“Why the fuck are you awake this early?”
Louis blinks at the question, having just emerged from his room fully dressed (he chose a very wintery jumper on occasion of it being December 1st), and pauses as he takes in the image of Niall, half adorned in golf clothes, smoking a cigar, and pouring himself a glass of what Louis hopes is grape juice.
“Why are you?” Louis counters, searching for his shoes, resolutely ignoring the question. Because no, he is not going to admit to Niall that he’d been planning out the day ever since they’d gotten home last night, and no, he’s certainly not going to tell him of his plans to fetch Harry some morning coffee before he goes to his rooms.
And no, he’s definitely not going to address the fact that it’s only eight in the morning and yet he fully intends on arriving at Harry’s door within the hour. And why that might be considered bad manners. Or obsessive. Those issues definitely aren’t going to be addressed.
“I never went to bed,” Niall smirks in response, downing his glass of burgundy whateverthefuck.
“And why ever not?”
He shrugs, refilling his glass. “I went out after you went to bed.”
“Again? Have you ever actually touched a book before? Just curious,” Louis asks, throwing him a pointed look as he slides on his shoes, one by one, eyes already searching for his jacket and scarf.
“I’m sure I have.” Niall pauses, wipes his mouth, and a tiny burp escapes him. “Let’s get breakfast. I’m hungry,” he then states in a very final tone, glancing at his Rolex with lightly pink eyes.
“Can’t,” Louis says, sliding his arms into the sleeves of his jacket—which was behind the couch somehow—and carefully avoiding Niall’s expectant eyes. “I’ve—er—I’ve got to study.”
“At half past eight,” Niall deadpans. “Really?”
Fuck.
Louis clears his throat, winds the scarf around his neck. “Yep.”
Niall watches him, hands splayed on the counter, his hair scattered yet mysteriously grease-free. His cheeks are flushed rosy and his eyes are unblinking, boring into Louis’ every movement.
“No,” he finally says simply, still watching Louis. “Food first. I don’t feel like eating alone.”
Louis sighs, long and suffering, before finally meeting Niall’s firm gaze. “I’m serious, Ireland. I have to study.”
“But you’re not actually going to study.”
“And what makes you say that.”
“Because you don’t wake up this early for studying. Especially if I haven’t even touched the piano.”
Louis looks sharply to him then, eyes narrowed. “Wait. Are you telling me that you’re fully aware that that bloody piano wakes me up? And yet you still continue to play it?”
Niall grins, easy and blissful. “I’ll never tell.”
“Of fucking course,” Louis breathes, rolling his eyes and walking towards the door, fully intending to ignore Niall and just start his day, his mind only on one thing: seasonal lattes.
“I saw you chatting up with Harry a lot yesterday. And last night as we walked home,” Niall suddenly says, and he’s still at the counter, peering at Louis with careful eyes and bold shoulders.
And fuck. He isn’t going to let this go, is he?
“You mean when you were running about like a madman?” Louis asks, begrudgingly halting his stride and turning to face Niall, hands in pockets, the weight of his bag pressing into his shoulder.
