“Hey, hey, hey!” Niall calls out, the slight shake in his voice betraying his nerves. He takes a few steps forward, both beers still in hand, albeit nearly empty, and stands in between Harry and Louis who have resorted to a staredown of sorts. She can see the tense lines in their postures, the way both of their jaws are set, and —
turn the world to gold, chapter 06: caelum
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“... God, I fucking hated how cruel I was — I told him it wasn't going to go anywhere.” Sloane feels Harry take a sharp breath, gripping her tightly. “Sloane, why would you say that, babe?”
When they arrive at the venue, there’s a line out the door, wrapping around the block. There’s a healthy mix of people of differing styles, which speaks volumes of TYSG’s musical versatility, spanning across different tastes — pop, punk, alternative, electronic, rock. The list goes on. It’s such diversity that has garnered them some traction and quite the growing following in more recent times.
turn the world to gold, chapter 05: lyra
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For some time, she always felt as though she maybe never really memorized him enough like, after so much time passing with them apart, she had forgotten the planes of his face, the details and specifics she used to wake up to nearly every morning blurred with each passing day. But seeing him now, she's mapped the lines, folds, and creases of his face with the pads of her fingers and the press of her lips time and time again enough to know that she could never forget the way his jaw felt against her palms.
turn the world to gold, chapter 05: lyra
coming tomorrow • story page
So the prologue was actually something completely different than what you saw. In fact, the entire plot was different. I actually looked in my docs, and I have the original prologue. You can read it under the cut. Fair warning, it’s not beta’d, so all mistakes are mine, and it’s obviously not canon.
Louis raises his hand to his forehead, firmly pressing the back against his skull while letting out a sigh. “Liam, as much as I fucking love you, I will have to ask—” His voice drops to a growl. “—why the fuck are you in my house at seven in the morning?” His hand falls back to his side with a soft thump, eyeing his best friend as he moves across the room.
Liam begins to rummage through Louis’ walk-in closet, shuffling through the clothes on the shelving. “Can’t I visit my best friend at odd hours of the day?” Liam quips, bending to look through the lower shelves.
“Absolutely fucking not. I’m tired as fuck. Go home,” Louis snaps. He burrows underneath the covers, pulling them over his head.
In response, Liam whips a pair of Adidas track pants in Louis’ direction, smiling smugly when the action elicits a groan. “We’re supposed to go for a run today. You said you needed to start training for your tour, you idiot.”
Louis emerges from his temporary cocoon and glares at Liam. He bunches up the track pants against his face, letting out a louder, more haggard groan. “Did we actually say today?” he replies sourly, although his voice is muffled against the fabric.
Liam lets out a soft sigh before chuckling and shaking his head. “Yeah, and judging by the pics of you leaving The Nice Guy last night, you forgot.”
A pang of guilt knocks Louis’ attitude down a few pegs. Powering through the bout of nausea that washes over him, Louis tries to sit up in bed, feet kicking as he braces his back against the headboard. “Liam, I’m sorry I—”
“Man, it’s fine,” Liam says, dismissing Louis’ apology with the raise of his hand, “you’re hungover, and, normally, that wouldn’t be a great condition to run in, but I’m feeling particularly cruel today, so think of this run as me getting back at you.” He shoots a wink at Louis.
Louis fixes him with yet another glare, guilt disappearing as soon as it came. “Wow, and to think I felt bad for a second.”
“We’re gonna run until you’ve thrown up all of the toxins in your system—a forced detox, if you will.” Liam grins, his smile wide from ear to ear.
Louis registers the turning of his stomach and the light throb of a headache. “That’s not going to take long at all.” He flashes an uneasy smile, his fringe falling in front of his slate blue eyes.
“Well, what are you waiting for? Let's go!” Liam begins to run in place, looking every bit of the marathon, fitness man he's made himself to be in the past few years.
“Why can't we wait an hour to go? It’s seven in the morning…”
“Carpe diem, Louis!”
“I’d much rather carpe noctem, Liam.”
