Dyeing Days

Louis’ bathroom is a rainbow – an absolute mess of every color imaginable, every shade, every hue, colors man hadn’t even imagined yet. Purple is smeared on shampoo bottles. Red is stained onto towels. Blue latches onto his faucet and won’t come off, no matter how much his mum scrubbed at it with rubbing alcohol. She always hassles him, telling him, “one day your hair’s going to fall out!” but not-so-secretly, she admires Louis for being himself, truly and completely. She is proud of her only son, doing what she never could: not being afraid to stand out and spread his wings. Her little butterfly, he is.

Louis stands in front of the mirror, removing the hastily done foils from his hair. He isn’t very professional about dying his hair, that’s for sure. Like most things in his life, he rushes through his hair – sometimes resulting in disaster, sometimes resulting in an accidental masterpiece. He isn’t really fussed, either way.

There is something beautiful about freshly bleached hair, Louis believes. And no, he isn’t just being pretentious. God, he’s tired of people sticking the hipster/indie/scene/whatever label onto him just because he dyes his hair. His love for colored hair goes far deeper than any fashion trend. He doesn’t know a time when hair didn’t fascinate him. As a young boy, he loved watching cartoons and seeing characters with wild hair and wondering, “Why can’t hair be like that in real life?” And then one day, he was at a shop and a woman with bright, neon Atomic Pink by Special Effects hair walked by and Louis realized that he could do it, too. And the rest, they say, is history.

But anyways. Back to bleached hair. There is something to be said about freshly bleached hair, and Louis is going to say it. It is like a blank canvas, waiting to be painted over again. Louis loves the fragility of it, loves taking care of it like a baby. He loves having something to do.

Louis hates having dark hair – or too bright hair, for that matter. He hates feeling trapped with one color – and, like, have you ever tried to strip bright turquoise out of hair? It’s impossible, like pulling teeth, and Louis fried the cookies out of his hair trying to get it out, had to cut it really short. Louis hates being trapped with one color, feeling like he can’t change fast enough. He supposes that could be a metaphor for his whole life, but that’s neither here nor there.

Louis stoops over the edge of his bathtub, washing the bleach from his hair with Purple Shampoo – the kind that tones hair. He might as well kill two birds with one stone, after all. Then he runs some deep conditioner through it, from root to tip and swaddles it up in a towel – his bleaching towel, one that he’d already ruined. It used to be blue, but now is decorated in patches of white, bleeding and dripping like candle wax. His mum just got new towels, and she threatened Louis’ life – she also threatened to take away Louis’ record player, which. Louis would kill himself without his music. So Louis makes sure never to use them on his hair.

Louis’ hair is silvery-white, with tones of lilac running through it, and he plans on leaving it like that, at least until some other color catches his eye, or he sees a cute picture of someone with, say, blue hair that he so desperately wants to emulate. Louis soaks up inspiration so quickly, it’s actually rather unfortunate.

Lying on bed, Louis plays music until he falls asleep. That’s basically his life, in a nutshell. At least on Dyeing Days. Louis fancies himself a bit of a social butterfly, when he can be bothered. On Dyeing Days, Louis allows himself to relax, to focus on nothing but his hair. When he thinks about it, it sounds a bit silly – to put superfluous effort into something as transitory as his looks, but it’s not about that. Louis doesn’t really know what it’s about, to be honest. But when he’s dyeing his hair, he never puts too much thought into his physical appearance.

Regardless, he enjoys it, and the people around him enjoy it. Last year, he dyed his hair deep, cherry red sometime around November, and everyone joked around, saying he should add green for Christmas. It’s fun.

--

He wakes up, rinses the conditioner from his hair, and styles it. With nothing else to do, he walks to the art shop. Sometimes, Louis likes to pretend that someday he’ll conjure up some talent and become an artist. Sometimes he buys an oil pastel in a color he likes and tries to picture something artistic he could do with it – keyword being tries. His friend Zayn goes there a lot. He actually has talent – a lot of it, in fact. He can do everything – paint, draw, write poetry. He dabbles in street art, too. Just a bucket of talent, he is.

