larry smut

all these voices (in the background of my brain)

https://archiveofourown.org/works/29787594

~✰~

Harry and Louis are sprawled out on the plush carpet of Louis' bedroom, some old vinyl playing on the record player as they stare up at the ceiling and share a bag of gummy worms.

It would be okay. It would be totally fine, totally cool.

If Louis was never in love with his best friend.

Because hearing Harry babble on about how hot he finds Sebastian, some kid in his english class with "the best set of blue eyes literally ever" and "the kindest smile" is pure torture. He should be the boy Harry is nervous to talk to, he thinks. He should be the boy Harry's stomach gets all fluttery for when they touch. He should be the boy Harry thinks has the prettiest blue eyes. But he isn't. And he has to fucking deal with it.

"What do you think?"

Harry's soft voice breaks him out of the barricade of angry, self-pitiful thoughts in his head.

"What? Sorry, kinda spaced out..."

"Oh, well I was just saying that I have no idea how to kiss and that I should probably practice."

"W-What? For what?"

"Y'know. For when I kiss Sebastian."

Right. Harry's never been kissed before. Louis doesn't know how, though, his lips are so round and plump and red, so kissable. His teenage, testosterone-raging brain automatically wanders to how Harry's lips would look wrapped around his co—

Nope. Louis will not have thoughts like that about his best friend while he's in the same room.

"How would you even practice?" Louis asks him with a scoff, trying to distract his own brain from the endless sexual scenarios surrounding Harry it could concoct.

"I dunno. I could kiss my reflection."

"Your reflection? Har— no, just no. I'm not going to let you snog my mirror. Besides, it wouldn't even be an effective practice object."

"What, then? A cupcake? A popsicle?"

Louis sighs, turning his head to face Harry. "I'm sure you'll be a fine kisser without practicing. I didn't practice for mine and it went fine."

Harry looks at him. "Oh my god."

Louis' brows furrow slightly. "What?"

"You've never told me about your first kiss!"

Louis shifts. "Harry, no, that's impossible. I'm sure I've told you."

"No, you didn't!"

"That's— no. I've told you about it."

"You seriously haven't, it never came up."

Louis rubs his eyes, groaning. "You— I— fine. Jesus christ. It was in 8th grade."

There's a pause before Harry speaks again, and Louis thinks it's because he's waiting for Louis to delve into details.

"That's it? Come on, Lou, tell me more!" Harry props his head up on his elbow, staring intensely into his eyes.

Louis squirms a bit, scratching at his thigh over his sweatpants. "It was a boy. We snogged against a tree. Frotted for a bit. That's it."

"Frotted? What? What's that?"

"You're... You're kidding, right?"

Harry's sixteen. There's no way he doesn't know what frotting is. There can't be. He's surely popped boners before, curiously typing "pornhub" into a private browser and— yeah, Harry's messing with him, that's it. Harry knows what frotting is, he's just lying. Yes. Lying.