Unbelievers (NOT MY OG STORY)

Chapter 9

Louis is drunk, and heavily so. He's got a feeling that he passed his consuming limit a while ago, stomach queasy and head almost spinning. He closes a hand over his mouth, breathing hot air into it to try to stifle himself.

The music is pounding, Jasmine's house full of people. He shouldn't have come, honestly. People are looking at him, certainly knowing he's far gone where he sits in the corner of the living room on the second floor. He's on a couch, eyelids drooping. He's fairly certain the people he was talking to—surely some time ago now—have left their spots next to him. He guesses he was too drunk to keep the conversation flowing.

He can't lean back on the couch because then his stomach would to convulse, his head already swimming. He keeps resting on his hand, his elbows digging into his own thighs as he watches the scene play out before him.

Harry is playing beer pong. He's smiling, shirt lifted to show off his stomach, the hem tucked into the neckline and shaping his shirt into some sort of bra. The hickey Louis sucked below his bellybutton is gone, and neither are there any other marks visible on him, showcasing that Louis has touched him, felt him, had him buried inside himself.

They haven't talked since the game, properly. Or at all. Louis can still see the look of utter shock on Harry's face as Louis leaned in and pressed their lips together, if only chastely.

Louis played it off. It was just an impulse of a victorious moment. All the lads were hugging and kissing each other—perhaps not on the mouth, but nobody really caught on anyway. Only, Harry looked like his life was flashing before his eyes, and Louis thought he was going to puke at the sudden realization of Harry's rejection.

Just thinking of it now makes another wave of nausea wash over him. He squeezes his eyes shut, only for a second. He should find his way to a bathroom, and sooner rather than later.

There's a loud laugh—Harry. Louis instantly opens his eyes, succumbing to how deeply his body is aching for him. Harry just won the BP round together with Ed it seems, and they're triumphantly cheering. Louis doesn't even know if Harry knows he's here, watching him. There are loads of people in the room, and Louis is keeping a fair distance, but not too far.

He misses him. It's been almost a week. The match was on Sunday, and this is the fifth day since. Louis hasn't dared to call or text, and Harry hasn't made a move to contact him either. In the locker room at practice they're tense, dancing around each other, scared of making eye contact. It only feels worse each day.

Louis is fairly certain. Harry has understood that Louis has feelings for him, and now he's awkward. He doesn't feel the same. It's evident. Louis remembers how awkwardly they parted, brushing off their kits before jogging to take their positions to play off the last bit of the match. Louis could barely celebrate the victory afterwards, anxiety taking over entirely.

In a way he supposes this moment was inevitable. In some way, eventually they would have had to figure out what they're doing together. Now, Louis knows that it isn't a romantic thing. He's just glad he never sat down and told the other boy how far fucking gone he is for him.

Louis sits up a little straighter as Harry walks over to group of lads, now standing closer to Louis than before. He's still exposing his lovely belly, his beautiful little love-handles on display for Louis as his back faces him. The dimples there are prominent, and Louis can still perfectly picture how he looked when golden glitter was snowing down across the small of his back.

Louis wants to hold him. He wants to touch, kiss him, feel him and especially his soft, soft skin against his fingertips.

Over by the other wall, Harry's hand settles on someone's waist. Louis accidentally kicks a beer bottle, and it falls over on the floor. The touch is innocent, only lasts for a second, but for that moment Louis only sees green.