Archive of Our Own

Louis will refrain from saying this week couldn’t get any worse because the universe has a tendency of proving people wrong when they do. But in the private corners of his own head, he thinks that the week his dad left his family and this week right here are nearly tied for first place on the list of unusually shitty weeks.

He hadn’t expected to keep the job at the bank forever. Four years of studying graphic design to be a bank teller haunted him daily. But he hadn’t expected to get fired either. It was a blow to his self-confidence, and more importantly, to his wallet that he wasn’t prepared for.

He started to regret dropping 800 quid for a ticket to LA, and a long overdue trip to see Zayn and Liam.

And then Reece sent him a text message.

“I can’t go to LA with you,” he’d written. “I’m sorry. Let’s talk when you get back.”

Louis should have ignored the dread settling in his stomach (you know, beside the gallon of cookie dough ice cream he’d just inhaled). He should have sent an “okay” and left the situation be. Except how could he when they’d been planning this trip for months and the message came with a sense of foreboding he’d never be able to shake while he was away?

He had to ring him up, after which point Reece, in the analytical and scientific way he approached all situations in life, proceeded to break up with him.

“At this junction in my life,” he’d said. “I need to focus more on my future, and in finding a partner who I think will fit well with where I see myself going. We’re just not the best match for each other: goal-wise.”

A plethora of responses had flown to Louis’ mouth with no time or control to say them all. With no job and now, no boyfriend, he felt reckless. He felt like flaying this bastard with words so caustic he left their conversation in tears. But Louis was exhausted too. Too exhausted, even, to defend himself. And so he’d settled with a “best of luck, pal” and promptly, hung up.

Let’s not forget that his refrigerator has started leaking, and that the stray cat Louis leaves food for hasn’t come around in a week, or that the Doncaster Rovers lost the third round of the Football League Cup. Just last night, his ex, Nick, announced to Facebook that he was newly engaged, and it wasn’t like Louis ever imagined them getting back together, but it ached anyhow, with a detached pain that only a former lover could cause. And it reminded him, of course, that at 26, he was still painfully and miserably alone.

Whenever he thinks the misfortune has stopped, another blow lands on his blindside. He’s breathless, can’t catch a break long enough to put his arms up in defense, doesn’t even care to try.

What he does want?

Is warmer weather, and some time away with his two best friends.

800 quid has left a hole in his newly unemployed pocket the size of Jupiter, but he doesn’t regret it. Not when it bestows him with a long-awaited and desperately needed means of escape.

✺

“Sophie, please calm down,” Harry says, rubbing his fingers vigorously against his forehead. “Just explain to me what’s happened.”

She babbles, unable to talk any slower or enunciate clearly. He catches the same four words again. Flight. Layover. Economy. Sorry.

“Okay,” he cuts her off. “I’ll talk to you later.”

She apologizes profusely before they hang up, or before Harry hangs up, at least. She’s still apologizing when he presses the button to end the call.

He remembers painfully the days when he was a still-green assistant too. Working under his former boss, Wilma, had been a tiptoeing dance on a sea of eggshells. Every step had to be taken with the utmost vigilance, and even then, only after deep but speedy consideration. Of course, at 18, Harry had handled the job better than his older coworkers, more goal-driven and determined than them all.

At 18, he would never allow himself to fuck up because too much was at stake to suffer even the slightest of missteps.

He never spilled coffee like Sophie does. He never routed calls to the wrong people. He was never late. He never confused Louboutins with Jimmy Choos. And most importantly, he’d never ever mixed up one of Wilma’s flights.

You’re too easy on her, Niall always says. And of course, he’s right. Harry has thought about firing Sophie more times than he’s praised her for good work. Some days his tongue aches with the need to say the words. But then he looks at her portfolio. She’s 18, just like he was when he began working for Wilma, and she crafts items some of his own colleagues would drool over. He knows from her interview that she has a sibling at home that she takes care of while her dad works night shifts. He knows she has a sense of humor and shares jokes with Harry when he’s stressed.

As impossible and tiresome as it seems, he likes her. She’s a brilliant kid, and all he can hope is that in another month, she’ll shape up.

He approaches the podium where a lone attendant is standing and tapping away at her computer. Her name tag reads Susette. “Hi,” he says, and she looks up, smiling brightly. She has kind brown eyes that immediately give him reason to hope. The lengths that a kind person will go to help far outmatch those of an unkind person. “I have some issues with my ticket. I was hoping you could help me?”

“I’d be happy to,” Susette says. “What can I do for you?”

Harry sets the ticket down. “My assistant booked this flight for me. And made a few errors. I’m supposed to be flying to LA. First-class.”

“Let’s see,” Susette says. She takes the ticket and starts tapping at her keyboard again, brows creasing, biting into her bottom lip while she reads the screen. “Right, Mr. Styles,” she begins. “Well, you are in fact headed to LA. But first, you have a connecting flight in Ohio.”

Harry releases a breath. “Okay. My assistant said something about a layover. How long will that be? I think I might have read the ticket wrong.” Because the ticket reads a 5-hour layover and that can’t be right. It’s just not possible.

“5 hours,” Susette says, shooting him a wince. “But! There’s always a chance you can hop onto a sooner flight to LA once you land in Ohio.”

Sophie is a brilliant kid, Harry reminds himself. A brilliant kid. Full of potential. Full of great ideas. He chants it in his head like a mantra. “I think I’ll have to do that,” he says. “And this is an economy class ticket, right? Is there a way I could upgrade to first class? Whatever the costs.”

She looks at the screen again, red-lipsticked mouth pursed. She tsks, shaking her head, and when she looks at him, it’s clear she wants to help. She just doesn’t have the means. “Unfortunately, all the first class seats are booked. So are the business class seats.”

Harry nods. “How about another flight to LA?”

Susette looks again and sighs. “The last direct flight left an hour ago. And the next one won’t be until tomorrow morning.”

“Jesus,” Harry says under his breath. He rubs at his eyelids again and then glances around, only to realize there’s another woman standing behind him, waiting to be helped. He’s taken up too much time, clearly.

He’s not so indulgent that the thought of flying economy offends him. It’s more that any distance over 6 hours without a well-cushioned seat causes his back to ache for days. Flying back and forth behind Wilma has taught him so. But leaving tomorrow morning is much too late. If he can just make it to Ohio, he’ll get a quick flight to LA, and sleep all of this away in the comfort of his LA home.

“You’ve been very helpful,” Harry says sincerely. “Thank you.”

“I’m sorry there’s not more I can do for you,” Susette says.

“Don’t be,” Harry says, taking his ticket reluctantly.

“Have a safe flight, Harry,” she says.

He smiles and lifts his duffle off the ground, slinging the strap over his shoulder. It’s another 10 minutes until boarding. He grabs an iced coffee while he waits, shooting off a few emails to his other assistants. Sophie has emailed him a lengthy, well-worded apology, but he bypasses it to start a game of Candy Crush, finding that obliterating candy is rightly therapeutic.

