Larry Stylinson ~ Poor Little Rich Boy AU

17.

Chapter Seventeen:

AN: I’m sorry…

He let himself into Harry’s room trying not to look either guilty or too nonchalant, but an appropriate mix of both, and to his surprise, Harry didn’t appear to be in it, although the open and half-packed suitcase had his stomach tightening with unease. Shrugging, Louis sat on the edge of Harry’s bed and started swinging his legs absentmindedly, waiting for Harry to return from wherever he’d gone.

The door of the en suite bathroom opened far too quickly, the confrontation coming far faster than Louis would have liked, and Harry came wandering out with damp hair wearing jeans, a loose hoodie and carrying toothpaste, a facecloth and a towel in his arms. When he spotted Louis, he stopped dead, his cheeks flushed, and Louis saw that although he’d clearly had a shower to try and clean himself up a bit, his eyes were red, eyelashes spiky, and Louis could see from his trembling lower lip that he’d been crying. He could also see from the way Harry’s jaw suddenly flexed that he was extremely worked up, and he didn’t know whether that was going to take the form of anger or just sporadic crying.

The silence stretched between them and Louis quickly worked out that Harry’s reaction was going to be tailored accordingly to how he initiated the conversation, so he decided to tread very carefully. He also decided to dive straight in there – like ripping a plaster off, it was better to just get it over with so that the stinging faded quicker.

“Hey,” he said softly.

Apparently, that was completely the wrong response, because Harry’s whole face darkened and he stalked forwards, screwing the towel up into a ball, slammed it into the suitcase and then turned on him. He was shaking, with a depth of emotion that Louis had never even known could find a place on Harry’s usually calm face, and Louis anxiously resisted the urge to back away from him – it didn’t take a genius to work out that Harry would be even more infuriated by that.

“Is that all you can say? The most eloquent thing you can think of? The only thing that’s come into your head that you feel you should say? Hey.” Harry’s mouth contorted around the word, and Louis wasn’t sure whether he was more terrified or turned on to hear Harry’s voice sound so bitter and twisted.

His teeth sunk into his lower lip as he asked quietly, “What would you have me say instead?”

Harry gave a short, humourless laugh, and his nostrils flared with barely restrained rage. “How about, ‘hey there, summer project’? Or even better… ‘what’s up, fifty-pound fuck’?” And then all of a sudden, he lost his hold on the simmering anger that had been the only thing keeping him from acknowledging just how hurt he had been by those thoughtless, awful words, and his eyes were wet, his vision blurring like he’d borrowed someone’s glasses and shoved them onto his nose. His instinct was to wipe them away, but he held his head high and kept his hands by his side; he had very little left in the way of pride, but he was holding on to the tatters of whatever dignity he had left; he wouldn’t give Louis the dignity of seeing him wipe away his tears.

Louis’ mouth fell open. “Oh, God.”

“Funny,” Harry said viciously, “That was what I said. When I was letting you make love to me, or at least, that’s what I thought you were doing. Makes me feel quite ridiculous now. There’s nothing loving about what we did. Did you have a good laugh afterwards? Did you let me give you everything I had and thenlaugh?” He was trembling, and God, it was the most awful, heartbreaking sight Louis had ever seen. “You do realize that I never even kissed anyone before you, I didn’t think I ever would. I didn’t realize I could feel this way about anyone. And you took everything I had, and then you scampered off to collect your betting money.”