it's kind of a thing [1/1]
title: it’s kind of a thing
author: leira17
ships: louis/harry
rating: pg-13
word count: ~2,000
warnings: n/a
summary: Harry likes it when Louis writes on him.
note: unbeta’d. because of this and this, I felt it was necessary. (the second one is my tumblr, feel free to talk at me on it!)
According to Liam, ink poisoning was a thing that existed and probably Harry should worry about it more, but Harry thought that Liam worried enough for the both of them anyway. It wasn’t a problem. Harry had it under control.
Except for how he really didn’t.
It was one of those things that kind of started right off the bat -- after they got formed, actually, because Louis had a pen and Harry’s phone was in his suitcase and it was just so much simpler for Louis to write his number in big letters across Harry’s arm. (So he claimed, anyway, but Harry realised halfway home that Louis’ phone was being passed around the other boys and Harry could’ve easily programmed his number in, but he kind of liked having digits on his arm, like he’d gotten a bird’s number, so he just grinned to himself and ignored Gemma’s odd looks.)
Louis was insufferable about it straight from the beginning. He would chase Harry around the bungalow with a marker or pin him down in rehearsal to draw penises on his cheeks or just doodle on him when they were sitting around the house totally bored.
He would use Harry as paper even when there was actual paper around, and for some reason that was a thing for Harry. A big thing.
One night, when Louis came up to his bunk like he often did (claiming sleepwalking as the sole reason), he was fiddling with a Sharpie and sighing a lot, so Harry had no choice but to open his eyes and give him a sleepy glare.
“What do you want?” he asked, trying to keep his voice low because if he woke Zayn up again he’d be hearing about it for weeks.
“I’ve been thinking about the song,” said Louis.
“Our song?”
“No, not our song. The one in my head, Hazza, keep up.” He ruffled Harry’s hair and Harry could only bury his face into his pillow so his stupid grin wouldn’t be as obvious. “I’ve been meaning to write it down but I couldn’t find, you know, the right words.”
Harry tilted his head so he could look properly at Louis, the moonlight from the curtainless window illuminating half of his face. “So you found the words, then?”
“I did, yeah, I did,” said Louis.
“So... aren’t you gonna write it down? Before you forget, I mean, because your memory is terrible.”
“There’s not exactly an abundance of notepads in here, is there? And my phone is dead.”
Pretty sure he knew where this was going, Harry rolled onto his stomach, glad of the excuse to hide his face. He’d been feeling -- you know -- things for a while now in regards to Louis, but there wasn’t a whole lot he could do about it. They weren’t supposed to while they were still contestants, for one thing, and then there was the band dynamic to think about and Louis had a girlfriend back home and, yeah, actually doing something about the feelings wasn’t something Harry liked to think about much.
They were fine the way they were, really. Harry had never had such a good friend and he wouldn’t know how to ask Louis for more even if he were brave enough to.
“Write it on me, then,” he said.
Louis said, “What, honestly?”, but not like he was actually surprised at the turn of events. Harry didn’t even deign it with a response, just nuzzled into his pillow and wondered how Louis could have been any more obvious, with the Sharpie in hand and everything.
Besides, Louis wasn’t waiting for a response. He was already tugging the covers down to expose Harry’s back, which reminded Harry how chilly it actually was in the house. He shivered and Louis put a reassuring hand on his back, which just made him shiver more. Louis chuckled a little, quietly, and Harry heard the marker cap being popped off. He was mentally preparing himself for the feeling he always got when Louis drew on him, but Louis was hesitating.
“What’s up?” Harry whispered.
“I just,” said Louis, trailing off. Then he huffed another laugh. “It isn’t a very good angle to write on, is all. Don’t freak out, okay?”
Harry wanted to ask what he wasn’t meant to be freaking out about, but then Louis was moving and his weight was settling onto Harry and -- oh, yeah, all right, the freaking out was a pretty good assumption. He was still shifting around to get comfortable but as far as Harry could tell, Louis was straddling his lower back, which.
