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It’s weird. The name on the jacket seems to get bigger as the night goes on. Every time Nick looks in the mirror it seems to shout ‘Louis’ just a little bit louder, until he’s trying to avoid it, tune it out with his eyes (is that a thing?) but he can’t. By the end of the night (which is actually the beginning of the morning – Gemma’s about to start her show) the jacket decal’s set up a little chant in the back of his head. He’s been trying to tell the little chant that it’s Vuitton, for fucks sake, but it’s not been listening.
And now there’s a dangerous lull in the evening. They’ve decided they’re not going home now, and they’re between venues. Nick’s waiting for Fiona to come out of the toilet and everyone else has gone ahead to the hotel in the cab. He’s sitting on a sofa in the club foyer on his own, his only company his phone, and a pulsing voice in the back of his head going louis, louis, louis, gold on red. He fingers the embroidery on the patch absent-mindedly, stroking an index finger along the weave, feeling it satisfyingly smooth under his fingertips, then deliberately stroking it the wrong way, feeling it rough and contrary against them.
Fucking hell. Fuck metaphors.
He swipes his thumb down over his phone-contacts and presses against the name ‘Lewis’ without giving himself a chance to think about it. ‘Lewis’ to hide him from other people, yes, but ‘Lewis’ to convince Nick he’s not really doing this. It helps. Or it has done before. He’s not so sure anymore.
‘Lo?’
He sounds husky, just woken up. Nick hadn’t stopped to think about timezones and where Louis might be. Again. Shit. ‘Sorry did I wake you? What time is it there?’
Where’s there anyway? Are they in Uruguay now? He’s lost track.
‘It’s four in the morning, Grimmy. And I’m in England, you berk.’
That makes him sit up straighter on the sofa.
‘Are you? Can I come round?’
No filter then. Absolutely no filter whatsoever. He squeezes his eyes shut in mortification and waits for Louis’ comeback.
‘Yeah, sure,’ Louis says, making Nick’s heart jump a little in his chest, before he detects the note of sarcasm. ‘Anywhere near Doncaster, love?’
The ‘love’ doesn’t soften it.
‘No,’ says Nick pointlessly.
There’s a long silence, punctuated by rustling that Nick guesses is Louis’ bedclothes as he shifts about.
‘How pissed are you?’
It’s gentle now, tired. Nick’s not sure which is worse. He almost wants to tell Louis to go back to sniping at him.
‘Um.’ He pats himself down mentally. ‘Quite. I’m quite pissed.’
‘S’pose I should quote Arctic Monkeys lyrics at you now.’
Nick sighs. He’s got a point. This happened a few times while the boys had been away. Sometimes Louis didn’t answer, but sometimes he did, and sometimes he was as high as Nick and they’d bicker in quiet, slurry voices. Once they actually got to phone sex and Nick had listened, transfixed, as Louis’ voice went from sharp-enough-to-draw-blood to breathy Britney Spears in the space of three minutes, whimpering ‘Fuck, Nick,’ as he came.
Maybe it was the contrast that addicted him. How could those two people exist inside that one body?
‘Are you gonna vom?’
No phone sex now then.
‘’M not that bad. We’re going on somewhere. Prob’ly have ‘nuther couple.’ Louis doesn’t tell him he shouldn’t, like Matt or Harry would. ‘How long are you in blighty for then?’
‘The tour’s here now. A while.’ Louis’ tone is bitten off. He’s not saying things.
‘When are you in London?’
Nick’s just given up now, obviously. No pride, no dignity.
‘I don’t know. Next month. Stop ringing me, Nick.’
‘I can’t help it. Was the jacket.’
‘Now you’re not even making any sense.’
‘Had a jacket with your name on it.’
‘Are you hallucinating?’
‘No. Vuitton.’
Louis puts the phone down not long after and Nick stares at the screen till Fifi appears.
‘Y’all right, kid?’ he says, looking up.
‘I was sick,’ she says, looking slightly shellshocked. ‘It was blue.’
‘Up for another round then?’
‘Yeah.’
They stumble out to find a cab.
A couple of days later, after his stupid mug’s been plastered all over the papers, he gets a text from Louis.
saw you in that jacket in the mail. fuckwit.
Nick imagines Louis saying it in a fond voice. He doesn’t reply. He thinks about the Arctic Monkeys. He thinks about the next time he gets drunk.
Incapable of making alright decisions. And having bad ideas.
He wonders when he’s going to stop.