Burn Me Like the Sun

“Can you please tell me why there’s a naked pop star in your bed?”

I groaned, flinging my arm over my eyes as Fran sat herself on the coffee table in front of me. My back was sore and it felt like I’d shared the sofa with an elephant during the night. If hangovers were contagious, I’d have been convinced that I’d caught one from Louis, who was surely nursing one of his own just across my flat.

But Fran didn’t care, and carried on at breakneck speed.

“Because when I got home last night, I saw you on the couch, and I thought you’d just fallen asleep while watching a movie like you usually do. But when I got up this morning to take a shower, there was already one very naked Louis Tomlinson with nowt but a towel wrapped around his waist vomiting chunks in the toilet I so graciously cleaned yesterday.”

I yanked my arm from my forehead and looked at Fran, my eyes wide. “Is he okay?”

She rolled her eyes, biting back the smallest smile. “He’s fine. Went back to wallow in what I assume is a mixed drink-induced hangover in your bed – the sheets of which I also washed yesterday on my thankless cleaning spree.”

“Thank you. Have I not said that yet?”

She grinned, teeth and all, and patted my hand. “You should probably go check on him. That was an hour ago.”

She practically skipped to the kitchen, and it was only then that I noticed the smell of cinnamon and butter and eggs. Fran was cooking the only breakfast she actually knew how to make without setting the whole building on fire – French toast.

I wanted to turn around and go back to sleep, but the thought of breakfast was just enough to jolt me awake. I slowly untangled my legs from the bed sheet I’d dragged with me to the settee the night before and kicked it to the end of the cushions, pulling my fingers through my hair. My spine popped when I sat up, the result of sleeping curled into myself so I could fit my gangly limbs on the love seat. When I rubbed my eyes, I could feel the sleep oil cling to my fingers. My mouth was dry and my neck was sore, and all I could think about was getting myself a nice, hot cuppa or maybe just a huge pot of coffee so I could properly wake up.

But then I remembered what Fran had said about Louis, and how he had to be feeling ten times worse than I was at the moment, and I shot off the couch and headed straight for my bedroom.

When I pried open my door, all I could see in my room, bathed in a warm shade of orange that seeped in from behind the curtains, was a lump in the bed. It took a moment for my eyes to adjust to the dark, but then I saw Louis’s exposed back slowly moving up and down as he snored quietly, his face half-smashed against my pillow. His hair was still slightly wet and curly from his early-morning shower, and his cheeks were a stark white. His arms strained under the pillow as he shifted in his sleep, hugging it closer to his chest. The thick comforter he’d draped over himself the night before was abandoned at the foot of the bed, along with the towel he had used, though the patterned bed sheet underneath still clung to his waist.

I crept into my room, shutting the door behind me. He stirred awake at the sound and sighed, then cracked one eye open, watching me as I made my way to the edge of the bed. I was thankful that he couldn’t see me blush in the dim light, as it was only when I stopped at the foot of the mattress and saw the band of his boxer briefs peek out from under the sheet that Fran’s proclamation of a naked pop star in my bed was confirmed.

“Sorry I woke you. You alreet?” I asked quietly, my voice just hovering over a whisper. “Fran said she saw you throwing up this morning.”

He blew a raspberry into the pillow and nodded, then reached for my hand, his fingers dancing when he couldn’t reach far enough. He patted the mattress, his lips pulling into half a pout, as the rest of his face was still buried in my pillow.

I sat down, albeit begrudgingly, and crossed my legs underneath me, my knee touching his stomach. He twisted onto his back to make room for me, his hair flopping over his eyes. I brushed it away, unable to help myself, and he started, his eyebrows pinching together. But then his expression relaxed, and I brought my hand back, only to stare at my lap as I played with my fingers.

“Morning.” His voice was gravelly and low, and he threw his arm over his eyes as he shot me a lazy grin.

I glanced at him from under my hair and smiled back. “Morning. Sleep well?”

