Niall is ruining Louis’ life.
Because every single night this week, they’ve promised to go to the library and study diligently.
And every single night this week, they’ve gone out on the town and gotten pissed.
Louis really needs to slow his roll.
“I can’t go out again. I can’t. I almost died in lecture today. Do you want me to die, you selfish ass? Do you? Because I am not exaggerating—I am on the brink of passing to the other side.”
“You are so dramatic.”
“I’m not! I’m expressing a reality!”
Niall laughs as he opens the boxes of takeaway that have just been delivered while he sits at the piano (he can never eat at the table like a decent human being), his ever-present glass of whiskey sat on the top, his laptop open to some audio program that looks alarmingly like a heart monitor.
“Reality or no, it’s Friday. You know you’re not going to study—you haven’t once since we’ve been here,” he says simply, popping chips into his mouth and dabbing at the excess grease on his lips with a silken napkin. He stares at Louis expectantly—who is glaring in response—as he chews, soft blonde hair giving him a very false sense of innocence as he sits atop the stool in a tshirt with a giant mushroom printed on it and sweatpants. His Rolex—completely at odds with his casual attire—catches in the light every now and then, a gentle reminder that this boy holds the world at his feet.
Louis jabs at a chip with his fork (he’s not in the mood for dirty fingers), fails, then throws it clear across the room at Niall’s forehead.
“YOU’RE NOT GOING TO PERSUADE ME, YOU MANIPULATIVE SWINE. FRIDAY OR NOT, I AM SPENDING THE EVENING AS A PROPER STUDENT. YOUR WORDS HAVE NO EFFECT,” he thunders, voice bursting through the room, and Niall jumps, catching the chip as it bounces off of his face.
Niall stares at the chip, then back at Louis, grin set. “My mate’s just told me of a place that has an all male staff. Says they’re fit as fuck and serve free drinks if you catch their eye. I’d be willing to check it out. Afterwards we can have Nelson”—Niall’s chauffeur (yeah)—“drive us around while we sing Justin Bieber until we’re sober. Have Rory”—Niall’s assistant (yeah)—“pick us up some cakes again. But I’m not having that shite wine this time—it tasted like candy wee.”
This boy is ruining Louis’ life.
He stares as Niall begins plucking at the piano keys.
He really, really wants to say yes. Sexy men serving him free drinks all night? Singing Justin Bieber in a chauffeured car as they hang out of the sunroof? Eating beautiful and delicious cakes all night?
Fuck.
He hates the rich. He does. This is all shallow. He hates this. Hates it. Hate, hate, hate.
“Of course I want to come, you utter knob!” Louis bursts, slamming fists on the table. “But I can’t! I have to study, Niall. Stop teasing me,” he whines, and with a disparaging moan, he sinks his head onto the table.
The twinkle of Chopin lightens the room.
“Next time then, yeah?” Niall says, completely unfazed.
“Yeah,” Louis groans, face smashed into varnished cherry wood. He really hates his life.
They stay like that for awhile, Louis facedown on the dining room table, chips scattered about, and Niall merrily floating his fingers up and down the keys as he half-watches the TV from across the room.
And then the music abruptly stops.
“Want to go golfing?” Niall suddenly asks hopping off the stool.
Louis lifts his head—a chip stuck to his cheek—and sees the boy standing before him, hands in pockets, expectant.
Where was the transition in that?
“I would rather peel my own skin off with a stick,” Louis replies immediately, deadpan.
“Suit yourself!” Niall shrugs, then shoots down the remaining whiskey and bounces to his room. “I fucking love golf!” he shouts.
Louis merely rolls his eyes before reconnecting his face with the surface before him.
It’s when he hears the shuffling of shoes and the unlocking of the door that his head shoots up again.
“Where are you going?” he demands, staring at Niall, who is now wearing a gray polo and white trousers, a cap atop his head. And are those loafers?
“Golfing.”
“What? But it’s half past seven! The sun’ll go down soon—where the hell will you go??”
“I’ll manage,” he says simply, and is just about to exit when Louis pushes himself into a standing position.
“What about me?!”
“I already invited you.”
“But I hate golf!”
“Exactly.”
They stare at each other.
“I don’t see the problem…” Niall says, genuinely confused, hand on the door, oblivious to any cares in the world.
Where did this creature come from? What is wrong with privileged people?
“Well. Fine, then,” Louis sniffs, “Go stick a ball in a hole.” He pauses, considering the sentence. “Lord knows I wish I could,” he mumbles under his breath.
