The Brother I Never Wanted (Larry AU)

Chapter 9

Louis somehow manages to tumble with great difficulty from the old car, his foot catching, quite unfortunately, on the inside of the doorframe, so that he slumps onto the cold pavement. It's not so much painful as an inconvenience because of the amount of effort it will take to get back up. His bandaged knee makes his leg rigid and borderline useless. Which makes it quite difficult to haul himself to his feet, even with the aid of his hands. He has to grab onto the car door to keep from stumbling again, and he feels helpless, like a little kid trying to learn to walk for the first time. If Louis wasn't so scared of the kid, he'd tell him off for just leaving him there when he knows he can barely waddle.

He grabs his bag off the ground. There are a couple of new abrasions on his palms, but other than that he's okay - well, for the most part. 'Okay' might be stretching it. He's tired, his body aches with fresh bruises, and he wants nothing more than to take a nice, long shower to wash his thoughts down the drain, along with all the dirt and grime. He feels disgusting, like this day has gone on for weeks and he still hasn't showered, but in reality is only half of a day. His pain seems endless. But, honestly, Louis' just grateful that nothing worse happened. If he broke a leg, he'd never recover in time for the semifinals.

The ice pack that he held in his fist is now on the ground, scattered all over the pavement, and Louis stops to pick it up. He's not one to litter no matter how tired he really is. With the ice collected and bag nestled over his shoulder, he finally waddles inside.

A blast of warmth hits him as soon as the door cracks open, washing over him like a blissful tide. It reminds him of when he was young - his mum was still alive back then - and he would pester his parents into baking cookies like the little brat he was. Then they would open the oven door and feel that warmth pour out, filling his stomach with a certain calmness and anticipation. That's what he feels right now. But instead of cookies, the prize is a comfy couch cushion with his name written all over it.

Once inside, he falls back against the closed door and let's the strap of his bag slip off his limp fingers. It lands with a loud thud, and he releases a breath he didn't know he was holding, raking his fingers through his sweaty, stringy hair as he yanks off his beanie. He can't remember the last time it felt this good to come home. He tosses the ice on his way up the stairs.

Louis enters the bathroom, only tugging off his shirt when he decides he doesn't want to chance a real shower. Not only would his bandage most likely get wet, but he'd probably end up with a dent in his skull if he slipped. So he settles for a quick sponge bath and rinsing his hair out in the sink instead. After he's positive he doesn't smell atrocious anymore, he takes a seat on his bed and worms his way out of his skinny jeans. It's a process, much like Niall commented on earlier, and the sense of relief when it finally slips off his last foot is overwhelming. He dumps them in the basket with his shirt and redresses in some gray sweats and an old t-shirt that he's certain must have a hole in it somewhere by now.

The bruises he can't help but spot tend not to faze him much anymore. He's used to coming home with a newly discolored patch of skin or a scrape. Hell, it's practically come to the point where it'd be weird if he didn't. It's not everyday that they actually go so far as to actually hurt him this bad though, usually just a nudge or soft push, and Louis wonders if it's only going to get worse leading up to finals. The thought terrifies him more than it should. He's uncertain whether his teammates would take him out if it meant they could be captain. A couple of them, he could maybe see doing it, but it stills seems too sadistic. Even for them.

Harry's door is shut when he passes, the only sign that there's life coming from a small light illuminating from the crack under it. Louis hesitates outside it, trying to see if he can hear what he's doing but there's nothing. What could he possibly be doing? Ever since he's moved in, he disappears to his room for hours on end whenever they're not required to be together. He really only ever comes out for dinner and the occasional drink or snack. But it's hard to say if that's normal after only one day of living together. A couple of ideas come to mind, like sleeping or reading, but, even then, he feels like he should be able to hear something - a snore, breathing, a page cracking as he turns it. He frowns when he doesn't and continues on. Whatever. He's too tired to care about what he's doing anyway.

