totallyxnot
"anything you say, boss," he said cheerfully, winking. "ambassador. main man. father. right-hand--"
"for the love of god, louis, shut up."
her drink -- an iced cappuccino -- gives her a tooth-ache by the first sip, but she's determined to finish it by the third. she tells herself it isn't a method of distraction when it really is, at least according to the bubble of anxiety threatening to burst in her chest, and tells herself again to breathe -- not that it'll help. she flexes his fingers and wipes the perspiration off her cold cup and exhales and squeezes her eyes shut and--
she folds in half, involuntarily, and vomits onto the linoleum floors.
"my ice cap isn't done right," he complains, his expression twisted in sour-faced disgust. "i said one pump of caramel drizzle, not -- eugh -- four!" he made a show of wiping his tongue with a tissue even after he'd swallowed a great gulp of his drink. "eugh. good god."
she stirred her smoothie with the tail-end of her straw and surveyed his dramatics blankly. "but you always get four pumps of caramel," she told him, voice dry and bleak and exhausted, using the tone of a mother speaking to her tantrum-prone child. too bad he's her husband. "that's, like, your thing. four pumps. everyone knows that."
"well." he sniffed. "there's no reason why they--" he nodded his head toward one of the waiters "--should. those freaks have had their eyes on me since we arrived."
"My shoes got spikes on 'em, see? On the backside."
Stanley, eyes still fixed on the child-sized tome resting on his lap, hums appreciatively. "Really?" He can't help the dry, unamused tone he uses as he says this. "Looks great."
"Looks? You aren't even looking!" Michael exclaims. "I got these bad boys for two zeros and you aren't going to give me a single--"
"For all that it matters," Stanley interrupts calmly, "I'm sure my opinion on your 'bad boys' won't make a difference." He sighs and raises his head anyway, and isn't surprised at his dissatisfaction at what he sees.
He lifts his chin with ostentatious grace. "Step away," he remonstrates.
She watches, her ego tinged green, as he jumps in the air and lands on the thin ice neatly. "As if anyone with two feet can't do that," she says, incensed.
"Really," he sneers. "Go on, then."
She squares her shoulders and straightens her posture before attempting his turn, but when she slips, she breathes a surprised chuckle into the cold air. When she looks up he's standing before her, smirking.
Louis watched as she deliberately popped a chip in her mouth, trying not to stare but failing terribly. She was proper fit, in a way that was subtle and casual and everything Louis was not. He felt a sudden wave of nausea wash over him and anxiety throb at his temples threateningly.
"So," he started carefully, testing the waters. She didn't seem to look phased, so he pressed on. "What're you into?" Louis winced; he sounded like an idiot. He peered down at his own plate of chips.
Instead of gathering her bag and walking out, she grinned, as if she wasn't waiting for a better question. She looked back at him sweetly. "Sing. Fancy you."
Louis camps out far from all the other boys because he simply doesn't want to associate with anyone - that just might be him being stubborn, but at this point he doesn't care. He sets up his tent and lays out his sleeping bag and decks out immediately, his headache banging throughout his skull.
A while later he's being stared down by a boy with a mop of curly hair. Louis nearly jumps out of his skin once he opens his eyes and he scrambles into a sitting position. "Jesus Christ," he mutters. "Bugger off, will you?"
he comes home from the bakery with flour trapped in the threads of his beanie and a loaf of bread tucked under his arms. his face hurts from smiling and his feet are aching from all the pacing he's been doing at the shop, but he rather he'd be feeling this way than be in a foul mood like he was in the day before.
he toes off his shoes and kisses his mum on the cheek before heading to the kitchen to cook up a storm.
her bones debilitate as her control swells, heavy and thick, bloating her concave heart
and her breath reeks of hunger while her pasty skin outshines a dull, toothy smile
calories clog her throat and her brain
yet she swears she's not enough
she couldn't contain her disdain. she openly groaned.
"that's a stupid idea," she protested. "it won't get us anywhere!" the group stared at her with annoyance, which led her to further her opinion.
"think of it my way or think of it yours. but which one is going to bring us from here," she pointed at the floor, "to here?" she pointed a red nail at the ugly beige ceiling.
silence.
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