time thickened in his veins

somehow, louis was convinced to go see a psychiatrist.

he didn't know how it happened; it just did, so quickly and casually, that if he hadn't been listening so closely, he wouldn't have caught that the boy agreed to it.

harry wasn't sure whether louis' acceptance of the idea had been sheer nonchalance that would be followed by a thick layer a regret, or if he really did have some sort of conscience eating at him, telling him that recovery is worth it. he hoped it was the latter.

but regardless of whatever greater force had driven the boy to this decision, he was grateful.

louis, of course, refused to truly uncoil his feelings in front of a stranger, though, so the best harry could hope for was a miracle prescription—one that would make breathing a bit easier for louis, like the ones he had been given in his early teenage years, when anne's hunch had been correct about there being another force motivating his shortness of breath that was completely unrelated to his asthma.

the appointment was much more brief and much less personal than the two boys had expected. harry, of course, had accompanied the ocean boy as he had with everything else in their lives—ever since they had gotten close just less than six months ago, they'd practically been joined at the hip.

50 mg prozac.

it was fucked up, because there were so many better ways to die, but as soon as was told the name of the drug, louis had googled how much it would take for it to be a lethal dose. it was far too much and far too ineffective.

curse medical breakthroughs, he thought, curse them for making SSRIs so safe.

the second thing he googled was if there was any link between prozac and weight gain. of course, he had been eating more now under harry's constant supervision, but he had, in the end, still a great amount of control over what he'd ingested. and he wasn't about to allow a pill to ruin all that.

despite saying what he had before, he'd always thought that the dreariness of life on antidepressants were exaggerated, or even something in just movies.

they weren't.

a pregnant week of monotony and drowsiness had come and gone before he started noticing even the slightest difference in his mood. it could be called nothing but that, though; a difference. not a positive or negative one, at least not how he saw it.

what was better in this case? feeling so much pain at once that it'd constrict his ribs and lungs so that even choking wasn't an option, or being in this constant state of burnout despite not having done anything at all? which feeling would he consider more poignant?

he'd wondered if this is what depression was supposed to feel like; if he'd been faking it all this time, and was now experiencing the repercussions of lying to so many people. to everyone from his first hospital visit, to dr. reid, to his new psychiatrist whose name he could never remember, to harry. he'd wondered if all of his past experiences, his pain, his fear, had not actually belonged to him like he'd thought it had, and in actuality was just something he'd projected onto himself. he'd wondered, if trying was the right play, after all.

harry's birthday was steadily getting closer, approaching in just four days, leaving them only two days to decide whether or not they were to go on a trip.

"i think it's a good chance to get away from things," the younger boy told him, "but i don't want to overwhelm you. a lot's been going on recently."

"it's up to you, seriously. it's your birthday, after all. it's only fair that you choose."

"we're celebrating your birthday, too, remember?" harry whined. "you're important, lou."

"that's not the problem, hazza," he laughed, as genuinely as he could with just a single prick of doubt, "mine's already passed. i celebrated with my family just fine."

"but you didn't get to spend it with your boyfriend." harry had been throwing that word out at every chance that he saw, wanted to jump with joy with the knowledge that louis was officially his now, as it hadn't sunk in yet, despite the fact that a week had already passed.

"next year, maybe," he said, without truly believing the words that had tumbled past his lips. would harry still be there, this time next year?

"that's true; there is always a next time. but let me do something for you, please? as a special reward for me," he whined.

"well, if you phrase it that way…" louis sighed. "alright. do you want to go somewhere further? america?" he remembered how harry's face lit up at the talk of hot dogs and broadway and lady liberty, and willed himself to not shrink visibly, despite wanting to curl up with everything he had. "new york?"

this took the younger boy aback, paining him to see louis be so unsure of himself yet still putting everything and everyone else before himself, like he always had. "oh. no. no, lou, no. not unless you're ready."

"i'm willing to revisit things. besides, it could provide some closure. would it have been the first place you'd want to go if i never told you about jean?"

"yes, but-"

"then it's settled," he whispered. "i promise i'll be fine. i'm not selfish enough to make you take care of me when we're there to celebrate your birthday."

