Drink to Remember, Smoke to Forget

7: Guests of Honor

Louis was late for dinner, that much he knew. That much was all he knew. Despite his best efforts, no matter how hard he tried and tried again to strain his brain into understanding or comprehending the situation at hand, he absolutely could not. There was no conceivable explanation Louis could accept or wrap his head around without thinking he deserved to be in a psychiatric ward for doing so. And he wouldn't blame anyone if they did decide to put him in there. Hell, he would probably fasten his own straight jacket if it were physically possible.

But no matter how mind-numbingly insane his situation was, it did not stop Louis from developing a few of his own theories. He was a historian, after all. The act of over-analyzing evidence and research was in his hardwiring. No matter how mad he knew, he sounded.

His first theory was the sanest of the bunch, though he used the word "sane" lightly, considering that it still made Louis weak in the knees just thinking about it.

For one, for all Louis and Harry knew, everything could have been a mere figment of their imagination, a vivid dream played out in the minds of the unconscious state. They could very well have been laying in some sterile hospital room at Mass General hospital, while their family wept over their lightning stricken bodies. To Louis' benefit, it did make relative sense—"relative," once again a word used lightly by Louis—considering all the facts. On the night of the fourth, both Louis and Harry were struck by lightning, a feat only a rare few walk away from with ease. But they did, notwithstanding a cut or two on Harry's part. But how? That was the question. And Louis' answer for the time being: coma.

His other theories included such things as wandering onto the location of an extremely dedicated and exclusive historical reenactment fair, or being the victim of some kind of elaborate and well funded practical joke, or simply that the world somehow turned upside down while they were unconscious.

And though it went entirely against his personal beliefs, religious or otherwise, the last of the three, surprisingly, had the most evidence to support it. Everything felt backward, everything. From Mr. Abrahams' manor to the people he had met, to how people spoke, to the feel of the bed he failed to sleep on, to the smell of the air, to even Harry Styles himself.

Back at the museum, it was a fact known by everyone that "on time" was not in Harry's vocabulary. And it was no matter of exaggeration. Nearly every day for three years, Louis had watched Harry trudge into the staff break room, coffee in hand, to clock in at ten a.m. A whole two hours after the museum had opened its gate for the public.

And his tardiness did not even stop at that. He was even late for the coveted staff breakfasts held every Thursday morning, an event that even those like Brad and his posse came early for. And by the time Harry usually graced everyone with his presence, there were usually only a few soggy pieces of cantaloupe, and a half-eaten donut or bagel left. Not even any coffee left for him to hide in his historically-accurate mug, a gift from the potters that every employee was given during their training.

Thus, never in a million years did Louis ever believe he would see the day that Harry Styles was more on time than he. But there he was sitting at Mr. Abrahams' table as clear as day, slumped in his chair and wagging his finger disapprovingly in Louis' direction.

Despite his surprise, uncharacteristic punctuality, Louis could almost commend Harry for being so consistent, especially considering all that had happened within the last twenty-four hours. However, deep down inside, he was still Harry Styles, and he certainly did not need to be commended for that. And even if Louis did, he knew it would just go straight to Harry's head. And that was something Louis did not need to deal with on top of everything else.