The minute that Louis enters his flat, he makes a beeline straight for Niall’s bedroom, his mind still buzzing with “WHAT THE FUCK” and a fire under his skin in all the places it met with Harry’s in his drunken haze.
Because no fucking way can he just flop into bed right now and fall asleep. No, he absolutely cannot do that because his head may explode any minute and his heart is doing weird things and his blood pressure is probably through the roof; death is almost certainly eminent.
And, oh yeah, he’s also pissed at the little Irish fuck because where the hell did he get to tonight? And why the fuck did he abandon Louis, leaving him to support a barely-there Harry Styles? And put him to bed? And thus force him to hold his fucking hand like a small child?
It’s all Niall’s fault.
Fury anew, he bursts through the closed door and immediately sees the sleeping frame of the boy swirled amongst blankets, head cushioned deeply amongst pillows, mouth hanging open comically. He’s still dressed, shoes and all, the room distinctly reeks of marijuana and whiskey, and the remnants of a turkey sandwich sit on his nightstand, half-eaten and drunkenly abandoned.
But Louis is relieved for two reasons:
1. Niall is officially home and not still off gallivanting.
2. Niall’s alone and thus can focus his full attention on Louis who is feeling vulnerable and needy. (He was also sort of terrified of interrupting something that would most likely have scarred him for life.)
“Nialler, Niall, Ireland,” Louis calls as he climbs atop the enormous bed (and damn, don’t those sheets feel soft) and begins shaking the boy awake. “Hey, I need to talk. I need to ask you things. Ireland! Comfort me!” He pats his cheeks between his hands like he’s banging a drum, impatience winning out over gentleness.
And Niall, slowly and confusedly with a brow that is more furrowed than Louis has ever seen it, begins to blearily open his eyes. They cut through the darkness in their crystal luster, seeking Louis’ own, and the animosity that pours from them is actually quite startling.
But Louis plows on anyway.
“Oh, excellent! You’re awake. Now, I need to ask you—“
“Fuck. Off.”
Louis blinks. Wait, what?
“Fuck. Off,” Niall repeats, and his voice is burdened with sleep, his eyes deep set with bags and crust, and maybe there’s a raging hangover in the process, or maybe Niall just really hates being woken up (he does loves his sleep, after all…) but either way, Louis is almost, sort of, maybe terrified.
He eases off of him just a bit, staring down into the cutthroat eyes apprehensively as he brings his hands to his sides and far away from the piranha beneath him.
“Niall…?” he questions carefully.
Niall’s glare increases. “Louis, if you don’t fucking get the fuck off of me, I swear I will fucking rip your fucking head the fuck off.”
Louis gapes, appalled. “Rip my—“
“I will rip your cunt wanking head off with my bare fucking hands and I will feed it to your goddamn mother,” Niall confirms, and even in his exhaustion, his limbs begin to stir.
And while Louis is [almost] sure that Niall wouldn’t actually slaughter him…
“Right then. I’ll see you when you wake. Goodnight, love, sweet dreams!” he sing-songs, hopping off of him in one deft movement and practically sprinting out of the room without a backward glance.
Well, then. Shit.
At least Louis’ learned a new thing about Niall: never disturb his slumber, or else suffer the penalty of death.
So it wasn’t a totally wasted effort then, Louis thinks as he begins to make himself some tea, and prepares for a sleepless night of self-doubt and over-analyzing, staying far away from Niall.
**
The sun has fully risen, four kettles of tea have been ingested, and there is a shamefully embarrassing stack of crumpled notebook pages (filled with silly things like “but why would he cry????” “I hate H.S.” “Harry Styles” and even a very unattractive doodle of a smashed piano) surrounding Louis as he stares at the currently untouched page before him entitled, ‘What tha fuck is wrong with Harry Stylezzz?’ complete with a scribble of a wilting flower and a storm cloud.
Maybe he’s had too much caffeine and maybe he needs sleep.
Maybe.
He’s already attempted a Venn diagram of Harry’s moods (unsuccessfully) and crafted an outline of how to avoid him in the future and why (also unsuccessfully).
