Gods & Monsters

Chapter 19 (Part 6)

When Louis walks through the door again the very next day at the very same time, Harry once more sitting atop his stool, the journal cradled to his chest. He's soft looking and sleepy in a rumpled grey t-shirt and unzipped hoodie but his demeanor seems contemplative and thoughtful, less chiseled and tumultuous.

It's just face-value but Louis dares to hope.

He shuts the door quietly behind him; Harry doesn't flinch when he looks at him.

"Working a lot, eh?" Louis asks, nervous. He doesn't walk fully inside, not yet; just slides his hands in his pockets and stands there, tentative.

"Yeah," Harry nods and the gesture is looser than it would've been yesterday. His voice is low, noncommittal. "I'm off tomorrow, though."

"Oh. Nice."

Yep, this is awkward. Every day is awkward. But at least Louis feels like he can breathe today and Harry looks worlds better than he has been, so. All is not lost.

"So, uh," Louis begins, coughing a little into his fist before he takes just one step forward. "So you read the journal?" He motions to the book, heart kicking against his chest. He feels exposed.

Harry nods, hands still gripping the binding. "Yeah, I read it." He stares at Louis, lips slow to move. "It's mostly about me."

Louis looks away, skin warming. God, he's been blushing so fucking much, he's blushing. "Yeah." That's all he can think to say.

But Harry continues anyway, voice the caliber of wool. "It's all things I've said. Things I've done. Just... Stuff about me..." When Louis doesn't answer, he lowers the book, fumbling with it before flipping through. "On some pages, there's more about me than you, Louis, and there's all this pointless stuff—like here, look, what is that? A drawing of a swan in a bathtub? And you wrote down all of our jokes and things and, like, our favorite songs and you—" He looks up, looking a little lost. "You wrote about me."

It's unexpectedly emotional, something Louis wasn't anticipating, and he feels his throat close a little bit, his eyes beginning to cloud over as he stares at Harry's open expression, Louis' thoughts literally lying in his hands. Open and displayed to the world. For Harry. "Yeah, well," he manages after a moment, "you were just as much a part of me as I was, so."

Harry doesn't say anything to that so Louis continues, half-shrugging.

"You gave my life something I didn't know I was missing," he says, unable to meet Harry's eye much longer, gaze falling to the carpet. He's so fucking embarrassed, feels so foolish right now. Probably looks pretty damn pathetic, eh? Oh well. "You gave my life substance. You were the main thing, you know. Or, everything, really."

Harry bites his lip then, eyes falling back down to the journal. He begins flicking through the pages again, this time slower, more thoughtful. "I noticed you never wrote anything too specific. Never really recounted anything, just sorta had, like, quotes and things. But it all seemed so...positive, I guess. Happy. And then it just stopped." He opens up the last page, voice odd.

'It's going to be okay.' is written there, clear as day. They both stare at the words.

"That was more a note to myself," Louis murmurs. "Just a little...mantra I've had. Just trying to talk myself down a ledge." Louis half-laughs, humorless.

"You didn't write anything else? Since...?" Harry asks, looking up at him.

"No, of course not," Louis replies, brows pulling in confusion. "How could I? Just looking at that damn book fucked me up, Harry. It was all you. I lost you, I—" He stops, embarrassed, but Harry doesn't look upset or angry, he doesn't look away. He licks his lips before he presses on. "Didn't have much to write when I lost both you and myself, you know?"