“I’ll see you in a bit, mate. And then we’ll go out, yeah?”
But before Louis can protest, the door slams.
“I REALLY DISLIKE YOU AS A PERSON,” Louis shouts after him, just for good measure, but he’s met with silence.
And so now Louis is all alone.
Why does he have to have the worst flatmate in the history of everything?
**
Two hours later, Niall is back, and Louis has managed to open his textbooks and find the appropriate pages but has done nothing more, having been distracted by the home and gardening network.
“What are you watching?” Niall asks with clear disdain, wrinkling his nose as the two gentleman on screen describe the various uses of curtains.
“I’m having Louis Time. Hush. Did you know that putting curtains up along a bare wall immediately provides a room with texture, style, and space? It also is an aid in sound-proofing a flat. What say you, Nialler?”
“I say no. I’ll probably just end up knocking them down every five minutes.”
“You have a point there,” Louis grumbles, and flicks off the TV.
“So we’re going out, yeah?” Niall prods, hands on hips and a big grin on his face.
“Nope. No. No, really, I can’t. I’m way behind, I’ve got a million things I need to start, and this weekend is completely dedicated to Louis. It’s Louis Ti—“
“Louis Time, I know,” Niall says with a roll of the eyes, but his grin doesn’t waver. “I’ll have you reconsidering that as soon as you hear what I have to say, though.” He winks.
And Louis is successfully intrigued. “Oh?”
Niall nods. “Guess where I just got invited to go?”
Louis grins and climbs atop the couch, resting his chin along the backrest and facing Niall eagerly. “Where??”
“A party hosted by Zayn Malik.” Niall’s grin is absolutely wicked.
“Who invited you?”
“Some bloke I just met while I was golfing.”
“Naturally.”
“Naturally,” Niall agrees, and he begins stripping himself of his clothes, making his way to his room. “So you have to go now.”
Louis considers this. He genuinely does.
On the one hand, it’s Friday night, he’s got no immediate obligations, and he’s just been given the opportunity to experience one of the greatest parties known to man, renowned by Uni students nationwide.
On the other, if he keeps this shit up, he’s going to fail all of his classes and end up living in a cardboard box in the back of a Tesco.
“No,” he says suddenly and firmly, standing up. “Absolutely not. I made a promise to myself and I am going to keep it.”
Niall steps out of his room, jaw dropped, a gray jumper half-on, exposing the cream planes of his chest. “You’re joking.”
“I’m not. I refuse to go.” With that, Louis crosses his arms and sits in the nearest chair, face averted away with steely determination.
“Lou,” Niall says, and it’s with such seriousness that Louis actually starts, “You don’t understand, mate. This is going to be incredible. You think I can show you a good time? You think my drinks taste good, my weed’s good quality? My friends are crazy? That’s nothing. This is the richest bloke I’ve ever met. Can you just imagine what a party of his is going to be like?”
Louis really wants to stick Niall’s head in a toilet.
“I will smash your guitar if you keep tempting me with your devil words. I’m not even joking. I will do it.”
“You wouldn’t.”
“I’m getting up.”
“All right!” Niall exclaims, hands up in defeat. “But don’t blame me when I come home tonight and tell you I’ve had the best fuckin’ night of me life. You brought this upon yourself because you’re being a cunt!”
“You will not sway me.”
With one last shake of the head, Niall returns to his room, fitting his arms through the jumper. “You’re crazy, Tommo.”
And, only because he knows Niall can’t hear him, Louis mumbles an agreement, glaring at his textbooks.
**
Niall left in a grand rush.
He was dressed to the nines in a crisp gray jumper, black slacks, signature Rolex, and a cigar that was already half-smoked. His hair was artfully disheveled (Louis did it for him) and he was wearing his best cologne. He looked rosy-cheeked and fun and his breath smelt of liquor, but in an oddly pleasant way that made Louis think of laughter and soft lighting.
Louis brushed off his shoulders and made him do a twirl before he deemed him presentable.
“All right then, you’re ready, son. Have fun tonight. Ring me when you’re pissed, yeah? Give me updates,” he said, and put on his best fake-cheer.
Niall promised, and then his phone began buzzing.
“They’re here,” he explained, and in a mad rush no two minutes later, their flat was suddenly filled with piles of loud, shiny men with bottles of beer and vodka; loud cheers where being thrown everywhere and laughter was bursting at the seams.
