Chapter Text
The gallery after-party is loud, but it’s a posh kind of loud. Crystal glasses clinking, low bass humming from speakers hidden behind expensive minimalist plinths, and the steady, polite roar of London’s art and architecture crowd. The air smells of high-end perfume, expensive gin, and fresh paint from the exhibition walls.
Louis is leaning against a high table, looking every bit the supportive partner in a sharp, tailored suit that hits him just right. His left arm is wrapped comfortably around Claire’s waist, his palm resting flat against the small of her back. Every now and then, his thumb does a lazy, familiar brush against the fabric of her dress.
It’s Friday night, and this whole evening belongs to her. It’s the launch party for her newest architectural project—a massive, high-profile restoration of a historic building—and Louis couldn't be prouder.
They’ve been together four years now. In the beginning, it was all chaotic and exciting, constantly crashing at each other’s flats, living out of overnight bags. But for the last two years, they’ve shared a proper home. A gorgeous, renovated townhouse tucked away in a quiet, leafy corner of Highgate. It’s a proper domestic haven, full of natural light and beautifully curated by Claire herself.
Claire is an interior architect, and honestly, Louis always found a quiet irony in that. Her whole job is literally to take things that are fractured, old, and broken, and restore them into perfect, structured, beautiful spaces. When they met, Louis was exactly that—a bit fractured.
Five years ago, the band had finally called it quits. It had never been the same after Zayn left. Zayn’s departure had absolutely devastated Louis; they’d been the closest, and for a long time, Louis carried a heavy, silent guilt, constantly blaming himself for not finding a way to make his mate stay. They’d tried to soldier on as a four-piece for another year, but the atmosphere was toxic, poisoned by the fallout of Louis and Harry’s final, catastrophic fight. A proper, scorched-earth breakup that left Louis thinking, fuck love, honestly.
When the band disbanded, they all went solo, and they all smashed it. Louis was genuinely happy for them. But his own life felt like a chaotic whirlwind until he met Claire a year later through some non-famous mates. She didn't give a toss about the One Direction hype. To her, he wasn't a global pop star; he was just Louis—a bit tired, incredibly sharp-witted, and thoroughly charming. She brought structure and peace to his life. He’d been happy. Safe.
At least, that’s what he’d been telling himself.
"Babe?"
The soft voice cuts through the mental noise. Louis blinks, the chatter of the gallery rushing back into his ears as he snaps his head down to look at her.
"Yeah?"
Claire’s looking up at him, a slight, knowing crease between her brows. "You've been spacing out a bit. All good?"
"Yes, love, ofc I am," Louis replies smoothly, offering a quick, reassuring smile. "Just work stuffs, y'know?"
Claire arches an eyebrow, looking at him a bit weirdly. "Work, hmm? New album? You didn’t tell me anything about working on stuff this week."
"Uhm—yeah—no. Wait," Louis sighs, catching himself and shaking his head. "Let’s drop it. Tonight’s about you, love. How are you feeling? Happy?"
Claire lets out a soft chuckle, her expression softening instantly. "Of course I am. Thank you for being here, Louis. I know you had someplace else to be supposedly."
"C'mon, babe, that’s the absolute least I could do," he says, squeezing her side gently.
Claire smiles, her eyes warm. She reaches up, her hand cupping his jaw, her fingers sliding over the warm skin of his neck as she slowly leans in. Louis closes his eyes, letting his instincts take over, and kisses her back. It’s a deep kiss, proper and lingering. Claire’s other hand starts to roam, sliding up his chest, smoothing over the lapel of his suit jacket, pressing close against him. A tiny, pleased moan catches in the back of her throat, making Louis pull back just enough to chuckle against her lips.
"Someone’s needy," he teases, his eyes crinkling at the corners.
Claire just shrugs, a playful glint in her eye. "Can't help it. Have you seen yourself tonight?"
Louis barks out a proper laugh, genuinely amused. "You're cute."
"I can't wait for this shit to be over, to be honest," she trails off, dropping her voice to a suggestive whisper, giving him a cheeky wink. "Wanna go home. And recelebrate the party properly..."
"You dirty bugger," Louis mutters, a smirk tugging at his lips.
Claire laughs, leaning up to give him one last quick peck on the lips before turning away. "See ya."
"C'ya," Louis says softly, watching her walk away. The smile stays on his face as he watches her navigate the crowd, seamlessly greeting a group of her colleagues.
But as soon as she’s out of sight, the smile fades.
Louis shifts slightly in his suit, his gaze dropping down toward his trousers. Nothing. Completely soft.
A heavy, familiar weight drops into his stomach. God, he hopes he can get hard tonight. At least tonight. It’s been a proper while since they last had sex, and Claire is getting noticeably needier each day. She deserves it, and he wants to give it to her. He really does.
He just needs his body to cooperate.
The drive back to Highgate passed in a blur of streetlights and heavy, suffocating silence. Louis could barely remember navigating the familiar North London roads; his mind was too busy spinning in a dark, anxious loop.
The whole way home, Claire’s hand had rested on his thigh, her thumb tracing small, comforting circles over the fabric of his trousers. To anyone else, it was a sweet, affectionate gesture. To Louis, it felt like a ticking time bomb. Every mile closer to the townhouse was another mile closer to the bedroom, and the sheer nervousness was making his stomach turn.
