My Gay Roommate (L.S)

Forty

My brain thrums, body aching. My wrist fucking burns, and I'm sure I may have died last night.

I don't remember much from the night before, the whole night turning into a blur of lights, dancing, drinks, kissing and then... nothing.

Why for the love of God does my wrist hurt so much? I've never broken a bone before, is this how it feels?

I can feel the sweat sticking to my skin, pours seeping with potentially vodka and—

Oh God.

I'm not quick enough to move when my stomach rolls like choppy waves into delicate rocks, head spinning when I go to sit up and I'm spewing vomit down the side of the bed and onto the floor.

My heart quickens, sobs coming to surface through my broken heavy breaths.

Please don't be sick again, please don't be sick ag—

I'm throwing up on the floor again, teeth chattering, skin hot but goosebumps case me, shivers trembling my body like a leaf in the breeze.

Louis sits up. "Shit. Babe, you alright?" he mutters, pulling my hair out from my face.

"Bathroom," I heave out and he's quick to grab me by the waist, pulling me into his arms.

He sees the mess on the floor and groans, running us to the bathroom.

"Zayn! Zayn! Can you help, please!" he yells through Zayn's door when we pass it.

He flips the toilet seat up and I go for round three.

Zayn plods out his room tiredly, rubbing his eyes with a lazy hand. "What's up, is our little brother okay?"

"They've thrown up all over the bleeding floor. Can you go and clean it up, or stay with him here while I clean it up? I know it'll trigger him to see it again." He flushes the toilet in front of me, and I'm thankful for it, the smell of sick going down the bowl with it.

Zayn sighs. "I'll go clean it up, but you fucking owe me, Louis." With that he swivels on his socked heel and pads his way to our room.

Once I've finished emptying my stomach from the alcohol I've clearly had too much of the night prior, I lean against Louis, limbs trembling still, tears staining my cheeks.

Louis smooths my hair back, stroking my forehead soothingly. "It's okay, baby, shh, breathe."

"H-how com-me you di-dn't get s-sick?" I question through my chattering teeth and heavy breath.

He pecks my temple, fingers continuing to trace small patterns into my forehead softly. "I'm used to the drink, love, I know my limit. You, however, clearly do not."

I pout at that. "I don't re-memb-ber much from l-last night."

Louis shakes his head. "I remember we left the club singing Sweet Caroline down the street to the point where Liam had to throw us in the bushes to stop us from waking the neighbours, but after that, nothing."

So that's why my wrist hurts. I must've landed on it when we got rammed into the bushes.

I grip my forehead. "I need medicine and a new stomach," I croak.

Louis giggles, patting my outer thigh. "If Princess is sure that she won't throw up any longer, then we can get going." He scrambles up from the floor and I carefully follow suit.

I wash my mouth out and plod my way into my room, wanting to get out of the clothes that have a few splashes of sick on it. My stomach rolls at the thought and I have to grip the door and try to clear my mind quickly in order for my body to not empty itself once more.