R O O M 1 9 7 // Harry Styles & Louis Tomlinson Edition

Two - Part I

~Sunday 18th December 2016~
16:32 pm

Once, calm - or as close to calm as he is capable of - Harry puts his hand in a fist, ignoring his blood-stained finger, and knocks lightly on the pristine white door.

It's now that Harry notices the smudge of dirt across his left hand and the scuff on the side of his right shoe - as if anything else could go wrong today. In the short moment before the door is opened, Harry hurriedly brushes over his stiff uniform once again, straightening everything, pushing his hands through his sweaty curls, flattening them - or atleast trying to - in an attempt to look presentable.

The Magnolia Hotel may be quite clearly a "shit hole" (a phrase frequently used back in Harry's home town), but Harry has to be professional around this new businessman. Gemma had always told him that first impressions were crucial. Harry breathes in deep, to conceal the alcoholic odour that lingers on his tongue, as the silver door handle is pulled from the other side.
The door swings open with an obnoxious creak, and Room 197's occupant peers around the painted wood, meeting Harry's eyes with his own. Harry is taken aback, as the picture in his head of a balding old business man is dismantled and replaced by the slim, 20-something man standing in the threshold. His blue eyes are fixed on Harry's as he opens the door wider, giving Harry a much better view of his new employer. He cannot be much older than Harry himself, with his long slim arms and pink lips. His hair is brown - a little lighter than Harry's - and he wears it in a messy spike upwards, completely mis-matching with his formal grey suit and light blue tie. A faded number '28' is tattooed across two fingers on his left hand.

"Harry, the...bellhop you asked for.." Harry mumbles, as he realises that silence has been lingering between the two men for far too long.

"Oh...right." The business man says and swings his arm up, pointing into the room, guiding Harry inside. The formal-informal man closes the door behind Harry and walks towards the large glass wall across the room, where Harry stands awkwardly with his hands by his side. "I thought you would be here earlier, but..." he appears angry as he pushes some documents around on the glass table, and lets go of a heavy breath.

"Yes...well, I had some car troubles. Erm...sorry..." Harry speaks, his voice croaky and ragged. The blue of the man's tie catches the light as he turns to face Harry again. His face is stern and damp with beads of sweat, so Harry avoids eye contact, looking to the floor.

"Sit." the businessman says, and his pink lips seem to turn up into a forced smile, as he removes a red velvet chair from the table, signalling for Harry to sit beside him. Once Harry is sat down he speaks again, flashing his off-white-slightly-crooked teeth in another small smile. Harry - who has already decided that this is the most beautiful person he has ever met in person - sees the lopsided shape of his teeth to be an unexpected advantage to his appearance rather than a flaw.

"Harry, I'm Louis Tomlinson." he states confidently, sitting across from Harry, looking him dead in the eye, yet Harry feels no intimidation from the man he has just met. His face is tense, his smile forced, but his eyes tell a different story. They're bright and gentle as they look at Harry, changing his whole expression. "You're a fellow Englishman, I see." Louis adds, grinning widely and Harry cannot help but smile back, nodding his head.

"Well, for starters...I don't like the term 'bellhop'. Too American for a Yorkshire lad. You'll be like my...assistant, just helping out, tidying up, calling my driver and other tasks like that. Also, do me a favour. Don't call me Mr Tomlinson. That's my step-father. Please, call me Louis." Mr Tomlinson speaks with a Northern English accent, but some words morph, sounding more posh than others, showing his education.
Harry nods in response, suddenly very aware of the discomfort in his throat. A habit of drinking every day does not leave his voice as silky as it was once before. Mr Tomlinson rhythmically taps his fingers against the glass of the table, repeating over and over. Ignoring the fracture in his voice, Harry goes on to speak.

"So, what kind of business man are you?" Harry asks, meeting his gaze, peering up through hooded eyes. Mr Tomlinson shifts in his seat, his brows furrowing at Harry's question, so Harry continues. "Like, erm...what do you...do?" he adds.

