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The golden light streams in from the small crack between the curtains in a gentle glow, the white duvet being stained by the amber warmth. Harry was never an early riser; he’d never even seen a sunrise before Louis. After Louis, though, he quickly realized that waking up earlier meant seeing, learning, admiring, loving Louis longer.
He’s lost track of how many sunrises he’s seen, now.
Half asleep, the drowsiness of his restful slumber still weighing his eyelids down in the slightest way, Harry finds himself tracing his neatly manicured fingernails ever so softly across Louis’ body. Nowhere in particular, but anywhere and everywhere he can. Harry manages to find something new to love about Louis every time he looks at his husband. He still remembers the first thing he had noticed about Louis. It surprisingly wasn't the enchanting blue of his eyes, nor was it the dusting of cinnamon-toned freckles across the bridge of his nose. It was his crinkles. His happy, faint crinkles. After introducing himself to Harry when they first met in college, Louis had smiled the sweetest smile and Harry can’t forget the way his breath caught in his throat upon seeing the lines near his eyes. It was endearing, knowing that Louis was so expressive and smiled so much that the corners of his eyes had formed the most lovely wrinkles, even as young as they were. Harry remembers how, right then and there, he decided he didn’t want to live another day of his life without seeing the crinkles by Louis’ eyes.
“Y’know, this is the unsexiest way I've ever been felt up, Harold,” Louis’ raspy voice finally whispered.
“Oh shit,” Harry pulls his wandering hand away. “I'm so sorry. I didn’t…I didn’t even realize I was feeling you up. That's terrible.”
A breathy laugh escapes Louis’ morning-chapped lips and, God, there are those crinkles again. “I’m kidding, love. Well, not really. This is the least sexual way I’ve been…explored, shall we say. But I didn't mean it as a bad thing.”
“You're just so intricate and beautiful. I want to know every part of you. I guess I can't help it.” The blush that warms Harry’s cheeks is more beautiful than any part of himself, Louis wants to argue. He knows Harry wouldn’t let him win, though, so the rebuttal fades from between his lips.
“Well it's a good thing that I think you are just as worthy of being explored, then.”
“Yeah?”
“Yes.” It’s Louis’ turn to admire. “What's this scar from?” He rubs his thumb across a subtle white scar at the base of Harry's palm.
“I sliced it opening a can of cat food.” It’s a horribly boring answer, Harry thinks, but Louis seems to appreciate the new bit of knowledge. What brand of cat food was it? Was it when he was feeding Dusty, his childhood cat? Or maybe Opal, the stray kitten he had snuck into his dorm in his first year at university. Did it make him cry or just wince and let a string of curse words tumble out? The answer may be boring, but Harry is anything but.
Louis shuffles under the too-puffy comforter and wraps his arm around Harry’s waist. Harry allows himself to be pulled closer and rests his cheek on Louis’ chest. Speaking of Louis’ chest, Harry discovers yet another new detail. The cursive W of his ‘It Is What It Is’ tattoo has a small loop in the middle where the zigzag meets. It’s shaped like the awareness ribbons that you see often, he notes. An ichthys, as well– those fish-shaped symbols that Christians seem to put on everything. He giggles quietly to himself when he catches his mind coming up with all sorts of silly comparisons for such a miniscule observation. Is it possible to be too in love with someone? So in love that ‘love’ doesn’t feel big enough. There must be something bigger than love.
“I love you,” Harry tells Louis, but his eyebrows are furrowed like he’s upset.
“Must you grimace while telling me that?” Louis teases, but presses his lips against the crease of Harry’s forehead.
“Whoops,” Harry smiles. “I was just thinking.”
“Hmm, what about?”
“Is there a word that’s, I d’nno, grander than love?” The younger man asks. “I just…I think I love you more than love. It feels almost depreciatory to simply say love. Like it’s not enough.”
