Isn't it what you wanted?

We're becoming something else I think it's time to walk away.

Louis doesn't sleep that night, and things aren't much different when related to Harry.

The whole time he spends in that house, after the argument, is a living hell. Not because of Harry, no, but because he knows he's hurt his soon-not-to-be husband, and also because the sobs coming from him can be heard from the living room, where the couch is. Consequently, Louis has to hear all the crying without being able to stand up from that shit and running to their room, to hold him tight, whispering sorry, I'm so sorry I fucked this up.

But Harry isn't the only one who cries, either. The feathery haired man dreams wide awake, remembering every single moment they lived together after that night in the campus. Louis doesn't think he's ever cried this much, which is weird because he should be fine. He finally got to tell Harry that nothing is the same, that he's met someone new, that he's better than him. Well, not directly, but that scene his husband saw, after a long day of work, screamed all those things without Louis having to say a single word. But it all hurts now.

He stands up from the couch when he's tired of trying to sleep. It's four am, the watch says. Louis doesn't really feel his heart beating, or the pain when he presses the lightened part of the cigarette against his wrist. He doesn't really feel anything at all.

There's a rolled joint inside his pocket. The one he was going to use with Zayn before he even got to his knees behind the closed front door. His throat burns at the thought, and he suddenly has a headache. Eventually, he takes the lighter. "Don't get your hopes too high, get high," he thinks to himself before he takes a drag of it.

Louis makes his way to the bathroom that they built for visits, closing the door. His pupils are dilated, he realizes when he sees himself in the mirror. Louis doesn't think he's ever looked that bad in his whole life. There are bags under his eyes, his eyelids are barely open, his hair looks like total shit, and he's thin. He's too thin compared to the first time he saw Harry.

His mind screams at him: "why is your reference always him?" He doesn't really have the courage to admit that it because he is his home. That's why they got the ship and compass, anyways. He is such a coward.

His wrist starts burning when he gets under the shower and turns the hot water one. Louis doesn't really bother to turn the cold water one, also, wanting to feel the pain corroding his body. He kind of deserves it. "Isn't it what you wanted, Louis?" His mind whispers.

He slides down the wall, the burning liquid hitting his limbs like shattered glasses. Sharp. His eyes close as another memory comes to his head.

"Good morning, curly." Louis smiles at the shorter boy, who doesn't look up.

"Morning, Lou." The familiar broken voice says.

"Hey, are you okay? Did you sleep well, or couldn't you sleep again?" He questions then, but Harry doesn't say a single word, only turn his face to Louis and smiles falsely at him.

"It's just not a good day, Lou. I'm okay, really." He says, trying his best to sound convincing, even though he knows that Louis knows him too much to even believe a I'm fine.

"Are you cold?" Louis asks. He's always found it so weird that Harry wears those sweaters nearly all the time even during the summer, but he's never really bothered to ask him why he does it. It's not like he could be harming himself, is it?

Louis notices how Harry's Adam's apple goes up and down for a second. His throat closes after that.

"Harry?" He calls him as if he's hypnotised by something, as if he's lost. "Harry, why do you keep on wearing sweaters during the summer?" He asks him, licking his own lips and biting the inside of the bottom one so hard he can feel the metallic taste of blood. "Harry." Louis gasps, eyes filled in tears.