Catastrophe (Larry Stylinson AU Four-Part Short Story)

Part One

PART ONE:

TOMLINSON

   Louis was never surrounded by love.

   He supposed it had something to do with his parent’s divorce – how it had torn off the false blanket of security wrapped around him, and let the cold world of reality seep into his innocent bones. It had ripped apart him and his family, exposing their secret opinions of one another and laying everyone bare on the table. Only then did he begin to grasp the idea that love was not everything it was promised to be in the movies. He had learned the hard way that hate often overruled any other emotion. Especially during those late nights, where the yelling had startled him awake from an uneasy slumber, provoking the tears he hastily wiped away when his younger sisters entered his room - just as terrified as he felt, and begging for the faded familiarity of years past.

   Thus, the concept of being entirely infatuated with someone was difficult to wrap his head around. He was oddly fascinated by the prospect of what others coined as “being in love” and an unquenchable thirst for this unique experience consumed the wistful, fleeting thoughts that cluttered his mind much too often. His desire for it was an unwritten fantasy that could never be given life by the masters of words, when his pitiful state was taken into account.

   Louis was a photographer. A half-decent one too. It could be argued that his exceptional natural talent at capturing a moment through the small lens of a camera was the ultimate thing that made his pictures so enticing to look at, but truthfully, he knew that his undying passion at discovering the love in the world and sharing it with others was what set him apart from any other person. It was a skill not many possessed, and one that people strived to obtain.

   Yet, unfortunately, at the grand age of twenty-four and a quarter years old, taking a pretty picture did not pay the rent of Louis’ ramshackle flat in London. And so, he had applied for a job at the popular Italian restaurant around the corner, which was a couple of blocks away from the dinky place he called home. They quickly accepted his half-assed attempt at an résumé, desperate for staff, and Louis received an itchy white polo and ill-fitting navy slacks that emphasized his rather large behind, as his new uniform for the position of a waiter.

   Work wasn’t terrible, but it wasn’t that great either. Louis had immediately become good friends with the upbeat, Irish character of Niall, a fellow member of the restaurant’s staff. They had bonded over a mutual fondness of football, and often chatted about their favourite teams and players in between orders. Niall was quite amusing, and could always provoke a chuckle out of him with one of his tales of drunken escapades, even when Louis was swamped with orders.

   There were also the friendly matches on the weekends with Niall’s group of mates, which had a tendency to transform into regular post-game visits to a quaint pub nearby the pitch. Louis would slowly nurse a pint of beer and have a laugh, unwinding from another week of tedious labour.

   One could say that Louis was happy if they happened to glance at him from a distance, taking in his bold, cerulean eyes and easy smile, but, if they ventured closer, they would see the dark circles smeared underneath his blue orbs, and the premature lines of stress that spread their way across his forehead. Louis’ shoulders seemed to always have a permanent slouch to them, making his petite frame seem smaller than it already was. He was lonely, and it had begun to take its toll on his body.

   It was a Friday night, and Louis was working the late shift once again. Niall was there to accompany him in serving the pile of obnoxious teenagers that had recently crowded through the door and demanded copious amounts of food. He sighed as their loud laughter floated through the walls and into the kitchen, fondly remembering the time when he was their age and didn’t seem care about anything.