larry smut

honey is it time to spin

https://archiveofourown.org/works/2037927

~✰~

Harry is contemplating getting drunk.

Proper sloshed, the stumble-out-of-a-club-and-cause-pap-hysteria kind of drunk. He's at an event for - something? Watches, he decides, studying the banners on the wall.

He's walked the red carpet, smiled at the cameras, flicked his trademark curls out of his face, and now he deserves a bloody drink. He deserves more than the single glass of champagne and three glasses of water he's had so far. He catches the attention of the cute bartender who's been offering to refresh his drink for the last ten minutes, takes the expensive flute with a wink. If nothing else, he's getting laid tonight, he decides, turning on his heel - and running smack into something solid.

Harry's champagne goes flying, almost ruining the suit of the very attractive gentleman in front of him. It's a beautiful suit - Tom Ford, Harry decides, and the man has a talented tailor, because it fits him perfectly, a shade that's somewhere between royal blue and navy that makes the blue of his eyes startling. He's maybe early forties, grey at his temples and in the short scruff that's somewhere between stubble and half-beard.

"Oops," he says, belatedly, realising he's been staring, and his silver fox laughs.

"It's fine, pretty," silver fox says, and Harry bites his lip with a coy smile. So it's like that, then.

Harry abruptly realises the floor is slick underneath his feet, and looks down. Oh damn.

"I've ruined your shoes," he says miserably. There's no way he'll have a chance with the man now, especially when he takes in exactly how expensive the leather brogues are.

"Don't worry about it," the older man replies with a shrug. "Had 'em for ages. No harm done."

Harry flashes the man his best smile, the cheeky, boy-next-door charm that's ensured his meteoric rise. He knows the man's lying - Harry did both catwalk and print for Burberry this season, knows the other man is wearing wingtip brogues worth a thousand pounds, in the "bittersweet chocolate" leather that's not available in stores.

"I think you owe me a drink, though, pretty," the man adds. Oddly enough, the nickname doesn't rankle, and Harry grins.

"I'm Harry," he says. "Harry Styles."

"I know," the silver fox says with a wink, offers his hand. "Louis Tomlinson."

Louis Tomlinson's handshake is firm and warm, and Harry realises with a start that he knows who the other man is - superstar music producer Louis Tomlinson, the one Grimmy refers to as his mortal twitter enemy, the self-made music publishing mogul.

"Nice to meet you," Harry manages. "Um... what would you like to drink?"

"Scotch," Louis says, then frowns, digging his phone out of his pocket. He looks at it for a moment, then flashes Harry a brilliant smile. "Come find me with it, yeah?"

Louis disappears into the crowd, and Harry turns back to the bar with a sigh, flags down the eager bartender from before, orders another glass of bubbly and a tumbler of their best scotch. Drinks in hand, he turns back to see absolutely no sight of Louis.

*

It takes him nearly five minutes to find the older man, tucked away in a corner. Louis looks up as he approaches, sliding his phone back into his pocket.

"I thought you'd abandoned me," Harry says lightly, passing over the expensive scotch, and Louis takes it. Their fingers brush in the trade-off, and Harry's fingers tingle, the thrill shooting up his spine. Louis feels it too, if the way his gaze darkens is any indication.