So it’s really quite the blessing when Niall’s door finally creaks open, revealing his yawning face and shirtless torso complete with lovebites.
Louis glares. “The beast awakens,” he says dryly, already crumpling up his newest attempt at diligent Harry Styles note-taking. He watches as Niall blinks his eyes in the sunlight, looking around the flat in near delirium, hair sticking up at all angles and sleep creases in his cheeks. “Somebody had some company last night,” he comments further, pointedly staring at a particularly
vicious bruise near his right nipple.
“Hm?” Niall asks offhandedly, scratching his bum and heading straight for the fridge.
“Your lovebites.”
“Oh. Yeah,” Niall yawns, grinning. “Yeah, it was a good time. She was nice.”
She was nice. Wow.
Louis’ glare intensifies as he watches the boy rifle through the fruit drawer, before emerging with two apples and a bag of grapes.
“Aren’t you going to apologize?” he prompts as Niall plucks three croissants from a bag near the fridge.
“For what?” he asks, completely oblivious. He rips a croissant open with his teeth and hums his appreciation as he chews while shoving his fist into the grapes without ceremony. You’d think he hadn’t eaten for days.
It’s attractive.
“Oh, I dunno. Maybe for threatening to cause me bodily harm this morning when I was just looking for a cuddle?!” Louis bellows, shooting metaphorical daggers across the room and refusing to be tamed.
Niall looks to him, brows furrowed, as he chomps from the kitchen. “This morning? What?”
“Yes, this morning. You threatened to rip my limbs apart like bloody Chewbacca! Don’t play coy, I see you, Niall Horan, and I see the evil that lurks beneath. And it is an ugly shade on you, I must say,” Louis huffs, folding his arms and leaning back in his chair with a flounce.
“Ohhhhh, I think I do remember that. Vaguely.” Niall strides over and settles down across from Louis without remorse, bag of grapes extended. “Want some?”
But Louis only stares in response.
“That’s all you have to say?”
He shrugs. “Oops?” he offers.
“Oops??!”
“I was sleeping. What can I say?”
“You could say sorry.”
“Sorry. So what were you really waking me up for anyway? You said something about needing to talk.”
And maybe that was the most insincere apology in the world, but dammit, because Niall’s just asked the question that Louis needs to answer.
“Ah. Well.” Louis clears his throat, gathering the scattered balls of paper before Niall’s curiosity wins out and he smooths out a page of humiliation and shame, deciphering Louis’ madman scrawl and speculations over the man he hates more than anything. “I was just needing to ask some questions about Harry. Tell me more about him. Anything and everything you’ve got.” Arms
filled, Louis dumps the paper balls into the bin, appearing nonchalant and keeping one eye on Niall.
“I’ve already told you everything I know. Why?”
“Because I want to know why he’s so evil. Tell me anything—about his family, his life…just anything.” Louis sits back down and stares across at Niall expectantly, hands folded, refusing to acknowledge any stirrings that feel suspiciously like concern for the boy in question.
Niall chews his grapes. “I literally told you everything. Dad’s Des, he’s a fuckin legend—he’s just been inducted into the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame, you know?”
“Of course he was,” Louis mumbles.
“Erm. He’s still mental. He’s—“
“Is he at home?” Louis interrupts, eyes serious.
“Huh?”
“Is he at home? Does he live with Harry? Or is he in hospital…?”
“I dunno, I can’t keep track. Probably at home? Why does it matter?” Niall asks, refastening his Rolex and glancing up at Louis.
“It doesn’t, I guess. He’s just…” Louis sighs, sinking his tired head into his hands. He really needs some sleep. “Forget it. I’m too tired for this. Wake me in an hour.”
“What’s in an hour?”
“I want to go to Zayn’s.”
And no, this has nothing to do with wanting to see Harry. Because he doesn’t, really.
But even if he did want to, it would only be to confirm that nothing has changed between them after last night’s random act of kindness. That’s all. Just so they’re on the same page. He just wants to confirm that.
“All right. Go to sleep. I’ll see you in an hour,” Niall smiles, ruffling Louis’ hair before walking away.
“DO NOT TOUCH THE PIANO,” Louis warns, and Niall stops mid-step.
