petal [book 1] ❊ l.s.

twelve - the voices

Tension blanketed the apartment. Every passing moment wound the spool of suspense tighter and tighter, the taught thread trembling on the edge of snapping.

Two days had gone by since the funeral. Harry settled deeper into his blankets at the memory. He had barely left his bedroom at all, avoiding Louis at all costs. It wasn't that he didn't know how to explain what happened at the funeral -- but he didn't want to. He couldn't bear to think that Louis could hate him even more, so he didn't venture into the kitchen until nine each morning, when he could be certain that Louis was already gone.

To be fair, the older boy hadn't made any real attempts to talk to him, either. He went to work on Monday morning without a word, nothing but the slam of the front door and an empty apartment to tell Harry that he was gone. Tuesday was more of the same: a lonely morning, a digital clock flicking through the minutes like a slideshow. He had spent most of the day in bed, curled up in his own personal bubble of avoidance. It wasn't the worst thing.

Harry startled when the door slammed.

His eyes flicked to the clock. It wasn't even five yet. Louis shouldn't be home, but he was.

Things were out of order. Maybe it was for the best.

They couldn't keep living like this -- like passing ships in the night. Harry knew that he owed Louis an explanation, but if they didn't work things out -- if Louis didn't accept what he had to say -- Harry would be back on the streets. He could live with that, but he wasn't sure he could live apart from Louis.

"Louis?" he called out, his voice small.

He wasn't sure it was even loud enough to be heard, but the footsteps heading down the hallway stopped. Louis reappeared in the open doorway a moment later, a wary expression on his face.

Harry swallowed hard, glancing down at his lap as he asked hesitantly, "Can we talk?"

"Talk about what?"

"You know what."

"We don't have to talk about anything."

"Yes, we do! We have to talk, Louis, because if we don't, I-I . . ." He swallowed hard, casting his gaze sideways to avoid the prickling heat of Louis's eyes on his skin. "I can't do this anymore."

The bed dipped beside him, and he found himself staring at the soft curve of Louis's thigh, just inches from his own. He looked up, bracing himself for the disapproval on the older boy's face.

"Hey," Louis spoke gently. His blue eyes were brimming with concern, carefully contained but still obvious. "Breathe. It's okay."

Fuck. Even when he was still simmering with anger, Louis couldn't help worrying about Harry before anything else. It was instinctual, some sort of primal pull, a magnetic connection that he couldn't explain.

Harry shook his head. "It's not okay. You're just saying that." He looked up again, fear squeezing at his shaky heart -- the debilitating fear of losing Louis before he had the chance to really have him. "That's why we need to talk about it."

"Okay. You're right. We should talk about it."

"Right."

"Okay. So . . . talk."

His cheeks flushed. Harry's mind was spinning a million miles a minute, and he squeezed his eyes shut, taking a deep breath while he focused on quieting the noise inside of his head. "I, uh . . . I don't really know where to start," he confessed finally.

"Beginning. Middle," Louis suggested, quite unhelpfully. His tone was clipped, any semblance of comfort long receded beneath an irritated exterior. "You quite like to tell people about their lives, don't you, so you might as well start at the end."