He shook his head, scrambling for the bed sheet as it fell from his waist, and pulled it back over himself. “Threw up a few times. Don’t think I missed, but if I did, I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize to me. I’m not the one who does all the cleaning around here.”

He sighed and rolled his eyes, brushing his fingers through the thick curls at the top of his head. His cheeks were pallid and dotted with stubble, and his eyes were puffy. Drunk on sleep, he almost looked like a complete stranger.

“You look like utter shit, mate,” I offered after a stretch of silence. “You sure you don’t need anything? I was just about to make some tea. I can fetch you a cuppa if you’d like.”

He shook his head and rubbed his chin, glancing off to the side to the Trainspotting poster I had pinned on my wall. “I’m fine,” he lied.

“Nobody’s fine after a bender like that.”

He only glanced at me, then went back to staring at the sheets. “It’s just… I don’t want to be any more of a burden,” he finally grumbled, his voice still thick and raspy. “I’m sorry I drunk dialed you. I know from the stories Harry’s told me that I’m not exactly a thrill when I’m pissed.” He sighed dolefully and threw his head back against the pillow, closing his eyes. “I’m the absolute worst.”

“You are the worst,” I agreed. He cracked an eye open, watching me warily. “You should just be lucky that I’m willing to put up with such an awful friendship.”

He rolled onto his side again and dug his elbow into the mattress, resting his chin in his hand as he distracted himself with the bed sheet. “I’m actually trying to apologize here, Blake. I was being serious.”

“And so am I,” I shot back, poking his stomach. He scowled and brushed my hand away. “As much as I hated putting on trousers and abandoning my kung fu marathon to drag your smashed arse back over here, I don’t mind. We’re mates. Hate to break it to you, but that’s kind of what mates do.”

His eyes slid over to me, and he paused as he considered this. “Fine. But I’m going to return the favor one of… One of these days,” he promised, his sentence cut short with a yawn.

I laughed and finally got up, scratching the back of my neck as I stretched out my arms. “Think you could stomach breakfast? I think Fran’s making French toast. And don’t tell her I said this, but it’s actually not half bad.”

“Hmm. I’m still kinda poorly. Don’t want to risk it.” He pinched the end of his nose and sniffed, then sat up, the sheet falling from his waist. Even with the musty light that touched my room, I could still make out a string of words tattooed across his collarbones and another badge on his chest. I didn’t even realize I was staring until Louis cleared his throat, pulling me from my trance.

“Have you got a shirt that would fit me?” he asked, his voice still coming out like someone had put out matches on his throat. “My clothes smell horrible.”

I nodded and lurched at my dresser, pulling out the top drawer. I saw Louis from the corner of my eye stumble to my desk and grab his jeans from where I’d left them on the back of my computer chair. He shimmied into them, doing a little jump to fit them over his hips, and then zipped them up in a flourish. I was struggling to concentrate on a small pile of plain t-shirts in the corner of the drawer when he sauntered up next to me, his hands on his hips as he peered over my shoulder to see what options he had. There weren’t all that many, though, considering his broad shoulders and puffed-out tummy, which when compared to my wide hips and gangly limbs, made for slim pickings.

“Who’s that?” he suddenly asked, the softness of his voice making me jump. He was pointing to one of the pictures I kept on my dresser, set in a handmade frame covered with macaroni that Cooper made when he was in Year 1.

I pushed a pile of shirts to the side, worrying at my lower lip. “My brother and me when we were little.”

“This your step-dad, then?” He pointed to the picture next to it, framed in some expensive reddish mahogany that I’d picked up at a secondhand store at home last Christmas. “Where was this one taken?”

I nodded slowly, watching Louis as he picked up the picture to get a better look. I could never forget the photo, as I’d had it by my bedside for years. My grandma took it the summer after I started sixth form at the docks where my dad worked. The two of us were sitting on the edge of the boardwalk, a storm brewing behind us as we swung our legs over the edge of the North Sea. I was leaning against my dad’s side and he had his arms looped around the barrier, pulling the same funny face he’d always use to get me to laugh when I was being particularly shirty.