When it’s time to board, he trudges dejectedly past first class, eyeing the folks seated in those smooth leather chairs with envy. His seat, when he finds it, is thankfully by the window. He stores his duffle away in the overhead compartment and then slips in with his briefcase tucked beneath the seat in front of him. He buckles up and slides his sunglasses onto his face and shuts his eyes behind them.

It’s not an ideal situation. But luckily in his line of work, those aren’t a common occurrence. Things go wrong every hour, whether it’s at a photoshoot or on the runway. He wouldn’t be the owner of a million-dollar line at the age of 24 if he didn’t know how to face the shit head on and work past it.

✺

He overslept. You’d think given how desperate he’s been for this trip that he would be up and at it well before the flight was set to leave. But no, Louis wakes with an hour and ten minutes to spare before boarding. Lucky he took a shower the night before, and packed miraculously a day in advance. He still has to stuff his laptop into his rucksack and get dressed.

10 minutes ‘til boarding when he arrives. He has to check his luggage. He has to go through security, and usually it’s a breeze. But this time for some reason the bloody metal detector goes off not once, not twice, but three times, all for him to realize that his lighter was tucked in the pocket of his shirt.

He doesn’t bother to put his shoes back on as he races to his flight gate, cradling his Vans in the crook of his elbow, rucksack flopping wildly against his side. He’s run the wrong way, has to turn back and dash like the devil is after him. He drops his phone, has to stop to swipe it up. His heart feels like it’s about to give out.

He can see the glowing yellow numbers of his gate up ahead, 33, like a beacon. The attendants nearby are shutting the door, shutting him off from LA, from paradise. He throws everything he has into that final few feet. He hasn’t run that fast in years, not even on the pitch. “Wait,” he calls to them.

The attendant standing there pauses and looks at him with stunned eyes, brows shooting up above the rim of her glasses. Louis curls over, hands braced on his knees. “My flight. This one,” he pants. “I’m on this one.”

She takes his ticket and hurries to the podium, scanning it quickly.

“Get on there then,” she says, nodding towards the door.

Louis takes his ticket, glancing at her name tag. He smiles. “Thanks, Sus.”

The folks on the plane must think he’s having an asthma attack with the way he’s breathing. He doesn’t have asthma but he would almost believe it himself. He heads down the aisle, turning heads with the loud eager breaths of air he takes. He throws himself into his seat when he gets there, barely registering the person beside him. His eyes close.

“Are you alright?”

Louis doesn’t lift his head. He hears the voice beside him, something soft and deep, but keeps his eyes closed. He lifts a thumb instead. “Almost missed this flight,” he says.

The person is quiet briefly. “That would have been unfortunate,” he finally replies. Louis catches a whiff of something citrusy. He glances to his right and pauses.

He isn’t even looking at him. This bloke sitting beside Louis has his eyes trained on his iPad now. It’s hard to tell exactly with his sunglasses on, poised neatly on the straight elegant slope of his nose. He has one leg crossed over the other, back straight. The leather duffle, as well as the iPad case on his lap, are marked by initials: H.E.S.

“Well, to a degree,” Louis says. The man, H, pauses, lowering his iPad and turns his head to him. “Now that I'm actually sat here, I'm thinking about the whole being suspended in the air for over 10 hours thing."

A smile. “It's not so bad,” H says.

“This coming from someone who's done it before, I'm guessing?” Louis questions. “This would be my first time.”

“I know people who’ve flown all their lives and still get anxious,” H replies. “Is it your first time flying in general or to Ohio?

“To LA.”

H nods. “Then it'll be a breeze. After two hours, you'll forget you're up here at all.”

“Definitely looking forward to that, given the circumstances,” Louis says.

“What circumstances are those?” H asks after a pause.

“I'm sat next to someone pleasant and the seat’s not uncomfortable.”

H smiles. “Glad I could help then,” he says, following another longer pause. “As for the seat, you start to feel it in your bum after a few hours. Helps to walk around.”

“I'll do that. Where would you suggest I walk to on a plane? What's the hottest spot?”

H's lips twitch. He combs his hand through his dark hair. “The loo,” he says, jutting a thumb towards the back of the plane. “...is the hottest and only spot.”

Louis turns that one over until he feels nauseous. “Sounds terrifying.”

H laughs softly. “And unsanitary, yes.”

Louis could stop talking to him now. It seems like a good place to stop. And H has already looked away in the two seconds that Louis gives him time too. He looks out the window, raising his straw to his mouth.

Louis doesn't want to stop just yet.

“What do you do for 10 plus hours then?” he questions and H turns to him again. “What do you suggest?”

Ringed fingers drum a staccato rhythm on H’s knee. “Lots of sleep,” he says. “A drink. They usually have a nice selection. A book or a movie saved to your laptop if you've got it. Taking full advantage of the free Wifi. And of course, frequent trips to the loo to stretch your legs.”

“Brilliant. They should put that in the little guide book,” Louis says, gesturing to the back of the seat ahead of him where there's a safety manual tucked into the pocket.

“I'd charge too steep of a price for my tips,” H replies.

“But you just gave them to me for free.”

H smiles. “You called me pleasant. Consider it a trade.”

“Got it. Maybe I should compliment you again,” Louis muses. “Nice boots.”

H glances at his shiny black leather boots as if he's forgotten he has them on. “Thanks,” he says with a small laugh. “Nice jumper.”

“Is that how we're doing this then? Compliment for compliment?”

“Seems fair,” H agrees.

“I was hoping you'd tell me your name in exchange for the comment on your boots," Louis says. All or nothing, right? “Since we’ll be sat next together for a while.”

H's eyes, still hidden by the sunglasses, linger on him. "I’m Harry," he says at last.

Louis offers his hand for a shake. "Louis," he says. "Nice to meet you."

Harry takes his hand and shakes. "Same to you." They release hands but the touch of Harry's lingers.

“Am I keeping you from your book?” Louis questions.

Harry glances at his iPad. He purses his pink lips as he thinks. “No,” he settles on saying. “I'll probably read when you fall asleep.”

“Who says I'm planning to fall asleep?”

“We all eventually fall asleep.”

“That almost sounds like a challenge.”

Harry laughs. “It sounds like you want it to be.”

“I do. I'm always up for competition,” Louis says. “How about whoever falls asleep first buys the other a drink?”

Harry hesitates again.  “You’re on,” he decides to say, and Louis smiles triumphantly.

They quiet down to listen to the flight attendant’s safety instructions and the captain welcoming them all aboard. It’s a 10-hour flight to Columbus, Ohio. The weather when they land will be 76 degrees but that doesn’t matter to Louis considering he won’t leave the airport. Which reminds him...

“What’s in Ohio for you?” he asks Harry quietly.

“I’m just passing through,” Harry replies.

“To where?”

“LA,” Harry says. “Like you.”

“First time?”

“No. I have a house there,” Harry says.

Louis takes in the leather personalized bag, the leather shoes, the polished hair and polished clothes. It’s not so much that he can smell the money on Harry. He can see it easily.

“When did you leave the UK?” Louis wonders.

“I haven’t. I live in London too. I travel back and forth between the two cities, and Paris too,” Harry says with a smile.