"that- that's not what i was concerned about," harry glanced worriedly at the smaller boy. it was true, though; he'd always dreamed of romantic excursions with the person he loved in bustling new york nightlife, light from shops and people and billboards dancing across the streets, historic landmarks, harsh accents, shitty pizza. there was something romantic about new york, he thought, even compared to the most well-known landmarks. new york held a special place in his heart; a place above LA or boston or japan. "i just don't want to make you remember things that you'd rather forget."

"if i could forget them, i would have already, haz." he chuckled dryly, thinking back to the times he'd tortured himself by playing the scenes again and again in his head, trying to make them so familiar that they'd seem far off. distant. it never worked, though. each replay would just be more painful than the last. "don't worry about it. let's go. i insist."

and so they'd gone.

their flight was two days before harry's birthday. seven hours of pure, unlacquered anxiety brewing in both boys' stomachs. louis was on his third cup of coffee and he hadn't taken his antidepressants ever since the two of them had the conversation about going to new york.

being next to each other, it was beautiful, really, he thought. but also undeniably terrifying; the way that they moved, always under the impression that the other would also be there, the way that they coincided within each other, the way that their hands fit together like magnets stronger than the gravity of the earth—stronger than any other force that louis had ever known.

but as soon as the flight took off, he was not there; and it was not harry beside him, but zayn.

the last time he was on a plane was the night he decided to leave jean. or maybe it couldn't quite be called a decision as he was practically dragged out of the country, only complying as a result of the cement in his bones.

zayn didn't know about matthew; he knew only what louis told him that night when he'd called, what his body telegrammed. it wasn't a planned departure by any means—he'd went to new york to really check on louis, after first hearing his broken voice. it was more than just disconcerting, really. louis had always been the strong one between the two, the one who'd always jump to his rescue during high school when both of them were being bullied, the one who took the beatings with a stone-cold expression that made zayn wonder how it was that the pain had affected him so little.

so when he saw louis in person again for the first time in two years, and it was so painfully clear that he was beyond broken, that there was more happening than just bruises, he dragged the boy home with no questions asked. he expected to receive more fight than he had, though at the same time he wasn't surprised, with how drained the older boy seemed.

but louis didn't cry, not until he was sure that he was alone. it was like a switch flipped within him, that because he was in zayn's presence, he was no longer allowed to show hurt or fear. so they'd spent the seven hours on the way to a place louis no longer accepted as home in deafening silence.

he and harry spent their plane ride in silence as well, albeit a different kind. one that was soft and gentle, serving as a reminder of what they'd shared under the starless sky on the first night they met. a few drinks, and neither would be able to tell the difference between then and now.

they communicated wordlessly. with just touches and hums and fluttering eyelashes. during the last hour of the flight, louis had hardened his grip in harry's hand, conveying to the younger boy that the moment was coming at last, that he was prepared to face his once-truths (the shakiness of his touch had also conveyed, though accidentally, that this readiness was partially a lie).

it was magical, harry thought when they'd arrived. as soon as their feet crossed the line between the plane and the airport, he could already hear people's loud, bold laughs, american accents, and unashamed individuality. this is whom he'd always wished he was, he realized.

while he looked like a child who'd just arrived at disney world for the first time, things were much less glamorous for the ocean boy. when harry broke out of his trance, he noticed louis shaking like the ground beneath him was trembling as if it were the end of the world. and maybe it had been, but he was simply too far gone to notice. it was the familiarity of the airport, filled with memories that he didn't even know he had, that made everything rush back into him at an unmatchable speed.

maybe it was the airport smell, or the dizziness that instilled in him as he was surrounded by busy, important-looking people in suitcases, or the realization that everyone had their own lives, but again, he felt so irreparably small.

the memories had more to do with his life before jean, if anything, but still made his throat close up in the same way. he'd subconsciously sectioned his time on earth into two; life before jean, and life after. it made things so much worse; the fact that it'd defined him so, just when he thought that he'd escaped his hometown's stifling atmosphere. when he'd first arrived, he'd been so excited, so optimistic, under the impression that he was no longer caged in this mold that matthew had made for him, that the man was an ocean away.

