And What If I Were You

Chapter 1 - Part 3

Friday, March 18, 2022

British Airways Flight 269

Heathrow to LAX

4.45pm. Somewhere over the North Atlantic...

Louis presses the call button on his handheld remote, taking out one of his earbuds and letting it fall onto his chest. He reaches over to lower the window shade, lessening the glare of the late afternoon sun over the ocean and then settles back into his seat as he waits for the flight attendant.

The transfer experience at Heathrow had been far easier than he had imagined. His assigned escort, Adrian, was a brilliantly funny man in his mid-sixties, Louis would guess. Stocky and mostly bald based on the way the light had bounced off the top of his shiny head, happy to share witty–but anonymous–anecdotes about other passengers he'd assisted over the years. Louis wonders if he'll make the list of the ones he shares fondly, or if he'll be no more than a blip on Adrian's radar, gone as soon as he had come, just another nobody who can't navigate the world on his own.

Over the last nine months, Louis has reset a lot of expectations in his life. He's become far more invisible for one thing, more subdued, adopting a chameleon-like ability to blend into the background in almost any circumstance. His trademark banter is a thing of the past too, no longer able to read a room or land a joke confidently without being able to take cues from people's body language and facial expressions.

The changes for him have been so much more than the physical ones he'd initially assumed. He's become an entirely new person, complete with a different emotional baseline, tolerances, and outlook on life.

But all of that is part and parcel of this life he's been thrust into. He'd started to realise the full scale of what this would entail when he'd attended his first support group session at the local community centre. Listening to other people and the challenges they were facing had hit home that this really was a permanent thing, this was his new normal just as Doctor Guilford had said. And he fucking hated it.

"Hello, Mr Tomlinson."

Louis turns towards the woman's voice, different to the one who had settled him into his business class pod earlier. "Oh, hi. I was wondering if I could get some water, please."

"Certainly. I'm Giselle, by the way," she says and Louis' heart leaps in his chest, squeezing painfully. The name is so familiar, but usually used in reference to something with significantly more fur, claws, and whiskers.

"Hi, Giselle. Nice to meet you and please, call me Louis."

"Of course, Louis. We didn't get to meet when you came onboard, but I've been briefed on your requirements. I'll be right back with your water."

Louis is left with his thoughts once again, already off on a tangent and down a path that can only lead in a direction he doesn't want them to go. He's left a lot behind him; his home, his art, his friends, his family, and his husband.

He grits his teeth. No. He's not going to give in. Not yet. He just needs to get to the island and then he can wipe the slate clean, get a new perspective, far away from everything he has known and everything that reminds him of a life that's no more than a memory.

But Giselle. Fuck. Images of her piercing green eyes, silky black fur, and long tail flood into his mind. She'd been so standoffish when he'd come from the hospital after his emergency surgery, unsure of what to make of his weird scent and subdued demeanour. Louis had wanted to cling to her, to bury his face in her soft fur and listen to her content purring just like he always did.

It had taken her a few days to come around, but when she finally had, she'd treated him differently; more cautious, more gentle, putting a distance between them when Louis desperately needed the opposite.

She wasn't originally his–not that cats ever really belong to anyone–no, she was Harry's, but from the moment they'd met, their bond was sealed. Their connection grew deeper over time as Louis became a more constant presence in her life. Giselle would sit with him while he painted in his studio in the converted stables at the back of Harry's country house. No. Their country house, he reminds himself, Harry's emphatic words ringing in his head. Well, it's not theirs anymore he supposes. Yet another thing he's left behind.

After Annabelle had revealed that the Harry Styles was the person who had snapped up the majority of the pieces in Louis' first solo show to add to his Louis Tomlinson collection, he'd assumed that would be the end of it. He was incredibly grateful, of course, and beyond flattered, but he'd been curious too. Harry Styles was a big deal, not global-megastar-big, but he was definitely making a name for himself.

So, when Annabelle had called him the following week—giddy with excitement and barely able to string a sentence together—to let him know that the man himself had requested that Louis assist with the installation of the artworks at his country house, Louis had been floored and rendered almost speechless.

He'd accepted, naturally, because who wouldn't? A chance to bask in the adoration of someone who appreciated his work enough to buy a significant number of pieces was too good to pass up. The fact that the person had also been making frequent appearances in Louis very-much-not-PG-rated fantasies since he was a teenager had just added to the appeal.

That meeting was the start of it all. The beginning of Harry-and-Louis. The love story of Louis' life. The one that he's currently hurtling away from at 550 miles per hour.