Undone, Undress (Larry Stylinson)

fifty-three

By now, the upswings of Harry's hypersexual tendencies are more predictable, to the point where Louis is hardly even surprised that night when Harry begs for Louis to fuck him.

They're sitting downstairs on the couch together, in front of the smoldering fire which warms the room but can never truly get rid of the chill in the house that supersedes all physicality. His parents have already gone to bed, and all is quiet.

"You're sure?" Louis asks, for the millionth time as they scale the stairs and head up to Harry's childhood bedroom and it feels so wrong in the worst ways. The only part that feels right is Harry pressed up against his back, all warmth and comfort. It feels like their bodies belong together, even if nothing else does.

"Want you so much," Harry whispers in his ear, guiding him towards the first door on the left at the top of the stairs. He pushes it open and it creaks loudly enough for them to both cringe, worried that any little noise will wake Harry's parents. What will they do then?

It seems Harry doesn't care. He closes the door behind them and there isn't a lock on it. If there was, Louis would feel a lot better about what they're on the precipice of doing. The thought that anyone could walk in at any minute hangs in the back of his mind, uncomfortable like storm clouds visible on the horizon. Threatening.

They stand there in the middle of the room and stare at each other. Harry looks impatient but Louis is dead set on slowing things down, so both of them have time to back out if they need to. At the rate they're going, the only person who's likely to chicken out is Louis, which is pathetic when he thinks about it because Harry is the one who's traumatized.

So Louis stands there and pauses under what he hopes is the guise of checking Harry out. He takes the time to catalogue characteristics about him because he's afraid this is a huge mistake, and after this Harry will run away from him and they'll never be this close again.

He looks at Harry and he sees the dark clothes he's wearing, some of it leftover from the funeral and some newer additions. Earlier in the evening, after the last of the extended family had left the house, he swapped his dressy trousers for black leggings. He's still wearing the expensive-looking black jumper from earlier but it looks cozier now in a way, rather than cold and stiff and standoffish. The dark colors make his winter skin look unapologetically pale and smooth in the best way. He's like a god of the underworld in a way, dark and troubled and so irrevocably handsome.

Harry starts pulling off his clothes and Louis isn't going to stop him. He leaves them in a messy pile on the floor, forgotten almost immediately after they're dropped to the ground. In a moment he stands there in nothing but his underwear like he's waiting for instructions and Louis sighs, overwhelmed and kind of like What am I going to do with you?

"Any preferences?"

"Fuck me hard."

"Alright," Louis agrees, motioning for Harry to situate himself on the bed. They haven't discussed nearly enough logistics for this to be okay. He's read so many warnings about rushing into sex, especially as intense as Harry wants, but there's nothing to do now. They've already crossed the line. "You know the color system, babe?"

Harry nearly preens, a bit shy as he sits on the edge of the bed, shuffling backwards until his head hits the pillow. It takes Louis a moment to realize it's because of the term of endearment. His long legs are clumsy but there's something so sickly attractive about it, how he fumbles and squirms to get comfortable. As if he's innocent and doesn't know what he's doing, as if this isn't something he's done time and time again and even asked for it explicitly by name. It's all a guise, even if the clumsiness is real. He is not so pure.