It would be bloody embarrassing if he couldn't manage it tonight. And the worst part? This wouldn't be the first time.
Lately, he didn't know what the fuck was wrong with him. He just couldn't get hard around her anymore. Back in the early days, the slightest touch from Claire—a brush of her hand, a look across a crowded room—would have him absolutely raring to go. Now? Nothing. Dead quiet. Because of it, Louis had almost completely stopped initiating. He was too embarrassed to even try. He knew that if he started something, his body wouldn't back it up, so he figured he’d save whatever dignity he had left and just let things slide.
It was weird, and it made him feel like a proper monster, because Claire was the sweetest thing. She never complained. She never made him feel small or ashamed when his body failed him. Instead, she’d just kiss his cheek, comfort him, and steer them toward something else.
Sometimes, Louis would just help her come without the actual fucking. He’d use his fingers, or he’d spend an hour eating her out. He remembered one night, a few months back, when she’d smirked down at him, pulled his hair lightly, and teased, "Since you can't put your dick to use, why don't you put your mouth to use instead? Come here and eat me out."
Truth be told, it was nice. It was actually Louis’s secret fetish to be manhandled a bit, to be told what to do. But even with Claire taking charge and being dominant, his body wouldn't respond. He stayed completely soft. And Claire, obviously, had no idea why.
Only one person had ever truly known that side of him. Only one person had ever seen him completely unravel like that.
Harry.
Fuck, how he missed it. It was sickening how much he missed it. It had gotten to a point where Louis couldn't even go down on his own girlfriend without his brain betraying him; half the time, he was actively imagining he was eating Harry’s ass instead. He felt like a proper psycho, a right mental case, standing in his own house, loving his girlfriend, but filling the spaces behind his closed eyelids with a ghost.
He constantly wondered when exactly the shift had happened. When had he started to change?
Honestly, he didn't even know if he’d ever truly moved on from Harry. They hadn't broken up because they'd fallen out of love. Far from it. Louis had walked away because he genuinely believed it was the best thing for both of them. He couldn't bear the thought of keeping their relationship hidden forever, trapped in dark rooms, with management breathing down his neck every single second.
The reality of the industry had been a nightmare. Louis had been forced to sign multiple restrictive contracts, but he’d intentionally left Harry out of them. He’d taken all the risks, all the legal weight, and all the misery onto his own shoulders, solely because he wanted Harry to have freedom. He loved Harry too much to let him be locked in and reserved like a prisoner.
It was a bad move, looking back. A horribly lonely one. Louis hadn't even let Harry know about the contracts, because he knew exactly what Harry would do—Harry would’ve snatched the pen and signed the papers instead, sacrificing his own future just to share the burden. Louis couldn't bear to watch Harry change or break under that kind of corporate pressure. The other boys knew what Louis was doing, but Harry never did. Louis just couldn't bring himself to tell him.
And then Zayn left, and the weight became entirely too heavy to carry.
When Zayn departed, Louis’s entire support system shattered. He had no one else to turn to who truly understood the specific madness of their lives. Obviously, he could talk to Liam, and he could talk to Niall, but it was never the same as talking to Zayn. Zayn didn't ask a million questions. He didn't demand explanations. He’d just offer Louis a joint, pour him a proper drink, and they’d sit in the silence, smoking and drinking until the world stopped spinning. Zayn was just there. Losing him made everything a hundred times worse.
So, in the end, pushed to the absolute brink of mental exhaustion, Louis had gone to Harry's house, stood in his living room, and broken his own heart by ending it. He was pretty much sure he regretted it every single day since, no matter how hard he tried to chug the feeling down with a laugh or a drink.
Five years. Five years since they’d spoken a single word to each other. How could you still be haunted by someone after five years of total silence?
The confusion of it was tearing Louis apart, because the love he felt for Claire was real. He loved her fiercely. She was his safety, his anchor, the one who had pulled him out of the wreckage after the band ended. He had changed his whole life for her, built a home, picked out furniture, integrated into her world. He loved her enough to want to give her everything she deserved.
But the love he had for Claire was a choice—a beautiful, conscious decision to build a good, stable life.
The love he had for Harry? That wasn't a choice. It was a permanent part of his biology. It was wired into his nervous system, buried deep in his muscles, and apparently, locked inside his own skin. He could love Claire with his whole heart, but as he unlocked the front door of their Highgate townhouse, the terrifying truth settled deep in his chest: he could give Claire his love, his loyalty, and his life... but his body still belonged to Harry.
The second the front door of the Highgate townhouse clicked shut, the frantic racing in Louis’s mind ground to a sudden, echoing halt. All those heavy, existential thoughts about the past, about Harry, about the contracts—they all burned away, replaced by a sharp, cold spike of pure adrenaline.
He was so fucking nervous. He couldn't think about a single thing other than his own body, silently begging it to cooperate, trying to force a spark that just wasn't there.
Claire had walked in front of him up the path, her heels clicking softly against the stone, leading the way before unlocking the door. Louis had lagged a half-step behind her, his chest tight, staring at the line of her back. He was trying so bloody hard to think of everything sexy about her. He tried to imagine what she was wearing under that designer dress, tried to recall the heat of her skin, desperate to kickstart his own system.
