Archive of Our Own

JANUARY 2014

The car ride to the hospital is forty-five minutes long if Louis is coming from home; it’s nearly an hour when he’s coming from work. He hates it. Hates it because it cuts off time from how long he can stay with Harry, because he’d sleep better at night knowing Harry was closer, because it gives him too much time to reflect, and when Harry’s in hospital, the very last thing he wants to do is think. All he does is worry and stress and cry when he has time to think.

Tonight, he listens to the new Bruce Springsteen album on his way to St. Mary’s psychiatric hospital. Harry was looking forward to its release, had it marked down on their calendar and everything, and now he’s in the hospital where it’s most likely nobody will let him listen to it. Surely, Harry has other things to worry about, but Louis knows him. Knows that it’s driving him a bit mad that he hasn’t listened to it, and not even because he wanted to that badly, but because when Harry says he’s going to do something, it drives him nuts not being able to do it. So Louis will listen to it for him and give him the rundown of it in the hopes that it soothes that part of Harry’s brain.

By the time he makes it to the hospital, it’s 6:10. He usually makes it there by six, but traffic was worse than normal. And it would be no big deal, if it wasn’t for the way Harry looks forward to his evening visits more than anything. It’s what keeps his head on straight, he says. From four to eight on weekdays, he can have his loved ones with him. Since Louis works until five, those precious hours are shaved down enough already, so him being ten minutes late will put a pit in Harry’s stomach. It’ll be close to 6:20 by the time he gets in, signs himself in, and a nurse can track Harry down, and that’s more than enough time for Harry to work himself into a fit of tears or paranoia or anger, especially when he’s already doing poorly.

Louis is quick to sign himself in, and as he waits for Harry in their usual spot -- a mostly private, small sitting area that’s tucked into a corner of the hospital that usually nobody but nurses walk past -- he closes his eyes and hopes that he hasn’t upset Harry too badly. It makes him feel guilty enough, only getting to spend two hours here with him when Harry could ask for Anne or Gemma, who could be here with him for all four. But Harry specifically asks that Louis comes Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays, Anne comes on Tuesdays and Gemma on Thursdays. That’s how he likes it, and that means Louis takes up most of his days and he can’t even manage to get here when he said he would.

Harry’s wearing his soft, gray sweatpants that now have the drawstring removed that he brought from home, a baggy, light purple sweater and some pale yellow socks. He looks exhausted, his skin pale and purple beneath his eyes, but he brightens up a bit when he sees Louis. The nurse who walked with him waves him off and then Harry is coming over to him. Louis stands to hug him, and Harry hugs him back with more strength that he looks like he could muster.

With his head tucked into Louis’ shoulder, Harry murmurs, “I want to come home, Louis.”

“I know you do, babe. Soon, okay?”

Harry sniffles quietly and nods, even though both of them are aware that it might not be soon. He’s only been in for a week and a half, and usually these visits for him take at least a month. But this time around, his symptoms weren’t terrible. He didn’t have a full break, it wasn’t -- it wasn’t as bad as it can get.

The first warning signs were what they always are for Harry: a decline in sleep, more than usual restlessness, just generally being discontent. Louis thought it was the start of a manic episode, and he was right, according to Harry’s psychiatrist who they saw just before he went into hospital. They think it could have something to do with winter; there’s a pattern of him doing worse around the winter time. Usually, he just has to be more careful with taking care of himself and being more mindful, but sometimes it’s harder than that. This was one of those times, apparently.

They could have managed it home, probably, but when Harry started getting agitated and experiencing suicidal thoughts, the decision to admit him was obvious. They made that decision together; it wasn’t this terrible thing where Louis had to force him to go. Harry understood that he wasn’t doing well, so he agreed to go. He also understands that he’s here voluntarily, but he won’t leave on his own. Not until he’s cleared by his doctors. Thankfully, Harry’s delusions that hospitals are evil and doctors are out to get him aren’t hounding him more than normal right now. He’s manic, which you probably wouldn’t believe looking at him right now, but he hasn’t been experiencing an uptick in his hallucinations or delusions. That doesn’t mean they aren’t there, because they always are. They’re just not as intense as they can get.

Louis pulls away from him and guides them to the sofa. Harry sits next to him and puts his feet on the other side of Louis’ thighs so he’s laying across him, kind of. He’s fidgety, but not any more than normal. Louis sets a firm hand on his knee.

“There’s this new nurse here,” Harry mumbles, staring down at his fingers. All his nails have been chewed off, which makes Louis wince. “She -- she’s nice, she is, but she -- today was her first day, and she was assigned to me and she made a fuss about me wearing this jumper. Said we shouldn’t get to wear things with sleeves if they don’t want us to hang ourselves.”

Lips pressed firmly together, Louis brings up a hand so he can stroke down Harry’s back gently. “What did you say back, hmm?”

“That I wasn’t on suicide watch, so she didn’t need to worry about that,” Harry says softly. He presses his fingers to his eyes. His skin is crawling, Louis can tell. He’s trying to keep it together, but something more is going on in his head. “What I wanted to say is that she was fucking mean and if I wanted to kill myself, I wouldn’t use my fucking shirt.”

“I’m sorry, sweetheart. I’m sure she didn’t mean to upset you. Everyone’s still being nice, right?”

Harry’s been in this specific mental hospital more times than Louis could probably count, and they continue to go back here because they’re nice and understanding and Harry swears up and down he likes it here. He had been to one before, before Louis, where the nurses were nasty and there was nothing to do and Harry was discharged feeling worse than he did going in. Said they treated his schizophrenia like it was this terrible life-sentence and made him feel like he didn’t have a life worth living. But Louis isn’t dumb. Louis still worries. Patients with mental health issues are immediately seen as untrustworthy, so Louis’ terrified that Harry’s going to have a legitimate problem with someone and he’ll be written off as crazy. The elderly and mental patients are taken advantage of far more than anybody talks about.

Harry nods, his fingers now rubbing against his forehead. “I asked for her not to be assigned to me anymore.”

“That’s good, love.”

Harry doesn’t open his eyes, and he starts to rub at his skin too hard for Louis’ liking, so Louis gently grabs his wrists and tugs them away from his face. He squeezes them softly, and Harry looks at him, looking a little lost.

“You okay?” Louis asks, and Harry nods, his hands turning in Louis’ hands so he can hold onto Louis’ wrists, too.

“Got shit sleep last night. Finally fell asleep an hour before we had to be up, and, well. You know. They don’t really give a fuck.”

Routines are important, especially for people like Harry, and Louis understands that. He does. But keeping Harry awake for hours on end is surely not in his best interest. He probably hasn’t bothered anybody enough to be allowed to take a nap, maybe he hasn’t been advocating for himself enough, but that’s. . . How can anybody expect for Harry to advocate properly for himself when he’s here? When he’s going through all this?

“I can go,” Louis offers quietly. “They’ll let you sleep now, right? You’ve had dinner, they’ll -- ”

“Don’t,” Harry interrupts, his fingers curling into Louis’ skin. His nails would be sinking into his skin if Harry hadn’t chewed them off. “I need you right now. I’ll sleep after you go.”

“Are you sure it’s just a lack of sleep, love? How are you feeling right now?”

Harry looks impossibly sad, then. His bottom lip quivers and as he sinks his teeth into it, his eyes well with tears. “I want to be home,” he says, voice catching. “I’m so sad, Louis. I don’t want to be here. I don’t want to have to come back here all the time. I should -- I should be home with you, not here. I fucking hate that I do this to us.”

“Hey,” Louis says sternly. “It’s okay that you’re having a tough time right now. That’s always okay. I understand that you’d rather be home, but you can’t blame yourself for needing to be here.”

“I know,” he says miserably.

Louis frowns and presses his fingers into the bone of Harry’s wrists. “This is your first time back in hospital since last April, yeah? That’s good.”

“Having to be shipped off to a psych ward at least once a year is hardly good,” Harry argues, but it doesn’t have much heat behind it. He tugs on Louis’ hold, so Louis lets him go, and Harry grabs his hands instead. “I know I’m still young. Not even twenty, right? And I’m -- I’ve only been dealing with this for four years. I know that. I know it’ll get better, that eventually I won’t have to go to hospital so much, it just. . .” He takes a deep breath. “It’s hard, you know?”

“I know,” Louis whispers, nodding. “I know. But I’m proud of you that you’re able to stay hopeful. That’s really good to hear from you right now.”

Harry moves so he’s pressed against Louis’ side, his head resting on his shoulder. He wraps his arms around one of Louis’ and lets out a soft sigh. For a second, Louis thinks he’s going to say something, but he doesn’t. He doesn’t say anything. And Louis doesn’t, either, because if Harry’s feeling too overwhelmed to talk right now, then he isn’t going to interfere with that.

In the beginning, he would’ve panicked at Harry being quiet. For some reason, he had it in his head that Harry being quiet meant that he was hurting more than usual or upset with him or planning on hurting himself. Louis somehow always took Harry’s behavior as a sign that he was going to try and commit suicide again in the first few months they knew each other. But now, Louis knows better. He knows that Harry being quiet probably just means that he’s tired or doesn’t have much to say, just like anybody else. It could also mean that he’s massively struggling with ignoring or coping with the voice in his head, but Louis can’t fix that for him. He can’t. He’s tried.

Usually, unless Harry’s doing awful, there’s one voice in his head that isn’t his own. Just one. And when he’s doing good, it isn’t all that bad, he says. It’s just a constant stream of chatter about everything that goes on in his head. On a good day, that’s what it is. Louis couldn’t imagine that, couldn’t deal with someone constantly talking at him about stupid, little things, and that’s what Harry has to look forward to everyday. And when he’s doing bad, it’s so much worse. It’s that voice hounding him to hurt himself, to kill himself by any means necessary. It convinces him that everyone hates him and is staring at him and that he's doing everything wrong. Police and hospitals and doctors and medication are bad, it tells him, don’t trust them, don’t trust your friends, your family, nobody.

With something like that plaguing Harry, Louis is grateful for every single day that he gets with him. Louis won’t let himself admit that he’d understand if Harry had enough, because he likes to think that Harry can live a productive, meaningful life most of the time, but he will admit that he understands that sometimes living for Harry isn’t something to look forward to. It’s -- Louis is so proud of him, is what he’s trying to say. He’s impressed by the strength Harry has, and he wishes more than anything that Harry didn’t have to be strong just to live.

“I’m just happy that we got to have a nice Christmas. And your birthday, too,” Harry whispers, tightening his arms around Louis’. “Wouldn’t be able to live with myself if I ruined all that.”

“You having a rough time wouldn’t have ruined that,” Louis says. He moves to rest his head on top of Harry’s. It feels wrong that this is the most peaceful he’s felt since Harry’s been home, for some reason. Almost like he feels guilty for getting something out of this, too, like this should only be about Harry. “But it was a nice holiday, wasn’t it?”

“Yeah,” he says softly. “Was.” He shifts slightly, and Louis watches him tug at the bottom of his sleeves. It’s impossible to tell from this angle if Harry has scratch marks under the fabric. “Hoping to get back home by my birthday, at least. I know it might not work out that way, but. I’m hoping it does.”

It’s January tenth, and Harry’s only been in for a week. It’ll be a close call. Louis doesn’t say that, though. Of course he doesn’t. Instead, he drops a kiss to Harry’s head and whispers, “That’d be nice, love.”

When it hits eight o’clock, he can tell that Harry isn’t ready for him to leave. He tells Louis to wait for someone to tell him that he has to leave, which Louis does, but it only buys them ten extra minutes. When a nurse named Lauren tells them that Louis has to leave, Harry has tears in his eyes and he won’t look at her.

“Can I walk him to his room?” Louis asks, wrapping his arm around Harry’s back. Harry is huddled into his side, his face turned against Louis’ shoulder.

“Sure,” she agrees, and then she walks away. Once she’s gone, Louis looks down at him.

“We have to go, love. Come on, up you go.”

But Harry doesn’t move. It makes Louis nervous; he can’t take this right now. He needs Harry to listen to him, because if he doesn’t, Louis is going to have to either pry Harry off him and just leave him all alone, or someone else is going to do it for them.

“H,” Louis whispers.

Sharply, Harry says, “I know.” He stays put for another full minute before he sits up, and when he does, he looks upset. “I swear, I would do so much better here if you could just stay here with me. I wish that was possible.”

Louis frowns and leans forward, presses his thumb to the corner of Harry’s mouth. “Hey. I’m a phone call away, okay?”

“When I’m allowed to use the phone, sure.”

His words are calloused, but he runs his fingers over Louis’ forearm softly.

“You have that stuffed monkey I gave you a while ago,” Louis says, and it earns the reaction he hoped for: a small scoff, a half-hearted eye roll, and a shy smile.

“I do,” he says. And then, more seriously, “And I, um. Still have that note you wrote me forever ago. Carry it with me all day.” He lifts up to pull a wrinkled note out of his pocket, and when he unfolds it, sure enough, it’s the note that Louis wrote to him a few months back during one of his harder days. Harry had a terrible night, and Louis had to leave for work, so before he left, he wrote Harry a note just to say that he loved him and would miss him all day and couldn’t wait to see him when he got back. He figured Harry would keep it -- that’s just how he is -- but he didn’t know he took it with him whenever he came here.

“Could write you another,” Louis says softly. “Could write you thousands.”

Harry nods slowly, and then a different nurse is walking past and saying that visitors can’t be here anymore.

“I know,” Harry snaps, his fingers curling over Louis’ wrist. Louis squeezes his hand softly, and then Harry sighs and says, softer, “I know. He’s just going to walk me to my room.”

“Okay. Have a nice night, Harry,” the nurse says before walking away, looking unfazed by Harry’s sharp tone. Once he’s gone, Louis stands, and immediately, Harry stands with him, looking worried.

“It’s going to be fine, love,” Louis tells him. “I’ll be here again Friday, yeah? And you’ll sleep well tonight since you’re already so tired.”

Harry looks absolutely heartbroken, but he turns and tugs Louis to follow him. He walks them to his room, and as he does, Louis tells him about the Bruce Springsteen album and Harry listens carefully.

Visitors aren’t allowed in patient’s rooms without authorization, so they stop outside Harry’s door. There’s a window in the door so Louis can see inside, which he knows for a fact that Harry hates. He has told him about it before, and so when they’re home, he likes to have doors shut behind him. It makes Louis paranoid, but Harry needs to know there are still some places in this world where people aren’t peeking in behind closed doors, that he still has some privacy.

“Can you do me a favor?” Harry asks, and Louis looks at him, nodding seriously.

“Anything.”

“Jane the Virgin comes back on soon. Watch it for me, will you? And tell me what happens?”

It pulls a smile out of Louis and he nods, reaching up to trace over Harry’s cheekbone. “Yes, love. I can do that.”

“Thank you.”

Louis leaves a few minutes later, after he kisses Harry one last time. He lingers for a moment, watches Harry get into bed and under the covers. He grabs the stuffed monkey off his pillow and tucks him under his arm, and then the lamp goes out and Louis can’t see as well.

On the way home, Louis cries. It’s out of pure exhaustion more than anything else. It makes him feel stupid, though. He just got done visiting his boyfriend in the mental hospital and he’s the one crying, God.

By the time he gets ready for bed, it doesn’t take him long to fall asleep. He hopes it was as easy for Harry.

AUGUST - SEPTEMBER 2012

Gemma has this tradition: every August, no matter what, she and what friends she decides to bring along head to Glasgow for a week to get absolutely hammered pretty much every night. She’s been doing it since high school, apparently, and this year, after spending a semester of economics with her, Louis is invited to tag along.

Louis decides to go for a lot of reasons. First of all, it’ll be fun. He knows most of Gemma’s mates, and they’re just as rowdy and obnoxious as his own. Second of all, he’s never been known to turn down opportunities like these, especially when it proceeds his last year of uni that he is absolutely dreading. And third of all, well. Louis was already going to go, but when Gemma mentions that her brother is coming, too, he’s even more excited.

He doesn’t know much about Harry, which is surprising for how much time he spends around his and Gemma’s flat. They live together in an apartment in London, just the two of them. It’s been implied that it’s Gemma’s job to look after him, and it’s obvious that it is something that puts her under a lot of pressure, even though their mum lives ten minutes away. Harry did well in school up until his last year, and now he’s put off by the idea of university all together. Louis had been dragged into that argument once, and Harry didn’t want to hear any of it from either of them. Whenever Louis is around the flat and Harry is home, he’s usually in good spirits and polite, and, especially as of late, shoots Louis these stupidly cheeky smiles whenever Gemma isn’t looking.

For a long time, Louis wasn’t sure what to make of it. Harry was annoyingly fit, sure, and he was kind and funny and dorky, but he was also his best friend’s eighteen-year-old brother. He was sure that immediately eliminated him from the dating pool, but about a week before the Glasgow trip, he was out with Gemma to help her run errands, and she turned to him in the middle of a Tesco’s aisle, looking stern.

“Harry’s had the decency to forewarn me that he’s going to try to hook up with you in Glasgow, so just.” She took a deep breath. “If you’re going to turn him down, do it gently. Please.”

Louis eyed her carefully. “And if. . . if I don’t turn him down? Would that -- I mean, is that -- ”

“I trust you,” she interrupted. “I trust you a lot. And I think I could learn to trust you with him, just. Just be kind to him, okay? All he needs is a little compassion.”

“Gems, he’s eighteen. He can start looking out for himself.”

Gemma let it go for a while, until they were waiting in the check-out line and she had to step aside to answer a call from Harry. When she came back, she grabbed Louis’ wrist and told him, “If Harry’s going to be on your tail the entire trip, I need you to watch him for me.”

“Gemma, he’s -- ”

“Louis,” she said sternly. “Just make sure he doesn’t do anything stupid, okay?”

And he didn’t particularly understand where all her worry came from, but he figured that he didn’t know what it was like to have a protective older sibling, so he nodded and said that he would.

Gemma, Louis, Harry, Niall and a girl named Brie drive to Glasgow together. It’s a little cramped, but Louis has absolutely no complaints because everyone else is driving aside from him. He would if they asked him to, but everyone else volunteered and Gemma said Louis didn’t have to drive if he didn’t want to.

Brie, Niall and Louis take the back while Gemma and Harry take the front, and nearly the entire time, Harry is talking about something. If it’s not about something to do with his life, it’s questions about everyone else’s. If it’s not that, it’s comments about the road, the sky, the trees, the cars. He keeps everyone from going numbingly-bored the entire seven-hour ride, the conversation never dying down for more than a few minutes because of him. And when he’s not talking, he’s singing along to the radio, loud and with these weird little dance moves that make them all smile.

His energy is exhilarating and only dampens when Gemma tells him quietly that he can’t take his turn driving. He was supposed to take the third shift of driving, after Gemma and Brie, but when they get back into the car after a stop at a gas station for the bathroom and food, Niall gets behind the wheel instead.

“You are not driving,” they all hear Gemma tell Harry, no room in her voice for disagreement. They’re at the boot of the car while the rest are inside, Brie in front with Niall, and it’s suddenly suffocatingly awkward.

“Why not?” Harry asks.

“You know why.”

“Gemma. I feel fine.”

Gemma snorts. “You’ll get us all killed.”

“Hey,” Harry snaps, and Niall shifts nervously in his seat. He messes with the knobs of the radio even though he doesn't have the keys yet so they can’t drown out whatever disagreement is going on behind them. “You and Mum taught me how to drive when I was fourteen, and I haven’t killed anybody yet, have I?”

“Harry. I’m not talking about this with you.”

“Why the hell not?”

Gemma shuts the boot of the car and snaps, “Because they can all hear us right now, and I’m certain this isn’t a conversation you want to be having in front of them. So, get in the car, stop pouting, and Niall will drive the rest of the way. It’s fine.”

It’s incredibly awkward and tense when they get into the backseat, a sibling on either side of Louis, for about five minutes. And then Harry turns to him and asks him about school, and the tension slowly seeps out of the car from there.

Louis forgets about the argument. Doesn’t seem much more to him than a bit of sibling bickering. And it’s hard to keep track of anything important when you’re getting shitfaced drunk every night and walking around a brand new city during the day.

On the third day, at exactly 6:13 in the morning, Harry comes into the hotel room that Louis and a few of the other boys are sharing. Harry’s in with Gemma and the girls, something that he doesn’t seem very happy about but listens to anyway. He shakes Louis awake, and Louis groans, tells him to fuck off. They only got in at half past four; what the fuck could anybody possibly want from him right now?

“Lou. Me and Gemma are going to walk around. Want to come with?”

Louis cracks his eyes open, confused. “Aren’t you tired, mate? Shit.”

“Just come on. Just throw on some shoes and meet us in the lobby, okay?”

And then he’s gone, leaving Louis no room to disagree, so he grumpily puts his shoes on and heads down to the lobby. Gemma is hunched over in a chair, looking paler than normal, and Harry is standing beside her, talking about something that Louis has no energy to pay attention to.

“Where are we going?” Louis asks when he’s close enough, and Gemma looks at him, looking exhausted. She was properly messy-drunk about two hours ago, so there’s no way she’s not feeling some of that now.

“Harry wants to go for a walk,” she says, sounding miserable. She stands, groaning softly, and for a moment, she looks like she could actually puke. Harry isn’t paying any attention, just staring outside, shifting his weight from foot to foot.

“Gems,” Louis says, laughing lightly. “Go to bed, love. You look like you’re going to vom.”

She gives him a look, the same one she had when she told him at Tesco’s to be kind to Harry, and Louis just nods.

“I’ll go with him, don’t even worry about it.”

Harry is looking at them now, biting down on his bottom lip.

“Are you sure?” she asks, sounding guilty. “I don’t -- I’ll have my phone on, if you need me.”

“We won’t,” Harry says distractedly, looking outside again. “I told you, I feel fine.”

Gemma doesn’t even look at him. “Don’t let him out of your sight,” she says sternly, and then she kisses Harry’s cheek before heading back to the elevators. Louis watches her go, and then Harry grabs his wrist and tugs him towards the door.

“Come on,” he says. “It’s pretty much light out now.”

It’s colder than Louis was expecting it to be, so he walks with his arms pressed tightly over his chest while he listens to Harry talk. And talk, and talk, and talk.

“Last night, there was this guy, right? Like, I don’t -- his name was Jack. No, James. His name was James. And me and Zayn -- because me and Zayn went to that other club last night, remember -- and me and Zayn were sitting at the bar and we were drinking and -- well, don’t tell my sister that. But we were drinking and that guy, the Jack guy, came up to us and he was -- no, shit his name was James. James came up to us and started talking shit, like, complete rubbish, and I think he was mad at me? Because I accidentally elbowed him or something, I don’t even know. But yeah, he was talking so much shit, and I was starting to get mad, right, and then he tried to punch me, but -- ”

“Whoa, wait, what?” Louis asks, confused, and Harry bounces along with the story like that’s not a big deal.

“Yeah. He tried to punch me. Anyway, the bouncer came and got him before he could do anything, but then I got a free Scotch for almost getting punched, and then I was wondering, like, well what would they give me if I actually got punched, you know? And -- oh, and there was this girl. Her name was Milly. She was super pretty, and Zayn danced with her even though he has a girlfriend, but I think they might have an open relationship. And there was this other guy, his name was Oliver, he was the bartender, and. . .”

He goes on and on and on, jumping from one story to another. It leaves Louis with a headache, but he isn’t worried. So Harry probably took something and is riding out the high, so what? Louis took some molly with Zayn and Brie the first night while Gemma and Harry and the rest of them were dancing. It’s what they’re here to do.

However, he is far too tired and still too drunk to be nearly as energetic as Harry is. They walk for nearly a half hour until Louis starts to complain, and Harry says that he can go back, that he just wants to go out a bit further. And Louis wants to, but he promised Gemma he’d stay with him, so he keeps walking and listening to Harry talk.

When they get back to the hotel, it’s nearly 7:45. Louis is absolutely exhausted, and he’s about to head toward the elevators when he notices Harry isn’t behind him anymore. He turns to see Harry leaning against the entrance desk, reading something. Louis sighs and heads towards him.

As soon as he’s within talking distance, Harry says, “Breakfast starts at eight. They have pancakes. Do you want pancakes? If not, they have hash browns, too. You usually order hash browns, don’t you?”

Louis stares at him. “I’m exhausted.”

“Oh. Says here they have coffee. Freshly brewed,” Harry says, looking completely unbothered.

“After breakfast, we’re heading to bed, though, alright?”

Harry shrugs, closing the pamphlet he was reading from. “Yeah, sure. Come on, I think the cafe is this way.”

As they wait for it to hit eight, they sit at a table in the empty cafe area, and Harry talks. Still, he has yet to run out of things to talk or ask about. He’s in the middle of telling Louis a story about elementary school when Gemma texts Louis.

Harry’s not answering his phone. He with you?

“I think your sister is trying to text you,” Louis says as he types out, Yeah, we’re waiting for breakfast in the cafe.

Harry frowns. “She should be sleeping. I told her not to worry.”

“You’re her little brother. It’s her job to worry.”

Louis is sipping on a coffee and watching Harry eat his pancakes when Gemma comes to the cafe, looking even worse than she did earlier. Without a word, she sits down next to Harry and steals Louis’ coffee.

“You should be sleeping,” Harry says, focused on his pancakes.

“So should you,” she bites. She sighs and rubs at her forehead. “How do you expect me to sleep when I know you’re out walking in the middle of Glasgow?”

“Louis was with me,” he says simply, and she shakes her head and drinks another sip of Louis’ coffee.

Harry keeps talking, and Louis responds and comments in the right areas while Gemma stays silent. She doesn’t say a word, up until Harry mentions going out again tonight.

“You aren’t going out tonight,” Gemma says, looking irritated. “We talked about this. Me and you are staying in for the night.”

Harry rolls his eyes. “Everyone else is going out.”

“Everyone else is sleeping right now so they have energy to go out tonight. You aren’t.”

“I’m not even tired, Gems.”

Gemma closes her eyes, takes a deep breath, and then opens them again. She’s not looking at anybody, just looking straight forward. “Haz. We’re staying in tonight.”

“You said I could go out with you lot,” Harry whispers, suddenly sounding completely insecure and sad. Louis stays silent, watching them both. He knows he has no part of this conversation.

“And you promised me you wouldn’t drink, but we’re on day three of you getting absolutely hammered.” She swears under her breath and her hand shakes as she grabs for the coffee again. “I told Zayn not to let you drink, I told all of them, and you just -- just go to a different bar, thinking I wouldn’t be able to figure out that you’re drunk. I’m not fucking stupid.”

All of them doesn’t include Louis. He was never told not to let Harry drink; he was with Harry and Niall the first night, throwing back shot after shot at the bar. He feels guilty, even though he has no reason to be.

“I knew bringing you was a bad fucking idea,” Gemma says, voice low. Louis swears there are tears in her eyes. “But it was all, ‘Oh, no, Gemma, I’ll be good, I’ll be so good, you won’t even know I’m there.’ You lied to me. You’re not even trying to get a grip.”

Harry drops his fork, the clatter of it loud, and he glares at her. “Can we not do this right in front of him?” he snaps, standing up from the booth. Louis drops his eyes to the table, still feeling guilty. “You weren’t invited to this breakfast.”

Gemma rolls her eyes and sets her elbows on the table, covering her face with her hands. “I’m going to have Mum and get you today.”

Harry looks terrified. “No,” he says, sitting back down. He grabs Gemma’s arm lightly. “Hey, no. No. That’s not fair.”

“Harry. Come on.”

“I won’t drink anymore, okay?” he begs, eyes wide. His voice has gone all croaky now, like he’s about to cry. Louis stands, finally knowing for sure that he should not be here for this. He doesn’t even know what this is. “I won’t -- Gemma. Please. I am trying. Don’t you think I’m trying? I always try. Always. I don’t,” Louis’ by the exit when he hears Harry sob, “Don’t take this away from me. Please. I’m trying, I’m sorry.”

Louis is too far away to hear Gemma’s response, but when he looks back, Gemma has her arms around Harry and she’s stroking his hair. Louis heads upstairs to bed. He falls asleep wondering what the hell he’s missing here.

-

Harry doesn’t go home that day, and he doesn’t stay in for the night, either. He does, however, stick to Gemma’s side almost the entire night and doesn’t have a single drink of his own. Or anything else, for that matter. And he’s still acting how he was this morning, when Louis could have sworn he was high. So it’s. . . it’s something. Louis doesn’t know what it is, but it’s something. And it’s difficult to figure out if he should be concerned about it or not, because as worried as Gemma seemed this morning, everyone else seems like nothing could possibly be the matter. Zayn, Liam, Niall, Brie, Sophia; all of Gemma’s friends don’t seem to be worried about Harry, so Louis figures he shouldn’t be either.

Louis’ at a table with Liam and Sophia, all of them drinking, when Harry comes over. Since he’s taller, he stands out easily, and Louis sees him weaving through bodies towards them. He sits down next to Louis, smiling brightly at them all.

“Hiya, Haz,” Liam says. “Where’s Gemma?”

“Bathroom. You going to tell her if I steal a sip of your drink?”

Louis watches them steadily. Harry staring at him with wide, pleading eyes, his teeth digging into his bottom lip, and Liam staring back at him looking uncertain and guilty. Reluctantly, Liam pushes his glass towards him.

“A sip,” he says, and Harry nods fervently before grabbing Liam’s drink and taking a large, probably-should-be-considered-like-three-sips sip, and then he slides it back to him. He looks content, and so does Liam, so Louis doesn’t question it.

Harry talks with them for a few minutes until Gemma comes and finds them. She looks exhausted, as she should. So should Harry, and he doesn’t, not really.

“Come on,” Gemma says, motioning to her brother. “Zayn and Brie are waiting for us.”

“Can’t I stay here?” Harry asks, and his wide, pleading eyes are back. Gemma looks a lot more immune to them than Liam did.

“If you stay with them. And you don’t drink.”

Sophia nods at her. “He’s fine. Go and have fun.”

Gemma looks mildly irritated, like she knows she’s probably making a mistake, but she leaves after squeezing Harry’s wrist. As soon as she’s gone, Harry looks more relaxed, and he stays with them and talks for a while. Louis was drinking steadily before Harry came over, but Harry’s fumbling, awkward hands on the table make him stick with just finishing off his one drink that he already had and stopping after that. He doesn’t want to have him feel left out. Liam keeps drinking steadily, while Sophia doesn’t ask for a refill either.

After about an hour of them all taking, it’s obvious Sophia and Liam want to go. Go do what, Louis doesn’t want to know, but they don’t want to stick around here anymore. Louis hopes that Harry doesn’t catch onto it, but he does.

“You guys go ahead,” he says, waving them off.

Liam looks like he’s ready to go, but Sophia hesitates. “Are you sure? Gemma said -- ”

“I’ll stay with Louis,” Harry interrupts, sounding a bit sad. “Just go ahead.” They nod, and then they’re off and it’s just Louis and Harry. Harry turns to him, looking guilty. “You don’t have to babysit me, either. I’ll be fine on my own.”

“Maybe I just want to talk to you,” Louis says easily. It’s true. He likes Harry, likes how upbeat and happy he is. Whatever that is going on with him, clearly Louis doesn’t need to know about, and he’s not going to pressure Harry into telling him.

Harry grins, leaning towards him.

-

Four hours later, they’re back at the hotel. Everyone else has gone off to bed, but Louis sticks with Harry. Apparently, Harry has stumbled onto the knowledge that the door leading to the roof has been propped open with a cinderblock.

“I came out here the first time by myself,” Harry tells him as they turn down a hallway they’re probably not meant to be going down. “Gemma didn’t like it very much, but it’s peaceful out here.”

And because they’ve been pointlessly tip-toeing around it all night, Louis says, “Peaceful, and a good place to seduce someone, I’m assuming”

Harry ducks his head down, a grin breaking out over his face. He doesn’t deny it, though, because that would be counterproductive, wouldn’t it.

Like Harry promised, the door is still propped open and they carefully step onto the roof, making sure to keep the block in place. For a moment, Louis stands and stares out at the city, entranced by the view of it from up here, and then he gets distracted by Harry strolling right up to the edge and sitting on the ledge so his legs are dangling off the side.

It feels like Harry isn’t scared of anything. Nothing worries him. Louis admires that.

Louis follows him, but chooses to stay on the other side of the ledge, his knees scratching against the cement. For the first time this entire trip, Harry isn’t eager to talk. He’s just sitting there, looking calm as he stares out at the city beneath them. At one point, Harry shifts around too much for Louis’ liking, and he sets a steadying hand on his shoulder.

“Careful,” he says. “Would be an awful way to die.”

Harry keeps looking straight ahead, but he does stop moving. Softly, he says, “I don’t think it’d be all that bad.”

Louis skims right over it, thinking he just means that there are worse ways to die than falling to death in Glasgow. He didn’t think the words held any weight, and maybe they didn’t. There’s no way of knowing.

Louis keeps his hand on Harry’s shoulder, half so he can keep a hold on him and half just because he likes touching him. Before the trip, he was attracted to Harry’s appearance and what little of his personality Louis knew just helped. Now, it’s the opposite.

After some time, Harry turns to him, his gaze intense. He looks -- Louis’ almost positive that he looks deeply sad, but he must be wrong because he leans in and kisses him. It’s soft, so soft. Softer than he thought Harry, who’s energetic and fast-moving and antsy, would be capable of. And the hand he reaches out to touch Louis’ cheek is soft, too.

Louis pulls away to say, “Not going to keep kissing you if you’re sitting on the ledge. Would be a hard thing to explain to your sister.”

Harry slides off the ledge easily, plopping down right next to Louis, and he kisses him again, still so gentle. He rubs the pad of his thumb over Louis’ collarbone, and it’s just another sensation that Louis struggles to cope with. He’s been waiting for Harry to make the move for days, and now here they are. Eventually, Harry pushes against his shoulder and guides him down to the cement. It’s uncomfortable and the ground is hard and scratchy, but Louis only has a second to think about that before Harry’s kissing him again, and he forgets all about it. Until Harry asks to blow him.

“It’s too cold out here, you perv,” Louis teases, running his fingers through Harry’s hair. “Plus, we wouldn’t want to get caught.” Harry makes a face, and Louis rolls his eyes. “I don’t want to get caught,” he amends, and Harry grins.

Harry ducks down to kiss him again, his cross necklace landing against Louis’ chest in a way that he’s somehow already used to. “Guess that means that you’ll have to take me out on a proper date when we get back to London, then, huh?”

Louis grins back at him. “Guess so.”

-

The following night, he spends the entire night at the club with Harry, properly this time. They walk in together, put together and excited, and they leave together, looking worn down and relaxed. They dance together, laugh together, and talk and talk and talk together. They spend hour after hour together, and no matter how many times or in how many ways Harry tries to convince them to get a drink, Louis says no. He feels a little stupid telling an adult that he can’t drink, but Gemma loves him for it and she knows Harry better than Louis does. And, judging by the way Harry lets himself be talked out if, he knows he shouldn’t be drinking for whatever reason, too.

They have a really amazing night together, and when they get back to the hotel, he sees Harry off to his room before heading to his own. Louis digs around in his suitcase for a cigarette when Zayn throws his pack at him and motions for them to head outside, to which Louis agrees. They sit to the side of the hotel on a bench, and at first, it’s quiet. At first, it’s peaceful. And then Zayn opens his mouth.

“You and Harry,” he starts. “What’s that about?”

“It’s just a bit of fun.”

“How much fun are we talking?” Zayn asks, and he sounds serious. He takes another drag from his cigarette. “Are you two going to pick it back up when you’re back in London?”

“Does it matter?” Louis asks, confused.

“Yeah,” Zayn says easily. “Yeah, it does. Because I’ve known Harry for about five years now, and I can tell you that things are going to get a lot more complicated with him once we get back home. Before then even, maybe.”

“What are you talking about?”

Zayn rolls his eyes and turns to Louis, looking at him like he’s stupid. “He’s manic right now,” he says. “Very evidently so. How thick are you, Lou?”

Louis pulls back, confused. That’s -- he doesn’t even know what that means, not really. Well, he does, it’s just -- that’s, like, bipolar disorder, isn’t it? He barely knows anything about that, and what he does know indicates that it isn’t a huge deal. It’s -- it’s an issue, sure, but one that’s not so scary. Right? And judging by Harry’s mood -- his fun, happy, energetic mood -- it can’t be all that bad. What’s wrong about being a little more energetic than most?

“He’s bipolar?” Louis asks slowly.

Zayn looks away from him again. “Something like that. I’m not going to air out his shit.”

“I think you just did, mate. You didn’t -- you shouldn’t have told me that. You didn’t need to. It’s his business.”

But it makes sense, doesn’t it, why Gemma has been so worried about it. Why he shouldn’t be drinking; surely, he’s on some medications, and Louis is sure you’re not supposed to drink on those.

“He’s going to lose it eventually,” Zayn says, so casually. So fucking casually, like this is just clockwork or something. Like he’s not telling Louis some deeply personal things that he has no right knowing. “I don’t,” he sighs. “I’m just telling you now, mate. He comes with a lot more than just a little fun.”

“You are one of his best mates,” Louis snaps, stubbing out his cigarette on the cement. “How do you think he’d feel about you talking about him like that, huh?”

“He is one of my best mates. And you are, too. And as much as I want to look out for him, I think someone needs to look out for you, too. You don’t know what you’re getting yourself into.”

Louis stands, then, feeling so fucking -- disgusted, really. That’s -- he doesn’t understand why Zayn is telling him all this. Why he’s telling Louis something that he now has to feel guilty as fuck about knowing. He’s saying Harry’s so complicated while also making the situation ten times more complicated. Harry would have told him when he was ready to.

“I’m not saying he doesn’t deserve to be loved,” Zayn says, looking up at him. “I’m not saying that he can’t be loved, either. I’m just saying, mate. . . Now might not be the best time to get involved with him. Wait until he levels out a bit.”

“I think that’s unfair. I think all of what you just told me is really, really unfair.”

“Okay,” he says, shrugging. He looks back out at the road, away from Louis. “That’s fine.”

And he leaves it at that, like he didn’t just put a massive weight on Louis’ shoulders. He’s already looking at Harry differently, questioning everything about him, and that’s -- that’s not fair. He has no business knowing about anything personal, not until they’re officially an item, and they’re far from that. They might not even get to that, and now Louis has this knowledge about him that he didn’t earn.

Louis turns to leave and head to bed, at a loss for words.

-

At first, Louis fully intends on pretending like he was never told anything last night. That all he knows about Harry is that he’s this nice, fun person, but that’s pointless in trying to maintain. He wants to know more, even though he doesn’t deserve to. More than anything, he just wants to know if it’s true or not. And how serious it is, because Zayn was acting like it was a huge deal.

Maybe that’s fair, Louis being curious. What’s not fair, though, is he goes to Gemma with his questions and not Harry. He has lunch with Harry and doesn’t bring it up, and when they’re done and head to the hotel pool with the others, Louis basically corners Gemma to ask about it.

Louis and Gemma are the only ones sitting on the pool chairs while the rest of them swim. They’re a far enough distance for Louis to feel comfortable asking.

“Gemma,” he says, voice low. Gemma briefly looks up from her phone to look at him. “I was talking to Zayn last night, and, like. He said -- he told me that Harry’s bipolar. Is that -- I mean. Is that, like, true?”

Gemma freezes as soon as the word bipolar comes out of Louis. Slowly, she puts down her phone and sighs quietly. She looks out at the pool, at Harry who’s laughing loudly with Sophia, and shakes her head.

“I’m not going to talk about it with you. Ask him. Zayn shouldn’t have -- God, I don’t know why he’d think that’s his to tell.”

Guilt floods Louis’ body. “I don’t know either. I didn’t ask. But Gems. . . he made it seem like it was serious.”

“It is. Still doesn’t make it my business to talk about.”

“But should I be worried?”

Gemma looks at him sharply, so Louis clarifies.

“Worried about him, not me.”

Looking a little more relaxed, Gemma looks back out at the pool. At Harry. She looks so sad. Quietly, she admits, “Yes. You should probably be worried about him. But no, not until he wants you to be. Just. . . look out for him for me, okay? He likes you a lot. If anything ever seems amiss, you have to tell me. You have to tell me, Louis.”

Louis just nods, suddenly too anxious to speak.

“He doesn’t know sometimes,” she whispers. “He always says he’s fine, but he’s not. Usually, he’s not. I think he just wants to be.” She sighs before shaking her head and standing. She offers a hand out to Louis, and Louis takes it and squeezes. “Let’s go swimming, okay? You can talk to him about it later.”

She sounds so worried, so Louis gives her his most convincing smile. “Yeah, okay. Okay. Let’s go swimming.”

They’re barely in the water before Harry’s swimming over to them, a grin on his face.

-

There’s not a proper time to bring it up, is there. Tonight, they go out to the pubs again, and even though he’s with Harry the entire night, it doesn’t feel appropriate to bring it up here. And when they get back to the hotel, Harry’s actually tired so they head to their separate hotel rooms. The following morning, Harry wakes him at nine and they eat breakfast together with Gemma, but it feels too early to ruin the day. By the time they’re at another club that night, Louis decides he’ll just ask when they get back to London. He doesn’t have to know anything right now.

But then Harry invites him back up to the roof, and when they’re sitting there, Harry on the ledge again, it feels like a good time to bring it up.

“Hey,” he says, nudging his shoulder gently. Harry glances at him. “Come on, sit next to me.”

“I’m not gonna fall, Louis.”

Louis grunts. “Yeah, sure. Come on.” He pats the ground next to him, and Harry listens. He slides down next to him and starts running his fingers over the bumpy gravel. Louis watches him for a few minutes, a little mesmerized, before he finds the courage to bring it up.

“Can we talk?”

Harry doesn’t look up. “Sure. ‘Bout what?”

He doesn’t expect anything serious, that much is obvious. Louis feels bad. Maybe he should bring it up, but it’s. . . For both of them, he needs to bring it up. He’s pretty sure Harry wouldn’t want him thinking things that aren’t true about whatever’s going on with him.

Louis pulls his knees up and wraps his arms loosely around them, still staring at Harry’s fingers moving around on the gravel. “Do you. . . Zayn told me some stuff. About you.”

His fingers don’t stop, but they slow. His eyes lift from the gravel to look further ahead of them, uncertain. “Like what?”

Louis bites on his lip, hard, before saying, “That you have bipolar disorder.”

Immediately, Harry scoffs, jaw clenched as he looks off to the side. He runs his fingers over the gravel roughly, probably rough enough to scrape, before he scoffs again and stands up. Louis watches him, feeling terrible.

“We don’t have to talk about it,” he says. “It just didn’t feel right not telling you that I knew.”

Harry walks a few feet away and turns to face him. Briefly, he looks at him before looking out at the sky. “It’s my fucking head,” he spits. “It’s my fucking issue. Wish people would stop trying to -- to control it, or control me. It’s getting pretty fucking old.”

Louis wraps his arms around his knees tighter. “I’m sorry. Like I said, we don’t have to talk about it.”

“What’s the point?” Harry snaps, throwing a pebble that Louis didn’t realize he picked up off to the side. He looks furious, and then he turns away from Louis. “He already fucking ruined it.”

“Ruined what?” Louis asks. Harry doesn’t respond, so he says, “If you mean -- if you think that he ruined whatever we have going here, he didn’t. I don’t care about all that stuff. I mean, I care, of course I care, but I won’t treat you differently because of it.”

“Yeah, you will. Everyone does.”

He begins to pace, and Louis watches him, desperately sad.

“I won’t,” he says, and Harry shakes his head.

“I don’t believe you,” he says angrily. “I don’t -- if my mum and my sister treat me like I’m a nutcase, you will, too. There’s no -- God, there’s just no fucking point. I thought,” he laughs, “I thought it could be different with you, I thought -- I had this plan, this whole fucking plan, that I was going to keep my shit together until I was sure you liked me for me and not -- I don’t want anyone’s fucking pity.”

His anger is too hot to just be for Louis. Clearly, he’s mad about all this and Louis was the final straw.

“But Zayn had to take that away from me,” Harry continues, still pacing. “Zayn -- God, everyone thinks they know better than I do. Everyone. And that’s -- how do they expect me not to feel worthless when they don’t let me do anything by myself?”

“Hey,” Louis says, pained. “You aren’t worthless. Don’t say that.”

Harry turns to him abruptly, stopping in place. “I had to beg for Gemma to let me come here. I had to beg. For months. And you’ve only known her a few months, and you got invited anyway. And I know I won’t be invited back. I haven’t done good this week. But I’m so sick of trying to prove to her that I’m doing good. It’s -- it’s like she expects me to be honest with her about when I’m doing poorly, and then she just -- she just gets mad at me when I am, like she punishes me for it. Everybody expects me to have it figured out by now, and I don’t.”

He sounds like he might cry.

“Harry,” Louis says. He wants to stand, but he doesn’t want to overwhelm Harry any more than he already has. “I’m sure everyone is more than okay with you trying your best. That’s all you can do.”

“My best isn’t good enough,” he says. “My best is -- my best is just a step above rock bottom. And it makes them so sad, but I -- I’m never going to be any different. I can’t fix what’s wrong with me. So I’m just going to make them sad for the rest of my life.”

“I’m sure there are ways to manage bipolar disorder, H, and you’re still so young, and -- ”

“I’m not bipolar,” he says, and he shakes his head as he bunches his fists up by his side. “Well, I am. But I’m not just bipolar. I’m,” he laughs again, this hoarse, awful noise, and he looks at Louis intently. “I’m schizophrenic. Like, bat shit crazy. You know, the people who hear voices in their head and shit? Those fucking people?”

“Hey,” Louis snaps mildly, shaking his head. He’s not going to think about what that means just yet, not when there’s more important things going on. “Don’t say that about yourself. Please. You’re not crazy.”

“No? I’m not? Then what the fuck would you call someone who’s been to the psych ward three separate times in the last two years?” He turns around again and kicks at the gravel roughly, sending pebbles flying. “Fucking crazy. That’s what you’d call them.”

Louis tries his hardest to sound calm. “I don’t think you’re crazy. I don’t think that at all. But you’re really upset right now, so if you don’t want to talk about this, we can wait. We can talk about something else.”

Harry’s shoulder hunch forward, his frame suddenly looking small. The tension in his backside makes Louis relieved that he can’t see his face. “There’s no point,” he says, voice so quiet that Louis almost can’t hear. “I was supposed to have a good week this week. The best. I was -- I was supposed to have fun with Gemma, and my friends, and I was supposed to get laid, and I. . . I fucked it all up anyway. I just wanted one good week before,” he sucks in a sharp breath, “before we got back to London. Before I had to go explain to my therapist that the meds aren’t working anymore and I fucking hate everything.”

“I’ve been having a nice week with you,” Louis says gently, tears stinging his eyes. “The best. I have, I swear it.”

