Chapter Text
Louis wakes up from a dreamless sleep in an unfamiliar bed in familiar arms. He keeps his eyes closed for a little while, waiting for the memories to come back to him and they do. He waits for the hangover to hit him and it never does. He’d deserve it. He has to walk around with all this shame now.
And there is Harry who is always so patient and kind.
Louis doesn’t deserve patience. He doesn’t deserve this level of care or protection or understanding, or maybe he’s just not used to it. He wants it, it’s not like he doesn’t. He craves it more than air itself. He wants everything to be soft and gentle and slow and understanding and healing. But he doesn’t get to have that. Either way. He’s tired and there’s just that.
He has to pick his stuff up from his parents’ house today. He can’t let Harry do everything for him, fight all his battles. He will go to his house and pick all of his stuff up. He’ll make sure his sisters are safe, even though Lottie doesn’t believe him because it doesn’t matter. It shouldn’t. He was just drunk and he said things he shouldn’t have said. He would have never said anything, let alone think about it. Now that it’s out there it’s real and he can’t stand the thought. He’s told Harry.
God, he’s told Harry.
And now Harry knows everything about him. There’s not a single side to him he can hide, or keep for later, save for rainy days. It’s either all of this or he leaves. He’s showed the depth of how damaged he is, in a way where he can never seem to be put back together quite right. He’s done and said things he can’t ever quite make up for but Harry stays. Harry stays even though he sees him differently now. Not in the way Louis wants to be seen, but in the way that he is. Damaged goods. Wet cardboard. Broken glass. His edges are sharp and jagged and asymmetrical. The bed feels bottomless, like he is constantly falling through and inside and throughout his body.
He’s going to leave.
He can’t shake the thought Harry is going to leave. In his mind, he must already be gone. He just hasn’t realised quite yet how terrible Louis is to be around.
No, it’s not true. Louis can be good, Louis can be so good and fun from afar, he just can’t let people get too close. He’s terrible to know. And now Harry knows him and everything is worse.
“Are you awake?” Harry mutters, sounding groggy. He can probably feel him stir. It tethers Louis down a little bit.
“Hmm,” he hums in approval. He’s fighting every cell in his being screaming for him to run away. Maybe he’ll run away. Maybe Harry will be relieved this time around.
Harry just holds him tighter. It helps.
“Good morning,” he mutters with a soft smile. His face is all puffy and his eyes are not yet open.
Louis loves him too much for comfort.
“Good morning,” he answers back, his voice not quite right.
“How are you feeling?” Harry asks, it’s a loaded question. It’s nice that he wants to know, though. Louis wouldn’t tell him if he didn’t want to know.
“Stupid,” it’s an understatement.
“Why?” Harry’s eyes snap open. He seems confused, or maybe concerned. Either way Louis doesn’t like it. He is never far off from just wasting away.
He feels like a sick dog, needing to be put down. Kicked miserably when he whines and begs to be loved the way he used to be loved. He must have been loved once, or he wouldn’t crave it so desperately.
He just wants to be forgiven, and loved, and understood. He never thought he deserved any of it.
“You know,” Louis shrugs. He doesn’t want to talk about this again, especially not sober.
“I’m glad you told me what you told me,” Harry says. Maybe he knows exactly just what Louis needs, before he even knows it himself. Louis doesn’t understand what Harry needs a lot of the time. “We don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to,” he adds.
Louis forgets what he wants right there. Or maybe he never knew. He thought he’d been making progress, he thought coming here was the last time, but it’s just pulled him apart in ways he could have never imagined. He feels shattered, like he’s been sad his entire life, dragging every suitcase he never asked for but were given to him.
Harry seems to read all of this on his face. “Sometimes you have to get worse first in order to get better,” he says. “It might not feel like it but this is growth.”
Louis doesn’t think he would’ve survived this one if it wasn’t for him. It scares him how much he needs Harry, how much trust he needs to have that he won’t slip away. Being the first one to leave always hurts less.
He’s overthinking it. He has to remember he’s overthinking it. He doesn’t want to self-sabotage again. He breathes in and out again, lets himself trust, tells himself he needs to go with the flow. If Harry wants to leave then he will. If he doesn’t want to then he’ll stay. He doesn’t know which will hurt more but it’s okay. He needs to give in.
“Yeah, I feel like shit,” he admits. “But I’ll be okay. I think I’ll be okay. I have to be, don’t I?”
“You will be,” Harry reassures him.
“Thanks for looking out for me.”
“Of course,” Harry brushes his hair out of his face. “Anytime.” Despite everything, Louis meets his gaze. They have all the time in the world. So many mornings just like this morning, or hopefully better. Every morning after this is bound to be easier.
He always liked mornings.
“I still need to pick my stuff up,” he sighs.
“I can pick your things up for you, you don’t have to go back,” Harry offers. “Ever again.” When he thinks about it, Louis doesn’t understand why he feels as though he has to. He never has to do anything. “I will,” Harry insists.
“Okay, thank you,” Louis accepts the help after a few seconds of thinking about it. It’s hard to do. He will be okay. He needs to make it up to Harry somehow. He needs to fix this. “Shower together?” he asks, batting his eyelashes and hoping it comes across as cute. It seems to work, because a smile grows on Harry’s face.
“I’d love that,” he accepts the offer happily, eagerly rolling out of bed. It’s a bit cold. Louis doesn’t know how early it is and that’s okay.
