I Want You So Much (But I Hate Your Guts)

Chapter 13

So life went on. Relentlessly so.

University had started up again, as had the football practices every weekday afternoon, and Louis tried to lose himself in the rush of it. He shone in all his classes, because although he was usually too shy to actually raise his hand and contribute to the discussions except for when he was forced to, now that he had worked ahead he felt confident enough to share his knowledge. Blunders like him not being up to date with the readings didn't happen anymore.

Football was going well for him, too. Coach had just this afternoon announced the players that would be starting in the next game, coming up the following Saturday in Bournemouth. Louis had his position as left forward save once again and he was sure he didn't imagine that the glares Ryan Johnson, his rival for the spot, sent his way were growing increasingly more vicious. Louis made sure to avoid bumping into him in the locker rooms, just to be sure.

As he was sitting bent over his Russian History textbook, Russian History being a new module he picked this semester, and highlighted sections relevant for the short essay he was supposed to hand in a few weeks from now, Louis' realised he couldn't keep his mind on Napoleon's invasion of Moscow. He blamed it on exhaustion — even if his day hadn't been anything out of the usual, just a class in the morning and then regular training from two to four p.m. He couldn't tell what left him so beaten down today, but he knew there wasn't much use in half-arsing his preparation if he'd only have to work through it all over again.

He closed his book with the highlighter stuck in the pages, ready to continue his work tomorrow where he left off today, and made quick work of changing his clothes and crawling into the unmade heap of blankets on his bed.

Fiddling around on his phone for a while before shutting off the lights, Louis couldn't help himself as his fingers hovered over Harry's name in his contacts. He didn't even want to call, because who calls people anyway, what does one say? Just staring at the set picture was enough. It was a boring photo Louis had taken from the team's website, where all of the A-B team's players were listed meticulously, because he and Harry had never come around to taking pictures of each other, with each other. They had never come around to doing loads of stuff and Louis huffed in frustration and misery when he conceded to the truth that none of that would change anytime soon. He didn't even get a proper date, some fancy dinner or childish snogging in the back of a cinema before he stumbled into bed with Harry. Not that he blamed Harry for any of that, obviously. But knowing that Harry would have made such an effort to woo him, to give him nice things, make lovely memories to hold onto, hurt even more, so he didn't let his mind wander down that particular road to ruin.

Falling asleep with the generic picture (that wasn't in any way private or special, but on a website up for the whole world to see and admire) lit up on the screen wasn't one of Louis' prouder moments.

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Surprisingly, Louis didn't feel much better or any more rested the next morning, though he managed to catch an astounding nine hours of uninterrupted sleep, which was a rarity for him.

He didn't think much of it, but in retrospect he knows he should have clued in on the signs and really, fucking up the way he did wasn't anyone's fault but his own.

As in the previous semester, Louis didn't have any classes to attend on Fridays, so he had the entire morning free to himself and only had to turn up to footy practice later on. Since he didn't feel at all up for homework, his head feeling stuffy, he decided to do this week's laundry and stop by the shops to pick up some milk and instant ramen noodles.

Needless to say with his lack of motivation he didn't get much more done than the bare minimum. The day had sucked from its very first minute onwards, and not even various cups of Yorkshire tea could do anything to change that fact, get his system going.