i 0d2125e00f277ca8 (48 page)

“I know,” Harry says fondly, giving up the act. “I love that about you.”

325

Louis just barely doesn‟t freeze up at those words and how close they

come something else, but if Harry notices how much Louis‟ heartbeat

has picked up, he doesn‟t let on. He sets his phone down on top of the

blankets and turns his head to kiss Louis good morning, then rolls off

of the mattress and gets to his feet.

“Oi,” Louis says, distracted as he finds himself staring at Harry‟s very

naked backside. “Didn‟t you have pants on when we went to sleep?”

“Yes, well,” Harry says as he sashays into the kitchen like some kind of

fucking nymph, “you did kind of wind me up and then fall asleep on

me. Sometimes a lad has to take matters into his own hands.”

“Harold!” Louis gasps, sitting up and clasping a hand over his heart.

“Are you telling me that you got yourself off without me?”

“I‟ve got needs, babe,” Harry says with a wink. He stretches up to

reach the plates in the top shelf of the cabinet, giving Louis a very

deliberate view of the long, muscular lines of his body. What a fucking

bastard.

“I can‟t believe you didn‟t wake me up,” Louis says. “I‟d have liked to

at least watch.”

“Yeah?” Harry says, pausing on his way over to the refrigerator.

“You‟d like that?”

“Fuck off, you know I like that,” Louis says. “Don‟t play coy with me,

Styles.”

He knows Harry remembers just as well as Louis does all the times

they‟ve watched each other touch themselves, in the middle of getting

fucked or when the other is busy doing something else or that one time

Harry made Louis watch him for half an hour before he even got to

touch him. Just the thought of Harry pumping into his own fist under

326

the sheets next to him has Louis all hot around the ears, and Harry must

know that.

“I wasn‟t exactly being quiet about it,” Harry says. He pulls out the

eggs and grabs the skillet out of the sink as he crosses back to the stove

and gets to work. “You were dead to the world, though. I couldn‟t have

woken you up if I tried.”

Louis hauls himself out of bed and sidles into the kitchen, right up

behind Harry at the stove. Maybe it‟s a bit too early for this, but Harry

is cooking breakfast naked and Louis is wearing his t-shirt and standing

under his stupid adorable Christmas lights, so he figures they‟re way

past rules at this point. Besides, he‟s always going to be a competitive

prick, and Harry‟s given him a clear challenge. He presses himself

flush against Harry‟s back and wraps his arms around him, covering up

one of Harry‟s hands on his stomach with his own, and then tilts his

chin up to murmur into Harry‟s ear.

“Couldn‟t keep yourself quiet, then?” he says. “Too hot for me?”

“Yeah,” Harry says, voice so low that Louis feels it way down in the

bottom of his ribs.

“Were you thinking about me?” Louis says, letting one of his hands

slide down to the place where Harry‟s hip meets his thigh. “Thinking

about what I‟m gonna do to you tonight when I finally get you alone?”

He cranes his neck up, punctuating every word with his mouth on

Harry‟s ear. “For as long... as... I... want?”

“Y-yeah,” Harry says. His free hand is gripping the countertop for dear

life.

Louis drops a line of kisses down the back of Harry‟s neck, starting at

the place where his hair curls up against the nape and making Harry

shiver as his lips count each vertebra. When he gets to Harry‟s

shoulders, he kisses each one right on the top where he can feel the

327

bones and muscle move, and then bows his head to plant one last kiss

between Harry‟s shoulder blades.

He‟s a fucking tease, and he knows it, and Harry should hate him for it,

but he just hums with warmth at Louis‟ touch, letting it soak into his

skin. Louis thinks about staying here forever, memorizing the freckles

on Harry‟s back, leaving his name there. He looks at the space between

Harry‟s shoulders and he realises that he wants it to be his, and he can‟t

quite work out how that makes him feel. It‟s good, though. It feels

good.

