We Were Always Going To End Like This

by Ace0fHeartz

Summary:

Louis never thought he had a problem. Sure, he dabbled, took some pills here, took a line there, but it was all just part of the fun. Until his mum found a bag of molly in his sock drawer and shipped him off to rehab for ten weeks before he could even think of an excuse.

Harry on the other hand, has always known he had a problem. He just never thought anyone else would notice. But when his mum caught him stealing her tilidine perscription she shipped him off as well, whether it was because she cared or was annoyed her pill bottle kept emptying itself, Harry wasn‘t sure.

Thrown together in a place neither of them wanted to be, Louis and Harry form an unlikely bond, one built on whispered confessions during sleepless nights, quiet companionship in group therapy and the raw, aching need to be understood. As the months turn into years they get closer and closer until they‘re essentially attached at the hip.

Recovery isn‘t linear. There are victories and relapses, progress and and backslides. But through it all, Louis has his people, Zayn, Niall, Oli and Eleanor, his found family, the ones who refuse to give up on him despite being just as messed up as he was. Slowly but surely, they become Harry‘s family too.

Notes:

STOP AND READ

 

I conciously chose not to use archive warnings because I don‘t want to spoil anyone, but keep in mind that some still apply, read this story at your own risk. Just know that I bawled my eyes out while writing and there‘s a high chance you will too.

I would also like to mention that I did not include Liam in this story, I did that on purpose as it felt incredibly insesitive to have him in a story about heavy sibstance abuse, I hope you guys understand. (dw no rape or stuff like that)

Anyway, I put my heart and soul in this fic and it really means a lot to me as some of the stuff I wrote in it comes from first-hand expierience, so of course I‘m thankful for every person who reads this despite the disclaimer. But do still keep in mind that this is purely fictional, because I tend to mix up fics and reality when I get too into reading a story.

Lots of love, (and strength)
-Ace

(also here‘s a playlist I put way too much time into, I‘m begging you to listen to it while you read)

https://open.spotify.com/playlist/5E1qjW5QBJSFbMzq2cvbw5?si=TRPMsz3rSbC0PbhqLRYUtQ&pi=4q5keyEGQJ-YZ

(for those who can‘t open the link, the playlist is called „we were always going to end like this“, the user is toffee)

Chapter 1

Louis stood stripped down to his boxers in the middle of a sterile, too-bright room, the fluorescent lights buzzing faintly above him like a mosquito circling his head. The air smelled like disinfectant and something faintly metallic, like blood or fear. A male nurse, who hadn’t bothered to introduce himself, rummaged through Louis’ clothes with gloved hands, turning out pockets and shaking seams like Louis was some criminal being processed. His skin prickled with irritation, his arms crossed tightly over his bare chest, and he was already pissed off—and his stay hadn’t even properly started yet.

Eighteen years old, and this was already his fifth trip to rehab. The last time had been a joke, a forced holiday where he’d counted the hours until release, and this time felt no different. In his opinion, this was a complete and utter waste of time—he wasn’t an addict; he was just someone who liked to have fun. Big difference.

The whole thing had kicked off when his mum found a tiny baggie of ecstasy stuffed in his sock drawer. She’d lost it, screaming about how she wouldn’t have a junkie living under her roof, and gave him an ultimatum—check into rehab or find somewhere else to sleep. The drugs weren’t even his, not really. They were Niall’s, or at least, meant for Niall’s birthday party next week, which Louis now wouldn’t even get to attend. All that drama, and for what? A handful of pills meant for a good time.

The nurse kept searching his clothes, patting down seams like Louis was stupid enough to leave anything there. Amateur. Last time, he’d hidden a couple baggies of coke in his socks, thinking he was clever, only to have them found within minutes. This time, he was smarter. His current stash—just enough to get through a week and a half of group therapy and Gregs general existence—was tucked snugly in the waistband of his boxers, slightly uncomfortable but safer than any pocket. He’d move it somewhere better later, once they let him out of this humiliating strip search.

Zayn had already promised to sneak in a fresh supply during his first visit, probably right after Niall’s party. Louis wasn’t worried. It wasn’t like he needed the drugs; it wasn’t like that. They just made life easier—made the tedious people, the endless rules, the unbearable silence of his own thoughts a little softer, a little further away. And wasn’t that the point? To make life more tolerable?

The nurse muttered something under his breath, shaking out Louis’ jeans one last time, and Louis rolled his eyes to the ceiling, biting back a sarcastic remark. Another rehab, another waste of time. He could already tell—this was going to be hell.

Louis got through the strip search without so much as a raised eyebrow, which was honestly kind of impressive considering what he had on him. Tucked snug against his skin, wrapped in plastic and nerve-wracking confidence, were at least two grams of coke, five blue punishers, and a solid four grams of weed. If they’d been even a little more thorough, they might’ve found it—but they didn’t. Amateurs.

They let him keep his cigarettes, the only legal vice in his collection, which he’d left in the front pocket of his jacket like a good little eighteen-year-old who was technically allowed to smoke. The nurses didn’t seem too bothered by nicotine—rehab wasn’t here to save his lungs, after all. They were after bigger monsters. Monsters Louis didn’t believe he had.

Because he didn’t have issues , thank you very much. He wasn’t some tragic case dragged in by a court order after getting caught shooting up in a public bathroom. He wasn’t collapsing in alleyways or stealing from his mum’s purse. His mum had just overreacted—big time. It was one party stash, not some epic cry for help. If anything, she was the one who needed to calm down.

He yanked his clothes back on, every layer feeling like a small victory, proof they hadn’t caught him this time. Then, slinging his worn duffle bag over his shoulder, he followed the nurse down a corridor that looked like every corridor in every boring hospital or school Louis had ever been forced to walk through. Off-white walls, scuffed linoleum floors, the faint smell of something too clean, like bleach or desperation.

They led him to a room that looked exactly as lifeless as always—like someone had taken a motel room, drained it of any color or charm, and then sucked out the air for good measure. Two twin beds sat stiffly on opposite sides of the room, the sheets tucked in so tight they looked like they might snap. A large, hollow closet yawned open against one wall, big enough to remind him how long ten weeks could feel. A wooden table sat between the beds, flanked by two chairs that had probably never heard a real conversation. And then there was the window—a square pane of glass that showed nothing but endless countryside, dull green fields stretching far enough to make the world feel empty.

This was it. His home for the next ten weeks.

Louis dropped his bag onto the bed nearest the window, the mattress barely dipping under the weight, and exhaled sharply. Ten weeks of this. Ten weeks of nothing.

He wondered how long it would take before he started losing his mind.

Louis started to unpack, half-heartedly sorting his clothes into the sterile closet that smelled faintly of dust and something chemical, like cleaning spray that couldn’t quite mask years of hopelessness. His t-shirts and jeans looked out of place in there, crumpled and careless against the too-perfect shelves. His phone was already plugged into the wall, screen lighting up with a half-dead battery and a string of notifications he couldn’t be bothered to check.

He was surprised they even let him keep it. Last time, they’d snatched it the moment he checked in, locking him away from the outside world like a prisoner. Maybe being eighteen had its perks—technically, he was an adult now. Maybe they figured he was old enough to be responsible for himself. That was funny. No one seemed to think that when they dragged him back here.

Not that it mattered. He wasn’t planning on texting anyone. He wasn’t here to make friends, share sob stories, or sit in a circle crying about his feelings. He was here to bide his time, wait out the clock, and get the hell out. That was it.

He sprawled back onto his bed, phone balanced in his hand as he scrolled mindlessly through apps he didn’t even care about. Niall had texted a few times, something about the party, something about Zayn scoring good stuff, but Louis didn’t reply. There was nothing to say. He was stuck here, and that was that.

Almost three hours passed in a sluggish crawl, the silence pressing down so hard Louis thought he might scream just to break it. And then, suddenly, the door swung open with a creak that made Louis jolt upright.

A boy stood in the doorway, frozen like a deer caught in headlights, wide eyes darting around the room as if he could somehow find an escape route if he looked hard enough. He was tall—taller than Louis—but hunched in on himself like he was trying to fold his entire body into something smaller, less noticeable. His light brown curls were a mess, falling into his face, and his cheeks were blotchy and pink, the unmistakable aftermath of crying. Probably the strip search, Louis thought grimly. That first one always felt like the worst thing in the world.

Something about him tugged at Louis’ chest—a flicker of sympathy he hadn’t expected to feel. The boy looked exactly like Louis had felt his first time here: lost, humiliated, and just desperate for it all to be over.

Louis forced a grin onto his face, sitting up properly and propping himself on his elbows. “Hey there, roommate,” he quipped, trying to inject some warmth into his voice, something easy and non-threatening. Maybe it would take the edge off. “Welcome to paradise.”

The boy didn’t smile, not exactly, but his shoulders dropped just a little, like maybe he was starting to breathe again.

Louis pushed himself up off the bed, the mattress creaking faintly under his weight, and crossed the tiny room in a few steps. He held out his hand, all casual charm, like this was some awkward university dorm instead of a glorified holding cell for screw-ups.

“I’m Louis,” he said, voice light, like none of this was a big deal. Like they weren’t both standing here with the weight of rehab pressing down on their shoulders.

The boy glanced at Louis’ hand for a second before finally reaching out to shake it. His grip was hesitant, a little shaky, his palm clammy in a way that made Louis’ brain instantly file him under detoxing . But Louis didn’t mention it. There were rules to this kind of thing, and one of them was: you don’t call someone out in the first five minutes.

“Harry,” the boy said softly, voice barely more than a breath, like speaking too loud might shatter him completely.

Louis let go, stepping back just enough to give him some space. Harry looked wrecked—eyes glassy, skin pale beneath the flush on his cheeks, the kind of exhaustion that came from more than just a long car ride. This was withdrawal hanging off him like a weight, and Louis had seen it enough times to recognize it immediately.

Still, no point in making him squirm. So Louis shoved his hands into his pockets and asked, “Well, how long are you in for?”

Harry shifted, setting his bag down beside the unclaimed bed and lowering himself onto the mattress like his whole body ached. “A month,” he said quietly. “At least that’s what they told me.”

Louis snorted, already flopping back onto his own bed, arms folded behind his head. “Yeah, that’s a lie. Add at least two more weeks—minimum. They always say a month to make it sound manageable, but once you’re in, they find reasons to keep you. ‘For your own good,’ or whatever.”

Harry gave a weak sort of smile—more like a grimace, but it was something—and leaned back on his hands. “Great,” he mumbled.

“Yeah, paradise,” Louis said with a grin, but something in his chest felt a little too familiar.

“Well, uh… how long are you in for?” Harry asked, his voice still soft, like he was afraid of being too loud in a place like this. He was unpacking his bag the same way Louis had—slow and hesitant, like settling in meant accepting the reality of being stuck here.

Louis barely glanced up from his phone. “Ten weeks, give or take,” he said, like it was no big deal. “My mum found Molly in my sock drawer and lost her shit. Threatened to kick me out if I didn’t check in.” He shrugged, flipping through his texts. “Doesn’t matter, though. I can leave whenever I want. I’m technically an adult now.”

Harry’s shoulders sagged a little, fingers pausing in the act of folding a hoodie over his knee. “I can’t,” he muttered. “I’m not eighteen yet. My mum found opioids in my bag.”

Louis whistled low under his breath. “Ouch. Tough one,” he said, but his attention was already back on his phone, typing out a quick message to Zayn: when u visiting? bring something fun.

Harry didn’t say anything, just kept folding his clothes into the empty dresser, but Louis could feel his curiosity hanging in the air like a question he was too polite to ask. So Louis tossed his phone aside and added, “I don’t have any opioids, but I’ve got some weed if you want it.”

Harry’s head snapped up, wide-eyed. “How the hell did you get that in here?”

Louis grinned, all smug mischief. “Tucked it in my underwear. They don’t really check there unless you give them a reason to. Guess they like to leave you at least some dignity.”

“Smart,” Harry said, a small smile ghosting over his lips for the first time. “Can I have some?”

“Sure.” Louis stretched out on his bed, hands behind his head like he owned the place. “Wanna go for a walk? They’ll smell it in here, but we get, like, two hours of free time to roam the grounds. Plenty of places to hide.”

Harry nodded immediately, almost too eager, like the thought of fresh air and a bit of a buzz might actually make this whole place bearable. “Sounds good.”

Louis hopped up, stuffing his lighter into his pocket and giving Harry a quick once-over. The kid was still wound tight, like a spring, but at least now they had something to look forward to. And if there was one thing Louis had learned in rehab, it was this—getting through it was all about the distractions.

“Come on then, roommate,” Louis said, flashing him a grin. “Let’s go get high at summer camp.”

They slipped outside, the cool evening air settling over them like a damp blanket, the sky already dimming into that washed-out grey that comes just before night. The facility grounds were mostly empty, just a couple of other patients dragging their feet around the perimeter like ghosts haunting their own rehab stories. Louis led the way without a word, cutting across the grass until they reached a patch of trees near the back fence, tucked just far enough out of sight to feel safe.

“Here we go,” Louis said, dropping down into the grass like they were just two mates on a camping trip, not inmates sneaking a high at a place meant to fix them. He pulled out the baggie, shaking it until a small handful of green tumbled into his palm, then got to work. He was efficient, hands working quickly to pull apart a cigarette for the papers, flattening out a crumpled bus ticket to use as a filter, and trimming everything down with the pair of safety scissors they’d let him keep.

Harry sat cross-legged beside him, knees jiggling slightly, fingers tugging at a loose thread on his hoodie. He looked nervous, like he wasn’t sure if this was allowed or if Louis was testing him.

“So,” Louis said, lighting up and taking a long, slow drag that filled his lungs with warmth and familiarity, “what’s your poison of choice?” He passed the joint over, the ember glowing faintly in the dim light.

Harry took it, fingers brushing Louis’ just for a second, and inhaled like he knew exactly what he was doing. “Valoron,” he said, smoke curling from his lips, “if that rings a bell. Tilidine.”

Louis whistled low, grimacing. “Shit. That’s nasty stuff. Why?”

Harry shrugged, eyes focused on the ground like maybe the grass could answer for him. He took another drag before handing the joint back. “My mum has a prescription. At first, I only took it when I couldn’t sleep, but then…” He trailed off, shoulders rising and falling in a helpless shrug. “She noticed when I started nicking it regularly.”

Louis shook his head, blowing smoke toward the sky. “Amateur mistake, mate. First off, that stuff’s addictive as hell—once you’re in, it’s nearly impossible to climb back out. And second, of course she was gonna notice her meds going missing.”

Harry actually smiled a little at that, the first real smile Louis had seen from him all night. “You say that like you’re some expert,” he teased, “but didn’t you get busted with ecstasy? Isn’t that one of the most addictive drugs out there?”

Louis barked out a laugh, shaking his head. “Not even close. And anyway, that wasn’t for me—it was for Niall’s birthday party. I’m not some addict.” He grinned, though there wasn’t much humor behind it. “I just like to have fun every now and then. Big difference.”

Harry didn’t argue, but Louis caught the way he looked at him, like he wasn’t entirely sure if Louis believed his own story. The truth hung there between them, unspoken but heavy, like smoke that wouldn’t quite clear.

“Your turn,” Louis said, shoving the joint back into Harry’s hand. “Might as well make the most of our little holiday.”

Harry took it, fingers steadier now, and leaned back against the tree, exhaling slowly into the darkening sky. For the first time all day, they both felt like they could breathe.

They stayed out there long after the joint had burned down to nothing but a smoldering roach between Louis’ fingers. They passed it back and forth until there was nothing left to inhale, until their lungs were heavy and their limbs felt like they were melting into the grass. The air was cool, damp enough to cling to their skin, but neither of them seemed to mind. The high wrapped around them like a warm hoodie fresh out of the dryer—soft, easy, comforting.

They lay back, side by side, staring up at a sky that had shifted from dull grey to deep indigo, scattered stars blinking faintly through wisps of cloud. There wasn’t much to look at, but it was better than four walls and fluorescent lights.

They talked absolute shit for a solid hour—about nothing and everything. Louis learned Harry was from Cheshire, that he hated fish, and that he once got detention for drawing dicks in his maths book so detailed the teacher had to call his mum. Harry learned Louis used to be in a band before everyone quit because Louis kept showing up too high to practice, that he once broke his ankle trying to jump off a roof into a pool, and that his mum’s last boyfriend had a weird obsession with World War II documentaries.

It was the kind of mindless, giggly conversation that only really happens when you’re stoned out of your mind, and Louis was weirdly grateful for it. It could’ve been so much worse. He could’ve ended up stuck with some twitchy crackhead who talked to the walls or a guy who snored like a chainsaw. But Harry… Harry was alright. Quiet, yeah, and still a bit jittery, but Louis could work with that.

Somewhere between debating whether ducks could feel existential dread and arguing over the best crisp flavor, Louis finally asked, “So, how old are you anyway?”

Harry turned his head, curls sticking to his forehead, eyes glazed but soft. “Sixteen,” he said.

Louis stared at him for a second, blinking slow. “Shit, really?”

Harry nodded, lips curling up into a small, lazy smile. “Why? How old did you think I was?”

Louis shrugged, rolling onto his side, propping himself up on an elbow. “Dunno. Seventeen, maybe eighteen. You’ve got this whole… tragic indie boy thing going on. Thought you might be older.”

Harry laughed, a little breathless, like even that took effort. “Nah. Still a kid, apparently.”

Louis flopped back onto the grass, exhaling dramatically. “Well, great. Now I feel like a corrupting influence.”

“You are a corrupting influence,” Harry pointed out, gesturing toward the imaginary joint still hovering between them.

Louis grinned. “Fair enough.”

The silence that followed wasn’t uncomfortable. It was the good kind—the kind that settles in when you’ve found someone who might actually understand the parts of you you don’t say out loud.

“Do me a favor though,” Louis said after a moment, voice softer now. “Don’t let this place chew you up. It’s bullshit, yeah, but it gets in your head if you let it.”

Harry didn’t answer right away. He just nodded, eyes drifting back to the sky. And Louis let it go. They were both too high for heart-to-hearts anyway.

“Come on,” Louis said, sitting up and brushing grass off his jeans. “Before they send out a search party.”

Harry groaned but followed, and together, they made their way back inside, two boys with more baggage than duffel bags, already a little less alone than they’d been that morning.

They stumbled back through the side door, trying to look like they hadn’t just been hotboxing their way through rehab orientation. Louis led the way, hands stuffed casually into his pockets, shoulders loose like he had absolutely nothing to hide. Years of practice. He could’ve walked straight past a police sniffer dog with a baggie in his sock and still asked the officer how his day was going.

Harry, on the other hand, looked high as balls .

His eyes were bloodshot and half-lidded, his pupils practically dinner plates, and for some reason he was walking like he’d forgotten how knees worked—kind of a half-waddle, half-march that made Louis choke back laughter every time he glanced over.

“Play it cool,” Louis muttered, elbowing Harry in the side as they hit the hallway.

“I am cool,” Harry replied way too loudly, his voice echoing off the sterile walls like they were in a cathedral. Louis slapped a hand over his mouth immediately, dragging him into the shadow of a vending machine.

“Shut up , you absolute donut,” Louis hissed, biting back a grin. “You sound like you’ve just escaped from a Grateful Dead concert.”

Harry’s eyes went comically wide. “Who’s dead?”

“Oh my God,” Louis groaned, shoving him forward. “Just walk, you gangly gremlin.”

They managed to make it about halfway back to their room before disaster struck in the form of Nurse Karen —or whatever her real name was. Louis had already nicknamed her in his head after seeing her earlier, the type of woman who probably lived for catching kids breaking rules. Short, stout, glasses perched at the very tip of her nose, with the suspicious squint of someone who thought every teenager was a walking crime scene.

“Back inside already?” she asked, eyeing them both like they’d just crawled out of a gutter.

“Yeah,” Louis said smoothly, flashing his most charming grin. “Lovely tour of the grounds, very scenic. Bit nippy out, though.”

Harry, standing beside him, swayed ever so slightly before chiming in. “Big fan of…grass.”

Louis jabbed him in the ribs so hard Harry almost yelped. “ The grass. ” Louis clarified, still smiling like butter wouldn’t melt. “Nice and, uh, green, very lush and sexy.”

“Very…grassy,” Harry added with a serious nod, like he was giving a TED Talk about the lawn.

The nurse stared at them, mouth pressed into a thin line, clearly debating if she had the energy to deal with whatever this was. Louis held his breath, practically willing her to just let them go.

“Curfew’s in twenty minutes,” she said finally. “I suggest you use that time to settle in.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Louis chirped, giving her a mock salute the second her back was turned. Harry, unfortunately, tried to salute too—except he forgot how arms worked and ended up smacking himself directly in the forehead.

Louis grabbed his arm and yanked him toward their room before they could incriminate themselves any further.

The second the door closed behind them, Louis collapsed onto his bed, laughing so hard his stomach hurt. “Jesus Christ, Harry, you’re the worst stoner I’ve ever seen.”

Harry flopped onto his own bed, face-down, voice muffled by the pillow. “I panicked! She looked like my old maths teacher.”

“Mate, your maths teacher would’ve known you were off your tits in about three seconds,” Louis snorted. “You’ve got the subtlety of a fireworks display.”

Harry rolled onto his back, grinning up at the ceiling. “At least I didn’t call the grass ‘sexy’ like you did.”

Louis froze. “I—what?”

“You said the grass was ‘lush and sexy.’ You were absolutely flirting with the ground.”

Louis grabbed his pillow and launched it directly at Harry’s face, and for the first time since either of them had arrived, the room was filled with real laughter—not the forced kind, not the defensive kind, just stupid, stoned giggles echoing off ugly beige walls.

It wasn’t paradise, but it was a start.

Still breathless from laughing, Louis flopped onto his back, arms splayed out like a starfish, grinning up at the ceiling like it had just told the funniest joke in the world. Harry was still snickering uncontrollably on the other bed, hair a complete mess, eyes glassy from the high and leftover giggles. It was the kind of laugh that caught you sideways, where every time you thought you were done, you’d look at the other person and it would set you off again.

Harry sat up suddenly, digging through his bag like a man on a mission. “What’re you doing?” Louis asked, turning his head lazily to watch.

“Mum packed snacks,” Harry said proudly, holding up a bar of Cadbury Dairy Milk like it was a winning lottery ticket. “Reckon we deserve a reward for not getting arrested back there.”

Louis’ face lit up. “ Yes , you fucking legend. Hand it over.”

Harry peeled back the foil, broke off a row, and chucked a piece across the room at Louis, who caught it in his mouth with a triumphant grin. “Talent,” Louis said, chewing dramatically. “Absolute talent.”

“Pure skill,” Harry agreed, tossing another chunk, which Louis promptly missed and let bounce off his forehead onto the floor.

They both absolutely lost it, laughing so hard Louis nearly slid off the bed. It wasn’t even that funny, but everything felt hilarious now—the way Harry’s curls kept sticking up at weird angles, the fact that Louis’ sock had a massive hole right at the toe, the tragic little room they were stuck in like a pair of misbehaving toddlers in time-out.

“I can’t believe this is my life,” Louis gasped between fits of laughter. “I should be at home right now, getting shitfaced at Niall’s party and making out with some fit stranger.”

Harry snorted, breaking off another piece of chocolate for himself. “I should be—” he paused, brow furrowed. “Actually, no, I’d probably just be off my face in my bedroom, crying to Fleetwood Mac.”

Louis wheezed. “Jesus Christ. No wonder your mum sent you here.”

“Oi!” Harry threw a piece of chocolate at Louis’ head, which Louis caught and immediately ate. “At least Fleetwood Mac’s a vibe.”

“Can’t argue with that,” Louis admitted, mouth half-full. “But mate, if you start crying to Landslide in the middle of group therapy, I’m pretending I don’t know you.”

“Oh, like you’re gonna be a model patient,” Harry shot back, grinning. “You already smuggled drugs into rehab . You’re the walking definition of a bad influence.”

Louis gave a lazy salute. “Cheers to that.”

They kept eating, the bar slowly disappearing between them, their laughter trailing off into soft, stoned giggles until it was just comfortable silence and the occasional rustle of foil. It was strange, Louis thought, how quickly they’d fallen into this rhythm—two strangers thrown together, bonding over contraband weed and cheap chocolate like they’d known each other for years.

“Reckon we’ll survive this place?” Harry asked eventually, voice softer now, like the question had been rattling around his brain for a while.

Louis glanced over at him, his smile turning just a little more real. “Reckon we’ll have to.”

Harry nodded, breaking the last square in half and passing one piece to Louis before popping the other into his mouth. “Team effort?”

“Team effort,” Louis agreed, raising his half like a toast before eating it.

And just like that, they were officially in it together—whatever it turned out to be.

Chapter 2

Group therapy was scheduled for 8am, and Louis had genuinely never hated anything more in his entire life.

At exactly 7:00, someone knocked aggressively at the door like they were trying to summon the dead. Louis groaned so loudly it could have been mistaken for a dying animal, dragging his pillow over his face like it could shield him from reality.

“Ugh, fuck off ,” he mumbled into the mattress.

From the other bed, Harry groaned in solidarity, voice muffled by his blanket. “It’s too early for this shit .”

Louis peeled the pillow off his face, tossing it dramatically onto the floor, and sat up with a long, theatrical sigh. Every bone in his body cracked, like his joints were protesting against this whole ‘rehab schedule’ nonsense. He stretched his arms over his head until his spine popped, then yawned so wide his jaw clicked. “On the bright side,” Louis said, voice still raspy from sleep, “at least weed doesn’t give you a hangover.”

Harry slowly emerged from his blanket cocoon, curls sticking out at every possible angle, looking like a sleep-deprived poodle. “No, but I feel like I’m made of…” He paused, rubbing at his face. “I don’t know. Play-Doh?”

Louis barked out a laugh. “Solid comparison, that. I’ll be stealing it.”

Harry gave him a sleepy thumbs-up before dragging himself out of bed, limbs floppy and uncoordinated, like his bones had been replaced with wet spaghetti. Louis took one look at him and nearly lost it again, biting his knuckle to keep from laughing.

Still grinning, Louis wandered over to the closet and yanked it open, rifling through his mess of clothes. Without thinking twice, he stripped off his shirt, then his joggers, standing there in nothing but his boxers, completely unbothered.

Harry, unfortunately, turned around at exactly the wrong moment as Louis got rid of his underwear as well.

“Jesus Christ!” Harry yelped, immediately slapping a hand over his eyes like Louis had just flashed a stadium crowd.

Louis glanced over his shoulder, completely unfazed. “Relax, mate. It’s just a body.”

“It’s your naked body!” Harry squeaked, spinning around so fast he nearly tripped over his own feet. “Bit of warning next time, yeah?”

“Oh, grow up,” Louis snorted, pulling on a fresh pair of jeans. “You’ve got one too, in case you forgot.”

“Yeah, and I’m not showing it off like I’m at a strip club,” Harry grumbled, face bright pink as he dug through his own bag, very pointedly facing the wall.

Louis, naturally, couldn’t resist. “I mean, if the whole rehab thing doesn’t work out, stripping is a valid career path.”

“Stop talking,” Harry begged, face buried in his hoodie.

Louis cackled, tugging a t-shirt over his head. “Oh, this is gonna be fun. Come on, Play-Doh boy, breakfast awaits.”

Still grumbling under his breath, Harry followed Louis out into the hallway, already regretting every single life decision that led him here—but, somehow, with a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth anyway.

Louis crouched down by the closet, pulling his stash from the very back where he’d tucked it last night. Not bad for a temporary hiding spot, but definitely not good enough for a ten-week stay. He glanced around the room, eyes scanning for something better—and then his face lit up like Christmas morning.

There it was. The exact same light socket he’d had in his first facility. Same slightly wonky plastic cover, same tiny screws. His old roommate Nick had been a master at this sort of thing—showed Louis how to pop the cover off just right, stash a few baggies behind the wiring, and screw it all back together so it looked untouched.

“Beautiful,” Louis whispered to himself, grabbing his safety scissors and using the dull little blades like a makeshift screwdriver. It took some fiddling, but eventually the cover popped off, and Louis grinned as he stuffed his coke, molly, and the rest of his weed into the small gap behind the socket. Out of sight, out of mind—or at least out of the nurses’ prying hands.

“Who the hell taught you that?” Harry’s voice came from behind him, making Louis glance over his shoulder. Harry had changed while Louis was busy, now in a baggy jumper and clean jeans, curls still a mess but slightly more tamed.

“Guy named Nick,” Louis said, tightening the last screw. “He was my roommate in this other place a couple years back. Total genius. Had all the best hiding spots.”

Harry frowned slightly, brow creased like he was trying to do the math. “A few years ago? How old were you?”

Louis shrugged, sitting back on his heels, like it was no big deal. “Fourteen, I think? Maybe fifteen. Started getting in trouble pretty young.”

Harry hesitated, hands shoved in his hoodie pocket. “I was thirteen,” he admitted quietly, like saying it out loud made it more embarrassing somehow.

Louis looked up at him, something softer flickering across his face. Thirteen. That was…young. Even for kids like them. But Louis didn’t push. If there was one thing you learned in places like this, it was that everyone’s story was a mess, and no one wanted to be pitied for theirs.

“Shit,” Louis said lightly instead, standing up and dusting his hands off. “You really are a bad influence.”

Harry snorted. “ Me? You just unscrewed a light socket to hide drugs.”

“Details,” Louis grinned. “Besides, you’re the one who agreed to get stoned with a stranger your first night here. Clearly, you make terrible life choices.”

Harry’s laugh was soft, but real. “Fair point.”

“Come on then, Play-Doh,” Louis said, slinging an arm over Harry’s shoulder as they headed for the door. “Let’s go eat some terrible breakfast and pretend to care about group therapy.”

“Sounds like a plan,” Harry muttered, but there was the smallest smile tugging at his lips.

The hallway leading to the cafeteria was already buzzing, a steady stream of half-awake patients shuffling toward breakfast like zombies in mismatched sweatpants and rehab-issued slippers. Louis and Harry fell in line, Louis walking with all the swagger of someone who had done this dance before, Harry trailing behind him like an anxious puppy trying not to trip over his own feet.

The cafeteria itself was just as bleak as Louis remembered — fluorescent lights so bright they could sterilize surgical instruments, plastic trays stacked unevenly near the entrance, and the smell of overcooked eggs mixed with industrial-strength coffee. A sad-looking fruit bowl sat untouched near the milk dispenser, the bananas already going brown.

“Welcome to the Ritz,” Louis said, grabbing a tray and sliding it toward Harry. “Five stars. Would recommend.”

Harry gave a weak smile, still blinking sleep out of his eyes. “It’s not that bad.”

“Give it two days.” Louis grabbed a carton of milk and sniffed it suspiciously. “It gets worse.”

They made their way toward the hot food station, where a woman in a hairnet was aggressively slapping scrambled eggs onto trays with the enthusiasm of someone serving community service hours. Louis accepted his plate with a charming smile. “Lovely presentation. Gordon Ramsay would be proud.”

The woman didn’t even blink. Harry tried not to laugh.

They found a table near the window, where the view consisted entirely of a dead bush and a wall. Louis had barely taken his first bite of rubbery toast when the chaos kicked off.

It started innocently enough — some guy at the far end of the room, probably around their age, loudly declaring that his eggs tasted like “a war crime.” Louis snorted into his milk. But then someone else — a girl with pink streaks in her hair and what looked like a fresh black eye — chimed in, loudly agreeing that the toast could double as a weapon in a bar fight.

That’s all it took.

Within seconds, half the room was involved, yelling increasingly unhinged complaints about the food like they were protesting prison conditions. Someone launched a sausage across the room like a javelin. It landed directly in a bowl of oatmeal with a wet splat , sending oats flying into the air. The girl with the black eye stood up, held her tray above her head, and shouted, “RISE UP AGAINST THE SYSTEM!”

Louis burst out laughing, nearly choking on his eggs. “Oh my god , I love it here.”

Harry, wide-eyed and halfway through his toast, looked like he wasn’t sure if he should laugh or hide under the table. “Is this normal?”

“Completely,” Louis grinned, absolutely delighted. “You get a bunch of drug addicts off their substances and feed them shit food at 7am? This is practically tradition .”

Before Harry could respond, a carton of juice went flying past their table, narrowly missing Louis’ head. Without missing a beat, Louis caught it mid-air and took a sip from the paper straw. “Cheers,” he said to no one in particular.

Harry finally cracked, dissolving into giggles so hard he had to put his head down on the table. Louis clapped him on the back. “See? Rehab’s not all bad.”

Just as they were getting themselves under control, a nurse stormed in, hands on her hips, looking one breath away from shutting the whole place down. “ Enough! ” she shouted, voice sharp enough to cut through the chaos. “Anyone who throws one more thing loses their outdoor privileges for the week.”

The room fell into begrudging silence, broken only by the sound of Louis whispering to Harry, “That’s Nurse Judy. She’s shaped like a thumb but has the reflexes of a hawk.”

Harry’s face went red from holding back laughter.

“Eat up, Play-Doh,” Louis added, stuffing toast into his mouth. “Therapy’s in twenty. Gotta fuel up for all that emotional vulnerability.”

“Can’t wait,” Harry deadpanned, but Louis caught the smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

After breakfast, they were herded down the hallway toward a room that could only be described as depressingly therapeutic — all beige walls and plastic chairs in a perfect circle, like a support group straight out of a bad after-school special. A motivational poster hung crookedly by the door, something about One Day at a Time , and Louis immediately wanted to set it on fire.

The group therapy room smelled like cheap disinfectant and stale coffee, the kind of air that felt both overly clean and somehow thick with old regrets. Plastic chairs formed a perfect circle, their metal legs scraping against the linoleum every time someone shifted. A sad little table sat in the corner with a box of tissues, a worn deck of cards, and a dusty pile of self-help books no one had touched since 2007.

Louis sauntered in like he was being welcomed back to his childhood home. He knew this room. Intimately. Same bland beige walls, same motivational posters curling at the edges—some nonsense about progress, not perfection . Even the chairs looked the same, all slightly mismatched in height, so that if you sat in the wrong one, you’d be awkwardly lower than everyone else.

He chose his seat without hesitation, kicking his feet out in front of him, slouching so low his spine barely touched the backrest. Harry, in contrast, hovered near the door like a new kid at school, unsure if he was supposed to raise his hand or just sit wherever. Eventually, he picked the chair next to Louis, sitting upright like his posture might earn him extra credit.

The group trickled in slowly — familiar faces for Louis, strangers for Harry.

There was Jasmine, who Louis remembered from his second stay. She was mid-twenties now, her arms still lined with the same scar tissue she used to trace absentmindedly with her fingernails. She smelled faintly like strawberry shampoo and cigarette smoke, and her hair had gone from neon green to a faded pink that clashed with her pale skin. She gave Louis a small smirk and a mock salute, which he returned without missing a beat.

Then came Big Dave, who wasn’t actually that big anymore. Last time Louis saw him, Dave had at least twenty extra pounds and the energy of a pub bouncer. Now he looked deflated, skin hanging off his bones like his body was still detoxing something ugly. He gave Louis a grunt of acknowledgment and collapsed into a chair like his bones couldn’t hold him up much longer.

A few others filtered in — a twitchy kid Louis didn’t recognize, who couldn’t seem to stop chewing the sleeve of his jumper; an older woman in her fifties who had the tight, pinched look of someone who drank gin for breakfast; and a boy with a shaved head and fresh track marks up both arms, who didn’t meet anyone’s eyes.

And then there was Greg. Greg, the ever-enthusiastic therapist, who Louis had spent way too much time with in previous stints. Greg had the same unfortunate wardrobe — a stretched-out cardigan over an aggressively patterned shirt, brown loafers with orthopedic soles, and a smile that said I’m here to help you whether you like it or not .

“Alright, good morning everyone,” Greg began, clasping his hands like they were about to start a school assembly. “Before we begin, let’s welcome our new arrivals — Louis and Harry.”

Louis gave an exaggerated wave, fingers wiggling. “Morning, family. Back at the ol’ holiday camp.”

“Louis is actually one of our… returning clients ,” Greg said, his smile tightening ever so slightly. “It’s good to see you again.”

“Fifth time’s the charm,” Louis grinned. “Third time here , actually. Got a frequent flyer card yet?”

Harry stared at him like that wasn’t something you were supposed to brag about.

“Since we have some new faces,” Greg continued, “let’s start with introductions. Just your name, why you’re here, and maybe how you’re feeling today.”

Louis mouthed the words along with him, earning a snort from Jasmine, who quickly covered her mouth with her sleeve. Greg either didn’t notice or pretended not to.

“Louis, since you’re our most… experienced guest, why don’t you go first?”

Louis clutched his chest dramatically. “Me? Oh, Greg, I’m honored.” He slouched further in his seat. “Alright. I’m Louis. I’m here because my mum found a few party favors in my sock drawer and decided I needed another all-inclusive stay. And I’m feeling… hmm…” He scratched his chin. “Mildly hungover from institutional scrambled eggs.”

Greg gave him a look so familiar Louis could’ve drawn it from memory. “Thank you for sharing, Louis. Harry?”

Harry straightened, visibly nervous with everyone looking at him. “Uh, I’m Harry. I’m here because I stole my mum’s opioids, and…” He hesitated. “I guess I feel embarrassed? And tired. And kind of scared.”

The silence after was a little too long, a little too raw. Louis felt it scrape against his skin. He hated that. The truth of it. The sincerity. He didn’t do sincerity in rooms like this. It felt like stripping naked in public.

“Thank you, Harry,” Greg said gently. “That’s really brave to admit.”

Louis rolled his eyes so hard it hurt.

They went around the circle. Jasmine went next, saying she was here for the usual cocktail — pills, booze, self-loathing. Big Dave said heroin had him by the throat again. The twitchy kid said his name was Aaron, and his parents had dragged him here after finding his stash of ketamine. The older woman, Martha, talked about her divorce and how vodka had been her second husband. The boy with the track marks, Max, just said, “I’m Max and I’m fucked,” then waved his turn away. Respectable.

Louis knew how this game worked. Honesty got you praise, but jokes made it bearable. And Louis would always, always choose jokes.

“Today,” Greg announced, “we’re going to talk about accountability .”

Louis let out a dramatic groan, slumping so low in his chair he nearly slid off. “Greg, we did accountability last time. And the time before that. And—spoiler alert—it didn’t work.”

“Maybe because you didn’t take it seriously,” Greg said, still annoyingly patient.

“Or,” Louis countered, “maybe because it’s bullshit.”

Harry nudged him with his elbow, muttering, “Can you try , please?”

Louis opened his mouth to make another joke, but something in Harry’s face stopped him. He actually wanted to try. Wanted this to mean something. And Louis, for all his bravado, couldn’t quite bring himself to mock that earnestness. Not yet.

Greg started a discussion, asking everyone to name one thing they regretted, and Louis tuned most of it out. The answers were all the same — hurting family, disappointing friends, breaking promises to themselves. Same script, different cast.

But then it was Harry’s turn.

“I regret…” Harry started, voice soft. “I regret lying to my mum. And stealing from her. And not asking for help before it got bad.”

It was so simple, but it hit like a punch to the gut. Louis felt it in the pit of his stomach, the way you feel someone else’s honesty when you’ve been avoiding your own.

And when it was Louis’ turn, for once, he actually considered not cracking a joke.

“I regret…” He paused, swallowing. “I regret not being more careful where I hid my stash.”

Laughter rippled around the circle, even Greg cracked a smile. And Louis leaned into it, deflecting just enough to survive.

Baby steps.

“Alright,” Greg said, clasping his hands together like he was hosting a low-budget game show. “Now that we’ve started talking about accountability, let’s dig a little deeper. I want everyone to think about the why . Not just what you did, but why you did it.”

Louis sighed loudly enough to earn a glare from Greg. “Oh, easy. Because drugs are fun, Greg. That’s the secret. They’re fun and they make boring people interesting.”

Harry elbowed him. “Can you not ?”

“What? That’s honest,” Louis said, smirking. “I thought this was a safe space , Harold.”

Greg, ever the professional, ignored the banter. “Louis, I’m asking you to think beyond the surface. What made you need the drugs? What were you avoiding?”

Louis tilted his head, considering. “Homework, mostly. And my mum’s fling who breathes like a lawnmower.”

“Louis.” Greg’s voice had that patient-but-dying-inside tone, like a teacher who had long since given up but still technically had to try.

“Fine.” Louis made a show of thinking deeply, tapping his chin. “I guess, if you want the real answer, it’s because reality’s boring and people are disappointing. Drugs make both of those facts easier to live with.”

The room was quiet for a beat longer than Louis expected. Even Harry didn’t elbow him for that one. Louis shifted in his chair, suddenly uncomfortable with how honest he’d accidentally been.

“Thank you for that,” Greg said, though his face gave nothing away. “Harry, how about you?”

Harry straightened, still that mix of earnest and uncomfortable, like he wanted to do this right but wasn’t quite sure how. “I guess I started because of anxiety,” he said, fingers twisting in the hem of his hoodie. “At first, I only took them when I couldn’t sleep. And then… it got easier to just take them whenever I felt off. Or sad. Or bored.”

Louis pulled a face. “See, that’s your first mistake. You can’t use drugs for feelings. That’s amateur hour.”

“Louis,” Greg warned.

“No, seriously.” Louis spread his hands. “That’s how you end up crying in a parking lot listening to Bon Iver. Drugs are for parties and bad ideas. You’ve gotta compartmentalize.”

Harry gave him a look — half exasperated, half fond. “You’re unbelievable.”

“Moving on,” Greg said, clearly deciding to manage expectations when it came to Louis. “Jasmine, how about you?”

The group circled back through everyone, some answers blunt, some awkward, some painfully raw. Jasmine talked about using to escape her ex. Big Dave admitted he didn’t really have a why anymore; heroin was just what his body expected. The twitchy kid, Aaron, mumbled something about wanting to be someone people noticed. Even Martha, the gin-soaked divorcee, admitted she drank because being alone was louder than being drunk.

Louis, to his surprise, found himself actually listening. Not that he’d admit it. He always made a point of treating group like a comedy show, where the only goal was to make everyone laugh enough to forget why they were there. It worked. Most people welcomed the distraction.

But Harry… Harry was different. Harry actually wanted to understand himself. The poor bastard.

“So,” Greg said, bringing it back around. “What do you all want to get out of your time here?”

Louis shot his hand up immediately. “Clear skin.”

Jasmine snorted, almost choking on her own laughter.

Greg didn’t even blink. “I mean emotionally.”

“Ah.” Louis dropped his hand, thinking for a moment. “Guess I’d like to figure out why scrambled eggs in rehab always taste like warm rubber. Emotional growth and all.”

Harry glared at him. “Can you take anything seriously?”

Louis’ smile faltered just slightly. “Not really, no.”

Greg, wisely, didn’t push the point. “Harry?”

Harry swallowed hard. “I… I want to be able to be alone without needing to take something.”

The room was quiet for a second. Louis felt it creep into his bones, that awful, uncomfortable sincerity. He hated it. He wanted to make a joke so bad his teeth hurt. But for once, he held his tongue.

“Well said,” Greg offered, and Harry’s face flushed like he wasn’t used to praise.

Louis could feel that too — the way Harry shrank a little when people looked at him, like praise was scarier than criticism. It made something twist uncomfortably in Louis’ stomach. He hated that he recognized it.

“Alright,” Greg said, glancing at the clock. “We’ll pause here and pick up tomorrow. Remember — the goal isn’t perfection. It’s progress. Even if that progress feels small.”

Louis stood up before Greg could finish. “Speaking of small progress — I made it through without calling anyone a wanker. That’s growth, Greg.”

“Very mature,” Greg deadpanned, but there was the ghost of a smile at the edge of his mouth.

Harry lingered behind, waiting for Louis to follow him out. As they walked back to their room, Harry elbowed Louis again — gentler this time.

“Why do you do that?” Harry asked.

“Do what?”

“Turn everything into a joke.”

Louis grinned, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Because it’s better than crying in a circle with a bunch of strangers.”

Harry didn’t argue. But Louis could tell — he wasn’t buying it either. Because who was he kidding? If Louis would be honest, vulnerable, it would mean admitting he had a problem. Louis did not have a problem, thank you very much.

After group, Louis wasted no time making his way to the closed-off garden— the yard , as the more seasoned patients called it. It was the only place they could go unsupervised during free time, a square patch of grass and concrete surrounded by high walls, with a few sad-looking benches and a single half-dead tree that leaned precariously to one side, like even it wanted to escape.

Louis dropped onto a bench, fishing his crumpled pack of cigarettes out of his back pocket. He shook one loose, lighting it with the lighter he’d kept tucked inside his sock during check-in. It flared to life, and Louis took a long, slow drag, letting the smoke curl in his lungs before exhaling through his nose. There was something oddly comforting about the ritual—the sharp burn at the back of his throat, the scratch of the filter against his lip. It made him feel solid, like his body belonged to him again, instead of the program.

He was halfway through the cigarette when Harry appeared, hovering awkwardly in the doorway. Louis arched a brow but said nothing, waiting to see if Harry would actually join him or just lurk like a haunted house extra.

To his surprise, Harry shuffled over and dropped onto the bench beside him, holding a slightly crumpled sheet of paper in his hand. Louis didn’t even need to look to know what it was. He knew that paper better than his own handwriting—the weekly list of “optional therapeutic activities.” Art therapy, pottery, creative writing, dance movement, music expression. All the usual bullshit designed to make you feel like healing could be achieved through finger painting or interpretive dance.

Louis blew out another cloud of smoke, watching it drift lazily into the air. “So,” he drawled, “what are you signing up for, Curly?”

Harry frowned at the paper, lips pursed, curls falling into his eyes as he read through the list. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “Music therapy sounds alright, I guess. And maybe the art thing.”

Louis snorted. “Very wholesome of you. You gonna knit us all emotional support scarves next?”

Harry shot him a look, though there wasn’t much heat behind it. “What are you signing up for?”

“Nothing.” Louis flicked ash onto the ground. “Group’s mandatory, so that’s a given. And I usually do football if they still have it, but that’s just ‘cause I like showing up hungover Americans with no footwork.” He smirked at the memory—last time, there’d been a guy from Minnesota who called it soccer and tried to explain the rules to Louis like he hadn’t been kicking a ball since he could walk. Louis had nutmegged him so many times the poor guy left the pitch mid-game.

“That’s it?” Harry asked, a crease forming between his brows. “You don’t do… anything else?”

“Mate, this place doesn’t work ,” Louis said, waving the cigarette for emphasis. “You can glue feathers to a donkey, but it’s not gonna fly.”

Harry didn’t laugh. He just looked down at the paper again, fingers curling around the edges like he was afraid it might be taken away.

Louis sighed, tipping his head back to stare at the sky—pale blue, cut into neat squares by the chain-link roof covering the garden. “Look, you wanna sign up for pottery or whatever, knock yourself out. But don’t expect it to fix you. This place isn’t about fixing anything. It’s about making you just sober enough to convince everyone you’re ‘better,’ so they can send you home and pretend it’s over.”

Harry was quiet for a long moment, eyes still on the paper. “Why do you keep coming back, then?” he asked softly.

Louis took another drag, holding the smoke in until it burned, like punishment. “Because I keep getting caught,” he said finally. “And because my mum still thinks there’s something left to save.”

Harry didn’t say anything after that. He just sat there, the paper trembling slightly in his hand, and Louis wondered if it was from the chill or something else. Something heavier.

Louis passed him the cigarette without a word. Harry hesitated, then took it, inhaling like someone who’d done it before, just not very often. They sat like that for a while, passing it back and forth, the silence heavy but not unbearable.

“Pottery’s on Wednesdays,” Louis said eventually. “Room gets real hot ‘cause the kiln’s ancient. If you faint, aim for someone soft.”

Harry huffed a laugh. “Thanks for the tip.”

“No worries, Play-Doh.”

And for a moment, it was easy to pretend they were just two mates hanging out, not two kids trying to survive themselves.

They passed the cigarette back and forth until it burned down too low to hold, Louis pinching the glowing stub between his fingers before grinding it out under his shoe. Harry still had the paper in his lap, fingers tracing the edges absently, and for the first time since they’d met, Louis felt… off. Like maybe he’d taken the piss a little too far.

He wasn’t used to that feeling — guilt wasn’t something Louis generally let himself dwell on. Life was easier when you leaned all the way into being a screw-up, when you made it a personality trait instead of a flaw. But Harry wasn’t like him. Not yet, anyway. And Louis could feel it, this fragile thing Harry was carrying, this tiny flicker of hope that maybe this place could actually help him. Harry reminded him somewhat of himself when he was in Rehab for the first time, but maybe he didn‘t have to end up like him in the long run. He still had hope, the urge to better himself.

And Louis had practically pissed all over it.

He sighed, leaning back against the bench, tipping his head up toward the sky. “Look,” he said, voice softer than usual. “I talk a lot of shit about this place. And most of it’s true. It’s not magic. It’s not gonna fix you in six weeks. But…” He trailed off, kicking at a loose bit of gravel with his heel. “If you really want it to work — like really want it — you might get something out of it.”

Harry turned his head, eyebrows raised in clear disbelief. “You actually believe that?”

“Not for me,” Louis admitted, flashing a crooked smile. “I’m a lost cause, mate. But you? You’re still young enough to believe in all this.” He gestured vaguely toward the building, the garden, the whole institution. “That’s not a bad thing.”

Harry studied him for a long moment, like he was trying to decide if Louis was being serious or just taking the piss in a new, weirdly encouraging way. “Why are you saying that now?”

Louis shrugged, looking anywhere but at Harry. “Dunno. Maybe because you actually want to get better. Maybe because you’re not completely full of shit yet. And maybe because if I have to sit next to you in group for the next ten weeks, I’d rather you not be a miserable wreck.”

Harry gave a soft laugh, barely more than a breath, but it made Louis’ chest unclench a little. “That’s probably the nicest thing you’ve said to me so far.”

“Don’t get used to it,” Louis said quickly, backpedaling into his usual grin. “Sentimentality’s not really my vibe.”

“I noticed,” Harry said, but there was something gentler in his voice now — not quite trust, not yet, but something close to it. The kind of fragile truce that comes when you realize maybe, just maybe, you’re not going to have to do this alone.

“So go on, then.” Louis nudged Harry’s knee with his own. “Sign up for your pottery class or your interpretive dance or whatever makes you feel whole. And if anyone laughs at you, just remember—” He smirked. “They all cry in group eventually. Even the tough ones.”

Harry rolled his eyes, but his smile lingered. “You’re such an asshole.”

“Flatterer.”

They sat there for a minute longer, silence settling comfortably between them, and for the first time in a long time, Louis didn’t feel the need to fill it with noise. Just two kids in a shitty garden on a shit bench next to a shit tree, trying to figure out how to save themselves — or, failing that, how to at least make it to dinner without losing their minds.

“Come on,” Louis said finally, standing up and stretching his arms over his head. “If we’re late to lunch, they’ll give us the vegetarian option.”

Harry followed, cramming the sign-up sheet into his pocket. “What’s wrong with vegetarian?”

Louis grinned. “Oh, you’ll see.”

And with that, they headed back inside — Louis leading the way, Harry following just half a step behind, like they’d already started to fall into rhythm without even meaning to.

Chapter 3: Chapter 3

Lunch was just as tragic as Louis remembered. The cafeteria smelled faintly of boiled vegetables and industrial dish soap, and the food was served with the same enthusiasm as someone distributing parking fines. Louis grabbed a tray and slid it down the line, flashing the lunch lady his best disarming smile.

“What’s on the menu today, darling?” he asked, voice dripping with charm.

She didn’t even blink. “Cauliflower curry or grilled chicken.”

“Christ,” Louis muttered, grabbing the chicken before Harry could protest. “Trust me, the curry’s a death wish.”

Harry, a little less confident in his culinary decisions, took the curry anyway. “Can’t be that bad,” he muttered, and Louis just shook his head with a muttered ‘poor bastard.’

They found a spot at one of the longer tables, but they weren’t alone for long. A girl with faded pink hair and a cigarette tucked behind her ear dropped onto the bench across from them, immediately stealing a chip off Louis’ plate.

“Oi!” Louis yelped. “I missed you too, Jas.”

“Spare me the sentiment,” Jasmine said, grinning around the stolen chip. “You’re like herpes, Louis. You always show back up eventually.”

“Charming as ever,” Louis shot back. “Jas, this is Harry. Harry, this is Jasmine — professional kleptomaniac, part-time poet, full-time pain in my arse.”

“Nice to meet you,” Harry said, voice soft but sincere.

Jasmine gave him a quick once-over. “You’re the new roommate, yeah? Good luck. Louis talks in his sleep.”

“Do not,” Louis protested.

“He does,” Jasmine confirmed, snatching another chip.

Before Louis could retaliate, a large shadow fell across the table. Big Dave dropped into the seat next to Jasmine, his tray piled alarmingly high with mashed potatoes and something that might’ve once been meatloaf, none of them had any idea where he got it from and none of them wanted to know.

“Look who’s back,” Dave said, voice like gravel in a blender. “Can’t stay away, huh?”

Louis grinned, unbothered. “What can I say? Love the ambiance.”

Dave glanced at Harry, raising one bushy brow. “You his keeper this time?”

“His roommate ,” Harry corrected, but Louis could already see him bracing a little, unsure how to handle the parade of chaotic personalities Louis seemed to attract.

“Good luck,” Dave said, already shoveling food into his mouth. “He’s like a feral cat. Don’t make eye contact too long or he’ll bite.”

Louis flipped him off, but Harry smiled — and to Louis’ surprise, it seemed like Harry actually liked them. Like the chaos wasn’t scaring him off, at least not yet.

They ate, Louis and Jasmine bickering good-naturedly the entire time, Dave occasionally grunting a word into the conversation, and Harry quietly taking it all in. Every once in a while, Harry would say something — a soft joke or a quiet observation — and to Louis’ shock, people actually listened . Even Jasmine, who usually treated new people like furniture until they earned their keep, seemed to warm up to him quickly.

“So what’s your deal, Curly?” Jasmine asked, stealing a third chip like it was her birthright. “Why’d they throw you in here?”

“Stole my mum’s painkillers,” Harry said, simple and honest.

Jasmine whistled. “Rookie mistake. Gotta pace yourself with the parental stash. They always notice.”

“That’s what I said,” Louis muttered.

“Oi, we were all rookies once,” Dave grunted, pointing his fork at Louis. “First time this one showed up, he tried to sneak coke in a hollowed-out shampoo bottle. Genius plan until it got wet.”

Harry snorted into his curry. “Seriously?”

“True story,” Louis admitted, half proud, half mortified. “The whole bottle turned into a snow globe.”

“And you still came back,” Jasmine said, shaking her head. “You’re a glutton for punishment.”

“Or just shit at not getting caught,” Louis said, popping a chip into his mouth.

Harry was still laughing, actual laughter that lit up his whole face, and Louis felt something weird twist in his chest at the sight. It wasn’t bad. Just unfamiliar — like a memory of something good he hadn’t felt in a while. It wasn’t the usual rehab laughter, the kind you forced out to fill awkward silences. It was real.

And maybe — just maybe — Louis realized he actually wanted to keep it that way.

“Come on,” Louis said, standing up and grabbing his tray. “Group round two’s in half an hour, and if we’re late, Greg gets passive-aggressive.”

Jasmine groaned. “That man loves passive-aggression more than his own wife.”

“Doesn’t have a wife,” Louis said. “He’s married to the Process .”

They all groaned in unison, and Harry laughed again, trailing after Louis like he belonged there.

And maybe, Louis thought, he did.

By the time they shuffled back into the group therapy room, Louis could feel his own resistance building like static under his skin. Group always felt like peeling off a bandage that was fused directly to your soul, and Louis hated it — hated the silence, the waiting, the expectation that you were meant to expose something real when all you wanted to do was make it through without flinching.

But Harry walked in beside him, still clutching his little sign-up sheet, and Louis felt that same weird guilt from earlier creep back in. Harry actually wanted to try. Harry still believed this place could work. And for reasons Louis couldn’t explain, he didn’t want to be the one who ruined that.

They took their seats in the circle, and Greg gave them his usual overly-enthusiastic smile. “Welcome back, everyone. I hope you all had some time to reflect after our morning session.”

“Absolutely,” Louis said, voice flat. “I thought about accountability all through my delicious chicken lunch.”

A few people snorted — Jasmine gave him a little salute — but Greg, to his credit, didn’t engage with the joke. “I thought this afternoon,” Greg continued, “we could talk about patterns . What cycles do we find ourselves repeating, and what do those patterns say about us?”

Louis already hated it.

He knew exactly what his patterns were. Get high, get reckless, get caught, get sent here. Lather, rinse, repeat. It wasn’t exactly a mystery. But saying it out loud — making it real — that was harder.

“Let’s start with the new arrivals,” Greg said, smiling at Harry. “Harry, would you like to begin?”

Harry shifted in his seat, clearly uncomfortable being put on the spot, but he nodded. “Um… okay.” He tugged at the cuff of his sleeve, twisting the fabric around his fingers. “I guess my biggest pattern is… I don’t ask for help until it’s too late. Like, I’ll feel off or anxious, but instead of telling anyone, I’ll just try to fix it myself. And the only way I knew how was with pills.”

Louis saw Jasmine nodding slightly — like she knew that one all too well.

“And once I start,” Harry continued, “it’s like… I can’t stop. I’ll promise myself it’s the last time, but then something happens, and I just… do it again.”

Greg nodded encouragingly. “That’s really insightful, Harry. Thank you for sharing.”

Louis could feel Harry’s eyes flick toward him, just for a second, like he was checking to see if Louis was going to mock him. Louis just gave a small nod back — barely anything — but Harry seemed to relax a little after that.

“Louis,” Greg said next. “What about you?”

Louis could’ve gone for the easy joke. He almost did. But Harry was still looking at him, and something about that made Louis hesitate.

“Well,” Louis started, rubbing the back of his neck. “I guess… I’m a bit of a broken record, aren’t I? Get high, get caught, get sent here. Do my ten weeks, get out, tell everyone I’m fine. And then—” He mimed a downward spiral with his hand. “Back to square one.”

Greg tilted his head slightly. “And why do you think that happens?”

“Because my mum’s shit at hiding her liquor,” Louis said automatically, and the room laughed — but Louis felt it land wrong, like a bad punchline. “I don’t know,” he added after a beat. “Because… being sober’s boring. And because every time I try to actually feel anything, it’s too much. So it’s easier not to feel at all.”

That last part slipped out before Louis could stop it. He saw Harry’s head snap toward him, surprise flickering across his face. Louis looked down at his hands, suddenly annoyed with himself. Honesty felt like a rash — itchy, uncomfortable, impossible to ignore.

“Thank you for being honest,” Greg said, and for once, Louis didn’t want to throw something at him.

The rest of the group took their turns — Jasmine talking about toxic relationships, Dave admitting his whole life had been a cycle of using and getting clean for someone else, never for himself. The new kid, Aaron, admitted he didn’t even know his patterns yet because this was his first time here and everything felt like a blur.

Louis barely paid attention. He kept sneaking glances at Harry, who was sitting there with his hands folded neatly in his lap, like he was trying so hard to be good at this, to do everything right. Louis couldn’t decide if it was brave or naive — probably both — but he knew one thing for sure:

He didn’t want to be the reason Harry gave up trying.

When group ended, they filed out into the hall, everyone scattering to wherever they needed to be next — some to meetings, some to their rooms, some straight to the vending machine for contraband sugar. Louis walked beside Harry, hands shoved deep into his pockets.

“You were good in there,” Louis said, voice casual, like it didn’t mean anything. “Took it seriously and all that.”

“Thanks,” Harry said, and Louis could tell he wasn’t sure if Louis was sincere or taking the piss.

“I mean it,” Louis added quickly. “I know I joke around, but… you did good.”

Harry smiled, small but real. “So did you.”

Louis snorted. “Don’t push it.”

They wandered back toward their room, and Louis found himself thinking — for the first time — that maybe this time wouldn’t be like the others. Maybe because of Harry. Maybe despite him. Either way, something felt different.

And Louis didn’t know if that terrified him or gave him hope.

Back in their room, Louis threw himself dramatically onto his bed, limbs splayed like a crime scene chalk outline. Harry sat cross-legged on his own bed, the activities sheet still clutched in his hands, now slightly crumpled from being folded and unfolded at least ten times.

“So,” Louis said, arms crossed behind his head. “What’s the verdict? You gonna lean into your inner tortured artist or are we thinking more… interpretive dance prodigy?”

Harry made a face. “I can’t dance.”

Louis gasped, hand to his chest. “Curly, you’re telling me you can’t even do a sad little sway to Fleetwood Mac? Tragic.”

Harry rolled his eyes but smiled anyway, smoothing out the paper on his knee. “I was thinking music therapy. I like music.”

Louis propped himself up on his elbows. “Music therapy’s alright. I mean, if you don’t mind a middle-aged bloke with an acoustic guitar who thinks every song should be slowed down to feel something . Last time, we spent forty-five minutes deconstructing the lyrics to Wonderwall . I nearly offed myself.”

Harry snorted. “Okay, so maybe not that.”

“Or—” Louis said, sitting up fully now, “I could just sign up with you. Make sure you survive.”

Harry blinked. “What?”

Louis shrugged like it was nothing. “What? You think I’m gonna let you go sing kumbaya with a bunch of strangers without me there to keep you entertained? Please. You’d be lost without me.”

Harry’s smile was softer this time, almost surprised. “You’d really do that?”

“Mate, it’s that or pottery,” Louis said. “And I’ve seen the pottery teacher. Looks like he buries people in his kiln.”

Harry laughed, but he was still watching Louis with this quiet kind of gratitude that made Louis weirdly uncomfortable — like Harry actually believed Louis was doing something nice , not just messing around. It had been a while since someone other than his little sisters had looked at him like that.

“Alright,” Harry said, marking music therapy with a tick. “What about art therapy?”

Louis groaned. “You would pick that.”

“Why?” Harry frowned. “What’s wrong with art?”

“Nothing,” Louis said, grabbing the sheet from Harry and studying it like it was a legally binding contract. “Except it’s ninety minutes of sad people drawing their childhood trauma with crayons. Someone’s always crying by the end.”

Harry’s smile faltered. “Oh.”

Louis sighed, handing the sheet back. “Alright, fine. I’ll do art with you too.”

“Seriously?” Harry looked almost suspicious.

“Seriously.” Louis flopped back onto his bed. “I’m your emotional support delinquent, apparently.”

Harry quietly ticked that box too, and Louis pretended not to care, even though the warmth in his chest said otherwise.

“Anything else?” Louis asked, folding his hands behind his head.

“Um…” Harry scanned the list. “There’s meditation.”

“No.” Louis sat up so fast Harry flinched. “Absolutely not. I refuse.”

“Why?” Harry bit back a grin. “Afraid of inner peace?”

“Afraid of falling asleep in a circle and snoring myself awake,” Louis corrected. “Happened once. Was traumatic for everyone involved.”

“Alright, no meditation.” Harry checked off a few more things — writing workshop, movie night, and, to Louis’ delight, football.

“Football’s the only one where I shine,” Louis said proudly. “I’ll carry us both. You just stand there and look pretty.”

“I’m not bad at football,” Harry argued.

Louis raised a brow. “You’re from Cheshire. No offense, but if you call it soccer even once, I’m putting you in goal and never passing to you.”

“Deal,” Harry said, smiling.

They pinned the paper to the corkboard by the door so they wouldn’t forget, and Louis stood back, arms crossed, studying their selections like it was a strategic battle plan.

“Well,” Louis said. “This is either gonna be an inspiring tale of self-discovery or a complete fucking disaster.”

“Probably both,” Harry said, sitting back down.

“Probably,” Louis agreed.

There was a comfortable silence after that, the first one all day that didn’t feel like either of them was trying too hard. Louis kicked off his shoes, stretched out on his bed, and stared at the ceiling, wondering how the hell he’d ended up signing himself up for this wholesome bullshit.

But when he glanced over at Harry — hair a mess, smile still tugging at his lips, hope flickering just faintly in his eyes — Louis figured maybe it wouldn’t be so bad.

And if it was, at least they’d survive it together.

The room was dark except for the soft glow of Louis’ phone screen, casting pale blue light across his face as he lay sprawled on his bed, aimlessly scrolling through old messages and half-hearted group chats that hadn’t seen real activity in weeks. Most people he used to party with had either moved on, settled down, or burned out entirely. Only Niall still messaged him consistently, mostly stupid memes and the occasional “When you out, mate?” text that Louis couldn’t quite bring himself to answer.

Harry was curled up in his own bed, back turned toward Louis, but something about the silence felt off . It wasn’t the peaceful kind of quiet — it was too tight, too held . Louis was about to brush it off when he heard it — the faintest rustling of sheets, a tiny, strained breath, like Harry was trying to keep still but couldn’t.

Louis locked his phone and rolled onto his side, peering through the dark. “Oi,” he whispered. “You asleep?”

No response, but the shifting continued. Harry’s shoulders were tense beneath the blanket, his whole body curled in like he was bracing against something. Louis sat up, rubbing a hand through his hair.

“Alright, what’s up?” he tried again, quieter this time. “You’ve been twitching like a bloody squirrel for the last ten minutes.”

Harry exhaled sharply — not a sigh, more like a quiet, shuddering breath he was trying to control. “’M fine,” Harry mumbled, but his voice sounded wrong . Too tight. A little shaky.

Louis frowned. He’d seen this before. Too many times, in too many rooms that smelled like bleach and shame. “You’re not fine,” Louis said, softer than usual. “What’s going on?”

There was a pause, long enough Louis thought Harry might just pretend to fall asleep. But then Harry shifted, rolling onto his back, his face faintly visible in the dim light. His hair was stuck to his forehead with sweat, his skin a shade paler than it had been at dinner, and his hands were trembling against the blanket.

“Fuck,” Louis muttered. “Is it the tilidine?”

Harry gave a tight, embarrassed nod, wiping his palms against his shirt like he couldn’t stand the clammy feeling. “It’s not bad ,” he whispered. “Just… can’t get comfortable. My skin feels all weird, like it doesn’t fit right.”

Louis swore softly under his breath. Tilidine. That shit had teeth. “Alright,” Louis said, already climbing out of bed. “I know this rodeo.”

“You don’t have to—” Harry started, but Louis waved him off.

“Shut up,” Louis said, digging through his duffel bag. “It’s your first proper night here, you’re not gonna white-knuckle it alone.”

Harry looked miserable — a mix of guilt, embarrassment, and sheer discomfort. His legs kicked restlessly under the blanket, his fingers twitching like his nerves were firing off signals his body didn’t know how to process. Louis remembered that feeling. The crawling , like your own skin had turned against you.

“Right,” Louis said, finally emerging with a crumpled bag of mints and a bottle of water. “Classic rehab survival kit. Mint distracts your mouth, water gives you something to do with your hands, and if that doesn’t work, we’ll go for a walk until you either pass out or forget you exist.”

Harry gave a faint laugh, but his hands still shook when he took the water.

“Anything else?” Harry asked, voice small. “Like, something that actually helps?”

Louis hesitated. His instinct was to joke — to say yeah, drugs — but that didn’t feel right. Not with Harry looking at him like that, all raw edges and too much honesty in his eyes.

“Music,” Louis said eventually, flopping back onto his bed. “When it’s bad, I put my headphones on and play something so loud it rattles my brain. Drowns out the itch.”

Harry looked toward his bag, where his headphones were tangled up with his charger. “What do you listen to?”

Louis shrugged. “Depends. Sometimes something loud and angry. Sometimes something so sad it matches the vibe.” He grinned faintly. “Sometimes Britney Spears, just to confuse my own body.”

Harry smiled, soft and real, even with sweat clinging to his skin and his legs still kicking under the blanket. “I’ll try that.”

“Good lad.” Louis stretched out, arms behind his head. “But if you play any Fleetwood Mac, I’m confiscating your phone.”

“Deal,” Harry said, already reaching for his headphones.

They lay there in the dark, the only sounds the rustling of sheets and the faint buzz of Harry’s music filtering through the air. Louis didn’t need to ask what he chose — he could tell by the tempo and the quiet hum of something soft and sad. It was the kind of music you listened to when your body felt too loud, when you needed something to soothe the edges.

After a few minutes, Harry’s breathing evened out, the twitching easing into occasional jerks as his body fought for calm. Louis stayed awake, just in case — because he knew how this went. The first night was always the hardest. Your body wanted the poison back, and all you could do was sit in the dark and want .

Louis didn’t say it out loud, but he knew Harry wasn’t alone in it. Maybe that was worth something.

“Night, Play-Doh,” Louis muttered, just loud enough for Harry to hear if he was still awake.

A soft, mumbled “Night” floated back through the dark.

 

Breakfast the next morning was a lukewarm disaster, just like Louis expected. More rubbery eggs, toast that tasted faintly of cardboard, and a vat of porridge that somehow managed to be both too thick and too runny at the same time. Louis, well-practiced in the art of institutional survival, drowned his toast in a ridiculous amount of butter and made a game of trying to flick his raisins into Jasmine’s coffee cup when the staff weren’t looking.

Harry, on the other hand, looked wrecked . His hands still shook faintly when he reached for his orange juice, and his skin was pale, almost grey, with sweat beading at his temples even though the room was cold. He was nursing a cup of tea, but he barely touched his food, just staring blankly at his plate like eating was too much effort.

“Alright, mate?” Louis asked, quieter than usual. He nudged Harry’s tray. “You need me to smuggle you a banana or something?”

Harry shook his head, mouth pulling into something that was meant to be a smile but didn’t quite make it. “I’m fine. Just… my legs won’t stop.”

Louis glanced under the table, where Harry’s knee was bouncing like it was powered by its own motor. Louis knew better than to make a joke about it — not when Harry’s eyes were bloodshot and glassy, like he’d barely slept at all.

“Art therapy’ll be a laugh, at least,” Louis said, trying to keep things light. “We can draw our feelings in crayon and pretend it’s deep.”

Harry just gave a small nod, shoulders hunched like they weighed double what they should. Louis kicked his ankle gently under the table. “Come on, Play-Doh. I signed up for this shit for you . Don’t make me be the only one who turns up.”

“Alright,” Harry muttered, voice hoarse. “I’m coming.”

Louis didn’t push, even though part of him wanted to shake Harry and tell him it would get easier — eventually. But Louis wasn’t one for lying, and he knew the truth: it was going to get worse before it got better.

They cleared their trays and headed toward the arts room, Louis deliberately walking a little slower so Harry wouldn’t have to struggle to keep up. Harry’s hands were shoved deep into his hoodie pockets, shoulders still curved inward like he was trying to protect something fragile inside himself.

The art room was tucked down a side corridor, far enough from the main hall that the air felt different — quieter, like even the building knew this was where people were supposed to “express themselves.” Louis had been here before, but it still looked ridiculous — a chaotic mash-up of school art class and therapy office. Shelves packed with markers, pastels, and those sad little watercolor sets in plastic trays. A pile of sketchbooks sat in the corner, along with a basket full of random craft supplies — glue sticks, googly eyes, a packet of feathers that looked suspiciously like they’d been salvaged from a children’s party.

“Welcome,” chirped a woman Louis vaguely recognized from his last stay. Mary, maybe? Margaret? Some wholesome M-name. She had a smile like she ran a kindergarten, all wide and encouraging, like she could sense who was going to cry first and was already bracing for it. “Find a seat anywhere.”

Louis dropped into a chair near the back, kicking out the one beside him for Harry, who sank down like gravity was actively working against him. Harry folded his arms on the table and rested his head on them for a second, like just sitting upright was a battle.

“You alright?” Louis asked, quieter this time.

Harry nodded, but it wasn’t convincing.

Louis could feel the itch of secondhand withdrawal crawling under his own skin — the helplessness of watching someone else’s body betray them. He hated it. It reminded him too much of his own first real detox, how he’d wanted to crawl out of his own bones, how his teeth had hurt from clenching so hard.

But this wasn’t Louis’ turn. This was Harry’s. And Louis wasn’t about to leave him to it alone.

“Alright, everyone,” the art therapist — Margaret? — clapped her hands softly. “Today we’re starting with self-portraits. But not regular ones. I want you to draw yourself as you feel . Not what you look like — what you feel like inside.”

“Oh, Christ,” Louis muttered. “That’s bleak.”

Harry, still pale and jittery, gave the faintest laugh.

“Go on,” Louis said, nudging the paper toward him. “Show us what you’re feeling, Picasso.”

“And you?” Harry asked, blinking at him through the mess of his curls. “What are you gonna draw?”

Louis grinned. “A blob of anxiety with incredible hair.”

Harry smiled — small, but real — and Louis counted that as a win.

Louis stared at his blank page for about thirty seconds before accepting his fate. He grabbed a pencil and, with absolutely no artistic ambition whatsoever, sketched a wobbly stick figure with a cigarette in one hand and what might have been a beer can in the other. It had wild scribbles for hair and Xs for eyes, and Louis proudly labeled it Me, but Sexy .

Harry, to his credit, actually tried — some messy attempt at a self-portrait with shaky lines and too many shadows, but at least it looked vaguely human.

“Christ, you’re actually taking this seriously,” Louis muttered, shading his stick figure’s middle finger for added realism.

“Some of us have depth,” Harry shot back, eyes still heavy with exhaustion but mouth tugging into a smile.

After art therapy ended, they still had half an hour to kill before the next group session. Louis dragged Harry back to their room, pulled out a battered deck of cards from his bag, and announced, “Right. We’re playing Shithead . Loser has to ask Greg a deeply personal question.”

Harry, still pale and twitchy but clearly grateful for the distraction, sat cross-legged on the bed and dealt the cards. “Deal,” he said.

And for a little while, it was just the two of them, shuffling cards and talking shit, the weight of withdrawal and therapy temporarily held at bay.

Group that afternoon was the usual parade of forced vulnerability — Greg pushing everyone to “sit with their feelings” while Louis spent most of it stacking playing cards into a wonky tower on his knee until Greg confiscated them. Harry actually spoke up, quietly admitting that he felt like his body wasn’t his own, and Louis — for once — didn’t crack a single joke about it.

Dinner was another culinary tragedy, some unidentifiable stew and lumpy mashed potatoes that tasted like they’d been rehydrated from powder. Louis ate purely for survival. Harry barely touched his food, hands shaking too hard to hold his fork properly, sweat collecting at his hairline despite the cold air blasting through the vent above their table. Louis didn’t comment, but he noticed. He always noticed.

Back in their room, it got worse. Much worse.

Harry couldn’t get comfortable — shifting between lying down, sitting up, pacing the floor barefoot until Louis told him to stop because it was making him anxious. His hands wouldn’t stay still, fingers tapping against his thighs, cracking his knuckles, scratching his arms like his skin was crawling.

“Jesus, mate,” Louis said finally, sitting up. “You look like you’re trying to climb out of your own body.”

Harry didn’t even laugh. His breath was shallow, skin clammy and pale, pupils blown wide. “I feel like my bones are buzzing,” he admitted, voice tight with panic. “I can’t— I can’t sit still. My legs hurt, and my stomach’s all twisted up and—” His voice cracked, and Louis saw the first flicker of fear in his eyes.

Louis got off his bed and crossed the room, grabbing Harry’s wrists gently to stop his hands from shaking. “Alright, breathe,” Louis said, his voice softer than usual. “I’ve been there, mate. You’re not dying. It just feels like you are.”

Harry’s fingers curled into the front of Louis’ shirt, desperate for something to hold onto. “I want it to stop,” he whispered, voice barely audible. “I want it to stop so bad.”

Louis didn’t let go. “It will,” he promised. “Not tonight, probably not tomorrow, but it will . And until then, I’m not gonna let you do this alone, yeah?”

Harry nodded, but his whole body was still shaking.

“Okay,” Louis said, glancing at the clock. “We’ve got about four hours until lights out. You want me to sneak you out to the garden? Or we can walk laps, or talk shit about Greg, or— I dunno— draw more ugly stick figures.”

Harry gave a watery laugh, barely there but real.

“Anything to get you through, mate,” Louis said. “I’ve got you.”

They didn’t even make it to the garden this time.

Harry barely got through the door of their room before he collapsed onto the edge of his bed, shaking so hard the mattress creaked under him. His hands were trembling violently, his knee bouncing, sweat dripping down the side of his face even though the room was cold. Louis kicked the door shut behind them, watching silently as Harry folded over, elbows on his knees, head in his hands.

“Breathe,” Louis said, not unkindly. “It’s just your body throwing a tantrum. It’ll pass.”

Harry shook his head without looking up. “It’s not passing,” he said, voice raw and wrecked. “It’s getting worse.”

“It always does before it gets better.” Louis leaned back against the door, hands shoved deep into his hoodie pockets, heart pounding harder than he wanted to admit. “You’ve just gotta ride it out, You‘re alright Play-Doh.”

Harry’s breathing sped up, sharp and shallow, like every breath was getting caught in his throat. “I can’t,” he said, and Louis could hear it — that thin, broken edge creeping into his voice. “I can’t , Louis. Please.”

Louis stood there, frozen, because he knew what was coming next. He knew it like he knew his own name.

“Please,” Harry begged, looking up with wide, frantic eyes. “Please tell me you have something . Anything. Just make this stop.”

Louis’ stomach dropped. Because of course he did. He had coke, molly, even a little weed still tucked away behind the light socket. He’d been proud of himself for sneaking it in, like it was some personal victory. But now Harry was looking at him like that — desperate, terrified, begging — and suddenly, Louis didn’t feel clever at all. He just felt sick.

“Harry…” Louis shook his head, even as his hand instinctively moved toward the lightswitch. “That’s not a good idea.”

“Please,” Harry said again, voice cracking so hard it sounded painful. “I just need… something to stop this.”

Louis turned away, running a hand through his hair, pacing a quick circle around the room like he could physically walk away from the choice in front of him. He could say no. He should say no. That’s what a good friend would do. That’s what someone who actually gave a shit would do.

But Louis had never been good at saying no — to himself, to his mates, to anyone who needed a way out.

“Just a little,” Harry said quietly. “I swear. Just enough to stop the shaking.”

Louis swore under his breath. “Fuck’s sake,” he muttered, crossing the room and kneeling down by the closet. His safety scissors were still tucked in his bag, and with practiced ease, he unscrewed the light socket, pulling out the tiny stash he’d hidden there. A small bag of coke, the last of his molly, a little weed. His fingers hovered over the molly before snatching up the coke instead — less messy, easier to control.

He turned back to Harry, crouching beside him, holding out the baggie. “Just one line,” Louis said firmly. “That’s it. You do more than that, I’m flushing the rest.”

Harry nodded too fast, too eager, already scrubbing his sleeve under his nose like his body remembered exactly what to do. Louis hated how familiar this felt — hated how easy it was to slide right back into enabling mode, like muscle memory.

He tore off a scrap of paper from the activities list still pinned to the wall, rolled it into a makeshift straw, and poured out a razor-thin line across the back of his phone. Harry snorted it up like someone who’d done this before, too young to be this practiced, too pale and shaky to pretend this was just for fun.

Louis sat back on his heels, watching Harry’s body go still — the shaking slowing, the frantic edge softening into a heavy, quiet calm. His breathing steadied. His shoulders dropped. His eyes closed for a second, relief flooding every part of him.

Louis should’ve felt guilty. He did feel guilty. But fuck if it wasn’t also a relief to see Harry stop hurting, even just for a little while.

“Better?” Louis asked, voice low.

Harry nodded, wiping his nose with the back of his hand. “Thank you.”

Louis didn’t answer. He just stood up, shoved the rest of his stash back into the wall, and screwed the socket shut again. His hands were steady, but his stomach churned.

He knew this was a mistake. He knew Harry would want more tomorrow — maybe even tonight. He knew exactly where this road led, because Louis had walked it so many times it felt like home.

But Louis wasn’t ready to be the strong one. Not tonight. Not when Harry looked at him like that — like Louis was the only person in the world who could save him.

“Don’t make me regret this,” Louis muttered, flopping back onto his bed, staring up at the ceiling.

“I won’t,” Harry said, voice soft and sincere. “I promise.”

Louis closed his eyes, because they both knew that was a lie.

Chapter 4: Chapter 4

Harry stayed up all night. Louis knew because he stayed up too — not intentionally, but once he gave Harry that line, sleep felt impossible. Instead, he lay on his side, half-watching Harry through the dark, pretending he was scrolling his phone while really keeping tabs on every twitch and rustle of the sheets.

Harry was quiet , sure — but Louis knew better than to be fooled by silence. His breathing never settled into the slow rhythm of sleep. His fingers wouldn’t stop moving, tapping lightly against the mattress like he was playing an invisible piano. Every few minutes, he’d shift positions — onto his back, onto his stomach, curled into a ball, stretched out like a starfish — too restless to stay still. Even in the dark, Louis could feel the energy radiating off him, that wired, too-alert hum that came when you were too awake, too high.

Louis didn’t say anything. He couldn’t. This was his fault, after all. He was the one who gave Harry the out — the easy way through the worst of it — and now here they were. Louis had been there himself more times than he could count, lying flat on his back with his mind racing so fast it outran his body, heart hammering through his ribs, thoughts looping and rewinding until everything felt too sharp, too bright, too much.

Morning came like a slap. As soon as the first knock hit the door, Harry practically leapt out of bed, moving with the too-quick energy of someone whose body hadn’t even realized it needed sleep. Louis stayed put, watching from under his blanket, hair plastered to his forehead from sweating all night. Harry was already pulling on clothes, shoving his curls back, bright-eyed and twitchy.

Too bright, Louis thought grimly. Way too fucking bright.

At breakfast, Louis barely touched his tray, too busy watching Harry not touch his at all. He didn’t even pretend to try. Just picked up a slice of toast, stared at it for a few seconds like it was a math problem, then put it down again. His knee bounced under the table, foot tapping the floor in a relentless rhythm, fingers drumming against the edge of the tray.

“Eat something,” Louis muttered, nudging Harry’s elbow. “You’re not fooling anyone.”

“I’m fine,” Harry said, too fast, too breezy.

Louis gave him a look — one Harry pretended not to see.

Group was worse.

Greg started the session by asking everyone to check in, sharing how they felt after their night. Louis gave his usual flippant answer — emotionally constipated, thanks for asking — earning a couple snickers from around the room. But when it was Harry’s turn, Louis felt his stomach clench in anticipation.

Harry didn’t just answer the question. Harry talked . And talked. And talked . About his anxiety, his guilt, his complicated relationship with his mum, the pressure of always being the “good one” in his family. It all came pouring out in a breathless flood, words tumbling over each other so fast Greg could barely get a word in.

Louis sat there, heart pounding in his throat, waiting for Greg to stop him — to notice something was off, to ask the obvious question: Why are you talking like you’ve been shot full of adrenaline?

But Greg didn’t.

Instead, Greg smiled like he’d just witnessed the breakthrough of the century . “That’s amazing honesty, Harry,” he said, his voice warm and encouraging. “It sounds like you’re really ready to unpack all of this.”

Louis nearly choked on his own spit. He covered it with a cough, shaking his head in disbelief. Breakthrough , his arse. It was coke . Plain and simple.

Harry shot Louis a quick look — half triumphant, half pleading, like See? It’s fine. I’m fine. And Louis wanted to believe him. He wanted to believe they could skate through this without anyone noticing, without everything falling apart.

But Louis had been to rehab enough times to know that every shortcut came with a price.

And Harry was already running the tab.

By the time afternoon rolled around, Harry’s high had started to fray at the edges. Louis could see it happening in real time — the bright-eyed buzz dimming into something sharper, twitchier, more uncomfortable. His knee still bounced under the table at lunch, but the smile that had been glued to his face all morning was gone, replaced by that tight, haunted look Louis knew far too well . The comedown. That nasty, scraping drop-off when the high wears off but your skin still feels too thin and your brain’s still running, but without anything to keep it going.

Louis knew it because he’d lived it — and, if he was honest, part of him was jealous. Watching Harry crash made Louis’ own body itch, craving that little bump to smooth the edges.

They managed to avoid group after lunch, slinking off to the garden under the guise of needing “fresh air,” which in Louis’ case was code for I need a smoke before I punch a wall. They sat on the same bench as the night before, Louis lighting a cigarette with his sleeve shielding the flame from the wind, Harry sitting with his legs pulled up, arms wrapped around his knees.

“You good?” Louis asked, because he felt like he should.

Harry exhaled slowly through his nose. “Not really.”

Louis nodded, because what was there to say? It sucked. They both knew it.

“It’s just…” Harry’s voice was soft, cracking at the edges. “It was so easy, you know? That line. It made everything quiet . For a few hours, I could breathe again.”

Louis flicked ash off his cigarette. “Yeah,” he said. “That’s the trick, innit? Feels like a solution right up until it’s the whole fucking problem.”

Harry looked over, curls falling into his eyes. “You ever miss it? Like, really miss it?”

Louis snorted softly. “Mate, I miss it every fucking day. Especially in here.” He gestured toward the bland grey building behind them. “Place like this, where all you’ve got are your thoughts and Greg’s weird breathing exercises? Yeah, I miss it.”

Harry was quiet for a long moment, biting his thumbnail. “We still have the molly, right?”

Louis stilled. His fingers tightened around his cigarette, and for a second, he thought about lying — about saying no, about being the responsible one for once. But that part of him had been buried years ago under layers of bad decisions and even worse coping mechanisms.

“Yeah,” Louis said, voice low. “I do.”

Harry’s knee bounced faster. “What if we just… did it together? Just once. For fun.”

Louis stared at him. “We’re in rehab , mate.”

“So? You brought it in for a reson, didn‘t you?” Harry’s smile was crooked, manic, that reckless gleam Louis had seen a hundred times in his own reflection. “Everyone else has their little secrets. Why can’t we?”

Louis wanted to say no. He should say no. But his own skin was crawling, his own brain begging for relief. And Harry — wide-eyed and desperate, looking at Louis like he was the only thing keeping him afloat — made it far too easy to cave.

“Fuck it,” Louis muttered, standing up and brushing off his jeans. “Room first. Then garden.”

Harry scrambled up after him, too eager, and Louis already knew this was a bad idea — a spectacularly awful idea — but that was the thing about addicts. They didn’t need good ideas. They just needed something .

Back in the room, Louis dug into the light socket again, fingers pulling out the little baggie of molly, the glittery powder of the pills catching the light. They split it quickly — no ceremony, no pretense — just half a dose each, dry-swallowed because Louis’ water bottle was still empty from the night before.

“Cheers,” Louis said, and Harry laughed, too high-pitched, too eager.

They slipped back outside before it could hit, walking the perimeter of the garden like two inmates plotting an escape, hands brushing every so often, not on purpose but not exactly by accident either. By the time the molly crept in — that soft, humming warmth spreading under Louis’ skin — the world had softened at the edges, and the sky seemed too big, too open, too beautiful for a place like this.

“Feel it?” Louis asked, grinning, and Harry nodded, eyes blown wide again, this time with something softer than fear.

“Everything feels…” Harry trailed off, lifting his hands in front of his face, watching them like they belonged to someone else. “ Good. ”

“Yeah,” Louis said, flopping down onto the grass. “That’s the fucking point.”

Harry dropped down beside him, too close but Louis didn’t mind. Not with the warmth buzzing in his veins and the sky curving overhead like a painting that had finally gotten its colors right. They lay there, side by side, passing Louis’ cigarette back and forth, giggling about nothing — about the way the tree leaned slightly to the left, about how Greg’s head was shaped like a boiled egg, about how the grass felt softer than it had any right to.

And for a little while, it was easy to forget where they were. Easy to pretend this was a holiday, not a consequence.

Easy to believe they could get away with it.

After about thirty minutes, the real high came crashing in — not hard or sharp like coke, but warm, thick, like being wrapped in cotton wool and bathed in sunlight. Every breath felt incredible, like the air itself had texture, each inhale soft and silky. Louis lay back, fingers threading lazily through the grass, grinning up at the sky like it had personally complimented him.

The grass felt like velvet. The air felt warmer, even though the night was cool. His own skin felt good , like it actually belonged to him for once, and Louis couldn’t stop smiling.

“How you feeling, mate?” Louis asked, voice light and full of that uncontrollable molly warmth, like every word was part of some inside joke the world was telling just for them.

Harry turned his head, curls falling into his eyes, his own smile stretched wide across his face. His pupils were huge, eyes glassy with wonder, and his hands kept gliding through the grass like he couldn’t get over how soft it felt. “Amazing,” Harry said, voice full of awe, like he’d just touched the face of God and found out God was made of clouds. “I feel… hazy.”

Louis burst out laughing, loud and sudden, like the word itself was the funniest thing he’d ever heard. “ Hazy ,” Louis repeated, loving the way it sounded in his mouth. “Harry the Haze. Hazza the Hazy Boy. Haz!”

Harry giggled — full-on giggled — his whole body shaking with it, his nose scrunching up in delight. “Haz,” he repeated, like the word was made of gold. “That’s so stupid.”

“It’s beautiful , actually,” Louis argued, rolling onto his side to face Harry, their heads almost touching in the grass. “You’re Haz , king of the haze, ruler of the fuzzy feelings.” He waved his hand dramatically, as if bestowing Harry with an imaginary crown.

Harry couldn’t stop laughing, his cheeks flushed, eyes half-closing as the warmth swirled through him. “I love you,” he said suddenly, the way people say things on molly — like it’s the most natural truth in the world.

Louis froze for half a second, not because it was awkward but because it was so easy , so unguarded, and it was rare to hear anything that honest come out of someone’s mouth in rehab. He grinned. “Love you too, Hazza. Soulmates in self-destruction.”

They lay there, bodies stretched out like starfish, passing Louis’ cigarette back and forth until it burned down to the filter, and even then, Harry held onto it like he couldn’t quite let go.

Everything felt good. Too good. Which meant, of course, it couldn’t last.

But for now, Louis didn’t care. He wasn’t thinking about the consequences, or the inevitable crash, or the fact that they were in a place designed to stop them doing exactly this. Right now, there was just Harry, and the soft grass, and the sky that felt too big, and the laughter that felt too easy.

And Louis thought — if this was what falling apart together felt like, maybe it wasn’t so bad.

By the time they dragged themselves off the grass, Louis’ legs felt like jelly, and Harry was holding onto his arm like they were coming back from a night out instead of sneaking in from a rehab garden. Everything was funny for absolutely no reason — the way Louis’ shoe squeaked against the floor, the way the hallway lights were just too bright , the way Harry whispered “Shhh!” at a painting like the canvas might snitch on them.

“Act normal,” Louis stage-whispered, eyes comically wide.

“I am normal,” Harry shot back, holding onto Louis’ hoodie sleeve like a kid on a school trip. “This is my normal face .”

They stumbled into the hallway leading to their room, both of them still giggling, trying way too hard to whisper and failing spectacularly. Louis nearly tripped over Harry’s foot, and Harry caught him around the waist, which made them both laugh even harder, leaning against each other like drunks outside a kebab shop at 3am.

And that’s when they walked straight into Nurse Judy .

Judy — built like a fridge, eyes like a hawk, patience worn down to the thinnest thread — took one look at them, her mouth immediately pressing into a line so tight it could cut wire.

Louis froze. Harry froze. The air felt like it solidified around them.

“Evening, boys,” Judy said, voice sharp as a knife. “Where exactly have you been?”

Louis opened his mouth to lie — had a whole speech ready about fresh air and mindfulness — but Harry beamed at her. Beamed. With his pupils the size of actual dinner plates and his hair all wild from lying in the grass, he looked like he’d just discovered joy for the first time in his life.

“We were bonding!” Harry announced proudly, too loud, too happy.

Louis wanted to die.

Judy’s eyes narrowed, scanning both of them like she could see every questionable choice clinging to their skin. “You two look… energetic.”

Louis tried to reel it in, standing straighter, clapping Harry on the shoulder like they were just wholesome lads having a wholesome time. “Yeah, we got really into some deep talks, you know? Emotional breakthroughs and all that. Very healing.”

Harry nodded enthusiastically. “We love growth .”

Louis squeezed Harry’s shoulder so hard it was basically a threat.

Judy didn’t buy a second of it. Her eyes lingered on Harry’s blown pupils, the way his hands couldn’t quite stay still, the way Louis’ jaw was just a little too tight, his smile a little too forced.

“You two. Room. Now,” Judy ordered. “I’ll be speaking to Greg in the morning.”

“Brilliant,” Louis muttered under his breath, already dragging Harry down the hall.

Back in their room, Louis shut the door and leaned against it, exhaling so hard his ribs ached. Harry collapsed onto his bed, still grinning like this was all hilarious instead of a complete disaster.

“We’re fucked ,” Louis said, flopping down onto his own bed.

“Probably,” Harry agreed, giggling into his pillow.

And somehow — despite the impending doom — Louis couldn’t help but laugh too. Because they were in it together now, for better or worse. And at least they’d go down laughing.

Even after they made it back to their room, the molly had them both riding the high like they were floating two inches above the floor. Louis couldn’t shut up — words spilling out of him faster than he could think them, everything from what his first gig was to the fact that he used to be terrified of butterflies. Harry found this absolutely hysterical, curled up at the foot of Louis’ bed, giggling so hard he nearly slid onto the floor.

“I love you,” Harry said again at some point, hands soft and grabby, fingers trailing over Louis’ arm like he needed to feel him to prove he was real.

“Love you too, Play Doh,” Louis grinned, no hesitation this time. “We’re soulmates in chaos, mate. Cosmic disasters.”

They lay side by side on Louis’ bed after that, arms touching, hands lazily tracing shapes into the worn blanket while their mouths ran on autopilot. The ceiling was the funniest thing they’d ever seen. Harry’s curls were fascinating to Louis’ fingers. Everything felt important , even the dumbest jokes. It was the textbook molly afterglow — warm, weightless, and full of fake epiphanies that felt like the truth.

At some point, they drifted off like that — tangled up in each other, too tired to laugh anymore but still too high to sleep deeply. When the knock came at their door the next morning — sharp and official — Louis knew immediately they were screwed.

“Rise and shine,” came Judy’s voice, clipped and business-like. “Room search.”

Louis groaned, prying himself out from under Harry’s dead weight to quickly switch to his own bed, not exactly looking forward to another scolding. Harry barely stirred, his face smushed into his pillow, curls sticking up in every direction.

“Didn’t even have a lie-in,” Louis muttered, dragging his fingers through his hair before the door swung open. Judy stood there with Greg, both of them radiating disappointment, and behind them were two other staff members Louis didn’t recognize — probably there to tear the room apart.

“Off your beds,” Judy said, voice flat. “Both of you.”

Harry sat up, bleary and confused, rubbing his face like a toddler woken up from a nap. Louis stretched obnoxiously, yawning loud on purpose as he swung his legs over the side of the bed.

“Care to explain why you two were acting like you’d discovered the meaning of life in the garden last night?” Greg asked, his version of stern which mostly made him look constipated.

“Bonding,” Louis said brightly despite the dopamine drop that always came after molly wore off. “Isn’t that the whole point of rehab?”

Greg didn’t bite. “Anything you want to tell us before we look through your belongings?”

Louis thought fast — his heart rate spiking just slightly , but his face stayed cocky and smooth. “Alright, fine,” he said, like he was coming clean. “I brought two blue punishers with me — for emergencies. Last night felt like an emergency. We split them.”

Greg’s brow furrowed. “Blue punishers?”

“Ecstasy,” Louis clarified, grinning like it was all one big joke. “I know, I know — I’m terrible at this recovery thing.”

Harry’s mouth opened slightly, surprised Louis had just confessed like that. But Louis knew the game. Give them just enough to think you’re cooperating. They’d focus all their attention on the imaginary pills and miss the stash behind the socket entirely.

Judy’s glare could’ve peeled paint off the walls. “You’ll both be written up. Immediate loss of outdoor privileges.”

“Oh no,” Louis deadpanned. “However will we survive.”

Greg pinched the bridge of his nose. “We’ll discuss further consequences after the search.”

They watched as the staff tore through every inch of the room — clothes dumped out of drawers, mattress flipped, toiletries squeezed to make sure nothing was hidden inside. Louis kept his face perfectly bored the entire time, sitting cross-legged on Harry’s bed like this was just another Tuesday.

They didn’t find a thing.

When the search was done, Greg gave them both one of his patented I’m not mad, just disappointed looks. “You both need to take this more seriously,” he said. “Recovery only works if you’re honest — with yourselves, and with us.”

“Noted,” Louis said, already half-tuned out.

“Ten weeks is a long time,” Greg added. “You can make it a bit easier on yourselves, or you can make it hell.”

Louis smiled sweetly. “I’m very good at hell.”

Greg sighed like a man who regretted his entire career and left, Judy trailing after him.

As soon as the door shut, Louis flopped back onto Harry’s bed. “Told you,” he said smugly. “Nothing to worry about.”

Harry sat beside him, still shaken, but with a faint, disbelieving smile. “How the hell did they not find anything?”

Louis tapped the side of his nose. “Experience, baby.”

Harry leaned back against the wall, his head resting next to Louis’. “You scare me a little.”

“Good,” Louis said, but he was smiling.

They lay there for a minute, not talking, just listening to the sounds of the hallway — the distant scrape of chairs, someone coughing, the beep of a microwave down in the staff kitchen.

“You gonna ask me to sneak you something again tonight?” Louis asked quietly.

Harry shook his head. “No. I think I’m done for a bit.”

Louis didn’t believe him. But for now, it was enough.

The rest of the week settled into a strange, shaky rhythm. Losing their outdoor privileges was inconvenient, but Louis had been through worse, and Harry didn’t seem to mind much either — he was too busy fighting off the worst of his comedown. The first full day without anything in his system had Harry pale and silent, hands twitching against his thighs, his knee bouncing so violently Louis could feel it vibrating the floorboards.

Louis kept the jokes flowing to cover for both of them. Every group session became a personal challenge — how many times could he make someone laugh before Greg threatened to separate him from the rest of the group? (The answer, on average, was three.) But even through all the jokes, Louis watched Harry carefully. Noticed the dark circles under his eyes growing deeper, the way his fingers clenched and unclenched like they couldn’t decide what to do with themselves.

Meals were a joke — Harry barely ate, and Louis, to keep up appearances, dramatically doubled his own portions like he was eating for both of them. At night, Harry tossed and turned, and Louis stayed awake because someone had to. When Harry’s legs kicked in his sleep or his breathing turned fast and shallow, Louis would throw a pillow at him — just hard enough to jolt him out of whatever nightmare was dragging him under.

They made it through art therapy, where Louis drew yet another stick figure masterpiece labeled Me, But Sexy 2.0 . Harry actually tried — drew something vague and soft, all blues and greys, which the therapist, Maggie?, praised as emotionally insightful . Louis said it looked like a sad cloud. Harry said Louis had the artistic range of a toddler on ketamine. It was the closest thing to fun they’d had since their Molly adventure.

But through all the banter and the forced activities and the awful food, Louis felt the undercurrent pulling tighter and tighter — because withdrawal wasn’t done with Harry. Not by a long shot. And Louis could see it in Harry’s eyes every time they were alone, the silent question hovering there like smoke: Do you have anything? Just a little? Please?

Louis held firm — until Thursday. Thursday was visiting day.

Zayn showed up looking exactly the same as ever — effortless and a bit too cool for the rehab waiting room, his leather jacket wildly inappropriate for the fluorescent lighting and the sad vending machines. He strolled in like he owned the place, slumped into the plastic chair across from Louis, and raised one brow.

“Alright, mate,” Zayn said, all easy charm. “How’s summer camp for wayward twats?”

“Absolute paradise,” Louis grinned. “Best food, five-star accommodations, you know how it is.”

Zayn snorted. “And?”

Louis leaned in, voice lower now. “Need a favor.”

“Obviously,” Zayn muttered, already reaching into his pocket for the usual — a small baggie of coke, tucked into a folded magazine Louis had asked for. But Louis shook his head.

“No coke,” Louis said. “Tilidine.”

Zayn’s expression sharpened immediately. “What the fuck do you need that for?”

“It’s not for me,” Louis said quickly. “It’s for Harry, Play-Doh.”

“Your roommate?” Zayn frowned. “The curly one?”

Louis nodded, not meeting Zayn’s eyes. “He’s been rattling all week. Proper bad withdrawal. He asked.”

Zayn leaned back in his chair, lips pursed. “You know that shit’s no joke, right?”

“Yeah,” Louis said, maybe a little too fast. “But I’d rather give him a soft landing than watch him crawl up the walls for another week.”

Zayn sighed, digging into his jacket. “You’re too soft, mate. Always have been.”

Louis didn’t argue, because it wasn’t true — not really — but when it came to people he cared about, it was a bit closer to the bone than he liked. Zayn slid a small strip of pills into Louis’ hand under the table, and Louis tucked it into his sock with the smoothness of someone who’d done it a hundred times before.

“Be careful,” Zayn said, voice quieter now. “And if Greg catches you—”

“Yeah, yeah.” Louis waved him off, plastering on a smile. “Won’t be my first rodeo.”

They talked about nothing after that — gossip from the outside world, Zayn’s latest disastrous fling, Niall’s upcoming party Louis would obviously miss. But all the while, Louis felt the weight of those pills against his ankle. He wasn’t thinking about the rules. Or the risk. He was only thinking about Harry — pale, shaking, asking .

And Louis had never been good at saying no.

Zayn slouched in his chair like he had nowhere better to be, legs stretched out, foot tapping against Louis’ under the table. Visiting day always had that weird, stilted energy — the way everyone’s conversations felt just a bit too loud in the echoey room, staff milling about with fake smiles while families either cried, argued, or sat in awkward silence.

But not Louis and Zayn. They were too practiced at this.

“You look like shit,” Zayn said cheerfully, popping a gum into his mouth. “Even for rehab.”

“Cheers,” Louis grinned, leaning back just as casually. “They really roll out the red carpet for me here.”

Zayn’s eyes flicked over him, sharp under the easy smile. “How bad’s the stash situation?”

Louis spread his hands. “Desperate enough to beg you for tilidine.”

Zayn whistled low. “You must really like this kid.”

Louis shrugged, feigning nonchalance. “He’s alright.”

Zayn just smirked, like he saw through that immediately. “Roommates or boyfriends?”

“Piss off,” Louis said, kicking his ankle under the table.

“Hey, no judgment,” Zayn said, hands up in mock surrender. “I’m just saying — it’s been a long time since you asked me for anything that wasn’t coke or weed. You go soft or what?”

Louis rolled his eyes. “He’s rattling to shit, Z. You should see him — like a baby deer learning to walk, but somehow sadder .”

Zayn cackled. “Tragic. But seriously, keep that shit under lock and key. And don’t let him get too comfortable.”

Louis didn’t answer.

“Right,” Zayn said, louder now, like they were moving on. “Now for the fun part.”

Louis raised a brow. “Fun?”

Zayn leaned forward conspiratorially, fishing in his jacket again. “Managed to get my hands on a bit of molly from that lad in Camden — the one with the lazy eye and the weird dog.”

“Oh my god , not Lazy Eye Paul,” Louis groaned. “That shit’s either gold or it’ll make my spine fall out.”

“Bit of both,” Zayn grinned, sliding a tiny baggie into Louis’ sock with practiced ease. “Consider it my gift to you. Rehab’s dull as fuck. You’ll need something to make arts and crafts bearable.”

Louis snorted. “You’re a terrible influence.”

Zayn grinned, “You keep calling.”

Louis flipped him off, but his fingers tapped his ankle, reassuring himself the stash was secure. Two blue punishers, a fresh bit of molly, and Harry’s tilidine — enough to turn rehab into a proper holiday if they didn’t get caught.

“Anyway,” Zayn said, stretching dramatically. “What else is new? Niall’s already planning his post-rehab piss-up for when you get out. Full fancy dress theme.”

Louis groaned. “If he makes me dress as a Spice Girl again, I’m ending it all.”

“He said you can pick this time,” Zayn smirked. “So I told him you wanted Cats: The Musical . He’s got a tail ordered.”

Louis cackled so hard he nearly knocked over his water. “I hate you.”

“Love you too, sunshine.” Zayn grinned. “Now seriously — you alright?”

Louis hesitated just a beat too long. “Yeah,” he said, too breezy. “Same old, you know.”

Zayn gave him a long look — the kind only someone who’s known you through every high, low, and emergency room visit could give. But he didn’t push. He never did.

“Text me if you need anything,” Zayn said, clapping Louis on the shoulder before standing up. “And try not to get caught with your hand in the cookie jar, yeah?”

“No promises,” Louis grinned.

They did their overly elaborate handshake — a relic from when they were 15 and thought secret handshakes made them gangsters — and then Zayn was gone, leather jacket and all, leaving Louis with a pocket full of trouble and a creeping sense that things were about to go sideways faster than either of them planned.

Louis walked back to his room, feeling the weight of the stash with every step — heavier than it should’ve been, knowing exactly what was waiting behind that door.

Harry.

And his shaky hands, pleading eyes and far too much hope in Louis.

Chapter 5: Chapter 5

When Louis got back to the room, Harry was sitting cross-legged on his bed, fingers fidgeting relentlessly with the edge of his sleeve. His leg bounced nonstop, the mattress squeaking faintly with every twitch. He looked up the second Louis walked in, eyes wide and hopeful, but trying to hide it behind something cooler, calmer.

Louis shut the door with his foot, leaning against it for a moment, letting the weight of what he was about to do settle over him. He could still say no. He could still pretend Zayn didn’t come through. He could try to be a better influence.

But Harry was staring at him with those big, anxious eyes — and Louis had never been good at saying no to someone who needed .

He crossed the room, sat down on the edge of Harry’s bed, and pulled the strip of pills from his sock, placing them silently in Harry’s hand. Harry’s fingers closed around them immediately, like they might disappear if he hesitated. His breath came faster, relief flooding his face so fast it was almost painful to watch.

“Tilidine,” Louis said quietly. “Just a few. Enough to take the edge off.”

Harry swallowed hard, eyes glued to the pills. “Thank you,” he said, voice soft but desperate. “You don’t know what this means.”

Louis huffed a laugh through his nose. “I know exactly what it means.”

Harry’s hand shook as he popped one out of the foil, holding it between his fingers for a second like he was having some kind of internal debate. Louis recognized that pause — the half-second where you consider doing the hard thing, the right thing, and then decide, fuck it .

Harry swallowed the pill dry, his throat working hard around it, like his body already knew how badly it needed this. He closed his eyes, exhaling long and slow, his whole body sagging into the bed like someone had just lifted a ten-ton weight off his shoulders.

Louis didn’t say anything. What was there to say? This is a bad idea ? They both knew that. I’m only doing this because I can’t stand seeing you like this ? That was obvious too.

“Don’t ask me again,” Louis said, voice low but not unkind. “I mean it.”

Harry nodded quickly, still avoiding his gaze. “I won’t.”

Louis knew that was a lie.

He leaned back against the wall, head tipping back, staring at the ceiling like it might have answers. “It’ll kick in soon,” he said. “You’ll feel normal again.”

Harry let out a shuddering breath, curling onto his side, the pills still clutched in his fist like a talisman. “That‘s all I want.”

Louis closed his eyes, because he knew exactly what that meant — and how it never, ever lasted.

The next few weeks slipped into a rhythm that felt almost comfortable — if you ignored how completely fucked it was underneath. Louis stuck to what he knew best: coke and weed. Reliable. Predictable. Coke kept him sharp, kept the boredom from sinking in too deep, kept him two steps ahead of Greg’s prying questions. Weed took the edge off at night, let him float just far enough away from reality to sleep without overthinking.

Harry, on the other hand, became attached to the tilidine — almost tender with it, like it was the only thing keeping him tethered to the ground. Every evening, Louis would catch him sitting cross-legged on his bed, the foil strip cradled in his hands like a rosary, fingers smoothing over the pills before he swallowed one down like communion. Sometimes Louis would make a joke — call him Father Harold, Patron Saint of Bad Decisions — but Harry would just smile faintly, too relieved to even argue.

It worked, in a twisted way. Harry stopped twitching so much. His appetite came back, slowly, though Louis still had to bully him into eating anything more than toast and tea. In group, Harry started talking more — not the manic oversharing of his first coked-up breakthrough, but real stuff. Sad stuff. Shit about his mum, about how being the “good son” had slowly peeled him apart, layer by layer, until there was nothing left except the pills.

Greg called it progress . Louis called it a chemical assist . But he didn’t say that out loud.

They still laughed, though — late at night, high off their faces, playing cards on Louis’ bed, inventing increasingly elaborate backstories for Greg (secret swinger, collector of haunted garden gnomes, champion clog dancer). They were good at forgetting, at least for a while. It was easy to forget in the bubble they built together — a cocoon of smoke and whispers, numb fingers passing cigarettes back and forth, talking about everything except the thing they were actually doing.

Louis never asked Harry how much tilidine was left. Harry never asked Louis where the coke came from. They had a system — separate but parallel self-destruction — and as long as neither of them acknowledged it too directly, they could pretend they were just coping .

They both knew the truth, though. And the closer they got to the halfway point of Louis’ ten weeks, the harder it was to ignore. Harry was calmer on the surface, but Louis could see the way he clutched the pills tighter each day, like they were the only thing standing between him and the void, it got even worse after Harry recieved the news that his stay would be extended by a couple of weeks. And Louis — well, Louis wasn’t even pretending to take rehab seriously. He coasted through group high more often than not, rambling just enough to keep Greg off his back, hiding the fact that every day felt like a countdown to whatever came next.

But they had each other. And for now, that was enough.

Even if they were both quietly falling apart.

It was late — past lights out, the hallway dim and quiet except for the occasional distant sound of someone coughing or a toilet flushing down the hall. Louis sat cross-legged on his bed, a rolled joint balanced between his fingers, the window cracked just enough to let the smoke drift out into the cool air. He wasn’t even smoking much tonight — just enough to soften the edges of his own guilt, enough to keep him from pacing the room like a madman.

Harry was sitting across from him, legs pulled up to his chest, back against the wall, the foil strip of tilidine in his lap. There was only one pill left , the shiny plastic packaging creased and worn from weeks of being handled like some sacred object. Louis watched him roll it between his fingers, almost absentmindedly, like a tic.

“You know,” Louis said, voice soft, “this isn’t how it was meant to go.”

Harry looked up, curls wild, face shadowed in the low light. “What do you mean?”

Louis tapped ash off the end of the joint, watching the ember glow briefly before it dulled. “You. When you first got here. You were, like… weirdly hopeful. Thought this place might actually work .”

Harry gave a soft, humorless laugh. “Yeah, well. That was before.”

“Before me ,” Louis corrected.

Harry’s brow creased slightly. “You’re not—”

“Don’t,” Louis cut him off, not in the mood to be let off the hook. “Don’t do that thing where you say it’s fine. It’s not fine. I got you the first line. I got you the tilidine. I handed you every fucking shortcut.”

Harry shrugged, fingers tightening around the last pill. “I asked.”

“Yeah, and I gave ,” Louis said. “That’s the problem.”

They sat in silence for a moment, the weight of it settling between them like a third person in the room. Louis took another drag, the smoke curling out of his mouth like a sigh. “You were gonna try , Haz. You really thought this place could fix you.”

Harry’s smile was small, a little sad. “You make it sound like it’s your fault I’m an addict.”

Louis shook his head. “Nah. That’s not what I mean. You were already addicted when you got here, yeah. But I was supposed to be your fucking roommate , not your dealer.”

Harry didn’t have a good answer to that, so he didn’t try to give one. Instead, he popped the last pill out of the foil and into his palm, holding it up like a tiny piece of salvation. “I’m fine, Louis.”

“That’s bullshit ,” Louis said, no heat behind it — just exhausted honesty.

Harry swallowed the pill dry, throat bobbing, and Louis felt it like a punch to the ribs. He didn’t know why this one hurt more than all the others. Maybe because it was the last one. Maybe because it was the clearest proof yet that they were too far down this road to pretend anymore.

Louis sat back against the wall, legs stretched out in front of him, head tipping back with a quiet thud . “That’s it,” he said softly, almost to himself. “I’m not getting you more.”

Harry’s head snapped up. “What?”

Louis didn’t repeat it. Just stared at the ceiling, heart beating too fast, stomach twisting up into itself. “You can hate me for it if you want. I don’t care. I’m not bringing you anything else.”

Harry didn’t respond right away. He just sat there, eyes wide, still too hazy from the pill to fully process what Louis was saying. But Louis knew the crash would come, maybe tomorrow, maybe in a few days when the last traces of comfort wore off. And Louis would be the one sitting there, watching him fall apart again.

But this time, Louis wouldn’t hand him a parachute, just be there and hold him when he inevitably hit the ground.

“You’re serious,” Harry said finally, voice quiet.

“Dead fucking serious,” Louis muttered. “This is it, Haz. No more.”

Harry didn’t argue. Maybe because some part of him knew Louis was right. Maybe because he was too tired to fight. Either way, Louis laid back down, smoke curling toward the ceiling, and Harry curled up in his bed, back turned to Louis.

They didn’t speak again that night, but Louis made the vow over and over in his head until it stuck.

No more. No matter what. No more.

Even if it meant watching Harry break all over again.

The next morning, Harry was already shaky, though there was no way the withdrawal had fully set in yet. This wasn’t the bone-deep ache or the relentless nausea that would come later—it was something else entirely. It was the knowledge, the certainty, that there was no way out this time. No backup plan. No escape hatch waiting just beneath the surface. He had been clinging to the idea that, if it got too bad, if he really couldn’t take it, Louis would help him again. And now, that was gone.

Louis could see it in the way his fingers trembled against the rim of his coffee cup, how he barely lifted his spoon to his mouth, how his jaw stayed locked like he was grinding his teeth just to keep himself from saying something. Maybe to keep himself from asking. And Louis knew that if he did—if Harry so much as hinted at it—he would have to look him in the eye and tell him no. He’d have to watch that last bit of hope drain out of him, and Louis wasn’t sure he had it in him to do that. But he also knew he had to.

So he did the only thing he could, or rather, the only thing he was willing to do—he distracted him.

At breakfast, he stuck close, sitting across from him, nudging his foot against Harry’s beneath the table every once in a while just to remind him he was there. He practically shoved food in front of him, refusing to let him just push it around his plate, making a show of taking dramatic, exaggerated bites of his own toast to coax him into eating. He talked, constantly, about anything that came to mind—bullshit, mostly. Stupid stories, ridiculous observations, anything that would keep Harry’s mind from going down the path Louis knew it was itching to take. He wanted to keep it light, to make it feel normal, to act like nothing had changed. Because if Harry felt like something had changed, if he picked up on even a sliver of pity, Louis knew it would only make things worse. And god forbid he saw it in Louis himself. That was the last thing Harry needed.

And yet, despite everything, Louis knew it was only a matter of time before the real withdrawal hit. The phantom symptoms, the anxiety, the dread—they were bad enough, but they were just the beginning. Soon, there would be no distracting him from it. No amount of food, conversation, or poorly timed jokes would make it go away. But for now, Louis would do whatever he could to hold it off. To make the morning just a little bit easier, even if it was only by a fraction.

After breakfast, they shuffled into group therapy, a daily ritual that Louis had grown both accustomed to and increasingly bored of. It wasn’t that he didn’t see the value in it—he did, sort of—but after two previous stints in this place, he had heard every spiel, every inspirational recovery story, every painful confession that people were either forced to share or actually desperate enough to spill. He knew the routine, knew the faces, knew the way things usually went down.

And, most of all, he knew Greg.

Greg, their ever-enthusiastic, painfully earnest therapist, was a man who somehow managed to be both deeply unserious and unintentionally profound. He was the kind of guy who would make a sweeping metaphor about addiction being like a hamster wheel and then immediately ruin it by mixing up his own analogy halfway through. Last week, he had compared withdrawal to skydiving—“You just have to trust the parachute will open”—which had sent Louis into a silent wheeze, and today, judging by the way he was pacing in front of the group with his hands clasped together like some kind of spiritual guide, it seemed like they were in for another one of his infamous monologues.

But Louis wasn’t paying much attention to Greg’s next philosophical mess; he was watching Harry.

Harry sat slouched in his chair, arms crossed over his chest, his fingers twitching like he was fighting the urge to dig his nails into his skin. He looked like he wanted to be anywhere else, like he was barely holding himself together. And when Greg did his usual thing—going around the circle, prompting people to share, throwing out those deeply uncomfortable questions about pain and rock bottom and self-forgiveness—Louis knew there was no way Harry was going to participate.

So, Louis did what he did best.

He filled the silence before it could stretch too long. He cracked jokes every time Greg opened his mouth, interrupting at every opportunity, stretching his arms behind his head and giving theatrical sighs like he was already exhausted from the morning’s wisdom. He made a show of nodding solemnly at Greg’s latest metaphor—something about addiction being like a malfunctioning GPS—and then asked, completely straight-faced, if that meant he should start “recalculating” his life choices.

It got a few chuckles from the group, but more importantly, it got something out of Harry. A small exhale, the ghost of a smirk, the tiniest shake of his head like he was trying to suppress it.

Louis doubled down after that. He offered Greg unsolicited business advice about writing a self-help book, suggested they rebrand rehab as a reality show, and when Greg mentioned “inner peace,” he dramatically turned to Harry and muttered, “We should just get him a candle sponsorship and be done with it.”

That time, Harry actually let out a breathy laugh, his lips quirking up just enough that Louis could see the dimples press into his cheeks.

Unfortunately, Greg had limits, and Louis had apparently just hit them.

“Alright, Louis,” Greg said, clapping his hands together in that way therapists do when they’re trying to be both patient and authoritative. “Why don’t you take a moment in the hallway to reflect on whether or not disrupting the group is really in your best interest?”

Louis shot him an exaggerated gasp. “Kicking me out? I thought this was a place of healing, Greg.”

“Hallway, Louis.”

With a dramatic sigh, Louis got up, but before he left, he caught it—the full, unrestrained grin on Harry’s face. It was fleeting, barely there before he ducked his head, but it was real. It was worth it.

So, as Louis leaned against the wall outside, staring up at the ceiling and waiting for Greg to decide he had been sufficiently reformed, he let himself feel the smallest bit of victory. Maybe he couldn’t fix anything. Maybe Harry was still going to suffer through withdrawal, still going to have to fight his way through the worst of it. But at least, for one second, he had laughed. And right now, that was enough.

That night, it hit full force.

Louis had been waiting for it, had known it was coming, but that didn’t make it any easier to watch. Harry was curled up on his side, shaking, his breaths coming fast and shallow. His hoodie was damp with sweat, his fingers twisting into the sheets like he was trying to ground himself, and every so often, he let out these barely-there, pained little exhales and quiet whimpers that made something squeeze in Louis’ chest.

Louis had been through this before—had watched others go through it, had gone through it himself—but it never got any easier. There was nothing glamorous about withdrawal. It wasn’t poetic or tragic in a way that made for a good redemption arc. It was just raw, brutal suffering, the body betraying itself, screaming for something it had been forced to live without. And Harry was in it now, fully, no way out.

For a while, Louis just lay in his own bed, listening. He should sleep—he knew that—but it was impossible when he could hear Harry’s breaths turning sharp, when he could see the way he twitched and tensed up like his skin didn’t fit right.

Then Harry let out a shaky, pained noise, barely more than a whimper, and Louis was out of his bed before he even made the conscious decision to move.

He slipped into Harry’s bed without a word, barely hesitating before pressing himself against his back, tucking an arm around his waist and pulling him in. He half-expected Harry to flinch, to stiffen up, to tell him to fuck off, but he didn’t—he just sighed, shuddering against Louis like he didn’t have it in him to be anything but desperate for warmth.

“It’s alright,” Louis murmured, voice soft against the shell of Harry’s ear. “I’ve got you.”

Harry let out a shaky breath, still trembling like his body wasn’t entirely his own, but he didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to.

Louis kept talking, filling the silence with whatever came to mind—soft reassurances, dumb jokes, anything to distract him. “You know, Greg’s probably still mad at me for getting kicked out today,” he mused. “Reckon I should get him a peace offering. Maybe a ‘World’s Okayest Therapist’ mug?”

Harry let out a weak huff of amusement, and Louis grinned against his shoulder.

“Or I could just keep interrupting him until he has no choice but to admire my commitment. That’s how friendships are built, right? Sheer determination?”

Harry didn’t answer, but Louis felt him relax just a little, his body melting into him, his breath slowing.

Louis’ grip tightened, just slightly. He liked this. Not in a weird way, not in a way he would say out loud, but in a way that settled something inside him. He liked the way Harry fit against him, the way he trusted Louis enough to let him stay.

So he stayed, whispering whatever nonsense came to mind, holding Harry through it, through the shakes, through the worst of it. And eventually, at some point in the early hours of the morning, he felt Harry’s body finally stop trembling, felt his breathing even out, felt him slip into something resembling sleep.

Louis didn’t move. He just held him a little closer, let his own eyes drift shut, and followed him under.

The next day was rough.

Harry still looked like hell—pale, hollow-eyed, moving sluggishly like his limbs were weighed down. His hands still trembled, and every now and then, Louis caught him clenching his jaw like he was trying to keep his teeth from chattering. But he was there. He was upright, walking, breathing, and most notably, sticking to Louis like he physically couldn’t handle being alone.

Louis didn’t mind.

He felt like shit too, if he was being honest. His own withdrawal wasn’t nearly as bad—just a dull, nagging discomfort clawing at the edges of his mind, making his skin feel too tight, his patience shorter than usual. He hadn’t touched his stash since cutting Harry off, hadn’t even so much as glanced at the light socket where it was hidden. It wasn’t much, just a bit of weed, coke, and a couple of pills—enough to take the edge off, enough to make this place tolerable. But now, after watching Harry fall apart, after holding him through it, it felt wrong to even consider it.

So he didn’t.

Instead, he spent the day keeping Harry as distracted as possible. They sat through another group therapy session, Louis continuing his usual antics, though with a little less energy than the day before. Greg gave him a few knowing looks, like he could tell something was off, but he didn’t say anything.

Afterward, they wandered outside for some air, and Harry stuck close, shoulders brushing as they walked, fingers twitching like he wanted to reach for something but didn’t know what. Louis just bumped him lightly, pretending not to notice.

By the time evening rolled around, Louis’ head was pounding, his nerves stretched thin, but Harry was still there, still glued to his side, still looking at him like he was the only thing keeping him tethered. And if Louis was being honest, Harry was doing the same for him.

So they got through the day together—silent understandings, quiet reassurances, and the unspoken promise that neither of them was going anywhere.

By day three, Louis was cracking .

It was always like this after a few clean days — the walls closing in, every sound too loud, every second dragging like molasses. His skin felt wrong, his brain too sharp, the silence unbearable. He’d been trying, really trying , to keep his vow. No more for Harry. No more easy outs. But no one ever said anything about himself.

So when they were back in their room after group — Harry sprawled out on his bed, chewing his thumbnail to the bone, looking restless and uncomfortable — Louis caved. Quietly, quickly, he popped open the light socket and fished out one of the blue punishers Zayn had slipped him. He was just about to put the stash back when, out of nowhere, Harry sat up, clocked it , and before Louis could react, Harry’s hand darted out, snatching one of the pills straight from his fingers.

“ Oi— ” Louis barked, lunging for it, but Harry was faster — pill already in his mouth, swallowed dry before Louis even fully stood up.

They froze, staring at each other across the room — Louis’ chest heaving, Harry wide-eyed like he couldn’t believe he’d actually done that. For a second, neither of them spoke. Louis’ hands curled into fists, nails digging into his palms so hard it hurt.

“ What the fuck was that? ” Louis hissed, voice low and sharp.

Harry licked his lips, throat bobbing as the pill settled inside him. “You said no tilidine,” he said, voice thin and shaky. “You didn’t say no to this.”

Louis dragged both hands down his face, trying to keep the explosion inside. “That’s not— fuck, Harry, that’s not the point .”

Harry’s smile was too bright, too forced. “Relax, Lou. It’s just E. It’s fine. It’s fun.”

Louis wanted to scream, to shake him, to slam his own head into the wall because this was exactly what he was afraid of — the slippery slope, the hunger in Harry’s eyes, the desperation that hadn’t gone anywhere, just shifted shape.

But what was he supposed to do now? Call for staff? Rat them both out? Lecture Harry while his pupils were already starting to blow wide, that euphoric heat beginning to creep into his skin?

Louis didn’t do any of that.

He just grabbed his own pill from the bag, tossed it into his mouth, and swallowed it down with a muttered, “Fuck it.”

Harry grinned, already leaning back against his pillows, the high softening the sharp edges of withdrawal before Louis’ eyes.

Louis slumped down next to him, shoulders knocking together, already feeling the warmth buzz under his skin. They were both fucked — but at least they’d be fucked together .

Again.

Always.

They stayed in their room, the door locked, the lights off except for the soft glow of Louis’ bedside lamp. Neither of them said out loud that they were too high to risk being seen — they didn’t need to. The second the drug kicked in, they both knew they weren’t going anywhere.

Louis lay sprawled out on his bed, limbs loose, head tipped back against the wall, laughing at nothing. Just the feeling of being alive felt funny — the way his fingers tingled, the way the blanket under him felt like velvet, the way his own breath sounded amplified in his ears, like the air itself was stroking his skin.

“Fuck,” Harry whispered from the other bed, his voice low and awed, like he’d forgotten what it felt like to feel good . “It’s like… everything’s buzzing.”

“Yeah,” Louis grinned, turning his head to look at Harry. “Like your skin’s singing.”

Harry’s eyes were blown wide, pupils swallowing the green, and his curls were a mess, sticking to his forehead from the heat rolling under his skin. “Come here,” Harry said suddenly, and Louis was too high to say no.

He climbed onto Harry’s bed, collapsing beside him, their shoulders pressed together, and Harry gasped , like the contact sent sparks through his whole body. “Jesus,” Harry muttered. “You feel… so good .”

Louis laughed, tipping his head back onto Harry’s pillow. “That’s the ecstasy, mate. Turns everyone into a bloody cuddle slut.”

Harry’s hand was already moving — dragging fingertips lazily down Louis’ forearm, tracing over the veins and the little scars, the skin hypersensitive under his touch. Louis shivered, but it wasn’t bad. It was good . Too good.

“Your skin’s so soft,” Harry said, like it was the most profound thing in the world. “It’s like—like silk.”

Louis giggled, half delirious. “That’s the moisturizer, baby.”

But Harry wasn’t joking. His hand slid up Louis’ arm, over his shoulder, brushing along the side of his neck. Louis’ skin lit up everywhere Harry touched, warmth flooding through him, his nerves humming like they were plugged into something electric.

Louis didn’t even think about it. He reached out, fingers sliding under the hem of Harry’s t-shirt, palms gliding up his ribs, just to feel . Harry’s skin was warm and soft, every muscle twitching under his touch, and Harry moaned — actually moaned , breathless and startled, like it had caught him off guard.

“Fucking hell,” Louis whispered, half-laughing. “We’re pathetic.”

Harry giggled, his hand sliding under Louis’ shirt in return, fingers tracing nonsense patterns across his stomach. “Feels so good ,” Harry said, almost dazed. “Like… you’re made of clouds.”

Louis burst out laughing, curling into Harry’s side as their hands kept moving, touching everywhere they could reach — ribs, arms, backs of necks, hips. Nothing sexual, not really. Just skin on skin, warmth on warmth, two bodies trying to memorize the feeling of being felt .

It wasn’t about wanting each other. It was about needing to touch something real, to remind themselves they weren’t alone inside their heads.

They lay like that for what felt like hours, laughing softly, tracing fingertips along each other’s arms and backs, the high smoothing out every sharp edge until there was nothing left but warmth and light and the sound of their breathing.

And Louis thought — not for the first time — that maybe this was all they’d ever needed. Someone to touch. Someone to feel . Someone to hold onto when everything else got too fucking loud.

Time stopped meaning anything. They lay there, limbs tangled, the blanket kicked half off the bed because they were too warm to need it. Every touch was electric, fingertips tracing lazy circles on forearms, collarbones, bare knees bumping under thin pajama shorts. The air between them felt thick, like it held its own weight, and every brush of skin against skin felt like a spark catching fire.

Louis couldn’t stop smiling. His face hurt from it, but it felt too good to stop. Harry’s curls tickled his cheek where they were lying face to face, knees pressed together, Louis’ palm sliding up and down Harry’s side just for the feeling of it.

“Haz,” Louis murmured, the nickname falling out of his mouth like it belonged there. “You’re soft, mate. Like… like the softest and best thing in the world.”

Harry giggled — an actual, high-pitched giggle that made Louis laugh so hard he nearly rolled off the bed. “In the world?” Harry wheezed, curling toward Louis like they were physically trying to melt into each other.

“Yeah,” Louis grinned, tugging him closer, fingers slipping under Harry’s shirt again, tracing the dip of his spine. “Smooth and warm and kind of ridiculous.”

“You’re ridiculous,” Harry said, breathless, but he was grinning too, eyes half-lidded, pupils still huge. “I love you.”

Louis snorted softly. “I love you too, Haz.” It didn’t feel weird or dramatic — just true. That molly truth where everything felt obvious and safe and inevitable.

Harry’s fingers curled into the front of Louis’ shirt, tugging him just a little closer. They were so close already, breaths mingling, noses brushing when one of them shifted. Louis could feel Harry’s heart hammering under his skin, all that restless energy suddenly focused in this tiny space between them.

“Lou,” Harry whispered.

“What?” Louis whispered back, just as soft.

“Kiss me.”

Louis’ smile softened into something slower, warmer, his thumb tracing the corner of Harry’s mouth. “Thought you‘d never ask.”

He leaned in, closing the space between them, mouths meeting soft and slow and so fucking easy . It wasn’t urgent, wasn’t messy — just a lazy, high, affectionate kiss that tasted faintly of toothpaste and Ecstacy and whatever cheap lip balm Harry used.

Harry made a soft sound, almost like a sigh, and his hand slid into Louis’ hair, tugging him just a little closer, their bodies slotting together like they belonged there. Louis kissed him again, and again, and then they were laughing into each other’s mouths, because it was stupid and they were high and none of it mattered except the fact that everything felt good .

“You’re really bad at this,” Louis teased, grinning against Harry’s lips. It was a little bit of a lie, because kissing Harry felt better than any drug Louis had ever been on.

“Shut up,” Harry grinned back, kissing him again, both of them smiling too hard to make it proper.

They rolled lazily together, Louis ending up half on top, his fingers tracing down Harry’s side, slipping under his shirt just to feel the heat of his skin. It was all softness and warmth and touch — not sex, not even really wanting , just needing to feel something good , something alive, something that wasn’t guilt or withdrawal or fear.

“Haz,” Louis said again, softer this time. “You alright?”

“Perfect,” Harry whispered, wide-eyed and blissed-out, fingers tracing the curve of Louis’ jaw. “Everything’s perfect.”

Louis knew it wasn’t — knew this was chemical magic, knew the crash was coming — but for now, he didn’t care. For now, they were warm and buzzing and wrapped around each other in the only safe place they had left.

“Perfect,” Louis repeated, and kissed him again.

They stayed wrapped up in each other, stretched across Harry’s narrow bed, limbs tangled in the lazy, uncoordinated way people only do when they’re too high to care where one of them ends and the other begins. Louis was lying half on his side, half draped over Harry’s chest, his cheek resting on Harry’s collarbone, fingers tracing nonsense patterns into the soft skin just above Harry’s waistband.

Harry couldn’t stop smiling, couldn’t stop running his fingers through Louis’ hair like it was the most fascinating texture in the world. Every time his fingers slid over Louis’ scalp, Louis shivered and sighed like it was the best feeling he’d ever known.

“Your hair’s so soft,” Harry whispered like it was a secret. “Like a bunny.”

Louis snorted into Harry’s chest. “I’m a cloud, silk and a bunny? What’s next, Haz, you gonna say I smell like fresh laundry and sunshine?”

“You do ,” Harry said, and somehow it didn’t sound like bullshit. It sounded like pure molly honesty — the kind of truth you only say when everything feels too good to lie.

“Haz,” Louis muttered into his skin, warm breath making Harry squirm. “I love you, you soft fuck.”

“Love you too,” Harry whispered back, his hand sliding under Louis’ shirt just to feel the skin on his back. “You’re like… the best person I’ve ever met.”

Louis burst out laughing, shoulders shaking. “Fuckin’ hell, mate, you need higher standards.”

“No,” Harry insisted, suddenly serious in the way only someone on drugs could be. “You’re like… you make everything less scary. Like if the world’s shit, you’re still funny, so it’s not as bad.”

Louis felt his stomach twist — not in a bad way, just in that way where something hits too close to home and you’re too high to dodge it. “Play Doh,” Louis said, softer now. “That’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me.”

“Well,” Harry said, voice sleepier now, fingers still tracing slow shapes against Louis’ back. “It’s true.”

They lay there for a while, talking in half sentences, following thoughts that made no sense, laughing at inside jokes they invented on the spot. Louis decided Harry’s feet were offensively large . Harry insisted Louis’ hands were weirdly small . They both agreed Greg was definitely in a secret cult, and that Judy had killed at least two husbands, probably with poison in their meatloaf.

They talked about stupid shit too — what their dream houses would look like, what they’d name a pet raccoon, Louis insisted on the name Riley, if they ever got one, whether there was a version of Monopoly that didn’t ruin friendships.

“Haz,” Louis said after a long silence, his voice drifting on the edge of sleep. “We should run away after this.”

“Where?” Harry asked, already halfway gone.

“Dunno.” Louis tucked his face into Harry’s neck, the scent of his shampoo soft and warm. “Somewhere without rules. Somewhere we can be fuckups without anyone caring.”

Harry hummed sleepily. “Okay.”

It didn’t mean anything. And it meant everything .

They fell asleep like that, skin to skin, high as kites, too warm and too happy to care that it wouldn’t last.

For one night, everything was perfect.

 

Louis woke up cold.

Not cold in the usual way — not like the air conditioning was too high, or the blanket had slipped off in the night. This was inside cold , that deep, gnawing emptiness that started somewhere in his chest and spread outward, leaving his skin too sensitive and his thoughts too loud.

The molly had drained out of his system overnight, taking all the warmth and glow with it. Now everything felt wrong — the air too sharp, the mattress too hard, his body too heavy, like someone had poured lead into his bones.

Harry was still asleep beside him, face half-buried in the pillow, curls a mess, his arm draped lazily across Louis’ stomach. They must’ve shifted in the night, but Louis barely remembered it. All he knew was the shine was gone, the good feelings dissolved into that familiar post-Ecstasy emptiness — the dopamine drop so sharp it made his teeth ache.

For a second, Louis stayed still, staring up at the ceiling, heart thudding a little too fast. His skin itched, his mouth tasted like death, and somewhere under all of it was the quiet, creeping shame. The same shame he always felt after a bender — like he’d borrowed happiness and endorphines from a payday loan shark, and now the bill was due with brutal interest.

Beside him, Harry stirred, groaning softly as he blinked himself awake. His face was pale, a little sweaty, the shadow of withdrawal already settling back over him now that the molly had burned off. Louis could see it — the way Harry’s hands twitched, his jaw clenched, his breathing too fast even though they hadn’t moved yet.

“Morning, Play Doh,” Louis muttered, voice rough. He meant it to sound normal — cheeky even — but it came out flat.

Harry squinted at him, then at the room, like it took him a second to remember where they were. His mouth opened like he was going to say something funny, but nothing came out. Just a long breath, shaky and uneven.

The silence stretched too long, the weight of reality pressing down over both of them.

“Feel like shit,” Harry said finally, voice small.

“Yeah,” Louis muttered. “Welcome to the Monday-after-the-rave.”

Harry dragged a hand down his face, fingers trembling faintly. “Do you… do you have anything left?”

Louis felt the words like a slap. His stomach turned, bile rising in the back of his throat. “ No ,” he said, sharper than he meant to. “I told you — no more.”

Harry flinched slightly, like he hadn’t expected Louis to stick to it. But Louis had to. If he didn’t draw the line now, he never would.

“Okay,” Harry said quietly, curling onto his side like he was trying to make himself smaller. “Okay.”

Louis sat up, elbows on his knees, head hanging low between his shoulders. His skin still felt wrong, his chest hollowed out, his mind racing with that restless, aching emptiness that always came after the high. All he wanted was to feel good again , to chase that glow, to fill the gap with something — coke, weed, anything . But Harry was right there, curled up like a kicked dog, and Louis couldn’t be the one to make it worse. Not again.

“We’ll get through today,” Louis said, voice quiet but steady. “One shit meal, one shit group, one shit hour at a time.”

Harry didn’t answer, just curled tighter into himself. Louis rubbed a hand over his face, hating himself just a little more than usual, and reached down to grab his cigarettes off the floor.

“Come on,” Louis said, flicking one out of the pack. “Let’s go find some sun. Pretend we’re not wrecks for half an hour.”

Harry sat up slowly, still pale, still shaky, but he followed.

Neither of them mentioned the night before. Neither of them mentioned the kisses, or the promises, or the way everything had felt perfect for a few fleeting hours.

It was easier to pretend it hadn’t happened — to blame it on the drugs, on the haze, on the desperation to feel anything good .

But Louis couldn’t help thinking — as they stepped out into the pale morning light, both of them raw and brittle and too quiet — that the only thing worse than the comedown was knowing they’d both want to do it all over again.

The rest of their stay slid into a pattern — one that shouldn’t have felt good, but somehow did. They’d get high sometimes, not every day, but enough to keep the walls from closing in too tight. Louis would sneak a bump before group, Harry would swallow a pill when his skin started crawling again, and sometimes they’d split a joint by the window, blowing smoke out into the dark like it might carry their secrets away with it.

They never talked about stopping again. They didn’t even pretend anymore.

Notes:

Well, wild ride already

If you‘re still here, just remember, it gets worse before it gets better, if it gets better at all

Chapter 6: Chapter 6

In between the highs, they made out. A lot.

It wasn’t romantic, not exactly. It wasn’t about falling in love. It was about needing something — skin on skin, warmth against warmth, mouths moving just to fill the silence when words weren’t enough. It was sloppy and stupid and half the time they were giggling too hard to make it proper, but it didn’t matter. They’d lie on Harry’s bed or Louis’, fingers tracing each other’s skin, passing a cigarette back and forth between kisses, letting the molly or the weed or the aftershocks of a good high make everything feel right for a little while.

Louis started calling him Play-Doh almost exclusively — a nickname born from that first day when Harry said he felt like he was made of it. It stuck, somehow, and Louis used it for everything.

“Oi, Play-Doh, pass me my lighter.”

“Come on, Play-Doh, we’re late for group.”

“You alright, Play-Doh?” whispered soft into Harry’s hair after a particularly bad night, when the tilidine withdrawal shook him so hard Louis thought his teeth might break.

And Harry just let him , never complaining, maybe even liking it — a reminder that Louis saw him, knew him, and still wanted to be tangled up with him, even when they were both falling apart.

Somehow they both stopped caring about going through with being sober. Neither of them knew when it had happened, probably somewhere around the time when Louis sat beside Harry on the floor while he puked his guts out. So now they just got high whenever, obviously always being careful not to get caught by the staff, but the pills even made the common room seem bearable.

The common room smelled like burnt coffee and cheap disinfectant, the kind of scent that got into the fabric of the furniture and refused to leave, no matter how many times they aired the place out. The overhead lights were too bright, but neither of them were sober enough to care. Louis was half-draped over the worn-out couch, legs tangled with Harry’s, a lazy grin on his face as they bickered with Jasmine over what movie to put on.

“No one wants to watch Fight Club , Jasmine,” Louis drawled, head tipped back against Harry’s shoulder. His fingers toyed absently with the hem of Harry’s sleeve, the way they always did when the drugs were good and the world felt far away.

“It’s a classic,” Jasmine argued, perched on the arm of the chair opposite them, her pink hair a little messy, her pupils blown wide. “And it’s about, like, societal oppression or whatever. You two are just uncultured.”

Harry made a vague noise of protest, but Louis could feel his lips twitching against the back of his neck, barely suppressing a laugh. “We’re in rehab , babe. Think we got the societal oppression thing covered.”

Jasmine huffed. “Fine. What do you want to watch then, Play-Doh?”

Louis cackled, nudging Harry in the ribs. “Told you it’s catching on.”

Harry groaned dramatically, shoving at Louis’ hip without any real force. “It’s not catching on.”

“It is now,” Jasmine confirmed, already flipping through the movie selection. “What about Shrek ?”

Harry hummed, considering. “I could get behind Shrek .”

Louis shot him a deeply offended look. “You veto Fight Club but Shrek is fine?”

“ Shrek is objectively a masterpiece,” Jasmine said, dead serious.

“She’s right,” Harry agreed, lips brushing against Louis’ shoulder as he spoke, too close, too warm, but Louis didn’t mind. He never did.

“You two are idiots,” Louis muttered, but he didn’t fight it when Jasmine hit play.

The opening scene of Shrek played on the shitty TV, tinny and distorted through the ancient speakers, but Louis wasn’t paying attention. He doubted Harry was either.

Somewhere between the first few lines of dialogue and the start of the swamp montage, Harry had shifted closer, his fingers still idly tracing patterns against Louis’ arm, his breath warm against the side of his neck. Louis wasn’t sure who moved first, whether it was him or Harry, but at some point, Harry’s nose had bumped against his jaw, and Louis had turned toward him without even thinking.

And now, well—now they weren’t really watching Shrek at all.

Harry’s mouth was soft against his, lazy and unhurried, like they had all the time in the world. There was no urgency, no hunger—just the slow drag of lips, the occasional flicker of a tongue, the kind of warmth that seeped into Louis’ bones and made everything else feel secondary. Harry tasted vaguely of cheap orange juice from earlier, his fingers curled loosely around Louis’ wrist like he was grounding himself, and Louis was completely lost in it.

Jasmine snorted from the other side of the couch. “You two are so fucking embarrassing.”

Louis barely acknowledged her, lifting a hand to cup the back of Harry’s head, fingers slipping into his curls. Harry hummed against his mouth, tilting his head to deepen the kiss, and Louis could feel the way he smiled into it, like this was easy, like this was the most natural thing in the world.

And it was , wasn’t it?

Nothing about this was serious. Nothing about this could be serious, not when they were both floating somewhere outside of reality, buzzing from whatever concoction they had cooked up for themselves that day. But it was nice . It was fun . It made the days go by a little faster, made the weight of everything sitting on their shoulders feel a little lighter.

Louis wasn’t thinking about what it meant. Wasn’t thinking about what would happen when the high faded. He was just thinking about the way Harry’s lips felt against his, the way he tasted, the way his breath hitched just slightly when Louis bit down on his bottom lip.

Then, suddenly—

“Ahem.”

Louis barely had time to process the voice before hands were on his shoulders, prying him away from Harry with the firm, practiced grip of someone who had done this before.

“What are we, fifteen ?” The nurse, a broad-shouldered woman named Claire, looked between them with a mixture of exasperation and amusement. “This is a rehab facility, not a bloody school dance. Knock it off.”

Harry blinked up at her, dazed, lips pink and a little swollen, and Louis had to bite down a laugh at how thoroughly they had been caught.

Jasmine, of course, was having a field day. “I told you two were embarrassing.”

Claire crossed her arms. “Separate couches. Now.”

Louis let out an exaggerated sigh, pushing himself up with all the dramatics of a man being deeply wronged. “You’re really stifling my personal growth here, Claire.”

She gave him a look. “I’ll stifle you all the way to solitary if I catch you dry-humping in the common room again.”

Harry, still pink in the face, shoved at Louis’ arm. “Go. Before she actually follows through.”

Louis grinned, shooting him a wink before dramatically flopping onto the other couch, making a show of pouting.

Claire rolled her eyes, muttering something about “goddamn children” before turning back toward the nurses’ station.

As soon as she was out of earshot, Jasmine smirked. “So, Shrek still a good choice?”

Louis sighed, propping his chin on his palm. “Honestly? Didn’t see a second of it.”

Harry snorted, biting down a smile. And even though they were on opposite couches now, Louis could still feel the heat of him, still see the way his fingers twitched like he wanted to reach back over.

After the movie, Louis and Harry made their way back to their shared room, still riding the last waves of whatever cocktail of substances they’d taken earlier. The high was fading, though, slipping through their fingers like sand, and Louis hated that. Hated the sluggish feeling that came with sobriety creeping back in, the way his limbs felt heavier, his mind sharper in all the wrong ways.

So, before Harry even had a chance to sit down, Louis flicked the light switch off, reached into the socket, and pulled out his stash.

Harry didn’t say anything—just watched, eyes dark under the dim glow from the hallway light, waiting. Louis liked that about him, how he didn’t ask or hesitate. Just trusted him, followed his lead.

“C’mere,” Louis murmured, tearing a piece of paper from an old notebook on the desk. He made quick work of it, tipping a little coke onto the surface, lining it up with a practiced hand. Then, with a smirk, he passed Harry a bill.

Harry took it, met his eyes, and dipped down first, quick and clean. When he pulled back, he sniffed, shaking out his shoulders, blinking like the world had just snapped into focus.

Louis went next, inhaling deep, feeling the rush spread through him instantly, sharp and bright and good . His heart kicked up, his skin tingling, his mind buzzing .

And then Harry was in front of him, close, too close, like the pull between them was suddenly magnetic.

Louis didn’t hesitate.

He surged forward, pressing Harry back against the wall, slotting their lips together in a messy, open-mouthed kiss. It wasn’t careful or slow—just desperate, heat sparking under his skin, hands gripping at Harry’s hoodie, pulling him in.

Harry made a soft, pleased noise, tilting his head to deepen it, fingers slipping under the hem of Louis’ shirt, cool against the heat of his skin. Louis grinned against his mouth, nipping at his bottom lip before licking over it, tasting the faint remnants of orange juice and the sharpness of coke lingering between them.

It was good. It was easy. It was—

A loud knock at the door nearly sent Louis’ heart through his ribcage.

“ Soccer starts in five! ” someone called from the hallway.

Harry groaned, dropping his forehead to Louis’ shoulder. “Fucking hell.”

Louis snickered, stepping back slightly, though his hands still lingered at Harry’s waist. “Come on, Play-Doh. Time to pretend we’re in recovery.”

Harry huffed but followed him out the door.

Sports therapy was a joke. All of it was. Art therapy, group therapy, the bullshit mindfulness exercises—it was all just a way to keep them occupied, to make it seem like they were getting better. Louis had been through it all before, sat through every session, listened to every spiel. It never worked.

But soccer?

Soccer, at least, was something he could get behind .

It was something he was good at, something that made sense in a way nothing else in this place did. It wasn’t about recovery or processing emotions or digging into his past mistakes—it was just playing , just running, just feeling the way his body worked .

And right now, with the coke burning through his veins, he felt unstoppable .

“Try to keep up,” he teased Harry, bouncing on the balls of his feet as they stood on the field.

Harry rolled his eyes, still looking a little dazed, like his body hadn’t fully caught up with his brain yet. “You’re ridiculous.”

Louis smirked, then took off as the whistle blew.

He weaved through the other players with ease, light on his feet, the ball an extension of his body. He barely registered the shouting around him, the clumsy attempts to steal the ball away. He was too fast, too focused, too alive .

And maybe it was the high, or maybe it was just him , but for once, he didn’t feel like a fuckup. Didn’t feel like someone trapped in an endless cycle of mistakes.

For once, he just felt free .

The match started off easy, just a casual game between a bunch of rehab patients who, for the most part, didn’t give a shit about soccer. Louis, on the other hand, was taking it seriously. Maybe too seriously. But how could he not? This was the only thing in this entire place that felt right , the only part of therapy that didn’t make him want to claw his own skin off.

And, obviously, Harry was on his team.

Harry, however, was shit .

Louis had suspected as much, but now, watching him try and fail to keep up, it was comical. The ball bounced right past him more times than Louis could count, and whenever he did get a touch, his passes were weak, sloppy, barely making it to their intended target. He ran like he wasn’t sure what to do with his own limbs, moving too slow, too stiff, like his brain wasn’t firing quick enough to keep up.

And, of course, someone had to make a comment.

“Jesus, Styles, are you even trying?” Jeremy, a lanky guy with too much confidence and not enough skill to back it up, scoffed after Harry completely botched a pass. He snorted, shaking his head. “Figures. Your type is all the same.”

Louis’ entire body stiffened mid-stride.

He turned, slowly, glancing over his shoulder at Jeremy, his heart still hammering from the coke but his focus shifting into something much sharper, much colder .

“The fuck is that supposed to mean?” Louis asked, voice light, casual.

Jeremy smirked, clearly enjoying himself. “Nothing, man. Just saying—pretty boys like him probably ain’t used to playing with balls like this.”

Louis felt the heat behind his ribs spread, burning hot, fast, furious.

Harry, to his credit, didn’t flinch. He just gave a tight, unbothered little smile, the kind Louis recognized all too well— the one that meant he was used to this shit .

Louis, however, was not .

So, the next time the ball landed at his feet, he took careful aim, lined up the shot just right , and sent it flying—straight into Jeremy’s face.

The impact was satisfying .

There was a sickening thwack , followed by a stunned silence as Jeremy stumbled back, clutching his nose.

“Oh, shit,” Louis said, eyes wide with mock horror. “That was an accident .”

Jeremy groaned, staggering slightly, blood already trickling from one nostril.

Harry, beside him, let out a choked-off laugh, quickly disguising it as a cough.

A whistle blew from across the field.

“Tomlinson!” one of the staff members barked. “What the hell was that?”

Louis plastered on his most innocent expression, hands up in surrender. “Sorry, sorry! Didn’t mean to! I just got a bit too much power behind it, you know?”

Jeremy glared, nostrils flaring—though, to be fair, one was already half-swollen shut.

Louis beamed at him. “Might wanna get that checked out, mate.”

Harry was still definitely trying not to laugh.

The staff member sighed, rubbing his temples. “Alright, that’s enough for today. Everyone, back inside.”

Louis turned to Harry, nudging him with his shoulder as they jogged off the field. “You owe me for that, Play-Doh.”

Harry grinned, eyes still a little wild from the coke. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Louis smirked. “That was a perfect shot.”

The next few days blurred together in a haze of whispered conversations, lazy kisses, and a lot of sneaking around.

They were slipping further, and neither of them seemed particularly interested in stopping it. If anything, they were leaning into it—drifting in and out of sobriety together, sharing highs, sharing space, sharing a bed more often than not. It had started out as a one-time thing, Louis slipping into Harry’s bed that first night when withdrawal had hit him hard, but now it was just habit .

Louis didn’t even question it anymore. He’d fall asleep with his nose pressed against the back of Harry’s neck, wake up to Harry’s arm slung across his stomach like it had always been there. Sometimes they kissed, sometimes they didn’t. Sometimes they just lay there, passing the time, wrapped around each other like it was the only thing keeping them from completely falling apart.

And, occasionally, they got caught .

On the fourth night, a nurse doing late rounds walked in on them curled up in Harry’s bed, Louis tucked under Harry’s arm, murmuring something against the shell of his ear that neither of them could even remember later.

“Ahem.”

Louis groaned, barely cracking an eye open. “Again?”

The nurse, an older woman with tired eyes, just sighed. “Separate beds, boys.”

Louis grumbled but rolled away, flopping dramatically onto his own mattress like he’d been personally wronged. Harry barely moved, just blinked sluggishly, obviously too exhausted to argue.

Then there was the time in the laundry room, when they were supposed to be folding their clothes but instead, Louis had Harry backed against the washing machine, his hands tangled in his hoodie, their mouths moving slow and sloppy, high enough that the rest of the world barely existed.

That one ended with Claire—the same nurse who had caught them in the common room—dragging Louis off Harry by the back of his collar.

“I swear to God ,” she muttered, rubbing her temples like they were giving her a migraine. “You two are worse than teenagers.”

Harry, lips still a little swollen, just smirked. “We are teenagers, and recovering addicts. Poor impulse control and all that.”

Claire shot him a look so sharp that Louis had to bite back a laugh. He really was a terrible influence.

By the end of the week, it was barely a secret anymore. They weren’t subtle—never had been. They were always together, always touching, always finding new places to get lost in each other.

And maybe it was bad, maybe they were spiraling, but Louis didn’t care.

Because when they were like this, tangled up in each other, nothing else really mattered.

Visitation days at rehab were always a mess of emotions—people crying, people pretending they weren’t crying, awkward silences, empty reassurances. Louis had never cared much for them. But he did care about seeing Zayn.

Zayn, his best mate, his lifeline inside and outside these walls. The one who kept him supplied, who never judged him for slipping, who always had his back. Every time visitation rolled around, Louis made his way to the common area where the guests were allowed, and Zayn would be there, leaned back in one of the uncomfortable plastic chairs, waiting with that lazy smirk of his like he owned the place.

But this time, before heading out, Louis paused in the doorway of his room, watching Harry.

Harry was sitting on his bed, arms crossed over his stomach, staring at the blank wall across from him. He looked small like that, curled in on himself, his knee bouncing slightly like he was trying to sit still but failing.

Louis already knew no one was coming to see him.

He hadn’t asked—hadn’t needed to. It was obvious.

Harry never mentioned anyone. Never looked forward to visitation. Never so much as glanced toward the common area when the time came. The most Louis had ever gotten out of him was an offhanded comment about his mum, something dry and bitter that had made it clear that whatever was there had already been fractured beyond repair.

Louis thought about saying something. Thought about asking. But then Harry flicked his eyes over, and Louis caught the flicker of something there—something guarded, something he didn’t want to talk about.

So Louis just rapped his knuckles against the doorframe and grinned. “Hold the fort, Play-Doh. I’m off to do my weekly social duty.”

Harry snorted, rolling his eyes, but the sound was quiet. “Yeah, yeah. Tell Zayn I said hi.”

Louis nodded and left before he could think too much about the way Harry still hadn’t moved from that spot on the bed.

Zayn had always been good at getting things past security.

Maybe it was his naturally laid-back demeanor, or maybe it was the fact that he never looked like a dealer—too pretty, too put-together, too calm. Whatever it was, he made it work.

“You look like shit,” Zayn said by way of greeting as Louis dropped into the chair across from him.

“Love you too, mate,” Louis quipped, stretching his arms over his head.

Zayn smirked, then leaned forward slightly, dropping his voice. “You need anything?”

Louis hesitated for half a second, then nodded. “More E, if you’ve got it.”

Zayn raised an eyebrow. “Thought you were mostly sticking to coke these days.”

Louis shrugged, glancing around, making sure no staff were close enough to hear. “Yeah, well. Ecstasy makes everything feel nice , you know?”

Zayn huffed out a laugh, shaking his head. “You and your new boyfriend keeping each other entertained, then?”

Louis shot him a warning look. “Don’t start.”

Zayn held his hands up in mock surrender. “Didn’t say anything.”

Louis rolled his eyes but didn’t push it.

Zayn reached into his pocket, subtle as ever, and slipped a small folded piece of paper across the table. Louis picked it up without looking, stuffing it into his hoodie pocket like it was nothing.

They kept talking after that, slipping into the usual easy rhythm, but Louis couldn’t quite shake the thought of Harry sitting alone in their room, staring at the wall.

He wasn’t going to push it.

But maybe next visitation, he wouldn’t leave so quickly.

After Zayn left, Louis made his way back to their room, his fingers absentmindedly fiddling with the folded piece of paper in his pocket. It wasn’t much—just a little something to make the world softer, warmer, less real . And if he was being honest, he wanted it just as much for himself as he did for Harry.

He found Harry exactly where he’d left him—still sitting on his bed, still in the same position, like he hadn’t moved in the entire hour Louis had been gone. His head was tipped back against the wall now, eyes shut, jaw tense like he’d spent the whole time gritting his teeth.

Louis leaned against the doorframe, watching him for a moment before digging into his pocket and pulling out the tiny square of paper.

“Here,” he said, tossing it onto Harry’s lap.

Harry cracked one eye open, glanced down at it, then looked back up at Louis. “What’s this?”

Louis huffed, stepping closer. “You know what it is.”

Harry stared at it for a second longer, then exhaled through his nose, rubbing a hand over his face. “You don’t have to—”

“I know ,” Louis interrupted, cutting him off before he could get any stupid moral high ground. He nudged Harry’s knee with his own, tilting his head. “But I am , so are we doing this or what?”

Harry hesitated, but only for a second. Then he sighed, fingers closing around the paper, and Louis smirked, already knowing he’d won.

They took it together, the way they always did, their movements practiced and easy.

And then—

It hit.

The world went soft at the edges, the air too warm, the colors too bright. Everything felt lighter, fuzzier, like a dream he didn’t want to wake up from.

And Harry.

Harry was right there , close enough that Louis could feel the heat of him, see the way his pupils had blown wide, his lips parted just slightly.

Louis didn’t think about it. Didn’t need to think about it.

He reached out, fingers brushing against Harry’s cheek, tilting his face toward him. Harry let him, didn’t fight it, didn’t even blink.

And then Louis kissed him.

It was slow, lazy, good —the kind of kiss that burned through him like liquid gold, warm and easy, like nothing else mattered. Harry sighed into it, melting against him, his fingers twisting into the fabric of Louis’ hoodie like he needed something to hold onto.

Louis deepened it, licking into Harry’s mouth, his hands slipping under the hem of his hoodie, pressing against warm skin. Harry shivered under his touch, his breath hitching slightly, and Louis grinned against his lips, dragging his nails lightly down his ribs just to hear that little noise again.

They were so far gone.

It didn’t matter, though. Not right now.

Right now, it was just them, tangled up together, high and weightless, kissing like nothing else in the world existed.

They were still tangled up together, the high still buzzing in their veins, when Louis finally found the courage to ask.

They weren’t making out anymore, just lying there, limbs lazily draped over each other, warmth shared between them like neither of them could be bothered to move. The ecstasy was working its magic, making everything feel nice , making Louis’ brain slow enough that he didn’t overthink before speaking.

“Why doesn’t she visit?” he murmured, his thumb brushing absentmindedly over Harry’s hip, the fabric of his hoodie bunched between his fingers.

Harry went still for a second, just a fraction of a pause, but Louis caught it anyway.

Then Harry exhaled, long and slow. “She’s just… not that kind of mum.”

Louis frowned, propping himself up on one elbow to get a better look at him. Harry wasn’t meeting his eyes, staring at the ceiling instead, his fingers tracing nonsense patterns against Louis’ wrist.

“What does that mean?” Louis asked softly.

Harry huffed a quiet, humorless laugh. “It means she isn’t exactly the most loving person on earth.” He shrugged, like it was no big deal, like he hadn’t just said something that made Louis’ stomach twist. “I don’t know. She‘s always too busy for me. Too tired. Too—” He waved a hand vaguely. “Whatever.”

Louis stayed quiet, waiting, and eventually, Harry sighed again, shifting a little closer, like the warmth between them was keeping him steady.

“She doesn’t like me much,” he admitted, his voice quieter now. “Not in the way mums are supposed to like their kids.”

Louis felt his chest ache in a way he didn’t like. He knew what it was like to have a shit parent—his own mum wasn’t exactly winning any awards, but at least she cared, his dad was a different story entirely—but there was something about the way Harry said it, something resigned, like he had accepted it a long time ago.

“What did she do?” Louis asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

Harry was quiet for a moment, then finally looked at him, a small, lopsided smirk playing at his lips. “You’re really ruining my high, you know.”

Louis huffed out a laugh, nudging him. “Shut up. I’m being caring .”

Harry’s smirk softened, just slightly. “I know.”

And then, without really thinking, Louis leaned down and kissed him again, slow and lingering, not as urgent as before. Just something soft, something good .

When he pulled back, he pressed his forehead against Harry’s and murmured, “For the record, she’s a fucking idiot.”

Harry let out a breathy laugh, his fingers tightening around Louis’ wrist. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Louis said firmly, nudging their noses together. “You’re dead lovable, Play-Doh.”

Harry rolled his eyes, but there was something warm in them now, something softer than Louis was used to seeing.

And even though neither of them said anything else about it, Louis knew .

Knew that he was probably the only one who had ever said something like that to Harry before. Knew that, no matter how much Harry played it off, it meant something.

So he didn’t push. Didn’t ask any more questions.

He just held him a little closer and let the silence settle around them like a secret neither of them had to say out loud.

 

The next day, for once, they were sober.

Not sober sober —they were still riding the lingering effects of the last few days, their bodies not yet screaming for more—but they hadn’t taken anything that morning. And that, in and of itself, was unusual.

Group had been a joke from the start, but now it was something worse. Something ugly .

Greg was still trying to make them do breathing exercises, talking about mindfulness and being present like any of them actually wanted to sit with themselves for long enough to let their thoughts settle. Louis was already bored, stealing glances at Harry, who looked just as disinterested, the two of them barely holding back their amusement.

And then Jeremy opened his mouth.

“You know,” he drawled, loud enough that no one could pretend not to hear him, “some of us are actually trying to get clean. Meanwhile, you two are too busy getting each other off to take this shit seriously.”

Louis barely had time to react before Jeremy doubled down.

“I mean, come on. This is rehab, not a fucking gay bar.” He sneered. “Guess it’s not really a surprise, though. We all knew Harry was gonna be someone’s little bitch sooner or later.”

The room went silent .

Louis moved before he even thought about it, shifting forward in his chair, his entire body thrumming with something sharp . His jaw clenched, his fingers curled into fists against his thighs, but his voice? His voice was smooth, even, dangerous .

“If you wanna walk out of here in one piece,” he said, calm and quiet and deadly, “you’ll stop talking shit about what’s mine .”

Jeremy faltered, just slightly, but it was enough.

Louis wasn’t bluffing. Not even a little. He might not have actually thrown a punch yet, but the promise was there , thick in the air between them, something unspoken that made Jeremy hesitate before he could get another word out. Louis had a reputation in this place, and it defenitely wouldn‘t have been the first time someone walked out of here with broken bones for running their mouth.

Louis let it stretch, let Jeremy feel it, before finally leaning back, settling into his chair like he hadn’t just threatened to break someone’s face.

Greg, ever the peacemaker, sighed loudly, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Okay, let’s—let’s not threaten physical violence, maybe?”

Louis gave him an easy smile. “Just making conversation, Greggy.”

Jeremy looked like he wanted to say something else, but he didn’t. He just glared, lips pursed, fingers twitching like he was weighing his options.

He made the right choice and shut the fuck up.

Beside him, Harry was still silent, still rigid, but Louis could feel the way his hand had inched closer to his own, the way his knee pressed just slightly against his.

Louis didn’t look at him. Didn’t have to.

He just smirked, tipped his head back against the chair, and let the silence speak for itself.

After group, Harry barely waited until they were out of the room before grabbing Louis by the sleeve, tugging him toward the hallway with more force than usual.

Louis didn’t fight it, just let himself be pulled along, feeling the tension rolling off Harry in waves. He knew what this was about. Knew it the second the words had left his mouth back in group.

Harry finally stopped once they were alone, away from prying eyes, and turned to face him. He wasn’t angry , exactly, but there was something off about his expression—something quiet, something uncertain .

Louis braced himself.

“What was that?” Harry asked, voice low. “Back there.”

Louis blinked, playing dumb. “What, the part where I told Jeremy I’d break his face if he kept running his mouth?”

Harry shook his head, jaw tight. “The part where you called me yours.”

Louis exhaled slowly, rubbing a hand over his face. Well, s hit .

He hadn’t meant for it to sound like that . Hadn’t meant for it to mean that . It wasn’t like he didn’t want Harry to be his—he did, more than he should—but that wasn’t why he’d said it.

He sighed. “Look, places like this… they have a hierarchy. It’s stupid, but it’s real. And I’ve been here before, couple times. People respect me.” He shifted his weight, glancing at Harry’s face, at the way his expression hadn’t changed. “I was just trying to get Jeremy off your back. That’s all.”

Harry went quiet.

And fuck , that wasn’t the reaction Louis wanted.

If Harry had gotten mad , Louis could’ve handled that. If he had laughed it off, made some stupid joke, it would’ve been fine. But this? This almost hurt .

Because Harry looked… disappointed. Sad .

Louis’ stomach twisted.

Without thinking, he stepped closer, holding Harry’s chin between two fingers, making him look at him properly.

“Hey,” he murmured, softer now. “That’s not what I meant.”

Harry didn’t say anything, just stared at him, eyes flickering over his face like he was searching for something.

Louis swallowed, thumb brushing against his jaw. “I wasn’t trying to make you feel like—like I was using you for something. Or like I was just saying it for show.” He wet his lips, then, because fuck it , they were already here. “I meant it. If you want to be.”

Harry’s breath caught.

Louis didn’t give him time to think about it, didn’t let the silence stretch long enough for doubt to creep in—he just kissed him .

Slow, deep, lingering.

Not like all the times before, when they had been high or reckless or desperate. This time, Louis was careful . This time, he poured meaning into it, let Harry feel what he couldn’t quite say.

When he pulled back, their foreheads still pressed together, he whispered, “You’re mine if you wanna be, Play-Doh.”

Harry exhaled shakily, his fingers curling into Louis’ hoodie. “Yeah?”

Louis smiled, just slightly. “Yeah.”

And this time, when he kissed him again, Harry kissed him back like he believed it.

Harry kissed him back, slow and warm, fingers twisting in Louis’ hoodie like he didn’t want to let go. Louis didn’t mind. He liked it when Harry held onto him like that—like he needed him, like he wanted this just as much as Louis did.

It wasn’t like all the other times, where they had been high out of their minds, reckless and desperate. This was different . Softer. Slower. Not nearly sober but definitely a start.

And Louis—well, Louis had never been great at taking things slow.

His hands found their way under Harry’s hoodie without him really thinking about it, palms pressing flat against the bare skin of his waist, warm and solid beneath his fingertips. He felt Harry shiver under his touch, felt his breath hitch slightly against his lips.

Louis grinned. “Ticklish, Play-Doh?”

Harry huffed, rolling his eyes but not moving away. “Shut up.”

Louis just hummed, dragging his fingers higher, tracing the ridges of his ribs, feeling the way Harry melted into him, pliant and soft. He liked touching him like this, liked knowing that Harry wasn’t pulling away, that he wanted this just as much.

And maybe they would’ve kept going, maybe Louis would’ve leaned in again, maybe he would’ve let his hands wander even further, but—

“AHEM.”

Louis froze.

Harry tensed.

Slowly, painfully slowly, they turned toward the source of the voice.

Claire.

Of fucking course it was Claire.

She stood there, arms crossed, her expression caught somewhere between exasperation and barely-contained amusement. “Would love to let you two continue whatever this is,” she said, voice dripping with sarcasm, “but maybe don’t grope each other in the hallway?”

Harry groaned, immediately shoving Louis off of him, face going red.

Louis, on the other hand, just grinned. “Define grope , Claire.”

She gave him a flat look.

Louis sighed, holding his hands up in surrender. “Alright, alright. No more public indecency. Scout’s honor.”

Claire rolled her eyes. “Yeah, I really believe that.” She pointed between them. “Separate yourselves. Now .”

Harry, still looking thoroughly mortified, muttered, “We weren’t —”

“ Now .”

Louis sighed dramatically but stepped back, shoving his hands in his pockets. “You’re really cramping our style, Claire.”

Claire pinched the bridge of her nose. “I swear to God , if I catch you two one more time —”

Louis smirked. “What? Gonna make us bunk separately?”

Claire’s expression turned deadly . “I will make sure you’re not even in the same group sessions.”

Louis’ smirk dropped instantly.

Claire grinned.

“Thought so,” she said, smug. “Now, behave yourselves.” And with that, she turned on her heel and walked off.

Louis let out a long breath, shaking his head. “We have to be more careful.”

Harry, still pink in the face, crossed his arms. “ We ?”

Louis grinned, nudging him with his elbow. “Yeah, alright. Me .”

Harry rolled his eyes, but there was a hint of a smile there.

And, despite getting told off again , Louis still walked away feeling like he’d won.

The next few weeks passed in a blur of routine—group sessions, sports therapy, shitty coffee in the mornings, whispered conversations at night. Louis and Harry still snuck around, still found corners of the facility where they could press up against each other and steal breathless kisses, but they were careful now.

After Claire’s threat, they could not afford to get caught again. If they got separated, if they weren’t allowed to sit together in group, if they weren’t even in the same therapy sessions, Louis wasn’t sure what would happen. He wasn’t sure what he would do.

So they played it smart. They didn’t push their luck too much. Their kisses were quieter, their touches more fleeting, but the intensity never changed. If anything, it grew stronger. Because the countdown had started.

Louis was leaving.

Harry wasn’t.

He hadn’t told Louis at first, not wanting to make a big deal out of it, but Louis had figured it out anyway—noticed when Harry met with his counselor more often, noticed when his weekly check-ins started lasting longer, noticed when his file was being reviewed again.

And then one night, curled up in the same bed like they always were now, Harry finally admitted it.

“They extended my stay,” he murmured, voice soft against the dark.

Louis exhaled slowly, his fingers playing absentmindedly with the hem of Harry’s sleeve. “Yeah,” he muttered. “I figured.”

Harry tensed, just slightly. “Are you mad?”

Louis furrowed his brows. “Mad?”

Harry shrugged, his head still tucked against Louis’ chest. “I dunno. You’ve got your shit together more than I do. Maybe you don’t wanna be around this anymore.”

Louis frowned. “Harry.”

Harry didn’t respond, but Louis could feel the way he was bracing himself.

So Louis tilted Harry’s face up, brushed his thumb over his cheek, and sighed. “Don’t be a fucking idiot. If I had my shit together, I wouldn’t be here.”

Harry let out a quiet huff, but Louis could tell he wasn’t convinced.

Louis swallowed, the weight of reality pressing down on him. “You do wanna get clean, though, right?”

Harry blinked at him, something shifting in his expression.

Louis wet his lips. “Because I do. I mean, I don’t—I don’t know how well it’s gonna go. I don’t know if I’m gonna last a week or a fucking day. But I—I want to try.” He exhaled, forcing himself to hold Harry’s gaze. “Do you?”

Harry was quiet for a moment, then nodded. “Yeah.”

Louis felt something in his chest unclench, the tension easing slightly.

“I dunno if I can do it on my own,” Harry admitted, voice barely above a whisper.

Louis’ fingers tightened around his wrist. “You won’t have to.”

Harry’s throat bobbed. “Yeah?”

Louis nodded. “Yeah. We’ll figure it out. After I leave, after you get out, we’ll—we’ll just figure it out .”

Harry didn’t say anything. Just curled in closer, buried his face against Louis’ neck, and let out a slow breath.

And Louis knew —deep down, he knew this wasn’t going to be easy. That once he was out in the real world, the pull of old habits, old temptations, would be everywhere . That Harry, stuck here without him, might slip, might struggle, might not be able to do this alone.

Neither of them had ever been good at the serious stuff, not when it came to themselves. It was easier to crack jokes, to keep things light, to pretend that none of it mattered.

But it did matter.

“Rehab’s bullshit, we can still get high in here,” Louis muttered, breaking the silence.

Harry let out a quiet huff of amusement. “Yeah.”

Louis nudged him with his knee. “Like, we’re not actually fixed , are we?”

Harry snorted. “Not even a little.”

Louis turned his head, glancing at him. Harry was staring at the wall, fingers idly tapping against his knee, like he was trying to keep himself grounded.

Louis swallowed. “You still wanna do it, though?”

Harry finally looked at him, his green eyes unreadable in the dim light. “Do what?”

Louis exhaled, tipping his head back against the mattress. “Stay sober. After this. Once we‘re out.”

Harry didn’t answer right away, and for a second, Louis thought maybe he wouldn’t . But then—

“Yeah,” Harry said quietly.

Louis glanced at him again, eyes searching. “Yeah?”

Harry nodded, a little more certain this time. “Yeah. If you do.”

Louis studied him for a moment, then smirked. “So what you’re saying is, if I go off the rails, you’re coming with me?”

Harry rolled his eyes but smiled, just slightly. “Something like that.”

Louis let out a long breath, shifting so their shoulders pressed together. “We’re fucked, aren’t we?”

Harry huffed a laugh. “Yeah.”

Louis grinned. “Rehab’s still bullshit, though.”

Harry nodded. “Definitely.”

They sat there for a while, silent but comfortable, neither of them needing to say anything else.

Because yeah , rehab was bullshit.

But they’d still try.

Notes:

How are you feeling? Do you like the show? Are you tired of it? Nevermind I don‘t wanna-

Okay I‘ve been watching too much Bo Burnham lately and it shows.

Serously though, enjoying the ride so far?

Chapter 7: Chapter 7

The last few days were soaked in a weird mix of dread and denial. Nobody said the words Louis is leaving soon , but it hung in the air like smoke — something they could taste but never directly addressed.

Instead, Louis filled the silence by teaching Harry all the tricks he’d picked up over his years of being a repeat customer at places like this.

“Right,” Louis said, perched on his bed, an empty shampoo bottle between his knees and a safety razor dismantled beside him. “First rule: always bring your own toiletries, because the rehab-issued ones are too see-through.”

Harry, sitting cross-legged on the floor, watched like Louis was giving him ancient wisdom. “Okay.”

“Second rule,” Louis continued, slicing the bottle open with the precision of someone who’s done this far too many times, “hollow out your shampoo bottle before you check in. Pre-surgery. Otherwise you look suspicious as fuck, doing this in your room.”

Harry nodded seriously, like he was taking notes. “Pre-surgery. Got it.”

“Third rule,” Louis said, sliding a fake stash of sugar packets into the bottle for demonstration, “always double-bag it. Shampoo’s a bitch if it leaks into your actual stash.”

Harry wrinkled his nose. “Why are you so good at this?”

Louis grinned. “Rehab veteran, Play Doh.”

They spent an entire afternoon like that — Louis walking Harry through the art of hiding pills in tampon boxes (“nobody ever bothers to dig through that”), sneaking joints into hollowed-out pens, and taping baggies flat against the inside of book covers. It was darkly educational, but it made Harry laugh, and if Louis could leave him with anything, it might as well be the skills to survive this place without him.

But Harry gave something back, too.

On Louis’ second-to-last night, they were sprawled on Harry’s bed, Louis doodling his millionth stick figure on a scrap of paper while Harry groaned in horror beside him.

“Right,” Harry said, sitting up abruptly. “This is unacceptable .”

Louis looked up, brow raised. “What is?”

“This.” Harry snatched the paper from him, waving it in the air. “You’ve been here how many times and you still draw like a toddler on ketamine.”

Louis grinned. “I’m a man of consistency.”

“Not anymore.” Harry slid off the bed, rummaged through his drawer, and came back with a sketchbook and a slightly stubby pencil. “I’m teaching you. Come on, Lou, you’re getting an art lesson.”

Louis groaned dramatically but didn’t actually protest. He let Harry sit beside him, their knees touching, and watched as Harry drew a quick shape — not too complicated, just the outline of a face. “You start with this,” Harry said, his voice soft but serious, like this actually mattered to him. “The frame. Everything fits inside this.”

Louis frowned in concentration, copying it badly. His lines were shaky, too dark, the head lopsided.

“Alright, alright,” Harry said, laughing softly. “Relax your hand. You’re holding the pencil like it owes you money.”

Louis snorted, but he eased his grip, trying again. Harry’s hand slid over his, guiding him through the first few lines, and something about it — the gentleness, the care — made Louis’ chest ache. He’d spent so much time teaching Harry how to sneak and lie and cheat the system, and here Harry was, teaching him how to make something.

It wasn’t perfect. The face they ended up drawing looked a bit like a startled egg, but it wasn’t a stick figure, and that was progress.

“That’s my masterpiece,” Louis said proudly, holding it up. “The face of a man who’s just realised his dealer got nicked.”

Harry laughed so hard he had to bury his face in the pillow. “You’re hopeless.”

“And you’re soppy,” Louis said, but he tucked the drawing into his notebook anyway, folding it carefully like it actually meant something.

They spent the rest of the night like that — trading skills, passing the lighter back and forth, making promises they didn’t even realise they were making. Louis teaching Harry how to sneak through hell. Harry teaching Louis how to make something that wasn’t a joke.

Their last night started the only way it could — high as fuck, like a proper farewell party for the worst and best weeks of their lives.

Louis pulled out the very last of his stash, the final blue punisher and a bump of coke each, and they did it together, sitting cross-legged on Harry’s bed like kids at a sleepover, except they were too old for this and too young to feel this wrecked inside.

It hit fast, like it always did. Louis’ skin started buzzing, every nerve awake and alive, and everything Harry did — every smile, every laugh, every tiny fidget — was suddenly fascinating. Louis lay back, giggling to himself, dragging his hands down his own arms just to feel his own skin, because fuck , everything felt good .

Harry wasn’t much better — sprawled out beside him, head lolling on Louis’ shoulder, fingers tracing slow circles on Louis’ stomach, giggling at nothing like his brain was just a mess of bright lights and warm static.

“Haz,” Louis muttered, “you’ve got the softest hands for a junkie.”

Harry laughed so hard he nearly rolled off the bed. “Shut up! I’m not a junkie.”

“Mate, you’ve been on more pills this month than my nan after hip surgery.”

Harry snorted, but his hand slid up Louis’ chest, fingers pressing into the dip of his collarbone, and suddenly they weren’t just laughing anymore. It was that soft, slow kind of touching that felt less like flirting and more like holding on — like memorizing the feel of each other because they both knew this was the last night.

Louis turned his head, noses bumping, and Harry kissed him without thinking — easy and messy and sweet, like kissing Louis was just something Harry did now, like it belonged to them.

Louis kissed him back, grinning against his mouth, hands sliding under Harry’s shirt to press against his back, warm skin on warm skin. It was all soft and silly, half making out, half laughing into each other’s mouths, stopping every few seconds to whisper something stupid.

“You taste like toothpaste and bad decisions,” Louis muttered, and Harry bit his lip to keep from laughing.

“You taste like weed and regret,” Harry shot back, and Louis kissed him again just to shut him up.

They made out until their jaws were sore, until they were half-tangled under the blanket, bodies too warm, skin buzzing from the pills, fingers tracing everywhere they could reach. It wasn’t about getting off — it wasn’t even about sex. It was about feeling , about not wanting the night to end, about filling every gap between them with touch and laughter and skin and words they were too afraid to say sober.

Somewhere between kisses, Louis flopped onto his back, hair sticking to his sweaty forehead, and sighed dramatically. “We should go out with a bang.”

Harry, curled against his side, propped himself up on one elbow. “What?”

“You know,” Louis said, grinning. “One last hurrah. Proper junkie shit. Double drop, mix it all, see if we survive.”

Harry’s smile faltered. “That’s not funny.”

Louis shrugged, still smiling, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Why not? If I’m gonna go, might as well make it entertaining.”

“Stop,” Harry said, voice flat now. “Don’t joke about that.”

Louis blinked, still too high to process how serious Harry looked. “Haz—”

“No.” Harry sat up, hands trembling just slightly. “That’s not funny, Lou. You think this is all some big joke, but it’s not. You scare the shit out of me sometimes.”

Louis’ smile flickered. “It’s just—”

“No,” Harry cut him off, voice cracking. “You joke about overdosing like it’s a punchline, but you’re my best fucking friend and if you die—”

“I’m not gonna die,” Louis said quickly, but his voice was softer now.

“You could ,” Harry said, voice barely above a whisper. “And you wouldn’t even care.”

Louis sat up too, the high still buzzing under his skin but the mood fully shifted now, something heavier hanging between them. “I would care.”

“Then stop saying shit like that,” Harry said, eyes wide and too shiny, like the drugs were dragging every emotion to the surface whether Harry wanted it or not. “Because it’s not funny, and it’s not cool, and if you died—” He broke off, wiping his nose on his sleeve. “I couldn’t— I can’t lose you.”

Louis’ chest ached — not from the drugs, but from the way Harry looked at him, like Louis was the only stable thing in the whole fucked-up world, even when Louis was the furthest thing from stable.

“Okay,” Louis said quietly. “No more jokes about that, I‘m sorry baby.”

“Promise?” Harry asked.

Louis wanted to lie, but he couldn’t. “I’ll try.”

That was all he could give. It wasn’t enough, but Harry curled back into his side anyway, cheek pressed to Louis’ chest, fingers tracing over his ribs like he was counting them.

They lay like that, high and quiet, hearts beating too fast, both of them pretending they weren’t terrified of tomorrow.

“Play-Doh,” Louis whispered into Harry’s curls, voice cracking just slightly. “I’m gonna miss you.”

Harry squeezed his eyes shut, face buried in Louis’ shirt. “I already miss you.”

Neither of them knew what would happen after this. But for tonight, they had each other.

For tonight, that was enough.

The morning was cruel.

Too bright, too loud, too fast — reality crashing in like a cold slap to the face. Louis woke up first, somehow, even though his head felt like it had been packed with sand, his mouth dry and his skin still faintly buzzing from the molly hangover. Harry was still asleep beside him, curled up small, face pressed into Louis’ pillow, his curls a chaotic mess from all the tossing and turning. They were still half-tangled, Harry’s leg thrown over Louis’ knee, one of his hands fisted loosely in Louis’ t-shirt like he’d held on even after they passed out.

Louis lay there for a minute, just staring at him. Taking it in. Trying to remember every detail because today was the end of this strange, messy, too-close cocoon they’d built together. After today, Louis would be gone. And Harry would be here, alone.

Louis’ stomach twisted at the thought, and for the first time, he felt something he hadn’t let himself feel in years — guilt . Not the half-assed, ‘sorry I got us caught’ kind. The real thing. The heavy, sour weight of knowing he was leaving someone behind. Someone who actually gave a shit.

The knock came too soon, the staff waking everyone for breakfast, and Louis felt Harry stir beside him, a low groan rumbling in his chest.

“Morning, Play-Doh,” Louis said softly, voice rough.

Harry’s eyes opened slowly, puffy from sleep, pupils back to normal for once. He blinked a few times, confusion flickering before it settled into something heavier — remembering.

“Today’s the day,” Louis said, keeping his tone light even though it felt like his ribs were caving in.

Harry didn’t say anything. Just pressed his face into Louis’ shoulder for a second longer before forcing himself to sit up, curls a disaster, hoodie twisted around him like a child who’d been tucked in too tightly.

They didn’t talk much through breakfast — not that there was much to say. Louis made one last joke about the porridge looking like cement, Harry gave him a soft, tired smile, and then it was back to their room for Louis to pack the last of his stuff.

It felt clinical, like every fold of fabric into his duffel bag was one more nail in the coffin. Harry sat on his bed, watching but not speaking, fingers knotting together in his lap. The silence felt too big, too sharp, but Louis didn’t know how to fill it.

When the bag was zipped, Louis turned to Harry and grinned, too wide, too fake. “Don’t forget me, Play-Doh.”

Harry’s face crumpled for half a second before he forced it back into something steadier. “Couldn’t if I tried.”

Louis rocked on his heels, hands shoved deep into his hoodie pockets. “You’ll be alright, yeah?”

Harry gave a helpless little shrug. “Will you?”

Louis’ smile faltered, just a bit. “Dunno,” he admitted. “But I’ll try.”

Harry stood up, close enough that Louis could feel his body heat, and suddenly Louis felt twelve years old again — awkward, out of place, desperate to say the right thing but having no fucking clue what it was.

“Come here,” Harry said quietly, voice soft and serious, and Louis barely had a second to process before Harry’s hands were on his face, cupping his jaw, and they were kissing.

Properly.

Sober.

It wasn’t messy or giggly this time. There was no molly haze softening the edges, no smoke curling between their lips. Just Harry’s mouth against Louis’, warm and nervous and real . Louis’ hands found Harry’s hips, holding on like the ground might give out, and Harry’s thumbs stroked over Louis’ cheekbones, like he was trying to memorize him.

When they finally pulled apart, Harry’s eyes were bright, too shiny, and Louis’ chest felt like someone had tied a knot around his ribs.

“I’ll see you when you’re out,” Louis said, even though neither of them had made any plans.

“Promise me you‘ll try, and promise me you‘ll be there when I get out.” Harry whispered.

“Promise,” Louis lied, because it was easier than the truth — that he didn’t know where he’d be tomorrow, let alone in six weeks. Harry wasn‘t the first rehab fling Louis had had, but maybe Harry would be different, though his history with things like this was horrid.

Harry hugged him hard, arms tight around Louis’ back, face pressed into his neck, and Louis squeezed his eyes shut because if he cried now, he’d never stop.

Then the door opened, and it was time to go.

Louis slung his duffel over his shoulder, gave Harry one last crooked smile, and walked out without looking back — because looking back would’ve ruined him.

Zayn was waiting in the car park, leaning against his beaten-up hatchback with a cigarette dangling from his lips and sunglasses pushed up into his hair, even though the sky was grey as shit. He grinned when he saw Louis, arms spread wide like they were at the airport in a rom-com.

“Fresh out, baby!” Zayn called, voice echoing across the concrete.

Louis grinned back, even though his stomach was still twisted from leaving Harry behind. “Bet you missed me,” Louis said, dumping his duffel in the boot.

“Like a fucking rash,” Zayn smirked, flicking his cig into a puddle and clapping Louis on the back hard enough to make him stumble. “Get in, sober warrior.”

Louis snorted, climbing into the passenger seat while Zayn peeled out of the lot like they were robbing the place. The radio was too loud, some old Oasis song crackling through the speakers, and Louis let himself melt into it — the familiar stink of Zayn’s car, the way his fingers drummed on the steering wheel, the smell of stale smoke and cheap air freshener.

It was like rehab had been a dream, and now real life was back. Except Louis couldn’t stop thinking about Harry — curled up in that tiny bed, the taste of that last kiss still stuck to Louis’ lips.

“You alright?” Zayn asked, glancing sideways at him.

“Yeah,” Louis said, voice too breezy. “Buzzing to be out.”

Zayn gave him a look like he knew Louis was full of shit, but — bless him — Zayn never pushed unless Louis was actively bleeding out. “We’re hitting the pub tonight,” Zayn said instead. “Niall’s been counting down the days like a kid waiting for Christmas.”

“Of course he has,” Louis grinned. “He’s pathetic.”

“He loves you,” Zayn said, grinning back. “We all do.”

Louis’ smile flickered, but he shoved the feeling down before it could get comfortable.

They pulled up outside Louis’ mum’s house twenty minutes later, and before Louis could even knock, the door flew open and Johannah was there, arms open wide, pulling him into a hug so tight it nearly knocked the air out of him.

“My boy,” she whispered, clutching the back of his head like she could keep him there if she just held tight enough. “I’m so proud of you.”

Louis’ chest hurt again, but he kept his smile plastered on, pulling back and kissing her cheek. “Thanks, Mum.”

She ushered him inside, fussing immediately — asking if he was hungry, if he needed anything, if he was sure they didn’t give him some kind of infection in there. Louis let her talk, let her mother , because it made her happy, and because if he didn’t let her believe this had all worked , it might break her heart.

“So,” Johannah said eventually, hands on her hips, “what’s the plan for tonight? Shall we do a nice dinner to celebrate?”

“Actually,” Louis said, as casually as he could, “Zayn and Niall wanna take me out. Just a little thing. Celebrate the new, sober me.”

Johannah’s face softened immediately, proud and hopeful. “That’s lovely, Lou. As long as there’s no—”

“No drugs,” Louis cut in smoothly. “No alcohol. Just some food and maybe some really bad karaoke.”

Her smile lit up the room. “I’m so proud of you,” she said again, like if she repeated it enough times, it would become true.

“Love you, Mum,” Louis said, and for a second, it almost felt real.

He went upstairs to unpack, Zayn waiting in the car, and sat on the edge of his childhood bed, staring at his reflection in the mirror across the room.

“I’m clean,” Louis said to his reflection, trying the words on like a new coat.

It didn’t fit.

He ran a hand through his hair, texted Niall Be there in 20 , and shoved his duffel under the bed — drugs, dirty clothes, and all.

The pub was alive in that grimy, golden way only pubs like this could be—warm lights and sticky floors, air thick with too many conversations layered over each other, glasses clinking, someone already shouting over the start of Mr. Brightside like they couldn’t wait for the chorus. Louis stood outside for a second before going in, hand tightening briefly on the door handle, the cold biting at the back of his neck.

It smelled exactly the same. Stale beer, fried food, and that undercurrent of sweat and smoke that clung to the walls no matter how many times they repainted. The kind of smell that stayed with you, soaked into your skin and hair, followed you home like proof that you’d been here .

He barely had time to take a step inside before—

“LOUIS FUCKING TOMLINSON!”

Niall’s voice tore through the noise like a war cry, and before Louis could blink, he was being tackled, a blur of denim and whiskey breath crashing into him.

“Jesus fuck , Niall,” Louis wheezed, stumbling back as Niall wrapped himself around him like an octopus, both arms locked around Louis’ shoulders in a stranglehold.

“No time,” Niall declared, already dragging him further in like a kid hauling his mum through a toy shop. “My boy’s BACK! Fresh outta spiritual enlightenment and whatever the fuck Greg tried to teach you.”

Louis barely had time to process before Eleanor was there too, shrieking his name like they hadn’t seen each other in years instead of months . She had always been a force , a whirlwind of tangled curls and neon nail polish, and now she was jumping on him like she fully intended to knock them both to the floor.

“Babe, I missed you ,” she all but wailed, smushing his face into her shoulder with the force of a woman who would not be letting go anytime soon. “Do you know how fucking boring it was without you?”

“Lack of entertainment really was devastating,” Oli added from the side, tone dry, but there was a small, fond smile tugging at his lips. He clapped Louis on the back, the kind of greeting that didn’t seem like much but meant everything coming from him.

Zayn, who had driven him here, stayed just behind the group, watching with an amused smirk, smoke curling around his head like a halo. He didn’t rush in, didn’t yell, just gave Louis a slow once-over, nodding once. “You look alright.”

Louis huffed a laugh. “You make it sound like you weren’t expecting me to.”

Zayn shrugged, taking another drag from his cigarette. “Never know with you, mate.”

And that—that meant more than Louis knew how to put into words.

But he didn’t have to, because Niall was already shoving a pint into his hand, foam sloshing over the rim as he raised his own glass high. “To recovery!” Niall announced dramatically, face flushed with booze and excitement.

Louis hesitated. Just for a second. A heartbeat.

Then he lifted his glass, grin sharp and easy, masking everything . “To personal growth.”

“Fuck personal growth,” Zayn said, flicking his cigarette into an ashtray. “To survival.”

“To chaos,” Eleanor added, winking.

“To making bad decisions,” Niall said gleefully.

