No One Does It Better

Chapter 21

Louis is livid, absolutely appalled by Harry's behaviour. The minute the taller boy is out of sight, the shorter is spinning on his heel, looking at his friends around the table, and he's even more confused by their reactions.

Liam's moved over to stand behind Zayn, one hand on his fiancé's shoulder and the other pinching the bridge of his nose. He breathes deeply, clenching and unclenching his hand on the fabric of Zayn's shirt slowly. Zayn's posture is casual as he stares at the open door. He's leaned back in his chair, one hand reaching to grab Liam's and his other twitching on the table in a way Louis knows means he's just itching for a cigarette. And then there's Niall. His eyes reach Niall to find him already looking into his own blue eyes expectantly, like he expects Louis to do something, say something, fix it.

Louis hesitates just a moment longer, "What the fuck was that?" he spits. He's fuming, absolutely fuming because he doesn't understand.

Liam sighs heavily, like he's breathing out a lot more than air, and squeezes his eyes closed one more time before raising his honey brown eyes to meet Louis' blue. "Louis," he starts, dropping his gaze, "You should probably follow him."

"Or not," Niall adds quietly.

Louis' gaze flicks between the two boys silently, trying to understand. He looks over to Zayn and if it weren't for how tightly his jaw is set, it would look like he's zoned out completely for how still he is. "Or not," Louis echoes, "He's been a miserable twat all day," he grumbles as he crosses his arms over his chest, and it sounds more hurt than angry.

"Louis-" Liam starts but is quickly cut off by the chair in front of him scraping against the kitchen floor and tapping his stomach as Zayn stands up quickly.

"Goin' for a fag," he mumbles, slipping out the sliding balcony door and not looking back.

It's silent, so silent that Louis can count his heartbeats; the breaths coming from a slightly congested Niall, the ticks of a wall clock still set an hour and three minutes off-time that hangs over the stove filter through his ears before he's tugging at the sleeves of his jumper.

"What is going on?" his voice is low but firm because they've done this before. They get that look in their eyes, a nostalgic shimmer that shines over Louis' face with frustrating rays of days he can't remember, and it isn't fair.

Liam meets his stare for only a moment. "Louis, I-," he clears his throat, "There's a lot you don't, don't know about Harry."

Louis clenches his teeth at the sharp tug in his stomach. "Apparently," he says quietly. He brings both hands up behind his head to run his fingers through the hair at the back of his head and then grips tightly. He takes one more look at his friends before turning sharply and walking out still-open front door, makes one left turn, and walks down to his and Niall's flat.

It's when he steps through the door, though, that he's hit with the realisation of how much the flat isn't his. The entry hall flooring is a strange linoleum tile that's barred at the beginning of the living room carpet instead of the dark-stained wood floors that line Harry's flat. The kitchen is white and lifeless and makes him ache with an overwhelming feeling of temporariness because he's become so used to a kitchen with red walls and stainless steel appliances and a curly-haired boy in his boxer shorts cooking him breakfast. There aren't any big windows or high ceilings, and his bed is made and smells nothing like Harry's body wash. He wonders when he became so bloody used to him.

He shuts his bedroom door, ripping off his jumper and tossing it to the side. He strips his jeans as he walks and climbs into bed in just his boxers, breathing in the scent of not-Harry, and desperately ignores his mind's mantra, declarations of 'not good enough,' because if Harry didn't want him, he'd say so, wouldn't he?