[1/2]
Title: We're gonna make it (but what if we crash and burn?)
Pairing: Harry/Louis; Harry/Zayn
Summary: Prompted by Anon; At the end of the day, he knew he'd be forced to chose sooner or later.
(Or the one where Harry choses Zayn over Louis, then realises he's made a mistake.)
AN: I know this idea has been done before, but it was a prompt. And what the anon asks for, the anon gets.
-
Harry likes a lot of things. He likes pizza, rain, and lazy Sundays which, more often than not, involve cuddling up to Louis in bed with a mug of tea and some sappy romance flick playing on the television. He also likes cats, despite the pussy jokes becoming a little old.
But he doesn't like it when Louis gets that look in his eyes. It's a mix between hurt and jealousy, one that's become commonplace these days. It's there whenever he so much as mentions Zayn and when they're all together, the tension is suffocating. Harry sometimes wonders how much more of this they can take before one of them snaps.
It never used to be this way though. There used to be a balance, a line that didn't get crossed. It was nothing more than sex, something physical to take their minds off of the stress that was constantly being thrust upon them. But then feelings happened. Zayn's stares lasted just a few more seconds than they ought to and Louis' kisses became a little more desperate. And Harry knew it was just his luck to be caught in some sort of weird love triangle. He wasn't that chick from Twilight, (Gemma made him read it a year ago, okay?) and this wasn't a movie. It was real life and love triangles don't just happen like that. Except from when they do. Which, yeah, sort of suck.
“Do you think Allie loved both Lon and Noah?” Louis asks one day, feet tucked underneath Harry's thigh as his back rests against the arm of the couch. They're watching The Notebook, a classic. It's one of Harry's favourites, really. That and Love Actually. But Liam's borrowing that one tonight for his and Danielle's date. Why the guy can't buy his own copy of the DVD, Harry doesn't know. But as long as Liam doesn't scratch the disk, he supposes it's okay.
And really, Harry knows it's not a random question. Nothing's ever random with Louis, despite how he may seem. Because there's a difference between being random,and being spontaneous. And everything about Louis is deliberate, from the way he dresses right down to the way he answers questions; cryptically. He never lies, but he never really tells the truth. And that's one of the things Harry finds fascinating about him.
“I think...” he starts, his typical slow drawl washing over them like rapids, mulling the question over in his head. “they both helped her discover what love really is. But you can't love two people equally. One will always be favoured over the other, no matter how hard you try to balance the relationship out.” and, as he's talking, Harry slides his buzzing phone out of his pocket. Zayn's text. “That's just the way it works.” he finishes, not looking up from the device as he types out a quick reply, one full of innuendo, smiling.
Had he looked up, he would see that Louis' not.
Had he looked up, he would have seen that look in his eyes.
~*~
Zayn throws his head back and laughs, hand raising slowly to cover his mouth as he does so. Harry grins, because how can he not? Zayn is gorgeous and when he laughs, his eyes do this thing. Sort of like they're sparkling.
His throat is exposed, adams apple bobbing slightly as his body shakes with laughter, and Harry really can't help himself. He leans forwards, sucking on skin of Zayn's neck until he's sure he's left a mark, and so what if he's as smug as shit when the laughter turns into a moan? He's allowed to be. Besides, neither of them are really complaining. Not if the small whimper that works its way past Zayn's lips is anything to go by.
It's exciting, being with Bradford lad. It's one of the things that keeps him coming back, because Louis can make him feel good. Louis can make him feel really good, but there's never that rush with him. With him, it's soothing. Like waves rippling along a beach and it's safe. It's so damn safe and tender that sometimes Harry thinks just one wrong move is going to shatter everything. He hates that feeling.
But it's not that things with Zayn are perfect, either. They're fast, terrifyingly so. They're like the water that crashes against the rocks, hard and relentless and sometimes it makes Harry dizzy trying to keep up. They're strong, but in a different way. There's no fragility between them, no fear of breaking.
And Harry's not sure if that's a good thing or not.
~*~
He doesn't return to the flat until around two in the morning, love-bites littered across his neck and torso, feeling pleasantly achy in all the right areas. All he wants to do is curl up in bed and sleep, because Zayn always wears him out. Always makes him forget everything but his name, if only for a while. But when he makes it to his bedroom there's already a figure in his bed, curled up around his pillow and wearing one of his shirts that's just a little too big. Louis.
So Harry takes care when undressing, not because his body's sore (and it is. Thanks to Zayn.) but because he really doesn't want to wake the other boy. He's always thought that Louis looks his best when he's in bed, and not just the times when they're naked, skin sleek with sweat and burning with lust. He means the times when they're simply cuddling, enjoying each others company while pretending that nothing exists outside of the sanctuary they've built from blankets and pillows. Above all he means the times just before they drift off to sleep, when they're too tired to worry about the world around them and all that's cared about is the hand holding their own. The times when they've just woken up, bleary eyed with bed-head hair and drowsy voices. Those are the times where Harry's pretty sure that Louis' the most beautiful thing he's ever seen in the world and everything else is forgotten, if only for a little while.
