Chapter Eleven
Harry pulls his legs into his chest and whimpers, trying to make himself feel smaller. He just wants to disappear. Wants to forget about everything— the bonding, the fact that he's a vampire, the thirst that burns in his stomach, and most importantly, Louis. He wants to erase those enchanting, silver-tinted eyes from his memory.
He wraps himself up like a cocoon, curling his duvet around his trembling body. He squishes his face into his feather-filled pillow and sighs heavily. He can't think about anything else, no matter how hard he tries. His mind continues to scream Louis's name at full volume, relentlessly, pounding into his skull. He feels lethargic and weak, but he knows that he won't be refreshed until he sees Louis again, and he refuses to do that. Refuses to believe that he's incompetent of caring for himself because he is capable. He's been living on his own for years, after all. He doesn't need Louis.
At least, that's what he keeps telling himself.
Harry whines into his pillow, tears slipping out of his golden eyes. He's terribly hungry, and his stomach growls for blood, but he suppresses those thoughts and pushes them to the back of his brain. He's tired of feeling like a monster. He's tired of all of this, actually.
Eventually, Harry forces himself out of bed and stumbles into his bathroom to take a piss. He scrubs his eyes with his knuckles, trying to wake himself up. He feels dizzy with starvation, and even when he stands to pee, he can't find his balance. He braces himself on the wall and lets out a huff of frustration.
He's drained, both mentally and physically. He craves blood just as much as he craves Louis. He needs them both equally, but he'd rather starve than cave in and admit that he needs help. He wants to be independent. He doesn't like commitment.
Harry stands in front of the sink, mindlessly washing his hands. He looks up in the mirror, wanting to fix his hair, but then he sees nothing. He silently reminds himself that he doesn't have a reflection anymore. He lets out a choked, broken sob. Then, he grabs an elastic band and throws his messy hair up in a tangled bun.
He slowly walks out of the loo, dragging his feet, as if they're attached to chains. As soon as he walks past the couch, he collapses from exhaustion. He presses his head against the armrest and exhales heavily.
Please, Harry.
He pinches his eyes shut and ignores Louis's voice. He doesn't want to listen to it. He wishes he could put his mind on mute.
You're killing yourself. Let me help you.
Harry gulps at the suggestion. No, he's not killing himself. He's already dead. He may still be breathing, but he feels miserable, like he's trapped in a grave six feet underground. And Louis, of all people, is the one who buried him.
I need you, Harry. I'm in pain.
Harry grumbles and rubs his temples in an attempt to relieve his headache. Of course Louis would make this situation about himself. He's a selfish prat.
When Harry blinks his eyes open, his vision turns blurry. He sees multiple layers, like he's looking through a kaleidoscope. He's floating, but at the same time, he's hypersensitive to his surroundings. He lets his lashes flutter shut delicately.
I'm sorry. Please, forgive me. I should've told you, but I was scared of losing you.
That's the last thing Harry hears before he passes out on the couch.
~
Harry awakes to a fist pounding on his front door. He instantly feels fear shooting up his spine. He expects to hear Louis's voice shouting through, telling him that he needs him. He rolls over on the couch and stares up at the ceiling, watching his fan spin around in circles. He ignores the knocking as it increases in volume.
"Rose! Open the bloody door, now!"
Harry perks up in surprise. No, that's not Louis. It's Zayn.
He scrambles off of the couch and walks over to his foyer. He rubs his eyes tiredly. He doesn't know what day it is, let alone the time. He figures it's nighttime, judging by the white moonlight that filters through the nearby window. The welcome mat squishes between his toes as he swings open the door.
Zayn stands in the hall. His face is red with anger. He's wearing some dark skinnies and a tank top with the club's logo sprawled across the chest. He has a duffel bag thrown over his shoulder with his golden thong peeking through the pocket, and Harry assumes he's just returned from his shift. His body still glistens with oil and glitter.
"For fuck's sake, Rose," Zayn growls, punching Harry's shoulder. He doesn't react to the pain. He doesn't show any emotions, either. "I thought you were dead! Why haven't you showed up at work?"
Harry swallows the lump in his throat. He just shrugs.
