violins and cigarettes (larry stylinson a.u.)

One

The air is misty, the atmosphere hanging with a suspenseful twinge; the way it becomes moments before a heavy downpour settles. For Louis Tomlinson, the fact that rain is to come makes him exhale in solace. It signals that there is a minuscule chance that anyone else will be dwelling in the area he's made his own.

He's already wearing dark sunglasses on his face- despite it being somewhere around two in the morning- and a hat on his head. His longcoat brushes against his calves with every step he takes, and he's pleased to think that it does a good job of covering up his body structure.

Louis has come to greatly appreciate and long for these nights, whether they're rainy or snowy or dreadfully humid. They're his only escape from his extremely broadcasted life, the only sliver of privacy and independence he's allowed to grasp. Even so, he's been discovered once or twice, but he's grown with the idea that such is inevitable.

He supposes it's the price he has to pay for being famous for his passion.

With every few steps, Louis has to cross in a puddle, and he's glad he wore ratty loafers. Much as he hates having to follow orders, he knows that Stella will have his ass if he got the nicer of the shoes he has in his wardrobe wet. Maybe if he actually bought shoes- instead of taking the ones from her provided closet for him- he wouldn't have to mind that, but oh, well. Shopping is excruciating.

Louis doesn't exactly enjoy taking his nightly walks in the dumpy part of Birmingham, but it's the only place that even paparazzi don't dare to roam in at two in the morning. Unsafe, yes, but anyone would end up going to extreme lengths to get some privacy. At least, Louis would. He glances around at the buildings surrounding him; completely dark, some with boards nailed in to cover the window hole. Graffiti and other various means of vandalism cover the older-looking buildings, and Louis can't help but stop and admire one that looks abnormally exquisite. He finds the idea of graffiti idiotic, yet monstrously underrated. It must take talent to make such vibrant patterns and lettering with a mere spray can as a tool, but, then again, why would someone waste aforementioned talent by doing it illegally?

He decides to take a break, leaning against the beautifully violated building. His hands pat at his pockets until he comes up with the singular cylinder he's been thinking about ever since he'd started his walk.

Yes, a cigarette.

They're the sinful treats he allows himself on these walks, one of the only secrets he's been able to conceal from the media. No one else knows he smokes and he would like to keep it that way. Smokers are considered rough and dirty where he lives, and, like... he's a musician. He can't be thought of as classy if a package of Marlboro Menthol Lights are tarnishing his reputation. They're great, though, the lights. He loves smoking, but he has enough willpower to limit himself to one a day. He prides himself on it.

And if he has to buy cigarettes at the local gas station wearing sunglasses and faux facial hair--all so the unapproved habit can remain a secret--, then so be it.

His favourite metal lighter is becoming old. This upsets him. He's owned the rusty thing since before he actually smoked. Where he acquired it has slipped his mind; all he knows is that it's been in his possession for as long as he can remember. He won't dispose of it, he decides. Even when it burns out.

"Cheers to me," he murmurs after igniting the cigarette. He takes a puff and breathes out, watching the gray smoke waft into up into the starless night sky. It seems to make patterns before fading away completely, and for some reason, it mesmerises Louis. It's so eye-catching in a decidedly dull way that Louis doesn't notice the rat scurrying towards him from a nearby sewer vent, not until it patters across his worn shoes.