these foolish things

days went on like this—despite the original threats of having to drink the calorie-filled supplement drinks with every unfinished meal or snack, harry never actually enforced it. watching louis writhe in discomfort at just barely half a meal already was too heart-wrenching to experience. and in truth, louis was never able to eat more than a bite or two of his snacks; harry would always have to be the one to finish them for the boy to avoid wasting food.

it was also more difficult because harry hadn't known what louis actually liked, or if he had any preferences for food at all outside of what was driven by his illness. it would be much easier, he thought, if he knew louis before everything went to shit, and maybe even have prevented this all in the first place.

but it wasn't that easy, and he knew that. there was so much more to the boy that hadn't been revealed yet. questions and assumptions, of course, drifted through harry's mind at various magnitudes—from passing thoughts to more persistent ones that he worried he would accidentally utter aloud if he were not careful.

for both of them, it felt like time was not measured in days; but in meals. like every single second not eating would be spent marinating in anxiety in anticipation of the next meal; and every second spent eating would be spent wishing they were anywhere else in the world.

he also wasn't oblivious to the fact that this kind of radical change, this abrupt attempt at recovery, was taking a huge toll on the ocean boy. unable to stomach it all, harry stopped counting after the amount of times could no longer be housed by both hands, where he'd find the boy in the bathroom, fingers stretching into down seemingly past the larynx, muttering awful things about himself, muttering how unworthy he was.

some nights were so tiring. he'd hear the shower running, straining to cover the sound of louis retching into the moldy toilet (which they still hadn't gotten around to cleaning), and he'd find himself unable to get up to comfort the boy. in this state of unshakable exhaustion that was present no matter how much he'd slept, he'd just listen to the gagging and sobbing, hating himself for not doing anything about it.

nevertheless, he decided that this was progress. louis was eating, and that's what mattered. it didn't matter that the boy now had what seemed like a permanent appearance of red-rimmed eyes and puffy cheeks, that his breath tasted sour no matter how much louis tried to scrub it out, or that he never allowed harry to wrap his arms around him anymore.

maybe, they'd both wish, on every dandelion and star and candle and eyelash, he'd wake up one day and be better, as if nothing had happened at all. as if they'd met under normal circumstances and were a normal happy couple with normal problems.

the guilt, of course, eventually began to eat harry up after just less than a fortnight—nine days before they'd have to go in and see dr. reid again. he'd thought, if he just ignored everything ugly and cacophonous, then maybe the problems fix themselves. maybe louis would get things figured out.

obviously, however, that's not how anything in this world works.

"lou, please. you have to stop fucking doing this." he had to keep himself from shouting one night, after the ocean boy emerged red-eyed and wet-faced from the bathroom.

"i'm fine, harry. you know this takes time."

"don't- don't you think it's not normal to have made this little progress in two weeks? are you even trying to fight the urges?"

this normally would have set louis off, but he was just too drained, too sore to even speak coherently. he couldn't even look the younger boy in the eye, knowing that if he did, the dam would break and all his feelings would force themselves out at an unmatchable pace, from which harry would surely run from. those green eyes always seemed to have that effect on him, as if they had the ability to bore into his soul with their intensity; seeing through all the lies he'd spun, all the secrets he'd kept.

so instead of responding, or even reacting at all to harry's sudden outburst, he just walked past him as if he weren't there and settled into bed. they rarely spent nights apart anymore. harry would still visit his own place at times to pick up clothes or textbooks, but always, without fail, returned to louis' flat.

"fucking answer me, lou. i'm putting in so much effort for you. i'm giving up everything for you. all i ask of you is to try."

no one asked you to, louis thought, but couldn't quite articulate. he didn't want another fight. his eyes were heavy, and all he wanted was to be sheathed by sleep; a state in which he'd be unable to screw anything up any more than he already had, and hurt harry or himself. "harry. please, just drop it. i'm tired."

"when are you not tired, these days?"

"i don't know."

"i'm tired, too, lou." the younger boy deflated, frustration wavering only slightly.

"i'm sorry."

"then do something about it." when louis didn't respond, he continued. "you're always like this, and you keep saying you're tired, and you know exactly why you're tired, but you never do anything about it. it all is just beginning to feel so pointless to put all this effort into making food for you to just throw it all back up before it's digested. you're seeing dr. reid again in about a week; you have to pull yourself together, lou."

"i'm sorry," he repeated dumbly. "i'll try harder."

harry sighed. "i don't believe you."

"the offer from before still stands," louis said, before he really thought it over. almost funnily enough, though, he felt nothing.

"what offer?"

"from that night in the bathroom."

"there are a lot of nights that we spent in the bathroom."

"the first night. i told you that there'd be no hard feelings if you were to one day decide that this isn't what you signed up for."

