where its Harrys funeral and Louis has to go home alone.
Louis' POV:
Faded cologne and a hint of mint; that's what I smelt when I walked into his closet. It was the same smell that I was enveloped in every time he pulled me close while our naked bodies were tangled beneath the sheets at night. It was the smell that brought me comfort when things became too hard, and he was there to ease the pain with just a gentle touch and a look into those ever loving eyes. It was the smell that became my security blanket, shielding me from every worry and fear that seeped like poison into my mind. It was the smell that would begin to fade in time now that he was gone. It was him.
I carefully touched each of his sweaters upon the rack, committing the feel of each one to memory, images of him wearing them played behind my tear filled eyes. There were times when I'd tease him about his eccentric wardrobe choices, but now I'd do anything to have that back. I'd never see him in his favorite Rolling Stones t-shirt that had too many holes to be appropriate, but he wore it anyway. I'd never see him bundled in his knit gray sweater and green beanie, lounging on the couch with his journal that he kept hidden from my curiosity. I'd always ask what he wrote about all the time, and once in a while he'd show me a poem or song he'd written, but others he'd brush off with a kiss and a smile, before getting lost in a world of words and ink stains. That very same journal was carefully placed on the bed side table, waiting for me to read it. I wasn't sure if I would ever be ready to, now. I yearned to read what was written within, to try and figure out for myself why he left me. But I wasn't ready to face the dark thoughts that haunted him, not when my own were crippling me from the inside out.
I took hold of the black sweater he always let me wear around the house, loving how big and comfortable it was, and walked out of the closet and into our bedroom. It was cold without his warm presence to bring the house to life. Everything felt empty, making me realize even more that he was my home. It wasn't the furniture we picked out together, or the bed that we shared. It wasn't the pictures on the wall or his books on the shelf that made this a home. It was him. He was what I came to every night after work. He was what protected and sheltered me from the outside world. That home was broken and I couldn't even pretend to have the strength to put it back together.
Looking across the room to our large white bed, I couldn't help but picture him in it. The first time we moved in together, boxes stacked along the walls and hallway, all of which were irrelevant to that same bed as he picked me up by my waist, never breaking our kiss, and gently eased me down. It was our first night in our own apartment and all we did was get lost in one another and the fiery passion between us. I could see him sleeping peacefully beside me each night, his wild curls scattered across the pillow, cheeks flushed, his perfect lips pursed as if deep in thought, once in a while letting a soft few words slip out; he looked like a dream, one that I always wanted to be a part of, but was just left to look on in wonder and admiration. He was every bit as beautiful in those moments as the first time I met him five years ago.
The last image of him was one I never wanted to remember, though was the hardest to forget. It seemed like a lifetime ago, and not only a week. A week I had been without him. A week without hearing his honey voice tell me he loved me, before whispering goodnight. A week without seeing those eyes that seemed never ending in their depth and sincerity. A week without his embrace, and boyish smile to brighten my rainy day. A week without hearing that laugh that filled me with a happiness that only he could provide. A week since I had lost everything when I walked in on his lifeless body laying on our bed. The same bed we shared so many memories on.
