Work Text:
(Louis)
Harry’s out on the hotel balcony when Louis wakes up.
He’s curled up in a chair, knees against his chest, a blanket around his shoulders.
“Hi, love,” Louis murmurs. The just-rising sun is starting to reflect off Harry’s curls, illuminating him. Perfect, Louis thinks. Even the sun loves him. It wants to keep him warm.
“Hey,” says Harry, his voice cracking slightly, eyes bleary as he looks up at Louis.
“Come back to bed,” Louis offers softly.
Harry hasn’t been sleeping well, not for weeks. He keeps saying he just misses home. Louis still feels a cold rush in his veins every morning that he wakes up alone.
“In a minute.” Harry rubs at his eyes, curling in on himself tighter. “I like it out here.”
“‘s cold,” Louis says, sitting down despite himself.
“It’s pretty.” Harry shrugs, looking at Louis, oddly focused all of a sudden. “Do you ever think...” He shakes his head. “This is the only time of day no one expects anything of us.”
Louis opens his mouth to retort - that’s morbid or okay, rockstar, time for sleep, but Harry isn’t looking at him anymore. He’s stood up, just running his fingers over the edge of the balcony.
For a moment, the light enveloping him makes him look almost... Not real. Too beautiful, too. Still.
“Let’s go back to sleep,” Harry says, then, and ruins the illusion.
▶▶
In the middle of the night: Harry crying like a child, mumbling about nightmares in words Louis can’t understand, his hands clutching Louis’ t-shirt like it’s his lifeline.
“I was on stage, Lou,” he whispers into the darkness, “But it was so loud. I- I was trying to speak. But it was so loud, all the... The screaming. No one could hear me.”
Louis presses close, wipes Harry’s tears with his thumb. “Just a dream,” he soothes, over and over again. “I’d always hear you.”
▶▶
(Harry)
Harry knows that everyone expects something from him.
More than something. Everything.
And that’s been okay, for awhile. It really has been. It’s easy to be all those people when he knows that there are parts of the real Harry that are only for himself, and maybe Louis. He can smile and wave and make so many people happy and still come home belonging to himself and his boy. And that’s okay.
Except now, he feels like he’s given so much, maybe there isn’t anything left.
▶▶
(Louis)
Louis sneaks out in the morning for a smoke, and he catches Liam in the lobby on his way back inside, sipping coffee with bleary eyes and making a face when he swallows.
He smiles gratefully when Louis comes to sit beside him, pulling a packet of sweet and low from his hoodie pocket. He pours it in, looking more satisfied with his next sip.
“Much better. You just had that in your pocket?” Louis shrugs.
“I like to swipe them from hotel rooms. Incase I don’t have any for my tea or somethin’.” Liam shakes his head, grinning at Louis.
“You’re something else, Tommo.” Louis leans into Liam’s side, kissing his jaw.
“’s why you love me.” He closes his eyes and dozes while Liam finishes his coffee and plays with Louis’ hair.
“I’m worried about Harry,” Liam says softly, after a while.
Louis thinks of the dazed, tired looks that last all day; thinks about yesterday, when Harry joked that he wouldn’t get up unless Liam carried him but actually sagged against Liam when he’d done it, like he couldn’t hold up his own weight.
In the present, Louis rests his forehead against Liam’s shoulder and takes a deep breath, folding one of his hands over Liam’s on the coffee for its warmth.
“I think maybe you should be,” he says.
▶▶
(Louis)
Harry’s tense the entire interview. Louis barely gets a glimpse of him, Liam creating a barrier between them, but he can tell that Harry’s twitchy, uncomfortable. He barely speaks, and when he does, it’s accompanied by nervous laughter.
When they’re finally in private, in the car, he clings to Louis hand, eyes darting around nervously.
“Haz,” Louis murmurs, trying to keep the concern out of his voice. “What’s wrong?”
