stockholm syndrome

five

It'd been twenty minutes since Louis spoke with Harry on the phone, so he naturally was stricken with terror as he bolted across the street and through the door that was swinging fervently in the wind. He knew that what he found in here could rupture his soul, rip him apart mercilessly and leave him there with nothing but his own seeing eyes to torment him, to ruin him. It might be the hardest thing he ever had to do, but he made it through the threshold, choking on his tears, voice raspy and shrill all at the same time as he yelled.

"Harry!" His splintered voice was meek and pathetic, that of a defendant awaiting his sentence, fearing his fate. "Harry, Harry! It's Louis, Harry. Please tell me if you're here." His brief moment of hopefulness was coming to a close when Louis found no response to his screams, and no Harry as he tore through the empty building, his own voice the only sound echoing back to him.

He found himself backstage, maneuvering through piles of pointy, prop fencing swords, racks of lavish masquerade ball dresses and giant, wooden backdrops portraying an old timey town square. He made his way to the dressing rooms, moving as fast as his short legs could allow. A quick sweep was enough to tell him Harry hadn't been there. The green room led to a door, and as he hurriedly passed through it, he finally found an entrance to the stage.

He pushed through the curtains, taking a few necessary steps to place himself near center stage. He momentarily shielded his eyes, because even the gentle glow of the overhead stage lighting was blinding after being enveloped in such darkness for so long. Once they adjusted, he cast his eyes around, discovering some forestry looking sets and peeling tape still marking the floor. He saw dozens of seats in the audience, and he saw abandoned scripts and programs strewn about in a few places.

And then he saw another piece of set, a high balcony with vines running all down the sides along with a rope ladder, the soft light coming from above aimed mostly at the mystical setting.

On top of the balcony stood Louis' heart.

Louis' breath quickened, because Harry was alive. Harry was here, and he was okay and he was alive. But his breath also increased in pace because Harry, who did not yet see him, was perched atop an at least thirty foot balcony, hands on the railing and head bowed as if in a silent prayer. But hell if anyone ever was so flawless.

Harry's clothes were soaked through, and it occurred to Louis that he might have ran here rather than having taken a car. He muttered quietly to himself, which Louis found concerning although he couldn't make out the words from where he was. His head was a mop of dark chocolate knots, his eyes empty and lightless as there was no longer a fire burning bright behind them. He'd only been blessed enough to witness it a couple of times, but he missed the shine they used to hold. The way his dimple would sometimes appear when he looked at Louis.

Louis took in the sight for a moment more before speaking, trying to tame his relief, because the day was not won yet. He took another couple of steps forward so he was almost directly beneath the terrace, neck bent back so he could look upwards at the moon above him. As if he could simply catch it, should it fall from heaven.

"Harry." He spoke the word softly, cautiously. Harry's head snapped up, and his sullen eyes bore into Louis', burning him all the way down to his soul. He was frozen in place, face filled with what could only be described as terror. Louis also detected hoards of pain, as his face was contorted into an expression of the deepest heartache. Harry looked like how Louis felt.

"L-L-Louis?" His voice was one of disbelief, and so, so much fear. Louis was so dismayed, because why was his Harry afraid of him, when he was supposed to be his savior? Seeing Harry in such a state was enough to nearly crack the calm front Louis attempted to keep up.