arethusa

it was perhaps presumptuous of him to think even for a second that the "betterness" that he'd experienced would be permanent. he hoped, for just a second, that maybe things would be different, that nights wouldn't be as hard.

he ended up fixing all the parts that tom (skinny tom, that is. balding tom. editor tom.) had highlighted with bright pink highlighter; it was so bright that he thought he could feel his every individual vision receptor cell shriveling and dying. the editing process took long, far longer than louis ever imagined it to be, but he did finally drag his way through the grueling steps.

he never thought he would grow to hate his story, but maybe such a response was normal. every time he read his words, each of them lost more meaning and grew more disjointed. it was the overfixation that came with editing and revising that caused letters to contort into nothing more than meaningless shapes; ones that didn't tell a story at all but instead looked like random splatters of ink on a page. revising, in more ways than one, felt more difficult that the initial regurgitation of thoughts on a notebook—a mental battle, if anything, of convincing himself that his work was still indeed adequate even after fifty rereads.

it got to a point where he feared that his writing would no longer sound like his own at all, after such tampering. he'd heard horror stories of publishers deconstructing an author's work to the point of unsalvageable degeneration, writing almost indistinguishable as that particular author's. he didn't want to be one of those people—the harder someone tries at appealing to an audience in a field as personal as literature, he knew, the less likely the general public will be to notice it. after all, everyone wants to be rich and famous and successful. there will always be those who try to pursue that more materialistically, but there is no audience more observant of such fine details than the general public.

and after the process of taking apart his sentences word by word, he had to settle matters regarding the actual aesthetics of the book, publication date, where it would go, the summary, etc. hardcover books, as louis saw it, were an art of their own; carefully chosen book jackets, title font, thread color, paper material, finish. it was more difficult than he expected, with the potency of his pickiness, his indecisiveness, to choose how he actually wanted his novel to look. the difficulty was partially a result of how downright unreal it felt, that his writing was going to be materialized from shitty notebooks in his ugly scrawl to proper, professional books in the shelves of bookstores he never thought he'd find himself in.

he and skinny tom decided that simplicity would best fit the premise of his novel. the final product ended up having small font, silver thread for the binding, inside cover pages adorned by new york landscapes. the book jackets had matte finishes, raised red embellishments, small references to new york that only new yorkers would catch.

he still considered himself something of a new yorker even after all these years; he didn't share an accent, a hometown, or a background with most people there, but he felt he still knew the streets like he never even moved. when they had went to new york in february, he was almost surprised at how little the city had changed. he expected it to feel foreign again after not having walked the streets for nearly two and a half years, but as soon as he found himself in a place he recognized, he could feel his feet guiding him toward familiar places that once served as landmarks to him. the library. the corner store. the bread isle of some arbitrary kmart that he had a panic attack in (jean had called him on a thursday morning while he was out, yelling that they had no bread, becauae how dare louis, how dare he eat the final slice when he should have known jean would be hungry?).

of course, there were more buildings under construction that hadn't been there years before, and things have indeed changed slightly, maybe even seemingly drastically to the untrained eye. but it was the same manhattan to louis, the same one that felt like his only escape two years prior. graffiti he'd taken comfort in were painted over, buildings were demolished and replaced; what was once an old school riddled with faded spray paint ("TIME IS A GATEKEEPER." "we who believe in freedom cannot rest." "find beauty in every mess.") had become a glossy office building, walls almost completely glass, twenty stories tall. despite everything, though, it was still new york, still his new york.

by the time his book was completely ready for publication, the cicadas were gone and only remnants of the summer remained. it was growing terrifyingly close to a year since he'd first met harry (harry claimed that it had already been past a year since they met for the very first time, but louis didn't want to count an instance that he didn't even look harry in the face properly as a true encounter). such reminded him again of how little time had actually passed that they'd known each other, and he was much too far in, considering the short duration of their relationship.

the day it was published, he had a small signing event at local bookstore. he didn't expect many people to be there for him, specifically, and he was right. new authors didn't usually have that sort of luxury, and he wasn't an exception. but there were many wandering bystanders who happened to stop by and purchase his book out of curiosity. a big success, skinny tom called it. publicity.

he told harry about it the night before nonchalantly. he didn't think he cared so much about whether the boy would come, but after two of the three hours had passed, and harry wasn't there, he began to grow unsettled. there was no agreement, he told himself. there was no agreement. he didn't know what harry could be doing at that moment, but he knew for a fact that the boy wasn't busy. but he shouldn't expect anything. that's right. he shouldn't expect anything.

it was stupid, but it reminded him of his time in high school, the play, and how his mother never showed. he, in his dramatic danny zuko outfit, hair all slicked back into something so tall and so defiant of gravity that he didn't think was possible until these theatre girls he never spoke to before ran their fingers through it with this thick, powerful-smelling gel.

it was the final thirty minutes of the venue when harry came, panting, holding a loosely sealed starbucks cup with a paper straw. they were beginning to clean up, as workload was slowing down, and harry crashing in was so unprecedented that louis thought it was nothing but a fever dream.

