Filipendulous
(adj.) hanging by a thread
The thing is, you never know how close you are to an edge, you never know if you're inches from the fall or miles. He guesses that's why it's called trust.
Louis never had an issue with trust, he's had reason to but falling at 18 is too young to hold anything back.
That's where Harry comes in, all soft hands, curls and green eyes, with manners and the type of kindness that was tucked under his sleeves, freely given, no judgement of character needed.
He was something more, something that awed anyone who looked at him and that much should never be able to fit inside of a person, maybe that's why he loses more and more of himself the more he gives it away, maybe that's why he was always alone.
A person like that should never be alone.It was just over a year when Louis finally understood. Every person has a flaw. This was Harry's.
Louis hadn't noticed at first. It was tiny things, insignificant details, hints of what was to come a foreshadowing that you wouldn't pick up on unless you'd seen the end. Only small, unimportant things were left at his flat, an odd t-shirt or a pair of socks. Harry forgot to mention things, like how Louis mother had called or how he wasn't staying at Louis' tonight. And ok, he couldn't remember everything could he?
But when the hurricane inside of Harry began to take over his entire being, when it began to pour out of his mouth and his ears, he guesses he didn't want Louis to see.
And Louis didn't quite catch on, he first noticed the changes when the texting stopped. Whenever they weren't together and even when they were, there would be an easy flow of text messages. It wasn't as if they got shorter and shorter, they just stopped altogether. And double texting wasn't what he did, he knew when to give Harry space and when to let him breathe enough air inside of himself that there was no room for rain.
Two days later, Harry finally turned up at Louis flat, drunk on what looked like self loathing. Louis watches him strip watches as the shadows turn to a skin made whiter by the moon. They lock eyes in the dark and the green is black, burning up everything so that he looks something inhuman. But then he slides into the bed and the green is there, just darkened and deep.
And Louis doesn't want to ask a single thing of him, only an "are you okay?", and what a crap question that this. What does that gain when Harry's this heartbreakingly guarded and withdrawn?
So he doesn't say a word, watches thoughts spin around inside Harry's head until Harry shuts his eyes.
Louis does the same, sighs as he feels soft fingers on his forehead, the gentle motions of the hair being pushed off his face.
"Louis," and it's a soft call he can't ignore, if you asked him he'd swear that his name was said right by only one. He opens his eyes for Harry to murmur,
"I'm sorry." And Louis nods because he knows, because Harry gets like this sometimes because being human is hard.
When Louis wakes the next morning, he's greeted with cold, empty sheets and a note on the fridge that read "sorry louis." In small case and he can hear the way his name sounds, lou-is.
And he's on his knees then, realising that he's in the middle before he'd even recognised what was happening.
It happens pretty quickly after that. Messages are few and far in between, stolen moments were in the dark, few words exchanged but looks held that give him the world only for it to be taken in the morning.
A closeness like that was rare and he wonders that if it can take only a short time for spoken communication to turn to looks, how long would it take for open eyes to turn blank. He doesn't know how long he can take it, how long he'll be able to stand being in the presence of a boy who he was sure held him in every past life but only being allowed so much.
How long after you stop an addition does it take for the withdrawal symptoms to kick in?
He holds it in, lets his own assumptions boil in his blood until it turns black, until it boils and rots the inside of his body.
It was a quiet slide, like drowning peacefully. When Harry gets into bed this time there's no clumsy limbs and skin against skin. There's a rigid stiffness and a palpable agony in the air that chokes Louis when he needs to speak.
"Harry." And it rings through the silence, too loud, too much, too present.
And it fills in the gaps where his name should have been said for the past few months. It's supposed to fix the cracks but it only swells inside them and shatters the only calm they've ever known.
Harry doesn't reply, gives him a look that says please, please don't ask me to give up any more pieces of myself, I haven't got any left. Ask me in the morning, it says, wait for me there.
But he won't be there in the morning and they both know it and Louis doesn't know if this unspoken conversation is two sided anymore.
"Say it again." Harry says lowly, when such a long moment has passed that Louis thinks he's asleep.
And it's in voice, the admission is so close, dancing in the corners of his mouth so that everything almost pours out.
"I can't." Louis whispers, grinding his teeth because he sounds so weak and Harry doesn't deserve that.
"Me either." Harry finally says, so quietly that Louis wonders if he had heard him right.
And he can, he has to be able to, his name is all he wants.
"Yes you can." And it's selfish really because Louis knows what he's really saying, his name is unimportant in this. He can't. He can't just be in a life like this.
His blood is sizzling, burning so that it feels like it's trickling out of his nose, trailing down his body so he's marked by pain and anguish. It should burn through his flesh, it should burn through the sheets and the bed and the ground. It should dissolve everything to nothing. But it doesn't and Louis isn't made of anything powerful enough to even move.
In the silence that holds the moment together, in the space where a foot touches another, there hangs a guilt and if it wasn't so dark it would be seen splattered everywhere.
There's a shift of weight in the bed beside him and maybe it's the work of the gods that end up closer. And they touch now, from shoulder to toes. Harry moves first, turns and then there's arms and there's a chest and he's tucked so small in a place that there's no longer any room for him. And he should demand an answer but he can't, he can't ask for anything more than what he's been given. He presses his forehead into the warmth of an empty chest. Harry's chin rests on top of his head and it smells of failure and mint. He fights for hours against the lull that pulls him under, mouths a name over and over again into Harry's skin. He hopes in the morning the letters are seared there in burn marks that didn't hurt.
He wakes slowly, cautiously, the deep feeling of something missing twisting at his gut. Before even opening his eyes he reaches across the bed. He grips empty sheets and nods to himself. What was he expecting anyway?
He drags himself out of his bed, presses down a hand over his stomach to keep himself from splitting apart there. He walks on bare feet, shaky legs to the kitchen. He sits at the breakfast bar, puts his head on the table, something glints in the sunlight and catches his eye. He strengthens himself, lets go of the pressure he was keeping at his middle. Makes promises to himself before lifting his head and picking up the small shining object from just in front of him. He grips it tightly for a moment, hoping that if he squeezes it tight enough it will disappear. It doesn't however, and as Louis turns his hand over, uncurling his fingers, he nods to himself once more. In his palm lay a key, Harry's key. This time there is no note on the fridge. The finality of it shocks him.
