Legacy // H.S

7.

TW// mentions of sexual assault. it's very brief, but it comes up in conversation. please skip it if it makes you uncomfortable. it's more so to do with the idea of guilt of blame in moments of trauma. ily all. so so much.
*

'You're face to face

With the man who sold the world'

*

I decided to visit Louis today. Alone. I knew if anyone else came he'd probably end up angry and defensive, but with me, at least he has one person to shift the blame onto. And I'm not against it, because I agree that George died because of Hugo's obsession with me. There are many things in life I know not to blame myself for, but this, this one thing that seems to have shaped our lives far more than anything else, seems to deserve some self-loathing.

Harry dropped me off around five minutes ago, and since then I've been staring at the door, too scared to knock. I know that he'll refuse to answer, our calls completely ignored in the time since we last saw him. I know that he'll probably be as angered as he was when George had just died. It's been a month since then, and it still feels like a fresh wound. If I look close enough, I'm sure I'll see the cuts and scars. Small marks littering my body and representing every pain we've felt these past months. All the lives we've lost and the people that have been taken.

But a wound or scar doesn't feel like enough. It doesn't seem to commemorate or justify anything. It only serves as a reminder, something to cut deeper into our souls as we try to control the trauma and grief we feel.

Louis must see them wherever he goes. Not just on his skin or staring at him in his reflection, but on the walls of his home and the pictures he's forced himself to look at. Constant flashes of a life that was taken from him because the love of his life is gone. I hoped after our last visit he'd open up a bit more, not necessarily move on, but at least leave his house. I thought he'd be open to conversations and company. But I was wrong.

It was naïve of me to even consider such a thing, given how drastic and sudden George's death was. Their relationship was private from all of us, but it's become clear how deep the feelings were.

After some time, I find myself ready to knock, noticing the small black and white cat in the window staring at me.

Knock knock knock.

No answer.

Knock knock knock knock.

Still no answer.

Knock knock knock knock knock.

He's ignoring me.

Instead, I pull out a knife, anticipating being able to pull off the same trick Harry did when we came here. I push it into the small gap between the door and the frame, hoping to jimmy the lock somehow. Twisting the knife, it only gets stuck, my hand locking as I try to pull it out the wood.

Giving up, I decide other methods. I notice a small rock near the door, a few of them laid out for décor, and pick it up. Without another thought, I throw it through the glass panel near the handle, wrapping my hand in the cardigan that had been tied around my waist to push the other shards through. Once clear, I reach through the new hole and carefully unlock the door, his curses heard through the hall.

He comes into my vision as I manage to open the door, his eyes wide when I step on some glass. 'What the fuck, Atlas?'

I scoff, tying my cardigan around my waist again. 'Don't act like you have no money to fix it.'