“I hate it. I hate...” Harry shakes his head, like he’s trying to clear his thoughts. “They ask us all these- these questions, and they try to create. This picture of us.” He swallows, racking a hand back through his hair. His palm’s sweaty against Louis. “It’s just. They think they know me.” And then he adds, softly, like he’s trying to convince himself, “They don’t. They don’t know me at all.”
▶▶
(Harry)
It’s three a.m., and he’s trying to wake up Louis, but it’s like he’s too weak to shake him hard enough, too small to talk loud enough.
“Lou,” he whispers. He can feel tears on his cheeks. Louis, I think I’m dying, he wants to say. His chest is shattering. He can’t speak any louder - he’ll rattle himself, he’ll make his ribs break, he’ll…
He hugs his arms around himself, like he’s trying to hold the pieces together. Tries to shut his eyes against the pain and go to sleep.
Finally, finally, Louis rolls over, eyes blinking open.
“Baby?” he mumbles, reaching for the lamp. Harry just looks up at him, hoping it comes across the way he wants it to: help me, help me, help me. “You were crying.”
“I... was?” It’s still that pathetic whisper. He can’t muster more.
“I- yeah. Come here. What’s going on?” Louis frowns, gathering Harry in his arms. It feels nice, actually, more stable, like maybe if Louis holds onto him, he won’t break.
“Hurts,” Harry says.
“What hurts?”
“It…” Harry hiccups. He can’t fucking explain it. He takes Louis hand, instead, placing it on his chest. “Here.” Louis won’t stop looking at him with that- that frown, like maybe he’s mental.
“Okay, love,” he says, so, so gently, like Harry will break.
But he might. He might.
“Let’s just try and sleep, alright? I’ve got you.”
You don’t. You don’t. There’s something splintering me and you can’t stop it, you can’t…
But Harry’s so fucking tired. And even if it doesn’t feel like it in the morning, he sleeps.
▶▶
(Louis)
Harry is crying again. “I feel so heavy, Lou,” he says, and when Louis tries to help him sit up, he croaks, “I. I can’t, please, let me down,” and clings to the covers like they might disappear.
“Kay. Okay.” Louis swallows hard, pulling the covers back up over him and wiping a stray tear with his shirt sleeve. “Okay, we… We don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do, H.”
“Wanna,” Harry whimpers, “I wanna, but I can’t.” Louis doesn’t mention that they’d had plans for the day. It can wait. It can wait, if Harry’s… Like this.
“Are you tired? Is that the problem?”
“I. I’m.” He takes a big, shaky breath. “I’m heavy. I can’t… I physically. I can’t.” Harry closes his eyes, knocking a few tears loose. “Talking is hard, Lou,” he whispers. He sounds so small.
“Then.. Then we won’t talk,” Louis says decidedly, climbing back into bed. “We’ll just rest. We’ll just rest until you feel better.”
I’ll fix it, he thinks. I’ll hold him until this goes away.
▶▶
They watch Harry like a hawk, carefully, because he seems so fragile.
“Li, what the hell are you looking at?” He snaps eventually, catching Liam squinting at him like he’s trying to find the cracks.
“You’re just pretty, Hazza,” Louis says quietly, offering a smile, “He can’t help it.” Harry smiles back, but it doesn’t reach his eyes.
▶▶
(Louis)
“I’m sorry,” Harry says into Louis’ chest. “I’m...I’m sorry. That I’ve been. A mess, lately.”
“It’s alright,” Louis says, bringing a hand up to stroke Harry’s hair, “You can be as big of a mess as you want to be. I’ll still like you.” He pauses. “Do you want to talk about it?”
“Just sad, I guess. Everybody’s sad sometimes, aren’t they?” Not Harry, Louis thinks. Not… usually. Unless he’s seen some sort of sad animal movie.
“Yeah, s’pose so,” he says instead, “You don’t know why?”
“Just tired, maybe. I don’t know.” Harry’s playing with the hem of Louis’ t-shirt, refusing to meet his eyes. “It feels like there’s a weight on my chest all the time.”
