Archive of Our Own ^beta

If you weren’t mine, I’d be jealous of your love.

— Venice Bitch, Lana Del Rey

Louis flattens the palm of his hand over Harry’s thighs, slowly curving them over the ferns that decorate his soft hips. He goes further over the smooth, hairless skin, fingers pressing down into his navel, then back up before settling to stop when his touch ghosts the sweet creature splayed upon Harry’s chest. It’s warm in a way that drives him mad—Louis can’t find this kind of warmth anywhere else in the world.

Under the Italian sun, Louis thinks everything is beautiful, but nothing is more radiant than Harry.

Harry lies beside him, bare body on show in the teeniest red shorts, and chunky glasses over his eyes as he dozes. His hair has been left soft and fluffy, ruffled in a lush expanse of sweet chocolate. Louis always needs a few minutes to take in the beauty that is Harry. 

Far from the coast, they’re untouchable. Except, of course, by the sun. Louis spends a few more minutes running his eyes over Harry. In a few years, will he be up on the walls of art galleries? Perhaps the Uffizi Gallery? Harry’s always considered Italy his second home. 

He’s already been photographed a million times, plastered on every gossip page and music prodigy magazine. In a few years time, he’ll have his name on plaques, eternalised forever, and no one will know that the first person who’s ever really known Harry is him.

He’s getting all sentimental now, silly when they’re here to get some alone time and forget about how hard it can be. It’s been nearly fifteen years since they’d met and caused fissions in the world with their love. Fifteen years of carefully arranged trips, private trysts, and talking to each other between the lines of their songs.

Louis keeps on going, palms settled between Harry’s thighs; so distracted by their softness, he nearly misses the soft giggles 

“Are you trying to get in my pants?”

“Baby,” Louis laughs, even more gently because that’s how he is around his baby. “Not precisely, but I’d never refuse… that’s if you’re offering?”

“Maybe,” Harry sighs, finally opening his eyes. He tilts his head to the side, green eyes vibrant as he looks at Louis. “What are you thinking about?"

“Nothing, really,” his hands continue on their journey. Soon, he’s rubbing the hem of Harry’s tiny shorts between his fingers and thumb. “These are absurdly short.”

“Are you complaining?”

“Not at all, s’just… they’re almost scandalous. Do you know how many times I’ve woken up to see the mess you’ve caused on Twitter? Just by showing off your legs?”

Harry’s eyes are closed again, long lashes resting on the curves of his cheeks as he smiles.

“You like it, don’t you?”

“Well, I work out a lot. Nice to see they’re appreciated.”

“I don’t appreciate you enough?” He pinches Harry’s inner thigh, a lilt to his voice as he teases his husband. 

“You know I do it all for you,” Harry smiles. When he does that, that exact smile, Louis’ taken back to when he was eighteen, to that first summer they spent joint to the hip, not knowing what love was, and how it was already theirs. 

“Oh, yeah?”

“Mm,” Harry hums, shaking his head. “I know you miss me when I’m away, and I know you’ll see. You’re always checking up on me, aren’t you?”

“Yeah,” Louis nods. “Always.”

“Don’t you like them?”

“Love them,” he promises, stroking the material once more before he’s back to what he loves most. Harry’s skin. “It’s a little frustrating, though,” he admits, “watching everyone rave over you like that.”

He knows Harry’s watching him now, always so good with letting Louis know he’s listening when things get a little serious. 

“You know there’s no one else for me, don’t you? All those songs over the years, honey, no one matters more than you.”

“I know,” Louis nods, kisses the tip of Harry’s pink, sunburnt nose. “Same here. Every single line, they’re all about you.”

“I know,” Harry snorts, “but I can dance, Lou.”

Louis feels his insecurities wane as he listens to the melody of Harry’s laughter. He’s silly sometimes, let’s all the fears drown out what’s real. The entire world exists, the sun keeps burning, and the planets keep spinning, regardless of a heartbreak or a loss. Centuries have passed, lovers lived and lorned, yet somehow Louis was lucky enough to exist at the same time as Harry.

