Collision; Larry

4.

”I hate Harry Styles,” is the first thing Louis says when he sits down beside Eleanor at lunch the following day.

“Congratulations,” Eleanor says, raising an eyebrow. Louis sighs exasperatedly.

“No, you don’t understand. I genuinely hate him. It’s a thing now. It’s a new day, the sun is shining, birds are chirping, and I hate Harry Styles. He’s a… He’s a toad.”

“Could almost be sent to the Underworld with that language.” Eleanor quips with an eyeroll. “So when exactly did this change of opinion occur?”

Louis huffs. “Yesterday when he broke into my dorm and was a jerk to Camron.”

Eleanor’s brow furrows immediately, and she redirects all her attention from having been split between Louis and her lunch to being nailed to Louis, expression alarmed.

“He broke into your dorm? What do you mean he ‘broke into your dorm’?”

“Well.” Louis purses his lips as his mind unwillingly travels back to yesterday’s happenings. “He was running around in the hallway outside. He’d taken Camron’s cane, you know Camron, right? One-legged dwarf, very sympathetic, would never hurt a fly?”

“Yeah, course,” Eleanor gestures for him to continue.

Louis cracks his knuckles, straightens his back, and dives directly into the story.

“Okay. So there I am in my room, minding my own business, trying to study like the great student I am, when all of a sudden, voices are heard from the hallway outside.”

Eleanor just barely manages to suppress another eye roll at her friend’s theatricality, but she nods, still all ears.

“It sounds like some kind of fight. And you know, I'm heavily considering going out there in all my pride and glory and stop everything, but then I’d have to break the rules because we couldn’t leave, right, which doesn’t really fit well with me being a good student. So I’m obviously torn between two choices, totally clueless which way to go—”

“Louis?”

“Yes?”

“Your inner heroic struggles are truly moving but I would love it if you could cut to the chase just a little bit. I genuinely just want to know what happened.”

Louis huffs. “Whatever. Pardon me for trying to paint the scene accurately.”

Eleanor doesn’t get to answer, because Louis is on a roll and he doesn’t like to be interrupted for longer than absolutely necessary.

“Anyway, so I'm in my bed contemplating whether to save the day or save myself, when someone screams right outside my door and then suddenly—without the door ever opening—someone is standing inside my room. You’ll never guess who it is.”

“Hades?” Eleanor mutters. Louis doesn’t care.

“Harry Styles,” he says, upper lip curling slightly, “is standing, back against my door, snickering like some possessed little child. And I’m obviously startled, so I’m like ‘what are you doing in my room?’, and he turns to me as if he hasn’t even realized someone else lives in there, and—”

He stops himself momentarily, biting his lip. Eleanor still doesn’t know about the creeping incident, and Louis is not about to be the first one to tell her. No way. She’s not going to have that pleasure.

“—And I’m like ‘what on ear7th were you doing out there?’ and he just pulls this cocky smirk and tells me he’s having a bit of fun. Fun, Eleanor, can you believe it?”