Louis has been climbing the steps of the tower, one by one, for what feels like forever. With each drag of the foot, his stomach sinks lower because what is he doing? Why is he even going? The only experiences Louis has had with this bloke was when he: A) Unjustly took what should have been Louis' beverage at the teashop, and B) Emptied the contents of his stomach on him.
And when he looks at it like that, the idea of him even considering coming here seems ridiculous.
But here he is, dressed in his finest (or rather, Niall's finest) and he's finally reached the top, nerves jangling, fists shoved in his pockets. He's met with an arched, old oak door stood ajar, sunlight streaming out in soft rays.
And fuck. Does he knock? Call out? It's so much easier with Niall where he can just bang on the door and screech his name until he's noticed. He's not used to dealing with real people.
Feeling very unsure of everything in life, Louis places his hands against the cold wood and peers inside.
Before him is the most elaborate, ridiculously luxurious room he's ever seen. It's simultaneously ancient and contemporary (which is something Louis would have never been able to grasp previously, but somehow it works) and it's sleek, chic, and fucking posh. It puts his own flat to shame which is something Louis has a hard time stomaching, to be honest.
Large, beautiful paintings of charcoal gray images splashed with violets, crimsons, and emeralds scatter the room, some on the walls and some resting on the floor, stacked one upon the other, waiting to be hung. Bookshelves stuffed with countless books line the walls, their sleek, leather spines glinting under the ambient shades of crystal lighting, and peppered on the walls are what appear to be first edition comic books, protected by thick glass as they hang, their worn pages sitting quietly. There are shiny sound systems and large clear glass windows and ebony throw rugs and crystal decanters and music stands and-is that a fucking piano? Seriously? Are these a requirement for the rich?
And amidst the lavishness of its surroundings, there rests a giant, narrow, rectangular wooden table filled with full cutlery and baskets overflowing with fruits, cheeses, wine bottles, and eggs. And in the middle, pouring wine into each glass, is the boy from last night with his thick eyebrows and calm features. In the corner, just beyond, is vomit-boy himself, reclined in a suede chair that looks crafted for a god, smoking a cigarette languidly.
Louis just stands there awkwardly, totally inside of the room, his hosts totally not noticing. Completely unaware of what to do, he just knocks on the door without ceremony, despite already having entered, and hopes for the best.
As one, they both look up.
While the boy with the short cropped hair smiles beatifically, Zayn Malik merely glances up and tilts his head to the side, only the barest smile touching the corner of his lips.
"I told you he'd come, Liam," is all he says.
"Excellent!" Liam(?) exclaims, raising the half-empty wine bottle in celebration. "I didn't think you would!"
Louis clears his throat, very aware that neither know his name despite him now knowing both of theirs. Should he introduce himself?
"Well, how could I not?" he settles for instead, a charming smile on his face. "It would have been rude not to, what with all of those lovely flowers you sent. Thanks, lads. You right chased the sick away."
Liam laughs, politely and cleanly.
Zayn smirks, stubbing out his cigarette, and stands up.
"Liked them, did you?"
"Of course," Louis says immediately, still not having moved from his spot at the door.
"Once again," Liam begins, setting the now empty wine bottle down and facing Louis, "we just want to say a massive apology for the whole thing. Nothing like that has ever happened before, and we're both so incredibly sorry about it."
Louis nods, eyes instinctively sliding to Zayn.
"My apologies," Zayn mutters, and his voice is soft like the night and seems to possess all the smoke that had just been filling his lungs. He walks towards Louis, hands in pockets, shoulders relaxed, but his eyes rest on Liam. He is the embodiment of cool and calm.
If Louis was easily intimidated, he would be making his escape. Lucky for him, he is completely unfazed. Mostly.
"Oh, but where are my manners?" Liam suddenly exclaims, clapping his hands together. Zayn regards him with a subtle fondness that Louis stashes away in his brain as he tries to suss out the dynamic at hand. "I'm Liam. And, as I'm sure you know, this is Zayn."
Louis nods, extracting his hands reluctantly from his pockets as Liam makes to shake one.
"Louis Tomlinson," he responds with a nod, and Liam's face lights up.
"That's a good name, isn't it? 'Tomlinson'... Is your family in law?" he asks, still gripping Louis.
"My dad is, yeah," and Louis leaves it at that, extracting his hand.
