he'll decide to burn bright

for louis, it was a clockwork orange that made him first question the duality of human existence. the good and the bad, commitment and neutrality, man and machine. he always wondered if it was a conscious decision that matthew made, to touch a child in ways that normal people couldn't even imagine. if jean had really wanted to hurt him like he did, to humiliate him and pull him apart like he was made of thin plastic, disposable. worthless. he wondered if they regretted it at all. if, when matthew died, louis was part of the clips of his life flashing before his eyes. if, when louis died, all he would be reminded of is his trauma. if it could be called trauma at all.

a man, after all, is free to choose whether to be moral or not; that is what makes him human. which meant, by extension, that both morality and immorality were inherently human. jean and matthew are, and were human all along, doing what they did. made with the same flesh and teeth and blood and hair as him.

how was humanity and freedom and morality measured anyway? what proved that they held any actual meaning at all, and weren't just words that pretentious white men tacked meanings onto to make them feel like they lived a virtuous lifestyle?

it's frustrating, louis thought, that all man does is try too hard to find the meaning of life when theories can never be proved correct or incorrect; it is all just false closure for a false sense of justice.

tom, was playing a record on a glossy-black turntable, dancing with gold embellishments. it wasn't unpleasantly loud, but loud enough to cover up the noises of a screaming patient a few rooms down. appalachian spring, harry whispered, for just louis to hear as the office door tore open and allowed the sound to resonate inside of the three of them as they entered.

"so," tom said, placing his hands on his knees and leaning forward attentively, "why don't we get started, if you're comfortable, louis. we can speak and harry is here for moral support."

"right." he swallowed, glancing at the younger boy, who was nodding reassuringly beside him. "i... i don't know where to start."

"we don't have to start off so heavy. you've just been alluding to things that seem unprocessed and i think it's important to process them for the sake of closure, at least. but this is your space, louis. we go at your pace."

clarinet played gently in the background, dark tone and elegant timbre caressing him, as if whispering at him to breathe, that he could do this, that it would feel so much better. "that's alright. i'm doing okay. i just... i needed harry to hold me accountable, i guess. and he makes things easier to talk about, especially since he already knows." tom only nodded, so he continued. "i guess there's something that can be seen as the root of my problems. well, maybe not the root, but a part of it. a big part of it. but i don't even know if it's okay to feel this way or not. i don't hold any resentment for anyone or anything that happened. i'm just scared. and maybe it was me. i am the common denominator, after all. i'm complaining but everything might have very well been my own fault. i- sorry. i don't know."

"you don't have to know yet. it's alright, love." harry said, squeezing his partner's knee. "but never say that it's your fault. everything that happened was very, very real. nothing can change that. your feelings are real." his eyes met tom's gray ones, startled by their clarity and quiet courage. "sorry. i didn't mean to interject. not my job today, is it?" he chuckled.

"that's quite alright, harry. it's nice to meet you finally after hearing so much about you. and louis was right, from what i can tell; you're very supportive."

louis nodded eagerly. harry was his, despite everything. "he is," he added, "more than anything i ever hoped for."

"you two work well together. to start on a lighter note, how did you meet, if you don't mind?"

the ocean boy slowly told the story of the pub's grimy bathroom floor and how he fell into harry's arms, and how prickly he was when they first met (what happened?). the music marked time as it passed in the background—the moderato section transitioned seamlessly into vivace. tom listened attentively as harry struggled so as to not get sucked in too far past the threshold of reality, planting his soles into the ground. it was louis' voice, hypnotic and warm despite its unique timbre, that meshed so well with the sound of a violin dancing about with no care in the world. sickening, but he completely understood why jean was so adamant on sharing violin, out of everything there was, with the boy.

it was days like these, when that first night would replay over and over again in his head, and he'd fall and fall and fall, remembering the emptiness of the sky, of their hearts, and wonder, when was it that they had become full again? was it a single point in time or did the gods present them with a fait accompli, a with predisposition, with an unalterable destiny?

whatever it was, he hoped that it would remain their destiny for the remainder of the time he spent in shackled to the ground.

