The next day, after being woken up dutifully to Niall’s flawless rendition of Chopin’s Scherzo No. 2 Opus 31, Louis attends all of his lectures, homework firmly done and ready for a look over, and is the best student he’s ever been, taking notes in every course and not once drawing a doodle of a noose.
He’s so proud of himself on his way home that he’s about to offer to treat Niall to scones and scotch, when his phone rings, “The Imperial March” flooding the air.
Mum.
Fuck.
Well. There are two options now. Either Louis can slide the phone back into his pocket and never say a word….or he can answer. Given that he has yet to answer one of his mum’s calls, he decides on the latter, nerves already tensing.
“Mum,” he greets faux cheerfully as he unlocks the door to the flat.
“Boo bear,” she says quietly. Suspiciously quietly. Fuck.
“What’s wrong?” Louis immediately asks, keeping the agitation out of his voice as he shoulders the door open.
Niall’s sitting at the piano again, smoking a cigar while the TV’s on.
Louis nods in his direction before averting his attention back to the phone.
“Oh…nothing. I just.” There’s a pause on the other line and he hears a sharp intake of breath followed by a near-sob. “I miss you, love.”
Goddammit.
He knows what this means.
“Mum. Mum, are you watching after the girls? Where are you?”
“I’m outside. I need to be alone right now.”
“Where are the girls? Are they being looked after?”
“They’re fine, Louis. I miss you—“
“MUM. Maggie’s only FOUR. Get back inside right now. You need to look after them.”
“I don’t want to,” she says, beginning to cry, and Louis’ nerves fizzle as he brings a hand up to massage his temples.
“It’s not about what you want. You’re their mum. You can do this. Just like you were a good mum before Charles left…you can be a good mum without him. Come on.”
The line is quiet, filled only by the muffled sound of wind and deep breaths.
“You’re right, love. You were always wise beyond your years.”
Louis nods, his teeth gritting. “I had to be. Now get back inside, yeah? Please?”
“I will. I’ll look after them, Lou. Just wait, I’ll be a good mum. I’ll do you proud.”
“Do yourself proud,” he says, and tries his best keeping his own emotions in check, his voice dangerously close to rising.
Niall looks up at him, brow furrowed, but Louis ignores him for the moment, instead walking over to the row of low set windows that line the wall. He stares out into the sunny expanse of grass, students milling about, and faintly notes that he’s in the very spot where Zayn had gotten sick all over him just that short time ago.
“I will.” There’s another pause. “Miss me, Lou?”
Louis closes his eyes. “Yes, mum. Now get back inside, please. Please. I love you,” he adds as an afterthought.
“Love you, too. Keep in touch.”
And then the line is dead.
“Fuck’s sake,” he mumbles, setting down his phone on the counter as he drops into the nearest chair.
“Was that your mum?” Niall asks with surprise, staring at Louis from across the room, hands now in his lap.
“Yeah.”
“What’s wrong with her?”
“Everything.”
Niall just stares.
With a roll of the eyes, Louis elaborates. “She’s not been right ever since Charles left all those years ago. Sometimes she just takes off or forgets about us kids. All she does is cry and look for the people who aren’t in her life. So I have to remind her now, since I was the one who took care of everyone when I was at home.” Louis hears the bitterness that tinges his words and prays Niall doesn’t ask for further details.
Thankfully, he doesn’t.
“Fuck. That’s rough, mate.”
Louis shrugs. “It is what it is. Now, what are your plans for the day? Because we have a tea party to attend.”
Niall then smiles, lighting up the shadows of the room instantly. “All right.”
“All right? No excuses? No rowing club? You’re actually going to come?”
“Yep. I quit yesterday. I was bored out of my shite mind. So let’s go to a fuckin’ tea party!” And he hops off of the piano stool, barreling himself into his room with a loud whoop.
Louis smiles. This may just turn out to be a splendid day indeed.
**
When they arrive at Zayn’s rooms, dressed in awkwardly matching outfits which they only realized after they were almost there (“Niall Horan, you are going to march straight back to our flat and change this instant. My braces match your trousers. That is NOT acceptable.” “Our shirts match, too.” “NIALL!”), Louis is already a tad flustered.
