Chapter Text
December, 1977
“Your eyes…” Harry’s voice is as soft as the throw blanket he and Louis are lazed on, the pokey lawn flattened beneath.
“Hm?” Louis flickers his gaze from the swift clouds above to Harry’s evergreen stare, searching Louis’ blues. A blush crawls around his ears and spreads across his cheeks as he realizes how intently Harry is examining him. The curly boy lies on his stomach, propped on his boyish pink elbows, resting his chin in his hands as Louis is on his back, cloud-watching no more. “What about my eyes?” Louis wonders. “Are they blazed?” Harry giggles at this.
“Well, yes.” They only just stubbed out the now-smoked joint that they bought off Charles Branson (the dank, long-haired, nonconformist, living in the flat above Louis’, whose name is eerily close to Charles Manson. He would’ve been bullied for it in school if he hadn’t graduated only a year before Manson was arrested.) Harry continues; “Blazed, but I mean beautiful. Like sapphire. They’re always changing color, you know. Like the sea.” A delicate hand cups Louis’ face and swipes a thumb just below his left eye, as if wiping a tear. Louis isn’t crying, he’s beaming actually. He can tell, by the triumphant, subtle lift at the corner of Harry’s bitten lips, that the warmth of his scarlet cheek is evident in Harry’s cold palm.
“You’re off your chump.” An awkward laugh and shake of his head sends Harry’s hand retreating. No, please touch me. Don’t stop. Louis could’ve existed with Harry’s hand on his cheek forever. He’d work around it when shaving, turn his head to kiss it in the mornings, fall asleep to the scratch of fingertips through his rough stubble. Surely Harry would deem Louis the one who’s off his chump, if he only knew the thoughts that sailed through Louis’ mind.
“I’m being serious.” Harry’s bottom lip juts outward in a playful pout. Louis is so in love with him- he thinks he might die. One look at Harry results in a cardiac plunge within Louis. “Sometimes sapphire, sometimes jungle green, sometimes Louis Blue. Your eyes are a marvel.”
“Louis Blue?” He chuckles in response and Harry only nods his head, curls falling from where they were hooked behind his cold-bitten, small ears. It was Louis’ callused fingers that tucked the strands there. He reaches out to do it again. “Is that a real color? I think you might have made that up, angel.”
“It’s as real as you and me.” Harry purrs. His voice is as deep and resolute as the Frasassi Caves in Italy the two lovers had visited during their secret holiday in Seventy-Six. He presses his face impossibly closer into Louis’ touch. “I wish I’d made it up. To name a color after you? After your eyes? I’d do it for your birthday. It’d be the nonpareil of gifts.” Louis’ pointy teeth are on full display. Harry once told him he’d like to eat his teeth. Of course he said it in a much more romantic manner, considering Harry’s infamous charm and his picturesque language. Though Louis would have smiled just as prominently if Harry had simply said he wanted to eat his teeth. Harry has the same effect on Louis as an angel does on a lost soul. A feeling, something light and floaty that Louis never felt before him; It blooms and flowers in his chest (and in his loins) with Harry’s every word, breath, blink, existing moments.
“You’re a sap, you know?” Louis shakes his head in disbelief, as if there’s no one in the world like his boy. There isn’t. There never has been. There never will be after him. Louis’ luck seems dreamed up. This angel fell right into his arms just as he got on his knees to pray for a miracle. He didn’t even get to the praying part before he was sucking Harry off.
He pulls Harry’s head down onto his chest. Harry always complies to manhandling easily, rustling around a bit before finding a comfortable position, his cheek squished against Louis’ heartbeat. This is when the cruel, shrieking sound of the garden gate cuts through bird-chirping peace. Harry rolls off of Louis’ chest and gets to his feet faster than he’s ever moved. Louis follows along, gathering up the blanket they laid upon. Gemma appears from behind a corner. Her long skirt whispers just above the cobblestone path, brushing the tops of her sure feet as she strides over.
“Supper’s about ready!” She announces over the bubbling of a three-tiered fountain. Harry wends his way around bare rose bushes. Louis follows.
“Scared me.” Harry scolds his older sister in a low grumble and Louis can’t help but simper at the ground.
Gemma discovered their love affair back in September when she showed up to Harry’s flat, unannounced. Louis was nude on Harry’s loveseat and though he got dressed in record time, before she made her way past Harry and into his living room, it was written all over the lovers’ faces. Harry- in a dressing gown. Louis’ hair- wild. Both their cheeks blazing like the fire in the wood burning stove. It only took one glance between the two for Gemma’s thick eyebrows to raise in accusation. “You’re a homosexual.” She stated, speaking to Harry, but staring at Louis- the stranger awkwardly shuffling on his bare feet in her brother’s living room.
