Bag of Bones (Larry Stylinson)

2

See my hands, pretty boy
What do they tell you?
'Cause I've looked down at them, not knowing why

      Louis hears the front door open a few minutes later with the rustlings of grocery bags and the clanging of keys it sounds like. Being able to recognize those noises so easily makes Louis want to cry for some reason.
      His gaze out the window shifted down to his hands wringing in his lap, though he doesn't know exactly when. He can't seem to keep track of anything anymore except for the shards digging into his guts. He clenches his hands harder as he stares down at them.
      "I'm home," Harry says quietly to the small apartment. He doesn't say it exaggeratedly yet happy like the people do in the sitcoms, but he rather says it like a self-assurance. Like he needs to convince himself that this is home.
      And that makes Louis mad all of the sudden. Because Harry shouldn't have to assure himself; it should never even be a question of whether this home is his or not. No matter how dingy their apartment is, no matter how small it is, it should feel like home to them because they are home to one another; it's their thing, what keeps them connected and going. Louis has a compass tattoo with the word "home" instead of north that matches Harry's ship tattoo because as long as they can find each other, then they're home.
      If Louis can't be Harry's home, then how can he do anything else right in their relationship? Another shard digs into Louis' guts. He feels like he's going to throw up. His eyes tear up instead.
      He hears rustling coming from the kitchen of Harry putting away the groceries, quietly humming a song to himself that he can't recognize. Louis should be in there helping put up the groceries, he should be shamelessly flirting with his boyfriend as they stow away the cereal, they should be laughing as they do dull domestic things because it's with each other. Yet Louis's still sitting on the window sill with tears in his eyes, feeling sick, and staring at his hands for some reason and he still doesn't fucking know why.
      He's fine, and he takes a deep breath to believe himself. He shoots up to stand after that, quickly wiping his eyes that got teary without him noticing, and he moves to the kitchen. It's not far, only a few steps, but it feels like the longest he's ever had to walk before. It makes him feel sick again because he should want to be in the same room as Harry.
Louis stands in the doorway awkwardly as if he doesn't know where he fits in with this image of Harry in the kitchen, because essentially, he doesn't know anymore. His mind tells him to bail, to just silently creep out and go pretend that he fell asleep on the couch waiting for Harry, but his feet stay stuck where he is. He just stares at Harry's back instead of thinking about his heavy stomach anymore because it's the only familiar thing to him.
Harry finally turns around to get more groceries when he notices Louis in the doorway. "Hey Lou," he says with a tired smile on his face, walking over to continue putting away the groceries.
The nickname slides off of Harry's tongue so easily that Louis can almost convince himself that everything is fine, that nothing is wrong, but the distance between them and their stiff demeanor says otherwise, and Louis just can't ignore it anymore. Another shard digs into his insides, although he tries to ignore it.
"Hey Haz, missed you," is all he can manage to say as he steps closer, wanting to help put the groceries away. His anxiety spikes as Harry looks at him, his own boyfriend causing his throat to close and his heart rate to spike in a nervous way rather than an excited way. Louis's not sure if he can choke out another word at this rate.
"Missed you too," Harry says quietly, seeming to try and match the fragile mood around them. Louis wishes that they didn't have to tiptoe around their own house. Another realization hits Louis no matter how small it is, which is the fact that Harry left the "I" off the beginning of "missed you." The difference is minuscule, but Louis knows how much weight is behind it because he couldn't manage to say it either. He feels so heavy.
"Sorry that I'm home so late," Harry explains as he puts away a higher-shelved grocery. Louis remembers how Harry used to tease him about how he could never reach the cabinet before putting those groceries away, but he hardly even seems to be thinking about Louis as he automatically shelves the items without as much of a word. It causes another shard to dig into his stomach and twist achingly. He blinks the tears away to keep listening. "I worked extra hours at the cafe 'cause we needed the money and then thought to grab some groceries on the way home since the list was piling up."
God, Louis loves Harry and how thoughtful and considerate he is, but as his throat closes once they make eye contact and smile small smiles to one another, he just wishes that he knew him still. He wants so badly to just fully understand the arms that he's falling into, but he doesn't, so he stays away.
"Thank you," Louis finally says as he starts to help put away the groceries with Harry. They're almost done now, but Louis thinks that it's the thought that counts. "I was planning on doing that tomorrow, but I'm glad you did it."
Harry shelves the last item and then turns to Louis a beat later, his face unreadable. Louis knows that he used to be able to read that face, just knows it, so he feels another shard dig into his gut and twist when he can't manage to guess what Harry's thinking.
"Yeah, no problem. Anything for you," he breathes out simply, causing Louis to tense up. He feels so small under his gaze for some reason, like he doesn't deserve the way Harry looks at him because he doesn't really know who he's looking at; neither of them do. Louis simply nods to hopefully show understanding. His eyes ache from holding back the tears that keep insisting on sprouting.