Harry turns to him, and he looks so fucking sad. His fingers are tugging on each other in front of him, his bottom lip is stuck out a bit, his eyebrows are drawn together, and he looks like he doesn’t believe a word Louis is saying. “You have?”

“The best,” Louis says, sitting up more. He lets out a breathless laugh. “I mean, Harry. We’re in Glasgow. Going to different pubs every night and kissing on bloody rooftops. I think that would be anyone’s definition of a good week.”

“But I’m making Gemma so stressed, Louis.”

“Gemma’s stressing herself out,” Louis argues, even though it probably isn’t fair on her at all. It’s just -- Harry looks so sad. So defeated. “I don’t know all the ins and outs of your illness, but I know that I’ve had a great week with you, and I think. . . I think that can be enough for right now.”

Harry doesn’t look like he agrees, but he doesn’t say anything. Louis takes that as a win.

“Come on,” he says, patting the spot next to him again. “Come on. Just sit. We don’t have to talk anymore. We can just sit here for a bit.”

For a second, he doesn’t think Harry will listen. He looks far too spooked by the idea. But then he slowly walks forward and lowers himself to the ground beside Louis. Up close like this, Louis can see how his hands are shaking. How his bottom lip is bitten red. Can hear how he’s breathing a little roughly. He pulls his knees up to his chest like Louis, and he rests his arms on his knees and his head on top. Louis sees how he closes his eyes, how pained he looks, how hard he’s biting on his bottom lip again. And he can see it, the exact moment, that Harry can’t take it anymore and his eyebrow twitches and he’s crying. It’s these sad, soft cries that makes Louis’ chest ache, and he sets a steadying hand on Harry’s back. After Harry’s cries don’t stop, Louis scoots closer and starts moving his hand, rubbing his back.

“You’re alright, mate,” he whispers after Harry tries to hide his face against his elbow. It doesn’t work completely; Louis can still see the tears slipping down his face. “It’s okay. You’re fine, everything’s -- everything’s going to be fine.” His voice shakes, and he’s just surprised that he hasn’t cried yet himself. He feels so bad for Harry. It’s not easy to see someone so distressed about something they have no control over.

“I just want it to stop,” Harry cries, and Louis shushes him, his heart clenching. “I’m so -- it’s not fair, Louis, it’s not -- it’s not fair, it’s not fair.” His cries don’t let up, so Louis presses his knee against Harry’s and sets his cheek on Harry’s shoulder, hoping the closeness reminds him that he’s not alone. It must mean something to him, because he reaches forward and grabs Louis’ sleeve, practically clawing at it.

Louis’ not sure how long it takes for Harry to calm down, but it’s not quick. Just when his cries start to peter out, they randomly kick up again. And Louis just sits there, rubbing his back and hushing him, hoping that he’s not messing this up terribly. Maybe he should be texting Gemma, but he’s almost certain that Harry doesn’t want her right now.

When Harry’s cries stop for good, Louis keeps rubbing his back and Harry’s fingers loosen on his sleeve. They linger for a bit, and then they wrap around Louis’ wrist and just hold on. It takes a minute for Harry to talk, and he doesn’t sound calm.

“You don’t know how scary it is,” he gets out, his voice thick and tight. It’s slightly muffled by his elbow, but Louis can make out the words. “Being sixteen, being normal, and then all the sudden, you can’t think straight and you can’t sleep and everything feels so -- so cluttered. So wrong. And I thought -- I mean, I didn’t think it was anything. It started getting worse, so much worse, and I -- I remember getting into these awful fights with my mum because everything was so overwhelming all the time, I was always so irritated, and she just -- she thought I was misbehaving, and I wasn’t. I -- ” he lets out a sharp cry, but it’s not followed by anymore. “I started really losing it when I was seventeen. I knew something was wrong, I knew it, I -- I mean, I was hearing shit, you know? And seeing things, and smelling things. . . I didn’t tell anyone. Didn’t know what to say. And then my brain fucking broke for good, and I don’t. . . I don’t even know how it happened. I don’t remember how it happened so quickly. But I do remember there was this night, this awful, awful night. I got into a fight with Gemma during dinner and I just left, I just -- I just left, and then I couldn’t remember where I was and I was so fucking scared, I was -- Louis. It’s so scary.”

“I’m sure it is, love. I’m sorry.”

“They called the police on me because I didn’t come home,” Harry continues, and he still sounds so upset. Louis wishes he understood he didn’t have to talk about this if he didn’t want to, but maybe he does. Maybe him sounding pained doesn’t mean that he doesn’t want to talk. “And the police -- that’s one of my things, you know? Like. I don’t know. My triggers, I guess. And they found me, they did, and I was in a middle of a fucking psychotic break and they drew their guns on me, and that’s -- I mean, what the fuck. I was already so scared. I didn’t know what was happening to me, or where I was, and then I had all these scary people pointing their guns at me. It was -- I could have died that night. So easily. One wrong move, and they would have shot me. I could have died then.”

“But you didn’t. You’re still here. Thankfully.”

“I could have died then,” Harry repeats, shaking his head. Louis keeps rubbing his back. Slowly, Harry lifts his head up and looks at him. He says, “And now here I am, not doing any better.”

Louis frowns. “You’re sitting here with me. You’re talking to me. You aren’t lost or freaking out or having guns pointed at you. I’d say that’s doing better.”

Harry sets his chin on his arm, looking forward. He squeezes Louis’ wrist once before pulling his hand away, and Louis sits up, thinking he doesn’t want to be touched anymore, but Harry presses his knee against his harder. Louis stays put.

“I didn’t ask for this,” he whispers. “I don’t think it’s fair. There’s nothing I could have done to stop it. And now I’m just supposed to be okay that I’m going to be like this forever? I don’t. . . I don’t get how anyone could expect that from me.”

Louis can’t figure out what to say to that before Harry continues.

“I got it from my dad’s side, I guess,” he says. “He didn’t even know that his dad had it, and he passed it on to me. Not Gemma, just me. And he,” Harry laughs. “And he gave me this stupid fucking illness, and he didn’t even stick around to help me through it. I haven’t heard from him in years. My parents divorced forever ago, but my dad didn’t stop talking to us until I was diagnosed.”

“How’s your granddad, then?”

“Dead,” Harry tells him. “Killed himself at twenty-eight. Jumped off a building.”

God, Louis regrets asking.

“He was diagnosed when he was twenty-three, I guess. Didn’t have his first episode until he was twenty-three. How’s that fair? I would be more than okay with it if I got to have a few more good years before I died.”

Louis has no fucking idea what to say. “I’m sorry about your granddad,” he says awkwardly. “About everything, really.”

“I haven’t even had a relationship yet,” Harry whispers. “I’ve had sex, but it was shit sex. Didn’t realize I didn’t like girls for the longest time. I haven’t -- I’ve not gone anywhere exciting. Not done anything worth talking about. And it’s. . . I’m eighteen. I haven’t done anything, because I can’t do anything, and I’m already eighteen.”

“You’ve gone to Glasgow,” Louis says, half-joking, half-not. It makes Harry smile thinly as he nods.

“Yeah,” he says. “That’s why I wanted to come. Just to be able to say I did something, you know?”

Louis thinks he knows, so he nods, but it only takes him a week to realize he actually didn’t have a clue.

-

The rest of the trip in Glasgow is nice.

Harry is a bit more disorganized the day after they talk, and he is just a big ball of nervous excitement, but his mood goes back to what it was before, and they have a nice time. They kiss under bright lights with bodies bumping into them every few seconds, and they have lunch together almost every day, and really, Louis thinks Harry’s the most interesting person he’s ever met.

He doesn’t really think about what it means for them that Harry is mentally ill. It’s not. . . he was taught not to treat people differently for things they can’t control, and that’s a nice sentiment, except for when a bit of special treatment is needed. He brushes off comments that make his gut twist and look past warnings as clear as day, thinking that he's doing something noble by treating Harry like he’s anybody else. Like he didn’t just tell him he had a severe mental illness a few days ago, and like he didn’t promise Gemma he would pay attention to any red flags.

On the way home, Harry and Louis stay tucked into the back seat together. Harry talks the entire time again, except this time, he speaks mostly to Louis. He talks and talks and talks and talks, and Louis listens and listens and listens and listens. By the time he’s dropped off to his flat, he’s wondering when he’ll see Harry next, where he could take him out, what he might like for a date.

He texts Harry the following day. Now where would you like me to take you out? Xx

He doesn’t get a text back all day, which doesn’t exactly worry him. He still doesn’t know what Harry’s like, and it wouldn’t surprise him if he was a shit texter. But when it gets to the next afternoon and he realizes he hasn’t heard from Gemma since she dropped him off, it puts a pit in his stomach. He calls her, and it goes to voicemail, and she doesn’t get around to calling him back. An hour later, he calls Harry’s phone, and there’s nothing.

It’s the first time Louis felt a type of fear that would soon become somewhat familiar.

He knows for sure something terrible is going on when he texts Zayn and he doesn’t get a text back. Zayn always texts him back almost right away. He probably saw Louis’ text and just didn’t know what to say.

Louis gets a call from Gemma at three o’clock in the morning, when he’s sitting up in bed distractedly watching an episode of his show. He answers it immediately, and he waits for her to speak first.

“Hiya, darling,” she says, her voice hoarse and wobbly. “You’re not doing anything, are you?”

“No.”

She lets out a drawn-out exhale. “Did you ever get around to having that talk with Haz?”

“Yes,” he says through clenched teeth, absolutely terrified.

“Well. He’s in the hospital right now. He,” her voice catches, and she clears her throat. “He overdosed on his sleeping medication. Guess he knew where I hid it. And, um. Yeah. He overdosed. The night we came back from Glasgow. And Louis, when I say he just barely made it. . .”

“I’m so, so sorry, Gemma.”

That’s all he can say. He can’t make this about him, no matter how badly he wants to tell her that they were supposed to go out on a date and that he wants to see him. Gemma nearly lost her brother; Louis doesn’t matter right now.

“He’s so mad,” she whispers. “At everyone, but especially me, because I’m the God awful witch who did the terrible thing of not letting him die. He’s. . . oh, Louis, shit. You know emergency rooms are awful at treating psych patients? They have him locked in a room all by himself, and we can’t send him off to the psych hospital until he’s medically cleared, which might be a few days. He’s going to be absolutely miserable and treated like some animal for days. And then he’s going to go into the psych ward, where they’ll treat him a bit nicer, but he’ll still hate it. He’ll still hate me.”

“Don’t blame yourself,” he says, feeling lightheaded. “You obviously did the right thing.”

“Did I? Because apparently he wanted to go to Glasgow so badly just so he’d have one last hurrah before he died, and I didn’t notice. I didn’t know that he was planning to kill himself for months.”

Everything in Louis stills.

I would be more than okay with it if I got to have a few more good years before I died.

Louis thought -- fucking shit. He thought he meant in the future, in the way, way future. He thought -- God, what was he thinking? Harry was right next to him, talking to him about how defeated he was and how he didn’t get to do anything with his life and his granddad’s suicide and Louis just didn’t think. He -- this is all his fault, isn’t it?

“Careful,” Louis told him. “Would be an awful way to die.” And Harry sounded so fucking content when he said, “I don’t think it’d be all that bad.” And Louis just didn’t think that was odd. He didn’t fucking think there was anything to be thought about there.

“And now I’m just supposed to be okay that I’m going to be like this forever? I don’t know how anyone could expect that from me.”

Harry told him that. Harry told him that. And Louis just didn’t think that was concerning at all. He was too fucking fixated on calming Harry down that he didn’t -- he just thought Harry was having a bad night. He didn’t realize how severe it was. And now he’s questioning everything, questioning how Harry told him that he could have died when the police cornered him. If Louis concentrates hard enough, he swears he can remember him saying it sort of wistfully. Like he wishes his life ended there.

Louis thinks he could puke.

“My mum’s so mad at me,” Gemma says, and he has to bite down on his lip harshly to prevent himself from telling her to be quiet. He doesn’t know if he can hear anything else, not when he already feels so guilty. “I promised her I’d watch after him, and now here we are.”

“Not your fault, Gemma. So not your fault. You can’t watch him twenty-four/seven.”

It doesn’t even feel like it’s him that’s talking right now, so he takes a deep breath, opens his eyes, and clears his throat. “How long will he be at the mental hospital, do you think?”

“I don’t know. Probably about a month. Longer, if he doesn’t cooperate, which I highly doubt he will right now.”

Louis’ just about to ask her if she thinks it’d be a good idea, him coming to see Harry, when a deep, male voice on Gemma’s line starts to talk. Louis can’t make out everything, but he gets the big picture. Harry tried to hurt himself again, and they had to forcibly sedate him, and apparently, he kicked someone in the stomach pretty hard. After the man stops talking, there’s a long pause, and then Gemma quietly tells him that she has to go.

“Of course, Gems,” he whispers. She probably would hate him if he ever told her how many warning signs he apparently missed. “Take care of yourself, okay?”

“Yeah,” she says, and then she hangs up.

-

Louis never did visit him at the hospital. Either hospitals, neither the emergency room or the psychiatric ward.

There were so many different reasons as to why. He felt guilty, it didn’t feel like his place, he wasn’t sure if Harry even wanted to see him, Gemma wasn’t updating him very often at all. It’s not because he didn’t want to, because he really, really did. He just didn’t want to make things worse for Harry.

He does, however, stop by Gemma and Harry’s mum's house when Gemma tells him that he’s home and he can come see him if he wants to.

“It’s just. He still isn’t doing well,” she said. “Well enough to be home, but still not great. He thinks everyone hates him.”

Louis comes over the very next day with a stuffed monkey, a get-well soon card, and enough guilt to last him a lifetime. Not only did he fuck up in not noticing Harry was suicidal, he fucked up by not visiting him. By not even asking if he could.

When he knocks on the door, it takes a solid minute for anybody to answer. It’s Anne who does, and she looks exhausted and stressed, but also happy to see him.

“Nobody’s been in to see him yet today,” she says as he walks in. “It will do him good, I think.” She guides him to Harry’s room, and he walks behind her, silently hoping that Harry doesn’t hate him or think he’s stupid for coming.

Gemma’s sitting at the end of Harry’s bed, texting on her phone. Harry is sitting by the window in a soft, gray chair. He’s slouched forward, his elbows propped up on the window sill, and he has scratch marks on his forearm that Louis can see from the doorway.

“Harry, dear,” Anne says softly, and it makes both Harry and Gemma jump. Harry turns slowly, and when he sees Louis, he frowns.

“I didn’t see anyone’s car pull up.”

He doesn’t look all that different than he did beforehand; if anything, he looks more worn and tired. For some reason, Louis feared he was going to be sickly looking.

“I walked,” Louis tells him, and Harry nods, even though he’s still only looking at his mum. Anne’s smiling at him warmly. She grabs the monkey and the card out of Louis’ hands and walks them over to Harry, and she speaks to him so softly that Louis can’t hear. As she does, Harry stares up at her with wide eyes, and Gemma stands next to Louis.

“He’s quieter than you are probably used to,” she whispers to him. “He’s scared. Bloody terrified. He might not want to talk about anything serious since he thinks we’ll just send him back to the hospital. But if he trusts you with it, do not shut him down, okay? He needs to talk about it with someone.”

“I don’t want to fuck this up,” Louis whispers back.

“He is just going to be happy that you came,” she tells him. “But he’s on a new medication, and it makes him shaky and disoriented, so be patient, okay? I’m serious. Don’t push him right now.”

“I won’t,” Louis promises, and then Anne tells Louis to come sit. He stills, petrified, but Gemma kisses him on the cheek and says he’ll do fine before leaving. Anne follows her out, so Louis steps into the room, smiling nervously at Harry.

“Can you shut the door?” Harry asks weakly. He won’t look at Louis, and when Louis hesitates, he shakes his head and points at the door. His hand shakes terribly. “Please, just shut it. They don’t care if it’s shut when someone else is with me.”

Louis listens, albeit a little nervously. It’s not like Harry can do anything while Louis’ watching him, though, can he. He has to give them both a little more credit than that.

And then Harry turns away from him, back towards the window. Louis is so sure that Harry hates him, until he sees his shaky hand petting over the monkey’s head. Louis slowly sits down at the spot at the end of Harry’s bed, where Gemma was before.

“How are you?”

“Okay,” Harry says, and even though it’s simple, it sounds innocent.

Louis nods stupidly, unsure of what to say.

“My hands are driving me nuts,” he says slowly, like he’s scared to even say that. This past month must’ve been so scary for him. He lets out a breathless laugh. “It’s from my new medication, I guess. And they don’t want to mess with it because it’s helping me.” His words are somehow slower but more jumbled then they usually are. “I don’t mind it, though,” he says quietly. “I don’t -- I’m not complaining.”

“I understand that it’d be a bit annoying,” Louis tells him. “It’s okay to complain. About anything.”

Harry turns towards him slightly, not yet looking or facing him, but close.

It’s quiet for about a minute, maybe two, before Harry whispers, “You didn’t visit me. At the hospital, you didn’t visit.”

Guilt tears through him. Fuck, he should’ve asked Gemma if Harry wanted to see him. All he had to do was ask.

“I didn’t know if you wanted to see me. I’m sorry, H. Really. I didn’t want to make anything harder on you.”

“I thought you were mad at me.”

Louis briefly closes his eyes. “No, love. I wasn’t mad at you. Just a bit scared.”

“I wasn’t using you,” Harry says, clearer and louder than he’s said anything thus far. He turns to look at him, and he still looks so scared. “I promise, I wasn’t. I didn’t -- I was -- it was -- ” he closes his mouth, and Louis nods at him, trying to be encouraging.

“I didn’t just want to hook up with you so I could say I had sex with a boy before I died,” he says, and then takes a deep breath like it was hard to get out. “I realized, afterwards, that you might think that. Because of what I said on the roof.”

Louis shakes his head. Out of everything he said on the rooftop, him talking about wanting a good lay is not one of the things that has been circulating through Louis’ head this last month.

“I didn’t think that, promise.”

Harry nods once before turning back to the window.

“Do you want to talk about anything?” Louis asks him carefully. “About, like, anything. I’d like to hear about whatever it is you want to talk about.”

“You’re just going to tell my mum.”

Louis shakes his head. “I won’t. If it’s nothing serious, I won’t tell your mum or Gemma. I promise.”

For four and a half minutes, it’s just silence. And then Harry says, “I think my mum and sister hate me, probably. It was. . . it was different this time.”

“What was different?” Louis asks.

There’s another heavy silence before Harry speaks again. “I tried to -- to hurt myself before. Twice before. First time, it was in the middle of my first psychotic episode at the hospital. And then. . . and then the second time, I was in a different spiral and just needed everything to stop right then. It wasn’t like that this time. It was different. I was thinking somewhat clearly, and I had it planned for a long time. . . How do you deal with someone actively choosing to leave you? I would hate me if I was either of them.”

Warmth spreads through Louis’ chest and he has to swallow back a thickness in his throat. This is hard. Really, really difficult. And knowing that Harry hasn’t talked about this with anyone yet, except for him, puts a lot of pressure on him.

“They could never stop loving you, Harry,” he says slowly. Calculatedly. “You didn’t ask for any of this, like you said on the roof. You didn’t have a choice. I think everyone can understand that feeling powerless is difficult to cope with.”

“I’ve apologized to them. So many times. But I don’t think that is worth anything anymore. I apologize every time, and then. . . and then it’s just a matter of time before I try to do it again.”

“But you -- ” Louis feels something in his chest tighten, and he leans his weight on his arms against the bed, trying to get closer to Harry as if he can sense dishonesty or something. “But you don’t want to try again, right? You’re -- you’re happy that you survived?”

He holds his breath until Harry answers.

“For now,” Harry replies. He hunches forward again, his shoulders rounded and his head hung. “But does it even matter if I don’t want to do it again if I’m just going to do it anyway? Every single time I start doing poorly, it’s all I can think about. It’s just a matter of time before I actually do it properly, and that’s. . . I don’t see the point in starting anything now when I’m going to just lose it in the near-feature. Like. Why go to uni if I’m probably not going to make it through the whole program? Why go get a job when I won’t have a future to fund? Why -- why do I even bother getting closer to people if I’m just going to abandon them the second my brain goes sideways? It’s. . . it feels wrong, like it’s cruel to be close to anyone. I’m just picking who I’m going to make the saddest.”

He sighs and rests his chin on his arms. “What’s the point of telling the truth when all it seems to do is get me in trouble? I mean, you’re going to go tell my mum what I just said. And then she’ll tell my therapist. And then it’s upping the dosage of the meds and seeing her more and talking about going back to the psych ward.”

“You said you didn’t want to hurt yourself. That’s all I’m supposed to tell them, I think.”

Somehow, his voice manages to remain steady even though he’s lying. He will tell Gemma about what Harry said, about how he has accepted the fact that he’s just going to die anyway. And maybe that’s wrong, but Harry’s right: he might actually be successful in an attempt at suicide, and Louis will not be the one who enables that.

“But I don’t think you have to live like that,” Louis continues. “I think -- I think it’ll be worth it. If. . . if it’s only a few years that you get to have a good thing, isn’t that enough? Go to uni, Haz. Go -- go get a job, if that’s what will give you something to look forward to. And you better not start pushing people away, because I think. . . I think the people who love you would be far more content in having you close every single day that they can have you instead of realizing they never really had you at all. You can’t live like it’s set in stone that your illness will lead you to suicide. You can’t do that. I think that’s just aiding it.”

He’s barely finished before a small sob comes from Harry. His shoulders shake softly, and then he turns to Louis, looking heartbroken. “University and a job will just stress me out more. And stress makes me lose it quicker. And so would -- so would having a relationship. I don’t want to make it any worse than it already is.”

“Sitting inside all day with nothing to do sounds stressful, too.”

Harry just lets this wet, sad laugh.

“You can’t live your life like you’re dying, Harry,” Louis tells him. “You have to live like you’re about to live the best goddamn life this world has ever seen.”

“I don’t care if I don’t have the best one. I just want to have a good one.”

It goes quiet, then. Louis doesn’t know what to say. It’s hard to make anything better when he still doesn’t quite understand any of it or know Harry all that well. Harry seems content with it, though. He sniffles quietly and wipes his face before glancing out the window yet again. Louis wonders what he’s waiting for. There’s nothing out there that is worth looking at. For Louis, anyway.

After a few minutes of silence, Harry stands up and walks over to a dresser near the front door. He opens the top drawer, and Louis watches how his hand shakes, how his nose curls when he sniffles. Harry turns to him with a bracelet in his hands.

“I, um.” He walks closer to Louis and holds out his hand so he can see it, and Louis can’t help the way he reaches out and cradles his hand to hold it steady. He feels so bad for him; helpful medication or not, this isn’t fair. The bracelet is handmade, and it’s woven into a fishtail pattern with two different colors, one strand black and the other pink. “I made it. At the psych hospital. We. . . the hospital that I go to is a good one. They’re nice there, and they try to make us feel better. And this -- these people came in and taught us how to make these.”

Louis softly squeezes his wrist. “It looks nice.”

“Took me bloody ages,” Harry tells him, and he sounds sad again. “It -- my hands are awful right now, and I didn’t think I could do it, so I was just going to watch. But one of the helpers and another patient helped me. Even though we were there for hours, they didn’t give up on me.”

“Of course they didn’t. You should put it on.”

“It doesn’t fit,” he says, letting out another wet laugh. His eyes are filled with so much pain that it’s hard to look at him. He’s struggling massively right now, but this version of him is somehow better than what he was this past month. “It’s too small. My mum said she could make it bigger, but I don’t want to mess it up.”

“You could hang it somewhere. Or put it on something.”

“Could put it on you.”

Louis looks up from the bracelet laying in palm, and Harry looks shy and insecure, so he doesn’t hesitate to nod. It’s -- it’s too much, probably, and he hopes that Harry isn’t giving it to him because he thinks he owes Louis something somehow. But he’s not going to tell Harry what to do, is he. Especially when it’s over this.

With his shaking hands, he slides the bracelet over Louis’ hand and fixes it up properly. He runs his thumb over it before he clasps his hands in front of himself. Louis stares down at the bracelet, runs his fingers over it himself. Gently, though. He doesn’t want to ruin it.

Harry retreats back to his spot at the window, so Louis turns again to face him. He feels assured, suddenly, by the bracelet. Maybe he’s actually managed to not fuck this up.

Harry clears his throat as he stares at his hands that are bunched up on his lap. “Am I,” he pauses before continuing. “Am I still promised that date?” he asks, lifting his head up to look at him nervously.

Louis’ answer is automatic. “Of course.”

JANUARY - FEBRUARY 2014

It’s probably not up to chance that Harry gets to come home the day before his birthday. Someone must’ve put a good word in for him, or they took pity on him. He’s been incredibly sad this entire time here. Louis wouldn’t say depressed, not when he’s all too familiar with what that word actually means, but he’s been awfully, awfully sad. His mood is even worse when it’s not Louis visiting him, too, he’s heard.

Since the time after Glasgow, Harry’s been in here twice, so Louis knows the drill by now. He takes the day off of work, drives over as early as he’s allowed, and walks into the main entrance with two hot chocolates, two glazed donuts with sprinkles on it, and a better coat for Harry because they aren’t allowed hooded jackets here and it’s snowing outside. Apparently, after everything happened the first time, Anne brought him up a hot chocolate and a donut from his favorite bakery and it’s become some sort of a ritual now. Harry pretends to think it’s dumb, but it’s obvious he finds comfort in the routine. And they always eat outside, at the benches out front, as a way for Harry to make good memories here. For obvious reasons, Harry associates this place with a lot of bad; it’s important that they incorporate some good in there where they can.

Louis signs the necessary paperwork before sitting in the waiting area. It usually takes some time for Harry to come out since they debrief him and set up a treatment plan before he leaves. So, Louis waits patiently. But also not patiently, because he wants Harry home so badly. It’s such a selfish thing to think, isn’t it.

As he waits, he alternates between trying to distract himself with his phone and just sitting, doing nothing. He traces his fingers over the woven bracelets on his left wrist. He has two now, the old one and a new one Harry made him a few months ago because he noticed the other one was getting worn, and he wears them every day. Every single day. They’re the type of thing he will turn back around for if he’s driving and realizes he’s forgotten them, no matter how far he’s gone.

For the first time this entire visit, Harry comes to him with a smile already on his face. It’s this small, shy smile, but a smile nonetheless, and it widens when he sees Louis. Immediately, they wrap each other in a hug and Harry hides his face in his neck. Coming back home is always an overwhelming thing for him, so Louis knows not to rush him, not even a bit.

“Thank you for coming,” Harry whispers. His hands have slid down to Louis’ lower back now, and they’re steady and comforting.

“Always, love. You know that.”

Harry pulls away to kiss him. It’s brief, but it’s enough. For now, anyway. After, Louis grabs the coat off the chair and slips it on for Harry even though he could do it himself and he already has a decent coat on. Harry pulls his hood up over his short hair like some act of defiance before grabbing for the hot chocolate on the table. Louis grabs his, too, and the donut bag before grabbing Harry’s bag off his shoulder and carrying it for him outside. They sit on a freezing cold bench, shoulder to shoulder, knee to knee.

“I’m on this new sleeping medication now,” Harry tells him after he’s had a sip of his drink. It’s probably too hot, judging by his reaction to it. “I forgot to tell you the last time I saw you. It’s doxepin. I was on it when I was younger. . . can’t remember why I stopped taking it. But yeah.”

Louis grabs a donut out of the package and hands it to him before responding. “What was the matter with your old one, hmm? And does this one have any side-effects?”

Doxepin. He carves into his memory so he can research it later.

“Couldn’t sleep very well, and they wanted to up the dosage of it, like, way more than I was comfortable with. So they switched me. And I’ve only been on it for about a week now, but all it does is make me a bit dizzy. Knocks me right out, though, so I don’t even have to worry about that usually.”

He’s more himself now than he has been in the entire last month. Two months, probably. It makes Louis so, so happy, but also entirely sad, because he hates that Harry has to struggle so often. He hates that he has to miss him so much. With tears stupidly burning his eyes, he scoots even closer to hook his arm around Harry’s and set his head on his shoulder. Harry presses a lingering kiss to his forehead and drops his hand to rest on Louis’ thigh.

“Anything exciting to tell me about, love?” Harry asks him, and Louis shakes his head.

“No. Not really. House is cleaner than it’s been in ages. That’s about it.”

There’s a weighted pause, and Louis knows he’s about to apologize before he even has a chance to open his mouth. “Drink your cocoa,” Louis says, shaking his head. “It should be cooled down enough now.”

For about fifteen minutes, they sit in a peaceful silence while they finish their drink and donuts. Afterward, they sit for a bit, content with just being here with one another.

“My arse is starting to freeze,” Louis says, sitting up, and Harry nods.

“Can I drive home?”

Louis glances at him cautiously. “Should you be driving?”

“I’m fine to, cross my heart.” He draws an X over his heart and everything, so Louis decides to believe him. He’ll notice quite quickly if Harry is lying to him, but it’s more likely that he isn’t.

Louis hands him the keys.

-

For the first few days, Harry does nothing much more than watch TV, nap on the couch, and follow Louis around the flat quietly. He’s always chasing the balance between doing everything he wasn’t allowed to do at the hospital and doing absolutely nothing at all, and catching up with Louis while also being cautious about being overly-clingy. As if Louis wants him any more than a foot away from him at all times.

On February first, even though it’s Harry’s birthday, they don’t do much. Harry doesn’t want to do anything big until he’s feeling at home again, so they settle for eating cake and ice cream, just the two of them. Once he’s feeling up to it, Gemma and Anne will come around and they’ll do it properly, but for now, it’s fine like this.

“I want to spend the first year of my twenties not in the hospital,” Harry tells him while he’s eating his cake. “Just -- I literally don’t care if I have a mental breakdown the minute I turn twenty-one, I just want to have one year where I don’t lose it.”

Louis just makes a noise, not happy about Harry’s diction but also not in the mood to correct him. It’s a fine goal, anyhow. Maybe it’s a little unfair on himself, but Louis isn’t about to go tell Harry that he shouldn’t expect not to need to go back within a year.

Louis goes back to work on the second, and he’s undeniably nervous about leaving Harry alone. For so many reasons -- he doesn’t deserve to be all by himself just after he got home, he’s still clingy, he might just need someone to talk to -- but, of course, the main one is that he’ll try to hurt himself. That’s always a fear. Always. Whether it be the day after he comes home from the psych ward or just a random Tuesday, Louis will always be scared that he won’t come home to find Harry alive.

Thankfully, Harry doesn’t blame him. He understands, and he doesn’t take it as Louis not trusting him. It’s just the reality of the situation, isn’t it. Most of the time, Harry doesn’t go from okay to blindingly suicidal, but it’s always a possibility. Harry hasn’t actively tried to take his life since the last time after Glasgow -- and that has nothing to do with Louis; Harry’s growing into himself, into his illness, and is slowly figuring out what he needs to do and what works for him -- but that doesn’t mean he hasn’t been suicidal in that time. He has been, so many times. And he’s planned on acting on it before. Harry’s scared of Louis not finding him alive, too.

It’s probably why he gets up with Louis after his alarm goes off. He doesn’t have to, and he normally doesn’t, but he wakes up anyway and rolls over, tucking himself into Louis’ side. Louis stays with him for a while, stroking his fingertips over Harry’s back as he wakes up. And when he says he has to get up, Harry sits up, too, but only to push him back down into bed and kiss him.

“I adore you,” Louis says, pushing Harry back gently, “but I do not have time for this.”

Harry pouts as he sits back on his heels. He has his necklace on again, and it swings with his movements. (Harry always, always wears his necklace, and usually a ring or two, and Louis hates that they take that away from him along with everything else when he goes to hospital.) “Tonight, then,” he says, coming closer again to kiss him quickly.

It’s a subtle reassurance that he’ll still be here tonight. Louis appreciates it immensely.

They head to the kitchen together, Harry half-asleep judging by the way he keeps bumping into Louis, and Harry starts the coffee while Louis makes himself breakfast. As he’s stirring his oatmeal around, he glances up at Harry and says, “You should take your medication. I mean. While you’re awake.”

It’s so easy to miss it, Harry randomly not taking his medication anymore. He’s done it so many times, and it’s always by chance that Louis notices, if it hasn’t already got to the point where his symptoms are erupting. One of Harry’s delusions is that the medicine is used to control him somehow, and usually he can ignore that part of it, but sometimes he can’t. And Harry takes them while he’s at work, so Louis can’t watch him take them. He doesn’t want to watch him, anyway. He trusts Harry. But he also trusts that his illness will rear its ugly head back into the picture at some point.

Louis will stop being so paranoid in about a week, maybe two.

“I will later,” Harry says, grabbing a mug out of the cabinet for Louis. He’s shirtless, and Louis hadn’t noticed before, but he swears Harry’s lost a bit of weight. Just a bit.

“Haz. Could you just take it now, please?”

“I took it at noon,” Harry tells him, looking over his shoulder at him. He doesn’t look annoyed. “Just like I always have, yeah? Not going to mess with my routine.”

“Yeah. Yeah, you’re right. Sorry.”

“Don’t be,” Harry says, and he sounds like he means it, so Louis tries not to feel bad about it.

A few minutes later, Harry’s sitting at the kitchen table with him, drinking a glass of milk while Louis drinks his coffee. It’s probably counterproductive, disrupting Harry’s sleep schedule, but they both allow it because Louis needs this.

“I’ll probably call Mary-Anne this afternoon,” Harry tells him, staring out the window in front of them. They live in a nice flat on the ground level, something that Harry alternates between appreciating and hating.

Louis pauses. “You usually wait at least a week before going back to work, babe.”

“Yeah, I know. I’ll still wait a bit. I just want to talk to her, see how she and Thomas are doing. He’s going back to school, you know, with the winter semester.”

Harry thought about going to uni. Properly thought about it. The decision that it wasn’t for him was well thought out, and it was not made solely because of his illness. It’s just. Harry likes to cook and bake, and he didn’t want to waste time going to school for a degree that he didn’t really care about just because that’s what was expected of him. He thought about going to cooking school, too, but he decided against that as well. He says he might in the future, if he still wants to, but for now, he’s at peace with his position as sous-chef at a cozy breakfast diner in London. There, he can cook and bake and doesn’t have to interact with very many people. There, his boss is an older woman with an autistic son who is far more considerate of Harry’s circumstances than anybody ever has been before.

(In secondary school, after he had been diagnosed, his mum forced him to talk to his teachers about it. It sounded traumatizing by the way Harry told him about all the advisors and teachers and his mum and principal all in one room, discussing his illness like it was this burden that they all had to figure out how to ignore. The meeting ended with everyone agreeing that Harry would have a bit more sympathy and flexibility when it came to meeting deadlines or dodging presentations or anything else that caused issues with him. And yet, most of his teachers didn’t actually end up doing that. Half of them treated him like he was incapable of being intelligent, and the other half just didn’t care to work with Harry on managing school. School is stressful for anyone. Stress isn’t good for Harry, especially not when he was already dealing with the stress of being diagnosed with a serious mental illness that he had to be hospitalized for. So, Harry kind of just had to do the best he could and not care about his grades. He swears up and down that he did everything he could, that he didn’t just give up. And with his effort plus him being diagnosed with schizophrenia (which later turned to schizoaffective disorder, once they realized he was bipolar, too), that should’ve earned him the right to good grades, and it just didn’t.)

Autism and schizophrenia are obviously two very different things. But how you go about dealing with someone who’s having a bit of meltdown caused by one or the other isn’t all too different, and that’s what Louis needs. He needs to know that Harry is with someone who won’t just feed him to the wolves the second he starts getting a little shaky. Mary-Anne is too considerate, probably. Half the time Harry comes into work, she insists that he just sit and not do anything that could strain him. She doesn’t care when Harry calls in sick at the last minute or steps out to call Louis randomly or disappear off to a mental ward for a month. She always tells him to take care and that she’ll see him when he’s ready. Her care for him comes from a place of understanding, but the way Harry is with Thomas helps, too.

Thomas is sixteen, easily frustrated, and he doesn’t talk very much. He’s also a sweet, sweet boy who absolutely could not hurt a fly. He’s intelligent and happy, so happy, and he loves his mum like nothing else. He helps Harry and Mary-Anne with the baking bits, and he’s always in charge of decorating the pastries. Thomas adores Harry right back, too. They’re friends in a unique sort of way. Harry wouldn’t ever admit to it, but he’s a mentor to Thomas in some ways. He’s a huge help to Thomas and Mary-Anne both when they’re having trouble figuring out how to navigate a world that just wasn’t made for people like them in mind, and it works the other way, too.

“I could drive you over there after work if you wanted to stop by,” Louis offers, and immediately, Harry brightens up, so that’s what they’re going to do.

Harry doesn’t have his own car, and he doesn’t like taking public transport or cabs, so he relies on other people to get him places. It’s usually not an issue, not when Gemma, Anne and Louis are willing to drop everything for him and if they can’t, someone else will do it just as willingly.

He can drive. He can drive well, too, probably better than Louis sometimes. But sometimes he has trouble being honest with himself about when he shouldn’t. Sometimes his medications are clouding his head more than he realized. Sometimes something in Harry’s brain tells him that he needs to flee, and it’s a lot easier to track him down when he’s moving by foot than it would be by car.

Louis’ finished with breakfast, and he should probably get a move on, but he’s too comfortable right here with Harry. He probably would have sat there forever with Harry, but the mail man’s early today, reminding Louis that there are other people in the world.

“Text me if you need me today, okay?” Louis tells him sternly, grabbing his hand. “For anything. Or call me, or call my work number. I don’t care what it is.”

“I know, Louis. I will. Go on, get ready.”

Louis listens, but not before planting a kiss on Harry’s forehead.

-

Louis’ boss is fairly considerate, too.

He keeps his phone out, face up, on his desk all day, even in meetings. The second Harry texts or calls him, he drops everything to answer it. He takes days off and leaves early about the average amount, but he’s still appreciative that his boss doesn’t give him a hard time about it. He would have a right to, probably.

Louis is one of three financial analysts for a corporate company. And by corporate, he doesn’t mean, like, Apple or something. It’s not that impressive of a job. He comes in, stares at insurance claims and budgets all day, and leaves. It is, however, somewhat impressive that he managed to get himself a job so quickly. His main focus was Harry, and providing for Harry, and making Harry proud, so it didn’t feel so hard at the time.

Harry and Louis can handle the flat and everything that comes with it on their own. But Anne’s the one who pays for the things that insurance won’t: visits with specialized doctors, private psychiatric stays, complex tests, etc. Louis doesn’t want to know how much it costs to send Harry to a hospital like that for a day, let alone an entire month. And he’s in this with Harry for the long-haul, isn’t he. He can’t expect Anne to pay for that forever.

Today, concentrating on work is too much of a task. Not only is he preoccupied with thinking about Harry, he’s also just thrown off from the shift of reality. Before, for a month straight, he was thinking constantly about how traffic would be to get to the hospital, Harry’s mood of the day, what Harry was going to talk about with his mum. He was dreading the end of the day, almost, because as good as it was to see Harry, it was also stressful and a tad heartbreaking. And then he had to look forward to going home to an empty flat, eating dinner by himself, and going to bed alone.

Now, for the first time in far too long, he’s going to come home to his boyfriend who will stay with him through dinner and the night, and he’ll be there in the morning, too. Underneath the intense worry he has about Harry doing poorly, there’s quiet glee. Somehow, the days went faster when he was dreading the end.

It just so happens that his boss comes in as Louis’ texting Harry back. He’s fine, and that’s all he’s trying to show by texting Louis. About an hour ago, he said good morning. Now he’s asking where Louis put the oven mitts (which hopefully means he’s cooking something delicious, because Louis hates cooking and sort of sucks at it, too). Louis quickly finishes his text before putting his phone down and giving Robert a polite smile.

“I’m just waiting on some numbers from Sherri,” Louis tells him, motioning to his computer. “I have January’s report almost ready, too. And I’ll get February’s outlook done by the end of the day.” Because he was supposed to have that completed at the end of last month, but he took the day off to pick Harry up.

“I know you will,” Robert says. Louis’ phone lights up again, and he can’t stop himself from glancing at it quickly before flicking his gaze back to Robert. Robert has never complained about it -- Louis won’t go home until he has what he’s supposed to do completed -- but that doesn’t mean it isn’t objectively inappropriate. “It’s fine, Louis,” Robert says. And then, “I mean, it’s fine, right? Everything’s all good?”

“Yeah. Everything’s fine. Thanks for asking.”

Robert looks uncertain before he says, “I heard Janet saying that your partner’s back home. You know you can take as much time off as you need, right?”

Bloody Janet. She’s the receptionist for the building, and you’d think with how far her desk is from everyone else’s, she wouldn’t know everything about everyone but she somehow manages. Louis only has two people here that he talks to about that sort of stuff, and he hasn’t been able to figure out who has the big mouth since he works in an office and isn’t out there with them most of the day. He doesn’t mind, exactly, just. In the rare times that Harry meets one of his co-workers, he hasn’t got a clue that most of them know about his situation.

“That’s kind of you, Rob. Really. But I’m okay.”

“Are you sure? You could even just start taking work home, if that’s easier for you two.”

Louis gives him another polite smile. “No, that’s alright. It’s better for him, me not being home all day. Keeps him independent. Thanks, though, really.”

Robert smiles back. “Oh, well, alright. I understand. Have a nice day, Louis.”

Louis echoes the sentiment as Robert leaves, and he waits all of ten seconds before he grabs his phone again. Harry’s texted, Found them in the cleaner cabinet so if our biscuits taste like windex it’s your fault x.

God, Louis misses him. He just wants to get home and spend more time with him. Four more hours, he thinks, before refreshing his email and seeing that Sherri’s finally forwarded him those numbers he was waiting on.

-

Harry won’t stop moving his hands as Louis drives to the bakery that night. It’s nothing to worry about, but it’s distracting. Louis’ far too fixated on Harry right now to be able to block out even non-serious things that have always been a part of Harry, so after almost missing a stop sign, he has to reach over to grab one of Harry’s hands.

“Sorry,” Harry says distractedly, tangling his fingers with Louis’. With the other hand, he fiddles with the bracelets as he stares out the window.

When they get to Mary-Anne’s, they get out of the car and head inside, hand in hand. Mary-Anne is delighted to see them, and Harry grins as he heads to the back to give her a hug. Louis follows, more so here just to linger on the sidelines.

“Where’s Thomas?” Harry asks, just as Thomas appears in the doorway. The look Harry and Thomas share, their somewhat reserved excitement, makes Mary-Anne and Louis glance at each other, both looking fond. Louis watches them fist-bump, and then Mary-Anne is telling him to follow her. He does, only stopping once to grab a sugar cookie off the shelf. He munches on it as Mary-Anne walks him to the cooking area. Louis swears baking takes some sort of gifted intuition, because Mary-Anne doesn’t even look at the timer, yet somehow manages to pull a batch of cornbread from the oven just a second before the timer goes off.

“So,” Mary-Anne says as she puts another tray of cornbread in the oven. “How’s your boy? He doing alright?”

It will probably take a month of encounters with the people in their life until that isn’t the immediate topic of discussion.

“He seems to be doing good. Just glad to be home, really. How’s your boy? Thomas, I mean.”

For a few minutes, they talk about Thomas, about his teachers and friends and school. She seems more stressed than usual as she speaks, so maybe she’s relieved to have Harry back to work soon. She probably feels like she can’t complain, though, even though she’d have every right to. Louis struggles with that massively; anything going on in his life, any stressor or bad day or shit mood makes him feel like an idiot when he thinks about Harry. A bad day for Louis is still an easier day than a good day for Harry. He’s gotten a little better about not hiding his issues or bad days from Harry after Harry had told him that it’s nice to know that he isn’t the only one who has shit days, but it is still difficult.

“Just don’t forget to take care of yourself now that he’s back home,” Mary-Anne tells him. She looks up from where she’s egg-washing a few buns to smile sympathetically at him. “You already look exhausted, darling.”

“Don’t know why. I’ve slept better since he’s been home than I have in about two months.”

He knows what she means, though. It’s far too easy to get caught up in Harry Harry Harry and lose sight of his own needs. It’s counterproductive, isn’t it, because Harry needs Louis at the top of his game in order for him to be on top of his game, but it’s just what happens when you have someone who needs a bit of extra looking after. Mary-Anne goes through it with Thomas, too, so she should know better than anyone else, especially considering Thomas needs her far more than Harry needs Louis.

“Alright, then. Let’s go see what those two are up to.”

She walks back to the front, carrying a tin of cornbread, and they find Harry helping a customer while Thomas is sat at a table nearby, concentrating heavily on icing a cookie.

“Harry, darling,” Mary-Anne says, tsking. “I can get them.”

Harry waves her off and finishes taking the customer’s order. Once they’re gone, Harry turns to look at them. He’s about to say something before Thomas turns and beckons him. Harry immediately comes over, crouching down next to the table, and Thomas doesn’t say a word but somehow Harry understands that he’s asking for Harry to get him a tiny spatula that he then uses to scrape a bit of frosting off the cookie. Thomas nods at him, probably as a thanks, and Harry beams.

They stick around for a bit, but it’s getting late and they still have things to do before bed, so they say goodbye. Harry promises that he’ll call Mary-Anne as soon as he’s ready to come back to work, and she tells him to take as long as he needs. She sends them off with a whole tin of cornbread that they will never get through on their own, and Thomas bumps his fist with Harry and Louis again.

“Thanks,” Harry tells him once they get in the car. “For taking me, I mean.”

Louis nods at him. “It’s not a problem.” Harry’s already back to fumbling with his hands in his lap distractedly, so after Louis pulls out of the parking lot, he grabs Harry’s hand again, squeezing his hand softly.

-

Every night, Harry and Louis go out for a run. To put it simply, it highlights the lengths Louis will go to for this boy, because fucking God, does he hate running. Exercising in general, but running is a different type of torture. Exercise helps keep Harry on track, though, and Louis would much rather him not go by himself, and that’s what he has to tell himself every night as he laces up his trainers and tries not to bail.

Tonight, since Harry hasn’t run in a while, they go at a steady jog. Still far too fast for Louis’ liking, but whatever. He can talk to Harry like this -- for now, anyway, since he’s not gasping for breath yet -- and all he ever really wants to do is talk to him.

“How was today, then?” Louis asks him, nudging an elbow at him. “Didn’t really talk about it yet.”

It’s hard to watch Harry’s face to see if there’s any signs of deception or nervousness since they’re running, but he tries his best. It’s difficult for Harry to admit to doing poorly sometimes, because he feels like he’s disappointing someone or failing at life or he is worried about getting punished for it. Because that’s what it feels like to him: getting help is like a punishment. And Louis doesn’t blame him, can’t. Not when they’ve forced Harry to do things and go places that he wanted no part of. When Harry admits to doing bad, everything gets more intense; therapy appointments and constant check-ins from Louis and talks of medication changes and hospital visits, and really, that’s a lot for anyone. If he’s doing poorly, he doesn’t want to be reminded of it all the time. Makes him feel like an experiment going awry or something, he told Louis once.

