Where We Belong

Chapter 12

He lies for a while, lips slack around the edge of the pillow, panting. Waits for the room to stop spinning. Listens to the sounds of the man he just fucked putting his clothes back on. He isn't sure how long he lies there, arse half in the air, fucking pathetic, too drunk to cope with what he's just done.

Around the time the bloke says; "bet your boyfriend can't fuck you like that", Louis decides to get up.

He's still fiddling with his belt-buckle when he stumbles back out into the hall, walls blurry, floors shifting around beneath his feet. He manages to get himself through the main room, music still blasting, drunksters still dancing, and then slip out of the flat without anyone noticing or stopping him to say goodbye. He trips twice on his way down the stairs, sweaty palms sliding on the railing, knee bruising on the second fall. It hurts less than it probably should, because he's still pissed out of his mind.

Somehow, he survives the stairs and then pushes open the doors and steps out into the dark night, biting cold wind scolding him for not bringing a jacket.

He begins to make his way toward the main road, he thinks, in the hopes of somehow miraculously hailing himself a taxi. He feels like he might be sick again. His knee's beginning to hurt. His arse too. Fuck, he might be sick.

Then he sees something at the end of the street. A car parked. Their car.

In what feels like the fraction of a second, he's made his way across the street, up to the side of the driver's seat, and plasters himself to the car just to avoid melting into the asphalt. Harry's in the driver's seat, head titled back, mouth hanging open, asleep.

Harry sat out here since he left, waiting for Louis to come down.

Oh fuck, he's going to be sick.

He must've made a noise when he launched his entire body-weight onto the car-window, because Harry's eyes blink open. He jumps in his seat at first, then realises it's Louis outside, pushes a McDonald's bag off of his lap and unbuckles his belt. Louis stumbles and nearly falls onto his sore arse when Harry pushes the door open.

He doesn't say anything, doesn't swear or tell Louis off, doesn't smile either, just grabs him round the waist and buckles him into the passenger-seat.

"Harry, I—"

Harry closes the door in his face.

When he slides into the drivers-seat again, he speaks before Louis can; "bag in the back."

"Wha'?"

He reaches back himself, grabbing the McDonald's-bag and puts in Louis' lap. "If you have to puke," he says, before he pulls off the curb and settles into his seat with a long sigh.

"Did you sit out here since we... since you—"

"Yeah," Harry says, and Louis can't hear whether he's angry or tired or a mixture of both, "there's another bag in the back. There's a big coke and a cheeseburger and some chips. You might wanna get something down your stomach."

"Oh, I," Louis swallows down a sudden sob that jumps up his throat. Or maybe it's just puke again. "Thanks, Harry, you didn't have to—"

"It's fine. It's fine." He shifts his hands on the wheel, sticky-sounding as he peels them off the leather and re-adjusts his grip, "so, ehm... did Zayn pull the stripper or—"

Louis pukes into the bag.

*

They make it home in one piece. Harry keeps an arm around Louis' shoulders until they step inside the flat, and then lets him take care of himself. He disappears to put the McDonald's away, and Louis stands alone in the hall for a moment, just him and his fuzzy head. He can't even comprehend what's just happened. A couple hours ago, he was screaming at Harry for letting some woman put her hand on his knee and now he's standing here, in their home, with a sore-fucked arse and a bag of his own puke in his hands.