Rose petals. Ruby red, illuminating rose petals, oval, neat and rounded and perfect in every single way.
That’s the first thing Louis’ notices. He can’t help but stare at the precious things that lay so gently on the fluffiness of the pickle-green bushes that circle the building he is walking towards.
He can’t help but wonder how it must be to own this beautiful peice of property, to be able to freely run your hands through the silky softness of the lively petals,
But he also can’t help but wonder why it feels so...wrong. Like the wrong kind of beauty, the wrong kind of perfect. Maybe it’s the mistiness in the air, the almost undetectable bitterness that stays lurking in the shadows,
or maybe he’s just being a paranoid fuck, like always, and he mentally slaps himself, he really needs to stop being so poetic about big situations all damn time, because today is the first day of his work.
He has no idea what-so-ever how the hell he bagged it, how the hell he, a normal citizen of Doncaster, out of all applicants of professional servants from every single colour and edge of the world, from people who know almost every language that the Earth has to offer, from people that are trained for years to be a servant, how he bagged it.
He can’t help but wonder if it’s all a trick, maybe one of the eyes, an illusion, or a stupid dream which ends in him waking up in a old mattress in his dark and pale room, sighing and contemplating if he should probably start doing something with his life.
He can’t help but wonder, why me? Why normal, tax-paying, earthly and stupid 20 year old boy me? But regardless he keeps walking to lump of clay. The centre of attention and the beautifully carved mansion that lays so blissfully before him. The glue that keeps all the tragic omens that litter and poison the air in a neat and cleaned tact,
he gulps, and brings up his soft hands to knock on the harsh white-painted and splintered wood of the front door, this could be a very long day.
A pretty brunette with her soul gleaming through her eyes but a dark demeanour settled in the corners ended up opening the door, slightly taller than Louis. She was wearing black jeans that clutched onto her thighs and a satin blue crop top that hung on her shoulders. Louis came to learn that her name was Eleanor,
she demanded from him his name and his address, then when she seemed content that this was indeed ‘Louis Tomlinson’ she made him sign a contract that consisted of too many words for Louis’ mind to even begin to process.
She was quite silent and collected for the most part, but when she spoke, Louis could make out the thick London accent that drenched and dripped off of each of her words.
She shows him around the mansion, and it’s...stunning to say the least.
It gorgeous really,
it’s spacious and large and consists of almost-cracked vases and other antique and £1000 looking things around ever corner,
there are large glazed windows that are bigger than Louis himself and reveal the acres of green land that are filled and filled with tons of bright and lit roses, white canapés filling up some parts of the garden,
the foyer itself is the size of Louis’ entire house, and it’s so hollow and reflective that Louis could hear his slight and rugged breaths echoeing and chanting off the walls, the slightest noise too delicate for it’s precious and vulnerable surface,
the entire floor is covered in beige marble, and it’s reflective and crystal clean and Louis can honestly see his reflection in them.
And then there’s...that.
An area to the left of Louis that is slapped with an old sign with almost glowing bold red letters, on the rusty bronze railings of the twisting and winding stairs that says;
Louis glares at it a little, Eleanor walking slowly in front of him and not regarding him in any way, she clearly didn’t realise that Louis had come to a holt.
She just keeps walking.
He sees that the steps of these stairs are also made of marble yet with a maroon fur carpet blanketing from the bottom, in it’s middle, all the way to the top, it looks like miles and miles.
The sight of it sends shivers down Louis’ spine. It looks...almost abandoned.
Every single aspect of this carefully looked after building picked with a fine-tooth comb, yet this section, completely oblivious to the care that it deserves. Rejected almost.
Covered with dust and everything murky and dreadful, neglected from the cleanliness of every other area that Louis has seen.
He let’s it slip though, he’ll ask about it another time, and he quickly goes to rush after Eleanor who’s still in sight, back turned towards him.
The walls are a range of colours,
the kitchen- Red
the bathroom(s)- Green
the living rooms(s)- Blue
and the bedrooms, well, he hasn’t seen them yet.
Right now he’s in the kitchens,
It’s a narrow area to say the least,
there’s wooden cupboards on either sides of the shiny walls, ovens all over the place, and it’s almost like a riot, a messy yet agreeable riot of chefs and assistants.