Louis stared at the zoo before him, feeling distinctly under dressed in his trackpants and Doors tshirt. He hadn’t even washed his hair today.
“You comin’, mate?” a smiley boy with auburn hair asked him, but Louis shook his head.
“Nah. Studying,” he explained, and the auburn boy’s smile faltered.
“Studying?”
“Yeah.”
“... Right.”
And then he left.
Louis glared at his retreating figure. He always found auburn hair to be hideous.
“All right, all right!” Louis suddenly shouted as the ruckus began becoming a bit too much, “All right, mates. Come on, then. You’ve got a party waiting for you!” He began ushering the drunken mass out the door, waving his arms wildly and feeling a new-found respect towards sheepdogs.
Just as the peace slowly began to reign again, Niall caught him by the elbow.
“You sure you don’t want to come?” he checked, one last time. He looked bright and pink and expensive.
Louis nodded. “I’m sure. Give ‘em hell, Nialler!”
He smiled in response, clapped a hand on Louis’ back, then bounced back into the fray, chanting some indefinable gibberish.
That was four hours ago.
Since then, Louis has made tea, attempted to make his bed (he stopped because he realized how completely pointless that is), read two chapters of his homework, poked through Niall’s room (and found nothing—that boy has no secrets), and has danced around the flat to every song on his “Boredddd” playlist. Which he just made.
Now, Louis is once again attempting to study.
But, of fucking course, the chaos from outside is becoming a deafening roar as students celebrate the first weekend at school.
And he wants to shut his windows—those damn windows that practically lie on the ground, exposing him to all the drunken idiots scrambling by—but it’s hot and he likes the breeze, and if he just turns his music up that bit more…
He's gotten four texts from Niall so far.
The first one was a picture of himself, surrounded by an actual castle built from neon, glowing shots, their saturated light soaking into his shaded skin, with the caption, “Wish you were here, mate!” underneath.
The second one was a picture of a girl in a giraffe costume wearing a tiara and holding a bottle of absinthe. The caption underneath this one read: “She’s fucking crazy !!!! Absinthe !!!”
The third one was simply text. It said, “I have seen the fourth dimension.”
And the last one merely said, “Butterbeer.”
So he seems like he’s having a good time.
Which is well and good and all for Niall, but Louis’ been staring at the same page for fourteen minutes now, resolutely ignoring the line of windows on the other side of the room, and tapping his pen against a blank notebook page. It’s safe to say that Louis is not having a good time.
But he needs to study. He needs to. He’s at this incredible school and he’s been given a chance, and he needs to succeed. He’s very aware of the fact that this school certainly would provide an excellent stepping stone towards bigger and better things. Maybe he doesn’t exactly know what he wants to do, but the options are open. Perhaps he’d find himself living as a highly respected and dashingly handsome drama professor at some American university? Or perhaps he would light up the stage every night, spouting grand lines and throwing exaggerated gestures out to an audience that craved his presence and screamed his name?
No matter what Louis becomes, there’s one thing that’s certain—he needs to take advantage of the opportunity before him. Even if he isn’t quite sure how. Or where to start. Or what any of this will actually lead to. Or what he wants it to lead to.
Fuck.
It’s just as Louis is totally fed up by his own thoughts and the on-goings of outside—he’s seen too many drunken passerby and neither music nor focusing nor TV can drown the hubbub out— that Louis decides, breeze be damned, to close, lock, and cover his living room windows and pretend he’s in the middle of the desert.
He goes to the window with a surly expression, lamenting the time wasted after having read the same sentence at least seven minutes, and is just about to shut the window, hands placed on the wood, when a young man comes stumbling directly up to the window, impeccable suit glowing under a moonlit sky, the stench of smoke and alcohol permeating the air.
Louis blinks once, twice, three times as he stares at the young man before him.
It’s Zayn Malik.
He’s glassy eyed and slack jawed and he’s looking up at Louis with something like inquisitive
wonder, a light sheen of sweat coating his face, loosening chunks of his pristine hair. He looks seemingly innocent—so much unlike the snake Louis had seen that first time he’d lain eyes on him.
Louis is completely taken aback, seemingly frozen.
They stare at each other, Louis’ hand poised near the window latch, Zayn loose limbed, arms hanging at his sides, blinking lazily with those incredible, endless eyelashes. It’s just as Zayn begins a soft smile, which Louis is instantly endeared by, that he suddenly grips the sides of Louis’ windowsill, and for one moment Louis actually thinks he may be climbing in to keep him company for the rest of the night, so he can sit quietly and smile at him like he hung the moon.