Oli rolled his eyes, clinking his glass against theirs. “To not making bad decisions.”

Louis just laughed, letting the warmth and the noise of the pub swallow him whole.

The version of himself that had been in rehab, the one who had sat in group and promised to do better, felt a million miles away.

That Louis wasn’t this Louis.

And this Louis?

He just needed a pint in his hand and a good line to throw across the table.

They all laughed, and Louis took his first sip—cold and bitter and heavy with meaning—and just like that, rehab was a memory, something that had happened to someone else.

Here, in this pub, with these people, Louis wasn’t the kid from group therapy pretending to process his feelings. He wasn’t the one with withdrawal shakes or the one talking about coping mechanisms and self-worth or whatever the fuck Greg had tried to drill into his head. He was just Louis , the fun one, the one who could keep up with anyone, the one who never said no.

They slid into their old booth, the one in the corner where the table wobbled and the seat was split open along the side, stuffing peeking out like a wound. Eleanor all but launched herself onto the bench next to Louis, throwing her legs over his lap dramatically, like she hadn’t been waiting for an excuse to do it.

“God, I missed this,” she declared, tipping her head back against Zayn’s shoulder. “Rehab made you mysterious. I hated it.”

“I was mysterious,” Louis agreed, grin easy, hand settling on her knee.

“You were away ,” Niall corrected, already drumming his fingers against the table, restless energy crackling off him like static. “Which was tragic . Anyway, shots.”

“Jesus, you lasted five whole minutes before making this about alcohol?” Oli muttered, shaking his head.

Niall clutched his chest, wounded . “That’s offensive . It’s been at least six.”

Louis chuckled, but before he could even consider objecting, Eleanor gasped dramatically and pointed at him. “Wait, wait. You have to take the first shot.”

Louis blinked. “Why?”

Eleanor grinned. “Because you’ve been reborn .”

“Jesus Christ,” Zayn muttered, lighting another cigarette.

“ No , hear me out,” Eleanor insisted, wiggling her way even further into Louis’ lap. “You left. You suffered. You came back to us . It’s, like, biblical or something.”

Louis snorted. “Are you saying I’m Jesus?”

“I’m saying I missed you ,” she corrected, nudging her nose against his cheek before tilting her head toward the bar. “And I really wanna watch you take a shot.”

Louis hesitated, some ghost of his mum’s proud face flickering behind his eyes. “Told my mum and Ply-Doh—”

“One shot’s not a relapse,” Niall cut in smoothly, waving the bartender over. “That’s just good manners .”

“Yeah,” Zayn added, kicking Louis lightly under the table. “Can’t come back from the dead and not take a welcome-home shot. That’s rude .”

Louis’ stomach twisted, but he knew how this worked. If he said no, if he made a big deal out of it, they’d keep pushing. They’d laugh, call him boring, tell him rehab turned him soft. They didn’t mean harm—not really—but none of them knew what to do with a sober Louis. None of them wanted to think about what that would mean for themselves .

So Louis smiled. Raised his glass. Took the shot.

It burned down his throat, familiar and easy, and Niall whooped, banging his fist on the table.

“That’s my boy !” he crowed, sloshing his own drink in the process. Eleanor cheered along with him, leaning into Louis’ side, and Oli just shook his head with an amused smirk, like he’d seen this exact scene play out a hundred times before.

And just like that, it started. One drink became two, two became three, and then it wasn’t about counting anymore—it was about the warmth in his veins, the noise, the ease of it all.

Somewhere between the third pint and a basket of chips, Zayn leaned in, smirk lazy, voice low.

“Fancy a bump?”

Louis’ stomach twisted, something sharp and hungry curling up inside him. He shouldn’t. He knew he shouldn’t. But the beer was already working its way through his system, the laughter too loud, the weight of Harry’s wide, worried eyes at the rehab door feeling too far away to matter.

“Bathroom?” Louis said, already standing.

They crammed into the tiny stall like they always had, Zayn balancing a key between his fingers, Louis wiping the back of his hand under his nose before they even started, body already anticipating the burn.

And then—

It hit .

Fast. Sharp. Bright.

It sliced through the alcohol fuzz like a blade, clearing out the static, sending his heart hammering against his ribs. The world sharpened , edges crisp, colors more vivid, the dull roar of the pub suddenly too clear, too alive .

Louis met Zayn’s gaze in the mirror, grin sharp, pupils blown wide.

“Still got it,” Zayn smirked, clapping him on the back.

When they stepped out, Niall took one look at them and laughed. “Clean and serene, my arse .”

The thing was—it wasn’t cruel. They meant it like welcome back . Like this is where you belong .

They bought Louis another pint, and he took it.

And when Eleanor, half-drunk and draped over his shoulder, asked if he’d kept in touch with anyone from rehab, Louis shook his head and said, “Nah, no one worth keeping up with.”

That was the first lie of the night that actually hurt .

The rest of the evening blurred—rounds of shots, bad karaoke, Zayn and Niall locked in a heated argument over whether Post Malone could take Ed Sheeran in a fight. Louis laughed too loudly, too easily, let the noise swallow him whole.

But in the quiet moments—between the drinks, between the bumps—Harry’s face kept creeping in.

The way he’d looked that last night, curled up beside him, voice soft when he’d said, Promise me you’ll try.

Louis wasn’t trying.

Louis was celebrating the fact that no one expected him to.

The night spun on, fast and reckless, but that was the only way they knew how to do it.

Eleanor and Oli had wedged themselves into the corner of the booth, giggling like kids, passing a tiny pill between them before each taking half.

“Don’t let me take another one later,” Eleanor said, voice already dripping with mischief as she tucked the remaining half into her bra.

Oli snorted, nudging her shoulder. “As if I could stop you.”

Louis watched them with an amused smirk, tipping his pint to his lips. He had missed this— them . Eleanor, wild and unpredictable, always three steps ahead of the chaos but fully willing to let it catch up to her. And Oli, the supposed voice of reason who still managed to get caught up in the mess every single time.

Meanwhile, Niall was making a big show of popping a Xanax—his prescription, technically —and chasing it down with a long pull from his whiskey.

Oli groaned. “Jesus, mate. You’re not supposed to do that.”

“Didn’t ask,” Niall shot back cheerfully, slapping his glass back onto the table.

Eleanor cackled, throwing an arm around his shoulders. “You absolute liability .”

Niall just grinned, eyes already going half-lidded. “Ah, you love me.”

And he was right. They did. It was impossible not to.

Louis rolled his eyes but still reached out to ruffle Niall’s hair, feeling something warm settle in his chest.

They were all here. His people. His real people.

They ordered another round.

The hours blurred together, drinks spilling over the table, a ridiculous drinking game Eleanor had made up on the spot, Zayn stealing someone’s cigarette because he’d “quit” last week but “tonight didn’t count.”

Niall tried to explain, very seriously , why Mamma Mia 2 was better than the first one, but no one was listening. Oli spent ten full minutes attempting to balance a shot glass on Eleanor’s head, while Eleanor yelled at him that if he spilled it, he owed her another drink.

They were a fucking mess.

And Louis felt good .

The pub was warm, the music was loud, his friends were here, and rehab felt like something that had happened to someone else entirely. He wasn’t the version of himself from there —the one who sat in group and talked about coping mechanisms , the one who had whispered we’ll figure it out against the shell of Harry’s ear like he meant it.

By the time midnight hit, they were all completely off their faces.

Even Oli had given in, which was saying something. He’d always been the one with some sense, the one who usually paced himself, the one who pulled Louis back when things got too reckless. But tonight?

Tonight, even Oli was grinning through blown pupils, wiping the back of his hand under his nose after snorting a line off the sticky pub bathroom counter.

Louis clapped him on the back, grinning. “Didn’t think I’d ever see the day.”

Oli, loose-limbed and buzzing, just smirked. “Rehab turned you into a lightweight, mate. Had to level the playing field.”

Louis barked out a laugh, and Niall—already deep in his Mamma Mia 2 monologue—threw an arm around both their shoulders, practically vibrating with energy.

“Fucking love you lot,” Niall declared, eyes too bright, voice too loud. “Best friends a man could ask for.”

“Oi, I’m your best friend,” Eleanor shot back, dramatically shoving Niall away, her cheeks flushed pink from the E and the three tequila shots she’d taken like water.

“You’re my wife ,” Niall corrected, patting her head like a child. “Different.”

Eleanor rolled her eyes but didn’t argue, shifting closer to Louis instead.

Which was how they ended up making out.

It wasn’t planned , really. Eleanor had been eyeing some guy across the bar all night, tossing her hair, glancing at him between shots, muttering to Louis about how fucking fit he was.

But then the guy had the audacity to start flirting with someone else, and Eleanor, being Eleanor, had grabbed Louis by the collar, pressed up against him, and whispered, “Play along.”

Louis, who was high as fuck and didn’t give a shit about what was happening as long as it was happening , had just grinned, tipped his head down, and kissed her.

It was messy , all tongue and tequila and the taste of whatever lip gloss she’d put on earlier. Her nails dug into the back of his neck, and Louis let himself sink into it, let himself play along because it was Eleanor, and it was fun , and he was too fucked to care that he wasn’t even into girls.

The table erupted .

“Oh, for fuck’s sake ,” Zayn groaned, flicking ash at them from the other side of the booth.

“ Get in there, son! ” Niall hollered, slamming his palm against the table.

Oli just wheezed out a laugh, shaking his head. “The drama of it all.”

Eleanor pulled away first, smirking, licking her lips as she glanced across the bar. “That should do it,” she muttered, pleased.

Louis, breathless, grinned. “Think he’s jealous yet?”

Eleanor glanced back over at the guy—who was definitely watching them now, his jaw tight—and patted Louis on the cheek. “You did beautifully, babe.”

Louis chuckled, licking his lips as he leaned back in his seat.

He didn’t need it to mean anything. Didn’t need any of this to mean anything.

Because none of it did.

They were flying, floating, laughing too loud, touching too much, saying things that wouldn’t matter in the morning.

And Louis?

Louis was home .

By the time they stumbled out into the cold air, Louis’ skin was buzzing, jaw aching from clenching too hard, the edges of his high fraying into that sharp, restless energy he couldn’t shake.

Eleanor had disappeared an hour ago, draping herself over the guy at the bar with a wink before shooting Louis a salute on her way out. Oli had called it a night not long after, muttering something about some of us actually having responsibilities before downing the last of his pint and slipping out unnoticed.

That left Louis, Niall, and Zayn—arguably the three worst people to be left alone together in a state like this.

Niall slung an arm around Louis’ shoulders, both of them laughing at absolutely nothing , breath fogging in the crisp night air. He was still going on about Mamma Mia 2 , slurring slightly, insisting, “No, mate, listen, I’m serious, it’s fucking cinema,” while Louis just wheezed, barely able to keep up.

Zayn, a step ahead of them, lit another cig, shaking his head with a grin like they’d just pulled off the greatest heist of all time.

“Fucking state of you two,” he muttered, exhaling smoke, but there was no judgment behind it—just fond amusement, like he wouldn’t change a thing.

Louis grinned, feeling something wild and reckless fizz under his skin.

“Hell of a night,” Zayn said.

“Yeah,” Louis said, too bright, too fake. “One for the books.”

But as they walked down the street, Louis’ phone felt heavy in his pocket — Harry’s number sitting there, untouched, a silent reminder of the promise Louis never meant to keep.

Louis didn’t go home.

He knew the second they stumbled out of the pub that he couldn’t walk through his mum’s front door like this — clothes reeking of beer and sweat, pupils too wide, jaw clenched so tight his teeth ached. She’d look at him the way only mothers can, all hope and heartbreak at once, and Louis couldn’t take it. Not after the hug she’d given him this afternoon, the soft “I’m so proud of you” that still echoed somewhere in the back of his skull.

So when Zayn lit up his third cigarette and said, “You’re crashing at mine, yeah?” Louis didn’t argue.

Zayn’s flat was exactly how Louis remembered it — damp air, peeling paint, a couch that smelled like old weed and something vaguely sour. There were half-empty cans of lager scattered across the coffee table, ash piled so high in the cheap glass ashtray that it looked like a tiny volcano. The windows were cracked open, letting in the hum of traffic and the occasional shout from the street below, and the whole place had that slightly rotting warmth of flats that were never really clean , just occasionally tidied enough to stop the landlord from kicking off.

It was perfect.

Louis kicked off his shoes and collapsed onto the couch without a word, arm thrown over his face. The buzz from the coke was wearing thin, leaving him too hot and restless, his skin itching under his clothes. Zayn didn’t bother asking if he was alright — they didn’t do that, not unless someone was actually bleeding — but he did chuck a half-full water bottle at Louis’ head.

“Hydrate, superstar.”

“Fuck off,” Louis muttered, but he drank anyway, the water too warm and tasting faintly of plastic.

Zayn disappeared into the kitchen, leaving Louis alone with his thoughts, which was exactly what Louis didn’t want. His phone sat heavy in his pocket, and after ignoring it for most of the night, he finally dragged it out, thumb hovering over Harry’s contact.

It was just Harry . Not Harry from rehab or Roomie Harry — just Harry . Simple, like they’d known each other forever, not just for a few chaotic, codependent weeks.

Louis opened the thread and stared at the last message, still unread from the hour he left: miss you already x

His stomach turned, too much beer and guilt mixing into something sour. He should text. He should say something. Let Harry know he got home safe, that he was doing fine, that—

He wasn’t, though. He was drunk and high on his first night out, hiding in Zayn’s shithole because he couldn’t face his own mum. He was back to being exactly the Louis who’d walked into rehab, except now there was a boy hours away who actually believed in him.

He typed fast, thumbs flying before he could overthink it:

hey play-doh. just got back, all good. out with zayn and niall to celebrate. no drugs, swear. love you x

He hit send before he could rewrite it, tossing the phone onto the table like it was burning him. The lie sat heavy on his tongue, but maybe it didn’t matter. Maybe Harry didn’t need to know. Maybe Louis could fix it before Harry ever found out there was anything to fix.

Zayn came back, flopping into the armchair with a fresh can of beer, lighting another cig. “You’re quiet.”

“Just tired,” Louis muttered.

Zayn didn’t buy it — Louis could tell from the way his brow twitched — but he didn’t push. They were both too good at this dance, letting each other lie to their own faces. Instead, Zayn passed him the cig, and Louis took it, sinking deeper into the couch, smoke curling out between his lips.

“You gonna see rehab boy again?” Zayn asked, too casual.

Louis’ heart clenched. “Dunno.”

“You should,” Zayn said, not looking at him. “He sounded alright.”

“Yeah,” Louis said softly. “He is.”

They didn’t say anything else after that. Just sat there, smoke thick between them, both too tired and too high to bother pretending they were any better than they were.

Louis fell asleep on the couch eventually, body twisted awkwardly, one arm tucked under his head. In the middle of the night, his phone buzzed once.

miss you too x

Louis didn’t see it until the morning, and by then, it already felt like a lie.

Louis got up when the first rays of sun hit his face, the light slipping through the thin, cigarette-stained curtains like it was trying to catch him out. His head pounded, not the skull-splitting agony of a proper binge, but that low, pulsing ache that came from mixing too much — booze and coke and guilt, all swirling under his skin. His mouth tasted like stale beer and old smoke, and his clothes felt wrong, clinging to his skin like they knew exactly what kind of night he’d had.

He didn’t even bother saying goodbye to Zayn, just doused himself in cologne until he reeked of cheap spice and desperation, grabbed his phone and keys, and slipped out into the early morning cold. The streets were quiet, the air damp with the kind of mist that clung to everything in this part of London, softening the edges of the blocky, grey apartment buildings. Most of the windows were still dark, curtains drawn tight against the morning. Louis walked fast, hands shoved deep in his hoodie pockets, shoulders hunched like he could fold himself in half and disappear.

The walk took fifteen minutes — fifteen minutes past cracked pavements, the corner shop with its metal shutters still down, the old playground with rusted swings creaking softly in the wind. He knew every step, every shortcut, every uneven paving stone that could trip you up if you weren’t paying attention.

At the very edge of the neighborhood, where the flats gave way to a row of small, weathered townhouses, he reached home. It looked the same as ever — the hanging basket by the door half-dead, the front garden mostly weeds, the door painted over so many times the wood grain had disappeared completely. It wasn’t much, but it was home.

He slid his key into the lock, heart hammering just slightly, and stepped inside so carefully you would’ve thought he was breaking in. The house was still, the kind of quiet that meant his mum was still asleep, and relief flooded through him like a shot. No confrontation, not yet. No “Where were you?” or “Are you sober?” or “Why do you smell like the bottom of a pint glass?”

He crept upstairs, socked feet barely making a sound on the carpet, and slid into his room. It looked smaller than it had before rehab, like the walls had crept closer while he was gone. The posters were the same, the bed still unmade from when he’d left, a few old clothes strewn across the floor — it was like the room hadn’t realised he’d been gone at all.

Louis kicked off his shoes and peeled off his clothes, throwing the whole lot straight into the hamper like he could bury the night along with them. Then he headed for the bathroom, shutting the door softly, catching a glimpse of himself in the mirror before he turned on the shower.

He looked like shit.

Pale, eyes bloodshot, jaw tight like it hadn’t quite unclenched from the coke. His hair stuck up at odd angles, his lips still faintly swollen from too many kisses that shouldn’t have happened, from laughter that had turned too loud somewhere around midnight.

“Sort yourself out,” he muttered at his reflection, voice hoarse.

The water ran cold for a minute before it warmed up, and Louis stood under the spray, head tipped back, letting it beat down on him like it could wash the night off his skin. He scrubbed too hard, shampoo burning his eyes, nails dragging down his arms like he could scrape off the feeling of being that person again — the one who always said yes, the one who made every bad choice seem funny, the one who couldn’t be trusted with his own future.

After, he brushed his teeth so hard his gums bled, spit pink swirling down the drain. Mint burned in his mouth, chasing the taste of smoke and beer and Zayn’s cheap cigs, but it didn’t quite work. He still felt dirty. Still felt like the same Louis who’d walked into rehab and walked out without learning a fucking thing.

When he finally went back to his room, clean and damp and exhausted, he lay on his bed fully clothed, staring at the ceiling. His phone buzzed on the pillow beside him — a message from Harry, sent late last night.

can’t sleep. miss you x

Louis closed his eyes, the ache in his chest sharp and familiar. He didn’t reply.

“You look like shit,” a voice said from the doorway, casual as anything, but with just enough edge to make Louis’ stomach twist.

He damn near jumped out of his own skin, twisting around on the bed to see his sister standing there, arms crossed, hip braced against the doorframe. She looked taller than he remembered, or maybe Louis had just shrunk in the time he’d been away.

“Jesus fuck, Fiz,” Louis groaned, rubbing his face. “How long’ve you been standing there?”

“Not long,” she said, but there was something in her face — that familiar mix of irritation and disappointment — that made Louis’ chest ache. She was good at that look, had perfected it over years of watching him stumble in too late, too loud, too far gone.

Louis had always been her hero when they were little. Somewhere along the way, he’d become her cautionary tale.

She disappeared into her room without another word, and Louis let his head fall back onto the pillow, heart still hammering from the scare. He was halfway to falling asleep again when she returned, standing at the foot of his bed, tossing a small bottle onto his stomach.

Eyedrops.

Louis blinked up at her. “What the fuck are you carrying these around for?”

Fizzy just raised a brow, unimpressed. “For my allergies ,” she said pointedly, voice dripping with sarcasm. “What do you think, genius?”

Louis sat up, rubbing his eyes with the heel of his hands before unscrewing the cap. His hands were still a little shaky — comedown still lingering in his fingers — and he had to focus hard to get the drops in without stabbing himself in the eye.

“For the red eyes,” Fizzy added, arms crossed again. “Mum’s gonna know.”

“Yeah,” Louis muttered. “Thanks, Fiz.”

She lingered, not quite leaving, shifting her weight between her feet. There were about a hundred things she wanted to say — Louis could see it in the way her jaw worked, her lips pressed tight — but all she said was, “You promised her this time.”

Louis didn’t know what to say to that, because he knew . Knew his mum had probably cried after he left. Knew Fizzy had been the one holding her hand, saying this time would stick, this time Louis would come home fixed .

And now here he was, sneaking in smelling like beer and Zayn’s couch, eyes still glassy no matter how much water he’d splashed on his face.

“Just…” Fizzy sighed, tucking her hair behind her ear. “Try not to make me a liar, yeah?”

Louis’ throat tightened. “Yeah. I’ll try.”

She didn’t believe him. He could see it. But she didn’t call him out, didn’t push, didn’t lecture. She just turned and padded back to her room, leaving Louis alone with the bottle of eyedrops in his hand and the weight of her trust crumbling under his ribs.

He tipped his head back and put the drops in, blinking hard until the burn faded.

Maybe his eyes would clear up. Maybe they wouldn’t.

But Fizzy had given him a chance to cover his tracks, and Louis knew better than to waste it.

He lay back down after that, staring at the ceiling, waiting for the sound of his mum waking up — knowing that the next conversation would be even harder to fake his way through.

Louis stood in front of the bathroom mirror, head tipped back as he blinked the eyedrops into place, willing the red to drain away like it could erase everything else that came with it — the pints, the coke, the blurry grin he couldn’t quite place back on his own face. The drops stung, sharp and chemical, but they worked fast, his bloodshot eyes softening back into something that almost passed for normal.

He ran a hand through his hair, splashed cold water over his face one last time, and told his reflection, You’ve got this.

Then he got dressed — jeans a bit too tight, jumper that didn’t still smell faintly of Zayn’s flat. Just Louis, back home, fresh from rehab, the new and improved model. It felt like pulling on a costume, but it was one he’d worn for so long that it fit like skin.

Downstairs, the house was starting to wake up — soft footsteps on the stairs, the muffled hum of the kettle, the gentle chaos of a house full of girls and a single exhausted mum. Louis slipped into the kitchen like it was nothing, opening cupboards, pulling out the frying pan, the bread, the eggs.

“Look at me,” he muttered to himself under his breath, cracking eggs into the pan, “domestic fucking goddess.”

He kept it light, kept it easy, music low on his phone to fill the silence as he moved through the motions of making breakfast for five. It was muscle memory, really — he’d been doing this since he was twelve, flipping eggs and buttering toast for a crowd. It gave him something to do with his hands, something that felt almost normal, almost like care.

By the time the toast popped up and the eggs were nearly done, his mum appeared in the doorway, still in her dressing gown, hair tied back, face soft with sleep.

“Morning, love,” she said, her smile a little hesitant, like she didn’t want to press too hard, didn’t want to risk finding cracks in the version of Louis she was so desperate to believe in.

“Morning, Mum,” Louis grinned, effortlessly bright, the same grin that got him out of trouble his whole life. “Thought I’d make brekkie. Proper son of the year, yeah?”

She laughed, crossing the kitchen to press a kiss into his hair, warm hands briefly cupping his face. “You didn’t have to, love.”

“Wanted to,” Louis said easily, flipping the eggs and sliding them onto a plate. “Gotta make up for lost time, don’t I?”

She smiled, wide and genuine now, that bright-eyed pride shining through — her boy, back home, better than ever. “You look good,” she said softly. “Healthy.”

“Rehab glow,” Louis joked, plating up toast like it was something to be proud of. “They rub coconut oil on us every night.”

She laughed again, eyes crinkling at the corners, and Louis felt it like a punch to the gut. Because this was too easy. Too smooth. She believed him . Because addicts weren’t just the best liars — they were the best sons , the best brothers , the best at playing the role everyone wanted to see.

And Louis? Louis could charm the birds out of the fucking trees when he needed to.

The girls trickled in one by one — Lottie first, still half-asleep but smiling when she saw Louis at the stove. Then the twins, asking if he’d made pancakes even though they could see the eggs right there. Fizzy came last, quiet, eyes sharp, but she didn’t say anything. She just took her plate and sat down.

Louis played it cool — cracking jokes, making the girls laugh, flipping toast across the kitchen like a waiter in a dodgy diner. His mum watched him with so much hope Louis could feel it pooling in his throat, heavy and sour.

“How was last night with Niall and Zayn?” she asked, almost casual, but Louis knew the game.

“Ah, you know,” Louis shrugged, biting into a piece of toast. “Couple of soft drinks, bit of karaoke. Niall tried to fight a pool table. Standard.”

“No drinking?” she asked lightly, but Louis could hear the weight in it — the please tell me you’re different now .

“Scout’s honour,” Louis said, holding up two fingers. “Clean as a whistle.”

She smiled, wide and relieved, and Louis felt like a fucking con artist.

They ate breakfast together, all laughter and warmth, and Louis let himself believe — just for a minute — that maybe this could work. Maybe he could keep it together for them. For Harry. For himself.

He just had to keep the performance up. No cracks. No slips.

Just Louis — the good one .

The one his mum could believe in.

Notes:

bit dissapointed in you, Louisn not gonna lie

Chapter 8: Chapter 8

Louis stayed clean the rest of the day. Not because it was some heroic feat, but because it was surprisingly easy when the house was full of noise and distraction — sisters chattering, his mum constantly asking if he wanted tea, the TV blaring some brain-melting reality show where everyone screamed over each other in accents even Louis struggled to place.

The truth was, Louis wasn’t really physically addicted to much, aside from nicotine. His body didn’t need anything. It was his brain — restless, slippery, always reaching for something to take the edge off. The problem wasn’t withdrawal. It was habit. His life had been built around the next night out, the next stupid decision, the next time Zayn or Niall shoved something into his palm and Louis said fuck it without thinking.

Maybe that was something to change too, while he was at it. Get a job. Something to fill the hours so they didn’t stretch so wide and empty, begging to be filled with chaos.

But that was tomorrow’s problem. Right now, there was something more important to do.

“Gonna call Haz,” Louis said, standing up and stretching, pretending his heart wasn’t already beating faster at the thought. “Might be a bit.”

“Haz?” His mum looked up, brow furrowing slightly. “Who’s that?”

Louis shrugged, like it didn’t mean anything. “Harry, this boy I met in rehab. Roommate. Sweet kid, actually. And if they’re still on the same schedule, he’s probably done with art right now, so I thought I’d check in.”

“That’s sweet of you,” she said, smiling in that soft, proud way that made Louis’ stomach twist. “Go on then.”

He nodded, grabbing his battered pack of cigarettes off the side table and heading out into the back garden, phone already in his hand. The garden was small and overgrown, the grass patchy, a few plastic chairs scattered around like leftovers from a party no one remembered hosting. The air was cool, damp with the threat of rain, and Louis lit his cig with one hand while pulling up Harry’s number with the other.

He quickly changed the contact to Play-Doh because of the morning after they’d first got high together. It made Louis smile, just a little.

He hit call before he could overthink it, pacing slowly across the cracked paving stones as the phone rang. One ring. Two. His heart picked up speed, thumb tapping anxiously against his thigh.

“Hello?” Harry’s voice came through, a little breathless, like he’d run to pick up.

“Haz,” Louis grinned around his cigarette. “What’s happenin’, mate?”

“Louis!” Harry’s relief was so obvious it made Louis’ chest hurt. “Hi—hi, I—fuck, how are you?”

“Alive,” Louis said, leaning against the fence. “Sober, if you can believe that.”

Harry’s breath hitched slightly. “Really?”

“Swear down,” Louis said, meaning it. “Went out with Zayn, Niall, Eleanor and Oli last night, but stayed clean today. I’m, like, practically a role model.”

Harry laughed, but it was soft and a little disbelieving. “That’s… that’s really good, Lou.”

Louis exhaled smoke toward the sky, watching it curl and disappear. “What about you? You alright? No one’s driving you mad yet?”

“It’s weird without you here,” Harry admitted quietly. “It’s just me and Greg now, and he keeps asking me about my feelings , which is a fucking nightmare.”

“Bet he’s loving that,” Louis snorted. “You’re probably his star pupil.”

“I miss you,” Harry said, so suddenly and softly that Louis almost missed it.

Louis’ throat tightened around his next drag. “Miss you too, Play-Doh.”

They sat in the silence for a second, the line buzzing faintly between them. Louis could picture him — curled up on his bed, sketchbook open, drawing something Louis wouldn’t understand but would pretend to love anyway. It felt wrong, hearing Harry’s voice through a phone instead of from two feet away, usually with their knees pressed together on that shitty bed.

“You doing alright though, really?” Louis asked quietly. “You need anything?”

“No,” Harry said quickly. “I mean… no, I’m okay. I’m trying.”

Louis swallowed hard. “Me too.”

Harry hummed softly, and Louis could almost feel the smile through the phone. “You’ll come visit, won’t you? After?”

“Course,” Louis said, meaning it more than anything. “You’re not getting rid of me that easy.”

“Good,” Harry said, softer now. “Because you’re kind of my favorite person.”

Louis’ heart did something stupid in his chest, and he had to look up at the sky for a second to stop himself from getting weird about it. “Same to you, Play-Doh.”

They talked a bit longer — about nothing, really. Louis told him about the shit telly his mum made him watch. Harry told him about how Greg tried to get him into meditation and Harry accidentally fell asleep. It was easy, like slipping back into their room together, where it was just the two of them against the world.

By the time it was time to hang up, Louis’ cigarette was a forgotten stub between his fingers, and his heart felt both heavier and lighter all at once.

“See you soon, yeah?” Louis said before hanging up.

“Yeah,” Harry whispered back. “Soon.”

Louis stayed in the garden a bit longer after that, watching the sky turn from grey to almost-blue, wondering how much of himself he could actually change — and how much he was just lying to everyone, himself included.

But for tonight, at least, he’d told the truth. He was sober. He missed Harry.

The next day was harder.

The morning dragged, too quiet, too empty, his sisters at school, his mum at work, and Louis left alone with nothing but his own thoughts and his phone. Niall texted early , before Louis had even finished his first cup of tea — buzzing about some “ proper fucking beautiful molly, mate, you’ve never had anything like this .”

Louis stared at the message for a long time, thumb hovering over the keyboard. Every part of him wanted to say yes. It would be so easy — one night, one little break from trying so fucking hard. He could get high, laugh his arse off with Niall, and by the time the afternoon rolled around, his promise to Harry would feel far enough away that it barely counted as broken.

But then he thought about Harry’s voice from the night before, soft and hopeful through the phone.

So Louis typed back instead: Busy today, mate. Rain check?

It wasn’t technically a lie. He was busy — sending out job applications to literally anywhere that would hire someone with his patchy work history and no actual skills beyond being charming and fast on his feet. So far, he’d applied to Tesco, Primark, two pubs, a pet shop, and, in a moment of desperation, Toys R Us.

The trying felt good — for a bit. Like proof to himself that maybe, just maybe, he could be someone different. Not new exactly, but someone who could string together a few sober days and do something useful with them. Someone who could make Harry proud. Someone who could make his mum believe in him again.

By afternoon, though, the quiet was getting to him — the itchy, restless kind of silence that felt too much like waiting for something to go wrong. When Lottie knocked on his door, Louis was halfway through rewriting his CV for the fifth time, trying to make “occasional bartender when Niall needed cover” sound like actual work experience.

“Lou?” Lottie’s voice was cautious, the way she always sounded when she was about to deliver news he might not want. “Your friend’s here.”

Louis frowned, closing the laptop. “Which one?”

“The dark-haired one,” Lottie said, shifting her weight awkwardly in the doorway. “With the blonde streak.”

“Zayn,” Louis said automatically, already standing. “Yeah, send him up.”

Lottie hesitated just a second too long, her fingers twisting in the hem of her sleeve. “You sure?”

Louis gave her a smile — the easy one, the one that always worked on his sisters, like a charm with a worn edge. “Relax, Lotts. We’re just mates.”

She didn’t say anything, but her eyes flicked over him once, scanning like she was trying to figure out if he was already high or just about to be. Louis couldn’t even blame her — Zayn had always made her nervous, with his too-cool slouch and the way he always looked like he knew something you didn’t.

“I’ll be fine,” Louis added, softer this time. “Promise.”

Lottie gave him a reluctant nod and disappeared back downstairs, leaving Louis alone for a breath before Zayn strolled in without knocking, smelling like leather and weed and cologne that never quite covered the smoke.

“Alright, mate,” Zayn grinned, falling onto Louis’ bed like he owned the place. “Missed your stupid face.”

Louis snorted, sitting back at his desk. “You saw me yesterday .”

“Yeah, but you were all shiny and fresh from rehab,” Zayn said, stretching out like a cat. “I figured 24 hours in the real world would fuck you right up.”

Louis flipped him off, but his stomach twisted, because Zayn wasn’t exactly wrong. “I’m fine,” Louis said, too breezy. “Actually applying for jobs, believe it or not.”

Zayn raised a brow. “You? Employment? Who’d you piss off to deserve that?”

“Trying to be responsible,” Louis said, lifting his chin. “Rehab glow and all that.”

Zayn’s grin turned sharp. “That why you turned down Niall this morning? Thought you might’ve lost your phone and someone else wrote that.”

Louis’ jaw tightened just slightly, but he shrugged it off. “Told you — I’m trying.”

Zayn studied him for a long moment, then sat up, leaning his elbows on his knees. “Alright,” he said, easy and smooth. “Trying’s good. Just… don’t forget you’re still you, yeah?”

Louis wasn’t entirely sure what that meant, but it felt like both a compliment and a warning, wrapped up in the same sentence. “Still me,” Louis echoed, but the words felt weird in his mouth. Because who even was that , anymore?

Zayn kicked at Louis’ foot lightly. “Come on then. You’re not gonna sit here all day writing sob stories to Tesco. Let’s go do something.”

Louis hesitated — just for a second. But the house felt too quiet again, and the craving was still sitting just behind his ribs, waiting for an excuse. And Zayn was right there, easy and familiar and safe in all the wrong ways.

“Yeah,” Louis said, standing up. “Alright. Let’s go.”

Zayn grinned like a cat who’d found the cream, and Louis told himself it didn’t mean anything.

Just a day out.

Just two mates.

Just Louis, still Louis, still trying.

For now.

They didn’t have a plan — they never did. Louis and Zayn had always been the kind of friends who could just walk, aimless and restless, making their own trouble when none presented itself.

They cut through the estate first, past the corner shop where Louis used to steal sweets when he was ten, past the concrete park where they’d both smoked their first spliff, past the bus stop with the shattered glass panel no one ever bothered to fix. The whole area had that familiar air of mild neglect, like no one cared enough to clean it up but they cared just enough to stop it from falling apart entirely.

Zayn had his hands shoved deep in his pockets, shoulders hunched against the wind, his ever-present cigarette dangling from his lips. Louis walked beside him, still riding that strange edge between pride and craving, like every step was a test — Look at me, I’m outside and sober. Look at me, I could buy off anyone on this street but I won’t. Look at me, Play-Doh.

“Where we going then?” Louis asked after a while, when they’d wandered far enough that even the corner shop was behind them.

“Nowhere,” Zayn said easily, exhaling smoke toward the sky. “That’s the point, innit?”

Louis snorted, but it was fond. “Proper poetic, that.”

They kept going, streets getting shabbier as they walked. This wasn’t the nice side of town — not that their side had ever been nice , but this was the next step down. Boarded-up windows, a bloke passed out in a doorway, graffiti so old and faded it was practically art. Louis hadn’t been down this way in a while — not since rehab, definitely — and it made his skin itch in a way he couldn’t fully explain.

They were halfway down one of those long, narrow back streets, when Louis heard his name.

“ Tommo! ”

Louis froze, stomach dropping instantly. Because he knew that voice — knew it the way you know an old habit, one you thought you kicked until it’s right there in front of you, smiling like the devil himself.

Nick.

Nick Grimshaw, who’d been Louis’ partner-in-crime back when they were scrawny teenagers sneaking into clubs with shit IDs and doing lines off toilet seats like they were invincible after surviving rehab together. Nick, who was funny and charming and always had something in his pocket — pills, powder, a little bag of whatever you needed to keep the night going.

“Fuck me, look who’s back from the dead,” Nick grinned, arms spread wide like he was expecting a hug.

“Grimmy,” Louis said, trying to keep it light. “Still alive then?”

“Barely,” Nick winked, already fishing in his pocket. “Fancy a catch-up?”

Louis’ stomach twisted, his mouth already watering before he even saw what Nick had — a half-rolled joint, bent at a weird angle but still serviceable. Nick flicked a lighter out of nowhere, flame sparking in the dim afternoon light. “Old times, yeah?”

Louis was already shaking his head. “Nah, mate, I’m—”

“He’s clean,” Zayn said, cutting in smoothly, not unkind but firm enough that even Nick paused.

“Rehab, right,” Nick said, like it was a punchline. “Fair play, mate.”

Nick’s eyes flicked to Zayn instead. “You though?”

“Never said no to a catch-up,” Zayn grinned, already reaching for the joint.

Louis stood there, hands shoved deep in his hoodie pockets, heart pounding too fast as Zayn lit up, inhaling deep, holding it like he was savoring the taste. The smell hit Louis instantly — thick, sweet, clinging to the cold air like a memory. It felt like muscle memory to reach for it. Like the past was right there, all smoke and laughter and the easy slide back into something warm and dangerous.

“You sure?” Nick asked, joint halfway toward Louis.

Louis’ fingers twitched. His mouth opened. The craving sang in his bones, a low, familiar hum that whispered just one, just this once, just to take the edge off .

But then Harry’s voice was in his head, soft and serious: Promise me you’ll try.

“I’m good,” Louis said, voice steadier than he felt.

Nick raised a brow, impressed but skeptical. “Look at you,” he said, blowing smoke toward the sky. “All grown up.”

“Something like that,” Louis muttered, stepping back just slightly, out of the path of the smoke, though it still curled around him like a ghost.

Zayn didn’t say anything — just smoked, passing the joint back and forth with Nick, eyes half-lidded and lazy, like the day had just improved tenfold. Louis felt like he was standing on the edge of something, toes curled over the line, the pull so fucking strong, but somehow — somehow — he stayed where he was.

They stood there for a bit, talking shit, Nick catching them up on who’d been nicked, who’d gotten pregnant, who’d gone straight or disappeared entirely. Louis laughed at the right bits, pretended his skin wasn’t crawling, pretended he wasn’t counting down the minutes until they could keep walking.

Eventually, Nick flicked the roach into the gutter, clapping Louis on the shoulder like he hadn’t just tempted him with everything Louis was trying to leave behind. “Proud of you, mate,” Nick said, almost sincere. “Hope you make it stick.”

“Yeah,” Louis said, swallowing hard. “Me too.”

They walked away after that, Zayn still quiet, still a little too relaxed, and Louis’ hands in his pockets were clenched so tight his knuckles ached. Every step felt like peeling himself away from who he used to be — like fighting gravity itself.

But he did it.

He walked away.

By the time Louis got home, the sky was already starting to darken, that early-evening gloom settling over the neighborhood like a blanket too heavy to shake off. His clothes smelled like weed — not strong , not like he’d actually smoked, but enough that anyone who knew him well could clock it in a heartbeat.

And his mum? She knew him well .

She was waiting in the kitchen when he walked in, arms crossed, hair still up in the loose clip she always wore when she was stressed. The kettle had just boiled, steam curling up into the air, and Louis’ stomach clenched because that was always the tell — if she was stressed, there’d be tea. Confrontational tea , his sisters called it.

Louis tried to breeze past her, acting like everything was fine, but before he could make it halfway up the stairs, her voice cut through the quiet.

“Louis.”

He froze, hand tight on the banister, before turning back with his best innocent grin. “Yeah, Mum?”

“Come here.”

That tone. Not angry, exactly — worse. Disappointed. Louis dragged his feet back into the kitchen, leaning against the counter like he was just stopping in for a chat. “What’s up?”

She took one long look at him, then sniffed once, sharp and deliberate. “You smell like weed.”

Louis’ heart kicked into overdrive. “That’s—” He rubbed the back of his neck. “I didn’t— I mean, Zayn and Nick were having a smoke, and I was just—”

“Nick,” she repeated, the name landing like a slap. “That Nick?”

“Yeah,” Louis muttered. “Ran into him by accident.”

“Uh-huh.” She narrowed her eyes, the way only mums can, and Louis felt like he was fifteen again, caught sneaking in past curfew with a pocket full of stolen fags. “And you didn’t smoke?”

“Didn’t touch it,” Louis said, voice firm. It was technically the truth — even if the craving had nearly ripped him apart from the inside.

His mum watched him for a long moment, like she was weighing every word, every twitch, every breath. Louis held her gaze, trying not to blink too much, trying to look clean .

“I want you to take a test.”

Louis’ stomach dropped. “Mum, come on—”

“No,” she said, voice soft but immovable. “I’m proud of you, Lou. You’ve done well. But I need to know I can believe you. I need to know I’m not setting myself up to get my heart broken again.”

That last bit — the crack in her voice — made Louis feel like the absolute lowest piece of shit on earth. He couldn’t even argue. Couldn’t charm his way out of it.

“Okay,” he said quietly. “Yeah. I’ll do it.”

She nodded once, quick and business-like, already turning to rummage under the sink where she kept a stash of home drug tests — a habit born out of years of loving Louis through every fuck-up, every overdose scare, every promise he didn’t keep.

Five minutes later, Louis was in the downstairs loo, peeing into a cup like it was 2008 all over again. His heart hammered in his chest, brain racing through the last 24 hours — the beer, the coke that should be out of his system by now, the second-hand smoke. He hadn’t touched anything today, but paranoia didn’t care about facts.

He brought the test back to the kitchen, setting it on the counter while his mum hovered nearby, arms crossed so tight her knuckles went white. They watched together as the little screen flickered to life, Louis’ heart pounding with every second that passed.

Negative. 

Louis almost laughed — from relief or disbelief, he wasn’t sure. How the test didn‘t catch the coke that was surely still somewhere in his system was beyond him.

His mum exhaled hard, hands flying to her face for a second like she needed to physically catch the breath she’d been holding.

“I told you,” Louis said softly. “I’m trying , Mum.”

She dropped her hands, blinking fast, and Louis could see the shine in her eyes before she turned away. “I’m proud of you,” she said again, but this time her voice was quieter, like she was trying to make herself believe it too. “I just… I can’t go through this again, Lou.”

“You won’t,” Louis said, stepping closer, resting his hand over hers where it gripped the counter. “I’m gonna get this right.”

She gave a small, watery smile. “You’ve said that before.”

“Yeah,” Louis admitted. “But this time I’ve got someone keeping me in check.”

“Honey your friends aren’t exactly—”

“Not them,” Louis cut in softly. “Haz.”

Her brow lifted slightly. “Harry? That boy from rehab?”

“Yeah,” Louis said. “He’s… important.”

His mum’s face softened a little more at that, the worry easing into something warmer, something that almost looked like hope. “Well,” she said, squeezing his hand briefly, “I hope Harry knows how lucky he is to have you looking out for him.”

Louis swallowed hard. “Yeah. Me too.”

They had tea after that — just normal tea, not confrontation tea — and for a little while, Louis let himself believe it was all going to be okay. That maybe trying was enough. That maybe this time wouldn’t end like all the others.

But later, still sitting at the table, phone glowing in his hand, Louis stared at Harry’s contact and felt the craving creep back in — soft and quiet, like a whisper under his skin. Not for drugs, not really.

Just for Harry.

For someone who believed in him, even when Louis couldn’t.

Louis was rinsing out the stupid plastic cup in the sink, his mum finally breathing easy beside him, when he heard a soft shuffle in the doorway.

He glanced up, and there was Fizzy — arms crossed over her chest, hair half-tied like she couldn’t be bothered to finish the ponytail, her face carefully neutral in that way only siblings could pull off. Like she didn’t want to make a big deal out of it, but she was there anyway, and that meant something .

“You lurking or you gonna say something?” Louis asked, trying to keep it light. His heart was still racing from the test, the relief sharp enough to sting.

Fizzy shrugged, leaning against the doorframe. “Just… heard what you said. About not smoking with Zayn and Nick.”

Louis turned off the tap, drying his hands on his jumper because old habits die hard. “Oh, yeah. That.”

“It’s good,” Fizzy said, voice quiet but steady. “I’m proud of you.”

Louis’ throat tightened instantly. He could handle his mum’s tears, could laugh off Niall’s badgering, could even push past Zayn’s subtle digs — but his little sister saying I’m proud of you , like it actually meant something? That cut right through him.

“Don’t go soft on me now, Fiz,” Louis tried to joke, voice coming out rougher than he meant.

“I’m serious,” she said, stepping further into the kitchen. “I know I give you shit. I know we all do. But you could’ve smoked. No one would’ve known. But you didn’t.”

Louis swallowed hard, leaning back against the counter because his legs felt a little too shaky for standing. “Didn’t feel like throwing it all away just yet.”

Fizzy smiled, small but real. “That’s what I mean.”

Louis ran a hand through his hair, trying to play it off, trying to shrug off the warmth crawling up his chest. “Alright, alright, stop before you make me cry or something.”

Fizzy rolled her eyes but stepped closer, bumping her shoulder against his like she used to when they were kids. “Keep trying, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Louis said softly. “I will.”

She gave him a quick hug — fast and awkward, like siblings do — and then disappeared back upstairs, leaving Louis standing there with damp hands, a clean test, and more hope than he knew what to do with.

He sat down at the kitchen table after that, staring at his phone, Harry’s contact still open. His fingers hovered over the call button for a second before he pocketed the phone instead.

Tonight, he didn’t need to hear Harry’s voice to keep himself steady.

Fizzy’s was enough.

Louis headed upstairs after that, the house settling into its usual nighttime hush — the kind of quiet that comes after everyone’s eaten, the telly’s been turned off, and the day is officially winding down. He shut his bedroom door softly, just for the comfort of being in his own space, and flopped onto his bed with a heavy sigh.

His laptop was still open where he’d left it, screen dimmed but glowing faintly in the dark. Louis nudged the mousepad and the job application tabs blinked back to life — a depressing collection of “Thank you for applying” messages and a handful of automated replies confirming that yes, someone would definitely review his CV. Eventually.

There was nothing new. No offers. No interviews. Not even a rejection to prove someone had actually looked. Just silence — like the world wasn’t quite ready to believe Louis could be employable either.

“Brilliant,” Louis muttered, shutting the laptop a little harder than necessary and tossing it onto the floor.

The itch was there, crawling under his skin — that restless, hungry part of him that didn’t know how to sit still without a drink in his hand or a line on the table. He could already picture his friends at the pub, probably already a few pints deep, probably already ordering another round.

But instead of texting them, Louis pulled up a different contact

Play-Doh

He smiled faintly at the name, thumb hovering for a second before he tapped out a message.

what’s up curly? u still making sad pottery in art? x

Harry’s reply came faster than Louis expected — almost like Harry had been waiting.

sad pottery and stick figure masterpieces, obvs. how’s the glamorous post-rehab life treating you?

still unemployed, still sexy , Louis shot back, rolling onto his stomach, cheek pressed into the pillow.

sounds like a win to me , Harry replied, followed almost immediately by: u ok?

Louis hesitated. That was the thing about Harry — he always asked like he actually wanted to know. Like Louis couldn’t just throw a joke at him and expect it to bounce right off.

yeah. had a weird day but i didn’t fuck up. so i think that’s a win too.

There was a pause, and then:

proud of you x

Louis bit his lip, heart flipping stupidly in his chest. He wasn’t used to people saying they were proud of him without a punchline attached. But Harry meant it. Louis could feel it, even through the screen.

what about you? u ok? Louis asked, fingers tapping nervously against the side of his phone.

better now , Harry wrote. u calling tonight?

Louis smiled, soft and tired.

tomorrow yeah? too sleepy now. don’t want to bore you with my yawns x

fine , Harry wrote. but only if you dream about me.

always , Louis typed, too fast, too honest — but he didn’t take it back.

They kept texting for a little while, nonsense mostly — Harry complaining about Greg’s meditation obsession, Louis making up increasingly ridiculous lies about what he’d put on his CV (including “2014 FIFA Xbox Champion” and “Part-time squirrel whisperer”). It was easy, familiar, the kind of conversation that felt like they were still in their room at rehab, knees knocking together on the tiny twin beds, laughing until they couldn’t breathe.

Eventually, Louis’ eyes started to droop, the phone slipping from his fingers, and he only barely managed to type out:

night play-doh x

night lou x

He fell asleep with his phone still in his hand, heart a little steadier, skin a little calmer, and for the first time in a long time, the quiet didn’t feel quite so lonely.

Chapter 9: Chapter 9

Notes:

Filler episode? Bit of backstory about Lou and Zayn

Louis, Past. Age 15

 

Louis sat cross-legged on his bed, textbook open in front of him, pen dangling uselessly between his fingers. The numbers swam on the page, blurring together into meaningless shapes, like they belonged to some ancient language no one had bothered to translate. His math teacher had called this revision . Louis called it hell .

His head felt too full and too empty at the same time — restless energy buzzing under his skin, but nothing in his brain sharp enough to grab onto. It had been two days since he’d taken anything , and already his body felt like it was staging a quiet rebellion. Not proper withdrawal, nothing dramatic — just the low, gnawing itch that came when the world felt too flat and too quiet after being cranked up to eleven for too long.

He chewed the end of his pen, tapping his foot against the bedframe, leg bouncing uncontrollably. The silence in his room was unbearable — every creak in the floorboards, every faint sound from the telly downstairs, the clock ticking too loud on his wall. Everything felt too sharp, like someone had stripped the edges off his life and left nothing to cushion the ordinary.

He hadn’t meant to go this long without. It wasn’t a plan , not some big commitment to getting clean. It was just — school had been a nightmare, his dealer hadn’t answered his last text, and Zayn had been laying low because of some fight with his mum. Two days without pills or a bump or even a joint, and Louis felt like his skin didn’t fit right anymore.

He stared blankly at the math problem in front of him — something about angles or triangles, whatever the fuck — and it might as well have been written in ancient Greek. His brain slid right off it, unable to stick, frustration bubbling under his ribs until he slammed the book shut hard enough to rattle the pens scattered across his duvet.

“Fuck this,” Louis muttered, falling back against his pillows, staring at the ceiling like the answer might be written up there instead.

It wasn’t.

There was just the familiar water stain shaped vaguely like a horse if you squinted, and the peeling corner of the poster he’d had since he was twelve — some band he didn’t even like anymore, but couldn’t be arsed to take down. Everything in this room felt stale, too small, like the walls had shrunk overnight and left him trapped inside his own life.

His phone buzzed on the nightstand, and Louis nearly launched himself across the bed to grab it, desperate for any excuse not to sit with his own thoughts a second longer.

The screen lit up with a message from Zayn:

got a surprise. come out. bring cigs.

Relief washed through him so fast it made his hands shake. His heart kicked up a notch, excitement already fizzing under his skin, the math homework instantly forgotten. He didn’t even bother replying — just grabbed his hoodie off the back of his chair, shoved his cigs and lighter into his pocket, and climbed out the window, landing quietly on the porch roof like he’d done a hundred times before.

Because if there was one thing Louis knew for sure, it was this:

Nothing — not homework, not restlessness, not even boredom — couldn’t be solved by a night with Zayn and something to make his problem seem like they were someone else‘s.

Louis hit the ground with a soft thud , knees bending automatically to absorb the landing. He barely had time to straighten his hoodie before Zayn emerged from the shadows beside the swings, all sharp angles and smoke, like he’d been part of the night itself until Louis showed up.

“’Bout time,” Zayn muttered, flicking the end of his cigarette into the dirt and fishing another from his pocket. “Thought you got caught or some shit.”

“Please,” Louis scoffed, lighting his own. “I’m practically a professional.”

Zayn grinned, crooked and lazy, before pulling a small pre-rolled joint from the inside pocket of his jacket. “Figured we’d warm up before we go.”

“Go where?” Louis asked, even though it didn’t really matter. Wherever Zayn went, Louis followed — that was just how it worked.

“House party,” Zayn said, lighting the joint with the same lighter he’d had since year nine, the silver casing worn down to a dull matte finish. “Couple streets over. Some girl I sit next to in Algebra — Crystabel, Crystal, something like that. She said bring whoever.”

Louis exhaled smoke toward the sky, already feeling better just having Zayn beside him, the familiar routine slotting into place like a well-rehearsed dance. “You’re dragging me to a party thrown by a girl whose name you don’t even know?”

“Absolutely,” Zayn grinned, passing him the joint.

Louis took a deep drag, letting the smoke settle in his chest before blowing it out through his nose. “It’s a wonder we’re still alive.”

“Barely,” Zayn snorted, bumping their shoulders together. “Come on, she said there’s booze and a speaker that actually works.”

That was all the convincing Louis needed. They walked side by side, the joint passing back and forth between them, the cold air stinging their cheeks, the estate around them shifting from familiar streets to slightly dodgier ones — the kind where the streetlights flickered and the bins overflowed, and the music from half-open windows spilled into the night.

Louis’ nerves were already settling, the restless itch smoothing out into something softer, easier. This was what they did — they found the noise, the people, the party. They made themselves at home in places they didn’t belong. And for a few hours, Louis didn’t have to be the boy who couldn’t concentrate on his math homework, or the son who kept his mum awake at night, wondering if this would be the time he didn’t come home.

Tonight, he was just Louis — laughing with Zayn, high before they even arrived, and walking toward whatever trouble found them first.

They walked like they owned the estate — side by side, shoulder to shoulder, sharing the joint down to the filter until Louis flicked it into the gutter. They were only fifteen, but together, they moved like they were untouchable, like no one could say shit to them. It wasn’t arrogance, not really — it was survival.

If you walked like you had nowhere to be and nothing to prove, people left you alone. And if they didn’t — well, that was why Zayn always carried a knife and Louis always had a mouth that could cut someone down to size in thirty seconds flat.

They’d been friends since they were twelve — since Zayn transferred in halfway through year seven, all shy smiles and perfectly gelled hair, and Louis immediately decided to make him his personal project. Zayn was quiet back then, all neat handwriting and brand new trainers, and Louis was loud, messy, and already on detention number three by the time they met.

It shouldn’t have worked, but it did. Louis taught Zayn how to sneak out without getting caught, and Zayn taught Louis how to roll a proper joint. Louis got them both banned from the Co-op for nicking a pack of beer, and Zayn made sure they never ran out of cigarettes after that.

They’d been a unit ever since — Louis and Zayn, the estate’s worst-kept secret, two lads everyone knew of , even if no one really knew them .

“Your mum still think you’re at Niall’s?” Zayn asked, kicking at a stray can in the road, sending it skittering into the curb.

“Probably,” Louis shrugged. “She loves Niall. Thinks he’s a good influence .”

Zayn barked a laugh, smoke curling out of his mouth. “Poor woman. If only she knew.”

“I reckon Niall could be a good influence,” Louis said, hopping onto the low brick wall that lined the pavement. “If we didn’t drag him down with us.”

“He likes being dragged down,” Zayn shrugged. “Besides, without us, he’d still be wearing those cargo shorts.”

Louis shuddered dramatically. “Dark times.”

They kept walking, the air thick with old jokes and easy silences, the kind that only came from knowing someone for so long you didn’t need to fill every gap with words. They talked smack about school — Mrs. Walsh’s suspicious upper lip mole, the new kid who wore his PE shorts backwards, the fight outside the chippy that no one actually saw but everyone swore they’d been there.

Zayn made up a story about shagging someone behind the bike sheds that Louis knew was fake, but laughed anyway because the lie was funnier than the truth.

By the time they turned onto the street where the party was, Louis’ face hurt from grinning and the itch under his skin was barely a whisper. This was what Zayn was best at — making Louis forget, making trouble feel like home.

The house was already pulsing with music, windows fogged up from the heat of too many bodies inside. A couple of lads were pissing against the side wall, someone was trying to climb onto the roof from the garden fence, and a girl in a too-short dress was having a very serious conversation with a wheelie bin.

“Classy,” Louis muttered.

“Home sweet home,” Zayn grinned, clapping a hand on Louis’ shoulder.

They didn’t knock — just walked straight in, like they belonged there, because they always did.

The house felt alive — too hot, too loud, breathing in time with the bass blasting through the shitty speakers someone had set up on the kitchen counter. It wasn’t a big place, just a cramped semi with scuffed laminate floors and furniture shoved up against the walls to make space for dancing, but it felt bigger inside, like the whole estate had squeezed itself into these four walls.

The air was thick — cigarette smoke, cheap body spray, sweat, and something sour and fruity that might’ve been spilled alcopops or a forgotten vape cloud hanging in the corner. The windows had fogged up from the heat of too many bodies crammed into one place, condensation dripping down the glass like the house itself was sweating.

There was no logic to the layout — the living room had turned into a makeshift dance floor, someone’s Bluetooth speaker vibrating so hard against the windowsill it was probably going to fall off. The kitchen had become the bar, bottles lined up on the counter, half-empty mixers strewn around, sticky pools of something neon staining the worktop. Someone had poured vodka into a salad bowl and dunked in a full packet of gummy worms, like that counted as punch.

The garden was full of smokers — groups clustered under the flickering porch light, hoods up, cigs glowing in the dark. Someone was throwing up in the flowerbed. A lad with a shaved head was passed out on a deck chair, head tilted back, mouth open, blissfully unaware of the cock and balls someone had drawn on his forehead in permanent marker.

Louis took it all in with a grin, like this was exactly where he belonged — because it was. These were his people: the estate kids, the ones who lived for weekends like this, the ones who knew the best parties were the ones that didn’t need invites, just a vague address passed around through texts and whispers.

Zayn headed straight for the kitchen, and Louis followed, already unzipping his hoodie because the heat was oppressive. The girl hosting — Crystabel or Crystal or whatever — was standing on the counter, swaying slightly, shouting over the music about how everyone needed to “ respect the fucking vibe ” which, from the looks of things, no one was doing.

“Shot?” Zayn asked, already reaching for the nearest bottle.

“Obviously,” Louis grinned.

They didn’t bother with mixers — just poured straight vodka into mismatched plastic cups, raised them in a silent toast, and knocked them back. It burned sharp and fast, cutting through the lingering weed haze from earlier, and Louis’ grin widened.

There were people everywhere — couples snogging against the fridge, lads shouting over each other about some football match none of them had actually watched, a girl crying dramatically in the corner while her mate held her hair back even though she hadn’t even been sick. Some kid Louis vaguely recognised from Year 10 was trying to balance a pint glass on his forehead, while his mate filmed it, both of them howling with laughter before the glass inevitably shattered on the floor.

“Classy crowd,” Louis muttered, wiping vodka from his chin.

“Elite,” Zayn grinned, fishing around in his pocket. “Speaking of—”

He flashed a baggie, pinched between his fingers, the powder fine and bright under the dim kitchen light. Louis’ stomach did a little flip — not nerves, not guilt, just that familiar excitement , the kind that always came right before something good.

“Bathroom?” Zayn asked.

Louis nodded, already moving. They weaved through the crowd, elbows knocking against shoulders, stepping over shoes and spilled drinks and at least one couple who were half-shagging against the bannister. The bathroom door was locked, so they ended up in some girl’s bedroom, posters of bands Louis didn’t recognise covering the walls, a pile of dirty laundry in the corner.

Zayn cut two quick lines on the vanity, using the edge of a school ID to even them out. Louis took the first one, the burn sharp and immediate, clearing his sinuses and lighting up the back of his brain like someone flicked a switch.

“Fuck,” Louis muttered, rubbing his nose. “Missed that.”

Zayn grinned, taking his turn. “Told you. Beautiful night for it.”

They stayed in the room a minute longer, letting the rush settle in, both of them grinning at nothing, pupils already wide. When they headed back out, the party felt brighter, sharper, funnier — the bad music suddenly perfect , every stupid joke absolutely hilarious .

They spent the next hour doing exactly what they were best at — talking shit to anyone who would listen, dancing badly to songs they claimed to hate, taking selfies with strangers like they were at a festival, pouring more vodka than mixer into every cup they touched. Louis ended up on someone’s shoulders at one point, screaming along to a song he didn’t know, middle fingers in the air like he was headlining Glastonbury.

This was it — the high they chased every weekend, the version of himself Louis liked best. Sharp and funny and fearless, the centre of attention, the life of the party. No homework, no silence, no empty room waiting for him when the night ended. Just noise and people and movement, filling every gap until there was no room left for anything else.

“Best fucking night,” Louis shouted, arms slung around Zayn’s neck, the two of them swaying together in the too-hot kitchen, vodka sloshing onto the floor.

“Best fucking life,” Zayn grinned back, and Louis laughed so hard his chest hurt.

Because that was the lie they told themselves every weekend — that this was all they’d ever need, and that it would never catch up to them.

Time stopped meaning anything after the second round of shots.

Louis didn’t know where the vodka kept coming from — every time his cup ran dry, someone shoved another into his hand, all different shapes and sizes, some with straws, some just straight from the bottle. It all tasted the same after a while — like fire and sugar and regret waiting to happen.

The house pulsed around him, walls vibrating with bass that didn’t match the song actually playing. Someone had plugged their phone into the speaker and was skipping tracks every thirty seconds, leaving everyone screaming the wrong lyrics at the wrong times. No one cared. Half the room was singing Wonderwall , the other half shouting something that might’ve been ABBA , and Louis was in the middle of it all, arms around two people he barely knew, belting along to both like it was the best mashup ever invented.

The floor was sticky under his shoes, some unholy mixture of beer, vodka, and something neon-green that had been spilled across the tiles. Louis slipped twice but caught himself on Zayn both times, laughing so hard he couldn’t breathe.

“You’re my fucking crutch,” Louis slurred, head tipping back against Zayn’s shoulder.

“Codependent as fuck,” Zayn grinned, cheeks flushed, eyes glazed in a way that made Louis think maybe Zayn had dipped into something stronger without telling him. It didn’t matter. They were a package deal — whatever Zayn took, Louis would end up chasing soon enough.

In the kitchen, Crystabel — or Crystal, whatever the fuck her name was — stood on the counter again, one shoe off, mascara halfway down her cheeks, waving a full bottle of Malibu over her head like a war prize.

“WHOEVER IS SHAGGING IN MY PARENTS’ BEDROOM — GET THE FUCK OUT,” she screamed, voice cracking halfway through. Everyone cheered. No one stopped shagging.

Louis laughed until his stomach hurt, tipping his head back and letting the room spin around him like a carnival ride. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been this drunk, this weightless, every edge smoothed out into something warm and soft and stupid.

Some girl stumbled past and accidentally poured half her drink down Louis’ front. “SORRY BABE,” she shouted, even though her hand was still on his chest. “YOU’RE WELL FIT.”

Louis wiped at his shirt, blinking down at the wet patch like it was funny instead of fucking freezing. “Cheers, love,” he grinned, and she kissed his cheek before disappearing back into the crowd like a drunk fairy godmother.

Zayn was at the counter again, filling a cup with something too clear to be anything but trouble. Louis weaved his way over, bumping hips with people he didn’t know, grinning at everyone like they were old friends.

“We should do a toast,” Louis announced, grabbing his own cup.

“A toast to what?” Zayn asked, eyes lazy, one elbow braced on the counter.

Louis thought about it for a second, swaying slightly where he stood. “To… to being fucking invincible.”

“Damn right,” Zayn grinned, raising his cup.

“To immortality!” Louis shouted, slamming his cup against Zayn’s so hard half the liquid sloshed over the edge. They downed it in one, the burn barely registering anymore.

The room felt softer and sharper at the same time — edges blurring, colors too bright, everyone’s voices just a little too loud, but it didn’t matter. Every time Louis caught his reflection in a window or a shiny surface, he was beaming , flushed and reckless and golden. This was the version of himself he liked best — too bright to be ignored, too funny to be told to go home.

Somebody handed him a cigarette. Someone else handed him another drink. Zayn whispered something in his ear about finding another bump and Louis nodded without thinking, the decision already made somewhere deep in his bones.

This was the night. This was their night. And nothing could touch them.

They were back in the kitchen again, cups multiplying like rabbits, the floor even stickier than before. Louis was perched on the counter, legs swinging, head feeling pleasantly weightless while Zayn rummaged through his pockets like he’d forgotten what he was even looking for.

“Oi,” Louis nudged his foot against Zayn’s hip. “What exactly have you taken tonight?”

Zayn glanced up, eyes blown wide, his grin lazy and satisfied. “Why?”

“Because,” Louis waved a hand dramatically, almost knocking over a bottle of something blue, “I’ve been watching you for the past half hour and you’ve been chewing the inside of your cheek like it’s made of fucking bubblegum.”

Zayn snorted, slumping back against the counter beside Louis. “Some girl gave me a couple pills.”

Louis raised a brow. “Who?”

Zayn’s face scrunched up, trying to remember. “Dunno. Green hair. Looked like a fucking anime character. Thought she was fit, though.”

Louis’ interest piqued immediately. “Green hair? Where is she?”

Zayn pointed vaguely toward the back garden. “Out there somewhere. Might be passed out by now.”

Louis slid off the counter, wobbling only slightly, his drunk legs doing their best to remember how walking worked. “I’m gonna find her.”

“Why?” Zayn squinted at him, but his grin gave him away — he already knew why.

Louis flashed him a mischievous smile. “Because you’re not having all the fun without me, dickhead.”

He pushed his way through the house, stepping over a couple making out in the hallway, dodging someone waving sparklers inside (where the fuck did they even get sparklers?), and eventually stumbled out into the back garden.

The air was cooler, refreshing after the humid crush inside, and there — half-sat, half-sprawled on a plastic deck chair — was the girl. Her hair was bright, unnatural green, messy around her face like someone had run their hands through it a few too many times. She was talking at triple speed to a curly haired guy who looked like he regretted starting the conversation, but Louis didn’t care. He zeroed in like a heat-seeking missile.

“Oi,” Louis grinned, leaning on the back of her chair. “Heard you’ve got the good stuff.”

She blinked up at him, pupils huge, smile already plastered on her face like it had been there for hours. “Depends who’s asking.”

“Louis,” he said, offering his hand like this was some sort of business deal. “Zayn’s mate.”

“Zayn’s mate gets the mate rate,” she said cheerfully, digging into the pocket of her jacket and pulling out a crumpled baggie with two little pills inside. They were a weird pale green, like mint ice cream, stamped with a clover.

Louis fished a crumpled tenner out of his jeans and slapped it into her hand. “Pleasure doing business.”

She saluted him with two fingers, already turning back to her unfortunate conversation partner, and Louis stumbled back inside, waving the baggie triumphantly at Zayn.

“Look what I found!” Louis sing-songed, flopping back onto the counter beside Zayn.

Zayn squinted at the pills. “Those are weird-looking.”

“Don’t be a snob,” Louis grinned. “How many did you take?”

Zayn just shrugged, which was probably the worst possible answer, but Louis was already tipping the baggie into his palm. “Fuck it,” he muttered, tossing both into his mouth and dry-swallowing them like they were nothing.

Zayn gave him a slow, lazy clap. “Absolute legend.”

“Thank you,” Louis bowed dramatically, almost falling off the counter. “Now—where’s that vodka?”

They carried on like nothing had happened, the pills forgotten almost immediately, because nothing kicked in straight away and there were shots to take and people to dance with and a truly terrible game of spin the bottle happening in the living room that Louis was dying to heckle.

But then — about twenty minutes later — it started.

First, it was just a warmth. A gentle hum under his skin, like his blood had been carbonated. Then the lights got softer, everything just a little fuzzier around the edges, and Louis’ whole body felt weightless, like he wasn’t quite inside his own skin anymore.

“Zaynie,” Louis slurred, tugging at his sleeve. “I feel like a cloud.”

Zayn cackled, throwing an arm around Louis’ shoulders. “Welcome to the fucking stratosphere, mate.”

Everything was brilliant. The music was better, the air tasted sweet, Zayn’s hoodie felt softer under Louis’ fingertips, and every word anyone said was the funniest thing Louis had ever heard. His jaw ached from smiling, his fingers tingling like every touch was electric.

Somewhere in the middle of it all, Louis leaned his head on Zayn’s shoulder and sighed dramatically. “This,” he declared, “is the best fucking night of my life.”

And at fifteen, drunk off his arse, high on mystery pills, surrounded by chaos and sticky floors and his best mate beside him — Louis actually believed it.

It took about half an hour for Louis to realize he’d fucked up.

At first, he thought it was just the usual rush — the way his heart always sped up when the pills hit right, like his body was trying to keep up with his brain. But this was different. This wasn’t the good kind of fast, the fluttery, electric kind that made dancing feel effortless and talking feel urgent. This was too fast .

He could feel it in his neck, his wrists, his temples — even in his fucking fingertips. Every pulse beat against his skin like a hammer, loud enough he swore he could hear it over the music. His hoodie suddenly felt too hot, clinging to his back, his skin damp underneath. His mouth was dry, throat tight, and his jaw wouldn’t stop clenching no matter how hard he tried to relax.

“Zaynie,” Louis muttered, voice barely audible under the music. “Oi. Zayn. ”

Zayn was mid-conversation with some girl, leaning against the kitchen counter, but the tone in Louis’ voice must have cut through because his head snapped up immediately. “What?”

Louis’ hands were shaking, fingers digging into the counter. “I feel weird.”

Zayn stepped closer, eyes narrowing slightly — not quite worried yet, but alert in that way only your oldest friend can be. “What kind of weird?”

“My heart’s too fast,” Louis said, voice low, almost embarrassed. “And I feel like I’m gonna throw up.”

Zayn didn’t hesitate, grabbing Louis by the wrist and tugging him through the crowd, shouldering people out of the way without a word. They ended up in the downstairs bathroom — the door was already unlocked, and Zayn kicked it shut behind them, flipping on the light.

The sudden brightness was brutal — Louis winced, squeezing his eyes shut for a second. His reflection in the mirror was not good . His face was too pale, pupils blown so wide there was barely any blue left, sweat shining along his hairline. His hands gripped the sink hard enough to make his knuckles go white, like letting go would send him straight through the floor. Something about bathrooms always made shit like this ten times worse.

“Breathe, mate,” Zayn said, voice calm but serious, one hand resting on Louis’ back. “It’s just a bad rush. Happens sometimes.”

Louis shook his head. “No, no — this feels wrong.”

“You need to be sick?” Zayn asked.

Louis nodded, bending over the toilet — but nothing came. His stomach churned, mouth watering in that horrible pre-vomit way, but his body wouldn’t follow through. Just dry heaves, each one making his pulse pound louder in his ears.

“Fuck,” Louis croaked, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand. “Fuck, Z.”

“Hey,” Zayn said, crouching beside him now, voice softer. “You’re alright. You’re not dying.”

“How do you know?” Louis snapped, panic spiking sharp. “What if—what if they were cut with something? What if—”

“They weren’t,” Zayn said, more forceful this time. “I took the same shit, remember? I’m fine.”

Louis’ heart wouldn’t slow down — it felt like it was trying to claw its way out of his chest, faster and faster until he swore it was vibrating instead of beating. His hands were trembling so badly he could barely grip the sink, and his skin felt all wrong — too hot, too cold, too tight.

“Sit down,” Zayn said, guiding him to sit on the edge of the bathtub. “Put your head between your knees.”

Louis complied, because it was easier than thinking for himself, his breath coming too fast, sharp and shallow. “I shouldn’t have taken both,” he muttered. “I didn’t even ask what they were.”

Zayn didn’t say yeah, that was fucking stupid , even though he could’ve. He just sat beside Louis, shoulder pressed against his, and lit a cigarette, holding it between them. “Take a drag,” Zayn said softly. “Focus on that.”

Louis did — and the smoke felt thick and grounding, something solid to hold onto. His pulse was still racing, but at least the world wasn’t tilting quite so violently anymore.

“We’re too fucked up,” Louis whispered, voice cracking just slightly.

“Yeah,” Zayn said, taking another drag. “We really are.”

They sat like that for a few minutes — the bathroom door locked, the party still raging just outside, and Louis clinging to the edges of himself like if he let go, there’d be nothing left to hold.

Louis’ hands still shook, but the cigarette helped — something about the weight of it between his fingers, the burn in his throat, the thin curl of smoke cutting through the humid air. He didn’t feel right , not even close, but the full-body panic was starting to ease, settling into something closer to frantic energy.

“I’m fine,” Louis muttered, more to himself than Zayn. “Just went too hard too fast.”

Zayn gave him a look — one eyebrow raised, sceptical but not arguing. “Take it easy for a bit, yeah?”

Louis nodded, standing up too fast, swaying on his feet before gripping the edge of the sink again. His reflection was still a fucking disaster — pale, sweaty, pupils like a doll’s eyes — but he could stand . That was progress, right?

They made their way back into the party, Louis holding onto Zayn’s hoodie for balance, and almost immediately a girl Louis had never seen before slid up beside him. She was gorgeous in that messy party way — smudged eyeliner, too much lip gloss, hair wild like she’d already been dragged through a hedge. Her nails were neon green, matching her hoop earrings, and her smile was just a little too sharp to be friendly.

“You alright, love?” she purred, leaning in too close. Louis could smell her perfume, sickly sweet under the smoke and booze. “Saw you get a bit wobbly there.”

“Just a bad mix,” Louis shrugged, trying to sound breezy. “S’fine now.”

She slipped a hand into her bra — like it was the most normal thing in the world — and pulled out a small, square pill, pale blue, no stamp. “This’ll sort you out,” she said, pressing it into his palm. “Levels you right off.”

Louis stared at it for half a second too long, brain ping-ponging between this is a terrible idea and fuck it, why not . Zayn was distracted talking to someone else, and Louis didn’t want to be the sad bastard clinging to his best mate all night. So he dry-swallowed it without thinking, chasing it with the warm beer someone had left abandoned on the side table.

“Legend,” Louis grinned, and the girl kissed his lips before disappearing back into the crowd, already forgetting him.

For about five minutes, Louis thought maybe it worked. His hands stopped shaking, his heart didn’t feel quite so ready to explode, and the room didn’t spin quite as violently. He even managed to dance for a bit, arms loose around Zayn’s shoulders, laughing too loud at jokes that weren’t funny.

But then —

His skin started to crawl.

Not just tingling, not like the usual come-up shivers. This was wrong . Every inch of him felt electric, like his nerves had been stripped bare and exposed to the air. His jaw clenched so hard he could hear his teeth grinding, and his vision started flickering at the edges — dark spots blooming in his peripheral, like shadows creeping in.

“Zaynie,” Louis said, voice tight. “Zayn, I—”

He didn’t even get to finish. His knees buckled, body convulsing so violently it felt like every muscle snapped tight at once. He hit the floor hard, the back of his head cracking against the laminate, and then his whole body seized — arms and legs jerking uncontrollably, teeth slamming together so hard he bit his tongue.

“ Fuck! ” Zayn shouted, dropping to his knees beside him, hands hovering uselessly because what the fuck do you do when your best mate is twitching like a live wire on the kitchen floor?

“Someone call—!” Zayn’s voice cracked, and then he dug his own phone out of his pocket with shaking hands, fingers fumbling on the screen. “Ambulance — fuck, I need— my mate’s—”

Louis couldn’t hear him anymore. Everything was white noise, his own pulse deafening in his ears, every nerve firing at once until there was nothing . Just static. Just silence.

The last thing Louis felt was Zayn’s hand gripping his wrist, shaking so hard it barely felt solid.

Then the lights went out.

 

That was his first serious overdose.

He didn’t remember much after hitting the floor — just flashes, like scenes from a film someone had spliced wrong. Bright lights. Zayn’s voice, too loud and too scared. Someone tipping his head back. Vomit on his chin. A siren that sounded like it was inside his skull.

 

He woke up in the hospital, head pounding, mouth dry and sour, an IV taped clumsily to his hand, beeping machines filling the silence like a metronome keeping time. The antiseptic smell stung his nose, too sharp, too clean, and everything about it felt wrong, like his body wasn’t sure it belonged to him anymore.

And there was his mum.

She was slumped forward in the chair beside his bed, elbows on her knees, hands pressed against her mouth like they were the only thing holding back whatever was trying to escape. Her eyes were red, puffy, and her hair — normally neat, tied back, orderly — was a wild mess, as if she’d spent the whole night raking her hands through it.

The second Louis stirred, her head snapped up, and the sheer relief on her face cut deeper than anything else. “Oh, thank God,” she whispered, voice trembling, before her hand shot out to cup his face, thumb brushing over his cheekbone like she was making sure he was really there. “Baby, you scared the life out of me.”

Louis tried to smile — tried to play it off like it was no big deal — but his face felt wrong, stiff, like his body didn’t trust him to lie right now. His throat ached when he tried to speak, voice hoarse and small. “M’fine.”

“You’re not fine,” she said, voice wobbling between anger and heartbreak. “You overdosed, Louis. Do you understand that? You could have—” She cut herself off, unable to say the word.

Died.

He knew that was what she meant. The word hung in the air between them, too real to say out loud but too big to ignore.

Louis swallowed hard, the weight of it all sinking in, heavy and cold. He was fifteen. People like him didn’t die . People like him took too much and laughed it off the next day. But this — this was different. His mum wasn’t just scared. She was shattered.

And Louis, for the first time in a long time, was scared too .

That was also the reason she made him go to rehab. Not a suggestion, not a conversation — a line in the sand. Either Louis got help, or he wouldn’t have a home to come back to. There was no middle ground.

In the moment, Louis had actually thought it might help. That maybe rehab was some magic place where they’d teach him how to want something better. Where they’d fix whatever was broken in his brain, whatever part of him couldn’t say no even when it should’ve been easy.

He was still a kid. Still young enough to believe things could be fixed if you wanted it bad enough.

That hope didn’t last long.

Chapter 10: Chapter 10

Notes:

Hey lovelies, in about 5 hours I‘m gonna be on a plane to Japan and I‘ll be staying there for about 2 weeks so updates might not be daily for a moment, but I‘ll try to update as frequently as I can :))

love,
-Ace

 

Louis - present

 

The past had a way of sneaking up on Louis when things got too quiet.

Lying on his bed after dinner, phone balanced on his chest, he hadn’t meant to think about that night — the house party, the seizure, the hospital — but it slipped in anyway, the memory playing on a loop behind his eyelids every time he blinked. His first real overdose. His mum’s face when he woke up. The moment he honestly believed rehab might change something.

It was almost funny now, in a sick sort of way. That fifteen-year-old Louis thought rehab would be some sort of clean slate, like a car wash for his fucked-up brain. He had no idea back then that you could come out knowing more about hiding drugs than getting clean.

He rubbed his hands down his face, sighing deeply, trying to push the memories back into whatever corner of his mind they crawled out from. Focus on now . On this version of Louis, the one who wasn’t fifteen and clueless, the one who’d promised Harry he’d actually try this time.

With a groan, he picked up his phone to mindlessly scroll — and there it was. An unread email, subject line glowing like a beacon:

Welcome to Toys R Us — Your Start Date

Louis blinked at it, not quite believing it was real. He opened it, and sure enough, there it was in black and white:

Dear Louis Tomlinson,

We are pleased to offer you a position as a Stock Associate at Toys R Us. Your first shift will be next Tuesday at 9:00 AM. We look forward to welcoming you to the team.

He stared at the screen, half-expecting it to disappear if he blinked too hard. It felt… weird. Almost anti-climactic. After everything — overdoses, rehab, sneaking drugs into every corner of his life — his first step toward “normal” was unpacking boxes of stuffed animals and plastic dinosaurs.

But at the same time, it felt good .

It was something .

Proof that he wasn’t just drifting — that he could still make a choice that didn’t end with him face down in a bathroom.

He didn’t know if he wanted it forever, didn’t know if he’d actually be good at it, but that didn’t matter. It was a start. A boring, ordinary, deeply uncool start — and for once, Louis wasn’t embarrassed by that.

He took a screenshot and fired it off to Harry without even thinking, adding:

look who’s a corporate sellout now x

Harry’s reply came fast, like he’d been waiting for something to distract him:

proud of you!! gonna get me a discount on teddy bears??

obviously , Louis typed back, grinning. only the finest plushies for Play-Doh

Harry sent a dozen heart emojis, and Louis felt something loosen in his chest — a little knot of tension he hadn’t even realized he was holding. Maybe this was what progress felt like. Not big speeches or dramatic breakthroughs. Just an email, a text, and a little bit of hope where the hopelessness used to sit.

Louis barely waited a minute after texting Harry before heading downstairs, phone still in hand, grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. His mum was in the living room, curled up on the sofa with her reading glasses perched on the end of her nose, some crime show playing quietly in the background.

“Mum,” Louis said, trying to sound casual, but his voice couldn’t quite hide the flicker of excitement bubbling up under it. “Guess who’s officially employed?”

She looked up over her glasses, blinking like she hadn’t heard him right. “You what?”

“Toys R Us,” Louis grinned, holding up his phone like it was proof. “Start next week.”

For a second, her face was unreadable — like she was bracing herself for some punchline. But when she realized he was serious, her whole expression lit up, pride flooding in so fast Louis almost had to look away.

“Oh, love,” she said, standing up and crossing the room in a few steps, cupping his face in her hands like he was five again. “That’s brilliant . I’m so proud of you.”

“It’s not that big a deal,” Louis muttered, but his ears went pink anyway.

“It is ,” she insisted, giving him a quick kiss on the forehead before wrapping her arms around him. “It’s a step. A proper one. And I’m proud of you for taking it.”

Louis hugged her back, the warmth of it settling somewhere in his chest. It felt good, having something to give her other than apologies or excuses. Something solid. Something that felt like proof .

“Gonna go tell the lads,” Louis said, pulling back after a moment. “Might have a little celebration.”

His mum gave him a look — not suspicion exactly, but the kind of gentle warning only a mum could deliver with just a glance. “A little celebration, yeah?”

“Promise,” Louis said, holding up both hands. “Just a pint and a laugh.”

She didn’t quite believe him — he could see it in her eyes — but she smiled anyway, brushing his fringe out of his face like she couldn’t help herself. “Alright. Be safe, love.”

“Always,” Louis grinned, already backing toward the door.

Five minutes later, he was out the door, hoodie zipped up, boots laced tight, phone buzzing in his hand as he texted the group chat.

Employed bitches, Toys R Us. Pub?

Niall was the first to reply, obviously.

u legend. meet u at the king’s head in 20. first round on me

Zayn followed with:

u gonna wear a giraffe costume for this job or what?

Eleanor — his oldest friend, the one who always pretended she was the responsible one even though she’d been the first to smuggle vodka into school — added:

proud of u tommo. let’s get you wrecked. responsibly. obvs.

And Oli, who never said much in the group chat but always showed up, just sent:

on my way x

Louis grinned, shoving his phone back into his pocket as he walked. These were his people — the ones who knew every version of him and still showed up, no matter how messy or brilliant or impossible he got. And tonight? Tonight wasn’t about getting wasted or forgetting — it was about marking something good .

He was still Louis — still a bit of a fuck-up, still figuring it out — but for once, he had something to celebrate that didn’t come with a side of regret.

 

The King’s Head hadn’t changed in the ten weeks Louis had been gone. Same sticky floors, same too-dim lighting, same dartboard with a chunk missing where Zayn had once thrown a pint glass instead of a dart. The smell was a comforting cocktail of stale lager, cheap cologne, and the faintest whiff of fried food that no one had actually ordered in months.

Louis stepped inside and was immediately swallowed by noise — Niall’s laugh booming over everything else, Eleanor shouting something about celebrity in the building , and Zayn holding up both middle fingers like a welcome home banner.

“ There he fucking is! ” Niall practically launched himself across the room, clapping Louis on the back hard enough to knock the air out of him. “Mr. Fucking Gainful Employment himself!”

“Calm down, mate, I’m stocking shelves at a toy shop, not curing cancer,” Louis laughed, but the warmth in his chest was real. Niall’s approval always felt like winning a prize at the fair — loud, ridiculous, and just a little bit too much, but exactly what you needed.

“Proud of you, Lou,” Eleanor said, hugging him next, a real one — arms tight around his neck, chin digging into his shoulder. “Proper proud.”

Oli was there too, quiet smile, one-armed hug, the kind of solid presence Louis had always relied on. “Congrats, mate,” he said simply, and that was enough.

Zayn hung back for a second, cigarette dangling between his fingers, head tilted. “A real job,” he said, almost teasing, but there was something softer underneath it. “Didn’t think you had it in you.”

“Me neither,” Louis admitted, grinning. “Guess rehab works after all.”

Zayn snorted, and that was that. No big speech, no heart-to-heart — just a clap on the shoulder and a cigarette offered between fingers. Louis shook his head, waving it off, and Zayn raised a brow but didn’t push. That meant more than anything — Zayn wasn’t exactly the king of boundaries, but he was trying.

They claimed their usual corner — the battered table by the fruit machine, slightly out of the way but close enough to shout at the bartender if they needed a round. Niall got the first one, true to his word, slamming five pints down like they’d won something.

“To Louis!” Eleanor raised her glass. “Gainfully employed member of society.”

“Barely,” Louis grinned, but they all clinked glasses and shouted something unintelligible, and Louis felt it again — that warm hum of belonging, like no matter how many times he fucked up, these were the people who would always pull him back.

They drank. They laughed. They talked shit about everyone they knew — who was pregnant, who’d been arrested, who’d moved to Manchester and was pretending they weren’t miserable about it. Niall reenacted a story about trying to deep-fry a Mars bar after three spliffs, and Eleanor nearly spat her drink everywhere laughing.

It felt good . Easy. Like slipping back into his skin after weeks of trying to wear someone else’s.

But under it all — just beneath the surface — was the itch .

The pub was a place soaked in memory. Every corner had a story, and most of them involved Louis off his head, singing on tables, buying rounds he couldn’t afford, sneaking off to the toilets with Zayn for a bump or a pill or something . The muscle memory was still there — the way his hand twitched toward his pocket, the way his gaze flicked toward the loos, the way his brain automatically wondered who was holding tonight.

He wasn’t craving anything specific — not coke, not pills — just the feeling . That reckless, electric slide into losing control. But he didn’t. Not tonight.

“Still clean?” Eleanor asked quietly when the others were distracted, leaning in just enough that Louis knew she meant it.

“Still clean,” Louis said, and he realized it was actually the truth.

She squeezed his hand under the table. “Proud of you, Tommo.”

That was the second time someone had said that tonight, and Louis wasn’t sure how to sit with it. But for once, he didn’t deflect or joke. He just squeezed her hand back and took another sip of his pint.

The night stretched on, the laughter getting louder, the stories getting more exaggerated, but Louis stayed steady — just tipsy, just present, just here .

And for the first time in a long time, that felt like enough.

It was nearly midnight when Louis peeled himself away from the table, cheeks warm from the booze, stomach aching from laughing too hard for too long. The others were still going — Niall already three shots deep, Eleanor flirting with some girl at the bar, Zayn halfway through rolling a joint like they weren’t sitting in plain view of the barman.

“Gonna head off,” Louis said, stretching with a groan. “Some of us have jobs now, y’know. Can’t be out all night.”

Niall booed dramatically, but Louis just grinned, flipping him off on his way to the door. The cold air hit him square in the face as soon as he stepped outside, sharp enough to make him suck in a breath. It felt good, though — cleansing in a way, like washing off the last bit of temptation still clinging to his skin.

The walk home was quiet. The streets were mostly empty, the estate settling into its usual late-night hush. The streetlights cast long shadows, everything a little too still after the noise of the pub. Louis walked with his hands stuffed in his hoodie pockets, head down, breath fogging out in front of him.

He was proud of himself — properly proud, in a way he wasn’t used to. He’d gone out, had a laugh, drank just enough to feel it but not enough to lose himself, and walked away clean. It wasn’t a big deal to most people, but to Louis? It felt massive. Like proof that maybe — just maybe — he could do this.

His phone buzzed in his pocket, and Louis fished it out, grinning the second he saw the name on the screen.

Play-Doh: still awake? x

Louis: just left the pub. walked out sober . i’m a fucking icon.

Harry replied immediately.

Play-Doh: PROUD OF YOU!!! all caps proud!!

Louis snorted, thumbs flying across the screen.

Louis: save the caps lock, haz, you’ll hurt yourself. what are you doing awake?

Play-Doh: thinking about you.

Louis stopped walking for a second, heart doing something stupid in his chest, but he covered it with a joke like always.

Louis: obsessssssssed.

Play-Doh: guilty. also couldn’t sleep. miss you.

Louis swallowed hard, because he missed Harry too — missed him so much it ached sometimes, like a phantom limb. They’d only known each other a little over two months, but rehab time was different — intense, like everything was in slow motion. Harry knew things about Louis that people he’d known for years didn’t.

Louis: miss you too, Play-Doh.

Play-Doh: you gonna call me that forever?

Louis: duh. you’ll be Play-Doh when we’re old and wrinkly.

Harry sent a string of crying-laughing emojis, and Louis could practically hear his giggle through the screen. It made the night feel warmer, the street a little less empty.

Play-Doh: get home safe, yeah? text me when you’re in bed.

Louis: clingy little shit.

Play-Doh: responsible little shit.

Louis grinned, slipping his phone back into his pocket as he rounded the corner to his street. Home was just ahead — the porch light on, his mum’s silent way of saying I’m waiting up, but I trust you this time .

He still had a lot to figure out — about jobs and sobriety and what came next — but tonight, just walking home, still himself, still steady, was enough.

And knowing Harry was waiting on the other end of the line made it better.

The door creaked a little too loud when Louis slipped inside, the cold air clinging to his clothes as he kicked off his boots. The house was quiet — lights dimmed, the telly off — but his mum was exactly where he expected her, curled up at the kitchen table with a book in her lap, a half-drunk mug of tea beside her.

She looked up the second the door clicked shut, squinting at him over her reading glasses. Louis gave her his best innocent smile, spreading his arms like ta-da .

“Two pints,” he said, voice casual but clear. “No shots, no sneaky detours, just a laugh with the lot and home before midnight.”

His mum raised a brow. “Miracles do happen.”

“Hey!” Louis grinned, crossing the kitchen to plant a quick kiss on the top of her head. “I’m responsible now.”

“Let’s not get carried away,” she said dryly, but he could see the relief in her eyes, that softening around the edges that told him she believed him — maybe not completely, but enough for tonight. “Proud of you, love.”

“That’s the millionth time someone’s said that to me today,” Louis said, grabbing a biscuit from the tin on the counter. “Not sure how to handle it.”

“Get used to it,” she said, swatting his hip lightly as he passed. “Night, sweetheart.”

“Night, Mum,” Louis said, the warmth lingering in his chest as he climbed the stairs.

His room felt too quiet after the pub — the silence almost echoing, but it didn’t feel empty. He peeled off his hoodie, kicked his jeans into the corner, and flopped onto his bed in his t-shirt and boxers, phone already in his hand before his head hit the pillow.

Louis: home safe. mum says i’m a model citizen.

The reply came immediately.

Play-Doh: knew you had it in you. how was it? fun?

Louis: yeah. weird but good. only had 2 pints. even zayn was impressed.

Play-Doh: i’m impressed too. proper proud of you, lou.

Louis bit his lip, fingers hovering over the keyboard for a second. It was stupid, how much that meant coming from Harry — like being good meant more if Harry saw it. Like it counted more if Harry was proud.

Louis: don’t make a big deal out of it. might ruin my bad boy reputation.

Play-Doh: too late. i’m writing you a certificate.

Louis: laminated?

Play-Doh: obviously.

Louis laughed softly, rolling onto his side, blanket pulled up around his waist. It felt safe, this quiet bubble just between them — away from the pub, away from his mum’s worried glances, away from all the noise in his own head.

Louis: missed you tonight.

There. No joke to soften it. Just the truth.

Harry’s reply came slower this time.

Play-Doh: me too. everything’s easier when you’re around.

That shouldn’t have hit as hard as it did — but it settled somewhere deep, warm and aching, like a bruise you didn’t mind pressing.

Louis: soon. we’ll see each other soon.

Play-Doh: promise?

Louis: promise.

They kept texting for a bit — stupid stuff, talking about the shittest toys Toys R Us sold and which ones Harry wanted even though he was almost seventeen. Eventually, Harry’s replies got slower, more typos slipping in, until Louis could picture him blinking sleepily at his screen, curls probably falling into his eyes.

Play-Doh: night lou. proud of you x

Louis: night haz. miss you x

Louis set his phone down on his chest, eyes drifting shut, heartbeat slow and steady for once. It wasn’t perfect. But it was enough.

And for the first time in a long time, he went to sleep without craving anything at all.

 

Tueseday came faster than he expected.

Louis had expected Toys R Us to be hell — screaming kids, passive-aggressive managers, floors so sticky they made the pub look clean — but it wasn’t that bad.

It was just… a job. A regular, boring, painfully ordinary job. And weirdly, Louis found that kind of reassuring.

He showed up five minutes late, obviously, hair still damp because he’d slept through his first alarm and had to sprint to the bus stop. His uniform shirt was half-tucked, his name badge slightly crooked, and his shoelace undone, but when the floor manager — a bored-looking woman named Janet — gave him a once-over, all she said was, “You’re breathing. That’s good enough.”

Janet walked him through the basics — where to clock in, what aisle was which, how to not murder someone with the pricing gun — and then handed him a trolley of new stock and told him to get on with it . No hand-holding, no corporate speech, just here’s some boxes, don’t fuck it up . Louis could respect that.

The morning passed quicker than he expected. It was weirdly satisfying, unpacking boxes and stacking shelves — methodical and simple, no thinking required. He didn’t have to talk much, didn’t have to explain himself to anyone, didn’t have to justify why he was here instead of somewhere cooler. He was just the new lad in aisle five , and that was fine.

He spent most of the shift stocking the action figure aisle — superheroes, dinosaurs, robots, all crammed together in bright plastic packaging. Louis found himself posing a few of them in ridiculous battle scenes when no one was looking, making Spiderman fight a velociraptor just because he could.

The only hiccup came when a kid — maybe six years old, face sticky with some unidentifiable snack — tugged on Louis’ sleeve and demanded to know where the “ pink unicorn with the glitter horn ” was. Louis had no fucking clue, so he just said, “I think it’s on holiday,” which made the kid cry and forced Louis to scramble for a real answer before Janet noticed. Louis texted Harry about it immediately.

By lunch, Louis had settled into it — not loving it exactly, but not hating it either. It was something to do . Something to fill the hours that used to belong to smoking and drinking and trying to outrun his own brain. This was simpler. Less dangerous.

He texted Harry again on his break, perched on an overturned crate behind the loading bay, cigarette dangling from his fingers even though he wasn’t entirely sure if he was allowed to smoke there.

Louis: survived 4 hours. only made one child cry. call me employee of the month.

Play-Doh: my hero. did you find the unicorn?

Louis: mate, i am the unicorn.

Harry sent back three crying laughing emojis, and Louis felt the tension in his chest ease just a little bit more.

By the end of the shift, Louis’ back ached, his hands were covered in cardboard dust, and his name badge was still crooked — but he’d done it. A full day of honest work, no sneaking off to get high, no excuses, no shortcuts. Just work.

And when Janet clocked him out and said, “See you tomorrow,” Louis grinned and said, “Looking forward to it.”

For once, he actually meant it.

Louis’ first week at Toys R Us went surprisingly alright.

He showed up (mostly on time), learned how to work the scanner without breaking it, and only got mildly told off once for balancing a Barbie Dreamhouse on his head to make Niall laugh over Facetime. Janet barely seemed to notice him most days, which Louis took as a win — invisibility was preferable to being a problem.

It was boring, sure, but it was easy . And Louis didn’t mind easy.

At the end of his Friday shift, still wearing his uniform shirt and eating leftover chips out of a greasy bag on his bed, his phone lit up.

Play-Doh: guess who’s getting out tomorrow x

Louis nearly choked on a chip.

Louis: NO FUCKING WAY

Play-Doh: way

Louis: holy shit haz we need to celebrate. balloons. cake. streamers. a full parade.

Play-Doh: just you will do x

Louis grinned so hard his face hurt, already buzzing with excitement. Harry was coming back — not just as a text thread or a voice on the phone, but real and solid and right there in front of him.

It was all Louis could think about for the rest of the night — his best mate (and maybe something more, if Louis was brave enough to admit it) coming back into the world.

And this time, Louis wasn’t just waiting to drag him down. This time, maybe — just maybe — they could both stay up . Naturally Louis quickly decided that he would be the one picking Harry up from the clinic just after he had texted his mum didn‘t have the time.

Zayn’s car smelled like stale smoke and something vaguely spicy — like the ghost of a takeaway long forgotten under the passenger seat. Louis didn’t care. He was practically vibrating in his seat, knee bouncing so fast Zayn eventually smacked it with the back of his hand.

“Fucking sit still, mate.”

“Can’t,” Louis grinned, rolling down the window even though it was freezing. “Play-Doh’s getting released into the wild.”

Zayn snorted. “Reckon the world’s ready for you two unsupervised?”

“Doubt it,” Louis said, but his grin stretched wider, heart hammering in his chest.

They pulled up outside the rehab just after noon, the whole place looking smaller than Louis remembered. It was funny, how something could feel like a whole world when you were inside it, only to shrink to a dot when you stood outside again. Louis hopped out before Zayn even killed the engine, pacing slightly while they waited.

The door swung open, and there he was — Harry, curls longer than Louis remembered, bag slung over his shoulder, bundled in a slightly-too-big jumper and jeans that hung a bit loose on his hips. He looked tired, but his smile — that smile — was the same.

Louis didn’t think — just launched himself forward, arms around Harry’s neck, nearly knocking him off balance and spinning him around twice just for good measure.

“Missed you, Play-Doh,” Louis mumbled into his hair, arms squeezing tight.

“Missed you too,” Harry murmured back, voice soft and a bit choked. “So much.”

Louis pulled back just enough to look at him, hands cupping Harry’s face like he needed to check he was really there. Harry’s cheeks were pink from the cold, his eyes bright, and Louis couldn’t stop himself — leaned in and kissed him, right there on the pavement.

It was soft at first — a warm press, nothing desperate — but Harry sighed against his mouth, fingers curling into Louis’ hoodie, and Louis deepened it just a little, tasting mint toothpaste and something sweeter underneath.

“Alright, alright, save it for the bedroom,” Zayn called from the car, window rolled down, his cigarette waving through the gap. “You’ve been reunited — we get it.”

Harry laughed, ducking his head into Louis’ shoulder to hide his pink cheeks, and Louis flipped Zayn off behind Harry’s back.

“Come meet him properly then, you nosy prick,” Louis called.

Zayn climbed out, all swagger and lazy smirk, flicking his cig to the ground and stepping it out. “So this is Play-Doh,” Zayn said, arms crossed, eyeing Harry like he was something Louis had dragged in off the street.

Harry stood up straighter, nervous smile flickering across his face. “Harry,” he said, offering a hand.

Zayn shook it — firm but not too much, like a test Harry didn’t know he was taking. “Zayn. I’ve heard far too much about you.”

“Same,” Harry said, glancing at Louis with a fond smile.

Zayn nodded approvingly. “He’s cute. Bit of a wet wipe, but cute.”

“Fuck off,” Louis said, shoving Zayn toward the car. “I’ll walk home with him if you’re gonna be like that.”

Zayn just grinned, climbing back into the driver’s seat. “No you won’t. You hate walking.”

Louis slung an arm around Harry’s shoulder, steering him toward the car. “Ignore him,” Louis whispered. “He’s a knob, but he’s my knob.”

Harry laughed softly, leaning into Louis’ side as they climbed into the backseat together. Louis couldn’t stop looking at him — like he might disappear if Louis blinked too long.

“Let’s get you home, Haz,” Louis said quietly, squeezing his knee. “Properly home.”

And for the first time in ages, Louis felt like maybe things were actually falling into place.

Zayn’s car rattled down the road like it might shake itself apart at any moment, but Louis barely noticed. He was too busy sneaking glances at Harry, who was pressed up beside him in the backseat, their knees bumping gently every time Zayn hit a pothole.

Harry was talking a mile a minute — a little nervous, a little excited, hands waving around as he told them all about the last few weeks at rehab, and Louis could hardly keep up. He was too busy soaking in the sight of him, real and solid and right there, close enough to touch.

“So Greg,” Harry was saying, eyes wide with the drama of it all, “you know how he’s obsessed with meditation, right?”

Louis snorted. “He used to make us do it after every group. I nearly fell asleep every time.”

“Yeah, well, he’s gotten worse,” Harry said, leaning forward slightly to make sure Zayn could hear him. “He made us do a silent retreat . A whole day. No talking, no phones, nothing.”

Zayn glanced at them in the rearview, brow arched. “How long did you last?”

Harry grinned sheepishly. “About fifteen minutes. Louis, remember that guy James? With the lazy eye and the prison tattoo?”

“Of course,” Louis said, grinning. “He owed me a cig.”

“Right,” Harry said. “Well, Greg caught him sneaking out for a smoke, and when he tried to confiscate his lighter, James told him—” Harry paused for dramatic effect, voice dropping into a terrible impression, “‘ You can take my dignity, Greg, but you’ll never take my fags. ’”

Louis dissolved into laughter, head tipped back against the seat, and even Zayn cracked a smile.

“Absolute hero,” Zayn said. “Might get that tattooed.”

“Oh, and,” Harry continued, eyes sparkling now, “Greg’s gotten really into crystals. Every session he had, like, seven in his pocket. Kept telling us to ‘align our chakras’ and ‘channel the healing power of amethyst’.”

“Of course he did,” Louis snorted. “Greg’s about two weeks away from joining a cult.”

“Rehab is a cult,” Zayn muttered, flicking ash out the window.

They carried on like that — Harry telling story after story, painting a picture of the weird, chaotic little world Louis had left behind, filling in all the blanks Louis had missed. Harry talked about the girl who got caught trying to sneak in vodka inside a shampoo bottle, the guy who swore he could astral project after doing too much ket, the time Greg tried to lead a ‘healing drum circle’ and got so into it he broke his own tambourine.

Louis could’ve listened forever, not just because the stories were funny, but because Harry was glowing . Even though his hands still shook a little, even though he kept worrying at his lower lip when he thought no one was looking, there was life in him again — colour in his cheeks, light in his eyes.

Zayn, to his credit, didn’t interrupt much — just tossed out the occasional sarcastic comment and smoked his way through at least three cigarettes in a row. At one point, he caught Louis staring at Harry with the softest expression imaginable and loudly gagged, which earned him a kick to the back of his seat.

Through it all, Louis held Harry’s hand. Quietly, under the cover of their shared hoodie draped across their laps, his thumb tracing lazy circles over Harry’s knuckles. Harry’s grip was steady — not clinging, not desperate, just there . Solid. Real.

Notes:

No idea how to insert photos on here but I‘d like to add the pic of fetus larry hugging outside a building, because that‘s what that moment looked like in my head, just search „fetus larry hug“ on pinterest, it‘s like the first result..

ANYWAY, they‘re reunited!! Yay!!!!

Chapter 11: Chapter 11

Notes:

Just arrived in Tokyo, currently uploading from the hotel room, nothing‘s stopping me from getting these chapters out (not even a 14 hour flight, 38 hours of total travel and half an hour of sleep)

Zayn’s car rattled to a stop outside a block of flats Louis knew all too well — the kind of place where the paint peeled off the railings and kids played football on patches of grass worn down to dirt. It wasn’t quite Louis’ street, but close enough that he could’ve walked here in ten less than minutes if he’d known Harry was here all along.

Louis blinked up at the building, a flicker of something sharp in his chest. All this time, Harry had been this close . Another estate kid with nicotine fingers and too much shit on his plate for someone so young. It explained a lot — why Harry knew what pills were worth nicking from his mum’s stash before most kids even knew what a hangover felt like.

“Didn’t know you were a local lad,” Louis said softly as they climbed out of the car.

Harry shrugged, cheeks pink, like it was something to be embarrassed about. “Didn’t think it mattered.”

“It does,” Louis said, and Harry looked at him, really looked, like maybe Louis understood something Harry had never needed to say out loud.

Zayn stayed by the car, leaning against the door, cigarette already between his fingers because Zayn’s ability to sniff out stress was uncanny. Louis walked Harry to the door, their steps slow, dragging out the moment like neither of them really wanted to say goodbye.

The door opened before they even knocked, and there she was — Harry’s mum. Slim, dark curls like Harry’s but harsher somehow, pulled back into a low bun. She had the same green eyes, but none of the softness. She gave Harry a once-over, lips pursed, and then her gaze slid to Louis.

“Who’s this?” That was it. No hug, no teary eyes, no welcome home, love.

“Louis,” Harry said quietly. “My… my mate.”

Her brows lifted, and Louis could already feel the judgment rolling off her. “You look too old to be one of Harry’s friends.”

Louis forced a smile, holding out his hand. “I’m eighteen. Just turned.”

“Eighteen,” she repeated, like the number was offensive. “And you, Harry, are still sixteen.”

“Seventeen in a few weeks,” Harry mumbled, but it didn’t help.

She glanced over Louis’ shoulder, spotting Zayn blowing smoke into the air like he didn’t have a care in the world, and her lips thinned even further. “So you’ve spent your time in rehab making friends with a pair of older boys who think cigarettes and god knows what else are a personality trait.”

Louis swallowed down the immediate urge to snap something back. He knew this type of mum — the type who needed someone to blame, who was desperate for an explanation that didn’t involve looking too closely at her own choices.

“Actually,” Louis said carefully, “we were roommates. Same rehab, same program.”

She scoffed, stepping aside to let Harry through the door, but Louis stayed put. “I could’ve picked you up, you know,” she said, not to Louis, but to Harry. “My lunch plans got cancelled.”

Harry’s face didn’t change much — just a flicker, like something shut down behind his eyes. “It’s fine,” he said, voice soft. “Louis wanted to.”

“Right,” she said, eyeing Louis up and down like he was something Harry had dragged in off the street. “Well, thanks for your help. But Harry doesn’t need influences right now.”

Louis didn’t flinch, even though it stung — mostly because he knew exactly what kind of influence Harry’s mum probably thought he was. She didn’t see the lad who held Harry’s hand through withdrawals or made him laugh when all he wanted to do was cry. She just saw a skinny estate boy with nicotine fingers, a smart mouth, and a track record that could make a probation officer sweat.

“See you soon, Haz,” Louis said softly, deliberately ignoring her, eyes only on Harry.

Harry nodded, small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “See you.”

The door shut, leaving Louis on the step, Zayn still smoking by the car, the whole estate quiet around them.

“She’s a right piece of work,” Zayn muttered, flicking ash into the street.

Louis sighed, shoving his hands into his pockets as they started walking back to the car. “Yeah,” he said softly. “She is.”

But Louis knew something Harry’s mum didn’t — that Harry wasn’t fragile, not really. He was soft, sure, but soft things could survive more than people thought. And no matter what she believed, Louis knew exactly what kind of influence he wanted to be.

The kind that stuck around. The kind Harry could count on.

“C’mon,” Zayn said, unlocking the car. “I need a kebab and you need a beer.”

Louis climbed in, one last glance at Harry’s window before they drove off.

“Alright,” Zayn said, slamming his hand on the steering wheel as they pulled away from Harry’s block, “we’ve got a full day ahead and absolutely no plan. What’s your pleasure, Tommo? I can offer: a greasy kebab, a trip to the offie, or an afternoon of existential dread on the swings down the park.”

Louis snorted, slouching lower in his seat. “Let’s start with a kebab. Build a base.”

Zayn grinned, turning down the familiar side street that led to their usual spot — a dodgy little place that had been shut down twice for health violations but still somehow made the best chips in South London. They sat on the curb outside, backs against the window, paper-wrapped kebabs balanced on their knees, chips drowning in curry sauce between them.

“So,” Zayn said around a mouthful of food, “Harry’s mum hates you. That’s a new one.”

Louis flicked a chip at him. “You surprised? Look at me.”

Zayn gave him a long, exaggerated once-over. “Fair point.”

They ate in silence for a while — the comfortable kind, where the food’s too good to talk through. Louis’ phone vibrated a few times, but he ignored it for now. Nothing urgent, and the last thing he wanted was to accidentally show Zayn some sappy text from Harry and get rinsed for the next hour.

“What’s the plan then?” Zayn asked once the food was gone, lighting a cig and offering the pack out of habit.

Louis shook his head, still off the smokes for now, though it wasn’t easy. “Dunno. Haven’t really thought about it.”

“You never do,” Zayn grinned, but it wasn’t mean — just true. “Reckon we could hit the high street, annoy some people. Or you could buy me something nice with your fancy new wages.”

“Mate, I’ve worked four shifts,” Louis laughed. “I’m barely in the tax bracket.”

They ended up wandering — along the high street, into the park, back through the estate. They spent twenty minutes trying to kick a can into a drain and another ten rating every dog they saw (the spaniel outside the bookies got a perfect 10, the shivering chihuahua in a pink jumper got a 2 and a prayer).

They stopped at Niall’s briefly, who was too hungover to join them but did lend Louis his PS2 controller so they could play Pro Evo later. Then they found themselves back at Zayn’s flat, same as always, collapsing onto the sofa with Zayn’s dodgy TV balanced on a stack of pizza boxes.

Zayn rolled a joint out of habit, fingers moving quick and precise, but he didn’t light it. Just left it on the table between them. Louis noticed, and something soft flickered in his chest — the kind of quiet understanding you didn’t have to say out loud.

“You good?” Zayn asked after a while, eyes still on the screen as they took turns missing every goal.

“Yeah,” Louis said. “Weirdly, yeah.”

Zayn glanced over, eyebrow raised. “’Cause of Play-Doh?”

Louis didn’t even bother denying it. “Don‘t call him that.”

Zayn snorted. “Soft.”

“Fuck off,” Louis grinned. “You’re jealous.”

“Maybe,” Zayn admitted, grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “I liked it when you only had eyes for me, gonna miss making out with you off my face when all the girls are gone.”

Louis burst out laughing, nearly choking on his drink. “That only happened once and I’m still blaming the molly you absolute knob, you can sod right off.”

They stayed like that for hours — talking shit, playing terrible football, debating whether they could make it to Nando’s before dark. Zayn never lit the joint, Louis never asked for a bump, and neither of them said out loud how weirdly good it felt to just be together , no substances needed.

They were still them — still chaos, still estate rats through and through — but maybe, just maybe, they were learning how to be that without destroying themselves in the process.

“Love you, you soft git,” Zayn said around a mouthful of crisps, halfway through their fourth game.

“Love you too,” Louis said, and meant it.

It was just past nine when Louis finally let himself back into the house, the cold settling into his bones after walking home from Zayn’s. The house was mostly quiet — lights dimmed, the telly humming softly from the living room where his mum had likely dozed off in front of some crime drama.

He toed off his boots and wandered into the kitchen, craving something warm to chase off the night air. He wasn’t expecting anyone to be up, so it surprised him to find Fizzy already at the table, knees pulled up to her chest, hands wrapped around a mug too big for her small fingers.

“Alright?” Louis said, filling the kettle without asking if she wanted another.

She nodded, watching him quietly, like she was trying to figure out if he was sober without having to ask. She’d gotten good at that over the years — knowing without needing to say the words out loud.

“Want one?” Louis asked, holding up a tea bag.

“Yorkshire,” she said firmly, and Louis grinned.

“Obviously.”

They sat at the table together a few minutes later, hands curled around matching mugs, steam curling between them. Fizzy’s hair was pulled into a messy plait, and she was wearing one of Louis’ old jumpers, sleeves rolled up at the wrists, her bare toes tapping against the chair leg.

“You really doing alright?” she asked eventually, voice quiet but serious.

Louis took a sip of his tea, letting the warmth settle deep before answering. “Yeah. I think I am.”

She didn’t push — just nodded and gave him a small smile, like she was allowing herself to believe him this time. “I’m glad.”

They drank in silence after that, nothing needing to be said. Louis stared at the mug between his hands, thinking about how a year ago, this would’ve been impossible — him at home, sober, having tea with his little sister instead of sneaking out a window for a bag of something.

It wasn’t much. But it was something.

When they finished, Fizzy stood up first, pressing a quick kiss to the top of Louis’ head before heading upstairs without a word. Louis stayed at the table a while longer, fingers tracing the ring left by his mug, the quiet settling around him like a blanket.

 

Louis was half-asleep when his phone buzzed on his chest, screen lighting up the dark room. He squinted at it, thumb swiping clumsily before his brain even caught up.

Play-Doh: where do you live?

Louis blinked at the message, too tired to question it. They’d talked about seeing each other soon anyway, and Harry was probably just getting his bearings, figuring out how close they really were.

Louis: just off Sandhurst Close. No. 48. 10 min walk from yours.

Harry didn’t reply straight away, and Louis didn’t think much of it. He let the phone fall beside him, drifting somewhere between awake and asleep, comforted by the thought that Harry was nearby — close enough to visit whenever they felt like it.

The knock on the front door came twenty minutes later.

Louis sat up fast, confused for a second because no one ever knocked after dark unless it was trouble, but when he checked his phone and saw no more texts from Harry, his stomach dropped.

He ran downstairs, pulling open the door — and there Harry stood.

Except it wasn’t just Harry . It was Harry with glassy eyes, pupils wide even in the dim porch light, swaying slightly like his feet weren’t entirely connected to the pavement. His hair was a mess, curls flattened on one side like he’d faceplanted his pillow before getting up. His jumper was on backwards, seams twisted around his sides.

“Haz,” Louis said quietly, stepping out onto the porch, heart already pounding. “Baby, what are you doing here?”

Harry grinned, too wide, too loose. “You live so close .”

“Yeah,” Louis said, gentle and slow, like he was talking to a startled animal. “You okay?”

Harry shrugged, leaning heavily against the doorframe. “Had a headache. Mum gave me something. Dunno what.” His grin slipped slightly. “Feel good though.”

Louis’ stomach churned — cold and heavy and familiar . “What’d she give you?”

“Dunno,” Harry said again, words slurred at the edges. “Same stuff I used to nick, probably.”

Tilidine , Louis realized, mouth going dry. Of course. Harry’s mum probably hadn’t even thought about it — just handed them over because it was easier than dealing with her son complaining.

“Alright,” Louis said softly, slipping an arm around Harry’s waist to steer him inside before the neighbours clocked anything. “Let’s get you upstairs, yeah?”

Harry nodded, obedient and loose-limbed, following Louis up the stairs like a rag doll. Louis’ mind raced the whole way — guilt, frustration, fear, and something sharper, something closer to anger at the woman who didn’t even blink before feeding her recovering son exactly what had landed him in rehab in the first place.

They made it to Louis’ room without waking anyone, Harry collapsing onto his bed like all the bones had been taken out of him. Louis stood at the edge of the bed, hands on his hips, trying to figure out what to say.

“This is bad, Haz,” Louis said finally, voice soft but firm. “You know that, right?”

Harry rolled onto his side, looking up at Louis with those big, blown pupils and a sleepy smile. “I didn’t mean to.”

Louis’ heart cracked straight down the middle — because he knew Harry wasn’t lying. This wasn’t sneaking pills into his socks or buying shit off some green-haired girl at some party. This was accidental — and that almost made it worse.

“Stay here tonight,” Louis said quietly. “We’ll figure it out in the morning.”

Harry just nodded, already halfway asleep.

Louis sat beside him, watching the slow rise and fall of his chest, fingers itching for a cigarette even though he’d promised himself he wouldn’t smoke in the house.

He’d wanted Harry back so badly — but not like this.

 

Louis woke up to the sound of Harry breathing beside him — soft, steady, the kind of sleep you only get after your body’s been dragged through hell and finally gave up the fight. Louis stayed still for a moment, lying on his side, head propped up on his hand, just watching him.

Harry looked younger when he slept, almost like a regular 16 year old, all the tension gone from his face, lips slightly parted, hair sticking up every which way. His hoodie had ridden up a bit, exposing a pale stretch of skin above his waistband, and Louis couldn’t help but smile at how innocent he looked — like this was any other morning, like they were just two normal lads who’d had a sleepover after playing FIFA all night.

Except Louis’ stomach was still twisted in knots, the weight of last night sitting heavy on his chest. Harry showing up at his door high as a kite wasn’t how Louis had pictured their first real reunion outside rehab. It wasn’t a cheeky pint or a coffee or a lazy afternoon stretched across Louis’ bed laughing about the shit they’d been through. It was a reminder — a brutal, fucking terrifying reminder — of how close they both still were to the edge.

And Harry hadn’t even meant to do it.

That was the part Louis couldn’t shake. Harry hadn’t snuck out to score or raided his mum’s stash on purpose. He’d just complained about a headache — something anyone would do — and his mum, without a second thought, had handed him the same pills that had nearly destroyed him the first time around.

That scared Louis more than anything. Because if staying clean relied on never getting a headache or trusting that people around you understood what you couldn’t handle — they were both fucked. Louis couldn’t wrap his whole life in bubble wrap, couldn’t follow Harry around intercepting every offer of a drink or a smoke.

But maybe I could. The thought crept in quietly, unwanted but impossible to ignore. Maybe if they were together all the time, if they kept each other honest, if they made it a thing — we stay clean together — then maybe they had a shot.

It was dangerous thinking. Louis knew that. He’d been told a million times in group: your sobriety can’t depend on anyone else . You had to want it for yourself. But Louis had never been particularly good at wanting things for himself. He’d always done better when someone else needed him — his sisters, his mum, and now, apparently, Harry.

Harry shifted beside him, eyes fluttering open slowly, face scrunching up in that way Louis secretly adored. “Morning,” Louis said softly.

Harry stretched, groaning quietly. “Mmm, what time is it?”

“Nearly nine,” Louis said. “You alright?”

Harry blinked up at him, and Louis could see the flicker of realization settle in — the memory of showing up, high and unsteady, the weight of what they hadn’t talked about yet. “Yeah,” Harry said quietly. “Sorry about last night.”

“Not your fault,” Louis said quickly, meaning it. “But, Haz… we’ve gotta talk about it.”

Harry nodded, sitting up slowly, hair an absolute mess, hoodie twisted around him. He looked small like this, sitting cross-legged in Louis’ bed, hands tucked into his sleeves. “I was thinking,” Harry started, voice soft, like he wasn’t sure he was allowed to say it out loud, “what if we made a pact?”

Louis frowned slightly. “A pact?”

Harry nodded, biting his lip like he was bracing for Louis to laugh at him. “Like… we stay clean together. Or not at all.”

Louis’ heart stumbled in his chest. That was a big ask. Huge. Tying himself to someone else like that — making someone else’s sobriety his responsibility — it was the exact opposite of everything they’d been taught. But at the same time, Louis couldn’t deny the way Harry was looking at him. Like Louis was the one thing standing between him and falling apart completely. And besides, it wasn‘t like Louis hadn‘t thought the exact same thing just minutes ago.

That’s dangerous, a voice in Louis’ head whispered. But Louis had never been good at self-preservation. He was, however, very good at loving people who needed saving.

“Haz,” Louis said, voice quieter now, more serious. “That’s… that’s not really how this is meant to work.”

Harry’s face fell immediately, and Louis’ heart broke clean in two. “I just—” Harry started, words rushing out. “It’s easier when you’re there. It always was. And I— I’m scared, Lou. Of going back. And I know I can’t do this alone.”

Louis understood that too well. It was terrifying to admit you couldn’t trust yourself, even with the smallest things — a headache, a bad day, a quiet afternoon. Everything was a trigger when you’d spent years making every feeling disappear with something you could swallow or snort or smoke.

“Alright,” Louis said, voice soft but certain. “We’ll do it together.”

Harry’s head snapped up, hope flickering in his eyes so fast Louis couldn’t regret saying it. “Really?”

“Yeah,” Louis said, squeezing Harry’s knee. “No pills. No coke. Not even a spliff unless we both decide together.”

Harry smiled, wide and real. “Thank you.”

And Louis should have felt proud — should have felt like they’d just made some monumental promise to each other. But mostly, all Louis felt was terrified . Because Harry deserved someone who could promise to stay clean for themselves . Someone who didn’t still crave a bump every time life got boring. Someone who didn’t look at rehab like a revolving door they’d eventually walk through again.

But Harry didn’t have someone like that. Harry had Louis . And if Louis couldn’t stay clean for himself, maybe — just maybe — he could stay clean for Harry.

“Clean together,” Louis whispered. “Or not at all.”

“Together,” Harry whispered back.

And Louis, for all his doubts and fears and dark little secrets, decided then and there: if Harry was going to try, Louis would too. Even if he didn’t believe in himself, he believed in them .

Louis tossed a jumper at Harry before they went downstairs, because Harry’s hoodie was all stretched and twisted and hanging off one shoulder like he’d been dragged backwards through a hedge. Harry tugged it on without question — an old grey thing with the word Doncaster peeling off the front — and Louis couldn’t help but grin, because seeing Harry in his clothes felt right in a way Louis couldn’t quite explain.

“Ready to meet the wolves?” Louis asked, half-joking as they stood at the top of the stairs.

Harry tilted his head, confused. “The what?”

“My sisters,” Louis said. “They’re… a lot.”

Harry just smiled, nervous but soft. “I like a lot.”

Louis gave him a quick kiss, right there on the landing, and Harry’s smile turned shy, a bit pink around the edges. Then Louis clapped him on the back and led him down the stairs into the chaos that was every morning at the Tomlinson house.

The kitchen was already a war zone — toast burning in the ancient toaster, cereal spilled across the counter, Daisy and Phoebe arguing loudly over who stole whose hairbrush, and Fizzy sitting at the table, serenely stirring her tea like none of it was happening around her.

Their mum stood at the stove, still in her dressing gown, hair piled on top of her head, frying up bacon with one hand and texting with the other.

“Mum,” Louis said, voice loud enough to cut through the noise. “Got someone for you to meet.”

The whole kitchen went silent — which, in this house, was a minor miracle.

Harry stood half behind Louis, hands shoved into the front pocket of the hoodie, curls still a mess, looking younger and smaller than Louis had ever seen him. “Hi Mrs. T,” Harry said quietly.

Their mum blinked, taking him in for a second before her face softened into a warm smile — that natural mum instinct kicking in the second she saw how nervous Harry looked. “You must be Harry,” she said, wiping her hands on a tea towel before stepping forward. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”

“All bad things of course, establishing your badboy reputation,” Louis grinned, clapping Harry on the back.

“Nonsense,” she said, giving Louis a look before turning back to Harry. “Welcome, love. You’re staying for breakfast, right?”

Harry nodded, smile flickering to life. “If that’s okay.”

“Course it is,” she said, already pulling out another plate. “Always room for one more.”

“Who’s that?” Phoebe stage-whispered to Daisy, both of them standing in the doorway, identical wide-eyed expressions plastered on their faces.

“Haz,” Louis said, grabbing a strip of bacon straight from the pan. “My mate from rehab.”

“Ohhhh,” they both said in unison, clearly intrigued.

“Hi,” Harry said, giving them a small wave, which they both returned, giggling wildly like Harry was some kind of celebrity.

“He’s cute,” Fizzy said from the table, not even looking up from her phone, and Louis groaned.

“Can everyone stop objectifying my mate before he’s even had a cuppa?”

Harry just laughed, softer now, like he was already starting to relax. Louis couldn’t blame him — the Tomlinson house had a way of dragging you into its chaos whether you liked it or not.

They all sat down around the table — Louis and Harry squeezed shoulder to shoulder, Fizzy across from them, and their mum fluttering around the kitchen like a one-woman breakfast army. The twins never really sat down properly, just bounced between stools and counters, alternating between interrogating Harry and whispering loudly about him like he couldn’t hear every word.

“So,” their mum asked, sliding a plate of bacon and eggs in front of Harry, “what’s the plan today, boys?”

Louis shrugged. “Nothing much. Just hanging out.”

“Staying out of trouble?” she asked, arching a brow.

“Always,” Louis said, with his most innocent smile, and Harry had to duck his head to hide his laugh.

They ate like they always did — talking over each other, arguing about nothing, Louis stealing food off everyone’s plates while Harry quietly tried to keep up. By the end of breakfast, Harry was laughing at all the right moments, answering the twins’ relentless questions (no, he didn’t know anyone famous, yes, rehab was kind of boring, no, Louis wasn’t the worst roommate ever), and Louis’ mum kept refilling his tea like he was one of her own.

It wasn’t perfect, and Louis could see the flickers of nerves still lurking in Harry’s eyes, but it was good . It was normal, and warm, and safe.

And when Harry accidentally called her “mum” while asking for more toast, and no one even blinked, Louis knew Harry had already found his place here.

Chapter 12: Chapter 12

Breakfast had barely ended before the twins struck.

“Come with us!” Daisy said, grabbing one of Harry’s hands. “We need you for something.”

“Something important ,” Phoebe added, latching onto his other hand.

Harry glanced at Louis, wide-eyed but smiling, looking completely out of his depth. “Uh—what?”

“Nail painting,” Daisy declared, already tugging him toward the stairs. “You’ve got perfect nails.”

“They’re so long,” Phoebe added, eyes gleaming. “It’s not fair.”

“You’re gonna be our canvas,” Daisy announced like it was a royal decree, and Harry barely had time to protest before they dragged him up the stairs, his laughter echoing down the hall.

“Good luck, Play-Doh!” Louis shouted after him, grinning before his face sobered slightly. When the noise faded upstairs, leaving just him, Fizzy, and his mum in the kitchen, Louis took a deep breath. “Mum,” he said softly, “can I talk to you for a sec?”

Fizzy glanced up from her phone, sensing the shift in Louis’ tone immediately. “I’ll leave you to it,” she said, standing and grabbing her mug. “Gonna go see if they’ve murdered Harry yet.”

“Thanks, Fiz,” Louis said softly, waiting until the door swung shut behind her. His mum, sensing the change, sat down across from him, her hands folded neatly on the table.

“What’s on your mind, love?”

Louis ran a hand through his hair, trying to figure out where to start. “It’s Harry,” he said. “Or, more like, his mum.”

His mum’s brow furrowed. “What about her?”

“She gave him pills last night,” Louis said bluntly, watching her reaction closely. “Tilidine.”

His mum’s face drained of colour, eyes widening in shock. “ What? ”

“He told her he had a headache,” Louis explained, fingers tapping restlessly against the table, “and she just—gave them to him. Didn’t think twice.”

“Oh, my god,” she breathed, hand flying to her chest. “But that’s—that’s exactly—”

“Exactly what sent him to rehab in the first place,” Louis finished, voice flat. “Yeah.”

His mum shook her head, eyes darting toward the ceiling like she could see right through to where Harry was upstairs, probably getting glitter dumped all over him. “That poor boy,” she whispered. “Does she not understand?”

Louis shrugged. “Either she doesn’t, or she doesn’t care. I don‘t know which is worse.”

His mum was silent for a moment, eyes distant, the fingers of one hand tracing circles on the table. Louis could see her thinking, connecting the dots — Harry’s quietness, the way he looked around the house like he couldn’t quite believe it was real, the fact that he’d ended up here instead of home after being discharged.

“Is that why he showed up at ours?” she asked softly. “Because he knew you’d take care of him?”

Louis swallowed hard. “I think so, yeah.”

Her expression shifted then — softening, but sadder somehow. Like she was proud of Louis for stepping up, but heartbroken that Harry needed it at all. “You boys have had to be so much older than your years,” she said quietly.

Louis didn’t know what to say to that, so he just shrugged. “I just—” He paused, struggling to find the right words. “I want to help him, Mum. But it’s scary, y’know? ‘Cause I’m not exactly—” He gestured vaguely to himself, “—a picture of good decisions.”

His mum reached across the table, squeezing his hand tight. “You’ve got a good heart, Louis. Even when you’re a bloody nightmare sometimes. And if that boy trusts you enough to show up here instead of anywhere else, that says something.”

Louis’ throat felt tight, so he just nodded, blinking down at their joined hands. “We made a pact,” he admitted softly. “To stay clean together.”

His mum’s smile was sad, but there was something like hope in it too. “That’s a lot to promise, love.”

“I know,” Louis said. “But if it keeps him safe, I’ll do it.”

“And who’s keeping you safe?” she asked gently.

Louis gave her a lopsided smile. “Haz is.”

She shook her head, laughing softly despite herself. “Two broken halves trying to hold each other up.”

“Story of my life,” Louis grinned, squeezing her hand once before letting go. “But at least this time, I’m trying.”

She reached out, brushing a bit of hair off his forehead like she used to when he was little. “That’s all I ask.”

Upstairs, a loud shriek echoed down the stairs, followed by Harry’s unmistakable laugh. Louis stood, stretching, and grabbed his empty mug. “I better go rescue him before they dye his hair pink.”

“Give it an hour,” his mum said dryly. “They’ll have him in a dress.”

Louis grinned, pausing at the door. “You like him, don’t you?”

His mum’s smile softened. “I do. And not just because you do.”

That, more than anything, gave Louis the last bit of confidence he needed. Whatever happened next — good or bad — Harry wasn’t alone. And neither was Louis.

Louis was halfway to the door when his mum’s voice stopped him.

“Lou.”

He turned back, leaning against the frame. “Yeah?”

She was still sitting at the table, hands curled around her mug, but there was something softer in her expression now — the kind of gentleness she only pulled out when it was just the two of them, no sisters around to witness it. “He’s welcome here, you know. Anytime. Doesn’t matter if you’re home or not.”

Louis’ chest tightened, warmth and guilt and something else knotting together under his ribs. “You sure?”

“Of course,” she said, like it was obvious. “You know what this house is, Louis. It’s a place where people land when they need somewhere soft. He’s one of yours — that makes him one of mine too.”

Louis’ throat felt thick again, so he swallowed hard, nodding. “Thanks, Mum.”

She gave him a knowing smile. “I mean it. Doesn’t matter if it’s 2 in the morning and he’s at the door with no shoes on. He’s got a place here.”

Louis had to look away for a second, because there was something dangerously close to tears prickling at the back of his eyes. “Alright,” he said, voice rough. “I’ll tell him.”

“And Lou?”

“Yeah?”

“I’m proud of you.”

There it was again — that word. It used to make Louis bristle, like praise was something sharp he didn’t know how to hold. But now, standing in his mum’s kitchen with sunlight streaming through the window and Harry’s laughter echoing down the stairs, Louis realized it didn’t feel uncomfortable anymore.

It felt real.

It felt earned.

“Thanks,” he said quietly. “I’m trying.”

“That’s all I ask,” she repeated, and Louis knew she meant it.

With one last smile, Louis turned and headed upstairs — heart a little lighter, shoulders a little straighter. Because no matter how messy things got, no matter how many times he stumbled, this house would always be here. And now, it wasn’t just his soft place to land.

It was Harry’s too.

Louis took the stairs two at a time, his mum’s words still echoing in his head. He’s got a place here. It shouldn’t have hit so hard — Louis had always known his mum’s house was a refuge, a place people landed when they had nowhere else to go — but hearing her say it so plainly, about Harry , made Louis’ throat feel tight in a way he couldn’t quite explain.

By the time he reached the landing, the sounds of giggling and exaggerated shrieks were already spilling out of the twins’ bedroom. The door was half-open, and Louis leaned in the frame, arms crossed, watching the scene unfold before him.

Harry was sat on the floor, legs crossed awkwardly beneath him, hands laid palm down on his knees like he was meditating. Except instead of peace and quiet, Daisy and Phoebe were fully focused on his fingers, bottles of nail polish scattered around them like a bomb had gone off at Claire’s Accessories.

Each nail was a different colour — neon green, bright orange, glittery purple, metallic blue — like they couldn’t quite settle on a theme and just went for all of it . Phoebe was carefully painting a tiny flower on Harry’s pinky nail with her tongue sticking out in concentration, while Daisy was loudly debating whether they should add rhinestones or if that would be “ too much .”

Harry, for his part, looked utterly delighted — cheeks pink from attention, curls falling into his eyes, his smile soft and easy in a way Louis hadn’t seen in weeks. He looked comfortable . Like he belonged there, cross-legged on a worn pink rug covered in spilled glitter, having his nails absolutely massacred by a pair of overenthusiastic ten-year-olds.

Louis could’ve stood there forever, just watching.

“You’re right,” Daisy declared, holding Harry’s hand up like it was a masterpiece. “You do have perfect nails.”

Harry grinned down at his fingers. “I feel very glamorous.”

“You are,” Phoebe said solemnly. “We made you beautiful.”

“You’re like a princess,” Daisy added, and Louis had to slap a hand over his mouth to muffle the laugh threatening to burst out.

Harry glanced up then, spotting Louis in the doorway, and his smile softened into something quieter — more private. “Lou,” he said, holding up his hands, fingers wiggling. “Do you like my makeover?”

Louis stepped inside, crouching beside him, squinting dramatically at Harry’s fingers. “Very posh. You look ready for the Met Gala.”

“We were going for couture,” Phoebe said seriously.

“Obviously,” Louis agreed, ruffling her hair until she squawked in protest. “You girls are artists.”

Harry leaned against Louis’ knee slightly, shoulder brushing Louis’ thigh, like it was the most natural thing in the world. Louis let his hand settle in Harry’s hair, fingers threading through the curls without thinking.

“You two should go professional,” Harry said, and the twins beamed like he’d just knighted them.

“Oi,” Lottie’s voice called from the hallway. “Save some for me, I’m a nail artist too!”

She appeared in the doorway, hands on her hips like a foreman arriving at a job site, and Louis barely suppressed a laugh at how serious she looked. “We’re doing his toes next,” Daisy informed her.

“Alright, alright,” Louis said, hands up in surrender. “But if you lot actually glue rhinestones to him, I’m charging you for emotional damages.”

They all dissolved into laughter, and Louis shook his head fondly. Harry was already being folded into the chaos like he’d always been part of it — no awkward introductions, no hesitance. The girls had taken one look at him and decided he was theirs.

Louis knew exactly how that felt.

“Right,” Louis said, standing up with a stretch. “I’m stealing him for a bit.”

“Five more minutes!” Phoebe protested, clinging to Harry’s arm.

“Yeah!” Daisy chimed in. “We need to do his makeup .”

Harry’s eyes widened slightly, but he didn’t argue — just glanced up at Louis with a soft smile, like he’d put himself entirely in Louis’ hands.

“Maybe later,” Louis said, gently prying Harry up off the floor. “We’ve got important pact business to discuss.”

The twins groaned dramatically, but Lottie just gave Louis a look — the kind only a sister could give, full of unspoken understanding. “Be nice to him,” she said quietly as Louis and Harry slipped past her into the hallway.

“Always,” Louis said, voice soft.

They ended up back in Louis’ room, the door closed, Harry sprawled on his stomach across Louis’ bed, fingers drumming quietly against the mattress. Louis sat cross-legged beside him, leaning back against the headboard, watching Harry’s fingers move — glitter polish catching the light.

“This is nice,” Harry said, voice muffled slightly by the duvet. “Your house. Your family.”

Louis shrugged, though warmth bloomed in his chest. “They’re loud. But they’re good.”

“They’re really good,” Harry said, rolling onto his side to look at Louis properly. “Your mum… she’s amazing.”

Louis’ throat tightened slightly. “She likes you.”

Harry’s smile was small and soft. “I like her too.”

Louis hesitated for a moment, then reached out, tracing a finger along Harry’s wrist, over the soft skin and the faint marks that Harry had insisted were his cat‘s fault that had barely begun to fade. “She said you’re welcome here anytime.”

Harry’s breath caught slightly. “Really?”

“Yeah,” Louis said quietly. “Even if I’m not home. This house — it’s yours now too.”

Harry’s eyes shone a little too bright, but he just nodded, biting his lip like he was holding back something big. Louis knew the feeling.

“Thanks,” Harry whispered.

Louis squeezed his wrist gently. “Always.”

They lay there in silence for a moment, the kind that didn’t feel awkward at all — just easy and soft, the kind of silence that comes when you know you don’t have to fill the space. Harry’s fingers found Louis’, their hands tangling together between them, glitter and all.

Louis thought about the pact — about how dangerous it was, how much risk they were both taking, tying themselves so tightly to each other’s survival. But he also thought about Harry sitting on the floor with his sisters, letting them paint his nails and giggling with them like they were his own. He thought about how easy Harry fit into his world, like he was meant to be there all along.

Maybe they were each other’s risk — but maybe they were each other’s chance too.

“Together,” Louis said softly, squeezing Harry’s hand.

“Together,” Harry echoed, and for the first time, Louis let himself believe it might actually work.

“Should we draw up a contract?” Louis suggested, tilting his head as a slow grin spread across his face.

Harry didn’t even hesitate. He shot up from the bed, making a beeline for Louis’ desk, rummaging through scattered papers and old receipts until he found a blank sheet and a pen.

“Alright,” he announced, plopping back down beside Louis and clicking the pen. “Rules.”

Louis bit his lip, amusement glinting in his eyes. “Rule number one,” he said, voice lighter than it had been in days. “We stay sober together or not at all.”

Harry nodded, like that was already understood, and scribbled it down without argument.

“Rule number two,” Louis continued, shifting so he could watch Harry’s neat, slanted handwriting take shape. “We’ll be each other’s last kiss.”

Harry’s pen paused for a fraction of a second before he gave a short nod and jotted it down. “Last kiss,” he murmured, then glanced up at Louis. “That means no one else, ever.”

“Obviously,” Louis said, nudging his knee against Harry’s.

“Good.”

Harry tapped the pen against his bottom lip in thought. “Rule number three—”

“We swear never to steal each other’s cigarettes,” Louis interrupted, pointing at him like he was deadly serious.

Harry let out a sharp laugh. “That one’s entirely aimed at you.”

“Yeah, and? What are you complaining for?”

Harry hummed, scribbling the rule down anyway, adding a little underline for emphasis. “No cigarette theft.”

Louis grinned, watching him write, then drummed his fingers against the mattress. “Rule number four: No lying. About anything.”

Harry hesitated this time, tapping the pen against the page. “Even if the truth hurts?”

Louis’ smile faltered for a moment, then he gave a small shrug. “Especially then.”

Something shifted in the air between them, something unspoken but understood. Harry pressed the pen back to the paper, his voice softer when he spoke. “No lying. About anything.”

For a second, neither of them spoke, letting the words settle. Then Louis let out a breath and, in an attempt to lighten the mood, leaned in with a smirk. “Rule number five—if one of us dies in a freak accident, the other has to tell everyone we were in love. Tragic, forbidden, star-crossed lovers and all that.”

Harry snorted, shaking his head as he wrote it down. “That one’s mostly for you, huh?”

“What can I say? Gotta keep my dramatic streak alive.”

Harry chuckled, then sat back, looking at the list. His fingers skimmed the edges of the paper, a pensive expression flickering across his face. When he looked up at Louis, there was something softer in his gaze.

“You serious about this?”

Louis didn’t hesitate. “Yeah. You?”

Harry gave a slow nod. “Yeah.”

They didn’t need to shake on it. The contract, scrawled on an old piece of paper and destined to be crumpled and forgotten in a drawer somewhere, meant nothing on paper—but everything in the quiet, in the space between them.

Naturally, it didn’t take long for Louis to decide Harry had endured more than enough for the day and promptly snuck him out of the house, dodging his sisters’ protests as he dragged him down the street.

“Come on, you need to meet the others,” Louis said, leading the way with a grin. “Can’t be officially back until you’ve survived a night with this lot.”

Harry, still rubbing at his hands as if he could scrub away the remnants of nail polish, glanced at him warily. “That sounds vaguely threatening.”

Louis just laughed.

 

Zayn’s flat was exactly how Louis had left it the last time he’d been there—ashtrays overflowing, the TV paused on some old episode of Top Gear , and the faint, ever-present smell of weed hanging in the air like it was part of the furniture.

Niall was already sprawled across the sofa, a bag of crisps balanced precariously on his chest, eyes half-lidded from whatever he’d been smoking before they arrived. Eleanor was perched cross-legged on the armrest, tapping idly at her phone, and Oli—somehow, against all odds—was in the corner, half-asleep in a beanbag that had absolutely seen better days, a spliff tucked behind his ear like some kind of council estate accessory .

Louis shoved the door open and gestured grandly. “Look who I found.”

Niall immediately sat up, sending crisps flying everywhere. “ Play-Doh! ”

Harry blinked, caught completely off guard. “What?”

“Play-Doh,” Eleanor confirmed, sliding off the armrest to stand beside Niall, her grin way too pleased. “You’re all we’ve heard about for weeks . ‘Play-Doh this, Play-Doh that.’ We were starting to think you were imaginary.”

Harry turned to Louis, scandalized. “You told them?”

“ Obviously ,” Louis scoffed, nudging him inside. “What, you thought I was gonna shut up about my best rehab pal?”

Harry’s ears turned bright red , which only made Eleanor cackle , delighted. “Oh, he’s cute ,” she announced, throwing herself down on the couch beside Niall, immediately making grabby hands. “Come here, Play-Doh. We need to bond.”

Harry shot Louis a look , like he’d just walked into some sort of trap, but Louis just grinned and shoved him forward.

“Go on, mate,” Zayn said lazily from the other side of the room, flicking his lighter open and shut. “You’re one of us now.”

“ Terrifying ,” Harry muttered under his breath, but he still let Eleanor yank him down onto the sofa, immediately bombarding him with questions.

Oli, half-conscious in his beanbag, cracked one eye open. “Careful Play Doh. If you don’t physically restrain her, she will interrogate you all night.”

Harry, already overwhelmed, looked to Louis for help, but Louis just laughed , settling into his usual spot next to Zayn, feeling something warm settle in his chest.

Harry’s ears went pink, eyes flicking to Louis. “I cannot believe you told them about that.”

“It’s cute ,” Niall said, grinning wide. “And now it’s your official nickname.”

“Oi,” Louis cut in, voice sharp enough to make them all look at him. “That’s my name for him. You lot call him Harry.”

“Possessive,” Zayn smirked from the doorway, cigarette dangling from his fingers.

“Damn right,” Louis said, chin lifted slightly, daring anyone to argue.

Harry was still pink, but he was smiling now—soft and a little shy, but real.

“Alright, Harry it is,” Niall relented, hands up in surrender. “But just so you know, you’ve got a lot to live up to.”

“I’ll do my best,” Harry said, voice soft but sure.

And with that, they settled in.

Niall tossed Harry a bag of crisps, immediately launching into some story about the last time they’d all ended up at Zayn’s, which—if Louis recalled correctly—ended with Oli falling asleep on the kitchen counter and Eleanor somehow starting a conga line in the street.

Eleanor, of course, asked Harry a million questions at once, half of which she forgot before he could even answer. (“Wait, you lived with Louis for months and he didn’t tell you that I am the love of his life ? Unbelievable.”)

Zayn, as always, was quieter, watching from his corner with his usual air of detached amusement, assessing the situation, but not in a way that made Harry feel scrutinized—just in the way Zayn always did, like he had already made peace with whatever conclusion he’d come to.

And Harry? Harry fit .

Not in the loud, brash way Louis did, not in the chaotic whirlwind that was Niall and Eleanor, but in a quieter way—the kind of presence that softened the edges of the room. He laughed at all the right moments, asked questions without trying too hard, let Niall tell increasingly ridiculous stories without interrupting, and even offered up his newly painted nails for inspection, which got a round of applause from the whole room.

Louis watched it all unfold with something warm curling in his chest.

This.

This was what he wanted.

Harry in his world, not on the outside looking in, not hidden away like something fragile. Just here . With his friends, with his chaos, with all of it.

And when Zayn caught Louis staring and raised a brow, Louis just shrugged, because what was the point in pretending?

He’d already made it clear: Harry was his.

And if anyone had a problem with that, they could fuck right off.

It didn’t take long for Niall to start his usual shit-stirring.

It was kind of his role in the group—court jester with a sprinkle of chaos, always the first to push a button and the last to apologize for it. Louis loved him for it most of the time, but today?

Today, Niall was going to need to tread lightly .

They’d been lounging around Zayn’s for about an hour now—Harry curled up on the edge of the sofa, Louis sprawled beside him, legs thrown over Harry’s lap like it was the most natural thing in the world. The argument had started innocently enough , with Eleanor making a passionate case for pineapple on pizza ( “It’s innovative, you heathens” ), and Louis immediately taking offense.

Which was when Niall, bored and restless, reached into his pocket and popped a Xanax like it was a Tic Tac.

Everything stopped for a split second.

Harry tensed under Louis’ legs.

Zayn, still lounging in his chair, flicked his lighter open and shut but didn’t say a word.

Eleanor frowned, like she was debating whether or not to say something, and Oli—who had been dozing off again—suddenly looked very awake .

Louis felt something curdle in his stomach.

“Really?” he muttered, breaking the silence.

Niall, utterly unbothered, shrugged. “It’s my prescription, mate.”

Louis exhaled through his nose, jaw clenching. He knew that. He knew Niall had been on that shit for years. But watching him casually knock one back now, in this moment, after everything Louis had been through—

After everything Harry had been through—

It didn’t sit right .

“Not the point,” Louis said tightly.

Niall raised a brow. “Alright, Dad.”

Louis’ jaw ticked .

The energy in the room shifted.

Harry, still quiet, still tense, glanced down at his hands. Zayn rolled his cigarette between his fingers like he was debating whether or not to intervene.

And Eleanor, always the one to cut tension when she felt it, clapped her hands together and said, “Sooo, anyway! Back to pineapple on pizza, because obviously , it’s a blessing and—”

Louis let it go.

Not because he wanted to, but because the weight of Harry’s fingers brushing just slightly over his ankle felt more important than winning this fight.

And because he knew Niall.

He knew this wasn’t his battle to pick.

Harry didn’t react — too polite, too new to the group to say anything — but Louis’ jaw clenched for just a second before he forced himself to let it go. Niall was Niall. They all had their vices.

Except now, Louis’ vice was sitting right next to him, biting at a hangnail with his glittery fingers, trying not to look at the pill in Niall’s hand.

“Oi, Harry,” Niall said, propping his feet on the coffee table. “How’s life with the Tomlinson twins? They always this mental?”

“They’re great,” Harry said softly, smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “They painted my nails.”

“Oh, we noticed,” Niall grinned, pointing dramatically at Harry’s hands. “Didn’t know you were going for Princess Play-Doh .”

Louis didn’t miss the way Harry’s fingers curled slightly into his sleeve, that automatic little flinch he always gave when someone took the piss out of him a bit too directly. Before Louis could even think about it, the words were out of his mouth, flat and simple:

“Painted nails make Harry beautiful.”

The room went quiet for half a second before Zayn smirked, exhaling a cloud of smoke. “You’re down bad, mate.”

Louis didn’t even care. He just shrugged, hand settling protectively on Harry’s knee. “Facts are facts.”

Harry, to his credit, didn’t blush quite as hard as Louis expected — just smiled, a bit shy, but with that soft glow in his eyes that Louis had started to recognize as feeling safe .

“Reckon you’d look good with some glitter too, Niall,” Louis added, kicking him lightly in the shin. “Might distract from the fact that you dress like you lost a bet.”

“Fuck off,” Niall snorted, but the teasing edge in his voice had softened, the Xanax already mellowing him out. “You’re just jealous ‘cause my fashion sense is avant-garde .”

“Avant-garde my arse,” Louis grinned. “You look like you robbed a clearance rack at JD Sports.”

The room dissolved into laughter, and just like that, the moment passed — the weird tension lifted, and Harry was back to being folded into the chaos like he belonged there all along.

But Louis didn’t miss the way Harry’s fingers found his under the blanket, squeezing once — a silent thank you.

And Louis squeezed back, because of course. Of course he’d defend Harry. Of course he’d make sure this world of his didn’t swallow Harry whole.

Because painted nails did make Harry beautiful.

But it was the fact that Harry was still sitting there — still showing up, still trying — that made Louis want to grab him by the face and kiss him senseless.

Later, maybe. When they were alone.

For now, they had crisps to eat, shit to talk, and an afternoon to waste.

 

“Oi, who ate all the crisps?” Niall demanded, tipping the empty bag upside down and shaking it like that would magically refill it.

“ You did, you greedy twat,” Eleanor said, stealing the bag and crumpling it against his forehead.

“Violence, Eleanor? I thought this was a safe space.” Niall clutched his chest dramatically.

“Don’t cry about it now,” Louis grinned, pulling a cig from his pocket and lighting it with a flick of Zayn’s stolen lighter. “We’ll grab more if you stop being a little bitch.”

“Me?” Niall gasped. “ I’m the bitch? Mate, I remember you crying at Glastonbury because your sock got wet.”

“That was muddy water , Niall!” Louis argued, gesturing wildly with the cigarette, nearly burning Harry’s sleeve in the process. “It was foul . Biohazard shit.”

“Sure it was,” Zayn muttered, flicking ash into a mug that had been sitting on the table so long no one knew whose it was anymore.

“Shut up, Z,” Louis said, but there was no heat to it. “You cried when you lost your fags for two hours.”

“That was a crisis, ” Zayn said solemnly. “It was Malboro, and I had those little flavour thingies.”

“What flavour was it?” Harry asked, mouth twitching at the corner.

“Cherry cola,” Zayn said, like it was the most sophisticated thing in the world.

“You’re disgusting,” Eleanor declared.

“Thank you,” Zayn said, raising his imaginary glass.

Louis took another drag and handed the cigarette to Harry without even thinking about it, and Harry took it just as easily, fingers brushing briefly, a flicker of warmth passing between them. Harry inhaled like someone who hadn’t touched a cig in a while but remembered exactly how to do it, exhaling out the window before handing it back.

“Oh, look at this,” Niall grinned. “Domestic bliss.”

“Jealous?” Louis asked, smoke curling from the corner of his mouth.

“Of your shared lung disease? Not particularly,” Niall shot back.

“Oi, I didn’t hear you complaining when you were nicking half my pack last summer,” Louis reminded him.

“Different times,” Niall said wistfully. “Back when I believed in love.”

“Oh, fuck off,” Louis said, laughing as he flicked ash directly onto Niall’s knee.

“Can you all shut up for two seconds?” Eleanor groaned. “I’m trying to text Amelia and I can’t concentrate with all your flirting.”

“That’s not flirting,” Louis said, handing the cig back to Harry. “That’s foreplay.”

Harry nearly choked on his inhale, coughing so hard his cheeks went pink, but he was laughing too, the kind of laugh that made his whole face light up, even as smoke trickled out of his nose.

“That’s grim,” Zayn muttered, but his mouth twitched like he was fighting a smile.

The cigarette kept passing back and forth between Louis and Harry, fingers brushing every time, until it was little more than a filter and Louis snubbed it out in the same questionable mug Zayn had been using as an ashtray.

“Right,” Louis stretched, arms above his head, t-shirt riding up just enough for Harry to catch a flash of his stomach. “Who’s going to the shop for more crisps? Not me, I’m knackered.”

“Me neither,” Zayn said immediately.

“Or me,” Eleanor added.

“I’ll go,” Harry said, and all three of them groaned at once.

“Nah, Haz,” Louis grinned. “They’ll eat you alive in the offie. You’ve got soft lad from rehab written all over you.”

Harry just smiled, softer this time, leaning into Louis’ side like it was nothing, like they’d always sat like this. “Guess you’ll have to come with me then.”

“Alright,” Louis said, standing and yanking Harry up with him. “Back in a minute, you lazy fuckers.”

They headed out the door, Harry’s shoulder bumping Louis’ on the way, and from inside Louis could hear Niall muttering, “They’re so married,” followed by the sound of Eleanor smacking him upside the head.

The corner shop was exactly as Louis remembered — cramped aisles, flickering lights, and a faint smell of bleach mixed with whatever was rotting near the dairy fridge. It was the kind of place where you could buy a pint of milk, a fake ID, and a dodgy pregnancy test all in the same transaction, and no one would blink.

“Right,” Louis said, grabbing a basket dramatically. “What do we need?”

“Crisps,” Harry said, dutifully. “And Fizzy said we’re out of biscuits.”

Louis wrinkled his nose. “Boring. What does Eleanor want?”

Harry hesitated. “Erm… she texted me while we were leaving. Asked if we could get vodka.”

Louis grinned. “Course she did. What does she think this is, Tesco Express?”

Harry looked mildly alarmed. “We’re not gonna—”

“Mate,” Louis said, slinging an arm around Harry’s shoulder and steering him toward the liquor shelf. “What kind of celebration would this be without a little contraband? ”

Harry rolled his eyes, but his smile gave him away.

They made the rounds quickly, filling the basket with essentials — three different kinds of crisps, a family pack of chocolate digestives, a bag of Haribo for reasons neither of them could explain, and a suspiciously dusty bottle of vodka Louis found at the very back of the shelf. He grabbed a couple of Red Bulls too, because why the fuck not.

“Fancy some cigarettes while we’re here?” Harry asked, trying to sound casual, but Louis knew that look — the slight tilt to his head, the way his fingers tapped restlessly against his thigh.

“We’ll see,” Louis said vaguely, already forming a plan in his head.

They took their loot to the till, where the bloke behind the counter barely looked up from his phone. Louis paid cash — Zayn had slipped him a tenner earlier with absolutely no explanation — and while the guy was bagging up their snacks, Louis did what Louis always did.

With the ease of someone who’d done this a hundred times before, Louis leaned casually over the counter, chatting shit about the weather or the state of the Premier League — anything to keep the guy’s attention up high. And with his free hand, tucked low against his hip, he slid two packs of Marlboro Golds off the shelf and into his pocket in one smooth movement.

Harry’s eyes went huge , but to his credit, he didn’t say a word — just bit his lip hard enough to leave a mark.

They were barely out the door before Harry elbowed him. “Did you seriously—”

“What?” Louis grinned innocently, shaking the bag of snacks. “I paid for the important stuff.”

“Louis,” Harry said, but he was already laughing, eyes bright with disbelief. “You absolute menace .”

“It’s a victimless crime , Haz,” Louis said, slipping an arm around Harry’s waist like they were just two lads on a romantic snack run and not petty criminals. “Besides, this shop owes me for all the expired Lucozade they’ve sold me over the years.”

Harry shook his head, but he leaned into Louis’ side, bumping shoulders. “You’re gonna get me arrested one day.”

“I’d break you out,” Louis promised, dead serious. “Just say the word.”

They walked back to Zayn’s like that — Harry holding the snacks, Louis holding Harry, the sky just starting to darken above them. It was easy, this. Fun. Like being kids again, before everything got so complicated.

And maybe, Louis thought, if they could keep finding moments like this, where life was nothing but crisps and nicked cigarettes and stupid jokes, they’d be alright after all.

Chapter 13: Chapter 13

Notes:

Two chapters today because I didn‘t post one yesterday :))
Might even post a third one because I don‘t know if I‘ll be able to upload tomorrow, we‘re going to Shinjuku!!

They’d barely made it up the stairs — both of them winded, Louis swearing under his breath about how Zayn needed to stop living like a fucking troll under a bridge — before Louis shoved the door open and stumbled inside, dumping their haul onto the battered coffee table like some victorious hunter dragging home a kill.

“Snacks. Booze. And,” Louis said dramatically, sliding one of the cigarette packs across the table toward Harry, “a personal gift for Play-Doh.”

Harry blinked down at the pack, cheeks already pink, and before he could even say thanks, Eleanor’s voice cut through the room.

“ Why does he get special privileges?” she asked, eyebrow arched, one leg draped over the arm of the sofa like she lived there (which, to be fair, she practically did).

“Boyfriend privileges,” Louis said, casual as anything, though his grin was already threatening to break loose.

The room erupted . Niall nearly fell off the sofa, laughing so hard he actually choked on a crisp, Zayn muttered something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like ‘bout fucking time , and Eleanor’s eyes went wide with delight.

“Boyfriends? Since when? ” she demanded, kicking Niall’s shin to shut him up, he yelped so loud Louis was surprised Oli didn‘t wake up.

Louis shrugged, but he couldn’t stop smiling, not with Harry sitting there beside him, beaming so bright it could’ve powered the dodgy light in the kitchen. “Today, I reckon.”

Harry didn’t argue — didn’t even hesitate — just nudged his knee against Louis’ and said softly, “Yeah. Today.”

“Jesus Christ,” Niall wheezed. “I leave you alone for five minutes and you come back boyfriends? What, did you propose by the crisps?”

“Romantic like that, aren’t I?” Louis grinned, flicking the cap off the vodka with his thumb and taking a swig straight from the bottle.

“Careful,” Zayn warned, though there was no heat to it. “Too much romance and you’ll be engaged by the time we finish these Haribos.”

Harry’s ears were red now, but he wasn’t hiding, wasn’t pulling away. If anything, he leaned into Louis’ side a bit more, fingers grazing over Louis’ knee like he couldn’t help himself. It was soft, sweet, and it made Louis’ heart do something annoying and fluttery in his chest.

Eleanor, meanwhile, looked absolutely thrilled, like she’d won a bet none of them knew they were part of. “Well,” she declared, raising her can of Red Bull like a toast, “here’s to the happy couple. May your relationship survive exactly one of Niall’s Xanax meltdowns.”

“Oi!” Niall protested, but no one took him seriously, not with his face still flushed from laughter.

Louis took Harry’s hand under the table, fingers lacing easily like they’d always fit that way, and squeezed once. Harry squeezed back, smile soft and secret, just for Louis.

“Reckon we’ve got a shot,” Louis said, and for once — despite everything — he actually believed it.

They were halfway through the vodka — the bottle already down to the dangerous point where someone was definitely going to suggest a bad idea — when Niall disappeared into the kitchen. It wasn’t unusual for Niall to vanish mid-drink and reappear with something ridiculous, so no one thought much of it.

Until he came back holding a mismatched tray, foil still half-crinkled on top, a smug grin plastered across his face.

“Ladies, gentlemen, and various degenerates,” Niall announced, placing the tray down in the middle of the coffee table with dramatic flair. “I present to you: celebratory brownies. ”

The room went quiet for half a second before Eleanor snorted. “What the hell are we celebrating?”

“Boyfriends!” Niall declared, gesturing wildly at Louis and Harry. “And, y’know, life and shit.”

Louis rolled his eyes, but he was grinning. “You didn’t bake these, did you?”

“God, no,” Niall said, horrified. “Got them off some guy outside the offie. Said they’re premium . Only the best for Play-Doh’s first day of freedom.”

Harry, already two drinks in and riding that lovely, floaty buzz that comes right before proper drunk, grabbed one without hesitation and took a massive bite. “They’re really good,” he said, mouth half-full, crumbs already down his front.

Louis’ heart stopped. “Haz—”

“Mate,” Niall said, eyes widening with the sort of fake innocence only Niall could pull off. “Those are weed brownies.”

Harry froze, chewing slowing down until he was barely moving, looking from Niall to Louis like maybe they were joking. “Oh.”

“Oh?” Louis snapped, heart pounding as he shot to his feet. “ Oh? Haz, we’ve been out of rehab for five bloody minutes and you’re already—”

“It’s just weed,” Zayn said lazily from the corner, blowing smoke toward the ceiling like this was all terribly beneath him. “Not exactly Class A.”

“That’s not the point, ” Louis said, pacing already, running both hands through his hair. “We made a pact, remember? Clean together or not at all?”

Harry looked up at him, wide-eyed and sheepish, the bitten brownie still in his hand. “I forgot.”

Louis’ jaw clenched. “ You forgot? ”

“I’m sorry,” Harry said, quieter now, the buzz of the room fading in the background. “But Lou — it’s just weed. We both know that’s not our problem.”

“That’s how it starts,” Louis said, voice sharp. “One thing leads to another and—”

“Then eat one,” Harry said suddenly, cutting Louis off.

Louis blinked. “I beg your finest pardon?”

“You said together,” Harry said, sitting up straighter. “Clean together . Or not at all. So if I broke the pact…” He held the tray out, face daring and a little drunk, but still so soft Louis couldn’t find it in himself to be properly mad.

Louis stared at him, pulse hammering in his ears. It was stupid. Reckless. Completely missing the point. But Harry was looking at him like don’t leave me alone in this , and Louis had never been able to say no to that face.

“Fucking hell,” Louis muttered, grabbing the biggest brownie on the tray and shoving it into his mouth. “Happy now?”

Harry beamed. “Very.”

“Idiots,” Eleanor sighed, but her smile was fond, and Zayn didn’t even bother commenting, already halfway through rolling something significantly stronger in the corner.

Louis sat back down beside Harry, their shoulders pressing together, and Harry leaned his head briefly against Louis’ before whispering, “You’re a terrible influence.”

“Right back at you, Play-Doh,” Louis whispered back, their fingers tangling under the table where no one could see.

It took about fourty minutes for the brownies to really hit, and when they did, the whole flat dissolved into chaos.

Zayn was lying on the floor, giggling at the ceiling like it was telling him jokes only he could hear. Eleanor was trying — and failing — to braid Niall’s hair, but every time she got halfway through a section, she’d forget what she was doing and burst out laughing. Niall was no help whatsoever, sprawled across the sofa like a drunk starfish, alternating between deep philosophical thoughts about crisps and uncontrollable giggles over absolutely nothing.

And then there was Harry.

Louis knew it was going to be a show the second Harry leaned against his shoulder and murmured, “You’re so soft,” like Louis was made of velvet. Louis just grinned, arm sliding around Harry’s waist automatically, letting him press closer until they were practically tangled together.

“You alright there, Play-Doh?” Louis asked, voice warm with amusement.

“I feel like…” Harry trailed off, blinking slow like his brain had to buffer before finishing the sentence. “Like I’m a cloud , but also like I’m made of marshmallows .”

Louis snorted. “Welcome to edibles, love.”

“You’ve done this before,” Harry said, his face very close to Louis’, eyes glassy but full of wonder, like Louis had suddenly become the world’s most fascinating creature.

“Countless times,” Louis grinned, brushing a stray curl out of Harry’s face. “You’re lucky I’m a professional.”

Harry beamed, like Louis had just told him he’d won an award. “You’re amazing.”

“You’re high,” Louis corrected.

“ High and in love, ” Niall singsonged, earning a thrown pillow to the face from Louis.

But Harry didn’t deny it — just curled further into Louis’ side, his arms somehow finding their way around Louis’ waist, head tucked under Louis’ chin. It was too warm, too much, and Louis didn’t care. Not when Harry was this soft, this happy, this safe .

Eleanor was crying laughing at something Niall had said, something about how ducks must think bread falls from the sky like a religious experience, and Louis couldn’t stop laughing either, even though he’d already heard Niall’s baked duck theory at least twice before. Everything was funnier like this, the edges of the world softened by smoke and sugar and the easy comfort of being surrounded by the only people Louis had ever trusted.

“Lou,” Harry whispered, fingers curling into Louis’ shirt. “I love your friends.”

“They’re dickheads,” Louis whispered back, pressing a kiss to the top of Harry’s head. “But they’re my dickheads.”

“I wanna be your dickhead too,” Harry mumbled, already halfway to falling asleep on Louis’ chest.

“You already are, Play-Doh,” Louis said softly. “The honorary king of the dickheads.”

Harry giggled into Louis’ jumper, and Louis felt something twist in his chest — something soft and sacred and too big to deal with right now. Instead, he squeezed Harry tighter, grounding himself in the warmth of Harry’s body pressed against his, the sound of his laugh, the way he fit so easily into Louis’ world like he’d been there all along.

Harry shifted in Louis’ arms, the kind of lazy, slow movement that meant his limbs were all loose and floppy from the weed. Louis thought he was just adjusting — maybe sliding down to get more comfortable — but then Harry moved , proper moved, swinging a leg over until he was straddling Louis’ lap, knees pressed into the worn cushion on either side of Louis’ thighs.

“Hi there,” Harry said, soft and close and grinning like he’d just discovered something brilliant.

Louis blinked up at him, pleasantly caught off guard. “Hi.”

And then Harry leaned down and kissed him — warm and slow and a little messy, all soft lips and the faint taste of chocolate and vodka and whatever flavour lip balm Harry always used. Louis didn’t hesitate, hand sliding automatically to Harry’s waist, fingers slipping under the hem of his hoodie to find warm skin. His other hand found Harry’s jaw, thumb brushing over the soft spot just below his ear as he tilted Harry’s face to get a better angle.

Harry made a soft noise in the back of his throat — something between a sigh and a giggle — and Louis couldn’t help smiling into the kiss, the kind of smile you could feel . It was easy like this, both of them buzzing, the usual nerves softened by the weed and the warmth and the fact that they were already tangled up like they belonged that way.

“ Oh my God, ” Eleanor groaned from the other side of the room. “Louis didn’t even kiss me like that when we were dating.”

Louis barely pulled back, forehead still pressed to Harry’s, grin wide. “That’s because I didn’t like you, El.”

“ Excuse me? ” Eleanor shrieked, brandishing a half-eaten brownie like a weapon.

“Relax,” Louis said, waving her off. “I adored you. I just didn’t wanna shag you.”

“Well, that’s mutual, you prick,” Eleanor said, but she was grinning too.

“Would you shut up?” Niall groaned from the floor, where he was lying flat on his back, giggling up at the ceiling. “Let the boyfriends have their moment.”

Harry laughed, that soft, breathless laugh Louis was getting addicted to, and Louis couldn’t help leaning up to kiss him again — quicker this time, playful and sweet, his fingers tracing lazy circles at Harry’s waist.

“Get a room,” Zayn muttered, though his voice was more fond than annoyed.

“We had a room,” Louis said, grinning up at Harry. “You lot dragged us back here.”

“And aren’t you glad they did?” Harry teased, brushing his nose against Louis’.

“Yeah,” Louis said softly, just for him. “Yeah, I really am.”

The room carried on around them — Eleanor and Niall arguing over who got the last brownie, Zayn halfway through rolling another joint — but Louis and Harry stayed right where they were, wrapped up in each other like they were the only two people in the world.

They were still tangled together — Harry perched on Louis’ lap, Louis’ hands settled comfortably at Harry’s waist, his thumb tracing little circles under the hem of his hoodie — when Harry’s phone started buzzing from where it was wedged in his back pocket.

Harry groaned, forehead dropping to Louis’ shoulder, the vibration loud in the quiet lull that had settled over the room. “Gonna ignore it,” Harry mumbled, voice soft and slow, like even talking was an effort.

Louis tilted his head, catching a glimpse of the screen over Harry’s shoulder. Mum.

“Yeah,” Louis said softly, fingers sliding up Harry’s spine. “Ignore it.”

Harry made a noise of agreement, cuddling closer instead of reaching for his phone. Louis wrapped both arms around him, holding him tight, the warmth of Harry’s body soaking into his like a second skin. It was easy, this — lazy and soft and a little bit reckless, but Louis couldn’t bring himself to care. Not when Harry fit against him like this, weight warm in his lap, curls tickling his neck.

“She’s gonna leave a shitty voicemail,” Harry muttered after a minute, words slow and slurred from the edible sinking deeper into his system.

“Let her,” Louis said, pressing a kiss to the side of Harry’s head. “She’s not your problem tonight.”

That made Harry smile, small but real, his fingers curling into the front of Louis’ shirt. “You’re bad for me,” he said, but it came out fond, not accusing.

“I’m fun for you,” Louis corrected, tilting Harry’s face up so he could kiss him again, slow and soft and syrupy-sweet.

Harry sighed into it, body melting further into Louis’ like he couldn’t get close enough. The phone buzzed again, and Louis blindly reached back to slip it out of Harry‘s pocket and flip it over on the table without breaking the kiss, like that would mute the whole outside world.

It was just them — just Harry in Louis’ lap, glitter-polished fingers brushing along Louis’ jaw, Louis’ hands steady at Harry’s hips, holding him like he was something Louis was finally allowed to keep.

Around them, the flat buzzed with soft conversation, Zayn half-asleep in the armchair, Niall and Eleanor still arguing over who had better taste in crisps, Oli somehow still snoring in the beanbag, but none of it touched Louis. It all blurred out, background noise to the warm weight of Harry pressed against him.

“Stay here tonight,” Louis murmured, words brushed against Harry’s lips.

Harry nodded immediately. “Wouldn’t wanna be anywhere else.”

Louis smiled, wide and stupid and utterly smitten. “Good.”

The phone finally stopped buzzing, and Louis knew they’d probably have to deal with the fallout eventually — Harry’s mum, the pact they were already bending, the reality waiting outside this flat. But not tonight. Tonight was theirs.

Just a boy in a stolen hoodie with glitter nails and a smile too soft for someone who’d seen the things Harry had seen — and the boy who was stupidly, recklessly, totally gone for him.

“C’mere,” Louis whispered, pulling Harry down until they were both sprawled across the sofa, limbs tangled and hearts beating in sync.

Tomorrow could wait.

 

Louis woke up to a face full of curls and the weight of Harry half on top of him, mouth slack against Louis’ collarbone. The flat was still quiet, everyone knocked out in various states of hangover and edible coma, the sun streaming in through the curtains making everything feel too bright and too real.

Harry stirred against him, groaning softly. “What time is it?”

“No idea,” Louis mumbled, voice rough with sleep. “Reckon we should get up before Niall tries to fry bacon with a hair straightener.”

Harry huffed a quiet laugh, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. He sat up, rubbing at his face, glitter polish chipped at the edges, hoodie sliding off one shoulder. “Will you… will you walk me home?”

Louis blinked at him, surprised. “Course,” he said, without even thinking about it. “You alright?”

Harry didn’t answer, just gave him a small smile, the kind that didn’t match the nervous way he was fidgeting with the hem of his hoodie. Louis knew better than to push, so he just stood, stretched, and held out a hand to pull Harry up.

They left quietly, stepping over Zayn who was face-down on the rug, snoring softly, and slipping out the door before anyone could ask where they were going. The air was sharp and cool, biting at their skin after the warmth of the flat. Louis lit a cigarette without asking if Harry wanted one, but Harry took it from his fingers after the first drag, which answered that question.

They walked shoulder to shoulder, the silence not awkward but heavy — like both of them were bracing for something. Louis didn’t know what, not really, but he could guess.

When they turned onto Harry’s street, Louis’ stomach clenched. The cracked pavement, the rusted gate hanging off one hinge, the window with a bin bag taped over it where glass should’ve been. It looked like his street. Like home, but worse.

Harry led the way up the steps, shoulders hunched like he was preparing for impact. Louis followed, cigarette still dangling from his fingers, stomach tight with something too close to familiarity.

Harry unlocked the door, and the second it swung open, Louis saw it all.

The house was a mess — not just untidy, but wrecked . Empty bottles everywhere, crammed into corners and balanced on windowsills, ashtrays overflowing with cigarette butts and the sharp, stale smell of smoke clinging to the air. Plates sat stacked in the sink, some of them with food still stuck to them from god knows when. The carpet was stained, the sofa sagging, and there was a faint hum of a telly on somewhere deeper in the house.

“Fucking hell,” Louis muttered under his breath, and Harry flinched like he thought it was directed at him. “No way I‘m leaving you here.”

“I was gonna clean,” Harry said quickly, too quickly, voice tight. “Just… haven’t got round to it.”

“Haz,” Louis said softly, stepping inside and shutting the door behind them. “It’s alright.”

“It’s not,” Harry said, voice sharp with embarrassment. “It’s a fucking state.”

Louis didn’t argue — couldn’t, because it was. But what hit Louis harder than the mess was how normal Harry seemed about it. Like this was just life. Like this was all he deserved.

From the kitchen, a voice rang out — harsh and raspy. “You’re back then.”

Harry’s mum appeared in the doorway, dressing gown half-tied, cigarette hanging from her fingers, hair pulled into a messy knot that might’ve been left over from the night before. Her eyes flicked to Louis immediately, narrowing slightly.

“Morning,” Louis said, as politely as he could manage.

“You’re the older one, yeah?” she said, like it was an accusation. “The bad influence.”

Louis bristled, but Harry spoke before he could. “He’s not—”

“Don’t care,” she cut him off. “You’re sixteen, Harry. Don’t need to be running around with grown lads who think they’re too good for this place.”

Louis’ jaw clenched, every instinct screaming to snap back, to remind her that Harry had seen more than most sixteen-year-olds because of her , not in spite of her. But Harry’s hand brushed his wrist, silent and pleading, and Louis bit his tongue.

“We just came back for some clothes,” Harry said quietly. “I’ll be out of your way soon.”

His mum waved a hand, already half-drifting back toward the kitchen. “Yeah, yeah. Whatever.”

The second she was gone, Harry sagged against the wall like all the air had been knocked out of him. Louis stood beside him, not touching, just there . A quiet anchor.

“You alright?” Louis asked softly.

Harry gave a weak smile. “This is why I wanted you to come.”

Louis nodded. “I get it.”

And he did — too well. Because houses like this were all the same. Different addresses, same smoke in the air, same bitterness hanging like a fog, same feeling that no matter how far you ran, this was where you’d end up again.

But Harry wasn’t alone anymore. And neither was Louis.

“Come on,” Louis said gently, “let’s grab your shit and go back to mine.”

Harry didn’t argue — just led the way upstairs, and Louis followed, ready to carry whatever Harry couldn’t.

Harry’s room was the only clean space in the house.

Louis wasn’t surprised, but something about it still made his chest ache. Everything outside this door was chaos — the overflowing ashtrays, the smell of stale alcohol clinging to the air, the half-empty bottles stacked on top of each other like forgotten memories — but this room? It was neat. The bed was made, blankets tucked in tight, clothes folded in a basket in the corner, not a single stray cup or plate in sight. It didn’t belong to the rest of the house. It didn’t belong to her .

It belonged to him .

Harry moved around the room quickly, pulling open drawers, grabbing things without looking. A hoodie, a pair of jeans, a pack of socks. His movements were stiff, robotic, like he was following some pre-programmed sequence. Louis sat on the edge of the bed, watching in silence, the only sound in the room the rustle of fabric and the zip of the duffle bag.

Harry didn’t look at him when he spoke.

“Sometimes I just want to disappear.”

Louis’ stomach twisted. “What?”

Harry let out a quiet, bitter laugh, shaking his head. “Not, like—” He gestured vaguely, bag half-packed. “Not like that . Just… I don’t want to be here anymore.”

Louis swallowed hard, looking around the room again — at the neatly stacked books, the records lined up perfectly on the shelf, the bed tucked in so tight it looked untouched. “You keep it clean.”

Harry shrugged, still not looking at him. “It’s the only thing I can control.”

Louis nodded slowly, understanding settling deep in his bones. He knew what it was like to live in a house that didn’t feel like home, to carve out tiny spaces that belonged to you just so you wouldn’t drown in everything else, even if his reasons were different from Harry‘s.

“You don’t have to stay,” Louis said finally, voice steady but soft. “You know that, right?”

Harry sat down beside him, hands gripping the edge of the mattress. “I don’t have anywhere else.”

Louis frowned. “You have me .”

Harry huffed another humorless laugh. “Lou, I can’t just—”

“Yes, you can ,” Louis cut in, turning to face him properly. “Come to mine. Stay in my room, in my bed, on the fucking sofa if you want. Just—” He swallowed, lowering his voice. “Don’t stay here just because you think you have to.”

Harry’s fingers tightened around the hem of his hoodie, knuckles pale. He didn’t answer straight away, and Louis didn’t push. He just sat there, waited, let Harry process it in his own time.

After a long moment, Harry nodded.

Louis exhaled, relief washing over him like a tide. “Good.”

Harry let out a shaky breath, rubbing at his face like he was wiping something away before it could fall. “You’re serious.”

Louis nudged his knee. “When am I not serious, Haz?”

Harry laughed, small and a bit watery, but real. “Half the time, at least.”

“Well, this is one of the times I mean it,” Louis said, standing up and grabbing Harry’s duffle bag before Harry could stop him. “Now come on, before your mum changes her mind and decides to start giving a shit.”

Harry hesitated for just a second longer, looking around his room like he was taking a mental picture of it — like he needed to see it one last time, just in case. Then he stood, grabbed his jacket, and followed Louis out the door.

Down the stairs, past the empty bottles and the smell of smoke, through the hallway that felt more like a tunnel than an exit.

The walk back to Louis’ was quieter than usual, but not uncomfortable. Harry carried his bag slung over his shoulder, one hand clutching the strap tight like it was the only thing keeping him anchored. Louis walked beside him, talking absolute nonsense — about the pigeons in the park, the dog that barked every time they passed number 32, some bloke who worked at Toys ‘R’ Us with a lazy eye and a mean right hook.

Harry didn’t say much, but he laughed at the right bits, and that was enough for Louis.

When they got back, Louis’ mum barely batted an eye. She just gave Harry a smile, handed him a cup of tea, and set another place at the table like this was perfectly normal — like Louis brought home stray boys from rehab every week and let them move in without ceremony. The girls were the same, folding Harry into the household chaos without question, roping him into helping with homework, teaching him their made-up dance routines, and making him the honorary judge in their nightly TV talent show competitions.

There was no welcome speech , no big conversation about what this was or how long Harry was staying. It just happened . Harry’s bag ended up in Louis’ room, his toothbrush next to Louis’, his shoes by the door. By the end of the second day, he was borrowing Louis’ hoodies without asking and helping clear the table after tea like he’d been living there for years.

It was easy — too easy. And that scared Louis more than anything.

Because the first few days, they were both riding the high of new beginnings. Fresh start, clean slate, all that shit they preached in group. They smoked a lot of cigarettes, drank a lot of tea, and made it through the first 48 hours without so much as a sip or a bump or a pill. They were good. Together.

But then reality settled in.

Louis went back to work, which was… fine. Toys ‘R’ Us wasn’t exactly his dream, but it was money in his pocket and something to do with his hands. But standing at the till, watching kids run around screaming while their parents argued over overpriced plastic crap, all Louis could think about was how much better it would feel if he had a little something to take the edge off. Just a bump — nothing major. Just enough to take the static out of his head.

He didn’t. But he wanted to . Constantly.

And Harry — Harry was worse. Louis could see it, the way his hands shook when he made tea, the way he pressed too hard on his temples when a headache crept in, the way his eyes went distant when someone mentioned painkillers on telly. There was a gap inside Harry that used to be filled with tilidine, and nothing else quite fit the same way.

They were both white-knuckling it, gripping onto the pact like it was the only thing keeping them afloat. Some nights, Louis would catch Harry staring at the ceiling, eyes wide open even at two in the morning, and he knew without asking — Harry’s body was begging for something that Louis couldn’t give him.

And Louis — Louis hated it. Hated seeing Harry like that, hated feeling helpless, hated knowing that part of Harry’s body still belonged to a little white pill. It made him feel selfish, too — because the only thing stopping Louis from using was Harry, and the only thing stopping Harry was Louis, and that wasn’t how it was meant to work. But they were both too scared to say it out loud.

By the fourth day, Louis caught himself scrolling through his old dealer’s number — just checking , just seeing if it was still there . He didn’t text. Didn’t call. But the fact that he wanted to made him feel sick.

By the fifth day, Harry found one of Louis’ old stashes tucked into a sock at the back of the wardrobe — a few crushed-up pills, a tiny bag of powder, long forgotten but never really gone. Harry held it out to Louis, hand shaking slightly, and Louis took it from him without a word. They flushed it down the toilet together, but they both stood there staring at the water like it was a funeral.

By the sixth day, they were snapping at each other over nothing — Louis annoyed at Harry for using the wrong mug, Harry annoyed at Louis for leaving wet towels on the floor. It was stupid shit, meaningless, but it was the weight of all the other stuff they weren’t saying pressing down on them until it had to come out somewhere.

And by the seventh day, they both knew — staying clean was fucking hard . It wasn’t romantic or inspiring or some neat little success story. It was teeth-gritting, fist-clenching, minute-by-minute work . And they were barely scraping by.

But the thing was — they were still doing it. Together.

And that was what Louis held onto. Not the perfect parts, but the messy parts. The mornings they made it through without snapping, the cups of tea they made each other instead of reaching for something stronger, the nights they fell asleep holding hands, sweaty and restless but sober .

Chapter 14: Chapter 14

Notes:

Ayeee new chapter!!

It was Fizzy who reminded Louis, a full week before the actual day.

“You know it’s Harry’s birthday soon, right?” she said casually, perched on the edge of his bed, flicking through some makeup tutorial on her phone while Louis tried to find socks that didn’t smell like death.

“Yeah,” Louis said, slightly defensive even though he hadn’t properly thought about it yet. “I’ve got it covered.”

Fizzy arched a brow. “Do you? Because Mum’s already planning the cake.”

Louis paused, one sock halfway on. “Wait—what?”

Fizzy grinned, delighted to know something he didn’t. “She asked me what kind of cake Harry likes, and I said I dunno, but he looks like a chocolate cake kind of guy.”

Louis’ heart squeezed painfully at the thought of his mum just automatically deciding Harry deserved a birthday cake, like it was obvious, like he was one of theirs. “You told her right,” Louis muttered. “Chocolate’s his favourite.”

“She’s got the sprinkles out and everything,” Fizzy said, sounding half-impressed, half-annoyed. “She never went this hard for my birthday.”

“Yeah, but you live here,” Louis grinned, tossing a pillow at her. “Haz is still the shiny new toy.”

Fizzy stuck out her tongue but didn’t argue. “What are you getting him?”

Louis froze for half a second, then recovered, trying to look casual. “Got a few ideas.”

That was a lie. He had no ideas . What the fuck did you get for the boy you were sort of in love with, who lived in your bed, shared your cigarettes, and knew exactly how broken you were? There wasn’t a Hallmark aisle for that.

Late that night, after Harry fell asleep curled up under Louis’ arm, Louis stayed awake, phone screen lighting up the dark, scrolling through every possible website looking for something that felt right . He didn’t want to do some half-arsed joke gift, and he didn’t want to go too serious and make Harry feel weird. It had to be perfect — something that said I see you, I know you, I care about you, but also I’m trying to play it cool so I don’t scare you off .

The next day he went on the hardest fucking shopping trip of his life.

Meanwhile, Niall and Zayn were already on their own bullshit, planning a party that Louis technically hadn’t agreed to, but that didn’t seem to matter.

“It’s his first birthday out of rehab, his first birthday as one of us,” Niall argued, sprawled on Zayn’s floor with a spliff hanging out of his mouth. “We have to do something.”

“Not a party party,” Louis said, pacing. “Like, something chill.”

“Weed brownies,” Zayn offered.

“No fucking weed brownies!” Louis snapped. “Jesus Christ.”

Niall held up his hands. “Alright, alright. Chill vibes. Just us. Some pizza, maybe a game of something stupid. No hard drugs, no strangers.”

Louis eyed them both suspiciously. “Swear?”

“Cross my heart and hope to die,” Niall said solemnly, his fingers crossed behind his back where he thought Louis wouldn’t see.

“ I mean it, ” Louis warned. “If anyone shows up with coke or pills, I’m throwing them out the window.”

“Cross our hearts,” Zayn repeated lazily. “We’ll keep it cleaner than a church bake sale.”

Louis didn’t believe them, not entirely, but it was too late to stop the party train once Niall got an idea in his head. The best Louis could do was damage control.

By the end of the week, the house was buzzing. The girls were making homemade decorations — mostly paper chains and a very wonky banner that said HAPPY BIRTHDAY HARRY with two ‘R’s backwards. Louis’ mum had bought a whole box of candles, even though Harry wasn’t turning seventeen yet , because “ you have to make a proper wish. ”

Louis was exhausted from work, his fingers blistered from stacking shelves and wrestling bikes out of the stockroom, but it was the kind of tired that felt good . Like things were falling into place, even if they were wobbly as hell.

The night before Harry’s birthday, Louis lay awake beside him, watching Harry sleep, the soft rise and fall of his chest, the little furrow between his brows that never quite went away. Louis knew they were both still struggling — still craving, still fighting every single day not to backslide into the comfort of numbness — but this? This was hope .

“Happy almost birthday, Play-Doh,” Louis whispered, brushing a curl off Harry’s forehead.

Harry didn’t wake up, just sighed softly in his sleep, turning toward Louis like his body knew where it was safest.

Louis smiled, heart aching in that way it only did for him.

Tomorrow was going to be a good day.

It had to be.

 

Harry came downstairs just after nine, wearing a hoodie that was definitely Louis’, his curls an absolute mess, eyes still heavy with sleep. Louis had been up for almost an hour already — not because he had to be, but because his mum was on a mission , and the kitchen had been a full-blown operation since the crack of dawn.

There were balloons taped to the cupboards, a wonky paper banner hanging across the window, and the table was already set with tea, orange juice, and a massive chocolate cake right in the middle, candles standing tall and waiting. The girls were all there — Fizzy, Lottie, Daisy and Phoebe — already halfway through their breakfast, grinning like the cat that got the cream. Louis’ mum was by the stove, frying eggs with one hand, fussing over a stack of cards with the other.

It was all… normal. Classic Tomlinson family birthday chaos.

But when Harry came into the kitchen, rubbing a hand over his face, blinking blearily, and saw it — saw all of it — his whole body stopped like someone had hit pause. His mouth actually fell open slightly, lips parted in stunned disbelief.

“Morning, birthday boy,” Louis said, trying to play it cool, but already grinning.

Harry’s eyes darted around the room like he couldn’t quite believe what he was seeing — the cake, the decorations, all of them there , waiting for him. “You did all this?” he asked, voice still rough from sleep.

“Obviously,” Louis shrugged, nudging out the chair beside him. “You think we’d let your birthday slip by like it’s nothing?”

Harry didn’t answer — just stood there, looking completely overwhelmed, his hands twitching slightly at his sides like he didn’t know what to do with them. And that — that almost broke Louis’ heart, because Harry wasn’t faking it. This wasn’t the shy, oh, you shouldn’t have kind of reaction. This was real, honest shock — like no one had ever done this for him before.

“Come sit, Harry,” Fizzy said brightly, patting the chair on his other side. “We made your cake and everything.”

Harry shuffled forward slowly, like he was afraid if he moved too fast, it might all disappear. He slid into the chair, wide eyes still flicking around like he couldn’t process it.

“Happy Birthday, love,” Louis’ mum said warmly, setting a mug of tea down in front of him. “Seventeen’s a big one.”

Harry smiled then — soft and shy, but so big it made Louis’ chest ache. “Thank you,” he said quietly, looking around the table. “All of you.”

“You’re part of the family now,” Daisy said matter-of-factly, already helping herself to a slice of cake before anyone else could even sing. “That’s how it works.”

Louis’ mum opened her mouth to scold her for cutting in too early, but Harry just laughed — warm and real — and suddenly, everyone else was laughing too. It was infectious, Harry’s happiness spilling over like fizzy pop, so pure and surprised that Louis couldn’t help feeling it too.

“Alright, candles,” Louis said, reaching for the lighter. “Make a wish, Play-Doh.”

Harry smiled at him across the table, cheeks pink, curls flopping into his eyes. “I already have everything I want.”

Louis’ face went hot immediately, but he covered it by leaning forward, lighting the candles one by one. “Sappy git,” he muttered, but Harry’s hand brushed against his under the table, and Louis couldn’t stop his smile if he tried.

They sang — loudly, off-key, the twins adding harmonies that didn’t make sense, and Niall even called halfway through to join in via speakerphone. It was chaos, absolute beautiful chaos, and Harry soaked it all in like sunlight, like no one had ever sung for him before.

When the song ended and the candles were blown out, Harry sat back in his chair, face flushed, eyes shining, and Louis knew — knew right then — that no matter what happened tomorrow, or next week, or next year, Harry would remember this.

His seventeenth birthday. His first birthday in a house that felt like home.

And Louis would make sure it was only the first of many.

After breakfast, the girls ran off to get ready for whatever chaotic plans they had for the afternoon — Daisy muttering something about glitter bombs and Phoebe making Harry promise to join in later for a karaoke competition, which Harry, because he’s Harry, sweetly agreed to without hesitation.

That left just Louis and Harry in the kitchen, the cake half-eaten, crumbs and wrapping paper littering the table. Louis’ mum had disappeared to hang up laundry, leaving them in rare, comfortable quiet.

“Got something for you,” Louis said, leaning back in his chair, trying to sound casual even though his heart was hammering like mad.

Harry’s brow furrowed, curious, but when Louis reached under the table and pulled out a bag — slightly crumpled from being stuffed in his wardrobe all week — Harry’s whole face softened.

“You didn’t have to get me anything,” Harry said, though his fingers were already reaching for the bag like he couldn’t stop himself.

Louis shrugged, playing it cool. “Yeah, well. I did.”

Harry opened it slowly, carefully, like whatever was inside was precious just because Louis had chosen it. First came the hoodie — thick and soft, the kind you lived in, the kind you wore for years until it was more holes than fabric.

Harry grinned, holding it up. “This is so nice.”

“It’s basically mine already,” Louis joked. “So don’t get too attached.”

Harry just smiled, folding it neatly before reaching back into the bag. His fingers found the notebook next — plain and black, but with decent paper, the kind that felt good to write on. Harry’s smile flickered into something softer, more private, and Louis felt his throat tighten.

“For all your deep, poetic thoughts,” Louis teased, trying to lighten the moment before his own feelings got the best of him.

Harry’s fingers brushed over the cover, quiet for a second before murmuring, “Thank you.” His voice was softer now, and Louis could tell it meant more than Harry could quite say.

And then, at the very bottom, Harry found the keychain.

He held it up, the tiny metal star spinning between his fingers, and Louis felt almost shy — stupid, considering all the things they’d already done together, but this felt vulnerable , like handing over a piece of his past.

“It’s probably stupid,” Louis said quickly. “Just… it’s been mine for ages. First trip me, Niall, and Zayn took together. Thought you might like it.”

Harry didn’t say anything for a second — just looked at the little star like it meant the whole world. Then he carefully attached it to the zipper of the new hoodie, holding it up for Louis to see. “It’s perfect.”

Louis swallowed hard, a little embarrassed by how much that meant to him, and covered it by standing abruptly. “Alright, mushy moment over. Let’s get you properly dressed before my mates show up and start serenading you with whatever godawful song Niall’s picked.”

Harry stood too, sliding his hand into Louis’ back pocket like it was second nature now, and they went upstairs together, the warmth between them undeniable.

Before they could Leave, Louis mum forced them in front of the fridge to take a picture of them. Harry crouching down on the floor, Louis beside him, arms wrapped snugly around him when the flash of the polaroid went off. His mum looked about ready to cry when she stuck it to the fridge. She muttered a soft „Have fun, boys“ before sending them off.

The party was never going to be at Louis’ house. His mum might have loved Harry already, but there were limits—and packing her living room with half the estate, most of whom were known troublemakers, was well beyond them.

So instead, it landed where all their parties did—the park.

Not a proper park with neat flower beds and pristine benches, but the patch of grass and concrete wedged between two tower blocks, where the council had once installed a playground that now stood half-broken, the slide covered in graffiti, and the swings permanently tangled around the top bar.

It wasn’t much.

But it was theirs .

And on warm-ish nights like these (at least for early feburary), it was where everyone ended up—especially for something important, like Harry’s birthday.

