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comparative essays on keats and wordsworth don't write themselves, and well that's why louis is grudgingly spending his lunch time in the dusty, old school library. he's got a loud and condescending nick grimshaw tagging along behind him, motor-mouthing on about some lame band that louis' never heard of before. louis doesn't care if they sound like james bond on an acoustic acid trip; he doesn't even want to know what that sounds like.
"louis," nick says, whine clearly hanging on to the edge of his voice and louis ignores him, continues down the row of book shelves, fingers running along the spines of ancient books, dusting pillowing into the air, "louis, are you even listen to me?"
"what?" louis says back even though he actually heard nick, he just knows it will infuriate nick, because if there's one thing nick grimshaw hates more than pastel clothes it's being ignored by people who like pastel clothes, "did you say something?" he asks with a raised eyebrow, finally turning to nick and nick is almost an interesting shade of purple.
"i didn't say anything," he huffs, fight obviously not brewing inside him and louis huffs back, he was ready for some bickering, quite hoping it would be the case so nick would storm off in annoyance and louis could get back to his essay on keats and wordsworth and goodness knows what other romantic pieces of poetry will sneak into it all.
"good," louis replies and turns back to the books, counts along the spines, peering at the numbers stuck upon them and pulls out one entitled the complete glossary of poetry techniques and skims through the pages.
"hold this," louis orders as he grabs one of nick's thin wrists, moves nick's hand so that it's out stretched and drops the book into the waiting palm. it's only a little book, but nick makes a big show of holding it in two hands and shit about it being heavy, louis goddammit, do you want to break my hand? louis pays him no attention, just keeps peering at the books.
"what are you even writing an essay about?" nick asks and louis points to the book in his hands, because hello, it's obvious, and then he realises it's an excuse to start a conversation and doesn't turn around because a blush starts on his cheeks and that's unbecoming.
"keats and wordsworth, you're in the class nick." louis says patiently, standing on his tiptoes to look at the row of books just above his head, stares at them like they might give up their secrets if he glares hard enough before dropping back down and moving on, nick close behind, "have you even started your essay?"
louis pulls out another book and flips through a few of the old and brittle pages and nick doesn't reply, stays completely silent. it's a little weird because nick literally doesn't know how to shut the fuck up and louis glances over at him, biting at his lip and watching louis carefully and louis doesn't know what to say or how to react so he snaps the book shut loudly, and makes nick jump. nick looks completely startled and louis laughs, eyes crinkling.
"you're a prick," nick says like his opinion on the fact matters and louis just shrugs, already onto the next lot of books, counting through them, "and of course i haven't started the essay. don't like poetry."
"how very unoriginal of you," louis snorts, shooting nick another raised eyebrow, "always figured you as a romantic poet type, saying stupid, but lyrical things to people, impress them with roses and pretty words, yeah? an ode would be your style, perhaps? you talk enough, surely something other than bullshit comes out of that mouth to sound vaguely interesting."
"i bet you think you're funny," nick rolls his eyes and puts louis' book back on the shelf just to be a dick, and really louis doesn't care because he can just google poetry techniques so whatever.
"i know i'm funny," louis points out and scoots down to the end of the book shelf row to where a little foot stool is situated, picks it up and carries it all the way back to where nick is standing, pops it down on the floor and steps upon it to get a proper look at the top shelf.
"oh," nick says and bursts into laughter.
louis rounds upon him, and with his extra four inches of height from the foot stall he's about as tall as nick is, he points his finger dangerously at nick, frowning heavily but nick is still giggling like the twat he is. he stops when he sees how frightening louis looks, sucking in a couple of breaths to calm himself. louis is not impressed.
"you're so short," nick says, still out of breath, in some kind of lame explanation and louis' eyes narrow, "oh my god, you're so short you need to have a little step ladder to stand atop of so you can see the top row of books.
"it's not a step ladder," louis frowns, it's a foot stool, but that doesn't really sound any better so he stops the train of thought there and nick huffs out another couple of laughs, hiding them behind one elegant hand.
"you're so tiny you probably fit inside my pocket," nick exclaims, looking rather impressed with himself, waggling his eyebrows ridiculously because he just made some stupid metaphor and louis turns away again, turns back to his books and looks for one with wordsworth on the front or something. but, nick doesn't stop nattering, gushing on about how short louis is and fucking hell.
louis is not short.
he's five foot nine; one hundred and seventy five centimetres tall. it's not short. it's really not. the average height of people is four inches smaller than him, that's ten entire centimetres shorter. he's not short. absolutely not short, it's not his fault nick's like the giant from jack and the bean stalk.
"i'm like above average height," louis pouts, staring straight a thick book named something like the complete poetical works of letters of john keats and not even seeing.
"average height for a penguin maybe," nick suggests with a snicker, and louis' not sure if nick realises how big emperor penguins actually are, but doesn't say anything because well, they're still short next to part time giant in story books nick grimshaw here.
"i bet you can't reach the top cupboard in your kitchen without a chair," nick laughs and well, no louis actually can't but neither can anyone else in his family, so like it's no big deal, but he feels his cheeks burning and nick's teasing little laughs increase in noise and there honestly seems no way to make him shut up. or, at least, no possible talking kind of way to make him shut up.
louis spins on his heel, still atop the foot stool and leans over to press a kiss to nick's lips.
it's only meant to shock nick, meant to be a quick press of a kiss, enough to make nick shut the fuck up, but nick kind of sucks in a breathe as louis' lips land on his and louis finds his hand in nick's hair, holding on as he deepens it. nick kisses back tentatively, like he's nervous, which is a ridiculous thought, but when louis pulls back a little, his eyes flutter open to warm and confused and it's a bit like seeing parts of nick no one else has seen.
nick closes the gap this time, less unsure and louis wonders why he hasn't tried this method for shutting nick up before. it's certainly effective and well, the most enjoyable. he wouldn't mind spending the rest of lunch instead of doing his stupid comparative essay on keats and wordsworth, spending the rest of forever doing this.
"shall i compare thee to a summer's day?" nick tries, a little breathless and his eyebrows doing that really stupid wiggling thing again and louis laughs, ducking his head in for one last quick kiss.
"that's shakespeare you idiot." he smirks and well, he guesses nick really sucks at poetry.