“The docks. I’d stop by and help him with paperwork during the summer if I’d already seen everything at the cinema.”

Louis smiled softly.

“That was the summer I stayed with me mum.” I glanced at him, gauging his reaction, but he gave nothing away, instead letting the smile slowly melt from his face as he put the picture frame back. “Wasn’t for long, though. I missed home.” I swallowed hard, digging my hands deeper into the clothes in front of me as I felt the heat of Louis’s stare lick my skin. “She promised to call.” I laughed once, lowly, bitterly, shaking my head as my hands stilled.

My eyes felt hot and I blinked rapidly, giving a pathetic sniffle as I yanked out a few wrinkled flannel button-ups and threw them to the floor. When I looked back inside, I finally found a rumpled shirt buried in the pile and snatched it up, the vertical black and white stripes making Louis wince the second he realized his only viable option without holes or paint stains was a long-sleeved Newcastle United kit I scored at a charity shop a few months ago while out with Fran.

I threw it at him and it smacked him in the face. He peeled it off like a wet rag, pinching the swishy fabric between his fingers precariously.

“I can’t go out wearing this!” he whined. “I’ll get jumped. You don’t want that to happen, do you?”

“Excuse me?” I balked, my jaw dropping as I feigned offense. “Say shite like that and letting you get jumped doesn’t sound half-bad. That’s a genuine Newcastle kit, mate! You should just be grateful that I’m letting you even touch it, never mind wear it out in public looking like you do.”

“Are you serious? This is Shearer’s kit!” he griped, fanning out the shirt and holding it up to his chest, showing off the back with the number 9 and the legendary footballer’s name. “You sure you don’t have anything else?”

I fixed him with a hard look. “We’re completely different sizes. It’s either this or what you brought with you.” I shrugged and shut my dresser, then leaned against it, propping my elbow on the top. “’Sides, it’s just a walk of shame across the street anyway.”

His brow furrowed, his arms sinking to his sides. “Sorry?”

I steeled myself, crossing my arms and staring at Louis’s feet as the long sleeves of the kit in his hands brushed against his toes. “I never had a chance to move that horrid purple car of yours to a car park,” I admitted, my teeth gritted. “I mean, you looked like you were about to vomit all over the upholstery, so I didn’t want to risk it, y’know? Em. So it wouldn’t really surprise me if you were ambushed by paps the second you stepped outside.” I worried at my lower lip, then finally looked up, catching the tail end of the skeptical look on Louis’s face. “I mean, if you don’t want to wear it, that’s fine. I guess it’d be more of a scandal if you walked out of here in the same clothes you had on last night, yeah?”

Even though he looked rather dumbfounded, Louis clenched his teeth so tightly together that a muscle in his jaw quivered. He didn’t say anything for a moment, his eyes still wide and bright and puffy and unblinking, so I went on, hoping he’d get what I was trying to say before I’d be forced to spell it out for him.

“Wouldn’t surprise me if The Sun’s already written up a review of your brilliant karaoke performance last night to go along with whatever photos they’ve drummed up. Now they’re probably just waiting to catch you red-handed.”

He blinked once, then pressed his lips together before he finally uttered my name, his voice cracking as he spoke.

“I’m actually starving, so I’ll just—” I started walking backwards when my stomach grumbled, almost as if on cue, and I pointed my thumb over my shoulder. “Go ahead and get dressed and we’ll walk down together.”

I closed the door behind me, not bothering to take a second look at the surprise that was eating up Louis’s face.

He finally emerged from my room almost ten minutes later. In that space of time, I was able to freshen up in the bathroom and swallow a few bites of French toast, chasing it all down with a large cup of black tea. Fran noticed me rushing, which was probably just my obnoxious way of dealing with the onslaught of nerves that came out of nowhere. She didn’t say anything though, and instead offered me a soft, sad look, like the kind she’d give an elderly person after holding the door open for them or when she’d watch YouTube videos of small children playing with dogs.

“Vertical stripes suit you quite well, mate,” I mused when Louis finally staggered into the kitchen.

