Mute. (Larry Stylinson)

The Story

Saturday 1

Louis slipped his light jacket off of his shoulders as he strode through the heavy doors. It hung loosely over his shoulder, batting off his back as he made his way through the modern building. He needn’t wear a jacket at all: the golden sun in the sky and his undeniably stylish fashion etiquette led him to only wearing a light scarf around his slim neck. His bright blue eyes danced over his surroundings, peering at the unusually busy reception area with suspicion. A crowd had gathered around the café area, a small one if honest, but more than there usually would be. That café was not renowned for the sweetest of treats; of that was true.

Shrugging nonchalantly as he caught the eye of Brenda –the building advisor–, he stalked off down the first left hand corridor in search of his destination. He batted away the blush that spread over Brenda’s cheeks in his mind, pushing out the panic of the obvious crush she had on him, regardless of her forty years of age and his blatant attraction to the same sex.

Louis Tomlinson, you see, was gay: very much so. He didn’t hide the fact that he was attracted to men, and he pranced around with no more than a smidgen of heterosexuality. His voice was sweet and his movements flowed with such grace that it was impossible not to throw him under the typical ‘gay’ stereotype. Add that to the fact he was a student at Manchester University for Music and Arts, studying in Musical Performance consisting of singing, dancing and acting; he was just a very typical gay.

Due to his camp streak only growing over time, he’d never received any outright hate over his sexuality. Most people were used to his vibrant and confident ways, as he’d always been the centre of attention. But as time went on, he’d had the odd comment which bruised his ego a little. He didn’t take hate very well; if he was brutally honest with himself, he never had the experience beforehand to know how to cope with it. With his acceptance came lack of knowledge on how to deal with it. So when it did come, he usually put on a brave face to cover the cracks in his heart. That all normally came to a halt when he’d over thought the matter too much, and he eventually broke down on the dance floor with over excessive routines which strained his muscles and caught his breath until he couldn’t move anymore.

That being said, Louis was a generally cheery and joyful lad. His beaming smile was rarely wiped off his face, those perfectly straightened, glistening pearly whites all on show for the majority of the day. His loud laugh boomed loudly throughout the studios more times than able to be counted, and his eyes never lost that glint of joy. Overall, Louis Tomlinson was just happy.

His feet danced through the doorway as his nimble hands pushed open an entrance. His body spun around with his arms poised around him, and the hallway whirled into the music room: his music room. His mind was concentrating on his Tom clad toes and the music tinkling in his head, the soft keys of the piano chiming through his mind in the newest tune he’d learnt for his exam piece. Swiftly, the notes in his mind conformed to a heavier beat, the low and dulcet notes breaking his floating movements. His spinning motion halted quickly and his cerulean eyes shone out in shock.

They latched onto an unknown figure curled over the piano keys. Louis was immediately alert; the imposter was playing on his piano, in his music room. Okay, so it wasn’t actually his room or his piano, but he was the only one who used it as it was just routine that it was where he played. But here was an intruder prodding the keys to make a, strangely beautiful, dark tune.

The 21 year old coughed for attention, gaining nothing but a continual of the music in response. As the heavy song plonked along, Louis crept closer to the hunched being.

"Excuse me?" his high tone laced through the air. The music stopped and a pair of green eyes swiped their way to Louis’ interruption. The eyes crashed to the floor to break all contact, and awkwardly shifted their way around the carpet. The boy’s hands were still hovering on the precious keys of the piano, as if attached by glue. Louis studied the, he guessed, young lad, taking in the messy mop of curls that wound masterfully around each other, the smooth and pale skin stretching over a perfectly featured face, running past those downcast greens, and pink rosy lips. His face spoke a thousand words of beauty; any phrase of the sort could be evoked from the wary face.