You & I Were Made For This - 1D: Harry/OFC (minor); Harry/Louis - Chapter 3
Title: You & I Were Made For This
Author: Me, imagination55
Pairing: One Direction - Harry/OFC (minor); Louis/Harry (end game)
Chapter: 3
Rating (by chapter): R
Summary: Sometimes what's in front of you is not what you should be looking for. - Harry is kidnapped whilst One Direction are in Brighton, recording music. With a first hand look at the seedy underbelly surrounding his captor, will Harry ever be found, how are Louis, Liam, Zayn, Niall and his family coping in his absence and, the biggest question of all - if they do, what kind of state will they find him?
Disclaimer: This is not true, made up, yaddayaddayadda. The beauty of fiction!
A/N: Sorry about the wait again. I still fail at writing chaptered stuff, especially since this is one of those times where the visuals in your head will always somehow be better than what's on the page. *sigh* On that note, please don't kill me either. Comments are always love. <3
Chapter 1 | Chapter 2
Freya leaves Harry waiting outside for her as she goes to retrieve her coat from the cloakroom. He stands near the entrance with his hands in his pockets, feeling a little chilly as the night settles in. When he shivers, he immediately squares his shoulders just in case Freya chooses that moment to come back and sees him acting like a wimp. Wimps don’t get cold, he thinks in determination. His thoughts suddenly lead him to Louis and for a moment he smiles when he remembers all the times Louis probably should’ve worn a coat in the dead of winter and didn’t. Harry asked him why once, but Louis had got this enigmatic look on his face.
“Magic.” he’d whispered, winking.
However, the moment soon passes and Harry’s smile fades with it. He looks at the club entrance again, telling himself he’s checking to see if Freya’s returned from the scrum that’s no doubt taking place inside. It’s pushing one o’clock in the morning and people are everywhere, spilling out of pubs and into the nearest clubs for a last shot at pulling or simple friendly enjoyment. Harry glances at his watch, taps a foot against the pavement then turns and walks into the club again before he can convince himself to do otherwise. He gets halfway to the cloakroom and then really must switch off because he seems like all he does is blink and he’s suddenly in the Ice House. He tries to spot the boys as surely he would’ve seen them if they’d left soon after he had, but it feels like the whole room is heaving with even more clubbers and the atmosphere is rowdy, jostling him about physically and mentally.
Harry finally sees a cleared space and dives for it, but his breath of relief turns into a gasp when he accidentally trips. He puts his hands out on the back of the nearest booth to stop himself crashing to the slightly sticky floor, glancing up reflexively to see if anyone saw his stumble. He’s not expecting his eyes to meet Louis’. When they do, Harry has to swallow his surprise. He sees his best friend still standing by the bar. With a hand in a blonde girl’s hair, he’s kissing her but with his eyes open, staring straight at Harry. Suddenly, Harry feels like he can’t breathe or look away as his vision narrows to just Louis’ blue eyes, watching him unflinchingly. Their kiss breaks but they’re both unfazed as the girl attaches her lips to Louis’ neck. He moves to give her better access and Harry’s mouth drops open at the shamelessness going on in front of him. A part of him tells him to focus on the girl at least. She presses her mouth to Louis’ skin, gets a hold of Louis’ shirt and tugs outwards, exposing his chest as buttons fly everywhere. Harry sees the way Louis looks at her, like he can’t wait to return the favour.
“Just be careful, alright? Make sure she’s not some tart looking to sell a story on you.”
“NO!” Harry cries, finally finding his voice.
Suddenly, Harry opens eyes he doesn’t remember closing and sits bolt upright, panting for breath. He gazes around wildly, not recognising the eggshell coloured walls or the alien feel of the bed he’s sat in. He feels cold and wraps his arms around himself, touching bare skin. Only then does reality fully set in. How last night he actually went with Freya to get her coat, how they came back to her place - here, this bedroom - and how an enjoyable night was had by all. She was perfect.
Guilty that his first thought wasn’t to look for her next to him, Harry glances to the other side of the double bed anyway but isn’t that surprised when he finds the space empty. The white sheets are rumpled from last night but touching where she slept feels cold, so she’s probably been awake for a while.
Harry presses his palms into his eyes and runs a hand through his hair, trying to wake up too. He quickly lets go of the dream that awoke him so rudely and his worries about Louis, because clearly that’s what his subconscious was referring to, and stretches fully. It seems it’s rather early in the morning with the light barely playing across the shut curtains and he still feels sleepy, but not enough to fall into slumber again alone. Besides, he should probably put some clothes on and see where Freya’s got to. Just because he can’t hear or smell cooking, doesn’t mean it’s not happening.
The thought of a pretty girl like her and food makes his stomach rumble and Harry crawls out of Freya’s bed a little giddily. He pulls his boxers and trousers on quickly, thankful that he or Freya dropped them nearby. Thinking over who it was exactly makes his head hurt and he chuckles to himself about how Zayn would probably make some smartarse quip about that, but right now he knows it’s a hangover. He didn’t get drunk as such, so the headache simply tickles the edges of his mind until he can get to the kitchen.
Plucking his shirt from where it’s draped across the lamp sat on the chest of drawers, Harry slides it around his shoulders with a smile that he can’t seem to help. His grin widens when he comes to stand opposite the door of what must be the en suite bathroom. He can’t hear anything in there either, but goes over to check by pushing the door open.
“Freya?”
When there’s clearly no sign of her, Harry moves towards the bedroom doorway. For a moment, he also stops there. He vaguely remembers that her flat isn’t that big, so she should be able to hear him from here if she’s in the kitchen.