“All right?” Louis asked, cautious, and Harry made what he hoped was a noise of agreement, not sexual frustration. All Harry knew was that he was grateful he was lying on his stomach for this ordeal.
The first press of the marker was cold, like always, but that wasn’t why Harry liked this so much. He had tried to figure it out a couple of times, and he could think of nothing except that he and Gemma used to trace pictures on each other’s backs and arms with their fingertips and make the other guess what it was. It was an easy game, because Gemma always drew clouds and flowers, and Harry liked drawing animals, but they played it for quite a few years of their childhood anyway. With the Sharpie it was different, of course, than fingers, but the drag of skin under each letter and the way the hairs on the back of his neck stood up were the same.
Harry could have dozed off, as relaxed as he was, but Louis was breathing out the words as he wrote them and Harry was too preoccupied straining to hear the quiet singing to actively try and sleep.
He wondered if he could get Louis to sing it for him in the morning, louder, reading the lyrics off Harry’s back as he did.
In the end he fell asleep before Louis moved from his back, and when he woke up there were black smudges on his sheets from where the words had rubbed off in the night. Louis was unbothered by it at breakfast; he said he took a picture, which struck Harry as strange for reasons he couldn’t put his finger on.
It wasn’t until later, in rehearsal, when he saw Louis check the time on his phone that he remembered Louis claiming a dead battery on it.
“You know, I have to ask,” said Harry. Louis hummed in acknowledgement, not looking up from the penguin he was doodling on the back of Harry’s hand. They were both lounging on the floor in a common area of the house, thrilled that people kept having to step around them or over them -- Cher had actually tripped on Louis’ leg and then proceeded to curse them out for a good five minutes on her way to breakfast -- they loved being nuisances. “Is this a thing for you?”
“A thing?”
“Yeah, a thing.” Harry thought that asking the question should make him more nervous than it did. Something about the fact that Louis had lied about his phone being dead specifically so he could write on Harry’s back made him, well, rather confident. “Like, a thing.”
Louis gave him an amused smile. “I’ve no idea what you’re going on about, mate.”
Without any other way to put it, Harry ended up shrugging and settling back into the carpet. Louis took this as an invitation to draw swirls up his wrist.
“Well, it’s a thing for me, anyways,” said Harry.
“Oh,” Louis said later, over dinner, dropping his fork in surprise. “A thing.”
Liam gave him the ‘what are you on about now and do I want to know’ look that he’d perfected in the weeks he’d known Louis, and Harry smothered a bark of laughter with his hand. A few of the others just shrugged and went back to their meal, used to Louis being Louis, and though Aiden levelled him with a stare, Louis was too busy gaping at Harry to notice.
“A thing?”
Snorting, Harry nodded, also ignoring Aiden’s gaze. Louis was far too surprised about this, considering the way Harry acted around him all the bloody time.
“A thing,” Harry confirmed, and Niall threw a napkin at him.
“If you’re not going to tell us what you’re on about,” he said, “at least discuss your things somewhere else, thanks. Some of us are trying to eat.”
“Oi, we’ll discuss our things where we please,” said Harry.
At that, Zayn groaned and let his forehead connect with the tabletop. “Things,” he said in a much more despaired voice than Harry really thought he had cause to. Pretty much everyone was laughing now, either at Zayn’s reaction or Niall’s hyena mating cry. Louis wasn’t laughing, though, and Harry noticed that his eyes were fixated on Harry’s hand. He was fiddling with a spoon absently and didn’t really see the appeal until he remembered the loops drawn half up his arm.
He still wanted to hear Louis’ answer to all this, whether it was ‘you weirdo’ or ‘yeah, me too’, but it wasn’t exactly possible with the number of people around them. So Harry used his other hand to trace along the swirls, watching Louis watch him, waiting for some kind of response.
