Undertow

Posted originally on the Archive of Our Own at http://archiveofourown.org/works/4554498.

Rating: Explicit
Archive Warning: No Archive Warnings Apply
Category: M/M
Fandom: One Direction (Band)
Relationship: Harry Styles/Louis Tomlinson
Character: Harry Styles, Louis Tomlinson, Minor Characters
Additional Tags: Paris (City), Alternate Universe - Artists, Strangers to Lovers, Summer
Love, Happy Ending, Kinky sex, Dom/sub Undertones, Size Difference,
Body Worship, Eyeliner, Lingerie
Collections: HL Summer Exchange 2015
Stats: Published: 2015-08-22 Chapters: 5/5 Words: 15507

Undertow
by leavingonatrain

Summary

As if Harry's world wasn't already on the brink of change, a twist of fate turns the man he
once photographed in the streets of Paris and never forgot from faint memory, to a one night
stand, to even more.
He wishes he could say he fought harder not to be pulled into the undertow, but he really,
really didn't.

Notes

- This is a work of fiction based on the public persona of One Direction members, created
just for fun. No profit will be made of this work.
- Do not repost/alter/translate without my permission.
- This fic is not to be taken as a guide to D/s dynamics! I skim over a lot for the purpose of
the story. Be safe, kids.

I'm pinch-hitting for this, which means not enough time for my brain to go as wild with the
prompt ("struggling artists in Paris") as it'd like, but hopefully what I came up with is just as
enjoyable.

I've put up a jazzy playlist along the fic, which is by no means obligatory, but I think the
songs go well with the scenes.

Thank you to K for doing wonderful beta work on such short notice and to H, for being an
awesomesauce sounding board and cheerleader.
Enjoy!
 Prologue

(François Parisi - Ballad du Paris)

The bright blue sky, visible over the typical Parisian residence buildings of Le Marais, tells Harry he
still has quite a while until sunset, even though it’s well into evening by the time he gets out of work
at Meert Chocolaterie and the sun itself is nowhere to be seen. He watches the flux of tourists
between Centre Pompidou and Rambuteau station – one girl in particular, ten years old at most, is
looking up at the complex metal structure of the building in such single-minded bewilderment that
Harry wishes he had his camera on him, just so he could capture her expression.

Some may say summer is the worst season to be a Paris citizen, although Harry quite likes it in a
way. Sure, the crowds that swarm the chocolaterie during the day add to his own personal hell of
working in the vicinity of industrial ovens when the temperature is already unbearable, but the
increased influx of tourists always means more of his photographs sold, so all in all it’s quite the
enjoyable season for him.

"Well, that was educational," Gemma sneaks up on him, the corner of her lips trembling as Harry
startles. She'd been visiting the centre to kill time while Harry finished his work shift, since both
places are relatively close to one another. "Although I wouldn't recommend it for a 'last day in Paris'
sort of date."

"Too artsy-fartsy?" Harry whispers conspiratorially, the longing for his sister already settling in like a
heavy weight in his gut, as she rolls her eyes at him, trying to whack him upside the head.

She isn't even gone and he already misses her.

"Not enough booze and brie."

They'd spent a wonderful week traipsing around the city, and she hadn't brought up the topic of him
moving back to England, not even once – though he suspected he wasn't quite out of the woods on
that one yet.

"Well, we can certainly rectify that."

***

"I just-" Gemma huffs, frustration coming out of her in waves as she sits on top of her overflowing
suitcase, recruiting gravity in the impossible task of forcing it closed. "Listen, Hazza, don't hate me
for it, alright, but the bohemian artist lifestyle is going to get old sooner or later. You can't live your
whole life pay cheque to pay cheque… You have to think ahead. What about when you want to
have kids? You've always said you wanted a family, don't you think you ought to offer them some
stability?"

"Gems, love, I'm twenty-two. Bit early to play the kid card, I think." Harry says, munching on a day-
old baguette he found at his fridge, unimpressed. They'd gone out for dinner, drinks and a last stroll
along the Seine, nearly missing the last train to his flat near Abbesses station. "Look, I know you and
mum want me to finish my degree. I've thought about it too, believe me.” In retrospect, thinking his
sister was not going to try and convince him to go back to England was too much wishful-thinking,
he concedes. “Contrary to what you both think, I'm not living in some Parisian fever dream."

"Really? Because you live in a Montmartre bachelor flat and you sell your photographs in street
markets. Sounds- pretty- bohemian- to me-" She remarks, punctuating each word with a bounce on
the suitcase. "Will you help me close this thing?"

"But I don't make a living out of it,” He discards his stale baguette in favour of crouching beside
Gemma's suitcase and pulling on the zipper. “Or have you forgotten about my actual job, for which I
have gotten up at five in the morning every day you've been here regardless of the hour we've gone
to bed the night before?"

"Look, I know you're an adult and I sound like an incredible meddler, but I worry about you, okay?"
She sighs in relief as they finally manage to close it, and slides to the carpeted floor in a sprawl
beside Harry, both lying boneless on the floor. It’s possible they’re still a bit intoxicated.

"When you submitted that suspension form after freshers’ year and moved here I thought you were
taking the gap year you never took before uni and after it you'd come back for your second year, but
you've been here three years now, Harry. It's starting to feel permanent. Me coming here to visit you,
it feels official, you know? 'My brother lives abroad', instead of 'my brother is living abroad for a
while'."

"I know that's not what you want to hear, but I wouldn't actually mind if it was permanent, Gems.”
He stares at the dark sky through the huge skylight above his bed. Half of his assistant baker's wages
go to paying rent, but fuck it if it isn't worth it. “I love this city. I've loved it since the day I arrived,
and then a bit more every time I take a picture of someone falling in love with it."

"Is that why you're always taking pictures of tourists?"

"Yes - Though not only tourists. My favourite one is from a local."

"But how can you tell? Not all tourists wear patterned shirts and obnoxious hats with giant cameras
strapped around their ne-" She gasps in fake realisation, turning to stare at Harry with comically wide
eyes. "Wait, I just realised - Is that why you dress the way you do? To blend in?"

"Ha-ha. Very funny, miss Gems." He gets up, crawling across the open space of his loft flat to his
desk and retrieving a folder with some of his older printed photographs. "I like to hang around Sacré-
Coeur when I don't have the time to go down to the Seine, so I can capture people's faces when they
get out of the church and see the view from the top of the Montmartre hill for the first time. It gets me
some of the best photos. So, one day I'm there, and I'm ready to go home so I start to make my way
to the furniculaire steps, and I see this-" He finds the photo he wants, crawling back to Gemma's side
and handing it to her. "- gorgeous man, but he doesn't even glance up at the church, not once. Instead
he stops at the other side of the road, waiting to cross, and when he lifts his gaze he stares right at me.
I didn't even think, I just lifted my camera and snapped the photo. That was quite rude, in retrospect."

It is a gorgeous photograph, though Harry’s sure it has more to do with the exquisite beauty of the
man than with his own photographic abilities. His surprisingly tan skin glows in the winter light, high
cheekbones catching a bit of the setting sun's reflection. His thin, red mouth is slick and set in a stoic
expression, hair up in a swoopy kind of quiff. The most remarkable feature is the eyes, though: Oh
so very blue orbs, framed by thick eyelashes speckled with snow and what Harry'd later recognize as
residual black eyeliner. They'd held a magnetic power over him from the minute their eyes had found
each other's across the narrow street.

Even now, so many months later, Harry still gets butterflies in his stomach just by looking at the
photo. He still carries with him the phantom memory of being sucked into the man's piercing gaze,
unable to look away as he was dragged in - the feeling is akin to being swept off his feet into the
undertow as he’s distracted by the crashing waves. They’re dangerous, these powerful eyes. Harry
knows, even from that brief encounter, that they could lead a person to their own ruin.
"It's wonderful. You're really talented, Harry." She turns her head to him, and Harry has to force
himself to divert his gaze from the photo to look at his sister. "I’m sorry for never saying it before. I
just miss you so much."

"Aw," he smiles, scooting over to kiss her forehead. "I miss you too, Gems. You know I do."

***

When he gets back from dropping Gemma off at the airport, eyes still red from having a bit of a cry
on the way back to his flat, he boots up his ancient laptop and logs into the university’s intranet.

See, he’s happy in Paris, he really, really is, but even three years down the line it still feels like a
refuge from his real life – the one that’s waiting for him back in London. He doesn't know how to
make this life he’s built for himself here feel like his real one, and maybe it never will feel real –
perhaps he just isn't built for the expat life.

He clicks away until he’s pulled up two official forms he’d filled out before summer started. They
were deceivingly identical in source and layout, except submitting one or the other is going to alter
his future in drastically different ways: One is a Resumption of Studies form, which, once submitted,
is going to allow him to go back to uni and start his second year in the fall as if he’d never left; while
the other, Withdrawal from Studies, means he’ll no longer have any ties to his university.

Ideally he’d submit another Suspension Extension form, but his University has a three-term-year
maximum policy and he’d been given an ultimatum from the Registry Office. Come back, or leave
for good.

Harry scratches at his itchy eyes, cursor hovering over the ‘submit’ button of one form at a time. He
has until the end of summer to make a decision, but it isn't getting any easier. He doesn't have
someone who’ll advise him impartially – all his mates from Paris want him to stay, while his family
desperately wants him to come back.

It’s bitterly isolating.

 Chapter One

It’s just the following week that Harry finds himself on one of the stools by the bar at Corcoran's, the
“traditional Irish pub” sat at the top of the steps that run besides the Sacré-Coeur furniculaire -
a bonafide tourist trap that he usually avoids. However, having Gemma over left him longing not
only for the company of his sister, but also for someone to talk to in his own native language.