He is not going to discuss Charles. And he is not going to play the game of 'Ooh, what does your father do? How much money does your family have?'
"Nice set up you've got here." Louis effortlessly changes the subject, nodding at Zayn who is still watching Liam. "I thought mine was over the top. Guess I was wrong."
"Over the top?" Liam asks quizzically, and Zayn's eyes finally settle back on Louis.
Damn, he is strikingly beautiful.
"Well, yeah. Student housing doesn't usually come with a piano, does it? Nor...any of this," he says, gesturing toward the pristine novels and antique music stands.
"You don't like it?" Zayn asks, and his voice is so soft and gentle that it's almost cutting, startling Louis as they lock eyes.
"Not much. Do you?"
Liam blinks his surprise, and Louis wonders if Zayn Malik is used to being addressed like a normal human being. Or if he's just petted and kissed all the livelong day.
Zayn shrugs. "It's all right, I guess. Can't complain, can I?"
"No, you really can't. Bad manners 'n that. So. When's lunch?" And Louis takes the first seat he sees, on the right hand side at the head of the table.
At that, Liam and Zayn exchange a glance, but it appears amused, and neither protests the action, instead both sitting down as well, Zayn at the head, and Liam to his left.
"Can we get you anything?" Liam asks politely as he offers another cigarette to Zayn with the kind of practiced ease one only sees within a married couple of many years.
Glancing between the two and their synchronized touches, Louis can't help but ask, "Whose rooms are these, again?" causing Liam to laugh.
"They're Zayn's. And mine, essentially. I've got my own, but I'm never there. I stay here for the most part."
"Why?"
Zayn glances at Louis, another small smile threatening to reveal itself.
"I'm with Zayn," Liam replies simply, and Louis can respect the straightforwardness of the statement. "Where are your rooms?"
Louis gives him a look. "Are you seriously asking me that? I can walk you back to the window if you like. Reenact the scene," he says, and can't quite keep the wry edge of his voice out as he looks over to Zayn.
But Zayn only smirks and says through a curtain of smoke, "You should have seen your face last night, mate."
"I'm surprised you remember! I could've been a garden gnome for all you'dve known. You were utterly pissed."
And that sparks a burst of surprised laughter from Liam. He almost immediately places his fingers over his lips, as if in a silent apology, but his eyes are still creased with delight as he stares across at Louis.
"You're very outspoken," he says, but it's with glee rather than disdain, so Louis lifts his glass of wine, pops an eyebrow, and replies:
"It's the best shade on me," and takes a drink.
Giggling slightly, eyes planted on Louis, Liam mirrors the gesture, and Zayn full out grins.
"So then," Louis says, licking his lips as he sets down the glass, "Are there going to be others at this luncheon?" He motions towards the spread of empty seats.
Like clockwork, the low rumble of voices begins drifting into the room, the click of heals against wooden steps echoing.
"Yeah," Zayn replies unnecessarily, and his face is so flawlessly amused, staring openly at Louis like he's a comedy sketch with his cigarette dangling between two fingers, that Louis almost wants to burst into laughter.
Because who are these people? And what are they made of?
Zayn is obviously made from smoke, wine, hair product, and the faded pages of a novel.
Liam is made of Hermes, polite conversation, teeth, and crystal.
Louis is probably made of bad breath, a short temper, and all the bacon he ate this morning.
At that moment, boys begin to pile into the room.
A slew of greetings are made, hands are shook, nods are exchanged, drinks poured, and eggs and cheeses plucked from the baskets. The guests all look generally the same-male, beautiful, clean-cut, suited in summer colors, and smelling of the best oils and aftershaves the modern world has to offer-and as they seat themselves, they each look to Louis but make no inquiry, too polite to question his presence, and treat him with all the quiet respect of one who assumes they've met before. One boy in particular, all ginger hair and sweet smiles (Edward, was it?) makes Louis feel at ease, laughing at all his jokes and topping off his wine regularly.
The other boys are enjoyable as well, and Louis slowly begins differentiating between them all; Matthew is a bit neurotic and blonde, George is aggressive and sporty, Philip is pretentious and a total hipster, and Lyle is the living embodiment of every Disney villain ever.
But Louis finds himself charmed.
Eventually, after having heard Liam referring to him as "Louis" enough times, the boys begin to catch on, and vice versa. And Louis can almost say he's enjoying himself.
