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.

"Louis!" someone calls then, voice loud through the crowd of people. It's Stan, towing a group of people with him, Oli the only one Louis can make out in the moment.

Louis doesn't react, but suddenly Harry turns around, eyes skimming the crowd and then they're locked on him. Their gazes meet. Confusion tumbles over Louis, because Harry looks so unsure where he's standing. His eyes flicker, filled with uncertainty and apprehension. He looks awkward, shuffling on his feet, perhaps even shy. Louis can't look away.

Harry does, tearing his eyes from Louis quickly and turning back to his friends. His shoulders are still stiff, Louis can tell.

Stan and the rest settle down around him on the couch, Louis looking up to find Jasmine by his side. She smiles, and Louis tries not to display how uncomfortable he is.

"No need to look like you want to run away. I know you're not into me. I'm over it."

Louis swallows, trying to force away the inebriation from his bones. "Really?"

"Yes, silly. I know where I'm not wanted." She giggles prettily—maybe she's somewhat affected by the alcohol, too. Louis' eyes stay locked on her mouth, her lipstick color the only thing he can focus on now that Harry's not facing him anymore. The color is dark purple, matches her dark eye shadow and black blouse. She notices his gaze. "Are you okay, sweetie? Have you been drinking much?"

"Yes," he says, but he isn't sure to what he's answering. Her hand sifts into his hair, the touch oddly comforting as he tries to fight the alcohol in his system.

"Louis, honestly," Stan says, cooing, only partly sarcastic. "You're an adorable drunk." The boys laugh, and Louis would roll his eyes if he didn't currently lack of eye-coordination. If that's a thing.

"Somebody get him a kiss. He deserves one," someone else says. "He scored the goal and he looks so bloody miserable. Someone cheer him up." It's possibly Oli. Or Lee. Or anyone.

"I don't need one," Louis says, still trying to focus on the color of Jas' lipstick. He doesn't want to pass out.

"Everybody needs a kiss!" Stan proclaims. "Claire? Where's Claire? There you are! Kiss, please?"

Louis didn't know there was a Claire around. But, diner. He thinks of the diner.

Stan gets a kiss. The girl is seems rather adoring of him. Louis has a weak thought that he would applaud if he had the energy.

"Louis, now you go!"

"He's drunk, you fucking idiot," Jasmine chastises Stan, who isn't very sober either.

"On the cheek then."

Louis glances over at Harry's group. He wishes he would come and get him. He quietly hopes Harry will see how out of place he feels, walk over and rescue him. Harry probably wouldn't even do that if Louis hadn't kissed him. He would steer clear of Jasmine.

Louis continues to look at the other boy. As if by some miracle, Harry turns around and stares back at him. Once again their gazes meet, but this time Harry's eyes darken almost instantly. It confuses Louis at first, but then he feels the press of lips against his cheek. He's fairly sure it's Jasmine.

Louis wants to say something. He wants to stand, walk over to him and tell him he's the only one. One and only. For the moment he doesn't care that Harry didn't like that he kissed him on the footie pitch; he just wants to Harry to know he doesn't care about Jasmine. But Harry has turned around, and he's swiftly pacing away. He disappears down the stairs, Louis still able to see the way his eyes burned.

Maybe he's just drunk, but he suddenly doesn't understand. Why does Harry care that she kissed his cheek? He doesn't love Louis. He's not in love with him, he doesn't want Louis the way Louis wants him.

But then, of course he's angry. He hates Jasmine. Perhaps Harry doesn't love him, but that does not mean he doesn't (didn't?) consider Louis his friend. Because they were friends, weren't they? They talked. They took care of each other. Louis loves Harry. Louis loves Harry so much he feels like he's going to rip apart—hence the miserable, drunken pining.

"I need to go," Louis mumbles to his friends.

"Somebody take him to the bathroom," Lee says, frowning. "He doesn't look good."

Louis is grateful when he feels a pair of hands hoisting him up, securely keeping him upright. The person leads him through the room, someone else directing them to a bedroom down the hall, the opposite direction of the stairs. Louis wants to tell them to help him to Harry, but he can't. Harry is probably gone anyway.

"This way." The door to the room opens with a key, the hands firmly helping him inside. "Bathroom is over there."

The lights in the bathroom are too bright, making him squint and blink rapidly. He's set down in front of the toilet, a soft hand brushing his fringe from his eyes. "It's okay."

"Lime?" Louis asks.

"Yes, Lou. You'll feel better once you've gotten that shit out of your stomach."

"Don't wanna." He hates puking. "Can't."

"Yes, you do. I promise it'll be fine."

"Help."