“I’ll get the water warmed up and I’ll come get you when it’s ready, deal?”
“Deal.”
He has to stop feeling sorry for himself. He has to stop feeling sorry for himself. He has to stop feeling sorry for himself.
Harry does come to get him when the water is warm, it doesn’t take long. He’s already stripped down to his boxers and he helps Louis out of the oversized t-shirt he lent him last night before going to sleep.
Showers, it’s always showers and it’s often together. It’s not even comfortable but Louis likes it anyways. There’s something about the intimacy of it.
Louis thinks about how he can wash off this shampoo that wasn’t quite the right one, now. He thinks his mum must have lied about it, because Lottie’s hair smelled right. She’s just like that, his mum. He doesn’t want to smell like this house anymore. He forgot about it. It makes him wonder if his many flats ever smelled like anything at all. Cigarettes, most probably.
Harry’s house smells like Harry, he’s thought that before. Harry smells comfortable and familiar. If someone were to ask him to describe it though, he wouldn’t know how.
Harry is beautiful clothed or naked, wet or dry. He thinks that when he watches him in the shower. He loves Harry down to his simplest intimacy.
He needs to be something to him, two knots on the same thread. He needs anything, an exchange of words, a handshake, a piece of metal, a sheet of paper that binds them together. There is him and there is someone else, not the same but not completely separate either. he wants to be less than a half, but more than a whole. He doesn’t know what their glue is. He needs glue.
“Are we together?” he asks, Harry’s eyelashes are long and wet, stuck together by the water, clinging to his cheeks. Maybe their glue is the way his dimples are deep. Louis digs his fingers into them. He wants to crawl inside them.
“Do you want to be?” He answers. “What do you want out of this?” There’s no judgement in his tone, only curiosity.
“You,” he ventures. He doesn’t know how to go about this. All he knows is he wants Harry.
“Maybe I could be your boy, this time” Harry proposes, so so gently with a hint of sadness that almost makes him break. “Or I could even be your girl if you’d like. If that’s easier.
I think I could be okay with being your girl,” it shatters Louis’ heart that Harry would be willing to do this for him. Maybe that’s something he can help Harry with, not give everything and more away to him.
“Be my boy,” he answers confidently. “I want to be yours.”
“You’re mine already.”
This is all he needs. That, a bit of care and attention and a good morning and a good night every day for the rest of his life. Maybe it’s too much to ask for already. He can’t help falling apart every time he thinks of Harry.
Everything hurts but the hot water washes it away, that and the weird shampoo. He feels the exact same kind of icky he did that morning after he overdosed, in Harry’s bathtub. Raw and naked and hurt everywhere, like his skin has been peeled, like everything has been drained out of him. He just wants to sleep forever. The only thing preventing him from doing so is Harry. Harry who says “I brought something for you.”
“What is it?” Louis asks automatically.
Harry leaves the shower for a lonely second, comes back dripping with a blue bottle with a gold cap in hand.
His shampoo, because Harry knows Louis’ favourite shampoo.
He is known.
He thinks he might want to try a different shampoo. He knows it’s supposed to hurt right now, he thinks it is, still he can’t help but spiral downwards into it, face first. But is this truly the worst it gets? He misses the numbness, the carelessness, the self destruction. It doesn’t feel like he is getting better if he hurts more. Maybe he’s just a coward, he doesn’t like it when it hurts very much.
He wishes he was angry. He isn’t. He never really is. He’s just constantly tired these days.
The thought pops into his head, maybe because he is thirsty for it: he hasn’t decided what his favourite drink is now.
“What’s my favourite drink going to be now?” he asks Harry. He wants someone else to make these kind of decisions he obviously isn’t responsible enough to make.
“I don’t know. You can decide that yourself,” Harry answers always wisely.
He supposes that means he has to try a lot of drinks, all the novelty drinks he can find. He already knows they will all be too sweet and none of them will taste as right, none of them will soften everything, round the edges the way alcohol does. A shower beer would be pretty good right about now. He just wants to feel okay, or as close to it as it gets.
“Everything okay in there?” Harry asks at the edge of his mind.
Is everything okay in there?
If it was a room Louis would invite him in. He is tired of explaining, he doesn’t think he knows how to explain. He doesn’t know how to be understood.
“Come in” he requests anyways.
Harry doesn’t seem to get it.
“Huh?”
“Doesn’t matter.”
This might be as bad as it gets, though. So it can only get better from here.
“It’s going to get better,” Harry promises. Maybe he has walked a mile or two in his mind after all.
And Harry’s going to stay. He reminds himself constantly by pinching the skin of his forearm between his fingernails. All real. All claimed. Why would he leave right after calling him his?
“Stay,” in his mind. In his life.
“I’m staying.”
He’s already been living there for a while. Forever, maybe. And yet everything still hurts like it’s all fresh wounds.
When they’re both all clean, and every single inch of his body has never been touched at all, and Harry’s clothes hang off his frame as a bitter reminder he’s not been looking after himself, he starts to wonder what comes after. They got ready. He’s ready but he doesn’t know what for.
Or he supposes he does. They’re going to pick up his bag and go home, now. That’s the last logical thing left to do.
The hotel room is unfamiliar and he doesn’t like that. Not a single place feels like a home any longer. There’s nowhere he feels truly safe except, he supposes, with Harry.