"Lads, lads," he suddenly announces to the table, and the chatter and chuckles die down as everyone looks to him. "I feel it's only appropriate to make a toast, yes?" There are a few scattered nods and even more bemused smiles. "Yes. So here's to fucking up the first week of school, and, of course, to Zayn Malik and his incredible ineptitude at holding down his liquor."
There's a brief and stunned silence as all eyes flick to Zayn, and yes, Louis is absolutely sure now that nobody insults or takes the piss out of this boy. Actually, from what Louis has observed, they don't interact with Zayn much at all. He just sits there, laughing at the odd joke, observing one and all on his throne, but he seems content out of the spotlight, enjoying the company of Liam and his cigarettes.
He also just looks bored as fuck.
So, without apology, Louis turns to grin at Zayn who is openly grinning back, lounging in his steep-backed wooden chair, limbs outstretched.
"Here, here," Zayn smiles, raising his own glass. "And, of course, to our new friend Louis Tomlinson."
Liam beams. "To Louis!"
As the men chorus his name as one, Louis rolls his eyes, makes an offhanded joke, and really wants to think that all of this is so shallow and so petty...but he finds himself secretly very pleased instead.
It's just as they've all taken one collective gulp of wine-and this is the best wine Louis' ever had, dear lord-when the door suddenly opens once more.
And it's another beautiful boy.
Louis really shouldn't be surprised at this rate since this school is seemingly (miraculously) inhabited only by those whom the gods love.
This one is wearing a light gray suit, almost a timberwolf, with a salmon bow tie and a champagne colored scarf. His hair is one shiny, styled mess of chocolate mousse curls atop a china doll face, smoky green eyes set in ivory skin-ivory skin that contrasts alarmingly with poison red lips that are so perfectly shaped, Louis questions their authenticity.
The boys fall into a surprised silence, every pair of eyes fixing on the newcomer, including Zayn's, as the entire room lights up. Everyone immediately pays attention to the boy, apparently delighted to see him.
And Louis can tell that this boy's aware of it, can see it in the slow blink of his eyes and the focused calm of his movements, but he barely acknowledges the room. Without even a glance in their direction, the stranger begins unfurling the creamy satin scarf from around his neck, bejeweled fingers slowly picking at the intricate weave.
Eyes set on the task at hand, the boy says in a long, musically monotonous drawl:
"Hello, my little blossoms."
His tone is smug and smirking, as if he knows exactly what he's doing and what he's saying. These boys are his-they're beautiful, and they're hiscollection.
And Louis is immediately rubbed the wrong way.
Because this boy, this clean, curly, brightly dressed, bow tied intruder who doesn't even have the decency to make a proper greeting, still hasn't acknowledged anyone, instead immediately going into his excuse for his lateness.
"I was detained in a meeting with a very...accommodating professor." He says it with such smugness, his alarmingly red, picturesque lips leering.
It only serves to discomfort Louis further.
He averts his eyes away from those lips, those wrong lips that are posed so perfectly, like they're painted on a doll, void of any real emotion or life. Instead, Louis just focuses on the steady movements of the boy as he picks at the complex knot of his cream satin scarf, his eyes still focused on himself as he talks in a low swooping voice.
"I told her I was going to be late and everything! Unfortunately, I was wearing my very fetching hat today-the beige one that I got when we went to Ibiza-so I can't say I blame the poor thing. Just another spectator to life's proudest illustration." And his voice is so lilting and utterly mocking, the beginnings of a crooked half-smile forming, that Louis wonders if he can take himself seriously. Or if anybody in the room can.
But apparently they can, as they are all now chuckling their amusement, heartily agreeing in low tones.
What the actual fuck?
The nameless boy with the mocking smile immediately saunters towards an empty wine glass that's sitting on the windowsill, abandoned. Smile still present, he pours himself a generous portion of Pinot Meunier. Amidst the continued silence, he takes a swig, still without properly acknowledging the room, his back facing them.
And yet every single eye is still on him.
Including Louis', who is glaring in distaste.
The boy knows the attention he's receiving, seems to feel the control but doesn't care. Where Zayn sits at the head of the table as the proclaimed leader but enjoys the solitude of sitting back in the shadows, this boy seems content in flaunting his self-appointed leadership, adoring the spotlight without really giving anything to his followers. It's a role that he appears to relish and take the most ease with. Which officially makes him a first class wanker.