Niall had taken it upon himself to spread the word ( loudly and unnecessarily ), so by the time Louis and Harry actually showed up, the place was already full.

Kids they knew from school, older lads who never really left the estate, a few girls Louis hadn’t seen since that messy New Year’s party a few years back—they were all there, sat on the concrete ledges, perched on rusty swings, lounging on old blankets spread out over the patchy grass. Someone had rigged up a speaker to a portable charger, and the music was already bouncing off the brick walls, something bass-heavy and distorted, blending into the constant crackle of a cheap disposable barbecue someone had dragged down from their balcony.

It smelled like smoke, beer, and weed.

The classic combination.

“Surprise,” Louis said, nudging Harry’s side.

Harry’s eyes were wide, somewhere between overwhelmed and delighted , the kind of expression you get when you’re not used to anyone making a fuss over you.

“All this?” he asked, voice soft.

“All this for you,” Louis confirmed, slinging an arm around his shoulders. “Happy birthday, Play-Doh.”

Harry’s smile started small, like he didn’t quite believe it, then bloomed into something massive and bright , so contagious Louis couldn’t help but grin back.

“Birthday boy’s here!”

Niall’s voice boomed across the park, standing on the back of a bench like some feral town crier. “Seventeen and sexy !”

“Sit down , you twat,” Zayn called, already lighting a cigarette, perched on the crumbling bit of wall everyone called the throne . “No one asked for a speech.”

But people cheered anyway, lifting cans and bottles in Harry’s direction, and Harry—sweet, shy Harry— actually waved . Like this was some proper event and not a bunch of council estate kids getting pissed on a Wednesday.

Louis steered him toward the centre of the chaos, where someone had dragged over an old crate to use as a makeshift table, covered in mismatched bags of crisps, a half-melted cake that no one would claim responsibility for, and an assortment of drinks ranging from off-brand lager to something that might’ve been moonshine .

Eleanor appeared out of nowhere, sparkler in each hand, immediately shoving one directly into Harry’s grasp.

“Birthday law ,” she said, eyes deadly serious . “You hold the sparkler. You make a wish. And you don’t tell Niall what it is because he’ll try to make it about himself.”

Harry laughed, easy and warm , sparklers fizzing in each hand as the light bounced off his grin.

Oli, who had somehow ended up in a camping chair that no one saw him bring, nodded sagely. “It’s true. Last year he wished for a lifetime supply of Guinness and got food poisoning the next day.”

“ Coincidence ,” Niall argued.

“Absolutely not ,” Eleanor shot back, flicking a bit of ash at him.

Louis leaned against the crate, watching them bicker, watching Harry in the middle of it , his face glowing in the light, and his chest felt—

Fuck, his chest felt full .

He hadn’t realized until now just how much Harry needed this.

A messy, noisy, stupid night surrounded by people who didn’t give a shit about where he’d been, only that he was here now .

Louis nudged Harry’s ankle with his foot, voice quieter now. “Wish for something good.”

Harry tilted his head, looking at him, sparklers still crackling in his hands. His eyes were soft when he said, “I already got something good.”

Louis groaned, rolling his eyes. “Fuckin’ sap .”

Harry just smiled , and Louis had to look away, because—

Because he could feel it .

Something big, but he wouldn‘t get emotional now.

Instead, he stole the sparkler right out of Harry’s hand, watching the way the embers fizzled and sparked in the night air.

“Dunno,” Louis murmured, twirling it between his fingers. “Might wish for something anyway.”

The party roared on, spilling further into the night, stretching out like something endless. The music thumped against the brick walls, half the estate passing through at one point or another, people drifting in and out, but at the center of it all—where it mattered —were them .

Harry, Louis, Zayn, Eleanor, Niall, and Oli.

It didn’t take long for the rest of them to start properly celebrating .

Eleanor was the first to pull out a little baggie, shaking it in front of Niall’s face like a bribe . “Well? You in or are you boring now?”

Niall gasped, clutching his chest. “How dare you.”

“Just checking,” Eleanor said sweetly, then turned to Oli. “And you? Are we doing this ?”

Oli, from his ridiculously comfortable camping chair, stretched out like an old man enjoying the breeze. “We are , but only if you let me do the honors.”

Eleanor gasped, shoving the bag into his hands. “Oh my God , yes . This is why you’re my favorite .”

Oli, grinning, pulled out a key and started lining up bumps on the back of his phone like a pro .

Harry sat stiff beside Louis, watching with wide eyes as Eleanor leaned over to take the first one, tossing her head back with a dramatic sigh of pleasure. “Fucking Christ , I missed this.”

Zayn, perched on the wall like he was holding court , lit another cigarette, watching the scene unfold with the kind of calm that said he’d done this a million times before.

“Wait, wait ,” Eleanor said, spinning around to look at Harry, eyes bright , grin wide. “We’re being bad influences, aren’t we?”

Harry blinked at her, hesitating.

Louis, beside him, tensed slightly, but before he could say anything, Eleanor gasped , covering her mouth with her hands.

“You’re a baby ,” she said, scandalized, eyes flicking over to Louis. “He’s seventeen .”

“Yes,” Louis drawled. “That is how time works.”

“I thought you were older!” Eleanor exclaimed, grabbing Harry’s face between her hands like she was inspecting a puppy . “You have, like, ancient wisdom in your eyes.”

Harry, caught completely off guard, burst out laughing, struggling to pull away. “I don’t—I what ?”

“She’s right,” Niall said through a snort. “You do look like you’ve seen some shit .”

“Can you blame me?” Harry shot back, gesturing vaguely around at the lot of them.

Oli, sniffing casually, shot him a lazy grin. “He’s got a point.”

Eleanor, still inspecting Harry like some strange new creature she adored , shook her head. “Oh, we’re adopting you . That’s it. Forever. ”

Harry huffed, amused, but something warm flickered in his eyes, like he didn’t hate the idea.

“Christ, El, let the man breathe ,” Zayn muttered, flicking his ash into the grass.

Eleanor ignored him, finally releasing Harry from her clutches just to flop onto Niall’s lap instead. “Fine. But only because I have a very important story to tell.”

Louis groaned. “Oh God .”

“It’s about you , Tomlinson,” Eleanor said sweetly, draping herself over Niall like a queen in her throne.

Harry, intrigued, leaned forward. “Now this I wanna hear.”

Eleanor grinned wickedly . “Alright, listen up , Harold.” She pointed a warning finger at Louis. “And no interrupting.”

Louis huffed, rolling his eyes.

Eleanor ignored him, eyes glittering as she turned back to Harry. “So. Picture this —New Year’s Eve, two years ago. I’m stunning, obviously, and Louis is already fucked .”

“Shocking,” Zayn muttered.

“ Right ?” Eleanor gasped, slapping Niall’s arm. “And this idiot, in his infinite wisdom, decides he needs to climb a fence .”

Harry, already grinning , looked at Louis. “Why?”

“Couldn’t tell you,” Louis admitted, because yeah , that sounded about right.

“ No reason ,” Eleanor confirmed. “Just sees a fence and thinks, I can conquer that .”

“So I climb it, right?” Louis said, arms crossed. “I make it over .”

“Yes,” Eleanor said, nodding gravely. “But the problem , Harold, is that he doesn’t make it down .”

Harry lost it , laughing so hard he had to clutch his stomach.

“I was stuck ,” Louis admitted, shaking his head. “Like a fucking cat .”

“ Dangling ,” Eleanor corrected, barely containing herself. “For, like, a solid five minutes .”

“You left me there,” Louis reminded her, pointing. “You laughed .”

“I cried ,” Eleanor said, dead serious . “I was weeping .”

Harry, still laughing, wiped his eyes. “Did he get down?”

“Eventually,” Zayn muttered.

“After I nearly broke my fucking ankle ,” Louis added.

“And this ,” Eleanor finished, raising her drink like a toast, “is the man you’ve chosen as your life partner.”

Louis groaned. “Jesus Christ.”

Harry, still grinning , just nudged Louis’ knee under the crate. “I think I made the right choice.”

And fuck , if that didn’t get Louis.

He looked away, reaching for his drink, because his chest was feeling things, and that wasn’t allowed tonight.

Instead, he took a sip, swallowed down whatever feeling was creeping up his throat, and gestured to Eleanor.

“Tell the one about Niall and the pidgeon .”

The night stretched on like that — loud and chaotic and perfect in its own messy way. They passed bottles around, took turns on the swings, argued over whose turn it was to control the playlist. Someone — probably Oli — set off a tiny box of fireworks meant for garden parties, which mostly just sprayed sparks into the nearest hedge. Eleanor challenged anyone who would listen to a shot competition, and Harry got caught in the crossfire, downing a plastic cup full of something that tasted like petrol and made him cough so hard Louis had to pat his back.

It wasn’t clean. It wasn’t sober. But it wasn’t dangerous either — just kids who knew the days had nothing to give them, so they took nights like this instead.

Harry fit into it surprisingly well, laughing with Zayn, letting Eleanor draw little hearts on his arms with eyeliner they’d smuggled out of Fizzy’s room, even dragging Louis onto the grass to slow dance when someone put on a tragically sappy song near midnight.

“This alright?” Louis asked quietly, arms slung around Harry’s neck, both of them swaying in that way you only do when you’re tipsy and sentimental.

“It’s perfect,” Harry whispered, his forehead pressed to Louis’, fingers curled into the back of Louis’ hoodie. “Best birthday ever.”

Louis swallowed hard, fighting the lump in his throat. “You deserve it.”

Harry didn’t answer — just kissed him, soft and slow, the taste of cheap vodka and chocolate cake on his tongue, and Louis thought, for the thousandth time, I’m fucked.

Because there wasn’t a thing in the world Louis wouldn’t do to keep that look on Harry’s face — the one that said, for once, I’m not invisible.

By the time three in the morning rolled around, the party had started to thin out — some people staggering off home, others passed out on the grass, and a handful disappearing into the bushes to do things Louis didn’t want to think about. The music was still going, but quieter now, the speaker almost out of battery and warbling every third song.

Louis and Harry ended up perched on the old seesaw, the rusted metal creaking beneath their weight, both of them still a little drunk, a little buzzed from cheap cider and too much cake.

“This was a good night,” Harry said softly, legs swinging under the seat like a little kid.

“Yeah,” Louis agreed, flicking ash from his cigarette into the dirt. “Glad you liked it.”

Harry smiled, soft and sleepy, leaning his head against Louis’ shoulder. “Best birthday ever.”

Louis’ chest squeezed, and maybe it was the alcohol or the way Harry was looking at him — all soft and trusting — but Louis’ hand drifted into his pocket, fingers curling around the familiar shape of the little baggie tucked inside.

It wasn’t supposed to be for tonight. He’d found it in his wardrobe a few days ago — leftover from some party months ago, forgotten but not discarded. He wasn’t even sure why he kept it. Maybe as a safety net. Maybe because he didn’t quite trust himself to let go completely. But now, with Harry warm beside him, the night stretching out soft and endless ahead of them, Louis didn’t think twice.

“Want a proper birthday present?” Louis asked, holding the baggie up between his fingers.

Harry’s eyes widened slightly, but not with fear — with interest. “Is that—”

“Molly,” Louis confirmed. “Best batch I’ve ever had.”

Harry bit his lip, torn for half a second, but then he grinned — that reckless, wide-eyed grin that Louis knew too well. “Fuck it. It’s my birthday.”

“Atta boy,” Louis grinned back, shaking two little pills into his palm. One blue, one pink. “Together?”

“Or not at all,” Harry said, without hesitation.

They swallowed them dry, hands linked, the pact shifting in the air between them — not quite broken, but bent out of shape, the edges softened by laughter and alcohol and the gentle hum of belonging.

It hit slowly — that familiar, syrupy warmth spreading through Louis’ chest, turning every touch electric, every sound sharper and sweeter. Harry felt it too, Louis could tell — his fingers twitching where they rested on Louis’ knee, his smile going soft and loopy, eyes wide like he was seeing everything for the first time.

“Feel good?” Louis asked, voice softer than usual.

Harry nodded, curls flopping into his face. “Everything’s… shiny.”

Louis laughed, leaning back on his hands, staring up at the sky. The stars were blurry, the air tasted like static, and the grass felt amazing under his palms. “I love this shit.”

Harry shifted closer, practically in Louis’ lap now, fingers tracing nonsense patterns on Louis’ thigh. “This is the best night ever.”

Louis could only hum in agreement, because Harry’s fingers were the best thing he’d ever felt, soft and warm and slow like honey. Everything felt better — the air, the ground, the sound of Harry’s voice, the way Harry looked at him like Louis was the only thing holding him to earth.

They kissed again, slow and deep, all sensation, mouths sliding together like they had all the time in the world. Louis’ fingers slipped under Harry’s hoodie, tracing the smooth skin at his waist, and Harry sighed into his mouth, soft and perfect.

“Happy birthday,” Louis whispered between kisses, his hands wandering, his heart thudding in his chest.

Harry just smiled, dazed and blissed out. “You’re the best present.”

Louis laughed, because it was ridiculous, but also maybe the best thing anyone had ever said to him. “You’re so high.”

“So are you,” Harry countered, and Louis couldn’t even argue.

They stayed like that — sprawled on the grass, limbs tangled, high as kites, talking absolute shit about the stars and the meaning of life and whether ducks believe in God. Louis couldn’t stop touching Harry, couldn’t get enough of the way his skin felt, warm and soft and buzzing under his fingers.

It was reckless. Stupid. Everything they weren’t supposed to do.

But it was Harry’s birthday. And in that moment, with the whole world soft around them, Louis couldn’t bring himself to care.

 

But that one pill was all it took to kick them right back into old habits.

And it got easier. That was the scary part.

At first, they were clumsy about it — pupils blown wide over breakfast, giggling too much at things that weren’t funny, getting caught whispering in corners like they were up to something (because they were). But they got better. They learned to time their highs — to come down just enough before Louis had work or before Harry’s mum called. They knew which eyedrops actually worked, how much cologne was too much, how to pace themselves so they could pass for normal even when they were anything but.

It turned into a rhythm.

Harry would walk Louis to work in the mornings, Louis passing him a cigarette for the road, both of them still a little too floaty from whatever they’d taken the night before. Harry even started going back to school, showing up to class like nothing had changed — just a bit skinnier, a bit quieter, but with bright nails and a hoodie two sizes too big that everyone knew wasn’t his. Teachers didn’t ask too many questions. Estate kids came back thinner all the time.

And Louis — Louis thought maybe they were balancing it. Like they’d cracked the code. If they could still show up — to school, to work, to family dinners — then it couldn’t be that bad. They weren’t back where they started. They weren’t hopeless. They were just… taking the edge off.

At least, that’s what Louis told himself.

One afternoon, they were all at Zayn’s, sprawled out in various states of intoxication, the air thick with smoke and laughter. The TV was on but barely watched, playing some shitty rerun of Come Dine With Me , the narrator’s voice blending into the background noise of clinking bottles and lazy conversation.

Louis had told his mum he was crashing at Harry’s, a quick text she didn’t question. You’ve been out a lot lately, she’d said earlier that day, tone edging toward something concerned . Louis had just hummed in response, already thinking of an excuse. Just staying with Harry, you know how it is.

And that was that.

She hadn’t asked too many questions, not when she wanted to believe him. Not when he’d looked okay, when he’d shown up for dinner twice that week, when he’d kept his voice light and his hands steady.

As long as he was functioning , she didn’t push.

So he was here instead.

Zayn’s flat was its usual mess—ashtrays overflowing, clothes tossed over the back of chairs, a bong resting precariously close to a stack of takeout boxes on the coffee table. Niall was halfway through rolling another joint, humming something tuneless under his breath, while Eleanor was stretched out along the sofa, swinging her legs over the armrest, flicking through her phone with one hand and nursing a beer with the other.

Oli had claimed the only decent chair in the room, looking far too comfortable for someone in the middle of a house that was barely standing upright .

Harry was beside Louis, legs tangled up together, head tipped back against the cushions, looking blissed out but present . He wasn’t too far gone—not yet.

Louis liked him best like this.

“Alright,” Eleanor suddenly declared, shoving her phone into her pocket and sitting up, eyes sparkling with mischief . “Game time.”

Zayn raised an eyebrow. “Do I wanna know?”

“Absolutely,” Eleanor said, grinning. “It’s called best and worst .”

“Oh, fuck off ,” Louis groaned, already knowing where this was going.

“No, no, listen,” Eleanor insisted, gesturing around. “Best moment in your life. Worst moment in your life. Go.”

“Christ,” Niall muttered, licking the edge of his rolling paper. “Can’t we just play ‘who can chug a beer the fastest’?”

“ No ,” Eleanor said firmly. “It’s character building , Niall.”

Niall sighed dramatically. “Fine. But I get to pick who goes first.”

Eleanor smirked. “You always get to pick.”

“Yeah,” Niall grinned. “And I’m picking Louis .”

Louis glared at him. “You absolute dickhead .”

Niall shrugged, looking immensely pleased with himself. “Go on, then. Best and worst.”

Louis sighed, slouching further into the couch, pretending to think it over.

Best moment was easy .

“First time I ever scored in a proper match,” Louis said, stretching his arms above his head. “Was a kid. Played all the time, but that day? Whole team lifted me up .” He smirked. “Felt like a fucking hero .”

Harry smiled at him, soft and small.

Louis ignored it.

“And worst?” Eleanor prompted, tilting her head.

Louis licked his lips, suddenly aware of how quiet the room had gotten.

“Dunno,” he said, shrugging. “Haven’t had it yet, have I?”

It was a lie , obviously, but no one pushed.

“Bullshit answer,” Zayn muttered, exhaling smoke.

Louis just smirked. “Alright, your turn then, Malik.”

And just like that, the focus shifted, the attention sliding off Louis and onto Zayn, who groaned and flicked ash at Louis’ knee in revenge .

But Louis barely heard any of it after that.

Harry’s fingers had slipped under the hem of his shirt, just slightly , warm and absentminded against his skin.

Louis didn’t move.

Didn’t stop him.

Just let it be .

And pretended he didn’t know why.

The game went on, laughter and bullshit answers filling the room, but Louis had checked out. His attention had drifted, slipping into that familiar haze, his focus narrowing to the warmth of Harry beside him, the lazy way Harry’s fingers had started tracing along his hip, just under the hem of his shirt. It was absentminded, like Harry didn’t even realize he was doing it, but it set something alight under Louis’ skin.

They weren’t even that high yet but they may as well have been.

The others were still talking, still playing, but Louis was only half-listening, nodding along without processing a word. His heartbeat had settled into a slow, heavy thrum, matching the bass of whatever music was playing in the background, and it was too easy to get lost in the atmosphere, in the heat, in Harry .

And then Oli—who had been quietly overseeing the chaos like some kind of bored king—sighed, stretched, and pulled a baggie from his pocket, rolling it between his fingers before tossing it onto the coffee table with a dull thud .

“Alright,” he muttered, voice low, casual, the way only someone completely unfazed by their own terrible decisions could be. “Who’s celebrating tonight?”

The room shifted immediately, everyone perking up at once, like a pack of wolves catching the scent of fresh meat.

Niall, sprawled out with his head in Eleanor’s lap, grinned wide, already reaching for it. “Now that’s what I’m talking about.”

Eleanor chuckled, swiping it out of his reach before he could get his hands on it. “Pace yourself, love .”

Oli raised an eyebrow at Louis and Harry. “You two in?”

It was an unspoken rule —no pressure, no judgment. Just a simple question. But Louis already knew the answer before he even opened his mouth. He felt it in the way Harry’s fingers twitched slightly against his hip, in the barely-there shift of his body, in the weight of something unspoken pressing between them.

So Louis just nodded.

Harry, beside him, didn’t hesitate either.

And that was that.

They took their doses, letting the familiar warmth settle over them, let it creep into their limbs, into their bones , let it work its way under their skin until the world felt good again.

The conversation grew louder as everyone drifted deeper into their highs, the air buzzing with that loose, effortless joy that came with the right kind of night. Someone had turned the music up, the bass vibrating through the walls, mixing with the sound of laughter, of whispered conversations in dark corners, of glasses clinking against the battered coffee table.

Louis was sinking into it, into the warmth, into the comfort of his friends around him, but most of all— into Harry .

Because at some point, somewhere between Eleanor declaring herself Queen of the Sofa and Zayn kicking Niall off his lap for the fourth time, Harry had turned toward him, gaze heavy, hands firm against Louis’ waist.

And Louis, still buzzing , still floating , hadn’t thought twice before pulling him in.

It was slow at first, all lazy lips and teasing smiles, like neither of them were in a hurry, like they had all the time in the world. Harry sighed into his mouth, fingers slipping under Louis’ hoodie, palms warm against his ribs, gripping just hard enough to send a shiver down Louis’ spine.

They were tangled up in each other now, locked in, lost to everything else.

Someone—probably Niall—let out a loud, exaggerated groan.

“Oh for fuck’s sake , the boyfriends are at it again.”

Louis barely registered it, too caught up in the way Harry was breathing against his mouth, in the heat rolling off him, in the way his hands were pressing against his skin like he needed the touch, like he needed Louis.

“You’re just jealous,” Eleanor called, her voice thick with laughter, and Louis could hear the grin in it. “Let them be in love, God .”

The night slipped into something hazy and warm, the kind of high that settled deep in their bones, where time stopped mattering and reality blurred at the edges. They didn’t go out. They didn’t need to. The party was here , in Zayn’s flat, where the air was thick with smoke and laughter, where they were together , where nothing beyond this moment existed.

They were all fucked , every single one of them, in their own ways. But they’d been through everything together—through the kind of shit that bonded you for life, that turned friendships into something more, something deeper, something unbreakable .

And somehow, Harry had slipped into it like he’d always been there.

He wasn’t just tolerated in the group—he was part of it, woven into the fabric of their chaos, like he’d always belonged.

Niall was perched upside down on the sofa, legs thrown over the back, a bottle of beer dangling loosely from his fingers. “Alright, I’m saying it— this is my best life. Right here. Right now .”

“Shocker,” Zayn muttered from his spot on the windowsill, exhaling smoke as he flicked ash into an overflowing tray. “Says the man on his third pint of vodka and orange.”

“It’s called a screwdriver , mate, get cultured,” Niall shot back, taking another sip before waving a hand vaguely in Harry and Louis’ direction. “And look at them . Fuckin’ boyfriends making out like it’s the last night on earth. I should get a medal for not cockblocking.”

Louis, comfortably straddling Harry’s lap on the couch, didn’t bother looking up. “Not our fault you’re single, mate.”

Harry laughed softly against his lips, high and weightless, fingers lazily tracing patterns on Louis’ back beneath his hoodie.

Niall groaned. “Fuckin’ hell , you’re worse now that it’s official.”

Eleanor, curled up on the armrest with her legs tucked beneath her, smirked. “They‘re cute.”

Niall huffed. “I hate this.”

“You adore it,” Oli chimed in from his chair, where he was slowly peeling the label off a beer bottle, looking like he was half paying attention. “You live for their domestic bullshit.”

Zayn snorted, watching Niall with knowing amusement. “Reckon he cries when they’re not around.”

“I hate all of you,” Niall declared, taking another long sip of his drink.

Eleanor cackled, stretching out and nudging Niall’s head with her foot. “Shut up , you love us. You’re obsessed with us.”

Louis laughed into Harry’s mouth, his head spinning, his limbs too loose, his heart too full .

This was it .

This was his family .

Not the one he’d been born into, not the one tied to him by blood, but the one he chose .

They were all disasters—Niall with his constant need for noise and distraction, Eleanor with her endless energy and reckless heart, Oli with his slow, lazy indulgence, Zayn with his sharp eyes and quiet loyalty. They were all addicts , all fucked-up in ways that should have driven them apart.

But they’d stuck .

Through the worst of it, through the ugliest of it, they had stuck .

And Harry—

Harry had walked into it like he was made for it.

Louis looked down at him now, at the pink flush high on his cheeks, at his soft, content smile, at the way his fingers hadn’t stopped touching him since they’d sat down.

He was his .

And maybe Louis was fucked , maybe he had been from the start, but if there was one thing he knew without a doubt, it was this .

Harry was his, and he was Harry’s .

And whatever happened next, whatever came next, they’d get through it.

Together.

Three days later, they were wrapped up in Louis’ bed, tangled together in the mess of blankets and half-crumpled hoodies that Louis had never bothered to put away. The world outside didn’t matter—just the warmth between them, the steady rise and fall of Harry’s chest under Louis’ palm, the lazy kisses they kept falling into, the kind of soft, giddy happiness that made Louis’ cheeks ache from smiling too much.

Harry was on his back, one arm tucked under his head, the other curled around Louis, fingers tracing absentminded circles on his hip. Louis was half on top of him, chin propped on Harry’s chest, grinning so hard his face hurt .

“You do look like a sheepdog, though,” Louis teased, tugging lightly on one of Harry’s curls.

Harry scoffed, swatting at his hand. “You love my hair.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Louis hummed, letting his fingers slip back into the mess of curls, scratching lightly at Harry’s scalp. “Still doesn’t change the fact that you could be best in show at Crufts.”

Harry groaned, throwing his head back. “I hate you.”

“No, you don’t,” Louis said smugly, shifting up to nuzzle at the underside of Harry’s jaw, pressing a kiss there just because he could .

Harry melted instantly, his grip tightening around Louis’ waist. “Fuck off, you cheat .”

Louis grinned against his skin. “What, I can’t kiss my boyfriend?”

Harry’s breath hitched, but he was smiling, lips twitching at the edges. “Oh, so now you remember we’re dating?”

Louis huffed out a laugh, moving up to press another kiss to the tip of Harry’s nose. “What, you thought I forgot? You do practically live here now, Play-Doh.”

Harry bit his lip, and Louis could see the warmth creeping up his neck, could feel the way his fingers curled just a little tighter into his hoodie.

“I like it here,” Harry admitted, voice quieter now.

Louis softened, something warm and steady settling in his chest. “Yeah?”

Harry nodded, eyes meeting Louis’. “Yeah.”

Louis didn’t say anything to that, didn’t need to, just leaned in and kissed him again, slow and deep, like sealing a promise between them.

And that was the thing about this —it wasn’t just the highs, wasn’t just the reckless nights or the chaos of their friends or the way they had slipped so easily into old habits. It was this , too. The quiet moments. The way they fit together even when they weren’t running from anything.

Louis didn’t know if that made it better or worse .

But right now, it didn’t matter.

Because Harry was here, in his arms, in his life , and Louis wasn’t letting go.

Louis was still draped over Harry, fingers tracing idle shapes on his chest, when his phone started buzzing somewhere under the blankets. He groaned, blindly reaching for it, only to be rudely interrupted by Harry grabbing his wrist and yanking him back down.

“Leave it,” Harry mumbled, lips brushing against Louis’ forehead.

Louis laughed, struggling half-heartedly. “What if it’s important?”

Harry just tightened his grip around his waist, burying his face in Louis’ shoulder. “It’s not .”

But then the buzzing stopped for exactly three seconds before it started again , and Louis sighed, finally managing to wriggle free enough to dig through the blankets and yank his phone up to his ear.

“Jesus fuck , what?”

Eleanor’s voice came through way too loud, already buzzing with energy. “ Party .”

Louis blinked. “Excuse me?”

“Party,” Eleanor repeated, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “At Tess’ place. Right now . I expect your asses here in ten minutes .”

Louis huffed, rubbing a hand over his face. “Bit last minute, El.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, did I interrupt your lesbian honeymoon ?” Eleanor teased, voice dripping with delight . “Tragic. Anyway, hurry up . The good drugs are still fresh.”

Louis barely had time to roll his eyes before she hung up, leaving nothing but static in his ear.

He dropped the phone onto the mattress and turned to Harry, who was already watching him with an amused smile.

“Well?” Harry asked, eyebrow raised.

Louis smirked. “Fancy getting fucked up ?”

Harry didn’t need to be asked twice.

They moved fast, rolling out of bed, pulling on clothes like they were about to rob a bank rather than crash a party. Louis tugged on the nearest hoodie—probably Harry’s, judging by the way it practically swallowed him—and ran a hand through his hair, making a half-hearted attempt at looking presentable.

Harry, already dressed, was digging through Louis’ bedside table, tossing out a pack of cigarettes and a half-empty bottle of cologne, clearly going for essentials.

“Fuck the front door?” Harry asked, already moving toward the window.

Louis grinned. “Obviously.”

And with that, they were climbing out, slipping down onto the fire escape like it was second nature, like they’d done this a hundred times before .

Because they had .

Because this was them—Louis and Harry, boyfriends , partners in crime, slipping into the night like they owned it.

Notes:

Bit dissapointed, but not surprised

sorry? hope they didn‘t get your hopes up

Chapter 15: Chapter 15

The party was already alive by the time they got there, spilling out of Tess’ house and into the street, the air thick with smoke, bass-heavy music shaking the walls. It wasn’t just a party—it was one of those nights, the kind where half the estate showed up without needing to be invited, where the energy crackled like a live wire, where nothing felt real but everything felt possible .

Harry and Louis barely had to look at each other before diving in.

Inside, the house was packed, bodies pressed together, the heat of too many people crammed into one space making the air feel thick and electric. Someone had shoved the living room furniture against the walls to make room for a dance floor , if you could even call it that—just a mess of people moving against each other, sweaty and reckless, lost in the beat of whatever was blasting through the too-small speakers.

And, as expected, their people were already deep in the chaos.

Eleanor spotted them first, perched on the kitchen counter, sipping from a red cup with way too much genuine delight. “ There you are! ” she crowed, immediately shoving herself off the counter and launching toward them, nearly knocking into three people on the way.

Louis caught her before she could fully crash into them, laughing as she slung her arms around both him and Harry in a way that wasn’t quite a hug—more like a full-body tackle.

“I knew you’d show up,” Eleanor said smugly, pulling back just enough to poke Louis in the ribs. “Couldn’t stand to miss a good time, could you?”

Louis rolled his eyes, but before he could even think of a comeback, Niall was there too, draping himself over Louis’ shoulder like a drunken parrot , reeking of whiskey and cheap cologne. “The boyfriends have arrived!” he bellowed , loud enough to turn a few heads. “And late , might I add.”

Louis groaned. “Jesus fuck , one time we—”

“Fashionably late,” Harry corrected, grinning as he pulled a cigarette from behind his ear. “It’s called being mysterious , Niall.”

Niall cackled , clapping him on the back. “Alright, alright, I respect it.”

Oli appeared next, drink in hand, looking a bit more composed than the others but still loose, still buzzing. “We were placing bets on whether you two would actually show up or just stay in bed all night.”

Louis grinned, slinging an arm around Harry’s shoulders. “Mate, what kind of men do you think we are?”

“ Disgusting ones,” Zayn answered from behind them, cigarette balanced between his lips as he surveyed them with his usual mix of amusement and exhaustion. “I bet against you showing up.”

Harry snorted , lighting his own cigarette and bumping his hip against Louis’. “Guess you lost , then.”

Zayn shrugged. “Can’t win ‘em all.”

Louis, grinning, reached out to steal Zayn’s cigarette straight from his mouth, taking a slow, deliberate drag before handing it back. Zayn rolled his eyes but took it anyway, flicking ash onto the already-sticky floor.

“So.” Eleanor clapped her hands together, eyes glittering. “Are we getting fucked up , or what?”

As if on cue , Tess emerged from the chaos, looking half-feral , her hair a mess, her pupils blown . “What the fuck are you lot standing around for?” she demanded, thrusting a bottle of something probably illegal toward them. “It’s a party .”

Louis met Harry’s eyes, that unspoken thrill crackling between them.

It was one of those nights.

And they weren’t going to waste it.

The night unfolded like something inevitable, the kind of party that would be talked about for weeks in hushed tones and exaggerated retellings. The air in the house felt thick—sweat, smoke, and the sticky-sweet scent of whatever someone had spilled on the floor.

In the kitchen, Oli was already setting up, phone in one hand, rolling out small, even lines on the counter with the other, the movements quick and practiced. God knew who he’d gotten it from, but no one asked, no one ever did.

The baggie sat open on the counter, small lines of white powder cut across the surface like tiny roads leading nowhere. The music thumped against the walls, vibrating through their bones, the bass rattling the cheap glasses stacked haphazardly near the sink. The air smelled like stale beer, cigarette smoke, and something floral from a candle Tess had probably lit hours ago, now lost in the chaos of the house.

Louis rolled a note between his fingers, the motion easy, practiced. His heart was already kicking up, anticipation curling in his gut, that familiar hum of excitement before the first line.

Oli, ever the unofficial dealer of the group, leaned forward, inspecting his work like he was some kind of artist. He tapped the edge of his card against the counter, adjusting the lines slightly before leaning back with a satisfied nod.

“All set,” he murmured, voice steady.

Zayn, who had been idly flicking his lighter open and shut, smirked, stepping forward first. “Well then,” he drawled, grabbing the note from Louis’ fingers without asking. “Might as well start us off.”

No one argued.

Zayn leaned down, exhaling once before pressing the rolled note to his nose and snorting the first line clean. He straightened, tilting his head back, eyes fluttering shut for a moment before he sniffed sharply, rubbing at his nose. “Fuckin’ hell ,” he muttered, voice thick. “That’s good shit.”

“Thank God ,” Eleanor sighed, stepping up next, snatching the note out of his hand. “I need this.”

She bent down, inhaling deep, the line disappearing with a sharp, practiced motion. When she came up, she blinked fast, licking at her teeth like she could already feel it kicking in. “Holy fuck .” She turned to Oli, smacking his arm. “Where the fuck did you get this?”

Oli, ever the picture of calm, just grinned. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”

Niall was next, rubbing his hands together like he was about to sit down to the best meal of his life. “Right, fuckin’ move ,” he muttered, pushing Eleanor aside.

Louis watched as Niall took his, sniffing twice, wrinkling his nose slightly before standing straight and grinning like a madman.

“ Jesus Christ, ” Niall breathed, rubbing at his face. “That just kicked me in the fuckin’ soul .”

Oli went after, slow and methodical, like he had all the time in the world. Louis knew better—Oli liked to make it look casual, like he wasn’t as gone as the rest of them, but it was all an illusion. The moment he straightened up, sniffing, rolling his shoulders, Louis could see it settle in his veins.

Then it was his turn.

Louis felt Harry shift slightly beside him, but he didn’t hesitate.

He bent down, pressed the note to his nose, and inhaled deep. The burn hit fast, sharp and clean, racing up through his sinuses, making his eyes sting for half a second before the rush settled into his bloodstream.

He’d missed this.

He swiped his thumb under his nose, exhaling through his mouth, his heart already pounding , the world sharpening at the edges, the music sinking into his skin rather than just existing around him.

Harry was beside him, close enough that Louis could feel the heat of him, the way his fingers twitched slightly against his thigh. His lips were parted, pupils blown wide, his tongue darting out to wet his lips.

Louis turned to him, the note still in his fingers.

“You in?” he murmured, voice already feeling too smooth in his mouth, like the coke had settled fast  into his system.

Harry hesitated, just a second, but then  he reached out and took the note.

Louis swallowed, watching as Harry bent down, pressed it to his nose, and inhaled.

It was fascinating to watch.

The way his body reacted to it, the slight shudder in his shoulders, the sharp inhale after, the way his fingers came up to swipe under his nose, sniffing once before blinking at Louis.

And Louis— Louis was fucked , because suddenly, all he wanted to do was kiss him.

Hard.

He barely registered the others anymore, barely noticed Eleanor throwing herself back against the fridge with a delighted moan, or Niall bouncing on his heels, muttering to himself about how fucking good this batch was.

All he saw was Harry , looking at him with that wild, open expression, mouth slightly parted, lips red, body thrumming with something sharp and new .

And fuck, they weren’t gonna last five more minutes in this kitchen.

Louis didn’t think . Didn’t pause, didn’t hesitate, didn’t even breathe before he caved.

One second, Harry was just standing there, looking at him with those wide, blown-out pupils, his lips slightly parted, his chest rising and falling like he hadn’t quite caught up to the high yet—and the next, Louis was on him .

He shoved Harry back against the kitchen counter, hands gripping at his waist, pulling him close, crashing their mouths together in something messy and desperate .

Harry made a noise against his lips, something sharp and surprised, but he melted into it just as quickly, hands flying to Louis’ back, curling into the fabric of his hoodie.

The coke made everything sharp , made it electric , every touch like a live wire, every press of Harry’s mouth against his sending shocks straight through Louis’ bloodstream. It was sloppy, unhinged, a clash of teeth and tongue and the taste of whatever they’d been drinking earlier, but fuck, it was good .

“ Jesus Christ, ” Eleanor groaned, somewhere behind them.

A few whistles and hollers followed, Niall of course being the loudest.

“ Oi! ” he cackled. “Get a room , you dirty fucks!”

Zayn, from his perch on the counter, barely looked up from rolling his cigarette. “Or don’t,” he muttered. “We live for the drama.”

Louis barely registered it, too caught up in the way Harry sighed into his mouth, the way his hands clutched at his back, gripping like he needed him, like he wasn’t about to let go anytime soon.

And Louis really  didn’t want him to .

But then Harry laughed against his lips, a breathless, floaty sound, and suddenly Louis was laughing too, forehead pressing against Harry’s as they gasped for breath.

Harry’s fingers slipped under his hoodie, warm against his bare skin, his nose brushing against Louis’ cheek as he murmured, voice still wrecked, “Feeling good , then?”

Louis grinned, nudging their noses together. “Would fuckin’ hope so .”

Eleanor sighed dramatically. “I swear to God , if you two fuck off to some dark corner again —”

Louis turned his head, smirking at her over his shoulder. “We would , babe, but we love an audience.”

Eleanor cackled , reaching out to smack his arm. “Don’t flatter yourself, Tommo. Now move , some of us actually came to party.”

Louis didn’t move. Not yet.

Not when Harry was still grinning at him like that, his fingers still teasing just under the hem of his hoodie, his breath still warm against his lips.

And fuck—maybe they would disappear into some dark corner soon.

But for now, Louis just stole one more quick kiss, hands still gripping at Harry’s waist, feeling high in more ways than one.

Still buzzing, still lightheaded from the coke and the kiss and the everything of it all, Louis finally let Harry breathe, grinning as he took his hand and dragged him away from the counter.

Zayn was now perched on the arm of the sofa, rolling a cigarette with the slow, practiced ease of someone who never rushed. His fingers moved deftly, smooth and precise, like he had all the time in the world.

Louis and Harry practically collapsed onto the couch beside him, still tangled together, still laughing , still fucked in the best way.

“You lot done slobbering all over each other?” Zayn muttered, not even glancing up.

Louis huffed, elbowing him lightly. “Jealous, Malik?”

Zayn exhaled sharply through his nose, flicking his lighter open with a click. “Yeah, mate. Devastated , really.”

Harry, still breathless, just grinned, tucking his face into Louis’ shoulder like he was hiding .

Louis slid a hand into his curls, ruffling them lightly. “You alright there, Play-Doh?”

Harry hummed against his shoulder, fingers slipping beneath Louis’ hoodie again, a slow, lazy drag of fingertips over his spine. “ Mmm .”

Zayn finally glanced up, rolling his eyes. “Jesus, you two are disgusting .”

Eleanor, who had just flopped down onto the opposite armrest, legs swinging over Niall’s lap, sighed dramatically . “They really are.”

“Fuckin’ hell , mate,” Niall groaned, rubbing at his face. “You do realize we exist, right? The rest of us? Out here? Suffering?”

Louis just smirked, stretching his legs out over Harry’s lap, leaning back against the couch like he owned the place. “Reckon you’ll manage.”

Niall grumbled something unintelligible, but the conversation didn’t last long—because the music shifted.

The bass thumped , something heavy and dirty and loud , and suddenly, people were moving, dragging each other toward the center of the room, bodies pressing together in that kind of mindless, messy estate party way.

Eleanor was up first, grabbing Louis’ hand without warning, yanking him off the couch. “You owe me a dance, you little shit.”

Harry made a noise of protest as Louis was literally stolen from his lap, but before he could argue, Eleanor grabbed him , too, tugging him along with her usual reckless enthusiasm.

Louis barely had time to process before they were swallowed into the crowd, into the heat of it, bodies moving, sweat slick against skin, the air thick with smoke and the scent of too many people crammed together.

Eleanor was in her element , arms above her head, moving like she owned the space, thrived in the attention.

Harry, at first, just followed Louis’ lead, swaying in time with him, letting the music settle into his limbs. But then Louis turned toward him, grabbed his hips, pulled him close —

And that was it.

That was it .

Because suddenly, Harry wasn’t shy anymore.

His body melted into Louis’, hands gripping at his waist, his breath coming fast against his jaw, his movements slow and deliberate, matching Louis beat for beat .

And fuck, Louis was so gone for him.

Their bodies fit together in a way that felt too good , too easy, too natural . Harry’s fingers slipped beneath Louis’ hoodie again, burning against his skin, his breath hitching slightly when Louis rolled his hips just right against his.

And then Harry turned his head, leaned in, brushed his lips against the shell of Louis’ ear, whispering something so obscene it would have done Eleanor proud.

And Louis was done .

He grabbed Harry’s jaw, fingers curling tight, and crashed their mouths together, hungry and open and messy , swallowing whatever sound Harry made, whatever breathless moan got lost between them.

The music pounded around them, the world blurred at the edges, and none of it mattered.

Because this —this was what they were .

High, reckless, in sync.

And absolutely fucking gone for each other.

The night didn’t slow down. If anything, it ramped up , the highs stretching longer, the party getting louder , messier, more reckless .

After dancing, after too many hands gripping at their waists, after too many people watching them watch each other , Louis and Harry found their way back to the kitchen, breathing heavy, sweat damp at their hairlines.

Zayn was there, perched on the counter like he hadn’t moved all night, a fresh set of lines already waiting, like he knew they’d be back.

“You two look fucked ,” Niall said gleefully, sprawled against the fridge, his shirt unbuttoned halfway down, bottle still dangling from his fingers.

Louis didn’t argue, just wiped his nose absently and grabbed the nearest rolled-up note. “Missed me, did you?”

Niall grinned, tipping his head back against the fridge. “Always, love.”

Harry, beside him, licked his lips, pupils blown, mouth still red from the last time Louis had kissed him. He was loose now, relaxed, fingers twitching at his side like he was itching for more.

Louis nudged him lightly. “Go on, Play-Doh.”

Harry swallowed once, then stepped forward, reaching for the note Louis had just dropped.

And fuck—Louis had never been more obsessed with anything in his life than the way Harry bent down, pressed the note to his nose, and inhaled slow, sharp, deliberate.

When he straightened, his tongue flicked out to wet his lips again, blinking once like he was adjusting to the feeling.

Louis barely contained his grin. “Good?”

Harry exhaled through his nose, then smiled just slightly , that lazy, wrecked, stoned kind of grin that made Louis’ blood thrum under his skin. “ Yeah .”

Louis didn’t even hesitate before taking his own line, feeling the familiar burn, the sharp, instant clarity that cut through the leftover fuzz of their earlier high.

Across from them, Niall was still watching , still grinning like he was living for this.

Then, just as casually as if he were reaching for a cigarette, Harry reached out and plucked Niall’s bottle from his hand.

Niall blinked, confused, as Harry tipped it back and took a sip.

Then, just as casually, Harry slipped his hand into Niall’s pocket and pulled out a half-empty strip of Xanax .

“ Oi , you little shit ,” Niall cackled , slapping Harry’s arm, but not actually stopping him.

Harry popped one into his mouth, swallowing it dry. “Ta, mate.”

Niall snorted. “You’re welcome , I guess?”

Louis laughed , grabbing a stray Ritalin from the counter—one Zayn had casually left behind from God knows where —and tossed it back with a sip of his drink.

Louis raised a brow, like he was daring Zayn to say something. “What?”

Niall grinned , practically vibrating, then jerked his head toward the living room.

Louis and Harry turned, just in time to see Tess —yes, Tess , the one who had thrown the party—currently sprawled on the sofa with Eleanor in her lap , hands gripping at her thighs, fully making out like they’d never stop .

“Oh for fuck’s sake ,” Zayn muttered.

Niall let out an obnoxiously loud wolf whistle.

Louis, shaking his head, grinned .

“Think I just won a bet,” Oli said from the doorway, completely unbothered, beer in hand.

Eleanor pulled away from Tess just long enough to dramatically flip them off. “Fuck you all.”

Louis turned back to Harry, leaning in close enough that their noses brushed.

“You good ?” he murmured, low and teasing, knowing exactly what the answer was.

Harry’s breath hitched just slightly, his hands settling at Louis’ waist, gripping firm .

“Yeah,” he breathed, lips barely barely touching Louis’.

Louis smirked, pressing their foreheads together.

“Then let’s keep going .”

And keep going they did.

 

The next few days fell into a routine so perfectly fucked that Louis barely had to think about it.

Mornings were a drag—waking up late, throwing on whatever uniform he hadn’t already stained, rubbing the sleep and leftover high from his eyes before heading off to fucking Toys ‘R’ Us , where he spent hours stacking shelves, tolerating screaming kids, and explaining to clueless parents why the dinosaur that lights up and makes noises wasn’t included in the two-for-one sale .

Sober.

He always went sober .

It was the one rule he hadn’t let himself break yet—showing up to work functional , able to pass for normal. He could smile at customers, scan items at the till, pretend that he hadn’t been out until four in the morning snorting lines off someone’s bathroom counter.

But the nights ?

The nights weren’t real .

They were bright and burning , starting the moment he clocked out.

Harry was always there, waiting outside with his hoodie slung over his shoulders, looking unbothered and unfairly fit for someone who had probably woken up at three in the afternoon.

“ Go well, love? ” he’d tease, stealing Louis’ cigarette the second he lit it.

And Louis, who had spent the last eight hours building fucking Barbie dream houses and explaining why the store didn’t sell batteries , would just sigh dramatically and say, “Get me fucked up before I commit a crime.”

They never had a plan.

Some nights, they crashed at Zayn’s, draped over his couch while he rolled a spliff with the kind of precision that could’ve gotten him a degree in it. Other nights, they ended up at some party where they knew just enough people to never pay for a drink, where the music shook the floor, where Eleanor would grab them by the hands and drag them into the mess of bodies on the dance floor.

There were always lines —neatly rolled out across coffee tables, mirrors, bathroom sinks. They weren’t careful anymore, didn’t even bother hiding when they passed notes between them, didn’t blink when Niall popped a Xanax between shots of whiskey or when Oli leaned in to take a bump straight off Eleanor’s collarbone.

The nights blurred fast .

There was always someone throwing up in the kitchen sink, always some girl crying in the hallway, always a cigarette burn in the fabric of whatever sofa they’d collapsed onto.

And then, without fail, there was them .

Harry and Louis, moving through the chaos like it wasn’t real , hands locked together, bodies drawn like magnets.

No matter where they were, how crowded the place was, how fucked up they got—at some point in the night, Louis would find himself pressed against some surface, Harry in his space, hands gripping at his waist, mouths colliding in something messy and needed .

It wasn’t subtle.

Eleanor would roll her eyes dramatically, Zayn would make a comment , Niall would catcall, and none of it mattered .

Because when they were high , when they were kissing , when they were this —

Nothing else existed.

One night, Harry was gone .

Not just his usual, lazy, floaty kind of high—the one where he pressed too close and let his fingers wander absently under Louis’ hoodie while talking shit with the others. No , this was different .

This was three lines deep, half a bottle of whiskey sloshing in his veins, pupils blown so wide they practically swallowed the green, his entire body thrumming with energy.

Louis felt it the second Harry sat on his lap.

They were on the couch at someone’s place—Louis wasn’t sure whose, didn’t care —but the party had long since passed the point of being a respectable gathering. The music was pounding , bass rattling the floor, a thick haze of smoke hovering in the air like fog.

Zayn was perched on the arm of the chair next to them, flicking his lighter open and shut, while Eleanor was sprawled across the floor, head in Oli’s lap, both of them giggling at something neither of them would remember in the morning.

But none of that mattered.

Not when Harry was moving like this .

Grinding down, slow and deliberate , his hands sliding up Louis’ chest, fingers curling into the fabric of his hoodie. His breath was hot against Louis’ ear, lips parted like he was on the edge of saying something but too lost in the feeling to get the words out.

And fuck—Louis wasn’t faring much better .

He could feel everything —the warmth of Harry’s thighs bracketing his own, the heat of his body sinking into him, the sharp little gasps he let out every time he rolled his hips just right .

“Jesus fuck ,” Niall muttered from somewhere nearby, but his voice barely cut through the fog.

Eleanor, who had been half-asleep, cracked one eye open, let out a groan, and flopped onto her stomach. “Can you not fuck in the living room?”

Louis huffed out a laugh, tipping his head back against the couch, hands gripping hard at Harry’s waist. “Not our fault you can’t handle a bit of affection , love.”

Eleanor lifted her middle finger without looking up. “There’s a difference between affection and softcore porn, Tommo .”

Harry laughed— high and wrecked —and Louis felt it against his lips, the sound sending a pulse of heat straight through him.

Zayn, still flicking his lighter, smirked. “Reckon they’ve forgotten we’re even here.”

Harry, who was still grinding , just grinned . “Maybe,” he admitted, voice syrupy and loose .

Louis groaned, pressing his forehead against Harry’s shoulder, breathing him in, inhaling sweat and whiskey and whatever overpriced cologne he’d nicked from Louis’ room.

“Play-Doh,” Louis muttered, fingers digging just a bit harder into his hips.

“Mmm?” Harry hummed, rolling his hips again, making Louis see stars .

Louis gritted his teeth, pulling back just enough to look at him. Harry’s lips were red, swollen, his pupils still huge , his expression one of complete and utter abandon .

“You tryin’ to kill me, baby?” Louis murmured, voice barely above a whisper.

Harry grinned , the edge of his teeth flashing in the dim light.

“Not yet,” he said, grinding down again , “but I could be persuaded.”

Louis was about three seconds away from completely losing the plot.

Harry was still moving on top of him, drunk on whiskey and coke and whatever high was humming through his bloodstream, grinding down like they were alone —like they weren’t in the middle of a party, with their friends watching and complaining .

And Louis, despite everything , was still a man .

A man currently fighting a very obvious problem in his jeans.

Right.

Time for a distraction.

“C’mon,” Louis muttered, gripping Harry’s waist firmly and lifting him off his lap before he could properly protest. “We’re dancing.”

Harry blinked, deliriously slow, like his brain hadn’t caught up yet. “We were dancing,” he murmured, sounding far too pleased with himself.

Louis groaned, yanking him up by the wrist and dragging him toward the makeshift dance floor, hoping the movement, the music, anything would help him get himself under control.

It didn’t.

Because Harry followed him eagerly , pressed up against his back the second they stepped onto the dance floor, hands curling around Louis’ waist like he was claiming him.

“Jesus fuck ,” Louis muttered, closing his eyes, trying to focus on anything else .

It was impossible.

The music thumped through the floorboards, the bass so deep it rattled through Louis’ ribs, the press of bodies around them making the air thick and sweltering .

And Harry— fucking Harry —was right there, chest warm against Louis’ back, hands teasing at the hem of his hoodie, fingers slipping beneath the fabric in slow, lazy drags that made Louis’ breath hitch .

“This your idea of a distraction ?” Harry murmured, lips brushing against Louis’ ear.

Louis swallowed, shaking his head slightly , but he couldn’t do anything else. His hands were already finding their way to Harry’s arms, fingers gripping tight , nails digging in just a bit as he exhaled sharply.

Harry grinned against his skin, and then he was spinning Louis around, tugging him closer until they were chest to chest , moving together like it was second nature .

Louis barely had time to react before Harry kissed him again .

It was dirty , all tongue and heat and need , a slow burn of a kiss that made Louis’ knees feel weak , made the high in his blood surge to the surface, made his fingers slip into Harry’s hair and tug .

Harry moaned into his mouth, breathless and eager, and Louis—Louis felt it, all of it, the tension crackling between them, the need clawing at his stomach, at his spine.

Somewhere, in the back of his mind, he vaguely registered movement .

Harry was guiding them— steering them toward something, toward somewhere , but Louis didn’t notice.

Didn’t care .

Not when Harry’s fingers were curling around the waistband of his jeans, teasing just slightly , not when Harry was pressing him against the nearest wall, licking into his mouth like he was starving .

Not when a door clicked open behind them.

Not when Harry was pulling him inside .

Not when the door shut again, muffling the music, drowning out the world until it was just them .

The second the door shut behind them, Harry pushed .

Louis barely had time to catch himself before he landed flat on his back on a bed, his head hitting the pillow, his breath catching in his throat. The room was dark, illuminated only by the dim glow of the streetlights filtering through the blinds, but Louis didn’t need to see to know exactly what was happening.

Harry was on him in an instant, straddling his lap, hands braced on Louis’ chest, curls hanging wild around his face. His pupils were huge , his lips red and swollen , his body thrumming with energy.

H is intentions were crystal fucking clear .

Louis’ hands instinctively found Harry’s hips, gripping tight as Harry leaned down, pressing their mouths together, slow and deep . It was different now, intentional , not just making out for the sake of it, not just a reckless display of affection at a party. This—this was Harry asking for something.

Louis felt it the second Harry shifted, rolling his hips just right , his hands dragging down Louis’ chest, fingertips teasing at the hem of his hoodie, like he was about to pull it off .

And then it hit him.

Like ice-cold water dumped over his head.

They hadn’t had sex yet.

And Harry— Harry had never had sex at all .

He was seventeen .

And Louis—Louis was high , sure, but not so high that he could ignore the way his stomach dropped at the realization, the way everything blurred at the edges in a way that wasn’t the coke, wasn’t the music still pounding through the walls.

Harry was still a kid .

And this wasn’t right .

“ Fuck ,” Louis muttered, hands tightening on Harry’s hips—not to pull him closer , but to stop him. “Harry, wait —”

Harry didn’t stop immediately, too lost in it, too gone , pressing messy kisses down Louis’ jaw, hands slipping further under his hoodie—

Louis sat up , abruptly enough that Harry froze , blinking down at him in confusion.

Louis exhaled, his heart pounding for an entirely different reason now, his hands still firm on Harry’s waist.

“Harry,” he said, voice tight. “We—we can’t.”

Harry blinked, the words clearly taking longer than usual to process, his expression slipping from dazed to something softer, something uncertain .

“What?” he murmured, tilting his head slightly. “Why?”

Louis licked his lips, feeling his pulse hammer in his throat. “Because—you’re seventeen , Baby.” He swallowed hard. “And you—you’ve never done this before.”

Harry’s brows furrowed, the drunken haze still lingering in his eyes, but something shifted in him, like the realization was starting to creep in.

Louis reached up, cupping the sides of his face, gentle , trying to ground him. “I don’t want your first time to be in some stranger’s bedroom, off your face on coke and whiskey.”

Harry’s lips parted slightly, his breath shaky. “I—I want you , though.”

Louis ached at the way he said it, like it was obvious , like it was the only thing that mattered.

“I know, love,” Louis murmured, stroking his thumb over Harry’s cheek. “And I want you, too. But not like this .”

Harry was quiet for a long moment, the music outside pounding , the weight of him still heavy in Louis’ lap.

Then—slowly—he nodded.

Louis let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding, relief and something else—something softer —settling in his chest.

Harry exhaled, his hands slipping from beneath Louis’ hoodie, instead curling loosely around his shoulders.

“I’m—” He hesitated, like he wasn’t sure what he wanted to say.

Louis smiled softly , pressing a quick kiss to his forehead. “It’s alright, Play-Doh.”

Harry huffed out a quiet laugh at that, his body relaxing slightly.

They stayed like that for a moment, tangled together in the almost of it all, until finally, Louis gave Harry’s hips a light squeeze.

“C’mon,” he murmured. “Let’s go back to the others.”

Harry nodded, and as Louis helped him up, as they slipped back into the noise and chaos of the party, Louis swore he felt Harry’s fingers linger in his grip, like he was thankful for it.

The second they stepped back into the party, Niall was on them.

“Well, that was quick,” he drawled, draped across the armrest of the couch like he’d been waiting for them. His pupils were huge , his grin lazy and wicked , clearly thriving off the chaos of the night. “Didn’t take you for a two-minute man, Tommo.”

Louis barely spared him a glance before flipping him off, grabbing a half-empty beer off the table and downing a sip like it was just another Tuesday.

“Fuck off, Niall,” he muttered, tossing himself onto the couch beside Zayn, who barely blinked, flicking ash into an overflowing tray.

Harry, still looking a little wrecked but notably more relaxed, just shook his head, flopping onto the cushions next to Louis, stretching his long limbs out like he belonged there.

Niall cackled , nudging Eleanor with his knee. “Reckon the boyfriends are losing their touch.”

Eleanor, who had been fully sprawled across Tess five minutes ago, sat up just enough to glance between them before humming. “Yeah, bit tragic, that.”

Louis groaned, rubbing a hand over his face. “You lot need hobbies.”

“Watching your downfall is our hobby,” Zayn muttered, lighting another cigarette.

Harry, still buzzing from whatever was in his system, just huffed a laugh and stretched, his hoodie riding up just enough for Louis to see the sliver of warm, golden skin underneath.

Right.

Louis needed to catch the fuck up.

He reached forward, grabbing the nearest baggie off the table—one of Oli’s, judging by the neat way it was folded—and tapped out a small capsule of molly into his palm.

Harry, still loose and wrecked , raised a brow. “Matching me, are you?”

Louis grinned, tossing the pill back and swallowing it dry. “Can’t have you running laps around me all night, Play-Doh.”

Harry smirked, the kind of smirk that told Louis he was exactly where he wanted him.

Niall groaned, tossing his head back. “Jesus Christ , get a fuckin’ room again.”

Louis just reached over and smacked his shin.

The night wasn’t over yet. This was fine, everything was fine.

Until the next morning caught up to him.

It wasn’t like he’d planned to show up high. He wasn’t that stupid. But the night before had gotten away from them — one bump turned into two, which turned into chasing it with a bit of E, and they were both still wired at 4AM, having gone home when the sky had started turning grey, curled up under Louis’ duvet talking absolute shit about everything and nothing, skin tingling, unable to sleep because everything felt too good .

He must’ve drifted off around six, only to be shaken awake by his alarm two hours later, the high still clinging to the edges of his brain. His teeth felt weird, his heart still racing just a bit too fast, but there was no time to come down properly. Work was work. And so Louis got dressed, splashed his face with cold water, chewed a piece of gum so aggressively it nearly fell apart in his mouth, and walked out the door like nothing was wrong.

It might’ve worked, too — if his manager wasn’t already watching him like a hawk.

Louis had been late three times that month, once after calling in sick with the flimsiest excuse known to man ( food poisoning from a kebab — or maybe bad milk — or both ). He wasn’t exactly the model employee, and Toys ‘R’ Us wasn’t the kind of place that offered second chances.

He barely made it an hour into his shift before Sarah — the supervisor who hated him on sight — cornered him in the stockroom, arms crossed, eyes narrowed. “What’s wrong with you today?”

“Nothing,” Louis said, too quickly.

She stepped closer, sniffing the air. “You smell like cheap cologne and Red Bull.”

“It’s called a lifestyle , Sarah,” Louis quipped, but the joke didn’t land. He could feel his jaw twitching, that tell-tale clench that came with too much coke and too little sleep. His hands were restless too, fingers tapping against his thigh like they couldn’t sit still.

“You’re high,” she said flatly.

“I’m not,” Louis argued, but even he didn’t sound convinced.

“Clock out,” she said. “Now.”

“Sarah, come on—”

“ Now , Louis.”

He stood there for a second, heart hammering, brain still buzzing from the leftover chemicals flooding his system, and then — because there was nothing else to do — he yanked off his name badge, dropped it on the shelf, and walked out the back door without looking back.

Harry was waiting for him outside the shop — hood up, hands shoved in his pockets, looking soft and sweet and far too good for this life they were building together.

“You’re off early,” Harry said, brow furrowed.

“I got sacked,” Louis said flatly, lighting a cigarette with hands that wouldn’t stop shaking.

Harry’s eyes widened. “Shit.”

“Yeah,” Louis said, exhaling smoke into the cold air. “Big shit.”

They stood there for a minute, the weight of it settling between them, and for once, neither of them had a joke to make.

“What do we do now?” Harry asked softly, voice too careful, like he already knew the answer.

Louis took a long drag, smoke filling his lungs, before handing the cigarette off to Harry like it was part of the pact they never stopped making.

“We get fucked,” Louis said simply. “What else is there?”

Harry didn’t argue. Just took the cigarette, took a drag, and followed Louis wherever he led — because that was the deal, wasn’t it? Together or not at all.

They took the first bump before they even left the alley outside Toys ‘R’ Us. Louis’ hands were still shaking, heart still pounding, but the coke steadied him the way it always did — slicing through the fog of panic and shame like a hot knife through butter. Harry was right there with him, wiping his nose on the sleeve of Louis’ hoodie, giggling when Louis told him he had a bit left, right at the corner of his nostril.

They were fine. They had this .

They took another bump halfway home, walking arm in arm through the estate like they owned the place — two lads high as fuck, passing a cigarette back and forth, laughing too loudly at nothing at all. They were too confident, too cocky, falling back into that dangerous sweet spot where they thought they were invincible, like nothing could touch them because they’d been to the bottom and made it out already.

Louis’ mum clocked it the second they stepped through the door.

She didn’t say anything at first — just looked at them both, eyes narrowing slightly the way they always did when she was piecing something together in her head. Harry tried to slide past with a soft, polite, “Hi, Mrs. Tomlinson,” but her hand caught his wrist gently, and Harry froze like a rabbit in headlights.

“Upstairs, love,” she said softly, not unkind. “Go on.”

Harry didn’t argue, didn’t even look at Louis — just slipped off his shoes and bolted up the stairs, disappearing into their room without another word.

„Louis William Tomlinson.“

That was when Louis knew he was fucked.

“Sit down,” his mum said, arms crossed, voice low and tight in that way that was somehow scarier than shouting. “Now.”

Louis scoffed, kicking off his trainers a bit too hard. “Christ, what’s the interrogation for? We just came back from the shop.”

“Sit. Down.” Each word was sharper than the last, her patience stretched so thin Louis could practically see the cracks.

He dropped into a kitchen chair, arms folded across his chest, every muscle in his body bracing for impact. “What, you wanna ask me if I’m eating my vegetables next?”

His mum didn’t bite. She just stared at him — hard, unblinking — and Louis felt himself squirm under it despite the coke still buzzing through his veins.

“You’re high,” she said flatly.

“No, I’m not.”

“Louis.” Just his first name, but fuck if it didn’t hit like a brick to the chest.

“I’m not,” Louis insisted, but it was weak, and they both knew it.

Without a word, his mum walked to the cupboard under the sink, the one Louis used to forget existed until times like this. The one that held the tests . Cheap little plastic kits bought in bulk, leftovers from every time Louis had come home looking a bit too wired, his eyes a bit too glassy. She tossed one onto the table in front of him.

“Prove it.”

Louis’ stomach twisted. “Mum—”

“ Prove it, ” she said again, louder this time, her voice starting to crack around the edges. “If you’re clean, I’ll apologize. If you’re not—” Her throat worked around the words. “If you’re not, Louis, I swear to God—”

Louis grabbed the test before she could finish, fingers clumsy with anger and adrenaline, and stalked to the downstairs loo. He pissed on the strip, hands shaking the whole time, and brought it back out after the three minutes it needed to develop.

It lit up like a fucking Christmas tree.

Every single line glowed — cocaine, MDMA, cannabis, even opiates faintly flickering because God knows what the pills they’d taken at that party had been cut with.

His mum’s face crumpled like he’d physically hit her. She sank into the chair across from him, hand over her mouth, tears welling up behind her eyes. “Jesus, Lou.”

“Mum, I—”

“No,” she snapped, slamming her hand down on the table so hard the cups rattled. “Don’t you dare . Don’t sit there and lie to my face like I’m some kind of idiot.”

Louis bit his lip so hard he tasted blood, the fight draining out of him all at once. “I’m sorry,” he whispered.

“That’s not good enough ,” she said, voice sharp and wet. “You swore, Louis. You promised me. You promised your sisters. You stood in this fucking kitchen and told me you were gonna stay clean. And now—now I’ve got my son sitting here high off his tits, failing a test like it’s nothing. ”

“It’s not nothing,” Louis said quickly. “It’s—it was just one slip-up. Work’s been shit, and—and Harry—”

“ Don’t blame him. ” She pointed at him, shaking slightly. “That boy’s been through enough.”

“I’m not blaming him,” Louis said, voice cracking now. “I’m blaming me. It’s me. It’s always fucking me, isn‘t it?.”

Silence filled the kitchen, heavy and suffocating, the only sound the faint clink of the spoon in her forgotten cup of tea.

“You need help,” she said quietly, finally.

Louis’ heart sank. “Mum—”

“No,” she said, voice firm. “No arguments. No excuses. You need proper help, Louis. Not a quick stint at some shit rehab, not your friends playing babysitter. Real help. Before it’s too late.”

Louis swallowed hard, throat burning. “I’ll figure it out.”

“You’re not figuring out shit,” she said, standing suddenly, wiping her eyes with the sleeve of her jumper. “I am. Because I’m not watching you kill yourself. Not in this house.”

Louis didn’t know what to say. Didn’t know how to say anything through the lump in his throat, the crushing weight of shame sitting heavy on his chest.

“Go upstairs,” she said softly, the fight drained from her voice. “Go to bed. We’ll talk tomorrow.”

Louis stood, legs shaking, and made his way to his room — their room — where Harry was curled up on Louis’ bed, looking small and scared and far too young for any of this.

Louis crawled in beside him, curling around him like a shield, even though Louis was the storm.

Tomorrow could wait. For tonight, Louis just held Harry tight and tried not to cry.

Notes:

Maybe this is for the best

Chapter 16: Chapter 16

Notes:

Back at it

Louis woke up to the sound of heavy footsteps on the stairs — not the light tread of his sisters, not his mum’s slippered shuffle, but something heavier, unfamiliar. He rubbed at his eyes, head pounding, mouth dry and sour from last night’s mess, and sat up just in time for his bedroom door to swing wide open.

Two men stood in the doorway.

They weren’t dressed like cops — no uniforms, no badges — but they had that same quiet authority, the kind of presence that filled the whole room without needing to raise a voice. Both in plain clothes — dark jeans, heavy boots, jackets that looked too warm for the weather. One was bald, the other had greying hair tied back into a low ponytail, but they both wore the exact same expression: We’re not here to negotiate.

“Louis Tomlinson?” the bald one asked, voice gruff.

Louis’ stomach dropped. “Who the fuck are you?”

“Time to go,” the other one said, ignoring the question entirely. “Pack a bag.”

Harry sat up beside him, eyes wide, curls sticking up in every direction. “What—what’s happening?”

“I don’t know,” Louis snapped, heart pounding so hard it hurt. “Where’s my mum?”

“She called us,” Bald Guy said, stepping into the room like he owned it. “You’re booked for a ninety-day program. Transport’s ready.”

Louis’ blood ran cold. “What?”

“You’ve had your chance,” Greying Ponytail added, tone too calm. “Your mum made the decision. Let’s go.”

“No,” Louis said automatically, scrambling out of bed, panic thrumming in his chest. “No fucking way—”

“Louis.” His mum’s voice floated up the stairs, quieter than usual. “Just go.”

Louis staggered into the hall, bare feet slapping against the wood, and there she was — standing at the bottom of the stairs, arms wrapped tight around herself, tears already tracking down her face.

“Mum,” Louis pleaded, voice cracking. “Don’t do this, you can‘t do this.”

Her chin trembled, but she didn’t look away. “I can’t do it anymore, Lou. I can’t watch you die in front of me.”

Louis’ throat closed up. “I’m not dying.”

“You are ,” she said softly. “And if I let you stay, I’m helping you do it.”

He wanted to scream, argue, beg — but she looked so tired . Not angry, not even sad in the way she usually got when they fought about this. Just worn down to nothing. And that scared Louis more than the men in his room, more than the rehab, more than any consequence he’d ever faced.

“I’ll get clean,” he said, voice trembling. “I’ll do it on my own. I swear.”

“You’ve sworn that before,” she whispered. “Go, Louis.”

Louis swayed where he stood, every instinct screaming to run, to bolt out the door and never look back. But Harry was behind him, standing in the doorway, looking as scared as Louis felt, and Louis couldn’t do that to him. Couldn’t leave Harry with nothing.

“Can he come?” Louis asked, desperate now. “I—I do better with him.”

The men exchanged a glance. “Not how this works.”

Louis wiped furiously at his face, refusing to let tears fall. “How long?”

“Ninety days,” Bald Guy repeated. “And you stay . No getting yourself discharged after a week. No bullshit.”

“Fuck,” Louis muttered under his breath, but it wasn’t like he had a choice.

He went back into his room, shoved a handful of clothes into his rucksack, grabbed his toothbrush and some socks, and stood there, staring at Harry like maybe they could will themselves out of this moment if they just stayed still long enough.

“I’m so sorry,” Louis whispered.

Harry shook his head, stepping closer, fingers curling into Louis’ hoodie. “It’s okay.”

“It’s not,” Louis said, throat tight. “But I’m gonna come back to you, okay? I swear .”

Harry’s smile was small and wobbly, but he nodded. “I’ll wait.”

Louis kissed him — hard and fast, more desperation than affection — and then let himself be led down the stairs, out the door, and into the back of a plain white van that might as well have been a prison cell.

His mum didn’t come outside. Just stood at the window, watching, arms wrapped around herself like she was holding herself together through sheer force of will.

Louis didn’t wave. Didn’t even look back.

He just closed his eyes and let the door shut, the van pulling away from the curb, taking him somewhere he didn’t want to go, leaving behind everything he wasn’t ready to lose.

The van ride was silent. Louis slouched low in his seat, arms folded tight across his chest, head against the window as the estate blurred past. Every bump in the road rattled through his skull, still tender from the comedown that had started clawing at his nerves the second they pulled away.

He didn’t ask where they were going. Didn’t ask the names of the two blokes who had him wedged between them in the backseat like he was some kind of flight risk — which, to be fair, he probably was. Louis just stared out the window, jaw tight, fingers drumming an anxious rhythm against his knee.

When they finally pulled up outside the facility — some bland brick building that looked like an old boarding school, all chipped paint and barred windows — Louis’ stomach flipped. He’d done this before. Knew the drill. But this was different. This wasn’t voluntary. This wasn’t him faking good intentions for a week so he could get back to his stash under the bed. This was forced . No escape hatch. No plan B.

The front door opened before he even stepped out, and there was a woman standing there — clipboard in hand, smile a little too bright, like she was trying to offset the grim reality of the place. “Louis? Welcome.”

Louis didn’t answer. Just shouldered his bag and trudged past her, head down, heart pounding.

Intake was the usual parade of humiliation. Empty your pockets. Strip search. Pee in a cup. Sign papers you didn’t read. List everything you’d taken in the past 72 hours — and for Louis, that list felt endless. Coke, Molly, weed, ket once or twice, ritalin, some xanax, some random pills he still couldn’t name. When the nurse raised her eyebrows, Louis just shrugged. “I get bored.”

They took his phone. His cigarettes. His shoelaces, for fuck’s sake.

“Suicide risk protocol,” the nurse said briskly.

“I’m not gonna top myself over a rehab stay,” Louis muttered.

“Not my call,” she replied, already scribbling something down.

They showed him to his room — bare, sterile, two twin beds, no roommate yet, just a window that barely opened and a thin blanket that smelled like bleach. It felt like prison, except Louis reckoned prison might have more personality.

He dumped his bag on the bed, threw himself down beside it, and stared at the ceiling until someone came to fetch him for his intake interview.

The counsellor was younger than Louis expected — mid-twenties, maybe, with soft eyes and a nose ring. She introduced herself, but Louis didn’t bother remembering her name. It wouldn’t matter.

“Let’s talk about why you’re here,” she started, voice gentle.

“Because my mum’s a snitch,” Louis said flatly.

The counsellor didn’t flinch. “That’s one way to look at it.”

“It’s the only way to look at it.”

Silence settled between them, and Louis glared at the carpet, arms folded across his chest. He knew this game. Stay quiet long enough and they’d leave you alone. It was rehab 101.

“I read your file,” the counsellor said after a minute. “This isn’t your first time.”

Louis snorted. “No shit.”

“Why didn’t it stick before?”

“Because it’s bullshit ,” Louis snapped, eyes flashing up to meet hers. “You lot think you can fix people with some sad little group therapy and colouring books, but none of this works when you have to go back to the same fucked-up place you came from.”

“Maybe the facilities you‘ve been to didn‘t match your needs,” the counsellor said calmly, “maybe you don’t think so, but your mum seems to think you’re worth saving.”

That hit lower than Louis wanted it to. His jaw clenched, teeth grinding, and he forced himself to look away. “She’s wasting her time.”

“I guess we’ll find out.”

Louis flipped her off. She smiled anyway.

That night, Louis lay awake in his too-cold bed, blanket pulled up to his chin, his whole body aching from the sudden stop — no drugs, no Harry, no noise to fill the gaps where his thoughts lived.

They gave him his phone after dinner — ten minutes, supervised, one call.

He called Harry.

“Lou?” Harry’s voice was soft, sleepy, like he’d been waiting next to the phone for hours.

Louis’ throat closed up. “Yeah. S’me.”

“You okay?” Harry asked immediately.

Louis laughed, sharp and bitter. “Fucking peachy.”

“I miss you,” Harry said, voice cracking slightly on the last word.

Louis squeezed his eyes shut, fingers white-knuckling the phone. “Miss you too, Play-Doh.”

They didn’t talk about what came next. Didn’t talk about what Louis was supposed to learn here, or how Harry was supposed to get clean without him. They just talked about stupid shit — what the twins had for dinner, a cat Harry saw in the garden, Niall’s new hair colour (pastel pink, apparently, because he lost a bet). They filled the silence with nonsense because the real stuff was too big to say out loud.

“I gotta go,” Louis said when the nurse tapped her watch.

“Okay,” Harry whispered. “I’ll be here. I love you.”

“Love you too baby,” Louis replied quietly.

The line went dead, and Louis sat there for a second, staring at the phone in his lap, heart hammering against his ribs like it wanted out.

And then, before he could stop himself, he curled into a ball under the thin blanket, bit down hard on his sleeve to muffle the sound, and cried until his chest ached.

The next morning, Louis dragged himself out of bed when the orderly banged on his door, barking about group starting in ten minutes. He didn’t bother brushing his hair. Just threw on the same clothes he’d worn yesterday — hoodie that still smelled faintly like Harry, jeans stiff with old smoke, socks that didn’t match. If they wanted him to be present, they could take him as they got him.

The group room was exactly what Louis expected. Beige walls, a circle of plastic chairs, a whiteboard in the corner with half-erased slogans about accountability and owning your story . A box of tissues sat on the table like they were waiting for someone to break.

There were maybe eight other people there — some older blokes who looked like they’d been cycling through programs for years, a few girls Louis’ age with that same raw, tired look in their eyes, and one lad who couldn’t have been more than fourteen, biting his nails down to the quick. Louis dropped into an empty chair, slouching low, arms crossed, daring anyone to look at him wrong.

The counsellor from yesterday was there too — nose ring, soft voice, clipboard balanced on her knee. “Morning, everyone,” she said gently. “We’ve got a new face today. Louis, want to introduce yourself?”

“No.”

A few people snickered. One of the older guys muttered, “Classic.”

The counsellor didn’t push. Just nodded. “Alright. We’re talking about triggers today. What brings you to the point where you feel like you need to use?”

Louis rolled his eyes so hard it hurt. “Breathing.”

“Care to elaborate?”

“No.”

A girl with dyed red hair and shaky hands spoke up first, talking about her ex and how every time she saw someone who looked like him, she needed a hit just to breathe properly. The older bloke beside her — Neil, maybe? — talked about walking past a pub and how the sound of pint glasses clinking set his whole body buzzing.

Louis tuned out, fingers tapping against his knee, leg bouncing restless energy into the floor. His skin felt too tight, like he was vibrating inside it, and all he could think about was how much easier this would be if he had something — just a little bump, just a sip, something to smooth the edges.

“And you, Louis?” the counsellor asked, voice soft but direct. “What’s your trigger?”

“Being awake,” Louis said flatly.

“Okay,” she said, not missing a beat. “Why’s that?”

“Because my life’s shit,” Louis said, too loud, too sharp. “Because everything’s easier when I’m not sober. Because if you lot actually think sitting in a circle and crying about my feelings is gonna fix what’s wrong with me, you’re all thicker than you look.”

The room went quiet.

Someone coughed. The fourteen-year-old stared at his shoes.

The counsellor didn’t flinch. “That’s fair,” she said simply. “But you’re here now. So why not give it a shot?”

Louis shook his head, laughing bitterly. “You really want to know why I use? Fine. Because it’s fun. Because being high feels fucking incredible. Because I grew up in an area where you needed something just to get through the fucking day. And now I’m here, and you’re asking me to talk about my feelings like that’s going to fix anything? Please.”

One of the older guys spoke up, voice rough. “You think you’re special, kid? We all started because it was fun.”

Louis’ jaw clenched. “I’m not a kid.”

“How old are you?” the guy pressed.

“Eighteen,” Louis snapped.

The guy snorted. “Yeah. You’re a kid.”

“Fuck off.”

“Who taught you how to use?” the counsellor asked, cutting off the argument before it could grow teeth.

Louis went still. “What?”

“First time. Who showed you how?”

Louis swallowed hard, his bravado wobbling for the first time. “My mate.”

“What mate?”

“Zayn,” Louis muttered, the name sour in his mouth. “We’ve been mates since we were, like, twelve.”

“Zayn’s still using?”

Louis hesitated. “Yeah.”

“And you?”

Louis looked at the floor. “Obviously.”

“And Harry?”

Louis’ head snapped up so fast his neck cracked. “What?”

“Your boyfriend? Your file mentions him,” the counsellor said gently. “Your mum said you two were trying to stay clean together.”

Louis’ throat burned. “That’s none of your business.”

“It is if it’s part of why you’re here.”

Louis shook his head, standing abruptly. “Fuck this.”

“Sit down, Louis.”

“No.”

“Louis—”

“I said no !” Louis’ voice cracked, hands shaking. “You want to know my trigger? Fine. It’s my boyfriend. It’s watching him try to stay clean when I know he won’t. It’s knowing I’m gonna drag him down with me every time I fuck up because I can’t do this on my own. It’s waking up next to him and seeing my own fucking reflection because we’re both just kids pretending we can outrun this shit when we can’t. There’s your fucking trigger.”

The room was silent.

Louis stood there, chest heaving, eyes hot and blurry, and realized he’d just said more honest shit in two minutes than he had in years.

“Thank you,” the counsellor said softly.

Louis flipped off the entire circle and walked out, slamming the door behind him.

He spent the rest of the day curled up in bed, blanket over his head, shaking like a leaf, and when they brought him dinner, he didn’t touch it.

But at some point, late that night, when the walls got too quiet and the withdrawal gnawed at his bones, Louis found a pen on the bedside table — left there for journaling, or whatever bullshit they expected him to do — and he opened the notebook Harry had given him, the one Louis had gifted him for his birthday.

He flipped past the first page, past the neat “Happy Birthday Play Doh!” he had written inside the cover, and he wrote one word:

Help.

The next five days crawled by in a haze of nothing.

Louis didn’t talk in group. Didn’t do his one-on-ones. Didn’t journal, didn’t meditate, didn’t even show up for optional sessions like art or yoga or whatever other bullshit they thought might unlock his feelings. He ate in silence, sat in the back of every room with his hood up, stared out windows like the sky might crack open and save him.

They asked him questions; he didn’t answer. They offered coping tools; he ignored them. They suggested he open up; he told them to get fucked.

He slept too much or not at all. When the withdrawal got too gnarly, they gave him something mild to take the edge off, but not enough to feel good — just enough to keep his heart from giving out cold.

He barely spoke to anyone, only managing the occasional muttered “thanks” when someone handed him a cup of tea or a clean towel.

The only thing keeping him from bolting was Harry.

Because every evening, they gave him his ten-minute call. And every evening, Harry answered on the first ring, voice soft and careful, filling the silence Louis couldn’t yet break.

Louis didn’t say much. He mostly listened — to Harry’s stories about school, about how Fizzy was teaching him how to braid hair, about how Niall had adopted a pigeon who wouldn’t leave his balcony despite being scared shitless of it. Small, stupid things that shouldn’t have mattered, but they did.

It was the only part of the day Louis didn’t feel like a ghost in his own skin.

Louis knew it was visitation day because the whole place felt different — louder, more hopeful, like everyone had been given a temporary breath of fresh air. Even the staff seemed gentler, handing out extra cups of tea, letting people linger in the common room longer than usual.

Louis didn’t expect anyone.

His mum was the one who put him here, and if he knew her — and he did — she was probably holding her ground, proving a point by staying away. His sisters were too young, and even if Fizzy wanted to come, Louis was pretty sure their mum would block it. Zayn, Oli, Eleanor and Niall weren’t exactly the kind of visitors this place would approve, so that was that.

Still, he went to the visitation hall anyway, mostly because there was nothing else to do, and watching everyone else reunite with their people felt better than staring at the wall in his room.

The room was already half-full by the time Louis walked in — cheap plastic chairs set up in awkward clusters, families hugging too tight, a few kids crying into their parents’ jumpers, the air thick with a weird mix of joy and grief.

Louis scanned the room automatically, expecting nothing, and then—

Harry.

He was standing by the window, hands shoved into the pocket of Louis’ hoodie — the same one he stole when they first got together — his curls a bit neater than usual, his nails freshly painted (mint green this time, with tiny silver stars on his ring fingers). He looked out of place in the best way — too soft for this room, too bright for these walls, like someone had smuggled in a bit of daylight just for Louis.

Louis’ breath caught in his throat.

Harry spotted him a second later, face splitting into a grin so wide Louis’ chest actually hurt from it.

“Play-Doh,” Louis croaked, voice rusty from disuse.

“Hi,” Harry said, soft and bright, like nothing had ever been wrong between them.

Louis crossed the room in five quick strides, and then Harry was there , arms wrapping tight around Louis’ waist, face buried in his neck, holding on like Louis might disappear if he let go. Louis clung back just as hard, fingers curling into the fabric of Harry’s hoodie, breathing him in like air after drowning.

They didn’t say anything for a minute — just stood there, pressed together, while the world carried on around them.

“Thought no one was coming,” Louis admitted quietly, voice rough in Harry’s hair.

“Course I came,” Harry said, pulling back just enough to look up at him. “Where else would I be?”

Louis wanted to kiss him so badly it ached, but there were rules — no inappropriate contact, no sneaking off into corners. So instead, Louis squeezed Harry’s hand, tracing his thumb over Harry’s knuckles, grounding himself in skin-on-skin.

“Missed you,” Louis whispered.

“Missed you too,” Harry said. “It’s shit without you.”

Louis huffed a quiet laugh. “You surviving?”

“Barely,” Harry grinned. “Zayn’s trying to teach me how to roll my own cigarettes, and Niall’s started writing poetry.”

“Oh, Jesus,” Louis groaned. “Please tell me it doesn’t rhyme.”

“Oh, it rhymes ,” Harry said, eyes wide with mock horror. “Every line ends with ‘mate’ or ‘estate’ or ‘fate.’”

Louis snorted, shaking his head. “Fucking hell.”

But under the jokes, Louis could see the truth — Harry looked tired. Not just physically, but in that deep, behind-the-eyes way Louis knew all too well. Staying clean wasn’t easy for either of them, but at least Louis had no choice. Harry was doing it alone, out there in the same world that had chewed them up in the first place.

“You alright?” Louis asked, squeezing his hand again.

Harry hesitated just long enough for Louis to catch it. “Yeah,” he said, too breezy. “I mean — not great. But I’m managing.”

“Baby.”

Harry’s smile slipped. “It’s hard.”

Louis’ throat burned. “I know.”

They sat down together, knees pressed close, hands still linked under the table. They had half an hour, but Louis already knew it wouldn’t be enough. He needed more — more time, more Harry, more of whatever this was that kept him sane even when everything else was slipping.

“Listen,” Louis said, voice low. “I know I’m shit at this. And I know I’m not exactly inspiring confidence here, but I’m gonna try. Properly. Because I want to come home to you, alright?”

Harry’s eyes went shiny, but he nodded, swallowing hard. “Alright.”

“And you,” Louis added, “you have to try too. For me.”

“I am,” Harry promised. “I swear.”

“Good,” Louis said, voice soft. “Because I’m not doing this without you.”

“Together?” Harry asked, voice small.

“Or not at all,” Louis said firmly.

The orderly called time before they were ready, but Louis stood anyway, pulling Harry into one last hug, holding him tight enough to feel real. “Tell the girls I love ‘em, yeah? And tell Niall to stop writing poetry before I come back and drown him in the canal.”

Harry laughed, watery but real. “I’ll tell him.”

“And you — stay out of trouble.”

“You too,” Harry grinned. “Though I’m not holding my breath.”

Louis kissed his forehead — quick and soft, the only thing they could get away with — and then let himself be led back towards his room, heart aching but full for the first time in days.

The orderly was already standing by the door, clipboard in hand, ready to drag Louis back to his sterile little cell when Harry turned to leave. Louis’ chest ached at the sight — Harry walking away, hoodie slipping off one shoulder, hands shoved into his pockets like he was trying to make himself smaller.

Louis hated it. Hated all of it.

But just before Harry stepped through the door, he froze, like something snapped inside him — and suddenly he was running back across the room, dodging chairs and tables, slamming straight into Louis’ chest like a freight train. Louis barely had time to register what was happening before Harry’s hands were in his hair, tugging him into a kiss so deep it stole the air from Louis’ lungs.

It was reckless — stupid, really — but Louis didn’t hesitate for a second. His hands slid to Harry’s waist, fingers curling into the soft fabric of his hoodie, pulling him closer like he could press their bodies together and forget everything that wasn’t Harry.

And then—

Louis felt it. Something small and hard, passed from Harry’s mouth to his, tucked slyly beneath his tongue before Louis could even think to stop it.

A pill.

Of course Harry would fucking do that.

For a split second, Louis froze — but only a split second. Then he swallowed it dry, kissing Harry harder to hide the movement, heart pounding at the sheer insanity of it all. He ignored the fact that this had nothing to do with love or how Louis looked like he was about to pass out if he didn‘t get anything quick. It had, however, everything to do with the fact that if Louis stayed sober, Harry would have to as well.

“ Enough! ”

The shout cracked across the room like a whip. One of the nurses — or orderlies, or glorified prison guards, whatever the fuck they were — stormed over, her rubber soles squeaking against the floor, hand already reaching between them to physically separate their bodies.

Harry finally broke the kiss, breathing hard, lips pink and slick, pupils already wide with mischief. Louis couldn’t stop himself — he chased after Harry’s mouth, just for a second, stealing one last taste before they were pulled apart.

“Jesus Christ,” the nurse muttered. “This is not that kind of facility.”

Louis licked his lips, swallowing again just to make sure the pill was gone. His mouth tasted like Harry — mint and nicotine and something sweet, maybe cola cubes — and Louis felt high already, even though the pill hadn’t kicked in.

“God, I love you,” Louis whispered, voice breathless, chest heaving.

Harry shot him a wink, all cocky and wild, curls bouncing as he stepped back toward the door. “See you next week,” he called, grinning like they hadn’t just broken at least three rules in thirty seconds.

And then he was gone, leaving Louis standing there with his heart pounding, a pill sitting somewhere in his stomach, and the taste of Harry still clinging to his tongue.

Louis knew this was fucked. Knew they were toxic in all the wrong ways. But none of it mattered when Harry smiled like that — like they were the kings of the world, untouchable, unstoppable, even if the whole place burned down around them.

“ Move. ” The nurse nudged him toward the hall, shaking her head. “You’re both bloody disasters.”

Louis grinned, soft and secret, because yeah — they were. But at least they were disasters together .

Notes:

Oh Harry, babes, that‘s not…

Should I post another chapter later?

Chapter 17: Chapter 17

Louis should’ve known better.

He wasn’t new to this. He knew how long it took for a pill to hit — that creeping warmth building under the skin, the way your jaw started to feel weird, hands restless, everything too good or too much . Normally, that was the goal. But normally, he wasn’t sitting in a circle of recovering addicts with a clipboard-wielding counsellor watching his every twitch.

He lasted about fifteen minutes into group before it hit.

It started in his chest — that syrupy, melty feeling that made his heart beat louder in his ears, made his skin feel too soft for his bones. His hands were fascinated by the seams on his jeans, fingers tracing over and over like they were the most interesting texture in the world.

“Louis,” the counsellor said, snapping him out of it. “You alright there?”

“Brilliant,” Louis said, too loud, the word bright and shiny in his mouth.

A few people side-eyed him, because no one in rehab was ever brilliant . That wasn’t the point. You were meant to be miserable and self-reflective and talking about your trauma like it was a group project.

“You sure?” the counsellor asked, eyes narrowing slightly.

Louis leaned forward, elbows on his knees, smile stretched too wide. “Dead sure.”

“Alright,” the counsellor said slowly, clearly suspicious. “We’re talking about self-sabotage today. Anyone want to start?”

Nobody moved. Louis was too busy stroking the hem of his hoodie like it was a cat.

“Louis?” the counsellor prompted. “You’ve been here a week. Got any thoughts?”

“Fucking loads,” Louis said, still too loud, too eager, words rolling out faster than his brain could filter them. “I’m like—I’m basically the king of self-sabotage. I should get a crown.”

The counsellor’s brow arched. “Care to elaborate?”

And normally Louis would’ve shut down, thrown out some sarcastic comment and stared at the floor until they left him alone — but the drug was humming through his veins, making everything feel open . Like his chest was unzipped and every thought was tumbling out before he could stop it.

“Alright,” Louis started, legs bouncing, words spilling out like they couldn’t wait their turn. “I’m shit at being happy, yeah? Like, if something good happens, I immediately think about all the ways it’s gonna go wrong. So I do the thing first. I ruin it before the universe gets the chance, because at least if I fuck up, I’m the one in control.”

A silence settled over the group, heavier than Louis expected.

“I do that too,” one of the girls said softly, picking at her nails.

Louis grinned at her. “See? Self-sabotage solidarity.”

The counsellor didn’t look convinced. “And you’re aware you do this, but you keep doing it anyway?”

“Mate,” Louis laughed, head tilting back against the chair, “ all I’ve got is self-awareness and bad coping mechanisms. It’s my whole personality.”

A few people actually laughed, and Louis felt great — warm and buzzy and seen , even if the whole room knew he was taking the piss.

But then—

“So why sabotage Harry?”

Louis’ entire body went still. The high wobbled for a second, like a record skipping.

“Excuse me?” His voice wasn’t as confident now, the smile slipping at the edges.

The counsellor didn’t blink. “You’ve talked a lot about how much you care about him. How he’s part of why you want to get clean. So why bring him down with you?”

Louis’ jaw clenched — a little too much — and his eyes darted to the door, like maybe he could bolt if he moved fast enough.

“That’s not—” He shook his head. “That’s not what happened.”

“Isn’t it?” the counsellor pressed, gentle but firm. “You said yourself you do it first, before the world can. If you’re afraid you’ll lose him, isn’t using with him just a way of speeding that up?”

“Fuck off,” Louis snapped, too sharp, too defensive. “You don’t know shit about us.”

“I’m asking you,” the counsellor said, not backing down. “Not telling you.”

Louis’ hands were shaking now — part comedown, part rage, part fuck, maybe you’re right . His heart was beating too fast, the mystery pill sharpening every word until it felt like glass cutting under his skin.

“Next question,” Louis muttered, slumping back in his chair.

But the high wasn’t fun anymore. It felt itchy , too tight, like the truth was crawling under his skin and wouldn’t stop until he faced it.

Harry wasn’t here to hold his hand. And for the first time since they made that stupid pact, Louis realized — if they were going to survive this, Louis couldn’t keep making Harry his excuse.

The second group ended, Louis bolted. Didn’t stick around for the wrap-up, didn’t make eye contact with anyone, didn’t even grab a cup of tea on the way out. His skin felt wrong , too tight and too exposed, every nerve buzzing like static, the edges of his high long gone and replaced with something sharp and jagged.

His hands shook the whole way back to his room.

He locked the door — technically against the rules, but fuck the rules — and went straight to the bottom drawer of his dresser, fingers scrabbling for the sock he’d stashed there on his first night. It had taken some careful planning, a bit of sheer luck, and the fact that intake here wasn’t as thorough as expected, but Louis had gotten it through. Tucked deep in his underwear, folded small and tight inside a cigarette foil.

His just in case .

He told himself he wouldn’t use it. Told himself it was comfort just knowing it was there. But right now — with the counsellor’s words still rattling around his head, with the ache of missing Harry sitting heavy in his chest, with the silence pressing in on all sides — right now, he needed it.

He peeled back the foil with clumsy fingers, the tiny baggie shaking between his thumb and forefinger. It wasn’t much — barely half a gram — but it would be enough to stop the noise. Just for a bit.

Louis sat on the floor, legs crossed, the baggie in front of him. He tore a page out of the notebook Harry gave him — sorry, Play Doh — and poured a careful line, not even bothering to roll up anything proper to snort with. Just bent straight down, nostril to paper, and inhaled sharply, the familiar burn crawling up the back of his throat like an old friend.

The relief was almost instant.

The buzz lit up his brain like flipping a switch, clearing out the sludge of regret and fear and every inconvenient emotion the counsellor had dragged to the surface. Everything sharpened — his thoughts, his breathing, the scratch of the carpet under his fingers. He felt alive again, the good kind of alive where nothing hurt and nothing mattered and everything was possible.

He wiped his nose, sniffing hard, then flopped back against the wall, legs sprawled out in front of him. His heart was racing, but at least it was his again — not tied to Harry, or his mum, or some stranger with a nose ring asking too many questions.

He’d feel guilty later. Probably. But right now, all he felt was calm . And fuck, he’d missed that.

“Just this once,” Louis muttered to the ceiling, voice thick with self-deception. “Just to take the edge off.”

He knew it was a lie the second he said it.

 

It didn’t even need to be said. It just became the routine.

Every Sunday was visitation day. Every Sunday, Harry showed up wearing Louis’ hoodie and those soft joggers that sat too low on his hips, hair messily pulled back like he hadn’t slept much the night before — which, knowing Harry, was probably true.

And every Sunday, when they hugged hello — too long, too tight, Louis’ hands curled in the back of Harry’s jumper like he couldn’t bear to let go — Harry’s fingers would dip just low enough to slip something into Louis’ waistband.

At first, it was small. A pill or two. Maybe a tiny baggie. Something easy to hide, easy to pass off if anyone noticed the extra pat-down they gave Louis after visits.

But by the third week, Harry had gotten cocky — and Louis had gotten greedy .

Two baggies at a time. A strip of pills wrapped tight in cling film. One week, a cigarette rolled thick with something stronger, tucked so low Louis had to shove his hands in his waistband to keep it from slipping when Harry pulled away.

And every week, Louis swore this was the last time .

And every week, he was lying.

It got so easy, it scared him.

The first bump was always within an hour of Harry leaving — just to take the edge off the ache in his chest where Harry used to be. The pills came later, usually before bed when the quiet was too loud and the walls felt too close. Weed was trickier, but Louis got good at cracking the window just enough to let the smoke out, curling up under his blanket and blowing each hit straight into the night air.

No one ever caught him. No one even suspected.

Louis was a pro at this by now — the right amount of eye drops, the perfect balance of caffeine and sugar to hide the comedown. He learned to time it, spacing out just enough to never show up to group too high, but just buzzed enough to make everything tolerable.

And the worst part? He was functional . More functional than he’d ever been sober.

He cracked jokes in group, ate every meal, even participated in art therapy , where he drew a slightly wonky portrait of Harry that made the counsellor smile and say, “See? Progress.”

Progress.

Sure.

 

Harry never said no.

Every week, Louis would kiss him goodbye and whisper a request — “Bit more this time?” or “You reckon you could find me some proper MD?” — and Harry would smile, all dimples and devotion, and say, “Whatever you need, Lou.”

That was the part that gnawed at Louis late at night, when even the drugs couldn’t quiet his brain. Because Harry wasn’t just doing it for the thrill, or to get a thank-you kiss that lingered too long, or to feel like they were still the reckless little shits they used to be.

Harry did it because he loved him .

Because Harry would do anything Louis asked, even when it meant risking everything they’d fought for. Even when it meant undoing all the work Harry was doing to stay clean on his own. Even when it meant Louis dragging him down with him — exactly like Louis promised he wouldn’t.

But Louis never said stop. And Harry never did either.

By the fifth week, Louis’ hiding spots were genius — taped inside the light fixture, folded into the seam of his pillowcase, even one baggie wedged inside a hollowed-out bar of soap.

He had a system, a rotation, never keeping everything in one place, always spreading it out just enough that if they found some , they wouldn’t find all .

And every time he used, it felt a little less good and a little more necessary.

Every time he swallowed, snorted, smoked, or dissolved something under his tongue, it wasn’t fun anymore. It was survival.

Harry was his lifeline, and Louis was pulling them both under.

It was easy to blame Louis — and maybe Louis did carry more of the weight, being the one locked inside with nothing but cravings and withdrawal chewing at the edges of his mind. But the truth, the ugly, unavoidable truth, was that this wasn’t all on Louis.

Harry needed it too .

Maybe not the way Louis did — not with the same hungry, frantic desperation that came from years of building his personality around the next high — but Harry had his own reasons. And his own excuses. And his own craving for that feeling , the one that wrapped them both up in something warmer than reality, softer than skin, brighter than the future could ever promise.

The drugs were their shortcut back to that. Back to the version of themselves they liked best — the boys who weren’t scared, or broken, or tangled up in guilt and promises they couldn’t keep. High, they were just them , floating above all the shit that wanted to drown them.

Harry brought the drugs because Louis asked, yeah. But Harry also brought them because it gave him a reason to stay in it with Louis — to keep one foot in the chaos, to keep that tether tight between them.

Because if Louis got clean first, if Louis got better , what would that mean for Harry? Would Louis still want him if they weren’t both fucked up together? Would they still fit, without the glue of their mutual self-destruction holding them together?

And Louis — Louis could see it, even if they never said it out loud. Could see the way Harry’s hands shook a little less after they got high together. The way Harry looked at him, eyes wide and worshipful, like Louis was giving him the thing he needed most. Love, yes. But also an excuse . A reason not to fight so hard. A reason to say, we’re both like this, so it’s okay.

Every time Harry showed up with something hidden in his waistband, Louis knew Harry had taken a little for himself first. Just to calm his nerves. Just to take the edge off. Just to feel close to Louis before they even touched.

And every time Louis swallowed or snorted or smoked, Harry felt less guilty about his own cravings — because if Louis needed it too, then it wasn’t really a relapse. It was just… them. Together. Like always.

 

Louis knew the second Harry stepped through the door.

Even from across the visitation room, it was obvious — the glassy shine to Harry’s eyes, the way his smile was a second too slow, the slight wobble in his walk like he was floating just above the floor. His pupils were massive, his jaw tight, and when he grinned at Louis, it was all teeth, no softness.

High as a fucking kite.

Louis’ stomach twisted, and not because he was mad. He couldn’t be mad — not when Harry had spent the last five weeks risking his own neck to keep Louis stocked. No, the twist was fear. Pure, ice-cold fear that Harry was falling too fast, and Louis wasn’t there to catch him.

Still, Louis plastered on a smile, dragging him into a hug the second Harry got close enough. “Alright, Play-Doh?” Louis whispered into his hair, already checking his waistband for the usual stash. But there was nothing . No pills, no baggies — just the warm, soft skin of Harry’s hip.

That scared him even more.

Harry didn’t answer right away, just hugged Louis back too tight, hands gripping at his hoodie like Louis was the only solid thing left in the world. When he finally pulled back, his smile wobbled at the edges. “Missed you.”

“You’re fucked,” Louis said softly, no judgement, just fact.

“Only a bit,” Harry said, eyes darting around like the lights were too bright. “Had a rough night.”

Louis’ fingers gripped Harry’s wrist, holding him steady. “What’d you take?”

Harry’s tongue flicked out, wetting his lips. “Bit of valium. And a bump.”

Louis’ stomach dropped. Valium wasn’t a party drug. Valium was numbing . Valium meant Harry was trying to shut something off, and Louis hadn’t been there to stop him.

“Haz,” Louis said, voice cracking slightly. “What’s going on?”

Harry shrugged, too casual. “Mum’s been on my case. School’s shit. Everything’s shit. Just needed to feel okay for a bit.”

Louis’ grip tightened. “That’s not okay.”

“Neither are you,” Harry shot back, a little defensive spark flaring in his eyes.

Louis took a breath, forcing his voice soft. “I know. That’s why I’m here.”

Harry blinked at him, like the thought had never occurred to him. That rehab wasn’t just punishment — that maybe Louis actually needed it. That maybe Harry did too.

And Louis saw the opening — the tiny crack in Harry’s armor — and he went for it.

“Check in,” Louis said quickly. “Stay here. With me.”

Harry laughed, bright and sharp, like Louis had told the funniest joke in the world. “What, like couples’ rehab? Cute.”

“I’m serious,” Louis said, both hands now wrapped around Harry’s, anchoring him. “You’re spiraling, Haz. I see it. You’re using more. You’re not even hiding it well. And I’m not there to pull you out. Please. Just—please.”

Harry swallowed hard, some of the shine dimming in his eyes. “I can’t. I’m not eighteen. Mum has to sign off.”

“Then call her,” Louis said immediately. “I’ll talk to her if you want. She won’t say no if it’s a proper facility.”

Harry bit his lip, that little kid vulnerability showing through all the bravado. “She’s gonna be pissed.”

“She already is,” Louis said gently. “At least this way, you’re trying.”

Harry’s shoulders slumped, all the fight draining out of him. “One month?”

“One month,” Louis promised. “That’s all. Just try.”

Harry nodded, slow and shaky. “Okay.”

“Okay,” Louis echoed, heart pounding. “You’re doing the right thing.”

Harry didn’t look convinced, but he let Louis guide him over to the staff table, where Louis’ counsellor looked surprised to see them both standing there, Harry looking wide-eyed and too young, Louis standing behind him like a human shield.

“We need to make a call,” Louis said simply.

 

They put Harry in a private room for the first night, because he was still technically an outside intake , and they needed to process his paperwork. Louis sat with him in the waiting area after the call, where Anne’s voice had been tight and strained but ultimately agreeing. “If this is what you want,” she’d said. “If you really think it’ll help.”

Harry had said yes.

Louis had said thank you .

And now they were here.

“You scared?” Louis asked quietly, their knees touching where they sat.

Harry leaned his head on Louis’ shoulder, too tired to fake bravado. “A bit.”

“I’ve got you,” Louis said, his hand covering Harry’s.

“You’re a shit role model.”

Louis huffed a laugh. “Yeah. But at least I’m your shit role model.”

Harry smiled — small and tired and real. “Together?”

“Together,” Louis promised. “Every fucked up step.”

Louis was curled on his side, blanket shoved down to his ankles, sweating through his t-shirt even though his skin was cold to the touch. Every muscle ached, the deep, ugly ache that lived in his bones when the coke left his system too fast. His teeth wouldn’t stop chattering. His stomach flipped every few minutes, like it couldn’t decide if he was going to puke or shit himself or both.

This wasn’t his first withdrawal — not even close — but being locked in here, knowing he couldn’t sneak out for just one bump to take the edge off, made it ten times worse.

And the worst part? Harry was two doors down, going through the same fucking thing.

Louis knew it. Could feel it.

Harry had walked in here high, and they’d cut him off cold, so Louis knew the valium was already clawing its way out of his system, the coke too, the molly, maybe even the codeine Louis had spotted in his bag the last time they were together. Harry’s body wasn’t used to being empty, not anymore.

Louis couldn’t hold him. Couldn’t whisper him through it. Couldn’t slip him a little something to take the edge off, because they were in separate rooms and under surveillance, and Louis had promised — promised — to at least pretend to be taking this seriously now that Harry was here too.

So Louis lay there, shaking, sweating, grinding his teeth so hard his jaw ached, alone.

Until the door creaked open.

Louis froze, breath catching in his throat, because no one ever came in after lights out. Not unless you were screaming or seizing or making a run for it.

But then—

“Move over.”

Louis blinked, vision blurry with sweat and exhaustion, but there he was — Harry, curls sticking to his forehead, skin pale and clammy, standing in the doorway like a ghost, wearing nothing but an oversized t-shirt and a pair of socks.

“Haz—what the fuck—”

“ Move over, ” Harry said again, voice shaking, and Louis didn’t argue. Just scooted back against the wall, making room for Harry to crawl under the covers beside him.

He was freezing. Ice-cold skin, shaking like a leaf, teeth clicking together so loudly Louis could hear it. But Louis was drenched in sweat, body heat radiating like a furnace, so when Harry pressed up against him, it balanced out into something almost bearable.

They didn’t talk. Didn’t joke. Didn’t even kiss.

They just held on .

Louis’ arm slung over Harry’s waist, fingers curling into the back of his shirt, trying to anchor him to the bed. Harry’s face tucked into Louis’ neck, breath hot and shallow, body trembling so hard Louis could feel it in his own chest. Their legs tangled together, both of them too restless to stay still, shifting and squirming and shivering until exhaustion started to win.

Louis could feel the weight of the little baggie hidden inside his pillowcase — the one thing he hadn’t told Harry about, the emergency stash from all those Sunday visits, just enough for a bump or two if things got really bad.

But Louis didn’t reach for it.

Not with Harry curled up so small beside him, skin pale, lips bitten red, holding onto Louis like he was the only thing keeping him from floating away. Louis wanted to want the stash. But more than that, Louis wanted this — wanted to get through this night without cheating, just to prove he could. Just to prove they could.

They shook through it together. Sweated through it together. Quiet groans of pain and waves of nausea crashing over them, one after the other, until their bodies gave up, gave in, and they slipped into shallow, dreamless sleep just before dawn, still clutching each other like a lifeline.

They woke up looking like absolute roadkill .

Louis’ hair was plastered to his forehead, his shirt damp and wrinkled, and his skin had that awful clammy sheen that made him look half-dead. His mouth tasted like sweat and cotton, and his head felt too heavy for his neck, like it might just roll off his shoulders if he moved too fast.

Harry wasn’t much better — eyes sunken, skin pale and blotchy, lips cracked from all the anxious chewing he’d done in his sleep. His curls were flattened to one side, and his socks had been kicked off sometime in the night, leaving his toes ice-cold against Louis’ shin.

They didn’t speak at first. Just lay there, breathing each other in, too tired to move, too sore to pretend they weren’t still shaking from the inside out.

“Think they’ll notice I’m not in my room?” Harry croaked eventually, voice wrecked from crying and dry-heaving through half the night.

“Doubt they care,” Louis muttered. “Not like they locked your door.”

Harry sighed, rolling onto his back. “We should probably get up.”

“Probably.”

Neither of them moved for another five minutes. But eventually, Louis swung his legs over the side of the bed, wincing at the way his muscles screamed in protest. He stood, swaying slightly, and reached a hand back for Harry.

Harry took it, fingers clammy and weak, but still there.

They stumbled to the bathroom together — brushing their teeth side by side, splashing cold water on their faces, trying to look like they hadn’t just spent the worst night of their lives shaking through withdrawal in a single bed. It didn’t work. They still looked fucked , but at least they weren’t hiding. That had to count for something.

Group was already half full when they walked in, heads down, hands brushing lightly as they took their seats. Louis usually went straight to the back, slouched low with his hood up, but today he sat in the middle, Harry on his left, their knees touching.

The counsellor’s eyebrows lifted slightly in surprise. “Morning, Louis. And you must be Harry.”

Harry gave a small, tired smile. “That’s me.”

“Welcome,” she said softly. “Since you’re new, want to introduce yourself?”

Louis braced for Harry to make a joke — something dumb to take the edge off, maybe even a callback to the first time they met in rehab years ago. But Harry didn’t. He just straightened his shoulders, fingers twitching where they rested on his knee, and said:

“I’m Harry. I’m seventeen and this is my second time in rehab.”

That was it. Simple. Honest. No punchline.

Louis didn’t crack a joke either. Didn’t make a face or mutter something under his breath to lighten the mood. He just sat there, hands clenched together in his lap, feeling something heavy settle in his chest.

Because this was real. Not a game, not a joke, not something they could laugh off later. They were both here because they needed to be. And for the first time in his life, Louis actually let himself feel the weight of that.

“Welcome, Harry,” the counsellor said again, warm but not over the top. “We’re glad you’re here.”

Harry swallowed hard, nodding once.

Louis’ hand slipped into his, fingers curling tight around Harry’s shaky ones, and neither of them let go.

They settled into the circle, the air thick with that awkward blend of forced vulnerability and people sizing each other up. Louis had spent the last few weeks hiding in the back, arms crossed, eyes on the floor, but today—today he sat up straight. Because Harry was next to him, and Harry was trying, so Louis had to try too. That was the deal.

“Today’s focus is accountability,” the counsellor said, hands folded in her lap. “Who you’ve hurt along the way. What you’ve taken responsibility for—and what you’re still avoiding.”

Louis’ stomach twisted.

That was a fucking big question.

Too big for someone still sweating out a comedown.

But Harry’s knee knocked against his—just a tiny nudge—and Louis knew if Harry could sit here, skin pale, hands trembling, doing his best, then Louis could too.

One by one, people spoke. A girl with a trembling voice talked about stealing cash from her nan’s purse until there was nothing left. Some older guy, skin sallow and teeth half gone, admitted he used to cook meth in his girlfriend’s flat while her toddler was home. The fourteen-year-old admitted to robbing the off-license with a fake gun because his dealer wouldn’t give him more on credit.

It was ugly and honest, and Louis sat there feeling his heartbeat in his throat.

“Louis,” the counsellor said gently. “Anything you want to share?”

He could’ve said no. He could’ve shrugged and made some smartarse comment about being too tired to participate. But Harry was watching him, wide-eyed and hopeful, fingers still curled in his sleeve.

And for the first time, Louis wanted to be worth that look.

He swallowed hard, mouth dry, and said, “I’m a fucking nightmare.”

A few people laughed—low, understanding—but Louis wasn’t joking.

“I hurt everyone around me,” Louis said, voice rough. “I hurt my mum, my sisters, my mates. Everyone who’s ever cared about me, I’ve lied to their face and stolen from them and made them watch me destroy myself like it’s their fucking job to stop me.”

He took a shaky breath, heart hammering. “I hurt Harry.”

Harry’s grip on his sleeve tightened.

“I promised him we’d get clean together,” Louis said. “I promised him I wouldn’t drag him down with me. But every time I fucked up, I dragged him right along. I turned him into my excuse, and my crutch, and my fucking drug mule, because it’s easier to keep using when someone you love is using too.”

The room went quiet.

Harry’s eyes were wide and shiny, his fingers trembling harder.

“I don’t know how to stop,” Louis admitted, voice cracking. “I want to. I really fucking want to. But I don’t know who I am without it. And I’m scared if I get clean, Harry won’t love me anymore. Because what if we’re only in love because we’re fucked up together?”

“Not true,” Harry whispered, but Louis shook his head, wiping his nose with the back of his sleeve.

“I know it’s not true,” Louis said, quieter now. “But it feels true. And feelings are a fucking nightmare.”

The counsellor was about to say something—something gentle and therapist-y, Louis could feel it—but then—

“Jesus Christ,” a voice drawled from the far side of the circle. “What is this, a fuckin’ rom-com? Rehab edition?”

Louis’ head snapped up. It was one of the older lads—Danny, or Dougie, or some shite like that. Skin like leather, arms covered in faded ink, the type who wore every arrest like a badge of honour. The type Louis usually would’ve laughed with.

But not today.

“Look at him,” the guy continued, nodding toward Harry. “Fucking nails painted like a tart. You two passing love notes at night? Sucking each other off between group?”

Louis’ jaw clenched, pulse thudding in his ears.

“Seventeen and already probably prostituting himself for meth,” the guy sneered. “Fucking tragic.”

That was it. Louis was out of his chair before anyone could stop him.

He crossed the circle in two quick steps, fist flying before the guy even realized what was happening. His knuckles cracked against the guy’s nose with a sickening crunch, blood spurting immediately as the guy yelped, hands flying to his face.

“Say one more fucking word about my boyfriend,” Louis snarled, standing over him, fists still clenched. “I fucking dare you.”

Chaos erupted.

The counsellor shouting, people scrambling to pull Louis back, blood dripping down Dougie’s face, Harry on his feet looking scared and small, his painted nails shaking against the sides of his jeans.

“Out,” the counsellor barked, her calm veneer shattered. “Now. Both of you.”

“But—” Louis started, adrenaline buzzing under his skin.

“ Now. ”

Louis didn’t fight it. Just spat on the floor at Dougie’s feet and stormed out the door, Harry trailing after him, both of them pale and shaking for entirely different reasons.

They ended up outside, in the tiny closed-off garden where patients were allowed to smoke. Louis lit a cigarette with shaking hands, barely able to hold the lighter steady, and Harry leaned against the fence beside him, silent for a long moment.

“You didn’t have to do that,” Harry said softly.

“Yes, I fucking did,” Louis muttered, taking a drag so deep it burned. “You think I’m gonna sit there and let some washed-up crackhead talk about you like that? Not fucking happening.”

Harry’s hand slid into his, tugging the cigarette free and taking his own drag. “You’re gonna get kicked out.”

“Maybe,” Louis admitted. “But it was worth it.”

Harry smiled then—small and soft, like the sun breaking through clouds—and Louis knew: they were still fucked, still tangled up in each other’s mess, but at least they were together .

Notes:

Ah, they‘re in it together again

and would it really be a proper AceOfHeartz fic if it didn‘t involve some sort of crashout over someone being homophobic?

Any hopes? wishes? prayers?

Chapter 18: Chapter 18

Notes:

I updated the playlist!!

https://open.spotify.com/playlist/5E1qjW5QBJSFbMzq2cvbw5?si=OX0ykSPxR5CJI4B5WxKHYA&pi=NexdRPAOTqicV

The disciplinary meeting was scheduled for after dinner, which meant Louis spent the whole afternoon stewing in his room, chain-smoking out the barely open window and pacing like a caged animal.

Harry kept sneaking glances at him during meals, biting his lip nervously, but Louis just offered a little shrug every time, like, what’s done is done .

But when 7:00 rolled around, Louis dragged himself to the counsellor’s office, expecting the worst. A warning, maybe. A strike on his record. Maybe even the threat of discharge, because this place didn’t fuck around with violence.

He dropped into the chair across from her desk, slouched low, fingers tapping restless rhythms against his knee. “Go on then,” he muttered, bracing for impact. “Tell me I’m a violent little shit and I’m wasting everyone’s time.”

The counsellor—Claire, apparently, Louis finally clocked her name tag—just folded her hands in front of her and said, “I’m not going to do that.”

Louis blinked. “What?”

“I read his file.” She sighed, shaking her head. “Dougie, or whatever name he’s using this week, has a history of provoking people. Especially younger patients. Especially ones who…don’t fit his version of masculinity.”

Louis’ jaw clenched. “Still punched him.”

“You did.” Claire’s mouth twitched into the ghost of a smile. “And while that’s not exactly encouraged here, I’m not going to pretend I don’t understand why.”

Louis sat back, arms crossed, like he didn’t quite trust this. “So…what? I get off scot-free?”

“Not exactly.” Her expression sobered. “This can’t happen again, Louis. Violence in rehab is a non-starter. You lose your temper like that again, and I won’t be able to protect you from discharge. Understood?”

Louis’ throat worked. “Understood.”

“And,” she added, “you need to figure out a healthier way to handle situations like that. Because like it or not, Harry’s going to attract attention. People are cruel, and not everyone here is as far along in their recovery as they should be.”

Louis swallowed hard, fingers curling into fists. “They shouldn’t talk about him like that.”

“They shouldn’t,” Claire agreed. “But they will. And it’s up to you how you handle it.”

Louis blew out a sharp breath. “Alright.”

“Alright,” she echoed, sitting back in her chair. “That’s all. You’re dismissed.”

Louis stood, half-expecting a trap, but she just waved him off, already scribbling something in her notes. “One more thing,” she added before he left. “It’s okay to care about him this much. But you both need to learn how to care of yourselves first.”

Louis didn’t answer. Just nodded once and left.

That night, Louis had just settled into bed—hair damp from a half-hearted shower, cigarette burn in his sleeve from a too-shaky hand—when the door cracked open.

“Seriously, you’ve got to stop doing that,” Louis muttered, though he still scooted back automatically to make room.

Harry shut the door behind him, crawling under the blanket without a word, cold toes pressing against Louis’ calf.

“You’re freezing,” Louis grumbled, but he didn’t push him away.

Harry curled in closer, head resting on Louis’ chest, hand sliding up under Louis’ shirt just to feel skin on skin. They stayed like that for a while, listening to the quiet hum of the hall outside, Louis’ heartbeat slowing under Harry’s ear.

“Thanks,” Harry mumbled eventually, voice muffled against Louis’ skin.

“For what?”

“For sticking up for me.”

Louis’ fingers found Harry’s curls, twirling a soft strand around his finger. “Always.”

“You could’ve gotten kicked out.”

“Don’t care.”

Harry lifted his head, eyes wide and earnest. “I care.”

Louis swallowed around the lump in his throat. “Alright,” he said softly. “I’ll try not to punch anyone else, but you can‘t blame me for defending my boyfriend.”

Harry’s smile broke through then—small, sleepy, real—and Louis leaned in, brushing their noses together before pressing a soft kiss to Harry’s mouth.

“We’re gonna get out of here,” Louis whispered. “And we’re gonna be okay.”

Harry didn’t answer. Just kissed him back, soft and sweet, hands clutching at Louis like he was afraid to let go.

It started soft. Just a sleepy kiss under the covers, Harry’s cold fingers skimming over Louis’ ribs, their legs tangled up like they had been every night since Harry found a way to sneak in.

But then Harry shifted, pressing closer, kissing Louis deeper, harder, like there was something urgent under it, something desperate he was trying to communicate without words. Louis let him, fingers curling into Harry’s hips, following Harry’s lead like they always did — until Harry moved to straddle his lap.

“Woah—” Louis pulled back slightly, hands tightening to still Harry’s movements. “What’re you doing?”

Harry’s eyes were wide and dark, cheeks flushed despite the cool air. “I want to thank you properly.”

Louis blinked. “That’s bullshit.”

“It’s not ,” Harry insisted, leaning back in, but Louis turned his head before their lips could meet again. “I want you.”

“Play Doh,” Louis groaned, “this is a terrible idea.”

“Why?” Harry demanded, voice climbing. “Because we’re in rehab? Like that’s ever stopped us before.”

“Yeah, and how’s that worked out for us?” Louis snapped, trying to shift Harry off his lap, but Harry clung tighter, thighs bracketing Louis’ hips. “And second—”

“Oh, here we fucking go,” Harry cut in, eyes flashing. “Go on. Say it.”

“ You’re still a kid. ” Louis’ voice was sharper than he meant it to be, but it was the truth. “You’re seventeen, Haz. You’re still figuring your shit out. And you’re high, or at least coming down. I’m not—” He shook his head, running a hand over his face. “I’m not doing this to you, or with you, not until you‘re at least eighteen and know what you actually want.”

“Do this to me?” Harry spat, voice cracking. “You’re not doing anything to me . I’m asking you . I’m literally sitting in your lap telling you I want this.”

“You don’t even know what you want,” Louis shot back. “You think you do because everything’s a fucking mess right now, and you want something to hold onto, but this—” He gestured between them. “This is not the answer.”

Harry’s face twisted into something angry and vulnerable all at once. “You still think I’m a kid.”

“You are a kid!” Louis shouted, frustration and withdrawal gnawing at every edge. “You’re my-”

“I’m not yours ,” Harry snapped, scrambling off Louis’ lap like he’d been burned. “I’m not your fucking responsibility, Louis. I’m not some stray you picked up to take care of. I’m your fucking—” His voice cracked, hands tugging hard at his curls. “I’m your fucking boyfriend.”

“And I’m trying to be a decent one ,” Louis said, voice rough, “by not shagging you in a fucking rehab bed while we’re both withdrawing.”

“You’re not better than me,” Harry hissed. “Just because you’re eighteen doesn’t mean you’re some wise old man who gets to decide what I’m ready for, you‘re barely a year older than me.”

“It’s not about age,” Louis shot back. “It’s about us . Look at us, Haz. We’re fucked. Both of us. We need to get our shit together before we add this to the pile.”

“You don’t want me,” Harry said suddenly, voice low and shaky.

“Are you mental?” Louis snapped. “I want you so bad it hurts . But I want you when you know what you’re doing. When we’re not off our faces or sweating through withdrawal or sneaking around like we’re about to get expelled.”

Harry’s eyes were glassy, hands still tugging at his hair. “You don’t trust me.”

“I don’t trust us , right now,” Louis admitted, softer this time. “We’ve made a lot of shit choices together, Haz. I don’t want this to be one of them.”

Harry stood, pacing the small room, breathing too fast, hands shaking so badly Louis could see it even in the dark. “You’re a hypocrite.”

“Probably,” Louis said, flopping back against his pillow, exhausted. “But I’m trying to be a good one.”

“Fuck you,” Harry muttered, voice wobbling.

“Love you too,” Louis sighed.

Harry didn’t leave — they both knew he wouldn’t — but he didn’t crawl back into bed either. Just sat in the corner, knees to his chest, picking at the polish on his nails until tiny green flakes littered the floor.

Louis stared at the ceiling, fists clenched in the sheets, heart hammering as the high and the comedown and the withdrawal all blurred into one miserable, aching mess.

It wasn’t the first fight they’d ever had.

But it was the first one that felt like it really mattered.

Louis let the silence stretch for a while, both of them stuck in their corners—Harry literally in the corner of the room, knees hugged tight to his chest, and Louis metaphorically cornered by the weight of his own guilt, lying stiff and still under the thin blanket.

He could hear Harry’s breathing, shallow and uneven, the occasional sniffle when he thought Louis wouldn’t notice. It made Louis’ chest ache. Not just because they’d fought, but because this —this endless cycle of need and hurt and apology—was starting to feel like their whole relationship.

And Louis didn’t want that. Not with Harry. Not with the only person who ever made him believe he could be more than the mess he was born into.

“Haz,” Louis said softly, voice rough from too much shouting and not enough sleep. “Come back to bed.”

Harry didn’t answer at first, still scraping tiny flecks of green polish off his thumbnail.

“Please, Baby,” Louis added, quieter. “Just—please.”

Harry sighed, long and shaky, but he got up.

He crossed the tiny room, looking smaller than usual in his oversized t-shirt, curls flat on one side, eyes red-rimmed and tired. Louis lifted the blanket without a word, and Harry slipped in, cold toes tucking between Louis’ calves like they always did.

Louis wrapped his arm around Harry’s waist, pulling him in until they were a mess of limbs and breath, forehead to forehead, sharing the same tired air.

“I’m sorry,” Louis whispered.

“Me too,” Harry murmured back, his hand sliding up under Louis’ shirt, palm resting flat against his ribs like he needed to feel Louis’ heartbeat to believe he was real.

“I’m not trying to push you away,” Louis added, voice thick. “I’m trying to keep us from wrecking each other.”

“We’re already wrecked,” Harry said, a bit of dark humour curling around the edges of his voice.

“Yeah,” Louis admitted. “But I’d still rather be wrecked with you than without.”

Harry smiled—small and wobbly, but real—and that was enough for Louis to press a soft kiss to the corner of his mouth, no heat behind it, just comfort.

They fell asleep like that, tangled up in each other, bodies still aching from withdrawal but hearts beating in sync, both of them too scared to let go.

Tomorrow would be hard.

But tonight, they had this.

Louis woke up first, which wasn’t a surprise. He hadn’t really slept , not properly, just drifted in and out, heart racing too fast, skin clammy where it pressed against Harry’s.

But Harry was still out, soft little snores escaping against Louis’ neck, his curls tickling Louis’ jaw, one leg thrown over Louis’ hip like he couldn’t bear to let go, even in sleep.

Louis stayed still for a while, letting Harry have it — this one bit of peace, this rare moment where neither of them was high or shaking or fighting for their lives against their own bodies.

Eventually, though, Louis’ stomach growled loud enough to break the spell.

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered, hand flattening over his belly.

Harry stirred, face scrunching up in that adorable half-asleep way he always did, rubbing his cheek against Louis’ chest. “What’s that noise?”

“My internal organs begging for mercy,” Louis said. “Come on, Play-Doh, we need to eat.”

Harry groaned, face still pressed into Louis’ skin. “Stop calling me that.”

“Can’t stop, won’t stop,” Louis grinned, fingers trailing lazily through Harry’s curls. “You’re Play-Doh forever.”

Harry tilted his head just enough to glare up at him. “You’re an idiot.”

“True,” Louis said. “But I’m your idiot. Now come on — if we don’t get downstairs in the next ten minutes, all that’ll be left is plain oatmeal and that dodgy fruit salad that tastes like fridge.”

Harry sighed dramatically, but he sat up, hair an absolute disaster, Louis’ shirt half falling off one shoulder. Louis took one look at him and grinned.

“Fuck off,” Harry said, but his mouth was twitching.

“You look like you’ve been dragged through a hedge backwards,” Louis said. “A very angry hedge, you look adorable, I love you.”

“Mirror, babe,” Harry shot back.

They got dressed in companionable silence — Louis stealing one of Harry’s clean t-shirts because his own was still damp with sweat, Harry grumbling about it but making no actual effort to get it back.

Breakfast was predictably grim — greyish porridge, a sad basket of toast, and the infamous fridge-flavoured fruit salad.

Louis grabbed two slices of toast and the world’s weakest cup of tea, sliding into his usual spot at the corner table, Harry dropping into the chair beside him with a grunt.

“Romantic,” Louis said, gesturing to the toast like he was presenting a Michelin-starred meal. “Nothing says ‘I’m sorry I was a dick last night’ like cold bread.”

Harry snorted into his tea, some of the tension from the night before melting away.

They ate in silence for a bit, both still too wrecked from withdrawal to have much of an appetite. But Louis couldn’t stand silence for long, especially not after a fight, so eventually he nudged Harry’s foot under the table.

“Hey, Play-Doh.”

Harry groaned, but the corner of his mouth tugged up into something almost like a smile. “What now?”

“Wanna know something disgusting?”

“Always.”

Louis leaned in, voice conspiratorial. “I found out yesterday that the porridge they make here? It’s the same batch all week. They just keep adding water to it.”

Harry’s face twisted in horror. “You’re lying.”

“Swear on my life.” Louis held up three fingers like a scout. “It’s zombie porridge. Never dies.”

“Why would you tell me that while I’m eating it? ” Harry gagged, shoving his bowl away.

“Because you deserve to suffer,” Louis said, all mock-serious. “For trying to seduce me in a rehab bed.”

Harry’s cheeks flared pink, and Louis grinned, leaning over to press a quick kiss to his temple. “Next time, Play-Doh. When we’re not sweating through withdrawal and surrounded by people who’ve definitely shit themselves at least once.”

Harry laughed then, bright and real, and Louis felt it somewhere deep in his ribs — the thing they were fighting for. Not the high, not the chaos, not even the easy excuses. Just this. Just them.

Group was already half full by the time Louis and Harry shuffled in, both of them looking like warmed-up corpses but at least there , which was more than Louis could say for half the people who came through these doors.

Louis took his usual seat, slouched low, ankle hooked over his knee, and Harry sat beside him, back straighter than usual, hands folded tight in his lap like he was holding something in.

Louis clocked it immediately — the nervous energy rolling off Harry in waves, the restless twitch in his fingers, the way his leg wouldn’t stop bouncing. Louis nudged his knee gently, and when Harry glanced over, Louis just offered a small, knowing smile. I’m here. It’s okay.

The counsellor started them off with the usual, something about family dynamics and how they play into addiction — a conversation Louis had heard a hundred times before but never paid much attention to, because what was the point? His family was his family. Pure chaos, but his. End of.

Then the counsellor asked, “Harry, since you’re new, would you like to share anything about your family?”

Louis felt Harry stiffen beside him, hands clenching tighter in his lap. For a second, Louis thought he’d pass, shake his head, mumble a quick no thanks like Louis always did. But then—

“Yeah,” Harry said softly, voice shaking just a bit. “I can.”

Louis sat up straighter, his hand slipping down to squeeze Harry’s knee, not too hard, just enough to say I’ve got you .

Harry took a breath, eyes fixed on his lap, and started. “My mum—she’s not the worst. She’s not, like, evil. She just…she never really wanted to be a mum. I think she thought it’d make her happy, or maybe make her boyfriend stick around, but it didn’t.”

Louis’ heart already ached, because he knew this story, but hearing Harry say it out loud—here, in front of strangers—made it sharper.

“And when my sister Gemma turned eighteen, she fucked off the second she could,” Harry continued, voice cracking just slightly. “Like, the second . I woke up on her birthday and half her shit was already packed. She didn’t even say goodbye properly. Just left me there.”

Harry’s hands were trembling now, knuckles white where they gripped his own jeans.

“And after that, my mum got worse. Not, like, hitting or anything. She just…stopped caring. Stopped noticing if I came home. Stopped asking if I ate, or did homework, or was okay. Unless she wanted me to run to the shop for fags, she didn’t really talk to me at all.”

Louis’ jaw clenched so tight his teeth ached. He’d known bits of this, but never the whole thing laid out like this, so clinical and honest, like Harry was performing an autopsy on his own childhood.

“And then,” Harry said, breath shuddering, “she hurt her back, and she got prescribed Tilidine. And I don’t even know why I took the first one. Curiosity, I guess. Or maybe just boredom. But once I felt it, once I knew how easy it was to not feel anything , I just…couldn’t stop.”

Louis’ hand squeezed tighter on Harry’s knee, and Harry turned his palm over, threading their fingers together, gripping so tight it almost hurt.

“By the time I was fifteen,” Harry said, voice small, “I was taking more than she was. I’d sneak them when she wasn’t home, or tell her she forgot how many she took and help myself. And she never noticed. Or if she did, she didn’t care, I think she only sent me to rehab the first time because she was annoyed I took most of her pills.”

Someone across the circle murmured, “Jesus.”

Harry swallowed hard, and Louis could see his throat working, the way his jaw trembled just slightly. “And then I met Louis,” Harry said, voice cracking fully now. “And his mum—she didn’t even ask. I just started showing up at their house, and she made me tea, and saved me a plate for dinner, and told me to mind the girls like I’d always been there. She made it so easy to pretend I was theirs.”

Louis’ eyes burned, throat tight. Harry hadn’t told him all that before — how much it meant, how much it hurt.

“And then Louis got dragged to rehab,” Harry said, voice softer now. “And I didn’t know how to be okay without him, so I started using more. And we just…kept going. Together. Because it felt like we were safe, even when we weren’t.”

The room was silent, everyone’s attention fixed squarely on Harry — this soft, fragile boy with trembling hands and painted nails, spilling every broken piece of himself into the circle like it was nothing.

“I don’t know how to stop,” Harry admitted, voice shaking. “But I want to. For Louis. And for me. And for his mum, because she already thinks I’m hers, and I want to be someone worth that.”

Louis couldn’t stop the tear that slipped down his cheek, didn’t even bother to wipe it away.

“Thank you for sharing that, Harry,” the counsellor said gently. “That was incredibly brave.”

Harry just nodded, wiping his nose on his sleeve, eyes darting to Louis like he needed reassurance. Louis squeezed his hand so tight it made Harry’s knuckles creak, and Harry smiled — small, wobbly, but real.

The counsellor didn’t hesitate. The second Harry finished, she looked straight at Louis, gentle but firm. “Louis, your turn.”

Louis’ stomach clenched. His instinct was to joke, deflect, pass the spotlight off to someone else. But Harry’s hand was still in his, fingers trembling slightly, and Louis knew— if Harry could do that, I can too. They made a pact, after all. Together or not at all.

He cleared his throat, blinking up at the ceiling like the words might be hiding somewhere in the paint cracks. “Alright,” Louis said, voice rough. “Let’s get this over with.”

His fingers never let go of Harry’s.

“My family…” Louis started, words sticky at first, like they didn’t want to come out. “My family’s not perfect. No one’s is, right? But they’re good. My mum’s the best woman I know. My sisters are loud and annoying and brilliant. And they didn’t even blink when I told them I was gay. Just—alright, cool, can you set the table?”

A few people chuckled softly.

Louis took a breath. “But my dad… my dad was different.”

Harry squeezed his hand, and Louis held on tighter.

“He wasn’t a monster,” Louis said quickly. “I mean, not to me. Not at first. He just had this way of making you feel like love was something you had to earn . Like if you weren’t doing enough—being enough—then you didn’t deserve it.”

Louis’ jaw clenched, the memories clawing their way to the surface. “He used to scream at my sisters when they went out, called them sluts if their skirts were too short, told them they were begging for trouble when they were barely thirteen and fourteen, slapped them sometimes. And I—” Louis’ throat tightened. “I couldn’t stand it. Couldn’t stand seeing them scared like that.”

His foot tapped restless rhythms against the floor, the way it always did when his body needed an outlet. “So I made myself the black sheep. Started acting out on purpose. First just nicking stuff from shops, sneaking out, getting caught smoking. Then it was drinking, nicking fags off him, getting suspended from school. Every time I got in trouble, it pulled his attention off the girls.”

Louis huffed a bitter laugh. “Figured if he was gonna hate someone, it might as well be me.”

Harry’s thumb brushed over his knuckles, gentle and grounding.

“And then there was Zayn,” Louis said, voice softening slightly. “My best mate since we were kids. His family was struggling too, so we got this genius idea—start dealing a bit of weed, make some quick cash, help out at home.”

A pause.

“Only weed didn’t pay enough. Not really. And it was easy to try the heavier stuff when it was just there , you know? Coke, pills, ket—whatever we could get our hands on. By the time we were fifteen, we were using more than we were selling.”

He could feel the weight of the room’s attention on him, but Louis kept his eyes on Harry, needing the anchor. “First overdose was the same year. Took too much of something I couldn’t even name, had a seizure at a house party, woke up in hospital with my mum sobbing next to me.” Louis’ breath shook. “That’s when my dad left.”

Harry’s head snapped up slightly, eyes wide with surprise. Louis had never told him that part. Had never told anyone, really, not even Niall or Eleanor.

“He said he couldn’t watch me ruin myself. That if I wanted to be a little junkie, I could do it on my own.” Louis swallowed hard, throat tight. “He left that night. Packed his shit and never came back. And part of me—” Louis’ voice cracked. “Part of me was relieved. Because at least my sisters were safe. But part of me’s still that kid, waiting for him to walk through the door and tell me I was enough after all.”

The room was silent.

Louis took a deep breath, blinking rapidly, trying to pull himself back together. “So yeah. That’s me. Fuck-up eldest son, black sheep, professional self-saboteur, part-time cokehead, full-time mess. Nice to meet you.”

It wasn’t a joke, not really. But a few people chuckled anyway, and Louis felt Harry squeeze his hand even tighter, holding him together when he felt like he might fall apart.

“Thank you for sharing that, Louis,” the counsellor said softly. “That took a lot.”

Louis just shrugged, blinking up at the ceiling again. “I’ve got nothing left to hide, have I?”

Harry shifted closer, their thighs pressed tight together, and Louis knew—even if they were still fucked, even if they still had a long way to go—they were doing this part right.

Together.

 

The garden was quiet. No one else had come out yet, most of the other residents too busy chain-smoking in the indoor lounge or sitting in their rooms, licking their own wounds after group. Louis knew the pattern well — open up just enough to make yourself sick, then retreat to lick your own wounds in private.

But not Louis. Not this time.

Harry was right beside him, tucked into his side, their steps slow and aimless until they found the old splintered bench in the corner, tucked behind a hedge that didn’t offer much privacy but was good enough.

Louis slid his cigarettes out of his pocket, tapping the pack against his palm. “We’re not really supposed to smoke out here without asking, you know.”

Harry snorted, plucking one from the pack. “We’ve broken worse rules.”

“Fair point.”

Louis lit Harry’s first, cupping his hand against the wind like his mum used to do for him back when he was too young to really be smoking at all. Harry took a drag, exhaling slow, the tension in his shoulders easing just slightly.

Louis lit his own, smoke burning sweet at the back of his throat, lungs filling with something familiar — something that didn’t make him shake. He took a deep drag, tilting his head back, exhaling toward the sky.

They sat in silence for a while, mindlessly passing the lighter back and forth, knees knocking gently together, the kind of silence that felt full , heavy, but not awkward. It was the silence that came after telling too much truth, after digging up roots you’d spent years burying, after stripping down in front of each other until there was nothing left to hide.

“So,” Harry said eventually, voice soft. “We’re a right pair, aren’t we?”

Louis huffed a laugh. “Disaster couple of the year.”

Harry smiled, gaze fixed on his cigarette as it burned down toward the filter. “We can fix it.”

Louis’ fingers twitched around his own cigarette. “Yeah?”

“If we actually try this time.” Harry glanced over, curls falling into his face. “For real. Not just saying we will.”

Louis swallowed hard. “I want to.”

“Me too.”

They both took a drag at the same time, exhaling twin clouds into the cool air.

Louis flicked ash onto the ground, foot scuffing the dirt. “I’m sorry.”

“For what?” Harry asked, brow furrowing.

“For all of it.” Louis’ throat tightened. “For dragging you into this mess, for turning you into my excuse, for every time I put a pill in your hand instead of telling you no.”

Harry shook his head. “You didn’t drag me anywhere, Lou. I wanted to be right beside you. Even when I shouldn’t have.”

“That’s fucked.”

“I know.” Harry smiled, soft and tired. “But it’s still true.”

They both went quiet again, the weight of everything they hadn’t said before sitting heavy between them.

“I want to get it right this time,” Louis said softly. “Even if we fuck up along the way. Even if it’s hard.”

“Together?” Harry asked, holding out his pinky.

Louis curled his pinky around Harry’s, squeezing tight. “Together.”

They smoked the rest of their cigarettes like that, pinkies linked, hands shaking a little less with every breath.

And for the first time in longer than Louis could remember, the promise actually felt like something they could keep.

The next few weeks blurred into something Louis couldn’t quite explain, a strange blend of routine and effort, the first time he ever actually tried in a place like this. It wasn’t dramatic, nothing clicked overnight, there wasn’t some magic breakthrough moment where he saw the light and decided to turn his life around. It was more like… showing up. Every day. Even when it sucked. Especially when it sucked. He stopped rolling his eyes in group, even if some of the stuff they talked about made him want to crawl out of his skin. He started talking, properly talking, not just the bare minimum to keep people off his back.

Sometimes he even listened, which was a shock to both him and Harry, but some of these people, they’d lived through shit even worse than Louis could imagine, and if they could sit here sober and tell the tale, maybe it was possible for him too. He still smoked too much, still swore too much, still leaned on sarcasm like a crutch, but he wasn’t just wasting time anymore. He was actually, actually , trying.

It helped that Harry was there. They were still inseparable, always sitting side by side, knees knocking under the table, passing a cigarette back and forth in the garden, sneaking into each other’s rooms even when they weren’t supposed to. But they held each other accountable now. If Harry caught Louis zoning out in group, he’d squeeze his hand under the table, just a small reminder to focus. If Louis saw Harry getting twitchy, getting that look in his eye like he was counting down to his next relapse, Louis would drag him outside, get him talking about something stupid until the feeling passed.

They were still addicted to each other, that much hadn’t changed, but now they were addicted to being better too, even if neither of them quite knew how to define that yet.

One night, about two weeks before they were both set to leave, they sat cross-legged on Harry’s bed, a pile of string and beads between them. Harry had gotten it into his head that they needed to make friendship bracelets, absolutely insisted, said it would be cute, said they needed something to remember this place by, even though Louis was pretty sure neither of them would forget it anytime soon.

Louis had grumbled and rolled his eyes and called it stupid, but within five minutes he was fully invested, tongue sticking out a little in concentration as he tried to thread a tiny green bead onto the string. Harry was making one for Louis and Louis was making one for Harry, and it was sweet and dumb and completely ridiculous, but it made Harry happy, and that was enough for Louis to care. But somewhere in the middle of tying a knot that kept coming undone, Louis looked at Harry, eyes bright, tongue poking out in concentration, fingers covered in chipped nail polish and hands still trembling faintly from the ghosts of withdrawal, and Louis thought, fuck, we’re just kids.

It hit him so hard he had to put the bracelet down for a second, palms pressing into his knees to ground himself. They were just kids. Kids who’d been high more days than they’d been sober, kids who’d already been to rehab more times than some people ever set foot in a hospital, kids who had learned how to roll joints before they learned how to file taxes. They were just kids who never got the chance to be kids , and somehow they’d convinced themselves that they were bulletproof, that love and drugs and chaos were all part of the same unstoppable thing, but sitting there with his fingers tangled in neon string and plastic beads, Louis realized none of it made sense. They weren’t unstoppable. They were fragile and scared and clinging to each other because if they let go, they weren’t sure who they’d be anymore.

But they kept making the bracelets, laughing when one broke and spilled beads all over the floor, teasing each other about the colors they picked, Harry declaring that Louis’ bracelet had to say Boo Bear, which Louis pretended to hate but secretly loved. And when they finally tied them around each other’s wrists, Louis looked at his and thought, maybe this was enough. Not forever, not a miracle cure, but a reminder. That they could be soft, too. That they could make something just for the hell of it. That they were allowed to be kids, even if it took this long to remember how.

They kept showing up after that. Every day. Some days were shit, some days were better, but they didn’t miss a single group. They wrote out lists of triggers, they practiced coping skills that felt dumb at first but maybe, maybe , would actually help one day. They started going to art therapy together, and Harry taught Louis how to draw something other than stick figures, and Louis wasn’t exactly Van Gogh but he made a half-decent sketch of Harry, and Harry stuck it to the wall next to his bed like it was priceless.

They had hard talks too, especially late at night when the quiet made everything louder. Harry talked about Gemma, how much it hurt that she left without a word, how much he hated himself for being angry at her because part of him knew she had to save herself first. Louis talked about his dad, the way his absence still felt like a wound even though Louis would rather die than admit it hurt. They cried together sometimes, not big dramatic sobs, just silent tears soaking into each other’s shirts when the weight got too heavy. And they still fought, still got on each other’s nerves, still triggered each other in ways only people who knew each other inside out could—but they never gave up.

Louis caught Harry once, standing in front of the bathroom mirror, staring at his reflection with this weird mix of fear and pride, and when Louis asked what he was doing, Harry just said, “Trying to see who I am when I’m not fucked up.” And Louis had to leave the room for a second because it hit too close to home.

The night before they were both set to leave, they lay in Louis’ bed, limbs tangled like always, bracelets glowing bright on their wrists in the dim light, and Louis whispered, “I’m scared.” Harry kissed his temple and said, “Me too.” Louis whispered, “But we’re gonna try, right?” And Harry said, “Together or not at all.”

And Louis fell asleep believing it, because for the first time in a long time, maybe even ever, they both actually meant it.

Notes:

Had to take a breather after that one..

how are you guys holding up?

Chapter 19: Chapter 19

The morning of their release, Louis woke up early — earlier than Harry, earlier than the usual knock on the door that signaled breakfast. The sky outside was barely pink, the whole place still shrouded in that eerie rehab quiet, the kind that only came when half the residents were too sedated to be awake yet. Harry was curled into his side, nose pressed into Louis’ shoulder, his bracelet — the one Louis made him — still snug on his wrist. Louis’ own bracelet dug into his skin when he sat up, but he didn’t take it off. He didn’t think he ever would.

He slipped out of bed quietly, Harry barely stirring, and padded into the tiny en-suite bathroom, the one place where Louis could be alone with his thoughts. And with his stash. It wasn’t much, not anymore — a baggie of coke, a few loose pills, the last remnants of everything Harry had smuggled in over the weeks. He’d held onto it, just in case, not even thinking about what that said about him. But now, standing over the toilet, cold tile under his feet, Louis knew it was time.

He didn’t make a big show of it. Didn’t cry or talk to it like some tragic movie moment. He just opened the bag, shook every bit of powder and every pill into the water, watched it swirl for a second, then flushed. Just like that. Gone.

His hands shook a little after, more from the weight of what it meant than from withdrawal. He could’ve told Harry, made it a whole symbolic thing — Look at me, I’m trying. But this wasn’t for Harry. This was Louis’ own quiet promise to himself, one no one else needed to know about.

By the time Harry woke up, Louis was back in bed, hands behind his head like nothing had happened, and Harry stretched out with a groan, pressing a sleepy kiss to Louis’ jaw.

“Today’s the day,” Harry mumbled, voice gravelly.

“Today’s the fucking day,” Louis repeated, trying to make it sound like a victory instead of the terrifying unknown that it was.

They’d spent the past week campaigning to get released on the same day. It took some convincing — technically Harry’s stay was supposed to run a few days longer — but they argued that they were each other’s best support system, that going home together would increase their chances of success. Louis suspected the staff didn’t fully believe them, but maybe they were just tired of the two of them being a package deal inside and wanted them gone together. Either way, it worked. They were both signing their discharge papers that afternoon.

Louis’ mum arrived early, her car rattling up the drive, looking out of place among the BMWs and family wagons some of the wealthier kids got picked up in. She was out of the car before it even stopped rolling, her arms open, voice bright with pride and relief when she saw them.

“ My boys, ” she said, pulling Louis in first, holding him so tight he could barely breathe, then reaching for Harry, who melted into her hug like it was the only thing holding him upright. “Look at you two. My strong boys.”

Louis rolled his eyes to cover up the lump in his throat, but Harry was already wiping at his eyes with his sleeve, his fingers clutching the bracelet Louis’ mum had admired on one of her visits. “Made those ourselves,” Harry had said proudly, and Louis had pretended not to care, but the smile his mum gave him after had warmed him to the bone.

They piled into the car, Louis up front, Harry stretched out in the back, windows cracked just enough to let the air in. His mum didn’t ask questions, didn’t press for big revelations. She just drove, humming softly to herself, fingers tapping on the steering wheel like she was too relieved to be anything but happy.

“Proud of you both,” she said at a stoplight, looking at them through the rearview mirror. “So proud.”

Louis swallowed hard, hand reaching back to find Harry’s. Harry squeezed once, a silent together or not at all , and Louis squeezed right back.

They were going home.

And this time, they were going to try. For real.

Because there was no stash waiting.

No backup plan.

Just them.

The next couple of weeks were strange—almost like learning how to live all over again. Rehab had been its own world, a bubble where everything was controlled, where you knew exactly what every hour would bring. Out here, back in the messy, unpredictable real world, everything felt louder, sharper, more possible . And that was both comforting and terrifying.

The cravings came fast and hard. Some mornings Louis woke up with his skin crawling, his jaw aching from how badly he wanted to grind his teeth through a comedown he hadn’t even had. Harry got twitchy in the afternoons, pacing the kitchen like there should’ve been a dealer at the door any second. They didn’t always talk about it, but they both knew. It was the unspoken thing between them, that craving, that hunger, still living under their skin no matter how hard they were trying to drown it out.

They distracted themselves the best they could. Louis’ family— their family, now, because Louis’ mum had all but legally adopted Harry at this point—helped with that. There were endless cups of tea at the kitchen table, Phoebe and Daisy dragging Harry upstairs to paint his nails every other day, Lottie handing him the remote like he’d always had a say in what they watched. Movie nights became a whole event—blankets piled high, snacks balanced on every flat surface, Louis wedged into the corner of the sofa with Harry half-sprawled across his lap, the twins arguing over which film to put on until Louis’ mum stepped in and made them all watch something old and embarrassing from her own childhood.

It was normal . Painfully, beautifully normal. And that’s what made it so hard.

Because normal didn’t hit the same way drugs did. Normal didn’t set your nerves on fire or make your heart race or pull you out of your own head long enough to forget you existed. Normal was a bit boring . And boring was a danger they hadn’t really prepared for.

Louis’ mum was no idiot. She knew the cravings were there, knew her boys well enough to see it in the way they chewed at their nails or chain-smoked out the back door or jumped whenever their phones buzzed with a text they weren’t expecting. So every Sunday, right after breakfast, she made them both take a drug test—one of those little plastic cups from the chemist that Louis used to be able to rig blindfolded. But now there was nothing to rig. They peed in the cups, lined them up on the kitchen counter like science experiments, and every single week, they came up clean.

The first time, Louis saw the flicker of surprise in his mum’s eyes, like she hadn’t dared to hope. By the third week, her smile when she saw those clean results was so wide it almost made Louis cry. Harry smiled too, shy and proud, like he didn’t quite believe it either.

They filled the rest of their days with friends—Zayn and Niall and Eleanor and Oli, the whole crew who’d once been their enablers, now trying to play the part of support system , even if they were all a little shit at it. They hung out at Zayn’s flat, played cards on his stained carpet, went for walks that always somehow ended at the off-license even though neither of them bought anything stronger than a beer. Louis still nicked cigarettes, more out of habit than need, and Harry still had to talk him out of nicking bottles of vodka sometimes, but they always walked out clean.

There were close calls, moments they didn’t talk about—like when they ran into Nick at the park and he offered them a bump, just like old times. Louis’ hand had actually twitched toward his pocket before Harry grabbed his wrist and pulled him away, no words, just a firm no . Or the night Louis woke up at three in the morning, sweating through his sheets, heart racing like he was in the middle of a full-on coke binge even though he was stone sober. Harry woke up too, crawling into Louis’ bed without a word, fingers tracing gentle shapes over Louis’ ribs until the panic eased.

They weren’t perfect. They still argued, still triggered each other in ways only people who know every dark corner of each other’s minds can. But they were trying. Every day, they were trying . And maybe that didn’t feel like much, but for two boys who once measured success in how long they could stay high without crashing, it was everything.

Some nights, when the house was quiet and everyone was asleep, Louis would lie awake, staring at the ceiling, Harry’s soft breath warm against his shoulder. And he’d think about all the times they should’ve died—overdoses and seizures and bad pills and worse choices. And the fact that they were still here, still breathing, still holding each other together with shaky hands and stupid jokes and friendship bracelets made out of neon string—that was something like a miracle.

And maybe they didn’t know what came next. Maybe they didn’t know if they could really do this, if the clean tests would still be clean six months from now, if they could ever truly outrun the craving. But for now, they were home. They were sober. They were together .

The first night out came quicker than Louis expected, almost like his friends had been waiting for it — like the moment Louis and Harry were officially back home and somewhat settled, the group chat had exploded with plans. A proper night out, just like old times, except this time, Louis and Harry weren’t walking into it with a pocket full of pills and a half-formed plan to get absolutely obliterated.

It was meant to be low-key, just a few pints at the pub down the road, maybe a smoke out back. But of course, with their lot, low-key lasted about twenty minutes before someone — usually Niall — mentioned a mate’s flat party just across the estate. Louis knew how that went. Flat parties on their block weren’t parties at all — they were full-scale chemical warfare, pills and powders getting passed around like candy, the air thick with smoke and sweat, people rolling so hard they’d snog anyone within reach.

Louis was nervous the second they stepped inside. The flat smelled like stale beer and weed, someone was blasting drum and bass loud enough to rattle the windows, and there was already a tray of pills being passed around, little neon-colored things cut into shapes — diamonds, smiley faces, even a couple shaped like fucking Hello Kitty. Harry stiffened beside him, fingers curling tight around Louis’ wrist, and Louis squeezed back just as hard.

“ Just beer, ” Louis muttered, mostly to himself. “Just beer and we’re good.”

Harry nodded, looking up at Louis like he was the map and the compass and the only way Harry was getting out of this in one piece.

It should have felt normal , easy .

But three weeks sober made everything sharper.

Louis and Harry stuck close, shoulder to shoulder, nursing their beers like they were some kind of shield, something to do with their hands while they waded through familiar territory with new rules.

People came and went, some stopping to greet them, some lingering a bit too long, eyes flicking over them like they were waiting to see something—whether they’d crack, whether they’d disappear off to a bathroom together like they always had before, whether they’d be the same .

Louis could feel it in the way some people looked at them. Like they weren’t sure how to treat them now. Like they were different.

Maybe they were .

He took a sip of his beer, forcing himself to focus on the now , on the way Harry’s fingers brushed against his wrist absentmindedly, on the way Eleanor was throwing her arms around some girl near the kitchen, already half-drunk and thriving , on the way Zayn was perched in the corner, sharp eyes assessing everything like he always did.

“Doin’ alright?” Harry murmured beside him, his voice low enough that it didn’t get swallowed by the noise.

Louis exhaled, rolling his shoulders. “Yeah. You?”

Harry hesitated, but then nodded. “Feels… different.”

“Yeah,” Louis agreed, taking another sip. “But not bad.”

Harry huffed a quiet laugh, bumping their shoulders together. “Not bad,” he echoed.

Zayn was already on the sofa, joint between his fingers, grinning wide and glassy-eyed but not totally gone yet. Eleanor was now cross-legged on the floor, her head in Oli’s lap, laughing at something Niall was shouting from the kitchen. It was familiar , achingly so, and for a second Louis’ whole body remembered — how easy it was to let go in places like this, how fast one drink became a bump, a pill, a line. But they were trying now. Together or not at all.

They cracked their beers, stayed close to the wall, sipping slow like if they paced themselves enough, they could outlast the temptation. But the tray of pills kept circling back, and Louis’ fingers itched , his mouth watering like he could taste the high just from looking at it.

By the third round, Louis couldn’t help himself. He leaned down toward Zayn, voice low. “Oi. You holding?”

Zayn’s grin faltered, just for a second. “Nah.”

“Come on,” Louis pressed, half-joking, half-desperate. “Just one. I won’t tell.”

Zayn shook his head, the smile gone now. “No, Lou. Not this time.”

Louis stared at him, thrown off-balance. Zayn had never said no before. Not once in all the years they’d been friends. They were each other’s first dealers, first customers, first users. Zayn saying no felt like the ground shifting under Louis’ feet.

“Why not?” Louis asked, voice quieter now, like maybe if no one else heard it wouldn’t count.

Zayn’s face softened. “Because I’m trying to be your mate. And your mate wants you to stay clean .”

Louis swallowed hard, throat tight. “Right. Yeah. Good call.”

Zayn clapped him on the shoulder, a quick squeeze. “I’ve got your back. Even when you don’t want me to.”

Louis stepped back, blinking fast like that might keep the tears from forming. Harry was watching him, wide-eyed and nervous, and Louis knew Harry had seen the whole exchange. Louis didn’t know if he felt ashamed or grateful, maybe both, but he curled his arm around Harry’s waist anyway, tugging him closer.

“Just beer,” Louis said again, firmer this time. “We’ve got this.”

“Together or not at all,” Harry murmured back.

And they meant it.

They spent the rest of the night nursing their beers, letting the others roll and spin and fly without them, knowing they’d been those people once but didn’t want to be again.

Not tonight.

Maybe not ever again.

The music pounded, the bass rattling the floor, conversations overlapping into a mess of noise, of chaos, of something they used to be part of. But Louis and Harry stayed on the edges of it, hands locked under the table, fingers tight, like if they let go, they’d lose their grip on more than just each other .

Niall was already gone , slurring his words between puffs of a joint, waving his arms dramatically as he tried to explain—through fits of laughter—why frogs were the most terrifying creatures on earth .

“You don’t understand ,” he insisted, eyes wide, gesturing aggressively. “They just sit there . Watching . Judging .”

“They’re frogs , mate,” Zayn muttered, unimpressed, blowing out a long stream of smoke.

“Exactly,” Niall hissed , leaning forward like he was revealing a government secret. “They could do anything . And they don’t .”

Eleanor, already tipsy, dissolved into cackles , slumping against Oli, who just shook his head, looking halfway between amused and done .

Harry, beside Louis, bit down on his lip to keep from grinning , his fingers twitching against Louis’ palm, fighting the urge to join in properly.

Louis squeezed his hand once before leaning forward, clearing his throat dramatically.

“So what you’re saying,” he said, his voice mock-serious, “is that frogs have ulterior motives ?”

“ Exactly! ” Niall shouted , throwing a triumphant fist into the air.

That was it.

Harry lost it , his laughter spilling out, genuine and warm and careless , his hand tightening around Louis’ like this was the best feeling in the world.

And maybe it was .

They dodged offers of bumps and tabs with practiced ease, let the joint pass by them without reaching for it, let the night exist around them without falling into it .

They weren’t those people anymore.

And for the first time, Louis wasn’t sure he missed it.

Eleanor flopped onto the sofa beside them, her limbs loose and fluid , draping herself dramatically across Louis’ lap, tossing one arm over Harry’s shoulders like she owned the place.

“ Boys ,” she sighed, tilting her head back against the cushions, her hair spilling over her shoulders in wild waves. “You’re being so fucking boring tonight.”

Louis huffed, adjusting his grip on his beer. “Oi, we’re fun .”

“You’re sober ,” Eleanor countered, like that was somehow worse.

Before either of them could respond, she pulled a baggie from the depths of her bra—because of course she did—and tapped out a line onto the back of her hand, taking it in one swift, practiced motion.

Louis watched her, that old itch flaring up in the back of his skull, the muscle memory of it all, the way his body still remembered how it felt, how easy it would be to just—

No.

He let out a slow breath, fingers curling tighter around Harry’s.

Eleanor sniffed, rubbing under her nose, then turned to them, raising an eyebrow. “ Now tell me I’m wrong.”

Harry smiled, soft and small, shaking his head. “You’re not wrong,” he admitted. “Just—doesn’t feel like our thing anymore.”

Eleanor rolled her eyes. “ Gross . You’re both, like, proper functioning members of society now. What a fucking tragedy .”

Louis smirked, nudging her shoulder. “Could say the same for you, love.”

Eleanor snorted , tossing her hair over her shoulder. “Please. I’ll settle down when I’m dead .”

Louis hesitated for half a second, then sighed, shifting slightly so he could look at her properly. “Maybe—maybe you lot should try staying somewhat clean , too.”

Eleanor blinked at him, like the thought had never actually occurred to her before.

Across the room, Niall let out a loud groan, still deep in conversation with Zayn and Oli. “Oh for fuck’s sake , we’ve lost him .”

Louis shot him the finger without looking away from Eleanor.

She was still watching him, that sharp, assessing gaze cutting through her buzz just slightly , like she was actually considering it.

Then, she exhaled, tilting her head toward Harry. “This his influence?”

Harry laughed , shaking his head. “Nah. His .”

Louis rolled his eyes, but his chest felt warm .

Eleanor huffed, rubbing at her nose again, then stretched out, kicking her legs over Louis’ lap. “I’ll think about it,” she murmured, like it wasn’t that big of a deal.

But Louis knew her.

And that meant something .

It wasn’t easy. Not even close. But they made it through. And when they stumbled back to Louis’ house just after midnight, only mildly tipsy, they knew they’d done something they hadn’t thought possible.

They’d survived a night out sober, at least in the way that actually counted .

And they’d done it together .

They stumbled into Louis’ room, barely kicking the door shut behind them, shoes getting kicked off haphazardly until they both collapsed onto the bed in a tangle of limbs, exhausted in a way that had nothing to do with being drunk or high. It was the kind of exhaustion that came from restraint , from having to choose not to do the thing their bodies still craved every second of every day.

For a minute they just lay there, Louis on his back, Harry curled half on top of him, Louis’ fingers tracing mindless shapes against the back of Harry’s neck. Neither of them spoke, but the silence was heavy with meaning, the weight of what they’d just done settling between them like something solid.

“We did it,” Harry murmured eventually, his breath warm against Louis’ neck.

Louis hummed in response. “Not gonna lie, didn’t think we would.”

Harry lifted his head, propping his chin on Louis’ chest. “Me neither.”

There was a soft smile between them, that rare kind of smile that only comes when you both know you survived something you weren’t sure you could.

“We need rules,” Harry said suddenly, sitting up so fast Louis almost lost his balance. “Like, proper rules. Like a contract, a new one, signed and everything.”

Louis squinted at him. “Are you writing a rom-com or are you my boyfriend?”

“Why not both?” Harry grinned, already grabbing a half-crumpled notebook from Louis’ nightstand and a biro that only worked if you shook it a bit first.

Louis rolled onto his side, propping his head up on his hand. “Alright, Einstein, what’s Rule One?”

Harry chewed on the pen cap for a second, eyes narrowing like he was taking this extremely seriously. “We vow to stay sober together, or not at all.”

Louis snorted. “That‘s a given, isn‘t it?”

Harry’s brow arched. “Anything to add, blood pact?”

“Christ, no,” Louis muttered, but the corner of his mouth was twitching. “Write it down.”

Harry did, tongue poking out in concentration, his handwriting somehow even worse than Louis remembered. “Rule Two,” Harry said, tapping the page with the pen. “If we relapse, we relapse together .”

“That’s fucked,” Louis said, but he couldn’t help smiling. “I like it.”

Harry scribbled it down, adding a tiny doodle of two stick figures holding hands next to it. “Rule Three… We vow to tell the truth. Even if it sucks.”

Louis’ smile faltered, but he nodded. “Even if it sucks,” he repeated.

Harry glanced up. “You got one?”

Louis thought for a second, then smirked. “We vow to be each other’s last first kiss.”

Harry’s ears went pink, but he grinned wide, writing it down with little hearts around it, „Last first kiss,“ He chuckled, „So basically like before but officially no cheating, romantic.“

“God, you’re such a sap,” Louis teased sarcastically, tugging the notebook from Harry’s hands to read back what they’d written so far. “Alright, what else?”

“We vow to never steal each other’s cigarettes,” Harry added, snatching the pen back.

“We vow to always split the last slice of pizza,” Louis said.

“We vow to never go to rehab without the other,” Harry said, quieter now, a little more serious.

Louis’ chest ached at that one. “Deal.”

They went on like that, scribbling down rules half-serious, half-silly, until the page was full of messy handwriting and stupid doodles and inside jokes that only made sense to them. When they were done, they held it up like some sacred document, both of them grinning like idiots.

“Sign it,” Harry said, passing Louis the pen.

Louis scrawled his signature at the bottom, and Harry did the same, then they both pressed their thumbs to the paper like they were making a fingerprint seal, even though they had absolutely no ink on their hands.

“Legally binding,” Louis said, folding the paper and tucking it under his pillow.

“Better than any contract Greg ever made us sign in group,” Harry grinned.

They collapsed back into bed, arms around each other, the stupid contract safely tucked under them like it was a foundation to build something on. And maybe it was. Maybe they were still a mess, still learning, still craving all the things they promised each other they wouldn’t touch again — but they were in it. Together. Writing their own rules, making their own way, holding each other steady every step forward, every stumble back.

And if all they had was a scrap of notebook paper covered in biro and promises — well, that was more than they’d ever had before.

“Love you, Play-Doh,” Louis mumbled sleepily.

“Love you too, you idiot,” Harry whispered back.

And they fell asleep like that, clutching each other, their contract crinkling under the weight of them both.

The next morning, they were still tangled together when the sun crept through the curtains, Louis’ nose pressed into Harry’s curls, Harry’s hand resting on Louis’ chest like he needed the heartbeat beneath his palm to fall asleep. Neither of them wanted to move first, but eventually, the smell of toast and tea drifting up the stairs forced them out of bed.

Louis’ mum was already in the kitchen, her hair a bit wild from sleep, but she still smiled the second they walked in, all warmth and softness and something in her eyes Louis couldn’t quite place — relief, maybe. Like she was still half-convinced this was all a dream and they’d disappear again if she blinked too long. Louis knew that look too well.

“Morning, boys,” she said, setting down a plate of buttered toast. “Sleep alright?”

“Yeah,” Louis said, rubbing at his face as he slid into his usual chair. “Actually… we wanted to tell you something.”

Her brows lifted, halfway between curiosity and that instant motherly suspicion. “Oh?”

Harry hovered behind Louis’ chair, fingers twitching against the backrest. “It’s nothing bad,” he added quickly. “We just—last night, we made a contract.”

“A contract?” her smile tugged up on one side. “Should I be worried?”

Louis shook his head, leaning back so his shoulder bumped against Harry’s side. “It’s just us vowing to stay clean. To get our shit together. To…” he trailed off, suddenly embarrassed by how serious it all sounded outside the safety of their room.

“To do better,” Harry finished quietly. “Together.”

Louis’ mum went quiet for a moment, and Louis braced himself for some sort of lecture — maybe about how staying clean isn’t something you can just promise away, or how good intentions don’t mean shit if you don’t follow through. But all she did was smile, this soft, watery smile that made Louis’ throat feel tight.

“Come here,” she said, already heading toward the hallway cupboard. They followed her without question, watching as she rummaged through the shelves until she pulled out her old Polaroid camera, the one that hadn’t been used in years but still somehow worked, the one she used to snap all those messy, chaotic childhood photos that filled half the house.

“Sit there,” she gestured to the fridge, and Louis rolled his eyes but obeyed, dragging Harry with him until they were both standing side by side, half-laughing because they probably looked like absolute shit — hair a mess, still in sleep clothes, but Louis’ bracelet and Harry’s chipped nails were front and center. Louis threw an arm around Harry’s shoulders, and Harry leaned into him like they were built to fit that way.

The flash went off, too bright in the morning kitchen, and Louis blinked against it while Harry giggled into his shoulder.

His mum shook the picture, waiting for it to develop, then held it up with a smile so soft it made Louis’ chest ache. “My boys,” she said, voice a little rough. “Look at you.”

Before either of them could say anything, she took a magnet and stuck the picture right in the middle of the fridge, replacing the old one which promptly got tucked into a photo album, the same place she used to stick school certificates and handmade cards, like it was the most important thing they’d ever given her.

Then, without a word, she stepped forward and kissed Louis’ forehead, then Harry’s, her hands soft against their faces, thumbs brushing over their cheeks like they were still small enough to be tucked under her arms. “I’m proud of you both,” she said softly. “So proud.”

Louis swallowed hard, nodding once, not trusting himself to speak. Harry sniffed quietly beside him, brushing at his nose with the sleeve of Louis’ hoodie, and Louis just curled an arm around his waist, holding on like maybe that was the only promise they really needed.

They sat down to breakfast after, tea steaming, toast buttered just right, and the picture stayed there on the fridge — a reminder and a promise, right where they could see it every single day.

It was Harry’s idea, in a way. The morning after their contract and the Polaroid and the quiet kind of promises they didn’t say out loud but meant with every fiber of their being, Louis’ mum had made eggs and toast, the kind of breakfast that clung to your ribs, something solid to build a day on. They were halfway through eating when Harry, head low over his tea, muttered, “I should probably get my stuff.”

Louis’ mum, ever the solution-oriented matriarch, didn’t even hesitate. “Right, well, we’ll go get it then.”

Harry froze. “We?”

“You’re my boy now, too,” she said simply, the same way she said things like grab your coat, it’s raining or put the kettle on . Like it wasn’t even a question. “We’ll get your things and bring them back here.”

Louis was already halfway out of his seat, stuffing toast into his mouth, but Harry…Harry just stared at his plate, fingers twitching around his fork. “I—I don’t think I can go back there.”

Louis’ mum softened, hand resting on Harry’s shoulder, giving it a gentle squeeze. “That’s okay, love. You don’t have to.”

“But my stuff—”

“Me and Lou will go,” she said, already standing to fetch her coat. “You stay here. Help the girls with their homework or something.”

Harry looked relieved and guilty all at once, but Louis’ mum didn’t leave room for argument. By the time Louis had his trainers on, Harry was still sitting at the table, chewing his lip raw. Louis pressed a quick kiss to his hair and whispered, “We’ll be quick, Play-Doh. Promise.”

The moment they pulled up to Harry’s house — if you could call it that — Louis felt that old knot of unease twist in his stomach. The house looked exactly like Louis remembered from the last time he’d been inside, back before rehab, back before everything had fallen apart completely. It was barely a house at all — more like a shell, the garden overgrown, the front step piled with old takeaway boxes and half-crushed cans of lager.

Louis’ mum took one look at it and made a noise low in her throat, something between a sigh and a curse. “Christ alive,” she muttered, but Louis just shook his head. “Don’t start, Mum.”

She knocked on the door firmly, and when Anne opened it, she looked like she’d only just woken up despite it being nearly noon. Her hair was piled in a messy knot, her dressing gown loosely tied, and there was a cigarette dangling between her fingers, smoke curling into the hallway behind her.

“Oh,” Anne said, surprised. “It’s you.”

“Nice to see you too,” Louis muttered, already pushing past her into the house. The stench hit him first — stale smoke, spilled booze, something faintly rotting under it all. Louis’ mum stepped in after him, her face tightening with each breath.

“We’re here for Harry’s things,” she said, tone polite but firm. “Since he’s living with us now.”

Anne just blinked, like it hadn’t fully registered yet. “With you?”

“Yes,” Johannah said, already scanning the room with the kind of horror only a mother can feel when faced with another mother’s neglect. “Since you didn’t seem too concerned about where he was staying.”

Anne bristled, shoulders tightening. “I’ve been busy.”

“Right,” Johannah said dryly. “Too busy to notice your son moved out.”

Anne didn’t argue, just stepped aside and waved vaguely toward the stairs. “His room’s the clean one.”

That much was true. When Louis pushed open the door to Harry’s room, it was like stepping into a completely different house. The room was spotless, bed made, books lined up neatly on the shelf, a small stack of notebooks beside the bed. The air even smelled better, like old fabric softener instead of stale smoke.

“He’s a good boy,” Johannah murmured, softer now. “Even with all this.”

Louis swallowed the lump in his throat and started packing. It didn’t take long — Harry didn’t own much. Clothes, a few books, a shoebox full of old Polaroids, some band t-shirts that Louis was fairly sure he’d nicked from Louis himself.

As they packed, Johannah glanced into the other rooms, her expression growing darker with each one — the overflowing ashtrays, the empty bottles, the carpet stained with God knows what. Louis knew what she was seeing, because he’d seen it too — the kind of house where you learned to fend for yourself early, where survival came before comfort, where no one taught you how to be a kid because everyone was too busy just trying to get through the day.

When they were done, arms full of boxes and bags, Johannah didn’t say anything to Anne at first. Just stood there, looking at her for a long moment. Then, softly but firmly, she said, “You’re welcome to visit him. But he’s not coming back here.”

Anne just shrugged, like it didn’t matter. But Louis saw the flicker in her eyes — guilt or shame or something too small to name — and then the door was shut, and it was just him and his mum, arms full of Harry’s whole life, walking back to the car.

They didn’t speak on the way home, but Louis could see his mum gripping the steering wheel too tight, knuckles white, her jaw clenched like she was holding back a million things she wanted to say.

When they got back, Harry was waiting at the door, eyes wide and anxious, but Louis just smiled and said, “We got it all, Play-Doh. You’re officially ours now.”

And when Louis’ mum pulled Harry into a hug, right there on the doorstep, she whispered, “You deserve better than that house. And we’re gonna make sure you get it.”

Harry’s eyes were wet when they let go, but he smiled. And Louis knew, right then and there, they’d done the right thing.

Notes:

Ah, looks like things are turning around

Chapter 20: Chapter 20

Notes:

I am back from Japan!

Unfortunately I did not come across Niall while I was there, but hey, daily chapters again!!!

They carried Harry’s boxes upstairs, Louis leading the way, kicking open the bedroom door with his foot because his arms were too full to twist the knob. Harry followed behind, slightly out of breath, a duffle bag slung over one shoulder, another box balancing in his arms. They dumped everything onto the bed, the mattress creaking under the weight, and stood there for a moment, just looking at it all.

It wasn’t much. Harry’s whole life condensed into three cardboard boxes and a bag. But it was his , and now it was here, in Louis’ room — their room now, if they were being honest.

They unpacked slowly, not rushing, making space where they could. Louis shoved his own clothes further to the side to make room in the tiny shared wardrobe, handed Harry the second drawer in the dresser, even though it meant Louis’ socks were now living in a plastic bag under the bed. Harry’s books went onto the shelf Louis hadn’t touched since school, wedged between Louis’ copy of Trainspotting and a few old football magazines.

The shoebox of Polaroids ended up on the windowsill, and Louis didn’t ask, but Harry opened it and showed him anyway — blurry pictures of him and Gemma as kids, the two of them sitting in the garden with sunburned noses and melted ice cream dripping down their wrists. Pictures of Harry and Louis from before, when they were fresh out of rehab and already tearing eachother down. Pictures from parties they barely remembered, faces sweaty and wide-eyed, arms thrown around each other like nothing could touch them.

They laughed a little at those ones, but after a while Harry went quiet, sitting cross-legged on the bed while Louis hung up Harry’s shirts. Louis didn’t look at first, not until he heard Harry sniff, a soft sound, the kind someone makes when they’re trying not to cry.

Louis turned, heart already sinking. “Haz?”

Harry’s face was turned down, hands clasped between his knees, eyes red. “I miss her,” he whispered, voice so quiet Louis barely caught it.

Louis sat down beside him, their knees bumping. “I know.”

“I hate that I miss her,” Harry said, voice trembling. “She didn’t even care I was gone. She never gave a shit when I came home high or didn’t come home at all, but she’s still my mum, and I still—” His voice cracked fully then, tears slipping down his cheeks. “I still fucking love her.”

Louis’ chest ached, the kind of ache that only comes when you can’t fix something for someone you love. “Course you do,” Louis said softly. “She’s your mum.”

“But she’s so shit at it,” Harry choked out. “And I hate her for it, but I hate myself more because I still want her to love me back. I still want her to be proud of me, even though I know she won’t be.”

Louis didn’t have words for that, nothing smart or comforting or wise. So he just pulled Harry in, arms wrapping tight around his shoulders, holding him through it. Harry clung to him, fingers fisting the back of Louis’ hoodie, tears soaking into Louis’ collar, body shaking with the kind of sobs you only let out when you finally felt safe enough to break.

Louis rested his chin on top of Harry’s head, fingers tracing soft circles into his back, whispering, “I’ve got you. You’ve got me. You’ve got my mum, the girls, all of us. You’ve got a whole family now, Play-Doh. We’re not going anywhere.”

Harry nodded into Louis’ shoulder, still crying, but softer now, less panic, more release. And as Louis held him, his own throat tight, his heart too full and too heavy all at once, the same thought circled back in his mind, louder than ever.

Fuck, we’re just kids.

Just kids who had to grow up too fast. Just kids who carried too much, who saw too much, who learned how to survive before they ever learned how to live. Just kids who still didn’t know how to love themselves, but were somehow learning how to love each other.

Just kids.

Trying their best.

Holding on tight.

Harry cried himself to sleep — the kind of crying that shook his whole body at first, trembling breaths and sharp hiccups, until exhaustion took over and his grip on Louis loosened, his breaths slowing into something softer. Louis stayed still until he was sure Harry was properly out, his face half-buried in Louis’ pillow, curls damp from tears, one arm stretched toward the spot where Louis should’ve been.

Louis tucked the blanket up over his shoulder, gently brushing the hair off Harry’s forehead, fingers lingering for a moment. His heart ached with it, with all of it — the weight of everything Harry had carried alone for so long, the fucked-up truth that Harry still somehow believed his mum might wake up one day and love him the way he deserved. Louis knew better than to believe in miracles, but for Harry, he still wanted one.

He slipped quietly out of the room, careful not to wake him, and padded downstairs in his socks. The house was dim and quiet, the twins already asleep, the telly low in the living room where his mum was curled up with a cup of tea and some crime show she’d seen a hundred times before.

She clocked him immediately, eyes narrowing just slightly. “What’s wrong?”

Louis shrugged, collapsing onto the sofa beside her, stealing a sip of her tea even though it was mostly cold by now. “Harry’s asleep.”

“And you’re not,” she said knowingly, nudging him with her elbow. “Go on, then.”

Louis’ foot bounced nervously against the floor, like his body was trying to burn off all the feelings he didn’t know how to say. “I was thinking,” he said eventually. “About… I dunno. About making it proper.”

His mum frowned slightly. “Proper?”

“Like, filing for custody.” The words felt too big in his mouth, but once they were out, they stayed. “For Haz.”

Her face softened immediately, her hand reaching for his, squeezing gently. “Love, he’s nearly eighteen.”

“Exactly,” Louis said. “Just a few months left. But that’s still a few months where he could end up back there if something happens. If you were his legal guardian, even just temporary, she couldn’t take him back. Couldn’t yank him away just because she feels like it.”

His mum went quiet for a moment, her thumb tracing circles on the back of Louis’ hand, the same way Louis had done for Harry upstairs. “Are you sure that’s what Harry wants?”

Louis exhaled sharply through his nose. “He doesn’t even know I’m thinking about it yet. But I know what I saw in that house today, Mum. And I know what it did to him just being back there in his head. He can’t go back, ever. And if making it legal is the only way to make sure of that, then we should.”

His mum’s face twisted in that complicated way it always did when her heart was too full — pride and sorrow and love all tangled up together. “You love him a lot, don’t you?”

Louis huffed a laugh. “Like it’s embarrassing.”

She smiled, brushing a hand through his hair the way she used to when he was small. “Alright, my love. I’ll look into it first thing tomorrow.”

Louis’ chest eased, the tightness loosening just a bit. “Thanks, Mum.”

“Anything for you two,” she said softly. “You know that.”

Louis leaned into her side for a minute, letting himself be her kid again, just for a moment, before he stood up, yawning dramatically. “Right. I better get back up before Play-Doh wakes up and thinks I’ve run off.”

His mum smiled, a little sad, a little proud. “You’re a good boy, Louis. No matter what you think.”

Louis snorted, but there was no bite behind it. “Don’t spread that around. I’ve got a reputation.”

She let him go with a kiss to the top of his head, and Louis went back upstairs, slipping into bed beside Harry, pulling him close in his sleep. Harry shifted instinctively, face pressing into Louis’ chest, one hand curling into his hoodie like an anchor.

“We’re gonna get you sorted, Play-Doh,” Louis whispered into his hair. “One way or another.”

And with that, Louis finally let himself sleep.

The next morning, Harry was still curled up against Louis’ side when the first bit of light filtered in through the curtains. His face was peaceful, softer than Louis had seen in a while, but his fingers were still loosely gripping the hem of Louis’ hoodie — like even in sleep, he was scared Louis might disappear. Louis stayed still, not wanting to wake him just yet, but his mind was already turning, thinking about how to bring up the conversation that had been waiting at the back of his throat since last night.

When they finally made their way downstairs — Harry wearing Louis’ socks because he couldn’t find his own, Louis’ hair sticking up at every angle — the house was already awake. The twins were fighting over who got to eat the last slice of toast, Lottie was halfway through plaiting Daisy’s hair, and Louis’ mum was standing at the stove making more tea, humming to herself like it was any other normal morning.

It was the kind of chaotic comfort Louis had grown up with, and Harry was still learning how to fit into. Louis could feel Harry’s hesitation in the way he lingered just inside the kitchen doorway, not quite sure where to sit, where to step, how to belong in a family that made noise without consequence. Louis reached back, curling his fingers around Harry’s wrist, pulling him gently into the fray.

They settled at the table with fresh tea, Louis’ mum giving Harry a soft smile before getting pulled into an argument about which twin was supposed to feed the cat. Louis took a deep breath, the noise filling the room giving him cover to lean in close to Harry and murmur, “Can we talk about something? It’s not bad, I promise.”

Harry raised a brow, half suspicious, half sleepy. “Alright.”

Louis waited until the tea was safe in Harry’s hands — warm mug, something to hold onto — before he started. “Me and my mum were talking last night. About making this… I dunno. Official?”

Harry frowned slightly, blowing on his tea. “Official how?”

Louis shifted in his seat, foot nudging against Harry’s under the table. “Like, my mum could apply for custody. Just for the year until you’re eighteen. It’d mean if your mum ever tried to pull you back, legally she couldn’t. You’d be ours until you decided otherwise.”

Harry went still, fingers tightening around the mug. “Custody,” he repeated softly, like the word didn’t quite make sense in his mouth.

“Only if you want,” Louis added quickly, heart racing. “No one’s forcing you into anything. It’s just… I know you don’t want to go back there. And I know my mum, she already loves you like you’re hers. This would just make it… real. Safe.”

Harry stared into his tea, face unreadable, and for a second Louis panicked, thinking maybe he’d overstepped. Maybe it was too much, too soon. Maybe Harry still wanted to believe that his mum could change, that she might wake up one morning and decide to care the way Louis’ mum did so easily.

“I don’t want to hurt her feelings,” Harry said quietly, voice small.

Louis softened. “You wouldn’t be. She doesn’t have to know if you don’t want her to.”

Harry swallowed hard, his foot nudging back against Louis’ under the table. “Would it really be okay? Like… for your mum? For all of you?”

Louis snorted softly. “Baby, the twins already think we‘re married. They’d probably riot if you left.”

Harry smiled, small but real. “Okay,” he said, breath shaky. “Yeah. Let’s do it.”

Louis exhaled, tension flooding out of his shoulders. “Yeah?”

Harry nodded, and Louis could see the shine in his eyes, like he was overwhelmed, but not in a bad way — just in the way someone gets when they realize they’re wanted, properly wanted, for the first time.

“Okay,” Louis said again, softer now. “We’ll do it.”

Harry’s hand found his under the table, fingers curling tight, and Louis squeezed back. Across the kitchen, Johannah glanced over, her smile gentle, her eyes full of quiet understanding.

They had a plan now. A future. Something solid to hold onto.

 

Filing the papers ended up being a lot less dramatic than Louis had expected. In his head, he’d imagined some big, emotional scene — a courtroom or at least a cramped office, Harry’s mum kicking off, shouting about how they were trying to steal her son. Maybe even a tearful plea, a last-minute promise to do better, to get sober, to be the mum Harry had always deserved.

But none of that happened.

They sent the paperwork off, with Harry’s quiet signature at the bottom, and a week later, Anne was called. She didn’t even show up in person. Just gave a disinterested, half-hearted response over the phone, something along the lines of yeah, if he wants to live there, fine, whatever . No fight. No resistance. No real care at all.

It should’ve made Louis happy — relieved, at the very least. It meant things were easier this way, meant Harry could stay without any drama. But instead, it left a hollow ache in Louis’ chest, because it was just another reminder that Harry had never been anyone’s priority. Not until now.

Johannah got the official letter confirming it not long after. Temporary custody until Harry’s eighteenth birthday, and with it came the quiet kind of victory that didn’t feel like a celebration — because getting custody over someone who deserved better parents in the first place wasn’t something you popped champagne over. It was just what you did, because it was right, because it was family , because there was no version of the world where Harry didn’t belong with them now.

Louis’ mum stuck the letter right next to the Polaroid on the fridge, the two of them side by side — the photo of Harry laughing with Louis, and the piece of paper that made it official. Proof that even if they were both still a bit of a mess, at least they were a wanted mess.

And when Louis told Harry the news, Harry just nodded, trying to smile but not quite managing, eyes too shiny, voice too tight when he said, “Thanks for keeping me.”

And Louis hugged him tight, kissed his forehead, and whispered, “Always, Play-Doh.”

Because some things didn’t need to be complicated. Some things were just that simple.

They were each other’s now. Properly.

For better, for worse, for whatever came next.

And what came next, were six months.

Somehow, they made it six whole months.

It wasn’t pretty. It wasn’t easy. It wasn’t even close to perfect. There were cravings so sharp Louis swore he could taste the drip in the back of his throat some mornings, and Harry still had dreams where he was scouring the carpet for lost pills, waking up shaking and breathless, clutching at Louis like he might float away if Harry let go. There were fights too — some small, some big, some so stupid they couldn’t even remember how they started. But they didn’t use. Not once. Not even when it felt impossible.

So when the six-month mark rolled around, Johannah didn’t let it slip by unnoticed. She cleared her shift at work, sent the girls to their mates’ houses for the night, and made it their night. Louis and Harry came home from a walk — something they did a lot now, just wandering around the estate, talking about everything and nothing — and the whole kitchen was covered in decorations. Homemade signs, balloons, and in the middle of the table, a cake with 6 MONTHS CLEAN piped across the top in slightly shaky icing.

Louis stared at it for a second, caught completely off guard. Harry blinked hard, like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to smile or if this was some kind of joke.

“We’re celebrating,” Johannah said simply, wiping her hands on a tea towel. “Because I’m proud of you both, and you deserve to feel proud.”

Louis’ throat tightened so fast it actually hurt. “It’s just six months.”

“ Just ?” Johannah raised an eyebrow. “Louis, love, you’ve never done six months clean in your life . And Harry, you’ve been fighting this since you were practically a baby. Six months is huge. ”

Harry was still staring at the cake, fingers curling into the hem of Louis’ hoodie like he needed something to hold onto. Louis knew exactly how he felt — pride and shame and disbelief all tangled up until you couldn’t tell where one ended and the next began.

They ate dinner together, just the three of them — something hearty and warm, Louis’ mum’s famous shepherd’s pie, the kind of meal that hugged your ribs from the inside out. They talked about everything except drugs, except rehab, except the reasons they were celebrating at all. They talked about Lottie’s latest crush, about Daisy’s terrible taste in music, about how Louis had finally been hired back at Toys R Us after showing up sober to beg for a second chance. They talked about Harry’s plans for his eighteenth birthday, about how he’d finally started thinking about getting his GCSEs sorted, even if school still made him feel twitchy and too big for the room. They talked like they were just normal , and for the first time in a long time, Louis almost believed they could be.

After dinner, they cut the cake, the girls sneaking home just in time to steal a slice each before getting sent off to bed. Louis’ mum lit a candle even though it wasn’t anyone’s birthday, just for the hell of it, and made them both make a wish. Louis didn’t say his out loud, but he knew it by heart — let us make it to a year.

Harry blew out his candle, eyes soft and serious, and Louis had a feeling their wishes were probably the same.

Later, when the house was quiet and they were curled up in bed, the cake settled in their stomachs, Harry whispered into the dark, “Six months.”

Louis smiled against Harry’s curls. “Six fucking months.”

“Think we can make it to a year?”

“Together or not at all,” Louis whispered, and Harry’s fingers curled tighter into his hand.

They were still just kids. Still figuring it out. Still craving things they shouldn’t and terrified of the people they were without them. But they had six months. They had each other. They had a family that refused to give up on them.

And maybe — maybe — that was enough to make it to forever.

 

It was one of those nights that felt off from the start, though neither of them said it out loud. Some weeks had passed since their six-month milestone, and things had settled into a comfortable rhythm — work, walks, movie nights, cigarettes shared on the back step, the occasional party with their usual lot. They were doing alright , better than Louis ever thought they’d be capable of.

So when Harry suggested the party, Louis didn’t think much of it at first. Harry had seen a flyer taped to the lamppost near the chippy, scrawled in some barely legible handwriting — House Party, Saturday @ 9, bring your own booze & vibes . Normally, they’d only go to parties where they knew most of the people, ones hosted by Niall or Eleanor or some bloke Zayn knew from school. But Harry had been in a good mood all week, practically bouncing off the walls, and when he tugged on Louis’ sleeve with that grin, saying let’s just go see , Louis had said yes without hesitation.

They showed up just after ten, a pack of cheap lager in Louis’ hand, Harry already swinging their linked fingers between them. The house wasn’t too far from their own, a narrow semi-detached with music thudding through the walls and a handful of people smoking on the front step. It was the type of party they’d been to a hundred times before — dim lights, someone’s mum’s furniture pushed into a corner, the air heavy with a mix of weed and something sharper that Louis knew too well. But they were older now, smarter, sober enough to see it for what it really was: messy, desperate, a bit sad if you looked too closely.

At first, it wasn’t too bad. They stuck to each other, like they always did, drinking their beers slowly, making dumb jokes about the music and the dodgy wallpaper. They found a relatively quiet corner of the living room, a threadbare armchair that Harry somehow managed to squeeze himself and Louis into, limbs tangled like they couldn’t sit separately if they tried. Louis thought they’d get through the night just fine, just two sober boys in a sea of fucked-up strangers, laughing at all the things they used to be.

The moment they saw Nick across the room, Harry’s hand tightened around Louis’ wrist. Not in fear, not really. More like instinct — like Harry was grounding himself the second the past walked back into their lives.

“Shit,” Louis muttered under his breath, but not with the kind of venom he would’ve thrown months ago. It was more complicated than that. Nick was… Nick. Part ghost, part memory, part mate. They’d laughed with him more times than Louis could count, cried with him maybe twice, and gotten absolutely obliterated with him more times than Louis’ fried brain could remember. They hadn’t seen him since before rehab, but the second Nick’s eyes landed on them, his whole face lit up like they’d never left.

“Oi!” Nick shouted, shouldering his way through the crowd like he’d just spotted long-lost family. “If it isn’t my two little fucked up sober gremlins.”

Harry’s laugh came quicker than Louis expected — startled and bright, like he hadn’t quite decided if it was funny or not. Louis let it happen, plastering on a grin that was only halfway fake. “You look like shit,” Louis said, because that’s how they always greeted each other.

Nick clutched his chest dramatically. “And you two look positively glowing with health and good decisions. I’m hurt.”

They ended up outside, because the house was too loud and too crowded, and Nick had always been better company under the sky anyway. They perched on the low brick wall, Nick chain-smoking like it was an Olympic sport, Harry leaning into Louis’ side, both of them drinking cheap lager from the corner shop.

“So what’s all this I hear about you two going soft?” Nick asked, eyes flicking between them like they were a science experiment. “Rehab? Sobriety? Who the fuck are you and what have you done with Lou and Haz?”

Louis shrugged, playing it cool. “Trying something new.”

Harry smiled, softer. “Turns out not dying is actually quite nice.”

Nick snorted. “Big fan of not dying myself.” He stretched his legs out, sneakers scuffed to hell, the same ones Louis remembered from way back. “But come on, no little slips? No fun at all?”

“Beer’s enough,” Louis said, tapping his can against Nick’s. “For now.”

Nick gave them a look — part impressed, part disbelieving, but not unkind. “Fair enough.”

They talked shit for a while after that — catching up on who’d been arrested, who’d gotten pregnant, who’d disappeared to who-knows-where. Nick was still Nick, still messy, still living in that strange limbo where you’re half-proud, half-ashamed of being the last man standing. Louis could see the familiar hunger in Nick’s eyes when they talked about the old days, but it wasn’t accusatory. It was more like… nostalgia, even if it was for all the wrong things.

