Larry Stylinson ao3 one shots.

The Shirt You Hate

Written by:isthatyoularry

Summary:"Soph," Louis says to his female executive assistant. "I'm making more money than ever, and I have just realised that I have no one to spend it on."
At thirty years old, Louis is past halfway to becoming a billionaire, and he needs to find the one. He literally stumbles upon his university sweetheart.

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The Shirt You Hate
Louis strokes his jaw with a look in his eye that he would prefer to be described as 'a sultry smoulder'. His fingers scratch through a healthy layer of scruffy beard, the matching stash above his lip something he has kept neatly trimmed for the last year. He is nearly thirty now, so not shaving should be more than permitted. Encouraged, even.
He squints down at the file of papers his associate dropped off on his desk half an hour ago. The numbers on the pages are not startling, and neither are they surprising. They've been almost this high for the last four years, but when the board of the company he owns (well, to seventy-five per cent, the remaining twenty by the board, and five by different shareholders) and is simultaneously CEO of, five years ago suggested that they would plausibly be making a profit of over a couple billion American dollars the year of 2016, he never actually considered how much money that is, and how much of that money is actually put in his own pocket.
Closing the file, he swings around in his leather office chair, facing the large screen of his computer. After a few clicks and a couple of insertions of different passwords he finds himself staring at his own personal bank accounts.
Louis has always been especially pleased with the large accounting department of his company — their excellence is always pleasing — but his own spending looks a bit, well. He is far from cheap, but he could definitely be making use of a lot more than he currently is.
Financial stability is excellent; he doesn't have to worry about places to live, his pension scheme doesn't need much altering, and the members of his family's futures are basically ensured. His sisters and one brother don't need to take out student loans, they get to travel, and his mum never needs to carry a drop of worry on her shoulders. Despite the multiple charities he invests in, he could, however, be spending a bit more than he is when he is, well, about 413 million American dollars away from being a billionaire. Personal savings included only.
There is a set of six black cards that lead to one of his accounts distributed to his family, that they all use admirably responsibly — he even tells his twenty-three year old sister to have some fun with it sometimes — but, as he ponders it now as an official half a billionaire about to turn thirty, there could be one more person.
He logs out of his financial accounts, clicks the button on the speaker, and leans back to gaze out through the glass walls of his office. He watches as his executive assistant spins around in her chair at her station outside his office, her long brown hair swaying in ironed curls as she picks up the phone.
"Soph," Louis says to his female executive assistant. "I am making more money than ever, and I have just realised I have no one to spend it on."
"Um," Sophia Smith says, arching an impeccable brow. "There is me? I enjoy expensive Prada's, Michael Kors, and YSL has a new —"
"Just write me a list, Soph." Louis rolls his eyes. "But. I need a boyfriend. Quick."
"I'll make you a list of that, too."
"Excellent." Louis nods, pursing his lips. "I'll be in my office until two —"
"Actually, you have a meeting with the board at two-fifteen, and Mrs. Anderson requested a meeting. I scheduled her in at three, in room six on floor twenty-seven. I'll send over the adjustments of the agenda."
Louis crosses his legs. "I will be in my office until twelve-forty before I will leave for lunch in the city. I want the list on my desk by the time I am back from the board meeting."
"No problem, Lou."
"And," he says, rolling his eyes once again already, "if Horan comes over to flirt with you, please send him on his merry way before I have to look at his futile attempts through these glass walls one more time."
Sophia snorts. "He isn't flirting —"
"That will be all, Soph."
"Yes, sir."
For lunch to come around takes one hour of overseas phone calls to the London office, another of going through files, and a second of sending back those exact documents. Sophia sends over his agenda for the coming days, which will surely be changed anyway at least twice before tomorrow, and Louis can finally leave the office for a very coveted lunch.
