Where We Belong

Chapter 2

He ends up sitting on a moldy wooden bench outside a train station, staring at his contact list. The only thing he managed to grab on his way out was his phone, he doesn't even have his keys or a coat. He's freezing cold, fingers stiff and trembling around the phone. He got the worst of the puke off his shoes by wiping them angrily at some bushes, but she still feels sick to his stomach, still feels like he's without any ground beneath him, like it's bad now, but in a minute, when he really thinks about it, it'll be so, so much worse.

He can't call up his mum. He won't.

He can't call up Niall and Jennie, or Zayn, or Stan and Emma, he can't call up anyone he knows who know Harry too. He refuses to let them know what's happened before he's even sure what he feels about it himself. He knows he feels sick right now. He knows he wants to puke again every time he lets his thoughts so much as wander in the direction of him with her. He isn't sure what he wants to do about it. His and Harry's friends aren't judgy shits, of course they aren't, but the thought of any of them knowing what Harry's done, knowing that he's willingly, knowingly, thoughtlessly done that to Louis because he doesn't give a shit, it makes him feel like he isn't worth shit and they'll know it too.

So, he ends up calling up the only person he can.

Fifteen minutes later, her car pulls up to the curb before him. The moment she leans in and pushes the passenger-door open and looks up at him, she sees it. She see's it in his face, whatever it is he can't hide, and she says; "oh, Lou" and, just like that, his eyes well up again.

"Can I stay at yours for a bit?"

"As long as you want," she says, "is it Harry?"

"Yeah."

"As long as you want, love."

Eleanor drives him home with the radio on low, a hand on his knee and without asking any questions he can't bear to answer right now.

It's ages since he's been in her flat, last they even saw each other over pints at the pub a month ago. It looks the same as it did last, pale grey walls, clean surfaces and expensive throw pillows. She's always treated her flat like she does her clothing choices; style over comfort.

It's always stood in sharp contrast to the way which she treats the ones around her; she's the best woman he knows. He was going to marry her once, when he was just a kid. He was going to make her his wife and she was going to be the best wife anyone could've ever wished for. He was, and he would've, until he met someone that made him see what it really meant to want to spend the rest of your life with just one person.

She took it nicely. Said she knew all along, that women sense these things. He's not sure whether that's true, but they got over it, because she loved him more than she hated him and he loved her as much as he could, in the way that he could.

Sitting here, in her sparsely decorated one-woman flat, with a handle-less charcoal-coloured tea mug in his hands and tight, tear-stained cheeks, he thinks, maybe he should just stay here forever. Maybe he could just sit right here, with a thousand pound-pillow in his lap and never think about anything outside of this little room ever again.

He thinks it, for a second. Then he can't keep reality at bay any longer. Then it rushes back to him, a massive wave of all that's just happened landing heavily on his chest.

His eyes begin to warm again, going blurry at the bottom.

"Sure you don't want something to eat, darling?" Eleanor calls from the kitchen.

He looks down into his tea, blinking it away. "No, I'm good, thanks," he manages on half a voice.

She hasn't yet asked him what happened, specifically. He hopes that maybe she'll guess it without having to be told and he won't have to say it aloud. He doesn't think he can, right now, without breaking down completely.