Luckily Niall is incapable of that emotion.
“Knock, knock!” Niall calls from the other side of the oak door, the very embodiment of antishyness.
“You know that’s rude. You should’ve let me do that,” Louis scolds.
“Why?”
“Because I know them.”
“I know them, too!”
“Not as well as me!”
“I’ve known them longer.”
“It doesn’t work like that—all you rich people know each other or are related! It’s like incest!”
A voice interrupts.
“Come in!” Liam’s voice sings, and shooting one last glare in Niall’s oblivious direction, Louis opens the door.
The room is gorgeous as ever, the table set with Victorian style chinaware that glints amongst the sunlight and ambient lighting, fresh roses and hydrangeas overflowing out of glass vases. There are crumpets, scones, and biscuits stacked in neat little piles on elegant, gilt trays. It's marvelous. A breeze wafts through the maroon satin curtains of the windows, and Louis almost laments that the piano is sitting, untouched—a bit of music would really accent the setting perfectly.
“You’ve outdone yourself once again, Zayn,” Louis greets, and Zayn smiles from the head of the table as Liam fills his teacup.
“Louis!” Liam beams, looking up with a glimmering smile and starched shirt.
“Hello, hello. This here’s—“ Louis starts before:
“Heeey, mates! Good to see you again,” Niall belts, smacking a handshake to Zayn’s gentle hands
and repeating the gesture with Liam who looks utterly delighted.
“Good to see you, Horan! How’s the old man?” Liam asks with jolly etiquette.
Niall grins in that way that suggests he’s on the verge of barking laughter, hands splayed on his hips, and stance dominant. The dragon is out to play. “He’s great. Stop by and see him any time! He’s usually at the studio. You know.”
“I do, and I really must. It’s been so long since we’ve had a proper sit down.” Liam’s words are perfectly articulated, his accent sickeningly posh, and Louis wonders if he learned how to read by way of an etiquette manual.
Unlike Niall, with his chunky Rolex and huge white shoes and agape mouth.
“Yeah. He actually likes you, so he’d enjoy that. You can bring Bill along!”
“What an excellent idea! Father hasn’t socialized in forever—the business has kept him so busy. He’d love to see Jonathan again.”
Dear lord.
“I told you he’s only friends with middle-aged men,” Zayn smirks at Louis as he brings the teacup to his perfect lips.
Louis stares at the pair as they talk, completely out of his element. “Fair enough. Well, then. Tea?” He sits down to the right of Zayn, just like that very first luncheon, and immediately holds his cup up to Liam expectantly, batting his eyelashes.
Liam grins and pours from his teapot immediately as Niall takes a seat beside Louis.
“Thank you,” Louis smiles, then brings the cup up to his lips and takes a large gulp. And nearly spits it out. “What the hell??” he splutters, almost dropping the priceless fixture.
“What’s wrong?” Liam asks, alarmed.
“Is this whiskey?” Louis coughs, clutching his throat in alarm.
Zayn smiles smokily. “Don’t be daft, Louis. It’s Darjeeling and scotch.”
Oh, obviously.
“Are you sure there’s Darjeeling?”
Zayn looks up at Liam who shrugs. “I put a bit in, I think.”
“You think?”
“This is fuckin’ delicious!” Niall suddenly boasts, guzzling his cup like it were water.
Louis stares, his own throat still burning.
That boy.
“Not all of us came out of the womb with a bottle of whiskey,” Louis glares, secretly marveling at the way he refills his teacup instantly and pours it down his throat without even a blink of the eye.
“Thatta boy,” Zayn smirks, and offers Niall a cigar.
“Oh, excellent. Is this a Black Petite Lancero?” Niall inquires, bringing the thing to his nose to sniff for no apparent reason. Louis will never understand the ways of the rich.
“It is. The only kind I like. In August, at least,” Zayn adds, and his smile widens at Niall’s cackling laughter.
