The Brother I Never Wanted (Larry AU)

Chapter 15

"Okay, let's see here . . ." He trails, raking his eyes over the array of boxes and cartons in front of him. A bead of sweat rolls from his forehead onto his brow, caused from his procrastination and nerves, and he wipes it away with the back of his hand. He picks up the thin, red box. "How do I do this?"

The instructions are literally spelled out for him step by step on the box - interpretable to any kindergartner, but somehow it still feels like he's trying to read another language. He has this weird craving for Harry's approval and to get this to turn out right. But the thing is, Louis can't cook for s**t. He doesn't think Harry would appreciate anything that he spits out onto a plate.

The last time he tried making food, he set the toaster oven on fire. He remembers it quite vividly because it had been a craving for a midnight snack well into the night - sometime between two and five in the morning, if he remembers correctly. And when it had burst into hot orange flames, smoke curling upwards and setting off the horrendous screeching - his dad was not very happy. To put it simply. Now Harry wants him to cook again, and Louis doesn't even know if he still wants him to. He wanted him to last night, but what if he changed his mind? What if he doesn't remember? What if he was just joking? What if he's waiting for him to do it so he can make fun of him about how whipped he is? Jesus Christ, Lou. You're over thinking this. Just do it.

Louis takes a few calming breaths, grabbing a large bowl form under the sink. If he calms down, he should be able to do this. I mean, other people do this kind of thing all the time. It can't be that hard, right?

2 eggs

So far, so good, he supposes. Seems pretty straight forward. Hopefully, he can recall how to crack an egg. He opens the carton he laid out on the counter, taking out two that appear to not have any cracks. That's one of the very few things he learned in Culinary Arts. That, and that paper towels do not make good oven mitts.

With his tongue poked out in very strained concentration, he takes the small white egg and taps it on the side of the bowl. He thinks maybe he actually succeeded on his first try until he pulls the shell apart and finds he smashed it a little too hard, the crunchy outer layer falling apart and into the bowl.

"Awe."

Panicking, he dips his fingers into the liquid with a scrunched nose and does his best to fish out the pieces. It's cold and slimy, and he knows he didn't get it all out when he gives up. He just hopes it doesn't kill Harry or rip up his insides when he swallows. And it will be a f*****g miracle if he actually manages to pull these off as edible.

The second egg goes much smoother, less pressure applied this time, and he actually doesn't get more shell in it. He dances in place for a moment. "Hell yes." Wiggling his slimy fingers, he rushes across the kitchen to unravel some paper towels and wipes the egg off.

Maybe cooking is just one of those things where you either like it or you hate it. Louis' pretty sure he's on the hate spectrum, but he'd probably like it a whole lot better if he didn't personally have to worry about his safety every time he gets near a stove. But he doesn't really mind. At the ripe age of seventeen, he doesn't think he'll be doing much cooking anyway. He adds one cup of milk without much difficulty and pours the mix into the bowl, watching it turn brown as it hits the liquid.

It's at that point where he starts to contemplate what exactly Harry means to him. A brother? Not really. He's never wanted a brother, and he doesn't know anything about him other than he's kind of an i***t in a stubborn kind of way, and that he's most likely a womanizer if he learned anything from last night. Like he said, 'I don't know you well enough to hate you.' There's a ring of truth that follows that statement, and he wonders if Harry would hate him if he grew to know him. He's not a very interesting person - a nobody really - but it'd be nice to have another friend. Someone to lean on when things get tough and Niall's not there to comfort him.

But Harry also hasn't proven himself to be friendship material, and that makes him hesitant because his standards of friends are higher than most people. He thinks it's because of his insecurities and need for someone who won't ditch him for popularity. His teammates make fun of him and jab at him about every little flaw, and he hates that they molded him into a scared little puddle. He needs someone who will build him up, not tear him down like them.

Sometimes his old, sassy self will poke out and make an appearance - like when he's with Niall, but everyone else makes it so hard to want to be himself when that's what cause people to make fun of you. Niall always says that he's awesome and it's who he's becoming because of his bullies that are turning people away, not him himself. Because he used to be popular. He used to be the class clown that always made his classmates laugh and annoyed his teachers.

