Mute Larry Stylinson Harry!Mute

Sunday 8

Sunday 8

It was the early hours of Sunday morning when Louis reached the front door; he guessed it was around 2 in the morning, but he couldn’t be sure. There was still a little alcohol tainting his brain, but after the phone call from Anne he had most definitely sobered up. He pushed the no-named boy away from him after he’d processed all of his thoughts into correct categories, sorting out everything the conversation consisted of so he could decide how to act on it.

What he decided to do, was firstly, get the hell out of the club. That once euphoric atmosphere had disintegrated into a suffocating, cramped aura which pressured down on Louis’ mind and soul, and he couldn’t take the thumping bass rupturing his thoughts any longer. He sped off through the crowds, forgetting about his companions who were grinding in the crowd somewhere or sticking their tongues down some girl’s throat.

The fresh air hit him like the phone call did: a full force which shot right through to his veins in a bid to evaporate any intoxication flowing freely. It smacked down on his skin, filtering through it to capture that buzzing, joyful feeling from the alcohol and trap it within a capsule of worry and guilt.

He wandered past the pulsing club, past the lines of kebab shops, past the off licence and over to the little patch of grass by the artificial hills. They tried to make it look more scenic, add a rural touch to the grotty area, but it didn’t really work.

He sat himself down and wrapped his arms around his body, rubbing at his exposed arms to keep in the warmth which radiated off of his skin rapidly. Forgetting that it was potentially dangerous to do so because it was the middle of the night and pitch black other than the street light, Louis let his eyes flutter shut and he rested his forehead on his knees.

He just wanted someone to decide everything for him. He just wanted someone to slap some sense into him before he entered the club. He just wanted to pray to whichever god out there that he wouldn’t have caused more harm than good. He thought it was fine. He thought it was alright when he said it, regardless of his heavy heart at the time; the alcohol made him think it was fine. But it wasn’t, obviously, and now he regretted it more than anything.

Visions of a broken Harry cut through his heart with a sharp sting. They sliced it open and let all the love he held in his heart float away, because if he broke Harry, he didn’t deserve to love anyone. He’d have broken an innocent being, a fragile object.

And then Louis got angry at himself. Before, he was just annoyed at himself, guilty. Now, however, he was raging inside. He wanted to kick himself, punch himself, scratch out those words that left his mouth so he could never say anything of the similar again. He let out a loud groan of frustration, his fingers clinging at the roots of his hair in pure fury. Why did he do it? What right did he have tosay that?

Because he was scared. That was the reason. Because he was fucking scared.

He was a coward.

The confession to himself didn’t seem to relieve of the tight hold guilt had on his heart, but it soothed his mind with a light brush of its caring admittance. He knew where he’d gone wrong. It wasn’t like he was oblivious; he wasn’t stupid. And the confession made him feel at least a little better because he wasn’t denying the fact he’d done anything wrong and he was being truthful to himself, not like he had been before when he spoke those heinous words.

Once Louis had basked in the cool air for long enough to decipher his thoughts to an appropriate standard to decide on what to do next, he rose from his spot. Creaking his bones as he stretched to try and rid him of the final alcoholic influence on his body, Louis stumbled over to the road and hailed an oncoming cab. Telling the taxi driver his destination, Louis slouched in the back seat and leant his forehead against the cool glass. The bumping of his head off the window each time the car went over a pot hole didn’t do the lingering dull ache of a headache any good, but he couldn’t be bothered to move. He watched the flashing lights whizz by him, blinding him momentarily before zooming by.