Snippet: Shirley Valentine (Liam/Louis)
Dec. 9th, 2018 07:15 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
magicalrocketshipsOriginally posted here.
So…. I found this in an email draft in gmail, with no name in the to: field, and no idea when I wrote it or why. But here, have the beginning of a not fic in which Louis works behind the bar in a package holiday resort in Greece, and Liam’s there with his friends for a holiday. Obviously there will have been a ridiculous happy ending, because this is me we’re talking about.
Essentially Louis is aimless and he’s failed his AS levels once and dropped out the second time, and didn’t go to X Factor, and instead he just says, fuck it all, and goes to work a season as a barman at a hotel in Greece. He reasons that he isn’t eating his mum out of house and home and he can still send money home to help, but he’s sick of being a failure and a loser and not knowing what he wants to do with his life.
Louis has a good summer. He works behind the bar in a three star hotel complex a bit up from the main beach, and there’s a pool and sun beds and the majority of the tourists are English in the area, so it’s a bit like he gets to keep up with home whilst at the same time soaking up the sun in Greece. The bar does a full English for breakfast, and sausages and burgers and chips and essentially all the comforts of home, but with 35 degree heat. The girls flirt with him, and the wives flirt with him, and the mums flirt with him, and he makes faces at the kids and sits at the bar when there’s no one to serve, watching Sky Sports on the telly and watching the families and couples by the pool.
It’s an all right job, all things considered. There’s an Irish place down the road, Fagin’s, and there’s a guy there who is out for the summer playing his guitar a couple of nights a week. Once Niall discovers Louis, he’s always in and out of the bar where Louis works, flirting with the girls and occasionally offering to teach them how to play guitar. His is the language of shagging, all things considered, and Louis can’t count the number of times Niall’s winked at him over the bar and gone off to kiss a girl a lot round the back of the hotel.
It’s getting towards the end of the season when a group of lads turn up. They’re all wearing t-shirts with their names on the front, and livin it large GREECE 2013 on the back.
One of them looks a bit embarrassed about it, which Louis takes to be a good thing. The hotel is usually for couples and friends and families; most of the big groups like this like to be down on the strip, where all the bars are and the girls from Newcastle and Liverpool and Leeds and Birmingham out on the streets offering them cheap drinks deals and a shot on the house to tempt them into the beach bars every night. This is a late booking, though, and they’ve been here about seven minutes–barely enough time to get upstairs and put their bags in their apartments–before they’re back in the bar ordering beers all round, shots of ouzo to start, and a full English for them all.
Louis says, “All right, lads, where are you from?” As he lines up seven shot glasses on the counter and pours out the ouzo from a large bottle.
“Wolvo,” one of them says, as they drag tables together, and take a good look at the pool as they get themselves sorted.
One of them, blond and loud, yells over the bar to the pool, “Watch out ladies, the lads are here.” There are at least three groups of female friends staying at the moment, but the only women who whoop back are the ones that are here with their husbands. Louis sees a lot of life, here.
Only one of them stays at the bar to ask about paying.
Louis grins at him. “Like I’m going to let you leave without getting money out of you. Go sit down, we’ll settle up later. How long are you here for?”
“Fortnight,” the lad says, and he’s kind of cute. Not that Louis pays any attention to that kind of thing; dimples and a bit of five o'clock shadow and a bit of a faux-hawk that looks kind of soft and fuzzy to the touch. He doesn’t think too much about the ripple of muscles under the too-tight t-shirt. “We’re not too loud, are we?”
“It’s Greece,” Louis says, as he grabs seven cans of lager from the shelf under the counter. Nothing on tap here; the hotel’s running on a shoestring as it is. “You’re on your holidays. Have at it.”
“Well, tell me if we are. I’ll try and get them to quiet down.”
Louis laughs at that. “Seriously, don’t worry. It’s your holidays. Go sit down, I’ll bring all these over.”
So…. I found this in an email draft in gmail, with no name in the to: field, and no idea when I wrote it or why. But here, have the beginning of a not fic in which Louis works behind the bar in a package holiday resort in Greece, and Liam’s there with his friends for a holiday. Obviously there will have been a ridiculous happy ending, because this is me we’re talking about.
Essentially Louis is aimless and he’s failed his AS levels once and dropped out the second time, and didn’t go to X Factor, and instead he just says, fuck it all, and goes to work a season as a barman at a hotel in Greece. He reasons that he isn’t eating his mum out of house and home and he can still send money home to help, but he’s sick of being a failure and a loser and not knowing what he wants to do with his life.
Louis has a good summer. He works behind the bar in a three star hotel complex a bit up from the main beach, and there’s a pool and sun beds and the majority of the tourists are English in the area, so it’s a bit like he gets to keep up with home whilst at the same time soaking up the sun in Greece. The bar does a full English for breakfast, and sausages and burgers and chips and essentially all the comforts of home, but with 35 degree heat. The girls flirt with him, and the wives flirt with him, and the mums flirt with him, and he makes faces at the kids and sits at the bar when there’s no one to serve, watching Sky Sports on the telly and watching the families and couples by the pool.
It’s an all right job, all things considered. There’s an Irish place down the road, Fagin’s, and there’s a guy there who is out for the summer playing his guitar a couple of nights a week. Once Niall discovers Louis, he’s always in and out of the bar where Louis works, flirting with the girls and occasionally offering to teach them how to play guitar. His is the language of shagging, all things considered, and Louis can’t count the number of times Niall’s winked at him over the bar and gone off to kiss a girl a lot round the back of the hotel.
It’s getting towards the end of the season when a group of lads turn up. They’re all wearing t-shirts with their names on the front, and livin it large GREECE 2013 on the back.
One of them looks a bit embarrassed about it, which Louis takes to be a good thing. The hotel is usually for couples and friends and families; most of the big groups like this like to be down on the strip, where all the bars are and the girls from Newcastle and Liverpool and Leeds and Birmingham out on the streets offering them cheap drinks deals and a shot on the house to tempt them into the beach bars every night. This is a late booking, though, and they’ve been here about seven minutes–barely enough time to get upstairs and put their bags in their apartments–before they’re back in the bar ordering beers all round, shots of ouzo to start, and a full English for them all.
Louis says, “All right, lads, where are you from?” As he lines up seven shot glasses on the counter and pours out the ouzo from a large bottle.
“Wolvo,” one of them says, as they drag tables together, and take a good look at the pool as they get themselves sorted.
One of them, blond and loud, yells over the bar to the pool, “Watch out ladies, the lads are here.” There are at least three groups of female friends staying at the moment, but the only women who whoop back are the ones that are here with their husbands. Louis sees a lot of life, here.
Only one of them stays at the bar to ask about paying.
Louis grins at him. “Like I’m going to let you leave without getting money out of you. Go sit down, we’ll settle up later. How long are you here for?”
“Fortnight,” the lad says, and he’s kind of cute. Not that Louis pays any attention to that kind of thing; dimples and a bit of five o'clock shadow and a bit of a faux-hawk that looks kind of soft and fuzzy to the touch. He doesn’t think too much about the ripple of muscles under the too-tight t-shirt. “We’re not too loud, are we?”
“It’s Greece,” Louis says, as he grabs seven cans of lager from the shelf under the counter. Nothing on tap here; the hotel’s running on a shoestring as it is. “You’re on your holidays. Have at it.”
“Well, tell me if we are. I’ll try and get them to quiet down.”
Louis laughs at that. “Seriously, don’t worry. It’s your holidays. Go sit down, I’ll bring all these over.”