But the bullying got so much worse towards the end of middle school, and he just couldn't take it anymore. He stopped wearing contacts. He practically stopped talking altogether because then people wouldn't notice him as much. He just kind of drifted into oblivion and fell off the social grid. It was weird and it was uncomfortable, but it made him feel a little bit better knowing that if he tried, he was actually quite good at something. And he definitely doesn't regret becoming a 'nerd' because now he's got a bright future and a full-ride scholarship in London.

When he's done stirring the mixture, it actually looks alright. It might even look digestible to a certain stepbrother he may or may not be trying to impress. He's still not sure why he's willing to cook for him. The idea that he has an itty-bitty crush on his new stepbrother crosses his mind briefly, but he really shouldn't bother. He's leaving for college in four months to a city that's easily hours away, and Harry will just be a whist of a memory amongst the chaos. It'd be kind of really stupid to fall in love with anyone right now.

Louis switches the stove on with a sigh, pouring some oil into the pan like the box tells him to and waits till it's hot enough to plop a few spoonfuls of batter onto the griddle. It sizzles loudly, spreading out into a somewhat circle-like shape. He gives himself a quick high-five, humming in excitement as he cooks them.

"Lyin' here with you so close to me," he sings absentmindedly as he checks under the pancake. "It's hard to fight these feelings when it feels so hard to breathe."

Flip. "Caught up in this moment. Caught up in your smile . . . I've never opened up to anyone." The pancake slides off the edge of his spatula, and he squeals in surprise. Somehow he catches it before it hits the pan, heart racing. "Oh, lordy." He may be overreacting, but he feels like he almost died. He doesn't have a lot of happy experiences with cooking. Carefully setting it on the right side, he starts singing again.

"So hard to hold back when I'm holding you in my arms. We don't need to rush this. Let's just take it slow . . . Just a kiss on your lips in the moonlight. Just a touch -"

He cuts off, jumping when he hears the groan of the kitchen bar stool. Whipping around to get a quick look, his face goes red as his eyes catch sight of the slight upturn of a smirk. f**k, that's embarrassing. He was just goofing around. He didn't think anyone was actually listening. Louis looks away quickly, dishing the done pancakes onto a plate with a nervous knot pulling at his stomach. He tries to swallow it.

"Morning," Louis speaks slowly, flicking the burner off and setting the plate in front of him bashfully. His green eyes dart to the pile of cakes, large fingers attempting to run through his bedridden curls. One pops right back into it's stuck up position and Louis wants to tuck it down. Gaze traveling even lower, he starts at the fact that his shoulders are bare. He rakes greedily down the front of his torso, drinking in his various tattoos and the very defined lines of his abs. Is it hot in here? It feels hot.

His eyes are red around the edges and his finger rubs against the skin right by his eyebrow as if it hurts there. Oh right. He probably has a hangover. Louis snaps out of his embarrassing trance.

He scuttles to the cupboard, pulling down a cup and some ibuprofen. He fills the glass with water and sets both items in front of him, surprised to find his stepbrother already digging into the pancakes. "Just ignore the crunchy bits." Harry pauses, fork halfway to his mouth and tongue lulling out. It's a nice tongue, pink and thin. He bets it'd feel amazing slipping down his throat. Louis winces at that one.

"What?" His deep voice is groggy with sleep, cracking slightly from a lack of use.

"Nothing."

Harry shrugs and takes the water, chugging back the pills. Maybe he didn't mess up too badly if he hasn't noticed. He rubs his face with the palm of his hand, slowing as he blinks down at the pancakes. "You remembered."

Louis sucks on his bottom lip as he pours himself his own breakfast of cereal and milk. "The pancakes? Oh, it's nothing really. You seemed like you really wanted them . . . I'm more surprised you remember actually. You were pretty smashed last night."

He drops his fork with a clank, groaning lowly into his hands. "What did I do?" he asks sharply, voice edging on irritated as if he already expects something he won't like. How often does he get drunk?

"You punched someone," he admits slowly.

"I punched someone?"

The image of his clenched fist hitting the guy flashes in his mind, replaying the part where his eyes roll up into his skull. "Pretty sure you knocked him out."

Dark green eyes widen slightly in disbelief, shaking his head and flexing the fingers on his left hand. Louis notices that they look much worse than they did yesterday, now swollen and discolored. "Must've had a good reason," he mumbles.

