The impression Louis had gotten from the letter [he’d barely skimmed over] regarding his housing was that his flatmate was to arrive on the same day as him.
Is this an exciting prospect? No.
However, does he want to get it over with so he can officially hate the fucker? Yes.
So Louis waits.
He waits long enough, foot tapping against polished floor, that his stomach growls and his eyes cross, and his fingers scratch at the fabric of his jeans. Because Louis is fucking impatient and he hates rich people—where the hell is this bastard?
Decidedly uneasy, he decides to spend the time unpacking—something he rarely ever does. Usually upon his return from any holiday or extended absence, his suitcases sit in the room, stuffed with rumpled clothes and dirty socks, remaining untouched for weeks, sometimes months. It’s not until Louis will wake up one morning and wonder “Where did that one shirt go…?” that they will un-camouflage themselves from piles of track pants and disarray, before becoming actively unpacked.
It’s a problem of Louis’—always procrastinating, always forgetting.
But he unpacks now—does a marvelous fucking job of it, hanging shirts on actual hangers and folding trousers in neat little stacks—and once his room is sufficiently set up (barring the fact that it’s far too sparse for Louis’ liking; but it is, after all, only his first day here), he takes to the other rooms of the suite. He stays far away from the kitchen because that is one place that he has never understood.
There really isn’t much to be done with the place.
Louis’ lack of personal belongings, combined with the overwhelming abundance of ornate trash that clutters the rooms, leaves for little creativity or wiggle room. However, he does manage to safely stow away all the semi-disturbing paintings of what appears to be bestiality (he doesn’t give a fuck if there’s a Greek myth about Zeus shape-shifting—a bird fucking a girl is still a bird fucking a girl) and soon, the stuffy atmosphere begins to take a slightly more home-esque feel to it.
Perhaps there is hope yet.
*
It’s been three solid hours (and four missed phone calls from his mum which Louis refuses to cater to, thanks) since Louis' arrival and every single ratty, cardboard box has been unpacked and unceremoniously dumped outside.
This is what success feels like.
And loneliness.
Because, even though he’s already decided that his soon-to-be flatmate is the bane of his existence, Louis can’t help but notice that he isn’t arriving. And it’s nearing evening. Which means he may not arrive. Which means…Louis spends the night alone. Bored. Without friends or distractions. And how the hell is he supposed to cope with that when he feels like being entertained?
Not checking the time because that would insinuate he cares, he resolutely decides that he will leave the flat. He will leave, he will explore, and he will have dinner at a quaint café so that he can send Stan artsy pictures of himself sipping tea in the sunset in order to make him jealous for not having come along with him. Because goddammit, somebody better be jealous of him when he’s feeling this shitty.
Grabbing keys and scarf, Louis exits stage right and, avoiding the increasingly dense clusters of rich-bitch drones scattered about the grounds, he ducks out of the gates and sneaks off down the cobbled street.
All the while decidedly not wondering about the whereabouts of his flatmate.
*
He’s certainly not over-thinking anything. He’s not.