Pubs, even self-proclaimed 'Irish' ones, are a sure-fire way to find fellow British expats, though it
seems like today Harry is shit out of luck - the closest he'd got to a conversation in English was with
the aggressively Irish blond bartender, who’s too busy to really answer to any of Harry's aborted
attempts at small talk.

Resigned, he gathers the stack of blown up photographs of the Parisian landscape he failed to sell at
Place du Terte's evening arts market (though today has been a good sales day - a couple bought the
whole series of photos of the Latin Quartier and he’s going home with quite the thin stack) and
makes his way out of the crowded pub. The steps are bustling with people going up and down, late
enough in the evening that the 'families and elders' tourist groups has given way to a more adult
crowd, one that isn't in Montmartre to sightsee.

Harry starts to make his way down the sprawling steps, now familiar enough that he doesn't worry
about his fast pace, with his head down as he roots through his pockets for his keys while trying not
to let the photographs slip from under his arm.

He looks up just in time to see a compact body ram straight into his, the breath knocked out of him as
he bounces back into the steps from the force of their collision.

Photographs fly everywhere as Harry lets go of them to try and break his fall, the steps digging
painfully in his ribs as he hears a slightly high pitched voice swearing "Shit- ow- fuck- fuck-" as the
other person falls down the four steps until the next landing.

British accent, Harry's brain supplies unhelpfully as he scrambles down the steps to try and see if the
stranger is seriously hurt. His eyes are drawn first to their bloodied palms, scraped on the pavement
from the fall, and his stomach twists guiltily as he crouches next to them.

"Sorry! I'm so sorry, I –” His gut drops to the floor as he looks up because no. It can’t be. “It's you!"
His brain-to-mouth filter is fried from the adrenaline, heart taking on a new erratic rhythm as he
recognises the pair of cerulean blue eyes staring back at him. "I mean –" He fumbles as the stranger's
eyebrows scrunch in confusion, "I mean, are you badly hurt? Do you need me to call an
ambulance?”

"Good luck getting an ambulance up here, mate." The man remarks, slowly stretching his limbs as if
to see if anything is broken. His voice is surprisingly high, but not in an unpleasant way. "I'm fine,
it's fine. Suppose it's my fault too, wasn't looking where I was going. You alright?"

“Yeah, I’m used to falling. Clumsy.” He shrugs sheepishly. “Let me help you up.” He goes to wrap
his hands around the stranger’s wrists so he doesn’t have to use his injured palms to get up, but the
man just shrugs him off and wipes his bloody palms on his skin tight jeans before pushing himself up
– and, bloody hell, those thighs. How has Harry missed those thighs the first time around? Bloody
winter coats, that’s how.

“Nah, I’m fine. It’s just a scrape. Thanks, though.” The man looks up at him from under his
eyelashes, doing a quick scan of Harry’s body before averting his gaze. “Let me help you gather
your stuff.”

He sets off on picking up the scattered photographs, Harry’s brain slow on the uptake as he starts to
do the same a few seconds later, even though most of it has already been gathered by onlookers,
whom Harry thanks with a grateful nod and a merci before turning back to his handsome stranger
with the undertow eyes.

“Are those yours?” The stranger says as he hands Harry the last of the photos, eyes lingering on
them before looking up at him. Harry nods, worrying his lip between his teeth. “They’re sick, mate.
You sell them up there at Place?”

Harry nods again – his higher brain function has fucked off to somewhere else.

They stare at each other for a heartbeat in the middle of the busy stairway.

“Well, I’ll just be off, then.”

He’s already out of earshot when it occurs to Harry to ask for his number. Or even his name.

***

“Harrry, I swear to you, if I have to hear about Mr. Nice Thighs one more time I am moving my
stand to the other side,” says Cebile, a middle aged woman with a strong South African accent who
sells handcrafted bags on the stand next to his. “But not before I whack you upside the head, of
course.”

“Leave the boy alone, Cebile.” Yaxley, his stand neighbor on the other side, says as he sticks his
head around his tapestry paintings. “I know it’s been ages since you was young and in love, but try
to remember what it’s like!” He laughs, ducking as Cebile throws a knitting roll at him.

“I’m not in love,” Harry remarks sulkily, watching as two badly sunburned tourists approach his
stand tentatively. He puts on his most charming smile but doesn’t approach them, giving them
freedom to peruse. “I just can’t believe I let him go without even asking his name. Six months since I
took that shot, all this time wishing I had the guts to go and introduce myself, and when I – quite
literally – bump into him on the street, Nada! Nowt!”

“Lad, even the best of us have fanny fright once in a while – except, you know, cock fright, in your
case.” Yaxley twists his nose, looking up the sky contemplatively. “Could I say I have chronic cock
fright, then?”

“Yax!” Harry hisses as the tourists skitter away, looking worried. Oh, well. “It’s just – How likely is
that, in a city as big as Paris, I’d bump into him like that? It’s like fate gave me a second chance, and
I blew it!”

“I’m sure if it’s meant to be fate will give you a third chance, son,” Cebile’s tone is her special brand
of equally indulgent and patronizing, Harry making a face at her retreating back as she moves to the
other side of her stand. “Now shut it.”

Harry huffs sulkily. Maybe he’ll be the one to change stand locations, see how she likes that. He isn’t
done kicking himself over his missed opportunity, even if three days have passed since the stairs
incident. He scuffs his worn brown ankle boots on the cobblestone pavement of Place du Tertre,
wondering if they can handle having their soles restitched one more time before completely falling
apart. There isn’t a lot of money left this month for a new pair of leather boots, but if he goes down
to the Seine on his day off he can –
“Ha, found you.” Harry’s head whips up at the vaguely familiar lilting voice, jaw dropping open
without his permission when he attests that yes, it is Mr. Nice Tights and Undertow Eyes standing
right in front of him in skinny jeggings and a thin burgundy T-shirt with a frankly obscene neckline,
a flash of inked skin visible under his collarbone.

He refrains from mouthing Thank you at the skies only through sheer force of will.

“Hi!” Harry exclaims in a tone so enthusiastic it probably sounds fake, but he’s determined to walk
out of this meeting with at least a name and a number this time. He’s not gonna waste his third
chance. “How are you? How are your hands?”

“Oh, you – I was wondering if you’d remember me.” Harry almost scoffs at that, because you have
no idea. “They’re fine, really, it was nothing.”

“I’m glad.” Harry says, smiling at him. The poor lightning of the square makes it difficult to see if
that’s a blush on the man’s cheeks or if Harry is imagining things; if the glossy substance on his lips
is just saliva or something else entirely. “I’m Harry, by the way.”

“Louis.” The man answers, taking Harry’s outstretched hand. Harry can feel the plaster on his palms
as they shake hands. He can also feel how tiny the man’s hands are, how engulfed by his own, but
these are the kind of thoughts best not entertained while Harry is wearing skin-tight jeans in public.

“What brings you to our lively square this evening, Lou-eh?”

“I wanted to see these.” He points at Harry’s photos organised on the stand, and, yeah, there’s no
denying the blush on his cheeks now, even if he holds his chin high as if daring Harry to mention it.
“The Place is already on my way home, so I thought I’d pop by. Pick one to send me mum.”

“In Yorkshire?” Louis looks up at him, brows drawn together. “I’m good with accents.” Harry grins,
linking his hands behind his back. “Feel free to browse.”

He steps back while Louis steps closer to the stand. Yaxley gives him a thumbs-up from his own
stand, and Harry’s eyes dart nervously to Louis, but the man is engrossed in the photographs, so he
discreetly sends a thumbs-up back, fighting a giggle. The tourist crowd is starting to slowly trickle
out as the clock ticks closer to midnight, Harry now able to feel the gentle breeze that enters the
square from Rue Norvins.

Jazz music filters through the people chatter, someone playing a saxophone either on the street or
inside one of the cafes that surround the square. Harry isn’t willing to tear his eyes off of Louis long
enough to find out.

Fuck, he’s handsome. The yellowish light from the lamp posts glows off his skin, accentuating the
curve of his jawline and the dip of his collarbones. The material of his shirt clings to his small waist,
flaring again where it ends on his hips. And oh, the bum on him. Harry’s going to write a fucking
love letter to the inventor of jeggings.

“I like this one.” Harry’s eyes jump to his face, but yeah, too late, he’s been totally caught. He feels
his ears warming up as Louis smirks at him, a photo in hand. It’s one of the smaller ones, roughly the
size of A4 paper, and upon closer inspection Harry can see that it’s one from his Tuileries series, a
couple silhouetted against the setting sun near the fountain. “How much do I owe you?”

“Have dinner with me.” The words leave him without permission from his brain, and he clambers to
rectify his statement when he sees Louis’ unimpressed stare. “No, I mean, the photo is on the house,
you can take it regardless.” He scratches his wrist with one of his rings, lowering his gaze and aiming
for demure. “I’m just asking you to have dinner with me. The two are not, uh, correlated. You can
say no and still have the photo.”

Louis’ expression doesn’t yield, still stubbornly immobile as they stare at each other.

“It’s just. You have riveting eyes.” Harry can’t believe he’s blowing his third chance.

“Seriously?” Louis’ left brow goes even higher, just a tiny movement. “Riveting? That’s your line?”

“It’s not a line!” Harry exclaims, eyes bulging. “It’s true! When I look at them I get the feeling of
standing on the edge of the ocean. Riveting is a perfectly appropriate word.”

“Because they are blue? How original.” Harry frowns at his sarcasm. If he doesn’t want to fucking
have dinner why not just say so instead of – “Hey, I’m just taking the piss.” He lifts his hands
placatingly, eyes crinkling with his smile. “Yeah, let’s have dinner.”

