Where We Belong

Chapter 21

The next couple weeks go by with one of three things occupying Louis' mind; alcohol, calling Harry and trying not to succumb to either of the two first things. After Stan, Niall and Zayn pop by, Louis has one night off the bottle and then two walking around in such an alcohol-daze that he first forgets to go into work and secondly goes in, but gets pulled aside and asked whether he's had a bit too much cough syrup this morning?

After that, he manages not to drink by himself for a week.

Thursday, he meets with Niall at the pub over pints, talks footie and the weather, and pointedly doesn't talk Harry at all. Judging from not-so-subtle glances and stunted phone-conversations, the lads have begun to understand that this isn't just some little row they'll get over like they always do. They've also, thank fuckably, understood that Louis is in no state what so fucking ever to talk about it anytime soon. He suspects they don't mind one bit.

Friday, Louis drinks three bottles of disgusting pink wine with Eleanor and Idris, and then leaves abruptly when Idris loses whatever minuscule amount of inhibition he has in him and starts insisting they talk Harry.

Saturday, he ends up calling Harry. It's the first time in what feels like forever - a few weeks, to be exact - and once he realises that Harry isn't going to pick up, the sense of defeat rushes over him so violently that he just can't forget about that bottle of Jack he has stashed in the back of the kitchen-cabinet.

He makes it all the way to the bottle, picks a very little glass out so as not to feel quite as much of an alcoholic, fills it to the brim, lifts it, and then catches a look of himself in the reflection of his window.

He's in Harry's reeking old t-shirt, and a pair of boxers he should've changed two days ago, his hair looks like shit, and his face too, and he's all alone with a bottle of whiskey that'll no doubt be gone in the morning if he doesn't stop himself. He's fucking pathetic.

He puts the glass down. Goes and picks up his phone. Reminds himself that he had two things he'd promised himself not to do this week and he can't fail on both accounts in the space of one hour.

He calls up Zayn.

"Yeah?"

"You alone?"

"At a bloke's, but it's right around the corner from you," Zayn replies, "you?"

"Yeah," Louis says. He's so lonely. He feels even worse, calling Zayn up now, knowing there's only one person in the world who'll make him feel better and he's off fucking someone else. "You mentioned something about coming over if I was about to drink myself to death alone. Did you really mean that?"

"I'll be there in five. Don't start without me."

*

Zayn brings cigarettes and jaffa cakes and an extra liter of milk, lest Louis should've forgotten to buy. Louis hugs him for so long that he looks blue in the face when he finally pulls back.

"Sorry, did I squeeze you?" he asks, grabbing the wine and leading the way into the kitchen while screwing off the lid.

"Hardly, you look like you haven't eaten in a week," Zayn mutters, "arms like fuckin' toothpicks. Oh, and you reek."

Louis has a swig of the wine. "Well, Zayn, if you don't like the smell in the bakery—"

"Yeah yeah, just get me a light."

Louis does that, and also finds a half-clean bowl and fills it with jaffa cakes, old biscuits and other snacky-type shit Harry's left behind, while Zayn goes looking for the bong they haven't used in ages. They camp out on the balcony, wrap themselves up in a duvet and then Louis goes into an embarrassing coughing fit from his first hit off the bong.