Apocalypse | L.S [Completed]

XLIV

Louis' words pierce Harry's absolute soul. His cries come to an unnatural halt, entire demeanour as stiff as a rod and face rejecting any emotions to be displayed on it. Louis' tongue refuses to utter anything else, too, heavy words blocked at its tip and panicked sapphires straining their sight on the boy in front.

Then he breaks, Harry.

The many emotions he was holding back flood on his face as if a dam has been lifted. He's hurt, scared, broken, angry and everything else that Louis can't read. He winces as he tries to get away from Louis, the ache of his leg washing his eyes with another flow of tears.

Louis backs off immediately, lays down Harry with a pair of circumspect hands. He goes back to where he rested when the night started, sad eyes watching Harry. Sitting on the edge again—even though mere inches away from Harry—Louis has never felt more distant from the younger. Harry still hasn't talked, his eyes disbelieving and lips tragically quivering with a stream of pain rolling down his sad green eyes.

"How did you do it?" Harry asks like his voice has been shattered, eyes not bothering to look at Louis. Louis sighs—heart-wrenched himself—but the sigh lessens its depth when cold fingers lace with his, and then, a gentle squeeze from the curly-headed boy.

They'll be alright.

"When Zayn told me that he found Morgan, I couldn't think. It was after three years of her passing away—three years of ruling the gang and taking over the company, three fucking years of holding everything in. I erupted." His voice is like a dense cloud, the one that castes a catastrophic shadow when it hides the sun behind it; dark and life sucking and low and weighted. "I took my men, every single one of them, and attacked him. He wasn't even prepared," Harry whimpers, grips Louis harder, "wasn't prepared for me, or my men, or anyone. He had a handful of people with him—not even trained well enough to hold guns. When I saw him, he was no longer the man who would take me to parks because Mark didn't, he was no longer the Morgan I knew," Louis sighs yet again, his chest rising a tad and then falling back as he releases it with a brief shut of his burning eyes.

"He was dead before I even killed him."

It takes every bit of Louis' resistance to not hide away Harry in the warmth of his console when he trembles again. But he does not cry, a fight within him and a hand squeeze for Louis to continue.

"I shot him in the head." Louis says, clear and unapologetic. He doesn't want to sugarcoat it, doesn't want to say it in any other fashion. It's true. He shot him in the head. Louis looked Morgan in the eye and shot him in the fucking head. "His men—his pathetic excuse for security—watched as I stood toe-to-toe with him, they watched as I pulled the gun out, they watched as I pointed it, and they watched as I pulled the trigger. None moved an inch to stop me."

"They never even hesitated to drop their weapons. That day I learned the biggest lesson of all: that once the leader is dead—doesn't matter physically or not—his men die with him. They were already dead. They did not fight for Morgan because Morgan did not want to fight anymore, himself. He had already lost everything—there wasn't a prize for him to fight for. He had already lost everything and he lost himself to me." Louis breathes out his exhaustion, a silence present in the air that smells like a deceased Christmas, the redolence of cinnamon and sugar in the air mixing with Harry's sanitized hospital scent.

They were supposed to be happy.

Yet here they are, Louis explaining Harry how he killed his father. How fucking romantic.

"Mark," Harry says suddenly, tears no longer present and face blurred between the lines of uncountable emotions and none at all. "What about him? You said you had been taking the lead for the past three years when you killed Morg-my dad. What happened to Mark?" He interrogates, nothing but dislike in his voice for the man that Louis shamefully has as his father.