A/N: Hey! It's been a while, hasn't it?
Forgive me if I’ve gotten any details about this wrong; I don’t quite know how the process works when one is a therapist, seeing as I’ve never been a therapist myself. As a result, there may be a few (or many) discrepancies. Again, I apologize in advance.
Also, listen to "Ways to Go" by Grouplove on the right if you want! Twas the song I wrote this chapter to :)
Hope you guys like this, let me and Kayla know what you think in the comments! Love you lots xx
~Monique <3
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Harry is usually a patient person. No, really, he is. He’s never been the type to want to rush things, because he thinks that slow and steady is the only way to make things happen the right way.
Right now, he’s anything but.
He’s sitting in the bland hospital waiting room, and he can’t fucking handle it, having to wait, having to be patient. He feels a vague sense of disgust as he looks at the magazine covers sitting in a messy pile on the table in front of him – he feels a vague sense of disgust when he looks at anything in this place, really, because all he wants to do is get out of here.
Is it too late to back out of this job?
He checks his watch for what feels like the fifth time in the past minute, foot tapping mindlessly against the drab gray carpet. The starched collar of his shirt is dragging against the back of his neck and he hates it.
He closes his eyes briefly, breathing in. No. Okay. He’s fine.
“Mr. Styles?” a middle aged nurse calls from the doorway near the front desk. She’s got a kind smile, and Harry relaxes slightly. But then. “Mr. Tomlinson is ready for you.”
Harry thinks that his heart physically stops at the sound of Louis’ name, and he can feel himself blanch. He can barely compose himself enough to nod at the nurse and follow her down the hallway.
Who’s he fucking kidding? He’s a fucking mess. How the fucking hell is he supposed to be able to handle this, this enigma of a boy with shadowed eyes and false fronts and stubborn tendencies? Not to mention the fact that he’s crude on the most disgusting of levels – the stuff he fucking said to Harry was beyond inappropriate, not the least bit professional, and horribly offensive. Bile rises to his throat at the mere memory, and he swallows thickly, tasting bitterness on his tongue.
And no, it doesn’t fucking matter how attractive Louis is, or how vulgar he may be – he’s still Harry’s patient (or, Nick’s patient, technically, but details) and Harry’s still got to try his hardest to help him. But he’s also got to be professional about this whole ordeal. And it’s hard as all hell to be professional when all he wants to do is yell and scream at Louis fucking Tomlinson, tell him off for being such a fucking piece-of-shit dick to him, for saying all of those things that made Harry feel like crawling out of his own skin.
Which is why Harry’s come up with a new approach.
The nurse directs him to Louis’ room and leaves Harry with a smile. Harry waits until her footsteps have faded into silence before moving.
He makes his way over to Louis’ door, his shoes squeaking against the freshly-mopped floor. He stands in front of it, staring at its puke-green paint and ignoring the way it makes his stomach curl in on itself.
He can handle this. No more playing the nice guy. He’s going to help Louis get better, he’s not going to fucking fail.
He knocks on the door and waits; when he hears no sound come from inside, he grabs the cold metal handle and opens the door ever so slightly.
YOU ARE READING
shattered skies ➸ larry stylinson
Fanfiction❝he's always said to himself that the most important thing about his line of work is never letting anyone down. he refuses to fail, because his failure would mean who knows what to the patients. he started all of this to help people. hell if he's go...
