Chapter Text
Louis literally runs into Liam in the dairy section of Tesco's. He turns a corner with a bit more speed than called for and crashes his cart right into Liam's, who was of course navigating it down the aisle with the heedful air of someone who is constantly on alert. For a long moment they just stare at each other with flushed faces, both scrabbling for something to say. Louis seriously considers just grabbing the carton of eggs he was going for and then pushing his cart away in a mad dash, but Liam gets to his words first.
“Sorry, mate.” He rubs the back of his neck as he gives Louis an apologetic grimace.
Louis shrugs, mirroring the same look of discomfort. “'S alright.”
Another awkward moment of silence follows and Louis wants to ask Liam why he's at this Tesco's anyway, seeing as there's one closer to his own flat (and no, Louis is not being territorial over a grocery store, he's just curious). But that isn't a very polite question so he thinks maybe asking about Liam's family might be a better idea in this situation. Before he knows it, Liam is again ruining any sort of plan he might have put into action by opening his mouth.
“I, uh, I should go,” he's saying as he edges his cart around Louis'.
Louis clears his throat, nods. “Right. Can't be seen speaking to each other, yeah?”
The last fleeting look he gets of Liam's face is of an expression pinched with uneasiness and maybe something resembling regret. Even after Liam has disappeared from view, Louis just stands there, wondering how things had gotten so fucked up.
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The first thing Louis does once he gets home is storm into Zayn's room and fling the door open so violently the other man lets out an uncharacteristic squeal from where he's lying on his bed. Louis crosses the room in a few long strides and collapses face first onto the bed next to Zayn without asking for permission (he doesn't need permission, fuck asking for permission). He groans loudly, smashing his face into a pillow that smells like the familiar mixture of expensive cologne and cigarette smoke – eau de Zayn Malik.
“Christ, Lou,” Zayn says, sighing loudly. “What's up?”
“I saw Liam at bloody Tesco's, that's what's up,” Louis grumbles, almost inaudible against the pillow his face is buried in.
Zayn lets out another weary sigh and follows it up with a poke to Louis' side, making the other man squeak and shift away a bit. He's well-versed in the art of comforting Louis by now but time and experience does not make it any more enjoyable of a task. Some days, he's convinced that he's somehow adopted a six-year-old in the body of his twenty-two-year-old best friend. Even more frequently he wants to throw his hands up in the air and ask: what have I done to deserve this?
“Did you?” Zayn asks, rolling onto his front and dropping his head onto the covers so that his face is just a few inches away from Louis' where it's still hidden.
“'S what I said, yeah?” Comes the grumbled reply.
“Okay, and what happened?”
“It was bloody weird, like we were … strangers.”
Zayn frowns, closes his eyes tightly. He doesn't want to get frustrated but it's difficult because all he feels is really, really pissed off whenever something like this happens. It's impossible to avoid the other boys completely, seeing as they all live in London still and they all regularly attend the same events but it doesn't mean he's become immune to the deep-rooted rage that billows up inside at the sight of the others. Trying to ignore the simmering anger, Zayn throws his arm over Louis' back and curls his hand against the other man's side.
“Just forget about it, Lou,” Zayn mumbles against the blankets. “Nothing we can do about it.”
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The atmosphere of the club is thick and pulsating, almost suffocating in its density. Any other night, it would've been thrilling. Tonight, it's borderline repulsive.
Louis is sitting at the bar, finger lightly tracing the sweaty curve of the beer bottle in front of him as Zayn slumps next to him doing practically the same thing with his own bottle. They've been quiet all night, pushing away anybody who dares to approach them with forced smiles and clipped words. It's not exactly the most productive way to act at a club, and really, what are they even doing here if they're not interested in socializing? But truthfully, neither of them are looking for anything but an excuse to get drunk somewhere other than their messy flat.
So far, their plan is working out fairly badly. Louis is on his third beer of the night and doesn't even feel a buzz (however, he has every intention of ordering a round of shots next and knocking back every single one in rapid succession).
Zayn, on the other hand, is struggling through his first beer at such a slow pace the bartender keeps throwing him concerned looks. Nobody at a club on a Saturday night drinks like that unless they're brooding quite severely over something and that level of angst is never a good thing when you're around other people.
“Mate, you're embarrassing yourself,” Louis hisses after he drains his bottle, setting it back down on the bar with a triumphant thump.
