Fine line (Larry Stylinson)

Chapter 10

I stood, Paralyzed, in the middle of the floor, unfazed by the intoxicated celebrities pushing past and into me. I hadn't even touched my third drink, but somehow I felt even more hazy before, and definitely more confused.

What the hell was she talking about, I'd see him sooner than she would. She did live with the man, didn't she.

I shook my head in confusion and made my way toward the bathroom, desperate to clear my mind and conscious of whatever the hell had just happened here.

Eleanor didn't seem drunk, but maybe she was just incredibly good at hiding it, because absolutely nothing she'd just said had made any ounce of sense. It was like she was speaking in riddles, waiting for me to figure out the answers on my own.

But my mind was too battered for that, at least for tonight.

I huffed in annoyance as I entered the bathroom.

She could tell her own damn fiance she was leaving. He could wait to know until he finds her at home, for all I cared. It wasn't my responsibility, to take care of Louis, or to inform him of anything, for that matter.

Not anymore, at least.

I splashed cold water on to my face, and looked up into my own reflection, shocked at the demeanor of the man staring back at me.

His eyes were wide, petrified in place. The skin on his face was pale and clammy, as fever had struck him suddenly and without warning. He was terrified.

God, who was I?

As soon as the thought echoed through my mind I chuckled cynically to myself. I knew exactly who I was in this moment, and exactly where I recognized this exact reflection.

I'd hardly even spoken to louis himself and still, I was back in the same place I'd always been with him. Terrified of the truth, intruiged by its meaning. I wanted to know what the words eleanor had spoken meant, but I also wanted to forget them. It's been years since I felt this way, since this level of anxiety had crept it's way into my veins. I wasn't sure I was ready to go back to the era of shakey hands and nervous bathroom sit downs. I wasn't sure I could handle it, a second time around. Hell, I hardly lived through it the first time.

I glanced back up at the boy in the mirror, the same boy I had thanken so passionately in my speak. As drops of cold water dripped from his forehead, I could feel him staring back, peering at me, as if to ask "What now?".

I studied him with careful eyes, as if the slightest glace could break him, and it probably would. I remember him - fragile, cracked, holding everything in at everyone else's expense.

My fists clenched, and an emotion other than anxiety seeped into my pores - anger.

Anger at Louis, for even approaching me, even attempting to cause me to falter. At eleanor, for bringing back the past, for pushing me to thoughts that were close to impossible. At Niall, even, for not understanding that pushing me into this wasn't the "help" that I needed.

But most of all, I was angry at myself.

This, all of this was a mistake. Letting myself get sucked back in to the d ohms that was Louis Tomlinson. Craving more answers, wanting more questions met.

All of it was wrong.

I've spent years, a half a decade, trying to forget my past and work toward a somewhat desireable future. I've spent so long learning how to trust again, how to believe. I went to therapy, I took my medication, I wrote songs and journals and poems to channel whatever it was I had always felt deepdown inside me.

I put in the work. I put in the effort.

And yet still, after all this time, I was willing to give it all up at just the mention of his name.

"Pathetic," I mumbled almost inaudibly.

And it was.

This whole night was utterly and inexcusably pathetic. I had faltered at the sight of him, even the idea of him glancing my way. I had fumbled over a speech that wasn't even true. How could I thank the boy I used to be if I never stopped being him? If I never stopped feeling what he felt, or fearing what he feared?

I remember looking out into the crowd and meeting Louis's eyes, hoping that he had bought the lie I was spinning. Hoping that he felt like a fraud, that he was still afraid.

But it wasn't him at all. It was me.

I felt my lip quiver, and I couldn't tell whether this reaction was due to the anxiety, or the anger. The two emotions seemed to be at war within me, fighting for dominance and declaring my insides as their battle ground.

After what seemed like a lifetime, I finally wiped my face of both water and sweat and began to depart from the bathroom.

I was done.

Done with this party, done with this night, done with it all.

I needed to go home, crack open my favorite bottle of whisky and forget about tonight, maybe even forget about the last ten years.

Regardless, I was leaving this fucing party.

As I exited the bathroom, the sounds of the crowd hit me like a train, and I felt my mind groan. What was once so exhilarating and exciting had soon grown nauseating and tiring.

The faces of people I'd once looked up to danced around me, the smell of liquor and expensive perfume hanging heavy inn the air.

I took one last look around, and began to fight my way to the exit, not even stopping as my name was called through the crowd, hands pulling at my sleeves, anxious for a goodbye.

I felt a pang of guilt, but it didn't last for long.

I didn't have time for a goodbye.

As I broke through the doors of the exit, I felt a gust of fresh air hit me like a truck, drowning out the stench of privilege and perfume. I let in a gust of cold air and held it for a moment, as if to cleanse my body from the entire night.

And then, I began to walk.

I loved close enough to make it on foot, but it would be about an hour or so. For some reason, that thought didn't faze me in the slightest. It would be nice, even, to get my mind off things.

As I trudged along, the events of tonight flashed through my mind like credits after a film.

The walk was calming, I'll admit, the air was refreshing, but I knew deep down that there was nothing that could be done to calm the war inside of me.

It felt like hours, maybe even days before I began to turn with the curb on my street, my neighbors apartments coming into view.

So many had urged me not to live in the city, not to live in an apartment even. It was too open, too cramped.

But the truth was, I liked my little flat. I liked feeling normal for a few moments of the day.

I took a deep breath, lifted my head to search for my - and stopped dead in my fucking tracks.

The blood in my veins turned to ice, and I practically felt the color leave my skin.

Sitting on the front stairs of my apartment, was a slender man, knees crouched up against his chest, taking long and deeps drags off of a cigarette. The stench of liquor basically floated off of him.

He looked so small in this position, out here on his own, but I knew better.

I gritted my teeth, and choked out the only words I could muster.

"Louis, what the hell are you doing on my front porch?"