They don’t really talk about it. Louis tries asking Harry if he wants to get some professional help, or tell the police, or something. But Harry always closes up, starts sobbing and shaking, ‘please Lou, I don't want to talk about it,’ sob harder and then ask for strawberry milk. Louis will sigh, fetch him a glass, and then wrap his arms around him and hold him as tight as he needs.
(The fighting:
“Harry, the ‘forgive and forget’ method is shit! You don’t forgive people like that; you don't forgive unforgivable things!”
“Get out.”
“Harry-”
“Just get out!”
Louis would return the next day with an incoherent but genuine apology, lean against Harry’s door and say it through the grain.
“Harry, Look. I’m really sorry for being that way yesterday. You’re the one who went through it -well, you still are, I guess - I just- I don’t want you thinking that what he did to you was okay, because it wasn’t. Just - please let me in. I - I miss you.
The door would snick and Harry would be there with open arms and an apology that he would mumble into Louis’ neck.)
They grow closer, though. Harry isn’t hiding anything else from Louis. He told him he was sexually, physically, and emotionally abused, and Louis never asked questions. He held in his quivering lip, and all the tears that threatened to fall from his cheeks, and was strong for Harry. Every little thing he closed off before, finally made sense. Louis understood, even if he didn’t understand.
Louis spends most his days and nights with Harry. They don’t share the same bed, but there is a sea of pillows and cushions and blankets on the floor, and they’ll sleep there together.
Louis will always use some of his extra money to buy Harry pretty things. Things he deserves to have. Harry deserves a lot. He mostly buys him candles, because when Harry gets in a really bad place, it calms him down to watch the flame flicker and the wax melt. Louis’ watched Harry sit in front of a brand new little candle until it was completely gone, and the scent of bubble-gum filled the air.
Some days they’ll skip class, open the curtains to the sliding glass door of Harry’s balcony, and crack the door just a bit. They’ll sit with warm glasses of strawberry milk, watch the slush fall from the sky and wrap themselves with blankets. Louis will paint Harry’s nails warm colours to heat his body up, kiss his knuckles, and press his blush into Harry’s palm.
Louis’ just so in love with Harry it hurts. He doesn’t care about how obvious it comes off as. He wants Harry to know that he loves him, he wants him to know it and feel it, and realise there is good love.
The thing is, though, that’s all Louis can do. He can do small, subtle things to try and let Harry know, but he can’t just say it, or initiate anything between the two of them. Harry’s been through so much and Louis can’t hurt him, or scare him, or damage their close friendship in anyway. He has to make sure Harry is okay - that's before his own wants and needs, that comes first - and he hopes that one day something can happen between them, that one day Harry will be okay.
(And he knows Harry won’t ever be okay again, not after what happened. Loud noises will always surround him into a flinching mess, walls painted light brown and red marks across a city map. He isn’t waiting for Harry to be okay, he’s waiting for him to be stable enough. He’s waiting for Harry to allow him closer.)
YOU ARE READING
Strawberry Milk L.S.
Teen Fiction"So here's the thing," he starts. "I didn't mean what I said a few weeks ago to like, hurt your feelings or anything. If you like painting your nails, then you should do that, and not like, care if anyone else doesn't like it because their opinions...
