Misadventure

41

Louis' POV

Harry." My stomach fucking sank like never before. "It's not-"

"It's not what?" he interrupted.

It was alarming how emotionless he seemed. I'd spent countless sleepless nights playing over scenarios in my head of how this moment would go, the moment Harry found out I wasn't actually the person he thought he loved.

I'd imagined him being angry; lashing out like that day he found out about the drinking, or that night he fought with Gemma on the phone.

I'd imagined him crying, overcome with sadness.

I'd even imagined him becoming anxious, having some sort of flashback induced panic attack, in which he relived the trauma with his mum.

But I wasn't prepared for... whatever this was. His eyes looked vacant, like his body was here but his mind was somewhere else.

My mouth went dry. This was it. Everything we had worked towards together for years was slipping out of our hands.

"It's not mine," I said desperately. I regretted the lie as soon as it left my mouth. I didn't know what else to say. I was terrified.

"Show me your arms then."

"Harry."

"Show me!" He started to shout. Then he took a deep breath and lowered his volume. "I'm sorry. Show me."

The lights shocked my eyes for a second as he abruptly turned them on. I'd put my boxers back on while Harry was still in the bathroom, but I hadn't bothered putting any other clothes on.

Foolishly, I had hoped we might go for round two at some point in the night.

Harry got closer.

He grew paler and paler. Until he was standing right beside me in the middle of the room, his gaze shifting back and forth between the track marks on my arms and my terrified face.

The thing was, my arms looked bad. Fuck. They looked really bad, and I don't think I'd even realized the extent of how severe it was until now, because Harry was seeing them. Fuck. Harry was seeing them.

I startled as his fingertips brushed the skin of my forearm.

I got goosebumps as his touch traced over a particularly bad bruise. It was at least five centimeters in diameter, dark shades of purple and yellow, and dotted with tiny spots of crusted blood from countless needles I'd buried beneath the skin.

I dreaded seeing the reaction on Harry's face, but eventually I couldn't bare avoiding it any longer, and my eyes met his for the first time since that bathroom door first reopened.

My stomach turned.

I'd been expecting by now for there to be at least some show of emotion in his expression. His eyes were glassy and seemed a million miles away. There was absolutely nothing behind them at the moment, and it was beyond concerning.

When I intuitively reached out to comfort him, my hand falling on his shoulder, he shrugged it off.

"I want to go home," he said.