Burn Me Like the Sun

I usually had two ways of dealing with things that scared me: confronting it head on, or ignoring it to the point of pretending it didn’t even exist. For instance, when I was ten my dad got me a bicycle for Christmas, but up until then I never learned to ride one. I was scared of many things as a child – driving on the A1, sleeping in the dark, roller coasters, the slide at the park. While I eventually overcame most of these inane fears, as a ten-year-old, everything seems bigger and scarier than it actually is. And that was why I parked my bicycle in the garage behind my dad’s toolbox and forgot about it until summer rolled around.

That was the summer my mum left.

Suddenly, I felt numb. And because I felt numb, I was starving to feel something. And whether it was the wind in my hair while flying down the street on my dusty Christmas present or scraping my knees trying to learn how to ride it, I didn’t care. I needed to do something to distract from the strangle of apathy I had been burdened with.

So one June morning, I pulled out my bike from the garage and climbed on top and tried my best to pedal along the length of the driveway. As expected, I ended up falling down before my front tire even hit the footpath and scraped the entire length of my calf. It hurt, but I picked myself up and brushed off the loose gravel from my raw palms and went at it again. And again, and again, and again, until I finally hit the footpath without toppling over.

Riding a bike may have been scary at ten years old, but it couldn’t even begin to compare to talking to my mother at twenty-one. That was why I let myself forget the fact that I had a text from my mum burning a hole in my pocket telling me that we needed to talk.

At least, I forgot until Fran reminded me a few days later.

“You need to talk to your mum some time, you know.”

I was flipping through the channels, the clicker in my hand as I locked my other arm around my knees and pulled them to my chest. I stopped on a channel playing a rerun of some half-assed American sitcom, shooting Fran a nasty look over my shoulder as she walked into the living room, dressed in nothing but a wrinkled pair of neon pink running shorts and a Lord of the Rings t-shirt I could’ve sworn was mine at some point.

“I was doing just fine not five seconds ago until you reminded me,” I grumbled, scooting closer into the arm of the settee as she settled down next to me, depositing a cup of tea in front of me on the coffee table.

She brought up a mug of her own to her lips, steam wafting from the rim. “I’m sure it’s nothing serious. You’re probably just overreacting.”

“If it wasn’t anything serious, she would’ve added a bloody smiley-face at the end of it or at least an exclamation mark.” I snorted. “Even a fuckin’ ellipsis would’ve been better than just the one period.”

“Sounds like you’ve put a lot of thought into it,” she observed quietly after a beat, wiping her lips with the pad of her thumb.

“Oh, sod off.” I unfurled my legs and reached for the tea she made me, then curled back into myself and set the mug on top of my knees. “Do you have any plans for tonight? You know, other than totally killing the carefree mood I so diligently worked for all week?”

She shrugged her shoulders, her eyes glued to the telly as she adjusted herself on the settee, tucking a leg under her knee.

I scoffed, a wicked smile spreading across my face. “Oh my god. You invited him over, didn’t you?”

Her ears went pink, and she shook her head after a moment, staring at the mug of tea in her lap. “No,” she squeaked. She cleared her throat and tried again, but her voice was still so painfully meek and not Fran that it actually hurt to hear. “No. I’ve got a physics lab to finish and a paper to start, and I was going to—”

I laughed and shook my head, throwing it against the back of the couch as I stared up at the ceiling. “Say no more. I get it.” I turned my head and looked at her. “Having your flatmate in the next room doesn’t really set the mood, now does it?”

She winced, glancing at me before she went back to staring at her lap. “I’m sorry.”

I chuckled lowly. “Please. You’re not sorry.” I lightly backhanded her shoulder when her face fell, and she looked back at me, one of her eyebrows quirked. “It’s fine, I get it. I’ve been meaning to hang out with Louis anyway, so this is pretty much perfect timing.”

She broke into a slick grin, but hid it behind her mug as she took a sip of tea. “Hang out,” she repeated after a moment, nodding her head. “Right.”

“Shut up. You’re embarrassing yourself.” I sat up and set down my tea, throwing the clicker into her lap as I stood up from the sofa. She grappled for it, looking up at me over the rim of her mug. “He’s been bugging me to hang out with him, so he’ll be thrilled to hear that my night has suddenly cleared up. I’ll be out of your hair in no time.”

“Are you sure? I mean, I could always just go to his place if you—”

I rolled my eyes, and that alone seemed enough to quiet any racing doubts she had. “Should I even bother coming back home tonight or will you be otherwise preoccupied?”

She shrugged her shoulders, making a noncommittal noise into her mug as she took another sip of tea, not meeting my gaze.

I laughed again, mostly just out of incredulity. “Oi. What happened to your four date rule?”

She nodded her head side-to-side as she thought over her answer. “That kind of goes out the window when they’re half as fit as he is.”