But instead, he throws his head over the windowsill and vomits all over Louis’ slipper-clad feet.
There’s a horrifying, stunned silence.
Louis is still as stone, hasn’t looked down, and only one sentence flits through his mind: I’ve just been puked on by Zayn Malik.
Zayn lifts his head, his eyes now red and watery, full of apology and child-like sorrow. Louis is torn between shutting the window on the boy’s head, inviting him in, or just running away to clean his fucking feet off.
It is a truly catastrophic moment. Because what the actual fuck??
But then suddenly, the good-natured looking boy he remembers from the teashop is at Zayn’s side almost instantly, eyes set in proper humility, light brown hair cropped cleanly, his features smoothed into apology. He places a supportive arm around Zayn’s shoulder, his other hand clasping Zayn’s bicep with gentle firmness, and as he holds a now staggering Zayn who is, quite obviously, too drunk to even function, the boy stands there and says in a very polite, crisp voice:
“My sincerest apologies, sir. You know how it goes. He’s not usually likes this, I assure you.”
Louis just stares, in shock—did he just call him sir??—very much aware of the vomit that has begun seeping into the fabric of his slippers, and just nods dumbly, mouth totally agape and senses numb and stunned.
“It’s—fine,” he says, mostly through shock, and the boy immediately smiles, relieved.
He offers one last apologetic nod before ushering a nearly catatonic, dazed Zayn Malik away, disappearing just as quickly as they appeared.
And Louis just stares.
Because what the fuck??
He stares for about ten minutes before he finally screeches, flings his slippers off, and runs to the bathroom to bathe [repeatedly], stripping his clothes along the way and trying very hard not to think about his feet or the smell that has stained the air and will potentially never leave.
Fuck.
This.
School.
**
After Louis is nice and scrubbed and his feet have been soaking in bleach water, he emerges from the bathroom pink-cheeked and clad in the coziest clothes he possesses in hopes to cushion the emotional trauma. Because Louis Tomlinson has been vomited on, and how does one move on from that experience? Part of him dies inside if he gets a bit of wee on himself—vomit’s in its own category entirely.
Thoughts back-and-forthing between “I hate Zayn fucking Malik” and “I am finding my inner peace,” Louis crawls in to bed, brings his textbooks with him, puts on the calming sounds of nature on his iPod, lights his candles, and shuts every curtain and door in the flat. He’s never opening the windows again.
Eventually, Louis achieves his inner peace, feeling snuggly and cozy as he does his homework, swaddled in blankets. He’s just beginning to wonder where Niall is when he begins drifting to sleep, book propped open, angry, revengeful doodles of Zayn Malik drawn into the margins. Because how had Louis thought he looked fucking innocent? The boy’s a puking machine.
It feels as if he’s only just shut his eyes when he is suddenly awoken by the sound of a door slamming, accompanied by a slew of laughter and shouted farewells coupled with some inside jokes.
Groaning with all the misery that is his life, Louis lifts his head off of the book, paper crusted to his face, thoroughly dazed and confused.
“Louis! Mate!” Niall’s voice calls through the void.
And no, Louis is not feeling sociable. All he can manage to process right now is that his light is still on and needs to be shut off if he’s going to fall back asleep—which he most certainly is going to do.
So Louis sits up, limbs groggy, rubbing his eyes, about to shut the light off, when he suddenly hears:
“What the fucking cunt is this pile of shite??”
And then Louis remembers.
He clears his throat, sleep-voice already set in. “You’re not looking at a pile of vomit by chance, are you?”
Without another word Niall comes into the room, eyes dilated, hair far more mussed than Louis had styled it to be, clothes hanging off of him in sweaty droops.
“What the—are you all right, mate? Are you ill?”
Louis groans, sinking his head as he rubs his hands over his face. He cannot comprehend this situation right now, doesn't even want to touch on the topic of Zayn Malik and his regurgitation.
“Nope. How was the party, then?”
And luckily, Niall has the attention span of a goldfish.
“It was fuckin’ incredible! It was at some hotel, there was this huge room, and it was the craziest thing I’ve ever been at! I mean, I knew they said it was good, but I was not expecting that,” he laughs, leaning against the door frame with a dazed expression. He considers for a moment. “But,
it’s funny though. Malik was nowhere to be seen. Bloke hosted a party and he wasn’t even there!” With that, he sits down on Louis’ bed and stretches out, all rosy cheeks and glazed skin as he put his hands behind his head and stares at the ceiling with a contented grin, coming down from an adrenaline rush.
