hoping this cold blue water scrubs me clean and spits me out again

6.

•••

"The results of the tests will take a couple of days at most," Dr. Allen says when they're all finally done, and Louis is truly half asleep. "We'll let you know."

Louis is too sleepy to say anything, so Harry steps in for him, shaking his hand firmly. "Thank you, Doctor."

Tired as he is, Louis doesn't miss the way Harry's eyes flicker towards him, the darkest he's ever seen them and burning wild with fear.
They never actually use the word cancer. Or maybe they do, but that isn't until they've already used the word glioblastoma, grade four which is somehow a thousand times worse as they stare blankly at the light box on the wall, displaying Louis' MRI results and he's certainly no expert but the white mass invading his frontal lobe isn't supposed to be there and his entire body is shaking, mind racing because it all makes sense. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

Louis doesn't even have time to react before Harry is blurting out a shaky, "So what are the options?" His hand tightens instinctively around Louis'.

Not many, it turns out, because Louis has cancer and it's of the incurable, brain-eating variety and fuck, when did it get so cold in here? He can't stop shaking and the whole world is spinning. Dr. Allen is still talking, tight, grim smile on his face and Louis wants to punch it off because he's using words like bad, but not hopeless except it is hopeless because, well. He can have them poke around in his head and feed him drugs through plastic tubing but the gist of this entire conversation is that he's going to die.

"They were supposed to be just headaches," he whimpers helplessly, wanting to disappear when Harry lets out this little choking sob next to him, hand curling around Louis' arm and tugging him close but Louis tugs back. He doesn't want anyone to touch him. His skin itches, like he needs to shed it all and start anew. He wants to sink into the ground and disappear into the very core of the earth, to become part of the soil and rock and grass, to exist everywhere and nowhere simultaneously.

Instead, he stands up slowly and says, very quietly, "I think I need to puke," before walking out of the room and stumbling down the clean white hospital hallway to the bathrooms, locking himself in a stall and clutching the porcelain basin with shaking hands. He doesn't puke, though - just sits there, body heaving but never quite enough to get him to empty the contents of his stomach and god, he wishes he could because dread is coiling in his stomach like rope and he presses his forehead to the toilet seat.

It's gross, but he doesn't care. It feels suddenly like all the life has drained out of him and he sits there, limp and emotionless for a long, long time until Harry is pounding on the door, begging him to let him in. His voice is loud and broken and Louis can tell he's been crying. It feels like the entire world is falling away around him and when he finally opens the door, shaking like a leaf, he collapses into Harry's arms.

"'S gonna be okay," Harry whispers into his temple, smearing tears into his hair. Louis isn't convinced, but he follows Harry back to Dr. Allen's office anyway because what the fuck else is he supposed to do?

Once they're settled back in the uncomfortable plastic chairs and Harry has pulled Louis' chair so close he's nearly in Harry's lap, the doctor smiles professionally. Louis wonders how many people he's had to tell they were dying. He's probably had lots of practice, from the look on his face, but the guilty look in his eyes betrays him. Louis' stomach churns violently.

"So, treatment," Dr. Allen begins again, folding his hands on top of the stack of papers on his desk. "The most common path is surgery; we can get a better look at it and remove a good portion of the tumor that way, though how much we're able to remove is hard to determine at the moment."

Louis doesn't want to hear it. Harry is listening raptly, though, and Louis almost expects him to whip out a pen and start taking notes. The thought makes him want to cry. He drifts in and out of the conversation, all too aware of the knobs of his spine pressing against the cold back of the chair and that his left sock has slipped off his heel, leaving his foot cold and uncomfortable. Drifting back to the present, he tries desperately to tune back into what the doctor is saying."...chemotherapy is always an option," Dr. Allen says, lips pursed, and Louis' heart is in his throat. "Unfortunately, it has proved in the past to have very little effect on the life expectancy or even the comfort of brain tumor patients."

There's a low, guttural moan then and it takes Louis a moment to realize he's the one making it.

"Again, Louis," Dr. Allen says, and Louis flinches because up until now he's only been addressed as Mr. Tomlinson. "It's all up to you."

"Can I..." Louis begins, feeling the ache in his tummy grow and come crawling up his throat, like it's going to pop out and glue his mouth shut before he can finish but he pushes on, desperate to get the words out. "Can I have a few days to think about it?"

The doctor nods. "Absolutely. However - as is with all forms of brain cancer - time is of the essence." Louis knows he's seen and heard this a hundred times before. How many dead people does this guy know? Louis wonders. How many death sentences has he given out?

"Do you want to talk about it?" Harry asks on the car ride home, eyes rimmed red, chewing his lip worriedly, and reaches out to rest his hand over Louis'. Louis tugs away, almost instinctively, but the look of hurt on Harry's face is enough to make him rethink it.

"Not really," he mumbles, pressing his nose against the glass and slipping his hand back into Harry's. A beat of silence, then, "What about the band?"

"Fuck the band," Harry snaps and Louis almost laughs at how very unlike himself Harry sounds right now. "Sorry," he adds quickly, eyes apologetic and a little embarrassed. "It's just, you know. You're more important."

"That doesn't even make sense," Louis snorts, rolling his eyes. "They're not going to like that." He doesn't need to specify who they are. Harry knows.

Squeezing Louis' hand, Harry says, "We'll figure it out."

•••