“Fuck,” I muttered, my eyes wide as I shot her a knowing smile. “You’ve got it bad, mate.” I fished my mobile from my pocket, flipping it open and holding down the 2 as I started inching towards the hallway. “Do you plan to stop sucking on his face long enough for me to properly meet the bloke? I’m itching to give my approval. I mean, it is my responsibility. As your best mate and all.”

She laughed and nodded. “Soon. I promise.” She ran her finger over the lip of her mug, smiling into her lap. “You’ll adore him, I just know it.”

I pointed at her, walking backwards out of the living room and putting my mobile up to my ear as it rang. “I’m holding you to that.”

“Holding me to what?”

I laughed at the sound of Louis’s bored voice and switched my phone to my other ear as I bounded down the hall to my bedroom. “Sorry, mate. I was talking to Fran.” Louis hummed softly, and I went on. “Listen, though. I need to ask you a favor.”

“Anything.”

I smiled. “Fran’s invited a boy over and I need somewhere to sleep tonight since I’m the world’s best wingman. Think I could crash on your sofa for the night? I’d ask Val, but his new flatmate kind of creeps me out.”

He chuckled like he just thought up a dirty joke in his head then waited a moment before he finally said, “I owe you, don’t I?”

Not an hour later, I found myself typing in Louis’s security code before slipping through the squeaky front gate and walking up the cobblestone steps next to the driveway that led to the porch. When I explained my situation to him over the phone, Louis agreed to let me stay over for the night as long as I either promised to cook us dinner or if he got to make me a proper cuppa – my choice. Since I wasn’t in the mood to play chef just for Louis and me (as Harry was out on a date that night), I feigned agony and agreed to let him make me tea instead.

Admittedly I was excited, even though my eyes felt droopy and it was only half nine and I was convinced the second my bum touched that luscious leather sofa of his that I’d pass out. I just missed hanging out with Louis. I missed the stupid faces he’d pull and the dumb jokes he’d make and the way his face lit up when he actually got me to laugh. I guess I kind of just missed Louis. I missed my friend, and admitting that didn’t freak me out as much as it would have before.

I hopped across the stepping stones to his front door, my eyes catching sight of the white carnations he had potted and placed next to the driveway, all of which were finally in bloom. My heart pattered in frustration behind my chest when I rang the bell, but the jolt waned when the door opened to reveal Louis.

But it wasn’t just Louis, the chipper dolt who had a peculiar talent for making my blood boil. This was Louis with puffy eyes and disheveled hair. This was Louis in stretched-out plaid pajamas that barely clung onto his hips and a Star Wars t-shirt with the sleeves sloppily rolled up at different lengths. This was Louis with chapped lips and a red nose and an unfocused stare aimed at his bare feet. And when I saw him like this under his porch light, seemingly anything and everything but Louis, my heart sped up and my chest grew tight and I reached out and pulled him towards me without giving a second thought as to what I was actually doing.

He stumbled onto the landing as I locked my arms behind his back and buried my face in his neck, holding him flush against me.

“Oh!” he yelped, his voice thick, as he cradled the back of my head. “Hey, Blake.”

I let out a weak chuckle, finally pulling away as I felt a dull blush prick at my cheeks. I snatched my arms back and hung my hands from the straps of my rucksack, looking up at Louis. He stared back for only a moment before he ducked his head again.

“You’re right on time,” he said, twisting around and holding out his hand to the dark foyer as he scratched the back of his neck. “I was just about to put the kettle on.”

I nodded and walked inside, waiting for Louis as he closed the door behind him, casting us in almost complete darkness. I spun around, trying to find his outline in the shadows, but I had no such luck. I blinked a few times, still trying to adjust to the dark, when Louis’s hand brushed against mine. He gave a quick tug on my thumb before I finally saw his disheveled figure walking towards the dim light coming from the mouth of the kitchen.

I followed him blindly.

I slid onto a stool at the island and dropped my rucksack next to my feet, watching Louis as he bent down to grab the kettle from the cupboard under the stove.

“Are you doing alreet?”

I heard a loud thunk, and then Louis stood up slowly, rubbing a spot on his forehead as his mouth twisted to the side. He looked at me over the top of the counter only for a second before crouching back down.

“I’m fine,” he lied, his voice muffled. A few scraping sounds followed, along with a stifled crash, before he stood back up, ruddy kettle in hand. “Why do you ask?”

I breathed in slowly, looking him up and down. I let my gaze linger on the tattoos that covered his right arm, tracing the ink before I was inevitably drawn back to his eyes, which were no longer the light blue that I was so familiar with, but something clouded and sad. The skin under his eyes was puffy and pink, contradicting every last word he had just said. He definitely wasn’t fine, not with how tired he looked, like he hadn’t had a decent night’s sleep in days.