“Yes, I know, and I’m sure the entire world knows how you love to seize the night, what with you leaving a questionable mixture of substances and surefire destruction in your wake,” Liam deadpans. Then Liam’s movements still, and he looks at Louis with a thoughtful look. “You know, you really ought to cut back on all of the partying, man. It’s gonna catch up to you one of these days.”
Louis hardens his gaze, quickly diverting it to the side of Liam’s head so that he is not directly looking at Liam. Everything Liam’s said is something he already knows. It’s not as if he’s dumb and doesn’t realize the pure havoc he has been wreaking on his body for the past few months, but he hates being told what to do, hates being judged for the life he leads, no matter how he chooses to lead it. Although he know Liam means no harm by the comment, always only looking out for Louis’ wellbeing, it still ignites a spark within him, his natural reflex to fight at the first signs of conflict.
His eyes flicker back to Liam who now has a crease between his brows. He quickly stamps down the reflex, swallowing hard, before softening his expression and smiling back at Liam.
“It’s already caught up to me; I feel like absolute shit this morning. Maybe I should get that extra hour of sleep, instead.” He musters his most playful and teasing tone, hoping that the natural sarcasm that often seems to seep into his voice is downplayed.
Louis doesn’t miss the twitch of Liam’s mouth, as though Liam has more to say on the matter. He even braces himself for a lecture, the first of what will be many throughout the day, he knows. But instead, Liam breaks into a warm smile, and Louis knows he’s been saved from, at least, one dreadful talk.
“No can do, Louis. Now, get dressed, and let's go!”
~
Two hours later and five stops to throw up later, Louis bursts through his front door, sprinting up the stairs, before flinging himself back into bed and burying his face into the soft duvet with a satisfied purr. He spreads his limbs against the soft fabric, a smile breaking out on his face. He knows his sweat is seeping into his sheets, but he can’t be bothered to move. He’ll have his housekeeper deal with this later.
Meanwhile, Liam follows close behind, laughing heartily before grabbing the remote and turning on the television with a water bottle in hand. He flips through a few channels, his attention easily waning within seconds, until he freezes, as Louis’ pictures from the previous night are plastered all over the screen.
“Louis Tomlinson is back at it again in L.A., isn’t he?” the host of a morning gossip show rhetorically asks, her manicured hands folded in her lap, as she looks onto her fellow co-hosts.
“It seems he likes to cause havoc wherever he goes nowadays,” another concurs, shaking her head in disappointment.
Louis sighs, tuning out the voices of the television, as they drone on about his partying lifestyle and reckless behavior. It’s all white noise to him at this point with the amount of times his publicist has chewed off his ear for partying too hard. It’s nothing he hasn’t heard already, nothing he really cares for at this point, after all Liam had tried to talk to him about it this morning. But then—
“Inside sources at RCA say that they’re concerned with Louis’ behavior as of late,” one says, and that statement makes Louis’ ears perk up again. “There are rumors going around that, after this tour, his label might drop him from the band, deeming him too risky of an investment for a third album.”
Louis scoffs, still motionless on the bed. He knows he’s RCA’s biggest cash cow at the moment, already calling the bluff before it’s even officially made. Risky or not, they’d take major losses if they drop him now at the apex of his career, as he’ll be wined and dined by the next label that comes around. Besides, The Young Silver Galaxy is nothing without its frontman, especially considering he’s not even close to the most problematic one of the bunch, he thinks bitterly. He’s frankly just caught red-handed the most, a product of his once good-natured naivety.
“He’s getting out of control. With his tour coming up, do you think he’d be able to make it all the way through?”
“Absolutely not. There’ll definitely be a few cancelled shows with his team more than likely citing health problems or exhaustion, but what it is is that he’s being reckless and irresponsible. I wouldn’t be surprised if you found him at the Betty Ford Clinic within the next we—”
With a click of the remote, Liam turns off the television, noticing the way Louis’ hands ball into fists against the duvet. “And that’s enough.” He lets out a soft sigh and pads over to the bed, sitting on the edge nearest to Louis. “Don’t listen to them. They don’t know you.”
Louis turns his head, one eye chancing a peek at Liam. He smiles wryly. “Fuck them, right?” he says sardonically, his smile falling.