But he didn't even get a chance to finish the thought.
The moment the door swung open, Claire stepped into the dim entryway, turned on her heel, and slammed him right back against the solid wood of the door.
Louis gasped, the breath knocked clean out of him as she captured his mouth in a hungry, messy kiss. He barely had time to react, his hands flying up automatically to catch her hips as he just tried to go with the flow. He kissed her back, deep and practiced. He was a good kisser—he knew that much. Claire had told him so more than once, and obviously, a lifetime ago, Harry had told him the exact same thing.
The hallway was dark, illuminated only by the amber glow of the streetlights filtering through the glass panels. Claire was entirely breathless, her hands roaming frantically all over his body, tugging at the lapels of his suit jacket, her fingers working with a desperate speed to unbutton his shirt. Louis forced himself into the rhythm, his own hands moving down the zip of her dress, helping her slide the fabric down her shoulders.
"Fuck," Claire muttered against his mouth, her breathing ragged. "I need you, Louis... so bad."
She let out a soft moan, burying her face in the crook of his neck, peppering open-mouthed, hot kisses along his jawline. Louis pushed his suit jacket off his shoulders, letting it drop carelessly to the floor, before sliding his hands up under her lace bra. He cupped her breasts, fondling them gently, his thumb sweeping over the soft skin, eliciting another sharp moan from her.
"You have no idea how fucking hot you looked in that suit tonight," she murmured against his throat, her hands sliding down to grip his waist. "With that damn drink in your hand... God, Louis."
Louis forced a low, raspy chuckle, trying to sound as confident as he used to. "Yeah, babe? Did I really turn you on that much?"
"Yes," she gasped.
He leaned down and kissed her again, using his tongue this time, trying to lose himself in the physical sensation of it. Claire stepped completely out of her fallen dress, and Louis carefully unhooked her bra, letting his fingers play with her nipple for a moment before leaning down to suck it into his mouth.
Claire’s fingers tangled tightly in his hair, tugging slightly as she let out a breathy, "Fuck, Louis..."
Louis grunted, a low sound in his chest, but internally, his stomach was tied in a sickening knot. He felt nothing. Absolutely nothing.
Claire pulled away slightly, a flush on her cheeks, a small, confident smirk playing on her lips. She kissed his jaw one last time, then slowly, deliberately, slid down to her knees on the hardwood floor.
Louis froze, his breath catching in his throat as he looked down at her.
Her hands slid up his thighs, undoing his belt and parting his trousers. She reached inside, her fingers wrapping around his soft cock. She didn't hesitate; she leaned in, kissing the tip gently before taking him whole into her mouth, pumping him smoothly, trying to work her magic.
It was sad, honestly. It was bloody agonizing to watch how hard she was trying to make him feel it. She was doing everything right. She was warm, she was wet, she was entirely devoted to him in that moment, but Louis felt like he was hovering outside of his own skin. He stared down at the top of her head, the guilt washing over him in a cold, suffocating wave. He didn't feel a thing.
The silence in the hallway grew heavier, broken only by the quiet, wet sounds of her trying, and the frantic, shallow rhythm of Louis’s breathing.
Finally, he couldn't take the pressure anymore. It was breaking him.
"Claire," Louis said, his voice cracking slightly in the dark.
Claire didn't stop, just hummed against him, her hand moving a bit faster.
"Love, please. Come on," he pleaded softly, his hand reaching down to gently touch her shoulder.
Sensing the defeat in his tone, Claire slowly popped off him. She stayed on her knees for a second, her head bowed, resting her forehead against his thigh as she took a breath. Then, she slowly stood up, pulling her hair back from her face.
"Sorry, love," Louis muttered quickly, his eyes darting away from her, unable to hold her gaze. He hastily pulled his trousers back up, his hands shaking slightly as he fastened the button. "I... I can't. I'm just not feeling it tonight."
Claire looked at him, her eyes dark with a mixture of confusion and heavy disappointment. She didn't look angry—which almost made it worse. She just looked incredibly tired, her bare shoulders slumped in the dim light of the hallway.
"Is it... is it me, Louis?" she asked softly, her voice barely a whisper as she crossed her arms over her chest, trying to shield herself from the sudden chill. "Did I do something wrong? Because you seemed so into it back then."
"No! No, bleeding hell, Claire, never," Louis said instantly, the defense mechanism kicking in as he stepped closer, reaching out to wrap his arms around her naked waist, pulling her against his chest. He hated himself. He hated his body. "It's never you, love. You're beautiful. You're fucking perfect, alright? It's just... my head's a right mess tonight. Work stuff. The stress. It's just all catching up to me, I think."
Claire let out a long, slow sigh against his bare chest, her forehead resting against his collarbone. She didn't push him away, but she didn't hug him back with her usual warmth either.
"It's just been a while, Louis," she murmured, her voice laced with that quiet, crushing disappointment. "And every time I try lately... it feels like you're miles away. Like you're not even in the room with me."
The words hit Louis like a physical blow to the sternum. Because I'm not, his brain screamed back at him. Because I'm thinking of him.
"I'm sorry, Claire. Truly, I am," he whispered, kissing the top of her head, his throat tight with unshed tears. "I just need some time to clear my head. Go get into bed, yeah? Get warm. I'll be up in a minute."