Harry, who was destined for stardom the day he was born. Sweet, shy Harry, whom Louis watched grow into the man he is today. Harry, who everyone wanted, who could have anyone he wanted, yet he’d chosen Louis. Chosen him when he was sixteen and clueless, and still stuck with him now as Louis’ seen three decades, lost too many people, and even grown grey hairs. The eighteen-year-old version of him wouldn’t even be able to fathom that he’s getting old.

There’s a ticker on his heart, counting down the seconds till his end. He won’t lie and say that he hasn’t thought that he might die early, or lose Harry first. And usually that thought could ruin his entire day, but not here with Harry. A new kind of acceptance washes over Louis at the thought of dying, having spent a life loving Harry. Spent with Harry, the love of his life, by his side. Not everyone got so lucky.  

“You can’t dance,” Louis refutes softly, hands stroking over chestnut tufts. “But I love that about you. You’re all long legs, mismatched steps, and silly gestures. You’re ridiculous, actually.”

“Careful, we’re on this boat for at least two more hours,” Harry warns. “You don’t want to get on my bad side.”

“Of course not,” Louis agrees, biting back his grin. The wind picks up, Harry’s hair flattens over his forehead, out of place. He wonders how long this new phase will be, how long until Harry grows his curls again? For now, he strokes them gently, pushes them back into place as he’s overcome with devotion.

When he’s done, Harry opens his eyes again, and Louis, because he can’t ever deny himself Harry, kisses him.

They’re on a little private boat, far out in Como—Harry’s favourite place in the world. 

Louis’ favourite place will always be wherever Harry is.

“If you’re going to fake being annoyed, at least give me a kiss before you do.”

Harry rolls his eyes, mutters something incoherent that Louis knows is absolute rubbish, before he puckers his lips, too smug to tilt his head forward and chase that kiss because he knows Louis will do it all for him. Always. 

He’ll tease Louis for days, fly to some city Louis can’t even pronounce and strut out in tiny shorts or make headlines with strangers. Some of these people Louis never even meets, unless they’re really good friends with Harry, and he invites them to an event one day, but it’s not often. They’re just strangers to him, strangers who spend more time with his husband; people who have the luxury to go out with Harry without having to hide.

Louis could never do much about that then, and even now, he still can’t. Their time will come, but even if it doesn’t, he’s got Harry. They’re a forever thing. So, he’s learnt to make some sacrifices.

Harry has all these people who want him. Louis’ seen what they say online. He sees the videos, all those hungry eyes. Hears it in their voice when they congratulate him at award shows, or question him during interviews. There was a time when he was there for it all. Sat through the same interviews, rehearsed the same scripts… and when the cameras stopped running, Louis could reach out for Harry and be assured with just a touch that he wasn’t going anywhere.

Getting older means you’ve got to learn more virtues. Louis’ had to let some grudges and pains go.

When Harry’s flirted with on red carpets, he’s got to wait at least two hours before he hears an ‘I love you’ over the phone. Sometimes he wonders why he does it when he could be free. But he can’t let Harry go, can’t do anything without him.

Even thinking about it, all that wasted time, the years when they were young and foolish and they’d broken each other apart in hopes of fixing themselves, makes him shiver. He’ll never be that weak again. 

They’d been reckless, him more so. Tearing Harry’s heart in two in their New York apartment, thinking that’s what they needed… only for it to be worse.

He doesn’t think like that anymore. All he’s ever wanted can be found in Harry. He can do the months apart, the endless texts and FaceTimes, and pictures of him in tiny shorts posted on Twitter if it means that when they return to each other, it’s with tears and love-making under the sheets. Because, at the end of the day, that’s all he wants.

He’s getting sentimental even when he hadn’t wanted to. They’re here to love.

“Where did you go?” Harry asks curiously.

