When We Were Young

Prologue

   It's cruel how the world doesn't let us enjoy the things we want to. If it's not accepted by the majority, it's not accepted at all. Makes me feel like an outsider, almost. I like so many things that none others find attractive. Maybe it's why I've always been single, living off of one night stands and long walks in the night. The things I find attractive will destroy me.
   "You smoke ?" I asked, holding up a cigarette in the air between my slim fingers. The girl next to me looked up at my inquire with big, scared green eyes. She was way too fucking innocent to be in here. She licked her lips and her gaze danced from my eyes to the cigarette. Hesitating, she reached forward with a shaking hand. I snatched it away right as the tip of her finger touched it. "You don't want to smoke," I told her. Her eyes stayed on me, watching the cigarette be lit, the flame illuminating my slim, chapped lips. "Go home, Bambi."
   I love the smell of smoke. It's one of those things that makes people seem unattractive. But I can't help it. The lingering smell like charcoal on a grill draws me in. Why, I couldn't tell you. I could just shorten it down to a rumor: if I keep on lighting them like I do, I'll die before I can disappoint my parents once again.
   Ten minutes pass with the usual slow rush. A woman or man sits at the bar, looking to drown themselves in their sorrow after a hard day. Maybe a hard week. The clicks of the sticks against the pool table behind me and grunts of men as they congratulate each other in their manly ways. And Bambi, sweet little Bambi fiddles with her fingers, glancing around the bar for a place to fit in. Another ten minutes pass before she lets out a sigh of disappoint and scurries out the front doors, the sound of the bell above the door chiming.
   Behind me, I hear a grunt and a small, squeaky 'sorry' probably coming from Bambi bumping into someone on her way out. I bite my lip and dig my fingers into my forearm to keep from lighting yet another. My lungs beg me to stop, my heart has given up on me, but my desire gets ahead of me. I daintily pull one out of the pack as a body sits down next to me.
   "You know," a British accent speaks up, "those things will kill you. They'll kill me too, can I have one ?" I don't look next to me to match the accent to a face, but I'm already intrigued. His eyes stay on me waiting for a response but I don't budge.
   "What's your name ?" The accent asks this time. His body shifts half towards me, and half away from me. My instincts tell me to get up and leave without paying attention to him, but my curiosity got the best of me. It tends to do that. When I finally do look, I know I was right to be curious. The twenty-something boy staring at me with squinty eyes looks familiar. The brown floppy hair sticks up around his head. I want to run my hands through it. Not because it's nice hair and I'm swooning over him, not that shit. Because it's long, and I like long hair.
    "What's yours ?" I challenge him. He's already pulled in with these two words, as his smirk tells me.
   The British accent orders a drink and waits for it to be placed in front of him before answering me. "Louis, Louis Tomlinson. Your turn," he mutters, sipping his drink.
   My eyes narrow at him for no reason at all, other than to make him wait. I take the drink from his hands, touching his skin purposefully with mine and sip the cold whiskey. Louis watches me do this all in slow motion. As he made me wait, I'm making him. Finally to kill suspense, the drinks back in front of him. "Eli."