The impression Louis had gotten from the letter [he’d barely skimmed over] regarding his housing was that his flatmate was to arrive on the same day as him.
Is this an exciting prospect? No.
However, does he want to get it over with so he can officially hate the fucker? Yes.
So Louis waits.
He waits long enough, foot tapping against polished floor, that his stomach growls and his eyes cross, and his fingers scratch at the fabric of his jeans. Because Louis is fucking impatient and he hates rich people—where the hell is this bastard?
Decidedly uneasy, he decides to spend the time unpacking—something he rarely ever does. Usually upon his return from any holiday or extended absence, his suitcases sit in the room, stuffed with rumpled clothes and dirty socks, remaining untouched for weeks, sometimes months. It’s not until Louis will wake up one morning and wonder “Where did that one shirt go…?” that they will un-camouflage themselves from piles of track pants and disarray, before becoming actively unpacked.
It’s a problem of Louis’—always procrastinating, always forgetting.
But he unpacks now—does a marvelous fucking job of it, hanging shirts on actual hangers and folding trousers in neat little stacks—and once his room is sufficiently set up (barring the fact that it’s far too sparse for Louis’ liking; but it is, after all, only his first day here), he takes to the other rooms of the suite. He stays far away from the kitchen because that is one place that he has never understood.
There really isn’t much to be done with the place.
Louis’ lack of personal belongings, combined with the overwhelming abundance of ornate trash that clutters the rooms, leaves for little creativity or wiggle room. However, he does manage to safely stow away all the semi-disturbing paintings of what appears to be bestiality (he doesn’t give a fuck if there’s a Greek myth about Zeus shape-shifting—a bird fucking a girl is still a bird fucking a girl) and soon, the stuffy atmosphere begins to take a slightly more home-esque feel to it.
Perhaps there is hope yet.
*
It’s been three solid hours (and four missed phone calls from his mum which Louis refuses to cater to, thanks) since Louis' arrival and every single ratty, cardboard box has been unpacked and unceremoniously dumped outside.
This is what success feels like.
And loneliness.
Because, even though he’s already decided that his soon-to-be flatmate is the bane of his
existence, Louis can’t help but notice that he isn’t arriving. And it’s nearing evening. Which means he may not arrive. Which means…Louis spends the night alone. Bored. Without friends or distractions. And how the hell is he supposed to cope with that when he feels like being entertained?
Not checking the time because that would insinuate he cares, he resolutely decides that he will leave the flat. He will leave, he will explore, and he will have dinner at a quaint café so that he can send Stan artsy pictures of himself sipping tea in the sunset in order to make him jealous for not having come along with him. Because goddammit, somebody better be jealous of him when he’s feeling this shitty.
Grabbing keys and scarf, Louis exits stage right and, avoiding the increasingly dense clusters of rich-bitch drones scattered about the grounds, he ducks out of the gates and sneaks off down the cobbled street.
All the while decidedly not wondering about the whereabouts of his flatmate.
*
He’s certainly not over-thinking anything. He’s not.
It’s just that that age-old question keeps popping back up, settling in his bones and gnawing at his brain: "Do I take this incredible opportunity given by Charles and build a future for myself and my family? Or do I shit all over it, smear it on the walls, and waste the fuck out of every last pound?"
Like he said—the age-old question.
And while it claws at the back of his mind—and he really probably should address the situation at some point in the near future because term is starting in three days—Louis actively forces his mind to remain blank and neutral, instead focusing on the tea at his lips. Somehow it manages to slosh out the sides and spills on his trousers because of course, but he disregards it, instead absorbing the quaintness of the café that’s located surprisingly far from the school, farther than he realized upon first walking here; he regrets not wearing better shoes.
But the quaintness can only last for so long and after checking his Facebook for the seventh and a half time in seven consecutive minutes, and two failed attempts at people-watching (where are all the fit men in this town?), Louis leaves with nothing to show but a cat-shaped tea stain on his thigh and a bored scowl .
He’d originally planned to walk home directly, content to just listen to his iPod, separate from the world and the tragic circumstances that plague him—no, he’s not being dramatic—but boredom seemed to have gotten the best of him because before he can fully comprehend the situation…
He’s taking vintage-tinted selfies on the road outside the parameters of his school.
And while, yes, some of the purpose for these photos is to brag to Stan, there is also a slow, creeping fondness blooming in the root of Louis’ stomach as he observes the quietly busy street with its ornate lampposts and flower baskets, the tall, ancient walls of the university standing boldly all around him, bathed in amber light.