"lou," harry panted, as skinny tom stared at him incredulously. "fuck, i'm sorry i'm late. totally lost track of the time, but then really wanted to buy you a coffee, but the line was long as fuck and they messed up my order, and i honestly just wanted to scream at how slow everything was going. i didn't want you to think i didn't care or anything. i do. god, i do. i'm so fucking proud of you, i can't put it into words."

all the ocean boy could do was stare, fish-eyed, feeling tom's heavy gaze. "i- you didn't have to come," he finally sputtered, "i know you care. you were the first to preorder the book, for fuck's sake. and we get copies for free!"

"yeah, but not hand-signed," harry teased.

"oh, shut up. in that case, you get my hand-signed notes every day."

"this is different. i want to be, like, there for the start of your career. like you were for mine. my first gig. my second one. and when we all went out partying afterward together. also, i figured you were tired, needing a pick-me-up or something. you also haven't eaten lunch today. it's three p.m., lou."

"you got me coffee with cream. that thing's white. practically only milk," he pouted, forgetting momentarily that his editor was still beside him, wiping down tables and stacking papers, before composing himself. "i mean, i appreciate it regardless, but…"

"you need the energy. besides, sugar makes people happier. it's scientifically proven." harry frowned, but then smiled so widely, louis thought he was going to melt. his eyes crinkled in the way that they always did when the two of them woke up together, pulling each other close.

before he could say anything, however, tom interjected with a loud and very obviously intentional throat clear. "so, uh. i don't believe we've met before? i'm tom folsing, louis' assigned editor."

harry turned to the man, like he'd just noticed him for the first time. "ah. i'm harry. louis' um, his, erm. his partner." his face turned a bright red, endearingly so, metastasizing all the way up his cheeks to his ears and down to his neck.

louis felt himself conflicted with the contradictory feelings of being warmed by harry's beautiful shyness, as well as shame welling up in the back of his throat; not shame because of harry, but because of himself. his "man-made" sexuality. not that tom would know, but the idea of it still felt bare-chested and painful. a reminder of what he was.

and really, maybe it was because of the lack of sex present in their relationship, but louis failed to see harry as a man most of the time. he hardly even thought about being gay or queer or anything like that. he'd forget, at times, that he lived in a heteronormative society.

to his relief, though, tom only smiled calmly, unperturbed by the sudden information. "nice to meet you. louis has been an absolute pleasure to work with, and you two seem wonderful together."

the redness of harry's skin lingered for a while, but receded slightly at tom's light reaction to the news. "likewise. i've heard plenty about you." he nudged the ocean boy slightly. "drink your coffee. the straw's going to go soft. it's paper."

"you're making me do drugs," he retorted, but nonetheless took a small sip. just that alone seemed to be enough to bring his stomach back to life, because he was then suddenly aware of how hungry he had been, stomach gnawing at the rest of his organs like it was something feral, untamed. he wanted to down the entire venti cup in full, but refrained, willing his stomach to quit, or even simply just grow quiet enough so that harry's keen ears wouldn't hear the loud gurgles. "i think, i think that's enough. not that hungry."

harry's eyebrows knit together and his mouth opened to say something until louis gestured urgently to tom, now counting cash and checks no longer paying attention to the conversation, as if begging harry not to expose him, not here, not now. "alright," the boy said cautiously, "we can figure something out when we get home then."

louis could feel tom sensing the discomfort that lodged itself between the three of them, thickly in the air, because he told them that things were pretty much wrapped up, and that they could head out now, if they wanted. that the bookstore would deal with the tables and the sales, and that the royalties from today would be sent to louis at the end of the month.

the walk home was harry rambling on about dinner possibilities, which louis tuned out from. he'd been doing so well; with food, with nighttime thoughts, with confidence, that when the thoughts returned, he was almost forgetting how to fend them off. and it wasn't like they hadn't been there at all, prior to this moment, but he'd just been so tired, so preoccupied by other things, that he didn't have the time to give his urges any of his attention at all.

but right now, it was guilt that took ahold of him. guilt about improving, like the past few weeks were nothing but a fever dream, a lapse in judgement, where he stupidly allowed himself to believe that this was all okay.

