Unbelievers

Chapter 7

There's a voicemail on Louis' phone when he wakes up. Harry is still fast asleep by his side as Louis brings the phone to his ear to listen to it, eyes still droopy and body heavy with sleep.

"Yooo!" the voice says. It turns out it's from Niall. It's from last night. "You, Louis, you ditched me today. Right from school, ye fucking ditched without a word." He sounds slightly far away, not drunk, but probably on something. "You didn't tell anyone, but you could've told me. And then you ditch me again with a fucking text? You're. A. Prick! I love you, but you're a dick. And a prick. You're so bloody fucking distant lately, and I'm getting high by me self in me car, and you're a dick, being a dick somewhere else! Not even yer sister knows where ye at!"

Louis swallows when there's a bit of a pause. Louis can hear faint music in the background, maybe a voice or two as well. But Niall did say he was alone, so.

"This is our senior year, mate." His voice is softer, but still irate. "And yer being all weird and keeping away from everybody. I'm not cool with that, lad. I'm mad at you! I let shit fly with you because I know you hate talking 'bout shit, but don't think you don't owe me explanations! I'll always be here for ye, mate, but don't make me feel like you don't appreciate it, mate. Uncool."

The line goes dead after that. The first thought Louis has is that Niall's Irish accent seems to get enhanced whenever he drinks or gets high. The second is that Louis is a terrible, terrible friend. He's a dick and a prick, like Niall said.

Something pokes him in the cheek.

"Angry. Hedgehog," Harry mumbles. Louis looks to his right, finding Harry squinting up at him, eyes half lidded and there's a pillow mark just to the left of his mouth.

Louis scoffs and rolls over, not in the mood to handle Harry right now. He picks up his phone, opening a new text message, trying to figure out what to write Niall. He shouldn't even be texting, should he? Calling wouldn't even suffice. He should go over and hug the shit out of him, apologize and make sure to change his stupid behavior. Why does that seem so bloody hard, though?!

He feels the bed dip, Harry sidling up behind him, hand sneaking around his waist to flatten out over his tummy.

"Seriously. Harry." Louis' tone is sharp, cutting.

"Wow." Louis can practically hear how he arches a brow. "Pissed off much?"

Louis huffs, pushing Harry's hand off his stomach and scoots away. "Fuck off."

His tone is ice cold; anyone else would have recoiled, but Harry never seems to take any shit from Louis. He moves closer to him again, fitting perfectly into the curve of his legs. His hand once again makes it onto his stomach.

"Are you angry?"

Louis grunts.

"Angry, or sad-angry?"

Grunt.

"What's wrong?" Harry murmurs, not removing his big hand.

Louis kind of wants to kick him a bit, but he also likes the way Harry's hand feels against his skin. It shouldn't be this soothing.

"Niall's angry with me," he mutters, fiddling with a loose string in the pillowcase. His lower lip is popping just a bit while he focuses his glare on the stupid fucking string in the stupid pillow.

"Why?" Harry inquires.

Louis shouldn't be telling Harry anything, but the words are already on the way out of his mouth.

"I'm neglecting him," he whispers. His voice feels too thick, throat clogging up. And no. He never cries. Stop it. He swallows, ridding his voice of the rasp. "I haven't told him about... you know. So he thinks I'm being weird, keeping stuff from him."