“Freya?” he calls again, distantly realising that he still can’t hear a single sound coming from anywhere.
Harry senses movement behind him and is about to turn his head to see for sure when a hand clamps over his mouth as he’s forcefully grabbed from behind. He begins to struggle immediately and makes as much noise as he can, even though the hand tightens in warning and his shoulders protest from the wrench. Suddenly, more people - men - seem to come out of nowhere and crowd around, trying to catch his flailing limbs.
He can’t make sense of any of it, too caught up trying to escape to worry about who these hefty men are, how they got in and where Freya is but the thought of her makes him shout again. All that comes out is a panicked, muffled jumble that sounds like nothing. In a last ditch attempt, he bites the hand as hard as he’s ever bitten anything in his life and feels triumph zing through him as the person - another man - holding him yells in pain and takes his hand away. Harry’s moving his elbow to aim a jab at the guy’s stomach when muscled arms close firmly around his torso and lift him off the ground. He tries to carry him down the hallway, but Harry kicks out his bare feet as a second man directly steps in front of him.
“Fuck off!” he roars, wriggling profusely as he digs his fingers into the guy’s arms hard enough to leave marks, “Put me down, you fucking freak!”
“Oh that’s cute,” the man in front of him actually smiles.
It’s then that Harry gets a better look at him and realises in horror that he’s from the amusement arcade. It’s Freya’s father. Harry hears himself growl, kick and push his foot out hard once again. He catches him on the lip, making it split and bleed from impact. In reaction, Freya’s father surges forward without hesitation, pulls the open lapels of Harry’s shirt together to grip him easier and slams his fist straight into Harry’s face. This time, his cry of pain isn’t muffled.
Dazed and feeling the warm flow of blood gush out of his punched nose, he sees her father click his fingers impatiently. Another of the gang passes something over to him as silently ordered. Harry twitches in the first guy’s arms, but the fight is quickly draining out of him, so he can only watch with bleary eyes as he feels something sharp prick the skin of his neck.
He winces, “Ow, Jesus. What the...”
But for some reason he can’t seem to find the energy to finish his sentence. He glances up through the hair falling into his eyes and sees Freya’s father looking smug. Growing sunlight glints off the sharp object he’s still holding for Harry to see - a needle.
“You...” he sucks in a breath as the room starts to spin and spares a thought for the boys back at the guesthouse and Freya, where is she, “you...bastard,”
He valiantly makes noise as he’s gagged with a dirty rag stretched tight across his mouth, but his tongue feels heavy and the world, not just his words, feels increasingly slow. He can barely fight off the hands as his own are bound with rope behind his back and his ankles are tied together. As he lies on the floor, he tries to magically blink out of whatever drug he’s been shot up with. Determined not to cry tears of helplessness, he makes sure to use his last moments of consciousness staring right at Freya’s father and, as his eyes close almost at the same time as dark material is shoved over his head, Harry vows to kill him.
-----
Louis carelessly slams the door to the guesthouse behind him as he returns from the local shop down the road. It was still fairly early in the morning but he couldn’t resist the mischief of waking Liam up, especially since he was usually one of the first of the group to be awake and trying to hurry the others along. He glances up at the staircase, ready to run back outside if Liam decides to come downstairs and give him what for.
He’d been coerced into going to the shop in the first place, after Zayn moaned at him that they’d already run out of bread and milk.
Cheekily eating cereal with the last of the milk, Louis had shrugged. “Get off your arse and go to the shop then,”
Zayn slid on his knees and stopped at where Louis was sat on the sofa. At his sudden appearance, Louis blinked.
“I’m not dressed,” Zayn stated the obvious with a brief widening of his arms to indicate his boxers. He clasped his hands together then rested them on one of Louis’ legs. “Will you go for me instead? I’m gonna get enough grief off Liam when he wakes up.”
Louis smirked, “This must be a first, you on your knees for me.”
“I’m begging! I know it works, my sisters do it all the time!”
“Alright, alright,” Louis laughed, finishing his last spoonful of cereal as he stood, “I’ve got your back with that one. But you owe me.”
He flicked Zayn in the forehead with a smile, slipped on his Toms and walked to the nearest shop like a good friend. Louis was vaguely aware of a trio of girls in their school uniforms behind him on the way there, but hearing their giggles and quiet chatter was as far as it went. He was pretty glad - he’d roughly shoved the first beanie within reach over his hair, was almost certain he was wearing his t-shirt inside out and probably looked as tired as he still felt.
“Was that you slamming the door?” Zayn asks now, as Louis steps into the kitchen with a bag full of clearly more than bread and milk.
“Yeah,” Louis smiles, “Who else would it be?”
As he puts the bag on the kitchen island, he ignores the fact that in the time it took for him to go to the shop and come back, Zayn has decided to get dressed after all. Louis has a sneaky suspicion that it was a total con from the beginning. He looks up from pulling everything out of the bag when Zayn doesn’t answer. He sees him shrug and lean against the kitchen counter.
“I dunno. Harry? Y’know, the walk of shame...”
Louis piles as many items as he can into his arms and turns, dropping them on the counter and leaving them there because he’s not their little housewife. He laughs, “It can’t be a walk of shame, if you’ve got no shame in the first place,” then he realises what Zayn’s said and stops, “Wait. You mean Harry’s not back yet?”
He frowns when Zayn shakes his head, casual. Louis walks into the adjoining living area and waves his hand in front of the TV to get Niall’s attention. He’s sat in the armchair, legs over the armrest and clutching the matching green cushion. His blonde hair is sticking up at all angles and his blue eyes still look like sleepy slits.
