Apocalypse | L.S [Completed]

XLII

Louis hears a whimper first, and then, the bullet going past his ear.

The dead eyes cry a tear of death when the bullet pierces right through his head, skin breaking into a crimson stream of pain and the gun he was pointing at Louis, falling down with a tragic thud. The sapphires watch the man in front die, bleed through his forehead, before his eyes move towards the murderer.

Harry.

Trembling like an aged self's limbs, his hands hold the weapon. Louis watches—mouth hung open in disbelief—the way Harry green eyes, stricken with the purest form of horror, widen when realisation dawns upon him, flinging the weapon as if it burned the mere sense of his skin.

And maybe it did.

Louis watches, carefully, as Harry stumbles backwards, every living soul in the room (including the Sons) watching him along with Louis. First, it's the horror of what he did, then his face contours into immense guilt and then, hatred. A flash of hatred washes over him and Louis doesn't know if it's regarded towards him or Harry himself. But hatred it is.

"Harr-"

"No."

He watches him stumble further, his body numb, the once pained leg completely forgotten of its injury as he reaches the bemired wall—covered in ages of blood—and slumps down in a miserable fall, knees sprawled with no care of poise. He looks dead.

Louis is frozen, because what the fuck does he do now? Not only did his boyfriend find out he kills people for his living but he himself killed one in order to save Louis. He, Harry Styles, who would rather stay hungry and give his food way, who never sees bad in anyone, killed someone. For Louis.

"Bons," he tries again, nearer to the shaking boy now. He's as careful as a new mother, voice terribly soft and movements just as mindful. Harry though, he doesn't reply, looks at Louis with his dead green—no, grey eyes and stares. Just. Stares.

"I-I," Harry tries, he truly does, Louis watches his struggle, his fucking scrimmage physically hurting him as the boy tries to find words to describe what just happened. He looks like he has already died a million deaths in the past minutes, because this is not Harry, this can not be. He's curled up into this small.... thing, this thing that is trembling with a thunder of emotions, this thing that has lost its ability to voice out his thoughts. This is not his Harry.

Louis wants to hide away, his own heart shattering into painful crumbles, throat lumped with guilt and eyes burning with tragic tears. He wants to run away, never see his lover in a state like this— so frail and weak. But Louis has to stay strong, because if he falls, the rest fall, too. If he falls, Harry falls, too.

But maybe, he's already fallen. Fallen into an abyss of trauma and pain and guilt and ghosts. All because he saved Louis.

Louis realises that there are people dying near him, probably Stephanie slicing them into pieces, but his eyes refuse to leave Harry's and neither does Harry diverts his own. He's looking at Louis as if he is his safe place and the monster himself, that if he moves his eyes from him, the monster will get him, that his safe space will vanish into the darkness of the monster.

He looks like he wants to hide in Louis and hide away from Louis.

So, Louis does what he can think with his gone ability of reasoning. He wraps his arms around Harry, who flinches the moment he feels someone else on his skin and tries cower further away, the wall stopping him from doing so. Louis wants to die. He retrieves his arms immediately but only for Harry to suddenly pounce on him, hold him tight and bury himself in Louis. He chokes out cries after cries, trembles all over his body and hands almost ripping Louis' clothes apart from their death-clutch.