eroica

when things got busier, they had to adhere less and less to the meal plan louis was given. harry couldn't stay around for every meal. louis knew that, of course, but something about eating alone screamed lonely.

when he ate at times he could very well lie about eating, he'd wonder if he had been making everything up all this time; conjuring problems out of nothing to reap the attention he felt like he never got as a child. selfish.

he confronted harry about what had happened at the bar after his second gig in the middle of the night a week later. he was awoken by another one of his dreams, which came as a merciless reminder that no matter how long each stretch of time was, which the shadows would leave him alone, they would always come back. he spent what could have been hours or mere minutes staring at the ceiling, the corners of his eyes flowering with fear.

he wanted these feelings to disappear, but at the same time, he'd grown so attached to them, they became a part of him. like if he allowed himself to forget them or to feel even a second of happiness, then his past suffering would be rendered invalid.

it didn't make any sense to him, but in that same senseless way, it did.

he woke harry instinctively with nothing to say when the boy asked him what it was that was on his mind. he couldn't properly articulate the conflicting faculties inside of him; he couldn't explain why it was that he didn't, that he couldn't even muster the desire for happiness like any normal living being.

so he asked.

it was at the wrong timing and for all the wrong reasons, but that didn't mean that he didn't have to intention to ask eventually. he told himself to do it much earlier, but his thoughts would never line up with his lips, and before he could even react, a week had passed.

"h?"

harry groaned, still three-fourths asleep.

"hazza." louis tried again, voice shaking. if he doesn't answer this time, it's a sign. i'll stop. i'll stop. "harry?"

green eyes flicked open, meeting his own. "what's up?"

"s-sorry."

"don't apologize, baby," harry's eyebrows knit together with concern and a tinge of fear. "what's wrong?"

"nothing, i- i just couldn't sleep. miss talking to you."

"i'm always here. glad you woke me up," harry's voice, once thick with sleep, was much more alert now, fearful, almost, with only hints of tiredness. louis wondered how he did it. "was there something in particular? do you…"

the sentence didn't have to be finished for them to both catch onto the implication. "no. well, yes. but no, that's not the point."

"if the feelings are there, then that's the point that needs to be addressed," harry frowned.

"just want to get my mind off it. sorry. i know you're tired."

"never too tired for you."

"i wanted to ask about… you know. the time in the bathroom. and about what happened at the bar last week. meant to bring it up earlier. worried." he spoke in fragments; a habit that others found unfitting for someone whose life revolved so heavily around literature and prose. "sorry."

"stop apologizing, love. but i don't know what you're talking about."

the curtains were left open like usual—harry always insisted on it, because he like to wake up to the morning sun, and the view of their condo wasn't actually half bad, despite louis' constant complaints. moonlight bled blue onto their white sheets, which had miniscule dots of red from when louis would bleed through his pants or his sleeves, that harry either hadn't noticed or pretended not to notice. "you know. when we just pretended your panic attack on my bathroom floor straight up hadn't happened. when your lips turned this sickly blue from not being able to breathe. you're always taking care of me, and never letting me take care of you."

"you're insane- actually, okay. i acknowledge that all of what you said, really happened, and we didn't talk about it. but it's not because of some self-destructive motive like you." louis flinched at the words that weren't quite sharp, but hit hard and set deep. "sorry. i just meant, it never really came up. i'm not taking these great lengths to hide anything," he sighed. "and i thought you just knew."

"i'm dumb, so i suck at assuming things unless you tell me directly."

"i just get anxiety sometimes. like, shakiness, difficulty breathing. stuff like that. and when it gets too overwhelming, it can manifest as a panic attack. just, just seeing you like that, seeing someone i love so much suffering, it kind of overwhelmed me. and before you apologize, it wasn't your fault. don't, not even for a second, ever think that it's your fault." harry swallowed. "some days, it gets difficult, but still manageable. i've gotten better at that through the years. so, so much better. and when it's hard, i do rely on you. i tell you what i'm worried about, i ask for more cuddles. i've, i've um, tried to push people away before, but i realized, in time, that isolating myself would get me nowhere."

"i'm glad," louis said softly. "you deserve comfort. always." harry smiled tightly and held louis' hand to his chest, hoping to convey the how safe he felt. their sheets and covers were a sanctuary that held thoughts that would never brave to leave just the two of them. it was something beautiful, louis thought, but terrifying in the same way. how harry held his entire world in his palms.

"you too," harry said, to which louis had to physically stop himself from shaking his head. he wasn't going to make this about himself; not now.

"what about the asthma?"

"what about it?"

"you gave me a scare the other day. "

"i thought i'd be okay without my inhaler. haven't had an attack since before i met you. thought, maybe it'd blow over."

"you've got to take care of yourself, haz."

harry thought about snorting and saying, i don't want to hear that coming from you, but he decided against it, instead closing his eyes and pulling the ocean boy close. "i know."

the silence was overwhelming; suffocating, in every sense of the word. like cotton, it filled louis' stomach and chest and lungs and throat and mouth, like he was the subject of a taxidermist.