“Have you seen Harry?”
As Niall blinks blearily up at him, Zayn cuts across any kind of verbal response, “What’s this now? You don’t trust me?”
“Not after you forced me to go the shop, no,” Louis grins at him, ruffling Niall’s hair in thanks then walking out into the hallway.
“A tenner says you bump into Liam!” Zayn calls when he leaves.
Louis climbs the stairs two at a time, not being as quiet as Liam would appreciate. He pushes open the door to his and Harry’s room, sees his unmade bed then looks over to the other bed. It’s not been slept in. Harry’s never done this. No matter how late (or technically early) it is, he always comes back to the boys.
Trying not to worry too much just yet, Louis turns and literally bumps into Liam as he’s on his way to the bathroom. “Oh. Hey. Sorry.”
“Was that you slamming doors and acting like an elephant?”
“No,” he says immediately, like a reflex, “It was Niall.”
He knows Liam doesn’t believe him or his sweet innocent smile for one second, something that’s Harry’s speciality which Louis soon stole for his own ends. The blonde grunts and scratches a hand through his hair as he walks past. Louis breathes out when the door clicks shut.
“Well? Did you wake the sleeping giant?” Zayn sniggers from his new position on the sofa as Louis comes into the living room again.
“I did, but I blamed Niall.”
As Louis is about to walk into the kitchen, Niall gives him the finger from the armchair to the sound of more of Zayn’s laughter. Louis grins, takes a detour and grabs Niall’s hand to sloppily kiss his fingers. He quickly snatches it back, eyes widening when Louis steps to the side with his own hands menacingly outstretched.
“Come on,” he says smoothly, “You know you’re my favourite really,”
Louis tugs on Niall’s t-shirt and pulls him down as he falls onto the carpet on purpose and starts tickling the blonde until he’s breathless with giggles and red in the face.
“What’s all this shouting?”
Louis stops moving his fingers over Niall on top of him and they both turn their heads to look at Liam. He looks the same as when Louis bumped into him upstairs. He could’ve at least put some clothes on, parading around in his underwear like he’s a cold Harry. Louis goes to wolf whistle because he knows it’ll irritate or embarrass him, but Niall saves the day and clamps his hand over his mouth before he can. Undeterred, Louis gently bites Niall’s palm.
“It’s not shouting, it’s laughing. You should try it sometime.” he grins, before his mouth drops open as Niall pinches him hard in the side.
“Oh ha ha,” Liam deadpans, “Please stop before my sides split.”
He disappears into the kitchen for a second then comes back to the sofa. He slides into the seat beside Zayn, after Niall shook his head at him taking the armchair, presses two tablets out of the pack onto his palm and downs a glass of water in three, long swallows.
Zayn touches Liam’s shoulder, “How’re you feeling?”
“Like shit, thanks to you and your terrible advice.”
“I said I was sorry,” he bites his lip to stop himself from smiling, “but you were probably too drunk to remember.”
“Screw you!” Liam laughs and gives Zayn a playful shove, never able to stay truly mad at anyone for silly inconveniences, “I have to sing later on!” Remembering, he looks at the three of his friends in the room, “Where’s Harry?”
Louis yelps as Niall jabs him in his other side, “Not back yet,” he pants, grabbing Niall’s wrists so he can look at his watch to check the time.
“What? Why not?” Liam asks, eyes shocked, “Is he okay?”
Zayn squeezes his shoulder and sits into the sofa, arms stretched out across the back of it, “Relax, man. I’d guess he’s still having a really good time at that hot girl’s place.”
“Still,” Liam says, standing up, “He should text or something, to let us know he’s okay. This, here, isn’t supposed to be a holiday, it’s work.”
“Liam! Stop worrying! He’ll be back!”
As he watches Liam leave to get dressed, Louis can’t help admitting to himself that he agrees with him and not Zayn. Scary.
-----
“Shit.” Louis looks at his watch and then out the window again, “He’s not back.”
WHERE R
Zayn comes up behind him as he’s texting, “You’re starting to sound like Liam,”
The surprising close proximity makes Louis jump, startled, and he quickly deletes his half typed message to Harry. He pockets his phone and turns, folding his arms.
“So what do you suggest?”
“Nothing,” he shrugs, “He’s finally getting the pussy he wants, leave him be.”
Louis groans as Zayn laughs at his expression, “Gross.”
“The girlies love it! You should try that sometime.”
Hearing his earlier words to Liam being used against him and Zayn nudge him with his elbow, Louis sighs, but he’s saved by Niall and Liam gathering in the living room again. Louis glances at them and sees that they’re dressed from head to foot and ready to do a good day’s work. It makes him realise that it’s been an hour since they were all here last, him messing around with Niall, Liam and his hangover, Zayn acting as nonchalant as ever. No Harry.
“Any sign?” Liam smiles, but Louis spots the tension around his mouth and knows it’s not as genuine as usual.
He shakes his head silently and looks out into the residential area once more, at the few cars still left on the street. Come on, Harry, he urges to himself, where are you?
-----
When Harry eventually comes to, he knows it’s the rudest wakeup call he’s ever had. One minute he’s sleeping in Freya’s bed, the next he’s dripping wet, has a splitting headache and his wrists ache like never before. At first, he struggles to blink his eyes open, even though someone just threw what felt like a gallon of water all over him. As the fog in his mind starts to clear, he remembers what’s been done to him, how he was injected with something probably illegal which knocked him clean out and led to him being here.