“Turn around,” Louis says.

Harry obeys, turning to face Louis, and God, Louis forgets sometimes

how beautiful Harry is. He takes it for granted, he guesses, because he

sees Harry so much, but right up close it‟s unbelievable. His eyes are

wide and today they‟re the palest green and it almost makes Louis

lightheaded when he looks at them, not just because they‟re gorgeous

but because they‟re looking at him like that, the way that Harry looks at

him so often that he hasn‟t put a name on yet. But it‟s his, Louis thinks.

He‟s the only one Harry looks at that way, and even if he can‟t leave

his name on Harry‟s skin, he has that. And he can do this.

He taps twice on Harry‟s left arm, and they‟ve done this so many times

that Harry doesn‟t need any further instruction to know what Louis

wants. He leans back against the counter next to them and raises his

arms above his head, holding onto the handles on the cabinet doors to

keep them there. Louis kisses him on the lips once, twice, then stands

up on the tips of his toes to put his mouth on the spot on the inside of

Harry‟s bicep that‟s come to be his.

“That‟s a promise,” Louis says when he finally pulls back, satisfied that

he‟s left a mark there that will last at least until that night. Harry drops

his arms down to circle around Louis‟ waist, and Louis lets himself be

pulled into another kiss, feeling Harry‟s smile against his lips.

328

They have to break off before long, because Louis‟ got a big day ahead

of him and they don‟t have time to finish anything so they‟d might as

well not start it. He puts the kettle on and Harry at least has the sense to

put an apron on over his naked body, which looks absolutely ridiculous

but will at least protect his bits from any rogue splashes of grease.

Louis‟ grown quite fond of those bits, and he‟d hate to see them

disfigured in a freak breakfast accident.

They sit down at the table with plates of fried eggs and toast and a pot

of tea and just talk for a bit, enjoying each others‟ company as well as a

few moments of peace before the madness of the oncoming day. The

matinee performance shouldn‟t be too bad since they‟ve worked out all

the rough parts and the only people who actually show up to a Saturday

matinee are the actors‟ families, which guarantees a good response

from the audience, and closing night is always the best performance.

It‟s just a matter of making sure everything runs smoothly and being

there to catch anything before it goes wrong, which he can handle.

Underneath the nerves for the last two performances, there‟s something

else anxious and excited buzzing. It‟s quiet, but it gets louder every

time he looks at Harry, gonna tell him gonna tell him gonna tell him.

Tonight‟s the night. Oh God.

Thankfully he doesn‟t have much time to think about that, because as

soon as they‟re done with breakfast they‟ve got to get out the door.

Louis pulls on some proper clothes and Harry throws on a pair of jeans

and the shirt that Louis discards, looking pleased when he sniffs the

collar. Louis wonders if it smells like him, although he can‟t imagine

why Harry would be pleased about that, since he reckons he probably

smells like cat dander and laundry all the time.

After a quick stop by Louis‟ flat, they make it to the school a couple of

hours ahead of the performance with plenty of time to make sure Louis

is there when the first kids start to arrive. Everyone checks in with him

on their way in, and Louis can breathe a little more easily once the last

person is accounted for and everybody‟s where they should be.

329

The matinee performance goes off without a hitch, just as he expected

it would, and they‟ve got a good three hours before the curtain goes up

for the final show. The cast and crew are to hang about until then since

it‟d make no sense to turn them loose, so Louis is ready to settle in for a

nice bit of quiet. Maybe he‟ll even find Harry, who had decided to

watch the show from the audience this time around, or round up Zayn

and Niall for a bit of company. It‟s hard to believe that, after

everything, it‟s almost over and he‟s made it this far without any major

catastrophes.

Naturally, that‟s when one of the crew comes sprinting out from

backstage in a panic.

“Mr. Tomlinson!” she says, screeching to a halt in front of him. “Hi,

um, I don‟t mean to alarm you but, um, Ellie is... Ellie is really, really

ill.”

