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“Why are we here again?” Louis asks, standing beside Harry, their fingers intertwined.
Harry squeezes his hand. “My dad wanted the whole family together again.”
“He has some audacity inviting your mum, but I respect her for tagging along,” Louis whispers, watching as Harry’s dad, Des, introduces Gemma to his new wife and stepchildren. “If I was her, I would’ve told him to stick it up his ass.”
Des invited them over for the Christmas holiday. They’re spending this week leading to the holiday in his house with his family and Louis has never been quite as unimpressed and uncomfortable as he is now.
“Harry!” Des exclaims, tugging him into a tight embrace. “It’s good to see you, son. You’re looking great.” He turns, gesturing for his wife and stepchildren to walk over. “Harry, this is my wife and your stepmother Isla.”
Harry shakes her hand. “Nice to meet you, Isla.”
“And these are her kids, your step-siblings, Grace, Archie, and Clare,” he introduces. Harry shakes each of their hands as his dad rants about them. They’re all teenagers, if not close to or already in their twenties, but they seem nice enough, smiling at Harry as he utters a statement of kindness, telling them how great it is to finally meet them. “Oh, and this is Harry’s fiance, Louis. How are you, kiddo?”
Louis clenches his teeth into a smile as his father-in-law pats him on the back. "Fine Des, and yourself?"
"Wonderful," Des says. "It's nice to see you again."
From there, the group of them gather in the family room, all sat around the fireplace as a roasting fire illuminates the room. There’s tension in the air as Anne sits on the opposing side of the room, legs crossed, and a permanent frown etched on her features. She doesn’t say a word to anyone aside from Gemma and occasionally Harry.
In the midst of conversation, a cry extracts itself from Harry’s throat, foreshadowing the bout of absence seizures he has two minutes later. Louis clutches his thigh, squeezing the jean material between his fingers. “You’re alright, baby," he whispers. It’s impossible to hold a conversation with Harry at this point because as soon as he’s in the middle of telling a story an absence seizure captures his brain, forcing him silent, blinking and teeth clicking tics apprehend him.
Anne offers Louis a small, sad smile once Harry comes out of his third one. “Twelve seconds.” Louis says to her, then moves his hand to Harry’s back, rubbing soothing patterns. Harry doesn’t even realize what’s going on, in fact he continues with his stories after the subjects have already been changed.
Des is clearly not happy about his son having seizures in his presence, especially considering Harry's having them in front of his new family. He proves to be an absolute prick. “Don’t you have some medication you can go take or something?”
“I already took my midday dose,” Harry says, furrowing his eyebrows. He has no knowledge of the seizures. “Why?”
“What do you mean why? You can’t even hold a decent conversation without crying out or ticking like an asshole.” Des teases, causing a round of laughter to come from his stepchildren.
Harry looks hurt and confused. “I don’t-”
Louis leans in, whispering in his ear, “You’re having absence seizures, just ignore him.”
“I am?” Harry wonders, quietly. Louis nods, causing Harry's eyes to widen as he turns his attention to his dad. “Gee, I’m sorry, dad. I didn’t even realize I was seizing, sorry.”
“Don’t say that.”
“Say what?” Harry asks, confused.
“Seizing,” Des cringes, exchanging a look of disgust with Isla. “I hate that word.”
“Well he hates doing it,” Anne finally speaks, glancing towards Des, disgruntled. “His absence seizures aren’t hurting anyone, leave him alone Desmond.”
Harry has a fourth absence in the middle of talking about his last trip to Los Angeles. Louis brushes his hair off his face as he blankly stares at the floor. “Almost done, love.” Once Harry blinks a few times and clears his throat, indicating the seizure has ended, Louis looks to Anne, informing her that it lasted “twenty six seconds".
“That’s bizarre," Des blurts out.
Anne scoffs. “Why don’t you act your age, huh? Act like the fifty six year old man you are and leave your son and his medical condition alone.”
“Did I have another absence?” Harry asks, meeting Louis’ eyes.
Louis kisses his forehead. “Yeah, but don’t worry about it.”
“Who the hell do you think you’re talking to?” Des snaps. From his words a verbal fight occurs between himself and Anne, including an abundance of shouting and swearing from his end while she reprimands everything he says, calling him immature and foolish.
Louis stands, staring down at Harry. “Let’s go upstairs, yeah? Let them sort this out for themselves.” he says, nodding for Harry to follow him to the guest bedroom. Louis assumes it's their room for the week as Des told them to set their luggage down in this particular one. The two of them lay in bed together and before long, Louis falls asleep, inflicted from the early wakeup this morning as well as the lengthy drive.
Louis startles awake to an abrupt shattering noise. “Fucking hell,” he mutters, gazing around the poorly lit room. Harry isn't beside him any longer, understandably, since they're with his family and he's obligated to spend time with them, even if some of them are crude.
Louis guesses it’s inching towards evening - close to six thirty or so - and a faint scent of roast lingers in the air. Dinner must be close to being served.
He stretches his arms over his head, popping his shoulder blades out of his back, as a thorough yawn escapes him. After giving himself a moment to regain consciousness, he stands and treads out of the well decorated bedroom. Though, as soon as he’s back in the realm of the Styles’ family traditions, he realizes something isn’t quite right. He stops at the top of the stairs due to the yelling coming from the family room - a man and a woman - Louis assumes it’s Anne and Des. Though, it doesn't make sense as they were arguing hours ago when he fell asleep and at some point it had to have dissolved, right? Nobody can argue for four hours straight. They had to have stopped at some point.