When he's down to his boxers, he climbs in on his side of the bed (they've shared enough times in the past few years for them to have designated sides, now.) and shifts as close to Louis as he can get without waking him. The heat that the other boy radiates is almost like a caress against his slightly chilled skin and he wants to be closer, wants to be warmed by Louis until all traces of the outside have disappeared and it's only them. Them, and nothing else.
Harry closes his eyes, breathing out as his head touches the pillow only mere millimetres away from Louis'. The action sounds loud in the otherwise silent room. He doesn't like the way it seems to break the calm around them.
“Can't do this any more, Haz.” Louis mumbles, lethargy evident in his tone. And Harry knows that he wasn't asleep, knows that he just didn't have the energy to let him know he was awake, until now.
Somehow, he even knows that Louis waited up for him. Waited from when he left at Six O'clock this evening until now, wrapped in Harry's blanket and Harry's clothes and just waited for him to come home.
So it's not really a shock when he knows, without even asking, what 'this' is.
And he nods, opening his eyes in time to see the conflicting emotions running through Louis' own. For a moment, he thinks Louis might leave. Go back to his own room and leave his side of the bed to grow cold; empty. But he doesn't. Tiredly, he licks his lips, gaze flickering down to Harry's. And just like that, the mood around them changes. It's still pressing in on them, still a suffocating, shattered madness but it's now charged with energy. With something else.
Harry kisses him, a soft brush of the lips that's repeated not two seconds later with more force and purpose and Louis opens up beneath him, like a stream parting under his will.
Soft hands snake up his spine, sparks of something volatic shooting down his spine and Harry thinks yeah. He could do another round.
~*~
There's a sense of finality in the air at breakfast the next morning. It's as if there's been a turning point, as if something's changed for good. Harry can't shake the feeling that it's the end of something. Something he's not ready to let go of just yet.
“You have to chose, you know.” Louis says, poking at the now soggy cornflakes with his spoon. He hasn't eaten yet and Harry has to fight back the urge to spoon feed him himself. He's a big boy now, he reminds himself. He doesn't need me to look after him.
“I know.”
And, really, he should have expected this. After last night, he knew things weren't going to just go back to the way they were. Harry had always known that he'd have to chose eventually. There was no way things could stay the way they were. It was tearing them apart and there's only so many jokes Niall can crack in order to ease the tension in the car whenever they're travelling together for an extensive amount of time before it just doesn't work any more. And he knows they can't let it get to that point; that they owe it to the others to find a resolution now.
But Harry knows that if he chooses one, he loses the other. And, if he's being honest, he doesn't think he can handle that. Not yet.
So this time, Louis nods. Because Louis' always understood him even when he doesn't understand himself, and sometimes it's scary that somebody can know him that well. But at times like these it's sort of a blessing.
~*~
They manage to last two more days. Two days full of awkward tensions and lingering glances until finally, they break.
It's the final week of their holiday, in exactly seven days the five of them will be returning to the road; recording, attending signings, and doing god knows how many interviews and photo-shoots. It's not Harry's job to keep track of the details, so he doesn't think about it too much. That's down to Liam.
And it's not like they weren't enjoying themselves, or at least, it's not like Harry's not been enjoying himself, but life's a roller-coaster, as Zayn would say. Sometimes you feel so high, so on top of the world that you forget there's a drop. There's always going to be a drop, no matter how careful you are. It's just the way the world works. What goes up, must come down. And sometimes, while you're on cloud nine, there are others at the bottom. Others just waiting to be brought up again.
Louis.
“Take the pizza out the oven will you, babe?” Harry asks, setting the table. Two plates, two glasses of juice. (Smooth, because the stuff with bits in makes Louis feel sick.) Always two, because they never eat alone, not when they're not working.
Louis' washing up because the sink has been somewhat neglected over the past few days, dishes and mugs piling up on top of each other until it looks like they're going to topple over, so it's with a sigh that he finishes drying a bowl- his bowl, because Harry got it for him just after he found out about his childhood nickname, hence the silver 'Boobear' engraved on the front- putting it on the drying board before edging over to the oven, tea towel still in hand.
He's forgotten the basic rules when it comes to getting things out of the oven. The tea towel is still wet, wet enough to do nothing to prevent the heat from the oven tray burning his hand, even through the damp material.