Harry looks reliably good. It’s comforting to have something he recognises, something familiar to hold onto. He strides confidently towards the door, neatly packed backpack in hand. He’s even made the hotel bed.
“You didn’t have to make the bed,” Louis points out. They would strip the sheets anyway.
“I like it,” Harry shrugs. “It’s polite.”
Maybe it is. It doesn’t hurt anyone after all. Louis changes his mind about it.
Something’s off.
Something’s off, it is. He feels crazy. He is buzzing off his mind, vibrating, everything is vibrating or maybe he is. There’s a mirror in the lift, it’s the first thing he notices when the doors slide open. How mismatched Harry and him look together. He’s fitting all wrong and he wants to scream. He can’t get in that lift and stare at that reminder he doesn’t belong here
“I’ll take the stairs,” he declares, and he runs off on shaky legs without explaining it. Explaining how he feels is hard, he doesn’t understand it himself.
But Harry has taken a walk around in his mind so he accepts and follows patiently.
He checks out at reception while Louis avoids all kinds of reflections, he isn’t really paying attention. Harry opens the car door for him like a gentleman. And maybe Louis likes this a little. He could get used to the attention.
“Don’t be too nice to me,” he warns him anyways when Harry closes the door shut behind him. Harry opens and closes all the doors and he’s going to pick up his bag for him. None of that sits right with him.
“Why?” the latter wonders with bright green eyes, scanning Louis up and down with care.
“I don’t want to get used to it.”
“Get used to it,” Harry jokes, flirty. Louis wants nothing more than to joke with him but it hurts. Somewhere along the way down the stairs he got scared. He can’t shake the feeling Harry won’t like him for very long. He’ll be falling apart forever and no one can surely be patient enough to stay through it all. No one ever stayed before.
“I’m okay. I think I’m okay,” he sighs. He’s not sure whether that’s a lie. “You don’t have to be so nice. If I get used to you being this nice, and if I start relying on you then what happens when you stop?” he attempts to explain because Harry looks confused. It comes out all wrong. He knows it sounds bad. It sounds like he doesn’t trust Harry, but it’s not that. He can’t explain. He finds it hard to understand it himself, maybe he should have stayed quiet. “I don’t think I’ll survive when it stops. I could survive this now if you’re not nice to me. I could survive now if you leave. You can still leave,” he attempts anyway. It’ll break his heart, of course it will, but not as much as if he gets used to it. He should count his losses. And yet he doesn’t.
He’s not the kind of person getting used to happens to.
“Stop fighting it. I won’t stop,” Harry says. Louis doesn’t believe it.
“How do you know?”
“Do you really think that low of me?” That’s it, he’s offended him. He deserves it. At least if he pushes him away he’ll be safe. He just needs to survive this with his heart and wrists intact. They might fight. He can’t do another fight and he’ll probably end up at fault.
“Not of you,” he shakes his head. When he hurts, he’s hurting Harry too and he can’t seem to learn how to stop that. He’s so tired. “I think that low of myself, I think. Like, I never liked relying on people too much. I might do something that hurts you again, that scares you off, that pushes you away. It’s not like I haven’t done that before.”
He doesn’t know how many “if I can get through this I can do anything” he has left in him.
“You just have to trust me,” Harry says. It’s bitter. It hurts. But he doesn’t fight him so at least that’s something. He blesses his patience.
Harry doesn’t get it. Louis trusts him, it’s himself he doesn’t. He gives up, leaves it unsaid. He was never really good with words.
“I’m sorry,” he apologises quietly. It’s meaningless to Harry. He can’t stop hurting everyone around him. “I trust you,” he lets it go. He supposes he’ll learn through hurt and all. And if he can’t survive this then so be it. He’s tired.
“It’s okay,” Harry smiles a sad smile. “I won’t stop being nice to you, for the record. Even if you don’t like it, I’ll keep being so sickeningly nice until you think you deserve it. You won’t even realise.”
Maybe he does understand some things.
Louis doesn’t have to direct him to his parents’ house. It’s weird.
Going fast helps, it blurs everything at the edges of his vision, it plasters him back to his seat, his organs wound tight against the bones in his back.
He just sits there quietly, hands folded neatly in between his thighs. Harry hums to the radio. He wants to tell him he likes how he sings but he’s afraid it’ll make him stop. He never pictured listening to music while going there.
It’s as if Harry imagines Louis being freed from years-old shackles. It doesn’t feel that way.
He doesn’t want to be free. He finds that makes him sad. He always thought things were going to get better, he isn’t ready to give that up just yet. He can’t wrap his mind around the idea of losing his family so decisively but he’s also older. He’s probablt already forgotten. And what he wants and what he needs are two different things. He doesn’t understand how things can be good if they hurt. Not yet anyways.
He’s got Harry though. Or Harry’s got him, either way.
No. He just needs to have his own back. It scares him how much of this is going to Harry now and he’s not sure he’s ready to let it all go. He can’t give this to him. It’ll end up hurting, it always does. He doesn’t think he’s capable of surviving this one but god does he want to. He might kill himself over how hard this is.
Harry parks the car a bit further down the street, out of view. He turns the volume slightly lower, sets it on 11 (out of how much? Louis doesn’t know) before turning to Louis.
“Are you okay with me doing this?” he asks very gently.
“Yeah, yeah that’s fine” Louis thugs it out. No, he’s a coward. He won’t leave this car. The seat is comfortable and he is warm. He tries to find peace and home here but he can’t. He might be ruined.