He manages to hear only a little of what's being argued. "He obviously isn't well and you go ahead and make it worse!" Anne yells. Louis has never heard her raise her voice before and to be frank, it's quite terrifying. "What is wrong with you? You're a psychopath!"
"It isn't my fault he got in the way!"
"He has epilepsy. You can't just go around hitting on him!" Anne shouts, voice raising in pitch. "Don't you ever put your hands on my son again!"
"Your son? Your son? Are you fucking kidding me?" Des bursts into a forced fit of laughter. "He's my son too!"
"Mum-" Wait, that's Harry's voice. Louis can tell by the absolute disregard for the atmosphere around him. He doesn't yell - Harry hardly ever yells - rather speaks with a sense of rationalization. "Mum, please, I-"
Suddenly, Gemma races up the stairs, halting when she sees Louis, catching herself on the stairwell. “There you are. I was just coming to get you," She’s out of breath, deeply struggling to regain a sense of composure. “You need to help me.”
Louis can sense her urgency and marches down the steps. “What’s the matter?”
“Mum and dad started arguing again, Harry got in between them,” she deeply inhales, “Dad’s had a few too many beers and threw a few punches. Busted Harry right in the mouth.”
Louis struggles to form words. “Fuck.”
“Yeah I- it’s bad. I need you to help me-” she’s interrupted by a loud thud and her eyes widen- “Oh shit, that’s not good.”
Louis feels his chest tighten and he pushes past Gemma, gliding into the kitchen, though stops in the doorway. Harry’s starting to have a seizure. He’s on the floor, arms and legs curled inwards, whimpering and trembling. There’s a large cut under his swelling left eye and blood is seeping out of his nose, not to mention the split bottom lip Des inflicted. He must have hit his face when he fell.
“Oh my God! See what you do, look what you did," Anne scolds, glaring at Des. She kneels down beside Harry. “You’re causing him to have a bloody seizure, all because you deemed it necessary to smack him around!”
"I didn't cause him to have a seizure, you're crazy," Des argues. "Fucking crazy."
Louis watches Harry wither on the floor for a mere few seconds before dropping on his knees beside him. “Shh, love, it’s okay,” he whispers, touching Harry’s face. He hasn’t started to convulse yet, although a very intense tremor has captivated his body. “You’re okay, Harry, it’s okay. I’m right here, love, relax.”
“L-” Harry starts to say, but a cry contracts in his throat. His head jerks to the side, veins in his neck and forehead protruding. “Lou.” he sobs.
He’s weed himself, judging by the very potent smell hesitating under Louis’ nose, and although the older lad is used to the smell and sight of Harry weeing himself, his heart still hurts for him.
The blood flooding out of his nose is mixing with his tears and snot and it’s smearing across his face. “Someone grab me a warm cloth, now,” Louis orders, stroking Harry’s cheek. “You’re alright, baby. Shh, shh, shh, calm down for me sweetheart, it’s okay.”
Anne stands, disappearing from Louis’ line of sight for a moment, then returns, barring a pillow and blanket from the couch. She guides the pillow under his head, careful to not reposition him too quickly. “There we go poppet, you’re alright," she drapes the blanket over his hips, hiding his saturated trousers and the puddle of urine from the audience. “Let’s make sure you’re nice and covered up, love.”
“Oh fucking wonderful!” Des booms. “So glad my twenty four year old son is pissing himself on my brand new carpet!”
Anne turns her head to glower at him. “He’s having a seizure, Desmond. You know he can’t help himself. This is your fault, if you don’t like it, allow my son some respect and leave the room.”
Desmond’s wife and stepchildren seem to be struggling with the concept of their stepson and step brother having epilepsy, meaning he suffers from intense seizures, because they’re making an absolute fool of themselves, asking uneducated questions and crying.
Gemma places a hand on Louis’ shoulder, handing him a damp dish towel with her other. “Thank you, Gems,” he says, holding the towel under Harry’s nose. He gently wipes, absorbing the mess from his face. “This has to feel a little better, huh? Not so sticky, I hope," he whispers, brushing Harry’s hair off his forehead. Harry’s pupils are dilated, only a thin ring of emerald green shows around his blown pupils. “I think you’re gonna go, sweetheart, I’ve gotta move you on your side, okay?” He peels the blood stricken towel away from Harry’s face and slides his hands under Harry. The younger boy’s clothes are moist with fevered sweat.
Without being prompted, Anne slips her hands under Harry, one under his thigh and the other under his back, and the two of them guide him onto his side. Harry cries, neck extending upwards, and Louis can see the tension causing deep lines to form in his face.
As Louis adjusts his necklaces and stretches the collar of his shirt, all to keep him from being strangled, he whispers, “It’s alright, Harry, it’s-”
“How many fucking times are you going to say that?” Des snaps. “Huh? It’s alright. Oh yes, it’s fucking alright that he’s causing a scene in front of my family!”
Louis can’t help himself from defending Harry. “He’s having a fucking seizure. If you weren’t such a deadbeat father and you gave a shit about your son, you would know how severe they get.”
“You think you’re so clever, don’t you?” Des trudges towards Louis, determination etched on his face.
“You might as well stay over there,” Anne corrects. “Stay away from my sons.”
Louis shakes his head at Des’ idiocracy, returning his attention to Harry. His fiance is yelping, body clenching as the seizure rears it’s ugly head through his nervous system. “It’s so close to being over, Harry, so close. It’ll be alright, I promise, love. You’ve just gotta get through this for me.”
