Undone, Undress (Larry Stylinson)

nine

Saturday mornings used to be a specific phenomenon Louis never really experienced. Partying late every Friday night meant he usually slept well into the following afternoon. Now, with his new relaxed habits, he's finally experiencing the true beauty of a gentle, peaceful Saturday morning.

He's sitting on the armchair with a cup of earl grey tea warming his hands. He's back in a fresh pair of pajamas, his hair still wet from his shower after his run with Clifford. Clifford is sleeping soundly on his lap, satisfied from the morning's sufficient exercise.

Everything is great. He has all weekend to study for his exams and analyze some of the data he recently acquired from his research at the lab. He should probably have a decent amount of time to himself, too, to do what he wants. Right. So everything is great, except... Except he can't stop thinking about what Harry said last night.

He hurts me.

Daddy hurts me.

Louis manages to forget it every so often, but every few minutes the words find their way back into his mind and he cringes uncomfortably, feeling shivery and worried. The thing is, it's not very hard to understand. Louis is just desperately searching for any alternative that isn't as horrible as the glaringly obvious translation of Harry's words.

Petting Clifford nervously, he squints at the TV and tries to distract himself with the news. It doesn't work. He ends up wondering if Harry is talking about his actual dad, or a boyfriend he calls Daddy. Either one is plausible. Either one is disturbing. The point is that someone is hurting Harry. Present tense, not past tense.

It makes sense. What did Louis think, anyways? This isn't a shock. Obviously someone is hurting him. Louis had just blithely, ignorantly hoped it was a one-time thing.

Harry stumbles out into the kitchen around ten o'clock, very obviously hungover. His hair is a rumpled mess and his eyes are tired. He's wearing everything from last night except the socks. Louis wonders what he thought when he woke up and saw what his drunk self wanted to wear. He carelessly digs through the cupboard, searching for painkillers and not finding them right away.

By now Louis is exceedingly nervous, stomach twisted in knots. He displaces Clifford, rearranging him on the chair, and tentatively enters the kitchen. As soon as his bare feet step onto the hardwood floor of the kitchen, Harry tenses, spine straightening and muscles tightening. Harry looks back at him briefly before continuing to rummage through the medicine cupboard.

Louis taps his shoulder in passing to get his attention, saying, "Bottom shelf." Harry flinches but recovers quickly, finding the bottle of pills at Louis' directions and popping three in his mouth. The recommended dosage is two. He swallows them down with a swig of water, hands shaking.

"Alright?" Louis asks softly, setting the kettle on the stove. He braces his fingers against the counter and keeps his back to Harry, finding himself unable to face him.

"Yeah, fine. Thanks."

"Mhm," Louis hums, wondering how to bring up what Harry said last night. Now obviously isn't the time. So when, then?

Harry sits down at the kitchen table with his water bottle in his hands. Louis can't see him but he can imagine it, with the sound of the chair scraping against the floor. He can imagine him staring blankly at the table top, wringing the bottle through his hands in heavy contemplation.

"Did I..." he starts, hesitating, voice deep and raspy from sleep. Louis waits patiently for him to continue but still cannot find the strength within him to turn around to face his roommate. "Did I do something last night?"