Gods & Monsters

Chapter 11 (Part 1)

It's the perfect time of fall. Every tree is alight, their leaves saturated in different shades of fire, the sky is white and warm, gold and silver hovering on the edges, and the air is as crisp as the twigs that crunch beneath Louis' steady, pounding feet.

He's walking with purpose, albeit a bit jagged. Jagged like his current state of mind and shitty, greasy hair that he hasn't even bothered to wash in about a week. He looks like complete shit, to be quite honest, the scruff peppering his face just a tad too long to be labeled as mere 'stubble'. He's wearing his same ol' filthy jacket, his shitty shoes, his too-tight, ripped up black skinny jeans, and his reliably stained Rod Stewart t-shirt.

All in all, he can't help but feel a quiet pang of self-consciousness.

Harry will probably turn him away the minute he sees him, looking like this scruffy, dirty mess. And, honestly, that would be the best possible outcome right now, even if the thought does make Louis' teeth feel like wood.

But, no.

No, Louis has no time to indulge that sentimental bullshit anymore. He's already spent an entire goddamn week Googling his symptoms for fear that he might be dying—he doesn't need to dwell on the 'unfortunate's of life any longer. He's gotten himself into the present mess. He willingly signed up for this. So he is going to follow through. Because he's Louis fucking Tomlinson and if he was able to march out on his entire sleeping family without a second's thought, then clearly he can handle breaking one gentle boy's heart.

As he gets closer to the school, the scarf-wrapped bodies and clutched Starbucks beverages increase, as do the peacoats and the monotonous trills of laughter. In a brief moment of distraction, he finds himself eying one girl's tea a little hungrily; she raises her eyebrow at him, a mix between challenging and irritated which Louis almost jumps on because challenges are sort of his favorite thing. He as half a mind to pluck the bloody drink out of her snippy little hands, down it in one go and hand her the empty remnants just because he can. Fortunately, however, he bites down on the urge, instead flicking his eyes ahead and trotting onward, keeping a look out for the only reason he's out and about on his blustery, quaintly autumnal day from hell. He searches, licking his chapped lips, looking for Harry amongst the masses.

Part of him wants to find him immediately. Part of him never wants to see him again. Sort of a shitty situation.

Annoyed with himself (he's got to stop fucking thinking shit like that), he bites on the inside cushion of his lip, sharpening his focus as he crunches along pavement and fallen leaves, the cold beginning to coat his limbs.

He can do this, okay? At this point, he's got to either shit or get off the pot. So he's got to fucking do this. And as soon and quickly as possible, even if he currently looks like a rooster carcass.

So he walks with harsh footsteps, his posture stiffening, his joints tightening, his spine straightening as if there were steel rods being thrust into his body. With each step, he assembles a fortress inside of himself, every slap of the pavement slathering on a new brick.

He is a fortress. Louis Tomlinson is a fortress. Impenetrable. Strong. He's a motherfucking fortress and he will be the last one standing, simple as that. And so he ambles on.

It's when Louis begins heading towards the pond, that he sees him.

It's when he's happening upon the tree that they always sit against—its bark grey and twisted, its leaves mostly gone, only the curled, drooping brown ones still clinging for dear life—that he sees a clean white pair of Converse, a burnt orange jumper, and a softly glowing brown head bent over a small book that lies between the boy's crossed legs. Everything about the image is Harry, simple as that, and it really should've ended there, but somehow it doesn't.