“Really?” Harry really needs to work on his filter. “I mean, give me your number and I’ll give you a
call.”

“I don’t have a phone,” he says, laughing at Harry’s incredulous expression, adding, “At the
moment! I lost it this week. Or someone nicked it off me pocket, I don’t know.”

“We’ll go for a drink, then. I think most restaurants’ kitchens are about to close.”

“What, now?” Louis asks, mirth etched all over his face. “What about your stand?”

“My neighbours can close for me. They owe me.” Harry smirks at the sound of grumbling to his
right. Cebile is such a gossip, he knew she was listening in. “Unless you have prior commitments?”

“Nope, no prior commitments.” Louis chews on the inside of his cheeks, the flesh indentation only
making his cheekbones more pronounced. “Lead the way.”

***

“Wait, so you actually like Paris better in the summer? With all the fucking tourists?” Louis raises
one eyebrow at him, voice ringing above the crowd in the dive bar they’re at. He didn’t actually let
Harry lead the way, instead taking them down the steps at the end of Rue Mont Cenis to a part of
Montmartre Harry almost never goes to.

"Yeah. I think there's an unjust stigma surrounding them, you know? If you were born here and
you've lived here your whole life, tourists can be a nuisance, sure, and you can still appreciate the
city – but there's something in the eyes of someone visiting Paris for the first time that can't be
equaled." Harry takes a swig of his beer, condensation damp on his hand. It’s truly exceedingly hot
inside this bar. He licks his lips and watches Louis’ eyes track the movement. "When they're down at
Champ de Mars and they're looking up at the Eiffel tower - or when they're at the steps of the Sacré-
Coeur and the whole city is stretched out in front of them – try looking at them, then. Most of them
will be hidden behind their cameras, sure, or posing for a picture, but still you'll always find someone
who's just looking - just, you know, jaw slack as they try to absorb it all - and you can see the
wonderment in their eyes. You can pinpoint the exact second they fall in love with Paris. If I'm lucky
enough, I get to capture it."

“That’s poetic, Harry. Proper artist, you.” And there’s a hint of teasing in his voice, but the kindness
in his eyes assure Harry that he isn’t really being mocked. “I didn’t see those photos on the stand.”

“Yeah, they don’t sell as much.” Louis puts his beer down and Harry’s eyes follow the movement,
stare fixed on the greased imprint of Louis’ lips around the bottle. “I take them just for me, mostly.
Got dozens of them by now.”

“Maybe you’ll show them to me, then.” Harry’s eyes snap back to Louis’, searching. His eyes are a
bit glassy from the alcohol, but the implied meaning is as clear as if written across his skin. “I’d love
to see them.”

Harry’s arm rises to flag the bartender down for the bill, his eyes never leaving Louis’.

***

(Portishead – All Mine (instrumental))

The sound of their shoes hitting the floor echoes off the walls as they fumble their way through
Harry’s flat, the swirling in his stomach quieting and giving way to a more steady thrum, pulsing in
rhythm with the swelling inside his pants. He leans in to taste, like he’s wanted to all night, and the
smoothness of Louis’ lips takes him by surprise, warm and so lush Harry can’t help but bite down on
them, sucking the bottom one into his mouth. Louis quiets then, lets him, hands slowing in their
battle against the buckle of Harry’s jeans.

Harry backs them into a wall, mindful of the hanging hooks by his door – devoid of coats this time of
the year – but Louis is not tall enough, fits right beneath them. His focus sharpens as Louis seems
less and less coherent, pliant in Harry’s arms as Harry sucks on his mouth, one hand cradling his jaw
and twisting his head to the direction he pleases and the other splayed on the smaller man’s lower
belly. A low, needy whine escapes Louis’ lips as Harry latches onto his neck, and Harry keeps
waiting for Louis to push him away him or pull him closer, something, but instead Louis remains
still, quiet and small in the cradle of Harry’s arms.

Harry’s hands close around his wrists tentatively, experimentally, and slowly drag them up until,
covering Louis’ hands in his, he can make them close around the metal handles where the coats
should be. He squeezes once and lets go, sucking in a deep, desperate breath as Louis’ hands stay
exactly where he put them. He steps back to admire the view and adjusts himself inside his painfully
uncomfortable jeans. Louis’ hair is a dishevelled mess, and he’s burning red in embarrassment, eyes
downcast and trained where Harry’s hand is still squeezing himself, but he stays perfectly still and
just – lets Harry look.

His mind races through the implications as much as the possibilities, both lines of thought sprouting
up simultaneously in a mind too clogged with arousal to pay them their due consideration, and he
dives back in, taking Louis’ mouth again. His hips seek friction and find Louis equally hard, a
wretched moan pulled from his throat. His palms are insistent as they travel down Louis’ frame,
circling around his waist and inching between his arse and the wall, squeezing. Louis whimpers,
pressing forward, his back now an arched concave, writhing in Harry’s arms as his legs are pulled
off the floor and around Harry’s waist.

The hinges of the coat hook whine loudly as the structure is yanked off the wall, Harry growling a
low “Leave it” as he starts to make his way towards his bed, Louis’ arms thrown limply past his
shoulders, Louis’ mouth breathing hotly on his neck as he makes no effort to grab onto Harry,
allowing the taller man support all of his weight on the short walk to the bed.

Harry drops them unceremoniously on the bed, urging Louis to move further up the mattress with the
same hand that’s yanking on his shirt, trying to get it off one-handed. He gives up, sitting back onto
his haunches, and pulls Louis’ shirt off, before pulling his own and shucking both off the bed. Louis’
hand on his own fly is slapped away and his breath catches, writhing on the sheets as Harry makes
quick work of his button and flies, yanking it down to reveal a sheeny material – pale pink or peach,
Harry can’t really tell with the low lighting that filters in through his skylight, but definitely delicate.
His breath catches audibly, Louis completely quiet beneath him.

He pulls at Louis’ jeans, tugging them all the way off, and sits back onto his haunches, popping open
the button and fly of his own jeans to relieve the pressure on his swollen cock. They stare at each
other as Harry’s hands slowly inch over Louis’ legs, stopping at the knees and gripping one in each
hand. Louis’ legs spread easily, the curves of his body accentuated with the way he bends and
writhes on top of the sheets. Harry’s hands continue their path up Louis’ inner thighs, kneading the
strong muscle until his hands leave white imprints on the flesh. He bends over, mouths at Louis’ balls
through the flimsy material – satin, he decides, watching as Louis’ cock swells to full hardness and
peeks out the top of the lingerie.

Harry licks at the wetness there, tongue retreating into his mouth to hum through the taste of him
before his lips wrap around the head and suck, Louis’ high pitched moans almost a continuous sound
at that, knees drawing up towards his chest and hooking over Harry’s shoulders. Harry presses the
pad of his finger against the underside of his balls, thumb dragging down until it presses right at his
entrance, the satin smooth to the touch.

He looks up and brings his other hand to Louis’ mouth, pushing his index finger past his lips in a
silent order. Louis obliges, sucking around it until it’s coated in saliva. Harry guides his hand back
down and up under the leg hole of the lingerie, smearing Louis’ saliva across his entrance. He
retracts his finger until the fabric slides back into place and pushes a knuckle in, the warmth of Louis
seeping through the smooth satin.

He doesn’t know where he’s put the fucking lube, and does he have condoms? Most importantly,
does Louis want to be fucked, is the question. It’s hard to reconcile the man he’s just spent the night
with, loud and brash and unapologetic, to this tamed version of him, presenting his body for Harry to
use, quiet and obedient, and it’s all so hot Harry doesn’t know what to do with himself.

He’s read about submissive dynamics before, and watched it to exhaustion, the specific kind of niche
porn that till this day can get him to orgasm faster than anything else, and now it’s here – come to life
and spread out beneath him, pliant and willing.

He lowers his head and pecks Louis on the mouth, whispers, mouth brushing his, tell me your word.

He’s kissing down the side of Louis’ neck when he answers, Harry barely catching the murmured
sound. His hand sneaks its way into Louis’ hair, pulling once, tentatively, then again with more
intent when all Louis does is moan wretchedly. His hands on Louis’ hips guide him onto his
stomach, then roam around his back, the backs of his thighs, squeezing his arse cheeks hard and
spreading them until the material of the knickers bunches along Louis’ crack. He winds the top of it
around his fingers and stretches it, careful not to tear the delicate fabric, watching as it digs into the
skin between his arsecheeks.

Louis squirms under him, hands clenching rhythmically on the sheets, hips pressing down to make
the tug of the fabric on his skin sharper.

He gets a slap on his right arsecheek for it, Harry commanding “Stay still,” and lowering his head to
mouth at the reddened skin, sinking his teeth into as big a mouthful as he can fit, tongue lathing over
the flesh. He pulls the fabric to the side, his other hand urging Louis’ right knee to slide up the bed,
spreading him open. His first swipe of tongue against the bare skin of Louis’ entrance makes him
shudder violently, hand inching down the bed and moving in grabby phantom motions until Harry
takes it in his own and squeezes, head moving up and down as he licks with the flat of his tongue.

Louis’ moans increase in pitch but never in volume, whimpered and whined into his own free arm,
and he squeezes Harry’s hand like a vice when Harry stops rimming him at the sound of sobs
escaping his throat. He cries out in relief when Harry’s mouth returns, pushing back into it until
Harry squeezes his hips in warning, and Louis subsides again.

At some point he asks Harry if he’s allowed to come, and Harry doesn’t know if he’s supposed to
deny it, or delay it, so he clears his throat and issues out a yes before diving back in, tongue pushing
inside and sucking at the rim. Louis comes into his satin underwear, spasming on Harry’s tongue and
crying out Harry’s name. The sound is so addictive Harry can already foresee it being a problem.

