Archive of Our Own ^beta

Harry's the first one to give him a hug when he gets back. The boys are already all at the hotel, but Louis is a bit late because it took some time to check out of the center and his mum had him have breakfast with her before he got onto the plane.

Harry wraps his arms around him, presses a quick kiss to Louis's cheek and smiles. “I missed you, mate,” he says, as he steps back, and Louis just nods at him, a “Missed you too,” mechanically spilling off his lips.

Harry winces as though he's tasted something foul, and Louis would apologize for that if he knew how to fix what he was doing wrong and if he could spare the effort, but all he can focus is on how his stomach is churning and how he feels as though he might just burst out of his trousers and how his tee-shirt feels too tight and too small and all wrong. The scrambled eggs his mum made him sit heavy in his stomach and he can practically feel the grease sloshing around, and he wishes she hadn't made him have the toast too, and there's saliva building up in his mouth and it's making him nauseous.

But as soon as that peculiar look slides across Harry's face it dissipates, and he slings a lanky arm around Louis's shoulder, and hollers, “Boys, he's back!”

Zayn and Niall are quick to hug Louis—Zayn pulling him into a full embrace and ruffling his hair, and Niall a little more cautious, but smile bright as ever, braces glinting under the light of the room as he chuckles. Liam hugs Louis too, and Louis can feel the boys watching them carefully, cautiously, as though they're afraid it's a chemical reaction about to go wrong, but Liam just mumbles, “Glad you're back,” before stepping back to slip into a conversation with Harry and Niall, and completely avoiding eye contact with him, his back towards Louis.

It hurts more than he'd like to admit, and he can feel Zayn tense next to him, knows Zayn's seen the exchange.

“Hey, you alright?” Zayn asks, and when Louis shrugs trying to feign nonchalance, Zayn sighs.

“You look good,” Zayn muses quietly, fisting his hand into the back of Louis's shirt. “Just... don't scare us like that again, yeah?” he glances at Louis, and his eyes are soft, and Louis thinks he might cry.

He swallows hard. “I'll try not to.”

Zayn looks a bit disappointed at the answer, and bends his head downward, sighing heavily before consenting, “Yeah. Yeah, that sounds good.”

____________________________________________

He's got these cards he has to fill out, and Niall purses his lips as he hooks his head over Louis's shoulder to look at them. Louis kind of wants to push him back, because he has a headache and he feels nauseous, but he knows Niall's only trying to help, and he knows Niall's a bit hesitant around him still since the last time he saw Louis, he was visiting him in the center when Louis felt like he was an animal in the zoo, and the time Louis had seen Niall before that he had said a lot of things he didn't mean and Niall had cried and.

Well, Niall's studying the cards, and he reads out, “Cal-or-ies. Carb-o-hy-drates. Pro-teins,” and Louis wishes he would stop, but Niall looks so earnest and so intent on helping that Louis just nods. “Yeah, yeah, Nialler.”

He gained fifteen pounds in the center even though he fought against every calorie they put on his plate, and he doesn't want to look at these cards or keep this stupid food log, but he knows it was a deal they worked out—a deal between management and the center (not really him because he didn't have a choice in the matter). His counselor at the center was against him leaving, wanted him to stay, but Louis wanted to go back on tour—missed it, missed it, missed the boys (even, maybe especially Liam) with every fiber of his being, so they'd worked out a deal. Louis would keep putting on the weight, making sure to eat more than he had been at the center since he'd be working out more, and he'd send progress updates on his cards.

“Have you had your carbs today?” Niall asks, and Louis closes his eyes.

He wants to lie, wants to tell Niall he's already eaten, he's not hungry (it would only be a half lie anyways because his breakfast is still in his body), but he can feel Niall's wary gaze on him, feel the weight of the lie on his tongue heavier than the food in his stomach, when he finally shakes his head no. As soon as he does, he regrets it, wishes he could take it back and just lie, lie the way he's been used to, but Niall's careful smile makes him almost feel okay about this.

“Okay,” Niall says, “well I'm gonna make some pasta. You want some? We have ravioli. We can eat lunch together.” He nudges Louis's side with his hip, and says, “I think Harry wanted some too. So.”

“Yeah,” Louis replies. In the clinic, they didn't let him choose—they'd bring out the meals for him, make sure it was the right serving size even though Louis tried to burn his toast so badly there was hardly anything he could actually eat after he'd scraped off the charcoal, cut his chicken into shreds so he couldn't taste anything when he ate. “That sounds okay.”