“Wakey wakey, rise and shine, princess,” he hears a light voice chirp from somewhere in front of him.
Harry tries to, he really does, but apparently he’s not quick enough and he gasps through the gag still parting his mouth as more water is thrown straight at his face, until the bottle is empty and the plastic clatters to the concrete. The liquid softens the congealed mess of blood caked around his nostrils and lips and it starts to sting rather than be a dull throb he can stubbornly ignore. He feels like he’s on fire, like his blood is literally starting to boil, and can’t work out whether it’s a physical reaction to his injuries or pure hate.
He tries to properly lift his heavy head as his neck burns and carries the feeling all the way down his back and through his arms, which he belatedly understands are still tied but now to the post behind him. He’s sat on the ground with his legs out in front and free. It’s cold and the wet seeps through his trousers, but Harry wriggles his bare toes (he really wishes he’d put all his clothes on before leaving the bedroom) just because he can and it feels like victory.
When he finally manages to look somewhere in the region of a face instead of the knees, Harry sees that same smug look from before and sets his eyes into a glare he feels to the bottom of his soul. Freya’s father is undeniably not as thuggish as his muscle men but, as Harry’s already found out to his cost, he’s got his own weapons that somehow seem more dangerous, the quieter he goes about his business. He’s smart too - in a flashy, try hard sort of way - dressed in dark trousers, a light blue shirt and a fairly long leather jacket. His hair is dark and neat and he’s got Freya’s eyes, but on him they are cold and look through Harry like he’s barely anything to bother with. Harry wishes he’d realise that soon and just let him go. The most annoying thing right now is the fact that he looks like the kind of man Harry wouldn’t mind turning into when he’s older. Strong and in control, with an air of playfulness. However, Harry hopes he’s nowhere near this arrogant and insufferable and, oh yeah, psychotic.
With Freya’s father staring at him in what looks like amusement but not moving, Harry takes a proper look around at his surroundings. He’s already felt the hard ground underneath his legs and against his rope-bound wrists and when his eyes flicker left and right he just sees more of it. It seems to be an abandoned warehouse of some kind, the place vast and beginning to decay from disuse. Scaffolding appears to be holding up parts in the distance, wood beams perilously hanging down from the roof that’s covered in corrugated iron. Old wires run along the edges of the large, echoing space and Harry eyes them warily, reminded of his drenched state and unable to stop his brain from turning the worst case scenario over in his head. There’s quite a few of them and he shifts in subconscious reaction.
“Don’t worry. You won’t be going anywhere.” her father says in that same deceptively light tone, “We’re far too high up.”
Predictably, Harry turns his head sharply to the side and makes a noise around the gag that everyone in the room knows is a whimper. They’re on the second floor - which is why he can see the roof when he glances up - and he’s tied to the last concrete pillar at one end of the building because behind him the room ends abruptly, dropping down into even more mess and chaos below. It’s as if something catastrophic has hit and gouged out a hole in the middle of the ground level, like a well placed crater. Effectively, the pillar he’s tied to is all that stands between him and the long journey down. It’s the kind of place nobody would think to look inside. Harry’s far from a city boy, but the quiet is already starting to get on his helpless nerves. He can’t hear a single car or even a tweeting bird.
“By the way,” Freya’s father begins as he leisurely paces back and forth in front of him, “While you were still getting your beauty sleep, Freya and I had a nice little chat...”
At the mention of her name, Harry’s gaze snaps back to him. Her father turns his head to look at him and smiles at the glare on his face, at the anger radiating from him. Provoked, Harry viciously tugs on his binds but it only serves to burn the skin of his wrists and he gives up after barely a few seconds.
Still smiling, her father changes his direction and comes towards him. He stands with his feet spread either side of Harry’s closed legs. He feels like a child again, looking up at adults, and it only infuriates him more. Before he can stop himself, he’s trying to talk through the gag but obviously he makes no sense whatsoever.
“What’s that?” her father asks, touching his ear, “I can’t hear you!” he laughs when Harry ceases to make his futile noises. “Oh sorry, I forgot about that.”
Harry’s frown deepens when he bends down and eases the gag down so it’s resting under his lower lip and he can actually talk. He waits a beat before taking advantage, realising early on not to look a gift horse in the mouth, especially if it’s going to get him some answers.
“Where is she?” he orders hoarsely, looking up once more as her father returns to standing over his prone form, “Where have you taken Freya?” he has to suck in a breath to collect himself, the urge to hit out again becoming strong, “If you’ve hurt her, I’ll-”
“You’ll what?” her father interrupts, “Hm? I hardly think you’re in a position to do much of anything, Harry. May I call you Harry? No, no, no, silly boy. I wouldn’t dream of hurting her. She’s too useful, the greedy little slut.”
His eyes alight as he grins and Harry growls, lifting a leg to strike him where it hurts. However, her father’s reflexes are lightning-quick and he grabs Harry’s foot, squeezing his bare toes in a tight grip. Harry yells loudly then for a second time when he twists a little, an added warning to make him stop and rethink his very careless actions.
Her father lets go and bends to replace the gag as Harry blinks away frustrated, humiliated tears. A few escape down his cheeks and slide near his nose as he jerks from a hand patronisingly ruffling his drying hair. Salt sinks into the bloodied, bruised area but a couple of punches to the face are like nothing after the feeling of being violated crawls across him. He’s come to equate a hand in his curls with being around the boys, Louis mostly, and now that’s gone, memories ruined.
Harry is only aware that his captor has left his cronies in charge again when footsteps fade through where the door had once been and is now just a frame. Exhausted and hurt, he closes his eyes and hopes that when he dares to open them he’ll be somewhere else.
tbc.