“I’ll play you to sleep?” he offers, an eyebrow raised.
Louis ponders, slowly trudging to his room. “Lullabies?”
“I can do lullabies.”
“With filthy lyrics?”
“I can do that as well.”
“All right, then. But play softly,” Louis warns, and slides into his room just as Niall takes a seat at the grand piece of shit, fingers lowering onto the waiting keys as he serenades Louis to sleep with “Lick My Love Pump.”
**
Louis still isn’t thinking about Harry.
Him and Niall are on their way to Zayn’s (and Niall took his fucking segway so Louis feels short, slow, and irate beside him) and he is absolutely not terrified to see Harry. He’s not. In no way is he scared to meet those eyes.
But… At the same time…
What if he remembers? What if he was more conscious than Louis realized and he remembers Louis taking care of him, wiping his forehead, or, worst of all, holding his hand? The thought alone makes Louis’ stomach drop and there are spikes of anxiety shooting from his fingertips to his brain. Nerves. All Louis can feel is nerves.
And then Niall suddenly curses. “Fuck. How am I going to take the segway up the stairs?”
Louis looks over, realizing they’ve reached the tower to Zayn’s rooms, and then looks to Niall who is caught between frustration and realization.
“Carry it?”
He sighs. “Nah. I think I’ll actually just go back and smoke. I’ve got a headache anyway.”
Louis snaps his gaze to him. “You’re going to make me go alone?”
“Yeah, why not?”
Because Harry. Because he can’t enter that room with Harry staring at him and not have nice, calming, distracting Niall to diffuse the tension and stick by his side. That’s fucking why.
“No reason,” Louis says breezily. “But I really think it’s rude to choose spending the day with a plant over me.”
Niall laughs, shaking his head as he adjusts his over-sized jumper and kicks his pristine white Nike’s on the ground, sliding his phone out of his back pocket.
“Fine, fine, Drama. I’ll just have Rory take it, then.”
Louis rolls his eyes. “I hope you pay that poor man well.”
“Of course! He’s me best mate!”
And so Niall calls Rory while Louis begins to ascend the stairs, nerves nearly buckling his knees, each step resonating a sound ‘Harry’ inside of his head.
It will be okay. He probably won’t even remember. It will be okay and they won’t even discuss it and it will be okay.
It will be okay.
“All right,” Niall calls, bounding up the stairs to catch up with Louis. “Rory’s on his way.”
Louis nods as they reach the top, and as they come face to face with the heavy wooden door, his nerves pick up to full speed.
“I don’t feel good. Maybe we should just go back,” he says, turning to face Niall who raises his
eyebrows.
“Well, too late now.” And he opens the door without another moment’s hesitation. “Heeeeyyyy!” he greets in his most jovial tone, and Louis swallows as he prepares himself mentally (impossible) and follows him inside.
There’s Zayn, wearing black jersey shorts and an enormous paint-splattered black t-shirt, paintbrush in hand as he stands in front of a large canvas near the row of windows in the back.
And there’s Liam, dressed to the nines in a cream waistcoat and trousers, white button-up shirt starched and ironed and glowing in the afternoon sun as he sits at the long table and puffs on a cigar, mindlessly flitting through a large, dusty book.
And there’s no Harry.
So Louis breathes again.
“Louis!” Liam immediately grins, standing up and stubbing out his cigar. “Niall!”
“Lads,” Louis greets, smile wider than he realizes, possessing all the relief and unwinding tension of suffering from a very close call. And, no, he’s not disappointed that Harry isn’t there because all he feels is relief. Relief.
Zayn sends a nod their way before he continues painting large strokes on the canvas before him.
“How are you boys today? Up for a smoke?” Niall asks, and is already getting out his little baggy and the accompanied paraphernalia which Louis had no idea he’d even brought.
“Really, Niall?” Louis judges, eying the boy’s focused movements. “We’ve not even been here for a full minute.”
But Niall merely shrugs. “No time like the present!”
“Oh, lovely!” Liam smiles, clapping his hands.
After Niall makes speedy work of what he does best, he inhales from the little glass bowl with a large grin, resembling a chipmunk, before handing it off to Liam and hopping towards the piano.
