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"Every guy I fancy is gay!" She yells, exaggeration filling her voice. She throws her legs up on the small coffee table and crosses her arms over her chest. Her white tanktop clings to her body gracefully, showing her well sat breasts.
Louis averts his eyes and glances up at her. The steaming mug in his hands warms his icy fingers. The scent of Livia's perfume drags up to his nose; violet leaf and lily of the valley. Pure and fresh. He breathes it in.
"What about Brad? He's a good lad." Louis comments complaisant. He crosses his legs and puts his mug on the table.
"I caught him fucking Chester." Livia frowns. "Besides, he isn't my type."
Louis smiles amused, leaning his head on his hand. "Your type is guys that look like girls. Ever thought about that?"
Livia glares at him, "I'm not gay. I literally never-" Her eyes wander abruptly. Louis follows her gaze to a tall girl who's talking to the librarian. Her skin-tight dress leaves nothing to the imagination, a cigarette is tugged behind her ear.
"Who is that?" Livia questions, gobsmacked. Her face is flushed and she draws her legs up on the couch. "She's-" She stops herself, watching the girl again as she receives a book from the librarian and waves her goodbye.
Louis grins smugly at Livia, "Eleanor. She's head of the LGBTQ organization of Uni."
"You're kidding?" Livia grumbles, picking at her shirt.
"She's friends with Niall." Louis shrugs, uncrossing his legs. "You should stop by." He winks.
-
Five crucial, hours of studying later, Louis finds himself on the bus home. His skin is oily, his hair sticks to his forehead and he's sure he reeks like garbage. The whole academic validation thing is getting progressively worse. His morning lecture was fine though. Mr. Cross is a fine man with a sharp jawline and sinful eyes. Louis loves his lectures in whatever he teaches. Older men enchant his legs into jelly.
Louis gets off the bus. Brisk wind blows through his unruly hair. He blinks up at the sky. An orange tint overshadows the grey, cloudless endlessness. The evening dawns. It's not even six p.m. The winter is approaching quickly this year. He isn't prepared for family Christmas and another year slipping through his fingers. He's, of course, being theatricality melodramatic. It's barely the end of autumn.
He walks down the streets, stopping for his daily coffee at Starbucks. He needs caffeine to function. The six hours of peaceful sleep he gifts himself aren't enough and probably never will be but he still can't bring himself to shut his eyes earlier. He treads the rest of his walk with an unusual straight posture. Coffee changes him. He knows he won't do anything as soon as he gets home. He'll probably watch Tv and binge on Icecream, then judge his apereance in the mirror.
The sun dissappears fully behind blood red clouds, striking the watercolor sky. Louis sighs, opening the door. A rosy smell welcomes him. He kicks his shoes off and let's his bag drop to the floor. He wanders into the bathroom. He picks his shirt off his body and starts washing his oily skin. He can't function with an layer of disgusting slime on his face. He, lazily, struggles out of his joggers and underwear. He sits down in the shower and let's the warm water soothe his aching back. He sits there unmoving for approximately fifteen minutes. His ass starts to hurt. He gets up and dries off. He smears creme all over his body and sprays Chanel No.6 along his collarbones. He ruffles through his hair and pulls his sweatpants back on. They're a little big on him. He grabbed them in a hurry. Might be Nialls, who knows.
