Bloodsport

chapter 60

He got up, making a brief excuse. He needed to breathe.

In the kitchen, he drank a glass of water, inhaling and exhaling softly. It worked a little, again. Should he just go home? he debated. Or attempt to power through? Sit on the opposite end of the table and pretend that being in Louis’ near proximity wasn’t killing him?

No, he concluded. He couldn’t stay.

No matter how close Louis was with friends, or even with Greg, or freaking Jasmine for that matter — whoever it was, it was too hard to watch it when he didn’t know for sure that he’d be the one in Louis’ bed that night. And if he couldn’t handle it… The right thing to do was leave.

He was striding back towards the living room, excuse on the tip of his tongue, when Louis’ exclaim abruptly stopped him on the threshold.

“I can’t relax!” His voice was loud over the lads’ chatter. Harry stared at him, seeing how Louis slapped a hand over his mouth, realising in shock how loudly he’d spoken. “I’m sorry,” he said and looked up.

Harry found his blue eyes burrowing directly into his. Something flashed in there, but before Harry could do anything, Louis was detangling himself from Liam and stalking straight out the room, a beer bottle in hand, shoulder only inches from Harry as he brushed past.

He didn’t know what it was that did it, but if it was anything, it was Louis’ eyes. His deep, emotional, blue, gorgeous eyes. So unnaturally powerful in the way that they struck him. They had affected him longer than he cared to admit. Probably since he was fifteen. Right then, looking into his, Harry fell. And once Louis had disappeared upstairs, he’d landed on concrete. He felt broken, pieces splattered on stone. How much he missed him was sinking in, and he needed Louis to reassemble his pieces.

He followed him without a single glance at the people in the room. He didn’t care anymore. He needed him. Immediately. Unreservedly. He traipsed down the hallway and up the stairs, and found Liam’s bedroom waiting. Carefully, he pushed the door open.

Louis was lying on the bed. His feet were on the floor, back against the surface of the bedspread, a pillow covering his face. Harry felt his insides squeeze, the rest of his body quivering with nerves as he gently sat down next to Louis on the bed. He needed him more than anyone in this world, and loved him more than anyone in his life.

He was sick at the fact that he needed to do it eventually. Hurt him.

His fingers touched Louis’ closest knee. Louis’ arms squeezed the pillow over his face harder. Harry’s lips pulled down, emotions tugging at them with strings. His palm flattened over Louis’ knee, wanting to soothe, even though he didn’t know what ailed him.

Louis pushed the pillow off his face, abruptly sitting up. His body aligned with Harry’s, their shoulders an inch apart. His voice was slow, confused. “What are you doing?”

He should’ve been telling Louis about Manchester. Every word between them until he did was a horrible lie. Deception. Betrayal.

One more time, his heart bargained. Couldn’t they kiss one more time? The moment in the pizza parlour had made him understand the depth of his famine, and he needed it so badly it would kill him if he couldn’t feel it again. If they could just love each other one more time, then he could break it later. He would tell him about Manchester, but he could he get to feel this one more time? Please?

“Want you,” he whispered, feeling his shoulders sag at the confession. They hadn’t spoken in weeks until that afternoon, and even though Louis confused him, he wanted him. He loved him.

Louis didn’t touch him. “Harry, what’s going on?”

He turned his chin towards Louis, eyes trailing down to his mouth. “I want you,” he repeated. Usually, such a phrase would mean they were naked within the minute, but that had changed it seemed.