Into the Blue

11

In a blatant attempt to provoke Louis, Harry wiggles on the bench, thus smudging the exclamation mark Louis has been carefully drawing onto Harry’s bicep. Harry follows the motion up with a pleased little smirk, one of those that brighten his eyes and bring out his dimples.

Louis glares at him. “I’m an artist, Styles. I can absolutely not be expected to work like this.”

Harry’s response consists of snapping a picture of Louis’ frown, the bulky camera whirring for a moment before it spits out a white rectangle, colours and shapes starting to emerge. Before it’s even fully developed, Harry turns the camera around to take a picture of Louis’ work, the black lines that combine into a ‘Hi!’ standing out against Harry’s skin.

“At the rate you’re going through these,” Louis comments, picking up the portrait Harry has taken of him, “you’ll owe Cal a fortune in Polaroid films.”

“But Polaroid,” Harry says, as if that in itself is a valid argument. He sets the camera down with the care one would bestow upon a newborn chick. “How often do I get my hands on one of these?”

“You’re such a bloody hipster, mate,” Niall tells him, his tone fond. Louis is beginning to believe that it’s the only way people ever think of Harry, could ever possibly look at him: with a ridiculous amount of fondness.

Well. That, and sexual frustration, although maybe that’s just Louis. In his defense, they’re having lunch with the lads and he is thus somewhat limited in how he can touch Harry. It’s been five hours since he had his hand on Harry’s dick, and almost two since he’d cornered Harry on the boat to lick into his mouth.

Way too long. Way, way too long.

He hopes that the hand he settles high up on Harry’s thigh conveys the general idea. He also hopes that the gesture will go unnoticed by Niall, for obvious reasons. Then again, Niall has eased up rather drastically since that first day of Harry’s stay, when he had been at Louis throat just for looking at Harry.

“At least he’s a cute hipster,” Louis declares to the table at large. “Not some Irish bastard with a bleach job.”

“Hey,” Liam says loudly, pulling Niall close like some misguided knight in shining armour -- or red swim shorts, in this case. Next to them, Zayn groans.

“Everyone, stop putting me off my lunch. Some of us have a girlfriend that’s four hours away.”

“Some of us have a girlfriend.” Louis shakes his head. “Not that I’m judging, but, you know. I am judging. Because you’re a minority here, and how often do me and my people get to pretend we’re the judgmental majority?”

Under the table, Harry kicks Louis’ foot. The motion makes his thigh muscles flex under Louis’ palm, and Louis digs his fingers in more insistently. It’s glorious, the way Harry just stills for him.

“And some of us,” Zayn raises a brow, “would like to believe they’re good at casual.”

That little shit.

Louis is about to come up with a scathing reply, he really is, but just then, Harry covers Louis’ hand with his own, fingers fitting into the gaps between Louis’. “I think there was something a little wrong with my inflator this morning,” Harry says. “Think we could maybe take a look at that, Lou?”

Wait, what? Louis whips his head around to look at Harry, and why is this the first he hears of it? He needs to know these things if he’s to ensure that their rental equipment remains in prime condition, and also, he’d watched Harry perform a quick check before their dive, so how...