Just Me, You, And This Box of Matches

Chapter 3: Fucking Hipsters

Louis hates the man the instant he opens the door of the shop.

It's the quiff, probably. Louis tends to instantly dislike people with quiffs (okay, fine, he's aware that he's probably not the first person in all of humanity to have a quiff but he's probably the first to carry it this well. Louis gets very territorial over hairstyles.)

"Welcome to James' Family Portraits And Photos," he intones, and if his voice lacks its usual spark then the man has no one but his hairdresser to blame. "I'm Louis, how can I help you?"

The man smiles at him as he pulls out a white envelope from under his jacket. Louis probably would smile back if he didn't hate this guy's guts. "I heard you guys develop film. Is that-"

"Yes," says Louis flatly.

(So he's being a bitch. He'll blame it on lack of sleep, given he was woken up rudely at 3am by his phone buzzing in his ear.

"Fucking what," he'd half-groaned into the cell before he'd even jabbed answer.

"Cherry doesn't only rhyme with my name!" had come Harry's voice, sounding absolutely delighted. "It rhymes with yours too!")

"Great," says the man. He's still smiling, like he hasn't figured out that Louis can't stand the sight of him yet. He slides the envelope onto the counter. "Could you develop these for me? We took them on an old camera and didn't know where to develop the film." (His temples go on forever. Only Louis can pull off the exposed forehead look. Who does this guy think he is?)

"Sure, they'll be ready in an hour, pay when you come back."

"Sure." Does he ever stop smiling? "M'name's Nick, for when I come back."

"Sure. See ya." Louis has disappeared into the back room before the man has even left the shop, which is surely bad customer service. But, you know, it's not his fault. The guy was wearing a scarf and he was probably had black toenail polish on under those vintage leather boots with the striped woolen socks peeking out of the laces. They even match his striped woolen gloves. Fucking hipsters.

Louis likes his job.

"Right now, you're probably slow-dancin' with a bleached-blonde tramp-" he spins around, executes a graceful leap over the lamp in the corner- "and she's prob'ly getting' frisky-"

Louis really likes his job.

Okay, sure, it's not exactly glamorous or challenging, but it's easy, and the pay is reasonable, and he's left alone with an iPod dock and surround sound speakers and no one to judge if he decides to develop photos in nothing but a set of ladies' lingerie (although that was an experience he doesn't plan to repeat.) Plus, as Greg likes to say, it's a foot in the door for an Actual Photography Job.

"Right now! You're prob'ly dabbin' on three dollars worth of that bathroom cologne..."

The timer dings. Louis flounces to the vat, carefully pulls the film free of its chemical bath and lays it on the stand to dry. "Oh! But you don't knooooo-oo..."

His voice trails off as he stares at the strips of film. "...Oh."

He blinks. Holds the strip up to the light. Blinks again.

Zayn picks up on the third ring.

"Lou, I'm at work," he says. He sounds utterly bored, but Louis can tell by the slight strain in his voice that he's hunched down in a storage closet again. "Is this urgent?"