A Walk in the Park--Larry Stylinson

On The Stage

"Louis . . . Oh Louis," Harry said on a breathy groan. He bucked into Louis' hand.

"Patience," Louis reminded him, as he tried to slow his own roll—with hard-won success.

And then, just like that, "I'm scared," Harry was turning pale, and Louis knew he was remembering . . .

"That's why I said patience. I don't want you to get any . . . flashbacks."

Whoops. That had been a dim-witted thing to say.

"I already am, a little bit."

"That's why you're so pale. Look, let's just talk more. There aren't any rules or deadlines here."

Louis removed his hand, and Harry watched. He actually looked thankful. It was too intense for him right now.

Louis' inner voice had been right—Harry hadn't been ready. His instinct had told him Harry needed a turtle's pace offered to him. Damn! He felt bad now. Louis had started out with good intentions, but his hormones had tried to take charge. He felt ashamed. He really did need to start letting Harry take over, as he had planned at one time. He was just so naturally a leader type of person. And with Harry being a characteristic follower, Louis had harbored a dim hope that it would work out. But it hadn't. That was the reality.

"I'm mad at meself. I told meself you'd be the one to pursue me, not the other way 'round. And look what I just went and did? I took over."

Harry was nearly despondent. "It's not your fault. I got caught up in it too."

"It'll be massively great when you're ready . . . but you're not yet."

Harry nodded his acknowledgment.

Louis noticed Harry had broken out into a cold sweat. Despite that, he was also covered in goose bumps.

"Oh, poor Haz," he said without even thinking that his words might sound less than manly. He didn't care; fuck it all. Harry and his feelings were all that mattered.

"You might have a touch of PTSD from that bastard," he said of Troy, but refused to utter the bottom feeder's name.

Harry didn't say anything. He just slid off Louis and onto his side of the bed.

"I'm disappointed in meself," he murmured.

"Disappointed? How?" Louis was trying to control the rush of emotions—the strong desire to protect Harry.

"I keep frustratin' you. I think I can go through with it, and I think about it all the time, but when it comes down to it, I don't think I'm prepared for this."

"Harry," said Louis, a sudden brightness shining behind his eyes. "Would you be opposed . . . I mean, you wouldn't be upset if I arranged for you to . . . see someone?"

"See someone? Like who?"

"Like, a therapist, counselor, psychiatrist or sommat. I get 'em all mixed up in me head. Anyway, someone you can talk to freely about us, and your possible PTSD."

Harry's forehead was creased in thought. "You think I'm mental?"

"No! Of course not! England's fucked up. They attach a stigma to things like this. But here in the US, people are much more willing to get help when they need it. In fact, when I was decidin' if I'd leave the corporate world or not, I had to see someone, and I was on meds for a while there."

"Really?" Harry looked very open to the idea, not close-minded like so many people would be, and, frankly, that is just what Louis had expected of him. Harry was receptive--willing to listen to what he had to say.