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It’s nearly midnight and Louis is still in the library surrounded by stacks of old, musty books and balled-up pieces of notebook paper that are beginning to look suspiciously like the squashed remains of his hopes and dreams. He’s trying valiantly not to burst into tears, but as the minutes tick by, he can feel his nerves wearing thin. He’s been at it for hours and he’s barely got three pages to show for it. “Why?” he whispers, lifting his chin to look beseechingly at the ceiling. “Why does it have to be me?”
Louis barely notices when the girl at the next table shoots him a glare. He feels his lungs hitch, struggling to draw enough oxygen into his weary body, and thinks distantly that he probably needs to use the toilet. He can’t really tell…he’s been sitting in the same position for almost ten hours. He doesn’t need a nursing major to tell him that’s far from healthy.
Although he’ll probably need a nursing major to resuscitate him when he inevitably keels over before his essay’s finished. “Damn you, Henry,” Louis hisses, glaring down at his worn copy of Walden. He instantly feels guilty – Thoreau is such a lovely writer, after all – but he doesn’t take it back. He can’t be expected to be on his best behavior all the time and, besides, it’s not Louis’ fault Transcendentalism puts him to sleep. It’s just so peaceful.
The words swim in front of his eyes with what is only partially exhaustion. Louis can feel the pesky tears welling up and blinks hard against them, wondering when crying became a regular part of his writing process. His breath starts coming in short little bursts as his hands shake over the keyboard, making it nearly impossible to type. His heart is pounding so hard it hurts…and all over a stupid essay about Romantic Lit.
He knows it’s pathetic and he knows he’s making a scene, but no matter how hard he tries, he can’t even out his breathing. Just as he’s about to stumble to his feet and race out of the library, a strong hand lands on his shoulder and gives him a little squeeze. “Hey, sweet thing,” Louis hears from behind him.
It’s Nick.
Normally Louis would come up with a brilliant retort – because he’s not sweet, dammit – but it’s all he can do not to shake apart at the seams. So he just cranes his neck to look up at his boyfriend and forces a smile onto his face. Even he can tell it must look more like a grimace. “Hi,” he forces out, the single syllable wavering between quiet gasps for air.
Nick’s smile instantly disappears. He drops down to his knees next to Louis’ chair so they’re at eye-level and grabs both of his trembling hands. “Hey,” he says gently, concern written in his eyes. “Hey, breathe for me, love.” Louis nods wordlessly, feeling a little desperate, and clings to the other boy’s fingers as he gulps deeply, trying to drag air into his lungs. Nick’s whispering to him – that’s it sweetheart and you can do it and you’re alright – and after what feels like an eternity Louis finally calms down enough to feel like a functional human being. Exhausted, he goes boneless and falls forward to press his face into Nick’s shoulder.
“You okay now?” Nick murmurs, bringing one hand up to fiddle with the ends of Louis’ hair as the other rubs soothingly down his back.
Louis just nods, clutching at Nick’s shirt sleeves and flushing a little when he feels hot tears squeeze out of the corners of his eyes. He refuses to open them, because even at midnight the library is surprisingly full and he doesn’t want to see everyone staring at him. It’s embarrassing enough to fall apart over a stupid essay, but it’s downright humiliating to have it happen in front of a roomful of his fellow university students. He kind of wants to curl up into a little ball and never move again.
Nick presses a tiny kiss to Louis’ temple and then pulls back to take Louis’ face between his hands. His voice is low and quiet when he asks, “What brought this on, Lou?”
Cheeks red, Louis sniffles and wipes at his eyes in annoyance. He hates crying. “I don’t know,” he whines, trying to keep his voice down. “I’ve been working all day, but nothing’s getting done and it’s just too much.” He swallows hard, grimacing at the tremor in his voice. “It’s due tomorrow and I…I’m so overwhelmed.” It comes out like a whimper.
His boyfriend gives a single nod and gets to his feet, determination glinting in his dark eyes. “Okay,” he says, planting his hands on the edge of Louis’ table. “Tell me what I need to do.”
Louis blinks up at him. “What?” he asks weakly, confused. “What are you talking about?”
“I’m going to help you, darling,” his boyfriend answers matter-of-factly, his voice mild. He reaches out to gently push Louis’ hair out of his face, a fond smile pulling at the corner of his lips. “What’s the use of having a grad school lover if he isn’t there to pick up the slack every once in a while?”
For the first time all day Louis feels himself smile. “That’s true, I suppose. Gotta earn your keep and all that.” He bites his lip, his stomach flip-flopping as he glances back at Walden and the old reference books about periods of literature. He curls his hands into tight fists to ground himself. There’s no time to break down again. “Okay, can you go through these books and find any mentions of Thoreau? They’ll most likely be under Romanticism or Transcendentalism.”
