Greetings, H.T. | Larry Stylinson

• view •

Louis was called to get to the office as soon as he possibly could and he was keeping his face as emotionless as possible.

He knew what was coming. Since then, that day three years ago, he had known this had to be coming soon. He knew and he acknowledged it but, fuck, this was sudden. After three years of silence, a load of shouting got directed at him and him only.

They probably found his fingerprints, footsteps in the blood maybe, while really, he hadn't done anything. He really hadn't -- but he still felt like he had. He felt like it was his fault, always had.

With shaky hands, he entered through the white, automatic doors and gulped, seeing all these officers and investigators roaming around the building to pick up on hints, catch thieves, criminals.

Louis felt rather uncomfortable -- aside from the nerves he had already built up.

He walked up to a large, rounded counter where people were gathered around, taking his first step directed to the only woman left available. She had brown hair, a triangle-shaped face -- cheekbones so outstanding, Louis guessed he could cut his hand on them if he were to touch -- and piercing blue eyes staring into his deeply, sighing before morioning for him to speak.

"Eh," he started, "I was called this morning for a conversation with..."

He fidgeted with the pocket of his pants, getting out a little paper while the woman looked at him patiently.

"..Rick Vencours?"

"Are you mister Tomlinson?" She asked, at which Louis nodded, "Yeah."

She returned the gesture and pointed to a large opening in the wall, "Office 2B, Mister Vencours is waiting for you."

Louis thanked her and swallowed loudly, counting down the seconds with his hand behind his back as his steps got more sloppy and misplaced every inch he got closer.

He couldn't do this, he thought he would be okay, but he really couldn't do this. Nerves, still, his stomach swirling and turning and twisting till it was knotted in this utter pain.

When he walked inside his old house, three years ago, he wanted his stuff, not drama, not this. Not anything he had seen, not anything he was gonna face. But he was here, facing it against the odds, trying to cope with the thought and images already coming in

But no, that's how stupid he was, thinking nobody would find a fucking rotten body in a basement, so stupid. Especially when he sold it, the house, too, as if these girls were oblivious enough to avoid that one spot -- he locked it anyway, why did they have to barge it in? Why in the world?

"Mister Tomlinson?" Louis got cut out of his thoughts, facing a broad-shouldered man in casual clothing, nodding at him, "Come in."

Louis cleared his throat and moved together the sweaty palms of his hands before following the man inside the blue-ish chamber, holding nothing but three chairs - one bag next to one of them though - a table, and some kind of machinery.

They were going to record the conversation, that was for sure.

Rick twisted his neck for a single second, facing Louis, "We've got some questions for you, Mister-"

"Louis." He butts in, "Don't mind calling me Louis."

"Well, Louis, take a seat." Rick said, gesturing to the two chairs on the right side of the table while sitting down on the opposite one. "As you may know, I'm head-investigator on the case of your ex-partner, Harry Styles."

Louis sucked in his upperlip, "Yes, I know that, yeah."

Rick rested his arms on the table as he shifted on his seat to get something out of his bag while continuing; "Now, I suppose you know all about the case now, but-"