Lets Cross The Lines We Lost {L.S} (Not My Work)

Chapter 8

**

The sky is the bluest Louis’ seen it in weeks when he opens his eyes. Sun slanting across his fingertips and along Harry’s back where he lies next to him, long strips of yellow over his bare skin. Louis breathes carefully, absentmindedly tracing his fingers over the line that follows Harry’s spine. He’s been sleeping with his face against Harry’s bicep, breathing slowly in a strange pool of calm. If he had it his way, he’d never want to move.

It’s been two weeks since they visited Anne in the hospital, a whole two weeks since Harry breathed a word of it. And that’s okay, Louis expected as much. He knows Harry isn’t going to take off like he did the last time he got this news about her, and he hopes – god, he hopes Harry has at least spoken to Liam or Niall about it. He doesn’t think he has, because Louis now seems to be the go-to guy for all things Harry these days (which is ridiculous, really. Niall even once texted him to ask where Harry was when he was at work with him.)  

Louis is also slowly coming to terms with the fact that he’s woken up with Harry almost every day since then, and despite that being terrifying to think about, he doesn’t think there’s anything more comforting. Hands touching and bodies close, tangled up in sheets after long nights of Harrys mouth finding every part of him, kissing him to keep quiet, whispering shh against his lips, so that Zayn doesn’t hear.  

He doesn’t think he minds that part so much.  

He watches Harry breathe deep and slow, hair ruffled from sleep, Louis’ fingers tracing along his jawline, grazing over his skin smoothly. Harrys face sleepily stretches into a smile, eyes still closed. “Hey,” he blinks awake, and Louis’ heart expands boundlessly.  

Louis smiles softly, as if he could even help it, and he runs his hand down Harrys arm, and again. “Hey,” he says back, almost in a whisper. His fingers wrap around the soft skin of Harry’s wrist, before moving back up to cradle his face, he doesn’t know why he does it. He just wants to. Needs to memorise every detail in case – just in case.   

“You okay?” Harry asks, eyes trained on him carefully.  

Louis wants to know what superpower Harry has that lets him always, always notice when Louis is having doubts, even when he’s barely conscious. “Yeah. I’m okay.” 

He feels Harry shift a little, his leg tucked in between Louis’. His fingers drag over Louis’ waist, rolling them over until Harry is leaning above him, with his forearm pressing onto the mattress on the other side of him, legs bracketing him in. He presses a soft kiss to Louis’ lips.  

He lingers there, against Louis, warm and almost chaste, until Louis feels him curve into a smile that he can’t help but mimic, opening his own lips and inviting him in. Harry kisses him, slow and languid, not bothering to rush anything or go too far, just easing against him, kissing him, open-mouthed slick in a sleepy rhythm, body against body, mouth against mouth, soaking in each others heat.  

Harry drags himself back and sits up. “I’m stealing that sweater of yours again,” he says, his voice gruff.  

Louis makes a weak noise of protest when Harry gets off the bed. “Where are you going?” 

“You have work and Zayn will be up soon, cutting it a bit close to be sneaking back over.” 

Louis just notices the time. “Yeah, you’re right,” he says solemnly.  

Harry pulls on his jeans, his shirt and Louis’ sweater. It fits him better than it fits Louis, he notices with a hardly-acknowledged hint of envy, mixed with admiration.