As the second term of Louis’ first year in university goes by, so does his sanity.
It’s not because he isn’t enjoying himself—he truly is, and though he may despise his father for his self-centered, ignorant ways, he can’t deny that he’s been given an incredible opportunity.
No, it’s more because everything seems to have changed, been turned on its head drastically and irreparably…while simultaneously remaining exactly the same as it’s always been.
Niall still laughs by day, parties by night, leaving crumbs and odd odors in his wake, a trail of cigar smoke, an echoed piano key; or sometimes Rory, much to Louis’ delight because it’s
Rory
and he’s a comforting presence, especially if Louis is in need of another soul to fill the large, elaborate flat on those particularly dark nights. And he makes a good cup of tea which Louis always respects to a most serious degree.
But still, Niall is Niall and he fills the pauses in the day and leaves chaos in his wake. On those particularly chilly mornings, he will barrel into Louis’ room—as he’s only just beginning to blink bleary eyes open into blinding sun—and flounce onto the bed, wrapping Louis up in his arms.
“We’ve been nominated for a Brit and Grimshaw’s gonna meet with me about possibly doing a mini tour! ‘Certain Things’ is still number one in seven countries! I’ve made it, Tommo! And I’m only 20 years old!” he practically sings one morning, cheeks soft and blushed, hair damp and smelling of quality soap and linen.
Louis groans, trying to push him away, clinging to the shreds of his dreams which were far more pleasant than the reality that awaits him.
Which only makes Niall hold tighter, eyes closed blissfully as he snuggles in closer.
Nick Grimshaw? Firstly, no thanks.
Secondly, touring? With Des? The human timebomb? Absolutely not.
Thirdly, a Brit? Well. That’s not too shabby.
“Does Harry know about all this?” Louis rasps, morning breath in full swing.
Niall shrugs. “I think so. Grimmy made it sound like it.”
“’Grimmy?’” Louis asks, distaste apparent even in his half-woken state. “You’ve gotten to pet names now? Really?”
“That’s what everybody who’s anybody calls him,” Niall assures him with a wink. “Now shut your hole and cuddle me. It’s been a good morning.”
“My morning hasn’t even begun,” Louis grumbles, but, maybe, tucks his body towards Niall, letting himself be engulfed with the warmth of Niall’s jolly, radiating Irish body.
“My night’s gonna be even better,” Niall plows on. “I’m the place to be. Do you know how many parties I’ve gotten invited to already? It’s fuckin’ mad.”
“They only like you because of your fame, you know.”
“I only like them because of their free liquor.”
“As if you couldn’t afford it?”
“Shh, Tommo, shh,” Niall soothes, smushing his hand to Louis’ face. “Don’t ruin the moment.”
And then a there’s a beat before:
“Ireland, did you just fucking fart?”
So, yes, Niall hasn’t changed at all.
And neither have Zayn and Liam, England’s 21st century power couple.
Well.
Mostly.
