A/N: Hey! It's been a while, hasn't it?
Forgive me if I’ve gotten any details about this wrong; I don’t quite know how the process works when one is a therapist, seeing as I’ve never been a therapist myself. As a result, there may be a few (or many) discrepancies. Again, I apologize in advance.
Also, listen to "Ways to Go" by Grouplove on the right if you want! Twas the song I wrote this chapter to :)
Hope you guys like this, let me and Kayla know what you think in the comments! Love you lots xx
~Monique <3
****
Harry is usually a patient person. No, really, he is. He’s never been the type to want to rush things, because he thinks that slow and steady is the only way to make things happen the right way.
Right now, he’s anything but.
He’s sitting in the bland hospital waiting room, and he can’t fucking handle it, having to wait, having to be patient. He feels a vague sense of disgust as he looks at the magazine covers sitting in a messy pile on the table in front of him – he feels a vague sense of disgust when he looks at anything in this place, really, because all he wants to do is get out of here.
Is it too late to back out of this job?
He checks his watch for what feels like the fifth time in the past minute, foot tapping mindlessly against the drab gray carpet. The starched collar of his shirt is dragging against the back of his neck and he hates it.
He closes his eyes briefly, breathing in. No. Okay. He’s fine.
“Mr. Styles?” a middle aged nurse calls from the doorway near the front desk. She’s got a kind smile, and Harry relaxes slightly. But then. “Mr. Tomlinson is ready for you.”
Harry thinks that his heart physically stops at the sound of Louis’ name, and he can feel himself blanch. He can barely compose himself enough to nod at the nurse and follow her down the hallway.
Who’s he fucking kidding? He’s a fucking mess. How the fucking hell is he supposed to be able to handle this, this enigma of a boy with shadowed eyes and false fronts and stubborn tendencies? Not to mention the fact that he’s crude on the most disgusting of levels – the stuff he fucking said to Harry was beyond inappropriate, not the least bit professional, and horribly offensive. Bile rises to his throat at the mere memory, and he swallows thickly, tasting bitterness on his tongue.
And no, it doesn’t fucking matter how attractive Louis is, or how vulgar he may be – he’s still Harry’s patient (or, Nick’s patient, technically, but details) and Harry’s still got to try his hardest to help him. But he’s also got to be professional about this whole ordeal. And it’s hard as all hell to be professional when all he wants to do is yell and scream at Louis fucking Tomlinson, tell him off for being such a fucking piece-of-shit dick to him, for saying all of those things that made Harry feel like crawling out of his own skin.
Which is why Harry’s come up with a new approach.
The nurse directs him to Louis’ room and leaves Harry with a smile. Harry waits until her footsteps have faded into silence before moving.
He makes his way over to Louis’ door, his shoes squeaking against the freshly-mopped floor. He stands in front of it, staring at its puke-green paint and ignoring the way it makes his stomach curl in on itself.
He can handle this. No more playing the nice guy. He’s going to help Louis get better, he’s not going to fucking fail.
He knocks on the door and waits; when he hears no sound come from inside, he grabs the cold metal handle and opens the door ever so slightly.
His eyes flicker over to Louis’ bed, blue and green meet, and Harry’s at a loss for words.
A moment passes, then two. Neither boy moves. This is not professional.
Harry finally coughs quietly into his hand, shutting the door gently behind him. “Hi Louis,” he says in a quiet tone, and Louis merely raises his eyebrows at him.
“Can I…” Harry trails off, pointing at a folded plastic chair leaning against the wall next to Louis’ bed, and Louis rolls his eyes and shrugs.
Alright then.
He sets down his satchel and pulls the chair over to him – not too close to Louis’ bed, but not too far away either. He unfolds it awkwardly, and it ends up falling on its side with a loud clunk.
“Shit,” Harry mutters under his breath, and leans down to set it upright. When he finally goes to sit down, he notices that Louis’ eyeing him curiously.
He hasn’t said anything yet though. Harry can’t tell whether that’s a good or bad thing.
“So,” Harry says, leaning back in his seat. He’s trying to look casual. He doesn’t know if he’s succeeding. “Where’s your mum?”
Louis shrugs again, the movement jostling his loose gray jumper. It’s practically draped over his arms, nearly covering his hands in a way that shouldn’t be as adorable as it is – and no, Harry’s his fucking therapist (sort of) and he should not be thinking these things. Especially not when that’s probably exactly what Louis wants him to be thinking about.
The pale blue bed sheets are rumpled, half hanging off the bed. His legs are splayed out lazily, covered in comfortable looking black trackies. He isn’t wearing shoes or socks, and Harry can’t help but notice how tiny his ankles are.
Louis chuckles, and Harry’s eyes flit up to his face. Louis’ eyeing him smugly. “Are you quite finished?”
Harry’s lips part slightly in his surprise, and he feels his cheeks getting warm as he fishmouths. “I – I don’t know what you could possibly be referring to,” Harry says quickly, “I’m – “
“Relax,” Louis says in an exasperated groan, tipping his head back onto the pillows so that he’s facing the ceiling. Harry resolutely does not look at the column of his throat, at the light stubble growing beneath his chin. “I’m just messing with you. No need to be so uptight.”
Harry shifts in his seat, choosing not to respond to that – it’s probably the wisest move to make, at this point.
