Louis is a really good boyfriend.
Like, an
extremely
good boyfriend. Nay—not ‘good’. Incredible. Devoted. Magnificent. Splendid. Stupid, maybe? Punch-drunk? A bit like a slobbering puppy?
Well, regardless.
Louis is good people and that is the only reason he’s juggling five bakery boxes in his arms right now—all filled with various pastries, decorated precisely and carefully and exquisitely—and climbing up that goddamn flight of endless spiral stairs to Zayn’s rooms.
The struggle is real.
When he finally does make the trek to the top and manages to throw himself through the door while maintaining footing and balance, the first thing he’s greeted with is an immaculately set table—for five—and Harry’s saucer eyes blinking with anxiety, two very large, very different flowers in each hand.
“Which of these whispers ‘we’re going to miss you yet are thrilled with your safe recovery’?” is the first thing he says, cornering Louis and thrusting the flowers in his face.
Louis glances between the two, well-versed enough in Harry-isms to refrain from protest (no matter how inconvenient they may be—his arms are killing him and the cardboard is digging into his bicep) before sighing, taking in the powder blue rose on the left and the magenta and gold stargazer lily on the right. And he continues to stare, a bit baffled.
What was the question, again?
“Er,” he manages, his bicep screaming in protest, and he readjusts the pile in his arms. “The…right one?”
Harry’s eyes almost pop out of his head at the mere implication.
“No, Lou! No, that one’s too
loud
,” Harry chastises, his baritone verging on whiny. Oh dear lord. “Have you even been listening to a word I’ve said this whole day? Do you even care about today? You aren’t even
trying
to make this luncheon nice for Liam. You’re just—“
“Whoah, whoah, settle there, Curly, hold on,” Louis rushes, drowning out Harry’s pouts. With an exasperated sigh, he slides past him, setting the boxes on the table—careful to avoid the china and artfully folded napkins—before turning back around and stepping toe-to-toe with him, immediately cradling his lip-jutted face in his hands.
So it’s going to be one of
those
kinds of days.
“Harold,” he begins, feeling a smirk form, and Harry’s eyes fall to his mouth. “I know you want to make this perfect for Liam—“
“He’s going to rehab, Louis.
Of course
it has to be perfect—“
Louis silences him with his forefinger, pushes it against the cushion of his lips.
“Be that as it may, it’s going to be perfect regardless of the flowers you choose to put on the table.”
Harry very nearly squawks at that, but Louis digs his finger in deeper, feels the ridges of Harry’s teeth beneath his skin.
“You’ve done a beautiful job, love. As you always do. And it’s going to be a wonderful luncheon. Not just because of us five lads, but because you always manage to create quite the setting—whether you’re aware of it or not. Now. Can you please just set the roses on the table, set the lilies somewhere else, and help me unpack these five—very large, I might add—boxes that I’ve generously hauled from the bakery? On foot? Because you asked me to? And I didn’t complain once?” With that, Louis extracts his finger from Harry’s lips, ready to begin pastry-distribution in as timely a fashion as possible because Zayn had said he’d be back with Liam
