-Harry's POV-
The next morning.
"No, I don't think that he even rea- what the hell!" shrieked Louis as he walked in the front door to our flat. I was still on the floor, I had slept there, too distraught to carry myself to my bedroom. I heard the faint gasp of someone else, as Louis knelt down beside me, but I didn't care all that much about who it was, "Harry, what happened?" My best friend asked, placing a comforting hand on my back, trying to shake me out of my daze. His eyes widened when he saw the bloody beanie that I was still clutching in my fist.
"Oh, my," mumbled a feeble and innocent little voice, to which I recognized right away as Eleanor. Her heels clicked against the wooden floor as she rushed to Louis' and my side. I knew how bad it must have looked to the pair, me laying there on the floor with a bloody beanie in my hand. For all they knew, I was mugged, or raped. Or both.
To ease their worries, I rolled over, mumbled a few incoherent words, and wiped my tear-stained cheeks. Louis' face visibly relaxed when he saw that I was responsive and not suffering from some sort of head injury, as did Eleanor's. She met my tired eyes with a sweet smile, but I couldn't bring myself to return the gesture at the time being. She didn't seem to mind.
"Don't you ever scare me like that again, Harold Edward Styles!" Louis said, sounding strangely a lot like my Mum, as he slapped me on the arm. It wasn't enough to really hurt, but it was enough to make me wince a bit. Eleanor placed a restraining hand on him, warning him to be gentle with me and my fragile state. He brushed it off though, knowing that 'gentle' would get him absolutely nowhere. If Louis wanted answers, he was going to get answers, the stubborn bugger.
"Harry, come on, you can tell me anything, man. What's wrong with you?" he asked, the two helping to prop me up in an upright position. Eleanor knew that I probably wouldn't say much with her right there, so she got up and made her way to the kitchen. Ellie and I were close, but not enough for me to spill my guts to her. She realized that and respected it, to which I was very grateful. I listened as she moved about the kitchen, turning the tea kettle on. Bless her sweet little heart.
All at once, the memories of the previous night flooded my head, sending a sharp pain right to my temple. I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to will the thoughts away. I didn't want to think about it anymore. Louis still stared at me expectantly, waiting for my answer.
It was hard for me, harder than you can ever begin to imagine. I always told Louis everything, and vise-versa. Every little detail, no matter how trivial. If my grandmother died, I would tell Louis and he would be with me at the wake and the funeral in case I needed someone to talk to. If my sister was sick with the flu, I would tell Louis and we would be driving out to Cheshire to bring her soup. If I had a hangnail, I would tell Louis and make him fetch the toenail clippers. He was my best friend, my confidant, my partner in crime.
But this was something that I just couldn't tell him.
Along with my internal war with myself, I wondered idly how Jill was doing, if she was okay. Had she made it home safely? Or had she spent the night at Liam's? I'll admit, the act she had put on for him was Tony worthy, and I knew in my heart that Liam would never catch on to it. He was extremely naive, especially when it came to other people. I'll bet he even thought he was doing a splendid job at hiding his feelings from us, that fake smile whenever we went to signings and interviews. He probably didn't think anybody had caught on, but I knew.
I never addressed him about it considering the two of us didn't always get on. I never felt that it was my place to bring it up to him, so I just let it be, watching him slowly grow more solemn each day. Until he met Jill, that is.
