Core 'ngrato [L.S]

Black Balloon

Zayn texts again—says he's in the restaurant already, waiting patiently for them. Of course he is. Zayn is always patient. Always thinking about something else and inhaling tobacco and sitting patiently. Or maybe it's not patience—maybe it's indifference. Or numbness.

Harry thinks he might be getting to that point.

He and Louis reach the door to the little dimly lit building, nestled amongst other tall, sturdy structures that line the street, and Harry's just about to pull the door open and send forth the rushes of warm air and sautéed meats, but then there's a small, cold hand on his arm, pressing just-firmly into his flesh.

Harry stops, turns around.

Louis looks upset.

"Maybe not tonight," Louis says. That's all he says.

Brow furrowing, Harry takes a step back, lets a smiling couple reach the door before them.

Harry's face doesn't change, too exhausted, too worn. "What are you talking about?" he asks without any inflection, still so hollow, so carved out. He's so tired, his limbs dragging him down. He feels trampled. Maybe like a trampled flower. Or a weed—probably a weed.

"Zayn. Maybe we shouldn't—maybe we shouldn't tell him who I am tonight. You know? It's just a lot, you know?"

And, oh, of course. Of course.

Here Louis is, Louis, and he's finally here, right? He's finally here and Harry's seeing him, in the flesh. And what does he want to do?

He wants to deny who he is. Deny who they are—or were, or whatever—and he's pretending is all he's doing. He can't even fucking tell Harry's best fucking mate that he's the one that's fucked Harry up so colossally and he's saying it all with a twitchy expression and furrowed brows and a throat that works so gently when he swallows, fingers twisting into his jumper that swallows him whole. He's barely meeting Harry's eye.

Which comes as no surprise—he's basically spelling it out for the world. Spelling in great, capital letters: 'I WANT NOTHING TO DO WITH HARRY STYLES.'

And below, in small, scratchy, chaotic print is Harry's scrawl: 'My life is monopolised by Louis Tomlinson. I am a prisoner to his existence. A prisoner by my own right, my own will.' Or, in other words: 'I am fucking pathetic.'

It twists Harry's gut.

"Please?" Louis then adds, hopeful and sincere and near begging and, fuck, he's begging? He's begging for Harry to lie, to erase their history.

Harry's going to be sick.

But he laughs instead, cold and dry and jaded. He looks down at Louis, looks him dead in the eye.

"When have I ever said no to you?" he questions bitterly, but his pain seeps through, his quiet, morose longing tinges the tips of the words. "Of course I won't tell him. Not if you don't want to."

And with that Harry opens the door, walks inside without looking back.

*

The restaurant is loud and stuffy.

And Harry is numb.

"Have a good day?" Zayn asks, arms folded on the table. He's got a ratty black Nirvana t-shirt on, the yellow letters peeled and fading, the torn fabric barely clinging to his bony shoulders and sharp collarbones. He's clipped his beard it seems—it's more scruffy than forestry and it softly peppers his caramelised cheeks and adamantium bones.

Adamantium.

That's a word that Harry would never have known without Louis and his endless knowledge about...comics, or whatever. He's probably never used that word before, probably wouldn't have been able to tell you what the fuck that meant two years ago and here it is, springing up randomly into his thoughts and making sense.