Louis crawls onto the couch, curling into the corner where his bum print is practically etched into the upholstery. He ignores the craving for some caffeine, a hot tea perhaps, instead feeling his eyelids droop happily. Wet fringe dangles in his face and he reaches to push it back. He really doesn't care if he resembles a drowned rat right now. No one is going to see him, and he doubts he'll see Harry until dinner. His parents aren't going to be home for another two hours yet, and he really doesn't have anything to do. So he decides that a quick nap won't hurt anybody.

*********

He jolts awake what feels like mere moments later, not knowing what exactly had woken him. His head feels less groggy and his eyes don't burn with exhaustion, but he wishes he could've stayed asleep just a little bit longer.

The house is practically silent other than the occasional creak or groan of the woodwork, and he, once again, wonders why the hell he had to wake up. The telly's still off, suggesting that his parents aren't home because otherwise his dad would be there, watching whatever crap they throw on CBS. It's like a routine. His dad comes home from work and then just goes straight for the living room. However, if he strains hard enough, he thinks he can hear soft voices coming from the kitchen.

When he raises his head from where it had lulled to the side, his neck cracks in protest and he realizes how awkwardly he was sleeping. He had sagged nearly halfway to laying down and his injured leg is still resting comfortably out in front of him so that he couldn't turn his body in his unconscious state. And Louis can honestly say that this bandage is already starting to be more trouble than it's worth. He contemplates ripping it off and facing the threat of infection instead of hobbling around like a drunk penguin, but decides the risk is too great.

He reluctantly rises to his feet, starting to feel the soreness reach his limbs as he stretches a bit and wanders aimlessly towards the bathroom. The murmur of voices gradually get louder as he approaches, but he doesn't think anything of it. That is until his mind finally clicks and he recognizes the deep voice, making him stop.

" . . . hate it. Everything is so small here. Everyone seems to know exactly who I am every bloody time I go outside the house, and it's scary. I'd really just like to blend in - be invisible for just a little while. I could do that in London, but here . . ."

Louis peers hesitantly around the corner, eyes locking onto Harry's back as he talks animatedly into his cell phone. The device is held precariously between his cheek and his shoulder, hands flying around the countertop in what looks to be the makings of a sandwich. He listens closely to what the other person is saying, gripping the knife tightly.

"No -" His curls bounce as he shakes his head. "Auntie, I don't want -"

He suddenly puts the knife down, reaching up to snatch his phone off his shoulder and whispering harshly into it. Louis can't make out everything he says, but he's almost certain he's complaining by the irritated tap to his foot and the exaggerated hand movements. Louis starts to leave, deciding it's not worth eavesdropping.

"No. I refuse to talk to him. He doesn't like me; I don't like him. End of story." Louis halts. " . . . I don't care if he wants to be friends. I'd rather befriend the shrub on the patio . . . Auntie -"

Harry lets out a frustrated sigh, letting her speak for a while then picks up where he left off making his sandwich.

"He's not the kind of person I usually hang out with. He's geeky and -" He pauses for a split second. "Awkward . . . No, that's not better. There was nothing wrong with my old friends." His voice carries an edge to it now - almost defensive.

He grips the knife harder, knuckles turning white. "That was one time, Auntie . . . I know, okay? I promised I wouldn't do it again . . . God? I make one poor decision and, suddenly, I can't be trusted." Louis wonders what he could've done. Did he get caught doing something?

Louis could imagine the kind of people he used to hang out with, bad boys like Zayn and Liam who think they can get away with anything. He doesn't like that image. It makes him uncomfortable to picture Harry sitting around, drunk off his ass, giggling and breathing in the smoke-filled air surrounding him while his friends pass around a joint. It doesn't seem right somehow.

"I really don't think that's going to happen here . . . No, the kid would probably have a heart attack if he knew -" His voice raises into a condescending scoff. "He practically screams 'good boy'. I don't think he'd want to know . . . Yes, mum's taking care of me just fine." There's almost a hint of fondness behind his words, and he wonders what it would take to have it directed at him one day.

