Chapter Text
Gods and Monsters -- Lana del Rey
The mahogany elevator doors open with a soft ding, their gold buttons a’glint. Louis sort of wants to smudge them with his fingerprints, give a bit of texture to their overly manicured sheen—he’s got grease on them still from the chips he found in that one boy’s fridge. Whatever his name was. Lucas? Something.
He emerges, steps onto smooth wooden floors the color of bitter chocolate, his shoes leaving little dirty scuffs with each stride. The dirt mars the potentially fresh wood polish, which is nice. It’s always satisfying to see things a little fucked up. People—especially these people—are too pristine. Too up themselves, if you will, worried about how things look, worried about how they’ll be perceived.
Fuck that, honestly.
Smirking at the scuffs, he continues down the hall, Kurt Cobain screeching the question of “where did you sleep last night?” into the buds stuffed in his ears. Best singer, that Cobain. It’s like, whenever he sang, he poured every disparaging, awful, shit feeling he’d ever felt into his vocal cords and ripped them from his body, threw them into the air and down others’ throats. It’s raw, you know? And real. Just fucking…real.
Louis likes real.
Still though, he probably should step out of his realness and step into the world he’s currently in now—the fake one. Ironic, innit?
He plucks the buds out, stuffs them in his shitty jean jacket that’s tinged with sour smoke and nicotine stains. With its little tears from disuse and sharp edges. Scuffs from being shoved onto pavement. Rips from slinking past rusty iron fences. You know—the usual. Living the charming life. They’ll put it on his gravestone: ‘Here Lies Louis Tomlinson. He lived a charming life.’
To be fair, though, that is probably how he’ll be remembered. As charming. Maybe a few other things, but charming should definitely make the list.
“We’ll be back tonight, darling,” a luxurious female voice suddenly says as Louis makes his way deeper into the flat. It sounds like eighteen carats of gold and satin. It sounds like anti-wrinkle cream and posh perfume. Pristine.
“Alright, mum,” Liam’s voice says, indifferent. “Will you be back for dinner? Or should I have someone fetch something?”
Fetch something? Louis can’t help but snort—Liam’s such a fucking prince. Spoiled little preppy prince. Sexy spoiled preppy prince. It’s annoying but since Louis would kindly like to suck his dick again and house all of his major credit cards, he figures he can let his quirks slide. Liam tastes like money: Louis’ favorite flavor.
“Best do,” his mum says, and the shuffle of cloth is heard, the clink of a purse. “We’ll let you know if we dine somewhere local.” She says the word with obvious distaste as Louis rounds the corner and enters the room, her hand gesture flouncing the sentence away from her. It’s then that she spots him, one eyebrow arching in Disney-villain distaste as she assesses him with hazel eyes that scream the words her very polite lipstick won’t say.
Louis doesn’t even attempt to disguise his smirk as he meets her gaze. She fucking hates him.
Louis’ not got money, see. He’s from the other side of town (snort) and he’s “dirty” and “uncouth” and “dangerous” and “unrespectable” and all those other fucking words that are associated with one who doesn’t possess a chauffeur or a summer home.
Fuck off, ma’am, thanks.
“Hello, Martha,” Louis greets happily, making sure to show his teeth and pushing his cheeks up into the least sincere smile he can manage. He slides his hands into the pockets of his jean jacket—and, god, she hates that jacket even more than she hates Louis. Her lip is positively curling as she tracks the movement and her nostrils most definitely just twitched. As if she could smell it or something. Smell the sweat and drug abuse and bitterness and dried cum and dead-ends.
He hopes she does.
“Tomlinson,” she manages to grit out before smoothly moving past him—making no small show of taking the longest route, the route that leads her the farthest from Louis. Don’t want to touch the wild animals and all that.
He laughs out loud as she exits, throws his head back and everything. It’s not that funny but he wants to make a point. Rude cow.
When he quiets, lowers his head, he meets Liam’s eye, who’s smirking as well, looking pleased and bored. As he always does. He looks extra preppy today—got one of his white polo t-shirts on and those ridiculous jeans that look worn and torn because children in sweatshops were told to rip things just so. His trainers are enormous and spotless, his watch looks two stone, and his hair is styled as much as it can be, considering there isn’t that much there.
“Tomlinson,” Liam echoes, but his tone, unlike the sea witch, is colored with intrigue and delight and all the other flavors of one who’s being met with their entrée.
“You called?” Louis begins, blinking prettily and tilting his head to the side coquettishly, just for good measure, because he knows his eyes look better in the light, he knows his cheekbones cut the air. He’s got a good lure, he’ll be honest. If there’s one thing Louis’ got, it’s sex appeal. Nobody’s ever said no to him before.
Liam observes the movements with eyes that flash—Louis doesn’t miss it, never does—and smirks a bit wider, unabashedly ogling the boy before him. Which is fine. A+, even. It’s only a matter of time before Louis ensnares Liam. The boy’s not made of steel—he’ll break. They always do.
And this is one break Louis needs.