He kept his eyes averted from mine, then after a moment had passed, he made his way to the sink to fill up the kettle. His hands trembled as he turned on the faucet, and he had a hard time keeping the sprout in line with the water streaming from the tap.

But his hands finally stopped shaking when I took the kettle from him and set it down on the counter.

I turned back around and shut off the water, looking up at him from the side. He finally looked back when I touched his shoulder, my lips set in a firm line. I traced the length of his spine with my fingers, watching him quietly. His eyes eventually slipped shut and he hung his head, setting his hands onto the lip of the sink as he leaned forward.

“Is this about Vic?” I let my hand fall back to my side. “Harry said she came by.”

Louis didn’t move or make a sound, his eyes still shut tight as he breathed in through his nose.

“Do you want to talk about it?” I offered softly.

He only shook his head.

I sighed. “Alreet, then.”

He glanced at me over his shoulder when I darted out of the kitchen and I ignored his confused expression as I ducked into the foyer. I crossed the threshold and reached around the corner of the doorway into the living room, pawing at the wall on the other side as I searched for the light switch.

“Over here.”

I looked next to me, just catching sight of Louis’s outline in the dark before his entire living room was bathed in a swath of light from the ceiling fan.

I blinked a few times, letting myself adjust to the brightness. Louis was practically squinting. “Where do you keep your liquor?”

He peered at me for a moment before he nodded to the bar at the other end of the room. “There’s some in the mini-fridge. Top shelf.”

He leaned against the doorjamb with his arms crossed as a small smile worked its way onto his face, quirking the corner of his mouth as he watched me launch myself across the room. I yanked the fridge open and fished out a half-empty bottle of Grey Goose. I tucked it under my arm and scurried from behind the mini-bar, avoiding Louis’s curious gaze.

He took his time following me, his arms still crossed. I waited for him to saunter back into the kitchen before I set the liquor on the counter, then started rummaging through the cupboards next to the fridge where I knew he kept his disturbingly wide selection of breakfast cereals.

“What are you looking for?”

“Popcorn,” I answered easily, shutting the cupboard when all I found was cereal. I moved onto the next set of doors.

“Wait, wait.” He scrambled to my side and reached for my arm, wrapping his fingers around my wrist and pulling it down. My hand flopped against my side, stunned motionless. “Why do you need popcorn?”

I looked at Louis over my shoulder, my eyes flicking over his face. “We’re getting pissed and watching Jaws.” I swallowed, waiting for some sort of reaction from him, but none came. He just fixed me with a carefully blank expression, his lips set in a straight line. “You can’t watch a movie without popcorn,” I finally explained. “It’s practically illegal.”

He narrowed his eyes. “And why are we getting pissed and watching Jaws?”

I sighed gruffly and turned around to face him, slipping my hands into my pockets. “I know this week’s been rough for you. Giles isn’t exactly a cakewalk.” I stepped closer and shrugged. “And I don’t expect you to talk about it – actually, I’d rather you not. It’s just, I know something has been bothering you and I think this will help get your mind off it.” I rushed my fingers through my hair, suddenly finding myself staring at my feet as I added quietly, “All I want to do is help, so just let me.”

Louis swallowed hard enough that I could hear his throat clench up. “It’s on a top shelf. I’ll… I’ll get it for you.”

He brushed by me and I spun around, watching him as he walked up to the refrigerator. He stretched as far as he could for the cupboard doors at the top, tipping them open with just the tips of his fingers as his t-shirt rode up, revealing the white band of his boxer briefs and a sliver of his back. When he finally retrieved the popcorn and turned around, I shot my eyes to the ground, scratching the back of my head.

“Plain or butter?”

He was holding a box in each hand, his cheeks flushed, when I looked back up. “Doesn’t matter. As long as it’s burnt.”

“Burnt?” he gasped, his eyebrows cinching together. “Burnt popcorn?”

The corner of my mouth picked up in discomfort, and I nodded. “Yeah. Burnt. I mean, not completely. Just a little dark on the inside.”

He tossed the box of movie theater butter onto the island and ripped into the packaging of the plain popcorn, his muscles straining and the tendons in his arms jumping. “What kind of sane person likes the taste of burnt popcorn? That’s, like, up there next to veg and anchovies.”

I chuckled a little, spinning in place as I watched him stalk towards the microwave, two bags of popcorn in his hands. “I like it.”

He groaned, looking like I’d just personally offended him. “God, that sounds so disgusting. How do you even stand it? Did you just wake up with a sudden craving for it or something?”

I folded my arms on top of the island and leaned against it, watching him for a moment as he grabbed two bowls from the cupboard above the microwave and ripped the plastic off the first bag of popcorn, tossing the second one into a bowl.

