Hold me close {{Larry one-shots and drabbles}}[ON HOLD]

It gets too lonely

Harry reaches for the second bowl almost unconsciously before he stops himself. It's a habit he's been trying to break since God knows when. But it seems to slip right back into his daily routine no matter how many times he tries not to. It's silent like always, and Harry washes up the dishes before he leaves for work.

The television is the only source of light in the room where Harry nurses a cup of stone cold coffee, staring listlessly at the over-enthusiastic host who talks on about voting lines and things Harry doesn't care about. It's a good distraction he reckons, he's looked over towards the door just five times in the past hour.

There's no knock at the door.

He doesn't sleep much, barely a few hours before he's sitting up with his feet curled underneath the duvet as he scribbles furiously on a page.

He tears off the sheet after he's finished writing.

-------

His mother comes to visit him that weekend with bags full of groceries and a concerned frown etched on her face. He answers her questions  satisfactorily, his eyes flitting back to the door regularly. If his mother noticed that she doesn't say anything. 

She leaves on Sunday, hugging Harry tightly for a long while, her eyes brighter with tears glinting in them.

Harry doesn't know what to say.

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He places the empty bowl next to his as he eats his breakfast.  It's silent like always, and Harry washes both the bowls before he leaves for work.

He spends that evening by the door, leaning against the door staring ahead. The clock moves steadily ahead, its past one in the morning when Harry falls asleep, still by the door.

There's no knock at the door.

He's out of pages in his worn-out journal and he rifles through his desk searching for a sheet, finding one crumpled underneath a stack of books. He writes enough to fill the entire page and then rips it into pieces.

It still doesn't change anything.

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It's the fourth of May and Harry hasn't slept the night before. He sits by the door again, hand nervously twisting patterns on his shirt. He feels nervous and he doesn't know why. He waits till it's close to eight before he leaves, careful to check whether the spare key is still under the mat.

The sun shines weakly through the clouds, the sky a dull grey with a promise of rains later. Harry holds onto the lone long-stemmed rose in his hand a little tighter as he trudges up the path.

He's a little out of breath as he reaches the spot, and he collapses onto the grass, ignoring the sharp burst pain as his knees collide a little too harshly with the ground. He places the rose on the grave and whispers, "Come back home, Lou. Please."

He waits for a few seconds for an answer and then he's crying.

Nobody answers as the wind whips through taking with it every word left unspoken.

**************

title from almost everything by Wakey Wakey