But Harry always understands that they don’t mean to make it feel like a punishment, and that he needs to be honest, no matter the consequences. It’s probably one of the best skills Harry has gained, asking for help before it’s too late. When he was living with Gemma, he’d make himself sick from trying to keep it from her. He has this intense guilt for doing poorly when it comes to Gemma, far worse than it is with Louis, which is unnerving in itself considering he still feels pretty fucking guilty with Louis, too. Louis figured it was just because he was living with her, but Harry told him that Gemma wanted to move to the States after university but didn’t and won’t even consider it now that they know Harry needs the extra support.

“She’s staying here for me,” Harry told him, barely a month after his suicide attempt following the Glasgow trip. “And I can’t even manage to stay here for her. She’ll live to resent me, I swear it.”

Harry still holds that fear close to his heart.

“Good,” Harry tells him, nodding. “I’m doing okay. Like, I feel good. Honest. I don’t think I needed to be in for a month. Especially when I was so bloody homesick. But the psychiatrist there thought I was gonna take a nose-dive, so she didn’t want me going anywhere.”

“Why’d she think that?”

“Because all the staff thought I was on the verge of a complete meltdown because of how sad I was. As if everyone there isn’t fucking sad. We’re all away from our families, and our heads are folding in on themselves, and they make you relive the same day for a bloody month straight.”

He’s frustrated. That’s okay. Louis wishes he had talked about it with him when he visited, but it’s okay.

“A lot of people don’t get visits, Louis,” Harry tells him, picking his gaze up from the cement to look at him. He looks irritated. “I don’t -- at St. Mary’s, since it’s a private hospital, more people get regular visits, but when I went to that other hospital that one time, like, nobody got visits. And you’re not exactly in the mood to make friends, so it’s just.” He shakes his head, glancing back at the sidewalk. “It’s depressing as all hell.”

That makes Louis’ head hurt. All those patients are hurting and having to fight things that are unimaginable, and that gets increasingly hard to do when you don’t have anyone to fight for. Harry would not have made it this far if he didn’t have such a strong support system, and that’s just so shit. Yes, it’s difficult trying to navigate a new world of therapy appointment and psychosis and mood swings, and yes, it’s hard to see a loved one like that, but Louis would rather see that every day than never get to see Harry ever again. It’s not lost on him that he should be grateful for Harry sticking with them. Harry hates that he sees it that way, says he shouldn’t have to feel appreciative that Harry hasn’t gone and offed himself, but Louis doesn’t care. He will always be thankful for every day he gets with Harry.

“That’s not right,” Louis tells him. “But I’ll never stop visiting you, H. Ever. And neither with your mum or sister, so you don’t have to worry about that.”

Harry just grunts, telling Louis that he’s scared that that isn’t true.

“Hey,” Louis says sternly. “I would visit every day if I could. That won’t change. You know I’m not flakey.”

“It could. We’ve not been together that long.”

“Almost two and a half years,” Louis says, a little hotly. It’s just -- he doesn’t like Harry not feeling secure in their relationship. “And we live together. And I absolutely adore you, and you better love me right back.”

“I do,” Harry says quickly, nodding at him with wide eyes.

“Good. Then that’s all we need. I’m in this with you for the long haul, darling. You need to know that.”

“I do,” Harry repeats, reaching over to squeeze his fingers. “I do, I know that. And so I’m I. It’s just. . .” he pauses, and his feet slow a bit. “I’m just scared of getting lost in the healthcare system, you know?”

“Won’t happen,” Louis promises, squeezing his fingers back. “I wouldn’t let it.”

Harry brings his hand up to his mouth and presses a chaste kiss to the back of it before picking up the pace, tugging Louis along after him.

-

It takes at least a few weeks of therapy appointments after coming back home for Harry to stop feeling so defensive and terrified in them. Even though his last visit to the hospital wasn’t as awful as it could have been, he’s still scared to be sent back. He has never been written off and sent back right when he’s come home, but he’s still so scared of it. It’d be crushing to work so hard to come home only to be sent right back, so Louis understands that fear.

And to make it even more stressful on him, he’s got two appointments today, one with his psychiatrist for a meditation check-in and one with his therapist. He doesn’t see his psychiatrist that often, and usually the sessions are quick and easy unless Harry has a problem, but there isn’t really a way to have a therapy appointment without some hurts being brought to the surface, is there.

Harry’s been seeing the same therapist since he was seventeen. There had been a few different ones before Dr. Kemper, ones that Harry just didn’t fit well with. Sometimes, only when Harry asks him to, Louis will sit in during a session, and from what he gathers, she has the patience and gentleness of a saint, but also is able to be straightforward with Harry. Harry really, truly likes her, even if he dreads seeing her. Harry says she’s probably seen him cry more than Louis has, which breaks Louis’ heart a bit.

Louis takes half a day off work so he can be the one to take Harry to his appointments in the afternoon. It’s not something he would normally do, but Harry is still feeling raw and wounded, so Louis will make it easier on him in any way he can. It’s only been five days since he’s been home, and he hasn’t talked that much to his family yet aside from a quick check-in; this way, with Louis being the one to take him, Harry can avoid the string of questions that would come with his mum and his sister and just focus on not panicking.

“I was shit about keeping track of my emotions and stuff when I was in hospital,” Harry tells him in the car, running his fingers over the spiral of a notebook in his lap. He has two separate notebooks, one he uses as a sleep journal and one that he uses to keep track of questions or specific instances or whatever else he wants to talk about. He’s supposed to jot down how he’s feeling to make sure he’s paying attention to it and not just coasting through the day, too. He doesn’t particularly like having to write in a journal every day, but his sleep pattern is seriously critical to pinpointing an issue and being able to talk about his emotions more articulately also has proven to be helpful.

“Dr. Kemper will understand.”

“Maybe. Can we stop to get coffee after this?” And before Louis has to say it, “I’ll just get a small so the caffeine doesn’t keep me awake.”

“Yeah, sure. Not a problem.”

Harry tilts is head back against the headrest and stares out the window before letting out a loud, heavy sigh. So Louis reaches over to grab his hand and says, “Tell me about something fun.” Both of them have a bad habit of only focusing on the things to do with Harry’s illness. It’s a bit tiring.

It takes Harry a minute to respond, like he has to think hard on it. “I painted a bird at the hospital. Looked like shit, but it was fun, I guess.”

“Yeah? Did you leave it there?”

Harry nods. “I knew you’d hang it up if I brought it home and I didn’t want to have to look at that ugly thing every day.” He smiles a bit, so Louis gives his hand a squeeze. “And I’ll probably have my mum and sister ‘round next weekend. For my birthday. If that’s okay.”

“Yeah, sure, that’s fine. Just let me know when so I can get the cake.”

Harry doesn’t talk much for the rest of the car ride, and when they pull up to his psychiatrist’s clinic, he lets out another long sigh. “Don’t know why I have to see him,” Harry grumbles, unbuckling his seatbelt. “Just saw St. Mary’s doctor before I left and he faxed over the information to Dr. Kirby. It’s not like I’m going to tell him anything new. They just want to torture me, Louis.”

He’s pouting, and Louis reaches over to smooth his thumb over his cheek. “Should be quick, then. Come on. You know they always make you fill out loads of paperwork.”

“Torture,” Harry repeats pointedly, before getting out of the car. He waits for Louis to come around, and then he grabs his hand and starts walking. When he’s in a particularly bad mood, he’ll go and sit while Louis talks to the receptionist, but he signs himself in today and tugs Louis to come sit with him. Louis watches him fill out a sheet documenting his general information, which is pointless because they know Harry has schizoaffective disorder and what symptoms come along with that for him, but here he is, writing it out again anyway even though they probably won’t look at it. And when it comes to writing out his medication, Harry grabs his phone and opens his notes app because he can’t keep track of what he’s on. Louis struggles to keep up with it sometimes, too.

He’s on an antipsychotic, a mood stabilizer, a sleeping medication and an anti-tremor medication. The antipsychotic he’s taking makes his hands shaky, and instead of finding one that won’t, they figured it’d be easiest to just give him another pill. It works, and Harry doesn’t care, so Louis lets it be. The only time his medication shifts is when something doesn’t seem to be effective anymore, and if he’s going through a depressive or manic episode, the dosage of his mood stabilizer gets switched around.

“Forgot to tell you,” Harry mumbles, concentrating on his form. “He was talking about changing my mood stabilizer. Like, before I went to the hospital. So hopefully that doesn’t happen today.”

“Why?”

“I don’t fucking know,” Harry mumbles, shrugging. He looks up at Louis briefly, his dimple popping through his cheek. “I just do whatever they tell me to, you know that.”

“You should still ask questions,” Louis tells him, because really, he should. Doctors see hundreds of different patients and it would be impossible for them to remember the ins and outs of everyone’s conditions. Harry takes a passive role during his appointment, not wanting to be a bother, while Louis is in a much more active role. That’s why Louis comes in with him during some appointments; sometimes Harry needs him to be pushy about something, and sometimes he’s doing so poorly that he can’t explain what he is going through well and can’t remember what the doctor tells him.

“I don’t want them messing with your meds right now,” Louis says slowly. “You’re doing good, if you’re telling me the truth. And you’ve just changed your sleeping pill, so I don’t -- I’d rather you stay where you are, if that’s fine with you, too.”

Harry nods as he writes the address of the psychiatric hospital, even though they already have that on file. “Yeah, okay. I’ll let him know.”

Harry gets called back a few minutes later, and he doesn’t look happy about it at all, but he doesn’t fuss over it. He’s back within fifteen minutes, looking mildly annoyed, and as they head to the car, Harry tells him it was pointless coming.

“He was, like, ‘oh, yeah, I got your updated medication profile, it looks good.’ And then we basically stared at each other for ten minutes as he tried to think of things to say.”

“You won’t have to see him for a while, probably.”

Harry makes a pouty noise, but he doesn’t seem actually irritated or upset. He’s nervous about seeing Dr. Kemper, and it’s making him a bit short-tempered. It’s nothing serious. He doesn’t seem to be in an actual bad mood.

The drive is a half hour from clinic to clinic, and by the time they get there, Harry’s pushing on the radio buttons, looking more bored than anything else. When they park, though, he looks at the building and frowns.

“I’m not in the mood to cry right now.”

Louis lets out a small, surprised laugh at that. He pats Harry’s shoulder before yet again getting out of the car and walking up with him. They don’t have any paperwork to fill out for this office, so they sit in the waiting room and make idle comments on the paintings and furniture until Harry gives up on talking and just slumps into Louis’ side, setting his head on his shoulder.

There’s much more reservation in Harry’s posture when he’s called this time, but he goes anyway, not before kissing the bottom of Louis’ jaw. He comes back fifty-seven minutes later with his eyes puffy and red, and he gives Louis a wobbly smile.

“Thought you shouldn’t keep people in your life who make you cry all the time,” Harry says, aiming at a joke but his voice falling slightly flat. Louis laughs away, and Harry grabs his hand before tugging them to the car. He’s not in a bad mood now, either, which is good. Just a little shaky from having to talk about all his worst pain for an hour straight.

Louis’ a little sick of driving, but Harry doesn’t offer, so Louis doesn’t ask. He drives them to a nearby Starbucks and orders their usual coffees, makes the regular dig at Harry for liking black coffee, and adds on two almond croissants to make Harry lighten up a bit. It works; as much as a baked good can work for helping dull what he’s feeling, anyway.

“Thanks for taking me,” Harry says quietly, pulling the end from the croissant and feeding it to Louis so he doesn’t have to drive distracted. “And, like. Taking time off work. Again. Thank you.”

“It’s not a problem, love.”

“Would you tell me if it was?” Harry asks, and Louis briefly glances at him. He doesn’t look upset. Doesn’t look anything but content as he tears apart his croissant. He’s probably just thinking out loud, and it’s nothing to worry about, so Louis tries not to jump down his throat about it.

“‘Course I would,” he says, reaching over blindly to set his hand on Harry’s thigh. Harry’s sticky fingers stroke over the skin of his wrist for a moment before he gives Louis another piece of the dessert. He doesn’t argue with Louis, so Louis lets it be.

-

Louis didn’t stop constantly feeling like he was lost in the dark about Harry’s condition or panicking or thinking he was screwing everything up until probably a year into their relationship. Maybe more. He played it cool in front of Anne and Gemma, and Harry, of course, but on the inside, he never felt like he was doing enough. He was lying to them both while he pretended like he could just jump into Harry’s life and handle the tides flawlessly. He doesn’t regret it, though. He met Harry at a hard point in his life, went on dates with him when he was recuperating from a serious incident, fucked him when he was in need of a distraction; if Louis had demanded to know how to deal with everything right at the beginning, they wouldn’t have worked. Especially when Harry didn’t really know how to, either.

Gemma wasn’t particularly thrilled about their relationship. At least, not as much as she had originally seemed. She wasn’t upset or feeling left out, or anything, it was just. . . Louis understands it now, how terrifying it is to give Harry up to someone or something new. He doesn’t trust easily when it comes to people in Harry’s life, even the ones who have known him much longer than Louis has. If Louis was Gemma and someone abruptly inserted themselves into Harry’s life, talking to him every day and seeing him often throughout the week, he wouldn’t have been happy about it, either. Especially if Harry was in a vulnerable state, which he was at the time. Gemma trusted Louis, and she always will, but she didn’t know how dependable he would have been when it came to Harry’s issues.

Anne liked Louis from the beginning. She had learned quicker than Gemma and Louis had that she couldn’t protect Harry from everything, and that she didn’t have to, either. She had a good feeling about Louis, and she wasn’t going to disrupt something that had the potential to be good on the off chance it turned out bad. She liked how Harry talked about Louis, how he clung to their time together and used it as a way to get through the day, how he had someone new that he was allowing himself to be close to.

For a while, it could be argued that Harry used Louis as a distraction. Not in a malicious way, not at all, just -- maybe it wasn’t the healthiest for Harry to be using the happiness Louis brought him as a temporary patch for severe pain that had nasty consequences if left untreated. He wasn’t neglecting himself, but he certainly wasn’t neglecting Louis, and Louis has a hard time believing now that Harry balanced everything as well as he made it out to be.

It’s not like he lied to Louis, because he didn’t. He was honest when he felt like shit, and he had no problem ranting to him about what was pissing him off, and he allowed himself to be sad around Louis. Harry was nervous about scaring Louis off, yes, but he wasn’t in a position to be okay all the time. He didn’t have that kind of energy.

There had been a night in December -- the day after Christmas -- where Harry was folded in on himself on Louis’ chair, arms crossed and legs pulled up and this look at his face that Louis couldn’t figure out the entire night. He had been a little quiet all day, and even though that made Louis panic, he also was pretty sure it was okay. That he didn’t have to automatically assume the worst.

And even though it turned out to be a bad night, even though he later told Anne and Gemma about what Harry told him, he was still almost certain Harry didn’t mean for it to sound so worrying.

“Have you had a boyfriend before?” he asked, staring at the TV playing some shit Christmas movie as Louis was trying to find a better one on Netflix. He was sitting on the couch, close to Harry but not as close as he wanted to be.

“Yeah. Like, two. And a girlfriend. But none of them were serious.”

“Are we serious?” Harry asked, still not looking at him. When Louis didn’t answer right away, silently trying to figure out the right answer, Harry added, “Like. What counts as serious to you? To most people?”

“I don’t know. It’s different for everyone, I guess. . . With my ex-girlfriend, we were together for a while, so maybe it should have been considered a serious relationship but I wasn’t sad when it ended. And I didn’t really care when I stopped seeing the guys I was with, either. It’s just, like. I don’t know. I guess I just wasn’t very invested.”

“Would you be sad if we ended?” Harry asked. And then, immediately after, “Don’t lie. I don’t care what the answer is.” There was an edge to his voice that wasn’t there before.

“I would be, yeah,” Louis said slowly. “I really like you. And I really want to make things work with you. I don’t -- we have been together very long, so I’m not, like, rushing things, but yes. I think our relationship is serious. Or at least getting there.”

Harry’s face crumpled, so apparently there was a wrong answer. He looked down and began picking at his pajama bottoms. “I don’t want to make you sad,” he said, voice airy and high towards the end. He was upset. When did he get upset? “I don’t -- Louis. I’m so scared of fucking your life up.”

Louis shifted away from his laptop towards Harry, frowning. “Hey,” he said softly. “There’s no pressure here.”

“There’s a lot of fucking pressure here,” Harry snapped, his voice sounding raw. He glared at Louis with tears in his eyes. “I don’t want to commit suicide. I don’t want to do that. But I might, in a week from now or a month or a year or fucking ten years from now, when we have bloody kids and a house and -- and what -- I don’t like having the power being able to make someone else so fucking sad.”

Louis looked at him sadly, his heart twisting in his chest. “That’s just how life is, Harry. We can’t control some stuff. But you don’t have to worry about that, okay?”

“How do you get over a relationship that ends because someone killed themselves?” Harry asked, but it wasn’t really a question. He turned his glare back to the TV. “How do you -- how do I live knowing that I could cause you that type of pain? My mum and my sister, I didn’t have a choice in hurting. But you. . .”

“What, are you saying you made the conscious decision to be attracted to me? Or to like my stupid jokes and blush when I’m being a perv?”

Harry eyed him carefully. “Well, no, but -- ”

“Then it wasn’t much of a choice, was it. And Harry. You live knowing that you might -- might -- hurt me like that by doing everything in your power to try not to. That’s all I can ask from you. That’s all anyone expects from you.”

“You’re spending Boxing Day with me and I’m being a miserable twat,” Harry argued. “You’re -- you called me on your birthday because I fucking forgot.”

“We are still at the stage that it’s acceptable that you forgot my birthday. And you didn’t forget, not really. Even if you did, you’ve said that your medication -- ”

“Are you really willing to accept constantly sacrificing holidays for me?” Harry interrupted hotly. “Are you seriously telling me that you won’t become fed up of me using my medication or illness or whatever the fuck else as an excuse for shitty behavior?”

“You being in a shit mood doesn’t automatically ruin a holiday, first of all. Second of all, it’s not an excuse. If you forget things or -- or drop things or whatever else because of your meds and stuff, no, I will never hold it against you. You’re on some powerful drugs, fighting a powerful disorder. I am fully aware that there might be some difficulties.”

“Even if, after all that, you still run the risk of none of it being worth it because I end up offing myself?”

Harry looked so fucking heartbroken. Devastated, really.

“It would be worth it,” Louis corrected, shaking his head. “Having the time I do have with you will make the time that I don’t hurt less, I think.”

Harry started crying, then, but he let Louis comfort him, so it wasn’t completely awful.

Louis is so fucking relieved that Harry doesn’t view his mental illness as terminal anymore. It makes things easier on him, on the both of them, when he believes a bad day doesn’t mean a bad life (and neither does a bad month or two). It was so hard for Harry to swallow the fear of succumbing to the risk of suicide that his disorder brings, and Louis still isn’t sure when that really happened, but it has massively benefited them both. Harry doesn’t act like him taking his life is written in stone anymore. He still views it as a possibility, and it still is, but he doesn’t live with it hanging over his head all the time, doesn’t carry the guilt of something that might not even happen around with him.

A year and four months into their relationship is when they moved in together, so they’ve only been living together about a year now. It’s mad to think, considering it feels like they’ve spent their whole life like this. Not waking up next to Harry just doesn’t compute in his head anymore, which is why it’s so rattling, not having Harry home.

It wasn’t easy, getting Anne and Gemma on board with getting a new flat. Louis wasn’t attached to his own and Harry wanted to create his own space, so Louis didn’t mind finding a new one. He didn’t have a problem entertaining the idea of moving in together, which is why he was a bit shocked at Anne and Gemma’s vehement disapproval. Harry hadn’t gone back to Gemma’s until February after he got out of the hospital, but he was okay at Anne’s and okay at Gemma’s, too. Louis just figured he’d be okay at theirs as well.

Gemma was so disappointed in Louis, accusing him of planting bad ideas in Harry’s head, so Louis backed off. He didn’t want to pretend like he knew Harry’s illness better than Gemma or Anne. Which then caused Harry and Louis’ first proper row, because there was nobody who understood Harry’s illness more than Harry, and he was being completely ignored in the equation. He had fought them all so hard on it, and after too many screaming matches between Gemma and Harry that Louis desperately tried to diffuse, Gemma gave in and said fine. Louis felt guilty going against his family’s wishes, but he had to choose Harry over them. At the time, it was the right move; Harry was in the right mindset to make a decision for himself, and that’s all that should have had to be said about it.

Anne and Gemma fully believed Harry was going to crack and be back home within weeks. Anne was the only one who had the decency not to actually tell Harry that. But it’s been about a year now, and Harry swears he’s had the best time, mentally and just in general, living with Louis. (Again, Louis doesn’t take credit for any of Harry’s improvements. Harry’s just slowly learning how to navigate his illness.)

As soon as they saw Harry could handle it, Gemma and Anne jumped right on board. They didn’t want to prevent Harry from living a normal life; all they were trying to do was protect him. Gemma won’t admit it, but living by herself again has taken immense pressure off her, too. Harry’s family visits often, much more often than Louis’ is able to, but Harry is still so happy to see them almost every time.

It’s a weekend that they come over to celebrate Harry’s birthday properly. It’s just the four of them and a cake Harry made himself, but it’s proper anyway.

“You look good, love,” Anne says when she comes in, hugging Harry tightly. Harry has this way of always making himself small in his mum’s arms, bending down and hunching over so he can press his nose to her shoulder. “How are you feeling, you feeling good, too?”

Louis’ distracted by them, so he doesn’t know when Gemma comes over to him and wraps him up in a hug of his own. Louis rubs her back, says hello, asks her how she’s doing; all the proper things. But he’s not entirely ready to concentrate on her until he hears Harry say he’s doing okay. He knows he is, he knows that Harry wouldn’t tell Anne right now if he wasn’t, but Louis still needs to hear him say it.

“Yeah, Mum. I’m okay. Louis’ taking care of me like usual.”

Something settles in Louis’ stomach, and a warmth spreads in his chest as Harry turns his head to give Louis a small, shy smile. Anne squeezes his shoulder before pulling away to grab for Louis, and Louis pulls away from Gemma to hug her next. Anne’s touch is always reassuring, somehow. Like a hug can convince Louis that everything’s going to be fine, even if it’s only for a moment.

After the hugs are over, they sit at the table together. Harry and Louis sit on one side, Gemma and Anne on the other. Harry always feels like he has to be the center of attention when they all get together, like they all expect him to be bright and happy and talkative, like he usually is. But Harry’s still feeling a little vulnerable, and they all know that. It’s even more obvious by the way Harry’s fingers knead Louis’ thigh, an attempt to soothe himself that doesn’t involve scratching his forearms or fidgeting his hands.

Louis, Anne and Gemma know better than to expect him to want to talk about much after he’s just come out of the hospital and has only really been around Louis so far. So, Anne asks Louis about work and Gemma has a sudden interest in data sheets. It’s not like Harry is uncomfortable, or anything. It’s just that he would be if he had to be a driving force of the conversation. Right now, all he needs is to be around people who love him and who he loves. That’s all any of them really need.

Slowly, Harry inserts himself in the conversation more. Within a half hour, he’s talking to them about Mary-Anne and Thomas and how he’ll be back to work soon. The problem is, since Harry hasn’t managed to ease himself into his normal routine yet, he doesn’t have much to talk about that isn’t his hospital stay. When Harry’s doing well, Louis and Harry make it a point to exist outside of Harry’s illness. Harry needs to know that he’s not just a schizophrenic, that he’s also someone who goes out to the movies and sees his friends and goes bowling with his boyfriend and spends too much money on shoes he’ll never wear. When Harry’s schedule is bare, when it’s just day after day spent with himself and with a therapy appointment thrown in every once in a while, it makes him a little down. It makes him feel like less of a person. Obviously, though, Harry can’t just go back where he left off, that’d be too much pressure. So this is okay for now.

After about an hour, Harry nudges Louis and asks him to get the cake out of the fridge. Louis does, and he grabs a knife and a few plates on the way back. He offers the honors of cutting the cake to Harry, but he shakes his head so Louis does it himself.

“You should seriously think about opening up some sort of business of your own, darling,” Anne tells him after trying a bit of the cake. “Maybe Mary-Anne could help you start it up, give you some pointers.”

Harry looks at her, expression unreadable. Sort of. Louis still knows exactly what he’s thinking. “London’s competitive,” he says carefully.

“Oh, sure. But, you know. I could invest in you, and Louis could do the numbers.”

“Would be stressful, probably.”

Anne nods. “Yeah, probably. But it’d be worth it, don’t you think?”

“Mum,” Harry says, giving her a strange look. “I’ve just spent thirty days in a mental facility. Don’t think that’s particularly CEO behavior.” And before anyone can make any sort of comment about that, Harry makes a quick joke about applying to be on The Great British Bake Off and then swiftly asks his mum about her garden. Nobody presses the issue.

Gemma and Anne leave about an hour later, and Harry gives them big hugs on their way out and a smile sticks around on his face for a while. Once they’ve gone, Louis’ putting the dishes in the wash when Harry comes up behind him and tugs him back by his waist.

“Come on,” he says. “No cleaning. I can do it tomorrow while you’re at work. Come watch TV with me.”

Louis goes easily, leaving the dishes to soak overnight. Harry turns on some horrible reality show that is oddly entertaining, and he cuddles into Louis’ back and runs his fingers over Louis’ arm distractedly.

He’s been home for a week now, and all Louis can still think is, God, he’s finally home.

APRIL - JUNE 2017

Sometimes, especially as Harry grows older, his mental state doesn't go from decent to complete shit right away. Sometimes, there are warning signs and it’s a gradual slippery slope that they can come back from before it’s too late. In order for that to happen, though, Harry has to be honest. With himself and everyone else.

Louis doesn’t know something’s off until they’re sitting in a diner on the third of April. Everything has seemed fine to Louis, and Harry hasn’t told him that he has felt poorly, so he’s unsuspecting. It’s seven at night, Louis’ flipping through a menu, and Harry is oddly quiet. He wasn’t before; in the car, he was talking with Louis the entire time. Louis glances up, and Harry’s not even looking at the menu. He’s staring at his clasped hands on the table, his bottom lip bitten between his teeth. When Louis nudges his leg under the table, he realizes Harry’s shaking his knee up and down.

“Hey,” Louis says. “What’s up? You know what you’re going to order yet?”

Harry looks at him slowly. He shakes his head and picks up the menu. His eyes scan the page far too fast for him to be reading. So he’s just pretending, then. Louis squints at him, trying to figure out what’s going on.

“Hey,” he repeats gently, and before he says anything else, Harry sets the menu down and shakes his head again.

“That lady over there,” he says, and he juts out his elbow towards the direction of a woman drinking a coffee and reading a book. “She walked in with us. It’s just making me paranoid. It’s just -- it’s fine.”

“We could move somewhere else. Or leave and go somewhere else, if you want.”

“No, it’s fine. It’s -- she’s not doing anything wrong. It’s just me.” He sucks in a sharp breath and tries again at the menu. His eyes are a bit wild, and his hand is clenched into a fist on the table, so Louis leans over and tries to help.

“They have that chicken wrap that you like. Here, right here,” he points to the picture on the page. “And we can share some onion rings. And I’ll order you a lemonade.”

“Yeah,” Harry says, nodding. “Yeah. Yeah.”

Louis sets a hopefully soothing hand over Harry’s as he takes his menu and folds it back up. He folds his own, too, still rubbing his thumb over Harry’s knuckles. It’s not something to automatically fear, Harry being a little paranoid and overwhelmed. It’s not uncommon. Sure, it seems to be a little heightened right now, but Louis isn’t going to accuse Harry of doing poorly from just one moment. They get through dinner fine, and he’s okay at home, so Louis doesn’t push it. He keeps it in mind, but he doesn’t make a big deal of it.

Two days later, when Louis’ putting away Harry’s laundry because Harry hasn’t done it all week, he opens his sock drawer. Harry’s sleep diary is sitting there, and Louis picks it up and takes a peek. It’s not something that Harry cares about, and Louis likes to check-in every once and awhile. Usually, Louis opens it, sees all good things, puts it back and forgets about it. He fully intends to do that now, but as his eyes scan over the most recent pages, he learns that Harry’s been getting shit sleep for weeks. Most days barely reach a total of five or six hours, and almost every entry has the words disrupted sleep, woke up feeling tired next to it. Almost every single one.

There are three red flags here. One: Harry’s sleep is a huge indicator of how his mental state is. He goes to bed at ten every night, taking his sleeping pill at nine-fifty, and wakes up at eight a.m. to his alarm. A continuous lack of sleep usually means mania, though, and Harry’s seemed a little more on the quiet side lately. Could mean he’s feeling depressed, too. Two: he hasn’t told Louis. Hasn’t mentioned it at all. And he still texts Louis at eight every morning saying he’s just woken up, which doesn’t match up with his diary here. Three: Harry’s on sleeping medication. A high dosage of sleep medication that has remained effective since he’s started it. So he’s most likely not taking his medication, and if that -- that might mean he’s getting paranoid about taking his medicine. Louis prays that it’s just his sleeping medication that he’s neglecting as he puts the journal back, finishes the laundry, and heads downstairs.

It’s a coincidence that Harry’s sound asleep on the couch when Louis finds him. He doesn’t nap, though. He very purposefully doesn’t nap so he doesn’t mess with his sleep schedule. Louis tries not to get too worked up about it as he turns around and heads to the kitchen to get dinner started. As he’s boiling the noodles, he tries to think of any small indicators that Harry isn’t doing well that he looked over.

He’s not showering as much as he usually does, Louis’ pretty sure. He’ll have to pay more attention to that. And there’s a puzzle on their kitchen table that has been there for about two weeks now, abandoned by Harry. He started it, made the border, and then stopped. Louis’ been doing a few pieces every morning with his coffee. And it’s common for Harry to start new projects and not finish them when he’s doing poorly, but it’s a bloody puzzle. It’s not anything to fuss over.

He hopes. He’ll just have to wait for Harry to wake up to ask. If something is going on, Louis will know. Either Harry will tell him, or he won’t have to and Louis will be able to tell anyway.

Harry wakes an hour later, and Louis eats dinner with him like nothing is wrong, because that very well might be the truth. He doesn’t mention it until they’re sitting at the sofa again, Harry’s head pillowed on Louis’ hip as they watch the game show network.

“Hey, H?” Louis starts, his fingers rubbing against Harry’s shoulder. “How have you been sleeping?”

“Okay.”

Louis briefly closes his eyes before opening them again. “I looked inside your sleep journal, love.”

Slowly, Harry sits up. He glances at Louis, looking more than a little uncomfortable. His mouth opens like he’s going to say something before he closes it again. Louis waits, trying to be patient, before he realizes Harry doesn’t intend on talking.

“You have to be honest with me, babe, you know that. Why can’t you sleep?”

The rise and fall of Harry’s chest quickens before steadying out again. He folds his legs in front of him, stares down at his fidgety hands, and says, “I haven’t been taking my sleeping medication. For, like. . .” He drags his teeth over his bottom lip. “Like three weeks now.”

“Okay. Why?”

Louis expressing how frustrated that makes him wouldn’t be helpful to the situation right now, so he doesn’t.

“I don’t like being on four medications. I don’t -- no, I don’t like it.”

“That’s something you talk to your psychiatrist about first, love. Can’t just stop taking them randomly because you feel like it.”

Harry has this quietly unhinged look in his eye that makes Louis’ gut twist. “Dr. Kirby is paid to put me on as much medication as he can. That’s literally his job.”

“No, it’s not,” Louis says calmly. “Dr. Kirby is paid to treat his patients the way he sees fit. If you disagree with that -- ”

“He wouldn’t listen. I know he wouldn’t.”

Louis presses his lips together as he tries to think this through. Harry’s. . . it’s not a sure thing that he’s experiencing a psychotic episode right now. An uptick of paranoia -- definitely. But that doesn’t necessarily mean he’s in a full-blown episode right now. Harry not taking his sleeping medication isn’t the end of the world; however, Harry not taking his sleeping medication because he’s slowly becoming paranoid about doctors and medicine again is something that needs to be addressed and fixed as soon as possible.

“Are you still taking your other medications?”

“Yes,” Harry says quickly. Almost too quickly. He adds, “I am, I swear. I swear it, Louis.”

Louis will believe him for right now. Later, he’ll check the bottles and see if it seems as empty as it should be, even though Harry would be smart enough to get rid of the ones he isn’t taking.

“You have to talk about this with Dr. Kemper, okay? You see her in two days. Bring this up. The -- the not sleeping very well and the paranoia about your medication, okay?”

“I’m not bloody paranoid,” Harry snaps. “It’s -- Dr. Kemper is just going to tell me to go back on the medication and I don’t want to.”

“You need a good night’s rest, love. You know that.”

“You haven’t even noticed until now,” Harry says, and it makes guilt flood Louis’ chest. “I’m doing fine.”

Louis shakes his head and reaches out to set his hand on Harry’s shoulder. Harry intercepts the touch and holds his hand instead. “You seem fidgety, love. And paranoid. And defensive. I just. . . I just want you to be honest with your doctor. And me.”

“I haven’t needed to go to the hospital in three years.”

“I’m not talking about sending you back there,” Louis says sternly, not liking how accusatory Harry sounds. Harry’s not going to agree to do anything if he thinks he’s being sent back to St. Mary’s. “I’m talking about you staying healthy.”

“I’m doing fine, Louis.”

“I’d really like it if you took your sleeping medication again.”

“I’m doing fine.”

“Okay,” Louis says, backing off. He can’t do anything right now. All he can do is see what comes of Harry seeing Dr. Kemper and wait for other symptoms to pop up. There’s time between now and when it gets too serious to fix on their own; hopefully, Harry will realize -- and he is fully able to most times -- that he is heading down a dangerous path before he’s already too far down it. Louis can’t force him to recognize that now, especially when he is still seemingly doing okay and hasn’t actually done anything that puts himself at risk.

-

An hour after Louis gets home from work, Harry is still refusing to tell him anything other than his appointment with Dr. Kemper went well, they’re cleaning up the kitchen together, and a police siren wails in the distance. Louis’ brain glides over it, sees it as nothing but pointless background noise, but it causes Harry’s to come to a roaring stop.

“Hey, no,” Louis says calmly when he realizes how shook up Harry looks. “Haven’t committed any crimes recently, have you?”

“Didn’t when they were called on me the first time, either,” Harry snaps, looking distressed, but he reaches for Louis anyway. Louis hushes him quietly as he folds him in a hug, tells him not to worry. He runs his finger over the back of Harry’s head, silently pleading for it to stop telling Harry things that just aren’t true.

He thinks they’re coming for him. He thinks that he’s going to be sent back to the hospital by scary policemen with guns, and that this time will be the time that he never gets out. That they will lock him up and throw away the key. Absolutely nothing Louis can say will help him believe that isn’t the truth.

A week later, Louis’ at work when he gets a call from Niall. He glances at the shut door, pauses, and then answers.

“Hey. I’m at work. What’s up?”

Something in his gut is telling him that it has to do with Harry, and somehow, it’s right.

Niall sighs. “I told Haz a few weeks ago that I would stop by today to watch the golfing match on TV today.” Harry didn’t tell him about that, so he most definitely forgot himself. Louis closes his eyes, knowing where this story is going. “I forgot to remind him. And I heard from Gemma the other day that he is a little shaky right now, and I knocked on the door, and I heard him moving around inside, but he didn’t answer the door and now I’m worried I’ve scared the fuck out of him. He’s not answering my calls.”

Niall probably did, is the thing. Harry doesn’t answer the door when he’s home alone, even when he’s doing fine, and Louis usually does it when he’s home with him. So between that, him forgetting that Niall was coming over, and him doing somewhat poorly -- he’s most definitely freaked out right now. Louis’ heart aches.

Harry’s not doing terribly. Not bad enough to bring it outside intervention, anyway. But that doesn’t mean they aren’t getting there, or that Louis doesn’t feel completely powerless right now. Most of the time, Harry seems fine, but he’s not. Louis can see it on his face, along with the fact that he isn’t sleeping and is spending most of his days napping on the couch now, not showering or cleaning or brushing his teeth even, and Harry will not talk about it with his therapist, so what is Louis supposed to do except wait?

“Okay,” Louis says. “Okay. You didn’t do anything wrong, don’t feel guilty. Just. I’m going to call him, okay? He’ll answer for me. And I’ll tell him that it’s just you, and if he still doesn’t let you in, we have a spare key inside the middle gnome.” He feels stupid saying that, but the three little gnomes they have on their porch are cute and Harry picked them out, so. “I’ll have you stay with him until I get there if he doesn’t let you in himself, okay?”

“Fuck. I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking.”

“It’s fine, mate.”

“Do you think he’ll hurt himself?”

“No,” Louis says sternly. “No. He’s not doing that poorly. If he was, I’d have him in the hospital.” All he told Gemma is that he seemed a bit more paranoid and wasn’t sleeping well. He wonders what she took that as, and what she turned around and told Niall.

“Yeah, you’re right. Sorry. Call him, okay? And then call me back.”

“Yeah.”

Louis hangs up and quickly calls Harry. He squeezes his eyes shut and whispers c’mon, c’mon, c’mon to himself until Harry picks up. “Hey,” Louis says brightly, pretending like nothing’s wrong. “Hey, love. How are you?”

“Freaking out,” Harry admits, and, well. At least he’s being honest. The stress in his voice makes Louis’ head hurt. “Someone knocked on the door. They knocked a few times. I don’t -- I know it’s fine. I know, I know that, I know that, Louis.”

“But it still spooked you. That’s okay, love. It’s just Niall, though.”

There’s a pause, and then, “It is?”

“Yes, baby. I promise. He called me. Said you had a boring golf match to watch with him today.”

“Oh, fuck,” Harry says, breathless. “I -- shit. You’re right. I fucking forgot. He,” Harry groans. “Jesus Christ. Can’t fucking stand myself sometimes.”

“Hey. Hey. You forgot, it’s okay.”

“I’m hiding in the fucking closet right now, Louis.”

Louis frowns and rubs a hand over his forehead. Poor Harry. This is so bloody unfair. But at least he believes Louis that it’s just Niall. He let go of the paranoia, and that’s good. That’s a positive sign. And he understands he overreacted; that’s good, too.

“It’s okay. It was just a misunderstanding, love. Do you want me to tell Niall to leave?”

“No. No. Let me just . . .” there’s the unmistakable noise of their closet door sliding opening on squeaky hinges and then he sighs. “I’ll watch the match with him. I -- God. He’s going to think I’m a nutcase.”

“No, he won’t. Say you were in the bathroom or something.”

Harry sounds so small and sad when he says, “Yeah. Yeah, I’ll say that. I’ll. . . yeah. Sorry, Louis. You can go back to work now. Sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry. I can come home, too, if you want.”

“No. No, it’s okay. I’m -- it’s fine. Go back to work. I’ll text you, okay?”

“Sounds good, love. I’ll see you tonight.”

“Love you.”

Louis nods to himself. “Love you, too.”

He hangs up, then, and as he waits for some sort of confirmation text from Niall, he can’t decide if he thinks Harry will actually open the door or not. He has no idea. And he is so fucking relieved when he gets a text from Niall that says, I’m inside, he seems fine. He was defo crying before tho. Sorry again. I’m a dumbfuck.

Louis sits back in his desk chair, unsure if he should take this situation as more of a positive or a negative right now. The only thing he can know for sure is that they’re walking down that dangerous path, and any minute now, the road behind them is going to disappear and then the only way back will be forward.

-

Harry makes himself an appointment to see Dr. Kirby that night while Louis is finishing up the dinner that Harry gave up making halfway through. Louis’ putting the buns in the oven when Harry comes into the kitchen. He said he was going to lay in bed for a bit, and he looks terribly insecure as he leans against the doorframe, his arms crossed over his stomach loosely.

“I made an appointment with Dr. Kirby for Tuesday. He can squeeze me in before the clinic closes.”

He doesn’t sound happy about it, but he must know that it’s for the best.

“Okay. I can get off work early to take you.”

Louis swears there are tears in Harry’s eyes when he asks, “You can?”

“Yes,” Louis says, nodding. He’ll just work extra hard that day to make sure he has everything done before he goes home. “It’s not a problem. You -- what do you think he’ll want to do?”

“Up the dosage on my antipsychotic.” He stares at the ground and lets out a small sigh. “I’ll probably start taking my sleep meds again. I don’t -- I will not go back to the hospital,” he says, voice leaving no room for argument. “I won’t, Louis.”

Louis doesn’t bother arguing with him; he will, if he needs to. One way or the other, voluntarily or involuntarily, he’ll be back at St. Mary’s if that’s what is best for him.

“Can we go for a walk or something?” Harry asks tiredly. He reaches up to rub at his forehead, lets out another sigh. “Not a run. I don’t feel like running right now.”

“Yes, love. Let me finish dinner first.”

Harry nods and pushes off the doorframe. He turns to leave, but before he can, Louis makes a noise and Harry glances at him. “Give me a kiss,” Louis says, pouting a bit, and Harry comes over to him easily, wrapping his arms around his neck and planting a kiss on his lips.

“I’m going to be fine,” Harry whispers, with his fingers moving through Louis’ hair and his forehead pressed firmly against Louis’. “I’m going to be fine.”

Louis doesn’t know how to respond to that, so he presses another kiss to Harry’s lips instead and tells him to go get dressed. Harry does, and as his footsteps become quieter as he heads to their room, something in Louis’ gut screams that Harry is going to be very much not fine some time here shortly.

-

Louis sits in with Harry during his appointment, and it’s incredibly uncomfortable. Dr. Kirby is wondering why he waited so long to try and address this, Harry is defensive as all hell, and Louis sits there quietly, only speaking up to provide context or a different perspective on whatever Harry says. Harry’s not trying to be difficult, he’s just scared and lashing out. Louis knows that, and he’s pretty sure Dr. Kirby knows that, too, but he wants to make sure he doesn’t think poorly of Harry.

“So, we’ll increase the dosage of the antipsychotic, like you said. And if that doesn’t help -- ”

“It’s medicine,” Harry snaps, his fingers curling in on themselves in his lap. “It’s not a guessing game. If you don’t know if it’s even going to work, I don’t want to do it.”

“You should know by now that finding the right combination of medicine isn’t an easy process,” Dr. Kirby says, and he sounds sympathetic, so there’s no fair reason for Harry to glare at him the way he does.

“This is your job,” he seethes. “This is your job. How do you want me to trust you if you don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about?”

Dr. Kirby glances at Louis, which makes Louis wince. He doesn’t know what to do, either.

“Darling,” Louis whispers. “You’ve been seeing him for years. He knows you better than any other doctor aside from Dr. Kemper. I understand -- we both understand that you’re stressed, but we can’t help you if you don’t let us.”

Dr. Kirby nods. “And if there’s something else you want to try, we can talk about that, too. I’m just trying to help.”

Harry laughs darkly as he leans forward and puts his head in his hands. “Too fucking bad you lot don’t do lobotomies still.”

Jesus fucking Christ, that’s not the type of thing you say in front of a medical professional who is already worried about your mental stability. Louis can see it in Dr. Kirby’s eyes, that flicker of alarm.

“Harry,” Louis hisses, and Harry sighs, sitting back against the couch again.

“I was joking,” he says coldly, shaking his head. “Wouldn’t trust you poking around in my brain.” He has his arms crossed tightly over his chest, and he looks off to the side. Louis hasn’t got a clue what’s going on in his head. A lot of chaos, probably. Loads of panic. And a voice making everything seem a million more times scarier.

“I’ve been doing better for years now,” Harry says after a minute, his jaw tight.

“Things change.”

“Never for the better.”

Again. Dr. Kirby looks at Louis. Again, Louis doesn’t know what to say to that, either.

“H,” he tries. “You made this appointment. You recognized that you weren’t doing well and you made the right decision in coming here. I know it’s hard, but you’re here for a reason. We all are.”

Harry still won’t look at either of them. “And if upping the dosage doesn’t work, what will you do?”

“Then we’ll re-access the situation. See it’s your mood stabilizers that need tweaking instead. Start talking about alternatives.”

“And when that doesn’t work, then what?” Harry says, very clearly accusing him of something. He looks at Dr. Kirby, gaze sharp, and then at Louis with the same accusatory look. “You’ll send me back to that God awful hospital and they’ll throw a bunch of shit in my body and hope some of it sticks. I know how this works.”

Louis’ about to say his name scoldingly again when Dr. Kirby shakes his head at him. “Harry,” he says calmly. “I have a lot of patients afraid of being admitted into a psychiatric hospital, and I understand why. But us finding a solution now might help prevent that from being the next course of action.”

Harry looks exhausted, suddenly. Like he’s so tired of fighting and on the verge of just giving up. “It’d be easier for everyone if you just threw me in there.”

“That’s just not true,” Dr. Kirby says. “It would make your life more stressful. Your partner’s, too. The doctors at the hospital aren't familiar with your case and will have to play catch up. And then my job will get a bit harder when you come back to see me with a different prescription from a different doctor that I don’t always agree with. And I’m sure your therapist would find it easier seeing you every week like normal, too. My job is to try and make your life easier, Harry.”

“Then why do you suck at it?” Harry asks, but there’s a thin smile playing at his lips. Chances are, he still doesn’t believe that Dr. Kirby actually cares about him and he just wants to leave. But Louis can be okay with that, because even if he’s faking, he’s still trying.

They leave ten minutes later with a new prescription crumpled in Harry’s hand to head to the pharmacy to pick up the new pills. When they get home, the first thing Louis will do is grab the old ones and hide them somewhere Harry will never find them. He can’t have too many pills stored up like that; Gemma used to hide all his pills from him and give him his daily pills when it was time, but Louis couldn’t do that to him. He’s already risking it, and he won’t tempt Harry any further.

As they wait for the pharmacist to find the right medication, they sit down together. Harry’s so bloody sad, it’s making Louis’ chest hurt.

“My brain’s going to turn to mush from taking all this crap,” Harry says quietly as he stares down at his hands.

“I don’t think it will. I mean, it’s meant to help your brain, isn’t it?”

“Yeah,” Harry mumbles, unconvincingly. “That’s what they say, anyway.”

Before Louis can say anything, Harry stands to go wait by the counter instead. As he does, Louis takes the time to pull out his phone and send the first warning text to Anne and Gemma.

He’s not doing too well. We’re adjusting his meds, hope that helps x. Will keep you updated.