“We’ll go home and get a rest soon, yeah? Then you won’t be tired.”
“Okay,” Harry says, voice a bit lighter, like he trusts Louis to fix this. Louis swallows and tries not to let his tone beget that he has no idea what he’s doing.
“And everything will be fine, then, yeah? Everything will be fine.”
(Harry)
Harry sits on the roof for a long time, the energy from the show still buzzing in his veins. He imagines flying. He imagines jumping. It’s so beautiful out here. It’s so beautiful.
(Louis)
Harry is missing.
He’d seemed so good tonight, better than ever, really. He’d been so good on stage, so happy, rambling, dancing, smiling.
But now he’s… He’s gone. Christ. Fuck. How he had even gotten away, no one knows. There’s no security with him, he’ll get fucking mowed over.
Louis calls and calls, but he doesn’t answer.
And then, finally, Liam and Paul come back, Harry with them.
“Where was he?” Louis demands.
“On the roof,” Paul says. Louis heart stops.
“Doing what?”
“Just sitting, Lou.” Harry smiles timidly. His eyes look wrong. Glassy. “Enjoying the night.”
In the darkness, when Louis is almost asleep, Harry rolls over, almost as if in his sleep, and says: “Louis, have you ever thought about flying?”
▶▶
“He’s just not right,” Louis tells Liam. “He’s not, I’ve never seen him like this.”
“Maybe it’s like. The celebrity thing,” Liam says philosophically, “Maybe he’s burning out.” For some reason, that makes Louis inexplicably angry, like Liam could even suggest that Harry, Harry out of all of them, is being ruined by ‘the job.’ Harry, his sunshine boy.
“That’s not it,” he insists, and walks away.
▶▶
Harry comes out of the bathroom, shower-warm, his curls dripping on his forehead. “You were right, Lou. I feel a lot better now,” he says, fitting himself against Louis’ side.
“Hm, what?” Louis glances up from his laptop, shutting it gently.
“I’m feeling better,” Harry repeats, nuzzling into Louis’ shoulder, “Not… Depressed, anymore.”
“Yeah?” Louis wraps his arm around him, kissing his temple. “You know why?”
“Nah. Just feeling better. Happy.” Harry starts to kiss down Louis’ throat. “I think ‘s you. You make me happy.”
“Okay,” Louis hums, tilting his head back.
“Let’s go to bed, yeah?”
They do, and Harry’s so full of life it’s like he’s trying to breathe some of it into Louis, the way he kisses him, the way he fucks him, the way he can’t seem to be sated. Louis is tired and sore and happy at the end of the night, and he thinks: my boy’s back. Everything’s okay.
▶▶
And Harry is fine, for a bit, though jittery and kind of strange and maybe not sleeping enough. But Louis is so- so relieved, that he’s not staying in bed all day or crying or talking nonsense about feeling heavy, that he doesn’t wonder about it, doesn’t worry.
Except for when the jitters that cause Harry’s shaking hands and shifting eyes are replaced by an entirely new beast.
“Lou,” he says one day, “Lou, look at this.” He’s shoving his iPhone in Louis’ face, and he squints, reading. It’s a tweet, words harsh against the brightness of the screen.
It’s, well, not exactly kind. A bit threatening, definitely homophobic. But they get these all the time - they’re meant to just block them, or scroll past. They’ve learned this over the years.
Still, Louis feels a flare of protectiveness.
“You want me to say something?” He shouldn’t, but.
“No, I just…” Harry’s eyes are wide. Childlike. “What if - what if he’s serious, Lou? What if he… wants to hurt me?”
“Then he’d probably get a bit more serious than a tweet, Hazza.”
“No. Louis, don’t joke, I’m serious. These people, the things they say…” He looks down, whispering, “What if they hurt us?”
That’s how it starts, and it’s only a week until Louis is banning Harry from social media.
