The day had already been monumentally shitty. The worst of the worst days. An absolute steaming-pile-of-crap day. So, really, it was only natural to finish it with a perfect cherry on top - his call from Death-Cast.
He was alone when the unmistakabl...
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𝙻𝚘𝚞𝚒𝚜 𝙳𝚎𝚌𝚎𝚖𝚋𝚎𝚛 𝟸𝟷𝚜𝚝, 𝟹:𝟷𝟺𝚙𝚖
Louis knew what had happened long before he heard the scream. He saw the flash of red hair that was there and gone before he could even blink and he heard the sickening crunk of a human body making contact with the hood of his car. He was weak in the knees, too scared to even breathe, as his husband escaped his grasp and left the safe fantasy of the car where Louis hadn't just killed a boy.
He heard Harry's cries - heard him begging Louis to come help - but Louis was frozen, unable to move or breathe or even think because if he thought longer than half a second, he would break down. He would collapse, curled into a ball and hyperventilating like a child because there was no fucking way he just did that.
"Louis! Louis, please!" Harry's sobs were muffled, but they reached Louis just fine and every raspy syllable was another dagger to his heart. He screwed his eyes shut and clenched his jaw so extremely that he felt his teeth grind together. There was nothing he could do. He was glued to his spot, and, anyway, Michael was... Well, there wasn't much Louis could do for him.
"Louis, he needs help!" Harry screamed desperately. "Louis, please! Hurry! He's coughing up blood!"
He's coughing up blood? 'Coughing up blood'? People only cough up blood if they're still alive. Dead people don't cough. Dead people don't do anything. That meant Louis hadn't killed him. Louis wasn't a murderer.
He was up and out of the car in a split second, the engine still humming behind him as he ran around the hood, only to stop in his tracks at the first sight of what was waiting for him.
Whatever he was prepared for, it wasn't what he found. Not at all. It wasn't his husband cradling Michael's bloody head in his lap, nor Michael weakly and pathetically surging as blood oozed from his lips. Not the way his leg was bent sickeningly to the right, nor the way blood was slowly seeping onto the pavement beneath his head. And most certainly not the way this kid was looking up at him with half-lidded eyes, each breath slower than the last, not angry or scared, but just sad.
Louis turned away. He couldn't do it. He couldn't look at this teenager - not even twenty years old - dying right before his eyes because of him. The thought of it had him running to the bushes on the side of the road and throwing up the limited food he had in his stomach. His throat felt acidic as he kept retching, even when there was nothing left to come back up. His legs trembled under him and his body held a certain heat that can only come when you're moments away from passing out, the corners of his mind going fuzzy and painfully blank as his breaths shortened and he felt like falling over. He was ready to give into the darkness and let unconsciousness save him from this nightmare when he heard the small, shaky voice cut off every few syllables by a gurgling choking noise.
"I didn't know he was dying, Harry. I didn't- I didn't know. I'm sorry. I didn't protect him."
