Larry fics

just like live wires

 

Summary:

Harry climbs into Louis' bed when he's cold. Louis pines.

Work Text:

It’s late November and there’s a layer of frost clouding the window panes when Harry wakes him up at 2:30 in the morning. He pulls the covers back and slithers underneath and the sharp point of his elbow jabs Louis in the spine.

“Budge over, Lou. Can’t sleep in fucking Siberia.”

The heat in their flat doesn’t work. His own body is a fleshy space heater but Harry’s bones are frozen and he wraps himself around Louis to thaw. Which Louis doesn’t normally mind; his curls are soft and his knits are cuddly and he smells like fruit.

But it’s 2:30 in the morning and Harry’s in his bed and he doesn’t like that. There’s a terrible burning in his veins and he wants to roll on top of him, press his body down, kiss those arctic lips until there’s nothing left but melt water. But he doesn’t know how well that would be received. He never knows.

“’arry gerrof me,” Louis bats his hands loosely in the air above him because maybe he’s still very much asleep.

Then Harry giggles whisper-soft and he’s very much awake.

Louis turns his head and sees green even in pitch dark, familiar eyes, perhaps more familiar than his own. But he’s stared into them more times than he can even be bothered to remember and they remain uncharted territory, infinite and unreadable.

Harry is his ice princess, porcelain and lovely and liquid-nitrogen skin. He keeps his heart locked tightly away, storied in an inaccessible deep-freeze and it’s maddening because Louis wants to possess it but he doesn’t quite know how. Especially not in the quiet still of early early morning, when all rationale takes an elaborate leap out the window and every nerve in Louis’ body is screaming to taketaketake, all of him, everything.  

He only takes what Harry’s willing to give, a skewed line between platonic and non. But it’s really fucking hard when he’s curling his long body around Louis’, nose in his hair, feet tangling under sheets and he fits so perfectly against Harry’s broad chest and it’s comfortable and he smells fresh and clean and boy and Harry. He’s lightheaded and heavy-lidded and he knows he should pull away but he’d rather let himself be swallowed by Harry’s limbs. So he stays. But this is the last night, he promises himself that. Harry can just sleep with a fucking electric blanket, so long as he’s not crawling into Louis’ bed in the middle of the night to fuck with his brain and heart and everything else. Well, it’s probably not intentional but the fact remains.

An icy palm lays flat on the soft of his tummy and Louis sucks in a sharp gasp. “Jesus, Harry,” he hisses through teeth that are tightly gritted from shock but mostly because Harry’s hand is resting on his bare lower  abdomen and why does he have to do that?

“Shhh, Lou, sleep now,” Harry’s warm breath tickles the back of his neck and long fingers are tracing idle patterns on his hipbone.

But Louis doesn’t sleep. He lies awake because he’s painfully hard in his sweatpants and it’s not like there’s anything he can do about it, not with Harry snoring softly beside him, arms a viselike grip. He hates Harry. He really fucking hates him.

~

When morning finally comes Louis finds Harry eating a frozen chocolate-chip waffle at the breakfast counter and he greets him with a peck on the cheek but nothing more than that. He wants Harry to bend him over that counter. He takes a shower instead. And he definitely doesn’t get himself off with the image of Harry’s sleep-rumpled form projected onto the insides of his eyelids. He doesn’t slide his back down wet tiles, sinking to the floor, breath ragged and hands wringing through his hair. He doesn’t dig blunt fingernails into slippery flesh because how the fuck is this fair? He doesn’t do any of that.