"i have something to tell you." louis whispered, finally, after a long silence. his voice was something like the consistency of taffy; sweet and sticky and could be pulled apart into translucent threads of colorful sugar.

"what's up?"

"i think, i think i'm ready."

harry felt his stomach drop and explode into a swarm of hummingbirds with the annoyingly fast down strokes of the fragile little wings. "ready?"

"to... to give you what i should have given you long ago. although, i mean, if you don't want it, now that you know everything. i hadn't thought of that before."

"that's not it, and has never been it. will never be it. you know that. but are you sure? i would love to, but i don't want to do anything if you're just telling me this because you feel like you have to."

"i don't mean right now. you're dead tired. but maybe tomorrow. just, yeah. i think i'm ready." louis closed his eyes, hoping that he was adequately masking how hard his hands were shaking and how much uncertainty was flickering in his heart, blooming larger and with more magnitude by the second. maybe if he just tried it again, he thought, new memories would replace the old. like what happened in new york. maybe it would turn out as a net positive. maybe, after everything that'd happened, he could finally live like a normal person.

it wasn't that harry didn't notice the fear in the ocean boy's voice, but that he didn't want to. he cared, god, he cared more than anything. but maybe this was okay, he thought, maybe it wouldn't turn out too bad, before feeling guilty about the rampant utterings of his mind. "we'll see. depends on how you're feeling tomorrow. we should sleep now, though. you've got an appointment with dr. reid in less than twelve hours."

it started raining like mother nature knew of what was going on inside of louis' heart and felt it necessary to embody it physically for the world to see. the droplets were thick and reminded him of paint, drenching the world in its heavy antics, coloring everything in the same somber color that stuck around for days, months, years.

"we are like rain," matthew would tell him, voice soaked with this venomous temptation.

"how, uncle matt?" his childish voice would respond, soft and innocent and unassuming.

matthew never responded. he would just reach his arms back around louis' small body, cold hands, adorned in rings in the shape of crosses. the question was always lost amidst moans (of fearful discomfort, not pleasure), only for them to be absorbed by his mother's old clothes, including the dusty dress she'd worn just eight years earlier, at her and troy's wedding.

louis sometimes wondered about troy. he didn't question it much as a child; he was happy enough with his mother, and didn't even consider himself 'fatherless.' sure, that's what he was, technically. but the word always implied that a father was a necessary part of being, when that simply wasn't the case. that was how louis liked to see things, anyway. the idea of having another middle-aged man present during his childhood nauseated him.

maybe the dress was still there, or maybe jay had disposed of it after the years marked by matthew; he wouldn't know. he hadn't entered that closet since the last time matthew brought him in there when he was ten years old. he began insisting to his mother than the man not come anymore, and since he was old enough to take care of himself, it was no longer necessary.

once, however, he wandered in there after a particularly hard night. he was sixteen, and it'd been six years since he was last touched. he shied away from other kids at school, from his teachers, from his sisters, even his mother. even the lightest touches felt so unnatural, bringing him back to places he didn't want to remember. earlier that day, he had gym class, which was always twice a week. he always changed in a stall, avoiding the prying eyes of others, but this particular day, the stalls were occupied by janitors working to unclog the system of debris that some idiotic high school student shoved in as a dare. he would have waited, or even better, skipped, but the teacher came into the boy bathroom to scold everyone for taking so long, losing his head especially after seeing louis still fully dressed in his button-up and slacks.

"you better change right fucking now, tomlinson," the man scowled, leathery skin on his forehead folding into something terrifying; the boy would have believed it to be alive if he didn't know better. "or it won't be pretty."

the other kids snickered at this. don'tcrydon'tcrydon'tcry, louis urged himself, managing to squeak out a measly "okay" as he felt eyes boring holes into his skin, through the scar tissue littered about his limbs and the layer of fat coating his bones.

the teacher didn't leave; only continued staring and staring and staring, becoming more scrutinizing by the second. he remembered thinking, at the time, maybe this is all a dream, maybe he'd wake up in a few minutes doused in sweat, like he was meat left to marinate to strengthen its flavor.

he held his tears in effectively enough, at the very least, until he was able to retreat to the hallway after class. there were so many people brushing against each other and crushing the small. it wasn't a conscious release of tears, rather, a forceful one; like the fluid flowing from his eyes wasn't fluid at all, but sticky strings of mucus that clung to the back of his eyelids, gluing them shut.

when he got home, it was dead silent, but not in the cold, dreary way that usually weighed down on him until his chest collapsed. it was serene, like he'd just waltzed into a fruitful woods, foggy but warm and kind to the eyes. he felt his legs take him, almost mechanically, to the one place that felt so constant to him, even after all this time. unchanging. the dress was still there, lifelike, caked in a layer of dark gray. he wondered if he swiped a finger across it, the white would prevail, as if no time at all had passed since troy left.

