He doesn't know what he had been expecting out of the road trip itself besides burping contests and too much shitty gas station food with Oli and Stan, but in the brief moment before Harry ambles up his driveway, Louis idly wonders if this is about...
I don't think I can even begin to describe how proud I am of this fic. Thank you to youwilll for being the best beta ever and literally saving this fic from google docs hell, to Becky and Kristin and Lee for being there since day 1 and reading snippets and listening to me complain about writing, and a HUGE thank you to youngandmadeof for the BEAUTIFUL artwork for this story! Please follow her on twitter and instagram!
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Atlas At Last
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"Hey, Lou?"
He's in the back of the shop pretending to sort new shipment, in reality smoking and eating M&Ms, when he hears Julian calling from upfront. He pauses for half a second, the best form of acknowledgment he can muster, and then promptly returns to picking out only the reds and the blues, a smoldering joint hanging precariously from his teeth.
"Lou!"
He plops two reds and a blue in his mouth. He wonders if it's just him or if they really do taste like purple.
"Lou! Fucking Christ, come here! I've got someone I want you to meet!"
Louis kicks his heels twice against the metal cabinet he's sitting on, the aluminum ringing out dully, and contemplates crawling out the back window.
He doesn't hate working at the shop. He really doesn't. He just hates that Oli and Stan fucking off to college at the last second means that he's working here. Still. A direct contradiction to where he'd assumed his entire life had been heading up until three damn days ago.
The maroon curtain separating the front from the back of the record shop is thrown open, an exasperated Julian glaring through.
"Now."
So Louis heaves a long-suffering sigh, combs back his fringe, and hops down, resigned. Julian watches with knowing, not quite irritated eyes when he flicks the ash from the joint to the floor.
"And clean that up, dick."
Louis just flashes him a toothy grin and steps right over it.
When he pushes through the curtain, there's a mile's worth of legs and a mess of curls about six steps from styled leaning up against the counter. Louis stops, joint dangling from his fingers
"Louis, this is Harry. Harry, this is that dipshit I was telling you about."
A snatch of eyes peek out from beneath the shag of hair, cherry lips wrapped tight around a sucker. Thumb and forefinger come up to pinch the stick, and the candy slips out with a slick pop.
ABBA of all things comes swimming out of the shop's speakers.
And for a split second Louis thinks, really and truly, wildly believes, that he is in the middle of a cruelly realistic wet dream, that the shaggy haired, candy sucking boy before him is a figment of his over-sexed, nineteen year old mind and that he's about to wake up to sticky sheets and another day of boredom.
