes drifting closed as the moonlight
drifted in through the blinds on his window. He managed a smirk as Zayn walked
back in with a flannel and swiped it carefully over Louis’ stomach, cleaning
the come from his skin before it had a chance to dry. Before throwing the
flannel to the floor and climbing into the bed with Louis so they could fall
asleep, Zayn kissed him once more, lingering and sweet, both of their lips red
and tingling.
 
—
 
The memories always come in bursts, bringing Louis to tears some nights when he
thinks about how things have gone to shit. He tries to force them away, but
they just keep coming back. He’s started to get tired of fighting it; he just
wants it to stop. He just wishes he could make everything stop.
Louis sits up, careful of the noise he’s making so he doesn’t disturb whatever
Zayn’s doing — hopefully sleeping — and goes to make himself a bowl of frosted
cornflakes. When he opens the fridge, there’s barely enough milk in the carton,
and he sighs, shaking his head.
The next thing he realizes he’s doing, Louis grabs his jacket and wallet, slips
on his shoes, and makes sure to bring his key as he leaves the apartment.
Just as he turns around, he runs into someone who yelps a low ‘sorry!’ just as
Louis’ glasses fall off of his face and onto the floor.
Louis groans, kneeling down to reach for them, and when his fingertips skim
over the plastic rim, the spark and warmth of someone else’s fingers stumble
over his own.
“Sorry,” the person says again, and grasps Louis’ glasses before he has a
chance to. He holds them out to him, both of them still kneeling close to the
floor of the hallway.
Once Louis can see the other person clearly, he finds himself frozen. He’s
never seen him before. And, Jesus Christ, he’s one of the most beautiful
creatures he’s ever seen.
“No, erm,” Louis clears his throat, straightening up as the man does the same.
“It’s fine. I should really watch where I’m going.”
The man grins, plump, pink lips spreading wide over gorgeous white teeth,
dimples prominent on his blushing cheeks.
“Nah, that was my fault,” he says, rearranging the satchel on his shoulder.
“Um, you’re my neighbor, then?” The man nods toward Louis’ flat, and Louis
stutters.
“Y-yeah, I s’pose so,” he attempts to laugh it off.
The man hums, still smiling, and holds out a large, tan hand.
“I’m Harry,” he introduces, “and you are?”
Louis reaches forward nervously and tries to ignore the blatant shaking in his
body. Who and what the hell is this boy?
“Uh, Louis,” he mutters, giving Harry a small smile, peeking over the top of
his glasses. “I live here with my boyfriend, Zayn,” he nods back at the door,
“but he, erm, works a lot, so you might not see much of him.”
Harry nods happily, looking just pleased with having met someone new, and then
turns to his door.
“Well, I’ll let you get on with whatever you were doing,” he chuckles, “sorry,
again. It’s nice to meet you, Louis.” He waves goodbye, his hand floppy and
excited like a toddler, and then closes his door, leaving Louis in the chilly
hallway feeling swept away and a bit lost.
 
—
 
It was a year or so after they’d moved in together, and Louis knew he couldn’t
continue only contributing to their rent by merely working small hours at the
grocery store down the street. He needed a proper job, a gig, to kickstart the
career he’d been dreaming of since he was a kid. So when he’d gotten the offer
to direct his own play at the local theatre, Louis jumped on it. It was like a
dream come true.
He was coming home from a late-night workshop that had been held in the
theatre. The bus ride was loud and the wheels squeaked so noisily that Louis
could hear them through the windows. He could swear that the man on the
opposite end of the bus was staring at him, but every time Louis looked his
way, the man was glaring out of his own window.
Louis’ stop came up within the next ten minutes, which he was glad for – he was
tired and cold, and he just wanted to get into bed and sleep – and he stepped
down the bus stairs to the pavement, splashing aimlessly in the puddle on the
side of the street. It’d been raining earlier, but had thankfully stopped once
nightfall came.
Tightening his coat around his torso, and readjusting his glasses, Louis began
heading down the block, towards his apartment building.
It was only a few paces down the pavement when Louis sensed a person behind
him. Figuring it was another person who had been dropped off by the bus, he
continued on without a glance back. He tried not to think much of it when the
footsteps got closer to him, but when another pair of feet began to walk
steadily behind him, his heartbeat began to pound faster.
He could see his building in front of him, and with a small sigh of relief, he
rounded the small set of stairs and reached into his coat pocket with shaking,
chilled fingers for his keys.
Without warning, a fist punched into his side, and he gasped, clutching onto
his stomach.
“Give us your money, faggot,” a man’s voice said, but Louis didn’t have time to
look up at the man before he’d pulled Louis back and held him in a headlock.
His arm tightened around Louis’ throat as he was lifted slightly from the
ground, his feet kicking under him restlessly, and another man, shrouded from
the darkness, stepped in front of him. The second man began rifling through
Louis’ pockets, even as mercilessly as Louis was fighting the hold.
With some wrestling around, Louis managed to knock his head down far enough to
bite down onto the man’s forearm, causing the man to release him and drop him
onto the ground.
“Fucking piece of shit bit me!” The man said disbelievingly as Louis coughed on
the pavement, struggling to upright himself. The second man, unsuccessful with
finding Louis’ wallet, slammed a hand into Louis’ cheek, barely missing his
nose but cracking the right lens of his glasses.
With his vision unfocused, Louis attempted to shove the second man away while
grasping the keys in his pocket. Just as the first man gripped onto the back of
Louis’ hair, he plunged the key into the lock and twisted it desperately. His
glasses fell from his face as the man pulled his head back, his knee knocking
into Louis’ kidneys, and he yelped helplessly before scrambling away from the
men and racing into the building.
The stairs were the quickest choice, he realized as soon as he came upon them,
even though he had no idea if the two men were going to follow him into the
complex or not. He raced up the steps, every floor become like a weight on his
shoulders as he slowed near the top, huffing and nearly coughing up blood, he
throat felt so raw.
He barely made it to his own door, fumbling to unlock the door and let himself
in. With a stumble, Louis sat on the carpeted floor of the space in front of
the door. He clutched at his side, feeling the pain from the guy’s kick
settling in, and he threw his head back against the wall.
“Lou?” He could hear Zayn call, but he was too busy trying not to let the
painful tears fall from his eyes to pay attention to where he was. He sounded
distressed.
“Louis, fuck, what happened?” And, without warning, Zayn was by Louis’ side,
looking at him like he was afraid to touch him, to see if he was really hurt.
“A couple of guys,” Louis sat up properly, sighing gruffly, “from the bus. They
jumped me,” he tried not to sound too unsurprised, but he figured this would
happen at some point. Coming home on his own in the inner city at night was
dangerous. Louis had just figured that people getting mugged only happened in
films.
Zayn reached forward, his touch so gentle against Louis’ cheek that Louis
leaned into it, even if he’d hesitated a bit.
“C’mon, let’s get you cleaned up,” Zayn muttered, the glimmer in his eyes sad
and filled with guilt. He slowly helped Louis ease himself up from the floor,
flinching only when Louis had gasped at the touch of Zayn’s fingers on his
back.
The way Zayn’s movements conducted themselves, his fingers soft and gentle
against Louis, and his words barely whispers, like he was afraid he’d break
Louis if he spoke too loudly, it made Louis’ heart ache with longing for the
old Zayn. His Zayn, the Zayn that would’ve done anything to protect him, though
Louis insisted that he didn’t need his protection. It was all too much like
when they were little kids, and the thought could’ve brought Louis to tears, if
it weren’t for the incessant ache in his lower back.
Zayn carefully washed the small amount of blood from Louis’ cheek, where the
skin had split along his cheekbone, and he brushed back Louis’ fringe, checking
for other head injuries – to which Louis pressed that he didn’t, he would’ve
felt it by now, but Zayn only fixed him with a stern look, causing him to sigh
roll his eyes.
“Your glasses,” he suddenly said, like he’d suddenly remembered Louis wore them
in the first place.
“Oh. Yeah. They fell off,” Louis pursed his lips, running his slightly shaking
fingers through his hair. “I’ll have to wear contacts for a few weeks, I guess,
until I get a new pair.”
They were quiet for a few seconds, thickness in the air settling around them,
until Zayn spoke.
“I –,” he started, his mouth opening and closing before properly forming words,
“I don’t want you riding the bus anymore.”
Louis furrowed his eyebrows at Zayn, “I have to.”
“Why?” Zayn asked, his voice taut with something that Louis couldn’t decipher.
“Because I have a job, Zayn, and I don’t have enough money to buy a bloody
car,” Louis groaned, slipping from the sink where he’d let Zayn lift him to
earlier.
Zayn merely followed Louis as he strutted out of the bathroom, and Louis didn’t
look back, but he could sense his eyes on him as he stood at their closet,
removing his shirt carefully and tossing it into the hamper. He heard Zayn
heave a large sigh, and Louis, annoyed, turned to glare at him. He wasn’t
entirely sure why he was so turned off by the fact that Zayn was trying to keep
him safe, but it made his stomach churn with anger nonetheless.
“I’m sorry,” Zayn whispered, then, and Louis’ eyebrows raised. “I know you’ve
wanted this job for a long time, and it’s important, I just…” He shook his
head, dropping his eyes to the floor, “I get worried. Especially now that this
has happened. And I don’t want you to get hurt.”
Swallowing his pride, Louis took a small step forward, holding out his small,
still slightly shaking hands. The effects of the night were taking more of a
toll on him than he would’ve thought. He was used to this. His whole childhood
were repeated instances of nights like this. Maybe it was because, for once in
his life, he had finally felt like he was leaving that part of his life behind,
and it was beginning to catch up again. But he wouldn’t dwell on that too much;
he couldn’t. It wasn’t worth it to worry.
Zayn shuffled forward, still hiding his gaze, and placed his own hands on the
shorter boy’s waist. With a tired sigh, Louis leaned forward to rest his head
on Zayn’s chest, but the steady beating of Zayn’s heart that used to keep him
so calm didn’t have the same effect.
 