His fingers dig into Louis’ hips, pulling him on top. Skin on skin, Louis’ glad no one can see them like this. No one would be able to see their faces, but if that didn’t spark something, their tattoos definitely would. Then, everyone would know what Louis’ known for most of his life. That they’re in love, that they’ve tied the knot, and will be each other’s even when they’re dead.

“Thinking ‘bout your shorts,” he evades, fingers reaching under the waistband. “‘Bout how the entire world can see your legs but I’m the lucky man who gets to have them wrapped around him.”

Harry grins, bunny teeth glinting between the pink muscle before he stretches his legs to curl around Louis’ waist, locking his husband between his spread thighs.

It’s all those gym and pilates sessions that have made him flexible. He’s always had gorgeous legs, but there’s something more to admire when Louis can make them bend to his will. When he can have them stretched out beneath him, or poised for hours, or strained when Harry’s above, riding him.

“But they know how much you love it,” Harry teases, pinching the skin above Louis’ shorts. “Whenever I hear you sing that, it makes me want to get on my knees for you. Or wrap them around you just how you like it.”

Louis groans, can feel himself harden.

“You’re a tease in these little shorts. Every time I see you wear ‘em, makes me regret not marking you up the night before. Teach you some shame. You can’t go out and think there won’t be any consequences.”

“Not my fault you’re so affected,” Harry giggles. 

“Everything you do affects me,” Louis huffs, teasing a finger up Harry’s shorts. He smirks when he hears the hitched breath. 

Harry’s so smooth. So soft and warm. He’s always liked taking care of himself, even if the journey was hard. But they’re here now, made it through the highs and lows, and Louis couldn’t be more proud. He remembers all the nights promising Harry it’d happen, encouraging him to take the next step and not be scared of the judgment. The world moves on, people will eventually catch up. Slowly, Harry listened. Started with his nails. Then, fancy colours and clothes. Dived into blouses, and shoes, and jewellery. The first time he wore a dress, he was so young, wore it as a joke, and Louis made love to him in it. Wanted to show him how real it could be if he wanted that.  Couldn’t stop touching him, even when the layers were shed and it was skin on skin again.

He’s glad he’d had so much faith in the world in not letting his boy down. Now, every day, Harry’s wardrobe is a mystery, and Louis is never deterred from exploring it.

The sun burns his back sore. He’ll probably regret not wearing sunscreen properly, and Harry will chastise him for not listening, but there’s nothing in the world that can separate him from where he lounges, between his husband’s parted legs. 

He gets to his knees, manoeuvres Harry’s thighs over his shoulders, and starts his descent. He starts slowly, with gentle kisses. Kissing the hairless skin all over, grinning into his flesh as Harry natters on about shaving and how Louis better take advantage before the hair grows in by tomorrow.

“Baby, will you calm down? Hair or no hair, I love these thighs.”

“But fresh hair is always prickly.”

“It doesn’t bother me, love.”

“I know,” he sighs, pulling his shades back over his eyes again.

“Do you like what they have to say?” Louis hums, ghosting kisses and rubbing his beard against the sensitive skin. When he pulls back, the skin is dotted red.

“Yeah, it’s nice, I guess.”

“You going out tomorrow?”

“Did you have plans?”

“Not tomorrow. But right now, I want to spend my time on these.”

“What do you want to do?” Behind his frames, Louis knows his eyes are shiny with intrigue.

“You’ll see,” he whips, before he takes a bite. Harry yelps, colouring red as he watches Louis lather his tongue over the indents of his teeth. 

“You’ll mark me. Then, I won’t be able to wear my shorts out.”

“That’s the point,” Louis grins, before he sucks a little higher, reaching the hem. His eyes are fixed on the rise of Harry’s chest, how his yellow nails dig into the towel beneath him. 

“But it’s hot, I need to wear my shorts.”

“So wear ‘em, baby.”

“But everyone will… see.”

“So, let them.”

