Gods & Monsters // velvetoscar on ao3

chapter 5

It's fuck-knows-what-time in the afternoon when Louis manages to pull his sticky eyelids open, his face smashed against the dirt-scratched cushion of a shockingly discolored couch.

Ugh. It tastes like old chocolate. That's...

That's ugh.

Only slightly disoriented (thanks to another night at the pub that stretched into too wee of hours in the morning), he raises his body, muscles pulling tightly and refusing to warm. Bones are clicking, joints are popping. God, he's old.

He blinks around him, taking in the bleary gray light that's pooling through the small window on the far end of the room. Its blinds are half-pulled but it might as well not have any at all—great, big chunks are missing from the little off-white plastic strips and the string is tangled up beyond repair, leaving the structure at a jaunty, sharp angle. Such shitty blinds. Louis has the brief urge to tug the string until they just crumple to the floor, but.

But that would probably be rude, wouldn't it. Considering this isn't even his flat. Considering his mate lets him stay here whenever he wants.

Well. 'Mate'. Anthony works at the same pub as Louis. Sometimes they drink and sometimes they smoke together and sometimes they laugh about the same misfortunes, but mostly they don't chat and mostly they coexistence silently. But peacefully, so Louis considers that a mate. He's fortunate to have the kid in his life, considering he stopped renting flats months ago. He'd never remembered to pay his rent, was the thing. Or he'd never have the money because he'd squander it on everything else. Either one.

Living is hard.

But anyway. He needs to get up. Bumming on mates' couches is swell and all, but today's a big day for Louis Tomlinson. He's got a Harry Styles to conquer. And he's got to up his game if he's going to come close to succeeding. Because, no, he's not giving up. Just because it's been awhile since he's had any sort of difficulty winning someone over, doesn't mean that Louis forgets how to put up a good fight.

Nope. This is only the beginning.

With a sigh that he would like to label as more determined than exhausted, he pulls himself from the couch, sliding his aching, dirty feet into the shitty Vans he'd been smart enough to leave by his jacket. Good lad. Next to them, on the ground, is a copy of Sylva Plath's The Bell Jar, half-opened and facedown. Louis'd tried to read it last night when they came back, the reverb from the shitty, electric guitars down at the pub aching just a little too loudly in his skull, behind his ears. He sometimes likes replacing the noise with words. But the words didn't click last night so he'd just set the book down, turned over, and fell asleep.

It's not surprising, really. He's been trying to read that book for about a year now. For god knows what reason, Anthony's had a copy of it since Louis met him (despite the fact that Louis has never seen Anythony read a sign, let alone full sentences strung together) and every time Louis' here, he tries to read another page. But there's something about it, something about the starkness or the distance or the reality or the unreality of it that makes Louis always set it down. He likes it, but...

But he never finishes books, anyway. Isn't that weird? Louis' never finished a book before. He enjoys reading, he does, but the minute he nears the last chapters and sees the end in sight, he stops.

Maybe it's because he always knows what's going to happen. He doesn't need someone else to say it for him. He already knows. Maybe.

He coughs, coughs loudly, and wipes the back of his hand over his mouth. It feels warm and drool-y and scratchy. He needs to shave. Needs to look his best for today.

Needs to succeed.

With a brief, briefest, close of the eyes, he steels himself, breathing with his whole entire body, until the tips of his toes feel like they're puffed with air. He continues to inhale, exhale, as he places his headphones over his ears, pulls open Pink Floyd and listens to 'Jugband Blues' as he exits the flat, the soles of his feet pounding in time with the uneven beat blasting in his eardrums.