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“Seven Minutes in Heaven!” Liam shouts. “You and Harry, first. You two were always so into it. Show us you still know how it’s done, guys.”
Liam is Drunk.
Louis knows that he is drunk for a few reasons. Reason One: he’s a shouty drunk (and a close talker- bad combo). Reason Two: Louis has personally poured three shots of cheap vodka down Liam’s throat within the last hour. Reason Three: They are too old to be playing teenage drinking games, seeing as even Young Harold is now in his twenties.
Speaking of Young Harold, he’s rolling off Niall’s couch and onto the floor, giggling like a hyena. Unfortunately for Louis, he’s a very attractive hyena, even when he’s in the fetal position trying unsuccessfully to slap his own knee.
Harry is Drunk, also.
When he’s had a few (two beers is enough, if Louis remembers right) anything, literally anything, can draw a laugh out of him.
He sits up and his eyes meet Louis’. His brows go up and he nods. “We should totally Do It.”
This is his best and worst drunken characteristic: being overly agreeable.
Because they should definitely not do it.
First of all, Harry is seeing a whole slew of someones, according to social media. A grainy snapchat from last week showed him in the lap of a blond, his face practically buried in her tits. And Louis saw a picture of him and some other dude on Facebook dressed up all fancy for a date, probably, just two days ago.
Second of all, he and Harry haven’t spoken properly in eighteen months. Harry’d started ignoring Louis’ calls and texts two Christmases ago after Louis had relayed the news that his girlfriend would rather Harry not come round to Louis’ family party. She hand’t wanted Louis’ aunts to get the wrong idea about the three of them. Which, Louis hadn’t really liked the thought of un-inviting Harry, but he’d definitely understood her concern. Harry was a... tactile-type fried. Lots of people had the wrong idea about them.
Third of all, it was a bad idea. It’d been a bad idea when they’d done it high school and it was a bad idea, now. The dark of Niall’s tiny closet always concealed Louis’ boner... until the seven minutes was up and he and Harry’d had to come out and resume the party festivities.
If Louis was honest, he’d admit that he’d noticed Harry’s (giant) boner tenting his always too tight jeans, as well. But fake making out is weirdly hot. And, anyway, Louis’ not always honest.
However, Harry is making his way over the closet and opening the door. He waggles his eyebrows at Louis. Harry thinks such gestures are sexy.
He is not wrong. Why is he not wrong?!
“Lou,” Harry whines, slumping against the door. “Come on. You know you wanna.”
Louis is not Drunk.
He’s only had tw- no, three-ish shots and two beers. But over, like, a while. So.
So he crosses his arms over his chest and shakes his head. “We’re not kids. We can enjoy the evening doing more mature things. Like watching X-Men.”
Zayn sits up from where he’d fake fallen asleep on Niall’s bed. “Good idea.”
Harry chews his lip and doesn’t move away from the door. Louis doesn’t get it. Harry is supposed to be agreeable.
“You guys have to do this!” Niall chimes in. He’s on his phone. From the way his eyebrows are dancing around his face, Louis suspects he is up to No Good.
“If we do, you can’t record it,” Louis says. Which, that’s wrong. No, not what he meant to say, at all. “I mean, we’re not doing it. It doesn’t matter.”
“For old time’s sake.” Harry’s voice is gravely. Louis’ heard he joined a choir on campus. Louis knew Harry’s voice was lovely from karaoke night, which they always used to go to together. He should be more careful with his instrument.
While Louis is still strolling down memory lane, Harry does him in. “I miss you,” he says. “Please, do this.”
Harry’s always been able to take his sad words and sad face and turn them into a little dagger which he can then stick right where it’ll hurt Louis most.
Louis’ arms unfold to clutch at his breast. “Ouch,” he says, but he’s crossing the room because he misses Harry, too.
Harry’s face transforms. His dimples pop out, faint at first, then turning into craters, like Louis’ silent assent has sent off a couple stars to come crash into his face.
Louis isn’t a violent drunk, he swears. He just has violent thoughts, sometimes. Also, he’s not Drunk, anyway.
“Fuck, yeah,” Niall says, cackling and still punching at his phone.
This is the Worst Fucking Idea.
Harry opens the door and steps into the closet, fingers reaching out to grab Louis’ wrist and tug.