“They’re going to think I’m a whore for showcasing it.”

“Well, aren’t you? You show them so much already, what’s a little more?”

“Lou,” he whines, crossing his arms over his chest.

He’s really just so perfect. Louis hopes that they’ll have statues made of Harry too; years from now, when they talk about influential musicians. 

When he was younger, he’d always hoped he’d make it up there. He supposes he might, with the boys and the band. There’s a part of him that will never move on from that. An even tender part that wishes things had never ended. But those are woes for another day. Right now, he’s got his attention solely focused on Harry, and the need to watch him squirm and fall apart in these little shorts that have plagued him for days.

“So, now you’re getting all shy? Now that I’ve got you all to myself, you want to act like you don’t love it.”

“It’ll burn,” Harry argues weakly, “you haven’t shaved.”

“You love that.”

Harry shudders, legs lax across Louis’ shoulders as he hides behind his hands. Louis appreciates the view of his toned torso, the hue of gold and sweat, all the secret moments and questions engraved on him in ink. The matching counterparts and answers can be found on his own body. 

They’ll be telling stories even when they’re dead.

He dots kisses to his inner thigh, grinning when he sees the little tent under the red fabric. Wonders if Harry’s even got on underwear under this.

“Commando?”

“God,” Harry laughs quietly, resting his hands by his side again. “Haven’t heard that in years.”

Louis chuckles, curling his fingers under the hem. Harry hisses, legs crushing Louis together as his fingers graze his bare balls. 

“You’re insatiable. Do you go out like this in public? You know, people actually talk about that online?”

“Doesn’t bother me,” he pants between breaths, “they’ll never know.”

“But I will,” Louis licks his lips, tugging the shorts down. He slides them off Harry before resuming his position with Harry’s legs over his shoulders. “So, tell me, darling. Do you go out without underwear?”

Harry squirms, getting shy. Louis loves it when he gets like this. He runs lines below Harry’s ferns, grinning as he shifts uneasily. 

“Sometimes,” Harry confesses.

Louis groans, pressing his nose into the creases of his thighs. He inhales the heat and the faint smell of his vanilla bean shampoo, almost delirious by how sweet he smells. He can’t stop himself from taking a lick and delighting in the shiver he pulls out of his husband.

“Next time you step out without your underwear, you call me, alright?”

Harry nods, lost for words as he watches with big eyes. Sometime amidst this, he’d folded his glasses and placed them on the floor, his focus solely on Louis.

“What are you going to do with that information?”

“Depends,” Louis hums. He rests his hands against Harry’s thigh, ignoring the twitching cock to talk. “If it’s late at night, I might wank. Close my eyes and imagine I’ve got my hands all over you.”

“Will you call?” Harry asks, breathing fast. His chest is flushed red, his little butterfly painted in the prettiest shade. Louis lingers on that before he looks up. 

“What if you’re with friends? Will you still pick up and listen to me get off?”

“Yeah,” Harry nods, tongue peeking out between his lips. “Could help, if you want?”

“Phone sex whilst you’re out with your friends, that’s not very classy.”

“Nor is going commando,” Harry adds.

Louis raises a brow, his thumb strokes circles over Harry’s hips, “Yet, you still do it.”

“It’s comfy,” he pouts. “And I don’t like seeing the underwear lines.”

“Could wear a thong or something. Tons better than hanging free, babe.”

“You know I only wear my pretty lingerie for you.”

Louis rolls his eyes, laughing from the unexpected drop of Harry’s voice and bat of his eyelids. “Still flirting even though I’ve got you naked in front of me. You’ve always been a bit of a slut, haven’t you?”

Harry just whines. Makes that soft sound from the back of his throat that drives Louis crazy. “Please, will you just touch me?”

“So well-mannered,” he appreciates, “s’nice to see you haven’t forgotten them, baby.”

Harry beams from the compliment, blooms like a flower under the sun. So, devastatingly sweet. Louis strokes over his cock, pretty and pink, waiting so eagerly. 