Claire pulled back slowly, looking into his eyes for a long, quiet moment, searching for an answer he could never give her. Finally, she nodded, a small, sad smile touching her lips. "Okay. Don't stay up too late, alright?"
"Won't do, love," he promised.
He watched her pick up her dress and bra from the floor and quietly walk up the stairs, the soft patter of her bare feet fading into the upper level of the house.
The moment she was gone, Louis collapsed against the wall, sliding down until he was sitting on the floor, his head in his hands. His cock was entirely soft, a miserable reminder of his own failure.
He sat there in the dark for five minutes, just breathing in the scent of Claire's expensive perfume that still lingered in the hallway. It felt like a chokehold.
Needing to escape the suffocating weight of the house, Louis pushed himself up, grabbed his packet of fags and a lighter from his discarded suit jacket, and unlocked the front door. He stepped out onto the front porch, the crisp, cold Friday night air hitting his bare chest and making him shiver.
With shaking fingers, he put a cigarette to his lips and struck the lighter. The small flame illuminated his tired, hollow eyes for a second before he blew a thick cloud of smoke out into the quiet Highgate street. He leaned against the brick pillars, staring up at the London sky, praying the nicotine would numb the phantom taste of Harry that still haunted his tongue.
The cool night air bit at Louis’s bare chest, but he barely felt it. He just stood there on the porch, leaning against the cold brick, watching the embers of his cigarette glow and fade in the dark. He was completely checked out, staring blankly across the quiet, tree-lined Highgate street, when the sharp buzz of his phone in his trousers pocket made him jump.
He pulled it out, the harsh screen light making him squint. It was a text from Liam.
Liam: Mate u comin tmr? Niall private party at 11pm
Louis blinked at the words, his brain sluggishly shifting gears.
Louis: Almost forgot. Will Zayn be there?
A minute passed. Louis watched the ellipsis bubble dance on the screen before Liam’s reply popped up.
Liam: Nah mate. Sorry. Hes busy. U comin? Don’t worry Harry wont be there. Hes out of town
Liam: Miss ya mate
Louis stared at the screen, his heart doing a weird, uncomfortable flip at the casual mention of that name. Harry. He forced his fingers to type a quick response.
Louis: Sure
He locked the phone and let his hand drop to his side, letting out a long, ragged sigh that turned into a plume of white vapor in the chilly air.
Zayn wasn't going to be there. Louis closed his eyes, a familiar ache settling into his chest. God, he could really use a friend right now. A proper, no-questions-asked chat. If he went to Liam and confessed that he couldn't get a hard-on for his gorgeous girlfriend because his head was still completely fucked over Harry, Liam would look at him with those heavy, worried eyes and give him a massive, sensible lecture. And Niall? Tomorrow was Niall's massive celebration party—he’d just signed a major new solo partnership and bought a stunning estate, so the night was meant to be a proper, loud, drunken celebration. Louis couldn't exactly rock up to a joyous occasion like that and dump his depressing, messy relationship problems all over the lads.
He took one last drag of his cigarette and dropped it, crushing the ember out beneath the sole of his shoe.
At least Harry wasn't going to be there. Louis let out a shaky breath, trying to find comfort in that. It was a blessing, really. He couldn't handle seeing him. He couldn't have another reason to absolutely wreck his own mind.
Heading back inside, Louis locked the front door, picked up his suit jacket from the hallway floor, and quietly padded up the stairs. The house was dead silent. He slipped into the bedroom, stripping down to his boxers in the dark so he wouldn't wake her, and carefully crawled under the heavy duvet.
The bed was warm, smelling faintly of the lavender mist she sprayed on the pillows. Claire was already asleep, curled up on her side. Louis shifted closer, sliding his arm around her waist and pulling her back against his chest, slotting his knees behind hers. He spooned her tightly, burying his nose in her soft hair.
The movement made Claire stir. She hummed softly, half-asleep, and reached down to drape her hand over his forearm, pulling him even closer.
"Mmm... Louis?" she murmured, her voice thick with sleep. "You alright, babe?"
"Yeah, love. All good," Louis whispered into the dark, tightening his grip on her just a fraction, as if he could physically hold onto the safe life they’d built. "Just finished my smoke. Go back to sleep."
"Love you," she breathed, her thumb sleepily brushing his wrist. "Goodnight, Louis."
"Goodnight”
He stayed awake for a long time after her breathing evened out into a soft, steady rhythm. He held her close, listening to the quiet sounds of the Highgate house, desperately trying to force his mind to stay right there, in that warm bed, with the girl who loved him. But as he finally started to drift off, the dark behind his eyelids didn't show him the Highgate townhouse; it just replayed the text on his phone, over and over again.
Harry won't be there.
🎆💫
The venue Niall chose for his private celebration was an exclusive, low-lit penthouse lounge in Soho, tucked away from the prying eyes of London’s paparazzi. It was sophisticated but intimate, featuring plush velvet booths, exposed brickwork, and massive floor-to-ceiling windows that looked out over the glittering city skyline. There were maybe thirty people inside—close friends, industry peers, and family—giving it a relaxed, secure atmosphere.