“It’s bitter,” I finally settled with. I nodded as I bit back a smirk. “Like my soul. Speaks to me on a spiritual level, you know?”

He barked out a laugh, shooting me a grin over his shoulder. “Of course it does, babe.”

I chewed on my lip, still smiling. “Well, that, and, em, my poppa, my stepdad, he always used to burn popcorn when I was little. Drove me mum crazy, but I still ate all of it, even when it burned my tongue. He’d put salt on it, and a lot of pepper, too. I guess I just got used to it.” I shrugged. “Fran hates popcorn, so I don’t really think about it until I’m forced to share with someone else or if I go to the cinema.”

Louis had turned around, his fingers poised against the keypad of the microwave as he stared at me, his eyes curious and brighter than they had been all night, now nothing more than a few shades from the dry periwinkle that I loved.

“What?” I said, stretching out the word.

“Erm…” He cast his eyes to the ground, then turned back around, punching in a few numbers. He started the timer, batting his hand at me as he stared at the microwave. “Never mind.”

I rolled my eyes and jumped off my stool, making a beeline for the fridge. “Got anything else to drink? I’m kind of desperate for a beer.”

“How desperate?”

My nose wrinkled and I laughed. “Don’t get any ideas, mate. We’re not pissed yet.”

He nodded to the fridge, and I pulled open the door, ducking my head as I looked inside. I wrinkled my nose when I saw a six-pack of Stella in the door, an opened bottle of Samuel Smith abandoned next to it. I pushed aside a few takeout containers and a jar of salsa before I spotted a familiar blue and yellow label near the back of the top shelf, hidden next to a jar of mustard that looked like it was housing a new species of mold.

I snatched a bottle from the six-pack between my fingers and leaned over the refrigerator door, showing off the beer as I watched Louis. He had his fists set on his hips, focusing diligently on the popcorn in the microwave in front of him as his eyes glazed over.

“How long has this Brown been in here?”

He glanced at me, but did a double take when he noticed the beer in my hand, his eyes wide. “Oh.” He shrugged. “A while, I guess.”

“Hmm. Didn’t have the heart to throw it out?”

He swiped his tongue over his lips, staring at the bottle as I spun it between my fingers. “I guess I never really had a good reason to chuck it in the bin.”

My throat grew tight when he said that, his voice soft and not at all smug, maybe even a bit wistful. He must have known that I’d never be able to stay away, not forever, not even then. And there was something both comforting and scary about being reminded that he knew me so well. I fought the strained feeling in my chest like someone had drilled a hook into my sternum and given the line a tug, and grabbed a second Newkie Brown before I closed the refrigerator door.

I opened the beers, then walked over to Louis and handed him one. He took it from me, chugging a good half of it before he set it back down and wiped the back of his hand against his lips. I watched him for a moment, his eyes still stuck on the microwave as he avoided my stare, his eyebrows pinched together. I reached out and squeezed his shoulder before I sauntered out to the living room, picking a spot on the settee right in front of his telly as I waited for him to finish in the kitchen.

Louis followed me a few minutes later, a bowl of popcorn in each hand and the vodka I’d picked out tucked under one of his arms. He was struggling to keep his beer from slipping between his teeth, his head hung low. It was quite the sight, and I watched him with a smile as he fumbled like a newborn giraffe with skates strapped to its feet, navigating his way across the living room and around the coffee table. I jabbed at his legs with my toes when he got close enough, and he smiled so wide his beer nearly fell from between his lips.

He handed me a bowl of popcorn before anything else, and when I looked down, I saw a salt and a pepper shaker on top. I thanked him quietly, watching him as he struggled to gracefully set everything onto the table without spilling something. Then he slunk to the telly, beer in hand, and bent down, rummaging through the chest that housed his video games and DVDs before he finally pulled out a copy of Jaws. He plopped down next to me after he put the film in, slinging his arm over the back of the sofa and breathing out a sigh of relief.

“Are we drinking straight from the bottle, then?” I asked as I added a generous amount of pepper to my popcorn.

He downed the last of his Newkie Brown, peering at me from the corner of his eye. He nodded and pretzeled his legs in front of him, making himself impossibly smaller, then set his empty beer bottle onto the coffee table. He reached out for the vodka, his cheeks flushed.

He played with the cap, staring at the frosted bottle in his lap. “I just feel like getting fucked. Nothing else. And there’s no better way to get fucked than by drinking straight Goose.”

I hummed, a sad smile escaping me, and scooted up the couch, dropping my popcorn onto the reclaimed coffee table. My arm brushed against Louis’s, and he looked up, his eyes wide and bright.

“Well…” I clinked my Newkie Brown against the bottle of Goose in his lap. “Cheers, then, I suppose.”

And then we started drinking.

