Atlas At Last

Chapter 7

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1467 (+283 Miles In the Wrong Direction) To Go

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Out of context, the sentence Jermaine? Over Michael? I don't think I can be with someone that ignorant should not have the same emotional hold over Louis as it does, but Be With are the first words to pop into Louis' mind the next morning, closely followed by who the fuck is the guy sleeping on my legs? It's hard to say which is more distressing.

For a split second, it's pure sensory overload: there's a strange boy draped across him, the air is thick with the scent of BO and beer, and the only thing he can see behind hang-over clenched eyes is Harry slumped up against the wall, the words "Be With" tumbling out of his mouth on repeat.

The strange man drools directly onto Louis' left thigh.

Louis sits up abruptly.

"Uh—" The sound dies in his throat as a steady stream of half-formed memories swim before him. Beer. Dancing. Beer. So, so much beer. Stumbling into the van at last call. Niall.

Louis stares down in bewilderment as Niall wrinkles his nose in his sleep, a picture of perfect calmness. He shakes his left leg abruptly. "You punched that dude," he says, voice hoarse.

Niall squints awake. For a long second they both just stare at each other, blinking slow and heavy.

"Lucas?" Niall finally says, voice lilting like he's unsure whether it's meant as a question or a fact. His eyes and nose are red, the perfect counterparts to his otherwise sickly, green complexion.

"...Louis?" Louis parrots back, matching Niall's tone and apprehension.

Niall frowns and his squinting eyes turn almost to slits. "Think I met your friend Lucas last night," he says. He then promptly rockets upwards, thwacking his head on the roof of the van in a misguided attempt at standing. "I'm gonna—" he mumbles behind the hand clutched flush to his mouth, and Louis springs into action, practically kneeing Harry in the neck— and Zayn in the groin— and Liam in the stomach— in his haste to throw the sliding door open.

"What the—" Harry groans, propping himself up on his elbows. Louis silently points out the door of the van where Niall is currently hunched over, hands on knees, spewing what can only be assumed to be the last five or so beers from previous night.

Harry watches, expressionless, for a moment before snuffling and looking away without a word. He takes one look at the scene around him— people upon people surrounding him on all sides— and pushes Liam's shoulder off his hip with a discontented grunt. Liam rolls right on back. "Liam!" he hisses, all frizzy curls and sleep-pink skin. "Fucking move."

And Louis' head hurts and his eyes feel sort of sticky and dry, but he snorts all the same when Harry makes direct eye contact and frowns— pouts— as if this were somehow all Louis' fault. "Coffee?" he offers, because at least they're in something that resembles a city this morning, and a stupid hangover doesn't make him want to take care of Harry any less.

"Yes, please" Harry mutters, and Louis almost finds it in himself to beam because Harry doesn't say please or thank you to anyone in the morning.

When the dulcet tones of puke on pavement seem to have at least temporarily halted, Louis takes the opportunity to call out, "Yo— you still in or what?" because many of the events of last night are a little bit blurry and a lot whole foggy, but if there's one that certainly stands out, it's that of their new friend/total stranger, Niall Last Name Unknown, wailing on some dude in honor of the two gay boys he'd known for all of an hour.