Larry Stylinson Oneshots

i'm a moon at midnight

Author: blizzies

Summary: where harry gives and never takes and louis throws pieces of paper into his hair during class and there's a stranger leaving harry gifts on his
doorstep.

___

harry can’t say no.

and it’s not that he doesn’t try, because he does. when nick asked him to organize the gala as a favor, he’d tried so hard, he’d gotten out the ‘n’, had pushed for the rest of the ‘no’, but it had somehow ended with a ‘yeah, yes, okay’ instead of an ‘o’ like the way most no’s are. and when zayn asked for a few pounds because he was low on funds but needed another cigarette, he’d managed to get the whole ‘no’ out, but it had somehow ended with an ‘okay’ and a lighter wallet in his pocket. and when the bartender called him at two in the morning a few nights ago, saying niall was yelling his name, saying ‘harry will take me home! harry will! he always does, mate! just call harry! he’s the best!’, harry tried to say no, tried to tell zayn to do it instead. but in the end it was harry who drove the full hour it took to get to the pub niall was at and drove niall home, tucked him in bed with water and an aspirin on the nightstand. when he’d gotten home, he only had an hour of sleep before him until class which led to him falling asleep in the middle of his law exam, receiving an obnoxious looking F in return.

and maybe, he’s getting tired of saying yes.

—

it’s a week after nick’s gala, the eighth time in twelve days niall’s needed a ride home from a random pub, the two hundred and eighteenth pound harry’s lent zayn even though he knows it’s two hundred and eighteen pounds he’ll never get back, a week since he’s seen lux, a whole four days since he’d lent his ipod to tom who returned it to him shattered and unable to turn on, and harry’s stumbling into class with bags under his eyes and a set frown on his lips.

as harry settles into his seat, a raspy whisper comes from behind him, warm air flushing against the back of his neck, “you’re later than usual.”

it’s louis.

it’s always louis. louis who laughs when harry trips. louis who throws stupid, tiny pieces of paper into harry’s hair during class. louis who never calls him harry, always harold or curly or whatever it is he feels like that day. louis who kicks the back of his seat and smiles brightly when he turns around to tell him to stop. louis who is rich and athletic and a perfect little prat whose favorite hobbies include pissing harry off whilst simultaneously looking great doing it. it's always louis. and harry's pretty sure he hates him. he's sure. pretty sure.

“harry, mate, you look exhausted.” this time it’s liam, who doesn’t ever ask for anything less than maybe his soul.

harry shrugs, “niall needed a ride home. was piss drunk again.”

and liam frowns, “that’s too bad, mate.”

and it’s like that often. everyone sympathizes with harry, but never lifts a finger to help. not even liam who seems to be made of charitable acts and saving puppies or something. and that’s okay most of the time, but maybe harry’s a little tired of being the only one who drives niall home or the only one who skips a meal because he gave his lunch money to zayn.

as class starts, harry thinks he hears louis whisper, “the hell? s’the eighth time this month.” but shrugs, because really, what would louis know about harry?

—

there’s a box sitting on harry’s doormat wrapped sloppily in bright red wrapping paper with an ugly, not at all complimenting yellow daisy sitting on top.