Gods & Monsters

Chapter 19 (Part 1)

The sun burns blood orange against the dirty grey walls of Stan's flat. Louis watches it, watches as it stains every object in its path with unyielding light and color.

The couch beneath him feels cold, uneven. Lumpy. He can't feel his limbs. He's pretty sure he's wearing pants but he's not one hundred percent positive.

Everything is silent. All is still. Save for the sun—it charts across the room, creeping by in indefinable increments. And Louis watches it.

At some point, the saturated light fades to shadow. Louis' not quite sure when it happened, but he blinks, for perhaps the first time in hours, and notices the entire room is suddenly dark and blank. When did that happen? It's so dark.

He doesn't move, though. He doesn't turn on a light, doesn't care to check the time.

He just lies there, listening to the air in his lungs as the shadows swallow him whole.

**

At night, it's hardest.

During the day, it takes every ounce of strength left within him to remain composed of impenetrable stone, to walk through his shifts at the pub, to meet eyes with strangers on the street. It takes everything he has and so, at night, he's running on empty. He doesn't know what to do at night.

How is he supposed to pass the time? What did he used to do before? Over the past year, he'd grown so accustomed to spending every waking hour at Harry's, with Harry—

He swallows, knives behind his eyes.

He still can't quite say the name, can barely think it without feeling something painful rip open some part of his body.

Vague misery—that's what he feels.

**

He hadn't slept the morning after it happened. Zayn texted and called—even though he doesn't use his phone. There were a few text messages from Niall, even. Two missed calls from Liam. And nothing from Harry.

He'd just lain in Stan's apartment, feeling like a mess. Sad and hollow but mostly just mad at himself. Because he was so fucking stupid. How could he never have let Harry know? All those times he took advantage of the fact that Harry had claimed their past didn't matter—he knew better, is the thing. He fucking knew better and yet he still did it, still ended up here. On a shitty couch with poisonous thoughts, no soul, and a bleeding sun.

He should've just said something. He should've shouted it over all of Harry's dismissals, he should've fought harder. Because maybe then Harry would've thought twice, would've given him a second chance.

But now?

Now Louis doesn't deserve him.

Lying there, he tried to conjure up all these scenarios where, maybe, he could get Harry back. But the fucking problem was that he just doesn't deserve him anymore. It's the simple truth. It's all over now, just like Mick Jagger fucking sang.

Fuck Mick Jagger. Fuck everything.

More than anything that morning, Louis just wanted Harry to know it wasn't fake. That every single feeling was genuine. Every touch was magnetism and helplessness and need and adoration. He just wanted Harry to know. So he needed to try. Fuck, Harry could beat him to a pulp if he wanted, Louis would let him; but he couldn't have Harry thinking that it was all just for show, that it was nothing. That it was anything but the most real fucking shit that Louis' ever experienced, and so Louis needed to get the fuck up and fucking try.

Everything in his body was screaming at him to fall into a self-induced coma for the next month or so. Everything in his makeup was screaming to just hide, bathe in self-pity and sadness, vanish forever and forget the world that burnt him by letting him burn himself.