fic; when the night feels my song 1/2
title: when the night feels my song
pairing: harry styles/louis tomlinson (friendship/past), harry styles/nick grimshaw
rating: r
word count: 12,000
warnings: suicide attempt, suicidal thoughts, substance abuse, swearing, mentions of m/m sex, mentions of homophobia, angst
summary:"they said you tried to commit suicide," harry doesn't sound like himself but louis doesn't look like himself.
"suicide's a strong word."
a/n: title from the bedouin soundclash song of the same name.
originally posted here for 1d_olymfics
before
the room's quite cold but harry's got used to it by now.
he curls his fingers into the muscles of louis' hand, not looking up at the thick bandages around his wrist, or at the dark circles around his eyes, or at the oxygen mask pulled tight over his nose. harry ignores it all.
he breathes in. louis breathes out.
-
1330:
im soooo fuked righ noww
harry shuffles the moving boxes in the truck and tries not to wrinkle his nose at all, because he's trying to be pleasant about this, really, he is.
it's just - he has money. lots of money. enough money to burn, if he really felt the need to do that (which he really doesn't). he has enough money to move house every couple of years and get into packed clubs and hire really good drummers to back solo stuff.
and, above else, he has enough money to hire movers to carry his shit out of the truck and into the new house.
but oh no, nick wanted to do it themselves.
"easy there pop star," the devil himself says when he hitches himself up into the truck, shoes clanking unattractively on the metal ground. "you could burn a hole in the sun with the amount of diva in this room."
"we're not in a room," harry snides, itching at his nose. he's tired. and his hair looks like shit today. but mostly the tired thing. "we're in a moving truck."
"experiences, love," nick kisses his cheek as he says it, and harry tries really really hard to keep the smile off his face, but it doesn't work. "we'll have a story to tell tomorrow, what about that?"
"i hate you."
"love you too," and the words aren't new enough to warrant the same kind of reaction they used to (when the smiles would break harry's face in half and he felt like he was on fire) but they still make his insides warm and tingly and remind him why he's here.
"mhm," is what he replies with though, and when nick's long, freckled arms come around him to tickle at his ribs, harry realizes that if moving shit by himself is the worst thing in his life right now, then maybe he doesn't have much reason to complain at all.
-
louis really wanted to die.
really, really wanted to die.
when they got him to the hospital, or so harry's heard (but he wasn't really paying too much attention because louis was lying in a hospital bed), they had to pump his stomach out to get rid of the shit louis had downed before cutting his wrists open.
he always was dramatic.
the room feels like the wrong kind of electric, too fired up, too damaging, too fucking sad. harry's sat all by himself in an awful, hard plastic chair at the edge of louis bed, trying to work up the nerve to open the blinds or hold louis' hand or do something other than stare, because he's seen this moment in a million films and they never just stare.
they always have a plan. they always know how it happened, know why it happened, and how to fix things. they always have some sad monologue or tears in their eyes or others to talk with.
but no one else is here.
it's just harry and louis and it all seems like a sick joke.
-
1934:
rember wen ever1 usd 2 luv mee
"you alright?" nick's at the counter making one of his famous meals (harry bets everything he owns that it's another spinach pie off youtube), and harry's just staring down at his phone, trying to figure out where he knows the number from.
"they're still texting me."
"maybe it's a psycho weird fan," harry doesn't even look up at the comment, just picks a bit of lint off the hastily thrown down table cloth on the table that came with the house. the rest of their stuff is set to arrive tomorrow (this time with the bloody moving van and the moving blokes) and harry hopes tomorrow gets here soon because he doesn't like how empty the house feels.
still house; not home. but that would come with time.
"i think it's just a wrong number," harry hums, scratching at the faint spot on the underside of his chin. "they seem lonely though."
"i bet it's a hard core larry stylinson fan who's trying to brainwash you into leaving me," he scratches his nose idly as he says this, feeding a bit of broccoli to their cat, mabel, who's biting at his ankles. harry never ceases to be amazed by nick grimshaw. "they're using sad, subliminal messages to make me seem worthless. run while you still can, harold."
"probably just a wrong number," harry shoots a quick text off to his mum, then kicks his bare feet at the cold tile of the kitchen. "is dinner in the realm of getting close to being ready?"
"sure it is," nick sashays a bit across the floor, nudging a cupboard closed with one hip and taking a bite out of one of the expired fig newtons that had been left in the living room by the old couple that had just moved out. "do you know what a wattleseed is?"
"sounds unimportant," harry clucks at the roof of his mouth for a bit and taps out a beat of the tabletop.
"judy would disagree."
"judy's the youtube cooking woman, yeah?"
"cooking guru, harold," nick starts whisking up the content of a glass bowl, something harry's about ninety percent sure should not be whisked. "if you're not going to use the correct terminology then we might have a falling out. and that'd be rather unfortunate."
"would be, wouldn't it?" harry itches his nose, then stands, stretching his back a bit. he hurts. no one ever said being twenty five would be so hard. "prove all those papers right."
"actually you'd have to start fucking caroline on the side, while running a secret prostitution circle, and then leave me to prove them right these days," he dumps the whisked, green, odd looking substance in the pie crust and harry knows that somewhere julia child is rolling around in her grave. "do you think this needs more salt?"
he turns around, whisk outstretched as if harry's actually going to lick it off and give advice and carry on his merry way. he might have, back when he was eighteen and nick was still the new exciting man in his life and the band was together and he'd been on top of the world, young and naïve and foolish.
but harry's not that harry anymore. so he wrinkles his nose and pries his mobile out of his (still) tight jeans. "i'm calling in some indian food."
nick gasps all outraged and harry can't help but laugh when he gets hit repeatedly on the shoulder with the whisk, dodging blows as nick yells about pop stars and divas and being a right twat harry styles.
it's just-
he's so happy he could burst.
-
louis wakes up.
his eyes are still so blue it actually makes the seventeen year old in harry squirm a little. his eyes are blue and his hair is brown, but now it's stringy and oily, and his skin is pale, paler then harry's ever seen it. there are wrinkles around his eyes that look like they've stopped being from laughing a long time ago and are now just there from too many long nights.
louis wakes up and it takes him a second to see harry.
but when he does he lets out this long breath that ends in a rough chuckle, and says (in a voice like sandpaper), "so this is hell."
-
2234
drink fr evry num 1 drnkk 4 evrey contry uve nvr hrd of
they're watching reruns of eastenders off nick's laptop, hastily plugged into one of the empty, sad little outlets in their empty, sad little living room, snuggled together on their new couch.
"'ve met shane richie you know," nick half heartedly says, scratching at his ear.
harry perks up his head a bit. "have you?"
"yep," harry feels a hand curl through his hair, digging in a bit at the back of his skull, just how he likes it. "on moyles 50 hour long radio thing. reasonably cool bloke but he kept cutting me off."