Choking coughs erupt from Harry’s mouth as the convulsions seize him, forcing his body taut as he uncontrollably spasms. His tongue laps against the roof of his mouth, head slinging back, and smacking against the pillow each time. His hands and feet are clenched, fingers and toes curled as his limbs forcefully bounce off the carpeting.
“Good God," Des huffs with a roll of his eyes. “Always melodramatic that one.”
Only the whites of Harry’s eyes show as face remains sternly rigid. “You’re doing so good for me, love. I’m so proud of you, keep steady for me, you’re almost past the worst part.”
“There goes a minute twenty two,” Gemma says, reminding them of the time Harry has been seizing.
Everything, even his lips, are quivering as the seizure intensifies for a moment. Cries explode from his mouth, building from the back of his throat, and propelling out of his troubled body. Saliva oozes out of his lips, dribbling down his chin, and soaks the front of his shirt.
Louis uses his sleeve to wipe Harry’s lips, careful to not confine him in any way, then adjusts his necklaces, swathing the cords over Harry’s shoulder. “It’s alright, lovely, I’m so proud of you. I love you, sweets, it’s okay.”
“Three,” Gemma says.
Louis swallows. “You’ve gotta stop seizing for me, baby. It’s almost over, come back to me, gorgeous. You can do it.” He watches as Harry starts to slow, spasming limbs beginning to relax, and the disturbing noises begin to soften.
Harry’s head lolls to the side, heavy breathing ensuing. The color is drained completely from his face, though a shade of blue dances on his lips as his body tries to revive the oxygen he lost.
Aside from the prominent bruising around Harry’s eye and his bloody nose, Louis doesn’t see any other signs of injury - other than the split lip his dad inflicted. “What did he smack his face off of?”
“Corner table,” Anne says, observing Harry’s sleep like state. “He came down with a lot of force.”
Louis furrows his eyebrows, pulling his bottom lip between his teeth. Harry must have been in a lot of pain. He cards his fingers through Harry’s sweaty hair, waiting for him to return to consciousness.
“Here’s another cloth,” Gemma whispers.
Louis takes it from her, laying it across his lap for a moment. First, he parts Harry’s lips, clearing his mouth of built up saliva with his finger, then wipes his nose and mouth.
Harry flutters his eyelids a few times, eyes struggling to open, and an elucid moan drains from his mouth. “Harry?” Louis whispers, placing the back of his hand against his forehead, detecting the claminess. “Harry, open your eyes for me, love. Look at me.”
He does, though closes them immediately, due to the lighting of the room. He tries again a moment later, scouring the room for a sign of what’s happening. “Do you know where you are?”
Not a word leaves Harry.
“Of course he fucking doesn’t! Absolutely helpless,” Des scoffs, evoking a quiet laugh out of his wife’s mouth.
Harry winces at the abruptness and intensity of Des’ voice, turning his head to the side to avoid it. “It’s alright, love. Take your time, no one expects you to talk right now,” Louis consoles, pad of his thumb brushing over Harry’s hairline. “Do you know what your name is?”
“I-” Harry starts to say, then vomits, coughing as the putrid acid burns his throat. Some of it splashes on Louis’ clothes, but he hardly flinches, leaning in closer to comfort Harry, tucking his hair behind his ear.
“Oh baby,” Anne coos, rubbing his back as another round of being sick attacks his stomach. “It’s alright.”
Harry’s eyes roll slightly as he lays his head back down on the carpet. He's not well concentrated or aware, which is painfully obvious. The flesh around his eye is red, though a slight purplish color is beginning to deepen. “Harry,” Louis whispers, forcing him to move his head by slipping a hand on his chin. “Baby, do you know what your name is?”
Despite having said his name seconds earlier, Harry doesn't retain it and merely blinks at Louis. Anne glances at Louis who doesn't seem bothered by Harry’s lack of knowledge - he never is.
“Is he going to get up?” Des asks.
Gemma shakes her head in disbelief. “Dad,” she scoffs. “Give the kid a break. He's just had a seizure. He can't even talk.”
More blood starts to trickle out of Harry’s nose and he tries to sniffle upon feeling the wet sensation, though it doesn't do anything aside from create a larger mess. “Oh no, lovely,” Louis fusses, again using the cloth to plug Harry’s nose. “Gotta get your nose to stop bleeding. Can you tilt your head back for me?”
He keeps one hand under his chin and as soon as he tries to tilt Harry’s head back, the younger boy cries out, hand attaching to Louis’ forearm, fingertips digging into his flesh, squeezing. “Oh, I’m sorry, love. I'm sorry.” Louis carefully unlatches Harry’s hand from his arm, instead slotting their fingers together, holding his hand firmly. “I should've made myself clearer, shouldn't I have? Are you okay?”
Anne watches them for a moment, eyes focusing on her hands as she thinks.
“How long is this going to take?” Des asks.
Anne furrows her eyebrows. “As long as it needs to. You knew what the risks of having us in your home were, and if you can't accept your son’s medical condition, then you don't really deserve to have him in your life,” she spits. Her words seem to take some kind of affect on him as he doesn't have a rude remark.
Harry mumbles something. Louis can't determine what he's on about. On top of speaking quietly, his brain isn't cohesively working with his vocal cords, and the inside of his mouth is tore up, therefore he doesn't make any sense. “It's alright,” Louis says. “Can you tell me what your name is?”
“No,” Harry grumbles.
“Harry.” Louis whispers. The thought of Harry being hurt and confused to the point where he doesn't even know what his name is causes his heart to twinge. No one should ever have to feel like that. “Your name is Harry.”
“H-” Harry tries to say, but his voice cuts out.
