Work Text:
Louis calls Liam for one of the last times two months after Liam leaves—or perhaps it’s three. No one’s counting, probably. Well, alright, maybe Liam is a little bit. Maybe it’s two months, three weeks and two days. A handful of hours, too. But that’s not the point.
He hopes, a little bit heartlessly, that Louis' fucking counting, as well. He takes it back though—it isn't what he wants; he wants Louis to live in all of the ways that Liam can't.
Louis’ drunk (of course he is, Liam thinks uselessly), or at least well on his way there.
He’s not quite the sort of drunk that more often than not has ended up in a lot of dreadful yelling and very choice insults — and Liam panic-calling Harry in the middle of the night before doing a quick runner to Zayn’s — but it’s definitely getting there.
It’s three am and Liam can hear a distorted sort of club music music thudding somewhere in the background. It’s all starting to sound the same to him; it could be Rihanna, or it could be Calvin Harris. He doesn't especially care anyway. He doesn't listen to music much anymore.
When Louis speaks, it’s a little bit slurred. “I just needed to hear your voice.”
Liam tries not to react. He makes a non-committal noise in response and waits, counting to ten. One-mississippi, two-mississippi. He’s getting better at it (the Not Reacting thing, not the counting). Louis calls him approximately every other night now — sometimes every night — so he’s sort of mastered the whole awkward apathy approach. He's also angrily resigned himself to definitely not getting any sleep, ever. He mostly hasn't been sleeping anyway—Louis probably knows that. But, whatever. It’s the principal of it all. He's like to have the option, at least.
Liam's not sure he would even classify the calls as conversations for the most part, just a string of “I miss you”s and “Come home”s and Liam sucking in a breath and patiently waiting for Louis to stop talking long enough to tell him, “No,” and, “I’m sorry.”
When Louis stops this time though, the only thing Liam can seem to manage is a horribly miserable, “I miss you, too,” and he hates himself a little bit for that. He needs to be a stone wall, because he knows Louis won't be. But tonight he feels like he's made of paper, and not even particularly good quality paper. He feels like Asda's Own paper.
“You’re not coming home, are you?” Louis asks plainly; his tone sounds just about as absolutely hopeless as Liam feels.
Liam shakes his head against the phone and shuts his eyes tight until he can see fuzzy stars on the black of his eyelids. “Not this time, Lou.”
The line falls silent for so long that Liam is almost sure that Louis has just gone and hung up on him, but then: “I love you,” says Louis softly. The booming music at whatever club it is he has no doubt spectacularly fallen into tonight almost drowns him out.
Liam sort of wishes it had.
He sighs and ignores the way Louis’ voice breaks when he starts to say it again, cutting him off sharp—“Go home.”
“It’s not home, is it? You’re not there.”
“Louis, please,” Liam begs, digging his nails into his temple.
He wants to be able to switch everything off. He wants to start shouting until his throat is raw and bloody. He wants to go home. Maybe it was better hurting each other when they were together than hurting each other when they're apart.
Maybe Liam just needs to fucking hang up—make some tea. Call Zayn.
“I love you,” Louis tells him — again — like they’re fucking magic words. Like he's waving about a shiny wand and they can fix everything with a flick of it and three little words.
Liam says, “I love you, too,” and tries to keep his voice mostly level. They're starting to sound less like words and more like a funeral march.
His limbs feel awfully heavy. Like he’s fighting and clawing to swim to the surface, but there are thick, metal shackles bruising around his wrists and ankles. He's pretty sure love isn't supposed to feel like this. He sinks further into the sofa, hoping that maybe — somehow — he might just drown and suffocate in it.
“But it’s not enough, Lou. I’m hanging up now, okay?” he finishes finally. He almost prides himself on the fact that he does hang up.
He stops answering the calls after that. There's nothing left to say that they haven't said to death and buried six feet under.
Eventually, Louis stops calling.