oxidation

it was at some kind of psych ward with several floors and several departments; from the outside the size made it look daunting, enough so that louis questioned whether he had the right address or not. it was tall, built with browning beige bricks that made the place look like it was softening, like someone could just stick their finger into the wall and have it slide right through. he didn't get to try it, though, too bound by nerves to even walk straight. he'd convinced harry not to come with, after hours of bickering, but the younger boy did finally concede just when louis was about to give in, looking like he was about to shatter into pieces that were too small to be salvaged.

but when he arrived at the parking lot, he almost regretted not bringing harry, missing the warm, reassuring hand that would always ground him no matter how adamant his mind was to fly. the canvas of his shoes were replaced by ruthless lead, weighing him down with every step, begging him to return deep in the ground where he was always told he belongs. it was a miracle that he made it in time for his appointment in the first place, having to travel through the rainy parking lot, past the receptionist, and up the stairs (which he chose over the elevator for the sake of burning as many calories as possible). he could hardly even recall where and when he received the hospital bracelet that was tied around his wrist, plasticky and blue and sterile, like the rest of the place. he wondered if there were actually rooms with mattress material on the walls like he'd always see on tv, but he hadn't time to look before he was jolted out of his trance by a silvery voice.

"louis tomlinson?" a male voice called. he couldn't come up with a verbal response that would be sufficient, so he simply stood up and trudged toward the man without meeting anyone in the eye; he hadn't caught what the man—his therapist, he presumed—looked like. if a voice, he imagined, could be bottled and sewn into a scarf, then this would be it. not as pleasant as harry's, but not far from it.

"nice to meet you," the man said, sticking out his hand. it was warm when louis took it, slightly clammy but comforting nonetheless. everything about the man was round and soft around the edges, larger, more built, with a bit of bounce in his step from what he could tell. the man's black scrubs looked almost out of place, tightly hugging his round midsection, not too bulging from his pants but enough that it was noticeable. "i'm dr. st. francis, but you can call me tom. our first meeting today is just going to be some diagnostics and getting to know each other, before we get into the nitty gritty of things," he smiled.

on their way through the hallways, louis noticed a group of people of all ages, some in loose-fitting pajama pants, some in hospital gowns, bunched together, following a woman in the same black scrubs that tom was wearing. they were talking, laughing, navigating the snaking halls like they were all to familiar with everything, taking turns speaking. they would look bright and beautiful if this weren't the place they were found. louis wondered how they dealt when they were alone, or what landed each of them here in the first place.

tom's office was actually much more pleasant than he expected it to be. it had only a single glowing yellow lamp set up dimly in the corner, walls laden with minimalist artwork, potted plants at every corner, and a lightbox sign with tall, thin letters, so calm that they seemed almost ominous: comfort is a slow death. unsettling, to say the least, louis thought. wasn't the point of therapy (the word tasted metallic and unpleasant in his mouth, even without him having to say it aloud) to be comfortable, after all?

"so, what brings you here today?"

god, it always starts with this. "not sure, really," he smiled as cordially as possible, "my, uh, my partner seemed to think it would be beneficial and i decided to give it a go."

"and what made them say that?"

"i don't know. he's concerned about me."

louis only realized after the fact that he'd referred to harry as a he, but thankfully tom didn't say anything about it. he hadn't really questioned his sexuality as much as he was self-conscious of it—from the moment matthew brought him into that closet, it never quite seemed like a choice. it started with a man and will inevitably end with a man. disgusting, he thought. had his life and relationships all been predisposed from the moment matthew violated him? from the moment he began to trust someone? had his gayness been man-made, after all, just like his illness?

the silvery voice, once again, penetrated his thoughts. "do you think his concern is called for? rather, would you ask the same of him if it were him rather than you in your position right now?"

it was always the same questions. every mental health specialist is the same; it didn't matter how much experience they had or how long they went to school or what degrees they have; all they do is repeat the same questions like some broken record. it was nauseating. "yes, but that's different," he said through clenched teeth, "he's him. i'm me. different things work for different people."

"and you think this won't work for you?"

"i'm sure of it."

tom seemed unfazed at louis' attempts to break him down. he wanted to get himself kicked out so that he could report to harry like he'd at least tried. lying for the rest of his life to the man he loved seemed so much more plausible, in this moment, than truly getting better. if he could just escape, he thought, if he could just pretend to be okay so that harry wouldn't worry, if he had done better from the very beginning, if he and harry had never met in the first place, then maybe, just maybe, he wouldn't be here, in this eight or nine story tall building, talking to some shrink who was saying the same words to him as everyone else. treating him like a cripple, like some proximity mine that would go off if anyone took a wrong step.

he finally looked up after spending nearly fifteen straight minutes with his eyes glued to the floor, only met by youthful gray eyes and mousy brown hair, which told him that tom can't have been more than ten years older than him, burying him deeper in shame.