“Stay here, I’ll be back soon,” Harry feigns confidence. He kisses him on the lips quickly. It’s already casual.
He leaves the radio and the heating on for him. Louis waits like a dog in the passenger seat.
He should be relieved. He should be grateful but he just feels terribly wrong.
It spirals, it still does. He hasn’t been able to catch his breath at all today. Or maybe lately. It’s all terrible and he’s so lonely. He’s obviously too difficult to love and Harry is never coming back.
He wants to die.
He is scared to realise that that is true. It’s the first time he remembers ever thinking about this in a way he actually means. He’s never felt it in a way that is so true and real. It scares him. Has he always wanted to? Has he been trying to this entire time?
But he doesn’t want to feel that way, and at least that’s something.
He checks his phone. Harry hasn’t texted. Why does it feel worse now than before? He’s already through the hard part. The hard part was supposed to be over.
No.
It needs to get worse first in order to get better.
It needs to get worse first in order to get better.
It sure doesn’t feel that way, this is all too messy. He has to fight the urge to run away. He’s always wanted to disappear from this car, from this house, from this place. Maybe he’ll disappear somewhere out there, maybe he’ll run so far he’ll break his legs like branches and let it be, sink somewhere deep beneath the peat. Earth and mud and darkness. His body craves oblivion so hard he shakes. He can’t tell Harry that because Harry is tired too. It’s not fair to put all of this on him when he’s tired too. Louis tires him. Besides, he has always made it okay on his own. He’s too hard to love. He doesn’t even deserve to be in Harry’s life.
But when does better happen?
He rubs his eyes, gives in and slams his head against the dashboard as hard as he can but it doesn’t shake his thoughts back in order. He wants to scream but it doesn’t work so he bites the skin of his forearm. It looks stupid. It’s stupid. He doesn’t feel it deep enough. He misses the numbness. Maybe he was numb but at least a part of him craved survival. He can’t breathe and he thinks about how he so desperately needs to get better. He’s all fucked up in all sorts of ways and he can never stop fucking up and he will never find someone patient enough. There’s no way Harry will be patient enough. The worst part is all he ever wanted was to be good. He just never can’t quite seem to get it right no matter how many times he tries. He’s not good.
He needs to leave the car and the heating and the radio and find Harry. If his first instinct is to run away then he fights to find Harry. He needs Harry like he needs his mum like he needs to cling into anything familiar at all. He might die if he doesn’t.
He runs towards his house. HIS house. It’s his house and it will always be no matter how far away he runs from it. Harry’s waiting for him in his house. His mum, his sisters, his room. HIS . At least it’s familiar.
He doesn’t want to die and he wants to stop wanting to.
The worst part is he wants to go back to this house, it’s his house. It’s his mum. He can’t just make himself stop longing for that, missing that. Harry wouldn’t understand the desperation there is in hoping like that. Craving annihilation so wholeheartedly.
He stumbles across the street carelessly without thinking about it and slams the door to the house open. He bursts in under his mum’s and Harry’s bewildered look, all out of breath and upset. He just can’t leave it alone. He’ll never learn to leave anything alone.
The first thing he notices is that Harry’s shoes are off.
“What are you doing?” he asks. Harry doesn’t fit. He is too big for the ceiling, disproportionately tall. He goes to him first before anyone else, though, like a dog to his owner’s feet. Maybe he is getting used to him. He has Harry’s laundry detergent infused in the fabric of his clothes and evaporated into his eyes already. Harry infused into his life with no warning, all wide eyed and golden-sweet-green bruised like a fruit carried over from too far a land.
His house is smoke, he swears it’s on fire, Harry is fresh fruit. The fumes made him tear up, but he’s always going to blame it on his dad’s cigarette smoke. He takes that after him, though. He’s not such a far cry as he likes to pretend to be.
“Why didn’t you stay in the car?” Harry‘s answer takes the shape of a question. He glances only. He isn’t allowed to look for too long. Harry would never be his the way this house is his, the way it’ll always be in his blood. He wants him in his blood.
“Why did you take your shoes off?” he wants to cry. He feels betrayed to such a deep level that Harry would take his shoes off. Like he respects the rules of his house. Harry doesn’t even fit in here because he’s too tall.
Everything is spinning. Someone is gripping his arm and he needs to be let go. No, he needs to be held, he thinks. He doesn’t know. Every option is terrible. All he knows is that doesn’t want to have another breakdown here, in front of everyone.
It’s Harry who’s holding him back, keeping him from moving further in, deeper in the house. Harry who’s just standing there in the corridor with his shoes off. He probably answers but Louis doesn’t hear it. His mother probably calls out for him, he doesn’t hear it.
He needs to find Harry’s shoes. He needs to get his bag so he rips himself away from him, hoping he doesn’t follow. He stumbles up the stairs on all four.
Daisy is up there, staring at him startled. He stands back up, he’s not an animal. He’s not an animal, he’s just trying to go to his room.
“Louis? What’s happening?” she asks.
He doesn’t want to have another one of these breakdowns here. He wants to let go, forget himself, remember how it felt to stop fighting, accept comfortable pain over self-preservation. He wants to die here.
His forehead is still sore from hitting the dashboard earlier and it will remain like this for a few days. He used to act like this before so he remembers. There’s red bite marks on his forearm slowly turning purple.