"and what do you mean by that?��� harry said, voice beginning to quiver. the ocean boy couldn't tell whether it was from fear, or anger, or sadness, or all three. "tell me, louis. spell it out. for me."

he shifted uncomfortably at harry's use of his full name; not lou, not a nickname, not a pet name. maybe this was it. he wondered if the almost-three-months they've spent together should be considered a curse or a miracle. he wondered if he'd allowed himself to get too attached, forgetting about the irrevocable outcome of it all, as if he hadn't learned from before. "i'm saying," louis took a sharp inhale. "that it's not too late to decide i'm a lost cause and a waste of your time."

it didn't make sense, and he knew it, but harry suddenly, for the first time ever, had this overwhelming urge to strike the boy with the back of his hand. to feel the boy's bones shatter from the force, to see him crying and groveling in pain. the impulse scared him, so much so that he had to get out of bed and step away from louis, pressing his back into the wall and his fists in his pockets. "the only way you're wasting my time is when you stick your fingers down your throat, thinking i don't notice, and pretend everything is fine. i just want for you to get better. you're fucking sick. you're sick and you won't admit to it."

he felt more naked than ever when louis acted as if he could sense these horrendous urges, inching closer and closer to him, as if daring harry to raise a hand at him. he made himself small, readying himself for the blow. his eyes grew icy before they were hidden by eyelids, by eyelashes with tears clinging onto them. harry felt the boy yelling silently at him, challenging him to do something, anything. hit me, i deserve this. you know you want to.

harry felt like he was going to be sick as well, smelling the disease on the ocean boy as he imagined how accustomed to being struck louis seemed to be. how he treated being abused like it was something inevitable, inescapable.

"i'm not going to touch you, louis." he flushed at this statement, having came across much differently than he meant to, knowing that the boy would take it the complete wrong way. "no, that's- i-"

"i get it! i'm disgusting. you don't have to say any more."

"that's not what i'm saying, and you know that. why don't you listen for once?"

"it's what you're thinking. don't even try to deny it."

harry didn't respond, and the ocean boy felt languid tears run down his cheeks. he could hear them dripping onto the carpet, in large, oppressive plops, saying everything harry couldn't say; everything louis needed to know.

"i need some space," he whispered, sprinting from the bedroom and grabbing his keys before slamming the front door shut behind him, leaving harry no time to even react, mouth still hanging open and back still against the depressing gray walls.

he fell to the ground, sliding slowly. the apartment was now completely silent; only the quiet, mocking ticking of the clock on the wall. his legs went soft from the nausea that came as an aftershock from the anger. all he could do was crawl toward the space heater to try and turn it on—he wasn't sure if it was his imagination or if everything was truly so much colder after louis left. as if louis himself was the younger boy's own personal source of heat and light despite the emptiness behind his eyes and the permanent chill behind his skin.

the heater was unresponsive. harry flipped the switch on and off and back on again, but there was nothing. it was a 10-year-old model, after all. why did louis still own this junk?

he didn't know why it bothered him so much; an inconvenience as small as the fucking heater not turning on. the cold was undoubtedly potent, but it was nothing he couldn't drive off with a few blankets. the space heater didn't really make much of a difference other than a red glow, providing this placebo sense of safety. nevertheless, it felt like the end of the world in the absence of everything.

it hit him then, that louis was out by himself, without his phone or his wallet or anything warm. he was wearing pajama pants and a crewneck—definitely not enough to hold up against the now-november wind. all the leaves were gone now, and the world seemed to be overcome by dull gray rather than the red or orange or brown that came with autumn. during this quasi-season, everything felt much less meaningful, louis would tell him. as if the world was trying to tell us how easy it would be to disappear.

all the possibilities of the night began flooding harry's mind, quickening his breath and his pulse. louis could go and drive himself into a wall, or another car. he could drive himself into a lake. he could get himself piss drunk at some shitty bar and fuck some sweaty, overweight, middle-aged man. or even worse, get jumped by some gang.

the most heartbreaking part was imagining the ocean boy sitting at the wheel, trying to drive straight as tears blurred his vision, blaming himself for everything that'd happened, blaming his inadequacy for harry's anger.

he knew that he had to go find the boy somehow, but it just felt so impossible, and he was so tired. realistically, louis could be anywhere right now; as far as his car could bring him. harry now worried that the vehicle would run out of gas, and he'd be stranded somewhere with no phone and no money, unable to call for help.

instead of getting up, however, he just threw himself in bed—in louis' bed—and tried to drift off to sleep. he wasn't met with sleep, though, plagued by the memories of louis standing in front of him, so vulnerably, trying to feign strength with his eyes when the rest of the boy's body screamed fear.

he really allowed himself to cry, then, rolling over to inhale louis' pillow. it was desperately in need of a wash, as the smell of smoke began covering up louis' own scent. harry wondered, if a time would come where he'd grow to forget how louis smelled, the homeliness that came with it, his soft milky skin and long, gentle fingers. he wondered if this would all end, if this was all a dream, if he would wake up with no recollection of the ocean boy, only this sense that something had been robbed from him, something important.

was it wrong that he almost hoped that to be the case? was it wrong that despite his insurmountable love for the boy, he was so sick of it all?

still unable to sleep, he rose and pulled an empty notebook from louis' desk. the place was still eerily silent, and he could hear each step he took on the worn carpet that was hardly carpet anymore. he sat and began to write, hoping louis wouldn't mind that he'd taken one of his notebooks to use as his own. maybe, he thought, he could write a melody for this poem later. maybe, if louis was still alive then, he could sing it softly to him when it was all done. maybe, when this all passes, it could serve as a memento of their strength and everything they went through.

he hoped, as his tears dripped onto the yellowing pages, that the day when they would be truly happy would eventually come, despite the uncertainties of the present.