"can you tell me what exactly it was that your partner saw to be the most concerning?"

louis clenched his jaw even tighter than he had been before. "you can't legally institutionalize me without consent, right?"

"well, no. not if i don't have strong, strong, strong reason to believe that you will be a great danger to yourself or others within the next twenty-four hours. and due to confidentiality laws, what is spoken in this room, stays in this room. unless, of course, i think you are in danger of, say, taking your own life by the end of the day."

"i guess it's because i have a habit of hurting myself, then. though i don't quite understand why it's bad, other than the fact that my scars are absolutely revolting."

tom's pen scratched even harder on the paper, creating this rough noise that told louis that tom was a very serious man, prepared for anything and drowning in attention to detail. the sound didn't make his head throb like the pattering of the keyboard had, back in the hospital, but it'd still put him reasonably on edge. like the man was recording the abscesses of his soul, and each stroke of the pen conveyed this fucked up innocence that he'd lost.

"and what makes you think they're 'revolting?'"

"what sane person would think otherwise?"

"you have a boyfriend, you said?"

"that, i do." louis frowned, knowing exactly where this was going. "but he hasn't even seen the entirety of them. not in detail, anyway. maybe for a few seconds after… after certain things happened, but definitely not extensively, no."

"he'd probably have something to say about you talking so badly about yourself, no?"

"well, yes, but that's just because he's nice. and he cares."

"would you agree that you're deserving of this care?"

tom watched him cryptically, as if waiting for him to reveal more about what he thought of himself so he could refute it. "i don't know."

"i see," the man hummed, making more notes, writing quicker than louis had ever seen anyone write, in fast, nearly illegible cursive. he noticed the excess fat on the man's chin, and how it shook and danced with each movement. he wondered, if he, too, had such a chin. just the thought on its own made louis want to empty his stomach again, of the breakfast he completed, and how sick it made him feel. "you two mentioned on the phone that you have… a history of eating disorders on top of the self-harming tendencies we covered briefly?"

"i guess you could say that, yeah."

"and that's the reason you're here? to seek help for that?"

louis winced at the man's words. "i guess so."

"have you been taking medication for what you struggle with?"

"i was prescribed medication but i haven't been taking it. i don't like how it makes me feel."

"can you tell me a bit more about that?" the gray eyes he tried so hard to avoid were beginning to catch up to him, terrifyingly. like they could see whatever it was within him that screamed mentally unstable.

"it just makes everything feel like i'm watching life through a sheet of glass. like i'm wondering all the time, 'when does life begin?' i rather feel the pain than feel nothing at all, to be quite honest." he sighed, eyes shifting to the floor, "i know that kind of thing takes time to kick in. and i know it's supposed to be like that for a while. but it's not something i'd like to sit through again or wait for."

more writing. he wondered why tom chose to write everything traditionally rather than type, like most people did. surely, it would prove much easier and much less stressful to the wrist. the man is going to get tendonitis, sooner or later, he thought. "i understand that. well, i'll have you know that not all medications work for everyone. each can have extremely differing effects, and it wouldn't hurt to give others a try. it would be quite beneficial, i believe, to see what best fits for you," tom shifted in his seat, causing the faux leather of his chair to squeak slightly under the weight. "we can work on getting that information to your current psychiatrist. i'll give them a call after this appointment and see what we can do for you. it says dr. fayed on file?"

so that was her name. it seemed familiar enough, he figured. "right," louis nodded carefully. and god, he just wanted out, he wanted to escape, he wanted something from the sky to pluck him right out of his seat and swallow him whole.

"have you ever seriously thought about ending your life?"

"no," he said quickly, almost interrupting tom mid-sentence. "no. i'm not trying to get myself institutionalized, thanks."

more notes. what the hell was there even to write? he thought, who was going to see all that, anyway? "i'm just trying to get a gauge on the safety piece of things," again, with that silvery voice, so alluring, beckoning louis to spill his guts out in front of the stranger. "these are just procedural questions we have to ask all of our patients." when the boy said nothing, he continued. "do you ever feel like a burden, or that your friends or family would be better off without you?"

louis pursed his lips. "i… i guess so? i don't know." he did know, but the mere idea of admitting so would feel too much like begging for pity. this was something that many people felt, he knew, he wasn't special, but it still somehow hurt to be asked so directly.

"do you ever feel like people would be better off without you?" to which louis said nothing, only continued staring at the ground like it would grow legs and run away, taking him with it. his heart didn't feel like a heart at all, something unmoving and unbeating. tom nodded after what felt like hours of poignant silence. "okay. so, what are some things, people, activities, anything really, that make you feel safe?"

"harry. reading. writing. listening to music. the normal things i'm sure you've heard plenty about from other people."

