i'm a statue

the moving process was just as harrowing as he thought it would be.

it involved driving back and forth from louis' place, harry's place, and their condo; over and over and over again. they had to rent a truck, which both boys had trouble driving for the first few days, especially while dealing with london traffic and heavy grey skies. it was mid-march already, and louis couldn't really tell if it'd felt like no time had passed at all since he met harry, or if it'd already been a lifetime.

by the time they were all shifted over to their new flat, it finally hit both boys that this is where they would be living, that this is the beginning of the life they pledged to build together. as much as it was romantic, it was terrifying. after just six months, were they well enough equipped to be together like this? if they were to break up, louis thought, where would he stay?

nights were harder as well, he found. sometimes, he'd awaken and forget where he was, altogether. the place smelled of slight oxidation, which louis usually found comforting, in a way, but all those feelings would dissipate quickly as night fell, forcing louis to shed has antlers and become something much more helpless than he wished to be.

he'd been trying to work away from the cutting, recently, as well. it's true that he'd done it nearly every night, save for the nights he allowed himself to wake harry, but he hadn't realized how dependent on the pain he really was, until recently. he hated that word, dependency. it was tainted and disgusting and reminded him of how parasites suck the life out of things until there's nothing left; but without its host, it can't survive. maybe he was a parasite to harry, he realized; so he steeled himself to not bother the younger boy for more than just one night a week, instead. he couldn't stop completely, or the boy would get suspicious of him, worried that he was caging up again. and louis knew that those reservations were the last thing that harry needed in his life, especially with how busy he had already became.

the first night he tried to deal with it on his own, he awoke drenched in sweat, feeling phantom cold hands all over his body and caressing his cheek. let go, he wanted to scream, if not for the soundly sleeping boy beside him, let go, let go, let go.

so he peeled himself out of the sheets, which were so damp that he worried he wet himself during his nightmare. it was a problem that he had as a child, after matthew had come into the picture. his mother had been perplexed as to what had caused it—a seven year old boy should have been far past that stage. louis himself had been confused as well. why had his dreams of matthew triggered such responses? it never happened while the man was touching him or penetrating him. he bled sometimes, much too young and much too small for something as old and disgusting to enter him. but he never urinated during the process.

but luckily, it wasn't urine that had damped the sheets, just sweat. he'd wash them in the morning once harry woke up, he noted to himself. normally, he'd make a beeline straight to the restroom to sit down on the cold tile and allow his skin to corrode into the equally cold earth. but tonight, he went to the study. he often found himself getting lost within their own home, now, on his most disoriented nights, having forgotten that they'd moved. he would be confused that there had been stairs, or that, beneath his feet, was plushy red carpet rather than unyielding wooden planks.

somehow, he ended up finding the living room after minutes of dizzy wandering, tears threatening to spill over. by the time he finally felt himself collapse on the same shitty brown sofa that was once found in harry's old apartment, surrounded by bookcases and bookcases and bookcases, he was sobbing uncontrollably—for a reason that he himself could not fathom. it wasn't a soft sobbing, either. it was an unassumingly violent cry. he cried until he felt himself choking on what he figured was his mucus, but could have been tears or blood or fear; fear of himself, of matthew, of jean, of new york, of his unfamiliar surroundings, of harry leaving him. dear god, he pleaded silently, please take me or end this.

his hands shook like the trees in new york would shake during storms; bitterly and relentlessly. every breath he worried would be his last, but the idea was also seducing him; the act of dying did not scare him, of course, as it was all he wanted most of his life, but what did scare him was dying without writing a note to harry, conveying his love for him. it wasn't that he wanted to leave the boy behind; this was just something that he'd wanted for so long it was hard for anything in the world to outweigh that desire.

but nothing happened.

the only thing that bothered him about their new place was that there was no balcony—if he wanted a smoke, he had to exit through the back door, met only by a dumpster and yellowing grass. he wondered if it'd grow back and become green again one spring came. march seemed to be the most hard-boiled of all seasons, coming in like some sort of lioness protecting spring like it were its cub. it was warm at times, but the warmth never remained; it was fleeting just as everything else was. louis couldn't help but feel drowning melancholy when the clouds drifted together, then apart, then together again. maybe they'd drift apart after he looked away, but it wasn't something he could bear to stomach watching, so he'd always push it out of his mind like it wasn't all painted in the sky for everyone to see, whether they wanted to or not.