"lou?"

he jumped at the sudden call of his name. "yes?"

"like i was saying. how do you feel about tacos?"

"oh. yeah, that sounds good."

harry studied him, and he could practically hear his worry, even over the bustling of the rest of the city. it felt like too much; too much going on, too much for him to process. "are you okay?

"yeah. yeah, why?"

"i don't know, you just seem out of it."

he sighed, swallowing the dark feelings, summoning all the energy he had remaining in him after the long morning. "i'm fine. just a bit tired from talking to so many people. and overwhelmed from the first day of publication. you know, normal things."

"yeah, i get that. let me know if you need anything," harry said, and he seemed to be thoroughly convinced, so louis let out a breath of relief. the last thing he needed right then was a tall green-eyed boy hovering over him. they'd just recently stopped the tradition of hand-holding during and after meals, and he wasn't planning on losing that trust again. he could deal with this alone, at least for the evening.

dinner was hard—he ate everything so as to not spark suspicion, but feeling the food in his stomach felt so alien once more, like the months of progress behind him didn't happen at all. the descent into madness wasn't even scary; it was more comforting. familiar.

but he couldn't exactly rush to the bathroom after dinner, either. even though harry didn't have him in his clutches, it would be far too awkward and far too obvious if he were to beeline to the toilet, not with his track record. the funny thing was, he thought, despite it having been quite literally months since he last purged, but just looking at his hands was enough to know that his fingers would fit so comfortably in his throat.

it was thirty minutes later, when harry retired to his office (louis would usually go with him to just share comfortable silence, each working on different things in a shared space) that he went to his, as well. harry asked him if something was wrong or if something had changed, but he just dismissed everything by saying that he needed a break from people, which was completely understandable after his long day. they parted ways very seamlessly, almost so seamlessly that it bothered the ocean boy, like he wanted some sort of rebuttal from harry, like he wanted him to magically just know something was wrong, but he got nothing.

he was able to slide into the bathroom after another forty minutes with no problems; harry had gotten into the zone of writing more music, which meant that he was in a completely different world than the mortal—a place where nothing else existed, untouchable, where the only things that remained were his voice and his instruments.

he stared at the toilet bowl and it felt like it was staring back at him, with its unnaturally clear water and stained porcelain, as if taunting him. toilets were only slightly different in different buildings; they all had to adhere to the standard, and he usually didn't notice the small differences when he used the restroom normally. when he was bent over, however, so vulnerably on his knees, the discrepancies were made so glaringly obvious, it stunned him how he never noticed before.

unlike his old place, the seat of their new toilets were heavier, thicker. the glazed windows made everything feel a bit more foggy as the light from the streetlamps outside bled in. the toilet lid was made of porcelain, like the rest of it, and not plastic like the one he had at his old apartment. there was something about that plastic that he ended up growing attached to, like its cheapness reflected who he really was, his misery, his pain.

the food came out much easier than he expected it to, despite having passed so much time since he ate. he didn't even particularly drink much water, compared to normal, he thought. maybe even the food was itching to exit his system, knowing that it was too much for him.

he returned to his workspace and actually began working, now that he could focus. harry was still shut in his office, working, he assumed. louis learned with time, that in many ways, harry was almost as much, if not more, of a workaholic than he was, especially if it was regarding music. allow the boy to pick up his guitar, and he won't set it down for hours.

evening grew into night, and he continued acting as if nothing was wrong, because nothing was, really. nothing was wrong. if anything, he just came to his senses. not a big deal.

he and harry used to watch a couple episodes of a show before bed every night, but they'd recently broke that tradition due to the sheer fact that neither had much time at all, and where simply so tired by the time that everything was over, that even watching a show seemed like too much mental stimulation.

there were, of course, times where louis was grateful for this, but others where he just felt so irrevocably lonely. he was someone that thrived off of rigidity, and having such a schedule sometimes would ground him, reminding him that he always had someone to go home to.

louis tensed, sensing harry's footsteps coming up behind him after the creaking of the door (a reminder to oil the hinges, he noted). "lou? still working?"

his words somehow got caught in his throat, still hoarse from the irritation. "i- yeah. just getting some stuff done. how are you? how is your project coming along? you should really take a break, you know." he tried to compensate for the rasp of his voice by speaking more, as if he could pull it out of himself forcibly.

