Just Me, You, And This Box of Matches

Chapter 1: The Term "Housewarming" Has Never Been More Appropriate

Louis has never hated a pie so much in his entire life.

"Just run it next door, Lou. Stop being such a baby about it."

"This is a housewarming gift."

Zayn gives him a look that probably would be much more intimidating had he not been still wearing the frilly baby-blue kiss the cook apron draped over his faded band t-shirt. "Yes, Louis, darling. Glad you've finally caught on."

"We're twenty-four. We're bachelors."

"Again, spot-on with the observations. You should quit that whole photography business and become a detective or something."

"Giving pies as welcome presents is something middle-aged women with three kids do- can't we, like, bring over a six-pack of beer or something?"

"You don't even like beer."

"Fine. Champagne, then."

"Louis."

"Zayn."

"Bring over the pie."

"Fine."

"That's a good lad."

"Fuck you, too."

Louis takes the stairs to the next floor, even though, for once, the elevator's working. If anyone asks, it's because he needed the exercise (which he does, probably, if he ever decides to admit to himself that his thighs aren't all muscle) but in reality it's because he needs time to rehearse his introductory speech.

There are a few versions of the speech, depending on whether the new neighbor is a respectable adult (Hi, I'm Louis Tomlinson, pleased to meet you!) a hot guy (Hi, I'm Louis Tomlinson, but my friends call me Ten Inch) a hot girl (Hi, I'm Louis Tomlinson, and I have a foot-long tongue and can breathe through my ears) or a pedophile (Hi, I'm Zayn Malik, would you like my phone number?)

This train of thought carries him all the way up to apartment 2B, and he's already knocking before he can overthink and regret it.

There's no immediate answer. Louis debates setting the pie down and running away, but that's the coward's way out, and Louis Tomlinson is many things but he is not a coward, no matter what his ex-girlfriends or 7th grade gym teacher might say.

He knocks again, waits a respectable five seconds, and tries the door handle. He's expecting it to be locked. (It is.) What he's not expecting is it to be so hot to the touch that he can actually hear a sizzle as his flesh comes into contact with the metal. (It is.)

Louis lets out a girly shriek and jumps back a foot, very nearly dropping Zayn's heart and soul crust-first onto the beige carpeting. In that very moment, a hoarse voice from inside shouts, "Goddammit, I'm coming!" and the door is wrenched open.

A man stands in the doorway, staring out at Louis with big green eyes. He's sweaty and shirtless, there are two giant sparrows tattooed just under his collarbone, and his kitchen is on fire behind him.

"Um," Louis says. Words fail him, and words rarely fail him. The man in front of him lands very neatly in the hot guy category of his earlier planning, but he feels like making a crack about his stupendous dick would be inappropriate when this guy's apartment is quite literally burning to the ground behind him.

The man's eyes drop down to the tin clutched in Louis' hands, and his face lights up. His curly hair is dangling in sweat-damp ringlets around his face, and when he smiles a little dimple pops out of his cheek. He looks very attractive with the orange light of the fire warming the square angles of his shoulders. "Oooh, is that a housewarming gift?"