Dream Writer » Larry AU

4: TASTE

A/N: Cue the Larry!

Harry, May 15th

It was a regular Wednesday evening until I heard Niall squeal like an utter.

It was a quick rush to my feet that brought me to his bedroom where he was plunging and bouncing around in the billowy mattress. In fact, the deed could've easily appeared as vulgar and fiercely sexual if the overly-excited grin he was sporting had been disregarded.

Though, he was also fully clothed.

...Until he saw me entering, tore his t-shirt off and started swinging it in the air.

He was...teary-eyed?

"Ryan gave me the role!" He tossed his phone aside, which I assumed he had just taken a call from. Unsuccessfully, it hit the wall (potentially cracking), but Niall was unfazed. "I'm Oswaldo, Harry! He picked me!"

In a slow act, I started clapping my hands. Like in movies when the idiot tries to initiate an applause but nobody tags along and it gets awkward. This however, was a perfect moment. Our deep-rooted friendship had its advantages when it came to success. We would always be equally as happy for each other as we were for ourselves.

"And you didn't shag him?" was the first thing I said, mouth still agape in astonishment.

Niall pumped his fist into the air. "I didn't shag him!"

"This calls for a celebration, brother! What do you want-"

"Latte!" he nearly lost balance in his jumping due to the yearning of the request. "I want a caramel latte!"

I nodded. "Got it."

Louis,

Each and every evening I spent at the local café were nearly identical.

I had just emptied the green tea from its porcelain cup, which was my go-to playing-it-safe order for when I didn't want to delve into the unknown of the drinks I had never tried. Moreover, seconds had passed since last touched the enter key on my laptop and finished the potential first scene in my screenplay (news flash, it was shit). This was nothing out of the ordinary, since I was always drinking tea and always getting swallowed by the writer's block. Perhaps it was just because I was a tea-junkie and a shit screenwriter, or writer in general.

Piles of paperwork, a teacup, a half-eaten muffin and a hand-me-down Macbook rested in front of me on the ash brown coffee table. The mere sight of it was adding more pressure to my anxiety. I had to get out of there.

But then, my habitual schedule was broken.

It was no longer a normal Wednesday evening, because a familiarly calm yet effervescent voice had emitted into the ears that I initially had switched off to reject all surrounding sounds that could possibly distract my thoughts.

By this I was surely distracted, but in a good way.

The metaphorical light bulb that seemed to have kindled inside of my drumming heart drove my head into a swift turn to find the source that had kicked off my curiosity.

Harry was ordering!

"Yeah. Plain black, would be great." There was a pause. "No extras. Oh, and a caramel latte." (A second pause) "Thank you, sir. Oh, yes. Make it takeaway."

My face slackened at the last part. He wasn't staying.

No doubt in my mind, I wanted an interaction with the boy. But, there was also no way in hell I would ever find the courage to directly walk up to him just to exchange hellos. Instead, I started plotting an idea where that would grant me a (hopefully) pleasant approach without having to trigger it myself. Well, sort of.