𝒾𝒻 𝒾 𝒸𝑜𝓊𝓁𝒹 𝒻𝓁𝓎 𝒽𝑜𝓂𝑒 (𝓁.𝓈.)

nine

Five drinks later I'm done. Completely gone. I know, somewhere in my blurry, disoriented headspace, that I will most definitely have the headache of the century tomorrow, but right now I can't find it in me to care.

Beside me on the back porch steps, Louis is laughing, though I'm not exactly sure why. His laugh is so perfect, I find myself just sitting back and watching him. He's so perfect.

I wonder hazily why I've never sought him out before, but the thought leaves my head as quickly as it enters it. The only thing currently taking up my brain is Louis.

"Hazza-" Louis starts to say, but chokes on whatever he was going to say next as our eyes meet. I must be looking at him intensely or something, because his laughter dies on his tongue and he stares back.

Then Louis moves, slowly, inch by inch, keeping eye contact the whole time, until his lips are just a centimeter away. There he stops and waits.

What is he waiting for?

I lean into him to capture his mouth with mine, the sensation starting at where our lips touch and moving through my entire body, lighting me on fire. And look, I've kissed people before. (A lot of people, if I'm being totally honest.) None of them even came close to this. Kissing Louis is like flying, feeling weightless and soaring high above the clouds and being free.

I'm vaguely aware of the fact that we're both totally, completely wasted, but if Louis wanted to stop he would've, and I definitely don't. Instead, I bury my hands in Louis' fluffy hair and deepen the kiss, moving to straddle his waist.

Louis' hands come to rest on my upper thighs, tracing shapes there and encouraging my growing erection. It's not like he isn't excited too, to be clear. I shift my hips slightly to give him a little tease, and he groans into my mouth, placing his hands on my waist to still my movements.

"Harry," he whispers huskily, leaning back to look me in the eyes. His are blown wide and bottomless, and I want to get lost in them, forever.

For a second I worry he's going to stop this. He's going to shove me off of him and leave me on the porch and walk away with my blazer.

But he doesn't. Instead, he moves to grip the back of my thighs near my arse, standing with my legs around his waist and staggering slightly under my weight. He regains his balance quickly, and luckily we were sitting on the top step, so all he has to do is steady himself on the porch railing and walk slowly around to the front of the house.

I realize he's probably going to call an Uber or something, but before he does, he sits me up on the railing of the front porch and presses his lips to mine again.

"Lou. People," I warn him, and he pulls away reluctantly. Behind him is a tall figure and another I somehow recognize as my best friend Niall through my drunken haze.

Niall is clearly just as drunk if not more so than me, but the tall guy-who I finally place as Niall's date to the Brits-seems sober.

"Before...um...this happened," the guy (Shawn, I remember) says to Louis, waving his hand in Niall's direction, "he made me promise to make sure Harry gets home safe."

"Right," Louis slurs, nodding sloppily. "Are you going to bring him home, then?"

Shawn nods. "Do you have a ride?"

Louis shakes his head.

Shawn sighs. "Alright, then. Everyone's going in my car."

I'm suddenly very grateful Niall brought Shawn. He seems like a responsible guy. Maybe Niall will keep him around.