less than lovers (h.s.)

five

The thing about having sex with your best friend is that forgetting about it is next to impossible.

Even though Harry and I had sworn to never mention it again, it was insanely difficult not to think about his body pressed up against mine whenever he so much as looked at me. Obviously, this put me in somewhat of a predicament, and the two of us ended up avoiding each other throughout the course of the following week, despite the fact that we, you know, lived together.

It wasn't as if we never spoke to each other, but it was definitely far from normal. Mainly, our interactions consisted of awkward, short-lived conversation, with forced smiles and both of us on opposite sides of the room, as if we'd burst into flames if we came any closer. Every morning I woke up promising myself that today was the day I would finally confront him, and yet I had still failed to fulfill that promise.

According to Liv, it was completely unacceptable that we hadn't had a proper conversation about the unwavering awkwardness between us.

"You can't live like this," she had informed me over lunch earlier that week. "You either have to solve it, or one of you moves out." And by one of you, she meant me, on account of the fact that it was originally Harry's place and all.

I was walking back home from the campus center later that week, where I worked as a writing tutor. I was exhausted from dealing with lazy first years who clearly expected me to write their entire essay for them. I was also irritated because of the question one of my 'students,' if you will, had presented to me: "So, what do you actually do with an English degree?"

Although I was sure it hadn't been his intention, I'd found his question incredibly offensive, mainly because I actually had no idea myself. I'd decided on my major because I enjoyed reading and writing, and I wasn't really good at anything else. In an unfortunate turn of events, however, I hadn't picked up a book for pleasure in what felt like ages—and my skill set was still just as unimpressive. With the threat of graduation and the real world looming closer and closer, I wasn't sure what I was supposed to do with the stupid fucking piece of paper I'd spent my entire uni career working towards.

Anyways, I was in a lousy mood, and I made a silent prayer before I unlocked the front door that Harry wouldn't be home. I couldn't remember if he had a meeting or not, but my question was answered when I heard loud laughter coming from our TV room.

"I don't care how many times I've watched this show," Niall was saying, "it'll never stop being funny to me."

Of course Niall was here. Knowing him, he would probably try and force me to sit down with them, upon which he'd immediately sense the awkwardness between Harry and I, because, well, you'd have to be completely oblivious not to. I didn't trust him not to make the situation even worse than it already was, which was why I found myself silently racing into my room, like I was sixteen and didn't want to be caught after sneaking out.

Unfortunately, Harry had the ears of a hawk, and he turned around seconds before I reached my door. So close.

"Oh, hey, Jonesy," he said, looking at the picture on the wall right above my head. He was trying to smile, but it looked more like a grimace. Unfortunately, this had become typical behavior for him.

At the sound of my name, Niall practically jumped up with enthusiasm. "Jonesy!" he exclaimed. "Come down and sit with us. We're watching The Office."

Usually, I was always down to watch The Office, partly because it was funny, but also due to my massive crush on John Krasinski. But right now, sitting between the two of them seemed like something out of my worst nightmare. Niall knew about Harry and I, and Harry knew that he knew—after all, he'd been the one to tell him—but he didn't know that I knew Niall knew. It was all very confusing. Also, very Friends-esque.