Louis watches, his eyes flitting between the group of men staring almost expectantly and the boy holding the stares and doing absolutely nothing with them.
Zayn peers over his wall of smoke, watching Harry's movements, but says nothing.
Finally, at last, Harry acknowledges his host, perhaps feeling his smoky eyes on him, and turns around with a mischievous, delighted sort of smirk as he sets down his empty glass, immediately striding up to Zayn. He strokes his cheek with long, slender fingers that look the texture of pearls, and plucks the cigarette from between Zayn's lips, bringing it to his own mouth as he breathes a greeting before pressing his lips serenely to Zayn's.
Louis watches this interaction, this acknowledgment, glancing over to Liam (who expresses no discomfort or offense) before looking back to Zayn who appears wholly unaffected by the events at hand, amused if anything, staring back at the boy intently.
"Harry," Zayn mutters in greeting.
"Harold. Harold Styles," he reminds, and Louis makes an immediate mental note to never call this boy "Harold." Or do anything else that he requests. Harry just sort of smiles and puffs on the cigarette, the smoke intertwining with his thick clusters of curls.
The boys begin to shout their greetings.
"Good to see you, mate!"
"Glad you could come!"
"We didn't think you'd make it."
"Thought it was odd you weren't here, to be honest."
Harry just nods in response, grinning-is that a fucking cherubic dimple?-and shaking a few hands, all without moving from his place at Zayn's side, hand resting on his shoulder.
After a few more mumbled words to Zayn, Harry walks over to Liam and smooths his hand over his short brown hair before bringing it to the back of Liam's head. He presses another kiss to Liam, this one with an exaggerated, silly "MWUAH!" at the end, the smoke of the cigarette still curling into the air as it dwindles down to his fingers, pressed at the back of Liam's head.
Louis watches all of this while thinking two things:
He wishes Niall was here to see this.What the fuck is wrong with this bloke?
Because as Louis watches this seemingly harmless exchange, he is irreparably alarmed by the emptiness that sits within the boy's eyes as he looks over these people like they're his toys, something like dead affection reverberating off of him. Because something is just so wrong about Harry, and he can only feel disturbed by the creamy green eyes that hold nothing and the overly perfect mouth that expresses nothing and the frigidity of his overall demeanor, despite his languid movements.
And it's that dimple, that childlike dimple, accompanied by the faux innocence and seemingly sweet charm and effortless, engaging demeanor which contrasts with something that Louis can't quite place. But something is off about this boy, something is very, very wrong.
It leaves Louis very unsettled.
Harry turns around slowly after he disengages himself from Liam, walks back, and moves to where Louis is sitting. He pauses, more thoughtful and amused as he observes Louis-perhaps for the first time-his eyes raking up and down his body. It's less sensual than it is assessing, and with that unnerving, false, crooked half-smile, he says, "Hello, blue eyes," and ends the sentence in a blatant smirk. Which, to the outside world, is probably endearing, but to Louis is absolutely predatory and disgusting and makes him feel cheap, like he's being bought with dirty money at a seedy club.
Harry tucks the end of his sentence in the cigarette, taking a deep pull, and blows the smoke out over Louis' face, all the while keeping unblinking eye contact.
And Louis feels really fucking cheap and really fucking shitty. And really fucking unimpressed. He doesn't respond, just instead keeps silent and returns the boy's stare with narrowed eyes.
As Harry waits, his expression turns amused and, appearing largely unaffected by all, just continues to stare. Continues to smoke.
Then Zayn mutters, "This is Louis. He's new. I like him."
Though he'll never admit it, Louis' stomach smiles at the accolade, but his face doesn't betray him, his cold blue eyes still narrowed into slits as he stares down Harry.
"Oh, a new toy?" Harry inquires with enchantment, and he's openly flirting, but Louis sees it as evil, asshole shittery.
So Louis says, "I'm nobody's toy, thanks," and takes a sip of wine.
Liam watches the display with wide eyes before glancing at Zayn who watches with something akin to intrigue.
But Harry is merely amused, unfazed as he shrugs, hand resting on the back of Louis' chair. With smooth movements, he leans into him, stubbing out his cigarette and says in his velvety baritone, "That's lovely, but you're in my chair, darling." His smirk grows. "I'd be happy to share, however."