Louis walked through the entrance, adjusting the cuffs of his casual button-down shirt. For tonight, he had opted for a relaxed yet sharp look: a lightweight, dark navy linen shirt with the top few buttons undone, paired with well-fitted black trousers and a pair of classic leather boots. He had his hands jammed into his pockets, his eyes scanning the room until they landed on Niall, who was currently laughing at something Liam was saying near the center of the lounge.
"Mate, you are late!" Niall yelled the second he spotted him.
Both Niall and Liam immediately jumped on him, pulling Louis into a tight, crushing group hug. The familiarity of it was instant, the kind of bond that years of distance could never truly erase.
"Good to see you, Tommo," Liam grinned, clapping him hard on the shoulder as they pulled back.
"You too, Payno," Louis laughed, before turning his sharp wit on Niall. "And look at you, Nialler. Have you been hitting the pub a bit too hard during the hiatus, or is that jacket just tight? Look like you have gained a bit of weight, mate."
Niall barked out a loud, breathless laugh, giving Louis a playful shove. "Shut your face, you bugger! I am living the good life, aren't I? How are you, anyway?"
"I am good, lads. Genuinely," Louis replied, offering a smooth smile. "How are you two?"
"We are grand, mate," Liam said, leaning against a high table. "How is Claire?"
"She is great, yeah. Proper busy with her work," Louis said, shifting his weight. "She was gutted she couldn't make it tonight, actually. She had to head back to her hometown for some family stuff this weekend. But she sent this along for you, Nialler." Louis reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a beautifully wrapped, expensive bottle of vintage red wine. "A proper congratulations from her."
"Oh, brilliant! Tell her I said a massive thank you, she is a diamond," Niall grinned, taking the bottle. "Right, let's get a proper drink down us."
"Sure," Louis and Liam said in unison.
The three of them made their way over to the sleek marble bar. As the bartender poured their drinks, they drifted into easy, comfortable conversation. Louis asked after Liam’s girlfriend, Kate, and Niall proudly showed off a few recent photos of his girlfriend, Amelia. They had all met before, so the chat was light and nostalgic.
But then, the conversation took a sharp turn.
"I caught Harry’s show at Wembley last week," Liam mentioned casually, taking a sip of his beer. "Fucking hell, Lou, the crowd was insane. He is absolutely flying at the minute. Doing wonders."
Louis felt a familiar, tight knot form in his stomach at the sound of the name, but he kept his face completely neutral. He took a slow sip of his drink to buy himself a second. "Yeah? That is great. Good for him. Too bad he couldn't join us tonight since he is out of town—"
Before Louis could finish his sentence, a prominent music executive walked up to the bar and called Niall’s name. Niall immediately brightened, excusing himself to go greet the guest.
"I am going to grab some food from the buffet before it is all gone," Liam said, nodding toward the other side of the room. "You alright here, mate?"
"Yeah, go on, Payno," Louis nodded.
Left alone at the bar, Louis felt the sudden, desperate urge to smoke. His head was starting to spin from the mention of Harry, and the crowded room suddenly felt a bit too warm. He stood up, turning around with his cigarette box already gripped in his hand, intending to slip out to the private balcony at the back.
He took three steps, and then his entire world stopped spinning. It froze completely.
Fuck. What the fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck.
Standing by the entrance of the lounge, handing his coat to the attendant, was Harry.
Louis’s brain completely short-circuited. For a terrifying second, he genuinely thought he was hallucinating, the stress of the previous night finally causing him to lose his mind. Liam had said he was out of town. Liam had said he would not be here.
But he was here. And Christ, he looked ethereal.
Harry looked completely different, yet painfully, beautifully the same. He had chopped his signature curly hair; it was short now, styled in a messy, effortless way that accentuated the sharp, mature lines of his jaw and cheekbones. He was wearing a sheer, black lace shirt that was unbuttoned nearly down to his navel, revealing the familiar tattoos on his skin, alongside a few new ones etched across his chest. He wore tailored, wide-leg trousers that hung perfectly off his hips. He looked devastatingly sexy, dangerous, and completely out of reach.
But as Louis’s wide eyes scanned down Harry’s exposed chest, his breath caught entirely in his throat.
Nesting against Harry’s collarbone were two delicate silver necklaces. One had a simple, elegant 'L' charm hanging from it. The other held a worn, familiar silver band. Their promise ring. The one they had bought in a tiny shop in Japan years ago. The one Louis thought was long gone.
Holy shit. Harry had not moved on. Not even a little bit.
As if sensing the intense stare, Harry’s green eyes flicked across the crowded room. They locked right onto Louis. Harry froze, his lips parting slightly in shock, his entire posture going rigid.
Louis was so completely caught off guard, so utterly terrified of the sudden, violent rush of emotion in his chest, that he broke the eye contact. He turned on his heel and practically bolted toward the heavy door at the back of the bar, slipping outside onto the secluded, empty balcony.
The cool night air hit him, but it did nothing to calm the fire roaring under his skin.
What the absolute fuck was that? Louis thought, his hands shaking violently as he managed to light a cigarette. Liam was a fucking asshole. If Liam had known Harry was going to be here—looking that fucking pretty, looking like that—Louis would have never stepped foot in this place. Fuck.
And that ring on his chest. Fuck, Louis missed him so much. It was a physical ache in his sternum.
