Stop and Smell the Roses : A Larry Stylinson Story (boyxboy)

Chapter 5 : I Wish You Could Tell Me...

*If the cursing bothers you giys, please tell me!!! Love feedback!! :) thanks to everyone who has been commenting!!! love you all <3*

Louis P.O.V.

The guilt wore away at me; resistant at all my attempts to subside it.

The bundle of money laid on the small, rickety table in front of me. I stared at it with intensity, as if the power of my gaze alone could transport the money back to its rightful owner.

It simply stared back. Cold and empty. Penetrating the air with that slightly rusty money smell that I hated.

Harry Styles gave me 500 pounds. For just one of my stupid old paintings. I know I need the money much more than he does; I don’t think he really needs another shiny new car or a new mansion. I’m dirt poor, and I’m in no way oblivious to that fact. I have no food, let alone a refrigerator. I get all my  furniture rummaging through abandoned loveseats and tables on the curb, where people came and dumped them. I remember looking at the broken, old furniture my neighbors had discarded back when I was growing up in Doncaster, thinking how someone would need to be really desperate to actually take them home. It’s funny how life can screw you over so quickly.

But that doesn’t change the fact that it’s his money. It doesn’t matter how or why he received it; it’s his property. Why do I need to be pitied on, anyways? Perhaps the damn pride in me is being too outspoken. Perhaps I am making a fool of myself, and I should be ecstatic that I’ve finally got some money on my hands. But I’ve never been one to take pitying very well, and I’m not about to start now.

The fact that I have no idea where he lives, or even if he’s in London at this moment, doesn’t really help my situation.

I turned the thick bundle of bills over and over in my hands, slumping in my chair. I tugged at the slim rubber band that held the bills together, simply just for something to do with my hands.

 Out of the blue, a small piece of paper fluttered in front of me. Picking it up from the dirty ground, I saw that Harry had scribbled a few digits that could only be his mobile number.

I smiled, feeling a blush creep up towards my cheeks. Remembering his emerald orbs was much easier that it should have been.

Blessing the gods from above, I stepped outside into the warm sun, searching for the nearest telephone booth. The sooner I got this money out of my hands, the sooner I would finally be relieved from this gnawing guilt.

When I saw the red roof of the booth, the excitement bubbled to a ridiculous level. Truth be told, I didn’t know if it was because I was so eager to return his money, or if I just really wanted to hear his voice again. I’d prefer to think it was the first.

 But as my heart quickened in my chest, and my palms started to turn damp, it wasn’t hard to see that that was false.

Good mates get excited to hear each other’s voices, right?

Harry P.O.V

I awoke in a puddle of my own blood. It was slick and cold; slightly crusty where it had clotted up while I was asleep. The scent of rust and salt laced with the air as I bandaged the cut, wiping on some rubbing alcohol to avoid infections. I breathe in heavily, feeling the rustic and icy air flow into my nostrils. I’ve always loved the smell of blood.