"hm," harry pats his side. "what an interesting story, nick."
"oh shush you."
"should tell it at all your parties."
"says the king of monotone."
"sh, dear, i'm trying to watch the programme."
they're quiet for a minute.
"we're actually an old married couple," nick sighs about twelve seconds later and harry just laughs back because, well, yes. he snuggles his cold nose into nick's chest and watches the drama unfurl on screen, lazily traces patterns on the insides of nick's thighs.
"nothing wrong with being old, love."
"shut it," nick pinches him on the arm. "when you're thirty five i'm never going to stop with the comments. every single day i'm going to say something awful about your age and you'll cry because you'll finally realize how mean you've been to me."
"hm," harry's quite fond of sleeping on top of nick; he's very comfy for such a skinny person. "except when i'm thirty five, you'll be forty five, and we’ll be able to get half off at restaurants on senior's day."
"if i had any energy at all i'd flick you in the nose for that comment," nick says tiredly, shifting a hand through harry's hair and snuggling a bit deeper into the warm blankets around them, arm coming to pull at harry's waist.
harry laughs, letting himself be moved about, and mentally thanks whoever's out there listening for giving him such a blessed life.
-
a nurse checks louis' vitals and re-wraps his bandages-
(harry almost has to turn away when she does because louis' wrists are raw and red and the blood isn't dripping anymore but harry has an imagination, he can see how it would have been a couple hours ago and it makes him sick)
-and makes him sit up to drink some water. louis' still barely there, eyes drifting in and out of focus, shooting harry these little curious looks like he forgets who he is every couple of seconds.
a doctor pulls harry out of the room just after louis' fallen asleep again. he wants to protest, because the room looks so empty when louis' all alone, but he knows it's what he should do - listen to the doctor speak. his mouth is stern but his eyes are kind, and the badge on his chest says dr. anderson, which calms the butterflies in harry's stomach a bit.
"you must be mr. styles then," dr. anderson says with a half-smile, clipboard under one arm. he looks like he could be forty years old, grey hairs around his ears. harry wonders if he has a family, if he's ever almost lost a brother before.
"yes, nice to meet you," harry bites his lip but holds out a hand because he knows how to do this, he's done this for the last nine years of his life. "are you louis' doctor?"
"yes, he's been under my care since he was brought in at around five o'clock this morning." he riffles around with some papers on his clipboard and steps to the wall more when a bustling nurse walks by with some ivs. "our paramedics received a call shortly before that, from a flat on adelaide road."
harry's throat closes up.
he hadn't really thought about where louis could be, hadn't been able to get past the overwhelming thought of suicide that took over his brain to think past it. the last he'd heard from louis he was getting high off the coast of spain, not returning calls or emails, and generally just making his family (and harry, but they were, well used to be, one of the same) incredibly worried for him.
so to think that louis was in london, barely twenty minutes away from him; well, that's frightening.
"has mr. tomlinson ever discussed his depression with you, mr. styles?"
"harry, please," he says automatically because the word depression hits him like a freight train. "no. no, i haven't seen him since - it's been a long time. a really long time."
"and before that?" dr. anderson is looking at him sadly. "did mr. tomlinson ever talk about an suicidal urges? do you know of any pass suicide attempts?"
harry thinks briefly to when they were in australia in 2013 and louis had joked about skydiving without a parachute. "no. no, louis wouldn't - he was never unhappy."
yes he was, comes a voice in his head.
"okay," dr. anderson smiles kindly again. "thank you, i know it's hard. we'll send in an application for him to be admitted to capio nightingale hospital for outpatient treating as soon as possible. he's very lucky to be alive, mr - sorry, harry. right now what mr. tomlinson needs most is his family, close friends, and a clean, substance-free environment."
"wait so," harry's trying to figure things out but it's a little difficult. "he's getting out then?"
"we're afraid that keeping mr. tomlinson in the hospital could make him so used to the pace here that he'd be unable to reenter society easily," doctor anderson smartly says. harry nods. "if you're worried about his own safety then i have a list of rehabilitation centers that would be happy to take him in-"
"nick and i can take him, it's fine," harry feels, for a second, that he should clarify who nick is, but then he remembers that his face is still on magazine covers, that people still care about what they're up to, so he doesn't. "and yes, the stuff with the hospital, of course."
"mr. tomlinson is lucky he has good friends," dr. anderson peels out some papers from his clipboard and hands it to harry. "here's the information regarding capio, and the contact information for some psychologists in this hospital that i recommend. unfortunately healing the exterior wounds is only the beginning."
"i know," harry nods and then nods again, just to be sure. "i'll make sure he gets better, i promise."
louis took care of harry every single day of x-factor and for years after, even when they were both knee deep in gay rumours and contracts and pretty, new distractions.
it's time harry returned the favour.
-
the call comes just after 3 in the morning.
harry wakes up to the tinny, ringtone sound of one thing (because nick thinks himself hilarious) coming from his pocket, vibrations running up and down his leg. he's smushed between nick's arm and the couch, blanket half off him, jeans digging uncomfortably into the soft, fleshy bits of his stomach.
"jesus fuck," he mutters into the wet patch of couch under him, all covered in drool which should probably disgust him, but after years of falling asleep everywhere and anywhere a little bit of drool, if anything, calms him.
his phone keeps ringing.
already planning on murdering whoever it is on the line (especially if it's just a drunk dial from ed or cara or henry or fincham or niall or something), he pulls the mobile out of his pocket slowly, slumping up on one elbow and squinting his eyes to check the number.
it's the same unknown number as before.
curiousity grabs harry then, and he's about to hit the green button on his phone, to finally hear who the strange person is, to finally hear the voice that belonged to the lonely person who kept texting him depressing things.
but then there's a rumbling next to him and nick's voice comes out all raw, "harry?"
"yeah," he bites his lip, then touches the red, cancelling the call quickly. he tosses his phone onto the coffee table and turns into nick's warmth, bringing the blanket up with one hand and tucking his face into nick's neck.
"alright?" nick mutters sleepily, his hand drifting up into harry's hair to pull gently at the curls.
harry whispers a quiet mhm in reply and falls asleep.
-
the next morning they're eating croissants and tea when harry's phone buzzes again.
this time the screen yells HOSPITAL OF ST. JOHN AND ST. ELIZABETH at him.
this time he picks it up, dread rising in his stomach.
this time there's a woman on the other line with a clear, precise voice saying, "hospital of st. john and st. elizabeth calling, is this harry styles? you're currently listed on the emergency contact list for louis tomlinson and i'm sorry to say that there's been an accident-"
after
"you can ask me why if you'd like," louis says into the stillness of the room, one finger scratching under the tight bandages. he's so skinny; harry bites his lip harder. "ask me what happened and all that."
"they said you tried to commit suicide," he doesn't sound like himself but louis doesn't look like himself.
