Gods & Monsters

Chapter 12 (Part 1)

"So. You remember the plan, right?"

Louis nods, watching as Liam dresses (for one sporting event or another, who fuckin' knows) from his usual spot on the bed, knees pulled up, his back pressed against the cold, hard wall. It's not all that comfortable. Or maybe it is, because he has no inkling to move. Or maybe his body's just numb, or something.

I have become comfortably numb...

"Yeah," he mumbles, wrapping his arms tight around his legs as his gaze slides to the corner of the room. He glares at the white paint and dustless corners, hates how clean and empty they are. "I remember."

And how could he not? Ever since he'd told Liam about officially asking Harry out, the bloke's been ramming plots and proceedings down Louis' throat like he were stuffing a turkey, blueprinting out the evening in such minute detail that it always leaves the room dizzy and the air off-kilter.

Then again, everything about Liam has been making Louis feel dizzy and off-kilter lately... And not in the good way, either.

He doesn't know exactly why or what's changed, really, but it's been like this ever since that night—when Louis came over here for his 'reward' or whatever, after Harry'd blushingly asked him out and Louis felt the world crash in on itself. At the time, he'd walked to Liam and Zayn's with a knowing dread building in the pit of his stomach, but he still walked there, see. He still went. Because he knew his desire for Liam, knew what he wanted and knew what he chose, and so he pushed the right buttons on the elevator as it carried him up and up, and he shut off his mind because what it was whispering at him, deep from the back of his brain, didn't make sense. When the doors dinged open, softly pulling apart, they had revealed Liam, already waiting there for him, his eyes dark and filled with intent, hands reaching out for Louis with purpose... Their bodies had been a centimeter from colliding.

And yet. Louis had stopped him.

Blind, hard-to-understand panic shot through him as his body reacted against his will, a hand shooting up to still Liam's nearing mouth.

"Oi, what's this?" he'd rasped out as his blood churned, icebergs stuck in his arteries. He felt so nauseous, so utterly out of energy. He was fucking spent and he just... Suddenly he just couldn't.

Even in the darkness of the flat, Louis had seen Liam's eyes flash.

"Why are you stopping me?" he'd demanded, a bolt of offense charging through his voice. There was hurt in there, too. Surprise and hurt and offense.

It made little parts of Louis feel guilty as he pushed him fully away (he's always wanted Liam before, always, and he's never been shy about it) but, that night, he just couldn't give a fuck, the fabric of his jacket still smelling like the music shop.

"Liam, I'm tired," he'd explained quietly, voice strained beyond repair, and suddenly he didn't know why he'd come at all. He was here, why was he here?

He avoided Liam's fierce gaze, choosing to stare sightlessly into the flat instead, Liam still standing uncomfortably close in front of him.

"Louis..." Liam had said, voice different, eyebrows knitted together like heavy, black chords. Maybe it was panic in his tone. Or maybe it was pure offense. Or maybe it was shock. But Liam's voice had sounded different, almost like a plea, and Louis couldn't find it within himself to give in.

"Goodnight, Liam," he had found himself saying instead, closing his eyes as he moved past the boy, his entire body empty.

He'd slept in Zayn's room that night, crawling in silently and curling up on the floor, feeling and hearing the way his heart beat in an uneven rhythm, interspersed with the sounds of Zayn's soft snores. He fell asleep after lying there for too many hours, and when he awoke, it was to the sight of Zayn lighting incense in his boxers, completely unfazed by Louis' presence, no explanation necessary. Only when they emerged from the room an hour later did Louis see Liam, dressed and ready for school as he texted on his phone, slumped over in an armchair. Delicate shadows had lain beneath his eyes, but otherwise he looked entirely unfazed, his hair styled and his clothes matching. The grip on his phone was tight.