“You’re not a celebrity, are you?” Louis asks. “You give off that vibe.”

“Not a celebrity,” Harry says. And then, “Not really.”

Louis waits for him to go on.

“In some circles, yes. But to the general public, I think no,” Harry says. “My name’s more popular than my face.”

“The suspense is killing me,” Louis says.

“I’m a designer. Does Harry Styles ring a bell for you? It’s okay if it doesn’t.”

If not for that bag he’d given his sister a year ago, Louis would have said no. But he thinks a lot lately about the 350 quid he’d put down for Lottie’s Christmas gift. He thinks about the word “Styles” emblazoned in gold across the front.

“I do actually. You owe me 350 quid,” Louis says.

Harry’s smile dissipates. “Were you unhappy with a product?”

Louis remarkably doesn’t laugh but he wants to. The childlike concern causing Harry’s eyes to widen is too adorable. “Me, yes, but my sister seemed quite happy when I gave her one of your purses.”

“Will it reassure you at all if I say I’m starting a more cost-friendly line?”

Louis makes a show of thinking about it for a long time. “It’s a step in the right direction,” he says finally, and Harry actually looks relieved.

Again, they drift into silence for take off. Louis grips the end of his armrest discreetly as the plane shakes and rattles, and lifts dizzyingly off the ground. From the little twitch of Harry’s mouth, it seems he notices anyway. They’re quiet through the duration of it. When the seatbelt sign goes off, Louis releases an inaudible sigh of relief. Beside him, Harry shifts around in his seat and then sighs, audibly.

“I have to ask,” Louis says. “Wouldn’t you normally fly first class?”

Harry sighs again, even louder. “Yes. But my assistant somehow booked the worst seat she could find.”

Louis frowns. “It’s not so bad now, is it?” he asks, unreasonably bruised.

Harry gives him a small smile. “Not so much now,” he agrees. “I’d originally aimed to arrive in LA by this afternoon. And with the layover, I won’t get there now until tomorrow. Which means I’ll miss a meeting and lunch with my sister...”

He stops talking abruptly. “Sorry.”

“For what?” Louis asks. “Talk away. I’ve got plenty of time to kill.”

“Careful. You’ll never get me to shut up now,” Harry says.

“Mission accomplished then,” Louis replies.

Harry smiles. The flight attendant comes by with a drink cart. “Something to drink?” she asks.

“Tea, please,” Harry says.

“Same,” Louis tells her.

They lower their drink trays while the flight attendant pours them cups of hot water. Louis glances to his right, just in time to see Harry remove his sunglasses. He squeezes the bridge of his nose to suppress a migraine, and slides a hand through his long hair and then he looks at Louis. And Louis stops thinking for a second. Stops breathing even.

The mole, the dimple, and the elegant cut of Harry’s jaw have all been clear to see from the start. But with the glasses gone, the full scope of his beauty arrests Louis.

His eyes are a bright, soft green, curtained by long lashes. When they land on him, Louis has a full-on existential crisis, like if someone quite this beautiful exists on earth, how can earth be real? How can Louis himself be real? What does it mean to be real?

“Sir,” the flight attendant says. Louis looks away.

“Oh, thank you,” he says, accepting the cup. He fixes his tea silently, without looking again in Harry’s direction, as much as he’d like to.

“What’s in LA for you?” Harry asks.

Louis sets his stirrer down and takes a sip of his tea. “My best friends got married last year and moved out there. I haven’t had a chance to see them since they settled in.”

“Should be fun,” Harry says.

“I’m hoping so,” Louis says, and he glances at him again, while Harry blows softly on the surface of his tea. His eyes meet Louis’ and his brows furrow.

“So, do you usually bring your boyfriend or girlfriend along for these trips or…?” As soon as the question leaves his mouth, Louis pictures a window exploding in the plane and propelling him alone into the open air. He’d deserve it.

Harry laughs, a little awkwardly. “Um. I don’t have one.”

“Which one?”

“Boyfriend,” Harry says. “You?”

“Me neither,” Louis explains. “Although, I’m finding it hard to believe. With you...”

Harry rests his chin atop his fist, smile growing. “Why’s that?”

Louis stares into his cup for a second. “I feel like...you probably only need a glance in the mirror to answer that one,” he says, clearing his throat.

Harry smiles slowly, brows lifting. “Well, same to you,” he says, after a moment. “What’s your reasoning?”

“Why I’m single?” Louis clarifies. Harry nods. “Truthfully, I wasn’t up until a few days ago.”

Harry’s smile dims. “Poor move on their part.”

Louis laughs. “Don’t flirt with me. I might take you seriously,” he says. “What’s your excuse?”

“Too busy?” Harry guesses. “Or maybe I’ve never met someone I want to make time for.”

Louis nods. “Think I might have the same problem. Not that I’m as busy as you.”

“What do you do?” Harry asks after a sip of tea.

“Nothing right now. Actually lost my job earlier this week,” Louis says.

Harry stares at him, eyes widening. “Wait. You lost your job and your boyfriend in the same week?”

“Sure did.”

“Were they related?”

“You mean like was my boyfriend my boss?” Louis asks.

Harry laughs, pressing a hand to his mouth. “Not exactly. But was he?”

“No.” Louis laughs. “They weren’t related either. The universe just decided it was a good week to make me as miserable as possible.”.

“Except you’re here now,” Harry reminds him. “California-bound. And you’re sat next to someone pleasant. Not so bad, right?”

“Not bad at all really,” Louis says. “Clearly, you should sit in economy class more often. You’re changing lives right now. Bet you couldn’t say the same sitting up there.”

Harry laughs, loudly enough that he feels compelled to press the back of his hand to his mouth, which is probably the cutest thing Louis has seen in a while. Together, they lift their cups for another sip. And then they talk and make their way to a second cup each, and talk more.

✺

At some point, Louis removes his denim jacket and Harry removes his blazer, but Harry can’t remember when. Just like he doesn’t remember them pushing the armrest between their seats up and out of the way. Just like he doesn’t remember falling asleep.

What he remembers is waking up. The smell of fresh detergent, cologne and faintly, cigarettes. There’s something warm and firm beneath his cheek, something with a heartbeat. Blinking, he lifts his head, and sees Louis.

“I’m sorry,” he says immediately, shoving his hair away from his face.

“I didn’t mind,” Louis says. “Also, by the way, I won.”

Harry makes a face. “Did I drool on you?”

Louis glances down at himself. “Luckily no.”

“I’m still embarrassed,” Harry says, dragging a hand over his face. “I didn’t get much sleep last night.”

“I really didn’t mind. I was getting ready to doze off myself,” Louis says. “Plus, your hair smells like peaches? Not sure how you managed that but…”

Harry’s lips twitch. And then he laughs softly, unable to resist. “It’s from a line a friend of mine started. Smells great but it’s horribly overpriced. I usually just stick to Loreal.”

“You’re literally a millionaire,” Louis says.

“Yeah, but who needs shampoo for 400 quid?”

“400--” Louis nearly swallows his tongue. “Jesus.”

