Larry Stylinson: These Arms Were Made For Holding You

Chapter 5: Louis

After that, Harry and I didn't talk for a while. Days turned into weeks and those weeks turned into months. It was nearing February at this point and I wanted nothing more than to show up at Harry's house with a bouquet of his favorite flowers, a box of chocolates, and say happy birthday to my boy. But he wasn't my boy. He was someone else's and I loathed that fact more than anything in the world.

And so here I was, nearing ten o'clock on his birthday, drunk off my arse. It was a bad idea, I know, but sometimes you just need to get drunk and forget about all of your problems. Liam had convinced me to come to some exclusive club that people had to know your name in order to get in. He'd long abandoned me, though.

And in my drunken state, I made stupid decisions when it came to Harry. Especially when his head appeared right next to mine. His curls were falling into his gorgeous green eyes, with his beautiful smile adorning his face. His black button up had several of the top buttons unbuttoned, leaving his chest exposed. His chest now had tattoos adorning his chest which had been incredibly pale and ink-free back when we were dating. His pants however, looked sinful. He wore an incredibly tight pair of skinny jeans that seemed to show every single thing he could possibly have wanted to show off.

"Louis Tomlinson," Harry greeted, a smirk clear on his face. "You're quite the sight for sore eyes," he added. I secretly hoped he had caught me checking him out because he looked fine as hell.

"Could say the same about you, Styles," I quipped, taking a sip of my drink. He chuckled, lightheartedly at the remark. "And don't even try to defend yourself saying that you've been active on Instagram or that your face is plastered on Billboards around Hollywood or that your music plays at least once every five songs," I add.

"Who ever said I was going to," he asks, like he wasn't going to. We both knew that was a lie. I glance over at him, cocking an eyebrow. "Okay, so maybe I was, but that doesn't mean you haven't," he retorts.

"Been training. First game's coming up at the end of this month and if I plan on continuing on this path, I've got to be good," I explain. He nods along like it's the most interesting story he's ever heard. It most certainly was not.

"I already bought my tickets, darling," he whispered in my ear before walking away. What the actual fuck just happened? And darling? Since when was darling his go-to nickname?