Speak || Louis Tomlinson A.U.

One

"GET UP." I impatiently yell at Liam as I trip over a pile of clothes lying on the floor beside the bed, only earning a disgruntled noise from the sleeping lump that is my boyfriend. I try again, "GET. UP. You're going to be late for work."

I study our room in disgust. Last night was a particularly difficult night in our shabby apartment. Liam had come home from the bar around 2 AM, shit-faced wasted. As per usual, of course. He tried his "I was just hanging with the boys" excuse, but I'm not stupid. I've never bought it before, and I wasn't about to believe him last night. I'm sure he bought some sleezy chick a few drinks, got her nice and tipsy, and then screwed her brains out, just like he's done in the past.

All of my "friends" tell me that I should kick him to the curb and never take one glance back. Truth is, I know I should. He's a pathetic excuse for a human being and he couldn't care less about me. But he has graciously allowed me to live in this apartment with him. He has given me so many things, even more than he's taken away. He's given me shelter, food, and the clothes on my back. Yes, he's a drunken piece of shit.. But he's a drunken piece of shit that saved my life.

The shrill whining of his alarm clock rings out for the third time this morning, signaling that work for him starts in twenty minutes. I storm into the kitchen, fill a glass full of cold water, and return to the bedside. "Get your ass up." I demand, throwing the water onto his face.

"AGH!" He shouts, sitting straight up and slinging water droplets all over the room. "What the hell was that for?" He curses at me, glaring.

"It's 7:45, Liam. Work starts in twenty minutes. And I need the car today, remember? I have to be at work at 8:30." I tell him for the hundredth time, crossing my arms in front of my chest. "I swear, if I'm late on my first day, you'll never hear the end of it."

"I'll never hear the end of it anyway." He mumbles, rustling out of bed and unearthing a multitude of empty beer cans during his struggle.

I wrinkle my nose in disgust. I cleaned this place up just two days ago and already he has piled dirty clothes and beer cans all around. I sigh, choosing not to fight with him over it and walk to the kitchen to get some breakfast as he stumbles to the bathroom to take his shower.  

Five minutes later he bustles out of the bathroom, hair dripping, but dressed for work. I roll my eyes as he grumbles a low, "Let's go" before grabbing a granola bar and my keys, scurrying out to the car. It's a nasty looking 1982 Ford Sierra that literally roars and grumbles when driven.

I cringe at the creaking sound as I open the passenger door to get in. I desperately wish we had a nicer car, but I don't dare say this to Liam. After all, we are very fortunate to even own a car being only seventeen and twenty-two years old.

"When is your shift over this time?" I exhale, attempting to make innocent conversation.

"Thursday night." He says sternly. I furrow my brow at his harsh tone, but don't offer a response. The hangover is surely to blame for his behavior.

Thursday night. That means I have the house to myself for the next three days. I turn my head opposite his direction and smile inwardly. It'll be nice to not have to worry about Liam coming home drunk or enraged. He works at the fire station downtown, which is why he has such long shifts. They are required to stay at the firehouse for the duration of their shift, so they can be ready at any time in case there's a fire.

A bump in the road rattles the car and causes my head to clash against the window painfully. "Urgh! Damnit." I curse, holding onto the sore spot. Liam stifles a laugh beside me and I slowly turn to face him. "You think that's funny?" I spit at him.