They hung out for a while after that, the three of them jammed into the corner of a torn-up sofa, beers between their knees, conversation as easy as it had always been. Nick still talked like every story ended with “…and then we got absolutely wrecked, ” and Louis and Harry laughed along, even though that was supposed to be the past now. But it was familiar, and that was dangerous in its own right.

And then Nick pulled out the baggie.

Louis didn’t even flinch. Just shook his head with a grin. “Nah, mate. We’re off all that now.”

“Suit yourselves,” Nick shrugged, not even pushing — just setting the bag down on the table in front of them like it was a paperweight, like it wasn’t the exact thing that had nearly killed them both more than once.

Louis barely gave it a second glance, already turning back to Harry with some joke on his lips — but Harry’s eyes were locked onto it. His whole body had gone still, fingers twitching against his knee, throat bobbing with a hard swallow.

Louis nudged him gently. “Haz.”

Harry blinked like he’d been caught daydreaming, but instead of shaking his head, instead of saying no , he leaned in close, voice low. “What if we just… I don’t know. One? Just to see?”

Louis froze. “Harry.”

“We’re doing so good,” Harry rushed out, already talking himself into it. “We’ve proved we can stop. One’s not gonna ruin us. Right?”

Louis’ heart was pounding in his chest, panic threading through his veins — not because he didn’t want it, but because he knew how easy it was to say just one and wake up six months later with a nosebleed and no memory of where you’ve been. “Haz, come on. We made a pact.”

“Together or not at all,” Harry said softly. “So if you say no, we walk away.”

Louis should’ve said no. Every bit of logic, every bit of work they’d done, every tear in group, every promise they’d made to Louis’ mum — it was all screaming no .

But Harry’s eyes were wide and shiny, hopeful in the way only addicts understand — that desperate, aching hope that maybe this time will be different, this time they can have just one and walk away clean.

Louis didn’t say no.

He didn’t say anything at all.

He just leaned forward, plucked the baggie off the table, and tapped out two lines.

Harry smiled like Louis had just promised him the world.

And Louis couldn’t even be mad at him — because Harry was still learning how to be okay without something in his veins, and Louis had never been strong enough to say no to him.

They did the lines together, the way they always had — Louis rolling up a note, handing it to Harry first, watching the way Harry’s whole body eased the second the powder hit. Then Louis did his, the familiar numbness spreading across his gums, his brain lighting up like a fucking Christmas tree.

Nick cheered softly, clapping them both on the back like they’d just joined some secret club again. Louis could feel Harry’s leg bouncing beside him, could feel the euphoria already softening the edges of the night, and for a second — just a second — Louis let himself believe they’d be fine.

They weren’t fine.

But for that moment, they felt like they were.

Zayn spotted them the second he walked into the living room, his stomach dropping the moment his eyes landed on them, sprawled out on the sofa like they owned the place.

It wasn’t hard to tell .

He’d known them high—knew the signs like the back of his hand, knew the way their bodies melted into whatever surface they’d found, knew the way their pupils were too wide , the way their fingers twitched against their thighs, the way their movements were just a fraction too loose .

And fuck , after six months ?

After everything?

His jaw clenched, hands curling into fists at his sides.

Louis was laughing at something—head tipped back against the cushions, a lazy, open-mouthed grin on his face, his entire body humming with it. Harry was pressed against his side, half-draped over him, eyes shining , fingers gripping onto the hem of Louis’ hoodie like it was the only thing keeping him tethered.

Zayn didn’t hesitate.

He stormed forward, shoving between the people lingering around them, stopping right in front of the couch, arms crossed over his chest.

Louis blinked up at him, slow, unfocused, and fuck , it was like looking at a ghost, like seeing the version of him that Zayn thought they’d buried .

“Oh, fuck off ,” Louis muttered, shifting, the grin still there , still so fucking careless .

Zayn didn’t move. “Are you serious ?”

Harry, who had barely acknowledged him yet, hummed, shifting further into Louis’ side. “Zaynie, mate,” he murmured, voice wrecked and syrupy smooth, the way it only ever got when he was high. “Sit down, yeah?”

Zayn ignored the invitation, his hands twitching at his sides.

“How long?” he demanded.

Louis sighed , rubbing at his face. “Jesus Christ , one night, alright?”

Zayn clenched his jaw. “ One night ?” he repeated, voice flat.

Harry finally looked up at him then, blinking slow , his lips slightly parted, like he was barely registering what was happening.

And that— that was what pissed Zayn off the most.

He’d seen Harry wrecked, seen him spiraling, seen him completely lost , and he’d seen what it took for him to claw his way out of it.

And now?

Now they were right back here , barely conscious of the fact that they were falling again .

Zayn exhaled sharply, running a hand over his face before shaking his head. “You’re both fucking idiots .”

Louis scoffed , tipping his head back against the couch again. “He caved first.”

Zayn shot a glare at him. “And you fucking followed ? Are you stupid ?”

Harry frowned slightly, shifting like he was going to say something, but then—then his grin came back, slow and easy, like he wasn’t actually taking in what was happening.

Zayn couldn’t fucking look at them anymore.

He turned sharply on his heel, shoving his way back through the crowd, teeth clenched so hard his jaw ached .

They were idiots .

And if they didn’t fix this, they were going to fucking lose everything .

The news traveled fast, the way it always did. Their circle was too tight, too tangled, for anything to stay quiet for long. By the time Louis and Harry had drifted into the kitchen for another drink, it was obvious— everyone knew.

Eleanor was leaning against the counter, arms crossed, chewing absently on her bottom lip as she watched them with something unreadable in her eyes. Niall perched on the table, lazily swinging one foot back and forth, the bottle in his hand half-empty already, but his expression wasn’t playful anymore. Oli sat beside him, flicking his lighter open and shut, the rhythmic click-click-click barely audible over the music pounding through the house.

And then there was Zayn.

He stood by the fridge, arms crossed, cigarette tucked between his fingers, watching them with the kind of unimpressed stare that made Louis’ stomach twist slightly. He didn’t look angry anymore, not like he had in the living room, but there was something heavier in his expression, something that made Louis want to look away .

But no one said anything.

Not at first.

And that—that was how Louis knew .

No one was calling them fucking idiots , no one was yelling, no one was dragging them outside for some serious, gut-wrenching talk . Because in their world, you didn’t get to judge . Not when you’d been there, too. Not when you’d made the same choices, fucked yourself up the same way, told yourself the same lies.

So they did what they always did.

They accepted it .

They let it be .

Eleanor sighed first, rubbing a hand over her face before reaching for the bottle beside her and pouring herself another drink. “You two are fucking useless ,” she muttered, shaking her head. “But whatever. Not my circus.”

Louis snorted, grabbing a beer off the counter, popping the cap off with a quick flick of his wrist. “Feels like our circus, though.”

Harry hummed, tilting his head slightly, bumping their shoulders together. “And we’re the clowns.”

That made Niall laugh—an actual, sharp cackle —and just like that, the air shifted, the weight of it cracking apart like ice splitting on a frozen pond.

It wasn’t a fight.

It wasn’t an intervention.

It was just them .

Because that was how it worked . They let each other live, let each other fuck up, let each other figure it out —or not. They had all made the same mistakes too many times to pretend they had the right to stop someone else from making them, too.

Maybe that was the problem .

Maybe that was why none of them ever really got better .

But Louis didn’t think about that now.

Not when Harry was warm against his side, his fingers twitching slightly where they brushed against Louis’ wrist. Not when their friends still felt like their friends , no matter what. Not when the night stretched out in front of them, still waiting, still theirs .

Notes:

Well, honestly you guys shouldn‘t be surprised

if you are surprised, read the title again, but slowly

Chapter 21: Chapter 21

The night slipped sideways so fast they didn’t even notice. One minute they were sober enough to make fun of the dodgy wallpaper, laughing at Nick’s shit jokes and nursing their beers like they were pacing themselves — and the next, they were flying .

It hit different than it used to. Harder, faster, meaner. Almost seven months clean had obliterated their tolerance, so when they did that first line, it was like their bodies remembered exactly what to do — hearts racing too fast, pupils blown wide, sweat pricking along their hairlines even though the house was freezing.

But they weren’t thinking about any of that.

They were laughing too hard, talking too fast, climbing over each other’s words like they’d been shot out of a cannon. Every joke was the funniest thing they’d ever heard, every brush of skin electric. Louis could feel his own pulse pounding in his fingertips when he clutched Harry’s thigh, and Harry’s leg was bouncing so hard it shook the whole sofa.

Nick had fucked off at some point — they didn’t even see him leave — but the party kept going, and somehow, somewhere, another baggie had appeared. Neither of them knew who it belonged to, neither of them cared. Louis found it half-crushed between the cushions, held it up like some sort of prize, and Harry just grinned, wide and sloppy, his tongue between his teeth.

“Together,” Harry said, the word barely audible over the music.

“Or not at all,” Louis finished, already tapping out another two lines on the sticky glass coffee table.

Their hands shook as they bent down, the high already running riot in their bloodstreams, but more was always better, wasn’t it? That was the rule. More meant staying this high, this happy, this untouchable.

The second round hit even harder — their faces numb, jaws clenching so tight Louis was sure his teeth were going to shatter. Harry kept licking his lips, the constant movement frantic and restless, and Louis couldn’t stop fidgeting, fingers tugging at the hem of Harry’s shirt, then at his own hair, then at nothing at all.

They drank more too, lager mixing with vodka mixing with the coke until Louis couldn’t tell what was making his heart race and what was making everything feel so fucking good . They danced a bit, badly, shouting the wrong words to songs they didn’t even like, Harry climbing onto Louis’ back at one point, nearly sending them both sprawling.

They didn’t know what time it was, didn’t care. The only thing that mattered was the buzz under their skin, the way the world felt weightless, like they could float right out of this shitty party and up into the sky if they wanted to.

“Play-Doh,” Louis shouted over the music, grabbing Harry’s face between both hands, their noses bumping together. “We’re fucking legends.”

Harry giggled, nose scrunching. “We’re fucking idiots.”

“Same thing.”

They kissed then, messy and desperate, teeth knocking together because neither of them could hold still long enough to get it right. It tasted like coke and alcohol and bad decisions, but it felt like home , and Louis’ brain was too fried to remember why that was a bad thing.

They barely noticed when the party started to thin out, people trickling away into the night. They just kept going — talking too fast, touching too much, pulling each other into the kitchen to raid someone’s cupboards, eating dry cereal straight from the box while giggling so hard they nearly choked.

They were kings of the night again, unstoppable, untouchable — just like old times.

And somewhere, under all the euphoria, buried so deep neither of them could reach it, was the part of them that knew .

They’d fucked up.

They stumbled down their street just before sunrise, the sky that eerie shade of deep blue that only exists for about twenty minutes before the sun breaks over the horizon. They were still wired, buzzing from the coke, hearts thudding too loud in their chests, hands jittery as they linked fingers and tugged each other along the pavement like a pair of feral kids who’d snuck out after curfew.

Louis’ house was quiet when they got there, the front door locked tight, curtains still drawn. They could’ve knocked, sure, but Louis knew his mum was a light sleeper these days — always half-waiting for disaster to knock at her door — and the last thing either of them wanted was to face her in this state. So they did what they’d done a hundred times before the 90 day rehab ever existed — climbed the side gate, hoisted each other up onto the windowsill, and slid through Louis’ bedroom window like they were breaking into their own lives.

Harry tripped halfway in, nearly face-planting onto the carpet, which sent Louis into a fit of giggles that he tried desperately to muffle with both hands. Harry clamped a hand over Louis’ mouth, eyes wide but still sparkling with leftover high, and they collapsed onto the bed in a tangled mess, laughing into each other’s skin like nothing bad had ever touched them.

They didn’t sleep — couldn’t, really — just lay there buzzing, hearts still racing too fast, hands restless under the blankets. They whispered nonsense to each other until the sun was fully up, reminiscing about old parties, making plans for holidays they’d never take, talking too fast and too much because silence was terrifying when you were this spun out.

When they finally heard the house creak to life — the kettle whistling downstairs, Johannah’s soft voice calling the twins for breakfast — Louis glanced at Harry, something quiet flickering behind the haze in his eyes. “Ready to act normal?”

Harry smiled, biting his lip, and Louis could see the edge of nerves beneath it — but also confidence, because if there was one thing they knew how to do better than anyone, it was lie . “Born ready.”

They washed up quickly — cold water splashed on their faces, brushing their teeth twice to cover the chemical taste still coating their tongues. Louis tugged on a clean hoodie, Harry borrowed a pair of joggers from Louis’ drawer, and they made their way downstairs looking like two perfectly sober, well-rested teenage boys.

Louis’ mum was in the kitchen, hair a bit wild, a mug of tea in her hand. “Morning, loves,” she said, smile soft. “Sleep well?”

“Like babies,” Louis lied smoothly, grabbing a slice of toast off the counter, already chewing before she could question them too closely.

Harry nodded along, sipping his tea with both hands like it was some sacred ritual. His fingers only trembled once, and Louis’ mum didn’t seem to notice.

They were good at this — too good. Every smile was easy, every laugh perfectly timed, every casual touch between them looking innocent instead of the desperate grounding they actually needed. The girls chatted at the table, oblivious, and Johannah was too busy fussing over packed lunches to notice the slight twitch in Harry’s jaw or the way Louis kept licking his lips like his mouth was still too dry.

They were addicts, sure. But they were polished addicts — the kind who could charm their way out of anything, the kind who knew exactly how to look normal even when they were falling apart inside.

And that scared Louis more than the comedown ever could.

Because they could get away with it.

Because they were getting away with it.

And if no one caught them, who was going to make them stop?

And that’s exactly what happened.

They got away with it.

No one noticed. Not Johannah, not the girls, not even Zayn or Niall when they saw them later that week. No one clocked the glassiness in their eyes or the way their pupils never quite adjusted to the light. No one noticed how they chewed gum like their lives depended on it, trying to cover the stale chemical taste. No one caught on when they spent half the afternoon giggling into each other’s necks, hands restless under the table, too affectionate, too fast, too bright. Everyone assumed they were just two idiots in love.

They were good at this. Too good.

And getting away with it? That was the worst thing that could have happened.

Because after the first time, it got easier.

That first relapse had been almost hesitant — a toe dipped back into old waters, a little taste to see if they still wanted it. But once they knew they could do it without getting caught, the floodgates opened wide.

It became their thing , all over again.

They started sneaking off more — late-night walks that always ended with a trip to Nick’s or someone else they vaguely knew from back when Louis was just a dealer and not a user. They never planned it, never said out loud let’s relapse again today . It was just a look, a grin, a whispered fuck it, just a bump , and suddenly they were back at it, lines on bathroom counters, pills washed down with corner shop vodka, hands clutching at each other when the high got too sharp.

They enabled each other at every turn, not even pretending to be strong anymore. If one of them wanted it, the other agreed without hesitation. They used the same logic they’d once used to stay clean — together or not at all . Only now it meant they dragged each other down instead of holding each other up.

They were back to hiding stashes in the most creative places — the loose panel in Louis’ wardrobe, the empty VHS case under Harry’s side of the bed, the cigarette box with a false bottom. They knew all the tricks. They were too smart for their own good. And they still passed every one of Johannah’s weekly drug tests, because addicts like them didn’t just learn how to lie — they perfected it, lying, and also the art of sneaking watered down apple juice into the cups.

They stopped even pretending to feel guilty after a while.

The first few times, Louis’ heart had pounded with panic the morning after, convinced his mum would somehow know . But she didn’t. She trusted them — and that trust made them cocky. Made them reckless. Made them fucking invincible .

Soon it was every weekend, then a few times a week, until there wasn’t really a line anymore between the good days and the bad. They were using again — not constantly, not enough to completely wreck their lives yet , but enough that it was always there. Always in their blood, always behind their eyes, always just beneath the surface.

It wasn’t fun anymore, not really. It was just what they did.

They were both too proud and too fucked up to stop each other, because stopping would mean admitting they couldn’t control it, and neither of them wanted to say those words out loud. So they let it keep rolling, hand in hand, feeding off each other’s worst instincts, drowning out the quiet with pills and powder and promises they never meant to keep.

They were together .

They were fucked .

And they didn’t care.

Harry’s 18th birthday was coming fast — too fast, if you asked Louis. It was supposed to be something to celebrate, something to be proud of. They’d made it this far, hadn’t they? They were still alive, still together, still technically functional .

But functional didn’t mean healthy.

They’d slipped so deep back into old habits that Louis didn’t even remember what being sober felt like anymore. Every week started with a bump to get out of bed, a pill to soften the edges, a joint before dinner, a line before bed. It was casual, almost — background noise. And it was so easy, because they were so fucking good at hiding it.

But Harry’s birthday was different.

They were lying in bed one night — a week out — and Louis was rolling a joint while Harry stared at the ceiling, fingers tapping out some frantic rhythm against Louis’ thigh, jaw working overtime from their earlier line. And out of nowhere, Harry just said it.

“I don’t want to turn eighteen like this.”

Louis froze, lighter in hand. “Like what?”

“Fucked up,” Harry said simply. “I wanna remember it, Lou.”

Louis’ stomach dropped, guilt rushing in like cold water. “We will ,” he said, too quick. “We always do.”

“No, we remember the idea of it,” Harry argued, voice sharper than Louis expected. “Not the details. Not the bits that actually matter .”

Louis swallowed hard, the weight of it sinking in. “So… what? We stop?”

Harry rolled onto his side, face too serious, fingers tracing lazy shapes against Louis’ stomach. “We quit. Cold turkey. No more bullshit.”

“Cold turkey’s gonna suck,” Louis muttered, trying to make a joke of it, but it barely landed.

“Yeah,” Harry said softly. “But I want to be sober when I turn eighteen. I want to actually have that birthday. With you. With your mum and the girls and our friends. I want to be there , not off my head.”

Louis didn’t say yes right away. Because saying yes meant facing the fact that they weren’t just having fun anymore. Saying yes meant admitting they’d fallen back into something worse . But Louis looked at Harry — properly looked at him, the dark circles, the too-thin wrists, the way his smile never quite reached his eyes anymore — and there wasn’t really a choice to make.

“Together or not at all,” Louis said, voice soft.

Harry’s smile broke something in Louis’ chest.

“Together,” Harry whispered.

They started the next morning.

Cold turkey. No weaning off, no gentle fade-out, no stash kept “just in case.” Louis flushed everything — every pill, every baggie, every crumb they could find — right down the toilet with Harry standing next to him, hand curled tight around his wrist like he was anchoring them both.

It was hell.

The first day was mostly nerves — sweaty hands, snapping at each other over nothing, pacing the house like caged animals. But the second day? That’s when it hit.

The body aches, the sweats, the nausea. Harry couldn’t keep anything down. Louis couldn’t stop shaking. They felt too hot and too cold at the same time, every nerve ending screaming. They took turns crying into each other’s shoulders, no shame left, just survival.

Johannah knew something was up — she wasn’t stupid — but she didn’t say a word. Just kept the kettle on, made endless pots of soup they barely touched, left cool cloths on the bathroom sink without asking.

They barely slept. When they did, the nightmares came fast — all their worst memories twisted into fever dreams. They woke up clutching each other, shaking so hard their teeth chattered, whispering apologies they didn’t need to say.

They almost broke on the fourth day. Louis was sitting on the edge of the bed, drenched in sweat, head in his hands, and Harry was pacing so hard he nearly wore a hole in the carpet. Louis’ skin felt wrong , like he wasn’t supposed to be in it, and Harry kept mumbling about how easy it would be to just call someone — just one call, one bump, one line.

But they didn’t.

They held on.

They held onto each other like their lives depended on it — because they did.

By the sixth day, the worst of it had passed. They were still raw, still shaky, but they were eating again. Laughing again. They spent an entire afternoon in the back garden, wrapped in a blanket even though it was barely cold, smoking cigarettes and drinking tea and making stupid lists of everything they were going to do once they felt normal again.

Harry’s 18th birthday came, and they were clean . Exhausted and a little fragile, but clean .

They did it together.

Because that’s who they were.

Together or not at all.

The perfect 18th birthday, Tomlinson style, started the second Harry’s eyes opened.

It wasn’t subtle. Louis had made sure of that. There were balloons taped to the ceiling, homemade banners drawn with marker and glitter glue strung across the room, and the twins had snuck in at some ungodly hour to dump a whole bag of confetti directly onto Harry’s pillow. Harry woke up with glitter in his hair, Louis grinning down at him, already fully dressed, holding a cup of tea in one hand and a wrapped present in the other.

“Happy birthday, Play-Doh,” Louis said, leaning down to kiss his forehead, brushing a bit of confetti away.

Harry blinked up at him, still half-asleep, curls a mess, but the smile that spread across his face made Louis’ chest ache in the best way. “Eighteen,” Harry said, like he couldn’t quite believe it.

“Eighteen,” Louis echoed, sitting cross-legged on the bed beside him. “Proper adult now. Probably gonna start demanding respect and paying council tax.”

“Piss off,” Harry laughed, voice all scratchy and warm. “What’s this?”

“First present of the day,” Louis said, wiggling the wrapped box in front of him. “Don’t get too excited. It’s just the warm-up.”

Harry tore into the paper, glitter falling from the folds, until he uncovered a pair of socks with cartoon aliens all over them. “These are amazing,” Harry grinned. “They’re gonna look so good at our wedding.”

“You’re such a dickhead,” Louis said, kissing his forehead again. “Come on, everyone’s waiting downstairs.”

When they walked into the kitchen, the whole house erupted into cheers. The girls were all there, still in their pajamas, holding homemade signs that were slightly misspelled and covered in stickers. Louis’ mum was holding a cake — full-sized, covered in way too much icing, with bright green candles because Louis told her that was Harry’s favorite color. There was a little stack of presents on the table, none of them expensive, all of them thoughtful.

“Happy birthday, Harry!” the girls screamed in unison, running up to hug him, nearly knocking him off his feet. Harry laughed so hard Louis thought he might actually cry.

They sang Happy Birthday, terribly off-key, and Harry blew out the candles while everyone cheered. The cake was eaten for breakfast, because why the hell not, and Louis’ mum gave Harry a card with a note tucked inside saying that, officially, her door would always be open. “You’ll always have a home here,” she said quietly, squeezing his shoulder. Harry’s eyes went suspiciously shiny, but no one said anything about it.

By noon, the house was full. Zayn showed up first, carrying a suspiciously large bag that turned out to be full of random shit — a plastic tiara, a secondhand stuffed giraffe, and a notebook labeled Harry’s Secrets that was already half-filled with ridiculous fake confessions. Niall and Eleanor arrived next, Niall already half-drunk because he believed every birthday required at least some form of day drinking. Oli came last, arms full of snacks, because Louis had assigned him snack duty the night before.

They didn’t throw a massive party — that wasn’t what Harry wanted. Instead, they grabbed a load of blankets and took everything out to the park, the same park where they used to get high and fall asleep under the stars. Only this time, they were sober. Fully present. They spread the blankets out in a messy pile, popped open cans of cider and cheap beer, and spent hours doing absolutely nothing except talking shit, playing cards, and daring each other to climb trees like they were still kids.

Louis gave Harry his real present then — a new journal, this one leather-bound, with For Play-Doh written inside the front cover. “For all your secrets you don’t want Zayn to know,” Louis said, eyes soft.

Harry ran his fingers over the cover, speechless for a moment, before he grabbed Louis’ face and kissed him hard enough to knock them both sideways. Everyone cheered like absolute dickheads, and Louis flipped them off without letting go of Harry.

They stayed out until the sun set, until the air got too cold and Eleanor started threatening to steal Louis’ hoodie. They walked back to the house in a messy cluster, arms around each other, laughing too loud for the quiet street.

That night, after everyone left, Harry curled up next to Louis in bed, the birthday crown the twins made still perched crookedly on his curls. “Best birthday ever,” Harry mumbled, voice sleepy and warm.

“Because of the socks?” Louis teased.

“Because of you,” Harry said, voice so soft Louis barely heard it.

Louis kissed his forehead one last time. “Eighteen looks good on you, Play-Doh.”

They just kept lying there like that — glitter still in Harry’s hair, cake crumbs still in the sheets, and for the first time in a long, long time, everything felt possible, not because of the drugs, but because they had eachother.

The night had settled into that perfect kind of quiet — the whole house asleep, the room only lit by the dim glow of Louis’ bedside lamp, Harry curled up beside him with his head resting against Louis’ chest, fingers tracing mindless patterns along his ribs. They were both still sticky with cake crumbs and a little buzzed from the beers in the park, but neither of them was in any rush to sleep.

Louis was fiddling with something behind Harry’s back, fingers digging through his bedside drawer until he found the small folded envelope he’d been hiding for a week. “Oi, Play-Doh,” Louis murmured, poking at Harry’s side until Harry groaned in protest and twisted just enough to look up at him.

“What?” Harry mumbled, but he was smiling already, lazy and soft, eyes still half-lidded from sleepiness and warmth.

“Got you one more thing,” Louis said, holding up the envelope between two fingers, wiggling it until Harry snatched at it like a toddler trying to steal sweets.

Harry sat up, legs crossing beneath him, and opened it with the same carefulness he applied to literally everything Louis ever gave him — like it was somehow sacred, even if it was just a crumpled bit of paper. Inside was a simple coupon, hand-drawn, decorated with tiny stick figures and a few hearts that Louis would deny ever drawing.

One Free Tattoo – Dealer’s Choice

Harry’s grin was blinding. “You’re fucking kidding me.”

“Dead serious,” Louis said, leaning back against the pillows, arms crossed like this wasn’t a big deal, even though Harry’s reaction was making his heart squeeze in the best way. “My mate from school’s working at this shop now, owes me a favor. Whatever you want, it’s on me.”

Harry stared at the coupon for a second, biting his lip in thought. Then he glanced up, that mischievous spark Louis knew too well flickering behind his eyes. “What if I want us to get matching ones?”

Louis’ mouth curled into a smirk. “Obviously.”

“Okay,” Harry said, thinking for a beat. “Then I want… something that’s us.”

Louis tilted his head, playful. “You want my face tattooed on your arse, don’t you?”

Harry snorted, kicking at Louis’ shin. “Close, but no.”

They went quiet for a moment, both thinking, both circling the same thought without saying it out loud — that whatever they chose, it had to mean something. Not just a joke, not just a party favor. It had to be them .

Then Harry’s eyes lit up. “You‘re getting a horseshoe.”

Louis raised a brow. “Why?”

“Because that’s you,” Harry said simply, like it was obvious. “You’ve always been my good luck charm. Even when we were both fucked up, you were still the one thing keeping me right.”

Louis’ throat went tight, but he grinned through it. “Alright. Horseshoe it is.”

“But—” Harry held up a finger. “it should be missing three nails.”

“Why?”

“Because that’s me,” Harry said, quieter now. “I’m the nails. I’m the bit that keeps you from falling apart.”

Louis had to look away for a second, blinking hard, because Harry saying shit like that always hit him square in the chest, leaving him breathless. “Fucking sap,” Louis muttered, voice rough.

“So you get the horseshoe,” Harry went on, smile soft, “and I get the three nails. Because that’s us, yeah? We hold each other together.”

Louis didn’t even hesitate. “Yeah, Haz. That’s us.”

The next afternoon, they walked into the tattoo shop together, fingers laced, the bell above the door jangling softly. It was a small, slightly grimy place tucked between a kebab shop and a nail salon, the kind of place you’d never trust for your first tattoo but always ended up at after enough late-night decisions.

Louis’ old mate Rob was working, slouched behind the counter with a cigarette dangling from his lips, even though there was a massive No Smoking sign right above his head.

“Well, shit,” Rob grinned when he saw them. “Look who decided to get inked like proper degenerates.”

Louis flipped him off fondly, already feeling at home. “You got time for us or what?”

“For you two? Always.” Rob stubbed out his cigarette in a cracked coffee mug and waved them toward the battered leather chairs in the back. “What’s the plan?”

They showed him the sketch Harry had drawn the night before — Louis’ horseshoe, simple and clean, and Harry’s three little nails, spaced just right. Rob glanced at it, brow quirking. “Matching? That’s cute.”

“Shut up,” Louis muttered, shoving him, but Harry only grinned.

Louis went first, because of course he did. The horseshoe was small but bold, curved perfectly to fit the inside of his underarm, just below the crook of his elbow. It hurt like a bitch — that soft, tender skin made for some colorful swearing — but Louis didn’t care. It was the good kind of pain, the kind that meant something.

Harry held his hand the whole time, fingers stroking against Louis’ wrist like some silent grounding technique. Neither of them spoke much, but they didn’t have to. It was in the air — heavy and soft, the kind of silence you only share with someone who knows every version of you.

When it was Harry’s turn, Louis switched places, leaning his chin on Harry’s shoulder as Rob inked the three small nails into the outer curve of Harry’s bicep, two inches below his shoulder. They were simple, just black lines, but they looked right there — delicate but unmissable, like tiny anchors holding Harry together.

Harry didn’t flinch once, but Louis could see the tension in his jaw, like every needle prick was settling somewhere deeper than skin. Louis traced slow, lazy circles on Harry’s knee, whispering, “Almost done, Play-Doh,” and Harry’s mouth twitched into a smile.

When both were finished, they stood side by side in the mirror, comparing ink. Louis’ horseshoe sat dark and bold against his pale skin, its three empty spaces glaring in the best way. Harry’s nails stood out sharp and simple against his bicep, catching the light when he flexed just to be a little shit.

“You’re the nails,” Louis said quietly, tracing one fingertip over Harry’s fresh ink. “You hold me together.”

Harry’s fingers brushed over the horseshoe on Louis’ arm, his throat bobbing. “And you’re my luck.”

They stared at each other for a beat too long, something so raw passing between them that Rob, despite being a total dickhead most days, looked away to give them a second.

“Alright, you saps,” Rob said, clapping them both on the shoulder hard enough to jolt them back into the room. “You’re all done. Now get out of here before I charge you extra for emotional damage.”

Louis paid, tipped well, and walked out into the cold afternoon air, both of them cradling their arms like they’d been branded. Which, in a way, they had.

They didn’t tell the full story when they showed the girls and Zayn and Niall later that night. They just said they wanted matching tattoos, something meaningful, and left it at that. But when Niall called them cheesy bastards, and Eleanor demanded to know why they didn’t get everyone’s initials inked as well, and Zayn just looked at them — really looked at them — Louis knew he got it.

Zayn didn’t say anything at first, just shook his head with that quiet little smile, the one Louis had known since they were twelve and pulling each other out of trouble. “Proud of you, mate,” Zayn said later, after everyone else had gone back to their drinks and chaos. “Both of you.”

Louis swallowed hard. “Yeah. Us too.”

They fell asleep that night curled into each other, foreheads touching, their arms pressed together so the horseshoe and the nails lined up perfectly.

They were just kids, still figuring it out, still half-fucked and fully in love.

But now it was written on their skin, and that had to count for something.

Louis had turned 19 two months before Harry’s birthday, and unlike most things in his life, it had passed quietly. No big party, no reckless night out, no chaos — just a cake his mum made, the girls singing off-key, and Harry giving him a homemade coupon for unlimited kisses, which Louis absolutely redeemed immediately.

What Harry didn’t know — what Louis hadn’t told anyone, not even Zayn — was that turning 19 flipped some kind of switch in his head. Because for all the celebrating they’d done about being six months clean and then making it to Harry’s 18th, Louis knew they couldn’t live at his mum’s forever. It was safe there, yeah. Comfortable. But it was still his mum’s . And they were both too old and too tangled up in each other to keep pretending they were just two kids crashing in the same room.

So Louis had started saving. Quietly, carefully. He set aside bits of his paycheck from Toys R Us — not much, but enough to start. Stopped buying extra packs of cigarettes, skipped the occasional night out, even nicked some loose change from Zayn’s car when he wasn’t looking. It wasn’t glamorous, but it added up.

At night, when Harry was asleep — mouth slightly open, hand always fisted in Louis’ hoodie like some kind of safety tether — Louis would scroll through listings on his phone. Most of them were shit — tiny, damp studios with bathrooms the size of a cupboard, or places so dodgy Louis wouldn’t even feel safe walking home after work. But he kept looking, because somewhere out there had to be a place that felt like theirs .

And then, two weeks before Harry’s birthday, the message came through.

Application approved. One bedroom flat, top floor, just off the high street.

Louis stared at it for so long his screen went dark, and even after he unlocked it again, the words didn’t quite feel real. He’d actually done it. They had a place. Their place.

It wasn’t fancy — the pictures showed peeling wallpaper and a kitchen that looked like it had been untouched since the 80s — but it was theirs. And for a flat in their area, it was practically luxury. A proper bedroom with a door that shut, a living room big enough for a secondhand sofa, and even a tiny balcony that overlooked the alley behind the building.

He didn’t tell Harry that night. Or the next. He wanted to, desperately, but there was something about holding onto it for just a little while longer — this secret, this proof that he could be responsible, that he could build something stable for the both of them.

He wanted to wrap it up somehow, turn it into one last birthday gift — not just a flat, but a future.

Because 19 wasn’t old. And 18 definitely wasn’t. But after everything they’d been through, Louis was starting to think maybe they’d earned a little bit of normal .

Notes:

Two recovering drug addicts who love to enable eachother moving in together? Aaaah, what could possibly go wrong?

Chapter 22: Chapter 22

Harry‘s birthday party that had somehow carried on after they‘d returned from the tattoo parlour had wound down the way all the best ones do — slowly, lazily, everyone too full and too tired to properly leave. Zayn was asleep on the sofa, Eleanor was lying on the floor with her feet up against the wall, humming along to some song no one else could hear, and Niall had disappeared at some point, last seen wrapped in a blanket cocoon on the back step with a half-eaten brownie in his hand.

But now it was just them. Just Louis and Harry, curled up together in Louis’ bed, the room still faintly smelling of cake and smoke and whatever cheap perfume the twins had sprayed all over Harry before he left their room.

Harry was half-asleep already, head on Louis’ chest, tracing absentminded shapes into Louis’ side. His birthday crown, bent and glitter-smeared, was still perched crookedly on his curls, and Louis couldn’t help but smile at how his Harry it all was — soft and chaotic and beautiful without trying.

“Haz,” Louis whispered, voice soft but a little shaky. His heart was pounding, though he didn’t know why — this was a good thing. The best thing.

“Mmh?” Harry hummed, shifting a little to get closer, arm tightening around Louis’ waist.

Louis reached under the bed, fingers brushing against the envelope he’d hidden there three days ago, pulling it out slowly. “I’ve got one last present for you.”

Harry lifted his head, blinking sleepily. “Lou, you already gave me socks and cake and kisses and a tattoo. I’m pretty sure that covers all the essentials.”

“Shut up,” Louis said, trying to sound playful but his voice was too tight. “Just open it.”

Harry sat up properly, rubbing at his eyes, and took the envelope with both hands. It was plain, nothing fancy, just Louis’ scrawl across the front — For Play-Doh, Happy Birthday.

“Why do you look like you’re about to shit yourself?” Harry asked, even as he was opening it, grinning around the words.

“Just—look.”

Harry pulled out the key first. It clinked softly against the envelope, silver and slightly worn, tied to a bright blue keyring that Louis had swiped from the clearance bin at the hardware store.

“What’s this?” Harry asked, frowning a little, but Louis could see the spark of realization starting to catch.

“Keep going,” Louis said, heart thudding.

There was a folded piece of paper beneath the key — a copy of the rental agreement, Louis’ name printed at the top, the address scrawled at the bottom, complete with the move-in date.

Harry’s hands shook a little as he read it, eyes flicking over the words like they might rearrange themselves if he looked away. “This—wait. This is a flat.”

“Our flat,” Louis corrected softly. “I got us a place.”

Harry’s mouth fell open, lips moving like he wanted to say something but couldn’t quite find the words. “You—what?”

“I didn’t wanna say anything until I knew it was ours,” Louis said, words tumbling out fast now, the dam broken. “I’ve been saving up for months. It’s not much, but it’s big enough for us, and it’s ours. No mums, no sisters barging in. Just… us.”

Harry stared at him, eyes wide and glassy, and for a terrifying second Louis thought maybe he’d done something wrong — maybe Harry wasn’t ready, maybe Harry liked living with the girls too much, maybe Louis had overstepped in the worst way.

But then Harry launched himself forward, arms wrapping tight around Louis’ neck, nearly knocking him flat against the mattress. “Are you serious?” Harry’s voice was thick, cracking in the middle. “We have a flat?”

Louis laughed, relief flooding in so fast it made him dizzy. “Yeah, Play-Doh. We have a flat.”

Harry kissed him then, fast and messy and desperate, both of them smiling too hard for it to really work. “You’re insane,” Harry whispered between kisses. “You’re actually insane and I love you.”

Louis’ heart flipped, but he only said, “Yeah, well, you love me so what does that say about you?”

They fell back onto the bed together, Harry clutching the key in one hand like it was some priceless treasure, his face pressed into Louis’ neck, still mumbling “We have a flat” over and over like he couldn’t quite believe it.

And Louis just held him, heart bursting with it all, because for the first time in his life, the future didn’t feel terrifying.

Louis didn’t tell his mum until the next morning, after the birthday chaos had faded into sleepy quiet, the girls off at school and Harry still passed out in Louis’ bed, drooling into his pillow like the human disaster he was.

He found her in the kitchen, still in her dressing gown, sipping tea at the table and half-watching some morning telly show she didn’t actually care about. Louis slid into the seat across from her, fingers tapping nervously against the tabletop until she glanced up at him with that knowing look only mums have.

“Alright, love?” she asked, eyes flicking over him like she was checking for trouble.

“Yeah,” Louis said, voice tighter than he wanted it to be. “Just… got something to tell you.”

She set her mug down, folding her hands together, giving him her full attention. “Go on.”

Louis took a deep breath, then said it all in one rush. “Me and Harry — well, mostly me, but it’s for both of us — we got a flat.”

Her brows lifted, surprise flickering across her face, but it was quickly replaced with something softer, warmer. “A flat?”

“Yeah,” Louis said, trying not to fidget. “Not too far, just off the high street. One bedroom. It’s not fancy or anything, but it’s ours.”

For a second, she just looked at him, eyes a little shiny in the morning light. “You saved up?”

“Been putting money aside since my birthday,” Louis admitted. “Didn’t tell anyone, didn’t wanna jinx it.”

A slow smile spread across her face, proud and a little wistful. “That’s… that’s very grown up of you.”

Louis shrugged, suddenly feeling a bit shy. “Figured it was time.”

She stood up, walked around the table, and cupped his face between her hands the way she had when he was little, pressing a kiss to his forehead. “I’m proud of you, Louis,” she said softly. “More than you’ll ever know.”

Louis’ throat tightened. “You’re not mad?”

“Why would I be mad?” She laughed. “You’re not sneaking off to some squat, love. You’re building something. A home for you and Harry.”

Louis swallowed hard, but nodded. “We’ll still be over all the time. You can’t get rid of us that easy.”

She smiled. “You better.”

They started packing the next afternoon. The girls hovered at the edges, wide-eyed and quiet, watching as Louis and Harry slowly dismantled the room they’d shared for over a year. Every drawer emptied, every shelf cleared, every poster taken down felt heavier than Louis expected. Not sad exactly, just… big . Like the end of something.

“You’re really leaving?” Daisy asked, her lower lip wobbling just slightly.

“Only down the road,” Louis promised, tugging her into a hug. “We’ll visit all the time. At least once a week, yeah? Movie nights and Sunday dinners, all of it.”

“Swear?” Phoebe asked from the doorway, arms crossed like she was pretending not to care, even though Louis could see the shine in her eyes too.

“Swear,” Louis said, holding out his pinky until both twins linked theirs with his.

Harry got dragged into it too, the girls insisting he was their brother now as well, which made him a bit teary-eyed even if he tried to hide it.

They packed slowly, filling boxes with more memories than belongings — a shoebox of polaroids, the friendship bracelets they’d made in rehab that never left their wrists, the tattered stuffed bunny Harry had snuck into his bag when he left his mum’s house for good. Everything they owned fit into five boxes, two duffle bags, and a plastic crate full of records neither of them actually owned a player for.

By the time they were done, the room felt too big and too empty, and Louis couldn’t help but sit on the edge of the bed for a minute, just taking it in. Harry crawled into his lap, arms around his neck, face tucked into Louis’ shoulder.

“We’re really doing this,” Harry whispered.

“Yeah,” Louis said, voice soft. “We are.”

“You scared?”

“Shitless.”

Harry laughed, breath warm against Louis’ skin. “Me too.”

But they held onto each other anyway, the way they always had — two fuckups trying their best, terrified but together, always together.

And somehow, that made it okay.

Moving day came fast, faster than Louis was ready for. It wasn’t even like they were going far — ten minutes away, if that — but somehow it felt like they were leaving a whole lifetime behind, packing up not just clothes and records and half-empty shampoo bottles, but all the versions of themselves they’d been under this roof.

Zayn pulled up outside just after ten in the morning, his car looking like it might actually disintegrate if you breathed on it too hard. The passenger door didn’t open from the outside, the backseat was full of empty Red Bull cans, and the stereo only worked if you hit it exactly right.

“Right, you ungrateful twats,” Zayn said as he climbed out, cigarette dangling from his lips, arms open wide. “Let’s move you into your fuck palace.”

Harry nearly died laughing, face bright pink, and Louis gave Zayn a hard shove. “It’s a flat , not a shag den, you perv.”

“Whatever you say, mate.” Zayn grinned, flicking ash onto the pavement. “Let’s get on with it.”

The girls were already outside, piling boxes near the front door like a little moving crew. They’d insisted on helping — all of them, even the twins — though most of the “help” involved labeling boxes with bright markers and writing things like Harry’s Underpants – Handle With Care .

Louis’ mum stood at the door, arms crossed, smiling so soft it almost made Louis want to cry. This wasn’t like when she sent him off to rehab. This was different. This was choice . This was him choosing to build something. And even if part of her heart was breaking to see her boys go, Louis knew the other part was bursting with pride.

The goodbyes were easy at first — hugs for Phoebe and Daisy, who made him and Harry swear again they’d come for Sunday dinner every week. They kissed his mum on the cheek, promised to text when they got there, and even let her sneak one last photo of them standing beside Zayn’s deathtrap of a car, Louis rolling his eyes while Harry did the thumbs up like a proper muppet .

But Fizzy.

Saying bye to Fizzy was different.

She’d stayed inside until the last second, arms folded tight across her chest, lingering just inside Louis’ now-bare bedroom. Louis found her there, sitting cross-legged on the mattress, looking smaller than usual.

“You really going?” she asked quietly, eyes fixed on the floor.

“Just down the road, Fizz,” Louis said, sitting beside her. “I’m not disappearing.”

“It feels like you are,” she muttered, voice thick. “You’ve always been here.”

Louis swallowed hard, because that hit deeper than he expected. “I’m still your brother. Still your idiot. That doesn’t change.”

Fizzy blinked hard, shoulders stiff. “But it’s not the same.”

Louis pulled her into a hug, tight and long, her face buried in his shoulder the way it had been when they were kids and she couldn’t sleep after watching a scary film. “I’ll call you every day if you want,” Louis whispered. “I’ll see you every week. You’ll probably get sick of me.”

“I already am,” Fizzy said, but her voice cracked on the joke, and Louis felt the tear soak into his t-shirt before she pulled back. “You promise?”

“Swear on my life.”

She hugged him again, so hard it almost knocked the wind out of him, before shoving him toward the door. “Go on then,” she said, wiping her eyes with the sleeve of her hoodie. “Before I change my mind and lock you in.”

Louis grinned, kissed the top of her head, and grabbed the last box.

The flat was waiting. Their flat.

Zayn honked the horn obnoxiously as they climbed into the car, and Harry waved back at the house until they turned the corner, Louis’ mum and all the girls still standing on the front step, watching them go.

“Alright,” Zayn said, flicking the stereo until it crackled to life, blasting something awful from the early 2000s. “Let’s go build you two your little love nest.”

Harry was too excited to be embarrassed, practically bouncing in his seat, fingers twitching like he wanted to grab Louis’ hand but didn’t want to lean over Zayn to do it. Louis just smiled, heart too full and too sore all at once.

The building was exactly as Louis remembered it — old brick, a front door that stuck if you didn’t yank it just right, and a narrow staircase that creaked so loudly Louis wondered if they’d wake the entire block every time they came home late. It wasn’t fancy, not even close, but it was theirs .

Zayn parallel parked so badly that three wheels ended up on the curb, the fourth hovering awkwardly in the air, but none of them cared. Harry practically flew out of the car, bouncing on the balls of his feet like a kid at Christmas, while Louis took a breath, key cold and solid in his palm.

“Alright,” Louis said, more to himself than anyone else. “Here we go.”

The stairs nearly killed them — five flights, and Zayn swore loudly with every step, muttering something about never helping anyone move again. Harry didn’t care. He was too busy bouncing ahead, practically vibrating, already naming imaginary rooms in their one-bedroom flat.

“This can be the dining hall,” Harry said, gesturing dramatically to a tiny alcove near the kitchen. “And this — this is the library.”

“Mate, that’s a closet, ” Zayn groaned, dumping a box on the floor. “Library my arse.”

Louis followed after, stepping through the door, revealing the flat exactly as they’d seen it in the photos — a bit grimy, paint peeling in the corners, but sun streaming through the windows, making it look almost hopeful. It was bigger than Louis had remembered, or maybe it just felt that way because it was empty, waiting for them to fill it.

Harry didn’t even hesitate. He dropped his duffle bag, kicked off his trainers, and started dancing in the middle of the living room, arms flailing wildly, spinning like a kid who’d never had this much space to call his own.

“Welcome to my kingdom! ” Harry shouted, spinning so fast he nearly fell over.

“Our kingdom,” Louis corrected, grinning so wide his face hurt.

“I’m not carrying anything heavier than the cereal,” Zayn announced, already lighting a cigarette, leaning against the kitchen counter like he was supervising rather than helping.

“Helpful as ever,” Louis muttered, but his smile didn’t fade. “Haz, you wanna christen the flat?”

Harry froze mid-spin. “We shagging already? That’s quick.”

Louis snorted. “No, you muppet. First cigarette in our new place.” He held up a pack, already slightly crushed from the move.

Harry grinned, running over to snatch it from Louis’ hand. They stood in front of the window, both leaning against the sill, looking out at the alley below — a proper estate view, cracked pavement, a rusty bike half-buried under some bin bags, and graffiti on every wall. It was home. Their home.

They passed the cigarette back and forth, sharing it the way they always did, the smoke curling between them like a promise. “What are we gonna call this place?” Harry asked, voice soft now, the excitement settling into something warmer.

Louis thought for a second. “Play-Doh Palace.”

Harry’s head fell back in laughter, eyes crinkling at the corners. “You twat.”

“You love it,” Louis said, bumping their shoulders.

“I do,” Harry admitted, squeezing Louis’ hand. “I really fucking do.”

Zayn made gagging noises from the kitchen, but Louis didn’t care. They were standing in their flat, smoke curling in the sunlight, hands linked, a future stretched out in front of them — messy, complicated, but theirs.

The first night in Play-Doh Palace was everything Louis had hoped for and nothing like he’d expected — because for once, life wasn’t a disaster. It wasn’t chaos. It wasn’t even particularly exciting. It was just theirs , and that made it fucking perfect.

They didn’t have proper furniture yet — just the mattress they dragged up the stairs, still in its plastic wrap because neither of them could be arsed to dig out the sheets. It sat right in the middle of the room, and Louis had a feeling they’d end up keeping it there, even when they got a bed frame and a proper bedroom. There was something about it that felt right — a bit reckless, a bit makeshift, a bit them .

Takeaway was the obvious first meal. They ordered from the dodgy Chinese down the road, the one that always gave you more prawn crackers than actual food, and they ate straight from the cartons, chopsticks clumsily stabbing at noodles while they sat cross-legged on the mattress. Harry had a beer balanced on his knee, Louis had a can of Coke, and Zayn — who’d hung around just long enough to claim credit for “helping” — had left half a joint on the windowsill as a housewarming gift. They didn’t touch it, though. Not tonight.

The flat felt weirdly quiet without the girls screaming in the background, without the hum of Louis’ mum’s telly drifting up the stairs. It wasn’t a bad quiet, though. Just… new. Like the air itself was holding its breath, waiting to see what they’d do with this place.

Harry wandered around after they ate, opening and closing cupboards like he was taking inventory, even though there was fuck all inside. “This is our kitchen, ” he said, voice full of wonder like it was some grand discovery.

“Yeah, Play-Doh,” Louis grinned, watching him fondly. “That’s where we keep food and stuff.”

“And this—” Harry opened the tiny cupboard in the hallway. “This is our very own cupboard. ”

Louis laughed, tossing an empty noodle carton at him. “You’re a right little estate agent, you are.”

They ended up back on the mattress, lying side by side, the ceiling above them covered in that weird swirly texture all old flats seemed to have. Harry’s hand found Louis’ without looking, fingers slotting together easy as breathing.

“We actually did it,” Harry said quietly, like the thought had just occurred to him.

“Yeah,” Louis murmured. “We did.”

Harry rolled onto his side, propped himself up on one elbow. “You know, when I was little, I used to dream about moving out. Getting my own place where I could paint the walls any stupid color I wanted and nobody could tell me not to.”

Louis smiled. “What color do you want, then?”

Harry grinned, wide and wicked. “Orange, bright orange.”

“Absolutely the fuck not.”

“Pink?”

“Maybe.”

Harry’s smile softened, fingers tracing lazy patterns on Louis’ wrist, brushing over the bracelet he still wore from rehab. “I never thought I’d have this.”

“Have what?”

“This,” Harry said, eyes darting around the room. “A home. That’s actually mine. With you.”

Louis’ throat tightened, something warm and painful swelling up under his ribs. “You’ll always have a home with me,” Louis said softly. “Wherever I am, that’s your home too.”

Harry kissed him then — soft and slow, none of the usual heat, just this aching sweetness that made Louis feel like he was gonna burst at the seams.

They curled up after that, Louis’ head on Harry’s chest, Harry’s fingers tracing absent circles on his shoulder. They didn’t talk much, just lay there listening to the silence, the occasional distant shout from the street below, the hum of their own breathing.

And it hit Louis, all at once, like a weight dropping right into his chest.

They made it here.

They dragged each other through the worst of it — the overdoses and the relapses, the fights and the withdrawals, the nights they weren’t sure they’d wake up at all — and somehow, they ended up here. In a flat with their names on the lease, with bad takeaway in their bellies and matching tattoos on their skin, with a future that was messy and uncertain and theirs .

The quiet had settled thick and comfortable over them, their bodies tangled together like they couldn’t quite believe they had this much space and still ended up clinging to each other like they were back in Louis’ single bed. Harry’s breath had slowed, his fingers dragging lazily over Louis’ ribs, and for a minute Louis thought maybe he’d fallen asleep.

But Louis couldn’t sleep. Not yet.

There was one last thing. One last promise he meant to keep.

He slipped out from under Harry’s arm carefully, Harry groaning quietly in protest but not waking all the way. Louis grabbed his jeans from the floor, fishing something small and square from the pocket, palming it tight in his hand like he was afraid Harry would see it before he was ready.

He padded into the bathroom, shutting the door quietly behind him, locking it even though that felt a bit ridiculous in their own flat. His heart was thudding in his chest, and it wasn’t because of the coke they didn’t take or the nerves from moving — it was this. The thing he’d been carrying for weeks now, just waiting for the right moment.

Harry’s brow furrowed the second Louis slid back into bed, white box clutched in his hand like it weighed a hundred pounds. His curls were all over the place, eyes still soft with sleep, but there was suspicion written all over his face.

“What’s that? Are you proposing or something?” Harry asked, voice rough.

Louis sat cross-legged, setting the box between them like it was some sacred offering. “One last promise,” Louis said quietly. “The one I made you that night in rehab.”

It took Harry a second, but Louis saw it click in his brain — the memory slotting into place like an old coin into a vending machine. I’m not touching you like that ‘til you‘re old enough to know what you want. That was what Louis had said, all those months ago, when Harry had been high and angry and desperate to prove he wasn’t a kid.

Harry blinked down at the box, throat working. “You kept that?”

“Course I did,” Louis said softly. “Meant it, didn’t I?”

Harry’s fingers brushed over the lid, but he didn’t open it yet. “So what’s in there?”

“Why don’t you have a look,” Louis said, and if his voice was shaking a bit, that was between him and God.

Harry popped the lid and immediately snorted, laughter bubbling up from his chest. “Condoms, Louis? Christ, you romantic bastard.”

“They’re extra thin,” Louis said, deadpan, which made Harry laugh even harder, shoulders shaking. “I wanted to get the fancy ones but they were expensive and honestly, it’s been so long I don’t even know what I like anymore.”

Harry wiped at his eyes, still giggling, but there was something underneath all the humor — something warm and shy and wanting . “So, what? You’re saying now that I’m old enough, you’re finally gonna fuck me?”

Louis’ ears went pink, but he held Harry’s gaze. “Only if you want to, Play-Doh.”

Harry set the box aside, crawling into Louis’ lap, straddling him, hands braced on Louis’ shoulders. “I’ve wanted you since I was sixteen and you were too responsible for your own good,” Harry said softly. “You really think I’m gonna say no?”

Louis’ hands settled at Harry’s waist, thumbs brushing just under the hem of his t-shirt. “We don’t have to rush it,” Louis said, even though his pulse was thudding in his throat. “I meant what I said in rehab. It’s only gonna happen if we both really want it.”

Harry’s smile turned softer, his forehead dropping to rest against Louis’. “I really want it.”

Louis’ fingers squeezed at Harry’s hips, holding him there just a little tighter. “Me too.”

“Not tonight though,” Harry said, pulling back slightly, eyes twinkling with mischief.

Louis blinked, caught off guard. “No?”

“Nah,” Harry grinned. “Tonight’s for takeaway and bad jokes and falling asleep on the floor in our first flat. Our first time deserves a proper bed.”

Louis’ heart squeezed so hard it almost hurt. “You’re ridiculous.”

“And you love me,” Harry said, kissing the tip of Louis’ nose.

“Unfortunately.”

They collapsed back onto the mattress, Harry sprawled half on top of Louis, fingers tracing lazy circles on his chest. The box sat forgotten on the floor, but the promise was there, woven into the air between them — a promise Louis had kept, and a promise Harry would hold him to.

The first morning in Play-Doh Palace started far too early, sunlight streaming through the thin curtains they hadn’t gotten around to replacing yet, warming Louis’ face until he groaned and buried himself deeper into the pile of blankets they’d haphazardly thrown onto the mattress in the middle of the room.

Harry, for once, was already awake — curled on his side, hair sticking up in about six different directions, a piece of confetti somehow still clinging to his cheek. He was staring at the ceiling like it held the answers to every question in the universe, fingers lazily tracing patterns over Louis’ bare shoulder.

“Morning, Play-Doh,” Louis mumbled, voice thick with sleep, but the little smile tugging at his mouth gave him away.

“Morning,” Harry whispered back, shifting closer, pressing a soft kiss to Louis’ shoulder. “We live here.”

Louis snorted, eyes still closed. “Yeah, Haz. We do.”

Harry’s stomach growled loudly, ruining the moment, and Louis cracked one eye open. “I swear to God, if you make me get up and cook—”

“Not cooking,” Harry said, already rolling off the mattress with all the grace of a newborn giraffe. “We have leftover Chinese.”

“Classy,” Louis muttered, but he was grinning as he sat up, rubbing sleep from his eyes while Harry padded to the kitchen in nothing but a pair of boxers and socks. Louis took a minute to just watch him — this boy he loved so stupidly much, standing in their kitchen, hair wild, humming something tuneless while he dug through the fridge.

It was painfully domestic, in a way Louis hadn’t expected. It made his chest ache — the good kind of ache, the kind that felt like maybe they’d actually made it somewhere, somewhere solid.

Harry came back with cartons balanced in both hands and a couple of mismatched forks they’d nicked from Louis’ mum’s house, plopping down cross-legged beside Louis. “Breakfast of champions.”

Louis took one of the cartons, still cold, digging in without a second thought. “We should probably go shopping at some point,” Louis said around a mouthful of noodles. “There’s like… nothing in the kitchen except soy sauce and the lighter Zayn left behind.”

“Add it to the list,” Harry grinned.

“Right,” Louis said, reaching for his phone, opening the notes app. “Essentials for our fancy new life. Milk, bread, bog roll…”

“Fancy cheese,” Harry added, mouth full.

“Fancy cheese.”

“Treat yo’ self biscuits.”

“Obviously.”

“New curtains.”

“Those can wait.”

“Proper plates?”

Louis glanced at the cartons in their hands. “Who needs ‘em?”

They kept going, the list getting more ridiculous with each item — a houseplant we will definitely kill , big candles that smell like cinnamon or maybe the beach , a shower curtain that isn’t ugly , a teapot because we’re classy like that .

They made it halfway through the second carton before Harry flopped back onto the mattress, arms and legs sprawled dramatically. “This feels weird.”

Louis looked down at him, brows lifting. “Weird how?”

“Good weird,” Harry clarified, smiling up at the ceiling. “Like… I never thought we’d actually get here. Not after everything.”

Louis lay down beside him, their shoulders brushing, fingers finding each other automatically. “Me neither,” Louis admitted. “But we did.”

Harry turned his head, smile softer now. “Yeah. We did.”

They lay there a while longer, just breathing, just being , the flat quiet around them — their quiet, their space, their home. No screaming girls, no group therapy, no strip searches, no dealers banging on the door, no countdown to disaster. Just the two of them, safe and soft and a little messy, but still here.

That afternoon, they walked to the big Tesco down the road, arms swinging between them, still riding that quiet buzz of first-day-in-our-flat happiness. It was the kind of mundane thing Louis had never really pictured them doing together — grocery shopping — but Harry seemed practically giddy about it, already listing things they needed before they even got to the automatic doors.

Louis had never been much of a planner. His shopping style leaned more toward “grab whatever looks decent and figure it out later.” But Harry? Harry had the focus of someone who’d spent way too many years feeding himself while his mum forgot dinner was a concept that existed.

The moment they grabbed a trolley, Harry was off — steering it like a little man on a mission, pausing only to tug Louis toward the fruit aisle with one determined hand.

“Right,” Harry said, serious as anything. “Apples or bananas?”

Louis blinked at him. “What are we, marathon runners?”

“Lou,” Harry sighed, long-suffering, “you can’t live on Super Noodles and takeaway forever.”

“Watch me.”

Harry pinched his side until Louis yelped, then started chucking apples into the trolley with the confidence of someone who actually knew how to grocery shop for longer than one night at a time. “We need actual food. Things with vitamins. You ever heard of those?”

“Vaguely,” Louis grinned, but let Harry take the lead, leaning on the trolley as Harry steered them through the aisles like some domestic goddess.

It was weirdly attractive, watching Harry in his element — knowing exactly which bread lasted the longest, which pasta sauce didn’t taste like arse, and which cleaning products actually worked. He wasn’t even showy about it, just efficient in that way kids from chaotic homes always learned to be — survival turned into skill, turned into habit.

“You’re dead fit when you’re bossy,” Louis muttered, low in Harry’s ear while Harry compared two different types of washing up liquid.

“Shut up and pick a cereal,” Harry said, but his ears went pink.

They filled the trolley like proper adults — milk, eggs, bread, pasta, vegetables even (though Louis protested the spinach until Harry promised to hide it in something). They grabbed shampoo and toothpaste and a mop, and Harry even made them go back for bin bags because Louis had completely forgotten they’d need those.

“Been running your own household for years, haven’t you?” Louis said softly as they queued up at the till.

Harry shrugged, nonchalant, but there was a flicker of something behind his eyes. “Someone had to.”

Louis’ chest ached at that — the casualness of it, the way Harry wore his survival like second skin. Louis knew what it was like to grow up fast, but Harry had been in a whole different league, and Louis hated how easily it came to him.

“We’re a team now,” Louis said, nudging his shoulder. “You don’t have to do it all.”

Harry’s smile was small but real. “I know.”

They paid, lugged the bags home together, Harry balancing two on each arm like some kind of show-off while Louis complained about how heavy the milk was.

They unpacked it all into their tiny kitchen — Harry organizing the cupboards like a pro while Louis made a dramatic show of figuring out how the cooker worked. They argued for five minutes about the best way to stack tinned beans (Louis: chaotic pile , Harry: label out and organized by type ) before Harry won, because of course he did.

By the time they were done, Louis slumped against the counter, grinning. “Look at us. Proper adults.”

“Barely,” Harry laughed, shutting the fridge. “But we’re getting there.”

The first proper dinner in their flat wasn’t some romantic masterpiece, no candlelit table or fancy dish they couldn’t pronounce. It was pasta — spaghetti, to be precise — with sauce straight from a jar and garlic bread that came pre-sliced from the Tesco freezer section. They cooked side by side, Harry actually doing most of the work while Louis leaned against the counter, pretending to help but mostly just existing in Harry’s orbit.

Louis watched him — really watched him — in a way he hadn’t let himself in a while. Harry had grown into himself quietly, slowly, somewhere between rehab and this flat, between late-night walks and whispered promises. His curls had gotten longer, not obscenely so, but enough that they were starting to tumble into his eyes again, and Louis noticed the soft pink bandana he’d tied back to keep them out of his face. It was one of Louis’ old ones, left behind at some point, and the sight of Harry wearing it — all easy domesticity and effortless beauty — made something sharp twist in Louis’ chest.

He was fucking gone for this boy.

Head over heels, heart already surrendered, no backup plan.

Harry didn’t even notice Louis staring at first, too busy stirring the sauce like it was some Michelin star creation. It wasn’t until Louis reached over and stole a bit of garlic bread straight off the tray, hot enough to burn his fingers, that Harry turned and caught him.

“What?” Harry asked, smiling but suspicious. “You’re looking at me like I’ve grown a second head.”

Louis shook his head, leaning back against the counter, chewing the too-hot bread with a grin. “Nothing. Just—” He waved a hand vaguely in Harry’s direction. “You look good, s’all.”

Harry’s smile went a little softer, cheeks pinking in a way Louis never got tired of. “You’re such a sap.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Louis said, but his grin didn’t fade. “You love it.”

“I do,” Harry admitted easily, which still knocked Louis sideways every time he said it out loud like that. No hesitation. No deflection.

They ate at their tiny kitchen table, the one they’d found on the side of the road a day earlier, legs a bit wobbly but good enough for now. They clinked their glasses of tap water like they were toasting something grand, and Louis couldn’t stop watching Harry — couldn’t stop noticing the way his curls framed his face, the way he talked with his hands, the way his nose scrunched every time Louis made a terrible joke.

Louis had been in love before, or at least he thought he had. But nothing had ever felt like this — this quiet certainty, this feeling like even the most ordinary thing was extraordinary because Harry was there.

Their first dinner wasn’t fancy. It wasn’t romantic. It was just pasta and garlic bread in a too-small kitchen with flickering lights and a table that wobbled every time Harry cut his bread too aggressively.

But Louis couldn’t imagine anything more perfect.

Notes:

How do we feel about the transition into the fratboy era? I‘m a bit sad about saying goodbye to fetus larry

Chapter 23: Chapter 23

Notes:

Sorry for missing a chapter yesterday, I was visitig family and just didn‘t get around to posting.

Anyway, hope you enjoy, I don‘t know how it happened but shit is actually good for once!

Sunday came with the kind of quiet chaos Louis had always associated with home — the kind where you could hear the kettle whistle all the way upstairs, where the girls were arguing about who stole whose hairbrush, and the telly hummed low with some rubbish morning show nobody was really watching.

They’d promised to come round every Sunday for dinner, and they meant it. No matter how much freedom they had now, how much they loved their little flat and all the independence that came with it, this was still home in a way they couldn’t leave behind.

Harry walked beside Louis the whole way, swinging their linked hands between them, a pack of biscuits tucked under Louis’ arm because you didn’t show up for Sunday dinner empty-handed. When they knocked on the door, it only took two seconds for the twins to fling it open, screaming “LOU-EEEEE” so loud it rattled the windows.

“Alright, you little menaces,” Louis laughed, grabbing each of them in turn to ruffle their hair and kiss their foreheads. Harry got the same treatment, their honorary brother, and Louis felt that same warm pride he always did seeing how easily Harry fit into his family now.

Inside, the house smelled like roast chicken and gravy, something rich and warm that made Louis’ stomach growl immediately. The girls dragged Harry off almost instantly to show him something they’d made for school — paper mache volcanoes or some other nonsense Louis tuned out.

 

Louis was halfway into dinner when his mum caught his wrist gently, her smile soft but her eyes a little worried.

“Lou,” she said quietly, “can I ask you and Harry something?”

Louis’ stomach dropped just slightly — nothing dramatic, just that flicker of oh no, what now . “Course,” he said, following her into the kitchen where Harry, bless him, was already perched on the counter munching a carrot stick.

Johannah hesitated, wiping her hands on a dish towel. “I know you’re not living under my roof anymore. You’re adults now, and I respect that.”

Louis narrowed his eyes. “Okay…?”

“But you’re my boys,” she said softly, glancing between them. “And I know how easy it is to slip, especially when things are going well. I’d just — for my peace of mind — I’d like you both to take a test.”

Harry froze mid-chew, and Louis could see the way his fingers clenched a little on the edge of the table. But Louis didn’t feel defensive — not this time. Not like he would’ve a year ago. Because they were clean. Had been for nearly ten months if you didn’t count the one little month-long relapse they never really told her about.

“It’s not that I don’t trust you,” Johannah added quickly, “I just — I’ve seen too much. And I know you’re strong, both of you, but I need to know.”

Louis glanced at Harry, their eyes meeting, and they didn’t even need to speak. They both knew they were clean, they both knew they had nothing to hide. So Louis shrugged, easy and calm. “Yeah, ‘course. No problem.”

Harry nodded, swallowing his carrot like a brick. “We can do it now if you want.”

Johannah’s relief was visible, her shoulders sagging slightly. “Thank you.”

She handed them the cups, the same ones they’d used all those times before, and Louis didn’t even feel that familiar knot of panic this time. They each went into separate bathrooms, did their thing, and set the cups side by side on the kitchen counter like it was some twisted science fair project.

They ate dinner while the tests processed — roast chicken, crispy potatoes, veg Louis pushed around his plate until Harry stole half of it for him. The girls chattered non-stop about school and friends, Harry slipping into big brother mode like he’d always been there. By the time they finished dessert — crumble with custard, Harry’s favorite — Johannah checked the tests, holding them up to the light like some investigator solving a case.

Both were clean.

Louis could see how much that meant to her — the way her chest lifted on an exhale she’d been holding too long, the way her hand brushed over Louis’ hair when she passed by his chair, the silent I’m proud of you in her touch.

It felt good. Not smug, not even victorious — just good . Like proof they could do this. Like proof they weren’t the kids they used to be.

“See,” Louis said later, when they were curled up on the sofa, Harry sandwiched between him and Fizzy, “told you we were fine.”

“You did,” Johannah said softly from her armchair. “And I believe you.”

Harry squeezed Louis’ hand under the blanket, his ring cool against Louis’ skin, a quiet reminder of every promise they’d made and were still keeping.

Nine months clean.

And counting.

When they got back to the flat, the door creaked open into the quiet space that was slowly starting to feel like home — their shoes kicked off in the hallway, the scent of the cheap candle Harry had lit before they left still hanging faintly in the air, their half-unpacked boxes stacked against the wall like they weren’t entirely ready to believe they really lived there yet.

Louis dropped his keys in the bowl by the door — another grown-up thing Harry had insisted on — and immediately flopped onto the sofa, arms stretched wide like a king claiming his throne. Harry trailed after him, kicking off his shoes and peeling off his hoodie, curls wild again now that the bandana had slipped off somewhere between dinner and the walk home.

“Nine months clean,” Harry said, voice soft but proud. “That’s a fucking record.”

Louis grinned, leaning over to pull something out from under the coffee table — a bottle of wine, cheap and already half-chilled from the back of the fridge. “Deserves a toast, don’t you think?”

Harry’s brow quirked, but his smile stayed soft. “I thought you weren’t gonna waste your paycheck on booze?”

“Yeah, well.” Louis shrugged, already twisting off the screw cap. “This felt worth it.”

He poured them each a glass — red, because it felt fancy, even though the label said something about fruity notes Louis couldn’t taste for shit. They clinked their glasses together, a bit unevenly, spilling a few drops onto the table.

“To us,” Louis said.

“To us,” Harry echoed, taking a sip.

They curled up together on the sofa Oli and Niall had dragged up five flights of stairs, wine glasses balanced on the armrest, Harry’s legs slung over Louis’ lap like it was the most natural thing in the world. The telly stayed off, the only sound the faint buzz of the fridge and the occasional creak of the old radiator.

After the first glass, Louis reached into the drawer under the telly — the junk drawer , already overflowing with takeaway menus and random bits of paper — and pulled out a slightly crumpled joint. It wasn’t even theirs, technically — Zayn had left it after helping them move in, a little housewarming gift none of them had really thought about until now.

“It’s just weed,” Louis said casually, holding it up between his fingers. “That doesn’t count.”

Harry hesitated for half a second — just a flicker in his expression, barely there — before he nodded. “Just weed.”

Louis lit it, took a long drag, and passed it to Harry. It felt almost ceremonial, the two of them stretched out on their shitty sofa in their little flat, passing a joint and drinking shit wine, celebrating nine whole months of somehow keeping themselves above water. It wasn’t perfect. It wasn’t the rehab-approved way to mark a milestone. But it was theirs . And that was enough.

They smoked in silence for a while, passing it back and forth, the smoke curling soft between them. Harry’s head dropped to Louis’ shoulder, his free hand tracing idle patterns on Louis’ knee, and Louis tilted his head to rest against Harry’s curls.

“Feels like we’re cheating,” Harry murmured after a moment, voice a little thick from the wine and weed.

Louis hummed. “Nah. Weed’s basically medicine.”

“Yeah,” Harry said, but his fingers tightened just slightly around Louis’ knee. “Just weed.”

They finished the joint, finished the wine, and stayed right there on the sofa, too comfortable to move, too warm to care about the dishes in the sink or the laundry still in the basket. Nine months clean, and maybe not perfect, but they were still here. Still together. Still trying.

They never made it to bed properly.

Somewhere between the second glass of wine and the last few hits of the joint, Harry got like he always did — all soft hands and sleepy smiles, limbs loose and lazy, touch-starved in a way that only ever showed when the edges of his mind got hazy enough to let it.

He crawled into Louis’ lap without asking, without thinking, just like he belonged there — all knees and thighs caging Louis in, curls falling into his face, eyes half-lidded and shining in the low light of the living room.

Louis’ hands settled at Harry’s hips instinctively, fingers warm and steady even though his own head was buzzing. “You’re such a clingy little shit when you’re stoned,” Louis muttered, but there was no bite to it.

Harry just smiled — that wide, lazy grin that made Louis’ stomach flip. “You love it.”

“Maybe.”

“You do.” Harry leaned in, nose brushing against Louis’, fingers threading into the hair at the nape of Louis’ neck. “I’m your Play-Doh, remember?”

Louis’ heart stuttered just slightly, because fuck — how did they end up here? Nine months ago they were barely speaking, both sweating their way through withdrawal, and now Harry was half in his lap, calling himself a nickname he had mocked Louis for just a while back like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“Come here then,” Louis whispered, voice rough, fingers tightening at Harry’s waist.

Harry kissed him, soft at first, then deeper, all smoke and sweetness and the slight bite of cheap wine. It wasn’t frantic, wasn’t desperate — just slow and warm, Harry’s fingers tracing over Louis’ jaw, Louis’ hands sliding under Harry’s t-shirt, skin on skin.

Somewhere in the shuffle, they half-fell off the sofa, laughing into each other’s mouths as they stumbled toward the mattress still sitting on the floor. They collapsed onto it in a tangle of limbs, Harry’s thigh slipping between Louis’, their mouths never really separating, breathing each other in like oxygen.

Louis could feel Harry’s smile against his lips, all lazy and soft, his hands wandering without any real purpose — up Louis’ sides, across his stomach, fingers dipping just under the waistband of his joggers but never pushing. Just touching , like Harry needed to remind himself Louis was real.

“You’re so pretty,” Harry mumbled, half-drunk, half-stoned, fully infatuated.

“Yeah?” Louis teased, fingers brushing up under Harry’s shirt to trace the dip of his spine. “You’re not too bad yourself, Play-Doh.”

They kissed until they were both breathless, until the room felt warmer than it should, until Louis’ skin was tingling in that way it only ever did when Harry was touching him. But they didn’t go further — not yet. They just… were . Bodies pressed together, fingers trailing, lips brushing, both of them high on nothing but each other.

The mattress creaked under them, the floor cold beneath their bare feet, but none of it mattered. They were in their flat, in their bed — or as close to a bed as they had — wrapped around each other like they were still trying to merge into one person after all these years.

Louis brushed the curls back from Harry’s face, smiling so soft it barely existed. “We’re gonna be alright, aren’t we?”

Harry leaned into his palm, pressing a kiss to the inside of Louis’ wrist, right where his pulse beat strong. “Together or not at all.”

“Together,” Louis whispered.

They were still lying there, limbs tangled, Harry tracing nonsense patterns on Louis’ stomach, their kisses slowing into lazy pecks between smiles as they slowly started to sober up fully again. The room was warm, the air thick with leftover smoke and the kind of quiet you only get when there’s nothing left to prove.

Louis was just about to suggest dragging the duvet over from the corner when Harry shifted, fingers tugging at the hem of Louis’ shirt — not urgently, not like he was trying to start something, just touching . Like he wanted to feel all the skin he could reach.

“You meant it, right?” Harry asked softly, voice a little rough from the joint and the wine and the endless kissing.

Louis tilted his head, fingers sliding gently through Harry’s curls. “Meant what?”

Harry’s cheeks flushed, and Louis saw him glance toward the little white box they’d left beside the mattress. “The condoms.”

Louis’ hand stilled, heart skipping just slightly. “Course I meant it.”

Harry bit his lip, fingers still tracing the faint line of Louis’ stomach. “I think… I think I’m ready.”

Louis’ throat went dry. “Yeah?”

Harry nodded, curls falling into his face. “I know I was pushy about it before — back in rehab — but I wasn’t ready. Not really. I just wanted to feel grown-up or whatever.” He glanced up, eyes wide and clear. “But now? I’m not scared. I want you, Lou.”

Louis’ chest ached with how much he loved this boy. How much he’d always loved him. How much Harry trusted him with this — not just his body, but the whole fragile, vulnerable thing that came with it.

“Okay,” Louis said softly. “But you say the word, Play-Doh — any word — and we stop.”

Harry smiled, all soft and shy and his . “I know.”

Louis leaned up to kiss him — gentle, slow, like a promise sealed with lips and breath and everything they couldn’t say out loud. Then, with a little playful shove, he pushed Harry off just long enough to reach for the box.

Harry sat cross-legged, watching him with this soft, sleepy smile, arms wrapped around his knees. “Did you really buy extra thin ?”

Louis snorted, tearing open the box. “What can I say? I’m a considerate man.”

Harry laughed, bright and warm, and Louis knew — without a doubt — that this was exactly the way it was supposed to happen. In their flat, on their shitty mattress, with a joint still half-smoked in the ashtray.

Messy. Perfect. Theirs.

The first time wasn’t about lust, or urgency, or some frantic, desperate need to get it over with. It was soft — slower and a lot more sober than either of them expected, built on the kind of trust that took years to grow, even if it felt like they’d always had it.

Louis set the box aside and let his hands wander, fingertips tracing up the sides of Harry’s t-shirt until Harry lifted his arms, letting Louis pull it over his head. They’d seen each other naked before, of course they had — shared showers in rehab, crashed together in nothing but boxers too many times to count — but this was different. This was intentional .

Louis’ hands skimmed over Harry’s bare skin, warm and soft under his palms, and Harry shivered even though the room was warm.

“You okay?” Louis asked quietly, eyes searching Harry’s face.

Harry nodded, curls bouncing slightly, his hands already tugging at Louis’ shirt in return. “You too.”

Louis let him take it off, leaving them both bare from the waist up, and Harry’s hands hovered for a second, like he didn’t know where to start. Louis took his wrists, guided them gently to his chest. “Touch me,” Louis whispered. “Wherever you want.”

Harry’s hands were soft — tentative at first, fingertips ghosting over Louis’ ribs, tracing his collarbone, brushing over the slight scar on his side from when he fell off his bike at twelve. It wasn’t sexy, not in the way porn or stories made first times sound, but it was real — familiar and brand new all at once.

They kissed again, slower this time, Louis guiding Harry down onto the mattress, his body settling between Harry’s legs like he belonged there. They rocked together, just a little, fabric still between them, the friction making Harry gasp into Louis’ mouth.

“Okay?” Louis asked again, forehead pressed to Harry’s.

“Yeah,” Harry breathed. “More.”

Louis slid his hands down, his fingers brushing the soft skin of Harry’s stomach. Harry squirmed just slightly, nerves flickering through him, but Louis kept it gentle, pressing tiny kisses along his jaw, down his throat, whispering soft reassurances with every breath.

They undressed each other slowly — socks kicked off, boxers tugged away until they were both bare, skin on skin, nothing between them but air and history and trust.

Louis took a moment — just a moment — to look at him. Really look at him. Harry, all soft curves and lean muscle, freckles scattered across his chest like constellations, cheeks flushed and curls wild. “You’re so fucking beautiful,” Louis whispered, voice cracking slightly.

Harry laughed, soft and shy. “You’re soppier than I thought.”

“Yeah, well.” Louis leaned down to kiss him, hands sliding over Harry’s hips. “First time only happens once. I want you to remember this the way you deserve to.”

Harry swallowed hard, eyes wide and honest. “I already will.”

They moved slowly after that, Louis reaching for the condom, rolling it on with hands that shook just slightly, not from fear but from the sheer weight of the moment. Every touch was careful, every kiss soft, every whispered “Okay?” met with an eager “Yeah.”

Louis guided Harry through it — gentle hands, soft encouragement, stopping every time Harry’s breath caught too hard or his brow furrowed in discomfort. It wasn’t perfect — first times never are — but it was theirs. Full of quiet laughter and soft moans, whispered reassurances and hands clutching at skin like lifelines.

And when it was over, Louis kissed him so softly Harry’s breath stuttered, tears prickling at the corners of his eyes.

“Thank you,” Harry whispered, voice thick, and Louis didn’t even ask why — he just kissed him again, because Harry had never had anything gentle before Louis, and Louis would spend the rest of his life making sure he knew softness like this was his, whenever he wanted it.

They curled up after, the duvet finally dragged over them, Louis’ fingers tracing shapes into Harry’s spine while Harry’s head rested on his chest, fingers playing with the bracelet Louis never took off.

“Worth the wait?” Louis asked, voice a soft tease.

Harry smiled against his skin. “More than worth it.”

Louis kissed his curls, holding him just a little tighter. “Together or not at all.”

Harry’s fingers squeezed his. “Together.”

The next morning was slow in the best way — the kind of morning where the world outside barely existed, where the sun slipped in soft through the curtains and painted everything gold, and nothing felt urgent except the boy beside him.

Louis woke first, stretched out under the too-thin duvet, hair sticking up wildly, limbs tangled with Harry’s. Harry was still dead asleep, mouth slightly open, curls spilling across the pillow, face turned toward Louis like his body knew exactly where to go even unconscious.

Louis didn’t move right away. He just lay there, watching Harry breathe, heart so full it felt like it might actually spill out of his chest. They’d done it — crossed that invisible line Louis had been so careful about, waited until the time was right, until Harry was ready, and somehow it hadn’t been awkward or clumsy or weird. It had just been them . Soft and careful and full of so much love Louis thought it might actually choke him.

He couldn’t resist — he leaned in and kissed Harry’s forehead, then the tip of his nose, then the corner of his mouth. Harry stirred, face scrunching up before he peeled his eyes open, blinking blearily.

“Morning,” Louis whispered against his skin.

Harry smiled, slow and sleepy. “Hi.”

Louis kissed him properly then, warm and soft and lazy, hands sliding up Harry’s bare back to pull him closer, fitting their bodies together like they were made to. Harry sighed into his mouth, all melted warmth and contentment, fingers sliding into Louis’ hair and holding him there like they had nowhere to be.

“Are we that couple now?” Harry mumbled between kisses, voice rough with sleep and affection. “The ones who just snog constantly?”

“Always have been,” Louis said, kissing him again, this time deeper, until Harry giggled into his mouth.

They stayed in bed longer than they probably should’ve, trading kisses and whispered teases, hands wandering lazily under the duvet, exploring skin they already knew but suddenly had full permission to claim. Louis’ lips mapped Harry’s jaw, his neck, the line of his shoulder, all while Harry giggled and squirmed, pretending to complain but never once pushing him away.

When they finally dragged themselves out of bed, Harry stole Louis’ shirt — the soft, worn one Louis had planned on wearing, but Harry looked so good in it, all drowned in cotton, the hem brushing the tops of his bare thighs, that Louis couldn’t even be mad.

“You’re a thief,” Louis said, tugging at the collar to straighten it, kissing the hollow of Harry’s throat just because he could.

“Get used to it,” Harry grinned, bending down slightly to kiss him again, soft and sweet and endless.

They’d just finished breakfast — Louis licking bacon grease off his fingers while Harry perched on the counter, shirt far too big and legs swinging like a little kid — when the knock came at the door. It wasn’t even a polite knock, just rapid, chaotic banging, followed by Zayn’s unmistakable voice shouting, “Open up, you lazy bastards!”

Harry’s eyes went wide, and Louis groaned dramatically, wiping his hands on a tea towel. “If they brought booze at ten in the morning, I’m disowning the lot of them.”

“Could be worse,” Harry grinned, hopping down from the counter and tugging the shirt lower over his thighs. “Could be the landlord.”

Louis snorted. “If the landlord knocks like that, we’re already evicted.”

He swung open the door and immediately got shoved back inside as their entire chaotic friend group poured in like a tidal wave — Zayn first, carrying what looked like an entire flat-pack coffee table under one arm and a bag of tools in the other. Niall followed, holding a tray of suspiciously gooey brownies and a massive grin on his face. Eleanor and Oli brought up the rear, dragging in a secondhand sofa Louis vaguely recognized from Zayn’s old place, and an actual TV stand.

“What the fuck—” Louis started, but Niall cut him off, shoving the brownie tray into his hands like it was a peace offering.

“Housewarming,” Niall grinned. “Figured you two idiots forgot to furnish the place.”

“We have furniture,” Louis argued, gesturing vaguely at the mattress on the floor, the wobbly table and the sofa Niall had gotten from god knows where.

“That’s a matress and a sob story, mate,” Zayn said, already walking toward the living room. “You can’t have a flat with just a bed and a dream.”

“We have a sofa too,” Harry pointed out, trying to look helpful.

“Which one of you nearly lost a toe because it’s missing a leg?” Eleanor shot back, eyebrows raised.

Louis groaned, stepping aside as they all piled in, dropping things wherever they felt like. “You lot are a fucking nightmare.”

“You love us,” Oli said, kissing Louis’ cheek.

Zayn immediately took charge, giving orders like they were on some kind of military mission. “Sofa goes here — no, there, opposite the window. Niall, quit eating the brownies, they’re for later.”

“They’re for now, ” Niall argued, already chewing. “It’s just weed.”

Harry gave Louis a look, the kind that said we really are surrounded by absolute muppets, and Louis couldn’t help but grin back. “Just weed,” Louis echoed, because of course.

It turned into the most chaotic, ridiculous afternoon — Zayn swearing at the instructions for the coffee table, Eleanor sitting on the floor painting her nails while occasionally shouting “You’re doing it wrong!”, and Niall lying on the mattress, halfway through his second brownie, insisting he could “supervise better from here.” Oli kept sneaking the remote to put on some truly awful 90s pop playlist, and at one point Harry and Louis got so distracted slow dancing in the kitchen they forgot they were supposed to be helping at all.

By the time it was all done — sofa assembled, table standing (mostly), TV perched proudly on its new stand — the flat actually looked like a home. Still scruffy, still held together with duct tape and hope, but theirs. And it wasn’t just their home anymore — it was the kind of place where their friends would always have a key, where there’d always be a spare ashtray and a half-empty bottle of something cheap in the fridge, where weed brownies lived right alongside the fancy cheese Harry insisted on. They‘d even moved the matress onto a proper bedframe and into the bedroom.

“You lot didn’t have to do all this,” Louis said eventually, leaning against the doorframe, heart too full for his chest.

“Shut up,” Zayn said, lighting a cigarette inside even though Louis was glaring at him. “You’d do the same for us.”

“Plus,” Niall grinned, waving the tray, “we’re staying for brownies and a movie, right?”

Harry wrapped his arms around Louis from behind, chin resting on his shoulder. “Our first official movie night in Play-Doh Palace. ”

“Can’t think of anything better,” Louis said, pressing a kiss to Harry’s curls.

Because yeah, they were still just kids in a shitty flat with mismatched furniture and a fridge full of nothing useful — but they had each other, and they had this ridiculous, messy, beautiful family of friends.

The sun had started to dip by the time they settled into the freshly assembled living room, curtains drawn, lights low, the battered old telly flickering with some action film no one had actually voted for but everyone was too stoned to argue against.

Niall had proudly taken his self-appointed spot in the middle of the sofa, stretching out like a king in his castle, clutching the tray of weed brownies like they were his firstborn. Eleanor and Oli claimed the floor, already working their way through a shared packet of crisps and an alarming combination of salsa, peanut butter, and pickles that only made sense after three brownies.

Louis was tucked into the corner of the sofa, Harry half in his lap, their limbs lazily tangled, a blanket thrown over the both of them even though the flat wasn’t cold. Louis’ hand rested low on Harry’s thigh, not in a sexual way, just there, grounding, his thumb brushing back and forth like it couldn’t stop. Harry, in turn, kept his fingers tucked under the hem of Louis’ shirt, tracing little circles into his skin like he was absentmindedly writing something only they knew.

It was peaceful — until Zayn went to the bathroom.

The door swung open moments later with a loud “OH FOR FUCK’S SAKE!” , Zayn’s voice echoing down the narrow hallway.

Everyone turned, heads swiveling toward the bathroom, and Zayn emerged holding a wad of toilet paper between two fingers like it was radioactive.

“I did not need to see my boys’ used condom sitting right on top of the bin,” Zayn declared, gagging so dramatically you’d think he walked in on the act itself. “I can’t even piss in peace in this house.”

Harry went pink immediately, shoving his face into Louis‘ neck, muttering, “Oh my fucking God.”

Louis, however, looked far too pleased with himself, grinning wide as he twisted to face Zayn. “What can I say? We’re healthy and responsible.”

“ Responsible, ” Zayn repeated, voice high-pitched with mock horror. “What, were you scared one of you would get pregnant?”

“Always gotta be careful,” Louis said, face slightly burning but grin sneaking through despite himself. “You don’t know where Play-Doh’s been.”

Harry gasped, slapping Louis’ thigh, but everyone else absolutely howled . Even Eleanor had to wipe away tears, shaking her head. “You two are disgusting,” she said fondly.

“I hope you at least lit a candle in there,” Zayn muttered, vanishing back into the bathroom. “Or I’m Febreezing the whole flat.”

“Love you, Zaynie!” Louis called after him, still laughing.

The film played on, utterly forgotten, the whole group descending into chaotic banter about sex, weird places they’d done it, and Niall somehow launching into a story about the time he lost his virginity behind a McDonald’s, which was both horrifying and very on-brand.

Louis couldn’t stop laughing, even after they moved on, his cheek pressed against Harry’s temple, both of them still warm and lazy from the weed, the brownies, and the ridiculous joy of having their friends — their family — crammed into their too-small living room.

They were all disasters, every last one of them.

But they were disasters together.

And that, Louis thought, squeezing Harry’s thigh and kissing his hair, was the whole point.

At some point, the film became background noise. None of them were really watching anymore — the plot had gone completely sideways, and between the brownies, the passing joint, and whatever Zayn had been mixing into his vape, because apparantly that was a thing now, everyone was too comfortably fucked up to care. The snacks had devolved into a buffet of horrors — peanut butter and Doritos sandwiches, chocolate spread on plain bread topped with pickles, Eleanor insisting that gherkins and marshmallows were “an underrated combo,” and Niall just straight-up eating dry pasta like it was crisps.

Louis was half sprawled across Harry, one leg flung over Harry’s lap, fingers tracing lazy lines over his knee. Harry had slouched so far down the sofa his head was practically in Louis’ armpit, curls wild, eyes red-rimmed but soft. Zayn had claimed the armchair, legs hooked over the side, one sock mysteriously missing, blowing lazy smoke rings toward the ceiling. Oli and Eleanor were curled into one pile of limbs on the floor, giggling every few minutes over nothing at all.

“Do you think,” Niall said, voice slow and dreamy, “that, like, every choice we make branches off into a different reality?”

Everyone turned to stare at him.

“What?” Louis blinked, fingers pausing on Harry’s knee. “What the fuck did you just say?”

“Like,” Niall waved his hand vaguely, trailing smoke behind it, “if I’d gone left instead of right on my way here, maybe there’s a whole other version of me who’s, I don’t know, a plumber instead of a musical genius.”

“You’re not a musical genius,” Eleanor snorted, but her smile was soft.

“I could’ve been,” Niall argued, leaning back dramatically.

“Wouldn’t it be wild,” Harry said, voice soft and thoughtful, “if, like, in some other reality, we never met? Or never got clean?”

The mood shifted, not heavy exactly, but thoughtful — the kind of deep that only happens at two in the morning when everyone’s stoned and a little sentimental.

“I wouldn’t want to live in that one,” Louis said quietly, his hand sliding into Harry’s, fingers lacing together. “The one where we never met.”

Harry squeezed his hand, smiling all soft and wobbly. “Me neither.”

“Or the one where we didn’t make it,” Zayn added, voice quieter than usual. “There’s a version of me that didn’t. I think about him sometimes.”

The room went still for a beat, not awkward, just understanding . Because they all knew that version — they’d all seen their own reflection in it at some point, too close to the edge, too far gone, too tired to claw their way back.

“But we’re here,” Oli said, voice warm. “This version of us. And I like this one.”

“Me too,” Harry agreed, his smile soft and sleepy. “Even if Louis stole my last cigarette.”

Louis gasped, mock offended. “I shared it with you, you ungrateful twat.”

“I like this one too,” Eleanor said, propping her chin on Oli’s shoulder. “Where we’re all still here. Together.”

“Even if Zayn’s flat packs are shit,” Niall added, and Zayn flipped him off without looking.

They all laughed, warm and easy, and Louis felt it settle somewhere deep in his chest — the kind of warmth that only came from people who knew all your worst stories and still chose to stick around. These were his people. His family , in the way that mattered most — not just blood, but history. Survival. Loyalty. Love.

“We should do something,” Harry said, eyes bright even through the haze. “Like, a tradition. Every month. Our version of… I dunno, family dinner.”

“Family joint,” Zayn suggested, and Eleanor threw a crisp at his head.

“Family dinner with a joint,” Harry corrected, grinning.

“We could all cook together,” Oli suggested. “Like a potluck.”

“We could make everyone take turns hosting,” Eleanor added. “Except Niall, because his flat smells like expired milk.”

“Oi!” Niall protested, but he was laughing too hard to really care.

Louis squeezed Harry’s hand tighter, feeling Harry squeeze back, and in that moment, everything felt right. Their family might’ve been stitched together from rehab visits and shit parties and years of mistakes, but it was theirs . Messy and loud and too stoned to function, but still standing.

“Together or not at all,” Louis said softly, and Harry leaned over to kiss him, sweet and slow, like he couldn’t help himself.

“Together,” Harry echoed.

“Alright, enough with the sap,” Zayn groaned, but even he was smiling.

And maybe they were still disasters — stoned and scarred and slightly broken — but they were their disasters. And for Louis, that was more than enough.

The next few weeks settled into something dangerously close to normal , though Louis wasn’t sure either of them really knew what normal meant.

They went home at least twice a week — to the house Louis had once been so desperate to escape, but now found himself missing the second they left. Every Sunday for dinner, without fail, and usually some random midweek visit too, when Fizzy texted to say she needed help with her maths homework or the twins demanded Harry paint their nails a new color.

Louis’ mum still kept the drug tests in the bathroom cabinet, and though she didn’t make a big deal about it, every now and then, she’d quietly ask if they’d mind taking one — just for her peace of mind. They always agreed, never once arguing, because they were clean. Properly clean.

Well — almost.

Weed didn’t count.

At least, that’s what they told themselves when they passed a joint back and forth on the walk home, smoke curling soft in the night air. It wasn’t the same as the pills or the lines or the darker shit they used to crave. It was just a way to unwind. Just to soften the edges.

Besides, they’d even laid off drinking — nothing stronger than a pint or two, never more. They’d made a pact, after all, and they were sticking to it, even if they’d adjusted the fine print a bit.

When they weren’t at Louis’ family house, they were with their friends — practically every day, sometimes just for a quick smoke outside Zayn’s building, sometimes piling into Eleanor’s flat for film marathons and takeaway, sometimes just wandering the estate aimlessly because that was what they always did, ever since they were kids with nothing better to do.

It was easy, that rhythm — the steady pulse of home and friends and each other. They all knew the rules by now, the unspoken ones: no hard drugs. No pressure. No judgment if someone needed to leave early because a craving hit too hard. They looked after each other the way they always had, with jokes and insults covering up the real care underneath.

And somehow, in the middle of all that, Louis was actually doing well at work.

Toys R Us hadn’t been his dream job — fuck, Louis didn’t even know if he had a dream job — but there was something weirdly satisfying about it. Showing up on time, helping clueless parents pick out birthday presents, stacking shelves and cracking jokes with his coworkers in the stockroom. He was good at it, better than he thought he’d be, and even though the pay was shit and the hours were all over the place, it felt good. Real. Like he was actually building something.

Harry made dinner most nights — simple stuff, pasta and beans on toast and the occasional attempt at something fancy with whatever odd ingredients they had in the fridge. They’d sit on their little sofa, eating off their knees, legs tangled under the coffee table Zayn had built, talking about nothing and everything.

Sometimes they stayed up too late, just talking. About the future, about what they wanted — not big dreams, just little things. A better sofa, maybe. A trip to spain when they could afford it. A record player to actually play all the records they’d been hoarding.

Other nights, they fell asleep on the sofa, a film playing quietly in the background, Harry’s head on Louis’ shoulder, Louis’ fingers tracing circles on Harry’s knee.

It wasn’t perfect. It wasn’t some dramatic redemption arc where they magically became model citizens overnight. They still fought sometimes — over stupid shit, like whose turn it was to buy toilet paper or why Harry left his shoes in the middle of the hallway again. They still had cravings, moments where Louis’ fingers itched for something sharper, something stronger, moments where Harry got too quiet and Louis knew exactly where his mind had gone.

They didn’t leave each other’s side. Not once. Not even for a night.

There was no big conversation about it, no official agreement, no drawn-up contract like the one they’d made for their sobriety pact. It just happened . The same way they always ended up sharing a bed, even when Louis’ old bedroom had the floor space for a sleeping bag. The same way Harry’s hand always found Louis’ when they were walking, even if they were just heading to the corner shop for a pint of milk. The same way Louis’ cigarettes were automatically Harry’s, and Harry’s shampoo was automatically Louis’.

They didn’t talk about it, but they both knew. Space wasn’t something they needed from each other. The rest of the world, sure — they still had days where neither of them could stomach seeing anyone but each other — but space between them ? No chance.

And honestly? Things were going great.

Better than either of them had ever dared to hope.

Louis kept his job at Toys R Us, clocking in every shift, showing up on time, earning his pay like a proper adult. It wasn’t glamorous, and the hours were still shite, but Louis liked it more than he ever expected. He liked the routine, the structure, even the stupid little things — like learning which toys made the worst noise if you dropped them, or figuring out exactly how to load the shelves so you could sneak a sit-down behind the Barbie aisle without anyone noticing. And for the first time in his life, his manager actually liked him — told him so, even, after Louis handled a toddler tantrum with the patience of a saint and the humor of a seasoned pro.

And Harry — fuck, Harry had thrived .

He’d wandered into the corner shop down the street one morning, just to buy some milk and crisps, and somehow walked out with a job. It was just a few shifts a week to start, stocking shelves and ringing up pints and lottery tickets, but Harry loved it . He charmed every customer who walked through the door, especially the old ladies who came in for their papers and left with wide smiles after Harry called them “love” and offered to carry their bags. He told Louis every little story after each shift — how Mrs. Patel had shown him photos of her granddaughter’s wedding, or how a guy tried to steal a box of biscuits by shoving it down his trousers, or how the delivery man always snuck him a free can of Coke if Harry helped unload the crates faster.

They were both working. Both sober (give or take the weed, which still didn’t count, not in their minds). Both paying their share of rent. Both building something they’d never had before — a life they weren’t just surviving, but actually living .

They still went home to Louis’ mum’s house at least twice a week, never missing Sunday dinner. Harry was officially family now, with his own mug in the cupboard, his own toothbrush in the upstairs bathroom, and his own seat at the table — right beside Louis, of course. The girls adored him, even the twins who were usually suspicious of anyone outside the family unit, and Fizzy had claimed him as her personal confidant, trusting Harry with gossip and secrets she didn’t even tell Louis.

They still saw their friends almost every day, too — impromptu hangs at Zayn’s, movie marathons at Eleanor’s, late-night walks through the estate just because they could. They never really planned anything, but someone was always around, and somehow it always ended up being all of them, sprawled across whatever living room or park bench they could claim, passing a joint or a bag of chips, talking absolute shite until the sun started to rise.

Their flat — Play-Doh Palace , as it had been permanently christened — became the unofficial headquarters for their whole little crew. Niall would show up randomly just to eat their leftovers. Oli crashed on their sofa so often they debated getting him his own key. Eleanor dragged in half her wardrobe after one too many spontaneous sleepovers. Zayn never brought food but always brought weed, which felt like a fair trade.

And through it all, Louis and Harry stuck right to each other. Never more than an arm’s length apart, sharing cigarettes and clothes and lazy kisses when they thought nobody was looking. They still hadn’t had a single proper fight since they moved in — not the explosive kind, at least. The worst it got was Louis snapping about dirty dishes or Harry getting huffy when Louis forgot to buy milk. But even that ended in laughter, or an apology, or a kiss pressed to a forehead with a muttered twat for good measure.

They were soft. Softer than either of them had ever been allowed to be before. Louis knew they were lucky — so fucking lucky — that they’d managed to pull themselves out of the spiral they’d been in without losing each other along the way. It could’ve gone differently. It nearly did . But now? Now they were building something solid. Something worth holding onto.

And sure, they still had cravings sometimes. There were still nights when Louis lay awake, his fingers itching for a bump just to take the edge off, and Harry still got quiet when the pain crept into his bones, when the ghost of tilidine whispered to him like an old friend. But they were holding each other through it. They were talking about it, the way they’d promised they would, and that was the difference this time.

They weren’t doing it alone.

They were doing it together.

Or not at all.

And Louis didn’t know if they’d make it forever — life was messy, and addiction didn’t just disappear . But for now? For right now, in their too-small flat with its mismatched furniture and constant parade of friends, with their shitty jobs and their silly little life, with Harry’s curls in his face and his hand in Louis’, with kisses between shelves and shared cigarettes on the windowsill —

They were happy.

And fuck, that was more than Louis ever thought he’d get.

Notes:

poor zayn got traumatized by that condom

Chapter 24: Chapter 24

When you grew up as an estate kid, however, you learned the hard way that good things rarely lasted.

It started small, the way these things always did. Zayn missed a hangout here and there, nothing major, just the usual excuses — tired from work, helping his mum, didn’t feel like going out. Nobody thought much of it. They all bailed sometimes. That was just life.

But then sometimes turned into most of the time . Texts were left on read, calls went unanswered. When he did reply, it was always vague — feeling a bit off, lads. Catch you next time.   It was subtle enough to ignore if you wanted to, easy to brush off if you weren’t looking too closely. But they should’ve known better.

The night everything came to a head, they were at Eleanor’s, sprawled out on her living room floor, passing around a bag of crisps and arguing about what takeaway to order. The usual. Zayn had texted the group chat — another excuse, another “feeling rough” — and for the first time, Eleanor didn’t just let it slide.

“Right,” she said, standing up abruptly, shoving her feet into her trainers. “I’m gonna get the fucker.”

“Elenorrrr,” Niall groaned from the floor. “Leave it, he’s probably just shagging someone.”

“He’s not,” Eleanor said flatly, grabbing her coat. “I’ve known Zayn since I was twelve and he’s off . Something’s wrong.”

Louis knew she was right, of course, he knew Zayn better than anyone, he knew him better than he knew himself. But where Louis was quiet, would wait it out until Zayn got back to them on his own terms, Eleanor was loud, pushy and nothing if not persistent.

Louis and Harry shared a look, both of them feeling that low, cold weight settle in their stomachs — the one you only get when you know the truth before anyone says it out loud.

Eleanor was gone for nearly an hour, long enough that they started half-joking about her getting lost or kidnapped. But when she finally came back, Zayn was with her.

And he looked like shit .

It wasn’t subtle, not if you knew what you were looking at — the hollow cheeks, the sharpness of his collarbones under his too-thin t-shirt, the deep purple shadows under his eyes, skin blotchy with red marks that he kept scratching at, like his body wasn’t his own.

If you grew up in some posh suburb, you might’ve thought he had the flu. Maybe something nasty going around, some virus that knocked him flat.

But they knew better.

This wasn’t flu. This was heavier. This was crystal .

The others hadn’t seen it up close the way Louis had — hadn’t lived it — but Louis knew the second Zayn stepped into the room, hands shoved deep in his hoodie pocket, shoulders curled inward like he could disappear if he tried hard enough. This was textbook. This was what meth did when it got its claws into you and didn’t let go.

Nobody said anything at first. That was how they played it, on the estate — you don’t call someone out in front of everyone, you don’t corner them like an intervention off the telly. You pretend everything’s fine until they decide to tell you the truth themselves.

“Alright, mate,” Louis said casually, patting the floor beside him. “Long time no see.”

Zayn forced a smile, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Yeah. Been busy.”

Harry passed him a cigarette, and Zayn’s hands shook slightly as he lit it. Nobody missed it, but nobody said anything.

They spent the rest of the night like that — walking on eggshells, talking about nothing, pretending everything was fine even though it wasn’t. Zayn stayed quiet, smoked more than usual, laughed in all the wrong places, and Louis’ heart ached with how familiar it all felt.

Because this was the start of it — the part where you still show up, still try to be the old version of yourself, before the drugs hollow you out completely. Before you start avoiding everyone because you can’t stand to see the pity in their eyes. Before you lose everything, bit by bit, until the only thing left is the next high.

That night, when it was just Louis and Harry back at the flat, Louis sat on the windowsill smoking, knee bouncing furiously, while Harry paced the kitchen.

“We’ve gotta do something,” Harry said, voice tight. “We can’t just let him—”

“We can’t make him do anything, Haz,” Louis said, voice hollow. “You know that.”

Harry stopped pacing, turning to face him. “So what, we just watch him rot?”

Louis’ chest ached, because that was the thing — they couldn’t fix Zayn. No one could. Not until Zayn wanted to fix himself. But fuck if Louis wasn’t going to try anyway.

“We don’t give up on him,” Louis said quietly. “That’s all we can do.”

And maybe it wasn’t enough. Maybe it wouldn’t save Zayn. But they weren’t gonna let him fall without trying to catch him first.

Louis had always been the kind of person who couldn’t sit still when someone he loved was falling apart.

So when Zayn stopped showing up again, when the missed texts turned into radio silence, when Eleanor’s concern turned into real worry, Louis didn’t hesitate. He told Harry he had an extra shift at work, grabbed a bag of food from the Tesco down the road, and went straight to Zayn’s flat.

Zayn’s place had always been a bit of a mess — the kind of chaos that came from never fully unpacking, never settling anywhere for too long. But when Louis stepped inside, the smell hit him first. Stale smoke, something sour underneath it, like dishes left too long in the sink. It wasn’t horrific , not yet, but it was bad enough that Louis knew Zayn had stopped caring.

Zayn was on the sofa, hoodie pulled over his head, a cigarette burning between his fingers, eyes dull and unfocused. He looked at Louis like he wasn’t sure if he was real.

“Brought you some food,” Louis said casually, holding up the Tesco bag. “Figured you’d been living off crisps for the past weeks.”

Zayn huffed a laugh, but it was weak. “Could’ve just texted.”

Louis shrugged, stepping over an empty takeaway box on the floor. “You weren’t answering.”

That was the end of that conversation.

They ate on the sofa — microwave meals, nothing fancy, but it was the first real food Louis was sure Zayn had eaten in days. Louis talked while Zayn listened, keeping things light, acting like this was just a normal visit.

But then, after they’d eaten and Louis had stacked the worst of the mess into the sink, Zayn sighed and ran a hand through his messy hair.

“I dunno why you’re here, Lou,” he muttered, voice rough. “You and Harry, Niall, Eleanor, Oli, all of you — you’re better than me. You got out.”

Louis’ stomach twisted. “Don’t say that.”

“It’s true,” Zayn exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “I see it. You’re all doing better and I’m—” His voice broke, just a little. “I’m just a fucking mess.”

Louis hated this. Hated the look on Zayn’s face, the way he was curling in on himself like he was trying to disappear. Louis had seen it before, in the mirror, in rehab, in every version of himself that had ever wanted to slip away completely.

So he did something stupid .

He reached into his pocket, pulled out the little bag he’d been carrying for weeks but hadn’t touched. It was just habit, having it, like a safety net. Just in case. He’d never planned on actually using it again.

But Zayn needed him. And Louis was still Louis.

So he did a line. A fat one. Right there on Zayn’s shitty coffee table, dusted with ash and old beer rings.

And Zayn? Zayn watched him with wide, disbelieving eyes before shaking his head and laughing, this broken, disbelieving sound.

“You serious?” Zayn asked, voice shaking.

Louis sniffed, wiping his nose, already feeling that familiar rush, that clarity, that fuck it all warmth spreading through his limbs. “You’re not alone, mate,” Louis said, grinning. “Never have been.”

Zayn hesitated, staring at him, and for a second, Louis thought maybe he wouldn’t do it. Maybe this was where it would end.

But then Zayn reached for the bag.

And just like that, Louis had broken the one promise he’d sworn he’d never break.

He was high again.

And worse? He was lying to Harry.

But in that moment, laughing with Zayn, feeling weightless and free, it didn’t seem so bad.

Not yet.

Louis didn’t even try to pretend he was sober when he got home.

He could have. He should have. But the second he stepped through the door, Harry was already looking at him, eyes sharp despite the soft way he was curled up on the sofa, his book long forgotten in his lap.

Louis barely had time to kick off his shoes before Harry sat up properly, head tilting, brows furrowing just slightly. “Lou…”

And fuck, Louis had been so good at lying. He had all the excuses lined up — just tired, just had a long shift, just had a beer with the lads . But none of them came out, because Harry knew . He always did.

Louis sighed, running a hand through his hair, sniffing once. “Zayn needed me.”

Harry’s jaw clenched, eyes flickering with something sharp. “So you got high?”

Louis shrugged. “Wasn’t gonna let him feel like shit alone, was I?”

Harry exhaled hard, shaking his head, muttering, “Fucking hell, Lou,” like he couldn’t believe this was happening.

And for a second, Louis thought this was it — the moment they’d been avoiding for nearly a year, the moment everything fell apart.

But then Harry looked at him again, really looked at him, his sharp, beautiful, perceptive boy, and Louis knew exactly what was going through his mind.

Because Harry had always struggled with cravings worse than Louis. Louis had built up a tolerance to wanting; he’d learned how to sit with it, to ignore it, to distract himself with cigarettes and loud music and pointless arguments.

But Harry? When he wanted something, he needed it. And right now, Louis could see it plain as day — the way Harry’s fingers twitched, the way his tongue darted out to wet his lips, the way his pupils had already blown just at the thought of it.

“Just one,” Harry whispered, voice barely audible.

Louis’ stomach twisted. This was the other half of the promise, the one they’d made in ink on paper: Together or not at all.

And Louis had already broken it.

Harry must’ve seen the hesitation on his face, because he reached out, fingers curling around Louis’ wrist. “You promised, Lou.”

Louis closed his eyes for a second, breathing slow. He could say no. He should say no.

But he didn’t.

Because deep down, he wanted this too. Wanted that rush, that high, that moment of absolute clarity where nothing mattered except how good it felt to not feel anything else.

So he pulled the bag from his pocket, pressed it into Harry’s palm, and just like that—

They were back to square one.

It started off slow. At first, it was just the occasional bump to take the edge off, just one or two lines on a Friday night, just enough to feel good without falling apart. They hid it from Louis’ family easily—too easily, really. They’d been addicts long enough to know how to function through a high, how to keep their hands steady at Sunday dinner, how to make sure their eyes weren’t too wide, their laughter not too sharp. Johannah finally trusting them enough and not making them take drug tests as regularly helped as well.

But in front of their friends? That was different.

It was s o slow none of them could pinpoint the exact moment it shifted, the exact night it all cracked open and let the past slip through.

Maybe it was the night Louis sat on Zayn’s stained couch, the air thick with cigarette smoke and the weight of old memories, and knew — knew —what would happen the second he reached for that rolled-up note.

Maybe it was the night he came home wired , his skin humming, his jaw aching from clenching, and Harry—sweet, fucking Harry—looked at him with that understanding, knowing gaze and sighed before reaching for a bump himself.

Maybe it was the moment they stopped pretending .

Because after that?

It was over .

The lie unraveled. The act of being clean fell apart.

And the second their friends noticed , the second they saw that Louis and Harry weren’t trying anymore—weren’t forcing themselves to stay sober out of guilt, weren’t holding the group together like some final, desperate thread—

They stopped trying, too.

Zayn kicked the meth—thank fuck for that—but in exchange, he was back on everything else . Coke, pills, whatever would take the edge off. He called it balance , said this was better , manageable . And maybe he was right , but that didn’t make it good .

Eleanor, fucking Eleanor , the one who had kept herself just on the outside of it for weeks, was next. She started small, just taking halves of whatever Harry handed her, just a little molly to make a party more fun, just a little Xanax to breathe . But halves turned into wholes, and then she wasn’t pretending anymore—wasn’t doing it for fun, wasn’t even doing it for the parties —she was just doing it because it made everything quieter .

Niall never needed convincing. He’d always had a drink in his hand anyway, always danced that line between party boy and blackout drunk , so when Louis and Harry started breaking out the good shit, he just laughed and said, “We were fucking boring sober anyway,” and that was that.

Nobody disagreed.

Oli had been clean the longest. The longest. And even he fell back into it, just a little at first, just enough to remind himself why he quit in the first place. But then he didn’t quit again .

And they all told themselves it was fine .

That they weren’t like Zayn had been , strung out on meth, slipping into something ugly .

That they had it under control .

That it wasn’t like before .

Because they only did it at parties .

They only did it when they were stressed .

They only did it together .

Together or not at all.

It became their motto .

And, as their mottos always went, it was a fucking disaster .

The party was a blur of flashing lights and pounding bass, bodies moving in time with the music, heat pressing in from every direction. The air was thick with smoke, alcohol, and something bitter lurking beneath it all—the unmistakable scent of too many people on too many substances, swirling together into a cocktail of chaos.

And they were in the middle of it.

Louis barely knew whose house this was, barely cared, but it didn’t matter. At these parties it never did. They were all the same—loud, hazy, and inevitable .

The group was scattered throughout the room, all of them gone , floating through the night like ghosts who had forgotten how to haunt.

Zayn was perched in the corner, lazily watching the room, fingers flicking at his lighter, his pupils huge , body slumped like the only thing holding him upright was the wall behind him. Eleanor was a mess of limbs, draped across a stranger’s lap, her head tossed back in laughter, her glass dangerously close to spilling over. Niall was leaning against the kitchen counter, slurring his way through some argument with Oli about God knows what , both of them barely holding themselves up.

And Louis ?

Louis was exactly where he always ended up—backed up against some couch, his hands tangled in Harry’s hair, their mouths fused together like they were trying to consume each other.

Harry was straddling his lap, gripping onto his hoodie, grinding just slightly , slow and deliberate, enough to keep Louis on edge but not enough to make him want to stop.

He tasted like whiskey and something sharper, something chemical that Louis didn’t want to pinpoint, but it didn’t matter —because Harry was warm and solid in his hands, his breath coming out in sharp, hitched little gasps against Louis’ lips.

It was the same every night.

They’d get high , they’d get fucked , they’d get lost in each other.

Every time, every party, every moment in between.

“Jesus fuck ,” Niall groaned from somewhere nearby, his voice obnoxiously loud over the music. “You two are a lot .”

Eleanor, giggling from the other side of the room, threw an empty bottle in their general direction. “Oi! Get a room! ”

Louis barely heard them, barely cared, not when Harry’s teeth scraped just slightly over his bottom lip, not when Harry’s fingers curled tighter into his hoodie, like he needed him, like he wouldn’t survive if they weren’t touching .

And Louis— Louis needed him just as much .

So he pulled Harry in, kissing him harder , deeper, drowning out the night, drowning out the world, drowning out everything that wasn’t them .

The party barely existed around them anymore. The music, the people, the conversations—it was all just noise , all background static to the real thing, to this .

To Harry , heavy and warm in his lap, pupils blown, mouth red and wet , hands shaking just slightly where they gripped at Louis’ hoodie.

And fuck—Louis knew this feeling now, knew what this meant.

Because the ice had been broken.

They’d had their first time now. Sober. Perfect. Real .

And maybe they were fucked tonight, maybe they were high , maybe they’d regret it tomorrow or maybe they wouldn’t, but Louis knew the way Harry was looking at him, the way his fingers twitched against his chest like he was asking , like he was waiting for Louis to say it .

Louis licked his lips, leaning in close enough that his words could be the only thing Harry heard .

“C’mon,” he murmured, voice low, slow, deliberate .

Harry exhaled , shuddering slightly, and that was all it took .

They barely made it through the crowd, barely noticed Eleanor’s wolf-whistle as they passed, barely registered Niall yelling something obscene in their direction.

Didn’t care .

Didn’t look back .

The second the bedroom door clicked shut behind them, Louis had Harry against it , their mouths colliding hard , teeth and tongue and heat, hands tugging at clothes, pulling each other closer, like there was any space left to close.

It wasn’t slow, wasn’t careful, wasn’t some soft, tender moment —but it was them .

Messy, desperate, needing each other in a way that made it impossible to think.

They tumbled onto the bed, a mess of limbs, mouths never breaking apart for more than a second, fingers tugging at fabric, at skin, at anything that got in the way.

And maybe this wasn’t the most perfect moment. Maybe it wasn’t carefully planned , maybe it wasn’t sober , maybe it wasn’t special in the way people made it out to be.

When they finally stumbled out of the room, Louis grinning like the smug little shit he was and Harry still looking wrecked , flushed from his cheeks to his chest, hair a mess, pupils still wide, it was immediate .

They didn’t even get the chance to slip back into the party unnoticed—because Oli, lounging on the sofa like he owned the place, one arm slung over the backrest and a beer dangling from his fingers, spotted them the second they stepped out into the dimly lit hallway.

“Oh, fuck off ,” he groaned dramatically, tilting his head back. “You actually shagged at a house party?”

Louis, still buzzing , still feeling Harry’s nails dragged down his back, still feeling the ghost of Harry’s moans in his ear, just grinned wider. “What, jealous?”

Oli snorted , taking a lazy sip of his beer. “Not even remotely , mate. Just concerned for the sanitation of whatever poor bastard owns that bed.”

Across the room, Eleanor perked up from where she’d been lounging against Niall, blinking at them like she was processing the words. Then, after about two seconds , she howled , clapping a hand over her mouth, her eyes wide with delight .

“NO FUCKING WAY.”

Harry, whose legs were probably still shaking, groaned, shoving his face into Louis’ shoulder. “Jesus Christ .”

Louis cackled , slipping an arm around Harry’s waist, keeping him close like he was something precious , something that belonged there. “Reckon they’re making a bit of a fuss about this, love.”

“Oh, a bit ?” Niall cut in, looking halfway between disgusted and impressed . “Mate, people sit on those beds .”

Louis smirked. “Yeah, well, we didn‘t touch the bed.”

Eleanor lost it , clutching at Niall’s sleeve like she needed support to breathe , her entire body shaking from laughter. “You filthy fucking animals ,” she wheezed, eyes gleaming .

Harry, still hiding , groaned again, gripping at Louis’ hoodie like he could physically sink into him and disappear. “I hate all of you.”

“No, you don’t ,” Oli muttered, still unimpressed, tipping his beer toward them. “But I do hope you at least cleaned up.”

Louis, without missing a beat , just grinned and said, “Not our job.”

And that— that was the moment Eleanor actually fell to the floor, laughing so hard she was probably gonna pull something .

And it was fun , for a while. The way it had been at the beginning, before things got bad . They went out nearly every night, getting so far gone they could barely remember their own names, stumbling home at dawn, sneaking into their own apartment, collapsing into their mattress on the floor with their limbs tangled, giggling into each other’s mouths because they were so fucking high and so fucking in love and what else even mattered?

Louis still went to work. Harry still worked at the shop. They paid rent on time. They showed up for Sunday dinner. They made sure to look okay, even if they weren’t.

And as long as they were keeping it together, what was the harm?

What was the worst that could happen?

It was fun.

For a while, it was so fucking fun .

They were invincible, untouchable, a hurricane of limbs and laughter, stumbling through neon-lit streets with pupils blown wide, pockets filled with crumpled bills and loose pills, hearts thrumming in time with the bass that followed them from party to party.

It was together , and that meant it was fine.

One night, they were at some warehouse party in an abandoned lot, the music so loud Louis could feel it vibrating in his teeth, the air thick with smoke and sweat and something electric. Zayn had slipped him a pill—didn’t even say what it was, just pressed it into his palm with a knowing smirk, and Louis had swallowed it without question, washing it down with whatever was in his cup.

Eleanor was already off her face, dancing on a table with some bloke who looked like he hadn’t slept in three days, her laughter bright and wild. Niall was leaning against the speakers, eyes half-lidded, head bobbing to the music like he was one with the beat.

Harry was behind Louis, his hands trailing up his sides, lips against his ear. “You’re buzzing, aren’t you?”

Louis turned in his arms, grinning, everything feeling so good , so light . “M’floating, Haz.”

Harry giggled—an actual giggle —his curls damp against his forehead. “Come dance with me.”

Louis let himself be pulled into the crowd, where Zayn and Oli were already lost in the music, hands in the air, sweat shining under the colored lights. They pressed in close, bodies moving together, an unspoken rhythm between them. The beat throbbed in their chests, their veins, their fucking souls , and Louis couldn’t tell where he ended and where Harry began.

“Love you,” Harry whispered, breath warm against his lips.

“Love you more,” Louis murmured back, then kissed him, messy and eager and perfect .

Eleanor cheered from somewhere behind them. “Get a fucking room!”

They didn’t. Instead, they danced until their legs nearly gave out, until their bodies were slick with sweat, until Louis’ face hurt from smiling so much. And when they finally spilled out of the party into the cool night air, Niall immediately collapsed onto the pavement with a dramatic groan.

“I think I’m dead,” he announced, arms sprawled out.

Zayn flopped beside him, lighting a cigarette. “Nah, mate, if you were dead, you wouldn’t be able to talk.”

Niall opened one eye. “Maybe I’m a ghost.”

“Shit, then who’s gonna buy the next round?” Oli teased, lying down beside them.

Harry crawled onto Louis’ lap right there on the pavement, his whole body vibrating from the mix of whatever-the-fuck they’d taken. “We should run away,” he whispered conspiratorially, eyes bright with mischief. “Just us. Steal a car and drive to the ocean.”

Louis laughed, holding him close, letting his head rest against Harry’s. “We’d end up in Wales with no money and a flat tire.”

“Still sounds better than reality,” Harry grinned.

And maybe it was.

Maybe this was better than reality.

Another night, they ended up at Niall’s, all of them piled onto his tiny sofa, a heap of tangled limbs and sweaty bodies, eyes glazed and laughter lazy.

Eleanor was sprawled across Oli’s lap, lazily eating a lollipop she’d nicked from the corner shop. “I’m convinced colors have flavors ,” she announced suddenly.

Zayn raised a brow, exhaling a plume of smoke. “Go on, then.”

“Like, red tastes warm, and blue tastes… y’know. Cold .”

“You’re so fucking high,” Louis cackled, draping himself dramatically across Harry.

“She’s got a point, though,” Niall mused, eyes half-lidded. “Green tastes like… fresh.”

Harry gasped. “ Exactly .”

“Okay, okay, so what does purple taste like?” Oli asked, the only one with enough brain cells left to challenge this nonsense.

Eleanor pondered for a moment, twirling the lollipop between her fingers. “Like… deep thoughts.”

Everyone lost it .

Louis was crying from laughter, his stomach hurting, his body weak with whatever mix of uppers and downers he’d taken that night. Zayn nearly choked on his cigarette, Niall was wheezing, and Harry was shaking so hard in Louis’ lap they both nearly fell off the couch.

“Deep fucking thoughts!” Louis wheezed, gripping Harry for dear life. “Holy shit, you’re a genius, El.”

Eleanor bowed dramatically. “I know .”

And then there were the nights where it wasn’t wild, where it was just the six of them, all floating in their own little universe, high enough that time barely felt real.

One time, they went to the park at two in the morning, sprawled out on the damp grass, staring up at the stars like they were the only people left in the world.

“D’you think there’s other people up there?” Oli asked, his voice thick with whatever-the-fuck they’d been taking that night.

“Aliens?” Niall murmured sleepily.

“Yeah.”

“Hope so,” Harry whispered. “We can’t be the best this universe has to offer.”

Louis laughed softly, brushing his fingers through Harry’s curls. “Nah, we’re fucking disasters.”

Zayn hummed. “Wouldn’t change it though.”

Harry turned his head, looking at Louis with wide, blissed-out eyes. “Me neither.”

Louis kissed him, just because he could, because this was what it was all about, wasn’t it? This feeling of weightlessness, of endless possibility, of being young and reckless and alive .

It happened on a Wednesday.

Not a weekend, not some big night, not one of those reckless, fast-paced blurs of neon and pounding bass. Just Wednesday . A day that should’ve meant nothing, a day that should’ve been routine—wake up, work, go home, sleep. Instead, it was this . Zayn’s flat, the air thick with smoke and sweat and the sickly-sweet scent of spilled liquor, the kind that would stick to their clothes, their skin, their hair.

It wasn’t supposed to be a big night. Just a Wednesday .

They were all there—Louis, Harry, Zayn, Eleanor, Oli, and Niall—sprawled out across Zayn’s shitty, cigarette-burned sofa, the floor, leaning against the walls, chasing highs like they were chasing something that had already left them behind.

The table in front of them was a fucking mess. Pill bottles, baggies of powder, loose notes rolled up and abandoned, lighters flickering against trembling fingers. Bottles balanced on the edges, some already empty, some half-drunk, the labels peeling from condensation and careless hands. The music was low , but the conversation was louder , overlapping and slurred, laughter that was just a little too much , voices that rose and fell like waves, lost in the haze of it all.

Nobody was keeping track.

Nobody was counting what they’d taken.

Nobody was saying, Maybe this is too much .

Because it was always too much. That was the whole fucking point .

Louis was floating, his body buzzing, his mind light but tied down at the same time, caught somewhere between the weightlessness of the high and the heavy, dragging pull of exhaustion. He was melting into the cushions, head tipped back against the armrest, the ceiling above him spinning just enough to feel good, just enough to make him forget whatever the fuck he had been thinking about before.

And then he noticed.

Harry’s breathing.

Too slow.

Not the relaxed, easy slow of someone lost in a good high. Wrong slow.

Louis tried to sit up, but it felt like he was dragging himself through mud , his limbs detached, his thoughts lagging behind the way they always did when he was this fucked up. He forced himself forward, blinking hard, trying to shake the weight pressing down on his chest.

Harry was beside him, slumped deep into the cushions, his head tilted slightly to the side, curls sticking to his forehead. His lips were parted, breath coming too shallow , like his body was forgetting to keep going.

Louis’ stomach twisted.

He nudged Harry’s thigh, fingers barely responsive, barely able to grip the fabric of his jeans.

“Play-Doh,” Louis slurred, his tongue thick in his mouth, the nickname dragging out like it didn’t belong to him.

Harry blinked, but it was slow , sluggish, like it took effort just to lift his eyelids. His pupils were huge , swallowing the green, his skin pale in a way that wasn’t right .

Louis’ pulse spiked .

Something was wrong .

Not just high. Not just too fucked up . Wrong .

Louis turned his head, everything dragging, vision smearing, the world around him twisting in slow, distorted waves. His body felt wrong , detached from his mind, his limbs floating and heavy all at once, like he was sinking into the cushions, like gravity itself had turned against him.

He didn’t know how long he had been sitting there, slouched deep into the corner of the sofa, his breath slow, too slow , his thoughts sluggish, slipping through his fingers like smoke.

But something was wrong .

Very wrong.

The realization slithered through his haze, clawing at his chest, a creeping, suffocating feeling that started in his gut and spread outward, cold and paralyzing . He tried to move, to lift his head properly, to focus , but it was like his body wasn’t his own anymore.

His gaze landed on Zayn next, and his stomach turned violently.

Zayn looked bad .

His skin was pale— too pale, a sickly grayish tint under the dim yellow glow of the lamp overhead. Sweat slicked his forehead, his damp hair clinging to his temples. His chest moved in short, sharp gasps, his breath coming in uneven, desperate pulls, like he was struggling to get enough air, like his lungs were collapsing under the weight of it all.

His lips had parted slightly, but he wasn’t saying anything, wasn’t even there , his hands twitching in his lap, fingers barely curling, like he was trying to grab onto something, but his brain couldn’t connect the action to his body.

Louis’ pulse slammed against his ribs.

His body screamed at him to move, to do something , but it was like trying to run underwater, like he was drowning in his own skin.

He tried to say something , but his mouth barely worked. His tongue felt thick and wrong , foreign in his own mouth, his throat dry, his voice trapped somewhere deep inside him. He forced the words through his teeth, but they came out warped , messy, like his lips didn’t know how to shape them.

“We—” His own voice sounded distant, not his . “Z. Zaynie.”

Zayn’s eyes cracked open. He blinked once. Twice. Sluggish. Delayed .

“M’fine,” he mumbled, his words barely more than a breath.

He wasn’t fine.

Louis knew that. Could see it. Could feel it.

And when he turned his head again—slow, slow, too slow —it only got worse.

Eleanor was lying on the floor, one arm stretched out beside her, the other draped limply over her stomach. Her fingers twitched against the carpet in erratic, jerking movements, like her body was trying to reset itself but couldn’t. Her head was turned to the side, her mouth slightly open, her breathing so faint Louis wasn’t sure she was breathing.

His vision swam, his chest tightened , and his stomach rolled when he saw Niall.

Slumped against the coffee table, his head tilted back too far , an empty bottle still loose in his grip. His lips were parted, but he wasn’t snoring . He wasn’t moving at all.

Louis’ breath hitched , panic clawing its way up his throat, but his body still wasn’t listening .

Oli was curled up in the corner, knees drawn to his chest, body still , his hand limp against his thigh, barely responsive .

And then—

Harry.

Louis’ world lurched , everything snapping into sharp, blinding focus, every nerve in his body lighting up at once .

Harry was beside him, his head lolling slightly, his jaw slack, his pupils huge , swallowing up the green in his eyes, but he wasn’t seeing anything. His chest rose and fell too slow , his breath shallow, barely making it past his parted lips now.

No. No, no, no.

Louis’ pulse roared in his ears, his body still stuck , trapped , the panic rising so fast it made him feel sick , but his arms weren’t working, his legs weren’t working, his mouth wasn’t working.

This was bad.

This was really, really fucking bad.

Something was wrong .

They had gone too far .

Louis needed to move, needed to wake up , needed to fix this , but his body wasn’t his anymore. His heart pounded , but his limbs felt like lead , like he was frozen inside his own skin.

His mind was screaming, get up, do something, wake him up, get help, get help, GET HELP , but his body wasn’t listening .

Someone needed to call for help.

Someone had to .

But nobody did.

Not because they didn’t want to.

Because they couldn’t .

They were too fucked , too far gone , too deep into it to even move properly , let alone reach for a phone, let alone save themselves .

Louis’ vision blurred, his body shutting down on him, but he fought it, fought to stay awake, fought to keep his eyes open, fought to focus on the sound of Harry’s breathing— in, out, in, out, come on, Haz, come on —but it was getting fainter , and Louis was losing .

His thoughts were breaking apart, splintering , fading into a dull, echoing hum , his body giving up on him, his eyes slipping shut no no NO NO STAY AWAKE —

And then everything went black .

He didn’t know how long they were out.

Could’ve been minutes. Could’ve been hours.

All he knew was that when he cracked his eyes open again, the room was silent.

Not dead silent.

Just… slow. Groggy. Recovering .

Louis forced himself up, his limbs weak, head pounding. Harry was still there, still breathing, still curled up beside him—but his skin was damp, his body too warm. His lips were dry, cracked.

Zayn was on the floor, his arm draped over his face, his chest rising and falling in slow, uneven breaths. Niall groaned somewhere to the side, shifting, his body creaking like an old door. Eleanor was awake, barely, blinking blearily at the ceiling.

Nobody said a word.

Because they didn’t need to.

It was written all over the room.

This wasn’t fun anymore.

This wasn’t just a bit of fun or just a little relapse or just another night .

They could’ve died .

And nobody had done anything to stop it.

Louis’ throat was dry, his hands trembling as he pressed them to his face. Harry shifted beside him, making a low, broken sound, pressing his forehead to Louis’ shoulder.

“This—” Harry swallowed thickly. “We can’t—”

Louis didn’t need to hear the rest. He already knew.

None of them said it out loud.

Nobody needed to.

They just started moving, slow and weak, but determined.

They gathered themselves up, barely functioning, every breath an effort.

They didn’t argue.

Didn’t make excuses.

Didn’t hesitate.

They walked into the rehab facility together that same night, still shaking, still raw, still fucked up beyond belief .

And when they signed their names on the intake forms, when the staff led them away one by one, when Louis caught Harry’s gaze one last time before they were separated, he knew—

This time, they had to get it right.

There were no second chances after this.

Notes:

Did I scare you? Hope I did

Chapter 25: Chapter 25

Notes:

okay guys buckle up, she‘s a long one

Detox was hell.

Louis had done it before. Too many fucking times. Knew the process inside and out—the cold sweats, the nausea, the aches deep in his bones like something was rotting inside him. He’d lived through it at fourteen, again at fifteen, sixteen, seventeen, then again at eighteen. But this time? This time was worse .

Harry was beside him every second, shaking just as badly, looking even worse than Louis felt. The first night, they were put in separate rooms, which Louis fucking hated , lying in the unfamiliar bed, sweating through the sheets, feeling like he was going to crawl out of his own skin. Every cell in his body screamed for something— anything —to make it stop. But there was nothing. Just cold water from a plastic cup, a nurse checking in every hour, and the distant sound of someone, Niall, by the sounds of it, vomiting down the hall.

The second night, they let Harry stay in his room. Probably because neither of them had stopped asking.

Harry curled up on the mattress beside him, his whole body wracked with tremors, his skin burning one second and freezing the next. Louis had him wrapped in a blanket, but it didn’t seem to help. His breaths were short, shaky, and Louis knew exactly what was happening.

The panic . The need . The fucking craving that clawed at you from the inside out, screaming for just one line, one pill, one fucking fix to make it stop.

“It’s not gonna kill you,” Louis murmured, voice hoarse. “Feels like it, but it won’t.”

Harry groaned, tucking his face against Louis’ chest. “Don’t say that. It might .”

Louis huffed a weak laugh, pressing a kiss to Harry’s sweat-damp curls. “Not today, Play-Doh.”

Harry whimpered, gripping Louis’ t-shirt so tight his knuckles went white.

By day three, it was worse .

The fever had passed, but now came the restlessness—the unbearable, bone-deep itch under their skin, the feeling that their muscles would tear apart if they stayed still too long. Their nerves were shot, their cravings sharp as knives, slicing through every second, never dulling, never giving them a moment of peace.

They sat in group therapy, a half-circle of broken people in a room too bright, too clean , the chairs uncomfortable in a way that made Louis want to claw his way out of his own body . He couldn’t focus on a single fucking word anyone was saying. It all blurred together, voices overlapping, his mind racing too fast to catch onto anything except the rhythmic tap of his foot against the floor. Over and over and over , his knee bouncing, his fingers jittery, his heart hammering even though his body felt like lead.

Harry wasn’t much better.

He was pale, too pale, pupils tiny , lips dry and cracked from how much he had been chewing at them. Every time someone mentioned drugs, his fingers twitched , like just hearing the words was enough to set something off inside him.

Eleanor sat stiff beside him, arms wrapped around her middle, her skin white as the walls , a faint sheen of sweat gathering at her temples. Her nails dug into her sleeves, deep enough to leave marks, her jaw clenched so tight Louis wondered if it hurt .

Niall was slouched in his chair, eyes rimmed in red, hands gripping the hem of his hoodie like it was the only thing keeping him grounded . Every few minutes, he’d sniff sharply, rubbing at his face like he could wipe the discomfort away, but it never left.

Zayn looked like he was holding himself together through sheer fucking willpower . His foot tapped against the linoleum, his fingers rolling and unrolling the hem of his shirt, his expression blank, but his eyes were wild , darting to the door like he was planning an escape he knew he wouldn’t take.

Oli was the quietest of all of them. He hadn’t spoken once. Hadn’t even looked at anyone since they walked in. His arms were crossed, his head bowed, shoulders hunched like he was trying to disappear inside himself.

When the session ended, they didn’t talk.

They just stumbled back to their rooms, bodies aching, shaking, torn apart by the cravings gnawing at their nerves, crawling under their skin, screaming at them to fix it .

They collapsed onto the mattress, limbs tangled, shaking their way through another night of this fucking agony .

Louis knew this was the part where people broke .

Where they called their dealer the second they got out.

Where they swore up and down they’d never go back , but did anyway.

Because this wasn’t just a fight against the drugs .

It was a fight against themselves .

That night, when the lights were off and the world outside their room had gone quiet, Harry shivered beside him, his breath ragged, his fingers weakly gripping at the fabric of Louis’ hoodie like he was afraid to let go.

“Promise me,” he rasped, voice raw from vomiting, from crying , from hurting . “Promise me we don’t do this again.”

Louis swallowed past the lump in his throat, brushing damp curls out of Harry’s eyes, feeling the heat still lingering against his skin, the fever clinging even though it was supposed to be over .

“We already made that promise,” Louis murmured, his voice barely more than a breath.

Harry’s fingers curled around Louis’ wrist, his grip weak but desperate , like he was holding on to this, to them , to something real.

“Promise me again .”

Louis exhaled shakily, the weight of everything pressing down on his ribs, his head spinning, the ache in his bones settling into something deeper .

He pressed his forehead to Harry’s, breathing him in, the only thing that had ever mattered, the only thing that had ever felt real .

“I promise.”

 

Breakfast was hell .

The cafeteria smelled like eggs and something vaguely burnt, the kind of scent that usually turned Louis’ stomach, but at this point, he wasn’t sure he even had a stomach anymore. His body was wrung out , empty in a way that had nothing to do with hunger, his nerves still buzzing despite the exhaustion weighing him down.

They sat at their usual table— all of them , like some fucked-up reunion of ghosts who hadn’t decided if they wanted to haunt the place or not.

Oli was the only one with enough energy to talk, his detox bad but not as brutal as the rest of them. He still looked like shit, don’t get it wrong, but he wasn’t shaking , wasn’t sweating through his clothes , wasn’t hunched over like he was fighting to keep himself from falling apart .

“So, turns out ,” he was saying, poking at the sad-looking piece of toast on his tray, “if you stare at the ceiling long enough, you do start seeing shapes in the stains.” He took a bite, chewing slow, eyes still distant but his voice steady. “I think mine’s a frog.”

Louis barely had the energy to snort , but he forced it, leaning back in his chair. “You and your weird frog agenda, mate. Should I be worried?”

Oli smirked, the first real expression from any of them in hours. “Listen. I told you. Frogs are watching us .”

A weak chuckle rolled through the table, but that was all.

The rest of them barely moved .

Eleanor was arguably the worst . She was pale , her skin sickly and clammy, dark shadows under her bloodshot eyes, her fingers locked tight around Niall’s wrist like she’d fall apart if she let go. She hadn’t eaten yet, hadn’t spoken , just sat there, her body stiff, barely holding herself together.

And Niall—

For once in his life, Niall didn’t have a single joke to make the situation better .

He just let her grip him , his free hand curled into a fist against the table, his knee bouncing anxiously under it.

Louis saw the way his jaw clenched when Eleanor twitched suddenly, saw the way he winced when she sucked in a sharp breath like she was barely keeping herself from screaming .

Louis hated it.

Hated the silence , the way it made everything heavier , the way none of them could pretend this wasn’t the worst fucking thing they had ever done to themselves.

So he filled the space.

Forced himself to.

He sat up straighter, wiped the sweat from his palms onto his pants, and plastered on his best Louis Tomlinson Smirk™ , the one he used when everything felt like it was falling apart .

“So,” he drawled, looking around the table. “Let’s take bets. Who’s gonna crack first and try to run?”

Harry huffed a laugh beside him, barely there, but it was something .

Oli snorted . “Oh, definitely Niall .”

Niall finally looked up , blinking like he was trying to register what they were even saying. “Oi, fuck off ,” he muttered, voice rough. “I’m here , aren’t I?”

Louis grinned , shifting his gaze to Zayn, who had been eerily quiet the entire time, picking at the edges of his tray like he was bored , like he wasn’t barely keeping himself together .

“Alright, Z , then,” Louis said, raising a brow. “Yeah? You gonna be the first one to bolt?”

Zayn flicked his eyes up, met Louis’ stare head-on, then sighed , rolling his shoulders like he couldn’t be arsed to care.

“If I wanted to leave,” he muttered, “I would’ve done it already.”

Louis believed him.

Eleanor shuddered beside Niall, gripping him tighter , curling further into herself like she couldn’t stand being upright anymore.

The mood sank again, the weight of reality creeping back in, settling over them like a fucking blanket they couldn’t shake off.

Louis’ own hands were shaking.

His own body was screaming at him to fix this , to make it better , to get high and make it stop .

But he couldn’t .

And fuck , that was the hardest part.

Group therapy after breakfast was like marching to the gallows .

Their entire group shuffled into the too-bright room, shoulders heavy, heads low, still rattling from withdrawal, still raw and exposed in a way none of them knew how to deal with.

Greg was already sitting in his usual spot, clipboard in hand, his expression carefully neutral. But the second his eyes landed on Louis and Harry, something flickered across his face—something like disappointment .

Louis clenched his jaw.

Greg had liked them, back when they’d walked out of here for the first time. Had called them the success story , had looked genuinely proud when they walked out of those doors, clean and ready to start fresh.

And now they were back.

Louis could practically hear the unspoken words in Greg’s head.

I really thought you two had made it.

But Greg didn’t say it.

He sighed instead, tapping his pen against his clipboard before letting his gaze sweep over the rest of their group.

Eleanor, curled into herself like she wanted to disappear , her arms locked around her middle, jaw clenched so tightly it looked like it hurt .

Niall, slouched beside her, rubbing at his face, not joking , not talking , not being Niall .

Zayn, tapping his fingers against his knee, restless, looking at the floor, the walls, anywhere but at Greg .

Oli, the calmest of them, still tired, still a little shaky, but able to function in a way the rest of them weren’t.

Greg knew them all. Had seen them in and out of these doors more times than he probably wanted to count.

He exhaled slowly, then leaned back in his chair, raising an eyebrow.

“Well,” he said, tone flat, unreadable. “I’d say it’s good to see you all again, but that’d be a lie , wouldn’t it?”

Louis swallowed, dropping his gaze to his lap.

Harry sat stiff beside him, fingers curled into the fabric of his sweatpants, not saying a word.

Greg let the silence hang for a moment, like he was waiting for someone to talk, waiting for any of them to crack first.

No one did.

Greg sighed again, then scribbled something down on his clipboard.

“I don’t have to ask why you’re here,” he muttered. “I know why you’re here. The question is—do you ?”

Louis hated him for asking that.

They all sat in the same uncomfortable chairs, arranged in that familiar semi-circle, the walls too bright, the air too stale, the silence too heavy. Greg sat across from them, clipboard balanced on his knee, pen tapping absently against the paper as he waited , as if any of them were going to just start talking of their own accord.

They never did.

Not at first.

So, as always, it was up to Louis.

He exhaled through his nose, shaking out his hands, forcing himself to look at anyone but Greg before he spoke. “Alright,” he started, voice hoarse from days of withdrawal. “Story time, then?”

Greg didn’t react, just gestured for him to go on, like this was any other day, like this was just routine .

Louis hated that.

He licked his lips, casting a quick glance at Harry beside him, at the others scattered around the circle—Eleanor, still wrapped in herself, gripping her own arms like they were the only things holding her together. Niall, staring at the floor, face blank, for once in his life without something witty to say. Zayn, head tilted back against his chair, eyes closed, looking like he wasn’t listening but Louis knew he was. Oli, the only one not visibly shaking, but still distant, still too quiet .

And then—beyond their circle—the other patients. The ones who weren’t part of their mess , who weren’t tangled in this self-destructive spiral. The ones who had come here alone, without a built-in disaster of a friend group to enable them.

They were listening , too.

Louis wet his lips, then exhaled sharply.

“Alright,” he started, fingers twitching on his knee. “How we ended up back here.”

A pause.

Then, he rolled his shoulders, forcing a smirk that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“Well. It wasn’t a good reason, obviously.”

Greg didn’t react, just waited .

Louis hated that, too.

So, he told them .

He started with Zayn . With how it had begun as just one line , just a way to make sure he wasn’t alone in his relapse, just a way to say, Hey, we’re still in this together, yeah?

And then—it spiraled.

Louis didn’t sugarcoat it, didn’t gloss over the details. He told them how once he slipped, Harry slipped too, because of course he did . He told them how the rest followed like fucking dominoes , one by one, like none of them had ever stood a chance.

He told them about the rules they’d made for themselves, the ones that had felt so logical at the time.

Only at parties.

Only when we’re stressed.

Only together.

That last one had been the most dangerous of them all.

Because what had started as a reassurance —a way to feel safe —became a reason to never stop.

And then he told them about that night .

The Wednesday .

The wrong, fucked-up Wednesday that had nearly been their last .

The pills, the powder, the bottles passed back and forth. The way none of them had kept track, the way nobody had thought, maybe this is too much .

The way he’d noticed Harry’s breathing was off first.

The way he hadn’t noticed how bad everyone else was until it was nearly too late .

His voice wavered only once —when he described the moment he realized none of them could move, none of them could help each other, when all they could do was sit there, suffocating in their own fucking bodies, waiting to see if they’d make it to morning.

The room was silent .

Even the other patients—the ones who didn’t know them, the ones who had their own stories, their own battles—were watching , wide-eyed, some shifting in their seats, some not even blinking .

Louis swallowed past the lump in his throat, feeling the weight of it all settle in his chest, heavy and cold .

“And now,” he muttered, glancing around at his friends, “we’re here. Again.”

A pause.

Then, he forced out a breath, leaning back in his chair, shaking his head. “Real fucking inspirational, yeah?”

Nobody laughed .

Not even Greg.

And Louis—Louis hated that most of all.

They got a little better.

Not all at once, not in some big, dramatic, life-changing moment. It wasn’t like that. It was slow, brutal, one fucking second at a time.

Day by day, the shaking eased.

The cold sweats stopped.

The nausea faded.

The cravings never really left , but they learned to sit with them, to fight them instead of letting them win.

They did everything they were supposed to—showed up to every group therapy session, went to every one-on-one counseling meeting, took their medication when it was given to them, drank so much fucking water they thought they might drown in it.

Some days were okay. Some days were fucking awful .

Louis still woke up in the middle of the night sometimes, body aching, his mind screaming for just one fucking line , just something to fix it. Harry still had nightmares, waking up gasping, gripping onto Louis like he was the only thing tethering him to the earth.

But they were trying .

And that was more than they’d ever done before.

It was Zayn, of all people, who came to them one night with an idea.

“So, uh…” he said, flopping down onto the bed beside them. “You know that guy, Joel?”

“The one who keeps stealing biscuits from the staff kitchen?” Louis asked.

“The one with the face tats?” Harry guessed.

Zayn nodded. “Yeah. He’s got a tattoo gun.”

Louis and Harry both blinked at him.

Harry frowned. “In rehab ?”

Zayn shrugged. “Snuck it in. Apparently, he does, like, prison-style tattoos. Real basic shit, but I saw one he did on some guy’s ankle, and it looked alright.”

Louis perked up. “And what, you want one?”

Zayn hesitated. Then he sighed. “I wanna mark this. I dunno. Something permanent. Something to remind me why we’re doing this.”

Louis and Harry exchanged a look.

Because fuck , yeah. That sounded right .

They found Joel behind the building, where the staff never went after dark. He was sitting on an overturned bucket, smoking a cigarette, his arms covered in shaky, self-done tattoos, the ink still dark and fresh on some of them.

“You lot want some ink?” he asked, barely looking up.

“Depends,” Louis said. “Are you shit at it?”

Joel smirked. “Only a little.”

They didn’t think about it too much, because if they did, they might chicken out.

Harry went first.

He sat on the grass, wrist outstretched, his knee bouncing slightly as Joel prepped the gun. Louis sat behind him, his hands on Harry’s shoulders, rubbing small circles into the fabric of his hoodie.

“Relax, Play-Doh,” Louis murmured, grinning. “It’s just a needle stabbing you a few hundred times.”

Harry rolled his eyes. “You’re so comforting.”

Joel started the machine, and Harry sucked in a sharp breath but didn’t pull away.

It was over in less than ten minutes. When it was done, Joel wiped it clean, and there, in sharp, black ink on Harry’s wrist, was the word:

Together.

Harry stared at it, blinking hard, his fingers brushing over the fresh ink.

Louis swallowed around the lump in his throat, then stuck out his arm. “My turn.”

Joel prepped again, while Harry held onto Louis this time, his thumb rubbing slow circles over Louis’ knuckles.

It hurt like a bitch. But Louis didn’t flinch, didn’t move, just let the needle carve the words into his skin, permanent and unshakable.

When it was done, he lifted his wrist, grinning as he read the words.

Or not at all.

Harry stared at it for a long moment, his expression unreadable, then suddenly surged forward and kissed him—hard, desperate, something real behind it.

Zayn snorted. “Jesus, at least wait ‘til it’s healed.”

Louis grinned against Harry’s lips, breathless, buzzing in a way that had nothing to do with drugs.

This time would be different.

They swore it.

No more excuses. No more just one time . No more convincing themselves they were fine when they weren’t.

Together or not at all.

They walked out of rehab hand in hand, fresh ink on their wrists, lungs full of clean air for the first time in what felt like years. It was terrifying, stepping back into the world—back into a life that had been so easy to fuck up before—but they wanted it this time. Wanted it more than they’d ever wanted another high.

Louis got his job back at Toys R Us. Only lasted two weeks before he told his manager to go fuck himself for speaking to him like he was stupid. Then he got a job at a café. Lasted a month. Then a warehouse gig— three weeks .

He tried. He really tried. But Louis had never been good at taking orders, at smiling when he didn’t mean it, at pretending he didn’t have a thousand better things he could be doing.

So, they scraped by.

Harry kept his job at the corner shop, and Louis did whatever he could—temp jobs, cash-in-hand work, flipping random shit he found at estate sales. It wasn’t much, but it was theirs .

And then, Harry got the gig.

It wasn’t much. Some local band needed a backup singer after their guy dropped out last minute, and Harry—who had always sung under his breath, who always hummed when he was nervous—figured why not?

Louis had never been more proud of anything in his life.

He showed up to every single gig, even the shite ones where five people showed up in a pub that smelled like piss. He cheered the loudest, hollered when Harry hit those insane high notes, clapped so hard his palms stung.

“You were fucking brilliant, Haz,” Louis grinned after one show, his arms wrapped around Harry’s sweaty body.

Harry blushed, shoving his face into Louis’ neck. “Shut up.”

“Never,” Louis whispered, kissing the side of his head.

It wasn’t easy . None of it was.

There were days when the cravings hit hard . Days where Louis had to talk Harry through his withdrawal shakes, where Harry had to hold Louis through his nightmares. Days where neither of them spoke , because it was too fucking hard to get the words out.

Relapse wasn’t the end of the world.

That’s what they’d learned in rehab, drilled into them over and over like some kind of holy scripture. They’d sat in those plastic chairs, clutching Styrofoam cups of weak coffee, listening to counselors repeat the same mantra: A relapse does not mean you’re starting over. It’s a setback, not a failure. Keep going.

And they did.

For the most part.

But the thing about addiction was that it didn’t just disappear. It didn’t fade away like a bad dream, leaving them clean and clear-headed, ready to tackle the world without looking back. It was always there, waiting. Lurking beneath the surface like an old friend they wished they’d never met, whispering at the worst possible times.

Just a little. Just once. You can handle it now.

Sometimes, they resisted. Sometimes, they didn’t.

At first, it was just weed. That one had always been easy to justify, the little loophole in their sobriety pact. It didn’t count , not really. It wasn’t heroin, it wasn’t meth, it wasn’t coke, it wasn’t the things that had nearly killed them. A joint between them after a long day, stretched out on their shitty sofa, sharing slow, lazy kisses between drags, wasn’t the end of the world. It was a habit, sure, but not a problem .

Then came the occasional pill.

Nothing major, nothing that would knock them out completely. Just a little something to take the edge off on bad nights, when the cravings were too loud, when Louis’ fingers twitched for a bump or when Harry couldn’t stop shaking in his sleep. Just enough to feel okay .

And sometimes, it was a little more .

A bump at a party. A tab under the tongue on a night out. A line in the back of a bar, passed between them like an old secret, followed by wide-eyed grins and too-loud laughter as they stumbled through the city, high on each other as much as anything else. But they stopped before it got bad. That was the difference this time. They didn’t let it take control. They pulled themselves back before the edge was too close. That was something, wasn’t it? That was progress .

Not all of them were as lucky.

Eleanor disappeared.

Not all at once, not in some dramatic vanishing act. It happened slowly, little by little, in a way that was easy to ignore at first. She stopped answering texts, but that wasn’t unusual—Eleanor had always been like that, floating in and out of their lives, independent to the point of infuriating. But then she stopped calling back. Stopped showing up. Stopped existing in their world, until one day, Louis realized he couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen her in person.

At first, they didn’t panic. They made excuses.

“She’s probably with that girl she was seeing,” Harry had said one night, scrolling through their group chat with a frown. “What was her name? Tasha? Tammy?”

Louis had shrugged, exhaling a cloud of smoke. “Tess, I think.”

“Right. Maybe she just got caught up with her.”

“Yeah,” Louis agreed, even though it didn’t sit right. Eleanor had never been the type to disappear completely for a relationship.

Zayn was the first to stop making excuses. “This isn’t normal,” he said one night, tossing his phone onto the table. “She wouldn’t just ghost us like this. Something’s wrong.”

They looked for her. Properly looked.

Louis went to her parents’ house, knocked on the door, shifting awkwardly as Eleanor’s mum peered at him with tired, disinterested eyes. “Haven’t seen her in weeks,” she said, like she was talking about a neighbor, not her own fucking daughter. “Let us know if you find her.”

Harry checked her sister’s flat, only to be met with a similar response.

Zayn went to the homeless squads, asked around, showed old pictures. Nothing.

And the worst part? Nobody seemed that surprised she was missing.

Eleanor had been slipping for a long time.

Her relapses were harder, her comedowns worse. She’d shown up to parties already fucked out of her mind, eyes glazed, barely forming sentences, brushing off their concern with a wave of her hand. I’m fine, I’m fine, I swear, it’s just a little something. But it had never been just a little something . They’d known that. They’d all known that , and they still hadn’t done anything to stop it.

They searched for her for weeks, but eventually, the search turned into waiting. Waiting for a call. A message. A sign.

The only comfort was that no dead bodies had turned up near them.

None that looked like her, anyway.

Louis told himself that meant she was somewhere . That she was okay. That she’d come back when she was ready. But deep down, in the part of him that had seen too many people disappear, he knew the truth.

Not everyone made it.

Not everyone got out.

And they weren’t invincible.

They never had been.

It sat heavy between them, even when they didn’t talk about it. They kept moving, kept trying, kept scraping together something that resembled a life. Louis bounced between jobs, unable to keep one for long, his patience for authority always running too thin. Harry held down the fort at the shop, steady in a way Louis never had been.

They kept pushing forward.

It wasn’t perfect. It wasn’t easy. But little by little, the mistakes got smaller. The cravings got quieter. The urges came and went, but they knew how to fight them now.

And then one day, without even realizing when it happened—

They were actually clean.

No slip-ups, no just once , no crutch to lean on when things got hard. They faced the hard shit instead of running from it. They still smoked, still drank sometimes, but nothing more. The things that had nearly killed them, the things that had almost stolen everything—they stayed far, far away from those.

It took time, but eventually, all of them made it.

Zayn quit for good. No more meth, no more coke, no more pills. He still smoked weed, still had the occasional drink, but that was it. And that was huge .

Niall and Oli got clean too. Niall still had a Xanax prescription, but he took it properly now, not with whiskey, not like before. Oli got a job, a real job, and started talking about saving up for his own place.

Eleanor… she was still gone.

They stopped talking about her in past tense, stopped pretending they knew she was dead, but eventually, they had to accept that she might never come back. That some people got out, and some people didn’t.

And that was what made them hold onto each other even harder .

They celebrated their birthdays at Louis’ family house, the same way they had for years, but it felt different now.

They’d grown up.

Louis was twenty now. Harry was nineteen.

They weren’t those reckless, self-destructive teenagers anymore. They weren’t waking up in piss-stained flats with pounding headaches and the taste of regret in their mouths. They weren’t sneaking into Louis’ childhood home high off their asses, trying to fool his mum.

This time, they walked in proud .

Louis’ mum had decorated the house like she always did—balloons, banners, homemade cake. The girls had baked two cakes this time, one for Louis, one for Harry, because they hadn‘t made it on christmas eve, not because of a bender, but because Harry‘s band had landed a pretty decent gig at a club that night, and of course Louis went along to cheer the loudest.

Fizzy hugged them both so tight they could barely breathe. “Mum’s been crying all morning,” she whispered to Louis.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Louis muttered, but when he turned, his mum was dabbing at her eyes, trying to hide it.

“You boys…” she shook her head, sniffling. “Look at you.”

Harry beamed, cheeks pink, and Louis just grinned. “Yeah, yeah, we’re great, I know.”

Dinner was loud and chaotic, like every family dinner in this house always had been. The twins forced Harry to let them paint his nails at the table. Lottie showed off pictures of her latest school trip. Their mum made them take so many fucking pictures , shaking her head in awe at how much they’d changed.

And they had changed.

Harry was still Harry—still warm, still soft, still Harry —but stronger now. More sure of himself. More settled in his own skin.

Louis still didn’t have his life completely figured out, but for the first time, he wanted to. He wanted more than just surviving . He wanted to make something of himself.

And along the way, they’d collected pieces of who they were—permanent pieces, inked into their skin.

They had gotten tattooed a lot over the past year, each one a marker of something, a memory, a moment.

Louis’ body was practically a roadmap now, a history of everything he’d been through.

The dagger through a heart on his forearm, because pain and love had always been intertwined for him.

The It Is What It Is script on his chest, because sometimes life just fucking happened , and there was nothing else to do but accept it.

The rope and anchor on his wrist, because he’d finally found something steady .

The quotation marks on his arms, because words had always mattered to him, even when he didn’t say them out loud.

The compass on his arm, because he’d finally found direction.

Harry had gotten just as many.

The black heart on his arm, because love had always been something he gave freely, but never let define him.

The ship on his left arm, because he never wanted to feel like he was sinking again.

The 1957 on his shoulder, his mum’s birth year, because no matter what, she was still his mum, and a part of him would always miss her.

The skeleton shaking hands on his arm, because life and death had always felt a little too close for comfort.

The butterfly on his stomach, because he had transformed into something better .

The swallows on his chest, because he was home now.

And, of course, the ones they had gotten together .

Together on Harry’s wrist.

Or not at all on Louis’.

Matching lightning bolts.

Matching smiley faces.

A horseshoe missing three nails on Louis’ forearm.

Three tiny nails on Harry’s bicep, right below his shoulder.

Even anchor and rope, ship and compass, bird and cage added up together.

They had lived a thousand fucking lives together. And they had survived all of them.

After dinner, after cake, after opening presents (Harry got Louis a new leather jacket, Louis got Harry a set of vintage records, both of them so fucking pleased with themselves), they snuck outside for a cigarette, sitting on the back steps, watching the sun set over the estate.

Harry rested his head on Louis’ shoulder. “We did it.”

Louis hummed, taking a drag. “Yeah. We did.”

“Think we’ll ever fuck it up again?”

Louis exhaled smoke, tilting his head. “Probably. But not like before.”

Harry smiled, reaching out, tracing his fingers over Louis’ inked-up skin. “I love you.”

Louis kissed his forehead, squeezing his hand. “Love you more, Play-Doh.”

And this time, they knew they were gonna be okay.

Because they’d earned this.

Because they wanted this.

Because they had each other .

And that was all they had ever needed.

Together or not at all.

Life kept moving forward, and somehow, they moved with it.

They had settled into something that almost felt normal . Louis had finally found a job that he didn’t completely hate, working at a small café that didn’t give a fuck about his tattoos or his attitude, as long as he showed up on time and made decent coffee. Harry’s gig with the band had turned into something real , not just a hobby, but something that actually paid. It wasn’t much, but they were stable for the first time in their lives.

And then, one night, everything changed.

It was just another gig, another night at some pub that smelled like stale beer and cheap cologne, packed with the usual crowd of drunks and estate kids looking for something to do. Louis was there, like he always was, right up front, perched on the edge of the bar with a beer in hand, watching Harry perform with a stupid, lovesick grin on his face.

He never got tired of it, never got bored of seeing Harry on stage, of watching him light up the whole fucking room with just his voice, his presence, his everything . Harry had always been magnetic, even when he was wrecked, even when he was at his lowest. But now? Now he was thriving , and Louis wanted to climb up there and kiss him stupid in front of the whole crowd.

Harry had always been something special. It was just a matter of time before someone else noticed.

That someone happened to be a man in a sharp suit who didn’t fit in with the rest of the pub’s crowd. He watched the entire set, arms crossed, expression unreadable, and Louis clocked him immediately—this wasn’t some random bloke looking for a good time. This was someone .

And sure enough, as soon as the set ended and Harry climbed down from the stage, drenched in sweat, still buzzing with adrenaline, the man approached him.

Louis was by his side in an instant, arm slung around Harry’s waist, protective as ever, but the man wasn’t looking at him. His attention was fully on Harry.

“Harry Styles?” he asked, offering his hand.

Harry blinked, shaking it hesitantly. “Yeah…?”

The man smiled. “I’m Richard, A&R rep from Columbia Records. I think you have something special, son.”

Louis felt Harry tense beside him, could practically hear his heart pounding.

The next few minutes were a blur—Richard talking about contracts, meetings, the potential for a solo deal, the real fucking deal . Harry barely said a word, just nodded along, eyes wide, his fingers gripping the back of Louis’ jacket like he needed something to keep him grounded.

When the man finally walked away, leaving his business card in Harry’s hand, Harry turned to Louis, eyes huge .

“Lou—”

Louis didn’t even let him finish. He just grabbed Harry’s face and kissed him, grinning so wide he could barely press his lips to Harry’s properly.

“ Told you, Play-Doh,” Louis murmured against his mouth. “Told you you were fucking brilliant .”

Harry let out a breathless laugh, shaking his head in disbelief. “I think I’m gonna pass out.”

Louis cupped his cheeks, pressing their foreheads together. “Not yet, you’re not. You’ve got a fucking record deal to sign.”

By the time they got home, Louis’ mum already knew.

“I knew it,” she said as soon as they walked through the door, beaming at Harry like he was one of her own. “I knew my boys were meant for more than this place.”

Harry turned bright red, ducking his head as she pulled him into a tight hug, whispering something in his ear that made him sniffle a little. Louis watched, warmth blooming in his chest.

His mum had never treated Harry like an outsider. From the moment he stepped into their home, she had accepted him as one of them. And now, as she wiped at her eyes and fussed over him, she looked as proud as if he were her son.

And Louis?

Louis had never been prouder.

They had survived the worst, pulled each other out of the fire, built something real out of the wreckage. And now? Now, Harry was getting everything he deserved.

And Louis would be right there, every step of the way.

Because that was the promise they had made, inked into their skin, etched into their souls.

Together or not at all.

 

It started slow.

At first, nothing really changed. Harry still worked at the corner shop while waiting for contracts and meetings to go through, still did his gigs at the same dingy pubs, still came home to their tiny flat with a takeaway bag in one hand and his shoes in the other, muttering about how he needed a new pair because his were “ absolutely tragic, Lou, they’ve got more holes than fabric .”

But there was something different. An undercurrent of expectation , of potential . The Columbia rep had said it could take months for everything to process, but Harry was already buzzing, already writing new songs in the quiet of their flat, already humming melodies under his breath while stirring pasta on the stove.

Louis noticed before Harry did. The shift. The way people looked at him differently, the way venues started calling him instead of the other way around. The way, one night, a pub owner waved off Harry’s attempt to pay for a pint with a casual, “It’s on the house, mate. Keep playing here, yeah?”

Then there was the first real gig.

Not just a set at some pub where half the people weren’t paying attention, but an actual gig, a real venue. A medium sized, grimy club in the middle of London, but a club nonetheless. Harry was the headline , his name printed in bold letters on the flyer, not just scribbled at the bottom as an afterthought.

That night, the crowd was bigger. Different.

Louis was there, like he always was, but this time, he wasn’t alone. Niall, Zayn, and Oli were all there too, leaning against the bar, making bets on whether or not Harry would trip over a mic cord. Louis’ mum had wanted to come, but Harry had been too nervous about her seeing him live for the first time, so she’d settled for demanding a full recording.

Harry was nervous , really fucking nervous , bouncing on his heels in the back room, hands flexing at his sides like he didn’t know what to do with them.

“What if they hate me?” he muttered, adjusting the rings on his fingers.

Louis rolled his eyes. “They’re not gonna hate you, Haz.”

Harry huffed, running a hand through his curls. “What if I forget the words?”

Louis stepped forward, grabbing Harry’s hands, squeezing them tight. “Then you make some up. No one will know.”

Harry exhaled shakily, biting his lip. “What if I fuck it up?”

Louis tilted his head, softening. “You won’t.”

Harry stared at him for a second, then squeezed back. “Promise?”

Louis grinned. “Promise. Now go be a rockstar.”

And fuck , did he.

The second Harry stepped onto that stage, it was different . Not like before, not just some gig, not just some half-interested crowd looking for background music while they drank. This was his . And they knew it.

Louis stood in the front row, watching with something close to awe , heart swelling as Harry owned that stage like he was born for it. The crowd loved him. Loved the way he sang like he meant every single word, like the lyrics were stitched into his skin. Loved the way he moved , loose and confident, curls wild, smile brighter than the stage lights.

And Louis… Louis couldn’t stop smiling.

He barely even noticed when Niall slung an arm around his shoulders, shaking him slightly.

“Look at him, mate,” Niall grinned. “He’s fucking meant for this.”

Louis swallowed past the lump in his throat. “Yeah. Yeah, he is.”

That night was the turning point.

After that, the calls started coming more frequently. Gigs turned into shows , and shows turned into opportunities . Harry was in and out of meetings, going into the Columbia office more and more, working with producers, writing songs in real studios instead of their shitty living room floor.

Then came the EP .

Just four songs, just a test , just something to put out into the world, to see if people cared.

They cared .

The EP dropped, and within a week , it had racked up more plays than Harry had ever thought possible. His social media started growing, people started recognizing him—not a lot, not fame , not yet, but enough. Enough that one night, when they were out getting groceries, some girl stopped in the middle of the aisle and went, “Oh my god. You’re Harry Styles .”

Louis had laughed, watching Harry fumble his way through an awkward yeah, I guess I am , and then—because he couldn’t help himself—he leaned in, grinning. “That’ll be five quid for the autograph.”

Harry smacked his arm, but the girl did get a photo, and when they checked later, it had already racked up a few thousand likes.

Then came the tour offer .

Small, just a handful of cities, but a tour .

“Lou,” Harry had whispered that night, sitting on their mattress, staring at the email on his phone. “They want me to open for James Bay.”

Louis had grinned, nudging him. “Guess you’re a real musician now, huh?”

But the joke had barely left his mouth before Harry tackled him, pinning him down with an excited scream , laughing so hard he almost rolled off the bed.

“I can’t fucking believe this,” Harry had said breathlessly, looking down at him, eyes shining . “Lou. We made it .”

Louis swallowed, his heart aching in the best way. “Yeah, Play-Doh. You did.”

Things changed after that.

They moved into a new flat, something bigger , something better —still not fancy, but theirs . A proper flat with a bedroom that was actually worthy of being called a bedroom, and a living room, enough space that they didn’t feel like they were living on top of each other.

Harry was busier, but no matter what, no matter how many meetings or rehearsals or studio sessions he had, he always came home to Louis. Always curled up with him on the sofa, always pressed kisses to his temple before bed, always whispered their little mantra before they fell asleep.

Louis got a new job at a record shop, something easy, something that meant he could still go to Harry’s shows, still be there for every single fucking moment of this journey.

And it was happening .

Harry went from playing pubs to actual venues, from opening for James Bay to his own headline tour , from an EP to an album .

Louis stood at the side of the stage every night, watching, beaming , heart so full he thought it might burst.

Because they had made it.

They had fucking made it .

And no matter how big Harry got, no matter how much changed— one thing never would.

Louis would always be right there, watching, cheering, loving him harder than anyone else ever could.

 

They celebrated 18 months clean the only way they knew how— together .

It wasn’t anything fancy, nothing extravagant or over the top, but it didn’t need to be. It was real , and that was what mattered.

They all gathered at Zayn’s flat, which had changed so much since the days when it was nothing but a wreck, the air thick with smoke, the walls echoing with the weight of addiction. Now, it was lived-in but clean, the ashtrays gone, the beer bottles replaced with proper glasses. Zayn had made an effort—lit candles, played music in the background, even attempted to cook something before Niall took over with a loud, Jesus fuck, mate, you’re gonna burn the place down.

They were all there —Louis, Harry, Zayn, Niall, and Oli. Eleanor wasn’t, but they’d made peace with that, or at least as much peace as they could.

Niall had showed up with a cake of all things, a messily frosted monstrosity that definitely wasn’t homemade.

“Did you nick this from Tesco?” Louis asked, raising a brow.

“I bought it,” Niall said defensively. “With my own money .”

Harry squinted at the lopsided writing on top, reading it out loud. “ Congratulations on Your Retirement. ”

The room erupted into laughter, loud and genuine, the kind that made Louis’ chest feel light.

“They didn’t have anything else!” Niall grumbled, but he was grinning, too. “Besides, we retired from drugs , didn’t we?”

Harry shook his head, laughing so hard he nearly fell over , pressing his face into Louis’ shoulder. “I can’t believe we’re celebrating 18 months clean with a fucking retirement cake .”

“Oi, it’s a big deal!” Zayn said, for once , entirely serious. He sat forward, looking at them all. “Eighteen months is… it’s fucking huge . We should be proud of ourselves.”

They were .

Louis could feel it radiating between them—this silent acknowledgment, this understanding of how fucking hard it had been to get here. The withdrawals, the cravings, the near-relapses, the nights they’d stayed up shaking and sweating and talking each other through it .

They’d done it. They were doing it.

Together. All of them. Well, almost all of them.

“So, we doing speeches or what?” Oli joked, leaning back in his chair. “Or are we just gonna keep staring at the cake?”

Harry sat up, glancing at Louis before clearing his throat dramatically. “I’d like to thank Greg, my mum, my very attractive and intelligent boyfriend—”

“ Oh, fuck off, ” Louis said, shoving him lightly, grinning.

But Harry’s expression softened as he looked at them, and suddenly it wasn’t a joke anymore. “Nah, but seriously,” he said, quieter now. “We wouldn’t have made it here without eachother.”

Louis swallowed, something thick in his throat. “Cheers to that, Haz.”

“Group hug,” Niall announced , already throwing himself onto them before anyone could protest .

It was messy and chaotic , with arms and legs in all the wrong places, but none of them moved. Because this? This was everything.

This was family .

They spent the rest of the night just existing , playing old music, reminiscing, passing around slices of their stupid retirement cake while Zayn attempted to make one drinkable cup of tea and failed miserably.

Harry sat cross-legged on the sofa, strumming lazily on his guitar, humming something soft under his breath, and Louis just watched, heart so fucking full he didn’t know what to do with it.

This was what they had fought for.

This was what they had earned .

They had made it 18 months without slipping back, without losing themselves to the thing that had nearly swallowed them whole.

Notes:

Well that was a rollercoaster.. how‘d that happeen?

Chapter 26: Chapter 26

Notes:

I uh.. don‘t know what happened when I wrote the start of this, must‘ve blacked out or something

Back at their flat, Louis barely had time to kick off his shoes before Harry was on him.

It wasn’t unusual —Harry had always been clingy, always curling into him the second they were alone, pressing soft kisses to his neck, his jaw, anywhere he could reach. But this ? This was different.

Harry’s hands were desperate , fingers gripping at the back of Louis’ jacket, pulling at his shirt like he needed him closer , now , immediately . His breath was heavy , his lips hot as he pressed them just under Louis’ ear, mouthing at his skin , sucking just enough to make Louis’ knees weaken .

“Haz,” Louis muttered, half laughing , trying to catch his breath . “We just got home.”

“Don’t care,” Harry mumbled , biting at his jaw, already working at Louis’ belt , impatient as fuck . “Need you, Lou. Now .”

Louis groaned , hands finding Harry’s hips , squeezing hard . “What’s gotten into you?”

Harry huffed against his neck, pressing his body flush against Louis’, rolling his hips just enough that Louis could feel how fucking hard he already was. “Please,” he whispered, grinding down , whimpering when Louis’ grip tightened . “Want you to fuck me.”

Louis’ brain short-circuited .

Harry had always been needy, always wanted to be close, but he’d never been this desperate , this wrecked before they had even gotten to the bedroom .

“Fuckin‘ hell,” Louis exhaled, grabbing Harry’s face , kissing him hard , deep , messy . Harry melted into it, whining when Louis bit at his bottom lip , sucking it into his mouth , hands gripping at his waist, pulling him impossibly closer.

Harry was already unbuttoning his jeans , already wriggling out of them , muttering between kisses. “Been thinking about it all night— fuck, Lou , need you so bad.”

Louis’ hands shook as he helped shove Harry’s jeans down his thighs , grinning when Harry let out a frustrated whimper at how slow he was going.

“Patience, Play-Doh,” Louis teased, pressing a hot kiss to Harry’s neck, sinking his teeth in just enough to make him whine .

Harry shook his head , gripping at Louis’ arms , his eyes dark , blown wide . “No,” he whispered , voice wrecked . “No patience. Need you inside me now. ”

Louis felt everything in him snap .

“You‘ll be the death of me,” he muttered, grabbing Harry by the waist , lifting him just enough to throw him onto the bed.

Harry giggled breathlessly , sprawled out , looking up at him with so much want , so much need , his curls a mess , his lips kiss-swollen .

Louis climbed on top of him , pinning him down , pressing their bodies together , making sure Harry could feel every fucking inch of him .

Harry let out the softest, sweetest moan , tilting his head , offering his throat like he wanted to be devoured whole .

Louis kissed down his neck, sucking , biting , marking , his hands gripping at Harry’s thighs, pulling them apart , settling between them .

Harry was already squirming , already panting , already fucking gone , whispering, “ Lou, please, please, please— ”

Louis pressed Harry into the mattress, pinning him down , holding him there like he needed to make sure Harry wasn’t going anywhere—like he needed to feel him, all of him , beneath him, helpless and his .

Harry arched , his breath coming in sharp little gasps , his hands gripping at Louis’ arms, his thighs spreading wider , offering everything.

Louis bit at Harry’s jaw, dragging his teeth down his throat , sucking at the soft skin until Harry was whimpering , clutching at him , hips rolling up in desperation .

“Been thinking about this all night, huh?” Louis murmured , voice rough , lips brushing against the damp skin of Harry’s neck .

Harry nodded frantically , fingers tangling in Louis’ hair, tugging just enough to make Louis groan , his cock throbbing at the way Harry was already so fucking gone for him.

“Yeah,” Harry breathed , needy and desperate , hips lifting , searching for friction. “Needed you, Lou. Needed you so bad. ”

Louis let out a low, wrecked sound , pushing Harry’s thighs wider , pressing him down , grinding against him , making him feel how fucking hard he already was.

Harry gasped , moaning , back arching off the bed , fingers digging into Louis’ back .

“Fuck,” Louis gritted out , his lips brushing against Harry’s ear , voice dropping to a rough whisper . “You’re already falling apart, aren’t you, baby?”

Harry let out a broken whimper , nodding , thighs trembling as Louis rocked against him , slow and deliberate , teasing him, making him work for it .

Louis sat back just enough to look at him , to take him in .

Harry was fucking wrecked already —his lips kiss-swollen , his chest rising and falling rapidly , his curls a mess against the pillow, his eyes blown wide , pupils dark and desperate , pleading .

Louis cupped his jaw , thumb brushing over his cheek, soft and gentle , the opposite of the way his other hand was gripping Harry’s hip, holding him down .

“Tell me what you need,” Louis murmured , voice low and commanding .

Harry whined , trying to lift his hips , but Louis held him still , making him squirm .

“Tell me, Play-Doh,” Louis demanded , his thumb brushing over Harry’s lower lip , pressing in just slightly , just enough to make Harry’s lips part, to make him shudder .

“Need you to fuck me ,” Harry whispered , eyes wide , voice wrecked and desperate .

Louis’ chest tightened , his stomach twisting with pure want , because fuck , he had never loved anyone the way he loved Harry .

“Yeah?” Louis murmured , pressing a hot, open-mouthed kiss to Harry’s collarbone , biting down just enough to make him gasp .

Harry nodded , panting , his fingers tightening in Louis’ hair, pulling him closer , legs wrapping around his waist , desperate to get him inside already .

Louis laughed breathlessly , pressing their foreheads together , grinning against Harry’s lips .

“Gonna take my time with you,” he whispered , teasing , just to hear him whine , just to see that frantic need in his eyes . “Make you feel every second of it.”

Harry let out a wrecked sound , shuddering beneath him , writhing , his nails scraping down Louis’ back , his body trembling with how fucking badly he needed it.

Louis didn’t rush—not at first. He wanted him desperate , wanted him aching , wanted to watch Harry completely fall apart beneath him .

He pressed kisses down Harry’s chest , his stomach , sucking bruises into his skin , marking him , making sure he felt it long after this was over.

Harry was panting , whimpering , completely unraveling , hands in Louis’ hair , legs spreading wider , his entire body practically shaking with the need to be filled, stretched, fucked properly .

Louis worked him open slowly , taking his sweet time , teasing him until Harry was begging , pleading , voice shaking , thighs quivering , his entire body trembling .

Then, finally— finally —Louis pressed inside , slow and deep , filling him completely , burying himself to the hilt , holding Harry there , making him feel every fucking inch of it.

Harry gasped , his back arching , his head tipping back , moaning Louis’ name , his fingers gripping at Louis’ arms like he needed something to anchor him to reality .

Louis stayed still for a moment , just breathing , feeling him , taking him in , making sure he was okay .

Harry whimpered , tightening his legs around him , pulling him closer , desperate for more .

“Move,” Harry whispered , voice wrecked , pleading . “Lou, please, move. ”

And fuck , Louis couldn’t hold back anymore.

He pulled back , then thrust in hard , knocking the breath out of Harry , making him cry out , making his fingers tighten on Louis’ arms , making him feel it everywhere .

Louis set a deep, rough pace , snapping his hips into him , pressing him down into the mattress , fucking him open , owning every single sound that fell from Harry’s lips .

Harry was loud , completely lost , panting , moaning , clutching at Louis , his whole body shaking .

“You feel so fucking good,” Louis murmured against his lips , thrusting deeper , hitting that spot that made Harry sob . “So fucking perfect for me.”

Harry nodded frantically , writhing beneath him , mouth open, gasping , eyes fluttering shut , taking every single deep, hard thrust , needy and desperate and absolutely wrecked for it .

Louis kissed him , rough and messy , swallowing his moans , never letting up , never stopping , pushing him higher and higher and higher until Harry was gasping , his whole body tensing , coming all over his own stomach beneath him, trembling, shuddering, crying out his name .

Louis followed right after , burying himself deep , letting go completely , pressing his forehead to Harry’s , groaning through his release , holding Harry as tightly as he could .

They stayed like that , breathing heavily , wrapped around each other , their bodies still trembling , their hearts still pounding in sync .

Louis pressed soft kisses to Harry’s face , his nose, his forehead, his lips , whispering against his skin .

“Love you,” he murmured , brushing sweaty curls out of Harry’s eyes .

Harry smiled— soft and blissed out , completely wrecked in the best way .

“Love you more,” Harry whispered back , pulling him closer , holding him like he never wanted to let go .

And Louis?

Louis knew he never would.

The morning after, Harry was buzzing .

Louis had barely cracked his eyes open before Harry was on him , pressing hot, messy kisses all over his face, grinning like a lunatic , his entire body vibrating with energy.

Louis groaned, shoving his face into the pillow. “ Jesus fucking Christ, Haz , it’s too early for this.”

Harry ignored him completely , straddling his waist , hands trailing over Louis’ chest , fingertips light and teasing . “It’s not too early. It’s morning. It’s a great morning. ”

Louis huffed , shifting slightly beneath him, voice muffled against the pillow . “Why are you like this?”

Harry laughed , rolling his hips down just enough to make Louis grunt. “Because I feel amazing .” He bent down, pressing a kiss to the back of Louis’ neck , soft but insistent . “You ruined me last night, Lou.”

Louis cracked one eye open , grinning sleepily . “Yeah?”

Harry beamed , nodding eagerly , his curls wild, his whole body practically humming with leftover energy .

Louis groaned, flipping onto his back, dragging Harry down with him , their bodies aligning perfectly , chests pressed together , Harry’s legs settling around Louis’ waist .

“Can’t believe you have the energy to be this fucking annoying ,” Louis muttered, but he was smiling , hands resting on Harry’s hips , thumbs tracing lazy circles over his skin .

“I’m not annoying,” Harry argued , nudging their noses together , grinning against Louis’ lips . “I’m excited .”

Louis raised a brow. “Excited about what?”

Harry tilted his head , pretending to think , his fingers playing with the ends of Louis’ hair . “Dunno. Maybe the fact that I’m eighteen months clean . Maybe the fact that I have the best fucking boyfriend in the world . Or maybe…” He kissed Louis’ jaw , moving to his ear , whispering . “Maybe it’s because I want you to fuck me again.”

Louis’ stomach clenched , his grip tightening on Harry’s hips.

“Fucking hell , Haz,” he muttered, tilting his head back against the pillow , trying to catch his breath .

Harry giggled , delighted , pressing kisses all over Louis’ face , his entire body still vibrating with energy . “What? Did last night wear you out ?”

Louis grunted , flipping them over , pinning Harry to the mattress , grinning when Harry gasped in surprise , his eyes wide and shining .

“ Not even fucking close ,” Louis growled, pressing him down , grinding against him , making sure Harry felt exactly what he was getting himself into again .

Harry let out a breathy moan , biting his lip , his eyes darkening instantly .

“Well, then,” he whispered , grinning up at Louis , his fingers trailing down his back , nails scraping lightly over his skin. “What are you waiting for?”

And fuck —

Louis never could say no to him.

Harry did not stop talking .

From the second they finally crawled out of bed, sore and satisfied and tangled up in each other , Harry was buzzing —his voice rapid , words spilling out nonstop , his body practically vibrating with energy.

Louis barely had time to rub the sleep from his eyes before Harry was already bounding into the kitchen , rambling about everything and nothing all at once .

“I was thinking, yeah?” Harry said, grabbing the coffee tin and spinning it in his hands like he physically couldn’t keep still. “We should redecorate. Not like, fully redecorate, but just, y’know, make it more us . Maybe fairy lights, or a new rug, or—I dunno—something to make it feel different now that we’re, like, actual adults or whatever. Paint the walls orange!”

Louis grunted , barely processing Harry’s mile-a-minute speech , watching him shuffle through the cabinets like he’d lost something important .

Harry kept going.

“Also, I was thinking about cutting my hair. Not like, short short, but just enough so it’s easier to manage, y’know? It’s getting really fucking long, Lou. I keep getting conditioner in my eyes and—”

Harry let out an excited gasp , grabbing a nearly-empty box of biscuits from the cupboard , shaking it triumphantly . “I knew we had some left! I thought we were out, but— HAH —I was right .”

Louis blinked at him , still half-asleep, nursing his coffee like it was a lifeline .

Harry didn’t even pause to breathe before he was talking again , pacing the small kitchen , gesturing wildly as he spoke .

“Oh, and we should go to the park later. It’s really nice out. Well, I think it’s nice out—I haven’t checked yet, but it feels like a nice day. We could bring a blanket, maybe some snacks, and just—I dunno— exist outside for a bit. We spend too much time in here, don’t you think? I mean, not that I mind being in here, but—”

Louis cut him off by shoving a piece of toast in his mouth .

Harry spluttered , glaring at him , biscuits forgotten in his hand .

Louis grinned sleepily , leaning against the counter , finally managing to get a word in .

“You talk so fucking much ,” Louis muttered , watching Harry chew begrudgingly , his curls bouncing with every movement .

Harry swallowed dramatically. “I do not talk too much.”

Louis just raised a brow .

Harry paused , tilting his head like he was actually considering it .

Then, after exactly two seconds of silence, he gasped again , snapping his fingers like he’d just had a groundbreaking idea.

“Oh! We should stop by the record shop later too. I heard they’re getting some new vinyl in and I swear I saw a first press of Fleetwood Mac’s Rumours in the display last time we walked past. Imagine if we got our hands on that.”

Louis sighed fondly , shaking his head , already knowing there was no stopping this .

Harry was buzzing , full of life , talking a mile a minute , and Louis?

Louis just pretended not to notice .

They went out , of course. There was no way Louis was getting out of it—not when Harry was so fucking determined to have The Perfect Day .

First, they went to the park , as requested. Harry chattered nonstop the entire way there, hand in Louis’ , swinging their arms like an overgrown child , grinning at nothing and everything all at once .

Louis just let him talk, humming in agreement whenever Harry paused for air , smirking whenever Harry got distracted by something as mundane as a dog trotting past them .

Once they got to the park, Harry immediately flopped onto the grass , stretching out like he was absorbing the sun itself , letting out an exaggerated sigh of contentment .

Louis just snorted , nudging him with his shoe . “You’re ridiculous .”

Harry grinned , tilting his head back to look at him . “And you love it.”

Louis just rolled his eyes , but he didn’t argue.

After the park, they went to the record shop , because of course they did.

The second they stepped inside, Harry let out a noise of pure delight , making a beeline for the vinyl section , digging through the crates like he was on some kind of treasure hunt .

Louis just watched , arms crossed , leaning against the nearest shelf , trying not to smile too much at how animated Harry was .

“Oh, shit , look at this one!” Harry gasped , holding up a rare Beatles pressing , eyes wide with excitement .

Louis pretended to be unimpressed . “Yeah, yeah. You gonna buy it or just stare at it?”

Harry clutched it to his chest dramatically . “You don’t just buy something like this, Lou. You cherish it.”

Louis snorted , shaking his head . “You’re so full of shit.”

Harry stuck his tongue out , then immediately got distracted again , bouncing to another crate , his entire body still buzzing with restless energy .

Louis just sighed , fond and exasperated all at once , following him without question .

They spent the rest of the day just existing together , hopping from place to place, Harry’s energy never once dipping , never once slowing down .

Louis let him ramble , let him bounce from one thought to the next , let him exist exactly as he was .

And even though Louis was so fucking aware of what this probably meant , even though he knew Harry was riding on something —whether it was a natural high or just the remnants of their night together —

He chose not to say anything .

Not yet.

Because Harry was happy .

And for now, that was enough .

For weeks, maybe even months, Harry was glowing .

Every morning, he woke up with a grin already on his face , talking before Louis’ brain had even powered on , rambling about everything they could do that day, plans he’d made that Louis hadn’t agreed to yet , ideas he’d come up with overnight.

It wasn’t that Harry had ever been a quiet person—not at all—but this? This was different . There was a frenzy beneath the happiness, a buzz that never dimmed, like Harry was running on borrowed energy .

Louis noticed, of course he noticed , but he also chose not to think too much about it . It was easier that way.

Harry was happy, and Louis wanted to believe that it was just… life. Maybe Harry was still riding the high of his career finally taking off, or maybe he was just excited to be alive after everything they’d been through. Maybe this was just what it looked like to finally be okay .

So Louis ignored the way Harry’s jeans started to hang looser on his hips, the way his belt got notched tighter and tighter, the way his ribs were just a bit more visible when they laid in bed together, the sharp edges of his bones catching Louis’ fingertips in a way they never had before.

It was easy to blame it on his busy schedule —late nights in the studio, early mornings for press, barely any time to eat properly between rehearsals and gigs. It made sense.

And when Zayn noticed , Louis didn’t want to hear it.

They were all at the flat one night, playing cards and talking shit , just like they always did. Harry had been particularly bouncy , perched cross-legged on the floor, singing under his breath, tapping his fingers against his knees.

Zayn watched him for a long moment, then raised a brow. “Haz, mate, you eating at all?”

Harry’s head snapped up , smile a bit too bright. “Course I am!”

Zayn tilted his head, not buying it. “You’ve lost weight. Like, a lot .”

Harry waved him off with a laugh, too casual, too quick . “That’s just the new diet my manager put me on. Clean eating and all that bullshit.”

Louis saw the way Zayn’s brow furrowed , the way he didn’t look convinced at all , but Louis cut in before the conversation could go further.

“Leave him alone,” Louis said, voice light but firm. “He’s fine.”

Harry beamed at him, eyes shining with gratitude , and Louis felt that familiar warmth settle in his chest—the same warmth he always felt when Harry looked at him like that , like Louis was the only person who truly got him .

Zayn let it drop, but Louis knew it wasn’t the end of it.

Later that night, after their friends had gone home and Louis was brushing his teeth, Zayn’s voice echoed in his head , that simple question repeating itself over and over— You eating at all?

Louis spit into the sink, gripping the edge of the counter, staring at his reflection, trying to convince himself that Harry was fine.

Of course he was fine.

He was happy , wasn’t he?

They were clean , weren’t they?

They had everything they wanted , didn’t they?

Louis wanted to believe that .

He wanted to believe it so fucking badly.

So when he climbed into bed beside Harry, and Harry immediately curled into him , grinning sleepily , whispering, “Best day ever,” Louis just kissed his forehead and whispered, “Yeah, Play-Doh. It really was.”

Because sometimes, love meant lying to yourself .

Even when you knew the truth was knocking at the door.

Notes:

Bit short but… oh boy

Chapter 27: Chapter 27

Notes:

Sorry for the delayed update, my friend had me pick up her two cats that were staying with a friend of hers because his brother is in the hospital and uni has been sort of getting on top of me, so it‘s been a little stressful, but I‘m back!!

It was a morning like any other, at first.

Louis had woken up to an empty bed , which wasn’t unusual these days. Harry had gotten into the habit of waking up early , far too early for someone with his schedule, buzzing with energy before the sun even crept through the curtains. Louis had chalked it up to excitement—to Harry’s newfound life, his music, his future. He was chasing his dream, wasn’t he? He was happy . That’s what Louis told himself every time Harry bounced out of bed with a grin, already talking a mile a minute before Louis’ brain had a chance to catch up.

He dragged himself out of bed, yawning, scratching his stomach, making his way to the bathroom like it was any other morning. But it wasn’t.

The second he opened the door, he saw it .

The trashcan wasn’t overflowing like usual—Harry had apparently remembered to empty it—but sitting right on top, like a fucking punch to the face , was a syringe .

Louis froze.

For a second, his brain refused to process it, refused to believe what his eyes were showing him. It didn’t make sense. It couldn’t make sense. This was their bathroom , their flat , their clean home , and yet there it was— a fucking needle , shining under the dim morning light, balanced precariously on a crumpled tissue.

Louis’ stomach turned instantly , nausea rising so fast he barely had time to grip the sink, knuckles white, heart hammering too loud in his chest.

A syringe. A fucking syringe.

He squeezed his eyes shut, hoping maybe it would disappear when he opened them again, that maybe this was just some leftover nightmare bleeding into reality. But no. It was still there, mocking him , like a ghost from the past they had sworn they’d left behind.

He wanted to scream. He wanted to cry. He wanted to tear the fucking flat apart , find every last stash, every last secret, make it impossible for Harry to ever do this again .

Because there was no question what this meant. Not with the weight loss, the hyper energy , the endless libido, the way Harry could talk for hours without pausing to breathe. Louis had seen this before —in old friends, in strangers on the estate, even in Eleanor just weeks before she dissapeared for good.

Harry was shooting up.

He didn’t know what it was yet—could’ve been meth, could’ve been heroin, could’ve been something new , something they hadn’t fucked with before—but the what didn’t matter.

What mattered was that Harry was using.

And Louis hadn’t seen it— or maybe he hadn’t wanted to see it.

His throat tightened, bile rising , and for a second, Louis thought he might actually throw up right into the sink. He swallowed it down, hands trembling against the porcelain, heart racing too fast , too loud , too much .

They were supposed to be past this . They were supposed to be clean . They had made a promise , and Harry had broken it—right under his nose.

Louis’ breath came in sharp, uneven bursts, panic clawing at his chest.