His cheeks are tear-stained when Harry turns him over, eyes distant and demeanour placated. He still
opens his mouth eagerly when Harry crawls up his body and offers him his cock, pushing his tongue
against the underside and keeping still for Harry to move. Harry pushes in, slowly, feels Louis’ throat
contracting around the head as Louis’ nose brushes his pubic bone, then draws out.

“Breathe,” he orders, watching as Louis sucks in a lungful of air, and pushes back inside.

Louis’ mouth stretches around his girth, spit leaking out the sides. They repeat the motion over and
over, slowly and unhurriedly, until Louis barely even gags anymore, looking up at Harry with
bottomless pupils, arms limp over his head, making hushed, garbled sounds as Harry moves inside
his throat, Harry’s hands pulling at the back of his hair.

Louis never really gets around to properly sucking, yet Harry’s orgasm nearly blinds him.

He falls to the bed by Louis’ side, spent, and pulls Louis into him, murmuring over and over how
good Louis made him feel as he runs his hands soothingly over every inch of skin his hands can
reach.

The water bottle on his bedside table is only half full but Harry offers it to Louis, prefers it over
having to leave his side even for the short walk to the kitchen. He holds Louis’ head as he gulps it
down, then drapes the blankets over them, cradling him to his chest, and sings quietly until he’s too
sleepy to string the words together.

He hums then, melody after melody, and doesn’t even remember falling asleep.

***

The shrill blare of his alarm wakes him up after not enough sleep, the summer sun already beating
down on them through his skylight. A big part of him wants nothing more than to stay inside his
cocoon of warm sheets and warm boy, but reality is crushing, and he rolls himself out of bed and into
the bathroom.

The merits of waking Louis up before he heads out win over the ones of a note mainly because it
gives him an excuse to kiss him again. A voice not unlike his mum’s reminds him he’s letting a near
stranger stay on his flat alone, but Harry can’t bring himself to subject Louis to his own ungodly
hours, especially not after the previous night.

He wakes Louis up with butterfly kisses over his eyelids, cheeks, and mouth.

When Louis frowns at his clothed state, he explains he has to head out to work, but Louis is
welcome to stay. He’s quick to agree to that, burrowing further into Harry’s bed and dismissing him
with a mumbled g’morning.

Harry has to fight the urge to turn around and slide back into the covers all the way to the metro
station.
 ***

Harry’s flat is predictably empty when he returns from work mid-afternoon. Louis has made his bed,
which Harry appreciates, even though he’ll have to change the sheets anyway. He can tell Louis has
also used his kettle, and clearly had a bit of a snoop around the flat.

Harry’s just finishing putting the kettle on when the memory of showing Gemma Louis’ picture
floats into his brain, and the memory of putting it away doesn’t.

He dashes to the desk, going through the photographs scattered over it frantically, already mentally
rehearsing his explanation.

The photo is gone.

He cruises his small flat for a note, a scrawled email or workplace, anything to give him any hints
that Louis wants to be contacted again. It’s fruitless, of course, his flat exactly the same except for the
missing photo.

He pushes the heels of his hands against his eyelids, and curses.
 Chapter Two

He goes back to the bar that same night, but the bartender doesn't recognise any regular costumer
with Harry’s description of ‘short brunette guy with blue eyes, a dagger tattoo on his forearm and a
British accent’.

He goes to the steps of the furniculaire on the next one, right by the section where they bumped into
each other, and spends a good three hours watching the faces that go up and down the Montmartre
hill.

It’s on the third night, when Harry is more or less resigned, that he returns to his stand on Place du
Tertre, but it isn’t for another week until he sees Louis again.

He’s sitting on a little stool besides his stand, photograph folder open on his lap as he sorts them
chronologically, when a familiar pair of vans appears on his line of vision.

Sweat breaks on his skin as he follows the shapely legs up to find Louis staring at him, eyeing him
suspiciously. His arms are crossed, one hand holding what Harry recognizes as his photo, rolled up
into a baton as if ready to whack Harry with it.

“Before you say anything, my friend is here with me and he’s watching us as we speak. He also
boxes professionally.”

“Okay.” Harry responds cautiously, trying to keep his brows from drawing together.

“You know what I took from your flat, don’t you?” Harry nods, gnawing on the inside of his cheek
as he considers how pissed Louis looks. “Care to explain it?”

Harry nods again, taking a deep breath and thinking about the best way to convey his that he isn’t a
stalker to Louis.

“Remember what I told you at the bar, about how I like to photograph tourists?” He waits for Louis’
curt nod, hand reaching for a different partition in his photograph folder where he’s stashed some of
his private photos, just in case he ran into Louis again. “Well, I don’t photograph only tourists. I do it
with anyone who seems interesting enough, really, and strikes my fancy.”

He hands a set of photos to Louis, watching as he riffles through them.

“You were one of them,” he continues, “I saw you at Rue Tardieu about six months ago, I think, you
were with the metro crowd coming from Anvers. I didn’t see you again until we bumped into each
other near the furniculaire last week.”

“And why would you just leave it in plain sight, when you know that it’d freak me out?” Louis still
looks pissed, although slightly less suspicious, which Harry counts as progress.

“Just a few days before, my sister was visiting me and she asked to see my favourite photos that I’d
taken. I forgot to put it away after.” Harry explains, maintaining unwavering eye contact in hopes of
convincing Louis of his innocence. “I'm sorry, I really didn't mean to freak you out or make you
think I'm some crazy stalker. I didn't know who you are and how to find you until a week ago. Hell,
I still don’t know the second,” he adds as an afterthought.

“You do realise that is a bit hard to swallow, don’t you?”

“Is it, though?” Harry cocks his head to the side, still looking up at Louis from his stool. “I couldn't
believe my luck when I bumped into you on the stairs, so much so that I was too dumbstruck to do
something about it, then. But you came to find me, both times. You've been inside my flat, alone;
you know where I live and where I work whereas I don’t know either about you. You have the
upper hand in every aspect, here.” He pauses, shoots him a significant look, “Well, almost every
aspect.”

Louis’ blush is raging and immediate, hands tightening on the photographs he’s still clutching.

“That’s a pretty compelling argument, Harry,” Harry’s gut wrenches in longing at the sound of his
name in Louis’ mouth, and it’s such a pleasant sound that he decides not to comment on how
blatantly Louis ignored his last sentence. “Almost like you had it ready.”

“I did rehearse it, had a week to work on it,” he says as he goes to close his photograph folder as
Louis returns the photos he’s been handed. Harry’s skin tingles in satisfaction when he sees that
Louis returned his own photo to the pile, a bit wrinkled from being handled roughly but delightfully
Harry’s again. “Had to be ready for when I saw you again.”

“You might’ve never seen me again.” Louis reasons, left eyebrow pulling up. “You came pretty
fucking close to never seeing me again.”

“I know,” He can still see the way doubt lingers in Louis’ stance, wonders what part of himself he
has to give for Louis to believe him. “But I hoped I would anyway.” He takes a deep breath and
thinks, fuck it. In for a penny. “I very much want to keep seeing you, Louis. I think you’re great.
You’re also otherworldly handsome, which doesn’t hurt.”

He watches the way Louis struggles to contain his smile, tongue in cheek, and thinks maybe he
didn’t screw up his third chance after all. Maybe.

***

“I don’t think this is how we’re meant to do it.” Harry says, looking up from his checklist to find
Louis staring at him across the table of the bustling café. He’s blushing just by considering checking
some of the boxes, but Louis looks as composed as ever, twin sheet of paper in hand. “I’ve read
online we’re supposed to discuss each of these and then make a list together.”

“But if we do it that way we won’t be sure if the other has chosen something because they actually
want to try it or just to please us.” Louis has filled his list incredibly fast, like he’s done it more than
once, and something akin to jealously sits unpleasant in Harry’s stomach, as unjustified as it is. “I
won’t judge you for what you choose, Harry.”

“’S not it.” It sort of is. Some of the things in this list – He looks down at the paper again – Spanking;
Felching; Orgasm Denial; Humiliation. God,they’re surrounded by people. “I wouldn’t choose
something I don’t want to try just to please you, by the way.”

“As you should, love.” Louis grins at him, one hand toying with his mug handle, before clearing his
throat and continuing in a more sober tone, “I know that our first time might’ve given you the
impression that this –“ He pointed to the paper, “is the only sort of sex I’m interested in, which is not
true. I’ve actually never done it with someone I’d just met, which I admit was wildly irresponsible of
me. I suppose the combination of the alcohol and your trustworthy baby-face pulled me under.” He
smirks, the faintest hint of colour on his cheeks. “But I told you we don’t have to do any of it.”

“I know.” Harry pauses, flashes of their night together surfacing unbidden. His dick stirs to life inside
his pants as he makes a show of picking up the pen to finish the list and Louis bites his lip almost like
an afterthought. “I want to.”

***

(Stateless - Bloodstream)

Louis’ sheets are the nice, expensive kind, which is oddly surprising, and odder still is that Harry’s
noticing sheet quality when he has Louis spread out underneath him, small and breathless, trying to
fuck himself into the three fingers Harry has inside of him.

“Don’t move or I won’t let you come.” Life hasn’t presented him with many opportunities of using
his commanding voice so far, so if Harry wavers a bit as he says it, it’s only between him and the
sheets. It seems to work for Louis anyway, if the way he goes completely still is any indication.

He’s a bit ashamed to admit he hasn’t paid attention to the kind of underwear Louis was wearing,
desperate as he was to get him naked as soon as they were alone. He notices now how neatly
trimmed Louis’ pubic hair is, and how he is waxed smooth around his nipples and where Harry’s
thrusting inside him with his fingers.

