Louis was fidgety. He was extremely fidgety. His palms were clamming up with a nervous sweat and his perfected fringe was feathering out from the constant worried run of his fingers lacing through it. He continually rubbed his hands on his tight red trousers to rid himself of the reminder that he was really fucking nervous. As his Tom-clad feet pressed down on the accelerator of his rickety old car, his light blue shirt clung to his chest like a suffocating film. The buzzing of the sideling drivers ran through his ears along with the slow murmur of the radio that was stuck on the same channel it had been from the start, and the flashing passing lights blinded him for less than a second each time.
He didn’t know why he was so tense.
Well actually, he did. He was picking Harry up and taking him to, presumably, the boy’s first ever gig. And that was what baffled him; why was he panicking about picking up a boy to take somewhere? It wasn’t as if it were a foreign experience; he’d had many first dates at gigs. But this was different.
Well obviously it was different; it wasn’t a date in the first place. Louis was only there to make at least a slight friend of the boy, not anything further in that way whatsoever. The first would be a battle in itself, and Louis didn’t know Harry enough to be able to think of him that way yet. Yes he was pretty, very pretty, but that wasn’t anything but first initial thoughts.
But this was Harry they were talking about. Harry. The boy who couldn’t mutter a word. The boy he didn’t know anything about. The boy who was obviously fragile. The boy who was a total anomaly in Louis’ globe of acquaintances. But it was the boy he was taking to a gig and he was going to make it his aim to make sure he led the boy into a fun and welcoming experience that he’d want to occur again.
He felt like he needed to prove himself to the boy. Prove he wasn’t harmful and was in fact, just an outgoing, yet harmless, young man. He knew it would be a tricky task, hard to judge too as of Harry’s lack of expression, but he was going to try his best, for him and for Harry.
The rocky roar of his red Nissan Micra trundled up the street in search of the quaint little house of the Styles residence. His blue orbs scanned the rows of houses lining the small road, scoping out for the particular number “28”. Louis’ eyes flickered along the dimly lit houses, landing upon the brightened number presenting the designated house. He pulled his car up by the driveway, ceasing the heavily grumbling engine to a halt.
Slumping back in the squeaky seat, Louis let his eyes travel the outside of the house. It was neatly presented, the garden preened enough not to look messy but not obsessively tampered with. The warm lights shone through the closed curtains, an indicator that there were people in the house. The welcoming and warm atmosphere of the outside only crashed nerves into Louis more. If Louis were to be rejected by the family, what would that say about him? It would not be anything positive, that was for sure.
Setting those thoughts behind, Louis breathed in deeply and let it out slowly before pulling himself out of the car. He scuttled up the driveway, the thin soles of his feet padding softly against the tarmac. He perched upon the small step in front of the door and tentatively reached to press the doorbell. Hearing it ‘ding’, he stepped back awkwardly off the step, fidgeting once more with his hair to fix it in the window reflection.
The opening of the door drew him from his restlessness. His eyes snapped towards the figure in the doorway, who smiled with nothing but kindness and gentleness. Anne’s eyes lit up with the sight of the fashionably dressed up boy in front of her, more over the idea that he actually turned up. She had doubts that he’d even turn up. It was unlikely he would, after all. The act could’ve been out of common courtesy at the time and Louis may have regretted it grandly afterwards. However, he had arrived, and Anne was truly excited at the prospect of her son maybe gaining someone to care for him other than family.