Louis grips the armrests for restraint. Because it would be rude to punch Harry in the face, especially at a luncheon where he's the guest of honor.
So, keeping his cool and flicking a bit of hair out of his eyes, he paints the fakest grin imaginable onto his face and replies with, "I'm not one to share, Curly."
Harry's eyes momentarily darken. "It's Harold."
"I heard you the first time."
Instantly, Harry removes himself.
"I don't think he's going to move," Zayn says mildly, glancing up at Harry who is holding Louis' stare.
And up close, in person, those eyes are even more terrifying. Where there should be emotion, soul, and intimacy, there instead lies a wall, cold and dark, barricading the boy from the rest of the world. And Louis can't look away.
There's a flicker of something more real-just for a moment-in the boy's stare, but then it's gone, suddenly and without warning, replaced with nonchalance.
Harry shrugs. "All right. I don't mind standing. I'm not fussy."
And it's such a fucking lie that the room murmurs with laughter.
"He's good, this Louis," Edward says to Harry, smiling sweetly. "Funny."
"Oh, you're funny, then?" Harry says with fake delight, and Louis folds his arms.
"Massively. Could you top me off?" Louis asks Edward, motioning to the wine.
"I'll do it," Harry interrupts immediately, waggling his eyebrows, and Liam giggles. The traitor.
"I don't think you could manage, to be quite honest," Louis sing-songs without looking Harry's way, and Zayn actually laughs.
Harry doesn't reply immediately, instead selecting a cigar and clipping off the end.
"I can see why you like him, Zayn, darling," he says eventually, delicately. "He's very pretty. And so small."
Louis momentarily sees red (he hates being called short, abso-fucking-lutely hates it) and looks over to Harry, glaring.
"There's no need to talk about me as if I'm not in the room, Curly."
"Harold."
"Who?"
Harry grins, pleased as he brings the cigar to his lips. "You're quite small. My, my." He clicks his tongue. "Are you standing, then? Or-wait, you're sitting down, actually, aren't you?"
And it's such a small tease, and he knows that Harry's only saying it to get a rise out of him, but fuck, Louis has always been a victim to his temper, so he shoots up out of his chair.
"Would you like some cheese?" he asks forcefully, and fuck-where did that come from? He may or may not be flustered.
He supposes he should feel lucky, seeing as how that could've gone much worse, but Harry's grin widens, revealing a fine, pretty set of teeth that are absolutely predatory and surface-deep.
"You're such an accommodating host, Louis Tomlinson." It's spoken with such exaggerated reverence that Louis nearly lunges.
"Your hair's ugly," Louis spits suddenly, and shit-he's just reverted to childhood rage now, hasn't he?
But apparently it was the right thing to say because the boys behind him gasp and Harry's grin falters.
And there it is again, that flicker of indefinable something. But then, once more, it's gone, the boredom back in place. And then he looks to Zayn.
"Have you gone rowing recently? Michael keeps asking to go but I can't quite bring myself to care."
Just like that, Harry's attention has been placed elsewhere.
And while Louis is thankful-because he honestly might kill this bloke-it disgusts him even more. Because it only proves to show that Harry was playing with Louis like a mouse, decidedly working his charm on him with as little effort as he needed to in order to win himself another minion, only giving up when it became too trying of a task.
The rest of the luncheon is spent with Harry leaning over Louis' chair, intermittently preening as he engages in fickle discussion with Zayn and Liam, and focusing on Louis, staring at him intently, deeply, and unnervingly. But not with any genuine interest; rather, it's revolves around a bored desire to prove something.
So Louis ignores him completely.
Instead, he has as much fun as he can while engaging with the others, cracking jokes, taking the piss, and shouting exclamations as Liam stares across the table with delight, a faint glint of mischief in his eyes. Zayn is just as amused (in his own way), fingers wresting against his temple, leaned back in his chair in the most luxurious manner possible. He's the spitting image of a king, and Louis decides that, if they end up being mates, he's going to buy this boy a crown.
And, all the while, Harry stares at Louis. And Louis makes ridiculous jokes and ignores the boy in return.
Eventually, the boys begin to depart. Edward has music lessons, Philip has a meeting, Lyle's bored, and George wants to see his girlfriend, and they slowly leave, one by one.
Pretty soon it's just Louis, Zayn, Liam, and Harry (and Harry's still standing beside Louis' chair because he's a stubborn fucker like that, keeps staring in amusement at a very irate Louis) and Louis decides that now is the perfect time to make his leave as well.
