17 Black

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HOLY LATE UPDATE. I AM SO ENDLESSLY SORRY THAT THIS IS TAKING FOREVER AND I AM TRYINF MY BEST TO WORK PAST MY CHAOTIC SCHEDULE AND RELENTLESS WRITER'S BLOCK RN. I LOVE TOU ALL SO MUCH LIKE MY OWN CHILDREN AND PLS KEE COMMENTING AND VOTING AND MESSAGING ME CUS U R ALL SO CURE AND MAKE ME SMILE ON THE DAILY. LOVE U ALL, HOPE EVERYTHING IS WELL WITH EVERYONE. XOXO

BELL❤️
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When Louis wakes up, the only trace left of Harry is a wrinkle in the blankets beside him and his own messy hair, still slightly tousled around his face by Harry's fingers.

The other thing he notices--the more prominent issue--is the headache that stabs relentlessly behind his eyes as soon as they open; exposed to the bright, pale light filtering in through the window next to the night table. It hurts. Louis shifts positions for the first time in what feels like an eternity to turn over so that his back faces the resented patch of searing light. He buries his head into the pillow and huffs out a short breath, willing his mind to stay peacefully dormant for at least a few more minutes. But wait--oh. He's noticing something else, now...is that pancakes? Suddenly, the idea of staying in this bed forever doesn't sound as appealing as it did a few seconds ago. Maybe it just has to do with the fact that he hasn't eaten much in the past few days except for some granola bars and eggs on occasion, and is hungry as hell. Either way, pancakes smell pretty damn appealing at the moment.

That's how Louis finds himself sitting on the floor with his legs tangled in blankets two minutes later after struggling to do a graceful roll out of bed. He just sits there for a second with his eyes closed and fights the strange and unexpected urge to cry before finally standing up slow enough so that he doesn't get dizzy and his head doesn't pound too badly. Finally, he staggers to his feet, and is able to shuffle his way into the bathroom, the hems of Harry's big sweatpants dragging on the carpet and catching on his toes. When he gets there, he flicks on the lights, cringes at their fluorescent intensity, and braces himself for the sight of his own reflection. As soon as he sees himself, a new, quite timely wave of nausea doubles him over and has him leaning against the sink. He gathers himself and pushes a shaky hand through his hair, taking in the more defined hollows beneath his cheekbones, the slight bruising beneath his eyes, the fading pink line of a cut under his eye where Ryan had punched him a few days ago. He knows he hasn't been taking proper care of himself lately, but with all he's been juggling between school, football and the bar, something's got to be sacrificed. Eating a little bit less means buying less groceries, which saves money he needs for rent so he can keep his apartment and stay where he needs to be for school and football. He can't take money out of his savings, anyway, because if he doesn't get a full ride to Manchester, he'll need some sort of back up. The way he sees it, there's not really another option. He supposes he could always go chill on some street corner and see what kind of bloke might be willing to give up a couple quid for a hell of a good time in the sheets, but that's not really Louis' thing. Plus, he has a feeling that if Liam found out Louis was a prostitute, he'd force Louis out of the apartment and into his own home to babysit him like a toddler or something. But whatever. Louis isn't going to be a prostitute, so it's fine. Skipping a few meals once in a while is a far cry better than selling his precious body to a stranger. Not to mention, after eating whatever he smells cooking up in the kitchen in the room over, Louis will probably be fed enough to last for weeks.

Louis gives up on fixing his wild fringe after a minute and just begins walking to the kitchen, thighs already aching with each step from the strain of the past few days' practices. Not like he minds too much, though; it's a pleasant sort of pain. Reminds him of his work and success, unlike the raging headache he's dealing with that only serves to remind him of his shortcomings.

As soon as he makes it into the kitchen, he's faced with the view of Harry's back to him, fixed over the stove, fabric of his plain t-shirt stretched appealingly over his broad shoulders, joggers low on his narrow hips, curls brushing just past his collar. For a moment, Louis loses his breath at just the sight of him, his beauty calm yet always staggering. Eventually, he gathers his wits enough to shuffle over to a stool at the counter and plop into the seat. At the sound of his movements, Harry's arm stills where it's poised to flip a pancake, back tensing before he finishes the maneuver and turns around.