He’s fucking Irish.
Irish. And loud. And brash, enthusiastic, wealthier than the seven seas, and very, very Irish.
Is that robust little accent going to get old? Probably. Because Louis never claimed to be anything but judgmental, and the volume that this rosy-cheeked ball of energy procures is horrendous, borderline criminal.
“I’m Niall, Niall Horan,” he booms immediately upon entry, clapping a strong hand in Louis’ own. Swarms of men enter the flat, carrying suitcase after suitcase after neatly packed boxes. Because, apparently, new flatmate has brought a department store with him. “Nice to meet you, mate. I suppose we’ll be seeing each other quite a bit from here on out,” he continues seamlessly with a tone Louis can only describe as jolly—much to his horror.The boy’s face is set in a permanent grin, always seemingly on the verge of laughter, and haloed in golden hair. The brightness of his celestial blue eyes is almost endearing, matching his enthusiasm perfectly.
But Louis really doesn’t care because he’s already decided that he hates this loud, overwhelming person who has completely destroyed Louis Time and stepped on his wings. Quite a bit.
(Not to mention his style is atrocious. He practically has an army of servants and yet he chooses to wear a Ninja Turtles t-shirt? Nothing clashes more with Guilty by Gucci.)
“Well. Not necessarily,” Louis replies without ceremony, withdrawing his hand almost immediately upon contact, folding it into his crossed arms. He stands tall, keeping level eyes. Louis is very good at keeping level eyes.
Niall (which is an ugly name, Louis decides) tilts his head, puzzled, eyes clear of any insult, hands resting on his hips in dominant casualty. “How do you mean?”
Louis sniffs breezily, sidling away. “No matter. I’ll just leave you to your unpacking. I’m going to fetch some lunch.” He makes for his wallet and is just about there, when a pasty hand settles on his arm.
Splendid.
“Can I help you?” Louis bites, not even bothering to filter his distaste while meeting the easy blue eyes before him.
But Niall, apparently unaware of how to interpret behavioral cues, merely grins and replies with, “I’ll have my assistant unpack”—assistant??—“and I’ll join you. It’s on me.”
Louis crosses his arms once more. “That’s sweet of you. Really, love. But I can pay for myself,
thanks.”
“Of course you can! Doesn’t change that I’m offering. Come on, I think the driver’s still outside. Thank mates,” the boy adds, casually sliding notes into the men’s hands as they bring in the last of Niall’s belongings.
The driver’s still outside? Louis is definitely not going to be able to handle this world.
“As much as I love a good chauffeur, I prefer walking. So—“
“Excellent! I could use the fresh air after being stuck in that fuckin’ car all day. I can’t stand all that sitting. It’s so goddamn boring.”
And before Louis knows quite what’s happening, he’s being ushered down the street and talked at vivaciously, almost abrasively enthusiastically. (Is there such a thing? Louis would have said no five minutes ago.)
No. Louis is definitely not going to be able to handle this at all.
*
Niall Horan doesn’t stop talking for two days.
His voice carries through the suite, filling in the spaces and settling in the floorboards, and Louis can’t imagine how he ever felt lonely because what is lonely when there’s Niall Horan?
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.
Niall just shrugged, stubbed out his cigar, and set clear eyes on him. “Why not be?” he replied simply, smile grand.
And Louis couldn’t find an answer.
He’d wanted to leave it there, bar any forms of further conversation (because yes, Louis had decided to hate this person, baby face or no) but his pesky curiosity got the better of him, as is custom, and so he found himself asking instead:
“So what are you studying to be, then?”
“Producer. Like my father,” was the immediate reply.
“A fan of music, then?”
“Love it. Can’t get enough of it.” A swig of whiskey. The ice tinkled against the glass.
Louis nodded slowly, watching. “How charming. Seems you’re on the right path then, boy-o.”
He nodded, smirking slightly. “Of course. And what about you?”
“Little ol’ me?” Louis teased, leaning back in his chair and stretching out his arms. He sighed,
bringing a hand to his artfully disheveled hair. “Oh, I don’t know. Drama, I suppose.”
“Acting?”
“I’ll let you know. Until then, I request no questions, please,” Louis sniffed, taking a sip of his whiskey sour (which was shit, by the way—he hasn’t let Niall order his drinks for him since) as he felt Niall’s eyes observing him.