Author: Me, imagination55
Pairing: One Direction - Harry/OFC (minor); Louis/Harry (end game)
Chapter: 3
Rating (by chapter): R
Summary: Sometimes what's in front of you is not what you should be looking for. - Harry is kidnapped whilst One Direction are in Brighton, recording music. With a first hand look at the seedy underbelly surrounding his captor, will Harry ever be found, how are Louis, Liam, Zayn, Niall and his family coping in his absence and, the biggest question of all - if they do, what kind of state will they find him?
Disclaimer: This is not true, made up, yaddayaddayadda. The beauty of fiction!
A/N: Sorry about the wait again. I still fail at writing chaptered stuff, especially since this is one of those times where the visuals in your head will always somehow be better than what's on the page. *sigh* On that note, please don't kill me either. Comments are always love. <3
Chapter 1 | Chapter 2
Freya leaves Harry waiting outside for her as she goes to retrieve her coat from the cloakroom. He stands near the entrance with his hands in his pockets, feeling a little chilly as the night settles in. When he shivers, he immediately squares his shoulders just in case Freya chooses that moment to come back and sees him acting like a wimp. Wimps don’t get cold, he thinks in determination. His thoughts suddenly lead him to Louis and for a moment he smiles when he remembers all the times Louis probably should’ve worn a coat in the dead of winter and didn’t. Harry asked him why once, but Louis had got this enigmatic look on his face.
“Magic.” he’d whispered, winking.
However, the moment soon passes and Harry’s smile fades with it. He looks at the club entrance again, telling himself he’s checking to see if Freya’s returned from the scrum that’s no doubt taking place inside. It’s pushing one o’clock in the morning and people are everywhere, spilling out of pubs and into the nearest clubs for a last shot at pulling or simple friendly enjoyment. Harry glances at his watch, taps a foot against the pavement then turns and walks into the club again before he can convince himself to do otherwise. He gets halfway to the cloakroom and then really must switch off because he seems like all he does is blink and he’s suddenly in the Ice House. He tries to spot the boys as surely he would’ve seen them if they’d left soon after he had, but it feels like the whole room is heaving with even more clubbers and the atmosphere is rowdy, jostling him about physically and mentally.
Harry finally sees a cleared space and dives for it, but his breath of relief turns into a gasp when he accidentally trips. He puts his hands out on the back of the nearest booth to stop himself crashing to the slightly sticky floor, glancing up reflexively to see if anyone saw his stumble. He’s not expecting his eyes to meet Louis’. When they do, Harry has to swallow his surprise. He sees his best friend still standing by the bar. With a hand in a blonde girl’s hair, he’s kissing her but with his eyes open, staring straight at Harry. Suddenly, Harry feels like he can’t breathe or look away as his vision narrows to just Louis’ blue eyes, watching him unflinchingly. Their kiss breaks but they’re both unfazed as the girl attaches her lips to Louis’ neck. He moves to give her better access and Harry’s mouth drops open at the shamelessness going on in front of him. A part of him tells him to focus on the girl at least. She presses her mouth to Louis’ skin, gets a hold of Louis’ shirt and tugs outwards, exposing his chest as buttons fly everywhere. Harry sees the way Louis looks at her, like he can’t wait to return the favour.
“Just be careful, alright? Make sure she’s not some tart looking to sell a story on you.”
“NO!” Harry cries, finally finding his voice.
Suddenly, Harry opens eyes he doesn’t remember closing and sits bolt upright, panting for breath. He gazes around wildly, not recognising the eggshell coloured walls or the alien feel of the bed he’s sat in. He feels cold and wraps his arms around himself, touching bare skin. Only then does reality fully set in. How last night he actually went with Freya to get her coat, how they came back to her place - here, this bedroom - and how an enjoyable night was had by all. She was perfect.
Guilty that his first thought wasn’t to look for her next to him, Harry glances to the other side of the double bed anyway but isn’t that surprised when he finds the space empty. The white sheets are rumpled from last night but touching where she slept feels cold, so she’s probably been awake for a while.
Harry presses his palms into his eyes and runs a hand through his hair, trying to wake up too. He quickly lets go of the dream that awoke him so rudely and his worries about Louis, because clearly that’s what his subconscious was referring to, and stretches fully. It seems it’s rather early in the morning with the light barely playing across the shut curtains and he still feels sleepy, but not enough to fall into slumber again alone. Besides, he should probably put some clothes on and see where Freya’s got to. Just because he can’t hear or smell cooking, doesn’t mean it’s not happening.
The thought of a pretty girl like her and food makes his stomach rumble and Harry crawls out of Freya’s bed a little giddily. He pulls his boxers and trousers on quickly, thankful that he or Freya dropped them nearby. Thinking over who it was exactly makes his head hurt and he chuckles to himself about how Zayn would probably make some smartarse quip about that, but right now he knows it’s a hangover. He didn’t get drunk as such, so the headache simply tickles the edges of his mind until he can get to the kitchen.
Plucking his shirt from where it’s draped across the lamp sat on the chest of drawers, Harry slides it around his shoulders with a smile that he can’t seem to help. His grin widens when he comes to stand opposite the door of what must be the en suite bathroom. He can’t hear anything in there either, but goes over to check by pushing the door open.
“Freya?”
When there’s clearly no sign of her, Harry moves towards the bedroom doorway. For a moment, he also stops there. He vaguely remembers that her flat isn’t that big, so she should be able to hear him from here if she’s in the kitchen.
