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It's not that Louis doesn't realize that things have changed between he and Harry. It's that he didn't realize how much Harry had changed, not until Harry mysteriously changes back.
Of course he understood that they didn't spend as much time together, and that even when they did, they didn't make each other happy like they used to. He just didn't specifically notice the absence of Harry's big, blinding smile, is the thing. Not until it returned. Louis peers at him, eyes narrowing sharply. "Harold," he says. "What are you grinning about?"
Harry beams at him and shrugs. "Just happy, I suppose."
Louis frowns.
* * *
Zayn shrugs one shoulder, keeps his eyes focused on his PSP. Louis throws up his hands and huffs off, heading into the corridor and towards Harry's room. The door swings open just as he's about to bang on it, and Harry starts, surprised and flushed and—
"Were you just snogging someone?" Louis blurts out, before he can think better of it. It's just that Louis knows what Harry looks like when he's been kissing for hours, mouth all swollen and red from it, just as it is now.
Harry falters for a moment, barely there but long enough for Louis to catch it. "Who would I be snogging?"
Louis points at him. "That is not a denial." He shoves Harry aside and marches into his room, looking around.
Harry leans back against the open door and watches Louis with a bemused smile on his face. "Why do you care if I've been snogging someone?"
"I don't care about the snogging," Louis explains, ducking into the bathroom and then back out. "I care about the lying."
Harry leans his head back on the door. "I don't lie to you, Lou. Not ever."
Louis knows that. Things may have changed between them but that won't ever change, saint-fucking-Harry and his inability to be anything less than a good, honest person. Louis turns towards him and puts his hands on his hips. "Where is she?"
Harry groans. "I haven't been snogging any girls in here!"
Louis's wristband pings with a call. "What," he says distractedly.
"You're late," Paul says. "Where are you?"
"I'm not late. Harry is," Louis explains, sighing. "I was on time, but he was off shagging someone and now he's lying about it."
"Harry?" Paul asks, surprised. "Harry doesn't lie."
"Whatever, we're coming," Louis snaps, and ends the call. He ignores Harry's smug face as he pushes past him at the door.
* * *
"Is he seeing someone?"
Niall would know. Harry tells Niall everything, all the things he used to tell Louis.
"Dunno," Niall says. "Can't imagine who. Or when."
"What do you mean, when? He's always bloody disappearing."
Niall laughs. "Yeah, to his hotel room in a different city every night. Not a great place to meet people."
Niall doesn't fucking know anything.
* * *
All he can make out are murmurs, mostly Harry's deep voice but then every now and then there's another voice, a higher voice, and occasional bursts of giggles that are certainly not coming from Harry.
He strains to listen, but the voices get quieter, hushed. Louis holds his breath, slides the glass around to different parts of the wall, hoping to find a thinner spot. After a moment he hears different sounds.
He drops the glass and pads quickly out of his room to knock loudly on Harry's door.
"Go away," Harry groans, loud enough that Louis can clearly hear him through the door.
"I need a charger for my wristband," Louis shouts back. "Can I borrow yours?"
He can hear fumbling and another laugh, and it makes his stomach tighten with something, maybe anticipation. Maybe jealousy. He knocks again.
After a moment the door cracks open. "This is really not a good time," Harry says.
"Just give me your charger," Louis insists. "I want to call my family."
"I hate you sometimes," Harry groans, but lets Louis push the door all the way open. Harry's naked, cock hanging full and heavy between his legs. Louis looks away, sees the bed all rumpled. It smells of sex.
"Lie," Louis says.
"Truth," Harry grumbles, digging around in his bag. He finds the charger and thrusts it at Louis. "Always the truth, Lou."
Louis blinks at him, then takes the charger. There's nobody else in the room. He doesn't understand.
"Did you want anything else?" Harry asks, voice low and a little breathy. He's still hard, Louis notices. He sounds a little hopeful.
"Thanks," Louis says absently. "Sort yourself out. That looks painful."
Harry bites his lip and nods. "Would have done if you hadn't interrupted."
"Sorry," Louis says. His feet feel heavy when he walks back to his room and closes the door and forces himself not to think about what Harry's doing now.