Over his shoulder, Louis throws his darkest scowl. He wants Niall to take him very seriously. He means business when he says, “If you love your mother, do not record this.”
“Lay off,” Liam says. He also has his phone out and Louis raises one careful eyebrow at him.
“I know where Karen lives, too. We’re friends on Facebook, Liam,” Louis reminds him.
Liam’s mouth drops open. It’s a bad look on him. And bugs could get in.
“I’m very serious,” Louis says. Liam’s mum has a new puppy and Louis likes to look at the pictures she posts.
Liam shuts his mouth. “I am only pulling out the timer!”
“Set it loud. Harold’s hearing is going,” Louis tells him. He does not need this shit running over. He’s not sure he can survive even seven minutes.
“I’ve got it,” Niall says. “I’ve already set the alarm. What did you think I was doing?”
Louis glares at him.
Niall is also Drunk. He is a horny drunk and everybody knows it. What was Louis supposed to assume?
“Don’t worry, guys,” Harry calls. Louis looks at him, but he can’t actually see anything but a shadowy outline. “Louis’ stamina isn’t that good, anyway. Shouldn’t need more than two minutes to get him off.”
“The fuck the you will,” Louis protests, shoving Harry further into the closet and slamming the door behind them.
The light push topples Harry to the ground and, because Harry’s a bigger person and definitely not due to any inebriation on Louis’ part, he’s able to pull Louis down atop him.
It is very cramped. Louis’ leg is up against the door and his other foot presses into the sidewall. A shoe digs into his elbow.
“At least it smells good,” Harry comments, his hands moving to Louis waist. Louis finds himself being manhandled so that he’s suddenly sitting comfortably on Harry’s lap.
He ignores the bulge of Harry’s half-hard cock under his ass. He knows he has a nice ass. And Harry has a nice cock. Why shouldn’t they be acquainted? Everything is fine.
Oh, god.
He lets his head fall back and hit the door, groaning aloud.
This was the Worst Fucking Idea.
“Groaning, yeah,” Harry murmurs. “We shouldget started.”
“No,” Louis says. They should not get started. They should sit quietly for seven minutes, pretending neither of them have boners and that their breathing is totally absolutely normal. That’s definitely what they should do.
Never mind that stupid Teenager Louis had had other ideas. Never mind that stupid Teenager Louis had goaded Harry until Seven Minutes in Heaven had turned into Seven Minutes of Faking the Most Outrageous and Convincing Orgasms.
He does not want to do this. Not today. Not when he hasn’t had anyone to get off with in over three months. Not with Harry.
Harry wasn’t even supposed to be here. He’s always too busy to hang out with them these days, even though he goes to school less than an hour’s train ride away.
But Niall’d gone golfing with Harry and his dad two weeks back, because apparently Harry’s still speaking to Niall, and Niall had mentioned Liam’s birthday party and now here Harry is, his fingernails, which must’ve slipped beneath Louis’ shirt at some point, digging little pits into the flesh of Louis’ hips.
Louis hisses out a breath.
“You’ve got to be louder, Lou,” Harry says into Louis’ ear and he’s whispering, the fucking hypocrite. “I know you can be loud.”
“Fuck you,” Louis says. Loudly.
Harry’s fingernails let up and his hands flit up Louis’ back. “Yeah, fuck me,” he says, equally loud.
Does he eat sandpaper or something? How does he get his voice so rough? Louis needs to know. For Science.
Then, Harry moans.
It’s way too loud to be realistic. Louis’ never heard anyone moan that loud, except, occasionally, in porn. It’s exactly the same sort of moan he’d make in high school, and Louis’ a little disappointed, to be honest. Like, with as much experience as he apparently has, he should know better.
“You don’t moan like that,” Louis tells him.
Harry moves his mouth back to press against Louis’ ear. His breath is hot and it makes the tips of Louis’ fingers tingle. “I just did,” he whispers.
And then he moans, again.
“You don’t really moan like that,” Louis tells him. “Not if you like it.” He says it like he knows. Like he’s had experience with Harry’s real sex noises. Which. He has not had experience with any thing other than Harry’s fake sex noises. But he knows basically everything else about Harry Edward Styles (or he did, two years ago), so he figures he can make an educated guess.
Harry’s at his ear again, the provocative motherfucker. “No, but I bet you do.”
This time, his moan is lower, though just as loud, and he rocks his hips up, pressing what is now his fully erect cock against Louis’ ass.
