Like A Hole In The Head → [Lilo] ✔️

Chapter 12

Louis lives in Chelsea, a fact about which he appears faintly embarrassed. Liam's frankly pretty impressed; his flat doesn't actually have fifteen bedrooms, but it has got six, and a kitchen the size of Liam's lounge, and a telly the size of his dining table. It's absurd.

"This is sick," he announces, because Lou is standing uncomfortably by the kitchen island, an inch from chewing his fingernails.

"Yeah? It's -- my advisor claims it's going to appreciate," Louis says, sounding like he doesn't really know what that means. That's fine: Liam has no idea, himself.

"Huh," he shrugs. "Done well for yourself, eh? Do you, like, fly planes around or something, for fun?"

"No, I try on suits," Louis smiles. "Come on, then."

The tailor is equally posh and substantially more cryptic an experience; where Louis at least had posters of Kill Bill and The Notebookon the walls of his flat, this place is wallpapered in something expensive and ornate and probably silk. The attendants all walk around in perfect silence, which is unnerving and creepy, and Liam is not at all sure what he's supposed to be doing with his arms, or his feet, or any part of him.

"You don't have to stay for this," he calls. His voice sounds stupid and brutish against the luxury noiselessness, but Louis is definitely out there in the main room, waiting for him.

"No, it's alright," Louis says, and Liam's relieved to hear that they both sound weird, in here. "There's free champagne," Lou adds cheerfully.

By the time Liam's done, Louis must have gotten through most of a bottle. Liam's been poked at for over an hour, changing his trousers incessantly. He's just glad they didn't see fit to ask him his opinion on anything; he's sure they know better than he does.

"God damn," is the first thing out of Louis's mouth when Liam comes out.

"It's okay?" Liam says, trying not to move. They've pinned him into it, and he's scared to do anything for fear of gouging himself in a thousand very tender places.

"You look fucking brilliant," Louis says. He's sprawled out across the sofa in the main room, his hair even messier than usual, his eyes glittering with drink and mischief. "Look at that," he murmurs, sitting up. "Really, Payner. You're going to be getting casting calls, after this."

"Oh, no," Liam says. "I'm --"

"Joking, Li," Louis smirks, uncoiling until he's eye-to-eye with Liam. Liam's not -- it's been a long time, but he's not quite immune to that look. Louis's a bit drunk and clearly bored and Liam should take a step back, but he doesn't, not even when Louis gives him a slow once-over.

"You do look good," Louis says, voice dancing, "but you've got to be the worst actor I've ever met, so, no. Don't quit your day job."

"Did you ever even have a day job?" Liam fires back.

"Didn't need one, did I?" Louis says. His eyebrow curves like the edge of his teeth, and Liam has no idea how he can be so bloody cocky half the time, and worried Liam will judge his flat the rest.

"You really didn't, Lou," Liam says. "You're amazing at it, you are." Louis scrunches his nose in exaggerated distaste.

"Way to ruin the mood, Liam," he snipes. His hand darts out towards Liam's chest and Liam swats it away -- and one hundred angry needles jab into every part of Liam's flesh, Jesus fuck.

"Ow, ah, ow," Liam whines, as Louis cackles like the psychopath he always has been.

"Let's go," Louis grins. "Get out of that pincushion, and we'll catch you up on champagne."

They don't catch up with champagne, thank God, because it's too sweet and it makes Liam's head hurt. Instead, they go to a pub down by Lou's flat and get pissed on suspiciously cheap pints until Louis's friend Harry shows up and drags them to a bar with, like, actual music.

"I'm not dancing," Liam says, for the sixteenth time. Harry is nice, if a little handsy, but he's also very persistent.

"Aw, Liiiiam," Harry drawls. He has a very slow voice; at first, Liam had thought that he'd simply gotten a lot drunker than he'd bargained, but no: Harry just talks like he's got all the time in the world. Liam has no real idea how he does lawyer things with that rate of speech. Maybe it's the drink making Harry slow.

"Is he talking like that because he's drunk?" Liam asks Louis. Louis is sitting on the table, his feet planted firmly on the bench between Harry and Liam. Liam's had his hand on Lou's foot for the past half hour, for stability.

"Like what? Harry?" Louis tips his head back and laughs; Liam tightens his fingers around Lou's ankle. "Har-ry," Louis croons. "Why doyou talk like that?"

"Shut up," Harry grins. "If you lot aren't dancing, I will."

"Lou, come down here," Liam says once Harry's bounded off.

"I like it up here," Louis says, tossing his hair. "Bow down to me, subject," he commands, and then he knocks himself over backwards trying to put his foot on Liam's shoulder.

"Get down," Liam laughs. Lou slides off and crumples against him.

"We're not fighting," Louis says suddenly. He smells like a distillery, but he's finally wearing normal clothing, ratty skinny jeans and a striped T-shirt that Liam's pretty sure dates back to the days of drama camp. They're wrecked and making arses of themselves in a bar, shrieking like children, and Louis's right: the fact that they're not fighting is the only remarkable thing here.

"We've got nothing to fight about," Liam says. It feels too natural to cuddle Louis up against his side, scruff his fingers through Lou's ragged hair.

"I'm taking you to Los Angeles," Louis protests. "And I've drug you out to a club in London to watch Harry dance," -- "dance," Liam realises, is a very optimistic designation for what Harry is doing right now -- "you never do this shit, and you don't even like me," Lou continues, tucking his face into Liam's sweater. "We've got loads of things to fight about."

"Louis," Liam's stomach drops, partly from dismay and partly from the booze. Tomorrow is probably going to be horrible; it's true that he never does this shit. "What -- I don't not like you," he stumbles. "Why would you think that?"

Louis pulls back, still hanging onto Liam's arm for balance. "I left you," he says slowly, like Liam is mentally challenged and not just pissed. "At a bus stop. In Doncaster, where you don't even live."

"I lived there, then, Lou," Liam ducks his head, failing to hide his smile, but -- what? "I lived with you."

"You lived with me!" Louis shouts dramatically. Liam can't stop smiling, even though it definitely isn't appropriate. "You lived with me and I left you! Why would you not hate me?"

"You left me because I was a dick," Liam tells him, giggles bubbling out of him like soda fizz. It's not funny, but it is: this is so stupid. "Louis, I threw away all your shoes," he says. "All of them, Lou, do you not remember?"

"Oh, my God, you did," Louis's face transforms. "Oh, you arsehole! You did!"

"Luckily you've bought new ones," Liam shakes him gently. "And I live in Wolverhampton again. So we've got nothing to fight over," and by the time Harry comes back from thrashing about, Louis is asleep against Liam's bicep.