-

Harry becomes this quiet ball of nervous energy. He’s not doing well, which is throwing him off, and he’s desperately trying to keep his head above water, which is also making things more complicated in his head. He’s scared of going back to the hospital and doing poorly again, which is already enough for one person to handle, but he has to be scared of the things that aren’t real, too. He’s seeing things again, even if he won’t admit it. He hears things often, even when he’s doing fine, but seeing things that aren’t there is an entirely different thing for him. At least they are nothing scary.

Louis tries to keep up with their routine as best as Harry lets him. Waking up and going to bed at the same time; going for runs every night; encouraging Harry to keep going to work so long as he can handle it. Normalcy will help Harry get through this. But when everything feels like it’s falling apart, because it kind of is, it’s more than justified, Harry struggling to do the things he used to.

It’s the eighteenth of April when he gets home to find Harry at the kitchen table, doing nothing but sitting there. He has his head pillowed on his arm, and he’s scratching at the side of his wrist incessantly. He doesn’t even stop when he notices that Louis’ home, just sits up, offers him a weak smile, and continues scratching. It doesn’t seem to be that hard, but it’s -- no. He can’t start that up again.

“Hiya, darling,” Louis says as he pulls off his shoes. He walks over to Harry and grabs one of his hands as casually as he can manage before sitting down next to him. Harry’s fingers feel jumpy against Louis’, and the skin around his wrist where he had been scratching is red and irritated. “How are you? How was work?”

“Didn’t go today,” Harry mumbles, shaking his head. He’s fidgeting, far more than normal. Louis can’t work out if it’s from discomfort of the situation or something else. “Felt like shit this morning. Still do.” He sticks his thumb nail in his mouth, starts chewing on it. Louis will let that be for now.

“How so?”

“Everything’s so loud, Louis,” Harry says, sounding completely distressed. He takes his hand from his mouth and from Louis’ to put his hands on his forehead, and Louis hates the way his hands shake. “I don’t -- this sucks. This sucks so much. I hate everything.”

“I’ll make you another appointment with Dr. Kirby.”

“Yeah. Sure. Okay.” He lets out a loud sniffle as he pulls his hands from his face, and there are tears in his eyes. He looks fucking exhausted, even though Louis’ sure he’s been sleeping okay. Louis hasn’t been, that’s how he knows. Wakes up every hour or two to make sure Harry is still asleep next to him. “I’m so stressed out,” he mumbles, staring at Louis with these wide, terrified eyes. “I’m trying to keep it together, I really am, Louis. I’m trying.”

Louis stays quiet for a moment, trying to figure out the best way to bring it up. Hospitalization is something Harry will always be against, but at the same time, if Louis catches him at the right time, they can have an honest discussion about it. Harry might be scared enough to agree to it right now, and Louis would so much rather them be on the same page about this. Forcing Harry against his will into hospitalization just makes everything a lot worse before it manages to get any better.

“I’m proud of you for trying,” he says slowly. “I know it’s difficult for you. Just. . . you don’t have to do this on your own, you know that.”

Harry gives him a knowing look. “I’m not alone. I have you. And Mum and Gems. And Dr. Kemper. I’m not alone.”

“Of course not. I just mean, like. . . I think we should at least start thinking about St. Mary’s. Just so, you know, if it gets to that, which it might not, we will have more understanding of each other.”

“If you ship me off there without my consent,” he says seriously, “I will never fucking forgive you, Louis.”

“I don’t want to do that, H. I’m not talking about that, either. I’m just saying, like. Like the last time, you know? You understood that you weren’t doing well and decided it’d be in your best interest to go in. I just want to have a conversation like that right now. You’re allowed to say if you don’t think that’s the best move right now, I’m here to listen.”

Saying all that without tripping over his words when I will never fucking forgive you rings in his head is difficult, but he somehow manages.

“I’m not going,” Harry says sternly. “I’m not going there. If you call someone to do an evaluation on me, they’ll send me there, you know they will, and -- Louis. Don’t you fucking dare to that to me. Please.”

“Okay, we don’t have to talk about this,” Louis says calmly, giving Harry a hopefully soothing smile. He’s not going to keep talking about it if it’s just going to agitate Harry and make him distrustful of Louis. If push comes to shove, Louis will call professional help on Harry. He can’t let Harry convince him that’s not what is best for him, because they’re approaching territory that will eventually call for it, even if Harry doesn’t agree.

“Have you showered today?” Louis asks, switching subjects. Harry’s hair looks a bit greasy, which Louis doesn’t really care about. A hot shower almost always calms Harry down a bit, though. He needs him calm.

Harry shakes his head.

“Do you want me to start the water for you? So it’ll be warm by the time you get in?”

Harry shakes his head again, his eyes completely unreadable. It takes him a minute to offer any other suggestion. “Can you fix me up a bath?” he asks, his voice suddenly scratchy. He wipes at his nose with the back of his hand. “Just. Yeah. Could you?”

“Yeah, love. ‘Course.”

-

It’s difficult, trying to figure out when is the best time to call for Harry to be admitted to the hospital. It’s his call, isn’t it. Harry’s depressed and struggling intensely, but it’s not -- Harry hasn’t done anything to cause harm to himself or showed Louis that he might be thinking about it. That’s always been the deciding factor, Harry being suicidal. So maybe Harry’s just hiding it from him; Louis has no way of knowing. But he talked to Anne about everything on the way to work one day, and she said he would know it when it was time, that there would be no question. On the twenty-seventh of April, Louis fears they’ve reached that time.

He comes home from work like normal. The flat is quiet, but that’s not exactly uncommon, especially when Harry’s doing poorly. So Louis takes his shoes and coat off before heading to the bedroom, and something in his gut tells him that something is wrong. He’s not sure what it is, until he notices Harry’s phone on the floor and his favorite pair of shoes that have been by the bedroom door for days, untouched since he hasn’t been working, are gone. Immediately, Louis grabs his phone and unlocks it. He goes to his most recent texts, calls and internet history, but there’s nothing alarming. Just to make sure he’s not being stupid, he checks every room of the house once, and then twice, and as soon as he’s sure that Harry isn’t home, he calls Anne.

“I haven’t heard from him since yesterday morning,” she says, sounding alarmed. “It’s -- Louis. You have to call the police.”

“Yeah, I know. I will. Just tell Gemma, will you? And have her let everyone know so they can help look for him. I’ll. . . After I call the police, I’ll drive around and look for him.”

Guilt claws through his body as he talks to the operator. He’s calling the bloody police on his boyfriend, Jesus. His boyfriend who is petrified of law enforcement. But Harry is not the type of person to just leave by himself like this, especially not with telling someone first and not taking his phone. Harry is doing poorly right now, so if -- there are a lot of things that could explain why he left, and none of them are good.

“He’s never been violent before,” Louis stresses for the umpteenth time. “He is not a danger to anyone. You need to tell the officers that.”

“I will, sir. Don’t worry, our officers are trained to handle situations like this.”

Louis rolls his eyes as he starts the car, flashes of a petrified, sick Harry having those said trained officers pointing their guns at him as a teenager going through his head. He hangs up a few minutes later after the dispatcher says that officers will be sent out to look for him. Louis needs to find him first, he has to. He’ll never forgive himself if Harry gets hurt by the police that Louis called.

As Louis drives around aimlessly, he tries not to panic. Panic is going to interfere with how well he’s focusing, and he can’t have that. He needs to keep his eyes peeled. This is terrifying, though. Louis doesn’t know what he was wearing last or where he could have gone or what time he could have left. If Harry is missing -- properly missing -- they might not find him until it’s too late. He shouldn’t have let it get this fucking far, he should’ve -- God, fucking shit. Gemma and Anne are going to hate him, and he’s going to hate himself, and he’s going to have his fucking boyfriend’s blood on his hands. This is --

“Come on, Harry,” Louis hisses under his breath, clutching the steering wheel even tighter in his hands. “Come on, come on.”

He’s been driving around for twenty-four minutes when his phone lights up with a call. It’s from Liam, and Louis answers it quickly, hoping it’s good news. Or any news at this point. It’s not even been a half hour, and Louis feels so drained and defeated and stupid.

“He’s fine,” Liam says, and immediately, Louis closes his eyes, a sigh of relief tearing through him. For a moment, he forgets he’s even driving. “I left, like, ten minutes ago after Gemma called and found him near my flat. I’m driving him back to mine now.”

“Jesus Christ.”

It’s a twenty minute drive from their flat to Liam’s.

“Is he upset or anything?” Louis asks. “Is he -- is he in a good head space?”

“A bit embarrassed, I’d say. He was freaked out at first, didn’t know where he was, but he’s fine now. Calmed down, mostly. He talked to his mum for about a minute before I called you. She’s coming to mine, too.”

“Yeah. Yeah, okay, good. I’ll be there in a few, okay?”

As soon as he hangs up with Liam, he rings the police station again to tell them that he’s been found safe. He bluffs and says he was just out on a walk, and by the sound of it, the police hadn’t been sent out yet, anyway. Louis tries not to be annoyed by that.

Louis gets to Liam’s flat before Anne, and when Liam lets him in, he finds Harry sat on his sofa, arms crossed over his stomach as he hunches over on himself, and he looks incredibly guilty. He stands when he sees that it’s Louis, and Louis comes over and wraps him in a hug, holding him close.

“Didn’t mean to scare you,” he whispers, his fingers twisting the fabric of Louis’ shirt. He tucks his face against Louis’ neck, his breath fanning over his skin. Louis has probably never felt this fucking relieved before.

“It’s okay,” Louis whispers back. “What happened, though? Where did you go?”

Harry pulls away from him and sits back on the couch, wipes his cheeks clean of tears. Louis sits down next to him, needing to stay close, and as he sits, he notices that Liam has gone to the back room, probably in an attempt to give them some privacy. Harry’s fingers shake in his lap, so Louis grabs them and squeezes tightly.

“I was at the kitchen table, looking out the window,” Harry starts. “And I saw this dog. It didn’t have a leash and he was -- ” Harry looks incredibly offended suddenly, and he pulls his hands away from Louis. “It was real. Don’t give me that fucking look.”

Louis hadn’t known he was giving some type of look, but well. He can’t really be blamed, can he. He has no way of knowing if the dog was real or not. And that’s not him doubting Harry, it’s him acknowledging the power of Harry’s illness.

“I know how to distinguish what’s real and fake by now,” Harry snaps, looking furious. “Don’t -- don’t look at me like you know better when you weren’t even there.”

“Okay,” Louis says calmly. “Okay, I won’t. I believe you.”

“He was off his lead, all alone, and I didn’t want him getting hurt,” Harry continues. “You would have done the same thing, Louis.”

Louis nods. “Yeah, I probably would have gone after it, too.”

“I followed it a few blocks. It didn’t notice me, and I didn’t want to chase it and scare it, you know? But then I saw the owner, and I just.” He bites down on his bottom lip, eyes widening. “I didn’t want him following me back home, so I kept walking. Didn’t realize how far I had gotten until I didn’t bloody recognize anything that well.”

“Just bring your phone next time, okay?” Louis asks, trying to keep the anxiety out of his voice. Harry is fine, he’s safe. He wasn’t going to try anything. He says, anyway. “Was worried about you. Gave us all a heart attack.”

A sad smile twists Harry’s lips as he tangles his fingers together. “Twenty-three years old and my boyfriend freaks out if I’m not home. Automatically assumes I’m out plotting suicide and calls the police.” Harry shakes his head and glances off to the side before standing. “Some life I’ve made for myself.”

Louis stares at him, unsure of what to say to that. It’s -- Louis had every right to worry, and he’s pretty sure that Harry isn’t implying that he didn’t.

“I’m gonna go wait in the car,” he says, making his way towards the door.

“Your mum is coming here. She should be here any minute.”

“I’ll call her later,” Harry says tonelessly. He opens the door and leaves, and Louis is quick to follow after him after calling to Liam that they’re leaving. He’ll be damned if he lets Harry out of his sight after the last hour they had.

-

Louis is rarely ever angry at Harry. For anything, really, but especially when it comes to his illness. He can’t help it, he’s trying, he’s ill and handling it as gracefully as he can. The few times he’s frustrated with Harry, he can usually hide it fine and work it out by himself later. But this -- Louis can’t hide his anger, and he doesn’t fucking want to.

It makes sense that Harry’s not doing well, not improving at all since his last visit with Dr. Kirby, because he hasn’t been taking his goddamn medicine.

The day after the dog incident, it’s a weekend and Louis’ home all day. Distractedly, while they’re sitting at the kitchen table eating lunch, he asks Harry if he took his medication, just like he does every day, but today -- today, apparently, is the first time Louis realizes he’s being lied to.

It’s not even obvious. There’s just something about his nonchalance about answering that makes Louis turn to him, makes something prick his instincts. And the guilt on Harry’s face when he realizes Louis is second-guessing him is obvious.

It’s been a full minute, and now they’re just kind of staring at each other.

“You’re not taking it anymore, are you?” Louis asks, every word punctuated and demanding.

Harry bites down on his bottom lip before saying, “I take my medication next to you in bed every night.”

“Yeah, you’re sleep medication. What about the ones that are actually fucking important?”

Harry looks down at the table.

“How long have you not been taking them, then? How long have you been lying to me?”

“It’s not about you,” Harry says coldly, and Louis scoffs.

“Yes, it is. You’re my boyfriend. So how long have you, my boyfriend, lied to my face about something incredibly important?”

Again, Harry has nothing to say as he stares down at the table.

“I trusted you,” Louis snaps, standing up. “I -- God, Harry. Your mum and Gemma are going to think I’m a fucking idiot.” He heads to the kitchen with his plate and dumps the rest of his food in the trash before putting the sink in the plate. He’s so fucking angry, and yet there’s this part of himself that’s telling him to calm down, that he shouldn’t upset Harry. But that’s fucking bullshit, because Louis’ allowed to be upset, too.

“Are you just not going to respond to anything I say?” Louis asks, genuinely wondering. He rests his hands on the edge of the counter, bracing himself. He wasn’t ready for this kind of stress today.

Harry’s quiet for at least thirty seconds, maybe more, before he turns in his chair to face Louis. He looks so young, so innocent, as he has his hands holding the top of the back of the chair and peers at Louis with these wide eyes. Louis holds his stare for a second before looking back down.

“How would we,” Harry clears his throat. “How would we know if I am better if I keep taking the medication? I could just not have it anymore, and we wouldn’t even know.”

Louis bites down on his tongue to avoid snapping something insensitive at Harry. Once he’s sure he can manage a level tone, he says, “There is no cure for schizophrenia, Harry. You know that.”

“But what if it’s the medication making me sick, too? What if -- if I just keep taking them, Louis, I will never know.”

“They gave you the medication because you were sick.”

Harry hesitates before saying, “What if I was never sick at all?” Louis can’t hide his irritation at that, and he twists away from the counter and rubs his hands over his face. “No, Louis, what if -- what if they just made me think I was? How could we ever know?”

“How many days have you not been taking your medication?” Louis asks, an edge to his voice. “What, a week? More? And you’re going to look at me and tell me the voice is gone from your head?’

Harry stares at him.

“If you told me that right now, I might actually think there’s some validity to what you’re saying, but you can’t because there isn’t.”

“Maybe it’s not just in my head,” Harry argues hotly, clearly looking scolded. “Maybe -- you know how technology is nowadays, maybe they put that in there, maybe -- ”

“Love, please, just stop.”

“Maybe it’s true, Louis!” Harry screams. “Maybe -- they do experiments on people all the time, maybe -- maybe it’s true, and maybe my doctors don’t even know, maybe -- how would you know, Louis, I mean how could you know?”

There are tears threatening to choke Louis, so he just shakes his head and leaves the room. He tries to be patient with Harry, he really does, because Harry actually believes that and that must be bloody terrifying, but -- not right now. Louis can’t take hearing that right now.

He sits on the edge of their bed and puts his elbows on his knees, his head in his hands. Takes a few deep breaths, tries to figure this out. This isn’t good. At all. Louis can’t properly take care of Harry if Harry’s not on his medication; that’s a sure sign that he needs to go to the hospital. And Louis has the guts to do that, he does. It will make him feel guilty as all hell, but if that’s what needs to happen, then so be it. But he doesn’t want to, and he doesn’t think he would have to if Harry just took his medication.

It’s not that easy for Harry, he fully understands that. Harry thinks somebody gave him this illness on purpose, or that he doesn’t even have it, or that he’s being kept sick by his medication, which are all very scary things to believe. If Louis felt like that, he probably wouldn’t trust his doctors, either.

He’s pulling out his phone to call Harry’s mum when Harry comes into their room, and he looks distraught. His eyes are still so wide, so lost, and he’s shifting his weight around and has his hands pulling at the bottom of his shirt, causing the collar to stretch.

“Can you please talk to me?” Harry pleads, and his words come out jumbled and unsure. “I just -- I just need you to listen to me, can you please listen to me?”

“Yes,” Louis says, resting his elbows on his knees again. He can’t just completely write Harry off, that’s cruel. Yes, he knows that Harry isn’t making any sense, but Harry doesn’t know that. What he is feeling is very real to him. “Come here, though. Come sit with me.”

Harry does, nearly tripping over his feet as he comes to sit next to Louis. He sits sideways so he’s facing Louis, and his eyes are darting around Louis’ face, and God, Louis’ about to lose him for another month or so, isn’t he?

“I know it sounds crazy,” Harry says. “I know it does. I know you think -- I’m not just being paranoid. How could you know if what I was saying was true or not? There’s no way you could, you’re just assuming I’m batshit because that’s what everyone’s told you, too.”

“If someone was making you ill with your medication, then how come you were doing decently for almost three whole years, hmm?” Harry falters, and Louis grabs his hand. “We can figure this out together, okay? You and me. And you have your appointment with Dr. Kemper in two days, and I made you that appointment with Dr. Kirby for next week, okay? We’ll figure this out.”

“You say you and me, and then tack on my two shrinks.”

Louis frowns. “I can’t do this all on my own, love. You know that. I can be enough for you, if you’re taking care of yourself and seeing your doctors and taking your medication. Sweetheart, I love you, and I would do anything for you, but you know that I can’t magically fix things.”

“So that’s it? You’re just going to give them what they want and send me back? To the hospital, you’re just going to do that to me?”

It would be so much easier to say no, he’s not going to do that. He doesn’t want to stress Harry out, but he’s not going to lie to him, either. He’s already mentally decided in the last few minutes that he’s going to have someone stay with Harry during the day as he tries to get him to take his medication, so he doesn’t have to worry about Harry doing something stupid.

He gently takes Harry’s other hand in his and squeezes them softly. “If you’re not taking your medication, love, it is my responsibility to let the proper professionals know, yes.”

Harry’s grip on Louis’ hands loosen, and his worry morphs to disappointment. He must think Louis wants to torture him, or something. Like Louis isn’t even trying to understand. Louis would let him know that isn’t true, but he’s not sure talking right now is a smart idea. He waits patiently for Harry to say something. Anything.

Finally, he says, “And if I start taking the medication. . .”

“Then we will see where you are, see if you balance out a bit.”

Harry doesn’t seem at all happy about it, but he mumbles out, “Fine.” Which is good, except for the fact that Harry’s probably planning on wiggling his way out of actually taking the medication.

“I’ll have someone stay with you throughout -- ” the day, he doesn’t get out, because Harry rips his hands away from him and stands. He presses the heels of his hands to his eyes and lets out a shuddering breath.

“Please, don’t do that. Don’t bother anybody else.”

“It’s not a bother, love.”

Harry turns to glare at him. “Don’t take away my privacy. Don’t do that to me. You have the upper hand here, you must know that, but you don’t have to do this.”

That makes Louis frown and shake his head. That’s -- no. “I am not using the possibility of hospitalization as a threat, love,” Louis explains softly. “I’m not discussing that as a way to, like, punish you. I’m just trying to do what is best.”

“Fine,” Harry bites out. “But don’t make anyone stay with me throughout the day. I’ll lose my bloody mind for real if you do.”

“It’ll just be your sister or mum, probably,” Louis says quietly, knowing full well that doesn’t make a difference. Harry looks furious before he leaves the bedroom, and as he goes, Louis quickly texts Anne and Gemma that he needs someone to stay with Harry throughout the days, just to make sure he’s taking his medication and to keep an eye on him. As soon as he’s pressed send, he heads to the kitchen and starts dinner far too early just so he has an excuse to keep an eye on Harry, who is sitting on the sofa, looking betrayed.

-

God Louis he’s going to murder me before the day’s through, is one of Gemma’s many texts throughout the day. Along with, He took his meds and He still hasn’t said a word to me all day and, one from an hour ago, He’s proper upset right now, crying and stressed. Think he’s just super exhausted x. Louis wishes he had noticed that text pop up because he could have gotten off work a little earlier to tend to him. He doesn’t like the thought of Harry upset, especially if he isn’t talking to Gemma.

When Louis gets home, he finds Harry and Gemma in their bedroom. Harry’s sat at the head of the bed, his arms wrapped around his knees as he stares straightforward at the duvet. He’s swallowed up by the jumper he’s wearing, making him look even more delicate. Gemma’s in the chair, texting on her phone, and she offers him a smile when he walks in. Harry doesn’t even look up. Still, Louis walks over and sits on the edge of bed, presses his knuckles to Harry’s calf.

“Hey, darling,” he says softly.

He doesn’t think Harry’s going to respond, but he does.

“You’ve basically put me on suicide watch, except instead of a nurse it’s my own fucking sister. Surprised she didn’t demand that I piss with the door open, too.” He presses his nose to his arm and shakes his head. “I’m paranoid as all fuck. I don’t like being around people when I’m doing badly. And you thought making someone follow me around all day was a good fucking decision.”

That’s the first time in a while that Harry has properly admitted to doing unwell, and it’s incredibly surprising to Louis. He didn’t think Harry was in the headspace to understand that right now.

Gemma stands, probably taking that as her cue to leave. She tries to give Harry a hug on her way out, but Harry moves away from it, doesn’t even look at her.

“Bye, Harry,” she says, and she doesn’t sound or look all that disappointed. She knows how Harry can get with her.

“Yeah, bye,” Harry snaps. “Congrats, you did your fucking job, I didn’t slit my fucking wrists. You can go now, see you tomorrow.”

Gemma purses her lips before she hugs Louis. When she pulls away, she looks pointedly at Harry and says, “Don’t be mean to Louis, H. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

When it’s just the two of them, Louis glances back at Harry, who now has tears streaming down his cheeks. He’s trying to be discreet about it, but it doesn’t really work. Louis moves his hand from his calf to his knee, and Harry sets his own on top of Louis’.

It sends relief through Louis’ veins, but then Harry says, “I need, like, five minutes alone. Just -- I can’t even think straight at all, let alone with someone watching me. Can you -- you don’t trust me, I get that, just. Just let me have the living room to myself a bit, please. I don’t care if you’re in the kitchen, I just -- I just need -- ”

“Okay,” Louis interrupts, squeezing his knee. Harry sounds completely worked up and he doesn’t want him getting any more upset. He leans forward and presses a kiss to Harry’s cheek before tugging on him. “Okay, come on. I’ll leave you alone in the living room for a bit. I’ll probably just sit at the kitchen table, okay? Pay some bills and stuff.”

There’s nothing Harry could do to hurt himself in the living room, Louis is pretty sure. And even if there was, Louis would hear him from the dining room area. It’s right next to the living room, so Louis will be able to hear what Harry is doing. He doesn’t think Harry’s going to try anything right now, anyway.

Harry follows him out to the living room, letting out these sad hiccupping noises as he goes. Louis watches him curl up on the couch and shove the blanket over himself before he turns to sit at the kitchen table. He could sit at the chair where he can see Harry through the doorway, but he doesn’t want to drive Harry completely mad.

He pays a few bills, answers a few emails, gets an online order in for the grocery store for tomorrow. He’ll pick it up after Harry’s therapy appointment, so he adds in some of Harry’s comfort foods, like his favorite kind of ice cream and a pack of cinnamon buns since he hasn’t been baking at all lately. After that, it’s been about twenty minutes so he gets up with the excuse that he wants to grab a water so he can check on Harry. He walks slowly back to his chair, water bottle in hand, and sees Harry still curled up, but he’s now watching something on his phone, earbuds in his ears. At least he’s doing something now. Louis sits back down at the kitchen table and pulls up a game on the internet to occupy himself with.

It takes forty-five minutes for Harry to come and sit with him at the table. It’s fine; Louis wasn’t going to rush him. He doesn’t have to be right next to Harry to know he’s safe. He wouldn’t feel comfortable leaving him alone in a different room that he can see him or hear him, but that’s different.

Harry’s face is still a little red and puffy from crying and he picks at his clothes nervously, but besides that, he doesn’t look like he’s upset or angry. He sits beside Louis, rests his head on top of his arms on the table, and, without saying anything, starts fiddling with Louis’ bracelets. Louis presses a kiss to the top of his head before going back to his game.

Five minutes go by before Harry says, “You’re shit at that.” He’s voice is a little croaky, but he’s at least smiling a bit. Louis nudges him with his elbow and scowls.

“Hey, I’ve only been playing for a little while. Haven’t gotten the hang of it.”

“It’s just stacking blocks. What’s there to get the hang of?”

He offers to let Harry play, but Harry declines, so Louis keeps playing, hoping the distraction is doing Harry good. Even with how upset he was earlier, it somehow feels like this is the closest he has felt to Harry in a while. And it’s not because of the medication -- that probably hasn’t worked completely yet.

“I want you to stay with me tomorrow. For my appointment with Dr. Kemper. If that’s okay.” He sounds tired and a little unsure, like he isn’t sure Louis is going to say yes even though Louis has never said no before.

“Okay, that’s fine.”

His appointment is later in the evening, so Louis will pick him up straight after work and take him then.

“You can’t throw me under the bus, though,” Harry tells him as he rubs his nose against his sleeve. He’s still fiddling with the bracelets. “I know I’m messing everything up, but I’m trying to fix it.”

“You did not mess anything up,” Louis tells him sternly, and Harry shakes his head.

“If you’ve enlisted my sister to babysit me, I’ve messed a lot of things up.”

Louis sighs and pulls away from the computer so he can pull Harry in for a cuddle. Harry goes willingly, pressing his face against Louis’ chest. “You’ve got to stop being so mean to yourself,” Louis whispers. “Breaks my heart.”

Harry just snuggles into him more.

-

“How are you today, Harry?”

Harry doesn’t look up from his lap. He’s so nervous, and it’s obvious in every part of him; the twitches, the avoidance of eye-contact, him wanting Louis here. Louis’ sat beside him, not too close to be sure that Harry has enough space to himself. He always asks Harry what he needs from him when Harry invites him to his sessions, and this morning, he just asked Louis to pay attention in case he forgets anything. Harry’s brain feels a bit scrambled by everything, and he doesn’t want to forget anything important. So, Louis’ going to refrain from butting in unless it’s absolutely necessary, because Harry didn’t ask him of that today.

Louis thinks Harry’s going to lie, probably. Say he’s doing “alright”. That’s his go-to answer whenever he’s doing poorly. Today, though, he shrugs a little, his shoulders deflated.

“Not very good.”

“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that. Can you tell me more about it?”

Harry’s quiet for a long time. Maybe more than a minute. Finally, he shrugs again. “I don’t even know.”

It’s not a lie or a cover; sometimes, Harry genuinely can’t explain what’s going on with him or what he’s feeling or why he’s feeling that way.

“That’s okay. Have you been writing down what you’re feeling throughout the day?”

Harry shakes his head, and when he briefly glances up, he has tears in his eyes and he’s biting down on his lip. “I’m sorry,” he mumbles, sniffling quietly. He wipes roughly at his cheeks. “I don’t -- everything’s hard. And I don’t want to write any of it down. Don’t want to make it feel more real. I don’t -- ” he curses quietly and presses his hands to his eyes. “Feels like I can’t even think.”

“It’s okay, Harry. The notebooks are to help you more than they are to help me. How have your auditory hallucinations been?”

Louis looks up from his fingernails to look at Harry then. He doesn’t normally talk about the voice in his head with Louis; when he’s doing well, it’s harmless, and when he’s doing shit, it’s vicious. He doesn’t need to reiterate that with Louis every time. So, he’s curious.

“So fucking annoying,” Harry mumbles, shaking his head. “Won’t shut the fuck up. Ever. And it’s harder to ignore it now. Feels, like. Like it’s louder than the thoughts that are really mine.”

Dr. Kemper nods slowly. “And is it still just the one voice?”

Harry nods.

“And what is it saying to you, usually?”

“Same stuff as always,” Harry says, shaking his head at nothing in particular. “It’s -- nothing good, you know. You know how it goes.”

“Is it telling you to hurt yourself, maybe?”

Immediately, Harry’s eyes dart up to look at her, gaze sharp. He’s irritated by the question, since he probably knows lying and saying no would look more concerning than telling the truth would. “Yes,” he practically hisses. Dr. Kemper’s eyes flick over to Louis, almost instinctively, and Harry shifts in his seat. “No, don’t look at him like that. I’m not suicidal. I’m not going to fucking kill myself, I don’t want to fucking kill myself, so stop. All of you need to shut the fuck up about that.”

“You’re angry,” Dr. Kemper points out, a little stupidly. Harry scoffs.

“Louis’ making my sister stay with me throughout the day because he’s scared I’m going to hurt myself, even though I haven’t done or said anything to make him think that. It’s -- it’s fucking selfish, that’s what it is. He’s paranoid about something I haven’t tried in years, and I have to suffer the consequences of it.”

Louis stays silent, doesn’t even think about defending himself. He’s not here to do that.

“But when I’m paranoid about something,” Harry continues, “I get put on medications for it and labeled crazy and am not allowed to be myself for two fucking seconds.” He stops like he’s finished, but then he shakes his head again. “And I’m not delusional, don’t start with me on that. I know I’m sick. For whatever reason, however it happened, I’m screwed up in the head. So don’t -- just don’t.” He hunches over on himself and puts a hand over his forehead. “I felt okay this morning. Don’t know why I’m so fucking keyed up all the sudden. This is why I hate coming here.”

“That’s okay. This is a safe space. I’m glad you’re being honest with me.” She pauses, looking like she thinks Harry’s going to comment on that. He doesn’t. “Have you gone back to work since the last time we spoke?”

“Does it look like I can go back to work?” Harry asks tiredly. How he says it isn’t even mean, just really, really tired. He sighs quietly. “No. I haven’t. I’ve mostly just been, like, watching TV and stuff. Going out for a run when I feel up for it.”

“Have you had any issues with your medication recently?”

Normally, it isn’t like this. There’s usually more of a conversation between the two of them, not just a question and answer. She’s clearly trying to get a feel of the situation, of how concerned she should be.

Harry didn’t tell Dr. Kemper about the trouble he’s been having with his medication the last time, so he sighs loudly. “Yes,” he admits. “I’m -- I wasn’t taking it for a while. A week, maybe. And I -- it’s like -- there’s -- ” he stops and exhales loudly. “This is what I mean. Can’t even think straight.”

“It’s okay. Take your time.”

“I saw Dr. Kirby again. He upped my antipsychotics. And I’m taking them again. And I don’t want to be, but I -- ” he sighs. “I know I need to. I feel like -- it’s -- I know deep down that I need to take them. Just. Some days knowing that is deeper down than other days.”

“That’s good, Harry. Really. And how are they working out for you?”

“I don’t know. It’s like. . . I was starting to see things, for a bit. Not bad things, just things. And that’s mostly gone away. And I feel less like I’m drowning in anxiety all the time. But I don’t really know how they’re helping. Is that stupid?”

“No, it’s not stupid.” She looks a little sad, and Louis completely fucking understands that. Harry was doing so good for so long, and it’s not like Louis thought it was going to last forever, just. This all is a harsh reminder of their reality.

Harry starts to speak before he quiets, and Dr. Kemper gives him his time. His brain must be so cluttered right now. After a long pause he says, “I just really wish I was normal,” he whispers, and his voice cracks. “I don’t -- I want to be normal. I wish my brain worked right. It’s just really hard.”

Louis’ heart absolutely shatters at the pain in his voice, and he has to look out the window, at the traffic, to try and slow his heart and catch his breath.

Dr. Kemper says, “Normal is subjective. It’s -- ”

“Don’t give me that crap, you know what I mean,” Harry says, still sounding so sad. “And I know maybe that’s wrong. That people probably have it way worse than I do. But it’s -- yeah. It’s still difficult.”

Dr. Kemper tries to tell him a lot of things. That others doing worse or better doesn’t impact us and we shouldn’t base our pain off of someone else’s, that Harry’s trying and that’s what counts, and so many other things that Harry nods at and agrees with even though it’s obvious he doesn’t actually agree with them. Or maybe he does, Louis doesn’t know. Harry just sounds so shut down now, so defeated. He wants to leave. He wants to go home. He wants this all to stop.

-

Afterwards, Louis drives them to the grocery store to pick up his order. Harry is quiet. Really quiet, aside from the infrequent sniffles. He’s not crying. Yet, anyway. As the worker puts their groceries in the boot of the car, Harry pulls his legs up on the chair and stares out the window. After a while, Louis can’t take the silence.

“What’s up, babe?” Louis asks, resting his hand on Harry’s thigh. Harry glances at him tiredly. He’s been getting good sleep for a while, but he’s still so bloody exhausted. “Just quiet? That’s okay, if you are.”

Harry lifts up the corner of his mouth in something that’s too sad to be described as a smile. “It’s, like.” He motions upwards. “Everything’s so loud in my head that I can’t focus on any one thing, and it’s, like. Nice, somehow. A bit of a break.”

Louis nods slowly, not understanding that at all. It must be a good thing, because Harry reassures him by entangling their fingers together.

-

For the next three days, the time passes ungracefully and jumbled. The hours blur together due to the stress and worry, and Louis literally cannot imagine how Harry feels. Or Gemma, who spends hours at their flat being ignored for no fair reason. Harry’s maybe drifted, like, an inch away from the possibility of hospitalization since he started taking his medication, which isn’t very far, is it. Harry is so depressed. So fucking depressed. It’s painful to look at him sometimes.

When Louis comes home from work on Friday, Harry’s asleep on the sofa, a blanket tucked under his chin. For all of two seconds, Louis feels a sense of peace, and then Gemma grabs his elbow and steers him to the kitchen.

“Did you know he was scratching again?” she asks, voice barely audible. Louis frowns.

“A bit. Not much, though.” He hesitates. “Right?”

Gemma shakes her head. “He’s being sneaky about it. Doing it under blankets and while you’re not directly looking at him. But no, he’s scratching again. Pretty badly, too. He had a bit of dried blood under his nails.”

Shit.

That’s all he can really think, really. Just. Shit.

“I didn’t fucking notice,” he seethes, running a hand over his face. “I didn’t -- God. Shit, Gemma.”

She gives him a sad smile. She tries to be delicate when she says, “Louis,” but Louis shakes his head. He already knows what she’s going to say.

“I’ll call someone Sunday morning,” he says, eyes filled with tears. He looks up, unwilling to let them fall. “Just want another day with him. Shit.”

Gemma nods. “I’ll let our mum know, so she can be there to help. If that’s okay.”

Louis nods back. “Yeah,” he says, and his voice is tight, so he clears his throat. “Yeah, that’s fine.”

There’s no way he can keep the tears back when she pulls him in for a hug. This all just really fucking sucks. Louis knew that trying to fix it now was unlikely, but he still isn’t ready to have him be sent back to St. Mary’s, and that is what’s going to happen if Louis brings someone in to have Harry evaluated. His unsteady mental state might have been enough for him to be sent back, but on top of him scratching -- which is a form of self-harm, no matter if Harry denies it -- he will be sent to a psychiatric ward without another thought. Without his say.

“He’ll be back before you know it,” Gemma whispers, and Louis scoffs sadly.

“Please. You know how long it feels when he’s away.”

“Yeah, I know.”

She pulls away from him after a moment, and he quickly wipes his tears. “I’ll just go, okay?” she says quietly, nodding at him. “Let him sleep for a little bit, though. I think he needs it.”

Louis nods and shows her out. He makes sure he’s sniffle-free before he comes any closer to Harry, and once he is, he takes off his shoes and coat and trousers before fitting himself next to Harry on the couch. He wakes, soft, tired eyes blinking at him as he scoots over to give Louis room, but Louis shakes his head and tells him to go back to sleep.

“I’ll nap with you,” he whispers, and Harry turns in his arms so Louis can cuddle against his back. He’s back out within a minute or two, and Louis holds him tightly, trying not to cry.

After a long while, when he’s sure that Harry won’t wake, Louis pulls the covers back so he can lift Harry’s sleeve. He works quickly and gently, and he barely has to pull the sleeve up an inch to see the start of deep, irritated claw marks on his skin. With a lump in his throat, Louis pulls his sleeve back down and covers them up again. He closes his eyes, trying to ease back the tears, and falls asleep without meaning to.

-

It’s a miracle that, on Saturday, Harry doesn’t realize something is going on. Louis’ a bit of a wreck, going weepy on-and-off throughout the day, and somehow he always manages to hide it from Harry. By the end of the day, Harry doesn’t have a clue that Louis’ going to contact mental health services and have him evaluated. It’s shit, lying to him, but there’s no point in telling him now and trying to enjoy the rest of the day. Harry would raise hell if he knew.

In the morning, Louis wakes an hour before Harry’s alarm. It’s so tempting to reach over and turn it off so Harry can stay like this, pressed into Louis’ side, his fingers curled over Louis’ belly. Harry’s not the type of person to drift from cuddles throughout the night; somehow, no matter how much Louis moves around in his sleep, he’ll still wake up with Harry snuggled right up against him as if he didn’t move a muscle.

It’d be cliche to say Harry looks peaceful as he sleeps, so Louis won’t. He does look content, though. Calm. Looking at him now, with his hair in wild ringlets, growing out to reach his ears, his face slacked, his eyes shut without any strain, controlled puffs of air coming out of his mouth -- you’d have no idea, would you, that when his alarm goes off in fifty-six minutes, the first thing he’s going to hear is a voice that isn’t his own tell him awful things.

When Harry’s alarm goes off, Louis startles even though he knew it was coming. Harry jerks awake, momentarily looking confused before blinking tiredly and twisting around to shut his alarm off. He makes a tired sound before laying back down with Louis, his cheek on his shoulder. Louis rearranges the covers over them so they’re both covered still, and he rubs his hand over Harry’s hip as Harry shuts his eyes again. He won’t fall back asleep, most days. Not unless he’s really tired.

After a few quiet minutes, Harry asks, “Will you make me breakfast this morning?” His morning voice is in full force, and the gravelly tone of it makes Louis’ stomach flip a little.

“Yeah, sure. What do you want?”

“Mmm. Pancakes.” Harry cracks his eyes open. “Please.”

So, a few minutes later, Louis gets out of bed and heads to the kitchen. Harry follows after him a few minutes later and sits at the kitchen table, staring out the window as he waits. Louis keeps an eye on him nearly the entire time, and sure enough, he catches Harry’s fingers slipping under the sleeve of a different jumper to scratch. The movements are so slow that Louis doubts he’s even doing much damage, until he sees a flicker of pain flash across Harry’s face and Louis realizes he’s probably scratching over recent marks, coaxing them to further irritation.

Louis tries not to stare and looks back down at the pancake in the pan. There isn’t a huge jump between self-harm to suicide, is there. At least, not with Harry. Scratching is a huge red flag for him, especially if he’s doing it hard enough to cause bleeding. For some reason, Louis still thinks he’d be overreacting by calling the crisis team on him. That’s just guilt talking, though, isn’t it.

They spend most of the day watching TV together and cuddling and eating. There’s not much else to do when Harry is feeling so vulnerable; he’d suggest a trip to the shops or eating out, but he doesn’t want to put any unnecessary pressure on Harry. They can stay in, that’s fine. More than fine.

At noon, Harry gets up from the couch and takes his medication without even being asked, and Louis feels so fucking guilty, then, because Harry’s trying. He’s trying to get better and Louis doing what he’s going to tomorrow is effectively telling him that him trying his best isn’t enough.

He knows it’s what is best for Harry. He knows that. It’s just shit that they have to do this with Harry kept in the dark about it. Louis is one-hundred percent sure that Harry would not voluntarily go, though, and there’s no other way to do it, no third option.

Before bed, they eat ice cream in bed while watching a movie. It’s Harry’s favorite kind -- chocolate moose tracks -- which is made evident by the fact that it’s already almost half-way gone. Once the movie is over and the ice cream is gone, they get ready for bed. Harry takes his sleeping pill and slots himself into Louis’ side, and Louis tries not to cling to him too hard.

Tomorrow would be so much easier, Louis thinks selfishly, if Harry had a bad today.

-

Louis wakes up an hour before Harry again, but it’s on purpose this time. He slips out of bed as carefully as he can so he can head to the living room, where he sits on the sofa and talks to Gemma, and then Anne, as quietly as he can. Louis will tell Harry about what’s going to happen today before they get here, and when they’re here, Louis will ring the crisis team and then they’ll go from there.

Everything is so much harder with knowing that Harry will be furious with him. He’ll feel betrayed and plotted against, blindsided and lied to. All Louis can do is hope that it doesn’t last for long.

At seven fifty-five, Louis slips back into bed so he’s there when Harry wakes up. He feels like a giant traitor when Harry does, when he kisses him good morning and strokes his fingers over Harry’s shoulder, coaxing him awake. Harry has to piss, so he doesn’t stay in bed as long as he did yesterday morning. When he comes out of the bathroom, Louis gives him a smile and guides them to the couch, turns on the TV. Harry tucks himself into Louis’ side, and for a half hour, Louis lets them both have this.

Once he’s sure Harry is awake enough to process everything, though, Louis sits up straighter and takes a deep breath.

“Haz,” he says, his heart already racing. “We need to talk, love.”

Harry sits up slowly next to him. He already looks so defensive. “About?”

Louis tries to take a few deep breaths as he goes over the pep talk Anne gave him earlier. There’s no way this can be easy, but there is a way for this to go humanely. He has to be gentle with Harry, as patient as ever. “I think it’s time that we got you the proper help you deserve, okay?”

Louis barely has the words out before Harry gives him a look. “The fuck does that mean?”

“Harry. I love you and want the best for you, okay?” He waits to say the next bit, because everything is going to explode as soon as he does. After another deep breath, he says, “And that’s why I’m going to call the crisis response team today, okay?” Harry twists away, looking like he’s just been slapped, before standing up and shaking his head.

“No, you’re not. I’m fucking -- Louis,” he sounds petrified. “I’m fucking fine. I’m -- don’t do that to me. Fucking please.”

“Harry -- ”

“I’m fine,” Harry nearly shouts. His face turns red and his eyes well with tears. “I’m -- I’m not doing amazing, sure, but I’m not doing bad enough to need to go to St. Mary’s. Don’t -- come on, Louis, please don’t do this.”

Louis pushes through his own tears in his eyes. “The professionals will do their own evaluation of the situation, you know that. I won’t be a part of it, and neither will anybody else. It’s just going to be you and them, okay, so if they decide -- ”

“It was supposed to be me and you,” Harry snaps, looking furious.

Louis frowns at him. “That’s not fair, love.”

“No, fuck you,” he says. “This isn’t fair, are you fucking kidding me?” He runs his hands through his hair, tugs at the ends for a second. There’s so much pain on his face that it genuinely makes Louis feel ill. “If I’m too much for you to handle, Louis, let me go to my mum’s or something. I will do that, okay, I will, but don’t -- do not send me to St. Mary’s.”

“It’s not about you being too much to handle, darling. You need help getting through this, help I can’t give you, so -- ”

“I’m not going,” Harry interrupts sternly. “The only way I’m going anywhere is if they drag me out of here. Which you probably would enjoy, wouldn’t you?”

Louis gives him an unimpressed look. “Harry. You know I don’t want that to happen.”

Harry scoffs at him before turning and walking away, and Louis immediately follows closely after him. Harry just goes to their room, to their bed, and gets underneath the blankets. He turns away from Louis and pulls the blankets over his shoulder, and Louis doesn’t really understand what Harry’s getting at here, but it’s fine.

“Your mum and sister are going to be here soon, okay?”

“I’m not going anywhere,” is Harry’s only response.

Louis suppresses a sigh before pulling out his phone and letting Gemma and Anne know that they can come. After, he leans against the wall, not wanting to intrude on Harry’s space right now. There is five minutes of silence before Harry says, voice cold, “Is there literally anything I can do to make you not call someone?”

“No, love. I’m sorry.”

“You are not fucking sorry,” Harry bites out, and then it’s silent again.

A soft knock on the door makes them both tense, and Louis pushes off the wall to go let Gemma and Anne in. He keeps the greetings brief so he can get back to Harry, who hasn’t moved an inch since he left him. Gemma looks devastated, a bit, but Anne pays no mind to that and gives Harry a soft smile as she sits next to him in bed. She runs her hand over his arm that’s under the blankets, and Harry moves away from her.

“Hi, baby.”

No response. Anne doesn’t let that make her smile falter.

“Can I get a hug, darling? Haven’t seen you in a while.”

Louis fully expects Harry to ignore her, but after a few seconds, he shifts in bed a bit and sits up. He’s crying, Louis realizes, and he wraps his arms around his mum’s shoulder, letting out a harsh sob. His hands shake and his face is bright red. Anne shushes him and rubs her hands down his back. As a response, almost, Harry’s fingers tighten around her jacket.

“Mum,” he cries. “I don’t want to go.”

“I know, darling. I know. But we all have things to do that we don’t want to.”

Harry sets his cheek on her shoulder, letting out another sob. “Can’t I come home with you?” he asks, nearly begging. “I’ll be so -- so good, Mum, you won’t even know I’m there. You won’t -- don’t send me away. Please. I’m begging you.”

Gemma sets a hand on Louis’ bicep and nods her head towards the door, motioning for them to leave. Louis doesn’t want to leave Harry, not at all, but Anne is clearly having a better time at comforting Harry. Louis follows her to the kitchen table, where they both take a seat. Neither of them say anything, but there’s nothing to be said, is there.

Twenty minutes go by, and Louis can’t take sitting anymore, so he stands and says he’ll go check on them. Gemma nods. When he gets back to the bedroom, Harry is on the floor, leaned against the bed, sobbing loudly with his arms around his knees and his head resting against them. Anne is sat next to him, still rubbing his back.

“I’ve just called them,” Anne says to Louis, her tone light. Louis is thankful she didn’t make him be the one to call, even though that was the plan. “They’ll be here in about an hour. We’ll get Harry here brightened up by then, won’t we?” She kisses Harry’s head, and he just keeps crying. She runs her fingers through his hair. “They don’t have a spot open at St. Mary’s yet, and I’m not having him stay at the psych ward at the hospital, so he’ll spend a night or two in the ER until they can take him.”

“Why can’t I just stay here until St. Mary’s is open?” Harry asks, the words sounding like they’re exploding from him. They’re shaky and a little hard to make out. Anne shushes him gently.