“Har,” Louis sounds out, elongating the ‘a’ in his name, “ry. Harry. Can you say your name for me? Harry.”
He does, though he can't quite enunciate the consonants in his name. “Good job, love,” Louis praises, feeling his forehead to see if he's cooled down at all. He feels a bit better - not as overheated and clammy. “Do you mind if I sit you up?”
Harry doesn't say anything. He's having a hard time coming out of the postitical state this time. The disorientation and weakness are stronger than usual.
Slipping a hand under Harry’s back, he places another on his chest, then carefully and slowly folds him into a sitting position. Harry immediately slumps forward, unable to hold himself up, but Anne holds his shoulders to keep him from sinking back down to the floor until Louis can position himself behind him and have Harry lean back against him.
“Should we call for medics?” Gemma asks, biting down on her lip. “He's not usually so...out of it.”
Louis shakes his head. “Shouldn't call if it's not an emergency,” he says, snaking an arm around Harry to keep him sat upright. Harry is resting back against the trunk of Louis’ body, sitting between his legs, his own legs clumsily spill on the floor in front of him, and his head lolls against Louis’ neck.
There's a moment where he tries to stand, feeling at the ground until he can sink his fingernails in the tough beige carpeting, and he leans forward, attempting to get friction under the heels of his socks, but tension invades his body, body trembling from exertion, coercing him still.
“No, no, don't do that. You'll hurt yourself,” Louis whispers, pressing a kiss below his ear. “We'll get you up soon enough. Don't want you to stand until you feel better.”
Anne touches Harry’s shoulder, earning herself a perplexed gaze from him. “Gemma, grab your brother a glass of water, okay? Not too cold, don't want to shock his system.”
Harry sighs against Louis’ body, mumbling words which hold no meaning or sense, and Louis cards his fingers through a small portion of Harry’s hair, whispering sweet encouragements to him.
Gemma returns with a plastic cup of lukewarm water. When Anne attempts to help Harry drink, it spills down the front of his clothes. “Might help if there's a straw,” Louis suggests. “Then he won't be so overwhelmed.”
“Okay,” Gemma leaves the room once more, then returns with a bendy straw, sliding it into the plastic cup. Louis proves to be right, once Anne is able to guide the straw in Harry’s mouth, he drinks, sipping slowly after Louis reminds him to.
“You’re doing so good,” Louis says, brushing through Harry’s hair with his fingers. Not only does it comfort Harry, but the gesture gives Louis a chance to feel for bumps on his head. “We’ll get you on your feet in a little bit, okay? Do you know where you are?”
Harry pulls away from the water, burying his face against Louis’ neck, and groans. “I’ll take that as a no. It’s okay. Do you know who I am?”
The younger boy nods, but doesn’t say anything to follow it up with. Louis isn’t sure if he thinks he’s someone else as there’s always a good possibility. He gives Harry a few more minutes, allowing him to keep his face hidden against his neck, his breathing heavy, before he says, “I think we should get you cleaned up, love. I’ll help you up, okay?”
Harry shys away slightly, eyeing Louis with curiosity. His pupils are still quite unfocused, he can’t seem to confine his vision to one particular thing. “I’m gonna grab under his arms,” Louis determines, peering at Anne, “and when I start to stand him up, can you help him get his footing?”
“Of course,” Anne says.
Louis latches on to the underside of Harry’s armpits, then begins to stand, gradually pulling Harry with him. Anne grabs Harry’s ankles and as soon as it’s possible, she helps him dig his heels into the floor, followed by flattening his whole foot.
As soon as he’s upright, he’s back down again, physically unable to use the strength in his legs, though Louis manages to grab hold of him before he completely slumps to the floor. “It’s okay, love,” he says through clenched teeth, “I’ve got you. We’ve just gotta get you used to standing, that’s all.”
“I’ll give you a hand,” Des says, approaching them.
“Don’t you dare put a fucking hand on him,” Louis snaps, forcing Harry to drape his arm around his shoulders. He loops his own arm around Harry’s back. “You’ve done enough and you’re not gonna disrespect your son anymore.”
Des doesn’t listen, roughly grabbing Harry’s arm and yanking him out of Louis’ grip. “Be a man and stand up. Come on Harry. You’re no weakling.”
By forcing his lax body to move so quickly, Harry isn’t able to keep his footing and hits the floor without as much as an attempt to regain balance. Mentally, there’s nothing there and his brain is seriously struggling to coordinate with the rest of his body. There’s a lag in everything he does.
He hits his head off the floor, though it seems to startle him more than anything else. A quiet cry erupts from between his lips. “Are you kidding me?” Louis snaps, squaring up to Des. The older man is quite a bit taller and wider than he is, but it doesn’t matter as Louis defends Harry. He drops back down to his knees beside the younger lad. “He had a seizure! He doesn’t even know what’s going on and you’re being an absolute prick. This isn’t his fault. Why the fuck would you be so rough with him when it’s obvious he can’t stand?” Louis brushes his thumb over Harry’s forehead. “It’s okay, babes. I’ll get you back up.”
Yelling ensues again. Louis can hear Anne and Des shouting at one another over the scene Des has furtherly caused. “Let me help you,” Gemma says, crouching down on Harry’s other side. Together, they’re able to help Harry to his feet, though he’s still too weak to be anything more than applied deadweight. “Where to?”
“Bathroom,” Louis answers. “I’ve gotta get him cleaned up. Maybe get him in the tub.”
Gemma nods. “Okay.”
