(NOT MINE) Poor Little Rich Boy (larry stylinson AU)

Chapter 12

Chapter Twelve:

"A feast fit for a king!" Louis declared.
Harry laughed. "Oh, yes; sausage rolls, crisps, and a couple of bruised apples - what a veritable feast!" He sat down on the rug which Louis had spread out on the grass, crossed his long legs like a little child in primary school, and then grinned.
Louis huffed at him as he squatted down next to him on the ground. "Don't turn your nose up, rich boy. Maybe your daddy could buy you solid gold sandwiches with one wave of his credit card, but I'm on limited funds, so a couple of measly sausage rolls and a battered apple are as close to a gourmet luncheon as we're going to get."
"I was teasing," Harry promised, and his hand glided down Louis' back, pausing on his spine and tracing a couple of light circles there. "I like sausage rolls. And he's not my dad." He leaned forward and shyly kissed Louis on the nose. "I think it's dead sweet that you've done all of this, Lou, really."
Not that he was about to let on, but Louis had been up since six scavenging the shelves of the local corner shop for affordable food so that he could manage some kind of a picnic for Harry - he couldn't rustle up a picnic basket, so he'd had to settle for Sainsburys carrier bags, and instead of a blanket, they were sitting on the rug that he'd brought from his room so that they didn't have to sit on the muddy grass. The crisps were crushed from where he'd sat on them, as Harry had tactlessly pointed out, the apples had been abused and were left with a smattering of little dark marks on their acid green outsides, and the sausage rolls were limp and flat - but he'd tried hard, and he was pleased that Harry wasn't so up his own arse that he couldn't appreciate Louis' efforts, even if he had poked fun at them a little. Louis had to admit, he would have been tempted to laugh a little bit himself, had it been Harry who had provided the picnic.
Louis shrugged and picked up an apple. He examined it, checking for marks other than bruises, and then bit into it with a sharp crunch. "Well," he said through his mouthful, "it was nothing, really. Just thought it was a nice day for a picnic."
Biting back a laugh, Harry looked down and started fiddling with the tassels of the rug, keeping his eyes glued to the ground; he knew that if he looked at Louis properly, he was going to burst out laughing. "Nice day for it. Did you look out of the window with your eyes closed, by any chance?"
Admittedly, that wasn't the cleverest excuse that Louis could have come up with. It had drizzled on and off all day, dismal grey clouds hung persistently overhead, watching them in silence and preparing to rain miserably down on them whenever it felt like it, and there was a bitter, cold breeze around which snatched at their hair, ruffling it wildly, and pinched viciously at their cheeks, leaving them pink. Harry's green eyes sparkled with amusement. It was cold, damp and not at all picnic weather, and Louis would have cancelled if he hadn't spent almost the entire night planning it and most of the morning toiling back and forth between the hotel and the corner shop, having already posted a note with the time and place for their meeting later underneath Harry's door. Foolishly, the romantic in him had refused to let him leave the shop without recklessly spending three pounds on a single crimson rose, which he'd stupidly tried to squeeze underneath Harry's door with the note. Obviously, it hadn't worked, but he'd stubbornly kept trying and ended up half crushing the flower in his attempts to desperately cram through the tiny space, and despite losing rather a lot of petals and being horribly mangled, he'd managed to finally shove it underneath.
