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Harry is glaring at him from his seat, fidgeting with his wedding ring that he’s already slid off his finger, the ring that Louis can almost see being tossed at his face already. There is a crease in between his eyebrows, corners of his mouth pulled down. A glint in his eyes.
Louis looks away, bites his lip.
Zayn walks – barges – into the room, looking stressed out. His tie is all messed up, like he kept playing with it.
“No,” he says right as he spots them there, pointing a warning finger in Louis’ direction.
“Hi, Zayn,” he greets him calmly.
“Hello, Zayn,” Harry next to him speaks up, sounding almost bored, tired.
“No,” Zayn repeats, shaking his head as he sits down, “we aren’t doing this again. You need to stop this.”
“Yeah, Louis,” Harry tilts his head at Louis, voice mocking, “why don’t you stop already?”
“That’s not what I mean–” Zayn starts, but Louis cuts him off.
“Don’t act like this is my fault,” he isn’t even looking at Harry, staring stone-faced at Zayn who looks like he’s about to choke Louis to death, have a nervous breakdown, or perhaps retire. He hears Harry scoff. “You’re not putting this one on me.”
“I can’t do it anymore, Zayn,” Harry whines – whines! – “what would you do if you were in my place?”
Louis almost smiles, almost. Zayn ignores the question.
“We’re getting a divorce, Zayn, you have no say in this,” Louis tells him, sees Harry nodding out of the corner of his eye.
Zayn wants to argue, but gives up with a sigh.
Harry looks so good in a suit, it’s like he was sculpted with the sole purpose to wear a frown, a tie and an expensive watch. Louis is looking at him as he signs the papers, biting his lip. Harry is sassy with his signature, shooting Louis a pointed glare as he flicks his wrist on the last swirl of the s in Styles, in Tomlinson-Styles.
Inside the room, they send each other one last snarl, before walking out side by side, fingers brushing.
Harry stops in front of the building, arms crossed, huffing. He looks seconds away from stomping his foot at him.
“So…” Louis drawls as he turns to look at him. He’s not wearing his wedding ring, and there is a tan line from it around his finger. His thumb twitches, used to twirling the ring around, not used to the absence. “That’s done.”
“It is,” Harry says, stubbornly not looking at Louis, tapping his foot in his expensive shoes.
“It was good while it lasted,” Louis offers.
Harry rolls his eyes, “It’s going to get even better now.”
Louis can’t hold back a chuckle. Of course. “Of course.”
There’s an awkward pause. Louis is holding his car keys firmly in his hand and Harry is looking around dramatically, like he’s waiting for someone to pick him up. Louis knows no one is coming.
“Let me give you a ride,” he says. Harry tells him to fuck off then gets in the car.
They are making out before they even unlock their door. Harry’s hands on his face, Louis’ on Harry’s waist, underneath the jacket and the fancy shirt stroking the soft skin of his hips with his thumbs. Their tongues meet and it’s wet and messy and kind of disgusting and just how Harry likes it, Louis knows.
“You’re the worst,” Harry mumbles as Louis fumbles blindly with the keys.
“I bought you flowers,” Louis says, pointing his entire arm somewhere in the direction of their kitchen while pulling Harry in with the other one, “to make it up to you.”
“You have a lot to make up for,” Harry is taking his clothes off right there in the hallway, the wedding ring falling out of his pocket and down on the floor, and they both look at it shortly before crashing into each other again, hands gripping, teeth biting.
“I know,” Louis grins against Harry’s mouth, eyes crinkling when Harry laughs, hiding in the crook of Louis’ neck. “I’m so sorry, baby.”
“We can never do this again,” Harry murmurs once they’re in the bedroom, “this has to be the last time.”
“Zayn can survive.”
“You’re the worst,” Harry says again, with a giggle, dimples on display, and Louis wants to bite them. He leaves a little halo in the shape of his teeth in the middle of Harry’s cheek.
“You love me anyway,” he kisses into the hollow of Harry’s throat.
“Til death do us part, I said,” Harry hums “Enough times for you to remember, I’d assume.”
That night, Harry is lying on his stomach on their bed, Louis on the floor with his back leaning against the bed frame, head leaned back looking at Harry upside down. They’re sharing a cigarette, passing it from hand to hand, fingers brushing, lingering too long every time.
“I think I want to wear a dress this time,” Harry muses, blowing smoke into Louis' face. Louis doesn’t bat an eye, letting Harry push the cigarette between his lips.
“White?”
“Hm, no,” Harry shakes his head,” something better.”
“That’s fine, honey,” Louis says, tracing the bow of Harry’s lips with his finger, “we can start planning tomorrow.”
They fall asleep together, love bites all over their necks and chests and thighs and the rings lay discarded somewhere in the house but they’re each other’s still.