Louis could die happily here and now. Never did he think that anyone would love him so fiercely, so unconditionally. And not only does somebody love him fiercely and unconditionally, he is lucky enough for that somebody to be none other than Harry Styles, who is but the fiercest lover. A lover who loves so much that love isn’t grand enough.
There have been a myriad of moments where Louis has caught himself wondering what he’s done in this life, or perhaps a previous life, to get to be loved by Harry. To get to love Harry. His mind drifts to the question often; when Harry is humming a made-up tune as he washes his face and pats his face (You have to pat your face dry, Lou. It’s far too delicate to wipe.) with whichever adorably patterned flannel he chose that day, or when he sees Harry looking at him and watches the darling blush tint his cheeks at the realization he’s been caught, or when he has one of those days where it feels as though anything that could go wrong does in fact go wrong, and Harry is there with his stupid smile and stupid dimples, listing off all of the things that actually went right. “We didn’t get a single red light on the way home,” he’d say. “Your bread was toasted to the perfect crispness this morning. Our favorite laundry detergent was half off!” His therapist taught him that trick and he has shared it with all of their close, and not very close (and even a complete stranger once), friends because he apparently wants them all to experience the magic of positive reframing. It’s safe to say that Louis is in grander-than-love with Harry, too.
“Louis,” Harry interrupts the lovestruck daze Louis had lost himself in. “I think I’d really like to love you forever. If that’s alright with you.”
“Would I have married you if I didn’t want forever?” He responds easily.
Harry presses his cherry lips against Louis’ in a gentle kiss. There’s no hunger, no eagerness. Nothing about it is obscene or driven by lust. It’s innocent; a kiss that says nothing more than I love you, and nothing less than You love me too. Harry’s lips are smooth but his morning stubble tickles and he knows Louis hates it. Personally, Harry is a fan of Louis’ stubble for more than one reason, so he certainly won’t complain. There’s few things in life better than kissing Louis and Harry never wants to stop.
“Please shave today,” Louis chuckles as he pulls away, rubbing his hand against the scratchy feeling on his lips.
Harry throws his head back in laughter and what is Louis supposed to do? Not kiss his neck? Screw the purity of the previous kiss. Sappiness can only last so long when there’s a topless, sleep-soft Harry next to him. Harry’s sweet giggle is replaced by an even sweeter moan as he leans into Louis more, needing the physical affection.
“You're such a sight, H,” Louis mumbles as he nips at Harry’s collarbone. “An absolute dream. Christ. Can’t believe you’re mine.”
Harry nods feverishly. He already looks blissed out as his hands find any place he can hold onto Louis. “I am. Yours.”
Louis tries his best to keep the kissing PG, but it’s a challenge. Harry somehow still manages to make him feel like the ridiculously horny 18 year old boy he was when they met. Curse him. “And I’m yours, my baby. All yours.”
Harry muffles a groan into Louis’ messy bedhead as Louis’ lips begin getting lower and lower. Rubbing his thumb against the laurel tattoos across Harry’s hip bones, Louis briefly dips under the blanket to find his favorite spot. He nibbles tantalizingly at Harry’s inner thigh, already looking forward to the beautiful bruise that will bloom there soon.
Harry gasps. His breath hitches in the utmost melodious way. “Lou-”
“Shh, angel,” Louis shushes his whines, wriggling back up from where he had slid down and cups Harry’s face. He plants one last kiss on on the underside of Harry's jaw and just barely squeezes his throat, admiring how responsive his husband is, and whispers a breathy, “Later.”
Harry completely deflates at that, letting out a pathetic whimper, and Louis can’t help but smirk at how easily he can work Harry up. He knows Harry enjoys the teasing, the waiting, though, so he refuses to give in, despite how much he’s craving more of those sugar-sweet sounds Harry lets out. Later, he reminds himself.
“You are going to be the death of me, Louis Tomlinson.”
“So. Pancakes for breakfast sound good?”