—
 
The door creaks loudly when Louis gets back from the grocery, even though he
tries his best to quiet it. He balances the milk in the bow of one arm while he
closes the door, his keys perched between his lips, and then he drops them into
the key bowl, heaving a soft sigh.
The lady at check-out line was slow as hell, and then he was pretty sure the
bus had hit every red light on the way to his stop. It’d taken him a good
twenty minutes just to get milk for a bloody bowl of frosted flakes.
Just as Louis places the carton atop the counter, the bedroom door begins to
open, and Zayn blinks at Louis wearily, a small yawn leaving his lips.
“Thought you were asleep,” Louis mutters, pouring the frosted flakes into a
small green bowl.
“I was,” Zayn replies, but there’s no snap in his voice, no malicious intent or
hatred in his tone, and it makes Louis look up curiously. “You woke me up,” he
yawns again, stretching his slender, tattooed arms above his head.
Louis nods, glancing down at his bowl as he watches the milk slide out of the
carton, “Sorry.”
“S’okay,” he mumbles, slipping into a bar stool that at the front of their
island counter. “Didn’t mean to fall asleep in the first place.”
Placing the carton in the refrigerator, Louis takes a deep breath of the cool
air releasing itself from within the appliance to settle himself. He can see
the way Zayn’s pupils are dilated, now that he’s stepped into the kitchen, and
the thought of Zayn using in their bedroom makes Louis feel sick.
“D’you go out and get milk? Saw we were almost out,” Zayn blinks up at Louis as
he turns back and settles against the counter, his elbows resting up against
the countertop, back arched and feet tapping minutely.
“Yeah,” Louis nods again, shoveling a spoon of cereal into his mouth, “took
forever, though. Lady at the front made sure I had the correct change three
times, and insisted on me hearing about her granddaughter, who, might I add, is
in law school.” He raises his eyebrows enthusiastically, and Zayn laughs the
way he used to, the way that still makes a smile spread across Louis’ lips. The
confliction he feels afterwards is enough to make him stop eating, leaving him
to spin the spoon absently in the bowl.
A few seconds of silence pass, the only sound in the kitchen being Louis’ spoon
clanking against the glass of the bowl, and he can feel Zayn’s eyes on him,
making him wonder if it’s fear or butterflies he can feel in his stomach.
“Lou,” Zayn finally says, breaking the silence, “do you still love me?”
Louis’ movements stop, his hand freezing just above the bowl with a spoonful of
frosted flakes and dripping milk, and he trails his eyes up slowly, careful not
to connect them with Zayn’s gaze.
“Of course I do,” he says, his voice attempting, but failing, to show how
sincere he is – or is trying to be. “Why would you even ask something like
that?”
Before Louis looks up from the counter, Zayn’s moved from the bar stool to
Louis’ side of the kitchen, and he’s got a gentle hand on Louis’ waist, fingers
soft and warm, and even though it feels nice, Louis can’t help but tense up.
“Because I’m never sure anymore,” he mutters and moves Louis around, pinning
him to the counter softly with his own body up against him. Louis gasps
quietly, his eyes carefully moving up to meet Zayn’s, and he can feel his
heartbeat growing increasingly rapid.
When Zayn leans in to kiss him, Louis’ first instinct is to flinch and move
away.
“Lou…” He mutters, sounding a bit shocked, and Louis just shakes his head,
attempting to laugh it off.
“Sorry,” his voice utters, almost inaudible. Louis can feel Zayn’s hands on his
hips, moving up his shirt and skittering along his skin, heated and flushed.
Zayn kisses him again, longer than before, his lips molding around Louis’ and
making an uncomfortable shiver run through him. “I love you,” he says, and the
way he makes it flow from his mouth makes Louis feel tense and helpless,
gasping for breath.
“Zayn,” Louis forces out, pushing Zayn a fraction of an inch away, “I don’t –
Zayn,” he pleads, though his tone is raspy and he can’t get a proper sentence
out of his mouth.
It takes him a moment, but Zayn finally stops and turns his gaze toward Louis.
There’s something in his eyes; a flash of realization, and then he plops his
head onto Louis’ shoulder, letting his body fall a bit limp in Louis’ arms. He
knows he shouldn’t be kind to him. Louis knows he should teach him a lesson, he
should make him sleep on the kitchen floor, but he can’t. The heartbroken
throbbing he feels inside of chest is too much for him to leave him.
Zayn willingly lets Louis take him to their bed, and as he removes both of
their clothes completely besides their boxers, Zayn dopily kisses him goodnight
like nothing’s wrong.
Louis falls asleep to the sound of cars beeping outside of their window two
hours later, long after Zayn’s fallen asleep from post-coital drowsiness, and
he knows full well he’ll probably dream about things he’s continuously trying
to forget.
 