It’s a slow, tedious walk down the hall, but they lead Harry into the restroom. Louis sits him down on the toilet, giving him something to lean back against. Gemma dismisses herself, allowing her brother to keep his dignity. Louis cradles his cheek in his hand. “Is it okay if I help you undress, love?” Harry glances at him as though he doesn’t know what he means. “You know, undress,” Louis tries to clarify, showing Harry what he means by unbuttoning his own jeans. “I mean, help you take your clothes off.”
Harry furrows his eyebrows, still not grasping the concept. “I-” he stops, staring down at his lap as he tries to think.
“It’s alright,” Louis hushes, kissing the top of his head. “Take your time.”
Harry fumbles with his shirt, fingers trembling, tugging the bottom of the material.
“Do you want me to help you?” Louis asks, crouching down in front of him. He peers up at him, watching as his younger fiance’s bewildered expression expands. “That’s your shirt, love.”
“Want,” Harry mumbles.
Louis acknowledges how extensive his disorientation is - what he really needs is to sleep off the confusion - and remains extremely patient and collected. “What do you want, baby?”
“Off.”
Louis nods, finally understanding what Harry wants, his shirt off. “I’ll help you, okay?” he asks, gently pushing Harry’s hands away from his shirt. “Lift your arms up for me. Above your head.” He collects the Rolling Stones tee in his hands and pulls it upwards with him as he stands, cautiously tugging it over Harry’s head.
Trying to get Harry’s trousers and underpants off is a hassle because Harry can hardly stand. Louis has to work with sliding jeans off his stiff and poorly fiance whilst he’s sat down. “Let’s get you in the shower," he says, arm slinging around his fiance’s back as he raises him to his feet.
After having Harry step into the tub, he helps him sit on the porcelain floor. He barely turns the faucet on, feeling the temperature of the water before allowing it to pelt down on Harry, and retrieves two towels and a washcloth before kneeling down beside the tub.
Harry groans at the sensation, shutting his eyes as the lukewarm water as it dribbles down his clammy flesh. “Bet that feels good.” Louis murmurs, kneading his fingers through Harry’s hair to saturate it equally. He hates treating Harry this way, feels like it’s a jab at his validity as an adult, though he definitely doesn’t mean to make Harry feel incompetent.
He squeezes a dollop of strong smelling shampoo in his hands. “Keep your eyes closed for me.” he says, rubbing his hands through Harry’s hair to lather the soap, then guides him under the showerhead to rinse the suds out. Next, he wets the washcloth and froths soap onto it’s coarse surface. He starts at Harry’s face, cleansing his face and neck first - careful of his injuries - and gradually retreats downwards, stopping below his navel. “Here, love. Take this and finish washing yourself.”
Harry appears confused, but after a moment of processing what Louis’ said to him, he seems to understand, cleaning his private areas. Louis detaches the shower head, cleansing Harry of the soap, and after, assists him out of the tub, drying him off. He ties a different towel around Harry’s waist and the two of them falter down the hall to one of the guest rooms. Louis ushers him to sit down on the bed.
Gemma stands inside, clothing folded in her arms. “Grabbed some clothes from his suitcase,” she says, handing the clothes to Louis. “You guys can stay in here and I’ll move up to your room, since I don’t think he’ll be able to do the stairs.”
“Thank you,” Louis says, kissing her cheek.
“Is he doing any better?” she asks, glancing over at Harry. His eyes are downcast as his shaking hands touch the sensitive flesh around his split lip. He hisses at the sensation.
Louis looks over his shoulder. “Don’t touch it, Harry,” he reminds, then looks back to Gemma. “He’s still not talking, but it’s okay. I think once he gets some sleep he’ll come around.”
“That’s good.”
“I’m gonna rip your dad’s fucking head off,” he blurts, meeting Gemma’s eyes. “I don’t care how old your kid is, you don’t hit them, and you show them respect when they’re having a medical emergency.”
Gemma sighs. “My dad’s never been supportive of Harry’s epilepsy. I can’t imagine why, but he’s always been...mad at Harry for it. Used to yell and make him cry when he’d come out of fits. And he- nevermind, I shouldn’t say.”
Louis can feel his blood boiling. “This isn’t the first time he’s hit him, is it?” he asks.
“No,” Gemma whispers, running her hand through her hair, “no, it’s not. He was so rough with him after seizures. I honestly don’t know how Harry ever managed to get over it.”
“I don’t think he did,” Louis admits. “Harry’s good at blocking things out, but...I don’t think that’s something you ever get over.”
A breathy call of his name demands his attention, “Lou,” he turns, peering at Harry who’s glancing at him with observant eyes.
“I’ll be right over, love,” Louis gazes over his shoulder at Gemma. “Do me a favor and keep your dad away from him, and if you get the chance, grab something frozen from the freezer, his face is starting to swell.”
Gemma disappears and Louis trails over to Harry, setting the clothes on the bed beside him. “You know who I am,” Louis whispers, taking a seat beside him. He grips Harry’s knee cap, thumb brushing against the towel covering his lap. “Question is, do you know who you are?”
Harry squints his eyes. “Uhm, Harry,” he mutters. “Bit fuzzy, sorry.”
“That’s okay,” Louis promises, squeezing his knee. “Do you know where we are?”
“No,” Harry mumbles, searching Louis’ face. “Sorry.”
Louis cups his chin in his hand. “You don’t have to apologize. Why don’t we get you in some clothes and we’ll lay down, get some sleep.”
He helps him into a pair of sweatpants, a loose fitting t-shirt, and a pair of fuzzy socks, then the two of them lay in the king sized bed, blanket mostly tucked snugly around Harry’s shaky frame.
