Larry Stylinson ao3 one shots.

Exhale the Dust

Written by:Flutterbutt

Summary:Louis is a disgraced former pop star who needs help writing a single. (a Music and Lyrics AU)

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There is no way Louis Tomlinson is going to open for the Blue reunion. He will never stoop that low.

"Lou, it's not like it's a bad thing-"

"It's Blue," Louis hisses into the phone. "It is a bad thing."

Herb, his manager, sighs. They've had this conversation a few dozen times. "You need the money, Louis."

"Not this way. I'm not some kind of prostitute!"

"This is nothing like prostitution."

"It's exactly like prostitution." Louis doesn't think it is, either, but it's the principle of the thing that counts. "I'll get money some other way. Maybe I'll get a job. Or write a book."

"You've tried writing a book."

"I'll try again," Louis says firmly. "It'll be fun."

"Alright. Fine, Lou." Herb sighs again. "By the by, have you finished reading The Andrew Dylan Story?"

"No," Louis answers, picking at his nails. "Haven't got past the first chapter."

"Can you hurry? Carol says she needs her copy back to do a reread."

"I'll bring it when I come to tea next week. It's rubbish, anyway."

Herb hums. "That poor kid, eh? Well, I'll see you then."

"Alright, I'd better go. It's time for my afternoon stroll."

"Bye, Louis."

"Love you, Herbie."

Louis ends the call and tosses his phone back onto his bedside table. He takes a long stretch before finally sitting up. His muscles are a little sore from having slept so long, and he very much needs to shower before he disgusts himself. New day, same shit.

He pads to the toilet, pausing to raise his middle finger to the poster of his band from 2003. It's torn in half, so that part of Louis' face and side is gone, along with one of his three band mates.

That one doesn't even deserve the finger.

Louis takes a nice long shower, washes his hair twice, and has a slow, lethargic wank. By the time he gets out, he doesn't really feel like taking his afternoon stroll after all. Instead, he goes down the block to the sandwich shop for something to bring back to eat while watching badly scripted reality TV. At ten, he picks off the couch and gets changed to go out. There's a club he's never been to 30 minutes away. After all, Herb's been telling him that it's time for a change.

Louis wears his braces on the off-chance that one of the boys at this new club will recognize him, and maybe blow him in the loo if he still remembers how one of Touch's song goes. It's worked for Louis in the past. He's heard many drunken renditions of "What Makes You Beautiful" in the last ten years.

There's a long queue out of the club's door once he arrives. He'd try to use his fame to jump ahead, but last time, the bouncer hadn't recognized him. That had been way too humiliating to risk again.

So he waits, impatient, idly scoping out the boys around him. Average, as far as club clientele goes. There doesn't appear to be a theme tonight, which Louis supposes is good. He hates theme nights.