R O O M 1 9 7 // Harry Styles & Louis Tomlinson Edition

Nine

~Friday 30th December 2016~

10:16 am

The snow of weeks before has melted and turned to slush, as the brakes of Harrison's car screech to a stop, outside of The Magnolia Hotel. The Chicago streets are alive with energy, as Harrison takes the keys out of the ignition and steps outside, rubbing his hands together to fight off the cold air pushing past him. He meets the tired eyes of his boss, as he opens the back door wide, waiting for Mr Tomlinson to step out.
The frozen wind swirls around the back of the car, as Louis collects his things, before stepping out of the door and sighing, looking up at the building he had left five days earlier. The silver band wound around his wedding finger is even colder than the breeze circulating around his body, like icy fingernails scratching across his fair skin. The bloodied rip on his lip has now faded, wiped from existence, from memory, as Louis finally strides inside the double doors of the hotel.

A certain spot of dirt is especially stubborn, as Harry polishes over the elevator doors with a damp cloth, rubbing aggressively at the stain, forcing it to wipe away. The whiskey binge of the last few nights still lingers on his tongue, as he steps out of the way of a newlywed couple wanting use of the elevator, picking up the bucket of soapy water by his feet and moving it to outside of the cleaning cupboard, where it belongs.
He pushes up the sleeves of his itchy, deodorant-drenched uniform and turns to grab the mop for his next job, washing the kitchen floor, but his eyes widen at the familiar figure striding through the main door and he turns back quickly, facing away from the hotel entrance. He glances over his shoulder, peering at his former employer as he approaches the reception desk, both suitcase and briefcase in hand, his coat hung over his outstretched arm. As Mr Tomlinson looks up, his eyes lined with purple bruise-like circles, Harry whips his head round again, eager to remain hidden from the man who ran out on him, pretending to wipe away at the walls, keeping busy long enough for Mr Tomlinson to go upstairs.
The elevator doors close, and Harry lets out a sigh, relieved.

Harry's day continues as it started - running around after Mr Peckham and doing each and every task given to him. He spends hours working away, mopping floors and tidying clutter and dusting photo frames on Mr Peckham's orders. He works hard, wiping down the surface of the reception desk, weaving between the three receptionists and their ancient computers to clean the stains embedded onto the wood, before Mr Peckham gives him a different task.
"Styles. Room 197 needs a tidy. Pronto." The old man yells, from the kitchen door, giving his youngest employee a stern look. And when he's gone back inside the kitchen, Harry's head falls back in utter exhaustion. After Harry's most recent fuck-ups, there is no chance that he can say no. He could quit right here and now, but not many companies have vacancies for alcoholic twenty-somethings. Harry thinks back to when he was younger, playing make believe with his big sister. Gemma always wanted to play fashion designer or shop keeper, but young Harry was obsessed with being a manager of a fancy hotel, making teddies and dolls his guests.

Harry shakes his head, as if to etch-a-sketch the far away memories out of his brain and reluctantly pulls himself towards the elevator and up to the floor he's avoided these past few days. He stands outside of Room 197, waiting for something unknown to push him inside.
Eventually he knocks, pushing his knuckles slowly against the wood, and when the distressed voice from the other side invites him in, he pushes the door open with an audible creak, letting Mr Tomlinson know that he has entered this cursed room.

Mr Tomlinson sits at the glass desk by the wide windows across the room, his back to Harry, his shoulders pushed together in tension, hunched over the paperwork sprawled across in front of him. The room hasn't been used in Mr Tomlinson's absence, so the broken vase and the ripped birthday card both remain in pieces inside a black bin bag, waiting by the door.
He gazes over his shoulder, eyes low, and once he sees the curly-haired boy standing by the door, he wipes away at his face, as if to flush away all the anguish that has decided to stick there, turning in his chair to face the young man, as he begins to speak.