When they walk out of the hotel, security hot on their heels, he thinks he’s imagining Harry trembling. He’s quiet with the fans, though, and his eyes just keep doing that fucking shifting thing.
Louis takes his hand gently during a meet and greet, squeezes just once, and- Harry’s definitely shaking.
“Harry, love, what’s wrong?” he asks quietly, pulling him aside.
“It’s the way they look at me, Lou.” Harry shakes his head fiercely. “Like- God, like I’m so much.”
“Well, you are.” Louis touches his cheek gently, offering a smile. “You’re my universe, yeah?”
“Couldn’t be,” Harry mumbles, and then Paul’s calling them back.
Louis thinks back to Liam. Maybe he’s burning out.
▶▶
(Harry)
Louis had promised that when they got off tour, he’d rest and he’d feel better.
Neither of them had anticipated, really, that Harry wouldn’t get out of bed for a week.
“What is it, Haz? What’s wrong?” he asks, over and over, everyday, “You said you were doing better.”
I was, he thinks. Instead, he says, “I’m sorry,” and a fresh row of tears falls.
“What can I do, H? D’you wanna… talk to someone?” Harry wrinkles his nose, turning away from the sound of Louis’ voice. What on earth would he say to a therapist? Yeah, I’m a multimillionaire with a gorgeous boyfriend, and I think the world’s quite great, really, but lately I just feel like I’m going to die all the time. Fix me? “Come on, love. What about your mum, or Gems? Do you want to go home?”
“Am home,” he mumbles into his pillow. God, why is talking so fucking hard?
“Ed? Li? If you don’t feel comfortable with me…”
“Stop,” he squeaks finally. That’s not it. There’s just nothing to say, there aren’t any fucking words.
“Alright,” Louis concedes after a long, pregnant pause. He leaves the room after that, leaving Harry in the dark. It’s the last thing Harry wants, but - well, he can’t make himself say it. Can’t really quite remember how to make his mouth move.
He’s so tired.
▶▶
(Louis)
He brings gifts, cooks Harry’s favorite meals, offers to let Harry paint his nails - everything, anything to make him happy, to see his smile again.
But the whole of that horrible week, all Harry ever lets him do is help him out of bed, change the sheets, maybe get him into the shower, and go back to bed.
He tries the one last fucking that he can think of.
“Do you… want to come out?” he asks, idly tracing Harry’s palm, “Because… If. If that’s what you need, if that’ll make you happy, I’ll figure something out, Harry, I’ll make it happen.” And he will, he fucking will, for Harry, if it’ll make him happy.
(The idea’s been on the table on and off since X Factor. In the beginning, neither of them had wanted to. “I haven’t even even told my nan yet. I can’t tell the whole world.”
They’d never hidden it, or not very well. And there’s that video, still out there somewhere. “Are you and Louis dating?” and Harry had nodded, the git. At the time, Louis had been peeved about it, just starting to get actual solos, screen time, and now sure he’d only be ‘Harry’s boyfriend.’ But it had never caught fire how they expected.)
“No,” Harry says, looking up, his eyes big and sad. He sounds so… resigned, like if Louis tried to argue he might just break. “You’re the part of my life only I get to see. Please don’t let them take that from me.”
▶▶
Harry’s better, or at least relatively speaking. He’s returned to the restlessness and, for lack of a better word, paranoia, but so far, his energy seems restored.
He’s out late with Nick, and Louis is, for once, happy about it. It’s not that Louis doesn’t like Nick, it’s just that. Well, he doesn’t like Nick. But it’s normal, it’s good, he’s almost happy to be annoyed when Grimshaw shows up in his stupid car to whisk his boyfriend off for plans he isn’t invited to.
He gets takeaway with Liam and they fuck around playing FIFA, and Harry even sends one of his typical i love u & miss u loouuu drunk-Harry-texts. Louis feels like maybe things really are okay; Harry will come home smelling like booze but snuggly and pliant, and he’ll fall asleep while he asks Louis what he did with his night.