Louis peers over at him with an eyebrow raised. “Oh, I’m aware. Zayn Malik was most definitely not at your party.”
“Why do you say that?” Niall asks, craning his head.
“Well, he was here, don’t you know. He was scrambling around the school grounds, finding open windows of poor, innocent, studying students who were keeping to themselves, and puking into them.” And Louis gives Niall a pointed look.
Niall blinks for a moment before it clicks.
And then he shoots up in bed, bursting into manic cackling, disbelief written clear across his face like a caricature.
“That—in there—your fucking slippers—that’s because of Zayn Malik? He puked on your slippers? Are you fucking kidding me? Are you fucking serious?” For some reason, Niall thinks this is the funniest thing to ever happen ever, so he proceeds to die of laughter on Louis’ bed, clutching his stomach like a child, giggling and gasping while Louis stares at him, very much unimpressed, eyes narrowed, his hair sticking to his cheeks.
Rude little bastard.
“Laugh it up, laugh it up. Very funny,” he says, tone unamused. “You’re going to clean it up, though. I’m not touching it. I’ve had enough puke on me for a lifetime.”
Niall, amidst his cackles of laughter and gasps, assures Louis, “I’ll have my assistant clean it up in the morning.”
Rory?
Louis feels quietly grateful but also very guilty. It’s an odd feeling. “Well, I’ll have to send him a fruit basket or something,” he mumbles, flicking the light off before returning to the bed. He clicks on his bedside lamp. “Should I leave him a card? Money…?”
But Niall is busy laughing.
They spend the rest of the night lying side by side, Niall occasionally bursting into fits of laughter at the thought of Zayn Malik being sick on Louis and Louis efficiently changing the subject every time by asking more questions about Niall’s night. (“But how many shots did you have?” “Snog anyone?” “But how was the absinthe?” “You can’t have really been the only Irishman there.”)
Eventually, as the moon sits low in the sky and the flat fills with a peaceful calm, Niall begins drifting off mid-story, mouth hanging open, and mutters one last, “I still can’t believe Zayn Malik puked on your fucking feet,” before giggling himself to sleep.
And, as horrified as Louis is by his night (because who else would this happen to, honestly) he allows himself a small, amused smile as he closes his eyes as well.
**
Louis awakens in the morning to find that Niall has gone. In place of where the boy should be
there’s a note on the bed with a pair of clean slippers (probably Niall’s own that he’s not worn once) that says, “Keep these away from Zayn Malik” with a large, sloppy smiley face drawn underneath, a scribbled pile of sick drawn in the corner.
Louis can clearly picture Niall making the note in his mind, that large, shit-eating grin taking up half his face, so he crumples up the paper with a roll of the eyes and tosses it in the bin across the room. He then slides out of bed thinking that he is very, very grateful for three things this morning:
1. He actually studied last night. 2. It’s Saturday so he has the day off. 3. He had not woken up to the sound of piano.
Today is going to be a good day.
He yawns, stretching his limbs like a cat, and begins roaming around the house, feeling prim and beautiful and full of rest. And very sated. He goes to the kitchen immediately in hopes that there will miraculously be piles of fresh food waiting for him, but instead sees what Niall left him: a cold slab of bacon and a bag of weed.
He scoffs at it, grabs some juice and nibbles on a croissant as he sits by the window (which is now shut) (firmly). He looks to where his slippers had been when he’d last thrown them and takes in the now flawless sheen of the floor, polished and scrubbed, back to its immaculate luster. He really needs to write a card for Rory. Or write him in his will. Louis feels very, very grateful.
Suddenly his phone vibrates.
Niall.
‘U up?’
‘Yeah.’
‘I’m having breakfast at Fleet’s. Join me. They’ve got endless bacon.’
Louis doesn’t need to be told twice. He puts on the closest presentable clothes he can find, wraps a scarf around his neck, and exits the building with the thought of bacon, tea, and toast on his mind, all thoughts of Zayn Malik and vomit far, far away.
**
Upon their return, Rory is back in the apartment, holding Louis’ slippers. But that’s really the last thing Louis could give a fuck about right now in this room.
Because as soon as Niall and Louis stepped through the door, they were met with—possibly—the most unexpected sight either of them could have imaged.
Their flat is filled—abso-fucking-lutely filled, top to bottom, no surface spared—with flowers.
Flowers.
