These Inconvenient Fireworks (original story on ao3 by complemtattoos)

one

L

It was six in the morning and Louis's cat was in his face.

This, Louis thought, is probably a metaphor for the state of his life at that time. Perhaps. He wouldn't think about that yet. He hadn't even had his tea.

- Leaves. he said, the sound coming out muffled by a handful of hair.

He rolled over and placed Duchess on the floor, making an unfortunate noise as he left his room, probably going to vomit on his shoes in spite.

Right. So it was the first day of the semester. He started the year with cat hair in his mouth.

Louis crawled out of bed and set the kettle on, almost tripping over the pile of books and scripts on his bedroom door while he found his glasses. He really needed to fix that shit all of that time. That was accumulated for almost a year at that time, with that paperwork that he always thought of moving, but never got anywhere. Zayn called it his bird's nest. Zayn should go fuck himself, actually.

It had been a boring summer, like the one before that and the one before that. He had read a book. He had bought a new set of bath towels. He spent three days watching stupid American reality shows on his notebook and asking for food to be delivered to his apartment. He was certainly not invited to any meetings.
Louis leaned against the kitchen counter and looked at his collection of useless mugs, trying not to think about it too much.

He turned on the shower and left it open while making his tea, having learned a few years ago how to organize his daily routine with the 10 minutes it took for his building's water heater to start. He had been living there since he moved to Manchester when he was twenty-two and, for the past three years, that has been his life, using his mother's curtains and his plans on his shelf. He slowly managed to put together a respectable collection of furniture, which really matched each other. It was good enough for him, even if he couldn't think of anything to do about that place on his living room wall, which Niall got too drunk and threw a bottle of beer at her.

When he had finished his tea and dried his hair, he pulled on his pants and went to his closet. Dressing for work was always a little tricky. He was not like Zayn, who effortlessly delighted all mothers (and some fathers) just for his existence. Zayn could do a bold haircut and dress like a modern librarian with a motorcycle fetish, because he was Zayn. Either way, Zayn was an English teacher and his fashion sense only made him seem more sensitive and artistic. Louis taught theater and, in return, gained different stereotypes for that. There was a fine line between artistic and camping, making Louis feel right to wear leather boots.

Finally, it was suspenders, pants and shoes for Louis, with his shirt tight with the sleeves rolled up and an occasional thin coat when it was cold enough. It was a classic look and Louis was proud of it. It took time to leave his hair in a state artistically messed up by the wind, so he needed to set his alarm at six o'clock and tried not to let the lost hours of sleep not enrage him murderously for the rest of the day.

As much as he hated to wake up early and spend most of his nights fixing jobs, he liked his job. Well, most of the time he liked it. On the days when no one asked him for the tenth millionth time to explain something he had already repeated, in addition to the times that someone broke one of the stage spotlights before the dress rehearsal, Louis liked his work. He liked to work with children, liked to direct shows and get paid to talk about theater all day.

- Do you like your job. he said to his reflection on one side of the toaster, waiting for his bread to toast.

He left Duchess with a bowl of food and a pat on the head as a reward for getting her out of bed earlier, ignoring the cold look she cast back. Then he gave the mirror a final check and walked out the door with his bag slung over his shoulder. He drove his car to school thinking about what that year would hold for him, asking God for something other than last year's flu epidemic to happen. He had to burn 800 thread count sheets. It was a dark time for everyone.