all our younger years (l.s.)

8: the end.

Harry's mum called him on Saturday morning, when they were two short days away from Louis moving into his uni dorm.

He'd hesitated briefly before answering, only for a split second wondering what the hell he was going to say before he picked up the phone, took a deep breath, and spoke, with Louis watching him carefully from where he was lounging on the bed.

"Hey, mum."

"Harry. Where are you? You haven't been answering my calls. Are you safe?"

"Yeah, mum," he sighed, tiredly rubbing a hand over his eyes. They'd spent all of Friday out and about, first at brunch, then sightseeing, then exploring Liam and Niall's uni campus while they met with friends or professors or whomever, then an early dinner at a loud, greasy pub and they'd ended the night clubbing, creating a meticulous fake ID for Harry and staying out until it was well past midnight.

If Harry's mum only knew what he'd been doing. She'd skin him alive.

"I'm safe," he added. "I'm with Lou."

"Where are you?" she repeated. Her voice sounded worn, weary; she hadn't slept. Harry felt a wave of guilt course through him.

"I...I'm in London. Staying with Louis and his friends. I'm fine though, I promise."

The other end went quiet, so only Harry could hear was faint breathing. Louis stared at him.

"Mum?" he asked tentatively.

"We're all worried sick," she told him quietly. "You need to come home. Both of you."

"I know," he murmured. "I know. We are. Tomorrow. We're driving home tomorrow. I'm sorry."

"H," she said. Was silent for a moment. "You need to come home. Now."

"Tomorrow," he muttered painfully. "We'll be home tomorrow afternoon."

"No, love," she strained. "Jay's in hospital. You need to come home now."

Harry felt the blood drain from his own face, watched Louis sit up straight and lunge for the phone in his hand.

"Anne," he started. "It's Louis, I-" He cut off suddenly, his mouth open, stuck on the word, breath caught in his throat as all of him froze. His face paled, turning white.

"Okay," he whispered. "Okay. We're coming now. We're on our way."

He handed the phone back to Harry and started to furiously open drawers and stuff things into his backpack. He moved robotically, no emotion in any of his features. Not now.

Harry took it upon himself to alert Liam and Niall. With a few words, they were frantically collecting their keys, pulling on mostly acceptable clothing, grabbing plastic bags and shoving in snacks for the road.

"Move quickly," Liam told him, kind eyes drawn together worriedly. "We'll be in the car. Louis' car."

When he returned to the bedroom, Louis was zipping up his backpack, tossing Harry's clothes into his duffel. The boy's eyes were damp, but he swallowed the tears down, sniffled while racing around the room.

"Lou," Harry said firmly, trying to snap him out of whatever mental breakdown he was having. "Lou!" Louis paused for a split second, not meeting his eyes. "Slow down, love, yeah? Just...Liam and Niall are in the car. We're gonna get there soon. Everything's gonna be okay."

"You can't promise that," he mumbled. "You can't."

"I can promise that a few hours won't make a difference in how your mum is, okay? We'll get there."