“Because, baby. There’s a way this has to be done.”

Harry keeps crying.

Louis sits next to him, keeping a small distance between them that he hopes Harry will fill, and he doesn’t. It’s okay; this isn’t about Louis, is it.

“I’ll get you a glass of water, okay, sweets?” Anne tells Harry after another ten minutes pass and Harry just keeps finding more tears to cry. She kisses his shoulder before she goes, and then it’s just Louis and Harry. The tension between them is suffocating; Harry’s angry at him and that isn’t going to stop anytime soon. But they’re also painfully aware that they aren’t going to be able to spend much time together for a while.

Anne comes back with the glass of water and hands it to Harry, and it’s immediately obvious that Harry’s hands are shaking terribly. On instinct, Louis reaches forward to hold the glass steady for him as he takes a sip. He feels bad for it afterwards, but Harry doesn’t push him away. When Harry is done, Louis puts the glass down in between them and puts his arm back into his lap.

It takes another forty-five minutes for another knock to sound on the door, and Harry’s chest stutters and a fresh wave of tears start and his hand darts out to grab Louis’ wrist. “I don’t want to talk to anybody,” he sobs, face hidden in the crook of his elbow.

“It’ll be alright, Harry,” Anne tells him.

Gemma must answer the door, because there’s a flood of new voices coming from down the new hallway. They don’t sound serious, but rather chipper for the occasion. He hears one of them mention the weather, how it’s chilly this morning for May. Louis supposes it’s not a bad thing.

Harry’s fingers are tight around Louis’ wrist, and they become impossibly tighter when Gemma appears at the doorway and says, “They’re here.”

“Let’s go sit at the table,” Anne suggests, but Harry doesn’t move. His cries sound more panicked now, heavier, and Louis does not know how they’re going to manage to interview him if he’s incapable of talking properly. It’s going to take a while, and that’s just going to make it worse for Harry. “Harry,” she tries, and he shakes his head.

“I’m not moving,” he says, voice thick. “I’m not -- not gonna make this easier on them, what the fuck.”

“I’m sure they won’t mind coming to him,” Gemma says quietly before turning around and heading back down the hallway. Harry’s fingers actually hurt around Louis’ wrist, but he doesn’t mention it.

There are two people here to evaluate him; Mrs. Bradley and Ms. Wells, they introduce themselves as. They’re younger and seem proper nice, which soothes Louis greatly.

“Which one of you is Harry?” Ms. Wells asks, probably trying to avoid assuming things about the situation. It makes Harry laugh through his tears. Not a happy laugh, or anything. He doesn’t think it’s funny. Probably thinks it’s cruel.

“This one,” Anne says softly, stroking Harry’s hair again. They nod.

“Can we sit?” Mrs. Bradley asks, motioning to sit on the bed since the only chair in the room is currently being used as their dirty laundry pile. Louis nods.

“Do not sit on our bed,” Harry snaps, turning to glare at them. His fingers finally let go of Louis’ skin, leaving red marks in their wake. “You can’t just come in here, into my home, and do whatever the fuck you please. You can stand.”

Anne frowns, pressing a hand to his shoulder. “He’s just a bit irritable this morning,” she tells them, smiling apologetically. “He’s normally more polite.”

“This is a fucking joke,” Harry cries, putting his head back against his arm.

They explain to them all how this is going to work, and Louis realizes that he’s the only one who hasn’t been present for this before. Anne and Gemma keep nodding, and Harry keeps crying, and Louis hangs onto their every word so he doesn’t end up crying himself.

“Like Ms. Wells said,” Mrs. Bradley starts. “We like to do these things privately with the patient, that way -- ”

“I am not a bloody patient yet,” Harry interrupts hotly, and they all ignore him.

“That way they don’t feel any pressure to respond a certain way.”

Anne nods. “Yes, of course. We’ll just be in the kitchen, then.” She kisses Harry’s temple before standing up. Gemma’s already gone again, Anne’s following after her, and Louis is about to leave without saying anything to Harry to avoid upsetting him further, but when he sees how absolutely petrified Harry looks as he watches them leave, how much panic there is in his eyes, Louis has to stop.

“Hey, no,” he says gently, crouching down in front of Harry. Harry turns to look away from him, but Louis touches his cheek, guides his gaze back to his. “You’re going to be fine, my love. Just a few lousy questions that you’ve answered plenty of times before, right?”

He can see when Harry lets go of his anger with Louis momentarily, and he nods, inhaling shakily. “Right.”

“We’ll all be right down the hall.”

“Okay,” Harry says, voice airy and small.

“Okay,” Louis echoes. “Give me a kiss, okay?”

Harry does, moving forward to press his lips against Louis’ briefly. Louis nods at him and gives him a small, encouraging smile before pressing a kiss of his own against Harry’s forehead and standing up again.

“You’ve got this, love,” Louis whispers to him, and Harry looks a tiny bit less scared as Louis turns to leave. He shuts the door behind him and heads to the kitchen. Gemma and Anne are sitting across from each other at the kitchen table, so Louis sits beside Gemma with a soft sigh.

“He’ll be okay, Louis,” Anne tells him, and Louis just nods. He knows that.

“And this isn’t your fault,” Gemma adds. To that, Louis can’t agree with so easily. He knows it isn’t, it’s just. It’s not Harry’s fault, either. It’s nobody’s fault. To avoid a lecture, he just nods again.

“He’s going to be angry with me for a while,” Louis murmurs.

Gemma snorts at him. “Yeah. Definitely. But he’ll get over it.”

“As soon as he’s at St. Mary’s and can’t see you, he’ll regret being upset with you. Just give him time,” is what Anne says.

They sit in silence until Ms. Wells comes to talk with them. Unsurprisingly, she says that their risk assessment concludes that he needs to be hospitalized, and that it looks like that has to happen involuntarily.

“He’s very scared,” she says, “so I think it’ll be best if someone who he’s comfortable with goes and helps him through this process.”

Gemma and Anne both look to Louis, and he freezes. “He’s pissed at me,” he says, confused, and Anne shakes her head.

“Just go help him, love. Help him pack a bag, too.”

Louis nods and stands up. It’s not like he doesn’t want to, it’s just. He doesn’t feel like fighting Harry right now, doesn’t want to make it any worse. So, when he goes back into their room, he does it hesitantly. Harry’s sat on the bed now, and he’s holding a pillow in his lap -- Louis’ -- and he’s still crying. He must have a terrible headache by now.

“I’ll let you two talk,” Mrs. Bradley says, and as soon as she’s gone, Louis sits at the end of the bed. He won’t rush Harry; there’s no point, not when they’re just going to be waiting at the ER.

After about a minute, Harry wipes at his cheeks and says, “You have to stay with me. At the emergency room. You have to call into work for tomorrow, and you have to stay with me. The entire time. No matter how long it takes.”

That hurts Louis’ heart. “Of course I will,” he says. “Won’t leave you, not even for a minute.”

“This is so stupid.”

“It’ll be okay. We’ll figure it out.”

“I’ll figure it out,” Harry corrects, an edge to his voice. “There’s no you when I go in there. I have to fend for myself. Don’t pretend otherwise.”

Louis doesn’t say anything, not wanting to upset him. Harry sighs.

“Pack my bag,” he says. And then, quieter, “Please.”

It shouldn’t feel familiar, packing a bag for Harry. Knowing what he can and can’t bring with him. No laces, no drawstrings, no jewelry, no cords of any kind. He packs everything too quickly, and once he’s done, Harry’s stuffed monkey sitting on top of the packed items, he turns to Harry guiltily, looking to see what next he wants from him. Harry doesn’t offer anything, so Louis just sits back down. He thinks he’ll be able to handle it, Harry not saying anything, but after a few minutes, he can’t.

“You’ll be back home soon enough,” he says.

Harry just nods, not looking at him.

“And I’ll visit you three days a week, just like before. And you can call me whenever.”

Again, all Harry does is nod.

“I love you,” Louis says, in a clear attempt to get him to respond. Harry glances at him, looking mildly annoyed.

“I love you, too. You know that.”

Now Louis’ the one to nod and not say anything. He wants to, he wants to say so much, but Harry wouldn’t want to hear any of it right now. In the grand scheme of things, Harry’s reaction to all this has been relatively calm; Louis knows from Gemma and Anne that he can get really, really angry about these sorts of things. And Harry is angry, he is, but he’s much quieter about it than Louis had imagined. He must be more sad than angry.

“Can I be the one to drive you to the emergency room?” Louis asks quietly. He doesn’t know if Harry would want him to. “Am I even allowed to do that?”

Harry nods once. “Yeah. I can go with you. They’ll just meet us at the hospital.”

“Okay,” Louis says, greatly soothed by that. “Well. I’m ready to go when you are. There’s absolutely no rush. You should probably eat before you go, though.”

“Get me a cup of ice cream,” he says. When Louis hesitates -- he meant real food -- Harry glances at him. “I’m being serious.”

“Okay,” he says. “Alright, I’ll be right back.” He’ll just have to be sure to pack them a few snacks for the hospital.

A few minutes after Louis has given Harry his ice cream, Gemma knocks on the opened door and gives them both a smile. “We should probably get going soon. Mum has a doctor’s appointment in two hours and she wants to make sure you’re settled at the hospital.”

Harry completely ignores her, but once she’s gone and her footsteps have disappeared, he gets out of bed and slides his shoes on. Louis is so, so fucking grateful that Harry is feeling well enough to cooperate, even if he’s angry as all hell.

“Let me grab you a jacket,” Louis says, remembering what the lady said about it being cold this morning. Harry lets him put it on him and zip it up for him, and after he’s done so, Louis tugs on Harry’s necklace with his finger. “Why don’t we leave this here, yeah?”

Harry looks absolutely furious before he turns around and lets Louis unclasp it for him. He sets it on the bedside table so it’ll be right there by the time Harry gets back, and as he does so, Harry bends down beside him to dig through the drawer. He pulls out the note Louis wrote for him forever ago, tucks it into his pocket, grabs his ice cream, and then leaves the room. The whole flat, Louis realizes once he’s put his own shoes on and follows Harry out after grabbing his medication from the cabinet. He doesn’t say a word to any of them, and Louis quickly tells Anne that he’ll drive him before going out to the car with Harry. Harry’s sat in the passenger side, tears streaming down his cheeks as he slowly spoons ice cream into his mouth.

“Do you want the radio?” Louis asks quietly. Harry shakes his head, so Louis starts the car and begins to drive.

By the time they get to the hospital, Harry’s crying steadily again. He’s holding the mug tightly in his hands even though he’s already finished it, and staring out the window, crying. Louis wants to give him a minute to himself, but Anne comes up to the car not even a minute after they’ve parked and tugs on Harry’s door. Harry gets out of the car, holding his bag tightly to his chest after setting the mug down, and Louis comes around to take the bag for him.

“I’ve got it,” Louis tells him, and Harry wraps his arms around himself, looking miserable.

“I’ll talk to them, Louis,” Anne says as they walk inside the hospital, the two mental health professionals and Gemma trailing behind them. “You find somewhere quiet to sit with him.”

“Thanks,” Louis says, and he grabs Harry’s hand. Harry holds his back tightly, his other hand coming to hold his wrist, too. He’s scared, and that’s so fucking shit. Louis feels terrible for him. They walk down a hallway and turn before finding a mostly empty area that they can sit in. Before sitting down, Louis pushes their chairs together.

“You have to stay with me,” Harry says, voice cracking a bit. Louis frowns and looks at him, setting his hand on his cheek.

“I will, love.”

“They might not want you to,” Harry tells him. “Mum had to raise hell to stay with me. But if you give them a hard enough time, they’ll let you stay with me.”

Sometimes Louis forgets that there are still some things that he hasn’t been through with Harry, that he still has things to learn. He hasn’t done this whole process before; the last time, he just drove Harry to St. Mary’s since they already had an opening for him. This is all so much more complicated.

“I’ll make them listen to me,” Louis promises seriously. On top of everything else, Harry doesn’t need to worry about being abandoned. Harry sighs quietly and pulls his legs up on the chair, trying to get comfortable.

“I’m mad at you still,” he whispers.

Louis sets his hand on his knee. “I know. That’s okay.”

Harry startles in his seat a few minutes later when Gemma, Anne and a nurse come around the corner. Instantly, he grabs Louis’ hand and scoots a bit closer to him. He eyes the nurse carefully.

“Hello, Harry,” the nurse says, smiling brightly. “My name is Andrew. So, at the moment, the hospital is pretty full. We don’t have any psychiatric rooms open at the moment, and -- ”

“And I wouldn’t go, even if you did,” Harry snaps, looking distressed. Louis shushes him; he knows Harry just doesn’t want to get stuck at the hospital’s psych ward, but still. That’s not Andrew’s call.

“And we don’t have any holding rooms open, either. So, at the moment, if you could just sit tight here, that’d be great.”

“I would rather just sit here,” Harry agrees, voice soft for once. He squeezes Louis’ fingers tighter.

Andrew tells them where the cafeteria and bathrooms are, and tells them that someone will come around to check on him every half hour or so before he leaves. Once he’s gone, Harry lets out a heavy breath.

“I can sit here,” he murmurs. “I can do that.”

Louis kisses the side of his head.

All day, they sit there. After about an hour, Harry starts to get properly anxious, so Gemma goes to her car to grab a pair of earbuds and Louis puts on a playlist Harry will like. Harry listens to it with his eyes shut tight and his head resting on his knees, probably trying his hardest to keep it together. There’s more pressure to do that here; the second Harry starts to become a problem to staff, they’ll sedate him. Harry knows that, so he’s trying to keep his struggles secretive.

Gemma and Anne leave so Gemma can take Anne to a doctor’s appointment that she has, but they promise to come back tonight. It makes Harry that much more worried. After some persuasion, Louis convinces him to get up and walk around a bit. They don’t go very far, just exploring some of the nearby hallways, all the while Harry clings to his arm. When they sit back down, Harry doesn’t seem any less stressed.

“Can you call St. Mary’s again?” Harry asks quietly, head in his hands. “I don’t -- if I have to be gone, I want to be there. Not here. Not just waiting around.”

Louis does, but they’re still completely booked. The receptionist tells him that there is a possible opening tomorrow afternoon, so all either of them can do is hope that works out. Louis should’ve called St. Mary’s first, probably. Before he made any sort of fuss. He didn’t take into consideration that they could be full. He doesn’t regret the way he went about things, though, because regret would mean there was no room for error if they waited, and there was.

Over lunch, where they eat in the least busy part of the cafeteria and Harry still manages to look completely distraught, Harry pokes at the noodles and says, “I didn’t know you knew that I was scratching again.”

Louis stares at him, unsure of where that came from. Today, he has noticed Harry’s fingers drifting to the edge of the sleeve, but he hasn’t scratched, so Louis hasn’t brought it up.

“Mum told them that I was ‘engaging in self-harming behaviors’,” Harry says, briefly looking up from his plate. “On the phone, I mean.”

“Oh. Um. Gemma noticed and told me on Friday.”

Harry pauses and looks at him, holding his gaze this time. “That’s why you called the crisis response team on me?” he asks incredulously. “Because I was scratching? Seriously?”

“Don’t start,” Louis says, not unkindly. Harry just scoffs and looks back down at his plate, and Louis doesn’t understand how Harry can let himself believe there’s nothing worrying about him self-harming.

“Give me my meds,” Harry nearly snaps at Louis once he’s done eating. Louis listens, not caring about his tone. He’s just happy he wants to take them, no matter the reason. Louis puts the three pills in his hand and Harry takes them easily before hesitating. “Think I should just take a sleeping pill?” he asks. “So I can just, like, not exist for ten hours? At least?”

Louis shrugs. “If you want.” There’s no harm in it; really, Louis would rather not have to see him completely stressed out of his mind this entire day. Harry nods, so Louis gives him that pill, too, and then they head back to the chairs they were sitting on earlier. Harry rearranges the chairs so it’s more of a couch, even though Louis’ certain they aren’t supposed to do that, and he lays down with his head in Louis’ lap, using their coats as a blanket.

It was a smart idea, Louis thinks as he strokes his fingers over the back of Harry’s neck. They won’t have to worry about Harry keeping it together if he’s sound asleep. Now, though, Louis’ going to be bored out of his mind by himself until Gemma and Anne get back. Fortunately, after closing his eyes, he manages to fall asleep for two hours himself.

-

It’s five o’clock the following afternoon when Louis gets a call from St. Mary’s saying they have an open room and Harry can come tonight. Louis is beyond relieved; Harry looks like he might burst from sitting here another second. It won’t be much different than how he’ll feel at St. Mary’s, though. The only difference is, Louis won’t have to witness it. And that’s just selfish, isn’t it.

Both Anne and Harry look at him tiredly when Louis says, “Yeah, okay. Perfect. We can be there within the hour.” He hangs up a moment later, and Harry looks a mix between relieved and distraught.

“I don’t want to go,” he whispers, one final plea. Louis and Anne both place a comforting hand on him, effectively telling him that he doesn’t have a choice in this.

“I’ll go tell someone we’re leaving,” Gemma says, standing up. This is probably the hardest on her; Harry is having no problem with Anne comforting him, and even though he’s upset with Louis, he’s cuddled into his side right now. With Gemma, he’s always the coldest to her when he’s upset. For no real reason, either. Louis would understand if she wanted to go home, but she stuck it out for her brother.

They leave fifteen minutes later, and Harry doesn’t say a word the entire car ride. He sits there in the passenger seat, head leaning against the window, arms crossed over his chest protectively, the entire ride. When they arrive, the only response he shows is his eyes shutting.

“We can sit in the car for a bit,” Louis offers, and Harry nods, curling in on himself more. They sit in the car for another ten minutes before Harry opens his eyes and sighs.

“I’m going to be out of here soon,” he tells him. “Two weeks, tops. In and out. I’ll -- I’ll be fine.”

“Maybe. Let’s just see how it goes.”

“I can’t take being here for a whole month again,” Harry whispers. “Two weeks.”

Louis pats his knee a little awkwardly. He can’t say anything positive to that knowing that’s very unlikely.

A few minutes later, they get out of the car and Gemma and Anne follow them inside. It’s startling, how easy it was for the three of them to put their lives on hold for Harry like this. Not that it should be any other way, just. They all love him so much.

“Let’s go sign in,” Louis says gently, tugging Harry by his hand, and Harry follows, eyes suddenly much wider. He looks so young right now, face tired and pale and eyes so big. Harry doesn’t talk to the receptionist -- he won’t even look at her, and it’s not out of stubbornness; he’s scared, Louis can see it on him -- but he does sign everywhere that’s necessary. I understand this is not a voluntary stay, one of the boxes he checks says. The crisis response team or the emergency room must have contacted them about Harry, not trusting Louis or Anne to handle it properly themselves.

“Okay, Harry,” a nurse that comes far too quickly after they sign the right paperwork says. “I’ll take you to the acute ward, where -- ”

“I know,” Harry interrupts tiredly. He grabs the bag off Louis’ shoulder and puts it on his own. The nurse frowns, but Harry pays no mind to that. He grabs Louis’ wrist and pulls him into a hug, and Louis holds him close.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, right?” Harry asks, and then the nurse interrupts and says, actually, they don’t allow visitors within forty-eight hours of a patient’s arrival. “Wednesday,” Harry amends, sounding irritated.

“Yes, of course. I’ll be here.”

Harry squeezes his shoulder tightly when he says, “I am so mad at you, but don’t be mad at yourself.” And then he lets go and turns to his mum, and Anne hugs him just as tightly. He hugs Gemma, too, although it’s briefer. He doesn’t look annoyed when she reaches to pinch his cheek, though.

“Are you ready?” the nurse asks, and Harry glares at her. The look is tired, though. He’s so tired.

Harry nods, his jaw fixed tightly, and follows behind her, his arms tight over his chest. Fear is bright and alive in his eyes, no matter how calm he’s managing to appear. And just like that, he’s gone. Louis feels lightheaded for a few moments, and Gemma pulls him into a hug.

“He’ll be back soon enough,” she whispers to him, and this time, Louis lets himself believe it without correcting her.

-

The days spent with Harry in the hospital feel pointless.

What’s the point of having a queen-sized bed when it’s just Louis? Why are his drawers filled with obnoxiously large baking equipment when nobody is around to cook anything? Who thought it was fair to have Harry’s things sprawled everywhere, when he’s not bloody home to use any of it? That’s why the first thing he does when he gets back from the hospital is clean absolutely everything, erasing most traces of Harry that he can so it’s easier to accept the fact that Louis is now alone. Before he lived with Harry, he loved having his own space, but now -- he’s pretty sure he couldn’t ever live by himself again.

When Harry’s at the hospital, Louis calls his family more than ever, which is probably not right. He talks to his mum a lot, even with Harry around, but he doesn’t go out of his way to call anybody else until he’s all by himself. He finds himself calling his mum at eight o’clock at night to tell her about something he saw on the weather channel, and she lets him talk for as long as he wants because she knows how bored he is and how much he needs a distraction.

Harry’s bored. Harry needs a distraction. But they’ve boxed him up somewhere where ignoring what’s going on with him is virtually impossible, haven’t they. Louis doesn’t regret what he did -- he will believe that shortly, but for now he just keeps telling himself that it’s true -- but that doesn’t mean Harry’s okay where he is now. He’s alone and scared and paranoid and dealing with new people all day. All Louis can do is hope that he’s got a decent roommate.

The first two days, Louis can’t think straight. He wants to see Harry, check-in on him, make sure everything is okay at the hospital. So, on Wednesday when he can see him, he makes sure to clock out on time and head straight to the hospital. He maybe speeds a bit, but he doesn’t get caught, so no he didn’t.

Louis signs in, goes to their usual spot, and waits. Today, it takes fifteen minutes for a nurse to bring Harry to him, so Louis isn’t really surprised to see how. . . unwell Harry seems. He looks exhausted and pale and skinnier, a bit, and as he walks, he holds himself like he’s going to fall apart. The nurse has a steadying hand on his shoulder, and she’s either oblivious to the way Harry is shying away from the touch or she just doesn’t care.

“Okay,” she says, tone gentle. “I hope you have a nice time, Harry.” Harry sits down next to him, not making any move to touch him, and the nurse gives Louis this look. Good luck, maybe. Or it’s a warning that he’s not in a good mood. Louis’ not quite sure, so he’s relieved when, as the nurse walks away, Harry shifts closer to him and wraps his arm around him for a hug.

“I want to go home,” Harry says, voice weak near his ear. “Louis. I don’t want to be here.”

Louis smooths his hand over the jumper Harry’s wearing. It’s the same one they sent him off in. Louis hopes that doesn’t mean they haven’t managed to get him in the shower yet. “I know, love.”

“They aren’t listening to me,” Harry tells him, sounding agitated. “They won’t just let me be. I just want to be myself, I don’t -- they won’t listen, Louis, being around everyone just makes it worse, I don’t -- I’m losing my mind, thinking everyone’s about to fucking jump me the second I turn around, and it’s -- I’m not going to get better like this. I want to be home.”

Louis would offer to talk to someone for him, but there’s no point. Harry has to go where they want him to; staying in his room all day isn’t an option. There are quieter places he can sit, but there’s no getting out of group therapy or mandatory gatherings or eating around others.

“Have you seen the psychiatrist yet?” Louis asks, hoping a change of conversation will calm him down. He’s slumped into Louis, his hands pressed tightly against his shoulders, and Louis doesn’t like how tense he feels.

“Of course not,” Harry scoffs. “I’ll be lucky if I see him at all this week. They don’t care about me. Everyone keeps calling me difficult instead of just listening to me.”

Louis keeps rubbing his back, hoping it’s helping. “How is your roommate?”

“He’s a fucking lunatic.”

“Hey,” Louis says mildly, frowning. He drops a kiss to Harry’s shoulder. “Don’t be mean to people.”

“He thinks he’s in the Gulf War still. Like, literally thinks he’s there. How the fuck does anybody want me to feel safe with him? Could just kill me in my bloody sleep.”

“They wouldn’t put him with anyone if he was dangerous,” Louis says, knowing that’s the truth but still doubting it himself.

Harry pulls away from him slightly, looking irritated. “They had to sedate him last night because he wouldn’t stop fucking screaming. For hours. And I couldn’t fucking fall asleep even though I took my sleeping medication so I was so fucking dizzy the entire fucking night.”

Louis blinks at him, unsure of what to say.

“I don’t want to be here,” Harry says again, sitting back and leaning against the wall. He crosses his arms and glances to the side, his jaw so tight it looks painful. Louis thinks he needs a second to calm down, but neither of them say anything for ten minutes.

Finally, even though Louis knows he shouldn’t, he says, “I’ve been looking forward to seeing you, love.” It’s selfish, and maybe a little wrong. If Harry’s not in a good mood, that’s perfectly justifiable. It’s just. Louis has really missed him.

Harry looks down at his lap. “You can’t expect me to be happy to see you when I’m not happy at all.”

That hurts more than it probably should, so Louis doesn’t say anything else. They just sit there, for a full hour and a half, not saying anything. Louis watches Harry; watches him fidget and bite his nails and rub over his sweats. He’s furious, nearly breaking with it, and it makes Louis worried.

When it hits eight, Harry stands without protest, and for a terrifying second, Louis thinks he’s going to leave without a goodbye. He turns to Louis, though, and holds out his arms slightly. Louis stands, inserting himself into Harry’s hug.

“You have to come Friday,” Harry says sternly. Louis is thankful; he was worried Harry wouldn’t want to see him again. “And don’t be late.”

“I’ll try not to be. Promise.”

Harry pulls away far too quickly, presses a chaste kiss to his lips, and turns around and leaves, his arms coming up to fold over his stomach protectively. The tension in his posture shows just how alert he is, how ready he is for the next blow to come.

-

It’s like that for the next week and a half, Harry being irritable and cold and not talking much. It’s worse with Gemma, slightly better with Anne. Louis’ almost scared to visit him now, not wanting to be the one who sets him off completely. But today, it’s Wednesday and it’s Louis’ turn to see him, and Harry’s not angry. Harry’s barely anything.

Anne texted him last night after her visit that Harry was quieter than normal. Quiet doesn’t really describe him, though. He barely seems like he’s even with Louis at all.

Louis tries to ignore it at first, the spacey look in Harry’s eyes as he hugs him briefly and sits beside him. Harry holds onto Louis’ arm firmly, leaning against him, but he doesn’t say anything.

“How are you, love?”

“Okay,” Harry says, voice small. He sets his cheek against Louis’ shoulder.

“How was seeing your mum last night?”

Harry shrugs. “Nice.” He presses closer to Louis, so Louis lifts his arm so Harry can burrow into his side. He does, his hands now pressed against Louis’ side. This is the closest they’ve been in a while.

Harry lets out a quiet breath and says, “Saw the. . . Dr. Arin. Saw him again. On Sunday. Forgot to tell you.”

“That’s okay. What’d he have to say, hmm?”

Last Louis heard, they switched his antipsychotic and upped his mood stabilizers. He wonders what they’ve done now, with Harry acting like this. Maybe he’s just tired.

“He just increased the dosage of my antipsychotic. I told him,” he pauses. “I told him I didn’t like how it made me feel, and then he just made it worse. Barely feel, like. . . I don’t know. Everything’s foggy.”

Louis frowns and tangles his fingers with Harry’s. “Have you told one of the nurses?”

“They keep telling me it’s because I’m schizophrenic,” Harry mumbles. “I told them that I don’t -- that usually, I don’t experience a lack of emotion, but they keep disagreeing with me.”

That’s literally the stupidest thing Louis has ever heard. Harry is twenty-three years old and has been diagnosed for years: he has a grasp on what he struggles with and what he doesn’t. Yes, some people with schizophrenia deal with a lack of emotion or numbness, but not Harry. You don’t have to have every goddamn symptom to be considered schizophrenic. And if Harry told his psychiatrist that he didn’t like his medication, Dr. Arin should have changed it. And if Harry told the nurses that he wasn’t feeling right, someone should’ve fixed it. Harry’s not in any position to advocate for himself right now. It’s infuriating, knowing that this place is Harry’s best bet, but still manages to fail in some areas.

“I’ll talk to someone,” Louis tells him. “I’ll talk to one of the nurses, okay? And if they tell me the same thing, I’ll talk to Dr. Arin. I’ve not seen you like this before.”

“I barely feel human anymore,” Harry tells him, and that mixed with the fear in his voice -- Louis has to get up to go talk to someone. He promises Harry he will be right back, and Harry lets him go. Louis walks down the hallway and waits for the first nurse he sees to finish up with what she’s doing before he talks to her.

She seems nice, at first. Until she tries to explain to Louis that Harry being emotionless has to do with his mental illness and not his medication. He tries to explain to her nicely that no, that’s literally not true, but she keeps repeating what she’s saying like he doesn’t understand.

“He’s been schizophrenic for over six years now,” he says, finally snapping a bit. “I’ve never seen him like this. Ever. So how is it his illness when he hasn’t acted like this until you lot have put him on this medication?”

“He’s been calmer these last few days,” she says, and Louis scoffs at her.

“Because he can’t even bloody think. You’re supposed to help him, not drug him so much that he doesn’t even seem like the same person. You can’t just drug him so he’s less of a hassle.”

“I can assure you that is not what we are doing,” she says, looking uncomfortable. “But I will put a request form in to Dr. Arin.”

“Thanks,” Louis says shortly before turning around to go back to Harry. He shouldn’t have to take time out of his visit to tell the staff to listen to their patient.

When he gets back, Harry’s still leaning against the wall, looking miserable. He tucks himself back into Louis’ side, though, so Louis tries not to worry too much. “They’ll get you in to see the doctor,” Louis says before dropping a kiss to his head. “If they don’t listen to you again, call me. I’ll talk to them.”

It takes Harry a moment to say, “I shouldn’t need someone else to say the exact same thing I’ve been saying for something to be done about it.”

“I know. I agree. I’m sorry.”

Harry lets out a soft sigh.

“How’s your roommate?”

“Still insane,” Harry mumbles, but he doesn’t sound malicious like he did the last time. “He’s fine. Doesn’t talk to me at all. Kind of like it that way.”

“Well, that’s good, then.”

He keeps trying to ask about things, and Harry answers, he does, but there’s not much of a conversation. It’s okay. Louis doesn’t mind sitting in silence, so long as he knows that Harry isn’t angry at him like the last few times.

-

That weekend, on Saturday, Louis gets a call from Harry. He’s in the middle of cleaning the kitchen again so it’ll be nice for when his mum stops by tomorrow. He answers it, anxiety in his stomach even though he knows it’s probably nothing serious. If it was serious, it would be the hospital calling him, not Harry. He isn’t too surprised to hear Harry crying, though. Harry doesn’t call him all too often unless he’s upset.

“Hiya, love,” Louis says gently, setting down the wash rag on the counter before walking to the living room so he can sit. He listens to Harry sniffle for a bit before he gets a response.

“Hi. Do you have a minute to talk?” His voice is worn and small, meaning he’s probably been crying for a while. Louis’ heart tugs in his chest.

“Yes, ‘course. What’s up?”

“I’m just really upset. Just -- yeah. ‘M really upset.”

“About what, sweetheart?”

Harry sniffles again. “I don’t really know. I’m -- everything’s just too much right now. Today. I don’t -- ” he sighs. “I saw Dr. Arin this morning. Came here on a Saturday just for me. And he changed my prescription again, and I’m just -- I’m just so tired today.”

“I’m sorry, love. But we’ll get through this, yeah? It’ll all get figured out, and then you can come home. I was talking to Niall the other day, and he said we should go out for lunch or something once you’re out. With the other boys, too.”

“Yeah,” Harry agrees, sniffling. “Yeah, sure. . . Are you still seeing your mum tomorrow?”

“Yeah.”

“Can you tell her I said hi? Just. Haven’t seen them in a while.”

“I know,” Louis says. “I’ll convince them to move to London eventually, promise.”

“That’d be nice,” Harry agrees. After a moment, he says, “I have to go. There’s this stupid presentation about buying a home that starts in fifteen minutes. Think I’ve seen it, like, three times before, but. I’m bored. And she passed out candies last time.”

“Alright, love,” Louis says. “It was nice talking to you. I’ll see you Monday, okay?”

“Yeah. Okay. Love you.”

“Love you, too.”

Harry’s the one to hang up, and once he does, Louis goes back to cleaning.

-

Spending the day with his mum helps fill the void Harry left a bit, so he feels a little less guilty about making her drive so far to see him for the day.

When she arrives at the flat, they have some tea before heading out for a proper breakfast. Afterwards, they walk around at some shops for a little while, and then they eat lunch. They head back to the flat to just relax, to have some more time to catch up with one another. All day, Louis talks about Harry, and she doesn’t seem annoyed a bit.

“It’s already been two weeks,” she says during their second round of tea. “Isn’t he usually feeling better by now?”

Louis shakes his head. “It depends. Depends on a lot of things. If they can’t even figure out what combination of medication he’s responding best to yet, then he has a long way to go still.”

“Oh, love,” she sighs, putting down her mug. “I’m sorry. I know you’re bored here without him.”

“I miss him a lot,” Louis admits quietly. “But, you know. He’s trying his best. All I can really ask for, you know?”

His mum nods, giving him a pitying smile. Coming from her, it’s not irritating, and he takes it whole-heartedly.

-

It’s two hours after his mum has left that he gets a call from St. Mary’s. Not Harry, but St. Mary’s. Immediately, Louis’ filled with dread. He answers quickly, his heart already racing in his chest.

About thirty minutes ago, she tells him, Harry tried to commit suicide in the communal bathrooms. He was found quite quickly, thankfully. At first, she tries to skirt around the details, but when Louis presses, the receptionist tells him that he tried to hang himself.

“With what?” Louis asks incredulously, tears heating his eyes. This is not -- fuck. This hasn’t happened before, not to Louis. He’s fine, Harry’s fine, he’s alive and grumpy at an emergency room, but what the hell. What happened?

“A St. Mary’s representative is at the hospital,” she tells him. “She can give you more information.”

He tries to poke for more information, but she isn’t letting, so he gets off the phone and finds some shoes before grabbing his keys and leaving. He needs to call Anne, he thinks as he drives, but they must’ve called her, too, because she calls him when he’s ten minutes away from the emergency room they sent him to.

“Louis,” she says urgently, and Louis bites down on his lip, willing the tears to leave him the fuck alone. He doesn’t have time to cry right now. He needs to get to the hospital so he can talk to Harry and figure out what the hell he was thinking.

“I know. When will you be at the hospital?”

“I don’t -- fifteen, twenty minutes maybe? Gemma’s picking me up. I had no idea he was feeling that way.”

“Me neither,” Louis says, and his chest feels tight. God, he just needs to see Harry. “He called me last night, but he -- I mean, he seemed fine. Upset, sure, but not like -- not like that.”

Anne sounds heartbroken when she asks him to text her when he knows anything more, and he agrees easily. He hangs up, then, because he needs to concentrate on driving. He gets to the hospital eight minutes later, and he has to talk to too many people before he’s directed to St. Mary’s representative.

Apparently, Harry tried hanging himself with the bedsheets. Louis thought there was some sort of fucking precautions for that, but apparently not. And to make it even worse, Harry nicked the bed sheets from an abandoned cleaning cart. Louis nearly loses it, then.

“We could fucking sue you,” he snaps. She opens her mouth to respond, but Louis shakes her off. “Just -- how close was he to dying?”

“He has minimal bruising,” she says, in what he guesses is supposed to mean ‘not very’. Still, no matter what, Harry wanted to take his life. Wanted it enough to actually try to do it. That doesn’t get any easier, no matter what.

“Where is he?”

She guides him to the room; he’s not even in a proper room, just in a bed with curtains meant for privacy. Harry’s sitting there, arms crossed, sipping on a juice-box with a bored looking nurse at his bedside. Louis can’t get a good look at his neck from how he’s angled until Harry looks up, and there’s a mark around the top of his throat. It’s not dark, but it’s still a mark. He could have broken his neck, Christ.

Harry looks absolutely petrified when he sees Louis, and Louis wants to yell at him, he does, but he can’t do that, can he. Not when he came so close to losing him. But he doesn’t really know how to do this, either; after Glasgow, that was -- different. For so many reasons.

“You scared the shit out of me,” is the first thing he says, even though it shouldn’t be. It’s just. What the fuck. He’s just relieved that he didn’t have to do any waiting to find out that Harry was okay; if it was more serious, Louis might not have been given a definite answer right away, and he would have lost his mind.

“I’m sorry,” Harry says, and his face has gone red and there are tears in his eyes and, for a moment, Louis thinks he doesn’t have a right to be upset or apologetic when he did this. Just for a moment, though, because he knows that it’s more complicated than that. Louis won’t tell him it’s okay, but he won’t make him feel like shit for it, either.

He wraps Harry up in a tight hug, and Harry hugs him back, and they both end up crying. This wasn’t supposed to happen. Louis sent him there to get better. And now he knows for sure that he made the right decision, because Harry would have had a better opportunity of being successful in his attempt at home, and that’s just -- God, Louis doesn’t want to let him out of his sight, and he doesn’t have a choice.

“What happened, Harry?” Louis asks, voice shaking. “What -- love.”

Harry’s cries are sharp near Louis’ ear, and he clings to him tighter than he ever has before. “I don’t know,” he says through sobs. “I don’t -- I didn’t plan it, it just. . . happened.”

These types of things don’t just happen, do they.

“You called me last night,” Louis reminds, trying not to sound accusatory.

“Not as a goodbye. I was just sad. I didn’t -- ” he digs his fingers into Louis’ biceps. “I have been suicidal, yes, but -- Louis. I always am. I wasn’t actually going to do it, but then I was worked up because -- I wanted to be home within two weeks, and ‘m not, and I just -- it just happened.”

He has a feeling Harry isn’t telling him the whole truth, but maybe Louis doesn’t need to know every detail. He kisses the side of Harry’s head. “You have to tell someone when you’re feeling like that, baby.”

“Why, so I can have someone follow me around all day? No, thanks.”

Louis has been ignoring the nurse in the room, but Harry does have a point. It must suck, having no privacy. But it’s a necessary evil. “So we can avoid this happening again. I can’t lose you, Harry.”

“I just want to get better.”

Louis frowns. “You can’t get better if you’re dead.”

Harry lets out a shaky breath and doesn’t say anything else. He still clings to Louis, and he doesn’t let go for a while, not until Anne and Gemma arrive. And then he’s clinging to them, going through the cycle of crying and feeling guilty all over again.

They want to keep Harry overnight, just to be extra-extra sure he’s fine, so Louis sleeps next to him in bed for the first time in two weeks and it’s the best thing he could’ve asked for. The worst, too, considering the circumstances, but still. He gets to hold Harry and be close to him and smell him and listen to him snore. It’s only for a night, he knows that, but he clings on to it as hard as can.

The following day, after Harry’s taken back to St. Mary’s, Louis feels like he’s living in some alternate reality or something. He wants to be taking care of Harry, wants to be checking on him and cuddling with him and trying to figure out what happened, but he can’t. He can’t have that, and neither can Harry, and now he’s just supposed to go back to his regular life Harry didn’t try to do what he did. It makes him feel insane, like maybe it never actually happened. And Louis didn’t realize how scary it was for Harry to constantly question his reality until now, and it makes him feel even worse.

-

It goes up from there. That’s the only way it could really go, though.

Harry’s kept on suicide watch for four days after he gets back to St. Mary’s, during which Louis visits him twice. He’s not. . . Harry’s not exactly all that bothered about what he tried to do, more so annoyed that someone is tailgating him now. It’s not like he doesn’t regret it, because he does -- at least, he says he does -- but he doesn’t outwardly seem to be too torn up about it. It’s not like Louis wants him to be upset, though, so he doesn’t push it and trusts that the staff are helping him work through it.

Fortunately, the last medication Harry was put on by Dr. Arin seems to be helping. Actually helping; Harry swears it up and down. And he seems less agitated, so Louis is inclined to believe him. He’s still moody and irritable, but less like he is being tortured constantly. And this medication doesn’t make Harry’s hands shake, so he doesn’t have to take his anti-tremor medication anymore, which he is happy about.

It’s not like he’s suddenly better, because that’s not true, not at all. He’s still depressed and experiencing less than favorable symptoms. The difference now, though, is he is now in a position where he at least has a fighting chance to work on things.

Every single time Louis sees him, Harry will tell him that he wants to come home. Sometimes he’s demanding about it, sometimes more pleading. He just wants to be home. And in the beginning of June, he’s cleared to do so. The doctor no longer thinks he’s in a fragile mental state, and they don’t believe he’s at a risk of suicide -- although, really, there is no sure way to tell -- so they give Harry the green-light to go home.

It’s always so nerve-wracking, testing the waters out at home. It can either go okay, or terribly, terribly bad. Louis wants him to stay in for another week, just to be sure, but he doesn’t bother asking because he knows Harry would vehemently refuse. It seems objectively wrong that Harry is just allowed to go home two and a half weeks after a suicide attempt, but Louis’ no doctor, is he. He’ll just have to keep a close eye on Harry.

Like the last time, Louis and Harry sit outside the hospital and drink hot chocolate. This time, there’s no need for coats, and the hot drink makes them both sweat a little. Harry doesn’t seem bothered.

“We’re going to have to talk about it eventually,” Louis says quietly. He doesn’t want to ruin the atmosphere, but he can’t take Harry home not knowing what’s going through his head at all. The hospital seems to think he’s fine, and Harry seems to think he’s okay, but how is Louis supposed to know?

“Why?” Harry asks. “You know what happened. What’s there to talk about?”

“Aren’t you, like. . . upset about it? Worried? Traumatized or something, I don’t know.”

Harry shrugs and takes a sip from the cup. Louis wants to reach out and touch him, so he does; he runs his fingertips under Harry’s jaw, making him smile a bit. “I’m tired,” he says finally. “I’m exhausted, Louis. I don’t have the energy to deal with that right now. It happened. Well, it didn’t happen. And I’m glad that it didn't. And that’s where I have to leave it at in my head until I have room to focus on something new.”

“Okay.”

He’s not sure if it is, but Harry seems to have thought it through, so Louis can’t push.

“I took a few days off work,” Louis reminds, and Harry nods.

“To keep an eye on me. I figured you would.” Harry rests his cheek against Louis’ knuckles momentarily before sighing quietly. He really does look tired, even though he’s been sleeping well for a while. Maybe Louis will have to take off more than three days. He doesn’t want to leave Harry to have to deal with the lingering depression and exhaustion and whatever else is roaming around his head all by himself.

Louis wouldn’t care if he got let go from his job. He doesn’t think he will, but he wouldn’t care if he did.

“I don’t want to make you feel like I don’t trust you,” Louis says, and Harry gives him a confused look.

“I don’t trust myself. You’d be stupid to trust me.”

Louis frowns, sitting up. He slides his hand from Harry’s jaw to the back of his neck, squeezing. “I do trust you. I trust that you want to -- ”

“Can we not do this right now?” Harry asks quietly, not looking at him. “I’m, like, emotionally fried. I don’t want to do this with you, too.”

“Okay. That’s fair.”

This time, Harry doesn’t ask to drive so Louis drives them home. When they get to the flat, Harry heads straight to their room, kicks off his shoes, and gets into bed. He lays on Louis’ side, probably intentionally, and Louis stares at him from the doorway, pride and fear and relief and worry pricking his throat.

“Come lay with me,” Harry says. His back is turned, but Louis’ sure he’s pouting a bit. Louis takes his shoes off, too, before getting under the covers with Harry, pressing against his back.

“It’s hot in here,” Harry mumbles after a few minutes. He shifts to kick his sweats off, and then after a moment, he decides to ditch the shirt too. Louis isn’t hot, but he takes his shirt off, too, so he can feel close to Harry. Closer. Their skin touching like this after so long makes Louis want to cry.

Under the covers, Louis runs his fingers down Harry’s arm, not looking for anything in particular. Harry must think he’s checking for scratches, because he says, “I’m not doing that anymore. Trying not to, anyway. Don’t worry about it.”

Louis kisses the back of his neck and squeezes his forearm.

They don’t fall asleep, even though Louis could go for a nap. Harry shouldn’t take naps, he shouldn’t mess with his sleeping schedule, and Louis doesn’t want to waste their first few hours home together asleep, anyway.

-

For weeks, Harry is disoriented and sad and exhausted. It’s like how he usually is when he comes back from the hospital, but worse. He’s still in the midst of depression, and on top of that, he’s trying to fit back into his life and deal with his new medication. It’s fine, the medication. He doesn’t mind it, even if it does give him headaches. (He minds it, nearly cries with frustration every time a headache lingers, but he will not deal with another medication change.)

When Louis goes back to work, Harry can’t stand being home all day by himself. Can’t even last the first shift Louis goes back. He calls his mum and goes over there most days, or she comes to the flat. Louis’ more than happy that he’s trying to take care of himself. It’s not easy for Harry to admit to struggles after he’s come home from the hospital, so that’s growth. Or it means that he’s doing worse than he lets on.

By the end of June, Harry doesn’t need to be with his mum all day anymore while Louis’ at work, so Louis takes that as a sign he’s doing a bit better. It’s nice, coming home to Harry in the kitchen, cooking something, or waiting for him in bed, or watching TV on the couch. (Not once does Harry bring up going back to work, so not once does Louis ask about it.)

Louis asks if he’d be up for having some of his friends over hesitantly, neither expecting a yes or a no. Harry agrees, only a little reluctantly, so Louis invites Gemma, Niall, Liam and Zayn around for dinner at theirs. He feels guilty, signing Harry up to cook for six. Even if Harry says he doesn’t mind, Louis makes sure to help.

While Harry is stirring the taco meat in the pan, he sighs quietly. “You know,” he starts. “I feel so fucking guilty about doing what I did in a communal bathroom. Making someone, another patient, find me like that. It wasn’t that graphic, I guess -- I was still very much alive -- but. Just. Those people already have enough on their plate, and some bloke just had to use the restroom and ended up finding me. He must be fucking scarred. . . I don’t know. I think about it a lot.”

Louis didn’t think about that. He couldn’t imagine how that would affect Harry on a good day, let alone during the darkest ones. “Obviously you weren’t thinking straight,” Louis mumbles. “Don’t hold that guilt over your head.”

“I know,” is all Harry says, and they leave it at that.

When everyone comes around, there’s this awkward period of about five minutes where they can’t figure out if they should acknowledge the past few months or ignore it altogether, but after everyone collectively realizes Harry doesn’t need that from them, they move past it. They eat their tacos and watch a movie, and Harry does not drift from Louis’ side the entire night. He’s relatively quiet, too, but nobody cares. They’re just glad to be around him, which Louis can relate to more than anything else in the whole wide world.