* * *
It's late, and Harry had made excuses to leave the bar early, saying he wasn't feeling well and wanted to get some rest. Louis had waited exactly eight minutes before following him, and now he's palming the extra room key in his pocket as his heart pounds.
He touches the key to the pad on the wall gingerly, holding his breath as the door unlocks with an unnecessarily loud clicking noise. He waits for a moment, whispers Harry's name too quietly for Harry to hear but just loud enough so that he has the excuse of having said something before barging in on—
"What the fuck?" he says loudly.
Harry startles, and the moment his eyes land on Louis, on actual, real Louis, the other Louis, the one that had been curled protectively around Harry, naked, with a beard, sort of flickers, and then disappears.
"Shit," Harry whispers, scrabbling at the sheets to cover himself but Louis has already seen him, seen his belly streaked with come, his chest mottled with lovebites. "Why are you—how did you get in here?"
"Please tell me that wasn't what I thought it was," Louis says. He's stunned, frozen in place.
"It's not what you think," Harry says automatically. He looks panicked, which is a rare look for Harry.
"Thank you," Louis says faintly. He can see Harry spinning, how he's working himself up to explain, but Louis isn't stupid. Harry's been fucking a [sexbot] that looks like him. That's who he's been rushing off to. That's who's been making him happy. That's who he wants. Some version of Louis who holds him and fucks him and—"I don't have a beard like that," he sniffs, oddly more offended at the ridiculous facial hair than the fact that his friend has been using his likeness as a fucktoy.
"I—I know," Harry stutters. "Louis, I swear, I—"
Louis palms at his jaw, feels at the patches of stubble and frowns. "I don't even think I could grow a beard like that. I would never wear it like that, even if I could. It looks horrible."
Harry looks like he's about to cry. "It doesn't," he chokes. "You're gorgeous like that and it—your eyes—"
"What else did you change?" Louis asks, suddenly curious. "Bring him back."
"What?" Harry looks stricken. "No."
"Oh look who's so offended," Louis mocks. "You're the one using me as a wankrag," he says, pointing at Harry. "All I want is to have a look."
Harry takes a shuddery breath and shakes his head, sweaty hair falling wildly across his face. "No," he says. "He's—you're," he swallows thickly. "Not a wankrag."
Louis gives Harry an incredulous look. "Were you not having it off with a [sexbot] moments ago?"
Harry wipes at his eyes, face mottled red. "Stop," he pleads quietly. "Can't we just forget about it?"
"Were you not having it off with a [sexbot] that looks exactly like me, except with a ridiculous beard, moments ago?" Louis insists. He sits down in a chair adjacent to the bed, rests his elbows on his knees and stares intently at Harry.
Harry covers his face. "Yes," he mumbles into his hands. "But—"
"Did I ever give you permission to use me like that?" Louis wonders aloud. "I'm sure I would remember us discussing the fact that you want to use me for sex."
"Oh god," Harry sobs. "I didn't—I wasn't—"
"You were," Louis says. "Even worse is that you," he pauses, starting to feel ill. "You changed me." He drops his head down, dizzy all of a sudden.
The idea that Harry still wants him like that isn't new; Louis sees that in those soft looks that linger from time to time; he hears it when he's made a joke and Harry laughs louder than anyone else. They don't talk about it but Louis knows just the same, the awareness making him twitchy, uncomfortable. But the idea that Harry wants something else, something more than him—that is new—and the awareness of that makes him sick.
"I shouldn't have," he starts, voice failing him. "I wish I hadn't come in here tonight." He wipes his hands on his thighs and stands. "I'm sorry about that."
"Louis," Harry says. He sounds nearly as miserable as Louis feels. "Wait. I'll—I'll bring him back."
Louis closes his eyes, feels his stomach drop. He should go. He doesn't want to see but it's going to kill him wondering what else Harry would change about him if he could, wonders what it would take to be exactly right for Harry.
When he opens his eyes, he's faced with the apparent answer.
"Come now, it's not so weird, is it?" bearded-him says, cocking his head. He's dressed now, in a soft, thin-looking henley and checked pyjamas. He's still got the full beard, and the wrinkles by his eyes seem a bit more prominent when he smiles.