He was stretching out the hem of the shirt to wipe at his lips, exposing his tummy. His face was sprinkled with water, probably from washing out his mouth. I heard him clamber into the bathroom not a minute after I sat down for breakfast while Fran doled out French toast like she was a one-woman café. The stagnant quiet that followed the sound of Louis dry heaving was enough to make me sick myself, as I always had a particularly weak and annoyingly empathetic stomach.

“Don’t get cocky,” he muttered behind a mouthful of polyester.

I stabbed the last bit of French toast on my plate with my fork and stuffed it into my mouth, then downed the rest of my tea before I got up to stick my dishes in the skink. I finished chewing and turned back around, my hands planted on my hips as I watched Louis run his fingers through the thick, curly hair at the top of his head.

“You sure you don’t want to stay for breakfast?” Fran asked as she flipped another slice of toast onto the skillet.

Louis only shook his head, looking put out as he pinched his nose.

I sighed. “You need to eat something, mate. That hangover of yours isn’t gonna disappear any faster if you skip breakfast. At least have some coffee or something.”

“I’m fine, I promise,” he said, waving me off. “You don’t need to worry about me.”

I threw my hands up in defeat and shook my head, exchanging a quick look with Fran. She only rolled her eyes before she was forced to turn her attention back to our newly fixed stove. There hadn’t been a day since the electrician had dropped by at the asscrack of dawn that I hadn’t used it in one way or another. Unfortunately for me (and fortunately for Louis), I couldn’t disassociate the man with the stupid skate ramp hair from my cooker, which, along with getting fixed up with new wiring, no longer grinded like a lawn mower every time I turned it on.

“Alreet, then. Let’s head down.”

We didn’t speak to each other as we clambered down the stairs. Louis hardly made a sound, his feet padding softly against the steps as he dug his hands into his pockets. He reached the bottom before I did, waiting until my feet hit the ground floor before he reached for the steel door to the foyer. But I stopped him before he could open it, his fingers wrapped around the handle.

“No, not yet,” I told him.

He scrunched up his nose and let his hand drop to his side. “Sorry?”

I sighed, then walked up in front of him, chewing on my lower lip. I brought up my hands hesitantly, then reached forward, working my fingers through his bangs.

He laughed at the sensation, his eyes crinkling at the corners as I made an even bigger mess of his soft hair, which had dried in the shape of a messy ducktail pompadour, curly at the top and smooth at the sides. Standing so close to him, close enough that I could see the green ring around his irises and each mark and mole on his face, I could smell my familiar cherry soap roll off him along with the warmth from his body. I don’t know how I even managed it, but it was enough to make me step closer, a smile firmly planted on my lips.

I was just working my fingers through the hair that fluffed out over his ears when he reached up and took my hands in his, bringing them back down to my sides. He pushed the hair from his eyes and shot me a small smile, tucking his chin to his neck.

I made a dissatisfied sound. “You’re upset.”

His brows screwed together, his lips pouting just the slightest. “I’m not,” he finally said after a moment, his voice coming out shaky and defensive.

“Why are you upset?”

“I’m not!” he argued again, weaker than before.

“You’re not backing out on me, are you?” I set my hands on my hips, watching him for a moment before I quietly asked, “Isn’t this what you wanted?”

“Yes, but I just…” He refused to look at me as he sighed. “Don’t you think we’re moving a bit too fast?”

“What makes you say that?”

He grunted, clearly frustrated, and backed into the panic bar on the door, pushing it open behind him. He hung his head and waved me forward, letting me walk past him into the foyer before he let the door slam shut behind us.

I glanced through the open doorway before I sauntered in, immediately checking the cramped welcome desk, but Walter, the usual manager in the mornings, was nowhere to be found. There was an empty mug of tea on the counter, along with a plate dotted with crumbs, but that was it. With any hope, he was in the back making himself another cuppa and starting in on a second package of biscuits, too busy getting crumbs in his thin white beard to pop in and bother Louis and me. He was an alright bloke, but he was a notoriously nosy people watcher.