Harry steps closer until they are toe to toe, Louis slightly tilting his head to look into his eyes. They're so close, yet they feel miles away. Louis almost reaches out to see if Harry's really there, to see if he's actually real, but he keeps his hands at his sides.
Harry brings his hand up and gently tilts Louis' head a bit more to bring their lips together easily, this being one of the most familiar things to the both of them. Louis brings his hands up to mirror Harry's, but it feels forced somehow.
Louis feels his throat closing, his stomach churning, and his eyes aching as they deepen the kiss. He tries to tell himself that this is good, that this is everything that he needs and wants. Because, really, all he needs is a place to call home and his boy. But this doesn't feel like their home and Harry isn't really his boy anymore.
This shattering realization causes Louis to step out of the kiss and keep his head down toward their feet, still so close but seeming so distant. He feels sick as he wills his tears away. At least they're by the sink so he can just turn if he ends up vomiting.
"Lou, what's wrong?" Harry asks gently, and Louis can imagine the look of worry on his face. He doesn't want to worry Harry; he doesn't want any of this. He still wonders for a second if he should pretend that he's asleep just to get away from the reality of the situation. His throat closes once again to that idea as silly as it was, though, so his feet stay stuck to the cold kitchen tile.
"What's not wrong?" he hears his own voice creak out unevenly, and instantly he wants to take it back. He wants to take back stepping away from the kiss, he wants to take back ever overthinking every aspect of their relationship, he wants to take back not pretending to be asleep. Everything should be fine, they should be kissing, even having their daily sex right now, but he just had to open his mouth, he just had to give into his tearing insides. He doesn't want to be here right now. He's not sure if he wants to be anywhere.
"What's wrong? Babe, what do you mean?" Harry asks with concern lacing his voice, his hand leaving Louis' cheek to rest on his shoulder. He can't take his eyes off of the tiled floor, doesn't think he possibly could with the weight on his shoulders keeping his head down. He doesn't want anything to be wrong, he really doesn't; the last thing he wants to do is tell Harry about what's wrong with them, but he just can't ignore that he doesn't know something as fucking simple as Harry's favorite color.
      "I don't know your favorite color," Louis' voice scratches out somehow, his eyes flitting up to meet Harry's nervously. Harry's hand on his shoulder feels so heavy right now, but it doesn't ground him the way it used to when they had serious conversations. Louis wishes he could take his hand off of him.
      Suddenly, Harry's concerned face morphs into one of relief as he laughs. Louis' sadness morphs into anger just as quickly, not understanding what Harry is finding so humorous in their suffering relationship.
      "Why the fuck are you laughing?" he asks, a heat behind his voice that he hasn't heard in a while. He already feels defeated, though, as he feels so hopeless under Harry's oblivious laughter. He's falling apart in the middle of their kitchen and all Harry can do is laugh at him.
      "Because you're being silly," Harry huffs out with a smile. "It's not a big problem, babe, you can just ask me if you forget my favorite color. It happens to the best of us."
      "That's... that's not the po-int," Louis' voice cracks once again, feeling his insides shred even more as he has to explain to Harry what's wrong. The sickness lurches in his stomach again, making him feel anxious and clammy under Harry's now-confused gaze. "The point is that I don't know anything about you anymore. We're always just working or having sex but never talking and I just... I don't fucking know you anymore."
      "What are you talking about? Just because you don't know my favorite color doesn't mean that we don't know anything about one another-"
      "What's my favorite color?" he cuts off Harry's rambling challengingly. His brow creases deeply into his forehead at the interruption. Louis feels a particularly big shard dig in deeply into his insides when he realizes that Harry didn't notice their distance like he did. It's almost as if he doesn't care anymore. Louis' cheeks are wet, but he doesn't remember when that happened.
      "That's such a dumb question to make this argument over," Harry stammers frustratedly, slightly pacing now. They're far away from one another now, but it still doesn't match how far Louis feels from him. He wants to push him until he's tired. "Knowing your favorite color or not doesn't determine how much we know each other-"
      "You don't know it," Louis realizes with another stab to his stomach, "do you?" Harry stays far away as Louis feels warm tears attempt to wash over the cold tracks of the previous ones. Louis wants to throw something, to yell at Harry, to do fucking something rather than stand silently in a kitchen and cry in front of him.
      "Louis," Harry says while taking a step towards him, sounding almost as if he's treading on splintering ice the way he tests his name on his tongue. Somehow, that was the worst thing he could have done, treat Louis like he was fucking breakable and fragile. If he could take this painful drifting away, this shredding of his insides and the pounding of his head, though, then he could take anything Harry threw at him. "We can- I don't know, we can get through this. We can change our work schedules and spend more time together and relearn all of the stuff we've forgotten if it's really bothering you that much."