"suicide's a strong word."
"what word would you use?" he's never felt like this before. "what word would you use to describe an overdose and slitting your wrists, louis?"
"oh, harry's angry now," louis almost smiles. "can't have that."
"louis."
"probably in the tabloids for the first time in two years today," louis comments gracefully, peering out the window like he's just announced the fucking weather. "amazing how interesting you become again when you're in the hospital, with harry styles at your beck and call."
harry wants to snap back at that, wants to yell and scream and ask if it was all for that, all this shit with the drugs and the blood and the texts, if that was all for some fucking attention.
but he doesn't.
instead he reaches out to grab louis' stone cold hand. "you scared me louis. you really, really scared me."
-
"are you alright?" is the first thing nick asks when he picks up the other line, smooth voice curling through the speakers and down harry's spine.
he sniffs a little before nodding, then remembers nick can't actually see him. "yeah i'm - i'm okay. he just fell asleep again. he's -" harry cuts himself off before he says good because if there's one thing louis tomlinson isn't at the moment, it's good.
"have you called his mother yet, or do you want me too?" nick quietly asks, and harry's heart stutters a little because fuck, jay is going to be devastated.
"i should call her. she should definitely hear it from me."
"and the boys?"
"oh god."
"harry?" he tries to focus on it, tries to get the awful, awful thought of your best friend just tried to kill himself out of his head. "harry, love. take a deep breath."
"right."
"i'll call liam, alright? and i'll tell him to call lou's mum. it's going to be okay. louis is going to be okay."
"right."
"okay."
-
"i heard about you and nick," louis says a little while later in his sandpaper voice, itching sleep out of his eyes. it looks like he's trying to smile at harry, but the action is all wrong on his face, pulling it in ways it looks like it hasn't been pulled in a while. "that you're a proper couple now."
"we are."
"congratulations then," he looks like he might nod off at any minute. "knew you two would end up together."
harry's waiting for the punch line. there's always a punch line with louis, like some kind of sick, twisted thing his brain does when he's upset - make people laugh. make them laugh at you if you have to. do anything to keep them on their toes.
the punch line doesn't come.
so harry tries to make it himself, "he's too much of a hipster for just anyone, i guess."
he never was the funny one.
louis lets out a weak, wrecked noise that harry takes for a chuckle and god he's so tired of this. he's tired of the weather outside, mocking him with its dark clouds and hazy skies, birds as black as coal flying by and clawing at each other (pathetic, it's pathetic). he's tired of louis' glazed over stare, of the clean bandages on his arms covering up messy scars. he's tired of being the only person in the whole world who even gives a shit about what happening to louis tomlinson, formerly of one direction, formerly a superstar, formerly a person who didn't want to die
"why isn't he here?" louis doesn't really sound too interested in the answer, but harry gives it to him anyway.
"he said he didn't want to see the new inductee to the twenty seven club," harry lets out bluntly.
nick had been very adamant about not coming, bringing up the fact that louis didn't even like him anyways, and that someone had to keep the fort down there and make sure phone calls were being made. harry almost didn't let him stay, almost dragged him with him, but when he remembered how there's still a picture of nick and amy winehouse on his mobile to this day, hugging tight with her big, beehive hair in his face, he stopped.
twenty seven club indeed.
"didn't quite get in though, did i?" louis scoffs.
"no." harry says back because he's afraid if he doesn't keep talking he'll strangle louis himself. "no. and you're not going to."
-
"is he okay, really?" zayn asks for what must be the billionth time over the phone.
"he's - i wouldn't say okay," harry starts because he's never been the best actor. "but he will be. we've already got therapy lined up and he'll stay at our’s until he gets back on his feet, and really. we'll be alright zayn."
"god," zayn sounds like he's smoking a cigarette, which is odd as he quit after louis' second time being caught with a baggie of coke, swearing off stupid addictions to help 'inspire' his friend. obviously didn't last. "you know how much i want to be there, don't you harry?"
"of course zayn, yeah-"
"it's just i have this bloody filming shoot, and they've got us booked in for the next month, and i'd get it off if i could but-"
"zayn, we've all been there, it's alright." harry takes a long sip of the shitty hospital coffee and checks his watch, counting down the hours until louis was officially discharged. "hell, i'm only lucky i've just off tour, otherwise i'd be in the same boat as you."
"nah, you wouldn't," harry's known zayn for enough years to know he's shaking his head, maybe scratching behind his ear too. "you'd be there for lou, even if you got the call halfway through your wedding vows, harry."
"i suppose."
"speaking of," he hears murmurs in the background and harry tries to imagine it, zayn on a beach, surrounded by beautiful women all dressed in bikinis, eyelashes all long. "i heard about you and nick being all proper couple-y and that, and i think it's great."
"thanks mate," a weird sort of bump fills up his throat and harry coughs. "means a lot."
"if you need a deejay when you two finally tie the knot, just let me know," zayn says and harry laughs.
"you'd have to fight nick for it." it's a joke except how it really isn't.
"i'd win!" it feels like old times for half a second there, like zayn had just called to ask if x-factor was at harry and louis' flat, and if he should bring some crisps. "grimmy's a skinny bastard."
"he's gotten worse with old age, if you believe it. legs like chickens," harry says, adding to the banter, but he can feel zayn start to slip away, can hear the voices on the other side of the line get louder. "look, i'll let you go, mate."
"okay, harry, i'll talk to you soon alright? let me know if anything changes with louis?"
"of course, yeah," harry chugs back the last few drips of his coffee and swipes his hair away from his face. "bye zayn."
"bye haz."
"love you."
"i love you too."
-
"you were the one texting me, weren't you?" harry asks later, while louis flicks through the channels on the flat screen across the room (only the best for former boyband member, louis tomlinson). "you called me before you did it, didn't you?"
"look at you, figuring out the puzzle," louis watches a rerun of jerry springer for two seconds before flicking it on to a footie match. he coughs. "you didn't pick up."
"lou, i-"
"was a bit rude," louis curves his mouth up in a sad imitation of a smile. "didn't you miss me at all?"
"how'd you get my number?" he hasn't seen louis properly in nearly a year, back at some fundraiser get-together. they'd sung what makes you beautiful but liam had to leave early because his sitter couldn't take care of his daughter for the whole night, and zayn was off to a shoot in fiji the next morning, and niall had finally lost some of that goddamn enthusiasm that had kept them all together, and louis was high as a fucking kite, skinny with dark bags around his eyes, needle tracks up his arm.
