violins and cigarettes (larry stylinson a.u.)

Two

"You've got to be kidding me!" Stella cries out, throwing a shoe nearest to her at the wall. Narrowly, the lethal weapon misses Louis' head, smashing into a rack of clothing in its aim of trajectory. It hits the top of the rack, causing the whole thing to topple over. Stella doesn't even pay any mind to this, her eyes focused on the suitcoat in her lap.

"Jesus Christ, Stella!" Louis' heart is racing, the near-death experience making his blood pulse quickly through his body. "You almost cracked my skull!"

By her lack of apology or kind words, it's obvious that Stella could care less about that. No, she seems much more broken up about the fact that Louis has ripped the sleeve of the suitcoat he was given earlier for his performance of the night.

Of course, Louis just cannot understand why it's of such significance.

"You snivelling rodent," Stella mumbles from her perch on the carpeted floor. Louis watches her, wearing an unbuttoned white dress shirt. He's finding the whole thing funny, really; the fact that he could have been put in a coma is, eh, forgotten at this point. Besides, could have are the key words.

"It's just a suit, Stella, I have a white one that I could use tonight. Y'know, if you don't have a spare?"

Stella looks up at Louis with a condescending glare on her face. "First of all," she spits, her voice a growl, "Do you honestly think that I wouldn't have a spare goddamn suit? I'm your stylist." She sizes Louis up, tutting her tongue. "And you're fucking lucky to have me, too. A white suit? You'd look terrible in it. Haven't you realized how deathly pale you are nowadays?"

Louis rolls his eyes as she blabs on, used to her derogatory insults towards his appearance.

"Lastly, you fucking twit, I told you when I gave you the suit that it's a William Stark! He designed this one for you specifically, and he told PR that he wanted you to be the face of his motherfucking clothing line!" She slams her fist on the soft floor. "Stark Clothing, Louis!"

Louis falls silent, not knowing how to respond to Stella's rage. He feels a mite bit bad now, seeing how frantic she is about the situation.

"I'm not pretty enough to be a model, anyways," he finally says, and Stella angrily pulls on a piece of her frizzy blond hair.

"Oh, shut up, will you? I can't for the life of me comprehend how you can make everything a joke. Newsflash, Louis: this isn't funny!"

Louis sighs. "Why's it such a big deal?" He asks. "I'll tell him it ripped, he'll make me another one for my next performance. Simple as that."

It's silent for what seems like an eternity before Stella looks at him with a face that screams scrutiny. From the way her eyebrows are pushed together and her glossy lips are pouted up, Louis can just hear her thoughts of hatred towards him.

"You're not serious," she spits out, and her voice sounds so venomous this time that it makes Louis shrink back. "You're actually serious? You're telling me that you think a filthy rich, spoiled clothes designer will make another custom suit for an incompetent twenty-two year old musician?" She buries her face in the soiled jacket, groaning loudly. When she comes back up for air, she just shakes her head at Louis.

"You're an idiot."

She holds up the destructed sleeve, and Louis winces. It is rather pathetic, how quickly he had been able to deface the poor suit. A rip that ran to the damn elbow. "How did you manage to rip this in less than a hour?"

Laughing nervously, Louis clears his throat. "Well, uhm, I put it on after you gave it to me, 'cause I wanted to make sure it fit and all, and then I went to practice my pieces-,"