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

until the sun explodes

tw// self harm , mention of eating disorder , mention of past sexual trauma 

hi, i'm trying to get this moving tbh. but recovery really does feel like one step forward and two steps back at times. hopefully with next chapter things will start looking up. 

i'm still in search of where to take this. follow me on spotify, too lol. my music taste is lowkey pog; if you read this fic, you'll prob like it lol:
https://open.spotify.com/user/hto3erfdv4x0iqbf1blq3zh2w?si=pDREdj-vT0Oz1krcEaptrw

and twitter: @louflymehome

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before the two even had time to think about the therapy session that would include both of them, they first had harry's gig lying in wait, inching closer as minutes passed.

harry grew more tense in every passing moment—it was going to be a small, unremarkable reception, with just regulars at the bar which he was going to perform at, but he was nevertheless worried for his first show. louis rubbed harry's back until he saw green eyes flutter shut, praying that no frightening dreams were there to disturb the boy's much needed rest. if there were any way, for just one night, he were allowed to endure both harry's burden and his own, he would. where harry's uncertainty was coming from, he didn't know. there was no doubt in his mind that harry would really find himself onstage, singing his heart out to an audience that'd fall in love at first sight. that's what happened when harry first sung to him, anyway.

louis wondered if it was futile to hope that the boy in his arms would stay in his pressed against him forever, because there was no doubt that he would outgrow him, and eventually fail to fit. he would find some other person that he fits in and around better.

so when sleep refused to come over him, he rolled out of bed for a smoke; not before pressing the cigarette into his arm until he could feel the skin physically sizzle under the heat. it was his own form of liberty, of justice—one that simultaneously numbed his mind yet sharpened it. every exhale of smoke he also exhaled the worries that plagued his mind. he didn't care if it was going to kill him; hell, he'd rather it kill him, if anything.

it was a sick thought, but he would imagine himself slicing off layers of his own flesh, all the way to the bone, and grilling the slabs like meat. he didn't know what about this was all that appealing, but it was. he hoped that his body would be put to good use once his soul was finally set free.

not that he believed anything of the sort, anyway.

the idea of going to a nightclub nauseated him. he wasn't sure what'd possessed him when he dragged himself to a dirty pub on that first night he'd met harry, but the fear, since then, had amplified tenfold, at least, especially after the incident at the party. he couldn't not go, and he really, truly wanted to, to be as supportive a boyfriend as harry always was for him, to watch people cooing and awwing at the boy he knew was his, to be the first one to see that broad smile that would surely blossom into harry's cheeks as he gleamed with success.

but the feeling of another man crawling up and down his skin with a slimy tongue and cold, cold, cold hands always stuck in louis' mind like parasites, burrowing about and making homes in the fissures of his mind.

he lit another cigarette and pressed it even harder into his arm, closing his eyes and relishing the pain like it was something to be milked and enjoyed. this is better than cutting, it must be better than cutting. he remembered now, how at home his fingers felt, nestled deep in his throat.

louis closed his eyes and could see an imprint of harry's face and how deeply some of the lines were set in it, how tired he looked. he was tired because of him, he gave up everything for someone like him. it was sickening, really, how selfish he was, how audacious it was of him to take, take, take, and never give back. this was the least he could do, to at least be supportive of his boyfriend's success.