“I know . It’s supposedly infused with some rare fruit,” Harry explains.

“Is it the forbidden fruit from the fucking Garden of Eden?” Louis questions.

Harry snorts, pressing a hand to his mouth again. “Stop,” he mutters through his fingers.

“I have a question, seriously.”

“Shoot,” Harry says.

Louis winces. “Poor wording on a plane, Harold.”

Harry covers his whole face when he laughs this time. “You’re awful. And it’s Harry...”

“Right. So, are you one of those rich blokes who gets his shoes polished at the airport?” Louis asks. “This question’s been bothering for a good hour.”

Harry smiles. “I’ve done it before, yeah.”

“Tell me you’re joking,” Louis grumbles. Harry says nothing. “Fuck, you were almost perfect.”

Harry rests his head to the back of his seat. “So sorry to disappoint you.”

“You’re not really.”

Harry makes a show of looking down at his shoes. “Could use a polish now honestly,” he says. “Might have to get one in Ohio.”

“I’d never speak to you again,” Louis says like they’re best friends with plans to speak after this trip. Harry studies him closely for just a second.

“I’d get you one too,” he says. “A shoe shine on me.”

“I’m wearing Vans,” Louis tells him, flatly.

Harry grins. “Even so.”

“How about a drink for now?” Louis says. “You owe me one.”

“I do,” Harry says, and then he leans over Louis and glances into the aisle. He thinks he hears Louis’ breath catch. Or maybe it’s his own. He doesn’t see the flight attendant, because just as soon as he starts to look for her, he draws back.

He doesn’t know what’s gotten into him. Flirty and charming aren’t traits he makes use of in his free time. If he talks sweetly to a potential client or schmoozes with a model, it’s merely for the trade and he's good at it -- for the trade. He hasn’t gone out of his way to win anyone over solely because he likes them in years. Maybe not since before university.

That isn’t to say he likes Louis in any particular way. He’s just embarrassingly attracted to him. The sharp blue eyes, the button nose, and the wispy hair leave him speechless from the jump. Louis is gorgeous and funny -- a rare, lethal combination. He smells like a warm bed and a favorite blanket. And if the questions he’s asked, the comments he’s made, or the linger of his gaze are anything to go by, he seems to reciprocate.

So Harry simply forgot himself. Just now, he forgot that Louis’ space wasn’t his to take so freely. “Sorry,” he says.

“It’s fine,” Louis replies quickly. “I’ll call her.”

He angles his torso, tilting his head out the aisle. The position stretches his shirt over his back and his trim waist. Harry looks away.

He can’t pursue a guy in an airplane. He doesn’t know exactly why. He just knows he can’t do it. There are ethical, societal rules that say so. Surely.

He buys Louis a little bottle of Henny and has vodka for himself.

“You never told me what you do,” he says.

Louis lifts his brows with his cup to his mouth.

“Like I know you aren’t working now but what’s your aspired profession, I guess?”

Louis sets his cup down. “I went to school for graphic design. But the job I lost was at a bank, as a bank teller,” he says with a snort. “So, I don’t know what I’m aspiring to but I'm clearly not getting there.”

The cynicism drips from his tongue. From the faint, growing flush on his cheekbones, it seems he realizes it too. He shrugs. “I don’t know.”

Harry pushes his sleeves up to his elbows. “So you sketch sometimes then?”

“Yeah,” Louis says after a pause.

Harry pushes his napkin to him. He finds a pen in the pocket of his blazer and hands it off. “Draw me something.”

Louis’ brows crease. “Like what?”

“Anything at all,” Harry says. “Don’t think too hard about it. Just doodle.”

Even then, Louis hesitates, slowly twisting the pen tip out. “You too then,” he says, sliding Harry his own napkin. “Show me what you can do.”

Harry laughs. He finds another pen in his duffle. “No peeking.”

“Speak for yourself,” Louis mutters, already turned away and hiding his napkin with his shoulder.

Harry doesn't even know what he's working on. He starts with flowers, cherry blossoms, which he's accustomed to drawing when he needs to relax. He ends up drawing a gentle hand around the branch too, careful attention paid to the knuckles, and the number 28 on the middle fingers. He has to glance at Louis’s hand to draw it and each time he does he catches Louis’ eye.

“Are you cheating?” Louis asks.

“How would I cheat with something like this?” Harry wonders.

“If anyone could do it, it's you,” Louis shoots back with a little scrunch of his nose. Harry has the terrifying impulse to lean over and press a kiss to it.

“Done,” he says in the next two minutes.

“One second,” Louis mumbles. He takes several more seconds and then he places his pen down. “Alright.”

They look at each other.

“At the same time?” Harry suggests.

Louis nods, and pushes his napkin to Harry. Harry slides his back.

He’s drawn a smiling mouth, a dimple, sunglasses, and curly hair, just the outline of Harry’s profile, and beside it, he’s drawn the plane window with clouds drifting by. Harry smiles slowly, studying the mouth, which Louis paid careful attention to. It’s such a simple drawing but the details are all there and hard to miss. He lifts his head and looks at him. Louis is looking back.

“My hand?” he says.

“You have nice hands,” Harry tells him. He lifts the napkin and waves it. “This is really good.”

“So is this,” Louis says, smiling.

“What’s the 28 for?” Harry asks. “If you don’t mind me asking.”

“Lucky number,” Louis explains.

Harry looks at the drawing again. “Seriously, this is really good,” he says. “Do you have a portfolio?”

“Not on me but I can pull something up. Could I borrow your iPad maybe?”

Harry pulls his iPad out, unlocks it, and hands it off. He watches Louis type around and access some site, drumming his fingers while he waits for the wifi to kick in here and there. All the while, Harry watches his hands, or his mouth, or the sweep of his eyelashes. It’s the lack of space. If you sit cooped up beside an attractive person for long enough, it’s inevitable that you fall somewhat for them.

Except, by that logic, Harry would have fallen for the many men before Louis. All the models and photographers he’s worked with. He’s never felt anything like this then.

Louis tosses his fringe away from his eyes and hands the iPad over. “It’s all pretty rough, I guess,” he says. “I need to update it now that I have time.”

Harry starts flipping through Louis’ online portfolio while Louis chatters on.

“...especially if I want to start looking for jobs in my field again. I haven’t worked on most of that stuff since university, so.” Harry isn’t listening to him. He’s looking at Louis’ work. At Louis’ marvel of work. At the smooth lines and bursts of bright color. The ingenuity and spontaneity incorporated in each design.

“That design especially is really old,” Louis says while Harry rotates the screen and studies a mock-up advertisement for a mental health facility for children. One of the sketches is of a little girl with flowers and butterflies and hummingbirds in place of her hair.

“I’d entered this contest but I didn’t win. It wasn’t any good…”

Harry looks at him. “You have to stop,” he says. Louis stops talking. “This is…”

He takes a breath and looks at the screen again. “This is all really fantastic, Louis.”

“I wouldn’t say that…” Louis mumbles, twirling his thumbs around themselves.

