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

everything god owes us

tw// mentions of past abuse , implied sexual abuse/non-con/rape , vague suicidal thoughts , mentions of self-harm 

god, i don't know how much i like this chapter. it took me a long ass time and the poem in it is part of something i wrote, so it's kinda yikes. the density of each paragraph kinda lessens as it goes on, which is weird. like it goes like: ............. .. . . . . . .. .    .   .       . . 

if that makes any sense at all. i feel like this is a lot of rambling. just PLEASE LET ME KNOW WHAT YOU THINK I NEED GUIDANCE. 

i don't know if all these issues are too repeated and getting old or boring but this is jsut how things always functioned for me. i promise after this chapter, it gets smoother and closer to recovery.

i honestly don't know how to write recovery well-- because i'm not completely there yet. so please bear with me. my writing is shit, god. i'm sorry. like i wonder if i am moving too slow yet too fast or if my plotline just doesn't make sense or if it doesn't feel real or natural or if i go into too much detail about shit that doesn't matter or if this is even emotional as i want it to be or if too much is happening and not enough fluff or if i haven't solidified their relationship so it just feels hollow; i don't know. help

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he didn't really think about where he'd go before he walked out the door; all he knew was that he had to get away before he allowed himself or harry to do something that they'd both regret. he didn't want to be the source of harry's tears, not again. he hated that he had already been on so many occasions. the worth of his entire being wouldn't add up to that of a vial of those beautiful tears.

so he drove. he went as far as the world would take him, eyes still burning. but since no one else was with him, he didn't have to hide it. being around harry all the time was exhausting in its own way; feigning okay-ness was a different kind of taxing than simply not being okay.

he didn't usually drive to calm down. when he felt like this, he'd always find himself slouched in the bathroom trying to find a way to breathe again, clawing at himself as if open wounds would circulate air to his lungs. being here, now, was far more liberating, knowing that he could simply pull the steering wheel and everything would be over.

it was nearing two in the morning, but there were still cars out and about; more than louis would have expected. the city was still completely bright, as it always was, outshining the stars with its artificial light. as he was passed by others, he became increasingly aware of the fact that each and every person had their own life, their own problems. it was dizzying to imagine; he was never a self-centered person who saw the world as something that revolved around himself, but the idea that there were so many minds working, so many people living and struggling as he was; it scared him.

the night's events played again in his head: harry's voice, shaking like the leaves that had already fallen outside, his fists, balled up and ready to hurt him with just a single neural impulse, his eyes, watery and greener than ever and exuding this painful hatred. toward louis or his illness or himself, he didn't know, but it had terrified him.

he was used to those eyes. jean had showed them to him all the time, though a much colder and bluer version. and it would always result in the same metallic taste in his mouth and the same throbbing in his abdomen.

in truth, for just a split second during that argument, he saw jean standing in front of him, with his slicked-back dark hair and snake-like features telling him that he would be better off as old soil. when the memories began permeating every aspect of his consciousness, it had become too much—the very force that drove him out of his own flat.