Prince Not-So-Charming And His Tipsy Princess (l.s)

Chapter 24

Between the days of December the third and the twentieth of December, Louis Tomlinson barely moved from his bed and only snuck out of his room to grab some sort of snack. Seventeen days. Seventeen days Harry spent basically isolated, with his thoughts only filled with the memories of Louis' laughter and Louis' lips and Louis' frightening moments of darkness and Louis' touch.

The boys came by almost daily, either altogether, in twos or alone to make sure Harry wasn't by himself all the time but it didn't matter, as much. He spent his time with them only somewhat able to distract himself, periodically sparing wistful glances towards Louis' room.

He got Eleanor to do some digging for him, paying her for it, of course and found out that this wasn't the first time Louis had stopped speaking. As a matter-of-fact, his lawyer explained how, in his teenage years, Louis didn't say a word during the case against him, choosing to look blankly on during his court trial. Some of those tattoos weren't from self-harm scars, Harry could tell from how the position of some bruises his uncle caused fit the areas he had inked up. It was almost like a cycle was repeating itself and it had Harry terrified.

In total, after killing his uncle all those years back, a fifteen year old Louis didn't say a word for three whole years. Within that time, the Juvenile Centre had to stop him from several suicide attempts. His cellmates always feared his muteness and the deadened eyes that looked like they had seen it all, although witnessing one of his attempts had often been the breaking point that made each boy run for the hills. And then, there came the day he spoke. Eighteen years old, about to be set free and his words had been very simple.

"Why bother? I'm fucking dead!"

He had broken down after that and they had to sedate him. He was switched to the psych ward the moment they freed him, mandatorily for as long as the doctors saw fit. He gave up on trying to die, explaining to the doctors that there was no need to worry because he simply didn't have the balls or energy to even attempt, anymore. Both Harry and Eleanor were scandalised. And Louis? He was curious of the muffled conversations going on outside his bedroom door but he couldn't move. He just wanted to be dead and indeed, the state he was in mentally was a pretty close fit.

Every day, Harry would loudly talk to him through the door about random things and send him voice notes, as well. At times, it was telling him about his day, at times it was him breaking down because Louis wasn't responding. At times he was angry with Louis but he always got over that quick and ended up whispering about those private moments between them that no one else would never know about, asking him with barely any hope in his hoarse voice if he missed those moments, too. At the end of the second week, Louis sent Harry a short message.

Leave me to rot.
Free yourself.
I'm begging you.
None of this matters.

"It took you three years the last time you had a mute spell. Three. I can't leave you alone in this. I won't. Do you hear me, Tomlinson?! I'll never leave! You're bloody stuck with me, I'm not going anywhere!" Harry got no response. Not a text, not a sigh. He would take Louis cussing him out at this point but no, not a single proof of life. It was awful. The boys were a great comfort but none of them understood what it was like being there with Louis, knowing he was barely eating, knowing he was trying to recede into himself and being unable to do a thing about it.

And then, three days after that, Louis messaged him again. A message that both terrified Harry to his very bones and gave him hope for the first time in a long time.

I want you to go on the internet. Start a livestream on your Instagram account. And I want you to say the truth. Say what you truly feel about me after what you've gotten to learn these past weeks. Don't say my name. I just want you to open those pretty lips and tell me the truth. Tell me the truth. No more sugarcoating. No more flirting out of pity. You say I'm good with words, Styles but well, it's your turn, now. Do that. Do that and I'll speak, since you seem to want me to so bad. Break me with honesty.