It seems as if the farther under Louis goes, the more Harry’s focus sharpens on him, noticing every
little detail, every hitch in breath and every clench of muscles, every twitch of hands and every roll of
dazed eyes.

He’s still a bit unsure about having Louis like this, like he’s in an entirely different plane of existence
from Harry, having an out-of-body experience and thrusting Harry with his well-being while he’s
away.

He’s afraid of tearing Louis to pieces and not being able to pull him back together after, of asking too
much or pushing too far;most of all he’s got an unprecedented need to take care of him, to handle
him, and protect him.

He presses down on Louis’ lower abdomen with one hand and twists his fingers in search of his
prostate with the other. He knows he’s found it when Louis’ leg juts out to the side and he starts
wriggling again.

He’s testing Harry’s boundaries, Harry can feel it in the way his limbs flail deliberately, so Harry
grips his hips until he’s sure he’s gonna leave dark bruises, prodding at his spot over and over until
Louis’ cock is twitching, standing up purple at the head and completely ignored.

“Harry, please.” Louis whines, but he’s not being good enough, not staying still like Harry’s told
him to, so he doesn’t deserve to come yet.

“Not yet, baby.” Harry tells him, over the tiny wailed sound that escapes Louis’ throat. He pulls his
fingers out for good measure, using the residual moisture to wrap around the base of Louis’ cock and
squeeze hard enough that Louis flinches away from it, just barely. “Stay still for me like a good boy.”

He watches as Louis quiets again, the movement of his ribcage slowing as he tries to control his
breathing into something more subtle and measured. He’s so lovely, arched and shaking on the bed.
Harry wants to kiss him all over, so he does, bringing one of his open palms to his lips and kissing a
torturously slow line up his arm, careful to imprint his lips into every inch of skin he can get to.

He kisses up his shoulder, and makes a path over his collarbones to his other arm. By the time he’s
making his way down, Louis is vibrating under him, taut in his struggle to stay still.

Harry knows that it’s harder for him to slip under while sober; he keeps skirting the edge but coming
back up, and Harry wants to look into Louis’ clear eyes as he slides into him, so he reaches for the
condom they set aside earlier and rolls it on, looming over Louis and bringing their entwined hands
to press into the mattress over their heads.

“Ready, baby?” He asks, waiting for Louis’ nod before slowly pushing his hips in.

It’s heaven inside, warm and tight, and Harry never wants to leave. He screws his eyes shut and
takes a moment to collect himself, focusing on squeezing Louis’ sweaty palms in his, while sucking
the lobe of Louis’ ear into his mouth.

Louis stays still under him, not urging him on nor flinching away, and Harry pulls back to see him
staring up at him, bottom lip drawn between his teeth.

He manoeuvres them until he can hold both of Louis’ wrists into one of his hands as he feeds him
two fingers with the other, voice rough and breaking when he says, “Suck.”

Louis does, sucking them into his mouth gently as Harry plants his knees on the bed and starts
moving inside of him, tiny thrusts that are more of a grind than anything else.

“That’s it. Doing so well, baby.” He soothes, increasing the pressure on Louis’ wrists. “Best boy I’ve
ever seen.” He tells him truthfully, feels safer in exposing how gone he is for him already when he
can see the lights behind Louis’ eyes turning off one by one, the cogs in his brain slowing to a stop
as his breathing evens out despite the erratic beating of his pulse under Harry’s hands.

Nothing but Louis exists in Harry’s world, everything outside the bed they’re in is of no
consequence, and Harry knows that if he takes his hands off of Louis wrists now he’s going to stay
just as quiet and docile, submissive to Harry. It’s a heady feeling, and Harry basks in it, wants to get
drunk on the power he has over him.

He drives in harder, bringing Louis’ legs up and bending them towards his torso and keeps changing
his angle until he finds the one that makes Louis’ whimper, pleading eyes finding Harry.

He’s being good now, so good for Harry, so he gives him what he wants, moving until each thrust
punches a breathy uh from Louis, barely louder than a whisper. He’s got Harry’s undivided attention
whether he’s quiet or loud, filling up a room or small underneath Harry’s silhouette, and Harry
watches as Louis’ eyes roll back in pleasure, the tightening of his muscles around Harry the only
indication that he’s going to come, and he’s quiet even as he does, sighing and gasping as his cock
spurts up his belly like his orgasm was coaxed out of him ever so gently.

Harry pulls out then, stricken with the urge to paint him white. He pulls the condom off and it’s
barely a minute before he’s coming over Louis, shooting over the already drying come over Louis’
tummy so he can bring his hand to it, swirl their release together.

The look on Louis’ face is everything as he watches the path of Harry’s hands, breath in sync with
his.

He offers Louis some water and cleans him up before settling in by his side, pulling him to lie on top
of his chest and drawing patterns on his back for what feels like hours, until Louis’ limbs don’t feel
quite as heavy and his eyes are clear again.

“That was nice,” is the first thing he says, high pitched voice raspy with disuse, “wasn’t it?”

“More than nice,” Harry agrees, planting a kiss on top of Louis’ head.

After a while Louis turns his head to look at him, settling his chin on top of his folded up hands,
rising and falling with Harry’s chest.

“How did you end up in Paris, Harry?” he asks next, calf rubbing against Harry’s.

Harry tells him, starting with how when he was in his freshman year he had a bakery job that he
liked more than going to class, and how his boss offered him a job for the summer at the Paris branch
she was being transferred to. He tells him how when summer ended he realised he just didn’t want to
go back yet, so he took a leavers absence for a year, and then another one, and then yet another one,
and he hasn’t been to the UK in three years.

Louis tells him that he’s an actor, having come to Paris when he got a letter from his estranged
father’s lawyer letting him know he’d passed away, and since he had no other family, Louis had to
come into the country to sort out the cremation and put his affairs in order. He tells Harry how the
flat they’re in is actually inherited from him, and how Louis never really planned to stay, but he
auditioned for a Shakesperian play almost as joke but got selected for the part, and his fresh-out-of-
drama-school self was so excited about it that he agreed to stay for the duration of the play.

He tells Harry how he ended up auditioning for another play, and another still, and how his fluency
in both accent-less English and French ended up landing him a lot of parts, and he just went with it,
never allowing himself to question if that’s what he actually wanted to do even though deep down he
knew it probably wasn’t.

Harry asks to come see one of his plays, and how he’s sure Louis is brilliant, and Louis says that
maybe he’ll allow it, throwing Harry the lopsided smirk that Harry’s come to realise makes him want
to pull Louis to pieces, so he does, rolling them over and fucking him quiet all over again.

It’s another two hours before they finally fall asleep.

***

It’s easy to fall into a routine, even though their mismatched schedules mean that Harry never
actually gets to see Louis during the day. By the time he’s clocking out of work at the chocolaterie,
Louis is starting his afternoon rehearsals, which go up until the matinee and evening shows of one of
his plays. He’s only free after nine p.m., by which Harry is already at Place du Tertre selling his
photographs.

They end up seeing each other only close to midnight on most days, Louis laughing as he nicknames
Harry his ‘darkest hour lover’.

Days off are few and far between for Harry, who needs to clock in as many hours as he can (his
brown leather boots really need new soles), but Louis sometimes comes to see him at the Place when
he doesn’t have a show in the evening.

It’s days like these that Harry likes best, when Louis shows up just as Harry is setting up his tent and
helps him sell all of his photographs.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” He bellows in English to the Place at large (which according to him is more
efficient in luring tourists in), “behold the magnificent work of the acclaimed wildlife photographer
Horton Styles, who’s had his work on the cover of National Geographic more times than I can
count!”

“Louis,” Harry hisses through his giggles, eyeing the influx of tourists that slowly but surely are
inching closer to look at Harry’s photos, “there’s not a single photo of wildlife here!”

“Watch and learn, Harold.” He shoots over his breath, before turning to a huge group of Canadian
tourists approaching the stand.

He somehow talks them into buying over twenty photographs, claiming that the great Horton Styles
now lives a recluse life in the outskirts of Versailles, only coming into town to takes those magnificent
shots of the city, look at the light in this one, isn’t it the most gorgeous thing you’ve ever seen?
Wouldn’t it look great hanging over your living room? Yes it would, madam, you can pay to my
assistant Harold over there, don’t mind his incessant giggling, he’s a bit daft, you see? I only keep
him around out of the goodness of my heart, isn’t it Harold?

***

The tourists roam around the ground in front of the Eiffel tower like a bunch of scattered ants, lost
from their line leading into the anthill. Harry stands on a corner with Louis leaning against him, face
between him and the camera, watching as Harry shows some of the shots they’ve already taken on
the night, foreigners looking up at the tower, the twinkling lights reflected on their wide eyes.

They’re waiting for the next hourly lights show for their next round of shots, Louis not being really
helpful in spotting starstruck tourists on the crowd for Harry to point his camera at, but entertaining
enough that Harry doesn’t regret bringing him along (he takes his art very seriously, despite certain
totally false accusations).

The night is a bit chillier than anticipated, the summer breeze that doesn’t filter through the crammed
buildings of Montmartre runs free across the open space of Champ de Mars and worms itself up their
thin t-shirts. He pulls Louis in tighter, hooking his chin over his shoulder as they look through the
photos together, one hand resting on the tiny swell of his tummy and the other helping him support
the camera. It’s new, being cozy in public, but not unfamiliar, and Harry particularly likes the way
Louis melts against him and lets himself be held.

He likes it even more when they’re making their way back into the metro station, and Louis tucks
himself into his side, hand snaking around his waist, and doesn’t let go.