—
 
“Good morning!”
Louis looks up from his phone to see Harry, his new neighbor that lives
conveniently across the hall, smiling happily at him. At six in the morning.
“It is morning, yes,” Louis agrees. Not sure I’d say it’s a good one, though,
he silently thinks to himself. He locks his phone, then stuffs it into his back
pocket, blinking up at Harry wearily. “And why the hell are you so cheery this
morning?”
“Because I get to see your lovely face,” Harry teases, then begins to follow
Louis as he walks down the corridor. “Where’re you heading off to?”
Louis glances at Harry before pressing the button to call for the elevator.
“Rehearsal,” he murmurs.
“Rehearsal? Like, for a play?” Harry asks, more than a little chipper. Which is
not okay.
“Yes, exactly like a play.” Louis isn’t sure he wants to deal with people,
especially happy people, this morning, even if Harry is extraordinarily
charming.
The elevator dings and the doors slide open, revealing a shiny, metallic mirror
for the back wall. Louis steps in, running a hand through his matted hair,
after not having washed it since the night before. He can still feel the sweat
and tenseness in his bones from the night before.
“What are you doing, then? Shouldn’t a boy like you be sleeping in until two in
the afternoon instead of waking up at the arsecrack of dawn?”
Harry laughs, and it’s a lot more soothing to Louis’ heartache than he’s
willing to admit.
“’A boy like me’? What’s that supposed to mean?” He leans against the railing
along the back of the lift, perching himself on the wall. “I’m heading off to
band practice. The majority of the band has third-shift jobs, so it’s easier
for them if we just do it early in the morning, when they get off work.”
“Ah,” Louis nods, searching through his shoulder bag for his script when he
realizes he must’ve left it in the apartment, “shit.”
Harry’s eyebrows furrow as he leans forward, curious, “What?”
“I left my bloody script in my flat,” he sighs just as the doors open to the
lobby. Anxiously, he presses the button with a rubbed-off number five, then
sees Harry peering at him across the lift. “You can…leave, you know. You don’t
have to go back up with me, I’m sure your friends are waiting for you.”
With a light laugh, Harry shakes his head, “Nah, I’m a bit early. I don’t mind
going back up with you, if that’s alright.” And with a gleaming smile, there’s
no way Louis can insist on Harry leaving him be.
The lift takes them back up to the fifth floor, and once Louis’ got his key out
and unlocked the door to his flat, he turns to Harry, holding a solitary finger
up to his lips to signal being quiet. Harry nods, feigning seriousness, and
Louis tries to hide a smile as he pushes the door open, revealing his flat he
left just a few minutes ago.
“It looks exactly like mine,” Harry chuckles, “except everything’s on the
opposite side.”
Louis rolls his eyes, heading over to the open living room in search of his
script that’s bound in worn-out leather. He’s pretty sure he left it on the
side-table, but when he goes to look, nothing is there but an old magazine.
“Where the hell is it…?” He groans, scratching the back of his head.
“What’s it look like?” Harry asks, leaning against the kitchen counter.
“Erm, brown leather, looks like a notebook, has silver lettering on the front?”
Louis peeks under the coach cushions to no avail, “It should say ‘Close to the
Sun by Louis Tomlinson’ on the front.”
Harry glances up at Louis from where he was looking under a side table on the
opposite side of the sofa, “Are you telling me it’s your script?” Harry furrows
his eyebrows as he grins, “Like, you wrote it?”
Louis nods exasperatedly, “Yeah, I wrote it,” he looks up at Harry, meeting a
pair of wide, green eyes, and he can’t help the small grin that settles on his
lips. With a foolish attempt, he tries to wipe it away as he turns away, “and
I’d really appreciate it if you’d stop gawking and continued to help me find
it, because all of my notes from rehearsals thus far are in it.”
Harry smiles, big and bright, then begins to help Louis once again, though his
grin stays proudly on his lips.
They search under the sofa — Harry lifted it up as Louis got down onto his
knees and crawled beneath — and in the drawers of the kitchen, and they even
look behind the television set, though it’s not even remotely likely to be
there.
A half an hour passes and still no script, and Louis is all but about to give
up when Harry’s cell phone starts ringing.
“Hello?” Harry answers, “Hey, Nialler,” he crosses one arm over his chest,
sitting down on the arm of the sofa. “Yeah, sorry, I stopped to help a friend
find something he lost,” a moment passes, “Yes, I do actually have other
friends, you knob.” Harry rolls his eyes, “I’ll be there in, like, fifteen
minutes. A’right?” A sound of confirmation echoes from the other end and then
Harry says goodbye before hanging up.
“You didn’t have to help me,” Louis sighs, “Now I’ve made you late.”
Harry shrugs, “Niall’s usually late, anyways. Just so happened on the day that
I was, he wasn’t.” He smiles as he tucks his phone back into the tight back
pocket of his jeans, “‘Sides, I offered to help, so stop feeling so guilty.”
Louis purses his lips, looking at Harry and realizing that he’s probably far
too kind for his own good — he’d probably get mugged on the street, then
willingly give the robber his wallet and say something like “you need it more
than me” — and the small realization makes Louis grin despite himself, eyes
crinkling a bit at the corners.
The bedroom door opens, then, and Zayn blinks his dark brown eyes at Louis,
then Harry, looking extremely confused.
“Hello?” He says, eyebrows furrowed at Harry.
“Hello!” Harry returns, giving Zayn a little wave of his fingers, “You must be
Zayn.”
Nodding slowly, Zayn narrows his eyes, “Sorry, do I know you?”
“Oh!” Harry holds out his hand to Zayn, “I’m Harry, your new neighbor.” He
grins brightly, much to the opposite of Zayn’s expression that’s a mix of a
sneer and furrowed eyebrows.
“Nice to meet you,” Zayn says, though it’s slow and tired. He looks at Louis,
who gives Zayn a small smile, and then he clears his throat before glancing
around the living room and kitchen, seeing the mess they’ve unfortunately made.
“Were you… looking for something?” He asks, a bit more awake with wide eyes.
“Yeah, have you have seen my script?” Louis walks over to Zayn, who’s still
stood in the doorway of their bedroom.
“Oh, uh, yeah. I was reading a bit of it last night,” Zayn nods, heading back
into their room as Louis follows. Zayn crawls across the bed, his bottom
sticking up as he leans over the side. He sits back up, a leather-bound
notebook in his hand, and holds it out to Louis. “Here,” he gives Louis a
small, sheepish smile.
“Thanks,” Louis whispers, his fingers brushing over Zayn’s as he retrieves the
average-sized book from him.
Zayn nods, and the moment between them seems a bit still and serene. Louis
hasn’t felt as at ease as this in a couple of years, and he feels himself smile
back at Zayn willingly, feeling as though he could almost cry from the relief
in his body.
“I gotta go,” and for the first time in a long while, he feels a bit sad,
leaving Zayn. “I love you,” he says quietly, and Zayn looks as though he’s
about to burst into tears.
“Love you, too,” Zayn whispers, and then Louis knows he needs to leave right
then, or else he’ll probably start to cry as well, though he’s not entirely
sure why.
Louis turns away and leaves with the door open, grasping Harry’s arm and
pulling him out of the apartment in a rush.
“It was nice meeting you!” Harry yells just before the front door closes, and
then Louis and Harry are burrowing down the hall as quickly as Louis can drag
Harry behind him.
 
—
 
Rehearsal goes well, at least, in Louis’ opinion, and really, his opinion is
the only one that matters, as he’s the writer and director. His lead, played by
a woman named Andrea, could be a little more realistic when she’s reading
through her monologues, but they’re only on the third rehearsal, so he’ll give
her a break.
He decides that things may be changing for him. Things are looking a little
better, and if he continues to smile and, maybe, perhaps, become close friends
with Harry, it might bring Zayn back.
Louis can tell he’s still in there, somewhere. There are moments where Louis
sees the old Zayn peeking out from behind this Zayn’s shoulder, giving Louis a
warm, loving smile and a small wave of his hand.
He doesn’t run into Harry when he gets back to the flat, but that’s fine,
because he was hoping to get some alone time with Zayn, anyways. With a wide
grin, Louis excitedly opens the front door to their apartment, and he drops his
keys into the keybowl before removing his jacket and shoes.
“Babe?” He calls out, his smile still present as he walks into their bedroom,
sliding the scarf easily from his smooth, warm neck.
When he enters the room, though, there’s no one. And no one answers him when he
yells Zayn’s name. He looks in the living room, just a glance, and out on the
balcony, but he’s not there. Zayn’s left again, without leaving a note, or
calling and leaving a voicemail.
Louis tries to hold it in; tries to remind himself that he’ll be back, and
it’ll be fine, because Zayn loves him. He does. He even said it, just this
morning. Zayn will come home by midnight, and he’ll say he loves him and that
he’s sorry, and it’ll all be better. Louis’ positive of it.
 