“Don’t tell.” Harry had said rather childishly.
“Jesus, Haz. I’m not a narc.” She rolled her eyes that look to have been cloned from Harry’s, or Harry’s from hers. “I’m Gemma.” She introduced herself and Louis stuttered out his own name, unsurely watching Harry. But the only expression on his boy’s face was that of an annoyed younger sibling. His story-telling eyes indicated nothing devastating had happened. Louis knew then that everything was alright. Harry trusted his sister. She simply shrugged off the situation. There was no need to be sworn to secrecy. Harry says Gemma was born with her roots sunk deep in the ground, so it wasn’t surprising that she fell right into the role of their one dependable ally.
“C’mon. I’ve got to tend to the bread.” Gemma steals the blanket from Louis’ grasp so he wouldn’t have to be the one explaining why he had it. Cloud watching isn’t exactly friend behavior- which is exactly what Harry’s family presumes they are. Friends.
Louis thought Harry had gone witless when he suggested Louis come home with him for Christmas and New Years. Said he couldn’t live without him for a whole two weeks. Louis laughed at first, but Harry bulldozed on (as he does when he isn’t getting his way); “I’ll tell them your family is far. That you’re a friend from Uni who needs hospitality. They won’t want any of my friends going lonely on Christmas.” and “Don’t you want to meet my family? Aren’t we in love?” Louis did want to meet his family. But he’s too in love and having to lie to the only other people Harry loves felt traitorous. Harry countered this with: “It’s their faults we must lie. They’re the traitors for not accepting me as I am. They don’t deserve a look into our love.” His graceful way with words, his intellect, his old-soul wisdom that always stumped Louis; That’s what got them here, caught cuddling in the lush garden behind the Style’s rustic English manor: Harry’s extravagant childhood home.
Harry’s family isn’t sure of Louis. He can tell. “They love you.” Harry had told him. But Mrs. Styles looked at him as if he had grown a third arm. “And where is it you’re from?” She had asked as if she’d been told before, but had forgotten. Her tone, one of dubiety.
“Coventry, ma’m.” Louis responded.
“Ah.” She was unimpressed. Coventry is what people like Harry’s family consider the ghetto. They wouldn’t be far off, but Louis takes secret offense to it anyway. He’s a chav. He’s well aware he is, and he’s proud to be one. He knew he looked out of place as soon as he stepped foot into the foyer belonging to the family of a posh, rich boy he’s unexpectedly fallen for.
Now they follow behind Gemma and into the dining hall. She disappears behind a corner to go tend to the bread. Harry said she always insisted on cooking something on her own on Christmas; So it wasn’t all done by the cook; So it was more personal. Louis found this statement confusing and a bit privileged, though he didn’t say so. He can recall Christmases in his youth, spending the evening burning pancakes for his kid sisters as his mum was away, working her hamster-wheel job. Always long-gone-mum.
Kitchen staff are setting bowls of holiday comforts around the dried-flower centerpiece on the table. Cranberry sauce, a whole sliced turkey, mash, Parma ham, the whole lot. You name it. Gemma drifts back into the dining room as airy as a ghost. She sets down bread rolls among the rest of the food.
“Where’s mum and dad?” Harry asks quietly, but his voice is drowned out by the clinking of fine-china dishes. Just then- they enter. Mr. and Mrs. Styles. Both dressed to the nines in pleats and jewels and gold. Seats are taken and heads are promptly bowed in prayer said by Mr. Styles: “Bless us, O God. Bless our food and our drink. Since you redeemed us so dearly and delivered us from evil, as you gave us a share in this food so may you give us a share in eternal life.” Louis secretly keeps his eyes open, watching Harry across from him. He looks to be completely invested in the religious tradition, but his socked foot is sliding into Louis’ pant leg and up his shin. Little devil. That’s what Louis would call him now if he could. Seducing him under the table during prayer is a perfect example of the minx Harry is. “Ah-men.” The clinking of cutlery on plates and politeness of will you please pass the…
Louis feels like an alien. On the rare occasion his mum wasn’t working on a holiday, they sure as hell didn’t bow their heads to pray to a god who’s spotty about answering them, or change out of their pajamas to eat. There were no lit candlesticks dangerously close to any centerpieces. There were no timid questions of passing the peas, just leaning across the table and grabbing them, baggy clothes dipping into the potatoes and laughing ensued. But here, with Harry’s family, it couldn’t be more different. There’s the same prick of nerves Louis feels when he sits down at the dentist’s office. Quiet, anticipatory. No matter how old he gets he’s always afraid the doctor will see right through him, the gunk between his teeth ratting him out. He hasn’t been flossing. It’s the same here. If Mrs. Styles so much as glances towards Louis, he’s afraid it’s written on his sweat-beaded forehead. I’m a chav and I’m fucking your son.
