By: @tomlinzn (orphan_account)
Summary:
In the moment, everything feels like it’s on fire, but suddenly Louis just feels boneless. He kind of can’t believe that this beautiful boy is all his. Harry looks wrecked but he’s grinning like a criminal, and city lights smile over them both.
(harry's twenty-one; louis still loves him. there's birthday sex.)
Work text:
They fall into bed, the night bruised on their throats, drunk on each other.
“S’my birthday,” Harry giggles warmly into Louis’s shoulder.
“Mmm,” Louis hums, eyes closed.
“Happy birthday,” Harry mumbles, turning over.
This isn’t home—this city, it’s not. But pressed against Harry, front-to-back, Louis forgets about sprawling boulevards and a sun that’s still not quite as bright as his boy. He shifts in closer, wraps Harry up.
“Not my birthday, Haz,” Louis laughs.
“What’s mine’s yours,” Harry says. He cranes his head back and kisses Louis to sleep.
+
When he awakens, it’s slow—he comes to his senses trying to understand the soft heat radiating in his gut, and the solid length of Harry’s longer body curled into the curve of his. There’s absolutely nothing Louis loves more, because in their whirlwind world, this is the only forever he seems to really have.
At sixteen, he remembers having to cram together in the X-Factor bunk, remembers how he’d end up on the precipice of the bed—Harry refused to sleep on the outside, because he’d throw his limbs around so much—and find Harry facedown in his pillow but hanging onto Louis like a lifeline.
That’s what he was, Louis supposes now. He winces as he shifts and hears as something pops and loosens in his back, ducks down to kiss the honey curve of Harry’s shoulder.
At seventeen, he remembers a Harry who’d wake up before him, a Harry he doesn’t see now because he’s so exhausted all the time. He misses opening his eyes and seeing nothing but green.
“Baby,” Louis says, raking his fingertips through the valley of Harry’s chest, thumbing against the hollow of his throat. He hears a snuffle and a groan, smiles into the riot of curls in his face.
At eighteen, Harry and Louis liked to watch the sun rise. Grumbling, Louis would sit up and throw his covers off and pad to the window, reaching for Harry when he came in without even knowing he was doing so. They’d drink their tea together and fuck right there and Louis always spent the day looking over, watching as Harry pushed his own fingers into his hips just for the reminder of it.
“What?” Harry asks. Louis doesn’t have to look at him to know he’s frowning.
“Happy birthday—” Louis starts to sing, but Harry cuts him off.
“I know but I’m sleeping now,” he grumbles, a near-incomprehensible slur of words. He folds himself up further and burrows further back against Louis, like he’s the fine-boned, chubby-cheeked kid he used to be. Harry’s twenty-one now, and Louis almost can’t believe it.
“All right, I’ll save my breath then,” Louis says, offended.
“Okay,” Harry says, his arm snaking up his own chest so he can thread their fingers together.
