Undone, Undress (Larry Stylinson)

seventy-seven

Four days later, a day after the new year begins, Harry signs the lease on his new apartment.

He's been searching all week, and is insanely relieved to have finally found one. He calls his mother to tell her the news and sort out the financials, and when he gets off the phone, his face is pale as a ghost's.

"Everything alright?"

Harry doesn't answer. He crawls onto Louis' lap and curls up on him. When Louis looks into his eyes, he finds they're far away.

Harry hasn't dissociated in a long while, but that doesn't mean Louis has forgotten what to do. He holds Harry for a while, stroking his hair and whispering basic facts to him: It's Tuesday, January 2nd. You're in our living room, sitting on the couch. Your name is Harry, and you're twenty-one years old. My name is Louis.

He nods along like he's taking the information in but not processing it. Louis leaves shim briefly, for just a second, to run to his bedroom and grab the stuffed animal. He sits back down on the couch, letting Harry lean on him, and hands him the bunny.

"I'm alright," he whispers in a detached voice. Louis can tell just from the look in his eyes that he isn't alright.

Louis hums and strokes Harry's back, giving him a makeshift massage. He doesn't mind sitting in silence for a while, as Harry drifts off. He just wonders where Harry goes, when his eyes turn a little bit foggy, his movements sluggish. He wonders what Harry thinks of, and if his mind is peaceful. If it doesn't hurt so bad when he's away. Every time he drops back down to reality, Louis wants to ask, but he never does.

When Harry dissociates, he turns completely compliant, willing to let anyone do whatever they want to him. Louis uses this as a mechanism to coax Harry into bed, to sleep it off. Sometimes sleep is the only remedy.

Around midnight he wakes up from a nightmare, one Louis didn't hear. He had been surprisingly quiet. He pads into Louis' room with his bare feet on the wood floor and crawls into bed with him.

"Thank you for taking care of me."

Louis nods, letting Harry snuggle up against his chest. He rests his chin atop his head, deciding to ask. "Do you remember much when you dissociate?"

"Sometimes. I can always- I mean, I always know what's happening, it's just doesn't feel real. And sometimes I forget as soon as I come out of it, like the time you first saw me. With the pole. But I always remember you taking care of me."

Louis smiles at him, trying to ease his nerves. "Is there anything else I can do to help you?"

"I like when you hold my hand," Harry admits. "And when you pet my hair."

Louis smiles at him, feeling something tugging on his heart strings. "I'll have to do that more often, then."

"Yes, please. Can you do it right now?"

He tangles his hands in his hair and runs his fingers through the curls like he's done so many times before. It has become a soothing gesture for both of them, the physical touch calming Harry, the methodical movement calming Louis.

"What did you dream about?"

"Do you really want to know?"

"Always."

Harry fiddles with the front of Louis' sleeping shirt, twisting the fabric nervously in his hands. "It was very vivid. I don't usually have vivid dreams, or if I do, they don't make much sense."

"But this one made sense?"

Harry nods. "It did."

"What was it?"

"Roman, I think. I couldn't see his face. But it felt like him."

"Do you dream about him a lot?"

"Kind of. I don't know." He sighs, pressing his nose against the column of Louis' throat. "He raped me."

Louis' gut clenches painfully and he feels sick instantly. "What?"

"In my dream. He raped me. It was... It was very distinct. More distinct than in real life. I said no very clearly, and he did it anyways. Usually in my dreams, I don't have a chance to say anything."

If Louis was a psychologist, or perhaps a dream analyst, he would say that maybe this is a good sign. Perhaps it means that Harry's psyche feels more in control, that he has more control over his own life, and it's translated into his dreams by finally having a voice to say no. He isn't there yet, not completely recovered, as indicated by the fact that he said no and it didn't work. But it's progress. It's something.

Louis isn't a psychologist though. He's not a dream analyst. He's still stuck on the fact that Harry dreamed of Roman raping him.

"Lou?"

"Yes, love?" he asks absentmindedly. His fingers are twiddling with the fabric of Harry's shirt, smoothing it out over and over again in mindless repetition. The familiarity of it soothes him, as does the warmth of Harry's skin beneath his touch.

"Is it wrong?"

"Is what wrong, darling?"

"Is it wrong if I liked it?"