Harry sets his gaze on him. It’s a look he reserves for Sophie when she apologizes more than 10 times for one thing. Unsmiling, unblinking. He waits until Louis quiets again.

“Are you finished?” Harry asks. “Or do you need some more time to be self-deprecating?”

“I’m not being--”

“No?” Harry lifts a brow.

“Is this how you talk to your interns?” Louis wonders.

“Sometimes, yes,” Harry says, a smile slipping through the guise.

“Does it work to get them under your control or do they just end up with crushes on you?”

“I’d think both,” Harry muses. “Are you saying you have a crush on me?”

Louis rolls his eyes. “Put yourself in my shoes for a second. If you were stuck on a plane next to a ridiculously attractive bloke for several hours, wouldn’t you have a little crush on him?”

Harry’s ears and cheekbones feel warm. He looks away. “You say ‘put yourself in my shoes’ as if I’m not already there,” he murmurs. He wakes the iPad again. “I’d love to get you in contact with a few of my friends. Plenty of designers with firms, looking for fresh ideas. I think they’d want to meet you.”

Louis’ gaze on him makes the low heat of Harry’s skin boil. “You don’t have to do me any favors,” he says.

“It wouldn’t be just a favor,” Harry says. “You showed me your work and I like what I see. I think it’s brilliant and creative, and just the kind of thing the design industry is hungry for.”

When he looks at him, Louis’ skin has flushed too. He gives a short, breathy laugh and says, “If you wanted my number, you could have just asked me straight.”

Harry shakes his head, racked with laughter. “Be serious. I really mean it,” he says. “Really, really.”

“Well, thank you then,” Louis says, sliding his fingers through his fringe.

Harry smiles. “You’re welcome.”

✺

Louis wakes to the smell of peaches. And unlike Harry hours earlier, he doesn’t move. In fact, he shuffles closer. Harry sleeps with his head against the window, body angled so that Louis can rest his head comfortably against his chest.

He doesn’t know how he ended up like this but he likes it a lot. Problem is he suddenly has to wee. He turns his nose towards Harry’s chest discreetly and takes a big whiff of his shirt and his cologne. He catches a bit of chest hair and the edges of a tattoo.

Reluctantly, he draws away and that's when Harry wakes up, big green eyes connecting with Louis’. There’s this moment where they’re just looking at one another, like something right out of a movie. It’s packed full of tension and magnetized so as to push them closer together. Briefly, Louis wonders what would happen, if he leaned back in, rested his head to Harry’s chest while they were both awake and conscious of it happening. Would Harry curl his arm around his waist? Would he press a kiss to his forehead?

Louis pulls back further. “Hi,” he says quietly.

“Hey,” Harry mumbles, taking a deep breath. He sits up a bit. “Okay?”

“Good, yeah. Have to run to the loo,” Louis says, unbuckling his seatbelt.

Harry nods, eyes steady, curious. Louis slips out of his seat and hurries down the aisle. He takes a moment in the bathroom, wishing he could use his phone here, so he could call Liam and Zayn, and ask them if it’s a good idea to make a move on the bloke beside him in the plane.

He splashes a bit of water on his face and hears the pilot report on the intercom, “30 minutes left until landing.” He heads back to his seat and buckles in as instructed.

Harry has another napkin, scribbling across it. “Um, so I’m jotting down the number for one of my friends, Claire. She has a new design company and she’s been looking for a partner for a while,” he says, and glances at Louis. “And this is another friend, Aaron. He’s based in New York but he works with George who lives in London. They’re both gay. And then Liz, Piper, and Frank are all designers as well. Rob is starting a clothing line and I think he’d love help with branding. I think once they see your work they’ll all be sold but you can let them know you’re a friend of mine if you think it’ll help.”

Louis’ gaze sweeps down Harry’s profile. He feels lulled by the slow, sleepy drawl of his voice and the calm flutter of his lashes. He’s pulled his blazer back on and now he reaches into the inner pocket and pulls out a business card.

“And this...is my card. If you need to contact me,” he says, handing the napkin and the card over to Louis.

Louis takes both. “Are you saying goodbye already? We’re only in Ohio.”

“I’m going to catch a sooner flight to LA when we land,” Harry explains. “So I can make my meeting in the morning.”

Louis nods. “That’s unfortunate.”

Harry taps his pen on the tray table. His mouth opens, words forming in the breath he draws, but the flight attendant appears beside them in the next second and asks them politely to store their tray tables away. Whatever it was he wanted to say passes as quickly as she does.

After that, with their time limited, the minutes move faster than ever. He doesn’t have anything else to say to fill the silence and so he sits it out, squeezes the armrest periodically while the plane begins to land, and then exhales when they touch the ground.

He and Harry unbuckle and collect their bags. They’re silent as they amble out of the plane and into the airport terminal. Louis pulls his rucksack on and looks at him, finding Harry paused there with the strap of his bag thrown over his shoulder. Louis opens his mouth. Harry beats him to it.

“Would you want to maybe get a drink?” he asks. “Or food? The next flight doesn’t leave for another hour or so.”

“Yeah,” Louis says. “I’d love that.”

✺

It's late in Ohio. Or early depending on how you look at it. Just past three a.m. and dark beyond the airport windows. He and Louis are sleepy in that odd sort of way you are after a poorly timed nap.

They end up grabbing an order of chips to share and cups of Coke before nestling on the floor by the window of a mostly empty terminal. And Harry, with his hair fixed into a bun and his sleeves pushed again to his elbows, ends up telling Louis about Sophie.

“Everyone tells me to fire her,” he says. “At this point I don’t know if I’m taking a chance on her or if I’m just being willfully ignorant.”

“Well, why aren’t you firing her?” Louis asks. “You say you’re taking a chance on her. But so far you’ve told me she’s spilled coffee three times. She’s been late. She booked you the wrong flight. She doesn’t know Jimmy Choos from Louboutins or whatever. So...what’s it really?”

Harry laughs. Hearing it repeated back to him, it sounds even worse. He leans his head against the cement column that’s keeping them somewhat obstructed from view. “I see a little bit of myself in her, maybe. Not with the messups, because I never messed up. But in the eagerness and the drive. Even when she trips, she picks herself back up and goes at it again. And she’s talented. Out of all my interns, her designs have always been the best.”

Louis nods, taking a long sip of his Coke. “Then are you worried that by firing her, you’ll be keeping her from being great like you?”

“Better than me,” Harry says. “Better than my old boss, Wilma. I think if she gets the help she needs and learns to focus, she could be better than all of us.”

Louis rests his head against the window. “You’re a good person.”

“You think so?” Harry asks. And he rests his head to the window too, angles his body toward Louis’.

“I do,” Louis says. “I think anyone else would have fired her already. What you’re doing is being selfless. I say give her another month or so, and see if she shapes up. But don’t torture yourself. Don’t keep holding onto an idea of her. Some people are born with potential but not ambition. And that isn’t your fault.”

Harry smiles. “You’re a good person too, you know.”

“I’m aware,” Louis says, tossing his invisible long hair.

“Good,” Harry says with a soft laugh. “I wouldn’t want you to think...that with how the week has gone for you, that you deserved any of it. You deserve much, much better.”