It fucking hurts, and Louis' not even aware that he's made a sound as the tray comes clattering to the ground, but one minute he's standing by the oven, clutching his hand that has now turned an angry red, and the next; Harry's by his side, turning the oven off and closing the door with his hip as he gently takes Louis' hand in his own, checking the burn.
Harry's touch is tender, so tender that Louis just can't take it any more. He can't take the feelings, the way that he can never get enough of the other boy. He can't take the way that they're pretending like everything's okay, when it's been so far from okay for the longest time and he just can't deal with anything any more.
Louis' never been selfish. He's always put Harry's wants and Harry's needs before his own, but right now, he just can't. He can't stand by and just let his him break his heart over and over again. He's no superman, but he's certainly not going to be a victim either.
“Lou...”
It's not until hands are cradling his face, (rough, delicate, gentle hands. Harry's.) thumbs stroking back and forth against his cheeks that Louis realises he's crying.
And once he's realised, it only worsens.
But he doesn't even know why he's crying. His hand doesn't even hurt that much, (okay, so it does. It bloody stings. But not enough to cry.) and the way that Harry's pressing light kisses against his face usually makes him feel good- so good that crying is the last thing on his agenda- and his chest feels like it's about to burst (either that or cave in on itself. He's not entirely sure which one yet.) because he has so many feelings and it's not fair.
And- “If this is a game to you Harry then please- please just let me go.”
Harry's hands still and he swallows because fuck. This is happening now. No, no, no, this isn't happening now.
“I can't stand it. I can't stand knowing that you're off with him, and I can't stand hating him because he has you when I don't. I don't want to hate him for it but I do. I do because there's no way in hell that I could ever hate you. You know how I feel about you Harry, and if I'm just another person to fuck to you, then let's just stop this now. Whatever this is... we stop.
“And I'm going to be here, I'm always going to be here because I fucking love you Harry. I know you're scared of losing someone if you chose but I promise that I wont leave you. I promise, okay? Just... just chose.”
He can't breathe. He can't even breathe because he's sobbing like a little girl, red in the face and cheeks wet and cold, missing the heat of Harry's hands that had fallen to his sides during Louis' little speech.
All he can do is watch as Harry's lips part, pink and full and about to shape the words that can never be taken back; words that are going to change everything.
And neither are sure how long they stand there, suspended in fear and anticipation. All Louis knows is that no matter what happens, somebody is going to get hurt.
“I'm sorry.” Harry whispers, licking his lips as his gaze wanders to anywhere but Louis' own. “I'm sorry, I-” he doesn't finish, the words becoming stuck in his throat as he tries to understand what his mind is doing, what it's saying.
But he doesn't have to finish, because they both know that Louis knows him better than anybody ever will. Louis knows what he's going to say, and that's the worst part. He probably knew even before Harry himself.
He nods, biting his lip and furrowing his eyebrows as he tries to control himself enough to speak. “Okay.” he chokes out, fighting back a sob that's clawing at his throat. “S'okay. Go.”
And despite how badly Harry wants to stay, wants to wrap the slighter boy in his arms and rock him until he's stopped crying, until he's smiling again and all traces of the conversation have been forgotten, (wants to carry him through to the bedroom and makes him forget anything that ever made him feel less then ecstatic,) he doesn't.
Because he knows Louis better than he knows himself, and he knows that right now, Harry is the last person he needs.
So he takes a step back. And another, until he's at the front door with his keys in hand and worry in his heart, and goes.
There's no more 'crossing that bridge when he comes to it.' hanging over his head like a dark rain cloud. Not any more. And it should feel soothing; he should feel weightless, or at least a lot lighter than he was five minutes ago. But he doesn't. He's no longer at the fork in the road, and a part of him wishes he was. Because now he's chosen a path, he doesn't think he can take another step.
~*~
Zayn opens the door at precisely 6:28pm. By 6:32 they're on the sofa, Harry curled under his arm as they watch some show that had been on before Harry got there (CSI, he thinks. But the characters are all a blur and the sound is muffled. He's not paying attention.)
At 6:40, Harry's pretty sure that Louis' cleaned the pizza up off of the floor and put the tray in the sink. He cleans when he's upset, everyone knows that. (Of course, that's the only time he ever does something helpful around the flat, but Harry's never complained before. He's always been content with having Louis just watch. Or making even more mess, depending on what mood he was in.)
When the clock reaches 7:00, CSI has ended (was it even CSI? The music for the ending credits doesn't sound familiar.) and Zayn is standing up, saying something about a late dinner.
The offer of food is too tempting to pass up, despite the fact that Harry can't help but wonder if Louis' managed to fix himself something yet. It's because he's his friend, he tells himself. He worries about his friends all the time so why should Louis be any different? (He ignores the voice inside of his head that's screaming things at him that he'd rather not think about.)
