Your Name is Tattooed on my Heart || L.S

Chapter Three

They’d been dating for barely five weeks, but already Liam and Zayn were basically living together. Which wasn’t really surprising because Liam was the type who fell fast and hard; every new boyfriend was a potential husband. Louis was the opposite; he was just as hopelessly romantic, but had yet to be in a relationship he thought might last forever. It was a bit early, in his opinion, to have Zayn sleeping over every single night. Of course, his reason for thinking so was that he’d been forced to clean his own bedroom until it was inhabitable for Niall to share. His rent had gone down, with Liam picking up the slack, and he didn’t mind sharing his space or his bed, but he hated being made to wash his dirty laundry on a regular basis (“The stink is going to make me puke, and when I do, I’ll do it all over your TOMS,” Niall had threatened).

Louis had to admit that it was worth it to see Liam so happy, and maybe he didn’t have room to talk, anyway. For the past two weeks, he and Harry had been practically inseparable. Niall had quit the tea shop to work at a pub, and Liam and Zayn were always off doing Liam and Zayn Things, so Harry was his main source of companionship. Any time their schedules aligned, they rode the bus together. It had already become strange to watch telly or go to the skip without Harry beside him, or to buy take-away without ordering enough for two. Sure, he had other friends that he could’ve easily spent his time with, but none of them were as fun as Harry. And sure, he could’ve invited Harry along while hanging out with those friends, but he wasn’t quite ready to share him. Louis liked monopolising Harry’s attention.

He was setting up dinner and beer on the coffee table when Harry walked in without knocking. He never knocked anymore, helped himself to anything in the fridge, replaced anything he finished, and sometimes Louis thought that Zayn and Harry’s flat had become little more than a storage space and a place for Harry to sleep. They never hung out there, not for any defined reason. It was just easier in his own flat, for Louis to control the urge to touch Harry.

Alright, Louis touched Harry all time. Poked his cheeks, petted his curls, threw an arm around him, snuggled him. But those were things he’d do to any friend; totally platonic. Pretty much platonic. Platonic enough to be acceptable. Okay, so he never touched his other friends quite like that but he totally would, maybe, if they had amazing curls like Harry’s that practically asked to be petted. It was all the decidedly non-platonic touching urges that Louis was determined to resist.

“I come bearing dessert,” Harry said, holding up a tube of cookie dough.

“Good lad!” Louis praised.

“Want it now, or should I pop it in the fridge?” Harry asked, already heading for the kitchen.

“Yeah, fridge,” Louis confirmed, opening the last of the containers for their take-away Thai feast.

Harry came back with a handful of napkins, anticipating Louis forgetting any, and they settled onto the sofa as the opening credits of The Great British Bake-Off played. Harry was a shameless food-thief, but Louis was a no holds barred food-sharer, so they made good table fellows. Louis didn’t mind when Harry finished the half-eaten spring roll he’d set aside for later, and Harry didn’t bat an eye when Louis’ chopsticks ventured into his green curry. Curled up on the sofa, when grains of sticky rice fell out of Louis’ talking mouth and landed on Harry’s thigh, Harry would simply pick them up and eat them, nodding along to Louis’ running commentary.

“FIFA or a movie?” Louis asked once the show was over.

“Up to you,” Harry said.

“Aren’t you sweet,” Louis cooed teasingly. “You always let me get my way.”

Harry replied just as saccharinely, “It’s worth it to see your smiling face.”

“This one?” Louis guessed, jutting out his jaw and crossing his eyes to pull a hideous expression.