Unbelievers

Chapter 8.1

"Queer," Louis mutters. Harry's voice is so bloody dark and soft. It could honest to God lull Louis back to sleep, but as it is his heart is pumping in full speed.

"Queer, then," Harry says, and Louis thinks maybe there's a smile on his lips? Is it simply wishful thinking, though? "But, yeah, it wasn't my place. Even though I respectfully think it would be better for you if you did, that is something that is up to you. Like you said, I don't get a say in that." He takes a small break.

Louis doesn't think this is quite real. How in the world have they gotten here? Harry is giving him a genuine, long bloody apology.

"Secondly," he continues. "To bring it up like that before the most important match of the year so far was seriously so fucking idiotic. You didn't need that right then, because the game was what was supposed to be the only thing on our minds, you know? Luckily our team slayed, but still... Also, thirdly," he stops, clearing his throat awkwardly.

It's quiet on the line. Louis frowns, despite the smile that was starting to grow on lips. He knows the little feelings are rejoicing, but they can go fuck themselves. Shoo.

"Harry?" Louis finally asks.

"Okay, shit." He sounds so awkward and a just a little bit pathetic. "This is going to sound fucking strange and don't think this means anything, but um. I've..."

"You've...?"

"Err–"

"For fuck's sake, spit it out." Louis rolls his eyes.

Harry inhales an amount of air that probably could fill an entire balloon. "I've got your back."

Oh.

Louis rolls over, leaving the phone resting beside him on the bed. Inhale, exhale. No, this is so not good. Not good at all. Louis was so supposed to keep composed so the annoying butterflies in his stomach would starve to death in lack of Harry related things to feed on. It's been two days and Louis' already handed them a silver plate of what they want.

Using the words of Blair Waldorf: Louis loves God's all creatures (kind of), but these butterflies need to be murdered. There is no such place for them here. Do they not understand that they're unwanted? Undesired. Detested. Go away.

Although, Louis can't exactly blame them despite his animosity towards them; after all, here he is, putting the phone to his ear once again.

"Erm," Louis says. He coughs. Harry's quiet on the other side of the line, but Louis can hear him breathing. He can almost picture him covering his face in embarrassment. "So... I'm going to hang up now? And then you'll call again and we'll pretend it never happened."

"Okay, good."

They're quiet for another moment. "But I'll know, okay," Louis can't help but add before he quickly terminates the call.

Dear goodness.

He calls Harry up again. "So, do you want a blowjob or something? Because I'm kind of bored."

Because I miss you.

Once their second phone call has ended, Louis crawls off the bed. He eyes himself in the mirror, and just like a couple of months ago he thinks he resembles a fluffy pigeon a little too much. His hair is ruffled and standing on end, his eyes puffy. He looks almost the same as he did then, though maybe his cheekbones are a little more prominent, the angles of his face sharper. He's older.

You can't really see it, but he's also queer and probably not-so-much-hates Harry Styles. Strange things.

Walking downstairs he's shirtless, only in a pair of sweats and sports socks, figuring Harry's going to undress him later anyway. He rubs his neck, feeling a slight ache as he's been sleeping strangely these last nights.