Louis’ eyes flicked up to meet his, and he grinned, ducking his head again almost immediately to hide the blotchy pink spots on his cheeks.
That was a good enough answer if Harry’d ever seen one.
They weren’t alone again for hours. There was a table tennis tournament that Louis wasn’t allowed to get out of in fear of losing face, and Harry went with Liam to the gym. Generally he hated going with Liam, because his body made Harry want to cover his own for eternity, but he needed the distraction. He kept pace with Liam the whole time, which turned out to be a big mistake. By the time he needed to go to sleep he was sore, exhausted, and annoyed at Liam’s sunny disposition.
Nobody was in their room when he got there, so Harry thought it was safe to collapse on Louis’ bunk. He justified this in his mind with how much it hurt to even move, let alone climb a ladder, but honestly it was just nice to drift off with his nose smashed in Louis’ pillow, breathing in his smell.
The shifting of the mattress woke him up, and he blinked in the darkness. Louis smiled down at him and then settled on his side, arm thrown over Harry. It wasn’t anything special -- Harry had cuddled with Louis more in the past few weeks than he had with anyone in his life -- but he remembered the sort-of-conversation they’d had at dinner and grinned back, tangling his legs with Louis’.
“Hi,” he whispered, and Louis smothered a laugh in his pillow.
“Hi,” echoed Louis. “So, a thing?”
“A big thing.”
Louis hummed and started running his fingers through Harry’s hair. It felt really nice, so Harry leaned into it, letting his eyes drift closed. He heard Louis comment something about how cat-like he was acting, but it wasn’t important enough for Harry to pay close attention.
“Well, I really hope I haven’t misunderstood,” Louis said, and then his lips were on Harry’s.
Pulling away to assure Louis that he hadn’t misunderstood in any way seemed like far too much effort, when Harry could just kiss back and get the same message across.
I love you Louis wrote on the inside of his wrist. Harry didn’t wash it off for days -- he let it fade more with each shower, smiling at the loopy letters.
author: leira17
ships: louis/harry
rating: pg-13
word count: ~2,000
warnings: n/a
summary: Harry likes it when Louis writes on him.
note: unbeta’d. because of this and this, I felt it was necessary. (the second one is my tumblr, feel free to talk at me on it!)
According to Liam, ink poisoning was a thing that existed and probably Harry should worry about it more, but Harry thought that Liam worried enough for the both of them anyway. It wasn’t a problem. Harry had it under control.
Except for how he really didn’t.
It was one of those things that kind of started right off the bat -- after they got formed, actually, because Louis had a pen and Harry’s phone was in his suitcase and it was just so much simpler for Louis to write his number in big letters across Harry’s arm. (So he claimed, anyway, but Harry realised halfway home that Louis’ phone was being passed around the other boys and Harry could’ve easily programmed his number in, but he kind of liked having digits on his arm, like he’d gotten a bird’s number, so he just grinned to himself and ignored Gemma’s odd looks.)
Louis was insufferable about it straight from the beginning. He would chase Harry around the bungalow with a marker or pin him down in rehearsal to draw penises on his cheeks or just doodle on him when they were sitting around the house totally bored.
He would use Harry as paper even when there was actual paper around, and for some reason that was a thing for Harry. A big thing.
One night, when Louis came up to his bunk like he often did (claiming sleepwalking as the sole reason), he was fiddling with a Sharpie and sighing a lot, so Harry had no choice but to open his eyes and give him a sleepy glare.
“What do you want?” he asked, trying to keep his voice low because if he woke Zayn up again he’d be hearing about it for weeks.
“I’ve been thinking about the song,” said Louis.
“Our song?”
“No, not our song. The one in my head, Hazza, keep up.” He ruffled Harry’s hair and Harry could only bury his face into his pillow so his stupid grin wouldn’t be as obvious. “I’ve been meaning to write it down but I couldn’t find, you know, the right words.”