NOVEMBER 2018 - APRIL 2019

Watching Harry be brought down by a period of depression is difficult. Either he slowly starts to slip, progressively getting worse, or it’s one swift kick where one terrible day snowballs into an endless supply of bad days. If Louis had to choose, as awful as it sounds, he’d rather Harry be depressed over manic or psychotic, but that’s -- it’s still so hard, seeing him like this. With mania and a psychotic episode, everything inside of Harry bursts, while with depression, everything inside of Harry shrinks. Shrivels up and dies. It’s devastating, watching Harry wilt. Having Harry be completely okay one month to barely there the next. Despite how crappy it is, periods of depression happen often. Mania, too. Without any psychotic symptoms. That’s part of the gig, isn’t it.

Louis has learned to hate fall, because there’s just something about it that brings Harry down, one way or another. There hasn’t been a doctor who has bought into the theory yet, but Harry and Louis both swear that he gets hit harder come September and it drags on for a while.

Harry doesn’t let it take him so easily, though. He tries, desperately and daily, to fight through the fog and exhaustion and irritability and loss of energy. He continues going to work and taking his medication and going on runs with Louis every night. He takes care of himself, because he will never be able to forget what happens when he doesn’t.

-

It’s seven-thirty in the evening and Louis’ lacing up his trainers, dreading but prepared for their nightly run, when Harry comes into the bedroom and says, “We’re not running today.”

Louis frowns at him. “We’re not?”

Harry shakes his head, a small frown of his own on his face. “No. I don’t feel like it. But we can. . . a walk. Can we just go on a walk? Is that okay?”

“Sure,” Louis agrees easily enough. Harry nods at him, looking grumpy but not saying about it. He grabs his own shoes and sits next to Louis on the edge of the bed. He leans into the kiss Louis plants on his forehead, pushing closer when Louis starts to pull away, so Louis lets go of his shoe-laces to wrap Harry in a long hug.

On their walk, they walk hand in hand. It’s so much nicer than running at different speeds, with Louis usually being the one trying and failing to keep up. It’s a cold day outside, so they both have on coats and sweats and Harry pulls his hood up before they even get down the street. He’s quiet, but that’s okay.

Eventually, Harry says, “You know, you really do need to get your mum and siblings over to London. The girls like it here better, anyway.”

“Yeah,” Louis agrees, a warm smile spreading on his face. “Why are you thinking about that, though?”

“Because if I’m still in a shit mood by December, I don’t want to be annoying everyone in Doncaster,” he mumbles. “It’s so much easier, you know, just popping in for a quick visit with my mum and going back home.”

“We don’t have to go to Doncaster if you’re still feeling poorly then,” Louis says, even though he really, really hopes that isn’t the case. He’d do it, though. Stay home, for Harry. The holidays are about them now; his mum would understand.

“No, I want to go.” He squeezes Louis’ hand. “We’re going.”

“Okay,” Louis says, and he knocks into Harry’s shoulder gently. “No pressure,” he adds, because there isn’t any. Not even a bit.

“Do you ever miss Holmes Chapel?” Louis asks. He hasn’t really given it any thought; he didn’t know Harry or Gemma back when they lived in Holmes Chapel. They moved here just before Harry’s first year of high school so Gemma could go to university here and they wouldn’t be apart. Anne didn’t want her kids being stuck in a boring countryside life, anyway. She wanted them to have a chance to properly witness things.

It takes Harry a few seconds to answer. “Kind of,” he says slowly. “I mean, yeah. But I think I just miss things not being complicated, you know? Holmes Chapel never saw a day of me being crazy. But besides that, no. Not really. I know for certain that everyone in my town would know about my illness, and that would have made it about a million times harder to get laid, so.”

Louis scoffs, rolling his eyes at him. When he glances back at Harry, he has a small smile on his face. It’s stupid, the way that sends relief down Louis’ spine. It’s not like Harry just doesn’t smile anymore, that’s not how depression works. It’s just. . . nice anyway.

It’s relatively quiet between them for the rest of the walk. Just before they finish, though, about a block away from the flat, Harry squeezes his hand and asks, “Is it. . . Do you ever wish you ended up with someone more like you? There’s no right or wrong answer.”

Louis frowns, instantly shaking his head. Harry’s staring at the ground ahead of them, and Louis tries to duck his head to look at him, but Harry looks away, biting his lip. “No,” he says, without doubt in any layer of his voice.

Harry shrugs jerkily. “I just mean, like. . . like, yeah, someone mentally stable, but, like. . . someone who went to uni like you. Or who has a job like yours. Or who’s independent like you. Don’t you. . . I feel like it’d just make sense, you know. You wanting someone like yourself.”

“We’re alike in the ways that matter,” Louis tells him, wrapping his spare hand around Harry’s arm, pulling him closer. Harry shakes his head, so Louis clarifies. “Family is both important to us. We’re both hardworking. We both want kids.”

Harry makes a flustered sound at that. “I don’t even understand how you’d want kids with me.” And that’s -- different. Harry takes poorly about himself all the goddamn time, but that’s a different kind of negative self-talk. Louis stops walking, and when Harry tries to shake him off and keep going, Louis pulls him back.

“Hey,” he says sternly. Harry hesitates, so Louis tugs on him again. “Hey, no. Look at me.” Harry does, and there’s confusion and hurt swimming in his eyes, threatening to spill over. “I want kids with you.”

Harry’s response is quick. “I know you do.” So that’s not where the insecurity lies, then, it’s somewhere else. Somewhere deeper.

“I know you’d be a good father, H,” he says, and immediately, Harry glances away, swallowing thickly. “Hey. Don’t be like that. You’re kind and you’re patient and you’re capable. That’s about all you need to be a good parent.”

“I know,” he mumbles, looking down at their clasped hands. “It’s just, like. It’s how I felt with you, you know? More people to let down. More people to hurt.”

Louis thought they worked on this. He thought that this insecurity of Harry’s was put to rest, but apparently not, or maybe it’s just that it’s popping up again. That’s such an awful way to think, though. Louis takes a second to put his thoughts into order.

“You’re going to disappoint them,” Louis says slowly. “So will I. So will everyone else in their lives. But you’re also going to make them happy, okay? And make them feel safe and loved and cared after. There’s going to -- Haz. They would love you, no matter what.”

“I know,” he says, in a way that clearly indicates he just wants to be done talking about this. He tugs on Louis, motioning ahead of them. “Come on, forget about this. Forget I brought it up. Well, forget that you brought it up.” He smiles a bit at that, dimple popping out. “Let’s just go home? Come on, we’re almost home. I was going to make a pot roast tonight.”

“We’ll talk about this again later,” Louis says, giving in. Harry just nods and tugs them along, and they walk the rest of the way to the flat. While Harry’s cooking, Louis watches him from the kitchen table, and he wonders if he ever truly knows what’s going on in Harry’s head.

-

Harry slips down another peg during the week. His mood finds new lows, his sex drive completely diminishes, motivation has to be scraped together to do anything. He’s still okay, though. Louis has to remind himself of that sometimes. Just because Harry’s doing a little worse than normal, it doesn’t always mean they’re heading down that scary path. And even if they are, they’ll figure it out. They always figure it out.

One morning, while Louis’ drinking his coffee and Harry is drinking lemonade, Harry whispers to him, “Do you know how much I’d give to have some time in a normal brain? Like, an hour. An hour where I could sit down and figure everything out that I’m too tired to figure out now. I’m not. . . I’m not trying to sound so depressing, shit.” He lets out a hollow laugh. “I’m just thinking.”

“I can always help you figure out the things that you need help figuring out,” Louis tells him, and Harry snorts.

“Please. Your brain is far from normal, Tomlinson.”

Still, as Louis drives to work, he thinks about that. About how he has stopped scolding Harry for calling himself crazy or referring to himself as not normal. It would annoy the fuck out of Harry if he did, but still. Louis used to do it all the time, knowing full well he was irritating Harry. And Louis thinks about how he takes everything for granted. When Harry’s doing good, it’s more so that he can pretend to be doing fine flawlessly. It’s not like his symptoms aren’t there anymore, because they are. They always are. Even when Louis forgets, or doesn’t think about it, Harry doesn’t have that option. How exhausting would it be, having to constantly work harder than everyone else just to appear okay? To appear normal. Sometimes Louis’ shocked that Harry can do so well most of the time.

And then he thinks about how debilitating it must have been at first. If Louis’ reality was shaken so abruptly like that, he isn’t sure how long it would take him to get used to it. If this Harry -- this twenty-five-year-old version of him -- still struggles as much as he does, even with all his learned coping strategies and support systems, then how the fuck did Harry feel when he was sixteen and seventeen? At that age, he barely had learned to cope with normal issues, like exams and sexuality and confidence, and then he had everything else to deal with, too. That’s. . . Louis doesn’t even want to think of how lonely and terrifying that must have been. Especially when he didn’t know what was wrong with him.

It’s not fair, Louis thinks, and then he remembers a time that Harry said that nobody is ever promised fairness. Some just get luckier than others.

-

That night, Louis wakes in the middle of the night to an empty bed.

It’s disorienting. Louis is barely even awake, more so just mechanically searching for body heat, only to find there is no body next to him. That wakes him up. He sits up a bit and sees light pouring in under the crack of the door, so Harry must be out of the room doing something.

Louis glances at the clock. Four-thirteen is a little too early to be doing something. He gets out of bed, pulls on a pair of pants, and follows the light to the kitchen.

At first, he’s relieved to see Harry leaning against the kitchen counter; he’s fine, isn’t he. Probably just needed a glass of water. Louis steps further into the kitchen, and he’s about to say something before Harry turns to him, and immediately, he looks guilty. Flustered. And that’s when Louis sees the bottle of rum and a shot glass sitting in front of Harry on the counter.

Harry’s the first one to speak. “Louis,” he says, and Louis quiets him with a hand in the air. Harry presses his back to the counter, looking small. After a sigh, Louis presses his hand to his forehead. It’s too late for this. Early. Whatever.

“How much have you had?”

“It’s not -- ”

“How much have you had? It’s a simple question.”

Harry bites down on his lip before shrugging. “Don’t know. Didn’t keep track.”

“Well, if you had to guess, how much would you say you had to drink?” Louis asks, anger slipping into his tone. Harry keeps looking at him with these guilty eyes, and Louis wants to snap that he wouldn’t have to look so fucking guilty if he just hadn’t drunk.

“Four shots,” he mumbles, looking away. “Maybe three. I don’t know.”

“So probably five or six,” Louis infers, and Harry doesn’t correct him, so that’s fucking -- what the fuck. He rubs a hand over his face before crossing his arms. “Do I need to remind you that your medication, all three of them, in fact, state very clearly that you shouldn’t drink alcohol with them?”

Harry doesn’t say anything. Just doesn’t say fucking anything, which -- fine. Whatever. Louis doesn’t exactly want to have this conversation, either. He sighs roughly before walking closer to Harry and grabbing the bottle of rum off the counter before pouring the rest of it in the sink. He has no clue how much Harry had to drink; Harry uses what alcohol they keep in the flat for cooking, and Louis doesn’t have any part of that. Harry keeps quiet until Louis grabs for the bottle of bourbon they have to pour down the drain, too.

“You don’t have to do that,” he says, having the audacity to sound disgruntled.

Now Louis is the one not to say anything. He unscrews the cap and pours it out, and when he grabs for the last bottle -- red wine, Harry’s favorite to cook with -- Harry snaps, “Louis, stop it. It’s fucking fine.”

Louis pours it out anyway, and once he’s done, he turns to Harry. “Now it’s fucking fine,” he snaps, reaching around Harry to grab the shot glass. He could just leave it in the sink to wash later, but he’s feeling particularly pissed off right now, so he makes a point of washing it now. As he does, he starts to calm down a bit. Not really, but anger doesn’t work with Harry. Especially if he’s feeling depressed. It makes him run in the opposite direction. So, with a deep breath, Louis dries off the shot glass, puts it away, and then turns to him.

“Talk to me,” he says, calmly.

Harry shakes his head, pushing himself off the counter. “I’m going back to bed,” he says, looking irritated.

“I’m not going to feel comfortable going back to sleep when you’ve drank on your medications. So, do me a favor and keep me a bit of company and talk to me about what you were thinking.”

Harry’s wide, guilty eyes turn sharp. “I’m thinking that I’m twenty-five years old, and if I want to have a bloody shot of rum, I’m allowed.”

“And I’m thinking that it’s too early to listen to you take your sadness out on me instead of just talking to me.”

It’s more pointed than Louis would usually talk to him, and he almost wants to take it back because of the way Harry’s face falls. He doesn’t, choosing to stand his ground.

“I couldn’t sleep,” Harry says slowly, frowning. There’s an indent between his eyebrows.

“Did you take your -- ”

Harry interrupts him. “You know I did. You were right next to me. Don’t. . . don’t start questioning me. Don’t do that. Please.”

“So maybe we need to think about increasing the -- ”

“I don’t feel like talking to a doctor right now,” Harry says, interrupting him again. He doesn’t sound angry, though. He looks like he wants to, but he doesn’t. “I’d just like to have a normal conversation with my boyfriend.”

Louis doesn’t say anything, just nodding at Harry to continue.

“I couldn’t sleep. And I wanted a drink. And I don’t care if I wake up with a headache tomorrow because of it. I have a headache every day of my bloody life.” And before Louis can say it, “And I know that mixing my pills with alcohol could cause a lot worse than a headache, but I did it a lot when I was a kid and nothing happened, and it’s not like I do it regularly. So, just. . . just spare me the lecture, okay?”

Louis wants to fully talk about this, he really does, but Harry is clearly not in the mood. Maybe later on, after Louis’ come home from work. Not now, though. He should let Harry get back to bed, anyway. So, reluctantly, Louis nods.

“Thank you,” Harry says, and he sounds like he means it. “And buy me more red wine, would you? I was going to make beef stew this weekend.”

“Only if you swear not to drink it.”

Harry rolls his eyes, although it isn’t malicious. “I solemnly swear,” he mumbles, stepping forward to touch Louis. He puts his hand on his hip and kisses his forehead, and Louis presses against him.

“You smell like rum,” Louis mumbles, his arms wrapping around Louis’ middle. “I hate rum.”

“I know you do,” Harry whispers, rubbing his hand over his waist. He kisses his head again before tugging him back to bed. He tells Louis to go to sleep, to not be paranoid, so Louis pretends like he will. As soon as Harry’s snoring, though, Louis sits up and grabs his phone and spends the whole night making sure Harry’s okay.

As Louis gets ready for work that morning, he hears Harry get up. He’s in the bathroom, messing with his hair, when Harry comes bolting towards the toilet to throw up. Louis sighs, sinking down to the floor next to him so he can rub Harry’s back. After about a minute, Harry groans quietly and flushes the toilet.

“I think I hate rum, too,” he croaks, and Louis snorts.

“Brush your teeth, you idiot.” He kisses the back of Harry’s neck and squeezes his side before standing up and leaving him to it.

-

“So, what did Dr. Kemper have to say today?”

They’re stretched out on the sofa, both of them with their feet on the coffee table in front of them, and Harry’s texting on his phone. Probably Gemma or his mum. Their program starts in ten minutes, so they’ve got a little time to kill where they can just chat.

“Nothing enlightening,” Harry mumbles, only briefly looking up from his phone. “Got on me for not forcing myself to eat more, though. She was annoying today, but I suppose that’s her job.”

“What’s wrong with your eating?” Louis asks slowly. He hates feeling like he’s out of the loop. Sometimes, yes, Harry intentionally keeps things from him. But other times, he forgets to mention it because it’s normal to him, or becoming normal. Harry glances at him, and he must look a certain way, because Harry puts down his food and shifts closer to him, their shoulders touching.

“Nothing. Just have a low appetite, is all. That’s common. Nothing to worry about.”

“But you are eating fine, right?”

Harry nods. “Most of the time. Sometimes I substitute my lunch with cookies at work, but that’s not out of the blue.” He gives him a slanted smile. “Chin up, love. If she’s only worried about my eating, which I swear to you is fine, we’re in a good spot.”

“Suppose you’re right,” Louis mumbles, and he presses a quick kiss to his lips. Harry hums and cuddles against him. Sometimes he has to comfort Louis, too. And sometimes Louis doesn’t even realize he’s doing it.

-

For the next few weeks, Harry’s steady. Not getting any worse, but not getting any better, either. They work with what they have, and Harry agrees to go to a birthday party even though he normally opts out of any social event while he’s depressed. His only stipulation is that Louis has to take over any and all of people’s attempts to talk to him. He’s only half-joking.

“Whose birthday is it, anyway?” Harry asks, ten minutes before they have to leave. He’s staring down at the birthday card Louis bought this morning. Louis scoffs at him fondly.

“Brie’s. You know this. You texted her last night.”

“So why didn’t you write her name on the card?” Harry asks, grabbing for a pen. “It’s birthday etiquette.” He writes her name on the envelope and on the card, all the while mumbling to himself that he has to do everything around here. First making brownies, now the card. All after a hard day's work. Will I ever get a break?

So, he’s in a good mood today. It makes Louis grin. And he even offers -- demands, more like -- to drive to the restaurant, which is a good sign. He looks like he’s concentrating more than he normally does while he drives, almost like he has to, but not even for a second does he drive poorly, so Louis lets it be.

They head in the restaurant hand in hand and with Harry behind Louis. He’s squeezing Louis’ fingers tight and curses under his breath when they almost bump into a waiter, but when they get to the table with all their friends, he says hello to everyone easily enough, including Gemma, who he kisses on the cheek before sitting down beside her.

Idly, Louis wonders why they don’t ever talk about how Harry gets with her when he’s doing bad. Surely, it would do Harry good to let go of whatever festering guilt or anger or whatever it is that ruptures when he’s short-tempered. It’s not like they don’t have a good relationship, because they do. Gemma adores him, and Harry adores her right back. It’s just. Gemma shouldn’t be as used to Harry being short with her at certain times as she is.

“We were just talking about Glasgow this summer. You two should come this year, it’ll be fun,” Brie says, grinning at them. Under the table, immediately, their hands tighten around each other. Louis isn’t sure who does it; maybe it was both of them.

“Nah, I don’t think so,” Louis says politely, and Gemma nods. Her hand is resting on Harry’s forearm now.

“They’re a bunch of homebodies now, anyway,” she says. “Wouldn’t be much fun.”

“Oh, but Harry was such a party animal only a few years ago,” Brie continues. “Could hardly keep up with him, you remember?” She laughs, as does everybody else, and the three of them are only a beat behind them. She’s about to say something else, but before she can, Gemma asks everyone if they’re ready to order now that everyone is here. Harry reaches for the menu in front of them, but there’s a tension in his posture that wasn’t there before.

Glasgow was a terrible time for Harry. He went there with the full intention of making the most of the last week of his life and killing himself as soon as they got back. Gemma spent the whole week trying to get Harry to calm down -- something virtually impossible, since he was manic. And Louis, well. Louis had a nice time, up until he found out about what happened.

It was the first time either Harry or Louis went to Glasgow, and it will be the last. There’s an unsaid mutual understanding about that.

The rest of the dinner goes over fine. Louis and Harry aren’t at the core of this friend group, so they get away with not talking too much. Eventually, Harry and Gemma are completely leaned away from everyone else, wrapped up in their own conversation. So Harry is still managing to get some social interaction while remaining in his comfort zone, which is what Louis was hoping for.

Louis’ forking at the rest of Harry’s grilled potatoes when Harry turns to him and asks, “Hey, Gems said we can go back to hers if we wanted.” He looks hopeful when he asks, “Can we? Just for a bit?”

“I don’t care, that’s fine.”

Harry nods, smiling, before turning back to Gemma.

They stay for another hour before Harry, Gemma and Louis make their exit. They were trying not to be the first ones to leave, but eventually they can’t bring themselves to care anymore. Since Harry says he’s got a little bit of a headache, Louis drives to Gemma’s flat instead.

Louis would never say it, but he doesn’t like it at Gemma’s flat. He knew Harry at the time he lived here, knew his struggles. Knows that he tried to take his life in that spare bedroom, and that he had screaming matches with Gemma in this kitchen that left them both in tears, and that Gemma still has the same sofa where Harry whispered to Louis one night that he was scared that he wasn’t scared of dying. It’s overwhelming, being here. Makes Louis’ skin crawl for no reason; the same things have happened at their flat, give or take. And at Anne’s. Still, justified or not, Louis hates the way he feels here. Surprisingly enough, Harry doesn’t seem to mind it.

“Sit,” Gemma tells them. “I’ll make some tea.”

They do, and once Gemma brings over the tea, they sit and chat on the sofa. About nothing in particular, really. Harry stays engaged in the whole conversation, which makes Louis happy. It’d be okay if he didn’t, though. He wouldn’t have been disappointed.

At one point, Gemma asks Harry how he’s doing. He says fine, and she gives him a pointed look until he says more.

“I’m still depressed,” he says, suddenly taking interest in his tea. He hasn’t drunk any of it until now. After he takes a sip, he clears his throat. “But I’m managing it fine. And, like,” he glances at Louis. “My hallucinations are. . . getting worse, maybe, but not by much.”

Louis frowns. He didn’t know that. “Worse how?”

“Voice is just getting mean again,” he mumbles, shrugging. And that’s just unfair, isn’t it. Harry’s already dealing with his own negative self-talk, and now he’s got someone else agreeing with that and making it worse. It makes Louis worried, of course it does, but Harry seems to genuinely be doing fine. He can’t interrogate him about it, not until he has something to ask about. The drinking was unfavorable, yes, but it seemed to have stemmed from a place of frustration rather than anything else.

“Oh, well,” Gemma says, looking a bit sad. “As long as you’re coping with it okay.”

“I am. Promise.”

Gemma nods at him, and then at Louis. Louis nods at her back; they have this all under control.

-

A week and a half later, while Louis’ staring at spreadsheets at work, he gets a call from Harry. Thankful for the distraction, he leans back against his chair and answers.

“Hello, darling.”

“I think somebody might be in the flat, Louis.”

That’s immediately concerning. If that’s true, then Harry’s in danger right now. If it isn’t true, Harry’s hallucinations are getting worse and he can’t tell them apart from reality. Neither situation is good, and the idea of both send Louis’ heart racing.

“Okay,” he says quickly. “Why?”

“I heard a noise, I -- like a thud, like a really loud thud coming from the backroom. I’m in the living room, in the storage closet, but -- Louis, I don’t know what to fucking do.”

“Stay there,” Louis tells him, standing up. He grabs his coat and his bag. “I’ll be home as soon as I can, okay?”

“You think it’s just in my head, don’t you? Or else you would just be coming into the flat after I’ve just told you there’s someone in here.”

“I think that you won’t let me call the police, and someone has to come be there to help protect you, so I’m coming.”

Harry lets out a shaky breath. “Yeah, don’t -- no police. Please.”

“I’ll call you when I start to drive, okay? Stay put. I mean it.”

He hangs up before heading to his boss’ office to let him know he’ll be leaving early. Rob isn’t there, though, so Louis tells Janet instead before heading out. As promised, he calls Harry back when he starts to drive, and Harry swears that he didn’t move from the closet. He sounds so bloody scared, so sure, and Louis doesn’t know if his perception of reality is the truth right now.

“I’m coming into the flat now, okay, don’t freak out,” Louis says quietly outside their door. He gets his keys out and unlocks the door.

“Be careful,” Harry whispers, and Louis’ heart clenches painfully.

Even if Louis does have the sneaking suspicion that Harry is hallucinating, he still has to treat this seriously, so he whispers into the phone that he’ll just do a quick sweep of the house really quick. At that, Harry ends the call and comes out of the storage closet.

“Told you to stay put,” Louis scolds quietly, and then he sees the kitchen knife in Harry’s hand. “Give it to me,” Louis says, motioning for it. Harry frowns at him, but Louis shakes his head. “Give it. Please.”

Harry presses the handle of the knife into Louis’ hand and Louis takes it carefully. He doesn’t want Harry roaming around here with a knife for many reasons. Louis motions forward, and Harry follows close behind him as Louis looks through the kitchen quietly, and then the bathroom, and then the bedroom. There’s nothing. He even opens all the cabinets and closets, looks under the bed and behind the shower curtain; there’s nobody in here.

He turns to Harry, trying his best not to look some type of way. Harry already looks completely distraught.

“I heard something,” he says, voice strained. He’s on the verge of tears. “I’m not -- I’m not crazy, I heard something.”

“Maybe it was the upstairs neighbors.”

“It was coming from the backroom, I -- Louis, I heard it.”

“There’s nobody here,” Louis repeats softly. “The front door is the only entrance, and that was locked and intact. We’re fine.” And he really wants to get this knife out of his hand, so he presses a kiss to Harry’s shoulder before side-stepping him and heading to the kitchen. He purposely doesn’t think about any of this right now, because Harry’s upset and doesn’t need Louis pointing out that this is a concerning symptom.

“There was a noise,” Harry says, standing in the kitchen doorway. His voice is raw now, not hiding how wounded he’s feeling.

“Maybe something fell, babe.”

“It was too loud to be something falling, I don’t -- ” he presses the heels of his hands to his eyes and lets out a soft cry. “I’m too tired to do this. I can’t -- I don’t -- if I’m doing bad again, I don’t have the energy to fight it.”

“Hey,” Louis says, frowning. He steps closer to Harry and reaches his hand towards him, and Harry takes it, tangling his shaky fingers with Louis’. “One bad moment doesn’t mean you’re automatically doing bad. It could be a slip of the mind, a one-off. It’s okay. We’ll just have to pay close attention to how you’re feeling and deal with what comes, okay?”

Harry sniffles quietly. “Okay.”

“Even if you’re not doing great,” Louis says, “we can deal with that, too. We will deal with that. You’ve gotten through it before, and you’ll do it again.”

Harry nods and steps to fill in the space between them. He sets his forehead on Louis’ shoulder, and Louis sets his hands on Harry’s curved back. It’s going to be fine; it’s always managed to be fine, in the end. No matter what.

It’s going to be fine.

-

In Yorkshire, Harry slips further down. Slips and shrinks and slides away. It’s the stress making it worse, probably. Louis should have pulled the plug on the usual holiday shenanigans; he had a feeling Harry wasn’t doing great. After Harry thought someone broke in, which was ten days ago, he’s just gotten worse. His anxiety is through the roof and he’s having an incredibly difficult time concentrating and he snapped at Louis the other day over nothing. Louis was telling himself he’s just depressed, it’s okay, it’s just depression, and now, watching Harry try to interact with his family, he knows it’s more than that. Knows it’s worse than that.

They got to Doncaster yesterday morning, on the twenty-second of December. If Harry can keep it together until the twenty-sixth, they can leave a few days early without Louis’ family knowing that something is wrong. If Harry needs them to, they will leave at any time, of course they will, but Louis knows how devastated Harry will be if he can’t get through Christmas.

Nobody else can tell Harry is steadily declining. Louis’ family haven’t experienced any of this first-hand, so they don’t know what to worry about. They don’t know that Harry’s quiet behavior at the dinner table right now isn’t because he’s listening or tired, it’s because he’s fully given up on trying to win with the voice in his head. It must be so loud right now that Harry can’t take trying to think over it. He’s sitting at the table, chin in his hand, staring at the plate in front of him. Louis’ hand is wrapped in his under the table; was, maybe. Harry’s not hanging onto him anymore. Louis doesn’t squeeze his hand or move his hand at all, trying to avoid startling Harry. He doesn’t know how bad Harry’s feeling right now, and he doesn’t want to find out in front of everyone else.

This morning, Harry didn’t want to get out of bed. He was so bloody exhausted that he actually cried as he explained to Louis that he would not be able to get through today if he didn’t go back to bed. I’m sorry, I’m not -- I’m not just being lazy, I don’t -- I’m exhausted, Louis, I’m sorry. Louis told him not to worry about it and cuddled with him until he fell back to sleep. Afterwards, Louis went downstairs by himself to have breakfast with his siblings. Harry didn’t come downstairs until three hours later, and he looked disconnected from everything as Jay kissed his cheek and called him a sleepyhead.

Lottie is laughing loudly at something silly the twins said when Harry suddenly starts crushing Louis’ hand under the table. Louis glances at him, concerned. It takes Harry a full minute, maybe more, for him to turn to Louis. He looks -- Louis doesn’t even know. He looks like he’s about to crack. And he’s right, because Harry whispers, “I am about to fucking explode.”

Louis nods, feigning calmness, as he pats Harry’s hand. “Me and Haz are going to go for a walk before it gets too dark,” he says, and like he’s glad for the excuse to leave, Harry stands. He’s so bloody tense it’s concerning, so Louis stands, too. He goes to grab for their plates, but his mum waves them off and tells them to go.

“Have fun,” she calls after them.

Harry steals Louis’ slides so Louis puts on Harry’s stupid boots, and as he’s getting his foot in the shoe, Harry goes for the door.

“Put on a coat,” Louis says sternly, knowing Harry’s going to fight him on it. Harry doesn’t fight him, just walks straight out of the house with only a t-shirt in the middle of an England winter. He’s not even wearing any socks like Louis is. Louis curses quietly, gets the stupid shoes on, slides on his own coat and grabs one for Harry before leaving after him. Harry’s already halfway down the block, so Louis has to jog in these stupid fucking boots to catch up to him.

“Put on your coat,” he pleads once he does. He doesn’t touch Harry, scared of adding another stimulus to the mix of Harry’s head when he’s already so overwhelmed. His face is blank and his chest is heaving a bit, and he completely ignores Louis.

“Harry,” Louis tries again.

“I don’t want the fucking coat, Louis,” Harry snaps, glaring at him. He scoffs, yanking the coat out of Louis’ hands. He balls the coat up and keeps walking, and they’re at the end of the street, ready to turn the corner, when Harry randomly swears and throws the coat off in front of them. Louis watches him, alarmed, watches how Harry goes from scared to pissed off back to scared, and then he plops on the cement, sitting right on a fresh layer of snow, and puts his head in his hands.

Louis’ seen him distraught, but this feels new. Maybe it’s not, but Louis is pretty sure he’s never felt at such a loss of what to do.

“Please put on the coat,” he says quietly, picking it off the cement. He shakes it out and crouches down next to Harry, offering it to him, and Harry snatches it out of his hands again, but this time it feels less angry somehow. He doesn’t put on the coat, though. It’s bloody freezing and he’s wearing open-toed shoes and sitting on frozen, snowy cement; he needs a coat.

“I need to be alone right now,” Harry says, voice strained. “I need -- just go, just over there, I can’t -- I’m losing my fucking mind, Louis, and I need a fucking second.”

“Okay,” Louis whispers, standing up. He walks away a little bit, halfway between the house and Harry. He watches Harry, though. Doesn’t even try to be secretive about it.

Harry sits there for a few minutes, not doing anything. Louis can’t see his face with how he’s hunched over, but he’s pretty sure he doesn’t want to. Worst case scenario, Harry’s going to need to be sent to a hospital in Yorkshire until they can get him back to London. That’s -- worst case scenario. Louis doesn’t want to think about it.

Harry shifts, and Louis watches him struggle with the coat. He tries to get it open right, but for some reason, he’s having trouble. Louis doesn’t dare offer to help, just watches Harry struggle for a few minutes until he gives up and puts the hood of the coat on his head. From there, he uses the coat as somewhat of a cape, the arm holes unused and hanging out. If Harry can’t even figure out a bloody coat right now. . .

They shouldn’t have come here.

Louis jolts when he hears Harry say something. He can’t make it out, so he comes closer and prays to anything that Harry isn’t talking to himself. But then Harry looks up at him with these wide, terrified eyes, and repeats what he said.

“I need help,” he whimpers out, grabbing at the coat. “I can’t -- I can’t do it -- I don’t -- ”

“Shhh,” Louis whispers, crouching down in front of him again. He gently grabs the coat off of him and realizes it’s a quarter way zipped, and that’s why Harry probably couldn’t figure it out. He unzips it the rest of the way and puts it back around him, and as gently as he can, he helps Harry slide his arms into the coat. He gets it situated and, as he zips up the coat all the way up for Harry, Harry slides the hood back on. He’s shivering, his teeth are bloody chattering, but Louis knows he’s not ready to go back home.

“Put your hands in your pockets, babe,” Louis tells him, and Harry nods jerkily, listening to him. He curls into himself further, trying to find warmth, and Louis sighs quietly before sitting on the cement himself. He slips off a boot before grabbing Harry’s leg and taking one of his shoes off. He exchanges their shoes, hoping that helps a bit, and does so without getting either of their feet wet from the snow. After that, he runs out of useful things to do.

“Don’t want you to be cold,” Harry croaks out, and Louis immediately shakes his head.

“I’m not. Don’t worry about me. Talk to me, love. What’s wrong?”

“I’m on the verge of a fucking psychotic break,” he says, voice low. “Isn’t it fucking obvious?” He doesn’t sound mean, though. Angry, yes, but not mean. Louis lets out a shaky breath.

“Let’s go home,” Louis says, and immediately, Harry jerks back.

“No. No. Absolutely not. I’m not -- it’s not fucking Christmas yet, I’m not -- it’s -- I’m not ruining the holidays.”

“Babe.”

“I am not spending bloody Christmas at St. Mary’s,” he snaps, curling in on himself even more. “I’m gonna -- it’s fine, I’m just going to -- just gonna keep it together for a bit longer. I can -- it’s -- ”

“Harry,” Louis says firmly. “If you can’t even think right -- ”

“How the fuck do you think I can do that?” Harry snaps, picking his head up to glare at him. “It’s so fucking loud. All the fucking time, it’s like -- it’s so hard, Louis, it’s -- you’ll never understand, never fucking get it, and I’m -- I’m gonna get fucking through it, we’re staying here for Christmas, I just -- it’s just -- ”

Louis nods, and Harry quiets, dropping his head back to his arm.

“At least your birthday,” he whispers after a minute. “Not leaving you alone on your birthday.”

“I wouldn’t be alone, love.”

Harry just shakes his head.

After about twenty minutes, Harry abruptly gets up and starts walking again. Louis follows quickly, not saying anything. Harry’s trying to work through this the best he can, and Louis isn’t going to interfere with that until Harry starts becoming a danger to himself. That’s the rule.

They walk around the neighborhood for ten minutes before Louis’ mum texts him. Don’t stay out too late, she says. It’s getting dark.

We’ll be fine mum xx.

Maybe. Hopefully. Louis is kind of scared to find out.

“H,” he says, after it’s been forty minutes since they left the house. They keep walking the same path, over and over again, and whatever Harry’s trying to do isn’t working. He still looks tense as all fuck. “You have to talk to me a little bit.”

“Just going to go home and sleep.”

“We’re going to go home and take a nice, hot shower, and then you can sleep. But I need you to tell me how you’re feeling.”

“Like I’m about to have a fucking -- a fucking heart attack or something,” he huffs out. “I’m so stressed, and it’s -- and my head hurts, and I can’t -- I feel so scrambled right now, Louis, so -- so fucking fucked up.”

“On a scale from one to ten, how bad do you feel?”

“On a scale from one to St. Mary’s, I’m fucking peachy.”

“No, you need to talk to me,” Louis says, stopping. Harry doesn’t follow him, at first, until he gets about a foot away and huffs, turning back around to look at him. “I don’t know what Doncaster’s mental health resources are like. I don’t know the best hospitals or how the police are or the protocol around here. I do know that the city itself is a bit hush-hush about mental health issues, and if that’s a reflection of the system, I want to get you back to London before we have to find out.”

“The fuck they gonna do?” Harry snaps, voice low. He scoffs, his arms jerking forward. “How could anybody make it any worse?”

Louis’ never felt so powerless.

“The only difference between St. Mary’s at the other shit hospital is I went to is that it’s better at making it not seem like a fucking prison,” he says. “But just because they’re -- just because they fancy it up a bit doesn’t mean it’s not torture. Maybe -- maybe here, they’ll do everybody a fucking favor and -- ”

“Finish that sentence very fucking carefully,” Louis snaps, and Harry steps back. One step, then two. He shakes his head and turns around, continuing forward. Louis walks, too, and he’s about to tell Harry that he’s driving them home tomorrow when Harry sniffles.

“Let me try,” he whispers. “Let me -- let me try to get through Christmas here.”

“You won’t tell me the truth. If you’re doing bad, you won’t tell me.”

Harry scoffs. “I can’t really hide it, can I.”

And, well. He supposes that’s true.

Louis entertains this all until another twenty minutes pass, it’s pitch black, starting to snow again, and Harry’s shivering terribly. Louis’ cold, too, but he barely even processes it.

“We’re going home,” he says sternly.

“I’m not ready.”

“We have to go home,” is all Louis says. He loops his arm around Harry’s, the first time he’s touched him since he helped him put his coat on, and tugs him along back home. Harry doesn’t fight with him, thankfully, and they get back home soon enough. Louis opens the door, and Harry falls behind him, so Louis finds his hand to keep him close. Everyone’s still at the table even though dinner is long finished, and Louis smiles at everyone, pretending like his flesh isn’t so cold it feels like it might crack off and like Harry isn’t losing his mind.

“We’re going to head to bed,” he says. “And don’t go outside, it’s cold.”

Jay laughs. “Thanks for that. Should ring the weatherman, let him know.”

Louis laughs, too, before squeezing Harry’s hand and walking past the table. They’ve nearly made it, and then Daisy says, “Good night, Lou.”

Louis turns to look at her and give her a warm smile. “Night, Dais.”

“Good night, Harry,” says Phoebe, and Louis nearly has a bleeding heart attack, terrified that everyone’s going to know. Somehow, some way, Harry finds it in him to reply. Louis’ surprised he was even paying attention.

“Night, Pheebs.”

Louis tugs him along, then, and they get to the bedroom successfully. Louis lets out a loud sigh as he shuts the door behind them. “Go start the shower,” he says softly. “I’ll get us some warm clothes.”

Harry nods, eyes filled with tears. He heads to the bathroom, and after a minute or so, Louis hears the water start. For a moment, just a moment, Louis thinks he might cry, but he swallows it down, finishes grabbing the warmest clothes they have, and heads to the bathroom. Harry’s standing there, staring at the water, still all dressed up, so Louis gets them both undressed before they get into the shower. The water is hot, almost too hot, but it takes a few minutes for their skin to stop feeling cold to the touch, and even longer to feel completely warm. In the meantime, Louis crowds against Harry and just holds him. Holds him because Harry’s letting him, because he wants to, because he needs to, because in no time, Harry is going to be away again and there’s not a goddamn thing Louis can do about it.

Neither of them say a word in the shower for the first fifteen minutes, so Louis startles when Harry lets out a sharp cry and says, “I’m so sorry, Louis.” He clings to Louis’ arms around his middle and sobs, and Louis holds him closer and kisses his shoulder.

“It’s not your fault, baby. You can’t help it, I know that. I don’t blame you, not even for a second.”

“I try,” he cries. “So hard. I try so hard. For -- for you, mostly. I don’t even care about me anymore. I don’t -- I can’t be your burden.”

“You are not a burden,” Louis says, almost snapping. Harry doesn’t respond, so Louis pushes on his shoulder, signaling him to look at him. Harry does, only for a second, and then he presses his face against Louis’ neck, crying there softly. “You are not a burden. You’re my favorite person in this entire world, and I love you, and I love that I get to love you.”

“I don’t know how it’s so easy for you to say that.”

“I told you so long ago that you can’t choose who you love,” Louis whispers, running his fingers over Harry’s spine, “but even if we could, I would still choose you. Without hesitation.”

Harry’s hand comes up to rest against Louis’ waist, and he squeezes softly.

“I love you,” Louis continues. He needs Harry to believe that, to understand it through and through. “I love you, and I wouldn’t change that for everything. I’m going to marry you one day. Someday soon, probably. And it’s going to be the best day of my fucking life, because I love you so much. So much, Harry.”

“I think you’re the crazy one,” Harry whispers, sniffling, and it’s meant to be a joke, Louis knows that, but he can’t take jokes right now.

“I will. I’m going to marry you. That’s not crazy.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

And something just comes over Louis, then. A mix of need to reassure Harry and anxiety about what the next month will look like and just fucking wanting to clashes in Louis’ head, all coming together to bring him to say, “I will. Without a doubt. Do you want to marry me?”

“Of course,” Harry says easily, so he must not get it. Louis pushes him back gently so he can look at him, and he reaches up to set his hand on Harry’s neck, his thumb resting on his chin. Harry’s hand is still firm on his waist, and Louis puts his other hand over it, squeezing his fingers.

“No,” he says. “I mean, will you marry me?”

Harry stares at him, confused. “What?”

Louis smiles a bit, too sad to give much of an effort behind it. He never imagined himself asking this when he’s so sad, and when Harry’s so hurt, but he doesn’t care. Things don’t have to play out the way that you imagine for them to be perfect.

“Would get down on one knee, but I don’t think we should do this with me eye-level with your dick.”

Harry tries to pull back, eyebrows coming together in confusion, but Louis keeps him close and shakes his head.

“There’s not a right or wrong answer,” he whispers. “But just so we’re clear, I’m asking you, Harry. I’m asking you, right now, if you will marry me.”

Harry’s face crumples and a sob escapes him as he comes closer again, this time with his arms around Louis’ neck. As he cries, Louis wraps his arms around his waist and holds him. Part of him hopes he didn’t just make things more complicated for Harry, but the other part of him thinks that Harry shouldn’t be surprised enough for this to complicate things. Maybe the timing isn’t right, maybe they will look back at this and wince, but goddammit -- he doesn’t care. He doesn’t fucking care. He wants to marry Harry, and he wants Harry to want to marry him, and it doesn’t have to be any fancier than that.

“Yes,” Harry croaks out after a few minutes. “I -- yes. Of course.” And then, a beat later, “Are you serious?”

“Of course I am.”

“Then yes.”

“Yeah?”

Harry nods. “Yeah. That’s -- of course.”

Louis doesn’t know how long they stand there, folded into each other. Long enough for the water to go cold, and then a few minutes after that. Louis thinks fuck it, that the cold water doesn’t matter, but then he remembers that they came in here to warm up and letting themselves get freezing cold all over again is stupid. So, he tugs Harry out of the shower and they dry themselves off before getting dressed. In the bedroom, while Harry takes his sleeping pill, Louis digs through his bag, ignoring Harry’s questions of what he’s doing. Eventually, his fingers find the small box that Harry brought to keep a few pieces of his jewelry in. Louis pulls it out and grabs one of the three rings Harry brought with him before turning around, grabbing Harry’s hand, and sliding it over his left ring finger.

Or trying to. It gets stuck on his first knuckle. Louis sighs and grabs a different ring, the one with a small turquoise square. This one slides down his finger smoothly, and they both smile down at it. Louis tries on the other two rings, but they are too big for his fingers and he doesn’t want them getting lost, so he promises Harry that, when they get back home, he’ll find one that fits him until they can get proper engagement rings.

“I love you,” Harry says, once they’ve slipped into bed. “I love you a lot.”

“I love you, too.”

It’s quiet for a few minutes, and then Louis frowns to himself. “Hey, H,” Louis whispers, just in case Harry has already fallen asleep.

“What?”

“Don’t let this pressure you into pretending to feel better than you do. I know you’re going through a rough time. I don’t want you to feel, like. . . bad, if you aren’t doing great. Okay?”

Harry nods, shifting so his cheek is resting on Louis’ shoulder. He puts his hand on Louis’ belly, and Louis puts his hand over his. Louis spends too long staring at the ceiling and tracing his finger over Harry’s ring before falling asleep himself.

-

The following morning, Louis wakes at seven. He lays in bed for a bit, trying to process everything from last night -- the good and the bad -- and then he hears a noise coming from downstairs, meaning someone else is awake. Before he leaves the room, he reaches over Harry carefully so he can grab his phone and shut off his alarms. He won’t let him sleep in too late, only an extra hour or two.

Jay is in the kitchen unloading the dishwasher. When she notices Louis, she smiles at him and asks if he wants tea. He agrees, sitting at the stools in the kitchen. He watches her move around in the kitchen, putting away the rest of the dishes and making the tea. After a few minutes, she sits down next to him and hands him his tea.

“Thanks,” he says, dragging the mug towards him. It’s hot, so he will let it cool for a bit.

“How are you, baby? I feel like we haven’t had a chance to properly catch up yet.’

By catch up she means she wants to hear about the last few months that they haven’t seen each other, not yesterday. But Louis can’t bring himself to talk about work or coworkers or dates or friend gatherings when there are more important things going on.

“We, um.” He gives her a tight smile and runs his hands over his sweats. “Harry’s not feeling very well. So we, like. We might leave a bit early. Just so you know.”

She frowns and sets a hand on his forearm. “Well, is he alright?”

“Probably not, no. I don’t think so.’

“Oh, Louis. I’m sorry.”

“It’s not -- ” Louis sighs, frustrated. “It’s fine. Nobody needs to apologize. He can’t help it.”

“Of course he can’t. I wasn’t saying anything different.” She rubs her thumb over his skin, and Louis tries to let himself be comforted. It’s so difficult sometimes. “What’s going on with him, then?”

Louis grabs for his tea for something to do with his hands. He takes a small sip before setting it back down and shrugging. “He’s been depressed for a while now. Pretty badly depressed. But the last week and a half or so, it’s. . . It’s become more than just depression.”

“I don’t understand why his medication just stops working sometimes. Surely, there is something that we can do to avoid having to go through this every few years.”

“It’s not that simple,” Louis says. “It’s -- yeah, maybe he needs his medication dosage rearranged or his meds switched out altogether, but this doesn’t always happen just because of his medication. It’s -- he’s more stressed, probably. With the holidays, with coming here, with work picking up. And he was already depressed, so that doesn’t bring anything good to the mix. And the weather,” he motions aimlessly, feeling stupid as he says it. “I swear, it’s something to do with the seasons, too.”

“I didn’t notice he wasn’t okay.”

“He was okay. Mostly okay, anyway. Hanging on, at least. Until last night at dinner, he just. . . just sort of cracked, a bit.” He shrugs and smiles, trying to ease the tension. “He’ll be fine, though. We’ll figure it out.”

“Of course you will. And you can leave whenever, darling, don’t let us keep you. Take care of yourselves first.”

“He will get so much worse if we have to go home before Christmas,” Louis tells her, wondering if he should be saying any of this. He doesn’t want to intrude on Harry’s privacy, but at the same time, it’s probably better if someone else knows, too. If someone else is keeping an eye on Harry. “He won’t -- the guilt will eat him alive.”

Jay frowns. “Do you want me to take everybody out? For sledding, or something. So you two can have a day to yourselves. Or maybe you and him can go out somewhere, do something together.”

“Yeah,” Louis says, nodding. “Yeah, maybe. Let me see how he’s doing when he gets up.”

-

At ten, Louis squirms out from under Doris so he can head upstairs and check-in on Harry. He doesn’t want him sleeping too late, not late enough to mess up his sleeping schedule. He climbs the stairs and heads to his old room, and he finds Harry sleeping soundly, stretched out in the middle of the bed. He looks so comfortable that Louis feels bad about having to wake him. After shutting the door, he gets back into bed and sets his hand on Harry’s cheek. Harry twitches slightly before rolling over, knocking into Louis. He wakes up enough to put his head in Louis’ lap and wrap his arms around Louis’ leg, but a minute later when Louis says his name, there’s no response.

