LOUIS
Harry grins upon seeing me, eyes devastatingly green as I resist my urge to avert my gaze. He's wearing underwear only, noticeably sweaty.
"Why are you so sweaty?"
"I was..." He stops and eyes my suitcase curiously. "Are you going somewhere?"
"London. I've got an interview."
"London?"
"Yeah. The national team might want me. The world cup is starting soon and—"
I'm interrupted as Harry brings me into his arms. He squeezes me as I grin and convince myself not to read into it. He's not wearing much, which is consequently why I move away.
"I am so proud."
"I was wondering if you might wanna come?"
"As in right now?"
"Yes. My interview is tomorrow morning, so we're back on Sunday."
It's Friday evening now. I was going to go on my own, but Harry grounds me. I'm craving as much. And my apartment is upstairs, so it was easy to stop by and see.
"Look, I—"
"If you're busy—"
"I'm not busy," he interrupts. "Just give me a minute to pack. And wait downstairs, won't you?"
I raise an eyebrow. "You've got company."
"Yeah."
I avert my gaze. "I'm just gonna go on my own, H. You're not gonna kick someone out."
"Wait downstairs, Louis. You're not going on your own."
"Harry—"
"You're more important."
You're more important.
In some ways, I suppose I am, just not in any way I want. We met several years ago in our stairwell, yet not until recently did my mind catch up to my body's urges. I suspect most guys are younger once comprehending women may not work, not nearly 22, though I suppose I've merely suppressed my urges. I've had sex since I was 17 and never outright hated it, but it wasn't ever great, yet I convinced myself it was merely a matter of coming across someone right, not a matter of wrong equipment.
As I wait on him to pack and get ready, a girl comes downstairs seeming annoyed and perhaps embarrassed. She's barefooted, heels and pantyhose in hand as an angry gaze lands on my suitcase and continues up my body until our eyes meet. She's brunette and outrageously pretty, body wrapped up in something so tight it reveals every curve—wrinkles are covering nearly every inch, though I assume that's mainly on Harry.
"Are you Louis?"
"Depends on what you want."
"What's important enough to ruin our night?"
I raise an eyebrow. "Excuse me?"
"He's going to London 'cause you can't survive an interview on your own."
I snort. "I'm not persuasive enough to convince Harry to skip sex."
"Yet somehow you had me kicked out."
"I was gonna wait. He was aware. Had you simply requested a quickie..."
"I did request it."
"Ah. Seems you weren't worth it."
From somewhere my mum is cussing me out. It isn't appropriate to speak to women—or anyone—as I am now. And normally I'd never, but my envy is ruining my manners.