Harry tilted his head so he could look properly at Louis, the moonlight from the curtainless window illuminating half of his face. “So you found the words, then?”
“I did, yeah, I did,” said Louis.
“So... aren’t you gonna write it down? Before you forget, I mean, because your memory is terrible.”
“There’s not exactly an abundance of notepads in here, is there? And my phone is dead.”
Pretty sure he knew where this was going, Harry rolled onto his stomach, glad of the excuse to hide his face. He’d been feeling -- you know -- things for a while now in regards to Louis, but there wasn’t a whole lot he could do about it. They weren’t supposed to while they were still contestants, for one thing, and then there was the band dynamic to think about and Louis had a girlfriend back home and, yeah, actually doing something about the feelings wasn’t something Harry liked to think about much.
They were fine the way they were, really. Harry had never had such a good friend and he wouldn’t know how to ask Louis for more even if he were brave enough to.
“Write it on me, then,” he said.
Louis said, “What, honestly?”, but not like he was actually surprised at the turn of events. Harry didn’t even deign it with a response, just nuzzled into his pillow and wondered how Louis could have been any more obvious, with the Sharpie in hand and everything.
Besides, Louis wasn’t waiting for a response. He was already tugging the covers down to expose Harry’s back, which reminded Harry how chilly it actually was in the house. He shivered and Louis put a reassuring hand on his back, which just made him shiver more. Louis chuckled a little, quietly, and Harry heard the marker cap being popped off. He was mentally preparing himself for the feeling he always got when Louis drew on him, but Louis was hesitating.
“What’s up?” Harry whispered.
“I just,” said Louis, trailing off. Then he huffed another laugh. “It isn’t a very good angle to write on, is all. Don’t freak out, okay?”
Harry wanted to ask what he wasn’t meant to be freaking out about, but then Louis was moving and his weight was settling onto Harry and -- oh, yeah, all right, the freaking out was a pretty good assumption. He was still shifting around to get comfortable but as far as Harry could tell, Louis was straddling his lower back, which.
“All right?” Louis asked, cautious, and Harry made what he hoped was a noise of agreement, not sexual frustration. All Harry knew was that he was grateful he was lying on his stomach for this ordeal.
The first press of the marker was cold, like always, but that wasn’t why Harry liked this so much. He had tried to figure it out a couple of times, and he could think of nothing except that he and Gemma used to trace pictures on each other’s backs and arms with their fingertips and make the other guess what it was. It was an easy game, because Gemma always drew clouds and flowers, and Harry liked drawing animals, but they played it for quite a few years of their childhood anyway. With the Sharpie it was different, of course, than fingers, but the drag of skin under each letter and the way the hairs on the back of his neck stood up were the same.
Harry could have dozed off, as relaxed as he was, but Louis was breathing out the words as he wrote them and Harry was too preoccupied straining to hear the quiet singing to actively try and sleep.
He wondered if he could get Louis to sing it for him in the morning, louder, reading the lyrics off Harry’s back as he did.
In the end he fell asleep before Louis moved from his back, and when he woke up there were black smudges on his sheets from where the words had rubbed off in the night. Louis was unbothered by it at breakfast; he said he took a picture, which struck Harry as strange for reasons he couldn’t put his finger on.
It wasn’t until later, in rehearsal, when he saw Louis check the time on his phone that he remembered Louis claiming a dead battery on it.
“You know, I have to ask,” said Harry. Louis hummed in acknowledgement, not looking up from the penguin he was doodling on the back of Harry’s hand. They were both lounging on the floor in a common area of the house, thrilled that people kept having to step around them or over them -- Cher had actually tripped on Louis’ leg and then proceeded to curse them out for a good five minutes on her way to breakfast -- they loved being nuisances. “Is this a thing for you?”
“A thing?”
“Yeah, a thing.” Harry thought that asking the question should make him more nervous than it did. Something about the fact that Louis had lied about his phone being dead specifically so he could write on Harry’s back made him, well, rather confident. “Like, a thing.”
