Where We Belong

Chapter 18

He doesn't move off the coffee-table. He stays seated there, legs tripping under his elbows, face in his hands. He isn't crying anymore. Maybe his body's gone into some sort of shock-state, prohibiting him from doing anything, saying anything, prohibiting him from anything but sitting right here, listening to Harry rummage around in the other room.

He has no idea how long it's been when Harry finally comes out, but his thighs have gone numb where he's kept his elbows rested.

"Lou," Harry says, and it's weak, small, like part of him doesn't want Louis to look up.

He does anyway, and it hurts, a bit like a stab to the chest. He's got the biggest duffel they own strapped across his chest, barely zipped all the way round with how much clothes he's frantically stuffed it with. He's in a hurry to leave and not come back for as long he can manage.

"Well," is all Louis manages to say. He swallows down please don't leave me, please please please, stay with me, even if we're miserable, please just stay, because he knows that if he didn't, if he did ask any of that, Harry might say yes. And it'd only be out of guilt.

"Well," Harry says, cutting his eyes away from Louis, down to his shifting feet. The crooks of his mouth are twitching like he's fighting not to cry. "Tony's downstairs, so... I guess I'll get going."

Louis nods, even though Harry doesn't see it. A sudden pain in his palm warns him that he's been digging his nails into it a bit too hard, for a bit too long without realising. He ignores it. Presses down harder. "Goodbye, then."

Fucking leave already.

Fucking stay, please, baby.

"Okay," Harry says, like he's just made his mind up once again, "okay, well— okay. Okay." He makes a clicking sound with his mouth, shifts weight again, says, "okay" one more time and then turns and heads out.

There's a tumble of shoes and keys and sniffles in the hall, then the door opening, then silence, suffocating stretched-out silence, and then finally movement again. Then the front-door closes behind Harry.

And, for the first time in eight years, Louis finds himself alone. Really alone.

*

Four hours after Harry's gone, Louis hasn't moved much at all, except for shifting his bum from the coffee-table to the couch and getting up on the odd occasion to have a piss or a smoke. He hasn't cried since the door closed behind Harry, but he hasn't eaten or even so much as smiled at his favourite episode of The Office when it came on, either.

Mostly, he feels like he's stuck inside a bubble. Maybe it's because he hasn't spoken to anyone, maybe it's because his mind won't let him accept the fact that Harry's really gone, his subconscious taking over as a sort of self-preservation.

Maybe he's just emptied every last alcoholic beverage they had left in the flat.

He's drunk enough to feel numb, but not enough to feel stupid enough not to know how much he'll hurt soon as he sobers up.

He considers popping down to the corner shop, stocking up on smokes and drink and all the other stuff that Harry would've frowned at him for indulging in at home, inside, when he was here. He's a free man now after all, with no one to tell him what he can and can't do, he thinks bitterly, as he stumbles around looking for his wallet.

Maybe he's a bit drunker than he thought.

He ends up knocking backwards into the armrest of the couch and then just letting his entire body fall down with it. He'll buy his substances in the morning. It's a Sunday tomorrow and he's got it all to himself anyway.