Larry Stylinson - Turning From Praise (AU)

12.

Louis knew that his mother would be awake already, so he didn’t have to worry about waking anyone when he arrived home – he just opened the door, slipped inside and went to wait in the kitchen.

She was scrubbing manically at a dirty pot, her lips pinched into a tight line which he could make out from her reflection in the window. The expression on her face suggested that she was thinking extremely vicious thoughts, and Louis was willing to bet a substantial amount of money that they were directed towards him and not the grime on the pot in her hands. She hadn’t noticed him, so he soundlessly pulled up a chair and sat down at the kitchen table, gazing worriedly down at his hands.

A few minutes later, she seemed to deem the pot fit to have food prepared in it again, so she dried it and turned around to go and put it away, then jumped as she spotted Louis sitting in silence at the table. Her mouth tightened again and she placed the pot back down in the sink as she stared at him. For a while, Louis stayed gazing at his hands where they lay on the clean surface of the table, until he eventually took a deep breath and looked up at her, his expression pleading, wordlessly begging her not to start screaming at him again. He didn’t know what he would do if she did.

“It’s you,” she said.

“Yeah, it’s me,” answered Louis tiredly.

After a suitably tense pause, Jay walked over to the table, pulled up a chair and sat opposite him. They stared each other down for a while, Louis wishing that he was brave enough to spear her with accusations from his eyes but being unable to tear his gaze from the worktop, while his mother scrutinized him with a mixture of wariness and satisfaction.

“I see you took that vile thing out of your lip.”

Louis shrugged. “Guess it wasn’t worth the –” unwarranted physical abuse “ – hassle.”

Jay’s expression softened. “You understand why I did it, don’t you, son? I just don’t want you turning into one of those horrible wild boys – you know the ones I mean, like Harry Styles, and his friend Neil –”

“Niall,” Louis automatically corrected, then realized what he’d done and silently berated himself for the interruption. He was supposed to be winning back her favour, not giving her more reasons to become angry with him.

“Niall, then,” she said sharply, “and what’s the other one called? Xavier.”

Louis held back a contemptuous snort. Xavier. Zayn would love that.

“They call themselves punks, but whatever they want to call it, you and I both know what they reallyare, don’t we, Louis? They’re heathens,” whispered Jay, like it was a filthy word and even saying it aloud was enough to have you banished to the deepest recesses of hell. “They deny God. They blaspheme and they defile the church, and they think they’re so intelligent, but I’d like to see them curl their pierced lips like they’re so superior when they’re screaming and burning on Judgement Day. I understand – you’re just going through a phase, and you’ve decided that you want to model yourself on them. It’s understandable. But I can’t let you do it.”

“It’s just clothes,” Louis said pleadingly. “And a few bits of metal! I’m sure God wouldn’t mind – I’m sure I wouldn’t go to hell for that! Just for dressing a bit differently!”

“But it wouldn’t just stop with the clothes, Louis – if they saw you dressing like them they’d want to recruit you into their little clique, and whisper their poisonous nonsense into your ears and make you just like them! I don’t want my son to be a blasphemer or a sneak or a liar – or gay.”