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down on Harry‟s lip too hard to try to put a little edge on things, but

Harry just rubs circles on Louis‟ back with his hands, feeling out the

spots of tension and digging his fingertips in. He knows this particular

routine because it‟s one Harry always uses on him when he‟s stressed

or ill, trying to soothe him. Trying to take care of him. The fucking

irony, honestly, Louis could scream. Or at least he would if he could

stop relaxing into it, despite his best efforts otherwise.

Harry manages to slow things down enough that they‟re not going

double time anymore, and then he feels Harry‟s hands sliding down

under his arse and thighs, which means he‟s about to lift Louis up and

carry him to the bedroom, and his first automatic thought is yes yes yes

before his breath stops in his throat.

He won‟t go to bed with Harry. He‟ll sleep with him, sure, he‟ll fuck

him and he‟ll even enjoy it, but he‟s not going to go to bed with him

tonight. Tonight needs to be quick and dirty and absolutely nothing

else. He‟s already fucked himself over enough, and it needs to stop

here. He swore to himself years ago that he would never let anybody

else ever get the best of him, that he would never let anybody get their

hands on his heart again. He swore. He never wanted it to get this far

with Harry, never wanted this to go beyond sex and friendship and a

fun way to pass the time. He never meant to end up here, under Harry‟s

hands and wanting it too much. But here he is, exactly where he

promised himself he‟d never be again, and he feels absolutely

powerless to get himself out. And he doesn‟t understand why.

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Or maybe he does know why, but there‟s no way in hell he‟d ever

admit it now.

If he lets Harry take him to bed, he knows that Harry‟s going to lay him

out and take his time and make it slow and deep, making up for lost

time, and Louis would rather die. He can‟t make himself that

vulnerable with Harry ever again. Maybe he can‟t stop himself from

melting into Harry‟s hands, but he can at least keep this here. He can

keep it fast and physical and he can ignore the fact that though he‟s felt

guilty during sex before, this is the first time he‟s felt it with Harry.

He reaches back and grabs one of Harry‟s hands and brings it around

until his palm is covering Louis‟ crotch, pressing down so that the heel

of his hand grinds down against him. “Want you so much,” Louis

breathes. “S‟been so long. Was thinking about what I want to do to

you.”

“Yeah?” Harry pants into his neck, “Anything, Lou, fuck.”

“Want you to fuck me,” Louis says, pulling on Harry‟s hair. “Here.

Don‟t wanna move, just want you in me. Just want you to sit there and

let me ride your cock. However I want.” He lets the last words drag out,

filthy, and knows it‟s going to work when Harry lets out a shaky

breath. And fuck, he does want it, wants it even more with the way

Harry‟s hips jerk up against him. He just has more reasons to want it

like this than Harry knows.

“Okay, Lou, yeah,” Harry says, pressing wet kisses to his collarbone.

“Yeah, God, do it.”

Louis starts to work on Harry‟s belt, giving a pleased little hum and

meeting Harry‟s eyes with a wicked look. It‟s a fucking mistake,

because what‟s in Harry‟s eyes is so open and simple and affectionate

that Louis is honest-to-God winded. Louis leans in and hooks his chin

over Harry‟s shoulder, and only when he knows Harry can‟t see him

does he let his face crumple for a moment as he slides his hand into

Harry‟s jeans.

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They fuck like that, Louis in Harry‟s lap and his chin on Harry‟s

shoulder, letting everything he‟s feeling play out on his face as long as

it‟s hidden from Harry. When it‟s over, he‟ll pull back and he‟ll look at

Harry like he doesn‟t care, like it doesn‟t mean anything to him more

than a warm body under his. He‟ll get to his feet and he‟ll clean up the

half-eaten dinner like nothing ever happened, and he won‟t let Harry

kiss the corners of his eyes like he likes to do when he‟s feeling all

loose and fucked out. He‟ll step away. He‟ll step out of this.

For now, though, he shuts his eyes and buries his fingers in Harry‟s

hair, and he tries to concentrate on the rhythm of his hips and the

feeling of Harry inside of him and nothing else, nothing else at all.

Nothing.

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Louis has this thing that he‟s always done. It‟s a little trick for when

he‟s lying in bed and doesn‟t want to get up but knows he has to, like

most mornings of his life. He picks a number, and then he lets himself

savor the feeling of being curled up all warm in his bed for as long as it

takes him to count backwards to zero, and then the rule is that he hauls

himself out of bed all at once and doesn‟t look back. It works a treat

every time.

It goes like this now.

