A FUCKING AU WHERE LOUIS SECRETLY LIKES TO WALK AROUND WEARING HARRY'S "STYLES" EMBROIDERED SHIRT UNTIL ONE DAY HARRY CATCHES HIM
this isnt 3 fucking sentences im a fucking sasquatch egg beast…anyways im sorry it sucks i got so overwhelmed by my love for the au i couldnt decide how to write it out & i dint want to make it too long… help
Louis likes to think that he’s quite smooth.
Most of the time he’s able to sneak Harry shirts from his closet without him noticing, can wear them off and on for weeks while Harry stays completely clueless about it. Louis has been doing it for years, since they were on The X-Factor, even.
There’s one particular shirt of Harry’s that Louis’ come to love. It isn’t that comfortable and feels almost scratchy on his skin, but Louis finds himself stealing it more often than not because of how beautiful it looks, how it just hangs off his shoulders in a way that makes him feel like something more than he is.
And, it might have something to do with the fact that it’s got Harry’s last name embroidered right across the front pocket.
Louis doesn’t like to think too much into what it means that he loves having Styles written across his chest, almost like he’s belonging to the name. Belonging to Harry, even. He usually tells himself that it’s just because he knows how badly it would get on Harry’s nerves if he found it, even if he knows that Harry probably wouldn’t mind.
It’s easier to believe if he keeps telling himself that it’s meaningless.
Except, when Harry does find out one day, Louis’ little charade comes crumbling down. He’s sat on the living room couch, lounging around in nothing but a pair of boxers and Harry’s notorious Styles shirt. Harry wasn’t supposed to be home until late, so Louis figured that he would be safe just chilling out until it got closer to the evening.
He was obviously wrong, though, seeing as he looks up from his phone to find Harry staring down at his chest from across the room, keys in hand and brows furrowed like he’s thinking extremely hard. It takes a second for Louis to process, but when he follows Harry’s line of sight and lands on the very definite word printed across his breast bone, Louis practically jumps from his seat to cross his arms over his chest.
“What are you doing home, Harry?” Louis asks, trying to sound as normal as possible. As expected, his voice is off, a little breathless.
Harry takes a step forward, dropping his keys into the little dish on the side table. He says, “I got finished with my meeting early,” and moves to copy Louis’ body language. “Why are you wearing my shirt, Louis?”
Louis gulps. “All mine were dirty.”
“I did laundry yesterday,” Harry says. Shit.
“Well, this shirt is more comfortable than any of mine,” Louis tries.
Harry snorts and raises his brows, almost amused. Louis can feel the tips of his ears burning, can feel the heat rising from his chest to his neck, perching on his cheekbones.
“The first time I wore that shirt you told me to burn it,” Harry says, going for blood, apparently. “Said that it was made of the worst material known to man, and seeing how we’re the wealthiest boys on the planet I should invest in satin or velvet or some shit.”
Louis huffs. He’s going to run for the hills, to be honest. Confrontation has never been his strong suit. “Well. I don’t know. Would you like me to give it back, then?”
“No, no,” Harry says, taking another step forward. A soft, sly smile works its way onto his lips, and when he closes the distance between them, Louis entire throat closes up. “I think it looks nice on you.”
“Thanks,” Louis croaks, not sure what else to say.
Harry’s hand comes to rest on his shoulder, and he gently drags his thumb across the words on his pec. “It’s lovely, even. I’ve been missing this shirt for weeks, but now that I know where it’s been, I might just have to invest in some more like it.”
It feels like Harry is mocking him, but the playful glint in his eye clears any worry that Louis’ harboring. Still, it’s all a game and he’s been caught. “Okay, get your laughs out now, curly boy. I like wearing your clothes, woohoo.” He goes to pull away and turn for their room, but Harry grabs his hand in halt.
“Hey, no, I’m playing,” Harry says, sweet. “I quite like seeing you repping the Styles name. Might have to step it up a notch someday, though.”
Again, Louis feels weak in the knees. He wants to punch Harry, but he also wants to kiss him. He settles for the latter, and if later that night he feels Harry writing Styles across his bum with sharpie, no one has to know just how excited it makes him.