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

say it with dignity

tw// eating disorder , mentions of self harm , mentions of sex

hi this is bad sorry bad 50th chapter sorry fuck hahahahahhahah. please leave comments they are my fuel

twitter: @louflymehome

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it was after the second time he had to speak of his past in front of harry that he remembered again that harry didn't have a complex relationship with sex like he did. harry saw it as something pleasurable, desirable, beautiful—as most healthy people would. it wasn't that louis didn't know that sex is something so crucial to relationships, he did. but he also knew that it wasn't something he could readily provide.

and he hated that part of himself.

he hated the part of himself that told harry everything about what'd happened to him and what he done. he hated the part of himself that shook as harry's hands even suggested faring anywhere close to between his legs.

somehow, he wanted to find ways to repay harry. for robbing him of the joy that usually came apart of being young and having a relationship.

he woke at three a.m. exactly one week after they had the talk together with tom. this week, he went by himself again, but had trouble stringing into words what he really felt. he described what hurting himself meant to him, and how he couldn't see himself stopping. but if it meant making things easier on harry, he was willing to at least try to make it less frequent or hide it better.

when he came to, he was surprised that he even fell asleep in the first place. it'd been weeks since he was able to sleep before four, and the fatigue was really beginning to take a toll on him. it was thursday, and he hadn't used up the one-day-a-week pass he allowed himself to hold harry tightly whenever he wished for someone to rip him apart.

so he did, and felt the warmth radiating off the boy transfer to his cold skin, which he couldn't quite understand why it was cold. he had been sweating so much, from who knows what, since he didn't remember dreaming about anything.

sometimes, his dreams were gentle arms that he feared would strike down upon him, sometimes he would even hope that they would. but not these arms, these arms would inch closer to him, slowly and unthreateningly, and lay gently on his head and shoulders. you're safe, they would say.

the next night, he found himself pressed up against harry again, despite already having done so the night before. he didn't know what it was in him and he couldn't really conjure the energy to find it in himself to figure it out, so he allowed himself this, if nothing else. he allowed himself to curl up against harry's chest and feel his arms around him again, half-conscious fingers stumbling through his tangled hair and damp back.

the warmth made the feelings inside of him burn even brighter and stronger than ever before—not just the ones that loved harry, but the ones that craved harry's nails to dig deep into his skin, as well. the ones that told him that he didn't deserve this kindness, that craved for someone to treat him like the scum he is.

louis wanted to peel himself out of the sheets to administer the pain that no one else would, but he knew that harry would wake at his moving out of bed after he'd already established their places against each other. he missed jean more than anything, in that moment. he missed how jean would treat him like he had no place in the world, like he was an unsightly stain on a beautiful painting.

something chained him down, though. a force larger than just the fear of disturbing harry. it was exhaustion, he recognized. something that told him, aren't you tired of doing this to yourself? aren't you tired of not allowing yourself anything?