Fine line (Larry Stylinson)

Chapter Four

Note to self: three vodka Tonics and a scotch on the rocks do not make for a pleasant morning, to say the least.

My head pounds as I awake to the early California sun, and I shade my eyes to mask the glare. LA is beautiful but god, is it fucking bright.

Groaning, i force myself out of bed and linger in the doorway for a moment, pressing both of my fingertips to my temples, attempting to stop the agony. Although my tolerence to alcohol has sky rocketted, apparently the effects still stay the same. What a shame.

I trudge into the kitchen, put some tea on, and lean agaimst the counter, still not fully awake enough to support my weight.

The scotch is still out, and i place it back into the cabinet before going over the details of last night in my head. Usually, my memory is hazy in the morning, but last night seems to be burned into my brain for the rest of eternity. Lucky me.

I suppose I'm the only one to blame, having made the decision to call Niall in the first place. It was a drunken decision, but it still falls on me nonethless. It's not that I regretted it really, just that the reality of it all was so surreal that my brain still hasn't had time to process it all.

I mean, first I'm confronted with questions I dread most in the word, next, I'm hit with an insane discovery, a mind numbing reality and a questioned still unanswered.

And if that wasn't enough, I'm met with a choice. Do I seek the answers I yearn for, or do I let it all go? Do I dive back in to all of this, or remain in my false reality of a lie I've created for myself? It was all too much, too fast, and yet still somehow not enough.

I put myself on the line, just as I have time and time again and still got nothing that I was looking for. Or truthfully, nothing that I was hoping for.

Sure, I wanted answers, but how far was I willing to go for them?

The kettle screams, interrupting my inner monologue and simultaniously rupturing my ear drums. I take it off the stove, pour my tea, add sugar and milk and head over to my ever so welcoming spot on the cough. seriously, I'm surprised that there's not some sort of indent from my ass in it at this point.

I flip through the channels until I find something semi interesting and take a few sips from my tea, ignoring the burn it leaves as i swallow.

The grammy's are friday - only three days away. Meaning, I have three days to decide which route I'm going here. I could face my fears and get the answer I need, risking both embarassment and heartache, or choose to be a coward, facing both dissapointment and uncertainty. At this point, boh sound espesially awful.

But, I wonder, Does one outweigh the other? Is it worth the pain if I finally put this all to rest? Or is it more safe to always keep wondering?

Silently - and halfheartedly - I curse Niall under my breath. Little Irish fucker has always known how to get under my skin, hasn't he?

Unless... what if he really didn't know? When I asked him if Louis was happy, I sensed hesitaion, but I wrote it off as his concern for my feelings. But what if he hesitated because he was unsure of the answer himself? It could be possible, right?

I knew Niall and Louis we're close, but not nearly as close as they used to be. I'm sure they talk about their careers, and I know for a fact Niall's met his son once or twice. But all the sticky stuff? I'm not completely sure any of that. Would've come up between them.

Plus, I of all people know how Louis is when it comes to the dark and twisted shit. When he feels something deep down it's almost impossible to get it out of him. He's a pleaser, and he learned that from the people who made us, who controlled us. He goes with the flow Instead of swimming against it, a lesson I learned many years ago.

I feel a pang of hurt somewhere inside of me and I push it away. Now is not the time to let the past get the best of me.

As I take another sip of the cooled tea, I take a step back from my thoughts and re group. I feel a slight shake in my hand, unable to tell if it was the cause of nerves or just early morning jitters. I hope for the ladder.

This whole blast from the past thing is a little interesting, I admit, but it does come with a danger. There was a time when a shake in my hand turned into the race of my heart and then the hitch of my breath. A time where even the thought of messing up sent chills down my spine and sweat to my palms. There was no time to think back then, no time to wonder. When this past was still the present, I found myself turning into someone I couldn't recognize. I was so blinded, so infatuated and desperate. Every second I spent living in the lie our management created, I felt myself break a little more.

No matter how desperate I am for answers, I can't let myself turn into that person. The Harry I was back then was a mess. A heartbroken, nerve ridden, hopeless mess. There's still a part of him in me, but by now I've evolved.

Or maybe, over the years, I've just learned to control it. To mask it.

Either way, I can't let that side of me win. A part of him comes out when I hear his name, and a part of him jumped out last night when I saw the ring. No matter how many years it's been, how many words have been spoken, or how far I've grown, he still remains my one weakness. My one kryptonite. The memory of him launches me into the past and reflects everything we endured. Everything we put eachother through. Every unspoken word, every heart wrenching second - it all starts and end with him.

Louis fucking Tomlinson.

I swallow and let my eyes close, catching a glimpse of the past I'll forever be trapped in.

I can't wait around my entire life wondering what could've been, what could be and who he is now. It would kill me.

So that's it. It's decided.

On Friday night, we're getting some answers.