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Louis P.O.V.

The guilt wore away at me; resistant at all my attempts to subside it.

The bundle of money laid on the small, rickety table in front of me. I stared at it with intensity, as if the power of my gaze alone could transport the money back to its rightful owner.
Harry Styles gave me 500 pounds. For just one of my stupid old paintings. I know I need the money much more than he does; I don't think he really needs another shiny new car or a new mansion. I'm dirt poor, and I'm in no way oblivious to that fact. I had no food, let alone a refrigerator. I got all my furniture rummaging through abandoned loveseats and tables on the curb, where people came and dumped them. I remember looking at the broken, old furniture my neighbors had discarded back when I was growing up in Doncaster, thinking how someone would need to be really desperate to actually take them home. Ha. It's funny how life can screw you over.

But that doesn't change the fact that it's his money. It doesn't matter how or why he received it; it's his property. Why do I need to be pitied on, anyways? Perhaps the damn pride in me is being too outspoken. Perhaps I am making a fool of myself, and I should be ecstatic that I've finally got some money on my hands. But I've never been one to take pitying very well, and I'm not about to start now.

The fact that I have no idea where he lives, or even if he's in London at this moment, doesn't really help my situation.

I turned the thick bundle of bills over and over in my hands, slumping in my chair. Out of the blue, I saw a small piece of white paper fall from my hands. Picking it up from the dirty ground, I saw that Harry had scribbled a few digits that could only be his mobile number.
I smiled, feeling a blush creep up towards my cheeks. Remembering his emerald orbs was much easier that it should have been.

Blessing the gods from above, I stepped outside into the warm sun, searching for the nearest telephone booth. The sooner I got this money out of my hands, the sooner I would finally be relieved from this guilt.

To be honest, I don't really know if I was so excited when I saw the red roof of the booth because I was so eager to return his money, or if I just really wanted to hear his voice again. I'd prefer to think it was the first, but as my heart quickened in my chest, and my palms started to turn damp, I knew it was the latter.

Good mates get excited to hear each other's voices, right?

With a feeling that this was untrue nagging at me like a fly, I dropped in the coins, clutching the bright red phone to my ear.

Harry P.O.V

I awoke in a puddle of my own blood. It was slick and cold; slightly crusty where it had clotted up while I was asleep. The scent of rust and salt laced with the air as I bandaged the cut, wiping on some rubbing alcohol to avoid infections. Forcing myself to my feet a bit too quickly, the room suddenly filled with color.
Pinks, greens, purples, reds. Everything was alive and spinning around me. The floor suddenly merged with the ceiling, and the pearly white sink splattered with red suddenly disappeared. The pounding in my head wasn't painful, but it banged in a way that made my head feel hallow, but heavy at the same time.

But it soon cleared, and all the colors disappeared. All but one. Red. It still covered the white floor, dotted on the faucet, crusted in my hair, dried into my clothes. Reluctantly, I began to wipe off the remnants of my misery.

A few minutes later, I hear the familiar beep of my cellphone ringing on the table. Picking it up and muttering a soft greeting, I could nearly feel the pathetic way my face lit up when I heard the voice on the other end.

"I don't know what the hell you were thinking when you gave me this. But there's no way I'm accepting it." He stated, his tone serious and very straightforward.

Chuckling at his seriousness, I replied a bit sheepishly, "I'm not taking it back."

"I'm being serious!" he retorted, a hint of a smile in his voice.

"So am I!" although my fit of giggles hardly supported that statement.

"Can you please just come over?" he almost begged, like a child asking a strict mother for a new toy.

"Yeah. When?" I replied, too eagerly.

"Now would be nice."

"All right. But I'm not taking it back."

With that, I hung up the phone, stuffing my fist in my mouth to try to keep down the eruption of laughter that was soon arising. I could feel blood rush to my cheeks, and I looked down in embarrassment, even though I was the only person in the room.

I never knew a 2 minute phone call with someone could actually make me that happy.

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