riptides ➳ larry

i : its okay

"There's mistakes in every action."

Chapter 1: It's Okay

It started with an open handed slap, blood rushing to his skin, making his cheek an angry shade of pink. And he probably deserves it, in all honesty. He provoked it, he did. Greg was biting words and he was biting right back.

He asked for it, really.

There used to be a time when Greg would come home with a flower, a stupid tulip with wilted leaves, and he'd give it to him, just to see the stars in his eyes, to watch his cheeks lift upwards. Greg loved him, then. He probably still loves him now.

But it feels like so much more, like a door has been opened. His mum always told him to run from situations like this, to 'Not let anyone lay a hand on you, Lou, because that's not love.' But it still feels like love. He still feels warmth when he thinks of Greg's brown eyes and tilted smile.

"Hey," a hand shakes his shoulder, gently. "Hey. Are you awake?"

Louis scrubs under his eyes with the edge of his frayed sweater and nods his affirmative, looking up into cinnamon eyes.

"Oh," he says, backing up. Louis can see more than just brown eyes and straight brows, now. Now there's a muscled body, gelled hair, a subtly cut jaw dusted in stubble, and a birthmark. "Have you been crying?"

He pushes a hollow laugh out of his chest. "No, mate. M'just a tad hungover."

"You're not hungover," he says, smug smile teasing the corner of his mouth.

"How would you know that?"

The man lets his smile out, his stubble branching out like waves crashing against his cheeks. "You don't smell like alcohol. It's three in the afternoon. And no hungover person would seek refuge in a comic book store."

Fair point, really. Louis smiles at him, wonders if the man has noticed the blossoming bruise on his cheekbone or not.

"You've been smelling me?" he asks.

His eyes widen, long lashes scraping the pale skin above his eyelid. "No, uh. No. That probably sounded really creepy. Sorry. It's just. Your smell is really strong and," he scratches at the nape of his neck. "I think we use the same shampoo?"

He laughs, this one feels a little less hollow, a little more real. He sinks further down into the bean bag that he's curled into.

"I'm Liam," the man says, warm eyes crinkling. "And I don't think that boys like you should be crying?"

Louis piques his brow. "I would hardly call a twenty-two year old a boy. And I wasn't crying, but thanks."

"Sorted. We're closing for lunch, that's why I interrupted you and your decidedly-not-crying."

"Oh," he stands up, brushes his hands on the thighs of his jeans. "Well, cheers."

He makes his way through the rows of brightly colored comics and the rows of action figures. Nodding at the life-sized statue of Spider-Man on his way out.

"Wait," a giant, warm hand stops him. Liam. "You didn't tell me your name?"

"My names Louis," he says. "Goodbye, Liam."

"Bye!" he calls after him.

➳

Their flat is small. A one bedroomed thing with a kitchen that leads straight into a small parlor. But it's home, has been for the past year. There's still an open book on the floor, a broken teacup, telling their story that the bruise on his cheek is a part of.

"Lou?" Greg calls, his voice caked with sleep. "Lou, are you home?"

He puts his key into the dish and clears his throat, "Yeah."

Greg comes out of their bedroom, tall body only covered in a pair of pants and his quiff has deflated. His heart skips, foolishly. And he knows he's still in love with this man. It was just one slap, couples have that all the time. He's just overreacting.

"Lou, I'm so sorry. I tried to call you, but you left your phone here."

"It's fine, I just needed some time to myself."

"I didn't mean to do that, babe. You know that."

"I know."

The aura of their flat is grey, with left over bursts of red emanating from the floor. Like flames licking at his ankles, telling him to run while he still can. But Greg's eyes are still brown, still something that he can call home. So he stays. He can get used to the burn.

"You just made me really mad, you know? You shouldn't go through my things."

I wasn't going through your things I was just reading a damned book.

"Yeah, I understand."

Greg reaches out for him with his hand, his palm's still an angry red. Louis flinches away, hides his arm behind his back. Greg frowns.

"I won't do it again," he says.

"I know," Louis says, voice laced with hysteria. "I know but I just need some time."

Greg scoffs, "Okay."

Louis nods and settles down onto their couch, pulling the patchwork quilt over himself. Greg continues to stand, to stare.

"Do you work tomorrow?" he asks.

"Yeah, I go in at five, so I'm going to turn in early tonight."

"Oh, that's alright. I'll probably meet up with some mates. They've been wanting to visit that pub."

Louis nods, Greg turns on the Telly. There's a crisis in Syria, a crisis in the Americas, a crisis in the Middle East, a crisis in the Royal Family, a crisis in their own flat, Louis' mind adds. A crisis in the gap of space between him and Greg, a crisis that burns when he prods his fingers at his cheek, a crisis in his own conscience.

"Don't touch your face, it'll make it worse." Greg reprimands, taking Louis' hand and cloaking it in his own. Forcing it to settle between their legs.

Louis nods, pushes his teeth into the skin of his lower lip.

"I love you," Greg says.

And of course, "I love you, too."