"Are you on something?" Zayn worries, waving a hand in front of his face. "Your eyes are bloodshot. Have you been eating? You look like shit."
Harry's tongue feels dry. He never noticed it until now, but Zayn's blood smells really good. It's fiery and sweet at the same time. And his olive flesh looks incredibly soft, just begging to be bitten into. Harry stares at his neck and licks his lips. He craves the metallic taste of warm blood flooding into his mouth.
Thankfully, he still has some sort of conscious understanding that Zayn is his mate. He resists every instinct that tugs at his brain, telling him to suck his blood. He just stands there silently, staring, deep in a trance.
"Hello? Talk to me!" Zayn orders, stepping inside Harry's flat. He slams the door behind him. Harry doesn't react to the loud noise.
Harry doesn't mean to, but he accidentally slips out, "Louis." His voice is weak and vulnerable and cracks with exhaustion. All he can think about is Louis.
"What about Louis?" Zayn demands, poking his finger into Harry's chest. "Did that prick get you hooked on some sort of drug? Tell me!"
Of course his mind would drift to drugs. Harry feels like he's high, after all. He craves and desires and wants. He looks like he's an addict, too, with bags under his eyes and pale, chapped lips. He's going through a withdrawal, and the side-effects are driving him towards absolute insanity.
"Fuck," Zayn huffs out. "Fine, don't answer me. Just sit down."
He guides Harry towards his couch. Harry sits down cautiously, like his bones are made of glass. His nose twitches when Zayn leans over to help him. He smells so heavenly. No wonder his stage name is Angel.
"You haven't been to work in three days, and you won't answer your damn phone," Zayn complains, watching as Harry's glossy eyes stare off into the distance. "Liam is this close to firing your arse," he insists, pinching a bit of air between his fingers.
Harry leans his head backwards. His fingers scrape against the couch's worn-out fabric, squeezing slightly. He frowns at the idea of being fired. Despite all of this vampire bullshit, he genuinely loves his job.
Regardless, all he can say is, "Louis."
Zayn scoffs. "What the fuck is wrong with you?"
Harry just shakes his head, pinching his eyes shut. "Need Louis."
Zayn runs a hand down his face, clearly growing frustrated. He doesn't know what to do. He's never seen Harry like this— or anyone, for that matter.
"Fine, you want Louis? I'll get him," Zayn shouts angrily. "Where the fuck is your phone, Rose?"
Harry sniffles. "Dunno."
Zayn grumbles and stomps into Harry's bedroom. He rummages around for a few minutes, yanking open random drawers and peeling back his comforters. Eventually, he finds his iPhone under his bed, thrown carelessly. He hurriedly unlocks it, disregarding the countless missed calls and texts that pop up on his screen.
He scrolls through Harry's contacts until he finds Louis's name with the purple devil emoji. His fingers tremble as he calls him up, holding the phone up to his ear. He bites his thumb nervously and prays that Louis will answer. He hates seeing Harry in this state of desperation, and he seems persistent that Louis is the only one who can fix it.
After the second ring, Louis answers with a frantic, "Harry?"
Zayn lets out a sigh of relief. "Louis, it's me, Zayn. I'm Harry's mate from the club."
Louis pauses for a few seconds. "Is he okay?"
"No, Louis. He's a proper mess. What did you do to him?"
He hears Louis rustle with the phone. "It's difficult to explain, alright?"
"Well, you better get your arse over here before I take him to a psych ward."
He can hear the panic in Louis's voice when he inhales sharply. "No, Zayn, I— I'll be there soon. Just make sure he doesn't hurt himself."
Zayn bites his lip. "Why the fuck would he do that?"
Louis hesitates. "He's in a really fragile state. Just promise me that you'll keep an eye on him until I get there, alright?"
"Of course."
"Thank you. Bye."
Zayn grumbles with annoyance and hangs up. He tosses Harry's phone carelessly on his bed, sighing. He staggers back into Harry's living room to find him lying on the couch, whimpering, with his thumb between his lips. For fuck's sake. He looks like a helpless baby, sucking his thumb and crying. Zayn's heart melts a little, but he also feels deep concern for his wellbeing. He misses Harry's bubbly, excited personality.
