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 t-shirt 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.