“You artsy types are…something else.”His voice was amused rather than irate.
“Dramatic?” Louis supplied, grin impish.
“Very dramatic. Now let’s eat. I’m fuckin' starving and want to get back before the piano comes.”
Louis stared.
“Before the piano comes? Are you being funny? You’re bringing a fucking piano? To our flat?”
“Don’t worry, it’ll fit. We measured.”
Louis almost pressed the matter because, honestly, he thought size was the issue? But instead, he let it go, unfolding the napkin onto his lap and muttering, “A piano. Honestly? Didn’t realize I was living with the queen.”
Niall grinned, shot back an, “I could say the same.”
And Louis, lips pursed, concluded with a “Rude.”
Then the server arrived, Niall ordered enough food for the kitchen staff, and, after an intense inner battle between Louis and his inner pride (he will not have rich strangers taking care of him as if he were a charity case, no sir-ee), he ordered the exact same for Louis. Much to his mortification. (“Are you saying I’m fat? Why the fuck would I be able to eat that much?” *shrug* “I can eat that much.” “That’s a bloody lie, nobody can eat that much.”)
(Note: Niall was not, in fact, lying. Niall can eat that much. He even finished Louis’.)
It was an intense meet and greet, one that left Louis more weary than anything, but as Niall poured the drinks and laughed at all of Louis’ jokes, he felt that, maybe, he’d dealt with worse.
That is, until the piano came.
*
When they returned to their flat—and looking back on it, Louis kicks himself for not contesting the whole thing—Niall immediately made a few inquiring calls as to the whereabouts of said piano while Louis made a beeline for his room. Because sweet solitude was the only thing on Louis’ mind after that whirlwind luncheon from almost-hell.
It was just as he was humming his favorite Disney song and staring at the tall cream, molded ceiling of his room in a blissful zone (he really needed to start purchasing some decorations) that Louis heard the unmistakable chaos of a fucking piano being brought through the fucking door.
Careful to stay away from the debacle (but unable to resist from peering at the moving men’s bums through the crack of his door) Louis burrowed within the layers of blanket on his bed, hiding from his reality as any sane man would.
Eventually the clangs and the bangs died down, as did Niall’s joyously barked orders which were
Eventually the clangs and the bangs died down, as did Niall’s joyously barked orders which were peppered with laughter and loudly-clapped handshakes (Is there anybody he doesn’t get along with? His joviality is disturbing) and Louis almost began to lull himself into a sense of normalcy, when the tinkling thunder of keys began reigning down on his peaceful solitude.
And that’s how Louis’ room no longer became a safe haven away from Niall Horan’s existence.
It was the exasperation of the situation that prompted Louis to stand before Niall—who was now effortlessly playing a faintly familiar piece that was both bold and gorgeous. In that moment, Louis marveled, just a bit, at the boy before him as he explained to Louis how simple the piano was, how freely it came to the fingers. All the while dressed in an oversized tank top and gray sweatpants, flatbill on backwards. Classy.
“It’s obviously not that easy to play, otherwise everyone would be at it,” Louis reasoned, and he might have rolled his eyes. With gusto.
“It really is. ‘S just not as fun as guitar.”
And Louis distinctly remembers thinking, ‘Oh, great. He plays guitar, too. Fucking excellent.’
“I can teach you if you like?” Niall continued, eying Louis eying him.
Louis scoffed at the time, causing Niall to smile and follow up with a conclusive, “I’ll teach you.”
He wanted to complain but he didn’t, instead watched Niall’s hands flit across the keys.
“They make you learn shit like this,” he explained as Louis stared, arms folded, refusing to be impressed. “Your parents and that. It’s all part of the show.”
“Good breeding,” Louis muttered with light disdain.
“Aye, good breeding,” Niall laughed, eyes never leaving the instrument before him. “I bested Beethoven before secondary school.”
“Of course you did. You’re a show off.” And Louis mildly wondered if the boy would take insult, but Niall merely laughed.
“It’s easy, I’m telling you.”
And so Louis watched him (and he now realizes it’s the only time Niall is ever silent—when he plays an instrument) before suddenly asking, “Why did you stop?” And exactly when Louis started to care about Niall Horan’s life, he doesn’t know.