Niall cheers. Gross. The others are still listening.
What. The. Fuck.
Harry stays quiet this time, when again, he lifts his hips. But the show goes on because Louis whines. It’s high and unattractive and not at all how he’d dramatize a sex noise.
It’s, like, one of his actual sex noises.
Harry buries his face in Louis’ neck and Louis breaths in the scent of his shampoo. Louis’ chest tightens. Harry still uses the same fucking expensive apple shit he’d used in high school.
He is not the same person, though. And neither is Louis. He needs to remember that.
Lips wet against Louis’ throat, Harry murmurs, “We can stop. If you want.”
His voice has become so rough, so breathy, that Louis doesn’t know how the sounds he’s making are hanging together to form coherent words.
They should stop.
Well, actually, Louis should be able to calm his nuts and play the game with Harry, just like they used to.
He takes a deep breath.
From outside the closet, Zayn calls, “You assholes still alive? You haven’t killed each other or suffocated?”
Louis grinds his ass down onto Harry’s cock. Just, like, an experiment. He’s curious, now, about the sound Harry will make, if he’ll make any sound at all.
Harry whimpers. Just a soft little whine. The boys outside probably couldn’t even hear it.
Louis chokes out a laugh. “I knew it,” he says.
As soon as the words are out of his mouth, he knows that this the other boys will have heard.
“What did you know?” That’ll be Liam. Shouting.
Harry and Louis both still. Louis didn’t even realize that Harry’s lips had been moving against his skin until they stop and all he can feel is the occasional rough intake of breath.
As slowly and smoothly as he can- which is very smoothly, but not very slowly- Louis moves his hands to slide up the back of Harry’s shirt.
Louis takes a moment to praise Satan or whoever the hell is looking out for him that Harry is wearing a soft black t-shirt and not one of those crazy, tight, print, button-up fashionista get-ups that Louis’ always sees him in on snapchat.
He begins to trace out large letters with the tip of his finger. It’s how they’d communicate in middle school before they had cell phones, during sleepovers late at night, after Louis’ mother‘d threatened to send Harry home if they didn’t shut up.
His strokes are firm and broad, each letter covering the expanse of Harry’s back. He pauses in between stokes and waits for Harry’s nod of understanding.
I-M-I-S-S-Y-O-U
“Me too,” Harry whispers.
“Guys?” It’s Niall this time and he waits for a moment. Neither Harry nor Louis answer. They don’t even move. So he goes on, “I guess Harry was right about you coming real fucking quick, Louis.”
“You want a show,” Louis shouts. “Pay for it.”
Alright, Louis can admit it. He’s probably a shoutier drunk than Liam. Not that he’s Drunk, right now.
Harry mouths at Louis’ neck, scraping his teeth across his skin. He knew Harry’d be a biter. He knew it. He can’t express his vindication though, as aware as he is of the boys on the other side of the door.
He satisfies himself by digging his own stubby nails into Harry’s back before returning to his previous task: communicating very important messages to Harry, skin on skin.
I-W-A-N-T-Y-O-U
When he’s finished and Harry’s head has bumped Louis’ cheek- he understands- the dark overtakes Louis.
Suddenly, he’s very aware of Niall’s dress shirts brushing against his head and the piney scent of the shelves high above them. Harry’s curls itch against Louis’ cheek, and he can’t brush them away as his fingertips are glued in place where they’re resting at the bottom of Harry’s spine.
“Me too,” Harry whispers.
“What are they doing?” Liam sounds like he’s talking through the crack of the door. He’s not, but that’s how loud he is. Maybe Louis should not have given him that last shot.
“Getting off, just like Harry said, probably.”
They’re not, but they might be soon. At least Zayn sounds chill about it, Louis supposes.
One of Harry’s hands moves to slide up Louis’ thigh and rest against Louis’ groin. Louis gasps. He’s so close to being right where Louis wants him. So fucking close. His hand tightens and Louis gasps again, louder.
“You’re right, Zayn. Oh my god.” Liam manages to sound gleeful and despairing in the same breath. He’d be a hell of an actor, expressive as he is, if he’d only work on his control. Louis has been coaching him. They have a long way to go.
Harry’s hand covers his dick. This time, Louis’ ready for it and stays quiet.
That is, he stays quiet until Harry begins to rub.