Harry was wearing it now, bless him, bedraggled and pathetic as it was - it was limp and sorry for itself, like the picnic, and like the weather - and yet without a trace of irony, he had it neatly tucked into the buttonhole of his blazer. In fact, he even reached up to touch it every now and then, a tender stroke of the limp petals, as if he had to reassure himself it was there. He kept doing the same to Louis; brushing fingers against his arm, tapping him lightly on the back, reaching out to thread their fingers together. It was almost as if he was afraid that if he didn't constantly check that Louis hadn't disappeared, the moment Harry turned his back, Louis was going to vanish. Weirdly, Louis found it kind of sweet, and so that Harry didn't feel awkward to be the one who kept turning to touch Louis in reassurance, every so often he would sneak brushes of his own in, just little ones. Subtly nudging Harry's thigh with his knee as he leaned over him to pick up a sausage roll. Tidying his unruly fringe for him. Leaning against him slightly while he ate, like he was tired and needed support, even though he was so full of energy that he was practically bouncing, jiggling his knee up and down to expel some of the nerves. Harry seemed to pick up on what he was doing and smiled gratefully every now and then, and he repaid him by cuddling up to him, snuggling into his embraces - and when they had finished eating, Louis settled back and pulled Harry's head onto his lap, where the younger boy set about purring like a little cat as Louis happily stroked his hair, and they both looked up at the grey sky.
"Did you find your friends yesterday?" Harry asked, closing his eyes in enjoyment, and then he wondered whether he ought to have asked that, and whether it was weird, and whether Louis would think he was checking up on him. He bit his lip anxiously, wishing he could take it back.
Louis, however, didn't seem to notice anything amiss about the question; he stayed relaxed, absently stroking Harry's hair, smoothing curls down over his forehead and feeling them slide silkily beneath his fingers. "Yeah, I hung out with Niall for a couple of hours. We played golf."
Harry opened one eye and gazed lazily up at him. "You play golf? I never knew that."
With a snort, Louis promised him, "I don't play golf well. I just sort of blunder around trying to whack the ball with the club a decent enough distance that Niall doesn't laugh at me. I don't think I'm welcome there anymore anyway - turns out that you're not supposed to use golf clubs to whack your best friend over the head with! Who knew?"
Closing his eyes again, it was Harry's turn to snort, but he waited a while before continuing the conversation, enthralled with the almost rhythmic slip and tug of Louis' fingers in his hair, pulling at the roots and twisting curls around his hands, and then smoothing them out again with the kind of expertise that made Harry wonder how exactly Louis knew that his hair was his main weak spot, and where on earth he had learnt to be quite so good with his hands, how he knew exactly where to pull and just how hard to make Harry's whole body twitch with that blissful combination between pain and pleasure. It was a skill he was painfully envious of.
"You're so violent. Why exactly did you feel it was necessary to bash his brains out with a massive stick?"
Louis rolled his eyes. "When is it not necessary to bash Niall's brains out with a massive stick? He's a prize knob," he said lovingly.
"Oh, Louis, you're so lovely to your friends. They're so lucky to have you. You're so patient, so non-confrontational, so complimentary! The world needs more people like you in it!" Harry grinned massively, making it completely clear that he was being sarcastic, and Louis used the opportunity of his temporary height advantage and Harry's vulnerable position on his lap to slap him playfully on the thigh.
"Cheeky! I almost think I preferred you when you were nervous and twitchy and never said a word," Louis teased, and before Harry could think up a good retort, he gave a tug on the roots of Harry's hair, right at the nape of his neck, and Harry whined helplessly and arched his back as Louis continued pulling at his hair, targeting his weak spots in one expert pull. "Come on, then; say something else, clever clogs. Smart arse. Cat got your tongue, huh?" Pressing his nose against Harry's chin, he kissed him upside down - and even upside down, he was a lethal kisser; with the faintest, gentlest of caresses of Harry's lips with his own, paired with another well-timed wrench on his hair, Harry was squirming and gasping in his lap, his fingers digging into Louis' thigh.
"Ohhhhhhh...."
"That's what I thought," Louis whispered smugly, running his fingers through Harry's hair and feeling the other boy go limp against him, whimpering softly underneath his kisses. "Now shut up, okay? Shut up."
"You - I - oh -"
"Shut up," Louis repeated in a catlike growl, and he had the great satisfaction of seeing Harry's shocked, wide-open eyes widen even more, his pupils dilating and blowing out like huge black marbles in response to the touches, the tone, and the natural sequence of events which his body expected to follow. He was being well and truly seduced.