"you put it at the end of the postcard you sent my mum round christmas, don't you remember?" louis runs a small hand through his rat nest hair and sighs. "she sent the postcard to me as a friendly reminder that you still existed, which i really couldn't have missed, what with your new album on its way out."
harry's known louis for years and he still doesn't know how he changes topic so quick. "louis, i-"
"i like that last song, how's it go?" he's got that joke face on, that awful, dreadful face that usually ends with harry feeling about two feet small. "the one about the crack addict who'll never love himself?"
it's supposed to diffuse him, supposed to make him twitch with anger, but harry styles is nothing if not charming, "went to number one on the charts though, so i suppose we're even."
"oh i don't dispute you for it," louis' eyes are bright, magnetic, enigmatic and crazed. "i was trying to get you some new material with this stuff, can't you see? you'd have got a bloody brit for 'my best friend's killed himself and now i'm sad and deep', wouldn't you have?"
harry clenches his fist and wills himself to take a deep breath.
"i just want you to get better, okay?" he tries to focus on something else, but the iv dripping in the corner makes him remember when his nan was in the hospital; the birds out the window are miserable looking, big and black, repellent, it seems, to the hard rain splashing down at them.
"why do you want me to get better?" louis asks, voice carefully blank, but harry can practically see the sneer on his face when he says better. "for myself, or so you have a clear conscience or whatever the fuck it is?"
his stomach clenches. "lou-"
"no harry," if louis could shout he probably would be. instead he tips his head to the side and narrows his eyes. "answer me honestly, for once. i've been in the middle of nowhere for years getting high with strangers and waking up in gutters and having sex with people who be anything but clean. so why the hell do you care now?"
"i've always cared," his voice is still slow, still low and cautious, but harry can feel the anger behind his own words. "don't you dare say i haven't because, god, louis, every weekend i'd be dragging you back from clubs, so pissed out of your mind you didn't know up from down-"
"please," louis looks like he wants to snap - snap in two like a fucking elastic band - but he holds it back, puts on one of his masks and clenches his jaw. "as soon as grimshaw showed even the slightest interest i became your fucking tour best friend. you and your little gang of hipsters were too good for the rest of us, and you know it."
"you're mad at me for falling in love now?" harry doesn't know where to look - at the wrapped scars, at the blue hospital sheets, at louis closed off eyes - and settles for dragging a hand across his forehead. "just because i wasn't head over heels for you lou, just because you weren't the light of my fucking life anymore-"
"that's not what this is about," louis grits out, eyes flashing a little dangerously. "none of this is about that, okay, so just fucking forget it."
"we're not eighteen anymore, louis," harry pulls at the leeds bracelet on his arm from this year, scared at the memories that flood him at the action. "i'm not having this argument again-"
"it's not about that!" louis snaps as loud as he can, and it startles harry briefly. his eyes are a little wet and harry's insides coil because louis crying is his least favourite thing in the world. "surprisingly enough i've got more things going on right now than just you."
harry bites his lip.
louis huffs and then coughs a bit, shifting down on his pillow.
god. harry didn't mean for it to go this way at all.
"okay," he clears his throat a bit and holds up his hands. "i'm sorry, louis. i'm sorry that you've been through hell and back for these past couple of years and that i wasn't there. i'm sorry i didn't realize that i needed to be there, that i should have been there. i'm so sorry."
"harry," and now he just sounds tired. god, they're both so tired. "i - i was being a twat, don't worry about it."
"no really i-"
"don't worry about it, okay?" louis says in his end-of-discussion voice, his babysitting voice, the one that used to ring through the tour bus with niall go sit in the corner, you've had enough cheetos. "go get some coffee or a shower though, you look like shit."
harry's laughter is painful on its way out, but the halfhearted smile louis makes at it is worth it.
-
nick finally gets to the hospital.
he's pale and his expression is anything but pleased, but he's still got the laugh lines around his eyes that made harry fall in love in the first place, and his arms are still noodle-y and warm and lovely when harry falls into them.
"mhm," harry breathes out through his nose, because he hasn't had a proper night sleep since louis got admitted. "thank you for coming."
"no worries, love." nick's voice is tired but strong, and when his hands smooth down the rat nest that is harry's hair it makes him want to purr a little. "you and lou ready to go?"
"just got to get him into some clean clothes, sign some forms, and then we should be alright," harry sniffs once, then breaks away from nick and smiles. "did i mention that you're the best person ever?"
"couple times," nick winks at him, wiggles a hand into his curls and tugs a little. "always nice to hear though."
they walk up to the room louis' called home for the past couple of days. the doctors had suggested he stay a couple more to make sure everything was fine physically and mentally, but louis was hearing nothing about it, demanding to be let out from the bed and the hospital and its 'prison walls'.
the nurses and harry had rolled their eyes at that one, but the doctor had agreed.
louis' in a pair of harry's jeans and one of nick's old jumpers when they get in, standing up in the middle of the room and sighing while the nice young nurse teaches him how to re-wrap his gauze. harry's already gotten the lesson, and instructed nick via text message to pick up a first aid kit because they didn't have one before now, and it really is sort of important.
"lou," harry greets, his big, flashy, paparazzi smile glowing up his face. he really wants this to go well. "look who i've brought with me!"
"if it isn't nicholas grimshaw," louis says in unimpressed voice. "haven't seen you since that party a couple years ago when you were so pissed you threw up all over rita ora."
harry remembers that night.
well, he remembers finding louis in the bathroom with two slaggy birds on either arm, eyes wide, pupils blown, a smashed needle at their feet.
the fight that came afterwards, when harry had cried and screamed and slapped to try and get something, fuck anything, through to louis' drug addled brain, is still brought up by some of nick's cruder friends with good memories.
"louis," nick's never had very good patience with louis, but he's promised he'd try. "always a pleasure."
"are you two my shiny saviors then?" louis' face is lit up with sarcasm but his eyes are still flat, skin still pale. "send me off to rehab and one day help me write my very own line of self-help books on how you too can get off the drugs just like me?"
"sounds like a fucking plan," nick says with the same half fake smile, half smirk he always had around louis whenever they had to do an interview together or sit in the same area or just generally be reminded of each other's presence.
"c'mon, lou," harry says, biting his lip a little but pleading with his eyes. "sunday roast when we get back, i promise. sweet potatoes just the way you like them."
louis looks like he wants to bite back with something, something that'll tear into harry's worn down heart and make his eyes well up in frustration, but he holds back.
"if i don't get a better offer in twenty minutes, styles, you've got yourself a deal." louis jokes, pulling down the sleeves of his jumper so they cover the thick bandages on his wrists.
(back when they were starting out, sleeping on mattresses on the ground of the bungalow, giggling at each other in the dark, running naked across the yard, harry thought that when louis made jokes it meant he was okay.
after their second time in america, when louis would sit next to him on the bus and just space out for hours at a time, blank eyed and empty hearted and unaffected by everything around him, harry found out the truth.
louis tomlinson making jokes is the worst, because it usually means he's so far within himself, so deep into that giant pit inside his mind, that he couldn't even admit to himself that he wasn't okay, that nothing was okay, and that he needed help.)
