...

24

Summary:

Louis doesn't know.
Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text
Louis can't sleep.

He's laying awake, limbs cold yet coated in a chilly sweat, crisp sheets sticking to his skin, and his hands lie open and empty on either side of him, resting against the frigid mattress.

"Behind every exquisite thing that existed, there was something tragic."

"Louis Tomlinson"

He stares at the ceiling, dark and barren yet pompously elaborate—just like the rest of this fucking school.

"Behind every exquisite thing that existed, there was something tragic."

"Louis Tomlinson"

His heart is thudding deafeningly. It must have migrated to his skull because it keeps pressing against his ear drums.

"Behind every exquisite thing that existed, there was something tragic."

"Louis Tomlinson"

Is Niall home yet? He hasn't heard the door.

"Behind every exquisite thing that existed, there was something tragic."

"Louis Tomlinson"

Is Harry home yet?

"Behind every exquisite thing that existed, there was something tragic."

"Louis Tomlinson"

Is Harry currently obliterated, mind, body, and spirit, being supported by a slew of soulless tarts that paint themselves in Versace and Chanel? Is he in a ditch? On a bathroom floor? Is he already sleeping peacefully in his bed? Is he smiling? Is he sad? Does he realize Louis' not there? Does he care? Does he care about anything?

"Behind every exquisite thing that existed, there was something tragic."

"Louis Tomlinson"

Yeah. No. Louis definitely can't sleep.

**

Louis wakes up to a thunderous tune on the piano—Tchaikovsky?—far too early in the morning. But he doesn't even care, just continues to lie in bed and stare at the ceiling. He refuses to think about the note.

The note.

The note that he wrote. The note that he wrote that is currently tucked in Harry's journal with his name on the back. He refuses to think about all of that because it doesn't even matter because Harry ignored him last night, erased his presence from his life, and he was the empty, preening shell that he always is. Nothing changed. Harry hadn't changed.

"I CAN'T CHANGE" flashes through Louis' mind, writ on Harry's fair skin. Hah. Ironic.

And fuck.

Too many thoughts.

And text messages, he notes as he picks up his phone. He sees Zayn and Liam's names repeatedly—never Harry, of course—but doesn't bother reading the small text, just unlocks his phone and searches for the one person that can help him right now.

It rings once.

The piano stops.

"Tommo," Niall's voice greets from the phone and the other side of the wall. "Where you at, mate?"

"My bed."

There's a chuckle. "This again? You hungover or somethin'?"

"Not even."

"You all right?" he yawns. A piano key dings.

"No. Come lie with me. I'm in a dark place."

"What does that mean? You hungry?"

"No Sasquatch, I'm not hungry," Louis says, irritated. "I'm vulnerable and on the precipice of darkness."

Pause.

"Are you thirsty?"

"Fuck's sake, Ireland, just get your ass in here."

The phone beeps out a dial tone and then the door is swiftly opened, much to Louis' relief.

"Tommo," Niall greets with a grin, his shirt half-buttoned and stained, his sweatpants pushed up at the ankles. Without transition, he flops onto the bed face down, immediately crowding Louis' space and engulfing the majority of the mattress.

Louis doesn't mind.

"Thank you," he sniffs, wrapping the blankets tighter around himself, limbs already warming to the fiery temperature that is Niall Horan. Maybe he really is a dragon.

"So. What's got you on the platypus of death or whatever," Niall mumbles through a mouthful of pillow.

Louis rolls his eyes but answers all the same. "Harry was a dick last night."

"You surprised?" he muses.

Louis shrugs. "Yeah."

Abruptly, Niall laughs, airily and light because he's an actual fucking sun and nothing could ever possibly faze him or penetrate his light. Louis wishes he could be like that. He hates Niall.

"Don't worry about Harry, all right? You keep trying to make him your project or whatever, but—"

"He's not my project," Louis interrupts sharply.

Niall raises his brows. "Whatever. All the same, you've got to stop. It's driving you mad."

Louis nods a moment later. "Yeah. Yeah, you're right. That's why I'm not going to call or text or visit him today. If he wants to talk to me, he can come to me. I'm done. I'm finished. If he wants to know why I left so early last night—"

"You left early?" Niall asks mildly, surprised.

Oh wow.

"Yes. I did," Louis grits, shooting a glare at Niall, but it bounces off of him and the pillows surrounding him, and evaporates into the air.

"Huh. Didn't notice."

"Please. Don't hold back on the flattery," Louis says dryly.

Niall grins. "I was busy."

"You're oblivious."

"I'm high."

"Are you?" Louis asks, craning his neck to look at him closely.

"No. But I'm going to be. Wanna join? Let's watch cartoons. Rory's bringing breakfast."

And Niall pulls him out of bed and drags him into the living room.

