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helloamhere · 5 years

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Louis/Harry and #47 for this kiss scene please!

47: “out of spite” (LOL I love this prompt)***

It wasn’t like Louis to be late for Weekly Enemies Brunch. Harry was, therefore, occupying himself by scanning the menu for the most passive-aggressively hipster combination that he could devise out of the health conscious substitutions, deconstructed open-face non-sandwiches, and market priced pourover blends of indeterminate, esoteric origin.

He’s just ordered a double-avocado on gluten-free chia seed-infused breadlets when Louis plops himself down on the chair directly next to Harry, not across the table like any other normal human.

Of course, Louis is hardly a normal human.

“Wow, he deigns to grace us. Mr. Tomlinson,” Harry says, interrupting himself.

“Mr. Styles,” Louis says, grinning.

The waiter, a twenty-something Writing A Screenplay Type named Felix, smiles indulgently. The waitstaff all know them. The entire restaurant knows them, Harry suspects. Martin at the breakfast bar has already sent over an extra glass of water because he knows that Harry can’t tolerate spice, but will pour hot sauce over his eggs as soon as Louis raises his eyebrows.

“Sorry though,” Louis yawns. His eyes look puffy, which doesn’t take away from the absurd length of his eyelashes nor the steep rise of his cheekbones. It’s unusual, and there’s a flush on his forehead and a stray speckle of toothpaste next to his earlob. Harry realizes that he’s inspecting Louis’ face, and stops, but does not feel guilty. It’s good to know your enemies.

“Late night,” Louis finishes at the tail-end of another yawn, so it sounds more like lay nigh-yuuph, with a pink flash of tongue that disappears behind a wry little grin.

Harry sighs pointedly and waves Felix away. Louis rubs his face. His hair is sticking straight up in a little patch over his forehead, and Harry does not alert him to this.

“Oh, no, the almond croissant–” Louis starts.

“I already put in for it,” Harry says, since the bakery section of the restaurant sells out like the proverbial hotcakes on a saturday morning. “I have to say I’m looking forward to telling Marta that I’m more committed to the work than you are, again.”

“I still brought the reports, cranky,” Louis says, pulling several reams of paper out of a grey messenger bag that he’d decorated with sharpie in a hundred different strange doodles.

They’ve been having Weekly Enemies Brunch for two months now, and yet Harry has still only gotten a good look at half the doodles. They’re just so intricate, mandalas and math references that he’d gone home to look up, whimsical, joking things like the equation for velocity next to a fanciful rocket sketch. Louis always brings the beat-up messenger bag. Harry brings a filthy expensive leather satchel that was a gift from Gemma, and Louis never glances twice at it.

“You print these things just to annoy me,” Harry says, taking the papers and spreading them out to the left of his cutlery.

“Funny how it works eeeeevery time,” Louis says, with something that sounds like fondness. He eyes the fancy pourover coffee that Harry’s already got in front of him, shrugs, and pulls the mug over to his side to obliterate it with cream.

“Hey,” Harry protests absently, flipping through reports. When it’s his time to share analytics he brings them loaded on an iPad with a dynamically updating chart notebook, because he is not a complete barbarian. Not because he enjoys the way that Louis gets a little soft and lost whenever he’s impressed by Harry’s data viz skills and trying extremely hard to not show it.

“Sorry again, I suppose,” Louis says, with another sleepy grin.

Harry eyes him over the reports. Louis is always casual, while Harry usually wears a button-down for these meetings. But today Louis is extremely casual, with a long pullover about three sizes too big for him, and soft sweatpants that don’t look like they’d hide much of anything if Louis hadn’t been curled up on the chair with his legs folded under the table.

Weekly Enemies Brunch was an absurd idea, just absurd enough to work. It had started because Mega Exchanges Unlimited, a rightful and benevolent empire of modern business and the home of Harry’s brilliant and game-changing analytics team, had been felled by the horrific upstarts of Ultimate Conglomeration Corp. In the galactic collision that was two international businesses transferring ownership via the complicated political games of the executives heavens, Louis’ and Harry’s teams had gotten smashed together and told to play nice or else.

They were enemies from the start, obviously. Before the start. If they’d gone to kindergarten together, Harry was convinced, he’d have launched a frontal assault on Louis from the sandpits. He was just so fucking intolerable. Louis led the mirror-image analytics team for Ultimate Conglomeration, and like the leader they were scrappy and undiplomatic and brash, steamrolling over Harry’s careful processes and comfortable conventions. And ok, maybe they were brilliant, but that didn’t make them any less terrible. And to make it worse, Louis had emerged from the supernova shuffle with an spot on the internal corporate hierarchy above Harry’s, his little avatar blinking like a fuck you from a higher spot on the tree every time Harry had to look up an HR promotions chain. So, enemies. Enemies forever.

But modern life being what it was, the absurd solution to working together was a once-a-week tactical meeting. Harry and Louis had independently discovered that attempts to make contact during the work week usually devolved into stroppy fights over whose office building was going to be chosen, who made the better coffee, and Louis’ general attitude that he couldn’t handle a “Harry Migraine” and the fluorescent lighting at the same time. Thus Weekly Enemies Brunch was born.