Louis gave him an amused smile. “I’ve no idea what you’re going on about, mate.”
Without any other way to put it, Harry ended up shrugging and settling back into the carpet. Louis took this as an invitation to draw swirls up his wrist.
“Well, it’s a thing for me, anyways,” said Harry.
“Oh,” Louis said later, over dinner, dropping his fork in surprise. “A thing.”
Liam gave him the ‘what are you on about now and do I want to know’ look that he’d perfected in the weeks he’d known Louis, and Harry smothered a bark of laughter with his hand. A few of the others just shrugged and went back to their meal, used to Louis being Louis, and though Aiden levelled him with a stare, Louis was too busy gaping at Harry to notice.
“A thing?”
Snorting, Harry nodded, also ignoring Aiden’s gaze. Louis was far too surprised about this, considering the way Harry acted around him all the bloody time.
“A thing,” Harry confirmed, and Niall threw a napkin at him.
“If you’re not going to tell us what you’re on about,” he said, “at least discuss your things somewhere else, thanks. Some of us are trying to eat.”
“Oi, we’ll discuss our things where we please,” said Harry.
At that, Zayn groaned and let his forehead connect with the tabletop. “Things,” he said in a much more despaired voice than Harry really thought he had cause to. Pretty much everyone was laughing now, either at Zayn’s reaction or Niall’s hyena mating cry. Louis wasn’t laughing, though, and Harry noticed that his eyes were fixated on Harry’s hand. He was fiddling with a spoon absently and didn’t really see the appeal until he remembered the loops drawn half up his arm.
He still wanted to hear Louis’ answer to all this, whether it was ‘you weirdo’ or ‘yeah, me too’, but it wasn’t exactly possible with the number of people around them. So Harry used his other hand to trace along the swirls, watching Louis watch him, waiting for some kind of response.
Louis’ eyes flicked up to meet his, and he grinned, ducking his head again almost immediately to hide the blotchy pink spots on his cheeks.
That was a good enough answer if Harry’d ever seen one.
They weren’t alone again for hours. There was a table tennis tournament that Louis wasn’t allowed to get out of in fear of losing face, and Harry went with Liam to the gym. Generally he hated going with Liam, because his body made Harry want to cover his own for eternity, but he needed the distraction. He kept pace with Liam the whole time, which turned out to be a big mistake. By the time he needed to go to sleep he was sore, exhausted, and annoyed at Liam’s sunny disposition.
Nobody was in their room when he got there, so Harry thought it was safe to collapse on Louis’ bunk. He justified this in his mind with how much it hurt to even move, let alone climb a ladder, but honestly it was just nice to drift off with his nose smashed in Louis’ pillow, breathing in his smell.
The shifting of the mattress woke him up, and he blinked in the darkness. Louis smiled down at him and then settled on his side, arm thrown over Harry. It wasn’t anything special -- Harry had cuddled with Louis more in the past few weeks than he had with anyone in his life -- but he remembered the sort-of-conversation they’d had at dinner and grinned back, tangling his legs with Louis’.
“Hi,” he whispered, and Louis smothered a laugh in his pillow.
“Hi,” echoed Louis. “So, a thing?”
“A big thing.”
Louis hummed and started running his fingers through Harry’s hair. It felt really nice, so Harry leaned into it, letting his eyes drift closed. He heard Louis comment something about how cat-like he was acting, but it wasn’t important enough for Harry to pay close attention.
“Well, I really hope I haven’t misunderstood,” Louis said, and then his lips were on Harry’s.
Pulling away to assure Louis that he hadn’t misunderstood in any way seemed like far too much effort, when Harry could just kiss back and get the same message across.
I love you Louis wrote on the inside of his wrist. Harry didn’t wash it off for days -- he let it fade more with each shower, smiling at the loopy letters.