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When Louis calls at half six, Liam’s pretty much expecting it.
Liam doesn’t bother do the maths in his head he just knows that it’s late where Louis is, and it’s after the performance so Louis is probably fucking pissed. Figures he’d need to be to call Liam for once.
That’s the first thought Liam has. The second is that he hopes this doesn’t take long, he’s got people to meet up with. The third is that he feels like shit for thinking both those things.
Liam answers the phone with a steady: “Hullo,” pretending like his heart isn’t pounding in his chest so hard it nearly hurts.
“Payno,” Louis says. He drags out the ‘a’ obnoxiously. There’s noise in the background, but not enough to drown Louis out. Liam wonders where he is. If he’s out-out and snuck away someplace quieter with the urge to call Liam, or if he’s chilling with friends and decided fuck it.
“Tommo,” Liam says, doesn’t bother dragging it out. There’s a beat. Then another. Liam can hear Louis take a drag of a cigarette. “How was it, then?”
“What?” Louis sounds startled. Liam can imagine his face. That sleepy slow blink he does when he’s drunk, the crooked smile that’s permanently on his face after a couple of shots. “Oh, X-Factor, right. It was good, like. Smashed it.”
“‘Course you did,” Liam replies. He means it, too. It’s not one of those things he’s ever lied to Louis about -- his performances, his voice, his songwriting. There’s other shit, more personal shit, shit that landed them in this mess in the first place, but he never -- not about that.
“‘Course I did,” Louis echoes. There’s another pause, another drag.
Liam wants a smoke so badly his lungs ache. He wants something to do with his hands, something to distract him, something to curb the overwhelming urge to ask Louis what the fuck is going on between them.
“Had you to wish me luck,” Louis is saying. “Wished me luck and I smashed it. All ‘cause you.”
“That’s not…” Liam laughs awkwardly. It feels like Louis is mocking him. It feels like Louis means it. Liam doesn’t know. He doesn’t fucking know anymore. There’s a sharp ache in his chest, a sick fluttering in his stomach. Christ, he hates this.
He remembers knowing Louis. Properly knowing Louis. Inside and out. Knew what was going on in his head. Knew all the ways to get him to open up. Knew all the ways to tease him until it wasn’t awkward, until it was just them. Knew him so well. Now look at them.
A headache presses at Liam’s temples. Something hotter presses at the back of his eyes. Not knowing what to say to Louis is one of the worst things that’s happened to him, Liam reckons.
The second he thinks it Liam’s brain decides to throw at least a half dozen other terrible scenarios at him, but he shoves them away. He’s allowed to be miserable about this. He’s allowed to be upset that he’s lost his best friend in a stupid, shitty way.
“Are you gunna say anything, or not?” Louis asks, slow but sharp, demanding. It makes Liam’s hackles rise. “Finally talking to me and it’s on Instagram of all places.”
“It was a comment, Lou,” Liam shoots back, just as annoyed. They always were the best at getting under each other’s skin.
It was just a comment because Liam didn’t know what else to do. What else he could do. He figured Louis liking his picture with Niall was an olive branch of sorts. Of course Liam was going to seize the opportunity. Louis hadn’t bothered with Liam in so long, Liam needed to respond.
“First time you’ve tried to talk to me in ages and it’s a comment,” Louis says.
“I’ve tried.”
Liam tried. He did try. He tried all last year. Tried to figure out what the hell Louis was doing. Why Louis was blowing him off constantly. Why Louis didn’t want to text, or call, or hang out when Liam was in LA.
Always hot and cold, Tommo was, but this was different. This was on purpose. This was Louis shutting him out. Shut him out until X Factor, let Liam hold him close, and then shut him out all over again.
This was Louis hurting Liam. Liam didn’t even know why. “I tried, and you --”
“No,” Louis interrupts, laughing loud and wet. It slithers uncomfortably down Liam’s spine, makes his stomach even more knotted up. “You pretended --”
“What?”
“All’s it was was you pretending everythin’ was alright,” Louis hisses quietly. There’s some shuffling and the noise in the background fades until it’s quiet. “That doesn’t make anythin’ better, Payno.”
“I -- what?” Liam asks again, completely bewildered.
There’s flicking on the end of the line, another inhale, another cigarette. Silence lingers as Liam waits for Louis to explain, but nothing comes. Liam’s trying to piece everything together in his head. It’s been so long, sometimes shit escapes him.