“Freya?” he calls again, distantly realising that he still can’t hear a single sound coming from anywhere.
Harry senses movement behind him and is about to turn his head to see for sure when a hand clamps over his mouth as he’s forcefully grabbed from behind. He begins to struggle immediately and makes as much noise as he can, even though the hand tightens in warning and his shoulders protest from the wrench. Suddenly, more people - men - seem to come out of nowhere and crowd around, trying to catch his flailing limbs.
He can’t make sense of any of it, too caught up trying to escape to worry about who these hefty men are, how they got in and where Freya is but the thought of her makes him shout again. All that comes out is a panicked, muffled jumble that sounds like nothing. In a last ditch attempt, he bites the hand as hard as he’s ever bitten anything in his life and feels triumph zing through him as the person - another man - holding him yells in pain and takes his hand away. Harry’s moving his elbow to aim a jab at the guy’s stomach when muscled arms close firmly around his torso and lift him off the ground. He tries to carry him down the hallway, but Harry kicks out his bare feet as a second man directly steps in front of him.
“Fuck off!” he roars, wriggling profusely as he digs his fingers into the guy’s arms hard enough to leave marks, “Put me down, you fucking freak!”
“Oh that’s cute,” the man in front of him actually smiles.
It’s then that Harry gets a better look at him and realises in horror that he’s from the amusement arcade. It’s Freya’s father. Harry hears himself growl, kick and push his foot out hard once again. He catches him on the lip, making it split and bleed from impact. In reaction, Freya’s father surges forward without hesitation, pulls the open lapels of Harry’s shirt together to grip him easier and slams his fist straight into Harry’s face. This time, his cry of pain isn’t muffled.
Dazed and feeling the warm flow of blood gush out of his punched nose, he sees her father click his fingers impatiently. Another of the gang passes something over to him as silently ordered. Harry twitches in the first guy’s arms, but the fight is quickly draining out of him, so he can only watch with bleary eyes as he feels something sharp prick the skin of his neck.
He winces, “Ow, Jesus. What the...”
But for some reason he can’t seem to find the energy to finish his sentence. He glances up through the hair falling into his eyes and sees Freya’s father looking smug. Growing sunlight glints off the sharp object he’s still holding for Harry to see - a needle.
“You...” he sucks in a breath as the room starts to spin and spares a thought for the boys back at the guesthouse and Freya, where is she, “you...bastard,”
He valiantly makes noise as he’s gagged with a dirty rag stretched tight across his mouth, but his tongue feels heavy and the world, not just his words, feels increasingly slow. He can barely fight off the hands as his own are bound with rope behind his back and his ankles are tied together. As he lies on the floor, he tries to magically blink out of whatever drug he’s been shot up with. Determined not to cry tears of helplessness, he makes sure to use his last moments of consciousness staring right at Freya’s father and, as his eyes close almost at the same time as dark material is shoved over his head, Harry vows to kill him.
-----
Louis carelessly slams the door to the guesthouse behind him as he returns from the local shop down the road. It was still fairly early in the morning but he couldn’t resist the mischief of waking Liam up, especially since he was usually one of the first of the group to be awake and trying to hurry the others along. He glances up at the staircase, ready to run back outside if Liam decides to come downstairs and give him what for.
He’d been coerced into going to the shop in the first place, after Zayn moaned at him that they’d already run out of bread and milk.
Cheekily eating cereal with the last of the milk, Louis had shrugged. “Get off your arse and go to the shop then,”
Zayn slid on his knees and stopped at where Louis was sat on the sofa. At his sudden appearance, Louis blinked.
“I’m not dressed,” Zayn stated the obvious with a brief widening of his arms to indicate his boxers. He clasped his hands together then rested them on one of Louis’ legs. “Will you go for me instead? I’m gonna get enough grief off Liam when he wakes up.”
Louis smirked, “This must be a first, you on your knees for me.”
“I’m begging! I know it works, my sisters do it all the time!”
“Alright, alright,” Louis laughed, finishing his last spoonful of cereal as he stood, “I’ve got your back with that one. But you owe me.”
He flicked Zayn in the forehead with a smile, slipped on his Toms and walked to the nearest shop like a good friend. Louis was vaguely aware of a trio of girls in their school uniforms behind him on the way there, but hearing their giggles and quiet chatter was as far as it went. He was pretty glad - he’d roughly shoved the first beanie within reach over his hair, was almost certain he was wearing his t-shirt inside out and probably looked as tired as he still felt.
“Was that you slamming the door?” Zayn asks now, as Louis steps into the kitchen with a bag full of clearly more than bread and milk.
“Yeah,” Louis smiles, “Who else would it be?”
As he puts the bag on the kitchen island, he ignores the fact that in the time it took for him to go to the shop and come back, Zayn has decided to get dressed after all. Louis has a sneaky suspicion that it was a total con from the beginning. He looks up from pulling everything out of the bag when Zayn doesn’t answer. He sees him shrug and lean against the kitchen counter.
“I dunno. Harry? Y’know, the walk of shame...”
Louis piles as many items as he can into his arms and turns, dropping them on the counter and leaving them there because he’s not their little housewife. He laughs, “It can’t be a walk of shame, if you’ve got no shame in the first place,” then he realises what Zayn’s said and stops, “Wait. You mean Harry’s not back yet?”
He frowns when Zayn shakes his head, casual. Louis walks into the adjoining living area and waves his hand in front of the TV to get Niall’s attention. He’s sat in the armchair, legs over the armrest and clutching the matching green cushion. His blonde hair is sticking up at all angles and his blue eyes still look like sleepy slits.
