Footie & Frames » stylinson

three

Chapter 3:

As I enter the hospital room behind the doctor, I heftily regret not bringing Niall or Zayn in with me. I don't open my eyes, I keep them closed tight, but I can feel the thick tension in the air and I shiver.

"He's still out, lad," the doctor says, placing a heavy hand on my shoulder and gently propelling me forward, murmuring estimated times for when he should be up and little details on his condition and surgery. Little things that I can't focus on. I can only focus on the light puffs of breath coming from - who I assume to be - Louis.

After a few short moments of walking, I feel the cap of my knees hit a soft, firm material, otherwise known as a bed, and I open my eyes quickly in surprise, hiccuping when I see Louis' face, pale and a tad lifeless. I shiver at the visual and turn to the doctor for help, or even reassurance.

"I'll, uh, I'll be back in about thirty minutes. He should be up by then. His surgery was completed about...," the doctor says, holding up his wrist to look at his watch, "...an hour and twenty some minutes ago."

My heart rate picks up. "Wait! I thought you said he just got out?," I cry, trying to keep my voice lower than a shout for the respectful benefits of the healing patients around.

"He's been out of surgery for over an hour. He's just now gotten out of recovery, sir! The whole process began when you got here," the man holds up both hands in defense and I do feel bad about being harsh towards him.

"I'm sorry for shouting at you," I bow my head, sinking down into the chair placed beside Louis' bed and I grab his hand that lies idly over the blanket, running my fingers over the skin of the back of his hand, his favorite form of comforting for me to give him.

The doctor shifts. "Er, don't stress about it, lad. People do tend to get emotional when somebody they love is hurt. Like I said, I'll be back in about thirty - actually about twenty-five minutes, now. I've got a toddler with a broken ankle to tend to," he soothes, smiling warmly and waving, exiting the room and shutting the door quietly behind him.

I turn slowly back to face Louis - not really facing him, just looking at out intertwined fingers, waiting for the moment when they'll squeeze back.

I run my thumb over his hand again, stroking the callused skin, beyond familiar with the dips of his fingers and imperfection from every kicking cleat, grass burn, fight, and even a small one from when he was little and his new puppy bit a small hole in his hand, right above his thumb.

I work my way up to his forearm, the whole length of it covered in small - and a few big - tattoos. I follow the patterns with my fingers, running them across the compass to match my own ship tattoo, a skating figure ( which is also his first one ), a flying paper airplane, a ticking bomb, and - my favorite - matching tattoo. The first word I ever said to him. I have the first word he ever said to me, too, inked on my left bicep. Oops! and Hi.

And yeah, that's not very cliché, but how we met is. In the bathroom of the footie stadium, during the time before we actually properly talked more than one sentence each. Before I became anything more than just a fan. I had accidentally bumped into him, like the proper klutz I still am, stuttering out a surprised, "Oops!"

I can remember looking up in utter surprise and being so overwhelmed and embarrassed because I just ran into Louis Tomlinson in a toilet. Louis Tomlinson, who would surely be voted MVP (he was) and who was going to be out on the field in a matter of minutes.

"Hi," he chuckled with a big goofy grin, unfazed by the faucet water that I had just splashed on him, or the fact that we were just staring at each other in a toilet in the biggest football stadium west of London. That he would be playing on soon.