Chapter Text
2025, Los Angeles
The sun's low but already golden, rising slow over the Los Angeles skyline. That syrupy kind of light that makes even bad decisions feel romantic.
Louis is half-sunken into a lounge chair. Coachella bands still mockingly tight around his wrist, feet tossed up on the table like he's got all the time in the world. There's a half-finished joint in his fingers, the lighter still warm in the other. Smoke hangs lazily in the air, curling into the stillness like it pays rent. Birds chirp somewhere far off, oblivious to the fact that their neighbor's mind is soon going to be pretty occupied with very graphic thoughts about bending his secret lover in half.
It's quiet. Peaceful.
Because this morning, for whatever fucking reason, Louis woke up early. Yesterday, his girlfriend, Zara flew back to London. A car pulled up outside their fancy rental, press lurking at the edge of the drive like they'd been summoned. Well, they actually were, but that's beside the point. Fucking parasites.
Louis kissed Zara by the car nevertheless, all warm eyes and casual touches. The paps caught the whole thing. She looked pretty in her sweatshirt as he grabbed her sleeves like he belonged there.
Which, to a degree, he does. Against all odds—and all the shit he said before about that tragic fucking show, Love Island, she's been on—he really likes her. She's cool. Laid back. Low maintenance, in a way. Drama-free. Well, not exactly, but Louis doesn't really give a fuck about her drama, so...
More importantly, Zara never once asked why he tastes like regret. And that ought to count for something.
It's also good press. Neat timing. With Zara's new project and his upcoming album on the way, it's like all the stars had aligned just right, so Louis doesn't have to break his back pretending everything is fine.
At least, that's what he tells himself.
He exhales slow, smoke curling from his mouth, eyes narrowed against the stupid beautiful light. Letting the haze melt over him. That lazy, dazy pre-studio float.
Then his phone lights up on the table, a sudden buzz cutting clean through the moment.
He doesn't glance at it right away. Probably Oli with some annoying studio check-in. He already warned him: "Moving slow today. Still shaking off the festival dust, mate."
Another buzz follows, sharper this time. Louis exhales, shifts just enough to snag the phone off the table as he glances to the screen and sees the name.
Harry 💀
His whole body stiffens, because they haven't spoken since Liam's funeral. Not a word, not a look, not even a pathetic thumbs-up reaction on some throwaway story.
And then the preview loads:
"i want you to get me pregnant"
And that's enough for Louis to choke on the exhale. His cough tears through the patio air as he jolts upright, nearly burning a hole through his joggers with the dropped joint. His hand slaps against his chest like the text physically knocked the air out of him.
"What the fuck—"
His phone's in his hand before he even knows what he's doing. Thumb fumbling over the lockscreen, heart hammering. Cock already stirring like it's been trained to respond to that name.
The full thing's sitting there.
Harry 💀: i want you to get me pregnant. berlin got me in spiral xx
Harry 💀: fuck, autocorrect, berlin got me inspired
Louis just stares, because autocorrect or not, Berlin clearly got Harry... And spiraling was probably the more accurate word for it.
He knows Harry means it in some stupid, twisted, poetic way. Some messy fucking cocktail of need and possessing and holy-damned-destruction, but Louis doesn't let himself go there. Doesn't dare touch the edges of what it might actually mean.
Doesn't matter, his body's already made the call: pulse slamming, cock thickening against his joggers on pure, humiliating muscle memory.
His thumbs move before his brain even catches up, because when it comes to Harry, Louis is fucking Pavlovian.
Louis: Fucking hell, Baby. You'd look so hot with a bump
The answer comes in an instant, phone buzzing impatiently in his hands.
Harry 💀: imagine hugging it from behind while spilling in me
Louis groans, letting his head fall back against the chair. His thighs spread without though, his free hand skates lower, pressing against the thickening heat between his legs.
Another buzz.
Harry 💀: hope you're alone for this. oooor not, love watching you squirm xx
His grip tightens.
Louis: You're insane
Mere moments later, a photo fills the screen: Harry's lap, bare except for boxers, the fabric already soaked through with precum, dark and obscene. The thick head of his cock pressed shamelessly against the wet patch, outlined in sharp detail like he wanted Louis to suffer.
Louis: And you will make me come untouched, apparently !
Those three stupid dots pop up, the ones that usally feel like a held breath right before impact.
Harry 💀: should i wait for you or should i have a go at it?
Louis stares as the sun suddenly feels too bright. His hand is already palming himself, cock hot and leaking against his joggers, mind short-circuiting with a single, disastrous thought:
Fuck the studio. He never once hit that fucking send button faster.
Louis: You're getting fucked tonight. I'm not even pulling out once
Harry 💀: you home?
Louis: Nah, LA
Harry 💀: oooh, chella weekeeend. funny my year was the only you skipped.
Louis rolls his eyes.
Louis: I was on a world tour, wanker
Harry 💀: all this typing and i still don't see you booking that fucking flight...
Louis's lip curls, before the next text arrives.
Harry 💀: such a long distance, i don't think you'll manage to get here in time
Louis barks out a laugh that sounds half-feral.
Louis: You better answer the door on your hands and knees.
The reply is instant. One emoji: that bloody baby bottle.
Harry: 🍼
Louis stares at it as his fingers tighten around the joint, crushed and forgotten in his palm.
He mutters, "Jesus Christ" while opening his calendar to delete the studio block without a second thought.
He pulls up his flight app and books a one-way ticket from Los Angeles to Berlin, and just because to prove himself he's a sensible, moreover conscious adult, he also adds the return flight to London. Safety net, y'know. Plausible deniability.
He sparks a fresh joint with shaking fingers, and texts Oli: Not coming in today. Something came up.
If he's doing this, it's the only way he ever knows how. Going all in, diving headfirst, leaving his heart to catch up later. Flying across the world to rail Harry fucking Styles again.
If Louis's life is going to burn, it might as well look biblical doing it.