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Title: Solace

Pairings: mute!Louis and Harry (Larry Stylinson)

Raiting: PG-13

Summary: 21-year-old Louis Tomlinson has been mute since birth. He's sick and tired of his life; being bullied and picked on since a young age leaves him bitter about everything he's surrounded by. He needs healing, he needs help. To help his current state, his mother puts him in an institute for mute, blind and deaf people, hoping that he will be put back on path with his life. When a mop of curly hair comes along, everything that his mother has hoped for disappears and is replaced by something else: hate. Louis despises everything and everyone, but feelings can change in a matter of time, right? The key that works for Louis will always be the last one he will try. The greatest adventure is what lies ahead of the twenty-one year old.


Louis waited all his life; he wanted to feel free, like a bird flying high up in the sky or a puppy running across the field in the summer. His dreams were usually filled with people sky-diving, scared for their lives, shitting their pants from the thrill or going on holiday with a girl, possibly one that would mean something more to him than anything else. He even dreamed about speaking to one of his future kids... If he ever had any.


That's right. Louis couldn't speak. Not that he didn't try, because he did; he tried so fucking hard; ever since a young age, he would try to at least make a sound, to make his mum smile. Although she smiled every day, Louis knew that it was because she couldn't burst out crying in front of him. She didn't want him to feel guilty. Even without her tears, he felt that way, he knew that what was on the outside couldn't possibly match the inside.

He sometimes felt sick that their family wasn't like the others. Louis couldn't say 'I love you' or 'goodnight' to his mum; he could only hear those words being said to him. It hurt him so much to know that his mum, his sisters, or anyone else, couldn't hear him. They didn't have a clue about what his voice - if he had one - sounded like. And neither did he.

Twenty one years of pain was hidden deep inside his heart, bubble-wrapped. Louis forever hoped that it would never explode. That it will remain hidden inside, for no-one, absolutely no human being to explore.

Louis would always call his life miserable. What was the meaning of it? He didn't have an idea. He wanted to communicate with people other than his family and online. He wanted to verbally speak to them, face to face, without the use of sign language.

He often stood in front of his mirror in the bathroom, just after he'd gotten out of his shower. He'd trace the cold and steamy glass with his fingertips, drawing speech bubbles around his mouth, hoping that one day they would transfer from the solid object to reality.

Once the mirror was covered in text and rubbish cartoon drawings, he could see his reflection perfectly. His mouth would open and he would try his hardest for his vocal cords to tense and finally make a sound. Being mute meant that he could hear better than other people, and so when the disgusting sound of his breath hitching in his throat came out, he quickly turned around and would walk straight out of the bathroom to land on his bed, face first.

He was sick of these hand movements which mean nothing to more than ninety-five percent of the world's population. He knew that some people found sign language a different form of a spasm attack; he'd read comments like that on Facebook all the time. See, people would often forget that Facebook was available to everyone, every single person, no matter what disability they had. They would often also forget that they had Louis as a so called 'friend'.

Their statuses would often be directed at Louis; one time they saw him while he went shopping and couldn't answer the lady behind the counter that he didn't want to join the Tesco club card; the lady clearly didn't understand what a shaking head means, because she rambled on and on and tried to convince Louis to sign the paper with his name, home address, email and telephone number. Louis never spoke to anyone through a phone, because it was obviously impossible. That's the simple story behind the status from one of the girls who lived in his neighbourhood.

What a faggot, can't even say no, just looks like a retarded seal, flapping his arms around the place like he owns it.

Louis knew that he had to accept his condition because there wasn't a way out of it, but he never understood why it was him that must hurt. Why it was him of all people to own such a miserable and pale life. But he also knew a way to stop himself from hurting once in a while. A simple razor and a lock on the bathroom door seemed to do the trick. A line or two on his wrists would take away the inner pain for an hour or two. He knew that it wasn't healthy for him, and in no way was he trying to make anyone feel sorry for him. He saw everything as pointless.

If he could fucking speak, maybe then he would be fucking happy and not be depressed all the fucking time. He could maybe find a fucking girlfriend and finally move out of the fucking house in which he'd grown up in, after twenty-one years.

He knew that he should move out. Let his mother live to the maximum again. He wanted to take care of himself, but he was scared. To him, his age didn't matter. It's just that, he didn't want to feel alone, in an empty house or a flat, where the wind would attack the walls and Louis would sit in the corner of an empty room and weep. He simply didn't want to leave home. It was the only place where he felt safe. Anywhere he went, he felt sick; his heart always battling its way along.

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