if he could go back to that very moment of liberation, he would. even if it meant losing everything else he had. it wasn't much, anyway, he thought. it was rattling, but he really just wanted to feel free again. he wanted to forget the words that had been so menacingly whispered into his ear as he was being penetrated:

"there is nothing more lonely than freedom."

it was less destructive, he felt, than some of the other things jean had told him, but nevertheless was a shackle that chained him to the ground. and who would he be without those shackles? they were what allowed him refuge when things got bad again. the same, familiar pain he'd felt before. maybe that pain was exactly what he needed. maybe, he thought, it really was what he was made for.

the ocean boy felt a hand grab his own, firmly, but gently; careful to not hurt him. it was so warm, so anchoring, that he felt his feet plant back into the ground.

"i've got you, lou. there's nothing to be afraid of."

those words, despite being so simple, had been so reassuring. he couldn't quite explain what it was about harry that'd been so safe, because harry wasn't safe; he shouldn't be safe. safeness wasn't a feeling that he was allowed to experience.

they went straight the hotel they'd booked, taking a taxi. the driver had a podcast playing softly in the background, so louis decided that it would be easier for him to immerse himself into the words.

"trillions of particles from space fly into earth's atmosphere every day," said the voice of an older american man, "but they grow smaller and smaller as the force of the air shatters them. for something to actually hit the ground, even a piece as small as the size of a pebble, it would have to start almost unimaginably large. but despite that, even the smallest bit of debris shooting through the sky can be seen by the naked eye. they glint and leave trails and are what most call 'shooting stars.' they're not stars, but at the same time, it wouldn't be a complete lie to say we are all surrounded by stardust."

it was harry's voice, once again, that had jolted him out of his stupor.

"we're here, love."

their hotel was a tall, modern building, one less grand than what jean's apartment had been all those years ago, but resembled it nonetheless. harry had even went out of his way to find a place that would be the easiest for louis to digest, but most all of the affordable hotels looked the same; tens of stories tall and reminiscent what haunted louis from two years ago.

but unlike then, they chose a room on the third floor facing away from the sun.

the first place they went to sightsee was the museum of modern art. the two boys strolled wordlessly through what seemed like endless stretches of white walls behind a plethora of photography, sketches, paintings, sculptures, even words—louis had never been very knowledgeable on the visual arts, but watching harry's face light up in curiosity, was enough for him. this was a world he didn't understand, he realized, an entire portion of harry's world he hadn't indulged in yet.

it was almost dreamlike; as if time had stopped when they entered, and all they had was each other. it was quiet—the only sound that rang against the glossy floors and dull walls was the light padding of shoes striking marble. only a few other people were there; a man holding a leather hat, a woman in a suit, a couple with a canyon of distance between them

the first thing that caught his eye was a series of photoetchings with handwritten captions by a uruguayan artist. hands nailed to walls, fragmented cups that would never fill, fingers coiled by wires, hands punctured by metal. they told a vivid story, one of pain and self-torment. of captivation. time thickened in his veins, it read. he couldn't feel what he saw, nor could he see what he felt.

how fragile, life can be. how potently, suffering can reside in someone.

the series made him want to cry in a way that art has never affected him before. and he understood, suddenly, that he was here, in this moment, with his boyfriend, seeing all these things he never saw before. learning things about harry's world he'd been too blind to look for. so blind of him, it'd been, to have focused so much on his own pain.

so he squeezed the younger boy's hand more tightly than he ever had; not because he feared that he would lose harry, but because he wanted to convey to harry, how important he was.

the green-eyed boy glanced over at him with this knowing look that made louis worry for a second that his flesh had turned transparent, that harry could see through everything that he was. but then, he smiled, and everything was alright again. well, it wasn't, but it would be.

maybe, he hoped, this trip would be more than just enduring the pain and forgetting the memories. maybe it could be overwriting the bitterness that he'd associated with new york since life after jean, and replace it with harryharryharry. or maybe he'd find solace in things he never thought he'd find solace in again.

"thank you," he breathed, almost startled by how his voice resonated in the silence that he expected to be much more asphyxiating than it had been, "thank you for not giving up on me."