Larry Stylinson ~ Poor Little Rich Boy AU

3.

Poor Little Rich Boy - Larry Stylinson.

Louis’ dare is simple: to find some sad little rich kid stupid enough to fall in love with him, and win him over by the end of the holiday. In every figurative sense. It’s a challenge that Louis is completely confident he can carry out. So when the perfect, pretty little Harry Styles crosses his path with a seemingly endless bank balance and a head full of romanticism, it looks like Louis has found his idiot.

Chapter Three:

AN: Okay, so I’m really not sure about the progression on this one, I’m sure this chapter happens too fast and there’s too much and it’s very unrealistic, so I’m sorry :/ But I hope you guys won’t mind.

Louis’ usual tactic when it came to seduction was ‘know what your target likes’, but with no sources of information to fall back on, he was drawing a blank on that one.

Usually, he would befriend sisters, brothers, friends, ex-flames, parents – anyone necessary, really, and attempt to glean information about his intended hook-up. He didn’t like turning up clueless. However, he spent nearly six hours on the very first full day of his all-expenses paid holiday attempting to coax any kind of  clues about the curly haired boy’s preferences from everyone he met, and so far he only knew three things: the boy usually had cornflakes for his breakfast, he was in the habit of going for melancholy strolls on the beach, and he was apparently either an introvert who hated everyone or had some kind of strong aversion to being outside, because Louis hadn’t seen him leave the hotel since the day before. In blissful heat and glorious sunshine such as this, he was completely baffled by the boy’s absence from the beach, poolside or various other spots of outside leisure.

Understandably, he didn’t have a lot to go on.

He didn’t even know the boy’s name – although that quickly changed after he sent Hannah over to have a quick whisper in the ear of Sven, the fit lifeguard. She came back pink and giggly, with a phone number on the back of her hand, and told Louis that the curly haired boy was Harry Styles (for God’s sake, he even sounded rich, like he should be a famous rock star), he’d come for a fortnight’s stay with his mother Anne, stepfather Robin and beautiful sister Gemma (well, Louis would believe that when he saw it; he was pretty sure that to be labelled as beautiful when compared to her brother, the girl would have to be stunning if she were to even get a look in) and he said little and did even less, preferring to lurk in his hotel room and occasionally peep out of the window at the people milling around below.

Well, Louis couldn’t have that. He couldn’t exactly preposition the boy if he never got to meet him. Neither could he go walking straight into his bedroom – well, he could, but he had a feeling that gesture might not be well received. More subtle measures would be required, it seemed.

For a while he contemplated romanticism, and wondered whether he should write some kind of note and have it sent up with the boy’s lunch tray (he preferred to eat in his room, apparently –this could mean that he was either horribly snobbish, refusing to eat with anyone who was ‘below’ him, or horribly shy, refusing to eat with anyone at all) but his poetic prowess left rather a lot to be desired, and he didn’t want to scare him away, so that plan was scuppered almost before he’d thought of it.

Truthfully, Louis was into grand gestures, and he wasn’t entirely sure how to proceed because he was fairly certain that the quiet curly haired boy wouldn’t really be into that kind of thing. He wanted to do something spontaneous, something funny, but at the same time something which wouldn’t entirely be in his usual style of blowing people away and then making his move before they could quite recover fully from his usually rather impressive act. Louis was very good at surprises. He was not, however, quite so good at befriending quiet, shy people who rarely ventured out of their hotel room, and therefore he ended up sat gloomily by the poolside, drinking some kind of fizzy wine in a fancy glass (which he had to admit was an extremely feminine drink, but he wasn’t unduly bothered) and considering his plan of action, or lack of.