“Here, I’ll play you a very special song,” he coughs through an avalanche of smoke, and settles himself down, golden hair mingling with smoke and sunlight.
“Play something chipper, will you?” Louis calls as Liam passes him the bowl with a large smile.
“Yes, something chipper!” Liam agrees, cloudy wisps sneaking out of his lips.
Louis then brings his own mouth to the glass, flicking the lighter into life as he takes repeated hits, rationalizing that he deserves to get as high as he wants in celebration of the fact that Harry is not, in fact, here, and thus can relax.
Because, yup, Harry’s not here!
And he’s definitely not going to talk about him.
“So where’s Harry?” he finds himself asking as his head dizzies with weed. Oops.
“He’s missing,” Liam says nonchalantly, sipping tea.
Louis blinks, Niall’s piano playing thickening his skull in his haze.
“Wait, what? Missing?”
“Mmhm.”
“What do you mean ‘missing?’ Like, he’s gone out or…?”
“No, he’s run off somewhere. He does this all the time, though.”
“Run off?”
“Yeah. You know. He’s usually only gone for a couple of days.”
Louis’ jaw quite literally drops. “Days?? I thought you meant for, like, an hour!”
“It’s fine. He’ll turn up,” Zayn says dismissively, squinting his eyes as he dabs white paint onto the corner of the canvas.
What the actual fuck?
“And if he doesn’t?” Louis inquires, shrill, and even Niall looks up from the piano at this point.
“What’s wrong?” he asks, not breaking his stride, eyebrows just knitting together above his glossy reddened eyes.
“Nothing,” Louis mumbles, flushing slightly. And Louis never flushes. “I just—“
“You’re worried about him, are you?” Zayn asks, and he straightens as he stares at Louis with the barest hint of a smile.
“I’ve no reason to worry nor care about his well being, Zayn. I just find it odd that you don’t. Aren’t you supposed to be his best mates? Can’t you at least try to call him?”
Liam merely shrugs. “He turns off his phone. That is, if he brings it at all.”
Oh wow.
Louis just stares.
“He’s done this as long as I’ve known him,” Liam continues. “He’ll be fine, Lou.” He ends the sentence with a polite smile, and gets up from his chair before striding over to Louis and taking the seat beside him. With polished teeth he tilts his head as he admires him, sliding his hands around his arm. “Now. What should we do today?”
And Louis is sufficiently uncomfortable enough by the topic at hand that he allows the blatant subject change, and lays his prickling curiosity, and maybe concern, to rest.
“I should study,” he mumbles, and the sound of several piano keys being smashed suddenly mars the peace of the room.
Three heads turn to Niall who now has his head in his hands in what is quite possibly the most dramatic pose on earth.
“Tell me we are not going to do homework today,” he warns gruffly, palms pressed into his eyes.
Liam turns to Louis for an answer.
“Niall, you lazy sod, I swear to god I’ll—“ Louis begins with a biting glare, before he’s almost immediately cut off by Zayn saying:
“Louis. Come here a moment, will you?”
Louis blinks, mouth still posed open in preparation to hurl further insult and warning to Niall, before turning to face Zayn who is now standing in front of the canvas, arms folded in contemplation with his hip jutting to the side as he surveys his work. His eyes flick to Louis momentarily.
Louis nods and complies, throwing one last glare in Niall’s direction, who is now playing piano again, his soft pink cheeks seemingly suppressing a smile.
“I want your opinion," Zayn mutters silkily.
Curiously, Louis joins him at his side where he wraps a close arm around Louis’ shoulders, pulling him tighter to his side as he stares intently at the painting before them, smelling of cigarette smoke, aftershave, and acrylics.
“Tell me what you think.”
Louis stares at the work before him.
Zayn’s painting? It’s gorgeous. That’s the best word for it.
Large thick crimson, blood orange, and burnt yellow flames lick at a smooth night sky, engulfing soft bending willows that cluster the frame in chunky brushstrokes. Streams of fire twist amongst the congealed bark and the brilliant green leaves, half-shaded in shadowy night tones, of branches that grasp at tiny, twinkling stars flicked onto the canvas. Amongst the fiery willows sits a twisted thorn bed, their glimmering stems painted in thick ebonies, spikes illuminated in grays and dark greens.