"Well..." Mr Tomlinson starts, sighing deeply, before leaning forward to re-arrange the order of the apples and bananas laying in the black ceramic fruit bowl. "I'm into cars. My step-father started the business when he first married my mother, and when he died in '07, I took over as CEO. We design, make, ship and sell all sorts of cars." he explains, and Harry notices his fast, blank tone, as if the words he's saying are scripted. Although, it's hardly surprising that he must talk about his company to a lot of people. Harry cannot help but imagine how boring that must be, day-in day-out.
"So, what car do you drive?" Mr Tomlinson asks, after another long pause between the two young men. It's Harry's turn to shift in his chair, partially nervous to answer the question. Here is a fancy business man who probably drives an expensive Rolls Royce or Aston Martin or even one of each. And, then there's Harry with his beaten up red...

"Volvo." Mr Tomlinson's eyebrows now raise, in a sense of being intrigued. "It's on it's last legs, really." Harry adds. It was the first thing he had bought when he and Gemma had moved over to Chicago.

"So, why don't you buy a new car? I mean, if this one's being such a pest?" the smiling business man asks, and Harry smiles too, sensing a genuine interest from his tone. This rich successful man must be naive to the struggles of saving money with minimum wage.
"Well...I just don't have the funds for that. I've tried saving in the past, but..." Harry trails off his explanation, as he remembers the bottles upon bottles of booze that he had bought with his 'New Car Money', after one of his many relapses. 'First impressions are crucially important' says the voice inside Harry's mind, morphing into the shape of his sister once again. He can't let this job fall through, especially after all the failed attempts at other places - retail stores firing him for his alcohol abuse and fast food restaurants chucking him out for the same reasons. He can't let the booze get in the way of this job.

"Well...I don't have anything for you to do today, so you might as well go home." Mr Tomlinson announces, killing the silence and standing from his chair, signalling for Harry to do the same, as if he's suddenly in the most urgent rush. Harry does as he is told, and follows his new boss to the door, where Mr Tomlinson continues speaking. "Freshen up..." he says, and Harry tenses, concerned about his alcoholic stench and wrinkled clothes, but Mr Tomlinson does not seem to notice at all. "...and come back tomorrow. I'll give you different tasks everyday, depending on what my schedule is. Okay?" he adds, his Yorkshire accent thick, as Harry steps out into the corridor.

Harry nods, his grease-ridden locks bouncing on top of his head, as he moves. Mr Tomlinson flashes yet another smile in Harry's direction, before closing the door quickly, and the loud click tells Harry that he has locked the door behind him.
Harry lets go of a breath that he hasn't realised he is holding in, but the relief that it shock-waves through his veins makes it feel as if he's been holding the air inside his lungs for all of his life. He stands in the hallway for a few minutes, leaning against the walls adjacent to Room 197, breathing in and out, in and out.

It's now when he hears a muted crash from inside the room, a mumbled grunt following the sharp noise. Harry is concerned, but decides not to knock on the door. It's none of his business, so he walks away.

When he opens the door to his apartment twenty minutes later, he goes straight to the alarm clock by the bed, setting it to ring at 07:00. The bed is unmade, and the room is messy in Harry's wake, but he somehow finds a strange sense of comfort in the destruction. He writes a text message to Gemma, updating her on this new turn of events and telling her just how much he misses her. The message delivers, but he doesn't get a response.

It's early (far too early for bed) but Harry wants a good night's rest for tomorrow, so he undresses and lays down on the bed, pushing the off-white pillow under his head, and pulling the green sheets up to his bare chest. He stares up at the ceiling for a while, thinking, wondering, before sleep takes him away, moving him to a place where he dreams of glistening white Aston Martins, and their brown-haired, blue-eyed, crooked-smiled drivers.

Chapter Image found on Pinterest