He could hear Harry singing from the kitchen, some upbeat song, completely oblivious to the fact that Louis’ world had just fucking collapsed in on itself.

For a second, Louis couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think.

But then the anger hit.

Because how fucking dare he ? After everything they’d been through— everything —how dare Harry pull this shit behind his back , how dare he smile and laugh and fuck him senseless while knowing exactly what he was hiding?

Louis snatched up the syringe, fist tight around it , barely noticing how his hand shook . He stormed out of the bathroom, into the kitchen, slamming it down on the table in front of Harry , making him jump so hard he dropped his mug .

The ceramic shattered against the floor, coffee spreading everywhere, but Louis didn’t care.

“What the fuck is this?” Louis’ voice shook with rage, with betrayal, with fear he couldn’t quite mask.

Harry’s eyes flicked to the syringe, widening instantly , face draining of color. “Lou—”

“Don’t you fucking ‘Lou’ me,” Louis spat. “ What. The. Fuck. Is. This. ”

Harry’s mouth opened and closed, like he couldn’t quite find the words. His hands trembled as they hovered over the table, like he was considering grabbing the syringe and running .

“Are you—are you using fucking meth , Harry?” Louis’ voice broke on the word, because just saying it out loud made his stomach churn. “Or is it dope ? What the fuck are you shooting up in our bathroom?”

“I—” Harry swallowed hard, voice small. “It’s not—it’s not like that.”

Louis laughed, harsh and humorless. “ Oh, really? Because this looks exactly like that to me.”

Harry’s hands fisted at his sides, chest heaving like he was trying to keep himself from falling apart right there in the kitchen. “It’s just—it’s just sometimes , Lou. Just to keep me going. With the schedule and—and everything, I just needed something to—”

“ No. ” Louis slammed his hand down on the table, making Harry flinch. “You don’t get to fucking justify this . You don’t get to make this sound normal . It’s not fucking normal, Harry. We were clean. ”

Harry’s lip quivered, eyes shiny , voice breaking . “I’m sorry.”

Louis shook his head, teeth gritted , jaw tight with the effort to keep himself from screaming . “You promised me, Haz. You fucking promised.”

“I know,” Harry whispered, tears finally spilling over , shoulders shaking. “I know, Lou. I’m so fucking sorry.”

Louis’ anger cracked just slightly , because fuck— he loved him . And no matter how furious he was, the fear was worse . Fear that if they didn’t fix this now, they’d lose everything they fought for.

Louis stepped around the table, grabbed Harry’s face in both hands, forcing him to look up . “We’re fixing this. Now. ”

Harry nodded frantically, sniffling. “Okay.”

“No secrets,” Louis said, voice firm . “You tell me everything. What, when, how much, all of it .”

Harry nodded again , wiping his face. “Okay.”

“And then we figure out what we have to do .”

Harry leaned into Louis’ touch, voice cracking . “I don’t wanna lose you.”

Louis pressed their foreheads together, both of them shaking , both of them scared as fuck . “You won’t, no matter what you do you will never lose me, I promise. But we are not doing this again, Haz.”

Harry swallowed hard, whispering. “Together or not at all.”

Louis exhaled slowly, voice soft but firm . “Together or not at all.”

Because no matter how fucked up this was, they were still theirs . Still each other’s . And no matter how far they’d fallen, they were going to climb back up .

Louis sat Harry down at the table , pressing a warm mug of tea into his hands. His fingers trembled around the ceramic, his knuckles white as he gripped it like a lifeline .

It was familiar —the way Louis handled this, the way he forced himself to be calm , even when his heart was fucking breaking . It reminded him of the night his mum had found his first stash , how she had taken him by the wrist, sat him down at the kitchen table, made him a cup of tea, and talked to him instead of screaming.

And now, here he was.

Doing the same thing.

Even if the circumstances were so much fucking worse than a few ounces of weed in his bag .

Louis inhaled deeply, steadying himself , before finally speaking. “Tell me everything.”

Harry stared down at his tea , his face a mess of exhaustion and shame , his curls falling in his eyes , shoulders curled in like he wanted to disappear .

“It started slow,” Harry whispered, voice hoarse , barely there , his guilt so thick it felt tangible . “It wasn’t—I didn’t mean for it to get bad.”

Louis’ stomach twisted painfully , but he nodded. “Keep going.”

Harry swallowed hard , gripping the mug tighter. “At first, it was just—just a little bit. Just enough to get me through the day. I thought I could handle it, thought I could just—y’know— use it for the hard days . And at first… it worked.” He let out a hollow laugh , shaking his head. “Best high of my fucking life.”

Louis felt physically sick .

Harry lifted the mug to his lips, but his hands were shaking too much , and he set it back down with a quiet thunk . “Then I started using more. Because it stopped hitting the same.” His jaw tightened , his voice breaking . “And then before I knew it, I was using every day . Just—just a little at first, but then… then it wasn’t enough anymore.”

Louis’ grip on the table tightened , fingers curling into the wood. “How much?”

Harry exhaled shakily, whispering, “Three times a day.”

Louis’ chest constricted so hard it felt like he couldn’t breathe. His vision blurred at the edges , but he forced himself to stay steady , to keep his voice calm , to not let his panic show .

“And you’ve been hiding this from me,” Louis said, not a question, but a fact , his voice flat, quiet, dangerous .

Harry’s shoulders hunched like he’d been physically hit. “Yeah.”

Louis ran a hand down his face , exhaling through his nose , trying to keep himself from screaming , from shaking him , from demanding to know why the fuck he thought this was okay .

But he already knew the answer, didn’t he?

Because he’d been there .

He knew how easy it was to justify it to yourself , to make excuses , to convince yourself that you weren’t actually in that deep, that you were still in control, that you could stop whenever you wanted .

So instead of ripping into him , Louis forced himself to keep his voice even as he asked, “What is it?”

Harry didn’t answer immediately . He just stared at the table, fingers fidgeting , his breath coming in shallow, uneven bursts .

And then, after a long, painful pause , he whispered,

“H.”

Louis felt like the floor had disappeared beneath him .

His vision tunneled , his ears rang , his heart pounded so hard it hurt .

Not meth . No cooked up pills pills . Not coke .

Fucking heroin.

Louis felt like he was going to be sick .

It took everything in him to not let his body react , to not throw the chair back, to not put his fist through the fucking wall, to not let the pure, undiluted terror consume him right there and then .

Harry was shooting heroin .

Every single fucking day.

And Louis hadn’t noticed .

Or maybe—maybe he had. Maybe he’d seen all the signs, but chose to ignore them . The weight loss. The hyper energy. The manic happiness. The way Harry had seemed untouchable , like he was floating through life , never really coming down, never really being still .

Louis had known.

And now, he was faced with the truth , and it was like a knife to the gut .

He swallowed hard, gripping the table , his voice barely above a whisper . “How long?”

Harry’s voice shook . “A few months.”

Louis clenched his jaw, trying to keep himself from shaking apart .

A few months .

Months of using right under Louis’ nose. Months of lying. Months of getting deeper and deeper into something that could fucking kill him .

Louis’ hands fisted on the table , but when he spoke, his voice was calm, level, controlled .

“You’re done.”

Harry’s breath hitched. “Lou—”

“No,” Louis snapped , finally looking at him, really looking at him , taking in the dark circles under his eyes , the slight tremor in his fingers , the way he looked so fucking small despite everything. “You’re fucking done, Harry.”

Harry nodded quickly, voice breaking . “I know. I—I want to stop, I swear, I just—”

Louis reached out, grabbing his hands , squeezing them tight . “Then we stop.”

Harry looked at him with so much fear , so much trust , so much vulnerability , and Louis felt his chest ache with how fucking much he loved him.

“It’s gonna be bad,” Harry whispered.

Louis squeezed his hands tighter. “I don’t care, if you throw up I‘ll hold your hair back, if you feel like you‘re freezling to death I‘ll get extra blankets, if you piss yourself I‘ll change the sheets, you‘re quitting.”

Harry let out a shaky breath , nodding. “Okay.”

 

Harry stood there, shaking , his whole body trembling like the withdrawal had already started just from admitting it out loud. His hands were clutched into tight fists , pressed against his sides like if he let go, he might come apart completely .

Louis stood beside the bathroom sink, the loose tile in his hand , heart hammering in his chest so hard he thought it might crack his ribs. The little hollow space behind the tile looked so innocent —just a pocket in the wall, barely big enough to fit anything—and yet it had been hiding the truth all along.

Harry’s stash .

Baggies, some empty, some still half-full. A bent spoon, blackened at the bottom. A cheap disposable lighter. And syringes— so many fucking syringes —some still clean, some used, their edges dulled from being shoved into the tile cavity over and over again.

Louis felt sick , his stomach turning with every item he pulled out, his fingers shaking so badly the baggies crinkled in his hands.

“Please,” Harry whispered, his voice wrecked , his fingers twitching like he wanted to snatch it all back , to cling to it . “Please, Lou, just let me keep—just a little—just in case.”

Louis’ jaw clenched, throat burning with the effort to stay calm , to not yell , to not break down right there on the bathroom floor .

“No.” Louis’ voice was flat, final , no room for argument. “This shit’s done, Play-Doh. We’re getting rid of it.”

Harry panicked immediately , stepping forward , hands reaching for the baggies like Louis was about to throw away his oxygen supply . “Lou, you don’t understand—I can’t—I need it, just for now, just until—”

“No.” Louis’ voice was harder now , more steel than softness, but his hands shook as he shoved the stash into a small metal box they’d used for random receipts and spare keys. His fingers fumbled with the lock, but eventually, it clicked shut , trapping every last piece inside, but he culdn‘t bring himself to actually throw it away.

Harry’s breathing sped up , panic bleeding into terror , his hands curling into Louis’ t-shirt , desperate . “Please,” he begged, voice cracking , tears pooling in his eyes, lip trembling so hard Louis thought it might split. “Please, Lou. I’m scared. What if it gets too bad?”

Louis’ stomach twisted , because Harry wasn’t wrong. He’d read about this, seen it in people they used to know. Cold turkey off heavy heroin use could be dangerous as fuck .

The thought of Harry—his Harry— dying in their shitty bathroom, puking and shaking and seizing out on the cold tile floor, made Louis feel like he was gonna throw up.

He slid the key onto a thin silver chain—the one he used to wear his St. Christopher pendant on when he was a kid—and clasped it around his neck , letting the key rest against his chest , right over his heart.

Harry watched with wide, terrified eyes , fingers still clutching at Louis’ shirt , shaking his head slowly , like a child being told the truth about Santa for the first time.

“What if I need it?” Harry whispered, voice so small it broke Louis clean in half .

Louis cupped Harry’s face , forcing him to look up , their foreheads pressed together, noses brushing. “You won’t.”

“But what if I do?” Harry asked again, voice rising, panic spiking , fingers fisting in Louis’ shirt so hard it stretched the fabric .

Louis inhaled sharply, fingers digging into Harry’s jaw , not enough to hurt, but enough to hold him steady , to make him listen .

“If you try to take this key from me,” Louis said slowly, voice low and shaking , “I’ll leave.”

Harry’s breath hitched like Louis had just slapped him , his eyes filling instantly , face crumbling.

They both knew it was a lie .

Louis wasn’t going anywhere. Not now, not ever.

But Harry wasn’t willing to take that risk . Not with Louis. Not after everything.

Harry shook his head, whispering, “You wouldn’t.”

Louis’ throat felt tight, like barbed wire had been shoved down it. “I would.”

Harry’s hands softened , still holding onto Louis, but no longer trying to take anything back . “Okay,” he whispered, voice breaking completely . “Okay. I promise.”

Louis knew that promise was worthless —they both had promised each other so much and broken it all a hundred times over—but this time, Louis was different . This time, he was the fucking wall between Harry and his destruction.

He pressed a kiss to Harry’s forehead, soft and trembling, voice barely above a whisper . “We’re doing this, Play-Doh.”

Harry sniffled, nodding against Louis’ chest. “Together or not at all.”

“Together or not at all.”

Louis held him tight , one hand in his curls , the other clutching the key , heart racing because he knew the worst was coming .

And he didn’t know if either of them were ready.

It started sooner than Louis expected , far too soon, and it scared the absolute shit out of him.

He thought they’d have at least a day—maybe two—before things got really bad. He thought they’d have time to talk, time to prepare , time to breathe before the full weight of withdrawal came crashing down on them.

But within hours , Harry was already crumbling .

It began as restlessness—the same buzzing energy that Louis had gotten so used to over the past few months, except this time, it wasn’t excitement fueling it. It was nerves , anxiety , like Harry’s body knew what was coming even before his mind had fully caught up. He couldn’t sit still, couldn’t keep his hands still , his knee bouncing uncontrollably whenever he sat down.

Louis watched him pace the flat, chewing his nails down to the skin , his fingers twitching like they were constantly reaching for something that wasn’t there anymore .

By early afternoon, Harry’s skin was clammy , his face pale except for the bright flush on his cheeks . He kept sniffling , wiping at his nose like it was running , even though it wasn’t. His hands shook when he tried to roll a cigarette, paper crumpling between his fingers until Louis took it from him and did it himself.

That was when Louis knew they were in trouble .

Harry always rolled his own smokes. Always. Even in rehab, even when he was coming down off everything else , Harry could still roll a cigarette with steady hands .

Louis didn’t say anything at first—just lit the cigarette , passed it to Harry, then grabbed his phone and started clearing their schedule .

He cancelled everything.

The meeting Harry had with his manager the next day—gone.

The band rehearsal scheduled for later in the week—gone.

The little pub gig they were supposed to pop into to support a mate—gone.

He sent a quick message to the group chat—just Niall, Zayn, and Oli—keeping it short and to the point: Can’t make it this week. Relapse detox.

He knew they’d get it.

No questions. No judgment. Just understanding .

Harry didn’t even notice Louis doing it, too busy pacing the kitchen , rubbing his arms like he was cold , even though the flat was warm as hell .

Louis followed him, forcing Harry to sit down at the table , pressing a glass of water into his hands , crouching in front of him, trying to get him to breathe .

“Look at me, Haz,” Louis said softly, fingers curled around Harry’s knees , trying to anchor him .

Harry’s eyes flicked down , wide and glassy , already panicking , his chest rising and falling too fast .

“I’ve got you,” Louis said, steady and firm , even though his own hands were shaking. “We’re gonna get through this. Together. ”

Harry nodded , but his jaw was clenched tight , his throat bobbing as he swallowed down panic . “It’s already bad,” he whispered. “I can feel it starting.”

Louis squeezed his knees , trying to keep his own breathing steady. “I know, baby. I know.”

Harry pressed his fists into his thighs, digging his nails in hard , like he needed some kind of physical pain to distract from the building storm inside his body.

“It’s gonna get worse, isn’t it?” Harry asked, voice small , cracking at the edges.

Louis wanted to lie. Wanted to tell him no , that this was the worst of it, that it would pass quick and easy and they’d be back to normal in a day or two.

But Harry deserved the truth.

“Yeah,” Louis said softly, thumb stroking circles into Harry’s knee . “But I’m here. No matter how bad it gets.”

Harry’s lip trembled, his eyes filling fast , but he nodded, gripping Louis’ hands like a lifeline .

It started with the shakes .

At first, they were barely noticeable — a tremor in Harry’s hands when he lifted his glass of water, his fingers twitching like a leaf caught in the wind. But soon, the tremor spread, crawling up his arms, turning into a full-body shiver that no amount of blankets could stop. His teeth chattered , loud in the silence of their flat, and Louis could only sit beside him, wrapping his arms around him, trying to hold him still , like if he held on tight enough, he could anchor Harry’s body to his own, keep him from slipping under completely.

Then came the sweats .

They drenched Harry in minutes , beads of sweat rolling down his temples, his chest, soaking through his shirt until Louis peeled it off because it was making him shiver harder . His skin shone under the dull light of the living room, slick and clammy, but despite how much he was sweating, Harry couldn’t get warm . His whole body convulsed with chills, violent tremors racking through him every few minutes like an electric shock.

Louis went back and forth between laying cold washcloths on his forehead and wrapping him in blankets , neither working for more than a moment. Every time Harry gasped for air , Louis felt like his heart was being squeezed in a vice.

Then came the vomiting .

It was sudden and violent , no warning other than Harry’s face turning a sickly shade of grey before he was lurching off the couch , barely making it to the bathroom before he emptied everything inside him into the toilet. It went on and on — so much more than Louis thought was possible for someone who hadn’t even eaten much that day. Dry heaving until his throat was raw, retching so hard Louis was terrified something might tear inside him .

Louis knelt beside him the entire time, one hand on Harry’s back, the other holding his hair back, whispering, “I’m here, baby, I’m here.” But Harry couldn’t answer — too busy choking on bile, his whole body trembling violently with every heave.

The pain followed — cramps so severe Harry curled into himself , arms wrapped around his middle, knees drawn up to his chest, rocking back and forth like a child. Every time Louis tried to touch him, Harry would flinch, his skin hypersensitive , every nerve ending firing off at once. His stomach cramped so hard that Louis could see the muscles tensing under his skin, every spasm leaving him gasping and crying out , eyes squeezed shut like he could just will it all away .

Louis had never felt more helpless in his life.

“Let me help,” Louis whispered, voice thick with tears he was trying to hold back . But Harry just shook his head, breath shuddering , curling tighter into himself, tears leaking from the corners of his eyes .

Then came the begging .

“Please, Lou,” Harry rasped, voice hoarse from vomiting and crying and screaming. “Just a little. Just—just enough to make it stop. Please, please, I’m begging you.”

Louis’ stomach turned violently , his own hands shaking as he pressed his palms over his ears , like that could somehow block out the sound of Harry’s voice — that broken, shattered voice that had always been Louis’ weakness.

“Don’t ask me that, Haz,” Louis whispered, voice cracking in two . “Please, baby, don’t ask me to do that.”

But Harry couldn’t stop.

He grabbed at Louis’ shirt , fingers fisting the fabric , voice getting higher and more desperate . “Please, Lou, I can’t— I can’t do this. It hurts. It fucking hurts , Lou.”

Louis could barely see through the tears blurring his vision. “I know it hurts, Play-Doh. I know, but you can’t— we can’t.”

“Please!” Harry’s voice broke completely , sobbing , his whole body convulsing in Louis’ arms. “Just a little—just to take the edge off, just this once, Lou, I swear. Please, baby, please.”

Louis bit down hard on his bottom lip, the taste of blood sharp on his tongue, and forced himself to be the strong one . “No, Haz. No more.”

Harry sobbed harder , fighting against Louis’ grip , kicking at the blankets , thrashing in Louis’ lap like a wild animal caught in a trap. “You don’t understand! I need it, I can’t— I can’t fucking breathe without it! Please, Lou, please.”

Louis held him tighter , wrapping both arms around him like a vice, holding him still , pressing his face into Harry’s hair , whispering, “You can. You can . I’ve got you. I’ve got you. I’m not going anywhere.”

But Harry was losing his mind , screaming now, thrashing so hard Louis was terrified he’d hurt himself. “You don’t get it! You don’t fucking get it!” Harry shrieked, voice raw . “You didn’t shoot this shit, Lou! You didn’t feel how good it was! You didn’t— you don’t fucking understand !”

That hit like a gut punch .

Because Harry was right. Louis had done a lot of shit—pills, powders, all of it—but he had never shot heroin. He had never crossed that line.

But that didn’t fucking matter now.

Louis grabbed Harry’s face, forcing him to look at him , tears streaming down both of their faces , their foreheads pressed together . “I don’t need to understand, Haz. I just need you to trust me . Please, Play-Doh, I’m begging you now. Trust me.”

Harry’s chest heaved, his whole body shaking uncontrollably , but his eyes locked on Louis’ , wide and wild and so fucking terrified .

“Please,” Louis whispered, voice barely there. “Let me get you through this.”

Harry’s breath shuddered , his lower lip trembling , and then—slowly—he nodded , collapsing into Louis’ arms like a rag doll , his sobs shaking both of them.

Louis held him there, rocking him gently, whispering, “I’ve got you. I’ve got you. We’ll get through this. Together or not at all.”

Even if it fucking killed him to say no.

That night was one of the worst of Louis’ entire life .

He’d thought they’d been through hell before — the overdoses, the cold turkeys, the hospital trips, the first rehab and the second and the third. He thought he knew what rock bottom looked like .

He didn’t.

Not until he saw his Harry , his Play-Doh , curled into the tightest ball on their bed, soaked through with sweat , shaking so hard the mattress creaked beneath him , his skin ashen except for the angry, blotchy red flush climbing up his neck and across his chest. His curls were plastered to his forehead , his lips cracked and dry from hours of retching until he had nothing left inside him.

Louis had held him through it all — through the shivering, through the violent cramps that made Harry scream into his shoulder , through the fevered babbling that made no sense, Harry drifting in and out of lucidness , talking about things Louis couldn’t even follow.

But the begging . The begging was what broke Louis clean in half .

“Lou, please,” Harry rasped for the hundredth time , voice raw and shredded , every word trembling with desperation . “Just a little. Please. I can’t — I can’t do this. I’m begging you, Lou, please.”

Louis kept saying no . Kept whispering, “We’ve got this, baby. I’ve got you.” Kept holding him tighter, like if he held on hard enough, his love could physically pull the addiction out of Harry’s body .

But it wasn’t enough.

Nothing was fucking enough.

Harry cried , shook , vomited into the bin Louis had placed beside the bed, then cried harder . His stomach was so cramped he couldn’t straighten his body, his teeth chattered so violently Louis was scared they’d crack. His skin burned under Louis’ hands , but Harry still said he was freezing , shivering so hard it made the whole bed vibrate .

By 3 a.m., Louis’ phone was in his hand, his fingers shaking almost as badly as Harry’s as he typed into Google:

“Severe heroin withdrawal symptoms at home.”

“When to go to hospital for heroin detox.”

“Can heroin withdrawal kill you.”

The answers made Louis’ blood run cold .

Severe vomiting and diarrhea could lead to life-threatening dehydration .

Prolonged sweating and shivering could throw off electrolytes , triggering seizures.

And worst of all — in cases of extreme dependency , cold turkey withdrawal could be fatal .

Louis looked at Harry, at his boy , his Play-Doh , shaking so hard his teeth chattered, skin grey and slick and drenched in sweat , eyes too glassy to focus on anything for more than a second. He was hurting , dying by inches right in front of Louis, and there was nothing Louis could do except hold him and whisper useless reassurances while Harry begged him to just make it stop .

“Please, Lou,” Harry whimpered again, fingers curling weakly around Louis’ wrist , his grip too feeble to even hold on properly. “Just one. Just one little hit. Please, baby, please, I’m dying.”

And that was what broke Louis. 

Not the vomiting. Not the sweating. Not even the hallucinations that had started just before midnight, Harry seeing things that weren’t there , reaching for people who weren’t in the room.

It was the sound of Harry’s voice when he said baby , the way it cracked and splintered like he was already halfway gone , the way Harry said I’m dying like it was a fact, not just a plea.

Louis stood up, shaking so badly he had to hold onto the wall , walking to the little metal box he had locked in the top drawer of the dresser.

He hated himself for knowing exactly what to do .

The steps were burned into his brain from the years they spent around this shit — from Nick, from old dealers, from the bathroom floors of parties they should’ve never been at.

Louis found the baggie, hands trembling violently as he measured out the tiniest fucking amount , the absolute minimum. Enough to stop Harry from dying , not enough to fully send him under .

Harry was crying when Louis turned back to the bed, shaking so hard he couldn’t even hold his arm steady but his eyes were clearer than before . “I’m so sorry,” Harry choked out, shame flooding his face , even through the agony. “I didn’t want— I didn’t want you to have to—”

Louis knelt beside him, holding his face , pressing their foreheads together , tears burning in his own eyes. “I love you,” Louis whispered, voice cracking. “So fucking much. That’s why I’m doing this.”

Harry’s sob hitched in his chest, his body convulsing with it, and Louis kissed him — soft and fleeting — before pulling away to tie off Harry’s arm .

The veins were too easy to find , too raised, too obvious after months of use. Louis’ stomach turned so hard he had to swallow down bile , but his hands kept moving. Syringe. Cooked it down. Drew it up.

Harry’s breathing slowed , his lips trembling. “I love you,” he whispered.

Louis’ vision blurred. “I love you more.”

Then — he did it .

Pushed the needle in. Pressed the plunger.

Poison into his veins by the hand that loved him most.

Louis wiped the needle clean, hiding it before collapsing beside Harry, wrapping both arms around him , holding him through the rush .

Harry’s body relaxed almost instantly , the tension melting from his muscles, his breathing evening out , eyes fluttering shut in something close to peace.

Louis didn’t feel relief.

He felt like he’d just killed something inside himself .

Because that was the worst thing he’d ever done .

And even if Harry made it through the night — which Louis would make sure of, no matter what it took — Louis knew he’d never be able to forgive himself for this .

 

 

Shit.

 

It wasn‘t supposed to go like this.

 

 

Louis woke up the next morning still holding Harry , their limbs tangled, skin sticky with sweat , the sheets twisted and damp beneath them. The flat smelled like sickness and stale fear , a thick, sour scent that settled deep in Louis’ throat.

For a moment, Louis forgot what had happened. His brain, fogged with exhaustion , tried to convince him that Harry had just been ill , that maybe they’d caught some bug or eaten something dodgy. But then his hand shifted , and his knuckles brushed against the faint indentation in Harry’s arm, right where Louis had tied off the night before.

Reality came rushing back so fast it made him nauseous .

He had done it.

He had shot his boyfriend , the love of his life, his fucking Play-Doh , full of the very poison they had sworn would never touch them .

It was the worst thing Louis had ever done — and that was saying something.

Harry was still asleep, too pale , curls matted to his forehead , his breathing slow but steady . He looked younger somehow , fragile in a way that made Louis’ chest ache . He’d stopped shaking, the agony of withdrawal dulled by the thing Louis had sworn he’d never give him again.

Louis slipped out of bed quietly , knees shaking as he stood, and stumbled into the bathroom. The first thing he saw was the bin , overflowing with tissues, vomit-streaked towels, and the used syringe. He dry-heaved over the sink, gripping the porcelain so tightly his knuckles bled white , bile burning in his throat.

What the fuck had he done?

He ran the tap, splashing cold water on his face, staring at himself in the mirror. His reflection was haunted , dark circles carved so deep under his eyes it looked like bruises, his skin pale and grey , his lips trembling from exhaustion and guilt.

He wanted to cry. Wanted to scream. Wanted to punch his own reflection until it shattered .

But all he did was stare — because what right did he have to cry , after what he’d done?

By the time he forced himself back into the bedroom, Harry was awake — barely — his eyes half-lidded, body heavy with exhaustion .

Louis perched on the edge of the bed, hands fisting the sheets , heart hammering in his chest.

Harry’s voice was hoarse when he spoke. “Did I dream that?”

Louis swallowed hard, forcing his voice to stay steady. “No, baby. You didn’t.”

Harry’s eyes slid closed, a tear slipping down his temple. “I’m so sorry.”

Louis shook his head, voice cracking . “No, Haz. I’m sorry.”

Harry reached for him, fingers weak but insistent, tugging Louis down until their foreheads were pressed together, breath mingling.

“This was the last time,” Louis whispered, voice shaking with desperation . “I swear to fucking God, Haz. I swear on my life. Never again.”

Harry nodded weakly , his own voice barely a whisper. “You‘ll stay with me?”

Louis bit his lip, the guilt so thick it felt like he was choking on it. “Of course, that was the deal right? Together or not at all.”

And this time, Louis wasn’t going to let them fail .

Because if they didn’t pull themselves out of this now, Louis knew one of them wouldn’t make it to the end of the year .

He didn’t care how hard it got. Didn’t care how bad the withdrawal would get. Didn’t care if Harry screamed and cried and begged for it.

Because Louis would rather die before he ever put a needle in Harry’s arm again.

The day dragged on , every second feeling like an hour , and somehow Harry only got worse .

Louis had expected the sweating and the shaking . He’d braced himself for the vomiting, the cramping, the restless thrashing that came with heroin detox. What he hadn’t expected was for Harry to start slurring his words , eyes glassy and unfocused , like his brain couldn’t even keep up with reality anymore .

It was like Harry was half here, half somewhere else entirely , drifting in and out of coherence , mumbling nonsense one minute and whispering apologies the next. His skin was freezing , his pulse thready , his hands too shaky to even hold the water Louis kept pressing to his lips.

By mid-afternoon, Louis was panicking quietly , fingers trembling as he wiped Harry down with a cold cloth. Harry’s lips were dry and cracked , his breathing too shallow , and Louis couldn’t shake the feeling that they were teetering dangerously close to a line they couldn’t uncross .

He grabbed his phone , hovering his thumb over the emergency dial, heart hammering in his chest.

“Haz,” Louis said, voice urgent but soft , shaking Harry’s shoulder gently . “Baby, listen to me. I think we need to call someone. I think— I think we’re in over our heads here.”

Harry’s eyes fluttered open , dull and unfocused, but still, the panic hit immediately . “No,” he croaked, shaking his head violently, fingers grabbing weakly at Louis’ wrist. “No hospital. No press. Please, Lou, please.”

“Harry—” Louis started, but Harry cut him off , his voice cracking with desperation.

“They’ll find out,” Harry begged, tears already forming , gripping Louis like his life depended on it . “The press— my manager— they’ll find out, and then it’s over. No more music, no more gigs, they’ll drop me , Lou. I can’t— I can’t lose this too.”

Louis’ stomach knotted painfully , because of course Harry was thinking about his career even now, even half-delirious and shaking apart . That was just who Harry was — always afraid of being a fuckup , always thinking if he lost one more chance , no one would ever take him seriously again.

But Louis was terrified , because fuck the career , fuck the press, fuck all of it if Harry didn’t survive long enough to even have something to lose.

“Haz,” Louis said softly, sitting beside him, fingers brushing back his sweaty curls , “I need you to hear me, okay? Really hear me.”

Harry blinked slowly , breath hitching, trying to focus.

“I don’t give a fuck about the music,” Louis said, voice low and thick , throat tight with the sheer force of his love . “I don’t give a fuck if you never play another gig in your life. I don’t care if we spend the rest of our days working corner shops and scraping by. I’d fucking love it, actually. As long as you’re alive , Haz. That’s the only thing I care about, and you should too.”

Harry shook his head , tears spilling over , his whole body trembling so hard Louis could feel it in his own bones. “I’ll be fine,” Harry whispered. “I just— I need you. Not a hospital. Just you.”

Louis’ heart cracked wide open , and fuck , it was so unfair that Harry believed that . That Louis was enough to pull him out of this . That Louis was some kind of lifeline, because that was always what it‘d been like, hadn‘t it? Even when Louis himself was fucking drowning .

But Louis had never been able to say no to Harry. Not really.

He tucked the phone into his pocket, leaning down to press their foreheads together, his hand curled around Harry’s trembling jaw .

“Okay,” Louis whispered. “Just me and you.”

Harry’s breath hitched again, relief flooding his face , his fingers curling weakly into Louis’ t-shirt . “Together or not at all.”

“Together or not at all,” Louis whispered back, kissing his forehead .

And just like that, Louis committed them both to this hell — whatever it took, however fucking long it took, Louis would sit in the dark with Harry until they either crawled out together or didn’t crawl out at all.

Because Harry could live without a career .

Could live without gigs, without money, without a future.

But Louis couldn’t live without Harry .

Not for one fucking second.

Notes:

How‘d that happen…

On a sidenote though, I‘m actually considering changing their names and sending this draft to a publisher to see if anyone would take this, cause idk, it would be kinda cool to get this out on shelves, definitely one of my favourite‘s (out of my fics ofc, flightless bird supremacy) so far

Chapter 28: Chapter 28

The night was hell. Absolute fucking hell.

Louis had been through a lot of shit in his life — seen friends overdose, seen Zayn twitching on a piss-stained mattress after one too many bumps, held Niall’s hand while he screamed through his first cold turkey off pills — but this was different. This was Harry.

It started with the tremors , building back up after the tiny reprieve from the dose Louis had given him the night before. Louis thought — hoped — they’d have a little more time before the withdrawal came roaring back, but it was relentless, a beast dragging Harry back into the dark the second his body realized the heroin was gone again.

Harry couldn’t stop moving. His legs kicked out aimlessly , his fingers twitching like he was playing some invisible piano, his head rolling back and forth against the pillow , like even being still hurt too much.

“Haz, baby, you have to breathe,” Louis whispered, his voice rough from hours of talking , like if he could just fill the silence , it would somehow help. “Deep breaths. In through your nose, out through your mouth, yeah?”

But Harry couldn’t focus , his breathing too fast , too shallow , gasping like his body forgot how to just exist . His shirt was drenched , sweat soaking through the collar, sticking to his skin , and Louis peeled it off, tossing it aside, trying to cool him down with a damp flannel even though Harry was shivering violently beneath his touch.

“I’m so cold,” Harry whimpered , curling into Louis , his teeth clattering so hard it sounded like bones snapping. “It’s so fucking cold, Lou.”

Louis wrapped both arms around him , pulling him close, trying to share his body heat , even though Harry felt like ice against his skin . “I’ve got you, baby. I’m right here.”

And then the hallucinations started .

It began with small things — Harry talking to people who weren’t there, reaching out like someone was standing beside the bed. Louis tried to ground him , whispering, “It’s just me, love. Just me and you.”

But soon, Harry’s eyes were wild , darting around the room like he was trapped somewhere else entirely , seeing things Louis couldn’t see .

“No,” Harry muttered, voice high and panicked , pushing at Louis’ chest . “No, get off me — get off me, I said I’m fucking fine! ”

Louis froze, heart hammering, because Harry’s eyes were wide with fear , pupils blown, like he was seeing someone else entirely . “Haz— Haz, it’s me,” Louis said, voice soft but urgent , hands raised in surrender. “It’s just me, baby. Just Louis.”

But Harry was somewhere else , trembling so hard it shook the bed, tears streaming down his face as he shoved at nothing . “Don’t fucking touch me! I said no! I said fucking NO!”

Louis felt sick , bile rising in his throat, because Harry wasn’t talking to him — he was reliving something , something Louis wasn’t brave enough to ask about .

“Shhh,” Louis whispered, grabbing Harry’s hands gently , pulling them down to his lap, holding them tight even as Harry’s fingers clawed weakly at his skin. “I’m here, baby. I’m right here. You’re safe.”

It took nearly ten minutes of Louis’ soft, repetitive reassurance before Harry’s eyes cleared just slightly , his breathing still ragged, but his focus returning .

“Lou?” Harry whispered, voice so small , so young , like he was sixteen again, back in that shitty rehab bed with Louis for the first time.

“Yeah, Play-Doh,” Louis whispered back, pressing a kiss to his clammy forehead , rocking him gently in his arms. “It’s me. You’re okay. I’ve got you.”

Harry sobbed , fisting Louis’ t-shirt , burying his face in Louis’ neck , whole body shaking so violently Louis thought his ribs might crack.

“It hurts so fucking much,” Harry cried, voice high and broken , shaking with panic . “It’s inside my bones, Lou. I can feel it in my fucking bones.”

Louis squeezed his eyes shut, tears falling freely , even though he tried to be the strong one . “I know, baby. I know. But you’re doing so fucking good. I’m so proud of you.”

“No you’re not,” Harry mumbled, breath hot against Louis’ neck. “I’m a fuck-up. I ruined everything.”

Louis pulled back , cupping Harry’s face , forcing him to look up through blurry, tear-filled eyes . “You didn’t ruin anything, Haz. You’re my fucking miracle. Do you hear me?”

Harry’s lip trembled , eyes wide and shiny , and Louis kissed him — soft and slow, holding his face like he was something fragile and holy .

“I’m so proud of you,” Louis whispered against his lips. “And I’m not going anywhere.”

Harry nodded weakly , his arms circling Louis’ waist , holding on like he was the only thing keeping him tethered to the earth.

They spent the whole night like that — curled up together , Harry shaking and crying and whispering things that made Louis’ heart ache , and Louis holding him, whispering back, filling the dark with promises that he meant with every bone in his body .

“We’re gonna get through this,” Louis whispered into his hair sometime after 4 a.m., voice cracked and broken from hours of soothing .

Louis sat on the floor beside the bed, arms wrapped around his knees , his whole body trembling from exhaustion. Harry was finally asleep , his breathing slow and even , his body still for the first time in almost two days .

Louis should have slept too.

But he couldn’t .

Not with everything he’d just lived through , not with the guilt weighing him down , not with the quiet sobs building in his chest, burning his throat like acid .

His fingers fumbled for his phone, blurry with exhaustion , and before he could talk himself out of it, he dialed the only number that had ever mattered .

The line rang twice before his mum answered. “Lou?” she asked, her voice soft and sleepy , but immediately alert, like she already knew something was wrong . “What’s wrong, love?”

Louis tried to answer, but the second he opened his mouth, the dam burst .

A choked sob tore out of him, and suddenly he was crying so hard he couldn’t even breathe , his chest heaving , his whole body shaking as he pressed his forehead to his knees , phone clutched in his white-knuckled grip .

“Oh, baby,” Johannah whispered, and just the sound of her voice , the familiar warmth of it, the unconditional love woven into every syllable , made Louis cry harder . “Tell me what’s going on. Please, sweetheart.”

“I— I fucked up,” Louis choked out, his own voice wrecked , barely recognizable . “Mum, I— I don’t know what to do. I don’t—” His breath hitched, his fingers curling into his hair, tugging hard like he could pull himself back together .

“Shh, breathe, baby,” she soothed. “I’m right here. Just take your time.”

Louis gasped for air , fighting to slow his breathing , pressing the heel of his hand against his forehead , as if he could physically press the pain back in .

“It’s Harry,” he finally whispered, voice cracking in two . “Mum, he— he’s been using. Shooting up . And I—” Another sob broke free, ripping through him like glass , “I found out too fucking late.”

Johannah inhaled sharply, but she didn’t react the way he expected . No anger , no shock , no why didn’t you tell me sooner . Just calm understanding , like she’d been bracing herself for this moment since the day they walked out of rehab together .

“Oh, my love,” she whispered, and that was all it took for Louis to completely fall apart .

He curled in on himself , sobbing so hard his whole body ached , guilt crushing him from the inside out . “I let him down,” he choked out, “I— I didn’t notice, I didn’t— I should’ve known, Mum, I should’ve known .”

“No,” she said firmly, cutting through his panic like a lifeline , her voice steady as steel . “This is not your fault, Louis. Do you hear me?”

Louis shook his head , tears soaking his jeans , his breath coming in shaky gasps . “I— I gave him a hit last night,” he whispered, voice barely there , the weight of his confession pressing down on him like lead . “I fucking shot him up , Mum. Because I— I thought he was gonna die. He was— he was shaking and throwing up and— I read online that cold turkey could kill him, and I— I didn’t know what else to do.”

Silence.

For a moment, he thought she might finally get angry , might finally tell him that he was a fucking failure , that he was useless , that he was just as bad as his dad always said he was .

But she didn’t.

Instead, she sighed, voice gentle but firm , full of love that he didn’t deserve . “You did what you thought you had to do to keep him alive.”

Louis bit down on his lip, shoulders shaking so violently it hurt . “I’m not strong enough for this,” he whispered. “I— I can’t do this on my own, Mum.”

“You’re not on your own,” she said immediately. “You have me, you have your sisters, you have your friends. And most importantly— you and Harry have each other .”

Louis clenched his jaw , his fingers digging into his scalp , trying to hold onto her words , trying to believe them .

“I don’t know what to do,” he admitted, voice small , lost .

She sighed, and he could hear movement —like she was already getting out of bed , already grabbing her coat . “You don’t have to know what to do, sweetheart,” she said, voice gentle but sure . “You just have to keep choosing him. Keep choosing recovery .”

Louis swallowed hard, his throat raw. “I’m scared.”

“I know, baby,” she whispered. “But you’re the bravest person I’ve ever known. He’s your boy. You’re gonna fight for him. Because you always do .”

Louis nodded shakily , wiping at his face , his breath still uneven but slowing down .

“I love him, Mum,” Louis whispered, voice wrecked . “I love him so fucking much.”

“I know you do, sweetheart,” she said softly. “And that’s why you’re gonna get him through this.”

Louis let out a shaky exhale , looking over at the bed , at Harry’s exhausted, sleeping frame , his chest rising and falling steadily , his face finally peaceful for the first time in two days.

Louis stood in the doorway of their bedroom, watching Harry sleep. Or… not sleep. Harry’s breathing was uneven, his brow furrowed like even rest was something his body couldn’t quite manage anymore. His skin was still pale, a little too clammy under the low light, and every now and then, his fingers twitched against the sheets like they were reaching for something that wasn’t there.

Louis stood there for too long, frozen, his chest tight with guilt and fear and something that felt a lot like grief , even though Harry was still breathing. He felt like he was fourteen again, waking his mum up in the middle of the night because him and Zayn had tried LSD for the first time and they were both having a bad trip.

“Mum,” he whispered, voice already breaking.

“Oh, love,” she said softly. “I’m already putting my shoes on.”

He didn’t need to explain. She just knew .

She always knew.

By the time she knocked on the door twenty minutes later, Louis had cleaned up the living room as best he could — the towels, the empty water bottles, the tangle of blankets from where they’d been curled up for two days straight. It didn’t make much difference. The place still felt like a battlefield .

When Louis opened the door, Johannah was already taking him in , eyes soft but serious, her hand coming up immediately to cup his cheek. “You look horrible, love,” she said quietly.

Louis closed his eyes for a second, leaning into her touch the way he used to when he was little. “I’m so tired, Mum.”

“I know.” She pulled him into a hug, one hand on the back of his head, the other rubbing his back, and Louis broke —right there in the doorway, in his mum’s arms , the only place that still felt safe.

She didn’t say anything, just held him , letting him cry like a kid until he’d gotten enough out to breathe properly again.

“Where is he?” she asked softly once he’d pulled himself together.

“In bed,” Louis said, swiping under his nose. “He finally fell asleep about an hour ago.”

“Alright,” she nodded, kicking off her shoes and stepping inside. “Kettle on.”

It wasn’t a question. It was an order , and for the first time in days, Louis was grateful to have someone tell him exactly what to do.

He went through the motions, filling the kettle, pulling down the tea bags, two mugs — one for him, one for her. They didn’t even need to speak; Johannah just moved through the flat, tidying up quietly, like she could sense the chaos that had swallowed them whole.

When the tea was ready, Louis handed her a mug and they sat together at the kitchen table, the silence comfortable and familiar , until Louis couldn’t hold it in anymore.

“He’s been using,” Louis said, voice low , hands wrapped tight around his mug . “I didn’t even notice. Not until I found a needle in the bin.”

Johannah inhaled slowly through her nose, but her expression stayed calm. “How bad?”

“Bad.” Louis’ throat tightened again. “He said it was just a little at first. To keep up with everything. But it turned into three times a day, Mum. Three times a day. And I had no fucking clue.”

She reached across the table, covering his hand with hers . “You’re not a mind reader, Louis.”

“I should’ve seen it.” His voice shook. “I’ve been clean long enough. I know what to look for. And I just— I didn’t.”

“Because you love him,” she said simply. “And love makes us see what we want to see sometimes. Those rose colored glasses make all the red warning signs look harmless.”

Louis hated how true that was.

“I gave it to him,” he said after a moment, softer this time, like the confession was worse when he said it right to her face. “Last night. I shot him up because I was scared if I didn’t, it would kill him.”

Her grip on his hand tightened, but she didn’t flinch. “You did what you had to do to keep him safe.”

“That doesn’t make it right.”

“No,” she agreed. “But it makes you human.”

Louis blinked hard , trying to swallow the knot in his throat. “I don’t know if I can do this, Mum.”

“Yes, you can.” Her voice was gentle but firm , the way it had been every time Louis had hit rock bottom and thought he couldn’t claw his way back. “And you’re not doing it alone. Not this time.”

Louis exhaled shakily, squeezing her hand. “Will you stay? At least for today?”

“As long as you need.” She smiled softly. “You couldn’t kick me out if you tried.”

Louis gave her a crooked, tired smile. “I missed you.”

“I’m right here, baby.”

And somehow, just hearing that — the absolute certainty in her voice — made the weight on Louis’ chest feel just a little lighter.

They sat at the table, finishing their tea, neither of them speaking much. There wasn’t really anything to say. They both knew the long road ahead , and they both knew this wasn’t something a cup of tea and a hug could fix.

But having her there — steady and unshakable — made Louis feel like maybe, just maybe, they’d find their way through.

Eventually.

Harry didn’t wake up until late morning, the sun already high, spilling through the bedroom window in thin strips that cut across the duvet. Louis was sitting beside him when his eyes finally fluttered open , and Louis could tell the second consciousness caught up with him , because Harry’s whole body tensed like it hurt just to exist .

He looked like death . That wasn’t even an exaggeration — his skin was pale, almost grey , dark circles carved so deep under his eyes it looked like bruises. His curls were a sweaty, matted mess , stuck to his forehead and his neck, his lips dry and cracked from all the vomiting. Louis didn’t think he’d ever seen him look worse.

Except for the moment Harry’s gaze drifted past Louis and landed on Johannah, sitting quietly in the corner of the room, mug of tea in her hands.

Harry froze, his face crumpling so quickly Louis barely had time to brace for it.

“Hi, sweetheart,” Johannah said softly, her voice the same gentle warmth she always used on Louis when he was sick, or sad, or drunk and crying in her kitchen at two in the morning.

“Mum,” Harry croaked, voice wrecked and raw, and Louis felt something inside him shatter completely .

He didn’t even know if Harry meant his mum or Louis’ mum — but it didn’t matter, because it was her either way , wasn’t it?

She was the one who showed up .

She was the one who stayed .

She was the one who never gave up on them , even when they gave up on themselves.

Harry’s eyes filled instantly , tears slipping down his temples, and Louis reached out automatically, grabbing his hand , squeezing it tightly.

Johannah set her mug down on the windowsill, crossed the room , and sat on the edge of the bed without hesitation. “Oh, love,” she said, her hand immediately stroking through his curls , brushing them back from his clammy forehead, “you’ve had a rough go of it, haven’t you?”

Harry let out a broken, shaking breath , the kind that comes right before a sob, and he turned his face into the pillow, like maybe if he couldn’t see her, he could pretend this wasn’t happening.

Louis swallowed hard , his other hand joining the first, both of them wrapped around Harry’s cold fingers. “She knows everything, Haz,” Louis said quietly. “It’s okay. You don’t have to hide.”

Harry shook his head into the pillow, his shoulders already shaking from the tears building too fast to stop.

“Hey,” Johannah whispered, her hand soft on his back , tracing little circles, same as she used to do for Louis and his sisters when they were little. “I’m not here to judge you, darling. I’m here because I love you, and I want to help.”

That was it — the dam broke.

Harry sobbed , his body curling in on itself, both hands gripping Louis like his life depended on it , all his defenses ripped away in an instant.

“M’sorry,” he choked out between ragged breaths. “M’sorry, mum.”

And fuck — Louis wasn’t ready for the way that word broke inside of him, wasn’t ready for the way Harry called her that like he was starving for it , like it had been stuck in his throat for years , waiting for someone to deserve it .

“You’ve got nothing to be sorry for,” Johannah said softly, leaning down to kiss the damp curls sticking to his forehead. “Nothing, sweetheart. We’ll figure this out.”

Louis didn’t know if Harry even heard her over the sound of his own sobs , but it didn’t matter — because she meant every word.

They both sat with him like that for a while — Harry curled up in the bed, shaking and crying , Louis holding his hands, Johannah rubbing his back , whispering soft reassurances, until the storm passed and Harry was just breathing again, his face blotchy and damp, but his grip on Louis steady.

Johannah smiled softly, brushing her hand down his cheek. “There’s my beautiful boy.”

Harry’s face crumbled all over again , but this time the sob was softer, almost a laugh underneath it , like something had cracked open inside him that needed to break so it could finally heal.

Louis leaned down, kissing Harry’s knuckles , whispering, “Told you she’d still love you.”

Harry nodded, sniffling , and for the first time in days, Louis felt like maybe — just maybe — they weren’t completely alone in this after all.

By noon, Harry crashed all over again .

Louis should’ve expected it — the little window of peace they’d had that morning, when Harry had called Johannah Mum and let himself cry until there was nothing left, had been too fragile to last. It was the calm between storms, and now the storm was back with a fucking vengeance.

Harry was pale again , almost green around the edges , his whole body twitching like his nerves were electrified . He couldn’t stop shivering, his teeth clacking painfully , even with Louis’ thickest hoodie layered over two t-shirts. His skin felt icy and damp , and the circles under his eyes were darker than ever — like bruises left by the past few years catching up all at once .

They tried to get him to eat , both Louis and Johannah gently coaxing him , setting a piece of toast in front of him and begging him to just take a few bites .

“Love, you need something in your stomach,” Johannah said softly, her hand on Harry’s back, fingers tracing light circles like he was one of her own. “Even just a little, baby. Please.”

Harry shook his head weakly , his whole body trembling so badly that the toast nearly fell from his hands . “Can’t,” he mumbled, voice hoarse and shaking , like just speaking was exhausting. “Gonna puke.”

Louis sat across from him, elbows braced on the table, desperation written all over his face . “You’re gonna puke anyway, Haz,” Louis said gently, trying for logic even though every word broke his heart . “At least this way, you’ll have something to throw up instead of just bile.”

Harry’s face twisted like he might cry again, but he forced down a bite , chewing slow, like cardboard in his mouth . He managed half the piece before his stomach lurched , and Louis was already on his feet, bin in hand , by the time Harry leaned over and vomited it all back up.

Johannah was right there beside him, rubbing his back, whispering soothing nonsense while Louis crouched next to them, face tight with helplessness .

“Okay, okay,” Louis murmured, pushing his fingers through Harry’s curls , sweat-damp and messy , while Harry gasped for breath between heaves. “We’ll switch to liquids, yeah? Just little sips.”

They tried water first — small sips out of Louis’ favourite chipped mug, the one with the little soccer ball on the handle — but that came straight back up too, barely a minute later , Harry’s whole body convulsing with the force of it.

“Electrolytes,” Johannah said softly, already on her feet, digging through their mostly empty kitchen cupboards , knowing damn well there wouldn’t be anything helpful in there.

Louis darted to the corner shop, returning with two bottles of blue Gatorade , and Harry managed two sips before that followed the water, leaving Harry pale and panting , forehead pressed against Louis’ shoulder as Louis held the bin steady .

Louis could feel his mum watching — not judging, not blaming — but that worried mum look , the one that had haunted Louis through every hospital trip , every rehab check-in , every night when she sat at the kitchen table wondering if her son was dead in a ditch somewhere .

She didn’t say anything.

She didn’t have to.

Because Louis could already hear the words in his own head, the ones he was too scared to say out loud: If he can’t even keep water down, how the fuck are we gonna get through this?

When Harry finally slumped back , wiped out from the effort , Louis pressed a cold cloth to his forehead, trying to cool him down even though Harry was shivering again .

“We’re gonna get through today,” Johannah said softly, her hand still on Harry’s back. “Just today. One hour at a time.”

Harry’s eyes were glassy , but he nodded weakly , leaning into Louis like his body couldn’t hold itself up anymore .

Louis kissed his temple , ignoring the way his own hands were shaking , the way fear sat heavy in his chest . “One hour at a time, love. That’s all we’ve got to do.”

Harry’s fingers twitched , reaching blindly for Louis’ hand, and Louis took it without hesitation, holding on tight .

If they couldn’t think about tomorrow, they wouldn’t.

Just one hour.

That was all they had to get through.

Louis and his mum quickly fell into a quiet, unspoken rhythm — the kind of thing only families who’d already been through hell together could manage without having to say a word.

After the disaster at the kitchen table, Johannah gently guided Louis back to the sofa, pushing him down to sit like she used to when he was little and running himself ragged after football practice.

“Two hours,” she said softly, tucking a blanket around his shoulders. “You sleep, I’ll watch him.”

Louis shook his head instantly, his whole body going rigid , fingers gripping the edge of the blanket like it was a lifeline . “Mum, no. What if he— what if something happens and I’m asleep?”

She knelt in front of him, hands on his knees , eyes soft but serious . “I’ll wake you if anything changes, love. I promise.”

He still didn’t like it. Every instinct in him was screaming to keep his eyes on Harry, to watch every breath , to count every twitch , because what if the second he looked away was the second Harry slipped away for good ?

But he couldn’t do it alone. Not anymore.

So he nodded, reluctantly, and let her press a kiss to his forehead before she took the chair beside Harry’s side of the bed, settling in for her shift.

Louis lay down on the sofa, but sleep didn’t come easy — his mind racing , every worst-case scenario playing in his head on repeat. But exhaustion eventually won, dragging him under in fits and starts , dozing off for twenty minutes at a time, waking with a start whenever Harry made a sound.

Johannah kept her word, though. When Harry got restless — kicking off the blankets , mumbling nonsense , tugging at his own shirt like it was strangling him — she handled it. She whispered soft reassurances , wiped his forehead , helped him sip water even if it came right back up.

And when Harry’s breathing evened out just enough to be counted as real sleep, she stood, padded over to the sofa, and gently shook Louis awake.

“Your turn, love.”

Louis dragged himself upright, rubbing at his face, his whole body stiff and sore from sleeping curled up on the tiny sofa. “Any changes?”

“He’s sleeping a little deeper now,” she said softly, brushing his hair back like she used to do when he was a kid. “But you know how these things go. It’s up and down.”

Louis nodded, swallowing hard, fear and exhaustion making his stomach churn. “Thanks, Mum.”

She kissed the top of his head. “Of course, sweetheart.”

They traded places — Louis settling back into the chair beside Harry, Johannah curling up on the sofa. Louis sat with his elbow braced on his knee, chin in his hand, eyes never leaving Harry’s face , counting every breath, every flicker of his eyelids, every shiver that still ran through his body.

And when Harry stirred , whimpering softly in his sleep, Louis was already there — hand on his arm, voice soft in the dark.

“Shhh, love. I’m here. You’re safe.”

They took turns like that all day , switching every couple of hours, barely speaking , just handing off the responsibility of keeping Harry alive like passing a torch .

They didn’t talk about what came next. They couldn’t — because next felt too big , too impossible . All they could do was get through the next hour. And the next. And the next.

One hour at a time.

It happened so fast Louis didn’t even see the warning signs until it was too late .

Harry had been asleep , his breathing shallow but steady, Louis watching from his chair, too wired to sleep but too exhausted to do anything but exist beside him . It was quiet — the kind of eerie silence that made Louis feel like the whole world was holding its breath , like something terrible was about to snap .

And then Harry’s whole body jerked — one violent, almost inhuman twist — and before Louis could even process what he was seeing , Harry’s arms seized up , muscles locked so tight Louis could see the tendons in his neck straining , his back arching painfully off the mattress.

“Haz— Harry!” Louis was out of his chair in half a second , grabbing his face , but Harry’s eyes were wide open , rolled back so far all Louis could see were the whites , his jaw clamped too tight , his teeth gnashing like his own body was trying to break itself apart .

“Fuck— fuckfuckfuck—” Louis’ hands were shaking so badly he couldn’t even think straight , his mind blanking out completely , every bit of knowledge he’d ever had about what to do in a seizure vanishing into pure panic .

He should call his mum. Or an ambulance. Or someone who knew what the fuck to do . But all Louis could do was freeze , hands hovering uselessly , too scared to touch Harry in case he made it worse.

“Harry— Haz, baby, please,” Louis begged, voice breaking into useless sobs , helpless and terrified , his whole body trembling. “Please, come back—please, I don’t know what to do.”

Harry’s chest heaved , his body still writhing uncontrollably , the sheets twisting around his legs, sweat pouring down his face. Louis grabbed the pillow out from under him so he wouldn’t choke , tried to turn him on his side, but Harry was too stiff , locked up so tight Louis couldn’t move him.

It felt like it lasted forever , but in reality it was maybe a minute — the longest fucking minute of Louis’ life .

Then, just as suddenly , Harry’s body went limp , his limbs flopping back against the mattress, chest rising and falling in shallow, gasping breaths . His eyes were half-lidded , unfocused, lips pale and cracked , his whole body trembling like a leaf in a storm .

Louis collapsed beside him, hands shaking uncontrollably , his breath coming in ragged sobs , fingers brushing sweaty curls off Harry’s forehead, half-convincing himself Harry was already dead until Harry’s hand twitched weakly , fingers curling into the sheets.

“Oh my God,” Louis whispered, voice wrecked , leaning over him, pressing desperate kisses to his temple, his jaw, anywhere he could reach , his tears dripping onto Harry’s skin. “Oh my fucking God, Haz— you scared the shit out of me—”

Harry’s voice was barely there , no more than a ragged whisper , and what he said froze Louis’ blood in his veins .

“Wish I was,” Harry mumbled, lips barely moving, his face turned into the pillow. “Wish I was dead.”

Louis stopped breathing .

For a second, the whole world tilted sideways , like the floor had disappeared beneath him.

“No,” Louis said, voice sharp , too loud in the silence, his hands gripping Harry’s shoulders , shaking him just a little — not out of anger, but out of sheer terror . “Don’t you fucking say that. Don’t you ever—” His voice broke off , trembling with fear and grief and exhaustion , tears streaking down his face. “You don’t get to leave me, Haz. Not like this.”

Harry’s face crumpled , the faintest sob shaking through his fragile body, and Louis curled around him, arms wrapped tight , his face buried in Harry’s neck, breathing him in like if he held him close enough, he could keep him here .

“I’m sorry,” Harry whispered, voice cracking into pieces , his fingers grasping weakly at Louis’ shirt. “I’m so fucking sorry.”

“Stop,” Louis whispered, voice shaking violently . “You don’t get to be sorry. You just have to stay .”

Harry nodded weakly , tears soaking into Louis’ shirt , both of them clinging to each other like they were the only thing keeping the other alive — which, in all honesty, they probably were.

Louis didn’t call an ambulance. He should have. He knew that. But he was too scared they’d take Harry away , too scared Harry might actually let them , because if there was one thing Louis knew about detox, it was this:

You only wanted to die for the first few days.

After that, you started to think maybe you deserved it .

And Louis wasn’t losing him . Not now. Not after everything.

“Stay with me, Haz,” Louis whispered, over and over again, until Harry fell back into restless sleep , still clutching Louis’ hand like it was his only lifeline .

Johannah stayed longer than she probably should have. Louis could tell by the way she kept checking the time, fingers twitching like there were a hundred other things waiting for her back home — but she didn’t leave . Not until Harry had made it through the absolute worst of it , the fever finally breaking, the shakes easing into just the occasional tremor, the vomiting slowing down until he could sip water and eat toast without it coming right back up.

Even then, she lingered , making tea Louis didn’t ask for, folding the blanket they kept on the sofa, wiping down the kitchen counters even though they were already clean. Louis knew what she was doing — stalling , trying to talk herself out of leaving, like she could will them back to being okay just by staying put.

But eventually, the sun had started to set, and Harry was sleeping a little deeper , curled up on Louis’ side of the bed with his fingers twisted into the fabric of Louis’ t-shirt, even though Louis wasn’t wearing it anymore.

Johannah stood by the door, coat half on, her brow furrowed, worry written all over her face . “You’re sure you’ll be alright?”

Louis, sitting on the arm of the sofa, arms wrapped around his middle , gave her the best grin he could muster — which wasn’t much. “I’m fine, Mum.”

“Promise me,” she said, serious as anything , stepping back toward him, her hands coming to rest on his shoulders. “Promise me you’re not just saying that because you think it’s what I want to hear.”

Louis swallowed hard, shoulders hunching slightly , but he nodded. “I promise.”

“And you’ll call me if anything changes,” she added, voice firm , “even if you think it’s nothing, even if it’s 3 in the morning.”

“I will.”

“And you’ll get some sleep,” she said, brushing his hair back the way she always did when he was younger. “You’re no use to him if you fall apart.”

Louis nodded, but his throat was tight , and for a second, he felt like a kid again , like he was 15 and fresh out of his first overdose, his mum standing over his hospital bed , making him swear up and down he’d never touch anything again.

And now here they were. Years later , same conversation, just with a different boy in the bed .

Johannah sighed softly, kissing the top of his head, lingering for a moment , like she wasn’t quite ready to let go. “I’m proud of you, you know,” she whispered. “You take on too much, Louis. You always have. But you’ve got such a big heart.”

Louis’ throat closed up , but he forced a crooked smile. “Big heart, shit decision-making.”

Johannah smiled back, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes . “Call me if you need me.”

Louis nodded one last time, watching her go, his chest aching more with every step she took toward the door. And then it clicked shut , and the flat felt too quiet all over again.

He stood there for a minute, just breathing , the silence thick as fog , and then he turned and went back to the bedroom.

Harry was still sleeping, but his forehead was cooler , his breathing still a little ragged but no longer terrifying . Louis slipped into bed beside him, pulling Harry’s back against his chest, fitting them together like they were made for it , and buried his face in the curls at the nape of Harry’s neck.

The first proper day after was quiet in the worst possible way — the kind of quiet that felt like something was waiting to snap , hanging in the air like static before a storm .

Louis woke up to Harry already awake, lying on his back, staring blankly at the ceiling , his curls a matted mess against the pillow. His face was hollow , dark circles so pronounced they could’ve been bruises, his lips still cracked from dehydration. But what made Louis’ stomach sink like a stone was the look in Harry’s eyes — flat, empty, like there was nothing left inside him.

Louis propped himself up on his elbow, heart already pounding in his chest. “Morning, love,” he said softly, reaching out to brush the hair off Harry’s forehead.

Harry didn’t answer.

Louis swallowed hard, scooting closer until they were pressed together , Louis’ arm slung over Harry’s waist. “How you feeling?”

Harry’s breath hitched just slightly, but his face stayed frozen , blank like a mask he couldn’t take off . “Like shit.”

Louis tried for a smile, even though his gut was twisting painfully . “Yeah. Sounds about right.”

They lay there for a bit — too quiet , too tense, neither of them sure how to start this conversation when they both knew exactly where it was going .

And then Harry turned his face into the pillow, voice muffled but shaking . “Just one,” he whispered.

Louis’ stomach plummeted .

“Haz,” Louis said, voice soft but firm , hand tightening against Harry’s side.

“Just one,” Harry begged , turning to face him now, his eyes glassier than Louis had ever seen them , wide and desperate , already swimming with tears . “Just to take the edge off. Just to make today easier. Please, Lou, I can’t— I can’t do this.”

Louis’ throat closed up, fingers curling into Harry’s shirt , heart pounding so hard he could hear it in his ears . “No, baby. No more.”

Harry’s face crumpled , tears spilling over immediately , voice cracking wide open. “I swear, just this once. Please, Lou. I’ll stop after today, I swear— I just need— I can’t fucking breathe like this.”

Louis squeezed his eyes shut, holding Harry tighter , his own tears slipping silently down his cheeks. “I know it hurts,” he whispered. “I know. But if I give you even one, you’ll be right back at square one, Haz. And I can’t— I can’t do this all over again.”

Harry sobbed, full-body shaking sobs , fisting Louis’ shirt , desperate and terrified . “I’m scared, Lou. I’m so fucking scared.”

Louis’ own breath was shaking , fingers weaving into Harry’s curls, pulling him closer until they were nose to nose , tears mixing together on the pillow between them. “Me too, baby.”

“I feel like I’m crawling out of my fucking skin,” Harry sobbed, pressing his face into Louis’ chest , voice muffled but still wrecked . “Like I’m gonna die if I don’t get something.”

Louis kissed the top of his head, voice thick with tears . “You’re not gonna die, Haz. I swear to you. I won’t let you.”

Harry’s fingers dug in harder, holding onto Louis like he was the only thing keeping him tethered to reality . “Please, just a bump. A pill. Something. Please, Lou, I’m begging you.”

Louis bit down hard on his lip, teeth sinking deep enough to taste blood , because there was nothing worse in this whole fucking world than saying no to Harry when Harry was begging .

“No,” Louis whispered again, voice cracking , but he held firm , even when it physically hurt to do it. “I love you too much to let you.”

Harry sobbed even harder, his whole body convulsing with it , and Louis just held him , fingers threading through his hair , whispering soft reassurances over and over again. “I’m here. I’m not going anywhere. You can do this, love. I know you can.”

It took ages before Harry’s sobs faded into trembling breaths , and even then, Louis knew this wasn’t over.

This was only the first of many days where Harry would beg .

And Louis would have to be the one to say no .

It was going to break them both — but Louis would rather break their hearts than lose Harry altogether .

Chapter 29: Chapter 29

The begging didn’t stop after Harry’s sobs quieted. It just turned into smaller, quieter versions of the same desperate plea , whispered every few minutes as Louis helped him drink some water , change into clean clothes , even just sit up without collapsing .

Louis knew he needed to get Harry properly cleaned up — the cold sweats , the vomit , the sheer misery of the past few days clung to him, soaked into his skin, his hair, the sheets. But the thought of leaving Harry alone in a bath made Louis’ stomach churn.

He didn’t trust him. Not because Harry was untrustworthy , but because Harry’s body wasn’t his own right now . It was still a battlefield , every muscle tight with pain , every nerve on fire. If Harry slipped under the water , Louis wasn’t sure he’d even have the strength to pull himself back up.

So Louis dragged him into the bathroom with him , fingers tightly curled around Harry’s wrist, the other hand grabbing towels and a clean t-shirt from the shelf.

Harry slumped against the wall , eyes glazed and unfocused , lips still trembling as Louis turned on the taps, running the water warm but not too hot , not wanting to shock Harry’s system .

“Come on, Play-Doh,” Louis murmured, his voice soft but firm as he helped Harry sit on the edge of the tub. “We’re gonna get you feeling a little more human, yeah?”

Harry didn’t argue — he just sat there limp , arms hanging at his sides, like all the fight had drained out of him.

Louis knelt beside him, undoing the buttons of Harry’s shirt , peeling it off his too-thin frame , wincing at the sight of his ribs jutting out sharply . Louis had seen him naked hundreds of times , but this was different — every part of him was smaller, more fragile , like his own skin was shrinking around him .

“Step in, love,” Louis said softly, holding Harry’s hand as Harry awkwardly climbed into the tub , settling back with a sharp hiss when the warm water hit too-sensitive skin .

Louis didn’t leave.

He couldn’t leave .

Instead, he rolled up his sleeves , sat on the edge of the tub , and gently washed Harry’s hair , fingertips massaging his scalp , rinsing away the sweat and the fear and the days of misery .

Harry’s eyes fluttered closed , his head tipping back into Louis’ hands, and for the first time in days , Louis saw a flicker of something like relief cross his face.

“Feels nice,” Harry murmured, voice still wrecked, but quieter now.

Louis smiled, even though his throat ached . “Good.”

He washed him slowly, carefully , like Harry might shatter if Louis pressed too hard. He ran the cloth down Harry’s arms , across his chest, over the angry track marks that Louis had tried not to look at , because they made him want to punch a hole through the wall .

He didn’t say anything about them. Not now. That conversation would come later , when Harry was strong enough to argue back . Right now, Louis’ only job was to get him clean, get him calm, and keep him safe .

By the time Louis drained the tub, Harry was half-asleep , his body still trembling slightly, but his breathing slower , his skin clean and warm , his curls damp and smelling like cheap shampoo .

Louis wrapped him in a towel, supporting most of his weight as they shuffled back to the bedroom, where Louis helped him into clean boxers and one of Louis’ old shirts — the soft one with the faded band logo that Harry always stole anyway .

He tucked him into bed, crawling in beside him, holding him close , forehead pressed to his temple , hand on his heart just to make sure it was still beating.

Harry’s fingers curled weakly into Louis’ t-shirt, his breath shaking , but steadier now.

“Thank you,” Harry whispered, voice so soft Louis barely caught it.

“You never have to thank me,” Louis whispered back, pressing a kiss to his hair . “I’m not going anywhere.”

Harry’s breath caught — not a sob, just a tremble — and Louis held him tighter, because that was all they could do now .

Hold on.

The knock came just after sunset, sharp and unexpected, echoing through the flat in a way that made Louis’ chest tighten immediately . Harry was asleep — properly asleep this time, not the fitful, restless, pain-soaked mess of the past few days — and Louis had just sat down with a cigarette by the window, trying to breathe for the first time all day.

He considered ignoring it. They hadn’t exactly been social lately , and everyone who mattered already knew why . But the knocking didn’t stop. It just got more persistent , until Louis realized whoever was on the other side wasn’t going anywhere.

He cracked the door open, keeping the chain on , just in case.

Zayn. Niall. Oli.

All standing there, serious-faced , the usual edge of their rowdy banter nowhere to be seen. Eleanor wasn’t with them. She hadn’t been for weeks.

Louis’ stomach dropped , but he forced his voice even. “Now’s not a good time.”

“That’s why we’re here,” Zayn said, low and rough, eyes already scanning Louis’ face like he could read the whole story there.

Louis sighed through his nose, glancing back toward the bedroom, then opened the door fully , stepping aside to let them in. None of them barged in with a joke or a laugh. No one even smiled . It felt wrong —like a funeral wake where no one was ready to say who had died.

The silence was thick enough to choke on as they took their usual places, Niall on the arm of the sofa, Zayn slouched in the corner chair, Oli standing near the window, smoking already. It felt too quiet without Eleanor. She was the glue, always had been , and now the space where she should’ve been made everything feel off balance .

“How bad is it?” Zayn asked, breaking the silence first.

Louis sat down heavily, dragging his hands down his face. “Bad.” His voice cracked on the word.

“Rehab bad?” Oli asked, though the answer was obvious.

Louis just nodded , throat too tight to say more.

“Fuck,” Niall muttered, his leg bouncing furiously. “We should’ve come sooner.”

„Can‘t be worse than my meth adventure“ Zayn shrugged, „But yeah, we should‘ve come sooner.“

“It wouldn’t have changed anything,” Louis said, rubbing at his eyes. “He was hiding it from me, too.”

That hit hard . They all knew what it meant to hide from Louis — Louis, who’d seen them all at their worst, cleaned up their puke, held their hands through withdrawals, covered for them with family and cops alike. If Harry could hide it from him, it me ant it was bad.

Zayn leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “And El?”

Louis swallowed thickly. “Still nothing.”

They all went quiet again , that aching gap where Eleanor’s smart mouth and sharp laugh should’ve been a gaping wound between them. They’d searched, they’d called, they’d even checked with her family and a few dodgy contacts , but Eleanor was just gone .

It was the kind of gone they all knew too well—the kind that usually ended in a morgue or a prison cell .

“You think if we’d kept better track of each other…” Niall started, but Louis cut him off.

“We didn’t lose her,” Louis said, firm even though his hands were shaking slightly. “It‘s not on us, don‘t even start, Ni.”

The truth sat heavy between them, but they all knew it was true. Sometimes people wanted to be found , and sometimes they didn’t .

Zayn cleared his throat. “Where’s Harry now?”

“Asleep,” Louis said softly. “Finally. After a seizure and forty-eight hours of hell.”

The weight of that dropped like a stone into the center of the room. Even Niall, always the last to take anything seriously , looked pale.

“Christ,” Oli muttered, dragging hard on his cigarette.

“He’s gonna be okay, though,” Louis added quickly, because if he said it out loud, maybe it would be true. “He has to be.”

Zayn’s mouth pressed into a tight line, and Louis knew he wanted to say that’s not how this works , but instead, Zayn just said, “Whatever you need. You’ve got us.”

Louis wanted to believe it. But all of them had been here before , sitting in a circle like this , promising to do better— right before they all went back to getting high together .

“We can’t lose anyone else,” Niall said softly, and for the first time Louis realized his hands were shaking too.

They didn’t say Eleanor’s name, but they didn’t need to.

Louis looked at all of them, at the only family he and Harry had left outside of his mum and sisters, and made himself believe, even just for tonight, that maybe this time they could actually keep that promise .

 

Harry woke up slowly , his head still heavy, body aching like he’d been hit by a car. Louis was right there beside him, perched on the edge of the bed, scrolling mindlessly through his phone, the kind of fidgeting distraction Louis always did when his nerves were too loud to sit still.

It took Harry a moment to orient himself , to remember why he felt like this — why his whole body felt like it had been wrung out and hung to dry. Then it all came rushing back at once: the seizure, the begging, Louis holding him through the worst of it. His stomach twisted with shame , throat tightening as he shifted under the blanket.

Louis caught the movement instantly, phone tossed aside, hand landing gently on Harry’s leg. “Hey, Play-Doh,” he said softly, fingers tracing a small circle through the blanket. “You’re awake.”

“Mm,” Harry managed, voice still wrecked , dry and raspy like sandpaper. “What time is it?”

“Nearly seven,” Louis said, glancing at the clock. “You slept most of the day.”

Harry nodded, the weight of exhaustion and something heavier sitting squarely on his chest. He took a deep breath, mouth twisting like he was chewing on something he didn’t want to say. “The lads still here?”

Louis froze for half a second, then nodded. “Yeah. They’re in the living room. Didn’t wanna leave.”

Harry closed his eyes, swallowing hard . “Good.”

It wasn’t a surprise to Harry that they’d shown up. They all had a sixth sense for this sort of thing , a finely tuned radar for when someone was circling the drain. Harry had shown up for Louis dozens of times . Zayn had crashed through and kicked down doors for Niall. Eleanor had once yanked Oli out of a squat by his hair , screaming at him the whole way down the street — but she’d still held his hand the whole way home.

Eleanor.

Harry’s chest tightened painfully , and he rolled onto his side, facing Louis . “Have they found her yet?”

Louis’ face fell , shoulders sagging under the weight of that same question they’d all been asking for weeks.

“No,” Louis said softly, brushing Harry’s curls back. “We looked again the night you… you know.”

Harry closed his eyes, a single tear slipping out onto the pillow. “It’s been over a month.”

“I know.”

“She’s not coming back, is she?”

Louis didn’t answer. He didn’t have to .

Because Harry already knew.

He’d been there for every desperate text, every dead-end tip from some bloke who swore he’d seen her at a Tesco off the high street, every whispered conversation about how the longer someone was missing, the worse the odds became.

He’d gone with Louis to her flat — empty , cleared out, like she’d never even lived there. He’d held Louis’ hand when they knocked on her sister’s door and got nothing but a tired shrug and a muttered haven’t seen her .

They’d searched every alley, every dive bar, every squat they used to make fun of. Nothing.

Harry let out a shaky breath , wiping at his face with the corner of the blanket. “I hate this.”

“Me too,” Louis admitted softly, fingers tracing along Harry’s wrist, finding his pulse like he needed to feel it to believe Harry was still here . “Every day I expect her to just… show up.”

“Remember when she used to kick the door in if we didn’t answer after three knocks?” Harry said, his voice watery with the edge of a laugh that wasn’t really a laugh at all.

“She threw a shoe at Zayn for not letting her in fast enough,” Louis added, a small, sad smile flickering on his face.

Harry sniffled, turning his face into the pillow. “It’s like she’s a ghost already.”

That broke Louis a little — because he’d been thinking the exact same thing but hadn’t dared say it out loud. “She’s out there,” Louis said, even though he wasn’t sure if he was lying to Harry or to himself. “She has to be.”

Harry didn’t answer, just curled closer , forehead pressed to Louis’ hip, fingers fisting the hem of Louis’ shirt like a child clinging to a security blanket. “We can’t end up like that.”

Louis’ heart cracked clean in half , hand sliding up to rest at the nape of Harry’s neck, thumb rubbing small circles into the soft skin there. “We won’t,” he promised. “Not us.”

Harry’s shoulders shook once, a silent sob , and Louis leaned down, pressing his lips to Harry’s temple, whispering, “We’re gonna be okay, Haz.”

“I miss her,” Harry choked out. “Even if she’s a nightmare.”

“Me too,” Louis whispered, honest and raw . “Every second.”

They lay there in the fading light , quiet except for the sound of their breathing, holding onto each other like they were afraid to let go — because if they let go, even for a second, one of them might disappear too .

And neither of them could survive that.

They didn’t talk about Eleanor again, at least not for now. They didn’t really talk about much of anything.

Louis helped Harry into the living room, blanket wrapped around his shoulders , the two of them sinking into the worn-out sofa , curling into each other the way they always did when they couldn’t face reality head-on. Zayn was already sprawled in the armchair , legs thrown over the side like he owned the place. Niall was perched on the windowsill, cigarette dangling between his fingers, the ash threatening to fall onto the floor but never quite dropping. Oli sat cross-legged on the floor, phone in hand, already scrolling through takeaway menus.

“Pizza or Chinese?” Oli asked, voice deliberately light , like if he could pretend things were normal, they might actually start to feel that way.

“Pizza,” Louis said automatically. “Extra cheese.”

“Pineapple?” Niall grinned, just barely. It was half-hearted , but it was still Niall.

“Fuck off,” Louis shot back, the first flicker of something almost like normalcy sparking between them.

“Pepperoni, garlic bread, and a shit ton of chips,” Zayn said, not even looking up, already half asleep where he lay.

Harry, quiet until then, murmured softly , “Can we get those cheesy jalapeño poppers?”

Louis turned to him, a soft smile tugging at his lips , because for the first time in days, Harry actually sounded like himself — just a boy wanting greasy comfort food instead of a ghost in his own skin . “Anything for you, Play-Doh.”

Harry rolled his eyes at the nickname but didn’t argue. He just tucked himself further into Louis’ side , fingers curling in the fabric of Louis’ hoodie, holding on like he needed constant proof Louis was still there .

Oli placed the order, and Louis grabbed the remote, flicking on the TV. None of them even agreed on what to watch — they just needed noise , something to fill the silence that always settled too heavy when they were all left alone with their thoughts.

The news flickered on first, a bland local anchor talking about budget cuts and some MP scandal none of them cared about. Louis was already about to switch channels when the story changed, the words “ Unidentified Body Found Near South Bank ” flashing across the screen.

The room went stone silent .

Louis felt Harry tense immediately , fingers tightening painfully in his hoodie, every breath suddenly held hostage in his chest. Louis’ own stomach plummeted , skin going cold all over, but his hand stayed steady as he turned the volume down , just enough to mute the anchor’s cheerful voice , but not the weight of the words.

Nobody said it. They didn’t have to.

Because all of them were thinking the same thing .

It could be her.

None of them moved. The screen shifted to blurry footage of a crime scene taped off , some reporter standing in the rain, holding a mic and talking too fast , but none of them could hear it over the sound of their own hearts pounding in their ears .

Harry’s breath hitched , and Louis immediately pulled him closer , one arm around his shoulders, the other hand curling tightly around his knee, grounding them both .

“It’s not her,” Louis whispered, so soft only Harry could hear it, even though he had no fucking clue if it was true. “It’s not.”

Harry nodded shakily , eyes glued to the screen anyway, just in case .

Zayn rubbed a hand over his face, muttering, “Can we not?”

Louis clicked off the TV without argument, the room dropping into awkward silence , all of them just sitting in it , too scared to say out loud how close to the edge they’d all been dancing.

“Pizza’ll be here in fifteen,” Oli said quietly, like the food might save them from having to deal with any of this .

“Good,” Louis said, his voice forced light , though his grip on Harry didn’t ease. “I’m fucking starving.”

The pizza came without fanfare — a knock at the door, the handoff, a mumbled thanks, and that was it. No jokes, no arguments over toppings, no playful shoving or Zayn calling Louis a cheap bastard for not tipping. Louis dumped the boxes on the table and they all just sat there , tearing off slices like they were just going through the motions, eating because they had to , not because anyone actually wanted to.

Even Harry, who usually devoured greasy food after a rough stretch , barely took two bites before setting his slice down and curling into Louis’ side, blanket still draped around his shoulders.

The silence was oppressive , only broken by the sound of chewing, cans cracking open, someone’s knee bouncing under the table, and Niall’s faint sigh as he fiddled with his lighter.

Niall tried. He always did — the clown, the mood-lifter , the one who couldn’t stand heaviness without throwing out some half-arsed joke to cut through it .

“So…” Niall said after his third slice, voice too loud, too bright. “How about that delivery guy? Looked like he was high as fuck, didn’t he? Thought he was gonna pass out handing me the garlic bread.”

The joke hit like a brick sinking into water , flat and heavy. No one laughed.

Even Niall’s smile faltered, the spark in his eyes gone , replaced with something tired and brittle . He shook his head and muttered, “Fuckin’ hell,” before grabbing his beer and taking a long pull.

Louis couldn’t sit there. Couldn’t pretend everything was fine. Couldn’t eat or joke or act normal when his skin felt too tight and his heart was racing so fast it hurt . He set down his barely-touched slice and pushed back his chair.

“Gonna take a piss,” he muttered, barely loud enough to be heard, and no one questioned it .

He locked the bathroom door the second it closed , bracing both hands on the sink, heart slamming against his ribs so hard it felt like it might burst through. His reflection stared back at him — haunted, hollow-eyed, pale , a kid playing at being an adult, drowning under the weight of everything he couldn’t fix .

He didn’t plan to call. He really didn’t.

He told himself not to.

But his hand was already reaching for his phone, fingers shaking as he pulled up the number from earlier that day — the morgue’s number .

He dialed before he could stop himself, knuckles white around the phone , his breath already coming in short bursts as it rang twice before someone answered.

“South Bank Coroner’s Office,” a tired voice answered, female, professional but worn down , the kind of tone that said she’d been doing this far too long.

“Hi,” Louis said, voice cracking like glass , “I—uh, my sister’s been missing for a while. I saw the news. The, um, the body you found.” He forced himself to lie through his teeth, his throat dry as sandpaper . “I just… I need to know if—if it could be her.”

The silence on the line was sharp , a pause just long enough to make Louis’ stomach turn over .

“What’s your sister’s name?” the woman asked, voice softer now.

“Eleanor Calder.”

There was a pause. Keys clicking faintly in the background.

And then the woman exhaled, a slow, quiet breath, like she hated what she had to say next.

“We do have an Eleanor Calder here, yes.”

Louis’ stomach dropped so fast he thought he might actually vomit right into the sink. His free hand slapped over his mouth, his knees buckling , breath coming fast and shallow .

“Can you—” Louis’ voice shook violently , but he pushed through it. “Can you tell me… anything? Cause of death?”

“There’s evidence of long-term substance abuse,” the woman said gently, but without sugarcoating. “We’re still waiting on the final tox screen, but initial findings suggest overdose. We’ll need formal identification from next of kin. There was a Louis Tomlinson saved as her emergency contact.”

Louis squeezed his eyes shut, teeth gritted so hard his jaw ached . “That’s me,” he whispered. “She doesn’t—she didn’t have anyone else.”

“I’m so sorry for your loss,” the woman said softly.

Louis didn’t even say goodbye — he just hung up, phone clattering into the sink , hands braced on either side like the ceramic was the only thing keeping him upright. His breath came too fast, panicked and uneven , the walls closing in too tight .

Eleanor.

His first girlfriend, before either of them even knew what they wanted.

The first person to hold his hand during a comedown .

The girl who taught him how to roll a perfect joint, how to lie with a straight face, how to make your eyes clear up before you faced your mum.

Eleanor, who had been missing for weeks , was now lying in a cold drawer at South Bank, tagged and catalogued, just another junkie death on file .

He covered his face with both hands, shaking so hard his teeth chattered , tears spilling through his fingers as he had to physically restrain himself from sliding to the floor.

The only thought running through his head, over and over, like a broken record:

I should’ve found her first.

Louis stood in front of the mirror for a long minute after ending the call, hands gripping the edges of the sink so tightly it felt like the porcelain might crack beneath his fingers. His reflection looked back at him — blotchy-faced, wild-eyed, like a kid lost in the wrong place . His chest was heaving , breath hitching unevenly, and every time he tried to calm down, the woman’s voice rang in his ears again, soft and professional and final .

We do have an Eleanor Calder here, yes.

That was it. That was the full stop at the end of her story . No more searching, no more hoping. She wasn’t out there, drifting from squat to squat, hiding from her own shame. She was gone — cold and alone and tagged with her name in black ink on a sterile morgue drawer.

His stomach flipped violently and for a second he thought he might actually be sick, but all that came up was a dry heave and a gut-wrenching sob he couldn’t hold back any longer. His hand slapped over his mouth, but it didn’t matter — the sound still ripped out of him, raw and broken and so full of guilt it physically hurt.

He couldn’t sit with it, couldn’t let it swallow him whole, not right now. So he forced himself up , splashed cold water on his face, rubbed at his eyes until they were red for a different reason, and yanked the door open .

The living room was too quiet when he stepped back in, all four of them glancing up at once , their usual lazy postures replaced with that awful kind of alertness that only came from waiting for bad news .

Niall was on the floor, elbows resting on his knees, a joint rolling back and forth between his fingers, unlit . Zayn had taken the window seat, one foot bouncing anxiously, his cigarette burnt to the filter and still dangling from his lips. Oli was halfway through opening another beer but froze the second Louis stepped in, like something in Louis’ face had answered the question before he said a word .

And Harry.

Harry was already standing, barefoot and pale , blanket sliding off his shoulders, eyes locked on Louis’ face like it held the only truth that mattered .

Louis’ mouth opened, but nothing came out. His throat was too tight , his heart beating so loud it drowned out his own voice .

“Lou?” Harry’s voice was soft, but scared .

Louis shook his head, shaking too hard to stop it , and Harry’s whole face crumpled — like he knew, just from that .

“No,” Harry whispered, stepping forward, hands reaching out like he could physically push the truth away . “No, no, no—”

Louis’ voice finally broke free , cracking into pieces . “It’s her.”

The room sucked in air all at once , the kind of collective gut-punch that left everyone reeling.

“Fuck,” Niall breathed, dropping his head into his hands.

Zayn stood up so fast the window rattled, pacing across the room, hands in his hair, muttering, “No, no, not El, not her—” over and over like a prayer he’d already lost faith in.

Oli said nothing, just sat down hard , beer abandoned, hands on his knees, staring at the floor like if he moved, it might become real .

Harry was in front of Louis now, shaking like a leaf , tears already streaming down his face. “She’s dead?” His voice cracked so violently it barely sounded like him. “Like… really dead?”

Louis’ face twisted, something halfway between a sob and a laugh spilling out, completely broken . “She had her phone on her, Haz.”

Harry made a sound Louis never wanted to hear again — a raw, guttural sob , his knees giving out as he collapsed into Louis’ chest , both hands grabbing at his shirt like a lifeline . Louis caught him, arms wrapping tight around Harry’s trembling frame, pressing his face into his curls .

“I’m sorry,” Louis whispered, over and over, voice wrecked and helpless, he didn‘t know if it was directed at his friends, Eleanor or himself . “I’m so fucking sorry.”

Harry shook his head against Louis’ chest, fingers curling tighter , sobbing so hard his whole body shuddered . “It’s not fair,” he choked. “She was supposed to get clean. She was supposed to be at our fucking wedding, Lou.”

That broke Louis completely — knees buckling, dragging both of them down to the floor, holding on for dear life , crying so hard it physically hurt, both of them falling apart together .

Zayn crouched beside them, hand on Louis’ back , his own tears silent but steady , and Niall moved closer too, one hand on Harry’s arm, the other wiping roughly at his face like he couldn’t quite believe this was happening.

No one spoke. There was nothing to say.

They’d been preparing for this day for years — ever since the first overdose, the first time Eleanor disappeared for a week and came back thinner and meaner , the first time they found her passed out in a club bathroom with a needle still in her arm.

But somehow knowing it could happen didn’t make it happening any easier.

They sat there for a long time , all of them pressed together on the worn carpet, not talking, not moving, just holding each other through it .

When Louis finally found his voice again, it was barely a whisper, cracked and exhausted . “We need to go identify her.”

“I can’t,” Harry whispered back, still clinging to him. “I can’t see her like that.”

“I’ll do it,” Louis promised, pressing a kiss to Harry’s forehead , his own hand shaking as he wiped Harry’s face. “You don’t have to come.”

“I’m coming,” Zayn said, voice firm , and Louis didn’t argue.

“Me too,” Niall added softly. “She was my mate too.”

Oli nodded wordlessly, tears still shining in his eyes , but no one called him soft for it.

They stood up, one by one, grief heavy on their shoulders , but no one walked away.

Eleanor was gone.

 

The morgue was colder than Louis expected.

Not just temperature cold — though it was, the kind of cold that settled into your bones , that made your skin prickle and your muscles tense like your body knew you shouldn’t be here. It was emotionally cold , sterile and impersonal, the kind of place designed to strip people down to case numbers and evidence tags .

Louis didn’t belong here. None of them did.

But there they were — a pack of estate kids in worn-out trainers and secondhand coats , walking through the too-bright hallway like they were heading toward an execution .

Harry hadn’t come. Louis had begged him to stay home, and for once, Harry didn’t fight him. He’d kissed Louis at the door, tears spilling silently , whispering, Tell her I’m sorry before closing the door behind him. Louis didn’t have the heart to say she couldn‘t hear him now.

Zayn walked next to him, hands shoved deep in his pockets, jaw clenched so tight Louis could see the muscle jumping. His hood was up, grown out blonde strand tucked away, but Louis could still see the shine in his eyes, held back only by sheer willpower .

Niall walked on Louis’ other side, the most unnaturally quiet Louis had ever seen him. His hands were fidgeting constantly — flicking a lighter open and closed, rolling the edge of his sleeve, cracking his knuckles — but his mouth stayed shut. No jokes, no smart comments, nothing to break the tension.

Oli brought up the rear, pale and quiet , hands buried deep in his coat like maybe if he didn’t touch anything, this wouldn’t feel so real .

The woman from the phone stood at the desk, her expression soft but detached , like she’d seen this play out too many times to let it get to her anymore. Louis kind of hated her for that.

“We’ll take you through,” she said softly, leading them down a narrow hallway until they reached a door with a small window . Through the glass, Louis could see a metal table , a body covered with a thin white sheet .

His stomach flipped violently , nausea curling up his throat, but Zayn’s hand landed on his shoulder, grounding him just enough to keep him upright.

“You ready?” Zayn asked softly.

“No,” Louis said honestly. “But I have to do it anyway.”

The woman opened the door and stepped inside, holding it open for the rest of them. Niall hovered at the threshold, like maybe if he didn’t cross it, none of this would be real. Oli was pale enough Louis thought he might actually faint, but he still followed quietly .

They stood around the table, and Louis reached first , fingers trembling as he gripped the edge of the sheet .

“Whenever you’re ready,” the woman said gently, stepping back to give them privacy .

Louis took a breath so deep it hurt , eyes closing for just a second before he peeled the sheet down, revealing her face .

Eleanor.

She was pale , far too still, lips bluish , but it was her.

Her hair had faded at the roots , the bright red growing out into her natural dark brown. Her eyeliner was smudged — either from the night she died or from tears before it happened — and there was a small cut on her forehead, like she’d fallen somewhere sharp .

Louis felt his knees give out , but Zayn caught him before he could hit the floor , both hands firm under his arms , holding him up even as Zayn’s own breath shook violently .

“It’s her,” Louis whispered, voice broken beyond repair. “It’s fucking her.”

Niall turned away , hand slapped over his mouth, shoulders shaking with silent sobs . Oli stood frozen , staring at her like maybe if he looked hard enough, she’d breathe again .

Louis reached down, hand trembling as he brushed a strand of hair out of Eleanor’s face, fingertips ghosting over her cheek the way he used to when they were thirteen and figuring out how to kiss without laughing .

“I’m so fucking sorry, El,” Louis whispered. “We should’ve found you sooner. We should’ve—” His voice cracked and disappeared, nothing left but a broken sob that shattered the air around them.

Zayn’s hand settled on the back of Louis’ neck, thumb pressing into the spot that always grounded him , and Louis turned his face into Zayn’s shoulder, crying so hard he couldn’t breathe .

Niall finally turned back, wiping his face roughly, voice shaking . “She was the strongest one of us.”

Louis shook his head, because that wasn’t true. She was just the loudest . The first to make fun of them, the first to fight for them, but under it all? Eleanor had been just like the rest of them — a scared kid who never really thought she’d make it past twenty-five .

They stayed there for a long time, too long , until the woman had to gently tell them it was time to go. Louis placed one last kiss to her forehead , fingers brushing her hair back one final time, before pulling the sheet back up and stepping away.

He felt like his lungs had caved in , like a part of him had been buried right alongside her.

When they finally stepped back out into the hall, the air felt too bright, too sharp, like the world was moving forward without her , and Louis didn’t know how to keep up .

“We can’t let this happen to anyone else,” Louis said softly, voice hoarse from crying. “We have to get our shit together. For real this time.”

Zayn nodded, jaw tight. “For her.”

“For all of us,” Niall added, wiping his nose on his sleeve.

They walked out together , the night air cold on their faces, and for the first time in a long time , Louis felt like they were walking into something that actually mattered .

They were going to live.

Because Eleanor didn’t get to .

Notes:

I am so sorry guys

Chapter 30: Chapter 30

The funeral was grim , exactly as Louis expected it would be.

They all knew Eleanor well enough to know she’d hate every second of the usual church bullshit — priests who never knew her talking about her like she was some lost angel, clean and innocent and tragic. That wasn’t her. That wasn’t who she was.

Eleanor was messy. She was loud and smart-mouthed and brutally honest , the first to call Louis a dick when he deserved it and the first to drag Niall out of a pub toilet when he’d passed out halfway through a line. She wasn’t some porcelain doll to be mourned quietly.

So Louis, Zayn, Niall, Oli, and Harry organized it themselves.

No chapel. No priest. No uncomfortable silence.

They found a tiny spot of land just past the edge of the estate, where the trees grew tall and wild, where they used to sneak off to drink when they were fifteen and invincible . The owner of the land was some old bloke who barely spoke but gave them a quiet nod when they asked if they could bury her there. He didn’t even ask why. Maybe he’d lost someone too .

Eleanor’s family — what little of it she had left — didn’t show. None of them were surprised. They’d written her off years ago, after her first arrest, after her first overdose. They’d stopped answering the phone when her number flashed up. Louis wasn’t even sure they’d bothered reading the messages Zayn sent, telling them when and where to come.

That left them .

Her real family — the ones who’d sat with her on cold nights, shared cigs and secrets , who’d fought with her and for her, who knew her better than anyone ever had.

Louis stood at the front, wearing a black suit jacket that didn’t quite fit , the knees of his jeans muddy from kneeling by the hole they dug earlier , hair unbrushed and falling into his eyes. He looked a mess — exactly how he felt.

Everyone else stood behind him, all five of them , the last ones standing after everything they’d been through together. Zayn had Eleanor’s name scribbled on his hand in marker, knuckles white around a bottle of cheap vodka they were going to pass around in her honor. Niall had a joint tucked behind his ear , exactly like Eleanor always used to wear hers, eyes red from crying for two days straight . Harry stood right beside Louis, hand in his , and Louis had never needed him more than he did right now.

Louis cleared his throat, but his voice was already wrecked , and he hadn’t even started. “El always said,” he began, voice cracking on the first word, “that she wanted her funeral to be a proper mess. That we should all cry and laugh, smoke a joint for her, get shitfaced, and bury her somewhere that doesn’t feel like a graveyard.”

He paused, wiping his nose on his sleeve, tears already blurring his vision .

“Well, El, you got your wish,” he said, voice hoarse. “We’re all crying. Niall’s got the weed. Zayn’s got the vodka. And you’re gonna be under this tree — the same one we all pissed behind after drinking too much cider the night before GCSE results.”

Niall huffed out a laugh through his tears, and Louis felt Harry squeeze his hand , grounding him enough to keep going.

“We’re not gonna pretend you were perfect,” Louis said, looking down at her urn, the wood plain and unpolished , exactly the way Eleanor would’ve wanted. “You were a pain in the arse. You never shut up, you took the piss out of me every chance you got, you told me my first boyfriend was ugly and that my taste in music was tragic.”

He swallowed hard, voice shaking . “But you were my first proper mate. You were the first girl I kissed and the first person I told I was gay. You held my hand when I had my first bad trip, and you dragged me to my first rehab intake even though you were high off your tits.”

Louis’ breath caught, tears spilling freely now. “You deserved better. We all did. But fuck, El… you deserved to make it out of here . And I’m so sorry we couldn’t save you.”

He wiped his face roughly, voice dropping to a whisper. “We’ll miss you every fucking day.”

He stepped back then, shoulders shaking , and Harry pulled him into a hug, holding him up when Louis’ knees nearly gave out. Zayn stepped forward next, wordlessly opening the vodka, taking a long swig before passing it around. Niall lit the joint, puffing once before handing it to Oli, who passed it to Louis, who passed it to Harry.

They stood there in a messy circle , smoking, drinking, crying, laughing at half-remembered stories about Eleanor setting off fireworks in her sister’s flat, or the time she stole a security guard’s hat during a festival and wore it for three days straight.

They weren’t perfect. They never had been.

But they were there .

And Louis knew, deep down, that Eleanor would’ve wanted this . Her real family, all of them a bit fucked up , but all of them together , remembering her exactly as she was .

When the joint was ash and the vodka was nearly gone, Louis took Harry’s hand and stepped closer to the urn one last time, fingers brushing the wood.

“See you around, El,” he whispered. “Save us a spot wherever you are.”

They covered her in earth, each taking turns with the shovel , and when the last bit of dirt was patted down, Zayn pulled a knife from his pocket and carved her name into the tree above her .

Eleanor Calder.

2004-2025.

Our girl. Our mess. Our family.

They sat by the tree for a long time after that, the bottle passed between them in lazy turns, but none of them were nearly drunk enough considering the circumstances.

Not that it mattered.

Alcohol wasn’t going to make this easier. Nothing was.

But they tried, in the way that Eleanor would have wanted them to. They told the stories they once howled over, forced out chuckles that didn’t quite reach their eyes, fumbled through memories that ached in the telling. They took turns saying her name like it wasn’t carved into a fucking tree now, like she could still walk up and tell them to shut the fuck up and stop being so soft .

Louis wasn’t sure who they were trying to fool.

Because even with the laughter, the forced lightness, the easy toss of the bottle from one hand to the next—it still felt wrong .

It felt empty .

Like something had been carved out of them, leaving a hollow, aching space behind.

They lasted nearly an hour before Zayn spoke up, his voice low but sharp enough to feel like a punch to the gut.

“Do we know if she had any family who still gave a shit?”

The words hung there, heavy, sinking into the space between them.

Louis had to choke back a bitter laugh, shaking his head, because fuck .

He didn’t need to think about that one.

“Yeah,” he muttered, staring at the bottle in his hands. “ Us. ”

Silence.

Nothing but the distant hum of traffic, the occasional gust of wind rustling through the grass, the weight of reality pressing down on them like a fucking cinder block .

And then, finally—Niall, voice small , barely there.

“She deserved better.”

Louis swallowed past the lump in his throat, gripping the bottle tighter.

“Yeah,” he rasped. “She did.”

None of them had anything else to say.

When they walked away, none of them spoke. They just walked back toward their lives , carrying her memory like a weight on their backs , knowing they could never really leave her behind.

Life, as cruel as it was, didn’t pause for grief. There was no week off to catch your breath, no pause button to press while you learned how to live in a world that no longer held one of your people. Rent was still due. The fridge still emptied itself. Time still moved forward, even if it felt like the rest of them had been left behind.

Harry bounced back faster than anyone expected — faster than was probably healthy . The second the funeral ended, he’d thrown himself headfirst back into work , scheduling meetings and rehearsals like his life depended on it . Maybe it did. Maybe work was the only thing keeping him from spiraling straight back into oblivion .

Louis tried to reason with him — gently, then not so gently , telling him he needed to slow down, to sit with his grief for more than five minutes before burying it under deadlines and studio hours . Harry just smiled that too-bright smile , kissed Louis’ forehead, and said, “I’m fine, love. Promise.”

It was bullshit. Louis knew it. So did Niall and Zayn and Oli. But none of them could physically tie Harry to the sofa , and when Harry was determined , nothing short of an act of God could slow him down.

Louis didn’t push too hard. Not because he didn’t care, but because his own hands weren’t clean either .

The stash Harry had shown him — the one Louis had locked up in that little box and hung the key around his neck — he still hadn’t gotten rid of it.

He told himself a thousand excuses . That it was a reminder. That flushing it felt too final , like if Harry saw it go, it might trigger something worse. That having it there was a safety net — for Harry, of course — because if he really needed something to take the edge off , Louis could at least control it .

All of it was bullshit.

The truth was, Louis couldn’t throw it away because it was there . And just having it so close , so easy, gave him a sick sort of comfort. A reminder that if it ever got too bad , if the grief became too much , the answer was right there behind a loose tile in their bathroom.

He never touched it, though. Not in those first few days. Not even when his hands shook so bad he had to smoke three cigarettes just to hold a cup of tea steady .

He stayed clean because someone had to .

Harry’s work schedule became a wall between them , one that grew thicker by the day. Louis would wake up to find Harry already gone, a note on the counter scrawled in Harry’s messy handwriting — Studio. Back later. Love you. — but ‘later’ kept getting later and later, until Louis was falling asleep alone more often than not.

Their friends saw it too. Niall started texting Louis daily , more than his usual nonsense memes and stupid jokes — real check-ins, asking if Louis was eating, if he needed company, if Harry was okay. Zayn would show up unannounced with takeaway and a blunt , even though Louis always waved off the weed these days. Oli invited him to the pub more than once, but Louis always said no, knowing exactly what pub nights with Oli usually turned into.

The only thing Louis said yes to was time with his family . Every Sunday, like clockwork, he and Harry went back to his mum’s house, sat at the kitchen table with Fizzy, Lottie and the twins, ate roast dinner, and pretended they were all fine . His mum didn’t push, even though Louis saw the worry in her eyes every time Harry’s knee bounced too fast under the table, or Louis’ hands shook when he poured the tea .

It was routine , and it was the only thing keeping Louis from completely unraveling .

But every night, when Harry finally dragged himself home, exhausted and wired all at once , Louis would lie awake beside him, staring at the ceiling , wondering how long they could keep this up before one of them snapped .

He wanted to believe Harry was strong enough now . That they both were. But grief had a way of digging into old scars , and Louis knew from experience — grief and addiction went hand in hand .

Harry started earning more money than any of them had ever seen . It wasn’t rockstar money — not yet — but it was enough that Louis noticed the difference right away. Better clothes, nicer shoes, groceries with name brands instead of clearance stickers . Harry offered to pay half the rent without Louis even asking , and when Louis’ work hours got cut, Harry covered the difference like it was nothing.

At first, it felt good — like progress , like they were finally climbing out of the hole they’d all been born into. But then the work started swallowing Harry whole .

What used to be studio sessions every couple of days turned into back-to-back bookings , interviews, meetings with managers, writing sessions with producers Louis had never heard of. Harry was always moving , always on , and Louis couldn’t remember the last time they’d just sat on the sofa and watched some shitty reality show , or even slept in the same bed without Harry falling in at 3 a.m. smelling like sweat and coffee.

And then Harry started missing Sundays .

The first time, Louis didn’t make a big deal out of it — shit happened , schedules clashed, and Harry had sworn up and down he’d make it next week . But next week came and went, and Harry was nowhere to be seen.

By the third week, Louis stopped covering for him .

“Where’s Harry?” his mum asked, setting out plates around the table, the familiar warmth of family dinner settling in — except there was an empty chair at Louis’ side.

“Work,” Louis muttered, stabbing his fork into a potato.

“On a Sunday?” Fizzy asked, eyebrow raised.

Louis didn’t answer.

The twins didn’t say much, but Louis could see the disappointment written all over their faces. They’d all gotten used to Harry being part of the family , another big brother, someone to braid their hair and paint their nails and laugh at their bad jokes. They missed him.

Louis missed him too.

After dinner, when the dishes were washed and the twins had wandered off to their room , Louis stayed behind at the kitchen table, his mum pouring them both a cup of tea .

“He’s working a lot,” Johannah said gently, not accusing , just stating a fact.

“Yeah,” Louis muttered. “Trying to build a career. Make something of himself.”

“And you?” she asked, eyes soft but sharp. “Where does that leave you?”

Louis shrugged. “Holding down the fort, I guess.”

She didn’t push — she never did , not unless Louis was hanging by a thread — but he could see the worry written all over her face.

“Just don’t let him forget,” she said softly, wrapping her hand over his. “Don’t let either of you forget what’s important.”

Louis nodded, but his chest felt too tight , like the air wasn’t reaching his lungs properly.

Because Louis knew exactly how this story went.

He’d seen it play out a hundred times in their neighborhood — someone clawing their way out , leaving everyone behind one missed Sunday dinner at a time.

Harry always swore he’d never leave, at least not without Louis. They‘d talked about running away together, Louis had always assumed they‘d do it one day, just not that Harry would leave on his own .

But Louis knew better than anyone — addiction wasn’t the only thing that could take someone away .

Harry started coming home late — later than usual , eyes too bright, smile too wide, talking a mile a minute even though Louis was already half-asleep most nights by the time the door creaked open.

It wasn’t hard to clock it , not for Louis. He’d spent too many years around it , too many nights high himself not to recognize the signs. Harry was wired , pupils blown, hands fidgeting constantly, talking Louis’ ear off about nothing — the weather, some random idea for a song lyric, how unbelievably good the kebab shop near the studio was.

He wasn’t sloppy, wasn’t off his face like they used to get, wasn’t nodding off or slurring, but he was too sharp , too awake , too much .

Coke, Louis figured. Maybe a bump or two to keep him going through late-night sessions, to keep up with the industry people who could drink all night and still show up to a meeting at 8 a.m. looking polished. It was part of the game , wasn’t it? Just a little something to take the edge off , to keep the energy up .

Louis knew how it worked. He’d done it himself more times than he could count .

So Louis pretended not to notice .

He didn’t want to fight. Didn’t want to lecture or play the role of rehab boyfriend when things were finally going well for Harry . The music was good. The money was better . Harry was happy , or at least that’s what Louis kept telling himself, even if Harry’s version of happy was starting to look a whole lot like high-functioning relapse .

The thing that gave him away most wasn’t the wide eyes or the endless talking — it was the nose scrunch .

Harry had always scrunched his nose, a cute little tic Louis adored, but this was different. This was constant , Harry sniffling and scrunching and rubbing at his nostrils like they tickled, like something was stuck. Louis had done enough coke to know that feeling — the post-bump itch, the lingering numbness that made you want to sneeze but never quite could .

Every time Harry scrubbed at his nose, Louis had to fight the urge to say something.

But he didn’t.

Because what if saying something ruined everything?

What if Harry wasn’t even using properly — what if it was just a bit of fun ? What if Louis was projecting his own shit onto Harry, being paranoid because of their history , because Louis had never been able to trust himself to stop once he started?

Maybe Harry wasn’t like that. Maybe Harry could handle it .

So Louis played dumb. He kissed Harry hello when he stumbled through the door smelling like studio sweat and cologne , pretended not to notice the too-fast heartbeat under his palm when they curled up on the sofa, ignored the teeth grinding and the constant tapping of fingers against his leg.

He told himself it was fine.

Harry was fine .

They were fine .

And if Louis reached for the box under the tile in the bathroom a little more often, if he ran his fingers over the lock and the cool metal of the key around his neck — just to remind himself it was there — well.

That was nobody’s business but his own.

 

It was nearly three in the morning when the door swung open, slamming into the wall hard enough to rattle the picture frame hanging beside it . Louis bolted upright on the sofa, heart lurching in his chest — he hadn’t even meant to fall asleep down here, but Harry had texted hours ago saying late session and Louis had waited up , watching the telly on mute until his eyelids gave up like his mum used to do.

“Play-Doh?” Louis croaked, voice rough from sleep , rubbing his face with both hands as Harry stumbled inside. But one look at him — just one fucking look — and Louis’ stomach dropped .

Harry was glowing. That was the only word for it. His eyes were too bright , skin flushed pink , and his smile — fuck, that smile — stretched wide and reckless , the kind of smile Louis hadn’t seen since they were kids getting high in Zayn’s room , laughing so hard they nearly pissed themselves. He was bouncing on his toes , fingers twitching like they couldn’t decide whether to reach for Louis or fly into space .

“Oh for fuck’s sake,” Louis muttered, standing up too fast , his vision going white around the edges. “Are you serious right now?”

Harry’s grin didn’t falter , not even a little. “What?”

“What?” Louis’ laugh was sharp and humorless , hands already on his hips. “Don’t fucking ‘what’ me, Haz. You’re off your tits.”

Harry took a step forward, arms spread wide , eyes too wet like he might cry or propose marriage , Louis couldn’t even tell. “I missed you,” Harry said, like that explained everything. “I love you so much, Lou. I missed you all fucking night.”

“Jesus Christ,” Louis muttered, running a hand down his face. “What was it? Coke? Pills? What the fuck are you on?”

Harry just grinned wider , stepping closer, hands grabbing for Louis’ face , thumb dragging over his bottom lip . “Only a little,” he said, so cheerfully Louis could’ve screamed . “A little something to keep me awake, to keep me happy.”

“Molly,” Louis spat, shoving Harry’s hands off his face. “You’re fucking rolling.”

“Baby, come on—” Harry reached again, fingers too hot , too eager , and Louis stepped back , heart pounding in his ears.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Louis’ voice was shaking , anger fizzing under his skin , bubbling up faster than he could control it . “After everything? After all the fucking shit we’ve been through — the funeral, the overdoses, the fucking rehab stints — you’re out there popping E like we’re seventeen at some goddamn house party?”

Harry’s smile finally faltered , but the high still buzzed under his skin , making his jaw clench and his fingers twitch. “It’s not like that,” Harry said, too fast , tripping over his own words. “It’s not a relapse. It’s just… it’s just a bit of fun.”

Louis’ laugh was ugly . “A bit of fun? That’s what Eleanor said a month before we buried her.”

That hit Harry like a slap , his whole body flinching back. “That’s not fair.”

“Not fair?” Louis’ voice went sharp and dangerous , chest heaving. “You know what’s not fair? Watching you kill yourself in slow motion because you’re too fucking stubborn to admit you’re spiraling.”

“I’m not spiraling!” Harry shouted, voice cracking. “I’m working! I’m doing good! I’m making something of myself while you sit on your arse waiting for me to fuck up!”

“Oh, fuck you,” Louis snarled, stepping forward until they were nose to nose , his own hands shaking with fury . “You think I’m waiting for you to fail? I’ve been holding you together with fucking tape and hope for months while you run around pretending you’re some indestructible fucking rockstar.”

Harry’s smile was gone now, replaced by something ugly , something hurt and defensive . “Maybe I wouldn’t have to work so much if you actually had a career.”

Louis recoiled like Harry had punched him in the gut , staggering back a step , heart cracking right down the middle. “That’s rich,” Louis said, voice suddenly low and dangerous . “Coming from the boy who would’ve been dead in a squat by now if I hadn’t pulled you out of it.”

Harry’s breath caught, face twisting with hurt , but he couldn’t stop himself . “Yeah? And maybe you wouldn’t have dragged me into harder drugs in the first place if you hadn’t thought it was so fucking cool to be the estate’s biggest dealer.”

Louis’ hand twitched at his side, but he didn’t hit Harry — not because he didn’t want to, but because hitting Harry would mean losing completely . “Get out,” Louis said instead, voice dead cold . “Or better yet — I’ll go.”

“Lou—”

“No.” Louis shook his head, tears threatening to spill , but his voice stayed sharp and steady . “You’ve made it perfectly clear what you think of me. And I’ve seen enough to know exactly where this is heading. I’m not watching you kill yourself again.”

Harry’s face crumbled , hands reaching out too late , too slow . “Please don’t go.”

Louis stepped past him, grabbing a blanket off the back of the sofa , refusing to meet Harry’s wide, pleading eyes . But who was he kidding? He could never leave Harry. “I’m sleeping on the couch.” He opted for instead.

Harry stood there frozen , chest heaving , mouth opening and closing like he wanted to fix it , but the damage was already done.

Louis lay down, back to the room, blanket pulled tight to his chin , body shaking with silent sobs he refused to let Harry hear.

For the first time in years, there was a wall between them. And Louis didn’t know if they’d ever be able to tear it down again.

The flat was silent when Louis woke up, his back stiff from the couch, neck aching from the awkward angle he’d slept in. The blanket had slipped to the floor , and the air was cold enough to make him shiver as he sat up, rubbing his hands over his face.

Harry was still in the bedroom — the door closed, no sound coming from inside — and Louis told himself that was a good thing . They needed space. Time to cool off. Time to figure out how the hell to fix what they’d broken last night .

But the silence itched under Louis’ skin , crawling up his spine like ants. His fingers twitched, his knee bouncing wildly as he sat there, too wired for someone who hadn’t slept properly in days. His heart was pounding , faster than it should’ve been, and before he even realized what he was doing, he was on his feet , pacing the living room in tight, anxious circles.

He needed something — something to do, something to find, something to fight — or he was going to crawl out of his own skin.

His eyes drifted to the bookshelf . The second shelf, behind the stack of DVDs Harry hadn’t touched in years — that had always been a good spot .

Before he could think better of it, Louis was on his knees , fingers shoving DVDs aside, heart hammering with something that felt too much like hope .

Nothing.

He moved to the kitchen , to the sugar jar , unscrewing the lid with hands that shook too much , stomach flipping like he might actually be sick. Empty.

The bathroom , next — the back of the toilet tank , the gap behind the pipes under the sink , even the torn lining of Harry’s toiletry bag , every spot they’d ever stashed something back when using had been their full-time job .

Nothing.

He was sweating , breathing too fast , every nerve in his body on fire, the grief and stress and heartache curling tight around his throat until it was hard to breathe. He wasn’t sure what he was hoping to find — if he was looking for proof that Harry had relapsed harder than he let on , or if he was just desperate for an excuse to fall off the wagon himself.

He wasn’t sure if it mattered.

Because then — tucked into the lining of Harry’s favourite jacket , the one slung over the back of a chair — Louis found it. A baggie , crinkled and creased, folded small enough to hide in a wallet , but Louis’ fingers knew the shape instantly .

Coke. Not much — maybe half a gram , but enough. Enough for what Louis needed right now .

His breath caught, fingers curling tight around the baggie , hands trembling so hard the plastic crackled in his grip. His brain was a storm , screaming and silent all at once — every rehab mantra, every promise he’d ever made, every fucking vow in that stupid contract they’d written on Louis’ bedroom floor — it all flickered like static, too fast to hold onto.

And then he remembered Eleanor.

The last time he’d seen her, truly seen her, not in a morgue or a mugshot but as his mate — sitting on Zayn’s bed, rolling a joint with shaky hands , swearing up and down she was fine, just taking the edge off .

He remembered Zayn’s face at the funeral , pale and blank and utterly wrecked . Remembered Harry sobbing into his chest , shaking so hard Louis thought his ribs might crack from the inside. Remembered the taste of blood in his mouth after punching a wall because grief had nowhere else to go.

He remembered every single reason they’d promised to stay clean .

But none of it mattered right now.

Because Louis felt empty , like a shell , a boy hollowed out by too much loss and too much pressure , and the only thing that had ever made that feeling bearable was right there in his hand .

He barely thought about it — barely even felt like himself as he stood, turned to the bathroom mirror, and poured out a thin line on the back of his phone, rolling up a stray fiver left on the sink.

His hands shook, his heart raced , but the moment the powder hit his bloodstream, it was like everything inside him clicked back into place .

The static in his head went quiet . The grief blurred at the edges. His body stopped trembling and started buzzing , warm and alive and light.

He stared at his reflection, eyes already too wide , nose scrunching out of habit, and for the first time in weeks, he felt like he could breathe again .

Behind him, the door creaked.

Louis froze, heart plummeting , the high suddenly sharp and sour .

He turned slowly, the fiver still pinched between his fingers , and found Harry standing in the doorway — hair a mess, eyes bloodshot , t-shirt wrinkled from sleep.

Harry didn’t say a word.

He just looked at Louis , and Louis knew .

They were both fucked.

They never talked about it.

Not that morning, not the next day, not ever.

Harry hadn’t said a word when he saw the rolled-up fiver between Louis’ fingers and the thin line of coke still dusting the edge of the sink. He didn’t gasp in shock, didn’t yell, didn’t cry. He just stood there silent and tired , like he’d been expecting it all along.

Louis, high out of his mind and not quite ready to care yet , had just wiped his nose, smiled too wide , and said something stupid like, Morning, love. Harry had kissed him, a little too hard , and they never mentioned it.

It became their new language — unspoken and ugly , built on glances and silences and all the places they didn’t want to go. They stayed clean, then they didn’t. In and out of sobriety like a revolving door , sometimes weeks, sometimes only days before one of them slipped. Neither of them ever admitted it out loud, but they could always tell .

Harry could taste it on Louis’ tongue when they kissed — that sharp, chemical bite that no amount of toothpaste could cover. Louis could see it in Harry’s eyes, too bright , pupils too wide even when the lights were low.

They didn’t confront each other. What would’ve been the point? They were both guilty , both complicit, both too tired to fight .

Instead, they became co-conspirators of their own destruction.

Louis would slip a pill into Harry’s hand during a night out, fingers brushing just long enough to say I know you need this. Harry would leave half a gram on Louis’ bedside table , folded into a gum wrapper, no note, no explanation, because none was needed. They always knew .

It wasn’t always bad. Sometimes they stayed clean for weeks at a time , convincing themselves they’d turned a corner — that they could live normal lives , go to work, see their friends, cuddle on the sofa and eat takeaway without needing anything to take the edge off .

And then something would happen — a bad memory, a rough day, a fight they didn’t want to have — and one of them would slip, and the other would follow without hesitation .

Because they were too scared to do it alone .

The pact they’d written — the stupid, naive promise on a crumpled piece of paper and inked into their skin just above where their stupid bracelets sat— together or not at all — it had become something darker , twisted into a permission slip to self-destruct .

Zayn knew. Niall too. They never said anything directly, but Louis could see it in their eyes every time they showed up to a party too wired , every time they turned down a drink only to sneak out for a smoke and come back wide-eyed and jittery .

Even Louis’ mum could tell — not the full extent of it, but enough . Her hugs lasted too long , her eyes lingered on Louis’ face too much , and the weekly drug tests stopped, not because she trusted them, but because she knew the results would break her heart .

And still — they never talked about it .

Because talking meant admitting they were failing. Talking meant facing Eleanor’s ghost and all the ways they were following in her footsteps. Talking meant asking for help , and that was something neither of them had ever known how to do.

So they smiled and kissed and played house, and every time one of them fell, the other one was there to catch them just enough to keep them from hitting the bottom.

It wasn’t love, not the healthy kind.

But it was survival.

Chapter 31: Chapter 31

Notes:

Guys I am so sorry for what I‘m about to do to y‘all

Fame crept into their flat slowly at first , like a draft under the door. It was little things — Harry’s phone lighting up more than usual , numbers Louis didn’t recognize texting at all hours. Producers, journalists, some influencer wanting Harry to feature in their video. Harry would shrug it off, say it was just work stuff , and Louis would pretend it didn’t sting every time Harry turned away to answer a call, lowering his voice like it was a secret .

Louis was used to sharing Harry — first with their friends, then with Louis’ family, and for a while, even with drugs. But this was different. Fame was hungry , and it wanted all of him.

The first time Harry said no to a line, Louis had laughed, thinking it was a joke. They were at Zayn’s, just the five of them, music low, weed smoke curling through the air, and someone — probably Niall — had tossed Louis a baggie like it was nothing . Habit took over; Louis split it, one line each , like always. Except Harry shook his head, hands up, that nervous little smile twitching at the corner of his mouth.

“Nah,” Harry said, too casual , like he wasn’t dropping a fucking bomb. “Trying to stay clean for a bit.”

Louis had covered the awkwardness with a joke — What are you, pregnant? — and the room had laughed, but inside, Louis’ stomach had dropped .

Because they’d promised .

Together or not at all.

And suddenly, Harry was doing it without him .

At first, Louis brushed it off. Thought maybe it was a phase , maybe Harry had an important meeting coming up, or a label rep breathing down his neck about staying marketable. But Harry’s refusals kept coming. No pills at the afterparty. No coke before the gig. No bump to take the edge off a hangover.

Louis would roll his eyes, call him boring , but it was starting to feel personal — like Harry was leaving him behind, shedding their shared skin , trying to become someone clean and shiny while Louis was still knee-deep in the muck they’d crawled through together.

Louis didn’t stop using — if anything, he leaned into it harder. When Harry turned down a pill, Louis took two . When Harry stopped sneaking off for lines in club bathrooms, Louis did a key bump right at the table , daring Harry to say something. Harry never did. He’d just look away, jaw tight, eyes sad, but silent .

That silence ate Louis alive .

Because if Harry didn’t care enough to fight him on it — what the fuck did that mean?

It meant Louis was alone .

The worst part — the part Louis never said out loud — was that getting high without Harry felt wrong . It didn’t hit the same , didn’t feel safe the way it used to when they were wrapped up in it together . The drugs stopped being fun and started being punishment , a way to numb the ache of watching Harry outgrow the life they’d built .

Harry was getting photographed now, stopping to sign autographs after gigs, being recognized in Tesco for fuck’s sake. Louis couldn’t remember the last time they went out without someone interrupting their night to ask for a selfie. Harry always obliged, smile wide and easy , like it didn’t bother him at all. Louis would stand off to the side, itching for a smoke or a bump , feeling like the side character in someone else’s story .

They fought about it, more than once — Louis accusing Harry of forgetting where they came from , Harry accusing Louis of trying to drag him back down . The screaming matches were brutal, both of them cutting too deep , because no one knew how to hurt them like they knew how to hurt each other.

You think you’re better than me now, rockstar?

You’re the one who’s fucking stuck at 18, Lou. Not me.

It always ended the same. Louis storming off, Harry following, grabbing his wrist, kissing him too hard , like they could fuck the fight out of each other . And for a while, it worked. Until the next time.

Louis could feel the distance growing between them, inch by inch , but he couldn’t stop it. Every time Harry said no, it felt like he was saying no to Louis , no to their promise , no to the life they swore they’d survive together .

Louis didn’t want to get clean without Harry, didn‘t want to shake his way through detox without Harry sweating right beside him. He didn’t know how .

And Harry? Harry was starting to look like he might actually make it past 25 .

Louis wasn’t so sure about himself.

It started small, like these things always do. A week-long trip to LA for meetings, studio sessions, some photo shoot Louis hadn’t even known about until Harry mentioned it the night before his flight. “Just a few days, Lou,” Harry had said, grinning through the bathroom mirror , razor dragging down his jaw. “I’ll be back before you have time to miss me.”

Louis did miss him, though. Instantly . The flat felt too quiet , too big, too full of empty spaces where Harry belonged . But Louis swallowed it down, plastered on a smile for his mum and the girls when they stopped by, made plans with Zayn, Oli and Niall to get shitfaced and distracted , and waited for Harry to come home.

But Harry didn’t really come home. Not the way Louis needed him to.

He came back physically — dropped his suitcase in the hall, crawled into Louis’ lap on the sofa, kissed him until both of them forgot their own names — but something had shifted . Harry couldn’t stop talking about LA . The studios, the houses, the weather, the opportunity . Louis would nod, smile where he was supposed to, but his stomach churned violently every time Harry called it the next step .

The next step.

It made Louis’ chest ache . Because the next step sounded a hell of a lot like a step away from here — from their flat, from their friends, from him .

Then Harry went back — just for a week, he said. But a week turned into two, two into nearly a month. And when Louis asked when Harry was planning on coming home for good , Harry just shrugged and said, Dunno, might be back and forth a lot for a bit. The label’s sorting me a place out there. Just somewhere to crash when I’m working.

That’s when Louis knew.

It wasn’t just work . It was a life — a life Harry was building that didn’t have him in it .

Louis didn’t scream. Didn’t fight. Didn’t beg Harry to stay. He just said Alright, have fun then and hung up before his voice could crack .

And that was it. The beginning of the end.

Harry started moving out in pieces , almost like he was afraid to say it out loud . A few shirts missing from the wardrobe, his favourite boots gone , the record player he’d lugged in from his mum’s house suddenly vanished from the living room corner . Every time Louis noticed something missing, he swallowed it down , packed it away with all the other grief he didn’t know how to deal with .

He wasn’t going to beg. If Harry wanted LA, wanted fame and sun and new people , then Louis wasn’t going to be the anchor holding him back .

But Louis wasn’t stupid. He knew himself — knew the pattern too well . Grief made him reckless. Emptiness made him hungry for anything to fill it .

So he went back to what he knew best — his friends, his family outside his family , the only people who’d ever seen him at his worst and still wanted him around.

Zayn and Niall and Oli were always there , Eleanor’s absence a constant phantom limb , but they never let it ruin a good time . They drank for her. Got high for her. Told themselves they were living enough for all of them .

Louis threw himself into it like a man with nothing to lose .

It wasn’t just weed or a pint after work . It was three-day benders , starting at someone’s flat, spilling into the streets, ending at some shitty afterparty in a dealer’s basement , coke smeared under Louis’ nose, vodka dripping from his chin , laughing so hard his ribs hurt but feeling absolutely nothing inside .

They’d stumble into chicken shops at 5 a.m. , high off their tits, ordering everything on the menu , eating greasy fries with their hands because none of them could remember how cutlery worked . Zayn would pull some girl onto his lap, Niall would start a fight with his own reflection , and Louis would sit back and watch it all , laughing until his stomach cramped, pretending this was freedom when really it was just fucking numbing .

They were addicts, the lot of them, and they knew it — wore it like a badge of honor. They weren’t like the rich kids in rehab who got sent away because Mummy found a joint. They were the estate rats, the ones who never stood a chance , who knew where to score before they knew how to file taxes, who’d seen more overdoses than graduations.

They were fucked from the start , so they figured why not enjoy the ride down?

Louis became the ringleader again , the way he’d been back when he and Zayn first started dealing. It was too easy to fall back into the role , the one who knew all the best spots, the best gear, the right people to call when the party got dry. His phone never stopped buzzing — everyone wanted Louis at their party because he made it fun , made it reckless and wild , made everyone feel like they were invincible .

And the whole time — through the blurry nights and the comedown mornings and the splitting headaches and heart palpitations — Louis kept his phone in his pocket , waiting for Harry’s name to flash up.

Sometimes it did. A goodnight text , a photo from the studio, a casual I love you at the end of a message that didn’t feel like enough anymore .

Louis would stare at the screen, phone vibrating in his hand, and he’d choose not to reply .

Because what was there to say? Harry was building a life Louis didn’t fit into , and Louis was back where he’d always been — a little high, a little drunk, a little lost , and holding his friends together with both hands while they all pretended they weren’t fucking drowning .

One night, after too much of everything , Louis stood in Zayn’s bathroom, staring at his own reflection , eyes bloodshot, nose bleeding faintly , jaw clenching from the comedown. He thought about that stupid fucking contract , about all the promises they’d made in Sharpie, sitting on Louis’ childhood floor.

We vow to stay sober together or not at all.

We vow to be each other’s last first kiss.

They had vowed to never leave eachother behind.

Louis laughed, sharp and ugly, wiping at his nose with the back of his hand. What a fucking joke.

Harry was in LA. Louis was in Zayn’s bathroom, heart racing too fast , fingers twitching for one more bump , and no one was keeping their promises anymore .

 

It was almost comical , the way Harry walked into their flat like nothing had changed. Like it was still their flat , like he still lived there, like his stuff hadn’t been gradually disappearing until Louis was left with only the ghost of him .

Louis was on the sofa, one leg draped over the armrest , a half-smoked joint pinched between his fingers , and something far stronger swimming through his bloodstream . His jaw was clenched so tight it ached , his pupils blown wide, skin too warm , heart racing too fast , but he was riding that perfect edge — the sweet spot before the crash.

The door swung open, and there Harry was — glowing , of course, sun-kissed and fresh-faced , curls so long they nearly reached his shoulders, a suitcase trailing behind him.

“Baby,” Harry grinned, setting the suitcase down and kicking the door shut. His smile faltered for just a second when he took in the state of Louis — the glazed-over eyes, the too-wide grin , the ashtray overflowing on the coffee table. But like always, Harry pushed through it , pretending not to notice. That was the only thing that had never truly changed about him.

Louis dragged his eyes up, head tipping back lazily. “Look what the cat dragged in,” he slurred, the words sticking a little on his tongue. “Back to grace us with your presence, are you?”

“Don’t be like that,” Harry said, all fond exasperation , like Louis was just being cheeky , not absolutely off his face .

He crossed the room, dropping onto the sofa next to Louis, their knees knocking together . Louis smelled cologne and expensive hotel soap — clean , too clean, not like them anymore .

Harry reached for Louis’ cigarette — a little habit they’d kept since they were kids — but Louis didn’t hand it over. Instead, he held it just out of reach , grinning crookedly. “Can’t, Haz. This one’s not just tobacco.”

Harry’s smile tightened, but he didn’t flinch, didn’t lecture, didn’t even sigh. “Figured,” he said softly. “You look… comfortable.”

Louis laughed, too sharp , head falling back against the cushions. “Comfortable’s a word for it.”

They sat there in silence for a minute — the gap between them bigger than words could explain — until Harry broke it.

“I’m three months sober,” Harry said, just like that , no buildup, no preamble, like it was just another fact . “Completely. Not even weed or alcohol.”

Louis’ smile froze on his face. His stomach flipped violently , and for a second, he actually felt sober — cold and sharp and nauseous.

“Three months,” Louis repeated, voice flat . “Well, aren’t you just the picture of health.”

“Lou—”

“No, no,” Louis waved a hand, too erratic , knocking over the ashtray without meaning to. “Good for you. Truly. Proud of you, Play-Doh.”

Harry’s brow creased, that worried little furrow Louis used to kiss away , but this time, Louis didn’t move closer. “You could do it too,” Harry said softly. “If you wanted. We could—”

Louis barked out a laugh so sharp it hurt his throat . “Could we? ‘Cause last time I checked, we were supposed to do this shit together . Remember that? All those promises we made — our stupid little contract .”

Harry’s face crumpled , guilt flashing bright in his eyes. “I know I fucked up. I never meant to leave you behind, I want you to do this with me and I’m sorry—”

“Yeah, well, sorry doesn’t mean shit now, does it?” Louis snapped, standing too fast, the room tilting for a moment . He caught himself on the back of the sofa, knuckles white , heart pounding too fast .

“You can still—” Harry started, but Louis cut him off.

“I don’t want to get clean, Haz,” Louis said, voice sharp and cruel , because if he didn’t make it hurt, Harry might see the truth underneath — that Louis didn’t know how to get clean without him . “I’m fine right here. With my mates, with my stash, with our old life that you apparently decided you were too fucking good for. ”

Harry stood too, frustrated and helpless , curls wild where he’d raked his fingers through them. “That’s not fair. I didn’t leave you behind, Lou, I—”

“You fucking did,” Louis hissed. “You chose this big shiny life and your clean-cut image and your fucking label meetings over us . And now you want to waltz back in here with your three months sober badge and act like I should fall in line ? Fuck off, Harry.”

Harry’s eyes went glassy, but he held his ground. “You’re better than this.”

“Am I?” Louis stepped closer, the air between them too thick , his breath reeking of vodka and smoke and regret . “Because last time I checked, you met me in the trenches, Play-Doh. You dragged me down there with you, and then you fucking left .”

Harry didn’t have an answer for that.

He just stood there, looking at Louis like his heart was breaking all over again . And Louis couldn’t stand it — couldn’t stand being seen like this, not by him , not by the boy whom he once promised they’d make it out together .

“Go back to LA,” Louis said, voice hollow. “Go be a fucking star. I’ll be right here, doing what I’ve always done — keeping the lights on until you decide you miss me again. ”

He turned his back, grabbed the joint from the table, and disappeared into the kitchen without another word.

Harry didn’t follow.

The kitchen smelled like smoke and forgotten trash , and Louis stood there too long , staring at nothing, fingernails scraping against the countertop until his knuckles ached. His hands were shaking , his pulse roaring in his ears , and every inch of his skin felt too tight .

He took a long drag from the joint, hoping it would calm him , but all it did was make everything feel too sharp , like he was seeing the mess of his life in 4K clarity for the first time in months.

When he finally dragged himself back into the living room, Harry was gone .

The suitcase was missing. So was Harry’s coat. The door was left a crack open , letting in a thin line of cold night air.

That was all it took for Louis’ chest to cave in .

He sat down too hard , the couch creaking beneath him, his whole body shaking like a leaf . His breath came fast, shallow, heart slamming against his ribs , and for a terrifying second, he thought he might actually pass out .

He left.

He’s gone.

He’s not coming back this time.

Louis’ mind spun in violent circles , dredging up every single fucked-up memory they’d ever made — the overdoses, the hospital beds, the stupid fucking friendship bracelets they made in rehab, Eleanor beneath the tree , the contract written in Sharpie promising they’d stay or fall together .

It was all bullshit. All of it.

Louis’ fingers went to his neck , the cool metal of the key pressing into his skin, a weight he’d worn every day without thinking about it. It had been months — months since he’d even touched that box , months since Harry’s last real detox, months since Louis had told himself they were finally getting their shit together .

But now Harry was gone.

And Louis was alone.

And there was only one thing left to do .

His body moved on autopilot , legs carrying him to the bathroom, hands shaking as he pried up the loose tile , fingers digging into the gap until he pulled out the little metal box . It was heavier than he remembered, cold and familiar in his palm.

He fumbled with the key, breath hitching , jaw clenched so hard it hurt , and the second the lock popped open, Louis’ whole body shuddered .

There it was — the baggies , the syringes, the spoon. Everything Harry had handed over so trustingly all those months ago, back when they thought love could save them .

Louis’ fingers hovered over the heroin , but even in his spiraling grief, he couldn’t go there . Not yet. That was Harry’s demon, not his.

But the coke? The pills? The easy highs that didn’t make him think too hard?

He grabbed them without hesitation.

Within minutes, there was a line on the bathroom counter , fat and messy, tears blurring his vision as he bent over and snorted it without a second thought .

It hit him like a truck , lightning in his veins, heart slamming into overdrive , the grief dulling at the edges just enough to breathe through it .

He slid down the wall, back pressed to the cold tile , knees drawn to his chest, high and heartbroken and alone in the flat they’d built together — the one Harry had just walked out of, maybe for the last time .

Louis stared at the open box beside him, the key still dangling from his neck, and all he could think was: We never stood a fucking chance.

And then, because he couldn’t stop himself — because addicts were the best liars , even to themselves — he laid out another line .

Because if Harry was gone, what the fuck was the point of staying clean anyway?

The high didn’t hit the same anymore — hadn’t for a long time .

The first bump was always a flash of something good , that familiar rush that lit his veins on fire and made his heart race in a way that felt almost alive . But it was gone too fast now, vanishing before he could even catch hold of it , leaving him edgy and empty , skin crawling like ants were marching under his flesh.

The second bump was just chasing ghosts , trying to pull the feeling back from wherever it had slipped away. It didn’t work. It never fucking worked.

By the third, Louis wasn’t even getting high anymore — he was just punishing himself , scraping up every last grain of powder, swallowing pills without checking what they were, chasing numbness like it owed him money .

He leaned his head back against the wall, cold tile against his sweat-damp skin , chest rising too fast, breath shallow and shaky . His heart was a hammer in his ribs , pounding so loud it drowned out every thought except one — Harry’s gone. Harry’s gone. Play-Doh is gone.

His hand drifted to his wrist, fingers brushing the worn thread of the friendship bracelet , the one they’d made in their room after Louis had begged Harry to check into rehab with him , back when they were just kids , still stupid enough to think love and promises could hold them together and upright .

The pale blue pearls were chipped now, a few cracked from being caught on door handles or tugged too tight. The word BOO BEAR stared up at him in uneven plastic letters, letters that Harry had painstakingly picked out , saying it’s stupid but it’s you with that crooked grin of his.

Louis’ vision blurred, throat closing around a sob he couldn’t swallow back , because fuck, they were just kids , kids who’d thought love was a life raft instead of an anchor, kids who’d promised each other the world and somehow ended up here — one of them running toward the sun , the other rotting in the dark . Just two birds on a wire, one flying towards his dream, the other too tired to do aything but remain where he had always been.

The first sob ripped out of his chest like it had been buried under his ribs for months , and once it started, he couldn’t stop . He curled in on himself, forehead pressed to his knees, the bracelet cutting into his wrist, crying so hard he couldn’t catch his breath .

He cried for Niall, Oli, Eleanor, for Zayn, for every fucked-up night they’d survived when they shouldn’t have. He cried for Harry, for the boy who was supposed to be his forever , the boy who was always somewhere across the ocean, sober and successful and smiling for cameras , while Louis was here — alone on the bathroom floor , skin buzzing with chemicals that didn’t even fucking work anymore.

He cried for all of it — the life they could’ve had if they’d been born somewhere better, to parents who knew how to love without conditions, in a world that didn’t chew up kids like them and spit them out for sport .

At some point, the sobs slowed, the drugs pulling him down into something that wasn’t quite sleep — a dazed, heavy fog , his body too tired to move, his heart too tired to care.

The bracelet caught the light one last time before his eyes drifted shut, the blue pearls soft and familiar against his skin, and Louis whispered, voice cracking, “Miss you, Play-Doh.”

Then he passed out cold , tears drying on his cheeks, alone in the flat they were supposed to grow old in .

Louis woke up to the taste of blood and stale smoke on his tongue, his mouth so dry it hurt . His head throbbed like someone had taken a hammer to his skull, and his stomach twisted violently, warning him that if he even thought about moving too fast , he’d be puking his guts out.

His back ached from the cold tile , his hoodie sticking to his skin where sweat had dried sometime in the night. The bathroom reeked — of weed smoke, of sweat, of everything he’d become .

The first thing he saw was the friendship bracelet , still tight around his wrist, the plastic beads pressing into his skin , leaving little indents like a brand. The second thing he saw was the metal box , still open on the floor beside him, contents spilled out across the tile — the empty baggie from the coke, the crumpled foil from the pills he didn’t even remember taking, the lighter, the spoon the syringes.

And the heroin .

Louis stared at it, stomach flipping again, but this time not from nausea .

That was Harry’s demon , the thing that had chewed Harry up and left him fragile and shaking , skin pale and drenched in cold sweat for days on end. Louis had sworn — sworn to himself, to his mum, to Harry — that he’d never touch it , not after seeing what it did to the boy he loved.

But the boy he loved was gone, had been gone for a while. Louis wasn‘t sure when it had happened. Somewhere around the time Louis kissed him for the first time in rehab, both of them high on ecstacy, and when Harry left for LA.

The flat was too quiet , and Louis’ chest was too hollow , and there was nothing left to hold him back .

He told himself it was just to see . Just to understand what had pulled Harry under, what had made him love it enough to risk everything . He wasn’t an idiot — he knew how dangerous it was, knew that once you crossed that line , there wasn’t always a way back.

But Louis was already too tired to care, he just needed Harry, and this was the last of him he had left .

His hands shook as he reached for the spoon, wiping it on the hem of his hoodie even though it was already clean , just from the sheer nervous ritual of it all . The powder sat there, pale and innocuous, looking like nothing — just another drug, just another escape, just another Tuesday .

He used less than half , barely a whisper of powder, mixed with water and melted down with the flame from his lighter. His heart was pounding , hands trembling as he drew it up into the syringe, tapping out air bubbles like a pro , like the addict he was.

He found a vein too easily , skin so thin and pale it was like welcoming the needle like an old friend . The second the plunger went down, Louis exhaled — a long, shaky breath as warmth flooded his veins, heavy and sweet , like being wrapped in a blanket made of nothingness .

It wasn’t like coke — that frantic, electric high that made his heart race and his skin buzz. This was slower , softer, like sinking into warm water , like letting go . Every ache in his body dulled , every sharp edge in his brain blunted , and for the first time since Harry walked out , Louis didn’t feel like he was coming apart at the seams.

He leaned back against the wall, head tipping back, eyes fluttering shut , and whispered, voice thick and slurred, “I get it now, Play-Doh.”

The heroin hummed through his bloodstream, soft and easy , like a lullaby for broken boys .

And Louis let it take him.

The warmth spread through Louis’ veins like liquid gold, liquid death , slow and syrupy, wrapping around his bones and pulling him down into something so soft it didn’t feel real. Every ache, every sharp edge, every thought that had been clawing at the walls of his mind melted away, leaving only this — this perfect, weightless calm, like floating underwater without the need to breathe .

His head tipped back against the tile, neck going slack , fingers uncurling like even the effort of holding his own hands was too much work . It wasn’t numbness — not the kind coke gave him, where the world turned too fast and he couldn’t feel his teeth grinding. This was better , a warmth so deep it felt like being held from the inside out .

The sadness was still there — of course it was — but it didn’t hurt the same. It was distant , like a radio playing in another room, easy to tune out when the glow was this good. Eleanor’s ghost, Harry’s absence, his own sense of failure — they were all just things that existed , not knives in his chest anymore.

His body felt light and heavy all at once , like he could sink through the floor or float to the ceiling , and either way, he wouldn’t mind. His breathing slowed, the pulse in his wrists softening, his whole body melting into the floor like he belonged there.

He traced his fingers over the bracelet, the plastic beads cool under his fingertips , and for once it didn’t hurt. It didn’t choke him with guilt or loss. It was just there , a reminder of a time when they’d been young and stupid and hopeful , but even that memory felt kind , not sharp.

“Fuck,” Louis whispered to no one at all , the word coming out like a sigh. “I get it, Haz.”

He couldn’t believe Harry had ever given this up. Why would he? When the world felt this easy , when all the pain folded away into the background , when you could sit in your own skin and actually feel comfortable for once.

It was the best high of his life , and Louis had chased every single high there was to chase.

For the first time in months — maybe years — Louis didn’t want anything else . Didn’t need to keep picking at his scabs or digging up ghosts . He just was , warm and safe and soft, cradled in the arms of the one thing that had never, ever let him down.

He didn’t know how long he stayed there, half-smiling at the ceiling, fingers still tracing over the word BOO BEAR , the word that used to make him want to cry but now just made him feel warm all over .

The sun was rising when his eyes finally drifted shut, the warmth still humming under his skin , and Louis thought — for the first time in a very long time — that maybe, just maybe, everything would be alright .

The next afternoon, Louis dragged himself out of the flat, eyes still heavy , limbs loose and slow , that soft hum of the heroin still lingering just beneath his skin . He wasn’t high anymore, not properly, but his body still felt light , his brain still quiet , and for once, he wasn’t in a rush to wreck it .

But there was one rule — a rule Louis had made for himself a long time ago. Keep the real shit private.

His mates knew he used — they all did — but heroin? That was different. That was a line you didn’t cross in front of your own . They could all pop pills, do lines, drop tabs, smoke up — that was just a laugh , part of the lifestyle they’d all fallen into together. But H ? That was the sort of thing that made people look at you different , even if they were addicts themselves.

So Louis buttoned himself up , dragged a comb through his hair, sunglasses on even though the sky was grey , and met them at their usual spot — the bench down by the football pitch, the one where half the estate had first gotten high when they were thirteen.

Zayn was already there, half a cigarette dangling from his lips , eyes low like he was just coming down from something. Niall was perched on the back of the bench, swinging his legs like a child , already halfway through a bottle of Smirnoff , grinning at nothing in particular. Oli sat cross-legged on the ground, a joint between his fingers , tossing stones at the empty pitch.

“Oi!” Niall shouted when Louis walked up, his voice too loud for this early , but that was Niall — always louder than necessary, always desperate for a laugh to fill the silence . “Look who finally decided to show up!”

Louis forced a grin , sliding onto the bench beside Zayn, his body still too loose , too relaxed. “Miss me that much, huh?”

“Always, Lou,” Niall said, winking dramatically , and Louis felt his stomach twist at the nickname — too close to home , too close to that bracelet still snug around his wrist.

Zayn passed Louis the cigarette, and Louis took it without thinking , the smoke harsh against his throat, cutting through the lingering taste of last night. It wasn’t enough, though. He needed something sharper , something faster , something to slide back into the mask he wore around them.

“You holding?” Louis asked Zayn casually, like he was asking about the weather.

Zayn raised an eyebrow but didn’t ask why — just reached into his pocket, fingers coming back with a mix of pills , mostly Xanax , Valium , and something pink that Louis didn’t even recognize. Louis took two blues and one pink , swallowing them down with the vodka Niall passed over.

It was routine , muscle memory at this point — take something, take the edge off, keep the party going. None of them really talked about why. They didn’t need to. The why was all over them, in the way they laughed too loud , hugged too tight , avoided silence like it might kill them .

They passed a joint around, talked shit about some kid they used to know who’d just gotten out of prison, made plans for a party at someone’s flat that night. Louis played along , smiling where he was supposed to, laughing just enough , even though his mind was still stuck somewhere softer , somewhere quieter — somewhere that felt a lot like last night’s high .

The pills were good, but they didn’t touch it. They were just noise , just static , filling the gap so no one would ask why Louis’ hands were shaking or why his pupils were still too big for a Wednesday afternoon.

They ended up at the off-license, buying cheap booze and crisps , Niall flirting with the cashier who’d kicked them out at least a dozen times before , Oli pocketing a chocolate bar when no one was looking. They were the same as they’d always been — a pack of estate kids with too much time and too many demons , pretending they were having the time of their lives .

But Louis knew — in the back of his mind, underneath the pills and the weed and the vodka — that this wasn’t enough anymore .

Not after last night.

There was a whole new level of numbness waiting for him at home. And it had Harry’s name written all over it .

Notes:

Right… who said they were excited for LHH?

Chapter 32: Chapter 32

That night, Louis stumbled through the door of their flat — his flat now, really , but he still couldn’t think of it like that — and kicked off his trainers, one hitting the wall with a dull thud. His head was swimming , the pills and the vodka clashing in his bloodstream , making everything too loud and too slow all at once .

The flat was dark and quiet , the kind of silence Louis used to love when Harry was asleep in their bed, soft snores filling the air, a leg always thrown over Louis’ waist . But now, the silence felt like a weight on his chest , heavy and cold and too big to shake off.

He didn’t bother turning on the lights. Didn’t bother eating. Just wandered into the bathroom , hands shaking slightly as he flicked the light switch, the buzz of the overhead bulb cutting through the quiet like a scream . His reflection was a fucking mess — eyes too wide, face too pale, lips chapped, the bracelet still snug on his wrist , plastic beads gleaming under the fluorescent light.

He should’ve brushed his teeth, washed his face, done something normal , but all his body knew how to do was go through the same ritual it had started the night before .

He sank to his knees , fingers prying at the loose tile, heart thudding too hard even though he was too numb to care. The metal box slid into his palm, the weight of it familiar and terrible , and Louis stared at it for a long moment, teeth digging into his bottom lip until it stung .

I can’t.

I shouldn’t.

I promised.

But the silence was too loud, and his body was too restless , and he knew there was nothing else left to take the edge off . Not like this. Not like H could .

His fingers went to the key, the chain still around his neck — the fucking promise key , the one meant to keep Harry safe, to keep them safe . He almost laughed, bitter and sharp, at how easily it fit into the lock , the metal sliding home like it belonged there.

The box opened with a quiet click, the familiar gleam of foil and powder and needles staring up at him like an old friend .

He took out the spoon , the lighter, the baggie — the works , setting them up with shaking hands , like a priest preparing for communion . His fingers were clumsy, and he spilled a little, but it didn’t matter. It was more than enough .

He told himself it was just to take the edge off . Just a whisper , just enough to sleep . He wasn’t like Harry, wasn’t going to chase it all the way down . He was smarter than that .

He tied off his arm, veins popping up too easy , skin worn from years of self-destruction , and the needle slid in like coming home .

The warmth hit immediately , softer than coke, sweeter than pills, his lover’s hand stroking down his spine . His head tipped back against the wall, breath leaving him in one long sigh , and for a second — just a second — he felt whole again .

It scared the shit out of him.

Because he liked it too much .

Because it felt too good.

Because he understood Harry now , and understanding Harry meant losing any moral high ground Louis had left .

He lay on the cold tile , the world slowing to a syrupy hum, fingers drifting over the bracelet , tracing the letters like a prayer. “I’m sorry,” he whispered to no one. To Harry, to Eleanor, to his mum, to himself.

The heroin didn’t care who he apologized to. It just held him there , safe and soft, until his eyes slipped shut and the world faded to black .

The weeks slid by in a blur , each one blending into the next until Louis wasn’t sure if it was Tuesday or Saturday or some other meaningless day that didn’t matter at all. Time only existed in two categories now — the hours he was high, and the hours he was chasing the next one. Everything in between was just noise.

He got too good at lying again , slipping back into the skin of the teenage estate kid who could look his mum straight in the eye after a three-day bender and say he was just tired from work . The difference now was that Louis wasn’t just lying to her — he was lying to everyone.

Sunday dinners became something he forgot to show up for , always with some flimsy excuse that didn’t even sound believable to his own ears. Got called into work, Mum. Got a headache, Mum. Coming down with something, Mum.

He could hear the worry in her voice , but he didn’t care. Or maybe he cared too much, so he buried it under another hit , another line, another whatever he could get his hands on .

The worst part was his friends didn’t even notice it at first . Not properly. They were all too used to Louis being a little fucked up , a little too eager to get wasted for no reason . It was part of the brand , part of what made Louis Louis .

He still showed up to the bench , still laughed at Niall’s dumb jokes, still got drunk with Zayn in someone’s shit-hole apartment , still passed pills around like they were sweets at a birthday party . Nothing seemed different — not to them , at least.

When they asked what he was on — because they always asked, because they liked to know where to score the same stuff if it was good — Louis lied without missing a beat .

“Molly,” he said, grinning like it was all just a laugh , bouncing on his toes like the E was still hitting just right . “Pure as fuck, too. Got it from some kid round the corner.”

They believed him, of course they did. Who the fuck would think Louis Tomlinson — the estate’s very own cocky, sharp-tongued, always-up-for-a-laugh Louis — would be sitting on a heroin habit ? That wasn’t their scene. That wasn’t what they did . They were pill heads and coke heads and ket heads , but not that .

So Louis kept smiling, kept passing joints and vodka bottles and Xanax , kept pretending it was all the same old shit .

But when he got home — to the too-quiet flat , to the empty bed that used to belong to them — Louis went straight to the bathroom, pulled out the metal box , and let it all melt away again .

He told himself it was under control .

Told himself it wasn’t a habit if no one knew.

Told himself it was only because Harry left.

Told himself anything that made it easier to sleep at night .

It was well past midnight when Zayn decided to check in on Louis.

They were supposed to meet at the off-license around ten, just for a quick smoke and a few cans before heading to Oli’s, but Louis hadn’t shown. No text. No call. Nothing. That wasn’t all that unusual lately — Louis had been flaky as fuck for weeks — but something about tonight sat wrong in Zayn’s gut, maybe it was the fact that Harry was gone, maybe it was the fact that Eleanor‘s downfall had started exactly the same.

So he took the long way home, swinging by Louis’ flat, not really expecting much. Maybe Louis had just passed out early. Maybe he was in the bath, headphones in, phone dead.

But when Zayn got there, the front door was wide open .

And Zayn’s stomach plummeted .

He stepped inside, the place dark and too quiet , shoes sticking slightly to the floor. The air was heavy, hot and stale , like no one had opened a window in weeks .

“Tommo?” Zayn called, voice sharp and tense in the silence. No answer. Just the faint hum of the fridge, the creak of the floorboards under his feet.

He moved down the hall, dread thick in his throat , until he reached the bathroom. The light was on — too bright , flickering slightly — and the door was half-open. Zayn pushed it the rest of the way, heart hammering so loud it drowned out his breath .

Louis was there, slumped against the wall, legs sprawled out, head tipped to the side, mouth slightly open. The needle was still in his arm , dangling loosely from his vein, the plunger fully down, the spoon resting on the edge of the sink like a gravestone .

Zayn’s chest went tight, panic rising so fast it nearly knocked him off his feet. “Louis!”

He crossed the room in a second , hands grabbing at Louis’ face , slapping his cheek lightly , fingers digging into his jaw. Louis’ skin was clammy , his face pale except for the bright flush across his cheeks, the kind that screamed overdose to anyone who knew what to look for — and Zayn fucking knew.

“Wake up, mate, c’mon,” Zayn muttered, shaking him gently, heart pounding so hard it hurt . Louis’ eyelids fluttered, a low groan slipping past his lips, but he didn’t open his eyes fully, head lolling to the side.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Zayn whispered, relief and fury tangling in his chest . “What the fuck have you done, Lou?”

Louis’ mouth moved like he was trying to say something, but it was just air , soft and broken, and Zayn had to lean in close to catch it .

“Play-Doh?” Louis mumbled, the word slurred and distant , like it was the only thing left in his mind.

Zayn’s throat closed up , eyes burning, because fuck — they were all fucked up , all of them, but Louis? Louis was supposed to be the one who always bounced back , the one who never went too far . Pills, coke, whatever — that was their lane. Not this. Not a fucking needle in his arm .

Zayn grabbed the needle, yanking it out with shaking hands , tossing it into the sink with a metallic clatter. “What the fuck are you playing at?” he hissed, his voice cracking halfway through.

Louis’ eyelids fluttered again, pupils blown , skin too pale , his bracelet — that fucking bracelet — still snug around his wrist, beads pressing into his skin like a brand.

Zayn’s stomach churned. “Get up,” he said, voice sharp with panic and anger and something dangerously close to heartbreak . “Get the fuck up, Louis.”

Louis’ hand twitched, fingers curling weakly, but he didn’t move otherwise.

“Don’t you fucking do this to me,” Zayn whispered, fingers digging into Louis’ shoulders , shaking him harder now. “Don’t you fucking dare.”

Louis finally cracked his eyes open — just barely — a glassy, unfocused smile tugging at his lips . “Zaynie,” he mumbled, voice all syrupy and soft , like he wasn’t seconds from scaring his best mate to death .

Zayn swallowed hard, anger flashing hot under his skin , because Louis always did this — made a joke out of everything , even when the world was fucking burning down around them .

“Don’t ‘Zaynie’ me,” Zayn snapped, voice shaking. “What the fuck is this, Lou? What the actual fuck?”

Louis’ smile faltered , just for a second, and that was worse than all the jokes in the world. “It’s nothing,” he said, voice too small , like a kid caught stealing from his mum’s purse. “Just… just a little something. Just something to take the edge off.”

“The edge off what?” Zayn demanded, even though he already knew . “Harry?”

Louis’ smile twisted into something ugly, a half-laugh, half-sob , head tipping back against the wall. “Everything.”

Zayn’s fists clenched at his sides, helpless and furious , because what the fuck was he supposed to do? This wasn’t like slapping a joint out of Louis’ hand or flushing pills down the toilet — this was bigger , worse , the kind of thing that didn’t get fixed with a pint and a pep talk .

“C’mon,” Zayn muttered, voice lower now, softer , fingers curling around Louis’ wrist, pulling him upright slowly , Louis swaying like a rag doll . “We’re done with this shit.”

Louis’ head dropped onto Zayn’s shoulder, too heavy , and Zayn held him there , arms tight around his back, voice shaking when he said, “You’re not dying on me too, Lou. Not fucking happening.”

Louis didn’t answer. Just breathed out slow , the last threads of the high leaving his body, and let Zayn hold him up .

Zayn didn’t give Louis a fucking choice .

The second Louis could stand on his own two feet without listing sideways , Zayn dragged him to his flat , tossed him onto the ratty old sofa with a thin blanket and a bucket , and told him straight-up, You’re not leaving until you’re clean.

Louis had laughed at first , voice hoarse and sharp-edged, still high enough to think it was a joke. Zayn didn’t laugh. Didn’t smile . Just stared at him with those dark, serious eyes , and Louis knew this wasn’t like all the times before — the pills after parties , the coke at the afters , the Xanax hangovers . This was different . This was the line they weren’t supposed to cross .

The first day was fine enough , or as fine as detox ever was. Louis was twitchy , his skin too tight, stomach flipping over itself every time he moved too fast . He puked twice — bitter and sharp , nothing in his stomach but bile and regret . Zayn sat next to him the whole time, rolling a blunt he wouldn’t share , just saying Ride it out, mate. It’ll pass.

By the second day, Louis was sweating through his clothes , shivering under the blanket , skin crawling with invisible bugs no matter how much he scratched. Zayn slapped his hands away when he dug too deep, muttering Don’t fucking scratch yourself raw, you idiot, before pressing a wet cloth to the back of Louis’ neck .

Louis tried to laugh it off , tried to make a joke out of the whole thing — called Zayn Nurse Malik , said he was one step away from asking for a sponge bath — but his voice shook too much , and Zayn didn’t bite back . Just gave him that look , the one that said I’m scared too, mate, even though neither of them would say it out loud.

The third day was the worst . Louis couldn’t sit still, couldn’t get comfortable, his body ached in places he didn’t even know could ache , and the cravings hit like a sledgehammer . He knew Zayn had flushed the stash — heard the toilet flush, heard Zayn curse when it clogged, heard him plunge it out with the kind of violence that only comes from watching your best mate rot in front of you — but knowing didn’t stop Louis from searching the flat anyway , rifling through Zayn’s bathroom cabinets, checking under the sofa cushions , even prying at the edges of the floorboards , just in case.

There was nothing. Not a single crumb.

Zayn watched him the whole time , arms crossed, jaw tight, silent and unflinching , until Louis finally collapsed back onto the sofa, trembling and angry and empty .

“You’re done, mate,” Zayn said, voice flat and serious , no room for argument. “You want to chase it again, you’re doing it without me.”

Louis had nodded , too tired to argue, the truth sitting heavy in his chest — if Zayn was out, Louis was fucking terrified to do it alone.

By day four, the worst had passed . Louis was drained , worn down to nothing , but the fever broke, the sweating stopped, and the itch faded into a dull hum , no worse than a bad hangover .

It wasn’t like Harry’s detox , not even close — Louis hadn’t been shooting up long enough for it to dig its claws in deep — but it was still hell in its own way .

And Zayn? Zayn stayed through all of it . No lectures. No guilt trips. Just there , like the anchor he always had been , rolling his eyes at Louis’ whining, shoving toast and water at him , threatening to punch him if he tried to sneak out for a fix .

When Louis finally sat up , four days clean , hair matted to his forehead , and said I think I could eat something that isn’t toast , Zayn just nodded and said ‘Bout time, dickhead.

And that was it.

The heroin was gone, flushed into sewer pipes beneath South London , and Louis knew — if he touched it again, he’d be doing it alone .

And somehow, that scared him more than the withdrawal ever had .

The weeks after were a blur of half-attempts at getting his shit together and full-blown fuck-it-all benders .

Louis stayed mostly clean — if you could even call it that . No heroin, no opioids, nothing that would knock him out cold , but everything else was fair game . Pills if they were offered, coke if it was there, and weed like it was oxygen , because that didn’t count. Not in their world. Not in the world they came from.

Zayn didn’t say much about it. He didn’t like it , Louis could tell — saw it every time Zayn’s jaw went tight when Louis lined up a bump at some shitty party, or when he passed him a tab at the park , knowing full well Louis had been off his tits the night before too . But Zayn didn’t stop him. Just kept showing up , kept handing him water , kept staring a little too long when Louis laughed too hard at nothing .

They didn’t talk about what happened in the bathroom , didn’t mention the word heroin , didn’t say anything about the metal box that Zayn had thrown out without asking permission . It was just understood — Louis had danced too close to the edge, and Zayn had yanked him back by the collar before he could fall all the way in just like they always did.

Harry was gone .

At first, Louis pretended it didn’t matter. Told himself it was just Harry being busy , caught up in the LA machine , too wrapped up in his career to remember to call home . But after the first month passed with nothing but silence , Louis knew better.

The texts stopped first — no more goodnight messages, no more photos from the studio, no more stupid inside jokes sent at 3am . Then the calls dried up , the ones where Harry would lie in some hotel bed in West Hollywood , voice soft and sleepy, asking Louis what he had for dinner , even though he didn’t really care about the answer.

The last time they spoke — really spoke — Harry had promised they’d figure it out. That they’d get back to who they used to be , that LA wouldn’t change him, that distance didn’t mean anything .

That was nearly two months ago now.

Louis could have reached out — could have swallowed his pride and called first , could have broken the silence if it meant hearing Harry’s voice just once more . But Louis was too stubborn , too pissed off, too hurt to make the first move. If Harry wanted to fade away , Louis wasn’t going to chase him .

So Louis filled the silence with pills and powders and smoke , with his friends and their stupid stories, with cheap lager and stolen fags and nights that blurred into mornings without ever really ending .

Harry used to be the first thing Louis reached for when life got too loud .

Now? Louis reached for anything that could make him forget Harry ever existed at all .

It happened quietly — like most relapses do.

At first, Louis could keep it casual , only using on weekends, just for a laugh , just to take the edge off when the flat felt too quiet , when Harry’s silence felt too loud . But weekends turned into weeknights , weeknights turned into mornings after benders , and soon enough, Louis was waking up shaky , mind already spinning ahead to the next time he could numb himself out .

Ketamine slid into the rotation without much thought . It wasn’t even one of his usuals, not really — ket was for ravers , for kids who wanted to float out of their bodies on sticky club floors, not estate boys who just wanted to stop thinking for a while. But someone offered, and Louis said yes, because saying no had started to feel like too much work .

The first time, it was funny — stumbling into the K-hole , laughing so hard his stomach hurt, feeling his limbs go weightless , like he was watching himself from across the room. But the second time, it felt quieter , almost peaceful, like being underwater , everything muffled and soft. And Louis liked that — liked how it shut everything off , how it made his body feel too heavy to carry all the shit he’d been dragging around .

Work started slipping almost immediately.

He’d call in sick — headache , flu , whatever excuse came easiest — but really, he just couldn’t get out of bed . Some mornings, his legs didn’t feel attached to his body , the ket lingering in his system until noon , leaving him floating and detached , too blank to function .

He bounced from job to job — retail, warehouse shifts , a café that only hired him because they needed someone last minute . It didn’t matter where; the pattern was always the same. Show up too hungover , eyes too wide , hands shaking too much when he counted change. Call in sick too many times. Get a warning . Get another one . Stop showing up.

Each time he lost a job, Louis told himself it wasn’t a big deal . Jobs like that were a dime a dozen . But really, it hurt — every time, it felt like another crack in the life he and Harry were supposed to build. They were supposed to get out together, grow up together , maybe save up for something better .

But Harry was gone.

And Louis was still here , stuck in the same cycle they’d sworn they’d escape.

The only thing that made it bearable was not being sober enough to care .

He started lying to his mum again. Started dodging her calls , ignoring Sunday dinners entirely because she’d see it in his face , the sunken eyes , the pale skin , the way his hands couldn’t stay still . Fizzy texted him every few days, just checking in , and Louis got good at faking normal — just enough jokes, just enough I’m fine, I swear to keep her from knocking on his door .

His friends saw through it , of course. Zayn especially — he knew the signs too well, saw the way Louis’ smile never quite reached his eyes , the way his shoulders tensed every time someone mentioned Harry . But they were all too tired to fight him on it. After everything they’d been through, what was one more relapse?

Louis stopped caring , because caring hurt too much.

He just needed to float — away from the guilt, away from the memories, away from every version of himself that Harry had left behind .

 

The night started like any other , which meant it started with a pint and a bump in the toilets , same as it had for years . Louis and Zayn met up at their usual, the grimy pub just off the estate , the kind of place where no one gave a shit if you smelled like weed or looked like you hadn’t slept in three days . It was home — or at least, it was as close to home as Louis could stomach anymore.

Zayn was already half-pissed , perched at the corner booth, bottle of something cheap and strong in front of him, and Louis slid in beside him like nothing had changed , like they were still 17 , like the last months hadn’t happened .

“Alright, you prick,” Zayn grinned, clinking his bottle against Louis’ pint. “Thought you were gonna ghost me tonight.”

Louis snorted, raising his glass. “What, and miss out on your charming company? Never.”

It was easy at first , the way it always was when the drinks were still cold and the drugs hadn’t fully hit yet. They talked shit about people they used to know , people who’d moved away, people who’d gotten clean and boring , people who acted like they were better than them now . Louis did another bump off his hand , right there at the table, because why the fuck not? They were past caring about subtlety .

Zayn joined in, rolling a joint right there on the table , and for a moment, it felt like old times — back when getting fucked up together felt like a victory , not a coping mechanism.

But somewhere around Louis’ third pint , Zayn’s smile started to slip .

“Oi,” Zayn said, a little too casual. “What the fuck’s up with you lately?”

Louis raised an eyebrow, licking foam off his lip . “What do you mean?”

“You know exactly what I mean,” Zayn said, eyes sharp even though his words were slurred. “You look like shit , mate. Worse than usual.”

Louis forced a laugh. “Cheers for that. Love you too.”

“No, I’m serious,” Zayn pressed, leaning in, elbows on the sticky table. “You’ve missed hangouts, sunday dinners, your mum called me . You’ve lost, what, three jobs in a month ? And don’t even try to tell me you’re just on molly and coke — I’ve seen you, Lou. You’re fucking fading away , and I’m not thick.”

Louis’ grin froze , the warmth draining from his face in an instant . “What, you keeping tabs on me now?” he snapped. “Gonna write me up or something?”

“Don’t be a dick,” Zayn shot back, voice sharpening. “I’m your mate , remember? Someone’s gotta fucking notice when you’re—” He cut himself off, waving a hand at Louis like it was self-explanatory . “Whatever the fuck this is.”

Louis’ knee started bouncing under the table, jaw tight , fingers drumming against his pint glass. “You’re one to talk,” he muttered. “You’re off your tits yourself half the time.”

“Yeah, but I’m not shooting up alone in my fucking bathroom ,” Zayn said, voice low and dangerous. “I’m not missing work and lying to everyone who gives a shit about me.”

Louis’ stomach plummeted , shame and rage curling together tight in his chest . “That was weeks ago ,” he snapped. “I’m not on that shit anymore.”

Zayn gave him a look — the look , the one Louis fucking hated , the one that said I know you better than you know yourself . “That supposed to make me feel better? ‘Cause it doesn’t.”

Louis shoved away from the table, too fast , the pint sloshing over the edge, soaking his sleeve. “Well, maybe I don’t fucking care how you feel,” he spat, shoulders tense. “Maybe I’m tired of you acting like you’re my fucking keeper .”

Zayn stood too, chest to chest , the table creaking between them. “And maybe I’m tired of watching you fucking kill yourself , mate,” he said, voice sharp and too quiet . “Because you’re doing a brilliant job of it .”

They stood there, locked in silence , breath sharp and shallow , the whole pub watching now — not that either of them gave a fuck.

Then Louis said the thing he knew would hurt most .

“Maybe if you weren’t so fucked up on meth and your own self-pity , you’d have noticed I was always this way, maybe if you weren‘t as high all the fucking time Eleanor would still be here.”

Zayn’s fists clenched , shoulders rising , and for a second, Louis thought he might actually swing — but he didn’t. Instead, Zayn just shook his head, disgusted , and said, “Don’t bring her into this. You’re officially not my fucking problem anymore, Louis.”

And just like that, Zayn walked out.

Louis stood there, pint spilling across the table , heart hammering in his chest , and for the first time in a long time, he felt stone-cold sober — and he fucking hated it .

He dropped back into his seat, fingers shaking , and pulled out his phone, scrolling through his contacts until he hit Harry .

He didn’t call. Didn’t text. Just stared at the name until his vision blurred.

Because Harry was gone.

And now, maybe, so was Zayn.

Louis lasted five days .

For five days, he did everything right — at least, everything he thought counted as right . He called his mum . He showed up to Sunday dinner, smiled at his sisters, hugged Fizzy too tight , promised he was doing fine. He even sat with her after, just the two of them , tea between them, and he listened when she talked about school and boys and how proud she was of him for trying so hard .

He texted Zayn , a weak apology, nothing flowery, just sorry for being a twat . Zayn left him on read , but Louis told himself that was fine. Zayn would come around. He always did.

He stayed sober too. For five days , he did nothing stronger than a spliff on the balcony and a pint with dinner . It was boring . It was fucking miserable . But it was something .

Except nothing filled the hole. Not really. It was like filling a broken glass , everything Louis poured into himself just leaked right back out . He felt fidgety and raw , every nerve ending too exposed , skin too tight , brain too loud , replaying every fuck-up he hadn’t had the courage to face . The silence left too much space , and the memories poured in to fill it .

By day six, he couldn’t take it anymore .

It started small— Valium to take the edge off , just one. Just so he could sleep without dreaming . Then a line, because he couldn’t get out of bed without his chest caving in . Then whatever he could get his hands on , because if he was going to fuck up, he might as well go all in .

Pills, powder, booze — whatever was closest . It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered when he was already drowning .

Rent? Who gave a fuck. The letters piling up on the counter, the notices tucked under the door , the landlord’s voicemails that he never even listened to — all of it felt far away , like someone else’s problem.

He spent the money on drugs and takeaway , whatever kept him from feeling empty for five fucking minutes. Every time the craving hit, he told himself it was the last time , that tomorrow he’d pull himself out of the hole for real .

Tomorrow never came.

The flat fell apart around him . Dishes piled up, rubbish bags splitting open , ashtrays overflowing . He stopped showering unless the smell of himself made him gag , stopped changing clothes unless he physically had to leave the flat .

Niall showed up once, banging on the door for a solid ten minutes , but Louis just lay on the sofa , heart racing, breathing through his mouth like a fucking kid hiding from a monster . When Niall finally left, Louis snorted a fat line and passed out with the telly blaring white noise .

He knew Zayn must have told the others — about the bathroom, the needle, the fight. Because no one else came after that. Even Niall, who usually couldn’t take a hint to save his life , stopped texting after a while.

It was just Louis, the drugs, and the flat he was about to lose .

And he didn’t even care enough to try and stop it .

But then the letters stopped coming.

For weeks, they’d been a constant — red-ink warnings and formal threats, stacking up on the counter like a paper mountain of failure , each one a reminder that Louis was one more day closer to losing everything . He’d stopped opening them after the first few. What was the point? He knew what they said — Final Notice , Immediate Action Required , Legal Proceedings Pending — all the shit he couldn’t face sober, so he just stayed high enough not to care .

Then, suddenly, they were gone.

At first, Louis assumed he’d been evicted without even realising it , that someone would show up to change the locks while he was too out of his mind to fight back . But when he finally peeled one open — the last letter in the pile — the words didn’t make sense at first.

Dear Tenant,

Your outstanding balance has been settled in full. No further action will be taken at this time.

Settled? By who ?

He didn’t have to wonder for long.

A few hours later, his phone buzzed — one notification, one text, one name .

Harry: I love you.

That was it.

No explanation. No call. No are you okay , no I’m coming home , no please pick up . Just three words, plain and sharp , straight to the heart like a fucking bullet .

Louis sat there on the filthy sofa , phone in his hand, staring at the screen until his vision blurred , the words swimming in and out of focus. His stomach twisted violently , heart hammering too hard , fingers twitching against his thigh.

Because Harry had found a way to take care of him anyway . Even after Louis told himself — swore to himself — that he didn’t need Harry anymore , that he was better off alone, that they were too toxic to save each other .

Harry had paid the rent .

Harry had kept the roof over his head.

Harry had done it without asking permission , without conditions, without saying a fucking word about it.

And Louis hated him for it .

Because if Harry still loved him enough to do that , how the fuck was Louis supposed to keep pretending Harry didn’t mean everything ?

His hands shook as he set his phone down, face up on the table, the message still glaring back at him.

I love you.

Louis wanted to scream. Wanted to throw something , punch the wall until his knuckles split open , until he couldn’t feel anything but pain . Instead, he grabbed the nearest baggie , the one he’d been saving for something like this , and poured out too much onto the table.

He didn’t even know what it was. Didn’t care. Crushed pills, powder, it didn’t matter. It was all the same — all just different ways to make the ache in his chest shut the fuck up .

He did it all.

Every last bit.

Because if Harry was going to save him , Louis was going to make damn sure he knew exactly what he was saving .

Notes:

In case anybody wondered, „ But the silence was too loud, and his body was too restless, and he knew there was nothing else left to take the edge off. Not like this. Not like H could.“ Is a refference for Harry, get it,,, cause,, it‘s H, haha..

Chapter 33: Chapter 33

It was three in the morning when Louis stumbled down the narrow stairs to the basement, barefoot and delirious , fingers twitching at his sides, the high roaring in his veins , all adrenaline and chemicals and grief he couldn’t process sober . The whole flat was too quiet , the silence pressing against his eardrums like a vice , and he needed to do something — anything — before it swallowed him whole.

He wasn’t looking for anything in particular when he shoved open the storage room door , knocking over a mop and sending a cloud of dust into the air . But then his eyes landed on the cans — half-buried under a pile of old boxes and broken furniture , bright orange labels still faded but readable .

Paint.

Bright fucking orange paint — the exact shade Harry had picked out for their first flat , back when they thought they’d live there forever , back before LA and record deals and silence stretched between them like an ocean .

We should paint the walls orange, Harry had said, grinning like a kid with a brand new idea , curls falling in his face as he flipped through the swatches. Like the sun’s always shining, even when it’s raining.

Louis had laughed at him, told him that was the ugliest fucking idea he’d ever heard , but Harry was Harry , and Louis would’ve lived in a fluorescent nightmare if it made him happy.

They never got around to painting. They never had time . Life got in the way, and then drugs and rehab and overdoses took over, and after that, the idea of painting anything felt ridiculous .

But now? Now, Harry was paying the rent.

This wasn’t Louis’ flat anymore. It was Harry’s .

So if Harry wanted orange fucking walls , Louis was going to give them to him.

He dragged the cans upstairs, one in each hand, banging them against the railing with every step, the sound too loud , rattling in his skull. By the time he kicked the door open and dumped them in the middle of the living room, he was sweating through his clothes , eyes blown wide, barely blinking .

He didn’t have paint rollers . Didn’t have a plan . All he had was a half-broken brush from under the sink , and a mind too high to think straight .

He pried the first can open with a butter knife , orange splattering across the floor , staining his hands, his jeans, his fucking feet. And then he started painting — no tape, no technique, just slapping it on the walls , streaks running down to the floor , drips catching in the cracks between the boards.

It was too bright, almost violent , the color burning into his retinas like a warning sign . But Louis didn’t stop. He painted the living room , the kitchen , even the fucking hallway , hands shaking so bad the brush kept slipping , leaving uneven slashes of color like a crime scene .

The air reeked of chemicals , paint fumes mixing with sweat and smoke , but Louis didn’t care. He was cackling , laughing too hard , muttering under his breath, “ Here you go, Play-Doh. Orange, just like you wanted. ”

When he ran out of walls , he started on the ceiling , climbing up onto the sofa, paint dripping onto his face, his hair, his clothes ruined beyond repair . He sang to himself , some old song they used to love, voice breaking halfway through because everything hurt and nothing felt real anymore .

By the time the sun started to rise, the flat was a disaster , paint cans tipped over, orange footprints leading from room to room, brushes stuck to the floor , Louis himself covered head to toe in sticky, drying paint , eyes wild , heart racing too fast under his ribs.

The flat was Harry’s now. And Louis had painted Harry into every single wall .

Then, because what else could he do , Louis collapsed onto the sofa, paint still wet beneath him, and laughed until he cried .

 

Louis woke up with a face full of dried paint and a pounding head , his body glued to the sofa by a layer of sticky orange streaks . His clothes were ruined, his hands crusted in paint , his mouth tasted like cigarettes and chemicals , and for a split second, he couldn’t even remember what he’d done .

Then he opened his eyes.

The walls were glowing.

Every single surface, from the skirting boards to the ceiling, was bathed in blinding, chaotic orange , uneven and streaked where he’d missed spots, splatters covering the floor like a crime scene made of SunnyD . It was hideous . It was perfect .

And it was the first thing that made him laugh in weeks .

“Jesus fuck,” Louis muttered to himself, sitting up, shirt peeling off the sofa with a sickening rip . His whole body ached, muscles stiff from whatever awkward position he’d passed out in , but there was no time to wallow — not when the flat looked like a fucking tangerine exploded inside it.

He stood, legs shaky, knees popping, and grabbed the nearest roll of paper towels . It was pathetic — like trying to clean up a flood with a napkin — but Louis was nothing if not stubborn as hell . He filled a bucket with soapy water , dropped to his knees, and started scrubbing, arms moving with frantic energy , like if he cleaned hard enough, maybe he could scrub the whole last year away .

The floors took hours , the orange streaks clinging to the wood like they belonged there , paint drying in thick ridges where his bare feet had tracked it from room to room . His knees ached, hands raw , sweat dripping down his spine by the time the planks were back to their usual scuffed brown , though the cracks still glowed faintly, like the floor itself was holding onto the memory .

The sofa came next — the same sofa his friends had hauled up three flights of stairs , swearing and laughing the whole way , back when this flat had been their fresh start . Now it was stiff with paint, the fabric ruined in patches , but Louis cleaned it anyway, scrubbing until his knuckles bled , until the cushions were damp and his hands shook .

By the time he stumbled into the bathroom, he could barely stand. His reflection looked like absolute shit — paint streaked through his hair, down his neck, splattered across his jaw like a Jackson Pollock self-portrait . His eyes were red and glassy , his pupils still a bit too wide, a tell-tale sign of what he’d done to himself the night before .

The shower was scalding , the water running orange for a solid five minutes as the paint melted off his skin, swirling down the drain like evidence being washed away . Louis stood under the spray, head tipped back , soap running into his eyes, scalp burning from how hard he scrubbed to get the paint out of his hair.

By the time he stepped out, skin bright pink from the heat and scrubbing, the flat still smelled like a paint factory explosion , but at least he was clean.

Clean, but not better .

Because Harry still wasn’t there.

And Louis still wasn’t sure what the fuck he was supposed to do now .

Zayn showed up just after noon , banging on the door like he was the fucking police , not bothering to wait for Louis to answer before shoving it open with his shoulder .

“Oi!” Zayn’s voice rang through the flat, loud enough to rattle Louis’ skull , which still ached from the comedown hangover from hell . “You dead or what?”

Louis dragged himself out of the kitchen, a cup of tea clutched in both hands like a lifeline , his hair still damp from the shower , his face cleaner than it had been in days — not quite presentable , but not the walking corpse Zayn had last seen either.

And then Zayn saw the walls.

He froze mid-step, head tilting, eyes narrowing, like his brain was trying to process the horror before him. “Mate,” he said slowly, turning a full circle, taking in the nuclear orange glow surrounding him . “What in the actual fuck—”

Louis’ grin split his face before he could stop it , and just like that , they both cracked up.

Zayn wheezed , doubling over, tears already forming , and Louis couldn’t stop himself — he laughed so hard he nearly dropped his tea , the sound high and stupid , his ribs aching from it .

“Louis,” Zayn choked out between breaths, wiping his eyes. “What the fuck possessed you? Did you lick a paintbrush or just snort the whole can? ”

“Neither,” Louis coughed, barely able to speak through his laughter. “It’s— it’s Harry’s fault! ”

That sent Zayn over the edge, nearly collapsing against the wall, his hoodie sleeve streaking through a still-wet patch , leaving a Zayn-shaped smear . “Of course it’s Harry’s fault,” he howled. “Of course it fucking is!”

Louis nodded furiously, tears streaming down his face , barely able to breathe. “He wanted—” He paused for a hiccupping breath, chest heaving. “He wanted to paint our first flat orange, back in the day. Said it’d be like living inside the sun .”

Zayn howled , head tipped back, arms flung wide like he was embracing the madness . “Well, congrats, mate — you’ve officially turned this place into a fucking tangerine nightmare. ”

Louis wheezed , bending over, one hand braced on his knee, the other clutching his mug. “He paid my rent,” Louis added between fits of laughter. “So I figured fuck it — he gets his orange walls. ”

Zayn fell against the wall , still laughing, and for a minute, it was just them — two idiots in a too-bright flat, laughing like they were sixteen again , like none of the shit they’d been through had ever happened.

When the laughter finally died down , Zayn pushed himself off the wall, wiping his eyes with his sleeve , face still split in a grin. “You’re fucking mental, you know that?”

“Yeah,” Louis said, breathless, smiling right back . “But you love me anyway.”

Zayn sighed, giving Louis a fond shove to the shoulder . “Unfortunately.”

And just like that, they were good again — not perfect, not fixed, but good enough to get through the day without killing each other.

“Right,” Zayn said, surveying the chaos. “You got any beer in this sunburnt hellhole , or am I gonna have to nick some from next door?”

Louis shrugged. “Check the fridge — I think there’s some cans buried under the leftover Chinese.”

Zayn wandered off toward the kitchen, muttering about “fucking orange walls” under his breath, and Louis stood in the middle of the room, taking it all in — the mess, the color, the unexpected hope tucked between the cracks .

For the first time in weeks, Louis didn’t feel entirely alone .

Zayn stayed for a few hours — long enough to eat the leftover Chinese straight from the cartons , drink three lukewarm cans of beer , and roll two spliffs they smoked out the window , laughing about nothing and everything at once .

They didn’t talk about the heroin . They didn’t talk about the fight . They didn’t even talk about Harry , not really. It was just easy , the way it used to be — before rehab, before relapses, before death and disappearing acts turned them all into haunted versions of themselves .

But eventually, Zayn stretched his arms above his head, yawned dramatically, and said, “Right, mate — I gotta bounce. Got work in the morning. Try not to paint anything else while I’m gone, yeah?”

Louis forced a grin, too wide, too fake , but Zayn didn’t call him on it. “No promises.”

They hugged at the door , Zayn’s fingers lingering just a second longer than necessary, like he wasn’t sure Louis would still be standing when he came back.

Then Louis was alone.

The silence came back fast — too fast , swallowing up the flat like a wave over sand , filling every crack with something heavy and too familiar . Louis stood in the middle of the blindingly orange living room, staring at the walls until his eyes hurt , until the color started to pulse like it was alive.

It felt wrong. All of it.

What the fuck had he been thinking? Painting the walls for Harry , like Harry even gave a shit about this place anymore — like Harry gave a shit about him anymore . It wasn’t their flat , not really. It was Louis’ , and Louis had fucked it up — made it too bright , too loud, too much like hope , and Louis couldn’t stand it .

He grabbed his hoodie off the back of the chair — still stiff with dried paint , but it didn’t matter — and shoved his feet into his trainers. The walls glowed at his back as he walked out the door, locking it without looking , heart hammering in his chest like he was fleeing a crime scene .

Outside, the air was cold, biting into his skin, but it felt better than being trapped inside that fucking orange box . He walked fast, no real destination , just away . Away from the walls, away from what they meant , away from the ghost of Harry still hanging in the air .

He didn’t know where he was going, but anywhere was better than home .

Louis hadn’t even meant to grab the drugs, but his hands worked faster than his brain , tucking a few loose pills and a half-bag of powder into his hoodie pocket before he even knew what he was doing. Muscle memory — that’s what it was. Old habits clinging to him like second skin , even after all the promises and contracts and rehab stays.

The streets were quiet , too late for anyone with sense to still be out, but Louis wasn’t looking for sense . His feet carried him without direction , past the off-license, past the football pitch, past the spot where they’d all gotten too high to stand back when they were sixteen and thought they were invincible . He walked until his legs ached, until his fingers were too numb to roll a cig , until he ended up somewhere he hadn’t even thought about in years .

The squat.

It was still there, somehow — the crumbling old house at the edge of the estate , windows boarded up , door hanging off its hinges, the front garden littered with cans and needles and burnt foil . Louis had been there once, maybe twice, years ago, back when they’d all been fearless little shits , sneaking in to smoke and drink and pretend they were cool enough to belong . He hadn’t thought about it since.

But tonight, some bloke outside — skinny, shaking , skin like yellowed paper , eyes too wide — swore blind that Eleanor lived there now .

Louis knew that wasn’t true. Couldn’t be. Eleanor was gone , buried under a weeping tree , her ashes scattered with shaky hands and too many tears . He knew because he was the one who’d held the urn . The one who’d stood there and made the fucking speech . The one who’d promised her, silently, that he’d get his shit together — and then immediately broke that promise the second the dirt covered the grave they dug with their own hands.

But something about it — about hearing her name said out loud , about the thought that maybe, just maybe , she was hiding out somewhere, still breathing , still part of this fucked up world with them — was too comforting to resist.

So Louis followed the guy inside.

The house was worse than he remembered — walls covered in graffiti , floors sticky with god knows what , the air thick with damp and smoke and something sour . Bodies were scattered across the floor , some asleep, some just too far gone to move , and Louis stepped over legs and arms like they were furniture , the floor creaking under his weight.

He knew Eleanor wasn’t here. Of course he did. But pretending felt easier than facing reality. Easier than going home to those blinding orange walls and the silence waiting for him there.

He found a corner, a half-broken armchair pushed against the wall , and collapsed into it, fingers already working at the baggie in his pocket . He wasn’t even sure what it was — didn’t care. He lined it up on the arm of the chair , rolled up a crumpled tenner , and snorted it fast, the burn racing straight to his frontal lobe , clarity and chaos hitting him at the same time.

He leaned back, eyes drifting shut, the house humming around him , and imagined, just for a second, that if he opened his eyes, Eleanor would be sitting across from him, smirking like she used to, a cig dangling from her fingers, calling him a fucking idiot with all the love in the world.

He knew it was a lie. But fuck , it felt better than the truth.

Louis didn’t decide to move into the squat. There was no moment of resolution , no bag packed, no announcement made. It wasn’t like that. It was more like he just… forgot to leave.

The first night was meant to be temporary — a bad night, too high to face the blinding orange walls , too raw to sit in the silence of that flat Harry paid for. He couldn’t stand the guilt of it , the way those walls felt like skin wrapped too tight , a permanent reminder that even when Harry was gone, Harry was still saving him . So Louis stayed out , wandered aimlessly until his feet led him to the squat again . He should have turned around. But some bloke — skinny, twitchy, eyes darting like he was watching invisible things skitter across the walls — recognized him.

“She’s here, you know,” the bloke said, voice low like a conspiratorial whisper . “Eleanor.”

Louis’ heart stopped . He knew that was a lie , knew it so deeply it burned his throat. They’d buried her , all of them there in their best thrift shop clothes, passing around a joint like it was a sacrament, saying goodbye with smoke in their lungs . He held the urn . He scattered the ashes . But hearing her name — spoken so casually, like she could just walk into the room any second — made something twist hard and painful in Louis’ chest.

So he followed the bloke inside.

That’s how it started. One night. Then two. Then a week.

Louis stopped going back to the flat at all. The squat was easier — easier to fade into , easier to forget himself in , easier to be just another body on a filthy mattress , no expectations, no guilt, no bright orange walls screaming Harry’s name . In the squat, no one asked questions. No one expected you to show up to work or call your mum or be okay . You just had to exist , and Louis barely managed even that.

There were pills aplenty , passed hand to hand like sweets, and Louis took them all. Uppers, downers, things he couldn’t even name , chasing one numbness after the next, always one step behind peace . But it wasn’t enough. Not after everything.

And then someone offered heroin .

He said no. Of course, he said no.

He wasn’t that bad , not yet. He wasn’t like them , wasn’t one of those people , the ones with sunken faces and track marks and trembling hands . He was just a kid from the estate who liked to get fucked up sometimes . Except sometimes was every day now. And the no got softer each time they asked, until one night, it wasn’t a no at all .

The needle slid in too easy , the vein popping like it had been waiting for this , and the high was familiar and devastating , a warm blanket over his brain, everything turning soft and distant . It wasn’t scary anymore. It was home .

Louis floated for hours, barely noticing when someone took the needle from his hand, gently brushing his hair back, whispering nothing in particular . He woke up to sunlight bleeding through a crack in the boarded-up window , his jeans damp, his mouth dry, his mind empty except for the craving already gnawing at his bones .

He told himself it was just once . Then it was just to take the edge off . Then it was every night .

The squat became his whole world , a blur of dim rooms and burnt foil and shuffling feet , where the only measure of time was the hours between hits . He stopped answering texts. Stopped checking his phone entirely. Stopped thinking about work or family or Harry . He didn’t even realize he’d been gone from the flat for almost two full weeks .

He wasted fast , bones sharpening under his skin, cheeks hollowing out, clothes hanging looser each day . But no one noticed, because everyone in the squat was a ghost already . They were all just passing time , filling the silence with smoke and poison , waiting for nothing at all .

And Louis fit right in.

He didn’t feel sad anymore. Didn’t feel much of anything. Just floated, one hit at a time , until the world blurred into nothing .

Louis slipped off the grid so quietly , it almost felt intentional.

At first, the unanswered texts were easy to excuse. His mates were used to him being flaky as fuck , especially when he was in one of his moods . Niall joked about it in the group chat — Bet he’s just on a bender again, someone check the offy or Zayn’s sofa — and everyone laughed, because that was Louis . He vanished sometimes, but he always came back . Just like El used to do.

Maybe that was why after a few days, the jokes stopped being funny .

His mum’s calls went to voicemail. Every time. Lottie left voice messages — Louis, you’re being a knob, just text back so Mum stops worrying — but they were left on read, the little double check marks staring back at her with nothing behind them .

Zayn showed up at the flat, knocking for a full ten minutes before kicking the door down , only to find the flat empty , the bed still unmade from the last time Louis had slept there , clothes scattered across the floor , the faint chemical reek of paint still hanging in the air .

There was nothing. No sign of Louis.

The fridge was empty, save for a carton of off milk and a half-eaten kebab , the ashtray overflowing , orange paint smeared across the floor where Louis’ footprints had tracked it from room to room. His phone charger was still plugged in beside the bed. His toothbrush dry as dust in the bathroom.

It was like he’d just… evaporated .

Zayn rang everyone , trying to trace Louis’ last steps. But no one had seen him. Not at work — he hadn’t shown up in over two weeks . Not at the corner shop. Not at any of their usual haunts. Even Oli, who had a sixth sense for sniffing out Louis at his worst , came up blank.

They all knew what it meant , even if no one said it out loud.

Louis was using again. Properly using.

The kind of using that swallowed you whole , the kind that meant you didn’t want to be found.

It was one of those nights where time didn’t exist — just the shuffle of bodies in the dark, the flicker of lighters, the hiss of foil heating up, the thin wail of someone too far gone echoing from the next room. Louis was deep in it , slumped in his corner, veins still singing from the last hit , brain floating somewhere outside his body , hovering just under the ceiling like a lost balloon. Everything was slow and too soft , his fingers tingling like they weren’t attached to him anymore .

