Louis can’t sleep.
He’s laying awake, limbs cold yet coated in a chilly sweat, crisp sheets sticking to his skin, and his hands lie open and empty on either side of him, resting against the frigid mattress.
“Behind every exquisite thing that existed, there was something tragic.”
“Louis Tomlinson”
He stares at the ceiling, dark and barren yet pompously elaborate—just like the rest of this fucking school.
“Behind every exquisite thing that existed, there was something tragic.”
“Louis Tomlinson”
His heart is thudding deafeningly. It must have migrated to his skull because it keeps pressing against his ear drums.
“Behind every exquisite thing that existed, there was something tragic.”
“Louis Tomlinson”
Is Niall home yet? He hasn’t heard the door.
“Behind every exquisite thing that existed, there was something tragic.”
“Louis Tomlinson”
Is Harry home yet?
“Behind every exquisite thing that existed, there was something tragic.”
“Louis Tomlinson”
Is Harry currently obliterated, mind, body, and spirit, being supported by a slew of soulless tarts that paint themselves in Versace and Chanel? Is he in a ditch? On a bathroom floor? Is he already sleeping peacefully in his bed? Is he smiling? Is he sad? Does he realize Louis’ not there? Does he care? Does he care about anything?
“Behind every exquisite thing that existed, there was something tragic.”
“Louis Tomlinson”
Yeah. No. Louis definitely can’t sleep.
**
Louis wakes up to a thunderous tune on the piano—Tchaikovsky?—far too early in the morning. But he doesn’t even care, just continues to lie in bed and stare at the ceiling. He refuses to think about the note.
The note.
The note that he wrote. The note that he wrote that is currently tucked in Harry’s journal with his name on the back. He refuses to think about all of that because it doesn’t even matter because Harry ignored him last night, erased his presence from his life, and he was the empty, preening shell that he always is. Nothing changed. Harry hadn’t changed.
“I CAN’T CHANGE” flashes through Louis’ mind, writ on Harry’s fair skin. Hah. Ironic.
And fuck.
Too many thoughts.
And text messages, he notes as he picks up his phone. He sees Zayn and Liam’s names repeatedly—never Harry, of course—but doesn’t bother reading the small text, just unlocks his phone and searches for the one person that can help him right now.
It rings once.
The piano stops.
“Tommo,” Niall’s voice greets from the phone and the other side of the wall. “Where you at, mate?”
“My bed.”
There’s a chuckle. “This again? You hungover or somethin’?”
“Not even.”
“You all right?” he yawns. A piano key dings.
“No. Come lie with me. I’m in a dark place.”