“What?” Louis says, feeling his blood pressure rise already. “What

d‟you mean ill? Where is she?”

“This way, sir,” the girl says, gesturing toward the left wing of

backstage. Louis follows her quickly up the steps. “She says she thinks

she ate some funny chicken for lunch and now she‟s, um, well, she‟s

kind of violently ill.”

They round the corner, and sure enough, there sits Louis‟ stage

manager in a cold sweat with an a bucket balanced in her lap. Shit.

Fucking shitting no, this is bad.

“No, no, I told you not to tell him!” Ellie says, looking very faint and

very green. “I‟m fine, Mr. Tomlinson, I promise. I can do the last show.

It‟s fine. I feel better now that I‟ve thrown up, I sw—”

Ellie‟s argument is interrupted by another wave of sick as she heaves

into the bucket, and somewhere nearby a chorus member gags and runs

off in the direction of the nearest dressing room.

330

“Oh God,” Louis says, kneeling down to feel Ellie‟s clammy forehead.

She wipes her mouth on her sleeve, looking utterly miserable, and

Louis can‟t find it in himself to be cross at all. “No, love, I think you‟ve

got food poisoning. You need to call your mum and get yourself taken

care of.” Before you start a cast-wide vomit chain reaction, he doesn‟t

add.

“No, I have to do it,” Ellie insists. “There‟s nobody else to fill in, we‟re

already spread too thin with the crew. Somebody‟s got to make sure

everybody gets their cues.”

“We‟ll figure something out,” Louis tells her. “Do you have your copy

of the script with all your notes in it?”

Ellie nods, eyes full of tears, and Louis would hug her if he weren‟t

afraid she might be sick all over him. “It‟s over there on the prop

table.”

“All right,” Louis tells her. “Then we‟ll be okay. You just worry about

getting better, all right?” He turns to the girl from the crew. “Take her

somewhere else and call her mum, will you? And, erm, see that

somebody does something about that bucket.”

The girl nods, and Louis gives Ellie a consolatory pat on the shoulder,

and then she starts throwing up again and he snatches the binder up off

the prop table and beats a hasty retreat.

“Fuck,” he says as soon as he‟s out of the auditorium and out of earshot

of any of the kids. “Fucking hell.”

“What‟s wrong?” Harry‟s voice comes from behind him, because he

apparently has spidey senses when it comes to Louis freaking the fuck

out. He feels Harry‟s hand on his hip and focuses in on it, trying to

ground himself.

331

“Ellie, the stage manager,” he says, turning around and dropping his

head onto Harry‟s shoulder. “She‟s vomiting like she‟s in the fucking

Exorcist and she can‟t do the evening show and she‟s literally what

keeps everything from falling apart backstage.” He slaps the binder

against Harry‟s chest. “She‟s the only one who knows all this stuff

besides me, and I can‟t do it because I need to be in the sound booth.

So we‟re fucked. Fucked by fucking dodgy chicken.”

“I could do it,” Harry says simply.

Louis processes that for a second to make sure he didn‟t mishear, lifts

up his head, and blinks at him. “What?”

“I could do it,” Harry repeats, shrugging. “I‟ve been backstage working

on the set for so many run-throughs that I‟m pretty sure I have all the

cues memorized myself by now. And if you have her script, I can just

read her notes.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, absolutely,” Harry says. “I‟ll do it.”

Louis stares at him for a moment like he‟s just fallen directly from

heaven and into his theatre, and maybe he has, but Louis can‟t let him

do even more than he‟s already done. “No, Haz, this is too much,”

Louis says. “I can‟t ask you to do this. I‟ve already made you do way

too much.”

“All right, hold on,” Harry says, folding his arms over his chest. “You

haven‟t made me do anything, and you didn‟t even ask me to do most

of it, either. I‟m not doing any of this because I feel obligated, or