All That You Are Is All I'll Ever Need

7

Louis wakes up to the feeling of his stomach gurgling on acid and a mop of curls pressed into his cheek. His head pounds everywhere- in his elbows, palms, knees. He takes in a slow, deep breath, closing his eyes as he gently pushes Harry to the side of the couch so he can get up. He blinks hard, the room spinning as he grabs a throw blanket by the side of the couch to cover Harry up with.

He hasn't been proper drunk in what feels like forever, but at the same time, he still feels somewhat immune to it, like his body still hasn't forgotten who he use to be and what he use to do. He kneels in front of the toilet, shoving two of his fingers down his throat, anything to get the icky feeling of his hangover to ooze out of him. He forgot how awful it all was, the taste, the feel, the waking up.

He thinks he is being quiet, but as he gags on his fingers, he can see Harry leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed over his chest. His hair is a sleepy mess, face shining an empathetic smile.

All of what happened yesterday hits him in the stomach, and he all of a sudden he no longer has to force himself to puke, it is just goddamn happening. He feels sick, so fucking sick.

And it all hurts - so, so much.

He thinks about his sisters, and how if this had ever happened to them, he would be relentless in getting them the best help possible. He loves them, and would never allow them to let their life rot inside of themselves as they walked around.

He tries to imagine how painful it must be for Harry, but the only thing he can imagine is a reflection. Looking in the mirror and seeing himself. But then his reflection is slitting its throat and blood is dripping in the sink. The difference is, only he is locked in a casket and put below a gravestone. His reflection still pays the bills, and brushes his teeth, and goes to class, and tells his mum he loves her. That’s Harry, a reflection. Harry needs help, and Louis swears he is going to do whatever he can to make him realise that. He’s hung over and never giving up. That's Louis.

Harry pads into the bathroom, hand gently swiping Louis' fringe back. Louis leans into his hand, closing his eyes as tears drip down his cheeks. He doesn't like this feeling, this inevitable feeling of hopelessness pumping through him faster than his own blood.

Harry leans down and kisses his head, the words, "I'll go get you some water and ibuprofen, alright love?" tumbling into his hair.

Louis nods weakly in response, and Harry smiles sadly, adding in, "and I'll make you a yummy, greasy breakfast to help you out, okay?"

"Okay," he croaks in reply.

“Do you need me to do anything else for you, babe?” he asks sweetly, trailing his fingers through Louis’ messy hair.

He nods into the toilet bowl, reaching up to flush it.

“What is it?” Harry smiles down at him, rubbing his thumb over his temple. The slight pulse in the feeling of Harry's thumb against his pounding head is surprisingly comforting him, and he pushes himself closer into the touch.

Louis thinks he might be drunk again when he says it.

“I need you to tell me what he did to you.”

The thumb on his head stops rubbing.  Just - stops.

“Louis, don't.”

It is a warning, he knows, but - but Louis can actually hear the weak desperation of ‘no’ in Harry's reply, the sounds of his sobs and skin hitting skin, and he - he clenches his fist until they're white and numb, ignoring it all, trying. But fuck, he isn't a fucking professional, he doesn't know what he is doing. All he knows is that the person he loves is hurting, and that when he was little and saw his parents fighting through the crack in his door, it felt so good to tell the little girl that lived across from him every single thing that happened.

“Har-”

“No, Louis,” he says louder now, the words bouncing on the tiles of the bathroom and ringing in his head. Louis lets out a sob, remembering something from yesterday.

“I forgot to get strawberry milk yesterday, I’m so, so sorry.”

(And he has never felt like such a miss-stepping failure.)