The Beauty Behind The Geek. {Larcel/LarryAU}✓

Chapter Six

~The two make their way off of the bus, being the last ones off it's easy to walk down the thin hallway between the rows of seats, Marcel follows a bit behind Louis, his strides much wider than his own clumsy steps as he struggles to keep up.

~"i'll see you at lunch?" Louis finailly asks trying to sound casual, leaning against the locker beside Marcel's,nodding trying to keep calm as a swarm of butterflies engulf the pit of his stomach "sure" Marcel says, smiling as Louis nods, turning to walk away, smirking to himself.

~Taking his seat Louis begins flipping through the pages of his English notebook, finding an empty page and straightening it down under his palm.

His thoughts constantly going back to Marcel,as much as he tried to shove the image of that annoyingly perfect dimpled smile into the back of his mind it wouldn't work.

He kept telling himself not to loose it over something he wasn't sure of, he couldn't get attached, he couldn't fall in love to have everything fall apart again. He couldn't be hurt again over a stupid fascination with a boy he hardly knew.

But in the back of his mind there was a voice telling him that trying to stop what he felt was pointless,there is no stopping your emotions,Well for Louis at least,anyone who knows a bit about him knows that he's loveable,and some might even say that he tends to care to much, to easily.

He has since he was small, but he's never thought it a bad thing, it couldn't be bad to care for someone,his entire family was like that, soft and loving.

It didn't seem like a bad quality to have, he's managed to keep his friends close, close enough to be brothers, since kindergarden-why was he thinking about Niall, Liam and Zayn instead of writing? oh yeah, maybe because they're more interesting.

Turning his pencil around between his fingers out of pure boredom Louis attemps to tap into every depth of his mind in search for something to write about, with no prevail.

Soon the page is filled in nothing but discarded ideas and eraser shavings., a lot of eraser shavings.

The urge to throw the desk along with the writing materials out the window bubbling inside of him.

By the end of the class period his writing progress had been equivalent to zilch and when the bell finailly rung he's the first one out of his seat, letting out a relieved sigh and running his fingers through his light brown fringe.