Larry Stylinson ~ Poor Little Rich Boy AU

8.

Chapter Eight:

“You have got to be kidding me.”

“What?” asked Harry anxiously, instantly looking down at himself. “What did I do?”

Raising an eyebrow, Louis looked him up and down, scrutinizing him. Harry was wearing black jeans, an enormous black hoodie that swallowed his entire, skinny body within its cavernous depths, a black beanie, and grubby black Converse sneakers. He looked like he was dressed as a nun, except for the flowing white headdress like a thick, linen version of a wedding veil (although he seemed to have chosen a beanie in replacement of it). In fact, the hugely loose hoodie that fell almost to his knees and almost certainly didn’t belong to him gave Louis the rather amusing impression that he was wearing a giant black chastity gown, perhaps with electric fences concealed beneath the swathes of billowing material, ready to zap Louis’ wandering fingers if they strayed too closely to the hem of the hoodie.

“Is that a hoodie or a tent?” Louis asked a little unkindly.

Harry flushed. “Shut up! I’m here, aren’t I? That’s what you wanted; that’s what you’ve been badgering me about for the past week. If you’re going to insult me, then maybe I should just leave.” He said it a little huffily, but made no move to turn on Louis and storm off like he was threatening to.

“Harry, we’re supposed to be sunbathing. By the pool. In the first sign of glorious sunshine that this country has produced in months, the first glimpse of summer we’ve had so far this year, we were supposed to be relaxing by the pool, and here you are, clothed from head to toe in black looking like a sloppily dressed ninja! You’re going to fry inside all of that! Black fabric absorbs heat; you’re going to absolutely roast.”

“My problem, not yours. Anyway, who said anything about the pool? What happened to our quiet little drink in the bar?” demanded Harry.

Louis snorted fondly. “It’s eleven o’clock in the morning, Harry – the bar isn’t open yet. So for the moment, the pool is here, and so are we. It makes sense.” Eyeing him up and down, Louis continued pleadingly, “at least lose the beanie?”

“No!” Defensively, Harry backed away a little, one hand flying up to protect the beanie that was nestling on top of his head, his curls jammed haphazardly underneath it. “The beanie stays. I’m having a bad hair day. Anyway, why is it so important? Why should I take it off?”

Stepping closer to him, Louis gave him a pitying look. “Please. You look like an Eskimo. In fact, that hat so closely resembles an egg cosy that I won’t be surprised when you become a boiled egg underneath all of those clothes – it’ll be totally in character. I’m begging you, take off the beanie? For me?” His eyes suddenly became very large and almost illegally persuasive.

“Not for anybody,” insisted Harry.

There was a long and challenging pause, during which Harry folded his arms in a display of defiance and Louis looked him up and down, appraising him, apparently re-evaluating his opinion of the boy. They stared each other down for a few seconds – then Louis lunged forwards, playfully snatched the beanie off his head so that brown curls exploded in a halo of chocolate brown around Harry’s head, and then screwed up the little black woollen hat into a tight ball and threw it as far as he could, aiming at a group of children splashing around in the pool. It landed with a plop in the water beside them and began sinking immediately, like some kind of dead animal. Squealing, one of little girls snatched the hat and started crowing over her new plaything, and before long they were all squabbling over it, tugging furiously at Harry’s poor beanie and squawking at each other in protest.