**

Zayn keeps texting Louis. Which is nice.

'U ok?' has been sent about thirteen times. On the fourteenth, Louis responds.

'I hate everything. Wanna drink battery acid?'

Approximately five seconds pass before he gets a reply.

'I'm coming over.'

**

There's a single knock at the door.

"Get in here!" Niall shouts from the couch, high as a kite and gulping orange juice and vodka like it were air, a bottle in each hand. The boy is made of steel.

Louis blinks from his nest beside Niall, burrowed in blankets and surrounded by nibbled on biscuits and Red Bull, and smiles immediately as Zayn—wearing large black glasses and a thick black jumper that somehow just makes him look even more attractive—sidles into the room.

"Niall," he greets calmly, bumping fists lazily as he passes, making his way to Louis.

"Zayn man," Niall burps. He holds up his bowl. "Want some?"

"In a bit," Zayn says satinly, chocolate truffle eyes intent on Louis. He joins him in his nest, burrowing his slim, Greek God body into the blankets and Louis can't help but laugh at the image because it's Zayn and Zayn is flawless and he belongs on gilt thrones and tapestries, not piles of messy blankets on a velvet couch that smells like weed and onion crisps.

"Hello Zayn," Louis greets, blinking bleary eyes and resting his head on the boy's shoulder. "Thanks for coming to see me. Where's Liam?"

He smirks. "Sleeping. He had a time of it last night."

"Doesn't he always?"

"Moreso than usual," Zayn says with a light shake of the head and his smirk fades. "He's probably getting a bit too rowdy, to be honest. Found him on the roof, half naked and snorting something pink. Gonna have to keep an eye on him. He could hurt himself."

"Jesus," Louis mutters while Niall laughs. "Is it cuz he's so stressed?"

Zayn's eyes slide to the TV, unimpressed but watchful. "I think so."

"Why weren't you with him?"

Zayn looks back at Louis. "I was with Harry."

Ugh. Just the name sends a plonk in Louis' stomach.

"I see," he says icily, and he feels Zayn's eyes stick to him even as he looks away. He doesn't ask any questions.

"You all right? You left so early," Zayn comments, inspecting Louis closely with lazy eyes. Lazy-eyes-that-appear-lazy-but-are-actually-not-lazy-at-all would actually be more appropriate, though. Louis hates that. Louis hates Zayn.

"I'm incredible. Marvelous. Splendid," Louis says, but his voice is teetering on the edge of being shrill, and both Niall and Zayn's eyebrows shoot into the air. Which is unnecessary.

"He didn't mean to be rude to you, Lou."

Louis feels a flush overcome his body. His spinal cord tingles.

"But he was. End of story."

"It's not that simple."

Louis shoots a sharp eye at him. "Don't act like a bloody superhero, Zayn. You couldn't even take care of your own boyfriend last night."

At that, Zayn actually scowls, his glare machete-sharp and positively venomous. "Liam's capable of taking care of himself. I'm not his keeper," his softly dangerous voice breathes, and the slits of his eyes make incisions in Louis' eyes, cheeks, neck. "I love him and I'll always be there for him to the best of my abilities. But I don't own him and he can do what he wants, can't he."

Louis squirms, blinking away his guilt as he burrows deeper within his nest. He's never really disagreed with Zayn before.

Quite frankly, it's terrifying. And Louis feels very much in the wrong.

"I'm being a dick right now," he mutters. He glances at Zayn. "Aren't I?"

Zayn nods.

"You're being a cunt, that's what you're being," Niall's boisterous voice announces through a waterfall of thick smoke, ending on a cough.

Zayn nods again, but a smile twitches at the corner of his lips.

"You flirt, you," Louis says witheringly in Niall's direction.

He shrugs in response.

"Look," Louis sighs, attempting to sit up and free himself of his blanket burrito. He lays his arms on top of the blankets, bare and cold now, fiddling with stray hems and fabric. "I know that you said I need to be patient with Harry, yeah?"

Zayn nods, his eyes continuing to make tiny incisions in Louis.

"But, like, that can only be an excuse for so long. You know? Like, sometimes, yeah, I have to take into account that he's not as, shall we say, equipped to deal with certain situations. But when does that start just becoming an excuse? Every time he fucks up, I've got to chalk it up to him just being the wounded soldier, while I take all the shit? I've got to accept all he does and just sit back and wait for it to get better? Is that what you think I should do, Zayn?"

"Not at all."

"Exactly! So, like, last night? I'm done. I'm done, mate. We were getting on fine—wonderfully, even—and he'd basically agreed to let me cohost the party and we had an all right day, okay? It was an all right day—more than all right, actually. And everything was just...really good, and then he went and acted like a tit and fucked it all up and now I'm just..." Louis fades, unsure of where to go with that. He briefly considers mentioning Harry's journal and the quote, pick at Zayn's brain to find out what that means, what any of this means, but the selfish parts of him (the majority) don't want anybody else to know.

