An Unbelievers Story: Bloodsport

Chapter 14

Harry woke up to the smell of burnt butter.

He opened his eyes, rolled over, and promptly realised Louis wasn't in bed. He sat up and looked around the room, hand scratching through his curls. They reached below his jaw now, and every training he needed to put it back in a small bun or use his headband. He wondered if he should cut it.

He found his phone on the nightstand, and squinted at the screen. There were missed texts from Zayn from last night. It was nearly half-twelve, though. He'd slept in way too long. Harry inhaled another breath of whatever was frying downstairs, and decided he'd get to reading the messages later. They had to be at the site on the outskirts of town in half an hour, and something was also definitely wrong in the kitchen downstairs.

He leaped from the bed, brushed his teeth in the bathroom, and dressed in training attire. Once finished, he bounded down the stairs, feeling a scent of sweetness mixed with what definitely was burnt butter. He poked his head into the kitchen and found Louis standing in the middle of the room, looking very much out of his element. On the stove was a flat frying pan, from which an unlimited amount of steam was rising. Harry hurried forward, past Louis, and grabbed the pan off the stove in a haste. There were small dots of pancake mixture on it. They looked dry on the top, and very burned on the bottom.

"Hey!" Louis sounded perturbed, but completely unaware of the thin layer of crispiness on the bottom of the pan.

"It's burning, Lou!" He jostled the pan and the tiny blots of pancake mixture slid sadly into the sink.

"You destroyed my work!"

Harry turned and found Louis' face broken and distraught. He glanced between Louis and the pan. "Lou," he said softly. "That was not edible anyway..."

"How do you know? You just ruined it!"

Harry sighed. "Don't you have more mixture, babe? Look, we just need to clean out the pan and reheat it, and then we can make actual food."

He gasped. "Actual food?"

Harry glanced at the clock on the wall. It was 12:45. "Actually, Lou, we don't have time for this. We've got to go now."

Louis spared a look at the clock before he aimed a scowl at Harry. "I'm cooking."

"It'll take twenty minutes to get there! We have to leave now."

"Who cares? I'm gonna' to finish breakfast."

He reached for the pan in Harry's hand, but Harry jerked it away. He realised much too soon what a mistake it was. He hadn't expected Louis' hands to be tender. Hadn't expected his hands to be soft. He had momentarily forgotten that Louis no longer consisted of that cold and hard exterior. So, Harry's counter move was measured with too much force. Louis' bid to steal the pan was no way near vigorous enough, and the unmatched movements made Harry fall backward just enough to slip against the counter. In an attempt to catch his fall, he lay his palm flatly against the edge of the bowl of pancake mixture, before it landed against the worktop.

He made a gasping noise and went tumbling after the bowl, but it was already too late. Bent down and staring at the mixture now covering the floor, he sighed, long and hard. He slowly glanced up at Louis, internally swearing.

The smirk Louis sent him was filled with such self-righteousness and victory that Harry actually had a tiny urge to punch him for the first time in a long while. "Well. Look what you did, Harold."

Harry looked up at him with screwed-up eyes. "This was clearly your fault."

He smiled, evil-eyed and full of pleasure. "Whatever you want to believe, my love."