***

Le Baron Rouge is one of his favourite places in the city, though Harry can’t normally afford to go as
often as he wished. This month he can, thanks to Louis putting his acting skills to good use and
being a good salesman for Harry enough times that Harry doesn’t even need the extra shift money to
get his boots restitched (he even buys brand new black ones instead).

He doesn’t accept the commission Harry offers him for helping reduce his stock of photos by half.
Instead he lets Harry take him out, which lends itself into them being here on a Sunday, stopping for
wine before lunch when Louis doesn’t have rehearsals in the afternoon and Harry has a glorious day
off.

The wine bar is on its way into packed, soft French music playing in the background as they accept
their glasses of wine straight from the barrel, making their way to one of the standing-height cocktail
tables. It ends just below Louis’ ribs, which makes him seem even shorter as he puts his elbows on
the table and looks around the space. It’s more endearing than it has any right to be.

“This place is sick!” Louis turns to give him an excited smile, eyes crinkling. “What?”

“Nothing.” Harry says, rushing to school his expression into one less love-struck. “I just never see
you in the morning light, except when I’m rushing out of bed on my way into work. It’s nice.”

“Has my beauty been washed away along with the pale moonlight?” Louis jokes, posing with his
hand innocently tucked beneath his chin.

Harry lets himself stare now that he has an excuse to. Louis’ hair is in the same kind of swoopy quiff
he had on when Harry first saw him, albeit longer and curling at the back of his neck now.

“Absolutely not.” He responds, tone earnest, and Louis blushes despite himself. “You know that first
picture I took of you? On the street?” He waits for Louis’ nod. “You were wearing eyeliner, weren’t
you?.”

“Was I?” Louis’ nose scrunches cutely, looking up as he thinks. “I think that was from a play I was
doing at the time, where I had to wear eye makeup. The eyeliner is a pain to get off, I don’t doubt I
was walking around with it still on for days. Why?”

“Nothing,” Harry smiles, shaking his head slightly and looking in the direction of the bar to see if the
aperitifs he secretly ordered are ready, “it makes your eyes seem even bluer. I liked it.”

He spots the waiter bringing the plate to their small table, and bites his cheek to keep from smiling,
eyes trained on Louis’ reaction.

It’s the exact one he predicted, Louis giving him an unimpressed look as the waiter sets their plate of
oysters on the table and wishes them bon appétit.

“Really?” Louis says, brows raising.

“What? I just felt like eating oysters.” Harry smirks, taking one by the shell and bringing it to his
mouth, maintaining unwavering eye contact as he unfurls his tongue and sucks it in. He keeps the
viscous substance in his mouth for a chew or two, savouring the briny taste before swallowing.

“So you mean to tell me you have no hidden intentions at all in buying us this known aphrodisiac
appetizer?” He remarks, taking one oyster for himself.

“None whatsoever.” He waits until Louis has sucked the oyster into his mouth before adding, “I
can’t say the same about the cock ring in my pocket, though.”

Louis sputtering, a blush creeping up his chest as he struggles not to choke, is truly a delightful view.

***

Later that afternoon he ties Louis up and slips the cock ring on, making him ride Harry into his
orgasm while Louis’ own is being held back by the sex toy. He’s left hard and hanging while Harry
recovers before being made to mount him again, hands still tied behind his back, being edged for so
long that Harry’s sure he’s about to use their safe word.

He doesn’t, gives all that Harry is willing to take from him.

After they’ve both come down from it, he bakes Louis his favourite cake, and doesn’t even get mad
when Louis starts a cake batter war that ends with the kitchen coated in flour.

As the sun starts to set, Louis has to shower and leave to get ready for the evening performance of
his current play, so Harry sits alone in his flat after he’s left, staring at the Withdrawal from Studies
form until his eyes turn gritty.

Louis is damn good distraction from the uncertainty of his future, filling up the hours that work and
his art can’t, being an outlet for Harry to focus all of his energy and attention into and forget about
the sad state of affairs of his life.
He’s always known it would be a problem, how much he’s hung up on Louis already – after just shy
of two months of knowing each other he’s an integral part of Harry’s life.

The thing is – Harry’s always been afraid of being that person that wants something, body and soul,
but cowers from it anyway, afraid to take the leap.

He knows he’s gonna fall hard when he hits the ground, knows he’s flying too close to the sun and
his Icarus wings are going to melt when reality catches up to him, but he spent all day with Louis and
he’s still eager to see him tonight, to surprise him with the ticket he managed to buy to see his play,
with the small fortune he spent on roses to throw onto the stage and send over to his dressing room.

So for now, he spreads his wings and flies.

 Chapter Three

Harry lingers by the steps outside Rambuteau station, twin wristbands twirling in his fingers. He
inhales the crisp night air, along with its healthy dose of city pollution, and hopes for a rainless night.
The gentle breeze ruffles his hair, making the hairs in his exposed forearms stand on end.

The sound of bouncy footsteps, now familiar after over two months of hearing them, reaches his ears
over the momentarily empty street, Harry turning to see Louis sprinting up the steps from the metro
station in his trademark black jeggings and a white T-shirt with the Apple company logo printed in a
rainbow gradient in the middle.

"That is not 'wearing your pride!’" Harry's scolding is softened by his smile. Louis looks up at him as
he's climbing the last steps, using his momentum to launch himself at Harry once he's at street level,
laughing as they both stumble a couple of steps backwards, as Harry strains to not let them fall.

Harry's not even mad Louis is standing on top of his new black boots, that's how happy he is to see
him.

"Well excuse me if not all of us have shirts with flamingos on them." Louis smirks, arms winding
around Harry’s shoulders. "What does it got to do with pride anyway? You look like you're a retired
old dude on holiday in the Bahamas. My rainbow is a thousand times better."

"Of course not!" He bites on Louis' jaw, just because he can. "Do you know what a flock of
flamingos is called? A flamboyance! I'm literally wearing my flamboyance."

"Yeah, because all the french gays are immediately gonna make the language connection." Louis
deadpans, squirming through his giggles when Harry digs his fingers on his side.

"Don't be a pain. It's enough that I know." He starts walking them toward Le Gay Quartier, an area
of Le Marais famous for housing the majority of the LGBT clubs in the city. An organisation his
mate works at is hosting a 'club crawl' to raise money for a LGBT youth charity so Harry got the
wristbands for free, which he does feel marginally guilty about, but alas. It's not like he or Louis
would have paid to come, anyway.

"You smell nice. Planning on pulling tonight?" Louis mumbles, his face in Harry's collarbone. He's
still letting Harry walk them, even though they're going at a snail's pace with Louis standing on
Harry's feet.

"That depends on if you're willing to put out." Harry turns, nuzzling into Louis' head very carefully.
His hair is up in a quiff and he's not gonna let Harry live if he messes up his hairdo.

"If I'm not, will you find someone else to get your dick wet?"

Harry pretends to give the thought some consideration before saying, "Nah. I'll just wait 'till you're
asleep and nut all over your bum-ouch! I'm kidding!" Harry laughs, lifting Louis up by the arse as a
fistful of his hair is pulled. He drops Louis down on the floor this time, tugging him by the hand so
they can move faster. "Come on, I want to get drunk and see how much grinding will get us kicked
out of a club."

***

They get a free shot of something sugary and dubious right at the entrance of the first club, courtesy
of the club crawl. The space is decently packed already, oily muscled men dancing on stage. They
go to the bar to get more shots, forgoing the beers in favour of getting drunk quicker and cheaper.

"Cheers!" Louis smirks at him as he holds his vodka shot up then gulps it down with a straight face.
Harry downs his too but can't help coughing a little, the alcohol burning down his throat. They both
do another two shots for good measure, then Louis pulls him into the dance floor just as the music
changes.

Harry doesn’t know if the floor is really vibrating with the heavy bass or if he’s already drunk. It’s
doesn’t matter either way, the outside world starting to fade out, his focus sharpening on Louis as
Harry pulls him in close by the waist, curves around his smaller frame, and starts to sway them to the
beat.

Louis arches his back, pushing his arse deliberately into Harry’s crotch. He bares his neck in what
Harry’s come to notice is his way of wordlessly asking for Harry’s touch.

Harry gives it to him, helpless not to, bringing his mouth to the curve of Louis’ neck and sucking,
one hand entwining with Louis’ while the other holds him more firmly against the planes of Harry’s
body. Louis starts to move his hips from side to side in turn with the music, one cheek and then the
other rubbing against Harry’s hardening dick. He brings their joined hands to the front of his jeans
and presses the back of Harry’s hand against his own crotch, exhaling in relief and then stuttering
when Harry sucks harder, enough to leave a mark now.

They’re getting hungry stares from onlookers now, the club not packed enough for their antics to go
by unnoticed. Harry turns them, not wanting Louis exposed to anyone but him, and starts to walk
them to the toilets.

Earlier he thought they’d last longer into the night before their first bathroom stall romp, but that was
before he saw the way Louis’ arse looks in those jeans. He can’t really be expected to keep his hands
off it, honestly.

They push inside the marked door, but the room is completely packed, all stalls with their doors
open, people sitting on the closed toilet lids having their makeup done. Slim, androgynous men in
drag are by the mirror checking their wigs, adjusting their dresses. The speakers inside the room
mean that the level of noise is the same as the dance floor, if not higher.

Harry has half a mind of backing away and finding them another secluded spot, but Louis is already
breaking off, walking in the direction of one of the makeup artists and leaving Harry’s very obvious
hard-on exposed. He pulls his shirt down, hoping he doesn’t look too indecent, and goes to the sinks,
wetting his hands and fiddling with his hair.