"Says you," Louis breathes, eyes roving all over this unfamiliar version of himself. This hairier, wrinklier, older version of himself. Louis leans in closer and spots a grey hair at his temple. "How old are you?" he blurts out before he can think better of it.
"Thirty-one," bearded-him answers with a shrug. "Normally I lie about that, but I figure there's no sense in lying to myself." He laughs lightly and Louis recognizes the sound of it, the cadence and the tone.
"The beard is inexcusable," Louis says firmly. It's the only thing he's certain of right now.
Bearded-him raises his eyebrows as if he's silently agreeing, but he smiles and scratches at his chin and says, "He likes it." His hand looks different, too, the skin there rougher-looking and the knuckles all—
It's not gold. It's dark, nearly black but it looks as if it's carved from wood, simple. It's not gold, but it's on his left hand, looks worn and natural on his finger.
Bearded-him sees him looking, offers his hand up for Louis to see more clearly. "He likes that, too," he says quietly.
Louis swallows, throat closing up on the, "Huh," he manages to get out as he nods like he understands.
* * *
It's not exactly something Louis can enforce, but he trusts Harry. Harry doesn't lie, after all. They don't talk about why Harry wants the things he wants.
It starts again one night when Harry's all twitchy and sullen in the way he gets when he needs to get laid. Louis rolls his eyes and shoves him towards the toilet and says, "Just toss off in there, would you? You're making us crazy."
After, Harry is flushed and subdued, but the line of tension is still there in his shoulders. "It's not the same," he says quietly, just to Louis.
"Oh," Louis says, dumbly. "Fine. Tonight you can—you know," he stutters awkwardly. "Do the thing. With the—thing. If you need to."
Harry's eyes go wide, and he bites at his lip so hard it looks like it might split, but he nods, looks down and whispers, "Thanks."
It rankles at Louis, makes him anxious all through dinner and after that, later in the night when Harry announces that he's tired and he's going up to sleep, shooting Louis a soft smile. It's not supposed to bother him this much, but it does. It feels crap, and Louis considers messaging Harry's wristband and calling it off, but he doesn't. He goes to his own room restless and agitated, barely sleeps at all until the sun is starting to come up and there's a tentative knock at his door.
He wipes at his face and rasps, "Gimme a minute," grumpily looking around for his wristband to check the time. "Fucking hell," he complains as he opens the door. "We've got a full hour before breakfast—" and then Harry is there, wrapping him up in a fierce hug.
He's freshly showered, hair dripping onto Louis's shoulder where he's buried his face. Louis stumbles backwards with the force of Harry's body, lets the door close behind him. "Missed you," Harry breathes into his neck.
Louis pets at his back and shushes him, dragging Harry into his bed and letting Harry curl around him as he drifts back off to sleep, wondering which version of him Harry had missed more.
* * *
Louis absently swirls patterns with his fingers into Harry's hair, and it's nice, quiet and cosy, at least until Harry starts fidgeting.
Louis frowns and swats at him. "Be still," he grumps. "You're distracting me from the finer points of the plot."
Harry huffs out a laugh because they're watching Geordie Shore and he curls over onto his side, keeping mostly still, except for how he keeps crossing and uncrossing his ankles, shifting around like he can't get comfortable. Louis presses his palm to Harry's chest and Harry stills, slumping further into the cushions. "Sorry," he mutters.
"What do you need?" Louis knows the answer a moment after he thinks of the question.
Harry blinks up at him, lips parting on a breath. Louis looks back at the telly, stares at it blankly.
"If I—if you want to bring him around," Louis says, trying to sound nonchalant, "you'll have to do it with me here."
It's something he's thought about before, wondering if it would make him feel better if he's there with them, keeping an eye on things rather than speculating about all the ways he's not giving Harry what he wants.
"Yeah?" Harry says, sounding unsure. Louis flicks a glance down at him, then drags his eyes back at the telly. He covers Harry's face with his hand, smashing his nose and giving his whole head a shake. He smiles when Harry sputters, then loses his breath when Harry clutches at his wrist and presses a kiss to his palm. "Yeah, okay," Harry murmurs. "Now?"
Louis sighs. "You should at least pretend you're not always gagging for it, Hazza."