“Tell that to Citibank and my ex,” Louis murmurs.

“First of all, you’re an extremely talented graphic designer, who should be doing graphic design. If I told them anything, I’d tell them that,” Harry says. “And also your ex is a fucking idiot. I don’t know the whole story but if he broke up with you, then yeah, he’s an idiot.”

Louis laughs, pressing the back of his hand to his mouth. “He told me I didn’t fit into his life and his goals.”

“See what I mean?” Harry says. “That doesn’t even make any sense. You are a goal.”

Louis lifts his head off the window and looks at him steadily. “Oh, yeah?”

Harry can’t remember the last time someone’s made him blush or made him stutter over his words. He makes the mistake of looking Louis directly in his blue eyes and it sort of solidifies everything for him. He was done for the second this lad stepped on the plane.

“Of course,” he says. “Anyone would be really lucky to have you.”

Louis’ lips twitch. He bites into the bottom one, and then asks, quietly, “Even you?”

“Absolutely,” Harry replies.

“You don’t even know me,” Louis murmurs.

“I know enough,” Harry says.

And then there’s just silence and their gazes stuck together and this question hanging in the balance of what to do next. To move or not to move?

Harry wants to move.

“How opposed would you be to me kissing you?” he asks.

Without pause, Louis’ eyes drop to his mouth. He smiles. “So opposed,” he mumbles. They sway closer anyhow, laughing softly. Louis whispers, “Never been more opposed to anything.”

“Did I offend you by even asking?” Harry asks, his voice hushed. Their noses brush. He lifts a hand to cup the back of Louis’ neck. “Bet you wish you’d never sat beside me.”

“I’m going to live the rest of my life with regret,” Louis assures him, running his mouth across Harry’s.

Harry lifts his other hand, cradles Louis’ face like a gift. “I’d say sorry but I’m not,” he says, and then he kisses him fully.

Harry has dabbled with enough of the wild and the weird in his lifetime, given his career and his age in an industry dominated by people decades older than him. He’s celebrated advances by spending nights gargling booze and screaming songs he doesn’t know the lyrics to. He’s gotten so high he skinny-dipped in Jean Paul Gaultier’s swimming pool, and serenaded Kate Moss’ husband.

But this right here, making out with a bloke in an airport terminal, is weird, wild, and wonderful. This kiss is the best that’s come or is to come. Louis is soft, everywhere that Harry touches him. His mouth is soft and his waist where one of Harry’s hands inevitably ends up. Even the noises he makes are soft too.

And yet he’s warm, firm, and solid too. It doesn’t even make sense. From the beginning, Louis has never completely made sense. Maybe that’s what Harry likes most. In spite of all his professional training and business etiquette, he doesn’t know how to exactly navigate the man beneath his fingertips.

Louis’ hand comes to rest atop Harry’s, thumb brushing over his skin. He sinks his teeth into Harry’s bottom lip as he pulls away, and sets his mouth on Harry’s neck instead.

“This is crazy,” Harry murmurs, eyes shutting.

“But good,” Louis replies, scooting closer. Harry hopes foolishly that Louis will sling a leg over his thighs and straddle him. He pictures it and then he’s reaching both hands for Louis’ hips, ready to pull him where he wants him.

Except then he hears the intercom, the rolling of luggage wheels, the ding of a lift. The sounds of the terminal come back to him and Harry opens his eyes.

“We can’t do this here,” he murmurs.

Louis draws back. “Do what exactly? Thought we were just making out?”

“I’ll be really honest. I want to do more than make out,” Harry says. Because he’s being honest.

Louis laughs and licks his lips. He glances around. They don’t have an audience but it wouldn’t be that way forever. Of course, there’s the loo but Harry doesn’t suggest it. He doesn’t want to fool around with Louis next to a toilet. He wants to take his time and he wants to have room to do so.

“Do you have my card?” he asks.

Louis reaches into his back pocket and draws it out. Harry finds his pen in his jacket pocket and scribbles his address on the back. “If you have time while you’re in LA, I’d love to see you. I can come to you as well. Or we can meet somewhere. It doesn’t matter.”

Louis smiles, tucking the card away. “We’ll be in touch.”

Harry looks at his mouth again and his collarbones and the flush of his cheeks. “I’m really regretting buying that ticket now.”

“Stop flattering me,” Louis murmurs.

“Can’t help it,” Harry says, and he draws in for one last kiss, this one slower, sweeter. It aches to pull away but eventually, when there’s no time left, he does.

✺

Landed?

Louis grins and snatches his phone up. He only remembers who he’s surrounded by as he starts on a reply. He glances at Zayn across the table and of course, finds Zayn already with his eyes on him. He sends a message back to Harry.

Safe and sound. Having coffee with mates

He sets his phone down, intent on ignoring it.

Good. Knock knock.

He frowns at the phone and lifts it again. Who’s there? he types, and he means it seriously. There’s like a thirty percent chance a five-year-old’s just stolen Harry’s phone.

Dying.

That’s a little morbid…

You’re supposed to say dying who?

You didn’t plan this one out long enough did you?

Louis.

Dying who?

Dying to see you again? x

Louis pauses, thumbs frozen above his screen. He smiles again, forgetting Zayn and Liam until a wadded paper napkin bounces off the side of his head. He glares across the table. “Ow.”

“That didn’t hurt,” Liam says. “Who are you texting? And did you check his facebook before getting involved?”

Louis rolls his eyes, typing and erasing a message repeatedly before he settles on: Let’s make sure you don’t have to wait too long then.

He looks at Liam. “I don’t even know if he has a facebook.”

I agree, Harry sends back.

Louis drafts another ten messages and deletes them all. He hears Zayn and Liam talking to him but he tunes them out until he sends his next message. How does tomorrow sound?

Zayn has his own phone in hand now. “What’s his name?” he asks.

Louis’ phone buzzes. Good. But tonight sounds better.

“Mate, you’re actually blushing,” Liam reports.

Louis knows that without anyone having to tell him. His skin feels like it’s burning, even while the touch of Harry’s fingers on the back of his neck lingers. He’s never been kissed like that.

“What is his name ?” Zayn repeats, enunciating each word carefully.

“I’m not blushing,” Louis mumbles. He swipes his tongue over his bottom lip. He can almost feel Harry’s mouth on his too.

“Definitely blushing,” Zayn tells him. “His name?”

Too much? Harry sends.

I know you're jetlagged and catching up with friends...

Louis takes a breath, adjusting his fringe. Not too much. Think I need to catch up w/ my mates :(

“For fuck’s sake,” he hears Zayn grumble.

“He wants to see me tonight,” Louis says, squeezing his jaws when they grow sore from smiling. He drops his head to the table and stays there.

“The one with no name?” Zayn questions.

“It’s Harry Styles,” Louis says. “Jesus.”

When Liam and Zayn don’t reply, Louis lifts his head and looks at them. They’re looking at each other, having one of those silent conversations that drives Louis up the fucking wall every time, and then they shake their heads, laughing.