—
 
Louis tries not to think about anything as he watches the television, eating
out of a pan (in which he cooked a healthy box of Kraft mac and cheese) with a
large wooden spoon, and letting himself be absorbed by the sofa that seems so
much bigger an ominous when he’s home alone.
It’s almost nine o’clock when Zayn gets back, which isn’t that bad, compared to
other nights when he gets home around three or four, and Louis can smell the
alcohol on him before he even steps through the threshold.
He doesn’t look at him. Louis’ not sure he could without screaming or crying or
even vomiting. This is what Zayn does to him. He pulls him in, gives him hope
he knows he shouldn’t have, and then crushes him without intentionally doing
anything.
“Look who’s heeeere!” Zayn says happily as he walks through their apartment,
gleaming at Louis. “Bet you missed me,” he laughs, falling into the seat next
to Louis.
Louis doesn’t answer, just stares at the marathon of The O.C. on the tv.
“What?” Zayn looks at Louis fiercely, “What did I do this time?”
“Nothing,” Louis sighs, aggravated, “that’s what. Go to bed. You’re drunk.”
“You’re angry because I’m drunk?” Zayn sighs, his tone more tired than angry.
Louis wants to keep it that way.
“No,” he finally looks up at him, “go to bed. I’ll be there in a minute.”
Zayn stands up from the sofa, giving Louis a mix of a sneer and a pout, eyes
narrowed but lips pouted out like a disobedient child. “You are angry,” he
murmurs lowly.
Louis sighs, growing tired of this and just wanting Zayn to go to bed, because
he really doesn’t want to deal with this, and he opens his mouth to say that,
fine, he is a bit angry, but it’s not entirely Zayn’s fault, it’s his own, too.
Before he can get an entire word out, though, Zayn huffs, rolling his eyes and
crossing his arms.
“You’re so fucking dramatic,” Zayn grumbles, “should’ve known, though, since
you’re a some kind of big-shot theatre director, now,” Zayn begins to turn
away, “Whatever, you have no right to be angry, Lou.”
“I have every fucking right to be angry!” He doesn’t mean to blow up, he really
doesn’t, but then Zayn is glaring at him and pushing him back down onto the
sofa and Louis really regrets saying anything at all.
“Then why don’t you leave, Lou? If this is so goddamn hard?” Zayn’s face is a
shade of tan with undertones of red, his blood pumping as his voice raises.
Louis doesn’t know how to answer. He loves Zayn, but that’s the only thing
keeping him there. He wants Zayn to love him, needs him to, because there’s no
one else. His mother doesn’t need a whiny son crawling back to her, pleading
for her help. And he’ll be damned if he gets to that level of despair. He’s got
nothing else, no one but Zayn, but Zayn doesn’t even want him.
He figures that if Zayn were with someone else, he wouldn’t do this. He
wouldn’t go out and come home smashed, he wouldn’t fight with his significant
other. This is Louis’ fault for not stopping him in the first place, for not
helping him when he noticed the signs.
“Because I can’t – I can’t just leave you,” Louis says through a dry sob.
“Fuck, Zayn, please.”
Louis tries to stand up again, tries to touch Zayn and remind him that it’s
okay, they’ll get through this, because that’s what he’s trying to tell
himself, but Zayn shoves him away, screaming an outright distraught “Don’t
touch me!” and then Louis’ on the floor, his hand pressed to his cheek as he
sits in shock.
“Lou,” Zayn says, his voice impossibly softer now, “Lou, shit, are you okay? I
didn’t mean to —”
“Get the fuck out,” Louis stutters out, feeling a small warmth trickle on his
fingertips. When he doesn’t hear Zayn move, he screams, “Get the fuck out,
Zayn!”
After a few seconds, Zayn’s footsteps slowly move away, and then the door opens
and closes, leaving a cold, eerie atmosphere to swallow Louis up.
He stands, slowly but surely, and even though he fears what he might see in the
mirror of his bathroom, he knows he’ll have to look at some point. What he sees
is less than what he thought, though.
Only a scratch below his eye, barely a centimeter, where the edge of the coffee
table hit, and a bruise already forming around his eye, a subtle but bright red
settling in under his tan skin.
He goes to bed after making sure both the door and windows are locked, and he
doesn’t bother to change out of his clothes, just lays down onto his mattress
and cries himself to sleep, figuring there’s no better way to keep away the
anxiousness that’s beginning to hook itself into him.
 