He hates pasta, hates the way it grows in his stomach, seeps into every crevice of his body, making him feel slow and sluggish like he's weighted down with cement, but Niall looks so happy that he's being helpful, Louis can't begrudge him.

He wishes that he'd been able to make himself throw up—wishes he didn't gag every time he worked fingers down his throat because hell, he'd tried, tried so many times, but it was too hard—it was easier not to drink anything, not to eat anything, let his body dehydrate itself into starvation mode and convince itself it wasn't hungry, that he was weightless, light, invicibile, and.

Zayn walks into the kitchen and smiles at him, situates himself down in the chair next to Louis. “You're eating lunch with us, then, yeah?”

Louis shrugs non-commitally, and Zayn gently brushes Louis's hair out of his eyes. “That's good, mate. Progress.”

“You got a fag I can bum?” he asks, and Zayn freezes, before shaking his head apologetically.

“Actually, I don't,” Zayn says, “I quit.”

“Really?” Louis asks because three months ago when Louis was hospitalized and checked ino the center, he remembers Zayn's cheeks hollowing around cigarettes that glowed bright embers, eyes emptier than Louis had ever seen them.

But then he notices Zayn fills out his shirts and pants more, he's put on some weight, looks healthier. Zayn doesn't smell like stale cigarettes and his eyes aren't hollowed and tired, and he looks, well... better.

“Can I ask why?” he says carefully, because he doesn't quite remember how he fit in with this group of boys, doesn't quite remember how they used to be all friends and they were content to let Louis be their king, their fearless leader.

“I promised I'd quit if you got better. Didn't want you to be alone in this,” Zayn says, focusing his dark eyes on Louis's face and Louis wants to smile or say “thank you,” but he's afraid he'll cry if he does so he just links his hand into Zayn's and squeezes hard.

Zayn squeezes back, and hums a Bob Marley tune—and every little thing, is gonna be alright.

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He hates the way all of them—even Liam—are watching him push each forkful of pasta into his mouth. Niall's doused the ravioli in some creamy alfredo sauce (“It's your favourite, Lou,” he says as he slaps the bowl down in front of him, “right?” and it used to be his favourite but nothing is his favourite anymore—just water and that tasteless fiber cereal that looks like cardboard and if he's being generous maybe a non-fat yogurt), and he can practically taste the fat sliding down his throat. He hates the way he can feel their eyes on him, analyzing his every move as though they're expecting some mental breakdown, expecting him to shatter any second.

Louis swallows before glaring at all of them. “Can you eat? Please?” he adds as an afternote, and he's relieved when Harry visibly relaxes and takes a bite of pasta. Niall's tucking into his food squished next to Harry, curled up at his side as he pats his tummy contentedly, and if Louis wasn't watching so closely he'd have missed it.

Harry glances at Niall, eyes creeping to the blonde's face, and smiles unexpectedly, cheeks dimpling, and Niall's eyes widen just slightly, something unspoken, intimate, secretive between them—it's the way Liam used to look at him, Louis realizes, and—

Louis clears his throat. “So how long have you two been fucking?”

Both Harry and Niall start, and they look guiltily at him, and Harry says, amiably, “What are you going on about, Lou?”

“Cut the bullshit,” Louis retorts, and he hates the way Niall flinches, but he's searing and furious.

“Leave them alone.” There's a voice and Louis's about to turn and tell Zayn to shut the fuck up, but he realizes it's Liam, and Liam's making direct eye contact with him for the first time he's come back and it's to chastise him, and that hurts. “It's not their fault, Louis, that they like each other, okay, that they even might love each other. You can't help who you fall for. You out of anyone should understand that.”

“How long?” Louis asks, and his breath is bated, and he can feel Liam's eyes boring holes into the side of his head but he pretends that Liam isn't looking, that Liam's just ignoring him like the way he had been, pretends that Liam can't help just like he never wanted to—because it's so much easier that way, it makes it a little easier to breathe and just get by.

Niall curls up in on himself, knees pulled to his chest, and his face is scrunched and he might cry. “We didn't know how to bring it up,” he says, voice small, blue eyes wide and wet and round, and Louis ignores him completely, repeats, “How long?”

