Broken Repair (Larry Stylinson)

Ink, Lip Locking and the Moonlight

The day of the party came around quicker than I would've imagined. I'll be honest and say I haven't done a lot this week, being the lazy person I am. I played a lot of the Playstation, playing Fifa, Call of Duty and this game called Bulletstorm that Michael said I would like. I enjoyed it, but the swearing was weird in it, like they were trying too hard. I listened to a lot of music which is my favourite thing to do. I have a very varied taste; enjoying anything from pop through to screamo. It had to hook me though, and it showed in my iPhone music list. I had a lot of artists and bands with only one or two songs for each one. I'd picked up my guitar a few times, to remember how it felt.

Oh, yeah. I used to write songs. I'm not sure on whether you'd call them good or not, though Michael would disagree as he loved my music. I've not played my guitar since he ended it.

I'm currently lounging on my bed in my small white room. I had a thing for white, it made me feel clean. My sheets, curtains and the rug on the wooden floor were white, too. I didn't have much on the walls, only a Doncaster flag and memory wall full of drunken pictures that I took with my mates; a frenzied collage. A few of them were ripped in half, only showing my smiling face.

"Louis could you help me with these bags?" Michael shouts up, and I can hear the clinking of glass bottles. He's just returned from Tesco, having bought me and him drinks for tonight. I paid for mine, alcohol isn't cheap.

I jump up and hop down the steps, jumping from the third step up and nearly falling into him. There's a pile of bags, full of food and dips, cups and there's enough to feed an army.

"A lot of food here, Mike." I shout into the lounge so it reaches Michael's ears.

"Niall's coming. And you're eating too." He offers as explanation. I can totally understand me. I eat like a pig. People make a joke, as I'm a short bloke and they don't know where it goes. I tell them my arse. It's not massive, but it's definitely the biggest part on me.

I pick up the carrier bags, probably carrying about three in each hand and hobble my way into kitchen and re-drop them.

"Did you get my fags?" I ask. Oh, yeah. I started smoking. Dirty habit, blah, blah. Don't care, heard it all before. I've just needed it these last six months. Stress. He chucks the white and red packet at me, almost hitting me in my right nipple before I bat it away. "Bastard." I wink, picking it up from the shiny white floor. "Cheers."

I chuck the packet into the lounge, making sure it lands on the sofa.

"Oh yeah, I'll probably be a little late." I quickly say running my fingers through the front of my hair, Michael isn't really into tardiness and his expression confirms it.

"Yeah?" He lifts his right eyebrow at me. "What's so important that you miss any part of my awesome party, Tomlinson?" He questions, cheekily. I grin, and point to my stomach.

"Tattoo, remember?" I remind him, and his black eyes show that he does, at least now. "Relax, it'll be half an hour at best." I tell him, knowing he'll be fine without me.

"Nah, take as long as you need, man." He says nicely, pulling bottles out of bags, and I start to unpack the food. "What're you getting?" He asks.

"A parrot." I say, bluntly and he chokes on nothing. I did it on purpose knowing he'd react like this. He coughs.

"Why a parrot?" He asks, voice dripping with curiosity.

"Why not?" I suggest, shrugging. Parrots were beautiful, and the colour opportunities were endless.

"Fair enough, to each their own." He replies, also shrugging.

He passes me my drink and I place it above the fridge where prying hands couldn't get to it. I do love this drink. I could drink it all night, and then some.