“All that talk about rehab is just them trying to get ratings and shit. You’re not gonna be a Lindsay Lohan.” He sees the corner of Louis’ lips twitch upwards. “So, yeah, fuck them,” Liam agrees, reaching out to ruffle Louis’ hair. He smiles, as Louis lets out an expletive, twisting his body away from him.
Then a phone begins to blare the opening notes of Beethoven’s Symphony No. 5 in C Minor, the low, heavy notes filling the air.
Rolling his eyes, Liam says, “Really? This song?”
Louis shrugs before fishing the phone out of his pocket. “My beautiful, lovely publicist Claire! How are yo—” He grimaces, pulling the phone a few inches away from his ear, as his publicist begins to scream through the phone. Liam snickers, noting the shrill sounds coming from the device, which earns him a glare.
“I hope you were watching E! just now, because that’s probably going to be the headline for the next fucking week, so you better get used to people talking about you like an addict!” Claire barks through the phone. Louis rolls his eyes, looking exasperated only ten seconds into the conversation. “And wipe that stupid look of nonchalance off your face. I know it’s there; you can’t fucking fool me. You better be in my office in twenty minutes, or so help me, God, I will skin you with safety scissors.”
Louis winces. “Geez, Claire, it’s a bit early for such dramatics, don’t you think?”
“I swear to God, Tomlinson, my office in twenty minutes or I will put your signed David Beckham jersey through the fucking shredder. Are we clear?”
“Clear as the shots of Patron I took last night.”
“TOMLINSO—”
Louis presses end on his phone, tossing it back onto his bed before getting up and turning to his closet to fish out a new shirt.
“You need me to drop you off?” Liam offers, walking across the room to lean against the closet door frame, arms folded across his chest.
“You heard all of that?”
“I’m pretty sure Antarctica heard Claire chewing your ear out.”
Louis chuckles. “Yeah, a ride would be sweet, considering she expects me to brave L.A. traffic within twenty minutes.”
~
When Louis walked into his publicist’s office, there were a lot of things he was expecting. Maybe a credit card time-out, maybe house arrest, even a small part of him thought Claire was actually going to send him to rehab to teach him a lesson. But nothing could have prepared him for an actual intervention.
In the room stand his publicist (Claire), his manager (Robbie), the record label chief executive (Anastasia), and his mother (Jay), flown out from the recesses of New York. They all stand in a half-circle, the epicenter being the cushioned, mauve arm chair—Louis’ chair, as Claire calls it, since he’s been in that hot seat far too many times in the past year.
Louis eyes each person warily before taking a seat among them all. And true to form, the cushion of the seat molds perfectly to his body in a way that could only suggest some semblance of ownership to Louis. He squirms under their gazes of varying forms—hard, stern, serene, concerned. He’s unsure of how to proceed, so he does what Louis does best.
He clears his throat into his closed fist before clapping his hands together once. “So what shit have I gotten myself into this time?” he says lightheartedly.
Claire immediately rolls her eyes, ready to let out a sharp retort, when Robbie places his palm on her shoulder, effectively silencing her.
Instead, it is Anastasia who begins to speak: “Louis Tomlinson, how are you today?” She has an unnerving look about her; her aura is a brilliant shade of red, Louis thinks.
The smile, the use of his full name, and the deflective question all make Louis shift uncomfortably in his seat. He knows Anastasia or, rather, has gotten to know her over the last two years of his contract. Anastasia Rinaldi is ruthless, cold, calculating—any kindness or niceties from her should be taken with a grain of salt. She is the type of person who could snap your neck with her delicate, bony fingers with the same calm expression she is sporting now, then would call over her (poor, poor) executive assistant to clean the mess, as she dials one of her scouts to bring her the next big artist. And thus, Louis tends to keep his guard up and wits about him whenever Anastasia is involved.
“Went out for a run with Liam today,” he mumbles, tearing his eyes away from the woman. She is impeccably dressed, her one-piece black pantsuit equal parts smart and fashion-forward. Anastasia dresses for the job she wants: fashionable world dictator.