“I’m getting my bag,” he swallows through a lump in his throat.
“Are you leaving?” she asks. It hurts. He doesn’t know how to deal with any of this. He’s way more fucked up than he think he is.
“Do you have a phone now?” he asks her so gently, ever so gently. She nods.
“I’ll give you my number, okay? Don’t give it to mum or dad. But you can call me whenever you need to talk, deal?”
“Deal,” she looks confused but hands him her phone anyways, open on a new contact page. He types his number in and texts himself immediately before handing the phone back to her. She has a nicer phone than he does, it’s a little bit funny. He doesn’t even remember how old she is, and he’s too afraid to ask. She was born in 2004, he’ll do that maths later.
It’s all loud downstairs now and he doesn’t want to hear it. It means his Dad’s home and the look on Daisy’s face tells him she knows that too. It’s not just his voice, though. It’s Harry’s too.
“Can you do me a favour?” Louis asks from the threshold, Daisy is just frozen in place and he needs to distract her. “Can you get me my backpack from my—the spare room?”
She disappears through the door. He can’t get in there himself, it’s too hard. He just needs to distract her from the screaming downstairs.
“What is he doing here?” his dad’s voice echoes. His heart sinks. Harry might be in trouble.
“Thanks,” he places a quick kiss on Daisy’s forehead when she brings his backpack, his clothes hastily stuffed inside it. It’s probably strange but he doesn’t have time to think about it. If he left something here, it’s okay. He’s left a lot of things here anyways.
He needs to snap out of it and help Harry, he’s been calling out for him.
“What?” he forces his voice not to shake. He focuses on him and him only as he descends.
Harry makes a small gesture, something to beckon Louis towards him and Louis comes to his feet.
“Well, well well,” his dad is sizing Harry up and down. He is drunk, he can tell by the slurring. “I understand why you never came home now,” there is a distinct sour look on his face. “Why did you bother showing your face here again?” there’s no real anger in it, just pure disgust.
As usual his mum says nothing but he didn’t expect her to. Perhaps a part of him hoped, though. She never looked him in the eyes.
Harry glances over, as if seeking permission. He doesn’t want to overstep boundaries again. It’s different this time because Louis can’t really find it to save himself from this situation. He grabs his hand shyly, squeezes it, nods slowly.
“You-” Harry’s voice breaks. He’s scared, Louis realises. He’s doing it even though he’s scared. He clears his throat before starting over: “he had hope in you. He was wrong, obviously. You’re the ones he should have been protected against!” Harry says a little stronger.
“There was no need to show your face again,” his dad didn’t listen. He just comes a step closer to Louis, still completely ignoring Harry. “I know you. I know what you want. You’re just a pathetic little attention seeker dead set on embarrassing this family,” he does know him. He made him from his own blood and sperm. “A walking disappointment. I tried to fix you.”
“Back off,” Harry hisses, steps in between them, pushes Louis’ dad just a bit further away at a comfortable distance.
“Don’t touch me, fag!” his dad pushes him right back but keeps his eyes glowering at Louis.
“Hey, I know you’re off your face but try to focus!” Harry explodes, “you’re talking to me!”
Louis wants to dissapear. He wanted to defend Harry. Harry is only good. He doesn't deserve those harsh words. “You’re a sorry excuse for a father!”
“You’re going to tell me how to raise my family little boy? In my own house?!” it’s a tone of voice that Louis knows all too well, bone chilling. He can hear every single person in the house holding their breaths. Lottie’s face appears from the threshold of the living room, startled by the screaming, as is everyone else.
Harry isn’t scared, he just scoffs.
“You didn’t raise your family! They’re all terrified of you!,” he’s almost taunting him to do something. “You can’t raise a family by force and violence!”
Louis doesn’t necessarily agree. He needs to hurt. He wants everyone to be patient but then he never grows that way. Harry is the only one who tried and he just keeps on hurting him. He only ever learnt through hard hits and screaming. He needs life lessons yelled at him, thrown at his face, slapped into him, carved out from him, he needs love to be conditional. Turns out he’s all kinds of fucked up.
“He’s just got a temper that’s just the way he is,” his mum chips in, as if talking about an unruly pet. “I think we all just need to be a little more forgiving.” His dad ignores her.
“So I wasn’t perfect!” his dad rolls his eyes. “ You weren't here! Little whiney kid just flaunting about! I was teaching him to be a man! He would’ve turned out better if he ever listened! Instead of this! ” His dad gestures wildly at him. The same way he did when he wanted to be in a play when he was 10.
“Oh so that’s what you call being a man?” Harry is truly losing his cool now, if he wasn’t before. Louis won’t let go of his wrist. “Fucking raping your child?”
And the thing is, his dad is quiet after that. His whole body going rigid and white. He doesn't say a word. Maybe he knows it’s a lie. Maybe it is a lie. Why doesn't he deny it? It’s his mum who does.
“That’s not true!” She says quickly and high pitched. He believes her, his mum wouldn’t lie.
That’s what it is. He must have made it all up to pretend like he has a reason to feel that way. It’s a fucked up dream he had.
“You know it’s true. You know what kind of man he is, you let it happen!” Harry insists. Louis is frozen. Lottie in the corner is frozen.
“What the fuck…” she mutters, looks at their dad with confusion. “It’s not true, dad!”
No one even looks in her direction.
“It’s not true! Say it, Dad!” she protests, weaker.
