The minute that Louis enters his flat, he makes a beeline straight for Niall’s bedroom, his mind still buzzing with “WHAT THE FUCK” and a fire under his skin in all the places it met with Harry’s in his drunken haze.
Because no fucking way can he just flop into bed right now and fall asleep. No, he absolutely cannot do that because his head may explode any minute and his heart is doing weird things and his blood pressure is probably through the roof; death is almost certainly eminent.
And, oh yeah, he’s also pissed at the little Irish fuck because where the hell did he get to tonight? And why the fuck did he abandon Louis, leaving him to support a barely-there Harry Styles? And put him to bed? And thus force him to hold his fucking hand like a small child?
It’s all Niall’s fault.
Fury anew, he bursts through the closed door and immediately sees the sleeping frame of the boy swirled amongst blankets, head cushioned deeply amongst pillows, mouth hanging open comically. He’s still dressed, shoes and all, the room distinctly reeks of marijuana and whiskey, and the remnants of a turkey sandwich sit on his nightstand, half-eaten and drunkenly abandoned.
But Louis is relieved for two reasons:
1. Niall is officially home and not still off gallivanting.
2. Niall’s alone and thus can focus his full attention on Louis who is feeling vulnerable and needy. (He was also sort of terrified of interrupting something that would most likely have scarred him for life.)
“Nialler, Niall, Ireland,” Louis calls as he climbs atop the enormous bed (and damn, don’t those sheets feel soft) and begins shaking the boy awake. “Hey, I need to talk. I need to ask you things. Ireland! Comfort me!” He pats his cheeks between his hands like he’s banging a drum, impatience winning out over gentleness.
And Niall, slowly and confusedly with a brow that is more furrowed than Louis has ever seen it, begins to blearily open his eyes. They cut through the darkness in their crystal luster, seeking Louis’ own, and the animosity that pours from them is actually quite startling.
But Louis plows on anyway.
“Oh, excellent! You’re awake. Now, I need to ask you—“
“Fuck. Off.”
Louis blinks. Wait, what?
“Fuck. Off,” Niall repeats, and his voice is burdened with sleep, his eyes deep set with bags and crust, and maybe there’s a raging hangover in the process, or maybe Niall just really hates being woken up (he does loves his sleep, after all…) but either way, Louis is almost, sort of, maybe terrified.
He eases off of him just a bit, staring down into the cutthroat eyes apprehensively as he brings his hands to his sides and far away from the piranha beneath him.
“Niall…?” he questions carefully.
Niall’s glare increases. “Louis, if you don’t fucking get the fuck off of me, I swear I will fucking rip your fucking head the fuck off.”
Louis gapes, appalled. “Rip my—“
“I will rip your cunt wanking head off with my bare fucking hands and I will feed it to your goddamn mother,” Niall confirms, and even in his exhaustion, his limbs begin to stir.
And while Louis is [almost] sure that Niall wouldn’t actually slaughter him…
“Right then. I’ll see you when you wake. Goodnight, love, sweet dreams!” he sing-songs, hopping off of him in one deft movement and practically sprinting out of the room without a backward glance.
