FIC: To Save A Life
Title: To Save A Life
Author: evelynegrey
Fandom: One Direction, RPF
Pairing: Harry/Louis
Rating: NC17
Word count: 1700
Disclaimer: I certainly do not own, or know, One Direction.
Summary: It can happen to anyone at any time, for any reason or none at all. It happens to Louis.
Notes: For Lorcan, who always answers my cries for help.
When they finally go on break in November, Louis is exhausted, but it's the good kind that makes his bones heavy and his mind a pleasant blank. He gets to stay home, in his own house with his own things and Harry curled up next to him every morning, when he wakes. He's exhausted, but he's allowed to rest now, allowed to breathe, for the first time in almost a year.
They go to LA and Louis spends most of his time curled up in the sun while Harry socialises. The quiet swallows him up entirely, and he goes willingly, letting the world move on outside while he sleeps, folded into a sun chair with one of Harry's enormous hats flopping over the sides. It's a good start, a good way to spend his time off, and his skin turns golden with every quiet breath he takes, every slow beating of his heart.
Back in England, he plays FIFA.
He plays footie.
He eats junk food.
He makes love.
And he sleeps. He sleeps longer every day. He falls asleep on Harry's shoulder, sometimes, and won't wake up till it's past noon. It's like he just can't get rid of that last bit of exhaustion, that last piece of him that's completely worn out. But Harry is warm and December rolls around with frost covering the windows, so he doesn't mind so much. Not when there's tea and endless repeats of Hollyoaks on the telly. Not when there's silence.
And the world still moves on.
He goes to Donny for Christmas, but it's crowded and loud and he feels guilty for missing the peace of his London flat. The girls are lovely and the food is homemade, but it's suffocating, being trapped in his own skin like that with his family to consider. He's always hated bringing the fame home.
So he doesn't stay long, and when he gets back he turns his phone off completely, putting it away somewhere and forgets about it, uninterested in trying to keep up with it all.
He starts forgetting meals, when Harry doesn't cook. He spends many nights alone, watching TV and dozing off. He stops playing football. He just hasn't got the energy. FIFA isn't so much fun anymore so he stops playing that too, picking up his iPad instead to play mindless games he finds on sale. He gets the days of the week mixed up. Suddenly it's just Monday again.
It's late January when Harry sits him down for dinner and asks, "Are you okay?"
"Yeah," Louis nods, chewing and swallowing slowly, pushing his food around. "Why wouldn't I be?"
"I don't know," Harry shrugs, pulling a few loose curls out of his face. "I just wanted to make sure. You haven't been outside much lately."
"Just enjoying the break," Louis tells him and smiles a little around his fork. "I'm not quite the people person you've grown into, love."
"I know," Harry says and smiles back, nudging his foot under the table, and Louis thinks he's quite alright after all, or he will be, if he can only get a bit more rest. If he can only get that prickling feeling out from under his skin.
Harry doesn't push it, and Louis finishes his meal, eventually.
That evening, Harry stays home and catches Louis while he's making tea in the kitchen, pushing him up gently against the counter and kisses him raw. They haven't had sex in weeks, and Louis presses back instinctively, missing the way Harry touches him when it's supposed to lead to something more. His hands are so sure when they cup Louis' arse and lift him up onto the worktop, sliding up his sides and spanning his ribs, thumbing over nipples. Louis lets his head fall back, moaning quietly, but has to open his eyes when Harry suddenly pulls back, hands stilling.
“You've lost weight,” Harry says, fingers splayed over his stomach. Louis lets out a breath, unsure of what to say to that. “Are you eating?”
“Of course.”
“Properly?”
Sighing, Louis grabs at Harry's curls and pulls him down again, impatient and not in the mood for questions he doesn't know how to answer. His skin is still prickling and he needs Harry to make it go away, to make him feel.
But it stops, somewhere between Harry fingering him against the counter and fucking him into the bed. It stops building and no matter how hard he tries he just can't get his body to follow his mind. Harry's doing all the right things, but it's like his touches go dead against Louis' skin and he doesn't think he's ever felt so empty, even with Harry buried deep inside.