The door creaked, and Louis barely bothered to turn his head . New people came through all the time. Kids running from something , older users crawling back to old habits , people like Louis who just needed somewhere to rot where nobody would try to save them.

But this kid  made Louis sit up.

He was too young , barely sixteen if that, curly hair a fucking mess , hands shoved deep into the pockets of a hoodie that was too big for him, eyes darting like he wasn’t sure if he’d made a mistake walking in. His trainers were too clean , his skin still had that softness teenage boys hadn’t quite outgrown.

Louis froze , heart thudding painfully slow , because for one impossible second, all he could see was Harry — Harry at sixteen , walking into rehab for the first time, eyes blown wide, scared out of his mind , sweat still sticking to his curls, withdrawal shaking his hands .

Louis had called him Play-Doh , because Harry had said he felt like it — all soft and pliable and easily squashed . It stuck. It was their thing .

And now this kid — this poor fucking kid — had walked into the worst place imaginable , and all Louis could think was: Play-Doh, you shouldn’t be here .

The kid shuffled closer to the group, sitting down near the window, hands shaking too much to roll his own cig. Someone passed him a pipe instead , and he took it like he’d done it before but not enough to be comfortable , fingers trembling as he lit it.

Louis couldn’t stop staring .

“Play-Doh,” Louis mumbled, voice hoarse and quiet , like the word slipped out before he could catch it .

The kid didn’t even look up .

“Play-Doh,” Louis said again, louder this time, and someone laughed , because no one knew what the fuck he was on about.

“Fuck‘s sake he‘s at it again,” someone slurred from the corner, half-asleep, voice thick with whatever they’d shot up that night .

Louis didn’t answer. His stomach was churning , guilt flooding through him so hard it almost sobered him up . Almost.

The kid finally looked at him , and there was so much of Harry in him . His eyes were a deep shade of green , his face soft where Harry’s had grown sharper over the years, his smile too bitter for someone who should’ve still been worried about school and getting grounded and stupid teenage shit .

Louis couldn’t unsee it.

Play-Doh. His Play-Doh.

He had to get out .

Louis stumbled to his feet, legs wobbly , crashing into the wall as he pushed past the others. Someone muttered a curse as Louis stepped on their foot, but he didn’t stop — couldn’t stop — shoving the door open with too much force , spilling into the cold night air , sweat breaking out across his back .

He stood there, breathing too fast , heart hammering so hard it made his fingers twitch , and all he could think was What the fuck am I doing?

Harry was gone . Louis had no clue where he even was now , and the last time they’d talked properly, it had been a fight . And still — still — Louis was seeing ghosts of him everywhere , even in some kid he’d never met .

Louis wiped a shaking hand over his face, smudging dirt and old paint across his cheek, and laughed bitterly , because of course this was his life now — hallucinating the love of his life  in a fucking squat .

“Play-Doh,” Louis whispered to himself, voice cracking.

Then he sat down on the crumbling front step, lit a cigarette , and cried so quietly no one inside even noticed.

Louis didn’t sleep that night. Not really.

He sat on the crumbling front step , cigarette burned down to the filter between his fingers, staring out at nothing , trying to shake the image of that kid’s face from his mind. But it wouldn’t go away — too familiar, too much like a version of Harry that didn’t exist anymore , the Harry he’d met in rehab all those years ago, sixteen and scared and trying so fucking hard to believe things could get better .

This kid had none of that hope left. Louis had seen it in his eyes — that hollow, empty glaze that only came from seeing too much too young , from realizing too soon that the world doesn’t give a fuck about you . And Louis knew — knew in his gut — that if he left, if he walked away and pretended it wasn’t his problem, someone would hurt that kid before the week was out .

Because Louis knew exactly what these places were . They weren’t just flophouses. They were holding cells for people no one gave a shit about. And when no one gave a shit about you, anyone could do anything to you , and no one would come looking .

So Louis stayed.

He dragged his aching body back inside, sat down next to the kid like they were mates already , like it was the most natural thing in the world. The kid didn’t say anything — just glanced at Louis sideways, eyes still darting, hands still shaking hard enough to rattle his lighter .

“You got a name, Play-Doh?” Louis asked, voice low, cracking around the edges.

The kid snorted softly, a quick puff of air , but didn’t answer.

“Fair,” Louis said. “You don’t have to tell me. You can be Play-Doh if you want.”

The kid’s lip twitched like he wanted to smile, but his shoulders were still too tight , his whole body tensed like he was waiting for something bad to happen . Louis knew that feeling all too well.

“You need anything?” Louis asked, voice gentler now. “Food? A cig? Something to… you know.”

The kid shook his head, fingers twitching in his lap. “I’m alright.”

“You’re not,” Louis said bluntly. “But neither am I, so, what the fuck, right?”

That earned him a real smile — tiny, quick, but there.

They sat in silence for a while, Louis pulling out his half-crushed pack of cigs , shaking one loose and offering it. The kid took it too fast , like someone who hadn’t had anything offered to him in a long time . Louis lit both, their hands bumping clumsily in the process, and they smoked like old men on a park bench , saying nothing, watching the ceiling stains instead of each other.

“So,” Louis said after a while, voice lazy, soft from the smoke. “What’s your deal, Play-Doh? How the hell did you end up here?”

The kid didn’t answer right away, just took a long drag , staring at his knees. “Does it matter?”

Louis thought about that. “Nah,” he said. “I guess not.”

Another silence stretched between them — not uncomfortable, just tired , like neither of them had the energy to fill it with bullshit small talk .

“I didn’t wanna go home,” the kid said eventually, voice so quiet Louis almost missed it. “Home’s shit.”

“Yeah,” Louis said softly. “I get that.”

“Where’s your home?” The kid asked, turning to look at him properly for the first time. “You don’t look like you’re from here.”

Louis smiled, small and crooked. “Flat ‘round the corner. But it’s not really mine anymore.”

“Why not?”

Louis shrugged, looking at the floor. “Doesn’t feel like mine. Feels like someone else’s place I’m squatting in. Long story.”

The kid didn’t press, and Louis was grateful. He wasn’t ready to talk about orange walls and unanswered texts and Harry paying rent for a flat Louis couldn’t face anymore .

They smoked through two more cigs before the kid asked, voice hesitant, “You been here long?”

“Couple weeks,” Louis admitted. “I meant to leave a hundred times, but.…” He shrugged again, and the kid nodded like he understood. Because he probably did.

“Some of the people here are…” The kid trailed off, chewing his lip.

“Yeah,” Louis said. “Some of ‘em are alright. Some’ll rob you blind if you blink too long. And some…” His throat tightened, because this was the part that scared him most. “Some just wanna hurt someone smaller than them.”

The kid’s shoulders jerked up in a sharp, involuntary flinch. Louis caught it, swallowed hard.

“Listen,” Louis said, turning toward him. “I’m not gonna ask what happened to you. That’s your business. But I’ll tell you this, yeah? If anyone even looks at you wrong , they’re gonna deal with me first.”

The kid stared at him for a long time, something flickering in his eyes — something too close to hope , too fragile, like it wasn’t used to being there .

“Why do you care?” the kid asked, voice almost suspicious. “You don’t even know me.”

Louis sighed, leaning back against the wall, tipping his head back to stare at the cracks in the ceiling . “Couple years back,” he said softly, “I met this kid. Curly hair, too soft for the place we were in. He was scared shitless. First time in rehab. You remind me of him.”

The kid didn’t say anything, but his hands had stopped shaking. Just a little.

“You’re not him,” Louis added quickly. “I know that. But I didn’t look after him like I should’ve, not back then. Not enough. So…” He shrugged. “Maybe I get a second chance.”

The kid nodded once, small and sharp, like that made sense to him.

They didn’t talk much after that. Louis handed him a half-eaten bag of crisps , they passed a bottle back and forth until the kid’s eyelids started drooping, and Louis let him fall asleep with his head on Louis’ shoulder , too exhausted to keep himself upright.

Louis didn’t sleep, though. He sat awake, watching over his new Play-Doh , making sure no one came too close, fingers twitching every time someone shuffled past in the dark.

He knew he should leave. Go home. Call his mum. Tell Zayn where he was.

But Louis didn’t leave.

Because someone had to look after the kid.

And if no one else would — Louis would make it his life‘s mission .

The next few days blurred into each other, time losing all meaning in the squat. It was always dark, even during the day — the windows too caked in grime , the air thick with smoke and the sour tang of bodies left too long without soap . Most people inside were so far gone they didn’t bother keeping track of days or nights , just chased the next high until they passed out cold or shook themselves awake for more.

Louis stuck close to the kid — his Play-Doh, even if this one wasn’t Harry , even if this one would probably never know what the nickname actually meant. Louis barely touched his own stash, only doing a bump here or there to keep the headache away , to keep his hands steady enough to roll their shared cigarettes, to keep himself from falling apart completely . It was the most sober he’d been in a place like this in years , and it was fucking torture . Every nerve ending felt too raw , every sound too loud , his brain constantly itching for something to take the edge off .

But Louis didn’t let himself go under , not when the kid was right there — too small, too young, and exactly the kind of target Louis knew this place would eat alive if he blinked too long .

It happened on the third night.

Louis had stepped out for five minutes , just to take a piss behind the bins , because the bathroom inside was too full of needles and vomit to stomach . When he came back, some man — older, greasy, teeth like a cemetery , hands too quick and too familiar — had the kid pinned in the corner , fingers grabbing at his hoodie , trying to slip underneath , murmuring something low and filthy into his ear .

Louis saw red. Proper red , like his vision blacked out at the edges and all he could see was that hand, those fingers, that terrified look on the kid’s face .

He didn’t think. Just acted .

Louis crossed the room in three strides , grabbed the bloke by the back of his greasy hair , and slammed his face into the nearest wall hard enough to crack plaster . The man howled , hand flying to his bleeding nose , but Louis wasn’t done. He hit him again, fist to jaw , knuckles crunching on impact, until someone finally yanked Louis back , laughing like it was all a big fucking joke .

The man stumbled out, clutching his face, muttering curses Louis didn’t bother to hear. The kid was shaking hard , but Louis didn’t say a word , just put an arm around his shoulders , steering him toward the mattress they were sharing, muttering, “You’re alright. You’re alright, I got you.”

He didn’t cry — Louis would’ve understood if he did — but he was quiet the rest of the night, barely moving, his fingers twisting in the frayed edge of Louis’ hoodie , like a child holding a security blanket . Louis didn’t sleep again.

The next day, Louis left him for fifteen minutes , just long enough to nick some bread and apples from Tesco , because they hadn’t eaten in over a day , and Louis’ stomach was starting to eat itself . The security guard barely looked at him — estate kids knew how to slip past the tills unnoticed , especially when they looked like ghosts wrapped in skin .

But when Louis got back, the kid was sitting cross-legged on the mattress , a baggie of little white pills resting in his palm , his expression flat and too familiar — that same blank face Louis had worn dozens of times , right before swallowing whatever was offered just to feel something different.

The one offering the pills was some older woman , rail-thin, eyes half-closed, skin the color of spoiled milk . “Just a couple quid,” she was saying, voice all sugar and rot. “Or if you’re short, there’s… other ways.”

Louis dropped the Tesco bag on the floor and snatched the pills right out of the kid’s hand , crushing them under his boot. “Not fucking happening,” Louis said, voice sharp enough to cut . “Back the fuck off.”

The woman sneered, too far gone to really argue , just muttered something about self-righteous little cunts and shuffled off, leaving Louis fuming in her wake.

“What the fuck were you thinking?” Louis hissed, turning to the kid, his hands shaking so bad he nearly dropped the bread .

“I dunno,” the kid mumbled, shoulders curling in like he wanted to disappear. “I just… I didn’t know what else to do.”

Louis’ chest ached , sharp and familiar. “Listen to me,” he said, kneeling down, forcing the kid to look him in the eyes. “You don’t take shit from anyone in here, you hear me? Not unless you know exactly what it is and where it came from. Half these people don’t even know what they’re selling.”

His lower lip trembled , but he nodded. “I just wanted to stop feeling like this.”

Louis exhaled hard , feeling that knife-twist of guilt burrow deeper . “I know,” he said softly. “I know. But trust me, Play-Doh — it’s not worth it .”

The kid gave him a fragile smile , the kind Louis had seen on Harry’s face too many times — hope held together with tape and string , barely staying upright. Louis’ stomach churned.

“C’mon,” Louis said, handing him a bruised apple. “Let’s eat something before we both fucking faint.”

They sat side by side on the mattress, knees knocking together, splitting the loaf of stolen bread between them, eating like prisoners on their last meal . Louis’ stomach didn’t stop hurting, but at least he wasn’t hungry anymore .

He wasn’t leaving. Not now. Not ever.

Not until Play-Doh could walk out of here on his own — clean, safe, and still breathing .

Because if Louis hadn‘t been able to protect Harry, at least he could try to protect him .

Louis knew what was coming. He’d been through it enough times to read the signs in his own skin. The ache started in his spine first — that deep, bone-deep throb , like his marrow itself was turning to liquid. Then came the sweats , the way his clothes stuck to him even though it was cold enough to see his breath. His stomach was already twisting , that gnawing, hollow nausea that made everything taste like metal. His skin itched from the inside , nerves sparking under his flesh like someone had set a live wire beneath his veins.

He knew exactly what it was. Withdrawal .

It would have been so easy to fix — one bump, one pill, one hit — but that wasn’t an option now. Not here. Not with Play-Doh watching his every move , wide-eyed and too trusting , like Louis was something safe . Louis couldn’t stomach ruining that . Couldn’t bear to let this kid — this too-young, too-sweet kid — watch him fold like a paper crane .

So Louis swallowed it down. Every symptom, every craving, every wave of sickness that tore through him like a blade to the gut.

When his legs started shaking so bad he couldn’t stand up without leaning against the wall , he played it off like he was just knackered . When his hands trembled so much he could barely light their cigarettes , he muttered something about the cold . And when his stomach cramped up so viciously he had to bite his own knuckles to keep from crying out , he told the kid he just had a shit takeaway earlier .

The kid believed him. Because why wouldn’t he? He still thought Louis was some kind of protector , some seasoned veteran who could handle anything this place threw at them . Not a washed-up addict barely hanging on , not a burned-out wreck one step away from joining the bodies no one ever woke up .

Louis didn’t sleep. Couldn’t. Every time he closed his eyes, his muscles jerked , his skin crawled , and his heart pounded so hard it felt like it was trying to punch its way out of his chest . He sat up all night, knees to his chest, arms wrapped around himself to stop the shaking , watching the door like it was his personal job to keep the monsters out .

And they were monsters — Louis had been around long enough to know that some of the people who squatted in places like this weren’t just addicts. Some were predators who knew no one would come looking if they did something awful. Play-Doh was fresh meat , and Louis had seen the looks some of them gave him — calculating, hungry, cruel .

Not fucking happening. Not on Louis’ watch.

Louis couldn’t protect himself for shit. But this kid? This kid was his to save.

Every time someone came too close, Louis’ body would move on instinct , standing between the kid and whoever was lingering, his posture sharp, his stare sharp enough to cut . Most of them backed off when they saw him — Louis still had that edge , that bit of feral, estate-boy reputation that said don’t fucking try me unless you want your teeth knocked out .

But there were always exceptions . The desperate ones. The ones who didn’t care.

Louis caught one of them staring at Play-Doh while he slept — a bloke in his forties, skin like tissue paper , track marks so fresh they were still bleeding down his arm. Louis didn’t even hesitate — just walked right up to him, stood toe-to-toe , and said, “If you so much as breathe in his direction again, I will kill you.”

The bloke blinked, stunned — like no one had ever threatened him with such deadly calm before — and shuffled off without a word.

Louis’ hands were shaking so hard after that, he had to sit down before his legs gave out .

He didn’t have shit left to fight for , not really — but Play-Doh? He was worth it. He was every mistake Louis had ever made , every regret , every chance to do something right for once . Protecting him became the only thing that mattered , the only reason Louis could justify dragging his own body through withdrawal hell .

Every craving got swallowed down. Every ache and tremble and spike of fear got buried under the need to stay alert , to stay stronger than whatever nightmare was waiting at the edge of the room .

Louis felt like he was dying .

But Play-Doh slept safely.

That was enough to keep him going.

Winter crawled in slow and mean , sinking into the bones of the squat like it belonged there, the kind of cold that crept under your skin and stayed, no matter how many layers you piled on. The windows were still cracked, boards barely hanging on, so the wind sliced through the rooms like a knife through damp paper , and no one had the energy to try and fix it .

Louis hadn’t called anyone — hadn’t texted, hadn’t even looked at his phone — in over a month and a half. If anyone out there was wondering where he’d gone, he didn’t know . Couldn’t think about it. The outside world felt like a story someone else told him once , something that belonged to better versions of himself , ones that still had hope and futures and something to lose .

Here, time moved differently — hours dissolving into days, days into weeks, until the calendar stopped meaning anything. The only markers were the increasing bite of the cold , the way everyone’s breath started fogging inside the house, the way joints stiffened and cracked with every move. The squat wasn’t just a shithole anymore — it was a freezer , the damp in the walls turning to ice that glittered under the weak winter light when it bothered to show up at all.

The kid — his Play-Doh who wasn’t Play-Doh anymore — shivered so hard some nights Louis thought his teeth might crack . His hoodie was too thin , his trainers too worn , and Louis couldn’t take it . So one night, without saying a word, Louis peeled off his own hoodie , then his jacket, shoving both into the kid’s hands.

“Put these on,” Louis muttered, voice raw from too many cigarettes and not enough sleep .

“But—” the kid started, but Louis shook his head, sharp and tired.

“No arguments, kid.”

It was the first time Louis had called him that — just kid , no nickname, no playful lilt to it. Just kid , flat and serious, like the weight of what they were doing here had finally settled on both of them.

The kid slid into the hoodie and jacket without another word, swimming in the oversized fabric , but warmer for it . Louis sat back down beside him, bare-armed , cold biting at his skin, but he didn’t care. If the kid got pneumonia and died , that was on him. Louis wasn’t letting that happen.

The cold got into everything — under the mattresses, inside their shoes, into their food when they could even find any . Some nights Louis sat awake, arms wrapped around the kid , rubbing circles into his back just to keep his blood moving , because the kid’s hands went numb so fast, and Louis knew exactly what happened to kids left to freeze in places like this .

His own fingers started splitting open , skin too dry, knuckles cracked and bleeding , but he didn’t complain . Didn’t say shit about it, just stuffed his hands into his pockets and ignored the sting.

The kid started coughing after about two weeks — wet and deep , like something was stuck inside him and couldn’t come loose . Louis thought about taking him to a clinic , even started to walk him there once, but they didn’t even make it two streets before the kid panicked — real, full-body panic , shaking and stammering about foster homes and police and no fucking way — so Louis brought him back . Wrapped him up tighter. Tried not to think about what it meant if the cough got worse .

Louis’ own withdrawal was a ghost haunting his veins , always there, always whispering, but he shoved it down, down, down, because the kid mattered more. Louis stopped doing anything harder than a bump or a joint , just enough to stay on his feet , just enough to keep his brain from eating itself alive . He told himself he was protecting the kid , but really, the kid was the only thing keeping him alive .

When Louis shivered too hard to sleep , the kid would press close to him, both of them curled under a pile of mismatched blankets , sharing body heat like stray dogs huddled together in a storm . It wasn’t comfortable, wasn’t warm enough, wasn’t anything really — but it was all they had.

Louis stopped thinking about home. About Harry. About his mum. About the flat and the fucking orange walls . All that existed was this place , this cold, this kid — this kid Louis had decided to keep alive if it killed him .

That was the only promise left that Louis could still keep .

Notes:

Not me introducing a new character halfway through the story… This is either the start of something new, or the end of a chapter.

Quote of the day, because that fucked me up while writing:
„He was just a kid from the estate who liked to get fucked up sometimes. Except sometimes was every day now. And the no got softer each time they asked, until one night, it wasn’t a no at all.“

Chapter 34: Chapter 34

Louis didn’t remember deciding to quit for good. There was no big moment , no dramatic flush of his stash, no vow made under a full moon — none of that bullshit. It just… happened , because the kid needed him more than Louis needed to be numb.

It was a bitch , of course. The first few days were hell — shaking so hard he couldn’t roll a cig , his stomach twisting itself into knots , sweat freezing on his skin even though the cold had set into his bones . His head screamed for something, anything , but Louis ignored it, curled up beside the kid at night, whispering stupid jokes and half-remembered stories , anything to distract himself from the craving .

The kid didn’t know. Didn’t need to know. It wasn’t his burden to carry .

And somehow, Louis got through it .

Not clean — not really, because he still smoked, still drank when there was booze — but off the heavy shit . The heroin was done , buried under the same dirt Louis had shoveled over Eleanor’s urn , one more ghost in the pile of regrets .

It was one of those mornings that looked the same as every other — sun too pale , light barely managing to seep through the grime-streaked windows , air so cold Louis could see his own breath . He woke up to the usual ache in his back , joints stiff from sleeping on a mattress thinner than a tea towel , stomach growling because they’d split the last crust of bread the night before .

He turned over to wake the kid, shaking his shoulder gently, fingers numb and clumsy — but the kid didn’t move. Not even a groan.

Louis’ stomach dropped , his heart skipping so hard it physically hurt , and for a second, he was sixteen again , kneeling next to Zayn’s bed, shaking him awake after they’d both taken too much , begging him to open his eyes.

“Oi,” Louis said, voice cracking. “Come on, kid, up and at ‘em.”

Nothing.

Louis leaned down, cheek to his mouth , holding his breath until he felt the faintest puff of air against his skin . Alive. Barely, but alive .

“Fuck this,” Louis muttered, voice sharp with panic. “We’re done. I’m done.”

He didn’t think. Just acted , the way he always did when shit hit the fan. Pulled the kid’s arms around his neck , lifted him straight off the mattress , knees shaking under the weight, but Louis was stubborn as hell , and there wasn’t a force in the universe that was going to stop him now .

The cold hit them both like a slap , cutting through Louis’ too-thin shirt immediately — his jacket still wrapped around the kid, hanging off him like a cocoon . The kid’s head lolled against Louis’ shoulder, face too pale , lips cracked and almost blue, breathing shallow .

“Come on, kid,” Louis muttered, voice thick. “You’re not dying on me. I didn’t clean up just to watch you die.”

He walked thirty minutes in the biting cold , shoes slipping on frost-slick pavement , arms trembling under the kid’s weight, but Louis didn’t stop. Couldn’t stop. Every step was a swear, a prayer, and a plea all at once , his teeth chattering so hard they ached , skin burning red from the wind, lungs stinging like he’d been breathing glass shards .

The emergency clinic came into view like a fucking beacon , the automatic doors opening with that familiar clinical whoosh , and Louis stumbled inside, boots leaving wet prints across the tile, voice cracking when he said, “He needs help.”

The receptionist barely looked up — kids like Louis came in all the time , too thin, too pale, too wrecked — but something about the way Louis stood there, clutching the kid like his life depended on it , made her press the buzzer anyway, calling someone from the back.

Louis wouldn’t sit down. Just stood there, rocking slightly , the kid limp in his arms, whispering nonsense , promises he couldn’t even remember a minute later, just to keep talking, to keep the kid tethered to this side of reality .

“You’re alright, kid,” Louis whispered into his hair. “You’re alright, I got you. I got you.”

He didn’t even realize he was crying until the nurse took the kid from his arms, hands gentle, voice soft, saying, “You did good, love. You did real good.”

Louis’ knees gave out.

He hit the floor, arms empty, and for the first time in weeks, he let himself break .

 

Louis sat in the hard plastic chair next to the nurse’s station, arms curled tight around his middle like he could somehow hold himself together if he just squeezed hard enough . His clothes were still damp from the walk, his fingers so numb they barely felt like they belonged to him, and the warmth of the clinic made his skin sting in contrast to the cold outside.

The kid was somewhere in the back, hooked up to IV fluids , the doctors muttering about malnutrition and exposure — words Louis already knew but hearing them out loud still made his stomach flip. They didn’t ask too many questions; estate kids showed up half-dead all the time, no papers, no backstory needed . But eventually, a nurse leaned down beside him, clipboard in hand, voice gentle in that practiced, professional way .

“Love, do you have any ID on you?” she asked.

Louis blinked at her, head empty , because no one had called him love in weeks, maybe months. “ID?” he repeated blankly, like the word was foreign .

“Yeah,” she smiled softly. “Just so we can put something on the file. And we need someone to sign for him, are you his brother? Dad?”

That dragged Louis back to reality real fast . “Oh,” he said, digging through his filthy jeans pockets , pulling out his battered wallet , ID still tucked inside where it’d been for years . It was old, creased at the edges, a photo of him at sixteen staring back — cheeky smile, no track marks, eyes still bright . It felt like another life entirely . He was a lot sweeter, this lad.

She took it, scanned it, and handed it back. “Do you want me to call someone for you?” she asked softly. “A parent, maybe? A mate?”

Louis nearly said no out of habit — but then the reality of it all hit him , the weight of the last month and a half , the withdrawal, the fear, the orange fucking walls, the overdose that almost wasn’t, and the fact that if he hadn’t woken up that morning, the kid wouldn’t have either . His chest felt tight , too small to hold all of it in, and before he could think twice, he croaked, “Zayn.”

The nurse smiled like she understood exactly what kind of name Zayn was — the kind you said when you didn’t need a last name, because they were family one way or another . “What’s his number, love?”

Louis rattled it off from memory , watching her dial it in, the ringtone humming quietly in the space between them. It only rang twice before Zayn picked up.

Louis didn’t register the time passing after the nurse made the call. He just sat there, hands curled into fists on his knees , eyes fixed on the too-clean floor , the sharp smell of disinfectant stinging his nose . Every few minutes, he’d glance toward the hallway where they’d taken the kid, half-expecting someone to walk out and tell him he was too late , that all his half-assed efforts to protect the kid weren’t enough after all.

His chest felt too tight, his fingers tingling with cold and nerves , a phantom comedown headache pounding at the base of his skull like a distant drum .

He didn’t notice Zayn until he was right there — standing in front of him, out of breath , hair sticking up in every direction like he’d literally run the whole way .

Louis barely had time to open his mouth before Zayn’s hands were on him — grabbing his shoulders, his face, his arms , scanning him like he couldn’t believe Louis was real , like he expected Louis to crumble to dust if he touched him too hard.

“You fucking idiot,” Zayn said, voice wrecked, equal parts furious and heartbroken . “We’ve been looking for you everywhere.”

And then he was hugging him, crushing him so tight Louis swore something popped in his ribs , but Louis didn’t care. He clung back just as hard , fingers fisted in the back of Zayn’s hoodie like he was anchoring himself to the world again .

Zayn smelled like cheap cologne and stale smoke , his hoodie still warm from whatever bed he’d been dragged out of , and Louis felt something snap inside his chest , something he’d been holding onto too tightly for too fucking long . The first sob broke loose without permission , shuddering through him so hard his knees almost gave out , and Zayn just held on tighter , swaying them side to side like it was muscle memory.

“Where’ve you been, mate?” Zayn muttered, voice cracking. “We thought — fuck, we thought you were dead.”

Louis shook his head against Zayn’s shoulder, couldn ’t talk yet , throat clogged up with too much guilt and too much relief . His fingers curled tighter into Zayn’s hoodie, knuckles white, like if he let go, he might disappear again .

“You fucking ghosted all of us,” Zayn went on, softer now, one hand coming up to grip the back of Louis’ neck , grounding him. “Your mum called me every day, mate. Even Niall stopped making jokes after the first week.”

Louis just shook his head again, helpless , tears soaking into Zayn’s hoodie, chest heaving . He felt like a kid, like a right mess , and Zayn just held him through it , not rushing him, not telling him to pull himself together — just letting him fall apart in his arms , exactly the way Louis had always done for Zayn when it was Zayn spiraling .

“Okay,” Zayn murmured, after a few minutes. “Okay, you’re here now. That’s what matters.” He stepped back just enough to hold Louis’ face in both hands , thumbs brushing under his eyes , and Louis couldn’t even look at him — too ashamed, too fucking exhausted.

“Christ, Lou,” Zayn muttered. “You look like shit.”

Louis huffed out a wet laugh , the sound broken and shaky. “You too.”

Zayn snorted, but his smile didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Fair.”

They stood there for a minute, breathing each other in , both of them knowing this wasn’t over , not even close. Louis was still half a ghost , his skin too pale, his hands trembling, his hoodie hanging off him like it belonged to a much bigger lad .

“C’mon,” Zayn said, voice gentler now. “Let’s get you out of here, yeah?”

Louis opened his mouth, the kid, the kid, the kid sitting heavy on his tongue, but the words didn’t come out. Not yet. So he just nodded, letting Zayn steer him toward the door, one arm still slung tight around his shoulders.

They got halfway down the hall before Louis stopped short, body tensing under Zayn’s arm . Zayn glanced at him, brows furrowing. “What?”

Louis swallowed hard, heart hammering again . “I — I can’t leave.”

Zayn’s eyes narrowed, confusion flickering into something sharper. “The fuck do you mean, you can’t leave?”

“There’s—” Louis’ throat felt too tight. “There’s someone. I can’t leave him here.”

Zayn’s face went completely blank , the way it always did when he was trying not to freak out too fast . “What the fuck are you talking about?”

Louis took a shaky breath, fingers twisting the hem of his hoodie . “There was a kid, Zayn. Back at the squat. I brought him here. He’s — fuck, he’s just a kid.”

Zayn stared at him, mouth opening, then closing, like his brain couldn’t catch up to what Louis was saying. “You’ve been—” He shook his head. “What the fuck, Lou.”

“I couldn’t leave him,” Louis said, voice too high, too fast . “He’s, like, sixteen. They would’ve— they would’ve fucking destroyed him if I left.”

Zayn closed his eyes for a second, rubbing a hand down his face , the wheels in his head spinning visibly . “Okay,” he said finally, voice tight. “Okay. Let’s see him.”

Louis led the way, heart hammering the whole time, and when they reached the exam room, Zayn took one look at the kid — pale, too thin , Louis’ hoodie and jacket swallowing him whole — and his expression melted from confusion to quiet devastation .

“Jesus Christ,” Zayn muttered. “Of course you couldn’t leave him.”

Louis’ shoulders sagged with relief, throat tightening all over again. “He didn’t have anyone, mate. No one. I couldn’t— I just couldn’t.”

Zayn didn’t say anything for a long moment, just took a deep breath, then clapped a hand on Louis’ shoulder. “Alright, mother hen. Let’s get your stray home.”

Louis’ laugh was half a sob , but for the first time in weeks, it felt like he could breathe again .

Before Louis could explain, the nurse appeared at his side, all calm professionalism as she glanced between them. “Mr. Tomlinson? Your friend is stable, but we need to keep him for at least a few more hours. He’s severely dehydrated and underweight, so we want to get some fluids in him and monitor his vitals before we discharge him.”

Louis’ heart kicked up , panic flickering across his face. “But I— I need to—”

“You can stay with him,” the nurse added, sensing the rising anxiety. “But we can’t let him leave until we’re sure he’s stable.”

Louis’ shoulders sagged, relief colliding with exhaustion , and he nodded. “Alright. Yeah. Okay.”

The nurse offered a small smile and left them alone, Zayn still looking at Louis like he’d just announced he’d adopted a puppy .

“What the fuck did you get yourself into?” Zayn asked, incredulous.

Louis exhaled, running a hand through his hair, fingers trembling faintly . “I couldn’t leave him there, Z. He’s like, what? Sixteen? Maybe. Same curls, same scared face. He walked into the squat like... I couldn’t—” His voice broke , shoulders hitching. “I couldn’t leave him.”

Zayn’s expression shifted , softening at the edges, like he understood more than Louis needed to explain . “You see Harry in him, don’t you?”

Louis’ chest ached , his stomach flipping violently at the mention of Harry’s name. “Yeah,” he admitted, voice tight. “I do.”

Zayn sat down heavily in the plastic chair beside Louis, elbows braced on his knees, and for a long moment neither of them spoke . The fluorescent lights hummed overhead, casting everything in that clinical, washed-out glow that made everyone look half-dead .

“I was using again,” Louis said suddenly, voice flat. “Heroin.”

Zayn didn’t flinch. Didn’t act surprised. Just exhaled slowly, nodding once, like he’d already known. “Yeah,” he said softly. “Figured.”

“But I stopped when he showed up,” Louis went on, voice thick. “I had to. Couldn’t do it in front of him.”

Zayn’s brows pulled together, like that hurt to hear — like the only thing strong enough to make Louis quit was some random kid and not himself or the people who loved him . Louis could see the hurt, could almost taste it , but Zayn didn’t say it out loud. He just rubbed his hands over his face, tired and frustrated and proud all at once .

“And Harry?” Zayn asked, too casually.

Louis froze. “What about him?”

Zayn chewed the inside of his cheek, the way he always did when he was hiding something . “No one’s heard from him either.”

Louis’ stomach dropped through the floor .

“What?” His voice cracked. “What do you mean?”

“I mean,” Zayn said carefully, “he’s gone quiet. Not posting, not calling anyone back. His label says he’s working, but Niall’s cousin works at that studio — hasn’t seen him in a month, not since your mum called him to ask if he‘s seen you.”

Louis’ breath caught painfully in his chest, fingers tightening around his own knees. “So where is he?”

Zayn shook his head. “We don’t know. But…” He trailed off, but Louis already knew what he wasn’t saying.

“He’s using again,” Louis said, barely a whisper.

Zayn didn’t answer. Didn’t need to.

Louis slumped back in his chair, eyes burning, throat tight. “And no one told me.”

“No one could tell you,” Zayn said. “You were fucking missing.”

Louis couldn’t argue with that .

They sat there for a while, silent , the weight of everything settling between them like wet cement .

Louis leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, head in his hands. “I just wanted to be better for him.”

Zayn’s voice softened. “Then be better for him now.”

Louis swallowed hard, throat aching, and nodded. “I will.”

They didn’t need to say anything else.

They stayed there — two estate kids that weren’t really kids anymore, sitting in plastic chairs, waiting for a kid who wasn’t theirs to be strong enough to leave a place like this .

And for the first time in weeks, Louis felt like maybe — just maybe — he had a reason to pull himself together.

It was hours later — too many hours , if anyone asked Louis — when the nurse finally led him and Zayn back into the small, sterile room where the kid was propped up against a pillow, looking half-dead but still breathing . That was the only thing Louis cared about at this point — that he was breathing .

The IV bag was nearly empty, the slow drip of fluids keeping him hydrated enough to stop the tremor in his hands . His skin still looked waxy and pale , but his eyes were open — barely — and when they landed on Louis, a flicker of recognition crossed his face .

“You’re not dead,” the kid muttered, voice hoarse and dry.

Louis snorted softly, the sound half relief, half exhaustion. “Neither are you. So I guess we’re even.”

The kid tried to smile, but it came out more like a twitch of his lips , like even that much effort was too much for his body right now. Louis grabbed the cup of water off the tray and held it to his mouth , tilting it just enough for him to take a few sips.

Zayn stood by the door, arms crossed, watching quietly. This was Louis’ moment , and Zayn knew better than to step into it .

Louis set the cup down and leaned against the side of the bed, fingers drumming nervously on the rail. “Look,” he said, voice softer now. “I dunno where you were planning on going after this, but I’m guessing you don’t really have a place.”

The kid’s gaze darted to the side — that guilty, guarded look Louis knew all too well , the kind that said yeah, you’re right, but I’m not gonna admit it .

“You can stay with me,” Louis offered, voice light like it wasn’t a big fucking deal , like it hadn’t taken him days of thinking and pacing and panicking to come to this conclusion. “It’s nothing fancy — actually, it’s a shithole — but it’s warm, and it’s better than a squat.”

The kid’s brows pulled together, confusion flickering across his face. “Why?”

Louis didn’t know how to explain it without sounding insane . That the kid reminded him of someone else , someone Louis had once sworn to protect and failed miserably . That this was his chance to make it right , to rewrite one small part of his history .

Instead, Louis shrugged. “Because I know what happens to kids who’ve got nowhere to go.”

The kid swallowed hard, Adam’s apple bobbing painfully in his thin throat. “What’s the catch?”

Louis’ smile was thin. “No using. Not under my roof. You do, you’re out. End of.”

The kid’s face twisted slightly , like that was almost too much to ask , but then he glanced at Zayn, standing there like a silent wall of judgment , and back at Louis, who had dragged him out of hell and carried him through the cold , and his shoulders slumped in surrender .

“Okay,” the kid said softly. “Deal.”

Louis held out his pinky without thinking, some old habit from way back , and the kid hesitated for a beat before hooking his own around it, their fingers barely brushing. It felt like something sacred , in a stupid, childish way — a pact between two people who had nothing left to lose .

“Right,” Louis said, straightening up. “Let’s get you the fuck out of here.”

The walk to Louis’ flat felt longer than usual , mostly because the kid could barely keep himself upright and Louis refused to let him fall behind . He kept one hand on the kid’s back the whole way, a steadying anchor , while Zayn walked on his other side, smoking a cig and grumbling about the cold .

When they reached the building, Louis braced himself before opening the door. He hadn’t been back since the night he’d painted the whole place orange , and now, in the cold light of day, it looked even worse — streaky walls, paint splattered on the floor, the faint chemical smell still hanging in the air.

The kid blinked slowly at the sight. “It’s… really orange.”

Louis sighed. “Yeah. Bit of a long story.”

Zayn chuckled darkly. “Bit of a breakdown, more like.”

Louis flipped him off, then guided the kid inside, nudging the door shut with his foot. The flat was cold, heat turned off to save money , but at least it was clean-ish, His friends must‘ve cleaned up after Louis had jumped off the grid , and it was theirs . Well, Harry’s — but that didn’t matter now.

“Couch or bed?” Louis asked.

The kid blinked at him again, like he couldn’t quite believe this was happening. “You’re giving me your bed?”

“Mate,” Louis said, dropping his keys on the side table. “I’ve slept on floors way worse than my couch.”

Zayn snorted. “That’s the understatement of the year.”

The kid didn’t argue, just shuffled toward the bedroom, Louis’ jacket still wrapped around him , and collapsed onto the bed like his bones were made of lead .

Louis stood in the doorway for a second, watching him breathe, counting the rise and fall of his chest like it was the only thing that mattered.

“Alright, Mother Teresa,” Zayn muttered, handing Louis a cigarette. “What’s the plan here?”

Louis took the cig, lit it with shaking hands , and exhaled slowly. “Keep him alive,” he said simply. “That’s the plan.”

Zayn shook his head, but there was something like pride in his eyes. “You’re a fucking idiot,” he said again.

“Yeah,” Louis agreed softly. “I know.”

But for the first time in a long time, Louis felt like maybe he was an idiot for the right reasons .

 

Louis stood under the shower for what felt like an hour , scrubbing his skin so hard it turned pink, but no matter how much soap he used, it felt like the squat still clung to him , like dirt had settled deep into his pores, into his bones. It wasn’t just the filth — it was everything. The cold, the hunger, the emptiness . The weight of every bad decision, every relapse, every time he’d told himself this was the last time , only to crawl right back into the same hellhole .

But none of that mattered now. The kid was safe — dead asleep in his bed , breathing slow and steady — and Louis was home , or what was left of it anyway.

Zayn had shoved a bin bag full of Louis’ old clothes at him after he got out of the shower, telling him to get his shit together because everyone was coming over. Louis didn’t argue, just pulled on a clean hoodie and some joggers , the smell of laundered clothes almost foreign after weeks of wearing the same shit every day .

When the knock came at the door, Louis felt that twist in his stomach — guilt curling up his spine, because he hadn’t seen any of them in so long . But when he opened the door, there they were — Niall, Oli, and Zayn all crammed into the tiny hallway, grinning like idiots , and then there was a girl Louis didn’t recognize , standing slightly off to the side, hands shoved into the pockets of her oversized coat.

The flat felt too small for all of them , bodies crammed onto the sofa, leaning against the wall, sprawled across the floor, but it also felt warm — like home , like the way things used to be before everything went to shit .

“This is Amelia,” Zayn said, jerking a thumb toward the girl, who gave a shy little wave . “She was a mate of Eleanor’s.”

Louis’ stomach clenched at the mention of Eleanor — her absence still a hole none of them knew how to fill — but he didn’t ask questions. Didn’t need to. If she was one of Eleanor’s, she was one of theirs.

“Nice to meet you,” Louis said, voice a little rough, but sincere .

“You too,” Amelia said softly. She looked about their age, maybe a little older, hair dyed a soft lavender , her clothes a little too neat for their lot. But her eyes — they had that same look Louis saw every time he looked in the mirror. Like she’d seen some shit. Like loss was a language she spoke fluently .

Niall, of course, broke the tension immediately, flopping onto the sofa and kicking his feet up on the coffee table . “Christ, Lou, you look like you’ve seen the inside of a washing machine for the first time in your life.”

Louis flipped him off, but the smile tugging at the corner of his mouth was real . “Fuck off, Niall.”

“Love you too,” Niall grinned, already lighting a joint .

The kid stayed asleep the whole time, curled up under Louis’ blanket like a cat hiding from the world , and no one asked about him — not yet. Maybe they thought it was a hookup , maybe they just assumed Louis had picked up another stray , because that’s exactly what Louis always did, Harry had been a similar story after all.

They talked shit for a while, Niall cracking jokes about Zayn’s tragic love life , Oli making up stories about a bloke he met on Tinder who turned out to be a magician-slash-taxidermist , and Louis just sat there , soaking it all in. It felt weirdly normal , like no time had passed at all — even though Louis knew they all had that look in their eyes , the one that said we’re so fucking glad you’re not dead .

Amelia fit in easier than Louis expected — she didn’t try too hard , just laughed when the jokes were funny and nodded along when they talked about Eleanor , her face going a little tight, like she was still grieving too . Louis didn’t push — he knew better — but he also made a quiet mental note to keep an eye on her .

Eventually, when the laughter died down and the joint was halfway down to a roach , Niall finally asked, “So, uh… who’s the lump in your bed?”

Louis sighed, rubbing a hand down his face . “Some kid from the squat,” he said simply. “He’s got no one. Couldn’t leave him.”

The room went quiet for a beat, the weight of it settling in.

“You’re a soft fucker,” Oli muttered, but there was affection in it , not judgment.

Louis shrugged. “Someone’s gotta be.”

Niall leaned back, cracking open a can of cheap lager. “Hope you told him the rule.”

“What rule?” Louis frowned.

“If you live here, you gotta bring something to the table,” Niall grinned. “Cigarettes, booze, takeaway menus — something.”

Louis snorted. “He’s a kid, mate.”

“Alright, takeaway menus it is,” Niall grinned, and just like that, the seriousness melted away , the conversation slipping back into bullshit banter and terrible jokes .

Louis let it wash over him, warm and easy , and for the first time in a long time, he felt like maybe things could be okay .

The next morning came too soon, the weak grey light spilling through the window as Louis stood at the stove, cooking eggs like it was some normal fucking Tuesday instead of the first proper meal the kid would have in god knows how long . The flat was quiet — the kind of quiet Louis had always hated, because silence let your mind wander to places you didn’t want to go. But this morning, it felt different , the air softer , like the flat itself was trying to settle around the new reality of having someone else there .

The kid had slept through everything — through Louis’ friends piling in and out , through the joint smoke curling in the air, through Louis sitting on the edge of the bed at 3am just to make sure he was still breathing .

Louis hovered. He couldn’t help it . Every cough, every shift in the sheets, had Louis’ heart leaping into his throat. It was stupid , he knew that, but after weeks of watching the kid waste away in that squat, after carrying him half a mile through the cold , Louis couldn’t stop himself.

So yeah, he was a mother hen , pacing the kitchen in his socks, half-distracted, keeping one ear tuned to the soft breathing coming from the bedroom. The eggs were slightly overdone , toast a little too burnt, but Louis figured the kid wouldn’t complain about free food .

Eventually, the bedroom door creaked open, and the kid stumbled out, hair a mess , Louis’ too-big hoodie slipping off one shoulder , blinking at the brightness like he’d forgotten what mornings looked like .

“Hey,” Louis said softly, nodding toward the table. “Sit down. Got breakfast for you.”

The kid shuffled over, still half-asleep, sitting down with the boneless slump of someone who wasn’t used to beds anymore. He stared at the plate for a second, like he wasn’t sure what to do with it , then picked up a fork, stabbing into the eggs with hesitant fingers .

“Thanks, dad,” the kid mumbled around a mouthful of toast, voice soft and automatic , like it slipped out without thinking.

Louis froze .

For a split second, the world tilted sideways , breath catching in his throat like he’d been punched in the ribs . Dad. Not mate, not Louis, not even sir — but dad , like it was the most natural thing in the world .

The kid didn’t even notice — too busy eating like he hadn’t seen food in days — and Louis didn’t correct him . Couldn’t. His heart ached in that deep, quiet way , like something precious had just been placed in his hands — something he knew he didn’t deserve but would protect with everything he had anyway .

“You’re welcome,” Louis said softly, going back to the stove, flipping another egg just for the sake of doing something with his hands, swallowing the lump in his throat like it was nothing.

The kid ate everything on his plate, barely slowing down to breathe, and Louis hovered the whole time — refilling his water, nudging the butter closer, breaking the toast into smaller pieces without thinking , every gesture so natural it scared him .

When the kid finally leaned back, full for the first time in who knows how long , he mumbled a soft, “I can wash up.”

“Nah,” Louis said immediately. “You rest. You still look like you’ve been dragged backwards through hell.”

The kid gave him a small smile , the kind that didn’t quite reach his eyes, but it was there. A little trust, a little relief . Louis would take it.

They sat in silence for a bit, just the sound of the ticking clock and the faint hiss of the kettle Louis had put on, until the kid spoke up again.

“What now?” he asked, voice small. “What happens next?”

Louis leaned against the counter, mug in hand, thinking hard .

“Well,” he said eventually. “You’ve got a roof over your head now. Food. Bed. That’s a start.”

The kid nodded slowly. “And… you’re sure it’s okay? Me being here?”

“Course it is,” Louis said, voice firm. “Long as you stick to the deal. No using. And I mean it.”

The kid swallowed hard, but nodded again. “I swear.”

Louis exhaled, relief curling somewhere under his ribs . “Alright then.”

It wasn’t a plan, not really — but it was enough for today.

“Now,” Louis added, “you’re gonna sit your arse down on the sofa and watch shit telly with me, and we’re both gonna act like we’ve got our shit together , even if we don’t.”

The kid laughed — soft and breathy , but real — and for the first time in too long, Louis felt like maybe, just maybe , he could be someone worth looking up to .

Even if it hurt like hell to hear the word dad .

Notes:

all hail the nameless kid!

Chapter 35: Chapter 35

The kid had been awake for less than an hour when the first knock came at the door, loud and impatient, followed immediately by Niall’s voice shouting, “ Open up, you lazy prick! ”

Louis rolled his eyes but couldn’t help the small smile tugging at his mouth as he went to open it. Niall tumbled in first, followed by Oli, Amelia, and Zayn, arms full of Tesco bags and takeout containers , like they were moving in for the day .

It was a tradition of sorts , ever since they were kids — when one of them was down, the rest showed up, no questions asked . Food, cigs, booze, shit telly and absolute nonsense — they didn’t always know how to fix things , but they knew how to be there , and most of the time that was enough.

The kid stood just inside the living room, awkward as hell, like he wasn’t sure where to put himself . Louis could see it — the way his shoulders hunched, the way his eyes darted toward the door like he was already planning an escape route .

Louis clapped a hand on his shoulder, gentle but firm . “Alright, you lot,” he said to the room. “This is the kid. He’s staying.”

The kid flinched a little at the attention, but Niall was already grinning, elbowing Zayn. “Told you he picked up a stray. It’s like his fucking hobby.”

“Piss off,” Louis muttered, but his smile didn’t fade.

“Welcome to the madhouse,” Amelia said softly, offering the kid a small smile. “You hungry?”

The kid glanced at Louis, like he needed permission to answer, and Louis gave him a tiny nod. It hurt a little bit, it was like Harry and Eleanor all over again.

“Starving,” the kid admitted quietly.

“Good,” Oli said, plopping a greasy bag of chips onto the table. “Because we brought enough to feed an army .”

They settled in like they’d never stopped , Niall already digging through the bags , shouting about who ordered what and complaining when Zayn stole the last spring roll . The kid stayed quiet at first, perched on the edge of the sofa, but Louis kept an eye on him , nudging food in his direction until his plate was fuller than anyone else’s .

No one asked where Louis had been , and no one said Harry’s name. It was a silent agreement, unspoken but understood — whatever had happened between Louis and Harry belonged to Louis and Harry , and dragging it into this room , into this fragile peace , would help no one.

Even Niall, who usually had the subtlety of a brick to the face , showed some restraint , heading out to the tiny balcony when he lit up, leaving the air inside cleaner than usual . Louis caught the kid watching Niall, wide-eyed, and it hit him — this might’ve been the first time the kid had seen people getting high without it turning ugly .

“You want a drink?” Amelia asked the kid softly, pulling him out of his trance.

“Just water,” he said, so polite it made Louis’ chest ache a little.

“Fancy,” Niall said through the window, exhaling a thick cloud of smoke . “Got yourself a well-behaved one, Lewis.”

Louis grinned. “For now.”

They ate on the floor, sprawled out with plates balanced on their knees, shouting over each other about which Love Island season was the worst , Niall insisting it was 2018 , Oli saying every season was shite . The kid laughed a few times , actual laughter, and Louis saw the way Zayn noticed — the way they all noticed, accepting him without question .

He didn’t need to earn his place here. He was already family .

After the food was gone and the mess piled into one sad, greasy tower on the table, Niall finally flopped back against the wall, legs stretched out , and sighed dramatically. “Well,” he said. “This is nice. Almost feels like old times.”

Almost.

Louis didn’t miss the way Zayn glanced toward the hallway , where the bedroom was, the only room Louis hadn‘t attacked with the orange paint. Louis didn’t say anything, just leaned back, nudged the kid’s foot with his own, and passed him the remote.

“Your turn,” Louis said. “Pick something shit.”

The kid grinned. “Deal.”

For the first time in months, the flat felt like a home again — messy, loud, chaotic, but full of people who gave a shit . And Louis? Louis could breathe a little easier, even if the ache in his chest never quite went away.

It was late afternoon when the second knock came — softer than the first , but Louis still recognized it instantly. His mum had a particular way of knocking, three taps and a pause , like she was giving him one last chance to make sure he was done hiding anything before she walked in.

Louis opened the door, and there she stood — Johannah Deakin in all her glory , coat still buttoned up to her neck, hair slightly windswept from the walk over, eyes already brimming with relief and worry at the sight of him.

“ Oh Baby ,” she said, voice shaking slightly, and before Louis could even speak, she had him wrapped up in her arms , squeezing him so tight he could barely breathe .

Louis melted into the hug, face buried in her shoulder, the familiar scent of her perfume — clean laundry and something floral — instantly making his throat tighten . He felt like a kid again , like the whole world could crumble around him, but as long as his mum was there, somehow, it would still be okay .

She kissed the top of his head, the way she always did , and then pulled back, hands firmly on his face , tilting his chin up to inspect him the way only a mother could.

“You look like shite ,” she said bluntly, but her voice was soft, not scolding. Just worried.

“Cheers, Mum,” Louis muttered, but the small smile tugging at his mouth gave him away.

She stepped inside, shrugging off her coat and immediately giving Zayn a hug too , because that’s how it worked — if you were one of Louis’ people , you were hers too .

And then her gaze landed on the kid, who was still curled up on the sofa, eyes darting between all the unfamiliar faces. Her brow lifted slightly, but she didn’t ask right away. First, she turned back to Louis, arms crossed, waiting for an explanation .

“Alright,” she said. “ Start talking. ”

Louis sighed, rubbing the back of his neck, already knowing this was gonna be a lot . He glanced at Zayn, who gave him a slight nod — you’ve got this, mate — and Louis took a deep breath.

“It’s… been a rough couple of weeks,” he admitted. “I needed some space, didn’t wanna come home, so I went to the squat.” He could see the wince flash across her face at the word squat , but she didn’t interrupt. “That’s where I found him.” He nodded toward the kid. “No one looking out for him, barely old enough to survive in a place like that. I couldn’t leave him.”

Johannah’s expression softened immediately, her heart too big for her own good .

Just like her son’s.

“Oh, love,” she whispered.

“So, I brought him here,” Louis continued. “He’s staying with me. I gave him the rules — no using, no dealing, none of that shit.”

“Good rules,” Johannah said firmly.

Louis nodded, fingers twitching slightly where they hung by his sides. “I’m— I’m okay, Mum. I swear.” It wasn’t entirely true , but it was true enough .

Johannah stepped closer, cupping his cheek, thumb brushing gently over his stubbled skin. “I’m proud of you,” she said softly. “For looking after him. For coming home.” Then her eyes narrowed slightly, mother-senses tingling. “But you’re leaving something out.”

Louis’ stomach flipped, pulse kicking up . “It’s nothing—”

“Louis,” she said, voice low and steady, the mum voice that cut through bullshit like a knife .

He swallowed hard. “I might’ve slipped a little.”

Zayn snorted from the corner. “ A little , he says.”

Louis shot him a look, but his mum was already in full mum mode , hands on her hips, eyes sharp. “How bad?” she asked.

“Just pills and coke,” Louis lied smoothly, leaving out the H . “But I’m done now.”

Johannah didn’t look thrilled, but she also didn’t look surprised . “We’ll talk about that later,” she said, because she always knew when to pick her battles . “For now, let’s focus on the fact that you’re here, and you’ve got a kid to take care of.”

Louis nodded, relief flooding his chest , because even if he couldn’t tell her everything , at least she knew enough . Enough to keep holding him accountable , the way she always had.

She crossed the room, lowering herself onto the sofa next to the kid, who sat up straighter, eyes wide. “Hi, sweetheart,” she said gently. “I’m Louis’ mum. You hungry?”

The kid hesitated, then nodded. “A bit.”

“Well, you’re in luck,” Johannah smiled. “Because I brought my famous casserole, and if Louis hasn’t already burned the kitchen down, I think we can heat it up.”

The kid smiled — small, hesitant, but real — and just like that, Johannah adopted another stray , no questions asked.

Louis stood there, watching his mum fold the kid into her warmth , and his heart ached so bad he could barely breathe . Because this was how it was meant to be — love, without conditions or questions. And for the first time in weeks, Louis let himself believe that maybe things could be okay again .

Dinner was warm — not just the food , but the whole atmosphere . Plates passed around, conversation soft but easy, and for the first time in far too long , Louis felt something like normal settling into his chest. His mum’s casserole was a little overcooked, but no one cared, because it tasted like home , and after weeks of eating half-stale bread and shoplifted crisps , even the kid practically inhaled it like it was the best meal of his life .

Johannah, bless her heart, didn’t push — she didn’t ask the heavy questions, didn’t demand an explanation right away. She just fed him , made sure he had enough water , kept his plate topped up , and offered the same warmth she gave all her own kids .

It wasn’t until halfway through dinner, when everyone’s stomachs were full and the conversation had lulled into comfortable silence, that she finally asked the most obvious question .

“So, love,” Johannah said softly, knife and fork resting neatly on her plate, hands folded on the table. “I just realized — I never asked your name.”

The kid froze, fork halfway to his mouth, eyes flicking toward Louis like he was asking permission . Louis gave him a small nod, encouraging , even though his heart twisted a little — realizing just how little they knew about the boy Louis had risked his neck for.

The kid swallowed hard, lowering his fork. His voice was quiet, softer than they’d ever heard it , like the weight of saying it out loud was something heavy .

“Riley,” he said.

The name settled over the table, and for a moment, no one spoke — just processing it, holding it carefully. It was the first piece of Riley that belonged only to him , something not defined by the squat, the drugs, or the street.

“That’s a lovely name,” Johannah said, her smile soft and genuine, the kind of smile only a mum could give — one that said you’re safe here, you’re wanted here . “It suits you.”

Riley flushed, ducking his head, clearly not used to compliments , and Louis felt that familiar ache — the same one he felt the first time Harry had called his mum Mum , like he couldn’t believe someone could just love him like that .

“Riley,” Louis repeated quietly, testing it out, and the kid glanced at him again, something uncertain and hopeful flickering in his eyes.

It felt like a step forward — small, but real . Because now they had a name. A starting point. A person, not just some stray kid from the squat .

“Well, Riley,” Johannah said, reaching across the table to squeeze his hand gently, “you’re welcome at my table anytime.”

Riley’s throat bobbed, and for a moment, it looked like he might cry. But he didn’t — just nodded , gripping his fork a little tighter.

Louis watched the whole exchange, heart swelling and aching at the same time, because this was exactly what Riley deserved — to be seen, to be known, to be wanted .

And if Louis could give him that — even just a little — then maybe, just maybe, he was doing something right .

 

Louis stood on the tiny balcony , leaning against the rusted railing, cigarette dangling between his fingers as he exhaled a slow stream of smoke into the night air. It wasn’t even that he needed the smoke — after everything, the cravings for nicotine were the least of his problems — but it gave his hands something to do, gave his mind something to focus on that wasn’t the swirling mess inside his head.

The flat was warm and loud behind him, Riley still at the table finishing his second helping of casserole, Zayn cracking jokes with Niall about some unhinged customer at the off-license. Normal. Or as close as they ever got to normal.

The sliding door creaked open behind him, and Louis didn’t need to turn around to know it was his mum. She didn’t speak right away, just stood next to him, arms folded over her chest, eyes out on the dark skyline, the flickering streetlights below casting a dim glow over the estate.

Louis took another drag, bracing for it.

“He looks like Harry,” Johannah said quietly, not a question, just a statement .

Louis’ hand trembled slightly, smoke curling unevenly between his fingers. “Yeah,” he admitted, voice tight. “I know.”

Johannah turned, leaning her hip against the railing so she could look at him properly . “Is that why you brought him here?”

Louis blew out a breath, cheeks puffed slightly, shoulders curling inward like he could hide inside himself . “It’s not—” He cut himself off, shaking his head. “It’s not just that. But yeah. When I saw him, first thing I thought was fuck, that’s Haz when I met him. Same hair, same scared eyes, same way he flinched every time someone raised their voice.”

Johannah didn’t say anything for a second, just watching him , her expression softening in that way only mothers could — the kind of understanding that didn’t need words .

“You miss him,” she said quietly.

Louis barked out a laugh — harsh and hollow. “ Course I fucking miss him. ”

“So call him,” she said, like it was that easy .

Louis shook his head. “He doesn’t want to hear from me.”

“That’s bollocks and you know it,” Johannah said, voice sharp in that no-nonsense way that made Louis feel about twelve years old again . “You two have been through too much to just throw it away.”

“Yeah, well,” Louis muttered, flicking ash over the side of the balcony, “we’ve been through too much because of each other .”

Johannah’s gaze softened again, and she reached out, tucking a strand of hair behind his ear like she used to when he was little. “You know, Louis,” she said softly, “sometimes love isn’t about being perfect for each other. Sometimes it’s about holding on even when you’re both a bloody mess. ”

Louis’ throat tightened, eyes burning as he stared out at the street, not trusting himself to look at her .

“Do you love him?” she asked, voice gentle.

Louis didn’t even hesitate. “Always.”

“Then maybe,” she said, nudging his arm, “it’s time to stop hiding behind stray kids and orange walls and actually fight for him .”

Louis swallowed hard, flicking the half-smoked cigarette over the railing. “You make it sound so fucking simple.”

“It is,” Johannah said, pressing a kiss to his temple before heading back inside. “It’s the rest of us that make it complicated.”

Louis stood there alone for a while after that, hands stuffed into his pockets, heart pounding too hard against his ribs.

The air was cold, the smoke still clinging to his clothes, and somewhere inside, Riley laughed at something Niall said.

He didn’t know if he was ready to fight for Harry — not yet — but for the first time in a long time, he thought maybe he could be .

When everyone left, the flat felt too big , even with Riley fast asleep in the bedroom. The quiet pressed down on Louis’ chest , heavier than it should’ve been, like the walls themselves were breathing with him . He stood in the kitchen, hands braced on the counter, staring down at his phone like it was a loaded gun .

His mum’s words circled around his head, relentless. Call him.

It had been so long since he’d dialed Harry’s number. Too long. Long enough that his thumb hesitated over the contact like he wasn’t even sure if it would still work, if Harry would’ve changed his number to cut him off entirely .

But he hit call anyway, because fuck it , because he was Louis Tomlinson and if nothing else, he was a stubborn bastard who didn’t know when to quit .

It rang once.

Twice.

Five times.

Then—

“Hey, this is Harry. Leave a message or don’t. I probably won’t check it anyway.”

The sound of Harry’s voice, even just the recorded version , knocked the breath out of Louis’ lungs. For a second, he couldn’t even think, couldn’t move, just stood there with the phone pressed too tight to his ear , like if he listened hard enough, he could will Harry to pick up .

The beep came, sharp and final. Louis froze .

What the fuck was he even supposed to say? After everything? After disappearing and relapsing and letting the silence stretch so wide between them it felt like a canyon ?

“Hey,” Louis said, voice rough, too soft, throat already tight. “It’s me. I— uh— I dunno why I’m calling, really. Just… I wanted to.” He exhaled, scrubbing a hand over his face. “I’m not dead, if you were wondering. I know you probably weren’t, but— yeah.”

He closed his eyes, leaning hard on the counter , the weight of all the shit he wasn’t saying pushing down on him like bricks .

“There’s a kid here,” Louis went on, voice quieter now. “He reminds me of you. First time I saw you in rehab, remember? Curly hair, scared shitless, shaking like a leaf. He’s like that, fished him out of the squat.” Louis swallowed hard. “Brought him home. Couldn’t leave him.”

The silence on the other end felt deafening .

“Anyway,” Louis said, clearing his throat. “I just— I miss you, Haz. I know I’m probably the last person you wanna hear that from, but it’s true. I miss you, and I’m— I’m trying to do better. Trying to be the lad you used to believe I could be.”

His voice cracked on the last word, but he pushed through it, because it was Harry , and Harry had always been the one person he couldn’t lie to .

“So, yeah,” Louis finished. “If you ever wanna call back. Or— I dunno. If you want to tell me to fuck off. That’s fine too.” He paused, breathing shallow. “I love you, Play-Doh.”

The words hung there, heavy and raw , and Louis ended the call before he could talk himself out of it, setting the phone down like it had burned his hand .

The voicemail was out there now — floating somewhere between London and Los Angeles , a fragile little olive branch made of regret and hope .

He didn’t expect a reply.

But God , did he hope for one.

The next morning came slow and muted , the weak winter light spilling through the thin curtains and painting the flat in pale streaks of grey. Louis had barely slept — the couch too hard and cold without anyone beside him — so by the time Riley’s door creaked open, Louis was already up , sat cross-legged on the sofa, nursing his third cup of tea and scrolling mindlessly through his phone, even though nothing good ever came from that .

Riley appeared in the doorway, hair sticking up in about twelve different directions , one sleeve of a stolen hoodie pushed up, the other still dangling over his fingers. He rubbed his eyes with the back of his hand, looking far too small and too young standing there, blinking like the sunlight was personally offensive .

“Mornin’,” Louis said softly, tipping his mug toward him.

Riley grunted in response, then wandered toward the kitchen, opening cabinets at random , like he had no fucking clue where anything was. Louis bit back a smile, setting his mug down and following after him.

“Sit down,” Louis said, herding him toward one of the mismatched chairs at the table. “I’ll make you some breakfast.”

Riley opened his mouth to argue — you could see the teenage independence rising in his throat — but something in Louis’ face must’ve shut him up, because he just plopped into the chair , resting his chin in his hand.

“Not used to people cooking for you, huh?” Louis asked, cracking a few eggs into the pan.

Riley shrugged, eyes on the table. “Not really.”

“Get used to it,” Louis said, voice light but firm . “In this house, we eat. Even if it’s just shit toast and eggs.”

It was only their second full day together with an actual roof over their heads, but already Louis felt the shift — the way Riley watched him closely , almost like he was studying him , figuring out who Louis was supposed to be. Big brother? Friend? Landlord?

Louis didn’t really know either.

All he knew was that he wasn’t gonna let this kid down , no matter what.

“Want ketchup?” Louis asked, sliding the plate in front of him.

Riley’s face lit up like he’d just been handed a winning lottery ticket . “Please.”

Louis chuckled, grabbing the half-empty bottle from the fridge and setting it on the table. Riley squeezed way too much onto his eggs, and Louis didn’t say a word, just settled across from him with his own plate, shoveling in food between sips of tea.

They ate in comfortable silence, the kind Louis hadn’t had in years , like it didn’t matter if they filled the air with conversation — just being there was enough . Every so often, Riley glanced up, like he was making sure Louis was still there , and Louis always made sure to meet his eye , offering a small smile, a nod, something to say yeah, I’m not going anywhere .

After breakfast, Louis pushed Riley toward the bathroom , telling him to “ scrub off some of that street stink ,” while Louis cleaned up the dishes , stacking them in the sink with the ease of someone who’d done it a thousand times before .

The bathroom door stayed open a crack, and Louis could hear Riley moving around — water running, cabinets opening, the faint shuffle of someone unused to having personal space at all . It hit Louis harder than he expected — the realization that this kid had been alone for so long , even a proper shower felt alien .

By the time Riley emerged, skin still pink from the hot water , hair damp and curling over his forehead, Louis had already pulled out the hoover, half-heartedly cleaning up the mess from last night’s visit . Riley hovered awkwardly in the doorway, shifting from foot to foot , like he was waiting for instructions .

“Come on,” Louis said, gesturing to the sofa. “We’re having a lazy day.”

Riley frowned slightly, like the concept was completely foreign . “Lazy day?”

“Yeah,” Louis said, flopping down and patting the cushion beside him. “You ever watch ‘Homes Under the Hammer’?”

Riley shook his head, but Louis could see the tiny smile tugging at the corner of his mouth .

“Sit your arse down,” Louis grinned. “I’m about to change your life.”

They spent the next two hours mercilessly roasting property developers , calling them posh twats with no taste , arguing about which carpets were the ugliest and whether knocking down every single wall in a house actually made sense. Louis couldn’t remember the last time he laughed this much , and Riley — once he warmed up to it — was giggling like a kid , his defenses melting just a little more .

By lunchtime, they were out of food , so Louis dragged Riley along to the corner shop, making him pick out whatever snacks he wanted . Riley hovered in the crisp aisle like he was overwhelmed by the options , until Louis slung an arm around his shoulders and said, “ Rule number one of being my stray — we always buy at least three types of crisps. It’s the law. ”

Riley grinned for real this time, picking out two bags of Doritos and a pack of Skips , and Louis pretended his chest didn’t ache with how easy it was to make him happy.

The rest of the afternoon passed the same way — easy, slow , with a weird sort of rhythm Louis hadn’t felt in years. Riley helped him fold laundry, not because Louis asked, but because he just started doing it . Louis taught him how to roll a proper cigarette , even though Riley swore he didn’t smoke regularly, just in case he needed a party trick someday. They played cards at the table, Riley absolutely demolishing Louis at Snap , until Louis accused him of witchcraft and made them switch to Go Fish.

And through it all, Louis watched him , the way his mum used to watch Louis when he was small — not hovering, not smothering, but always there .

Because Riley didn’t need a big brother.

He needed a parent .

And Louis wasn’t ready for that title , but if it meant keeping this kid safe — if it meant making sure Riley never had to feel alone like that again — Louis would take it. Gladly .

That night, when Louis tucked him in with a spare blanket and a crappy old teddy bear from the back of the cupboard, Riley muttered, “ Thanks, Lou ,” already half-asleep, voice soft and safe.

“Anytime, kid,” Louis whispered back, smoothing his hair just once before turning off the light.

And as Louis stood in the doorway, watching him breathe, he realized — he’d do absolutely anything to keep this kid safe .

The next morning was bright and cold , the kind of crisp winter day where the sky looked almost too blue , like it was overcompensating for the bitter wind biting through every crack and gap in the windows. Louis was already up , tea in hand, perched at the kitchen table, scrolling through his phone without really seeing anything. His mind was elsewhere — halfway between nerves and excitement — because today, Riley was meeting his family .

Properly, not just Johannah at dinner. The whole lot of them .

He figured it was about time — if Riley was gonna be part of his life, he was gonna be part of theirs too . That’s just how it worked. No one was left on the sidelines in the Tomlinson house, even if you were a stray Louis dragged in off the street .

Riley wandered out of the bedroom, hair flattened on one side , blinking sleepily. “Why’s it so bright?” he grumbled, voice still hoarse from sleep.

“Because it’s daytime,” Louis said, grinning over his mug. “Welcome to morning, kid.”

Riley groaned, flopping onto the sofa face-first. “Hate it.”

“Trust me, you haven’t even seen the worst of it yet.” Louis stood, ruffling his hair on the way to the kitchen. “Go get dressed. We’re going out.”

Riley lifted his head just enough to squint at him. “Where?”

“To meet my family,” Louis said casually, as if it wasn’t a big fucking deal .

Riley’s eyes widened, full of quiet panic , but Louis didn’t give him a chance to argue.

“Don’t stress,” Louis added quickly. “They’re loud, they’re nosey, but they’re good people . And they’re gonna love you.”

Riley sat up slowly, pulling his knees to his chest. “What if they don’t?”

Louis leaned down, serious now, resting a hand on Riley’s shoulder. “They will.”

Riley nodded, not quite convinced but trusting Louis anyway , which was a small miracle in itself .

The bus ride was short but cold as hell, both of them huddled in the back, shoulders pressed together, the windows fogging up from their breath. Riley was quiet , fingers fidgeting with the loose hem of his sleeve, eyes flicking out the window like he was mapping escape routes .

Louis let him sit in silence , only nudging him once to point out a crappy bit of graffiti on a wall near the estate — a wonky dick that had been there for as long as Louis could remember .

“Classic,” Louis said solemnly.

Riley snorted, the sound breaking through his nerves , and Louis counted it as a win .

When they reached the house, Louis barely had time to knock before the door flew open and Fizzy launched herself at him , arms around his neck, squealing loud enough for the whole street to hear .

“Jesus, Fiz, warn a lad,” Louis laughed, spinning her once before setting her down.

“You’ve been ignoring me for weeks , you absolute knobhead,” Fizzy scolded, hands on her hips, but her smile was impossible to hide .

Then her eyes drifted to Riley, standing awkwardly just behind Louis, hands shoved deep into his coat pockets, looking like he wanted to disappear into the bricks .

“And who’s this?” Fizzy asked, eyebrows lifted.

“This,” Louis said, stepping aside to make room, “is Riley.”

Riley gave a small wave , barely more than a flick of his fingers.

“Riley,” Fizzy repeated, smile softening. “Well, you‘re in for something.”

Before Riley could react, Daisy and Phoebe barreled down the hall , both talking at top speed , both launching into simultaneous rants about school, and TikTok trends, and some boy Daisy hated but also maybe fancied , and Riley’s eyes went huge , like he couldn’t quite believe this was how families worked .

Louis caught the slight smile tugging at the corner of his mouth , and his heart clenched .

The kitchen was chaos , like it always was — kettle screaming, toast popping up at odd intervals, the radio blaring some ancient pop song , and Johannah somehow managing it all with a smile . She caught sight of Riley the second they stepped in, wiping her hands on a tea towel and crossing the room in seconds , wrapping him up in a hug that Riley clearly did not expect .

“Welcome home, love,” she said softly, her voice warm and solid , like being wrapped in a blanket straight out of the dryer .

Riley stood there stiffly for a moment, like he couldn’t quite compute what was happening, then slowly — so slowly — his arms lifted and hugged her back.

Louis swallowed hard, blinking faster than usual, pretending to be very interested in the kettle .

Breakfast turned into a full-on feast , because Johannah couldn’t do anything halfway. Pancakes, bacon, sausages, eggs, toast — the works . Riley’s eyes went huge , like he’d stumbled into the Garden of Eden , and Louis couldn’t help but grin.

They crammed around the table, elbows bumping , everyone talking over each other — absolute mayhem , but it was Louis’ kind of mayhem , and now it was Riley’s too .

“So,” Daisy asked, mouth full of pancake, “how do you know Louis?”

Riley glanced at Louis, clearly unsure how much to say .

“Mutual real estate,” Louis deadpanned. “We both lived in the same shitty squat.”

Fizzy choked on her tea , and Johannah shot Louis a look , but Riley laughed , the first proper belly laugh Louis had heard from him.

“Well,” Johannah said firmly, “you’re both better off here.”

Riley’s smile softened , eyes dropping to his plate. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “I think so.”

After breakfast, the girls dragged Riley upstairs , chattering about nail polish and music, and Louis took the chance to sit with his mum in the kitchen, just the two of them.

“He’s a sweet lad,” Johannah said softly, topping off Louis’ tea.

“He is,” Louis agreed. “Got dealt a shit hand, though.”

“Well,” Johannah said, reaching over to squeeze his hand , “he’s got you now.”

Louis swallowed hard, staring into his cup. “Hope that’s enough.”

“It will be,” she said, and for the first time in ages , Louis actually believed her .

Notes:

He‘s got a name! All hail Riley!

Chapter 36: Chapter 36

The next few weeks slipped by quieter than Louis was used to , almost like life had taken a deep breath , and for once, held it steady . There was something almost unnerving about it — no chaos, no overdoses, no smashed phones or missed rent or friends disappearing into the night — just this weird, unfamiliar rhythm of responsibility and routine .

Louis got a job at the corner shop three streets over , the kind of place where everyone knew everyone , and most of the customers paid in loose change and half-hearted jokes about the weather . It wasn’t glamorous — it wasn’t even interesting — but it was steady , and the manager didn’t ask questions about his spotty employment history or the times he came in looking a little worse for wear . They just handed him a blue apron and a till code , and that was that.

It felt good, in a weird way — showing up, doing something normal , coming home with a paycheck that didn’t feel like guilt money . He even stopped nicking cigarettes and Red Bulls once he realized he could actually afford them now .

And then there was Riley.

That first week, Louis had filled out every bit of paperwork , gotten him a backpack and some cheap school shoes , and walked him to the local comp like some frazzled single dad . Riley didn’t say much that morning — chewing his sleeve , looking anywhere but at Louis — but Louis could tell, just from the way he hovered close , that this was a big fucking deal .

“You’ll be alright, kid,” Louis said, clapping a hand on his shoulder before sending him through the gates. “Just don’t start any fires or punch any teachers.”

Riley grinned — small and quick, but there — before disappearing into the sea of uniformed bodies , and Louis stood at the gate for a beat too long , just watching .

The house was too quiet without him , which was fucking ridiculous considering they’d only known each other for a couple of months. But Louis had already gotten used to the sound of Riley’s too-loud footsteps , the way he sang under his breath when he thought no one could hear, the way he followed Louis around the flat like some lanky, half-feral shadow .

Every afternoon, Louis would meet him at the gate, usually with a bag of crisps or a can of Coke , and Riley would tell him about his day in fragments — who got detention, who threw up in the hallway, which teachers were absolute pricks . It wasn’t much, but it was the kind of normal Louis hadn’t had since he was a kid himself .

At night, they’d cook together — bad pasta and toasties mostly — and Riley would beat Louis at cards or make him watch the dumbest reality shows imaginable . They bickered like brothers , but Louis caught the way Riley looked at him sometimes , like he was more than that . Like he was safe .

Louis never corrected him. Never said I’m not your dad, mate. Because he wasn’t , not really — but fuck if Louis wasn’t going to try his best to be something like it .

For the first time in a long fucking time , Louis’ life wasn’t about survival . It was about building something , even if that something was held together with barely making rent and frozen pizzas and the stubborn refusal to let this kid end up like he had .

It was exhausting. And terrifying. And sometimes Louis still woke up sweating , convinced he was gonna fuck it all up .

But every night, Riley would say goodnight through the wall, and Louis would say it back , and somehow, that was enough to keep him from falling apart.

 

Christmas Eve had always been chaotic in the Tomlinson house — too many people crammed into too small a space, the kitchen an absolute war zone of flour, icing sugar, and Johannah’s unstoppable Christmas playlist blaring through the tinny old speakers. This year, though, it felt different . Not just because Louis was turning 23 — officially too old for Fizzy’s handmade birthday cards , though she gave him one anyway — but because for the first time, Riley was part of it all. And for the first time in years, there was no Harry.

Riley hovered awkwardly at first , standing near Louis like a shadow , clearly unsure where to put himself in the noise and warmth of it all. But Johannah pulled him into a hug that smelled like cinnamon and fabric softener , Lottie handed him a Santa hat and a gingerbread man with his name written in sloppy icing, and just like that , he was one of them.

Louis had never been particularly sappy about birthdays — not when they were always tangled up with Christmas anyway — but there was something about seeing Riley open his first ever Christmas presents , sitting cross-legged in the living room with Daisy and Phoebe piling scraps of wrapping paper on his head , that made Louis feel like maybe this year was different .

Riley got new trainers, a proper winter coat, and a PlayStation controller — because Niall had donated an old console from his flat with exactly zero explanation , just shoved it into Louis’ arms the week before with a muttered “For the kid.” Louis didn’t ask questions — that was Niall’s love language , after all — but when Riley opened it, his whole face lit up like the tree itself .

Louis’ presents were a mixed bag as always — joke gifts and sentimental ones shoved into the same pile , like Zayn’s incredibly inappropriate mug that said Big Dick Energy , followed immediately by a framed picture of Louis and Eleanor at sixteen , back when they were young and dumb and thought pills were just a bit of fun .

Louis choked up at that one, but didn’t let himself cry. Not in front of everyone. Not on his birthday.

Instead, he let his mum kiss his cheek loudly , let his sisters sing him a horrifically off-key Happy Birthday , and let Riley sit close enough on the sofa that their knees touched, like Riley still wasn’t quite convinced Louis wouldn’t disappear if he wasn’t right there .

Dinner was the usual mess — too many side dishes, gravy in every possible place except the actual plates, and Niall trying to start a food fight with mashed potatoes until Johannah threatened to ban him for life . Riley didn’t say much during the meal, but Louis could see the smile tucked into the corner of his mouth , the way his shoulders loosened with every passing minute, like he was realizing this could be home too .

After dinner came the real tradition — Louis’ birthday cake, always lopsided , always baked with too much love and not enough precision , candles stuck in at random angles . This year, Daisy had taken it upon herself to write the message , which was why Louis’ cake said:

Happy 23rd Birthday, Loser!

“Charming,” Louis said dryly, but his smile was wide enough to hurt .

“Blow out your candles, you knobhead,” Fizzy grinned, nudging him in the ribs.

Louis took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and wished — for what exactly , he couldn’t say. Maybe for Riley to stay safe , for his friends to stay clean , for Harry to call back , for one more year where they all made it out alive .

The candles flickered out, smoke curling into the warm air , and for a moment — just a moment — everything felt okay .

After the cake, they all piled onto the sofa for Christmas films , Johannah insisting on The Holiday , which Niall loudly objected to until Zayn shut him up with a pillow to the face. Riley ended up curled into Louis’ side, head resting against his shoulder, and Louis couldn’t help but wrap an arm around him , pulling him close.

This was it. This was family. Messy and loud and imperfect — but theirs .

“Happy birthday, Dad,” Riley mumbled, already half-asleep.

Louis pressed a kiss into his hair , throat tight. “Thanks, kid.”

And for the first time in years , Louis thought maybe — just maybe — 23 wouldn’t be so bad.

The house was quieter on Christmas morning, the kind of peaceful lull that only came after a night too full of laughter and too much food . Wrapping paper still littered the floor, a few stray gingerbread crumbs left behind on the coffee table, and the faint scent of mulled wine clung to the air. Louis stood in the kitchen, barefoot and half-awake , making tea while Riley wandered in after the rest of his family, clutching a stocking that had been haphazardly labeled with his name in glitter glue .

He dropped it on the table with a soft smile, like he still couldn’t quite believe it was his , and Louis watched him out of the corner of his eye, a warmth in his chest that had nothing to do with the tea.

Riley’s gaze drifted around the room, taking in the cluttered, lived-in chaos of the Tomlinson kitchen — fridge magnets, kid drawings stuck up with tape, ancient shopping lists, and the Polaroid , curled slightly at the edges, held up by a fridge magnet shaped like a horse .

Louis knew exactly which photo had caught his eye — the one taken in this kitchen all those years ago. Louis, barely 18, all wiry limbs and cocky grin, arms slung around the shoulders of a boy with a mop of messy curls and a dimpled smile too bright for a world like theirs . They were both wearing friendship bracelets , ones they’d made from cheap plastic beads smuggled into their room after art therapy.

“That him?” Riley asked softly, pointing to the photo. “The one you talked about? The one you called Play-Doh?”

The room went quiet .

Johannah’s hands stilled on the dish towel, Fizzy — halfway through stealing a leftover roast potato — froze mid-bite, and even Daisy and Phoebe, who were busy bickering over whose turn it was to pick a Christmas movie , went silent.

Louis turned slowly, the mug warm in his hands , his throat tight in a way it hadn’t been in a while . He walked over, tracing the edge of the Polaroid with his thumb, the image so familiar it hurt .

“Yeah,” Louis said after a long pause, voice rough. “That was Play-Doh.”

Not that’s Play-Doh . Not he is .

That was.

Riley noticed — Louis could see it in the way his brow furrowed, the slight frown tugging at his mouth. But the kid was smart, too smart , and didn’t push. He just nodded, like he understood more than Louis wanted him to .

“What happened to him?” Riley asked, voice careful, like he already knew it wasn’t a happy story .

Louis exhaled slowly, setting the mug down and leaning against the counter. “He grew up,” Louis said softly. “Got famous. Got clean. Got his shit together. Left this place behind.”

No one spoke. Even Johannah didn’t correct him , didn’t try to soften the truth. They all knew it wasn’t that simple , but Louis wasn’t ready to unpack the whole thing , not on Christmas morning.

Riley nodded again, taking it all in , then — to Louis’ surprise — said, “He kinda looks like me.”

Louis’ heart stuttered, because fuck, he did , especially back then — too thin, too wide-eyed, too breakable .

“Yeah,” Louis admitted, voice soft. “I noticed that too.”

Riley didn’t ask any more questions, just peeled open another chocolate coin , but Louis could see the wheels turning in his head , piecing things together, understanding in that way kids who’ve had to grow up too fast always do .

The silence stretched out again, but it wasn’t uncomfortable — just full . Full of the things they didn’t say , full of memories Louis still wasn’t sure how to hold , full of the way life never quite went how you thought it would .

Louis ran a hand through his hair, shaking off the weight of it all, and smiled at Riley. “Come on, kid. Let’s eat some leftover cake for breakfast.”

Riley grinned, all dimples and teeth, and for a moment, Louis could almost pretend it didn’t hurt .

Almost.

The rest of Christmas Day should’ve felt heavier after that conversation, but Louis had a gift for compartmentalizing , and if there was one thing his chaotic life had taught him, it was how to set his pain aside long enough to get through the day . So, he plastered on a grin, ruffled Riley’s hair until the kid squawked like an indignant bird , and announced that cake for breakfast was officially a Tomlinson Christmas Tradition — as if they hadn’t already been doing that for years.

They all crowded around the kitchen table again, even though half of them were still in pajamas , plates piled with leftover cake, mince pies, and whatever they could scavenge from the fridge . Riley sat tucked beside Louis , shoulders bumping every so often, like physical proximity meant safety , like as long as Louis was within reach, everything would be fine. Louis let him stay close — encouraged it, even — because the truth was, Louis felt the same way.

Riley wasn’t his kid — obviously — but the protector switch in Louis’ brain had flipped the second Riley stepped into his life , and there was no turning it off . It wasn’t some unhealthy attachment or weird obsession — it was just what you did when you knew what it felt like to have no one in your corner .

And Louis? He’d burn the whole world down before he let anyone or anything hurt that boy.

Fizzy threw a crumpled napkin at Louis’ head halfway through breakfast, demanding he tell the story of his worst birthday ever , and Louis obliged like always , launching into a dramatic retelling of the year Niall accidentally set his cake on fire with a spliff, and Zayn tried to put it out with a can of lager. By the time he got to the part where Eleanor had walked in on the chaos and immediately turned around and left, Riley was laughing so hard he was crying , and Louis thought, that’s all I want for him. That’s all I want for this kid. To laugh like that. To feel safe enough to be a kid.

The afternoon was spent in full chaos mode — board games and leftover turkey sandwiches, Zayn showing up with a dodgy bottle of whiskey he swore was “for the adults only” (which meant Louis and Johannah, and definitely not Niall, who was already eyeing it like a hawk). Riley stuck close to Louis the whole time , but it wasn’t clingy — just comforting , like a kid hanging off his big brother, watching how Louis interacted with everyone, taking his cues from Louis like he was still figuring out what family was supposed to look like .

When they went outside for a smoke break, Riley came too, standing next to Louis on the back step, shoulders hunched against the cold, hands jammed into his hoodie pockets . He didn’t smoke, didn’t even ask to — just stood there, eyes on the frost-covered grass, breathing out steam like a little dragon.

“You alright?” Louis asked, nudging him gently with his elbow.

“Yeah,” Riley said, but his voice was too soft, like he didn’t quite believe it himself .

Louis didn’t press — he knew better than anyone that sometimes the only answer you had was ‘yeah,’ even when you meant ‘not really.’ Instead, he flicked his cigarette into the snow, wrapped an arm around Riley’s shoulders, and said, “Come on, let’s go kick Niall’s arse at Monopoly.”

Riley grinned — small, but real — and let Louis steer him back inside.

Later that night, after they had gone home and Riley was curled up on the sofa under the ratty old blanket Louis had nicked from his mum’s house years ago , Louis sat beside him, feet up on the coffee table, the only light coming from the tree in the corner. They watched some shit film neither of them really cared about, the kind you put on just for noise, and Louis found himself absentmindedly braiding a piece of Riley’s hair , like he used to do with Fizzy when she was little .

It wasn’t a father thing — not really — but it wasn’t just brotherly either . It was something softer , something that said you’re safe here, you don’t have to do anything to deserve it, I’ve got you. Riley leaned into it without thinking, eyes drooping, safe enough to fall asleep right there , surrounded by leftover wrapping paper and the soft hum of the telly.

Louis stayed awake long after Riley drifted off, thinking about Harry — about the boy in the polaroid , the boy who’d once looked at Louis the way Riley did now , trusting him to be the safe place in a world full of sharp edges . He’d let Harry down. He knew that. But maybe — just maybe — if he could get it right with Riley, if he could keep just one kid safe , it would mean something .

And that thought — that fragile hope — was enough to keep him sitting there, Riley’s head on his shoulder, breathing slow and steady in the glow of the Christmas lights.

“Sleep well, kid,” Louis whispered, tucking the blanket a little tighter around him. “I’ve got you.”

He meant it. With everything he had.

The next few days slipped by in that soft, lazy lull between Christmas and New Year , where nobody knew what day it was and nobody cared. Louis’ friends came around like clockwork , letting themselves in without knocking, dragging bags of leftover booze and half-eaten tubs of Quality Street through the door like they lived there too .

Riley fit in seamlessly , like he’d always been one of them — curled up in the corner of the sofa with Amelia, both of them whispering like conspirators , giggling over some absolute nonsense they’d found online. Louis caught snippets of it — something about a girl who got caught shagging her boyfriend in the stockroom at Tesco, and Riley’s face lit up like he couldn’t believe gossip this good was real .

“Careful with her,” Louis warned from the kitchen, halfway through making a cup of tea. “She’ll turn you into a right little gossip if you’re not careful.”

“Too late,” Riley shot back, grinning like he knew exactly how much power Amelia’s dramatics held .

Zayn stretched out in his usual spot , feet on the coffee table, eyes drifting lazily around the flat before he snorted. “I don’t think I’ve seen this place this clean since you moved in,” he said, shaking his head. “What the hell happened?”

“ Riley happened, ” Louis said, setting down mugs in front of everyone. “Kid’s got a cleaning streak that puts my mum to shame.”

“Needed something to do,” Riley shrugged, like keeping the flat spotless was no big deal , like it hadn’t been his way of creating order in a life that never had any .

“Well, you’re hired,” Zayn grinned. “Next time we do a sesh at mine, you’re on cleanup duty.”

Riley laughed, but Louis noticed the slight hesitation — the kid was still figuring out where the line was , when the jokes were just jokes and when they were something else . Louis made a mental note to explain later that the days of wild drug-fueled nights were long gone , at least for him. Or they were supposed to be .

They spent the afternoon like that — playing shit card games , eating leftover Christmas biscuits, Zayn and Niall arguing over the best album of the year like it was a life or death situation . Riley didn’t say much, but Louis caught him watching all of it with this quiet awe , like he couldn’t believe people could just exist together like this — messy, loud, teasing, but so obviously full of love .

When Zayn went for a smoke break on the balcony, Riley tagged along, which was a surprise , because Riley didn’t smoke. Louis lingered in the doorway, just close enough to listen in .

“Lou’s lucky,” Riley said after a minute, voice soft. “Having you lot.”

Zayn blew out a long stream of smoke, leaning his elbows on the railing. “Nah,” he said, “ we’re the lucky ones. ”

Riley frowned, like he couldn’t quite compute that .

“Listen,” Zayn said, voice lower now, more serious. “I know Louis jokes about being a fuck-up — but he really isn‘t. You should’ve seen us before him. We were just… I dunno. Idiots running wild. Louis gave all that chaos a home .”

Riley chewed his sleeve again, processing that. “He talks about you all like you’re his family.”

“We are,” Zayn said simply. “ Found family’s still family. ”

Louis backed away from the door after that, leaving them to whatever conversation they needed to have , heart too full and too heavy all at once .

That night, after everyone left, Riley helped Louis tidy up without being asked , stacking cups in the sink, folding the throw blankets the exact way Johannah did back home .

“What was he like?” Riley asked, voice so soft Louis almost missed it.

Louis dried his hands on a tea towel, heart skipping the usual beat it did whenever Harry came up . “He was—” Louis started, then shook his head. “He is — funny. Soft. Way too clever for his own good. Always knew the right thing to say — even when I didn’t wanna hear it.”

Riley nodded, taking that in . “Did he clean too?”

Louis laughed, startled by the question. “Not really. He was a right slob, actually . But I didn’t care.” His smile faltered a little. “Didn’t care about much back then. We were just… kids in love, high out of our minds half the time, thinking we were invincible. ”

Riley didn’t flinch at that — he’d seen enough to understand what that meant . “Do you still talk to him?”

Louis swallowed, throat suddenly tight. “Not really.”

“Why not?”

Louis didn’t have a good answer for that. “Life’s messy, kid.”

Riley leaned against the counter beside him, bumping Louis’ hip with his own. “You miss him.”

It wasn’t a question.

“Yeah,” Louis admitted, voice barely a whisper . “I do.”

Riley nodded like he understood — maybe more than Louis wanted him to — and changed the subject, asking if they could watch another episode of that home renovation show Louis had gotten him hooked on.

They ended the night just like that — quiet, normal , the way Louis had always wanted life to be. But even as they sat on the sofa, Louis’ hand ruffling Riley’s hair absentmindedly, his mind kept drifting to the boy in the Polaroid , and the ache in his chest wouldn’t quite let go.

The weeks passed in a blur of ordinary things and new year , the kind of weeks Louis never thought he’d appreciate — but after everything, ordinary felt like a fucking blessing .

Riley settled into the flat like he’d always belonged there , blending so seamlessly into Louis’ life it was hard to remember what the place had felt like before he arrived. Louis wasn’t sure if that was a good thing or a terrifying thing, but either way — Riley was here now , and somehow, Louis couldn’t picture it any other way.

The kid was impossible not to like . He had this way of making people laugh without even trying , a dry sense of humor tucked under all that quiet politeness , like a secret weapon he only brought out when he felt safe enough. And he was a bit of a smartarse , which Louis respected deeply . Half the time Louis didn’t know if Riley was actually asking a question or if he was just taking the piss — and he loved him for it.

He’d charm the socks off Johannah , always offering to clear the table after dinner, always remembering to ask about the girls’ day at school , even pretending to be genuinely interested when Phoebe went on a fifteen-minute tangent about some boy band drama, five sauces of Susans or whatever she had called them, Louis couldn’t begin to follow . Even Fizzy, who was famously unimpressed by most people , declared Riley a little legend after he beat her at Scrabble on his first try .

At school, things weren’t perfect — they never were — but Riley tried , and Louis knew that was half the battle. He still kept to himself more than Louis liked, but when Louis asked if he’d made any mates yet, Riley just grinned and said, “ This year’s lot aren’t half as funny as yours. ”

He wasn’t scared to get stuck in at home either — dishes, laundry, sweeping up when the floor got too crumb-covered — all of it without Louis asking. “ You’re not my maid, you know, ” Louis told him one night, watching him rinse mugs after tea. “ You can sit on your arse and be useless like the rest of us. ”

“I like helping,” Riley shrugged. “It’s nice to… I dunno. Feel like I’m part of something.”

And fuck , if that didn’t knock the air out of Louis for a second.

They got into a proper routine , the kind Louis never thought he’d have. School drop-off, corner shop shift, school pickup, dinner, telly, sleep — a proper little family rhythm , even if it was patched together with cheap dinners and secondhand furniture .

And Riley was funny as hell , always keeping Louis on his toes. One night, they were watching some godawful talent show , and when one contestant — a bloke with a saxophone and no sense of shame — launched into a truly atrocious version of Careless Whisper , Riley deadpanned, “ That’s exactly how my stepdad proposed to my mum. Except he was naked. And it was at Asda. ”

Louis spit out his tea .

“You’re taking the piss,” Louis wheezed, wiping his mouth with his sleeve.

Riley shrugged , eyes sparkling. “You’ll never know.”

And that was Riley all over — quick and sharp and so much brighter than the life he’d been dealt .

They started cooking together too — mostly disasters, but good ones — the kitchen always a mess of flour and sauce splatters and laughter that filled the whole flat . Riley had zero culinary instincts , but he took direction well , and Louis figured if nothing else, the kid would leave this flat knowing how to make spaghetti and beans on toast — the essentials .

By the end of the week, Louis couldn’t stop bragging about him to everyone who’d listen , even his friends who’d already met Riley a dozen times. “ He’s a proper legend, our kid, ” Louis would say, ruffling Riley’s hair until the boy swatted him away. “ Takes after me. Natural charm and all. ”

Riley would roll his eyes and call Louis a narcissist , but he’d smile too , because deep down, Louis knew Riley liked being claimed like that .

And Louis… well, Louis liked having someone to look after . It kept his hands busy. His mind too.

And more than anything, it gave him a reason to get up every morning — even when the rest of his life still felt like a mess waiting to happen .

 

 

The clock ticked over to midnight , the cheap plastic numbers on Louis’ phone screen changing with a muted flicker, January giving way to February , and with it came that familiar ache Louis couldn’t quite shake — the one that lived somewhere in his chest, settled there years ago like an unwanted tenant .

Harry’s birthday.

It wasn’t like Louis hadn’t known it was coming — he always knew . Could feel it in his bones, the way you felt a storm rolling in , thick in the air before it even hit. Every year since they were teenagers, Louis had made a point of being the first to say it , whether they were together or not , whether they were fighting or high or miles apart .

Some years, Harry had answered before the first ring finished. Other years, Louis had shouted it through a bathroom door when Harry was too hungover to function.

This year — Louis didn’t even know why he bothered . They hadn’t spoken in months , hadn’t even properly tried, and Louis knew — deep down — that Harry had probably long outgrown this tradition .

But fuck it . Louis had never been good at letting go.

So, at exactly midnight, he called .

The phone rang — once, twice, three times — each tone stretching out longer than the last , like the universe itself was saying don’t do this, Lou.

But Louis did it anyway, standing in the dim kitchen, phone pressed tight to his ear, Riley fast asleep in the other room, the only sound the faint hum of the fridge .

The call went to voicemail.

Louis expected it. It still knocked the air out of his lungs .

“Hey,” Louis said, after the beep, voice cracking slightly. “It’s me. Again. Obviously.” He exhaled, laughing a little too quietly , not enough air in his chest to make it real. “Happy birthday, Play-Doh.”

The silence swallowed the words whole , but Louis kept talking, because what else could he do .

“I hope you’re alright,” he added, voice quieter now. “I hope you’re happy. I hope— I hope it’s everything you wanted.” His throat tightened, but he didn’t stop. “I’m proud of you, you know. I don’t say it enough. Probably never did. But I am.”

There was so much more he could’ve said — so many apologies and promises , so many I miss you’s h e wasn’t sure if Harry wanted to hear.

But all Louis could manage was: “Wherever you are, whoever you’re with — I hope they know how lucky they are.”

He hung up before his voice could crack any further, setting the phone down gently on the counter, like it was something fragile and briefly considered just changing his number .

He stood there for a long time after, hands braced on the cold countertop, head bowed , breath shallow and shaky. 23 years old, feeling ancient and 16 all at you once , like the weight of everything they’d been through was balanced on his back.

Eventually, Louis scrubbed a hand through his hair , grabbed a cigarette and stepped out onto the balcony, smoke curling into the cold February air, eyes fixed on the dark sky .

Happy birthday, Play-Doh, he thought again, this time just for himself.

And for the first time since they met , there was no reply.

Notes:

Well… What‘s your favourite band aside from 1D? mine‘s 5 sauces of susans

Chapter 37: Chapter 37

Notes:

I am so sorry guys

The sky was still dark when Louis gave up on sleep entirely, staring at the ceiling for the thousandth time before finally kicking the covers off and swinging his legs over the side of the sofa. The living room was cold, the kind of chill that settled into your bones when the heating hadn’t quite kicked in yet, but Louis didn’t even feel it.

He just felt… off .

It wasn’t anything concrete , nothing he could name or point at , just this low-level hum of dread in his gut, that sixth sense estate kids developed young , the one that told you when something bad was brewing , even if you didn’t know what it was yet.

He padded to the kitchen, still in his joggers and a jumper he’d slept in, hair sticking up at the back, eyes burning with lack of sleep . The flat was silent , the kind of heavy silence that almost felt loud, and Louis moved around on autopilot , boiling the kettle, lining up two mugs even though Riley wouldn’t be awake for hours yet.

His phone sat face-up on the counter, screen dark, exactly where he’d left it after that voicemail to Harry . There was no reply — not that Louis had expected one — but the silence of it still stung .

He couldn’t shake the feeling , though. That tightness in his chest , like he was waiting for the other shoe to drop , like he’d missed something obvious and important , but no matter how hard he tried to piece it together, his brain was too fogged up from bad sleep and too many memories to make sense of anything.

He made his tea, took two sips , and abandoned it, pacing the narrow kitchen like a caged animal , hands raking through his hair over and over again. His stomach churned — too empty, too anxious , and it wasn’t until he caught his own reflection in the window, pale and drawn and jittery, that he stopped, planting both hands on the counter to steady himself.

“Get a grip,” he muttered under his breath, voice too loud in the silence. “It’s just a birthday. Just another fucking day.”

But it didn’t feel like just another day . Not to Louis. Not after everything.

He made it until 6:30 before the stillness drove him insane, grabbing his coat and sliding his feet into his trainers, heading outside for a walk to nowhere . The air was bitter, sharp enough to sting in his lungs, but it felt good — like it was shaking something loose inside him, even if he didn’t know what.

He walked the long way around the estate , passing all the old familiar landmarks — the corner shop, the graffiti wall, the bench where he and Zayn once shared their first cigarette at thirteen . Everything felt weirdly small , like the past few years had stretched Louis larger than this place could hold.

By the time he circled back to the flat, Riley was just starting to stir , hair a mess, eyes squinting at the light through his bedroom door.

“Why are you up?” Riley asked, voice still scratchy with sleep.

Louis forced a grin , ruffling his hair on the way to the kitchen. “Couldn’t sleep. Needed a walk.”

Riley didn’t buy it , Louis could see it clear as day, but the kid didn’t push. He just sat at the table , pulling his knees up to his chest while Louis made proper breakfast — eggs and toast and the fancy jam Johannah had brought over — because Louis needed something to do with his hands , something to fill the silence.

“Big plans today?” Riley asked, stabbing at his eggs.

“Nah,” Louis said, shrugging. “Just work later.”

Riley nodded, then after a pause added, “You seem… weird.”

“Cheers,” Louis snorted, but Riley didn’t laugh. Just kept watching him , too perceptive for his own good.

“It’s nothing,” Louis said, but even he didn’t believe it. “Just… old ghosts, yeah?”

Riley didn’t ask who — he knew . And Louis didn’t say more, because what was there to say?

The flat was too quiet, and Louis could feel it crawling under his skin , that silence — too thick, too heavy, too loud in all the wrong ways . So he did what he always did when silence got too much lately, grabbed the remote and flipped on the telly, not to watch anything, just to fill the room with noise .

It was the morning news , something about train strikes and the weather, nothing that needed his attention. Louis leaned against the counter, rolling a cigarette between his fingers without actually lighting it, the kind of nervous fidget he hadn’t done in months.

The kettle rumbled to life again — because making tea was the only reliable thing Louis knew how to do when his head was too full — and he was halfway through stirring in way too much sugar when the news anchor’s voice shifted, that practiced tone of sympathy they only ever used when someone famous fucked up or died.

“In breaking news this morning, global popstar Harry Styles has been hospitalized after reportedly suffering an overdose in his Los Angeles home late last night. Sources close to the singer have confirmed—”

The mug slipped from Louis’ hand , shattering on the floor, scalding tea spreading like a stain across the laminate .

Riley jumped from his seat at the table, eyes wide. “What the hell?”

Louis couldn’t answer, frozen , the sound of his own pulse roaring in his ears, drowning out the rest of the segment. He could only stare at the screen , heart hammering in his chest, gut twisting painfully like it had known all along .

“…currently in stable condition, though representatives have not yet released details regarding the substances involved. This marks the singer’s first reported hospitalization in several years, following a well-documented history of substance abuse during his early career.”

Louis’ hands shook so hard he nearly cut himself picking up the broken mug, fingers slipping against the ceramic. Riley was still talking , asking if Louis was okay, if he needed help, but Louis couldn’t process any of it.

All he could hear was the word overdose , over and over , the same fucking word that had followed them both around since they were teenagers. The word that had been their ghost, their curse, their constant fucking shadow .

“Lou,” Riley said, voice sharper now, cutting through the static. “ What’s wrong? Who is that? ”

Louis blinked, tearing his eyes away from the screen just long enough to see Riley’s face — worried, confused, but most of all, curious , like the pieces were falling into place.

“That’s Play-Doh,” Louis said, voice hoarse and too quiet. “That’s Harry.”

Riley’s mouth fell open slightly, eyes flicking back to the telly just in time to catch a grainy photo of Harry — long glossy curls, wide smile, that same stupid charm that never changed , but his eyes looked tired , even in the picture.

“Holy shit,” Riley whispered, like the weight of it had only just landed .

Louis didn’t answer. Couldn’t. His mind was spinning too fast , tumbling through every memory, every missed call, every voicemail left unanswered, every moment where Louis could have — should have — reached out.

He didn’t even realize he was shaking until Riley’s hand landed gently on his wrist , grounding him.

“You need to call someone,” Riley said, calm and clear in a way that didn’t match his age. “Maybe Zayn. Or your mum.”

Louis nodded, barely thinking , already reaching for his phone with hands that didn’t feel like his own.

He knew what came next — he’d lived it too many times before .

But this time — this time was Harry .

And Louis didn’t know if he could survive losing him again .

Louis didn’t even think. His hands moved on autopilot , fingers shaking as they hovered over the screen of his phone before pressing Mum in his favorites. The line rang once, twice, and then her voice came through, warm and familiar , even though Louis could barely breathe.

“Morning, love! Everything alright?” she said, cheerful and bright, like she hadn’t just watched her son vanish into silence on Harry’s birthday, like she didn’t already know something was off .

Louis swallowed, throat dry and tight. “Mum,” he said, voice cracked and thin. “Can Riley stay with you for a bit? A week or two, maybe?”

There was a pause, just long enough for Louis to know she’d heard the tremble in his voice. “Course he can, love,” she said gently. “But why? What’s going on?”

Louis’ grip on the phone tightened, knuckles going white. He looked at Riley, who was still standing in the kitchen, hands twisting in the hem of his hoodie, eyes darting between Louis and the telly, where the news anchor was still talking, still rehashing Harry’s entire life in headlines .

“Just—” Louis forced a breath through his teeth, voice barely holding together. “Just check the news.”

Another pause. And then, softer: “Oh. Oh, Good Lord.”

“I can’t talk about it right now,” Louis added quickly, voice rising an octave because if he slowed down, he’d break . “I just— I need to sort some shit out, and I can’t do that if I’m worried about him.”

“I’ll be right over,” Johannah said without hesitation, like it was the most natural thing in the world .

Louis hung up before she could ask anything else, pinching the bridge of his nose so hard it hurt. Riley stood there, watching him , looking smaller than Louis had ever seen him, even smaller than the first night Louis found him in the squat, half-starved and all sharp edges.

“Are you leaving?” Riley asked, voice quiet, like he was already bracing for the worst .

“No, kid,” Louis said, shaking his head quickly, walking over to rest both hands on Riley’s shoulders . “No, I’m not leaving. I just— I need to go sort something out. Something really fucking important.”

Riley’s brow furrowed, his lip twitching like he wanted to argue, but he didn’t. He just nodded. “Okay.”

“And you’re gonna be with my mum and the girls,” Louis said, squeezing gently. “You love it there. They’ll spoil you rotten.”

“Okay,” Riley repeated, a little steadier this time. “Are you gonna be okay?”

Louis huffed a weak laugh, ruffling Riley’s hair. “I’ll be fine, kid. Don’t worry about me.”

But they both knew that was a lie .

Fifteen minutes later, Johannah pulled up in her old car, her face drawn and serious, her eyes already full of questions she didn’t ask. She hugged Louis hard — bone-crushing, back-rubbing, motherly force — and Louis let himself sink into it , if only for a second.

“Come on then, Riley,” Johannah said softly, patting his back as he climbed into the car. “You and me, we’ve got some baking to do.”

Riley glanced at Louis one last time before shutting the car door, his eyes wide with worry , but Louis gave him a smile — a small, shaky thing — and waved them off, standing on the pavement until the car disappeared around the corner.

The second they were gone, Louis stumbled back inside, hands gripping the edge of the sink like it was the only thing keeping him upright .

The silence was deafening.

It was just Louis now.

And Harry was in a hospital bed thousands of miles away .

Louis moved like a man possessed , hands working faster than his mind could catch up with, heart pounding so hard he could feel it in his teeth . The duffle bag was half-packed before he even realized what he was doing , stuffing in the first clothes he could grab — a hoodie, some shirts, a pair of jeans that might’ve been clean, might not have — none of it mattered.

Then came the spare clothes for Harry — because of course Louis packed for Harry too . It was instinct, built into his bones after years of sharing lives and beds and bathroom counters , even after they’d fallen apart. A soft grey jumper Harry had left behind almost a year ago, a pair of joggers Louis was almost certain were Harry’s to begin with, a few bandanas because Louis knew Harry used to always felt better with something to keep his curls out of his face .

By the time Louis stopped to breathe, the duffle was bursting at the seams , and he stood there, staring at it like it could somehow tell him what the fuck to do next . His hands were shaking, sweat gathering at the back of his neck despite the cold air seeping through the drafty window .

“ Airport. ” Louis said the word out loud, like it could teleport him there. “Gotta get to the airport.”

He grabbed his phone and without even thinking , dialed Zayn. It rang twice before Zayn picked up, voice still raspy from sleep. “ Lou? What time is it, mate? ”

“I need you to drive me,” Louis said, cutting right through whatever groggy pleasantries Zayn might’ve attempted. “ To the airport. Now. Please. ”

There was a pause — a heavy, knowing pause — before Zayn said, softer now, “ You saw the news. ”

“Yeah,” Louis whispered, voice cracking around the edges. “Yeah, I saw it.”

Another beat of silence, then the sound of Zayn moving — keys jangling, door creaking — no hesitation, no questions. “ Be there in ten. Pack your passport. ”

“Already have,” Louis said, swallowing around the lump in his throat.

Zayn didn’t ask about flights, or money, or plans. Because he knew Louis didn’t have any of that figured out. All Louis knew was that he needed to get to Harry , and everything else would have to fall into place after that .

Ten minutes later, Zayn’s car pulled up outside, headlights cutting through the early morning gloom , and Louis climbed in without a word, duffle bag slung over his shoulder, heart hammering so hard he thought he might throw up .

Zayn glanced over, taking in the wild-eyed panic in Louis’ face, the way his hands twisted in the fabric of Harry’s jumper , knuckles white. “We’ll figure it out,” Zayn said, voice steady. “Whatever it takes, yeah?”

Louis just nodded , unable to speak, because if he opened his mouth, he might not stop crying .

Zayn didn’t push, just turned up the heater and drove, leaving Louis to stare out the window , the whole city still asleep, while the only thing Louis could think — over and over again — was Hold on, Haz. I’m coming.

Zayn drove like a man on a mission , foot glued to the accelerator , weaving through empty pre-dawn streets like the laws of physics didn’t apply to him — like the speed limit was just a suggestion . Louis didn’t even care, didn’t tell him to slow down, didn’t flinch when they ran three red lights in a row . His fingers dug into the strap of his duffle bag, knuckles white, the anxiety sitting so thick in his throat he could barely breathe around it.

The whole drive was silent , except for the sound of tires screeching and Zayn muttering curses at other drivers who dared to be on the road. Louis stared out the window, jaw clenched so tight his teeth ached, barely registering the world rushing past. All he could think was get there, get there, get there — like if he could just get on the next flight, he could somehow fix everything , like showing up could turn back time .

They skidded to a stop at the drop-off zone, Zayn’s old beater of a car coughing in protest , and before Louis could even reach for the door, Zayn shoved a wad of cash into his hand — thick and crumpled and held together with a rubber band .

“Two grand,” Zayn said, like it was the most casual thing in the world , like it wasn’t an absolutely batshit amount of money to be carrying in cash . “Should cover the flight and a bit extra.”

Louis blinked, stunned for a second. “Where the fuck—?”

“Don’t ask,” Zayn cut him off, eyes deadly serious. “Just take it.”

And Louis did. Because there wasn’t time for questions, and desperate times called for desperate measures . He shoved the money deep into his coat pocket, swallowing thickly.

“Zayn, I—” Louis’ voice wobbled , all the panic teetering at the edge , but Zayn just grabbed him , pulling him into a hug so fierce it knocked the air right out of Louis’ chest .

“Just get to him,” Zayn muttered into Louis’ hair. “That’s all that matters. The rest — we’ll figure it out.”

Louis nodded, biting down hard on the inside of his cheek to keep himself together . “Thanks, mate,” he managed, voice barely a whisper. “For everything.”

“Anytime,” Zayn said, pulling back, hands tight on Louis’ shoulders for a beat longer than necessary . “Go.”

And Louis went — bolting into the terminal, bag slung over his shoulder , heart hammering loud enough to drown out the world.

Louis practically sprinted through the sliding doors of the airport, duffle bag bouncing against his hip, the cash Zayn had given him burning a hole in his pocket. His heart was pounding so violently it felt like it might burst straight through his ribs, every nerve ending firing at once. He didn’t know exactly where to go — didn’t have a plan — but his body was moving before his brain could catch up.

The departures board flickered overhead, listing destinations Louis barely glanced at before he spotted LAX — 8:15 AM — On Time .

He skidded to a halt at the ticket counter, out of breath , slamming his hands down like that alone could make the flight appear faster. The poor woman behind the desk blinked up at him, startled by the sheer intensity radiating off him .

“Flight to LA,” Louis gasped out. “Earliest you’ve got. I need to be on it.”

The woman’s polite customer service smile faltered at the edges. “Let me see,” she said, typing quickly into her system. “Our next direct flight to Los Angeles leaves at 8:15, but—”

“I need it,” Louis cut her off, voice wild with desperation . “Please. My— my husband’s been in an accident. In LA. I just— I need to get there.”

It came out without thinking, like the lie had been sitting in the back of his throat this whole time , waiting for a moment like this. Except it wasn’t really a lie , was it? Harry wasn’t his husband, but once upon a time they’d promised forever . This was close enough .

The woman’s eyes softened, the tension in her shoulders easing immediately. “Oh,” she said, her voice gentler now. “I’m so sorry to hear that.” She started typing again, faster this time. “Alright, let me see what I can do.”

Louis rocked on his heels, hands shaking against the counter , anxiety thrumming so loud in his head that the terminal noise faded into nothing.

“I can get you on that flight,” the woman said after a beat, a small, sympathetic smile tugging at her mouth. “It’s almost fully booked, but I’ll pull a few strings. Do you need a return ticket or just one-way?”

“One-way,” Louis said immediately. “I don’t care how much it costs.”

Her smile flickered into something almost motherly , like she’d seen panicked, lovesick idiots like him a hundred times before. “Alright. Passport, please.”

Louis shoved it across the counter, hands trembling, and she clicked through her screen, scanning his details and printing out the boarding pass in record time . “That’ll be £1,470,” she said softly, like she felt bad even saying it out loud .

Louis didn’t blink. He fumbled the cash out of his pocket, barely counting, just shoving a thick wad of bills onto the counter. The woman’s eyes widened slightly — probably thinking drug dealer or rockstar boyfriend — but Louis couldn’t care less. She counted it fast, slipped him his change, and pushed the boarding pass across the counter.

“Gate 14,” she said, voice still gentle. “Boarding starts in an hour and twenty minutes.”

Louis’ breath rushed out all at once , his chest loosening just a fraction. “Thank you,” he said, voice cracking again, but he meant it with everything he had.

“Good luck,” she added softly. “I hope your husband’s okay.”

Louis just nodded , unable to say anything else, swallowing around the guilt and heartbreak clawing up his throat.

He took the pass, grabbed his bag, and headed toward security , leaving the sympathetic woman behind — and with her, the last scrap of composure he had left.

Louis couldn’t sit down. Every chair in the waiting area felt like a trap , like if he sat still for too long, the fear would sink its teeth into him and never let go. So he paced — back and forth past the same overpriced souvenir stands, the same duty-free shelves stocked with whiskey he couldn’t touch , the same tired-looking travelers slumped in plastic chairs, none of them knowing Louis was coming apart at the seams right in front of them.

His duffle bag banged against his thigh with every step, the fabric already damp where he’d been clutching it too tight. He caught sight of his reflection in a window — too pale, eyes too wide, looking like he was about to either throw up or pass out — and had to look away.

It wasn’t until his fourth lap past a stall selling inflatable neck pillows that it hit him — he didn’t even know which hospital Harry was in .

“Fuck,” Louis muttered under his breath, yanking out his phone, fingers shaking as they fumbled over the screen . His first instinct was to call Zayn — Zayn always knew how to figure shit out — but he couldn’t wait . He needed to know now .

He opened Safari, heart in his throat , and typed Harry Styles overdose hospital LA . His hands shook so badly he misspelled overdose twice , and his thumb slipped when he tried to hit search, opening some ad for a luxury rehab in Malibu instead.

“ Come on, come on, come on, ” Louis muttered, teeth gritted, back pressed against a pillar to steady himself.

The search results loaded and there it was — right at the top, every tabloid frothing at the mouth , dissecting every second of Harry’s collapse in painful, excruciating detail .

Hospitalized at Cedars-Sinai Medical Center.

Louis exhaled so hard his lungs hurt . Cedars. That was something tangible , at least. Something to aim for. He pulled out a crumpled receipt from his pocket, borrowing a pen from the bored teenager behind the smoothie counter, and scribbled down the address , like his brain couldn’t be trusted to hold onto the information.

He stared at the scrap of paper for a moment too long, the reality of it sinking in all at once . Harry was really in a hospital bed right now , on the other side of the fucking world, and Louis was about to fly across an ocean to find him.

The part of Louis’ brain that usually kicked in during a crisis — the part that could charm his way out of a police stop or talk down an angry dealer — was completely offline . All that was left was this thudding, aching need to get there , to see him breathing , to know he wasn’t too late.

His phone buzzed in his hand — a text from Zayn.

Got your flight?

Louis’ reply was almost immediate.

Yeah. Leaving in a bit over an hour. Cedars-Sinai. That’s where he is.

Three dots appeared, then disappeared, then reappeared again, like Zayn didn’t know what to say. Finally:

You got this, mate.

Louis shoved the phone back in his pocket and kept pacing, because if he stopped moving, he was afraid he might start crying and never stop .

Louis found a currency exchange booth tucked between a perfume counter and some souvenir shop selling those tacky “I <3 London” mugs. He wasn’t sure why he hadn’t thought about money until now — probably because his brain was short-circuiting from sheer panic — but now that he was here, it felt necessary , like ticking something off a list he didn’t even remember making.

He pulled the wad of cash from his coat pocket, smoothing out the crumpled bills Zayn had shoved into his hand. The woman behind the counter gave him a look — half amused, half suspicious , like she’d seen this exact panicked boyfriend routine before — but she didn’t ask questions. Just counted the notes, punched numbers into her calculator, and slid a stack of fresh dollars across the counter.

Louis tucked them into his wallet with hands that wouldn’t stop shaking and stuffed it back into his bag, wiping his palms on his jeans after. One less thing to worry about.

But there was still so much to worry about, and pacing seemed like the only way to keep himself from completely falling apart . So he walked. Up and down the terminal. Past the overpriced coffee and the duty-free whiskey and the families arguing over luggage weight. His legs moved, but his mind was somewhere else entirely , racing ahead to hospital corridors and sterile waiting rooms and Harry hooked up to God knows how many machines .

His phone buzzed in his pocket, startling him enough to nearly drop it. When he saw Mum on the screen, a knot in his chest loosened, just a little. He fired off a quick text:

How’s Riley?

The reply came faster than he expected, like she’d been waiting for him to check in .

He’s fine, love. Ate two helpings of shepherd’s pie and beat the twins at Mario Kart. He’s settled in fine. Don’t worry about him — just worry about getting to Harry.

Louis swallowed hard, throat burning, and typed back:

Thanks, Mum. Love you.

He slid the phone back into his pocket just as the boarding call crackled over the speakers , and his stomach twisted again. This was really happening . He was about to fly across the world for the boy he hadn’t spoken to properly in months , for the boy who was once his whole world , for the boy who’d overdosed alone in a house Louis had never even seen .

His feet carried him toward the gate, and before he knew it, he was handing over his boarding pass , stepping onto the jet bridge , the sound of his own heart pounding so loud he could barely hear the flight attendant greeting him at the door.

The plane smelled like stale air and industrial carpet , and Louis slid into his window seat, duffle bag shoved under the seat in front of him, fingers gripping his knees like he could hold himself together by force alone . The safety demo started, but Louis didn’t hear a word. All he could think was:

Hold on, Haz. Almost there.

The plane rumbled to life beneath him, engines whining louder than Louis remembered, or maybe it was just that his head was already so loud the sound felt amplified. His fingers twisted in his hoodie sleeves, trying to ground himself , trying to remind himself that this was really happening . He was in a seat, on a plane, going to Harry , and somehow it still didn’t feel real.

The moment the plane lifted off, he pulled his phone out — already on airplane mode , screen dark except for the time — and opened his voicemail app , thumb hovering over a saved message from over a year ago . It was one of the last good ones , before things went to shit, before silence became their language .

He pressed play.

“Oi, Lou, pick up your damn phone. I know you’re ignoring me because you’re probably sulking about the match but seriously — call me back, you absolute knobhead.” Harry’s voice was bright , teasing, the kind of easy warmth Louis hadn’t heard in so long . “Love you, even if you’re shit at handling loss.”

Louis smiled before he could stop himself , even though it hurt like hell . He played it again. And again. Until it started to feel like a knife twisting between his ribs .

He switched to texts after that — scrolling through the thread that had once been a constant stream of in-jokes and I love you’s and memes that made no sense to anyone but them , until it had dwindled into weeks of nothing , and then one awkward exchange about rent .

Louis: Did you really pay it?

Harry: Yeah.

Louis: Why?

Harry: Because I still love you, you idiot.

That was the last real message , nearly twelve months ago. Louis had left it on read , because he didn’t know what to say. Now? Now he’d sell his fucking soul to get one more text like that.

He closed his eyes, head leaning against the window, trying to breathe past the ache . It didn’t work. Every time he inhaled, he thought about Harry alone in some fancy LA house , collapsing on some bathroom floor, no one there to catch him. Every time he exhaled, he thought about Harry at 16 years old , wide-eyed and shaking in that lifeless rehab room , and Louis reaching out a hand to him, saying, “Hey there, roommate.”

They were supposed to save each other .

What the fuck had happened?

Louis didn’t sleep a minute of the flight. He ordered two cups of coffee and a ginger ale he barely touched , fingers shaking so badly the flight attendant asked if he was okay. He wasn’t. Not even close. But he just said, “ I hate flying ,” and left it at that.

For ten hours, Louis lived inside his own head, replaying every kiss, every fight, every relapse , until the lines between then and now blurred completely. He couldn’t tell if the sweat on his back was from the heat or the panic , couldn’t tell if the burn in his throat was from crying or just existing .

All he knew — with absolute, bone-deep certainty — was that if Harry died before Louis could see him, touch him, say all the shit they never said — Louis wouldn’t survive it.

Louis had never been much of a social media person , at least not like Harry had. Sure, he had a Twitter — everyone did — but half the time he forgot it even existed until someone tagged him in something stupid. Harry, though — Harry had blown up online years ago , right around the time his music started getting traction. Even after they drifted apart, Louis had never once gone looking . It felt too much like picking at a scab , knowing all the pretty pictures and charming posts would just make the ache worse.

But now — somewhere over the Atlantic, phone clutched tight in his lap, the cabin dark except for a few reading lights — Louis did something he’d sworn he wouldn’t do . He opened Twitter. His own account was a wasteland , notifications piled up from old mates, random brands, and bots offering free Ray-Bans. He ignored all of it, thumb shaking as he typed @Harry_Styles into the search bar.

The account loaded instantly — blue check, 9.8 million followers, header photo of Harry on stage, arms spread wide, the crowd a blur of light behind him . His bio was simple : he/him. I make noise sometimes.

Louis’ chest ached so sharp it almost winded him , because that was so Harry it hurt .

The most recent tweet was from two days ago — just before his birthday. It was nothing special — a blurry picture of the sky at dusk, captioned ‘today feels soft’ . Louis stared at it for a long time , trying to read between lines that probably weren’t even there.

Before that, the timeline was a mess of promo tweets, selfies with fans, and random nonsense — all so painfully normal , it made Louis feel sick . Like none of it matched up with the boy currently lying in a hospital bed on the other side of the world .

The replies were a nightmare — half thirst tweets , half concerned fans , and more than a few saying shit like I knew he was back on something, you could see it in his eyes or LA swallows them all eventually . Louis locked his jaw , scrolling past the worst of it before he could punch a hole through the seat tray in front of him .

But then, buried beneath the noise, there was a reply from Harry’s sister, Gemma . It wasn’t public, just a reply under the photo of the sky, but it was there — a simple ‘Call me when you can x’ . Posted at 3am UK time .

Louis’ stomach twisted painfully because that meant Gemma didn’t know either — not yet — or she’d only just found out and was scrambling like the rest of them . It made everything feel even more real , like Harry wasn’t just a headline , but a person whose family was about to have the worst day of their lives .

He closed Twitter after that, shoving his phone into the seat pocket in front of him like it burned his hand , heart hammering so hard he could feel it in his teeth .

He stared out the window for a long time, watching the sky shift from black to pale grey , the first hints of sunrise bleeding over the horizon. His reflection stared back at him — tired, gaunt, all sharp edges and too-pale skin , and for a second, he could have sworn he saw his 18-year-old self staring back . The one who thought he and Harry could conquer the whole fucking world together .

He closed his eyes.

“Hold on, Play-Doh,” he whispered into the hum of the plane. “I’m almost there.”

Notes:

You guys wanted Harry back so bad, but at what cost?

Chapter 38: chapter 38

The wheels touched down with a jolt that rattled Louis to his bones , and the second the seatbelt sign blinked off, he was on his feet , duffle bag yanked from under the seat in one frantic tug. The woman next to him, some middle-aged tourist with a neck pillow still wrapped around her shoulders, gave him a look , but Louis couldn’t care less. His heart was beating so fast it felt like his body was trying to outrun itself , and all he could think was get to Harry, get to Harry, get to Harry.

He was off the plane before the rest of the cabin had even fully stood up, his trainers pounding down the jet bridge , nearly knocking over a bloke still half-asleep from the flight. Louis muttered a quick “sorry” but didn’t slow down, weaving through the terminal like a man possessed , eyes locked on the exit signs like they were lifelines .

Customs was a blur , Louis barely hearing the officer’s questions, answering on autopilot — here for personal reasons, staying at a hotel near Cedars-Sinai, no I’m not bringing in any food or plants or fucking weapons, please just let me through.

The moment the final stamp hit his passport, Louis was off again , bolting through baggage claim even though he didn’t need to stop, past families hugging each other hello and jetlagged businessmen dragging suitcases twice their size. None of it mattered. Nothing existed except Harry.

Outside, the California sun hit him like a slap to the face , too bright, too sharp after hours in the stale dimness of the plane. His breath fogged in the cool morning air , but Louis didn’t stop to take it in. He raised his arm so fast to flag a cab he nearly dislocated his shoulder, fingers snapping wildly until a battered yellow taxi lurched to a stop right in front of him.

“Cedars-Sinai,” Louis panted, flinging himself into the back seat , duffle bag crushing against his knees. “Fast as you can. Please.”

The driver, an older man with sunglasses perched on his forehead, gave Louis a once-over , clocking the panic in his face immediately. “Rough morning, huh?”

“Yeah,” Louis choked out, voice thin. “Please. Just go.”

As the cab peeled out into LA traffic, Louis pressed back into the seat , hands trembling on his knees, watching the unfamiliar city blur past, heart in his throat , mind racing with every possible scenario — Harry awake and fine, Harry asleep and recovering, Harry hooked up to machines, Harry gone before Louis got there .

He squeezed his eyes shut, forcing the last thought away , fingers digging into his thigh hard enough to leave marks.

He was almost there .

Hold on, Play-Doh.

The taxi screeched to a stop in front of Cedars-Sinai, and before the driver could even put the car fully in park, Louis was already digging the wad of cash out of his pocket , shoving far too much money into the man’s hand.

“Keep the change,” Louis muttered, not even sparing a glance at the crumpled bills. The driver raised his eyebrows, clearly surprised, but didn’t argue. Louis was already halfway out the door, duffle slung over his shoulder, feet hitting the pavement hard enough to jar his knees .

There was a cluster of fans lingering outside, some holding Get Well Soon signs, others with cameras already raised , and Louis barely registered them before plowing straight through , shoulder checking a girl in a pastel hoodie hard enough to make her stumble. Someone gasped — “That’s Louis Tomlinson!” — but Louis didn’t stop, didn’t even acknowledge it, head down, jaw clenched, a man on a mission with no time for anyone else’s bullshit .

The automatic doors slid open with a hiss and the sterile smell of hospital air hit Louis like a punch to the face — antiseptic, faintly floral, too clean, too cold , and Louis’ stomach lurched, memory slamming into him full force .

Rehab intake, overdose admissions, cold plastic chairs in too-bright rooms.

Harry pale and shaking in a borrowed hoodie, Louis pacing the length of the waiting room like he could outrun reality.

Harry collapsing on a bathroom floor back when they were barely old enough to drive.

Not now. Focus.

He stormed up to the front desk, palm slapping down against the counter , startling the poor woman behind it. “Harry Styles,” Louis said, voice hoarse and uneven , throat raw from the flight and the panic. “I need to know where he is.”

The woman, probably used to panicked loved ones and celebrity-adjacent meltdowns , blinked at him calmly. “Are you family?”

Louis opened his mouth to say yes, but then — technically, no. Not by blood. Not on paper. But in every fucking way that mattered — “I’m his fiancé,” Louis said, voice stronger than he felt , eyes daring her to question it.

The woman’s expression softened just slightly , fingers already flying across her keyboard. “Styles, you said?”

“Yes,” Louis said, heartbeat pounding so loud it nearly drowned out the sound of her typing. “Harry Edward Styles. Brought in last night. Overdose.”

She winced at the word — overdose — but didn’t comment. “He’s in the ICU,” she said after a moment, printing something out and sliding it across the desk. “Take this to the security desk at the elevators. They’ll buzz you up.”

Louis’ hand shook when he took the paper, fingers smudging the ink , but he didn’t stop to read it. “Thank you,” he mumbled, already moving toward the elevators, heart hammering against his ribs like it wanted out.

He was so close .

Louis almost walked straight to the elevators, but something made him pause , feet rooted to the linoleum , staring at the hospital gift shop tucked just off the lobby. It was tiny , half-filled with tacky floral arrangements , rows of cheap chocolates , and Get Well Soon cards that all felt offensively cheerful .

But what caught Louis’ eye were the balloons. Clusters of them bobbing near the ceiling — silver, pink, blue, the standard stuff. And one lone orange balloon , a bit crinkled, like it had been hanging around for too long , just slightly deflated compared to the rest.

It was ridiculous — so small and stupid compared to everything else — but Louis didn’t even think before he walked in, hand shaking slightly as he pointed to the balloon. “That one. The orange one.”

The clerk raised her eyebrows but didn’t ask questions, just untied it from the rack and handed it over. “Three dollars,” she said. Louis shoved a five into her hand, barely listening as she muttered something about change. He didn’t care.

The balloon’s string felt too thin between his fingers, but he clutched it tight anyway, white-knuckled , like it might be the only thing holding him together . Harry loved balloons on his birthday — always had, even when they were too old for it , even when they were too broke to afford them. One year, Louis had stolen an entire net of them from a Tesco loading dock at midnight, dragging them all into their shitty first flat, and Harry had laughed until he couldn’t breathe .

That had been one of the good years .

Louis’ stomach twisted violently as the elevator doors slid open, and for a second, he thought he might actually throw up. His skin was clammy , his heart beating so fast it was painful , his mind racing with every possible worst-case scenario . What if Harry was unconscious ? What if Harry didn’t want him there ? What if— No. No time for that.

He stepped inside, pressing the button for the ICU floor , the balloon bobbing gently next to his shoulder. In the mirrored walls, Louis saw himself — pale, tired, clutching a stupid orange balloon like a lost kid at a funfair — and had to bite the inside of his cheek hard to keep himself from completely losing it .

The ride up felt both too long and too short , every second pulling him closer to whatever waited on the other side . His ears rang with the memory of that voicemail , his own voice cracking as he said, Happy birthday, Haz. And now here he was, showing up with a fucking balloon like that could somehow make up for all the months of silence, all the missed calls and unsaid shit between them .

As the doors slid open, Louis took a shaking breath , adjusting the strap of his duffle bag, balloon string wrapped tight around his wrist .

“ Happy birthday, Play-Doh, ” Louis muttered under his breath, and then he stepped out , walking straight into whatever came next.

The ICU floor was too quiet . No bustling nurses, no visitors crowding around beds with flowers and awkward smiles — just the hum of machines , the faint hiss of oxygen, and the kind of silence that made Louis’ stomach twist tighter and tighter with every step .

He walked past the nurses’ station , barely registering the soft nods of acknowledgment they gave him, eyes already locked on the one door with a security guard standing outside it , arms crossed over his chest, posture stiff. It was the only room with a guard. Of course it was.

Louis’ palms were sweating , his fingers still clenched around the balloon string, and he had to wipe them on his jeans before he could approach. The guard eyed him up and down , gaze sharp and skeptical, like he could smell the chaos clinging to Louis’ skin .

“Can’t let you through,” the guard said flatly, not even asking for a name. “Press only with clearance.”

Louis’ throat felt too tight to swallow , but somehow he managed to find his voice , even if it came out rough and uneven. “I’m not press,” Louis said, voice cracking slightly. “I’m—” He could’ve said anything — boyfriend, ex, whatever — but the word that came out was, “ Louis. ”

The guard’s expression faltered , the name hitting its mark instantly . Louis saw the way his eyes widened slightly, the way recognition softened the edge of suspicion . The guy knew who he was — whether from Harry or from the years of tabloid bullshit didn’t matter.

“Louis Tomlinson?” the guard asked, like he was double-checking reality .

“Yeah,” Louis breathed, feeling a little dizzy now that the guard wasn’t actively blocking him. “Yeah, that’s me.”

Without another word, the guard stepped aside , reaching for the door handle. “He’s out cold,” the guard said, quieter now, almost gentle . “Go easy on him.”

Louis nodded, heart in his throat , and stepped inside.

The room was small and too bright , the air too cold , and the first thing Louis saw was Harry — pale as hell, thinner than Louis remembered , face half-buried in a tangle of tubes and wires , the beeping of machines way too loud in the quiet.

Louis’ breath caught painfully in his chest, balloon string slipping from his fingers, the orange bobble of it drifting up to bump against the ceiling tiles . Harry looked so young like this , curled on his side under the thin hospital blanket, curls a mess against the pillow , dark circles smudged deep under his eyes . His hand rested limply on top of the sheet , IV taped into the back of it, the skin around the needle looking angry and raw , like they’d had trouble finding a vein.

Louis had seen Harry in every state imaginable — high, hungover, shaking through withdrawal, laughing until he couldn’t breathe, crying until his eyes swelled shut — but this? This was different . This was too still , too silent, like the room itself was holding its breath.

“Hi, Play-Doh,” Louis whispered, voice breaking halfway through the nickname, throat burning like hell .

Harry didn’t move . The machines beeped on. Louis sank into the chair beside the bed , hands folded between his knees, knuckles white. He didn’t touch Harry, not yet. He just sat there , staring, memorizing every inch of him , like somehow, just by being there, Louis could drag him back from wherever he’d gone.

Louis reached for the balloon again, fingers twisting around the string until it cut into his skin , just to give himself something to hold onto, something to focus on that wasn’t the sound of the beeping monitors or the too-shallow rise and fall of Harry’s chest .

The balloon bobbed slightly when he pulled it closer, orange against the sterile white room , like it didn’t belong there — like they didn’t belong here . This was never supposed to happen again . Not after rehab. Not after the pact. Not after all the shit they’d sworn to each other in the dark when they were still just kids with shaky hands and big dreams .

Louis cleared his throat, voice rough from the flight and the fear and too many cigarettes , but he forced himself to speak, because silence felt worse .

“So,” Louis started, light and casual , like Harry was just hungover and sulking in bed , not hooked up to enough machines to make Louis’ stomach churn . “Happy birthday, Haz. I know — shit gift, yeah? One balloon. No cake. No strippers jumping out of it or whatever you always joked about.”

His laugh was too thin , too forced , but it filled the room just enough to push back the silence .

“Your party’s gonna have to wait, I guess,” Louis went on, fingers twisting the balloon string tighter , until it left a red mark across his skin. “But everyone says hi. Well, not everyone. Zayn’s still a knob and forgot your birthday — I’m gonna slap him for it later — but Niall remembered. I think he might actually bake something. God help us all.”

He kept going, words tumbling out in a stream of nonsense , because stopping meant feeling and Louis couldn’t do that — not yet .

“The kid‘s doing well, by the way,” Louis added, glancing at Harry’s face like he could see the recognition flicker behind his closed eyes . “He asked about you the other day. Wanted to know who the curly-haired bloke in the polaroid was. Told him you were Play-Doh. He didn’t even ask what it meant — just accepted it like it was gospel.”

He huffed a laugh, but it didn’t reach his eyes.

“Your mum— well.” Louis’ jaw tightened briefly , but he forced himself to keep it light. “She’s exactly how you left her, I suppose. I haven’t seen her, but I imagine she’s still handing out pills like Tic Tacs and pretending it’s normal.”

He ran a hand down his face, exhaustion creeping in , but he wouldn’t — couldn’t — stop talking.

“I got a job again. Corner shop, nothing fancy. And I pay rent now, so you don’t have to swoop in like the mysterious benefactor and save my arse.” He nudged Harry’s hand, just the back of his fingers against Harry’s knuckles , as gentle as he could manage. “I mean, thanks for that, by the way. Even though you didn’t tell me. Proper romantic gesture. Dickhead.”

Louis swallowed hard, that burn rising in his throat again , but he refused to cry. He was not going to cry .

“I painted the flat orange,” he said, because that memory was still so sharp it made his chest ache . “Found those cans you bought forever ago — remember? Said you wanted every wall orange. It looks like shit, mate. Absolute shit. You’d love it.”

Harry didn’t move. His face stayed slack , lips chapped and pale , and Louis hated how easily he could count every rib beneath the hospital gown , hated how Harry looked small again , like he’d shrunk back into the kid Louis had first met in rehab , all curls and bones too sharp for his skin .

Louis squeezed the balloon string so tight it nearly popped .

“I miss you, you know,” he added, voice quieter now, like it was a confession he’d been too proud to make until now . “Even when you’re right here.”

He leaned forward, elbows braced on his knees, balloon resting against his shoulder like it was holding him up, and for a while, he just breathed . In and out. In and out. Because one of them had to.

“Come on, Play-Doh,” Louis whispered, barely a sound. “Wake up. You can‘t just do this to me.”

The machines beeped on.

And Louis sat there, clutching that stupid balloon , refusing to cry.

Louis lost track of time completely . It could have been hours, it could have been half a day — the only thing keeping him anchored was the steady beep of Harry’s heart monitor and the orange balloon string still looped around his wrist . Every time his grip loosened, every time his eyes threatened to close for longer than a blink, he gave it a tug , the soft bounce of the balloon against his shoulder keeping him awake .

Nurses came and went, checking Harry’s vitals, adjusting his IV, but no one asked Louis to leave. At some point, a kind-looking nurse with salt-and-pepper hair asked if he wanted water or maybe a sandwich from the cafeteria. Louis declined, stomach too knotted with anxiety to even consider eating, and after the third time she asked and he refused, she stopped offering.

That was the thing, wasn’t it? Being Harry Styles’ boyfriend — ex-boyfriend? fiancé, if anyone believed the lie from the front desk — had its perks. They weren’t kicking him out at the end of visiting hours or reminding him of rules. No one even mentioned visiting hours at all. Louis just sat there, legs folded up in the uncomfortable plastic chair, hunched forward with his elbows braced on the edge of Harry’s bed, head resting against his folded arms. They let him stay.

Maybe it was pity , or maybe someone up the chain knew who he was , knew his name wasn’t just some random plus-one . Maybe someone knew their history , the rehab rooms and relapse cycles , the fucking vows whispered between bedsheets and between lines of coke , the whole messy, unfixable story . Or maybe no one cared — maybe they just took one look at Louis’ face and realized there was no way in hell he was leaving .

He couldn’t leave, not even for a minute. Not when Harry could wake up and panic at any moment , confused and disoriented, alone except for Louis sitting right there, still holding on .

His phone buzzed once in his pocket — a text from Zayn asking if he made it — and Louis thumbed back a one-word reply : Yeah . Nothing else. He couldn’t manage more than that right now.

The balloon drifted lazily above his shoulder, bright orange against the cold fluorescent light , and Louis stared at it for a long time, thinking about how many birthdays they’d spent high out of their minds , how many promises they broke , and how many times they crawled back to each other anyway .

This was different though. This wasn’t some mess they could laugh about later . This was the edge of something sharper , something with no guaranteed way back.

Harry didn’t move .

Louis’ fingers twitched against the blanket, aching to reach out, to hold his hand , but it felt too intimate , too much like goodbye , and Louis wasn’t ready for that.

So instead, he sat there, sleepless and starving and stubborn as ever , because if Harry had to fight his way back to consciousness, then Louis could fight his way through a little hunger and exhaustion .

That was the deal, wasn’t it?

Together or not at all.

The room was dark except for the soft glow of a monitor, the orange balloon catching just enough of the light to cast a faint, round shadow against the ceiling. Louis was still awake, though barely , eyelids heavy, his head propped on his folded arms against Harry’s mattress. His neck ached, his whole body stiff from hours of sitting in the same hunched position , but none of that mattered. Not when Harry was still too still , his breathing too shallow, his face far too pale .

The machines beeped on, the only sound Louis could rely on to prove that Harry was still here .

Then, so quietly Louis almost missed it, there was a shift.

A soft exhale , rough and uneven, followed by a faint, confused sound , like someone waking from a nightmare and not knowing where they were . Louis’ head shot up so fast he nearly knocked the balloon with his forehead.

Harry’s fingers twitched against the blanket , his brow furrowing like the world around him didn’t make sense yet . His eyes opened next, glass-green and unfocused , blinking against the dim light, his gaze darting around the room until they landed on Louis .

Louis froze , completely unprepared for this moment , for seeing Harry awake and alive and confused and vulnerable all at once . Every ounce of composure Louis had held onto all day shattered instantly , and before he could stop himself, he was crying — silently at first, tears slipping down his cheeks without permission , his chest caving inward like his ribs couldn’t hold the weight anymore.

“Haz,” Louis whispered, voice wrecked and barely there , like if he said it too loudly, Harry might disappear .

Harry just stared, eyes wide, still glazed from medication , throat working like he was trying to say something, but nothing came out.

“You scared the shit out of me,” Louis said through a sob that ripped right out of his chest , his hand finally giving in and grabbing Harry’s where it lay limp on the bed. “You absolute fucking idiot. What the fuck were you thinking?”

Harry’s hand shifted under his, fingers weakly curling around Louis’ thumb, like it took every bit of strength he had left . His lips moved, cracked and dry, but the only word that made it out was a hoarse, broken : “Lou.”

That was it — the final straw — and Louis’ sobs got louder, shoulders shaking, his forehead dropping to their joined hands like it was the only anchor in the world .

“I’m here,” Louis promised, voice muffled and broken and ugly with relief . “I’m right here, Play-Doh. You’re okay. You’re okay.”

Harry’s thumb brushed over Louis’ knuckles , weak and trembling, but still trying to comfort him , even from the fucking ICU bed.

Louis lifted his head, swiping at his face with the sleeve of his hoodie , trying to pull himself together and failing miserably. “Happy birthday, you dramatic prick,” he added, voice cracking around the edges.

Harry gave him the faintest smile , barely there but real , and Louis completely fell apart all over again.

Because Harry was awake .

Louis couldn’t stop crying, and he couldn’t stop talking either — a messy, frantic stream of words that poured out like a dam breaking, every thought that had been bottled up since the last time they saw each other flooding the room all at once .

“I’m sorry,” Louis said, voice cracking like shattered glass , fingers still clutching Harry’s hand like if he let go, Harry might drift away again . “I’m so fucking sorry, Haz, for— I don’t even know what for, just— all of it.”

Harry’s brow furrowed slightly, confusion clouding his still-drugged-up eyes , but Louis kept going because he couldn’t stop now, not when everything was ripping out of him all at once .

“I should’ve—” Louis swallowed hard, throat tight and raw. “I should’ve dragged you back home the second I thought something was wrong. When you stopped eating properly and lost all that weight, and you told me it was just your manager being a twat about your image— I fucking knew, Haz. I knew. And I didn’t do anything.”

Harry’s fingers curled a little tighter around his, weak but desperate , like even now, he was trying to pull Louis back from wherever his mind was spiraling .

“I should’ve gone to LA with you,” Louis said, shaking his head like he could physically shake off the guilt . “I should’ve gotten on the plane and slept on your sofa and been the annoying boyfriend you couldn’t get rid of, just like we used to talk about.” His breath hitched, shoulders shaking with the force of it . “I should’ve told you I fucking loved you the last time I saw you, instead of pretending like we were just mates again because it was easier.”

Harry opened his mouth like he was about to say something, but nothing came out — just a soft rasp of breath , his throat too dry to work properly. Louis grabbed the little cup of water sitting untouched on the bedside table, fumbling with the straw, guiding it to Harry’s lips like he’d done this a thousand times before . Harry took a small sip, then winced , like even that much hurt.

Louis set the cup down, gently brushing Harry’s curls back from his forehead , fingers trembling. “I’m sorry for letting you leave,” he whispered, quieter now, almost to himself. “For letting you think I’d be fine without you. For— for acting like you weren’t the only fucking thing that’s ever made me feel like life was worth sticking around for.”

Harry’s eyes shone wet under the dim light, and Louis knew he understood , even if neither of them could actually say the right words yet.

“I’m sorry for every time I should’ve fought harder,” Louis finished, voice barely more than a whisper. “For not grabbing you by the collar and dragging you back to London when I knew you were falling apart. I’m sorry for being such a fucking coward.”

Harry’s hand tugged weakly , pulling Louis’ knuckles to his chest, pressing them there like a lifeline , his own voice a rough, broken whisper when he finally managed to speak.

“Don’t—” Harry coughed, the sound raw and painful , but he forced the words out anyway. “Don’t apologize. You— you saved me, Lou. Always.”

Louis shook his head furiously, tears spilling all over again , because how could Harry say that after everything? After Louis had missed every sign , after he’d turned a blind eye to every warning bell until it was too fucking late.

“You saved me,” Harry said again, voice weaker this time, but still so certain . “Even now. You’re here.”

Louis bent over their joined hands, forehead pressing against Harry’s knuckles, the orange balloon bobbing softly above them like a stupid, bright reminder of who they used to be — two fucked up kids in love, who couldn’t save themselves, but always tried to save each other.

“I love you,” Louis whispered into Harry’s skin, finally saying it like it was a prayer , or maybe a promise. “I love you, Haz.”

Harry’s fingers curled tighter, as tight as they could manage. “Love you too, Lou.”

Louis laughed through the tears, ugly and broken , but so full of relief it almost hurt.

The next morning came slow and heavy, the kind of morning after a storm , when the air still felt too thick and the quiet felt unnatural . Louis hadn’t slept — not really. He’d dozed off for maybe an hour, head still resting against the mattress, Harry’s fingers weakly curled in his own, but the second Harry shifted , Louis was wide awake, heart in his throat all over again .

Harry looked better, barely , but better was relative. His skin wasn’t as ghostly pale , but his eyes were rimmed red , and his curls were a tangled mess against the pillow. Louis knew he’d never forget this image , no matter how hard he tried — Harry, small and fragile in a hospital bed, wires and IVs tangled around him like chains .

The orange balloon had drifted to the corner of the room sometime during the night, half deflated now , but still there, still bobbing softly like it refused to let go. Louis understood the feeling .

Harry broke the silence first, his voice still hoarse and scratchy , like every word cost him something . “I’m sorry,” he whispered, eyes locked on their joined hands. “I’m so fucking sorry, Lou.”

Louis shook his head immediately, throat already tight again. “Haz, you don’t have to—”

“I do,” Harry cut him off, voice trembling. “I need you to know — I wasn’t trying to—” He swallowed hard, eyes flicking toward the ceiling like he couldn’t look Louis in the face when he said it . “I wasn’t trying to die. I swear.”

Louis’ stomach twisted so hard he almost gagged , but he nodded. “Okay.”

“I just—” Harry’s fingers curled tighter around Louis’, desperate for something solid . “I heard your voicemail. And it just— it fucked me up. I couldn’t stop thinking about everything. About us. About how much I’d fucked it all.”

Louis’ breath caught painfully. “Haz—”

“I couldn’t do it anymore,” Harry whispered, voice cracking wide open. “I couldn’t feel anything without it, Lou. And then I heard you — your voice — saying happy birthday like we weren’t a thousand miles apart, like nothing had changed, and I just— I wanted it to stop. Just for a bit. I didn’t mean to—” His voice broke completely, tears spilling down his cheeks , breath hitching like a little kid caught in a nightmare he couldn’t wake up from . “I didn’t mean to.”

Louis wiped his face with the sleeve of his hoodie, trying to keep himself together , but it was a losing battle . “Fuck, Haz,” he choked out, voice ragged. “I’m so sorry I wasn’t there.”

Harry shook his head violently, curls sticking to his damp forehead. “No — no, this isn’t on you. It’s me. I did this.”

“But I should’ve known!” Louis’ voice cracked, too loud for the quiet room. “I should’ve heard it in your voice months ago. I should’ve gotten on a fucking plane and—”

“You did.” Harry’s fingers squeezed his, firm despite the tremble , forcing Louis to meet his eyes. “You did get on a plane. You’re here.”

Louis’ tears blurred his vision, but he forced a watery smile. “Took me long enough, huh?”

“Yeah.” Harry’s smile was small, weak, but real , and Louis felt something inside him splinter apart — some dam holding back everything he hadn’t let himself feel . “But you’re here now.”

They sat in silence for a moment, just holding on , breathing together, alive together , the way they always somehow managed to be — even when they were terrible at everything else .

Louis kissed Harry’s knuckles, light and soft , like a promise. “Happy late birthday, Play-Doh.”

Harry laughed — a small, broken sound — but it was still a laugh . “Happy late birthday to me.”

The door creaked open every so often, doctors and nurses drifting in and out like ghosts , asking soft questions, checking screens, writing things down without saying much at all . Louis barely heard them, their voices reduced to background noise , like the hum of the machines or the occasional beep from Harry’s heart monitor.

What he couldn’t tune out , though, was the sweat .

It started slowly — a sheen across Harry’s forehead , his hair sticking to his temples , which could’ve just been the warmth of the blanket or the shitty air circulation. But Louis knew better . He’d seen this before , too many times in too many places — from shitty flats to rehab rooms to freezing squats where neither of them had a proper jacket.

He knew withdrawal sweat like he knew his own breath.

Harry’s hand trembled faintly in Louis’, the dampness seeping into Louis’ palm , but Louis didn’t let go. He just held tighter , his own stomach twisting in sympathy , because he knew what was coming next — the shakes, the nausea, the bone-deep ache that made you want to peel your own skin off .

The nurse adjusted Harry’s IV , and Louis leaned in close, voice soft and low so only Harry could hear.

“It’s okay, Haz,” Louis whispered, brushing back a damp curl from Harry’s forehead, fingers gentle but sure . “I’ve got you.”

Harry’s eyes fluttered open , hazy and bloodshot, half-confused and half-ashamed . “Lou, I—” His voice cracked , breath coming too fast , his free hand clutching weakly at the blanket , already too warm and too cold at the same time . “I feel like shit.”

Louis’ chest ached so badly it felt bruised . “I know,” he murmured, thumb stroking Harry’s knuckles, grounding him the only way he knew how. “It’s the comedown, love. Your body’s pissed off.”

Harry tried for a smile, but it faltered , his whole body shivering despite the sweat soaking into the hospital gown. “S’what I get, right?” he mumbled, half delirious already. “For being a fuckin’ idiot.”

Louis shook his head sharply. “Stop that,” he said, stern but gentle , the way his mum used to talk to him after his first overdose . “No beating yourself up, alright? We’re already in the shit, no point kicking yourself while you’re down.”

Harry’s fingers curled tighter around Louis’, but his shaking got worse , tremors running up his arms until his teeth chattered faintly . The nurse noticed then, frowning slightly as she adjusted the drip again, probably adding something to ease the symptoms , but it wouldn’t erase them . Not really. Not completely.

Louis pressed his forehead to the back of Harry’s hand for a second, just to breathe through the helplessness . “I’ve got you,” he whispered again, quieter this time, almost like a prayer .

And Harry didn’t say anything — just closed his eyes, trusting Louis like he always had , even when they’d failed each other a hundred times before .

This time, Louis told himself, they were gonna get it right . Even if he had to drag both of them kicking and screaming through every second of it .

Chapter 39: Chapter 39

It was sometime after 10, Louis reckoned — though time had stopped meaning anything the moment he’d stepped foot in that hospital room — when the door swung open hard enough to hit the wall .

Louis looked up from where he was half-perched on Harry’s bed , one hand still curled around Harry’s wrist, feeling every tremor as Harry sweat through his second gown of the day . For a moment, Louis thought it was another nurse or maybe a doctor with test results, but no — standing in the doorway was a man Louis barely recognized , sharp suit, slicked hair, face flushed with anger.

Louis squinted, trying to place him through the fog of exhaustion and anxiety , and then it clicked.

The manager.

Louis had never met him in person, only seen him in photos from red carpet events or heard his voice in the background of Harry’s rushed calls when they were still trying to hold each other together from opposite sides of the world. But he knew the type — shark in a suit , the kind of bloke who didn’t give a shit about anything but profit margins and public image .

The man’s eyes swept the room , landing on Harry, taking in the IVs, the wires, the fact that Harry was half-conscious and trembling in a hospital bed , and the look on his face was pure disgust , like Harry was a mess he couldn’t be arsed to clean up .

“Fucking brilliant,” the manager spat, stepping inside and letting the door swing shut behind him. “Do you have any idea what you’ve done?”

Harry flinched at the tone , shoulders curling in slightly, and Louis saw red .

“Oi,” Louis snapped, standing up so fast the chair scraped loudly against the floor . “What the fuck is wrong with you? He nearly fucking died and that’s the first thing you say?”

The manager’s eyes flicked to Louis , narrowing slightly, like he was something stuck to the bottom of his shoe . “And who the hell are you?”

Louis squared his shoulders, stepping directly between Harry and the manager, arms crossed tight over his chest. “I’m Louis,” he said flatly. “The one who flew across a fucking ocean to sit by his bed after you lot left him alone to rot.”

The manager’s lip curled, but Louis didn’t let him speak. “Where were you, huh? Where were you when he started losing weight? When he couldn’t sleep unless he was off his face? Where the fuck were you when he was sliding right back into the same shit we crawled out of together?” Louis’ voice was shaking , but not from fear — from anger , white-hot and barely leashed . “Because I’ll tell you where I was — I was across the fucking world, not knowing about any of this , because some dickhead manager couldn‘t be arsed to make a call.”

The manager opened his mouth, but Louis wasn’t done. “You knew, didn’t you? You knew he wasn’t right. You knew he was using again, and you did fuck-all because as long as he showed up for soundcheck, it wasn’t your problem.”

The manager’s face flushed deeper , but he didn’t deny it. “I’m not here to argue with some washed-up junkie with a hero complex,” he said coldly. “I’m here to figure out how we spin this before it hits TMZ.”

Louis barked out a laugh, sharp and humorless. “There’s no spinning this, mate. He overdosed. The press already knows. And if you think for one fucking second you’re gonna march in here and guilt him into showing up for some bullshit interview or public apology before he’s even got color back in his face, you’ve got another thing coming.”

Harry shifted slightly behind him, voice a weak croak . “Lou—”

“No,” Louis said firmly, not even looking back. “No, Haz. You be quiet for once in your life.”

The manager scoffed. “He’s under contract.”

“And he’s under my care ,” Louis shot back. “And if you try to drag him out of here before he’s ready, you’ll be the one making headlines for getting your arse kicked by his junkie boyfriend.”

The silence that followed was thick enough to choke on .

Finally, the manager exhaled sharply, turning toward the door. “This isn’t over,” he muttered, but his voice lacked conviction .

Louis flipped him off without turning around, hand high in the air. “Piss off then,” he said, voice sweet as honey .

When the door clicked shut, Louis turned back to Harry, his breath still coming too fast , his hands shaking with adrenaline .

“Louis,” Harry croaked again, hoarse and small , but his eyes were bright, like he was somehow proud and devastated at the same time .

“It’s alright, Play-Doh,” Louis said softly, brushing sweaty curls off Harry’s forehead . “Nobody’s dragging you anywhere.”

Harry’s fingers curled weakly around Louis’ wrist, and Louis swore right then and there that the only place Harry was ever going was wherever Louis went too .

The hours after the manager left were a blur , but the kind of blur that burned — the kind you felt in your bones no matter how much you tried to shut it out. Louis didn’t sit back down right away. He stood beside Harry’s bed, shoulders still tense , the aftershocks of the fight trembling in his fingertips .

Harry had drifted off again, feverish and twitching , sweat beading along his brow, damp curls sticking to his forehead . His fingers never fully let go of Louis’, even as sleep dragged him under. Louis stood there, watching him breathe , until his own legs gave out and he sank back into the chair, head falling forward to rest against their joined hands.

Louis had been through withdrawal hell before, both his and Harry’s, and he knew the first few days were the worst of it . This was no exception.

The next morning, Harry woke up shaking so violently the bed frame rattled , his teeth clacking together hard enough to bruise his jaw . Louis was awake in an instant, fumbling for the nurse call button with one hand , the other stroking slow, steady circles over Harry’s clammy forearm.

“S’gonna be okay,” Louis whispered, voice still rough from sleep he hadn’t properly gotten. “You’re safe, Haz. I’m here.”

Harry’s eyes were wild with panic , pupils blown wide — the fear, the sickness, the pain all crashing down at once . He gripped Louis’ wrist with both hands, his fingers ice cold despite the sweat , nails digging into skin.

“It hurts,” Harry rasped, voice shredded . “Fuck, Lou— it hurts so bad.”

Louis’ stomach twisted painfully , that old familiar helplessness clawing up his throat like bile , but he didn’t let go , didn’t look away. “I know, baby,” Louis whispered, leaning close, forehead resting against Harry’s temple. “I know. But you’ve done this before, remember? And you beat it. You can do it again. We’ll do it again.”

The nurse came in, soft-spoken and gentle, explaining the medication they could give him , something to take the edge off , but nothing too strong — nothing that would trigger a whole new problem . Louis approved without hesitation , knowing full well Harry wouldn’t argue. He was too far gone to argue — trembling like a leaf in a hurricane , lips cracked, body curling inward like if he made himself small enough, the pain might miss him entirely .

It didn’t.

Louis helped him sip water between dry heaves, held his hair back when he couldn’t keep anything down , changed the sweat-soaked hospital gown when Harry was too weak to sit up fully . There was nothing glamorous about detox — it was ugly, messy, humiliating in ways that stripped you down to nothing , but Louis never flinched , never once made a face, never let Harry feel like a burden .

They’d been here before. Louis had dragged Harry through hell and back , and if this was what it took to keep him breathing , Louis would do it a thousand times over .

Somewhere around day two , the press got wind of the whole thing. Louis knew the second he opened his phone to check the time and saw his notifications exploding , texts from Zayn, Niall, even his mum, all variations of Are you okay? and Call me when you can . The Daily Mail headline was a punch to the gut .

 

HARRY STYLES HOSPITALIZED AFTER SUSPECTED OVERDOSE — EX-BOYFRIEND LOUIS TOMLINSON SPOTTED AT HIS SIDE.

 

Louis closed the app and threw his phone back onto the chair . Fuck the press. Fuck the fans waiting outside. Fuck everyone who thought this was entertainment .

The only thing that mattered was Harry.

By day three, Harry was starting to surface properly , eyes clearer between bursts of shivering and vomiting, able to hold Louis’ hand without his grip slipping . Louis fed him ice chips, made shit jokes to fill the silence , recited lyrics to old songs they used to scream in Zayn‘s car when they were teenagers and stupid and thought they were invincible .

Harry smiled — really smiled — for the first time when Louis started singing Teenage Dirtbag off-key, complete with dramatic air guitar , perched on the side of his hospital bed like a feral goblin . Harry’s laugh wasn’t much , but it was real, and Louis held onto it like a fucking lifeline .

They talked in bits and pieces — broken conversations between waves of pain , Louis keeping it light when Harry’s face went pale , Harry apologizing in quiet bursts , voice thick with guilt and exhaustion.

“I never wanted you to see me like this again,” Harry whispered once, voice almost too soft to hear.

Louis cupped his jaw, thumb stroking the sharp line of Harry’s cheek , feeling how thin he’d gotten under his touch. “Don’t be dick,” Louis said, forcing a grin he didn’t fully feel . “I’ve seen you puke on my shoes and piss in a kitchen sink. This is nothing.”

“Love you,” Harry mumbled, half-asleep already , his fingers curling loosely around the hem of Louis’ sleeve like a kid clinging to a blanket.

“Love you more, Play-Doh,” Louis whispered back, kissing his forehead. “Always.”

By day four, Harry could sit up properly without help , and Louis helped him brush his hair, gentle fingers working through tangles , both of them pretending not to notice the way it came out in clumps from the stress his body had endured. Louis just said, “You always wanted a buzz cut,” and Harry snorted through his nose, shoving Louis weakly in the side .

Through it all — the sweating, the vomiting, the sheer misery of being ripped clean of every chemical his body had relied on — Louis never left. Not once. The nurses offered him a cot , told him he could go shower in the staff bathroom , gave him a visitor’s pass that might as well have been a residency badge , but Louis never left that chair, never let go of Harry’s hand unless he absolutely had to .

Because the truth was, Louis didn’t trust himself to leave .

Not because he didn’t trust Harry to stay clean — though that was part of it , if he was honest — but because he didn’t trust himself to breathe properly without Harry in his sightline . After everything — the fights, the relapses, the years of half-recovery and half-destruction — Louis couldn’t handle losing Harry, not now. Maybe not ever.

“We’re gonna figure this out,” Louis promised on the fifth night, Harry tucked against his side, head on Louis’ shoulder, both of them too exhausted to cry anymore . “We’re gonna get you better, and you’re gonna go back to making music and being annoying, and I’m gonna keep working at my shit corner shop, and we’re gonna—”

“Together?” Harry asked softly, hopeful in a way that made Louis’ throat ache .

“Always,” Louis said, kissing the top of his head. “Together, or not at all.”

It started around mid-morning, when the nurse came in with a slightly too-bright smile and a clipboard clutched a bit too tightly to her chest. Louis was half-asleep — head lolling back against the chair, Harry’s fingers curled loosely around his wrist — but something in the unnatural politeness of her tone snapped him awake instantly.

“Mr. Styles,” she started, voice light and rehearsed , the kind of customer service voice Louis knew well enough to hate. “There’s… been a request.”

Louis sat up fully, immediately suspicious , his body already on edge from days of no sleep, bad coffee, and sheer survival mode . Harry blinked at the nurse, clearly just as confused , his hand tightening slightly around Louis’ wrist, like he already knew whatever this was wasn’t good news .

“What request?” Louis asked, cutting right to the point , voice scratchy from sleep deprivation and too many cigarettes smoked out the window of the ICU family room .

The nurse’s smile tightened , but she powered through it. “Your management team has… approved a brief press visit.”

Louis’ brain short-circuited for a second.

“What?” he asked, like maybe he’d misheard, like the lack of sleep was making him hallucinate .

“Just a short interview,” she said, too chipper , like it was some exciting opportunity and not a complete fucking violation . “Some statements to clear the air, reassure fans you’re recovering.”

Louis was out of his chair before he could think , rage vibrating under his skin , like his entire body was a live wire ready to snap . “Absolutely fucking not.”

Harry looked like he might be sick , eyes wide and panic already creeping into the edges , his free hand fisting the blanket so hard his knuckles went white . “I— I didn’t—”

“Course you didn’t,” Louis snapped, not at Harry but at the room, at the situation, at whoever thought this was okay . “He’s barely fucking breathing on his own and you’re telling me some vulture from The Sun gets to waltz in here for a fucking photo op?”

The nurse’s smile faltered, but she held her ground. “It’s already been approved—”

“Approved by who?” Louis demanded, stepping toward her like he was squaring up for a fight . “Because it sure as fuck wasn’t Harry.”

“Your management,” the nurse said, a bit more firmly now , eyes darting between them like she was reconsidering her career choices entirely .

Louis laughed — a sharp, bitter sound , no humor in it at all. “His fucking manager hasn’t been here since the first night. Didn’t even call to check if he was alive, but somehow they’ve got the right to pimp him out for some damage control PR stunt? ”

“Louis,” Harry’s voice was small , barely more than a whisper, but Louis spun immediately , back to Harry’s side in a heartbeat. “S’okay.”

“The fuck it is,” Louis snapped, but softer this time, brushing damp curls back from Harry’s forehead , voice lowering like they were the only two people in the room. “You don’t owe anyone shit, Play-Doh. Not one word.”

“But—” Harry’s lip trembled, eyes already shiny with the kind of guilt that made Louis want to punch a wall . “They’ll just make stuff up if I don’t—”

“Let them,” Louis said, fierce and absolute , his hand cupping Harry’s jaw so gently it broke his own heart . “They’ve been making shit up about you for years . They can write whatever they want. You’re not saying a fucking word until you’re ready.”

Harry blinked up at him, the tiniest ghost of a smile flickering through the fear. “You’re bossy.”

“Damn right I am,” Louis muttered, leaning down to press a kiss to Harry’s temple , not giving a single shit if the nurse was still there to see it.

He turned back to her, jaw tight. “Tell whoever’s outside that they can fuck right off . There’s no statement, no interview, no photos. Not today. Not ever.”

The nurse shifted awkwardly , clearly out of her depth , but she nodded, backing toward the door like she couldn’t get out fast enough .

Louis watched her go, breathing hard , hands still shaking with adrenaline. Harry’s fingers tugged weakly at his sleeve , pulling him back down to sit beside him.

“Thank you,” Harry whispered, voice raw and quiet , but sincere in a way that made Louis’ throat ache .

“Always,” Louis said, fingers threading through Harry’s , squeezing tight.

And that was that. No cameras. No soundbites. No performance of recovery for the public to consume like entertainment .

The nurse came back a couple of hours later, avoiding Louis’ eyes like he was a rabid dog behind a fence , and quietly informed Harry that a statement had already been drafted . All Harry had to do was sign off and stick to the story .

Food poisoning.

Louis almost laughed — a sharp, bitter sound that rattled in his throat like a cough , but Harry’s face made him swallow it down . He looked gutted , shoulders hunched under the too-thin blanket, hands shaking slightly , and Louis knew that for Harry , this wasn’t about lying to the press — it was about failing publicly . Again.

“Food poisoning,” Louis muttered, leaning back in his chair, legs stretched out under Harry’s bed, arms crossed tight over his chest. “What was it then, Play-Doh? Dodgy shrimp? Bit too much sushi on your big Hollywood night out?”

Harry winced, fingers tangling in the edge of his blanket , and Louis knew he was being a dick — knew this was not the time to be sarcastic , not when Harry looked like he might fold in on himself and disappear into the mattress — but fuck, he couldn’t help it . The lie was insulting , to both of them. They’d lived this shit too long to pretend .

“It’s just—” Harry’s voice was hoarse , too quiet to hold any weight. “They said it’s better this way. Less damage.”

Louis scoffed, rolling his eyes toward the ceiling. “Less damage to who? Your career? Your streaming numbers? Your fucking Instagram engagement?” He leaned forward, elbows braced on his knees, eyes sharp despite the exhaustion sinking into his bones. “What about the truth, Haz? What about your fucking life?”

“Louis.” Harry’s voice was a warning , gentle but firm , like they were treading old ground , arguments they’d had a dozen times over the years. “It’s not that simple.”

“It’s exactly that simple,” Louis shot back, voice quiet but lethal , the kind of anger he saved for when he was really hurt . “You almost died. Again. That’s the story. Everything else is bullshit.”

Harry’s chin tucked to his chest , curls falling forward to hide his face, and Louis’ stomach twisted in guilt even as he stood by every word . He took a breath, tried to soften the edge , reaching for Harry’s hand and squeezing gently .

“Look,” Louis said, quieter now. “I get it. I do. The industry’s fucked. But lying about it—” He shook his head. “It’s not just the press you’re lying to, Haz. It’s your fans. It’s the next kid who thinks you’ve got it all together and wonders why they can’t do the same.”

Harry’s fingers curled weakly around Louis’, his grip still too loose , and Louis hated how familiar it felt — fragile and temporary, like holding hands with a ghost .

“It’s not my call,” Harry whispered. “I’m under contract.”

Louis’ jaw clenched so tight it ached , but he just exhaled slowly, biting back every smart remark , every angry jab that wanted to crawl out of his throat. Instead, he leaned in closer, forehead brushing against Harry’s temple, voice so soft it was almost a secret.

“Doesn’t matter what you say to them,” Louis whispered. “I know the truth. You know the truth. And when you’re ready, we’ll tell it properly . Together.”

Harry’s breath hitched slightly, but he nodded, eyes squeezed shut like he was too tired to argue anymore . Louis kissed his knuckles, then leaned back, giving Harry the space to sign whatever bullshit paper they stuck in front of him — but not without one last jab , because Louis was Louis.

“Food poisoning,” he muttered again, shaking his head. “Next time, I’ll make you a proper meal so you can nearly die the fun way .”

Harry snorted, then winced because laughing hurt right now , but he still laughed, and Louis took it as a small victory .

“Love you, you prick,” Harry mumbled, signing the paper with a trembling hand .

“Love you more, Play-Doh,” Louis whispered back, even though it was all fucked up and broken , and none of this felt fair .

They signed Harry’s discharge papers just after 1PM , the kind of dull, overcast afternoon that felt too quiet , like even the sky was holding its breath .

Louis stood beside Harry at the nurse’s station, half-dead on his feet , his hoodie wrinkled beyond saving, the same jeans he’d flown in wearing days ago , and his hair flattened on one side from sleeping upright in a chair for nearly a week . He hadn’t left the hospital once — not for fresh clothes, not for air, not even for a decent coffee — and it showed. His entire body felt like static , exhaustion curled up between his ribs like a second heartbeat , but none of it mattered.

Because Harry was coming home .

Harry was quiet , standing just close enough that their arms brushed , fingers twitching toward Louis’ sleeve like he couldn’t quite bring himself to grab hold — not with nurses still watching , not with the weight of everything that had happened still hanging in the air between them. His face was drawn , his skin a little too pale , but there was color in his cheeks again , and light behind his eyes , and that was more than Louis could have hoped for when he’d first stepped off the plane .

The nurse rambled on about aftercare appointments and hydration and avoiding strenuous activity , but Louis barely heard her. All he could focus on was the way Harry leaned into him ever so slightly , like even standing up straight was still a bit too much work .

“Almost done, Play-Doh,” Louis murmured, his voice hoarse from too many cigarettes out the back door and too many tears he’d pretended weren’t happening . “Then we’ll get out of here.”

Harry’s mouth tugged up at the corner, weak but real, and Louis felt it like a punch to the chest .

The paperwork got signed, and then came the part Louis had been dreading — leaving . The second they stepped into the corridor, Louis could feel it , the energy shift , the weight of unwanted attention bearing down on them. Hospital staff had been polite enough , but there was no secrecy here , not with Harry Styles’ name on the chart and the press vultures circling outside since day one .

By the time they made it to the main entrance, Louis could already see the flashes through the glass , a wall of cameras and bodies blocking the path to the car Harry’s label had sent.

“Fuck,” Louis muttered under his breath. “You alright to face this?”

Harry’s fingers slid into Louis’ , shaky but certain , and Louis squeezed back just as tight. “With you? Yeah.”

The second the automatic doors slid open, it was chaos — cameras clicking like gunfire , people shouting questions neither of them wanted to answer , flashes blinding even through sunglasses.

“Harry! Over here!”

“Are you clean now, Harry?”

“Is that your boyfriend?”

“Louis, are you back together?”

“Was it heroin or cocaine this time?”

“Louis, was it your fault he relapsed?”

Louis gritted his teeth , one hand gripping Harry’s like a lifeline , the other raised just enough to block the worst of the flashes . Harry kept his head down, hood up , but his face was still too recognizable , and there was no hiding the weight loss, the exhaustion, the bandage still taped over the inside of his elbow where the IV had been .

„How about you go shove those cameras up your arses before I do!“ Louis snapped back.

The photos would be everywhere within the hour . Louis already knew what the headlines would say.

Harry Styles spotted leaving hospital hand-in-hand with ex Louis Tomlinson — rumored overdose confirmed?

Louis didn’t give a single fuck. They made it to the car, Louis shoving Harry inside first, climbing in after and slamming the door shut hard enough to rattle the windows .

Harry’s breath was shaky , but he was smiling , like this was the funniest shit in the world .

“What?” Louis asked, already lighting a cigarette with shaking hands .

“Just missed this,” Harry said, voice rough but fond , head tipping back against the seat. “You yelling at people like we’re still seventeen.”

Louis huffed, blowing smoke toward the cracked window. “Some things never change.”

They drove in silence for a while, the city sliding past the windows in blurs of concrete and palm trees , until Louis finally asked, “So… what now?”

Harry turned toward him, eyes softer than they’d been in months . “I booked us tickets.”

Louis blinked. “Tickets?”

“Back to London.”

Louis’ heart skipped a beat , but he kept his face carefully neutral , just in case Harry didn’t mean what Louis desperately wanted him to mean . “For real?”

Harry nodded, fingers playing with the edge of his sleeve , a nervous habit Louis had memorized years ago . “Tomorrow morning. Thought maybe… we could surprise everyone.”

Louis’ throat went tight, too much emotion to swallow down all at once , but he forced a smile. “They’re gonna shit themselves.”

Harry grinned, full and bright , and for a moment — just a moment — Louis remembered exactly why he’d fallen in love with this ridiculous boy all those years ago .

Tomorrow, they’d go home.

Together.

No more press. No more statements. No more explanations.

Just them.

Notes:

We are so back babyyy, Harry finally meeting his clone (Riley), what do y‘all think?

Chapter 40: Chapter 40

Notes:

Hey guys! please take a sec to read this!!

As some of you may have guessed, I‘ve been working on the next fic while uploading this one because I like to have my works finished by the time I start posting them, however the story I‘m writing is a little more demanding as I thought haha

As a little explaination, it‘s an actor AU with actually very little angst because I get the feeling a few of you could use a break from the constant emotional rollercoasters I‘m putting you on, but for some reason I thought it was a smart idea to make the movie they‘re filming another fic I‘ve written, my first one, actually.

Due to that I have to constantly go back and forth between checking the fic and writing the new one to get the scenes and the dialogue right, so I might start updating this fic every two or three days instead of everyday.

Worry not, I will definitely not be abandoning this work, updates might just be slightly inconsistent but I‘ll do my best to at least update every three days because I really want to finish this other fic before I‘m done uploading this one :)

I hope you understand, and I hope you like this chapter!

Lots of love,
-Ace

The next afternoon, Louis stood beside Harry on the cracked front step of his mum’s house, duffel bags slung over both their shoulders , the grey London sky hanging low and heavy above them like it was about to spill rain or bad news or both .

Harry was fidgeting , one hand tugging at the hem of his jumper , the other curled so tightly around Louis’ sleeve that the fabric was stretching at the seam . Louis hadn’t said anything about it, hadn’t teased him, hadn’t pulled away. He just let him hold on , because fuck knows they were both holding on by a thread right now .

Neither of them had warned anyone they were coming back. Louis had purposely ignored every text from Zayn and Niall , hadn’t even messaged his mum when they landed. The only person who knew was the taxi driver who’d taken one look at them — two skinny lads with too many bags and dark circles under their eyes — and hadn’t asked a single question .

Now, standing on the doorstep, Louis suddenly wasn’t sure if this was a good idea or a terrible one . It was one thing to call from a hospital room across the world , crying into the phone about detox and relapse and nearly losing Harry again . It was another thing entirely to show up on her front step unannounced, looking like the Ghosts of Estate Past, and expect her to be happy about it .

“You gonna knock, or are we just gonna stand here until we grow roots?” Harry’s voice was soft , but the nervous tremor was unmistakable.

Louis took a breath, knuckles rapping against the wood , and immediately heard the shuffle of feet inside , the high-pitched voices of at least three of his sisters arguing about something — probably the telly remote — and then the door swung open .

Johannah stood there in her house slippers , a dish towel thrown over her shoulder, her hair pinned back in that no-nonsense way she always wore it when she was up to her elbows in cooking . For a second, she just stared , her face caught between disbelief and relief and maybe the urge to wring Louis’ neck .

“Mum,” Louis said, voice cracking right down the middle . “Surprise.”

She didn’t speak, didn’t ask where the fuck they’d been or why they hadn’t called, she just reached out, grabbing Louis by the face , her thumbs brushing over his too-sharp cheekbones , eyes searching his like she was looking for every terrible thing he wasn’t saying . And then she pulled him into the tightest hug of his life , arms around him like she was holding her son for the first time after a long war .

Louis hugged her back just as hard, face buried in her shoulder, the smell of laundry detergent and mum filling his nose , and for the first time since he stepped off the plane in LA , he felt safe .

When she pulled back, her eyes were wet , but she didn’t let them fall , instead turning to Harry, whose hands were shoved in his pockets , eyes fixed on the front step like he didn’t quite belong here .

“Come here, love,” she said softly, arms opening for him too , and Harry stepped forward, letting her pull him close , her hand cradling the back of his head like she’d done it a hundred times before .

“Hi, Mum,” Harry whispered into her shoulder, and Louis’ heart cracked clean in half , because of course Harry still called her that — had done since he was sixteen and practically living in Louis’ room, pretending he wasn’t too scared to go home .

When she pulled back, she cupped Harry’s face the same way , looking him over like she was taking inventory , counting bones and bruises and everything he’d been through . “Both of you look like you’ve been dragged backwards through a hedge,” she said, but her voice was soft , no real bite behind it.

“Something like that,” Louis muttered, wiping his nose on his sleeve. “We’re alright though.”

“Are you?” she asked, eyebrow lifting in that way that told Louis she knew every word out of his mouth was probably a half-truth at best .

“We’re trying,” Louis said, and for once, he meant it .

Johannah nodded once, sharp and decisive. “Good,” she said, stepping back to let them in. “Because I just put the kettle on, and neither of you is leaving this kitchen until you’ve told me everything.”

Harry glanced at Louis, a flicker of panic in his eyes , but Louis just grabbed his hand and pulled him inside, bags dropping by the door, the warmth of the house wrapping around them like a blanket .

“Welcome home, Play-Doh,” Louis whispered under his breath, and Harry squeezed his hand back .

The kitchen was chaos , just like always, a warm, cluttered kind of chaos where the kettle whistled too loud, the telly in the living room blared some reality show everyone was half-watching, and the distinct sound of Fizzy shouting at the twins over something stupid drifted down the hall . It was home. L oud, messy, too small for all of them but somehow big enough for whoever needed to be there .

Louis dumped their bags just inside the door, kicking them aside with his foot , and Harry followed a little hesitantly , like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to step all the way in . But then the smell of tea and toast hit him , and the familiar worn tile under his feet , and Louis’ mum was already shoving mugs into their hands, hot and milky just the way they liked , and for a second, Harry almost forgot how long it had been since this was normal.

But then the back door creaked open, and there was a blur of limbs and secondhand clothes and a mop of curls , and Harry froze .

“Oi, don’t forget me!” Riley hollered, stomping into the kitchen like he owned the place , cheeks flushed from the cold, a scarf twice his size hanging off his neck, one of Louis’ old hoodies swallowing him whole . “Mum sent me back for the biscuits.”

He stopped dead when he saw two very unexpected faces standing by the kettle .

There was about three seconds of silence , everyone just staring , and then Harry, wide-eyed and completely thrown , blurted out:

“Am I hallucinating or is that a mini me standing in Mum’s kitchen?”

Louis snorted so hard tea nearly came out his nose , and Johannah swatted him with the dish towel. Riley just blinked , looking from Harry to Louis and back again, before shrugging like this was the least weird thing that had happened to him lately .

“Hi,” Riley said, sticking out his hand. “I’m Riley. You must be Play-Doh.”

Louis died on the spot , choking on laughter, while Harry just groaned, dragging a hand down his face . “For fuck’s sake, Lou.”

“What?” Louis wheezed, wiping tears off his cheek. “I might’ve told him some stories.”

Harry shook his head, but he was smiling , bright and a little stunned , because this kid, this half-feral estate gremlin with his curls and his oversized hoodie and his too-big attitude,   he got it immediately . There was no weirdness , no awkward ‘so you’re the rockstar ex who almost died’ moment. Just a handshake and a nickname and a kitchen full of noise .

Riley eyed Harry up and down , head tilting. “You’re taller than I thought.”

“Cheers, mate,” Harry said, laughing under his breath. “You’re— I mean, fuck, you’re—”

“Yeah, yeah,” Louis waved a hand. “We’ve been over it. You’re not secretly his dad. You’ve just both got estate kid curls and the same shitty taste in clothes.”

Riley flipped him off without breaking eye contact , and Harry laughed so hard he had to lean against the counter .

“Alright, enough piss-taking,” Johannah said, even though her smile was soft and proud and maybe a little teary too . “Sit down, all of you. I want to hear everything.”

And just like that, the table filled up , Louis and Harry squeezed together on one side, Riley wedged between them like he belonged there , and the kettle got topped up again, and the biscuits got passed around, and somewhere between Louis explaining how Riley ended up living in the orange flat and Harry trying to apologize for disappearing and Riley asking if Harry really got chased by a goose on acid once,   it all made sense .

They were family , all of them, cobbled together from blood and circumstance and sheer dumb luck , and no one had to explain or apologize for the mess of it. They just were .

That night, they were crammed into Louis’ childhood bedroom , just like they used to be when they were sixteen,  the bed too small for both of them, duvet kicked half onto the floor , Harry’s feet hanging off the edge because Louis’ old twin bed wasn’t exactly made for two grown lads who were both all limbs and restless sleep . But somehow, it was still the most comfortable either of them had felt in months .

They lay side by side , the ceiling barely visible in the dark , the glow of the streetlamp outside spilling soft amber light through the thin curtains . Louis had one hand tucked under his head , the other resting on his stomach , and Harry was turned slightly toward him , curled up a bit like he always did when he wasn’t fully okay .

It was quiet — too quiet , after the chaos of the house earlier , after Riley’s endless questions and the girls wanting every detail of their surprise return . Louis could still hear the hum of the telly downstairs , the muted sounds of his mum tidying up even though she’d insisted she was going to bed hours ago .

It was Harry who broke the silence first .

“Why didn’t you tell me?” His voice was soft, but there was no mistaking the weight in it .

Louis turned his head on the pillow, frowning slightly . “Tell you what?”

Harry didn’t look at him, just stared at the ceiling, fingers tugging at the corner of the duvet . “That you were living in a squat.”

Louis’ stomach twisted, guilt tightening like a fist , but he didn’t lie,  not to Harry, not anymore. “Didn’t want anyone to worry,” Louis said quietly. “Didn’t feel like a big deal at the time.”

Harry’s breath caught, a soft, sharp inhale that sounded like heartbreak . “Lou.”

“What?” Louis forced a smile, even though Harry couldn’t see it in the dark . “I’ve crashed in worse places.”

“That’s not the point,” Harry said, turning his head at last, eyes shining faintly in the dim light . “I would’ve come back.”

“Exactly why I didn’t tell you,” Louis admitted. “You had your career . Your whole fucking life in LA. I wasn’t gonna drag you back into the muck just because I was having a rough go of it .”

Harry sat up then, twisting to face him properly , curls a mess , shadows cutting sharp across his face , but his eyes were soft , his voice fierce . “You’re not the muck, Lou.”

Louis snorted softly, staring up at the ceiling again. “Could’ve fooled me.”

“Hey.” Harry grabbed his wrist, fingers warm against Louis’ skin , holding him just tight enough to ground him . “I mean it. You’re not — you’re not some screw-up, alright? You were my home long before we ever got that shitty flat. And I would’ve come back. I would’ve walked through fire if you’d asked .”

Louis swallowed hard, blinking up at the ceiling because he couldn’t handle looking at Harry when he said things like that . “I know, Haz.”

“Do you?” Harry pressed. “Because sometimes I think you forget.”

Louis closed his eyes, exhaling slow. “I didn’t want you to see me like that,” he admitted. “Didn’t want you to see me turn into my dad.”

“You’re nothing like him,” Harry said immediately, no hesitation , and Louis felt his heart crack right down the middle. “You’re the only reason I’m still here. You get that, right?”

Louis didn’t answer, couldn’t, with his throat closing up the way it was,  so he just reached out, curling his fingers into Harry’s jumper , tugging him back down onto the bed.

Harry came willingly, fitting himself into Louis’ side , head resting on Louis’ chest, listening to his heartbeat the same way he used to when they were younger and everything felt too big to hold .

“I’m sorry,” Louis whispered into Harry’s hair, his fingers threading gently through the curls . “For everything.”

“Me too,” Harry whispered back, his voice a little wobbly , but he held on tighter. “But we’re here now.”

“Yeah,” Louis said, pressing a kiss to the top of Harry’s head. “We’re here.”

 

The knock on the front door was so loud and obnoxious , Louis knew exactly who it was before he even made it down the stairs. No one else banged like that unless they were drunk, high, or Niall Horan on a mission .

He opened the door, half expecting a wrecking ball,  and it was almost worse . Niall, Zayn, Oli, and Amelia stood there like a chaotic, mismatched boy band , all in varying states of hungover or sleep-deprived , and before Louis could even say anything , they barreled past him like they were on a mission .

“Where is he?” Niall demanded, blue eyes wild , scanning the living room like Harry might be hiding under the coffee table. “Where’s my curly-headed bastard?”

“Still asleep—” Louis started, but Niall was already bounding up the stairs two at a time, the others following right on his heels , Louis muttering a fuck’s sake under his breath as he trudged after them.

They burst into Louis’ childhood bedroom without so much as a warning knock, and Harry, who’d been face-down in Louis’ pillow, still half-asleep and drooling slightly, had about 0.2 seconds to react before he was buried under three bodies .

“FUCKING HELL!” Harry’s voice was muffled under the weight of them all , Niall on top, Zayn somewhere at his side, Oli grabbing him in some kind of awkward headlock , and Amelia standing at the edge of the bed, looking unsure if she was meant to join or call an ambulance .

“Missed you, you lanky shit!” Niall shouted, ruffling Harry’s curls so aggressively they stuck up like he’d been electrocuted . “Don’t you ever fuck off for that long again!”

“Nearly gave me a heart attack,” Zayn grumbled, but his arms were locked around Harry like a vice , holding him tight even though he’d never admit to being that soft .

“You absolute tosser,” Oli added, swatting the back of Harry’s head. “Would it have killed you to answer your goddamn phone?”

Harry was laughing and swearing and maybe tearing up just a bit , flailing his limbs under their weight. “Alright, alright, gerroff me, you fucking lunatics—”

But when he sat up properly, still grinning, still breathless , his eyes landed on Amelia, who gave him a small, awkward wave from the doorway, and without thinking , Harry blurted out, “Hey, El.”

The room went silent .

“Harry, this is Amelia,” Louis said, his voice catching slightly, uncertain if he should laugh at the absurdity of it or crumble under the weight pressing against his chest.

Harry looked utterly stricken, like he might hide under the blanket and refuse to come out for the rest of his life. His face flushed a deep, guilty red as he stammered, “Sorry — of course — it’s just that you two…”

“It’s alright,” Amelia said gently, offering a strained smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. She tucked a loose strand of colorful hair behind her ear, as if that simple gesture might smooth over the awkwardness hanging in the air. “Easy mistake to make.”

It wasn’t that they looked alike, not really. If anything, they couldn’t have been more different. Apart from the vivid splash of color in their hair, there was no resemblance at all. But Eleanor had been a part of them for so long — a fixture, a certainty — that seeing someone else standing there in her place felt wrong, like catching a glimpse of a familiar street only to find all the buildings torn down and rebuilt into something unrecognizable.

Louis swallowed hard, feeling the weight of it settle in his chest. He knew Harry must have missed Eleanor just as much as he did, the loss of her presence still a quiet ache neither of them really talked about. But this wasn’t the time to fall apart. It couldn’t be. They had all learned, somehow, to smile through the holes left behind.

And maybe it was for the best that Niall had never been much good at reading a room. His easy chatter and obliviousness filled the silence before it could turn into something heavier, something they might not be able to pull themselves back from.

“Right,” Niall clapped his hands once, like they hadn’t just broken into Louis’ house and rugby tackled his boyfriend in bed . “Now that the gang’s all here, tea or fry-up? I’m fucking starving.”

“I hate all of you,” Louis muttered, dragging a hand through his hair , but the small smile on his face betrayed him.

“Love you too, Lou,” Niall grinned. “Now get your arses downstairs. You two owe us breakfast after all this emotional labor.”

And with that, they all piled back down to the kitchen , Harry in the middle, flushed and grinning , and Louis couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen Harry look so light,  like the weight of the world had finally slipped off his shoulders, at least for a little while.

It started off reasonable enough — Niall elbowing his way into the kitchen , declaring himself Head Chef, Culinary Master, Lord of the Fry-Up , while Louis and Harry stumbled in still half-asleep , and Zayn, Oli, Amelia, and the kids all found places to perch. The twins were already sat cross-legged on the counter , Riley had claimed the stool by the fridge , and Amelia was cautiously positioned by the toaster , like she was bracing herself for inevitable disaster .

“We’ve got eggs, bacon, sausages, tomatoes, mushrooms, hash browns, beans—” Niall listed off, rummaging through the fridge with all the finesse of a raccoon at a buffet . “Where’s the butter? Someone get me the butter. And tea. Lots of tea.”

“Did you take something this morning?” Louis asked, eyebrow raised , because Niall had the energy of a coked-up Gordon Ramsay , except somehow even louder.

“Just passion, mate,” Niall grinned, slamming the fridge shut. “I’ve spent years perfecting my recipes, first with weed, now without, because I’m a man of range.”

“You mean you got banned from cooking edibles after Zayn hallucinated a talking seagull at Brighton Pier,” Oli muttered, dodging a tea towel Niall chucked at his face .

“That was one time,” Niall argued. “And the seagull spoke sense .”

“Jesus Christ,” Harry groaned, rubbing his face , but he was grinning all the same.

Niall took command,   frying pans flying onto the hob , butter melting instantly , bacon sizzling before anyone could offer to help . Zayn tried to chop mushrooms , but ended up slicing his thumb because he was more focused on telling Harry about some cryptic TikTok trend he didn’t understand .

“Alright, out of my kitchen,” Niall barked, shoving Zayn aside and grabbing the knife himself, dicing like he was on MasterChef under a time crunch . “You lot can set the table or something. And someone put on some tunes.”

The playlist was a disaster — Daisy and Phoebe fighting over the speaker , one demanding ABBA , the other insisting on some horrid TikTok remix of a 90s club anthem . In the end, they compromised on the Mamma Mia soundtrack , which led to Zayn dramatically serenading the kettle , Riley and the twins screaming “ Gimme Gimme Gimme ” like their lives depended on it , and Harry laughing so hard he nearly fell off his chair .

Somehow, against all odds , the food started coming together — Niall working with the speed and precision of a man who had once made pot brownies for forty people in a bedsit kitchen the size of a shoebox .

Eggs perfectly soft , bacon crispy without being burnt , mushrooms gloriously garlicky , and the beans seasoned like they were fine cuisine instead of the cheapest tin Tesco had to offer . Even Louis had to admit, it smelled incredible .

