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

chapter 1

1 year after

& l &

Brrring..

The jingling of the little bell over the front door sounds through the shop, echoing softly past rows and rows of bookshelves as far as the eye can see (or rather those occupying the first floor of an ostensibly miniature–sized London bookstore). A lissome, brown-haired young man sits at a desk near the back, scribbling furiously in a tattered moleskinee. He curses once‒ for a misplaced word which he quickly marks out‒ and again as the bell's interruption causes an unsightly dark smudge in the margin of his notebook.

(It's Sunday, a slow day‒ or what was supposed to be a slow day‒ and he'd been foolishly hoping that there wouldn't be any interruptions whilst penning the last of the poems for his latest collection, one which his publisher was absolutely demanding be finished by the quickly approaching deadline. And, of course, this final poem was giving him particular trouble. Perhaps it was due to the rather sensitive subject matter, but either way he'd been working on it for hours and had just established a sort of flow to his work when of course a customer had to arrive.)

He stands up begrudgingly from his place of work and prepares a cheery smile as to properly welcome the visitor to his shop. He moves quickly to the front of the store, smoothing out his rumpled sweater and mentally preparing his oft-rehearsed greeting. "Hello, I'm Louis Tomlinson. Welcome to Tales Resold, the finest antique bookstore in London. Are you looking for anything in particular?"

But it's then that his eyes catch a familiar flash of blonde hair and the need for all formalities disappears, along with the exaggerated grin threatening to strain his cheek muscles.
"For god's sake, Niall," he cries out in frustration, "Can't you leave me alone for one day?"

The blond boy just grins, ignoring the rather rude greeting. He reaches into a pocket in his trousers, unwraps a half-crumbled pastry, and proceeds to take a large, unmannerly bite.
"Er' gon' pain' tha' do?"  Niall asks, and it's a wonder that his thick Irish accent remains even the slightest bit intelligible through a mouthful of apple and flaky bread.

Louis can't help but smile softly despite his mate's disgusting eating habits. It's a joke they've shared since he bought the place nearly two years ago. Over the years, he's spent countless pounds and hours of labor repairing every inch of the shop, but for some odd reason he can't bring himself to repaint the front door. He'd once likened the dilapidated shop to his own life, a condition of brokenness that was seemingly irreparable. Though there eventually came a point where he no longer felt quite so broken, he supposes that the unfinished door serves as a reminder of his lingering imperfections. Even now the forest green paint is peeling something awful, but the sting of nostalgia he feels at the thought of painting over the original is enough to keep him from buying a liter and getting it over with.

"Suppose I will soon enough," he replies earnestly, though by Niall's chuckle it's clear that he's anything but believable.

It's then that the blonde boy lets out a sudden resounding belch, having polished off the last of his tuck. He takes a hand to the crumbs dotting his mouth and chin, and wipes them off on the thigh of his trousers.

"Been swiping merchandise from the bakery again?" Louis asks, remaining unfazed by the Irishman's lack of basic table manners (he's had years to become immune to it after all).
Niall, for his own merits, looks surprisingly offended. "Course not," he protests, "I'd never."
"Must've had a quick shag with Josh behind the counter then," Louis teases, "Convinced him to give you a free one, did you now?"
Louis cackles and ducks as Niall's fist swings playfully toward his head.

"Arsewipe," Niall mutters, his cheeks painted a brilliant shade of red.

Josh is a cheery lad with a boyish face who owns an organic bakery a few streets over. The three of them, along with Liam, Louis' sensible old uni roommate in his first year teaching at a posh secondary school in Brook Green, often frequent the local pubs on the weekends. These outings usually involve Louis perched on a barstool scribbling poems on a paper napkin, Liam‒ who even after all these years still half-heartedly claims sobriety having had, at one point, only one kidney (medical miracle or summat)‒ keeping careful track of how many pints each of the others have consumed and providing the appropriate warnings ("Niall, that's four you've had already and no, I don't care how Irish your blood is!"), and Niall and Josh drinking into oblivion whilst obviously desiring to do a bit of covert fondling in the washroom in the back.