Liam says to Louis, “That’s the same name as the guy who dated Tom Ford before he got married.”

“Who’s Tom Ford?” Louis asks.

Zayn sighs solemnly, as if he can’t believe this isn’t common knowledge, can’t believe he’s being forced to answer such a question. “Famous designer who worked at Gucci? Has his own line now? He made the cologne you’re wearing?”

“Oh!” Louis nods, taking a sip of his Frappuccino. “Actually, Harry is a designer too, so. You might know of him.”

Liam and Zayn stare at him and then at each other.

“I really doubt that he’s the famous designer, Harry Styles,” Zayn says.

“He said he was a little famous,” Louis replies with a shrug.

“A little?” Liam repeats. “Michelle Obama has worn a pair of his earrings and that blazer during the State of the Union address last year.”

“Shit. I guess that’s possible,” Louis says. “He mentioned that he used to work for a woman named Wilma? When he was 18?”

Zayn’s mouth drops open. He starts tapping furiously on his phone.

“Wilma Menckin ?” Liam questions. “Of Sonnenblum?

Louis scoffs. “Sure. Whatever that means.”

“This Harry Styles?” Zayn asks, holding his phone out to him with an image on screen. Of Harry, dressed in all black, on some red carpet. His hands are tucked away in his pockets and his smile is bright. And he looks glorious.

Louis’ eyes trail wistfully across the screen. He takes the phone and starts sorting through the pictures. “Holy shit, is that Kate Middleton?” he mumbles to himself, seeing a picture of Harry with a woman that looks alarmingly like the Duchess.

“Better question: is that the man you’re talking to right now?” Zayn asks, almost hysterically.

“Yeah,” Louis says, studying a picture where Harry’s dimple is especially prominent. “That’s him.”

Liam narrows his eyes. “You’re joking.”

“There’s no way,” Zayn says, shaking his head. “You’re taking the piss.”

“I’m not, I swear,” Louis says. “Why would I lie about this?”

“You do it all the time,” Liam replies. “And then you laugh at us for believing you.”

Louis sighs. “Don't believe me then,” he says. He reaches for his phone when it buzzes again.

No problem.

He looks at Zayn and Liam, both watching him curiously, leaning forward a bit in their seats. “Let’s get out of here,” he says. “Show me the city.”

“Aren’t you tired?” Zayn asks.

“No, I’m excited,” Louis says, cheerfully. He stands, clapping his hands once together, and lifts his duffle off the floor. “Time to explore.”

And that’s what they do. Warily at first, Liam and Zayn show him a few sites down Hollywood and Sunset Boulevard, and mark others to check out during Louis’ stay. They grab burgers at In N’ Out to take home, content to spend the rest of that afternoon reclined on the couch.

“Tomorrow, we should check out Griffith Park,” Liam says, jotting down notes. “We could even have a picnic there.”

Zayn hums, head settled in Liam’s lap. “Sounds good. Lou?”

“Yeah,” Louis says. “A picnic sounds fun.”

Especially because he’s been so lonely in the UK. Because he’s looked forward to being here for so long. Which is why he feels badly for thinking about Harry as much as he does now.

After a power nap or two to sleep off the burger and chips, he wakes to a message from him, and starts with the smiling again. Zayn nudges him with his toe.

“Seriously, who are you actually talking to?” he asks.

Louis looks at the picture on his phone that Harry sent, of him and a pan of brownies, and a caption. all I need now is ice cream.

And he turns the phone toward Liam and Zayn. “Harry,” he says. “With brownies.”

The notebook falls from Liam’s hands. Zayn sits upright, eyes the size of planets. “Holy fuck.”

“This isn’t possible,” Liam mumbles, both hands pressed to the sides of his face.

Zayn has a fist pressed to his mouth, breathing harshly, eyes trained on the screen. They’re way too dramatic, which maybe is why they’re perfect for each other.

With a gasp of breath, Liam says, “Tell us everything.”

After a second of hesitation, Louis does his best to, in the awestruck and reverent way the story demands.

Holding the business card Louis whipped out as further proof, Zayn says, “What the fuck are you sitting here for then?”

Louis’ mouth opens to reply but nothing comes out.

“You need to go, buy some ice cream, and take it to him,” Liam says, as calmly as he can manage. “And then you need to come back and tell us more.”

It’s past 8 by now, but he’s forced to shower and dress, and after Zayn decides he doesn’t like his shirt, he gives him one of his own. When they’re finished, Louis is happy enough to escape them both. It’s not a long trip to Harry’s place in Beverly Hills but it doesn’t go as smoothly as he hopes.

Harry’s eyes widen in horror when he sees him standing there on his doorstep. “Did you walk here?”

Louis smiles. “Not quite,” he says. “Caught a cab but I told them the wrong address.”

“How?” Harry asks.

“You’ve got funny handwriting. Thought it was a 9, not a 4,” Louis says. “Then I thought it wouldn’t be too far to walk the rest of the way. But you know, rain…” He gestures vaguely at the sky. Rainwater drips from his hair and over his eyelashes. He holds up the paper bag in his hand. “But I got ice cream.”

“Jesus,” Harry breathes. He reaches for his arm and pulls him inside. “Thank you for the ice cream. Take off your shoes. Let me get you a towel.”

“Yes, please,” Louis says, running his hands through his damp hair. He pushes it away from his eyes. Harry hurries off through his house, and only then does Louis realize quite how massive it is. The foyer is fixed with glass walls and a chandelier that shoots starry beams of light all over the space. The floors are white marble, newly polished from the way they too reflect the chandelier.

Beyond the foyer, Louis makes out a dark wood staircase, also polished, and leading up to the bedrooms, Louis assumes.

“Come in,” he hears Harry call from somewhere in the house. He toes off his shoes and treads carefully inside, his damp clothing dripping with each step. There’s a nook off to the side, lined with books on both sides, a cozy armchair in the corner, and a large window. The rain pours relentlessly but not enough to obstruct the view. Louis steps closer, looking out over LA.

“Here.” Harry throws a big, fluffy towel around his shoulders, and starts rubbing it vigorously against Louis’ body. He looks at him with a frown. “I’m sorry.”

“For?” Louis questions.

“You walking in the rain. If I hadn’t  asked--”

“I would have sat there wishing you did,” Louis finished for him.

Harry shakes his head, unconvinced. He rubs the towel over Louis’ back, up to the back of his neck, drying the ends of his hair. Louis looks at the cross pendant hanging over Harry’s chest.

“Thanks for not turning back,” Harry murmurs.

Louis lifts his gaze. “I didn’t want to.”

Harry’s hands slow on the center of Louis’ back. He looks at him, eyes mapping each point of Louis’ face, brows perplexed like he doesn’t understand what he’s seeing. Beside them, the rain continues to pour, and the moon passing over raindrops on the window casts dotted shadows on their skin.

The way Harry looks at him makes Louis’ spine feel like a live wire, firing off at random points with frenzied current. He wants to reach for him and yank him close. But it’s Harry who does it first, his hands spread out on Louis’ lower back used to reel him forward.