2/2
pairing: harry styles/louis tomlinson (friendship/past), harry styles/nick grimshaw
rating: r
word count: 12,000
warnings: suicide attempt, suicidal thoughts, substance abuse, swearing, mentions of m/m sex, mentions of homophobia, angst
summary:"they said you tried to commit suicide," harry doesn't sound like himself but louis doesn't look like himself.
"suicide's a strong word."
a/n: title from the bedouin soundclash song of the same name.
originally posted here for 1d_olymfics
before
the room's quite cold but harry's got used to it by now.
he curls his fingers into the muscles of louis' hand, not looking up at the thick bandages around his wrist, or at the dark circles around his eyes, or at the oxygen mask pulled tight over his nose. harry ignores it all.
he breathes in. louis breathes out.
-
1330:
im soooo fuked righ noww
harry shuffles the moving boxes in the truck and tries not to wrinkle his nose at all, because he's trying to be pleasant about this, really, he is.
it's just - he has money. lots of money. enough money to burn, if he really felt the need to do that (which he really doesn't). he has enough money to move house every couple of years and get into packed clubs and hire really good drummers to back solo stuff.
and, above else, he has enough money to hire movers to carry his shit out of the truck and into the new house.
but oh no, nick wanted to do it themselves.
"easy there pop star," the devil himself says when he hitches himself up into the truck, shoes clanking unattractively on the metal ground. "you could burn a hole in the sun with the amount of diva in this room."
"we're not in a room," harry snides, itching at his nose. he's tired. and his hair looks like shit today. but mostly the tired thing. "we're in a moving truck."
"experiences, love," nick kisses his cheek as he says it, and harry tries really really hard to keep the smile off his face, but it doesn't work. "we'll have a story to tell tomorrow, what about that?"
"i hate you."
"love you too," and the words aren't new enough to warrant the same kind of reaction they used to (when the smiles would break harry's face in half and he felt like he was on fire) but they still make his insides warm and tingly and remind him why he's here.
"mhm," is what he replies with though, and when nick's long, freckled arms come around him to tickle at his ribs, harry realizes that if moving shit by himself is the worst thing in his life right now, then maybe he doesn't have much reason to complain at all.
-
louis really wanted to die.
really, really wanted to die.
when they got him to the hospital, or so harry's heard (but he wasn't really paying too much attention because louis was lying in a hospital bed), they had to pump his stomach out to get rid of the shit louis had downed before cutting his wrists open.
he always was dramatic.
the room feels like the wrong kind of electric, too fired up, too damaging, too fucking sad. harry's sat all by himself in an awful, hard plastic chair at the edge of louis bed, trying to work up the nerve to open the blinds or hold louis' hand or do something other than stare, because he's seen this moment in a million films and they never just stare.
they always have a plan. they always know how it happened, know why it happened, and how to fix things. they always have some sad monologue or tears in their eyes or others to talk with.
but no one else is here.
it's just harry and louis and it all seems like a sick joke.
-
1934:
rember wen ever1 usd 2 luv mee
"you alright?" nick's at the counter making one of his famous meals (harry bets everything he owns that it's another spinach pie off youtube), and harry's just staring down at his phone, trying to figure out where he knows the number from.
"they're still texting me."
"maybe it's a psycho weird fan," harry doesn't even look up at the comment, just picks a bit of lint off the hastily thrown down table cloth on the table that came with the house. the rest of their stuff is set to arrive tomorrow (this time with the bloody moving van and the moving blokes) and harry hopes tomorrow gets here soon because he doesn't like how empty the house feels.
still house; not home. but that would come with time.
"i think it's just a wrong number," harry hums, scratching at the faint spot on the underside of his chin. "they seem lonely though."
"i bet it's a hard core larry stylinson fan who's trying to brainwash you into leaving me," he scratches his nose idly as he says this, feeding a bit of broccoli to their cat, mabel, who's biting at his ankles. harry never ceases to be amazed by nick grimshaw. "they're using sad, subliminal messages to make me seem worthless. run while you still can, harold."
"probably just a wrong number," harry shoots a quick text off to his mum, then kicks his bare feet at the cold tile of the kitchen. "is dinner in the realm of getting close to being ready?"
"sure it is," nick sashays a bit across the floor, nudging a cupboard closed with one hip and taking a bite out of one of the expired fig newtons that had been left in the living room by the old couple that had just moved out. "do you know what a wattleseed is?"
"sounds unimportant," harry clucks at the roof of his mouth for a bit and taps out a beat of the tabletop.
"judy would disagree."
"judy's the youtube cooking woman, yeah?"
"cooking guru, harold," nick starts whisking up the content of a glass bowl, something harry's about ninety percent sure should not be whisked. "if you're not going to use the correct terminology then we might have a falling out. and that'd be rather unfortunate."
"would be, wouldn't it?" harry itches his nose, then stands, stretching his back a bit. he hurts. no one ever said being twenty five would be so hard. "prove all those papers right."
"actually you'd have to start fucking caroline on the side, while running a secret prostitution circle, and then leave me to prove them right these days," he dumps the whisked, green, odd looking substance in the pie crust and harry knows that somewhere julia child is rolling around in her grave. "do you think this needs more salt?"
he turns around, whisk outstretched as if harry's actually going to lick it off and give advice and carry on his merry way. he might have, back when he was eighteen and nick was still the new exciting man in his life and the band was together and he'd been on top of the world, young and naïve and foolish.
but harry's not that harry anymore. so he wrinkles his nose and pries his mobile out of his (still) tight jeans. "i'm calling in some indian food."
nick gasps all outraged and harry can't help but laugh when he gets hit repeatedly on the shoulder with the whisk, dodging blows as nick yells about pop stars and divas and being a right twat harry styles.
it's just-
he's so happy he could burst.
-
louis wakes up.
his eyes are still so blue it actually makes the seventeen year old in harry squirm a little. his eyes are blue and his hair is brown, but now it's stringy and oily, and his skin is pale, paler then harry's ever seen it. there are wrinkles around his eyes that look like they've stopped being from laughing a long time ago and are now just there from too many long nights.
louis wakes up and it takes him a second to see harry.
but when he does he lets out this long breath that ends in a rough chuckle, and says (in a voice like sandpaper), "so this is hell."
-
2234
drink fr evry num 1 drnkk 4 evrey contry uve nvr hrd of
they're watching reruns of eastenders off nick's laptop, hastily plugged into one of the empty, sad little outlets in their empty, sad little living room, snuggled together on their new couch.
"'ve met shane richie you know," nick half heartedly says, scratching at his ear.
harry perks up his head a bit. "have you?"
"yep," harry feels a hand curl through his hair, digging in a bit at the back of his skull, just how he likes it. "on moyles 50 hour long radio thing. reasonably cool bloke but he kept cutting me off."
