we'll live to tell the tale (l.s.)

my body doesn't feel like home but you did

tw// self harm (scratching) , blood , eating disorder , self hatred

this is prob the last chapter in the hospital arc. it might be bad and rushed and repetitive and stupid but i'm having a rough few days so i'm sorry. maybe i'll revisit it later after everything is out. 

time passes but memories don't.

take care of yourselves, you are loved. maybe i'll be taking a break for a day, but also probably not. need something to tire me out at nights haha. but again, maybe they're lower quality. let me know what you think. please. 

-

louis hated himself for expecting harry to come back. but what was he to do? the boy came back every time in the past. he didn't want to think that this time was going to be any different.

but expecting something already meant that he'd fallen into the trap that was trust and hope, something that he'd sworn never to be tricked by again. yet, here he was, a blue tray with two mini muffins, mushy canned oranges, and the thick brown liquid in his lap, alone, wishing he wasn't. it was 8 o'clock and harry wasn't here. and he'd never been late before; always at louis' side by 7:30 right on the dot.

it shouldn't have hurt so badly when the curly-haired boy did not return with wet apologies, but it did. louis knew he fucked up, that he was finally too much for even harry to handle. it's not that he didn't see it coming—he did, it was bound to come eventually, but nothing could have prepared him for this so early on.

he couldn't even touch the muffins. they looked obnoxiously sweet, with dark blue chunks of blueberry. moist and sticky, like they would stick to the roof of his mouth. just thinking about the texture and the calories made his stomach churn.

the blue-eyed boy felt tears threatening to spill over, only for him to blink them away. he didn't have the right to cry, after he'd driven away the best thing that happened to him with his own foolishness. if only he were better at hiding how fucked up he was, how worthless he was, then maybe harry would still be here. but he couldn't do that to him; he couldn't lie to harry, who was the embodiment of everything beautiful in the world, who smelled vaguely of vanilla and old books and hand soap.

so maybe this was for the best, he thought.

harry had left his copy of the beautiful and the damned on louis' bedside table, and not having anything else to do, deciding that trying to eat would be a waste a time, he began to flip through the book. it was filled with post-it notes that had sloppy, large handwriting scrawled all over them. it was endearing, and he almost smiled, briefly forgetting that harry was to be a figment of the past, and not someone whom he should fond over.

it was one of louis' favorite books, though of course harry had not known this upon picking it to read while accompanying him in the hospital. a hopeful story with a somber ending, like how real life usually turned out to be. youth makes everything look so sparkling and rosy, only for things to slowly gray as time takes over. eventually, the only thing that would provide that rose-colored lens would be drugs and alcohol. everything that you love will inevitably leave and you will realize that dreams are destined to break. there is no real warmth in this world.

louis' skin itched to be ripped open mercilessly, desperate to feel something other than this dull ache; to punish himself for hurting harry in the process of losing himself. it was true: he ruined everything good that went his way. what was pure always became tainted.

there were still scabs lining his thighs, all the way from his lower abdomen to nearly the knees, which he picked at like a hungry animal, yearning for the spillage of blood. he didn't stop until he realized his hands were covered in a thin layer of sticky warmth, satisfied at the work he'd done. the nurses didn't notice until he grew even more frustrated, hyperventilating as a result of craving something more than just the stubs that could hardly even be called nails. a razor, a pushpin, a letter opener—anything.