these birds ah en love

38 please?

“because they’re running out of time.” 

It’s the last day of the sustainable farming and horticulture seminar Louis attended because he lost a bet, and there are two things weighing on him besides the ten thousand blankets he’s bundled beneath (because there were no cabins at this thing, and he’d been camping like some sort of bear/mountain man, sleeping under the stars terrified of freezing). 

Thing number 1: the mortifying fact he actually loved the seminar and is now un-ironically, enthusiastically interested in building an environmentally friendly homestead now. It’s sort of a mind fuck, this identity crisis, because he was pretty sure he was going to miserably complain through the whole thing and long for the comfort of his Malibu one bedroom and his K cup machine and his steam shower and magic Bullet and count down the fucking days until he returned to civilization. But no.

He apparently was destined to be a goddamn gay farmer this whole time. He can’t wait to google goat husbandry when he finally has internet again. He can’t wait to leave the city and move to the mountains and buy a bunch of Carhartt flannels and install solar panels and keep bees like some sort of freak. He’s a completely different person. It’s a lot to ponder, his newfound love of earth worms and dirty hands and land restoration. His newfound love for tall, clumsy, big-handed cowboys with doe-eyes and pink Levis caked in mud named Harry Styles. 

Which brings Louis to Thing number 2, who also happens to be in the sleeping bar directly to his left, snoring peacefully. 

Thing Number 2: Suave, charming, ten numbers a night when he goes to West Hollywood, I-eat-other-twinks-for-breakfast Louis Tomlinson has somehow not made a single fucking move on the guy he fell in love with out here in the middle of god forsaken nowhere. 

He doesn’t know why. It doesn’t make sense. Louis has never in his life felt unconfident asking a guy out or flirting with him, no matter how unlikely a hook up actually is. He’s pulled B-list closeted celebrities and straight married dudes. There’s no reason one weird gay, Shania Twain obsessed cowboy who once wore a floral dress to a seminar BBQ  should turn Louis into such a mess and yet, here he is. Lying awake contemplating the cuteness of Harry Style’s dimples and wishing they lived on fourteen acres of sustainable crops with a herd of cows instead of like, talking to him. He has it so fucking badly. 

This has happened pretty much every night since they first talked and became friends, and Louis’s initial curiosity morphed into fascination which morphed into infatuation before becoming straight up undiluted head over heels love-stuff. Louis just lies there though, listening to Harry’s snores, thinking I should really tell him I want to adopt rescue sheep and learn to shear them and start a small wool business in the Sierra Nevadas with him. But he just can’t. 

The thing is, Harry is very charming and easy to talk to, but he is very hard to read, in that he is just as friendly and lovely and invested in every person at this seminar, not just Louis. Louis thinks sometimes they might be flirting, but then Harry will somehow materialize gluten free cookies from inside his jacket around dinner and offer them to one of the gluten free professor-farmers out here, and Louis will wonder if he invented their chemistry in his head, and Harry is just like that. A master at eye-contact and making everyone fall in love with him. Louis feels so special, but it’s very possible everyone Harry interacts with feels special, and he’s the only one dumb enough to think he’s the exception. 

Tomorrow, he thinks, as he starts to drift off, eyes getting heavy. I’ll at least give him my number tomorrow. Maybe we can meet downtown for drinks or something, on my turf. And I won’t be so scared to tell him. 

He’s been sleeping for ten seconds when there’s a horrible, demonic sound somewhere in the wilderness, and his eyes fly open. It sounds like a bunch of witches sacrificing children, or perhaps a ten-headed dog beast.

“Coyotes,” Harry rasps, making Louis jump with that wildly low, soft, syrupy voice he wishes he got to hear in his ear every night. “Feeding.” 

“It sounds like a satanic ritual,” Louis whispers, sitting up in his sleeping bag tentatively before flopping back down, heart in his throat. “Are they going to come eat us? Should we wake everyone else up?” 

“No, it’s ok. I have a stick. We’ll be safe,” Harry assures him, as if a stick will somehow protect a bunch of defenseless humans from a pack of hungry coyotes.

 Louis shivers, settles in closer to Harry. “Ok. As long as you protect me.” 

“I will,” Harry says gently. They lie together for a moment, sharing labored breath, Louis wishing he got to smell the warm sexy perfection of Harry’s under different circumstances. Like, he could better appreciate this is he wasn’t terrified of getting eaten alive. “If we die tonight,” Harry says solemnly, as if having read Louis’s mind, “there’s something you should know.” 

“What?” Louis hisses, clutching his sleeping bag, wondering if he’s really cut out for his farm life he’s been envisioning for himself the last week and a half. He didn’t factor coyotes into the mix, really. 

“I think you’re possibly the sexiest man I have ever seen in my entire life. And I feel very lucky to have spent time with you during this seminar. And I never, ever would have told you something like this as m’quite shy, but, well. We might die. And tomorrow is the last day, and I thought…I thought…” 

He trails off, face unreadable in the dark, and Louis did not think a single thing in the whole world could distract him from the coyote murder party happening only a mile or so away, but he was wrong. He forgets about the coyotes entirely. “You do? Think I’m sexy, I mean?” he asks, hardly believing it. 

“Oh god,” Harry murmurs, turning his face into his pillow and visibly shuddering. “So sexy. It hurts to look at you. I’ve been in pain like every day. Slow perishing. Death by coyote is like, sweet relief, after this” 

“Oh my god,” Louis says, so caught off guard he can’t even move yet. “I want–I want to be gay farmers with you Harry,” is what comes out before anything else which would be helpful, like I think you’re sexy too or I have also been in pain or even kiss me right fucking now before they get us. He can’t get out any other words, though, so he just rolls over, brackets Harry’s body with his knees, and finds his lips in the dark. 

They’re big and soft and perfect just like he knew they would be, and Harry tastes like shock and salt and heat for a few stunned minutes before he’s kissing back, so wet and warm and lovely as he reached up and cups Louis’s ass with his big hands. Yes Louis thinks desperately, pushing back into them, nipping at Harry’s swollen mouth as they kiss. Fuck yes. 

It’s not until they break apart for a moment to desperately breathe that Louis notices the coyotes have shut up. He has something to live for now though, so he’s freaked out by it. “Does that mean they’re stalking us? Are they like two feet away, ready to strike?” he asks, hands all over Harry’s chest, thumbing over his puffy, perfect nipples through his threadbare white tank top. 

“Nope,” Harry says, kissing Louis temple. “I think they’re homophobic coyotes. We offended their delicate coyote sensibilities and they’re gone now.” 

“Will you move in with me on the countryside with your stick and protect my flock of chickens from homophobic coyotes?” Louis asks, twirling one of Harry’s silly, lovely, fluffy curls around his finger. 

“Yes,” Harry tells him, and they kiss some more, nothing but cicadas and owl-hoots in the distant darkness.