The art shop itself is situated next to the local Boots. It’s not much to be seen – well, it’s not much to be seen compared to the fluorescent lit up signs of the stores around it, but to Louis it’s very beautiful. The outside glass is decorated intricately with, for a lack of a better word, psychedelic designs. And Zayn has done a bit of graffiti on the door, as well. It’s beautiful. Louis feels so out of place in it, to be honest. He has no idea what the fuck turpentine is and how it relates to art. It’s like paint stripper, right? Whatever, that’s beside the point.

There’s a little bell above the door, and it jingles whenever someone comes in the shop. Sometimes going inside is really disconcerting because as soon as the door jingles every eye immediately darts to him, and Louis – despite his typically ostentatious appearance – has no idea how to handle people looking at him when he’s all alone and has no one/nothing to avert his eyes to. But maybe he just puts too much thought into it – that’s probably it.

The inside of the shop is really cute, in Louis’ opinion. The walls are a light pinky-purplish color – a replica of the owner – Perrie’s – hair color. (Also in Louis’ opinion, Perrie is a major component in Zayn’s love for this particular art shop.) Hanging on the walls are pieces of art by local artists, and every once in a while they’re changed out. Some of them are really beautiful and fabulous, and some – well, beauty is in the eye of the beholder, is it not? But Louis maybe just doesn’t “get” some kinds of art. His favorite piece ever hung up is probably the one painted using the artist’s menstrual blood. It really shocked him; he loves being shocked.

Within the aisles is where Louis gets most confused. Like, what is the difference between acrylic and oil paints? And does it really matter? Louis has no clue. He makes a mental note to Google it later, as he searches through the various colours.

Sometimes, Louis closes his eyes and can see something worth painting behind his eyelids – just a brief flash of inspiration. But then it’s gone before he can remember it. And then he’s left thinking: was that just a memory of something I’ve already seen? Or was it really a burst of inspiration deep from within him? Perhaps that’s why visual art just isn’t for him. Zayn would argue and use Louis’ hair as an example. Art comes in all forms, Zayn always says. Lots of people use their bodies as canvases. Of course Zayn would think that, though. He’s covered in tattoos – Louis is, too. Prison-status tattoos, sure, done while stoned with a makeshift tattoo gun comprised of a safety pin and thread.

Louis’ been staring at a sponge for about three minutes, he’s just realized. Sighing, he moves onto the oil pastels. They’re the only medium he can kind of work with. He just smears a bunch of colours together until some kind of pretty mess results. One time Zayn flipped through his notebook of stories and poems and weird pictures and came across something Louis did with pastels and raved about it for an hour. He really liked it, for whatever reason. Louis sighs. He doesn’t have any money. Why can’t inexpensive hobbies exist? He practically had to sell his soul for his record player.

Louis turns to leave, but something catches his eye. It’s the boy – no, man – working at the till. Louis’ never seen him before, but he makes his mouth dry. Louis doesn’t really have a label for his sexuality. He isn’t gay, that’s for sure. He loves girls, but he loves boys sometimes, too. Maybe he’s an excessively heterosexual bisexual.

The man at the till’s got headphones in his ears and is lightly bobbing his head to the beat, but it doesn’t make Louis want to cringe like it usually does when people do it. He’s also reading, which. Louis loves people who love reading; they’re always cute.

Louis desperately wants to get the man’s attention. But he doesn’t know how. What can he do? Buy something? He has no fucking money. Could he offer sex in exchange for pastels? Louis laughs at the thought.

Immediately the man’s eyes shoot up from his book. Louis blanches. God, he hates when this happens – when he just laughs out of nowhere with no one around to laugh with and people just think he’s crazy. He didn’t think the man could even hear him. And now he’s just standing in the middle of the store laughing out of nowhere and it’s just awkward.