“Two months. They've been together for almost two months,” Zayn answers for them abruptly, circling Louis's wrist with his fingers, “now please Louis, sit down and eat with us, yeah? I just-”

“You were together when you came to visit me.” Louis's accusation rings through the air, cutting through the tension like a knife. “And you couldn't bring it up then? 'Hey, Harry anything new?' 'Well not much, Lou, but actually I've started fucking Niall and-'”

“Cut it out!” Harry yells then, running his fingers through his curly hair. “We thought you were gonna die, Louis! They told us you might die! I thought I was gonna lose you, okay, Louis, and we needed to let you know we were there for you, and Niall and I didn't want to take the attention off of you because,” he chokes now, and his voice is a hiccupy sob as he manages, “we didn't know how much longer we had with you. I... I didn't want you to be mad at me because of you and Liam.” He glances tentatively at Liam who's now looking anywhere but at them. “We love you, okay Lou? We were just so scared.” He turns and thumbs Niall's cheekbone with his finger, wipes away some of Niall's tears. “We were just scared Lou, and we didn't know what to expect, and we were gonna tell you, I swear.”

Louis watches Niall crook his head upwards, plant a soft kiss on Harry's jaw.

Zayn's quit smoking, Harry and Niall are together. His mind reels as he processes the new information. They've already started choreographing the moves for the new songs on the upcoming tour. He wonders how much else he's missed—if Liam's seeing anyone, if Liam.

He sighs defeatedly, pushing his ravioli from side to side in his bowl. His pasta gets cold.

Nobody says anything, but all of the boys sit there until Louis forces the last bit of noodle into his mouth.

____________________________________________

“He's different.”

“He just checked out of rehab, Harry—you can't expect him to come and be completely fine. Of course he's different.”

“I know, but... I miss him. Like... I miss the old Louis.”

“Me too, Harry. Me too.”

____________________________________________

It's the next day, and his clothes are soaked through from practice, and Louis can't be happier that it's over. Louis's just learned how to breathe again properly as he takes solace in his room. The cards are cradled to his chest—the calories and carbohydrate and protein content of his breakfast scribbled in—and he doesn't want to look at them because the numbers are just too big, and it's too much, and he's supposed to have lunch soon. He's responsible to eat 2,300 calories a day—he's supposed to gain at least eight more pounds until he's back on track, and he can't, can't think about that because that'll make it twenty-three pounds, every single pound he's forced himself to work off through so, so much work, sliding back onto his body effortlessly, congealing to his limbs.

He's glad he gets a private room—Niall and Harry are sharing, and Zayn and Liam are bunking together, and he just needs some time to think. He'd missed the boys so much, but he's overwhelmed at the emotions somersaulting through his body. He has his fingers on the door when he hears a scuffle inside, and he opens it to see Harry rummaging throuh his suitcases.

Harry looks up at him, and freezes, eyes wide with guilt.

“What the fuck are you doing?” Louis asks, his voice dangerously calm, and Harry drops Louis's backpack onto his bed, stepping back from the satchel like he's just touched fire.

“I... I...” Harry stammers, and he doesn't have to say anything because Louis knows Harry's searching for his old stash of laxatives, the tiny blue tablets that got rid of food for him because Louis couldn't force himself to vomit.

“I've stopped,” Louis says, and he can feel his voice creschendoing louder, louder up in him, thrumming in his chest like he's some sort of monster. He strides to his bed, grabs his bag and dumps its contents all over the bed, and Harry winces as Louis's wallet, his iPod, a pair of headphones, pamphlets fall out. Louis rips open his suitcase then, flings his clothes all over the floor, his heart pounding in his ears.

“Do you see what you're looking for?” he roars, because he thought that out of everyone, Harry would be the one to trust him, Harry would be the one who would tell him everything, keep him posted, keep things light, and doesn't Harry—don't all of them know he's not infinite? Harry's backed himself into the corner of the wall and his green eyes are shiny with unshed tears and he's gnawing through his bottom lip.

“I'm sorry,” Harry whimpers, “I'm so fucking sorry, Lou,” and he's shaking and practically sprinting out of Louis's room.

Louis sits down on his bed, balls up his hand into a fist and stuffs the top of it into his mouth, biting it so that the pain can help him stop thinking, bring him back down into a painful equilibrium because he just wants it to stop. He remembers how much he used to hate Harry—maybe still does—because of his graceful limbs and his fragile wrists, and how he ate everything and stayed weightless, slender, beautiful—and how Louis wondered why he couldn't have that.

But nothing's been going right today, and there's a hesitant knock at the door.