Louis waits up, naturally, because he wants that, wants to know that whatever not-funny radio hosts Harry goes out with, he comes home to Louis.
It’s a good thing he does, too.
It’s just past two a.m. when Grimshaw knocks on the door, Harry leaning on him heavily, uncharastically quiet.
“He took something,” Nick explains as soon as Louis opens the door. “Like, something, something. His heart’s fucking racing. God, I looked away for a second.”
Which is how Louis ends up on the phone with Liam, trying to figure out if he needs to take Harry to the hospital and what he might’ve taken, and Harry gets banned from going out without Louis.
Harry’s trembling and hot to the touch and mumbling, “Lou, Louis, ‘m sorry, I’m sorry,” over and over, sobbing in Louis’ arms.
“It’s okay, baby, it’s okay,” he keeps saying, for what feels like hours, pressing a cold cloth to the back of Harry’s neck and offering him small sips of water.
When he’s finally resembling lucidity, Louis takes him to bed. He tries to be angry, but it’s hard when he’s so fucking worried.
“You know you can’t… You’ve never. Done this before.” There’s a hint of understanding in Harry’s eyes, so he continues. “What brought this on?”
“Just wanted it to stop,” Harry mumbles, words slurred so Louis can barely tell what he’s trying to say.
“Wanted what to stop?” Harry slumps against Louis’ chest, making a strangled whimpering noise.
“The. The hurting,” he says, fisting Louis’ shirt between his fingers.
“What hurts, Harry?” Louis tries to pry Harry’s grip free, to pull back and get a better look at him, but Harry clings on.
“Inside,” he mumbles, curling in on himself, making himself shrink. “Inside, it hurts.”
In the morning, it’s a toxic combination of a bad day and an awful hangover.
Harry won’t get out of bed, just won’t, hasn’t even spoken. He’s just staring straight ahead, tear tracks on his cheeks- he must’ve been crying in his sleep. His skin is pale and shining with a fresh coat of cold sweat, like he’s either coming down off whatever it was or even still a little bit high.
“Harry, love. Come on, we have to talk about this.” Louis tries to take his hand; Harry doesn’t pull back or make an effort to link their fingers, just leaves his palm flat like he doesn’t even notice. Harry starts to actually cry and clutches his belly before Louis gets the idea to get him into the bathroom.
When he’s done emptying probably everything he’s eaten for the last week (which isn’t much, Louis notes), Louis all but carries him back to bed.
He just pulls the covers over his head, like he’s six and afraid of the dark, and goes back to sleep.
Louis stays with him all through the day, bringing him water in the rare moments he wakes up, giving him advil and gently mopping the sweat off. Still, Harry doesn’t say a word.
Louis tries to gently remind Harry that they have dinner with his family, that he’d really love for Harry to come, the twins miss him - but he doesn’t even look up.
So against his better judgement, Louis goes alone.
He makes excuses, tells them Harry’s sick, and he’s not even sure if that’s a lie.
When he gets home, Harry isn’t there, and his car is gone.
He calls and calls and calls, but Harry’s phone goes to voicemail. He tries not to panic. He truly, truly tries. And then he notices that the phone’s fucking vibrating, in his sock drawer; he’d taken it, the last time Harry had worked himself into a panic attack over paparazzi photos (how did they get these, Louis? How do they know where I am? Do they know where I live? Are they going to hurt me?).
He calls Nick, he calls Liam, Zayn, Niall. No one’s heard from him.
Anne. Voicemail. Gemma. Voicemail.
He’s trying to be pragmatic, to wait the appropriate amount of time before alerting anyone in management, because he doesn’t want to make a scene of it. But Harry’s fucking gone.
He can’t get the picture of his mind, Harry’s glassy eyes staring through him, saying how much he’s hurting. God, where did he go wrong? What if Harry’s done something? What if-
His phone rings, then. It’s Paul.