Taking the lift down to the ground floor lobby takes a few minutes as his office is on the top floor in a skyscraper in New York City. He stands next to a blushing girl in a blazer and a pen skirt, who greeted him with a bashful 'Hello, Mr. Tomlinson', which he answered with a friendly 'Hi, there,' and subsequently caused the deep red colour that reaches down her neckline. He doesn't recognise her face, but she wears an employee card around her neck. An intern, most likely.
They reach the lobby where security greets him amiably, and he ambles toward the entrance. His car is waiting by the curb, black and sleek how he likes it, the driver opening the door as he sees Louis approaching. He struts out on the pavement into the lunch crowd, heading directly to the vehicle with a cheerful smile at Mr. Gray, the promise of a well-earned lunch at one of his favourite restaurants on Upper East Side already boosting his mood. Paperwork makes him tired and hungry.
Just as he is about to take the last paces to reach the car waiting for him, he casts his eyes to the right for a fraction of a second — a mistake amongst the people crowding the busy streets of New York. Louis should have this down to a science after seven years in the city — and then he is crushed against someone else's body.
"Woah!"
"Ooof!"
He stumbles back, rubbing his chest with a wince. "Motherf —" He grinds his teeth together, spinning around to look at the person who he just ran into.
"Jesus!" The other man moans, clutching his elbow as he jumps around. He is in a black wool coat that reaches his thighs, a green scarf wrapped around his neck. He looks a bit ridiculous. His body eventually faces Louis, eyes trailing up in a small scowl. Recognition washes over Louis instantly, and the stranger's green eyes taper as he realises who Louis is.
Louis' mouth opens to speak, but the other man beats him to it.
"You!"
"And you," Louis frowns, shocked. "Har — Harry?"
"Yes..." The man looks dubious as he stares back, fingers still clutched around his elbow. "Louis Tomlinson," he says then, and his face shapes into a look of annoyed exasperation. He glares at him as he cradles his arm, appraising the car and the driver waiting by his side. "You look like a dick," he announces.
Louis breaks into a smirk, rolling his eyes. Here we go.
"This is the look of success, Styles."
Harry presses his lips together, shaking his head. "And I wouldn't be surprised if you got it by being an arse."
Louis chuckles, pleased. "You're still you."
"And you're still an absolute arsehole." Harry mocks a smile.
"You've spoken to me for two seconds," he grins, sliding his hands into the pockets of the Aquascutum quilted coat placed over his suit, pointing the ends toward the man in front of him. "What do you think?"
"I can already tell you're the exact same as ten years ago," Harry says without blinking.
"Still as handsome?" Louis winks.
Harry rolls his eyes. "I can see that your smirk is still as annoyingly holier-than-thou. Your clothing tastes show off your pretentiousness, although, I am assuming you have a stylist now, because you were never good at dressing by the trends, which makes you all the more pretentious. And, you're wearing shades even though it isn't even sunny." He smiles, his perfect set of dimples popping out. "You are still a complete twat," he concludes.
Louis can't contain his smile. Harry's British accent stands out to him after years of living surrounded by Americans, and his slow drawl of speaking is entirely familiar. His voice is just as pleasingly enticing as all those years ago.
Harry's heart-shaped face is a bit more angular now, his jaw more defined, and cheekbones sharper. He has grown; he's slightly taller, shoulders surely broader, or his coat is doing a good job of enhancing them. His legs are mile long just like Louis remembers, and he must have let his hair grow out completely, as he is wearing it up in a proper bun. His lips are pink and plump. Louis wonders if they still taste the same.
The years have done him well.
He ticks his head to the side. "What are you even doing in New York City, baby?" he asks.
Harry pretends to gag where he stands on the middle of the pavement. "Blergh. Louis Tomlinson's nicknames! Am I back in uni?" He looks to his left for a short second, stepping out of the way for a passing pedestrian, and then meets Louis' eyes. "No, I am not. I am, however, late for work."
"You work here now?" Louis arches a brow in interest.
"Yes," Harry says reluctantly. "Moved here almost a year ago now."
"Where do you work? Do you need a ride?"
Harry rolls his eyes, shaking his head with a knowing smile. "I'm late. Goodbye, Louis."
And then he disappears into the crowd of people on the pavement, and Louis is left watching the throng of people move along past the building of his office.