Larry One Shots

Waves

Summary:
With a heatwave gripping London, it's hot even in the sheets. REALLY hot.

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It's been hot lately, a record heat wave in London. Their flat has no air-con of course, but they've gotten fans to sit in the windows to do what good they can blowing the scorching air around. It helps a bit. Louis has moved from his bedroom where the heat is truly horrifying to catch what sleep he can on the sofa. Even stripped to his pants, he's still uncomfortably warm. It's like a trip back to Texas, and he dreams all night of bubbly ice cream, shouting, and the ever-present fear that he'll die of stroke. His bedding is twisted around his middle when he wakes to the oppressive, sticky dark, a cry in his throat. He isn't alone.

The very air currents moving thickly in the room seem to shift and bend around the dark figure sitting nearby. Of course it's Harry, why did Louis imagine it to be anyone else? It's never truly a blackout in the middle of London, and he watches as the shadowy form of his flatmate languidly extends one arm his way. Time shifts and draws out as Louis thinks Harry might be about to lay his fingers on him. He's mildly disappointed when he feels a glass of ice water pressed into his hand, wet from the drops of condensation running down the sides. Louis drinks half of it down in one go.

"Thanks. Did I wake you?" Louis asks running the back of a hand over his damp forehead.

"Couldn't sleep." Harry replies quietly. He seems to be watching Louis intently, but the faint glow from the street lamp behind casts a halo over his tumbled curls, leaving his face in silhouette.

"Was I ... did I make noise?" Louis isn't quite sure how to phrase it. Was I screaming like a madman, or Am I broken beyond all hope? just doesn't seem good for casual conversation starters between mates. And yet . . . there's an intimacy in the dark, a feeling that anything might be said ... or done in the cover of the night that wouldn't be allowed in the bold light of day.

"A bit." Harry tells him. "You were having a nightmare. Do you want to talk about it?" He's so matter of fact like this is fine, like it's normal to be having night terrors after all this time.

"There's not much to tell. I was trapped in a heat wave under fire, and ..." Louis pauses to take a shuddering breath. "It does no good to dwell on it." He chuckles at himself shaking his head. "This heat doesn't help."

"No. It's been unusually tropical." Harry agrees. He comes forward from the chair until he's on his knees before Louis.

"May I?" he asks.

Louis has no idea what he's asking, but he nods mutely. Harry reaches down, and plucks an ice cube from his drained glass. He takes the ice and draws it slowly over the back of Louis' neck. The feeling is electric, the sudden cold jolting down his spine like heat lightning. Harry, ignoring Louis' shudder, continues to paint lines back and forth over his nape and across the top of his shoulders. Louis sucks in his breath amazed at how good this feels. Slowly, Harry moves the bit of ice to trail across his throat and slide over his collar bones. Louis let's his head drop back, and moans. He can't help it.

Harry bends forward, and follows the path of the ice water with the very tip of his tongue. When his full lips make contact with the hollow at Louis' throat, Louis' cock engorges quite suddenly.

Some sound, primal and low, makes its way from of the back of Louis' throat as Harry kisses a path along his jaw to reach his mouth. Harry pauses as if this liberty is a boundary he's not willing to cross without complete consent. Maybe he's just waiting to be invited. Louis groans, and reaches up to grab a fistful of Harry's impossible hair as he drags their mouths together. The first taste of Harry is something wild and spicy, almost overwhelming, much like Louis' first curry. Harry is tentative to start, merely responding to Louis' onslaught, but then he turns the tables - takes control of the kiss, dipping, sliding, and devouring Louis in a tsunami of sensation.

When Harry pulls back and whispers "My room is cooler" in Louis' ear, he might as well have said My room is the promised land. Louis stands, and lets Harry pull him through the shadows to the cool, quiet of his bedroom. The white sheets lay stretched out in the faint light like a beach at the seashore. Harry tugs him down and Louis follows feeling like he has dived into waves, and the sound of the window fan is the ocean crashing over them.