It's between Harry and him. And he likes that. So he doesn't say anything more.

After a pause that feels much longer than it really is, Zayn sighs, rubbing at his eyes.

"I'm too tired for this," he mumbles, his hand now smoothing down his face, catching on his stubble.

Louis laughs lightly.

The click of Niall's lighter sounds.

"You know what, Louis?" Zayn finally sighs, turning to look at him. Louis blinks, feeling small and owlish in his nest. "Fuck it. Just...do you. Do what's good for you, all right mate? Forget about Harry for awhile and just focus on you. That's what I care about. That's what's important."

And that is sweet, that is genuinely sweet, and Louis feels his face smiling as he welcomes Zayn in with a one armed hug, but there's this thing in his chest, this solid weight—is it a stone?—and it doesn't budge or lift, only seems to get heavier as he accepts Zayn's kind words and loyal friendship that he is honestly so thankful for...

But it's that Zayn's even let go of hope for Harry. It's that this struggle, this shit that's kept him awake all night and has been eating at him for months, has just been brushed aside and swept under the rug, and now Louis is just supposed to forget about it all?

Yes, he can focus on himself. But that doesn't mean he can't care about others, too.

Not that he wants to care about Harry anymore, not after last night. Or that he ever did at all. Or...

Fuck. Just fuck.

**

Zayn leaves after about an hour, high as a kite and staring lovingly at his phone as he begins receiving the first of Liam's blearily raging hangover texts.

"Miss you alreadyyyy," Niall calls as Louis waves, and then the flat is silent, bar the TV that prattles on endlessly, a football match that Louis is too distracted to care about flitting on the screen.

He really wants to stop thinking about Harry. He really wants to stop feeling like shit. Which will come first?

"I really just hate everything, Niall," he announces, staring blankly at the screen.

Niall snores in response.

And Louis sighs, ignoring the stone that is lodged in his chest and potentially gaining size.

He will not contact Harry. He will not.

**

Eventually Louis wakes Niall up with soft smacks to the chest.

"Ireland. I need you to hide my phone," he says.

He's greeted with a hideous glare as Niall blinks into life.

"Fuck off, cunt," he growls, then turns over.

Louis swallows, and his phone burns in his hand.

**

Apparently, Louis is a masochist. Because now he's calling his mum.

She picks up on the fourth ring.

"Hm?" is the greeting he receives, and he sits down on his bed a little awkwardly.

"Mum?"

"Who is this?"

Annoyance prickles at his scalp. "Your son. Louis."

"Louis," she says mildly, tone distracted. "What do you need, love?"

His tempter sizzles. Because of course. Of fucking course. She goes from leaving him five minute voicemails of her sobbing and demanding that he return to her, to barely recalling his existence. His stomach spits. So fucking typical of her. Just so fucking typical.

"I just wanted to say hi," he says, keeping the annoyance out of his tone. His voice just sounds alien, though.

"Oh." There's a pause. "All right, then."

He lies back on his bed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "How are the girls?"

"At school."

Which, okay. That's sort of an answer.

"Good, good. I miss them."

He hears her hum a noncommittal sound.

Right then.

"Okay, well, it's been great chatting with you," he says wryly, feeling loveless and pathetic, getting up off the bed and regretting ever picking up his phone, even if it did serve as a distraction from Harry and/or the homework/studying that he just cannot do right now. "I'll talk to you later."

"Wait, love," she suddenly says, and Louis' ears prick up. "Is Niall there? I'd love to have a quick chat."

And he hangs up the phone.

Because fuck no. He does not feel like dealing with that.

The day feels like it will never end.

**

Louis is absolutely a masochist. He is, truly. Because if he wasn't, then he wouldn't have left Niall's snoring figure and his cozy flat to stand out here in the blistering cold, right outside of Harry's door. And he wouldn't be turning the doorknob to enter it, either.

Oh well.

He nudges it open with gusto, feeling his body fall inside before his brain has, and he's already beginning to feel himself catch fire, the thousands of bewildered questions and accusations surfacing to his mouth as he pictures the jade eyes he's about to encounter.

Then suddenly he's met with a room filled with fucking strangers, still dressed from the night before, surrounding Harry—who's standing in the middle of the group and looking a bit peaky and artistically unkempt—and looking very heroin chic, straight out of an ad for Gucci.

They all stare at him.

Harry immediately looks up.

"Louis Tomlinson," he greets, blatantly surprised, and his voice isn't the grandiose purr that it usually is when he's surrounded by people and putting on his false pleasantries. It's his real voice, his Harry voice, and his eyes are wide with surprise and attentiveness, unblinkingly set on Louis.

