Beside Me [HarryxLouis]

The Aftermath

I storm into the studio, chest still heaving from my encounter with Louis. My fists clench and unclench as I focus on trying to settle my breathing.

How can he do this to me? Does he think he can yank me around like a rag doll, telling me one thing then doing another? It's not fair. I'm sick of it.

“Mr. Styles!" an unfamiliar voice calls from behind me. I whip around, my nerves and emotions still on edge, so I reply with a sharp "What?!"

The poor lad, a simple assistant in the studio, has lost all the blood in his face. He looks scared out of his wits.

"I-I was just supposed to give you t-the mic and escort you b-backstage, sir," he stutters.

Shit. The lad thinks I’m a giant twat now, too. I pinch the bridge of my nose between my fingers and squeeze hard enough to make it ache before releasing it.

“Look, mate, I’m really sorry. Just had a bit of a rough morning,” I look into his eyes and give him a sad smile. I see his face fall.

“’S alright, Mr. Styles. H-here you are,” he thrusts the microphone toward me. I gently take it and clap him on the shoulder.

“Thanks mate. And call me Harry. Want to show me the way backstage?” I offer kindly.

“I’m supposed to get you and Mr. Tomlinson You both ran off before we could tell you where you were supposed to be off to.”

I force myself not to stiffen at the mention of Louis’ name.

“Uh, I know where he is. I’ll fetch him…” I mutter. “Gimme a moment. Mind holding this?” I give him back the microphone. I then turn on my heel and take quick, long strides back to where I just came from. I smack the door open with the palms of my hands, relishing the sting from hitting the metal so hard.

“Louis!” I call gruffly, swinging my head around to look for the older lad. No sign of him. Behind the studio, there’s a fence enclosing a space that just concrete, besides a couple large rubbish bins. A closed gate is at the far side of the fence.

“Where are you, you wanker…” I grumble, letting the door slam shut behind me. I jog to the van and look around it to see if he’s sitting on the ground, but there’s no sign of him. I let out a huff and make my way over to the metal garbage bins.

“Lou?” I holler, peeking into the space between the bins that are side by side.

And there he is. Head in his hands, knees pulled to his chest, and body shaking with quiet sobs.

“Louis?” I scramble to his side and fall to my knees, hands fluttering uselessly around him. Do I touch him? Hold him? Move away? Does he want to be alone? “Lou, what –?”

“Shit!” Louis fumes, slamming a fist into the ground. I wince. He chokes back a sob and rubs his eyes with the back of his uncurled hand.

“Louis… mate… we need to get on,” I whisper, finally settling my fingers on the back of his neck. His skin is hot against my fingertips and an involuntary shiver runs through my body. My grip tightens, and almost in response to my touch, Louis leans into my body, his face falling against my shoulder. I wrap my arms around him and squeeze, looking down at his troubled face. How his eyes are twisted shut, his cheeks flushed and short, gasping breaths are making his mouth open and close.

I don’t know what is going on with Louis. Or even me, for that matter. We’re both in a bloody rut, and we need to sort it out quick. But right now, I couldn’t care less about our stupid fights, or the audience, or the twat of an interviewer, or some stupid show that we could always book next week. Right now, all that matters is Louis. This broken, fragmented Louis that is crying in my arms. The one that just needs something stable to lean on at times just like these. And I want to be here. I want to be the one wearing the shirt that he clings to as he buries his face into my neck. I want to be the warmth he searches for in the cold. I want to be here to fix him.