Liam, lovely and fucking gross Liam, grips Louis' neck presses two fingers into his mouth. Louis doesn't need more than the brush against the roof of his mouth, before his stomach starts heaving. It's horrible and he hates it, spluttering, unable to breathe for long moments. It feels as though it goes on for ages, until finally he only can dry-heave poignantly.

He feels gross. Pathetic.

"Can't believe you stuck your fingers down my throat," Louis rasps, coughing, still spluttering. The corners of his eyes are watery, and he feels practically boneless.

"Love you, mate, " Liam chuckles, probably already having washed his hands thoroughly.

"Love you," Louis replies, tired and hopeless.

"Let's wash you off." Liam gets a soaked towel and starts cleaning his face, softly brushing it around his mouth and cheeks. Louis lets him manhandle him out of his shirt, helping him into the bedroom again.

"Hey."

"Hi. He's alright. Just tired, I think? Can we put him here?"

"Of course."

Lipstick. Jasmine.

Louis has never been so grateful for a bed. Liam tucks him in, putting his head against the pillow and pulls the covers over his shoulders. Louis could sleep for a year.

Liam leaves soon, giving him a wave and tells him to try to remember to call him in the morning. Louis' not sure if he will, but nods tiredly against the pillow. He's about to close his eyes when he feels the bed shift. Jasmine's still sitting at the end, legs crossed and arms wrapped around her stomach. She is starting to get up, but abruptly, Louis can't let her.

"Jas," he says, voice throaty and sore. She stops from getting off the bed, sitting back down and meeting his eyes, her own looking possibly exhausted. "Why does Harry hate you?"

He can't help it. He has to ask.

He's surprised when she looks down, shoulders suddenly hunching in obvious distress. For a moment it seems like she isn't going to answer, but then she sighs, a sound that makes Louis' chest feel tight. Her voice is low, almost a whisper, but not quite. "I did something."

Louis blinks. "What did you do?" he asks, voice barely a sound due to the hoarseness.

She turns to look at him, regarding him carefully for a moment despite how vulnerable she looks. "You've got a thing don't you?" she asks, voice soft.

Louis' mouth opens, but nothing comes out. Jasmine doesn't wait for an answer, already knowing it. She looks away, eyes on the door leading out of the room. "We used to be friends, you know," she says instead, voice vapid. "Like, proper. Then in sophomore year we started dating."

Internally, Louis winces. It feels kind of sick, thinking the two of them have been with the same boy. That Harry has been with anyone else but him at all, really. It's fucked up, but in his head, Harry is his. Nobody knows him like Louis, and nobody knows Louis like Harry does. They're each other's person. Harry is Louis' boy, the only one who seems to be able to repair all the shatters in his head.

"Well," she continues, stuttering uncomfortably. "We broke up pretty soon. You can relax, Lou. Nothing... happened between us." She bites her lip. "'Cause... erm. He—couldn't, you know."

Oh.

Oh.

"It was a pretty hard blow, you know? And just the fact that it wasn't me, but that he's... gay. Imagine dating someone and realizing they weren't really themselves with you?" She shakes her head, pursing her lips.

Louis doesn't know what to say.

"I guess I was stupidly in love and heartbroken," she whispers. "And then I... told him I'd tell everyone." Her voice turns into a whimper as she speaks, sounding utterly miserable.

Louis looks up at her where she's sitting by his side. Her hair is falling over her shoulder, hiding her face as she stares at her hands in her lap.

"I'm not proud, not at all. Sophomore year me didn't have fucking clue to anything." She chuckles, but it sounds sad. "I was a bitch. What I did was really hurtful, especially since we were friends. I was supposed to, you know, help him through it. Not even sure he understood why he couldn't do it when it happened." Her lips press down into a firm line, before she says, "He hates me now. To this day won't forgive me."

It's a lot to take in.

"He told me you went after me to get to him."

"At first, maybe. The first time I said hi to you, he and I had had a fight. It was a new year, new times, you know? I wanted him to forgive me, but of course he wouldn't. So, I guess I tried to befriend you to irk him, because he used to hate you." She looks at Louis, meeting his eyes seriously. "I changed my mind. You're all... no offense, but you've got a load of shit surrounding you it seems, so I didn't want to make things worse for you." Her lip twitches, smiling just a little. "Also, I kind of like you, as a friend, perhaps. But you like Harry, and he hates me."

"So we can't be friends," Louis murmurs, and she nods. Louis' entire face feels heavy to uphold. "Harry's mad at me, too."

"Why?"

"Kissed him. He doesn't feel the same. We just..." He lifts his hand, then lets it land heavily on the bed again.

She's quiet for a moment. "Are you sure about that?"