“I love you so much.”

Harry smiles, reaching over to take Louis’ spare hand in his own and squeezes. “Love you, honey.”

He kisses over Louis’ knuckle, the ‘28’, their day, before his eyes screw shut because Louis swapped over to using his tongue, thumbing at all the marks he’s littered by Harry’s hipbones. He’s spared his pretty thighs, thinks he wants to admire them one last time in those absurd shorts before their time in Italy runs out.

A few days pass with love dancing in the air. Everything’s always different in Italy. 

They’ve got the free pass to go out tonight—together. It’s just for a stroll, sometime near midnight, but Louis doesn’t care. He’ll take anything to have these moments with Harry. 

Whilst he’d been at home, working on some of the new album stuff, Harry had gone out to the market. Then, he’d cooked lunch with the produce he’d bought. There’s a new bunch of flowers sitting at their table; Louis strokes the petals, reminiscing about hours earlier when he’d taken Harry by his hips and spun him around in the middle of the kitchen. A lover’s dance whilst dusted in flour.

Harry always gets a little quiet when it’s Louis’ turn to leave. Tomorrow at lunch, he flies back to London. A few days later, Harry will return to Berlin.

Louis treats him more delicately, kisses him softer and longer, and holds him gently. Waits, before he speaks. 

It’s past ten at night, Harry’s just finished his shower. He got sidetracked earlier by his management, but he’s free now, and he’s looking for an outfit. Louis’ the one who’s got to hide, not to be spotted at all. So, alongside his cap, he’s got on glasses and a zip-up, just in case. He’s always been better at bearing the brunt of it anyway.

“Put on those shorts,” he says, watching Harry. “The red ones you wore on the boat.”

Harry nods, placing them onto the bed before he finds a loose white shirt to wear with it and fresh new socks. The shirt covers the skimpy red material deliciously. Louis loses himself thinking of all the ways he can get that off of Harry when they return.

Then, they’re dressed and ready to go; Louis kisses Harry by the door before they leave.

Italy is one of those places that could look remarkable even in the middle of winter, ploughed with dead plants and dirty snow. Louis’ not sure if he’s biased because of Harry, or if he really loves it. He knows it’s Harry’s favourite place in the world, but nothing beats Doncaster for him. Home has always been where his heart resides. He can lose himself a little in cities all over the world, but nothing will replace his hometown. He’s a homebody through and through, but he’s grateful he’s got Harry to remind him that the rest of the world lies at his feet, waiting to be explored. 

With Harry’s hand in his, they wander through lonely streets, stealing kisses under streetlights and part for brief intervals when they round corners and there seem to be crowds. Of course, they didn’t expect it to be empty, and Louis’ almost glad it isn’t because, above all, he craves normalcy. Harry’s good at fame. It’s grown on him nicely, but Louis finds himself often missing the days when he could step out of his front door without a pap flashing his picture or a fan asking for a photo. He loves his fans, loves them for everything they’ve done, but it’s not wrong if he wants things to slow down sometimes, is it?

Italy gives him that. 

It gives them both that. 

Through dwindling pathways and quiet shops where people sit outside for a drink or a gelato, Harry and Louis keep their fingers locked together. Whenever they find themselves with a moment where it’s emptier than usual, they talk. 

Harry hates goodbyes, so neither mentions it. 

“I wish we could do this more.”

“We can try to. I know you’ve taken to walking more, you were all over London, weren’t you? You’re so brave, baby.”

“London’s home,” Harry shrugs, sleeve of his shirt exposing some collarbone. Louis rips his eyes away from it, they can’t do anything now. Can’t even kiss. “The people there always feel a little different.”

“Yeah, I know what you mean. Feels like I’ve just popped out to get milk, or something. Doesn’t feel like I’m in a new place.”

“Well, it doesn’t feel like that for me,” Harry giggles. “But I’m glad it does for you.”