“What?” Louis pulls his fist out of his mouth to spit. And he's about to tell Zayn to fuck off or Niall to go fuck Harry, but it's Liam, and all of the air inside of him just flushes out, and Louis just wants to cry.

“What do you want?” he mutters, and Liam sits down on the bed next to him.

“Don't want you to be alone,” Liam replies.

Louis looks at him, remembers what it felt like to run his fingers over the birthmark on Liam's neck, remembers what Liam felt like on top of him, his body strong and muscular and lithe. Remembers how every touch was searing across his body, made him feel powerful and cared for and wanted and needed.

“Can I,” Liam starts, and then licks his lips. They're chapped and worn and on the brink of bleeding, Louis thinks, and he looks at Liam, truly looks at him and notes the bags under his eyes and the wrinkles on his forehead and he thinks he's not the only one who's gone through hell and back, and he almost, almost feels bad for him.

Liam swallows hard then, Adam's apple actually bobbing, and manages, “Can I ask you something?”

Louis stares at him, knows the old him would scoff, toss back his head and laugh, and flop his body across the couch, head in Liam's lap. But he's different anymore, he's not what he was before, and he just finds himself mumbling, “Yeah?” as he knots his fingers tight in his lap.

“Why'd you do it?” Liam's staring at the ground now, like the answer's there, and Louis hates it, hates the way Liam's got his fingers cupped under his own chin, hates the way Liam won't look him in the eyes, hates the way Liam sounds betrayed.

But mostly, he hates the fact that he doesn't have an answer.

“I...” he clears his throat, bowing his head and feeling the heat rise to his face. No, he's not embarrassed, just. He wishes this hadn't happened. “I wanted to feel good enough. I... I wanted to deserve you,” he settles on, because that's the truth of it as far as he can tell.

There's a heavy intake of break, and he feels Liam's eyes on his face, and he glances up to meet Liam's pained stare, the wells of dark brown that used to make Louis think that this—whatever the hell this was—wasn't real because there was no way that Liam could be his and that Liam actually wanted him.

Liam's eyebrows are knotted at the center of his forehead now, and he looks like he's trying to find the words, and then he starts talking too fast because Liam's always talked too fast when he's nervous and Louis doesn't want it to be this way.

But Liam's response isn't accusatory, just soft and a little vulnerable, and Louis stops thinking about what he ate for lunch for a few seconds, stops pinching the roll of fat on his stomach to listen. “You know, that was the problem, Lou. You always felt like you had to prove something, and you didn't get that I just. Liked you. I loved you as is. Before everything, and I'm... I'm sorry you didn't realize it. I should have worked harder.”

Louis is quiet then, because of course he's saying this, of course only Liam would try to apologize for this, Liam who's too nice for his own good. There are tears prickling the corners of his eyes, and his face feels like it's on fire, and there's a choked sob climbing its way up his throat, but he feels Liam's cautious, callous, familiar fingers slide around his neck.

“You're beautiful, you know that, Lou?” Liam's voice is low and soft, and Louis tries to remember the way I love you used to sound, but it's been so long since someone's wanted him and he's gained FIFTEEN POUNDS, and he can feel the fat spilling over the waistband of his trousers, and here is Liam telling him he's beautiful, and Louis just. Can't.

One of the tears falls then, and then another, and another, and he crumples his face into his hands and just cries because he's never felt this ugly before, and here's Liam trying to tell him he's beautiful when he's not, not in the slightest.

Liam sighs, and hugs him then, strong arms wrapped around Louis's waist, his buzzed head scratching the side of Louis's cheek, and huffs into the side of Louis's neck.

“Shh,” he says, and his voice is calm and sweet, and so Liam and it makes Louis feel something akin to homesickness, nostalgic, something he used to know but doesn't know anymore. Liam's talking, crooning out small comforts, and says, “I'm proud of you, you know that, yeah? I'm really proud of you, Lou. I'm glad you're getting better.”

“Yeah, me too,” Louis replies, and he knits his hands into Liam's shirt, and buries his face into the crook of Liam's shoulder and lets himself hope. He remembers the way his heart used to staccato in his chest, beating so hard that it felt as though it might burst, those nights when Liam was curled up around him, lips pressed to the hollow of Louis's neck. How he tried to force the words out, confess he needed help, confess he needed saving, but how he never could.

And right now, he can feel Liam's heart stuttering against his own, feel the dampness of Liam's tears hitting his own shirt and soaking through the fabric to rest on his skin, and maybe they'll never be back to what it used to be but. It's a start.