Hold me close {{Larry one-shots and drabbles}}[ON HOLD]

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There is this dull thudding in his head- a pain that refuses to go away, the kind that makes him want to screw his eyes shut and will the pain away.

But it never does.

Harry is almost positive that he’s never going to be all right. Because somewhere, along those happy, carefree days he forgot that he was running out of time.

But now he has and it’s terrible.

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Louis can’t breathe, his lungs struggling to breathe under the onslaught of water. It’s his tub and it’s easy for him to reach towards the surface but he doesn’t because he can’t.

The pills have done their work, you see.

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Harry thinks he’s being pulled apart bit by bit until there’s nothing left. The questions are endless, taunting him of what he’s missing, what he will be missing. But he doesn’t say a word, keeping his eyes trained on the ground, wishing for the millionth time that it was a nightmare that would be over as soon as he woke up.

But the thing is he wasn’t waking up.

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 HarryHarryHarryHarryHarryHarry.

The name’s repeating itself like a fading note in Louis’s head, the water stifling him every minute and he tries, he tries to move up, move his arms , thrash his legs but they don’t work- weighed down by the effect of the pills and the water that’s filling the tub.

It’s excruciating now, every breath he tries to take is like a red-hot knife to his chest and Louis stops fighting- he stops resisting the pull of the water and he just stops.

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It’s stifling in the room, the heat crawling underneath his skin and Harry wants to get rid of his suit, he wants to rip the piece of paper clutched tightly in his hand. Words couldn’t make up for the gaping hole in his heart and his life, they couldn’t compensate for the fact that he was bereft of the only thing he wanted.

Harry wants to see Louis once again, but the casket’s closed and that’s not right to Harry. Nothing seems right to him- not the crowd assembled in black, sombre and dabbing their eyes, not the brightly shining sun, not the way Louis’s favourite sweater is folded up carefully on Harry’s chair- still smelling of Louis- the way it seems so wrong when he can’t feel that familiar presence next to him.

It’s not right at all.

 Nothing is.

And Harry is sure that it won’t be.

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It’s settling now, the water’s encasing him in a bubble and his pathetic attempts at breathing have failed. His head is cloudy, blurring around the edges rapidly and his heart is stuttering as oxygen gets cut off.

The last thing he feels is the familiar pressure of Harry’s lips on his own.

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