Louis doesn't answer, only lays his head back on the pillow. He feels her hand patting his back softly.

"I've been mean to you. Mostly because of Harry."

"I don't care. Clean slate?"

"Yeah," he whispers.

She nods, giving his back a last stroke. She stands from the bed, sighs, heading for the door.

Louis' chest suddenly tightens, a miserable feeling grabbing hold inside him. "Can you stay?"

"What?" She stops by the door, hand on the knob.

"I hate sleeping alone now when... you know."

She smiles, properly this time, eyes crinkling. "You're sweet, Louis, but Harry wouldn't like it one bit."

No, he would not.

"You sleep here. I'll let you stay until tomorrow, even have some breakfast before you leave."

"Thanks."

He closes his eyes as she quietly closes the door, and he thinks he can hear her locking it from the outside so that no drunkies will stumble inside.

Louis lies down.

What she did was bad. Pretty fucking mean, frankly. Louis understands why Harry's hurt and angry. On the other hand, it was two years ago, and as far as he knows she hasn't told a soul.

It's their shit, he decides. Louis can't deal with more. But, he won't be friends with her if Harry wants him, perhaps even if he doesn't. Fuck, Louis would do anything for him. Anything at all. If only the other boy would talk to him.

He doesn't understand. He thought they were on the same level. The shocked expression on his face when Louis kissed him shouldn't have been there. Hell, only seconds before Harry was looking at him like he hung the moon. (If he wanted, Louis would bring him a fucking star. Or maybe just buy him one. He's heard you can do that.)

He's fucking hurt. And confused. Harry reacting like that was completely off the charts. What did he do wrong? Nobody even saw it.

Louis falls asleep, chest churning with worry.

**

In the morning, Louis wakes up with a head pounding like a fucking bongo drum. It's annoying, is what it is. Somebody might as well pick up a loudhailer and breathe through it into his ear incessantly for two hours straight. He's going to punch the first person he sees today.

As it is, the first person he sees is Jasmine. His head is throbbing as he makes his way downstairs. He wasn't able to find the shirt he wore the night before, feeling awkward as he sneaks towards the front door in only his jeans. He smells disgusting, too.

There are remnants of the house party everywhere; plastic cups in every corner and on every table, empty packs of cigarettes, furniture disarrayed. When he passes the kitchen—which is placed similarly to Louis' house by the front door—he's stopped by the sound of the tap running in the sink.

"What are you standing there for?" Jasmine asks, and Louis turns around, finding her with a bowl of waffle mixture. Her dark hair is in a bun, Abercrombie & Fitch sweats and an old grey t-shirt on. She looks somewhat like a female version of Harry, and Louis thinks if he were into girls (which doesn't seem to be the case) he'd be attracted to her.

"Was going to sneak out," he says truthfully.

"Hmm, too bad. I was making waffles."

Louis is ravenous, stomach completely empty and growlingly craving substance. He doesn't want to linger here, though. He wants to go home and fill his veins with Advil.

He doesn't know what to say. He clears his throat. "Can't find my shirt."

"I'll find it and put it in the wash," she shrugs. "You'll get it back."

"Alright," Louis says awkwardly. "Alright."

He nods to himself before he leaves, opening the front door to be met by a tepid morning breeze. It's already warm, despite only being the end of April. His nipples harden against the breeze, but other than that he's fine as he leaves the house, traipsing down the stone path. He isn't entirely sure where he parked his car the previous night, but it can't be far away. He starts looking, heading down the street.

His phone starts buzzing after ten minutes, which is also when he realizes that he didn't even drive to the party last night. He caught a ride with Oli. Christ. He turns around, realizing he's going to have to hike home. Might as well start walking then.

"Hullo," he answers his phone, shoes scraping against the asphalt.

"Are you still drunk, mate?"

"Oh, hey." Louis clears his throat, shaking his head to try to shake himself awake. The sun still feels too bright for his eyes. "Were you there last night, Ni?" he wonders in confusion.

"Nah, although Zayn told me you were pretty messed up."

"Right. Zayn," Louis mumbles. He didn't know he was there either.

"Yep."

They're silent for a moment. "Can I ask you something?" Louis asks as he treks. He feels a bit strange strolling about the area, half naked on a Saturday morning.

"Sure." Niall's voice is easy, just like it used to be when they were close friends. Maybe they still are.

"Why did you become friends with him?" The question should be loaded, should bring on an awkward silence filled with tension. It doesn't. When Niall answers he seems composed.

"Louis," he says calmly. "I have to admit something to you."

"Okay?" Louis frowns.

"I've known Zayn for a while."

"A while?"

"Like, since sophomore year."