LAMILLE!!!! god i love you, tell me more
louis likes the clothes that he likes, but he hates fashion shows, always has. he’s not interested in being seen for the sake of being seen, doesn’t want to be forced to walk some sodding red carpet in exchange for an invite to a good time. but he’s here at london fashion week regardless, sat front row with eleanor for balenciaga’s spring/summer ‘19 collection, because he’s a good boyfriend, and good boyfriends do things like this sometimes, especially when they’ve been so busy with work lately that their good girlfriends are starting to get peeved.
he’s got one hand on el’s knee and the other tucked up in his shirtsleeves, and he smiles his tight smile with no teeth at the man taking pictures of them instead of taking pictures of the clothes. as soon as it ends, they’re on their way, off to the next show, and louis just can’t bear it.
“go ahead without me, love,” he says, low against eleanor’s ear. “i’m going to have a smoke. i’ll meet up with you in a bit.”
“i’ll go with you,” she says, brushing a sleek lock of hair behind her ear and staring at him impassively.
“don’t want you to miss anything,” he says. “besides, phoebe’s been texting me. i should ring them before it gets too late. i won’t be long.”
“all right then,” she says finally. “text me when you’re done and i’ll let you know where i am.” he watches her walk away, statuesque and lovely, a little too pretty to even be convincingly real. they’ve been back together long enough that he thinks the shine should be worn all the way off by now, but it’s still there, clinging stubbornly at the corners. some days, she makes him crazy and he wonders why he ever wanted any of this again, but mostly she just makes him so crazy that he can’t imagine life without her.
growing up is fucking weird.
he tucks a smoke between his lips and his phone beneath his ear as he looks for somewhere quiet to linger. between two buildings seems the safest bet. no one will look for him there. phoebe’s phone goes to answerphone, and daisy’s does as well, so he lights his cigarette and inhales gratefully, waiting for one of them to notice the missed call.
“are you fucking kidding me?” comes a voice from down the other end of the alley. he turns to his right, and he has to squint against the sun just to make out a lithe silhouette. the shape moves closer, and it becomes a girl.
“cheers?” he hazards. she doesn’t seem to be a fan, but it’s clear she recognises him. though he can’t imagine from where.
“louis tomlinson,” she says, shaking her head. “am i hallucinating? am i fucking high right now?” she’s smiling, but her eyes look fierce.
“can i do something for you, love?” he asks. he palms his phone, prepared to call for assistance if shit gets out of control. whoever this girl is, she seems mad.
“think you ruined my life, mate,” she says, slipping into a horrid english accent. she grins at him then, loose and messy, and he can see that she’s pissed as anything.
“dunno how i could ruin your life without ever meeting you, but i suppose i’m sorry,” he says. she’s crazy, but she’s fucking pretty. though in his experience, those two do tend to go hand in hand.
she leans against the wall, misjudges the distance and trips one step forward before catching herself with a frown.
“do you know how many messages i get from girls every single day accusing me of standing in the way of true love?” she sing-songs. “do you know how many death threats i get every time i have the audacity go out somewhere in public with my boyfriend?”
ah, shit. she’s one of harry’s, then.
“reckon it’s about half as many as my son’s family gets,” louis mutters. “i really don’t want to talk about this.”
“what is it about you?” she says softly. she looks him down, head to toe, taking in his haircut and his scruff and his tracksuit. “you don’t even look like someone he would want. i know the kind of men he likes. you don’t even make sense.”
“i’m aware,” he says, ignoring the easy way she acknowledged the fact that had remained perpetually unspoken between the two of them, harry’s interest in boys that louis had always pretended not to notice.
“i get so much shit from so many people,” she says quietly.
she doesn’t look crazy anymore. she just looks sad and resigned and a little too drunk for how early in the afternoon it is. he looks at her, takes in her fine features on her pretty face. one of her eyes is bigger than the other, and he finds it arresting, and he can’t stop noticing it.
“strangers hate me so much,” she’s saying. “i thought i was so lucky when i met him, you know? didn’t think shit like that would happen to a girl like me. i was in a bad way before him, but he just made things look brighter and easier for a bit, and i thought maybe if i stood real close, something shiny would rub off on me. and don’t get me wrong, i fucking love him, i do. but it’s brutal sometimes. it’s brutal being so reviled by people who don’t know anything about me. i think i’m strong, but maybe i’m not strong enough. maybe i don’t have the backbone to be hated this much, to be misjudged so completely. to have other people constantly telling me who i am instead of letting me just be. do you have any idea what that’s like?”
“yeah,” louis says, stubbing out his cigarette on the wall and stubbornly forcing himself to think about absolutely nothing. “yeah, i do.”