he hadn't noticed until halfway past the story, that louis had begun talking about matthew and the closet and how dead he sounded, how much he was shaking. all this time, harry had just been spacing out, completely unaware of what was going on around him. immediately, he took the ocean boy's hand and clutched it firmly against his palm, praying that he could convey all these feelings that'd suddenly welled up in his just through just the collision of skin.

if hearing it all one time seemed like all too much, the second time wasn't any better. it was unnervingly demanding, both physically and mentally, just to listen to. he couldn't imagine what it felt like to actually be the one to tell the story, not to mention experience it all.

louis was much more vague this time through, constrained by the time window of the therapy session. he could have split the stories of matthew and jean into two different sessions, but he chose not to, understandably. a lot of the reason was because louis didn't want to take any more of harry's time by dragging him here, though harry himself hadn't really minded. but he didn't want to make the boy relive the horror more times than he had to. or, selfishly, he didn't want to watch louis shake in anticipation for having to retell everything more times than necessary.

it took only forty-five minutes to get through it all, save for the gruesome details. tom knew that jean had hit louis and that matthew had raped him (the word still tasted sour and felt wrong in both boys' mouths) and that he was raped yet again recently; but he didn't know about how jean pressed louis to the glass like it was some kind of crucifixion, he didn't know how matthew made him repeat i love you until it meant nothing, he didn't know how, when he was touched like that again, he took it quietly and silently, like it was his sole duty.

louis did add, though, that he wondered if his life was the most meaningful back when he was a child, because at least then, he endured silently and thus beautifully, like a doll. it would drip down his thighs like proof that he was dirty yet meaningful. like how a dog marked its territory, louis said, he felt that matthew marked him for life.

harry was astonished at how tom held onto his composure throughout the entire telling. he wrote and wrote, which he could tell bothered louis a little, though not enough to make him want to stop talking, but tom never needed a break like harry did, the first time he heard it all. tom didn't cry or interrupt or close his eyes to absorb all the information—he just listened intently and jotted down notes here and there.

when louis stopped, harry felt himself deflate, all the tension being relieved from his body. gray eyes studied them both, in such a way that was so observant and steady, the younger boy wondered if tom was a machine, after all. he would definitely speak with louis about what he thought about the man after they got home, he thought.

"so?" tom said, chin shimmying with the sudden movement, and looked to harry. "you were aware of all this?"

"yes." he said, mouth dry from the length which he had it clamped tightly shut. it tasted like he'd just woken up from sleep, and that this emersion into louis' world was but a nightmare.

tom shifted his gaze to louis. "as far as i know, neither of those men have been convicted?"

"no, and i don't plan to turn either of them in," the ocean boy's words were dripping with shame. "matthew is… matthew passed away a little while ago, and i don't even know where jean is at this point. and for all i know, he could have been lying to me about his name all this time, and there could really not be a jean vautour walking this planet."

"you could still get justice. the system is on your side."

"i don't care about the system. the system has failed me enough times. but that's not the point. i don't ever want to see those men again. i hope you understand that."

"i understand," tom sighed. "well, i won't push your boundaries. i'm here to help you process things, not give unsolicited advice."

"right, and i appreciate that greatly."

"i just want you to know, that if your feelings about taking legal action ever change, it's not too late. and you deserve justice. although there's nothing wrong with giving yourself some time to heal first."

harry watched as the ocean boy's expression contorted into one of self-hatred. the way it twisted made him think that his chest was twisting right along with it. it strained itself into shapes that were impossibly unnatural, and he realized just how connected he and louis truly were. "it's been years. i should be very much over it. i'm... i am over it, to an extent."

