Apocalypse | L.S [Completed]

XLIII

⚠️mentions of death, past trauma & abuse⚠️

A thickness intrudes the air, none speaking a whisper, green eyes staring at blue and both burning in a blaze of agony. Louis' heart-drum blares within him, fearful mind opting to focus on his breathing rather than suffocating it with the overflow of thoughts.

Louis is royally fucked.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Louis doesn't want Harry to know the truth—the entire truth. He doesn't want his curly-headed sunshine to unveil the gruesome monster that subsists beneath him. Louis doesn't want Harry to know the sins Louis has committed, the amount of blood his eyes have witnessed. He doesn't want any of it.

Louis wants to hide away.

"Louis," Harry breathes out, his voice a blur of concern and frustration. "You have to talk at some point, it better be now than later." He completes, a sigh leaving his chest and an agonised scrunch of his brows, when he dares to move his leg. Poor, poor thing.

"Yeah," Louis starts, shaking breath fanning the blank air in front, "before I tell you the truth—the entire truth—I want to ask something from you," his voice trembles, a pathetic, weak tremble and his eyes fucking water because fuck, he loves Harry Styles. So fucking much.

With a deep inhale, he musters enough grit to reach out for the younger's hand, lace their fingers and holding onto him, tight. "I want you to love me the most in the minutes to come, I want you to hold onto me and I want you to look at it through my eyes. I know it's too much to ask for, but I love you too much to let you go. So, please," he hates it, "love me the most tonight."

Harry nods, lips in a straight line, but his eyes shine with a new wash of tears and he gulps them down, a fight clearly noticeable on his gorgeous face as he forces his tears away, put on the brave face. He also squeezes Louis' hand.

"What do you want to know?" Louis asks, still shaking from within, but his voice masks into this cruel firmness, the one he had before Harry bursted in like a storm of sunshine and engulfed him into the storm, fighting away everything dark and dirty and Louis-like.

"Everything."

Louis gulps. A dry, painful, gulp.

"So, um," he clears his throat, fingers giving Harry a pretty squeeze, "it started with my father and yours. They, uh, they were, kind of, um, best mates? Yeah, they were best mates and they were also gang leaders. Your father, Morgan Edward had a wife, Anastasia Edward, and her and my Mum were close, too," his mouth halts, and his heart might just burst out. He wants to stop and never talk again, but when Harry squeezes his hand gingerly; Louis' safe.

"My father, Mark Tomlinson, wasn't the perfect man—hell! He wasn't even worthy enough to be considered a man. He was a disgrace, a proper disgrace. He was never a father to me, all he ever was to me was a person who provided me with a lifestyle. But my Mum," Louis sniffles, a sad, sad smile on the edge of him lips and his heart feels a small pang. His beautiful Mum. "She, um, she loved him regardless. She gave him her everything, but the fucker valued glass over diamond, he fucked around—all in front of my Mum's eyes—and he never saw me as a son."

There is a slow beat of his heart, a moment drawling in tension, and Louis breathes in once, twice, thrice before he composes himself. Harry hasn't let his hand go even for a second.

"From the moment I was born—the very minute he found out I was a boy—I was his heir. He didn't care if he was my father, all he saw was his future heir, the one that would rule the gang after him," and then, there is a fall, this weird fall in the deepest pit of his stomach, as the reality of his life flashes through his mind before they make it to his tongue, "I did not want it. Not a bit. Never wanted it, but he didn't care. I wanted to study drama, maybe, even apply for one of those fancy schools and make friends, but he didn't care. As I said, I was a heir, not a son."