Harry falls asleep relatively quick, face buried deep into Louis’ chest, and Louis wraps a protective arm around him, holding him close.
Anne walks into the bedroom about an hour later with a sleeve of crackers and two glasses of water. “In case he’s hungry when he wakes up,” she explains, setting the items on the nightstand. “He shouldn’t put anything too heavy on his stomach.”
Louis offers her a weak smile. He’s been stuck in his thoughts for this last hour. He never knew Harry’s father beat on him and at the worst possible time, when he’s struggling to recover from a seizure. No wonder Harry’s always been so insecure regarding his epilepsy.
“He looks like he’s been in a fight.” Anne says, sitting on the edge of the bed.
“Your father punching you in the face seems to do that,” Louis replies, bluntly. He tucks his chin against his chest, staring down at Harry as he sleeps. His eye and cheekbone are bruised and swollen and the cut under his eye is inflamed with patches of red. His bottom lip has a gash down the center, dried blood crusted around it. “Absolutely ridiculous and uncalled for.”
Anne doesn’t say anything for a moment. “I’ve never understood why he’s so hard on him.” she says, glancing at Harry. “Doesn’t make much sense. It’s not his fault, he was only trying to defend me, and Des- well Des has always had a bad temper.”
“It doesn’t excuse it, Anne,” Louis sighs, brushing Harry’s hair off his forehead. “He could have really hurt him.”
“I know, love,” she sighs, tucking her dark hair behind her ear. “I just- I wonder when Harry will finally catch a break.”
“You're not supposed to be home from school yet,” Anne said, setting the brown paper grocery bags down on the kitchen counter.
Thirteen year old Harry stared back at his mum, giving her a nonchalant shrug. “I left,” He was sat at the kitchen table, chin buried in the palm of his hand as he stared out the patio door. “We weren't doing anything.”
Anne sighed, pulling two egg cartons from the bags and setting them in the fridge. “Harry love, you've already missed so much school this year. I need you to be responsible and go to class, okay? I want you to graduate on time.”
“I’m doing fine mum. All A’s,” Harry informed, rising from the kitchen table. He walked to the counter, assisting his mum in unloading the groceries and stocking them in their appropriate locations.
“That’s wonderful," Anne praised, filling the freezer with bags of frozen vegetables. “Was there any particular reason you left school?”
Harry hesitated, fingertips grazing a box of whole grain crackers. “No.”
“Harry,” Anne pressed.
“Uh, yeah, I mean-” Harry stopped to think- “It's just- my classmates. Some of them aren't the nicest.”
“Are they still giving you a hard time?” Anne asked, exasperated. She stared at her son as he observed the nutritional info on the back of the cracker box. “I told you to tell me if it started again. I'll make an appointment to speak with your headmaster.”
“No mum, please,” Harry pleaded, shaking his head frantically. “If you do that then they'll know how defenseless I am. They weren't even that bad today.”
“What did they do?” Anne demanded. “Obviously it was bad enough for you to want to come home.”
“I had a couple absence seizures and my hands were shaking really bad,” Harry explained, exhaling deeply. “And they- a couple of the boys, they were calling me names. It's not a big deal though, mum. Really, it's not.”
“What names, Harry?”
Harry swallowed. “Nothing that bad. Just, uhm, said I was,” he lowers his voice, hoping Anne won't be able to hear him. “Retarded and spastic and stuff.”
“Retarded," Anne repeated, hands sprawled across the countertop. Her fingernails drummed against its surface. “I've had enough of the school refusing to do anything. I’ll talk to your headmaster tomorrow and maybe we can have you moved from that class. I know you know better than to listen to those kids, but I want you to hear it from me. You're not retarded and no one has ever thought that.”
Harry didn't say anything, eyes downcast as he moved to stick the box of crackers in the cupboard.
“Did you hear me?” Anne asked.
Harry nodded. “Yeah.”
“Don't listen to what they tell you,” Anne said. “You're the brightest and loveliest boy I know. Don't let rude people get to you. They're not worth a broken heart.”
Neither of them spoke another word as they put the groceries away accordingly. Anne had turned her back to empty some of the expired food from the refrigerator, creating room for the new items she bought, when a loud thud captured her attention.
She turned around quickly, carton of strawberries splattering against the kitchen tile, as she witnessed Harry on the floor, body clenching in oddly timed intervals. “No,” she whispered to herself, rounding the kitchen counter to kneel down beside him. Spasms coursed through his thin frame, forcing him to jerk and twist in strange directions, and he foamed at the mouth, saliva encasing his lips. “Oh no baby, not again.”
She shrugged her jacket off and bundled it in her hands, carefully moving Harry’s head to prop him against it. It was too late to roll him on his side, and she wasn't willing to face the consequences of shifting him mid-seizure. “It's okay, poppet. It's just you and me,” she swallowed, watching him as his limbs pulled taut and smacked against the kitchen cabinets. “It's going to be just fine, sweetheart.”
Her heart always pounded when Harry would seize. It was never easy for her to cope with seeing her son in such a state of helplessness.
The seizure ended as soon as it began, only lasting for a mere forty five seconds before discontinuing. Anne brushed Harry’s hair off his forehead where a bump was beginning to swell near his hairline. “We’ll have to get some ice on that, won't we?” she asked, rhetorically, “It's all over now. I'm so proud of you, Harry, it’s all done, love.”
Harry begins to stir awake. He moves against Louis, head shifting so he can look at him after opening his eyes. His eyelids flutter a few times as he observes Louis’ facial features.
“Hey love,” Louis kisses the top of his head. “How’s your head?”