“What does it feel like for you?”

“Not really any different, just feels like home, I guess. Cars on the left, road signs I know the meaning of, a Tesco down the road. It’s just familiar.”

“So, when you’re abroad, what’s it like?”

“LA’s alright, it’s home too, I guess. We’re there a lot when we work on albums, so I don’t mind it, but every time I touch down I just feel like I’ve got to work and work.”

“Baby…”

“Don’t want Italy to feel like that one day. Not unless I’m doing something fun for work. Like for Fine Line.”

“Let’s have our next meet-up in London,” Louis mumbles, mindful of the people passing them. He waits a beat before he carries on, “Let’s go home, baby.”

He risks a glimpse at Harry through his glasses, stomach bubbling with emotions when he sees the absent look on his face as he nods, fingers seeking out Louis’.

“I miss going home with you. Sometimes I wish we were still in the band so we could go places together.”

“Me too,” Louis whispers.

He always thinks of the future, tells himself one day soon, or maybe when they retire. But Harry doesn’t like that; he wears his heart on his sleeve and lives in the moment. He doesn’t like wasted moments, waiting for the future when all they’ve got is the now. 

They stop by a kiosk, and Louis waits for Harry a few paces ahead. Harry buys his routine ornament, something to remember this trip. He does it in every city they go to, wanting to remember every trip they go on. It’s a silly little tradition he’s kept since the band. Louis runs his eyes over all that skin, jealousy a little more prominent today because he’ll be without Harry’s touch for weeks. 

When his boy returns, he tugs them into a little dark corner and pushes Harry up against the wall. 

“Lou, this is crazy.”

“Just for a bit,” he breathes into his mouth, desperate for a kiss. “Let’s just kiss here, in Italy, like we’re normal. Like we’re sixteen and eighteen again in London, and no one cared who we were.”

He doesn’t need to say anything more to convince Harry. They kiss until their hearts can’t do it anymore, and their gasping for breath. 

They kiss, and that union stretches with them all the way home until they’re undressed and under the sheets. Louis asked Harry to keep those red shorts on. They’ll be off soon; he’s got to leave his mark somehow. So, he’d like to do it with those skimpy shorts sitting prettily on his hips.

Stretched out taut on white sheets, Louis admires his husband solely in his shorts and the silver band around his finger. The one that’s seen them through all these years. 

“I’m gonna take my time with you tonight.”

Harry nods, already hard, “Do whatever you want, Lou. Make me yours again.”

“You’ll never stop being mine,” he grunts, pushing up the hem of Harry’s shorts until they form a ‘v’ encasing his cock and baring all that pale skin. Tonight, he aims to honour them. 

He starts eagerly, suctioning sections hotly, digging his teeth in, and easing the ache with a swipe of his tongue. With each kiss, he’s rewarded with Harry’s soft pleas and sighs. 

The entirety of his inner thighs is marked dark red, he looks like he’s been mauled and the ego does more to Louis’ head than he’d like to admit as he reaches for his phone and snaps a picture of the golden skin bruised red and the caged cock in his trousers. Harry whines when he sees it, shifting up easily on their bed but Louis’ not done. He moves further down, treats every new inch of skin exactly the same so Harry won’t be able to wear shorts for days. That’s what he wants, to keep this sight entirely for himself for as long as he can until the colour fades. 

Hopefully, Louis will have Harry in his arms again by then. 

But now, Harry’s keening for him to touch. To take him bare and sort him out. Remind him how his loving feels, even though they’d been at it last night and again in the garden this morning. 

They’re uncontrollable, uninhibited. If the threat wasn’t too large, Harry would’ve probably begged Louis to fuck him in that dark street. 

“I’ll give it to you, baby.”

“Please, Lou, please. Before you go, before…” his lip quivers, eyes sparkly red and green. Louis kisses him hard, dragging his teeth against the gum of his lips as he pulls Harry’s shorts down, relishing in his quiet gasps as the material drags down his sore thighs. 

