Little Things // A Larry Stylinson Faniction

Four

He's gone. I'm left sitting on the bathtub alone. I hear the front door shut, him obviously leaving the apartment to probably get shit-faced. I slowly walk out to the living room, willing the tears not to fall from their perches.

"Well, that didn't go as planned," I try to say jokingly, but my voice cracks, and the boys look at me in pity. They know what happened. They knew what was happening all along. Maybe I just didn't want to admit it. The tears are washing away my fake smile as everything comes crashing down. 

"Mate, come sit down," Liam says, patting the empty spot on the sofa next to him. All three of them just look at me, saying nothing.

"Oops," Is all I can manage. 

I think it's been a few hours now. They've all left, so I'm just sitting on the sofa. I've sat in the same spot for the whole time, not really knowing what to do with myself. Everything feels weird. My body is tense. The air is tense. My lips. On his lips. His soft touch. His ocean eyes. Him. Him. I want him. I need him. 

I wake up. Make tea. He's still not home. I turn the TV on, watching whatever channel it was last on. I watch it, but not really, listening to the quiet morning chatter going on outside. Helios has gone into hiding today, rain pelting down against the roof and windows. I am lonely, bathing in my solitude, not exactly sure what to do with myself. I decide to go back to sleep, no purpose for me being awake. My eyes lay open, watching the ceiling. I shiver from the cold, so I wrap my blankets around me tighter. But the coldness is coming from my bones, seeping from the inside out. I close my eyes, counting sheep, counting anything, and then I'm counting the minutes I've gone without Him. Even as my eyes are closed, I can see his smile, and then I can see the look on his face when I kissed him. He closed his eyes for a millisecond, and then realised who I was. I can't erase the picture of his disgusted face when he pulled away, his eyes full of terror. He's straight. Why did I do it? 

I give up on sleeping, and decide to listen to music. Astral Weeks comes chorusing through the speakers, lifting my spirits immediately. I play guitar in the air, the imaginary strings singing loudly for all. The rain is still pelting down, but this time, it is dancing on the roof, tenderly brushing the gutters. My feet sweep the floor, a harmony of dance moves translating into my feet. I get this feeling in my gut, but I ignore it. For now, I savour this moment, knowing it will be ruined the second Louis burst's through the door. But I still have time, so I take what I can get, singing the melodies and chorus of Madame George. I belt it out- even though it's not really a song to belt. I inhale as much as my lungs let me, just about screaming the words, when my phone calls. I dread it. What if it's Louis calling to say how much he hates me, and wants to move out? What do I say? I can't really blame him, to be honest. 

I pick it up, and see it's an unknown number, so I answer it cautiously.

"Is this Harry Styles?" The caller asks. I reply affirmative.

"Do you know Louis Tomlinson?" They ask, I answer, dread once again settling in my gut.

"We have him here in ICU. He had his stomach pumped last night, and has been unconscious for most of it. We haven't been able to identify him until this morning. Can you come in as soon as possible to help us figure out what's happened." I am frozen. Stomach pumped? ICU? Unconscious?

"Wait, what? Why?" I press, forever fearing the answer.

"Alcohol poisoning, along with severe malnutrition." The words aren't exactly surprising, but they still hit me like a bus. Have we really all been this blind? That Lou had to end up in hospital before we realised anything was going on? I resent myself for a few seconds, before telling the nurse that I'll be there soon.

It's a scary drive, silence eating me up, except, I'm not alone, all my biting thoughts and comments echoing in my skull. When I get there, I feel like my feet are made of lead, their heaviness dragging up the steps. I don't want to see him, especially not like this. I should've called Liam or someone to come and help. I go up to the receptionist, explaining who I am, before she whisks off into the maze-like hallways, begging me to follow her, so I do.

"He's been moved out of the ICU, as he is in a stable condition, but he still needs to stay here for a few nights so we can make sure not too much alcohol got into his bloodstream-" He got shitfaced last night; I knew it- "and we need to discuss the right paths for him to take from here, as he is obviously suffering from a lot." It's like a bucket of ice in my face. How, just how were we so blind?

When we finally arrive to his room, it's unreal. His body is a sickly yellow, and his cheekbones are protruding, the skin taut over his bony figure.

"Louis," I whisper, as I take in the full extent of what he's done to himself.