“Cheers, mate,” Niall laughs, raising his teacup.
The china clinks as they meet, sending Liam into little sugary smiles as he takes a bite of a croissant, while Louis looks between the two, eyebrows raised. How is it that Niall becomes best mates with every. single. person. that’s in the same room as him? And just what the fuck is a ‘Black Petite Lancero’?
“You really are the social little butterfly, aren’t you?” Louis sighs, shaking his head as Niall grabs a fistful of scones.
Niall shrugs, and begins slathering on the jam. “I’d like to think I'm more of a dragonfly and less of a butterfly, but it’s all good, mate.”
And Louis is just about to deliver a witty response when suddenly Niall’s gaze focuses on something just beyond Louis’ shoulder.
“Harry, mate!” he exclaims, immediately standing up and walking towards the source of all evil.
Louis turns around to see Harry gliding into the room, wearing a pale yellow suit, a prominent Native American necklace (this one looks a bit more like a dream catcher) and his signature bow tie, looking very much like the cat who got the cream.
And oh, would you look at that. He’s brought guests again—this time a beautiful boy and a beautiful girl.
How endearing.
“Niall Horan,” Harry greets in his velveteen voice, shaking hands and smiling charmingly. “How are you, m’boy?”
“Not as good as you apparently. Who are your guests?”
“Oh. This is Roxy and Lullaby.”
Lullaby? Someone’s name is Lullaby? Really?
“Which one’s Lullaby?” Louis asks as they stand on either side of Harry and stare at him like he’s Jesus.
But apparently Harry is still ignoring Louis’ existence.
“Let us indulge now. After you, my darlings,” Harry smiles, allowing Niall, Roxy, and Lullaby to walk ahead.
The girl is stunning, with powder blue hair and a white dress that hangs off of her bony shoulders. The boy is even more stunning, his silken gold hair tousled above lavender eyes--hello, contacts. His clothes are artfully disheveled, in the way only buckets of money can create.
“How are you, Harry?” Zayn asks and though his tone is slack, his eyes are careful.
Louis perks up as he pretends to focus on the tray of crumpets, ears alert; the question is just sincere enough to prompt his interest.
But Harry smiles easily, whipping the napkin off the table and draping it over his lap. “Marvelous. You?”
“Impeccable.”
“It’s so good to see you in good spirits,” Liam beams, and Louis glances up at Harry’s reaction which reveals nothing but shallow pleasantries.
“Isn’t he always?” Niall asks jovially, and Harry laughs, everybody smiles, and the not-exactly-tea party commences.
**
Forty-five minutes later, the tea party is cut short because everyone is drunk and Harry and Niall are demanding to play golf.
The tea-liquor has been flowing endlessly—Louis is almost positive Liam lied when he said he put Darjeeling in the teapots. It’s abso-fucking-lutely straight scotch and that’s that—and the pretty little scones and tarts aren’t enough to absorb the effects.
So the elegant tea party, with the clinking spoons and extended pinkies, has turned into a bit of a shit show, Louis’ forehead shining as he laughs heartily at a terrible joke that Liam’s just told, all the while trying to take a picture together which, to be honest, Louis isn’t even good at doing when sober.
Zayn is also rather inebriated, slung over Roxy and Lullaby like they were stairway railings, apparently relaying the plots of his favorite books from the sounds of it, his hair falling out of place and suit jacket crinkling.
And then there’s Niall and Harry, arms gripping each other as they sing pub songs and dance wildly, teacups thrust in the air, the light brown liquid sloshing out over the sides and peppering the wooden floors, providing a death trap for any passerby.
And it’s only about 4:30 pm.
“Let’s go golfing!” Niall suddenly suggests in bursting tones, and Harry is right behind him, chanting the same sentence, cheeks flushed and eyes bright.
“Golfing? I fucking hate golfing!” Louis protests, arm still around Liam’s neck. He catches Harry’s eyes which have now settled on him, and he throws as good a glare as he gets. The bastard.