“Achy," Harry says.
Louis peers at Anne. “We’ll get you an aspirin,” Anne stands without speaking a word, wandering out of the bedroom.
“Did I have a seizure?” Harry whispers, then says as an afterthought, “Feels like I had a seizure.”
“You did,” Louis confirms. “Is there anything I can do to make you feel better?”
Harry sighs, ignoring Louis’ intial question. “Sorry to put you through that again. Don’t know what happened.”
“It’s okay, Harry, really,” Louis rubs his back, tracing small circles against the material of Harry’s cotton tee, and meets his eyes. “You went into it really quickly. Do you want anything? Some water maybe? A cr-”
Harry clears his throat, interrupting Louis. “Is my dad mad?”
“Who cares? He's a shithead,” Louis replies, dryly, “I don't give a fuck if he's mad or not. He's absolutely ridiculous.”
“It's just how he deals with it, Louis. Not everyone is as kind as you.”
“He punched you,” Louis scoffs, “And- and talked down to you like you were worthless. Just because you're not in a clear headspace doesn't mean you're not valid.”
Harry shakes his head, looking away from his older fiance. “Just forget it.”
“No, I'm not gonna ‘just forget it’,” Louis blurts, eyes narrowing as he stares down at Harry. “Why didn't you ever tell me he was abusive? We wouldn't have come over here for Christmas. I don't wanna ever purposely put you in an uncomfortable or dangerous situation.”
“He's not-” Harry stops, pulling away from Louis. His hand moves to sprawl across his mouth. “Oh god.” he groans.
“What?” Louis asks, sitting up.
Harry shakes his head. He tries, he really does try, to climb out of bed, but he doesn't manage to before losing whatever substance is left in his stomach on the bedding. Sick splashes against the duvet, soaking into it’s brown and beige pattern.
Louis places his hand on his back, consoling him, as he traces the outline of Harry’s spine. “It's alright, get it all out, love.”
Harry hiccups, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. To make matters worse, his fucking mum walks in the room, stopping in the doorway bottle of Ibuprofen in her hand. “Oh baby,” she coos, her eyes showing sympathy.
“We'll get new bedding, don't worry about it,” Louis promises, folding the comforter over so they can climb out of bed without touching the sick. “Do you think you can stand?” he asks.
“Don't know yet,” Harry mutters, becoming increasingly mortified about vomiting in bed with his fiance. He swings his legs over the side of mattress and uses the nightstand as support. He’s extremely weak. His legs feel like jello, absolute mush, as if there's no muscle or bone in them, and they buckle, nearly sending him to the floor, but Louis manages to walk to him quick enough, holding him upright.
“Yeah, you don't need to be standing right now,” Louis whispers, leading him over to the bench in front of the vanity. “Sit tight for a minute while I’ll fix the bedding.” He bundles the blanket and sheets up, tossing them into a spare laundry basket, then disappears out of the room.
It bothers Harry when Louis doesn't react poorly to this sort of thing. He should be angry or upset or show some kind of disgust regarding it, but he doesn't, he never does. Instead, he remains calm and does whatever needs to be done without ever yelling at Harry for it.
“Maybe we should hold off on the medicine,” Anne says, though mostly to herself. She sets the bottle of aspirin down on the dresser, then treads over to Harry. If he looks as clammy as he feels, then he understands the concern washed over her gentle features. She feels his forehead with her hand. “You're running a temperature. Do you feel sick?” she asks.
“I certainly don't feel good,” Harry says, eyes floating upward to meet his mum’s. “But not sick, I don't feel sick.”
“Hm,” Anne hums, repositioning her hand to feel his cheek - the uninjured one - and sighs at the replicating fevered sensation. “Maybe you caught a bug.”
“Or maybe it's from flopping around like a fucking fish in front of my stepfamily,” Harry snaps, jerking away from his mum’s touch. “Why the fuck do I have to ruin everything?”
“You didn’t ruin anything,” Anne hushes, leaning against the vanity. “Don't say things like that. Everyone knows that you can't help it, love, and nobody blames you for it.”
“Dad would beg to differ,” Harry mutters.
Anne shakes her head. Her hand grips the cross pendant around her neck, squeezing the cold metal between two of her fingers. “Your father isn't a very nice man, and everything he said was uncalled for.”
“What did he say?” Harry asks. Anne doesn't say anything, her focus switching to the floor. “Mum? What did he say?”
“Nothing important,” Anne whispers, locking her eyes on Harry’s. There's something reminiscent of an apology in her eyes. Harry doesn't say anything else regarding his dad. “Louis was there, helped you through the entire seizure, he loves you very much. We all do.”
“He always helps me,” Harry answers. A strange feeling crosses his body - he feels as though he's floating for a moment - and a sensation of pins and needles prickles his flesh. “Mum,” Harry whines, slumping forward.
“Harry?” she exasperates, crouching down in front of him. “Love, what's the matter?” she asks, holding his shoulder.
Louis walks into the bedroom with a comforter, minus the sheets, though it seems he can tell something isn't quite right. “What's going on?” he asks, heart pounding against his sternum, and sets the blanket down on the bed. He approaches Anne and Harry, faltering behind Anne as she holds Harry from falling out of the seat.
Harry isn’t really staring at anything. His eyes hold no emotion as his teeth click together. He smacks his hand down on his thigh, right side of his body spasming ever so slightly.
“Just a complex partial,” Anne answers. "A small one I think."