“Paul?” Louis winces at how high-pitched his voice sounds, “Do you know where-”
“Louis, have you seen the news?” Paul asks, each word slow and careful. Oh God, oh God, has Harry done something? Has someone see him?
“No, I, what…?”
“Oh, christ, it’s just. Well, there are some. Headlines.” Paul takes a deep breath. He wouldn’t be so collected if Harry was in danger, Louis tries to reassure himself. “It looks like… some pictures were snapped of you two recently. S’pose they’ve been waiting for a slow news day to release them.”
“Some… pictures?” Louis’ thoughts feel so sluggish. Harry, where is Harry?
“You’re kissing him, while he gets in the car. I mean, we could spin it, some type of way, but it’s clearly you two, there are other pictures of you walking to the car park.”
“Okay, so we’re outed, that’s what you’re saying.”
“I- yes. Essentially. Try to lay low, and we’ll keep you posted-”
“Yeah, alright, thanks. I really have to go, okay?” This isn’t real. He always thought when the moment came, they’d be celebrating, planning their respective tweets and instragram posts. Not this. Not when Harry doesn’t even want it to happen, and he can’t even take a minute to digest the information because Harry is missing.
Paul’s still talking, but Louis just hangs up.
When Louis’ phone rings again, he’s thought up approximately a million ways he could find Harry, none of them good. His heart’s fucking pounding.
“What?!” he snaps when he answers, “I don’t bloody care about the press, alright, I’m busy-”
“Louis. Louis, love, calm down, it’s Anne.” Oh, fuck. Oh. Oh.
“Anne? Have you-”
“He’s here.” Louis has probably never felt so relieved in his entire life.
“He’s… In Holmes Chapel?”
“Yes. Surprised me, too, he drove all the way here.” He must’ve left while Louis was at dinner. It’s a bloody three hour drive. Christ. There’s a million awful explanations flooding his mind again. Is Harry leaving him? “Louis, he’s safe, he’s here with Robin and I, but… I really. Think you should come. He’s asking for you.” He’s safe. He’s safe. He’s safe.
“Can you put him on the phone?”
“He’s just fallen asleep, and I… I think it’s better that way, really.” Louis is silent. What the fuck does that mean? “Of course, it’s a long drive, if you need to wait till morning…”
“No. I’ll come. I’m coming.” His keys are already in his hand. “If he wakes up, tell him I’m coming, okay?”
“Of course I will.”
“And I love him,” Louis adds quickly, “Tell him that, okay? Tell him he scared the shit out of me. Or - don’t, but. Tell him I love him.”
“I’m gonna go, yeah? Drive safe. We’ll leave the door open.” He’s already reversing out of the parking lot. He’s just on autopilot. Harry. Holmes Chapel. Three hours. He’s safe. He’s safe.
▶▶
It’s one a.m. when Louis reaches Anne and Robin’s house. Even though he knows Harry’s there, it still realeases a huge weight in his chest when he sees Harry’s range rover neatly parked in front.
He doesn’t expect the kitchen light to be on. He walks in quietly, thinking maybe someone’s left it on, shutting the door gingerly and toeing off his shoes.
“Louis.” He turns - Anne’s sitting at the kitchen table, looking like maybe she’d been sleeping in her chair before he walked in. She sounds how Louis feels. Exhausted, worried, strung out.
“Oh, hi, lovely.” He kisses her cheek, and she catches his hand, squeezing. “What.. what happened?”
“He showed up here around nine-thirty,” Anne says quietly, rubbing the sleep from her eyes, “He was… In a right state, Lou. Crying, could barely breathe, kept saying, ‘they know, they know,’ said he was scared to be at home, this mysterious ‘they’ were going to take you away. I kept asking, does Louis know where you are? And he kept just saying ‘I had to leave, I had to leave.’ Just over and over. God, I’ve never seen him like that. He literally must have just gotten in the car and driven straight here.”