"don't give yourself those 'shoulds' and 'should nots'. they're not helpful, and everyone's pace is different. the wounds are fresher than you think; if all that you've been doing for them is pretending that they're not there, rather than caring for them and acknowledging their severity," tom said, sternly. "do you think all has contributed to your self-harm and to your eating disorder?"

harry's ears perked up. he hadn't asked about this piece of it so directly, in fear that it was far too personal, and hadn't expected tom to, either. but if the answer was going to be revealed anyway, then he would gladly listen. "i don't know. i started cutting myself when i was around twelve, still in secondary school. matthew, for the most part, was out of the picture, and i was so busy with taking care of my sisters while my mother was gone that i didn't have much to ruminate, anyway. but it felt good and made me feel better. it was what taught me that i was allowed to exist, i guess. and, well, i guess it was jean that first told me that i was disgusting. i'd thought about it before but never so extensively. the... the eating problem didn't start until after the fact, though, when the memories would swarm like bees and all i wanted was a feeling i could hold onto; this was when cutting didn't do anything for me anymore, and i needed something more, something tangible." he was speaking toward only harry at this point, feet pointed toward the younger boy and face still pointed straight down, like there had been text on the floor, and he was trying to decipher its meaning. "i guess i got so wrapped up in that control that i became obsessed with the numbers, too. i realized how inadequate my body is, and how much i want proof that i could, you know? it's embarrassing. it's a teenage girls' problem. but i want to be thin, and even now, now that i'm huge again, nothing feels right. i feel so indulgent and disgusting and dirty all the time."

"that—"

before tom could finish his sentence, louis' face paled and he interrupted the early formation of the man's sentence. "god, fuck. i'm sorry. i didn't mean to talk so much or to say so much. you probably think i'm crazy."

"this is your space, louis," tom said, writing more. it was a marvel that his pen hadn't run out of ink yet. "you're allowed to speak and get things out. and i'm grateful that you feel comfortable enough to be honest. it's hard, i know, but you're doing it."

as more was said, despite it all being positive, more guilt became apparent on louis' face. he said nothing, so harry cut in. "what should i do? what can i do to help?"

"well," tom sighed, "you've probably been doing this, but i advise you to remove all sharps from the house for now. louis might be a little difficult at first, but it'll be good in the long run. you've been following the meal plan given to you by dr. reid?"

harry nodded, looking at louis, who he assumed to be pouting in the corner about being treated like a child again. "yes. i've been trying to enforce it more strictly."

"continue doing that; right now, building good habits is crucial."

the ocean boy's guilt did not recede-- his eyes only darkened and he shrunk even further against himself. "i think," harry said, glancing worriedly over at shaking hands and shaking shoulders, "i think this is enough for today."

"agreed. we have passed the regular hour mark, anyway. i just didn't say anything because i didn't mind and because i don't have any more clients after this. i care about you, louis," tom continued, "as a client and just as a person. i want to see you get better."

louis' lips pressed together to form a tight smile. "thank you for being understanding."

the silence of the drive home was covered by the soft murmurings of an astronomy podcast, which both boys were only half-listening to. the voice of an old man drawling on and on about the stars made good background noise for their loud, overwhelming thoughts.

"nova. new star. it has a nice ring to it, doesn't it?" the raspy voice said. it had the timbre of one of the sleepy afternoons louis remembered spending in lecture halls at nyu. "it was a star before, but it suddenly decides to burn brighter. and there are some, plenty, actually, of weird, variable novas. the ones that don't burn in the traditional variable way. like eta carinae. it wasn't particularly noticeable until the 1830s. decided to do the opposite of betelgeuse, and it became brighter than rigel. second brightest star in our sky now, just like sirius."

they pulled into their driveway and the sun was quietly setting, pink light bleeding through louis' eyelashes and made his eyes this new, golden color. harry wondered if he could ever find hand-dipped glass of that color, or if he could reach his fingers into the boy's sockets and keep them for himself.

"lou?" he whispered, "i learned some things about you today."

"yeah."

"you are doing so well, love. thanks for letting me in."

"yeah."

it was sappy and stupid in the worst way possible, but they held each other like it was the end of the world. the trees were no longer flowering, harry noticed, but that was alright because the boy in his arms was all he needed.

he thought about the podcast and wondered why stars decided to suddenly burn brighter. there was definitely a scientific explanation for it, but he liked to think it was due to some kind of beautiful phenomena; one that marked the beginning of a new era. and for him and louis, this was it, he thought. this was their time.