“We can watch while we drink more tea?” Liam suggests, pouring the remains into his awaiting cup. “Actually, sod it—let’s just bring some vermouth.”
“Or wine,” Zayn drawls with wet lips.
“Or both,” Louis corrects, and Liam grins with delight, eyes squinting.
“I’ll go golfing, Niall,” Zayn says, finally disengaging himself from Harry’s guests.
“Excellent!” Harry thunders, grinning wildly. “Roxy? Lullaby? You must join. I’ll need moral support if I lose,” he grins wickedly.
“You won’t lose, baby,” the boys purrs, just as the girl giggles, “I’ve got you, love.”
“I’m in good hands,” Harry smirks, and wraps them into his embrace.
Louis gags.
“Let’s go!” Niall then shouts, bouncing toward the door. “I’ll call Nelson!”
“Who’s Nelson?” Harry laughs, brow furrowed.
“My driver!”
“Excellent!” Liam celebrates, and one by one they pile out of the room, Harry grabbing a fistful of flowers on the way out. “For ambiance” he explained when Zayn shot him a look.
And Louis prepares himself for the worst.
**
Golfing fucking blows.
It’s boring, it’s quiet, and Louis can’t be fussed to even pay attention, instead passing a wine bottle back and forth with Liam who is giggly and silly and keeps asking Louis if he wants to climb trees. Louis doesn’t climb, he get’s climbed on.
“It’s getting dark,” Louis muses through a slur, getting drunker by the minute as he watches Harry “teach” his blonde boy how to golf. As if it’s that hard to swing a damn pole.
“It is. We should go soon. Find a party or something,” Liam smiles, leaning back in the golf cart luxuriously.
“Let’s lie on the grass. My butt hurts.”
Liam chuckles and shakes his head. “Grass stains, Louis. Let’s stay up here.”
“Grass stains? You wanted to climb a bloody tree a minute ago!”
“We wouldn’t have been in the grass.”
“No, just rubbing off on dirty bark.”
And Liam bursts into giggles and covers his face as Louis moves to the ground anyway.
Amidst even more raucous laughter and shouted cheers to the boys on the field, they pass the wine bottle back and forth as the burnt orange sun fades to stars, every once in awhile Niall running over to tackle Louis.
**
Finally, they leave.
“Where to now?” Harry asks slowly, lips crimson and eyes bright as he leans against his boy, the girl rubbing his shoulders. She moves to sneak a hand through his hair but he bats her away without a word, eyes cross.
“A pub?” Niall offers, helping Louis up off the ground.
Louis smiles cheekily and dabs a quick kiss to Niall’s nose before flitting away, out of reach.
Harry briefly watches them before flicking his eyes away.
“Let’s go to a party. Zayn, love, what’s a good party for tonight?” Liam asks, embracing Zayn and staring up at him lovingly.
Zayn smiles in his drunken haze, rubbing his hand clumsily along Liam’s back. “There’s one at the Kanes' summer house?” he suggests, smiling loosely and fumbling in his pocket for his cigarette case.
“Perfect,” Liam coos, nuzzling him.
“Well , let’s go, then!” Louis exclaims (and he really shouldn’t, should instead be suggesting that they all go home and study and take showers, but oh well) before leading the pack away, thrusting his wine bottle into the air and singing Celine Dion without an ounce of shame.
**
The drive to the Kanes’ is a blurry mess of shadow and laughter.
They clink glasses in the back of Niall’s limo before every drink. Niall guffaws at every word said in between shots, Zayn laughs just as heartily but silently while clutching his fedora, Liam giggles and fidgets in his seat, pelting corks at them all, and Harry thunders out a raspy:
“TONIGHT IS OURS, LADS!”
Roxy and Lullaby are on his lap, pouring champagne into his mouth and locking their fingers in his bow tie and necklace. As one, everybody cheers at Harry’s words—except Louis—and another round is poured, courtesy of Liam.
And though Louis could do without the disturbing image of Harry sticking his tongue down Roxy and Lullaby’s throats (Louis’ still not sure which one’s which) he can’t really complain when he’s sat in the back of a limo with his three mates, drinking champagne, on his way to what is promised to be a smashing party.