One of the men, a tan, brunette guy with smoky eyes and quite frankly the most chiselled bone
structure Harry’s ever seen in person smiles at him through the mirror. Harry smiles back, eyes
darting to Louis automatically. He’s by one of the stalls, head tilted up as one of the other men
applies make up on him.

Harry’s eyes return to the stranger’s to find him staring at him with a knowing look. Harry shrugs
sheepishly, not even sure of what he’s trying to communicate, but when the stranger laughs he lets
himself look, just for a moment. He’s human after all, even if the Greek god in front of him sure isn’t.

By the time they’re making their way to the second club, Louis has a tiny pink pleated skirt on over
his jeans and Harry’s got an earring in his left earlobe, a feathered rainbow boa around his neck and
an offer for a ménage à trois from the Greek god.

He’d have been tempted to accept it if he could bear the thought of someone else putting their hands
on Louis. As it is, he’s the only one who gets to put marks on him – like the one that’s blossoming
just under his jaw.

They stop to buy beer from a street vendor, watching the main street of the LGBT quartier swarming
with people in colourful outfits celebrating their queerness. A group approaches them, one girl
dressed as cupid holding a giant cardboard Instagram-like frame in front of them and pointing to
another girl with a camera.

Louis laughs as they’re framed by it, pulling Harry down into a kiss as the shutter goes off. They
smile as the girls say their merci’s and carry on asking for photos of couples. RuPaul’s theme plays
in the distance and it all seems curiously funny for him all of a sudden, a laugh bursting out of him.

“What?” Louis turns to him, eyebrows raised over his smiling face. He’s got eyeliner on now, along
with blush and a darker shadow just under his cheekbones that makes the hollow of his cheeks seem
even more pronounced than they are.

It reminds Harry of the first photo he took of him, and he’s damn sure Louis knows how much it’s
affecting him.

“Nothing,” Harry laughs over the chorus of Sissy that Walk, shaking his head. He uses his rainbow
feather boa to pull Louis in, shaking his shoulders to the music, “I’m just happy to be here with you.”

***

(Beyoncé – Haunted )

Harry uses his knees to climb onto the bed, camera in hand, eyes trained on Louis sprawled on the
mattress. They lost the feather boa sometime into the night, but Louis’ held onto the tiny pink pleated
skirt, which is now the only thing he’s wearing over the black lingerie.

Harry presses the heel of his hand into his crotch, willing himself to be patient, and switches the
setting of the camera into automatic, not trusting his drunken fingers to get it into focus manually. He
brings it to his eyes and trains the lens on the swell of Louis’ bum poking out from under the skirt,
the black fabric of the lingerie engulfed by his cheeks where he’s posing for Harry on all fours.

“Show off that arse for me, love.” He says, watching as Louis arches his back into the mattress and
pushes his hips up. Harry snaps the first photo, careful to keep Louis’ face out of the shot.

He extends his hand to hike the skirt up higher, nudges Louis’ knees apart until he can see the swell
of his balls, covered by the lace, and snaps another photo.

He can already foresee wanking himself dry over these photos by the way his cock is straining
against his flies.

Louis turns onto his back, legs spreading easily as he brings his knees up so Harry can see his cock
poking out of the panties, tenting the skirt. Louis’ eyes are glassy, tongue sneaking out to wet his lips
as he runs his hands over the inside of his thighs, obviously wanting to touch himself but waiting for
Harry’s permission.

Harry’s hand itches to take a picture of Louis like this, open and debauched, but he refrains, lens
concentrating only on his hips, taking picture after picture of Louis’ lace covered cock, wet head
dampening the fabric of the skirt. He extends a hand and swipes his thumb over the moisture,
sucking it into his mouth as Louis moans at the teasing touch.

He puts his camera aside and sheds his jeans and pants, giving a few tugs to his swollen cock before
climbing back onto the bed, sitting on his haunches when his hips touch Louis’ bum. He brings
Louis’ legs up and to his shoulders, turning to kiss one of his calves as he fits his cock between
Louis’ thighs. He turns the camera on again, snapping a photo of his cock over and to the side of
Louis’, then pulls at one of the leg holes of the lacy lingerie until he can push his cock in beside
Louis’.

Louis whimpers and pistols his hips up, sliding their cocks together, and gets a firm hand pressing
down on his lower belly as a warning.

“Haz,” he cries, hands clenching and unclenching by his side, “please, Haz.”

Harry takes one last picture of them before easing out, setting his camera to the side again and
reaching for the lube instead. Louis sighs happily, elevating his hips helpfully when Harry grabs a
pillow to slide under him.

Opening him up is easy, Louis more pliant and relaxed than normal due to the numerous shots
they’ve taken through the night. Harry cleans one of his hands on the sheets hastily and reaches for
his camera again, ignoring Louis’ displeased noise of impatience as he trains the lens on where he
still has three fingers buried in him, panties pushes to the side, skirt rucked up by his waist, and takes
a series of photos as his fingers disappear inside him.

He pulls his fingers out and grabs the condom, climbing over Louis until he’s straddling his waist,
and hands it to him, waiting with his camera poised as Louis gets the condom open with shaky
fingers and rolls it over his cock, his hands small against it.

His will is only strong enough to get one more picture – of the head of his cock pushing against
Louis’ hole, about to pop inside – before he abandons his camera to side and drapes himself over
Louis with the back of Louis’ knees hooked over the inside of his elbows and buries in deep, sighing
at the heavenly feel of Louis’ clenching around him.

“Fuck,” he whispers, mouth against Louis, “wanted to do this all night.”

Louis kisses him, whimpering into his mouth, breaking into breathy little ah ah ah’s as Harry gets a
rhythm going, pistoling into him. It’s music to Harry’s ears, the sound he makes when Harry is
driving straight into his prostate and he can do nothing more than hold onto Harry’s shoulders and
take it. It sates the primal need Harry has of giving him what he wants, what he needs, of taking care
of him before, during and after fucking him senseless.

“Doing so well, baby,” he breathes gently against Louis’ ear, hips driving in ever deeper, “taking it
so good for me.”

He’s gonna come soon, helpless not to with the way his senses are overtaken by Louis, his scent in
his nostrils, his moans in his ears, his taste on his tongue, and his tight little body under him. He
hoists Louis’ thighs higher as he chases his own orgasm, feels how the fabric of the little skirt
brushes over his hips with each thrust, and that’s what sends him over the edge, driving into Louis
erratically as his whole body tightens and he empties himself inside the condom, groaning into Louis’
neck.

He allows himself only a moment of respite before he pulls out, discarding the condom and turning
Louis onto his stomach, one finger prodding at his prostate while he dives in to suck around it, teeth
scrapping against Louis’ rim. The latex residue from the condom is strong but not enough to
overpower the taste of him, earthy and unique.

“Hump the pillow until you come.” Harry orders before pressing his face back between Louis’
cheeks and moving his head in time with Louis’ thrusts, feeling Louis’ glutes contracting on either
side of his cheekbones as he presses against his prostate, finger insistent. It’s not long before Louis’
rhythm is stuttering, a low moan echoing over the room as he comes.

Louis’ cheeks have tear tracks on them when Harry climbs back over him, eyes wet and unfocused.
He whines, trying to sit up, when Harry moves away to put the camera and their supplies on the
floor.

“I’m here, baby.” Harry soothes a gentle hand on the arch of his foot as he clears the bed, gets them
both naked. He slowly kisses a line up Louis’ spine, burying his face into Louis’ hair when he
reaches the hairline, and covers Louis’ body with his own, whispering nonsense to him until the
shaking subsides.

Louis is slow to come back from it, even with Harry all around him, and Harry waits until he’s sure
Louis is there with him, eyes focused again, before leaving the bed for a glass of water. He prompts
Louis into a sitting positing, holding the glass and the back of his neck as he makes Louis drink up.
He goes back into the kitchen, pours another glass for himself in hopes of abating their impending
hangover, and climbs back into the bed, Louis’ spread arms waiting for him.

***

The gentle breeze that winds itself through the Parisian streets carries a crispiness to it that wasn’t in
the air last week, signalling the looming end of summer as Harry waits to be let in, standing outside
Louis’ theatre company rehearsal studios.

He’s got under a week to send in his final form about returning to university or not now, and the
decision isn’t made easier by Louis’ constant presence into his nights and early mornings.

Not that Harry would have it any other way, mind you. It’s just that he tried his best to keep Louis
out of the decision process – lest he stays solely because of him and regrets it – and failed
spectacularly.

Harry’s never been one to make decisions rationally, anyway. It’s what led him to Paris in the first
place.

Louis opens the door for him, half decked out in his Shakespearian costume, and laughs at Harry’s
raised eyebrows.

“Rehearsal’s running late,” he explains, pulling Harry in by the hand through a narrow corridor that
ends on a set of stairs, “we’re doing dress rehearsal and some of the lighting is not working. They’re
fixing it now.”

Harry climbs the stairs behind him, frowning at the way the outline of his arse is hidden by the loose
trousers of his costume. Honestly, if he can’t watch Louis’ arse jiggling as he jumps up a set of stairs,
what is even the point.

“That’s alright.” Harry says, even though Louis didn’t ask if he’d mind waiting.

Louis leads them through a maze of narrow corridors into a row of rooms sectioned off from each
other through thick old curtains. The smell of old carpets hangs in the air, hushed conversation
filtering in.

“Welcome to the five stars dressing rooms we use for rehearsals.” Louis announces, pulling one
stretch of curtains aside to reveal a small room with a refurbished vanity and a battered old sofa.
“This is where the preparation for the magic happens.”
He leads Harry inside before drawing the curtains back, bathing them in nothing but the yellowish
glow of a floor lamp by the corner.

