Louis has been climbing the steps of the tower, one by one, for what feels like forever. With each drag of the foot, his stomach sinks lower because what is he doing? Why is he even going? The only experiences Louis has had with this bloke was when he: A) Unjustly took what should have been Louis’ beverage at the teashop, and B) Emptied the contents of his stomach on him.
And when he looks at it like that, the idea of him even considering coming here seems ridiculous.
But here he is, dressed in his finest (or rather, Niall’s finest) and he’s finally reached the top, nerves jangling, fists shoved in his pockets. He’s met with an arched, old oak door stood ajar, sunlight streaming out in soft rays.
And fuck. Does he knock? Call out? It’s so much easier with Niall where he can just bang on the door and screech his name until he’s noticed. He’s not used to dealing with real people.
Feeling very unsure of everything in life, Louis places his hands against the cold wood and peers inside.
Before him is the most elaborate, ridiculously luxurious room he’s ever seen. It’s simultaneously ancient and contemporary (which is something Louis would have never been able to grasp previously, but somehow it works) and it’s sleek, chic, and fucking posh. It puts his own flat to shame which is something Louis has a hard time stomaching, to be honest.
Large, beautiful paintings of charcoal gray images splashed with violets, crimsons, and emeralds scatter the room, some on the walls and some resting on the floor, stacked one upon the other, waiting to be hung. Bookshelves stuffed with countless books line the walls, their sleek, leather spines glinting under the ambient shades of crystal lighting, and peppered on the walls are what appear to be first edition comic books, protected by thick glass as they hang, their worn pages sitting quietly. There are shiny sound systems and large clear glass windows and ebony throw rugs and crystal decanters and music stands and—is that a fucking piano? Seriously? Are these a requirement for the rich?
And amidst the lavishness of its surroundings, there rests a giant, narrow, rectangular wooden table filled with full cutlery and baskets overflowing with fruits, cheeses, wine bottles, and eggs. And in the middle, pouring wine into each glass, is the boy from last night with his thick eyebrows and calm features. In the corner, just beyond, is vomit-boy himself, reclined in a suede chair that looks crafted for a god, smoking a cigarette languidly.
Louis just stands there awkwardly, totally inside of the room, his hosts totally not noticing. Completely unaware of what to do, he just knocks on the door without ceremony, despite already having entered, and hopes for the best.
As one, they both look up.
While the boy with the short cropped hair smiles beatifically, Zayn Malik merely glances up and tilts his head to the side, only the barest smile touching the corner of his lips.
“I told you he’d come, Liam,” is all he says.
“Excellent!” Liam(?) exclaims, raising the half-empty wine bottle in celebration. “I didn’t think you would!”
Louis clears his throat, very aware that neither know his name despite him now knowing both of theirs. Should he introduce himself?
“Well, how could I not?” he settles for instead, a charming smile on his face. “It would have been rude not to, what with all of those lovely flowers you sent. Thanks, lads. You right chased the sick away.”
Liam laughs, politely and cleanly.
Zayn smirks, stubbing out his cigarette, and stands up.
“Liked them, did you?”
