Bloodsport

chapter 57

They continued bickering and drinking, Lee and Harry helping each other clean up the mess of beer on the floor. The first hour of the party went swimmingly; Harry was drunk enough not to run out of Jasmine’s house screaming. He also hadn’t cried, thinking about Louis. Thankfully, he hadn’t run into either of them.

That sense of peace shattered the following moment.

“Louis!” someone yelled.

Harry felt like chills were running down his naked back. He stiffened. He couldn’t refrain. He turned around slowly, and his eyes promptly searched for the person he hadn’t wanted to see. It took only a moment, and then his gaze found him.

He was sitting on the sofa, evidently drunk. Harry didn’t think he’d seen Louis that inebriated before. His hair was askew, his eyes glassy, lids blinking over them incoherently as he met Harry’s eyes. For the first time, they didn’t look quite so blue.

Harry swiftly turned back around. He couldn’t keep looking at him, not knowing what he was thinking. It only made him feel pain. Louis used to look at him with kindness, smirks, desire — all good things. There had been none of it since Sunday. He hadn’t fucking looked at him all week.

So, why had he just stared back at him like that? Harry didn’t get it. Did Louis want to talk? Or was he just too fucked up to know what he was doing?

He tried his best not to turn around and stare himself dead at Louis. The challenge was too demanding. It seemed all his body was capable of wanting at that moment was to look at him. It insisted upon it. If their eyes could meet again, they could walk out of there together. Maybe they could go into the bathroom, sit down in the tub, and sort this screwed-up mess out.

Perhaps all Harry needed to do was walk over and grab Louis by the hand, and they could fix it.

Harry needed them to fix it. Fuck. They had to. Everything hurt without him. Everything. Waking up, eating breakfast, falling asleep, brushing his teeth, putting on clothes, sitting in the car, listening to music, driving his foot into the leathered side of a fucking football. Every fucking little thing made him think of Louis Fucking Tomlinson, and it hurt. Everything hurt all the fucking time.

Zayn and Liam said Louis was in love with him.

And God knew Harry needed it to be true. He didn’t believe in God, but if there was one, they knew it. And if they could talk, they’d remind him that Louis was on his side. Because he’d said it. On his bed, after Harry had told him how much his family hurt him. Louis was in his corner, thought he deserved good things, and told him he was brave.

Harry turned around, neglecting his friends’ conversation.

Fuck all this. They could do it. They could walk out of there, hand in hand.

His eyes went to the couch where Louis was sitting, and just like he’d wanted, their eyes instantly met once again. But the second Harry was about to step forward, he saw who was sitting by Louis’ side. Who had their fingers in his hair, who was placing a lipstick-covered kiss on his cheek, right next to his mouth.

Louis’ mouth. His lips. His beautiful, gorgeous, charming, and mischievous lips. Harry’s Louis. Harry’s mouth.

Jasmine? Jasmine.

Louis was letting Jasmine kiss his cheek. He let her cram into his space, keep her polished nails in his soft, caramel hair, and place her glossed lips into the crevice right next to his lip. And he did it, right in front of Harry. While his eyes were staring right at his face.

Forget it. What he said about everything all the time. This was worse.

If Louis wanted to convey a message, it was done. How much rejection wasn’t that? How much was he showing Harry just how categorically over their relationship was?