Misadventure

8

Louis' POV

The rest of junior year flew by in a boring, grey haze. I became more withdrawn. Without Harry around, hanging out with my other friends was depressing and filled me with overwhelming guilt. I avoided my family like the plague, looking for any excuse to be out of the house as much as possible. It was hard. There wasn't much to do in Eastbourne.

I started showing up for school so early most days that the building would still be locked. The I'd sit on the steps and stare off into space, not caring as the seat of my trousers soaked up morning condensation.

During lunch and free periods I would hide in Mrs. Jamison's room to practice piano. I didn't practice at the house at all if I could help it. Music felt like the only thing I had left that was mine anymore. I didn't need my mother's micromanaging tendencies to ruin the last thing left I cared about.

After school I'd walk along the rocky beach alone, savoring the silence. On days the weather was bad, I would do something vile to get a detention on purpose, then take the activity bus home afterwards, and try not to ruminate about what a failure I was as a student, son, brother, and friend.

When the final grades came in for junior year, they were a little bit low, but not terrible. They weren't bad enough to be concerning, but my mother chastised me anyways. I lied and said I would try harder in the fall.

Senior year was when I really began to crumble.

It started with the drinking.

At first, it was easy to justify it internally. Plenty of teenagers drank. Plenty of teenagers snuck out. And so what if I was too hungover to attend class most days? I already had my scholarship lined up for London University of Music. This was just a phase, and I would clean up my act by then.

My family didn't know. It helped that they been spent a lot more time at the office now. I started to hide everything from them. As much as I loved them, I was still so hurt by what my mother did, and my trust for her was at an all time low.

The problem with being sad and getting drunk, was that it only ever made me feel better for a short window of time. Then I'd grow tired and sloppy, and end up crying, usually over Harry, and usually in Will Mcginny's attic.

By October of senior year, Will and I were back on okay terms. Not because he was any less of an arse, but because his parents worked nights, so he was constantly throwing parties. Even Niall started tolerating him for the sake of scoring beer.

"You look like shit, mate," Niall told me one afternoon in the school cafeteria.

I pelted a chicken nugget at his face.

He picked it up and ate it.

That was another difference about senior year. I was back to eating lunch in here with the other students. It wasn't because I felt like being some sort of social butterfly, but because of Mrs. Jamison.

About a month ago, during the second week of school, I was in her classroom for lunch. One look at her face and I knew that she knew I was drunk. The worst part was, she didn't scold me, or write me a detention slip, or reprimand me at all. She told me she was there if I ever needed to talk about anything.

I started avoiding her, consequently avoiding practicing piano. I just didn't like the thought of her worrying about me. It was oddly unsettling.

"I'm exhausted," I admitted, half heartedly dipping a chip in ketchup from Niall's tray. "I might head home after lunch."

"Again?"

I shrugged without comment, then unscrewed the metal lid to my drink.

He grabbed my thermos out of my hand and peered into it. "Is that a bloody mary?"

"Give me that!"

He set it on the table, nudging it back towards me. "Mate, why would you bring that to school? You could get suspended."

"Because I'm hungover as fuck."

He went quiet for a moment, then finally sighed. "I feel like I never see you anymore. We used to sit together in music everyday, but you keep cutting class."

"Come to Will's tonight? He's having a party. We could hang out there." I used the term 'party' loosely. It was a gathering of a handful of teens, getting wasted in the attic of a mansion.

Niall groaned. "He's obnoxious."

"Please," I pouted. "For me?"

"No."

Damnit. If it was Harry instead of Niall, my pouty face would have persuaded him for sure, but Niall was straight as an arrow. It was time for a new tactic. "I overheard Selena say she's going."

That got his attention alright. "Then I guess I'll see you there. What time does it start?"

He deserved another chicken nugget to the face for that, but it was no use. He'd just pick it up and eat it anyways.

****

"He must hate me. He must be so confused." I took another swig of vodka. The burning feeling in my throat didn't phase me as much as it did a month ago when I first tried it.

Niall sat beside me on the floor in the corner of the party rubbing my back, trying to soothe me over the sound of Radio's Top 40. "Harry doesn't hate you. You're right that he's probably confused, but he could never hate you."

"He should," I mumbled lamely.

"Don't say that."

"It's true! I stopped talking to him after his fucking mum died, and I gave no explanation!"

Niall was looking at me with pity and I absolutely hated it. "She was going to kick you out. You didn't have a choice, mate."

I chugged the remaining liquid in the vodka bottle, and winced at the burning sensation, wiping my mouth with the sleeve of my jumper. "I fucking hate myself."

"You're a good person, Louis."

I had to fight the urge to stick my fingers in my ears like a little kid, because I didn't want to hear it. His words only made me feel worse. Or maybe it was the alcohol.

"He'd be crushed if he saw what you were doing to yourself," Niall said gently.

"Not sure what you're talking about, mate."

"I'm talking about Harry. I get that you're afraid that you've hurt him, but there's nothing you can really do about it at this point. Does he hate you? Personally, I don't think so, but I doubt you'll ever believe me. Would he hate you if he knew the full story? Absolutely not, and you and I both know it. He wouldn't want you to self destruct because of him."

"I'm not self destructing." I argued. My arms automatically wrapped themselves around the front of my chest. "Get off your high horse. You're drunk right now too. It's not like I'm fucking smoking crack, Niall. I'm young, and I'm just having a little fun for once in my life."

Neither of us said anything for a while after that. I opened the attic window, staring at the stars and lighting a cigarette. Will lived in the strange, empty part of Eastbourne. This neighborhood was often referred to as tourist bate, with its souvenir shops and cafes and ocean front mansions that the average person could not afford to live in year round.

"I didn't mean to sound like a hypocrite. It's just, you're like my best friend. I worry about you," Niall said finally. "Just don't get carried away, okay?"

I opened my mouth to object, to tell him that I was totally, perfectly, amazingly fine and that he was silly for being concerned in the first place.

Instead, I lurched forward, throwing up all over the wooden floor of the attic.