young and beautiful || larry s.

chapter 33

Not with you.

The courtyard is a blur around him.

Not with you.

His feet pound the grass in dull clumps, smack against stone and echo in time to:

Not with you.

Almost-warm air slaps his face, assaults his hair.

Not with you.

Clusters of voices ooze in and out of the blood pumping in his ears.

Not with you.

He sees the door to his flat coming into view, he feels the air ripping his lungs apart, hears the fragile pounding of what's left inside.

The keys fumble and clank but they fit in the lock and he pushes it open with his shoulder as hard as he can because he just needs to go inside, he needs this door to open right now and he needs to leave.

He wants to go home.

That's all that he wants.

That's all he can think about.

Well.

Not all.

Not with you, Louis.

He thrusts every visible article of clothing into his bag (and there are a lot-he's never pretended to be anything but a slob) as he blinks back the tears that are already soaking his face, making him shiver under their wet, accusing trails. He locates his iPod and his phone and his jacket and his Toms with the frayed rips on the sides, his lips burning with memory.

Everything's burning.

Everything's cold.

He's dying in fire and ice and yes, he has a right to be dramatic right now because his fucking soul is splitting apart and he has never, ever felt this horrible before.

Maybe some people aren't made for love. Maybe some people aren't strong enough.

Swallowing his choked sobs and humiliation and fucking memories-the feel of Harry's soft hair and softer skin and the deep, rumbling purrs that escaped his throat as he pulled Louis to him, pulled Louis-that burn, memories that send fresh sobs and heart constrictions and strike Louis, making him wince. He hauls his bag over his shoulder, not even pausing to scribble a note for Niall-who is, thankfully, still at the boat race, celebrating his sure win. He can just text him later when everything isn't so raw and fresh and bleeding, barely held together by broken strings.

Without a second glance or thought-thoughts are so painful right now-he shuts the door, heaving soft shuddering breaths, eyes red-rimmed, before padding outside into the mocking sun that feels too warm against his glistening cheeks.

He hears wafts of the announcer's voice, hears the thrum of a happy crowd, and takes off for the nearest train station.

**

When he arrives home, he does something he hasn't done in years.

Louis hugs his mum, no introduction necessary.

"Louis?" she blurts, completely taken off guard, unsure of what to do with her hands momentarily before wrapping them tentatively around him. "What are you doing here? What's going on?"

And he's crying again (or has he just never stopped?) as he holds her tightly in the entryway, willing himself the capacity to speak.

"I just needed to get away," he manages, voice muffled by the cotton of her shirt, and closes his eyes tighter, sending more juicy fucking tears rolling down his fucking cheeks. He's surprised his skin hasn't begun to prune at this rate. He's so bitter.