Zayn frowns, shakes his head. “I can't do it. I honestly cannot keep drinking.”
“Yes, you can,” Louis replies curtly as he gestures at the bartender. “We are not leaving this club until you are so drunk you -”
Before Louis can get another word in, there's a commotion at the entrance of the club and both men direct their eyes in that direction, eyebrows raised.
They watch as three familiar figures appear like glowing beacons through the door, the man in the lead stumbling clumsily over the threshold. Louis' breath catches in his throat and he watches, shamelessly mesmerized, as Harry Styles straightens his long legs under his equally lengthy torso, a hand clamped tightly on Liam's shoulder.
Harry's laughing loudly at something, probably himself. His green eyes are narrowed in mirth as he reaches out to grab the snapback off the head of the other man they're with, who Louis can clearly see even through the awful lighting is Niall. The Three Musketeers. The Three Amigos. The Trio of Twats. They have a lot of nerve, really, showing up at this club when there are so many others to choose from.
Louis jerks violently back into consciousness as Zayn grabs his knee, squeezing too tightly.
“Lou.” Zayn's voice is deathly serious, swiftly anchoring Louis to the critical situation at hand.
Louis' voice is a bit choked when he replies. “Yeah?”
“We need to get drunk.”
“I know.”
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Six shots of rum each and half an hour later, Louis and Zayn are smoothly cruising down the highway of intoxication.
They are still sitting at the bar in their original places, but are now giggling furiously at nothing and everything at the same time. They're doing their best to hold in their liquored-up glee but failing quite spectacularly. Sometimes Louis can't help but let out a shrill, high-pitched peal of laughter, making Zayn dissolve into hysterics.
The bartender no longer looks worried but now looks irritated, like they're seriously putting a damper on his otherwise enjoyable night. Which may or may not be the case – who really wants to deal with two trashed ex-pop stars?
“I – I don't even -” Louis is stammering, his face bright red, “What am I even saying?”
“I don't know, mate, I don't know,” Zayn crows out in reply, shaking his head more fiercely than necessary.
His once carefully done quiff (without that streak of blonde in it, thank god - Louis managed to talk him into dying it out) is deflated pitifully against his forehead. Louis' shirt, once buttoned-up neatly, is undone far enough that a vee of tanned, slightly damp skin is exposed. They're on their merry way to looking like a pair of drunken slobs with no sense of self-pride but neither can really be arsed to care. Their three ex-best mates are in the same club as them, breathing the same air as them, and they will not allow that sort of disruption to ruin their night.
Louis lets out a delayed chuckle. “I need to dance or – or maybe I need to drink some more?” The bartender shoots a sharp warning glance in Louis' direction and the blue-eyed man immediately falters. “Maybe I'll just dance?”
“Yeah, yeah, let's dance,” Zayn agrees airily, nodding loosely like a bobble-head as he maneuvers himself off of the bar stool with both hands. “I'll go find myself a pretty girl and you go find yourself a fit bloke and -”
But Louis is already gone, weaving unsteadily away from the bar and towards the dance floor. He can already tell that he's going to hate himself and his decisions in the morning because drinking rum always ends in an agonizing hangover the next day. But it's too late to un-drink those shots. Plus, he deserves to get a bit crazy, doesn't he?
He honestly cannot remember the last time he went out and had a really good time. He usually just sticks to drinking at home and if he does drink out in public, it's because he's at some event (usually for some charity, which is funny because it's incredibly charitable of him to even show up). Drinking numerous flutes of champagne is the only way he can keep himself from running out of the building screaming during those things.
Louis manages to entrench himself firmly into the mass of writhing, grinding bodies within no time and although he doesn't have a dance partner already lined up, he joins in with just as much gusto as those who do. Because rum is not only the bringer of massive fucking hangovers but also the cause of what Zayn calls 'Louis Dance Mania' or LDM. During these episodes, he becomes even more liberated than usual and has no qualms about dry humping random people on the dance floor to the beat of top 40 hits. Tonight is no exception to the rum rule.
At some point, a pair of hands grip his hips and he turns his head to smile at the blonde girl behind him. Not exactly a 'fit bloke' but she's giving him a cheeky grin as she rubs herself against his back and that works.
