Where We Belong

Chapter 8

He wakes, stretches, rolls over and finds Harry in the exact same position he found him in last night; staring at the ceiling. Fidgeting.

"Please," Louis groans, "tell me you haven't been awake all night."

"No, I slept a few hours... I think," Harry drawls, shifting onto his side to look him in the eye.

It's a little too close all of a sudden, the memory of last night's tragic attempt at sex rushing back to him. Louis shifts over to face away from Harry, passing it off as an invitation to spoon instead of what it really is; an excuse not to have to look him in the eye.

Harry does move a little closer, breath touching to the nape of Louis' neck, two fingers briefly at the dip of his spine, but then he stops, like forcing himself to.

A moment passes, an exasperated little noise, and then the mattress bounces and he's off to the bathroom.

Louis wills himself not to move and ask him where he's going, because if he doesn't, if he just stays right here in his spot, at least he won't look as rejected on the outside as he feels on the inside.

When the shower goes off, though, he can't help it.

"Why're you takin' another shower, you showered just last night?" he calls out, shuffling out of the sheets.

Harry doesn't hear him over the running water, so he gets out of bed, feeling a little aggravated suddenly, a little like he doesn't deserve this fucking silent treatment just because he couldn't put out last night, or wouldn't snog this morning, but when he reaches the shower, all of that sort of just- evaporates like water into steam.

Harry's facing the shower-wall, forehead pressed to the forearm he has steadied up against the tiles, hunched back to Louis. His right hand's working over-time, muscles twitching all the way up through his arm. He's not being loud, but he is making sound, muffled little ah-ah-ungh's, and, once he gets himself to the finish-line, he can't hold back, never can, the fucking porn-star, and gives a loud hissing fuck-fuck-shit-aah.

Louis feels a bit offended, even as he's half-hard in his pants, even as he has absolutely zero right to.

He doesn't say anything, though. Not until Harry turns, come splattered all over is hand, and sees him, eyes blowing wide like he's thirteen and forgot to put his headphones in before blasting 'hairy bear breeds moaning bottom-twink' and his mother's just barged into the bedroom.

"Nice," Louis says then, "take the edge off, eh?"

"Yeah, uhm—" he tries to crack his knuckles, because he's feeling awkward and doesn't know what to do with his hands, but then he realises that said hands are now both covered in come, and so he can't stifle a disgusted grimace and hurries to wash them off.

All the while, Louis just stands in the door, watching him. "You didn't have to sneak in here to do it, you could've just asked me," he mutters. It's mean and stupid, because they both know that Harry couldn't have, not with how Louis' been acting like he's fucking allergic to him lately, but he can't help himself. He wants to be mean. Spiteful. "You could've asked me for a wank if you needed it so bad."

"No, it's fine, I just- took care of it quick," Harry mutters, head under the shower-head again, gaze somewhere around Louis' feet.

"Or you could've asked me for a blowjob. You said yourself once, I give the sickest head. - Or did you say that to her too? Was it just—"

"Oh, what the fuck are you on about now?"

Louis' mouth snaps shut. He doesn't know what the fuck he's on about. Maybe it's just his way of handling how horribly fucking anxious he is about today. Harry wanks, Louis asks mean pointless questions about his wanking just to see him squirm. Different folks, different strokes (pun intended).