It's 7:24 when Zayn asks him what happened, because Harry's always worn his heart on his sleeve and, okay, it's pretty obvious that something's not exactly right. (But it's not wrong, Harry has to tell himself. He made a choice, and he didn't chose wrong.)
He sort of misses the way that Louis' knows what's wrong- not exactly right- without him having to say anything. He doesn't want to talk about it, but Zayn has a right to know.
He just wishes he didn't have to ask.
~*~
Louis' lips are against his, sensitive and swollen and fuck he needs more. He lets his hands rake through the shorter boys hair and down over his shoulders, effectively bringing him closer. Harry can feel the hardened length of Louis' cock against his thigh, bare skin against bare skin making him that much more desperate to be inside him.
“Need... please...” Harry whines, back arching so that he can feel the burn of Louis' chest against his own.
“What do you need, Hazza?” Louis all but purrs, lips grazing against the shell of his ear as he lets a hand trail down his chest, flicking his already over-sensitive nipples.
“You.” Harry gasps, breath coming out in short pants. “Need you, all of you, please. I want to fuck you, can I just- fuck, I need you, please.”
He's babbling, a string of words that he doesn't quite register falling from his lips in his lust-crazed state. His _ 's swollen, already leaking pre-come against the flat of his stomach and he nearly comes right then and there as Louis wraps a hand around him, deft fingers stroking him almost lazily.
“Too bad, Harry.” He starts, teeth nipping at the skin just below his ear. “Because I need you.”
With a flick of the wrist, Harry's coming over Louis hand, the white steaks a painful but beautiful contrast against his tanned skin. Louis' breath is still hot against him, a whisper for just the two of them kissed onto his flesh.
“And you left me for him.”
Harry wakes to sticky boxers and dried tear stains on his cheeks. Zayn's asleep beside him, snoring lightly and Harry knows that he's completely dead to the world so he doesn't even bother with subtlety as he kicks off the covers and pads over to the bathroom, locking the door behind him.
The light, once turned on, hurts his eyes and he's oh so tempted to turn it off again just so he doesn't have to squint as he approaches the mirror, but he doesn't.
If he were being honest, he looks like hell. His face is flushed an embarrassing shade of pink, the colour spreading down his neck and across his chest, but that's only a small factor. His hair is wild and unruly, sticking up in all directions and he's tempted to pull at it to make it just that little bit crazier, (something Louis always used to do,) but he doesn't. His eyes are rimmed red and bloodshot and in that moment he'd give anything to be back in his own bed, back with Louis and his irritating habit of stealing all the quilt.
He tells himself that this longing- this stupid, irrational longing- is just because he hasn't quite gotten used to the fact that he can't have both of them, yet. So he presses his back against the cool wall, sliding down until he can feel the floor beneath him.
From here, Louis' only twenty feet away.
He doesn't fall asleep with that thought, and that thought only, on his mind.
~*~
The next morning is easier. The sun is shining, (a rare occurrence in England,) and Harry wakes up to a stiff neck and back-ache, Zayn knocking on the door.
“Harry, babe, you alright in there?”
He groans and stands up, stretching as his joints pop back into place. It's a new day and last night never happened. Not to anybody else's knowledge, anyway.
“M'fine.” Harry croaks, his voice slow and his words too slurred together for him to pass off the lie that he hadn't only just got up. Luckily, Zayn doesn't ask. “Just about to have a shower.”
“Okay...” There's a pause, and then: “Want any company?”
Normally, Harry would smirk at this. He'd probably laugh and unlock the door (not that it would be locked in the first place, under regular circumstances.) for the other boy and, when they were finally under the warm spray of the shower, he'd probably get on his knees and blow Zayn until he was coming hot and fast down his throat, his own hand working himself to an orgasm. But right now all he wants to do is be alone. Which, considering he hasn't showed alone when they're not working for over a year, is odd.
And then there's the part of him that doesn't want to be alone. He wants somebody to stand behind him, to wash his hair for him and be there to kiss him when he gets shampoo in his eye. He wants someone to share a shower with, to wash his back for him because it always feels better when someone else does it. He wants to be jerked off, pressed against the cool porcelain of the tiled wall while nimble fingers work him closer and closer to the edge.
But he wants that somebody to be Louis.
So, “Of course.” he replies as evenly as he can, walking over to unlock the door and allow a sleepy looking Zayn to come in.
And, when it's Zayn who sinks to his knees, taking Harry's length into his mouth, he tries to pretend like he doesn't miss pulling on the ends of hair slightly longer than the Bradford lad's.
When he comes, Zayn pulling off just in time (because they don't swallow, not with each other. It just doesn't taste right,) Harry pretends that he's biting his lip in pleasure, and not to make sure he doesn't moan Louis' name.
Last night never happened. Nothing's wrong.
(It's just not quite right.)
[Part Two]