A shrug accompanied an “I liked guitar better.” And that was that.
After awhile, Niall was back to singing some unidentified 80’s song as he rummaged through kitchen cabinets and lamented the lack of groceries.
So Louis had tried to get away.
“I’m going for a walk,” he said smoothly, slipping into his shoes and itching to hear his own thoughts again.
“I’ll go with you!”
And fuck.
“Actually—shit—I just remembered I need to e-mail some mates back home“--e-mail still exists,
right?—“so I think I’ll just stay back after all.”
With a shrug, Niall made some parting pleasantries before dismissing himself anyway. Which is one good thing about the lad—he has a strong mind and he does what he wants, accompanied by others or not. (But that’s the only good thing.)
Louis was so grateful for the unexpected peace that he almost actually kissed the floors. All right. He might have actually done it, shame be gone.
But, as the time passed, instead of soaking up the much-needed Louis Time as was planned…he found himself to be bored. Very bored.
It was with horror that Louis began suspecting that, within the few short hours he had known Niall Horan, he had almost begun to enjoy the lad’s conversation. He was, after all, a people person, Irish socialites or not.
But this socialite was an over-indulged child with a penchant for cigars, golf, beer and whiskey, and guitar. Oh, and piano. Let’s not forget that piano. And it was that damn piano that so intrigued Louis. That led him to sit down almost cautiously on the bench in the still apartment and pluck the keys with a tentative curiosity that is normally quite foreign to Louis Tomlinson.
It was when Louis was just beginning to feel comfortable with that intimidating ebony beast that Niall happened to return.
“You’re playing!” he announced happily upon entry, toeing off his shoes and clomping toward Louis, who shot out off the bench like a spring.
“I’m not. I fell onto it. Obviously.” Louis scowled for good measure.
But Niall brushed the sentence aside, taking a seat at the bench, cologne and sweat invading Louis’ firm bubble of personal space. “Sit down. I’ll teach you.”
Instinctively, Louis wanted to protest. But as he once again heard the flicker of colored notes fill the space of their elaborately overcompensating flat, Louis took his seat beside Niall, and reasoned that he could always deny this incident later.
And that was how Niall gave Louis his first piano lesson. Sort of.
After a lot of repetition, gibberish, and flustered mistakes, Louis huffed with a, “This is so much harder than it looks,” and pushed himself away from the keys, crossing his arms in stubborn protest.
“Not really,” Niall replied with all the ease of one who’s been trained since birth.
Louis glared. “Well of course you’d say that! You’ve been playing since you were a fetus.”
“I’m fairly certain there was no piano in my mother’s womb.”
“Oh? You didn’t have one delivered?”
Niall burst into laughter.
And since that very first day of getting-to-know-you’s and sensory overloads, it’s been a continuous trial of Louis’ patience vs. Niall’s vivacity.
And two straight days of Niall Horan’s voice.
So, naturally, Louis isn’t thrilled to be woken up again this morning for the second day in a row by pretty little tinkling notes jutting merrily through a room that possesses far too much darkness to be called “morning.”
“You play wonderfully,” Louis fake-grins with sharp teeth, hair mussed, as he stands in his pajamas, voice gravelly from too-little sleep, glaring down at an oblivious Irishman.
“Thanks, mate!” Niall beams as his fingers dance along the keys, his frame adorned in a fucking bathrobe. Where does this boy shop?
“Have you quite finished?”
“Not quite yet—one more movement!”
And is he fucking serious?
The boy’s eyes gleam, clearly unfazed; or, perhaps, merely uncomprehending the gravity of Louis’ agitation. Which is not something Louis takes to lightly. He immediately presses his hands down upon Niall’s, stilling them, locking his gaze within his own.
“Niall. Mate. Stop. Playing. The. Piano.” Louis waits until a flicker of understanding brightens into life behind the lit eyes before him.
It dawns. “Oh.” And he takes his hands away.
Nodding with finality and feeling very much in love with the sound of silence, Louis straightens and turns to leave, eagerly awaiting a reunion with his plush bed and mountain of blankets.
Until:
“Do you want to get breakfast?”
Louis breathes a long, suffering sigh. “Niall—“
“We’ll walk, since the sun’s out.”
