Larry Stylinson ~ Poor Little Rich Boy AU

18.

Chapter Eighteen:

AN: It sucks, doesn’t it? I know. It sucks.

Why did I let him go?

That was all Louis’ rather muddled brain was capable of thinking as he sprinted for the foyer of the hotel with an armful of roses that viciously prickled his tanned forearms. He’d already sent the florist who had the rest of the flowers around to the front entrance and ordered him to fill Harry’s taxi with them – not only was it an adorable romantic gesture, but it’d be a good preventative measure to stop Harry from getting into the taxi; nobody wants to share a backseat with a mound of thorny plants.

He’d spent that damned fifty quid on the fastest mass delivery of roses known to man, and he was glad to see it gone. It was a symbol of his own betrayal, and he couldn’t bear to have it in his wallet, pocket or anywhere on his person anymore. Seeing it vanish into the florist’s hand as he appeared in the doorway had been the greatest relief of Louis’ life, even if he was technically now broke again.

Sprinting outside, he could see the taxi waiting by the front of the hotel, and he could see crimson petals crammed up against the windows. The engine was running but the doors were closed, and Louis couldn’t help but admire the way Harry had clearly crammed himself into the taxi despite the imminent danger of being scratched to shreds by thorns. Despite himself, he found Harry’s stubborn obstinacy kind of cute, even if it was sort of making his job harder.

The taxi could leave any second, so without any regard for anyone who might have been in his way, Louis sprinted for the vehicle with the bouquet of roses in one hand and the other hand outstretched, and he grabbed the door-handle and yanked it open with a triumphant cry.

“HA –”

Empty.

"-RRY"

About twenty roses fell onto his feet, but he could quite clearly see that Harry was not in that taxi, and he struggled to process that fact for several seconds. As soon as the horrible truth had sunk in, he found himself staggering to the front of the vehicle and tapping aggressively on the window; when the driver wound it down, he seemed almost as annoyed as Louis was distraught.

“Is this your idea of a joke, mate?” he demanded angrily. “Filling my cab with roses? You think this is funny? I’ve just had this cab cleaned; if you’re going to be filling it with stems and leaves and bits of petals, you can pay to have it cleaned!”

“Didn’t somebody order this cab?” Louis asked faintly. “Under the name of Harry Styles?”

“Wrong taxi,” sneered the driver, “Styles is being picked up on the other side of the forecourt; it came up on my radio but someone else got the shout. Now get these bloody roses out of my cab!”

Of course, Louis ignored him. He leapt away from the window, his head snapping up, and he saw the other taxi far too late as it began to pull away from the kerb on the other side of the hotel. In fact, he almost thought he saw a curly head pressed up against the window as the vehicle slowly headed out into the car park and towards the exit.

Louis gave chase.

Hollering and waving his arms, he ran after the taxi as fast as he could, faster than he ever remembered running in his life, ignoring the instant stitch that flared sharply into life against his ribcage in response to the sudden burst of speed. His feet thudded on the pavement as he ran desperately after it, shouting “Stop! Wait, please, please, no, stop, stop! You’ve got to stop!” People were staring, but as always, Louis couldn’t have cared less about that. The taxi was gathering speed and paying no attention to him yelling and running desperately after it, and still Louis ran, struggling to speed up himself. His legs ached, his ribs ached, his stomach ached, he ached, and he leapt over flowerbeds, stumbled through a decoratively placed bush, trampled some begonias and ignored the cries of outrage as he ran straight through a family of five, nearly knocking one of the children right over.