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?