He watches him come, the muscles working in his neck, jaw falling open as he groans Louis' name, eyelashes fluttering like humming bird wings as he bows his head. He's so beautiful, but Louis feels so far away - indifferent - where he's lying with his legs spread and his arms bent at odd angles.
“You didn't get off?” Harry pants as he's come down from his high, easing out slowly. Louis shakes his head because he can't really lie about it. “Want me to..?”
“No,” Louis rasps awkwardly. “It's fine.”
“You sure?”
“Yeah, I'm good. Go to sleep.”
He rolls onto his side when Harry's lied down beside him, and wraps an arm around his chest to keep him from asking. He can tell when Harry falls asleep, but Louis lies awake for a long time, thinking about the boys for the first time in ages, wondering where they are. He thinks he might have forgotten what it's like to be One Direction, and he wonders if the others have too. Maybe it doesn't matter.
When Harry goes to LA again, Louis stays in bed with the blinds drawn. It's the first time he doesn't get up at all, the first time he wakes with nothing to wake up to. Every time he opens his eyes, he can feel the heavy ache of his bones, the tightness in his chest, muscles clenched and grating on each other in an endless cycle. And his mind is just an infinite blank, stuttering and halting, shutting down without pause.
He doesn't know how long it's been when he hears the front door open again, the sound exploding behind his eyelids in the dark. He hasn't showered, hasn't eaten, hasn't looked at himself in a mirror since Harry left and he somehow manages to stumble out of bed and into the bathroom before Harry can get a look at him, locking the door and getting the water running to pretend he's been in there all along. Harry moves around outside, dropping his bag, rummaging around in the kitchen, and Louis pulls himself up in front of the sink, gripping its edges hard as he studies his own face up close.
His hair has grown out, beard too, and he doesn't recognise any of his features at all. There's nothing but sharp edges and purple skin and lines of red in the whites of his eyes.
Looking away, he sheds his clothes and steps into the bathtub, lowering himself gingerly into the hot water and tries not to look at himself. His legs don't carry him further than this.
There's soap and empty bottles lining the edge of the tub, a half-burnt candle, Harry's razor. Louis stares at it while the water rises, studies its plastic handle and the sharp blades attached to the head. It's a cheap thing, for traveling probably, and he thinks it must be easy to pick apart, to break against the white porcelain. It might still be sharp, maybe enough to cut through skin and make blood well up in rivulets of crimson. It would stain the water, sinking to the bottom and swirl with a twist of his wrist. He wonders how long it would take to bleed out, if the soap would make the cuts sting, if the tub would overflow with the blood, or just reach the rim and lap at the edges. He wonders if it would be like drowning, or freezing, or just going to sleep.
When he snaps out of it, he realises he's shaking, the water having turned cold, and there are tears streaming down his face, dripping, sinking to the bottom of the tub.
And he doesn't think he's ever been so scared in his life as when he calls the first name that comes to mind, his cries breaking with sobs as he grips the edge of the tub with white-knuckled fingers. Through the ringing in his ears he can hear Harry's voice, not the words but the sound of it, the banging of fists on the door, and then it all goes quiet, as if he's the last person left on earth. He's crying so hard he can barely hold himself up now, still screaming Harry's name whenever he gets enough air into his lungs to make a noise, and then there is a scraping from the lock, a screeching sound as the metal gives and the door clicks open.
He can see his own horror in Harry's eyes. There's a second where everything just stops and Louis wonders obscurely why it took him so long to cry for help, why he let himself break before he realised he is dying inside. And Harry's vibrating with it, standing there with a piece of metal in his hand and a look of terror on his face and he is everything Louis isn't, right then, he has nothing but life running through his veins.
And he climbs into the bathtub without a moment's pause, prying Louis' fingers from the cold porcelain and pulling him to him like a baby caught in a fire, lifting him out of harm's way, all that strength summoned in a single effort to pull Louis out of himself.
“I'm here,” he tells him, breaking through the barriers, breaking through the voices screaming inside Louis' head. “I'm not leaving. Never again. I'm here.”