God, he’s already fucking this up. His first solo job and his patient either hates him beyond belief or wants to jump his bones – or both. He’s pretty sure this sort of thing goes against every single fucking rule in the book – both written and unwritten. He might as well drop out of school right fucking now and say goodbye to his degree.
After a long moment of silence, Louis looks back up at him, eyes curious again. “Well?” he says quietly, crossing his ankles. He scratches absentmindedly at his upper arm, and Harry is confused.
This Louis is so very different from yesterday’s Louis. Yesterday’s Louis was anything but cooperative (not to mention rude as all hell), but today, he’s just sitting there calmly, leveling Harry with a relaxed gaze.
“Well what?” Harry says in response, busying himself by fidgeting with one of the buttons on his coat. He’s waiting for Louis to burst, for yesterday’s Louis to come back.
“Well, aren’t you going to start interrogating me now? Ask me if I’m insane? Tell me that you’re going to send me to one of those fucking crazy houses?” His tone is bitter, and Harry has to work to stop himself from cringing, because yup, here it comes.
“No,” is all he says, looking Louis in the eyes again.
Louis stares right back at him, but Harry refuses to look away. Louis finally sighs, eyes flicking away from Harry’s face. “Fine.”
Harry furrows his eyebrows, because that’s it? That’s all he’s going to say?
They sit there in silence for a bit – but then Louis breaks it. “My mum is at home,” he admits quietly. “We…had a bit of a falling out.”
“Really?” Harry says, feeling a tiny spark of hope flicker to life in his mind. “About what?”
Louis’ gaze is on Harry again, and this time, it’s cold. He says nothing.
Harry doesn’t say anything either.
****
Their appointments are supposed to be an hour long each day, as decided by Jay.
Harry and Louis end up sitting there in silence for forty minutes.
Harry doesn’t pull out any notebooks, doesn’t check his phone, none of it. He stares blankly at the wall, looks around the room, looks out the window. Sometimes his eyes awkwardly end up meeting Louis’, but still, he says nothing. He ignores the confused looks Louis is giving him, not allowing himself to give in.
He’s got to be firm. He’s got to let Louis know that no matter how much of a dick Louis is – or makes himself seem, because he really hopes to god that Louis isn’t actually the rude piece of shit he made himself out to be yesterday – he’s not going to quit on him, he’s not going to go anywhere. He can tell, by those faded laugh lines next to his eyes, the ones Harry couldn’t stop looking at yesterday and the ones that Harry still can’t stop looking at right this very moment, that this isn’t him. That person, yesterday, wasn’t him.
Or, at least he hopes so.
He’s in the midst of trying to come up with a name to fit the exact shade of blue of Louis’ eyes – simply because he’s bored, of course, not for any other sort of reason – when Louis speaks. “Can I ask you something?”
Harry’s eyes widen. That worked quicker than he thought it would. “Yeah, sure.”
“Can you stop wearing that cologne?”
Fuck. He should’ve known there wouldn’t be a breakthrough, was foolish to hope for something like that so soon. “Excuse me?”
“Yeah. Just, wear something else, I don’t care – anything but that.”
What? Harry is so fucking confused, because why the fuck does his cologne matter? “I’m sorry, I don’t understand. Why is – “
“Because I don’t fucking like it,” Louis hisses, tipping his chin up slightly. Harry can sense a hint of a challenge glimmering in Louis’ eyes, and he suddenly can’t help but think about what Louis had said the day before, about smells. His doctor mode kicks into gear, his mind making thousands of connections a minute between what Louis said yesterday and between what he’s just said right now. “Louis,” he says as carefully as he possibly can, “Yesterday, when you said you had to leave at the end of our session, you had mentioned that the room smelled like – “
“No,” Louis says firmly, and the spark of challenge in Louis’ eyes has turned into a raging fire now, and Harry definitely doesn’t like it. Harry keeps his face neutral, composed – on the inside, though, he’s sad. Not for himself, but for Louis – and why, he can’t understand.
Fucking hell.
“Okay. I won’t wear it.”
Louis huffs out a breath. “Good.”
Harry then glances at the clock and notices that it’s 7:05, and realizes that their session is over. He clears his throat and stands up, folding the plastic chair again and leaning it up against the wall where it was before. He picks his satchel up, and turns to face Louis. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Louis. Same time?”
All of the fire in Louis’ eyes is gone now, replaced by a dwindling heap of barely-there sparks, by a fog of confusion. “I guess.”
Harry gives him a tiny nod, and heads for the door, when – “Oh, and Styles?”
That’s the first time Louis’ ever addressed Harry by name. Sure, it might not have been his first name, but it’s a start. “It’s Harry,” he says as he slowly turns around, “And yes?”
“I meant what I said, before,” Louis continues, his soft bewilderment now replaced by a mask of bitterness, a smug smile, a frosty look in his eyes, and a certain clenching of his jaw, one that exerts a sense of wanting to be dominant, wanting to have control. It’s fake, it’s all so fake and disgusting that it makes Harry shiver. It’s Louis from yesterday, and Harry doesn’t know where it came from – but he does know that he hates it. “You’re hot as hell. Wear those jeans again for me tomorrow, will you?”
Fuck. And here he’d thought he was getting somewhere.
Harry carefully holds his neutral expression in place as he turns around without a word, without a flicker of emotion on his face, and slips out the door.
****
The second Harry’s in his car, he screams as loudly as he can, burying his head in his hands and pulling so tightly at his hair that it hurts.
He’s in way over his head.