Eventually, after some coaxing, Harry wakes up. There’s no sleepy smiles or soft eyes or lazy morning kisses, because immediately, Harry’s mind swallows him back up and he just looks exhausted.

“I hate this,” Harry croaks, tears already in his eyes. He swears and hides his face against Louis’ hip, and Louis runs his fingers through his hair.

“My mum is taking my siblings out today,” he whispers. “She invited us to come along, but I thought we could spend some time together, hmm? Sound okay?”

Harry nods against him.

For thirty-five minutes, Louis tests the waters. He doesn’t say anything, hoping Harry will want to talk to him about something. Anything. He doesn’t; the entire time, the only noises that come from him are small sniffles.

“Are you feeling any better this morning?” Louis asks once he’s sure that Harry isn’t going to say anything.

“No,” Harry says, voice nearly a whimper. “I swear, Louis, I’m taking my medication.”

Louis rubs his hand over Harry’s shoulder. “I know you are. I see you do it every day. I know you’re doing everything you can.”

“And it’s still not enough. Not ever going to be enough.”

Louis tries to say that isn’t true, but as he tries to find the words, too much time passes for him to respond to it. He sighs and grabs his phone, texts his mum and asks her to clear the house, and lowers himself into bed so he’s lying down. Harry adjusts next to him, curling into his side.

Twenty minutes later, Phoebe comes bursting through the door, a grin on her face. Harry flinches, accidentally kneeing Louis kind of hard, and Louis holds onto him tightly. He won’t scold his sister, but Christ, she could have knocked.

“We’re going sledding, Louis. Mum’s taking us. Aren’t you coming?”

“Not today, bug. I have some work things I have to catch up on while you lot are out.”

“Booring,” she sings, before running back down the hall without shutting the door. Louis sighs, and he’s about to get up to shut it himself when Fizzy randomly comes by to shut it for them without a word. He wonders if their mum told her about Harry, or if she just knows how annoying it is when someone leaves a shut door open.

“You should be with your siblings,” Harry snaps once the door downstairs shut, leaving silence in its wake. “You should -- God, I don’t -- ” he sits up, running his hands through his hair.

“No, I shouldn’t. I should be with my fiancé.”

Harry turns to look at him, gaze sharp. Slowly, his face softens. “Do you regret it?”

“Not one bit.”

Louis tugs him back down into bed, and Harry kisses him. Softly, at first, and then it turns a little more frantic. Before Louis can voice his concerns, Harry shakes his head.

“Don’t say anything,” he whispers, already breathless. “Don’t -- we won’t have a chance for at least another a month, unless you want to fuck me in the waiting room at the looney bin. Just -- please, just -- ”

Louis quiets him with a kiss, and Harry melts into him.

-

They drive back to London on Christmas night.

Harry’s completely powerless, undeniably defeated. He has no energy left, not anymore. On Louis’ birthday, they spend nearly the entire day in bed, and Louis cries as he pleads for Harry to just let him take them home. Harry barely says a word to him the entire day, but he clings to him, and it’s -- Louis wanted to go home the twenty-fourth. He wanted to be in London for Christmas, where they could hopefully have a nice holiday together. But no, Harry wouldn’t budge, and now it’s snowing heavily and it’s eleven o’clock at night and Louis’ exhausted. And stressed. So, so stressed. Harry is silent in the passenger's seat, gnawing at his fingernails the entire drive, and there’s sure to be drunk drivers on the road tonight, and it’s -- he wanted to go home yesterday, but Harry made them wait. He made them wait until Christmas night, even though all they did is spend the entire day in bed again. And today, all Harry could manage to eat was breakfast. He’s too stressed to eat.

Jay tried to get them to stay, although when Louis told her that Harry could be literally seconds away from his breaking point and they needed to be closer to St. Mary’s, she let them go with a kiss, a hug, and a container full of Christmas dinner that Louis is going to try and convince Harry to eat when they get home.

Tomorrow morning, bright and early, Louis’ going to call for help. He has to, doesn’t he. Harry’s seriously not well. He just needs them to have a decent night tonight so he has the strength to do that tomorrow.

At midnight, an hour into their drive, Louis has no choice but to pull over on the side of the road. It’s too fucking snowy and too fucking dark and Jesus fucking Christ, he hopes there are no murderers out tonight. It takes Harry too long to realize that they’ve stopped, and he turns to Louis, confused.

“The snow needs to calm down a bit,” he tells him, his voice sounding shot. “I can barely see anything.”

Harry nods, and he takes his pointer finger from his mouth to start going at his middle finger. Louis watches the blood swell from his pointer finger, sliding down his finger, and Harry doesn’t even seem to notice. Sighing, Louis turns on the middle light and reaches into the glove compartment for some napkins. He grabs Harry’s hand, and Harry yanks it away from him, seeing the touch as an intrusion, a threat.

“Sorry,” Harry whispers, slowly reaching his hand towards Louis. He lets Louis grab his wrist and press the napkin to the blood. As he does so, his eyes drift to Harry’s other fingernails, and they’re all red and irritated and bitten down.

“Stop biting your nails. You’ll bleed.”

Harry’s hand twitches, and that’s it.

“Harry,” Louis says sternly, knowing that he’s just going to pick it back up the second Louis lets his hand go.

“Don’t know what you expect me to do. I’ve nearly -- I’m trying not to scratch, okay, this is what I do, and I can’t -- I’ve already bitten my cheek too much, so I just -- just leave it be, just leave me alone.”

God, Louis’ going to have to call someone tonight, isn’t he?

It’s a passing thought, not one he puts too much stock into, until they’ve started driving again and he looks over to see Harry leaning his head back against the headrest, face twisted up in frustration. He’s dragging the edge of his jagged nails over the spot that Louis just got done cleaning the blood from. It’s like he wants to bleed.

Louis doesn’t even say anything. There’s no point in getting him worked up now; if he suspects Louis is going to call the crisis response team on him again, he might panic. Louis can’t have that happen too early.

It’s three-thirty in the morning when they get home, and Harry’s asleep. He has his legs sprawled out in front of him, his arms crossed loosely over his chest, and his head is tipped towards Louis. Maybe. . . maybe they can have tonight together still. Maybe Harry can just sleep through the rest of the night, and they’ll take care of this tomorrow.

And then Louis’ eyes fall on his hands, on the blood now dried around his fingernails, and he knows he has to stop being selfish.

As quietly as he possibly can, he gets out of the car, leaving the door cracked so he doesn’t have to shut it. He hurries to the flat, unlocks it, and as he stands in the kitchen window so he can watch the car that he left running in front of the flat, he calls the crisis response team. They tell him that there’s nobody available right now and give him an estimated wait time of ninety-five minutes, and Louis doesn’t know what to do, he doesn’t know what to do.

So, he calls Anne. Harry’s still sleeping in the car, Louis can see him, and as he waits for Anne to answer, he holds his breath and tries not to cry.

“Louis,” she says, sounding alarmed. Neither of them talked to her today, so she must’ve known it was a bad day. “Dear, what’s the matter?”

“I think Harry needs to go in tonight. He’s not -- he’s not well, Anne. But I called the crisis response team, and they’re too busy to take him, and I don’t -- ” he swallows down a cry. “I don’t trust waiting until morning. And I don’t know what to do.”

“Call the police,” she says calmly, and tears do rush out of his eyes then. That’s -- God, he can’t do that. Can he?

“He’ll be so mad at me. And so scared, God. Anne, what if -- ”

“They will take care of it. Of him. Call them and tell them to bring an ambulance, and they’ll take him to St. Mary’s or the hospital.”

Maybe Louis should give Harry a chance. He should ask Harry if he will go, he should beg him to go voluntarily, but what if -- he can’t have Harry getting panicked. Right now, he’s sound asleep in the car, oblivious to everything. And if he says no and gets panicked, then Louis’ going to have to call the police anyway and the outcome could be a lot worse.

The best option here seems to be doing this without Harry’s approval, and that’s just not right. It can’t be.

“Louis,” she says. “Do it or I will, okay?”

“What if they hurt him? What if -- what if he panics and tries to fight them, what if -- ”

“Then the paramedics will sedate him. It might get more physical than we would like it, but Louis. You have to trust your gut. If your gut is telling you that you need to get him to the hospital, then you need to get my son to the hospital.”

Right. Harry is Louis’ responsibility now. Last time, Anne called the crisis response team. Louis can do this. He has to do this.

“I’ll call you in a bit, okay?”

“Yes. I’ll call Gemma.”

Louis doesn’t waste any time in calling the police; he really, really doesn’t want Harry waking up. He explains the situation as best as he can with how lightheaded he feels and how stubborn the tears are being.

“He’s not dangerous,” he repeats several times over. “He’s not a threat to anybody. He’s -- he’s just a bit lost right now, but he’s not a threat to anyone. He’s never been physical with anyone before, and he won’t be now, so just -- just please tell them to be gentle. Please.” He closes his eyes briefly before opening them again. “And tell them not to make much noise. Like, no sirens or anything.”

They actually make it in good time. Louis is sitting on the porch, watching Harry from the distance and wondering how he hasn’t woken up from the car dinging at him to tell him the door is ajar. It takes them fifteen minutes to get here, and like Louis requested, they come quietly.

He stands, heart racing, and walks closer to the officer approaching him. She’s a woman; for some reason, that makes Louis feel better.

“I’m going to wake him up and ask him to go with you,” Louis says, voice shaking. “I’m -- I want to give him at least a chance to cooperate. And if he doesn’t, that does not give you the right to hurt him in any way.”

“Our job is to de-escalate situations, sir, not make them any worse than they need to be.”

Louis bites back what he wants to really say to that and smiles thinly at her instead. She nods at him, giving him the go ahead, and Louis walks to the car, to the passenger’s side, and opens the door. That wakes Harry up, and he blinks at him with tired eyes.

“Babe,” Louis whispers, and Harry turns his head to look around, probably to try and figure out where they are, but Louis keeps his head straight by resting his hand on his cheek. “Hey, we’re home. But we need to talk.”

Harry’s eyes dart behind Louis, and immediately, he pushes Louis’ hand away from him. He sits up better, straining to look behind Louis, and he looks terrified when he puts the piece together.

“You called the fucking police on me?” he asks, seething. Already, he’s breathing heavily and he whips his head around the other way, probably looking for a way out.

“Yes. All they need from you is for you to go sit in the ambulance before they take you to the hospital, okay?”

“I’m not going,” Harry snaps, shaking his head. “I’m not -- no, no, absolutely not, why did you -- you didn’t even tell me, you -- ”

“Harry,” Louis begs. “If you cooperate, this doesn’t have to get complicated.”

“They’re going to hurt me,” Harry cries, turning to look at Louis again. “They’re going to -- Louis, how could you -- I don’t understand, I don’t -- ”

Louis doesn’t know how he’s managing to hold back the tears when all he wants to do right now is burst into tears. “They don’t want to hurt you. They won’t hurt you.”

“They have guns.”

“Just let me walk you to the ambulance,” Louis pleads, and Harry sobs, shaking his head. He’s about to say something when he looks past Louis’ shoulder, and then he lets out the worst cry Louis had ever heard before clutching at Louis’ wrist. Louis turns slightly to see that the officer -- he didn’t even get her name, for fuck’s sake -- coming closer, and Louis urgently shakes his head.

“He is terrified of the police,” he tells her, setting a hand on Harry’s shoulder. “You’ll just make it worse. Please, let me take care of this.”

She nods, taking a few steps back

“See, she’s listening to me, love,” Louis whispers. “She won’t hurt you, because I told her not to.”

“You promise?”

“I promise.”

And what terrible parting words would those be if this goes the wrong way.

Harry’s fingers are crushing Louis’ wrist, and he’s crying hysterically, but slowly and with a shaking hand, he unclicks his seatbelt. Relief rushes through Louis so fast he sincerely thinks he’s going to faint for a second. He doesn’t, and he helps Harry stand from the car. Harry’s making himself small, trying to fit himself behind Louis, and Louis hushes him softly. He reaches forward, twisting the keys out of the ignition and jamming them in his pocket, and shutting the driver’s side door. He wraps one arm around Harry’s waist and the other around his front, his hand steady on his shoulder, and he walks Harry to the ambulance.

Harry could still try to run. He could, and Louis is desperately hoping he won’t, that his fear of the police will keep him cooperative.

Harry’s hands have gone clammy against Louis’ skin as Louis helps him into the ambulance. The officer lingers behind them, a few feet away, and Louis nods at her shortly before his attention is brought back to Harry, who is cowering against him, away from the paramedic who looks kind and patient and not at all like he is going to hurt Harry. Louis feels so bad doing this to him.

“Just sit down,” Louis says to him gently, motioning to the stretcher in the center of the ambulance, but Harry looks at him like he’s crazy, his fingers tightening around Louis.

“Want to be by you.”

“I’ll be right -- ”

“No,” Harry says, sucking in a sharp breath. His hands readjust against Louis' forearm, and they’re shaking.

“He can sit with you,” the paramedic says, and Harry’s face twists like he might cry as he crowds closer into Louis’ space. Louis wraps his arm tighter around him as he moves them to the two seats beside the stretcher, and Harry pulls his legs onto the chair and hugs Louis’ arm and doesn’t look at the paramedic, not even for a second.

Louis is so, so grateful Harry has never thought anything ill about Louis due to his delusions. That, so far, Harry has never been forced to believe that Louis is conspiring against him or dangerous or anything like that. Sometimes Harry gets it in his head that Louis is sick of him, but Louis can handle that. He couldn’t handle Harry being afraid of him.

“I’m Henry,” the paramedic says, as polite as he can. He shuts the doors behind them, causing Harry to flinch; he’s locked in now, no going back. His fingers scrape at Louis’ coat, probably in an attempt to grab something solid. Louis squeezes the hand he does have in his and hopes it’s enough.

“Louis,” he says. “And this is Harry.”

Henry tells them what hospital they’ll be transported to and what will happen from there. Last he heard, he says, all the waiting rooms for psych patients were yet again filled. (And what would happen if Harry wasn’t able to be around others, Louis thinks. What would happen then? Where would they put him?) They’ll probably wait in the waiting room or in a regular hospital room until one opens, or until Louis can call St. Mary’s in the morning. Louis wants to voice his annoyances about that -- Harry is in a poor mental state and will not do well around loads of other people, and he shouldn’t be forced to -- but he doesn’t want to piss Henry off or put him under the impression that Harry is dangerous. He’s not. Louis knows that some people think that about him just because he’s mentally unstable, and it’s just not true.

That doesn’t seem to translate well when Henry opens a package of cleaning wipes and offers a wipe out towards them. He’s not even suggesting that he wants to do it himself, but Harry twists away from his outstretched hand and glares, mumbling something too jumbled to make out. Louis grabs the wipe and, because he doesn’t want to startle him, asks Harry if he can clean off his fingers.

Harry looks so heartbreakingly lost for a second. That describes his whole face, really. Lost. He is too overwhelmed to be able to keep up with anything, and he’s hurting so badly, and he’s terrified. Not only of right now, but of what’s to come. Where he’s going to go next. (And what would happen if Harry didn’t have someone to be there for him? Harry isn’t weak, but he can’t advocate for himself or trust easily when he’s doing poorly. Things would have gone so much differently tonight if Harry was by himself. It’s so sad, too, because a lot of people like Harry end up alone in one way or the other.)

Harry glances down at his fingers, and almost immediately, he lets go of Louis so he can go back in to start messing with them again. Louis intercepts one of his hands and squeezes softly.

“Let me clean them,” he says. “And we’ll get you some band-aids if you can’t leave them alone, okay?”

“It’s Christmas,” Harry says abruptly, glancing at him. His eyes are wide and full with tears, and his lips are quivering. “We’re supposed to be in bed, it’s -- it’s Christmas, we -- and the new year, and -- I don’t -- it’s Christmas. It’s our first Christmas.” Since they’ve been engaged, he means.

Louis swallows back tears and touches Harry’s jaw. “It’s the twenty-sixth now. Just another boring day. It’s okay, Harry.” And he’s terrified that Harry’s going to say something that will force Henry to put Harry on suicide watch, so before he can, he grabs Harry’s fingers and starts cleaning them. Harry’s hands shake, they shake so badly, and his nails are going purple with irritation, and it’s -- Harry’s right: this is Christmas. Technically it’s the next day, but it’s still Christmas because they haven’t gone to bed yet. Louis wishes they could have gotten through another week or two, for Harry’s sake.

“All clean,” Louis says softly, squeezing his hand. He tucks the wipe into his jacket pocket and gives Harry a small smile. “I’ve got you. Promise.”

For one second, a flash of relief floods Harry’s face, and then the ambulance starts driving and he looks like he could be sick.

-

The hospital is filled. It takes forty-five minutes in the waiting room (ten minutes in the waiting room; thirty-five minutes in a cramped bathroom cell because Harry felt watched) for them to be put in a room. There’s just a curtain for privacy that does nothing to keep out the chaotic noise of the hospital that isn’t helping Harry calm down, but at the very least, they don’t have to share space with anybody else. After another forty minutes, the curtain whips open and a nurse wants to examine Harry, but Harry refuses.

“I’m fine,” he cries, his hands squeezing each other in front of his chest. “I don’t -- it’s okay, I don’t need anything.”

The nurse frowns. She didn’t ask for their names, or tell them hers, and Louis understands she probably read the chart, but it doesn’t matter. It’s not right. “I just want to take your vitals.”

“No, I’m okay. I’m -- no, thank you, I’m fine, I’m okay.”

He’s crying heavily and looks like a proper mess right now, and all the nurse does is sigh, turn around, and say she’ll come back in a half hour. And once she goes, Harry’s inconsolable; he’s been crying since they got here, but not like this, not these big, harsh sobs that look like they take everything out of him. As Harry cries into his chest, his fingers clawing over Louis’ coat again, Louis texts Anne with an update.

“Do you want your mum to come see you, baby?” Louis asks, his lips pressed against Harry’s forehead. “She can, if you want. But it’s okay if you don’t want to see anybody, too.”

“She should be asleep,” Harry says, hiccupping around a sob. “She should -- no, tell her to sleep, it’s -- it’s Christmas, it should -- she should be asleep.”

“She can sleep after she sees you. Or in here, even.”

Harry shakes his head, so Louis lets it be and texts Anne that maybe she should hold off on coming.

For the next half hour, Louis holds him and rubs his back and kisses his face and whispers to him. He’s finally, finally, got Harry calmed down a little bit when the nurse comes back, and Harry’s back to choking on sobs and begging her to leave him alone.

“I need to take your vitals,” she says, sounding stressed, and Louis glares at her, one hand cradling the back of Harry’s head as he sobs into Louis’ chest and the other in front of him protectively.

“He’s a psych patient. We’re not in here for anything physical. His vitals aren’t important.”

“I need to -- ”

“You’re stressing him the fuck out,” Louis snaps. “Over nothing. Let us be. We’ll just be here until the morning when I can call the psychiatric ward to take him. Let us be. Please.”

She frowns at him. “Even psych patients need their vitals taken upon admission.”

“He’s not going to let you touch him,” Louis tells her. “I won’t let you touch him, either. Not when it’s going to make him feel unsafe and it isn’t necessary. Just please, let us be. I’m sure there are many other patients here that need your care more than him. You can’t do anything for him.”

“We can give him something,” she says, and there’s finally a note of sympathy in her tone. “For the anxiety. If you want. If he needs it.”

“I think we’re okay for now, but thank you.”

She nods and leaves again with a short sigh.

This time, he can’t calm Harry down. Literally at all. Harry clings to him and sobs and starts rambling about all sorts of things, half of which Louis can’t even make out. All he knows is that Harry’s talking about the real world, which is good. For two hours, Harry’s beyond stressed, and Louis thinks that maybe he should have his vitals taken so they can make sure he’s not going to have a stress-induced heart attack at twenty-five. But before Louis can start to worry too much, Harry wears himself out and falls asleep. Louis got them under the thin sheet about a half hour ago, hoping for this, so Harry can at least sleep comfortably.

For twenty minutes, Louis can think straight. He talks to Anne and Gemma, and he texts his own mum a happy Boxing Day, and he tries to ignore his bladder tugging at him to go to the bathroom. He won’t leave Harry alone.

For an hour, he ignores it. After that, he has to get up to run to the loo really quickly. He has to. So, as carefully as he can manage, he slips out of bed. Fortunately, he doesn’t wake Harry, so he leaves really fast. Within five minutes, he’s back, and Harry’s still sleeping in bed, hands curled against the sheets. Relief calms Louis’ nerves as he settles back into bed with him, just as careful as before.

After some time, Louis falls asleep, too.

-

The following day is a complete shit show.

Harry wakes early in the morning to a nurse in the room, poking at a machine near them to fix a bug or something, Louis couldn’t quite listen to her explanation because Harry was sobbing and begging her to leave and digging his jagged nails into Louis’ forearm.

“I’ll just take this and go,” she says, rolling the machine out of the room quickly. Once she’s gone, Harry sits up and rips off the covers, chest heaving and cries so harsh that they must hurt. They must.

“It’s okay,” Louis says, hushing him. “We’re fine. She was just doing her job.”

Harry shakes his head and pulls his legs to his chest. He doesn’t say anything, just keeps crying, so Louis just keeps comforting him.

An hour later, someone new comes in, and Jesus Christ, only they can be blamed for what happens. Louis has told two separate people now that Harry needs to be left alone, and people just keep marching into the room like they can be useful. They can’t. Not to Harry.

Harry freaks out when a male nurse pulls back the curtain and steps into the room around eight-thirty in the morning. Louis’ standing next to his bed, texting Anne about St. Mary’s (she called for him, again, and they said they can take him at five-thirty), and he jumps when the curtain is open, and startles even worse when Harry fucking screams.

“Leave me alone,” he shouts, the frustration bleeding through his tone. “I want to be left alone, why do you people not listen? Why -- I don’t -- this is my room, you can’t just come in and -- and I don’t need anything from you, I don’t -- why do you keep -- ”

The nurse tries to diffuse the situation by trying to talk Harry down, which is understandable, until Louis explains to him that it’s not going to work. Harry’s not going to calm down until he leaves, he tries to tell him, and the nurse seems to think he understands him more than his own boyfriend, because he keeps asking Harry to take slow breaths.

It’s bad enough, Harry shouting at him and the nurse not understanding what the fuck go means. And it gets a whole lot worse when another nurse steps inside, probably to see what all the noise is about. Harry -- and Louis is expecting it -- completely freaks out.

He rambles and rambles, and with the amount of stress he’s under, half of his sentences don’t make sense. “Get out,” he says a lot, and, “He told you to leave me alone.”

The situation is already reaching the territory of unacceptable; Louis doesn’t mean to be the tipping point, but he doesn’t realize him sitting on the edge of the bed next to Harry is going to make him panic as much as he does. He shoots up out of bed (he must be feeling trapped, cornered, and Louis made it worse, shit), and now he’s standing and yelling and waving his hands about. That mixed with him being a psych patient -- it’s enough for them to call him to get sedated, apparently, and Louis can barely keep up with what happens.

They don’t explain anything or ask or give him a warning; all the sudden, there’s two men walking into the room, scaring Harry even more, and they come right up to Harry. Harry, of fucking course, panics and tries to push away their grabbing hands, which is apparently enough to justify them grabbing his arms roughly and holding them behind him as one of the men pulls down Harry’s pants a bit to inject the sedation into his upper bum area. Harry’s screaming and yelping and sobbing, and they don’t even care.

As soon as it’s done, Louis rounds the bed and tells them very sternly to let him go. They go to say something, but Louis shakes his head. “You didn’t even forewarn him. That’s fucking inhumane, just pinning him down and sedating him. But you can leave now. Get the fuck out.”

Harry’s whimpering still, although now it’s quieter, and they sit him down on the bed before they leave. After they’re gone and Louis’ consoling a whimpering, terrified Harry, the nurse who started it all stands by the door, looking lost.

“If they do that again,” Louis says sternly, “we will have a big fucking problem here. They didn’t even try to let him cooperate. And doctors and medication scare the shit out of him, and you lot didn’t even know that. Or care. So leave, and don’t fucking come back. None of you, do not come in here.”

Harry’s clawing at the back of Louis’ neck as the nurse leaves, shutting the curtain. Once he’s gone, Harry lets out a pained cry.

“Feel weird,” he says, his face twisted up in pain. His pants are still pulled down a bit, so Louis fixes them before he kisses Harry’s forehead.

“It’s okay. You’re okay.”

“Don’t want to die, Louis, I don’t wanna die.”

“You aren’t going to,” Louis says sternly. “They just gave you something to go to sleep, okay? You’re falling asleep, not dying. I promise you.”

That’s the type of thing you explain to someone who is in an unstable mental state before you administer them drugs, not after. Not when they already think them feeling sleepy means they’re about to die. Harry’s going to be traumatized from this. And they must’ve not given him enough to completely knock him out, just enough for him to stop shouting, because he is half-conscious, half-asleep. He’s fighting sleep, doesn’t want to let it take him because he thinks they’ve poisoned him, and all Louis can do is pet his hair and rub his hip and beg him quietly to just let himself fall asleep.

Eventually, Harry does. Louis hopes he stays that way until they can get him to St. Mary’s.

-

St. Mary’s has Christmas decorations everywhere. For a moment, Louis thinks it’s going to upset Harry, but it actually seems to relax him a little.

Anne and Gemma are with them now. They went into Louis and Harry’s flat to pack a bag for him, and Harry has Gemma’s hat tucked over his ears. He’s really, really upset about this morning, and he bawled as he explained to Anne what they did to him, and Louis felt like a failure, a bit. But they’re here now. At St. Mary’s. It’s okay.

Or maybe it’s not, because Harry almost killed himself the last time they were here and he still hasn’t talked about it very much. Maybe nowhere is good enough to protect Harry, Louis thinks momentarily, before he snaps out of that defeat and focuses on the situation at hand.

They’re waiting for someone to come fetch him when Harry turns to him, frowning deeply. “They’re not going to let me keep my ring,” he says quietly, tears already wetting his eyes. He covers his ring finger like he’s hiding it, protecting it, and Louis frowns, too. Not all hospitals have such a strict no-jewelry policy, but St. Mary’s wants no part in being liable for missing jewelry.

“Hold on,” Louis mumbles, ignoring Anne and Gemma’s questioning stares. He asks the receptionist if she has a marker, and she hands him one. After uncapping it, he grabs Harry’s hand, takes off the ring, and draws a horribly done circle around Harry’s ring finger where the ring was.

“I can touch it up when I visit you,” he says, smiling warmly at him, before tucking the ring safely in his coat pocket, zipping it up. He watches Harry stare down at his finger, expression unreadable. Just after Louis returns the marker, a nurse comes out to take Harry back.

“Hi, Harry,” she says, already knowing his name. Harry squeezes Louis’ hand anxiously.

“Hi, Jo.”

“You’re just in time,” she says. “We’re about to be making Christmas ornaments.”

“Oh,” Harry says, nodding. He’ll like that, he will. It might be a little soon, jumping into things right when he gets here, but maybe it’ll be a nice distraction. “Okay.”

They’ve already said their goodbyes, but Harry hugs him again before he has to go. Louis holds him tightly and promises to visit as often as Harry wants him to, and Harry sniffles into his neck. While Harry is hugging his sister, Louis glances at the nurse.

“He was administered haloperidol earlier,” he tells her, sniffling a bit. “It’s been making him a little dizzy. I wrote it on his sheet, but. Just so you know, too.”

“Okay. Thank you for letting me know.”

Two minutes later, Harry is leaving them. Again. Louis knows that it’s okay, that Harry can come back here as much as he needs, but he hates the way this has become normal. A routine, of sorts. Harry must feel so powerless.

“He’s going to be traumatized,” Louis says mindlessly as he watches Harry turn a corner. He’s gone, now. They can’t see him anymore. “From this morning. He’s going to have a harder time trusting them here now.”

“He’ll be okay, Louis,” Gemma tells him, patting his shoulder, and Louis has nothing else to do but try and believe her. As they leave, Louis traces the ring inside of his pocket, praying that it’s back on Harry’s finger in no time.

-

Harry spends two whole months in the psych ward this time around. All of January and all of February, he isn’t home. He spends New Year’s and his birthday there. He’s cut off from the outside world for two whole months, and he gets so disconnected from it all that he stops asking Louis things about pop culture and politics and sports; those things don’t mean anything to him in there.

Two months is a long time to spend inside a psychiatric facility. A long, long time. Usually, for Harry and just in general, it’s a few weeks, maybe a month, before you’re out. Maybe a bit longer than that, but two months? Even Harry’s first psychotic break didn’t call for that much rehabilitation. But Harry’s depressed and blindly suicidal, and so when he gets through the psychosis, there’s still so much more mess to clean up.

During those two months, it gets harder and harder to sleep. Near the end of the second month, after Harry had whispered to him that this was his biggest fear coming true, Louis’ lucky if he scrapes more than four hours of sleep together a night. Coming home doesn’t feel like a given anymore, Harry told him. This is it. They’ve already thrown out the key and I’m not getting out. This is it, it’s all over now.

-

Harry tells him about Albert the second week into him staying at St. Mary’s.

“He lost his wife recently,” Harry tells him. He’s leaning against the wall, arms wrapped around the top of his knees, and he looks sick. His skin is pale, his eyes are bloodshot, his hair is greasy, and there are band-aids over all of his fingernails, all ten of them. Louis tries not to focus on that and listen to him talk.

“I didn’t know that was the type of thing people came here for, but.” Harry shrugs. “Guess I can’t judge. Not when I’m pretty sure that I’m considered to be, like, the worst case scenario.”

“Not true,” Louis mumbles, and Harry sighs.

“Anyway. He’s sixty-four, and, like, a proper old person. Likes golfing, reading the newspaper, knitting. . . doing crosswords. Fishing. And he’s nice. Really nice. And he’s friendly with all the nurses, so he can convince them to leave me alone.”

Louis frowns. “They’re not being mean to you, are they?”

“I can’t eat, Louis,” Harry mumbles, sighing again. He leans forward to set his chin on his arm. “Or maybe it’s more like I don’t want to. Don’t want to eat or talk to anybody or participate in anything we’re supposed to, and they get frustrated with me. And it’s -- it’s not like I’m doing it on purpose, I just don’t have the bloody will to do absolutely anything. And Albert is good at making the nurses think that it’s okay to leave me be. That I’m all right.”

“You should let them help.”

“They can’t help,” he says quietly. “What are they supposed to do for me anymore? I’m so fucking depressed right now, and they can’t fix it, can they? They just have to wait for it to sort itself out.”

“That’s not true. There’s different ways to help you, and if -- ”

“I don’t think there are,” Harry interrupts. “Not anymore. Feels like something broke in my head that shouldn’t have been broken. The way I feel now, it’s. . . different.”

“You’ve been depressed before, love.”

Harry nods. “But never like this, I don’t think.”

They sit in silence for a few minutes before Harry straightens out and starts talking about Albert again. About how he’s trying to teach him chess, and how he has a cottage in Virginia, and how he used to be a defense attorney. Louis’ been here for an hour and a half already, and Harry talking about Albert is the lightest he’s seemed the entire time, so Louis tries not to interrupt very much. After he tells him about the time Albert went to California in the 70s, Harry goes quiet and glances at Louis, looking guilty.

“Can I tell you something?”

Louis nods, his fingers tightening over Harry’s ankle. “Of course.”

“Promise you won’t get mad?”

“Come on, H. I’ve never gotten mad at you for things like this. Just talk to me, love.”

Harry closes his eyes and sets his forehead on his arm. His hand reaches down to wrap around Louis’ wrist, and they’re clammy and nervous. “I think. . . um. When you leave tonight, I’m going to tell someone, like, a nurse that I’ve been, like. . . I’m going to tell them that I need to be put on suicide watch. I -- um. Yeah. Just not been doing great.”

“That’s okay,” Louis whispers, scooting closer to Harry. He leans against his side. Him voicing his concerns and worries and anxieties help neither of them here, and will only make Harry feel worse about himself. “You’re taking care of yourself, that’s good. I’m -- it’s nothing to be ashamed of, baby. I’m proud of you for being honest.”

“It’s been really bad,” Harry croaks out, his fingers tightening around Louis’ wrist. “I haven’t felt this serious about it in a really long time. Since -- since Glasgow, probably. The last time. . . the last time it was more like I cracked under the pressure of the voice, was just trying to give it what it wanted, but now. . . Right now I feel like it’s more me who wants it.” He sniffles and wipes his cheek on his sleeve. “God, I can’t believe I just said that to you. I don’t -- I’m sorry.”

“Hey,” Louis says softly, shaking his head.

“I promise I love you,” Harry continues, his voice wavering. “I swear I do, and I don’t -- I want to live for you, and I’m so sorry that I’m so selfish, and I can’t -- I’m -- ”

“Hey, no. Stop.” Louis sets his hand on Harry’s elbow. “Can you look at me? Please?”

Harry does, slowly lifting his head up from his knees. He looks uncertain and nervous, and his eyes are wide and tears are wetting his cheeks. Again, he sniffles.

“I don’t see you being suicidal or depressed or any of this as you not loving me good enough,” Louis says seriously. He lets go of Harry’s ankle so he can wrap his arms around Harry’s knees, his arms over the top of Harry’s. “This isn’t about me. At all. It’s about you.”

“There’s no me without you. I’m just. . . I’m just here for you and my mum and Gemma.”

That rips apart Louis’ heart, and it’s difficult to swallow around the tears so he can continue. Harry needs him to be strong; if he cries, all he will do is upset Harry further.

“It’s not even just right now that I feel like that,” Harry says, voice low. He looks away from Louis. “Even when I’m doing good, Louis, I still feel like I’m just waking up and doing what I need to do to make sure I don’t break your heart. Or my mum’s. I don’t want to hurt anybody.”

Louis gives him a smile that is most definitely flimsy and weak. “Well, then,” he says, and his voice comes out scratchy. He clears his throat. “I think we need to figure out what you need to feel like you’re worth living for on your own.”

“A new brain altogether, most likely.”

“Be kinder to yourself,” Louis says, nearly pleading. “Your brain is just fine. It’s a little cruel at times, but it’s also brilliant and beautiful and the thing that makes you, you. And I know, I know, how irritating it is for you to hear me say that. I’m not at all saying that you don’t have a right to be upset, because you do, I just -- ” he pauses and clears his throat. “I love you, is all. And that includes every bit of you.”

“Think there’s a room open here,” Harry mumbles, still looking away from Louis. “I’m sure if you told them that, they’d put you in here with me. We could make Christmas cards for each other.”

“Stop doing that. Stop insinuating that I’m crazy every time I say I love you.”

Harry snorts. “How many times have you told me that I shouldn’t use the term crazy?”

“Harry,” Louis says sternly. “Come on.”

“I just told you I was going to be honest with my nurses,” Harry says, a little roughly. He looks at him again, and his eyes are fierce. “Don’t ask me for anything else right now. Loving myself or whatever the fuck you think I need to do will be on the agenda for next week, okay? And don’t -- don’t patronize me for trying to make jokes. I know you’re trying to help, but ignoring me when I say that there isn’t anything anybody can do to help me isn’t the way you do it.”

Louis doesn’t know what to say. He doesn’t like anything about what Harry just said, not even a bit of it, but he knows that it wouldn’t do well to correct him on anything. He wasn’t trying to be dismissive, he was trying to be helpful, but it’s -- Harry might not be in the right mindset to accept help right now. Louis can’t push him, not when there are so many other people here doing that already.

“So tell me another joke,” Louis whispers, setting his chin on Harry’s knee. Harry glares down at him, but it softens almost immediately. “The first one wasn’t very good, but the second one might be. Come on, I’m sure Albert’s told you a joke or two by now. Tell me a good one.”

Harry just stares at him for a few seconds before he lets out a shaky breath. He sets his hand on Louis’ cheek, his left hand, the hand that has a touched-up circle drawn around his ring finger. Louis found a ring of Harry’s that fits him, so he’s wearing that on his own finger. “He has,” Harry says. “What,” he sighs, pressing his thumb against Louis’ cheekbone. “What rock group has four men that don’t sing?” he asks, and Louis smiles softly.

“I don’t know,” he says, even though he knows the answer.

“Mount Rushmore,” Harry mumbles. “Like, in America. You know, the mountain?”

“Yeah, H. I know the mountain.”

Harry snorts and wipes at his nose. “It’s a bad joke. I didn’t laugh, either.”

“It’s a good joke,” Louis argues, leaning forward to kiss him. Afterwards, he pulls away and squeezes his hand. “It’s a good joke, Harry.”

“I’ll text you tonight,” Harry tells him. “After I tell somebody. So you know that I actually did it. I’ll text you, I promise. They’ll let me have my phone for a few minutes if I ask.”

Louis nods. “Okay. I’d like that.”

“And I want you to be the one to visit,” he continues, sniffling. He’s always so close to tears. “Only you. Don’t want to see anybody else until they let me off suicide watch.”

That’s so unfair to Gemma and Anne, but this isn’t about them, so, “Okay. Yes. Of course, I’ll be here.”

Harry nods, sniffling again. For the remainder of the time they have left together, they don’t say anything, just holding each other as the time goes by.

-

During the week and a half Harry is kept on suicide watch, he’s anxious and irritable and quiet. He doesn’t like someone tailgating him literally all of the time. Louis makes the mistake of telling him that this is what he wanted only once; Harry got so angry when Louis said that, angrier than he’s ever gotten with Louis before.

“And everybody knows that I’m on suicide watch, so I feel even more stared at,” Harry tells him one day, and he rolls his eyes. “As if ninety percent of people here aren’t suicidal. It’s not anything fucking special. Nothing to gossip about.”

By the end of the week and a half, there is no noticeable change in Harry and Louis doesn’t know how comfortable he is with him just being left alone now. It’s not practical to have someone with him all of the time, but surely, someone doesn’t go from wanting to end it all to being content with life in a week and a half.

“It’s not like that,” Harry tells him. “It’s -- they’re still monitoring me. I’ve just been moved from a high-risk to a moderate-risk. It’s. . . I don’t know. I’ve talked about everything with so many different people this week, and it has made me feel better. They reminded me of why I haven’t killed myself yet and what I have to look forward to and the things I can do to help myself.” Harry shrugs. “I don’t know, Lou. But I do know that I don’t feel so hell-bent on the idea of doing it now.”

“That’s good,” Louis says, nodding.

Harry hums. “Now I just need to get out of this bloody place,” he says, sighing. “They’re tweaking my meds, I’m not as suicidal, the depression is bound to let up soon. . . Just want to go home.”

He sounds the brightest he has in weeks, and it gives Louis a bit of peace he manages to cling to for about a week or two. Harry will be home soon, he keeps thinking, and that bit of hope gets stamped out more and more with each visit when Harry tells him that he isn’t ready to come home yet. For one, he hasn’t been cleared to leave yet. And he says he doesn’t want to be let out until he actually feels better.

“If they tell me I can go, I’ll go. In a heartbeat,” Harry says. “But I think I need to figure some stuff out here that will keep me from coming and going so often. Two or three years between visits is still far too often for me. I need. . . I think you were right. I need to figure out what I need to live for myself. To figure out what is going to satisfy me and keep me healthy.”

And Louis wants that for Harry more than anything, but it’s still so hard not having him home. It never gets any easier, and with every day that he isn’t back, Louis feels worse and worse. There’s no evidence that this flat is Harry’s after a while, his traces being cleaned or rearranged, and Louis hates it. He doesn’t mean to sound so selfish, but fuck.

“You are not being selfish,” Anne tells him. They’re out for lunch, him and her and Gemma, and it’s been seven and a half weeks since Harry has been home. Eight, if you count the few days they spent in Doncaster. “You are used to having him around. Of course you’re going to want him back.”

Gemma nods. “Whenever he was gone, it felt like every day that passed further proved that we had royally failed him. And then, after it’s been a while, you start to realize that this is what it’d be like if he was gone for good. If he was dead. And if you’re so sad when he’s alive at a hospital only a few miles away, how broken would you feel if was actually dead?”

Louis stares at her for a moment. That. . . He hadn’t realized that’s what he felt until she said it out loud, but Jesus Christ. “I don’t know if that made me feel any better,” he says slowly.

She shrugs and stabs a piece of broccoli with her fork. “You aren’t going to feel better until he’s back home with you. No point in pretending otherwise.”

“I think what Gemma is trying to say,” Anne starts, giving Gemma an unimpressed look, “is that we understand what you’re feeling. Through and through, we’ve felt it. We still do. And whatever you’re feeling doesn’t make you a bad person or selfish, it just means that you love him.”

“Yeah,” Gemma says. “That.”

“And now that we’re in an appropriate place to talk about it, since when are the two of you engaged and why wasn’t I the first to know about it?” Anne asks, staring at him with an eyebrow raised and her fingers around the wine glass in front of her. Louis lets out a rushed laugh at that, cheeks flooding with red as he figures out what Harry would want him to say.

“It just happened,” he says, sort of lamely. “He was -- in Doncaster. He was saying that he didn’t know how I could love him, and it just sort of happened. It was probably not right to do it when he was so upset, but I couldn’t figure out a different way to show him that I was serious. And it’s not like we were hiding it, it’s just. . . other things were more important.”

“I don’t think it’s wrong that you did it when he was upset,” Gemma says, frowning. “When is there a better time to show him that he has support?”

“Yeah, I guess.”

Anne nods, too. “I’m happy for you two,” she says. “And I’m looking forward to celebrating with you, whenever he’s ready to.”

“Yeah,” Louis says, nodding. “Me too.”

It’s hard to think about, celebrating their engagement. Just yesterday, he was with Harry in a mental hospital where he was drained and nauseous from the increased dosage of his mood stabilizer. That person doesn’t seem capable of wanting to be the center of attention. But Louis knows that the time will come eventually, no matter how many weeks they have to wait.

-

A few days later, it’s a Sunday night, Louis’ half-asleep in front of the telly, a lukewarm cup of tea in front of him, when he gets a call from St. Mary’s. He panics, of course he does, and the panic isn’t quieted by the receptionist asking him to come down and settle Harry down.

“We don’t feel like it’s necessary to sedate him,” she says, “but he’s distressed and keeps asking for you, so if you’re willing and have the time. . .”

“Of course, but what -- what even happened? Is he okay?”

There’s a pause, and then, “He had a bit of an altercation with another patient. He’s fine. Just a little shaken up, is all.”

Louis doesn’t understand why they can never be straightforward with him on the phone, but now isn’t the time to argue with anybody, so he tells her he will be right there. He’s wearing one of Harry’s oversized crewnecks and a pair of pajama pants that has a rip at the bottom, but he doesn’t take the time to get changed. He grabs a jacket, throws on some shoes, and leaves.

He makes it to the hospital almost an hour later because of six o’clock traffic, and he nearly runs inside because of how guilty he feels. He couldn’t have gotten here any quicker, he knows that, but it’s -- Harry’s scared and wanting him, and Louis took an hour to get to him. An hour.

Since visitors aren’t allowed on the weekends, he doesn’t have to explain what he’s doing here. He’s led almost immediately to the security office, which -- what is Harry doing in the bloody security office, what fucking happened?

Thankfully, when they open the door, Harry is sitting on the floor with a deck of cards, playing what looks to be solitaire by himself. His back is to the door so he has to twist to see Louis, and once he does, he’s immediately on his feet and hugging him. Briefly, Louis catches sight of a band-aid on his face and his skin puffy from crying. He tries to pull back to see it better, but Harry stays clinging to him.

“What happened, love?” Louis asks, trying to sound calm rather than urgent. He’s never been invited to St. Mary’s like this, asked to come and calm him down, what the hell. “They said -- they said you got into a bit of a fight with -- ”

“I didn’t do anything,” Harry denies frantically. “I didn’t. He attacked me.”

“Who attacked you? What happened? Can you please tell me what happened?”

Harry burrows deeper into Louis, and only then does Louis realize there’s a security guard in here, sitting at her desk. She isn’t looking at them, so Louis tries to ignore her.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Harry says, and, well. Louis can’t force him. He doesn’t want to, either. He’s not going to force Harry to talk about anything he doesn’t want to, especially considering he can get that information from someone who won’t feel scared talking about it. So, he rubs Harry’s back and calms him down enough that they can sit down on the floor. He was seeing correctly before; there’s a band-aid on Harry’s face, just to the bottom right of the skin under his right eye.

“Want to keep playing with your cards?” Louis asks, and he cringes out how it sounds like he’s talking to a child. He clears his throat and leans into Harry’s side. “Or we can just sit. It’s up to you.”

Harry just nods, and Louis doesn’t know what he’s referring to until he reaches for the deck of cards. He continues his game of solitaire, sniffling and rubbing at his nose every few minutes, for about twenty-five minutes until Louis can’t take not knowing what happened any longer. Harry seems relatively calm right now, and it’s -- someone attacked his boyfriend in a place he’s meant to be kept safe. He needs more details than that.

“Could you please tell me what happened, babe?” Louis asks softly. “Only if you want to, though.”

Harry looks so sad as he looks at Louis. “I didn’t do anything,” he says, and Louis nods quickly.

“I don’t believe that you did. Just talk to me, darling. I’m not here to judge, you know that.”

After a few deep breaths, Harry starts. “It was my roommate,” he says. “Dave. I haven’t told you much about him. He’s -- was fine. He was fine. And today, I was in a shit mood, but, like -- I wasn’t being a dick. I wasn’t. And we were in our room before dinner, and I was trying to read this stupid mindfulness book and he was tapping his pencil and I asked him -- politely, I swear -- to stop it because I couldn’t concentrate and it was making me anxious. And he stopped, he didn’t seem mad, but then, like, a half hour later at dinner, we were eating together and he was tapping his finger again and I asked him to stop again -- because it’s irritating and makes me nervous, I wasn’t doing it to be mean -- and he just fucking freaked out on me and tried to stab me in the eye with a plastic spork.” He huffs out a breath, looking slightly hysterical. “I didn’t do anything and I almost got nearly bloody blinded for it.”

Louis frowns, reaching up to touch the skin near the band-aid “But you’re okay, right? Just a tiny scratch?”

Harry nods. “It would have been a lot worse if he managed to reach my eye socket, but it hit my cheekbone more than anywhere else. Bled a bit, but it’s fine. They said it probably won’t scar or anything. Might bruise terribly, though.”

“And what are they doing with Dave?”

Louis tries not to be mad or judgmental. Dave is probably a nice bloke who is having a rough go of it right now, same as Harry. But that -- attempting to cause great pain to somebody for something so small, even if maybe Harry didn’t ask as nicely as he swears he did -- is a little much. Yet Harry kicked a nurse in the stomach once, when he was in the emergency room after Glasgow, so -- no, you know what? He’s allowed to be biased here.