—
 
Harry stops Louis in the hallway the next day, and the touch that his fingers
make on Louis’ arm shock him, and he attempts to hide his face underneath his
fringe.
“Hey, you and Zayn wanna come over for dinner tonight?” He asks, and Louis
almost — almost, god damn it — says no, but when he sees Harry’s hopeful
expression, all of his willingness to decline is lost and he’s suddenly
agreeing to it.
“But I think Zayn may have to, um, work, so,” Louis says sheepishly, but Harry
tells him that that’s fine, more food for the two of them.
Zayn’s been gone since last night. Louis’ worried, though he knows he shouldn’t
be. He wonders if Zayn will actually come back, or if he’ll just move on,
pretend he’d never known a boy named Louis Tomlinson at all.
Louis finds himself in the corridor between their apartments at about six-
thirty, hesitating to knock on the door but knowing he needs to. He wants to
make friends. And he really likes Harry. Probably more than he should.
Zayn’s out. And Louis tries to be happy about it, to get rid of him, but he
can’t help but feel a bit lost without him.
After another second of gathering willpower, Louis knocks his knuckles against
the wood of Harry’s door, shuffling his feet awkwardly.
He hasn’t been to someone else’s home, a friend’s, in a long time. He wonders
if Harry’s apartment is cluttered or clean, what the air smells like and what
kind of atmosphere it gives off. He wonders if it’ll make him feel more at home
than his own apartment.
Harry opens the door, a bright smile on his face and bits of some kind of sauce
on his cheek, but he doesn’t seem to mind, the twat.
“Hey!” Harry says, looking so pleased to see Louis that Louis feels like he
wants to envelop himself in Harry’s arms. “Come on in, I’m just finishing the
chicken parm,” and the way he says it, so welcoming and natural, is almost the
breaker for Louis, nearly the last straw before he starts to break down, but
then he’s following Harry into his flat and forcing down the lump in his
throat. And if Harry, with the way he looked at Louis, is ignoring the bruise
and small cut, then Louis’ happy, because he’d rather not attempt to lie about
it.
Harry’s flat is normal, which is unexpected. The only things that stand out are
the boxes in the corner of his living room, which Louis guesses are the items
Harry hasn’t unpacked yet. The walls have a few pictures on them, ones of
people Louis doesn’t know but assumes Harry knows, and a small flat screen
television hangs in the midst of them, displaying some HBO show. Louis
should’ve known Harry likes HBO.
Harry’s in the kitchen when Louis finally looks over, and he’s wiping at his
brow with the back of his hand, some Parmesan cheese sticking to his skin. The
food smells delicious, and Louis thinks he can detect some kind of fruity
scent, which he thinks fits Harry pretty well.
“Make yourself at home,” Harry grins at him, “and you can change the channel,
if you want. I’m not really watching that.”
Instead of flipping through a million channels to find the right one, like
Louis knows he would if he were actually at home, he just picks up the remote
and turns it off, the screen going black. He slides into a chair at the island
counter of Harry’s half-kitchen-half-dining room and proceeds to watch Harry
place the two pieces of chicken onto a white plate, his fingers impossibly
gentle and graceful.
There’s a tossed salad on the dining table already, drizzled over with some
kind of brown and spiced dressing, two placemats, two glasses, two plates
equally as shiny and white as the one Harry had placed the chicken on, and one
bottle of red wine that looked more expensive than Louis’ whole outfit.
“Someone splurged for this,” Louis jeers as Harry washes his hands underneath
the kitchen faucet.
Harry chuckles, “I figured Zayn’d be coming, so it wouldn’t seem so…”
“Seem so what?” Louis watches Harry’s careful hands untie the apron from around
his waist, his shirt barely riding up against his stomach, but enough for Louis
to get a flash of pleasure running through him.
“Date-y,” Harry laughs, running his nervous fingers through his curls.
“Mm,” Louis agrees, leaning back in his seat, “Are you just saying that?” He
smirks playfully, “Were you secretly hoping Zayn wouldn’t come so you could
make a move on me, Styles?” Louis widens his eyes at Harry innocently, “Are you
attempting to seduce me, Harry?” He gasps, his palm coming up to cover his
mouth.
Harry just rolls his eyes, pushing at Louis’ shoulder gently, and then goes
back to whatever the hell he’s doing to the poor chicken he’s got slathered in
cheese and some sort of yellow sauce.
“You’re a right caveman, you are,” Louis laughs, “tossing that poor chicken
about like it’s some kind of toy.”
“Shush. This is how my mum always made it,” Harry tells him, “It’s her recipe.
I’ve never made it before, so you’re gonna be my guinea pig.”
“Oh, lovely,” Louis laughs, watching Harry walk over to the table and set the
white plate down in the middle of the arrangement.
“Don’t look so terrified,” Harry flashes a smile, “I’m an alright cook.”
Louis scoffs and Harry gives him a smirk, looking up at Louis through thick
eyelashes, and Louis thinks he can see something in his eyes, something that
makes a flicker of a feeling startle inside of him, but then it’s gone, and
they’re sitting across from each other at the table.
That’s how the rest of the night goes; playful and quiet and happy. It’s been a
while since Louis’ felt so good, and he’s thankful that he’s found someone who
knows how to make him smile like he used to.
He leaves with a sense of sadness that night, even before he closes the door.
Harry is standing in the doorway, smiling at Louis like he’s the best thing the
world’s ever seen, but Louis feels the weight of reality, beyond Harry’s flat,
crashing down on him.
“We should do this again.” Harry suggests, “Maybe Zayn’ll be able to make it
next time.”
“Yeah, maybe,” Louis tells him, and then they say goodnight and he’s back in
his flat, where all of the lights are off and no one seems to be home.
Of course, Louis’ not sure if it’s really his home anymore. Because he felt so
much better in Harry’s flat, someone else’s home, than his own. And he thinks
that may be a problem.
 
