Where We Belong

Chapter 9

Soon as he reaches home, he sticks his phone in the charger and starts to pace the floor around it, just waiting for it to light up again.

Once it does, it's with a roar of beeps and buzzes.

H - did you leave?

H - where are you?

H - just tell me ur all right

H - where the fuck are you

He's also called seven times. Louis takes a deep breath, mustering up the courage, because an angry Harry is never one he looks forward to dealing with, especially not when he knows it's justified, and calls him back.

"Where the hell are you?"

"At home. Took the train."

"Right. Okay. Fuck- good. And you're all right?"

"Yes, I'm fine."

Long sigh. Then silence. Then; "okay... well. Right, well, good." He sounds pissed.

"Are you angry with me?"

"No."

Louis presses his forehead to the wall. "Just tell me if you are, I understand and- look, I'm really sorry I just—"

"Louis. I've been stuck in Sheffield for the past three hours because I couldn't leave before I knew where the hell you were. Now I just really want to get home. I'm gonna get driving now, I've gotta go."

Oh god. "Oh, I'm sorry, shit, Haz, I didn't think about—"

"Look, I can't talk right now."

And before Louis has a chance to blabber on some more, he hangs up.

Right. Fuck.

Louis stands around with his head against the wall for another moment, trying to collect himself and calm down. Then he accepts the fact that it's impossible, and decides to take all that nervous energy and make himself useful.

The flat isn't bad. Louis usually only makes a mess in the bedroom, mainly clothes, tea-mugs, the odd half-eaten kebab on a plastic-plate, and Harry never makes a mess of much in the flat except for his writing corner - coffee-cups, gum-wrappers, papers with random brainstorms and notes and doodles strewn around the floor. Lately, his writing corner's been terribly clean, just like the pages on his Word-sheets. It takes Louis a few minutes to clean up the entire living area, swipe surfaces and adjust cushions and puff up pillows. It takes him no time in the kitchen, because the only "dishes" they have standing out are empty take-out boxes.

It takes him twenty seconds to gather all of his own clothes off the bedroom floor and throw it in the fuckin' hamper Louis, it's right there, and then an additional few minutes changing the bedsheets.

Once he's done with the clean-up, he realises he's only spent fifteen minutes cleaning in total.

He means to go and cook something up and wrap it in foil and put it in the fridge for Harry. He means to take a shower and not soil the fresh sheets with his dirty pants and stinky pits. He means to stay up until Harry reaches home, face him tonight instead of leaving it till tomorrow, apologise and rub his shoulders and ask him how he's feeling in a soothingly soft voice.

He means to do all of that, but then he doesn't. He falls asleep on top of the sheets and doesn't wake until noon the following day.

*

He's lucky it's a Sunday, because he isn't sure Harry would've woken him in time for work if it weren't. He's still in yesterday's clothes, his neck hurts like fuck from having dozed off on his belly with his head twisted weirdly, and he smells so bad he can actually smell himself.