Louis doesn't say anything as he watches Harry gradually pull out of the seizure. Though, as soon as the younger boy is done, he reaches for Louis, a slight cry rumbling in his throat. “It's alright,” Louis says, stepping closer to Harry. He bends down, embracing him against his chest, holding him tight. “You're alright. It's over.” He kisses the top of Harry’s head.
Anne trails over to the bed, unfolding and flattening the comforter against the surface of the mattress.
It takes Harry a minute or so to function like himself again, but as soon as he bounces back, there’s no evidence that he even had a seizure moments beforehand. “All better?” Louis asks.
Harry nods.
“I was only gone for a couple of minutes,” Louis points out. “At least you came out of it quick.”
“Thank you,” Harry whispers.
“For?”
“Helping me today.”
“Don't be silly,” Louis replies. “I'll always help you. There’s never a question in my mind about it. Now, why don't we get you back in bed? You should go back to sleep.”
“Okay.”
Louis stands beside Harry in case he needs help walking to bed, but he seems to be okay, or at least a little better. Rather slow and wobbly, but it’s okay, Louis doesn't want to pressure him into moving too quick or exerting himself.
He falls asleep after a few moments of laying down. Louis lays down beside him, talking to Anne for a few moments, then the older woman leaves, shutting the door behind her.
Harry manages to sleep for about two hours without interruption. Until Des knocks on the door and welcomes himself into the room.
“What do you want?” Louis snaps, voice louder than he intends, startling Harry awake. “Don't you think you've done enough?”
“I came to check on my son. Unlike you, I've known him his entire life and I reserve the right to form an opinion.” Des replies, dryly, looking to Harry. “How are you doing, son?”
Harry blearily stares at him. His eyes are glossy and lethargic with sleep. He lays his head on Louis’ chest, concealing his face in the softness of his sweater. “Oh dear, are you trying to discredit me?” Louis asks. “Last time I checked, I’ve only known Harry for eight years, but in these eight years I’ve been more supportive and caring of him than you’ve ever been. You’re not gonna take that away from me.”
Des laughs, mocking Louis’ words. “I’m his father. I mean more to him than you ever will. Now, why don’t you give the macho masculinity act a rest? Step out of the room and allow us some bonding time.”
“I’ll be damned if I leave him alone with you, you abusive fuck,” Louis spits, tightening his grip on Harry. “He’s trying to recover from a seizure. He doesn’t need this.”
“This is my house and if you’re not going to do what I ask, then get out," Des demands. “Simple as that.”
“Okay, if you say so,” Louis shrugs, sitting upright. “Give us a few minutes and we’ll be out of sight, hopefully out of mind too,” he gently shakes Harry’s shoulder. “Come on, Harry, we’re going home. You can sleep on the way.”
Des’ mouth falls open, but he can’t seem to think of a proper response. “Don’t bother coming back.”
“We don’t plan on it," Louis says.
Again, Des doesn’t know what to say, instead he grumbles a curse at them, then leaves the bedroom with a slam of the door.
In about five minutes, Louis has their luggage collected, the bedroom trashed, and Harry on his arm. As they walk down the hallway, Anne and Gemma begin to question them, but Louis explains the situation, and they refuse to argue, planning to do the same. “Come on over to the house when you’re back in town. We’d love to have you for Christmas,” he tells them, then exits the Styles’ home, tugging Harry along with him. Both of them leave without bidding goodbye to Harry’s father.
The drive home isn’t rough, actually it's exceedingly relaxed, despite its four hour length - most of which Harry sleeps through - though they stop at the Mcdonald’s drive thru for a late night dinner. Except, Harry’s meal is more on the light side - a large cup of water, a bag of apple slices, and a handful of Louis’ fries. “I’m sorry you had to go through that, love, it’s not fair.” Louis says, popping a fry in his mouth. They’re sat in the parking lot of Mcdonald’s, seats angled back, eating their dinner.
“It’s not your fault,” Harry says. “I thought maybe things could be different.”
“Compared to?”
“When I was a kid. I just- I thought maybe my dad and I would be able to get on better since I’m older now, but I’m still epileptic and I guess...I don’t know it causes him some kind of internal turmoil and he can’t see past it or something.”
“Or he’s just an asshole.” Louis says.
“Yeah,” Harry bites into an apple slice, chewing as he thinks. After swallowing, he says, “If we were to ever have kids and one of them was...disabled or sick I wouldn’t treat them like my dad treats me and I know- I know you wouldn’t either. You’re good to me.”
“Of course I am. Because I love you and care about you,” Louis answers without hesitance. “That’s what I don’t get about your dad. I mean- he’s your dad, right? So, dads are supposed to love their kids unconditionally and support them through everything they encounter. That’s sort of the point of being a parent.”
“Maybe I’m a disappointment in his eyes.”
“Disappointment?” Louis laughs. “You’re far from it love. You and Gems both are amazing people who have accomplished incredible things. Your dad is a prick who isn’t capable of showing compassion or sympathy, that’s all.”
“You think so?”
Louis nods, sliding another fry between his lips. “I know so.”
Harry smiles, leaning back against the passenger seat. Louis never fails to make him feel better.
“And you shouldn’t think any less of yourself because one person isn’t supportive,” Louis adds. “There’s so many people who care about you. Although, I’m quite frankly your number one fan.”
Harry laughs, flushing slightly at his fiance’s comment. “I’ll sign you an autograph when I’m done eating.”
Louis chuckles at Harry’s response, watching him with fond eyes.
Maybe they don’t have Harry’s dad on their side, but they have each other and a million others who will always show their love and passion towards who they are and what they’ve accomplished, and at the end of the day, that’s all that truly matters.