Don't ~ Larry Stylinson

Eight

viii.

The one plus of all of this is that Louis' been a maniac in the studio, spitting out song after song, but the benefits end there. He's been moping around for weeks, barely leaving the comfort of the soundproof sounding booth in his recording studio, and he's done a terrific job at ignoring the lads—being a proper twat when he does spend spare hours with them—but he just can't be bothered to care.

He's felt like shit, simply put, and he knows he shouldn't be so disheartened by the knowledge that he won't be seeing Harry again, that he didn't actually hold any importance in his life, but that doesn't stop him from feeling betrayed and just plain hurtover losing something that was always meant to be stay between no strings attached and friends with benefits in the first place.

Talking with Harry had ended pretty much effectively after claiming his lack of time—for the curly-headed man specifically—and Louis tries not to dwell on it too much. Tries not to think about the images of Ben- he'd googled the man (Ben Winston, a mate of Harry's, apparently, and one of his producers according to Wikipedia) in a moment of weakness a couple days ago- touching and holding and caressing Harry in a way that Louis had imagined was only his to claim. Tries not to care because he shouldn't and he knew better and he's just a big idiot honestly since the letters D-O-N-T were practically written out in dark black, permanent ink on Harry's forehead the moment he met him, and yet, Louis D-I-D anyway.

So all of this and Louis pretty much just feels like shit if he's going to sum it up into a word, but hey, at least he got some good songs out of this, right? Small favors.

Basically, Louis feels like shit. He feels like shit walking around the painfully lonely flat and he feels like shit waking up and reaching out for a body that hasn't been there for weeks and he feels like shit when he has to curl up on the couch by himself and finish a show that was supposed to be theirs and he feels like shit writing songs about a man who was supposed to be the definition of casual in his life. He feels like shit and he's so fucking tired of it.

Which is why he makes the executive decision to get laid. He makes the executive decision to throw on his tightest pair of jeans and an easy-to-slip-off tee, to gel his hair up into a quiff that Liam's told him makes him look sexy (objectively obviously, because Liam's decidedly straight). To hail a cab and give the address to the closest gay club.

He doesn't even have to wait more than half an hour and one gin and tonic before he's being chatted up by a tall bloke with green eyes and brown curls, funnily enough, being bought drinks and flirted shamelessly with.

They're only through their second drink before they're stumbling out of the club, bumbling into a taxi and gripping each other while their mouths slot together firmly. Louis lets them into his flat unceremoniously after slipping probably too much to the driver, and they're in his bed within five minutes of entry, clothes peeled off and bodies already covered in a layer of sweat.

It's different from Harry, very much so- and that's saying something isn't it? That he's in bed with another and he's still thinking of Harry, comparing them (and Harry's winning, there wasn't much of a competition really).

Because the man who he has in bed isn't as big as Harry, doesn't have the same love handles that Louis adores so much which are rivaled by perfect abdominals that Harry manages to keep at the same time. He doesn't know all of Louis' spots as well, either, doesn't know how to give it to Louis like he craves, but it's enough, and if Louis tries hard enough, he can picture it's Harry above him instead, letting out low, affected moans and pounding into Louis like Louis wants.

Louis falls asleep with an only partially satisfying orgasm and a body of brown curls and green eyes that doesn't fit into his side as well as he desires it to.