“Your hair,” Liam responds with, slowly beginning to walk towards him, hands in the pockets of those hideous jeans. He doesn’t so much walk as strut—it’s the prowl of the wealthy, of the popular, of the powerful. Liam walks powerfully. It grates upon Louis as much as it pulls him in. He needs powerful, he needs wealth. He’s poor as shit and even more aimless, doesn’t even have a proper home—just sleeps in boys’ beds and on mates’ couches and he works a shit job as a bartender/busboy because he dropped out of school because… Well. That’s a whole story.
Point is, Louis could use someone like Liam. He’s not big on love and romance and normalcy—people are scum, to be quite honest—but he’s not opposed to finding a steady source of income that comes with a side of excellent sex. And, no, he’s never quite had sex with Liam, but.
But he’ll break.
“You look like a street urchin,” he continues, his eyes solid and rich and relaxed as he reaches Louis, moving to touch the styled hair, which is getting a bit longer than he usually keeps it, tousled and twisted up in a 1950’s ‘do because Louis likes to look striking, likes to look on point.
Louis smacks his hand away immediately—no touching. Unless it’s an erogenous zone, nobody can fucking touch. Personal space, thanks. “The fuck is that? A street urchin,” he mocks easily, a spark of amusement flitting through him at Liam’s blink of surprise. Not so powerful now, eh?
Clouds overcast Liam’s face as he examines his reprimanded hand, his thick brows drifting together in irritation. “A tart,” he says curtly.
“Ah,” Louis nods calmly, watching Liam flex his fingers with complete indifference. “Well. Never said I wasn’t one.”
Liam’s lips curl into a bit of a sneer. Louis couldn’t give less of a fuck.
“So,” Liam begins, walking away, and his voice is no longer mischievous, but to-the-point. He always gets this way whenever he can’t dick Louis around. Such a little spoiled prince. Which comes as no surprise, really—only child of two evil and sickeningly rich war lords and the town’s Golden Boy? With a future paved in promise and arse-kissing? Liam’s just a product of his environment. Maybe that’s why Louis doesn’t completely hate him—he’s a product of his, too.
“I called you here for a reason, Louis,” Liam continues, dropping down into one of the plush chairs that litter the room. The sun pours from the floor-to-ceiling windows. Everything glass and gold glistens. Typical.
“Figured,” Louis says, impatient. He’s getting bored, getting annoyed. He likes Liam, he does, but being around any human being for a stretch of time is an endurance test. And in here, this cold, posh flat... He feels a bit suffocated and extremely uncomfortable; out of place. Though he’d never fucking admit it. Never.
“Time to play,” is all Liam says after a moment, is all he has to say, really, and he grins lasciviously at Louis from his chair, his fingers tapping calculatingly atop the armrest where thick clusters of maroon and gold are embroidered. It looks bold and clean and stiff.
“Ah,” comes Louis’ typical response as understanding dawns upon him and a new, odd sort of feeling settles within him. It’s not excitement anymore—it used to be exciting, back when they first started doing this. It used to be a challenge and it gave Louis…something to do. But now, after countless games of Louis winning… Now, it just leaves a very odd feeling within him and he’s not sure what it means, or if he cares to know. It just feels weird. So he shrugs, keeps Liam’s stare. “Who is it this time, then?”
The taps of Liam’s fingers carry through the quiet room. They tap against Louis’ nerves. He realizes he’s begun to clench his jaw.
“He’s new in town.”
New in town? Well, fuck. That’s a bit harder than usual, then. Maybe this will be fun. A challenge of sorts again. Maybe.
“How new?” Louis asks, attention piqued.
“Just moved before the school year started.”
“Your age?”
“Yep.” He pops the ‘p’. Louis hates when he does that. Fucking annoying.
With a slow nod, Louis walks over, sits on the chair opposite, perches on the edge of the seat. No need to dirty the cushions—it’s a dry thought.
“What’s the motive?” he then asks, lacing his fingers as he rests his elbows atop the thinning fabric covering his knees. He levels Liam with a steady gaze which he keeps, so Louis absolutely sees that same flicker in Liam’s eyes as Louis glides a clever tongue over his lips. Just to wet them. Obviously. “Why’s he a target?”
“Because he’s charming,” Liam replies instantly, and a new kind of flash flickers in his brown eyes now. Something darker, something more insistent and threatened. It’s a bit animalistic and that weird something kicks back at Louis’ stomach, creeps into his chest cavity a bit. He doesn’t flinch outwardly, though.
“We’re going after him because he’s charming?” Louis asks flatly.
Liam scowls. “He’s just gotten here and he’s already everybody’s favorite pet, everybody knows his name, he’s just been appointed as the Vice President of choir—I don’t need a Vice President, thank you—and he’s gotten the highest mark in two of our courses. Higher than me, both times.” His gaze sharpens, steels into coldest metal. “By one point.”
Louis smirks, unable to bridle his delight at a clearly ruffled Liam. Too, too funny to see a pouting prince.