“What are you laughing at?” the man asks, and he’s got a deep voice. And he’s northern, but definitely not from Yorkshire.

“Um…” Louis stutters. He sure as fuck can’t be honest in this situation. “Sorry, I didn’t know you could hear.”

The man sits up straighter. Louis really needs to learn his name. Louis begins to inch casually towards the door. “So you were laughing at me?”

Louis sputters indignantly. “No! I was just…laughing at myself? I don’t know. In my head, I’m really funny. So I was just laughing…at something…I said, in my head?” Louis can feel his cheeks warm up.

“I see.” From the distance, Louis can see the man’s eyebrows furrow. “Well, okay then.” He turns back to his book. And then, as if remembering, he exclaims, “Have a nice day!” But Louis had already gone out the door.

--

Louis doesn’t see the man at the till again for three months.

--

In case Louis hasn’t already made this clear, Zayn is his best friend. Well, if he’s honest, Zayn is his only true friend. Zayn is the only one he’s comfortable around. Zayn is the only one he wants to be around, all the time, because it’s always fun. Sometimes he wonders if Zayn doubts it…Louis isn’t the most affectionate person in the world. To be honest he can be a bit cold at times; he hates being emotionally vulnerable, and that’s probably the biggest seam in between Louis and Zayn’s hearts.

It’s a November Friday night, and Louis and Zayn are stoned. Or at least, they’re getting there. Surrounded by miscellaneous car parts and dead grass, they sit in the concrete jungle of Zayn Malik’s backyard.

Zayn’s got this weird contraption – what he calls a “glass bubbler”, and basically, it does what it says. You pour water into it and when you inhale from it, the water bubbles. Or something like that. To be honest, Louis only has a minimal idea of what’s going on. He doesn’t smoke pot very often – definitely not as much as Zayn, and he’s an extreme lightweight. And the weed Zayn got – a type called White Widow – was the strongest, most potent strain of weed available. Louis’ had about three strong hits, and he’s pretty buzzed.

He’s at the point where his head feels kind of floaty, and whenever Zayn says or does something remotely funny, he laughs and laughs until he feels weak. He doesn’t laugh because it’s funny, he laughs because he doesn’t know how to stop.

Zayn’s doing an impression of a dinosaur-chicken, and it’s so stupid that Louis can’t breathe. He’s lying on his back, the frost on the cold ground seeping into his back. It’s a stark contrast to the overheated feel of his skin, sweaty from the smoke. His face is hot from laughing.

Now Zayn’s laughing, too, and maybe thirty seconds pass, maybe ten minutes, Louis has no idea anymore. But it feels good.

“Hey,” Zayn interrupts, breathing heavily. “Hey, I’m going to call my friend Grimmy. I think you’ve met him.” With fumbling hands, Zayn dials numbers on his phone – a shitty flip phone. “He’s got a gravity bong; you need to try it.”

“What,” Louis interjects, “the fuck is a gravity bong?” He pauses for a moment, a thought skating through his mind. “Are we going to smoke in mid-air or summat?”

Giggles break through Zayn’s lips. “No!” He takes a break to laugh again, as he imagines smoking mid-air. It sounds like something that would happen to the two of them, to be honest. “It’s a type of bong. It’s really intense, I think. Harry said so, and Grimmy’s got one. We should go over to their flat.”

Grimmy’s flat is in the middle of the city, though the streets are fairly empty, save for a few cars here and there. The pubs have already stopped letting people in because it’s just gone past three in the morning. Zayn leads them to a tall building, and they have to climb a few flights of stairs – and Louis can barely feel his fucking legs, he’s so far gone. Eventually Zayn calls Harry down to help them up.

“Christ, Lou,” Harry exclaims. “You are proper fucked, aren’t you?”