I spun around once I reached Walter’s desk, but nearly slammed my back into the counter when I realized just how close Louis was behind me, with my nose just inches away from his lips. But he didn’t flinch, his fingers nervously working through the shorter hair at the nape of his neck as he stared at the floor.

“Everything feels different, y’know. Like there’s a new normal between us. Can’t you feel it?”

I did feel it, but only once he pointed it out, like spinach stuck between my teeth. The sensation felt like a second skin, a shiny, itchy sunburn, as though the shift had crawled over me and weaved itself into my skin in a cross-stitch, turning me pink while I was too distracted by the great weather to notice. I felt vulnerable and all at once at ease, like someone had thrown me out of a plane with a blindfold on, but not before strapping a parachute on my back at the last second.

“Not really,” I lied, crossing my arms. “You sure it isn’t the hangover talking?”

He paused, then shrugged, glancing at me once from the corner of his eye. “It’s not that. It’s just… Are you sure you’re okay with this?”

The corner of my mouth twitched, and I shot him an amused look. “What do you mean? Of course I am. I suggested it, didn’t I?”

Louis sighed yet again and turned around, making his way over to the double door entrance. The set of tall, tinted window panes were installed just last year, but they still looked brand new and always seemed to smell like Windex. He leaned his shoulder against the wall, looking out onto the street as his breath clouded the glass.

From my spot in front of the welcome counter, I could see a few photographers camped around his BMW on the other side of the road. I had parked it in front of the shitty bistro across the street under an awning, saying a silent prayer before I dragged Louis upstairs that it would still be there in the morning. Thankfully it hadn’t even so much as suffered a scratch during the night, but somehow, beady-eyed paparazzi circling it like vultures seemed almost worse. They huddled together in the early morning chill, adjusting their camera lenses as they chatted with one another. Another lone paparazzo leaned against a tree on our side of the street just a few meters away from where Louis stood, his back turned to us as he lazily smoked a cigarette.

Louis leaned his head against the wall and studied me as he rubbed his lips together. “Why are you letting me do this? After what I did?”

My face puckered, and I shook my head, ambling up to him as I spoke. “No, it’s not like that. I…” I groaned and stopped just a few feet in front of him, my hands balled into fists as my arms tightened against my chest. “I trust you, Louis. I do now more than I did before.”

“Why?”

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the paparazzi next to Louis’s car hike up their cameras and aim them our way, finally catching sight of the two of us through the glass. Even with the early Sunday traffic peeling by, and despite the distance and the fact that we were hidden behind the glass, I could still hear the cameras go off, one by one. My heart picked up speed, beating with every shutter click that tore through me.

I stopped just an arm’s length from Louis, nibbling at the skin of my thumb as I stared at his dirty trainers, catching sight of a doodled smiley face near his ankle. “You never left. You never did. And even though I kept pushing you away because I couldn’t trust you, you still came back.”

I let out a huge breath then finally looked up to drink in his reaction, but all I could dredge from the soft look he gave me was something dark and different, something so new and obscure that I suddenly felt hot all over. My hands felt clammy and my cheeks flushed, and his eyes – no longer a creamy blue or pale green or the murky shade of gray in between – burned me something fierce. I grappled for my words as the photographers outside crowded together a few feet from the door, the camera flashes hitting the side of my face in droves. All the attention did nothing but push me back, my trainers squeaking against the tile.

“I’ve been conditioned to think that almost everyone will leave, so I kept giving you reasons and chances to, but… but you never did.” I cleared my throat and unwound my arms from my chest, bouncing my fists against my sides as Louis followed me away from the windows. “So I think I can trust you now.”

He narrowed his eyes, and when he spoke, his voice was soft and comforting. “Are you ready to, though?”

I opened my mouth, hoping for some quick-witted response, as they always seemed to sprout from me like weeds, but all that came out was stale air.

He took another step when I didn’t give him an answer, his face falling pitifully. “Or are you just letting me do this because you think it’s all I care about?”

