~Sunday 25th December 2016~

14:06 pm

Young Harry stands in front of the floor length mirror inside Room 197's bathroom, assessing the darkening bruise along his neck. It started out as a small red rash, but in the last twenty minutes since Mr Tomlinson left the hotel room, it has grown in size and colour. It doesn't hurt, as Harry brushes his fingers over the crimson skin that lays just beneath his jaw. He didn't realise how tight Mr Tomlinson's hold was around his collar, until he peeked into the mirror and saw the intensifying colour.

As Harry wonders how long Mr Tomlinson's second meeting of the day will last, he moves into the main area of the hotel room, absentmindedly strolling through. He passes the now clean glass table, with a pile of dry-but-tea-stained documents laying atop, the chairs Mr Tomlinson threw sat back in their individual places around the table. The long red vase - or actually the pieces left of it - have been swept up and put in the trash can.
Harry is still dazed, still shocked, still wired from moments ago when his boss's lips were forced upon his own. His lips are swollen and red, and now have the slight taste of spearmint toothpaste lingering upon them. His body - and his mind - both carry the evidence of what was here just twenty minutes ago. The bruises and the dull ache are the signature of Mr Tomlinson's passion, his anger, his exhaustion. But, looking around this room now, this dreary space only lit by the grey clouds rolling and tumbling through the winter sky, you would never imagine what just happened, between a man and his employee.
By now, Harry knows that he has feelings for his boss. Despite his unexpected rage and his endless need for everything to be clean, Mr Tomlinson has found himself somewhere deep inside Harry's heart. It's a shock to Harry's system. He hasn't felt this way in a long time, and after Gemma left him, he thought that maybe he wasn't capable of love or affection, especially when the booze takes over. He finds himself sitting in silence, still processing his encounter with this new side of Mr Tomlinson.

It feels like hours later, but it could be only a matter of minutes, when the door to Room 197 clicks open and Mr Tomlinson barges through. Harry immediately stands, brushing away the creases in the bed, where he has just sat, before slowly moving into the main area of the large room.
Mr Tomlinson's back is facing Harry when he first sees him. He's leaning over, rummaging through a bag, shoving piles of paper into it, seemingly in a hurry. The fabric of his light grey suit stretches across his back, teasing the material as he turns, passing Harry and rushing into the bedroom, without even a single glance. Harry stays where he is beside the wall, where their encounter had happened not long ago, unsure what to say, how to say it.

Mr Tomlinson's back in the room in a matter of seconds, with a pile of shirts and trousers in his hands. He throws them inside a brown suitcase that lays on the carpeted floor, making an uncharacteristic mess.
"I'm going home to my house in the suburbs for an extended weekend." He finally says, his back to Harry, unable to look into the eyes of the boy he had not long ago kissed. He remains facing away from his employee, packing up the remainder of his clothes, until young Harry speaks up, his voice rasped and quiet.
"You don't have any plans to go home in your planner...for atleast a few more weeks." Harry responds, remembering the circled date in Mr Tomlinson's leather-bound diary that usually sits on his desk. Looking around the room now, he sees it inside the brown bag, along with the rest of Mr Tomlinson's belongings.

"I'm going home to spend time with my wife. I miss her and want to be with her." Mr Tomlinson answers slowly, finally turning around to properly face Harry, after zipping up the large suitcase and standing it up beside him, taking time to process the pained expression on Harry's child-like features. Louis digs deep into his trouser pocket, reaching in and bringing out a silver band, before slowly twisting it onto his finger. Mr Tomlinson's sudden desire to visit the woman he seemingly dislikes so much, hurts Harry tremendously, more than he could ever imagine and he feels as if his knees will give way beneath him, if not for the wall he's leaning on.
The words sting and burn Mr Tomlinson's lips as he says them, but for once, he needs to be truthful with his young assistant. That kiss meant nothing to him. It was just a lapse in control, a lapse in judgement.

A knock at the door shatters the silence between the two men and Harrison steps through the threshold, his smile falling as he takes in the sight before him. Harrison ignores the clear tension drowning the whole room, choosing to stay out of whatever situation this is and reaches forward to grab the large suitcase, leaving the room.

Harry is hurt, unbelievably wounded. He knew deep down that this kiss, this moment between Mr Tomlinson and himself, was nothing more than just that. A moment. A passing time, soon to be forgotten.
But, he still finds himself deeply injured by the news that the man he has fallen for, can so casually kiss him, then go home to his waiting wife. Harry drowns in self pity and already decides which bottle of alcohol he will drink first tonight. He finally moves from his position, wiping away at his tears with his blazer sleeve, hoping that Mr Tomlinson hasn't noticed.

But, he has noticed. He noticed as soon as the liquid started forming in Harry's red eyelids. It pains Mr Tomlinson to look at the mess he has created, so instead of meeting Harry's gaze, he stares at his feet, before murmuring a shallow goodbye, closing the door behind him.
Harry is once again left in an empty room, the low buzz of the traffic outside humming through his ears, as he tries to regain his composure. But, it's impossible. He rushes to the door of Room 197, and punches it, again and again, over and over, with his large fists, his anger, his ultimate rage taking over his body, controlling his mind, completely overwhelmed. Over and over again, he punches and scratches and headbutts at the door, finding some calm in the built-up stress that he is releasing, before it overcomes him, and he turns, his back against the wood.
It finally drowns him now, this horrifying pain, and his knees give out, as he slides down the length of the door, finding himself an uncontrollable sobbing mess at the bottom.