I’d been around drunk Louis a few times before that night, but somehow, when I was drinking with him, it was different. He was different. He wasn’t moody and sour like he’d been at that charity event a couple months ago with Niall and Zayn, or cheerful and talkative when I went with him to the BBC fundraiser. He wasn’t quiet or distant like the night I brought him home with me and let him sleep in my bed.

Maybe it was the straight vodka that changed his mood, because by the time we had nearly polished off the bottle of Grey Goose, our untouched popcorn left abandoned on the coffee table, I found myself lying down with my head in his lap as he played with my hair. He had his arm slung over my stomach, his fingers pinching my t-shirt as he drew circles into my scalp with his other hand.

Affectionate and playful would be the perfect way to describe this kind of drunk Louis. He barely took his cloudy eyes off me in the last hour as he watched my reactions to every scene of Jaws. He’d ask me questions from time to time, his voice jumpy and loud and teasing, but whenever a lifeless arm or buckets of fake blood showed up on screen, he’d hang his head and watch the side of my face in silence, wincing every so often if he glanced back at the telly too soon.

I’d only taken a few sips of vodka, but it was still enough to knock me on my arse on an empty stomach. I was slowly slipping off to sleep, even despite the movie that was playing, which had caught my attention in the very first five minutes. Louis was right – it was brilliant. The cinematography was creative and remarkable, especially the underwater scenes. The way the soundtrack alluded to the shark’s presence was damn near inventive as well, and even though I’d heard the two-note theme before, hearing it play along with the scene right in front of me gave me goosebumps, and it wasn’t just because Louis was playing with my hair, which tickled my spine in the worst ways to begin with.

About halfway through Jaws, there was a scene where a privileged marine biologist and a worn and torn shark hunter started drunkenly comparing their scars – a bite from an eel, a scrape from a shark. By that point, I was already dozing off, my eyes slipping shut every couple of minutes as I thoughtlessly traced the sparrow that was tattooed along the length of Louis’s forearm, my nail scraping softly against his skin. He had long since abandoned the circles against my scalp and instead settled with playing with my other hand, pinching my fingers and gently tangling them together with his.

“Right there,” the biologist said, pointing to his chest. “Mary Ellen Moffitt. She broke my heart!”

And the characters laughed together raucously as Louis winced the hardest he had all night.

It was hard to miss, seeing as he used his whole body to react. His hands stilled, and I could feel his muscles tense under my fingers as he clenched a fist. His jaw hardened too, and when I looked up at him after his hand left mine, I saw a blush creep up his neck. He ignored my curious stare, his eyebrows pinching together as he looked off to the side, shaking his head like he was disappointed in himself for reacting so strongly to such a silly little line.

I reached out and pinched his t-shirt between my fingers, giving it a tug. He finally peered down after I tugged on it again, his face scrunched up irritably.

“Hey.”

His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed, and his twisted expression melted away, leaving a sad look in his eyes that was impossible to miss.

“We were serious, you know.”

I bit my lip, letting my gaze drift to the Star Wars logo on his shirt, to his shoulder, to the ceiling fan, to the bottle of Grey Goose wedged between the couch cushions. Anywhere but his eyes.

“But then she became so… so distant.”

He voice hitched, and he cleared his throat to try and cover it up, but it only made it sound like he was one breath away from bursting into tears.

“I, erm, I wasn’t around a lot, you know?” He brought his hands up to his chest and massaged the tattered ends of his rope tattoo. “And I think… I think she blamed me because of it.”

A knot seized my throat, and I had trouble swallowing it back. I felt sick. “Oh, Lou.”

“She came by on Monday,” he admitted.

I sat up then, my back facing him, and brushed my hair from my face and clasped my hands in my lap. “Harry made it sound pretty serious.”

He smirked weakly. “It wasn’t. She was just surprised is all. Had nothing to do with you.”

Of course I was drunk, but that didn’t mean I couldn’t tell when Louis was lying. He wouldn’t look me in the eye, and a blush would always creep up out of nowhere without fail. Sometimes he’d lick or gnaw on his lips and his hands would fidget like they were now as he toyed with the hem of my t-shirt.

I knew he was lying, but that didn’t change the fact that I was drunk – drunk and indifferent. My head was fuzzy and my eyes felt droopy and my stomach lurched forward as his fingers brushed against the small of my back. I felt needy and lonely and ignorant, and I basked in it, letting myself get caught up in the fact that Louis hadn’t been this distant from me all night until now and I wished he was closer than if he had swallowed me whole.

I twisted around on the couch, pretzeling my legs together as I budged close enough that my knees pressed into the side of his thigh. He looked up in surprise, his lips slightly parted, as his hand stilled in the air. I took it from him and set it in my lap as my fingers pressed into the tattoos that stained his skin, from the little tea cup near his elbow and the four little birds on the inside of his arm, all the way to the tattered ends of the rope on his wrist.