To which Louis can only laugh, loud and unabashed. Slowly it devolves into giggles that shake him to the very core, the kind of giggles you don’t even realize you’re doing, they’re just there, and they linger, stick to your tongue like peanut butter. “I am, Harry.” Louis feels like he sounds like a bitch, his voice strung out and a bit whiny.

The inside of Harry and Grimmy’s flat is miniscule. It’s also very, very Harry. Everything’s mismatched and purposefully weird. Louis wonders who the fuck Grimmy is.

Until out walks the man from the till, that one time at the art shop – the man who he never saw there again, even though Louis went in like every day after that, hoping to see him. One day Louis asked Perrie where he was, and she smiled sadly and told him that he’d gotten fired. He’d never thought to ask what the man’s name is, but Louis can only assume that it’s Grimmy.

“Grimmy get your gravity bong,” Harry exclaims from the depths of their kitchen, which is really just a tiny refrigerator, a toaster oven, and a sink.

“Geez,” Grimmy’s voice mocks. Louis is entranced. “Alert the entire building, why don’t you. Invite the old woman next door, too.”

Zayn laughs, the peanut-butter giggles bursting from his chest. Harry emerges from the kitchen, rolling his eyes. He hands Zayn a glass of water.

“By the way,” Harry adds. “This is Louis. Louis, this is Grimmy.”

“Charmed,” Louis greets, too high to say much else, really. Grimmy probably doesn’t remember him anyway.

“I remember you,” Grimmy says. “You’re that boy who was laughing at himself.”

Zayn barks out a laugh. “That sounds like Louis.”

The gravity bong itself is less impressive than Louis was expecting. He was expecting something futuristic looking, like an alien’s dick or whatever. But what Grimmy pulls out is a bucket and the top of a two litre bottle. Harry fills the bucket in the kitchen sink, and they sit on the floor in there because the bucket is too heavy for even Harry to move.

“Okay,” Grimmy begins, clapping his hands together. The four of them were seated around the bucket of water. Grimmy puts the half-bottle on top of the water. “When you inhale out of this…”

Louis lies back, staring at the fluorescent lights on top of the ceiling. He misses Grimmy’s next directions, he thinks, but he can’t focus on anything abstract right now. He can’t really think, either. And he probably wouldn’t be able to follow directions very well right now, anyway. He’s bad at that even when sober.

“Ready, Louis?” Grimmy’s voice breaks him from his thoughts. He sits up to see Zayn exhaling a thick, milky haze of smoke. It looks good. Zayn’s eyes are closed and there’s a smirk playing at his lips. Who even knows what’s going on in his head?

“Yeah,” Louis replies. “Can you help me?”

Grimmy grins, wolfish but kind. “Of course I can.” He takes a pinch of weed and puts it in the metal piece melted into the cap of the bottle and lights it. Thick white smoke blooms in the plastic of the bottle.

“That looks like a good one, Lou,” Harry notes. He’s really cute tonight, Louis notices. He’s wearing a little onesie. He looks like a baby, especially with his dimples and curly hair.

“Okay, Louis, go ahead.” And so Louis leans down, attaches his mouth to the bottle cap and breathes in. Above him, he feels Grimmy pushing his head down until there’s nothing left.

Louis leans up, waits a moment, and lets the smoke billow out from his mouth. Through the haze, he meets Grimmy’s eyes. They’re a bit glazed, as if he’s been smoking, too. Louis can’t remember if he has or not.

The rest of the weed is smoked, and Louis gets to the point where he’s seeing things. Well, at least he thinks he is. He feels like he’s in a Disney movie. Everything looks like some kind of weird animation, and whenever he looks down at the metal piece on the bottle cap, it morphed into some kind of creature.

Finally he just lies back and watches the lights above him dance around like birds. He has no idea if he’s hallucinating or if things are just moving weirdly. Like, he feels like he’s surrounded by animals, but he doesn’t see any. He just sees random objects moving and they seem kind of like animals. Does that even make sense?

