Gods & Monsters

Chapter 8 (Part 2)

"And then of course there's Richard Harris," Harry says, and 'mirth' is probably the best description of his general demeanor. He's so classic and chipper and... Fictional. He seems fictional. If they ever make a movie about an Old English bard who travels the world and sings to the birds in the forest, Louis is going to write the casting director.

"Ah, yes," Louis says seriously. "The man who left the cake out in the rain."

It only sends Harry into more cackles and it sends Louis into something he can't quite identify, their laughter bumping against each other's in the air, all swirled up in the beat of the crackling records, the bits of sticky gum that stain the carpet, and the dust that lies on the forgotten cassette tapes sitting in a milk carton in the corner of the room. It's weird and nauseating and different and electric.

Even weirder when their conversation never seems to stop flowing, always punctuated with Harry's laughs.

But it's nice.

**

The tour that Harry gives Louis is short and simple. And very sweet.

There isn't much to see—which Harry had warned him about, of course.

"It's not much of a shop shop—more a direct representation of Julian's basement, really," he'd said a little pinkedly, and Louis wanted to tap fingers against his cheeks to make him smile a little looser.

"I happen to adore basements," Louis'd said easily, hands in the pockets of his jean jacket. "Immensely."

It made Harry relax a bit, teeth poking out through the grin. "Oh yeah? A regular basement dweller?"

"The dwelliest. This place is going to love me—just wait till your beanie-wearing-spiders get a load of all this." He gestured to himself grandly, preening like a peacock, and Harry looked so utterly delighted and not a wink apprehensive, that Louis briefly considered taking a photograph of him.

Not for himself, obviously. For Liam. Liam.

So it all went smoothly—so, so fucking smoothly. Harry's just so easy to be around. He laughs at all of Louis' jokes and he listens to him and he brightens at his observations.

But that's also the thing, though. He listens. He asks questions. It's really... Alarming.

"What kind of music do you like?" he'd asked sincerely almost as soon as their little tour began, walking side by side down the aisles, the soles of their feet squeaking rhythmically on old, carpeted floorboards.

Louis shrugged noncommittally, as he always does, his eyes skimming his surroundings, searching, always searching, for the next thing—next topic or subject change or distraction—because he doesn't give forth anything to anyone, ever. Not ever. It's a 'don't ask, don't tell' sort of thing. Or 'don't tell, so don't ask' maybe? In any case, Louis' used to not hearing the questions asked anymore, not really used to any questions at all, not like these unessential, frivolous ones.

So maybe that's why he eventually answered them.

Or maybe it was because Harry doesn't let these questions just dissipate in the air like Louis wants them to—not even after Louis will shrug and move on.

"Louis?" he'd repeated, too loud to ignore. "Do you have any music or bands or songs or things that mean a lot to you?"

And that's what Harry does, that right there—he implores with these cute little questions and these wide eyes and an earnest voice and he watches Louis so closely and listens even more closely when Louis feels his skin warm a bit at the surprise of being asked twice.