“You tried,” Louis says finally. His voice is so quiet, so much more upset than Liam wants it to sound. “All you tried to do was act like everything was normal. Everything was different, and you didn’t fuckin’ bother having like, a conversation. No, just texting: ‘what’s up, Tommo? Catch the game, Tommo?’ Didn’t even bother with anything else.”
“What else was I supposed to bother with?” Liam asks, but he knows what, realization sinking in. He knows exactly what Louis means. He did ignore it on purpose. He did try to act like everything was normal. What the hell else was he supposed to do?
“Liam,” Louis warns.
“No, tell me, please,” Liam says, heart pounding so hard he’s dizzy. “What was I supposed to do?”
There’s another long silence, and now Liam’s thinking about it. The Brits, and how he was buzzing and a little drunk, and hadn’t realized just how much he missed Louis until they were back together and Liam couldn’t stop touching him.
There was a moment... Liam doesn’t know what was happening around them, if it was a performance or an award, but he does remember this moment: Louis next to him staring up at the stage, dashing profile lit up by the warm lights up on the ceiling, and the feeling in Liam’s stomach was like he slipped on ice -- an absolutely terrifying swoop of nerves as he thought: god, he’s fucking beautiful.
“Lou?” Liam asks, when he realizes it’s been awhile since either of them spoke.
When Louis’ answers, his voice is still so quiet and suspiciously thick, “You were supposed to care.”
Liam feels like Louis just smacked him.
“What?”
“You were supposed to fuckin’ care,” Louis says again, louder this time. He laughs down the line, scratchy and odd. “You were supposed to give a shit.”
“I did,” Liam insists.
“We shagged and you told me you were going to date Cheryl Cole, Liam,” Louis says flatly. Liam can imagine him leaning against a wall somewhere. Maybe on the private balcony of some club. Outside his own place. At a mate’s. Cigarette in his hand forgotten, smoking through as Louis holds it.
"Don’t know what I was thinking," Liam admits, voice soft.
“Then you shouldn’t have done it.” Louis laughs again. It sounds all wrong.
Liam wants to tell Louis how much he wanted it. How much he had wanted it -- for months, maybe longer -- and once he had it, he couldn’t keep it from happening. Didn’t want to keep it from happening, even if he did have other plans.
He wants to tell Louis how he can’t get that night out of his head. The disbelieving look on Louis’ face when Liam dropped to his knees. The soft pink flush on his skin when Liam wound him up properly. The way his mouth got red and bruised from kissing. The way he felt afterwards, lying on Liam’s chest before they drifted off to sleep.
He wants to tell Louis that he doesn’t regret it. That it meant so much to him despite how badly it fucked things up between them. That he wants --
But there isn’t a reason to say any of it, is there?
There’s Cheryl and Eleanor. There’s Louis across the ocean, needing a pint or three to even speak to Liam on the phone. There’s who they were in the band, and who they are now. There’s the Louis who used to be Liam’s best friend, and the Louis he fucked at The Brits, and this Louis.
They’re all separate.
They all want different things.
“I’m not sorry it happened,” Liam says. There’s so much more to it, but this is the least he can say. He’s tired of acting like it didn’t happen -- tired of pretending it didn’t matter.
“Okay,” Louis says. “Sure.”
‘Sure.’ Liam doesn’t know what ‘sure’ means.
“Can I call you sometime?” Liam asks, sighing. It’s nearly time for him to go. It’s going to be difficult enough trying to slap on a smile after this conversation. He doesn’t need to say something stupid and fuck it up even more. “To talk? When you’re not pissed?”
“I’m not,” Louis says. Liam doesn’t believe him, or the way his vowels are slurred. “But, yeah, sure.”
Liam laughs, rubbing a hand over his face. “Alright,” he agrees. He’ll call. He’ll call and hopefully Louis will pick up. Maybe they’ll get it sorted, or maybe they’ll let it just become something they don’t talk about. Either way, it’s a start. “Take care of yourself, Tommo.”
“Always do,” Louis says, humming. It’s the most he’s sounded like himself all night. Liam hangs up, pretending he doesn't hear it when Louis adds, “'M the only one who will."
It's not the time for it -- not really the time for any of it.