“Oh, fuck,” Louis moans out the words. And, again, it’s not a porn moan, too broken and pitchy to be hot. Like, he knows that.
Still, Niall calls out, “This is what I’m talking about. This is the money shot.”
“Niall, we’re leaving,” Liam yells. “We are leaving the room. Attention, everyone we need to leave the room. Niall. We are leaving.”
“It’s my fucking room. I’m not going anywhere,” Niall calls back.
“Fuck off, Niall, your horny bastard.” Louis thinks he lands the insult quite well considering Harry’s still stroking his cock.
He’s pressing his palm hard against Louis, and his teeth are nipping into Louis’ neck. He’s going to have a mark tomorrow. They really are in high school again, apparently.
Except that in high school, he’d never gotten a hickey from Harry. And in high school he hadn’t had the courage to push down onto Harry’s dick with his ass.
Which is what he’s doing now.
It’s so big.
“You have a huge dick.”
God, why did Louis drink at all tonight. Him and Harry and alcohol were never a good idea. Almost as bad as him and Harry and Seven Minutes in Heaven.
Harry’s grip tightens and he licks at the bite on Louis’ neck before replying, “Bigger than you, I suppose.”
Harry’s a dick. His dick is huge, Louis thinks, grinding down onto it, because his whole body is one giant dick.
“Why did you stop talking to me?”
The words are out before Louis can stop them. Like stupid fucking moths, they’re going to ruin all the good stuff in this damn closet.
Harry hears them. He must. Louis is Loud. And yet, Harry doesn’t release his grip on Louis’ cock.
“I was mad at you.”
The quietness of his words seem emphasize just how loud Louis’ had been.
“Why?” The question is softer this time, but it’s still a hell of a lot louder than Harry’d been. Fucking alcohol. Or, like, maybe just, fucking him. Louis doesn’t need to be Drunk to be loud. And he isn’t Drunk, anyway.
“I wanted you to like me.”
Louis hands come up to grip Harry’s shoulders. “I like you! I really, really like you.”
“No, Lou. I wanted you to like like me.” He delivers this with a little more emphasis. Which, good on him for growing a backbone and some willpower.
Louis fingers tighten on Harry’s arms. “Do you still want me to like like you?”
Harry returns to stroking Louis’ cock, leaning back into him. He whispers against Louis’ ear, “Yeah. And it seems like you do.”
Louis’ hands run up and down Harry’s arms. “I always did.”
“But you always had a girlfriend.” Harry’s speeding up the rhythm of his hand and Louis has a hard time processing his words. “Or a boyfriend.”
Louis wants to focus on the heavy sensation, the anticipation, building low in his belly. He wants to stop talking so he can do a better job of matching Harry’s pace with the driving of his own hips back and forth over Harry’s now throbbing erection.
But he recognizes that this conversation is important too and he manages to grate out, between whines and gasps, “They were never-“
Somehow Harry’s fingers are suddenly holding him harder, pulling him closer and closer, until the gray-brown darkness turns black and he shouts, coming in his pants.
He manages to continue his rocking, aware of Harry’s hips thrusting wildly against him. Harry is quiet when he comes, but Louis feels the wetness of it seep through Harry’s jeans and onto his own ass.
Harry presses their foreheads together. Between uneven breaths, Harry’s voice comes out rougher than ever, more gravel than sandpaper now. “They were never what?”
Louis presses a soft kiss to his lips. “They were never you.”
“Oh.” Harry says. And then, after a moment, he closes the space between their lips again. His kiss is wetter and sweeter and longer than Louis’.
Which, speaking of ‘longer,’ “You didn’t last very long for someone with your… experience.”
It’s a low blow, to bring up Harry’s whole passel of lovers, after Harry’s confession and the orgasms they shared. But, maybe Louis is kind of, sort of, a little Drunk, after all. Alcohol makes him say things he definitely shouldn’t.
Seems like a good excuse, anyway.
“They weren’t you, either. I always wanted you.” Harry kisses him again, before pulling away to add, “And I didn’t want to share.”
“Good thing those assholes disappeared, then,” Louis jerks his head toward Niall’s bedroom before remembering that Harry can’t see him in the dark.
Harry answers, with a laugh. “Ah, but have they really?”
At that moment, a rap airhorn goes off.
Niall’s alarm.
“That was definitely longer than seven minutes, Niall,” Liam shouts.