The swoops of the thorn branches are deep and dark, curling around each other like hair.
Like deep, chocolate mousse, curly hair.
And the green of the leaves reflects the simultaneous depth and one-dimension of a certain pair of green eyes…
And fuck. What is wrong with him? It’s a fucking painting, nothing more.
“It’s incredible, Zayn,” Louis utters, deeply impressed.
“It’s inspired by you,” he half-smiles, hand squeezing his shoulder.
Louis looks to Zayn, then back at the painting. “Me? Zayn, this is, quite literally, a pit of fire. That’s engulfing the world. What are you trying to say?”
Zayn smiles wider at that, studying Louis’ face with something akin to smug satisfaction, before returning his gaze back to his creation.
“You’ve got that fiery spirit,” is all he says.
And fuck.
So it’s a painting about himself but it reminds him of Harry.
So there’s that.
Harry.
Harry who is missing. Who is missing while his friends don’t seem to mind one bit. Harry.
Harry whose curls are like those thick, treacherous thorns that cut you upon impact. Whose eyes are like those shadowy green leaves that reach to strangle the stars.
Harry.
“So you really don’t know where he is?” Louis finds himself asking suddenly, breaking the calm silence of the room. Louis never says his name, but Zayn, apparently, doesn't need to hear it. He just knows.
He looks to Louis, smile barely visible, and shrugs. “He’s smarter than you give him credit for.”
“No, he’s not,” Louis grumbles.
“Why do you keep asking?” Liam inquires then suddenly, apparently listening from across the room. His eyes hold no accusation, just curiosity.
Louis shifts, averting his gaze. He is entirely uncomfortable. “Just cuz…you’d think you lot would be worried, is all.”
“Trust me, if we spent our time worrying about Harold, we’d never make it out the day alive,” Zayn chuckles lightly, and releases Louis from his grip. “I’m going to submit this for a charity my father’s hosting,” he immediately segues as he picks up a cloth and wipes his hands with it. The paints begin to slide off his caramely skin, blending together on the dull fabric.
“You’re getting rid of it?” Louis asks, surprised.
Zayn nods. “It’s why I made it.”
“It’s perfect, isn’t it?” Liam coos, walking over to Zayn and wrapping arms around his waist. “You’re so talented, love,” he simpers into Zayn’s neck, eyes closed and blissful as he grasps Zayn like a life raft.
Zayn beams and kisses the palm of his hand.
Louis and Niall, who has just risen from the piano with an enormous yawn, both roll their eyes.
“Sweet Jesus,” Niall says with a shake of his head, sliding his manicured hands into his pockets as he turns to walk around the room, far away from the spectacle.
“They’re sickening, aren’t they, Ireland?” Louis asks, arms crossed as he stares in open disgust.
“I’m so glad we’re not fucking.”
Louis scoffs. “Oh, please. You wish you had this.” And he pops his hip and sends the boy a wink.
Niall cackles.
“All right then, lads,” Liam suddenly says, disengaging himself from his cuddle session. “Lunch, yeah?”
“And then the library?” Niall asks with dread.
“And then the library,” Liam confirms, and maybe Louis groans, too.
“You need to study for your class,” Zayn reminds him, but Louis flicks his hand in dismissal.
“I’ve already come to terms with my shortcomings, Zayn dearest. I’ll never pass.”
“But you have to pass!” Liam says, eyes wide.
“If this is the agenda for the day, then I’m out,” Niall then interrupts with barely withheld disgust, backing towards the door.
“You’ve got homework as well, you child. Stop acting like the queen of the day,” Louis scolds, glaring.
“I don’t do homework. That’s what assistants are for.”
“What?? You have RORY do your homework?” Louis asks in disbelief, before the light bulb suddenly clicks and his wheels begin slowly turning. He narrows his eyes in suspicious inquiry. “I don’t suppose he’d do mine?” he asks in a low tone out the side of his mouth, eyebrow raised.
