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

14.

•••

"Stay," Harry whispers desperately, pressing his lips to Louis' temple like he can somehow ease the pain that's blooming there, but he can't make the pain stop and no matter how hard he tries he can't make Louis stay.

"Wish I could," Louis whispers back, pressing himself closer to Harry, leaning into his touch.

Harry wonders if he holds Louis close enough, he can keep him forever. He promised Louis a long time ago that he'd always protect him. Always, except he always thought that would be protection from something physically, tangible, except now this thing killing Louis is a part of him and all Harry can fucking do is sit back and watch as his boy gets worse and worse.

He's so scared, because it's the first time he's made a promise to Louis that he's realized he can't keep.

Louis' quiet lately. Not because he's shy or anything — it just takes him a little longer to process words and it's even more draining for him to speak in complete sentences all the time. He still talks, sure, but a majority of his communication most days is via smiles and nods and head shakes. He's been using their thumbs-up signal recently, too.

Harry doesn't mind. Sure, it's weird not having Louis' sweet little voice filling up the halls, always an uncontrollable ball of energy, but. He's still soft and cuddly and cheeky and here, and that's all that matters.

He starts off every morning by asking Louis, "What color are you today, boo?"

It's a system they've come up with, like traffic lights, because three colors are easier for Louis to keep track of than individual emotions.

Green is a good day, when Louis is alert and in the mood for company and cartoons and maybe even pancakes. Yellow means okay. Yellow means, "I'm okay, but I might not be later," or vice versa. On yellow days, Louis is a little slower; it takes him a little longer to speak, a little longer to process Harry's words. Yellow means no company and quiet music and cuddles and lots of tea. Sometimes, on yellow days, Harry reads to him, keeping his voice low and even, fingers tangled with Louis'.

Red is a bad day — red is when the pain in Louis' head is almost unbearable, it's radio silence and Louis taking as long as ten minutes to answer a single question, or sometimes not at all. Red is Harry spooning ice chips into Louis' mouth because he can't handle anything else. Red is Louis clutching onto Harry like he's a lifeline, like he's the only thing keeping Louis here.

Today is a red day. Harry can tell right off the bat, because it takes nearly twenty minutes to get Louis awake and somewhat responsive, and even then his eyes are fluttering like he's physically incapable of keeping them open and it makes Harry's heart aches, how terribly weak he looks.

By early evening, though, after the sky has shifted from blue to pink to purple, Louis' red has dimmed to yellow. Harry can tell; Louis is much more alert, he has the energy to walk to the toilet by himself (Harry escorts him anyway, despite Louis' weak protests that he's not a child, Harry.) He's cuddlier, too, snuggling up closer to Harry when he reaches out to run a hand through Louis' hair.

Louis lays on his side, eyes trained on Harry's. Harry gazes back, unflinching — he knows from the look in Louis' eyes that he's truly here, really looking at Harry. Just observing, like he's trying to remember every detail of Harry's face. Harry doesn't mind, though; after all, he's doing the same.

Feeling a sudden surge of affection, Harry smiles gently, placing a hand on Louis' forearm to make sure Louis is present, grounded, and holds out his other hand in a tiny wave, waggling his fingers. Hi, I love you. Warmth spills into his gut when Louis nods — he saw, he's here, he's here with me, Harry's relieved mind chants over and over again — and gives Harry a little thumbs up, corners of his mouth quirking up and he doesn't have to speak for Harry to know what it means.

I know. I love you, too.

•••