petal [book 1] ❊ l.s.

nineteen - i'll always need you in front of me

Louis was released from the hospital two days later. He had two bruised ribs and a good number of surface-level injuries, but other than that, he was good as new. Even his extremely short stay at the hospital had him grumpier than usual, fed up with nurses fussing over him and his friends flitting in and out of his space.

Except for Harry. Harry had gone back to the car to grab something he had forgotten, and in the ten minutes he was gone, Louis had already started missing him.

It took him twice as long as usual to get his pants on, gritting his teeth through the pain. Most of his injuries were on his chest and stomach, and bending over made him feel like his skin might split in two from the pressure on his ribs. He huffed out a relieved breath when he finally zipped up his pants, then winced as he started to fight his shirt over his head.

"Louis? I brought your jacket. I forgot it in the car, and I thought you might want it on the way out --"

Harry cut himself off abruptly as he walked through the hospital room doorway. Louis only had his shirt pulled halfway over his shoulders. The bruises covering his torso were on full display, a gruesome pattern of green stitched into purple stitched into black. He inhaled sharply at the sight, his hand flying to his mouth.

Louis whirled around, tugging the hem of his t-shirt down before closing the distance between them. "Hey," he said quietly, cupping Harry's jaw. "It's fine. Don't worry."

"It looks really painful," he whispered, his eyes still glued to Louis's stomach like he could see through the fabric if he tried hard enough.

"It's not so bad," Louis brushed him off. His blue eyes were deep and intense as they studied the concern on Harry's face. Knowing the mental burden that Harry silently carried, Louis hated the idea of putting any more stress on his shoulders.

They had talked at length about what happened, only because Harry demanded to know every last gruesome detail: Louis had stepped out of the bar to take a call from one of his associates, and immediately, a group of hooded men jumped him. Caught off guard and outnumbered, he was on the ground in seconds. They kicked him hard enough to bruise before running off.

It wasn't meant to kill him, or even to hurt him too badly. It was meant to send a message.

"Let's just get out of here. I'm sick of this room. I want to get home."

"Okay," Harry agreed easily. He held the jacket out to Louis. "Do you want me to help you?"

Louis hesitated, but after a few long seconds, he nodded, turning his back to Harry. He waited, uncharacteristically patient, as Harry unfolded the jacket and helped him slip his arms into it.

"Are you sure you don't need anything else before we leave? More painkillers?"

"I'll be alright." He turned to face Harry again. "It's really not as bad as it looks. Don't worry yourself sick about it."

"I was already worried sick," Harry replied, forcing a tight smile. "That night in your apartment, I was just . . ." He trailed off, swallowing the lump in his throat. He had to cast his gaze sideways to avoid Louis's concerned look. "I kept thinking about the night that my parents died. It was the same in so many ways, I . . . I was alone, and I knew something awful had happened, and I knew there was nothing I could do about it."

"Oh, Haz," he sighed. He had completely forgotten about the way that Harry's parents passed away. He couldn't believe that he had let Harry suffer in silence over the past few days, caught up in his own annoyance and discomfort.

Any reservations about touching Harry were pushed to the back of his mind. Louis stepped into the younger boy's space and hugged him tight. Harry melted into him, his shaky breaths evening out, grounded by Louis's hand on his back. They stood there, wrapped up in each other, for a few long moments. Harry didn't give any sign of stepping back, so Louis just held him.