“I’m not walking this early, I’m exhausted! First you wake me up with that screeching hunk of driftwood, and NOW you’re—“
“My treat!”
“…”
“Well?”
“Where do you propose?” Louis sniffs, refusing to relent just yet as he stands with his arms folded, gaze firmly averted in obvious displeasure.
“That café on the corner. The one you saw last night—with the glitter balls.”
“Those weren’t glitter balls. They were mood lighting.”
“Glitter balls. So, how about it?”
Louis inspects Niall’s face, eyes narrowed. Sleep tugs at his eyelids. And yet…
“… I can get whatever I want?”
“Of course!”
“I’ll be ready in ten,” Louis sing-songs.
Because pride be damned, if these rich kids are going to throw away their money, they might as well throw it away on him.
*
The day continues as the past two have: Louis attempts to drown out his surroundings with every conceivable distraction available (phone, iPod, TV, sleep) but every single time he’s found a piece of Louis Time, there’s a knock at his door, a jarring burst of laughter, an invitation to play FIFA, or an electric guitar sizzling through the calm air.
This is just not going to work.
“Wanna smoke, mate?” Niall suddenly calls, just as Louis is debating the contrasting appeals of gold curtains versus purple.
Louis grits his teeth.
“Must you call for me every ten minutes? You really are a child, aren’t you?”
“Is that a yes?”
Fuck it all to hell.
Exasperated, Louis considers the offer momentarily (he could use a good smoke right now) before it suddenly dawns on him:
Term starts tomorrow.
Tomorrow!
And he hasn’t even assembled his notebooks! Not that he’s ever done that in his life.
But this is a proper school and he’s got to have his head on straight this round. He’s weighed the pros and cons of his situation, and as much as he wants to piss his father’s money away, he has an obligation to his sisters and his mum—especially his sisters—not to fuck it all up. And though he may not know just what the fuck he wants to do with all of this, and though that just might terrify him, he’s going to do this right.
He needs to prepare for school.
“Niall!” he suddenly shouts, determination flowing in his veins. He steps into their living room with finality, and Niall looks up from the couch, mouth stuffed with crisps and a little baggy in his lap, surrounded by laptops. “We’re going to prepare for school tomorrow. Pack your things, we’re going to a teashop!”
*
Why the hell did Louis invite Niall?
While Louis has been organizing his folders and notebooks and checking his school e-mails studiously, Niall has been staring at the screen of his iPhone 5, occasionally stuffing a not-funny picture in Louis’ face that he’d found on Tumblr.
Murder is eminent.
“Get me a beverage will you, Louis?” Niall asks absentmindedly, flicking through his phone.
Louis’ eyes narrow. “I’m not your monkey. Get it yourself.”
“Aw, please mate?” he begs, now looking up, his hair messy and sticking out at all ends from underneath his flatbill. “I don’t know what to order at these places.”
Louis sighs with the air of great suffering. “Well, son, you can either get tea. Or coffee.”
“I don’t like either.”
“What? What do you mean you don’t like either?”
“Just what I said. Do they have gelato?”
“Gelato? What the hell? No, they don’t have gelato! Where exactly do you think we’re at?”
“Well, get me something to eat then. I’m fuckin’ starving.”
“You literally just ate!”
“I can’t help it!”
And Louis is this close to cracking that goddamn iPhone over that pineapple’s head but, as they are in public, he settles for a deep breath and a focusing of the self instead.
“Just because you have the ability to purchase a small island, it does not mean I’m going to cater to you. It’s people like you that suck the life force out of our society. And it’s people like me that need to stand up and—“
“I’ll fetch next round. Get yourself everything you want, and get me something to eat as well.”
Only because his stomach is grumbling and he has too much of a headache to continue, does Louis begrudgingly agree.
But only after: “What’s the magic word, Ireland?”
“Please,” and the word is curled into a smirk.
“So what, then? You want a water? A biscuit? Scone? Flatbread? A sense of decency?”
“Yes to everything but the decency. Buy it all.” Pause. “Please.”
Louis stares. “So you literally want anything?”
“Everything.”
“Everything. You literally want everything?”
“I trust your judgment,” Niall concludes, and he’s back to staring at his phone, laptop untouched before him, a clear signal of being done with the conversation.
Well then.
If that’s the way this is going to go.