Harry nudges Louis with his toes and gestures for him to remove his elbows from the table. Louis quickly does so, glancing around to see if anyone else had noticed. They hadn’t. “So,” Mr. Styles begins. “Louis. What’s your major?” Harry removed his foot from his pant leg and instead his toes are slowly making their way to Louis’ crotch. Louis shoots him a subtle look of warning and Harry only smirks as he chews on his bread.
“Fine Arts, sir.” A disapproving look settles into the crows-feet on Mr. Styles’ always-drunk red face.
“What is it you’ll do with such a degree?”
“I’m…” Louis reaches below the table, tablecloth serving as a cover, and he grips a fist around Harry’s socked foot that brushes along his inner thigh. He holds it in place, ignoring the throbbing in the front of his trousers. “hoping to one day curate my own art exhibit. Or perhaps more along the lines of a museum. Sculptures, paintings, photographed portraits, even the architecture of the building would be part of the experience.” Though Louis is happy with his answer, Harry’s dad is not. Toes wiggle in Louis’ grasp. When he looks up at Harry he offers a smile that apologizes for his parents. Louis squeezes his foot and when he releases it Harry only brushes his foot on his leg as comfort, no longer anything sexual attached to the gesture. It helps Louis swallow down the nervous bile rising in his throat.
“Hm.” Mr. Styles stabs a piece of turkey with his fork. If he only knew Harry was lying about his major in business. He was actually going for an English degree. Mr. Styles would surely have a conniption, considering He’s this bothered by Harry’s “friend”’s major. What the hell does it matter to you? Is what Louis would ask if he didn’t live to please. “Not very becoming of a young man to strive for such clean work.”
“Dad.” Harry says then, shaking his head, his pretty eyebrows drawn together.
“Perhaps you’d be spending Christmas with a lady’s family if only you strived for real work. Women like a man who gets his hands dirty.”
“Dad, stop.” Harry’s foot slides off of Louis’ thigh and he sits straighter, leaning forward to get a better look at his father. “It’s 1977. Times have changed.” He tells him. Mr. Styles makes a face that says he knows times have changed, but he doesn’t like it. This is all so ironic to Louis because Mr. Styles seems to know table etiquette like the back of his hand. No elbows on the surface, sitting as straight as a plank, knowing which spoon to use for whatever dish. Talk about not getting your hands dirty. Meanwhile Louis bitterly lifts a piece of turkey to his mouth like a caveman, using only his calloused hands (from working on his car.) He’d bet anything Mr. Styles’ hands are moisturized (and he’d bet anything he calls for a mechanic rather than get on his back to look under a vehicle.)
“That’s enough, boys.” Mrs. Styles interrupts rather half-heartedly. “Eat.”
-
“I’m so sorry, Lou.” Harry whispers after they close themselves off in Louis’ guest room, across the massive chandelier-lit hall from Harry’s childhood room. That’s where they slept last night, only after Louis fucked Harry so hard he cried, struggling to keep quiet even with Louis’ hand pressed hard over his pretty, blubbering mouth.
“S’fine. Whatever.” Louis pouts and shrugs off the cardigan Harry bought for him. He tosses it on the bed before sitting. Harry stands over him, reaching out and stroking his stubble.
“My dad’s an arse, it’s nothing personal. He’d find something to lecture Jesus about. Probably tell him to cut his hair.” Louis can’t help but smirk at this. Harry’s ability to make him smile when he should be frowning is successful ninety-nine percent of the time. It only ever doesn’t work if he himself pisses Louis off somehow. It usually ends in angry sex that leaves Harry wadling and limping for a day or two. Sometimes Harry pisses him off on purpose just to be “punished.” He loves to be tossed around as if he’s as insignificant as a paper doll. Loves to be hurt and begging and crying and drooling.
“It’s okay, really.” Louis turns his head and kisses Harry’s soap-scented palm. “It just makes me wonder about what my dad would think of me if he were alive. He’s the one who taught me how to be rough-edged and all that. Would he think I’m a pansy?”
