i would name the stars for you [e.c]

chapter 8

"It's noon," Louis remarks, yawning, as the credits roll onscreen.

Eleanor –curled up under a blanket on the opposite end of the couch– shrugs helpfully. "Okay?"

Her curls are mussed and her lips are painted cherry red. She looks kind of really beautiful. Louis maybe, sort of wants to kiss her.

Louis doesn't kiss her.

Instead he asks, "So, weren't your people sending someone to pick you up around ten?"

Eleanor looks down suddenly, cheeks flushing.

"Did Meghan forget or something?" Louis implores, suddenly worried that he might've been keeping Eleanor against her will, "Because I can totally get you home, or wherever you need to go, you know that right? My mate Niall's even got a car 'nd everything, in fact, just let me call him right now and we can–"

Eleanor interrupts with a few mumbled words, her blush deepening.

"What was that?" Louis asks, concerned.

"I said, 'Meghan didn't forget'," the popstar replies, voice still soft, "I maybe, sort of told them that I was taking the day off?"

Louis doesn't do well at hiding his confusion. "What? When? Why?" he blurts, questions popping out of his mouth in rapid-fire succession.

"While you were setting up the movie," Eleanor replies, wrapping the blanket more tightly around herself, "I might've snuck back downstairs and used your landline to phone my agent."

The realization hits Louis like a freight train. "Eleanor, I–"

"I'm really sorry if I've overstayed my not-so-welcome, it's just... I haven't spent like a real day just hanging out with someone in so long and you were so nice to me and I sort of thought that maybe–"

"Eleanor," Louis tries again.

"–that maybe we could even be friends, you know? Like all my friends aren't even really my really real friends, they just pretend to like me 'cause I'm famous, right? I mean, except for like Zayn and the band that I tour with and a few people at the record label, I don't have any like normal friends, and this day has been so lovely, I'm sorry, I'll call them back and tell them that–"

"Eleanor," Louis says once more, scooting across the sofa to clamp a hand over Eleanor's mouth.

Eleanor continues speaking for a second after she's cut off and Louis tries his absolute best to ignore the sensation of those plush red lips moving against his palm. He removes his hand and takes in the popstar's wide-eyed expression.

Eleanor's breathing heavily, cheeks flushed and lips parted in surprise, whether from her rambling speech or from their current proximity (and yes, okay, Louis acknowledges that the latter is highly unlikely, but can you really blame a man for being optimistic?).

Louis rocks back onto his knees, putting a nice, safe cushion-length distance between them, and says, "Of course you can stay, you idiot."

"I– really?" Eleanor asks, almost timidly, peeking out from the wrappings of her reconstructed blanket cocoon.

"Yes, my little butterfly," Louis assuages, surprised to hear his voice tinged with such unexpected fondness. He shakes his head to clear away those thoughts and reaches out to poke the Calder-sized burrito playfully.

"Heyyyyy," Eleanor complains, dragging out the "ey" sound in a higher pitch.

Louis' about to offer up a smart retort when his cell vibrates loudly in his pocket, and then once more as he's pulling it out.