“Have you seen Harry?”
As Niall blinks blearily up at him, Zayn cuts across any kind of verbal response, “What’s this now? You don’t trust me?”
“Not after you forced me to go the shop, no,” Louis grins at him, ruffling Niall’s hair in thanks then walking out into the hallway.
“A tenner says you bump into Liam!” Zayn calls when he leaves.
Louis climbs the stairs two at a time, not being as quiet as Liam would appreciate. He pushes open the door to his and Harry’s room, sees his unmade bed then looks over to the other bed. It’s not been slept in. Harry’s never done this. No matter how late (or technically early) it is, he always comes back to the boys.
Trying not to worry too much just yet, Louis turns and literally bumps into Liam as he’s on his way to the bathroom. “Oh. Hey. Sorry.”
“Was that you slamming doors and acting like an elephant?”
“No,” he says immediately, like a reflex, “It was Niall.”
He knows Liam doesn’t believe him or his sweet innocent smile for one second, something that’s Harry’s speciality which Louis soon stole for his own ends. The blonde grunts and scratches a hand through his hair as he walks past. Louis breathes out when the door clicks shut.
“Well? Did you wake the sleeping giant?” Zayn sniggers from his new position on the sofa as Louis comes into the living room again.
“I did, but I blamed Niall.”
As Louis is about to walk into the kitchen, Niall gives him the finger from the armchair to the sound of more of Zayn’s laughter. Louis grins, takes a detour and grabs Niall’s hand to sloppily kiss his fingers. He quickly snatches it back, eyes widening when Louis steps to the side with his own hands menacingly outstretched.
“Come on,” he says smoothly, “You know you’re my favourite really,”
Louis tugs on Niall’s t-shirt and pulls him down as he falls onto the carpet on purpose and starts tickling the blonde until he’s breathless with giggles and red in the face.
“What’s all this shouting?”
Louis stops moving his fingers over Niall on top of him and they both turn their heads to look at Liam. He looks the same as when Louis bumped into him upstairs. He could’ve at least put some clothes on, parading around in his underwear like he’s a cold Harry. Louis goes to wolf whistle because he knows it’ll irritate or embarrass him, but Niall saves the day and clamps his hand over his mouth before he can. Undeterred, Louis gently bites Niall’s palm.
“It’s not shouting, it’s laughing. You should try it sometime.” he grins, before his mouth drops open as Niall pinches him hard in the side.
“Oh ha ha,” Liam deadpans, “Please stop before my sides split.”
He disappears into the kitchen for a second then comes back to the sofa. He slides into the seat beside Zayn, after Niall shook his head at him taking the armchair, presses two tablets out of the pack onto his palm and downs a glass of water in three, long swallows.
Zayn touches Liam’s shoulder, “How’re you feeling?”
“Like shit, thanks to you and your terrible advice.”
“I said I was sorry,” he bites his lip to stop himself from smiling, “but you were probably too drunk to remember.”
“Screw you!” Liam laughs and gives Zayn a playful shove, never able to stay truly mad at anyone for silly inconveniences, “I have to sing later on!” Remembering, he looks at the three of his friends in the room, “Where’s Harry?”
Louis yelps as Niall jabs him in his other side, “Not back yet,” he pants, grabbing Niall’s wrists so he can look at his watch to check the time.
“What? Why not?” Liam asks, eyes shocked, “Is he okay?”
Zayn squeezes his shoulder and sits into the sofa, arms stretched out across the back of it, “Relax, man. I’d guess he’s still having a really good time at that hot girl’s place.”
“Still,” Liam says, standing up, “He should text or something, to let us know he’s okay. This, here, isn’t supposed to be a holiday, it’s work.”
“Liam! Stop worrying! He’ll be back!”
As he watches Liam leave to get dressed, Louis can’t help admitting to himself that he agrees with him and not Zayn. Scary.
-----
“Shit.” Louis looks at his watch and then out the window again, “He’s not back.”
WHERE R
Zayn comes up behind him as he’s texting, “You’re starting to sound like Liam,”
The surprising close proximity makes Louis jump, startled, and he quickly deletes his half typed message to Harry. He pockets his phone and turns, folding his arms.
“So what do you suggest?”
“Nothing,” he shrugs, “He’s finally getting the pussy he wants, leave him be.”
Louis groans as Zayn laughs at his expression, “Gross.”
“The girlies love it! You should try that sometime.”
Hearing his earlier words to Liam being used against him and Zayn nudge him with his elbow, Louis sighs, but he’s saved by Niall and Liam gathering in the living room again. Louis glances at them and sees that they’re dressed from head to foot and ready to do a good day’s work. It makes him realise that it’s been an hour since they were all here last, him messing around with Niall, Liam and his hangover, Zayn acting as nonchalant as ever. No Harry.
“Any sign?” Liam smiles, but Louis spots the tension around his mouth and knows it’s not as genuine as usual.
He shakes his head silently and looks out into the residential area once more, at the few cars still left on the street. Come on, Harry, he urges to himself, where are you?
-----
When Harry eventually comes to, he knows it’s the rudest wakeup call he’s ever had. One minute he’s sleeping in Freya’s bed, the next he’s dripping wet, has a splitting headache and his wrists ache like never before. At first, he struggles to blink his eyes open, even though someone just threw what felt like a gallon of water all over him. As the fog in his mind starts to clear, he remembers what’s been done to him, how he was injected with something probably illegal which knocked him clean out and led to him being here.
“Wakey wakey, rise and shine, princess,” he hears a light voice chirp from somewhere in front of him.