"God, Louis...God, Louis, I..." More kisses rained down on his exposed jaw, and he grabbed Louis' face in both hands, taking two handfuls of his hair and yanking hard on Louis' hair in response, trying to inspire similar helplessness in Louis. Of course, his efforts went almost unnoticed - or perhaps Louis was just better at controlling his lustful urges than Harry, who found them unnerving, a new and somewhat overwhelming sensation that he was still struggling to acclimatize to. Louis, at least, hadn't been reduced to an incoherent mess just by Harry pulling on his feathery hair.
"Not so clever now, are you? Huh? Little smart arse...smart arse...arse..." Hands scrabbled wickedly at Harry's belt, grabbing at his boxers and slipping inside to give his bum a sneaky squeeze, and Harry yelped, eyes flying open even wider in shock as an embarrassingly wavering moan ripped its way out of his throat. He closed his eyes in defeat.
The next kiss was fierce, and it burned, as if Louis had set a match to Harry's mouth and seared it clean off. It was almost embarrassing, how much he needed it; how he moaned and arched up into the kiss, his fingers scrabbling in the fabric of Louis' sinfully tight jeans, trying to find something to cling onto. He'd forsaken Louis' hair and was greedily snatching at his skin, and yet it did him no good; Louis remained unmoved, almost completely unruffled by his desperate efforts at returning the seduction that Louis was so good at.
His mouth moved quickly, trying to keep up, perhaps even to gain dominance over the kiss, but Louis had no intention of letting him do that. No matter how hard Harry kissed him, Louis' lips were always harder - sometimes hard enough to leave bruises, leaving Harry's mouth swollen and tender. He seemed to like that; he'd run the tip of one finger over Harry's bruised, puffy mouth, apparently fascinated by the redness of Harry's sore mouth. When Harry's fingers dug into Louis' skin, Louis would hold him harder, fingers biting into his skin, leaving marks that ached for hours afterwards, made him remember how it had felt to have Louis' fingers there for real - made him ache for more. If Harry bit him in playfulness, Louis would bite him back, hard enough to bring tears to Harry's eyes - almost hard enough to draw blood. These things Harry quickly learned in the time they spent together that day; eventually they ended up lying together on the rug, caught in each other's arms, kissing each other's breath away until blood thundered through their lungs and their vision blurred, and Harry's whole mouth was numb and he still wanted Louis to kiss him harder, hold him closer. Their legs were tangled, he could feel his hair brushing softly against Louis' forehead. And nobody came and stared, nobody told them to stop, Harry wasn't afraid that he was going to do it wrong. He just went with it, and it felt good.
They collapsed back on the rug eventually, side by side, breathlessly poking each other in the ribs every now and then with enormous grins on their faces. Harry's mouth ached. His heart was hammering. He was exhausted and battered by passion and he still felt like it wasn't enough. Allowing his eyes to flutter closed, he felt a small, lazy smile quirk his raw red mouth into a smirk, and he folded his hands over his rapidly rising and falling chest, waiting for his breathing to return to normal.
"I know I haven't had much experience," he began, "but you're a bloody good kisser. And -"
At precisely that moment, Louis apparently thought it would be funny to shove a sausage roll straight into his mouth, filling it up and completely cutting off whatever Harry had been about to say next. The shock on Harry's face had him rolling around on the floor in convulsions of laughter, until eventually, he wiped his eyes and lay back down again, staring straight upwards.
"You soppy bastard," he said fondly, reaching out to ruffle Harry's thick head of curls. "Shut up, or next time I'll shove something a lot bigger in that gob of yours, trust me." He closed his eyes with a wicked smirk, leaving Harry to blush and contemplate exactly what he could have meant by that, and all the possible dirty connotations of that particular suggestion.