Harry keeps making weird noises and he’s wearing a fucking onesie and Louis can’t stop laughing, but he’s got this weird sense of dissociation. He’s completely aware of what’s going on around him, but he’s still stuck inside his head. He feels vaguely nauseous and he can’t stop thinking about Grimmy. Something about him just makes Louis sad – he feels like he’s looking into the past just by looking at Grimmy, and he can see everything that’s ever happened to the other man.

Louis rolls onto his stomach and props himself up on his elbows. Around him, Zayn and Harry are engaged in a discussion, who knows what about. Grimmy’s staring at the ground, and his eyes are uncharacteristically wide open for a stoned person. He’s so beautiful, it hurts Louis. He looks so sad.

Grimmy looks up, meets Louis’ eyes and crawls over to him. Louis lies back, his breathing getting heavier. Grimmy lies over top of Louis, elbows resting beside the pastel purpley-blue haired boy’s face. He runs his lips along Louis’ jaw, and Louis can’t comprehend anything enough to be shocked by the events taking place. He just runs his hands along Grimmy’s back because his body feels good.

“My first name’s Nick,” the man above him murmurs into Louis’ ear. He shudders at the feeling. His ears are so sensitive. “Grimmy’s just a nickname. I’m 24, I’m a Leo.” He kisses along Louis’ neck, sucking at a spot and Louis feels arousal coil in his stomach.

“I like Nick better than Grimmy. I’m Louis,” the much younger boy returns. “I’m 16, I’m a Capricorn.” And then he blurts out, “Our signs – we’re not very compatible.”

Nick doesn’t say anything back, just brings his mouth up to press softly against Louis’. Louis feels a noise come from his mouth when he feels the other man’s chapped lips move against his own. He prays to God that his breath isn’t too bad from the weed.

“You’re so young,” Nick breathes, mostly to himself. Then he presses his lips to Louis’ with more vigor, sucking on the younger boy’s bottom lip, biting it and pulling it. Louis retaliates by licking Nick’s bottom lip, just a cheeky swipe of the tongue. Their eyes lock, and Nick lets his entire body fall onto Louis’, their hips aligning.

It’s not enough pressure or the right angle to get Louis to come any time soon, but it’s enough to make his limbs twitch. He grips the back of Nick’s neck hard and sucks a bruise into the side of it as Nick pushes his shirt up.

Nick pushes his own shirt up, and then their torsos are resting against each other as Nick grinds his hips into Louis’ harder. Nick grabs Louis’ hands and holds them up beside the younger boys’ head, and Louis can’t help the noises coming from his mouth as Nick presses against him harder and rougher. He wonders what the fuck Harry and Zayn are doing.

As if his last thought was a premonition, Nick is suddenly pulled off of Louis by an enraged Zayn. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing, mate?” he demands of Nick. “He’s like 10 years younger than you, you sick fuck!”

Louis is in a daze. He lets himself be pulled into Zayn’s protective arms, and he lets himself doze into a different planet.

--

When Louis regains awareness for reality, he is cuddled up to his two close friends. Where is Nick?

--

Louis has bubblegum blue hair because it’s summertime and it looks good with tan skin. At least, he thinks so. School has been out for a day, and Louis is bored. He’s been listening to My Bloody Valentine all day and he keeps getting bursts of creative energy, the restless desire to do everything you’ve ever wanted to do, to make something and not just sit around all the time. So he goes back to the art store.

He’s groggy and disoriented, like he always is after hanging out with Harry, because Harry’s always doing some kind of mind-altering substance. And even if Louis isn’t doing it with him, he picks up on Harry’s vibes. Harry’s always confused, always fucked up. Louis needs to help him.

But how the fuck can Louis help Harry if he can’t even help himself? He feels like he’s falling apart, deteriorating until all he can do is question himself and everything he does. Something’s missing from his life, he can feel it. But he can’t materialize the feeling into something actually tangible and understandable. It’s all just a mess of dissatisfaction.