—
 
Zayn still isn’t home by the time Louis’ next rehearsal comes around.
Louis knows he shouldn’t be worried, he should be glad that Zayn’s gone. He
should be happy that his abusive, junkie boyfriend is out of his life, but he
isn’t. He misses him and he’s worried and the place next to him on their bed is
continuing to become colder every night Zayn isn’t there.
When Louis walks into the large studio, he can see only a few actors there,
crowded and giggling over something indistinct, and he sets his shoulder bag
into a seat, grasping his script in one hand. He glances around, recounting the
names in his head of each actor, making sure each of the ones who were supposed
to show up actually did. Satisfied with the attendance, Louis jumps up onto the
stage and claps his hands for the attention of each actor.
He tells them that they’ll be starting with the second act, as they have a lot
more problem-spots in several scenes in that act, and then they start as soon
as everyone is in their beginning places and Louis is settled into a chair in
the back of the studio.
The rehearsal goes well – as much as it can when it’s three weeks until the
show and Louis is stressed about a number of things, as well as the actors –
even though there are several mishaps and most of the actors forget at least
four of their lines. By the time they make it to the end of the act, Louis is
rubbing his eyes and pinching the bridge of his nose to ward off a headache. He
waits until all of his actors are on their way back to their homes before he
actually starts to pack his things into his satchel.
He’s about to leave when Liam, his set director, walks in and scares the living
shit out of him.
Louis is a millisecond away from turning off the lights, his back to the door,
when Liam speaks.
“Louis?”
With a yelp, Louis clutches at his chest, and then sees Liam’s face in the
mirror, his body relaxing.
“Jesus Christ, Liam,” Louis clears his throat, running a nervous hand through
his hair. “Learn to warn a guy.”
“Sorry,” Liam apologizes, stepping forward into the studio, “I just needed to
ask you a question about the set pieces?” Louis nods for Liam to go on. “Well,
since we’re low on staff, the larger pieces still have to be painted, and the
two smaller pieces are good to go, except we’re not sure we’ll have enough
running crew to get them on and off stage on time?” Liam purses his lips,
clearly unsure, and Louis tries not to show how absolutely tired of all of this
he is – how he wishes something would just go right for once. “So, I just
wanted to ask, if, maybe, you wanted me to schedule more dates for the crew to
get together to finish the set? And, um, is it possible for a part of the cast
to help out?”
Louis nods exaggeratedly, clutching onto the strap of his satchel tightly. He
feels like everything is about ready to overflow from his fingertips; from his
toes and knees and every orifice that he has on his body.
“Yeah, yes, I’ll text all of them if you’ll come up with dates that work for
your crew,” Louis fidgets, popping his knuckles impulsively, even though he’s
already popped them twice in the last five minutes.
“Okay, yeah,” Liam gives Louis a small smile, like he knows how stressful this
all must be for Louis, and he appreciates it, Louis really does, but all Louis
wants to do right now is go home and drink all of this away. “That works. I’ll
text you,” and then Liam is waving timidly and leaving Louis to the empty
studio.
“Have a good night, Liam,” Louis sighs, finally flipping the light switch,
ready to make his way back to his flat.
The bus ride back is quiet. It makes Louis twitchy, it makes him feel a need to
reach out and scratch something, to make anything feel the way he does.
Listening to the music that blares through tinny speakers is all he can do to
keep from yelling out in frustration.
He’s sure Zayn is still gone. He doesn’t know where he is, and that in itself
makes him feel a sickness in his stomach; a kind of worry that he’s only ever
felt once before when he’d lost his little sister, Lottie, in the middle of a
supermarket. He tries to not imagine him all alone, under a bridge or in some
abandoned warehouse, all on his own, drugged up and scared and, fuck, it makes
Louis feel like he should do something, but there’s absolutely nothing he can
do, and it’s driving him crazy.
And then there’s Harry. He’s been on Louis’ mind for the better half of a week.
His smile and his dimples and the way the hair by his cheeks curl around and
frame his face. Harry’s eyes, and the way they look at him like he’s the only
thing in Harry’s world, even though they only met a little more than two weeks
ago. His voice and his lips and his skin and hands and the way he smells. It’s
all embedded into Louis’ memory and he can’t get away from it.
Louis squeezes his eyes closed defiantly, grinding his teeth together, when the
bus stops, brakes screeching at him, and he realizes it’s his stop.
He sprints up the steps to the lift when he gets into the building, only to
then change his mind because he can’t stay still anymore, he has to get up to
his flat as fast he can, fuck the elevator and the thirty seconds he’d have to
wait to get into it, and then the extra two minutes it would take to stop on
the other floors, and fuck the creaks it’d make as it would slow to a stop on
his floor.
Louis just needs something to drink.
His hands shake as he fumbles for his key, jangling them and when he finally
gets the key into the lock, it won’t unlock the door. He knows this building is
faulty, but he’s still agitated and completely over everything, so he bangs on
the door, loudly groaning out a sad, surrendering sound.
After a moment, the door opens. Louis flinches, looking up from the horribly
outdated carpet, and his eyes meet with Harry’s.
Taking a glance around, he realizes that he’d been attempting to unlock Harry’s
apartment instead of his own.
“Fuck,” Louis nearly sobs, “I’m sorry, I thought I was trying to – I thought
this was my flat and I didn’t –,” he puts his face in his hands. “I’ve had the
worst day, I’m so sorry.”
Before he turns to his own flat, he looks up at Harry, who looks like he was
just about to get into the shower, with just his boxers on and a surprised, but
worried, look on his face. All of the anxiousness he’d been warding off on the
sprint up to his flat is flooding back, along with a need to rip off his own
clothes and press up against Harry with a desperation Louis’ never known.
Harry opens his mouth like he’s about to say something, then retracts himself,
watching Louis intently, like he can practically see inside of his soul.
Harry’s eyes are going to be the death of him.
“Do you want to talk about it?” Harry asks, then, soft and intimate, and Louis
can feel the hair on the back of his neck stand up.
“No,” he answers, the word fading from his lips, and then he’s nearly attacking
Harry, standing on his toes to press his mouth to Harry’s.
Harry’s hands are on his waist, holding him close, and Louis knows his bag is
in the way, just like all of the stupid layers he’s got on, and he needs to get
them off, but the kiss stays slow, a sweetness between them that makes a light
shiver ripple down his spine.
Louis guides them back into Harry’s flat and Harry obliges, bringing him in and
closing the door and locking it, all while keeping Louis so close to him that
he can’t even remember what he was worried about in the first place.
Louis rids himself of his bag while slipping off his shoes, only breaking away
from Harry’s lips to breathe and remove his shirt. Their chests press together
and Louis doesn’t even know which room they’re in, but there’s a lamp and some
chairs and that’s all he registers before Harry has his attention again,
sucking his bottom lip into his mouth.
They’re both down to their pants when Harry stumbles back onto his bed, pulling
Louis on top of him with a quiet ‘oof’. Louis takes a small moment, before
attacking Harry’s lips with his own, to look at Harry, and he can’t help the
unbelieving smile that spreads across his mouth. He doesn’t know why he’s
smiling, and the reasoning is something he doesn’t want to think about quite at
this moment, so he doesn’t, and he kisses Harry again, until Harry is breathing
heavy and moaning at the back of his throat.
Harry’s fingers are like something that Louis has never known, he soon realizes
when he’s pressed back into the mattress, legs spread open and his hips moving
on their own accord. He’s yearning for more, head tossed back and words leaving
his mouth that he’s pretty sure aren’t a part of the English language. Harry is
kissing him; his neck and his chest and his hips and every inch of skin that
Louis’ never loved and never asked anyone to love. Harry just kisses him, he
presses his mouth to every part of him like it’s the only thing he ever wants
to do, and it makes Louis’ heart feel like it’s about to burst.
When they’re pieced together like a puzzle, Louis grips onto Harry’s back, dull
fingernails pressing into the soft skin there, and listens to the soft moaning
that leaves Harry’s lips.
Harry whispers Louis’ name as he presses his mouth to his neck and jaw and it’s
the most intimate sound that Louis’ ever heard, each syllable like a note in
some kind of forbidden melody. Louis holds Harry tighter, needing him closer,
and for a moment he begins to think he’s going to be swallowed up by the
feelings that are practically oozing from him.
Louis whimpers Harry’s name into his hair when he comes, the full feeling of
Harry inside of him and the slow pull of his hips pushing him over the edge,
and then he can feel Harry’s hips pumping erratically before he’s collapsed on
Louis’ chest, his own heaving from the deep breaths he takes.
It’s quiet for a few moments, just the sounds of their labored breathing
reverberating off of Harry’s bedroom walls, until Harry slips out of him, only
to gingerly remove the condom and throw it away before tugging Louis close and
pressing a soft, gentle kiss to his lips.
Neither of them says anything as Louis cuddles into Harry, his arms around
Harry’s middle and Harry’s arms settling over him. Instead, they lay quietly,
the feeling of one another next to each other somehow comforting, and slowly
drift into sleep with the sound of their identical heartbeats.
 
--
 
The next morning, Louis wakes up to the shrill ringing of his phone — which is
still in the back pocket of his jeans. He groans as he rolls over Harry and
grasps for the pair of jeans so he can pull out his cell. A number he doesn’t
recognize is on the screen.
"Hullo?" His voice is scratchy as he speaks.
"Is this Louis Tomlinson?" An unfamiliar voice asks him, gruff and hearty.
"Er, yes," Louis answers, a bit unsure whether he should actually be honest.
"Mr. Tomlinson, your friend Zayn Malik is in the hospital. A couple of officers
found him behind a diner on 4th street; they believe he was under the influence
of a hallucinogenic and it caused an overdose," the nurse pauses and a rustling
sound echoes through the receiver, "You were listed as his emergency contact."
There’s another pause, and Louis feels like he should say something but there
are no words that are coming to his mind. He knew this would happen. He knew.
And now he’s in another boy’s bed while Zayn is in the fucking hospital from
some kind of overdose.
"Mr. Tomlinson? Are you there?" The nurse says, his voice too loud.
Louis stutters, his hands shaking, “Ye — yeah, I’m still here. I — is he okay?”
"I’ve no idea, but the doctors don’t think it’s too serious," the nurse answers
kindly, "Our visiting hours are from seven to ten, but since you’re not family,
I don’t know if you’ll be able to see him right away."
"I’m his boyfriend," Louis retorts, finally clambering up on Harry’s bed and
clutching his fist tight so it’ll stop trembling, "isn’t that enough?"
"I’m not sure, Mr. Tomlinson, I’d have to ask the heads of the department," the
nurse says, sounding apologetic.
"Right," Louis grits through his teeth, “I’ll… I’ll be there as soon as I can.
Thank you.”
He hangs up before the nurse has a chance to say goodbye and sits in the light
that’s pouring in from Harry’s bedroom window, barely shaded from the white
sheer curtains.
“Everything okay?” Louis flinches, glancing to his side where Harry is resting
on his elbows, looking up at him with his eyebrows furrowed.
It takes a second to process, but then he realizes he’s crying and there are
warm, full tears running down his cheeks and he’s not entirely sure how that
happened. As Harry sits up next to him, a gentle hand resting on Louis’ thigh,
Louis swiftly pushes him away and shakes his head desperately.
“No, Harry, st-stop,” he chokes, squeezing his eyes closed to attempt to stop
anymore tears from falling. “This is – I shouldn’t have… Fuck, Zayn is in the
hospital and it’s my fault.”
“What?” Harry’s voice sounds so genuine, so worried for Zayn like he knows him,
like he has a right to be so considerate, and Louis hates him for it. “He’s –
what happened?”
“The nurse said it was an overd-dose,” Louis’ hand is trembling and he clutches
it in his other, but it doesn’t stop the bubbling fear that’s growing in his
stomach. “He could’ve died and I wasn’t there, I t-told him to leave and I
shouldn’t have – fuck,” Louis groans, clenching one hand into a fist, “I
should’ve – I could’ve helped h-him and I didn’t –“
“Louis,” Harry says, firm and gentle at the same time, “No. Don’t say that.
This isn’t…” Harry shakes his head, reaching forward the grasp Louis’ hand and
only holding it tighter when Louis tries to pull away. He cups Louis’ cheek
with the other, making Louis look at him, and his eyes are set and determined
when they meet. “Don’t blame yourself for this. I don’t know… I don’t know Zayn
and I don’t know if this has happened before and I obviously don’t know what’s
happened between you two, but don’t – don’t you dare put this on yourself.”
The fierceness in Harry’s voice doesn’t match the sincerity in his eyes, and
Louis’ not sure how Harry can even affect him like this; like he somehow knows
him better than Louis knows himself and knows how to handle the things that
make Louis so weak and tired. He’s captured by the feeling of Harry’s fingers
on his own and on his cheek, keeping him grounded and steady. The piercing
feeling from the night before is gone, leaving just the shell of himself left
that he’s grown so used to living in, but there’s something inside of him
that’s warm and glowing, like a flame that’s started flicker again, and Louis
knows he shouldn’t believe it, but he realizes that there’s something in Harry
that makes Louis feel alive again. Something that brings out the bright flame
that he used to be.
With a solemn nod, Louis squeezes Harry’s hand tight, trying to keep his
breathing straight. As he feels the panic inside of him begin to subside, Louis
lets go of Harry and retreats to the edge of the bed, reaching onto the floor
for his pants and jeans. He slides them on with shaking hands, his chest
aching, and hides a sniffle as he moves to grab his shirt and jacket.
“Do you… Do you want someone to go with you?” Harry asks quietly, his voice so
much less assertive than before it makes Louis’ heart clench inside of his
ribs.
“No, no,” Louis shakes his head, already walking out of the door to find where
he’d dropped his bag, “I’m fine. I’ll be fine.” Once he’s got his satchel over
his shoulder, he turns back to Harry, swallowing the nervous lump in his
throat. Harry watches him carefully, his mouth set into an anxious frown, and
Louis gives him a watery smile. “Really,” he takes a step back from the
bedroom, “I’ll call you. Okay?”
Harry doesn’t answer as Louis finally leaves the apartment, barely taking a
glance at his own door before sprinting down the hallway to the elevator.
 