it was only when he retrieved the lighter when he realized that his legs had become so soft from anxiety and exhaustion that he would probably collapse before even reaching the door, and he wouldn't have the energy to pick himself back up. so he just sat back down on the couch that smelled so strongly of harry, and lit the candle sitting at the center of the coffee table they purchased on the day they moved. they'd kept the majority of most of their furniture, despite louis' griping that they didn't need it all and that it would make everything cluttered, as harry had whined and whined and whined until louis could do nothing but to concede. the younger boy had been something of a hoarder, too sentimental to let anything go. "but it could be of use later on," he would always argue, "and besides, it holds a lot of memories!"

despite being a hoarder, harry also liked to impulsively buy things—which was the death of hoarders, as they'd just keep buying and keeping until there was no space left to do anything. louis, however, found it quite endearing, so whether he agreed with some of the interior design decisions or not, he mostly went with it.

the flame mesmerized him in a way he never thought it would, and he was overcome with this overwhelming urge to have it lick at his skin. he watched it as if it'd put him in a trance, from its dancing, its bright colors.

before he knew it, he could smell something burning, which made him shortly wonder whether he'd left something in the oven. when the pain caught up to him, however, he realized that it was, in fact, his arm that was reeling in submission under the flame. it'd turned this bright red, morphing into an almost-black layer of skin. beautiful, he laughed wryly before releasing the fire from him skin. it hurt more after he removed the heat source, he realized, as he wanted it much more than ever before. it'd numbed him, reminding him that this agony inside him was in fact real, able to materialize into something tangible, and not just a figment of his imagination. the burning smell had lingered for a while, clawing at his nostrils and screaming at him to do it again, to hold burn himself again, this time for longer and more intensely than ever. it was a different kind of release than cutting, but pleasant in its own way. there was no blood, which he would usually be extremely unsatisfied by, like when he would throw himself against stone walls and bruise his shoulders and ribs and back. he'd watch the bruises bloom on his skin like what jean had done to him, but they were never the same as blood dripping from open wounds. it wasn't a catharsis that he could exactly describe or tack a reasoning on.

the pain lingered for a while until it became something so constant his mind learned to tune it out. he watched as a moth fluttered its way beside the candle, wriggling its antennae in curiosity before lunging directly at it with no regard to the rest of the world. it was the tips of its wings that first began to disfigure from the heat, crumbling into nothing but ash as it left a succession of its own entrails as it tried to fly unsteadily, degenerating with every beat of its half-wings. it was beautiful, it its own way, slowly becoming nothing but chalky powder as it endured the flame as it grew. eventually, it became a pile of nothing on the table, not even identifiable as something that was once alive.

louis wondered if he'd turn out the same way, one day—cremated into something indistinguishable. he hoped that someone would be kind enough to scatter his remains across the most idyllic areas of the world he'd never been before. london, of course, was his home, and new york was the place he knew his heart had been buried in, but it would be much more romantic, he figured, if even after death, he could travel and discover more secrets of the world before everything suffered from inevitable heat death.

his crying had stopped, thankfully. it was exhausting to suppress such ugly sobs when they approached him so strongly and seemingly out of nowhere. he hadn't cut himself, but still had done something just as bad as doing so, as harry would put it. god, he missed harry. he missed him so much despite the boy being just in the other room, at arm's reach. he wasn't really at arm's reach, louis told himself, not when he was so busy and deserved every ounce of rest that could be harvested after long days of school, work, and songwriting. he didn't need louis to ruin that for him.

as if the world had heard his selfish desires and decided to mock him for even thinking about relying on harry in the first place, he heard the boy trudge down the stairs and reveal himself, eyes tired yet still a bright green; bright as ever.

"love? what are you doing up so early?" harry mumbled, voice still thick with sleep.

"couldn't sleep, just relaxing. thinking. you know."

"did you…"

harry didn't have to finish his sentence for the ocean boy to know exactly what he was referring to. and for some reason, the notion had irritated him more than it should have; he knew that harry simply cared, but the words dug at him under his skin, and he wished that they were sharp so they could bring him the release he failed to pursuit that night. "no. i didn't. you don't have to worry, harry. i can take care of myself. i'm an adult."

