They say when the sun sets, sunflowers face each other. But what if there was no other sunflower to turn to? What if each sunflower had been plucked out, leaving one to its misery, lone and terrified, with no kind of its own, a cruel world in its wa...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
Harry threw up the minute he entered the bathroom, uncaring of his soaking clothes or numb skin. He heard shuffling behind him, Louis' alluring scent filling in as he wretched. His heart was beating faster than before, the bitter taste of vomit poisoning his mouth. He was shaking slightly, clutching onto the commode, feeling frail.
"Go away," Harry barely managed before heaving. He did not need Louis watch him being this disgusting. Louis had never seen him in a state like this, and Harry did not need him to. Warm tears ran down Harry's cheek as he felt his chest burn, a soothing hand rubbing his back and the other holding back his hair.
"Let it out, darlin'. Shh, it is alright." Harry sobbed lightly, utterly exhausted. He had thought throwing up was something he had long left behind, but now it was worse than the initial sickness. Louis and him were being normal for once, and of-fucking-course the rain had to ruin it all, pouring like a vandal crashing a wedding and creating chaos with its ruthless downpour. And here he was, completely drenched and shivering, throwing his guts out and sobbing as the father of his pups witnessed him at his grossest.
"I hate it," Harry croaked, dry heaving a few times before vomiting out everything he had eaten today.
"I know, love, I know," Louis sympathised, crouching down to wipe Harry's hair off his face. Harry weakly tried to shove him away, groaning as he felt dizziness wash over him, but Louis remained as still as a stone, caressing Harry, murmuring sweet nothings. Harry briefly wondered if Louis actually had a multiple personality disorder, but then he was wrenching again, nothing but pain painting his thoughts.
It went on for a while, and gradually Harry gave up trying to push Louis away. He felt unwell, grossed out. He washed his face, leaning against Louis when his vision blurred in between. And Louis held him, wrapping his arms around Harry's middle and scenting Harry. What had they become?
"I don't feel well," Harry hiccupped, brushing his teeth while Louis dried him with a towel. He did not put up much fight when Louis took off his jacket and began drying Harry's arms gently, the rest of his clothes still clinging to his body, his skin losing its senses. But it was comforting, in an odd, painful, helpless sense; Louis taking care of him, despite it all. "I think I have a fever," Louis barely hummed, placing a palm on Harry's forehead before lifting Harry's left arm, turning it a little as though inspecting. Harry stiffened, blood running cold.
There was silence and there was pain, neither of their eyes meeting.
"You did this because of me?" He sounded pained as his fingers ghosted over Harry's scars, his blue eyes dull with guilt.
"Partially," Harry whispered, it echoing in the heavy air around them. "It was a build up."
"Why would you hurt yourself?!" Harry chuckled lightly, pulling his arm away. He could not bear to look at Louis.
"It was nice," he cleared his throat, turning away from Louis. Why was it so awfully silent? "It felt nice. To feel my body hurt more for once than my mind. I did not even realise I couldn't stop." He remembered when one day he looked down at his wrist and realised how many cuts there truly were. It did not matter, though, not when he'd rather hurt himself than anything else to deal with his emotions. Sometimes, he'd cut to simply to feel something at all. Other times, he'd cut to escape feeling too much. Mostly, he'd cut because he could not stomach the memories of him and Louis flashing in his mind.
