new year's day | l.s

There's glitter on the floor

9:12 pm.

The air is cold. Louis feels his lungs burn with each inhale, the tip of his nose already flushed and on the verge of numbing.

The inside of his mouth feels wet and cold, the feeling he would be expecting after swallowing an ice cube.

He pats his pockets, desperate for a fag to keep him from freezing.

His phone glows, the pub lights do nothing to help his blurring vision. It's a text from Niall.

Wish you were here, you prat! A bunch of confetti emojis follow. He attempts to smile, the chill bites him enough to keep his lips straight again.

Zayn is undeniably late. He hates his guts, might even steal his pack and carve his name onto his lighter.

Louis rings his cell, the cold numbing his toes. "Zee, where are you mate?" his breath comes out white and soft, he watches it disappear.

"Lou, Lou! Liam just proposed mate! I-" he cuts himself off, a happy sob echoing.

"That's great, Zee! Congrats lad!" Louis tries, he really tries to put his happiness into his words but the cold is already taking too much of him.

"I'm sorry, babes." Zayn apologises, for not showing up or for something else, he doesn't understand.

"'S okay," Louis brushes it off, walking alone into the pub, the bouncer shakes his head to dust off the snow.

There's snowflakes in his coat, melting into his skin, chilly rivulets running down his back.

He tucks his phone in, eyes blinking rapidly. Everything is covered in pale blue light, the twinkling lights hung above turn his blue skin yellow.

The bartender looks at him with pitiful eyes. Her green hair is on the verge of fading, her nails have chipped silver polish.

Louis suddenly wants to have his nails painted, only to pick at them.

There is a group cheering and yelling, having fun. Louis was to have fun too, instead he's alone on new year's eve with the cold buried fucking deep in his bones, fingers shaking with unknown loneliness.

The beer is warm and bitter, he snags a corner booth, tracing the rim of his glass.

Everything around him reminds him of liquid nitrogen, frigid and freezing. Blue and bleak.

10:01 pm

Louis has moved onto the dance floor, leeching off warmth from couples, blending his loneliness into the mixed scents, soft and sweet, warm and comfortable.

There are hands on his body, his own, strangers', accidental brushes. It does nothing to take away the chill seeping into his ligaments, his muscles, they only warm up his skin.

His hands still shake and the beer is still bitter in the back of his throat.

But it isn't the beer, it's the taste of being lonely in his heart. Taste of being left alone, abandoned even.

He loathes it but likes it. It has been a constant in his life.

Another sticky beer later, he finds himself loitering around the bathrooms. The smell of puke is sharp, twisting his insides. He braves it and goes in anyway.

A couple is feverishly making out by the sinks, obscene bulges grinding against each other's.

Louis washes his hands, getting rid of the sticky beer, but the bitterness still stays.

His hands are shaking.

As he's rushing out, he bumps into someone. "Sorry, mate," he mutters, too tired for an argument.