"i know you can, lou. i just wanted to make sure."

"sorry. i didn't mean to yell at you. i know that it's just because you care. go back to sleep, love. you need it."

"come with me?" harry said, eyeing the boy carefully.

"i'll be up for a while longer. can't sleep, like i said. gonna write."

"please?"

moonlight dripped into the room from the mossy windows, in a way that illuminated the ocean boy's eyes like they were made of glass; hardened and artificial and empty. and harry stood, watching, like a beautiful roman statue, as louis pursed his lips and rubbed like lighter between his fingers. "alright."

as they were walking back upstairs, hand in hand, harry stopped, gripping the boy's hand like he feared he'd lose it between his fingers. "i saw your arm, by the way."

"what?"

"your arm. you burned it. we need to dress that first, before sleeping."

"it's fine. i'm fine. i was trying not to cut."

"burning yourself isn't the answer."

louis bit the inside of his cheek, looking up at harry, who was a few step above him, not to mention always having been taller than him already. "i know that. i was just out of it, and before i could really understand what i was doing, my arm was already burnt."

"please, lou. i love you. but i really think it'd be beneficial for you to actually see a therapist." he sighed, "i'll be with you for as long as i can, but i can't provide you with the support you actually need."

the ocean boy nodded solemnly, leaving harry to wonder if he actually meant it or if he was just agreeing in the moment. this situation seemed to happen several times a month—harry catching the boy hurting himself, pleading him to seek help, louis agreeing, but nothing would change in the end. the first couple of times, harry made the mistake of genuinely believing louis, only to be met with sick disappointment. louis knew this, of course; he knew that harry had trusted him and he broke it over and over again. and he hated himself for it.

"or at least talk to me a bit more," harry finally said, cutting through the silence that had built a wall between them. "i'll listen. anything. it doesn't bother me, louis. i love you so fucking much."

"you always say that, but i want to be your- i want to be your boyfriend, not your problem to fix."

"i'm not trying to fix you. how many times have we had this conversation? ever since the first day we met. i'm, i'm not sanctimonious, like you called me that day at the bar. i just," he sighed, sleep wanting to overtake him once again. "i just want you to be happy. and i want to understand you a little better, you know?"

"i—" he interrupted himself, throat beginning to constrict, as if it were begging him to not say a word. "i wonder if i'm even meant to be happy."

"of course you are. so please, allow yourself."

"have you read of human bondage?"

"stop trying to make literary allusions. i'm being serious."

"you don't understand. free will is an illusion. you can wish and wish and try and try, but escape is next to impossible and fucking pointless."

"next to impossible, but still possible. let it out, babe. i'll listen."

"i'm—" he sobbed even harder, "i don't know what to do."

"you think you deserve this pain when you don't."

"then tell me, what should i do?" louis said, intending his words to sound much more venomous than they did, instead sounding hopeless and dejected.

"you haven't been taking your meds."

"they make me feel numb."

"we can get you different ones. not all meds are for everyone. we can talk to the psychiatrist again," he watched as the boy's expression turn sour. "or we can set an appointment with someone else if you didn't like the last one. i wasn't very fond of that place, either."

"promise?"

"yeah. let's do it."

louis looked down, saying nothing, studying the darkening patch of skin from his burn. he held the lighter up to his arm for so long, he realized, that it had begun to blacken. "okay."

"really? you're not just saying it?" harry's eyes lit up like someone had set them afire, and louis could have sworn that he could spot islands amidst them. like he could live there forever and still be okay.

"for your sake, not mine."

"maybe, one day, it'll be for yours as well as mine."

"you love me too much."

"there is never a 'too much.'"

"there is always one who loves and one who allows himself to be loved."

"believe it or not, i've read it. a sick story, yeah. pessimistic and completely off the rails, but i've read it."

"i promise i'll make up for all this work you've had to put into me."

"make up, first, all the years of happiness that you've missed out on. and then we can have a talk." harry smiled that stupid smile of his, eyes crinkling fondly, relieved. in actuality, all he could do, really, was pray to gods he didn't even believe in that louis was being genuine, but in this moment, he figured that it was okay to believe in the boy's words. for now, at least.

"you too, haz."