“Harrrrry,” Louis says, poking Harry with the edge of his shoe. “What’s your malfunction? Is it the spike in transfers, because I think that’s a seasonal artifact.”

“I’ll have Chelsea run a factorial analysis, you know how killer she is at telling us whether effects are real,” Harry sniffs.

Louis nods. “No debate from me,” he says when Harry gives him a skeptical look, “Chelsea’s a baller. I’ve been trying to poach her to my team. Harry. What’s wrong with you this morning? I’ve already eaten half the croissant and normally you’d be throwing coffee on me to get at the best bit of the filling.”

Harry sighs. Louis is balancing a crispy croissant piece in two delicate fingers, and he’s still grinning, so soft and messy in the backlight from the window, the blue of his eyes softened for once.

“I just think you should take our brunch meeting seriously,” Harry says. “And not, you know.” “I know?” Louis says, mouthful of croissant and pointing a butter knife dangerously close to Harry’s shoulder. “I know what?”

“Not get distracted, by late nights,” Harry says.

“Oh, yeah? Am I supposed to be sorry?” Louis says, something glinting under the surface of his expression. He’s still folded up in the chair, so close that Harry can practically feel the warmth from his arm. He’s like a tiny shark, easy to underestimate. Harry shifts in his chair, cranky and disturbed and feeling passive-aggressive, like there’s an itch scampering around his skin that he can’t catch.

“Like it was even worth it, probably,” Harry says, unable to stop himself.

“Interesting question,” Louis says, poking at the almond croissant with a knife and segmenting off a healthy chunk which he pushes onto Harry’s plate. Harry likes the thick middle of the pastries where the filling is richest, and Louis likes the browned edges. Louis looks up from the plate and back to Harry’s face. It’s like it slows time, Louis’ slow, sweeping eyelids. Harry can’t look away from his face, from the unconscious edge of his tongue coming between his teeth.

“Well at least Late Night was an all right kisser, can’t say Enemies Brunch provides that benefit,” Louis says.

“Whatever,” Harry scoffs, coffee-deprived and unable to handle the way that Louis’ hair is still sticking up, plummeting deeper into insanity, “I’m sure I’m better.”

A laugh erupts out of Louis. Harry loves it when he laughs like this, which is so rare around the office, eyes closed, mouth open in uncontrolled delight. “I dunno, I’d have to see the reports,” Louis gasps out.

So really, truly, obviously Louis is entirely responsible for the fact that Harry closes the gap of breakfast table between them, puts a hand on Louis’ neck and a grip into Louis’ oversized pullover, and shows him.

“Oh,” Louis gasps, against Harry’s mouth but definitely not away from it.

Harry is an excellent kisser, is the thing. In most of life he’s clumsy half the time and too controlled the other half, but once he can close the gap of socially acceptable distance, the game changes. Kissing is a matter of breathing into somebody else’s rhythm and finding the beat of it, it’s a matter of listening and pushing and pulling, and Harry just loves that. Louis’ face is warm. His hair is softer and silkier than Harry imagined, and the jolt of his jaw as Harry moves close is so much more desperate and vulnerable than Harry could have imagined. He’s weak for it. They press together softly at first, gentle and careful, and then Harry finds the right sliding angle against Louis’ bottom lip to nudge it open, and he’s lost to the silky heat of Louis’ mouth, the flickering, curious touch of his tongue.

Louis slides halfway into Harry’s lap, and then starts pulling himself back, so Harry tightens his hand in Louis’ pullover and doesn’t let him, winds him closer. He’s rewarded with another jolt of shivery, wanting tension in Louis’ body, and then Louis gives over the angle of the kiss and lets Harry have it, scorching and soft and varied. Louis kisses like he can’t make up his mind, like he’s shocked, like he’s wanted this forever, like he’s drunk. He’s small but vividly overwhelming in Harry’s arms, like a shot of espresso, like a too-rich brunch entree. Harry can feel the press of Louis’ knees into his thighs, the soft give of the pullover under his palm. He wants to bite at Louis’ lips for hours, wants to drag heated kisses across his face and watch the flush follow, wants to feel this uneven catch of air against his teeth in a thousand variations.

They pull apart when there’s enough of a gap for breathing and rationality to swim back between them.

“Uh,” Harry says, coherently. Louis pulls himself back onto his chair with a look of utter terror that would’ve been funny if Harry hadn’t been pretty sure he had an identical expression on his own face.

The avocado monstrosity is on the table. Louis seizes it like a drowning man seizes a life raft.

“Ah, thanks Felix,” Louis says to the air, voice lower than normal and intoxicatingly raspy. Harry just stares at him, words an impossibility. He wants to lick up the side of Louis’ neck, wants to know what would happen if he pulled Louis’ hair. It turns out he wants a damn lot of things that have absolutely nothing to do with mergers and everything to do with Louis on the weekend, this weekend, every weekend.

Louis takes a bite of the toast and his entire face transforms. “What the fuck do you call this,” he gags, and Harry starts laughing.

#ask #i got pretty caught up in this #my writing #drabble #kiss meme #kiss me at brunch tbh

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