petal [book 1] ❊ l.s.

eleven - the funeral

"Where's my fucking . . . oh, for fuck's sake. I don't have time for this shit today."

Harry flinched at Louis's harsh tone. He sank back into the couch cushions, gathering the covers protectively around his shoulders. Tentatively, he called out, "Lou? Is everything okay?"

It was his day off from his job at the grocery store, but he still had to work his booth later that day. Saturdays were one of the busiest days at the market downtown, and he really needed the money -- he needed to pay Louis back as soon as he could.

He didn't know how to pay Louis back. He wasn't sure that any amount of money could return what Louis had really given him: peace.

Safety.

Home.

"Louis?" he said again. "Are you okay?"

Louis's voice was still muffled, but his tone was clipped and angry; more angry than Harry had ever heard, even when he overheard Louis arguing with Liam on the phone. "No, I'm not okay. I'm not fucking --"

The apartment went silent. It wasn't even mid-morning yet, so the sun was only just starting to sneak in through the windows. The living room was washed in blue-gray light, soft around the edges like the world hadn't quite woken up yet.

Louis's harsh words poked through the thick blanket of calmness even from the other room. "It's fine, Harry. It's fine. I'm fine. Forget it."

Harry actually jumped when Louis suddenly stalked into the living room, passing through on his way to the kitchen. He studied the older boy carefully as he went by: his shoulders were hunched and drawn up, his fists clenched at his sides. His body practically trembled with pent-up anxiety, balancing the delicate line between shrinking and exploding.

Observant as ever, Harry watched from his spot on the couch as Louis picked up the invitation again, turning the thick cardstock over a few times. He couldn't help remembering the feeling of Louis's fingers wrapped around his own. He waited until the tension grew unbearable before he finally spoke the obvious:

"It's the funeral, isn't it?"

Louis clenched his jaw. He felt like Harry was prying his way into his head, and he couldn't tell if he liked it or hated it. He felt out of control. He definitely didn't like that uneasy feeling. Still, he felt his walls sink a bit deeper, falling short.

"Yeah. It's the funeral. It's this afternoon."

"Do you want me to go with you?" Harry asked tentatively. Even as he proposed it, he wasn't sure if it was a good idea -- for Louis or for himself.

"No." Louis gave a clipped shake of his head, letting the letter float down onto the counter.

"Are you sure? I really don't mind. It's not like I haven't been to one before, Lou, and if it would make you feel better to have someone there --"

"We're not dating, Harry!" Louis exploded, standing abruptly from the counter. "You're not my boyfriend. Stop fucking acting like it -- we're not dating."

Harry blinked once, but he didn't look surprised. His tone stayed level. "I never said we were."

The room fell back into silence. He pretended to turn his attention back to the TV, startling again when Louis stomped back through the living room, retreating to the bedrooms.

It didn't take a psychic to realize that his declarations of love made Louis uncomfortable. Harry tried to keep those three words bottled up inside. He understood that Louis didn't feel that way about him yet. He understood that time wasn't on his side. He understood that Louis needed to work through things for himself.