“It’s very cozy,” Harry concedes, looking around the room.

“It’s a dump,” Louis scoffs, turning back to him. “The actual theatre dressing rooms are way nicer.
They have proper walls, for starters.” He gestures to the curtains around them, stepping closer to him.
“Hi.” He smiles against Harry’s lips before pecking him.

“Hi, yourself.” Harry smiles back, leaning in for a longer kiss. A familiar tune reaches their ears,
booming in from over the curtains. “Oh, a soundtrack.”

“One of my scene mates puts music on to cover up his weird vocal stretching.” Louis whispers
conspiratorially, hands winding in the hair at the back of Harry’s head. “Seriously, he sounds like
he’s choking on a dick.”

“You’d recognise the sound,” Harry deadpans, brows wiggling.

He winces when Louis tugs on his hair, and pinches his side in retaliation. He pulls Louis in closer,
kissing him before they can start a pinching war because he always loses those. Louis’ lips are
smooth as ever, thanks to his cocoa lip balm addiction, and Harry fits his own over them, pressing in
and enjoying their plushness.

He starts swaying, moving them to the rhythm of the song, and Louis goes with it, more and more
pliant in Harry’s arms the longer they kiss. The lyrics from the English version of the song start
playing in his head automatically, and he breaks the kiss to hum them in Louis’ ear as they sway
from side to side, dancing in the middle of the room as Armstrong’s voice starts singing.

Louis lies his head on Harry’s shoulder, hands winding tighter around his shoulders as Harry’s
whispers, “… when you press me to your heart I'm in a world apart, a world where roses bloom…”

“Harry,” Louis whispers, voice strangled. He’s holding onto Harry fiercely, crushing his body
against his. “Harry, we need to talk.”

Harry stiffens at that, and they fall out of rhythm with the song. He tries to lean back and get eye
contact, but Louis’ hold doesn’t let him. “About what?”

A horn blares over the open space, startling them apart. Louis still won’t look him in the eye.

“That’s the start of rehearsal, I have to go.” He rushes, fiddling with the cuff of his costume before
taking a deep breath and going on his tiptoes to kiss Harry. “I’d say you can stay but it’s awfully hot
in here and you’ll melt. I’ll meet you back at yours when I’m done, okay?”

“Uh, okay?” Harry says, dumbfounded. He’s got a bad feeling about this.

“Brilliant. I’ll see you then.” Louis says, backing away. The music cuts off. “You remember your
way out, don’t you? Okay, alright, I have to go.”

He ducks out of the space, leaving Harry alone in the makeshift dressing room. Harry bites his lip,
wondering if he’s made things awkward by acting too smitten as he stares at his pigeon-toed feet,
dread pooling in his gut.

***

He has his university forms open again when the intercom chimes, signalling Louis’ arrival. He
sighs, steeling himself for whatever Louis has to say to him, and closes the lid on his laptop on his
way to the door.

He waits by the open door as the sound of Louis’ footsteps up the stairs reverberate off the walls,
chewing on a hangnail as Louis comes into view, changed into normal clothes with a rucksack over
his shoulder and a fresh baguette on his arm.

He looks lovely and smells fresh out of the shower and Harry just – he doesn’t want to give that up.
He knows, right then, that he’d be coming back to uni if it wasn’t for Louis, but as it is, now that
Louis is in his life, the possibility of having him ripped apart from Harry is a pooling feeling of dread
on his stomach instead of an alternative that he can just ignore.

He should leave, but he wants so desperately to stay.

His chest is tight, like his ribs are slowly closing in on his heart, mimicking the metaphorical breaking
of it, and Harry’s doesn’t want to think if there’s any truth to it. He pulls Louis in as soon as he’s
within arm’s reach, not even waiting for the sound of his door clicking shut before he pushes him
into the wall, mouth finding Louis’ in a desperate kiss as the things he’s bringing with him fall to the
floor.

Louis tries to pull back, Harry catching the inquiring look in his eyes for the brief second it takes him
to cage Louis in, use their dynamic to his favour as he works him expertly.

“I need you, Lou.” He growls into Louis’ neck, biting into the flesh until he hears Louis’ answering
whimper.

He drops to his knees, letting go of Louis’ wrists to work frantically into getting Louis’ jeans off, and
he doesn’t even care that Louis doesn’t look that far under, he just needs to have him before –

“Harry, stop.” Louis whispers from above him. “Stop,” He says more forcefully, but Harry only lets
go of him when Louis says the word.

For two and a half months they’ve been doing all kinds of wild shit and now Louis decides to use it,
now that Harry needs him, can’t lose him, and it’s all so goddamned unfair –

Louis drops to his knees in front of him, and his eyes are so sad, so infinitely sad, that Harry’s throat
closes up because he’s losing him, he isn’t even gone yet but he’s already losing him and it’s
breaking his heart.

“Harry,” Louis starts, hand reaching for his, “I’m moving back to London.”

What?

“Remember how I told you I couldn’t see myself acting forever,” Louis rushes, suddenly talking a
mile a minute, “I’m getting my PGCE so I can become a drama teacher, and I’m sorry I didn’t tell
you earlier, but I got my unconditional offer, like, last week, and I didn’t know how to bring it up –“

“Wait,” Harry interrupts, clutching at Louis’ hand to make him stop talking. Hope blossoms like a
tentative flower on the first sign of spring, goosebumps erupting on his skin. “You’re moving to
London? This autumn?”

“Yes.” Louis looks up at him like he expects Harry to go off, rushing on when he’s met with Harry’s
stunned silence, “But, I mean, it’s only an hour flight away, and there’s loads of low cost airlines,
and if you want to we can – we don’t need to end this,” He blushes a deep red, adding timidly,
“whatever it is. We can make it work until I can get back.”
Harry’s heart is beating a staccato rhythm, his hand sweating in Louis’. He can’t believe it. He,
honest to god, can’t fucking believe it.

“Say something, Haz,” Louis pleads, free hand fidgeting with the hem of his shirt.

“I was gonna stay because of you, but now I don’t even need to.” Harry muses, mostly to himself,
still trying to process it all.

This kind of thing doesn’t happen to him. Harry gets “I’ve picked the wrong major” and “I feel my
art is not good enough for a proper gallery”.

Harry most definitely doesn’t get “the man that is potentially the love of my life was brought to me by
a series of unbelievable twists of fate and, through an even more unbelievable coincidence, will
continue to be by my side for the foreseeable future”.

He just doesn’t.

Yet, apparently he does.

He gets up wordlessly, pulling a confused Louis up after him and leading him to the bed, where his
laptop still lies. He opens the lid and brings up the email he’d got from his university what feels like a
lifetime ago but it’s barely longer than the time he’s known Louis, turning it in Louis’ direction and
urging him to read it with a nod.

He watches Louis’ expression carefully as a plethora of emotions fleets across his face, first
confusion, then bewilderment, and finally understanding, awe blossoming in his face as he makes the
connection with what Harry said.

“Are you sure? I don’t want you to make such a huge decision because of me.”

“I wanted to stay because of you, Lou.” Harry says around a smile, unable to contain it anymore.
“Now I can have it all.”

He watches the smile blooming across Louis’ face, first a tentative tug of lips, until it stretches all
around his face, crinkling the corners of his eyes.

He’s so beautiful, and all Harry’s, and he’s keeping him.

 Epilogue
Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

(Kubilay Uner - Cache-Cache)

Harry is pulled from sleep gently, in the tail end of a deep sigh. There are no rays of sun on his skin,
but for all that he misses the huge skylight in his old Parisian flat, he now has an infinitely better
source of warmth.

He opens his eyes to find Louis staring back at him from his side of the bed.

Their bed, inside their tiny flat in west London that costs them a small fortune per week despite being
relatively distant from the city centre and having crappy ventilation, but is completely, wonderfully
theirs.

"Were you watching me sleep?" Harry stretches lazily, watching through barely open eyes as Louis'
gaze is drawn momentarily to his bare torso before returning to his eyes, a fond expression on his
face.

“Yep.” Louis smiles, shameless. Since moving back to London they both have ‘normal’ schedules,
which now allows for lazy mornings in bed – at least until they have to get to their 10 am classes.

"What?" Harry says around a smile as Louis continues to stare at him, head pillowed on his palm.

There are handcuff marks on his wrists from last night, which Harry does feel briefly guilty about
even though Louis kept asking for more. He makes a mental note to rub lotion on them later, after he
makes them breakfast and maybe eats Louis out for dessert.

"Remember what you once said, about being able to capture the love someone feels for a city on
camera?" He stretches, torso twisting, until he can pick Harry's camera off the bedside table. "Do
you think you can do it with the love they feel for someone?"

Even now, months into living together and making all kinds of plans for their future, Harry's
heartbeat still stumbles and restarts on a maddening rhythm, his mouth going dry. "Lou-"

"Go on, love,” Louis urges, hands gentle as they hand him the camera. “Turn it on."

Harry’s whole body is heavy with deep seated happiness and love for his boy as he turns the camera
on and brings it to his eye, looking at Louis through the lens.

He still looks mostly like the man Harry'd once photographed in the street, if a bit scruffier and sleep
rumpled. Devoid of eyeliner his eyes are softer, almost placid, but Harry can still feel the mysterious
force that always threatens to drag him in, like the undertow of a wave as it retreats back into the
ocean after crashing full force on the shore, so silently powerful that you don’t realise how far gone
you are until it’s too late.

He isn't scared of it anymore - he can't fathom a better fate than to be pulled beyond salvation into
Louis' undertow eyes.

He presses the shutter just as Louis whispers, "I love you."

Chapter End Notes

Sooo, did you catch the niall, liam and zayn cameos? ;)
tumblr and fic post
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