“He’s in isolation,” Harry mumbles, looking down. “Security got to him before he could try anything else. But I don’t -- I’m not here to get fucking attacked.” Tears strain his voice. “I was trying to be good, having lunch with him. I usually eat by myself. But I was trying to be better, and look at what happened.” He sniffles pitifully, and Louis kisses his cheek.

“I’m sorry, love. Really. That’s shit. But it won’t happen again, okay?”

“It might.”

“It won’t,” Louis says, shaking his head. “Promise.” And he feels confident enough in promising that, because this is the first instance of its kind and they’re probably going to be keeping a close eye on Harry now. Still, this is. . . It’s nobody’s fault. Not Dave’s, not the hospital’s, certainly not Harry’s. But the last thing he needed, right when he had started to show some signs of getting better, was for this to happen.

-

Harry’s in for another week before everyone decides that he’d do better at home. Since the whole Dave situation, Harry has been even more anxious than usual and adamantly refuses to partake in anything that involves being around other people. They try to keep him around for a little longer by allowing Louis to visit him during the day, hoping that will help, but it doesn’t do much.

The first time Louis visits him during the day, he sits outside with Harry and a supervisor. They color for a little while, Harry in an adult coloring book and Louis in a Disney one, and they talk. For a long, long time. Maybe since they are outside, even if it is freezing, they feel a little less restrained, because they talk about things they haven’t talked about in a while. Harry asks about sports, and Louis struggles to tell him anything. He stopped keeping up with that, too.

“You know,” Harry starts quietly, sniffing as he shifts. On instinct, Louis presses his knee against Harry’s. “I was talking to Albert the other day. He’s been calling me occasionally ever since he went home. And,” he ducks his head, “and apparently he is looking into a service dog. And, like. I don’t know.” He glances at Louis, eyes cautious. “I didn’t think one could do anything for me. I thought -- I thought, like. I was too fucked up for something like that to help. But I talked to someone about it, and they told me that one could help me, too, even if it was just to keep me company.”

Louis’ surprised by that. A support animal has never been brought up, mostly because Louis hasn’t ever thought about it. He didn’t realize that was a resource for Harry. But if Harry wants to look into it more, he wouldn’t mind, either.

“Okay,” Louis says, nodding. “I can look into it more for us, if that’s what you want.”

“Really? You don’t think it’s dumb?”

Louis shakes his head. “Of course not. It’s not something I have thought about before, but it sounds like a good idea. You get lonely sometimes; this could help with that.”

Harry wants it badly, it’s obvious with how nonchalant he’s trying to seem. He doesn’t want Louis to know how much he wants it because he’s afraid Louis will say no, even though he has pretty much never told Harry no in his life. A service dog would be an adjustment, sure, but it’s not like it’s going to be a huge transition. They’ll have a lot to learn about it, but Louis has no problem doing that if it’s what Harry wants.

The second time Louis visits him before visiting hours during the day, the first thing Harry asks is if Louis has looked into it more, which he has. There’s a process they have to go through, one that takes way longer than Louis thought it would, but Harry seems determined about this, so it doesn’t matter. If it takes a long time, that gives Harry something to focus on and look forward to, anyway.

He also tells Louis that he wants to go home. “I’m meeting with my psychiatrist tomorrow,” he says. “I’m so paranoid all the time here now. And I don’t want it to get any worse.”

“Do you feel ready to come home?”

Harry shakes his head, frowning. “But I think being home will be better for me than staying here. I can. . . maybe I can just stay with my mum during the day again or something. And start seeing Dr. Kemper twice a week.”

“As long as you think you can handle it,” Louis says, already mentally planning on most likely having to take off a few weeks from work to help Harry adjust.

Harry huffs out a small breath. “As if you won’t just stick me back in here the second you think I can’t.” Louis opens his mouth to defend himself, but Harry shakes his head. “I’m not saying it’s a bad thing. I needed to come here. Didn’t need to have the bloody police called on me, but I’ve let that go.”

Louis wants to say that he didn’t have another choice, or that he didn’t know what else to do and he was scared Harry was going to freak out if Louis gave him an option, but he doesn’t. Harry knows that Louis has nothing but the best intentions.

“Call me after your psychiatric appointment,” is what he says instead. “Let me know what he says, and if he gives you a date that you can come home. I’ll take a week or two off work to start.”

Harry frowns, looking away, but he’s not in any position to disagree. He doesn’t want to; he’d much rather have Louis over his mum’s company, even if that means Louis has to weasel his way out of work again to be there. “Thank you,” he says, nodding. “I don’t -- I’m sorry. That it has to be this way all the time.”

Louis will never stop telling him that it’s okay, that he doesn’t blame him, that he will be there for Harry in every way that he needs him, every time.

-

Harry’s in an incredibly bad mood on the day that he is allowed to come home. As far as Louis is aware, there isn’t anything specific that’s causing it, he’s just -- grumpy. He still hugs Louis when he sees him, of course he does, and he seems genuinely happy to see him, just. He’s not in a good mood, and that’s okay. It doesn’t mean that Harry isn’t ready to come home; everybody has days like these.

As they sit outside like normal, hot chocolates in their hands, Harry is quiet. It’s not a comfortable silence, either. He’s uncomfortable, or at the very least something is bothering him, and Louis doesn’t want to push him to find out. He has to trust that Harry will tell him the truth.

He does, an hour after he’s been discharged and forty minutes after they’ve finished their drinks. His face is halfway covered by the hood he has pulled over his head, so Louis doesn’t have to see how sad he is when he says, “I’m so scared to come back home, Louis.” Hearing how insecure he sounds is hard enough.

“If you don’t feel ready to -- ”

“It’s not that,” Harry interrupts. “It’s -- it’s been two months. Months. What if I just. . . what if everything is different now? What if I’ve forgotten how to be someone other than a patient?”

“Then I’ll be there to help you remember.”

Harry’s silent for about a minute before he says, “And what if you realize that these last two months have been, like, freeing without me around? I don’t -- I don’t want you figuring out that this isn’t actually what you want. That sounds so selfish, but God, Louis. I need you.”

“And you have me,” Louis says. “And you’ll always have me. These last two months have been so hard on me, Harry. The only thing I’ve realized is that I need you more than I already thought I did.”

Harry turns to look at him, and they’re close enough for their breath in the air to become one puff. It’s so cold out here, but Louis has barely thought about it. Wordlessly, Harry reaches over to run his fingers over Louis’ bracelets, and Louis runs his finger over the fading circle around Harry’s ring finger.

AUGUST 2021

Going to Glasgow this summer was a hard decision. It shouldn’t have been -- what adults in their late twenties hesitate on a vacation? -- but obviously, things are different. Glasgow is different. It’s not some random city they have no connection to this time, it’s the city that brought them closer and nearly tore them apart for good, if Harry’s attempt had been successful. But Harry wants to go. When Gemma sent them the annual invite, Louis didn’t even think twice about it, but Harry did, so now they’ve thought about it.

Things are different this time. This time, Harry isn’t in the midst of a manic episode, he’s nearly ten years older and he has Louis and Bernard. Bernie will come with them to Glasgow, and he’s as helpful to Louis as much as he is to Harry; he knows how to read Bernie by now, and he’ll let Louis know if there’s a problem. This time, Harry and Louis probably won’t go to pubs with the rest of them. This time, Harry isn’t suicidal, and really, that’s the defining factor for Louis. Harry’s good, he’s been good, and Louis will absolutely not hold him back just because there’s an off-chance that things will go screwy.

This will be the last summer before they are officially married, too. And they’ve agreed that they’ll wait a couple of years to adopt kids, but still. This could be the last summer they have the chance to live freely, and Louis doesn’t want to ruin that.

Louis looks up from the bag he’s last-minute packing in their room when he hears footsteps, both human and dog, coming down the hall. Harry appears in the doorway a second later, Bernie right on his heels. Even when Bernie isn’t working, he’s right by Harry. Louis’ pretty sure that’s part of the gig, but still. It’s sweet.

The process of getting Bernard was long. Too long, probably. They tried taking the shorter route of picking from dogs who were already generally trained, and they picked Bernie because he was the only pitbull there at the time and Harry didn’t want him to be lonely. It took a while to train Bernie to fit what Harry needed, and Harry and Louis had to be trained, too, in a sense. It was a time-consuming and occasionally frustrating process, but it was worth it in the end, because Harry completely adores Bernie and Bernie helps him with all sorts of things. When Harry’s having a bad day, Bernie helps by simply being there with him, but he also stops Harry from scratching himself or picking at his nails and he keeps him on a strict schedule and he helps soothe Harry’s paranoia when they are out; Bernie is trained to sense danger, and if he is acting calm, that’s a signal that Harry should be, too. Above everything, though, Louis’ so glad that Harry has another friend. A proper friend. Nothing makes Harry happier than Bernie.

“You let him out?” Louis asks. They’re due to leave in fifteen minutes, and while Louis is packing a few things, Harry’s taking care of other stuff. Bernie comes forward and hops on the bed, and Louis pets his head.

“Yeah. He went. I’ll get his leash on and everything. He just wanted to say hi.”

Harry smiles warmly at him -- the dog, not Louis -- before kissing the side of Louis’ head and telling Bernie to follow him. He does immediately, and Louis watches them leave together.

-

The plan is that Louis will drive halfway there today, they’ll stop at a hotel for the night, and then Harry will drive the other half tomorrow, if he still feels up for it. Gemma and the rest of them are driving straight there and will probably be hungover as fuck by the time Harry and Louis get there, but whatever. It’s fine. They aren’t in any rush.

“I don’t think he’s happy with his seat belt,” Harry says, frowning, as he looks back at Bernie in the backseat, who looks very much content with his seat belt. Harry reaches back to make sure it isn’t too tight.

“He’s fine. It’s for his own good, anyway. And so he’s not trying to come up here to be with you.”

Harry hums, agreeing, but he slips him a few treats anyway.

For the first half of the ride, they talk about regular things, like their mums and siblings and work. After about two hours, though, they both start to get a little stir-crazy and bored, and they start talking about how strange certain concepts are and how they’re getting older.

“Gonna be married to you in nine months,” Harry whispers, staring out the window. Louis’ hand is resting on Harry’s thigh, and Harry’s messing with his fingers, now his ring. They bought proper engagement rings as soon as Harry felt okay about going out after he came back from the hospital. It’s one of Harry’s new nervous tics, fiddling with his ring, which also makes him anxious that he’s going to accidentally drop it and not notice.

“Yeah, that’s the plan.”

“It better not rain. Rainy weddings suck.”

Louis snorts. “You’re the one who chose May. It’s probably going to rain, love. But it’ll be fine anyway.”

“You’d still want to marry me in the rain?”

He’s only joking, but Louis answers seriously anyway.

“In ten feet of snow, darling. ‘Course.”

Harry smiles softly at the thought. After a few minutes, he says, “What are we going to do if Bernie doesn’t get along with our kids?”

“Get rid of the kids, obviously.”

“Louis,” Harry mumbles, pouting, and Louis sighs.

“I’m sure he’ll be fine. Pitbulls used to be, like, nanny dogs. And he’s been around my sisters’ kids loads and has had no problems with them. If he does, we’ll send him off for more training and it’ll be fine.”

“He really did seem to like Lottie’s baby,” Harry agrees, nodding. He reaches behind them to pet Bernie, who sat up once he heard his name.

Louis hums. “Of course he did. He’s a good dog. And obviously we will have to make sure the kids don’t antagonize him, too.”

“We always say kids. Like, plural. But we’ve never actually said how many we wanted.”

Before, this kind of talk would have sent Harry’s anxiety levels through the roof. Slowly, though, he’s accepted that he will be a loving, good father. Bonding with Bernie helped him realize that, too. If he can look after small little humans half as well as he looks after Bernie, then they’ll be all set. And now that Harry isn’t automatically stressed out by the topic, they can finally start talking about it more seriously.

“At least a few,” Louis says, shrugging. “Three, four. I don’t know. Not too many, though. That’d be too stressful.”

“I think two is good.”

“Two is boring,” Louis argues. “You need a third one to spice things up a bit.”

Harry glances at him, looking amused. “Okay, three is good, too. Probably not four, though. Think my brain would pop from dealing with all that pressure all the time.”

“We’ll figure it out as we go,” Louis says, squeezing his knee. “It’s all we can do, really. And it’s worked out well for us so far.”

Harry grins at him.

-

This time around, Glasgow isn’t nearly as exciting. Maybe it’s because they’re getting older, or maybe they’ve been through too much to criticize a relaxing, somewhat boring vacation, but either way, neither of them would want it to be.

The first day, they don’t even leave the hotel. They’re tired and sore from sitting in the car all day, and Harry is slightly apprehensive about bringing Bernie out and about in an area that is foreign to them. They order room service and watch a boring movie and have sex, and really, it’s a nice day overall.

During the eight days that they are there, they only go to a bar once. It’s too crowded and chaotic for Harry to want to take Bernie there every night, even though he is well-equipped to handle any situation. Louis offers to stay at the hotel with Bernie while Harry goes with his sister, but Harry doesn’t even consider it, so Louis’ pretty sure Harry just doesn’t want to be around that atmosphere that much.

The one time they do go out to the pub with everyone, they spend the night outside in the patio area drinking virgin cocktails and talking. Harry glances at Bernie every few minutes to make sure he’s fine, but he is content with where he sits beside Harry. There’s only two people who try to pet him without asking, something that always manages to annoy Louis far more than it probably should. It’s just -- you don’t pet any dog without asking first, let alone one that is clearly a service dog. He doesn’t understand why that’s such a difficult concept to grasp for some people.

For the rest of the trip, they walk around the city and explore shops and hit up all the tourist destinations. They spend probably too much money, but Louis doesn’t care. Out of everywhere they go, only one store won’t allow Bernie inside; Harry rarely puts up a fight with that sort of thing, even though Louis always wants to. He says it isn’t worth it.

This time around, there aren’t any rooftops they can sneak up to, so they settle for having their late night talks on the balcony outside of the hotel room. Harry’s too paranoid about letting Bernie come with them, so for once, it’s just the two of them.

The night before they have to leave, Harry is leaning against Louis’ side, it’s two in the morning, and it’s chilly outside. They’re both exhausted so they don’t say much, until Harry sighs quietly.

“It feels a lot longer than seven years since we’ve been here.”

“Yeah,” Louis says, nodding. “I know.”

There’s a few more minutes of silence, and then, “It’s crazy, like,” Harry starts. “If I would have done it, like, properly done it, it wouldn’t have impacted your life very much. You’d get over it. You didn’t know me very well.”

“I would’ve been sad,” Louis disagrees, and Harry shakes his head.

“Yeah, but it wouldn’t have been something you couldn’t have gotten over. Like. I just -- it’s crazy, I mean, that seven years ago we were barely anything to each other, and now I couldn’t live without you.”

Louis presses his hand firmer against Harry’s knee.

“They always say that there are things you’d miss,” Harry continues. “Good things. Good days. And it always feels so untrue when you’re doing that badly. I wish there was a way that you could know, you know? I wanted to die then because I didn’t think I had anything to look forward to. I didn’t think I could have any resemblance of a meaningful, productive life. I thought. . . I came to Glasgow thinking it was going to be where my life ended, and I had no idea knowing that it was going to be the place where my life truly started.” He shrugs, a small smile on his lips. “I think I’m just trying to say that I love you. And I’m really thankful for everything that you do for me.”

“I love you, too,” Louis says. He presses a lingering kiss to his temple, and Harry leans into the touch. “And I appreciate everything that you do for me, too.”

“The next time we come here, we'll probably be parents. That’s -- I don’t know how this all happened. It’s mad.”

Harry’s so ready for kids. So, so ready. He talks about it all the time now, and that’s what's mad. He’s come so far, in his confidence and mental health and general outlook on life. And there’s so much more growth he’ll accumulate over the next seven years, and the seven after that, all the way up until the end of their lives. It’s not -- Louis always knew Harry could find this peace and acceptance that he is slowly getting a better grasp on. He always knew he was capable of it. But to see it, and to see Harry realize that’s what is happening, is something that he wasn’t always so sure of.

MAY - AUGUST 2026

It’s been a little over three years since Louis gave up any chance of peace and quiet.

From his younger siblings, Louis knew what kids entailed. He was better prepared for it than Harry could have been. But Jesus, either Louis blocked out the memories of his siblings being this loud, or they have unusually loud kids -- no matter what, no matter what they are doing, they can’t do it quietly. Ryan and Chloe are good kids, though, very well behaved, so Louis is pretty sure he erased this noise from his childhood memories.

They’re four years old now, which is mad. Louis and Harry adopted them when they were eight months old, even though the plan was to get a baby younger than that and certainly not twins. But things happened, plans changed, and now they have two beautiful, happy kids who aren’t really that loud, Louis just likes to give them a hard time. It builds character.

“Daddy?” Chloe says, looking up from the coloring book she’s coloring in. It’s one of Harry’s, but she says she likes it better than the ones meant for kids her age. Ryan is sitting next to her at the table, playing with their legos and humming quietly to himself. He’s quieter than Chloe is, a little meeker. Not in a bad way, though. Just in a way that reminds him of Harry.

“Yes, love?”

“When’s Daddy going to be home?”

Louis glances at her. He’s making dinner now, and that should tell her that Harry’s going to be home in the next half hour. Louis works as a personal finance advisor from nine to five, while on the weekdays, Harry works at a posh restaurant from eleven to six-thirty. He’s a cook, and he gets the kitchen through the dinner rush before leaving. She knows that Harry comes home at a little before seven, they both do, but ever since Harry checked in at St. Mary’s last year for three weeks, she always likes to make sure.

“Probably fifteen minutes,” he replies, and she nods. She doesn’t look nervous or anything, so he lets it go. Harry being gone, even though it was only for a couple of weeks and they could visit him every day, was devastating for the kids. They didn’t understand, and they thought Harry was bloody dying or something. Louis doesn’t like to think about it much.

“Bernie, too?” Ryan asks, and Louis nods.

“Of course.”

Harry doesn’t always bring Bernie to work, but most days, he does. It’s a comfort thing more than anything most days. On weekdays, Harry is one of two cooks, so it’s not like there’s loads of people in the kitchen that Bernie will get in the way of. Besides, Harry keeps him off to the side so he doesn’t accidentally get hurt somehow. Harry is still so, so protective of that dog; the kids learned quite quickly to cut that ear-and-tail tugging crap out. He loves Bernie so much that he tells everyone they have three kids, which always makes Ryan and Chloe laugh like they haven’t heard that joke about a million times before.

Harry gets home about twenty minutes later, just a few minutes after Louis finishes dinner. He’s in a good mood, judging by the way he immediately scoops both kids in his arms and talks to them, a beaming smile on his face. He’s usually in a good mood, but sometimes work wears him a little thin. It’s much more stressful than what it was like at Mary-Anne's bakery, which he still works on Sundays because he felt too bad about leaving entirely. He wants to be there for Thomas, too; Harry knows what it’s like to have friends drift out of your life solely because everyone’s growing up, and for people like Thomas and Harry, that digs a little deeper, and he doesn’t want to become that friend for Thomas.

After the kids let him go, Harry makes his way to the kitchen and kisses Louis softly. “Hey,” he says, still smiling. His smile for Louis is softer, warmer. He kisses Louis’ forehead, too. “You hear anything about Jade today?”

“No. They’ll probably call tomorrow, they said.”

“I know,” Harry mumbles, squeezing Louis’ fingers. “Just excited.”

Louis stands on his toes to kiss Harry’s cheek, and Harry gives him a dopey smile before pulling Louis into a fierce hug. Ever since they’ve started the adoption process all over again for their third and final child, Harry has been so touchy and warm and happy. He’s so happy. These kids -- they make Harry the happiest person in the whole world.

After they adopted Ryan and Chloe, they weren’t going to adopt any other children. It was just going to be them, just their little pair of twins, and that was it. The stress impacted Harry more than they had predicted, and neither of them felt like it was completely necessary to have a third kid, so they let it go. And Louis was happy with Ryan and Chloe, more than happy, so he wasn’t expecting Harry to reopen the idea of adopting a third child. That was about a year ago, and after some lengthy discussion, they agreed that they would go for it.

Jade is a two-year-old little girl who is about the shyest little thing Louis has ever seen. They’ve been visiting her weekly for four weeks now, and she is starting to become familiar and accepting of them, but it’s been a slow process. Way slower than it was with the twins. They’re patient, though. They don’t want to rush this; this is as big of a change for Jade as it is for them, and they want her as comfortable as possible.

They had their second home visit Monday, four days ago, and Christ, did they grill them. When they adopted Chloe and Ryan, Harry’s last hospitalization was two and a half years prior, so it was less of a concern for the adoption agency. But with Harry’s hospital visit last year being seen as this big, bad thing on their paperwork, the social workers have been a lot less nonchalant about it. Harry tried to act as this calm, completely put together person like they wanted him to be, but after one to many insulting insinuations, Louis finally snapped.

“He’s schizophrenic,” he said, close to glaring at her. She was barely focusing on anything else, just the fact that Harry has some mental health issues. “He’s been hospitalized before. Many times. He’ll be hospitalized again. I don’t see what that has to do with his ability as a parent.”

“Lou,” Harry mumbled, shaking his head, and Ms. Kathy frowned at them.

“I’m here to determine what limitations there might be on your abilities to parent in general,” she said calmly. “His illness is something we have to discuss.”

“And I understand that, but we’ve discussed it. For the last twenty minutes. And I don’t see why we can’t move past it when we have made it very clear that it doesn’t impact his capabilities as a father.”

Harry sunk into the couch, clearly embarrassed and wishing Louis would shut up.

“I haven’t made that determination yet,” Ms. Kathy said, and Louis scoffed.

“Go talk to those two children,” he said, motioning to Ryan and Chloe in the kitchen. “I don’t see what else there is that you can examine, if not the kids we already have.”

Louis and Ms. Kathy went back and forth for a few minutes, and Harry stayed quiet until Ms. Kathy said, “Your ability to parent is not a reflection of Harry’s ability to parent,” and he whipped his head up to look at her, clearly hurt.

“I am just as good a father as he is,” he said, finally defending himself. “I understand you’re doing your job, but don’t insinuate that me having a mental illness automatically means that Louis is the more competent parent in this household.”

Ms. Kathy frowned. “That’s not what I meant.”

“Well, that’s what you said,” Harry told her, and from there, the conversation finally moved on from Harry’s mental health. After the social worker left, Harry was beyond stressed that they completely blew it, but they got a call a few hours later saying that they were approved for the next stage and that the agency would be in contact with them on Friday about the next step in the process.

The next step will probably be bringing Ryan and Chloe to introduce them to Jade. After that, they’ll probably get to take Jade home. And then, finally, they could adopt her, and their family will be complete. They just need to wait another month or two.

-

Louis and Harry visit Jade again that weekend. They drop the kids off at Louis’ mum, who he finally did manage to convince to move to London, and then they head over to Jade’s foster mum’s house. This will be their last meet-up by themselves, and the kids will come along next week. If that goes well, Jade can be in their home by the end of the month. She has to get used to Bernie, too, so they’ve decided to bring him along this time.

“Alright, Mr. Bernard,” Harry mumbles to Bernie as he steps out of the car. He opens the back seat door, and Bernie hops out. “You better be good,” Harry tells him sternly, grabbing his leash. Louis snorts at him.

“He’s always good. Come on.”

They put Bernie in the backyard first as they had spoken about with Jade’s foster mum’s Elise, and then they head to the front door to knock. It should probably become less terrifying the more and more they come here, but it’s -- Jade’s their daughter, except she’s not, not yet, and there’s still a possibility that they might lose her, so it’s nerve-wracking. Louis won’t feel relieved until the adoption papers are all set and signed.

Elise answers the door with Jade on her hip, and like usual, Jade tucks her head against Elise’s neck, looking shy and uncertain. She’s got the teddy bear they brought for her the first time wrapped in her hand, though, and it makes Louis smile softly.

“Hi, little one,” Harry says gently, smiling at her, and for the first time since they’ve been doing these weekly meetings, Jade seems to recognize them right away. She slowly sits up in Elise’s arms, and after only a few seconds of hesitation, she reaches out for Harry. Careful not to scare her, Harry just holds her hand at first, but it’s clear she wants to be held, so he risks it and takes her from Elise. Jade looks mildly unhappy at first, but slowly, she calms down as she becomes familiar with Harry’s touch. Louis watches them, his grin so wide that it hurts.

-

Elise lives about an hour way, so the hour there and back has allowed Louis and Harry some proper time to talk. They have the early mornings and after seven-thirty to themselves, but usually they’re tired then and doing their best to squeeze discreet sex in every now and then. These drives give them an opportunity to spend quality time together, something that they both make sure to prioritize; even after all these years, they’re still every bit as in love with each other as the beginning.

Harry’s the one driving back today, and as they turn off Elise’s street, he reaches over to turn down the radio. He glances at Louis briefly before looking back at the road. “You don’t have to be so defensive over me, you know,” Harry says. He doesn’t look angry, just thoughtful. “I can handle it. Like, people saying stupid shit about it. I’m used to it by now.”

Elise asked a fair question about when and how they were going to tell the kids about Harry’s illness, and Louis might have been a little too quick about saying that was a personal choice that they had yet to fully discuss. He wasn’t mean about it, just. . . yeah, maybe it’s fair to say he was defensive.

“It’s my job to be protective over you,” Louis says slowly, knowing that’s somewhat of a lame excuse. Harry gives him a small smile before reaching over and taking his hand, squeezing.

“Yeah. I know.”

“And some people need to be told to get their head out of their ass,” he adds, because Harry still doesn’t put up fights with employees who say he can’t have a service dog inside or put people in their place who get pissy about not being able to pet Bernie when he’s working. He can speak up for himself, and he does, but he rarely ever gets as irritated about it as Louis does.

“I’m just saying. I have one of the most stigmatized mental illnesses. I had to develop some thick skin, so, like.” He shrugs. “I don’t know. I guess I’m just saying that I won’t be upset if you don’t defend me. Like, don’t think you have to.”

“I do have to,” Louis argues. “You’re my husband.”

Harry kisses the back of his hand before reaching over to turn the radio back up. He starts humming along to the song, so Louis goes back to looking out the window at the passing scenery.

He thinks about what Elise asked, about them telling the kids. It’s not something Louis has thought about; it’s not like he planned on hiding it from them or anything, it’s just -- they already know that Harry is a little bit different. They don’t understand any of it, of course they don’t, but they know that sometimes Daddy is really tired and sometimes he needs quiet time and that Daddy sees the doctor for his head. When Harry was admitted to the hospital last year -- voluntarily -- they told them that he needed some special help from the doctors. Ryan asked if the doctors would make him less sad, and it was a punch to the gut for the both of them to realize that the kids picked up on that.

It’s impossible for them not to slowly come to understand Harry’s illness on their own, is what he’s getting at. They’ll eventually learn that his sadness is actually depression, and that his nervousness is called anxiety and paranoia. They’ll learn about it on their own, and Louis and Harry will help them along the way, of course, but it’s -- Louis doesn’t want it to be this big thing. He doesn’t want to ever sit the kids down and tell them about Harry’s illness like it’s this thing they have to worry about, because it isn’t. Harry has it under control, and even if he didn’t, that isn’t their responsibility to be concerned about.

Harry’s solid. He really is. His mental health is shaky sometimes, for some days or for some weeks or months, even, but he’s got it under control now. He knows what works for him and what doesn’t and what doctors to see when some symptoms start popping up and how to go about asking for more help when he needs it. He’s gotten into meditation now, something Louis cannot bring himself to do with him no matter how hard he tries, and he exercises more, and slowly, his mindset has changed for the better. He’s stopped thinking about his illness as something he has to live around and started thinking about it as something that he has to live with.

And he struggles. Of course he does. There are days that he’s so overwhelmed or paranoid or anxious or just feeling off. But he has Louis and Bernie and the kids, coping skills he has developed, a professional support system he has cultivated -- it’s not easy by any means, but it definitely isn’t as hard and defeating and scary as it used to be.

“Give Bernie a t-r-e-a-t, please,” Harry says randomly. “I can feel him looking at me.”

Louis nods, turning around, and sure enough, Bernie is staring at Harry with these big, adoring eyes. Even when Louis is the one to give him the treat, he’s still looking at Harry, and Louis takes comfort in knowing that Louis isn’t the only one watching out for him. Bernie’s there for him when Louis can’t be.

The kids are loud and cheery when they get in the car, breaking the peaceful atmosphere between him and Harry, but they adjust quickly. After buckling the kids in and getting Bernie settled down again, Louis gets in the driver’s seat to give Harry a bit of a break, and he’s pulling out of his mum’s driveway when Chloe asks about Jade. Harry turns to her, a smile melting his face. As Louis listens to Chloe and Ryan ask questions about her, he can’t quite remember why getting a third child wasn’t always in the plans, and he grins to himself on the whole way home.

-

Every day goes about the same way.

Louis wakes up first; if Harry wakes up, too, they’ll stay in bed for a bit, and if he doesn’t, Louis will go downstairs to start the day. Harry joins him at some point in the morning, even if it’s just to say goodbye. Before Louis leaves, he always kisses the kids goodbye, careful not to wake them, and heads to work.

He quit his old job about three months before they adopted the kids for no other reason than he wanted a short commute. The plan is for Louis to move to part-time here shortly, that way he can be home with Jade more often than not and she doesn’t have to get used to so many new people at once. Quitting was stupid, probably -- he could have managed to weasel his way up in the company eventually -- but he wasn’t worried about that. He got a good job at a bank as a personal finance advisor that paid about the same, and it was twenty minutes closer to their new house, which will soothe his fears about being so far away from Jade when he’s at work. The transition for her isn’t going to be as smooth as it was with the twins, and Harry and Louis are trying to prepare for that. Louis will take about three weeks off to help her get adjusted, and when he returns, he’ll return as a part-time position. He’s more than okay with being the one to be home more often; Harry does better when he has a strict routine, so it’s not as much as a loss for Louis as it would be for Harry.

The house they bought is nothing insanely special, but it’s cozy and didn’t need a lot of work and Harry liked the brick on it. It was closer to his mum, too, which is something that was important to Harry, even though they weren’t far from her before. As she gets older, Harry worries. Louis understands.

Every morning, without fail, Harry sends him a picture of the kids before he drops him off at whoever is babysitting for them that day. Louis is thankful that his mum now lives in London for many reasons, but free child care is up there, too. This morning, it’s a picture of the three of them brushing their teeth in the mirror, Harry and Chloe making funny faces while Ryan is too busy with Bernie, who is a blob of motion in the back.

My therapy appointment got moved up an hour, be home at 6 and I’ll cook dinner xx is the text with the picture, and Louis nods at his phone, mentally writing that in his brain. Harry has his own car now for practicality reasons, so it’s no big deal.

There was a time, a little before his last hospitalization, that they considered bi-monthly therapy appointments rather than weekly. Harry is just always so busy nowadays with working six days a week, and he didn’t like having to gouge out time from his schedule to go to the doctor’s. But they ultimately decided that it was worth it, and the episode that shortly followed it proved that.

Picking the kids up is probably the highlight of his day. They’re always so happy to see him, no matter what, and it’s -- Harry loves him unconditionally, but the way the kids love them is more than that. It’s indescribable. And a little scary at times, because disappointing them hurts more than anybody ever told him it would.

“I wanna see Bernie,” Ryan says, just like he does every day. And like every day, Louis tells him that Bernie will be home soon with Dad, and Ryan pouts and says okay.

Louis’ outside with the kids when Harry gets home, so Harry just comes in through the back yard. He looks worn down, a little, and after he’s said hello to the kids and given Bernie the go ahead to stop working so he can play with the kids, he comes down to sit with Louis. He’s been crying, which is not completely unusual since therapy dredges up all sorts of hurt, but it still makes Louis sad.

“You okay?” Louis asks softly, and Harry nods, but the way he sighs shakily and moves so he’s laying with his head in Louis’ lap tells him that he’s probably not. Before Louis has to ask, Harry tells him.

“I’m fine. Really. We just talked about. . . stuff. Not fun stuff.” He shrugs a little, and Louis sets his hand on his shoulder. “I had a dream this morning. About, like. Being at the hospital. And -- you know. It’s still a bit traumatizing.”

He’s being vague, but Louis knows that he’s referring to the time that he was administered the sedative against his will. Forcibly and with no attempt at allowing him to comply. It checked off so many of Harry’s fears, and he was in the middle of being insanely vulnerable and scared to begin with, so that’s -- of course it stuck with him. Sometimes the anxiety it brings him is worse than other times. There’s not really anything they can do about it.

“I’m here for you,” Louis reminds, and Harry nods easily. He’s staring at the kids, at how Bernie is chasing Chloe as she shrieks.

“I know,” he says.

They sit outside for another half hour until Ryan starts complaining that he’s hungry. As Harry cooks, Louis gets the kids washed up. Bernie stays with Harry for the most part, but he comes in the bathroom to check on them like he always does -- he likes knowing where everybody is.

After dinner, the kids only manage to stay up for another forty-five minutes before they’re passed out on the couch. Harry takes them to bed, and afterwards, he and Louis relax together in the living room.

“Suppose we should probably have sex,” Harry says, laughing quietly, as he checks the time later in the evening. It’s eight-thirty and the kids have stayed in bed, sound asleep, so they might as well. Every time they pass up the opportunity, it always feels like forever until a new one comes.

Louis laughs, too. “Go upstairs. I’ll put a treat in Bernie’s bone so he leaves us alone.”

Harry agrees, nodding, and Louis watches him disappear up the stairs.

-

Jade cries when she meets Ryan and Chloe. She cries a lot, clinging to Harry’s shirt and wailing loudly in his ear. It’s. . . not as well as they were hoping it would go, but at the same time, she has no idea who these people are and why she’s supposed to care, and with how shy she is, it’s not exactly a surprise. It is, however, a good sign thing that she doesn’t immediately ditch Harry to reach for Elise. She’s allowing him to comfort her, which is a good thing. Louis sort of hoped it was him that she took to first, solely because he’s going to be around her the most at first, but they’ll bond better with time. She allowed him to hold her the last time, too, although not for nearly as long as Harry got to.

“She’s even worse with kids than she is adults,” Elise tells them with a sigh. Chloe is already distracted by one of Jade’s stuffed animals while Ryan stays near them, looking mildly upset.

“She’s just not used to you yet,” Louis tells him softly, kissing Ryan’s shoulder. “She’ll love you eventually. Soon. Promise.”

Harry hums, rocking her back and forth. “Just a little overwhelmed, is all.” He smooths his hand over her head before he starts to pace with her a bit, hoping it helps her calm down. She does, eventually. On her own time. And maybe it’s a good thing that she got all that out, because now she’s half-asleep on Harry’s shoulder and doesn’t react too much when Harry risks bringing her closer to the twins. It’s not until Harry sits down next to Chloe on the couch that she fusses, but he quickly calms her down. From there, she gets used to Chloe and Ryan being around her. It doesn’t get much farther than that, which is fine. Really, it is. They can’t expect her to handle everything the way they want her to. They’ll just have to have more visits with the three of them than that had originally planned; Louis would rather this take an extra month or two if it means Jade can avoid being massively stressed out at her new home.

Ryan, though, is a little confused and upset, so after they leave, they stop for ice cream, and he perks right back up.

-

The next visit with the kids is more or less the same. Jade is just not happy with so many people in her space, they think, so the next time, they try sending Harry and Ryan in alone at first. It works, sort of. From what Harry told him, she didn’t immediately cry, but she clung to Harry and wouldn’t look at Ryan. That’s becoming instinctual for her, it seems. Her searching for comfort in Harry. At least they have that to hold onto.

Slowly, Jade gets used to them. At the fourth interaction between the twins and her, she’s sitting on the floor with Louis and Elise, playing with her toys, and she barely seems bothered by Ryan and Chloe playing with Harry only a few feet away from them. She just gets worked up easily, is all. Like when Chloe gets up to use the bathroom a little abruptly, Jade lets out a soft cry and reaches for Elise. She settles down easily, though, and she doesn’t seem upset when Chloe comes back.

The twins aren’t going to get to bond with her very closely any time soon, but that’s okay. They don’t have to, not right away. So long as she’s comfortable with Harry and Louis, which she is, they can figure the rest out from home. So, they decide to go ahead with the process, and by the end of July, they have Jade in their home. Not officially adopted -- not yet, although they are close -- but she’s finally home.

It’s a bit of a nightmare at first. Jade is overwhelmed by the change in environment, doesn’t like it at all, and she keeps asking for Elise once she leaves, but it’s -- it’s shit, yes. Harry and Louis hate seeing her stressed, but there isn’t another way to do this. She seems to be soothed best when she’s with Harry on the armchair in the living room, snuggled into his side with her teddy and a blanket, so that’s where they spend most of the first few days.

“Daddy is spending too much time with her,” Chloe tells Louis one night, the fourth night of Jade being with them, and Louis laughs quietly and kisses the top of her head.

“Daddy’s trying to make her happy. You want her to be happy, yeah?”

Chloe gives him a look. “I don’t know,” she says slowly, and then once Louis gives her a look right back, she sighs. “I guess.”

“There’s a love. Dad’s going back to work in a few days, anyway.”

Chloe sighs dramatically before hopping off the dining chair and calling out to Harry that her and Ryan are going outside. There were no prior arrangements and Ryan looks like he doesn’t want to, so Louis knows she is secretly hoping that it’ll make Harry come with them or maybe even make Jade cry. She doesn’t, though. Harry lets out a soft, “Okay, love,” and Jade doesn’t cry, and Chloe huffs quietly.

“Hey,” Louis tells her sternly. “I know you’re used to getting half of the attention, but Jade is littler than you and she’s sad. Daddy makes her really happy. And she also sleeps a lot more than you two, so you get to spend time with him then. So just. . . chill, okay?”

“Okayy,” she says, and he’s not sure how much she actually took from that, but she’s walking outside with Ryan and Bernie and Louis supposes it doesn’t matter much anyway.

-

The morning Harry’s due to go back to work, he’s sitting at the dining table with Jade in his lap. One hand is on her stomach to keep her steady and the other is wrapped around a coffee cup, and he looks exhausted.

Last night, for one reason or another, Jade decided she wasn’t going to sleep through the night. Louis managed to aid her fussing without Harry waking up for the first half of the night, but after a while, she started to really cry and it woke Harry up and he spent pretty much the rest of the night with her, soothing her back to sleep whenever she woke up. She’s warmed up to Harry and Louis and Bernie completely, and even though she’s still a bit shaky with the twins, she’s okay as long as they don’t get too close to her. It’s not like she hates them, or something, she’s just focused on Harry and Louis and getting used to this strange place; the kids two years older than her who do absolutely nothing for her are not on her agenda yet. Once she gets settled here, which she will soon, that will be the next step.

“Do you think she’s going to be upset all day with me gone?” Harry asks tiredly, and Louis shrugs.

“Probably. But I’ll handle it. She was content with me last night for the first half.”

Harry frowns, stroking his fingers over Jade’s little arm. “I hate her being so upset. It wasn’t like this with the twins.”

“The twins were younger. And they had each other. And they weren’t shy like she is.”

“I don’t want to traumatize her,” Harry says, glancing at Louis. He looks exhausted, shit. He hasn’t lost a good night’s sleep in a long time.

“She’s two. She’ll be okay.” It doesn’t seem to calm Harry’s nerves, so Louis adds, “If today goes poorly, we can talk about an alternative solution. But let me try with her.”

“I know you can handle her,” Harry says, standing. Jade clings to him, looking a bit startled, but she settles down quickly and stares at Bernie by their feet. “But three kids is a lot. Especially when one of them doesn’t like the other two.”

“I had sisters,” Louis reminds him. “Trust me, I know how to keep them from killing each other and happy at the same time. I’ll work it out.”

Harry nods, looking a bit better, before handing Jade off to him. It’s a test, and Louis is relieved when Jade doesn’t react to the change of person at all.

“We’ll have to stop carrying her all the time eventually,” Louis says, and Harry gives him a look.

“We finally have a baby again,” he says sternly. “I’ll carry her as much as I want, thank you very much.” He kisses Louis’ forehead and then Jade’s head before heading to the backroom, finally ready to start getting prepared for work.

-

Jade finds her footing faster than they could have hoped for. They expected a long few weeks of her upset and stressed, but it’s much shorter than that; she’s fussy and short-tempered, yes, but it’s getting better with time. And that mixed with the fact that it’s August and the kids are going to school soon -- Harry and Louis want to jump on the opportunity to take them somewhere. Jade’s good in the car, and she is fine going out and about so long as she’s firmly planted on one of their hips, so really, there’s no reason not to.

Louis’ thinking Glasgow. Maybe the States; Harry takes about it sometimes, about how Albert said California was a blast. They still talk every once and awhile. Or maybe Doncaster, just for the heck of it. There are still some friends there he can visit. He doesn’t really mind where they go, but he’s not expecting Harry to ask if they can go to Holmes Chapel.

Louis’ never been there. Harry hasn’t been there in over a decade. Louis has no idea what to expect, really, but -- yeah. Sure. He doesn’t care. If Harry wants to go there, then they can go there.

“I just feel like there’s going to be a lot of parts of my life that I’m not going to want to talk about with them,” Harry tells him quietly. “I don’t want this being one. I mean, yeah. It’s a bit boring and there isn’t much to do, but it’s. . .” He frowns, trailing off, and Louis touches his forearm gently.

“It’s home,” he says, nodding. “I get it. Kids are going to Donny eventually, too. I don’t mind going to Cheshire. Boring can be good.”

Harry smiles slowly, eyes bright with excitement. “I brought it up to Gemma the other day. She seemed like she might want to come. Do you -- I mean, is that okay?”

“Another person to watch the kids. Makes my life easier.”

Harry snorts and nods, kissing his temple. “Thanks,” he says, and Louis tells him of course.

Planning isn’t all that difficult. The kids aren’t doing anything, Louis isn’t working, Harry can take a weekend off no problem and so can Gemma. They don’t need to get a hotel in advance or anything like that, and it’s not like there’s much else to do besides pack.

Chloe and Ryan are ecstatic. They’ve never been on a road trip before -- something Louis is trying not to dread. Even the best of kids can only manage to sit still for so long, and Harry doesn’t like driving distracted. Even more distracted, he means. So Louis is probably going to drive the second half, where the kids will be chatty and antsy.

It’s exactly what ends up happening, and by the time they’re checking in the motel in the early afternoon of Friday, Louis has a headache. Ryan and Chloe are bouncing up and down next to Gemma, who is holding both their hands, and Jade is half-asleep on Harry’s shoulder. She gives Louis a sleepy smile when he touches her cheek, though.

“The kids will probably fall asleep for a bit,” Harry says once they get to their room. He keeps his voice soft so he doesn’t bother Jade. “We can go somewhere after their nap is over.”

Gemma glances at Ryan and Chloe, who are half-heartedly pushing at each other on one of the beds. They don’t seem angry, so Louis ignores it. “Are you sure these two will sleep?” she asks, sounding unsure.

Louis nods at her. “They usually have their nap by now. They’ll settle down here soon.”

“Well, in that case,” Gemma says, sitting on the bed the kids aren’t occupying. “Give me the little one and get those two to go to sleep, and then you can go out for a bit. I’ll stay and watch them.”

“Are you sure?” Harry asks slowly, and Gemma nods.

“Yeah. It’s not a problem. Go see if that Chinese shop that you used to really like is still open and bring us back some food if it is.”

“Okay,” Harry agrees, smiling. “Thanks.” And then he turns to Ryan and Chloe, and with a stricter tone, “Hey, you two. It’s your nap time.”

“But we just got here,” Chloe whines, frowning. She is tired, though, Louis can see it on both of them.

“Sleep now and we’ll let you stay up a bit later than normal,” Louis says, skipping right over any of his other more honorable parenting tactics and heading straight for the bargaining one. It works, though. They listen to him. Harry and Louis stick around for ten minutes after they’ve fallen asleep, just to be sure, and once they stay asleep, Harry hands Jade to Gemma. She’s old cold, easily resting against Gemma without any fuss, so Harry and Louis are free to go. Harry grabs Bernie’s leash and, with a hand pressed to the small of Louis’ back, guides them back out of the motel.

“We can walk there,” Harry tells him once they get outside. He’s squinting against the sun. “It’s not too far. Could be nice.”

“And Bernie is probably sick of the car,” Louis agrees.

So, they begin their walk to whatever Chinese restaurant Gemma was referring to earlier. As they walk, Louis realizes Harry was right; the village is larger than Louis thought it would be, but it feels a little untouched. A little boring and a little old. Not in a bad way, though. There’s a quiet charm to it that reminds him of Harry.

“I don’t really know why I wanted to come back here,” Harry says after a few minutes. He has one hand holding onto Louis’, the other holding onto Bernie’s leash, and he looks a little tired. Harry’s thumb slides over Louis’ knuckle, his touch gentle.

“You wanted the kids to see where you grew up. And for me to see, too. It’s a nice little place.”

Harry nods once. “Yeah. I suppose.” He shrugs a little and says, “When we first moved, me and my mum always wanted to move back. We only wanted to stay in London long enough for Gemma to go to school there, and then maybe me, too. But after everything that happened. . . we just never did. We never even talked about it.”

“Do you still want to move back?” Louis asks carefully, scared of the answer. He’s pretty sure that he isn’t willing to move out of London. Not anytime soon, anyway. Especially not after he got his mum to move there.

“No,” Harry says immediately, easing Louis’ nerves. “No, not at all. I like London. And, like. I can’t just leave my doctors and St. Mary’s so far away. I don’t think I could take a change like that.”

“Still nice to take a trip here. Just for a visit.”

Harry nods, agreeing. “Calmer than Glasgow, too.”

There are a few minutes of comfortable silence before Harry squeezes his hand. Louis turns to look at him, and Harry’s already smiling at him. He doesn’t say anything, so Louis just squeezes his hand back, a smile making its way onto his own face.

The Chinese place that Harry used to love is still open, and after they’ve gotten their food, they start to walk back to the motel. They take a detour this time, though, because Harry wants to show him this stream nearby that he used to play along all the time as a kid. As soon as they’re close enough, Bernie cuts Harry off mid-story because he decides he’s going to run into the stream, and Harry sighs as he stares at him in the water, although staring at Bernie’s wagging tail and happy face immediately makes him smile.

After they’ve gotten Bernie out of the water, Harry laughs quietly and dries him off the best he can with the thin flannel he was wearing. “Let’s go home before he does that again,” Harry says, standing up and still laughing. He reaches for Louis’ hand and Louis takes it, entangling their fingers together tightly.

Yeah, he thinks. Let’s go home.

-