Harry sometimes finds it hard to resist the urge to turn his head.
Louis does this thing, this little finger crook, and despite what PR tells them, despite all of the management's warnings on how their sales will drop, he finds himself slinking over anyway, pressing Louis to the wall, Louis trailing a finger up his shoulder, over his collarbones, tilting Harry's head up so he makes a soft noise from the back of his throat. Harry doesn't mind, of course, but when Louis yanks on his shirt enough that he remembers to dip back down, dips back down and lets his mouth close around Louis', Louis' teeth dragging at his bottom lip before pulling away, that smirk on his face making Harry's pants uncomfortably tighten.
Louis never wants anything else, after that artful bit of kissing.
Sometimes, his hand snakes down to rub small circles on Harry's hip, toying with his belt, but then he pulls away, smiling amiably, letting his fingers dance across Harry's chest before he dances off to the stage, the signing, the whatever it is, leaving Harry to press a hand over his mouth and feel his face quickly heat up. He thinks, sometimes, that the fans know, because the way some - most - of those girls look at him, eyes staring into his crotch, remind him that a few moments ago, he had one of the best boners of his life and all because of a certain fucking Louis Tomlinson, prancing his little head off, shaking his hips and that perfect little ass, and it's no surprise when Harry finds his voice cracking sometimes as he sings.
Louis finds all of this quite satisfying, it seems.