i would name the stars for you [e.c]

chapter 5

& e &

The thing is Eleanor is still drunk, spectacularly so.

But this time she's also lost, which is proving to be quite the problem.

After a quick anonymous fuck with some guy from the bar, she'd left the stranger's flat with the intent of finding a taxi. But it's something like 4 am and she's wasted and all the cars are flying by in a blur of colors and she hasn't got his phone and... she is completely and utterly fucked.

And then, of course, it starts to pour.

"Bloody fantastic!" she shouts at the sky, throwing her hands up in a rage, though it's directed more toward her own stupidity (for throwing away his phone and having yet another pathetic shag with her ex look-alike) than at whichever mystical being has decided to fuck her over by summoning a fucking hurricane. Fat raindrops splatter her clothing and her hair as she runs-slash-stumbles aimlessly down the street.

She catches a passing glimpse of her reflection in a moonlit display window‒ haggard and soaking wet, droopy curls framing her pale, gaunt cheekbones‒ and blinks back tears.

The rain is coming down harder now, lightning illuminating the sky in brilliant streaks. She shivers as the thunder rumbles and quickens her pace, throat beginning to burn and heart beating wildly in her chest, protesting alongside her muscles.

She pauses for a moment and presses a hand to the place where her heart lies quaking beneath, finding herself momentarily amazed that the aching muscle still exists under the layers of cover-up, cracked ribs, and milky white scars. But then the thunder booms again and she is still scared and alone, despite the heart that she apparently still possesses.

And so she runs, wet feet slapping the pavement, though she doesn't have any idea where she's going.

Eleanor runs, looking for a road that will lead her home.

& l &

Louis startles awake as the cab jerks to a halt outside the bookstore. He gently nudges Niall who groans for far too long before sitting up and stretching his arms above his head with a loud yawn.

A brilliant flash of light followed by a deep rumble has him peering out the window and eyeing the wet pavement warily.

Sometime during his too-short nap the sky had opened up and the rain is really coming down now, slow-moving ominous grey clouds to the west signaling a long storm ahead. Louis quickly tips the cabbie as Niall braves the torrent, darting across the pavement and unlocking the front door. They stumble into the bookstore soaking wet and giggling, leaving soggy footprints on the ancient knotted rug Louis'd placed in the front foyer.

"If you leave puddles on my hardwood, Horan, I swear," Louis shrieks indignantly as Niall dances through the aisles toward the stairs leading up to his living quarters.

"Piss off, Delia Smith," Niall calls back with a laugh, "You can bake me some biscuits later while you mop your floors."

"Really, Niall?" Louis replies disapprovingly, shucking off his wettest outer layer and draping it over the back of a nearby chair, "Your sexism is devastatingly charming."

There's no reply– Niall apparently already out of earshot– so Louis allows himself an eye roll and a deep sigh before slipping off his soaked Vans and darting upstairs to find a towel to mop up the pools of rainwater formed from their harried entrance.

Strolling into his bedroom, Louis dutifully ignores the snoring blond starfish in the middle of his bed, opens a slightly dented, badly painted chest of drawers, and snatches a faded blue towel from its underbelly. 

Jogging back downstairs, he walks to the front door and stoops down to wipe up the wet patches where Niall had dripped, sighing again deeply at the always-cheery London weather.

"Should've gone to Ibiza or Tahiti or summat," he mumbles to himself, standing up towel in hand and raising the blinds on the front window to peer out at the muted greys and blues of his little stretch of Camden Lock, "'stead I've got a bookstore in the city of perpetual misery. Lovely."

He shuts the blinds and turns back around to take in the state of his shop. A few 19th century novels lie misplaced on the front table display and he restacks them in a formation he hopes will be aesthetically pleasing to someone (there's a reason he's a writer, not an artist). 

Surveying the stacks once more and deeming them acceptable, he flicks off the downstairs light and heads back upstairs where Niall is still snoring loudly. He rolls his eyes, tosses the wet towel in with the rest of his soiled laundry, and strips down quickly. Clad only in his boxers and a white tee, he flings himself into bed next to Niall‒ who predictably doesn't even stir‒ and tucks the both of them in under his Nan's knit quilt. Despite the Irishman's rumbling chainsaw-like snore, he feels himself drifting off immediately, thoughts still swimming pleasantly from the alcohol's fading buzz.

& &

Funny how, if maybe, he'd taken just a quick peek out his bedroom window...

... if instead of falling into bed, he'd stayed up a bit later, penned a few maudlin words in his moleskine, and gazed out onto the empty street...

... maybe, just maybe, he might've seen a tall, dark figure stumbling along the curb, long limbs illuminated by the soft glow of the corner streetlight, looking ever the radiant wanderer... lost and alone.

But no, the voice of Fate must've whispered, lulling him to sleep with her quiet assurance, keeping his eyes on the sheets and away from the pull of the curtains, the enticing sliver of light sneaking in through the window...

No.
Not just yet.

a/n: updated 07/07/2021