So he toasts the night and laughs before Niall wraps him in a headlock.
**
The house is gorgeous.
It’s enormous, it sits amongst elaborate gardens, it has balconies and terraces, and the floors inside are marble and polished to perfection. It’s fucking incredible, and if Louis wasn’t so drunk, he would be speechless.
“THIS IS SO FUCKING HUGE!” he shouts over the booming noise as soon as they boys enter, immediately greeted by a young man wearing spandex, holding a tray of pink shots.
“It’s not that big!” Niall shouts back, taking three of the offered shots and gulping them in mindbending succession.
“You would say that.” Louis rolls his eyes.
“Come on then, boys!” Liam shouts, glee written clear all over his face as he takes Zayn’s hand and charges forward without hesitation. Within seconds they’re completely lost in the sea of
beautifully dressed people and bubbles that are pouring from nowhere.
“I told you he was crazy!” Niall laughs, avoiding the heavier masses of people dancing and skirting the edges.
“Oh, I’m becoming increasingly aware. But I must say, I’m surprised you’re not crowd surfing with the best of ‘em, Nialler!”
Niall pulls a face and shakes his head. “Nah. I don’t like crowds. Here’s good.”
Louis nods, catching sight of Harry—who now has three new playmates draped all over him— and willing himself to resist the urge to spy.
Which fails.
Harry presses deep kisses to every mouth around him, giving his lips a wet sheen that glows sickly under the flickering, rainbow lights. He stumbles a bit, slamming every drink at hand down his throat and laughing loud enough for the heavens to hear. Occasionally Louis will hear a random shout of “Harold!” as swarms upon swarms rush to meet him, sliding their hands over his back and chest, some attempting to touch his hair which Harry rebuffs every time (odd), laughing at his quips and ravenously eating up his dimpled smiles.
It’s disgusting, really.
These people clearly worship him. And though Louis despises the boy, he’s not dumb—he can see the appeal. He’s utterly beautiful, charming, well-dressed, eccentric, and seemingly docile. He’s got good manners and an impressive IQ and dimples that last for days.
But Louis’ not sure if these people even see that much. They certainly don’t seem aware that he’s a human being (which he might not be, to be fair) as they clutch and grab him, stuffing their phones in his faces and wrapping arms around his waist like he were a prop, ready to be manhandled.
Harry doesn’t seem to mind too much, though. His face is still plastered with a smile, eyes still sightless and posed as he accommodates them all and licks salt off of their collarbones and…snorts cocaine?
Louis squints his eyes as he watches, Harry tilting his head back and inhaling deeply.
Yep.
With a roll of the eyes, Louis turns back to Niall and they depart to the other side of the house, far away from Harry Styles.
**
Swirling bodies, dancing bodies, neon lights, glistening jewelry, and curls of smoke fill Louis’ senses.
Perfectly coiffed hair bounces in time to the beat, Louis Vuitton blending against Burberry, and glitter falls from the ceilings.
“I want to spend the rest of my life here!” Louis praises, his head swimming and his limbs light.
“Are you sure?” Niall laughs, bouncing up and down, his polo nearly soaked through and his eyelashes sparkling. “Forever’s a long time!”
Because oh yeah, they’re immortal and untouchable and everything is life.
So Louis laughs and twirls around, hands outstretched to the heavens as glitter falls and catches on his sweaty skin, coating him in stars.
**
Louis can’t find the fucking bathroom. And if he doesn’t find it soon, he’s just going to wee in the rose bushes.
He’s been opening every door he can find, only stumbling upon closets, pantries, and studies. And, now, a very intimate scene.
“My bad,” Louis apologizes, instantly shielding his eyes before shutting the door with a snap.
He spins around, ready to all but run away, when he’s met with a broad chest and a Native American necklace.
Fuck.
“Careful,” Harry warns, taking a step back from Louis and glaring, his curls sticking to his forehead. He smells fucking amazing, but it only serves to anger Louis more.