Maybe this place isn’t so bad, with its smells of coffee, blossoms, and warm bread. It’s certainly a good backdrop for pictures.
Not that he’s admitting anything.
Amidst a posed smile that even he admits is a bit sassy, the steady, low thrum of the town is suddenly interrupted by the put-put of an ancient engine, rattling into life as it steadily increases in volume. Perhaps a picturesque little antique vehicle is trudging along, a wee old man at the wheel, cap atop his head whilst he smokes a pipe? It would certainly fit in with his surroundings. How charming.
But then suddenly the put-put is at full blast, and the screech of tires is not far behind.
Instinctively fearing for his life, Louis immediately hops back onto the curb, twirling around just in time to see the source of the chaos as it speeds past.
It’s an old, cream tinted vehicle, much like the one Louis’d imagined—probably from around the thirties or forties, which is a feat in itself—and it’s absolutely stunning from what Louis [briefly] sees; it’s open, convertible style, and the white leather of the seats glints in the sun.
But its occupants, which are most certainly not old men (there are three), claim the inside lavishly, two figures in pastel suits sprawled together in the front, hands barely on the wheel, and the third in back, perched atop the seats rather than in them. The dark, curly head of the precariously-sat bloke tips back in delight as they speed further out of sight, raising what appears to be a bottle of actual fucking champagne in the air, and the sound of cackling laughter follows the trilby-clad trio as the vehicle wildly rounds the corner, disappearing from view.
The stillness left in their wake is almost louder than they themselves.
Louis just stands there at a complete loss for words, phone in hand, the sassy selfie still plastered across his screen.
Because what the fuck?
Did that really just happen? Three kids adorned in salmon and cream fucking suits just whipped by in a perfectly restored vintage fucking car, practically falling out of it and laughing as if they’ve not a care in the world? All while thrusting a bottle of champagne in the air?
What the actual fuck?
Of course this falling-over-itself-to-kiss-its-own-arse school manages to be the most painfully stereotypical portrait of indulgence and gluttony. Of course its inhabitants are swarms of spoiled brats, clad in tailored suits and handmade shoes, lacking any sense of decorum or subtlety.
Of. Fucking. Course.
And here he had thought he was growing to like the place.
With bitterness and disdain held perfectly intact, Louis pockets his phone and makes his way home, resolutely ignoring any pang of loneliness at the prospect of returning to an empty flat.
(Not that he wants a flatmate.)
(Especially after that street spectacle. If that’s what these students are like, he wants none of it.)
(In no way did that look fun.)
(Not one way.)
(Twats.)
*
The next day, Louis awakens with a new-found sense of self.
Because yes—he spent the night completely alone, without a soul to share a word, and he loved it. He actually really loved it.
How had he ever felt so lonely before? Being alone was incredible. Louis’ music blasted from the speakers tucked in the corners of the crown-molded ceilings, Louis danced in the space provided (as obnoxiously as he saw fit—he was a drama student, after all), Louis’ things were scattered on the floor in their precise positions, and Louis shut the windows from the chaos of the outside without a second thought or worry, baying at the moon until the wee hours of morning.
He could flip the obnoxiously sized flat-screen on and blast it at full volume AND walk around naked.
It was fan-fucking-tastic.
And so Louis awakens with the promise of the day on the tips of his fingertips as they push back the covers of his bed, brushes his teeth with the joy of solitude, and scratches his bum as he stares forlornly at an empty fridge for as long as he damn well pleases. Because he can.
Eventually he settles himself down in one of the plush, velvet chairs that feels like something out of Harry Potter, tea in hand, and makes to plan his day.
It will be Louis Time. A day to himself, to cater to his own needs and not pretend to put someone else before him. With his mum (who he still hasn’t called back; hello, 7 missed calls, oops) at a refreshing distance away and no sisters to pull him in five different directions, Louis is a free bird, and it’s high time this bird flew.
With plans swirling and tea warm in his belly, Louis opens every window, uncaring to the constant stream of passerby that can easily peer into his little sanctuary (and when did this go from a hell pit to a sanctuary exactly? Because he’s still not sure why he’s even here, still doesn’t know how to attend dinners with professors or wear gowns for examinations) and instead sucks in the fresh, summer air with renewed vigor.
A day for himself. A day without a flatmate. Hell, every day could be a day without a flatmate if he doesn’t end up arriving.
“But wouldn’t that be a godsend,” Louis mutters to the warm silence, taking one last, meaningful sip of tea.
So, naturally, it’s then that his flatmate arrives.