“What kind of mother are you?! He was your baby! He depended on you to protect him!” Harry won’t let it go, he’s fuming. “And you didn’t! Not once! Not ever!” His mum looks at Harry for a moment, stunned, tears growing in the corners of her eyes. Louis loves his mum, he really does, so it shatters him a little to see her break down in tears over this. Surely she couldn’t have known.“Oh no! You don’t get to cry! You watched him be broken and you don’t get to cry over the pieces!” Harry starts to scream.”You were his mother! You should have put him back together! And you didn't! He did! All by his fucking self.” Harry gets louder, fists clenching. Louis is immobile, trying to let the words stick to his skin like armour. “And thank fuck he got away from you two! Thank fuck he turned out as good as he did in spite of you! Hopefully your daughters will fucking survive you.” Harry says the last part lowly, almost predatory. This is the maddest he’s ever seen Harry.
“Get out!” Louis’ dad suddenly snaps, anger tugging at the corner of his eyes. He puffs out his chest, trying to look big.
At least his dad doesn’t scare him so much anymore. He’s not sure whether he’s relieved.
Harry’s putting his shoes back on, he is dragging him towards the exit. He doesn’t look so happy, in fact. He’s saying something, not to him but beyond him. Something terrible, probably. Something that would bring him closure if he could just listen. “Leave my fucking house, right now before I call the police!” He pushes Harry out of the door. Which, they were already leaving.
“Don’t touch me!” Harry pushes him right back. “I’d love for you to call the police! I feel like I would have quite the story to tell them about what you did! Did you even replace the mattress?” Harry’s voice sounds shrill, almost manic. Like he might call the police himself anyway.
There's a silence at that. His mum downcasts her eyes. His dad’s jaw is set.
His dad shifts his attention to Louis, eyes bloodshot and turned into slits. His mum is standing right behind him. She always stands right behind him. Always.
“Next time you try to off yourself,” his dad hisses, “finish the bloody job.”
Harry hits his dad, square in the face.
He stumbles back into the arms of his mother, hands flying to his nose and Louis can’t help being a little bit proud. Finally the blood is on him. Not on Louis.
“I’ll call the police dad,” Lottie clings on desperately.
“Don’t!” their dad snaps a bit too fast, a bit too scared. Lottie just stares with wide eyes and open mouth but says nothing.
“There you go!” Harry exhales from the front garden. Something like pride, or maybe relief is radiating off of him. It’s cathartic but they have to go now. “You can tell all your friends a faggot did this to you.”
“Leave!” his mum screams at them. She looks older, uglier.
The door just closes on them and that’s it. They have to go.
Louis breathes out for the first time in hours.
“Are you okay?” He asks first because he loves Harry so much for doing this.
“I’m okay. Are you okay?”
“Yeah, I’m okay” at least he thinks he is.
“You’ll be loved,” Harry slips to him in confidence and him only. He wishes he could believe it but he is constantly scared. He might not get over this.
He needs to be six pints deep with a thousand cigarettes on a walk alone in the park at night with headphones on and a deathwish. He misses the numbness of it all.
The thing is, all he ever wanted was to be loved. He’s been fighting so desperately just to be loved. And it somehow seems so hard for anyone to give that to him.
“That’s it,” Harry exhales, almost relieved. They’re suddenly in the car now.
He is crying, he only realises because he’s loud about it. He never cried out loud that way before. He used to never cry at all, he misses that. It feels like he can never stop crying these days. He’s not good and he’ll never get it right.
He can’t help it, losing the slight hope he’d always secretly had that he’d find them again makes him sad. There was always an after, there was always a “it gets better” sort of feeling that he’s not ready to give up on just yet. Or maybe he should.
He never got over anything, and he never will.
“What’s on your mind?” Harry asks. Louis doesn’t know. It has whirling with everything all at once, but there’s nothing he can get a hold of for long enough for to him to try to explain. It all slips away from the tips of his fingers.
It’s good, he’s okay, it’s terrible all at once.
“I held your hand in front of them” Louis says quietly through stuffed nose and tears. He’s just realising this now. His ears are buzzing from all the screaming. “I’m never going back there ever again now,” he wishes that statement didn’t sound so bitter. It’s hard to wrap his head around.
“It’s okay if you’re sad about it,” Harry is always too gentle these days, like Louis could break any second. “But I’m so proud of you for that” he smiles as he starts the car. “And for everything else.”
“Thanks,” he can’t help but notice the way Harry frequently glances over at him, making sure he’s not breaking down entirely. “I’ll be okay eventually,” it sounds more like a question than a statement when he says it. He wants someone who knows already to tell him that yes, for sure, he will be.
There seems to be an infinite amount of confusion and hatred he holds for this shattered version of himself. The thing is that he wants to be the one driving Harry places, he wants to be dependable, be the one telling him he’ll take care of him. It always felt terribly guilty getting taken care of.
But he can’t find the strength to share everything he’s been thinking about. His job is to get better now.
“I don’t know if this will help at all,” Harry ventures carefully after a few minutes of silence that help him focus driving out of this neighbourhood Louis will probably never come back to, “but my family isn’t as bad, but not so great either. Well, my dad. Remember him?”
“I do,” he hasn’t forgotten. He will never forget anything. He knows Harry understands.