--
 
Zayn wakes up from a medically induced coma within a four or five hours after
Louis showed up (and made a rather large deal about how it was ridiculous that
he may have not been able to see his own boyfriend). His mind is fuzzy, and he
doesn’t quite understand what happened at first. Once Louis explains to him
that the police had taken him in, Zayn seems to practically deflate in on
himself.
(“I never meant for it to get this bad,” he’d murmured into Louis’ shirt after
crying for a good twenty minutes. “Fuck, Lou, I’m so sorry.” Louis had held
onto Zayn’s hand, kissing the top of his head, even with the horrible swirl of
guilt and anxiousness he felt inside of him.)
Louis helps Zayn check himself into the rehabilitation center at the hospital.
He brings in Zayn’s things with him and settles him into a room, giving his
best imitation of himself, but Zayn watches him with caution as Louis perches
himself on the edge of Zayn’s temporary bed.
“Something’s wrong,” Zayn says, quiet and knowing.
“What?” Louis laughs once, humorless, and shakes his head, “Nothing’s wrong.
You’re alright and you’re getting better and I’m alright; what’s there to be
wrong?” He can feel Zayn’s eyes on him but he refuses to meet them with his
own.
A silence washes over them and Louis wants to crawl out of his own skin, he
feels so utterly horrible sitting next to Zayn after what he’s done – and after
what they’ve been through.
“Is it Harry?”
The question takes Louis by surprise; he snaps his head up, finally meeting
Zayn’s eyes – eyes that are so close to what Louis remembers them always being
that it makes Louis stop breathing for a small moment.
“Wh—,” Louis starts, but Zayn interrupts, giving him a sad smile.
“It’s okay,” Zayn purses his lips, shrugging a shoulder, “I kind of… I figured.
When I met him that morning.” He doesn’t look at Louis, keeping his eyes
trained on the cold, linoleum floor. “I’m surprised, though. That you haven’t
left me before this.”
“I’m not leaving y—,” Louis begins, only to be stopped once more.
“Yes, you are,” Zayn laughs humorlessly, “Louis, you – you deserve better than
this. Better than me.” Zayn finally looks up at him, “You’ve deserved better
all these years and I never let you leave me because I was selfish. I
manipulated you and I’m – fuck, Lou, I’m so sorry. I made you believe that you
needed me as much as…” he scoffs bitterly, “As much as I need you.”
“Zayn, I’m not going to leave you, you’re my best friend,” Louis begs
helplessly.
Zayn nods once, slowly, “And I’ll always be your best friend.” He sighs
heavily, wringing his fingers together in his lap, “But I’m not healthy, Lou. I
can’t even take care of myself right now – how am I supposed to be able to have
a relationship?” He furrows his eyebrows, “I can’t do that to you.”
“Relationships have to go through phases and shit, I dunno, this is normal, we
just have to get through it,” Louis says, but as soon as the words leave his
lips, he realizes how utterly meaningless they are to him. He doesn’t feel the
same way towards Zayn as he once did, and he knows Zayn doesn’t feel it either.
The magic that was once theirs has somehow dissipated and left some kind of
carcass behind that only holds two broken men with nowhere to go.
“This isn’t normal, Louis, and you know that,” Zayn mutters, the withdrawal
making Zayn’s hands continuously fidget. “And you’re not happy. Neither of us
are, clearly,” he clenches one hand into a balled fist before it relaxes again,
“but I could see the way you were looking at him, babe.” Louis’ stomach jumps
at the small name as Zayn chances a glance at Louis, sadness in the deep brown
that fills his irises, “I know that I’ve been horrible. I can’t apologize
enough for what I’ve done to you,” wetness begins to fill Zayn’s eyes, the
edges becoming red and irritated, “so I’m making you leave me. I need you to
give yourself a chance with someone else. Someone who can – can make you
happy.”
Louis reaches to pull Zayn into an embrace as soon as sobs wrack through the
both of them, and they’re clutching onto each other as the realization that
this – them, ZaynandLouis, the unstoppable team – is over.
 
--
 
Three weeks pass and Louis has yet to call Harry.
He knows he should. He wants to, he really does, but he’s not sure Harry won’t
be incredibly angry with him for ignoring him.
On the night of his play, he’s sat in the back of the audience, waiting for
Liam to flash the house lights, with Zayn by his side.
"You didn’t have to come," Louis says to him as he continues to stare ahead,
more nervous than he anticipated to be.
"Yeah, I did," Zayn argues with a gentle smile, and Louis can’t help but feel a
bubble of hope inside of him that reminds him of the old Zayn. His Zayn.
"Thanks," Louis whispers, shuffling his feet and tapping his fingers
incessantly.
The lights flash, and even though Louis is anxious for the reaction his play
will receive, he’s incredibly excited. For all the years he’s been working on
this, to get to this point, he’s finally here. He’s in a major performance
space, and his name is written in big black letters on the huge sign out front,
right under the play he’s been referring to as his own child for three years.
Everything has gone as according to plan as it could’ve, and no one got hurt or
died (though, really, he may have cut it a bit close these past few dress
rehearsals).
As the lights go down completely, for a split moment, Louis thinks he sees a
mess of curls sitting in the front row of the audience, but then the darkness
overpowers his vision and all he can focus on is the stage.
 