“You know what I can’t stop thinking about?” I said, no longer intrigued by the sounds of frantic yelling and splashing water coming from the telly, but by the boy who sat next to me.

“What?” he urged, his voice soft and teasing.

“How dumb all your tattoos are,” I said carefully, trying so hard to not slur. “It actually, literally drives me mental.”

“Do you have a favorite?”

I hummed, glancing up at him. His eyes were brighter now, brighter than the light that seeped in from the kitchen, brighter than the screen that illuminated the living room. Bright and lovely.

I pinched the hem of his sleeve between my fingers and dragged it up to reveal the deer that sat on his shoulder. “I like this one. You keep covering up your regrets with more regrets, but something about this stag feels… permanent.” I bit my lip as I outlined the horns, then dragged my fingers down until they found the bird on his forearm. “I love the sparrow, though. It’s my favorite. Definitely.” I scrunched up my nose. “Everything else is just dumb, though. Really dumb. Like, what’s the purpose of putting a permanent stick man on your arm?” I clicked my tongue disapprovingly. “Dumb. Just dumb. Dumb boy, dumb tattoos.”

“Do you know what I can’t stop thinking about?”

I looked up when his arm left my lap, taking the warmth that came from his fingers with him. I buried my hands between my legs, hoping I could somehow trap that warmth back inside me, but I knew it’d be impossible. Louis burned, constantly, like a lonely sun.

“Like, I haven’t stopped thinking about it since it happened.”

His voice went up at the end, like he was waiting for me to egg him on. The words rolled from him slowly, slurred sweetly like honey.

“No,” I whispered back. “Tell me.”

“When…” His nose crinkled delicately as he snickered, and he shook his head, dragging his fingers through his hair. “When we kissed. God,” he sighed, throwing his head back against the couch, “that was a good kiss. Honestly. You’re a really good kisser, babe,” he added, twisting his neck to look down his nose at me.

My tongue felt raw as I flicked it between my lips and every nerve ending in my legs hissed as Louis shifted, his leg pressing firmly against my knees.

“Come closer,” I breathed.

The lazy smile Louis had on twitched unsteadily as he lifted his head from the couch, his eyes flicking over my face.

“Come here,” I tried again, firmer this time. I felt the sudden need to touch him, to get under his skin, but buried my hands between my legs, my fingers twitching uncomfortably.

But he didn’t budge, and I was fucked, so I gave up.

One of my hands wiggled free, and my arm fell over the back of the couch and across his shoulders. His reaction was instant, and he curled into me, leaning sideways as he tucked his chin to his chest. I pressed my face into the side of his neck, breathing in his scent even though it was mostly fouled by the dank alcohol that clung to his skin. I latched my other hand around the crook of his elbow, tracing circles into the Far Away. tattoo on his arm as he let out a staggered breath.

“You never have to lie to me,” I murmured into his neck, my brow pinched as I concentrated on keeping my words from slurring.

I brushed the ends of his hair and let myself enjoy his warmth. I pressed my lips against his shoulder and watched his profile as my fingers danced along his back.

Louis twisted in place and brought up his other hand, pressing his palm flush against my cheek, his fingers just touching my hair. His skin was dry but the heat that radiated from his hand made my cheeks quiver with a blush.

“Neither do you.”

My eyes dropped to his wrist and I took a shaky breath as I fought the words that began to bubble up. I was never a vocal drunk, mostly just sad and quiet and reflective, maybe sometimes affectionate if it was just Fran and me, but for some reason I just couldn’t shut up. And because I’d been hiding everything for so long, maybe a part of me didn’t want to.

“It was easier to hate you, you know,” I said softly, my voice muffled by his shoulder. “It was easier than admitting that what you did hurt. Because I, em… I care. About you. We’re mates, yeah?” I saw him nod from the corner of my eye. “Yeah. We are. That’s why I was so scared.”

I straightened up and his hand slid behind my neck, cupping the back of my head as he buried his fingers into my hair. I still couldn’t look at him, mostly just because I felt embarrassed by my word vomit, and when he finally spoke, it actually stung to hear his voice.

“Sometimes I’m, like, afraid you’ll never let me in again, you know? Like, I regret what I did. And not because you’re shutting me out, but because I hurt you.” He swallowed hard as my grip tightened around his arm. “I’m sorry I worry too much and I’m sorry I care too much and I’m so fucking sorry I’m worthless.”

“No.” I shook my head, and his hand fell back into his lap. “No, no, you’re wrong.”

His brow furrowed, and he looked up as he leaned forward, his expression just short of hopeful. “I’m wrong?”

