Louis' house

7. the third tear

When Harry wakes up, his eyes sting. He's in is bed, and he's all alone.

The space on the left side is empty and cold, Harry's cheeks are stained and his eyes are aching, probably red. The house is quiet, not a single sound to be heard.

Harry sits up, the blanket falling down his naked chest and onto his lap, as he brings his arms up, hands covering his face. He would honestly cry again, if he hadn't shed all his tears in the shower last night. He doesn't think there are any left, at least not for the next few years.

Being left unfinished by his fiancé might have been a new low. Thinking of his ex while finishing himself might have been a new low. Sobbing on the floor of the shower, knees drawn to his chest, tears flowing down faster than the actual water, might have been a new low.

What's the lowest, though, is what he did to Louis last night. Louis texted him, apologised for whatever and specifically asked to have a talk, to sort everything out and Harry-
Harry left him on read.

He didn't even reply. He ghosted him, leaving Louis to wonder why for a few hours, until he had to watch Harry making out with Francis and stumbling into the house, what they were about to do painfully obvious. The look on Louis' face, the way his body froze, it hurt Harry. Seeing Louis hurting, hurts Harry every damn time.

He lets out a suffering groan and grabs his phone from his nightstand.

We really need to talk.

He chews on his bottom lip for a second before taking the phone into both hands and starting to type.

I'm so sorry for not answering yesterday. Can I maybe come over now? We really do need to talk.

After that, he waits. He pads downstairs into the kitchen, makes quick breakfast and then cleans everything again, leaving the kitchen as if he'd never set a foot through the door, all spotless and reflecting surfaces. Then, he reads a bit, gives up after about twenty minutes, walks back upstairs, makes the bed, cleans the bathroom, reorganises his closet.

Louis doesn't reply.

Harry sighs and walks over to the pile of items his mum handed him when he left with Louis a few days ago. Mainly clothes and books he wanted to take with him from his old room. Might as well put those away too, if he's already cleaning. It feels like that's all he does all day, nowadays. Cleaning.

Harry sighs, rubs his temple and forbids his brain to think about all of that again, walking over to the pile and taking the clothes first, putting them into his wardrobe.

He grabs the few books and walks back downstairs into the living room, to get them sorted into his bookshelf. There is one that catches his attention, that was his favourite while he grew up, when he first developed his love for books and literature. He puts the others away and takes that one, sitting down on the couch with a cup of tea and a blanket. He sets his phone down right next to his legs, so that he will see if Louis replies, and opens the book.

He doesn't get to reading, though, because a picture falls out. It's one of those vintage film prints, a strip of photographs from those photo booths. They're black and white and they really, really hurt.

It shows Louis and Harry, two years into their relationship, on a random date. He slowly lifts it from the first page it was tucked into, sets the open book aside and looks at the pictures instead.

In the one at the top, they're still trying to figure out how the photo booth thing works, squinting into the camera quite dumbly. That one makes Harry smile.

The one underneath hurts a bit more. In that one, they're half surprised that the booth already takes pictures, half laughing about it. One of Harry's knees is in the picture frame, so that one can clearly see that he was sitting right across Louis' lap.