“Of course he would!” Niall says delightedly, hopping immediately up out of the throne he’d just sat in. All of Zayn’s chairs look like thrones. It’s sort of impeccable, Louis thinks.
Liam smiles widely at this, turning expectantly to Louis with eyes that clearly ask, ‘Well, then?’
“In that case—“ Louis starts, but is promptly cut off by Zayn who is now brushing a smear of black paint off of his cheek with the back of his dirty, paintbrush-holding hand.
“Louis does his own homework, don’t you, Louis?” Zayn smiles, and there’s just a hint of encouraging pride beneath the surface of his calm features and steady eyes.
“Erm.”
“He’s smart, our Louis,” Zayn finishes, and with a respectful nod in Louis’ direction, he returns his attention back to wiping his hands clean.
Louis sighs. “Yeah. Yeah, what he said.” And his tone is unconvincing but at least he’s forced the words out.
Niall deflates. “Fuckin’ great. Stuck at the wanking library all day.”
“It could be fun,” Liam suggests, adjusting his cufflinks.
“Not if he ends up failing and it all goes to waste,” Niall grumbles, pouting.
“Niall!” Liam scolds, and Zayn laughs.
“I’m not going to fail,” Louis says hotly. “I’ll figure something out. But for now, let’s focus on Zayn putting on something proper so we can EAT.”
“I’m so fucking starving,” Niall adds as he pokes at an unidentifiable sculpture that resembles melted chocolate.
Zayn nods, eyes on Louis. “I’ll be right out. Liam?”
And with one last look at Louis—which holds far too much unexplained secrecy and mischief for
Louis’ liking—Zayn exits into his rooms, Liam close behind.
As Louis watches them part, Niall sighs. “Today’s shite. I should’ve stayed home and smoked.”
“You’re absolutely not leaving me. You’ve already ditched me once in the past twenty-four hours.”
“But you like them! You don’t need me here.”
“I like you, too. So stay, and stop acting like a peasant.”
Niall’s smile slowly creeps onto his face. “You like me?”
Louis shifts, flicking his hair out of his eyes. “You’ll never be able to prove I said that. Now hush and discuss lunch options with me.”
And just like that, Louis forgets about Harry Styles and all the worries in his world, and instead focuses on Niall’s lilting commentary on food and the way his pearly teeth glint under mood lighting. And Louis thinks that, maybe, disengaging himself from Harry Styles’ existence won’t be so hard after all.
**
The rest of the weekend and the next couple of days pass as they always do in Louis Version 2.0’s life.
The boys stroll around and bicker throughout the day, sampling the best of everything and flouting hedonism in every possible manner. It’s lovely, really.
On Sunday they attend some posh dinner party, hosted by a man with too many teeth and greased hair, filled with faces Louis can’t even pretend to place. And he feels out of his element, but he laughs with Niall who chats up every living, breathing thing there, gets the gossip on everyone from a slyly whispering Liam at his side, and exchanges mischievous glances with Zayn who watches in great amusement as Louis slips cubes of cheeses into various guests’ unsuspecting drinks when their eyes are averted elsewhere.
On Monday night, after three studious hours in the library (in which Niall spends his time texting and blaring Poison’s “Every Rose Has Its Thorns” at full volume on his over-sized headphones, much to the distraction of every soul on the planet) Liam proposes that they treat themselves to a quiet party at Edward’s summer home. It turns out to be a ridiculous affair though, with strippers and ice cream trucks and fancy dress, and Louis mostly remembers laughing a lot while consuming copious amounts of “Pink Juice” which tastes like candy and stings like battery acid, and firmly ignores every other person’s inquiry of “Where’s Harold at, then?” because who is Harry Styles? Louis doesn’t remember because he’s not been thinking about him and he’s not concerned for him and he’s not acknowledging the fact that school’s started for the week and Harry is still MIA, missing his courses and all.
Nope, he ignores everything, and so Louis bounces around with Liam and gets tackled by Niall until they’re falling into a group of girls dressed as slutty rabbits, and Zayn pulls them up one by one, passing them cigarettes and wine glasses as he smooths his jacket.
