Young & Beautiful

thanks.”
“Of course you can! Doesn’t change that I’m offering. Come on, I think the driver’s still outside.
Thank mates,” the boy adds, casually sliding notes into the men’s hands as they bring in the last of
Niall’s belongings.
The driver’s still outside? Louis is definitely not going to be able to handle this world.
“As much as I love a good chauffeur, I prefer walking. So—“
“Excellent! I could use the fresh air after being stuck in that fuckin’ car all day. I can’t stand all
that sitting. It’s so goddamn boring.”
And before Louis knows quite what’s happening, he’s being ushered down the street and talked at
vivaciously, almost abrasively enthusiastically. (Is there such a thing? Louis would have said no
five minutes ago.)
No. Louis is definitely not going to be able to handle this at all.
*
Niall Horan doesn’t stop talking for two days.
His voice carries through the suite, filling in the spaces and settling in the floorboards, and Louis
can’t imagine how he ever felt lonely because what is lonely when there’s Niall Horan?
He barely has time to brush his teeth in silence, always finding himself answering some ridiculous
question called to him from the other room or, worse yet, finding himself singing along to
whatever ditty Niall’s concocted on the piano or guitar. Because now Louis’ life consists of a
blonde, brash Irish lad, clad in pricey track pants and preppy sweaters, oozing money out of his
every pore as he serenades Louis with chaos and leaves him whiskey chasers in the morning,
weed at night.
And though he’s not his friend (nope, because Louis could never become friends with such an
over-privileged cog in the machine), he’s willing to put money on the possibility that he knows
everything there is to know about this usually-drunk, sometimes-stoned, gleaming ray of laughing
sunshine who plays classical piano at the break of dawn and clumsily plucks out guitar solos in the
darkest hours of night, sleek electronics surrounding him, consuming piles of food at every turn.
That first lunch they’d went to was a learning experience in itself.
They’d only been there for twenty-five twinkling minutes (Niall insisted on some snobbish bar
where they served you bowls of water, crisp napkins, and simpering smiles when Louis just
wanted some chips, maybe a bit of chicken?) and Louis already knew where Niall was born, what
his father’s occupation was—a big time music producer, actually, which Louis begrudgingly finds
intriguing—why his parents divorced and when, how Niall came about the decision to attend
school here as opposed to Ireland, what his four favorite cheeses are (cheddar, brie, gouda, and
camembert) and his favorite brand of whiskey (Macallan). He also offered Louis a cigar three
times, because apparently he’s forty-five years old.
Now, Louis’ never been a quiet person. He’s never been one to sit in the back and observe, unless
in a foul mood. But even his own rambunctiousness is absolutely shadowed by Niall’s, who, he is
quite sure, could befriend a broomstick.
It’s horrifying, it’s annoying, and it’s….strangely fascinating.