I nodded, and the corner of my mouth quirked as I shot him a quick smile. I unfurled my hand from around his elbow and pressed my palm against his neck. I could feel his heartbeat start to stutter, racing as it pushed against my skin and weaved with my own. “You’re worth so much to me.”

The leather squeaked as he leaned forward slowly. I was drawn to his eyes, and even in the dark of the living room, there was still something sharp and bright about them despite the haze of drunkenness that had dulled them to a soft blue. My fingers dropped to the collar of his t-shirt and slipped underneath, and his skin seemed to jump with every thump of his heart, like the tiny organ had been replaced with a gong that made his whole body pulse. His hands found my hips, then slipped down until they hit the middle of my thighs, leaving a trail of flames that lapped at my skin. My eyes slipped shut and I could feel his breath on my lips, all sour and sweet and foolish.

But when his nose brushed against mine and his fingers flittered under my t-shirt and hooked around my belt loops, my mobile chimed in my pocket.

I ducked my head, watching Louis’s hands retreat to my knees. He gave a low chuckle as he rubbed his lips together, his head hung shamefully. I apologized quietly as I slipped my mobile from my pocket and flipped it open. He pulled his hands back into his lap then, rubbing his chin as he popped his jaw.

“Your mum?” he croaked as I read over the text.

I nodded.

“Of course. Why am I not surprised.”

“She said to tell you hello,” I mumbled, reading over the text again. I rubbed my lips together, my mouth still dry, and handed over my mobile.

He took it hesitantly, glancing at me from under his drooping bangs. I watched him read it, his glossy eyes flicking over the screen.

It wasn’t much, but at least I finally got an explanation of her weird text from earlier in the week.

Looks like you’ve been busy! LOL no worries just wanted to know if you wanted to help out this summer again but I actually found someone today so never mind. You’re always welcome to stop by though. I miss you baby. Tell Louis I said hi!!

Louis’s mouth twitched as he clicked the button to scroll down and got to the end of the message. He handed back my mobile after he flipped it shut, his lips set in a straight line.

“What?”

He rubbed his hand over his face, shaking his head as he sighed deeply. “We’re pissed, aren’t we?”

“Kind of,” I laughed, touching his shoulder.

“Makes sense,” he muttered, hugging himself. His hand slipped down his arm and brushed away my own.

I took my hands back and stuffed them into my lap as I frowned.

“You know what I can’t figure out?” he asked a moment later, reaching out for the clicker. He played with it in his lap as I slunk back into the sofa, hugging my knees to my chest as I fished the bottle of Grey Goose out from between the cushions just next to me.

“What?” I questioned lazily as I shakily unscrewed the cap.

Louis watched me, now sporting a frown of his own. He grabbed the bottle when I lifted it to my lips, and I huffed once as I let him take it from me, too tired to form a proper argument.

“I was going to drink that,” I said, grappling for the bottle again as he set it on the coffee table.

He snatched my hand instead, tearing the bottle cap from my fingers and screwing it back on top as I shot him a haughty look.

“You’re pissed enough already. So am I. Don’t think I can’t tell, because there’s no way in hell you’d ever let go like that sober.” He laughed to himself, bitter and angry. “God, I feel like I’m taking advantage of you right now.”

My eyes flashed and I swallowed hard as I stared at the side of his face.

“Actually, wait.”

I scoffed, my nostrils flaring, and shook my head. “What?” I deadpanned for what felt like the hundredth time.

“I have one more thing I need to ask.”

“Alreet,” I stammered. “But first…” I leaned forward and groaned, snatching the bottle from the coffee table. Louis didn’t flinch as I set it in my lap and unscrewed the cap again. I tossed it to the table, letting it clatter noisily as it hit one of the popcorn bowls, and lifted up the bottle to my lips. I took a hefty pull of vodka, letting the burn scald my mouth and my throat, but it still wasn’t as hot as the feeling of Louis’s eyes as they traced the side of my face.

“Will you ever trust me again?” He swallowed hard as I set the bottle back into my lap, only coherent enough to lunge forward for the cap and smack it back onto the lip. “At least enough to trust that I won’t leave? Because I won’t,” he promised, his voice pleading. He wouldn’t look at me anymore, and instead stared at his lap as he rubbed circles into the stick birds along his wrist. “I won’t, I swear, and every time I’m reminded you’re just going along with this because you think it’s all I want—”

“Can we not talk about that right now?” I hiccupped. I wiped the back of my hand against my lips as I glanced at him, taking sight of the blush that stained the back of his neck. “I’m just… Oh. I’m just so fucking tired, Lou.”

He sighed, his breath ruffling his bangs, then pressed his hands to his knees and stood up. He silently reached for the clicker on the coffee table and turned off the telly, then threw it onto the settee behind him.

“Here.” He offered me his hand, wiggling his fingers a little when I didn’t budge. “Give me the bottle, babe.”