—
 
"Tommo! Tommo! Tommo!"
Louis puts his face in his hands as he flushes, the crowd of actors and crew
hoarding around him and shouting his name. The lot of them are practically
moving as one down the pavement towards one of the local pubs.
“Lads, please!” Louis squawks, laughing heartily as they pile into the pub on
the corner, its lights creating a dim glow in the windows. “Don’t make a scene,
for god’s sake,” he smirks, running a dramatic hand through his hair, causing
the crowd to chuckle and shove him playfully.
“First round of drinks is on me,” Louis hears Liam call out to the lot of them,
and cheers surround him, echoes of ‘I’m buying the most expensive goddamn drink
here’ and ‘Aw, Liam!’
Louis shuffles forward to Liam as swarms of girls and boys move toward the bar,
giving him a warm smile. “That’s awfully kind of you,” Louis raises an eyebrow.
Liam shrugs, a bright grin spreading across his face to match the tint of pink
painted on his cheeks – he’s been that way since the end of the show, when
they’d gotten a standing ovation.
The show went incredibly well; there were, surprisingly, no malfunctions with
wardrobe, everyone remembered their lines, and the acting wasn’t too shabby
either. Louis knows he can only really thank the people who’d been there
through it all with him, his cast and crew had been absolutely amazing
throughout the whole process, and he told them so when they’d gathered together
to leave, after the place had been rid of all of the audience.
Zayn had told Louis how proud he was of him – and Louis swears he could see
tears in his eyes – and gave him the longest hug they’d shared in what felt
like forever. He promised Louis he’d make it back to the rehab center safely,
and swiftly left after a quick congratulations to the cast and crew.
Louis makes his way to the bar once the majority of the crowd dissipates, and
when he leans over the edge to tell the bartender his order (“Just a Heineken,
thanks”) a slow guitar riff crackles through a set of speakers that are set up
on a stage Louis had only just notices.
He sees a girl with dark blue hair settle behind a set of drums, her white and
black polka dot dress matching the large bow in her hair, and a boy with
highlighted blonde hair tripping over a set of wires on the left side of the
stage, holding his guitar close to his chest (Louis guesses he’s the one who
had just played the talented riff through the tinny speakers). Another girl
steps onto the stage from the right, a bass in hand, and she’s got dark skin
and eyes that seem as though they could practically pierce through the next
person she looks at. Then, as Louis grips the green bottle that’s set in front
of him, he sees Harry walks out to take center stage.
“Fuck,” he says unintentionally, a few of the actors around him giving him
curious glances, but Louis just moves forward in the crowd, closer to the
stage. He sits down at a table where Liam and Jesy, his Props Mistress, are sat
at, and watches as Harry easily looks into the crowd, giving them a warm
greeting.
“Hello, everybody,” he grins as he waves toward the large group of people, and
a chorus of ‘hello’s shoot back at him, “We’re The Mainlanders and we’re gonna
play some music.”
Louis barely hears the music over Harry when he sings. It’s as if fate has
brought Harry to him so that Harry can murder him. With his voice. Louis’
definitely sure of that once they get to the bridge of their third song, when
Harry hits a note that’s so high-pitched and rounded it makes Louis feel as
though he’s going to come in his pants right then and there. Jesy even leans
forward to ask if Louis’ feeling alright, because he looks as though he’s just
drank a whole bottle of hot sauce.
For a moment, Louis wonders what the chances are that they’d be at the same
place tonight, and then he remembers the curly mop of hair he’d seen in the
front row of the play. Did Harry follow them there? No, he’d have to have
dragged the whole band with them. He’s obviously psychic, Louis thinks to
himself, but his thoughts are interrupted when Harry suddenly looks at him for
the first time since he’d sat down. Granted, he’s sat near the back and there
isn’t much lighting where he’s at, but it still strikes some kind of chord in
him that has him smiling at Harry shyly and mouthing a small ‘Hi.’
As the song ends, Harry clutches onto the microphone and motions for the other
three to hold off on starting the next chords. He whispers something to them,
which has the blue-haired girl grinning from ear to ear and the blonde boy
giving Harry a proud smack on the bottom, then he turns back to the crowd with
a golden smile.
“This next song is dedicated to Louis Tomlinson, whose show tonight was
amazing,” a giant, drunken whoop from the group of people at the bar erupts,
and Harry lets them settle before speaking again, “Hope you like it.” Louis
isn’t sure whether Harry is talking to him or the crowd as a whole, but before
he can make up his mind which, a steady beat rolls out from the large speakers.
 
--
 
Louis wakes up the next morning feeling as though the world as finally tilted
itself back into place. Sunlight is peeking through his window and he can hear
birds and cars outside, people living their lives just like they always do.
He rolls over to grab his phone from the nightstand and sees he has a text from
none other than Loverboy himself. A steady smile displays on his lips as his
stomach flips, his fingers nimbly sliding the message over to view.
The show really was amazing. I’m glad I got to see it .x
Pursing his lips, Louis replies with slightly trembling fingers.
i’m glad you got to see it , too. your show wasn’t half bad either ;) x
He begins to set his phone to the side, but then scoffs before typing a second
reply.
and thanks for the song. i loved it xxx
Louis sits with his phone clutched to his chest for what feels like an
eternity, torturously waiting for Harry’s response, when the sound of knocking
on the front door rattles through the flat.
In just his pants and ragged white t-shirt, Louis jumps to his feet and races
to the door to open it to exactly who he’d been expecting.
“Hi,” he breathes, grinning so wide it hurts his cheeks.
“Howdy, neighbor,” Harry answers, his own clothing items as scantily clad as
Louis – nothing but a pair of heart-patterned boxer briefs. He’s leaning
against the door frame with a twinkle in his eye, his arms carefully crossed
across his tattooed chest. “I was wondering if I could, maybe, borrow some
sugar?”
Louis raises an eyebrow at Harry, placing on hand on his hip as he stares at
the half-naked boy in his doorway. “That’s your line? ‘Can I borrow some
sug—‘,”
Harry cuts Louis off with a soft kiss to his lips, their mouths lingering for a
moment before Harry backs away only enough to part their lips.
“Caveman,” Louis mutters, his voice too quiet to be annoyed, and Harry smiles,
wide and proud.
“Zayn talked to me last night,” Harry tells him, leaning far enough away to
meet Louis’ eyes with his own. Louis waits for the punchline of this, like Zayn
talking to Harry is a joke, but Harry continues on, no hint of farce in his
tone. “He told me that things with the two of you haven’t been exactly alright
recently, and that you both decided it was better to be friends.”
Louis’ eyebrows raise to his hairline, “Zayn actually spoke with you?”
Harry nods, an earnest, child-like seriousness in his eyes, “And he also said
that… that I’d be good for you.” He blinks, like some kind of toddler that’s
just been yelled at, and watches Louis for a reaction, “I’m not sure if I
should really trust what your ex-boyfriend thinks about me, but,” Harry bites
his lip, “I thought I’d ask, anyways, if you maybe – erm, maybe wanted to go
out sometime? Like, tonight? Or tomorrow. Or whenever is best, actually. I’ll
just have to let the guys know if I have to skip out on practice—,”
“Yes,” Louis scoffs, leaning forward to peck his lips gently, “idiot.”
Louis’ not sure where all of this is going, or if all of this has happened for
a reason that he still can’t place his finger on. He isn’t sure if Harry is big
enough to fill the hole in his heart, though he has a good feeling that he
might be just the right size. And he’s definitely not sure if the ache he’d
grown so accustomed to will subside, but as he settles into the warmth of
Harry’s embrace, he thinks that, maybe, he can’t feel it anymore.
---
fin.
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