Louis arrives to the party forty-five minutes late, his brand new—and very fetching, he must say—trunks underneath his jeans, wearing Niall’s white polo which he grabbed last minute. (What can he say? The boy’s got some good clothes. They’re few and far between, but they do exist.) He’s in the right place—he said Harry’s name at the front desk and they seemed to know what he was talking about—and it’s absolutely gorgeous inside, even if he doesn’t recognize a soul.
The pool is indoors, surrounded by crystal clear glass windows that arch and reach to the sky. The walls are limitless and cream colored, the pool is vast and sparkling, and beautiful vines with brightly colored flowers paint the corners of the room, perfuming the chlorine scented air.
It reeks of wealth and over-indulgence.
Sure, it’s lovely. But it's also wasteful and Louis feels really fucking out of place with his Tom’s and judgmental eyes.
Girls and boys wearing their finest swimwear, holding cocktail glasses, tumblers of rum, and champagne flutes, screech and squeal as they splash each other in the pool, making Vines on their iPhones and posing for Instagram pics.
Louis sort of wants to set them all on fire. And damn, they’d light up fast with all that liquor strewn about.
Near the pool is a fountain, possibly crafted by giants, spewing out what looks to be pastel pink water. Which—why the fuck? And, oh yes, there are people in there, too. They’re splashing and spewing up tinkling laughter and drunkenly balancing on the edge in heels and…appear to be drinking it. All right, then. So there's that.
“If that’s a fountain of champagne, I swear to god,” Louis mumbles under his breath.
But the scene only gets worse.
Because just as Louis is on the verge of considering walking out (there are servers swooping around with caviar smeared on crackers and there’s an entire room dedicated to smoking cigars and watching a footie game—come the fuck on now) Louis spots Harry Styles.
With a fucking falcon on his arm.
Because, yes, Harry Styles has a fucking falcon. He's got the protective arm sleeve and everything. On top of that, he’s adorned in a pink suit and gray satin bowtie. At a pool party.
What the actual fuck?
“Louis!” a voice suddenly exclaims from behind, and oh, praise the heavens, it’s Liam, wearing tiny black trunks (nice abs, Liam, ten points to Gryffindor) and holding a champagne glass. Zayn is at his side in a white button up rolled to his elbows and light brown slacks, fedora in place. “There you are! I’m so glad you’ve come!”
“Why do you always think I’m not going to come?” Louis asks, shaking his hand, then Zayn’s.
Liam shrugs. “I suppose it's because I’m not sure if I would go to all these strange gatherings hosted by strange people I barely even know.”
“Well. I like strange people and I like strange gatherings even more,” Louis grins impishly, and Liam laughs his approval as Zayn smirks. “But what exactly is happening right now?”
“How do you mean?” Liam asks, puzzled.
“Well, I come here and Harry Styles has a bird on his arm," Louis says, he hopes not too unkindly. "What is that…about?” He's playing nice.
Zayn laughs out loud and it’s quite a marvelous laugh, soft and pleased, and Louis can’t help but feel a tiny bit proud of himself. From what he’s gathered, Zayn is a bit of a stoic character and any chance to see that genuine smile—which is gorgeous, in all honesty—is appreciated.