Louis doesn’t waste a moment before he sinks down on Harry, mouth warm around his dick as he presses down on all the teeth marks and watches him arch his back and gasp from the pain that shudders through him. 

“You’re gonna feel these for days.” Louis breathes against his thigh before he wraps his lips around Harry, hot and hard.

“Yes,” Harry sighs, eyes clenched as he twines his fingers through Louis’ hair. He tugs harshly, knowing how rough he can be before Louis objects. “S’all I ever wanna feel, Lou. Your lips wrapped around me, your fingers pushing in me, you inside me, fucking me hard.”

“Yeah, baby? Want that?”

Harry nods, pushing down sobs.

“I’ll give it,” he promises, “make you feel it for days, hm? I’ll give it to you good, so you won’t be without. You’ll be good for me, yeah? No skimpy shorts for a while. You’ll cover those pretty legs, let me get used to waking up without you before you flash them again and get me hard in the middle of work.”

“Yeah, I can be good. I’ll be so good.” He recites, “Lou— fuck… I can’t wait any longer, honey.”

He tugs Louis higher as he admires the work between his legs. Mosaic patterns of red and pink and some, even purple. It’s raw and messy and they can get like that when they’re hurting or just really horny. Harry’s had marks on his back for days when Louis fucked him up against the sharp edges of a kitchen counter in a rented house once.

When they were younger, crazy about each other in a youthful way, Harry could spend hours on his knees for Louis. Thinking about it now makes his back twinge, but they’d had those times when they needed it most and he looks back on it fondly, always sadly happy when Louis’ on his mind. 

Tonight, Harry needs it hard to push out the realisation that he’ll leave tomorrow. He doesn’t need any prepping, still open from this morning, so Louis pushes in with no hesitation; knows how Harry needs it tonight. His toes curl, moans spilling like sweet wine as Louis pounds into him.

“Honey,” Harry gasps, yellow chipped fingernails dragging down Louis’ back, leaving some marks too. They’ve always been like that, one can’t give without the other giving back. It’s how they are, and always will be. “That’s it, right there, oh…”

“Feel me?” He pushes hard over Harry’s stomach, lips continuing the previous assault on Harry’s thighs, now on his collarbones. Louis scrapes the bone with his teeth, drags his tongue over it in apology when he hears Harry gasp more high-pitched than usual. “So tight around me, precious, don’t want to leave you here.”

“Fuck Lou, go harder,” Harry bends his knees, struggling to get them over Louis’ shoulder but they sort it out in seconds. Louis pushes the limb down before propping it over him, and Harry cries as Louis reaches him deeper, his fingers drawing blood now. 

“Shit, Harry, shit, I love you.”

“So close,” he pants, sweating now. Louis’ learnt his body perfectly now, knows just how he likes it, and he knows Harry won’t last long. Harry’s thighs burn from the stretch, the marks littered there tingle as Louis’ skin chafes against them. Harry can feel the same burn around his neck, and when Louis reaches that spot inside him, he sees stars. He hopes it’s as good for Louis; he knows that Louis will feel the sting of his fingers for days to come. Every time he moves for the upcoming weeks, he’ll remember how Harry bid him goodbye.

It’s enough for now. They’ve learnt to make it be enough. 

“Baby, I’m gonna come.”

“Me too,” Harry cradles his face, drags him up so he can see and when they’re eye to eye, his jaw drops, moaning loudly as he releases all over them. Louis follows mere seconds later, so warm inside it makes Harry shudder. 

“You’re perfect,” Louis whispers, melting into his body. 

Despite his tiredness, Harry nods, raking trembling fingers through Louis’ sweaty hair. They’re burning all over, hotter than when they were spread out on their boat under the sun. This kind of warmth only comes when you’ve lain with the sun, and when Harry opens his eyes for Louis to peer into, he knows that he won’t be able to find something quite like this anywhere else in the world.