Swan Lake - Larry Stylinson Ballet AU

Act XVIII - Effacé

Voices.

There were voices all around Louis, but he couldn't open his eyes to see who they were. He couldn't move his legs, or his arms, or his mouth, or anything. He'd wondered the first time he'd awoken what had happened to him, and since then he'd overheard someone saying that he was in a coma. That person hadn't been talking to him, but to Harry. No one ever spoke to him, and he kept having to remind himself that he was not dead, just asleep. He even wondered sometimes if this were even real; if the voices he heard weren't just memories escaping his body that-at that very moment-could be decaying in a grave somewhere. He was certainly lying down, but the room seemed to be warmer than he'd imagine a coffin to be, and it wasn't stuffy. No, he was fairly sure that he was alive.

He could still feel his body, for sure, and that was his reminder. It was a vague indicator to how much time had passed, for the cuts of glass in his body seemed to hurt less and less, and he could feel people touching him almost constantly. Nurses changed his clothes and washed him, and visitors would come to hold his hand. Niall came often with Granny, and every single time he'd shout in attempt to wake Louis up, or squeeze his hand so much that it would hurt. Zayn dropped by from time to time, but his visits were less and less frequent. That, or Louis fell asleep every time he was here, which was also a possibility.

He wasn't awake very often anymore, he didn't think; but dreams and reality were the same thing now. The only way he differentiated the two was that when he slept, there was no pain, and when he was awake, he could barely breathe.

Right now, he was struggling. There was a mask over his nose and mouth but the air seemed to thin with every breath. The sheets over his body were lightweight, but to him they felt so heavy that he was being crushed beneath them. He felt as if his whole stomach had been squeezed and emptied like a packet of juice, and no matter how much he tried to move in attempt to breathe; even when it was just to puff out his lungs for air, he couldn't move.

"Louis, my love."

Harry was sitting beside him. Louis heard the chair move and then Harry's hand came to his forehead. He didn't need to hear that voice to know it was him, just this touch was enough. Harry was the only one in the world to handle Louis so delicately, and he was right in doing so, for Louis was not in a good state of health by far. His heart was beating far too slowly, and his lungs were collapsing with every passing day, and he'd been here for three weeks but still hadn't opened his eyes.

"Don't wake up." Harry whispered in Louis' ear.

He'd say that every time he'd visit, and Louis didn't understand why. Surely, he should wake up because otherwise Harry wouldn't have anyone to dance with. He should wake up because otherwise Niall would sit alone in class. He should wake up because otherwise Mother would... Well, he wasn't sure about Mother. He hadn't heard anyone speak about her since he'd seen her last. He was beginning to wonder if she'd ever existed in the first place.

He hoped that she was alright; he hoped with his whole heart that she was.

When he'd wake up, he was going to run back home and surprise her. Maybe Zayn could take him to get a little present for her and a card to say sorry that he'd gone. Louis wanted to be sure she was alright, that she was safe. She surely was. No matter how beaten people could become, they were always alright. That was what everyone told him, anyway, that he was 'alright', and so that was what he believed Mother was.

"Can you hear me?" Harry said, "I know that you can."

Louis wasn't sure if he could, or if it were just his brain speaking in Harry's voice, but he had no choice to listen anyway unless he fell asleep, and he never slept when Harry was here.