In Too Deep (Dancing With The Shadows)

twenty five

Louis is in bed, curled up on the corner, hearing the faint thump of the beat of Harry's songs filtering through the closed door from Felicite's room, trying his hardest not to burst into tears. 

He watches the dust swirl in the light of the window, watches the breeze rustle the turning leaves that climb up the wall of the house, some leaves waving at him, taunting him that he's once again trapped himself inside.

Felicite has been here for three days now. It's been nice having someone who accepts him to talk to that isn't his dad. She shares his sorrows that Harry isn't here anymore. She gifts him ice cream everyday at three in the afternoon since he's been too lazy and hasn't got the physical or emotional energy to get up and eat. 

It's stupid, really. How much Harry has affected him since he's come here and left. 

He wishes he was with him, pecking his lips good luck before he goes on stage. Wishes he could curl up beside him for nap times and record him sing his silly little songs in his silly little recording studio. 

But he had the talk with his dad, and his duty is here. He is the one that has to help pick up the pieces of this estate before the bricks crumble and leave them in the dust. 

He sighs at the mess of it all, rolls over so the sun can't shine on him no more, brings the duvet up to his neck. The backdoor bell rings and he groans, nuzzling his nose into the cotton of the pillow, wishing Harry's vanilla scent would still be on there. But all he smells is his own banana scented shampoo.

He hears a clank from one of the latches on the doors lifting, the whine of the door opening. He hears the soft footsteps of Felicite walking along the landing and down the stairs. 

"Lou!" she screams out. 

He won't admit the nerves snaking through his veins at the desperateness from her voice, reminding him about the desperateness in Owen's eyes. He hears footsteps travelling up the stairs, a knock on his door.

"It's for you," she says through his door.

Louis huffs a sigh and stands, popping his back slightly. He pulls down the sleeves from his hoodie further down his knuckles, rubs at a tired eye and walks out his room.

It's a little chillier today, only hitting mid twenties, which is still warm, but from the plummet of mid thirties to this has Louis' skin peppering with goosebumps as his body isn't very good at keeping his temperature under control.

A flutter of hope surges through him that it could be possible that Harry is standing at the door and that's why he's been ignoring him the past two days. 

But when he reaches the door, his body sags slightly when he comes face to face with a random man with a thick moustache. 

The man smiles kindly at Louis, grey eyes friendly and warm. "Hi, you must be Louis," he greets, holding his hand out.

Louis tentatively takes it. "Yeah. Sorry, who are you?"

The man chuckles deeply in his throat. "I do apologise, I should've started with that. My name is Arthur and I've been summoned to collect you. Good timing as well. There's a lot of traffic on the M25, meaning we might be late."

Louis tilts his head, heart thudding in his chest. "Late for what?" he asks, shoving his hands inside his hoodie pocket.

Arthur's smile widens. "Didn't he tell you?"

"Who?" Louis asks impatiently.

Arthur laughs easily. "He's a little bugger. Harry! He's asked me to collect you."

Louis' breath hitches at the name. He feels like his knees are about to buckle.

This seriously cannot be happening.