Every kind of flower in every kind of color, bushels and bundles everywhere. It’s essentially a hothouse, or maybe the Versailles gardens, and it’s really bewildering—even Niall is speechless, and Louis is almost tempted to film this phenomenon—and breathtakingly beautiful, yellow roses glowing in the light, lilies lying docile and rich, violets covering the piano, and hydrangeas sitting in neat vases along the lines of the floor.
As Louis and Niall stare, still silhouetted in the door with jaws dropped on the floor, their eyes simultaneously spot an exaggeratedly large cream card sitting on the mantle of the fireplace.
In large, fine writing, it states:
“My apologies for last night.
Please join me for luncheon.
My rooms.
Zayn Malik”
Now stood before it, Niall and Louis read it aloud as one before both sets of eyes slide to Rory who is still standing with the shoes, looking slightly bewildered.
“Were you here…?” Louis starts, unable to form anything more coherent than that, but Rory’s eyes immediately snap to him, at full attention.
“Aye. Young gentleman came this morning, accompanied by a few others. Had all these specially delivered—said that he hoped they’d take away from any odor he may have caused. Something like that. Said to call upon him at any hour, said his rooms were up in the tower—the very top— and that he looks forward to your meeting,” Rory relates spotlessly, face businesslike as he shuffles from one suede foot to the next.
Louis stares, dumbfounded. Then looks immediately over to Niall.
“You’re coming with me.”
Niall’s hands shoot up in defense. “Nah, mate. This is your mess. You gotta deal with it. Besides, I’m hungover as fuck. I need to sleep. And I need to smoke.”
Louis just looks helplessly at him, adopting his most endearing set of puppy eyes. “But what am I going to do??”
“Just go. You’ll figure it out.”
Apparently Niall is immune to puppy eyes.
So Louis prepares to go to luncheon while Niall locks himself in his room and fills their flat with the sounds of Tchaikovsky and Bach (hangover music? The Irish are strange).
After a full twenty minutes of panic and confusion over what to wear--something Louis usually has no trouble with, but he’s uncomfortable and angry and curious and nervous and, fuck, how do you dress when you’re attending an apology luncheon hosted by someone who’s been sick on you but you’ve never actually spoken to?--Louis begins surrendering to his inner panic.
Because where the fuck is he going? What the fuck is he doing? Why the fuck is he going? Who the fuck is he seeing? And when the fuck did he start caring what these people through of him?
Really, he should just wear a sweatsuit and slide on those same slippers that Zayn Malik has previously soiled. That’s what he should do.
But instead—and what have the times come to?—Louis bangs on Niall’s door.
“Oi!” he calls, “I need your help.”
No response, the music still drifting out of the room.
“NIALLER. I. NEED. HELP,” he yells, banging louder.
At this, he hears a grumble and some shuffling before the door creaks open.
“That doesn’t make sense,” Niall sighs, eyes red-rimmed.
“Yes it does. I need your help.”
“Fuck’s sake. Why me? You usually beg me not to help. Or just plain refuse it.”
“Today’s different. I need your advice. What should I wear?”
“Are you joking?”
“…No?”
“You can’t dress yourself? You’re a grown fuckin’ man!”
“But your clothes are better than mine!” Louis whines, and Niall’s frown lessens.
“Oh. You want to borrow something?”
“No!” Louis immediately barks. He pauses. “Maybe.” His arms cross and Niall’s eyebrows raise. “Yes, fine, all right, I need to borrow something. But not because I want to!” Louis adds, jabbing his finger in Niall’s face.
Niall grabs the aforementioned finger and shoves it away gently. “Sure, sure, I know the drill. Now get in here, then. You should’ve just said so. Take what you like.”
And so the world ends when Louis asks Niall for fashion advice.
But, finally, he’s dressed to perfection (black knit jumper with his crisp, white color poking out and gray, form-fitting slacks, complimented by sleek black shoes that catch the light just so) and he stands before Niall, ready for judgment.
“Well?”
And maybe Louis cares what he looks like just a bit because he was charmed by the flowers and the card and the apology, and maybe he’s a little excited for this proper introduction, so he awaits Niall’s assessment with hope, glancing down at himself once more.
“Swell, mate,” Niall assures, and adjusts his collar as he brushes fake dirt off of his shoulders. “All ready to go, Cinderella. Give ‘em hell!” And with one last smack on the bum—“Hey!” Louis screeches with a glare—Niall waves a farewell and dissolves back into his room.
So, with one last intake of breath, Louis opens the door and leaves.
