Style

1- Prologue

"Hey! I got style!" Louis protested.

"Well, no, but now you got Styles." Louis manager Roger said and cackled at his own joke.

"What does that even mean, Roger?" Louis snorted. His manager had the worse kind of humor.

"I hired Harry Styles for you. He's the best stylist out there. He can fix, well, that." Roger muttered and gestured vaguely at Louis' trackies and hoodie.

"This is Adidas!" Louis argued.

"I'm just saying that you need someone to dress you properly when you have public events and concerts. In your free time, you can wear your lovely sports outfits." Roger said, voice dripping with sarcasm.

"Fine. I'll meet the guy but if he has some fucking crazy ideas that include feathers or tassels he's out the door. Understood?" Louis muttered and crossed his arms over his chest.

"Great. He'll be at your house tomorrow at ten." Roger informed.

"What? Why the hell is he coming to my home?" Louis questioned.

"To look at that disaster you call a wardrobe." Roger answered like it was obvious.

"So he's gonna sniff my underwear? No thanks!" Louis snorted.

"You're 27 years old, Louis. Stop acting like you're twelve. Now go, I'm super busy and super important." Roger smirked.

Louis rolled his eyes at his manager but got up and left. He couldn't believe Roger had hired a fucking stylist for him. A stylist called Styles. How stupid was that? He was sure this guy was a moron.