Wide Awake (One Direction / Larry Stylinson)

Chapter 46

Harry's POV.

We're in London, and it's been a couple of weeks since we came out.
There was a lot of support - and, unfortunately, quite a lot of hate, too. My followers number on Twitter wavered, flickering up then down, shooting skywards then hurling downwards. Louis's was aswell. It was awfully confusing.

We retweeted the supporters, carefully ignored the haters, and thanked everyone for being there for us. Management told us to tread carefully where we went, and we knew we ought to - for, at least, the band's sake.

I won't say it didn't get overwhelming - it did. About a week back, Louis found me crying in the toilet about this Twitlonger. I won't even mention what it said, but he read it and started crying too. Liam had to come and get us and make us choke down some chocolate-chip ice-cream before comforting us to sleep.

But it's died down, and we're okay, I think. The boys've been all been tweeting a little extra in our absence, because we didn't like to stay on Twitter too long after that Twitlonger.

Mum called me, though, and we both shed tears over the phone. She told me that she was so, so proud of me, and she would never stop believing in me. Louis held me all the while.

But, anyway, here comes the problem.

Louis still hasn't told us about what Dr. Henry told him. And he's still having nightmares.

None of us have really had the guts to full-out ask us anything since coming out, but whenever I (the others are too chicken to even touch the subject) breeze over the doctor's 'diagnosis' (mostly in a mocking way towards Dr. Henry - idiot), Louis's composure and attitude is completely... regular. Normal. Like nothing happened, at all.

Though we all know something must have.

Still, Liam keeps badgering me about it. Like right now, for instance.

"Why don't you ask him?"

I hardly glance up from the TV, which is showing an article about One Direction. It's 11 o'clock at night after the concert, and the other boys have just went out for some coffee (I know, I know - why're they getting coffee at 11 p.m, it's beyond me). Liam and I are at the hotel, and he simply refuses to stop pestering me on the subect.

"Because," I say, monotone.

"Because? That is hardly an answer, Harold Styles," he retorts, scolding.

"Don't call me that." I wave the remote in his direction, both indignant and fiercely trying to concentrate on the article. There are some tour clips there, and I want to criticise my own singing.

"Well, come on, Haz!" he argues. "How hard is it to ask him what he was diagnosed with? You're with him most of the time, not that we're against it, but it must be easier for you. He listens to you! Just ask him."

I give up on trying to listen to the article, and switch the TV off. "Why don't you just ask him," I say quizzically, switching my position on the sofa so my legs are sprawled over the back of it, and my head hanging from the seat cushions. Blood rushes to my head.

"Because," Liam says, as if it's so obvious. "You're his boyfriend."

"And?" I ask, mildly annoyed. "Liam, that doesn't give me a higher status in any stupid disorder or mental illness or WHATEVER, books. He didn't want me to hear it when he didn't know what it was, he didn't want me to hear it when he knew what it was, and if he hasn't told me yet, he certainly won't tell me now."

"Who tell you what now?" Louis asks, carrying a tray/cup-holder thing with two coffees in it. Zayn and Niall chase each other in to Zayn's bedroom, where I hear laughs and pillows being tossed around.