something fell, heavy and loud with a noisy clang! even against the pilled carpet. it was an ironing board that once leaned against the wall, blending in with the color of the wallpaper and the forest of fabric surrounding him. it was okay, he thought, everything was going to be okay.

at least, until he felt his knees give out and his bottom collide with the floor with the same force that the ironing board did. except this time, he heard nothing. not the whirr of the air conditioner, not his steady (or unsteady?) breathing, not his attempts to swallow the fear welling up in his throat, threatening to suffocate him. he clawed at his ears, hoping to pry out anything blocking his screaming that surely resonated against the walls from penetrating his eardrums.

but he wasn't screaming; he never screamed. not when matthew was around, not after matthew. in this closet, nothing escaped. not his story, not his voice, not his sanity. all he could do was kneel and wait for it all to be over.

when he woke, he expected to find himself in the closet again, but he instead was faced with soft eyelashes in front of moth-bitten curtains that only half-covered the morning sun. harry must have closed them just slightly when he realized louis was having trouble sleeping as the moonlight shone on his face the night before.

for a second, he thought about reaching out and touching the boy beside him, just to ensure that this was, in fact, reality, and not just an illusion as a result of his derangement, catalyzed by the dusty wedding dress.

but he couldn't; he couldn't wake up harry, not when the skin under the boy's eyes seemed so dark, bruised-looking. not when, despite his tiredness, he looked so beautiful. so louis simply, with as much care as he could gather, slid out of bed to make a cup of coffee; no cream or sugar, as always. he made one for harry, too, who would surely be awake soon.

his hunch was right, when just five minutes later he heard shuffling from their room. before harry even got ready for the day and fully woke up, he wandered over to the living area, where it smelled of coffee beans and of sunlight. "louuu," he whined, rubbing his eyes and falling into the ocean boy's arms.

"you smell."

"oh, shut up. you love it."

"in your dreams, bastard," louis laughed, but both boys knew the truth—it was blatant with how closely he was nuzzling himself into harry's chest; this is what he loved, this is what he lived for.

"you have a nutritionist appointment today," harry whispered, not even waiting for the lighthearted mood to subside before moving on.

"are you coming?"

"of course i am," the younger boy looked almost insulted at just the question, like it was something atrocious and bitter-tasting. "do you not want me to? that's alright, too, but i just want to know what's best for you so i can… so i can match that." accommodate, he was about to say, but decided against it. too clunky and obligatory, which was not the case at all.

"that's not it. you know that. i was just wondering. since you don't come for tom."

"that's different. this is physical and needs to be made note of, to keep you healthy. alive. that's why i want to come."

louis nodded, pursing his lips yet again. this was okay, it was okay. it was not that he minded harry's accompaniment. he worried about wasting harry's time or stepping on the scale and being exposed for what he really was.

when they arrived at the place, with its familiar permeating stench, he prayed, before stepping on backwards, like he was instructed to, that looks of disbelief would flow onto dr. reid and harry's faces; etching permanent disappointment at his incompliance to recover, but nothing of the sort happened. the opposite, actually—it was relief that dominated. as soon as harry's eyes softened and dr. reid gave him an approving nod, it was not consolation that he experienced, but thick, thick shame. the type that suctioned you down with a sickening plop, and god, louis thought he was going to throw up right then and there.

it was not that he was so delusional to think that he hadn't been gaining weight all this time, unable to starve or purge, but there was still this perpetual hope lingering inside him, whispering that maybe, just maybe, by some inexplicable miracle, he was losing weight.

but that was not so.

the remainder of the appointment was a blur. the cadence of dr. reid's shrill inflection that had pierced through louis' eardrums in the past now sounded deep underwater, drowned out by everything else. the overwhelming smell of vanilla air freshener. the layer of fat coating his bones. the sound of his stomach digesting what they'd eaten that morning. his thoughts.

her words, already encased by her accent, were difficult to understand as is. paired with anxiety, it was near-impossible to comprehend. what he had caught, though, was—

"weight restoration."

"decreased meal plan."

"maintenance."

"recovery."

the word couldn't feel any more alien to his ears. him? recovered? was he really? was it that easy to go from sick to un-sick?

if so, why didn't he feel any different, other than the disgusting fat that'd accumulated on his body?

he never noticed the view, or lack thereof, more accurately, of dr. reid's office. the skies were bright blue and cloudless—beautiful, too beautiful, juxtaposing the turbulence of louis' mind. he hoped to see a vast cityscape through the window, considering they were on the sixth floor. instead, he was faced with cold, one-way glass of another office building. maybe seeing the inside would have intrigued him, allowed him to dissociate and become someone else for just a split second, but there was nothing. just black glass.

and he hoped, by heaven or hell, that next life, he would be granted wings like that of a bird (if next life were really something to exist).