Ludo doesn’t say much. He mostly keeps his back to me as he makes hot chocolate—despite his promise, he actually doesn’t have any tea—and rummages in his fridge for something to eat.
“You don’t have to do that,” I protest weakly. “I’m not hungry.”
“Doesn’t mean you shouldn’t eat.”
I don’t argue. How can I when I’m ravenous for anything that allows me to see his face? Beneath it all, I’m so fucking embarrassed I want the ground to open up and swallow me whole, butLudo is here, and nothing else matters. So I sit at his kitchen table as if I haven’t downed a bottle of whisky and stumbled into his life like a pisshead loser.
Ludo cooks pasta with cherry tomatoes and basil grown in a pot on his windowsill. Spiked with olive oil and garlic, it’s so delicious I hoover it up in ten seconds flat, leading him to reload my plate with the kind of smile I wish he wore all the time.
I clear my plate for a second time, then flop back in my seat and survey my surroundings. With a full belly and the sugar from the hot chocolate working its way through my system, everything seems clearer, and I take a nosy glance around Ludo’s kitchen as though I’m seeing it for the first time.
It’s small, chaotic, and lovely. The appliances are old and battered, the wooden table chipped and weathered, and despite the fact that he’s probably younger than me, it suits him. Until this moment, I’ve never seen Ludo look as if hebelongssomewhere.
He catches me staring. “What?”
I shrug. “I like your kitchen.”
“Why?”
I consider voicing the thoughts that have just passed through my head, but when I open my mouth, nothing comes out, and I shrug again.
Ludo has never pushed me to answer questions. I reckon it’s a defensive measure because he needs me to give him the same space, but it’s hard when all I want is to know absolutely everything about him.
It’s my turn to speak, but I settle for running my gaze over him, absorbing the changes that have taken place since I last saw him—not that I can truly remember much of that. But I do remember his dark circled eyes and painfully thin frame. The terrified shadows haunting his gaze, and the way he was so shrunken into himself it was as though he wanted to die.
Or maybe I don’t remember it and it’s more that in comparison with the Ludo in front of me now, it’s so fucking obvious.
Ludo is leaning on the counter, unfazed by my scrutiny. It’s almost as if he expects it. I wonder why, but the thought is too complicated for my hungover brain, so I don’t pursue it. Instead I give way to my craving for a better look and beckon Ludo closer.
He smirks and pushes himself off the counter. “Having trouble with your hearing again?”
“Huh?”
“In the hospital... you made me come over to you because you couldn’t hear me.”
“I don’t remember that.”
“Probably for the best. You were in a lot of pain.”
I get what he’s saying, but the idea that I had conversations with him that I can’t recall upsets me in ways I can’t explain. Already my Ludo bank is too low, and I’ve given up contemplating what it says about me that it even exists. “I can hear you fine,” I say. “I’m just hoping you’ll sit with me.”
Ludo drops into the nearest chair. “I thought you might want some space. I haven’t been drunk in forever, but the end game always lands me feeling pretty claustrophobic.”
Claustrophobic. I turn the word over, trying it on for size, but it’s impossible for me to feel like that when Ludo is so close. I file it away for later when I’m trapped in my bedsit again with just my miserable self for company. “Are you allowed to drink... I mean, with your, er, bipolar?”
“Were you going to call it a disease, Aidan?”
“What? No, course I wasn’t. I’m just a fucking mess and struggling to find any fucking words, let alone the right ones.”
It comes out as a slurred mess. Perhaps I’m not as sober as I feel. But Ludo smiles faintly and finally—finally—lays his magic hand on my arm. “It’s okay. I was taking the piss... out of myself, and you. I don’t care what you call it.”
“I’m not calling it anything.”
“I know.”
“So... are you allowed to drink? Or does it make it worse for you?”
“Depends.” Ludo sketches a picture on my forearm. “I can technically drink with the medication I’m on, but I have to be super careful, and when I’m in the mood to drink, it’s usually when being super careful isn’t at the top of my list. I’ve made myself really sick in the past, so I try to avoid it.”
