is death an option? / larry ✅

0.3

The Part Where I'm Forced Into A Doomed Friendship

So, I had managed to get my visit over to the Tomlinson home into a simple phone call. I had to go over my mother's head, instead asking my father who shrugged his shoulders and continued to indulge in his pint of Ben and Jerry's The Tonight Dough ice cream.

I realized quickly that Louis Tomlinson is very dry, talking mostly without any sort of emotion in him. His voice sounds like he's from Brooklyn, but I know he isn't. It's really high–pitched, too. Sarcastic, mostly.

The interaction:

Me: Hello?

Louis: Hello?

Me: Hello?

Louis: Yeah, you said that already. Who is this?

Me: Uh, it's your doctor. I called to prescribe you with a daily dose of Harrysil.

*Literal crickets, not even a snicker*

Me: Anyways, I wanted to call to talk.

Louis: That's usually why people make phone calls. To talk.

(At this point, I didn't know what to say. I've never been good with the sarcastic, witty ones. That's why I've spent four years of my life avoiding the theatre geeks.)

Louis: Look, I know you called because I'm sick. I don't need your pity.

Me: *Clearly panicking* No, that's not–I called because I wanted to hang out.

Louis: What, you mean, like, right now?

Me: *Clearly surprised* Well, yeah. That'd be cool.

Louis: No. Thanks for asking, though.

Me: *Clearly relieved* Oh, okay. Bye, then.

Louis: Bye.

Me: Bye.

Afterwards is when my mom came in, instantaneously bitching at me because I didn't seen sincere enough during the conversation. She began to chastise me ruthlessly, judging me because I was "thinking only of myself" and "this boy is dying and you won't even spare a few precious hours of your life to make him happy", which was responded back with "Mom, we're not even friends" and "He said he didn't want to hang out" while I threw myself on the floor and dragged my body across the wooden flooring, into my room with a dramatic groan.

Ultimately, though, I had been defeated–by a beast who called herself Anne who wouldn't let up until I threw on my jacket and headed out while hearing one last gag from Betsy.

On the walk there, I had imagined what my life would be like if I hadn't had to deal with the shit I did on a daily basis. I bet Popular Brent Wiley wasn't being forced to go over to another's house who clearly didn't want him there. I wondered about calling CPS, but then realized that I'm far too scrawny to survive any type of foster home.

For this part of the story, I want you to imagine to most uncomfortable encounter you've ever had. Now, I want you to double it. Triple it, even. That's how it felt to be embraced by Louis Tomlinson's mother who was clearly drunk; whispering about how good of a boy I was in my ear. I know, it sounded like the start of one of the pornos I usually indulge in. Ironic, really.

(She called me handsome. I told her that I wasn't. She called me modest. I told her that I was a "Modest Mouse". Amazing, I know.)

I was in the middle of staring at the lipstick amongst Johannah Tomlinson's slightly–crooked teeth whenever I heard someone clear their throat.

Now, to describe Louis Tomlinson is a bit hard. He wears glasses that look like John Lennon's, although I'm sure he didn't need them (but, I guess he did, considering the whole flesh–eating cancer of the eye). His hair is a reddish–brown, and always happens to be horrendously messy. He's got a certain look about him that always looks bored, yet somehow manages to make it clear that he knows he's better than you. In that moment, he wore a pair of khaki pants and a "Grease" shirt that looked like more of a nightgown on his body.

Don't ask for anymore descriptions of his outfits throughout the story. I only remember this one because it was the iconic one he'd been wearing when we first met again.

He was glaring at me from the top of the stairs. I didn't want to talk, but he made the first move.

Louis: I told you not to come.

Me: Well, the doctor really thinks you should have a bit of a Harrynol.

*Cue obnoxious, outrageous laughter from Louis' mother*

Louis: You already used that.

Me: Actually, I said Harrysil. Totally different type of pill.

Louis: Look, I already told you that I don't want your pity. I'm fine by myself, I don't need you to hang out with me.

Me: I know that, and I completely and wholeheartedly respect that, it's just that my mom will make my life an absolute Hell if I don't hang out with you.

Louis: You just somehow managed to make me want you to leave a thousand times more.

Me: We only have to hang out for a few hours. Then, I'm gone. You can sulk about your cancer, and I can watch Games of Thrones.

This is the point where Louis stops to consider this. He crinkles his nose, causing his substantial glasses to go crooked upon the bridge of it.

Louis: What season are you on?

Me: Five.

Louis: One episode. Then, you leave.

We watched an episode of Game of Thrones, and I told him that my parents wouldn't let me have too many pillows because they're afraid that I might fuck them.

Then, Zayn texted me, and I left.