"it's safe to assume that harry is your boyfriend's name?"

he blushed, feeling it all the way up to his ears. "yes."

"do you speak with him about your problems?"

"sometimes. it depends. i don't want to bother him. he's busy, swimming in talent and potential. you'll probably hear his name in the news sometime."

"and you think that makes your struggles less of a cause for concern?" when louis flinched, the man cleared his throat, causing the fat surrounding his chin to fold for a second before releasing tension. "because that's what it is, louis. you're struggling. you may fail to see it that way, but you deserve this help. you deserve to pursue happiness."

he wasn't sure whether it was the fact that he inherently disagreed with the statement being said that made his insides twist so uncomfortably, or if it was how straightforwardly they were said. maybe it was both. "i can't always be depending on others. i want to take care of this on my own. harry's my boyfriend, not my parent."

"you don't have to be codependent to ask for help. they're different things. he seemed really worried over the phone. he likely just wants to help you out as much as you help him out."

"he doesn't owe me anything."

"do you believe you owe him?"

louis feared that his teeth would shatter under how hard he was clenching his jaw. as if doing so would bite back his words like they weren't vapor that could slide through even the slightest of gaps. how selfish. "of course i owe him. for taking care of me all this time. for loving me despite how difficult i am to love. for not forcing me to have sex with him, ever. for not, despite not having sex in months, seeing anyone but me. for being everything he is."

"are those things not just the bare minimum in a relationship? loving you, helping you with some things, not raping you, not cheating on you? are those things not what should be present in every relationship?"

"but. but he's not giving me the bare minimum. he's giving me all that and so much more."

"and you're talking about what should be a given in a relationship, like it's something you've been robbed of in the past. especially your experiences with sex. tell me more about that."

his head throbbed like his brain was trying to escape the skull that acted like a cage. he felt it disfigure and contort and scream violently at him like that would solve anything. run, it said, run. from this place, from harry, from anything that would force him to speak. but he hadn't, he couldn't, he couldn't stop himself from selfishly offering all that he was to this stranger, with his eyes that were able to see right through him. "i- i don't know. i guess it's just something i've had experience with in the past?" his voice shook as he spoke, making it sound like he was about to cry, when there were no tears that could be found in his eyes, rather, just a force that wished to seize his adam's apple, bobbing every time he tried to swallow the anxiety bubbling up from his stomach. "i don't know. i probably- i probably am unable to talk about it right now. the, the fact that i'm even admitting something like that to you is a big step for me. please give me some time."

"i understand. i'm not here to push your boundaries. and i'm happy that you acknowledge how far you've come. because truly, you have made great strides for yourself and for your future."

he smiled softly, mostly forced, but just the smallest bit natural, and closed his eyes. in this moment, everything felt lighter, like everything else around him could disappear and he wouldn't mind. this was okay, he thought, for just a millisecond, a tiny sliver in time that would be so immeasurably small and insignificant, before the glimmer evaporated back into the air, like it was never there. but it left louis much warmer than he was before, much more hopeful, even.

he hadn't realized how hungry he was until everything was over and he made it back into his car, all the adrenaline deserting his body, leaving his legs soft and clumsy, hands shaky, and the ground beneath him feel further and further away with each breath he took. he was also much more exhausted than he anticipated—when he tried to steady his hands on the steering wheel, they wouldn't stay up. they were no longer his, he thought, no longer things that had belonged to him—just foreign objects he couldn't feel or control. he tried to pick them up, and they only fell limp to his sides. maybe he would be stuck outside this huge psych ward until he and his car were chewed up by time and erosion. he could die here, and the only legacy he'd leave behind would be harry and his half-written journals that were hardly cohesive enough to be grouped as a singular story. was the lightness he experienced earlier with tom an illusion? was he deluding himself to believe that he actually could get better? someone like him?

he hated himself for calling harry, for giving into whatever higher figure that was trying to take him for its own. each keystroke, each number of harry's dialed, required a different source of energy he didn't have, not after damn near admitting his entire life story to a man he didn't know. people told him that he was all these great things, but he couldn't see it. he failed to find meaning in their words all these years, and even then, louis felt like an imposter, faking his illness, his alleged kindness, his respectability, his bravery.

when harry came by bus fifteen minutes later, finding louis crying timidly in his car, unable to move, he worried that the appointment had gone badly. they were going to work on it, louis said, repeating it like a mantra. this will turn out well.

they finally got louis to shift over from the driver's seat to the passenger's as the engine revved on. spring was coming, as told by the budding branches of the willows that had been naked for so long, finally starting to find meaning in being again. the ocean boy loved watching people sing and become happy after times of hardship. he remembered the sign hanging in tom's office: comfort is a slow death, and finally thought that he was beginning to understand what it meant.