He kisses him hard, leaning into him until Louis is forced to lean back. He claims Louis’ mouth like it’s always belonged to him, not just now but in the past too, waiting for him, and in the future, unattainable for anyone else. And Louis wants that. More than anything, Louis wants Harry to lay claim to every part of his body.

He reaches down, hopefully to remove an article of clothing or two. But he's stopped by Harry's hands around his wrists. The towel drops to the floor and Louis’ wrists end up against the bookshelf, pinned and unmoveable. Harry kisses him again and Louis goes pliant.

They mouth at each other, lips sliding against lips, against jaws, throats, collarbones. Each time Harry nips at his skin, Louis’ cock gives a curious twitch. When he must be covered in soft bruises, he groans, “Stop teasing me.”

“What do you want?” Harry asks.

“Out of these clothes,” Louis says.

Harry releases his wrists to slide his fingers beneath the hem of his shirt. Still damp, it clings to Louis’ skin on its way off and hits the floor with a slap. His jeans, before he knows it, are gone too. Harry kneels before him, his hand on the back of Louis’ bare thigh.

“You too,” Louis says.

Harry shakes his head. “Not yet. Just want to look at you,” he murmurs. He runs his nose along the inside of Louis’ thigh. “How are you even real?”

“Give me something,” Louis says. “Take off the shirt at least.”

Harry reaches behind himself, grabs the back of his white t-shirt and pulls it over his head. He stands again and reaches for Louis’ thighs, lifts him easily, cupping the backs of his knees as he trots off to wherever it is he intends for this play out.

It turns out to be the couch, where he deposits Louis, and then flips him over.

Louis doesn’t think he’s been manhandled like this before either. Or if he’s ever liked it this much. “Jesus…” he murmurs.

Harry gives them a minute to catch their breath. But he secures Louis’ wrists to the couch cushion with just one of his hands. “You’ve got my head all messed up, Louis. I don’t usually do this.”

“Do what exactly?”

“Fall for strangers in airplanes. Bring them home.”

“Get rough with them?” Louis questions.

Harry rests his head against Louis’ shoulder, his hair spilling across his skin. “I can be gentle if you want.”

“No,” Louis says. “I like rough.”

“Good,” Harry murmurs, grinding and thrusting against Louis as if to take him. And Louis has never been more frustrated by the concept of clothing or even lube. Right now being fucked into this couch appeases him and yet…

“So you really mean to just tease me all night?” Louis murmurs.

“Of course not,” Harry answers. “Not all night.”

Louis laughs, rocking backward into Harry’s crotch while Harry pushes forward. Somehow this dry-humping, imitation of an actual fuck is hotter than the real deal. And then Harry draws his hips away.

“Can you stay still?” he asks, dragging his mouth down the back of Louis’ neck. His voice shakes as if he’s just managing to stay in control, which is good. Louis likes that he’s not the only one falling apart.

It takes Louis a moment to find his breath, to remember how his own tongue works to produce words. “Yeah,” is all he manages, breathlessly.

“Really still,” Harry says, releasing his wrists. “Hands there.”

Louis nods, letting his eyes slip shut. Harry’s mouth ventures down his spine. And Louis knows what’s coming, even before Harry hooks his fingers over the waistband of his briefs and drags them over the swell of his bum. They end up around his thighs, working as a bind. Harry’s mouth ends up at his tailbone, tongue sliding slowly to place Louis wants it most.

Louis buries his face in the couch cushion to keep from wailing or swearing. But Harry stops what he’s doing and says, roughly. “I want to hear you.”

So Louis gives him an earful.

Being at the mercy of Harry’s tongue is nice in theory. But in reality, it’s torture. Harry seems to take pleasure in watching Louis writhe, in tugging his hips up when they sink down towards the couch, in keeping him against his mouth. Louis doesn’t keep still at all but he thinks Harry likes that too. He’s merciless and Louis should have known, with those pink lips and even that cunning dimple.

His voice is nearly gone when he says it but he manages anyhow.

“Fuck me.”

Harry’s mouth is gone. “Yeah?”

“ Yes ,” Louis murmurs. “Now, please.”

Harry turns him over again, reaches for his hand and sweeps him up again.

“You were...sort of timid...on the plane, at first,” Louis mumbles after he’s sprawled on the bed, after he’s been coaxed open, and Harry’s just delivered a fucking detrimental thrust. How Louis can still speak at all is nothing short of a miracle. “Never would’ve known.”

Harry laughs, pressing a kiss to Louis’ jaw. Brushing the tip of his nose across Louis’ cheek, he murmurs, “This is all because you called me pleasant.”

Louis tries to laugh but all he can muster is a breathless, broken moan.

Afterwards, they stuff their faces with Harry's brownies and the cookie dough ice cream, but it doesn't keep them awake like high doses of sugar are prone. Soon enough, they're fast asleep, well making up for the hours they were suspended in the air.

✺

The thing is that being with Louis on a plane and even being with Louis in LA have felt a bit like a dream. Fate is an abstract concept. And meeting someone you instantly adore is a rarity. So, back in London, with reality fully upon him, Harry is beyond nervous for his and Louis’ first actual day together. And it’s a rather busy day he has planned.

Louis took his advice while in LA and sent his portfolio off to a few of Harry’s contacts, and it came as no surprise (to Harry, at least) that they all sent back with rave reviews and demands to meet as quickly as possible. So for the first week that Louis is London, he’s busy preparing for those meetings and working on his portfolio and trying to stay afloat, which means little time to see Harry.

When a day finally opens up for them, it happens to be the same one Harry planned to spend at his studio with Niall and the rest of his design team.

But his statement all those weeks ago while flying with Louis suddenly proves true: when he finds the right person, he’ll want to make time for them. And he really wants to make time for Louis.

He’s standing outside his building, dressed in a loose gray top, black jeans, and Oxford shoes, a parasol poised in his hands, dark brown hair swept to the side. Harry pulls up with his driver to the kerb and steps out, smiling, a little awestruck (read: a lot). “Hi.”

Louis grins. “Hi,” he says, stepping forward. “You look nice.”

“So do you,” Harry says. And his heart swells when Louis leans in and presses their mouths together. He steps past him and into the car. Harry slides in behind him.

“So where are you taking me?” Louis asks.

Harry smiles. “Promise you won’t think it’s silly?”

“I really doubt that I will,” Louis says.

“Sophie helped me plan it all.”

Louis’ brows crease. “But maybe I am a little concerned.”

“She’s getting better, I think. She handled this quite well,” Harry promises. “Anyway, I think I’d rather you be surprised.”

Louis settles into his seat. "Surprise me then."

And Harry does.

When they pull up to the tarmac hosting a solitary private jet, Louis looks at him with wide, unblinking eyes. “What is that?”

“A jet,” Harry says, plainly.

“Stop it. What are we doing here?” Louis asks in one rushed breath.

“Take a flight with me?” Harry says in reply. “We have all day.”

Louis laughs, his face flushed and looks again at the jet. “Holy shit,” he breathes. “To where? Where would we go?”

Harry reaches for his hand and threads their fingers together. He shrugs. “Anywhere.”