Just Me You And This Box Of Matches

Chapter 15: Hoo!'s the Daddy?

There are at least five pairs of hands touching Louis.

            He doesn’t have anything against that, as a general principal; he’s always maintained that an orgy isn’t an orgy unless it’s centered on him and his wonderland of a body. In this particular case, however, it’s just giving him a bit of a headache.

            “Get the fuck 

off 

me,” he rasps. His mouth tastes like smoke and a little bit like Harry; he wouldn't say no to a nice tall glass of Listerine, right about now.

            “Language,” says Liam reprovingly, but obediently takes his hands away from Louis’ shoulders all the same. The hands on his hair and back drop away as well; the pair on his knees clamps down tighter.

            “You sound like you’ve been sucking cock,” says Niall conversationally. (“

Language,” 

Liam stresses.)

            “It’s probably mostly the smoke inhalation,” says the fireman, who’s sitting on the curb next to Louis, holding the empty shell of the fire extinguisher in his lap. He pauses. “And maybe a little bit of cock sucking.” (

“Language!”)

            The little girl clutching his knees stares up at him imploringly, brown fringe drooping sadly over one bright blue eye. Louis closes his watering eyes.

            The party is dispersing around them, people exchanging phone numbers and hooking up behind trees and snatching as many beer bottles as they can carry from the coolers they managed to grab before the fireman had shooed them out of the apartment. A few shout a “happy birthday!“ to Harry as they pass; he responds with a credible imitation of a curtsy.

            The night air is cool on Louis’ overheated skin, the moon is shining bright above them, and his own illegitimate child is holding fast onto his legs with tiny hands, collarbones poking out above the collar of her strawberry dress.

            His knee twitches a little, and she looks up at him through her brown fringe, thin lips pursed into a little pout that Louis practices in a mirror at least once a day. He might be going insane.

“Louis,” says Niall. It’s the fifth time he’s said his name, and the first time Louis has heard it. “Hello? Earth to Tomlinson?”

            Louis blinks, hard. The child imitates him a beat later, fluttering clumsy eyelids open and shut over bright blue eyes, arched eyebrows pinching a bit in concentration.

            “Why is that man making scary noises?” it whispers, voice horribly familiar.

            Louis follows her gaze over his shoulder, to where Zayn is currently vomiting bodily into a storm grate. “Oh,” he says. “That’s Zayn. He’s plastered.”

            The girl’s eyes narrow, and she lifts her thin hand up to his face, displaying the bright pink cast fit around her wrist. Christ, she’s so 

British. 

“Not that kind of plaster, um. He’s fu- no, um, pi- I-”

            “Wow, you’re actually 

terrible 

with kids,” Niall remarks from behind him, and suddenly leans over, crotch pressing firmly into the sweat-soaked back of Louis’ aching head, to heft the girl upwards by the armpits. “Here,” he says, and immediately deposits it- Louis