Louis takes in the scene—the people draped over each other, over Harry, holding their glasses of champagne and mineral water, laughing in the most artificial way and surveying Louis as prey. They're all there for the same reason, making a circle around Harry—to fuck him, use him, take him, sponge off of him—if they haven't already. Because they're sightless, soulless, harpy bitches with their noses in the air and their trust funds and their lineages and their possessive claws that curl around the lapels of Harry's jackets and—and no, NOPE, Louis definitely can't deal with this right now.

"Right. Never mind. Bye," is all he says, spinning back around. "I'll see you later."

"Wait!" Harry practically shouts, and Louis pauses before turning around, one eyebrow raised.

The chatter of the harpies quiets a bit.

"Don't you desire to meet my exquisite guests?" he then asks, but it's still in the Harry voice despite the ostentatious words, so Louis can't ignore him, can't turn away.

"Not really, no," he replies, and he feels the hardness of his eyes reflected back in Harry's wide ones. "I don't have manners, I don't do pleasantries, and I don't care to stay. So. Bye."

And with that, Louis walks out the door, his flesh hot and his mouth dry, feeling the tension skyrocket in the room behind him. He marches forward, ready to flee to the sanctity of his flat and Niall's sedated arms, when suddenly he hears the door open and close behind him. He glances back—Harry.

It's Harry.

"What, you forget something?" he snaps, whirring around. "Want me to fetch you another latte? A ginger biscuit? A cheese danish?" His voice is bitter, blatantly so, and he feels the muscles around his eyes contracting. But he gives no fucks.

Harry stares at him, his eyes widening that much more in surprise. There's a hint of offense, maybe hurt, lying in the corners and dotting the edges, and his posed pleasantries of playing host have vanished, his shoulders now slumped and hands quiet. He merely stands there, adorned in his long, leopard print t-shirt that last for ages (which...the fuck?) and painfully tight trousers, his hair curling around his ears. His eyes look greener today.

"Why did you leave so early last night?" he asks, voice quiet, childlike. The words are soft and raspy, catching in the winter air and settling on the crisp remains of dead leaves. His lips are pale and his skin is porcelain and marred in a sleepless night filled with excess. Naturally, it's fucking beautiful. He looks fucking beautiful.

The asshole.

"Because I didn't want to be there, obviously," Louis answers sharply. He folds his arms over his chest, ignoring the way the breeze tumbles Harry's curls and how one flutters in his eye, tangling with his lashes.

Harry's eyes widen still more. "You didn't like it?" he asks in a small voice and it's like Louis' just knocked down his ice cream cone, the boy's lips one step away from quivering.

Fuck. Just fuck.

"Of course I liked it, you curly haired cunt," Louis sighs, his voice far less fierce than he'd intended. "But next time you choose to ignore my general existence, don't expect a fucking parade for it."

There. Brute honesty. Its feels good, just seeping it out into the air. Relieving.

The words cause Harry's stare to morph from hurt to confusion as he observes Louis closely. "I wasn't—I just—I didn't do it on purpose—" is all he can muster out, his words stumbling over themselves. His head drops when he gives up his attempts at articulation, and he paws at the ground.

"Well," Louis says, feeling his anger dwindle (which is just terribly inconvenient), "That's not really an excuse, is it?" But his throat is really dry now and fuck, it sort of does feel like an excuse.

Ugh.

Once more, Harry falls silent, his eyes cast to the ground. His ebony lashes cut across the ivory planes of his face, which is poetic enough in and of itself, not to mention unfairly endearing.

Bastard.

"I didn't want you to go."

Fuck.

It's said quietly to the ground, only so that the cobblestones, the ancient stone, the dead ivy, and Louis can hear. And Louis' heart, which promptly splits in two. Or has it been mended?

Fuck.

FUCK.

Louis might fall down.

He swallows. "Then why did you act that way? So...indifferent, like? Cold," Louis asks, his voice bathed in total honesty, and as he stares, hard, at Harry, he allows his face to assemble into whatever expression it deems worthy of the situation, not even bothering to mask it in an adopted calm or nonchalance.

There's a pause, a silence, a fucking chasm of nothing where Louis just stands and waits, and then Harry looks up, eyes pained and muddled and storming. Lightning flashes across his irises, rain pours over his corneas. Louis hears rumbles of thunder in his chest.

"I've got to go back inside," is all that Harry says, and there, he's doing it—reassembling himself, his features now masked in stone, his eyes distant. He's walking backwards towards the door, eyes still on Louis.

Louis' fingertips feel numb as he watches, dumbly.

"I didn't do it on purpose," is the last thing he says, almost pleadingly—or is he trying to convince himself?—before he disappears behind the door