“Not going to lie, it still hurts. it never really stops hurting” he says very honestly. “But it hurts less to let him go rather than stick around” It makes sense. And this is only the first day after all. “My mum loves you. She’s can be your mum too, now.”
“No she doesn’t!” Louis scoffs. He loves Anne, but he tries not to think about how it’s his mum he wants. And he’ll never stop feeling that way. Anne knows too much about all the ways he’s messed with Harry. He’s sure he’s probably not in her good books.
“Maybe not,” Harry bites his lower lip.
“It’s okay,” it actually makes him laugh. “I’ll make her love me again. Parents always love me,” except for his own, he realises only after he says it. Harry must too, judging by the awkward silence. What he means is that he hasn’t forgotten he’s a charmer. After all, he’s made Harry like him again in spite of everything.
“I know, you’re lovely,” Harry eventually says ever so fondly. “She still likes you, she’s just a little mad at you right now that’s all. She’ll get over it just like I did.”
“I’d be mad too if someone did what I did to you,” he admits. “I’m really glad you trust me again, I didn’t think I would deserve it.”
“No, you do,” Harry affirms. Louis wonders if he’s ever not forgiven. The Pussycat Dolls are playing on the radio, it makes Louis chuckle softly because it feels out of place. Harry notices. “Anyways, do you wanna connect your phone to the car? You can choose the music.”
“Sure,” he smiles. Why not. He hasn’t listened to music in ages, not consciously. Music has been played at him, beats and rhythms and sounds more than poetry to lose himself to. He hasn’t really chosen any of it.
And for some reason he had always pictured listening to music with Harry on his way back from his house.
Harry hands him the aux chord and he opens up Spotify. He hasn’t been able to afford Premium in years so the first thing that plays, before he even has the chance to get to his playlist, is an ad for trains.
“I’ll get you on my plan,” Harry laughs light-heartedly. There’s a sense of relief washing over Louis because this is normal. This is the most normal it has felt in ages. “Just use my phone.”
“Do you usually just listen to the radio?” Louis asks as he grabs Harry’s phone from his hand. He looks up his username in Spotify, brings up his playlists and scrolls through the list of songs. He’s getting slightly shy, as if Harry would ever judge. It’s just that he wants to impress him. He wants to pretend it’s the first time they met.
“Depends. I’d love a co-pilot who can choose the music for me though” Harry winks. “Set the mood and all.”
Louis wonders what song he would play if they just met. He almost chooses it at random, it’s just that his eyes fall upon it and his fingers are ahead of him.
“Sorry,” he grumbles as the first notes start playing.
“No,” Harry says too softly, he almost doesn’t hear him over the music. “Leave it on.”
He is surprised to hear Harry sing along. He hasn’t realised he’s been singing along too. It’s a bit of a release, he finds their voices work well together. If they end up screaming the lyrics to the windshield and to the road no one else but them would know.
He remembers a time the DJ had played this in a club, at the end of the night. He had been so high he’d barely been aware of himself. The only way he could think of describing the experience was ascending. The communion, the lights, the darkness and the euphoria. He would never reach this feeling again. There was no comparison to that. He’ll never feel so consumed body and soul by happiness and peace again. He wishes he never found out what that felt like.
He’ll never stop chasing that feeling.
“I wanna hear it,” he decides abruptly, he says it as soon as the thought reaches him mind, too afraid he’ll chicken out. He needs to hear it.
“What?”
“The voicemail I left you,” maybe it’s the same as slamming his head against the dashboard, or running back to his parents’ house. Maybe he just wants to see how much he can hurt. He feels he needs this, though.
“Louis…” Harry glances over briefly, looking worried.
“I need to hear it,” Louis affirms.
“Okay,” Harry sighs. He doesn’t always understand Louis’ reasons but he’s always supportive. “I haven’t deleted it. You can play it.”
He hasn’t deleted it. Louis finds it in the call section, the longest message he has there, close to a half hour.
Louis closes his eyes when he presses the play button, the recording immediately crackling with the familiar hum of Harry’s close, fireworks for the new year in the distance. At least ten seconds pass before Louis starts speaking, almost like he forgot he was on the phone. “ Hello, Harry? ” his voice comes through slurring and raspy. He sounds taken about, surprised. Or maybe it’s because he was expecting someone to hear him, to answer. Louis finds it weirdly comforting that he can himself now. “ …Right, this is a voicemail……Hi.…It's Louis… Tomlinson. You know? ” he can hear himself take a heavy breath. There’s a long pause after that. He could almost think that was the extent of the message had Harry not told him it kept going. He finally takes another deep breath after a while. “ Happy new year, Haz. I hope you’re having a nice time ,” it comes across so desperate and stupid, Louis hates himself. “ I’m in your stairs and you're not home. I'm sorry I just… I can't leave ,” he continues relentlessly. “I just wanted to see you. I wanted to… I just wanted to talk to you… I'm sorry I… I hope I make sense? I'm drunk. And high. Too much,” he slurs. “ …I miss you ” There’s another second of silence before he speaks again, almost like he is falling asleep, or maybe he is expecting Harry to answer. “Haz? Is it okay if I just stay on the phone for a bit? I know you’re not here, I just… I know you'll hear this. It's kind of like you're here..." Louis squeezes his eyes shut like it would help making this all go away. He’s so tired. " I just don't want to be alone. Is it okay if I stay on the phone for a bit? We don’t have to talk.” There’s yet another long stretch of silence, but the voicemail keeps going. “Haz ?” Louis’ weak voice calls again. “ I think… Is it okay if we stay on the phone for a bit?” it sounds as though it took him all of his strength to say that.