With a smug bounce to his step, Louis marches up to the barista.
“Hello, love. I’ll take everything in the case.”
The girl stares. “Excuse me?”
“The lot—everything that you’ve got, I want. Every last crumb.” He pulls out Niall’s credit card. “Don’t worry. I tip generously.”
So when Louis finally returns to their table, several baristas in tow carrying tray upon tray of every baked treat this teashop has ever owned, he is fully expecting to be received with a temper tantrum. Or at least a filthy glare.
But what does he get?
“Oh, mate! This is awesome! Oh, this is brilliant!” the boy laughs loudly, and almost every face in the room stares on in mild curiosity. Niall claps a hand onto Louis’ back, briefly knocking the wind out of him. “You’re a good man, Tommo!”
“What did you call me?” Louis wheezes, and glares as he collects himself before sitting down.
Niall nods his thanks to the baristas—winking at several, and Louis isn’t oblivious to that Irish charm—before staring at the plethora of food before him like a kid in a candy shop. Which isn’t too far off from the reality.
“You’re supposed to be angry with me. I spent a lot of money on that,” Louis says pointedly, because fuck. Does this guy ever get mad?
“I can afford it,” Niall shrugs, before offering a scone to Louis.
He glares a full minute at the aforementioned item before finally sighing with defeat and grabbing it, picking it to pieces before popping a chunk into his mouth.
“Of course you can,” he mumbles as he chews, and Niall beams back at him.
*
They’ve only been at the tea shop for a total of two hours, but already Niall’s eaten most of the baked goods and Louis is clawing at his hair with boredom.
“Ready to go?” Niall asks for the fifth time, amusement written clear across his face.
“No! I’m preparing for my studies,” Louis sniffs, and returns to pretending to read his e-mail. It’s from a professor, it’s a standard greeting, it really shouldn’t be difficult to get through…but he hasn’t gotten past: ‘Greetings, prospective students!’
Fuck.
He’s just about to demand that Niall get him another tea, when suddenly the door to the teashop opens, and the distinct scent of wealth and tailored suits comes wafting through the humming air.
His view is blocked, but Louis’ interest is immediately sparked, a fedora and an assortment of cream colored suits barely visible through a gaggle of Topshop girls. The image of an antique car, three laughing men, and a bottle of champagne comes to mind. Louis knows, without any solid reason to believe so, that it’s them.
The room is fairly cluttered, posh kids scattered everywhere and mulling about, and as Louis cranes his neck to spot the newcomers, he manages to almost fall out of his chair.
“Oi!” Niall exclaims, immediately reaching out to steady him.
“Sorry,” Louis says hastily, eyes still trained on the lookout as he brushes Niall’s hands away. Where did the newcomers go? “Did you see who’s just come in?”
Niall blinks, looks out at the crowd with watchful eyes. “No. Why?”
“No reason.”
But Louis continues to stare, finally finding the source of his search. They have their backs to him (of course) and they’re sitting down, but Louis can already spot the hierarchy at hand. The fedoraclad one, caramel skin and slick black hair barely peeking out from beneath, sits in the middle, surrounded by doting minions. (Sad.) On his left is a smooth looking boy—Louis catches a brief glance of his profile, all mild features and sweet cream skin—who laughs politely, never leaving the fedora boy’s side. The rest all blur into one mass of eccentricity and elitism.
Well, well, well. Looks like this school’s got its very own “Mean Girls.”
“I hate rich people,” Louis finds himself muttering vehemently.
“I like you, too,” Niall immediately responds, and when he looks up, he’s grinning. “C’mon then, Louis. Let’s get back. I want to watch the game.”
“Yeah. Yeah, all right,” Louis agrees, and as he stands up and begins collecting his things, the door opens again, another waft of ‘pretentious rich boy’ wafting through the air.
He tells himself not to look—because then it seems he cares—but he can’t help but sneak a glance as he follows Niall out the back door.
It’s another boy, very tall, dressed in a mint green suit (Does anybody own jeans around here? Fucking seriously), but, once again, there are too many people in passing that block Louis from getting a good look.
The last thing he sees before he slips out the door is the tall, slender frame of the mint green boy, bending down to press a sweeping kiss to the fedora.
Then the door shuts, and Louis forgets the scene entirely.