Until the hash browns caught fire.

“FUCK—” Niall shouted, lunging for the pan, and Louis’ mum appeared out of nowhere , grabbing the dish towel, slapping it over the flames like she’d been expecting this shit all along .

“For the love of god,” Johannah sighed, taking over the stove like the absolute queen she was , hip-checking Niall out of the way. “Sit down, Horan. You can be in charge of the toast.”

Niall grumbled but obeyed, and Louis couldn’t help but laugh, because some things never changed — Johannah running the kitchen like a Michelin-starred general , Niall sulking like he’d been demoted from Head Chef to Dish Pig , and everyone else scrambling to pretend they were helping .

By the time the food hit the table, it was absolute carnage,   plates and mugs everywhere , Riley somehow managing to spill orange juice across three separate people , Zayn sneaking extra bacon like a feral raccoon , and the twins arguing over who got the last hash brown like it was a matter of life or death .

“Jesus Christ, Niall,” Louis said around a mouthful of mushrooms. “Why the fuck haven’t you opened a restaurant or something?”

“Wouldn’t make any money,” Niall shrugged, dunking his toast into the beans like a heathen . “All my customers would expect weed in it.”

“You’ve got range , remember?” Harry teased, and Niall flipped him off with a grin .

They ate like animals , talking with their mouths full , shouting over each other, the twins trying to get Riley to eat a whole tomato in one go while Zayn started telling a story about Louis falling off a roof when they were twelve .

It was loud and messy and so fucking normal that Louis almost couldn’t breathe for how much it meant, the noise, the warmth, Harry next to him , their friends all here, food that wasn’t hospital mush or dodgy takeout .

Harry leaned into Louis’ side at some point, shoulder against shoulder , and Louis just reached under the table , fingers curling around Harry’s knee, holding on .

They left just after lunch — full-bellied and slightly delirious , the kind of post-chaos calm that settled in after hours of shouting over each other and eating like they’d been starved for a week . Johannah pressed Tupperware into their hands , even though none of them ever returned the containers , and the twins demanded at least seven hugs each before Louis could get out the door.

They piled into two cars , Niall insisting on driving Louis’ mum’s old Honda with Oli riding shotgun and Amelia squished between them , while Louis, Harry, Zayn, and Riley crammed into Zayn’s car, Riley in the middle because ‘shortest gets the hump seat’ was a rule they all lived by .

“Reckon the flat’s still standing?” Zayn asked, lazily steering with one hand , cigarette dangling from his lips as they pulled out of the estate.

“It’s orange,” Louis said flatly.

“Yeah, I remember when you went all Van Gogh,” Zayn snorted. “I meant, you think it’s still… y’know. Livable?”

“Define livable,” Louis shrugged. “It’s home , isn’t it?”

Harry was too quiet beside him, hands fiddling with the hem of his jumper again, but Louis didn’t press. Not yet.

It took fifteen minutes to get there, winding through familiar streets , past the off-license where they used to buy cheap vodka , past the park where Harry puked behind a bench after too much cider when he was sixteen.

When they pulled up in front of the block of flats, Louis could feel Harry tense beside him , breath held just a little too tight , shoulders creeping up toward his ears.

“You alright?” Louis asked softly.

Harry just nodded , but his grip on Louis’ sleeve didn’t loosen .

They climbed the stairs — those same piss-smelling, graffiti-covered stairs Louis had climbed a thousand times before , the ones that always seemed steeper when you were carrying bags or fucked up out of your mind . When they reached their door, Louis paused , keys in hand, looking over at Harry.

“You ready?” Louis asked.

Harry gave him a crooked smile , one that didn’t quite reach his eyes , but he nodded.

The door swung open, and the second Harry stepped inside, his entire body froze .

Because there they were — the orange fucking walls .

Bright. Chaotic. Horrendous. The exact shade of cheap B&Q paint Louis had slathered everywhere in a drug-fueled haze , because if Harry was paying the rent, Harry got his goddamn orange walls .

“What the actual fuck,” Harry whispered, staring at the pumpkin apocalypse like it might physically attack him.

Louis couldn’t help it — he started laughing so hard he had to lean against the doorframe , gasping for breath.

“You painted the whole place orange? ” Harry demanded, spinning in a circle like he couldn’t process it all at once .

“Every single wall,” Louis confirmed, wiping tears from his eyes. “Even the bathroom.”

“Jesus Christ,” Harry groaned, but he was laughing too , loud and unrestrained , and it felt like a pressure valve releasing somewhere between them .

“Should’ve seen him,” Zayn chimed in, kicking off his shoes , “high as fuck, covered in paint, looked like a Smirnoff pumpkin.”

“Fuck off,” Louis wheezed.

“It‘s not that bad,” Amelia said, stepping in after them.

“Yeah, you get used to it,” Riley shrugged, unbothered , already making himself at home, plopping onto the sofa like he lived there,  which, in a way, he sort of did now .

Harry walked further inside, fingers trailing along the wall, and the laughter faded into something softer . Louis could see it — the memories hitting Harry like a brick wall , every stupid fight and kiss and high and low they’d had in this flat soaked into the paint .

Harry turned around, eyes a little too shiny , and Louis didn’t even think before grabbing his face and kissing him, right there in front of everyone , not caring who saw or what they thought.

Because the orange walls were hideous , but they were home .

And they were back.

At exactly 11pm , Louis clapped his hands together — loud and sharp , cutting through the overlapping conversations and bursts of laughter that had filled the flat for the past few hours.

“Alright, you lot,” Louis said, standing up and stretching his arms above his head , bones popping dramatically . “Out. Riley’s got school tomorrow and I’m not getting an earful from the teacher because he fell asleep in Geography.”

Zayn groaned, already halfway through rolling another cigarette , and Niall pouted dramatically , slumping further into the battered armchair. “Come on, one more round of cards. You can’t kick us out now .”

“Watch me,” Louis grinned. “I’ll kick you down the stairs if I have to.”

“Ruthless,” Niall muttered, but he stood up anyway , stretching with a theatrical groan .

Amelia gathered her bag , Oli grabbed his jacket , and Zayn gave Louis the kind of sly, knowing smile that said he knew Louis just wanted some time alone with Harry,  but mercifully he didn’t say anything.

“Right,” Niall clapped Louis on the shoulder as he passed, nearly knocking him over with the force of it. “We’ll see you two degenerates soon. Try not to paint the kitchen neon green while we’re gone.”

“No promises,” Louis smirked.

They all filed out, loud and chaotic even in their goodbyes , and the flat went quiet the second the door clicked shut.

Louis leaned his forehead against the wood for a second, exhaling hard , then turned back to see Harry standing in the middle of the living room, barefoot, in one of Louis’ old jumpers, hair a mess — looking like he belonged there and always had .

Riley had already claimed the bedroom , something Louis hadn’t even questioned when the kid moved in a few months back . It had felt right — Riley deserved a bed, a door to shut when the world felt too loud , a space to call his own . Louis and Harry had always been fine crashing on the couch , tangled together like a pile of limbs , never needing much else.

But Harry looked at the couch , then at Louis, then back at the couch, and sighed dramatically .

“We need a bigger flat,” Harry said.

Louis snorted, crossing the room to flop down onto the sofa , tugging Harry with him until they were a mess of tangled legs and soft laughter . “We’ve lived in worse.”

“That’s not the point,” Harry muttered, nestling into Louis’ side , his head resting on Louis’ chest like it was the most natural thing in the world . “We’re adults. We should have a bed .”

“Riley’s got a bed,” Louis pointed out.

Harry tilted his head back to give him a look , curls falling into his eyes , and Louis grinned. “Alright, alright. We’ll look for a bigger place.”

“Somewhere with two bedrooms,” Harry said firmly. “And a garden. And maybe walls that aren’t orange .”

“Now you’re pushing it,” Louis teased, fingers threading through Harry’s hair , massaging gently at his scalp until Harry melted into him completely .

“We could paint it sage green,” Harry mumbled into Louis’ chest, half-asleep already , his breath warm through the fabric of Louis’ shirt .

“Yeah,” Louis whispered. “We could.”

They fell asleep like that, curled together on the too-small couch , the flat quiet for once , the hum of the fridge and the distant sound of Riley snoring softly down the hall the only noise left.

The next morning, Louis was up before anyone , standing in the kitchen with the kind of focus usually reserved for hostage negotiations , staring down a row of cereal boxes .

Harry shuffled in first, barefoot and bleary-eyed , curls a mess, wearing one of Louis’ old t-shirts , and it hit Louis all at once, how domestic this was , how fucking terrifyingly normal .

“Pick your poison,” Louis said, waving toward the boxes.

Harry squinted. “Do we seriously have five different types of cereal?”

“Twins go feral if they don’t get Froot Loops. Riley’s a Cocoa Pops kid. Zayn bought the Crunchy Nut because he said we’re adults and need adult cereal. And the Special K’s mine.”

“Special K? Who are you trying to impress?” Harry grinned, grabbing the Cocoa Pops and pouring himself a massive bowl .

“Shut up,” Louis muttered, but he was smiling , leaning against the counter with his own bowl in hand .

Riley stumbled in next, still in his pyjamas, hair sticking up in about twelve different directions , rubbing his eyes. “Morning,” he mumbled, grabbing his usual .

Harry watched him for a second, something soft and a little cautious in his expression, before nudging Louis’ hip. “Can I—?”

“Go for it,” Louis shrugged, pretending it was no big deal even though his heart was hammering .

Harry pulled out the chair next to Riley, sitting down, and immediately launched into the most ridiculous story about the time Louis tried to make toast and set the entire toaster on fire . Riley giggled into his cereal , half awake but already hooked .

Louis stood by the counter, watching them, and his stomach twisted itself into knots . It was too much — too easy, too good, too real . The kind of thing that felt dangerous to want . He knew better than to believe in happy endings , knew life had a way of ripping good things away the second you got comfortable .

But Harry was sitting there, elbows on the table , bonding effortlessly with Riley like they’d always been family , and Riley was smiling like he had the sun inside him , and Louis knew he was fucked .

Because this was it . The thing they’d always been too scared to dream about — a life that was messy and loud and imperfect , but still theirs.

“Oi, Louis,” Harry called over his shoulder. “Make me a cuppa, would you?”

“Make your own,” Louis grumbled, but he was already filling the kettle , heart pounding as Riley grinned at him across the table.

It was too much.

It was perfect.

And Louis had no fucking clue what to do with that.

Louis stood in the kitchen, rinsing out his coffee mug, when he glanced at the clock and realized the time. “Shit,” he muttered, setting the cup down with a clatter. “I need to drop Riley off at school.”

Harry, still sat at the table in Louis’ hoodie — the same one he’d stolen years ago and somehow never given back — looked up from his cereal with a sleepy smile. “Want me to come with?”

Louis shook his head, already heading toward the bedroom where Riley was struggling to tie his tie. “Nah, you’ve barely been home a day. Stay, chill. I’ll be back in twenty.”

Riley looked up, half his curls sticking up in odd angles , clearly still waking up. “Harry’s not coming?”

“He’s staying to make sure the flat doesn’t spontaneously combust,” Louis said, ruffling Riley’s hair on his way past. “Let’s go, trouble.”

Riley groaned dramatically but grabbed his backpack, stumbling out the door behind Louis , leaving Harry alone in the flat for the first time since they got back.

As the front door clicked shut, Harry sat back in the chair, staring at the too-bright orange walls , the familiar clutter of their life together that had been frozen in time for months. Shoes piled by the door, a stack of letters none of them had opened yet, the same old ashtray on the windowsill even though they weren’t supposed to smoke inside anymore.

They walked side by side down the cracked pavement, Louis’ cigarette dangling from his lips, Riley munching on his cereal bar, the sky still grey and miserable like it couldn’t decide if it wanted to rain or not. The school wasn’t far — just a ten-minute walk — long enough for Riley to point out every cool car , weird-looking bird , and random estate cat they passed along the way. Louis pretended to be fascinated by all of it, because honestly, just having Riley here , safe and whole, was enough to make him care about every shiny piece of litter the kid pointed at.

When they reached the school gate, Louis knelt down slightly, adjusting Riley’s bag strap. “Alright, go on then. Have a good day, and if anyone gives you shit—”

“I know, I know,” Riley rolled his eyes. “Headbutt ’em in the nose.”

“Jesus, no,” Louis laughed. “Just tell a teacher. And save the headbutting for emergencies.”

“Got it,” Riley grinned, then leaned in to give Louis a quick hug — the kind that made Louis’ chest ache in a weirdly good way . “Bye, Lou!”

“See ya later, Ri,” Louis said, ruffling his curls before watching him sprint off toward the doors, already shouting something to one of his mates. Louis stood there a second longer, just watching , letting himself breathe. The world felt a little less heavy when Riley was smiling like that.

On the walk back, Louis dug his phone out of his pocket, pulling up his manager’s number at the corner shop. It rang twice before she answered, sounding as unbothered as always .

“Hey, it’s Louis,” he said, toeing at a loose bit of pavement as he walked. “Just wanted to let you know I need to take another week off—family stuff. I’ll be back next Monday.”

“All good,” she replied without asking a single question. “See you then.”

Louis hung up, shoving his phone back into his pocket. One less thing to worry about , at least. When he got back to the flat, he found Harry exactly where he’d left him — sitting cross-legged on the sofa, mug of tea balanced on his knee, curls sticking up in every direction , still in his pajamas.

“Kid off alright?” Harry asked, voice still rough from sleep.

“Yeah,” Louis said, kicking off his trainers and flopping onto the sofa beside him. “Reckon he’s gonna run that place by next week.”

Harry smiled into his tea. “Sounds about right.”

They sat there for a minute, not really needing to say much — just the two of them, in their ridiculous orange flat, finally still.

“Guess it’s just you and me today, Play-Doh,” Louis said eventually, bumping Harry’s knee with his own.

“Guess so,” Harry said, smile soft. “What do we do now?”

Louis sighed dramatically. “Reckon we survive.”

Harry reached over, fingers brushing Louis’ hand. “Together?”

Louis laced their fingers without hesitation. “Always.”

Chapter 41: Chapter 41

They sat across from each other at the tiny kitchen table , mugs of tea steaming between them, the whole flat still quiet from the morning chill. Louis had only been home from the school run for about half an hour, his hair still damp from the misty morning air .

Louis had called his manager from the corner shop the second he got back, voice low, apologetic, but firm when he said he needed another week off . His manager barely reacted, just said “Fine, take care of yourself, yeah?” like she knew exactly what was going on without Louis having to explain. She probably did. Estate gossip traveled faster than the post .

And now it was just them, Louis and Harry , alone in the flat for the first time in… fuck, Louis didn’t even know how long. The silence was comfortable though, familiar in a way only they could manage after everything.

“So,” Louis said, kicking Harry lightly under the table. “You gonna tell me what the hell you’ve been up to all this time, or am I gonna have to read the tabloids?”

Harry huffed out a laugh, fingers tracing the edge of his mug . “You want the sanitized version or the full-depravity behind-the-scenes cut?”

“Haz, babe,” Louis grinned, “I lived through the rehab years with you. There’s nothing you could say that’d shock me.”

That might’ve been a lie. Because Harry told him everything .

The parties — the kind that started at midnight and ended with someone being carried out unconscious , where the drugs were laid out on mirrored trays next to vegan canapés and everyone pretended it was just part of the scene . The nights where Harry couldn’t remember his own name until his manager found him half-naked in a stranger’s bathroom, covered in glitter and regret . The never-ending cycle of studio, drugs, afterparty, photoshoot, repeat.

Harry spoke about it with a weird detachment , like it was a documentary about someone else’s life , except when he mentioned the moments that scared him . Waking up with a needle in his arm and no memory of putting it there . Forgetting lyrics to songs he’d written himself. Calling Louis’ number at 4am, then hanging up before it could even ring once .

Louis listened to every word , hands wrapped around his mug, heart twisting into knots . It hurt. Knowing Harry had been that far gone , all the way across the world where Louis couldn’t reach him. But there was no judgment in his face. Just that quiet, steady kind of love that never really left , no matter how much shit they dragged each other through.

“My turn,” Louis said after Harry finally paused, voice hoarse from talking so much .

“Oh god,” Harry groaned, slumping dramatically in his chair. “This is where you tell me you became a fucking monk.”

“Oi,” Louis flicked a tea bag at him. “Don’t be a prick.”

And so Louis told him about getting clean, really clean , because suddenly it wasn’t just him anymore. Riley showing up in his life like some curly-headed tornado , claiming Louis’ bed and a permanent spot in his heart all at once. How having Riley there forced him to show up , forced him to cook meals, to wake up on time, to not get off his face every time things felt too heavy . To grow up.

He told Harry about the job at the shop , about trying to budget like a proper adult , about the Sundays at his mum’s where Riley fit in like he’d always belonged . He even admitted that the orange walls were part of his last big meltdown , the night after Harry paid his rent without asking.

“I’m proud of you, y’know,” Harry said softly when Louis finally stopped to breathe. “I know I was gone for most of it, but… you did good, Lou.”

Louis just shrugged , throat a bit too tight to respond .

Instead of pushing, Harry held up his wrist, where the friendship bracelet from rehab still sat, the same baby blue , the letters spelling out ‘Play-Doh’ a little faded now, but still there.

“Never took it off,” Harry said, voice soft but certain. “Not once.”

Louis swallowed hard, eyes stinging in that way they only ever did when he was fighting tears, and instead reached across the table, fingers curling around Harry’s wrist for just a second, thumb brushing the beads.

“Me neither,” Louis whispered. “Still got mine.”

They sat there like that for a while, hands clasped across the table, tea gone cold, the flat quiet except for the sound of their breathing .

Louis’ throat felt too tight to speak, so he just curled his fingers around Harry’s wrist, thumb running over the beads like they were holy relics .

There was a long pause, the weight of years and miles and mistakes hanging between them , and then Harry cleared his throat, voice quiet but unmistakably serious .

“So… are we?” Harry’s eyes flicked up to Louis’, hope and fear and too much love crammed into a single look . “Still together, I mean.”

Louis couldn’t hold it in a second longer. the tears, the relief , the sheer fucking ache of missing Harry and having him back all at once. He surged forward, grabbing Harry’s face with both hands, kissing him hard enough to bruise , not caring that they both tasted like cigarettes and stale toast.

“Of course we’re still together, you fucking idiot,” Louis said against Harry’s mouth, voice thick . “I still love you, I never stopped loving you. Not for a fucking second.”

Harry kissed him back, desperate and soft and messy , and Louis thought — no, knew — that if he could survive this, they could survive anything .

They curled up on the sofa like they’d done a thousand times before , but this time, it felt different — heavier, maybe, but softer too. Like they’d both been stripped down to bare bones and raw nerves , and now all they could do was hold each other together .

Louis had his arms locked around Harry’s middle , face tucked into the curve of Harry’s neck , and Harry leaned back into him, head resting against Louis’ shoulder, fingers tangled loosely with Louis’ own .

It was quiet except for the hum of traffic outside and the faint drip of the tap in the kitchen, but Louis couldn’t stop pressing kisses everywhere he could reach — the shell of Harry’s ear, the curve of his jaw, the freckle above his chin . Little, soft kisses, like he was relearning the map of Harry’s body , reminding himself that this was real — Harry was here, breathing, warm under his hands .

“You’re clingy,” Harry muttered, but his voice was fond , his own free hand coming up to trace circles over Louis’ knuckles .

“Deal with it,” Louis whispered against Harry’s skin. “You left. This is the tax.”

Harry huffed a soft laugh , turning his head slightly to nudge his nose against Louis’ temple. “Can’t argue with that.”

They lay there for a while, just breathing each other in , Louis’ heart beating slow and steady against Harry’s back, until Louis murmured, “I really missed you, y’know.”

“I know,” Harry whispered. “Missed you too.”

Louis kissed the side of Harry’s neck , lingering a little longer this time. “Not doing that again. Not ever.”

Harry turned fully then, facing Louis , eyes soft and serious . “We’ll get it right this time.”

Louis swallowed hard, fingers tightening their grip . “We have to.”

“We will,” Harry promised, and Louis believed him, even if it was blind faith , even if neither of them had a fucking clue how .

Louis kissed him then, slow and deliberate , tasting cigarettes and familiarity and a little bit of salt from tears Louis would deny shedding . When they pulled apart, Louis rested his forehead against Harry’s, voice barely a whisper.

“Love you, Haz.”

“Love you too, Lou,” Harry whispered back.

 

Louis couldn’t help it — he fussed over Harry like his life depended on it , hovering every time Harry so much as shifted position on the couch. It was almost instinctive , like his hands couldn’t stop checking , making sure Harry was actually here , breathing, alive, not slipping away again the second Louis blinked.

“Lou,” Harry groaned after the third time Louis came in with a glass of water , setting it down on the coffee table like some nurse on a ward shift . “I’m not gonna combust if you leave me alone for five minutes.”

Louis didn’t answer , just rattled around in the kitchen , clanging pots and cupboards as if he was cooking a full roast dinner even though all he actually did was open a tin of ravioli and dump it into a saucepan.

It wasn’t fancy, wasn’t even particularly good, but Louis stirred it like he was crafting a Michelin-starred masterpiece , poking at it until the edges started to bubble , the smell filling the tiny flat.

Harry wandered into the kitchen , bare feet against the cracked linoleum, curls messy and wild from sleep, and Louis had to bite his tongue not to tell him to go sit back down, to rest, to take it easy .

“Ravioli, huh?” Harry said, peeking into the pan. “Very posh.”

Louis shot him a half-hearted glare . “Don’t mock the chef, Play-Doh.”

Harry grinned, sliding up beside him, shoulder bumping against Louis’ like it was the most natural thing in the world . “Didn’t say a word.”

Louis was halfway through his plate of lukewarm ravioli when Riley came bursting through the front door, his rucksack half unzipped and his hair a windswept mess , like he’d sprinted the last block home. He didn’t even stop to say hello before grabbing the plate off the counter — the one Louis had covered with cling film just for him — and shoveling it down like he hadn’t seen food in weeks .

“Slow down, mate,” Louis said, laughing around a mouthful of his own ravioli. “We’re not gonna starve you.”

Riley grunted something that might’ve been a response, but it was too muffled by pasta for anyone to be sure. He perched on one of the mismatched stools by the counter, swinging his feet , and talked through every bite , like his day had been burning a hole in his chest .

“Maths was a nightmare , Mr. Thomas is a proper dickhead ,” Riley started, stabbing at the plate with unnecessary aggression . “Gave us a pop quiz first thing and then had the audacity to tell me off for chewing gum, like that’s the worst crime anyone’s ever committed.”

Harry snorted into his tea, and Louis just shook his head. “Sounds like Mr. Thomas hasn’t changed since I was there,” Louis said. “Bet he still wears that hideous brown tie , doesn’t he?”

“Yeah!” Riley’s eyes lit up, like he couldn’t believe Louis knew the horrors firsthand . “It’s got this gross stain on it too, like someone spilled gravy on him back in 1992 and he just left it .”

Harry grimaced. “That’s foul.”

“Tell me about it.” Riley took another massive bite , then paused, cheeks still full, like he’d just remembered something important. “Oh — and this girl, Millie, from English? She asked if I wanted to hang out after school tomorrow .”

Louis raised an eyebrow, setting down his fork. “Millie, eh?”

“Yeah,” Riley said, suddenly a little shy , which wasn’t like him at all. “I mean, it’s not a date or anything. Just… y’know. Hanging out.”

“Alright,” Louis said, hiding his smile behind his tea mug. “Where you thinking of going?”

“She said her brother’s got this old PlayStation and we could play some FIFA or something .” Riley fidgeted slightly, toe scuffing the floor , then glanced up at Louis. “Is that — is that alright? I mean, if you need me home, I can just— ”

“Oi, none of that,” Louis cut in, voice gentle but firm . “You’re a kid, you should be hanging out with your mates. You don’t need my permission.”

“Still,” Riley muttered, but Louis reached over to ruffle his curls , making Riley squawk in protest .

“Course it’s fine, Ri,” Louis said. “Go kick Millie’s arse at FIFA.”

Harry watched the whole thing with a soft smile , something almost wistful in his eyes , and Louis felt that pang again , that quiet holy shit, this is a family realization that still felt too big to sit with comfortably .

They finished dinner with the telly on in the background , some reality show none of them were really watching, and Riley took over drying the dishes without being asked , his feet tapping to some tune stuck in his head . Louis couldn’t help but glance over at Harry, who was still sitting at the table, tracing the edges of his bracelet with his thumb , and felt that ache in his chest again, the one that meant, despite everything, despite every overdose and relapse and bad decision, Louis was still completely gone for this boy .

They’d gotten lucky, in some twisted way, all of them , even Riley, even with all the shit life had thrown their way. Somehow, they’d built something out of the rubble , and it wasn’t perfect, but it was theirs .

“Want a cuppa?” Louis asked, breaking the silence.

“Yeah,” Harry said, smiling. “Make it strong. I’ve got a feeling we’re gonna need the energy.”

“For what?” Louis asked.

Harry grinned. “I’m gonna teach you and Riley how to actually play FIFA .”

“Oh, you are, are you?” Louis grinned back, flicking the kettle on.

“Absolutely,” Harry said. “Prepare to get wrecked, Tomlinson. Both of you. ”

“Bring it, Play-Doh,” Louis shot back, and from the way Riley’s face lit up , Louis knew he’d be okay . They all would.

The next few days passed in a way that felt almost too easy , the kind of comfortable rhythm Louis had always thought was out of reach for people like them. People who’d spent too long in the chaos , who never quite trusted good things because they always felt like a setup for disaster . But somehow, it didn’t implode .

Every morning, Louis walked Riley to school, hand ruffling through the boy’s curls , reminding him to stay out of trouble and eat all his lunch , because Riley had a habit of trading his sandwiches for biscuits when no one was watching. And every morning, Riley would roll his eyes , but Louis could tell he secretly liked it , the predictability of someone genuinely giving a shit .

Harry stayed back at the flat during the school run, usually still in bed when Louis left, or sitting on the sofa with a cup of tea , watching some mindless morning telly . Louis would come back, kick off his trainers, and they’d spend the mornings talking , properly talking, not the surface-level bullshit they used to fall back on when things got too real .

Harry told him about the parties in LA , about how easy it was to lose yourself when everything was free and everyone was offering . How there was always a little baggie in the greenroom , a pill pressed into his hand by a stranger with a smile , and how it was just easier not to say no . He told Louis about nights he didn’t remember and days that felt like static , about waking up in someone else’s house once and not knowing how he got there .

Louis told Harry about Riley , how taking him in had felt like accidentally adopting a feral raccoon, almost like they‘d joked about , all scrappy and defensive , but so desperate for somewhere safe to land . He told him about the little things — Riley’s habit of talking in his sleep , how he could eat a whole loaf of bread if no one stopped him , how he always made sure to leave the last biscuit for Louis even though he pretended he didn’t .

Somewhere between the confessions and the cups of tea , it stopped feeling awkward. They slipped back into something familiar , something that had been buried under years of mess and hurt , but was still there.

Harry didn’t ask if he could help around the flat, he just did , washing dishes while Louis cooked , tidying up Riley’s schoolwork off the coffee table, even making the bed in the room Riley had claimed because Louis was always too knackered to bother . And Riley, for all his initial suspicion, started to gravitate toward Harry like a moth to a flame.

He’d sit beside him on the sofa, grilling him about LA , asking if he’d really met famous people and if the beaches were like the movies . Harry answered every question, even the ridiculous ones, and never once made Riley feel like he was being annoying . One afternoon, they even sat on the floor together , Riley helping Harry thread beads onto elastic , making him a matching bracelet because “ it’s only fair if you’ve got one with Lou, you need one from me too .”

Louis watched it all happen from the doorway, heart full and aching at the same time , because this was exactly the kind of thing that had always felt impossible — a home that wasn’t built on survival , but on actual love .

One night, when Riley was already in bed, Louis and Harry lay together on the sofa, a half-empty bottle of wine between them , Harry’s fingers playing absently with the frayed hem of Louis’ sleeve .

“This feels… weird,” Louis admitted quietly.

Harry glanced over. “Weird how?”

“Good weird,” Louis clarified, cheeks flushing slightly. “Like… like maybe we’re actually doing alright for once.”

Harry smiled, soft and a little crooked. “Yeah,” he said. “Feels like that to me too.”

Louis came home one evening, tired but not miserable , which was still a novelty. The bell at the corner shop had been busted since last week, so half his shift was spent shouting “door!” every time someone walked in, but he didn’t mind much — the routine helped. It was something normal , something that didn’t involve paramedics or piss-smelling mattresses or his heart clenching in his throat whenever his phone rang .

He kicked his trainers off by the door, shoulder nudging it shut , only to find Harry sprawled on the sofa with Riley’s ancient tablet balanced on his stomach , scrolling through something so intently he didn’t even look up.

“Evening, Play-Doh,” Louis called out, dropping his bag by the door and heading for the kitchen. “What’s got you looking so serious?”

Harry hummed distractedly , eyes still glued to the screen, and Louis peeked over his shoulder , expecting to see some weird YouTube rabbit hole or a stupid fan edit of himself dancing on stage .

It wasn’t.

It was Rightmove .

And not just any listings. They were flats for rent , mostly two beds , a few with three , all within a bus ride of the estate. Decent ones too, proper kitchens, actual living rooms instead of glorified cupboards , even one with a tiny balcony with a sad little table already out there in the photos .

“What’s all this?” Louis asked, voice coming out more guarded than he meant to. Before he could stop it, his mind already went places he didn’t want it to go. Harry leaving again, looking for a place on his own. Maybe he wasn’t ready for a family? Did Harry even want to be with him anymore?

Harry finally looked up , curling his fingers around the tablet like he was half afraid Louis might snatch it away. “I just… thought maybe we could use a bit more space.”

Louis’ heart did something complicated , halfway between melting and seizing up entirely .

“It’s not that I don’t love this place,” Harry added quickly, sitting up, curls messy and sticking up on one side like he’d been lying there for hours , “but you, me, Riley — we’re packed in here like bloody sardines, and I’ve got the money now. I could— we could—” He trailed off, eyes flicking away, like he didn’t quite dare to hope.

Louis stepped around the sofa, sinking down next to him, shoulder-to-shoulder. “You serious about this?” he asked softly.

Harry nodded, biting his lip. “I want to make a proper home, Lou. For us. For Riley. One where we don’t have to take turns in the bathroom and where there’s room for a Christmas tree that’s not wedged between the telly and the radiator.”

Louis laughed quietly , but his throat was tight, eyes already burning. “You little romantic.”

“Guilty,” Harry smiled, a little crooked, but honest .

Louis took the tablet from his hands, scrolling back through the listings , his fingers shaking just slightly . Most of them were nicer than anywhere Louis had ever lived . None of them were too posh , still estate enough that they’d fit, but it was the kind of future Louis had never really dared to imagine — not for kids like them , not after everything.

“You sure some landlord’s gonna let two ex-junkies and a stray kid move in?” Louis asked, half-joking.

Harry grinned. “Mate, I’m Harry Styles. They’ll let me move a bloody goat in if I want.”

Louis couldn’t help it — he laughed until his ribs hurt , and Harry was right there with him, giggling until they both fell sideways into each other , tablet knocking to the floor , Louis’ face buried in Harry’s neck.

“We really doing this?” Louis asked, voice muffled in Harry’s jumper .

Harry kissed his hair , soft and certain. “Yeah, Lou. We really are.”

Louis breathed him in, the familiar smell of Harry’s shampoo and leftover fabric softener . For the first time in a long time, the future didn’t feel like a threat — it felt like a door wide open .

“Alright then,” Louis whispered. “Let’s find our home.”

And they sat there long into the night , legs tangled, scrolling through every flat they could find, imagining what it would be like to build something new — something theirs — together .

Louis phone was in his hand again, fingers flying across the screen , firing off a group text that simply read: “We’re getting a bigger flat. Start looking.”

Within seconds , Niall was calling, practically screaming down the line before Louis could even say hello. “ I call the guest room! I’m not crashing on no crusty couch when I visit. I want a proper fucking bed.”

Louis had to hold the phone away from his ear , laughing as Harry watched him from the sofa, blanket still wrapped around his shoulders like a cape. “ It’s not a hotel, Niall. You can sleep on the fucking floor.”

“ Guest room! ” Niall shouted again, ignoring him entirely. “ I’ll paint it orange for you if you want. ”

“Piss off,” Louis laughed, hanging up before Niall could demand en-suite privileges too .

The rest of the group chat lit up within minutes — Oli sending a link to a place three streets over with a note that said “This one’s got a balcony. Perfect for Niall’s weed rituals.” , and Zayn somehow already finding a listing for a flat with orange walls and declaring it “fate.”

It only took a week , half of which was spent sorting through the disaster that was their current flat — piles of clothes neither of them remembered owning, empty cigarette cartons stuffed behind the sofa, and a truly disturbing amount of loose change that could probably pay for half the deposit . Riley insisted on packing his own things, which mostly meant shoving everything into bin bags and declaring it done .

The new place wasn’t fancy , but it was bigger — three bedrooms, a slightly less grim bathroom, and a kitchen with enough counter space for Niall to play chef without burning the whole place down .

They moved in on a Sunday , all their friends showing up like a half-drunk moving company , Zayn balancing a box on his shoulder while smoking a cigarette, Amelia somehow taking charge like the boss she was , and Niall giving an impromptu speech about the guest room’s future decor while attempting to throw Riley over his shoulder like a sack of laundry .

Harry and Louis stood in the middle of it all , Louis’ arm slung loosely around Harry’s waist, both of them a little overwhelmed , but also oddly hopeful .

“Do we have to paint it orange again?” Harry asked quietly, leaning into Louis’ side.

“Absolutely not,” Louis laughed, pressing a soft kiss to his temple . “This time, we’re going with something normal . Like green.”

Harry grinned, fingers twisting gently in the sleeve of Louis’ hoodie , and Louis knew — whatever came next, they’d figure it out together .

They signed the contract on the spot , barely waiting for the estate agent to finish their pitch. By the time they left the office, keys in hand , Harry was already talking about paint colors (no orange, Louis threatened) and Riley’s future bedroom decor (Spiderman, currently, though Louis suspected that would change within a month).

The next morning, they started moving their shit , which wasn’t much to begin with — a battered sofa, Riley’s bed, a mattress on the floor, a few boxes of clothes and knick-knacks — but it felt like a fresh start . Their friends showed up, of course — Zayn and Oli lifting the heavy stuff, Amelia bringing sandwiches, and Niall somehow commandeering the playlist and only playing 2000s pop hits .

And through it all, Louis couldn’t stop watching Harry — the way he smiled so easy again , the way he talked to Riley like they’d known each other forever , the way he never once took off that fucking bracelet .

“We’re gonna be alright, yeah?” Harry asked, catching Louis’ eye as they carried a box of kitchen stuff up the stairs.

Louis didn’t answer with words, he just dropped the box right there on the landing , grabbed Harry’s face with both hands , and kissed him like it was the only answer that mattered .

That night, they lay sprawled across the mattress on the floor , bellies too full of dodgy Chinese takeaway that they both knew was gonna sit wrong later , but neither of them cared. The room smelled like soy sauce and spring rolls , a little stale weed from whatever Niall had left behind, and underneath it all, just them . The faint scent of Harry’s shampoo , something vaguely citrusy , and Louis’ aftershave, the same cheap bottle he’d been using since he was sixteen and skint .

The bedroom wasn’t much to look at. No bedframe, no curtains, just the mattress pushed against the wall and a pile of clean laundry they hadn’t bothered to put away yet. Riley’s room was the only one that had been given any proper attention — his bed was actually up off the floor , the walls plastered with football posters and half-done homework , a pile of trainers near the door.

“You think Niall knows his brownies are shite when he’s sober?” Louis asked, idly tracing nonsense patterns across Harry’s bare arms, his fingertips following the familiar ink.

Harry snorted into Louis’ shoulder. “Don’t tell him that. He thinks he’s Gordon Ramsay.”

“He’s Gordon Ramsey if Gordon forgot how to season anything. I watched him boil a chicken once. like an entire unseasoned chicken.” Louis grinned, nudging Harry’s knee with his own.

Harry hummed, tugging the blanket higher , curling closer, nose tucked into Louis’ neck . “Kinda missed all that though. Even the shit brownies.”

“Yeah,” Louis said quietly, fingers slipping into Harry’s curls , scratching at his scalp the way he knew made Harry all boneless and soft . “Me too.”

They fell into comfortable silence , Louis’ fingers still in Harry’s hair, Harry breathing slow and deep against Louis’ skin , and for a moment, it felt like everything was alright . No drugs, no rehab, no long distance or flashing cameras or nearly dying in LA. Just them , in their shit flat, with their shit takeaway and their shit mattress, and somehow, it felt like everything they needed .

“You really never took it off?” Louis murmured, tugging lightly at the bracelet on Harry’s wrist — the old friendship bracelet they’d made in rehab, the one Louis had thought Harry must’ve lost months ago .

“Never,” Harry said, voice thick . “Not once.”

Louis pressed a kiss to Harry’s forehead , something so soft and reverent that it almost hurt . “Good. Would’ve killed you if you had.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Harry whispered back.

They both knew there was a lot they still had to talk about , a lot they still had to figure out , but for tonight, it was enough to just be here — Harry in Louis’ arms, Louis’ heartbeat under Harry’s ear , and the comfort of knowing they still fit, even after everything .

Louis was back at work by the following Monday, showing up in his slightly wrinkled uniform , sliding behind the till with a muttered, “Morning, Sandra,” and zero explanation about why he’d vanished for a week straight . Sandra didn’t ask. She’d worked in the shop long enough to know that estate kids disappeared sometimes , and if they came back, you didn’t press your luck.

Harry, still too public to get a proper job without causing a scene , became the househusband neither of them ever expected . Every morning, he’d walk Riley to school , even though Riley grumbled about how he was perfectly capable of walking himself , and every time, Harry just grinned and said, “Tough shit, kid.” Afterward, he’d head back to the flat, music blasting through the open windows , cleaning up the chaos they left behind every morning — dishes from breakfast, clothes tossed everywhere, half-drunk cups of tea breeding on the windowsill.

Their friends came over at least twice a week , sometimes more, usually just piling in unannounced like they still owned spare keys . Niall almost always brought food, Zayn brought his latest weird hobby (this month it was whittling, of all fucking things ), and Oli and Amelia had somehow taken to bickering like an old married couple , which provided free entertainment for all .

Sunday dinners at Louis’ mum’s became non-negotiable , no excuses accepted. They’d pile into the house — all of them — and somehow Johannah always made enough food to feed the entire band of misfits , even Riley’s constantly hungry mates who had a habit of following him home after football practice . Harry usually ended up peeling potatoes with the twins, Riley got stuck setting the table , and Louis just leaned in the doorway , watching it all, wondering how the fuck they’d gotten here .

It wasn’t perfect — it was never going to be — but it was the closest thing to happy Louis had ever known .

Chapter 42: Chapter 42

Notes:

Sorry for making you guys wait so long for a new chapter, life‘s. been a bit all over the place and I just didn‘t get around to posting for some reason.

Anyway, enjoy some domestic chaos!

They were halfway through tea, Louis sitting cross-legged on the sofa, Harry stretched out with his feet in Louis’ lap, when the door flew open with a bang loud enough to make Harry flinch .

“Oi, you absolute hobgoblins ,” Zayn announced, dragging a flat-packed Ikea box through the doorway, panting like he’d just scaled Mount Everest with it strapped to his back . “Guess what I found.”

Louis stared at him, teabag dangling from his fingers, completely unimpressed . “Zayn, if you’ve just dragged stolen property into my flat, I’m not bailing you out again.”

“Found it, didn’t I?” Zayn grinned, kicking the door shut behind him . “It was already paid for, just… left unattended. Practically begging for a new home.”

Harry buried his face in his hands , shoulders shaking with silent laughter , and Louis just sighed, setting his mug down and getting up to help drag the box further inside .

“You’re a fucking idiot,” Louis muttered.

“I’m a provider,” Zayn corrected. “Your mattress has been sitting on the floor like a tragic uni bedsit for weeks. Time to upgrade.”

Before Louis could argue, the door banged open again , and in came Niall , arms laden with tools, crisps, and an already half-drunk Red Bull , grinning like he was about to lead them into battle .

“Alright, lads,” Niall clapped his hands together. “Assembly time. Zayn and Louis, you’re my minions. Haz, Riley — you two sit there and shut up. This is a professional workspace now.”

“You don’t even know how to build furniture,” Louis pointed out, arms crossed.

“Don’t need to,” Niall said smugly. “I just delegate and shout instructions , that’s what good leadership is.”

Riley was already giggling , sprawled on the sofa next to Harry, both of them watching like it was the best sitcom they’d ever seen . Harry’s curls shook with laughter , face so bright with amusement that Louis almost couldn’t breathe for a second, it was the first time in months Harry looked completely carefree .

“Alright, dickheads,” Niall barked, already ripping the box open. “Step one, find the screw thingies .”

Louis groaned, “This is going to end in tears.”

Zayn flicked a cigarette butt into the kitchen sink, shrugged, and said, “At least you‘ve got a bed to sha-“ Zayn paused, glancing at Riley, “to shallowly cry on now.”

It was chaos from the start — screws going missing before they’d even started, Louis somehow managing to attach the side panel upside down , and Zayn getting a splinter within minutes . Niall paced around the room like a reality show host , shouting things like “ Align the doohickey with the hole ” and “ Tighten that, you absolute clown .”

Riley and Harry were no help whatsoever , curled up on the sofa, cry-laughing every time Niall said something even remotely stupid (which was often). Harry even started keeping score , jotting down on a cereal box every time Niall said something that made no sense.

“Right, that’s it,” Louis groaned, sitting back on his heels after accidentally building the footboard backwards . “This flat’s cursed.”

“Cursed with friendship,” Zayn corrected, patting Louis’ head condescendingly.

“Cursed with idiots,” Louis muttered.

But even through the absolute shambles of it all, Louis couldn’t help but feel something warm bloom in his chest . His flat — his and Harry’s flat — full of life again . Full of his people. Full of laughter and teasing and Riley snorting into Harry’s shoulder because Niall called an Allen key a ‘weird metal L.’

By the time the bedframe was somehow, miraculously, upright and stable , they were all sweaty, aching, and exhausted from laughing so much . Louis collapsed onto the mattress on the floor, arms spread wide.

“I’m never building anything again,” Louis declared. “This is where I die.”

Harry flopped down beside him, eyes bright with mischief . “At least now you’ll die with a bedframe.”

Riley tackled both of them , squashing them into a pile of limbs , and Zayn lit a cigarette out the window , muttering something about how they were all mentally unstable .

Louis couldn’t have been happier.

They wrestled the bedframe down the narrow hallway, Harry cursing under his breath every time they bumped into a wall, Louis swearing even louder when he smashed his shin against the edge. It was a miracle the thing even fit through the doorway , but somehow, after a lot of maneuvering and a brief argument over which way it was meant to face , they got the frame into position and dropped the mattress on top with a heavy thud .

Louis flopped down onto it immediately, arms spread wide , hair a mess, and grinned up at Harry. “There we go. A proper bed. Aren’t we fucking adults.”

Harry snorted , sitting beside him and nudging his knee. “Proud of you, handyman.”

They might’ve stayed there all afternoon, just soaking up the quiet , but the door burst open without warning , slamming against the wall, and Oli waltzed in like he owned the place .

“Christ, mate,” Louis groaned, sitting up. “Ever heard of knocking?”

“What for?” Oli grinned, dropping onto the bed beside them. “Used to shag in this bed, didn’t I? Feels like home.”

Harry looked mildly horrified. “ Excuse me? ”

Louis smirked. “Relax, Play-Doh. Different mattress.”

Harry shoved him, but he was smiling , and before anyone could say anything else, Amelia appeared in the doorway, carrying a massive houseplant in a terracotta pot.

“Peace offering,” she said, holding it out like a child presenting a macaroni necklace , and Louis couldn’t help but laugh. “Figured you could use some greenery to break up… you know.” She gestured at the pastel orange walls, Louis didn‘t even know how that had happened again .

“We’re not talking about the walls,” Louis said, shaking his head.

“We are absolutely talking about the walls,” Amelia countered, setting the plant down on the windowsill. “This is assaulting my eyes.”

“Don’t be rude to the walls,” Harry said, sounding far too serious , which set Louis off laughing all over again .

It felt easy , for the first time in a long time. Just friends piling into their room like it was a teenage sleepover , everyone talking over each other, Oli sprawled across the bed like a cat, Amelia rearranging their furniture without asking, Harry leaning against Louis like they were stitched together at the seams .

It was supposed to be just another night , one of those easy, familiar ones where the whole lot of them crammed into the flat , bodies draped over the furniture like they were part of it , the telly turned down low because no one actually paid attention , and the air thick with stories they’d all heard before but still laughed at anyway .

They were a proper little family now , Louis knew that — a messy, chaotic patchwork of people who’d been through hell together and somehow survived it , dragged out the other side with matching scars and a bond no one else could touch .

Riley was the newest recruit to their band of estate-grown misfits , but still a kid , no matter how much he pretended otherwise . Louis had made peace with being the overprotective one , because someone had to be , and fuck if he was going to let Riley go down the same road they had .

So, when Niall got back from the shop with a spliff already rolled , waving it around like a victory flag — Louis just sighed and told him to take it to the balcony , same as always. Riley grumbled about it , claiming he was nearly sixteen and practically an adult , but Louis just flicked his ear and said, “You can get high when you’ve got your own flat, not in mine.”

The spliff got passed around like old times , Harry tucked under Louis’ arm, Zayn sprawled in a deck chair that had probably been stolen from someone’s garden , Oli leaning against the railing, and Amelia perched on the windowsill, laughing so hard at some half-remembered story about Eleanor falling down a flight of stairs at sixteen that she nearly dropped her cigarette.

It was good, normal , even. A reminder that they could still have nights like this , where nothing hurt too much and the past didn’t claw at their throats .

Until Louis came back inside and caught Niall slipping Riley a shot of vodka , grinning like it was a joke , like it was nothing .

Louis saw red.

“The fuck do you think you’re doing?” His voice cut through the room , sharp enough to make Riley jump , the glass sloshing onto his jeans .

“Relax, mate,” Niall laughed, a little too loose , “It’s just a drop.”

Louis was on him in two seconds , grabbing the glass out of Riley’s hand and slamming it onto the table so hard the glass cracked . “He’s fifteen , you absolute knob. What’s wrong with you?”

“Alright, alright,” Niall held up his hands, eyes wide but still grinning like it was all a laugh . “Didn’t think you’d go all dad mode, Christ.”

“Yeah? Well, maybe someone should’ve gone dad mode on us,” Louis snapped. “Maybe we wouldn’t have spent half our fucking lives in rehab .”

The room went dead silent , the weight of truth too heavy to ignore .

Riley looked small , shoulders hunched, like he was waiting for Louis to calm down , but Louis wasn’t calming down anytime soon .

Harry was right there , hand on Louis’ back, grounding him with gentle pressure , but Louis’ heart was still pounding in his chest , all the old fears rattling around like broken glass . He wasn’t going to let Riley become them — not if he could help it .

“I’m sorry,” Niall said, and for once , it sounded genuine , all the bravado gone.

“It’s not funny,” Louis said, voice hoarse now , anger burning out into something more fragile . “It’s not funny at all.”

“I know,” Niall muttered, sinking down onto the sofa. “I wasn’t thinking.”

Louis took a breath, looking at Riley — wide-eyed and sheepish , but also just a kid who wanted to be like them , and that was the scariest part of all .

“Go wash that off,” Louis said, nodding at Riley’s jeans. “And don’t even think about arguing.”

Riley didn’t argue , just got up and disappeared into the bathroom , leaving the room thick with silence .

“Sorry, mate,” Niall said again, quieter this time. “I mean it.”

Louis rubbed his face, exhausted down to his bones , but nodded. “Just… think next time, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Niall said. “Yeah, I will.”

Harry squeezed Louis’ hand, and Louis leaned into him, head resting on Harry’s shoulder , and they sat like that for a while — the two of them , holding each other together like they always had, while their ragtag little family tried to figure out how to be better than they were before .

Louis knew he was overreacting — rationally, logically, whatever the fuck you wanted to call it — he knew. But knowing and feeling were two entirely different beasts, and his chest still tightened like a fist when Riley came back from the bathroom, hands shoved deep in the pocket of Louis’ old hoodie , his shoulders curled in on themselves like he was bracing for a blow .

He looked so fucking small , so young , and Louis wanted to scream because no kid should know how to make themselves invisible like that . It was a trick Louis knew far too well;  how to shrink down , take up as little space as possible, make yourself unnoticeable in case someone decided they were in the mood to hurt you .

Louis didn’t ask. Didn’t press. Didn’t make some offhand joke to lighten the mood like he usually would. Because whatever Riley had been through before Louis found him , it wasn’t his job to dig into it — not yet, maybe not ever. All Louis could do was show him, over and over again, that he didn’t have to disappear anymore .

So he just pulled the kid down onto the couch beside him , one arm slung casually over the back , like it was nothing, like it was just what they did , even though Louis’ throat felt tight and prickly and he couldn’t stop picturing that first night in the squat,  Riley curled up in the corner, shivering in a jacket too thin for October , looking at Louis like he was the first safe thing he’d seen in months .

“Alright, mate?” Louis asked softly, voice intentionally light , nudging Riley’s knee with his own.

Riley nodded too quickly , like he was trying to sell the lie, and Louis decided then and there to let it go.

“Cool.” Louis grabbed the remote, flicking on the telly, landing on some shit game show none of them cared about. “What d’you reckon? That bloke’s definitely lying about being a fireman.”

Riley snorted — an actual laugh , small and real — and Louis felt something unclench inside his chest .

They sat like that for a while, just existing , not talking about where Riley had really been or what Louis was scared shitless to admit out loud that he could feel himself falling into this weird protector role without even meaning to , and it scared the absolute fuck out of him. Because if there was one thing Louis knew, it was that he wasn’t exactly the safest bet . His track record spoke for itself.

But Riley didn’t seem to care about Louis’ messy past . Didn’t ask for guarantees or promises Louis wasn’t sure he could keep. He just sat beside him , small and solid and quietly trusting in a way Louis hadn’t expected.

Niall muttered a quick, sheepish “Sorry, mate,” before slumping down onto the sofa beside Louis, his knees knocking into Zayn’s as he got comfortable. Louis didn’t say anything back — just nodded once, letting the silence do all the forgiving for him. They’d been through too much for one stupid slip-up to come between them now.

The living room was softer now , the kind of comfortable quiet that only came after too much food and too much reminiscing , everyone still digesting both the fry-up and the reality of being back together like this again . Amelia was curled up in the armchair, knees hugged to her chest, Riley stretched out across the floor, half-asleep with his head on a throw pillow, and Oli was fiddling with the frayed corner of the rug, lost in his own thoughts.

It felt… good . In a way Louis hadn’t expected it to. It wasn’t that everything was magically fine now , but they were here — all of them, almost all of them — and somehow, after all the shit , they still fit together like they always had.

Eventually, Louis stretched his arms over his head with a dramatic yawn, clapping his hands together once like a school teacher wrapping up a lesson . “Alright, Riley,” he said, tone light but the kind of light that meant ‘no arguing’ . “Bedtime for you.”

Riley groaned, but didn’t actually protest , dragging himself off the floor and shuffling toward the hall. Louis caught him by the sleeve just before he disappeared. “Teeth,” Louis said, pointing toward the bathroom. “Don’t think I won’t check.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Riley mumbled, but Louis caught the faint smile tugging at his mouth , and he couldn’t help but smile back.

Zayn, Niall, Oli, and Amelia took the cue not long after — hugs all around, promises to meet up again soon , Zayn squeezing Louis’ shoulder a bit tighter than necessary , and Niall whispering something about “ breakfast next week, yeah? My treat. No weed. Swear. ”

When the door finally shut behind them, the flat felt too quiet for a moment , like the offensively peach-coloured walls were still trying to catch up with the sudden emptiness. Louis stood there for a second, leaning against the doorframe, before feeling Harry’s arm slip around his waist , gentle and warm , pulling him back into the soft glow of the living room .

“Bed?” Harry asked softly, and Louis didn’t need to think about it.

“Yeah,” Louis said, tipping his head against Harry’s shoulder for a second before steering them toward their room — their room, the one they’d built a life in , with its mismatched bedding and cluttered shelves and the faint smell of incense and too much Febreze trying to cover up the sneaky late-night cigarettes .

They didn’t even bother changing into pyjamas, just kicked off their jeans , crawled under the covers, and settled into the familiar shape of each other . Louis’ arm slung over Harry’s waist , Harry’s nose pressed into the crook of Louis’ neck, their legs a tangle of warmth and too many angles .

Louis wasn’t tired, not really, but Harry’s breathing was already slowing down , and Louis knew he wasn’t about to let Harry fall asleep alone . Not now. Not ever again.

And yeah, this wasn’t perfect. Their story was messy and cracked and held together with duct tape and sheer willpower .

The next morning came too early, probably because Riley was pounding on the bedroom door like the world was ending . Louis shot up like someone had just poured ice water down his back , heart hammering , blanket tangled around his legs .

“What? I’m up — what the fuck ?” he croaked, voice still thick with sleep , hair sticking up in a million directions .

The door creaked open, and Riley stood there, pale and miserable , hoodie zipped up to his neck even though the flat was warm enough .

“I don’t feel good,” Riley mumbled, voice small, almost embarrassed about it, like feeling sick was somehow a personal failure .

Louis sighed, scrubbing his hands over his face. “What do you mean you don’t feel good? Stomach? Head? What are we dealing with here, kiddo? ”

“Everything,” Riley shrugged miserably. “I feel like I got run over by the 72 bus .”

“Shit,” Louis muttered, already swinging his legs off the bed , feet hitting the cold floor with a wince. Beside him, Harry was still out cold , face half-buried in the pillow , curls everywhere , snoring softly . Lucky bastard.

Louis shuffled over, pressing the back of his hand against Riley’s clammy forehead , frowning immediately. “Yeah, you’re burning up.”

“Do I have to go to school?” Riley asked, voice hopeful but nasally , like his sinuses had given up overnight .

“Nah, you’re not going anywhere,” Louis said. “Except maybe back to bed.”

“But I’m hungry,” Riley whined, rubbing at his eyes with the sleeve of his hoodie , already looking like he might cry if Louis tried to tuck him back in without breakfast.

“Alright, alright,” Louis relented , leading Riley toward the sofa and plopping him down with a blanket and the remote . “I’ll make you some toast, yeah? Tea? You’re getting the full Tomlinson Special Sick Day Treatment .”

Riley nodded pitifully, which cracked Louis’ heart clean in half , because this was so familiar from when he had taken care of his sisters when they were little, with Harry back when they were kids and he’d show up at Louis’ house too sick to go home because his mum wouldn’t give a shit .

That thought hurt more than Louis wanted to admit, so he shoved it down and focused on making toast .

Harry eventually wandered in , looking half-dead himself , squinting at the bright kitchen light like a vampire seeing daylight for the first time . “What’s going on?” he asked, voice still rough with sleep .

“Riley’s sick,” Louis said, buttered toast in one hand, cup of tea in the other , balancing it all like a pro. “D’you want some?”

Harry just nodded sleepily , sitting down beside Riley on the sofa, wrapping the blanket around both of them like a pair of oversized toddlers .

For a minute, Louis just stood in the doorway , watching them — Harry and Riley, curled up together , Harry already half-heartedly flipping through cartoons , Riley leaning into his side like it was the most natural thing in the world . It made something in Louis’ chest feel too full and too fragile all at once — like maybe this was what family was meant to look like, even if they were a weird patchwork version of it .

“Alright, you two,” Louis said, bringing over the tea and toast, setting it down between them. “I’m calling off work, so you’re stuck with me today.”

“You don’t have to do that,” Harry said, but Louis just shook his head.

“Riley comes first,” Louis said simply. “And so do you, Play-Doh.”

Louis brought over the plate of toast and two cups of tea, setting them down on the coffee table before leaning down to press a kiss to Harry’s lips, soft and easy, like it was the most natural thing in the world , because after all this time, it was .

Harry smiled into it, grinning so wide it scrunched his nose , one hand sneaking up to gently tug at the hem of Louis’ shirt , just holding on like he still couldn’t quite believe Louis was real and here and kissing him over tea and toast in their orange disaster of a living room .

Riley, who was still sitting right beside Harry, made an exaggerated gagging noise, clutching his chest like he’d been personally attacked by the sight of affection .

“Get a room!” Riley groaned, flopping his arms around dramatically.

Louis didn’t even pause , just flipped him off fondly , middle finger up without breaking the kiss, and Harry giggled into Louis’ mouth , the kind of happy, carefree laugh that Louis hadn’t heard in far too long .

When Louis finally pulled back, Riley was still making retching sounds , and Louis snorted. “You better get used to it, kid. We’re disgustingly in love and we live here. ”

Riley’s face twisted in mock horror, but there was a smile tucked in the corner of it , the kind you could miss if you didn’t know him well enough yet. Louis caught it, of course — he caught everything when it came to Riley — and it softened the knot that had been living under his ribs since the day he found Harry in that hospital bed.

The day drifted by in a sort of soft-focus haze, the kind where no one really bothered to check the time, because what would be the point? Outside, the sky hung low and dull, clouds stretching thick across the horizon like the lid of a jar that refused to be twisted off. The living room had become Riley’s kingdom for the day, and Louis let him have it without argument, too tired to negotiate territory.

Riley switched between the sofa and the armchair every half hour or so, like he couldn’t quite settle, the way a cat prowls a room before finally curling up somewhere inconvenient. At one point, Louis caught him sprawled across the armchair upside down, head dangling off the cushion, one bare foot perched on the windowsill. He was chewing on a piece of plain toast, crumbs trailing down his chin and onto the front of his jumper. There was more than enough food in the flat — jam, leftover takeaway, some half-stale biscuits in the cupboard — but Riley had always had this thing for plain toast. Louis had given up questioning it ages ago.

If Louis was being honest with himself, he was about ninety percent sure Riley was faking sick. He’d pulled the same move so many times Louis had lost count, always with some exaggerated groan and a dramatic flop onto the nearest surface, like a Victorian child struck down with some mysterious fever. But Louis let it slide. Riley wasn’t his kid, not technically, but it didn’t matter. Most of the time, he acted like Louis was the only adult left in the world, and Louis didn’t really mind filling the role.

Somewhere around noon, Harry had wandered into the kitchen, hair a mess and sweatshirt hanging loose off his frame, mumbling something about a headache. Louis took one look at him — the pale skin, the way he winced at the light even though it was barely more than a soft gray glow through the window — and knew it was probably more than that. Still, he didn’t push. He just kissed Harry’s forehead gently, the way you would with a kid who’d scraped their knee, and said, “Get some rest, Play-Doh.”

Harry gave him a tired smile, the kind that didn’t quite reach his eyes, and disappeared back down the hall. Louis listened for the quiet click of the bedroom door closing, then stood in the kitchen for a moment, kettle boiling behind him, his hands resting on the counter. He wanted to follow, wanted to crawl into bed next to Harry and curl up with him until the headache or the withdrawal or whatever it was eased up enough for him to sleep properly. But Louis had always been careful not to hover too much. Harry didn’t like to be fussed over, even when he needed it.

And Louis knew this was probably still the last stubborn stage of heroin withdrawal, the kind that didn’t hit you with dramatic shaking or vomiting but instead crept in like fog, leaving you exhausted and achy and stuck in your own head. Harry never said it out loud, but Louis could see it in the way his hands twitched when he thought no one was looking, the way he chewed his bottom lip raw some nights, or disappeared into the bathroom for long stretches just to sit on the closed lid of the toilet, hands pressed into his knees, breathing slow and deliberate like he was talking himself down from something.

Louis had promised himself, right at the beginning, that he wouldn’t be a warden about it. He wouldn’t treat Harry like a project or a fragile thing. Harry wasn’t fragile. He was still here, still trying, still pulling himself out of that dark place one aching step at a time. That was enough. That was everything.

So Louis made two mugs of tea — Yorkshire for himself, way too sweet for Harry — and set Harry’s on the nightstand even though he knew it would probably go cold before Harry touched it. Then he went back to the living room, where Riley was attempting to balance the remote on his forehead like it was some Olympic-level talent. Louis didn’t tell him off for it.

He just sat down on the sofa, stretched out across the cushions, and let the day keep slipping past them, quiet and slow and a little bit broken, but still, somehow, okay.

Louis sent Riley to bed sometime around ten, standing in the doorway with his arms crossed and a brow raised, the perfect picture of mock authority. “If you’re so sick,” Louis said, “you better get some actual sleep.”

Riley, half-buried in the armchair with a blanket over his head like some sort of gremlin, just shot him a look — unimpressed, a little bratty, but not combative — and then dragged himself off to his room without argument. That was the thing about Riley. He knew when Louis wasn’t in the mood for a fight, and tonight, Louis’ patience was too thin for the usual back and forth they sometimes entertained just for the sake of it.

The bedroom door down the hall clicked shut, leaving Louis alone in the living room with nothing but the low hum of the television, the news playing softly in the background. He wasn’t really watching — something about a new tax plan and a heatwave in Spain — but the noise kept the silence from pressing in too close.

For a while, Louis just sat there, feet tucked under him, scrolling mindlessly through his phone and sipping at the dregs of the tea he’d forgotten about hours ago. The flat was too quiet when Riley wasn’t actively filling it with noise, and Harry wasn’t moving around somewhere nearby, humming under his breath or shuffling through drawers looking for socks. It still made Louis nervous sometimes, how quiet Harry could be now. Like if Louis wasn’t paying attention, Harry might just slip right out of the room, out of the flat, out of this fragile little life they’d patched together with trembling hands and too many second chances.

After about an hour, Louis called it quits too, dragging himself off the sofa with a groan and shuffling down the hall. The light under Riley’s door was still on — little liar — but Louis didn’t call him out for it. Some battles just weren’t worth it.

In the bedroom, Harry was curled up on his side, one arm buried under the pillow, the other sprawled across the empty space Louis was meant to fill. His hair was still damp from a shower he must have taken earlier, curling messily against his neck, and his t-shirt was twisted around his waist like he’d gotten tangled in the sheets at some point.

Louis slid into bed as quietly as he could, though the mattress still dipped under his weight, making Harry stir just slightly, breathing hitching for half a second before settling again. He was still too thin, his frame all sharp edges and hollows, but he’d started to fill out a bit in the past week — enough that Louis had noticed, enough that it made his chest loosen with relief every time he caught Harry eating without needing to be reminded.

Louis pressed himself in close, molding around Harry’s back, one arm slung low around his waist, fingers brushing over the soft cotton of his shirt. He could feel the faint rise and fall of Harry’s breathing, slow and steady now, and Louis let himself relax into it, matching the rhythm without thinking.

They’d been through hell together. Not in a poetic, romanticized way — no, they’d seen the kind of hell that sticks to your skin, that you taste in the back of your throat even years later. Relapse after relapse. Detox after detox. Nights spent shaking and sweating and crying in bathrooms too small to hold that much pain. Rehabs with peeling paint and too-bright lights and cheap instant coffee that tasted like ash. They’d done it all, over and over, until Louis couldn’t remember a version of their story that wasn’t laced with some level of survival.

But somehow, despite all of it, they’d ended up here. In a flat that had, against all odds, ended up painted orange again, even though they’d sworn the last time would be the last time. With Riley — Louis’ kid that wasn’t really his kid — down the hall, pretending to be asleep while probably scrolling through TikTok with the brightness down low.

This life was messy and exhausting and built on a foundation that still shook sometimes under the weight of their past, but Louis couldn’t bring himself to wish for a different one. Not even if he tried.

The next morning, Louis’ alarm went off sharp and mean, cutting through the too-warm air of the bedroom like a knife. It felt way too early, because it was way too early, but he dragged himself out of bed anyway, legs heavy and brain still somewhere halfway between a dream and reality. He had a kid to get out the door for school and a Harry who would only sleep through so many rounds of the snooze button before the alarm finally broke him.

He rubbed a hand over his face as he stumbled down the hall, eyes barely open, the floor cold under his feet. The bathroom mirror was unkind — dark circles, skin a bit pale, hair sticking up in about seven different directions — but Louis had long since stopped worrying about looking good first thing in the morning. Looking functional was the goal.

He brushed his teeth while leaning a shoulder against the wall, too tired to stand up straight, then dragged a razor over his jaw just enough to stop the stubble from becoming an actual beard. He ran a damp hand through his hair, flattening the worst of the mess, and called it good enough. For a part-time job at the corner shop, the bar for “presentable” was barely off the ground.

The kettle went on the second he hit the kitchen — muscle memory at this point — because Louis refused to face the morning without a cup of tea strong enough to kick him awake. He leaned on the counter while the water heated, scrolling mindlessly through his phone, until the familiar clatter and hiss filled the room. With the first cup poured, he finally made his way down the hall to Riley’s door, knocking three times with the knuckle of his index finger.

“Up you get, kid,” Louis called, voice still raspy from sleep. “School’s in an hour.”

The only response was a groan, muffled through the door, which wasn’t exactly a surprise. Riley had never been a morning person, and if Louis let him, he’d probably sleep till noon every day and claim some sort of medical exemption for it.

Louis didn’t bother going in just yet. Riley would drag himself up eventually, probably after another round of fake groaning and dramatic sighing. It was a dance they’d done a hundred times over, and Louis had learned to pick his battles. As long as the kid got out the door with his shoes on the right feet and some sort of breakfast in his stomach, Louis would call it a win.

He wandered back to the kitchen, tea cupped in both hands, and leaned against the counter again, taking the first cautious sip. The flat was still quiet, just the faint hum of the fridge and the distant creak of pipes settling somewhere behind the walls.

Louis somehow managed to get Riley dressed, teeth brushed, and at least half a bowl of cereal into his stomach within forty-five minutes — a personal best, considering Riley had spent a solid ten of those minutes trying to convince Louis that breakfast was “a capitalist scam” and brushing his teeth was technically optional on Tuesdays.

The kid had also insisted, quite firmly, that he was old enough to walk to school on his own today. Louis had squinted at him, unconvinced, but in the end, he caved. It wasn’t far — just a few streets over — and Riley had his phone on him, fully charged for once. Still, Louis stood at the window long after Riley had disappeared down the pavement, just in case he changed his mind and came running back for a forgotten lunch or a second hug. He didn’t.

Louis’ shift at the corner shop wouldn’t start until Riley was already back from school, which left him with the kind of free morning that always felt like it should be relaxing but never really was. The flat was too quiet, and Louis could feel the mess of it itching at him, nagging at the back of his mind until he gave in and decided to clean. Harry, obviously, wouldn’t be up for it — not unless Louis wanted the blankets half-heartedly thrown into a pile and a single plate shoved in the sink with a post-it note that read “done :)” stuck to it.

So Louis started with the dishes from breakfast, stacking bowls and mugs into the sink, sleeves pushed up to his elbows as he ran hot water until it steamed. It was mindless work, scrubbing cereal residue off spoons and rinsing out Harry’s half-empty cup of tea, the one he’d left on the counter the night before and completely forgotten about.

From there, Louis moved to the living room, folding the blankets Riley had cocooned himself in the night before, one of which still had a suspicious smear of jam on the corner. He sighed but didn’t bother trying to figure out how or why. Some mysteries were best left unsolved.

It was only when he opened Riley’s door to drop off the folded blanket that Louis let out a loud, theatrical groan — the kind usually reserved for flat tires or realizing you’ve run out of toilet paper at the worst possible time.

Riley’s room was a disaster. A full-scale, post-apocalyptic, what-the-actual-fuck disaster . Clothes were everywhere — draped over the desk chair, piled on the floor, one sock inexplicably hanging from the ceiling light like it had been launched there in some sort of bizarre ritual. Empty crisp packets and stray Pokémon cards littered the carpet, and Louis was fairly sure there was an old yogurt pot shoved under the bed, judging by the faint but ominous smell.

It looked, Louis thought, not unlike Zayn’s old flat back in the day, except with fewer ashtrays overflowing onto every available surface and no suspicious white powder streaked across the coffee table. A pigsty, but a relatively innocent one.

Still, Louis had to laugh to himself, rubbing a hand down his face. This was his life now — equal parts caretaker, part-time shop assistant, and full-time disaster manager. And weirdly enough, he wouldn’t trade it for anything.

Notes:

Thought you could use some domestic fluff for a change, I‘ll try to get another chapter out tomorrow but I can‘t promise anything

depending on where you are: Good morning, good afternoon or goodnight!
-Ace

Chapter 43: Chapter 43

Notes:

I‘m going to hold your hand when I tell you this… but there‘s not a lot of chapters left and i am so so sorry in advance

Louis started by grabbing the rogue hamper, the one that had mysteriously appeared in the old flat a few months back, like some domestic deity had taken pity on them and decided they needed help . No one remembered buying it, but it had lived in Riley’s room ever since it appeared, mostly serving as a makeshift goal for dirty socks Riley attempted to kick in from across the room.

Now, Louis hauled it into the center of the chaos and started gathering up clothes, half of which he couldn’t even be sure were dirty. A sniff test confirmed at least two of Riley’s jumpers had seen cleaner days, so into the hamper they went. Jeans were peeled off the desk chair, t-shirts plucked from under the bed, and somewhere in the mix Louis unearthed a pair of socks that looked like they’d been through a minor war.

Once the floor was mostly visible again, Louis propped the hamper against the wall, stuck a bright pink post-it note to the top, and scribbled:

“Washing machines exist. Use them.”

He stood back, hands on his hips, and sighed. He was turning into his mum, he realized, and not for the first time. All he needed was a cigarette dangling out the corner of his mouth and a tea towel permanently slung over one shoulder, and the transformation would be complete.

The Pokémon cards came next, scattered like confetti across the carpet. Louis gathered them up, stacking them into a slightly wonky pile, resisting the urge to alphabetize them the way his own childhood brain would have insisted. His hand hovered over Riley’s desk, planning to just shove the cards into the drawer and call it a day; but that’s when he spotted it.

A letter, half-buried under a mess of doodles, biscuit crumbs, and a maths worksheet Riley had very clearly abandoned halfway through.

Louis furrowed his brow as he picked it up, flipping the envelope over in his hands. His name was scrawled on the front, in the school’s familiar printed font, alongside the words Parent/Guardian. Not usually a big deal — schools sent home all sorts of pointless crap — but something about the way this one had been tucked so carefully out of sight made Louis pause.

He tore it open, unfolding the single sheet of paper, and the moment his eyes skimmed over the first few lines, his stomach gave a faint, uncomfortable twist.

Parent-Teacher Conference — Scheduled for: March 17th, 6:30 PM

Louis glanced at the date again. It was definitely today. Which meant Riley had been sitting on this for weeks and never said a word.

His first reaction was mild nausea; the kind that came with the immediate assumption that if a school wanted to sit you down for a chat , it probably wasn’t to hand out awards for good behavior. His second reaction was a mix of amusement and irritation, because of course Riley hadn’t mentioned it. Avoiding awkward conversations was practically a sport to that kid.

Louis rubbed a hand down his face, muttering a quiet, “For fuck’s sake,” to the empty room.

He could already picture it, sitting in a plastic chair too small for his arse, across from some overly peppy teacher who’d offer him tea out of politeness and then immediately launch into a laundry list of all the ways Riley was spirited in class. Louis had been that kid once. The one who couldn’t sit still, who made sarcastic comments under his breath, who thought rules were more like suggestions. The difference was, Louis’ teachers had never bothered with parent conferences because his mum already knew exactly who he was and figured the school could deal with it themselves.

But Louis wasn’t Jay. And Riley wasn’t him.

He folded the letter again, slipping it into his back pocket for later, then finished tidying the desk with a little less enthusiasm. As much as Louis liked to pretend he was winging it, there was always this quiet, gnawing fear in the back of his mind that he was screwing Riley up somehow — not strict enough, not patient enough, not enough . Moments like this made it flare up all over again.

Still, there was nothing to be done about it now. Except show up, sit in that too-small chair, and find out exactly what his honorary kid had been up to behind his back.

Louis was still in the middle of muttering to himself about ungrateful little shits and suspiciously sticky Pokémon cards when he felt Harry’s arms slip around his waist from behind, warm and lazy, like Harry had only just dragged himself out of bed and hadn’t quite woken up all the way yet.

“Morning,” Harry mumbled into Louis’ neck, voice all gravel and sleep, lips pressing a series of soft, barely-there kisses to the skin just beneath his ear. Louis felt himself melt a little on instinct, because no matter how many mornings they’d spent like this, Harry’s affection always hit him somewhere deep in the chest, like a hand wrapped around his ribcage and squeezed.

“Morning, Play-Doh,” Louis murmured back, leaning into him slightly, letting the weight of Harry’s body settle comfortably against his back. Harry’s hands roamed lazily, sliding down Louis’ sides, over his hips, then lower still, until his fingers skimmed over the curve of Louis’ arse. He gave it a gentle squeeze, smirking into Louis’ neck, but his hand paused when it bumped against the folded paper still tucked into Louis’ back pocket.

“What’s this?” Harry asked, voice still thick with sleep as he plucked the letter free before Louis could think to stop him. Louis sighed, already knowing there was no point in trying to hide it. Harry unfolded the paper with clumsy, morning-stiff fingers, brow furrowing as he scanned the page.

“Parent-teacher conference?” Harry read aloud, amusement tugging at the corner of his mouth. “ Tonight? ”

Louis groaned, tilting his head back against Harry’s shoulder. “Don’t even start,” he said. “Found it buried under a pile of crap on Riley’s desk. Apparently, we’ve been invited for a lovely little chat with his teacher about… fuck knows what. Probably how he’s a sarcastic little shit with too much to say and not enough patience for maths.”

Harry chuckled, the sound low and warm, vibrating against Louis’ back. “Wonder where he gets that from.”

Louis elbowed him lightly in the ribs, but his heart wasn’t in it. “You’re coming with me,” Louis said firmly. “If I have to sit there and hear about how my kid– I mean.. how this kid is driving his teachers up the wall, you’re not leaving me to face it alone.”

Harry hummed thoughtfully, his chin resting on Louis’ shoulder now, arms still wrapped loosely around his waist. “Only if we stop for chips on the way back.”

“Deal,” Louis said without hesitation, leaning his head against Harry’s. “And you’re not allowed to flirt your way out of it when the teacher starts telling us off.”

“Flirt?” Harry feigned offense. “I would never . I could be a respectable parental figure.”

Louis snorted, turning in Harry’s arms until they were face-to-face, noses brushing. “You’re a menace is what you are.”

Harry just grinned, and Louis couldn’t help but kiss him. Soft and slow, the kind of kiss that tasted like toothpaste and the quiet comfort of mornings spent in the aftermath of chaos. For all the shit life had thrown at them, it was finally calm.

And if they had to sit through a lecture about Riley’s refusal to follow dress code or his habit of correcting his history teacher mid-lesson, they’d survive it. Together.

Louis called in sick to work not long after Harry had retreated back to bed, claiming his tea was cold and his limbs were too heavy to function — a solid excuse in Louis’ book. His boss didn’t argue, barely grunted down the line, which made Louis wonder if she‘d have even noticed he was scheduled today. Either way, it left him free to spend the rest of the day hovering around the flat, half-cleaning, half-distracting himself from the fact that by the end of the night, he’d likely be sitting in a hard plastic chair while a teacher politely informed him his not-son was a pain in the arse.

When Riley got home from school, his rucksack dragging low and his hood already half up like he was preparing for the inevitable lecture, Louis was waiting in the kitchen, hands tucked into the pockets of his hoodie.

Riley froze in the doorway, eyes flicking toward the counter where the crumpled letter sat like evidence in the middle of a crime scene.

“Want a biscuit?” Louis asked, voice casual but eyes sharp.

Riley hesitated, then shrugged, dropping his bag with a thud. “Sure.”

Louis slid the packet across the table, watching as Riley grabbed two and stuffed half of one into his mouth immediately, chewing with the kind of exaggerated effort only a fifteen-year-old could muster. Louis leaned back against the counter, arms crossed, trying to look more relaxed than he felt.

“So,” Louis started, dragging out the word. “Found a letter from school today.”

Riley’s chewing slowed, his eyes narrowing slightly, like he was trying to gauge just how much trouble he was in.

“Parent-teacher conference,” Louis continued, tone still easy. “Apparently we were invited. Weeks ago.”

Riley swallowed hard, biscuit crumbs clinging to the corner of his mouth. “I forgot,” he muttered, not quite looking Louis in the eye.

Louis sighed, pushing off the counter to lean his elbows on the table instead. “Look, kid, I’m not mad, alright? I just…” He paused, scratching at the back of his neck. “I wanna ask you something, and I need you to be honest with me.”

Riley frowned, his hands curling around the edge of the table like he was bracing for impact. “Okay?”

Louis took a breath. “Do you want me to go? To the conference, I mean. I’m not your dad, you know? I’m just… the guy who dragged you out of that squat and dragged you to a hospital.” His voice softened at the end, and Louis hated how small it made him feel, admitting it like that. “I don’t wanna overstep if it’s weird for you.”

Riley’s face went a bit pink, his eyes darting down to the table. He shifted in his seat, shoulders hunching slightly. “I dunno,” he said quietly. “I just… I didn’t know how you’d feel about it. Like, if it’s too… I dunno. Parent-y.”

Louis’ heart gave a sharp little twist, but he smiled anyway, reaching across the table to nudge Riley’s hand with his knuckles. “Mate, I already yell at you to brush your teeth and clean your room. The parent-y ship sailed a long time ago.”

Riley huffed a quiet laugh, the tension easing slightly from his posture.

“But I mean it,” Louis added, more serious now. “If you want me to go, I’ll go. If you’d rather me stay out of it, I can do that too. It’s your call.”

Riley was quiet for a beat, picking at the edge of his sleeve, before finally mumbling, “I want you to come.”

Louis felt something warm and a little bit fragile settle in his chest, the kind of feeling that made him want to ruffle Riley’s hair and cry into his tea at the same time.

“Alright,” Louis said softly. “Then I’m coming.”

And just like that, Riley grabbed another biscuit, changed the subject to some kid at school who got detention for trying to vape in the art room, and life carried on — messy, complicated, but still somehow theirs.

By the time evening rolled around, Louis had spent the better part of the day mentally preparing for the conference — which mostly involved muttering to himself while folding laundry and stress-eating half a pack of biscuits. Harry had re-emerged from the bedroom somewhere around lunchtime, marginally more alive than he’d been that morning, and after a quick explanation about the letter and Louis’ sudden career pivot into concerned parenthood, Harry had agreed to come along without much fuss.

That’s how they ended up standing in the hallway, Louis shoving his feet into his scuffed trainers, while Harry leaned against the doorframe, still buttoning his coat with one hand and stealing bites of toast with the other.

“You alright staying on your own for a bit?” Louis asked over his shoulder, glancing toward Riley, who was sprawled across the sofa, remote balanced on his stomach, looking entirely too comfortable.

Riley gave a noncommittal grunt.

“There’s money for pizza,” Louis added. “Don’t set anything on fire. Don’t open the door for anyone unless they’re holding a pizza box.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Riley waved a hand dismissively, eyes glued to the telly. “I’m not a baby.”

“You’re also not trustworthy ,” Louis shot back, but his heart wasn’t in the insult. Riley was fifteen, old enough to handle a couple hours alone, even if Louis still found himself hovering sometimes, caught between wanting to let the kid have independence and wanting to bubble-wrap him after everything he‘d been through.

Harry tugged Louis toward the door with a gentle hand at the small of his back. “Come on, Mum,” he teased. “If you give him any more instructions, you’ll be leaving a laminated checklist.”

“Fuck off,” Louis muttered, but he let himself be dragged out into the hallway, the door clicking shut behind them.

The evening air was damp and cool, streetlights flickering to life as they walked toward the school, side by side. Louis had his hands shoved deep in his pockets, shoulders slightly hunched like he was bracing for impact, and Harry could feel the nerves rolling off him in waves.

“You alright?” Harry asked, bumping their arms together gently.

Louis huffed a breath through his nose. “Yeah. Just… weird, innit? Sitting there like I’m someone’s dad , getting told off by a teacher like I’ve got my life together enough to even be a proper parent.”

Harry didn’t say anything right away — just linked their fingers briefly, a quick squeeze before letting go again. “You might not be his dad,” Harry said softly, “but you’re sure as hell his person . And that’s probably more important.”

Louis swallowed against the unexpected sting in his throat, blinking hard at the pavement. “Stop saying sweet shit, it’s unsettling.”

Harry laughed, warm and soft. “No promises.”

They walked the rest of the way in easy silence, Louis’ nerves still buzzing beneath his skin, but steadied by Harry’s presence beside him. No matter what waited for them at that school, they’d face it together — the tired shop worker turned accidental guardian, and the recovering addict with a heart too soft for his own good.

The school smelled exactly how Louis remembered schools smelling — disinfectant, paper, and something vaguely fried hanging in the air, like the ghost of a thousand lunchtime chips. The corridors were too bright, the walls covered in crinkled posters about growth mindset and respect agreements , most of which Louis was fairly sure Riley had personally defaced at least once.

Harry walked beside him, hands stuffed in his coat pockets, eyes flicking around like he was half-expecting to get told off for loitering. It had been a long time since either of them had stepped foot in a school, and it showed.

“Do we sign in or…?” Harry murmured as they hovered awkwardly outside the classroom door, where a folding table was set up with a half-empty box of Tesco’s finest biscuits and a chipped mug full of chewed pens.

Louis shrugged. “I dunno. Do we just… walk in?”

Before either of them could decide, the door swung open, and a woman in her mid-forties appeared, wearing a slightly rumpled cardigan and the weary smile of someone who had seen it all and then some. Her eyes flicked between Louis and Harry, her expression doing that subtle recalculation teachers were so good at, trying to work out if they were siblings, babysitters, social workers, or something else.

“Hi,” Louis said, sticking out his hand because manners, even if his palms were a bit clammy. “I’m Louis Tomlinson. This is Harry.”

The teacher shook his hand politely, but her brow lifted just slightly. “You’re… Riley’s parents?”

There was a beat of silence where Louis tried to decide how much explaining this required. “Sort of,” he settled on. “Long story.”

The teacher — Mrs. Cartwright, according to her lanyard — didn’t push. This was the estate, after all. She’d probably seen kids raised by older siblings, step-uncles, nan’s new boyfriend, or that one neighbor who just ended up keeping them. Two lads in their early twenties playing house? Not even in the top ten weirdest scenarios.

“Alright,” she said, gesturing them inside. “Take a seat.”

Louis and Harry squeezed into the too-small chairs, knees up near their chests, and Louis had to bite his tongue to stop from laughing at how ridiculous they looked; two grown men crammed into secondary school furniture like they were about to finger paint. Harry caught his eye and snorted quietly, and Louis had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep it together.

Mrs. Cartwright settled into her own chair, flipping open a file and glancing over her notes. “So,” she started, “I wanted to have this meeting because Riley’s a bright kid. Very bright, actually. But his… enthusiasm doesn’t always translate into appropriate classroom behavior.”

Louis felt Harry’s hand brush his knee under the table — just a quick, reassuring touch. “What kind of behavior are we talking about?” Louis asked, bracing for the worst.

Mrs. Cartwright’s smile was almost fond, like she couldn’t quite be mad even if she tried. “He has a tendency to, shall we say, correct his teachers. Frequently. And loudly. Sometimes mid-lesson.”

Louis groaned, scrubbing a hand over his face. “Christ.”

“He’s not wrong, most of the time,” she added quickly. “But there’s a time and a place, and Riley hasn’t quite mastered the art of waiting his turn. ”

“That tracks,” Louis muttered. “He’s got… opinions.”

“Strong ones,” Mrs. Cartwright agreed. “And, occasionally, colorful language to go with them.”

Harry coughed to cover a laugh, and Louis shot him a warning look. “We’ll talk to him,” Louis promised. “Make sure he understands there’s a difference between knowing stuff and being a little know-it-all gobshite.”

Mrs. Cartwright didn’t dignify that with a response, but her mouth twitched like she wanted to smile. “There’s also,” she went on, flipping the page in her file, “some concern about attendance. There were a few unexplained absences earlier this term.”

Louis’ stomach dipped slightly — because of course there were. When Riley first moved in, school had been an afterthought. Between hospital appointments, counseling, and just trying to convince him it was safe to sleep in his own bed, getting him out the door every morning hadn’t always been possible.

“That’s on me,” Louis said quickly. “Things were a bit… messy for a while there. But it’s sorted now.”

Mrs. Cartwright gave him a long, considering look — but whatever she saw in Louis’ face must have been enough, because she just nodded and moved on. “Alright. Overall, Riley’s a good kid. Sharp, funny, curious. We just want to make sure that curiosity stays productive, not disruptive.”

Louis relaxed slightly. This wasn’t as bad as he’d expected. No major incidents, no suspensions, no calls to social services. Just a smart-mouthed kid who hadn’t quite learned when to shut up. Louis could work with that.

“We appreciate you letting us know,” Harry said, his voice soft but sure. “We want to make sure we’re supporting him the right way.”

Mrs. Cartwright gave him a small smile, genuine this time. “I can see that. And for what it’s worth, it’s nice to see someone show up.”

Louis’ throat went tight at that; because yeah. He knew what she meant, even if she didn’t say it out loud. A lot of kids on the estate didn’t get anyone showing up for them. No matter how messy Louis felt, no matter how half-arsed he sometimes worried his parenting was, at least Riley knew he had someone in his corner.

They were almost out the door, Louis’ shoulders finally loosening after sitting tense for the better part of an hour, when a voice rang out from down the corridor, too familiar for comfort, all sharp edges and faint disapproval baked right in.

“Well, I’ll be damned. Louis William Tomlinson.”

Louis froze, stomach flipping the way it always had when teachers said his full name like that — like a warning shot before detention was slapped down on the table. He turned, slow and reluctant, already bracing for the worst.

His old homeroom teacher stood near the bulletin board, arms crossed over his chest, the exact same smug, superior expression Louis remembered hating at fifteen. He hadn’t aged well — hair thinner, gut bigger — but the self-satisfied gleam in his eyes was still alive and kicking.

“Mr. Davies,” Louis said, forcing a tight smile. “Fancy seeing you.”

“I work here,” Davies said flatly. “The real question is, what the hell are you doing here? Thought you’d be off… I dunno, tagging motorway bridges or rolling spliffs behind the off-license.”

Louis’ jaw clenched, the familiar heat of teenage defiance flaring in his chest. He could feel Harry stiffen slightly beside him, sensing the shift immediately.

“We were here for a parent-teacher conference,” Harry said, his voice light but firm, stepping half in front of Louis like he could physically shield him from whatever was about to come out of Davies’ mouth.

The teacher’s eyebrows shot up, disbelief plain on his face. “Parent-teacher conference?” He let out a low whistle, shaking his head. “What’d you do, knock someone up when you were twelve?”

Louis’ spine went rigid, but before he could say anything — before the flash of white-hot anger behind his ribs could turn into something stupid — Harry spoke again. His voice wasn’t light this time. It was cold. Calm in that way that meant danger was only half a breath away.

“No,” Harry said, stepping forward just enough to make the height difference obvious. “We’re here for Riley. Louis took him in after his parents pissed off. Carried him to the hospital himself when no one else gave a shit. Pays for his food, his school uniform, stays up with him when he‘s sick or has nightmares. So unless you’ve got something actually useful to say, I suggest you piss off and keep walking.”

Louis blinked, stunned into silence because Harry didn’t do this. He was soft-spoken, gentle, the one who always urged Louis to let things go. But there was something about this — about him , about their life, about what Louis had built for Riley out of nothing but stubbornness and heart — that had brought out a rare and dangerous kind of protective streak.

Mr. Davies, to his credit, took half a step back, clearly not expecting anyone to bite back that hard. His mouth opened like he wanted to argue, but no words came out.

“Yeah,” Louis said, finally finding his voice, lacing his fingers through Harry’s. “What he said.”

They didn’t wait for a reply. Louis tugged Harry toward the door, chest still tight, but lighter somehow too, because all his life, he’d been the one standing up for himself, for his family, for his right to exist the way he was. But tonight, Harry had done it for him.

And Louis wasn’t sure if he wanted to punch a wall or kiss Harry senseless for it.

Maybe both.

They walked home without talking much, the cool night air settling between them like a buffer neither of them needed to break. Louis’ hand stayed wrapped around Harry’s the whole way, thumb tracing idle patterns across his knuckles.

When they got to the flat, Louis unlocked the door quietly, not wanting to disturb Riley if by some miracle he’d actually gone to bed at a decent hour. But when they stepped inside, Riley was still wide awake, sprawled across the sofa with an empty pizza box balanced on his stomach and a rerun of some awful dating show blaring on the telly.

“You’re supposed to be asleep,” Louis said, but there was no heat behind it.

Riley shrugged, eyes flicking over them both. “You’re supposed to be at work.”

Louis rolled his eyes, dropping his keys on the counter. “Called in sick. Got more important things to deal with.”

Riley’s brow furrowed slightly, like he couldn’t quite work out if that was meant to be a dig at him or not, but Louis didn’t give him the chance to spiral. He walked over, nudging Riley’s foot off the sofa so he could sit down, then dragged the pizza box off his stomach and set it on the coffee table. Without thinking too much about it, he reached out and ruffled Riley’s hair, fingers lingering for just a second longer than usual.

Riley looked at him like he’d grown a second head. “What was that for?”

Louis shrugged, leaning back into the cushions. “Just felt like it.”

Riley narrowed his eyes, suspicious, but didn’t move away.

Harry wandered into the kitchen, grabbing a can of Coke and popping it open with a soft hiss before leaning in the doorway, watching the two of them with that gentle, fond smile Louis had only ever seen Harry use for them .

“So,” Riley said, clearly desperate to fill the silence. “What’d my teacher say? Am I getting expelled? Do I need to change my name and flee the country?”

Louis snorted. “You wish. Apparently, you’re a genius and a pain in the arse in equal measure.”

“Sounds about right,” Riley said, sounding far too pleased with himself.

“There was some chat about attendance,” Louis added, his voice softening slightly. “From before. But we sorted it.”

Something flickered across Riley’s face, a flash of guilt, maybe, or the ghost of a memory neither of them liked to talk about too much. But Louis just nudged his knee against Riley’s and moved on.

“Bottom line is, you’re not in trouble. Not really. Just… maybe stop arguing with your teachers like you’re on Mastermind , yeah?”

“I’ll consider it,” Riley said, which was as close to a promise as Louis was going to get.

The three of them sat there for a while, the telly filling the silence with mindless chatter, and Louis felt it again, that strange, fragile warmth that came with realizing this was his . This messy, ridiculous, cobbled-together family.

Later, when Riley finally dragged himself off to bed, Louis stood in the kitchen with Harry, hands braced against the counter, head bowed. Harry stepped up behind him, arms slipping around his waist, chin resting on his shoulder.

“Thank you,” Louis said quietly, voice barely above a whisper.

“For what?” Harry asked, pressing a kiss just under Louis’ ear.

“For—” Louis paused, swallowing hard. “For earlier. For that.”

Harry tightened his hold, like he could squeeze the doubt right out of Louis’ bones. “Always,” he murmured. “You stood up for me when I couldn’t. It’s my turn.”

Louis turned in his arms, pressed his forehead against Harry’s, and let himself breathe.

They didn’t need to say anything else.

 

The knocking started as a distant thud, half-stitched into Louis’ dream like background noise he could ignore if he just held onto sleep tight enough. But it didn’t stop. Heavy, urgent, and far too deliberate to be a drunk neighbor leaning on the wrong door.

Louis groaned into his pillow, barely prying one eye open to squint at the clock. 5:32 AM. Brilliant. He was already rolling out of bed before his brain caught up, body moving on autopilot while his mind stayed two steps behind.

“Leave it,” Harry mumbled from under the duvet, voice thick with sleep, one arm flopping out to blindly search for Louis. But Louis was already up, dragging on the first hoodie he found — Harry’s, judging by the slightly-too-long sleeves — and shuffling down the hall barefoot.

He opened the door with the kind of weary resignation that came from too many years living on the estate, fully expecting to see Niall standing there with his shirt half-buttoned and an apologetic grin plastered across his face, babbling some excuse about losing his keys after a bender.

But it wasn’t Niall.

It was three men, two of which Louis didn’t recognize. Older, one of them built like he spent his weekends lifting cars for fun, the second with a clipboard tucked under one arm and standing slightly off to the side, looking deeply uncomfortable, was Mr. Davies.

Louis blinked, still half-asleep, trying to make sense of what the fuck he was looking at. His stomach prickled with something cold, the kind of instinctive unease that didn’t need context to kick in.

“Louis Tomlinson?” Clipboard Man asked, voice sharp and all business.

“Depends who’s asking,” Louis replied, fingers tightening slightly on the edge of the door.

“We’re from Social Services,” the man said, flipping open the clipboard like he was presenting evidence in court. “There’s been a concern raised regarding the welfare of Riley Matthews.”

Louis felt his heart drop through the floor, his skin suddenly too tight for his body. “What?”

Mr. Davies cleared his throat, not quite meeting Louis’ eyes. “Given Riley’s history, and your… background, there were some concerns about the suitability of his living situation.”

“ What background? ” Louis snapped, voice sharp and defensive before he could stop himself.

Mr. Davies shrugged, a little too casual. “We all remember what you were like in school, Louis. Showing up high, getting into fights, dragging half the class down with you. It’s understandable people would have questions about whether you’re the best person to be responsible for a vulnerable child.”

Louis could actually feel the blood drain from his face. His ears were ringing, heart hammering in his chest so loud it almost drowned out the rest of what was being said. This wasn’t happening. It couldn’t be.

“Are you—” Louis had to stop and swallow hard, voice trembling with fury and fear all tangled together. “Are you saying you reported me? After one fucking parent-teacher conference? Is that what this is?”

“It’s routine,” Clipboard Man said, like that was supposed to be reassuring. “We just need to ask a few questions, check the home environment, and make sure Riley’s needs are being properly met.”

Louis’ hands were shaking now, rage boiling just beneath his skin, but he forced himself to take a breath. Losing his temper wouldn’t help anything. It would just prove them right.

“Fine,” Louis said, stepping back and holding the door open wider, voice clipped and icy. “Come in. But if you think for one second you’re gonna drag Riley back into the system because of some shite I did when I was fifteen, you can fuck right off.”

He caught the way Davies’ mouth twitched — something between smugness and discomfort — and it made Louis’ skin crawl.

Behind him, Louis heard the soft shuffle of bare feet on carpet, and when he glanced over his shoulder, Harry was standing in the hallway, hair a mess, wearing nothing but boxers and one of Louis’ t-shirts, brow furrowed in confusion.

“What’s going on?” Harry asked, voice still rough with sleep but immediately sharper when he saw the strangers in the doorway.

“Social Services,” Louis muttered, voice tight. “Apparently I’m unfit to parent because I used to be a little shit.”

Harry’s face went pale, then sharp, and Louis could see his hands curling into fists at his sides. But all Harry said was, “Right. Tea, then.”

And Louis could’ve kissed him for that — for knowing exactly when Louis needed a fight and when he needed someone to quietly put the kettle on and have his back.

The men filed in, Davies lingering awkwardly in the doorway like he wasn’t sure if he wanted to witness what came next or not. Louis could feel Riley’s door creak open down the hall, just a crack, wide enough for curious eyes to peek through.

Louis squared his shoulders, pulse thrumming like a live wire beneath his skin. They could ask their questions. They could poke around all they wanted. But Louis knew — knew down to his bones — that no one, not Davies, not some clipboard, not the fucking government, was going to take Riley away from him.

Not now. Not ever.

The man with the clipboard barely looked at Louis before stepping inside, tracking muddy footprints onto the worn carpet. The other two followed, one of them — broad, bald, and built like a fridge — starting to poke around the flat without waiting for permission. Louis’ skin prickled instantly, every nerve ending screaming intrusion , but he swallowed it down and forced himself to stand his ground.

Harry hovered just behind him, still in his t-shirt and boxers, arms crossed over his chest, quiet but present. Louis wasn’t sure if Harry was there to stop him from losing his temper or to back him up if things went sideways. Maybe both.

Mr. Davies lingered like a bad smell, half-smirking, half-awkward, clearly enjoying the scene he’d set into motion but not quite brave enough to own it outright.

“Let’s have a seat,” Clipboard Man said, gesturing toward the kitchen table like this was a friendly chat and not an ambush before breakfast. Louis dropped into his usual chair, slouching deliberately, arms folded tight across his chest. Harry sat beside him, close enough their knees knocked together under the table.

“First things first,” Clipboard Man started, flipping open to a blank page. “What exactly is your relationship to Riley Matthews?”

Louis blinked, thrown by how clinical it sounded. “He lives here.”

“Yes, but why ?”

Louis dragged a hand through his hair, trying to figure out how to explain it in a way that didn’t make him sound like an absolute headcase. “I found him in a squat, alright? Months ago. Place was crawling with people off their faces, and then there’s this kid, freezing, barely eating, trying to act like he was fine. He wasn’t. I couldn’t just leave him there.”

“And you are?” Clipboard Man’s gaze flicked to Harry.

“Harry Styles,” Harry said, voice polite but a little sharp around the edges. “I live here too.”

“And your role in Riley’s care?”

Louis jumped in before Harry could answer. “He’s not legally anything. Neither of us are. There’s no paperwork. I’m not his foster parent, not his guardian, not his caseworker. I’m just the person who wasn’t willing to walk away from him.”

Clipboard Man made a note, lips pressed into a thin line. “So to be clear… you found a minor in unsafe living conditions and took him home, without informing social services?”

“That’s correct,” Louis said flatly.

“Why?”

Louis’ jaw tightened. “Because I was him,” he said, voice low. “I know what happens when the system gets hold of kids like that. They get passed around till they age out, and no one ever treats them like they belong anywhere.”

Mr. Davies gave a soft snort — like Louis had confirmed something he’d always believed about him. Louis’ fingers curled into a fist on the table, but Harry’s hand covered it a second later in an attempt to calm him down.

“And how did you end up at that squat to begin with?” Clipboard Man asked, eyes sharp now, like this was the real question they’d been circling.

Louis hesitated; not because he was ashamed, but because the truth was so bloody stupid it felt painful to even say. “I was looking for someone,” he said. “An old mate I used to… you know. Party with.”

“Party,” Mr. Davies echoed, voice oily with suggestion.

“Yeah, party,” Louis said, flashing a tight, humorless smile. “But it wasn’t like that. I’ve been clean for years. I was just trying to find someone who might’ve seen her. And that’s when I found Riley instead.”

Clipboard Man scribbled something down and Louis had no idea if it was a point for or against him. “So you took him in.”

“Yes.”

“Without contacting any authorities.”

“Yes.”

“And you’ve been responsible for his care since?”

“Yes.”

“Why didn’t you reach out for help? Foster services, child welfare—”

“Because Riley never asked me to,” Louis said simply. “He didn’t want to be a case file or a pity project. He wanted a bed, some food, and someone who gave enough of a shit to listen when he talked. I could give him that.”

Harry’s fingers tightened around Louis’ under the table, and Louis knew if Harry spoke now, he’d either cry or start a fight; neither of which would help.

“And his biological parents?” Clipboard Man pressed. “What do you know about them?”

Louis shook his head. “Nothing. Riley’s never talked about them. Not once.”

“And you never asked?”

“Of course I fucking asked,” Louis snapped, temper flaring hot for a second before he got hold of it again. “He just never answered. So I stopped pushing. Figured if he wanted me to know, he’d tell me.”

Clipboard Man’s pen paused briefly, like that actually caught his attention. “That’s surprisingly… respectful.”

“I’m not a social worker,” Louis said, voice lower now. “I’m not a therapist. I’m just a lad who saw a kid who needed someone and decided to be that person. I didn’t do it right, and I probably still don’t. But he’s safe. He’s fed. He’s at school every day. And he knows that when he wakes up at three in the morning because he threw up, someone’s gonna be there.”

“And you?” Clipboard Man turned to Harry. “How do you fit into all this?”

Harry’s smile was faint but firm. “I’m Louis‘ boyfriend, six months clean, I know i‘m far from perfect but I love that kid. He‘s safe here, with us.”

“Right,” Clipboard Man said, closing the folder. “We’ll complete the home inspection and follow up with a full assessment in the next few weeks.”

Louis felt the words land like a weight on his chest. Weeks. They’d be living under a microscope now, waiting for someone to decide whether the life they’d built was good enough.

As the men moved on to poke through the rest of the flat, Louis stayed at the table, head in his hands. Harry didn’t speak — just kept his hand on Louis’ back, warm and steady, a silent I’ve got you.

Mr. Davies lingered for a moment, a smug little smile twitching at the corner of his mouth. “Nice to see you’ve grown up, Tomlinson,” he said. “Even if you still can’t seem to follow the rules.”

Louis didn’t bother replying. He just stared at the table until the door finally closed behind them, and the flat went silent again.

Only then did Louis breathe out — shaky and uneven — and let his head drop onto Harry’s shoulder.

“They’re not taking him,” Louis said softly, like it was a vow. “I don’t care what I have to do. They’re not taking him.”

Harry kissed the top of his head, fingers threading through his hair. “They won’t.”

And Louis believed him. Because if there was one thing they were both good at, it was surviving systems designed to let people like them fall through the cracks.

Notes:

Shout-out to Danika by the way, I don‘t think that Dionysus will be making this fic but we‘ll see about the next one

Also my deepest apologies for getting CPS involved but like… you can‘t just pick up stray kids without any consequences

Chapter 44: Chapter 44

Notes:

Hey guys! so I lowkey got sidetracked while writing this other actor AU fic and for some reason got started on a murder mystery type story.. Honestly I don‘t even know how that happened but I thought it was kinda cool.

Anyhow I do want to write and publish both, my question is which would you guys prefer to have first? Note in advance, your choice is between very fluffy, enemies to lovers with the actor one and mystery thriller /comedy (? don‘t ask) for the other.

I‘m not sure myself but it‘s hard juggling two fics at the same time so lmk your thoughts :))

The bus ride out was too long and too quiet, rattling past fields and crumbling stone walls, the kind of nothingness Louis hadn’t seen in years. He used to hate silence like this — still did, if he was being honest — but today, it felt right. Like the world should have to shut up for a bit.

It was the first time he’d come out here since that night , since the five of them had stood in the mud, half-drunk, half-high, fully destroyed, carving her name into the bark of that tree with a blunt pocket knife and hands too shaky to do it right.

Harry had been there. Though everything had been messy and raw and stitched together with equal parts lust and codependency and whatever passed for love when you were barely twenty and just trying to survive. Niall had been there too, sunglasses on in the dark, trying not to cry but failing miserably. Zayn had been the one to suggest the spot; this tree in the middle of nowhere, land owned by nobody who cared, far enough out that no one would stumble across it unless they meant to.

They’d done it the way Eleanor had always said she wanted: fucked up and laughing between sobs, her ashes cradled in a plain wooden urn because none of them could afford anything fancier. Niall had poured out a can of cider for her — “One for you, babe” — and someone had lit the joint they’d found in the pocket of her leather jacket and passed it around like communion.

She would’ve loved it. Or at least, that’s what Louis had told himself at the time, drunk off his arse and clinging to Harry like a lifeline.

But now, standing at the base of that same tree, stone-cold sober and awake, Louis wasn’t so sure.

The carving was still there, jagged and uneven, the letters carved too deep in some places and barely scratched in others.

Eleanor Calder

Our girl, Our Mess, Our Family.

Louis traced it with his fingers, the wood cold under his touch, the bark rough and weathered like skin that had lived too hard. She’d been gone for years now — gone since she’d disappeared that last time, vanished into some shitty squat on the other side of the city, only to be found days later, cold and still, overdosed and cracked her skull open on a concrete floor when she went down. Alone. Twenty years old.

Louis still remembered the phone call to the morgue, telling the others and just crying for what felt like forever because surely they were too young to be burrying eachother.

Louis swallowed hard, hand still resting against the tree. “Hey, love,” he said, voice quiet, cracking around the edges. “Sorry it’s been a while.”

The wind stirred through the grass, cold and sharp, but Louis didn’t move. “I’m still here,” he said, a little louder now. “Still a fuck-up, but a responsible one, if you can believe it. Got a kid. Not mine, but close enough. Got Harry too. You remember him, yeah? He’s still here. Still putting up with me.”

He laughed, a short, broken sound. “You’d take the piss, I know. Settle down, Louis? You’d say. With a kid and a part-time job and bills to pay? Unbelievable.”

Louis’ fingers curled into a fist against the bark, knuckles pressing hard enough to sting. “You should be here,” he whispered. “You should’ve made it.”

Because Eleanor was supposed to be the one who got out with him. The one who made it past twenty. The one who found a shitty flat and a shittier job and eventually grew into something more — because that was the deal they’d made when they were kids, lying flat on their backs in the park, stars spinning above them, too high to move but not too high to dream.

“You left us,” Louis said, not angry, not really, just tired. “And I get it. I do. But fuck, El, I miss you.”

He stayed there a while, sitting in the damp grass, elbows on his knees, eyes fixed on the carving until the letters blurred. There was nothing profound to say, no neat conclusion to tie it all up. Just Louis, grieving the only way he knew how — quietly, stubbornly, with his whole heart.

When he finally stood, legs stiff and cold, he kissed his fingers and pressed them to the tree. “Love you, Els,” he whispered. “Always.”

Then he walked back down the hill, hands shoved in his pockets, shoulders hunched against the wind.

Harry was waiting when he got home, sitting on the sofa with a cup of tea already made for him, no questions asked. Louis took it, curled up beside him, and let Harry’s arm wrap around his shoulders, solid and warm and real.

They didn’t talk about where Louis had been. Harry knew. He always knew.

And Louis knew — even in the silence — that this, right here, was what survival looked like. Not forgetting. Not moving on. Just living. One messy, beautiful, broken day at a time.

Louis hadn’t meant to cry.

He’d held it together all the way home — the bus ride, the walk up the stairs, even when Harry had quietly handed him a cup of tea the second he walked through the door, without asking a single question. Louis had smiled, called him Play-Doh out of habit, and then sat down on the sofa like it was any other night.

But the silence got him. The weight of it, thick and familiar, the kind that always crept in when grief settled too heavy in his chest. By the time the tea was half gone, Louis was curled into himself, elbows on his knees, face in his hands, shaking with the kind of tears he hadn’t let himself cry in years.

Harry didn’t say anything, just shuffled closer and rubbed his hand up and down Louis’ back, slow and steady, the way you’d calm someone out of a bad dream. That was the thing about Harry — he never needed instructions. He just knew .

The soft sound of a door creaking open broke the quiet, and both of them glanced up to see Riley standing there, half-hidden in the hallway, wide-eyed and uncertain.

“Are you crying?” Riley asked, voice caught somewhere between surprise and concern.

Louis sniffed hard, swiping at his face with the sleeve of Harry’s hoodie — too long on him, hanging past his fingers. “Nah,” he said, voice rough. “Just… got something in my eye.”

Riley squinted, not buying it for a second. “Both eyes?”

Louis huffed a laugh, even as his throat tightened again. “Yeah. Very tragic.”

Riley lingered, like he wasn’t sure if he should come closer or leave them to it. Harry patted the cushion next to Louis, and Riley took the invitation, dropping down beside him in his wrinkled pajamas, knees drawn up like he was ready for some serious talk.

“What’s wrong?” Riley asked, quieter now.

Louis took a breath, hands laced together between his knees, thumb rubbing over his knuckle. “Her name was Eleanor,” he said, voice soft but not shaking anymore. “She was my best mate. Met her when we were kids, and… we were kind of inseparable after that.”

Riley’s brows lifted, like he couldn’t quite picture it, Louis with a best mate who wasn’t Harry or Zayn.

“She was loud,” Louis continued, smiling a little at the memory. “Always talking, always laughing. She used to dye her hair the worst colors — proper neon pink, then green, then orange. Looked like a traffic cone most of the time.”

Riley snorted, and Harry smiled, thumb tracing slow circles on Louis’ back.

“She had this plan,” Louis went on. “Said if anything ever happened to her, she didn’t want a boring funeral with hymns and everyone crying politely. She wanted us to get pissed and play the worst music we could find and tell stories about all the stupid shit we did together.”

“So… that’s what we did,” Harry added, smiling softly. “The five of us, out in the middle of nowhere under this big tree, completely off our faces, laughing and crying and making a proper mess of it.”

“We carved her name into the tree,” Louis said, voice softer now. “Did it ourselves with some shit pocket knife Niall had on him. It’s still there.”

Riley’s face shifted, losing some of its teasing, his mouth turning down at the corners. “How did she…?”

Louis hesitated, glancing at Harry briefly. They’d never made a secret of the fact their past was messy — but there was no point in dropping every grim detail on a kid who had already seen too much.

“She was using,” Louis said gently. “And it caught up with her. It happens sometimes.”

“She wasn’t alone,” Harry added quietly. “Even at the end. We found her. We gave her the send-off she wanted. We made sure she knew how much we loved her.”

Riley was quiet for a minute, processing, fingers picking at a loose thread on his pajama bottoms. “She sounds cool.”

“She was,” Louis said softly. “You’d have loved her. She’d have taken the piss out of you constantly, but she’d have adored you.”

Riley smiled a little, and Louis reached over, ruffling his hair just to see him swat him away. “You okay, kid?” Louis asked.

Riley shrugged. “Yeah. Just… I didn’t know you lost someone like that.”

“Lots of people do,” Louis said. “Doesn’t always mean they talk about it.”

Riley sat a minute longer, then stood up and stretched, yawning dramatically. “You should take me to see her tree someday.”

Louis’ chest went tight again, but in a good way this time. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “I’d like that.”

Riley wandered back to his room, and Louis let himself lean into Harry’s side, head resting on his shoulder, Harry’s arm wrapping around him. They sat like that for a long time, nothing left to say, the silence comfortable now.

“She’d love him, you know,” Harry murmured. “She’d call him a little shit and teach him how to roll a cigarette, but she’d love him.”

Louis smiled, tears prickling again, but softer this time. “I know.”

And for the first time in years, it felt like saying her name out loud made her feel closer, instead of further away.

 

It wasn’t exactly planned.

Louis had thought it would take months — maybe years — before he could bring himself to take Riley out there. Even after telling him the story, even after Riley had said You should take me , Louis still figured it would be one of those things they talked about and never actually did.

But a week later, they were standing at the same empty bus stop, hands shoved in their coat pockets, Riley swinging one foot idly against the curb while Louis tried not to look as nervous as he felt.

“You sure about this?” Louis asked, voice rough around the edges from too little sleep and too much thinking.

Riley shrugged. “Only if you are.”

Louis wasn’t. But he nodded anyway, and they got on the bus.

The ride out was quiet, the kind of quiet Louis knew meant Riley was thinking hard but didn’t want to say it out loud. Louis knew better than to press. They sat side by side, Louis’ knee bouncing restlessly, Riley’s headphones dangling around his neck with no music playing.

The bus dropped them off at the same nowhere stretch of road, fields stretching out on either side, nothing but sky and cold air. Louis felt Riley shiver beside him, so without saying anything, Louis pulled off his scarf and draped it around Riley’s neck. Riley made a face — I’m not a baby, Lou — but he didn’t take it off.

The tree stood on the little hill, just like it always had, branches bare and brittle against the winter sky. Louis’ stomach twisted at the sight of it, memories crowding in too fast — the mud, the cigarette smoke, Harry’s hand squeezing his until his fingers went numb, the sound of Niall crying behind his sunglasses.

Riley stayed close as they walked up the hill, scuffing his shoes against the dirt, half-walking sideways like he wasn’t sure how to approach a place like this. Louis couldn’t blame him. Grief was always awkward when it wasn’t yours — like showing up late to a party you weren’t actually invited to.

When they reached the tree, Louis stopped, hands shoved deep in his coat pockets. Riley stood beside him, eyes tracing the rough bark until he found the carving — Eleanor Calder, Our Girl, Our Mess, Our Family — the letters uneven and weathered, some of them starting to fade with time.

“That’s her?” Riley asked softly.

“Yeah,” Louis said, voice barely above a whisper. “That’s her.”

Riley crouched down, running his fingers over the letters, tracing the edges like he could feel the shape of her in the wood. “It’s kinda perfect,” Riley said after a moment. “Like… messy and a little shit, but it looks like you lot would like it.”

Louis let out a soft, breathy laugh, throat tight. “Yeah,” he said. “That’s Eleanor all over.”

They sat down together, backs against the tree, the cold seeping up through the ground. Louis pulled out the half-crushed packet of biscuits he’d stuffed in his pocket before they left, Eleanor’s favorite, even though they were the cheap kind she used to steal from the corner shop. He passed them to Riley, who took one without comment, and they ate in silence, crumbs sticking to their fingers.

“Do you miss her every day?” Riley asked after a while, voice quiet.

“Some days more than others,” Louis admitted. “Some days I forget for a bit. And then some stupid song comes on the radio, or I see someone with purple hair, and it all comes back like it just happened.”

Riley nodded like he understood, because maybe he did. Grief wasn’t new to either of them.

“You think she’d like me?” Riley asked, and Louis’ heart squeezed so hard he had to look away for a second.

“She’d love you,” Louis said firmly. “She’d bully you into oblivion, but yeah. She’d love you.”

Riley smiled a little, curling his knees up to his chest, arms wrapped around his legs. “I’m glad you told me,” he said quietly. “I’m glad we came.”

Louis leaned over, bumping their shoulders together. “Me too, kid.”

They stayed a bit longer, until their hands were too cold to feel and the sky started to turn that soft pink of a winter afternoon. Before they left, Riley pulled something out of his pocket — a small rock, painted bright blue with the word messy written across it in uneven letters.

“Found it at school,” Riley said, shrugging like it wasn’t a big deal. “Thought maybe she’d like it.”

Louis’ throat felt tight again, but all he said was, “She’d love it.”

Riley set the rock at the base of the tree, nestled between the roots, and gave it a little pat like a dog he was saying goodbye to. Then they walked back down the hill, side by side, Louis’ scarf still hanging loose around Riley’s neck.

On the bus home, Riley fell asleep with his head against Louis’ shoulder, and Louis stared out the window, watching the fields blur past, thinking about Eleanor, and Harry, and Riley, and all the people who made him who he was.

His mess. His family.

Still here. Still theirs.

By the time they got home, the sun was setting low over the estate, the sky that soft, impossible shade of pink that only happens in winter when the air’s too sharp to breathe properly. Riley had stayed quiet most of the ride back, but not in a bad way — more like he was still thinking, still holding onto something private in his head, and Louis didn’t want to disturb it.

Harry was on the sofa when they came in, blanket over his legs, flipping through channels with all the enthusiasm of someone who’d already given up on finding anything decent. He looked up when the door opened, smiling softly at the sight of them both. Louis’ hair windswept, Riley still wearing Louis’ scarf, both of them smelling faintly of cold air and old leaves.

“Good day out?” Harry asked, voice gentle.

Louis dropped his keys in the bowl, kicked off his shoes, and shrugged. “Yeah. Think so.”

Riley didn’t say anything, just wandered into the kitchen, pulled open the fridge, and stared inside like dinner might magically appear if he looked long enough.

Louis followed, leaning a hip against the counter. “We should actually cook something tonight,” he said, surprising even himself. “Not pasta. Not takeaway. Something proper.”

Riley glanced over his shoulder, suspicious. “Like what?”

“I dunno,” Louis admitted. “What do we have?”

Harry got up, joining them in the kitchen, peering into the fridge over Riley’s shoulder. “We’ve got chicken. Some vegetables that aren’t completely dead. Bit of cream. And about seventeen types of mustard, for some reason.”

Riley wrinkled his nose. “Not mustard.”

Louis snapped his fingers. “Chicken pot pie.”

Harry blinked. “Since when do you know how to make pot pie?”

“Since now, ” Louis said brightly. “We’ll figure it out.”

Riley looked between them, clearly skeptical, but he didn’t argue — which Louis took as a win.

They all piled into the tiny kitchen, elbows bumping, feet stepping on each other’s toes, but somehow it worked. Louis handled the chicken — cutting it into slightly uneven chunks, seasoning it with more instinct than skill, while Harry chopped vegetables with far more precision, quietly muttering to himself about Louis’ “caveman knife skills.” Riley was in charge of the pastry, mostly because Louis figured if he gave the kid a rolling pin and some dough, he’d stay entertained for at least twenty minutes.

It was messy, like everything they ever did together — flour on the counter and somehow in Riley’s hair, chicken sizzling a little too aggressively in the pan, Harry tasting the sauce directly off the wooden spoon and declaring it “a bit bland” until Louis whacked him with a tea towel. But there was music playing off Louis’ phone — some old playlist none of them could agree on — and laughter, and the kind of warmth that had nothing to do with the oven being on.

“Should we, like… make this a thing?” Riley asked, somewhere between brushing egg wash over the pastry and dramatically declaring himself the crust king. “Like every Friday or something. Cook something that’s not from a tin.”

Louis exchanged a look with Harry, something soft passing between them, and shrugged. “Yeah, alright. Why not.”

“Eleanor would be impressed,” Harry added quietly, and Louis’ throat tightened, but it was a good kind of ache this time.

“Eleanor would think we’re all absolute posh twats for even owning a rolling pin,” Louis said, smiling a little.

Riley grinned. “She sounds cool.”

“She was,” Louis said, softer this time.

They ate crowded around the coffee table, because the actual table was covered in laundry and old mail, and because they never really used it for meals anyway. The pie was slightly overcooked on top and a bit runny in the middle, but none of them cared.

They ate every bite.

And when they were done, Louis leaned back against the sofa, full and warm and tired in a way that felt good, Riley tucked between them like it was the most natural thing in the world.

They didn’t talk about the tree, or Eleanor, or any of it. They didn’t need to.

Some memories you carry quietly, wrapped up in dinners that are a bit too salty and flour still dusted on the floor, in the way grief and love and family fold into each other until you can’t tell where one ends and the next begins.

“Next week,” Riley declared, licking his fork clean, “we make lasagna.”

“Deal,” Louis said, and Harry just laughed, because somehow this was their life now. Messy and makeshift and unexpectedly whole.

And Eleanor, wherever she was, would’ve loved it.

The week slid by in that half-chaotic, half-comfortable way time always did in their flat; noisy mornings where Louis yelled about missing school shoes and Riley claimed breakfast was “a capitalist construct,” followed by evenings spent bundled under blankets, all three of them crammed on the sofa watching absolute shite telly.

Louis worked two shifts at the shop, spent one afternoon fixing the loose cupboard door in the kitchen after Riley accidentally kicked it off its hinge, and spent another evening sitting on the bathroom floor with Harry when a craving hit so hard Harry couldn’t breathe through it. They didn’t talk much — just sat shoulder to shoulder, Harry’s hands shaking slightly in his lap until Louis covered them with his own, steady and warm. They got through it. They always did.

Riley came home with detention once (something about correcting his history teacher mid-lesson — again) and somehow managed to melt a plastic fork in the microwave trying to “speed up” his ramen. Louis gave him the expected lecture while Harry stifled a laugh into his sleeve. That was the thing about their house — it wasn’t calm, it wasn’t organized, but it worked .

And then Friday afternoon rolled around, and the knock came at the door.

Louis knew it was coming — the follow-up visit social services had promised after their surprise inspection. Still, his stomach clenched hard when he opened the door to see the same man with the clipboard, flanked by a different colleague this time (younger, softer around the edges, looked like he still had hope in humanity — poor bastard).

Riley was at school, Harry was home, and the flat was… well, it was fine . Clean enough. A bit of laundry still on the radiators, mismatched mugs in the sink, but nothing anyone could call neglect.

“Afternoon,” Louis said, leaning in the doorway like he had all the time in the world. “Want a cuppa or are you just here to tick some boxes?”

Clipboard Man didn’t react, but the younger one — let’s call him Fresh-Faced — gave a tight smile and a polite “No thanks.”

They came in, same routine — a quick look around, some questions at the table, but Louis could already tell their hearts weren’t really in it.

“Riley’s attendance is consistent,” Clipboard Man said, flipping through papers. “His schoolwork is fine, behavior’s a bit… spirited, but nothing alarming.”

Louis snorted. “He’s a gobshite, you mean.”

“Spirited,” Clipboard Man repeated, ignoring him.

The younger one glanced around the flat, eyes landing briefly on the collage of photos pinned to the wall — some old, some new. Harry and Louis at Pride a couple years back, all rainbows and smeared eyeliner. Riley holding up a science project with a grin so wide you could see his crooked tooth. A picture of Eleanor, slightly faded, tucked into the corner near the light switch.

“There’s no formal guardianship in place,” Clipboard Man went on. “Legally, Riley is still considered without a permanent guardian.”

Louis braced himself. Here it came. The reason they’d finally use to pry him out of their hands.

“But,” the younger one said — and that but hung in the air like a held breath — “given the circumstances, and the fact that this is… well, this is the estate, and we’ve seen a hell of a lot worse…”

Clipboard Man sighed, like this was mildly inconvenient for him. “There’s no immediate cause for removal at this time.”

Louis blinked. “Wait. What?”

“We have concerns about the lack of formal guardianship,” Fresh-Faced clarified, “but Riley is fed, housed, attending school, and clearly has a strong attachment to both of you. Legally, it’s a gray area. But practically?” He glanced at the wall of photos again. “We’re not going to break up something that’s working.”

Louis stared at them for a beat, not trusting it. “That’s it? You’re not taking him?”

“No,” Clipboard Man said, already standing. “Not unless circumstances change.”

Louis’ knees went a bit weak, but he covered it with a cocky grin. “Knew you’d see sense eventually.”

They left without ceremony, and the second the door shut, Louis sagged back against it, sliding down to sit on the floor, breath coming out in a shaky laugh.

Harry appeared in the doorway of the kitchen, tea towel slung over his shoulder, brow raised. “We’re keeping him?”

“We’re keeping him,” Louis said, voice wobbling slightly.

Harry let out a soft, breathless laugh and crossed the room to sink down beside him, arms looping around Louis’ shoulders, pulling him close. Louis buried his face in Harry’s neck for a second, letting himself feel it — the relief, the terror, the impossible love that had built this ridiculous little family out of sheer stubbornness and heart.

“I told you,” Harry murmured, fingers sliding through Louis’ hair. “They’ve got nothing on us.”

“We’re not even related to him,” Louis muttered.

“Doesn’t matter,” Harry said softly. “We’re his.”

Louis swallowed hard and nodded, because yeah. They were.

That night, they made the lasagna Riley had demanded, and for once, they actually followed a recipe — chopping onions properly, simmering the sauce like they were contestants on Bake Off . Riley insisted on layering it himself, and Louis only interfered once, to stop him putting crisps between the pasta sheets (“ It’s texture, Lou! ”).

They ate at the coffee table again, plates balanced on their knees, and Louis raised his fork like a toast.

“To family,” he said.

Riley made a face. “That’s cheesy.”

“We are eating cheese,” Harry pointed out, grinning.

Riley groaned. “You two are idiots.”

“Hey watch it,” Louis said, smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “ We‘re your idiots. ”

The days stretched out after that, folding into each other like pages turning without anyone really noticing. The fear, the sharp, gnawing kind that had curled inside Louis’ chest for months started to ease, not gone entirely, but quieter, manageable, the edges dulled by time and routine and the sheer stubborn fact that they were still here .

Social services didn’t come back. No letters. No surprise visits. Just silence — the blessed, boring kind Louis used to think he’d never have.

Life went on, because it always did.

Riley argued about homework and tracked mud through the flat and left half-empty cups of tea in places no one would ever think to look. Harry planted herbs on the windowsill and kept forgetting to water them. Louis worked his shifts at the shop, came home smelling like stale crisps and cheap detergent, and still managed to make dinner most nights.

They cooked on Fridays, like they promised, some meals better than others, some absolute disasters, but no one really cared. They went to the corner shop together to pick ingredients, argued in the aisles about garlic powder versus fresh cloves, and somehow always came home with at least one thing they hadn’t meant to buy.

They went to Riley’s next parent meeting, and no one mentioned guardianship. Just grades and behaviour and some half-hearted praise about how “Riley really knows his own mind,” which was teacher speak for the kid never shuts up. Louis beamed with pride anyway.

Grief stayed — a quiet hum under it all — but it didn’t press so hard anymore. Eleanor’s tree was still there, still theirs, but it wasn’t a place Louis was afraid to go back to. Not now. Not with Riley beside him. Not with Harry’s hand always waiting to hold his.

The fear faded. The panic, the constant bracing for something to go wrong — it got quieter, until Louis could breathe without waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Chapter 45: Chapter 45

Notes:

I‘M BACK!!! did you miss me? I missed you guys :))

I had a bit of a rough patch so it‘s been a while, uni has been bending me over all available surfaces and.. well I‘ll spare you the details but things are not looking good for me, also I have two cats I have to take care of that my friend placed with me, and while I love them very much it is a bit exhausting. I also got a bit distracted with reading Crimson Rivers which is… I‘m not even in the marauders fandom but god that fic is good, had me sobbing all night, a true masterpiece… but oh well, without further yapping, here‘s a new chapter!!!

Spring had finally given way to summer, and there were only a few weeks left until Riley would be on his summer break. One evening, Louis and Harry sat in the kitchen, talking about what they might do during those weeks.

Louis had suggested taking some time off work so they could drive down to Brighton—visit the beach and those obnoxiously overpriced rides on the pier that always looked far too unsafe for their liking.

“We could go to Ireland with Niall?” Harry offered, flicking ash from his cigarette into the ashtray on the coffee table, something they technically didn’t do anymore, but since Riley was at school, they figured they’d have enough time to air the place out.

“What the hell would we do in Mullingar?” Louis groaned, leaning back into the worn sofa cushions.

“I don’t know, Niall always says it’s fun.”

“That’s because Niall’s off his face half the time,” Louis shrugged. “Or, well—was, anyway.”

Harry nodded, thinking for a moment. “I guess the beach would be a good start, then.”

Louis nodded in agreement before pushing himself off the sofa and trudging into the kitchen to start on the dishes. “I was thinking I’d visit Zayn later,” he said off-handedly. “Catch up a bit. Would you mind helping Riley with his homework?”

“Not at all—unless it’s science. I’m shit at that,” Harry called back from the living room.

“I think it’s music, so you’ll be fine,” Louis shouted over his shoulder. “I’ll head out once I’m done here.”

 

Louis didn’t even knock anymore — just twisted the handle and shoved the door open with his hip, the way he always had, stepping straight into the stale warmth of Zayn’s flat.

It still smelled like a combination of weed, instant noodles, and whatever air freshener Zayn had tried once and then forgotten about, now just collecting dust on the windowsill. The place hadn’t changed much — still the same cracked linoleum in the kitchen, still the same half-sunk sofa Zayn had dragged off a curb somewhere, still the same pile of unopened post on the table, most of it final warnings Louis knew Zayn wasn’t losing sleep over.

“Jesus,” Louis muttered, toeing aside an empty pizza box to clear a path to the sofa. “This place is a fucking museum exhibit.”

“‘Scuse you,” Zayn called from the kitchen, voice muffled around what sounded suspiciously like a mouthful of crisps. “It’s a vibe , mate.”

Louis snorted, flopping onto the sofa which groaned ominously beneath him and kicked his feet up on the coffee table, narrowly avoiding an ashtray that looked like it had seen several lifetimes’ worth of cigarettes.

Zayn appeared a second later, barefoot, hair tied back in a bun, wearing a hoodie that might’ve once been black but was now a sort of washed-out grey-brown situation. He carried a can of cider in one hand, crisps in the other, and threw himself into the armchair across from Louis with the kind of boneless grace only Zayn could manage.

“Missed your ugly face,” Louis said, grinning.

“Same, dickhead,” Zayn grinned back, tossing a crisp at him. Louis caught it, popped it in his mouth, and they were off, falling back into the kind of rhythm they’d had since they were kids, built out of insults that meant I love you and silences that didn’t need filling.

They talked shit for a while — about people they used to know, who was still knocking about, who’d gotten married, who’d ended up in prison. Zayn rolled a joint on the coffee table, but didn’t light it — just the process, the ritual, seemed to settle him. Louis nursed a cup of tea Zayn had made from a pack so ancient Louis was convinced it had been in the flat since before Riley was born.

“Remember that lad — what was his name?” Louis squinted at the ceiling like the memory might appear there. “The one who tried to nick that copper’s bike after the Halloween party.”

“ Nathan, ” Zayn supplied, laughing. “God, what a legend. Did three weeks in juvie for it, came out acting like he’d done hard time.”

“Full prison tats and everything,” Louis grinned. “Absolute bellend.”

They spiraled into memory after memory, old stories worn soft from retelling, laughing until Louis’ sides hurt, until the weight of life — of bills and social workers and all the shit they’d had to grow up too fast for — didn’t sit quite so heavy on his chest.

At some point, Zayn leaned back, stretching his arms over his head, exposing a sliver of tattooed skin above his waistband. “So how’s your kid?”

Louis snorted. “He’s not my kid.”

“He’s your kid,” Zayn said, voice softer than before. “Don’t argue.”

Louis scrubbed a hand through his hair, but he was smiling. “He’s alright. Got detention for being a smartarse again.”

“That’s my boy,” Zayn said proudly.

They went quiet for a bit after that, comfortable in it, the kind of silence you only get with someone who’s seen you at your worst and still picks up the phone when you call.

“You alright, though?” Zayn asked eventually, more serious now. “With all that shit — social and that?”

Louis shrugged, but it wasn’t careless. “Yeah. They’ve backed off. For now.”

“And Harry?”

Louis’ smile softened. “He’s good. Still here.”

Zayn nodded like that meant more than either of them were saying. “That’s all you need, then.”

Louis didn’t say anything, but he raised his tea in a silent toast, and Zayn clinked his cider can against it, just like they’d done a thousand times before — to surviving, to staying, to whatever came next.

The afternoon stretched on like that — quiet, easy, the kind of comfort you only got from a best mate who knew all your ghosts and wasn‘t scared of any of them.

The flat was still a mess, still smelled a bit like feet, but it was home — in the way Zayn had always been a bit of home for Louis, no matter how much time passed.

“Love you, you prick,” Louis said as he left, flipping Zayn off from the doorway.

“Love you more, dickhead,” Zayn called back, and Louis knew, without turning around, that Zayn was smiling too.

They’d been sitting in Zayn’s flat for about an hour, talking shit the way they always did — half-nostalgic, half-taking the piss — when Zayn casually dropped, “Oh, by the way, Niall got arrested.”

Louis nearly choked on his tea. “ What? ”

Zayn grinned, leaning back in his chair like he’d been waiting to tell this one. “Couple weeks ago. Crashed some party on Wilkes Street — you know the ones, some lad’s older sister’s mate’s cousin’s birthday or whatever. Whole street was there.”

Louis’ eyebrows shot up. “And no one told me?”

“Dunno, mate,” Zayn shrugged, lighting a cigarette. “Maybe they thought you’d gone respectable.”

“Cheeky fuckers,” Louis muttered. “What happened?”

Zayn grinned wider, dragging deep on the cig before launching in. “So Niall turns up already half-cut, right? Apparently, he’d been pre-drinking with some lads from the pub, and he was, like, proper buzzing. Thought he could climb the garden fence to sneak in, even though literally no one cared if he was there.”

Louis groaned, already picturing it. “Of course he did.”

“Yeah, except he stacked it,” Zayn said, cackling. “Came down hard, scraped his elbow open — proper mess, blood everywhere — and instead of, like, going home like a normal person, he just waltzes into the kitchen, grabs a handful of paper towels, and keeps partying.”

Louis shook his head, grinning despite himself. “Sounds about right.”

“And get this,” Zayn continued, eyes gleaming. “He unplugs the actual speakers — like, expensive DJ set-up — and just shoves his phone in a cereal bowl to ‘amplify’ the sound.”

“No,” Louis said, already laughing.

“Yes,” Zayn nodded. “And starts playing — I swear to God — Mr. Brightside. ”

Louis collapsed back into the sofa, wheezing. “I can’t believe I missed this.”

“Wait, it gets better,” Zayn said. “Because some lad — birthday boy or whatever — tries to tell him to fuck off, and Niall, bleeding down his arm, phone in a cereal bowl, tells him his ‘hair looks like it was cut with a potato peeler’ and knocks a full tray of sausage rolls onto the floor.”

Louis wiped tears from his eyes, grinning wide. “Of course he did.”

“So obviously, it all kicks off after that,” Zayn said, grinning around his cigarette. “Whole street’s outside, screaming at each other, and Niall’s climbed on top of a wheelie bin to give some revolutionary speech about class warfare.”

Louis nearly fell off the sofa. “ Why does this shit always happen to him? ”

“Because he’s Niall,” Zayn said, laughing. “But anyway, police turn up — obviously — and Niall, in all his wisdom, tries to hide behind the very bin he was just standing on. ”

“No.”

“Oh yeah,” Zayn said. “Crouched down like a gremlin, holding his Buckfast like it was his baby.”

Louis was crying now, laughter sharp and breathless. “Tell me someone filmed this.”

“Probably,” Zayn said. “But I haven’t seen it yet.”

“And that’s when they nicked him?”

“Dragged him off to the station, still mouthing off about Tory haircuts and ‘working class heroes’ or some shite.” Zayn took a drag, shaking his head fondly. “And then — this is the best part — Oli gets the call. Middle of the night, half-asleep. Turns up at the station in his dressing gown, drags Niall out by the ear , apologizes to the coppers like Niall’s a naughty toddler, and drives him home.”

Louis could barely breathe, his stomach aching from laughing. “I swear to God, it’s always him.”

“Always,” Zayn agreed. “Legend.”

They sat there, grinning at each other, the warmth of shared history settling between them. Even with all the ways their lives had changed — Louis with Riley, Zayn still half-lost in his own world — some things stayed the same. Niall causing chaos. Oli reluctantly bailing him out. And the two of them, sitting here, telling the story like it was some epic folklore passed down through generations.

“Next time,” Louis said, wiping his face. “Next time, you call me. ”

“Will do, mate,” Zayn said, grinning. “Wouldn’t want you missing history.”

Louis left Zayn’s flat with a full heart and aching sides, still grinning to himself as he jogged down the stairwell, two steps at a time. It was always like that with Zayn — like stepping into a time machine for a few hours, back to being little shits on the estate, laughing at their own stupidity, spinning memories into gold. But it was also the reason Louis could only stay so long. Too much time there and the edges between then and now started to blur, and Louis couldn’t afford to slip backward. Not when he had people waiting for him.

The flat was warm when he stepped inside, the heating cranked up too high the way Harry always did when Louis wasn’t home to complain about the bill. The smell of popcorn drifted from the kitchen, faint but familiar, and from the living room came the quiet sound of Harry giggling — which meant nothing good was happening.

Louis toed off his shoes, padded down the hall, and stopped in the doorway, arms crossed, eyebrow raised.

Harry and Riley were both sitting cross-legged on the living room floor, surrounded by a chaotic explosion of puzzle pieces, some from the box they actually owned and others clearly swiped from God knows where — Louis suspected the charity shop down the road where Riley sometimes spent his pocket money.

“What the fuck ,” Louis said, but he was smiling. “What is this?”

Harry looked up, eyes shining with mischief. “Did you know—” he started, and Riley, already laughing, finished for him: “—that all puzzle factories reuse the same stencils? Like, across different puzzles. ”

Louis narrowed his eyes. “Okay…?”

“So,” Harry said, arms spread like a magician unveiling his grand trick, “we’re making Franken-puzzle. ”

“It’s art, ” Riley added solemnly.

Louis stepped closer to inspect their masterpiece — a puzzle cobbled together from at least three different sets. The top half appeared to be a scenic countryside, but the lower section was a half-naked Greek statue, and somewhere in the middle, a poorly fitting corner piece featured a cartoon dog wearing sunglasses, its head somehow growing directly out of a cloud.

It was obscene. And deeply stupid.

Louis loved it immediately.

“You lot need hobbies,” Louis said, flopping onto the sofa with a grin. “Or more friends.”

“We have you,” Riley said, shrugging.

“And Zayn,” Harry added. “Unless you two finally killed each other today.”

“Zayn says hi,” Louis muttered, reaching for the popcorn bowl abandoned on the coffee table. “And he told me this story —” Louis paused to chew, waving a hand dramatically — “about Niall getting nicked at a party last week. Did either of you know?”

Harry gasped, delighted. “ No. Tell me everything.”

So Louis did, already forgetting about the homework, relayed the whole ridiculous saga with Zayn’s flair and his own embellishments, until all three of them were laughing so hard Riley nearly knocked over their Franken-puzzle, and Harry had to wipe tears off his face.

It was easy — stupid and soft and domestic in a way Louis never used to think he’d get. Just the three of them, building inappropriate puzzles and eating popcorn for dinner, their weird little family stitched together from broken pieces that somehow fit perfectly when they were all in the same room.

Later, after Riley was tucked in bed and Harry was curled into Louis’ side on the sofa, Louis let himself breathe it in — the warmth of it, the absurdity, the fragile miracle of having this after everything.

“Love you, Play-Doh,” Louis murmured, pressing a kiss to Harry’s messy curls.

“Love you too,” Harry said, half-asleep already. “Even though you’re gonna slip on a puzzle piece in the dark and scream like a banshee.”

“Worth it,” Louis said, and meant it.

Because somehow, after all the chaos and grief and stupid teenage mistakes, this was their life now — puzzles and popcorn and quiet love filling all the spaces where pain used to live.

 

Louis got home from work with a half-empty meal deal in his pocket and a headache behind his eyes, the kind you get from standing under fluorescent lights for six hours while the same four songs play on a loop. He was already rehearsing the speech about how no one needs seventeen different brands of energy drinks when he let himself into the flat — only to find the entire place buzzing with energy like it had grown a personality while he was gone.

Harry was everywhere.

Louis barely got the door shut before Harry skidded past the hallway, barefoot in his socks, half-singing under his breath, hair tied up in a lopsided bun that was already falling out. He had a spray bottle in one hand, a cloth in the other, and Louis could hear the whoosh of the hoover running somewhere in the background, like a white noise machine for the deeply unhinged.

“What the—” Louis started, but Harry was already back, grabbing Louis’ coat off his shoulders and hanging it up for him before Louis could even kick off his shoes.

“Hi!” Harry beamed, wide-eyed, bright, like someone had replaced his blood with espresso shots. “How was work? Did you know this flat has baseboards ? I didn’t until I started wiping them down and realized they were an entirely different colour under all the dust.”

Louis blinked at him. “What’s happening right now.”

“Spring cleaning,” Harry announced, even though it was definitely not spring. “I had a burst of energy. Thought I’d channel it into something useful.”

Louis narrowed his eyes. “Did you take something?”

“ No, ” Harry laughed, rolling his eyes. “Not like that, Lou. I just… I dunno, I woke up feeling good. And you know me — if I sit still when I feel good, my brain starts thinking about all the times I didn’t.”

Louis’ stomach softened instantly, and Harry must’ve seen it on his face because he kissed Louis’ cheek in passing and darted back into the living room before Louis could get too sappy about it.

The flat was — shockingly — spotless.

The laundry was folded. The sink was empty. The coffee table was wiped down and the Franken-puzzle sat neatly in the middle, fully assembled like a trophy, every piece snug in place. Louis half-expected it to glow under a spotlight.

“You even cleaned the puzzle? ” Louis asked, following Harry into the room. “I thought the whole point was leaving it around to trip me up.”

“Consider it an act of love,” Harry grinned, tucking a stray curl behind his ear. “Besides, Riley asked me if I could glue it together so we can hang it up.”

Louis groaned, but it was all affection. “Our legacy. Brilliant.”

“It’s art,” Harry said, mock serious.

Louis plopped onto the sofa, watching Harry flit around the room like a caffeinated tornado, rearranging coasters and fluffing cushions that had never been fluffy to begin with. It was so Harry , this sudden burst of energy that had to go somewhere before it ate him alive. Louis used to find it overwhelming — now, he found it kind of beautiful.

“You alright though?” Louis asked, softer now, his voice cutting through Harry’s whirlwind. “Feeling good for real?”

Harry paused, hands on his hips, surveying his work like a king surveying his kingdom. “Yeah,” he said after a moment. “I think I am.”

Louis smiled, letting his head fall back against the cushions, the kind of tired that felt earned. “Then come sit down, you lunatic. The flat’s not gonna crumble if you stop wiping things for five minutes.”

Harry grinned, dramatic-sighed, and flopped down beside him, head landing in Louis’ lap. “You’re gonna miss this energy when it’s gone.”

“Oh, I absolutely will not, ” Louis laughed, threading his fingers into Harry’s hair. “But I’ll miss you if you wear yourself out.”

Harry hummed happily, eyes half-shutting under Louis’ touch. “You worry too much.”

“Someone has to,” Louis muttered, but he was smiling too.

And just like that, the flat settled back into itself — cleaner than it had been in months, quieter now, filled with that easy warmth that only existed between people who knew all the darkest parts of each other and chose to stay anyway.

Riley wandered out a few minutes later, squinting like the sudden tidiness was physically painful. “Did we get robbed by someone with OCD?”

“No,” Louis said. “Harry happened.”

Riley nodded slowly. “Makes sense.”

They ended up back on the floor, the three of them, eating toast for dinner because no one had the energy to cook. The puzzle sat proudly beside them, a monument to chaos and creativity, and Louis found himself thinking — not for the first time — that this was the life he never knew he wanted. Messy and clean, quiet and loud, ordinary and extraordinary, all at once.

It was halfway through the third slice of toast — buttered within an inch of its life and folded like a sandwich — that Riley said, offhandedly, “My birthday’s next week.”

Louis froze mid-bite. Harry’s head popped up from where it was resting on Louis’ thigh, curls flattened on one side, eyes suddenly sparkling with dangerous energy.

“What?” Harry gasped, already halfway to standing. “ Next week? And you’re just telling us now? ”

Riley shrugged, unbothered. “It’s just a birthday.”

Harry clutched his chest like Riley had physically stabbed him. “ Just a birthday? Are you joking? It’s your sixteenth , mate! That’s a big one!”

Riley snorted. “It’s not, actually.”

“Big enough,” Harry huffed, already pacing, eyes wide with the possibilities unfolding in his head. “We need balloons. Banners. Oh my God, a cake. A real cake, not one of those dodgy shop ones that taste like disappointment.”

“Don’t knock a Colin the Caterpillar,” Louis muttered, but no one was listening.

“Do you want a theme?” Harry asked, fully vibrating now. “We could do, like, I dunno—football? Star Wars? What are kids into these days? Do you want a DJ?”

Riley blinked slowly, clearly overwhelmed. “I just… thought we could eat cake at home?”

“Boring,” Harry said, immediately dismissing the idea.

Louis, watching Harry’s excitement spiral into madness, leaned back with a small smile tugging at his mouth. “Could do it at my mum’s,” he offered, voice softer than usual. “She’d love it. Bit of space, garden if the weather’s alright. You could invite a couple mates if you want.”

Riley glanced at Louis, something flickering across his face — something soft and a bit unsure, like the idea of anyone making plans for him still felt foreign. “You sure?”

“Course I’m sure,” Louis said, shrugging like it was nothing, even though that warmth in his chest was threatening to spread right up into his throat. “Birthdays were always a big deal at ours. Mum’d do banners and embarrassing baby photos and a cake so big it could feed the whole street. I reckon she’d love to do it again.”

Riley chewed his bottom lip for a second, but Louis could see the way his shoulders relaxed, like this was settling into something safe . “Okay,” Riley said. “That sounds… good.”

“Good?” Harry scoffed, already writing a mental shopping list. “It’s gonna be iconic . Best sixteenth birthday the estate’s ever seen.”

“Just don’t set anything on fire,” Louis warned. “Or invite Niall.”

“No promises,” Harry grinned.

Louis leaned back against the edge of the sofa, warmth blooming under his ribs, the kind of quiet joy that caught him off guard sometimes. It wasn’t the party itself — it was the fact that Riley wanted one. That he wanted to celebrate at all. After everything. After all the birthdays spent invisible, forgotten in squats or foster homes or places that never felt like his.

“Sixteen, huh?” Louis said quietly, watching Riley through the corner of his eye. “You’re getting old, kid.”

Riley flipped him off without looking. “Still younger than you, grandpa.”

Louis just laughed, and Harry started googling cake recipes that were entirely too ambitious for a kitchen with one working oven rack, and life — as always — carried on.

The next morning, after Riley had stomped out the door for school with his headphones tangled and his tie half on, Louis and Harry pulled on their coats and set off on their own little mission: birthday shopping.

They could’ve ordered everything online, probably — but that wasn’t the point. The point was wandering through aisles, arguing about whether Riley would find something cool or cringe, and laughing at the absolute state of the shops they hadn’t set foot in for years. Besides, Louis had spent his entire childhood shopping for birthdays this way — cheap shops, charity finds, the occasional stolen thing if times were tight — and there was something almost sacred about doing it the old-fashioned way even though they technically had the money to buy proper stuff.

They started at the usual places — game shops for secondhand discs, the discount place for wrapping paper (where Harry insisted on buying the most obnoxious roll he could find, covered in glitter dinosaurs). They grabbed a new hoodie because Riley’s current favourite was growing holes under both arms, and Louis pretended not to notice when Harry added a multipack of socks, just because.

And then, inevitably, they ended up at the Toys R Us .

Louis had worked there for about three months when he was eighteen, back when he needed cash for gigs and bus fares and couldn’t hold down anything that required showing up sober every shift. He hadn’t even meant to go back today — they just walked past it on the way to the bakery, and Harry gave him that look .

“Oh no,” Louis groaned, already seeing where this was going. “We are not going in.”

Harry grinned, tugging on Louis’ sleeve. “Come on. For old time’s sake.”

The place hadn’t changed much. Still smelled faintly of plastic and popcorn. Still too bright, still played weird instrumental versions of pop songs that made Louis feel like he was losing his grip on reality. His old manager, Janette, was nowhere to be seen — probably retired, or moved on to terrorize the staff at some garden centre — but Louis could tell some things hadn’t changed at all.

The cashiers still looked half asleep, one of them very obviously high, giggling into her sleeve as she tried to scan a barcode upside down.

“Glad to see the tradition lives on,” Louis said, nodding toward the tills.

“You were one of them, weren’t you?” Harry asked, mock scandalized.

“Absolutely,” Louis said proudly. “Turned up baked every shift, stacked shelves like a champion, and once told Janette she couldn’t fire me ‘cause I already quit. Then asked for my employee discount before I left.”

Harry was laughing so hard he nearly knocked over a display of Squishmallows. “I love you so much,” he said, voice high and breathless.

Louis just grinned. “Yeah, yeah. Now let’s find something for the kid.”

They wandered through the aisles, past the expensive Lego sets that made Louis wince at the price tags, through the rows of action figures Riley was just a bit too old for now, and ended up at the Pokémon cards, because some things never went out of style.

“Booster packs,” Harry said, grabbing a handful. “Riley loves ripping these open, even though he has no idea how to actually play the game.”

“He just likes shiny things,” Louis shrugged, fond. “Can’t blame him.”

They grabbed a few more puzzles too — because after the last Franken-puzzle masterpiece, it seemed only fair to give him fresh material to work with. Harry picked out a 3D one shaped like a castle, and Louis found some weird secondhand charity-shop find of a haunted house that looked like it might curse them all if they actually finished it.

The last stop was the pre-owned games bin. Riley had inherited Niall’s ancient PS2 for Christmas — a gift that was equal parts generous and hilarious, because the console barely worked and smelled faintly of weed — but Riley loved it. There was something about old games that fascinated him, the janky graphics and weird loading screens somehow charming instead of annoying.

“ This, ” Harry said dramatically, pulling out a copy of Tony Hawk’s Underground 2 . “Essential childhood experience.”

Louis nodded solemnly. “A cultural reset.”

They paid (Harry still holding onto the glitter dinosaur paper like it was sacred), and walked back out into the cold, shopping bags rustling between them.

“We’re good at this,” Harry said, bumping Louis’ shoulder.

“What, shopping?” Louis snorted.

“No.” Harry’s smile softened. “Being parents.”

Louis’ throat went a bit tight, but he covered it with a grin. “Yeah. We are.”

They stopped at the bakery on the way home, because birthdays meant cake, and neither of them trusted themselves to bake anything that wouldn’t set the kitchen on fire. Harry spent ten minutes agonizing over the difference between a chocolate cake and a really chocolatey cake , and Louis had to physically drag him out before they ended up buying both.

By the time they got home, their hands were full and their noses were cold, and the flat was quiet in that rare, peaceful way it only ever was when Riley wasn’t there. They set the bags down, made a cuppa each, and sat on the floor together, leaning back against the sofa, just soaking in the rare silence.

“You ever think,” Louis said quietly, fingers tracing the edge of the puzzle box, “about how we got here?”

“All the time,” Harry said, leaning his head on Louis’ shoulder. “It’s weird, isn’t it? But it’s good.”

Louis hummed, nudging his nose against Harry’s curls. “Yeah. It is.”

They stayed there until Riley got home, loud and hungry and immediately suspicious when he saw the bags sitting in the corner.

“What’s all that?”

“Nothing,” Louis said.

“Definitely not your birthday presents,” Harry added, very unconvincing.

Riley rolled his eyes, but there was a smile tugging at his mouth as he kicked his shoes off. “You lot are shit at being sneaky.”

“Lucky for you, we’re excellent at being fun, ” Louis shot back.

Riley groaned. “I’m scared.”

“You should be,” Harry grinned.

And just like that, life carried on — messy, ridiculous, full of love in all the weirdest places.

Notes:

Look at all this domestic happiness, I could throw up, I love them so much

Chapter 46: Chapter 46

Notes:

I am so sorry… well guys here‘s another chapter because I feel bad for abandoning ya‘ll for so long, I‘ve had a field trip with the marauders fandom, which is odd because I don‘t even like Harry Potter that much? Anyway, Jegulus has me in a chokehold and I‘ve been sobbing over tiktok edits and that‘s just…. maybe I‘ll do a Jegulus fic one day? could be fun, doing something different? We‘ll see where the wind blows me, for now I would like to deeply apologize for this chapter! Have fun!

Louis was up first, which was rare enough that he had wanted to make a note of it. A short while later Harry shuffled into the kitchen, still half-asleep, to find Louis leaning against the counter with his phone tucked between his ear and shoulder, mug of tea in one hand, cigarette dangling from the other.

“Yeah, just today,” Louis was saying, voice soft but certain. “He‘s not feeling well, maybe he caught the flu. Yea.. yeah he‘ll probably be better tomorrow.”

There was a pause, followed by Louis’ half-sheepish laugh. “Yeah, I‘ll pass it on. So—right. Thanks, cheers.”

He hung up and caught Harry watching him from the doorway, hair sticking up in five different directions, the sleeve of Louis’ hoodie covering his whole hand. “You‘re letting him stay home?” Harry asked, voice still scratchy with sleep.

“Course,” Louis said, shrugging like it wasn’t a big deal. “S’what my mum used to do. Always said birthdays weren’t meant for school. Figured I’d pass it on.”

Harry’s smile was so soft Louis had to look away for a second. “You’re a good dad.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Louis muttered, but his ears went a bit pink as he stubbed out his cigarette and grabbed two more mugs from the shelf. “Come on. Let’s wake the little shit up.”

Riley’s door was shut, but not locked, Louis had put a stop to that months ago, saying locks were for bathrooms and diaries, not bedrooms in flats where everyone had seen each other’s laundry hung up to dry.

It was just past nine, the sun pouring in through the too-thin curtains, and Louis pressed a finger to his lips before quietly easing the door open. Harry stifled a giggle behind him, both of them balancing mugs, a plate of toast with a wonky candle stuck in the middle, and Harry’s phone already queued up with the karaoke version of Happy Birthday .

They crept in like a pair of burglars, whisper-laughing as Louis kicked aside Riley’s pile of discarded hoodies and stepped over his school bag. Riley was dead asleep, one arm flung dramatically over his face, duvet half-kicked off, mouth open in that way only teenagers could sleep without choking.

“Three, two, one—”

“ HAAAAAPPY BIRTHDAY TO YOUUUU, ” they both belted out, loud and proud and painfully off-key, making Louis wonder briefly how Harry had managed to become a famous singer. The phone played a tinny backing track that somehow made it even worse.

Riley shot upright so fast his hair stood on end, eyes wild with confusion. “What the fuck?! ”

“Language,” Louis said, grinning wide as he set the toast down on Riley’s desk. “We made you breakfast.”

“Happy birthday, kid!” Harry added, shoving the mug of tea into Riley’s hand like a prize.

Riley blinked down at the toast, then at the tea, then at the pair of them standing in his room like lunatics. “You two are a nightmare.”

“ Birthday enthusiasts, ” Harry corrected. “Totally different thing.”

“And you’re not going to school today,” Louis announced, dropping onto the edge of the bed and ruffling Riley’s hair into even more of a disaster. “Consider it a Tomlinson family tradition.”

Riley’s mouth opened, then closed, then opened again, like his brain couldn’t quite compute the information. “Wait. You can do that?”

“When you’re the boss, yeah,” Louis grinned. “Happy Birthday.”

Riley tried to school his face into something unimpressed, but Louis caught the tiny smile sneaking through. “Cool,” Riley said, voice still groggy. “Thanks, I guess.”

“ You guess, ” Harry repeated, hand to his heart. “We sang for you. That was a performance.”

Riley took a sip of tea and made a face. “Too much sugar.”

“Three sugars,” Harry said, offended. “That’s the amount.”

“For you, maybe,” Riley grumbled, but he kept drinking it.

Louis leaned back against the headboard, eyes softening as he looked at Riley; hair messy, face still a bit soft with sleep, turning sixteen already. It was stupid, probably, how warm it made him feel, how proud. He hadn’t raised him — not really — but they’d gotten here together, hadn’t they?

“Alright,” Louis said, clapping his hands. “Get dressed, birthday boy. We’ve got a full day ahead.”

“Cake at your mum’s?” Riley asked, because apparently they’d talked about it enough that it had actually sunk in.

“Damn right,” Louis said. “And presents. And you can pick whatever takeaway you want for dinner.”

“Even the expensive curry place?” Riley asked.

Louis groaned. “Don’t push your luck.”

Riley grinned, shoving them both out of his room so he could change, and Louis felt that warmth settle somewhere deep in his chest, where all the fear used to live. Sixteen. Who would’ve thought they’d make it this far?

The house was already loud before Louis even knocked, the front door cracked open just enough for music to spill out onto the driveway — some old ‘80s pop playlist Jay probably hadn’t updated since Louis was a kid. Harry was practically bouncing beside him, barely able to contain his excitement, arms full of gift bags that rustled every time he moved. Louis, hands full of a cake box and a stack of presents he was pretty sure Riley didn’t need, elbowed the door open wider and called into the house, “ Delivery! We bring the most spoiled brat in London! ”

Jay was in the doorway seconds later, wiping her hands on a tea towel, her smile warm and wide. “Happy birthday, sweetheart!” she said, pulling Riley into a hug that he pretended to hate but absolutely melted into.

The house was a zoo — Fizzy and Lottie were arguing over who had wrapped their present better, Daisy and Phoebe were huddled by the kitchen table, giggling over something on Phoebe’s phone, and from the living room came the unmistakable sound of Niall’s voice yelling, “WHERE’S THE BIRTHDAY BOY? I’M GONNA GIVE HIM A BIRTHDAY WEDGIE!”

“Do not ,” Louis shouted back, kicking off his shoes in the hall before carrying the cake through to the kitchen.

“Too late!” Niall cackled, already charging down the hall, arms open like some mad wrestler, Riley squealing as he tried to escape.

“If I find so much as a scratch on him I’m putting you through that table,” Louis warned, but Niall only cackled harder.

“Alright, alright!” Amelia’s calm voice cut in, somehow managing to thread through the chaos like a soothing balm. She appeared at Niall’s side, her hand wrapping around his wrist like a parent catching a child mid-tantrum. “Presents first, violence later.”

“Ugh, you’re no fun,” Niall muttered, but he let her pull him back into the living room, where Zayn was already slouched on the sofa like some brooding extra from a bad gangster film, sunglasses inside , cigarette dangling from his fingers.

“Look who it is,” Louis grinned, setting the cake down and clapping Zayn’s shoulder as he passed. “Mister Cool himself.”

“Fuck off,” Zayn muttered, but his lips twitched at the corner. He was wearing his best I’m too cool for this shit face, but Louis knew him too well.

“Where’s Oli?” Louis asked, and just as he said it, Oli appeared from the garden door, holding a giant helium balloon shaped like a dinosaur and a gift bag so shiny it could be seen from space.

“ There’s my lad! ” Oli beamed, pulling Riley into a side hug that nearly knocked the poor kid off his feet. “Happy birthday, mate.”

Riley was glowing. Absolutely glowing . This was the kind of happiness that came from realizing, maybe for the first time, that this whole ridiculous, chaotic mess of people had shown up for him . That this was his family now, whether he’d asked for it or not. “You’re a spoiled little shit,” Louis said, slinging an arm around Riley’s shoulders. “You know that, right?”

“Yeah,” Riley grinned. “It’s great.”

Presents were a free-for-all, wrapping paper flying everywhere, Louis’ sisters taking turns chucking it at each other while Niall narrated every unwrapping like a football commentator. Harry hovered behind Riley the whole time, bouncing on the balls of his feet, practically vibrating with excitement every time Riley opened something they had picked out — the Pokémon booster packs, the weird haunted puzzle, the hoodie, and finally, the game for the old PS2.

“No way!” Riley grinned, holding up the Tony Hawk’s Underground 2 case like it was some priceless artifact. “This is sick.”

“Cultural education,” Harry said solemnly. “You’re welcome.”

The presents from the others ranged from sensible (a proper winter coat from Jay) to absurd (a remote-control helicopter from Niall that was immediately crashed into a tree). Zayn’s present was a sleek pair of headphones — suspiciously expensive for someone who claimed to be broke — but Louis didn’t call him out on it. That was how Zayn showed love; quiet and practical, pretending not to care even when he did, and nobody ever questioned where he got the money from.

Amelia’s gift was a set of sketchbooks and fancy pens, which Riley tried to pretend wasn’t cool , but his fingers lingered on the cover a little longer than necessary, and Louis caught the way his smile softened.

“I should’ve just gotten you socks,” Louis teased. “Show me up, why don’t you.”

“Don’t be cunt,” Amelia said, leaning over to kiss Louis’ cheek. “You’re doing fine.”

The rest of the day passed in a blur; cake and more cake, Niall starting a dance battle with Daisy that ended in him pulling something in his hip, Zayn somehow getting roped into peeling potatoes despite his best efforts to lurk in the corner, and Harry tearing through the house with a party hat on, trying to start a conga line with anyone who stood still too long.

Louis hovered somewhere in the middle of it all, playing unofficial referee and snack provider, calling out reminders not to break anything and quietly pocketing Riley’s torn wrapping paper to chuck later. He wasn’t dad , not technically, not officially, but the role fit him now, soft and easy, like an old jumper he hadn’t realized he missed until he wore it again.

At one point, Louis caught Jay watching it all from the doorway, a fond, teary smile tugging at her mouth. “He’s happy,” she said softly when Louis walked over, nudging her shoulder with his own.

“Yeah,” Louis said, swallowing hard. “He is.”

“You’re doing good, love.”

Louis shrugged, but his throat was tight. “We all are.”

She kissed his cheek, and Louis let himself sink into it for just a second, because it was her, because it was safe, because this was what family felt like, messy and loud and stupid and full .

As the sun started to set and the kitchen table was littered with empty plates and crumpled napkins, Riley sat back in his chair, cake crumbs on his jumper, surrounded by the people who had chosen to love him — not because they had to, but because they wanted to.

“Best birthday ever,” Riley declared.

They were supposed to leave around five. That was the plan. Louis had even said it, loudly and firmly, sometime after cake — “We’ll head home soon, let you lot clean up.” But now it was nearing seven, the sun sinking low over the garden, and none of them had moved an inch.

Jay didn’t mind — she never did. There was something about having all her kids (plus Harry, who she’d long since claimed as her own just like all of Louis‘ mates) packed into her house again, the walls vibrating with laughter and shouting and the kind of noise only a house full of Tomlinsons could make. The house felt fuller with them there, like it had been waiting for this exact chaos to come home.

Riley was curled up at the kitchen table, one foot hooked around the rung of his chair, watching Zayn try — and fail — to roll a cigarette without losing half the tobacco down his shirt. Harry was half-sat on the table itself, legs swinging like a hyperactive child, talking at roughly twice the speed of sound while trying to teach Phoebe how to shuffle cards in some ridiculous fancy way.

Niall had taken up residence at the back door, perched on the step with a can in his hand and a grin so wide it barely fit his face, watching the chaos unfold like it was the best night of his life. Louis stood behind him, leaning against the doorframe, beer in hand, still not quite believing they’d all ended up back here — older, maybe, but not so different after all.

“You’re proper glowing, lad,” Niall said, elbowing Louis’ side. “What’s that about?”

Louis snorted. “Piss off.”

“Nah, seriously.” Niall tipped his can toward the kitchen window, where Harry was currently trying to convince Jay to teach him how to do some old Northern Soul dance move Louis hadn’t seen since he was a kid. “Look at you. Got the house, the boyfriend, the kid. You’re bloody domestic.”

“Shut up,” Louis muttered, but there was no heat in it. “I’m still me.”

“Yeah,” Niall grinned. “But you’re you and you’re happy. It’s weird.”

Louis couldn’t argue with that.

“Oi,” Louis called suddenly, pointing his can at Riley. “Come ‘ere a second.”

Riley looked up suspiciously, like this might be some kind of trap, but Louis just grabbed another can from the table, held it out, and said, “Happy birthday.”

Riley’s eyes went wide. “Really?”

“Don’t take the piss,” Louis warned. “Just one. And only ‘cause you’re sixteen now, and we’re all still estate rats at heart.”

“Legend,” Niall declared, raising his own can like a toast.

Harry, of course, gasped dramatically. “Corrupting the youth!”

“Please,” Louis rolled his eyes. “You got caught nicking vodka at fourteen. ”

“Thirteen,” Harry corrected proudly. “It was a very educational year.”

Riley took the can, popped it open, and took a tentative sip, trying to look casual about it. Louis could see the exact second it hit him — the bitter, fizzy bite of cheap lager — and Riley’s whole face scrunched up in betrayal.

“Oh, that’s disgusting. ”

Louis wheezed with laughter, clapping him on the back. “Welcome to adulthood, mate.”

“Don’t worry,” Niall grinned. “You’ll acquire the taste.”

“Do not listen to him,” Amelia cut in from across the room, entirely calm but somehow wielding enough authority to make Niall shrink half an inch. “You’ll acquire water, and maybe the occasional cider if you’re lucky.”

Louis threw an arm around Riley’s shoulders, steering him back to the table where Harry was already digging into the leftover cake like he hadn’t eaten three slices earlier. “Don’t tell your teachers,” Louis said. “Or social.”

“As if they care,” Riley muttered, but there was no real bite to it.

“Still,” Louis said. “This stays between us.”

“Our little secret,” Niall grinned, clinking his can against Riley’s.

Zayn, still slouched in his corner like he was too cool for any of it, lifted his can too. “To Riley,” he said quietly. “Best little shit we know.”

Riley beamed, trying to hide it behind another grimace as he took another sip.

They stayed longer than they meant to, past sunset, until the house was warm with the smell of leftover dinner and someone lit a cigarette out back even though Jay had banned smoking inside years ago. Harry had way too much energy, bouncing between people like a golden retriever in a room full of tennis balls, and Louis kept having to physically redirect him so he didn’t accidentally knock over something breakable.

At one point, Louis caught Riley sitting quietly in the corner, beer mostly untouched, watching everyone with this soft, almost disbelieving look on his face. Like he couldn’t quite understand how all this — the noise, the love, the attention — was for him .

Louis sat beside him, bumping their shoulders together. “Alright, kid?”

Riley nodded, a little overwhelmed but happy. “Yeah. Just… I dunno.”

“What?”

“Didn’t think I’d ever have this,” Riley admitted, voice quiet. “People. A birthday that mattered.”

Louis swallowed hard. “Well, you do now.”

Riley glanced up at him, half-smiling. “Yeah. Thanks for that.”

Louis squeezed the back of his neck, pulling him in briefly. “Anytime, kid.”

They didn’t leave until well after nine, everyone piling into the front garden to say goodbye like they wouldn’t see each other next week. Niall tried to steal leftover cake. Zayn pretended not to care that Louis hugged him extra hard. Amelia promised to text when she got home. Jay stood on the step, waving until they turned the corner, and Louis could feel the weight of her pride even after the house disappeared from view.

Riley fell asleep in the back seat before they were halfway home, Harry singing along to one of his old songs on the radio like it was someone else‘s, like that time had never happened at all, and Louis, driving through the quiet streets of their childhood, felt something settle deep in his chest.

They’d done it. Somehow, against every odd stacked against them, they’d built something good. Messy, loud, ridiculous — but good.

“Love you,” Louis said, so soft it almost got lost under the music.

Harry reached over, fingers curling over Louis’ on the gear stick. “Love you too.”

The weeks that followed Riley’s birthday settled into a rhythm — if you could call that a rhythm. Life in their flat was never calm, never predictable, but there was a kind of pattern to it now, the same way a thunderstorm has a pattern if you pay attention long enough.

Harry was still on one , buzzing with a level of energy Louis hadn’t seen since their first summer together, back when they were teenagers sneaking into the movies‘ without tickets, running on pills and cider and the thrill of being seventeen with nowhere to be and nothing to lose. Except now, it wasn’t fuelled by substances or the fear of wasting youth — it was something else, something brighter and scarier, a kind of restless happiness Harry didn’t know how to hold in his hands without it spilling everywhere.

He woke up before Louis most days — a miracle in itself — already halfway through a to-do list Louis hadn’t even known existed. Cleaning things that didn’t need cleaning, reorganizing shelves just to “see if it feels better,” baking at random hours and dragging Louis into taste tests before Louis had even had his first cup of tea.

One Tuesday morning, Louis stumbled into the kitchen, hair a mess, brain barely awake, to find Harry perched on a stool with a binder . A whole bloody binder, colour-coded and everything.

“What,” Louis asked, voice hoarse, “the actual fuck is that?”

Harry beamed, flipping it open like it was a treasured family heirloom. “Meal planning,” he said proudly. “We need to eat more vegetables.”

Louis stared at him for a long moment, then turned right around and walked back into the bedroom, muttering, “Too early for this.” Harry followed, of course, climbing back into bed with the binder and dramatically presenting it like he was on Dragon’s Den . Louis buried his face in the pillow and pretended none of it was happening — but at dinner that night, there were roasted carrots on the plate, and Louis ate every single one without comment.

The cooking on Fridays became cooking every day , with Harry attacking recipes like a man possessed. Louis would come home from work and the flat would smell like garlic and herbs, and Harry would be there in an apron he definitely stole from Jay’s house, hair tied back, face flushed from standing over the stove, talking a mile a minute about how “ this sauce could use more acidity .”

The first time Harry made fresh pasta from scratch, Louis nearly staged an intervention. “You hate kneading dough,” Louis pointed out, standing in the doorway with his arms crossed while Harry flung flour around the kitchen like a Victorian mill worker.

“People change, Lou!” Harry shouted over the sound of the mixer. “I’m evolving! ”

Louis didn’t know what to do with any of it, so he did what he always did — pretended it was normal . He teased Harry, kissed him breathless when flour ended up in his hair, called him a “domestic goddess” every chance he got, but he didn’t ask . Didn’t ask why Harry’s hands were always moving, why his mind never seemed to rest, why even when they were curled up on the sofa watching telly, Harry’s foot tapped out a rhythm against Louis’ calf like his body couldn’t handle stillness.

Because asking meant acknowledging, and acknowledging meant what if it’s something bad , and Louis wasn’t ready for that. So he played along, acted like this was just Harry being Harry , like maybe this was what recovery looked like — a pendulum swing from too still to too much, finding middle ground somewhere down the line.

But eventually Riley started noticing. “Is Harry okay?” He asked one night, watching Harry scrub the bathroom sink with an intensity usually reserved for people hiding bodies.

“He’s fine,” Louis said automatically, ruffling Riley’s hair. “Just… got energy to burn.”

Riley gave him a look — that sharp, too-knowing look he sometimes got, like he could see straight through Louis’ bullshit — but he didn’t press. They’d all learned not to press.

Louis had his own ways of coping. He let Harry bounce around the flat like a caffeinated pinball, and when it got too much — when the relentless noise of it made Louis’ chest feel too tight — he escaped. Took Riley out for walks, or texted Zayn to see if he was free, or just stood on the balcony with a cigarette, watching the estate breathe under the streetlights.

“Doesn’t it bother you?” Zayn asked one afternoon, the two of them sat on Zayn’s stoop, sharing a cigarette because Louis had forgotten his own.

“What?” Louis asked, even though he knew exactly what.

“How much he’s on , all the time now.”

Louis shrugged, smoke curling out of his mouth. “He’s happy.”

“Is he?”

Louis scowled. “Why are you always so fucking cynical?”

Zayn just raised an eyebrow, and Louis had to look away. Because deep down, Zayn wasn’t wrong. Louis could feel it — the edge of something, the too muchness of Harry’s happiness, like a balloon stretched so thin it was only one good breath away from bursting. But Louis had spent his whole life walking on cracking ice, and he’d learned how to skate light. If you didn’t acknowledge the cracks, sometimes they didn’t swallow you whole.

So the weeks kept rolling — Harry energetic and bright and unstoppable, Louis steady and smiling and fine , Riley caught somewhere in between, watching them both like they were a science experiment he hadn’t figured out yet.

There were good days. Stupid, lovely days. Days where Harry dragged them both to the park for impromptu picnics with corner shop sandwiches and cheap lemonade. Days where they built pillow forts in the living room and ate dinner inside them, like kids who never got the chance when they were small. Days where Louis caught Harry looking at him like he was everything , and it made Louis’ ribs ache, because it felt like too much and not enough all at once.

There were harder days too. Days where Louis could see the energy tipping into something sharper, almost manic, hands twitching, words spilling too fast, Harry rearranging the bookshelves at 3 a.m. because they were “off-balance.” Louis didn’t ask, didn’t say maybe you should slow down, because slowing down meant stopping, and stopping meant feeling, and Louis knew exactly what Harry was still running from.

So Louis played the role. Steady, calm, dependable. Pretended it was all normal. Pretended that this was just life, happy and good and slightly chaotic, and that the edge of something sharper wasn’t pressing into his skin every time Harry smiled just a bit too wide.

Denial, Louis had learned, was a form of love too.

Because if you didn’t ask, no one had to lie.

And if no one lied, you could pretend nothing was wrong at all.

The nose scrunch started small. Barely anything at first — just Harry wrinkling his nose when Louis made a bad joke, or when the telly flickered, or when Riley left his socks on the table (which, to be fair, deserved a reaction). Louis didn’t think anything of it. It was just one of those things people do — a little quirk, like the way Louis always chewed his thumbnail when he was thinking too hard, or the way Riley kicked the back of his own heels when he was nervous.

But then it kept happening.

At first, it was funny — Harry scrunching his nose at everything. Dinner too salty? Nose scrunch. Pigeon landed on the balcony? Nose scrunch. Louis took too long in the shower? Nose scrunch. It became a running joke, Louis exaggerating his own nose scrunch back at Harry until they were both laughing, tumbling over each other on the sofa.

But after a week, Louis started to notice how automatic it was. Almost constant. Like Harry wasn’t just reacting to things anymore — like the scrunch was a tic , something his body did without him thinking about it. He’d scrunch his nose even when nothing was happening, like an itch under his skin that wouldn’t go away.

Louis didn’t say anything.

Because Harry was fine .

Harry was baking bread at two in the afternoon. Harry was deep-cleaning the fridge because “it smelled slightly weird.” Harry was rearranging the books by colour because “it’s more aesthetically pleasing, Lou.” Harry was fine.

And Louis was good at this — ignoring what didn’t fit . He’d learned it from his mum, from the estate, from years of pushing things under the rug until the rug could barely lie flat anymore. It was a skill, really. Professional grade denial.

Besides, Harry was happy , wasn’t he? Smiling constantly, cooking them ridiculous meals that took three hours and left the kitchen looking like a war zone, dragging Louis and Riley to the park for “fresh air walks” when neither of them wanted to move.

Harry was fine.

Even when the nose scrunch came every couple of minutes. Even when Harry’s foot started tapping under the table like he was running a marathon no one else could see. Even when Louis walked into the bathroom one night and found Harry flossing his teeth so aggressively his gums bled, mumbling about how they’d felt weird all day .

Harry was fine.

Louis told himself that so often it became a chant — in his head while he walked to work, under his breath when he climbed into bed at night and Harry was still awake, staring at the ceiling like it had answers.

The flat itself bore the brunt of Harry’s energy. The place had never been this clean, not even when they moved in. Every drawer had been reorganized, every shelf rearranged, every stray sock hunted down and banished to the wash. At one point, Louis opened a cupboard to find every single spice jar labelled in Harry’s messy handwriting — even the salt .

“Who the fuck labels salt?” Louis had laughed.

“People who care about order, Louis,” Harry had grinned, but his knee was bouncing so fast the floor vibrated under Louis’ feet.

Still, Louis didn’t say anything. Because if he said something — if he asked — then Harry might answer. And Louis wasn’t sure he could handle the answer.

So instead, Louis leaned into the joke of it. He called Harry his “housewife on speed,” praised every overly complicated meal, made up songs about Harry’s nose scrunch like they were a pop band with one very specific dance move. Riley joined in too, both of them turning Harry’s quirks into comedy, until Harry was laughing so hard tears ran down his face.

It was easier that way — to make it funny. Because if it was funny, it wasn’t scary . Because if it was funny, Louis didn’t have to think about the way Harry couldn’t sit still for more than a minute, or the way he sometimes talked so fast Louis couldn’t keep up, or the way Harry’s smile stretched just a little too wide, like if he didn’t smile big enough, the whole thing might crack open.

“You’re glowing,” Zayn said once, when they popped by his flat after picking up something for Riley. Harry was halfway through explaining the difference between two types of mushrooms, and Zayn was watching him with that too-sharp look that Louis had grown to hate.

“Happy,” Louis said quickly, too quickly. “He’s happy.”

Zayn just hummed.

Louis dragged Harry home after that, plastered a grin on his face, and made Harry sit on his lap in the living room while they watched Pointless , just to feel Harry settle against him. But even then, Harry’s fingers kept twitching, tapping out rhythms on Louis’ knee like music only he could hear.

Louis still didn’t say anything.

Because Harry was fine.

Because Louis knew what it meant — to ask the person you love if they were okay, and to hear the answer you didn’t want to hear. He’d done that once before, years ago, when Harry was a crumpled thing on their bathroom floor, slurring apologies into the tiles, Louis’ heart breaking clean in half.

So no. Louis wasn’t asking.

Because Harry was fine.

 

Harry was fine.

 

Harry was fine.

 

And if Louis said it enough, it had to be true.

Notes:

Uhm guys… I don‘t know about you but I feel like Harry is not fine

Chapter 47: Chapter 47

Notes:

Heyyy so I uh, have news? I probably won‘t be doing the actor AU I was talking about, I got to chapter ten and I‘m just not feeling it if I‘m being honest. I thought about starting over but I‘m also like halfway through the first act of that murder mstery thing so that‘s probably what I‘ll be focusing on. On the bright side, I rewatched some old interviews and the sentence „I always wanted to be a criminal“ made me think about starting another fic where Louis is an art forger, idk yet though, I don‘t wanna promise anything I can‘t keep and for now it‘s just rough blueprints and this mess of „whodunnit“ in my notes app. Well anyway this chapter is a lot less angsty than most of you probably expected it to be, but i‘d suggest you buckle up anyway because we have storm coming.

uhh, enjoy? If that‘s possible?
- lots of love,
ace

The flat was unusually quiet for a Sunday morning. No music blasting from Harry’s phone, no pots clattering in the kitchen, no running commentary about the weather or the neighbours or what they should do for breakfast. Just quiet , except for the hum of the boiler and the faint buzz of traffic through the window Louis had left cracked open overnight.

Harry was still asleep — which was rare enough these days that Louis had checked twice, peeking through the bedroom door to make sure he was actually there, curled up in the duvet with his hair sticking up and his foot hanging off the edge of the bed. It was the first time in weeks that Harry hadn’t bounced out of bed like a caffeinated jackrabbit, already halfway through his second cup of tea before Louis even opened his eyes.

Louis didn’t know if he should be relieved or worried.

He settled for brushing his teeth .

The bathroom mirror was streaked from Harry’s relentless cleaning sprees, the glass wiped so many times the surface almost looked worn, like it was tired of being polished. Louis stood there in his boxers, hair flattened to one side, toothbrush sticking out of his mouth at a stupid angle, watching himself in the mirror like the answer to what the fuck is going on with my boyfriend might suddenly appear between his own tired eyes.

He scrubbed at his teeth a bit harder, foam gathering at the corners of his mouth, then leaned down to spit. When he straightened up again, he caught his own reflection giving him that look . The one he usually avoided. The one that said you know this can’t go on forever.

Louis rinsed his mouth, rubbed at his face with a damp hand, and deliberately avoided thinking about it. It was Sunday. Their easy day. The day where Louis didn’t have work, Harry didn’t have plans, and Riley could sleep in as long as he wanted because Sunday mornings were for doing fuck all . In the evening, they’d go to Jay’s for dinner — another piece of the rhythm they’d built, the tradition Louis had borrowed straight from his childhood. Sunday roasts at his mum’s were sacred. You could miss school, skip weddings, forget your own birthday — but you did not miss Sunday dinner.

He brushed his hair down, barely bothering, and padded back into the hall. The flat smelled like last night’s dinner — some over-the-top pasta bake Harry had thrown together, declaring they absolutely needed to carb-load for no reason at all. The baking dish still sat in the sink, soaking, because Louis had drawn the line at doing dishes at midnight.

He passed Riley’s door, which was still shut, posters taped haphazardly to the wood, one corner of a Pokémon poster curling up where the Blu Tack had given up. Louis knocked once, lightly — not to wake him, just to check if he way awake — before heading to the kitchen to put the kettle on.

Normal. It was all normal .

The kettle rumbled to life, and Louis leaned against the counter, fingers drumming on the surface. It was still too quiet. Normally by now, Harry would have appeared, wrapped in Louis’ hoodie, talking absolute shite before he was even fully awake. Louis lived for that — Harry in his sleep-messy softness, too warm, too clingy, talking about dreams that made no sense, asking if they could have pancakes or nachos or some other culinary crime for breakfast.

But Harry was still asleep.

Louis glanced at the clock. Just past ten. Riley could sleep all day if no one woke him, and Louis figured Harry probably needed the rest too. Maybe all the bouncing off the walls had finally caught up with him. That made sense, didn’t it?

Yeah. It made sense.

The kettle clicked off, and Louis made tea — three sugars for Harry, none for himself — just the way they always did. He sat at the kitchen table, scrolling mindlessly on his phone, letting the silence wrap around him like a blanket that didn’t quite fit. The world felt paused , like a held breath. He hated it.

When Riley finally emerged, bleary-eyed and yawning, hair flat on one side, Louis handed him toast without asking and ruffled his hair when Riley sat down. They didn’t talk much in the mornings — another unspoken rule — but Louis could tell Riley noticed the quiet too. Riley’s eyes flicked down the hall toward the bedroom door, brows twitching slightly.

“Harry still asleep?” Riley asked through a mouthful of toast.

“Yeah,” Louis said, too casual. “For once.”

Riley just hummed, but there was something behind it, something Louis couldn’t descipher. They spent the morning like that; drifting around the flat, doing nothing in particular. Louis and Riley watched half a film before getting bored, then Riley disappeared back to his room while Louis puttered aimlessly, cleaning things that didn’t need cleaning, opening and shutting cupboards like answers might be hiding inside.

Harry finally surfaced around noon, hair a wreck, hoodie half falling off one shoulder, but his grin was brilliant , wide and golden, like he hadn’t slept through half the day. “Morning, babes,” he said, kissing Louis full on the mouth before Louis could protest. “Miss me?”

“Obviously,” Louis muttered, but his chest unclenched slightly at the sight of him — bright, warm, Harry . Maybe Louis had overthought the whole thing. Maybe Harry was fine.

Harry poured himself a cup of tea, added two more sugars when he thought Louis wasn’t looking, and started chattering about what they should bring to Jay’s. “I was thinking — we could make those little tarts, you know, with the tomato and the cheese? Or should we bring a salad? Something green? Mum always does loads of meat, and we should balance it out, right?”

Louis leaned against the counter, arms crossed, watching Harry whirl around the kitchen like a human tornado. “It’s Sunday dinner at my mum’s, Haz. Not a Michelin star tasting menu.”

“Doesn’t mean we can’t bring something nice,” Harry chirped, nose scrunching as he searched the cupboards for ingredients.

Louis ignored the scrunch, the way it happened even when Harry was happy. Ignored the way Harry’s knee bounced as he stirred his tea, or how he couldn’t seem to stand still for more than a second.

Harry was fine.

They were fine.

They spent the afternoon lounging — Harry folding laundry at double speed while Riley rolled his eyes and Louis stayed sprawled on the sofa, half-watching the telly, half-watching Harry like he was trying to solve a puzzle with half the pieces missing.

By the time they left for Jay’s, the sun was already low, and Harry was talking a mile a minute about a recipe he’d read online for “properly fluffy Yorkshire puddings,” bouncing on the balls of his feet as they waited for the bus.

Jay’s house smelled like roast chicken and gravy the second they stepped inside, warm air rushing out to greet them like a hug. There was music playing in the background — something soft and familiar, old Fleetwood Mac — and the kitchen was already full of steam and noise.

Harry was the first through the door, practically skipping, arms full of the tray of tomato tarts he’d insisted they bring, eyes sparkling like he was just thrilled to be here. “Jay!” he beamed, setting the tray down with a dramatic flourish. “I made you a present.”

Jay smiled, all fondness and confusion as she wiped her hands on her apron. “They’re beautiful, love — you didn’t have to.”

“Of course we did,” Harry said, bouncing on the balls of his feet. “You work so hard, you deserve something fancy. I was gonna try making soufflés, but Louis said that was overkill.”

“Because it is,” Louis muttered, toeing off his shoes.

Jay’s brow furrowed slightly, just for a second, as she watched Harry practically vibrate around the kitchen — rearranging the tray even though it was already perfect, straightening the salt and pepper shakers, flicking the kettle on like someone might suddenly demand tea at any moment.

Louis clocked it — the look. That quiet little flicker of concern, of what’s going on here then? — and Louis’ whole body tensed.

“Alright, you two?” Jay asked, soft and casual, but her eyes stayed on Harry, watching him fuss over a dish towel that didn’t need adjusting.

“Yeah,” Louis said quickly, too quickly. “Course we are.”

Jay’s smile didn’t quite reach her eyes. “You just seem… busy.”

Harry didn’t notice. He was too busy reorganising the wine glasses, nose scrunching every few seconds like his body couldn’t quite decide how to exist. Louis felt his own stomach twist sharply, because if Jay had noticed within five minutes, how much longer could Louis pretend not to?

“He’s fine,” Louis said, sharper than he meant to, louder than the room called for. “We’re fine.”

Jay’s eyes flicked back to Louis, something knowing and gentle tucked into the edges of her face. “I didn’t say you weren’t.”

“Well, you didn’t have to, did you?” Louis snapped, stepping forward to grab the tray Harry had abandoned, moving it just to have something to do with his hands. “He’s just happy, alright? We’re allowed to be happy.”

Harry glanced up then, brow furrowed, sensing the shift in the room even if he hadn’t heard the whole exchange. “What’s going on?”

“Nothing,” Louis said, too fast again. “Just mum being mum.”

Jay raised both hands in surrender, stepping back toward the stove. “Alright, love. No need to bite my head off.”

Louis could feel the heat rising under his skin, that familiar fight-or-flight bubbling up — the one that always came when someone tried to pry too close, peel back the layers he’d so carefully wrapped around them. He’d spent weeks keeping the worry locked down, hidden under jokes and shrugs and denial thick enough to choke on, and now Jay — with her soft hands and too-sharp eyes — was threatening to blow the whole thing wide open.

Harry, oblivious as ever, was back to chatting with Fizzy and Lottie about some ridiculous recipe he’d seen for roast potatoes cooked in beef dripping. His hands never stopped moving, rearranging the table settings even though no one asked him to, foot tapping against the tile floor in a constant, restless rhythm.

Jay watched him for a moment, then reached over to squeeze Louis’ wrist gently, just once. “I’m not trying to have a go,” she said softly. “You know that.”

Louis swallowed hard, throat tight. “I know.” But he didn’t say sorry. Couldn’t. Because saying sorry meant admitting there was something to be sorry for . And if Louis admitted that, the whole fragile house of cards might come down.

“Go help set the table,” Jay said, smoothing over the moment like a pro, because that’s what mums do. “And tell Harry to sit down before he wears a hole in my floor.”

Louis took the out gratefully, grabbing the cutlery and heading into the dining room without looking back.

Harry was already there, laying out forks and knives with military precision, humming under his breath, nose scrunching every few seconds like clockwork. Louis watched him for a moment, something heavy and tired settling in his chest. “Babe,” Louis said, softer now. “Sit down for a bit, yeah? Mum’s got it handled.”

“I’m fine,” Harry said brightly. “Just want to make sure everything’s perfect.”

“It’s always perfect,” Louis said.

Harry grinned, but his hands still fiddled with the corner of a napkin, smoothing it down over and over like it might suddenly spring up and attack.

Louis didn’t say anything else. Just pulled out a chair, nudged Harry’s hip until Harry sighed dramatically and sat down. Louis pressed a kiss to his temple, right over that wild curl Harry always missed when he tied his hair back.

“Love you,” Louis said quietly.

“Love you too,” Harry said, easy as breathing, but his foot kept tapping under the table. Louis ignored it.

They were fine.

They were fine.

Dinner at Jay’s was always loud. That was the rule. The house filled up with overlapping conversations, forks scraping plates, Niall shouting about football while Daisy and Phoebe played some game under the table that involved kicking each other until one of them gave up. There was gravy everywhere, wine glasses clinking, and Jay asking at least four times if anyone wanted more potatoes before just piling them onto everyone’s plates regardless.

It was loud and warm and safe — or at least, it should’ve been.

Harry was loud too, louder than usual. Almost performing, if Louis was honest about it. He was halfway through some dramatic retelling of a time Louis had accidentally insulted a nun, waving his fork around like a prop, laughing before the punchline even landed.

Everyone else was eating it up — his sisters laughing so hard they were clutching each other, Jay wiping tears from her eyes, Niall, who was there for some reason, adding unnecessary commentary — but Louis couldn’t laugh. Not properly. Not with the way Harry’s smile kept twitching too wide, eyes just a little too bright, hands moving too fast.

Louis could see it now, clear as day. Not just energy. Not just happiness. That edge. The barely-there tremor in Harry’s fingers when he reached for his wine glass. The slight flush creeping up his neck that had nothing to do with the warmth of the room. The way he kept scrunching his nose, like something itched from the inside out.

Louis stabbed his fork into a potato, throat tight.

“Be right back!” Harry announced suddenly, halfway through the story, bouncing up from his chair so fast he nearly knocked over his glass. “Just need the loo.”

He was gone before anyone could respond, leaving his napkin crumpled on his seat and Louis staring after him like he’d been punched in the gut.

The table kept buzzing without him — Niall filling the space immediately, launching into a story about the time Harry had nearly fallen into a canal after one too many pints — but Louis couldn’t hear any of it. His ears were ringing, his hand clenched so tight around his fork that his knuckles went white.

It was too familiar.

The quick slip away. The need to rebalance. Louis knew that move. Knew it because he’d lived it , back when Harry couldn’t make it through a meal without disappearing, coming back ten minutes later with pupils too wide and a smile too sharp, talking faster, laughing louder, trying to cover the cracks with glitter and noise.

No. Louis’ stomach churned. No. Not again.

He pushed his chair back so suddenly it scraped loud against the floor. No one really noticed — too busy with Niall’s story — but Jay’s eyes flicked up, soft and knowing.

Louis ignored it. Followed the hall to the bathroom, stood outside the door with his fists clenched at his sides. The tap was running inside, water splashing in the sink, Harry humming some mindless tune just loud enough to cover the silence.

Louis didn’t knock. Didn’t want to. If he knocked, Harry would answer with a smile and a joke, and Louis wasn’t ready to find out if his pupils were wide. If his hands were steady. If they were back there , after everything.

So Louis turned around and went back to the table, feeling like his own skin didn’t fit. He sat down, forced a smile, took a sip of his drink even though his stomach felt sour.

And then Harry came back — bright as ever, bouncing on his toes, pulling Louis’ chair closer so he could sit half in his lap, laughing too loud at a joke Louis hadn’t heard.

It was too much. Too bright. Too controlled.

Louis felt like he was going to throw up.

He barely touched his food after that, just pushed peas around his plate and let Harry’s voice blur into background noise. No one else seemed to notice — they were used to Harry being the loudest person in the room, used to his sunshine and his chaos. But Louis knew better. Louis knew Harry in silence, Harry in the dark, Harry when everything got too quiet to hide in.

He knew the difference between happy and manic .

And Harry was manic.

Louis wanted to leave. Wanted to grab Harry by the wrist, drag him out the door, into the cold air where maybe they could breathe properly. But it was Sunday dinner, and this was Jay’s house, and Louis was still Louis — trying to be the good son, the responsible one, the boy who never caused a scene at the dinner table.

So he sat there, stomach twisting, skin buzzing, hand resting too lightly on Harry’s knee under the table, like if he held too tight, Harry might crack apart in his hands.

“Alright, Lou?” Harry asked softly, leaning into his side.

Louis swallowed hard. “Yeah,” he lied. “All good.”

But Harry’s knee was still bouncing. And Louis couldn’t feel anything except the thin, sharp edge of panic threading through his ribs.