I stuttered, caught completely off guard. I was not weak like that, so vulnerable and afraid of losing Louis, so distrustful of him that I’d offer myself up as a last resort, but I couldn’t find the words to say it.

So instead, I decided to show him.

There’s something different about kissing someone when you know other people are watching – intently and without reservation. Your hands fidget and you don’t know what to do with your arms, and your legs become heavy and stiff. Your whole body screams, like when you jump off the tallest diving board at the pool. Your ears pop and your lungs cave in, and your brain gets stuck in a physically debilitating loop of panic and excitement. And instead of paying attention to the heat of the person you’re kissing as they press closer, you find yourself obsessing over every last movement you make.

I couldn’t move. I couldn’t breathe, I couldn’t think. I felt completely and intensely awkward, like the unfamiliar sensation had been injected straight into my veins. But finally, my body began to relax and my joints unlocked and my muscles hiccupped into action the second Louis kissed me back.

It took a moment for me to register it at first because he was being so careful. But then I felt his hands shift against my sides and settle into the small of my back, warm and gentle like a hot water bottle. The rest of his body followed soon after that, the heat rolling off of him and washing over me like an unholy baptism. It was maddening and satisfying, and I felt disgustingly guilty for enjoying it so much.

Just three weeks ago at the BBC charity event, indulging in every inch of Louis’s personal space was an entire world of difference. Before, it was raw and weird and confusing, and that was just with a teasing game of chicken. But now, with my thumbs brushing over the arch of his cheeks and his fingers pressing into the dimples at the base of my spine, it felt almost sweet – innocent, even, despite the fact that the two of us were just putting on a calculated show for the flurry of flashes that drenched the two of us like one of London’s random spring rain showers.

It was like trying to choose between salty and sweet. Until then, I could never decide between the two; I never even had a preference. When I wanted a snack, I just picked something from the junk food Fran hid in the cupboard along with her dignity. When I’d go to the cinema, I’d always indulge myself and get a tub of popcorn and a packet of Maltesers, nothing else. I could never bring myself to just choose between either one, at least until now.

It was a bloody sugar high, kissing Louis. And I loved every fleeting second of it.

I had just barely registered the tickle of his stubble and the nip of his teeth against my lips before he pulled away. He kept his hands at the small of my back, though, pressing his fingers into the gooseskin that had washed over me as he rested his forehead against mine.

“Thank you.”

I finally opened my eyes, but only let myself stare at the sliver of space between us. I could see his chest cave in as he sputtered haggard breaths, and I could feel the hot air from his mouth drift against my face, minty and sharp from the mouthwash he’d had for breakfast.

I dragged my hands down the length of his Newcastle kit, and even under the swishy fabric, I could feel his heart hammering under my fingers, beating violently and faster than my own. I pinched the hem of the kit and shifted myself closer to him as he brushed my hair from my forehead and pressed another kiss to my temple as the camera clicks slowed down. I could hear the paparazzi clamor behind the glass, and I knew it was only a matter of time before Walter would hear all the commotion and come barreling in from the back, broom in hand and a scowl warping his usually warm features.

I finally pulled away after another moment, and Louis only brushed the back of his hand against my cheek before he muttered his goodbye. He pushed out into the crisp spring morning just as Walter came waltzing into the foyer with a box of biscuits under his arm and some earbuds stuffed into his ears, humming quietly to himself as he scanned the newspaper in his hands, not even acknowledging my presence. Louis scampered across the street to his gaudy Beemer, braving the throng of cameramen outside. He kept his head down and didn’t even watch for oncoming traffic before stepping out onto the road. The paparazzi blindly followed and pelted him with questions, all except for one – the bloke that had been smoking the cigarette against the tree all by himself.

I nearly jumped back in surprise when he looked up from his camera, his jaw set hard as the wind outside whipped his peppered bangs against his forehead. When he locked eyes with me, his face split into grin, his aged cheeks dimpling. Then he gave me an emphatic thumbs up before he slung his camera over his shoulder and disappeared around the corner of the street.