Author's Note: This is me attempting to do something about my morbid fascination with serial killers, my sad obsession with One Direction, my nostalgia for the 70s, and my love for Bring Me The Horizon's music. Sorry if it’s shit. I haven’t written fanfiction since Harry Potter was still making movies. The vine linked is what kickstarted this idea.
- - -
It’s night. It’s never night when he does this, it never has been. But he’s desperate. He’s getting fidgety and even more restless. So he’s doing it. He’s doing it at night. This night.
He’s staring at the gas station from the interior of his car. He’s waiting, always watching. He won’t just settle – no, he never just settles. It’s all about precision. You don’t go to the butchers and say, “Any will do”. No, you’re precise. You demand the right weight, the right cut, the right meat. You’re picky. Louis is picky. Louis is very picky.
A pair of headlights flood the front seat of his old BMW with light for a split second. Louis watches the car park, watches and waits. He’s glad he waited. He’s glad he’s sat in the relative darkness for hours just watching. He’s found his meat; he’s found what he wanted. He’s found the butchers prize-winning steak.
Long legs, a long torso, a tangle of curls, and a fedora. It’s not his type; it’s definitely not Louis’ type, no. It’s better. It’s everything Louis didn’t know he wanted. It will be his best yet.
He waits again. He watches the man – the boy – enter the convenience store. Louis glances in his rearview mirror. A messy fringe, icy eyes, days old stubble, and a blank expression - Louis looked the same as he always did. But, Louis was an actor. He was prepared for this.
Reaching across into the passenger seat, Louis pulls a sling toward him. He pulls it on, hugging his right arm to his chest. He glances in the mirror again, a grimace of pain reflecting back to him. Louis is in actor. Louis is always prepared for this.
He waits a bit longer, watches the boy check out. He sees him walk towards the exit and Louis exits as well. Standing outside his car in the darkness of the two am night sky, Louis whines in pain. He screams in pain. He moans, he yelps, he groans, he cries. And he doesn’t stop. Not until there’s a warm hand touching his shoulder.
“Sir? Sir, are you alright?”
Louis looks up, his vision blurred by tears. He sees his meat, his prize looking at him with concern. And prize he is.
“I’m fine, don’t worry,” Louis tells the boy, wincing in pain. The man looks conflicted.
“Are you sure? You seem quite pale. Do you need a doctor?”
The boy’s voice is deep, deep and slow like caramel. Louis wants to hear him scream – scream and scream until his blood curdles. He wants it oh so, so badly.
“Ah, yes, I’m fine, just a bit dazed. I wasn’t supposed to be out driving with this medication, but here I am,” Louis laughs softly, wincing when he readjusts his right arm. “Here I am with my medicine worn off and my mind congealed.”
The boy swallows thickly and Louis wants him to be swallowing something thicker than his saliva. Much, much thicker. A few more minutes, Lou, you can do it, his mind tells him. He listens to that voice, he thanks that voice. It’s right, after all. He can do it.
“Are you,” the boy coughs slightly and glances away, “Do you know where you are? Do you need to borrow a telephone?”
Louis shakes his head no before falling against the driver’s side door to his car, groaning in pain. He brings a hand to his forehead and closes his eyes feeling the boy steadying him with a hand.
“You’re quite ill. Here, come with me. I’ll see if the clerk has a landline,” the boy tells him, his eyes glinting in the headlights of a passing car. Louis can see their color, their emerald sheen. Louis never wants those eyes to go away. He wants to keep them forever.
Louis lets the boy help him toward his own car in front of the convenience store, leaning him against the passenger’s door. He promises Louis that he’ll be right back and jogs into the store once more, leaving Louis alone. Louis adjusts his sling and blinks back his tears, scowling. He rearranges his face into one of pain when he sees the man come back.
“He doesn’t have a landline, but I don’t live too far. You don’t seem in any condition to be driving,” the boy tells him, removing his fedora and messing with his curls. “Do you have anyone you can call?”
Louis thinks for a second before nodding, grimacing in slight pain and letting out a low moan. The man frowns, leaning Louis away from the car a ways before opening the passenger door and gesturing inside with his hand. He looks suddenly nervous. Louis expected this. The man replaces his fedora on his head.
“I’ll give you a ride back to mine? You can call someone there. I’m sorry but I don’t have one of those new mobile cellular telephones or whatever it is everyone is raving about,” the boy chuckles nervously. Louis smiles at him gently.
The boy blushes when Louis slides into the car and whispers him a quiet thank-you. When the door is closed and Louis is safely alone, he lets his façade fall for a second. He smiles and he swipes his fingers through his fringe.
Louis is the butcher and Louis has his prize meat right next to him. Louis can’t wait to have a taste.
When the boys is in his own seat and he asks Louis wants more if he is alright, Louis nods weakly at him. The boy then begins driving, glancing at Louis out of the corner of his eye.
“My name’s Harry by the way,” he tells him, his voice loud in the silence. “And you are?”
Louis smiles, though Harry can’t see it. He smiles to himself and to the voice in his mind. His smile is sinister.
“Louis, Louis Tomlinson.”
- - -
A week later when the news are reporting a story on the missing 22 year-old rock star Harry Styles, Louis pays no mind. He’s too busy staring into a pair of emerald eyes swimming in a jar of formaldehyde.