"hm," harry pats his side. "what an interesting story, nick."
"oh shush you."
"should tell it at all your parties."
"says the king of monotone."
"sh, dear, i'm trying to watch the programme."
they're quiet for a minute.
"we're actually an old married couple," nick sighs about twelve seconds later and harry just laughs back because, well, yes. he snuggles his cold nose into nick's chest and watches the drama unfurl on screen, lazily traces patterns on the insides of nick's thighs.
"nothing wrong with being old, love."
"shut it," nick pinches him on the arm. "when you're thirty five i'm never going to stop with the comments. every single day i'm going to say something awful about your age and you'll cry because you'll finally realize how mean you've been to me."
"hm," harry's quite fond of sleeping on top of nick; he's very comfy for such a skinny person. "except when i'm thirty five, you'll be forty five, and we’ll be able to get half off at restaurants on senior's day."
"if i had any energy at all i'd flick you in the nose for that comment," nick says tiredly, shifting a hand through harry's hair and snuggling a bit deeper into the warm blankets around them, arm coming to pull at harry's waist.
harry laughs, letting himself be moved about, and mentally thanks whoever's out there listening for giving him such a blessed life.
-
a nurse checks louis' vitals and re-wraps his bandages-
(harry almost has to turn away when she does because louis' wrists are raw and red and the blood isn't dripping anymore but harry has an imagination, he can see how it would have been a couple hours ago and it makes him sick)
-and makes him sit up to drink some water. louis' still barely there, eyes drifting in and out of focus, shooting harry these little curious looks like he forgets who he is every couple of seconds.
a doctor pulls harry out of the room just after louis' fallen asleep again. he wants to protest, because the room looks so empty when louis' all alone, but he knows it's what he should do - listen to the doctor speak. his mouth is stern but his eyes are kind, and the badge on his chest says dr. anderson, which calms the butterflies in harry's stomach a bit.
"you must be mr. styles then," dr. anderson says with a half-smile, clipboard under one arm. he looks like he could be forty years old, grey hairs around his ears. harry wonders if he has a family, if he's ever almost lost a brother before.
"yes, nice to meet you," harry bites his lip but holds out a hand because he knows how to do this, he's done this for the last nine years of his life. "are you louis' doctor?"
"yes, he's been under my care since he was brought in at around five o'clock this morning." he riffles around with some papers on his clipboard and steps to the wall more when a bustling nurse walks by with some ivs. "our paramedics received a call shortly before that, from a flat on adelaide road."
harry's throat closes up.
he hadn't really thought about where louis could be, hadn't been able to get past the overwhelming thought of suicide that took over his brain to think past it. the last he'd heard from louis he was getting high off the coast of spain, not returning calls or emails, and generally just making his family (and harry, but they were, well used to be, one of the same) incredibly worried for him.
so to think that louis was in london, barely twenty minutes away from him; well, that's frightening.
"has mr. tomlinson ever discussed his depression with you, mr. styles?"
"harry, please," he says automatically because the word depression hits him like a freight train. "no. no, i haven't seen him since - it's been a long time. a really long time."
"and before that?" dr. anderson is looking at him sadly. "did mr. tomlinson ever talk about an suicidal urges? do you know of any pass suicide attempts?"
harry thinks briefly to when they were in australia in 2013 and louis had joked about skydiving without a parachute. "no. no, louis wouldn't - he was never unhappy."
yes he was, comes a voice in his head.
"okay," dr. anderson smiles kindly again. "thank you, i know it's hard. we'll send in an application for him to be admitted to capio nightingale hospital for outpatient treating as soon as possible. he's very lucky to be alive, mr - sorry, harry. right now what mr. tomlinson needs most is his family, close friends, and a clean, substance-free environment."
"wait so," harry's trying to figure things out but it's a little difficult. "he's getting out then?"
"we're afraid that keeping mr. tomlinson in the hospital could make him so used to the pace here that he'd be unable to reenter society easily," doctor anderson smartly says. harry nods. "if you're worried about his own safety then i have a list of rehabilitation centers that would be happy to take him in-"
"nick and i can take him, it's fine," harry feels, for a second, that he should clarify who nick is, but then he remembers that his face is still on magazine covers, that people still care about what they're up to, so he doesn't. "and yes, the stuff with the hospital, of course."
"mr. tomlinson is lucky he has good friends," dr. anderson peels out some papers from his clipboard and hands it to harry. "here's the information regarding capio, and the contact information for some psychologists in this hospital that i recommend. unfortunately healing the exterior wounds is only the beginning."
"i know," harry nods and then nods again, just to be sure. "i'll make sure he gets better, i promise."
louis took care of harry every single day of x-factor and for years after, even when they were both knee deep in gay rumours and contracts and pretty, new distractions.
it's time harry returned the favour.
-
the call comes just after 3 in the morning.
harry wakes up to the tinny, ringtone sound of one thing (because nick thinks himself hilarious) coming from his pocket, vibrations running up and down his leg. he's smushed between nick's arm and the couch, blanket half off him, jeans digging uncomfortably into the soft, fleshy bits of his stomach.
"jesus fuck," he mutters into the wet patch of couch under him, all covered in drool which should probably disgust him, but after years of falling asleep everywhere and anywhere a little bit of drool, if anything, calms him.
his phone keeps ringing.
already planning on murdering whoever it is on the line (especially if it's just a drunk dial from ed or cara or henry or fincham or niall or something), he pulls the mobile out of his pocket slowly, slumping up on one elbow and squinting his eyes to check the number.
it's the same unknown number as before.
curiousity grabs harry then, and he's about to hit the green button on his phone, to finally hear who the strange person is, to finally hear the voice that belonged to the lonely person who kept texting him depressing things.
but then there's a rumbling next to him and nick's voice comes out all raw, "harry?"
"yeah," he bites his lip, then touches the red, cancelling the call quickly. he tosses his phone onto the coffee table and turns into nick's warmth, bringing the blanket up with one hand and tucking his face into nick's neck.
"alright?" nick mutters sleepily, his hand drifting up into harry's hair to pull gently at the curls.
harry whispers a quiet mhm in reply and falls asleep.
-
the next morning they're eating croissants and tea when harry's phone buzzes again.
this time the screen yells HOSPITAL OF ST. JOHN AND ST. ELIZABETH at him.
this time he picks it up, dread rising in his stomach.
this time there's a woman on the other line with a clear, precise voice saying, "hospital of st. john and st. elizabeth calling, is this harry styles? you're currently listed on the emergency contact list for louis tomlinson and i'm sorry to say that there's been an accident-"
after
"you can ask me why if you'd like," louis says into the stillness of the room, one finger scratching under the tight bandages. he's so skinny; harry bites his lip harder. "ask me what happened and all that."
"they said you tried to commit suicide," he doesn't sound like himself but louis doesn't look like himself.