"Look, I was really drunk. I didn't know what I was doing, and it seemed like a good idea at the time. I know better now."

Harry lets out a heavy huff. "He told me to 'stay the f**k out of his way'. I really don't think he wants to have tea and biscuits . . . What do you want me to do? . . . No, he's asleep . . . Hell no. I am not getting him flowers."

The prospect of Harry showing up and giving him flowers is so utterly ridiculous - he'd pay to see that happen - that he accidentally lets a small chuckle escape, and he doesn't have time to hop to the side before Harry's whirling around. His green eyes click onto his and then they're flaring with something he can't distinguish, hate, fury, or a probably a combination of the two. A thin, pink tongue darts out to run over his lip, and suddenly Louis is more than a little scared. His long fingers are still wrapped neatly around the handle of the knife. He should've kept walking when he had the chance.

"Yeah, Auntie . . . I'm going to have to call you back."

Maybe he can still run. Maybe it's not too late yet. Maybe he can make it to his room - no, Harry's too fast for that. He'd catch him easily. Harry takes a step forward, eyeing Louis like he's prey. Oh God.

"Mhm. Love you too."

Then all of a sudden, his call is ended and his phone is at his side. There's a tense moment when he just stares at Louis, lips pressed in a line, like Louis is a dog who just chewed his favorite shoes, struggling not to lash out and actually hit the animal. He takes another step, and Louis takes one back with wide eyes. A muscle twitches in his jaw.

"Were you listening to my conversation?"

His voice is dropped to a low, threatening tone, and Louis' sure he's never been more scared or uncertain in his life. The way he says it makes his throat lump and his spine tingle. The predator had found his prey. He shivers.

"I was going to the bathroom," he lies cooly, somehow managing to hide the fear from his words. "I didn't hear a thing."

"Bullshit," he spits coldly. His long legs dance another step closer, and Louis swallows. He's going to die. Harry's going to kill him.

Louis' eyes drop to his chest, observing how it heaves in anger, probably losing every speck of respect he had for him. It probably wasn't much, but now it feels like he has nothing.

"You are so goddamn annoying. Why do you have to invade every single bit of privacy I have left? Isn't it bad enough that I'm forced to share a house with you? I'm just lucky I don't have any classes with you. That way I can have some time where I don't have to see your bloody face and be reminded that I'm stuck in this town."

Louis feels a sharp stab at his words, the dark, unforgiving glaze in his eyes. He can't pretend that they're friends. Harry has made it very clear that he doesn't care about what he feels. And suddenly all of the fight seems to get beaten out of him. It drains away and leaves him sagging.

When he looks again, he can see a different side to the boy in front of him. One that he knows he tried to mask since he got here - the light bags under his eyes that tell him he probably hasn't slept properly in days and how raw his bottom lip looks as if it's been worked over for hours and split, bleeding. Louis' just hit, all at once, with all the s**t he must've gone through - all the friends he lost, a new school, starting over, the time and effort it took to sell their house and pack their belongings, the nights he must've laid awake, wondering what his new stepbrother would be like. Louis had two days. Two days to prepare, yet he couldn't remember losing sleep because of it. But it's clear Harry has.

Louis drops his gaze, ashamed, wondering how he missed it, and wishing he could've tried harder to be nicer. He doesn't like the way Harry's looking at him now, like he's something he can't stand being in the same room with.

"I'm sorry you feel that way."

He says it so quietly, so sincerely, that he's afraid Harry doesn't catch it, and he doesn't glance up to see if he had. There's silence. Cricket-chirping, can only hear the sounds of their breathing kind of silence. And Louis can only imagine what Harry's thinking - why he suddenly backed off and apologized, how odd it is that he simply stared at him and bowed obediently. He must think he's bipolar or something.

Then there's a slight rustle as Harry shifts, and Louis can't take being in there any longer, heading for the bathroom again. But he swears he hears a soft whisper, something so strikingly similar in distaste and coldness to his last remark that goosebumps break out on his skin at his seemingly dead voice.

"Me too."