He took three massive, desperate drags of his cigarette, inhaling the harsh smoke to try and steady his racing heart. But as the image of Harry in that sheer shirt flashed behind his eyelids, Louis felt a sudden, familiar tightness in his trousers. A sensation he had not felt in months.
He looked down, his eyes widening in a mix of horror and dark satisfaction.
Good look. He was hard. Diamond hard. Just from looking at Harry for five seconds across a crowded room.
Louis let out a ragged, self-loathing sigh, closed his eyes, and leaned his head back against the brick wall, trying to calm himself down, praying to God his boner would just go away before he had to go back inside.
Then, the heavy glass door of the balcony clicked open and slid shut.
Louis snapped his eyes open. Fuck.
Harry was standing there, the city lights catching the green of his eyes. He looked vulnerable, his hands nervously clutching the fabric of his trousers.
"Lou..." Harry breathed, his voice deep and raspy, carrying that slow, familiar Cheshire drawl.
"Harry," Louis said, his voice harder than he intended. He took another drag of his cigarette, trying to mask the tremor in his fingers. "Fuck, sorry. I did not know you would be here. Liam told me you would not be... that is why I came. I will leave after a bit."
"What?" Harry asked, his brow furrowing as he took a step forward. "Do you... do you not want to see me? I came here because I knew you were coming, Lou. Liam told me you would be here."
Louis let out a harsh, bitter laugh, blowing smoke into the space between them. "Why would I want to see you, Harry? We broke up. I told you five years ago that I did not want us to cross paths again. I have a girlfriend, and I love her."
"I do not care about that, Lou," Harry said softly, his voice cracking slightly as he took another step closer, entirely ignoring the boundary. "I just want to see you. I just want to talk to you."
Louis looked him up and down, his blue eyes scanning the sheer shirt, the exposed chest, and the necklaces resting against his skin. A dark, possessive anger flared up in his chest, competing with the ache in his trousers.
"You know exactly what you are doing, Harry," Louis spat, gesturing vaguely to Harry’s clothes. "Do not give me shits."
"Babe, please," Harry whispered, stepping close enough that Louis could smell his familiar scent—tobacco, expensive vanilla, and him.
"Stop. Right. There," Louis commanded, his voice dropping to a dangerous, low growl. He pressed himself harder against the wall. "Come any closer, and I might punch you."
"I know you still love me," Harry said, his green eyes searching Louis’s face with a frightening amount of certainty. "I can feel it, Lou. I can see it."
"Jesus Christ, you are so fucking delusional," Louis muttered, turning his head away, though his breath was hitching in his throat.
Harry let out a soft, defeated sigh, staring at him with those big, sad eyes. "How is Claire?"
Louis grunted, the mention of his girlfriend feeling like a cold bucket of water, though it did nothing to kill his erection. He aggressively stubbed his cigarette out on the balcony railing and cursed under his breath. "Get the fuck out, Harry. I do not want to fucking see you."
Harry just stood there, looking at him with those soft, heartbreakingly familiar eyes. It was the exact look that used to make Louis completely melt, the look that almost made him want to apologize right then and there for being so cruel.
Unable to take the suffocating tension for another second, Louis made a move to push past him toward the glass door.
But as he drew parallel, Harry’s hand shot out, his long fingers wrapping tightly around Louis’s forearm. The physical contact was like a lightning strike.
Louis froze, staring down at Harry's hand on his arm, his muscles coiling. He wanted to scream. He wanted to punch him. He wanted to tear the world apart.
Instead, he looked up into Harry’s parted lips, his gaze dropping to the silver ring catching the moonlight on his chest.
"Fuck it," Louis whispered.
In one explosive motion, Louis fisted his hand into the sheer black fabric of Harry’s shirt, bunching it in his grip, and violently hauled Harry forward, crashing his mouth into his with a desperate, starving hunger.
Harry moaned against Louis’s lips—a proper, ragged sound that tore right from the back of his throat. His long fingers flew up, his palm fisting tightly into the hair at the nape of Louis’s neck, pulling him closer, deeper.
Fuck, Louis was so incredibly hard right now it was actually painful. After months of feeling absolutely nothing, the sudden, violent rush of blood to his crotch made his head spin. He was so close to the edge just from the friction of their bodies that he thought he might actually cum right there in his trousers.
"Fuck, Harry," Louis groaned, his voice completely wrecked. He fisted his hand into Harry’s short hair, tugging his head backward to expose the long line of his throat. Louis leaned down and licked a wet stripe right up the side of his neck, directly over his pulse point.
Harry let out a sharp, breathless whimper, his whole body shivering violently in Louis’s grip.
"One lick and you are already whimpering like a little slut," Louis muttered, his accent thick and dark against Harry’s skin. He missed this. God, he had missed hearing Harry make those desperate, needy noises more than he could ever put into words.
Harry shivered again, his hands gripping the front of Louis’s navy linen shirt, bunching the fabric in his fists. "I—I miss you, Louis," Harry moaned, his green eyes blown wide and glassy as he looked up.
Louis grunted, the sheer confession hitting him like a physical force. He lifted Harry slightly and slammed him back against the balcony wall, crashing their mouths together again. He shoved his tongue deep into Harry’s mouth, taking complete, aggressive control of the kiss, just like he always used to do. Harry immediately obeyed, parting his lips, letting Louis dominate him entirely as his hands slid up to grip Louis’s shoulders.