I handed it to him wordlessly, and he took it before he stumbled around the sofa towards the mini bar. I heard the creak of hinges and then a small smack, and then Louis reappeared at my side, offering his hand again.

But this time I took it wordlessly and let him lift me up from the sofa.

“Whoa, steady, steady,” he muttered, wrapping an arm around my waist as I staggered into his side. “You’re absolutely pissed, aren’t you?”

I snorted, brushing his arm from my hip. “Watch it, Casanova,” I grumbled. “I’ll do anything to forget the fact that Fran is currently defiling our flat for the sake of her libido.”

“Well, I’m grateful.”

I hummed curiously, looking up at Louis as he guided us to the mouth of the foyer, his hand pressed into my shoulder.

“Because at least you’re here.”

I groaned. “Gross, mate.”

By the time we had clambered up the stairs, my big toe felt like it was about to fall off as I’d slammed it into the steps a few times scaling my way up to the first floor. Louis seemed to be the more sober of us two even though he’d practically polished off the bottle by himself, but this hardly surprised me considering that my track record with alcohol was nothing short of embarrassing.

The first floor was simplistic to say the least, the walls a bright white that matched the ground floor. The deep brown hardwood under my feet squeaked with every step, the floors almost as shiny as a brass button. There were three doorways: one on either side of me, along with a door straight at the back, which I assumed was the linen closet. Two louvered windows were placed on either side, the blinds shut tight and covered with wispy, dark green curtains.

There were a few framed photographs hanging on the walls as well. One was of the boys, which hung just to my right, the five of them standing together with their arms slung across each other’s backs. Across the foyer was another small childhood photograph of Harry with another girl around his age and an older woman, likely his sister and mum, the three of them tangled together on a sofa. Then there was one last portrait, which hung just above a small end table above a lamp near the linen closet.

It was Louis’s, of course, a larger photograph that looked to be a few years old. He was definitely younger, his hair styled spiky and straight, and he was wearing a white t-shirt and blue jeans. There were four other little blonde girls that sat around him, dressed in white dresses or skirts or blouses. The five of them were photographed in a large field of grass, and the wind that day had tousled the hair of the oldest girl that sat in Louis’s lap. He had his chin on her shoulder as he wrapped his arms around her waist, hugging her to him as he grinned unabashedly.

My hand, suddenly heavier than a bag of bricks, flopped against my side in a sluggish attempt at pointing at the picture. “Your sisters?” I asked quietly.

His fingers brushed against the hair at the nape of my neck. He nodded silently, then reached down and pulled on my arm as he brought me onto the landing.

“Are you taking me to Harry’s room?” I asked as I followed him. My feet dragged against the floor as I struggled with every footstep.

He glanced at me as he led me to the door on our left. “I’m returning the favor.”

He held the door for me after he shrugged it open, letting me stumble into the dark room by myself. I just about tripped over the corner of a throw rug as I staggered inside, but Louis caught my arm, clicking his tongue at me as he guided me to Harry’s neatly made bed.

He pulled out the duvet and then the sheets, throwing the smaller decorative pillows to the foot of the bed, then sat me down on the edge of the mattress. He got to his knees in front of me then leaned forward, brushing his hair from his forehead. I felt his fingers flutter against my ankles as he undid my laces silently. He eventually pulled off both my plimsolls, then my socks, and then sat up and set them on the floor next to the end table that housed a small stack of books and two abandoned tea mugs.

A moment later, I felt the mattress sink under his weight as he sat down next to me.

“Lie down,” he commanded softly, brushing my hair behind my ear. “I’ll be right back.”

Then he stood up and left Harry’s room, leaving me alone for the first time all night.

I let myself fall against the cool sheets, pulling the duvet from around my knees up to my chin as I twisted onto my other side. I was faced with a window half-lidded with blinds and the entire side of Harry’s bedroom, which was decorated with nothing but clean, white-washed walls, a pillowy leather chair that looked comfortable enough to fall asleep in, and a desk with a closed Mac perched on top.

I let my eyes travel over the room, still half-drunk and on the verge of sleep as a warmth spread from the tips of my toes all the way to my shoulders under the fluffy duvet. I snuggled in deeper, and when I pressed my nose into the pillow, the scent of ginger caressed the side of my face.

I twisted around under the covers when I heard my name, whispered between a yawn and a low cough. My eyes landed on Louis as he leaned against the doorway, but I barely had a chance to focus on the boy in front of me before my eyelids slid shut again, suddenly too heavy and too hot to stay awake a moment longer.

But before I slipped away, I looked him in the eye and feebly let out three pathetic words I’d never have the courage to say sober. “Don’t leave me.”

The last thing I saw before I shut my eyes was an electric keyboard buried in the shadows in the corner of the room, a marked-up booklet of sheet music perched on top.