Through it all

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T/W - mentions of illness (cancer) so please read safely. I'm always available in messages or comments if anyone feels they need someone to speak to <3

Harry's battling cancer, Louis is there for him always

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There's always that odd sense of familiarity when Louis makes his way down the winding hospital halls. They're narrow, white and smell strongly of antiseptic, something he has grown used to over the few weeks Harry has been staying in their care. He's got a bouquet of sunflowers clutched in one hand, balloons and a small envelope in the other.

Entering the room, Louis is met with a rather peaceful looking head of curls, who's snoring so lightly it's barely audible. He's sleeping, something he hasn't been able to do in a while; so Louis is glad, softly placing the items aside as he takes a seat next to Harry's bed. The green gown is loosely fitting, the port visible against his sharp collar bones. The IV bag is hooked securely in place— it's almost as if that pole has been more by Harry's side than Louis himself, and that's not a comparison he'd like to make.

The light has been dimmed, so the only source of illumination comes from the cracks in the curtains. Yet somehow the shadows do a great job at defining Harry's features. A chiseled jaw from his sudden loss of appetite. Heavy dark circles. Cracked lips that look so scorched it seems painful. Louis winces, rubbing feather-light fingers across fragile skin, then a head full of the softest curls, so irresistible to touch, like always. Louis knows they won't last long. He knows they've about another week until they decide to snip it all off... to spare the heartbreak. But he doesn't want to come to terms with that, not yet. Not ever.

Live in the moment. Don't dwell on the past. The future is unknown. Louis hates it. He absolutely hates it. He sometimes sits lonely in the room, whilst Harry is peacefully dreaming of all sorts. He sits on the uncomfortable plastic chairs where many like him have grieved. Have cried over loved ones, living or dead. What if it had been him? He can't stop himself from asking the question. It seems wrong, it seems selfish, but he truly wonders why such a soulful creature had been chosen. Why Harry? Why Harry?

He isn't ripe yet, Louis thinks. Like a growing strawberry, picked at its green stage. Bitter, tasteless. Harry is anything but that. The complete opposite in fact.

He resumes his hand stroking movements. Why Harry?


"Louis." comes the softest voice from behind him, it's texture is smooth, like the creamiest of chocolates. As if it's wrapped up as a gift, laced with red ribbons. So sweet it harmonises with the birds outside the window...

"Louis-"

He's taken out of his daydream, and it's not a sweet soothing voice, it's a coursed one. Scratchy like a vinyl. No, Louis thinks. Scratchy like chalk on a blackboard. It's not a pleasant sound.

"Lou-"

It's chocked out. Chocked. Suddenly Louis is spinning on his heel, rushing over to his boyfriend full of concern and— oh. Of course this would have happened at some point, but it pains Louis so hard he feels as if the air has been knocked right out of his lungs.

Harry is sat upright in the hospital bed, chunks of his curly; graciously long curly locks bunched in shaking hands. Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. It's happening, Louis is a complete and utter mess, already bundling his most favourite boy in his arms. Though Harry has no words. He's silenced by the utter shock of the situation, yet there are tears gliding over thin cherub skin that is now a ghostly pale that looks unusual against Harry's 'healthy' complexion.

Larry Stylinson Oneshots Where stories live. Discover now