"I miss you too, H," Louis whispered, his breath hot against Harry’s lips as he finally pulled back a fraction to breathe.
Harry leaned forward, desperately chasing the contact, peppering frantic, wet kisses along Louis’s jaw and down to his neck. "We shouldn't be doing this," Harry breathed against his skin, his voice trembling. "We really shouldn't..."
But even as the words left Harry's mouth, Louis shifted his weight. Driven by pure, unadulterated instinct—his brain operating on a complete autopilot he hadn't accessed in five years—Louis humped his rock-hard cock right against Harry’s thigh.
"Yet you are still not stopping," Louis muttered, leaning down to press a firm kiss to the side of Harry’s head.
Harry pulled away slightly, his chest heaving under the sheer lace shirt as he looked into Louis’s eyes. His hands slid down, trailing softly over Louis’s chest. "I... I just wanted to talk, actually. I wanted to know how you are doing, Lou."
Louis stared at him, his brow furrowing. A sharp prickle of irritation flared up in his chest. Is it fucking wrong that he felt a bit offended by that? Because he absolutely did. Here he was, completely undone, harder than he’d been in years, and Harry wanted to have a chat?
"You don't want me?" Louis whispered, his voice dropping an octave as he leaned in and pressed a rough kiss to Harry’s flushed cheek.
"Wha—what about Claire?" Harry asked, his voice cracking on the name. Despite the question, his head automatically leaned into Louis’s touch, his cheek resting against Louis’s hand. He was starved for the comfort, starved for the familiar warmth. He missed Louis so badly it ached.
But Louis was getting properly annoyed now. He did not want to hear that name right now. He did not want the crushing guilt of Highgate bleeding onto this balcony. Not when he finally felt alive again.
"Tell me to stop and I will," Louis said, his blue eyes locking onto Harry’s with absolute, unyielding intensity.
"Lou—"
"Tell me to stop and I will," Louis repeated firmly. To drive the point home, his large hand slid down, his fingers embedding tightly into the flesh of Harry’s hip, squeezing hard enough to leave a mark.
Harry stared at him, his breath hitching. He didn't say the word. He couldn't. Instead, he leaned in and captured Louis’s mouth in another desperate, starving kiss. Louis gripped his waist tightly, and Harry wrapped his long arms securely around Louis’s neck, pulling his weight flush against him.
Harry kept moaning into the kiss, those soft, breathless sounds vibrating directly into Louis’s chest. Louis personally couldn't take it for another second. The overwhelming desire to just bend Harry over and fuck him right there on the cold balcony terrace was screaming through his veins.
Then, Harry’s hand slid down between their bodies. His long fingers wrapped around the massive, throbbing bulge in Louis's trousers, palming his dick through the fabric.
"Fuck," Louis choked out, his eyes snapping shut. It felt so fucking good. He had genuinely missed the simple sensation of being hard; he had almost forgotten what it felt like to have his body work this way.
Harry pulled his mouth away, trailing hot breaths along Louis’s jaw. "Wanna suck you off, Lou... miss your cock in my mouth so badly."
"Fuck, H. You and your filthy mouth," Louis grunted, his grip sliding lower to squeeze Harry’s arse through his tailored trousers, hauling him closer.
Harry offered a small, breathless smirk, and without another word, he slid slowly down to his knees on the concrete floor of the balcony. He pressed his face right against the growing, leaking bulge in Louis’s trousers, mouthing at him through the linen.
Louis let out a loud, unrestricted moan, his head snapping back against the brick wall. He was about to scold Harry, to tell him to put it in his mouth already, but he was simply too turned on to form proper words. Instead, his hips moved on pure instinct. He held the back of Harry’s head, his fingers tangling in the short curls, and began to rut his face, humping his crotch directly against Harry's mouth and nose, moaning loudly into the empty night air.
Harry hummed happily against him, the vibration sending shivers straight down Louis’s spine. With practiced, eager fingers, Harry quickly slid Louis's belt open, unbuttoned his trousers, and pulled his leaking, fully erect cock out into the cool air. Harry gave it one long, slow stroke from base to tip.
"Fuck, Lou... you are so wet," Harry whispered, his green eyes looking up through his eyelashes, completely dark with lust.
"You are so beautiful, and I miss you so fucking much," Louis panted, his chest heaving. He took over the stroking of his own cock, hovering the pre-cum-slicked head right over Harry’s parted lips. "Miss this, Haz?"
Harry nodded eagerly, his pink tongue darting out to lick the air, his eyes locked onto Louis’s.
"So desperate you couldn't even wait until we got out of here? Just had to do it on the fucking balcony?" Louis teased, his voice a low, raspy growl.
Harry didn't answer with words. He just leaned forward and swallowed Louis’s cock whole, taking him deep into his throat.
Louis let out a loud, shattered moan, his knees nearly buckling. "Fuck. That is it. Taking my cock so well... even after five years." Louis fisted his hand tightly into Harry’s hair, holding him steady as his hips began to move, pushing himself deep into the wet, scorching heat of Harry’s mouth.