“Oh get over yourself,” Louis scoffs, and is just about to walk past him when Harry catches his arm. He looks up, eyes narrowed. “Can I help you?”
“Stop acting like you’re better than me,” Harry growls, but his voice wavers the tiniest bit, pupils wide and inebriated under a furrowed brow, his fingers digging into Louis’ warm flesh.
Louis shakes his head, eyes slitted. “Then stop being you.”
Harry retracts his hand like he’s been burnt, scowling at Louis with that intensity that he only displays when he’s agitated; Louis wonders if all of Harry’s emotions would be that passionate if he wasn’t barren of emotions and life. Perhaps that’s why he’s only a shell—he’s too much for himself.
“You don’t know me,” Harry deadpans, straightening his back and smoothing out his features.
“I think I do, Harry Styles,” Louis says, and allows his glare to fade, replacing it with pitying disapproval. “You drown yourself in pretty words and champagne and fuck knows what kind of drugs. You shag everything that walks. You only listen and care about yourself, and you feel nothing for the world. You watch people love you and you love nothing in return,” Louis says lowly, disgusted, the alcohol and fury gripping his bones and spurring his tongue.
Harry stares back beneath the flickering lights, shadows deep beneath his eyes, expression unreadable. “Love?” he asks with wry distaste.
Louis merely stares in response, chest squared, adrenaline ebbing.
Harry’s mouth twists into a sickly grin, eyes colder than he’s ever seen them—which is saying something.
“Haven’t you heard, Louis Tomlinson? Each man kills the thing he loves.” His grin fades. “The coward with a kiss.” He takes a step closer to Louis, his alcohol soaked breath and expensive cologne suffocating the air. “The brave man with a sword.” He finishes in an almost-whisper, the corner of his lips quirked into a sneer.
But it’s his eyes that Louis sees. Those eyes that cut through glass.
They’re wide now. They’re wide, they’re pained, and they stare back at Louis with something that feels alarmingly like reality.
And Louis can only look back, desperately searching the mournful green gaze before him, wishing he could climb inside and pick apart this boy’s brain, delve into the depths and discover what went wrong.
But in an instant Harry’s gone, and only the thump of music and Louis’ very full bladder remain.
**
“Let’s get going!” Niall shouts sometime later, just as Louis’ buzz begins to wear off and his limbs feel heavy.
“Where’s Liam and Zayn?”
“I just saw Liam jumping into the pool like a fuckin’ madman. I think they’re gonna be here for awhile.”
Louis nods. “All right. I’ll say goodbye to them.”
Niall looks at him, puzzled. “Why?”
“So they know we’re leaving.”
He blinks. “Uh. Okay…?”
Not understanding what Niall’s not understanding, Louis just throws him a funny look before departing for the pool. And yep, there’s Zayn on the sidelines, watching a splashing Liam with fondness as he sucks on a cigarette and bathes in moonlight.
“We’re going to head back,” Louis says upon reaching him.
“Excellent, mate. You’ve got a bit of…” Zayn motions to Louis’ glitter-soaked limbs.
He laughs, giving a shrug. “What can I say? I look better with a bit of sparkle.”
Zayn smiles and shakes his head, moving his cigarette to his mouth and clapping Louis’ hand in his. “Have a good night, Louis man. I’ll see you tomorrow?”
“Yeah, just text me,” Louis smiles, and then offers one last departing wave to Liam who is in the process of doing a cannonball.
He turns back into the house, weaving through the hoards of people, and is just about to turn the corner, when the door across from him opens.
Harry stumbles out, hair mussed, lipstick marks coating the line of his jaw and peppering the sharp angles of his collarbone. He’s tucking his ripped open shirt in with clumsy hands, fly half-done, with eyes that glint in conquest. He sneers a cold grin at Louis before wiping the remnants of coke off of his nose with the back of his hand, then disappears once more into the sea of people without a backward glance, his diamond Chanel watch glowing neon.
“Each man kills the thing he loves.”
Louis hears the coarse words echoed in the back of his mind as he turns in disgust and sets out to find Niall.