“It keeps going but you don’t really speak anymore after that, ” Harry explains sombrely. Louis wonders how many times he’s listened to it. He seems detached. Over the phone, there’s a crashing sound, some ruffling that Louis assumes is the start of the seizure, and, finally, after what feels like a torturous eternity of hearing himself die over the speakers he hears Harry.
“Shit,” he is clearly running up the stairs, then there’s another commotion, possibly him trying to help. “ Louis! Are you okay? ” Louis doesn’t want Harry to sound like this ever again. It’s terrifying, that’s the only way he can think of describing it. Harry mutters something to himself. There’s some grunts and slapping sounds, like he is trying to save him. Louis hadn’t wanted to be saved. Or maybe part of him did, else he wouldn’t have come to Harry’s. “You’re alright,” Harry keeps repeating, maybe to Louis, maybe to himself. Finally, after more slaps, there’s a sort of gargle, and Louis can hear himself again, coughing and spluttering then gasping a breath in and throwing up again. “ Louis?! Are you with me?” Harry screams out.
“Hello?” he croaks.
He freezes. He doesn’t remember that part.
“Stay with me, come on. Come on, look at me. What happened?” Harry is clearly trying to keep it together. Louis’ heart sinks. He has had enough, he doesn’t want to listen to it anymore, but he has to. And it keeps going, relentlessly. And it never gets better.
“What?” Louis whines weakly, out of it.
“Don’t move, it’s okay,” Harry sounds way more caring than Louis ever deserved in his entire life. “Are you in pain? Did you fall?”
“I don’t know… I don’t know,” his own voice sounds like a stranger’s. The car has fallen eerily silent, weighing heavily on the both of them, staring ahead, even more obviously so in the few moments neither of them speak on the voicemail.
“Does anything hurt?”
“Huh-uh, ” he sounds tearful. It’s funny, he doesn’t remember anything hurting.
“Where?”
“No. No, it doesn’t hurt.”
“Louis, hey!” there’s a few slapping sounds, like Harry is trying to wake him up. “ You need to go to the hospital. ”
“Yeah. My head feels warm,” Louis squeezes his eyes shut. He knows the feeling exactly. He needs to disappear.
“It’s okay angel.”
His eyes stay squeezed shut the whole time he listens to Harry calling the emergencies. Louis listens as he hears himself babbling, not even being able to say his own name. Harry continues, pleading to tell him what it was that he took, and Louis begs not to be left alone, not again. Louis from the stairs had been trying to tell Harry something, and Louis from the car doesn’t remember. His mind doesn’t, his body does, how it had been giving up, running away from his mind, and they had both known. All he can do is breathe through the both of them crying, the apologies, the seizure, the panic, the shouting, all the hurt he has caused weighing down on him. He’s done this to Harry.
It seeps through the recording, that desperation to be loved exuding from the cracks of his soul. A few weeks away from that he can still feel it, just as strongly, the same need to hold onto Harry for dear life. A lifeline he’s not always so sure he deserves but, god, he wants it. He’ll never stop wanting it. He is terrified he will take Harry down with him, drown him in sorrow, the way he almost did that night.
He isn’t so sure why he wanted to hear this, he doesn’t remember. Maybe he needed to, though.
How could Harry forgive him? How could Harry come and pick him up when he needs it even though he never asked?
The call cuts when Harry finds his phone, and Louis finally opens his eyes.
He can’t help but notice Harry is tearing up when he looks over.
“I thought you were going to die” he whispers, voice shaky.
“Me too,” he chokes. “I’m so sorry.”
“I know,” Harry always forgives when Louis can’t forgive himself, and he must be the luckiest man in the world for that. “How do you feel?” he asks anyway.
“How did you ever forgive me?” Louis asks, after some time thinking about it. He’s not too sure how he feels about it. Maybe anger, he can’t quite figure out what that burning sensation in his chest and right behind his face is.
“I was never angry at you. I was just protecting myself,” Harry explains calmly.
“I think I’m still so angry at myself,” he admits. It’s always hard to be honest, to figure out his feelings but Harry gives him space to think about it, asks him all the right questions and that makes it all feel a bit easier.
He always hates himself more than he would like.
“You would forgive me though, if the roles were reversed,” Harry points out, ever so wise.
“Yeah, I suppose so,” he admits. He would in a heartbeat. He breathes in and out again. It’s that he loves Harry. And he doesn’t know how to love himself enough to forgive himself but he knows if he keeps feeling that way then he’ll be no good to anyone, and especially not to him. He wants to be good to him.
“I haven’t felt like myself in a really long time” he admits. He is scared to think about what he would need to feel that way again. Because substances sure gave him a glimpse of that. Maybe that’s all that he is now.
“It’s okay. I told you. I know you, I’ve got you saved up in my mind. We’ll figure it out,” Harry always knows exactly what to say. Louis clearly notices him deleting the message when he grabs his phone back. “That’s this done.”
And he knows it’s time to play happier songs, now, and let Louis be quiet and reflective for a while. Still, he keeps his hand on Louis’ thigh when he drives them safely all the way home. Just a reassurance he’s not going anywhere anytime soon.
And after all, Louis feels better. He doesn’t think he’s ever been so safe, or so loved.