"Harry," Zayn hushes, perching on the sofa next to him. He only uses his real name when he's feeling sensitive. He cards his fingers through his soft curls. "Do you need me to get you anything?"
Harry's lips tremble. "Louis."
"He's on his way," Zayn assures.
Harry whimpers and removes his thumb. Zayn doesn't notice the sharp, fang-shaped pricks that have nipped into his pale skin. He just sighs and pets Harry's hair, trying to calm him down and bring him back to reality.
I'll be there soon, Harry. You'll be alright.
A few minutes later, Louis is standing at his doorstep. Instead of knocking for invitive permission, he speaks into Harry's thoughts.
Can I come in?
Harry squeaks out a quiet, verbal, "Yes."
Louis barges inside like a tormented storm. The door slams shut behind him. He immediately senses Harry's presence and walks into the living room. His footsteps sound like a soft, faint patter. Relief floods through Harry's veins like a tsunami. His tear-filled eyes flutter open as Louis enters the room.
Zayn looks up in surprise. "That was fast."
Louis gulps. "Well, I was in a hurry."
He crouches down next to Harry. Harry's wide, gold eyes stare into Louis's with intensity. His dark lashes flutter like butterfly wings. His jaw locks up.
"I'm sorry," Harry whimpers.
Louis doesn't know why he's apologizing, but he shakes his head. "No, love. I'm sorry. This is all my fault."
Zayn breathes softly with surprise. He suddenly feels like he's intruding. "Should I leave?" he asks, thumbing over his shoulder. "I mean, as long as Harry's safe."
"Yes, he's alright, I promise," Louis assures. "Thank you, Zayn."
"It's fine, mate, but I really need Harry to tell me," Zayn snaps back. "I don't have any reason to trust you."
Harry smiles softly at Zayn's protectiveness. He gathers enough strength to sit up properly, wiping the tears away from his eyes. His trembling ceases.
"I'm okay now," Harry murmurs shakily. "Thanks, Angel.
"Well, if you say so," Zayn says, standing up. "Ring me if you need anything, okay? And I need you to explain this, when you're feeling better." For emphasis, he motions between the two of them.
Harry flushes. "Alright."
With that, Zayn kisses Harry's cheek and leaves his flat.
They're alone, and Harry can feel the tension arise between himself and Louis. Louis stands in front of him with his lips pressed into a thin line. His eyes are cold and icy. Harry's lungs constrict with nervousness. He's craved Louis for so long, but now that he's actually here, he doesn't know what to do.
Louis looks drained, too, with lifeless flesh and drooping eyes. His lips are bitten and torn up. He's starving, and Harry figures he hasn't been able to eat because he's been worried sick about his fledgling, literally. He's ill with separation anxiety.
"I felt so weak," Harry whimpers, the first to break the silence.
Louis sighs quietly. "No, you're not weak. You're strong."
"But—"
"No, you need to hear this," Louis interrupts, sitting next to him. He holds Harry's bony hand in his own. His flesh feels cold and lifeless, in dire need of blood. "Bonds aren't fragile; they're strong. We become powerful when we're together, not weak. I need you, and you need me, but that's what makes us special."
A teardrop slides down Harry's reddened cheek. "I don't feel strong."
"But you are, Harry," Louis assures, rubbing his thumb over his palm. "Do you know how proud I am of you? Becoming a vampire isn't easy, but you've handled it like a champ."
Harry whines in the back of his throat. This skin-to-skin contact overwhelms him. He wants more, wants to feel their icy bodies sliding together, creating friction and heat. He leans inward until their foreheads touch and their noses nuzzle together. He wants to touch his pallid lips with his own.
"Harry," Louis whispers, squeezing his hips, "it's so hard to resist you."
Harry swallows hard. "Then don't."
So Louis kisses him passionately, and Harry's hands travel up to hold his shoulders, digging his dull nails into his skin. His lips feel rough and gentle at the same time. Louis's tongue slips into his mouth and flicks over his fangs. Harry gasps quietly into the heated snog and pulls Louis down onto the couch urgently. Before he can react, Harry hops onto his lap and straddles his waist, planting his thick, milky thighs on either side of him. He kisses him until all of the sadness and longing dissolves between them.
And finally, Harry feels whole again.