Louis' no doctor, but it looks kind of bad. He may have broken a few for all he knows. He eats contemplatively as Harry tries to move his fingers, winces clear on his features. Based on that reaction alone, he doesn't think ibuprofen is going to quite cut it.

"Do you want something for that? I think I could help."

He shakes his head, but he knows that's a lie. Setting down his bowl, he opens the freezer door, feeling eyes burning into his back. He takes out a bag of frozen peas and holds it out with lip snagged between his teeth. "I don't like peas."

"You don't have to eat them, you dolt."

Harry chews on the end of his fork, staring unwavering at him. Louis doesn't know why he's being so damn stubborn. It's just to help take the swelling down. It's not like he's telling Harry to rob a bank with him. Eventually he sighs, eyes rolling up. "What do you want me to do?"

"Follow me."

Moaning, he gets up slowly and trails him up the stairs, sitting down on Louis' bed. "Stay," Louis commands sternly.

And he can safely say that he's quite surprised to find Harry still there when he comes back from the bathroom. He has a first aid kit tucked under his arm and a small purse to his lips when he sees Harry touching everything on his dresser, turning it over and putting it back down. He would be mad if he had anything to hide.

"What's this?"

Louis looks up from where he was kneeling on the floor, frowning when he sees what's in his hand. "It was my mum's wedding ring."

"What happened to her?"

"She died." Louis opens the kit on the floor, rummaging through its contents till he finds the gauze. There's a pregnant pause in that time where Harry doesn't say anything and he can feel his eyes judging him from above, but Louis doesn't let it get to him. Harry holds his hand out obediently, setting the bag of peas and the ring on his drawer and wiping the condensation on his sweatpants.

His throat feels thick as he gently grabs it. He doesn't really like talking about his mum. A tingle runs up his side as if he'd just touched something prickly. He spreads his swollen knuckles carefully, Harry hissing profanities under his breath. "Sorry," he mumbles. He wiggles them around a bit more before wrapping the bandage across his hand.

When he's done, he packs it all back into the kit and sits back on his bum, knees aching. Harry touches the bandages briefly before letting it fall into his lap. They lock eyes, then he picks the small ring back off his dresser, sliding it on his pinky. His finger's much too large though, and it only makes it to the first joint of his finger. Louis smiles a little, hiding it slightly behind his hand.

"Do you think this is a good look for me?"

Louis hums. "Someone better hold down the ladies - dads better lock in their daughters because, dear lord, Harry is wearing a woman's ring."

Harry snorts softly, a small twinkle of amusement appearing in his eye. He takes the dainty ring off, placing it back where he found it and instead fingers the edges of an old photograph of his mum with a young Louis running in the backyard. "I'm sorry about your mum." He seems almost humbled with this new-found information, shoulders a little more slack and comfortable as if he was finally able to release some spite towards him. Maybe he still blames his dad for forcing them to become a family.

Sighing, Louis shrugs. "It was a long time ago. And, besides, I wouldn't expect you to know any of that, or feel obliged to apologize for it."

"Maybe I would know if you told me."

"You wouldn't want to know about my past."

His stepbrother shifts above him, raking his fingers through the curls that are falling into his face. It almost seems like a nervous tick the way he does it. "I'd like to know you some. I mean, you're my soon-to-be stepbrother. It'd be nice if we could get along."

Louis c***s his head. "Are you still drunk?"

A slow smile spreads across his lips, making his breath catch. "I don't believe so. Though that'd be as good an explanation as any."

"Well, then . . . I think you should know that I'm a little . . . insecure about what people think of me. That's what tends to drive people away, I think."

"I could've guessed that at the coffee shop," he whispers quietly, unaffected by his news. That surprises him more than the proposal to try and be nice. Is he that obvious?

"You don't care?"

"Do you see me running?"

"No."

"Then no."

Louis bites his lip, uncertain. Harry's actually willing to do this, and he doesn't have the slightest idea how to make friends. It must show on his face. His large hand reaches out and pats the bed beside him, Louis doing so hesitantly. His back is stiff, hand shaking awkwardly when he realizes he's close enough to smell the faint hint of cologne on his skin. Fingers wrap around his elbow and pull him down alongside him so that they're laying side by side, Louis letting out an unmanly squeak of surprise.

Harry nudges his shin with his socked foot, green eyes displaying all different colors - brown, gold, topaz - from this distance and his breath reeking of sweet syrup. "Tell me everything."