with everything in me - l.s

chapter eight

Niall had always known that Louis had recollection problems, so he didn't take the blunder too much to heart. He cackled it off like the jolly, 'pleasant' Irish man he was and winked gleefully in Louis' direction.

Niall was taking the piss of it so Louis would feel less apologetic or remorseful.

It was the little things.

Louis clapped his hand over his mouth when he exclusively got a grip on what Harry had said to him. While squirming timidly in his seat, he shot his eyes up at Niall's pearly ones. "Fuck, mate. 'M so sorry. Don't know what's gotten into me." He was feverish with his apology, not wanting Niall to get any more offended than he already came off to be.

"Aye, aye. No fret, Lou. I know what games your good ol' noggin has been playin' on ya," Niall held his hands up in a joking manner, tapping Louis politely on his head for good measure. Niall was as irksome as any bloke could be, and that accent of his was intolerable, but he was a good lad. Always knew how to alleviate Louis off of his highs and lull him down when commodities like this transpired. In the last instance, Louis had completely forgotten where he was at. He had been out with Niall and another one of Niall's mates, and before he even started drinking, Louis was freaked out shouting about how he didn't know how he ended up at the snobbish bar.

That was only the third time Louis had one of his outbreaks around Niall, and it still shook the blonde male up. That was a few months ago, still, and since then, Niall had had plenty of time to inquire Louis what would be the most profitable thing to do if he was around when shit went down. 

Louis exhaled, particular baggage seeming like it was lifted off of him as he gave attention to Niall speaking. "Yeah, yeah. But you really did look like Zayn from over there," pestered Louis. "Truthfully." His inked hands were now stationed on the counter in front of him, fingers interlaced in an affluent position.

Niall shrugged him off, seeing himself to attend to the guests that were pooling in by the front door. The colorful banners made the posh walls and wooden floors loom, and it was such a breathtaking concept in Louis' eyes. (He was easily fascinated by the stupidest things.) (Like Harry Styles).

Louis has decided that Harry Styles was a ludicrous name, having said that. What person with an adequate mindset would willingly label their youngster that? Anne Twist, apparently.

Although he couldn't begin to pin Harry with a name that wasn't- well, Harry.

What a bastard.

Harry took every good gene that his parents had, which even canceled out the terrible genes passed to him. It was nauseating having to coincide in the same realm as Harry Styles.

Nothing about that seemed appealing to Louis.

The fucked thing was that Louis couldn't quite put a finger on how exactly he felt towards Harry. Half of him yearned to say that Harry made him want to perpetrate arson or thump his head against a wall, and the other half craved to have a morally romantic rapport with him.

No person should have to feel that way Louis felt with Harry.

Louis could realistically keep a conversation up and about with virtually anyone (if he applied himself), but that promptly altered the jiffy Harry became involved. He is more inclined to forget things when around Harry, and his hands get moist with sweat. It was proper humbling, for the scarcity of a better expression.

Why?

Literally, why was Louis the person that got to pleasure to chaperone the overly expressive, magnanimous, and erratic man-baby? He had not a solo notion as to why that was, so he just made do with what he had. No person (other than Harry) could guilelessly hold up that many favorable peculiarities without getting mentally infertile.

He wanted out of his head.

Fuck, what day was it?

He zoned back into sensibility almost faultlessly in time to give attention to Harry talking absolute rubbish about him to a man he had never caught a glimpse of before in his life.

"Just because you desperately want to get me naked and have me all to yourself does not mean I cannot live a little, Styles. Try it sometime," Louis hummed, instantly feeling the jolt of pain at his calf from Harry kicking it rather harshly, but then the familiar feeling of his leg against his. He hissed at the pain, returning the favor nonetheless. He, without a thought, stepped on his foot with a good amount of pressure.

"You fucking twat- That kind of hurt."

"Did it? I hadn't noticed."

Louis tossed his head back to divert himself from the disappearing discomfort in his calf. He ran his fingers through his own hair, peeping at Harry through a side grimace.

Harry was mildly fearful about if the kick did hurt that bad or if it was just Louis being theatrical. Harry did, frankly, look exceptionally desirable when he was concentrated, and Louis nurtured the way Harry's complexion looked while being so immersed.

Louis observed that Harry's brows crimped and raised, and his nose seamed. Louis let out a breathy chuckle as he inspected, strengthened to avert his eyes to something else if Harry aimed to make direct eye contact with him.

"You look pretty trying not to break for me, Styles. You'd also look pretty pounding me with your hands guiding my body. Know that?" That all the flamboyant Louis had to let out. Louis wanted to leave a modicum of toxicity in the air.

He turned his chair around to face Zayn's (yes, Louis was sure that this was actually Zayn this time), and locked eyes with him. They made notes to each other using some form of 'telekinesis', altogether understanding every facial articulation and glance given.

Zayn was clearly upset about how Louis was liquoring up too extensively and how Louis was in the cycle of having all of the leisure and left him out of it- which wasn't half false.

Louis had already gone off on his own.

Louis did already make out with four different sorority girls.

Louis did already do a keg-stand.

Zayn did none of that shit, only because he had lost Louis in the fucking crowd.

The event he would not flee from Zayn in the populace at is the perennial psychical analysis at the provincial clinic. It transpired every year, and with every check-up, his nerves got nastier. There was no particular reason for him to get worked up, but something about an exam that tells him whether or not he is authorized to play the sport that has gotten him through his unbroken life was nerve-wracking.

There wasn't anything hazardous that went down during the exam, either.

So, why he was scared of a harmless check-up, he couldn't tell you.

*

Harry's hands existed all over Louis essence as they got progressively more intoxicated, him not liking the idea of leaving any inch of Louis' body untouched or neglected. Louis was about as into it as Harry was, although he was considerably further trashed than him.

That lived until something inside of Louis clicked.

Harry hasn't touched anywhere Louis specified not to, but it just didn't feel okay anymore to have the hands of your hostile sensually on your body. "Get the fuck off me-" Louis blurted out, grabbing at Harry's wrists and throwing his hands off of him. Louis began again:

"Don't ever fucking touch me again, you dumb shit. I'll kill you."

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