“The teachers eat him up,” Liam continues, and all humor is gone. Louis smirks wider. “Everybody fucking raves about him, positively loves him, and there’s talk that he’s going to join the footie team. People think he’ll want to be captain. Lars said he overheard him boasting about how he won’t even need to try-out for the team—they’ll just appoint him the position.” Oh, this is too good. “His marks are currently the highest in the entire school. He’s got everybody wrapped around his finger. It’s only been two months of the term, Louis, and he’s already pissing me the fuck off.”
“Ohhh,” Louis laughs, unabashed, and leans back into the chair as he exaggerates his humor, slaps both knees loudly. “Oh, so little boy Liam’s feeling threatened, then? The Prince is afraid to suffer an uprising in his kingdom?” Liam glares poison at Louis but he only laughs louder. “You’ve got yourself competition, Payne. Golden Boy Number Two is coming right ‘round the bend. For you.” He points his finger accusingly for emphasis, because he can, because Liam hates it.
“Deal with him,” Liam replies tightly, teeth gritted. He doesn’t even entertain Louis’ taunts. It’s, frankly, annoying.
“Why?” Louis asks, smirks. “This might be fun for me to just watch you struggle a bit. Especially since you’re no longer the number one choice for your little university, are ya?” The words dig into the air and Louis knows it—Louis knows Liam, knows what this entire thing boils down to: Liam’s future, Liam’s reputation. Liam’s everything, really.
“It’s not ‘a little university,’” Liam glares, tightens fingers on the armrest. “It’s the only university. They only accept one from our school.”
“And New Boy’s going to get it.”
“No. He isn’t. And you’re going to make certain of it.”
“And just how am I going to do that?” Louis sighs, once again resting his elbows on his knees. “Usually you just want me to fuck someone and get them caught up in a scandal or summat. Just ruffle some feathers or piss someone off. Which, okay, great. Easy, that. But just how the fuck am I supposed to stop this bloke from being perfect?”
“Get him expelled. Distract him. Fuck up his reputation—whatever you must.”
Louis snorts, rolling his eyes. “What, you want me to proper fuck him over? Get caught fucking him in the chancellor’s office?”
“You’ve done it before,” Liam responds sweetly. “It’s nothing new.”
And, yeah, okay. Fair enough.
“Do you know anything about him?” Louis asks, after a moment.
Liam’s lips twitch, pleased. His tone alters, sounds less attacked and more appeased as the words slither from his lips. “His name is Harry Styles. He’s from a well-to-do family, from what I’ve heard. Lives with his mum and sister. Don’t know about a father. Just moved here from a small, shitty town I don’t recall the name of. I’m not quite sure who his friends are, yet. He’s not dating anyone—he’s a virgin, by the way—“
“No way,” Louis interjects then, incredulous, and laughs his surprise. “A virgin? He’s what? Seventeen?”
Liam grins, amused. “Around there, yeah. He’s a good boy, our Harry Styles. Clean reputation. Won’t date—focuses on his studies and all that.”
Oh, oh, oh. This is getting better and better and better.
“Which is why he’s better than you,” Louis smirks, and the grin slides from Liam’s face.
“Ruin him, Louis,” Liam says after a moment, and all the softness in the room is gone. “Destroy him any way you see fit. I’m giving you a certain amount of leeway here.”
“Why?”
“Because you never disappoint.”
This is true. It’s not bragging—it’s just true.
Louis nods, feigns studying his nails. They’re dirty as fuck, collecting all his sins. He smirks at the thought, hums REM’s “Losing My Religion.” Excellent song. Excellent band. Makes him feel like he’s living when he listens to it.
“If you successfully manage this,” Liam’s voice suddenly says, cutting the contemplative silence. Louis glances up, and Liam’s eyes are sharp, intent on Louis. And a bit…hungry. Unsurprisingly—they always break. “You’ll get a prize.”
Louis perks, straightens, drops his dirty hands and dirty fingernails. “A prize?” he repeats, intrigued.
Liam nods, slow, keeps his eyes on Louis. He stands, careful and deliberate, and Louis feels the curl of his lips as he saunters towards him, eyes still dark.
“If you succeed, properly…” he breathes with twisted lips and pooled eyes, bringing a delicate hand to brush fingers along Louis’ jaw. “You’ll get me.”
The contact is still unwelcome, still breaks Louis’ very firm rules of touching and space, but he doesn’t smack Liam’s hand away this time, merely catches it with his own, his fingers pressing into Liam’s flesh, just on this side of sharp.
They stare at each other hard, Louis calculating, Liam smirking.
“You’re serious?” Louis asks in a breath, the tone that always works, standing up. He looks him in the eye unforgivingly, steps close enough for the fission between their bodies to crackle.
They always break.
Liam nods without hesitation, brown eyes bottomless. Two little black holes, pulling the world inside. Only to crush it.
“I’m serious.” He presses a flash of lips against Louis’, too quick to grasp, before stepping back, a cruel twist to his mouth. “Ruin him, Louis,” he says, and Louis feels a rush of desire, the dizziness of seeing the prize and needing to win. “Ruin him, and you get me.”
Louis nods, feeling a spike in his blood, a clench in his fist as he keeps the gaze, as he feels himself being sucked in. “Alright, then.”
Challenge accepted.