"it's going okay," harry said carefully. louis could tell that he caught onto the weird behavior but was reluctant to jump to conclusions. "how's about we watch some criminal minds tonight, just to unwind? we've both been working hard enough."

"oh," he was somewhat startled by the proposal, not expecting the boy to remember something like that, not with everything going on. say no, he thought, say no. if you spend too much time with him, he'll catch on that you managed to fuck up. again. "um, that's alright. i think there's a bit more i want done before wrapping up."

"i'll wait for you."

curse him for being so understanding. so stubborn. "it's okay. you need rest, haz."

"as do you." the boy coughed, "you've been up since six in the morning, and you're still working. don't you think that it's too much?"

"i'm fine."

"nope, we're watching something tonight, whether you like it or not."

harry's hand closed around his wrist, firmly but not tightly. the touch was so kind, so warm that he wanted to shrink in on himself again. he didn't deserve this, not after all the lying he's done. his thighs itched with desire. punishyourselfpunishyourselfpunishyourself.

he couldn't quite understand why it was that today in particular went so badly. it was the start of his career, his debut. it should have been a day of celebration, but it all felt so bleak. so lonely. his chest felt inexplicably tight, so tight that he could feel his breath hitch in his throat, and they were walking up the stairs, still hand in hand, when he felt his knees give way under him.

"what's wrong?" harry was quick to be down by his side, looking for signs of discomfort, and god, he felt so guilty, so wrong for making the boy worry about him like that. "do you need anything? water?"

"i'm-" he choked, lungs failing him again, "i'm fine. just—"

"shh, breathe. take it slow, lou. i'm here."

he was dizzy now, unable to feel his hands or his lips or his face of his neck, looking for the ground to plant his feet in, because it definitely wasn't under him. "i'm, i'm fine. just give- give me, give me a second."

"right." harry stepped away, worry still apparent in his eyes, or at least he assumed so, because he could see nothing but the blur of his tears and his hands trying to cover everything piece of light that asserted itself in his vision.

when he finally gathered himself in what felt like ages, he stood, still wobbly, realizing that they were still on the stairs. "sorry about that. i'm okay. just, just stressed, is all. don't worry about it."

"are you sure? if you don't want to watch criminal minds, we can watch something else. and, i mean, i'm here for you, always. and if, you know, you're having a hard time, i'm here. to just listen, even. to cuddle." harry stuttered, but even that, in its own way, was comforting.

"thanks," he replied, debating with himself whether to tell harry everything or not. "um, i…" he took a deep breath, so deep that he felt the air reach from his lungs all the way to his feet and back up again. "sorry. i'm just having a hard time. i, uh. fucked up."

"what do you mean? did something happen?"

he braced himself, readying for impact. even now, he'd get visions of harry slinging a hand against his face. "i- i purged. earlier. i'm sorry." god, you sound stupid, tomlinson. it's not that deep. you purged, big fucking deal. like you didn't do it three times a day just months ago.

before harry even said anything, louis felt arms close around him. big, warm, safe. tight, but not constricting. "i'm sorry i didn't notice earlier," he breathed. "i knew you were acting off, but i thought that was just because you were tired."

"it's okay. it's my responsibility to ask for help, anyway. it's not like you can read my mind, or anything."

"yeah, but i wish i could."

"you can't, though."

they fell silent, still in each other's arms, until louis felt the boy run his arms under him, scooping him up like he was a child. "we're going upstairs. in bed. watching grease. no complaints. i'm not sleeping until you sleep."

"you're tired, though," he whined. "you need rest."

"and you do too. you'd be lying if you told me you didn't think about that, right?"

louis winced, knowing exactly what he was referring to. "i guess. but it's better now, i promise."

"still, this is my decision, and there's not a chance in hell that you're changing my mind. besides, i'm buzzing. i had a can of redbull earlier."

"you're a dumbass, you know that?"

"your dumbass."

"fuck off, you've used that line like six too many times."

harry laughed, "and i'll keep using it."

he didn't know exactly when he fell asleep, but it was sometime during the part of the movie where all the characters went to the school dance. he didn't know if harry stayed awake for the remainder of the movie or slept right along with him, but he woke the next day to the same long eyelashes and mess of a curly head, tv static still playing.

for some reason, he thought that all the bad feelings would disappear magically, but they hadn't, and that was okay. maybe they would never fully leave him alone, but it did, in fact, get easier, just a bit. he never thought it would, and always told himself not to hope for anything or to get too comfortable, because happiness is fleeting like everything else in life, but there were definitely times where he could confidently say he was happy. and maybe that alone was enough.