And then they leave early, donning every prop they could get their hands on, and stroll the abandoned streets in the night with bottles of wine. Niall's wrapped in a velvet cape and insists on being referred to as ‘Draco Malfoy'--though he repeatedly forgets as much, oblivious when the boys keep calling him to get his attentions: “Draco!” Nothing. “DRACO.” Nothing. “NIALL!” “Huh?”. Zayn is wearing a king’s crown (at Louis’s insistence), gold and encrusted with jewels
while Liam wears a black, glittery mask that keeps falling off his giggling face. And then there's Louis, bedecked in a large curly afro complete with a comb, a staff, and a Jedi robe.
Too many photos are taken, too much wine is guzzled, and it’s all very ridiculous but Louis can’t seem to care as he strides under the murky night sky, laughing. Not when he needs distractions such as these, and not when he sings “Phantom of the Opera” at the top of his lungs while he swings from lampposts, mussing the words because he has no fucking clue what they actually are. The night, overall, is a success.
And then Tuesday comes around.
And it’s a quiet day.
Louis attends his courses, ears picking up on the random bits of gossip he hears, especially every time Harry’s name is mentioned, in some slight and distant hope to obtain any form of information as to his whereabouts, since Zayn and Liam only repeat the mantra of: “He’ll be fine, he always comes back.”
At one point, a group of beautiful girls in McQueen scarves gab animatedly about their previous nights’ exploits with Harry (which is utter bullshit, since Louis has, possibly, meandered around Harry’s rooms and has never once seen the light on, the curtains remaining untouched and the shadows within settled and unchanging) and Louis resists the urge to shove their purses over their heads. Because, really.
But other than that, it’s a fairly peaceful day, enough to even sate Louis’ frustration at once again near-failing his assignment for that bloody course that he hates so fucking much.
So, when Louis comes home from lecture and opens the door to Niall atop a full set of fucking drums in the middle of their living room, he is rather taken aback.
“What the living fuck is happening?” he deadpans before he even shuts the door, standing in horror and taking in the display, Niall’s hand poised just above a cymbal, ready to crash down.
And “CCCCHHHHHH!” there it goes, the metal clanging and reverberating within their notsoundproof flat, and Louis drops his bag to stuff his hands over his hears.
“WHAT THE BLOODY HELL?!” he shouts, but Niall only grins before stilling the cymbal between his thumb and forefinger.
“I got a drumset,” he says proudly by way of explanation, sat back on his stool like a little boy on his first day of school, grin wide and a little smug. His pristine tracksuit puts Louis’ own t-shirt and jeans to shame oddly enough, and his impeccable cologne (which Louis frequently steals even though Niall gives him bottles constantly) fills the room.
“I see that. And no, you’re not keeping it,” is all Louis says as he shuts the door, kicking off his shoes.
“I have to, ya' see. Me dad wants me to play back-up drums on Des Styles’ new track.”
Which makes Louis freeze.
“Des Styles? He’s got a new track, then? He’s doing all right?”
“Oh, yeah! Yeah, father called this morning. Des is doing another collaboration with Nick Grimshaw, and he’s so goddamn excited cuz they asked him to produce it. Last time they did a track, Des insisted he was going to do the producing himself. Father was fuckin’ furious.”
Louis nods slowly. “Who’s Nick Grimshaw?”
“That bloke who sings for that one band—what is it? Electrolytes?”
“Electra,” Louis corrects, and he’s almost impressed. “I actually quite like a few of their songs.” Their energetic, fancy grooves often fill the darkness of the seedy clubs Louis loves to attend, and he finds they go excellently with cosmopolitans.
“Yeah, that’s it. He’s camp as hell and he’s an even better time. You’d like him.”
Louis rolls his eyes. “Nice. So Des is doing well, then?” And Louis can’t explain why he needs to know so much about Des Styles and how he relates to Harry lately, but he needs to ask. So he grabs himself a bottle of water and clomps onto one of the velvet armchairs near Niall who is now twirling his drumsticks in his hands.
“Erm…” Niall begins, and ceases his twirling, instead focusing on a chip that’s developed on the tip of one. “I don’t think so. I guess he’s trashed the studio twice already.”
