Gods & Monsters

Chapter 3 (Part 2)

"It's Harry Styles," he reveals after a moment, tone casual, posture loose. He moves to sit atop his hands, crosses his feet at his ankles. He doesn't quiet reach the floor from Zayn's chair. It's more than a little irritating. "You heard of him? He's in yours and Liam's class."

At that, Zayn's shadowy smile vanishes.

"Harry? You're going after Harry?" He sits up on his elbows and frowns, deep and creased and very unfortunate for one with such Olympian features. "Why the fuck are you doing that?"

Louis scoffs, eyebrows rising. "Why the fuck do you care?"

"He's a good lad, Tommo. Like, a good, proper lad."

"Is he? He seems a bit skittish to me."

"He's nice," Zayn says sternly, but he settles back down. "I haven't talked to him much, but he's always been polite. Easy to talk to. Not an utter prat—and, you know, that's unusual for around here."

Louis hums his acquiescence. So Harry Styles is polite. That's why Zayn and everybody else in the world love him? That's why Liam feels like a cornered raccoon?

There's got to be more to it.

"Is he funny?" Louis questions.

Zayn shrugs. "I dunno. Don't think I've ever been around him when he's had the opportunity to be."

"Is he flirtatious? Personable?"

"Uh. Maybe personable? Yeah, he's pretty personable. But not, like, overly so, I guess."

"But what does that mean? Does he initiate conversations? Does he always say the right thing? Does he rest his hand on your forearm when you talk?"

Zayn lifts another brow, looking positively Edwardian and very unimpressed. "Well that's oddly specific."

"Just trying to get a vibe, is all," Louis sniffs, averting his gaze to his nails. He picks at them distractedly, Zayn's words floating about in his head.

Styles isn't funny, isn't flirtatious, and is sort of personable. Smashing.

"You know, I'm not going to help you with this fucked up thing you do," Zayn comments after a moment, interrupting Louis out of his thoughts. He lifts his head at the words, finds Zayn already looking at him. "I like him. He's a good kid. He's a bit quiet, yeah. Maybe a bit boring, I guess. But he seems properly good and he's really smart and he doesn't fuck with anybody, so. So don't think I'm going to do shit-all to help you fuck with him. I never liked this thing you and Liam do. And I definitely don't like it now." His voice is velour-soft and gliding, the words cooling the air with a minty chill, and though there's nothing particularly cutting about them, there's still something sharp that catches on the fine hairs of Louis' arms and the back of his neck.

Zayn's never been one to judge Louis, this is true. But, despite this, he's always held this sort of... Disappointed quality about him. When it comes to Louis, that is. He's always sort of pursed his lips and nodded after a pause whenever Louis and anything to do with his sordid glory comes up, and it has always effectively ended the conversation, leaving Louis' mouth sour and his pulse ricocheting a bit.

It's as if Zayn thinks better of Louis or something. Which is laughable. At best. Fucking unnecessary, more than anything.

Regardless though, it curls Louis' lips into a thin line as his gaze breaks away from the blackbird boy, the musty incense of the room suddenly becoming just a bit too suffocating.

"I know," Louis says hastily, agitatedly, as he slides his hands out from under his thighs and starts fiddling with the buttons of his jacket. He stands up, shuffles his feet, stares sightlessly at the giant eyeball on the wall. "I know, yeah, thanks Zayn. I didn't ask for your fucking help."