city lights; larry au

two

louis;

New York Fashion Week: the Super Bowl of the modeling world.

Months of preparation, stress, and intern tears, all poured into making it prima event of the year.

Backstage was in a permanent state of chaos; models, directors, and managers running around like chickens with their heads cut off.  But Louis was as calm as he could possibly be, partially due to the substance that could still be smelled on his clothes and seen in his red-rimmed  eyes, but mostly because he knew he had it in the bag.

Louis always had the attention on him when he walked the runway, maybe it was his confident, borderline cocky attitude, but he attributed his success to his stunningly good looks.

It really wasn't borderline cocky, he'd crossed that line a long time ago.

Regardless, Louis was the best; he knew it, and so did everyone around him.

It was his turn to walk the runway, and he knew the drill; he'd smirk at a girl (or guy preferably) who could be his next one-night stand, and make eyes at a few of the hot-shot investors who were sitting front row.

He strolled around the corner and into the audiences view, all eyes immediately focusing in on him. He continued with the choreography that he had memorized ages ago, making eye contact with those he knew would be essential benefactors to not only him but the entire company.

Just as he reached the end of the runway and was beginning to turn around, he caught a pair of damned green eyes and he was nearly turned into a stumbling, stuttering mess.

Nearly.

He stood, frozen, for what felt like hours, but was probably a few fractions of a second, green eyes locked with blue ones like they were about to make the most beautiful shade of turquoise. Two bubble-gum lips curled up into a smirk, and Louis swore he felt it reverberate down his spine and to his toes like an echo in an empty arena.

He composed himself enough to walk backstage, his thoughts now a jumbled mess of why does he keep staring at me? and why do I give a fúck?  and far too many thoughts of damned green eyes and smirking, bubblegum lips.

And he was so fucking frustrated because Louis Tomlinson isn't affected by pretty boys with pretty eyes and pretty lips.

When he was prepared for his final walkout, he composed himself, ready to finally get a reaction out of curly.

He still hadn't learned his name, so he'd decided on curly.

When he reached the end of the catwalk for the second time, his eyes found their way to the corner of the room to find the (pretty boy, pretty eyes, pretty lips) and he saw the bubblegum lips curl up into a smirk, and this time Louis smirked right back.

He certainly would't let him think he was one to back down, because Louis Tomlinson isn't affected by pretty boys with pretty eyes and pretty lips.

He waited for the smirk to falter, for his lips to twitch downward for even a second, but they never did. He simply leaned back onto the wall behind him, crossed his arms, and raised his eyebrows, almost like he was offering a challenge.

He was challenging Louis fucking Tomlinson.

Louis felt his frustration turn into anger, but he composed himself again and found his way back stage.

All he could think was how the fuck this boy made Louis fucking Tomlinson have to compose himself twice within minutes.

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