It smells of boy next to you. A real boy, scented heavily with cologne and sweat and sleep and laundry. It's hard not to notice, to be honest, and it's maybe one of the best sleeps you've ever gotten in the long time -- even though you're naked beneath the sheets... even though you know you've done something your mother would never approve of... even though you know you're still a little drunk, hungover from the rendezvous from the night before. But you're smiling, clutching the covers to your chest and whispering to yourself, "God, what have I done?", but it's the most amazing high you've ever felt. Your thighs are still tingling, your legs are still deliciously sore and there are bites and scratches along your back and neck. And the boy next to you is really pretty; scruff a few days old, body curled up underneath the sheets, his arm pressed against yours, skin warm. You should be mad for sleeping with a stranger, but you want to know this stranger.
The bed is not like yours. It's smaller, a bit more uncomfortable, and the floor beneath it is covered in jerseys and socks and soccer cleats. You know that it's his room the moment you wake up, and you stretch out your arms and reach for his mess of hair. There's nothing better than waking up in his bed -- and even though it's a bit smaller and nothing like the one at your house, it's safe and warm and the sheets smell of him and the pillows are where he lays his head and his covers are soft. There's no yelling coming from downstairs and no mean monsters that dare to get you in the middle of the night; it's just him, with his hand running up and down your stomach and your arms and other places that he dares to uncover, and it's lovely and warm and nothing like any other bed. "Good morning," he whispers, blue eyes shining when the sun peaks through the curtains, "Did you get a good sleep?" Yeah, you did, and it's because he was there, holding you through the night.
Your eyes are still swollen from the tears, red and ghastly looking from the hours of crying. Your body is aching; cold and shivering and sore and everything hurts. But he's lying next to you and it's alright, you're not going to hurt anymore, you're safe. You're with someone you have put all of your trust in, someone who hasn't broken that trust ever. "It's alright, you're alright," the voice murmurs, breaking through your thoughts as a gentle hand scoops over your hip and brings you into his warm side, "Everything is alright." No more tears, no more hurt. It feels nice to lay with someone like this without having to be forced to do anything. Without having to kiss or touch someone intimately in even more intimate places. That doesn't mean you're a prude, it just means you like the chaste feeling of what it's like to be in Liam's arms. He's warm and careful with you, delicately holding you in his arms while he strokes your back and your hair. You're with him, safe, finally.
A naked chest is pressed against your back and that is the main reason why you can't sleep. You feel him everywhere, pressed up against you and rubbing his thighs against the back of yours and his cold feet jolting your warm ones to a wake. You see the tattoos running up and down his arms and you look down and concentrate on his hands where they rest on your stomach, fingers absentmindedly stroking your skin, even as he's in a deep sleep. You can't help but to whisper a small, "oh," because this is weird and it should feel weird with the hot and cold differences, but it feels... nice. Being with him is nice and different and it sort of fills in the missing pieces. Though you know you two didn't do anything -- because you're still dressed in his t-shirt and a pair of his boxers, and that kind of makes you sad -- it's nothing that shocks you for once. You're happy that you're just laying here with somebody for once, no strings attached; just embraces of tranquility and melodies.
Which is odd, because you don't remember how you got there in the first place; the night was a blur, sort of hazy behind your eyes, and no matter how hard you rack your brain to find out the clues to piece it all back together, it's scary because you can't seem to remember anything. "Don't worry," a soft voice comes from above you when you wake up at a late hour, blinking the headache away, "We didn't do anything. I just brought you home because you were too drunk to be alone. You're fine." And a strong, muscular hand places a glass of water and two pills on the side of the bed. And you know that it's Harry and you know that Harry is taking you and you know that those are Harry's fingers pulling the covers back up to your neck so you don't get cold while he's sleeping out on the couch to respect your privacy. And you know you love Harry... and you know you kind of do wish you had done something with him; you wish Harry wasn't so chivalrous sometimes.
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