He meets a cluster of rushing and slightly overweight and fatigued looking old ladies, who wear garments that are white and smeared with different spices and herbs and Louis could swear that he’s seen at least 5 new colours on the chef’s clothes that he’d never seen before in his life.
He passes them quick greetings and they all reply to him in a rushed and uncaring manner.
Eleanor remains next to him, she’s close to him yet she’s so far away, her mind is wandering somewhere else yet she’s clearly still paying attention, still...there. But not fully, not completely. Louis can tell this from every time he dares to ask her a question,
she simply passes him a mild glare in response and answers either grumbling yes, muttering no, or finding a way to assemble the shortest sentences possible to avoid any means of conversation.
He finds this extremely weird, who is she anyways?
She’s definitely not a maid, no maid dresses like that.
But she doesn’t look super rich either, and he would hate to admit it, but her look doesn’t exactly scream “I own this mansion in the middle of the forests of Holmes Chapel!”.
As new aromas fill up his already over-used nose, so does his mind.
Each passing second offering another question that he knows he can’t, or rather shouldn’t ask, to this frankly, cyborg pretty girl in front of him.
After five minutes pass of Louis staring at a disturbing scene of ladies running around in front of him, his ear dinging with the sound of light commands being tossed around and the ringing of ovens and the cracklings of a light fire, Louis finally breaks the silence to ask a question,
“Soooo, when are we meeting the boss?” Louis questions, brows furrowed and his gaze meeting Eleanor’s and his tone oddly chirpy, a contrast to the bizarre and uncomfortable mood that’s settling in stomach.
Eleanor stiffens at that, instantly freezing. Her gaze moves to penetrate Louis’ eyes, her dark and gloomy stare picking into his soul.
”The...boss?” She questions glumly, it’s a weird thing really. Her tone is so calm, so completely normal, yet her eyes are ready to pop out of her sockets and beat Louis to a pulp.
Louis hardly swallows the bile that gathers up in the low pits of his throat, looking down at his fiddling hands and biting his cheeks before replying;
”U-um, th-the person who owns the place?” Louis questions, and it was meant to come out as a statement, yet it came out as anything but, his gaze is fixed on the ground, yet he spares a moment to look up.
Eleanor simply smirks,
like she knows something,
knows something that Louis doesn’t, knows something that is tucked and stored away in a steel box deep inside her brain labelled ‘Dark secrets.’
“Harry Styles. His name is Harry.” She offers, it’s almost condescending, like she’s not content with just labelling his as ‘the boss’ or something similar.
But that’s good enough for Louis, and his heart starts thumping again, as the blood is rushing back up to his head,
she’s talking! This is good! Better than silence!
He snaps his head back up, looking back at the bizarre lady with her soul in her eyes, and darkness lined around them.
He lightens up a little, and mentally notes to focus on something else while talking to this weird girl, like listening to background noise.
In this situation, the background noise is the tattering feet of little old ladies, throwing curse words about and laughing ridiculously, the clanging of pots meeting, metal against metal and that’s good enough, good enough distraction from the disturbing glare of the probably part-robot in front of him.
”Great!” He says enthusiastically, his grin spreading across his cheeks, reaching and crinkling his eyes, he runs his right hand through his cotton-soft hair before continueing;
”So when do I meet him?” He says, not breaking that streak of the enthusiastic tone. His hands now dropping to his sides and playing with bottom of his button down blue shirt,
Eleanor breaks into a small grin, before laughing slightly in the most grim way possible, she turns around, and walks away,
Louis remembers that her back is faced to him, her figure standing just at the frame of the door that leads to the living room, before she shouted one sentence, not even looking back towards him, one sentence that left Louis in a daze and in confusion, that left him wondering what on Earth was going on, what on Earth he’d gotten himself into,
”You’re a daft boy if you think that Harry wants to see you!” She yelled in little breaths of laughter,
and just as she was almost out of his sight, just as the last of the little fragment of her shimmery blue shirt was leaving Louis’ vision, she muttered something that he was sure he wasn’t meant to hear, perhaps it was only for her, her and her twisted thoughts, but he did hear it.
”He only sees his whores and his bottles of scotch.” She grumbled.