And Louis' mind goes silent.
Author: evelynegrey
Fandom: One Direction, RPF
Pairing: Harry/Louis
Rating: NC17
Word count: 1700
Disclaimer: I certainly do not own, or know, One Direction.
Summary: It can happen to anyone at any time, for any reason or none at all. It happens to Louis.
Notes: For Lorcan, who always answers my cries for help.
When they finally go on break in November, Louis is exhausted, but it's the good kind that makes his bones heavy and his mind a pleasant blank. He gets to stay home, in his own house with his own things and Harry curled up next to him every morning, when he wakes. He's exhausted, but he's allowed to rest now, allowed to breathe, for the first time in almost a year.
They go to LA and Louis spends most of his time curled up in the sun while Harry socialises. The quiet swallows him up entirely, and he goes willingly, letting the world move on outside while he sleeps, folded into a sun chair with one of Harry's enormous hats flopping over the sides. It's a good start, a good way to spend his time off, and his skin turns golden with every quiet breath he takes, every slow beating of his heart.
Back in England, he plays FIFA.
He plays footie.
He eats junk food.
He makes love.
And he sleeps. He sleeps longer every day. He falls asleep on Harry's shoulder, sometimes, and won't wake up till it's past noon. It's like he just can't get rid of that last bit of exhaustion, that last piece of him that's completely worn out. But Harry is warm and December rolls around with frost covering the windows, so he doesn't mind so much. Not when there's tea and endless repeats of Hollyoaks on the telly. Not when there's silence.
And the world still moves on.
He goes to Donny for Christmas, but it's crowded and loud and he feels guilty for missing the peace of his London flat. The girls are lovely and the food is homemade, but it's suffocating, being trapped in his own skin like that with his family to consider. He's always hated bringing the fame home.
So he doesn't stay long, and when he gets back he turns his phone off completely, putting it away somewhere and forgets about it, uninterested in trying to keep up with it all.
He starts forgetting meals, when Harry doesn't cook. He spends many nights alone, watching TV and dozing off. He stops playing football. He just hasn't got the energy. FIFA isn't so much fun anymore so he stops playing that too, picking up his iPad instead to play mindless games he finds on sale. He gets the days of the week mixed up. Suddenly it's just Monday again.
It's late January when Harry sits him down for dinner and asks, "Are you okay?"
"Yeah," Louis nods, chewing and swallowing slowly, pushing his food around. "Why wouldn't I be?"
"I don't know," Harry shrugs, pulling a few loose curls out of his face. "I just wanted to make sure. You haven't been outside much lately."
"Just enjoying the break," Louis tells him and smiles a little around his fork. "I'm not quite the people person you've grown into, love."
"I know," Harry says and smiles back, nudging his foot under the table, and Louis thinks he's quite alright after all, or he will be, if he can only get a bit more rest. If he can only get that prickling feeling out from under his skin.
Harry doesn't push it, and Louis finishes his meal, eventually.
That evening, Harry stays home and catches Louis while he's making tea in the kitchen, pushing him up gently against the counter and kisses him raw. They haven't had sex in weeks, and Louis presses back instinctively, missing the way Harry touches him when it's supposed to lead to something more. His hands are so sure when they cup Louis' arse and lift him up onto the worktop, sliding up his sides and spanning his ribs, thumbing over nipples. Louis lets his head fall back, moaning quietly, but has to open his eyes when Harry suddenly pulls back, hands stilling.
“You've lost weight,” Harry says, fingers splayed over his stomach. Louis lets out a breath, unsure of what to say to that. “Are you eating?”
“Of course.”
“Properly?”
Sighing, Louis grabs at Harry's curls and pulls him down again, impatient and not in the mood for questions he doesn't know how to answer. His skin is still prickling and he needs Harry to make it go away, to make him feel.
But it stops, somewhere between Harry fingering him against the counter and fucking him into the bed. It stops building and no matter how hard he tries he just can't get his body to follow his mind. Harry's doing all the right things, but it's like his touches go dead against Louis' skin and he doesn't think he's ever felt so empty, even with Harry buried deep inside.
