Burn [Larry Stylinson AU]

Chapter Twelve

As soon as Harry stepped out of Ed's building, he was pelted with fat drops of rain. The dark clouds swallowed every single morsel of sunlight and hovered apprehensively over the cluster of city buildings below. In Harry's short time living in London, he had already grown to accept the fact that there was always something blocking out the English sun.

            He walked a block to the car park he had left the Cadillac sitting in. Louis and Harry had both arrived together in the car, but Louis had fled the flat on foot. Looking up at the dense, angry clouds above, Harry wasn't particularly happy about that. He wondered, as the windshield wipers batted at the rain pelting on the windshield, if Louis had really left for the sole reason to grab a bag of sugar. Harry was sure that Louis had known they had sugar back at the flat.

            When they had barely arrived at Ed's, Louis was chirpy and merry, eager to join in on the staccato conversation between the fallen angels. Though the corners of his eyes were weep in exhaustion and his caramel hair had been mussed underneath Harry's beanie, his little smile had still been present. Dim and vague, but it was still there. Then the next thing he knew, Louis had been closed up and quiet, refusing to look the worried angel in the eye. He just left the apartment, not even bothering to hug Harry goodbye (which, in Harry's delight, had become a regular thing throughout the last two months). Maybe his demeanor was a result from exhaustion. Both have been restless from the nightmares that plagued Louis' dreams. However, for some reason, Harry had an odd feeling in his gut that it wasn't exactly that. He just hoped that whatever it was, that he would be able to fix it.

            When he saw the familiar neon-sign, he parked the car along the sidewalk and fed the parking meter before slipping into Nick's shop. The bell overhead jingled as he stepped inside, merrily announcing his arrival. Incense was lit by the abandoned register and the beaded curtains draped over the doorway to the backroom were pulled back to reveal fresh boxes of inventory. He bounded away from the door as a gaggle of teenagers tromped to the door with grimaces on their lip-gloss slicked lips. “I can't believe you don't carry Justin Beiber!” one called behind her.

            Nick, dressed in khaki pants and a floral button-up, appeared from behind the shelves of CD's, armed with a spray-bottle filled with water. “Well I can't believe you wore those shoes with that skirt, but it what it is. Now please get out before your cheesy pop music and bubble-gum perfume ruin my carpet,” he sassed, spritzing them out the door.

           

            The door slammed behind them with a chorus of shrieks. Nick rolled his eyes and groaned, draping himself across the counter. “Why do people even have children?” he wailed.

            He had always been a bit over dramatic.

            Harry laughed and slapped his shoulder, “I take it your day has been good so far?”

            Nick raised the bottle and spritzed Harry, who shrieked bloody murder.

           

             The 28 year old man muffled his reply against the wood of the counter, “It was going alright.” He lifted his head to speak properly, “This fit bloke who looked like a mix between Hugh Grant and 1970's John Travolta walked in earlier. And as you already know, I tried to chat him up and pull him with some of my mighty charm. I was so sure that by the end of the day I would have him in my bed, making sweet, sweet music 'til the sun came up, if you know what I mean, before this mob of teenagers trooped into my store and started to demand copies of that Beaver kid's new album. Like really, do they know who I am?”