riptides ➳ larry

vi. ocean

TRIGGER WARNING: non-negotiated breathplay (choking).

vi.

Loving Greg is a lot like drowning. Whatever he feels for him fills his lungs and works up his throat until it's all he can breathe in. It's terrifying and beautiful all at once. Louis never wants it to stop.

"Lou," Greg mouths against his shoulder, large hand spanning over his chest and trailing up over his neck, angling his chin to where he's staring right down into a swirling pool of warm brown. "Look at me."

Louis nods around a hitched breath, hiking his legs over Greg's waist and pulling him even closer, until he isn't sure where he ends and where Greg begins. Please don't ever let me go. Greg's heart beats at a steady staccato, and their sheets shift beneath Louis' skin. This is home.

"Louis." Greg repeats, his hand is tighter around his neck, now. It doesn't feel good anymore.

The air is being slowly constricted from his lungs and Louis literally can't breathe. He grabs Greg's wrist and pulls, wheezing.

The world is blurring at the edges and Greg's eyebrows are slanted and he just doesn't understand. His vision is swimming in and out and it's like everything in his world is centered in on Greg's tightly gripping hand. It takes every inch of will that Louis has boiling in his chest to rip Greg's hand off of him and jump
off the bed. The world tilts on it's axis, and Greg stares up at him in open shock.

"Why did you do that?"

"I... I don't.." Greg flounders and stands up. "Lou, don't leave."

"I just need to," Louis shoves a jumper over his sweaty chest and rubs his hand over his face. "I need to think. Why did you do that?"

"It was to make you feel good."

"Well it didn't. We've never talked about this, I never agreed to it." Louis grabs a random pair of tattered shoes. "Why did you think that I would be okay with this?"

"Louis, I'm sorry, okay. Just don't - don't do that." Greg's voice cracks. "You keep running."

The world twists and turns and explodes in a monochromatic litany of reds. Burning and flaring and painful. Louis feels a fire rise up his bones in a quick flare before receding just as quickly. He shoulders past Greg.

"You keep fucking up," Louis says to the door, sucking in a deep breath before making his way out to the living room.

The lamp is on, and Zayn is huddled up on the couch hunched over his tablet. The blue light of the telly that's playing a rerun of The Late Late Show and James Corden's laughing gob is casting shadows on Zayn's cheekbones and he's swaddled up in one of Louis' tattered jumpers and a beanie. Louis plops down on the couch beside him and leans against his shoulder.

Zayn is still Zayn, always will be. No matter how many countries Zayn buggers off to or how many months they spend apart. Zayn still smells like spicy food and bad weed, he is still too skinny, and he's still the person that makes all of the swirling in his mind cease. Louis loves Zayn, and he tells him just that.

"I love you too, Lou. What's wrong?" Zayn says into his hair, setting the tablet that's filled with dark colours and silhouettes, probably a panel for his newest comic, on the table and wrapping Louis in both of his arms, giving him a proper cuddle. "Something wrong with Greg?"

"No." Yes, everything's wrong.

"You can tell me anything, Louis. You know that, right?"