He watches him come, the muscles working in his neck, jaw falling open as he groans Louis' name, eyelashes fluttering like humming bird wings as he bows his head. He's so beautiful, but Louis feels so far away - indifferent - where he's lying with his legs spread and his arms bent at odd angles.
“You didn't get off?” Harry pants as he's come down from his high, easing out slowly. Louis shakes his head because he can't really lie about it. “Want me to..?”
“No,” Louis rasps awkwardly. “It's fine.”
“You sure?”
“Yeah, I'm good. Go to sleep.”
He rolls onto his side when Harry's lied down beside him, and wraps an arm around his chest to keep him from asking. He can tell when Harry falls asleep, but Louis lies awake for a long time, thinking about the boys for the first time in ages, wondering where they are. He thinks he might have forgotten what it's like to be One Direction, and he wonders if the others have too. Maybe it doesn't matter.
When Harry goes to LA again, Louis stays in bed with the blinds drawn. It's the first time he doesn't get up at all, the first time he wakes with nothing to wake up to. Every time he opens his eyes, he can feel the heavy ache of his bones, the tightness in his chest, muscles clenched and grating on each other in an endless cycle. And his mind is just an infinite blank, stuttering and halting, shutting down without pause.
He doesn't know how long it's been when he hears the front door open again, the sound exploding behind his eyelids in the dark. He hasn't showered, hasn't eaten, hasn't looked at himself in a mirror since Harry left and he somehow manages to stumble out of bed and into the bathroom before Harry can get a look at him, locking the door and getting the water running to pretend he's been in there all along. Harry moves around outside, dropping his bag, rummaging around in the kitchen, and Louis pulls himself up in front of the sink, gripping its edges hard as he studies his own face up close.
His hair has grown out, beard too, and he doesn't recognise any of his features at all. There's nothing but sharp edges and purple skin and lines of red in the whites of his eyes.
Looking away, he sheds his clothes and steps into the bathtub, lowering himself gingerly into the hot water and tries not to look at himself. His legs don't carry him further than this.
There's soap and empty bottles lining the edge of the tub, a half-burnt candle, Harry's razor. Louis stares at it while the water rises, studies its plastic handle and the sharp blades attached to the head. It's a cheap thing, for traveling probably, and he thinks it must be easy to pick apart, to break against the white porcelain. It might still be sharp, maybe enough to cut through skin and make blood well up in rivulets of crimson. It would stain the water, sinking to the bottom and swirl with a twist of his wrist. He wonders how long it would take to bleed out, if the soap would make the cuts sting, if the tub would overflow with the blood, or just reach the rim and lap at the edges. He wonders if it would be like drowning, or freezing, or just going to sleep.
When he snaps out of it, he realises he's shaking, the water having turned cold, and there are tears streaming down his face, dripping, sinking to the bottom of the tub.
And he doesn't think he's ever been so scared in his life as when he calls the first name that comes to mind, his cries breaking with sobs as he grips the edge of the tub with white-knuckled fingers. Through the ringing in his ears he can hear Harry's voice, not the words but the sound of it, the banging of fists on the door, and then it all goes quiet, as if he's the last person left on earth. He's crying so hard he can barely hold himself up now, still screaming Harry's name whenever he gets enough air into his lungs to make a noise, and then there is a scraping from the lock, a screeching sound as the metal gives and the door clicks open.
He can see his own horror in Harry's eyes. There's a second where everything just stops and Louis wonders obscurely why it took him so long to cry for help, why he let himself break before he realised he is dying inside. And Harry's vibrating with it, standing there with a piece of metal in his hand and a look of terror on his face and he is everything Louis isn't, right then, he has nothing but life running through his veins.
And he climbs into the bathtub without a moment's pause, prying Louis' fingers from the cold porcelain and pulling him to him like a baby caught in a fire, lifting him out of harm's way, all that strength summoned in a single effort to pull Louis out of himself.
“I'm here,” he tells him, breaking through the barriers, breaking through the voices screaming inside Louis' head. “I'm not leaving. Never again. I'm here.”
And Louis' mind goes silent.