"That'd be lying," Harry breathes, lips shifting softly against Louis's palm.
Louis moves his hand away, lets it fall to Harry's shoulder as Harry wiggles around on the couch, presumably getting his jeans open, which Louis is steadfastly not watching.
He's quiet for a moment, only the noises made by the idiots on the telly breaking the silence of the room, until—
"Christ, Harry," Louis whispers, shocked at the sight of himself, maybe seventeen or eighteen years old, curled up at the end of the sofa between Harry's long legs, mouthing messily at Harry's very hard, suddenly very adult-looking cock. "I was practically a child."
He doesn't remember ever being that slight, scrawny shoulders and delicate, girlish face. Maybe he wasn't, maybe this is just for Harry, just like the way he's sucking so hungrily at the head of Harry's cock, slurping and licking like it might disappear.
"So was I," Harry says, voice catching in his throat. "God, you—you were so—you took my breath away." Louis forces himself to look away, eyes back on the screen in front of him even as Harry writhes in his lap, trembling when his Louis does something that Harry must love. "You still do," Harry pants, and scrabbles to grab at Louis's hand, tangling their fingers together while he gets his dick sucked.
Louis squeezes Harry's hand but doesn't look down, can't watch. "Shhh," he says. "I'm trying to watch. The telly," he clarifies after a beat too long. It's a complete farce, not even slightly believable that Louis isn't noticing how Harry arches and groans in his lap, but it's necessary, if only to preserve Louis's sanity.
The programme ends, and Louis bites at his bottom lip and stares at the screen, trying to focus on the adverts over the sound of Harry's shaky breaths, the feel of his flushed skin, the way the cushions on the sofa shift with his hips and thighs. He pretends to ignore Harry's pained whimpers, pretends he can't hear when his Louis pulls off with a sloppy wet sound and whispers to him, seeking reassurance, or that Harry doesn't groan, "God, yes, you can."
It's worse when his Louis crawls up on top of Harry, because Harry pulls his hand away, preferring his version to the Louis who is sitting beside him, wishing he were younger, older, better for Harry.
Harry goes silent when he comes, breath catching and holding until he makes a soft little nnnnnhh sound and breathes out through his nose, entire body locking up with it. After a long moment there are more wet mouth noises, and Louis can feel the sweat from the back of Harry's neck, damp and hot on his thigh. He can hear Harry's low murmurs of praise and the happy moan his Louis makes in between kisses and swallows and tongues.
Louis huffs out a breath, relieved the worst of it is over. Harry smacks at him lazily, missing his arm but catching him on the neck. "Be nice," Harry rumbles, sleepy-sounding. "You said I could."
"And you have," Louis starts to say, but then he hears a third voice that sounds uncannily like his own only younger and—and like his throat's been fucked.
"Love you," the other Louis says, and Harry's hand drops from Louis's neck.
He can hear them kissing but he can't keep himself from looking any longer.
Harry's got both arms draped around his Louis, his small, pretty version of Louis with smooth, unmarked skin, their foreheads pressed together and lips catching again and again. His Louis does this for him, needs him, loves him. Tells him. He watches Harry petting the boy until his eyes start to sting and the next episode of Geordie Shore begins.
Long moments pass and it's quiet. When Louis chances a look down at Harry next he's alone, no sign of the other Louis. Harry's curled onto his side, hands tucked under Louis's thigh, jeans pulled back up but not fastened. His eyes are drooping as he watches the telly, cheeks dimpling when something particularly funny happens.
"I do," Louis says, the words spilling out of him before he even realizes he's speaking. "You know?"
Harry twists up to look at him, cheeks still flushed from his orgasm, eyes sleepy and happy.
"Love you," Louis says, voice cracking a little.
Harry grins sheepishly, tucking his face back in against Louis's leg. "I know you do," he rasps, voice rough like it's late at night or early in the morning. "I just like to hear you say it sometimes. Like that."
He sounds a little defensive and that's not what Louis was going for. He tips Harry's face back up with his hand, nudges him enough that he can look him in the eye properly and say, "Love you," again, and like it's the first time. His hand is shaking against Harry's cheek.
Harry's mouth falls open, lips parting in surprise when Louis dips down for a kiss.
END