Gods & Monsters

Chapter 12 (Part 2)

'Here'

Or at least, Louis hopes he's here. Squinting past tidy hedges, orange, glowing streetlamps, and white fences, Louis tries to read the delicately painted number on the house. He thinks it's the right number. He's pretty sure. Besides, Harry gave him good directions, so. So this has to be it.

A few moments pass as he waits for a response, trying to hum Pink Floyd as he taps out an uneven rhythm against his thigh. He looks down at his jeans—they're not his worst pair. Then again, he's only got two. They're both shit, but this one only has a single, barely noticeable rip (in the bum and it's just a wee thing) and the color is still fairly vibrantly blue. He'd forgotten he had these, actually, and ended up stumbling upon them at Anthony's that morning when he'd dropped his wallet and it managed to wedge itself beneath the couch. Just how his jeans had managed to get stuffed under there, though, is another thing.

Whatever. Other than his jeans, he looks decent. Definitely fuckable. Definitely alluring. At least, Liam said so. So that's good. Especially considering he's only donned a black, long-sleeved shirt and his jean jacket. That's it. No frills.

He doesn't really want to look good, though. Not tonight. He doesn't want to think about why, but he doesn't.

Maybe Harry will reject him. That would be... God, that would be ideal. If Harry turned him away and left the situation unscathed, that would be wonderful. Maybe Louis should purposely sabotage everything. Act like a tit, or something.

Hah, though. Honestly, hah bloody hah. As if that would fucking work. Louis could never manage to successfully be a dick to Harry.

The thought is an awful one. It's a cold, stagnant, shitty thought. Because tonight he has to be a dick to him. He's literally going to dine him, wine him, and then fuck him in this car, this very car. Zayn's car. He's going to take Harry's fucking virginity in Zayn's car and then Liam's gonna fucking catch them and maybe take motherfucking pictures and... And then they're going to tell everybody. And ridicule Harry. And mock him.

That's the plan. That's the goddamn plan.

Oh god.

Something agonizingly sharp shoots through him, seizing up his windpipe and throat and eyes. He closes them, everything seeming to burn, his vision blurring on the edges. Is this panic? Is this a panic attack?

God, calm down, Tommo. Fuck's sake, get yourself together.

He bites his lip as he shuts off his brain, a cold sweat beginning to prickle at his flesh.

This is so fucked up. He is so entirely fucked up. Something is wrong here.

Exhausted, he rubs a hand over his eyes.

And then suddenly his phone alights. He lets his hand fall, blinks bleary eyes down at the text.

'I see you! :)'

Louis swallows, reading the words over and over before he finally lifts his gaze to the house before him. And, yep—there's Harry. Outside, waving his phone, still in socks. He's beaming. He's flushed and beaming and he's wearing a thin white shirt with buttons at the collar and it only reaches a little past his elbows. His jeans are black and skinny, elongating his stilt-legs and his socks are white and his hair looks bouncy and glossy and near-black in the dark as he begins jogging uncoordinatedly towards Louis. So many limbs.

Louis might throw up. Genuinely.

He swallows for the umpteenth time, trying to focus on oxygen intake as he watches Harry come closer and closer, fire and ice in his chest because Harry Styles creates chaos within him, creates contradictions and chemical reactions. The beautiful asshole. The poor, beautiful asshole.