☆sierra★ (brokenbravery) wrote,
  • Mood: high

been gone forty days, fell apart forty ways

Larry Stylinson oneshot, could be au, could not be.
Harry leaves Louis. And slowly, so does his will to live. Spoiler alert there's a happy ending.
Trigger warning for self harm, attempted suicide, depression.
Rating would be nc17 I guess.



On the first day, Louis doesn't move. He sits on the kitchen floor where he was left, knees hugged to his chest, and he doesn't cry. He stares at the wall and barely moves, save for his rattling inhales and exhales. His limbs go numb but he doesn't care because his mind feels numb too.

*

On the second day, he manages to drag himself to their- his bed, and curl up in a ball under the covers, only getting up to go the loo. He doesn't eat and he doesn't sleep, instead counting the pattern on the sheets and tracing it with trembling fingers. He can't get warm enough no matter how many blankets he pulls on top of him.

*

On the third day, he showers and eats two bowls of cereal. And then he goes straight back to bed, burrows under the covers, and hugs the other pillow to himself, breathing in the scent he left behind, familiar cologne and fruity shampoo. It’s still in the shower. He knows, because he almost used it, and froze in place until the water went cold and startled him out of his trance.

*

On the fourth day, there’s a knocking on his door. He knows it’s one of the boys, but he doesn't get up, let alone answer it. He supposes he should, because he might be worrying them, not answering their calls and texts. He threw his phone out that morning, sick of hearing it vibrate from across the room. But he stays where he is, despite being sweaty and lonely and numb.

*

On the fifth, sixth and seventh days, not much changes. He showers occasionally, eats occasionally, even manages to move to the couch. But that’s where he stays, cocooned in his onesie, still clinging to the pillow like a child with their teddy. He wonders if it’s pathetic, but as soon as he does, he has to laugh. Because yes, it’s pathetic, Louis is pathetic. That’s why he left him.

*

On the eighth day, he cries. He’d been waiting for it to hit, knowing the timer was ticking down, and it does, when he accidentally pulls on one of the sweaters that belonged to him. He rips it off and falls to the floor, and it feels like his insides are being ripped out, it all hurts so much. He sobs until he can't breathe, ugly sounds leaving his mouth, hands scrubbing at his puffy eyes. It lasts for hours. He passes out right there on the carpet.

*

On the ninth day, he’s tired. He stays in bed and holds the pillow.

*

On the tenth and eleventh days, the others are there again. Banging on their- his door, calling to him, trying to coax him out. He takes the pillow and covers his ear with it, sniffling into the crook of his elbow. He misses being held.

*

On the twelfth day, he leaves the flat. Purely because they’re- he’s dead out of food and he’s never had to make it before, Harry always did the cooking. He can think his name now. He’s not sure if that’s a good or bad thing. He goes to Tesco and picks out mostly ice cream and microwave dinners, and when he gets home, he goes to bed, unable to handle anything more.

*

Days thirteen through sixteen pass in a hazy blur of tears and binge eating and tissues strewn in between beer bottles. The flat is so quiet without him, so empty, just like Louis. He’s missing his other half and Louis doesn't think he can function like this. He shouts a lot, throwing things in desperate anger, hoping he’ll feel better when the glass shatters. He never does.

*

On the seventeenth day, he takes a razor to his wrist. The blood is shiny and beautiful where it beads along the thin line, and he quickly adds four more. It doesn't make him feel any better, but it makes him feel less numb. When he’s done, he simply lies on the bathroom floor, pillow still held close. He stains it slightly red but he thinks that’s metaphorical.

*

On the eighteenth day he drinks himself into a stupor and is very glad he got rid of his phone. He would have done something stupid.

*

On the nineteenth day, he does the same.

*

On the twentieth day, he wakes up and finds Zayn staring down at him with a sympathetic frown. He doesn't have to ask to know he got Harry’s key, and the fact that he just gave it up like it was nothing makes him hide back under the covers to sob, trying to ignore the fact that the rubbing of his back is in the wrong direction. Harry did it so much better.

*

Days twenty one to twenty four consist of Zayn, Niall and Liam taking shifts watching him, forcing him to eat, bathe, move around the flat. He doesn't speak a word, and they look worried. They probably should be.

*

On the twenty fifth day, he locks himself in the bathroom and cuts his thighs until they’re sore and bleeding everywhere, and his head falls back and hits the wall in relief, finally feeling a different kind of pain. He winces the rest of the day, sweatpants sticking to the healing wounds, but if Liam notices, he doesn't say anything. Probably assumes it’s emotional. He’s not really wrong, because Louis had sworn he’d heard Harry whispering to him that morning, and he knew he needed to do something to distract himself. Razors are very distracting.

