Louis’ POV
“Oh my god. What the fuck do I do?” I nearly shouted at Niall, who was perched on the countertop above the bathroom sinks. I scrubbed at my tequila-stained shirt in front of the mirror, trying to slow my racing heart. It felt like it was about to burst through my ribs.
“You go have another drink,” Niall said, grinning as he handed me his glass of rum and coke. I shook my head, glaring at him with angry eyebrows and a pout. I returned to rubbing at the stain. “Very funny, Niall,” I replied, rolling my eyes. “Even alcohol can’t calm my nerves right now. Did you *see* how hot he is?”
“Ee is rather charming, now i-n’t ee?” Niall replied, mimicking an exaggerated British accent instead of his usual Irish brogue. “Fuck off,” I said, tossing my damp paper towel into the sink. I realized then that my shirt was a lost cause. The water had just spread the stain, making it look like sweat blooming across my chest.
“Fuck off? Well, thank you for the offer, Lou. But I think you’re a much better match for *those* things with Mr. Styles,” he giggled, starting to slide off the counter. Instead of landing on his feet, he tumbled into the adjacent toilet stall. I burst out laughing as Niall landed in a heap of toilet paper on the sticky tile floor.
“Okay. Now I actually feel a bit better,” I said, extending a hand to help him up. “Oh, now *you* fuck off,” Niall muttered, kicking the toilet paper off his black sneakers. I smiled at my best friend. He was a feisty drunk—though his sober moods were more subdued—and it was a quality I loved about him, even if I’d never admit it.
“You’d think an Irishman like you could hold his liquor,” I remarked, glancing at my phone in horror. It was 12:50 PM. Ten minutes until I had to meet Harry at the bar. I decided then and there I was going to throw up. I’d probably vomit all over him, and it would get in his hair, and he’d tell everyone he knew about it for the next ten years. I’d be infamous for throwing up on a musician.
I was pretty much doomed.
“I’m holding my liquor better than you, lad. You look white as a ghost,” he said, walking behind me and pinching my cheek as we gazed into the smudged mirror. “Seriously, Louis. You have to calm down. He’s a chill guy. Usually chats with people after the show. It’s not as big a deal as you’re making it out to be. Just talk to him. You’ll be great.”
I nodded slowly, though inside I was screaming “yeah, right.” Sometimes I had to fake confidence, hoping it would manifest into something real—or at least a decent first impression.
I turned on the sink to wash my face and fix my hair one more time, but Niall pulled my arm from behind and started to pull me forward. “Enough grooming. What are you a poodle? It’s 12:55. The music just stopped. Let’s get out there,” he urged.
Considering Niall lifted weights five times a week and the most exercise I got was running to the bathroom during emergencies, I didn’t have much choice. Damn, I thought. Niall was small, but strong as hell.
Niall’s jog slowed to a walk as we re-entered the bar area, and my head began to spin as I tried to remember how many drinks I’d had and, more importantly, what to say to Harry.
As I panicked, Niall casually took a seat on a barstool that a hipster was swiftly exiting (1 AM was usually when they left to go home and snort cold brew coffee while masturbating to vegan documentaries—or whatever it was they did). I stood next to him, nervously picking at my nails, an awful habit I’d picked up in third grade when someone had called them “witch fingers.”
Suddenly, as I twisted off a loose nail, I heard a voice behind me. “Hey! You stuck around,” the guy said, his tone excited. I blushed, turning to face Harry, who was removing his bandana, revealing curls damp with sweat. He was taller than I’d noticed before, and his tight pants accentuated how lean and long his legs were.
Oh. My. God.
“Yeah, I did,” I said, awkwardly extending my hand. Harry gave me a strange look, his eyebrows lowering and his nostrils flaring slightly, before taking my hand and shaking it with a firm grip.
“Well, I’m glad you did. Didn’t get your name, by the way…” he said, looking me up and down. “Louis,” I said a bit too quickly. “I’m Louis… and… er… this is Niall.”
Niall, who was sipping another drink and (somehow?) sporting a new pair of sunglasses, hopped down from the barstool unsteadily and shook Harry’s hand forcefully. “Nice to meet you. Awesome music,” he said, nearly slurring. “Anyways, I have to get going. Lou, I’ll be at the bar down the street. Diana just texted.”
I nodded, grateful Niall was leaving to see Diana—who, as far as I knew, was a Tinder match—because he was getting sloppy and terrified because that meant I’d be alone with Harry.
“Okay, Niall. Text me,” I called, watching him head towards the exit. I returned my attention to Harry, who was chuckling, his broad shoulders bobbing. “A bit too much, right?” Harry said with a chuckle. “Let’s see if we can match his level, yeah?”
My eyes widened and I forced a laugh that sounded like a mix between my mum’s dog sneezing and my grandmother’s snore. Internally cringing, I noticed Harry hadn’t noticed—or was politely ignoring—my snort.
“I’m Harry, by the way. My apologies. I completely forgot to introduce myself,” he said after a few seconds of watching the crowd ebb in and out. “Now let’s get you that drink.”