all we can do is keep breathing

six.

the beat it knows is destructive.

||☤||

He did it.

Ugh, Louis actually did it. He was beyond drunk, nearly out of his mind and he did it. He fucked Michael, the resident from Gastro. Or is it Matthew? Martin? Oh fuck whatever, Louis actually just reduced himself to using a colleague for sex. A resident. In a goddamn on-call room no less, like peasants. He always said on-call rooms were made for the undignified, those who couldn't be assed to bring their sexual endeavors home or at least find a hotel or something, but now Louis is no better. Nine years he's been working at this hospital and he's always managed to keep his sex life and work life separate. Until now. Fuck.

What a mistake.

It wasn't even good sex. Mediocre really. It was dull and passionless, just scratching an itch. An itch that still itches. More like burns at this point. Burns even stronger than it did before. No coping mechanism is working this time. Work failed him. Booze is failing him. And now even sex is useless.

There was a time when meaningless sex was completely appealing for Louis, a momentary escape with no real strings or repercussions attached. But now even knowing that the sex was always meant to have no meaning, he still somehow wanted meaning anyway? He wanted the closeness and the intimacy and the passion and the genuine connection. All Louis wants now is for it to be real, but only with one person in mind. One person he can never have—ugh, what is wrong with him?

Now he's got some random guy's head resting on his chest and he hardly remembers even coming here. Plus, his own head is bloody throbbing and he has this weird rampantly hungry, but completely nauseous thing going on and basically everything is awful.

This is not how his day was meant to go. He was supposed to go home and get sloshed. But somehow he is here, in an on-call room, in a tiny bed made for one, with a guy he's hardly ever spoken to snoozing and practically drooling all over his chest.

Why the hell did he ever let Jesse affect him? Oh yeah, because he was drunk and jealous and not at all thinking clearly.

However, with how gross Louis looked walking into this hospital, the fact that he was still able to pull a guy just proves how capable he is. That is the one and only silver lining to come out of this entire fiasco. Louis isn't usually one for ego boosts, but right now he really needs one, so he lets himself gloat about how his charm was able to surpass the shittiness of his drunken appearance today.

Carefully Louis slides his body out of the small bed, trying not to disturb Mark? Marley—fuck it. As quickly as possible, he throws himself into his messy clothes, not even bothering with the unkempt sex hair falling over his face. Louis scrambles out of the on-call room, hair utterly disheveled, looking down to adjust the drawstring of his dingy sweatpants as he takes a few steps down the corridor. Walking headfirst into...

"Oh...um...hey, Louis."

Harry.

Of course Harry. As though the shame must continue and grow in scale. A big, personal, fuck you from the universe.

Louis' head instantly jerks up, hands frozen on the waistband of his sweats, cheeks flushed. He is painfully aware of how his appearance looks, as he stares like a deer caught in the headlights through his sex mussed fringe. And Harry is looking at him like he knows exactly what Louis was just up to, giving him a head-to-toe once over glance.

Louis is just about to attempt to address Harry when he hears the door he just came out of open behind him. Louis winces, closing his eyes to brace himself for further shame.