riptides ➳ larry

iii. burn

"Pain is real."

Chapter 3: burn

He covers for El's shift after his is over. Too lost in the wonderland that is kids and helping them to realize that maybe he should text Greg and tell him that plans have changed.

When he gets home, there's a kettle on the hob, hissing to be turned off. The lights in the parlor and kitchen are turned off, aside from the diminishing flick of the vanilla candle that's practically burned down to the wick.

He grabs a pot holder, picking the kettle up off the burner. Hands slap across his waist, pulling him into a hard chest roughly. The boiling water sloshes out of the kettle and scorches down Louis' chest. He bites so hard on the flesh of his lower lip that he draws blood.

"Where the fuck were you?" Greg hisses into his ear.

Tears burn at the rim of his eyes, the shirt of his scrubs sticking to his chest, pain is spreading through his nervous system; his skin is burnt, blistering and welting on his torso and abdomen. He slams the kettle down onto the hob and bats Greg's hands away from his waist.

"Work," Louis hisses, grabbing a cloth and heading towards the bathroom. "Fuck, Greg, that hurt."

He lifts up his shirt, his skin is an irritated, fleshy, unnatural red in certain bits. Just a first degree burn, hopefully. He rifles through the medicine cabinet; perks of being a medical worker is having ointment to treat anything. Including burns.

"You was out working until eight when you said your shift ended at tea time." Greg spits monotonously.

"Yes, Greg. I pulled an extra shift for Eleanor."

"I had a romantic dinner planned for you, you know. To apologize."

Louis sighs, "That's very thoughtful, love. Thank you. Can you give me a moment? You kind of burnt my flesh earlier, if you haven't noticed."

"Oh so is that how it's going to be now?" Greg wraps his massive hand around Louis' smaller wrist. "You're going to blame for all of your pain? I just hit you, Lou. You had to learn your lesson."

"My lesson for what? For having a reason to believe you were cheating on me because someone left a very romantic note for you in one of our books?"

Greg smacks his free hand against the stained sink. "Christ, Lou. Not everything's about you. Will you just shut the fuck up?"

"Fine," Louis sighs. "Fine. Lesson learned. You're always right, I'm always wrong. Happy? Now just get the fuck out before people have to ask even more questions about the marks on my body."

Greg's hand extracts from his wrist, but when Louis looks up at the mirror, he meets Greg's eyes. They don't look like home, they aren't that soft dewy cinnamon color. They're black, ominous, terrifying. He watches in disbelief when Greg raises a clenched fist, rears back, and brings it down with a heavy thwack to the back of his head. Pain sears through him on so many sides, on his abdomen, when he's pushed into the sink, in the back of his head, where Greg's fist impacted, and on his face, where it slammed into the mirror. He's bleeding on his cheek, the pain from his bruise spreading.

Louis moves out of Greg's grip and kicks at his shin. "No," he bites. "No, don't you fucking dare to touch me again."

Greg's eyes are still black, his cheeks are an angry flushed color, and his knuckles are bleeding.

Louis runs out, forgoes shoes. Raises his middle finger when Greg's voice calls behind him, "Don't fucking hide from me!"