He barely has time to brush his teeth in silence, always finding himself answering some ridiculous question called to him from the other room or, worse yet, finding himself singing along to whatever ditty Niall’s concocted on the piano or guitar. Because now Louis’ life consists of a blonde, brash Irish lad, clad in pricey track pants and preppy sweaters, oozing money out of his every pore as he serenades Louis with chaos and leaves him whiskey chasers in the morning, weed at night.
And though he’s not his friend (nope, because Louis could never become friends with such an over-privileged cog in the machine), he’s willing to put money on the possibility that he knows everything there is to know about this usually-drunk, sometimes-stoned, gleaming ray of laughing sunshine who plays classical piano at the break of dawn and clumsily plucks out guitar solos in the darkest hours of night, sleek electronics surrounding him, consuming piles of food at every turn.
That first lunch they’d went to was a learning experience in itself.
They’d only been there for twenty-five twinkling minutes (Niall insisted on some snobbish bar where they served you bowls of water, crisp napkins, and simpering smiles when Louis just wanted some chips, maybe a bit of chicken?) and Louis already knew where Niall was born, what his father’s occupation was—a big time music producer, actually, which Louis begrudgingly finds intriguing—why his parents divorced and when, how Niall came about the decision to attend school here as opposed to Ireland, what his four favorite cheeses are (cheddar, brie, gouda, and camembert) and his favorite brand of whiskey (Macallan). He also offered Louis a cigar three times, because apparently he’s forty-five years old.
Now, Louis’ never been a quiet person. He’s never been one to sit in the back and observe, unless in a foul mood. But even his own rambunctiousness is absolutely shadowed by Niall’s, who, he is quite sure, could befriend a broomstick.
It’s horrifying, it’s annoying, and it’s….strangely fascinating.
In a “You can stop now.” kind of way.
As their afternoon continued, every other word from Niall was “fuck” or “cunt,” there was a steady flow of drinks, and story after story of seemingly exaggerated situations were told, which Niall managed to downplay in his offhanded, laissez-faire manner, continually back-and-forthing between surveying the menu, bouncing his leg as he listened to Louis’ answers, drumming his fingers on his thighs, and laughing at...well…basically everything.
It was a loud laugh.
It cut through the crystal decanters and swirled the liquor, making everything brighter and, just, more.
It was fucking exhausting.
“But what else can you expect when you attend an awards show, you know? Bunch of fat cat cunts eying your every move and whispering their shite to the big boys. I’ll tell you right now,” he continued, plucking the cigar out of his mouth as he leaned forward, wisps of dirty blonde sticking to the light sheen of sweat on his creamy forehead, “when I get into the business, I’m not going to play their games. I’ll tell you like it is. I’m not dickin' around—life’s too short for that. And I don’t respect dishonesty or cowardice.”
Physically, Niall Horan’s the spitting image of the sky.
Yet, under the ambient lighting of the luxurious restaurant on that first afternoon, with smoke pouring out of his nostrils and gleaming across the band of his Rolex, Niall’s presence possessed a strength Louis hadn’t initially felt; he was the spitting image of a pleased little dragon sitting on his mountains of gold, fiery breath curling around his smile as he licked at razor-sharp talons.
It was almost impressive.
“Those are big words, man. You seem quite…sure of yourself,” Louis settled for in response, quirking an eyebrow.
Chapter 5
Start from the beginning