“Maybe,” Harry shrugs a little and Louis looks up at him like: wrong answer, Love. “But who cares?” He combs his fingers into Louis’ feathery hair. “You decide how you take yourself to the grave. Not some old men who prefer to be stuck in their time rather than understanding that people are a lot more complex than they are plain. They don’t get that life shouldn't be work then die.” Harry slowly sinks down to his knees before Louis, tucking himself between Louis’ open legs. “Life is love, and art, and sex, and the different languages all those things teach us.” He begins unzipping Louis’ slacks. A sigh runs through him, Harry’s or his own. Touching one another is a different kind of relief. Cool as a river, smoothing out any doubts. Floating in the still ocean, seaweed tickling their feet, water lapping up their worries, noses to the warm sun.
“How is it that you’re so wise, pet?” Louis breathes, turns his face to the ceiling, plants a hand in Harry’s wispy, soft baby curls at the back of his head. He hums in response, pulls Louis’ hot throbbing dick from his underpants.
“Fuck.” Slips past those ready lips. He loosely holds Louis’ cock. “You’re so heavy.” Harry’s long pianist fingers wrap firmly around him and twist up at the tip before he slaps it against his tongue that he uses to push ever-so-slightly into Louis’ slit.
“Oh baby,” Louis catches his hooded eyes and they hold one another’s gaze. Harry’s been wanting this all day. Has been thinking about Louis’ cock nonstop. Louis can tell this just by the dilation of his pupils; big liquid pools spilling like black yolks into his honeydew green irises. He’s been pining. Rutting against Louis’ thigh in the garden just earlier. Pressing his toes into Louis’ crotch under the dining table. Big, fat, thick, heavy cock. That’s all that’s been percolating in that pretty head of Harry’s all day. Could hardly wait to get the remainder of his poetic, comforting words out before he was on his knees. “Been so patient, haven’t you?”
“Yessir, I really have.” There’s a seductive, velvet drawl in Harry’s good-boy-tone that he’s gotten so good at putting on, breath tickling Louis’ slit. He’s flicking his big eyes between the precome beading on the head of Louis’ cock and the wolfish smirk sliding onto Louis’ face.
“Want me to reward you for being so good? Want me to fuck your throat?” Louis whispers. Harry nods, biting too hard into his bottom lip. Louis reaches down and pulls on his chin to untuck that lip from his teeth. “Gonna be quiet this time?” Harry shrugs, nodding a little less surely now. This earns a chuckle out of Louis which pokes a shy dimple into Harry’s blushing cheek. He leans forward to plant a soft, wet kiss into Harry’s mouth. Then, shuffling backward on his knees, Harry gives him room to stand, his tongue out and ready. Louis grabs his cock and slaps that pretty, wet mouth, saliva already running down Harry’s chin. A throaty whimper, a plea, green eyes begging, and Louis sputters precome onto Harry’s eager tongue. Without much warning, in a sporadic movement, he buries his fingers in Harry’s hair and thrusts into his mouth. In, out, in, out, in out… Heat is surging through his thighs and stomach and cock. Hands fly to Louis’ hips as the curly boy groans.
“Look at me.” Louis demands, voice well-down and gravelly. Harry’s watery eyes blurrily find Louis’ hungry ones. He hits the back of his throat once, twice, three times before Harry’s muffled groaning and gagging seems it’s getting too much, so he pulls out to watch him try and compose himself, catching his breath, wiping the stringy drool from his chin, but he leaves the tears on his pinkend, splotchy cheeks. “Such a mess for me, darling.” Louis pets Harry’s chocolate curls, tousled and wild now. He waits, patient and open-mouthed for more. He’s pawing at his own hard-on through his trousers. “You can touch yourself, baby. Let me see that pretty cock.” Louis places his hand on top of Harry’s head, keeping his fucked face looking up at him as he blindly undoes his own slacks. His long, aching dick springs out from his tight underwear. Louis smiles devilishly as Harry urgently begins touching himself: hurried strokes, leaking tip, thighs shaking from supporting his weight all on his weakening knees, watching Louis watch him. “Good boy. So wet for me, aren’t you?”
Breathless, chest rising and falling hard and fast, “Yessir, you get me so wet.” To prove his point he gathers precome onto his fingertips and stretches his arm up, Louis bowing his head to get a taste, sucking on his fingers, humming around the saltiness. “Fuck.” Harry curses as he watches Louis’ cheeks hollow out and then return to normal once he pops his lips off.