*

On the twenty sixth day, they sit him down for the talk. The ‘we’re here for you and we’re sorry and we’re really worried so can you just speak to us please’ talk. Louis clears his throat awkwardly and shrugs, asks them what they want him to say. They all kind of hesitate, and it’s a bit of a shock, because they’ve never hesitated with him before. He’s Louis, big and bright and their best friend, and now they’re hesitating. He leaves and lays in bed until he dozes off.

*

On the twenty seventh day, he makes an effort. Not for himself, certainly not for Harry, but for his boys. He gets out of bed in the morning, showers, puts on proper clothes, jeans and all. He styles his hair and makes breakfast and by the time they show up, he’s watching X Factor on telly. They’re surprised, but pleasantly, and they hug him extra tight. He manages a small smile.

*

On the twenty eighth day, he does the same. He’s okay, good even, listening to Niall rave on about this club he went to where the bartenders wear bras female or not, and then Liam gets a call, and thinks he can't hear, but he can. He thinks he’s trained himself to know Harry’s voice anywhere. He hears his b- ex boyfriend laugh over the phone and his progress tumbles to the ground. Zayn sees it happen and tries to stop him, but he’s locked himself in the bathroom again, razor in his bloodstained fingers. Everything hurts.

*

On the twenty ninth day, he stays in there, never having got up off the floor. They’ve all tried to get him out, but he won’t move. He sits in the tub and lets the shower wash over him, still clothed. He can't stop shivering, and he’s not sure whether it’s because the water’s gone cold or because he’s so fucking broken at the thought of Harry smiling and being happy when he’s...this. He wonders if he could drown himself in the bath.

*

On the thirtieth day, it’s been a month. One whole month since Harry left him, broke his heart and moved on. Louis sure as hell hasn’t. He doesn't think he ever will. He thinks that if he can't have Harry he doesn't want anyone or anything. Harry’s fine and Harry’s happy and Louis’ broken and sad and currently swallowing twice the amount of painkillers he should take. He doesn't give one fuck. He curls up in bed and cries.

*

Over days thirty one to thirty three, he makes some changes. He switches his lock, sick of the others trying to fix him. He doesn't want to be fixed. He takes the pictures of Harry and him off the wall and shoves them in a closet, slamming the door. He disables the home phone, blares The Fray and spirals. He cuts and he drinks and he swallows capsules. He smokes shakily on the balcony and wonders what would happen if he just tipped over the edge.

*

On the thirty fourth day, he goes to the shop because he needs more cigarettes. He spends a little while wandering the aisles, anxious being outside the safety of their- his, his goddammit, flat. He grabs some sweets and alcohol, and heads to the counter, asking for two packs of the brand Zayn buys. He hears a cough behind him and turns to see none other than Harry there, awkward and shy. He looks just the same as ever, if not better. Louis throws a wad of cash on the counter, probably far too much, grabs his bag, and runs. He chain smokes the entire way home to avoid falling to pieces, and once behind closed doors, he hyperventilates.

*

On the thirty fifth day, he sits in the tub naked and cuts deeper and more than ever before, letting the blood roll down to pool by his feet. It should be gross, and it is, but Louis feels gross. He feels ugly and fat and weak and stupid, so stupid. He gets lightheaded after a while and when he closes his eyes, he sees green ones. He cuts a few more times just to see red instead.

*

On the thirty sixth day, he has a dream about Harry. It’s memories, mostly, all the ones he’s been forcing out until now. Little smiles, soft kisses, lingering touches. The way one dimple is more elusive than the other, but Louis can- could, fuck, could always bring it out with a simple joke. His lungs feel like they’re collapsing and his heart is beaten to a pulp, at this point. There’s knocking at the door and he ignores it, swallowing a handful of capsules dry and letting sleep take over once more. He kind of doesn't want to wake up. He wakes up anyways.

*
On the thirty seventh day, he doesn't move much. He thinks a lot, though. About his mum, his sisters, Stan, the other boys. Harry, most of all. Harry, who has moved on and is fine, laughing and hanging out with friends, probably. Did Louis mean that little to him, in the end? It seems crazy, because Harry was Louis’ whole world. Is his whole world. The pillow doesn't smell like him anymore, instead sleep sweat and tears. Louis still doesn't let go of it.

*

On the thirty eighth day, he stops eating. He hasn’t been doing much of that anyways, just a small something here and there when he has the energy and brief emotional stability to make it to the kitchen, but now he just stops. The growling in his stomach is like the growling in his heart, and it’s better that way. He counts his scars and thinks I love you, I still fucking love you, why did you leave me, why don't you love me too? There’s no answer, of course. Just the stuttery hum of the radiator.