"suicide's a strong word."
"what word would you use?" he's never felt like this before. "what word would you use to describe an overdose and slitting your wrists, louis?"
"oh, harry's angry now," louis almost smiles. "can't have that."
"louis."
"probably in the tabloids for the first time in two years today," louis comments gracefully, peering out the window like he's just announced the fucking weather. "amazing how interesting you become again when you're in the hospital, with harry styles at your beck and call."
harry wants to snap back at that, wants to yell and scream and ask if it was all for that, all this shit with the drugs and the blood and the texts, if that was all for some fucking attention.
but he doesn't.
instead he reaches out to grab louis' stone cold hand. "you scared me louis. you really, really scared me."
-
"are you alright?" is the first thing nick asks when he picks up the other line, smooth voice curling through the speakers and down harry's spine.
he sniffs a little before nodding, then remembers nick can't actually see him. "yeah i'm - i'm okay. he just fell asleep again. he's -" harry cuts himself off before he says good because if there's one thing louis tomlinson isn't at the moment, it's good.
"have you called his mother yet, or do you want me too?" nick quietly asks, and harry's heart stutters a little because fuck, jay is going to be devastated.
"i should call her. she should definitely hear it from me."
"and the boys?"
"oh god."
"harry?" he tries to focus on it, tries to get the awful, awful thought of your best friend just tried to kill himself out of his head. "harry, love. take a deep breath."
"right."
"i'll call liam, alright? and i'll tell him to call lou's mum. it's going to be okay. louis is going to be okay."
"right."
"okay."
-
"i heard about you and nick," louis says a little while later in his sandpaper voice, itching sleep out of his eyes. it looks like he's trying to smile at harry, but the action is all wrong on his face, pulling it in ways it looks like it hasn't been pulled in a while. "that you're a proper couple now."
"we are."
"congratulations then," he looks like he might nod off at any minute. "knew you two would end up together."
harry's waiting for the punch line. there's always a punch line with louis, like some kind of sick, twisted thing his brain does when he's upset - make people laugh. make them laugh at you if you have to. do anything to keep them on their toes.
the punch line doesn't come.
so harry tries to make it himself, "he's too much of a hipster for just anyone, i guess."
he never was the funny one.
louis lets out a weak, wrecked noise that harry takes for a chuckle and god he's so tired of this. he's tired of the weather outside, mocking him with its dark clouds and hazy skies, birds as black as coal flying by and clawing at each other (pathetic, it's pathetic). he's tired of louis' glazed over stare, of the clean bandages on his arms covering up messy scars. he's tired of being the only person in the whole world who even gives a shit about what happening to louis tomlinson, formerly of one direction, formerly a superstar, formerly a person who didn't want to die
"why isn't he here?" louis doesn't really sound too interested in the answer, but harry gives it to him anyway.
"he said he didn't want to see the new inductee to the twenty seven club," harry lets out bluntly.
nick had been very adamant about not coming, bringing up the fact that louis didn't even like him anyways, and that someone had to keep the fort down there and make sure phone calls were being made. harry almost didn't let him stay, almost dragged him with him, but when he remembered how there's still a picture of nick and amy winehouse on his mobile to this day, hugging tight with her big, beehive hair in his face, he stopped.
twenty seven club indeed.
"didn't quite get in though, did i?" louis scoffs.
"no." harry says back because he's afraid if he doesn't keep talking he'll strangle louis himself. "no. and you're not going to."
-
"is he okay, really?" zayn asks for what must be the billionth time over the phone.
"he's - i wouldn't say okay," harry starts because he's never been the best actor. "but he will be. we've already got therapy lined up and he'll stay at our’s until he gets back on his feet, and really. we'll be alright zayn."
"god," zayn sounds like he's smoking a cigarette, which is odd as he quit after louis' second time being caught with a baggie of coke, swearing off stupid addictions to help 'inspire' his friend. obviously didn't last. "you know how much i want to be there, don't you harry?"
"of course zayn, yeah-"
"it's just i have this bloody filming shoot, and they've got us booked in for the next month, and i'd get it off if i could but-"
"zayn, we've all been there, it's alright." harry takes a long sip of the shitty hospital coffee and checks his watch, counting down the hours until louis was officially discharged. "hell, i'm only lucky i've just off tour, otherwise i'd be in the same boat as you."
"nah, you wouldn't," harry's known zayn for enough years to know he's shaking his head, maybe scratching behind his ear too. "you'd be there for lou, even if you got the call halfway through your wedding vows, harry."
"i suppose."
"speaking of," he hears murmurs in the background and harry tries to imagine it, zayn on a beach, surrounded by beautiful women all dressed in bikinis, eyelashes all long. "i heard about you and nick being all proper couple-y and that, and i think it's great."
"thanks mate," a weird sort of bump fills up his throat and harry coughs. "means a lot."
"if you need a deejay when you two finally tie the knot, just let me know," zayn says and harry laughs.
"you'd have to fight nick for it." it's a joke except how it really isn't.
"i'd win!" it feels like old times for half a second there, like zayn had just called to ask if x-factor was at harry and louis' flat, and if he should bring some crisps. "grimmy's a skinny bastard."
"he's gotten worse with old age, if you believe it. legs like chickens," harry says, adding to the banter, but he can feel zayn start to slip away, can hear the voices on the other side of the line get louder. "look, i'll let you go, mate."
"okay, harry, i'll talk to you soon alright? let me know if anything changes with louis?"
"of course, yeah," harry chugs back the last few drips of his coffee and swipes his hair away from his face. "bye zayn."
"bye haz."
"love you."
"i love you too."
-
"you were the one texting me, weren't you?" harry asks later, while louis flicks through the channels on the flat screen across the room (only the best for former boyband member, louis tomlinson). "you called me before you did it, didn't you?"
"look at you, figuring out the puzzle," louis watches a rerun of jerry springer for two seconds before flicking it on to a footie match. he coughs. "you didn't pick up."
"lou, i-"
"was a bit rude," louis curves his mouth up in a sad imitation of a smile. "didn't you miss me at all?"
"how'd you get my number?" he hasn't seen louis properly in nearly a year, back at some fundraiser get-together. they'd sung what makes you beautiful but liam had to leave early because his sitter couldn't take care of his daughter for the whole night, and zayn was off to a shoot in fiji the next morning, and niall had finally lost some of that goddamn enthusiasm that had kept them all together, and louis was high as a fucking kite, skinny with dark bags around his eyes, needle tracks up his arm.
"you put it at the end of the postcard you sent my mum round christmas, don't you remember?" louis runs a small hand through his rat nest hair and sighs. "she sent the postcard to me as a friendly reminder that you still existed, which i really couldn't have missed, what with your new album on its way out."
harry's known louis for years and he still doesn't know how he changes topic so quick. "louis, i-"
"i like that last song, how's it go?" he's got that joke face on, that awful, dreadful face that usually ends with harry feeling about two feet small. "the one about the crack addict who'll never love himself?"
it's supposed to diffuse him, supposed to make him twitch with anger, but harry styles is nothing if not charming, "went to number one on the charts though, so i suppose we're even."