He's not sure how long he dances for or with how many people (he keeps finding himself getting grabbed from behind by both men and women without receiving any warning and without giving any authorization) but he thinks it's probably been a fairly long time when he glances up and sees Zayn. He's bobbing up and down over the throng of people dancing, trying to get his attention. He looks like a right idiot, and Louis wants to tell someone just that, but the guy currently plastered onto him like he's trying to become his conjoined twin is definitely too into groping Louis' ample ass to appreciate such an observation.
With a frown and furrow of his brows, Louis raises one arm above the heads of those around him and spreads his palm upwards as if to say 'what?'. He briefly loses sight of Zayn as the other man gets swallowed into a mass of people attempting some sort of group performance to the song that's blaring overhead (who do they think they are? The cast from that bloody awful American movie? What is it? Step Off?) but a second later Zayn is fighting his way out.
Nobody seems to give a flying fuck that they're being pushed aside by Zayn Malik, former member of One Direction; they all throw him the same nasty glare that they'd give any other rude asshat steamrolling through the otherwise harmonious dance floor.
“Lou!” Zayn manages to yell out before he's being pulled in between two girls who seem to be determined to get into his pants a.s.a.p (Louis is convinced that he actually sees his best mate slapping away a pair of hands getting too close to his jeans zipper).
“What?” Louis bellows, cupping his hands around his mouth in hopes that his words will carry.
They clearly don't because Zayn is now looking almost intrigued as the girl pressed to his front leans up to say something into his ear. Louis rolls his eyes because typical Zayn to get sidetracked by a pretty face. Without a word of apology, Louis pulls away from the guy who has been basically dancing on him like a stripper on a pole and threads his way back out to the bar.
The same bartender gives him a withering look but doesn't protest when Louis orders a rum and coke, just makes it and sends it skittering down the bar. He's still feeling quite loose but his throat itches and he's suddenly afraid that he'll start sobering up before he even leaves the club. That seems very, very wrong so he knocks back the drink in his hand in one go.
Louis is savoring the burn of alcohol and carbonation searing his esophagus with his eyes closed when a body pushes up against him, trying to fight its way to the bar. He opens his eyes with every intention of telling the person to fucking step off (oh, nope, that movie was Step Up, wasn't it?) but when he sees who it is, he immediately falls silent.
Harry doesn't seem to notice who he's just jostled aside or if he has, he doesn't acknowledge it, which stings quite a bit because who the hell does Harry think he is? Louis is honestly too drunk right now to be pressed right up next to Harry Styles against his will. Being discreet about his displeasure really can't be expected.
“Well, hello,” Louis says, already throwing in a dramatic eye roll, “Didn't you learn not to push people back in school?”
Harry's green eyes snap down to his shoulder where Louis' head is hovering and there's a confused blankness in them as he wraps his mind around the situation he's suddenly found himself in. Louis is looking up at him with a disgruntled gaze, his blue eyes practically rippling with a promise of sass.
As if burned, Harry swiftly turns his body so that he's as far away from Louis as possible, which isn't very far, seeing as a bar stool blocks him in from behind. Louis briefly considers punching Harry in the face while there's still time because he's never been in a bar fight before and why not start one now? But then he's being distracted by the sudden change of expression on Harry's face.
“And didn't you learn not to hog the entire bar with your enormous ass?” Harry shoots back, eyes cold.
Louis' eyes widen with offense for a split second before narrowing into slits. “I'm sorry, do they teach that in school as well?”
Before the conversation can get much further, Zayn is stumbling into the two of them like he's done so on purpose but the fiery glare he throws over his shoulder indicates that he's been pushed quite disrespectfully by someone.
Neither Harry nor Louis say anything, just wait for the inevitable dawning of realization. It takes the next few moments for Zayn to recognize who he's currently draped over and it takes him much less time to pull away at the sight of Harry's blood-chilling scowl.
“Bloody fucking hell,” he says, his eyes flickering over to Louis then back to Harry. “What's -”
“I was just about to leave, actually,” Harry interrupts coolly, already shimmying away from the bar while doing an exemplary job at not touching Zayn on the way, “Sorry I can't chat, lads.”
After he's gone, Louis looks up at Zayn and quirks up one corner of his mouth.
“I was just about to get into my first bar fight, Zayn. Then you had to come around and ruin it for me.”