*

On the thirty ninth day, he draws himself a bath, lets it stain slightly red with blood from newly sliced skin, and then lowers back into it, eyes closed and lungs still. He doesn't try to breathe. He remembers sweet whispers, thinks about true love, misses the warmth of Harry’s body against his and he doesn't try to breathe. He inhales water when he can't hold off any longer, and chokes on it. He’s disappointed when he ends up hunched over the edge, coughing it up between ragged sobs. He leans his head against the tile and wishes everything would stop.

*

On the fortieth day, there’s a knocking on his door that doesn't stop. He screams at them to go away, telling Niall and Liam and Zayn to fuck off and leave him alone, but the banging just continues, and after ten minutes has passed and he’s literally rocking back and forth, clutching at his hair, he wrenches it open and comes face to face with Harry.

He freezes, and his stomach drops and his fingers shake and his heart beats double time. He thinks about slamming the door in his face but he can't, he knows he can't, because he’s still so painfully in love with him that his lungs are constricting at the sight of his mussed curls and frowning green eyes.

He holds his breath and prays prays prays.

“Hi.” Harry says in his deep rumble of a voice, and Louis’ legs go to jelly.

“Um, hey.” He manages, shifting on his cold bare feet. “Are you here for your stuff, or..?”

Harry huffs a laugh, cheeks pinking. It’s beautiful.

“No, Lou.” He smiles, stepping forward. “I’m here for you.”

Louis might actually be in shock. He’s feeling more than he has in over a month, surprise and hope and love and fear and so, so much confusion. It must show, because his ex – is he his ex, still? – reaches out to rub his arm. The simple contact almost makes his knees buckle.

“There’s no way to explain it that’ll make what I did better, or okay, but. I miss you. Fuck, I miss you.” He stresses. Louis’ knuckles go white around the doorknob. “And the others said you’ve been a right mess and honestly, I have too, I’ve just been lying to them. I’ve been worried sick about you, love, and I really did think it was for the best but I was an absolute idiot, okay, because as much as we fight a lot and disagree on tons, we just fit, despite that. I miss fitting together with you. I’m lost, now. I don't feel like me anymore.”

When he’s finished, he bites his lip and looks at Louis nervously. “I understand if you want me to fuck right off, but. Do you think we could maybe get back toge-”

“Fuck.” Louis whimpers brokenly, and then he’s collapsing into Harry’s chest, clinging to him and completely losing it, falling apart and being put back together all at once.

His sobs are hitching and his body is shivering but Harry lowers them to the ground and holds him close, lips on his temple, arms strong and warm around him. Louis can't breathe because this is what he’s missed so, so, so much.

“Don’t leave me again.” He cries, shame long gone. “Please, please don't leave, I love you so much, I, I got so bad, shit, you can't do that ever again, Harry, no.”

A tremor wracks him and Harry at once, and his boyfriend squeezes him tighter, sniffling as well.

“I won’t, I promise, I’m so sorry, I’m here sweetheart.” He tells him, kissing his hair over and over. “I’m here, I’m here, I’m here.”

Louis whines and presses his face into his neck, inhaling the smell his pillow lost. “I thought you didn't want me anymore.” He chokes out, trying to meld them into one person.

“I always want you, I could never stop wanting you.” Harry says into his greasy hair, and Louis closes his eyes.

“Even if now I'm covered in scars?” He asks, because he has to. He can't allow himself to break once more.

Harry tugs back with a shocked expression, eyes flashing with regret and guilt, mouth open. “I...Louis. You...what?”

Louis swallows the lump in his throat. He has to protect himself, even if there’s barely anything left to protect.

“Even if now I’m covered in scars?” He repeats, voice a little more even, but still so very thick. He watches as Harry’s heart visibly breaks.

But the younger boy nods right away, and says “Of course. God, of course.”

That’s enough, and Louis crushes their lips together in a desperate kiss, all small sounds and fingers wound tight in clothes. He feels like he’s numb, and for once, that’s a good thing. All his mind can focus on is Harry Harry Harry, he loves you, he’s here, you’re not alone anymore and Harry loves you, HarryHarryHarry.

Their hands link somewhere in between, and Louis smiles. He smiles so big that it breaks their kiss and he has to just lean their foreheads together, breathing in and out and positively beaming. To be fair, Harry looks pretty overjoyed too.

“You’re everything.” Louis tells him in a gush of a breath.

His heart soars when Harry whispers “You’re more.”

*

On the forty first day, Louis lays in bed with Harry and tells him everything. Harry kisses every single scar, and apologizes for every single day apart, and Louis shuts him up with their joined hands over his mouth. The pillows smell like cologne and fruity shampoo again.
Tags: larry stylinson, oneshot, trigger warning
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