Lacrymosa (Zarry/Larry)

Sweet Decadence

Harry jerks awake, eyes shooting open, chest heaving, a thin sheet of sweat covering his forehead. He tries to swallow, but coughs instead, his throat feeling dry and scratchy, a salty taste sticking to his tongue. He flinches as he peels himself off the mattress, removing Zayn’s arms from around his waist and planting his feet onto the cold floorboards, breathing in deeply while sitting on the edge of the bed and willing a fleeting headache away. 

The house is quiet as he makes his way down the stairs, it usually is, quiet and dark and wet with the smell of the rain pouring outside, the humidity something he’s long gotten used to. It wasn’t what bothered him. 

No. 

He frowns, walking into the kitchen to make himself some tea, something to chase away the shivers and goosebumps sticking to his skin. He flicks a single light on, nothing too bright for his aching eyes, checks the clock on the wall and sees it’s nearly four in the morning. Harry puts the kettle on the stove and waits for the water to boil, rubbing at the bridge of his nose. He’s never been able to go back to sleep after he wakes up, not after the nightmares. 

It’s been two and a half years, he should be fine, he is fine. But the dreams keep coming, in shattered forms, blurry, grainy still images, and sometimes it’s like he’s reliving that night all over again, Louis promising him he’ll be back with help as soon as he can, and Harry waits, only to find out he’d been dangling over their car all along. 

Nobody knows who did it, the police couldn’t do anything, no murder weapon, no witnesses, no evidence, no suspects. Harry had found out that Louis did make the phone call before he was killed, was somehow able to reach a police department in a town not too far away from where they had crashed, an hour or so’s drive by car. Harry mentioned the house, the one with No Trespassing signs that made Harry’s skin tingle with discomfort, the officer questioning him regarding him with skeptical eyes, saying the house had been abandoned for years, that it had been falling apart, that it was impossible to get a hold of a working phone seeing as all the lines had been cut off when the owners left, so his ‘‘companion’’ must’ve gone searching for help somewhere else. 

But there was nowhere else, for miles and miles. 

The kettle whistles, and he gets a tea bag and puts two small spoons of sugar into his mug before pouring the hot water into it, stirring for a bit and testing the taste as he sits at the kitchen table. 

Louis’ family had been confused, so confused, then angry, then sad, acceptance didn’t come until after the funeral was over, Louis still looking sharp in a dark blue suit and tie, buried six feet under. Louis’ father sitting secludedly by the window, looking out, looking lost. Louis’ sisters forming a silently grieving clique around their crying mother, Johannah had never looked so broken, Anne by her side, trying to console her. Harry was in the corner, partially hiding behind Gemma, trying not to look either of them in the eye. They all have the same eyes. Louis’ eyes, and he couldn’t.

Lottie gave him a narrow eyed look at the end of the day, one he couldn’t wrap his head around, until he’d caught her complaining about how he didn’t cry at all at the burial to her younger sister from the kitchen on his way to the bathroom.

That was the last time he’d seen any of them, on purpose, that is. Because well, he’d cried enough, run out of tears, actually, it fucked him up so bad he had to undergo therapy. The weekly sessions made him feel better, he’d gotten better, it helped that Zayn was there, beautiful, smart, sweet Zayn, let-him-cry-all-over-his-nice-clothes Zayn, picked-him-up-from-the-sides-of-the-roads Zayn, held-his-hair-back-while-he-puked-his-guts-into-a-filthy-public-toilet Zayn, told-him-no-more-drinking-yourself-stupid Zayn, held-his-hand-through-the-healing-process Zayn, kissed-him-back Zayn.

His dead boyfriend’s best friend Zayn.

His Zayn. Harry’s Zayn.

‘Hey, babe.’

Harry nearly jumps at the drowsy voice, the warm breath ghosting over his ear, the firm arms wrapping his shoulders, soft lips pressing against his temple. Harry relaxes against him then, putting his mug down and reaching to take hold of the arms surrounding him and turning his head to lock their lips in a kiss. He smiles into it, they both do, before Harry breaks it to rest his cheek into the warm flesh of his fiance’s inner arm. ‘Hey, did I wake you?’

‘Nah.’ Zayn shakes his head. ‘Can’t sleep?’ He murmurs against Harry’s hair, burying his nose in his chestnut locks, taking a whiff. Harry nods. ‘Nightmares again?’ The question gains Zayn another nod, and he presses a kiss to Harry’s hair before untangling his arms from around him, Harry’s chest tugging unpleasantly at the loss of contact.

Zayn sits opposites him, makes a grab for his tea and takes a sip, brows furrowing a little as he puts the mug back down. ‘Too sweet.’

Harry smiles. ‘Sweet for the sweet.’

Zayn snorts and takes Harry’s hands in his own, running his warm palms over Harry’s cool ones, fingers tangled together soon after before lifting his gaze to meet Harry’s own, hazel eyes warm, concerned and inviting. ‘Same one from the other night?’

‘And all the nights before it.’ Harry says, inhaling in deep, his breaths so heavy, they weigh his lungs down. ‘I don’t think therapy’s going to help this, I tried everything she’d advised me but they just won’t go, and I’m tired.’ Harry lets out, his voice weakening and his eyes watering as he regards Zayn with red rimmed eyes, the green in them a pale, fading shade. Because he is tired, he wants to move on but this thing just won’t let him go. ‘I can barely sleep, I can barely keep my eyes open, I can barely think, I’m just so tired.’

‘I know.’ Zayn says, voice soft and sympathy-laced as he reaches for Harry’s face, cupping his cheek in his hand, Harry closes his eyes and leans into the touch, covering Zayn’s hand with his own, humming at the feel of Zayn’s thumb running over the underside of his eye.

‘We’ll get through this.’ He hears Zayn say, voice assuring. ‘Don’t worry.’

‘I know.’ Harry replies. He’s only tired, but never worried, not as long as Zayn stays by his side. ‘I’m not worried.’ He hears Zayn shifting, senses him getting closer, and a small smile tugs at his lips before Zayn’s lips fall over his own, and a warm feeling overwhelms him, akin to satisfaction and bliss, as he presses back.

‘I love you.’ He whispers against his fiance’s lips, feeling the latter smile into their kiss.

‘I love you, too.’ Zayn says, and Harry’s heart swells in his chest to near outburst. This isn’t easy, and people didn’t spare them their judging looks and snide remarks when they decided, a year and a half ago, to make a go for what they have now. It’s only gotten better since then, until a couple of months ago when the nightmares started coming to Harry, around the time they got engaged. But Harry knows it’s only a matter of time before everything is back to the way it was, before this ‘unconscious act of withdrawal’, as his therapist likes to call it, is gone and he’s happy again.

He’s happy now, with Zayn, happier than he's ever been before.

Harry isn’t a bad person.

He has a good heart, he never wishes ill things for the undeserving, he gives to charities, he smiles for everyone and shakes their hands, he minds his own business, he bought pizzas for a few homeless people once because they were starving and he couldn’t bear the sight of it.

Harry really isn’t a bad person. But he’s happy.

He took two weeks off work to nurse Louis back to health once after he came down with the flu, cried at every stupid romance movie there ever was, helped pay off his parents’ debts and gave Gemma his entire paycheck once so she could have her dream wedding and never has he asked for anything in return.

Harry is not a bad person.

But he’s happy Louis’ gone.