Harry chose not to think too hard about that; he'd only just started recovering from the feeling of Louis slender body all up close and personal with his own, invading his space and pressing him against the cold ground so that all he could think about was that the world had shrunk and had pressed against him in a Louis-shaped ball of flames, achingly warm and painfully close, but not close enough. Making him burn with longing the way Louis burned so brightly against him. The last thing he needed was to find himself suddenly struggling to sit still simply by the implications of a possible sexual innuendo that Louis might have slipped into the conversation, and yet could alternatively have just been his own filthy teenage mind twisting the meaning. Although, knowing Louis, he doubted that. Settling down on the rug, he let his eyes droop closed and focused on ignoring Louis and all of his own humiliatingly uncontrollable thoughts for a while.
A startling spike of icy cold wetness plopped onto his forehead; he gave a startled yelp and his eyes flew open again, and beside him, Louis rolled over onto his side, propping himself up on his elbow and giving a little laugh. Tenderly, he reached out and flicked something off Harry's forehead.
"Raindrop," he explained amusedly. "I guess the rain's finally decided to start. At least it held off while we were in the throes of mad passion on the floor, right, Hazza?" An enormous grin cracked across his face.
Harry poked out his tongue. "Mad passion," he scoffed, although he was rather ashamed by the accuracy of it; he had gone a little bit mad for a while. "It's just spitting, is all. It'll stop in a bit." As if to contradict him, a second fat raindrop landed right on the end of his nose, and glistened tantalizingly there for a few seconds.
Louis reached out and scooped it off with his finger, popping it into his mouth and pretending not to notice Harry raising his eyebrows at his weirdness. "You sure about that? It looks pretty grim up there." He glanced appraisingly up at the sky.
Two more raindrops maddeningly landed on Harry's face; he studiously ignored them. "We're British, Lou, and it's summer. If a bit of rain put us Brits off during the summer, we'd never get anything done. We'll do what generations of Brits have done before us - grit our teeth, get our umbrellas out, and keep buggering on. It'll stop in a minute anyway."
~*~
"Famous last words," Harry panted as he and Louis sprinted for the hotel with the rug spread over their heads like a makeshift umbrella, bright orange carrier bags filled with rather damp and even more squashed food swinging from their free hands. Their feet thudded on the sodden ground, filthy water splashing up and showering their ankles with dirty brown droplets with every clumsy step.
Mere minutes after he'd insisted that they weren't going to give in to the weather, the heavens had split open like one of Louis' Sainsburys bags had during the first few seconds of their run, and rain had poured down over them in a flood, slamming relentlessly down onto their shoulders. They'd scrambled to their feet and made a dash for the hotel, struggling to save themselves from being drowned in the sudden downpour, but already Harry was as limp and bedraggled as the dripping wet rose in his buttonhole. His sopping hair hung right into his eyes, the curls shocked out of it so it hung down to his chin, so thick that he could barely see through it. It was only Louis' tight hand on his arm which kept him on course, stopped him from blundering off in the wrong direction and ricocheting off the hotel wall or something.
They staggered into the foyer, soaking wet, confused and most of all, shaking with laughter. Louis threw the wet rug down onto the floor and hurled his arms around Harry's neck, burying his face in Harry's shoulder.
"Next time," he murmured, "maybe you should just keep your mouth shut." And then he laughed at him again, right into the place where Harry's neck and shoulder joined.
Beside him, Harry couldn't help but splutter with laughter himself. "I'm cursed. Just cover my mouth in duct tape; don't let me comment on the weather, I'll only make it worse."
"Don't have any duct tape, but I'm sure I'll find another way of making you stop talking." And sure enough, Louis sealed Harry's mouth shut with his own, carefully pushing Harry's slightly wavy wet fringe out of his eyes. He pulled away, leaving Harry dizzy and weak at the knees, and then his lips were on the corner of Harry's mouth as he whispered, "oh look...one hundred percent effective. I'm a technical genius."
Normally, Harry would have punched him and corrected him, telling him that he was a twat - but just once, he decided to let it slide.