“I have no idea what any of those words mean,” Nick admits, but he reaches for the biggest book anyway. He opens it with a flourish and pushes his glasses down until they’re barely hanging onto the tip of his nose. Louis rolls his eyes. “Now, what is the guy’s name?” Nick glances down at Walden and tilts his head in confusion. “Thor-oo?” He tries, making Louis snort in surprise.
“You’re the most uncultured person I’ve ever met,” Louis retorts, slowly returning to himself. “It’s Thor-oh and he’s cooler than you.”
“Probably,” Nick agrees, but he doesn’t seem bothered by the admission. He snags one of Louis’ pens and a sheet of paper, getting right to work. Louis loves him a lot.
The next four hours are spent clicking away at his keyboard and inserting quotes from Nick’s cheat sheet. It takes much longer than it should because Louis has to pause every few sentences to take deep breaths, trying to still his rapidly beating heart. He knows it’s irrational, but he can’t help the almost paralyzing fear that claws at him every time it feels like he’s finally getting somewhere. Nick doesn’t call him on it – he just sets a comforting hand on Louis’ knee, stroking his thumb back and forth in a silent show of support. It helps more than Louis would like to admit.
It’s past five by the time Louis reaches the conclusion of his essay and by then the library is completely empty and the lights have been dimmed. Both he and Nick are yawning in earnest, eyes drooping and hair greasy from running stressed fingers through it. “I gotta sleep, man,” Louis sighs out, rubbing at his eyes until he sees stars. “I’ve only got one paragraph left…I’ll do it tomorrow before class.”
“No argument here,” Nick answers, taking his glasses off just to slam his forehead against the table. He reaches out blindly, flailing a little until he finds Louis’ hand. He gives it a little squeeze. “I’m so proud of you, darling,” he mumbles and for once he’s not teasing. “You were scared, but you did it.”
If anyone asks, Louis will blame it on the late hour and the dim lights and the quiet of the library, but at that moment he can feel himself melting. His heart turns into a gooey mess and he almost tears up again, huffing out a tiny laugh and shaking his head. “I couldn’t have done it without you,” he admits, petting at Nick’s hair where the older boy is still pressing his face into the table. “I’d probably be off crying somewhere.” His voice drops to a whisper. “Thank you.”
Nick finally sits up, a half-smirk stretched across his face. “How about you come over here and thank me proper?” he suggests, wiggling his eyebrows up and down. He looks so ridiculous that Louis lets out a snicker and claps his hand over his mouth.
“You wish,” he throws back, but he’s out of his chair in a second. He drops gracelessly into Nick’s lap just to hear the resulting oof! and presses his lips against Nick’s without another word. Nick’s hands instantly find his waist and Louis sighs contentedly, all panic and fear a distant memory.
They kiss for a long time, tired and slow and – in Louis’ case – so, so grateful. When they finally come up for air, the first rays of sunlight are shining through the tinted library windows, glinting prettily off the snow. They look at each other for a second before they break into sleepy giggles. “So much for sleeping,” Nick says good-naturedly, running his hands down Louis’ arms and then leaning in to give him a peck on the nose. “I need to be up in like two hours.”
Louis just shrugs. “You’re a makeup major…you don’t need sleep,” he teases just to make Nick bristle.
And bristle he does. “For the last time,” his boyfriend huffs, “I study dermatology. That has nothing to do with makeup!” Then he wrinkles his nose cutely. “Kind of,” he qualifies, making Louis cackle and raise his fist in victory. “Just shut up…it’s too early to espouse the merits of my craft.”
Louis pats his arm indulgently. “I know, love. I know…old people need a good eight hours at least.”
The squawk that comes out of Nick’s mouth is both hilarious and endearing. He moves to shove Louis off his lap, nearly shouting, “I’m never helping you again, you little shit!”
Louis tightens his legs around Nick’s waist, narrowly avoiding being thrown to the ground. He ignores the older boy’s protests, effectively shutting him up with a quick kiss. When he pulls away, he pokes his lower lip out in what he hopes is an adorable pout. “I really do appreciate it,” he promises, knowing when to stop playing. “And I kind of love you a lot.”
Nick rolls his eyes. “I love you, too, you absolute pain in the arse.” Then his fingers press ever so slightly into Louis’ hips. “And we can do this again if you ever need it.”
And, shit, Louis is tearing up again. “Okay,” he whispers, reaching behind him to grab Nick’s glasses and carefully put them back on his boyfriend’s face. “Wanna stay in the dorm tonight? Liam’s probably already gone. He gets up at stupid o’clock in the morning to go on a run every day. Something about health and fitness and whatnot.”
“Sounds good,” Nick agrees, carefully setting Louis back on the ground and helping him gather his stuff. “I’ll take his bed then.”
Affronted, Louis petulantly crosses his arms over his chest. “You’ll do no such thing!” he cries. “We’re sharing or you’re going home!”
“If we must,” Nick sighs, but it sounds an awful lot like I love you.