Just Me You And This Box Of Matches

Chapter 12: Mr. Styles-Tomlinson

 “Harry?”

            The living room is empty; the only sign of recent habitation is a damp stain on the couch cushion. Out of scientific curiosity, Louis scrubs a finger across it and touches it to his tongue. It’s salty. Harry Styles is a deplorable bastard.

            “Harry, you little fucker.”

            The hallway is dark. The kitchen is silent, the dildo basket sparkling slightly in the dim light from the window.

            “Harry? Zayn?”

            Louis’ bedroom is unoccupied. Zayn’s is as well, excepting the three life size robots leaning against his bookshelf. There’s a pink thong draped over the head of the one on the far left, like some sort of risqué crown of lace.

            “Pisces?” Louis kicks a tangle of wires out of his way and backs out of the room, padding back down the hallway. “Where are you guys, the police gave me three minutes to-“

            The bathroom door whips open, very nearly smacking him in the face. Louis opens his mouth to yelp, and a huge hand comes out to clamp over his face even as a bony elbow hooks around his neck, dragging his flailing body inside the bathroom.

            Louis kicks out, and judging by the clatter of plastic on tile as well as a few pained yelps, he connects with Zayn’s collection of scented lotions as well as a couple warm bodies. The world flips upside down for a moment, and when he opens his eyes again he’s being cradled in Harry’s arms, one of his hands still loosely cupped over Louis’ face, the rough pad of his thumb just grazing Louis’ lower lip.

            “Hello,” says Perrie, from where she’s perched on the edge of the bathtub, slowly dragging a razor up her bare calf. There’s a towel draped artfully over her body. Louis is fairly sure it belongs to him. “Nice boner.”

            “Kind of you to join us,” says Pisces. She’s sitting on the counter, the sink digging into her back, knees drawn up to her chest. “And it 

 quite nice, really. What are you? Seven? Eight?”

            Zayn gives a noncommittal grunt and flops one arm out from where he’s sprawled in the bathtub. There appears to be a robot cradled in his lap.

            Louis struggles for a moment more, and then settles for just sinking his teeth deep into the meat of Harry’s palm. Harry yelps and pulls away, and Louis wriggles free of his slackened arms, smacking heavily to the tiled floor.

            “Why are we in a bathroom?” he grunts, rolling onto his back, accidentally slapping Perrie’s sticky calves with one flailing arm. “Also, when did 

you 

get here?”

            Perrie squints at him. Her hair is looking decidedly more pink than purple today, and she’s wearing bright blue lipstick. “I’ve been here for two days, Louis.”

            “Oh,” says Louis, and pauses. “

Really.”

Perrie shakes her head. “Honestly. Who do you think’s been making your breakfast every morning?”

            Louis frowns. And here he’d thought he’d finally domesticated Zayn. “Huh.”

            She flicks a drop of soapy water at him. “Ungrateful twat.”