He allows himself small moments. Obviously cold turkey isn‟t an

option, as ridiculous as that is, so instead he lets himself have Harry in

pieces. A few seconds of Harry‟s lips in his hair when he‟s making a

shopping list. A moment of Harry‟s voice singing low and raspy along

to the music on the radio. Just little bits, shorter and shorter every time

before he cuts them off with some change of subject or sudden shift in

momentum or his hand on Harry‟s belt. He figures that this way he‟ll

train himself not to miss it at all. He‟ll remember what it‟s like not to

need any of that. It‟ll work.

Helping him along is the fact that Harry hasn‟t quite twigged to what‟s

going on. He notices when Louis pulls away from him sooner than he

normally would, or when he doesn‟t automatically invite Harry over

after work, or when he doesn‟t respond when Harry drops one of their

inside jokes. Louis knows he notices, because Harry telegraphs

everything he feels on his face, and there‟s confusion in that hurt, but

not accusation, which is good. The longer he can manage to keep

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pushing them apart without Harry figuring it all the way out, the easier

this will be.

At first Louis hates those moments when Harry‟s face falls, and he tries

to avoid eye contact every time he does something he thinks will cause

one. Ignore a touch, then look away. Leave a joke hanging, then look

away. He starts feeling like he‟s spending half his time with Harry

trying not to look at him.

That feels wrong, though. It feels like the coward‟s way out, and Louis

will be damned if he ever gives anyone reason to call him a coward, so

he starts doing the opposite, starts looking Harry dead in the eye as he

pulls himself away. It hurts, God, it hurts like hell, but it‟s right. He‟s

not ashamed of what he‟s doing. He‟s not doing it to punish Harry, he‟s

doing it to save himself. Harry will be fine. And it‟s important to see

the effect it‟s having. He gets a little voice in the back of his head, and

every time he watches a smile leave Harry‟s face it whispers see, look,

he likes you a little bit less now, see how easy this is, see how simple it

will be for him to leave you.

Yeah. This is gonna work. It‟s already working.

Sometimes he fucks up, which isn‟t surprising, since Louis can‟t think

of anything he hasn‟t fucked up at least once. Sometimes, if he‟s tired,

or tipsy, or just plain weak, he pulls Harry back in like he needs him to

breathe. There are stolen moments, hours, afternoons where it‟s like it

was, where Louis lets himself be fooled. He lets Harry take him home

after the footy team wins a match, lets himself touch Harry for hours

before he wakes up sweating in the middle of the night and calls a taxi

home. One morning he wakes up in his flat, makes up some tea the way

Harry takes it, and brings it to him at school, pulling him into a quick,

furtive kiss before he hands it over and walks away without an

explanation, curling the way Harry smiled at him into a secret place in

his chest. Once, Harry falls asleep on his sofa, and Louis takes a picture

of him on his phone before he wakes him up and kicks him out. It feels

like a relapse every time.

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It feels like time starts passing faster, which is kind of it, because Louis

doesn‟t know how long he can keep this going. He‟s shedding days like

feathers and counting the time in how long he can go without wanting

to hear Harry‟s voice, how long he‟ll let the phone ring before he‟ll

answer it, how long he‟ll allow Harry to hold him after sex before he

pretends to remember something he has to do. It‟s a slow, quiet slide,

like drowning peacefully. If he turns the music up loud enough in the

car he almost doesn‟t even notice how deafeningly silent the drive to

work and back seems now when he‟s alone.

Zayn‟s quiet about things, thankfully, and Stan only sends him about

one carefully concerned text a week in between his usual texts about

inane bullshit, and Niall just tries to keep things light when they‟re all

together, so he can‟t complain about everyone else in his life. Just

Harry, and himself, and he‟s not good at staying angry at Harry, so it‟s

mostly just himself. But then, that‟s nothing particularly new.

Nobody‟s harder on Louis than he is. He‟s always known that, and he‟s

never made any effort to change it. At least it keeps him focused on

something. Yelling at himself is a familiar refrain by now. It‟s

comfortable. He‟d rather wrap himself up in his old friendly anxieties

than face what fresh hell is rattling around in the back of his head.

April‟s almost over now, he tells himself. A couple more months, and

then it‟s done. The beginning of this year went by incredibly fast. If

he‟s lucky, the end will do the same.

Louis is marking papers at the kitchen counter while Harry rewatches

last night‟s match from the couch. They both know the result, 2-1 Man

United, but Harry seems content to sit and stare in silence. Louis is sure

Harry had a better reason when he invited himself over, but he didn‟t