Louis hasn’t seen Nick since that crazy night. If he tries hard enough, he can feel Nick’s lips on his own again, a ghost of a memory. He’d never wanted anyone more than he’d wanted Nick at that moment; he didn’t know such desire even existed. He’d never felt that raw, primal sort of need for a person, until Nick. And yet he can’t be angry at Zayn for separating them. It was probably for the best.

The door to the art store still jingles; the art on the walls is still somewhat atrocious, somewhat beautiful. Liam still stands at the counter. He still waves hello to Louis, but maybe he can tell something is wrong because the bright, eye-crinkling smile drops from his face and he gestures Louis over.

“What’s wrong, mate?”

Anyway, Louis decides to be honest. “I just feel depressed.” He pauses, and thinks out loud. “I think that nothing I used to love makes me happy anymore – not smoking weed with Harry, not fucking with my hair, not listening to music – and I just want to lie down and sleep, but I can’t turn my mind off for long enough to do that. To be honest, I don’t really want to do anything at all, even sleep, actually.”

“Do you know why you feel that way?”

Does he? “No, not really.”

Liam smiles a little bit. “Then try not to feel that way. If you have no idea why you feel that way, then you can’t figure out what the problem is and you can’t fix it. So you just have to make it work.”

The thing about Liam is that he comes off as a sort of dense boy. He never did very well in school, from what he’s told Louis, and usually, all he seems concerned about is Zayn. (Liam has had a crush on Zayn since forever, but Zayn has eyes for Perrie. It’s a fucking mess.) But sometimes he produces small bits of wisdom – just a phrase that he maybe doesn’t even realize the depth of. Maybe Louis should give him more credit.

Louis leaves the store that day with a smile on his face, face flushed from laughing with Liam. “Wait,” he turns as he’s about to walk out the door, the sky outside smoked in dark blue and gray. “Do you remember when Nick worked here?”

“Grimshaw?” Grimmy sounds a bit like Grimshaw, sure. “He was fired. He failed the drug test.”

Oh. Well, that would explain it. That also explains why Zayn’s never tried to work here. But, “What’d he take?”

Liam laughs. “Where do I start?” he jokes. Then he says, “Look, I’m not supposed to tell anyone, but it was a long time ago and I can trust you.” He gestures for Louis to come closer. “He tested positive for meth and marijuana. Pez would have been lenient with weed, but meth?” He blows out a breath, perhaps in awe. “It’s so shocking because he didn’t look, you know, like a drug addict.”

Louis doesn’t know what to say. First of all, he can’t believe he almost shagged a meth addict. “Do you know what he’s doing now?”

“Harry says he’s in treatment, says he got real bad. In the hospital and everything.” Liam shakes his head slowly. “I know you’re pretty fast, Louis, but promise me you won’t ever do something that dumb, okay? Make sure Zayn doesn’t, either.”

Louis nods, promises to stay safe until he sees Liam next.

--

Louis lets his roots grow out and then cuts his color bits of hair off. He can’t be arsed anymore.

--

You’d think that Louis would have run into Nick before now. At least Liam answered a few questions for him. He hadn’t been seeing Nick around Harry’s because he was in some facility in London. But now he’s having a non-alcoholic beverage at Nick’s Welcome Home Party. It’s basically miserable, because he feels nauseous in anticipation. And the people here are fucking ridiculous. It’s all Harry and Nick’s mutual friends – a bunch of emaciated models and talentless indie musicians. The only good thing is that Liam came, seeing as it’s a drug-free party. No alcohol or anything.

Louis sits beside Niall. Some people are dancing but it’s awkward to watch. Some people are high as shit, but they came that way. Harry glowers at some, obviously worried that it’ll trigger Nick. Louis hopes that he’ll chuck them out. If Harry doesn’t, then he might.

Niall’s hilarious, and Louis loves his boyfriend, Josh. He loves seeing boys cuddle, but it makes his heart ache.