Louis almost spits out his water. “Sorry? He trashed the fucking studio?? Did he get arrested?”
“Nah. Friends in high places and all that.” Niall sets down the drumsticks, turning to Louis, face even, cheeks rosy. “He’s had to have security called a couple times though. He’s pretty violent.”
“Oh.” Louis swallows, feeling a bit sick.
“Brilliant, though. Dad says his new track’s sick. But… Well. I guess he’s relapsed again, so.” Niall shrugs, then gets up and marches to their makeshift bar on the other side of the room, pouring himself a glass of whiskey.
“Is it, like, alcohol or…like, heroin or something?”
“Eh, if the rumors are true, then both I guess? I dunno, I know he had a problem with coke. And I’ve seen him smoke crack myself, so…” Niall clears his throat, downing the dregs of his whiskey. “It’s a bit fucked, to be honest.”
“Is he dangerous?” Louis asks, watching Niall closely.
“I dunno. I guess maybe?”
“Then why the fuck is he allowed to live with Harry?” Louis immediately clips, standing up and feeling his veins fill with indignation. Because, yeah, Louis would probably turn into a raging piece of shit as well if he had to live with the likes of Des Styles, legendary status be damned.
“Look, Louis, I don’t know,” Niall sighs. “All I know is that I get to do the drums for his track, and if Nick Grimshaw chose to work with him, then he can’t be all that fucked, right?”
No. No, that doesn’t make sense at all.
But Louis really doesn’t feel like arguing and his head is on the verge of swimming, so he just shrugs and sits back down.
“I miss when I had no friends and was destined to die alone,” he mumbles.
Niall chuckles. “You’re so dramatic.”
Louis shoots him a glare.
“Well, I’ve got to go the studio now,” Niall says, hopping over the couch and heading towards his room. “Gotta work with father on some stuff. I’ll be back in a couple hours.”
“Ooh, look at you. Mr. Fancy Producer in the making,” Louis teases.
Niall winks as he emerges from his room wearing a snapback and a large jumper, gray sweatpants poking out from beneath. “What can I say? I’m well bred!” he mocks, and hops over to Louis so he can wrestle him into a headlock.
“My hair!” Louis squawks as he shoves him away, but Niall merely laughs before bounding to the door.
“I’ll see you later. Stay out of trouble. Text if you need anything, or text Rory.”
“Will do, Ireland. Bang those drums for me.”
And then the door closes.
Really, Louis should work on his homework, especially for that damn course that will probably fail him and all his hard work for this term.
But then again, it’s a lovely night, and Louis could stand for some good fresh, evening air, and so without another thought he grabs his iPod and slides out the door, needing to calm his grating mind.
**
The walk was wonderful. The sun was fading, the chatter in the streets was muted, and the lights began to flick on and twinkle all around him. Pubs, shops, and the walls of the school were all painted in evening blues, and the smell of summer was still just barely lingering amidst cool breezes.
And Louis was finally, finally feeling better, his head clearing of anxiety and over-thinking, and was just on his way back when the ludicrous thought that he should take the long way home occurred to him. And though he knew exactly what he was doing, he didn’t allow himself to over think it.
But now, here he is.
Standing in the gardens, looking above at the row of windows of Harry’s flat. And the lights are on. And once in awhile, he’ll see the top of a curly mass of hair walking slowly to and fro. Occasionally he’ll glance an arm or a hand or the tip of a jacket being taken off.
Harry’s home.
Harry’s home and now Louis has to ignore the surging panic, curiosity, maybe-excitement, and a slew of other emotions that have engulfed him out of seemingly nowhere. Because Louis almost staggers from the emotions that are taking over his body, and he doesn’t even fucking know why. Because he hates Harry, he’s pretty sure he really does, but he can’t seem to look away as he stands amongst chrysanthemums and daisies on a cobblestone path, the tragic musk of roses settled in the air, staring up at dimly lit windows, searching for a boy who barely exists.
And he stands there until the lights flick off and the movement is no more, the moon soaking the world in calm shadow, before he can finally drag himself away.
And now all he can think about is tomorrow.
And Harry Styles.