The flat was quiet when they got home — the kind of quiet that felt unnatural, like the silence knew what was coming and was holding its breath. Riley mumbled a goodnight, already half-asleep as he stumbled to his room, the leftover roast packed in a Tupperware discarded in the kitchen. Harry was still too bright, too smiley, talking about putting the kettle on, maybe watching a film before bed, acting like Louis wasn’t vibrating with tension beside him.

Louis couldn’t do it. Not tonight.

Harry was everything, but he was most certainly not fine.

“I’m knackered,” Louis said, voice tight as he kicked off his shoes. “Gonna head to bed.”

Harry’s smile flickered, just for a second. “You okay?”

“Fine,” Louis said, already turning away.

He felt Harry watching him for a beat too long, but then Harry disappeared into the kitchen, humming again, and Louis went into the bedroom, shut the door, and sat on the edge of the bed with his head in his hands.

His pulse hammered in his ears, and the silence of the flat pressed in, heavy and suffocating. Louis sat there, still fully dressed, coat still on, shoes half-off, until he heard the kettle boil, heard Harry puttering around, heard the faint creak of Riley’s door shutting.

And then, only then, did Louis move.

He started in the bathroom. It wasn’t the first time. His hands knew exactly what to do, opening the mirrored cabinet, checking the back of the shelf where Harry used to stash his pills, running his fingers along the edge of the bath panel to see if it popped loose like it used to.

Nothing.

He opened the drawer under the sink, hands already shaking. Razors, toothpaste, half a packet of ibuprofen. Louis dug deeper, pulling out old bottles of shampoo, a tangle of cables that had no business being there, but no baggies, no foil, no tiny rolled-up notes.

The relief was thin, barely there. It didn’t mean anything. Harry was smarter than that now.

Louis moved to the bedroom — tore through the nightstand, then Harry’s dresser. Pulled out every drawer, checked under the bed, behind the headboard, inside every shoe. He knocked over a glass of water in the process, barely noticed the spreading puddle on the floor.

Still nothing.

That should have helped. It didn’t.

By the time Louis made it to the living room, mumbling something meaningless when Harry said he was going to bed, his heart was pounding so hard it felt like it might crack his ribs apart. He opened every cupboard, every drawer, ripped the cushions off the sofa, checked inside every DVD case even though Harry hadn’t touched them in months.

Nothing.

But Louis knew. Louis knew . His gut had been screaming at him for days, weeks maybe, and Louis had spent his whole life learning that his gut was always right. And if Louis didn’t find anything, that didn’t mean it wasn’t there. It just meant Harry had gotten better at hiding.

The kitchen was last, after Harry had excused himself to bed, seemingly not even noticing the way Louis was taking the whole flat apart. Louis stood in the doorway for a moment, chest heaving, staring at the cupboards like they were taunting him. He knew Harry — knew the patterns, knew the places he used to stash things back when they were barely holding themselves together. Knew how to think like someone trying to stay half a step ahead of being found out.

Louis tore open the pantry first,  jars clattering as he shoved things aside, knocking over a bag of pasta, a tin of beans rolling across the floor. He pulled down cereal boxes, shook each one, ripped open bags of crisps, anything that wasn’t sealed.

And there it was.

In the back of an old cereal box, long forgotten behind newer ones, nestled in the empty bag like it was just part of the packaging — a small, clear baggie. Half-full. Coke, white and fine, clinging to the plastic.

Louis froze, staring at it, the world narrowing down to that one pathetic scrap of plastic, the one thing he’d spent years praying he’d never have to see again.

His breath stuttered, and then his legs gave out. He slid down against the cupboard door, the baggie still pinched between his fingers, and just cried .

Quiet at first, hands shaking so hard the bag crinkled, head bowed, tears slipping off his chin and hitting the floor like raindrops. Then louder, the kind of crying you only do when something inside you cracks wide open, when the fear and anger and heartbreak all hit at once and there’s no holding any of it back.

He sobbed into his sleeve, biting down on the fabric to muffle the sound, because Riley was asleep down the hall and Louis didn’t know how to explain to a sixteen-year-old that the person they both loved most in the world was still fighting demons Louis thought they’d already buried.

He sat there for a long time, shaking, crying, wiping his face and then crying again. The baggie stared back at him the whole time, silent and damning.

Eventually, Louis stood up. Put the bag on the counter. Stared at it like it might catch fire if he looked hard enough.

Then, slowly, Louis opened the glass door, stepped onto the balcony, and flicked the baggie over the railing, watching it disappear into the night.

He didn’t know what came next. Didn’t know how to bring this up without blowing their whole life apart. Didn’t know if he was strong enough to drag Harry through this again . Didn’t know if he could survive it this time.

All Louis knew was that Harry had lied. Again.

And Louis couldn’t pretend anymore.

The next morning felt wrong from the second Louis opened his eyes. The air in the flat was too still, like the walls themselves were holding their breath. Louis’ chest ached from crying, eyes dry and scratchy, head heavy with the weight of too little sleep and too much knowing.

Harry was still asleep when Louis got up, curled tight in the duvet, face soft and peaceful in a way that made Louis’ stomach twist with guilt and fury all at once. He wanted to let him sleep. Wanted to shake him awake. Wanted to kiss him. Wanted to scream.

Instead, Louis got Riley up — quick and easy, no fuss. Riley seemed to know, in that way kids do, that something was off, because he didn’t argue about breakfast or forget his bag. Just ate his toast, tied his shoes, and gave Louis a quick, quiet goodbye before heading out the door.

Louis watched him go from the window, shoulders tight, arms crossed. When Riley turned the corner, Louis pulled out his phone, called the shop, and told them he wasn’t coming in.

His manager barely cared. Louis rarely called in sick, so no one argued. “Feel better,” they said, and Louis wanted to laugh. He felt like his bones had been hollowed out.

He put the phone down. Took a breath. And went to wake Harry.

“Haz,” Louis said softly, shaking Harry’s shoulder. “Come on, babe. Wake up.”

Harry groaned, shifting under the covers, blinking up at Louis with a soft, sleepy smile. “S’too early,” he mumbled, voice scratchy.

“It’s nearly nine,” Louis said, forcing a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Up you get.”

Harry stretched, nose scrunching out of habit, and Louis had to look away before the sight of it made him snap. “What’s with the serious face?” Harry asked, yawning.

“Kitchen,” Louis said shortly. “Now.”

Harry’s brow creased, smile flickering into confusion. “Lou—”

“ Kitchen. ”

Harry’s smile disappeared entirely. He climbed out of bed, rubbing his face, following Louis down the hall in silence. He knew the tone — they both did. The tone that meant something’s wrong, and you know what it is, so don’t bother pretending you don’t.

Louis stood at the kitchen table, arms crossed, shoulders so tight they ached. Harry hovered by the door, one hand gripping the back of a chair like it was a life raft.

“What’s this about?” Harry asked, voice small.

Louis didn’t answer. Just reached into the drawer — because he’d pulled the baggie out of the garden first thing that morning, unable to let it go completely — and set it down on the table between them.

Harry went still. Completely still. Like someone had pressed pause.

“What the fuck is this,” Louis asked, voice low and flat, even though he knew exactly what it was.

Harry’s mouth opened, then shut, like his brain couldn’t decide which version of the truth to tell. “Lou—”

“Don’t,” Louis cut him off. “Don’t fucking lie to me, Harry. Not about this.”

“I—it’s not—” Harry ran a hand through his hair, pacing in a tight circle like a trapped animal. “It’s not what you think.”

“What I think , Haz?” Louis’ voice cracked. “I think my boyfriend’s using again. I think the person I’ve dragged through every fucking version of hell is standing here trying to tell me I’m imagining the one thing I know better than anything else in the world.”

Harry’s hands shook. “It was just—just once.”

Louis’ laugh was sharp and ugly. “ Just once. God, I should’ve known you’d say that.”

“It wasn’t like before,” Harry insisted, voice climbing. “It wasn’t—it was just a blip, okay? I was feeling off and I—I thought it would help.”

Louis slammed his hand on the table, making Harry flinch. “We made a promise.”

Harry froze.

“We had a fucking contract , Harry,” Louis went on, voice trembling. “We got it tattooed, for fuck’s sake. Together or not at all. That’s what we said. That was the rule. No secrets, no sneaking, no doing this shit alone. ”

Harry stared at him, wide-eyed, guilty, still too bright, too manic. Louis could feel the energy vibrating off him, the tail end of whatever high he was chasing, and it made Louis’ skin crawl.

“You broke it,” Louis said, quieter now, the anger draining into something colder. “You broke the only fucking rule we said we’d never break again.”

Harry’s hands were in his hair, tugging hard, like he could pull himself out of this moment if he just gripped hard enough. “I didn’t want to—I just—I didn’t want you to know.”

“Why?”

“Because you’d look at me like this,” Harry said, voice cracking. “Like I’m a fucking—”

“Like you’re what , Harry?” Louis shouted. “Like you’re someone I love so much it’s killing me to watch you do this to yourself again? Like you’re the person I built my whole fucking life around, and now I’m scared I’m gonna lose you because you couldn’t tell me the truth?”

Harry’s face crumpled. “I didn’t want to ruin everything.”

“You ruined it the second you started lying to me.”

They stood there, staring at each other across the table, the baggie between them like a ghost from the past neither of them had properly buried. Harry was shaking, tears running down his face, hands still twitching. Louis was stone still, fingers curled into fists at his sides, breathing hard, heart broken wide open.

“What now?” Harry whispered.

Louis swallowed hard, throat aching. “I don’t know.”

Harry wiped his face with his sleeve, a helpless sob caught in his chest. “I love you.”

Louis’ breath shuddered out of him. “I’m not doing this again.”

Harry nodded, frantic. “I’ll fix it.”

Louis shook his head. “ We’ll fix it.”

Harry’s lip trembled, and Louis crossed the distance between them, grabbing his hand, pressing his thumb against the inside of Harry’s wrist — where the words were inked into his skin, trembling under Louis’ touch. Together.

“This is your last chance, Harry,” Louis whispered. “I mean it.”

Harry nodded, tears dripping off his chin, curling into Louis’ chest like a child. Louis held him, hand pressed to Harry’s back, staring at the ceiling with his own eyes burning.

Together or not at all.

They’d meant it once. They had to mean it now.

The baggie was the first thing to go. After the confrontation, they stood in the bathroom together, Harry’s hand shaking so badly he nearly dropped it down the sink before Louis could stop him. “We’re not hiding it,” Louis said, voice firm but quiet. “No secret stashes. No keeping it for a ‘just in case.’ We’re flushing it.”

Harry’s throat bobbed as he swallowed hard, but he nodded, dropping the bag into the toilet bowl. Louis reached past him to press the handle, both of them watching in silence as it swirled down, leaving nothing but clear water and a faint taste of bile in Louis’ throat.

Harry gripped the edge of the sink, knuckles white. Louis stayed, hand resting on the back of his neck, grounding them both. Neither of them said this is the last time, because they’d said that before, a million times over. Promises made at rock bottoms, spoken in rehab and cold hospital corridors, whispered through bathroom doors. Promises they’d both wanted to believe, even when they knew better.

This time, Louis didn’t want promises. He just wanted the truth, no matter how ugly.

The first few days were rough. Not full withdrawal — Harry hadn’t been using long enough for that — but the comedown was harsh. The first night, Harry couldn’t sleep at all, restless under the duvet, shifting and twitching, skin crawling with invisible ants. Louis stayed awake with him, rubbing slow circles into Harry’s back, whispering nonsense until dawn broke through the curtains.

By the third day, Harry’s energy was still too high, like his body hadn’t gotten the memo that the drugs were gone. He cleaned obsessively — reorganising the cupboards again, alphabetising the spice rack, folding their tea towels into perfect rectangles and remaking the bed four separate times. Louis let him, for the most part, only stepping in when Harry’s hands started shaking too hard to hold things steady.

“You can sit down, you know,” Louis said gently, watching Harry scrub at an already spotless countertop.

“I know,” Harry said, not stopping. “Just need to do something. ”

Louis understood. That was the terrifying part — how well he understood, how intimately he knew the need to fill every second with something, anything, just to keep your own brain from eating you alive.

They kept the flat quiet, for the most part. No visitors. Louis texted Jay, said they’d be skipping Sunday dinner this week, made up something about Louis feeling under the weather. Jay didn’t question it, but Louis knew she knew. She always did.

Riley seemed to sense it too — not the details, but the shift in the air. He didn’t press, didn’t ask why Harry was suddenly quieter in the mornings, why Louis had started making all the tea, why Harry’s hands shook when he buttered toast. He just existed alongside them, like he understood on some level that they were rebuilding something fragile, and he didn’t want to be the one to knock it over.

Slowly — painfully, quietly — things started to turn.

The manic edge in Harry’s energy softened first. He still had more bounce than Louis knew what to do with, but it felt more natural now, less like it was spilling out through cracks Harry couldn’t control. The nose scrunch stuck around — it was just part of him now — but it wasn’t constant, wasn’t a nervous tic holding back a dam.

Louis started to breathe a little easier. Just a little.

They talked — properly talked — late at night, wrapped up in blankets on the sofa, tea going cold on the table. Harry told him about the first time — how it had just been a taste, one line at some party Louis hadn’t gone to, just to “take the edge off.” How easy it was, slipping back into that old groove, muscle memory steering him straight to the wrong answer. “I thought I could handle it,” Harry said quietly, fingers tracing the tattoo on Louis’ wrist . “I thought if you didn’t know, it didn’t count.”

Louis wanted to be angry again. He deserved to be. But all he felt was tired.

“I always know,” Louis said softly. “Even when I don’t want to.”

They built new routines to fill the gaps. They went for walks after dinner, even when it rained, just to get out of the flat and into the air. Harry started cooking normal meals again — nothing elaborate, just pasta and soup and toasties, things that didn’t require recipes or distractions.

Louis started touching him more — small, grounding touches. A hand at the small of Harry’s back, fingers curling around Harry’s wrist at the breakfast table, knees pressed together on the sofa. Not possessive, just here. Just I’m with you.

The flat stayed clean — not the frantic, manic clean of before, but a gentle kind of tidy, like they were both treating the space like something fragile and worth protecting. There were still moments — days where Harry’s hands itched for something stronger, where Louis’ stomach flipped every time Harry left the room for longer than a minute — but they got through them. Together.

Because that was the point. That was always the point.

One night, about two weeks after the confrontation, Louis caught Harry standing in the bathroom, tracing his fingers over the ink on his wrist . He was just staring at it, brow furrowed, eyes distant.

Louis stepped behind him, wrapping both arms around Harry’s waist, pressing his own wrist up against Harry’s so the words lined up.

“Still us,” Louis whispered into his neck. “Even now.”

Harry’s breath shook, but he smiled, leaning back into Louis’ chest. “I’m sorry.”

“I know.”

“I’m scared.”

“Me too.”

They stood like that for a long time, two bodies stitched together by matching ink and too many second chances. But they were still standing.

Notes:

Rather short chapter I know, but at least I‘m getting back on track with my daily uploads so there‘s that

Chapter 48: Chapter 48

Notes:

We are nearing the end of this journey guys, only six chapters left, seven if you count the AN I‘m planning to attach. I‘ve said it before but uh.. buckle up

It was a Wednesday, nothing special, the kind of day that blurred into all the others. Louis had just come home from a short shift at the shop, still in his uniform, still smelling faintly of stale crisps and bleach. Harry was folding laundry and Riley was half-watching some documentary about space with a bowl of cereal balanced on his lap, even though it was nearly dinner time. It was normal . Boring, even. They were good at boring now.

But then reality came knocking, literally.

Louis knew before he even opened the door. Knew it in his bones, the way you know a storm’s coming before you hear thunder, the way you know someone’s going to say something that’ll split your life into before and after .

Social services hadn’t been by in months. Not since the visit where Louis had made them tea in chipped mugs and Harry had charmed their way into another “no further action.” They were supposed to be in the clear . But no one knocked like that unless it’s something bad.

Louis opened the door, and there they were — Clipboard Man, same tired face, same too-small smile that didn’t belong with news like this. A different woman stood beside him this time, younger, maybe kinder, but it didn’t matter. Louis knew what they were going to say before they even opened their mouths.

“Can we come in?” Clipboard Man asked.

“No,” Louis said. “Tell me here.”

Harry appeared behind him, towel over his shoulder, brow furrowed. Riley paused the telly, turning halfway around on the sofa, eyes sharp and watchful.

“It’s about Riley,” Clipboard Man said, voice low and even. Like saying it softer might make it hurt less. “We’ve located a biological relative. An aunt, on his mum’s side. She’s living in Wales, and she’s expressed a desire to take him in.”

The words barely landed before Louis’ heart started pounding in his ears, drowning everything else out. “No,” Louis said flatly. “No, absolutely fucking not.”

The woman beside Clipboard Man stepped forward, voice softer. “I know this is a shock. But legally—”

“Legally?” Louis snapped, voice breaking, “He’s my kid .”

“He’s not,” Clipboard Man said, not unkindly. “Not on paper.”

“He is, ” Louis said, louder now, like if he said it enough, they’d believe him. “Where the fuck has this aunt been? Where was she when he was in that squat? Where was she when he was in hospital? Where was she when he needed someone to show up for parents’ evening and someone to take him to the dentist and someone to—” Louis’ voice broke completely, hands shaking at his sides.

Harry’s hand slid onto his lower back in a weak attempt to comfort him, voice quieter but no less fierce. “You can’t just—he lives here.”

“I know this is difficult,” the woman said, still soft, like she was speaking to scared animals, “but in cases where biological family steps forward, we have a legal obligation to place the child with them unless there are clear safeguarding concerns.”

“That‘s just a load of bullshit.” Louis scoffed, shaking his head. “He’s been safe here, You can talk to him, he‘ll tell you the same thing.”

Harry’s fingers dug into Louis’ back, like he was holding him up by force. “There has to be something we can do.”

The woman shook her head, eyes genuinely sympathetic. “I’m sorry.”

Louis felt the floor shift under his feet, the whole flat tipping sideways, the ground not quite solid anymore. Riley was still on the sofa, cereal forgotten, face pale but calm in that terrifying way kids sometimes get when they knew shit was hitting the fan.

“When?” Louis asked, voice hollow.

“Two weeks,” Clipboard Man said. “We’ll arrange transport. You’ll have time to say goodbye.”

Louis slammed the door in their faces. He stood there, hand still on the handle, heart slamming against his ribs, breath coming too fast. Harry didn’t say anything, just stood beside him, hand still warm and steady against Louis’ back, like he was trying to keep him tethered to the moment.

“You okay?” Harry asked after a beat, voice too soft.

“No,” Louis said.

They turned, and Riley was standing now, hands shoved into the sleeves of his hoodie, shoulders hunched up like he was trying to make himself smaller.

“What’s going on?” Riley asked, voice too steady.

Louis opened his mouth, then shut it, throat thick.

“Just tell me,” Riley said, voice cracking slightly.

Harry’s voice came first. “They found an aunt, mate. In Wales. She wants you to live with her.”

Riley blinked, once, twice, like he hadn’t fully heard it. “What?”

Louis cleared his throat, stepping closer. “They’re saying we don‘t have a choice. Because she’s blood.”

Riley’s jaw clenched, and for a second Louis saw it — the flash of fear, of heartbreak, the crack in that tough teenage armour. “But I live here. ”

“I know,” Louis said, voice soft and fierce all at once. “We’re gonna fight it, okay? We’re gonna find a way.”

But the lie tasted sour in his mouth. Because there was no way. Blood always won. That was the rule, no matter how unfair it was. Riley’s breath came faster, shallow, chest rising and falling too quickly. Louis crossed the room, grabbing his shoulders gently. “Breathe, kid. Breathe.”

Riley shook his head. “I don’t—I don’t want to go.”

Louis’ heart cracked clean in half. “I know.”

“Please,” Riley whispered, voice shaking.

Louis pulled him in, arms wrapping tight around him, hand cupping the back of his head like he was holding Riley together by force. “We’re gonna figure it out,” Louis said, even though he had no idea how.

Harry’s arms came around both of them, circling them up, all three pressed together in the middle of the living room, the flat silent except for the sound of Riley’s ragged breathing and the way Louis’ heart was breaking loud enough for all of them to hear.

“We’re a family,” Harry whispered into Riley’s hair. “No matter what.”

Louis didn’t say anything, because if he opened his mouth, he was going to scream or sob or both. He just held them both tighter, like holding on was the only thing that mattered now.

Two weeks.

Two weeks to lose a son he never got to call his.

The first night after the visit, the flat felt like a stranger’s house. Too quiet, too cold, too heavy, like even the walls knew what was coming and didn’t know how to hold it. Riley had gone to bed without argument — no snark, no fuss, just a quiet “Goodnight,” and the sound of his door closing far too softly. Louis and Harry stood in the middle of the living room long after, not speaking, just breathing, standing too close and not close enough.

Louis couldn’t cry in front of Riley. Not when they were supposed to be the adults, the steady ones. He couldn’t cry in front of Harry either, because if he started, they might never stop.

They ended up in bed, side by side, both wide awake, the covers too heavy on Louis’ chest, Harry’s hand twitching where it rested on Louis’ stomach. “He’s our kid,” Louis whispered into the dark.

Harry turned on his side, facing Louis fully, hand curling over his ribs. “I know.”

“They can’t just—” Louis’ voice cracked, anger and grief tangled up so tight they didn’t know where one ended and the other began. “They can’t just fucking take him. ”

Harry’s thumb traced nonsense patterns over Louis’ skin, soft and repetitive, trying to calm him down even though Harry’s own breathing was uneven. “We can fight, right? There’s lawyers and appeals and—”

“No,” Louis said flatly, bitter. “They always win. Blood always wins.”

Harry didn’t argue, because Harry knew too — knew what it was to be the one who wasn’t family, the one who loved harder than anyone else but still wasn’t enough when it came to paperwork and legal rights and the cold logic of the system.

They lay there, quiet except for breathing, until Louis finally said, voice breaking clean down the middle, “He called me Dad again.”

Harry’s breath hitched. “When?”

“He was half asleep.” Louis’ lips twisted into something halfway between a smile and a grimace. “Couple weeks ago. Talking in his sleep. Just—‘Dad, can you turn off the light?’ Like it was normal.”

“Oh baby,” Harry whispered, voice cracking wide open.

Louis squeezed his eyes shut, but the tears still came, silent and hot, soaking into his pillow. Harry pulled him in without a word, curling around him, holding him through it, shoulders shaking right alongside him.

They didn’t talk about it much after that, not directly. It sat in the flat like fog, touching everything, filling every silence. But they lived those two weeks like their lives depended on it. Because they did.

They took Riley everywhere — bowling, arcade, seaside. Harry insisted on a day trip to Blackpool, even though the weather was shit and it was pouring. They ran along the beach anyway, Harry carrying Riley over his shoulder into the seafoam until they were all soaked and freezing and laughing so hard it hurt.

They ate every meal together, no more quick toast in front of the telly. Harry cooked the breakfasts Riley liked best — waffles drowning in syrup, eggs so soft they were practically custard — and Louis let him, even when it made no sense, even when Riley was barely hungry.

They stayed up too late every night, watching all the stupid films Riley had on DVD, curled up under blankets on the sofa, Louis and Harry letting Riley have the middle seat like he was royalty. They watched Shrek three times, even though Riley pretended to hate it, because Louis caught him smiling at the jokes when he thought no one was looking.

They didn’t say no to anything. Can we have ice cream at midnight? Yes. Can I stay up till two? Yes. Can I dye my hair? Absolutely yes.

It was reckless and indulgent and desperate — like if they could just cram enough love into those two weeks, Riley would carry it with him, stuffed into his pockets, and never forget that he had been theirs .

The night before the last day, Louis couldn’t sleep. He lay in bed staring at the ceiling, Harry asleep beside him, breathing uneven, caught somewhere between dreaming and dreading.

Louis got up, padding down the hall to Riley’s door, easing it open just a crack. Riley was asleep, curled into himself, face soft in the moonlight. Louis stepped inside, sat on the floor beside the bed, back against the wall. He memorized every piece of him — the way his hair flopped over his forehead, the faint freckles he swore he didn’t have, the scar on his chin from a fall off his bike last summer.

Louis wanted to say something — a speech, or a promise, or an apology — but his throat wouldn’t work. So he just sat there, hand resting against the bed frame, until the sun started creeping in through the window.

The day itself was quieter than Louis expected. No screaming, no crying, just a horrible, resigned silence. The social worker knocked in the afternoon. Riley’s bag was already packed, half-full of stuff Louis and Harry had bought him, the rest shoved in after Riley had stared at it for an hour, unsure what you’re meant to take when you’re leaving a home you never wanted to leave.

Jay came by to say goodbye, her eyes red-rimmed but her smile warm, pressing a letter into Riley’s hand that she made him promise to read if he ever got sad. Zayn popped his head in too, dropping off a hoodie Riley had always stolen off Louis, and Niall showed up with a plastic bag full of snacks “for the road” that would probably last him three hours at best.

And then it was time.

Louis knelt down, hands on Riley’s shoulders, trying to memorize how he felt, how it felt to hold him, how his eyes looked up close.

“You’ve got my number,” Louis said. “You call me. Every day. I don’t care what time.”

Riley nodded, chin trembling. “I will.”

“And we’ll see you soon,” Harry added, voice too bright, too fake. “We’ll visit. Wales isn’t that far.”

Riley nodded again, but no one believed it. Louis’ hands shook as he pulled Riley into a hug, holding on too tight, breathing him in like maybe that would make it hurt less.

“Love you, kid,” Louis whispered.

“Love you too, dad” Riley whispered back. Louis felt it like a knife to his chest.

And then he was gone. Louis shut the door and stood there, hand on the handle, whole body shaking. Harry was crying silently beside him, hand gripping Louis’ sleeve like it was the only thing keeping him upright.

Louis didn’t cry.

Instead, he turned around, walked straight to the bathroom, locked the door, and threw up until there was nothing left.

And still, it didn’t feel like enough.

The flat felt wrong. That was the first thing Louis noticed after the door shut behind Riley and the social worker drove away. It wasn’t just quiet. Quiet could be peaceful. This was something else — empty . Like the air had been knocked out of the walls, and now everything was too still, like the whole place was holding its breath, waiting for someone who wasn’t coming back.

Harry cleaned, because of course he did. Not in the manic, drug-fueled way Louis had seen before — though even if it was, Louis‘ wasn‘t sure he‘d have the strength or energy to call him out on it. He washed the mugs they’d left in the sink that morning, folded the blanket on the sofa, wiped down the already-clean counter. His hands needed something to do, even if his brain couldn’t keep up.

Louis couldn’t do any of that. He just stood in the hallway, staring at Riley’s door, not quite able to go in but not able to walk away either. The door was ajar, left exactly how Riley had left it, like a breath caught halfway between inhale and exhale. Louis pressed his palm flat against the wood, fingers curling slightly like he could pull the door open just by wanting it hard enough.

“Lou?” Harry’s voice was soft, barely more than a whisper.

“I’m fine,” Louis said automatically, even though they both knew that was a lie so thin it was transparent.

They didn’t touch Riley’s room. They didn’t even talk about it. It was an unspoken agreement — no cleaning, no changing, no tidying away the pieces of him that were still there. The bed was half-made, duvet kicked to the side, pillow slightly flattened from where Riley had slept on it the night before. There were socks on the floor, a book face-down on the desk, the corner of a crisp packet peeking out from under the bed. It all stayed exactly like that.

Louis couldn’t bear to move any of it. It felt like tampering with evidence. Like if they left it untouched, maybe Riley would walk back in and pick up right where he left off — roll his eyes at the mess, flick on the telly, call Louis old just for the hell of it.

They ate dinner in silence that night. Louis made toast, because that was all he could think to do, and Harry didn’t argue. They ate at the table, side by side, staring at nothing, Harry’s foot pressed against Louis’ under the table like a silent I’m still here . It didn’t make the food taste any better.

The next morning, Louis went into Riley’s room and just stood there . Didn’t touch anything, didn’t move anything. Just stood in the doorway, arms crossed tight, breathing too shallow, taking inventory of everything Riley had left behind.

There was the hoodie he always stole, still crumpled at the foot of the bed. His toothbrush was still in the bathroom, too, bristles splayed from pressing too hard, toothpaste crusted around the edges. Louis couldn’t throw it away. He couldn’t even move it from its spot in the cup next to Harry’s and his own. It was stupid, maybe, but it felt like erasing something important.

Harry found him like that — just standing , caught somewhere between moving forward and freezing in place. Harry didn’t say anything. Just stepped in behind Louis, wrapped his arms around Louis’ waist, rested his chin on Louis’ shoulder. They stood there together, breathing in stale air, grief so thick it felt like smoke.

“Do you think he’s scared?” Louis asked quietly, voice barely there.

Harry’s arms tightened. “Probably.”

Louis swallowed hard. “I promised I wouldn’t let anything happen to him.”

“You didn’t break that promise,” Harry said, fierce and gentle all at once. “They took him, Lou. You didn’t give him away.”

Louis’ throat closed up, tears stinging his eyes again. “Doesn’t matter, does it? He’s still gone.”

“Not gone,” Harry whispered. “Just somewhere else. He‘ll be fine there, he‘s not being shipped off to some orphanedge.”

Louis shook his head, not ready for comfort. “He’s sixteen. He‘s just a kid. He sleeps with the light on when it storms, he eats a whole pack of plain toast in a day, he always forgets his lunch before going to school, he always needs at least a ten minute buffer before getting up. Who’s gonna know all that?”

“We do,” Harry said. “And he knows we do.”

It didn’t make Louis feel better. Nothing did. But he let Harry hold him anyway, let himself sag back into Harry’s chest until they were leaning on each other like a pair of crumbling walls.

They kept existing, somehow. Louis went back to work because staying home made him itch under his skin, and Harry found a project — repainting the bathroom even though it didn’t need it. They talked to Jay on the phone, made vague noises about coming to Sunday dinner soon , but they weren’t ready yet. Not when everyone would look at them like they were broken.

Riley called, twice in the first week, and Louis answered so fast it was embarrassing. The calls were short — Riley wasn’t much for talking — but Louis clung to every word like a lifeline.

“It’s boring here,” Riley said once.

“Good boring or bad boring?” Louis asked, forcing a smile.

“Bit of both,” Riley admitted. “My aunt’s okay. She’s nice. Doesn’t talk much.”

“That’s alright,” Louis said, voice soft. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” Riley said. “Are you?”

Louis couldn’t lie to him. “Not really.”

Riley went quiet, then said, so soft Louis almost missed it, “I miss you.”

Louis’ throat burned. “Miss you too, kid.”

Niall came over a week later, all big smiles and loud jokes, pretending nothing was wrong because Niall couldn’t handle grief unless it came in the form of blackout drinking. Zayn came by too, quieter, just sat on the sofa with Louis and watched telly without speaking, the silence easy between them.

They both asked about Riley, and Louis said “He’s okay” even though he had no real way of knowing. Harry made tea no one drank. They all pretended this was normal.

The flat stayed too quiet. Every time Louis opened the door after work, it hit him like a punch to the chest — no Riley sprawled on the sofa, no trainers kicked off haphazardly in the hall, no half-shouted greeting of “What’s for tea?”

Louis caught himself making too much food some nights, automatically dishing up three plates before remembering. Harry never mentioned it. Just ate the extra or saved it for leftovers, his hand on Louis’ knee under the table like a silent anchor.

They didn’t cry much — not the way Louis expected. It was quieter than that. Like grief had settled into their bones, something they carried instead of something they spilled out. It showed up in the way Louis still knocked on Riley’s door before remembering no one was in there. In the way Harry kept buying the snacks Riley liked, filling the cupboards like some part of him thought Riley might just… come back.

They didn’t touch his room. Not even after two weeks. Not after a month. It stayed exactly how Riley left it, door slightly open, socks on the floor, bed half-made, like a shrine to a boy who wasn’t dead but still felt gone . They slept with the door open, Louis said it was so the air could circulate, but really it was so they could glance down the hall at any time and pretend.

Because if they closed the door, it would mean he wasn’t coming back.

And Louis wasn’t ready to believe that yet.

 

They drove to Wales in near silence, the kind of silence that felt too heavy to break. The sat nav muttered directions every so often, but neither of them spoke, Harry’s hands tight on the wheel, Louis’ fingers tapping against his knee in a restless rhythm. The radio stayed off. Neither of them could handle music today.

It had been a month since Riley left. Four long weeks of a flat that didn’t sound right, a dinner table set for two instead of three, a toothbrush sitting too clean and dry in the bathroom cup. They had meant to visit sooner, but Louis hadn’t been ready. He’d made excuses — work, money, needing to give Riley time to settle — but the truth was, Louis didn’t know if he could handle seeing Riley happy somewhere that wasn’t with them.

But today was the day. No more putting it off.

“He’s happy,” Harry said softly, somewhere near the border. “That’s what matters.”

Louis swallowed hard. “I know.”

It didn’t make it easier.

Riley’s aunt lived in a semi-detached on a quiet street, the kind Louis had never stepped foot on growing up. Neatly trimmed hedges, matching curtains in every window, not a single crack in the pavement. It wasn’t posh, not really, but it was stable , and Louis felt out of place before they even knocked on the door.

Harry stood beside him, shifting his weight from foot to foot, hands shoved deep in his coat pockets. “What if he doesn’t wanna see us?” Harry asked quietly.

Louis’ stomach turned. “He does.”

The door opened before either of them could spiral too far, and there he was — their kid . Hair longer, fringe messier, wearing a hoodie Louis didn’t recognise, but his face was the same, all bright eyes and that crooked smile Louis knew better than his own reflection.

“Hi,” Riley said, soft but happy.

Louis barely managed to smile back before Riley was hugging him, arms tight around Louis’ waist, face pressed into his chest. Louis’ breath caught, tears prickling at the edges of his eyes, but he held them back, wrapping his arms around Riley and holding on tight.

“Missed you, kid,” Louis whispered, voice rough.

“Missed you too,” Riley mumbled back.

Harry got his turn next, pulling Riley into a hug that lifted him off the ground slightly, Harry laughing even though his eyes were glassy. “You’re taller,” Harry said, inspecting him like he’d grown a foot instead of an inch.

“You’re shorter,” Riley shot back, grinning.

Louis could’ve stood there forever, just looking at him, but then Riley’s aunt appeared in the doorway — tidy, polite, the kind of woman who looked like she always knew what was for dinner three days in advance. Louis hated her on sight for reasons that had nothing to do with her.

“Come in,” she said, smile too polite, too careful. “He’s been excited to see you.”

They followed her into the house, Harry’s hand brushing Louis’ back once — not a touch for comfort, but a reminder: we’re in this together . Louis didn’t breathe properly until they were inside, shoes off, sat on a sofa that didn’t have any stains or dodgy springs. Everything in the house was clean, matching, normal. Louis’ skin itched.

Riley sat between them, close enough that his knee bumped Louis’ every few seconds. “How’s school?” Louis asked, because that was safe.

“It’s good,” Riley said. “I made friends. Proper ones.”

Louis’ heart broke and swelled at the same time. “That’s good.”

His aunt brought them tea — matching mugs, no cracks, no chips — and Louis said thank you even though he didn’t want to. They made small talk, Louis feeling like every word was being pulled out of him with pliers, while Riley told them about his new school, his new mates, the after-school club he’d joined for no real reason except “it’s something to do.”

He was happy. Louis could see it. Could hear it in his voice, the lightness that hadn’t been there for a long time. There were no dark circles under his eyes, no wary glances toward the door like he was waiting for the next shoe to drop. His hoodie was clean, his hair had been cut, and Louis couldn’t find a single thing to worry about.

It felt like shit.

Because the truth was, Riley was probably better off here — in a house with a proper garden, with school uniforms that got ironed, with a fridge full of food bought at the big Tesco instead of the corner shop. Louis knew that. And it killed him.

“You can show them your room if you want,” his aunt said, smiling at Riley.

Riley grabbed Louis’ wrist, tugging him up the stairs like he was five again, Harry trailing behind. His room was bigger than the one back at the flat, walls covered in posters Louis didn’t recognise, bed neatly made, a proper desk in the corner. It was nice . Nicer than anything Louis could’ve given him.

Louis hated it. He loved it. His heart broke all over again.

“Do you—” Louis started, then stopped, throat too tight. “Do you like it here?”

Riley hesitated, then nodded. “Yeah. It’s… good.”

Louis smiled, and it hurt. “Good.”

“But I miss you,” Riley added, so soft Louis almost didn’t hear it.

Louis pulled him into a hug again, face pressed into Riley’s hair. “Miss you too, mate.”

Harry sat on the edge of the bed, picking at a loose thread on his sleeve. “Do you want us to visit more?”

“Yeah,” Riley said, no hesitation this time. “Loads more.”

“Deal,” Harry said, smiling through his own heartbreak.

They stayed for a couple of hours, long enough to make it feel like a visit but not long enough to overstay. Riley walked them to the door, standing awkwardly on the step, hands shoved into his sleeves the way Louis always did.

“You’re okay though, right?” Louis asked, one last time, because he had to.

“I’m okay,” Riley promised. “But I’m still your kid.”

Louis’ breath caught in his throat. “Yeah,” he said, voice barely there. “Always.”

They hugged again, and Louis kissed the top of Riley’s head, holding on a second too long before stepping back.

Harry waved from the car, blowing an exaggerated kiss that made Riley laugh and roll his eyes, and then they were driving away, Louis watching Riley in the rearview mirror until he was just a dot on the pavement.

Neither of them spoke for the first half hour of the drive back. Harry drove, one hand reaching across the gear stick to hold Louis’ thigh, thumb rubbing slow circles. Louis stared out the window, heart too full and too empty all at once.

“He’s happy,” Harry said eventually, voice soft. “He’s really happy.”

Louis nodded, jaw tight. “Yeah.”

“That’s good.”

“Yeah.”

They drove the rest of the way home in silence, grief settling back into the car like an old friend, but this time there was something softer underneath it. Riley was okay. Not gone. Just further away.

And Louis would live with that. He’d have to.

Chapter 49: Chapter 49

Notes:

I will be paying for everyone‘s therapy after the next three chapters

They didn’t even talk about it — didn’t say let’s go to Niall’s , didn’t check if anyone would be there, didn’t plan a thing. Harry just drove past the turn for the flat without asking, and Louis didn’t question it. It was muscle memory, almost, the way grief always drove them straight into each other’s arms, straight into the mess and noise of the only people who knew exactly what to do when everything came apart.

Niall’s door was already unlocked, the flat loud before they even stepped inside. Someone had music playing — probably Zayn — something low and fuzzy, old Oasis cutting through the smoke drifting lazily through the air. Niall was in the kitchen, already half-drunk judging by the way his grin was a little too wide, holding a bottle of something bright green and dangerous.

“ My boys! ” Niall shouted, arms wide like he’d been waiting for them. “Look who’s back from fucking Wales.”

Louis barely got his coat off before he found a drink in his hand — something dark, sharp, straight from the bottle because Niall’s house never had clean glasses. Louis didn’t hesitate. Didn’t think. Just tipped it back and swallowed, feeling the burn all the way down, warmth blooming in his chest that felt nothing like comfort and everything like surrender.

He hadn’t drank like that since Riley. Since the first night Louis found him in that squat, shaking and small, a kid no one had looked for, and Louis sobered up overnight because someone had to. And now, Riley was gone, not to the grave but to a life Louis wasn’t part of, and there was nothing left to stay sober for.

Harry was talking to Amelia — calm, quiet, the two of them off to the side like they were trying to give Louis space to break without an audience. Zayn was sprawled in the corner, smoke curling out from between his fingers, watching Louis with eyes too sharp, too knowing. Louis ignored him.

The first drink hit fast. Louis hadn’t eaten all day, couldn’t stomach breakfast, couldn’t think about lunch, and now it burned through him, warm and cruel. He poured another, something clearer, vodka or gin, didn’t check which, just drank it down like water.

“Easy,” Niall muttered, only half-joking, but Louis shook him off.

“ Don’t. ”

They didn’t do this often anymore — not like the old days, when drinking until they couldn’t stand was just Tuesday . They’d all grown up, sort of, all softened at the edges, all had something to lose now. Except tonight, Louis felt twenty again, felt like the kid who lost his best friend and didn’t know how to cry about it, so he drank instead.

Another. And another.

Zayn stayed quiet, but Louis could feel his eyes. Amelia’s voice floated in and out, soft and concerned, and Harry was there, hand on Louis’ back every so often, but not stopping him. Not yet. Harry knew what this was — what Louis needed to burn off before the grief settled too heavy in his chest.

“I’m fine,” Louis slurred, after the fifth or sixth or who-even-counted. “We saw him. He’s fine. He’s happy. S’good.”

No one argued. Amelia looked at Harry. Harry looked at the floor.

Louis laughed. It sounded like breaking glass.

“He’s got a desk,” Louis said, too loud. “In his room. Like a proper one. Not that piece of shit folding table we had. And his aunt, she’s got a proper garden. He’s doing—he’s doing fucking after-school clubs.”

“That’s a good thing, Lou,” Harry said softly.

Louis turned on him, eyes wet but refusing to spill over. “Is it? Is it fucking good , Harry? That he’s better off without us?”

Harry flinched, just a bit. Louis hated himself instantly.

“Lou,” Zayn said from the corner, voice low and even.

“Don’t,” Louis snapped. “Don’t fucking Zayn me. Don’t sit there looking like you know better.”

Zayn’s mouth twitched into something almost like a smile, sad and sharp. “I do know better.”

Louis wanted to throw his glass at him. Wanted to hug him. Wanted to crawl out of his own skin and disappear into the smoke curling around the ceiling. Instead, he poured another drink.

“Louis,” Harry said, sharper this time. “Come on.”

Louis ignored him. Drank it down. Smiled too wide. “I’m fine.”

“No, you’re not,” Harry said, stepping closer, voice low and urgent. “You don’t get to do this.”

“Do what ?” Louis spat, spinning to face him. “Feel something?”

“You can feel it,” Harry said, hands up like he was calming a wild animal. “You just don’t need to drown in it.”

“Why not?” Louis’ voice broke clean in half. “What else is there?”

“Me,” Harry said, voice soft and furious. “There’s me. And you. And this. And everything we fucking built.”

Louis shook his head, eyes burning. “We built it for him.”

“And we still have it,” Harry said. “Even without him here. We still have us .”

Louis hated him for being right. Hated him for being sober. Hated him for standing there with his heart open when Louis only knew how to close his.

“Don’t leave me,” Louis said, barely a whisper.

Harry stepped closer, hand on Louis’ face, thumb tracing his cheek. “I’ve never left you. Not once, and I won‘t ever leave you.” It was a lie. A lie. Harry was a lying liar who fucking lies.

Louis’ hands trembled, the glass slipping from his grip, shattering at his feet. No one moved to clean it. They all knew this was coming.

Harry caught him as he folded in half, sobbing into Harry’s neck, shaking so hard his knees buckled. Harry held him up, held him together, held him like Louis was something worth saving even when Louis couldn’t see it.

“It’s okay,” Harry whispered. “Let it out.”

“I can’t do this without him,” Louis sobbed, fists twisted in Harry’s shirt. “I can’t.”

“You can,” Harry said fiercely. “And you will. And we’ll see him again. You’re his dad, Lou. No social worker, no blood relative, no fucking paperwork changes that.”

Louis cried so hard his ribs hurt, the grief too big for his body to hold, spilling out over Harry’s skin, soaking into his shirt, his hair, everywhere. Harry held him, rocked him gently, shushed him softly, like you do with a child after a nightmare.

Niall disappeared at some point, sweeping up the glass. Amelia brought water. Zayn stayed in the corner, not speaking, but present. They were all there, the way they always were, the way they always would be.

And Louis knew — when the storm passed, when the shaking stopped, when the tears ran dry — they would still be standing. Battered and bruised, but standing.

Together.

Or not at all.

 

It started slow, like these things always do.

The first night wasn’t planned. Nothing ever was. They’d left Niall’s flat hungover and hollowed out, and by the time Friday rolled around, Louis’ skin felt too tight again, the flat too quiet, Riley’s empty room like a splinter under his nail. He couldn’t sit still. Couldn’t pretend things were normal.

So he texted Zayn.

Out tonight?

And Zayn, who had been waiting for this — who had known, the second Riley left, that Louis’ grip on responsibility was only as strong as the reason holding him up — replied immediately. Always.

Harry didn’t argue. That’s what scared Louis the most. Harry, who had been sober longer than he had since he was fourteen, who had fought his way back from the edge more times than Louis could count, just grabbed his coat and said, “Let’s go.”

They stayed out too late that first night. And the next. And the next after that.

What started as a drink turned into two, turned into shots, turned into chasing old highs with old friends in old places they hadn’t stepped foot in for years. Faces they barely remembered lit up when they walked into old haunts, because here they were again , the wild ones, the legends, the boys who used to set fire to their own lives just to see how bright it could burn.

Louis felt fifteen again. Reckless and invincible. No kid at home to answer to. No reason to pretend to be the responsible one. No one to impress. Just alcohol and noise and whatever Zayn rolled in the back alley when the pubs shut.

It wasn’t hard drugs. Louis drew the line at that. So did Harry, thank God. But weed was different. Weed was safe. Weed was fun . Weed didn’t drag them down to the places they couldn’t come back from. It just made the edges soft, made everything funny again, made Louis forget for a while that Riley wasn’t in his room waiting for him to come home.

The others followed — of course they did. They always had. Louis had been the first one to get his shit together after Riley showed up, and the others had fallen into step because if Louis could grow up, maybe they could too. But now Louis wasn’t holding them up anymore. He was the first to fall, and the rest came tumbling after.

Niall was always the easiest to drag back down, only ever one phone call away from saying fuck it . Zayn didn’t need dragging — he was already there, just waiting for permission to stop pretending he wanted to change. Even Amelia, who had always been the sensible one, started showing up more often, a drink already in hand, her smile sharper than it used to be.

And Harry — Harry who had once been the most fragile, who had once been the one Louis had to save — was right there with him, matching him drink for drink, hit for hit, like he’d been waiting for permission to let go too. Maybe in some other lifetime they never met, maybe in some other world Harry was still all soft smiles instead of manic grins, gently spoken words and giggles instead of loud laughter. Selfishly, Louis wished he never met him, just to save Harry from himself, from what Louis had done.

They were all holding on because Louis was. And now Louis wasn’t.

So they let go.

The flat became a halfway house for bad decisions. People crashing on the sofa, ashtrays overflowing, bottles piling up by the bin because none of them could be arsed to clean properly anymore. They’d get back on track tomorrow , they said. Tomorrow never came.

They slept late. Missed work. Ate shite. Got drunk on Tuesdays. Smoked before breakfast. Laughed too loud at things that weren’t funny because if they stopped laughing, they’d have to feel.

Louis knew it wasn’t sustainable. He wasn’t stupid . He knew the signs — the way Harry’s hands started shaking again, the way Zayn’s eyes got too flat, the way Niall started making jokes that weren’t funny about how easy it would be to just go back to how things used to be. The way Louis himself felt nothing until he was at least three drinks in, and then felt everything all at once.

But knowing didn’t stop it.

Because the truth was, Louis didn’t want to stop. Not yet. Stopping meant facing the quiet. Facing the flat without Riley. Facing the dry fucking toothbrush in the bathroom and the bedroom they still hadn’t touched. Stopping meant asking himself why the fuck they’d bothered getting better in the first place, if doing everything right still wasn’t enough to keep Riley with them.

So they didn’t stop.

They stayed out late and stumbled home and laughed until they cried. They danced in clubs that stank like sweat and bad decisions, and Louis kissed Harry against graffiti walls in back alleys, tasting smoke and cheap gin and desperation on his tongue. They climbed into bed with their clothes still on and woke up with splitting headaches and texts from Jay they didn’t answer.

Louis pretended it was fine. Harry pretended with him.

They had each other , didn’t they? That was enough. It had to be enough.

Together. Or not at all.

One night, about ten days into the bender that wasn’t supposed to be a bender, Louis woke up on the sofa at three in the morning, the telly still on, Harry curled up half on top of him. There was a half-smoked joint in the ashtray, a spilled drink on the table, and Louis’ head was pounding so hard he thought he might die.

Riley’s bedroom door was open. Empty. Silent.

Louis sat there, head in his hands, the weight of it all pressing down like bricks on his chest. This wasn’t who he was supposed to be anymore. This wasn’t who they were supposed to be anymore.

But without Riley, without that reason to keep steady — who were they at all?

Harry stirred beside him, mumbling nonsense in his sleep, nose scrunching out of habit, and Louis’ heart broke all over again. Because they were supposed to be better than this. They’d promised.

Together. Or not at all.

Louis lit a cigarette with shaking hands, took a drag so deep it made his lungs hurt, and stared at Riley’s door until the sun came up.

It had been eleven days since Riley’s last call.

Louis had memorised the number of hours without meaning to. Eleven days. Two hundred and sixty-four hours. Riley’s name still sat at the top of his texts, but the last message was nothing special — Miss you lads. Hope you’re alright. Louis had replied instantly, too fast, too eager: Miss you more, kid. Call soon.

He hadn’t.

And Louis knew — logically, rationally — that Riley was just busy . That he had friends now, a new life, a routine that didn’t revolve around keeping Louis and Harry entertained. Louis knew it was probably a good thing. Knew Riley wouldn’t forget them, even if the calls came slower.

But knowing didn’t make the silence easier.

So they went out.

They’d already been drinking when the offer came, pressed into Louis’ hand in the corner of some club they didn’t belong in anymore — not regulars, not kids sneaking in with fake IDs, just tired grown-ups pretending the bass in their chests could drown out the ache. Louis didn’t even look at what it was. It didn’t matter.

“Want a treat?” Louis slurred into Harry’s ear, showing him the little blister pack, the pills pressed into foil like breath mints.

Harry didn’t hesitate. “Split it.”

And that was the thing about them — the reason they always needed each other close, the reason they were dangerous together. When one of them said jump , the other didn’t ask why, just how high . They held hands and leapt.

They bit the pill in half right there on the dance floor, Louis licking the dust off his thumb, Harry kissing Louis just to taste it too. It could’ve been anything — MD, oxy, some pressed-up research chemical some uni kid cooked in a bathroom sink. They didn’t ask.

Louis hadn’t touched anything like it in so long. Not since Riley. Not since responsibility became something he wore like skin. But now there was no Riley, no reason to stay clean except Harry — and Harry was the one holding out his hand.

Louis laughed into Harry’s mouth, fingers tangling in his hair, the music too loud, the pill melting bitter under his tongue. They felt fifteen again, young and reckless and immortal.

It hit faster than Louis expected. His heart sped up, vision sharpened, hands tingling like they couldn’t stay still. Harry’s pupils blew wide, grin sharp, eyes too bright, the same look Louis remembered from their worst years — but this time, it didn’t scare him. This time, it felt like home.

They stumbled out of the club, into the alley, kissing hard against the wall, hands too fast, words slurring together into nonsense. Harry couldn’t stop giggling, body vibrating like a live wire, and Louis couldn’t feel his own feet but he didn’t care. They were free. No responsibilities. No kid to be good for. Just them, like it used to be, falling apart hand in hand.

“Love you,” Louis mumbled, forehead pressed to Harry’s.

“Love you more,” Harry shot back, too fast, too eager.

They walked home — or somewhere like home — Louis not entirely sure whose flat they ended up in, some mate of Zayn’s maybe, someone who didn’t care that they kicked off their shoes and collapsed on a sofa that smelled like old smoke and beer. Harry curled up half on top of Louis, fingers tracing patterns on his chest, both of them still buzzing too hard to sleep.

“Remember when we used to do this every weekend?” Harry said, voice soft and sharp-edged.

“Yeah,” Louis whispered. “Didn’t think we’d end up back here.”

Harry’s smile faded slightly. “Do you mind?”

Louis didn’t answer. Because yes and no were both true.

They lay there until morning, drifting somewhere between sleep and wired, Louis’ fingers tracing the tattoo on Harry’s wrist — Or not at all. Harry’s fingers traced the one on Louis’ — Together. The words felt too far away now, stretched thin between who they used to be and who they were trying to be.

Together. Or not at all.

It happened the way these things always do — not all at once, but in increments, small enough that they could lie to themselves every step of the way.

They didn’t fall back into it. They just sauntered vaguely downwards. They stayed out too late. They drank too much. They took what was offered. And when there was nothing offered, they asked. And when asking wasn’t enough, they started seeking .

Louis was the first to stop pretending it was just a phase. He was the one who found the bloke in the toilets at the shit bar near Zayn’s flat, the one who sold pills in baggies that felt too familiar in Louis’ palm. Louis didn’t think. He bought three. Two for them, one for Zayn because it felt rude not to.

It wasn’t heroin. It wasn’t crack. They had rules , still. Lines they wouldn’t cross. Lines they swore meant they were still in control. Pills were fine. Pills were fun. Pills didn’t mean anything .

Louis crushed them on the coffee table back at the flat, lined them up with a library card Riley had left behind, and Harry didn’t hesitate. Didn’t ask. Just leaned down and snorted half before Louis could even pass him the rolled-up fiver.

They weren’t alone for long. Niall showed up three hours later, already high off something, crashing through the door with a six-pack under one arm and a spliff dangling from his lips. Zayn followed, hoodie pulled up, eyes already glassy, muttering something about how “It’s not a relapse if you never meant to quit.”

And that was it.

The dam broke.

Every night was a party. Every day was a write-off. None of them went to work. None of them cared. The flat filled up with people they barely knew, mates of mates, dealers who started staying for a pint after dropping off, old friends who’d crawled out of the woodwork the second they caught wind that Louis Tomlinson’s place was open for business again.

Louis didn’t know whose coat was on the floor half the time, or whose shoes were in the hall. Didn’t know who’d left the burnt foil under the sofa or who passed him the bump of ket in the kitchen. It didn’t matter. It was just one long, loud, endless night, bleeding into the next, and the next, and the next.

They started getting into trouble — real trouble, the kind they hadn’t seen since they were kids. Fights in bars. Running from bouncers. Zayn mouthing off to the wrong bloke and getting his lip split open outside the chippy at two in the morning. Harry puking in a taxi and then legging it without paying the fare. Louis getting caught pissing behind a kebab shop while Niall laughed so hard he couldn’t stand up straight.

The police knew their names again — not for anything serious, not yet, but they were known . Loud lads causing havoc. Them lot from the estate who never quite grew up.

Jay called once, after hearing from Amelia that Louis hadn’t shown up to work in a week. Louis let it go to voicemail. Couldn’t face her voice, that blend of worry and disappointment he remembered too well from his teenage years.

Harry’s hands shook all the time now, not from withdrawals, just from everything . From never sleeping properly, from running too hot on whatever cocktail they’d taken the night before, from the adrenaline that never wore off when you lived like every night was your last. His nose bled more than it didn’t. Louis handed him tissue after tissue without saying a word.

Zayn started carrying a knife again. Louis pretended not to notice. Niall started borrowing money he’d never pay back. Harry lost his house keys three times in one week because his brain was too fried to remember his own pockets. Louis lost his phone at some point, replaced it with a burner that barely worked, stopped answering anyone who wasn’t already in the flat with him.

They didn’t sleep much. They didn’t eat much. Louis’ jeans started hanging off his hips again, collarbones sharp, knuckles split open from some fight he barely remembered. Harry’s cheekbones went hollow, skin pale and sweaty, smile too wide, laugh too sharp. Zayn looked worse, but Zayn had always looked worse — like the rot had settled in deep, and the only thing keeping him upright was momentum.

Niall somehow managed to stay the same — too loud, too drunk, always laughing, even when nothing was funny. He started saying shit like we’re gonna live forever, and Louis wanted to believe him.

Because the truth was, they were all running toward a wall they could see, clear as day, but none of them wanted to be the first to stop.

One night, Louis and Harry ended up back at the squat. That squat. The one where Louis had found Riley almost a year ago, shaking and small and alone. It was still there, same piss-stained mattress in the corner, same broken window, same smell of damp and regret.

Louis sat on the floor, back against the wall, and lit a cigarette with hands that wouldn’t stop shaking. Harry sat beside him, knees pulled up to his chest, head resting on Louis’ shoulder.

“Do you miss him?” Harry asked, voice soft and wrecked.

Louis took a drag so deep it burned. “Every second.”

Harry closed his eyes. “Me too.”

They stayed there until the sun started coming up, until the cold seeped into their bones, until the drugs wore off and all that was left was shaking hands and too much silence.

They stumbled home, together, always together, the words Together or not at all inked into their skin like a curse.

It got worse before it got better. That was the rule. It always did.

Louis knew the shape of rock bottom better than most people knew their own houses. Knew how it tasted, how it sounded, the particular ache in your chest when you woke up on a floor you didn’t recognise with your mouth dry and your head pounding and the shame sitting so heavy you could hardly breathe. He knew what it felt like to open your eyes and not be entirely sure if you were alive or not — if you should be relieved or disappointed that you still were.

But this time, it didn’t feel like falling. It felt like flying. That was the terrifying part.

This time, it felt good.

Louis had nothing left to hold onto. No reason to keep his head above water. Riley was gone. Not dead, but gone , and Louis wasn’t stupid enough to think that was any better. Maybe it was worse — because there was no grave to visit, no finality, just a long stretch of silence that filled up the flat like smoke. And what the fuck were they supposed to do with that?

So Louis and Harry made noise. They made chaos. They made a mess of themselves and each other and everyone who got too close.

They didn’t go home most nights. They stayed at Niall’s, at Zayn’s, at whichever mate’s flat would let them pass out on a sofa or a floor or a pile of coats. They drank without pacing themselves. Smoked without thinking twice. Popped pills without asking what they were first. Chased any high that would make them forget the low waiting at home.

Louis lost count of how many times Harry fell asleep fully clothed, mouth slack, hands twitching even in sleep. Lost count of how many mornings he woke up and didn’t know where he was until Harry’s hand found his, fingers curling tight around his wrist like a grounding wire.

They started running out of money, too — of course they did. Louis missed so many shifts he wasn’t sure if he still technically had a job. Harry spent what they had left like money was allergic to him, ordering takeaways they didn’t eat and buying drinks for strangers they barely spoke to.

Louis pawned his watch. Harry pawned his leather jacket. Niall started selling bits of his drum kit. Zayn… well, no one asked where Zayn got his cash. They didn’t want to know.

The flat fell apart right alongside them. Dishes piled in the sink. Ashtrays overflowed. The bathroom bin filled with empty blister packs, crumpled foil, tissues stained pink from Harry’s nosebleeds. Riley’s room stayed off-limits, though. That was the one rule Louis couldn’t break.

Even wasted, Louis didn’t go in there.

Even out of his mind, he couldn’t face the ghosts.

They fought, too — of course they did. Louis and Harry were always going to fight, because no one could hurt them like they could hurt each other. They knew every soft spot, every weak point, every scar that never really healed. They fought about nothing, about everything, about who loved Riley more and who fucked up worse and who was the reason they were here again.

“You were supposed to be the strong one,” Harry slurred one night, shoving Louis hard enough that he stumbled into the wall. “You were supposed to keep us out of this.”

“Maybe I’m tired of saving you,” Louis spat back, wiping blood from his lip. “Maybe I’m tired of being the fucking hero.”

Harry’s eyes went wide, hurt and angry and desperate all at once. They kissed hard after that, sharp teeth and bitten lips, back against the wall, hands pulling hair too tight, sex that was more fight than love, more punishment than comfort. And Louis felt alive, for the first time in weeks. For the first time since Riley left.

Zayn got arrested — only for a night, nothing serious, but it was enough to shake something loose in Louis’ chest. They bailed him out at three in the morning, Louis still drunk, Harry trying to act sober, Niall giggling in the backseat like it was all a fucking joke.

“What’d you even do?” Louis asked when Zayn climbed into the car, face drawn, knuckles split.

Zayn shrugged. “Resisted arrest.”

“For what?”

Zayn grinned, teeth pink with blood. “Being a prick.”

Louis laughed so hard he nearly threw up.

Jay stopped calling. Amelia texted once — You okay? — and Louis didn’t answer. The only texts Louis sent were to Riley, and they were all variations of the same thing.

We miss you.

Call when you can.

Hope you’re okay.

Riley never replied.

They started mixing things they shouldn’t have. Benzos with booze. Coke with downers. Weed laced with God knows what. Louis stopped caring. Harry didn’t even pretend to care. Niall kept making jokes like What doesn’t kill us just makes us legends , and Louis wanted to believe him, even as his heart started skipping beats for no reason at all.

Louis’ hands shook constantly. His stomach hurt all the time. His head felt too full and too empty all at once. Harry stopped eating unless Louis shoved food into his hands. Zayn started carrying a burner phone again. Niall had a dealer saved under Mum in his contacts. None of them thought this was funny, but they laughed anyway.

Because if they didn’t laugh, they’d have to admit they were all fucking terrified.

One night, Louis climbed into the bath fully clothed, freezing cold water up to his chest, because it was the only way to make the shaking stop. Harry found him like that, stood in the doorway with his eyes too wide, too dark, too scared.

“What are you doing?” Harry whispered.

“Don’t know,” Louis said honestly.

Harry climbed in too. Didn’t even take his shoes off. Just sat down in the water beside Louis, leaned his head on Louis’ shoulder, and said nothing.

They sat there until the sun came up.

They were falling, and they both knew it. But neither of them knew how to stop.

Together. Or not at all.

And if this was it , if they were going down for good this time — at least they’d go down together.

Chapter 50: Chapter 50

Notes:

This one‘s painful, I‘m warning you, if it‘s slightly inconsistent or stuff is repeated from the previous chapter I apologize, I added this chapter basically after I was done writing the whole thing but I just couldn‘t resist

There wasn’t much of a point anymore. Riley was gone, and though Louis kept telling himself that nothing would change, everyone knew it was a lie—a desperate attempt to hold himself together after giving up his son, his life, his reason to stay sober.

They’d visited Riley a few more times over the following weeks, every Saturday at first. But then every week turned into every two, until Riley started saying he was out with friends or too busy with school. The thing was, Louis couldn’t even be mad. How could he? Riley was better off with his aunt anyway, and he’d probably noticed the way they both showed up with tired eyes and trembling hands. Louis wouldn’t want to be around himself either.

So, he did what he always did best, because the pain of losing his son, not to death but to abandonment, was too much to face sober.

Harry had reached out to their old dealer again, looking for something stronger than they usually did. Louis didn’t know whether to be angry or grateful. Of course, Zayn was the first to notice. But he wasn’t angry like Louis had expected. He just… accepted it. Followed along. Everyone knew Zayn had always been teetering on the edge, never fully climbing out of the grave they’d all dug together. And with his best friend jumping back in, maybe it was just easier to stay down.

Niall was doing surprisingly well, all things considered. He’d never had much of a taste for anything stronger than hard liquor or the occasional joint passed around at parties. Louis often found himself grateful for that, quietly thankful that one of them had managed to keep his head above water while the rest of them floundered. And he had Amelia to thank for it, no doubt. Amelia, with her steady hands and sharper mind, who’d always been a quiet force of strength in their group ever since she appeared. She kept Niall grounded, tethered him in ways Louis couldn’t even begin to explain.

She’d never hovered, never made her presence loud or demanding—but she had this way of knowing exactly when to step in and when to let things be. She didn’t enable, didn’t lecture either. Just stayed close enough to be a net, but far enough not to get tangled in their mess. It was a strength Louis admired, even envied. And maybe Amelia had Eleanor to thank for that—because at one point, they’d all learned from her. Or at least tried to.

Eleanor.

Louis didn’t even know how to describe the way her name still echoed through his chest, like a ghost rattling around a house too big for one person. The ache she left behind was a dull throb, ever-present, like pressing on a bruise that never quite healed. She’d always been the heart of them—bossy, brilliant, relentless in her love and loyalty. She had this way of dragging them out of their own heads, of making everything feel manageable, even when it wasn’t.

She would’ve been furious if she saw them now.

She would’ve stood in the middle of their crumbling lives with her hands on her hips, eyes blazing, voice sharp and cracking like a whip. “You’re all acting like bloody idiots,” she’d snap. She’d give Louis a good smack on the head, probably throw something at Zayn, and then point at Harry and say something maddeningly spot-on that would make him sulk for an hour.

“I died. Wasn’t that enough of a wake-up call?” she’d say.

And God, what Louis wouldn’t give to hear her say it. To be scolded, chastised, loved in that particular Eleanor way—fierce and stubborn and deeply, desperately caring. What he wouldn’t give to argue with her again, to storm out and then come back, to sit on her floor and listen to her complain about everything and nothing, with her legs tangled underneath her and a cigarette burning between her fingers.

But she was gone. And all he had left were the dreams.

They came more often now, crueler with each passing week. Some nights, she came to him smiling, wearing that worn denim jacket of hers, eyes full of mischief like she’d never left. But more often than not, they were nightmares. Cold, grainy reels playing over and over again behind his eyes. The street was always the same—wet pavement glistening under the glow of a too-yellow streetlamp. Eleanor’s hair, once vibrant purple, looked faded, almost grey, spread out like a halo around her head. Her eyes were open but unseeing, dull and lifeless, fixed on a sky that never cleared.

He remembered the first time he saw her like that in the morgue. It never stopped haunting him. The silence. The way everything around her had been so still, like the whole world had taken a breath and never let it go. He had dropped to his knees beside her without feeling it. His voice had cracked when he said her name. She hadn’t answered.

And then there were the other dreams—the softer ones, if they could be called that. Memories, mostly. Sometimes distorted. Sometimes painfully vivid. Like that one from his thirteenth birthday. He remembered sitting on his bed, knees drawn to his chest, Eleanor sprawled out beside him with a half-eaten cupcake in her hand. He’d been complaining about being the last in his class who hadn’t had his first kiss, whining like the world was ending.

She’d laughed at him. Called him dramatic. Then she’d leaned in and kissed him.

It hadn’t meant anything—not in the romantic sense. But it had meant everything, in a way only thirteen-year-old hearts could understand. She’d given him that moment because he’d needed it, because that was just who she was. It had been clumsy and awkward and perfect. He would trade everything he owned to go back to that night. To be thirteen again, his only problem being the kiss he thought he was missing out on. To have Eleanor lying next to him, alive, warm, teasing him like she always did.

Now, the only thing that could drag him back from those dreams—good or bad—was Harry.

Harry, who never asked questions when Louis woke up gasping for air, drenched in sweat and tears. Who always seemed to know when it had been that kind of dream. He would pull Louis into his arms without a word, wrap him up like he was something precious, something worth saving. He’d hold him gently, rock them back and forth in the dark, and whisper sweet nothings into his hair.

Louis would bury his face in Harry’s shoulder and sob—not always knowing exactly what for. For Eleanor. For Riley. For the boy he used to be and the man he was afraid he’d become. For the way his mum probably knew he was slipping again, could probably see it in his face when they video called. For Zayn, who had stopped pretending he was still trying. For Harry, who never let go even when he should.

They didn’t know how to save themselves, but they knew how to fall together.

It had always been that way. If one of them was spiraling, the others would spiral too. It wasn’t spoken aloud, not really, but it was understood. A pact sealed in whispered promises and shaking hands, long nights and shared silence. They could only self-destruct in sync. It was the only rhythm they knew anymore. Together—or not at all.

Oli had found some kind of middle ground—not quite clean, not quite drowning. Always orbiting their chaos at just the right distance. He wasn’t immune to the pain or the pull of it, but he handled it differently. He became the caretaker. The one who stayed just sober enough to look after the rest of them, to make sure none of them ended up in a hospital or worse. He played the role like it was second nature, wearing calm like a mask so well it almost looked real.

He was the one who sourced the pills, just to be safe. Just to make sure they weren’t buying something that might kill them outright. He had a list of people he trusted and a list of people he didn’t, and he was very meticulous about it. He was the one holding back their hair when they were vomiting in toilets, the one pulling their heads onto his lap when they shook from a bad high, the one who wiped down the counters in the morning and made sure they had water and aspirin by their beds.

Louis had no idea how Oli kept it together—how he managed to be everywhere at once, a shadow stitched into the corners of all their lives. Always just a step behind, never making a fuss, never needing attention. He was like muscle memory, the quiet rhythm of comfort they didn’t know they needed until he was there, handing them a blanket or checking their pulse with steady fingers.

Louis was grateful. He was grateful for all of them, even if they were broken, even if they were bleeding out beside him. But more than anything—beneath the layers of numbness and drugs and sleepless nights—all he wanted was to hear Riley laughing in the next room. To hear the familiar thud of his footsteps on the stairs, the clatter of cereal bowls in the kitchen. All he wanted was to have Eleanor lying on the couch again, kicking his feet off her lap while she ranted about something unimportant, something that mattered just because she cared.

But Riley wasn’t coming back. And Eleanor was never going to walk through the door again.

Somewhere in the early hours of the morning, Louis found himself standing in the hallway, staring into the open door of Riley’s bedroom. The light from the streetlamps outside filtered in through the half-closed blinds, casting stripes of shadow across the carpet. The room was untouched—still the same as the last day Riley had slept there. The bed was unmade, corners of the duvet kicked loose like a boy had just rolled out of it. Pokemon cards littered the floor in a colorful mess, and a hoodie hung off the edge of the chair like Riley had only stepped out for a minute.

But he hadn’t stepped out. He’d left. And he wasn’t coming back.

Louis didn’t hear Harry approach, but suddenly he was there, quiet and warm beside him, like he always was. His presence was never loud—just steady. Familiar. The only constant Louis had left.

They stood there in silence for a long moment, looking into the ghost of a life that used to be theirs. A room that still smelled faintly of bubblegum and cheap shampoo. Louis leaned into Harry’s side without thinking, needing the contact like oxygen.

“I miss him,” he said, his voice barely a breath in the stillness.

“I know, Lou. Me too,” Harry replied softly, his arm coming up to wrap around Louis’s shoulders. He rested his chin gently against Louis’s hair, holding him like he could absorb some of the ache if he pressed close enough.

It didn’t help. Not really. That kind of comfort had stopped working a long time ago, even though they both still pretended it hadn’t.

“He doesn’t even call anymore,” Louis whispered, his voice raw, eyes burning as he finally tore his gaze away from the room. He couldn’t look at it another second. It felt like staring at a wound that would never close.

Harry didn’t say anything at first. Just held him a little tighter, like he knew there was nothing left to say. Then, finally, he murmured, “Come on, love.”

And just like that, they were moving. Like muscle memory. Like falling into a pattern too familiar to break. Minutes later, they were dressed and out the door, walking side by side down the mostly empty streets. The city was quiet in that surreal, early morning way—streetlights flickering, shop windows dark, the world caught in the strange stillness before dawn.

Harry had sent a quick text to Zayn before they left. We’re coming over.

Zayn had replied in seconds. Everyone’s here already.

That was all it took rhese days.

It had been disturbingly easy, the way everything fell into place. Like their bodies wanted the numbness. Like their minds couldn’t bear another minute of clarity. Louis didn’t even flinch when Zayn handed him the little white pill, pressing it into his palm like a secret, like a promise. He didn’t question what it was, didn’t need to. If it burned less than the ache in his chest, that was enough.

The high hit like warm water in his veins. Everything inside him loosened, softened, blurred. The sharp edges dulled. The ache faded to a distant echo.

And for a little while, the holes inside him—Riley-shaped, Eleanor-shaped—were filled with powder and pills.

It was fake. He knew that. He knew it would wear off and leave him emptier than before. But for a few short hours, he could forget. He could close his eyes and pretend the world hadn’t fallen apart. He could laugh at something stupid Zayn said. He could lie on the couch with Harry’s head on his chest and feel like maybe—just maybe—they weren’t falling apart.

Zayn’s flat was already thick with the scent of smoke and sweat when they walked in. Music pulsed low from a speaker in the corner—something ambient and warped, like it was coming from underwater. The lights were dimmed, most of the room lit only by the soft amber glow of a lava lamp and the blue flicker of a silent TV screen.

The air was heavy with it—forgetting. You could feel it the moment you crossed the threshold, like the whole flat was suspended in time, untouched by anything outside its walls.

Niall was laughing too loudly at something Oli had just said, clutching a half-empty bottle of tequila like it was holy. His cheeks were flushed, eyes glassy, his laughter spilling out of him in unfiltered waves. He was off his face, leaning against the back of the couch with one shoe missing, his hair sticking to his forehead. There was something childlike about it, how quickly he let himself get swept away. He’d always been like that. All heart, no brakes.

Oli was perched on the windowsill, one leg dangling over the side, eyes half-lidded, slow and dreamy as he passed a joint between his fingers. He was high, definitely, but still sort of present in that way Oli always managed to be. Watching everything, noting every movement like he was cataloguing the night in his mind. His voice was quieter than the rest, calm and level, offering sharp observations between slow blinks and long drags.

Amelia was curled up on the arm of the sofa with a glass of gin in one hand and a cigarette in the other, her eyeliner smudged at the corners. She looked the most composed—just drunk, really—but her eyes betrayed her. They shimmered a little too much. She wasn’t slurring her words, wasn’t stumbling like the rest of them, but there was a weight in her silence that didn’t go unnoticed. She only spoke when she had something real to say, which meant she wasn’t saying much tonight.

Zayn was stretched out on the carpet, one hand buried in his curls, the other lazily rolling a joint he’d probably never finish. His pupils were blown wide, jaw slack, the sharp lines of his face softened by whatever cocktail he’d taken. He kept humming to himself, quiet and tuneless, head rocking slightly to music no one else could hear. Every now and then, he’d say something that didn’t make sense—words strung together like poetry with no clear meaning, but nobody questioned it. Nobody cared.

Louis and Harry had ended up on the floor, backs against the worn-out leather couch, legs tangled. A bottle of something brown sat between them, long forgotten but not empty. Louis was beyond drunk—his thoughts slow, syrupy, his body heavy in that way it got when he was too far gone to stand but not far enough to pass out. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d eaten. Couldn’t remember what had been in the last pill he took. Didn’t really care.

Harry was in a similar state. He kept reaching for Louis without realizing it—hands brushing against his arm, head dropping against his shoulder like gravity had chosen Louis as his anchor. His curls were a mess, shirt sticking to his skin from sweat and spilled liquor. His voice was thick, low, when he spoke.

“You remember the beach house?” Harry slurred into Louis’s neck, his breath warm and sweet with alcohol.

Louis let out a soft, bitter laugh. “Which one? The one where Zayn broke the kitchen window or the one where Eleanor got sunburnt and refused to admit it?”

Harry smiled, slow and sleepy. “The one we took Riley to.”

Louis’s face twitched. A breath hitched in his throat, but he didn’t say anything. Just closed his eyes and let the memory wash over him like salt water—sting and all.

Across the room, Niall had collapsed sideways into Amelia’s lap, giggling about something incoherent. She let him, stroking his hair absently as she took a long sip from her glass. Oli had migrated to the floor by then, sitting cross-legged beside Zayn, their heads tilted toward each other in some quiet, stoned conversation that drifted in and out of earshot like smoke.

Zayn lit the joint eventually, the flame from his lighter briefly illuminating the hollow curve of his cheekbone. He took a long, slow drag and passed it to Louis without a word. Louis took it with shaking fingers, inhaled deeply, and felt the edges of reality blur even further.

No one was really talking anymore. They were all just existing—floaty, wrecked, tangled together like a pile of limbs and heartbreak on a sinking ship.

Someone started crying. Louis wasn’t sure who. It could’ve been him.

The music shifted to something softer. Slower. A song Eleanor used to love. He couldn’t remember the title—just the way she used to sing it with her eyes closed, like she was praying.

Harry was still clinging to him, whispering something over and over. Louis couldn’t make out the words. They sounded like please .

And somewhere in the haze, with his head on Harry’s shoulder and the world spinning too fast to keep up, Louis thought— this is what dying slowly must feel like. Not with a bang, but with silence. With laughter and music and too many pills. With your best friends beside you, all broken in different ways, none of you willing to stop.

At some point in the night, Louis slipped beneath the surface. The noise of Zayn’s flat—the low thrum of music, the soft hum of the TV, the rustle of bodies shifting in half-sleep—faded into a blur, distant and weightless. He was still on the carpet, curled loosely against Harry’s side, his arm slack where it had fallen across his chest. But his mind was drifting somewhere far from the room, guided by the familiar warmth of the high and the ache beneath it that never truly went away.

The dream began quietly, as dreams like this always did. A white room. Cold air. The buzz of fluorescent lights overhead and the harsh scent of antiseptic crawling up his nose. Rehab. Louis knew the space before he even looked around. The linoleum floors, the narrow beds bolted to the walls, the cinderblock walls painted over in a too-bright beige—he had lived inside this room long before he’d ever walked through its doors. It was carved into him, every angle of it familiar and unforgiving.

The door creaked open, and Louis turned his head toward the sound. There he was.

A boy stood in the doorway like a ghost in human skin—wide-eyed, motionless, clearly wishing he could vanish into the floor. He looked no older than sixteen, tall but curled in on himself, as if trying to make his body smaller. His curls were wild and unruly, his cheeks blotchy and pink, the unmistakable signs of someone who had been crying too long and too hard. Louis could almost feel the heat radiating off his shame.

He wanted to scream, to snap out of it, but all he could do was watch himself get up from the bed. He wished he hadn‘t done that, wished he had ignored him, requested a room change, anything other that this.

But there wasn’t anything he could do, so Louis did what he always did when he was afraid—he smiled. It didn’t reach his eyes, but it was something. He pushed himself upright on the bed and leaned back on his elbows, adopting a tone he hoped sounded casual. “Hey there, roommate,” he said, the words light and teasing, like this was just some awkward university dorm instead of the dead-end waiting room of hell. “Welcome to paradise.”

The boy didn’t smile, but something in his shoulders eased. Just a little. Like he had been holding his breath and was finally letting a little of it out.

Louis stood up and crossed the room slowly, his steps soft against the linoleum. The air between them was stiff, electric with uncertainty. He reached out a hand, offered it in a gesture he’d rehearsed countless times. “I’m Louis,” he said, tone easy, like he hadn’t been one heartbeat away from screaming just a moment earlier. “Nice to meet you.”

The boy stared at his hand for a long moment, then finally reached out to take it. His grip was hesitant, damp with sweat, fingers trembling ever so slightly. Louis said nothing about it.

“Harry,” the boy whispered. His voice was barely there, like even saying his name aloud might be too much.

Louis let go and stepped back, just enough to give him space. He could see it all now—the glassiness in Harry’s eyes, the way his skin seemed to hang on him like it didn’t quite fit. This was what withdrawal looked like. Louis had seen it before. He knew it by heart. The flush on Harry’s cheeks was leftover heat from the car ride here, or maybe the beginnings of a fever. His shoulders drooped under an invisible weight that only people like them carried.

He shoved his hands into his pockets, trying not to let the weight of it all sink into him, and asked, “So, how long are you in for?”

Harry sat down slowly on the edge of the bed across from Louis’s, moving like every muscle in his body ached. He set down his duffel bag and lowered himself to the mattress, his expression distant. “A month,” he said quietly, almost to himself. “At least that’s what they told me.”

Louis remembered what came after, too. The weeks of teaching Harry how to slip beneath the radar. Showing him how to cheat the tests, how to keep a spare pill tucked under his tongue. He had meant to help. Had meant to protect him. But all he had done was pull him down.

You were supposed to protect him.

He wanted to vomit.

He watched it happen from an outside perspective, unable to do anything about it. He wanted to scream but he couldn’t, he wanted to change the past but it was already too late. And just as the guilt began to rise like bile in his throat, the dream shifted.

The lights warmed. The cold floors softened. Suddenly, Louis was twenty-one, sitting alone at a small round table in a coffee shop downtown. The air was thick with the smell of espresso and cinnamon. Morning light streamed through the foggy windows, catching on the rim of his chipped coffee cup. His notebook was open in front of him, ink smudged where he’d started writing something and stopped halfway through.

The bell over the door rang, and he looked up.

There he was.

Harry. But not the boy from rehab. Not the broken thing Louis had found on that first day, trembling and exhausted. This Harry was different. Brighter. He still had the curls, but they were pulled back in a loose tie. His cheeks had color, his movements were fluid. His clothes were simple but clean, and there was a stillness in him—a sense of peace Louis had never seen before.

He didn’t recognize him.

He ordered his drink—latte, two sugars—and thanked the barista with a soft smile that felt like a sunbeam to the face. Then he walked to a table by the window, took out a book from his tote bag, and settled into the seat like he belonged there. Like he had always belonged in a place like this.

Louis sat frozen, his heart thrumming in his chest. For a moment, he couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe. He watched Harry sip his drink, watched his lips curve around a smile at something in his book. It was beautiful. It was unbearable.

Eventually, Louis stood. He crossed the room with shaking legs, unsure what he would say—if anything at all. But he stopped beside Harry’s table and waited. Harry looked up, startled for only a second, before tilting his head politely.

“Do I… know you?” he asked, his voice soft and warm.

Louis stared at him. There were a thousand things he wanted to say. You trusted me when you shouldn’t have. I loved you. I ruined you. But he didn’t say any of them. Instead, he smiled gently, a small, painful smile.

“No,” he said quietly. “I don’t think so.”

Harry’s brows knitted slightly, but he let it go. He smiled again—soft, patient, kind. “Okay,” he said. “You looked like you had something on your mind.”

Louis laughed under his breath, but it cracked on the way out. “Yeah,” he murmured, stepping back. “Something like that.”

And then he turned around and walked away.

The last thing he saw before the dream ended was Harry flipping a page in his book, sipping his coffee, perfectly fine. Whole. He’d survived without Louis. Maybe because of it.

When Louis opened his eyes, the ceiling of Zayn’s flat greeted him—cracked paint, dim blue light from the TV, smoke still lingering in the air. His body ached, dry-mouthed and heavy, and every part of him felt like it had been scraped raw.

But beside him, still there, still awake, was Harry. Watching him. Their eyes met, and Louis’s throat tightened. The dream still lingered, a phantom pressing against his ribs. He swallowed, then whispered, “I wish I met you later.”

Harry just looked at him with that same old ache in his eyes, mixed with something deeper—something that might’ve been love. Finally, he reached out and brushed a strand of hair from Louis’s forehead and didn‘t say anything.

By the time they left Zayn’s flat, the streets had begun to wake, sluggish and damp under a sky that threatened rain but never delivered. The city looked washed out, muted, the edges of buildings blurred by fog and low light. The kind of morning that crept rather than arrived. The kind of morning that felt too quiet, like it was waiting for something awful to happen. Louis pulled his coat tighter around himself, though he wasn’t cold. Beside him, Harry walked in silence, one hand buried in his pocket, the other rubbing absently at his jaw as they moved through the familiar streets like strangers.

Neither of them said much on the walk home. There was nothing left to say, not after a night like that—when the high wore off and left behind only the wreckage, when the sharp clarity of daylight made everything look worse than it had in the dark. Louis kept stealing glances at Harry, catching the tension in his jaw, the way he blinked like he hadn’t slept, like he’d spent the whole night watching Louis instead. He wondered if Harry had seen the dream play out on his face, if he’d noticed the way Louis had clung to him, even in sleep.

When they reached their building, Louis felt the weight of returning in his chest. Home didn’t feel like home anymore. The front door creaked open like it was exhaling, and their flat welcomed them with the smell of dust, stale air, and something slightly sour—maybe the laundry they hadn’t bothered to do, or maybe just the rot that came from a place full of too many ghosts. Louis stepped inside first and froze. Nothing had changed. The blanket on the back of the sofa was still half-folded. A mug with Riley’s name on it sat forgotten on the coffee table. His trainers—too small now—still sat by the door like he’d be coming back for them.

Harry hovered behind him for a second too long before moving past. He didn’t say anything, but Louis could feel his eyes on him. Watching. Waiting. There was a question on the tip of his tongue— what’s going on with you? —but Harry had always been good at swallowing the things he wanted to ask. That was the curse of them. They knew each other too well to lie, but not well enough to say the truth out loud.

Louis moved toward the kitchen without purpose, opened a cupboard, shut it again. His hands were shaking, not from withdrawal, not from fear—something more subtle than that. A tremor born from something deeper, from memory and grief and the ache of wanting to be someone different than who he was. Behind him, Harry said nothing. Just leaned against the wall with his arms crossed, watching like he could see Louis’s pulse in his throat.

“You okay?” he asked finally. His voice was quiet. Careful. Not prying, not accusing—just present.

Louis stared into the empty sink. The question hung there between them, unanswered. Because no , of course he wasn’t okay. And Harry knew that. They both did.

He didn’t turn around. Just said, “Yeah,” too quickly, too flatly, and let the silence answer for him.

There was a pause. A thick one. A pause that tasted like every time they’d chosen silence over confrontation. Then Harry stepped closer. Not rushed, not demanding. Just there , again. The way he always was. Louis didn’t look at him until he was near enough to touch, and when he did—when he finally lifted his gaze—it was like the air shifted between them.

Harry’s face was open. His eyes tired but soft. He didn’t speak again. Didn’t push. Just reached out slowly, carefully, like Louis might startle. His fingers brushed the edge of Louis’s hand, and that was all it took. A single touch. A breath. The space between them cracked open like ice giving way underfoot.

Louis didn’t mean to move first, but he did. Stepping forward, he met Harry’s mouth in a kiss that wasn’t urgent or polished—it just was. It lingered, uncertain at first, lips parting slowly, the warmth of it building in increments. There was no urgency, no high buzzing through their blood, no fog clouding their senses. It was the first time in nearly two months that they were both completely sober. And it showed.

It was gentler than it had ever been before. Louis’s hands found Harry’s waist, hesitant, as though he didn’t trust himself to touch without taking too much. Harry leaned into him, not forceful, just present, letting their bodies reconnect without the crutch of oblivion. Louis felt every inch of it—every slow drag of Harry’s lips, every quiet exhale against his cheek, every stuttering breath when their foreheads pressed together between kisses.

They didn’t speak as they made their way down the hallway, fingers tangled, feet stumbling quietly over the clutter of a life that had unraveled too fast. The bedroom was dim, curtains still drawn, the bed unmade from the morning before. Louis pulled his shirt over his head and tossed it aside, watching Harry do the same. Their clothes fell to the floor in a trail, unceremonious, nothing like the urgency of past nights. This time, they undressed like they were peeling away grief.

When Louis guided Harry down onto the bed, it felt different. Grounded. Raw. Like they were building something out of the ruins instead of hiding inside them. Every movement was slow, deliberate. Not chasing pleasure, not even comfort—just connection . Skin on skin, breaths shared, the weight of hands settling gently into the small of a back or the curve of a hip. There were no words, only quiet sighs, the kind that sounded like relief and ache all at once.

Louis pressed his forehead to Harry’s shoulder at one point, letting himself be still there, breathing in the salt of his skin, the faint scent of shampoo and sleep. Harry’s hand cupped the back of his neck, thumb brushing slowly at the edge of his hairline like he was afraid Louis might slip away if he stopped.

The world outside stopped existing. There was only this. This tangle of limbs and trust, of unspoken apologies and long-held need. And when they finally came together—when Louis buried his face against Harry’s chest and whispered his name like it was a prayer—it wasn’t about sex at all.

It was about surviving.

Afterwards, they stayed in bed. Neither of them moved. Louis lay half across Harry’s chest, ear pressed to his heartbeat, eyes open and dry. For the first time in weeks, the silence didn’t feel like drowning. It felt like breathing.

“I had a dream about you,” Louis murmured, his voice hoarse but quiet, like he wasn’t sure if he meant to say it aloud.

Harry didn’t ask what the dream was. He didn’t need to. He just let his hand drift through Louis’s hair, fingers combing gently through the strands, never stopping. When he finally spoke, it was barely louder than a breath.

“I know.”

Louis closed his eyes. The dream still pressed behind his eyelids like film left playing on loop. The coffee shop. Harry’s smile. That impossible relief of never having met.

Notes:

Apology speech is drafted guys.

Chapter 51: Chapter 51

Notes:

I am back once more to serve you your dose of emotional distress!

It started like all the nights did now — no plan, no real destination, just a group text from Niall that said Oli’s mate’s throwing something, bring whatever you’ve got left. They showed up already half gone, buzzing on whatever they’d popped before they even left the flat, Louis chewing the inside of his cheek, Harry’s pupils already blown wide, hand wrapped tight around Louis’ wrist like a leash.

The house was somewhere in Hackney, half-derelict, half-posh, the kind of place where someone’s mum probably paid the mortgage but no one had cleaned in ages. The garden was full of cigarette smoke and laughter that sounded just slightly too sharp, and the music was so loud the windows shook in their frames.

Everyone was already there — of course they were. Zayn draped over the back of a sofa, hoodie half off his shoulder, fingers tracing nonsense into Amelia’s thigh while she pretended not to notice. Niall was dancing on the coffee table, shirt gone, drink sloshing everywhere, shouting something about free the nipple to absolutely no one. Oli was pouring something pink and dangerous into plastic cups, already too fucked to care if anyone was actually drinking it.

And Harry and Louis — they fit right back into it like slipping into old skin.

The first pill came from Niall’s palm, pressed into Louis’ mouth with a grin too wide, too bright, the kind that made Louis’ stomach twist because Niall was never supposed to follow him back down this far. The second came from Zayn, pinched between two fingers, no explanation, no name, just swallowed dry because why the fuck not. The third, Harry split with Louis in the kitchen, biting down on the little white tab, kissing Louis filthy against the fridge so Louis could taste the bitterness on Harry’s tongue.

They were laughing before they knew why, clutching each other’s faces, bumping teeth, swaying like they were on a boat no one else could see. The floor was too far away, and the lights were too bright, and everything was funny . Even the fact that they were probably killing themselves.

“Forever Young” came on around midnight — someone’s fucked up idea of a joke, probably Niall again — and they all screamed it like a prayer, like a curse, like they could force the universe to listen just by being loud enough.

“LET US DIE YOUNG OR LET US LIVE FOREVER—”

Louis was on the table by then, Harry pulling him up by the wrist, both of them howling the words into each other’s faces, arms wrapped around each other’s necks like they were about to go down with the ship. Zayn was on the arm of the sofa, eyes glassy, cigarette dangling from his fingers, singing along softer, sadder, already too high to match their energy. Amelia was dancing with her eyes closed, spinning like she was trying to leave her body behind. Niall was half on the floor, laughing so hard he couldn’t breathe, Oli trying and failing to lift him back up.

Louis couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt this alive. Couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt this gone . There was no Riley in the back of his mind. No job to wake up for. No responsibility except this — Harry’s hands in his, Harry’s voice in his ear, Harry’s body pressed up against his like they could keep each other standing through sheer force of will.

They didn’t make a plan. They never did. But one minute they were in the middle of the room, and the next Louis had Harry pressed up against the bathroom sink, the door locked with something they probably shouldn’t have trusted to hold.

“Want you,” Harry slurred against Louis’ mouth, hands already pulling at Louis’ jeans, too impatient to work the button properly. “Right fucking now.”

“Yeah,” Louis groaned, head falling back, hands sliding up Harry’s thighs, fingertips pressing into skin like he was trying to leave bruises. “Fuck yeah.”

They were a mess — high and sloppy, tripping over each other’s clothes, bumping elbows and knees and teeth, laughing through the whole thing until Louis’ hand found Harry’s throat and squeezed just enough to make Harry’s eyes flutter shut.

“Together,” Louis whispered, forehead pressed to Harry’s. “Remember?”

“Always,” Harry whispered back, eyes too wide, too bright, pupils swallowing the green. “Always.”

They fucked against the sink, Louis’ hand over Harry’s mouth when they got too loud, Harry’s nails digging into Louis’ back hard enough to leave marks for days. It wasn’t soft, wasn’t sweet — it was frantic, desperate, like if they stopped moving, they’d have to feel everything waiting in the silence.

They came almost at the same time, Harry biting down on Louis’ shoulder to keep from screaming, Louis’ knees going weak as he emptied into Harry, forehead pressed to Harry’s collarbone, sweat sticking them together.

They stayed there after, slumped against each other, breathing hard, the bathroom too hot, the music shaking the walls. Louis’ heart was pounding so hard he could feel it in his fingertips, and Harry was still grinning, eyes wild, body twitchy and warm.

“I love you,” Harry said, voice wrecked.

“I love you more,” Louis said, voice breaking for a whole different reason.

They cleaned up with someone’s crumpled hoodie they found on the floor — probably Niall’s — and stumbled back into the party like nothing had happened, hands still tangled, Louis’ jeans hanging too low on his hips, Harry’s curls sticking to his forehead with sweat.

Zayn clocked them immediately, rolling his eyes, muttering something about how they couldn’t go ten minutes without shagging. Amelia threw an arm around Louis’ neck, pulling him into a spinning dance that made his stomach flip. Niall handed Harry another pill, and Harry took it without thinking.

No one mentioned how Louis’ hands were shaking again. No one mentioned the fact that Harry’s grin was just a little too wide. No one asked why they both looked a little bit like they were on the edge of tears.

They were all falling, together.

Or not at all.

 

It was a Tuesday, or maybe a Wednesday. They didn’t really keep track anymore. Time didn’t move the way it used to — not when they were this far under, living from one high to the next, floating from one party to the next bed to the next sunrise without really caring what came in between.

But tonight, for once, it was just the two of them.

The flat was quiet — the kind of quiet Louis didn’t know if he loved or hated. No Niall shouting over the telly. No Zayn disappearing into the bathroom with a roll-up and a bottle. No Amelia perched on the windowsill, smoking and judging them all with that soft disappointment only she could pull off. Just Louis and Harry and a little plastic bag between them, its contents spilling out onto the coffee table like an offering.

“Should we—” Louis started, but Harry was already leaning forward, tipping out enough powder to get them both floating.

“Yeah,” Harry said, too soft, too easy, already grinning.

Louis didn’t even ask what it was. Could’ve been anything — maybe ket, maybe coke, maybe something else they didn’t know. Didn’t matter. It wasn’t about the drug anymore. It was about what it gave them — the bubble, the hush, the space where nothing hurt and everything felt possible.

Louis watched Harry roll up a fiver, hands too steady for someone who should be trembling, and that was the terrifying part — how good they were at this again, how natural it felt. Like breathing. Like kissing. Like falling.

Harry snorted first, then handed Louis the note, eyes already wide and glassy, pupils swallowing green. Louis leaned in, nose to the table, and inhaled slow and deep, the burn sharp and familiar, the taste sour and chemical on the back of his throat.

And then they floated.

It wasn’t the wild kind of high tonight — not the frantic, skin-tingling, run-till-you-drop buzz they usually chased. This was softer. Slower. Like someone had turned down the volume on the whole world until it was just them, breathing in sync, bodies warm and loose.

Harry curled into Louis’ side, face pressed to his neck, arms slung low around his waist. “Miss you,” Harry mumbled, lips brushing Louis’ skin.

“I’m right here,” Louis said, fingers tracing lazy circles up and down Harry’s spine.

“Yeah,” Harry whispered, “but I still miss you . ”

Louis’ heart squeezed, but the drugs softened the edges of the ache until it was almost sweet. He kissed Harry’s forehead, slow and soft, the kind of kiss that didn’t lead anywhere except here.

They ended up in bed, not fucking, not like the last time — this wasn’t frantic or desperate, no clothes being ripped off, no bruises left behind. Just slow touches, shirts peeled off lazily, hands tracing ribs and hips and the curve of each other’s backs like they had all the time in the world.

Louis kissed Harry like it was the first time, soft and deep, fingers threading into his hair, bodies pressed together just for the warmth of it. Harry’s breath hitched when Louis’ hand slid under his waistband, but even that was slow — fingers tracing him lazily, no urgency, no need to chase a high they already had.

“Love you,” Harry said, softer than a breath.

Louis kissed him again, right over his heart. “Love you too.”

They took turns like that, mouths on skin, hands moving like they had nowhere else to be, nothing else to do. Harry came first, shaking slightly, eyes half-lidded and shining, Louis’ hand working him through it slow and steady. Louis followed not long after, Harry’s mouth warm and wet around him, not a performance, just something easy and natural, like breathing.

After, they lay tangled up, Louis’ hand tracing the letters on Harry’s wrist — Together. Harry did the same to Louis, fingers skimming over Or not at all , their skin worn soft where the ink had settled into scar tissue.

It should’ve hurt, Louis thought, seeing those words now, knowing they were keeping half the promise and breaking the rest every day. But it didn’t. Not tonight. Tonight they were together. That was enough.

“Stay awake,” Harry whispered, voice thick with sleep and leftover high.

“M’here,” Louis murmured.

And they stayed like that, wrapped up in each other, the drugs smoothing out every crack, every fear, every ache — until all that was left was the warmth of skin, the quiet hum of breath, and the two of them floating somewhere just below the surface, not quite drowning but nowhere near safe.

Louis woke up to sunlight.

Not the sharp, accusatory kind that usually stabbed through the curtains like a fucking interrogation lamp — just soft, pale light filtering through the gap in the blinds, warming the edge of the bed. The flat was quiet, still, and for one beautiful second Louis forgot. Forgot the pills, forgot the parties, forgot the ache in his ribs from where he’d fallen into a table two nights ago. Forgot Riley was gone.

Harry was still asleep, half on Louis’ chest, curls tickling his throat, arm slung low across Louis’ stomach. His face was soft, peaceful, none of the jittery tension that usually lingered even when he slept. His lips were slightly parted, breath warm and slow against Louis’ skin.

For the first time in weeks, Louis didn’t feel like running.

He lay still, one hand tracing slow lines down Harry’s back, the other resting on the small swell of Harry’s hip. The covers were kicked low, leaving them bare from the waist up, skin sticky from sleep and last night’s slow mess. It felt like years since they’d touched each other like that — not out of desperation or fear, not to chase something bigger — just because . Because they were Louis and Harry, and this was what their bodies knew how to do.

Louis pressed his nose into Harry’s hair, breathing him in, that faint mix of shampoo and skin and the last whisper of whatever they’d taken. It felt normal , terrifyingly normal, like the last few weeks hadn’t happened. Like they could still be this — just two bodies in a bed, nowhere to be, no ghosts haunting the hallway.

He didn’t want to move. Didn’t want to break the spell.

But reality didn’t care about what he wanted, that much had been made clear over the years. Spells were for fairy tales, and as nice as they were, their life was far from a fairy tale.

His phone buzzed somewhere across the room, and Louis ignored it, but Harry stirred anyway, wrinkling his nose, making a soft, unhappy noise before blinking up at Louis with sleep-wrecked eyes.

“Morning,” Harry rasped, voice thick and soft.

“Morning,” Louis whispered back, brushing curls off Harry’s forehead.

Harry smiled — a real, sleepy smile, not the too-bright grin he’d been wearing like armour lately — and Louis’ heart clenched so hard it hurt. This is who we are, he thought. Underneath all the shit, this is still us.

“You okay?” Harry asked, still half-asleep.

Louis didn’t know how to answer that, so he kissed him instead, slow and warm, hand cupping the back of Harry’s neck. Harry melted into it, body soft and pliant, fingers curling into Louis’ ribs like an anchor.

They stayed like that, kissing lazy and slow, nothing urgent, just mouths learning each other all over again, until Louis’ stomach growled loud enough to break the moment. Harry snorted into his mouth, and Louis couldn’t help but laugh too, forehead pressed to Harry’s, both of them shaking with it.

“I’ll make tea,” Harry said, voice still scratchy. “Proper one. Three sugars.”

“Livin’ dangerously,” Louis teased, but his chest felt warm, too full of something tender to name.

They made breakfast together — actual breakfast, not just leftover takeaway or dry toast — standing too close in the kitchen, bumping hips, Harry humming something soft under his breath while Louis scrambled eggs. It felt almost normal , like the version of themselves they used to be before everything went to shit.

They didn’t talk about last night. Didn’t talk about the pills, or the fact that they hadn’t been sober in weeks. They just were , and Louis clung to it like a lifeline.

They ate on the sofa, knees knocking together, sharing a plate because neither could be bothered to get another. Harry fed Louis bites with his fingers, grinning every time Louis bit too hard, and Louis pretended not to notice the slight tremor in Harry’s hands.

For a little while, they were just them again. Louis and Harry. Boys in love. Boys who survived too much and somehow still found their way back to each other.

But the thing about spells is — they always break.

It only took one text. Just past one in the afternoon, Louis’ phone buzzed again, and this time he checked it.

Zayn: You lot coming out tonight or are you playing house?

Louis’ stomach flipped, guilt souring the eggs still sitting in his gut. Harry peered over his shoulder, eyes bright with curiosity, already halfway to yes before Louis could even think.

“We could stay in,” Louis said carefully, testing the waters.

Harry’s nose scrunched, that soft crease appearing between his brows — the one that meant he didn’t quite understand why Louis would even suggest such a thing. “Why?”

Because I like this, Louis wanted to say. Because I like you soft and sleepy and still, not vibrating out of your skin. Because I miss who we are when we’re not high.

But Harry was already standing, stretching his arms over his head, the waistband of his joggers slipping low on his hips. “Come on,” Harry said, already reaching for his hoodie. “One night won’t hurt.”

Louis could have said no. Could have said this is the night we stay home, the night we start climbing back out. But Harry was grinning, and Louis’ resolve was made of paper. So he smiled back, grabbed his own coat, and followed Harry out the door.

It wasn’t one night. It never was.

The high from last night had barely faded before they were chasing the next one, back in Niall’s flat, back on Zayn’s sofa, back with pills in their palms and bottles in their hands and smoke curling between their fingers.

It didn’t matter that Louis’ ribs still ached from laughing too hard that morning. It didn’t matter that Harry’s smile had been real for the first time in weeks. None of it mattered once the music was loud enough, once the first pill hit, once they were dancing on a coffee table like they were invincible again.

One night turned into two, two turned into a week, and soon that sweet morning became nothing but a glitch — a fluke, a brief touch of the surface before they dove back under.

Louis didn’t talk about how much he missed that morning. How much he missed waking up slow, skin to skin, with nothing in their systems but love and sleep. Harry didn’t talk about how soft Louis’ hands had been when they made breakfast, or how good it felt to kiss with nothing between them.

They didn’t talk about it because it hurt too much. Because the truth was — they didn’t know how to get back there without tearing everything apart.

So they kept spiraling. Together.

Or not at all.

It had been a normal night — or as normal as nights got for them anymore. A shitty house party somewhere out near Camden, music loud enough to vibrate their bones, the whole place reeking of sweat and cheap weed and spilled cider. They’d come with Niall, already tipsy from drinks at Zayn’s, Harry pressed up against Louis’ side in the Uber, hand warm on Louis’ thigh, nose scrunching with every pothole they hit.

Louis should have known from the second they walked in that something was off. The energy felt wrong — sharper, darker, less fun, more desperate. Strangers hovered in corners, conversations quiet and secretive, and the drugs were passed around a little too easily.

Louis stuck close to Harry, the way he always did when things felt off. His fingers hooked into the back pocket of Harry’s jeans, a tether between them, something to make sure neither got lost.

But Harry was in a mood — restless, too bright, too loud, trying to chase a high that hadn’t hit yet. Louis was slower tonight, body tired and brain fogged, but Harry was on one , dancing too fast, flirting too much, throwing his arms around strangers like they were lifelong mates.

Louis had gone to piss — two minutes, that’s all — and when he came back, Harry was leaning against the kitchen counter, some lad Louis didn’t recognise whispering in his ear. Louis saw the little white pill before Harry did, the way the guy palmed it smooth into Harry’s hand, easy as a handshake.

“Harry,” Louis warned, voice sharp enough to cut through the noise.

Harry turned, already grinning, already half-gone. “What?” he shouted over the music, eyes wide and wild.

“Where the fuck did that come from?” Louis stepped closer, hand on Harry’s wrist, fingers digging into skin.

“S’just a pill,” Harry laughed, nose scrunching. “Calm down, baby.”

Louis’ heart clenched, stomach dropping fast and hard. “You don’t even know what it is.”

“Don’t care,” Harry said, tipping his head back, the pill disappearing behind his teeth before Louis could stop him.

Louis’ chest went tight with panic, too sharp to hide, but Harry was already moving, already dancing into the living room, already lost in the music and the crowd. Louis followed, heart hammering in his throat, hand wrapped around the back of Harry’s shirt like a lifeline.

It hit faster than anything Louis had ever seen.

One second Harry was dancing, spinning into Louis’ arms, grin so wide it almost split his face. The next, his knees buckled, body going soft, and Louis barely caught him before he hit the floor.

“Haz,” Louis said, shaking him, voice thin and sharp. “Harry, babe, look at me.”

Harry’s eyes were wrong — pupils blown so wide the green was barely visible, breath coming in short, shallow bursts. His skin was cold and clammy, hair sticking to his forehead, and when Louis pressed a hand to his chest, his heart was racing so fast it felt like it might explode.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” Louis muttered, lowering Harry to the floor, shaking his shoulders. “Stay with me, Play-Doh. Come on, stay with me.”

People were staring, stepping over them, laughing like it was a fucking joke. Louis’ hands were shaking, mind scrambling for what to do — call 999? Find Niall? Find Zayn?

The lad from the kitchen stepped into Louis’ line of sight, looking smug and bored, already moving to pass out more pills. Louis saw red.

He was on his feet before his brain could catch up, fists colliding with the guy’s face hard enough to split skin, the crunch loud even over the music. The bloke went down, but Louis followed, landing blow after blow, knuckles splitting wide, blood warm and slick under his hands.

“WHAT THE FUCK DID YOU GIVE HIM?” Louis screamed, voice cracking, fist slamming into bone until someone dragged him back, arms around his chest, pulling him off. Louis fought against it, teeth bared, body shaking with rage and fear so sharp it made him dizzy.

“You fucking gave him poison ,” Louis spat, lip bleeding, chest heaving. “He could fucking die .”

Harry was still on the floor, curled into himself, skin too pale, chest rising too fast. Louis broke free and dropped down beside him, cradling his face in shaking hands.

“Stay with me, Play Doh,” Louis begged, tears hot and fast. “Come on, baby. Breathe.”

Niall appeared out of nowhere, phone already to his ear, voice too calm. “Ambulance is coming,” he said, kneeling beside Louis, hand on his shoulder. “Just keep him awake.”

Louis’ hands wouldn’t stop shaking, fingers carding through Harry’s hair, tapping his cheek lightly every time his eyelids drooped. “Don’t fucking sleep,” Louis whispered, voice cracking. “You stay awake for me, yeah? You promised.”

 

Harry wasn’t breathing. His eyes were glazed over, far away, Louis felt like throwing up.

 

The ambulance came too bright, too loud, blue lights slashing through the night, paramedics pushing Louis back gently but firmly, asking too many questions Louis couldn’t answer.

“What did he take?”

“Where did it come from?”

“Has he been drinking too?”

Louis’ mouth wouldn’t work, heart too loud in his ears, body vibrating with leftover rage and sheer terror. Niall answered for him, and Louis’ hand stayed wrapped around Harry’s, fingers curled so tight his knuckles went white.

“I love you,” Louis whispered, over and over, like a prayer, like a promise, like an apology. “I love you. I love you. I love you.”

Harry’s fingers twitched once. Louis held on tighter.

Louis didn’t remember getting to the hospital. One second, he was in the ambulance, knuckles still sticky with someone else’s blood, Harry’s hand limp in his. The next, he was sitting in a plastic chair under fluorescent lights, the kind of lights that made everyone look dead already.

He couldn’t feel his own body. Not properly. His hands were numb, knees bouncing too fast, heart still racing from adrenaline and fear and leftover chemicals burning through his bloodstream. His shirt was crusted with something — blood or vomit or both — and his mouth tasted like metal.

Niall was there, sitting across from him, head tipped back against the wall, eyes closed, face pale. Zayn showed up a little while later, quiet and thin and twitchy, smelling like smoke and stress, a fresh split in his lip from whatever trouble he’d found after Louis left the party.

No one spoke. No one knew what to say.

Louis’ foot tapped a frantic rhythm on the floor. Niall told him to stop, once, too soft to really be a warning. Louis ignored him. He couldn’t stop moving. Couldn’t stop shaking. Couldn’t stop seeing it — Harry’s face, too pale and too still, Harry’s hand cold in his, Harry’s heart pounding itself to death under Louis’ palm.

“Mr. Tomlinson?”

Louis shot to his feet so fast the chair scraped back, knees buckling slightly before he caught himself. The nurse was standing in front of him, clipboard in hand, face calm and carefully neutral. That face told him nothing. It could mean anything. Everything.

“Is he—” Louis’ voice broke completely.

“He’s stable,” the nurse said gently. “He’s awake.”

Louis’ knees gave out for real this time, hands slamming into them to keep himself from falling. His breath came fast, short, ragged, like his lungs couldn’t figure out how to work again after holding it all night. Stable. Awake. Alive.

“Can I—” Louis couldn’t finish.

“He’s asking for you,” the nurse said with a soft smile. “Follow me.”

Louis’ legs barely worked, and every step toward the room felt like walking into a dream. Or a nightmare. His hands wouldn’t stop shaking, and when he reached the door, he had to press both palms flat against it just to ground himself. Together or not at all — the ink burned under his skin, a brand instead of a promise.

He pushed the door open.

Harry was there, pale against the hospital sheets, hair sticking up in sweaty curls, eyes bloodshot and too wide — but awake. Alive. Breathing. His hands were twitching where they rested on the blanket, fingers curling slightly, reaching for something that wasn’t there.

Louis didn’t even realise he was crying until Harry’s face softened into something fragile and guilty and too fucking sweet.

“Hey,” Harry whispered, voice wrecked.

Louis crossed the room in three steps, collapsing onto the edge of the bed, hands shaking as they cupped Harry’s face, thumbs brushing over his cheekbones like Louis had to make sure he was real, that he wasn’t touching a ghost. “What the fuck were you thinking?” Louis whispered, voice trembling with fury and relief and sheer devastation.

Harry’s eyes filled instantly, lips wobbling, breath catching. “I’m sorry.”

“Sorry doesn’t mean shit if you’re dead, Harry.” Louis’ voice broke completely, body shaking so hard he had to press his forehead to Harry’s. “I can’t do this without you.”

“I’m right here,” Harry whispered, fingers curling weakly around Louis’ wrist.

“You almost weren’t.” Louis’ breath came fast, shallow, choking on tears he couldn’t swallow. “Do you know what that would’ve done to me?”

Harry’s face crumpled, tears spilling down his temples into his hair. “I was stupid.”

“Yeah,” Louis choked out. “You were.”

“I’m sorry,” Harry whispered again, voice cracking. “I love you.”

Louis kissed him, messy and wet and desperate, like if he could just breathe Harry in, he could fix everything. Harry’s mouth opened under his, soft and trembling, tears mixing between them until Louis couldn’t tell whose were whose.

They sat like that for a long time, Louis curled into Harry’s side, Harry’s fingers tracing lazy patterns on Louis’ wrist, the machines beeping softly in the background like a reminder: he’s alive, he’s alive, he’s alive.

Niall poked his head in once, grinning through his own bloodshot eyes. “Told you he’s immortal.”

Louis flipped him off without looking, fingers still tangled with Harry’s.

They didn’t talk about what came next. Not yet. It was too fragile, too soon, too fucking terrifying. But Louis knew — knew somewhere deep in his bones — that this was it. The edge of the edge. If they kept going, one of them wouldn’t walk away next time.

And Louis had never been good at surviving without Harry.

Notes:

I was actually considering killing him off but decided against it, hope I gave everyone a good scare

Chapter 52: Chapter 52

Notes:

They‘re officially back at rock bottom. As sad as I am to see Amelia go, I think it‘s better that way. I feel a little sad in general the closer this fic is coming to its end. There‘s only two chapters left and then it‘ll be completed,feels a bit weird, honestly. I‘ve been working on this fic for… I think almost a seven months now if you count chapter planning and outlines. I would like to also speak a warning about the next chapter as it is rather… emotionally demanding and intense, so if you‘re unsure, now‘s the point where you close the tab and pretend the story ended before CPS came knocking.

That said, I do hope you enjoyed this chapter and don‘t hate me too much,
Lots of Love,
-Ace

Harry recovered like he always did — too fast, too easy, like his body was built for disaster. By the time they got him home, there was already colour back in his face, the wide-eyed terror of the overdose faded into something softer. Regret, maybe, but not enough to stop. They didn’t talk about stopping. The night he got discharged, they lay in bed, backs to the wall, legs tangled, a half-burned joint balanced between Louis’ fingers. The flat was too quiet. No mates crashing on the sofa, no bottles clinking in the sink. Just them, in the silence they’d been running from for months.

Harry’s head rested on Louis’ shoulder, breath warm against his skin, fingers tracing the veins in Louis’ wrist like they could make a map out of them. Louis took a drag, then held the joint to Harry’s mouth, watching him inhale slow, holding it deep before exhaling through his nose.

“Thought you were gonna die,” Louis said after a while, voice quiet, almost conversational.

“Didn’t,” Harry said, just as soft.

“Could’ve.”

Harry’s fingers tapped twice against Louis’ wrist — their version of don’t. Louis didn’t push. They weren’t ready to have the conversation where they admitted how bad it had gotten. They never were.

But silence couldn’t hold forever.

“We have to be smarter,” Louis said, after a long pause. “We’re not kids anymore. We can’t just take whatever gets handed to us.”

Harry’s fingers stilled. “I know.”

“I mean it, Haz.” Louis turned his head, nose brushing Harry’s curls. “If we’re gonna keep doing this—”

“We are,” Harry said, too fast.

Louis huffed a quiet laugh. “Of course we are. But if we are… we have to know where it’s coming from. We don’t take shit from strangers. We stick to what we know.”

Harry twisted to look at him, wide eyes scanning Louis’ face, like he was waiting for the catch. “That’s the rule?”

“That’s the rule.”

Harry nodded once, solemn, like they were writing a contract. “Deal.”

It was stupid. They both knew it. But it was something — a flimsy safety net stretched too thin, but better than nothing. They didn’t want to stop. Stopping meant facing the ache, the silence, the Riley-shaped hole in their lives. This was easier.

“We’re fine,” Harry said softly, like he was trying to convince both of them.

“We’re fine,” Louis echoed, kissing his forehead.

What even was fine? They were so far from it Louis couldn‘t remember the last time he had been truly fine. except he could. He was fine before Riley got taken from them, before Harry slipped back into his coke habit, before he started having nightmares of Eleanor and a version of Harry he hadn‘t dragged into his mess. That was the last time he was truly fine, that was months ago now. But was anybody ever truly fine? It was a spectrum, wasn‘t it? He was here, with Harry, his friends were there, just a couple blocks away each, so he had to be at least some version of fine, right? Except he felt as though nothing really mattered, hadn‘t for a while now. He just wanted to feel something, desperately, and seeing Harry collapsed on the floor, white as a ghost, had made him feel something, but he would rather feel nothing for the rest of his life than expierience that level of terror ever again.

So, they were fine, now. They had to be. Because what would happen if they admitted they weren‘t?

The next time they went out, the rules held — sort of. They bought from someone Zayn knew, someone they’d bought from before. Nothing laced, nothing cut with kitchen cleaner or rat poison or God knew what else. Just pills they recognised, bags they trusted.

“We’re responsible drug addicts now,” Niall joked, tipping a pill onto his tongue like it was a vitamin. “Proud of us.”

Louis laughed, even though it wasn’t funny.

Harry kissed him hard, pill dissolving between them, and Louis chased it with a shot, warm and sharp and familiar. This was better. This was safer. This was them, controlling the chaos.

They danced too close, sang too loud, laughed too hard, but it felt almost normal again — or as close to normal as they got. Louis’ hands stayed tight on Harry’s hips all night, fingers curling into the belt loops like a leash, like a promise. Together, or not at all.

At home, they started keeping a stash — nothing too heavy, just pills and weed, a little coke for the nights they needed to feel something sharp. It lived in the biscuit tin in the cupboard, the one that used to hold emergency fivers and Riley’s forgotten pocket money. Now it held their new version of survival.

They didn’t talk about it. They didn’t call it a problem. It was just how they lived now — a pill before the pub, a line before a night out, a joint before bed. Controlled. Managed. Fine.

Louis still caught himself reaching for his phone after, thumb hovering over Riley’s name like muscle memory. But Riley barely texted anymore. And Louis couldn’t exactly tell him the truth.

Hey kid, me and Harry are fine. Just high as fuck all the time now. How’s school?

So Louis didn’t text at all.

One night, about a week after Harry’s overdose, Louis found him sitting cross-legged on Riley’s bed, biscuit tin open in his lap, fingers tracing the edges of the plastic bags inside. Louis stood in the doorway for a moment, heart thudding slow and heavy, the sight so achingly familiar it hurt.

Harry looked up, eyes glassy but not gone. “We used to be better than this,” he said softly.

Louis stepped inside, sat down beside him. “Were we?”

Harry’s lip wobbled. “I don’t remember.”

Louis took the tin, closed it gently, set it aside. “We’ll figure it out.”

Harry leaned into him, head on Louis’ shoulder. “Promise?”

Louis kissed his hair, breathing him in. “Together.”

“Or not at all,” Harry whispered back.

They got high in Riley’s bed that night — gentle, soft, weed instead of pills, curled up under Riley’s old duvet like they could pretend for a second that the world hadn’t gone sideways.

They weren’t fine. They knew that.

But they weren’t ready to stop either.

 

It was a Friday night, the kind that used to mean corner shop vodka and someone’s mum’s half-empty liquor cabinet. Now it meant a group text from Niall that just said my place. bring everything.

Louis and Harry showed up late, already buzzed off a joint they’d smoked in the stairwell before they left, fingers curled together as they stumbled inside. Zayn was on the floor, back against the sofa, cigarette dangling from his lips, one leg bouncing restlessly. Amelia was perched in the window like always, but even she looked rougher than usual — eyeliner smudged, hands shaking when she lit her smoke. Niall had clearly started without them, pupils wide, grin sharp, shirt already missing.

The flat was thick with heat and smoke and the scent of something Louis couldn’t place — chemical and sour, not quite the usual weed-and-vodka cocktail. Something sharper.

Louis clocked the difference right away. His stomach flipped, instincts humming low in the back of his skull, but then Harry tugged him inside and Zayn grinned up at them and it felt like too much work to care.

“Here,” Zayn said, holding up a little baggie, something Louis didn’t recognise. “New shit.”

Louis froze, hand tightening on Harry’s wrist. “What is it?”

Zayn shrugged. “Don’t ask stupid questions.”

“We have a rule,” Louis said, voice sharper than he meant it.

“We have a lot of rules,” Zayn shot back, eyes flat. “Don’t mean we follow them.”

Louis could feel Harry vibrating next to him, the buzz of the joint still warm in his veins, but already reaching for more, always reaching. “What is it?” Harry asked, soft and curious, like a kid asking about fireworks.

“Bit of everything,” Zayn said. “Pressies. They’ll sort you out.”

Louis shook his head. “Not tonight.”

Harry’s face fell, all bright-eyed disappointment, and Louis hated how weak he felt in the face of it. “Just one,” Harry whispered, leaning into his ear, lips brushing Louis’ skin. “Please?”

Louis exhaled slowly, hand cupping the back of Harry’s neck. They were fine. They were fine . It wasn’t heroin. It wasn’t meth. It wasn’t the shit that took Eleanor or almost took Harry himself. It was just a pill. Like old times.

“Just one,” Louis said. “Together.”

Harry smiled like Louis had handed him the sun, and Zayn passed over two little pills, round and yellow with some cartoon face stamped into the surface. Louis didn’t ask what they were again. Didn’t really want to know.

Together or not at all.

They took them dry, Louis’ throat sticking halfway down, Harry laughing into his mouth after like they were sixteen and stupid again. Niall whooped, Amelia didn’t even look up from her cigarette, and Zayn just watched, eyes too dark, too knowing.

It hit fast. Not like the usual pills — this was sharper, edges like knives, heat rushing under their skin, hearts racing too quick, fingers twitching, everything too bright . Harry’s face was flushed pink, sweat already slick on his forehead, hands shaking where they gripped Louis’ hips.

“Fuck,” Harry whispered, eyes wide, smile stretched. “Feel that?”

Louis did. It felt wrong — too fast, too much, but Harry was smiling and Niall was laughing and Louis’ brain was too soft to argue.

They danced in the living room, bare feet on sticky carpet, Harry spinning Louis until they both collapsed onto the sofa in a pile of limbs and breathless giggles. Louis could feel Harry’s pulse through his skin, heart beating like a trapped bird, and it should’ve scared him. It should’ve been enough to stop.

But they were flying. Together.

Zayn took two. Niall took three. Amelia, despite her better judgment, took half.

The music got louder. The walls felt closer. Louis’ teeth wouldn’t stop grinding, jaw aching from the pressure, fingers twitching where they curled into Harry’s thigh. They fucked in the bathroom again, fast and messy, Harry’s face flushed so bright Louis could barely stand to look at him, like his body was burning from the inside out.

After, they sat on the floor, backs to the bathtub, passing a bottle between them while Niall shouted from the other room about ordering kebabs at three in the morning.

Harry’s hand wouldn’t stop shaking. Louis held it still, pressing his palm flat against Harry’s, tracing the letters tattooed into his skin.

“Okay?” Louis asked, voice thin and wired.

“Perfect,” Harry said, too fast, too bright.

Louis knew he was lying. He didn’t care.

They slept curled together on Niall’s floor, tangled up in someone else’s hoodie, Louis’ hand resting over Harry’s heart, counting every beat like it might be the last.

The rule was broken. The floodgates were open.

They didn’t talk about it. They never did.

The next morning, Louis woke up to Harry still trembling in his sleep, fingers twitching where they curled in Louis’ shirt. Zayn was already gone, Amelia smoking silently in the window, Niall snoring under the table. Had Oli even been here? He couldn’t remember. Louis’ jaw ached from grinding, head too foggy to think, stomach rolling with leftover nausea.

He pressed his lips to Harry’s forehead, skin clammy under his mouth, and whispered, “I’m sorry.”

Harry didn’t wake up.

Louis didn’t stop.

It didn’t take long for them to cross that line again — because that’s the thing about rules. Once you break them, once you survive it, they stop meaning anything at all.

The first time they chose it — not just in the heat of a party, not just because it was there, but because they wanted it — it was a Tuesday. Pissing rain outside, flat cold because they hadn’t paid the gas bill on time again, both of them twitchy and restless after two whole nights sober.

Louis was the one who said it, sitting on the floor in front of the sofa, back against Harry’s legs, fingers tapping too fast on his knee.

“Let’s call Zayn.”

Harry looked down at him, one brow raised, a lazy grin tugging at his mouth. “For what?”

“You know what.”

Harry stretched like a cat, bones popping, toes curling into Louis’ ribs. “Thought we were being responsible drug addicts now.”

Louis grinned back, sharp and thin. “That was boring.”

They didn’t have to say it out loud — how hard it was to sit in the quiet without Riley, how much easier it was to fill the silence with something louder, something faster, something that burned so bright they couldn’t see their own shadows. Harry’s hand slid down to cup the back of Louis’ neck, fingers curling into his hair.

“Call him,” Harry said, voice soft and dangerous. “I’m in.”

Zayn showed up twenty minutes later, hood up, half a spliff dangling from his lips, plastic bag stuffed into his hoodie pocket. “Didn’t think you’d ask,” he said, stepping inside without waiting for an invite. “Thought you lot were still playing house.”

“House is boring,” Louis muttered, locking the door behind him.

They sat on the floor — no table, just bare floorboards and someone’s hoodie under the bag to catch the mess. Zayn tipped out a mix of everything, rainbow pills and baggies and something in a folded bit of foil Louis tried not to look at too hard.

“This,” Zayn said, picking up one of the pills, holding it between thumb and forefinger, “is definitely gonna fuck you up.”

Harry took it without a second thought. Louis followed. Together, or not at all.

They were wired within the hour — not dancing, not laughing, just pacing the flat like animals in a too-small cage, talking too fast about things that didn’t make sense. Harry’s eyes were huge , all pupil, no green, hands shaking so bad Louis had to light his cigarette for him.

Niall showed up halfway through, already buzzing, Amelia trailing behind looking tired and disappointed in ways she didn’t bother hiding anymore. But she still stayed. That’s who they were — no matter how ugly it got, no one left.

Niall had coke. Zayn had pills. Louis had speed he forgot he’d stashed behind the tea bags. They mixed everything. Didn’t care. Didn’t pace themselves. Didn’t stop.

Harry kissed Louis so hard they both fell into the wall, and Louis tasted blood and mint and chemicals, and he loved it . Loved the way Harry’s body felt under his hands — too hot, too sharp, vibrating like a live wire. Loved how alive they were, even if it meant dying faster.

They fucked on the sofa, too high to care who was in the room, Niall throwing a pillow at them half-heartedly, Amelia sighing like she was tired down to her bones, Zayn just laughing quietly in the corner.

“Fucking obsessed with each other,” Zayn muttered, voice fond and exhausted all at once. “Disgusting.”

The unraveling wasn’t dramatic — no explosions, no screaming fights. Just small cracks, hairline fractures spreading until everything was too fragile to hold.

Zayn started showing up late, staying longer than anyone else, his hands shaking in ways Louis recognised too well. Niall started borrowing money he never paid back, always one drink away from saying fuck it and calling old dealers with worse reputations. Amelia started leaving early, her patience stretched thin, her disappointment so loud it didn’t need words.

And Louis and Harry — they were the eye of the storm. Calm in the middle, orbiting each other so tight they barely noticed how the rest of them were falling apart.

They fought, sometimes — small, stupid things, Harry’s temper too quick, Louis’ fuse too short. But the fights never lasted. They fucked instead. Always fucking, always touching, like if they stopped they might vanish completely.

One night, Louis caught Harry standing in Riley’s room again, high as hell, fingers tracing the edge of Riley’s desk. Louis stood in the doorway, heart aching, head spinning.

“Miss him?” Louis asked, voice soft.

“Every day,” Harry whispered.

Louis stepped inside, wrapping his arms around Harry’s waist from behind, pressing his nose into Harry’s neck. “Me too.”

The next party was worse — someone Louis didn’t know, some flat they’d never been to before, drugs they definitely couldn’t name. But it didn’t matter. They took what they were given. Swallowed what was handed to them. Louis lost Harry in the crowd once, and his heart stopped until he found him again, perched on the windowsill, legs swinging, talking too fast to a stranger Louis wanted to punch.

They left that party hand in hand, stumbling down the street, Harry singing something under his breath — maybe Oasis, maybe some shite Louis had put on a playlist once. Louis didn’t know. Didn’t care. Harry was there. They were alive.

Together. Or not at all.

Zayn got arrested again — nothing serious, just possession, just overnight. Niall pawned his PlayStation to bail him out. Amelia stopped answering the group chat. The cracks were too wide now, too deep, but none of them wanted to be the first to say this is fucked.

Louis held Harry’s hand so tight it left marks, and they both pretended they were still fine.

They weren’t.

One night, back at the flat, Louis found Harry in the bathroom, eyes too wide, hands trembling, nose bleeding bright red. Louis wiped it away with his sleeve, heart pounding.

“This is too much,” Louis whispered.

“Just a little more,” Harry slurred, grinning.

Louis kissed him hard enough to bruise.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Louis found the first syringe on a Thursday morning, buried at the bottom of the bathroom bin under crumpled tissue and empty toothpaste tubes and the corner of a condom wrapper they’d definitely used in the middle of a blackout. For a second, Louis just stared at it, brain refusing to catch up to what his eyes already knew.

It was old. Not ancient, but old enough that Louis couldn’t figure out when, exactly, Harry had crossed the line they said they’d never cross again.

Louis didn’t feel surprised. That was the worst part. He just felt tired.

He didn’t mention it at first. Just smoked a cigarette in the living room with the window cracked open, feet up on the coffee table, watching smoke curl into the air like a fucking prayer. Harry wandered in halfway through, still in his boxers, hair a wreck, pupils blown wide even though it wasn’t even noon.

Louis passed him the cigarette without a word, fingers brushing Harry’s just long enough to notice the slight tremor. Harry didn’t say anything either. They just smoked in silence, trading the cigarette back and forth, the bin still full of evidence down the hall.

It wasn’t the first time. Louis knew that without asking. And maybe, if this was a year ago — back when Riley was still here, when they were still pretending they were people who had their shit together — Louis would’ve yelled. Would’ve smashed something or thrown Harry out or cried until Harry swore on his life to stop.

But that Louis didn’t exist anymore.

Instead, Louis took a slow drag, leaned his head back against the sofa, and said, “If you’re gonna do it, don’t hide it.”

Harry froze, cigarette halfway to his mouth, jaw clenching slightly. “What?”

“You heard me.” Louis’ voice was too calm, too empty. “Don’t sneak off to the fucking bathroom like you’re seventeen again. If we’re doing this, we’re doing it together. ”

Harry’s face went pale, but his pupils stayed huge. “Lou—”

“Don’t lie to me,” Louis cut in, voice soft but sharp as broken glass. “Not after everything.”

Harry licked his lips, tongue flicking out nervously, and Louis felt his stomach twist with something that tasted like grief, but also tasted like relief. Because if Harry was doing it, Louis could too. It meant Louis didn’t have to be the strong one anymore. They could fall apart side by side, like they always had.

Together. Or not at all.

Harry sat down beside him, close enough that their thighs pressed together, and passed the cigarette back. “You’re not angry?”

Louis took a long drag, exhaled slow. “Too tired to be angry.”

They both knew that was worse.

It didn’t happen that night — neither of them ready to say it out loud — but three days later, Louis found Harry in the bedroom, perched on the edge of the bed, spoon and lighter in hand, like a flashback Louis didn’t want to have. And instead of yelling, Louis just closed the door, leaned against it, and said, “Save me some.”

Harry’s hands shook. “You sure?”

Louis walked over, knelt between Harry’s knees, and took the spoon gently from his hands. “If you go, I go.”

“Together,” Harry whispered.

Louis kissed him, soft and slow, before rolling up his own sleeve.

It wasn’t always heroin — they were still a little scared of that one, still had enough ghosts between them to hesitate. But it was something. Fentanyl sometimes, or some fucked up synthetic opiate they didn’t know the name of. It didn’t matter. The point wasn’t what it was. The point was what it did .

It smoothed out all the edges. Made the grief go quiet. Made the silence in Riley’s room bearable. Made Louis forget the ache in his chest every time he walked past a kid with messy hair and a too-big hoodie. Made Harry stop shaking long enough to sleep.

They didn’t talk about it. Just sat cross-legged on the bed, shared the same needle like they were swapping gum, and drifted off side by side, hands tangled even as their bodies floated away.

It was romantic, almost. If you didn’t know better.

The others started noticing — even through their own shit. Niall’s smile got tighter every time he came over and found them too still, too calm, too soft around the edges. Zayn stopped offering pills when they were already floating. Amelia stopped showing up altogether.

“You’re gonna die,” Niall said one night, not joking, not smiling. “Both of you.”

Louis just grinned, nose wrinkling. “Nah, we‘re immortal.”

Harry kissed him hard enough to knock them both over, and Niall walked out without saying goodbye.

Louis knew, somewhere deep and quiet, that they were killing themselves. But it didn’t scare him. Not really. Not after losing Eleanor. Not after nearly losing Harry too many times to count. Not after handing Riley over to a life that didn’t include him.

What scared Louis was the thought of surviving it alone.

If Harry went, Louis went. That had always been the deal.

Together. Or not at all.

Time blurred, days bleeding into nights until they stopped bothering to count. They lived in a world without calendars, without work shifts, without Sunday dinners or family birthdays or any reason to remember what month it was. It was always some kind of Friday in their heads — the start of something, the middle of something, the aftermath of something. They got high, they came down, they got high again. That was the rhythm of their days, the only thing left that made sense.

Niall stopped pretending to care. He still showed up, still brought bottles and pills, still made jokes that didn’t quite land, but the lectures stopped. The worried looks stopped. Niall was too deep in his own shit to play the responsible one, and Louis figured they all knew, deep down, that calling each other out was fucking pointless. Pot, kettle, black and all that.

Zayn didn’t say a word, just passed Louis the needle when Harry was done, and Louis took it without flinching. Sometimes Zayn used too, sometimes he didn’t, but it was never a conversation. Just a quiet kind of acceptance, like watching someone walk into traffic and deciding not to shout after them because you knew they wouldn’t stop.

Oli, bless him, had always been the least fucked-up one of the lot if you didn‘t count Amelia, but even he didn’t say shit. He still showed up with takeaway and stories about people Louis couldn’t remember, still laughed too loud at jokes that weren’t funny, but never asked what Louis and Harry were on, or how much, or if they’d eaten that day. It wasn’t his business. No one’s business but theirs.

But Amelia — Amelia left .

Not like Eleanor. Not with sirens and shaking hands and CPR that wouldn‘t have worked. She just slipped out one night, after Louis and Harry passed out cold and Niall started singing to himself in the corner. Left a note, nothing dramatic, just I love you, but I can’t do this anymore .

Louis found it the next morning, stuck to an empty can of Strongbow with someone’s gum. He read it twice, blinked at it like the words were in a language he didn’t speak, then crumpled it up and flicked it across the room. Harry didn’t even ask what it was. They both knew. And they didn’t blame her.

Amelia had always been better than this.

She deserved better than them.

Louis stopped calling his mum back, not on purpose at first — just because the phone kept running out of battery, or getting lost under the sofa, or ending up in Zayn’s coat pocket by accident. But after a while, it was easier to just leave it. To let her think he was busy or distracted or being a shit son again.

Because what could he say?

Hey Mum, Harry and I are fine, just back on the gear. Haven’t seen the girls in months. Don’t think we’ve eaten anything green since I don‘t know when. Miss you though.

She didn’t need to see them like this. Didn’t need to see Harry with his ribs showing again, Louis with his knuckles split from fights he didn’t remember, the flat permanently smelling like sweat and burnt foil and cheap weed. The girls didn’t need to see their big brother like this — not after everything they’d already seen.

So Louis let the calls go to voicemail. Stopped texting back. Let that bridge burn quietly, not with a bang but a whisper, the way you stop answering a mate who reminds you too much of who you used to be.

And the sex — fuck, the sex was something else.

Louis always loved fucking Harry, always loved the way their bodies knew each other better than their own hands, but high — high, it was religion . It was slow and sharp and endless, like every nerve in Louis’ body had been scraped clean and left raw, every touch electric, every kiss like getting punched in the chest.

Harry fucked like he was floating, soft noises in Louis’ ear, fingers tracing nonsense down his spine, their bodies moving together like they were made to do nothing else. Sometimes they went for hours, skin slick, mouths dry, chasing pleasure until it hurt, too numb to stop, too high to care.

Other times it was fast, frantic, clothes barely off, Louis’ back against the bathroom tiles or Harry bent over the kitchen table, teeth in skin, fingers in hair, bruises blooming like proof of life. They came together more often than not, high enough that their bodies couldn’t tell where one ended and the other began.

It was perfect. It was poison. It was the only time Louis felt real.

Riley texted once. Just once. Hope you’re okay.

Louis stared at it for an hour, too high to type, too sober to ignore it. In the end, he didn’t reply. What could he say?

Seasons changed. Louis noticed only because the windows were always open now, cold air sneaking in under the curtains, Harry’s feet icy against Louis’ calves in bed. They missed Christmas completely — woke up on December 27th to Zayn shouting about someone’s car getting nicked, realised they’d blacked out nearly a week.

Louis didn’t care. Riley wasn’t there. The girls weren’t there. Christmas was just another excuse to get high, but they didn’t need excuses anymore.

It was just life.

Get high. Fuck. Sleep. Repeat.

Chapter 53: Chapter 53

Notes:

I have nothing to say in my defence, if you want trigger warnings, I‘ll put some in the end notes but be warned, there will be spoilers for this chapter..

They slipped into the years like they slipped into addiction — gradually, then all at once.

The calendar stopped meaning anything, birthdays flickering past without celebration, holidays ignored because they were only reminders of what they’d lost. Louis didn’t know how long it had been since he’d seen his sisters, only knew that the last time he heard Daisy’s voice, she still sounded young — like a kid. She wasn’t a kid anymore.

Harry’s curls got shorter, messier, more often yanked out by his own anxious hands, fingers constantly in his hair. He’d dyed it once, some half-arsed attempt at a fresh start, but by the time the dark brown dye grew out, they were too far gone to pretend reinvention was possible.

Louis’ face got sharper, all hollowed-out cheeks and a jawline you could cut yourself on. His laugh got louder — all edge, no joy — and his temper got shorter, hands curling into fists before words could catch up. Harry stayed soft in some ways — always had been, always would be — but his eyes lost their shine. The green dimmed under bloodshot rims, his smile rarely real, his hands trembling even when he wasn’t high.

They were thin. Not stylish, not sexy, just thin — the kind of skinny that made old mates go quiet when they saw them, the kind of thin that made shopkeepers watch them too closely, the kind of thin that made Louis’ jeans hang off his hips no matter how tight he pulled the belt.

They lived on cigarettes and toast and whatever takeaway they could stomach after coming down. Tea with too much sugar. Weed for breakfast. A bump before leaving the flat, a pill before any night out, a needle if they were feeling brave or stupid or both. Sex when the drugs made their skin too sensitive to exist. Silence when the drugs wore off and the world came crashing back in.

They still had their promise, Together or not at all , but it didn’t feel romantic anymore. It felt like a fucking curse. Maybe it had been since the day they decided to write it down.

By the time Louis turned 26 and Harry hit 25, they barely recognised themselves. There were no birthday cakes. No cards. No half deflated orange balloons. No calls from family because they’d stopped answering so long ago, everyone stopped trying.

The flat was a wreck — not even in the charming, messy-lad way it used to be. It stank of old smoke, stale booze, weed ground into the carpet, takeout containers piled in the kitchen until neither of them could remember what colour the counters were. The bathroom mirror was always smeared, taps crusted with toothpaste, someone’s bloody tissue left by the sink too often to be accidental.

Riley’s room stayed a shrine — untouched except for the nights they got too high to sleep anywhere else, curling into each other under his old duvet, Louis’ hand tracing the outline of Riley’s name carved into the desk like a prayer. Neither of them said it out loud, but Riley was still the ghost that haunted everything they did. His silence hurt more than any overdose ever could.

Louis couldn’t remember the last time they’d been properly sober. Not just a few hours between highs, not just a groggy morning after a night they passed out too soon. Actually sober. Fully present. Clear-headed. The idea made his skin itch.

The rare times they ended up in front of a mirror — usually by accident — Louis had to look away. He didn’t know the man staring back at him. He remembered a boy with bright eyes and sharp wit, a little shit who could talk his way out of trouble and carry his whole world on his narrow shoulders. That boy was gone. This version of Louis had ribs you could count, skin too pale, bruises blooming along his arms from bad hits and worse nights. His smile looked like a snarl. His eyes looked dead.

Harry was no better. The boy Louis fell in love with — the one who used to blush at everything, who wore glitter to house parties and cried over puppy videos — was buried under dark circles and scars no one talked about. His hands were always moving, skin too thin over trembling fingers, teeth grinding constantly like his jaw didn’t know how to rest.

They didn’t talk about it.

Didn’t talk about the years slipping past them like water down a drain. Didn’t talk about how they were closer to 30 than 20 now. Didn’t talk about how they were living like teenagers who never learned to grow up, except teenagers usually had the decency to believe they might make it out alive.

They didn’t even fight about it anymore. It wasn’t a crisis. It was just life . This was who they were now. This was how they survived.

Together. Or not at all.

They still fucked like they were trying to save themselves, even though there was nothing left to save. High sex was better — slower and sharper, skin too sensitive, bodies too desperate for touch. Sober sex, the rare times it happened, was too raw to bear, all eye contact and shaking hands, like they were saying goodbye to something. Maybe it was a kind of addiction too, before all else they had always been addicted to eachother, right?

Louis loved Harry more than anything in the whole world, and it still wasn’t enough to make him want to be better. Not for Harry, not for himself. They weren’t trying to survive anymore. They were trying to disappear.

The only thing they were scared of was doing it alone.

Niall was still around, still laughing too loud, still drinking too much, still pretending this was all one long, wild party instead of a slow-motion suicide pact. Zayn came and went, showing up with drugs and leaving before the sun came up, his own ghosts pulling him somewhere darker. Oli floated on the edges, still the least fucked-up, still hanging on because he didn’t know how to leave.

Amelia never came back.

Louis didn’t blame her. He wouldn’t have come back either.

Louis missed his mum. Missed his sisters. Missed Riley more than anything. But missing hurt less when he was high. Everything hurt less when he was high. That was the whole point.

He knew they couldn’t keep going like this. Knew they were circling the drain, and sooner or later one of them wouldn’t wake up. But Louis had already made peace with that. He wasn’t scared of dying.

He was scared of living without Harry.

It wasn’t supposed to go like this. It was never supposed to end like this.

They knew how to dose, knew their own limits like they knew each other’s bodies — muscle memory and guesswork, but it had kept them alive so far. They’d been doing this too long to fuck up something as basic as measuring.

But they’d been tired that night. The wrong kind of tired, the kind that sat deep in their bones, a rot that no sleep could fix. The kind of tired that came from too many years spent living like they were trying to die without ever admitting it.

They hadn’t gone out. Hadn’t seen anyone. Just curled up in their flat, music low, lights dim, the biscuit tin already on the coffee table before either of them even suggested it. The spoons were clean because Louis had washed up that afternoon in a rare burst of restlessness, and the syringes were still in the little sandwich bag in the back of the cutlery drawer.

They didn’t talk about how much they were using now — because if they didn’t say the numbers out loud, they could pretend it wasn’t that bad. But Louis’ hands shook when he loaded the first needle, and Harry’s breath caught when Louis pressed the plunger, and neither of them could look at each other after.

They went down almost at the same time — Louis first, Harry half a heartbeat later, bodies slumping together on the sofa like puppets with cut strings. Louis’ head tipped onto Harry’s shoulder, Harry’s hand sliding off Louis’ thigh to dangle limp against the floor.

The flat went silent.

Louis woke up first — throat dry, head pounding, heart thudding like a slow, sick drumbeat. His limbs felt miles away from his brain, body floating loose and disconnected, like he’d been untethered from his own skin. It took him a minute to remember how to breathe properly.

He turned his head slowly, neck stiff and aching, and there was Harry — crumpled awkwardly against the arm of the sofa, mouth slack, curls sticking to his sweaty forehead, dried spit crusted at the corner of his lips.

Louis’ stomach lurched.

For half a second, he thought Harry was dead.

“Haz,” Louis croaked, voice barely a whisper, throat raw and dry as paper. He shook Harry’s shoulder, panic rising sluggish and cold, the kind that was too tired to be dramatic. “Play-Doh, baby, wake up.”

Harry’s nose scrunched first — that little twitch Louis had seen a million times, the thing his face always did right before he woke up properly. Louis’ breath caught, relief so sharp it hurt.

Harry’s eyes blinked open, bloodshot and bleary, pupils still blown too wide. He stared at Louis, no recognition at first, just confusion and discomfort and the dawning awareness that oh, fuck, we’re still here.

They stared at each other for a beat too long, both of them still too high to feel the full weight of it, too burnt out to panic properly.

And then Louis started laughing.

It burst out of him sharp and ugly, this wild, unhinged thing, half-sob, half-howl, like his body couldn’t decide if it was relieved or furious or just so fucking tired that laughter was the only option left.

Harry blinked at him for a second, then started laughing too — higher-pitched, a little hysterical, curls shaking with it. They clung to each other, laughing until tears leaked out, until Louis’ ribs ached and Harry almost gagged, until the sound turned ragged and painful and weirdly joyful all at once.

“We fucking died,” Louis wheezed, wiping his nose on the back of his hand. “We fucking died, Haz.”

“And we woke up,” Harry said, eyes shining too bright. “What the fuck.”

Louis collapsed sideways into Harry’s lap, still giggling like a maniac, face pressed into Harry’s thigh. “We’re shit at dying.”

“Worst junkies ever,” Harry agreed, fingers carding through Louis’ hair, the touch soft and tender even in the middle of the madness.

They stayed like that for ages — bodies aching, heads pounding, laughing in bursts until the laughter ran out, leaving them spent and shaking and oddly calm. Louis turned his face up, cheek resting on Harry’s knee, and Harry smiled down at him, tired and soft and stupidly fond.

“Together,” Harry whispered.

“Or not at all,” Louis whispered back.

They didn’t talk about the fact that they’d both technically overdosed and somehow survived it. They didn’t talk about how close they came to being found cold and grey, curled up together on that sofa, their bodies twisted into a shape that would’ve told everyone exactly what they were to each other.

They didn’t talk about it because talking meant acknowledging that they were running out of chances. That they were one bad batch away from not waking up next time. And Louis couldn’t say that out loud, because it meant facing the truth. So they lit cigarettes with shaky hands, kissed like they were still young and stupid and invincible, and promised to be more careful next time.

It happened so slowly, neither of them noticed at first. The world shrinking down, getting smaller, quieter, until it was just the two of them and the flat and the stash. No more nights out. No more parties. No more Niall or Zayn or Oli showing up unannounced, because after a while they just… stopped. Stopped texting. Stopped knocking. Stopped pretending they could save them when Louis and Harry so clearly didn’t want saving.

Louis barely noticed. Or maybe he did, but it felt like a relief. There was something peaceful in the way everything narrowed, in the way the only thing left was Harry’s voice and Harry’s hands and the sound of the kettle boiling at 3 a.m. because Harry still insisted on making tea, even if they hadn’t eaten in days. Louis could live like this — just Harry, just them, just this small, messy, fucked-up world they’d built for themselves.

It was easier, being alone together. No one to judge them. No one to remind them of who they used to be. No one to say you’re better than this — because they weren’t. This was who they were now, and Louis found a strange comfort in accepting it.

The overdoses became part of the routine. Not every time , but often enough that Louis stopped being scared of them. Harry would slump sideways, breathing thin and shallow, and Louis would sit beside him, counting seconds under his breath, shaking him gently, sometimes slapping him if it went too far. Sometimes Louis went first, and Harry would lie next to him on the floor, talking soft nonsense until Louis’ eyelids fluttered open again.

They never called for help. Never even considered it. They just rode it out, like a bad trip, like a hangover, like something inevitable and boring.

“Wake up, babe,” Harry would whisper, voice thin and tired, hand patting Louis’ cheek. “Come on, love.”

Louis would wake up smiling. Every time. Because Harry was always there.

“You scared me,” Harry would say, curled around Louis’ back like a question mark.

“Sorry,” Louis would whisper, voice hoarse.

One night, Louis woke up on the floor, cold linoleum under his cheek, mouth dry, throat raw. His body felt like it had been turned inside out, limbs lead-heavy, heartbeat slow and irregular. He didn’t know how long he’d been out. Didn’t know if he was alive or not until he turned his head and saw Harry beside him, curled into a loose ball, chest rising just barely.

Louis reached for him, hand trembling, fingers brushing Harry’s hair back off his forehead. Harry’s skin was cold. His lips were blue at the corners. Louis’ heart stopped for a few seconds before Harry’s eyes cracked open, pupils wide, a soft, confused smile tugging at his mouth.

“Thought you were dead,” Louis whispered, voice wrecked.

“Not yet,” Harry whispered back, and then — absurdly, beautifully — they both started laughing.

Laughing until it hurt, until Louis couldn’t breathe, until tears leaked out of the corners of Harry’s eyes and Louis’ stomach cramped from it. Laughing because what else could they do? They’d overdosed side by side on the fucking kitchen floor , and somehow they were still here, still breathing, still alive just enough to laugh about it.

“We’re terrible at this,” Louis wheezed, forehead pressed to Harry’s.

“Absolutely shit,” Harry agreed, giggling into Louis’ mouth.

They kissed through it, laughing into each other, bodies weak and shaking, but alive . Somehow, against all odds, they were alive . And for a minute, it felt like maybe that was enough. As long as they woke up next to each other, they could survive anything.

But they both knew the truth. They were running out of lives. One day soon, they wouldn’t wake up at all.

Together.

Or not at all.

 

It was a Wednesday. Or maybe a Friday. Louis didn’t know. It didn’t matter. Time had stopped meaning anything a long time ago. But who was he kidding. He knew exactly what day it was even though he had stopped keeping track a long, long time ago. He knew it was Wednesday, of course it was a fucking Wednesday. He knew it was July 23rd, knew that it was 11:32PM, he knew was that it was dark outside, and the flat was quiet, and they were in bed — where they always ended up, eventually, when the noise got too loud and the world got too big, and all they could stand was the weight of each other’s bodies under the covers.

They were high already — a soft, buzzing warmth under their skin, smoke curling toward the ceiling, ashtray balanced on the windowsill. The biscuit tin was on the bed between them, the lid already off, their pharmacy of self-destruction laid out like a picnic. Two syringes. A strip of foil. The same spoon they’d been using for months, its edges blackened from too many hits.

They hadn’t talked much all day — just the usual quiet touches, passing cigarettes back and forth, Harry’s head in Louis’ lap, Louis’ fingers in Harry’s hair. They hadn’t eaten. Hadn’t showered. Just floated in the stale air of their flat, skin too sensitive to touch too much, heads too full to think too hard.

Louis wasn’t sure why tonight felt different. Maybe it was the way Harry had looked at him while loading the first syringe — not with excitement, not with relief, but with something softer. Sadder. A kind of goodbye they weren’t brave enough to say out loud.

Harry sat cross-legged at the foot of the bed, bare-chested, his skin almost glowing in the dim lamplight. His hands shook slightly as he tied the belt around his arm, veins popping up like old friends, easy and familiar. Louis watched him, heart aching, but said nothing. This was what they did. This was who they were. It wasn’t shocking anymore. It was just life.

“Don’t go too far,” Louis said softly, already knowing they both would.

Harry smiled — that tired, broken smile Louis had memorised, the one that made him look like the sixteen-year-old kid Louis had fallen in love with, the one who used to dance barefoot at house parties and write Louis’ name on his arm in sharpie just because he could.

“I know my limit,” Harry said, even though neither of them had respected limits in years.

Louis loaded his own shot — heavier than usual, hands steady, mind blank. He could feel the line they were walking tonight, thinner than ever, the kind you only crossed once. He didn’t want to think about it. Didn’t want to name it.

Together. Or not at all.

Harry injected first, Louis’ eyes glued to the way the plunger moved under his thumb, how Harry’s head tilted back after, mouth slack, lashes fluttering. He looked beautiful like this — ruined and radiant, floating somewhere Louis couldn’t follow until he joined him.

Louis did join him, belt biting into his arm, skin already bruised from the night before. The hit was fast, too fast, rushing up his spine, warm and weightless, body going soft under its grip. The world blurred at the edges, narrowing down to the sound of Harry’s breathing, the feel of Harry’s skin against his own when they finally lay down.

They curled into each other automatically, like always — Louis’ head on Harry’s chest, Harry’s arms wrapped around Louis’ back, legs tangled under the duvet. They fit like puzzle pieces, the shape of their bodies carved by years of sleeping like this. Even high out of their minds, their bodies remembered. They were designed for this.

Louis could feel Harry’s heartbeat under his cheek, too fast at first, then slowing, slowing, slowing until it matched his own. He was warm, skin damp with sweat, breath soft against Louis’ hair. Louis’ hand rested over Harry’s heart, thumb tracing lazy circles, even as his own eyes drooped, even as the world softened into nothing.

“Love you,” Louis mumbled, lips barely moving.

“Love you more,” Harry whispered back, voice already fading.

 

Louis fell asleep to the sound of Harry breathing.

When Louis woke up, the light outside had shifted — not morning, but later, maybe afternoon, maybe evening. His mouth was dry, his head a foggy mess, limbs heavy and leaden. The high had worn off just enough to leave him fragile, floating between sleep and reality, but none of that mattered.

Because Harry wasn’t breathing anymore.

Louis didn’t realise it at first — too slow to wake, brain still soft. It wasn’t until he shifted, rolling off Harry’s chest, that the silence settled over him like a weight. No rise and fall. No soft snore. Just stillness .

“Play Doh?” Louis whispered, fingers shaking as he touched Harry’s cheek.

Cold.

Not cool. Not slightly chilled. Cold.

“Harry,” Louis said louder, sitting up, shaking him by the shoulders. “Haz, baby, wake up.”

Nothing.

Louis’ stomach flipped, heart slamming into his ribs, adrenaline cutting through the leftover heroin like a knife. “Harry,” he said again, louder, desperate, shaking harder. “Come on, Play Doh. Don’t fuck around.”

Nothing.

Louis’ hands pressed to Harry’s chest, fingers digging in too hard, searching for warmth, for movement, for anything . Harry’s skin was waxy, pale in the dim light, lips tinged blue. His hair stuck to his forehead, damp with old sweat, curls flattened. His mouth was slightly open, just a little, like he’d fallen asleep mid-sentence.

 

“Harry,” Louis whispered, voice shaking, tears already slipping out of the corners of his eyes. “Please, baby. Please. Please don ’t do this to me.”

Nothing.

Louis climbed over him, straddling his waist, hands pressed flat over Harry’s heart like he could push life back into him with sheer force of will. “Don’t leave me,” Louis begged, sobbing openly now, tears falling onto Harry’s chest. “You can’t leave me, Play-Doh.”

Louis didn’t know how long he stayed there — sitting on Harry’s body, holding his face, kissing his forehead, crying so hard his whole body shook. An hour. Maybe two. Time didn’t exist anymore. There was no clock in the flat, no one to come knocking.

It was just Louis, and Harry, and the silence.

Eventually, Louis lay down beside him, curled into his side, nose pressed to Harry’s throat. He stayed like that, holding him close, pretending — just for a little while — that Harry was sleeping. That they’d wake up together, like always, and laugh about how fucked they were.

But Harry was ice cold, and Louis’ body knew what his mind couldn’t admit.

Louis didn’t remember reaching for Harry’s phone. Didn’t remember when his body stopped crying long enough to move. But somehow, the phone was in his hand, screen cracked, only ten percent of battery left, the background still a photo of the two of them — blurry, drunk, laughing so hard Harry’s head was tipped back and Louis’ nose was scrunched up, the edges of them framed by the neon lights of some club they hadn’t been sober in for years.

His thumb hovered for a second, useless and trembling, because who the fuck was he meant to call? Who was left? His mum, who hadn’t heard from him in months? Niall, who’d probably show up already too drunk to help? Zayn, who’d seen too many bodies like this already?

He could do none of that. He could let the flat stay quiet, let Harry stay cold, and just lay down beside him until they were matching. He could join him. It would be easy.

Together. Or not at all.

But his thumb moved without thinking, and suddenly the screen lit up 999 , the green call button glowing.

It rang twice.

Then: “Emergency, which service?”

Louis’ throat closed. No air, no sound, like all the grief had settled in his chest and locked the words inside.

“Hello?” the voice prompted, sharp and professional. “Do you need police, fire, or ambulance?”

His mouth opened, but nothing came out. His vision blurred again, throat burning, heart hammering like it was trying to punish him for still working. His hands shook so violently the phone almost slipped through his fingers.

“Hello?” the operator tried again, voice softening just slightly. “Can you speak?”

“Ambulance,” Louis croaked, voice so small it barely sounded like his own. “Please.”

“Okay,” she said, gentle now. “What’s your name, love?”

Louis’ chest spasmed, like saying his own name was too much. “Louis,” he whispered. “Louis Tomlinson.”

“And what’s happened, Louis?”

He looked down at Harry’s face, too still, too pale, mouth slightly open like he might still be breathing if Louis just believed hard enough.

“My boyfriend’s—” Louis’ voice cracked completely, splintering into pieces. “He’s— I think— I think he’s dead.”

It was the first time he’d said it out loud. It hit like a hammer to the chest, knocking the air out of his lungs. His hand curled tighter around Harry’s, knuckles white, fingers pressing into cold skin like he could warm him back up.

“Okay,” the operator said, calm and steady. “Take a breath for me, Louis. Where are you right now? What’s the address?”

Louis rattled off their flat number, voice thin and reedy, the words tripping over themselves. He couldn’t stop looking at Harry’s mouth, at the spot where his chest should rise but didn’t, at the sharp blue tinge at his fingertips.

“How old is he?” the operator asked.

Louis’ whole body shook. “Twenty-five.”

“And what’s his name?”

“Harry,” Louis whispered, voice cracking. “Harry Styles.”

The operator kept asking questions — how long had he been like this? Did he take anything? Has he tried CPR? Louis answered some of them, skipped others, every word feeling like it was dragging glass up his throat. When she asked if Louis was alone, he almost laughed.

“No,” Louis said softly, curling back down beside Harry, forehead pressed to his shoulder. “I’m with him.”

“Louis,” she said gently. “The ambulance is on its way. Can you stay on the line with me?”

Louis closed his eyes. “What’s the point?”

There was silence on the other end — just for a second. Then: “Because you’re still here, love.”

Louis sobbed so hard it felt like his ribs might crack. He curled around Harry’s body, arm slung across his chest, face pressed into his skin, rocking slightly like if he could just move enough, Harry would follow. Like if he just loved him enough, Harry wouldn’t leave him alone in this shithole flat with a phone almost out of battery and a heart still beating.

“You’re doing really well,” the operator said softly. “Just stay with me.”

Louis kissed Harry’s shoulder, salty tears falling onto skin that didn’t warm under his mouth. “You promised, Play-Doh. Together,” Louis whispered, fingers tracing the fading ink on Harry’s wrist.

Harry didn’t answer.

Louis stayed on the line until the knock came at the door — hard, urgent, voices shouting, “Ambulance!” through the letterbox. Louis didn’t remember unlocking it. Didn’t remember letting them in. All he knew was that suddenly there were hands everywhere — too warm, too quick, too loud — and someone was gently prying Louis off Harry’s body, and Louis was screaming without meaning to.

“Don’t take him,” Louis begged, reaching even as they laid Harry flat, even as they checked for signs that weren’t there. “Please, please, please don’t take him.”

“We have to try, love,” one of them said, voice soft but unrelenting. “Let us try.”

Louis sat on the floor, shaking, arms wrapped around his knees, back pressed to the wardrobe. He watched them work — compressions too hard, breaths too soft, the awful rhythm of trying to bring someone back when there’s nothing left to save.

He knew it was pointless. But he couldn’t stop watching.

They worked for nearly twenty minutes before one of them — a woman with tired eyes and gentle hands — crouched in front of Louis and shook her head softly.

“I’m so sorry,” she said.

Louis didn’t feel his body hit the floor. Didn’t feel the scream tear out of his throat. All he knew was the cold, and the silence, and Harry’s hand lying limp on the floor where Louis had left it.

Notes:

Okay… first things first, TW: description of death, heavy denial and grief, lots and lots of overdoses, heavy (and I mean heavy) addiction, heavy () drug abuse. If you just came for the trigger warnings you can scroll back up now or tap out
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I‘m so sorry guys, genuienly, I cried while writing this but this is just how it was always gonna end (I mean, the tiltle… guys)
I really wish I could offer some sense of comfort after this, but I don‘t think there‘s much that would make it better. In case you were wondering, no, 11:32 isn‘t any significant time something happened (well in this story yes but nothing irl i can think of) but ofc it was a Wednesday :)
I hope you guys are okay, I won‘t make you wait too long for the last chapter, I‘ll have it up either in a few hours or tomorrow, yea, that‘s all
I‘m so sorry.
Lots of Love,
-Ace

Chapter 54: Chapter 54

They zipped him up.

Louis had seen it in films, in shows, on true crime documentaries late at night when they couldn’t sleep and the high wasn’t enough to knock them out. He’d seen body bags before. But nothing could prepare you for the sound — that awful, final scrape of the zipper closing over someone’s face. Over his face. The sound of a door shutting that would never open again.

They zipped Harry up, and Louis didn’t move. Just stood there, hands limp at his sides, watching like his brain couldn’t catch up with what his eyes were seeing. The bed was empty now, just a dent in the mattress where Harry’s body had been, and Louis felt like someone had scooped his insides out with a rusty spoon.

They carried Harry out — careful, gentle, but not gentle enough, because Louis wanted to scream every time the stretcher jolted. He followed, barefoot, stumbling, still wearing the same joggers and t-shirt he’d slept in, the fabric stained and thin, like everything else in the flat.

Down the stairs, one flight after another, Louis’ hand trailing the bannister because his legs barely worked. The paramedics didn’t tell him to stay back. Maybe they knew better. Maybe they could see it — the ghost of what they were clinging to Louis’ skin like smoke.

They slid Harry into the ambulance, and Louis stood there on the pavement, hands shaking so hard he couldn’t even light the cigarette tucked behind his ear. The doors closed. The engine started. And Louis’ knees buckled.

He collapsed right there — pavement cold under his hands, lungs forgetting how to work, throat closing up like someone had their hand around his neck. His forehead pressed to the concrete, breath coming in jagged bursts, and he didn’t even realise he was sobbing until someone crouched beside him and tried to touch his shoulder.

Louis flinched, hands curling into fists, ready to fight — but it wasn’t a stranger. It was Niall.

Niall looked wrecked — shirt inside out, hair a mess, face pale and blotchy like he’d been crying before he even got there. His hand hovered over Louis’ back, not quite touching, like he didn’t know if he was allowed.

“Lou,” Niall said softly, voice shaking.

Louis couldn’t lift his head. Couldn’t look at him. Couldn’t do anything except press his forehead harder against the pavement and let the sobs tear out of him like his body was trying to rip itself in half.

There were footsteps — more than just Niall. Someone else kneeling beside him, a hand that was too familiar settling on his shoulder. Zayn. The grip firm and grounding, fingers digging into bone like he was trying to hold Louis together by force.

“Come on, mate,” Zayn said quietly. “Let’s get you inside.”

Louis shook his head violently, hair falling into his eyes. “No.”

“Louis—”

“I can’t—” Louis choked. “I can’t go back in there.”

And then there was a different voice — soft and warm and so painfully familiar it made Louis’ stomach turn over. “Baby.”

Louis’ head snapped up, eyes blurry, chest heaving. His mum. Jay, standing right there on the pavement, coat thrown over her pyjamas, face drawn tight with worry and grief. Behind her were his sisters — not all of them, but Lottie and Fizzy, standing together, arms linked, both of them crying quietly.

“Mum,” Louis whispered, voice wrecked.

She reached for him, and Louis fell into her arms like a child, body shaking so hard she could barely hold him up. She stroked his hair, murmuring soft nonsense against his temple — things she used to say when he was little, things he hadn’t heard in years. “Shh, my love, I’ve got you, I’ve got you.”

But she didn’t. No one did. Because the only person who ever really had him was gone.

Louis didn’t know how long they sat there — him crumpled in his mum’s arms, Niall sitting on the curb beside him, Zayn pacing in tight circles like a caged animal, Oli standing off to the side with his hands in his pockets, tears streaming silently down his face. Louis didn’t even ask how they got there. Didn’t care, really, maybe they saw the ambulance heading towards their flat and just knew.

Somewhere, a car pulled up too fast. A camera flash popped in the corner of Louis’ vision, and someone said Harry’s name. That’s when Louis knew. That’s when it hit him.

The world knew.

Burnout popstar Harry Styles, dead at 25, found in his North London flat after an apparent overdose.

The words felt like nails being hammered into his skull. Louis tasted vomit at the back of his throat, bile rising sharp and sour, because Harry wasn’t just Harry Styles . Harry was his Harry. His boy with the stupid dimples and the messy curls and the laugh that got him through every single shit day. His Play-Doh.

“Fuck off,” Louis muttered weakly toward the flashing camera, but it didn’t matter. It was already out. They were too late. The story had escaped, and now the whole world would get to pick Harry apart like vultures feeding on a carcass.

“Let’s get you out of here,” Jay whispered, kissing Louis’ hair.

Louis shook his head. “I can’t leave.”

“Baby,” Jay said softly, heartbreak all over her face. “There’s nothing left here.”

There was nothing left anywhere. That was the fucking problem.

Louis let them pull him up — Jay on one side, Zayn on the other, his legs barely working, feet numb against the cold pavement. He looked up, just once, watching the ambulance disappear around the corner, taking Harry away for the last time.

He didn’t know where they were taking him. Didn’t know if he was supposed to follow, or make arrangements, or sign something, or anything. His brain wasn’t working. His heart wasn’t either.

All he knew was that Harry was gone.

He didn‘t even get to propose. Funny, isn‘t it? What the mind comes up with in situations like these. Was he supposed to scream? To remember? To run after the ambulance? He couldn‘t do any of that, didn‘t have it in him. All he thought was that it wasn‘t supposed to go like this. He wanted to get married to the love of his life, move somewhere quiet and listen to Harry sing under his breath in the kitchen. He wanted to curl up into a ball and whither away.

 

They gave him a week. Just a week. Not that he needed it — Harry had told him, years ago, long before things got this bad. Long before they lost Riley, before the flat smelled like burnt foil and stale sweat, before they stopped pretending they were anything but doomed.

It had been a stupid conversation, back when they still made future plans like they’d live long enough to need them. They were both in the kitchen, passing a cigarette back and forth, Harry leaning on Louis, fingers playing with Louis’ hair, when Louis said something like We’re probably gonna die young, y’know.

Harry had smiled, lazy and soft. “Then promise you’ll cremate me.”

Louis had snorted, tipping his head back so Harry’s curls tickled his throat. “Why?”

Harry shrugged, blowing a smoke ring. “Don’t want to rot.”

“Romantic,” Louis had teased, kissing Harry’s nose.

But Harry got serious then, hand sliding to Louis’ wrist, thumb brushing over Together . “I mean it,” he’d whispered. “Burn me up. Scatter me somewhere stupid.”

Louis had promised, laughing into Harry’s mouth. “Fine. But I’m keeping a bit. For the mantel.”

They never got a mantel. They never got to get married. They never got to have kids of their own. They never got peace.

The withdrawal hit hard the second Louis refused to take anything to soften the edges. Not even the Valium Niall tried to sneak into his hand, not the tramadol Zayn left on the coffee table like a peace offering. Nothing. Louis wanted to feel it. Wanted to let the grief scrape him raw, no buffer, no chemical shield. If Harry had to burn, Louis would too — from the inside out.

By the time the funeral home called to say the ashes were ready, Louis was trembling so hard he couldn’t hold a cup of tea without spilling it. His skin felt like it didn’t fit, sweat soaking his shirt even though he was freezing, stomach twisting violently every time he tried to eat. Every nerve ending screamed get high — but Louis wouldn’t. Not for this. Not for anything.

Zayn went with him, because Louis couldn’t walk straight on his own. He hadn’t slept more than an hour at a time since Harry died, body a live wire of grief and withdrawal and fear so sharp it cut through the fog. Zayn didn’t say anything — just kept a steadying hand on Louis’ back, guiding him into the funeral home like they were both walking into a crime scene.

The urn was waiting on the counter, ridiculous and beautiful — bright swirls of colour, almost psychedelic, nothing like the sterile silver Louis expected. It looked more like something they would’ve nicked from a festival stall when they were younger. It looked like Harry.

Louis’ hands shook when he picked it up, fingers curling tight around the smooth sides, arms wrapping around it like it might float away if he didn’t hold it hard enough.

And then the funeral director — some soft-spoken woman with tired eyes — handed Louis a small ziplock bag, too small, too light, and Louis stared at it without understanding until she said, “We found this with his personal effects.”

Inside the bag was the friendship bracelet. Sage green beads, a little faded, the elastic stretched too thin from years of wear and tear. The letters spelled Play-Doh , the nickname Louis had given Harry when they were just kids in rehab. That felt like a lifetime ago. And to Harry, it was.

Harry had never once taken it off.

The urn pressed to Louis’ chest. The bracelet clenched in his fist. And suddenly, Louis couldn’t breathe.

The first sob ripped out of him so hard it felt like breaking a rib. Zayn’s hand was on his back instantly, trying to steady him, but Louis shook him off, curling around the urn like it was Harry himself, arms wrapped so tight the edges dug into his skin.

He sank to the floor right there in the funeral home, knees cracking against the tiles, body shaking with the force of the grief clawing its way out. His forehead pressed to the urn, tears running hot and fast, sobbing so violently the woman behind the counter took a step back, hands folded tight in front of her like she’d seen this too many times before.

“Harry,” Louis sobbed, voice cracking wide open. “Harry, Harry, Harry.”

Zayn crouched beside him, saying nothing, just one hand steady on Louis’ shoulder, solid and warm and real. He didn’t try to pull Louis up. Didn’t tell him to stop crying. Didn’t say it’ll be okay , because they both knew it wouldn’t.

Louis rocked slightly, back and forth, the urn still clutched to his chest, bracelet tangled in his fingers, the edges of withdrawal burning under the grief. His body hurt. His heart hurt. His head hurt. But none of it mattered because Harry wasn’t there to hold him through it.

He’d held Harry’s hand through withdrawals a thousand times. Held him through the shakes, the vomit, the cold sweats, the sobbing. They’d gotten clean together, relapsed together, started over together. Every ugly moment, they’d held on tight.

And now Louis was alone. Alone in withdrawal, alone with the grief, alone with a fucking urn instead of a boyfriend.

Together. Or not at all.

But Louis was still here. Somehow, impossibly, Louis was still breathing.

He didn’t know how long he sat there, sobbing into the urn like it might sob back. Eventually, Zayn pulled him up gently, arm slung around his waist, guiding him toward the door. Louis walked out clutching Harry to his chest, bracelet still clenched in his hand, breath ragged and broken.

They didn’t talk in the cab back. Zayn just sat beside him, one hand steady on Louis’ knee, the only thing keeping him from flying apart.

Louis sat in the backseat, holding Harry in his lap, and cried the whole way home.

Louis hadn’t set foot in his mum’s house in years. Not because he didn’t want to — at least, that’s what he told himself — but because it was too fucking normal. Too warm, too clean, too safe. It smelled like fabric softener and roast dinners and the weird candle his mum always kept on the windowsill, the one she insisted smelled like “ocean breeze” but actually smelled like soap and the seaside had a baby.

It was the kind of place you had to be okay to walk into. And Louis hadn’t been okay in a long time.

But that’s where he ended up after the ambulance took Harry, after the paramedics gave Louis their too-soft condolences, after Zayn practically carried him out of the funeral home with Harry’s ashes cradled against his chest. He couldn’t go back to the flat — couldn’t face that empty bed, the half-finished puzzle on the coffee table, the pair of Harry’s socks still kicked under the sofa where he’d left them, the soft orange walls and the fucking tin.

So Jay opened her door without a word, pulled him into her arms, and let him fall apart right there in the front hall.

She didn’t scold him for the state he was in — shaking with withdrawal, skin clammy, body vibrating from the sudden lack of chemicals. She just held him, rubbed his back in slow circles, the way she did when he was a kid with a stomach bug or a broken heart, whispering soft things like I’ve got you, baby and You’re not alone.

He wanted to tell her it wasn’t true — that he was alone now, that without Harry, Louis didn’t exist. But he was too tired to argue.

She put him in his old bedroom, the one that still had band posters curling at the edges and a single trainer he’d left under the bed years ago. It smelled faintly of dust and his old cologne, and Louis lay down fully clothed, face pressed to the pillow, and felt fourteen again — except this time, the heartbreak wasn’t from some guy at school, but from the love of his fucking life being burnt down to ash in a colourful urn that now sat on his bedside table.

He turned his face toward it — the last piece of Harry he had — and reached out with shaking fingers, tracing the swirl of colour like it might be warm. The bracelet lay beside it, the beads pale green in the dim light.

Louis curled into a ball and sobbed until his throat was raw, shaking so hard the bed frame creaked, holding his own hands because Harry wasn’t there to hold them for him.

 

Jay had taken care of everything.

Louis couldn’t bear it. Couldn’t think about flowers or music or fucking catering. Couldn’t make decisions about arrangements or invitations or photos blown up for strangers to cry over. He sat at the kitchen table with a cup of tea he couldn’t drink, shivering under one of Harry’s old jumpers, and just… existed.

His mum asked, gently, what Harry would have wanted. Louis said cremated. That was the only thing he knew for sure — they’d joked about it too much, both high off their arses and making stupid plans for a future neither of them believed they’d actually reach. And they didn‘t.

“Nothing fancy,” Louis mumbled. “He’d hate that. No church shit either.”

Jay nodded, writing it all down in her soft, careful handwriting, the way she used to write notes for school. Louis could see her hands shaking. Her eyes were red-rimmed and swollen, and Louis wanted to say sorry — because she’d loved Harry too. Loved him like her own, since the day Louis dragged him in by the wrist when Harry was sixteen, too skinny, too pale, looking like a kid who’d never been loved properly a day in his life.

He remembered it like it was yesterday, Harry showing up in the middle of the night after his own mum had given him Tilidine. God, he wished Tilidine had stayed the main problem.

The next morning Jay had opened her arms, hugged Harry tight, and made him a plate so full it nearly collapsed under its own weight and Harry had smiled like no one had ever done that for him before.

Now Jay sat at the kitchen table, planning her honorary son’s funeral like it was any other family gathering. Louis couldn’t watch. He stumbled into the living room, curled up on the sofa, and stared at the telly without seeing a second of it.

The house filled up gradually — the way it always did when disaster struck. First Niall, still smelling like the bottom of a pint glass, eyes bloodshot, voice too soft. Then Zayn, quiet and thin, sitting cross-legged on the floor with a rollie burning between his fingers. Oli showed up next, arms full of bags from Tesco, like food could fix anything. Louis’ sisters hovered too, Fizzy and Lottie and Daisy and Phoebe, all wide-eyed and unsure how to touch their brother now that he was all edges and grief.

No one left.

No one wanted to be alone.

They sat in the living room, passing cigarettes back and forth, whispering stories they were too scared to laugh at, everyone trying to remember a version of Harry that wasn’t a body in a bag. Louis couldn’t speak. Just sat curled into the corner of the sofa, hands in his sleeves, staring at the bracelet in his lap like it might explain how they got here.

At some point, Jay pressed a cup of tea into his hands. Louis couldn’t drink it, but he held it because it was warm. Because he wasn’t.

When night came, Louis lay in his old bed, wrapped in the same duvet cover he’d had at seventeen, the urn beside him like a second pillow. His body ached — every muscle tense, stomach churning, skin crawling with the absence of heroin. He could have asked Niall for something. Could have asked Zayn. They all had something tucked in a pocket or a bag.

But Louis wanted to feel it . Wanted to let it hurt. Wanted to punish himself for surviving.

He held the urn to his chest, curled tight around it like it was Harry’s body, not his ashes, and whispered every apology he could think of into the dark.

“I’m so fucking sorry, Haz,” he choked out, voice shaking. “I was supposed to keep you safe. I was supposed to go with you.”

The urn didn’t answer.

Louis cried until he passed out, and when he woke up, the first thing he saw was the bracelet, the green beads spelling Play-Doh , and it hurt so bad he couldn’t breathe.

Together.

Or not at all.

Except Louis was still here.

 

The day of the funeral dawned grey and swollen with rain. It felt like the sky itself couldn’t bear it, too heavy to hold, sagging under the weight of what they were all about to do. Louis hadn’t slept. Not really. A few minutes here and there, jerking awake every time his body remembered Harry wasn’t breathing beside him. He hadn’t eaten either, stomach too twisted up, throat too raw, everything inside him rejecting the idea of surviving another minute, let alone another meal.

He got dressed in silence — black suit, too big now because nothing fit anymore. His body didn’t hold weight the way it used to. Neither did his heart. The shirt was buttoned wrong at first, hands shaking too hard to line up the holes, and his tie was a mess until Jay knelt in front of him and tied it herself, fingers trembling but steadying his. “You look beautiful, baby,” she whispered, and Louis nearly vomited at the lie.

Nothing about this was beautiful.

The funeral home was crawling with security before they even arrived — hired specifically to keep the vultures back. They lined the edges of the cemetery too, cameras flashing from behind the gates, lenses poking through the trees. Louis could hear them shouting, even from a distance.

“LOUIS, DID YOU FIND HIM?”

“LOUIS, ARE YOU CLEAN?”

“LOUIS, WAS IT SUICIDE?”

“LOUIS, DO YOU BLAME YOURSELF?”

He wanted to scream. He wanted to grab the nearest camera and smash it into the pavement until it was just shards and blood and silence. He wanted to grab Harry’s urn and run — disappear into the woods, somewhere quiet, somewhere only they knew.

Instead, he walked forward, jaw clenched so tight his teeth ached, Zayn on one side and Niall on the other, both holding his elbows like they were afraid he might collapse before they even made it to the grave.

The service was small — private, if you could call it that with press circling like sharks. Just family and the few friends who had never fully walked away. Harry’s mum didn’t show and Louis hadn’t been able to bring himself to tell Riley. Jay sat in the front row, hands knotted together in her lap, crying so softly Louis could barely hear it. His sisters were beside her, all four lined up, faces pale and wide-eyed, like they couldn’t believe it was real.

And Louis — Louis stood at the front, holding Harry’s urn because he couldn’t let anyone else do it. The colourful swirls looked out of place against his black suit, too bright, too alive, a reminder of the boy who used to be here. The boy who used to dance barefoot at parties, who used to sing stupid songs in the shower, who used to fall asleep with his head in Louis’ lap, mouth soft and pink, hands always reaching for something — a cigarette, a bottle, Louis’ fingers.

The priest or minister or whatever the fuck he was started talking — soft platitudes Louis couldn’t hear over the rush of blood in his ears. Words about love and loss and legacy, about Harry being too bright for this world, about all the good memories they’d carry with them. Louis wanted to laugh. Wanted to scream. Do you know what his legacy really is? It’s two kids in a shit flat with matching tattoos they got half-drunk and fully high, promising they’d make it out together and then failing every step of the way.

Instead, he stood there, silent and shaking, fingers curled tight around the urn, pulse pounding so loud it drowned out everything else. Louis said a few words as well, though he was pretty sure he was blacked out and not fully there. He started at the beginning. How he‘d fallen in love with Harry the day he walked through the rehab doors and introduced himself with shaky hands. How they‘d been inseperable ever since. He‘d stopped crying, he wasn‘t sure why.

When it was time, Louis knelt beside the hole — freshly dug, earth damp from the morning rain — and placed the urn inside himself. His fingers lingered, tracing the swirls one last time, before letting go.

But not all of it.

Before they left the house, Louis had quietly opened the urn, hands trembling, and scooped a small handful of ashes into a little tin — the kind that used to hold rolling tobacco. He tucked it into his the pocket of his suit jacket, against his heart, because Harry wasn’t going into the ground alone. Part of him was staying with Louis. Always.

The first shovelful of dirt hit the urn with a dull thunk , and Louis broke. His knees gave out, a sob tearing from his throat so violent it sounded like it had been waiting years to escape. Zayn caught him before he hit the mud, arms around Louis’ chest, but Louis fought him, scrambling to get closer, fingers clawing at the edge of the grave.

“No,” Louis sobbed, voice wrecked. “No, no, no, please, no.”

But the dirt kept coming — soft thuds one after another, until the urn disappeared completely. Louis’ hands shook so badly he couldn’t even wipe his face, tears and snot and mud all smudged together on his skin.

Everyone started to leave after that — slowly, quietly, giving Louis his space. Jay kissed the top of his head before walking away with the girls. Niall lingered, lighting a cigarette with trembling fingers, leaving it balanced on the edge of the grave like an offering. Zayn stayed the longest, but even he eventually drifted back toward the gate, leaving Louis alone.

Louis stayed. Kneeling beside the fresh mound of earth, fingers digging into the dirt like he could still reach him, rocking slightly, whispering nonsense — apologies, promises, confessions.

“I love you,” he whispered, over and over. “I love you, I love you, I love you.”

The sun started to set, and still Louis stayed, body aching from withdrawal and grief, bones too heavy to move, heart too shattered to beat properly.

 

Louis barely made it through the front door before the walls started closing in. The house was too quiet, too full of love he couldn’t stand to look at. His mum’s worried glances, Fizzy trying to ask if he’d eaten, Lottie offering tea he couldn’t stomach. All of it was too soft —like they were afraid he might shatter if they made a noise too loud.

He couldn’t do it.

He barely made it to his room, still in the suit, shirt stuck to his back with sweat, before he was shoving the window open. It creaked like it always had, the old wood frame bowing slightly under his hands, and Louis climbed out with the grace of someone who’d been sneaking out since he was fourteen. His feet hit the roof below with a soft thud , and he stood there for a second, heart racing in his chest, tasting smoke and memory on the damp air.

Harry used to follow him out this exact window. Sixteen years old, curls too long, jumper too big, breathless laughter caught in his throat as he nearly slid off the tiles every single time. They used to sit up here, passing a bottle back and forth, legs dangling over the edge, sharing secrets and cigarettes until the sun came up.

Harry had loved sneaking out. It made him feel dangerous. Free. Alive.

Louis didn’t know why his feet started moving, but they did—down the side of the house, slipping through the gate at the end of the garden, hands stuffed into his pockets, shoulders hunched against the cold. He didn’t even know where he was going until the streetlights started looking dimmer, until the worst and best of the estate came into view, until the old, half-broken park rose up in front of him like a ghost.

The park. Their park.

It looked exactly the same—swings with rusted chains, the slide covered in graffiti, empty beer cans crushed into the dirt. Louis could still see them here, could still feel it—Harry’s 17th birthday, the first one Louis got to be part of. They didn’t have money for a party, but Niall stole a crate of beer from his older brother, and Zayn nicked a cake from Tesco, and they all sprawled out on the patchy grass under the orange glow of the streetlights, too young and too high and too happy to give a shit.

Harry had gotten so drunk, he fell off the slide laughing, and Louis had kissed him just to shut him up. Harry had tasted like warm beer and chocolate icing, and Louis had known— this is it. This is my person. Forever.

That night had been forever ago. And now Harry was gone.

Louis stood in the centre of the park, breath fogging the air, the ashes heavy in his pocket. His fingers trembled as he opened the tin, heart pounding so hard it hurt. The ashes looked like nothing—grey dust, a few tiny shards of bone. Impossible to believe that was Harry. That was all of him.

“I’m so fucking sorry, Haz,” Louis whispered, voice cracking. “We were supposed to do this together.”

His hands shook violently as he scattered the first handful, fingers sifting through the ash like it might still be warm. The breeze caught it, carried it across the grass, and Louis’ chest ached so sharp it felt like he’d been stabbed.

“This is where it started,” Louis said softly, tipping out another handful. “Your first birthday with me. You told me you wanted seventeen to be better than sixteen, and we tried so fucking hard, didn’t we?”

The ashes slipped through his fingers, dusting the ground where they’d once lay side by side, hands clasped between them like a secret.

“You should be here,” Louis said, voice trembling. “You should—fuck, Haz, you should be here.”

His fingers scraped the bottom of the tin, the last bit of Harry left. Louis didn’t scatter that part. Instead, he tipped it carefully into a small metal vial he’d stolen from his mum’s jewellery box that morning—something meant for perfume or some sentimental shit, now repurposed to hold the only piece of Harry Louis could keep.

The chain was thin, already tangled, and Louis’ hands were shaking so badly it took him three tries to clasp it around his neck. The vial hung heavy against his chest, colder than skin, but it felt… right. Like armour. Like proof.

Louis pressed his fingers to it, closing his eyes. “Together,” he whispered. “Even now.”

The wind kicked up, ruffling his hair, and for a second—for a single second —Louis could almost feel Harry beside him, shoulder bumping his, laughter soft in his ear.

Then it was gone.

Louis sat down on the swings, chain creaking under his weight, head tipped back to stare at the sky. His knees bounced with leftover withdrawal, muscles aching from tension and grief, but for the first time in days, he wasn’t crying.

He was too empty to cry.

He sat there until the sun came up, the necklace clutched in his fist, his shadow too small without Harry’s beside it.

Louis’ fingers found the pocket of his jacket without thinking, the habit so deep it bypassed his brain entirely. For a second, he expected nothing—forgotten gum, a crumpled cigarette, some useless bit of paper. But the second his hand closed around the familiar shapes—foil, lighter, plastic, the soft weight of a baggie—he almost laughed.

Of course. Of course it was still there. Even after everything, even after the funeral, even after swearing he wouldn’t touch it because Harry deserved better, it was still there. Like a ghost of who they were. Like a promise.

He pulled it all out, laying the pieces across his lap, fingers shaking so badly the foil almost slipped into the grass. The baggie was half full, the powder clumping slightly from humidity, but Louis didn’t care. It could’ve been dirt and bleach for all it mattered. It was all the same now.

He moved like his body was on autopilot—muscle memory from years of practice. Tear the foil. Tap out a line. Heat it up. Draw the liquid, tilt the syringe. The motions were automatic, each step following the next without thought. His hands trembled too much to do it properly, but Louis didn’t slow down. Didn’t check his work.

He pretended not to notice how much he’d drawn up—far more than they ever took in one hit. He pretended not to see the bubbles stubbornly clinging to the plastic. He knew better. They knew better. After so many years, they were practically professionals at getting high without dying. They could eyeball doses in the dark, measure by instinct, keep themselves hovering just shy of the point of no return.

But tonight, none of that mattered.

The words echoed in his skull, louder than the blood rushing in his ears, louder than the trembling breath he dragged in through his nose. Together or not at all. They’d said it half-joking the first time, sixteen and eighteen, kids who thought addiction was romantic and death was something that happened to other people.

But now Harry was gone.

Louis was the only one left to keep the promise.

The needle hovered over the vein in his arm, skin already bruised and scarred from a thousand hits before this. The lighter flicked once, twice, then caught, tiny flame illuminating his face in the pre-dawn gloom. His eyes were hollow, but there was peace too. Peace in the decision. Peace in the surrender.

He pressed the plunger down slow, breath catching as the warmth bloomed up his arm, soft and familiar, wrapping around him like Harry’s arms used to. His whole body sagged with relief, grief quieting under the weight of the high, pain dulling to a whisper, heartbeat slowing just a little too much.

Sorry mum, sorry girls, sorry Zayn, sorry Nialler, sorry Oli, sorry El, sorry Riley.

Together or not at all.

Louis’ head tipped back against the swing chain, the cold metal biting into his neck, but he barely felt it. The trees blurred above him, streetlights bleeding into stars, and for a moment—for one sweet, fleeting moment—he swore he could see Harry sitting in the swing beside him, sixteen again, curls falling in his face, eyes too bright in the dark.

“Hey, Play Doh,” Louis mumbled, words slurring around his tongue. “Together, right?”

Harry was dead. But he wasn‘t. That still body he‘d woken up next to wasn‘t Harry. Harry was somewhere else — maybe asleep on Zayn‘s couch or singing his heart out in front of thousands of fans, or smoking a cigarette on their balcony. Maybe if he went home right now he’d find him sitting on the couch with Riley, watching shit telly. Right now, if he concentrated enough, he could see Harry in front of him, all wild curls and bright green eyes, cigarette between his fingers and holding out his hand for Louis to take. Maybe they’d lie on their backs and watch the stars like they used to when they were just kids. That’s what they had been when this whole mess started. Just kids.

“He isn‘t dead,“ he said to himself. He isn’t dead. He looked like an angel. His light, his hope, the love of his life. His Play-Doh. Louis was the sun, something Harry had trusted to always rise up again no matter what, to be a constant in his life, something to rely on. Louis had drawn him in, and just like Icarus, Harry had burned and paid with his life for getting too close. Louis should have turned to ice before Harry ever got too close.

The world narrowed down to the weight of the necklace against his chest, the warmth in his veins, and the ghost of Harry’s hand in his own. He still wasn‘t afraid to die, but he couldn‘t go on without Harry.

Nobody would be surprised to find his body in that park come morning. Devastated, yes, but not suprised. Because after all, they were always going to end like this.

Chapter 55: Author’s note

Hey, so… that was a lot, huh?

I wish I had the right words, but unfortunately, those usually only come to me when writing fiction—not uplifting speeches. To be honest, I don’t think this story should have much of an uplifting speech.

I do apologize to anyone I made cry or gave hope for the two of them, but I was pretty clear in my warnings about this story—so… sorry? I wrote this fic, like many others, to be a bit of an eye-opener, I suppose. The story may be exaggerated in some places, but I wouldn’t be surprised if this was someone’s reality—here or in another world. It was certainly close to my own, spare me doing any really hard drugs, thank the gods.

Long story short: don’t be Louis. Don’t be Harry. Don’t be any of them, to be honest. And if you feel like you connected to them a little too much—don’t be afraid or ashamed to reach out for help.

I know I made rehab and therapy seem useless in this story, but that’s not the case. Louis is an unreliable narrator—he twists things to fit the version he wants to believe. So don’t let his perspective drag you down. There is help, and it does work.

I’ll let you guys breathe for a bit before I start uploading my next fic. This has definitely been the heaviest story I’ve written so far, and I think a little break will do all of us some good. That doesn’t mean I’ll stop writing—not by a long shot. I’m planning to upload an alternate ending (maybe even two), depending on how I—and you guys—feel about it. I would also like to say that this is by no means a romantic love story, it is nothing short of a tragedy.

Well, so much for that.

Thank you all for being this invested. I really love and appreciate every single comment left under this fic, even if I don’t always manage to reply.

I hope this story gave you something—whether that’s just a reminder not to do drugs, or the strength to stay away from people who drag you down, intentionally or not.

Now, I’d like to answer some questions that might be on your minds.

What happened to Louis exactly?

He overdosed—intentionally, in case that wasn’t clear. Louis was a seasoned addict, and he was well aware of the danger he was putting himself in. He shot up far too much and didn’t tap out any air bubbles which, in case you didn’t know, can be fatal all on their own.

Who found him?

Zayn. He was Louis’ best friend, and I feel like he’d just know where to find him—and what kind of state he’d be in. Louis would be buried right next to Harry. Together at last.

What about Riley?

He found out through the news. No one really knew where or how to reach him in time—and you know, a star dying and his boyfriend following shortly after would hit the headlines pretty quickly. He did attend Louis’ funeral, along with his aunt. Amelia came too.

Their deaths would finally be the wake-up call Niall, Oli, and Zayn needed to get clean.

Louis’ mum kept the bracelets on the nightstand in his old bedroom, which will stay just the way it was—for as long as she can help it. Whatever money Harry had left went to their friends and family (Louis’ family, more specifically). It helped cover house repairs and rehab programs for the others.

Riley visits the graves a few times a year—once on the anniversary of the day he came to the squat and met Louis, and again on their death days.

And if there is such a thing as an afterlife in this universe, then rest assured—they’re together and happy there.

That said, I love you all.

-Ace

Series this work belongs to:

• Part 1 of Together, or not at all