“Always taste so good, sweet boy.” Louis truly thinks so. Harry’s precome, come, cock, skin, lips, tongue all mouth-watering; giving him the same feeling a good comfort-food does, like he’s home and he can exist without a worry. Harry’s taste is what Louis would live off of, if only he could get away with it. “Open, darling.” Louis directs. Harry’s jaw slackens, Louis’ cock pointing into his open mouth before he slips inside the warm, wet relief once more. Harry screws his head from one side to the other as he bobs up and down on Louis’ incessant throbbing dick. Louis doesn’t thrust this time, just lets one arm hang limp by his side as he
grips the roots of Harry’s hair and allows him to work his magic. Harry’s cock sucking skills only improve and it’s getting to the point that Louis has a hard time lasting longer than a few minutes. Once Harry sinks to his knees, it’s over.
“Good job, baby boy.” He coos and Harry’s whine reverberates around Louis. “Incredible.” He tends to get talkative and full of praises when he’s close, Harry, the opposite. Louis can remember their first time. Harry got really quiet all too suddenly, his mouth hung open, eyes watery and actively rolling into his head as Louis stopped and asked if he was okay. Harry’s response was a whine, higher pitched than what is masculine, and he came all over his spasming stomach. It caught Louis so off guard he unexpectedly came inside Harry with a rapid rise of his loins, which Harry now begs him to do every time he fucks him. He loves being filled with Louis’ come, especially if he’s riding him. He’ll fuck the come into himself until Louis is squirming with sensitivity.
“Just like that, sweet boy. Doing so good for me. Your pretty mouth was made for my cock.” Louis rambles on, his eyebrows drawn tight together as he fights the urge to throw his head back in pleasure. He stays watching Harry force himself further down. So far down, his nose is buried in Louis’ groomed pubic hair and his throat is contracting around him. He’s playing with himself with one hand and massaging Louis’ balls with the other. Louis’ abdomen pulls taut, the tension brewing in his stomach surges like a bolt now. “Gonna come.” He hardly gets the words out. Harry uhn-huh’s around him as permission. Louis’ load shoots hot and plentiful onto his tongue as he hums and moans.
“Fuck,” Louis grunts. Harry’s about to pull off and allow him to finish out his load on his face, but Louis grips his hair and keeps him shoved forward so his twitching, spurting tip is against the back of his throat. Harry cries, gags, and is unable to swallow like this, so the come leaks past his lips and onto Louis’ shaft and drips off onto the carpet. Harry goes silent after a choked sob. Louis pulls out just in time to watch Harry spill over his own fist. “Jesus fucking Christ, baby.” Harry’s whining, a long relieved “uhn,” as he strips his fist up his cock. Tears are still brimming in his eyes and cascading down his blazing cheeks as he finishes. “Good job, darling.” Louis coos and gets down on his knees so they’re face to face now. Harry’s hand stills around himself as he uncontrollably whimpers. Louis presses his mouth hard onto Harry’s. His lips are warm with friction and his tongue is salty with come. He licks Louis’ tongue and, like a lollipop, sucks it into his mouth. When they pull apart Louis wipes his mess off Harry’s chin, then gently brings Harry’s come-coated hand to his mouth and licks him clean. Louis always handles him as gently as fine-China unless they’re fucking. Harry is not fine-China when he gets fucked, though. He is all soft curves made for gripping too hard, full head of curls for pulling too tight, a peachy fit ass for pounding into, a pretty mouth for spitting and coming in. Harry is Louis’ doll and he is more than happy to be.
Louis helps Harry stand and supports him into the attached bathroom. He turns the shower on. The water doesn’t sputter before it shoots out like it does at home. It simply just pelts the shower wall at the turn of a knob.
“Was it good?” Harry speaks finally, his voice scratchy and strained from deep-throating. Louis places a hand on either side of his boy’s face. He looks like he may be the eighth wonder of the world with how angelic his freshly-fucked expression is. Lustful and overworked. He’s red in all the right places: the entirety of his full cheeks, his puffy lips, his drying eyes, his softening cock still hanging out of his trousers.
“Oh, darling,” Louis pets his wild curls down just to watch them spring back into place. “You were perfect. Know exactly how to suck me and touch me. You’re my angel.” Harry wraps his arms around his neck and pulls him in for a sloppy, sapped kiss. “Let’s get you washed up and in bed, yeah?” Louis mumbles against his lips. Harry smiles, those dimples sinking, hair falling onto his forehead as he nods. Louis aids him in undressing and slipping the ring off his middle finger, setting it aside on the counter.
