Dare || L.S

21

Harry isn't sulking.

He has only been in bed for 36 hours. He is totally fine. His eyes are only transforming into red rimmed waterfalls every now and then. Really, he is feeling so phenomenal. He's pressing Clifford to his rapidly beating heart only because he wants to spend quality time with it. His heart is only shattered because of his hormones. He isn't missing Louis' angry face in the morning or his terrible jokes or his countless rants about 'Love Island' (he swears he never watched it). He does not miss his smell or his laugh. Not even the crinkle by his eyes or his horrendous outfits in the evening.

Harry smashes his face back into his wet pillow. Clifford yelps beside him. He isn't sulking. He is crushed. His heart is a shattered wine glass. He can't think of something that could get rid of the obscene embarrassment crawling up his spine every time his brain jumps back to the kiss. Why did he assume that Louis could like him back - when he's a sorry loaf of a man, hiding behind a ton of trying. He tries and tries, but there won't be success. He will fall again and again, and he'll get his heart crushed again and again.

When Harry gets sad, he drinks. When he gets angry, he drinks. When he's happy, he drinks. Unfortunately, he can't drink right now because drinking reminds him of Louis. He would love to sit in the bathtub crying while listening to Adele, with a whole bottle of overly exquisite red wine. He can't do that, though. The level of insanity he feels when he's crushing on a guy should be studied because right now, he would rather die than get up.

He clutches the sheets in his hand and drags it up to his chin, then turns over to reach for his phone. His eyes are swollen from crying, so it's hard for him to see the screen. He steals a glance at the unanswered messages he had sent Louis. There's still not even a 'read'. He groans and dials Zayn's number.

It beeps three times before Zayn's tired, raspy voice answers him with a grumpy, "hello?".

"Hello. Are you sleeping?" Harry says, sobbing still.

"Obviously not Harry, why are you sobbing?" Zayns groans. Harry can hear the sheets rustling at the other end.

"A girl." He continues. "She didn't kiss me back." She.

"Ah. What's her name?"

"Lou-ise." Harry mentally slaps himself.

"Sounds fucking stupid to me." Zayn mumbles. Something falls to the floor and loudly clashes with the floor tiles.

Harry winces, "please tell me those weren't my porcelain plates, right?"

"No?" Zayn asks. "Well, yes." He sighs and Harry sighs too. He turns onto his back. "Are you free today?"

"Sure."

-

Harry looks horrendous. Horrendously hot.

His tight suit hugs his thin waist, the pants long and lustrous. The flare is complimented by his boots, black and with an heel. He combed and washed his curls, trimmed them at the ends. He stubs his cigarette out on the ground and takes a deep breath before he yanks the door open with a dashing smile dancing on his lips.

Loud, very loud, music welcomes him. The indulgence, the smoke mixed with the gorgeous, rich smell of gin tickles his nose. Harry feels the poorly pieced ring on his nose. He ignores the pain, charming himself around the crowds of people that sorround him. Chattering and bickering fills his ears. He's drunken without a sip by the attention he receives by the numerous men he sorrounds. Subtle but sultry 'excuse me!' Excuses slip out between his shiny lips.

He feels them touch his waist, and strongly shove him when one gets their hands on him for a few minutes. He enjoys it. He plays into it and then draws his attention away bevause he can't stand how easy they are.

"Zayn!" He yells, eyes gleaming. A darker corner of the club portrays a couch in velvet wine red cushion with a dark table in front of it. He blinks his eyelashes at the security guard and makes his way towards his gorgeous friend. Zayn's jawline is carved by some higher majesty. His suit, tailored so perfect. A blonde woman sits in his lap, grinding her hips and kissing his neck to the slow music. The drinks on the table suggest, a few things. One of them cooperating with the remains of cocaine on the table. Zayns glazed eyes catch Harry's. "Mate!" He slurs.

Harry, reluctantly, approaches. He knows he's going to make a mistake after his lips are wet with wine. He sinks into the couch and downs one glass after the other, right until his head starts to spin. He vaguely watches Zayn grab the woman's waist, his thigh between her legs. She throws her head back.

Harry closes his eyes. The room swings back and forth and morphes into shapes that he can't explain.

Red wine confuses his heart. It creates a strange, melancholy deep inside.

"Zayn," He exclaims lazily. "We need to talk about Louis."