Suddenly everyone’s shushing everyone, and people are ducking down. Louis doesn’t bother. He’s always at Harry’s anyway – it’s not like it’ll be a fucking shocker to see him there. The door opens, and Nick walks in, toting a duffel bag and a suitcase. He looks tired, and when the crowd pops out of their hiding places and yells, “surprise,” something crumples on his face. He turns and runs, and Louis finally jumps up from his seat.

Louis leaves after him, and no one stops him because everyone’s gone still and silent. Louis actually has no idea why he decided to go after Nick, but he’s doing it anyway.

Nick’s sitting in the lobby of their building, on the weird couches that Louis has never seen anyone sit on before. His face is in his hands. Louis takes a seat beside him, which makes the man beside him jump.

Louis never prepared what to say. So he doesn’t say anything, just lets Nick lean on his shoulder and sigh. Finally, Louis asks, “Do you remember me?”

“Do you think I’d lie on a stranger, duckling?” Louis can hear a smile in his voice, but he can tell Nick’s one of those people that covers up emotion with humour.

“Harry was just trying to make you feel at home again, I think. He was trying to make you feel normal.” Louis feels the need to comfort Harry, too. Louis’ sure that he’s freaking the fuck out. This will have to do for now.

Nick laughs, and it shakes Louis’ entire body. Nick shifts a bit, collapses into Louis a bit more. Louis is glad he’s soft. “It’s pathetic that normal for me is a fucking party.”

“Is it still normal for you?” Meaning: are you still going to waste your life away partying?

“I don’t know,” Nick answers. “I don’t feel very different. I feel too exposed, mostly. And I still feel tired, like I did when I was still using. Maybe that’ll never go away.”

“If you’re tired, you can come to my house and have a kip.” Louis is being too forward. “Maybe you’ll feel better. Maybe you’ll be ready to face Harry and all them.”

Nick smiles. “What’s your mum going to think, hm? Having an older man sleeping with her son?”

Louis purses his lips. “Well, I didn’t really think about that. But I guess I just won’t tell her.” Louis refuses to acknowledge Nick’s sexual innuendo.

So they walk to Louis’ house, and it’s uncharacteristically warm that night.

“What’s doing meth like?” Louis asks after a few moments of silence. They’re in Louis’ neighborhood. His mum is probably still working, and his sisters – well, hopefully they’re asleep.

Nick raises an eyebrow at him. “Imagine the feeling you get from the one thing that interests you the most. Think about a difficult project you've completed and the feeling of pride and self worth you got from it when finished. Imagine what it feels like to be the smartest person in the world. Remember the most excited and energetic you've ever felt in your life. Take all of these things and multiply them by a thousand – that’s what it feels like.”

“Are you going to stay away from it?”

Nick shrugs. “I don’t know. I don’t know if I have a reason not to. It’s not like I have much going for me.” He sighs. “There’s so much that I wish I could’ve done, that I wish it wasn’t too late for me to do. I used to have a job doing radio, did you know that? It was never anything big, but maybe it could’ve gone somewhere. I got tied in with the wrong people, made too many mistakes.”

They’re in Louis’ house now. They’re in Louis’ room, and Louis feels self-conscious about the stupid posters on his wall, the childishness that lingers in the decorations that he can’t be arsed to change. Nick strips his clothes immediately, undressing into nothing but boxer briefs. Louis feels himself become aroused at the sight of Nick’s body – his soft stomach, his long, slender legs, his chest – and he distracts himself by stripping down as well.

Nick lies down on Louis’ bed, watches Louis as Louis removes his shirt and pants. It’s almost like an unspoken agreement – the attraction between the two of them. Louis crawls onto the bed on all fours, over top of Nick, his palms level with Nick’s knees.

“Please, let me touch you.” Let me take the pain away. “Please, Nick,” Louis mumbles, and Nick sweeps him up into his arms, and they’re kissing.