He gets up, smoothing over his shirt as he ignores Harry's eyes, and goes to bid farewell to his host (who is now smoking by the window with Liam) because he genuinely did enjoy the company of the boys that weren't empty shells of human beings. (Ahem.)
"Well, thanks again, mate. I had an incredible time, really. Best lunch I've ever had!" Louis says amiably, nodding his respect.
Zayn's lips quirk upward in response while Liam grabs Louis' phone from his hand and types in his number.
"You'll text us whenever you've a moment, of course?" Liam suggests, tapping his numbers onto the screen. "And I've got your number as well now. So we can make plans." He smiles wide, eyes happy and creased, as he hands Louis back his phone.
"Oh, yeah, for sure. Just let me know when you're hanging about next. I'd be happy to join."
Zayn , who is standing next to Liam, arm wrapped delicately around his waist, is staring past Louis' shoulder. Louis' just about to turn and find the source of his lidded stare when suddenly Zayn says:
"Harry, you were just about to walk Louis out, weren't you?"
And what did he just say?
Harry, grinning devilishly, immediately replies, "Of course."
Louis suppresses the urge to smack Zayn across the room as it fills with unspoken tension.
"I can find my way on my own," Louis says with weight in each word, giving Zayn a pointed look.
But he just shrugs and Liam looks to him. "Harry's got good navigation. Just in case." And Louis doesn't miss the impishness in Zayn's tone.
Because, fuck, is he trying to force them together?
Hell no.
"And good conversation," Harry adds, reapplying his scarf as he strides toward Louis. "I'm very nice," he says, but his inflection suggests anything but that, a posed smile in place.
He thinks he's so fucking charming.
Louis stares, unimpressed. "Somehow I doubt that."
"Shall we?" Harry seamlessly asks without a beat, offering his arm.
And maybe it's because Liam and Zayn are staring expectantly, or maybe it's because he doesn't have the energy to turn this into a thing, but Louis, with a heaving sigh and roll of the eyes, takes Harry's arm.
**
They're finally outside and Harry has successfully managed to sound like an even bigger wanker.
He's talked about himself, his impeccable grades, his yearning for companionship, how nobody understands him (and his acting skills are shit, by the way, so he's not fooling anybody) and he's even gone as far as to compared Louis' eyes to a summer sky.
It's cold, empty flattery, and though Harry probably feels that he's successfully charming another conquest, Louis is keeping his vomit at bay.
"I want to show you the gardens," Harry suddenly says, stopping and turning to Louis. "It's my favorite spot in the world. You must come-they'll inspire you, even in sleep."
Even in sleep? What the fuck is he even talking about?
"I'm not really interested in gardens, but good effort," Louis growls, removing his arm and taking a step back.
Harry stares, and Louis thinks he may be slightly taken aback--which would be the first real emotion he's seen on him. "But surely you're just curious?"
"Not really, thanks. If I wanted to look at some flowers I'd do a Google search. I'm not really that fussed about it, to be honest." With that, Louis shrugs and begins walking ahead of Harry, praying to the sweet baby Jesus that he won't be followed.
"I'll walk you back," Harry calls, unsure, and thank fuck-he hasn't actually tried to catch up.
"I can't find one reason why that would be necessary, Curly."
"Harold," is the instinctive reply, and Harry is staring after him, mildly annoyed; Louis can practically feel him giving up on the project that is Louis Tomlinson. Because, nope, Louis is not a game and even if he was, he couldn't be won. "I've only offered to be polite. Haven't you any manners, Louis Tomlinson?"
Louis pauses, reluctantly turning back to face Harry who is exactly where he left him.
"I don't need manners. I mean what I say and I say what I mean. I don't fuss about appearing a certain way. Funny, living that way, isn't it?" And without another word or look, Louis turns on his heel and walks away.
"Goodbye...?" he hears Harry call, almost inquisitively.
But Louis ignores him.
And Louis is so angry.
He's not even sure why that brief encounter made him so genuinely mad, but it did. It made him furious. It filled him renewed rage and bitterness and frustration and...fuck.
Louis may not know what he's doing here, what he's going to do with his life, or how he's going to survive the rest of term, but Louis does know one thing:
Louis Tomlinson hates Harry Styles.