A/N:
As I am new to this, I have uber lots of things to say to you.
These things are as follows:
1.) This is a slash fic and yeah.
2.) I do not own, nor do I want to fuck, these lovely gentleman.
If I DID own them, let it be known that I COULD fuck them, but I would not.
3.) I only know ASL, so any and every sign that is described will be described ASL style.
4.) Yes, this is AU. Yes, none of the other band members are present. Yes, I might add them if you ask nicely.
Woot.
Louis' POV
He's certain, as he plays the last note and lets the strings of his guitar vibrate under his fingertips, that they weren't impressed.
"Thank you, we'll let you know."
Meaning: You were good, but you weren't good enough.
No, meaning: You have no story.
That's it, he thinks as he angrily slings his guitar in the back of his car and steps on the gas, that's all it is. These people, this goddamn professionals, won't be impressed until they meet a blind piano player. They won't find the 'right person' until they discover a recovering alcoholic who can't hit a single note. It's not about talent anymore, but about how much press coverage you can get for the person's past. It's about exploitation not entertainment, not the good kind of entertainment at least.
He drives home to his tiny flat in the middle of Sale and takes a minute to calm down. When he gets out of his car, he searches in his coat pockets for his rusty key, the one given to him upon rental. The door and lock are old and persnickety, requiring much patience and wiggling to work. He isn't feeling particularly patient as he jams his key in the lock, resulting in a few loud swears. When the door finally gives he shoves his way inside, guiter banging against the wall with a loud thump. This results in more swears and the unceremonious flinging of his guitar onto the floor. It's a test of how amazing the guitar really is that it doesn't even crack.
He debates whether he should take a shower or eat something first, but finally decides to take a seat on the couch and rest. It's an old couch, one of three pieces of furniture in the room, the others being a worn leather couch and a very small coffee table. It smells odd and is an awful shade of green but it's one of his favorite fixtures because he can stretch out on it after a long day of auditions or bussing tables and curse his younger self for thinking he could make it as a musician.
It's not easy standing alone.
Eventually, his stomach growls loudly and he gets up to find something to eat. His bread is stale and his lettuce a litte limp but he manages to make himself something edible with it. He's out of sugar, so his tea is bland, but he drinks it anyway.
By the time he's finished with his supper it's only 5:30 and the shower water is freezing cold, forcing him to wait. He finds himself occupying the couch once again, staring at the stained ceiling above. It says nothing to him, not even when he tells it of his failing career that never really began and his growing pile of unpaid and unpayable bills. It simply sits and watches him, offering no advice or comfort.
"Fuck." He breathes because, really, what else is there to say? He runs a hand through his brown hair, closes his eyes, and prays to some unknown deity that he can find something before he kills himself.
"Fuck." He says it again, relishing in the harsh sound of the word, "Fuck."
He repeats it until the word is just a blur in his mouth, another part of his tongue, eroding his teeth with the acid taste of his failures past and present. It echoes around the bare room, the bare flat, louder adn louder until there's a faint knock on his door.
"Fu-" He stops and stares, shocked at the idea of a visitor. Pulling himself to his feet he pulls the door open, coming face to face with his very cranky landlord. She stares at him for a long time before pulling a letter from her pocket.
"This came for you."
She's Russian, not even British and still living a better life than him, her hair bushy and black. When he takes the letter she glares at him and he waits for whatever else she might have to say.
"Watch your language."
He shuts the door without answering and turns his attention to the letter, noting that it's from his parents. He isn't sure he wants to read it, since he hasn't spoken to them in awhile. Still, he assumes it can't make his day any worse, so he lowers himself onto the couch and rips it open.
It's from his mother.
Dear Lou,
It's been a while since you last wrote and your father and I were worried. You can't keep write us off like that, we really do love you and it hurts to go through these long periods of silence.
I wrote for a specific reason and that was to tell you of something your father and I have worked out. We've been talking and have decided that you need a vacation of some sort, since you appear to have been working very hard. We've been saving for awhile and are now ready to give you a week's vacation in Ireland or somewhere similar.
Write as soon as you can telling where you would like to go and we'll work everything out.
We love you very much and think you deserve this.
Write soon.
Love,
Your Mother.
The letter is short but still manages to leave his head reeling as he sets it on the coffee table. The idea of a trip, a way to escape the life he's living, is much too good to be true. He picks the letter up and scans it again, just to make sure he caught everything. After three more read throughs he's sure the letter is real and can't help but jump up.
Suddenly, Louis Tomlinson is feeling a lot better about the future.
A trip means a lot of things, new opportunities for his music being the biggest. If he can't find a job in Britain, he's sure to find one somewhere else, just as long as he looks hard enough.
Forgetting his shower he searches his apartment for an atlas he bought a year ago when he was feeling trapped, jerking the pages around rather harshly in his excitement. His finger traces the names of countries and capitols, his eyes reading them with a feverish destination.
He's finally getting out of the life he's in.
He's finally going to be something.