      Harry sounds so fucking earnest, and it only builds the bile in Louis' throat. He wishes, more than anything in the world, that they could work this out, but he's just not so sure anymore if that's possible. Louis just wants to fall apart holding Harry and cry and get over this, but he doesn't know him anymore even though Harry is all he's ever known. He takes a step back as he holds his arms around his churning stomach alone.
      "I-I... I don't know if that's possible right now," Louis' voice cracks out, his eye contact remaining inconsistent with Harry's as they dart around the room looking for something, anything, to distract him from his closing throat and sore stomach.
      "What- What does that even mean?" Harry stammers our bewildered, gesturing greatly with his confusion. Louis's not even sure what it means, all he knows is that he can't take looking Harry in the eye anymore tonight.
      "Harry," Louis chokes out as he finally keeps his eye contact with him.
      "Don't say my name like that," he says with agony carved into his features. Louis' heart hurts so badly. "Don't say my name like it's the hardest thing you've ever done."
      "I can't live like this anymore." He doesn't want to say it out loud, to admit it, because that makes what's happening that much more real. He just wishes time could stop. None of his wishes seem to be coming true tonight.
"Can't live like, like what?"
"I can't live like- I can't just keep waiting till God-knows-when for you to come home just so we can have sex and go to bed on separate sides, feet away from each other! I can't just keep waking up to an empty bed and you smoking all alone on the balcony in the middle of the night! I thought you hated smoking? I can't keep on living in the same apartment and having sex with someone who- who seems like a stranger to me now!" Louis's almost sobbing now, and Harry has tears falling down his face finally as well. As sick as it is, Louis's glad that he's crying, that he's affected by this too. "I just can't anymore, Harry."
It's silent in the room now after Louis' hefty confession, save for the humming of the refrigerator. Louis wants to slap Harry, to hug him, kiss him, push him, do something other than just cry helplessly in front of one another. His hands are shaking and his head is throbbing and his stomach is churning and Louis just wants it to stop.
"So what are we going to do?" Harry asks finally, his gaze now fixed on the floor, his glossy eyes making Louis sadder somehow.
"I think we should- maybe we should take a break." It's the only thing he can think of doing, not even being able to imagine sleeping next to Harry again right now. He needs his own space to pick these shards from his guts and assess what they truly mean to them before doing anything else. He can't just keep going on and pretending that they're not there anymore.
"Why the hell do we need to go on a break? What would we even do during our break? We can work through this, Louis." Harry sounds a bit hysteric to him now, not understanding what he's meaning. Louis really wishes that he didn't have to spell everything out for him; if would make this a lot less painful.
"I think we just need time to take a break and see if this relationship is the best for us. Maybe even see other people-"
"I don't need a break to know what is best for me," Harry interrupts, not even letting Louis get the idea out. "You're what's best for me; you're what I need, Louis. You're home."
"I know that; you're home to me too!" Louis snaps frustratedly with tears altering his view of Harry across from him. "I'm just not sure if I know what home is anymore. How am I supposed to find that in you, be that for you even, if we don't know a damn thing about each other anymore?"
He tries to recompose himself, blink the tears out of his eyes and straighten his back, but that just sends them cascading down his face and causes his back to ache along with the rest of him. He doesn't know how to act around Harry anymore.
"I- I love you, Louis. What else can I say?" Harry chokes out, his hand suddenly on Louis' shoulder again. Louis brings his hand up to put on top of his hand and squeezes it weakly.
"Please," he hoarsely whispers, "don't- don't say that. I don't know what to do with that right now. I just can't."
He takes Harry's hand off of his shoulder and rather brings it down to hold it between them. It feels like their only connection right now, like nothing else in this world is binding them together at this moment. Louis needs to wipe his eyes, but he stays holding Harry's hand instead.
"What do you want me to do? What can I possibly do to make this better?" Louis wishes that he could take the pain and hopelessness out of Harry's voice, but he knows that he's the one who caused it. If anything, he's the one that deserves to have his insides ripping apart into thousands of little pieces.
"I want you to think, not just mindlessly say that I'm what you need, but actually think about what you want and what's best for you. This relationship is just as much yours as it is mine; stop acting like I'm the one who makes the calls for the both of us." Harry remains motionless in front of him, his hand limp in Louis' grip. What's the point of holding on when the other person clearly isn't?
"I'm gonna stay at Stan's house for a while, not sure how long, but until I can understand what I actually want. I hope you do the same in this time." Louis feels as if he's speaking to a brick wall at this point, the only sign of life from Harry being his rising and falling chest and the tear tracks on his cheeks that are occasionally refreshed. Louis feels sick still, and he just wants this feeling to go away. He finally lets go of Harry's hand, wrapping his arms around his stomach again to try and hold himself together.
Harry wordlessly leaves the kitchen towards the living room, causing another shard to dig into Louis even though he didn't realize anything this time. He's just in pain now, the lack of resolve leaving his wounds raw and seizing painfully. And when he hears Harry turn on the TV briefly just to turn it back off from the other room, Louis's back to staring at his hands with tears in his eyes once again.