By the time that the elevator has reached the lobby of The Magnolia Hotel, Louis is a mess. His tie has been ripped from around his neck by his own shivering fingers, and his hair is strewn this way and that atop his head, as stress envelops him. He avoids the stares from people waiting in the lobby - guests and employees alike - instead storming outside, where Harrison awaits him. Louis wastes no time getting into the backseat of the car, as it rumbles to life.
Louis looks out of the far side window, reluctant to look back into The Magnolia's bustling lobby as Harrison does as he is instructed, turning the car out into the quiet street and driving on, taking Louis home.

* * * * *

14:34 pm

The frayed laces of Harry's shoes resist against becoming undone, as his feet carry his body down the velvet carpet of The Magnolia Hotel stairs. The sobbing tears of moments ago are long gone, the only hint of their existence in Harry's pink cheeks. The bruise under his chin remains, turning darker by the minute, but he ignores this, hurrying faster and faster down the steps, his grip tight around the hand-rail, making sure he doesn't trip. He's learnt the worst way that falling down the stairs is painful.
His thick curls grow damp with sweat, as he declines the stairs, apologising to each and every person - guest and colleague alike - that he races past, fake smiling to each one as he goes. Twenty flights of stairs later, and Harry is finally in the hotel lobby. He could have used the elevator, but it was slow to arrive even after he'd called it seven times.

He stops now, waiting for his lungs to rejoin the movements of the rest of his body, bending over, his palms on his knees, breathing in and out, in and out, over and over. He resists the stares of the few odd people standing inside the small space, as he regains his breath and looks up to find his boss. Peckham notices Harry instantly and he strides across the space between them, storming over to him and pulling him aside by his arm.

The forever-tense middle-aged man isn't strong enough to really hurt Harry, but his grasp on the young man's arm is tight and uncomfortable, as he moves his difficult employee off to the side, out of the way of guests.
"Tomlinson was down here ten minutes ago, getting into his car with a big suitcase! Don't tell me you've scared him off, Styles!" Peckham raises his voice, brimming with poisonous rage, but Harry stays silent. Gordon Peckham sighs, shifting his weight to one side, crossing his arms, infuriated with Harry's uncooperative behaviour, exasperated with his failures.

"He's just gone home for a weekend or so. I'm sure he'll be back." Harry flippantly states, filling his boss with fake assurance. Harry does not know the truth - Mr Tomlinson may well be back tomorrow, or even in the next few hours, but Harry has already decided that he won't be waiting in Room 197 when he does return. Mr Peckham's wrinkled face turns to a rare smile with Harry's words, glad he hasn't lost a customer, but Harry hasn't finished.
"I don't want to work for him anymore." Harry announces. "I just don't think I fit what he needs. It would be for the best if I returned to my old work schedule." Harry explains and with nothing more than a sceptical nod, Peckham turns away from Harry, walking back to the reception desk, approving his request.
Harry's shoulders slump, somewhat in relief, but in other, incomprehensible ways his body still hurts. Not from the bruises that Mr Tomlinson has left marked on his skin. Not from the sprint down the stairs he just accomplished. His body is left pained by the fact that his job was only just starting to be enjoyable, his life was only just starting to grow lighter.
But, he's ruined that now.

* * * * *

16:47pm

"We're here, boss man."
Harrison's voice breaks Louis' train of thought and he looks up, surprised, not having realised the car has stopped and Harrison has already opened his door, ready for him to step out. Louis does so, planting his feet on the hard ground, and looking up at the large house he left behind weeks before. The long drive back home means that the sky is now a navy blue, growing darker by the second and his home is brightly lit from the inside out.
The house is too warm, engulfing Louis as he walks through the threshold. He places his bags by the entrance and looks around for anyone in sight. The house is silent and for a moment he appreciates the fact that he is finally alone. But, he's wrong.

"So, you actually bothered to come home for Christmas?" Her voice is stern and cold, as Louis' shoulders drop in dismay, before making his way to her. "13 hours too late."
Mrs Tomlinson sits in the large lounge, the huge flat-screen TV paused and her demon-of-a-dog growling, as it sits in her lap. She doesn't look up, as her husband enters the room, remaining solid as stone, as he speaks.
"I wanted to see you." Louis lies, reaching forward, bending over the back of the tall couch, to kiss his bride on the cheek. She holds her position, as her favourite puppy snarls at Louis, straight-faced with anger. He has been away too long.

Louis backs away, as his wife ignores him, pressing play on the TV remote, resuming whatever piece-of-crap reality show she likes now. She's dressed impeccably, in the finest of dresses, her makeup and hair flawless, as if she has been hosting a glitzy awards show all night. She hasn't, however. She's been alone - excluding the few staff and many dogs - in this large house for weeks now. At least, that's the story she reports. And, if it wasn't for the one smudge of lipstick down her chin, left there by her not-so-secret lover, Louis would believe her.

Louis holds his silence as he makes his way to the master bedroom's en-suite, turning on the shower and letting the room fill with steam. He hears his wife's fake laugh come from down the hall - just to spite him - before he wipes away the vapour from the mirror that sits above his Mr-and-Mrs bathroom sink.
It's only now that he notices his bottom lip is swollen slightly, ripped open halfway between the corner and the middle of his mouth. He pulls at the skin, moving closer to his reflection, inspecting the dried blood that now laces his lips, and tries to place the timing of the injury. He shakes his head, turning away from the mirror and ripping his suit jacket off his shoulders, wanting...needing to forget the person who last bit his lip with enough passion to leave a mark.

Louis undresses quickly, throwing his sweaty clothes atop the king size bed and tears his cold wedding band off his finger - throwing that too - showing no care as to where it lands. The water scorches his skin as he climbs into the glass enclosure of the shower, but he's too distracted to pay notice, standing with his head down, letting the water cascade over his hair and down his tense shoulders, rolling down his legs.
He stays this way, silent, still, until the water goes cold, and the sky outside turns pitch black, washing away the memories of today...

Chapter Image by @melmanpur on Instagram