“They know,” Louis repeats, chewing his lower lip. “He.. He meant. He must’ve heard. We got outed. Photos, from our dinner date the other night, I suppose. It. Was like a panic attack, yeah?”
“...Yes. Has he… been like that before?”
“Not like that. But. Close. A few times.” Suddenly, Louis feels very small and very guilty. He should’ve reached out.
“He was a wreck, Louis. I mean, wore himself out till he just fell asleep.” Anne knits her eyebrows together, squeezing his hand again. “He said something… rather distressing to me.” Louis raises an eyebrow, prompting her to go on. “He just.. Right before he conked out, when he started to come back to himself, he looks at me, and he goes, ‘mummy, I think something’s wrong with me.’”
▶▶
In the morning, Harry’s exhausted, barely has the energy to roll over and nuzzle into Louis’ thigh.
“You’re here,” he mumbles, as Louis traces the purple circles under his eyes.
“Drove all the way.”
“You’re safe.”
“Always was, baby. You, too.”
“They know.” Harry sounds panicked for a moment, but Louis pets his hair, shushing him.
“No one knows we’re here. Just go back to sleep, yeah?”
When Anne and Robin come in, Harry’s still asleep in Louis’ lap.
Petting Harry’s curls down, trying to act busy and avoid eye contact, Louis says, “He’s not been okay for awhile.”
“He needs to see a doctor, Louis. What happened last night… Healthy people don’t… have episodes like that.” Anne takes a deep sigh, touching her sleeping son’s hair for a moment. “Mental illness runs in the family on his dad’s side, see. Maybe it’s caught up with him.” The words hurt Louis chest but also bring him a little bit of relief, like maybe this is something that medicine can fix. Like maybe he’ll have his boy back.
“He needs to get help,” he agrees softly.
▶▶
A few terrible days where Louis has to figure out how to literally get rid of everything electronic.
A few better ones, where he shows Harry how many supportive comments there are about them being together, even coaxing a smile out of him.
Two terrible hours of numbly listing symptoms, relaying all of Harry’s worst moments, watching Harry’s face go red and purple in shame at all he’s put Louis through.
Ten even more terrible minutes and three terrible words: “Bipolar disorder one.” A pause, then some more that have Harry squeezing Louis’ hand so tight it hurts. “Looks like… the manic stages are presenting themselves with paranoia and delusions.” A cluck of the doctor’s tongue. “Not an easy beast to cage.”
"You can’t help him?” Louis wants to scream.
“No, on the contrary, Mr. Tomlinson. It’ll be difficult, but. We can. We will.”
▶▶
Medication after medication, all wrong. Antipsychotics that do the opposite, keeping Harry up with graphic, horrible nightmares. Antidepressants that make him numb, until he tells Louis he’d rather be depressed than feel nothing.
And then a glimmer of hope, a few stable days. A crash. A bit more stability.
They find a therapist named Missy who’s an actual godsend. When Harry’s up in the night, crying into Louis’ chest, saying, “Didn’t ask to be crazy, Lou, I’m sorry,” she’s there to remind him that his chemical imbalance doesn’t make him crazy, that it’s a silly word anyhow. And when a spike of manic energy sends him biking halfway across London and he gets lost, she calms him down on the phone and calls Louis.
And slowly, slowly, things get better.
▶▶
(Harry)
A beast, it definitely is.
Sometimes it’s like he’s hardly containing it.
Sometimes he feels like he’s teetering on the edge of suicidal, just needing to stop fighting this thing, this thing that makes him so sad and so heavy and then so out of control and irrational, and - God, he hates the word, delusional.
But then Louis is there, brushing his thumb over his knuckles, leading him away from the ledge.
He goes on to list all of their accomplishments. That they’re the first gay couple in a boy band to be out, that Harry’s starting his own foundation to benefit mentally ill and LGBTQIA youth. And he’ll smile at Harry like he’s hung the moon, and say, “So when can beat this, hm, can’t we? Easy.”
And he makes Harry believe it. He truly, truly does.