He presses his back against his seat, trying to sink further into his seat. His foot inadvertently taps against the floor, betraying the nerves he is trying to mask beneath his usually cool composure.
“Ah, good, you’re training for the upcoming tour, are you?” She smiles at him—of all things, she smiles at him.
“Yeah…” His voice is small, and he hates how cornered he feels.
In the corner of his eye, he can see his mother take a step forward, as though to reach out to him, when Anastasia speaks again. “Good, good, although I’m not sure what good a run would do when your insides are going to turn to tar at the rate you’ve been going.” An ace dig.
Louis opens his mouth to reply, but Anastasia takes a step forward. “I mean, sure, you’ll be able to run across the stage, but what’s the use if your lungs are shot to hell, right?” She cocks an eyebrow. Dig number two.
He straightens in his seat. “Anastasia, I’m—”
“You’re what? Sorry? I don’t think you are. Maybe you’re sorry that you’ve contracted syphilis from whatever woman to warm your bed, which reminds me, would you like us to start ordering your penicillin in bulk?” Three digs, and Louis feels about faint under the incredulity of his mother’s glances between him and Anastasia.
“Miss Rinaldi, don’t you think you’re being too harsh on him?” Jay sputters, crimson staining her cheeks.
Louis uses this chance to slip in a comment. “I use condoms all the time, Anastasia.” Jay’s eyes snap to him, fire burning within them, and he glances away. He should have bitten his tongue that time.
“We’ve let you run wild for far too long, I’m afraid, and, since we can’t let our pride and joy—” She gives him what may be the scariest smile he’s ever seen in his entire life. “—go to rehab and we do have a contract for at least two more albums, my team has come up with quite the creative solution, I must admit.” She looks enthralled with a mischievous glint in her eye that makes Louis’ stomach plummet straight out of his privileged ass and right onto the floor.
He waits for her to finish, but within a second of no continuation, he already knows she’s waiting for him to ask. “What's this solution?” he asks with a sigh.
“We need to show the world that you have a good side to you, a charitable one, if you will. Remind them that you're a human being, not a pharmaceutical company’s Guinea pig.” She bares her teeth, and it makes Louis dread her next choice of words all the more. “We’ve begun to set up a contest for you where a lucky fan will be able to go on a date with you.”
Louis lets out an indignant scoff, unable to suppress his surprise. “You're kidding me, right? A contest for a date?” When Anastasia’s smile doesn't falter, Louis stands up, staring at her with wide eyes. “You do realize this is real life and not some fantasy concocted out of a high schooler’s wet dream.”
“No, but you're just as oblivious to the fact that you have a reality of back-to-back tour dates coming up, and yet another night passes of Russian cocktail roulette. What was last night’s mixture?” She taps her chin in faux-thoughtfulness. “Vodka and Percocet?”
Louis rolls his eyes, crossing his arms across his chest. “Why the fuck will some charity date benefit me?” He’s sure he looks like a petulant child with his gaze shifted to the side and his lower lip jutted out, but he's frankly too cross to care much.
Claire finally pipes up. “The hope is that whoever this fan is will only have positive things to say about the date, that you were a gentleman, and that everything that had been said about you in the tabloids was a gross exaggeration of your lavish lifestyle.”
“Remind me why we can't just pay people to say that?”
Claire glares at Louis, placing her hands on her hips. “The publicity of this stunt will have more lasting value as an act of goodwill, especially since it’ll be a contest and will require less legal paperwork,” she says sternly. She pauses before adding bitingly, “Not to mention the exorbitant amounts of money we’d have to pay to convince someone to speak so well of you.”
Robbie shoots Claire a look, which leaves her cackling, and adds, “It’ll be a humbling experience.”
Louis takes a good look at each person before him, all waiting with bated breath for his answer.
“C’mon, Lou. It's one date,” his mother says with a soft smile on his face.
His stormy expression finally cracks under her insistence, and he lets out a sigh. “So how the fuck is this going to work?”
Despite his life drastically changing in the past two years, there is one thing that has remained constant: he always was a mama’s boy.