Harry tries to, he really does, but apparently he’s not quick enough and he gasps through the gag still parting his mouth as more water is thrown straight at his face, until the bottle is empty and the plastic clatters to the concrete. The liquid softens the congealed mess of blood caked around his nostrils and lips and it starts to sting rather than be a dull throb he can stubbornly ignore. He feels like he’s on fire, like his blood is literally starting to boil, and can’t work out whether it’s a physical reaction to his injuries or pure hate.
He tries to properly lift his heavy head as his neck burns and carries the feeling all the way down his back and through his arms, which he belatedly understands are still tied but now to the post behind him. He’s sat on the ground with his legs out in front and free. It’s cold and the wet seeps through his trousers, but Harry wriggles his bare toes (he really wishes he’d put all his clothes on before leaving the bedroom) just because he can and it feels like victory.
When he finally manages to look somewhere in the region of a face instead of the knees, Harry sees that same smug look from before and sets his eyes into a glare he feels to the bottom of his soul. Freya’s father is undeniably not as thuggish as his muscle men but, as Harry’s already found out to his cost, he’s got his own weapons that somehow seem more dangerous, the quieter he goes about his business. He’s smart too - in a flashy, try hard sort of way - dressed in dark trousers, a light blue shirt and a fairly long leather jacket. His hair is dark and neat and he’s got Freya’s eyes, but on him they are cold and look through Harry like he’s barely anything to bother with. Harry wishes he’d realise that soon and just let him go. The most annoying thing right now is the fact that he looks like the kind of man Harry wouldn’t mind turning into when he’s older. Strong and in control, with an air of playfulness. However, Harry hopes he’s nowhere near this arrogant and insufferable and, oh yeah, psychotic.
With Freya’s father staring at him in what looks like amusement but not moving, Harry takes a proper look around at his surroundings. He’s already felt the hard ground underneath his legs and against his rope-bound wrists and when his eyes flicker left and right he just sees more of it. It seems to be an abandoned warehouse of some kind, the place vast and beginning to decay from disuse. Scaffolding appears to be holding up parts in the distance, wood beams perilously hanging down from the roof that’s covered in corrugated iron. Old wires run along the edges of the large, echoing space and Harry eyes them warily, reminded of his drenched state and unable to stop his brain from turning the worst case scenario over in his head. There’s quite a few of them and he shifts in subconscious reaction.
“Don’t worry. You won’t be going anywhere.” her father says in that same deceptively light tone, “We’re far too high up.”
Predictably, Harry turns his head sharply to the side and makes a noise around the gag that everyone in the room knows is a whimper. They’re on the second floor - which is why he can see the roof when he glances up - and he’s tied to the last concrete pillar at one end of the building because behind him the room ends abruptly, dropping down into even more mess and chaos below. It’s as if something catastrophic has hit and gouged out a hole in the middle of the ground level, like a well placed crater. Effectively, the pillar he’s tied to is all that stands between him and the long journey down. It’s the kind of place nobody would think to look inside. Harry’s far from a city boy, but the quiet is already starting to get on his helpless nerves. He can’t hear a single car or even a tweeting bird.
“By the way,” Freya’s father begins as he leisurely paces back and forth in front of him, “While you were still getting your beauty sleep, Freya and I had a nice little chat...”
At the mention of her name, Harry’s gaze snaps back to him. Her father turns his head to look at him and smiles at the glare on his face, at the anger radiating from him. Provoked, Harry viciously tugs on his binds but it only serves to burn the skin of his wrists and he gives up after barely a few seconds.
Still smiling, her father changes his direction and comes towards him. He stands with his feet spread either side of Harry’s closed legs. He feels like a child again, looking up at adults, and it only infuriates him more. Before he can stop himself, he’s trying to talk through the gag but obviously he makes no sense whatsoever.
“What’s that?” her father asks, touching his ear, “I can’t hear you!” he laughs when Harry ceases to make his futile noises. “Oh sorry, I forgot about that.”
Harry’s frown deepens when he bends down and eases the gag down so it’s resting under his lower lip and he can actually talk. He waits a beat before taking advantage, realising early on not to look a gift horse in the mouth, especially if it’s going to get him some answers.
“Where is she?” he orders hoarsely, looking up once more as her father returns to standing over his prone form, “Where have you taken Freya?” he has to suck in a breath to collect himself, the urge to hit out again becoming strong, “If you’ve hurt her, I’ll-”
“You’ll what?” her father interrupts, “Hm? I hardly think you’re in a position to do much of anything, Harry. May I call you Harry? No, no, no, silly boy. I wouldn’t dream of hurting her. She’s too useful, the greedy little slut.”
His eyes alight as he grins and Harry growls, lifting a leg to strike him where it hurts. However, her father’s reflexes are lightning-quick and he grabs Harry’s foot, squeezing his bare toes in a tight grip. Harry yells loudly then for a second time when he twists a little, an added warning to make him stop and rethink his very careless actions.
Her father lets go and bends to replace the gag as Harry blinks away frustrated, humiliated tears. A few escape down his cheeks and slide near his nose as he jerks from a hand patronisingly ruffling his drying hair. Salt sinks into the bloodied, bruised area but a couple of punches to the face are like nothing after the feeling of being violated crawls across him. He’s come to equate a hand in his curls with being around the boys, Louis mostly, and now that’s gone, memories ruined.
Harry is only aware that his captor has left his cronies in charge again when footsteps fade through where the door had once been and is now just a frame. Exhausted and hurt, he closes his eyes and hopes that when he dares to open them he’ll be somewhere else.
tbc.