Suicidal Tendencies | l.s. | AU

Chapter 2

Harry's POV:

Everyday was exactly the same in this place if you go by the books. I have to be at certain places at certain times, doing the certain activities assigned to me. Therapy, lunch, arts and crafts, dinner, bed. Sometimes it's therapy, lunch, music, dinner, bed. I'll sneak away, off to the music room when I can. I've made friends who help me sneak away. They know what music does for me. It keeps me sane. 

One of these girls is Nina. She is the night nurse for Ward C. Often I would stare at her making her rounds through the little window on my door. She came in to check on me, and I got on my knees and started begging for her to take me to a piano. I knew that she wasn't supposed to take me anywhere after hours, but I must have scared her or she was new. She took my hand,telling me to keep quiet. She led me through the dark hallways. I stumbled behind her, almost like I was drunk and blind. 

She led me to the room that became my refuge at this place. The music room. Located only 150 paces down the hallway, the room isn't heavily trafficked. In fact, at the beginning, I thought I was the only one who knew it was there. That was before I learned that people were watching me. Funny how that works. 

She stood in the doorway, her back tense as she kept her gaze down the hallway. She only turned back when I started to play. "Harry," she hissed, "stop, someone will hear!" I ignored her though. I didn't care who heard me. All I cared about was the fact that I could play. 

I let the music consume me, and Nina closed the door when she realized I wasn't going to stop. This wasn't negotiable to me, I had to play and if they wouldn't let me do it during the day I would do it at night. 

That first night I played for five hours. Nina had to physically drag me away from the piano. She promised she would come back for me when she could; she told me I had a gift. I had heard this from many people before. I had a gift, I was so talented, I was, I was, I was. But these were things other people thought of me. They weren't the truth. 

The truth was that I felt insignificant. I didn't have many friends, I wasn't overly happy, and I didn't want to be told that I was this or I was that. I wanted to convince the hardest critique of that fact. Myself. The problem was my brain wouldn't accept what other people told me. I needed to prove facts to myself and it didn't work very well. 

Doctors called me obsessive, I called myself passionate. I poured my life into my music; it was my escape, my passion, my everything. Rarely would you find me without crumpled up sheet music in my pocket, ear bud hanging out one ear, and a guitar in my hand. I played almost every instrument known to mankind. Guitar, piano, drums, bass, cello, trumpet, vocals. You name it I can play it. Or learn to anyway. 

So I settled into a routine for the first couple of months I was here. I would do what was expected of my by day, and by night, I would sneak away to the music room. It became a sort of pattern for me. I fell into the rhythm, and I didn't need it broken. Rhythm and pattern would good, expected. Maybe I was obsessive. 

All that changed when I was at the center for about 4 months. Nina was a little late to come to my room, and I was feeling overly passionate that night. I told her I just wanted to finish the song; I hadn't had enough time to work out the chord progression. She frowned a little telling me to hurry it up. What we hadn't realized is that the tech team had been working on installing new security cameras around the facility. Just that morning, the music room had been equipped. Which basically means that we were dead meat. 

Two large security personal made their way to the music room, intercepting us in our path as we were leaving. I thought I was a goner, and they were going to torture me or something like you always read about. I got lucky. They let me explain. And in lieu of an explanation, I turned to what I did best. I played. 

The melody was a familiar one to me. I had composed it years ago, perfecting it as time went on and my interests changed. But they were convinced. They said that every patient had that one thing that made them click. And apparently music was mine. 

The therapist team arranged for me to use the music room during all my rec time. I no longer had to report to all the group activities, but instead I was able to play during all hours of the day. The only condition was that I attend every therapy session without question. I was quick to comply, it would be stupid not to. 

Louis POV:

I came to a halt outside of the music room, listening to the melody that drifted through the air. Whoever was playing, they were good. The sounds weren't tone-deaf. In fact the melody moved in a way only an experienced musician could make it. Music had a way of being like a contrary child. It would run in the opposite direction you want it to, unless you are able to coax it in the right direction. 

In fact, the person playing was so good at manipulating music that I would have never guessed they were making it up on the spot if I hadn't heard the slight pauses or the repetition of the melody with a different ending each time. I rounded the corner to find a doorway, propped open with a drum stick. 

Sitting on the piano bench was the curly haired boy I had seen through my window. He was bent over the piano in concentration, clearly trying to find the perfect chord to complete his tune. I listened intently as he tried again and again. He was missing the C chord. The answer was clear to me, but he clearly couldn't hear it as he was growing visibly frustrated each time. 

"Try a C," I suggest from the doorway. I was growing slightly bored listening to the boy play. His green eyes snapped up at me, their gaze cold and harsh. 

"Go away," he said. I was mystified by his accent. It was British like mine, but a different region. Cheshire maybe? In response I walked over to the piano, leaning over his body slightly to reach the keys. I copied the melody he had been playing, ending with the suggested chord. I was proud of myself, having remembered every chord and note he wrote. 

"See, all it needed was to be brought full circle," I reasoned. The boy's stare never got any warmer. Instead it appeared that it got colder. 

"I didn't ask for your help, I asked you to get out. Now I'm telling you to go away," he said, using his stare to try to intimidate me. I didn't let him. 

"As I recall, you told me to go away you never asked me anything. And I am free to use this room, just as you are. So stop trying to tell me what to do, you don't own me," I concluded. I was proud of myself. Usually, I just let people walk all over me. But something about this boy, whether it be the accent, or the green eyes that I already had a weakness for, or his cold demeanor, made me want to just push him until he broke. 

I was still bending over, touching the keys of the piano. He stood abruptly, pushing my arms off his shoulders with a rough shove. His stone cold glare never wavered as he gathered his papers and strode out of the room, his pace even. I bit my lip at his reaction, feeling bad that I had driven him away, but proud for standing my ground. As it seemed, I would become very familiar with that mop of curly hair.