next to you ❀ l.s.

twenty four - why i hate saturdays

Three days.

Three days apart was all it took.

The tips of Harry's ears burnt red hot with embarrassment. The bar was loud and overwhelming, and he stuck as close to Niall as he could as they all made their way toward an open booth in the back. Louis was telling Liam some animated story about the research project Stan was working on for his major -- a failing attempt to portray the other boy in a better light, if the unimpressed expression on Liam's face gave Harry any clues about his opinions on Stan.

"Harry," Niall prodded as they slid into the circle-shaped booth. "You're quiet tonight. Alright?"

"I'm alright. Just a bit overwhelmed," he said. At least he was being partly honest.

Niall angled his body more toward Harry, turning his head so that the other boys wouldn't be able to catch what he said. "Louis and Stan have a super complicated history," he spoke softly into Harry's ear. Harry had barely taken his eyes off of the other two boys since they walked in, so it was easy to tell what he was worrying about. "I don't know what the fuck is happening, but don't take it personally, alright?"

It was impossible not to take this sort of abrupt rejection personally, but Harry nodded, his eyes still trained on the pair, sitting just across the table. Stan sat a bit too close to Louis for Harry's liking, but his jealousy felt unjustified and misplaced. Louis wasn't his, and he wasn't Louis's.

He thought that having Louis back would make everything go back to normal, but instead, Harry wanted even more to sink straight through the floor.

"I'm going after some drinks," Louis announced, clapping his hands together to get everyone's attention. He glanced at Stan, halfway hoping he would offer to come help. He didn't.

"I'll come with you," Liam said. The other boy sent Harry a look that Louis couldn't decipher before sliding out of the booth, following Louis through the growing crowd.

"How was your Thanksgiving?" Louis asked once they reached the bar. It was quieter there, but they still had to raise their voices a bit more than usual to be heard clearly.

"Good," Liam replied. "Harry cooked, and you know how good his cooking is."

Louis nodded, swallowing the lump in his throat. "Yeah, yeah. Really good."

His entire mind felt like a mess. At home, his feelings for Stan had flooded back like a tsunami wave, strong and undeniable (and destructive, if he thought too hard about it -- so he didn't). Those feelings stretched out to touch every single corner of his shattered heart. But now, as he glanced back through the crowd at Harry, who sat quietly at the booth chewing on his lower lip, his chest felt tight in a completely different way.

"How was your --" Liam cut himself off, shaking his head to silently scold himself. "Actually, fuck that. Care to tell me what the hell is going on?"

Louis blinked, forcing himself to tear his gaze away from Harry. "Sorry?"

"What's going on? What happened while you were at home? Why the fuck would you agree to let Stan come back here with you?" Liam rattled off questions like a wind-up toy that had been wound a few too many times. "You two are friends now? More than friends? What gives?"

"We're friends! And it's only for a few days," Louis defended himself and Stan. The bartender slid them their drinks without interrupting the heated conversation, and Louis thanked him briefly. Neither of them made a move to head back to the table.

"You haven't spoken to him in months, and rightly so! How did he weasel his way back in?"

"He didn't 'weasel his way in,' Liam," Louis replied, his tone clipped and irritated. His brow scrunched with annoyance at his friend's clear implication that he was being manipulated.