Harry had always been an absolute cocksucker. He loved doing it, especially when Louis started properly fucking his mouth like this. Back during the tour days, Harry would constantly sneak backstage into the dressing rooms during quick wardrobe breaks, just to give Louis head. He simply couldn't stand seeing Louis all wet and drenched when they sprayed water at each other on stage; it turned him on too much to wait. And Louis loved him fiercely for it.
"Ah, fuck, Hazza, I can't... I cannot hold it in," Louis groaned, his breath coming in ragged, short gasps. "Fuck, your mouth feels so fucking good. I missed your mouth so much."
Harry hummed deeply, the vibration wrapping around Louis's shaft as he picked up the pace, his head bobbing quickly as he looked up at Louis with teary, strained eyes. Louis understood that look instantly. He knew exactly what Harry wanted.
"Fuck. So fucking pretty," Louis moaned, his thumb brushing over Harry’s cheek. "So fucking pretty... will you let me cum in your pretty mouth?"
Harry moaned around his length, a desperate sound of agreement. Louis glanced down and saw that Harry had already pulled his own dick out of his trousers and was quickly stroking himself, his fingers slick with his own pre-cum.
"What a slut," Louis panted, a dark smirk tugging at his lips despite the impending orgasm. "Couldn't even wait until you finished making me feel good, you are already touching yourself, huh?"
Harry let out a muffled whine, and Louis began to fuck his mouth even harder, his thrusts becoming fast, shallow, and desperate as he felt the wave building in his hips.
"Fuck, Hazza, I am fucking cumming," Louis groaned, his thighs shaking violently as the release hit him. "Take all my cum, yeah? Swallow it like... fuck, like the good boy you are."
Louis thrust deep into Harry’s throat one last time as he spent himself, his entire body trembling as he came in heavy, hot spurts right down Harry's throat. Harry didn't flinch. He took every bit of it, his throat working as he swallowed it all down, before darting his tongue out to lick Louis's shaft completely clean.
Louis panted heavily, leaning his head against the wall as the aftershocks rippled through him. He reached down and gently patted the top of Harry’s head.
Looking down, Louis noticed that Harry had gone over the edge at the exact same time, his own cum smeared all over his hands and trousers. Louis reached down, grabbing Harry under the armpits and pulling him up until they were standing eye-to-eye again.
"Feels good?" Louis asked, his voice low and breathy.
Harry nodded, his cheeks flushed, his lips glistening. "Yeah."
Louis smiled—a genuine, warm smile—and reached out to take Harry’s hand. It was completely covered in Harry's sticky, white semen. Louis looked Harry dead in the eyes, lifted Harry’s hand to his mouth, and deliberately began to lick the cum off Harry’s fingers.
Harry let out a sharp gasp, holding back a violent whimper as his green eyes went incredibly wide. Louis didn't break eye contact for a single second. He kept his gaze locked on Harry, slowly and meticulously licking his hand until every trace of the cum was completely clean.
Once he was done, Louis smiled, leaned in, and pressed a soft, lingering peck to Harry’s lips.
Harry’s nose immediately scrunched up in a familiar, adorable grimace.
Louis barked out a proper laugh, the sound bright and loud in the night air. "Disgusting?"
"Gross," Harry deadpanned, though a tiny, fond smile tugged at the corner of his mouth as he wiped his lips with the back of his clean hand.
Louis opened his mouth to say something witty, but the sudden, sharp buzzing of his phone inside his trousers pocket cut him off. His heart dropped into his stomach for a terrifying second, a cold dread washing over him as he prayed it wasn't Claire.
He hastily pulled the phone out and checked the screen. Thank God. It was Niall.
Louis took a steadying breath and slid the answer bar. "Yeah, Nialler?"
"Louis, where the hell are you, mate?" Niall’s voice boomed through the speaker over the loud roar of the party inside. "Did you go home or something?"
"No, no. Just on the balcony, having a smoke break," Louis lied smoothly, his eyes flicking to Harry, who was currently tucking himself back into his trousers. "Why, what is up?"
"It is celebrating time, isn't it? We are about to open the big bottles," Niall said excitedly. "I want you in here. With Harry, too. Have you seen him? I have phoned him twice but he is not answering his mobile."
Louis cleared his throat, adjusting his own trousers. "Yeah, I will look for him for you, mate."
"All right, brilliant. Come fast, yeah?"
"On it," Louis said, locking the screen and slipping it back into his pocket.
Harry looked at him, his lower lip pushing out into a proper pout. He reached out, his hand wrapping around Louis’s wrist, holding him back. "I want to talk, Lou..." he trailed off softly.
"We will," Louis promised, his voice softening as he looked at the sheer vulnerability on Harry's face. He reached up, gently squeezing Harry’s shoulder. "We will talk after this, yeah? I promise."
Harry stared at him for a moment, searching his face, before finally nodding slowly.
"Right," Louis whispered, stepping back. "Give it two minutes before you come back inside. We cannot walk in together. Go use the loo, tidy up your hair, and then come find Niall."
"Okay," Harry murmured.
Louis offered him one last reassuring look, then turned, slid the heavy glass door open, and stepped back into the warm, loud atmosphere of the Soho penthouse, leaving the ghost on the balcony behind him—only this time, the ghost was entirely real, and Louis’s body was completely awake.