"oh i don't dispute you for it," louis' eyes are bright, magnetic, enigmatic and crazed. "i was trying to get you some new material with this stuff, can't you see? you'd have got a bloody brit for 'my best friend's killed himself and now i'm sad and deep', wouldn't you have?"
harry clenches his fist and wills himself to take a deep breath.
"i just want you to get better, okay?" he tries to focus on something else, but the iv dripping in the corner makes him remember when his nan was in the hospital; the birds out the window are miserable looking, big and black, repellent, it seems, to the hard rain splashing down at them.
"why do you want me to get better?" louis asks, voice carefully blank, but harry can practically see the sneer on his face when he says better. "for myself, or so you have a clear conscience or whatever the fuck it is?"
his stomach clenches. "lou-"
"no harry," if louis could shout he probably would be. instead he tips his head to the side and narrows his eyes. "answer me honestly, for once. i've been in the middle of nowhere for years getting high with strangers and waking up in gutters and having sex with people who be anything but clean. so why the hell do you care now?"
"i've always cared," his voice is still slow, still low and cautious, but harry can feel the anger behind his own words. "don't you dare say i haven't because, god, louis, every weekend i'd be dragging you back from clubs, so pissed out of your mind you didn't know up from down-"
"please," louis looks like he wants to snap - snap in two like a fucking elastic band - but he holds it back, puts on one of his masks and clenches his jaw. "as soon as grimshaw showed even the slightest interest i became your fucking tour best friend. you and your little gang of hipsters were too good for the rest of us, and you know it."
"you're mad at me for falling in love now?" harry doesn't know where to look - at the wrapped scars, at the blue hospital sheets, at louis closed off eyes - and settles for dragging a hand across his forehead. "just because i wasn't head over heels for you lou, just because you weren't the light of my fucking life anymore-"
"that's not what this is about," louis grits out, eyes flashing a little dangerously. "none of this is about that, okay, so just fucking forget it."
"we're not eighteen anymore, louis," harry pulls at the leeds bracelet on his arm from this year, scared at the memories that flood him at the action. "i'm not having this argument again-"
"it's not about that!" louis snaps as loud as he can, and it startles harry briefly. his eyes are a little wet and harry's insides coil because louis crying is his least favourite thing in the world. "surprisingly enough i've got more things going on right now than just you."
harry bites his lip.
louis huffs and then coughs a bit, shifting down on his pillow.
god. harry didn't mean for it to go this way at all.
"okay," he clears his throat a bit and holds up his hands. "i'm sorry, louis. i'm sorry that you've been through hell and back for these past couple of years and that i wasn't there. i'm sorry i didn't realize that i needed to be there, that i should have been there. i'm so sorry."
"harry," and now he just sounds tired. god, they're both so tired. "i - i was being a twat, don't worry about it."
"no really i-"
"don't worry about it, okay?" louis says in his end-of-discussion voice, his babysitting voice, the one that used to ring through the tour bus with niall go sit in the corner, you've had enough cheetos. "go get some coffee or a shower though, you look like shit."
harry's laughter is painful on its way out, but the halfhearted smile louis makes at it is worth it.
-
nick finally gets to the hospital.
he's pale and his expression is anything but pleased, but he's still got the laugh lines around his eyes that made harry fall in love in the first place, and his arms are still noodle-y and warm and lovely when harry falls into them.
"mhm," harry breathes out through his nose, because he hasn't had a proper night sleep since louis got admitted. "thank you for coming."
"no worries, love." nick's voice is tired but strong, and when his hands smooth down the rat nest that is harry's hair it makes him want to purr a little. "you and lou ready to go?"
"just got to get him into some clean clothes, sign some forms, and then we should be alright," harry sniffs once, then breaks away from nick and smiles. "did i mention that you're the best person ever?"
"couple times," nick winks at him, wiggles a hand into his curls and tugs a little. "always nice to hear though."
they walk up to the room louis' called home for the past couple of days. the doctors had suggested he stay a couple more to make sure everything was fine physically and mentally, but louis was hearing nothing about it, demanding to be let out from the bed and the hospital and its 'prison walls'.
the nurses and harry had rolled their eyes at that one, but the doctor had agreed.
louis' in a pair of harry's jeans and one of nick's old jumpers when they get in, standing up in the middle of the room and sighing while the nice young nurse teaches him how to re-wrap his gauze. harry's already gotten the lesson, and instructed nick via text message to pick up a first aid kit because they didn't have one before now, and it really is sort of important.
"lou," harry greets, his big, flashy, paparazzi smile glowing up his face. he really wants this to go well. "look who i've brought with me!"
"if it isn't nicholas grimshaw," louis says in unimpressed voice. "haven't seen you since that party a couple years ago when you were so pissed you threw up all over rita ora."
harry remembers that night.
well, he remembers finding louis in the bathroom with two slaggy birds on either arm, eyes wide, pupils blown, a smashed needle at their feet.
the fight that came afterwards, when harry had cried and screamed and slapped to try and get something, fuck anything, through to louis' drug addled brain, is still brought up by some of nick's cruder friends with good memories.
"louis," nick's never had very good patience with louis, but he's promised he'd try. "always a pleasure."
"are you two my shiny saviors then?" louis' face is lit up with sarcasm but his eyes are still flat, skin still pale. "send me off to rehab and one day help me write my very own line of self-help books on how you too can get off the drugs just like me?"
"sounds like a fucking plan," nick says with the same half fake smile, half smirk he always had around louis whenever they had to do an interview together or sit in the same area or just generally be reminded of each other's presence.
"c'mon, lou," harry says, biting his lip a little but pleading with his eyes. "sunday roast when we get back, i promise. sweet potatoes just the way you like them."
louis looks like he wants to bite back with something, something that'll tear into harry's worn down heart and make his eyes well up in frustration, but he holds back.
"if i don't get a better offer in twenty minutes, styles, you've got yourself a deal." louis jokes, pulling down the sleeves of his jumper so they cover the thick bandages on his wrists.
(back when they were starting out, sleeping on mattresses on the ground of the bungalow, giggling at each other in the dark, running naked across the yard, harry thought that when louis made jokes it meant he was okay.
after their second time in america, when louis would sit next to him on the bus and just space out for hours at a time, blank eyed and empty hearted and unaffected by everything around him, harry found out the truth.
louis tomlinson making jokes is the worst, because it usually means he's so far within himself, so deep into that giant pit inside his mind, that he couldn't even admit to himself that he wasn't okay, that nothing was okay, and that he needed help.)
2/2